Thanks for reading once again! Please review! This is going to
be pretty long, but I couldn't take the pressure any longer...so I
had to get to well, you know who...hope you enjoy.
It seemed days later, but it was actually only a few hours when Ororo sat with her friends in the den, just a few yards away from Hank's lab where he raced to save Bobby's life. The air was tense, and nobody was saying much. Someone had turned on the TV, although she had no idea who. It was purely for distraction; no one was actually watching it. With the exception of Hank, the professor, and of course, Bobby, everyone was in there, waiting. Bishop and Remy had changed their clothes so at least no one had to see all the blood. Remy had bandaged his head wound, but he would have to wait until Hank could stitch it up properly. He was acting very antsy, tapping his foot, and constantly glancing at the door. He looked like he desperately needed either a cigarette or a drink. She hoped he wouldn't succumb to the temptation.
Ororo looked around the room, and was not surprised to see that even in this time of crisis, everyone was pretty much reacting as she would have expected them to. Jean and Scott sat on the love seat, holding hands. Because of their shared psychic rapport they didn't need to speak to communicate. Warren and Betsy were also sitting, holding hands, each having the other for comfort. Storm briefly wished that she, too, could have someone like that, someone that she was in love and destined to be with. Scott had Jean, Warren had Betsy, Charles had Lilandra, and even though they were estranged, for a long while Rogue and Remy had been in love. Her thoughts turned briefly to Forge. She thought, for a time, that he may be the love of her life. But she was wrong. Forge was in love with his work, using his mutant powers to create fascinating inventions years ahead of his time. There had simply not been enough room in his life for his machines and her too. She blocked all thoughts of Forge and her jaded love life out of her mind. She had no right to mope when she had so much to be thankful for, not to mention while her friend lay nearby fighting for his life.
She felt a hand on hers, breaking her thoughts. Remy smiled slightly at her. "You look a thousand miles away, chere."
She nodded. She felt a thousand miles away. She wished she were a thousand miles away. "Come here," she saidto him. He crawled over to her on the sofa, and she wrapped her arms around him. She suddenly felt so alone, and needed to feel him there. She needed to know that this was really happening, even if she didn't want it to.
"Don't worry, chere," he whispered. "I'm sure he'll be okay."
She squeezed him tighter. "I hope so, my friend. I most definitely hope so."
Finally, after the moon was glistening in the thick New York sky and the Tonight Show was nearly over, Hank appeared at the doorway. It was impossible to read anything on his face, but everyone stood up, slow as if walking under water. Even Scott, who was usually solid as a rock, and Bishop, who had seen dozens of people die in the future he came from, looked shaky.
Remy and Ororo stood with their friends, and she took his hand and held it tightly. If it was bad news, she needed him to hold on to. She held her breath as Hank cleared his throat. "Bobby's alive," he began. Storm let out a huge sigh of relief, as did everyone else in the room at the exact same second. It would have almost been funny if the circumstances had been different.
Hank continued. "However, he has lost a great deal of blood, and I am afraid he is in a coma." He paused, and shook his head. "I've done all I can to repair the damage the bullet caused to his ribcage. Thankfully, it seemed to miss most of the major organs." He sighed. "It is up to him now."
That had to be the longest day of any of their lives. Ororo knew that it was certainly one of hers. However, the next twenty-four hours were even longer. She was fairly certain that no one got any sleep that night. It was apparent at breakfast the next morning when the only thing consumed were massive amounts of coffee. Someone, probably Rogue, had made pancakes, and as delicious as they smelled, when Ororo tried to eat some, they stuck in her throat like breaded glue and she nearly choked. A glance at the others confirmed that they felt the same way. Warren was pushing his around on his plate, but not actually eating any. Scott kept cutting his, smaller and smaller until it was mush. Even Bishop, who usually had a tremendous appetite given his nearly seven-foot frame, couldn't eat. It was the saddest, most morbid morning she had remembered in a long time. No one was talking, and in fact the only noise at all was the steady patter of rain against the roof. The weather report, she saw in the paper Scott was pretending to read really did call for a gray day, but for some reason she was pretty sure it would have been one even if the weatherman had protected a bright, sunny one. There was an article about the rally, but no one read it. They didn't need too. Bobby remained in a coma, and each one of them kept a bedside vigil so that someone was there with him all the time. There wasn't anything that they could do, and they had no idea if he was aware that they were there or not, but still, as painful as it was to see him lying there, he was never alone, not even for a minute.
