He extended his limbs for the first time in nearly two months, enjoying the sensation of filling a corporeal form, pulling on extremities like comfortable form-fitted clothing, fingers and toes like gloves and socks. There were any number of differences between his previous body and this one. He had lost his ability to control his form at a molecular level, having sacrificed it to commandeering the boy's uncontrollable power fluctuations. The superhuman strength and energy projection too, both gone. Replaced with something better; limitless power, chronal manipulation, and an internal flux of energy that prevented terminal injury. His own telepathy and telekinesis remained, however. As they should have been part of the boy's powerset from the start. That was the flaw in the nearly perfect subject he'd procured twenty-one years ago.
Not procured, to be precise. The infant had been turned over quite willingly by his biological father. An arrogant, well-connected and moneyed man, the all-too human father failed to recognize the potential in his own progeny. Taken from the mother's breast, the man's mistress, who had hidden both the pregnancy and the birth of the boy from him. She had wailed at the loss of her son. Essex himself claimed the infant, along with a substantial donation to his project, when the subject was just over a week old. Initial tests proved the subject would grow into an interesting array of powers, limited in strength. But with the adaptations they'd begun, the subject would achieve almost infinite potential. The child had certain constraints, however, in the psychic/mental category. The chronopathy the subject would someday inherit would likely result in insanity without a telepathic ability to manage visions of multiple timelines. But the CT scan and MRI suggested a shadow on the brain behind the child's eyes. It seemed as though the infant had been shaken at some point, likely by the father.
Mueller was willing to smother the original (happily, eagerly), and start again from scratch by cloning an uninjured subject. Their cataloguer and archivist suggested further tests, the possibility the child might recover, potentially develop a different way to cope with the trauma. Mueller preferred a controlled test. The subject was a wildcard and should be destroyed. Essex was curious to have both the original and a clone, and observe the variations. He was deeply, deeply desirous of the subject's power and what it would mean to be in possession of it. But prior to the subject being placed in a stasis chamber, the infant was rooting about, looking for the comfort of a mother. The archivist took him away to be held and fed. He would remain content and sleeping afterwards, she told them, for further scans. Essex would not see the child again for fifteen years. The archivist, Irene Adler, never. She absconded with the subject, destroyed the research, the subject's genetic profile and samples, and vanished.
Essex was now in full possession of the boy, mostly a man by now. Possessed of both his body and his mind. It was a fortuitous accident, as many scientific advances were; the discovery of penicillin, for example. An accident resulted in his fusion with LeBeau; they'd struggled for control and the man/boy's energies, while weakened temporarily, took hold of Essex's malleable body. Then both his and LeBeau's mind's defenses were pierced by Ms. Braddock, and with the sudden transition to an intangible state via the young Ms. Pryde, Essex found himself filling in the blanks, so to speak. And when LeBeau was once again in a more or less solid physical state, Essex found himself disguised in the man/boy's skin. Hidden in an internal vault, where he had been mistaken for some horrifying memory and not a separate consciousness. The man/boy spent so much time arguing and wrestling with his own spinning thoughts, another voice seemed not to alarm him in the least.
LeBeau's vault was truly a place of inspiration. During their encounter in Seattle, Essex had been immediately drawn to the treasure trove from Hell. The only stable place inside the thief's chaotic mind. He drew from it a host of horrific monsters, suitable for carrying out his specific mission. Essex knew of the thief from two previous encounters, the earliest for Essex, when LeBeau was an adult and Essex only just beginning his storied career well in the past. At some point, LeBeau would travel to the past, whether under his own power or another means, unknown. The second encounter, nearly a hundred years later, he'd enlisted the newly minted boy-thief to procure a diary from a Weapon X facility.
Then Essex caught wind of LeBeau's sudden ejection from his safe-haven in New Orleans and the rumors of his various activities amongst the very powerful and affluent. Indeed, it was almost humorous to note that LeBeau had encountered his biological father on several occasions and was none the wiser. No doubt Candra had gleaned some amusement from that. Candra had divided the boy from the protection of his family, possessed as they were of various magical wards and defenses. She likely had intentions not unlike Essex's own for the thief. Taking cue from her machinations, Essex devised plans to alienate the thief from any others he may ally himself with, friends, family, and especially the X-Men. Leaving LeBeau but one option, to seek out and obey Nathaniel Essex, and him alone.
