Descent

Disclaimer: Characters and Premise are borrowed from the Marvel, I'm not making any money.

Part 3

Remy stood under the warm spray of water, head leaning against the cool tiles, trying to let the shower wash away his frustration along with the grime from the Morlocks' tunnels. Sarah had run off at the last moment, both Cat and Chloe decided to stay and look for the girl rather than coming with him. Essex hadn't been happy about that, plus he'd failed his bio exam.

Remy punched the wall of the shower in a sudden burst of anger. Nothing he did was ever right or good enough. He tried. He really tried. Tried to talk right, to make sense of all the lessons Essex gave him, to bring people to Essex for help even when Remy couldn't understand why it was so important to reach mutants who didn't want help half the time.

And Sarah! Who cared what some little kid thought anyway? It wasn't his fault she ran off, but Essex was blaming him for not paying more attention to her.

As Remy slammed his fist into the wall a second time the eldritch fire of his power erupted with his temper, leaping easily from his skin to the droplets of water clinging to the tile. Remy jumped back, throwing an arm up to protect his face from the impending explosion.

After several minutes of deep breathing exercises he stepped back into the shower to examine the damage. He sighed in relief seeing nothing worse than a black streak on the wall. He'd only charged the water, not the wall itself thankfully.

"T'ink sometime boy," he told himself, grabbing up a robe and heading back toward his room. "Essex don' feel like anger, he ain't yo're pa'ents. He's strict, oui. Demandin', but he don' hit yo'."

Remy barely noticed the sterile corridors of the base anymore. He'd taught himself not to see them; it made living there easier. His room was the one place on that really felt welcoming to him. He'd all but papered the walls with posters he acquired one way or another. Most of them tourist sheets about New Orleans, not the dangerous back alley he'd found when he tried to make his way home, but the New Orleans of his dreams. The bright colors of the Marti Gras, tree lined streets overhung with vine-covered balconies, old stately manor houses with crumbling bricks. The posters were proof that his memories were more than just a child's fantasy.

Remy dug a meditating crystal out of his belongings and sat cross-legged on his bed, concentrating on divorcing himself from his emotions. Without control he was death walking, purposeless destruction, fueled by fear or anger, emotions that ruled his life. Essex was right, he was better off without them, but he couldn't find it in him to be so cold.

Some time later a knock sounded at the door.

"Quoi?" Remy asked.

"Something wrong Gambit?" Scalphunter asked.

"Why yo' t'ink dat Grey Crow?" Remy replied opening the door, giving his friend and teacher a carefree smile.

"Scorched tiles in the bathroom," Scalphunter said frankly.

"Mais, yo' know it gets 'way from me once an' awhile," Remy said grimacing.

"Yeah, when you're upset," Scalphunter replied.

"Mebbe I was a little frustrated," Remy admitted. "Jus' a bit. Ain't wort' mentionin' really... Would it kill him to give me a break jus' once?"

"It's not his style, boy. You know that," the big mercenary said. "You've got promise, he won't let you squander it."

"Mais he could be friendlier," Remy sulked.

"You want warmth," Scalphunter said. "Like Richard gave you? Emotions like that are nice, sure, but they aren't dependable, you saw that." He tapped Remy on the head, "You're better off thinking with that, not your heart. And better off still if you don't trust anyone who lets their feelings lead them, you can never tell where they'll take a body. You're better off with Essex he only acts from logic. You can trust that. It may be cold, but it's not fickle."

"I know, but yo' ever t'ink mebbe he sees somet'ing dat ain't dere? What'll his logic tell him when I can't live up to his 'xpectations?" Remy asked.

"Don't worry Remy, you're doing fine," Scalphunter reassured the boy. "You do what he tells you to, keep working on your lessons like you have been, everything'll work out."

****** ****** ******

"Waking up was hell," Warren decided. In his dreams he wasn't here. Sometimes he was in school or back with his parents. The best were when he was flying free, with nothing holding him to the Earth.

Then he'd wake up, it always took a few minutes to remember the realities of his current existence. Waking, stretching his wings, feeling the walls of his cell and the agonizing pain of his injuries, claustrophobia out running reason, spending several minutes beating pointlessly at the impenetrable glass of his prison, doing even more damage to his wings, renewing the bruises on his hands, screaming his throat raw.

Waking up was hell, and life didn't improve much once it was over. As much as he hated his harness, he'd always known he could take it off. He wasn't sure how long it had been since he'd had the room to spread his wings. And if the constant misery of claustrophobia wasn't enough to drive him crazy there was always the boredom. He couldn't do anything; there wasn't room to pace. He couldn't even scratch the days or defiant messages into the walls of his cell. He could sit, stand or lean. He could think or watch what happened in the lab outside his prison. He choose not to either as much as possible. Thinking was painful, hopeless plans for escape, terrifying imaginings of his future, depressing longings for his past. His thoughts weren't much of a sanctuary.