He looks almost peaceful laying there, Storm noticed. If it weren't for all the instruments that he was hooked up to, she wouldn't have been able to tell that there was anything wrong with him. He looked so young, though, even younger than he really was. With his curly dark blond hair, tanned complexion and dimples, Ororo noticed for the first time how cute he really was, and how innocent he looked lying there. "Bobby," she whispered, holding his hand. "I don't know if you can hear me or not, but if you can, I want you to know that we are praying for you." She smiled down at him. "You have to get better, you know. Think of what would happen to the ratings of Baywatch. Not to mention who would take control of the baby poll? I want my baby to know his or her 'Uncle' Bobby."
Jean walked in the room right then just in time to hear her say that. "I'm sure that he will, Ororo. You don't know how much he's looking forward to being an 'uncle.'"
Storm smiled again. "And what an interesting uncle he would...I mean...will be. My baby is lucky to have so many people to love and play with."
Jean sat down across from her on the other side of Bobby. "You're right about that. I look forward to the day when Scott and I will be blessed with a baby also. Hopefully, one of these days."
"Excuse me," a deep voice said. Jean and Ororo looked up to see Bishop glowering in the doorway. The tattooed 'M' above his right eye seemed to pulse. "I'm sorry to interrupt," he said. "But I thought you might be interested in knowing, Ms. Munroe, that LeBeau just came home, and he is as they say, 'drunk as a skunk."
Her jaw dropped open as soon as the words sunk in. Did he just say what I pray he did not? "Are...are you sure, Bishop?"
"Yes," he said, not trying to hide the disgust in his voice. "I thought you should know."
She nodded, but couldn't manage to say anything else. Bishop turned and left, and Jean sighed deeply. Until then, Storm had forgotten she was even there. "I was afraid of this," she said. "He was so angry at what happened. He blames himself."
"That is something he has been doing for as long as I have known the man. If he could think of a way, he would blame himself for the world being round, and the sky being blue. But I prayed that it would not be the case here."
"Don't be too hard on him," she was surprised to hear Jean continue. "After all, he's been through a lot these past months."
Ororo stood up, and headed for the door. "Yes, Jean, I realize that," she called over her shoulder. "But then again, who hasn't?"
She found him sitting in his room, and at least to his credit, he didn't try to avoid her. She had seen him plenty drunker, but then how drunk could someone really be at three in the afternoon? He looked more buzzed than anything, obviously drowning his guilt in a long, tall bottle. "I figured you be here sooner or later," he said, his voice slightly slurred, without looking at her.
"How could you?" She said, trying to control her anger. But then it wasn't so much anger that she felt as bitter disappointment.
He shrugged. "I don't know. It just happened. I know I broke my promise, so I understand if you hate me."
She felt her jaw immediately clench up. He always did this. He always made it so hard to stay mad at him by making her feel guilty. "You know I don't hate you. But I don't understand how you could do this to me, not to mention to yourself."
Again, he shrugged. "I wasn't counting on anything like this happening, I mean what happened to Bobby," he stopped and stood up, somewhat off-balance. "I don't care what Jean say, or Cyke or anyone. What happened to 'em was my fault. Cyke broke us up into two-man teams, and when things went bad, I shoulda protected him." He slammed his fist so hard against the post of his bed that it echoed. Only it's solid construction saved it from cracking. Storm flinched at the realization of how much that was going to hurt when he didn't have the alcohol to dull the pain. Remy continued, "Drake and I may not have always got along, but I never wanted anything like this."
Storm cleared her throat, and walked over to him. "Remy..." she began. He shook his head. "Don't," he mumbled. "I know what you gonna say, chere. Just don't." He turned and brushed past her out of the room, not even looking her in the eye.
* * * * * * *
She didn't see Remy for the rest of that day. He locked himself into the Danger Room, and refused to see anyone. It was probably just as well, for if Cyclops had gotten a hold of him, God only knows what would have happened. No one talked much, except about Bobby, and it was about as dull as Storm could ever remember it being around the institute. Finally, out of boredom if nothing else, she went to bed.