Finally, finally, after recent weeks of biding his time in the X-Mansion, the man/boy was left on his own. He had been forever in the company of some other person, in a house full of fellow mutants. He slept during the day when the household was awake, roamed about at night under the suspicious, jealous eye of the Master of Magnetism. Spending every other moment in the company of the woman or the degenerate animal man. Essex had assumed control as soon as the thief had extracted himself from the X-Mansion. Internally, the man/boy was at war with himself, desperate to keep at bay the massive storm of depression looming on the horizon like an incoming hurricane. Essex had recovered his unsuspecting victim from his meditative state where he'd hoped to be safe, and dragged LeBeau's consciousness back to his own vault. Essex locked the man/boy there with only his nightmares for company.
Truly, there were some interesting savings stored in the vault, providing Essex with much insight. The most valuable, a memory from the man/boy's teenage years. In it, the boy stood before the Guild Benefactress Candra, to be judged for some failure. She caressed his young face, the angular planes of his features still hidden under the softness of childhood. The boy's adoptive father stood at the younger LeBeau's side. Jean-Luc extended a protective hand to his son, pushed him a pace behind himself and away from Candra.
"Give me your hand...your right," Candra said, her voice soft yet cruel.
When the child shakily extended his hand toward her, she gave a mocking laugh.
"No, not yours, you stupid boy," she said and turned her gaze upon Jean-Luc. "I meant your father. For his failure in teaching you. For your failure to learn. He will mete out the punishment."
Jean-Luc rolled up his sleeve, exposing his right hand and wrist. He presented his lightly clenched fist in Candra's direction. The younger thief was already shaking his head, wanting to protest. Jean-Luc silenced him with a glance. Candra grinned, took Jean-Luc's hand gently between her own, and abruptly flayed the skin from the back of the man's hand and knuckles with a precise slash of her telekinetic powers. Jean-Luc let out a hiss of pain and nearly fell to one knee. The child-thief screamed and wept and begged. Essex realized that he could attack LeBeau's body and psyche to little effect. The man/boy was, if nothing else, very resilient. But if he attacked those closest to him, it would leave a significant impact.
He used this knowledge as inspiration for flaying Wolverine's skin from his bones. Sending the man/boy into a spiral of panic and self-doubt, the dark storm now battering his coastline. Driving him away from the X-Men, as was Essex's intent from the start. Wanting to create a permanent wedge between the thief and Xavier's band of mutants, Essex conceived a plan to put the thief in charge of his Marauders, to make him privy to a heinous and unforgivable act. When that original scheme fell through, a backup plan was enacted (Essex had several, each more horrible than the last), one in which the thief would unwittingly leave the back door open to the X-Mansion. The party of young mutants, to be slaughtered amidst their macabre decorations in their fantastical costumes, a gruesome and too real parody of All Hallows' Eve. But the Marauders, bereft of a true leader, fell into their independent, base, mercenary ways. Instead of following orders and destroying the New Mutants, they fell all over themselves to chase LeBeau...which Essex had expressly forbidden. Apparently, Gambit was too tantalizing a reward, and the Marauders had a child's instincts towards delayed gratification. When presented with a treat, they could not resist devouring it.
Essex was forced to admit there was something irresistible about owning even a portion of Remy LeBeau. He laughed, something he had not done in some time, feeling the expansion of breath in his chest, the flex of muscles in his abdomen. He was laying on the mattress in the careworn apartment over the garage, feeling the sensation of soft fabric against bare skin. As he moved his arms across the bed coverings, it stirred a pleasant scent. A soap, detergent of some kind, and the smell of the woman, Rogue. He drew the pillow to his face, breathed deeply of her smell, her sex.
It was a combination of having lived so long in a body, while perfectly serviceable, lacked a certain degree of sensation; and the sensuousness of his new form, one that throbbed with awareness and energy. In his previous body, he could detect scent, but only to fulfill scientific purpose rather than olfactory enjoyment. He could feel no pain, but likewise felt no pleasure. Now every sensation seemed to be experienced tenfold. As his hands explored the folds and textures of the blankets, he found they strayed to his own body, which he'd stripped of the bizarre assortment of garments his body's previous occupant had donned. He examined his new body quite thoroughly with his hands. There was a great degree of pleasure to be found there, clumsy with inexperience at first, but which came to an abrupt and fulfilling end. Having sated the sensations smell and touch for now, he should proceed to the next line of inquiry.
He ran his tongue over the back of his own hand, tasted the salt on his own skin. The skin he now owned, anyway. Essex sat on the mattress, his eyes roving over the small dwelling. He moved to the refrigerator and opened the door. He found nothing but an orange box of sodium bicarbonate. He tasted that as well and grimaced. Drank water from the tap. All at once, he felt a sensation he had not felt in years...hunger. There seemed to be nothing in the apartment to eat. He would have to venture out of doors.
