Chapter 8

"How literal is this representation?"  Jean continued to stroke the child Remy's hair as she talked to Charles.  The boy's shivering had eased, and she was becoming aware of other things.  Like how painfully thin he was.  Most boys this age were wiry little rakes anyway, but she could feel each rib where it pressed against her.  This child was sliding into starvation.

Charles looked around.  "We know that Remy was orphaned-- or abandoned-- at an early age.  I would not be surprised if that part is a literal copy of his memories.  His ability to speak Shi'ar obviously can't be.  I'm not certain how that fits in.  He does understand English in this representation."

He paused.  "You do realize that we can't do anything for him here.  We haven't found Gambit, just a piece of his memories."

Jean felt a sharp pang of sorrow as she looked down at the child in her arms. 

"I know."  She looked back up at Charles.  "How could someone do this to a child?"

Charles shook his head.  "We can only hope his parents had no choice.  Come, we should continue."  He put a hand under her elbow to help her stand.

Jean reluctantly moved Remy out of her lap.  She stroked his face and tried to summon a smile. 

"I'm sorry, little one." 

She stood.  The child stared at her for a moment, fear and loss written into his small face.  Then he bolted back into his hiding place under the stairs.  Jean swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.

"How sad."

"Yes."  Charles caught her hand in his.  "But it is part of a past we cannot change."  He paused, sorting his thoughts. 

"It does illuminate a great deal about Remy's character.  I never realized how hard it must be for him to trust.  A small child on the streets would have been an easy target for a lot of different kinds of people.  Yet he survived somehow, and is remarkably sane, all things considered."

Jean nodded.  "It does feel different than when we went into Logan's mind after he was injured.  There, we were trespassing.  I was afraid it would be the same with Remy, as private a person as he is.  But he seems to be willing to have us here."

"I have often felt that Remy would like to share his life with us--"

"But doesn't dare?  Except for Ororo and Rogue, of course.  And even then, I don't think he has told either of them very much about himself.  Ororo doesn't care-- she has said as much.  And Rogue... well,"  Jean shrugged.  She wasn't certain what to think about their current estrangement.  Bobby had said very little when he returned from Seattle without either Rogue or Gambit.

They were walking again, delving even further into this mind-version of New Orleans.  Jean wasn't familiar enough with the real thing to know if there were any differences, or to know where they were going.  Charles seemed to be wandering aimlessly.

"Do you know where we're going?" she asked.

"Not really.  I am hoping that Gambit will present us with some kind of clue as to where we should go.  As you noted, we are welcome here.  He seems to want our help, but I don't know how much ability he has to reach out to us.  I'm just trying to keep my eyes open."

"Any ideas yet why he was speaking Shi'ar?"

Charles' expression quirked.  "Well, he has absorbed the language in the past.  He has also been to the Shi'ar homeworld with the X-men.  All I can guess is that it's some kind of carry over from that."

Jean read his expression and smiled.  "In other words, not really."

Charles returned her smile.

They continued on.  They were in a more populated part of the city now.  People occasionally passed them, intent on their own business.  Lights burned in some of the windows, though the yellow warmth still did not seem to reach very far into the streets.  Prostitutes lounged on the corners, umbrellas raised against the rain.  Cars drove past, windows dark.  The tires made familiar hissing sounds on the wet streets.

"Hey, miseur!"  The sudden voice startled them both.  Jean spotted the owner of the voice, a boy of about seven or eight. He was perched on a stack of wooden crates at the mouth of the alley they were just passing. 

"Dis no way t' be treat'n de petite belle, neh?"  He indicated the rain.

Jean and Charles shared hopeful looks.  It was Remy again.  He was still painfully thin, but seemed healthy enough.  Jean hid her amusement at the strong maternal instinct he evoked.  She could just imagine the adult Remy's reaction if she ever mentioned "maternal instincts" in conjunction with himself.  Her husband would likely throw a small fit.

"Y' be need'n a place out o' de rain, oui?  I c'n take you an' de belle someplace nice.  Safe n' dry, like de lady deserve.  'Course, I gotta ask a small finders fee."  The boy watched them with all appearances of helpful solicitude. 

Jean was forced to hide another smile.  No wonder you're such a scoundrel, Remy.

Charles watched the boy with interest.  "Actually, we're looking for someone.  Maybe you can help us find him."

Now that was an interesting tack to take, Jean thought.

The boy's gaze became calculating.  "Maybe.  Who de lucky homme?"  He was watching Charles intently.

"A thief.  His name is Gambit."

Jean saw the flicker of recognition in the blue eyes.  "Gon' cost you, miseur."

"How much?"