The next morning, Storm woke up early with a bad case of heartburn. It was just one of the many 'wonders' she had experienced during pregnancy. She also felt a little guilty about Remy, although she wasn't exactly sure why. Did he think that just because he had broken his promise she was now going to give the baby up for adoption? She didn't know. But she knew that she should talk to him, apologize for being angry. Jean was right, he had been through a lot these last six months, and it wasn't fair to judge him just because she had as well.
The huge mansion that the all the X-Men called home was cold and empty in the wee hours of the morning, and it was hard to believe that so many people lived here. Eerie shadows seemed to drift and then linger in the corners; blurred shadows reflecting uncertainty in the marble floors. Ororo crept down from her top floor loft down past the third floor where most of the others slept, past the main floor to the first floor where Hank had his lab and his own room nearby.
The sun was just peaking violet-red in through the windows as she entered the lab, and a new day dawned with the promise of being better then the last two. There was almost no way that it could be worst. She didn't know exactly what she expected to see, maybe a miracle, but Bobby looked exactly as he did yesterday, still deep in a coma, machines beeping and humming, keeping him alive.
It was hard to see him like this. All it did was remind her of the bigoted idiots in the world that would shoot an innocent kid for no good reason. Storm turned away from him, and headed into the other room to see if Hank was up yet. She needed something for this damn heartburn. Although it was still very early, she figured it was likely that her hairy comrade was already up, either working on the Legacy virus or hopefully on some way to help Bobby.
The door leading from the lab to Hank's room was slightly ajar. Ororo knocked lightly on it, peering in. "Hank? Are you awake?" She opened the door a little farther, and smiled at what she saw. Hank apparently had not made it to bed at all last night. His furry blue head was curled up on his arm, next to his computer where an X-Man insignia screen saver bounced around. He had fallen asleep while working on something. Sometimes he was just a little too dedicated.
She shook his shoulder, "Hank, wake up," she said. Hank stirred drowsily. "Hmm?" He mumbled, opening his eyes.
"Rise and shine."
He blinked at his computer a few times, and put on his glasses. "I must have fallen asleep." He said and turned to her. "Ororo? What are you doing down here at this late hour?"
Storm had to laugh. "Late hour! Hank, It's almost six in the morning. I'm afraid you never made it to bed last night."
"Oh, dear," he said. "Well, I fully intended to. I remember closing my eyes for a second, and then you appeared."
"Yes. Several hours later."
"Ah, well. Such is life," Hank replied standing up and stretching. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Ororo explained why she was there, and Hank assured her that heartburn was very common later on in a pregnancy, and gave her some medication that wouldn't be harmful to the baby. Then he checked on Bobby, and shook his head, disappointed that there was no change. "Isn't there anything that can be done for him?" She asked, although she was pretty sure she knew the answer.
"If there were, my dear, I assure you that I would be doing it. All we can do is wait and hope." He attempted a pitiful smile at his friend. "Well, after my less then restful night, I believe I can use a cup or two of coffee. Would you care to join me with a cup of juice?"
"Certainly. That sounds delightful."
Hank grinned evilly. "Perhaps we can share a pack of twinkies as well. I believe you already know of all my hiding places."
Storm actually blushed. "I...well..."
Hank laughed out loud, and took her by the arm to lead her into the kitchen. "It is quite alright. You can repay me by naming your first born after me."
Storm busied herself in the kitchen making breakfast while Hank went after the paper. There was another article on what had happened, this one actually more informative considering that a lot of the details weren't known by the time the papers were printed yesterday. Hank shook his head as he read it. "My stars and garters," he mumbled. "Would you believe that now they are saying an F.O.H. member was killed? I had no idea that Bobby was not the only victim."
Storm frowned as she sat down next to him at the table. "But how is it possible one of them was killed? I mean, if someone from the F.O.H had the gun, why would he shoot one of his own men?"
Hank shook his head. "No, not at the rally yesterday. Apparently, this man, one Barry Statler died several months ago. The journalist responsible for this piece was not talking about the actual incident the other day, but rather if there might be a connection to this man's death, and the recent string of mutant murders. And the rally of course. "
"Well it is about time someone made the connection," Ororo said, reading the article over her teammate's shoulder. "We already knew this whole thing was some sort of retaliation. But it still does not make any sense to me. Why here? This says the man was a native of Boston, and frequently worked in Maine. Why did the F.O.H. choose to stage their revenge here in New York?"
