Chapter Eight: Stolen (Remy)
Remy LeBeau had seen a lot of things in his short lifetime.
Huge fucking robots trained to kill mutants.
Gigantic glowing mechanical spiders raging through the streets.
Jean-Luc kidnapped by their sworn blood enemies.
A mummy coming back to life in Tibet.
Said mummy attempting to change all of humanity into mutants.
John Allerdyce claiming he found a woman attractive.
Yeah, he'd seen some crazy shit, in his time.
But nothing had scared him quite like the look in that horrific being's glowing eyes when Remy had told him, No.
Everything else, he could handle. All of it. He'd faced it down, and done what needed to be done.
But that… that he wished he could forget. More than anything in the world. He just wanted to forget.
You do not say no to Sinister, you realize.
But he had. And he was still alive to tell the tale.
Barely.
If he could just get to a fucking phone before it was too late.
He had nothing on him. Not even the clothes he'd come in. Just this horrible fucking pair of white boxers and a sheet he'd grabbed on his way out. That and the huge bandage on his side. Looked like a fucking hospital escapee. If anyone saw him, they'd probably check him into the local asylum instantly.
He was not entirely certain that they shouldn't do just that, at this point. Flashing red eyes, far more frightening than his own red-on-black.
His were attractive. Sexy, even, if he did say so himself.
Not these ones. These were repulsive. And absolutely fucking terrifying.
And he needed to get to a fucking phone. Needed to call Rogue. Or Wanda and Pietro Maximoff were well and truly fucked. Far more fucked than he. By miles and miles.
Constant sound of bubbling. Like a water-bong in slow motion, really. That's what it made him think of, drugged up, head lulling forward, then to his shoulders, back and forth. Probably not so good for his neck, which had just been sliced through, in order to dig out the tracking device. He had no control over it. No control over the arms chained above his head. Or the legs held at the ankles, attached to the wall. He could feel them, of course. Feel the cold in his arms. Not much blood making it's way up to his hands, so he probably wouldn't have been able to do much with them even if he hadn't been pumped full of drugs. The legs, he could feel a little better.
The gaping wound in his side, from that fucker with the girly hair who called himself Riptide… that, he could definitely feel.
Didn't hurt, exactly, not now. At least that he could thank the drugs for. But it was obvious, in his mind, that a piece of him was missing. A large hole in him, where his skin had once closed over a wall of muscle, that had held his guts in.
The bandage was mostly doing that now. And not very well, really.
It was really just an observation. He was pretty far removed the horror of it. He could just feel it, missing. That piece of him that had been there.
Apparently, he wasn't so far from London. Which was nice.
The girl in the Prefect had stopped willingly, seeing a half naked, well muscled man standing on the side of the road. On her way home. Wasn't that lovely. Look, chere, ah've had some trouble. Obviously. Would y'mind givin' me a ride?
An hour later, she would've given him any kind of ride he wanted.
He settled for her wallet, and a kiss. The latter, with her blessing. The former, she'd never notice till he was long gone.
And now he was dialing furiously, stuck inside one of those horrible little red phone booths that made him think of John's fucking Mr. Bean tapes.
Sacre mere, but that Aussie was begging for an ass kicking, Cajun style.
"Xavier Institute."
He froze for just an instant, accessing his formidable mental rolodex. Unfamiliar voice. Accent. Joual. Québécois. "Who am ah speakin' wi'?"
"You called me, monsieur," Cocky. Young. Male. "You go first."
Another voice now, in the background. "Give me that, Jean-Paul." And now, that voice. Hers. Close to the phone, as the boy laughed in the background now. "Hello, Xavier Institute, sorry about him, he's Canadian."
"Rogue."
A sharp breath. "…Remy?"
"Chere, listen to me."
"Remy, where are ya? Ya sound bad…"
"Listen, please. Not much time."
"Why did he send you?"
But Remy couldn't have answered if he wanted to. And the huge looming man, this vampiric nightmare covered in metal, knew it. He'd done this to him.
Cold. So cold, all over. Mad scientist laboratory. Like a bad horror film, a B-grade sci-fi flick. Something they'd watch late at night, back home, when the summer got so hot no one could sleep, the boys trying to scare each other since there was nothing else to do.
But it wasn't hot here.
"Oh no answer? Well, then, I suppose we could find out on our own."
The empty ache in his side. Ah. Mon dieu.
"You had your chance to help me. To be my assassin. If you hadn't said no, this would've been much easier."
No. No, no, no. Never. Whatever he was, it was worse than Magneto. Worse than Sabretooth. Worse than any of them, all of them, rolled into one. Eyes like Apocalypse. Like someone who knew Apocalypse. Like the Horsemen.
"I suppose I could offer you one more chance. But I know what you'll say. It doesn't matter, anyhow. I'll find out all about you, and about your master, with or without your help."
Ridiculously, he felt a flash of anger.
Magneto was not his master.
He slid down in the booth, knees folding up to his chest, now that he'd warned her. About the twins. About what was coming.
Holding his side in.
"Remy… Remy, are ya there?"
"Here, cheri." Was good, to hear her voice. He had a feeling he might not hear it again.
"Don't move, we're comin' for ya."
"Non, too dangerous. He'll come for me. Jus' make sure 'dey don' get de kids."
"Remy LeBeau, don't make me hunt you down mahself. You just hold still," She sounded close to panic. Like she really cared.
He knew he had to go. Any minute now, he'd be caught. He'd been lucky, so far. Lucky, and damn good at disappearing. "Goodbye."
"Remy! Stop, don't you dare hang up! Ah'll keep you on this phone until they get there if ah have to!"
"Won' leave London. If he don' catch me, 'dey find me easy enough. Just go, now, gotta find dem, Rogue. Before he does."