Jean's mind wandered as they negotiated.  The detail of the city around them was truly amazing.  Most of the time, a person's projected subconscious was much more of a fantasy setting, or at least a mesh of many realities.  She had often encountered mindscapes filled with bizarre creatures, where the basic laws of physics did not apply.  But this city seemed completely normal.  She wasn't certain if that indicated a high level of logical thinking on Remy's part, or if, perhaps, he'd simply had his illusions stripped away at such an early age that this hard realism was all that remained.  He certainly didn't act like someone completely grounded in reality.  She would have expected this kind of mindscape from Bishop, not Gambit.  Still, what Remy really thought about most things was an acknowledged mystery.

The boy jumped down from his perch and started off.  Jean shook off her introspection and followed with Charles.

"Do you think this will work?" she asked him.

Charles shrugged.  "It seemed like the thing to do.  We are making progress, at least."

They followed their guide onward.  The city remained dark, but the rain had tapered off, Jean noticed.  And it was warmer.  That might indicate a shift in seasons, if what they saw was based on Gambit's actual memories.

Jean was beginning to get a feel for their direction in the winding city streets.  It seemed as if the streets were beginning to orient toward a central point, some distance ahead of them.  They were finally getting close-- to something important, anyway.

The boy Remy froze, dropping into a defensive crouch.  Jean and Charles looked around in surprise as figures emerged from the darkness, surrounding them.  Charles grabbed her arm.

"This is a real memory.  They aren't seeing us."  He indicated the seven boys that now ringed them.  The boys were obviously members of a gang, ranging in age from about twelve to seventeen or so.  The leader was a lanky type, with long dirt blonde hair.  He was dressed in brown leather and held a baseball bat that whose end had been sharpened to a point.  As Charles had observed, they paid no attention to the two adults, but looked straight through them to the object of their interest. 

Remy turned slowly, watching the tightening circle.

"I don't like this, Charles," Jean said.  But she knew there was nothing either of them could do.  Except maybe to close their eyes.  "We shouldn't be here.  This is private."

Charles turned to look at her.  "I know.  But I don't want to lose our guide if we don't have to.  Gambit is still lost in here somewhere."

"Well, well.  Lookee what we got here."  The leader was tapping the bat into the palm of his hand.  "T'ought y' got away wit it, eh, kid?"

Trapped inside the circle, Remy didn't respond.

The leader's voice turned deadly serious. "Well, I got a message for y': T'ink again."

The circle closed quickly as the boys moved in.  Jean knew they were intent on murder. She turned her head against Charles' shoulder, though she continued to watch out of the corner of her eye.

Remy spun inside the circle and then launched himself at one of the gang members, arms extended.  Jean could see the long shard of glass he held in one hand, probably what passed for a knife.  The boy's surprised expression told her he didn't expect this prey to attack.  He threw up his hands with a shout as Remy collided with him.  Both went down in a tangled heap then Remy was rolling to his feet.  He bolted for a nearby drainpipe and was a story up before the other boys realized what was happening. 

After a few moments of confusion and shouting, several of the gang members started up a fire escape on the same building.  Remy had just reached the roof and was pulling himself up over the ledge.  Jean saw the small form disappear from view and silently wished him luck.  Then she returned her attention to the boys still gathered on the street.  They were looking down at the one Remy had attacked.  As they moved around, Jean got a glimpse of the prone form.  He was dead, she knew immediately, with the ragged glass fragment protruding from his throat.  Blood pooled on the street and ran down the cracks between the cobblestones.  The light from a window above reflected dimly in the spreading blood.  Jean shivered.

She did not resist as Charles drew her away from the scene.

#

Charles held on to Jean's arm as they walked quickly away from the dead boy lying on the street.  He felt chilled by the ruthless savagery of what could really only be considered children.  It was no wonder Gambit showed such nonchalance toward death.  Charles had always been bothered by that attitude-- though Gambit seemed willing to respect his wishes and avoid killing the enemies he fought whenever possible.  And not that Gambit had ever seemed to enjoy killing.  It was just that he didn't seem to care one way or the other.  Charles wasn't certain it was possible not to have some kind of emotional reaction to taking another's life.  Yet he wondered, if he had grown up in such circumstances, would he have any of the moral standards that he considered to be such an integral part of himself?

He and Jean turned down a new street.  They had both noticed the way the streets were beginning to all point in the same direction, and this was a broad thoroughfare that might give them a more direct route.  As they walked, more lights began to appear.  Strings of white and colored lights were wrapped around some of the second floor balconies. Paper lanterns hung from awnings and were strung between lamp posts.  More people began to emerge, some sitting at outdoor tables, others gathered in the streets.  The mood was festive, the night bright.  Music wafted out of the doorways and spilled over into the street.  This was the image of New Orleans Charles was familiar with.  His mood lifted.

Loud laughter drew his attention upward.  A group of teenagers were gathered on one of the balconies.  From their dress and the music that blared from the doorway behind them, it was obvious that the party was well under way.  One of the girls turned sharply, her braids fanning out behind her head.  Charles stopped and watched more closely.  She was laughing.  One of the boys turned her back towards him and kissed her deeply.  Even in profile, his red hair and angular features were unmistakable.  Remy and Belledonna.  They paid no attention to the two who watched them from below.

