Part Nine

Sunrise



Remy couldn't sleep much after the dream.

Dawn was breaking over Manhattan, and already the traffic noise increased. He stared sightlessly at the thick curtain that blocked out the sunlight, then his gaze dropped closer at home, to his own exposed left thigh. Aside a marvelous example of masculine muscularity, only one small thing marred the perfection.

Remy traced a small but long scar down his naked thigh as his mind reeled back to the past, back to where he thought he could finally settle down with someone. Whether he loved her or not that was not the question back then. What he had known was he needed her, and she needed someone whom she could trust.

Someone who could lend a shoulder to cry on.

Not someone who would eventually led her to her death.

He was used to sleeping alone and waking up to utter loneliness, but this morning it felt like his whole world had went into a vacuum. The silence seemed to drum into his ears. Nothing would be the same after today.

After a while in his mind he scratched the thought of seeking help from his fellow friends. He would have to face his own past alone, where all of his sins resided and threatened to explode out.

At the thought Remy started to cry.




Refreshed and ready to face the day - at least superficially - Remy put on a silver sunshade and his usually chaotic hair was wrapped up neatly in bandanna. His receipt said that he had ten more minutes to checking out. It was eight in the morning.

Briefly Remy wondered about the sudden bleedings. His mind quickly resorted to Louis. It had to be him, he obstinately though. Somehow he had been playing this game and probably enjoyed watching Remy feeling like a cornered fox. Remy had no idea what he was up to now, but he could bet it was nothing good.

The reception counter was most apologetic and concerned. "What happened last night, sir? The domestic reported hearing you screamed. You should have called the emergency line should there were some things that disturbed you deeply."

Remy snickered inwardly as he flashed a benign smile at the man. Oh yeah. Like you can handle La Mort himself. "Had a bad night. Dat's all."

Everything was perfect and Remy was outside. The morning was still chilly, but soon after heat settled in. Okay, Cajun, Remy said to himself. Where would a dead man go wit' a crazy mission?

There was no forthcoming answer. So he prowled the busy street and fifteen minutes later he found himself standing in front of the Central Park entrance. To his right was the lake. Remy thought he could use a rest and took a seat beside the lake.

Far in the middle of the lake he could see a swan leading her cygnets. Joggers passed him now and then as he slowly relaxed himself.

If only life could be so idle, Remy would have died from the redundancy. That was his former thought. Now he wished he could just run away from this whole mess and just take one nap without waking up to another strange bleeding at strange places.

His sharp ear caught a distinct sound so weak that at first he thought whether he had imagined it. Then slowly he hoped that he had as he turned to his left and took off his shades.

An opening in the middle of the park, not far from Remy's seat, was filled with cooing doves. A couple was feeding the doves with breadcrumbs and they were caught in the middle of those birds. As the woman suddenly turned the doves were startled and the sound of wings flapping filled the air for a long moment.

Amidst the ascending doves Remy caught the sight of the woman and her partner, and wished to hell he did not.

Louis du Boudreault, grinning madly at him as he waved a pale hand at Remy, and Penelope Roquefort, green eyes wide with realization and fear.

When the doves were all gone both had disappeared as if they were never there. Remy stared at the opening and realized that he had held his breath until now. Something warm touched his cheek and Remy slowly placed his finger there. When he brought his finger back to view there was blood on it.

Something inside him compelled him to stand and call back home. Back to the institute. He was no longer sure whether he could face du Boudreault alone anymore.



At seven a.m. all the heartbeats of the three patients dropped drastically to 40 beats per minute. Hank struggled to keep them alive, but with a skeleton crew (Elisabeth and Kitty had volunteered) and fear of another sudden arrhythmic attack dragged down their spirits noticeably and their attention were obviously lacking. An hour later Hank dismissed both of them despite their wild protests. "Too much cook spoils the broth," he told them politely.

When they finally went away Hank slumped on his chair and covered his face with his hands. He had been with the X-Men for a long time, and he had seen some of the strangest things, and in some cases, some things mortals weren't supposed to see. But this was simply out of his league. He could propose every single theory from Einstein to Newton to explain this matter, or even Carl Jung if he were confident. But since last night his confidence had been cruelly stripped off his mind. All that remained was utter helplessness.

Unless...

He slowly grabbed the map again and went through it carefully. After a while he placed it aside and turned his attention to the computer screen. The online newspaper clipping service was purportedly the best, and Hank could see why. It was still unofficial, and the New York Police Department wanted to keep it under wraps, but these underground reporters could sniff a story down to a detail.