Hank rubbed his chin, deep in thought. "The only logical solution," he concluded. "Is that they must assume this Barry Statler's death is somehow related to Westchester. Or somewhere nearby. I cannot say that it makes total sense to me, either. But I have the feeling that what happened at that rally was not planned. There was some sort of other goal they hoped to attain that I do not believe they did."
Ororo set down her cup of juice. She didn't like what he was getting at, but she couldn't deny that he was probably right. "Then, if that is the case, we haven't seen the last of them."
Hank agreed, and for a few minutes that sat in silence, not wanting to think what could come next, but unable to think of anything else. Finally, Hank not being able to stand the silence, changed the subject to ask her if she knew whether or not Remy was up yet. He wanted to check on his stitches to make sure that they hadn't come lose. He tactfully stayed away from what he knew happened yesterday involving his drinking. Storm said she didn't know, but she wanted to talk to him, so she headed back upstairs to see.
"Remy," she said, knocking on his door. "Are you awake? I need to talk to you." No answer. She opened his door, and was surprised to see that his light was on, but he wasn't there. She shrugged, and turned to leave, figuring that he must have gone out early again. But just as she was going to close his door, she saw a piece of paper lying on his bed. She picked it up, and was even more surprised to see that her name was on it. Stormy, it said. I want to apologize for what happened yesterday. It won't happen again. Don't think I'm running out on you, but there's something I have to do that I probably should have done a few months ago. I'll see you real soon. Love always, Remy.
* * * * * * * *
It was a clear blue day over Northern Alberta, Canada when Remy landed his small minijet near a clump of over grown pine trees seemingly in the middle of nowhere. But then, Cold River Place was essentially the middle of nowhere. Remy climbed out of his plane and looked around. There was not much to see.
Cold River Place was as about as decollate a place as he had ever seen. They had the 'cold' part of the name right, anyhow, because he was freezing. Despite the fact that it was a clear, cloudless day, there was a whistling artic breeze that when it blew, he felt an incredible longing for a Louisiana August. He wondered, though, were they got the name Cold River Place from. As far as he could tell, there were no rivers anywhere. Hell, if there had been, they would have been skating ponds. He shivered and headed through the pine thicket into the empty frozen wasteland.
The Albatross Bar and Grill was the beginning and the end of the entertainment available to the 200 or so permanent residents of Cold River Place. This small town's livelihood depended on hunting mainly, and tourists flocked here from as far away as Toronto and the Northern states to hunt Caribou mostly. It boggled the imagination to think that anyone would want to live here year round. Remy shook his head, as he headed to the bar. He would go insane from boredom.
Inside, The Albatross was about as dingy and dank a bar as he had ever seen. And being from New Orleans, he had seen some real shit holes. Places that the tourists generally didn't even know about, let alone go to. He had gotten used to Harry's Hideaway and the other bars that catered to the mostly affluent community of Westchester County, and this place just about had the corner of the market on shit holes.
The door creaked loudly as he opened it, and for a second he thought the dilapidated thing might fall off the hinges altogether. Inside, a light hummed with electricity blinking every now and then, briefly hiding the dinginess. The next thing he noticed was the smell, and it made him want to keel over. It reeked of blood, sweat, possibly vomit and God-only- knows what else. But he stepped in anyway, despite the bars appearance and smell, he was glad to be out of the bitter cold.
Now inside, he got a better look of just what he was getting into. The bar itself occupied on entire corner of the place, and it looked just barely clean enough to pass health inspections, if they had such a thing out here. A big fat bald guy was asleep at the bar, snoring almost as loudly as the humming of the lights. Every now and then, he would grunt and scratch at his ass. Remy snorted out a laugh and sat down at the bar, wondering if anyone would be here. It was still pretty early in the morning.
Someone did appear. A short, skinny bald guy that could have been the mini-me of the one asleep. They looked almost exactly the same except for the fact that the other guy was tall and fat, and this guy was a regular midget. He even made Wolverine look tall. "Well," the little man said, "something I can help you with, eh?" He even had the high voice of a little person, and mixed with a Canadian accent, sounded even funnier. He could barely see over the bar.
"Yeah," Remy said. "I'm looking for someone. A friend of mine. I think he may have been comin' 'ere for a couple a months."
