Remy didn't blow himself up, but it was a very near thing. He'd managed up a hill, clawing his way through dead leaves, to pull himself under a granite outcropping. Falling into the dark, wet place, he struggled to pull the light back into himself. Evening bled into night. He was surrounded by nighttime sounds of chirping bugs, the hoot of an owl. The wind stirred the trees. Eventually, the glow receded. He remained laying on his side in the moss and rotting leaves. He must have slept, but the dawn still seemed a long time coming. When he saw the faintest hint of pearl gray through the criss-crossing branches overhead, he sat up and climbed up the outcropping. He sat at the apex, not more than maybe six or seven feet above the ground below. He pulled up a leg, wrapped his arms around it, and rested his chin on his knee. The other leg dangled over the edge of the rock. There was a soft rustle of sound. A deer appeared in his field of vision. She wandered over to a patch of green blades of some kind of plant. Her ears swiveled, she seemed nervous. Remy thought she must sense he was there, but couldn't see him. He held himself very still to observe her, his breath soft and slow. Watching her nibble on the leaves, he felt all at once calm. The relief was profound. Eventually, whatever the doe sensed was enough to drive her away at a nervous trot. Her white tail popped up in alarm and she bounded out of sight.
After he'd returned to the apartment to shower, pull various twigs and leaves out of his hair, and change, Remy went back to the library. The reference librarian flagged him down as he passed through the central atrium.
"Mornin'," he told her. She was a young woman, maybe thirty, with a round face, wire-rimmed glasses and blond brown hair she kept in a messy bun; she had a pen stuck in it. Her name was Lara. Her tee-shirt under her cardigan read: Stacked Librarian.
"Stanford faxed over the articles you requested," she said and handed him a thick sheaf of paper.
Remy looked at the jargon-riddled abstract of the academic journal article. 'Mutant' was mentioned multiple times. He glanced up at Lara through his sunglasses, wondering what the woman thought about his topic of research. Her smile was polite and expression neutral. She told him: "Let me know if you need anything else."
When Remy was confronted by humans either fearful or nervous about encountering a mutant, he liked to disarm them by giving away some part of himself, letting them see that he was, like them, a person. Human. "Sure, thanks. Can I ask you something?"
"That's what I'm here for," she folded her hands on her desk.
"Can I buy you a coffee sometime?"
Lara smiled and glanced away. "Actually...I have a boyfriend."
"Just my luck," Remy said, smiling at her. "'S'true the good ones are taken. Anyway, sorry. You probably get sick of people hitting on you at work."
"Well," Lara began. "I mean, it's fine. It's not like you're one of those hair-sniffers."
"Beg pardon?"
"You know, the old 'ask the librarian to find you a book wa-ay back in the stacks and then sniff her hair' trick?"
"I am not familiar," Remy responded. "Does this happen often?"
"Just a few times a month or so." Her round shoulders bobbed in a shrug as if to say, "what can you do?"
"I had no idea."
"It's better than what Curtis has to put up with in the lab."
"Do I want to know what happens in the lab?"
"It's basically the new version of a porno theater."
"In the library?"
Lara made an expression that said: I've seen everything.
"I guess that's my head's up to wipe down the keyboard before use. Should I ask what happens in the study carrels? Please say 'studying.'"
"Uhmm…" she hedged.
"Okay, ignorance is bliss. I'll be seein' you later, Lara."
Remy returned to the computer lab and quiet study. There was a single man sitting in the far back corner of the lab. Remy eyed him with suspicion. When he looked at Curtis and saw his perturbed expression, Remy began to fear his suspicions were correct. "Hey, Curt, don't look so glum. It's nearly Sunday!"
Curtis had his elbow on the desk, his face propped in his hand. "One more day closer to Monday," he said with a somewhat maligned tone.
"I'd have thought you'd be happy to watch Baltimore crush the Pats."
