Los character-o's no son de me. Tengo cero dinero. No sue-o.
Thanks for the kind response, y'all! I'm so fed up with all this sappy fanfic crap, with no point, no characterization, no lesson to be learned, no bantering conversation, no characters to fall in love with.
That's right.
*~* I'm ANTI-FLUFF!!!!! *~*
coincidentally, I don't like songfics much either . . .
Just so you don't get confused, some of this is in "pseudo-Remy's" point of view. [It's involved.] Ya know how you see your memories sometimes in third person? Well, I warned you . . .Just enjoy. J
"Merde . . ." he thought. "Remy, how do you get ya'self into dese t'ings?"
Gambit shifted along the ten-foot wall surrounding the maximum-security prison, freezing at a few unexpected cricket chirps. Already he'd hid his motorcycle and found a security system box, on the chain link fence fifty feet from this one, and disabled it admirably. Scattered ground sensors, random laser beams, and motion sensors—enough to be impressive, if not a problem—all disabled for a span of 30 minutes. It was temporary, but was less likely to trip a systems check that might alert someone. Henri was so cocky, thinking only he could work the computers. The moonlight sifted through the clouds, throwing suffused silver light onto the wall in patches that were easily avoided . . .the high, dry grasses swished around his shins, but the whispering was no louder than that the cool wind caused naturally. Gambit was perfectly at home in the dark, and he lived for the thrill of the pinch.
Coming to the section of wall that Ms. Darkholme had assured him (and he had researched) was surveillance-free, he ably pulled himself up. The barbed wire coils at the top were a joke—he just pushed them aside with his long metal bo staff, his weapon of choice, to leap (executing a flip—just for style) gracefully to the inside.
He slipped inside, found the security box with ease, and again disabled all alarms for half an hour. He made sure all the sensors in the halls—metal detectors, fingerprint and voice recognition, and keypads—would still act normally, but no alarms would be triggered. It was a special brew of wizardry Henri had cooked up, which had become the standard; people could still pass through the stations, and the sensors appeared to work normally, but they would accept anything. No one became suspicious, and Gambit got to waltz right in. Last, he located the surveillance camera room, luckily unoccupied at the moment. Again, with Henri's teaching, (Cocky he may be, Remy thought, but he's awful good wit' dis computer crap) he froze all the screens with pictures of their respective empty hallways.
It was perfect. I know it was perfect.
With few mishaps, he made his way through the tinny fluorescent-lit halls and rewired security measures. It was a breeze; he easily avoided two guards. When he was growing up, everyone said it was uncanny how he seemed to "feel" someone coming, even before they could be heard . . . whatever it was, it came in handy during a heist. He was almost surprised at how quickly he came to the guardroom—a little 20' x 50' thing, hardly more than a continuation of the hallway; he still had more than twenty minutes left.
What could've happened?A sign: DANGEROUS PRISONER, CHECK METALS HERE warning or something; but to Gambit it was a blazing neon sign saying, "Here I am—get what you were paid for." Now, granted, it's a little unusual to steal a person . . . but if the money's right . . .
Not'ing happened. It was all according to de plan . . .
It was supposed to be easy. Free a prisoner named Erik Lehnsherr. A "special-case high-security" prisoner, though if the man could do what you heard, you weren't surprised. You wouldn't underestimate someone who could control metal like Mr. Lehnsherr—"Magneto"—could either. . It was only getting OUT of a maximum-security prison that's a problem, right? And that was all . . . taken . . . care . . .of . . .?
Jus' not MY plan.
He had hidden quite well inside the guardroom (what did thieves do before holograms?) waited for the perfect time, and –oops, you were supposed to check those METALLIC keys at the door, how DID they get back in your pocket, where a threat to humanity like Mr. Lehnsherr could feel it?
He waited . . waited . . . he hated waiting . . waited some more . . . ah. That had to be him walkin' on down the lil' plastic hallway: commanding, regal air, white hair, plastic buttons . .
In ran a guard . . . only it wasn't a guard—he . . . she . . . was blue. And naked. Yep, picked up on that right away. They hugged. It hadn't quite descended into madness yet, so in hopped (. . . ?) a little green guy in a rumpled . . . * ahem * bloodstained guard suit, and shook Magsy's hand. . .
"Did you kill him?" He—she . . . it asks . . .
"I'm not a monster." The Erik guy had the nerve to be affronted. As if this was normal . . .
"Sabretooth's in the chopper—"
I didn't drink before dis heist . . . I swear, I didn't go to dat bar for anyt'ing but de music . . .
Cue explosions in roof . . . boom, boom; falling rocks, debris, darkness— the main power must've been hit, because all the lights went out. Remy automatically scoped out a possible escape route, what with how the rocks were piled almost to the roof . . .
It's so boring to wait . . . and de girls were pretty . . .How'm I gonna get outta this?
The helicopter landed easily on the flat remains of the roof. Big guy flyin' it, blonde, nasty-looking. Sabretooth—right. He jumped out, came down the rocks, smelled the air, and walked . . .
right . .
to. . .
Gambit's hiding spot.
To say being held aloft by the neck is uncomfortable is like saying a knife in the gut is not fun: it's the understatement of the year. It's even less comfortable when the holder has three-inch, claw-like nails. Jean-Luc would be proud, though: not one sound did Gambit make. "Suffer in silence . . ." Gambit would be a lot happier suffering in silence if he could just manage to dig his thumbs into Sabretooth's rock-hard wrist tendons and loosen the iron grip just a hair . . .breathing would be nice. An attempted kick at the Toothy's stomach just earned a squeeze.
Mystique came gliding forward, squinting suspiciously at Gambit. "I thought he had a partner," she cautioned Sabretooth.
"If he does, he didn't bring him," the man-beast snarled.
"Good." Her cold yellow snake eyes searched Gambit's face. Silver flecks started dancing on the edges of his vision, telling him he wouldn't be conscious for just too much longer if Sabretooth didn't let up soon. His oxygen-starved mind carefully catalogued the way Mystique's short red hair and blue skin melted into Ms. Darkholme's (the contractor's) features under the moonlight. She stroked his cheek and pouted seductively. "We appreciate your contribution to the Brotherhood," she purred into Gambit's ear, " . . . especially volunteering to take the blame. Some sacrifices must be made. You understand."
His vision went white, then black, then he found himself gasping and coughing on the floor. Hell, he'd bruises for a week from that—scabs too, from the way his hand came away a touch bloody. Mystique, Sabretooth, Toad and Magneto were picking their way up the rubble to the roof and the helicopter. He picked himself up and ran after them—he wasn't about to take the fall for anything. Not in the contract. He had to hurry, though . . . they were taking off . . .
It was then that Remy realized his actions wouldn't exactly redeem him if the audience happened to tune in a little late; how convenient if someone just happened to miss the little choking scene and only see a momentarily delayed, perhaps expendable teammate rushing toward the escape vehicle. At least, that was what the X-men, hovering above in the blackbird, saw in the path of their searchlight.
"Merde . . ."