"Well," he said again. "What does he look like?"
Remy stared at the strange little man for a second. "Ah, well, he's short, but muscular, and hairy. Always in a bad mood. Got a funny hair style. His name's..."
"Oh, yeah, eh," the man interrupted. "You must mine ol' Jim. Although he ain't so short to me. Funny hair, though, yah. Ha ha."
What in the hell is with this guy? Mon Dieu these Canadians is strange. "Jim?" Remy asked, confused.
"Yah, eh. Jim Logan be the man you want, I think. Fits your description anyway."
"Oh, yeah," Remy said, grinning. "Jim, sure, he's the one. You know 'em?"
The man nodded. "Oh, sure. Jim comes 'round here almost every night. Bad attitude, you hit that on the head, alright. But a fighter like I never saw. Real good for business. People come from miles to try and beat him. None have yet, ha ha."
It was right at that moment that Remy caught sight of the large steel cage in the middle of the place. He didn't know how he could have possibly missed it before. It had to be twenty feet by twenty feet, and it vaguely resembled a primitive WWF ring, except that this one was surrounded on all four sides by chain link fence. The floor of it was wood covered in just enough padding so that when you hit it, if you were lucky, you might avoid breaking your neck. Overall, being in it did not look like a pleasant experience. He turned back to the midget. "You say that Log...I mean, Jim, fights in that thing almost every night?"
"Oh, yah. I say, he be 'bout the best fighter I've ever seen. And I seen lots of cage fighters, ha ha. Maybe little, but when he fight, it's like an animal or something. I dunno, a bear, or a tiger, something."
Or maybe a wolverine... "Yeah," Remy replied. "I know what you mean. So, do you think Jim'll be here tonight?"
The man nodded emphatically. "Oh, sure. Friday's take on all comers. Anyone stupid enough to fight him can tonight. Don't know if too many people left who will, but we'll see, eh?" He paused and narrowed his eyes at Remy, almost suspiciously. "You not thinking about fighting him?"
Remy felt a grin creep onto his face. "We see, homme. We see."
"That a nasty cut you got there, friend," the man continued. "But I tell you, I seen ol' Jim do much worse."
He had almost forgotten about the cut on his head Beast had stitched up. It burned right then almost as if it knew he had mentioned it. But Logan wouldn't really hurt him, at least, he didn't think. Maybe fighting him ain't such a bad idea. Whatever it takes to get it through his thick head that I ain't leaving here without him. "I wouldn't worry," Remy said. "Logan...I mean, Jim may be a damn good fighter, but he got buttons jus' like everyone else. You jus' gotta know how to push 'em."
The little man stared at him like he was insane. He told him that the cage fighting would start around six that night, and he was welcome to stay there until then, if he wanted. He didn't know where Logan lived, but he doubted it was in town. He may have a cabin somewhere, but there was an endless amount of open space around here, and it was easy to get lost, according to Shorty. Remy did not particularly want to go back out in the freezing cold, and possibly end up lost and frozen to some tree stump in the middle of nowhere. He opted to spend the day waiting in the bar.
A few hours later, he had all but decided that a bar was not the best place for a recovering alcoholic. He had drank three cups of coffee, (or what the little man said was coffee, it tasted more like liquid dirt), and later in the day, added four cokes to that. He had also been to the bathroom three times. But at least had avoided the tempting bottle of scotch that he could all but taste, staring at him from right behind the bar.
For most of the day, the bar was completely empty, and besides drinking way too much bad coffee and soda, he spent the day talking to the midget. He came to find out that the man was the owner of The Albatross, and that his name was Steve MacDonald. The fat guy, who eventually woke up, and went out in the kitchen, actually was his brother, although according to Steve, he "wasn't right in the head, ha ha." His brother, Herbert, served the purpose of the bar's 'cook' and also the bouncer when things got rough. "Ol' Herbie may not be much in the way of thinking," Steve had said. "But he be strong as a bull, and folks round here be knowing that Herbie's not to be messed with, eh." He also told him that he had a third brother, Charlie, who managed the place and was sort of the 'm.c.' of the cage. His job there was mainly to make sure that no one killed anyone. That was the one rule in the cage.