Curtis spluttered. "You know that's ridiculous, right? The former Cleveland Browns are terrible! Always were, always will be, no matter what city they're in! It's going to be a massacre. New England is first in the division!"
"I always root for the underdog," Remy told him. "You want to watch with me? At that pub down the way?"
Curtis' attitude improved somewhat. "Harry's? Sure."
"Good, because I just asked someone out and got turned down flat. You'll have to pity-date me. Now, I'm going to my carrel to have myself a good cry," Remy said, and opened the carrel door.
"Just keep it down, this is a library."
Remy sealed himself into his cubby. He shuffled through the various floor plans for the Xavier School. He'd marked out entrances and egresses on the first floor drawing. His target was Xavier's office, first floor, frontmost corner on the side of the mansion that faced the street. The office entry was off the main foyer. It was adjacent to the school library and on the main hall that would lead residents to the kitchen. Remy imagined it would be pretty well-traversed thoroughfare. He speculated he might have to gain access via a window, he couldn't very well walk in through the front door, and the kitchen would be where people typically gathered. Not ideal.
What interested him were the two floorplans of the basement and sub-basement. Why on earth did they need two floors in addition to the upper portion of the school? The plans showed the excavation site, but other than a demarcation for a utility area, elevator shaft, and the structural supports, there were no interior walls outlined on the floor plan. Why would they need so much empty space below ground? What were they storing down there, a jet? The heating and cooling alone must be costing Xavier a mint. Or not, who knew with the uber-wealthy. Likely there was some write-off that made it so he didn't have to pay one red cent.
Remy needed to know more about the school inhabitants. So far, he only guessed both Xavier and McCoy were present. Logan the Lumberjack and Ghost Girl were two more. Remy turned to Dr. McCoy's journal article. It seemed to be about classifying mutant abilities into different categories, and discussing various brain-functions and physical implications of each. Remy rested his forehead in his hand while struggling through all the medical mumbo-jumbo and ten-dollar words. After about an hour, he'd made some progress. He rubbed his face and moaned. Okay, what he gathered was that the article was a case study on four different classifications of mutants. While he didn't name any names, McCoy did offer descriptions of his subjects. The first was psychic/mental ability that included telepaths and telekinetics. Remy wrote down "telepath/telekinetic" in his notebook as it seemed the subject McCoy discussed was both. Remy didn't like that at all. He never, ever wanted to meet another telekinetic again in his life. The subject was also female, so Remy wrote "Head Witch" in his notes. Then a long-winded discussion of various lobes of the brain which Remy skimmed through but didn't absorb.
Next up: energy generation or manipulation. Here McCoy described a man who could generate concussive blasts of energy from his eyes which he created by absorbing ambient energies. Whatever that meant. Then there was a bunch of stuff about a head trauma. Remy wrote: Laser Eyes in his notebook...close enough.
There followed a description of a class of mutants that could control the natural environment. McCoy described a man with the ability to control water and ice. Simple enough: Iceman. There was also a footnote about a woman who could control weather patterns. Remy added: "Weather Witch" though now he wondered if he should be describing all these ladies as being 'witches.' But Remy's own adoptive mother was a witch, and she was a goddamn saint.
Last was physical mutation. McCoy's subject was a man born with wings. Remy paused, looking up from the article to stare into space. Just how many mutants could have the same mutation, he wondered? The idea that there might be a whole choir of mutant angels flitting about didn't register with him. Remy knew, specifically, of one angel he'd seen in the news. He'd taken an avid interest in the idea that there might be his perfect opposite floating about in the heavens, gifted with beauty and wealth and power and style. Whereas Remy wandered about the New Orleans streets, not the cleanest place ever, wearing cast-offs. And while he admitted to himself he was an Adonis amongst men, wealth was not something he had experience with, living hand to mouth for most of his life.