He was glad he couldn't hear what happened in the lab. He generally refused to look at it, it only provided fuel for his imagination and if the Morlocks ended up on those tables because of his failure to warn them he didn't want to know.

So far Sinister had been content to simply take samples from Warren for study. Warren knew better than to expect this grace period to last. Boredom would eventually drive him insane, but being on one of those tables would do it a lot quicker. Warren almost hoped Sinister would give him the time to loose his mind before the experiments really started.

The walls of the lab were lined with cells like Warren's, about fifty total. For the most part Sinister worked his way around the room methodically, experimenting on one of his victims then disposing of the unfortunate before moving on to the next cell in line. There were always new captives to replace those Sinister tired of. Warren bitterly pondered Gambit's effectiveness in procuring them.

Watching Sinister's progression brought feelings of marching slowly and helplessly to his execution. But sometimes something caught Sinister's interest and he skipped ahead at random, it made certain that the terror of Sinister's arrival never dulled. Warren could never be sure that today wouldn't be his turn.

Warren had watched one mutant try to beat her skull in against the walls of her cell when she had been next in line. Sinister had secured her to a lab table and left her like that till he was ready to proceed. Not even suicide was an escape from this hell.

Warren had tried creating a sign language to communicate with his neighbors. The boy on his left spent his time curled in a ball sobbing. The girl on his right was consumed by watching Sinister with a futile, maniacal hatred. Neither wanted to talk.

So Warren waited and wondered if he should encourage the seeds of madness he sensed in himself or to fight them. He dreamed of the skies and cursed those who'd stolen them from him. The past was lost, the future belonged to the realm of nightmare and the present was hell.

****** ****** ******

Essex sat across the table from Remy in the small dining room near the boy's quarters. "Evolution is a process of trial and error," he lectured. "It takes much time and it has no mercy in dealing with its failures, but the process is necessary."

"Why?" Remy asked.

"Because change is life, the world molds us to face new challenges." Essex replied. "If we do not embrace change, there are others who will and they will sweep us away. We are not the only species who mutates."

"If it's all nature den why do we need to do anyt'ing?" Remy said. "You had me read Darwin, it's not a choice, its just what happens. I didn't choose m' powers, or m' eyes, or even m' height. I take dem and live wid dem as best as 'M able. Dat's all anyone can do."

"Did you also read Ayn Rand as I assigned?" Essex asked.

Remy glanced away. "She's long," he commented. "Don', I mean, she isn't in any big hurry to make her points."

"Yes, that is a flaw of most writers of fiction, they lack efficacy, it is in the nature of allegory and parables. Unfortunately some of those who would call themselves my colleagues suffer the same lack, in them it is the result of pompousness. Remember that when making your reports to me," Essex said. "I do not assign you much fiction for this reason, but there is value in some of it. I expect you to read what I assign, even if you find it long or dull."

"It isn't boring," Remy argued. "I mean you got sex an' fighting, but I figured dat wasn't why you wanted me to read it. I don' get her meaning, what's so wrong wid carin' 'bout people?"

"That goes back to your earlier question. It is our nature to evolve, but with his intelligence man has found ways to oppose evolution. He fears the unknown and those stronger than himself, he pities the weak protects them. He works in direct opposition to evolution. He can't stop it, but he can slow it. Dragging out the process only increases the cruelty associated with it. I seek to streamline things. I cannot eliminate the pain of evolution, but it should be a clean, quick suffering. We can encourage those mutations which show promise to succeed. Proper planning can shorten the process by generations. I have been working for centuries at this task, planting the seeds to ensure that mutants will erupt abruptly, in great numbers. If you look around you, you will see it has already begun. Humans will not be able to halt the tide, but my work is not yet finished."

"Yo're centuries ole? Mon Dieu, dat be hundreds of years," Remy interrupted. "How is dat possible? Merde, yo' look bien for your age."

Essex sighed, since taking Remy in hand he found it was impossible to drag the boy's attention back to the main subject, until his curiosity had been satisfied about whatever tangent had caught his eye. "I have adapted myself to age more slowly so that my work would not be cut short by the passage of time. My best efforts could not speed evolution enough to fit it in a single lifespan so I have altered my own genetic structure to extend my life enough to overseeing this next step in human evolution. And please remember your English."

"Sorry," Remy replied absently. "You got rid of your emotions too, right? Did you do it at the same time?"

"No, the elimination of my emotions did not require altering my genome, simply destroying a segment of my brain. I did that years before slowing the aging process," Essex replied. "I would do the same for you, but the center of your mutant abilities is located closely to the emotional center of your brain, I cannot destroy one without risking the other."

"Dat's okay," Remy said nervously. " 'M workin' on controlling m' emotions, I t'ink dat be good enough."

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