Eventually, Remy managed to get the conversation back to Logan. He asked him how long he had been coming here, and Shorty said that he figured about six months now. That would mean that he came straight here as soon as he had found out what happened involving the three of them. Frankly, it pissed him off. The baby, after all, could be his just as easily. What right did he have?
Finally, around five that afternoon, people began to show up, although Logan was not one of them. None of them really paid much attention to Remy, but Steve seemed to know everyone that came in. Soon, the bar had about ten people or so in it, but in a town like this, that was a lot. The only thing he really noticed about them was that they all talked as strangely as the little midget. He briefly wondered why Logan didn't talk that way, and if he ever had in the past.
The minutes ticked by, and as the six o'clock hour drew nearer, Remy began to wonder if maybe Logan wasn't coming after all. It would be just his luck. He hated to think that he may have to stay at this place over night, but he wasn't going to show back at home without the man.
"Don't worry, friend," Steve said at one point, "Jim, I tell you, he be here. Always on a Friday he be here."
Before Remy could respond, a cute blond lady wearing a skanky red dress came up and leaned on the counter. She'd been eying him from the minute she walked in. She didn't exactly look the type of girl that would live in the middle-of-no where Canada, with her big boobs, tons of makeup and especially the way she was dressed, but who knew what to expect from these Canadians? "Hi, Stevie," she said in a seductive voice.
Steve almost dropped the glass he was holding. "Hi...hi, Laura," he stuttered in his funny little voice. "Um...can I get you something?"
Remy watched in amusement as Steve tried to set the glass back on the counter, but missed. It shattered on the floor, and Laura giggled. "Oh, Stevie." He obviously had a thing for her, but as far as Remy was concerned, he'd seen (and had) better. He definitely liked 'the femmes'; that was well known around anyone who knew him, but unlike most men, he really didn't like dumb women. There was no challenge with them, and he lived for challenges.
She turned to Remy and giggled again. He especially hated women that giggled. "Hi," she said. "I've never seen you around here before."
Remy finished off the last of his third and final coke. "That's 'cause I never been here before."
"I'm Laura," she said, offering a dainty hand. "I work for Stevie here. Who are you, handsome?"
"Remy," he said, taking her hand to be polite. He could almost see the steam escape from the midget owner's ears as Laura drooled over him. Although frankly, he had nothing to worry about. The only woman he cared about was home in Westchester. Laura, however, didn't seem to take a hint very well.
"That's a cute name," she said, leaning closer to him. He could have seen straight down her dress if he wanted to. "You've got a cute accent, too. Where you from, cutie?"
I wonder if she know any other word but 'cute.' "I'm from New Orleans, originally." Meanwhile, Steve looked as if he might drop another glass on the floor, this time on purpose. His face was turning purple and the veins seemed to be taking over. "Something to drink Laura, before you getta work?" He said, sticking his head in between the two of them.
Laura reached out and tussled his hair. What he had left, anyway. "No, thanks, Stevie." She turned to Remy, and leaned so close that he could smell the scent of her shampoo, mixed with what he guessed was breath mints. "But you can buy me one later on my break, Remy from New Orleans. I want to hear all about that cute city. And how you got that wicked cute cut on your head." She ran a finger down his cheek, and gave one last giggle before turning and shaking her ass as she headed over into the kitchen. Remy cocked an eyebrow, and turned back to Steve. He almost regretted doing so. If looks could kill...
"Hey, pal," the little man quipped, pointing a finger at him. "Stay away from her, eh. Customers and employees should stay apart."
"Oh, don't worry," Remy said. "That won't be a problem. She not my type, homme."
Steve frowned. "You married, eh?"
"No, I ain't, but..."
Steve slammed down another coke on the counter, even though he hadn't asked for one. "You ain't married, you're interested. Every man want a piece of Laura Tupper."
He shook his head adamantly. "You wrong, homme. She all yours."
Steve ignored him, and went over to wait on some other guys that had sat down at the bar. Remy spun around on his bar stool and noticed that while he had been 'distracted' with the giggling Laura, the place had gotten pretty crowded. People were starting to find seats on the bleachers that were on either side of the fight cage. Deciding it was probably better to stay away from the little bar owner for awhile, Remy got up and joined the others over there.