Before that, he would test his auditory functions, to discern if there was any difference between his old body and new. A radio produced a squall of modern jazz. He quickly moved the tuner to something more acceptable to his ear. Finding a frequency carrying classical music, he increased the volume to the point where sound distorted. He was rewarded with the sensation of music seeming to reverberate through him. Essex imagined a performance of live music to prove far superior in sound quality and physical reception, sound waves passing through him in rhythmic vibration.
Essex opened the door to the apartment. His bare skin was met with a blast of icy air which pebbled his flesh. While he could maintain an internal temperature using his new abilities, it would require expenditure of some effort and he was not inclined to cause himself physical discomfort. The sight of bright sunlight on white snow was blinding. Ocular oversensitivity to bright light, it seemed. Perhaps a condition of having a small formless brain jostled about as an infant. Essex resolved to seek out the man/boy's biological father and kill him.
He consulted the thief's store of clothing, little of which seemed suitable. Essex found a formal white shirt, incongruous amongst the jarring colors and tendency to favor the color pink. A pair of form-fitted trousers of some kind, while tight, offered significant protection. Perhaps they were a remnant of a uniform. The belt, he did not approve of. Lastly, he found a pair of black, heavy-soled boots. Consulting the interior of the boot, he found the sizing to be that for ladies' wear. The boots did fit, regardless. The brown jacket was the only option for outerwear. It smelled of cigarettes, exhaust, his own body, and that of the woman. The combination was interesting if anything, and the coat was comfortable at least. The scarf was actually of high quality, as were the gloves. The hat was serviceable, but that was all that could be said of it. Sunglasses were in the coat pocket.
Appointed for the weather and sunlight, he departed for the small town, boots crunching on gravel and ice. The juxtaposition between warmth of his clothing and the cold on his exposed face was not unpleasant. Essex made his way into town, enjoying the sensation of walking. Typically distances were more efficiently traversed via tesseract portals. The expenditure of effort on motion however, seemed to improve both emotional and mental acuity. At a small diner, he telepathically communicated a desire for breakfast. There was some disappointment while surveying what the Americans felt constituted as morning repast. The tea he was presented with involved pre-portioned bags of stale leaves. He instead requested the waitstaff's less desirable but highly effective coffee. A second serving of bacon was demanded. Essex departed the diner as if he had never been there at all, invisible in his telepathy. He proceeded down the street, heading in the direction of the library.
He was taking sadistic delight in his torture of Remy LeBeau. He had physically moved the man/boy like a white knight across a chessboard, placing him in a vulnerable position. His own black queen slid forward to take him, the sacrifice. Now, as the most powerful piece on the board, and riding the white knight's own steed, he was poised to take the black king in an act of treason. The king who had just begun to mount his own forces; the king Essex had served in forced faithfulness. LeBeau knew nothing of this, of his prophesied future. Of razing the Earth of degenerate, lesser beings...making it pure for Essex's own new race. Or of the king and his four horsemen, the final one only recently claimed. LeBeau instead preferred obliviousness and willful ignorance. It was quite shocking how close LeBeau had come to finding out the truth about his origins. Essex had decided to punish him for his curiosity.
Standing outside the library, he considered his options. Even he was reluctant to destroy an institution of knowledge. The inhabitants however, were expendable. The rotund drug-using spinster, the male genetic dead-end, the barren and arthritic old woman. Yes, that was it. He would not destroy the library, merely the children's section and its cheerful denizens. He was speculating which load bearing feature to destroy to bring down the lower level when he was presented with an even better opportunity to irrevocably destroy LeBeau.
The woman, Rogue, was walking down the sidewalk towards him with a curious expression on her face. She held a white paper bag from the pharmacy in her hand. A delicate English rose she was not. Wild hair, full-figured, lacking in stature, horrible annunciation, she was certainly not to his taste. But she would make a good example. He formed a vivid image in his mind of what he planned to do with the woman. Deposited the image in the vault with the young thief. LeBeau would not know if it was a true memory, locked in the vault as he was. Essex did not discourage him from believing it to be true. Later the man/boy would experience the vision a second time, this time, not in the mind, but in reality.
Essex resealed the vault door on the thief's echoing pleas, his tears, his screams.
Next time: Rogue knows who she is and what she wants. And what she wants is to kick some ass.
A/N: Thanks readers for your comments. Several mentioned they felt sorry for Roguey. And I thought: why? She's the only adult in the room! Then I thought, maybe that's my fault as an author. So I have made some changes to subsequent chapters to give Rogue's voice more clarity. I think it made for a better story, so thank you for the feedback!
Also, I have a poll for you. With the last chapter, I will post an excerpt of the next book at the end. Your choice: you can have a ACTION preview, a ROMANCE preview, or a SEXY preview. Let me know what you want to see!