Beginning from Westchester's Saint Christopher Chapel, the same gory crime moved quickly to Manhattan alleys, scattered around the Central Park. Early in the morning two of those who had been found were the homeless, but at nightfall a firm worker who did not come to work that day was found near the lake. Next morning two more victims, both from respectable firms, were found at the same spot.

These were the reported cases. God knows how many else did not reach the PD.

What piqued Hank's interest was the fact that almost all of the victims were in a perfect state of health before they were tentatively declared 'missing' by NYPD. Hank did not blame the police: how can the relatives identify the bodies when all that remained of the victims were melted flesh and coagulated blood?

Hank turned on the media player in the computer. It was the recorded news flash from the first day this whole mess started. He was still captivated by the blood on the wall, and each time the record came to that he stopped it, wondering what could have made him so interested in that particular scene.

Behind the media player Hank saw the online news clip and saw a hyperlinked file named Past/Similar Crimes. He debated briefly before he paused the player and let it float in the background. He clicked on the hyperlink and waited as a new page was presented to him. It was a French article, dated two years ago. What made Hank's eyes bulge in disbelief was not its contents, but the photo along it.

Blood was splattered upon a white wall, and distinctly beyond the white wall there were spires, indicating that this wall probably enclosed a church. Hank quickly translated the footnote below the picture in his mind:

Saint Cecelia Church, Orleans.

Hank deftly dragged the paused media player into view, just above the picture. Then he coughed endlessly.

It was a perfect duplicate of the other, including the nuns. Just as then the phone rang.



"Henry McCoy."

"Hank, mon ami! You have to help moi!"

"No, no. You have to help me."

Remy paused. "Pardon?"

"You knew something we don't, Remy. What happened in Orleans, France, in front of Saint Cecelia Church, two years ago?"

Another hesitant pause. "What.. what do you mean?"

"You've gone for seven years and suddenly a year ago you returned without a word on the past. Out of respect, we never asked you what happened in between those years. But now clearly something had happened during that time. Other than you brief affiliation with L'Enfants en Terriblè*, we got nothing else."

"Hank, mon ami, you have to listen - "

"Remy, Jubilee, Piotr and Rogue fell into a deep coma yesterday."

Another long pause ensued. "J... Jubilee? Piotr? Rogue?! Hank, what's happening dere?!"

"I have no explanation. The three seemed to simply fall into a deep coma when no one was around. Well, except for Jubilee."

"Coma...?"

"Remy, you have to help us. Rogue's life is in danger, and so are Jubilee's and Piotr's. Now, I have a reason to believe that whatever's going on here has to do with what had happened two years ago in Orleans. You have to tell me what happened there two years ago."

Hank heard him swallowed at the other end. "Dere's not'in' to talk 'bout."

"Yes there is," Hank said sternly. "Look, Remy. We don't know who is this person is, and if he really is du Boudreault, I don't want to know how he came to be here while all of us saw his head shattered to eternity... or hell, whatever. I want to know why is he so obsessed in coming after you. And from my past experiences, this sort of vengeful minds were more or less likely attributed by - "

"I... I can't tell you here, mon ami. Gambit have to go. Do not trace dis call, ok?" Then the disappointing long beep followed. Hank placed the handset glumly.

Ray said from behind Hank, "We got him. Payphone along Central Park 85th Street, Transverse Rd."

Hank stared at the New York map. What in the world was this Cajun doing in Manhattan? Not to mention that was the center of the so-called 'missing persons kidnappings'.

Ray's shaky voice intruded his mind. "Hank... there's something else."

"Go on," he said. After last night, he was prepared to hear anything.

"I did what you requested on the surveillance cameras, and came up with nothing." Hank's sigh was a mixture of relief and disappointment. "Save for one."

He wished he could not ask. "Which one?"

As an answer Ray placed a videotape inside a VCR player and pushed the PLAY button. The screen flickered slowly to life and Hank saw there Piotr's ward. There were Kitty and Rogue sitting beside the bed, talking but nothing could be heard. A minute later Kitty rose up and walked out of view, presumably out of the room. As Rogue rose and walked around, Hank saw Piotr's hand slowly rose. It settled on the bed as it steadied itself to support Piotr's massive bulk and the next Piotr was sitting up on the bed. Rogue seemed to sense this: she suddenly turned and wide-eyed she stared at him in disbelief.

As she moved slowly toward Piotr his hands suddenly shot to her and settled at her neck roughly. It seemed like Piotr was strangling her but he was not; he seemed to be merely holding her neck. Rogue's struggles showed otherwise. Later she ceased moving and there was a brief flash that flew out of Rogue's open mouth. A moment later she fell lifelessly onto the floor and Piotr resumed his position.

And everything made sense to Hank now. Made a real fricking sense.

*refer to Past, Tense Past; Remy's French affiliate

To be continued...