The crowd was as rowdy and loud as he had ever seen, especially after a third bald man arrived inside the cage. Everyone started hooting and pumping their hands in the air. "Ladies and Gentleman!" The man said, "Are you ready to rumble?" Everyone yelled and hooted their responses. Remy wondered what they thought this was, the WWF or what? To these Canadians, cage fighting at this dumpy bar must have been as good as professional wrestling or boxing. The bald man in the cage must be the third MacDonald brother. Curiously enough, he looked like an odd combination of the other two. He was tall, like the 'slow' one, Herbert, and thin like Steve, the midget bartender. But the only other thing the three of them seemed to have in common was a shiny head.
The first couple of cage matches started then, and they were pretty boring. The guys that fought in them looked like truckers or lumberjacks, guys that were big and strong, but didn't know shit about fighting. Remy cracked up more then once at their 'technique.' They swung at the air, tried really dumb moves like choking each other, and sometimes resorted to childish pushing and shoving. Obviously, no one in Cold River Place knew very much about fighting strategy.
Soon enough, Remy was bored. And it wasn't just due to the rock hard bleachers, the annoying fighters, and the fact that Logan still hadn't shown up. Not even alcohol could have made it more exciting. He was sick of this damn place he'd been stuck in all day, and he wanted to go home. Actually, he wanted to go anywhere that wasn't here. Finally, he could stand it no longer. To Hell with Logan, he was going to the can and getting out of here. He could track him down some other time. If he had to, he would fly his mini-jet over the whole damn country and land at every cabin he passed along the way.
Coming out of the bathroom, he realized that in the two minutes he had spent in there, the place had gotten noticeably louder and more crowded. The place was now packed with hooting Canadians, and he had to push several of them out of his way just to get back to the bar room. Once there, he saw what they were so excited about. There was a pretty good fight going on in the ring that must have just started up. One guy was the obvious aggressor. He was a big guy, nearly as big as Bishop, Remy realized, and that was pretty damn big. He had to be six and a half feet tall and must have weighed close to 300, most of it muscle. The other thing he noticed was that while none of the other guys he had watched knew a damn thing about fighting, this guy did for the most part. He was pretty good.
However, that was nothing compared to what really caught Remy's attention. The man he was fighting was short, hairy, and already covered in blood and sweat. Logan.
Remy managed to push his way nearer to the cage so he could have a better view of what was going on. He had been surprised for a half a second, but that had long since worn off. Things were starting to go his way now. It was just a matter of waiting to see what happened, and playing it by ear.
"C'mon Earl!" A short, drunk guy yelled standing next to him, waving a beer bottle around like one of those giant floppy hands people had in football games. "Kick his ass! C'mon!"
It certainly seemed as if this Earl would kick Logan's ass. He had him down on the floor and was wailing away with a sledgehammer type blow on his back. Remy was close enough now that he could almost smell the growing anger on his teammate's breath, and he grinned to himself.
"Yea!" The man screamed. "Yea, Earl, yea!" He waved his beer around some more, sending a spray across the crowd. Remy grabbed his arm, stopping him.
"Hey, man, what's your problem?" The little man quipped, breaking free.
"I wouldn't be so happy if I were you," he informed him. "Your friend ain't gonna win."
The man stopped hollering long enough to give him a bewildered look. "You crazy, eh? You watching this thing, eh? Earl's kicking his ass! This Jim not so tough as they all say."
Remy gave him a grin. "You don't know 'em like I do, homme."
Almost as if the two of them had planned it, Remy watched as right then Logan decided to make his move. Earl, being much bigger and not having near the stamina as he, was getting tired. His punches were losing the steam they had had in the beginning of the fight, and he, along with the rest of the crowd were starting to realize that Logan had just been biding his time, waiting for the man to tire, and now he was going to take control of the match. He got to his feet as quick as a cat leaping on his pray, and he was all over the man. An uppercut to the head sent Earl flying backward into the safety net, and a roundhouse kick to the guy's chest all but gave him whiplash he fell so quick. Logan paused, watching as the big man's body jerked around subconsciously, trying to get out of his way, but not succeeding. These were the times when he allowed his feral behavior to take over, and he was reveling in it. Remy could swear he could see the man smile as he let out a growl and used his foot to thrust it into the big man's head, easily giving him a concussion, almost caving in the top of his skull. The bell clanged, the fight was over.