Once Remy had asked his father what the recipe for Ends Meat was, because they didn't ever get to have it so it must be something good. Confused, his father asked him what on earth he was talking about, then concluded Remy meant "Ends Meet" as in: they were barely making ends meet. Meat-Meet; isn't the English language fun? The diametric opposition between himself and the high-flying angel also included Remy getting called 'The Devil' more often than not.
Remy left his study carrel to find the periodicals section. He picked up The New York Times, sat down in the reading room with it. He scanned the paper for the latest mutant news. Here it was: a mention of a team of mutant-hunters calling themselves X-Terminators, of which Angel was a participant.
What the flaming hell…? Remy wondered with a growing sense of dread.
The X-Terminators were purportedly human, however, the similarities to their abilities mirrored that of the journal article. Remy scribbled in his notebook. Head Witch became Marvel Girl. Laser Eyes became Cyclops. Iceman...uhm, turned out to actually be 'Iceman.' How unimaginative. Then there was Angel, and lastly The Beast. Wait...wasn't this the same Beast from the Defenders...or was it Avengers? Why wasn't Beast mentioned in the journal article? Maybe because he was the author. Next to McCoy, he wrote 'Beast.' Got you, you bouncing blue bastard, Remy thought.
Worrisome as this was, knowing that the people in the school might actually be mutant hunting maniacs, the real thing that set Remy off was knowing the operation was entirely bankrolled by Warren Worthington...the Third.
Thurston Howell, Remy's brain snarked.
A millionaaaaire and his wife, A movie star...The Professor and Mary Ann...Here on Gilligan's Isle!
Shut up, brain! Remy thought angrily. What did Essex say about his thoughts? Random and nonsensical diversions? So, the guy had that right.
That there should be three iterations of the same white spoiled rich boy...really they could have stopped with one. And here Mr. Worthington was paying for mutants to be kidnapped off the streets. That wasn't a typical rich guy's MO. Usually, they made their money from more money, hoarded it, and then blamed the victims of their greed for causing the problems they themselves created. Apparently W.W. Number Three was taking a more direct approach in finding scapegoats to blame for all of society's ills. What a piece of -.
I believe in rags to riches. Your inheritance won't last. So take your Grey Poupon my friend, and shove it up your ass! Eat the rich!
Remy struggled to draw a breath. The banked fire in his gut was going to become an inferno. He replaced the newspaper and with his notebook, returned to his safe haven. He sat in the worn wooden chair and stared at the wall. He'd made a Frankenstein's monster out of the aerial photographs to cobble together the school and grounds as seen from above. There was something strange about the grounds outside the school. There seemed to be a disturbance in the turf off the east wing of the building. As the photo was rendered in black and white, the discoloration of the grass was readily apparent. Remy thought perhaps it could be the world's most enormous septic system, except that the coloration extended for miles and off the edge of his collage.
It's an underground pipe, he thought. Or...a tunnel? The tunnel pointed in the direction of New York City. Inspired, Remy riffled through his floor plans again. He looked at the basement and sub-basement. Yes, it did seem there was a strange access panel on the east side of the sub-basement. He hadn't realized what he was looking at until now, because it didn't make sense to have a door in an exterior wall that would lead presumably to dirt. Now he understood it to lead to a tunnel. And the rest of the empty floor plan? Maybe a hospital for the injured. Maybe a training facility. Maybe...holding cells for captured mutants. Or some kind of...camp. And not the kind with s'mores.
Arbeit macht frei...his stomach filled with dread.
So what was his mission now? Avoid the school entirely, head for the hills and hope not to blow anyone up? But what if there were mutant prisoners in the sub-basement? Could he help them? Figure out if this Xavier guy was a figurehead or the brains behind this outfit, then turn him over to S.H.I.E.L.D.? Maybe if Uncle Nick weren't still mad about him stealing that jet...
Okay, new mission. Figuring out a solution to his Gambit-Go-Boom problem would be secondary to uncovering information about just what was going on in the basement of that building.
In the big blank space on the floor plan, Remy wrote: Here Be Dragons.
Next time: Boy Meets Girl