"Be careful."
"Remy always careful. See you 'fore too long."
Couldn't help but think, it sounded an awful lot like a lie.
"Twins…"
Remy had given up his attempts not to writhe in pain, not to yell, a long time ago.
"Interesting. Do they have some sort of link, do you think? What kind of genetic intricacies would be involved in a pair like Wanda and Pietro Maximoff? Children of one of the world's most powerful mutants…?"
It was almost as if he wanted Remy to hear it. As if it didn't matter, because he'd be dead soon anyhow. The pain ripping though him, starting at the base of his skull, shooting painfully through every current in his nervous system, so that he could feel each nerve, each synapse, each singular fucking electrical impulse that made his body communicate with itself. The pain would kill him, eventually.
"Not two of the world's most powerful mutants, granted… but one of them. It bears looking into, really."
Of all the goddamn things he could've taken interest in, of all the things he'd dug out of Remy's now sizzling brain. He chose them. Never before had he been so aware of how fantastic it was, really. The hopelessly tangled pathways through his body, that sent messages to and from his cells. Never until he felt that machine sent the signals into the back of his head, felt them shoot through him. Like his veins were frying. Like his powers had collapsed into him somehow, refused to pour out, and charged him on the inside.
"If their powers are as dissimilar as you seem to think, my friend, perhaps they are simply an accident. Perhaps the fact that they're twins lends them nothing special. But, of course, there's only one way to find out about that."
He was in the alley now. Which alley, he didn't know, and didn't care.
A pair of jeans and a shirt. And he looked almost normal again. When he had to blend in, he could stand upright. Like he hadn't been torn into by a caffeine junky whirlwind with an interest in shiny objects.
It didn't matter, if it hurt.
It mattered that of all the things, of all the goddamn secrets in Remy LeBeau's head, all the man—the thing—had taken an interest in, was the news of the twins. Like this little information gathering mission he'd been sent on didn't matter.
Like he didn't give a fuck.
Like he didn't care about Magneto at all.
Like he wasn't even threatened that someone had made it past his security so easily, into the heart of his stronghold.
And that was what really made Remy nervous.
He could feel it, when someone was nervous. When they were happy. When they wanted a smile or a hug or a fuck. He always had been able to, since he was just a kid. It was part of why he'd almost believed him, when they called him a demon. The white devil with the red eyes. Because he knew they were scared, when they looked at him. And if they were scared of him, he must have something worth being afraid of, right?
But Sinister hadn't been nervous. Hadn't batted an eye. As if he had let Remy in, as if he'd opened the front door and invited him in for lunch.
He wasn't human. Whatever the fuck he was, he wasn't human.
And Remy didn't even want to think of what he'd do to those kids, if he got hold of them.
Or how it would be his fault, for that matter. Because he'd been caught. For the first time in his life, he'd been caught. And he wasn't going to pay for that mistake himself. He wouldn't even have the satisfaction of seeing someone who might've stood a chance paying for it, like Magneto.
It'd be Wanda and Pietro Maximoff who paid for it.
"Look like a couple of punks to me. Easy enough."
"They are powerful… punks," Sinister loomed over his four lackeys, his voice filling the entire lab. "And they have friends. But they are children. It should not prove too difficult. Consider it… a test."
The one with the green hair, the woman, laughed at that. "Consider it done."
"What you want a couple of kids for, boss?"
Something that should have been a laugh escaped the huge figure then. But it was too cold, empty, and inhuman to pass as such. More like a long sound somewhere between amusement and irritation. Like if god decided to laugh one day, because he finally noticed what a bunch of idiots he'd created, when he made humanity. Like the idea of the huge man questioning him was so ridiculous, he couldn't help himself.
"Science."
Remy twitched, pushing the inside of his wrist against the manacle holding him to the wall, feeling out the latches. He folded one finger down, as far as it would go, and felt for the latch he knew he should find there, on the edge. Sticking out, just a bit. Just a fraction of a centimeter…
"Gambit, come with me."
He shot up, breathing hard, and charged the nearest object to him reflexively.
Storm. Watching him in the dark. "The X-Men are with the Maximoffs. Come with me."
He looked at his hand, and nearly laughed. In a helpless sort of way.
He'd charged the fucking telephone.
"Dare I ask," she continued, as he painfully pulled himself out of the bed, "why you did not call Magneto with this information?"
"I didn' have his phone number on me, chere," he snarled, reflexively moving his arm down to his side. As if to hold himself in.
"Now is hardly the time for jokes."
He pointed to his neck, to the slice he knew was obvious in it. "Chip used to be 'dere. Trackin' chip. And he didn' exactly hand me ma clothes and send me ou' de door, if y'catch ma meaning. So no communications device made it out alive."
She just looked at him. "Magneto doesn't have a phone?"
He narrowed his eyes at her dangerously, seriously reconsidering charging the telephone again, just so he could throw it at her. Did the woman honestly think that if one of his operatives were caught, cut up, and had divulged all of his secrets, no matter how unwillingly, Magneto would have a hotline set up just for the occasion?
"Hardly a time for jokes, non?"
"And how do you have our phone number memorized?"
That, he'd rather not admit to. "Call it a personal interest. Y'gon' take me back, or y'gon' stand here starin' all day?"
"Do you know where Magneto is?"
Storm's watch beeped at them before he could answer.
In a way, it was a good thing. Because he didn't have a damn clue where the man was. Magneto had become increasingly paranoid and secretive about his activities since the whole… cluster fuck. Not to mention that business with Pete.
But in another way, it was bad. Very bad. Because a sinking sensation in his stomach told him that whoever was sending Storm that signal had nothing but bad news for them.