After a while Charles shrugged and moved on.  Next to him, Jean's expression was disapproving.  He looked at her questioningly.

"They're so young," she supplied by way of an explanation.  "If that was my daughter, I think I'd kill him."

Charles couldn't help but chuckle.  "You weren't more than a year or two older when you started dating Scott."

Jean flushed and smiled ruefully.  "I'm showing my age, aren't I?"

They walked on. The lights and music quickly faded behind them.  The city returned to darkness and silence.  The buildings were taller here, and the street seemed to narrow.  After a little while, there were no more cross streets, and they were left with only one direction to go.

"I think we're almost there."  Charles could see that the buildings ended a short ways ahead, but couldn't tell what lay beyond that point.  He was unprepared for what they found when they reached the end of the street.

The street emptied into a huge circular court.  Other streets entered as theirs did, at intervals around the circle.  The entire thing was paved with bricks. In the center of the court, a huge black tree grew.  The trunk would take three people joined hand in hand to reach around it.  Uprooted bricks lay in haphazard piles around the base.  The branches of the tree exploded outward, obscuring any view of the sky.  They waved wildly, looking like tentacles, and made whistling noises from the speed of their passage through the air.  The tree had no leaves, Charles realized, nor did it look like it was meant to.  Instead, the surface of the trunk and branches were smooth and supple, almost like a snake's skin.  Occasionally, there was a sharp crack as a branch struck another branch or the ground, and they could feel the vibration through the soles of their feet.

But what caused Charles' blood to run cold was the man suspended upside down in the middle of the tree.  Gambit's arms and legs were wrapped in the black tentacles, and the tattered remains of his combat uniform hung off of him in strips.  As they watched, one of the tentacles came whistling through, striking Gambit with the force of a whip.  A fresh line of blood appeared on top of the old.  Gambit did not respond.

Jean stood with a hand clapped over her mouth.  Her eyes were wide with horror.  Charles felt his own hopes sink.  The tree and Gambit's physical condition were a reflection of the damage to his psyche.  The tree was old and established, so the original trauma must have happened sometime well in the past, but Elizabeth's attack had reopened the wounds.  Gambit was once again subjected to whatever pain had ripped his telepathic abilities apart in the first place.

Very cautiously, Charles approached the tree.  He had no idea yet what it represented or what kind of harm it could do him, so he ducked as the tentacles flashed by overhead.  When he reached the trunk, he reached out and touched it, hoping to read something of its nature.

The world exploded into pain, like a spike driven through his skull.  He was aware of a black gulf that threatened to suck him down.  It was colder than anything he had ever experienced, and it seemed to simply draw the life out of his blood, absorbing him.  He felt like he was being sucked down into nothingness, as if everything he was, every thought, every hope, every dream, every heartbeat, were being torn out of him.

Charles yanked his hand away from the tree with a cry and collapsed to his knees, shuddering.  Now he understood what had happened to Gambit.  He felt Jean wrap her arms around him and looked up.

"It's death," he told her through chattering teeth.

"Whose?  Remy's?"  She looked up into the tree at the still form.  Her eyes were wild.

"No."  Charles closed his eyes and tried to force his body back under his control.  "Someone else's.  It doesn't matter who."

"What do you mean?"

"He killed someone-- telepathically-- and couldn't drop the link.  This is what the feedback did to him."  Charles indicated the black tree.

"He murdered--" Jean was pale.

"Murder or self-defense.  It doesn't make a difference."  Charles was beginning to get his breath back.  They both flinched as a tentacle slapped the ground near them, scarring the bricks.

Jean relaxed a little and gave Charles a hug.  It was probably more for her own reassurance, but he appreciated the comfort nonetheless.  "So how do we get him out of there?  Can the tree hurt us?"

"Yes.  But I can see no reason not to use our powers now.  We can't do Remy any further harm, I don't think."

Jean nodded.  Her telekinetic powers could release Remy from his prison without forcing either of them to make contact with the tree again.  It was odd, Charles thought, that they only seemed to be able to directly manipulate another's mind through the physical references they were familiar with.  Jean could easily use a form of her telekinetic powers here, or a sword, since she had practiced with one extensively, but she would find it far harder to grow wings or use an energy blast, or mimic some other kind of mutant power.  He watched as invisible hands uncoiled the thick black tendrils.  He could see the strain on Jean's face, and joined her in the effort.  Since telekinesis was not a physical power for him, it was a difficult endeavor, but he wasn't the premier telepath on the planet for nothing, he told himself as he gritted his teeth.

Eventually, they brought the mangled body down to the ground.  Jean erected shields to ward off the tentacles that snapped at them.  Charles picked up Remy's limp form and they retreated from the tree.  As they did so, the world around them began to lose its solidity.  The physical was impinging on the mental-- Remy was regaining consciousness.  Charles allowed himself to release the body he held, which evaporated along with the rest of the city around him, and then followed the warm link back to his own body.