Logan ran his fingers through his sweaty, tangled mass of hair, and turned to the crowd, giving them an animalistic grin, fangs barred. The whole place had grown much quieter, watching as Herbert, the bouncer, dragged Earl out of the cage by his arms. Charlie, the mc, appeared, and even he looked slightly shocked at what had just taken place.
"Well, well, folks, I've seen it but I don't believe it! Could it be that this man is unbeatable?" Charlie spoke, using a mike, to the crowd. "Isn't there anyone here worthy enough to fight this man?"
There weren't a lot of volunteers.
"Anyone?" Charlie asked. "Or are we going to just have to retire Jim Logan as an undefeated champion?"
Even the biggest men in the crowd, Remy observed, were avoiding Charlie's gaze. They certainly didn't want their buddies to think that they were wimps, but after seeing what had happened to ol' Earl, they weren't to eager to have their heads bashed it either.
"Well, Jim," Charlie continued. "I guess that's that. I'll have to..."
"I'll fight him."
The stunned crowd immediately became alive again, turning to each other to see who could be insane enough to go up against this juggernaut of a man.
"Well, it seems there is someone brave enough to fight our champion. Would the challenger please step into the ring?" Charlie asked, glancing at the crowd.
Remy got a hold of the ring's ropes, and hoisted himself up, climbing into the ring. He could sense the crowd's doubtfulness as they started muttering to each other. There were hoots of laughter. He couldn't honestly say he blamed them. Even though he had more than a half-foot height advantage over Logan, they were almost equally matched in weight thanks to Logan's adamantium and musculature, and the fact that Remy had always had a slight build. But he had an advantage over the man that no one else did: he knew him. He knew how he worked, how he ticked. And as he had told Steve MacDonald, he knew what buttons to push. Besides, he had something else as well, a secret weapon. An ace of his sleeve, if you will.
In the few seconds it took before Logan's brain made the connection, he had a confident grin on his bloodied-up face, but that faded the minute he recognized Remy. But before he could say a word, Charlie motioned them to the respective corners. "All right then!" He said. "Our man has arrived. It seems we have a fight here, folks!" He put his hand over the mike, and slid over to Remy who hadn't taken his eyes off of Logan. "You sure you wanna do this, son? You saw what he did to that guy, didn't you? And Earl's twice as big as you! Plus, you already got a nasty cut there." He motioned to the side of Remy's head, which he'd been trying to forget about. It still hurt like Hell, but he could ignore it. Rolling his eyes, he dropped his long overcoat to the floor. If there was one thing in this world he hated, it was being called 'son.' Who was he to be so concerned over his welfare anyway? Probably he was afraid that Logan would mash his brains in and it would ruin his patrons' good time. "You just sit back and watch, mon ami," Remy told him, patting his shoulder. "Things ain't always what they seem."
Charlie MacDonald gave him a look that clearly said he thought he was nuts.
Stepping out of the way, he motioned for the fight to commence as the bell chimed once. Remy stretched out his arms, hoping Logan would avoid the stitches on his face. He wouldn't put it past him to pull them out with those claws of his one at a time. The crowd had picked up considerably, and they were now hooting once more, pumping their arms in the air, cheering them on.
Logan, however, just stood in his corner, pacing back and forth with his arms crossed. He had a look in his icy blue eyes that said it all. "What the Hell are you doing here?" He growled as Remy stepped into the center of the ring.
"Decided I needed to get out the house for 'while," he said sarcastically.
Logan snorted and shook his head. "Yeah, right."
"Okay," Remy said, getting even closer. "I came here to take you back home. That good 'nough for you?"
Logan was not amused. "Get out of here, kid. I ain't fighting you."
Something inside him tweaked. He made it sound as if he were taking on Xavier or Jubilee or something. "And just why not? You think you can beat me that easy?"
"This ain't a Danger Room training simulation," Logan said "I don't wanna fight you here in the ring. And you sure as Hell don't wanna fight me."
"Whatever it takes to get you back where you belong," Remy countered. It was almost funny. He never would have cared before, but things were different now. It was time he stopped acting like an impulsive kid, and started acting like a responsible member of the team.
"You think just 'cause you showed up here, I'm gonna come back with you that easy?" He added with a sneer. "Thought you knew me better than that, kid."
Meanwhile, the crowd was growing restless. "What's the hold- up?" Some yelled. "Come on, damnit, fight!" Remy glanced at the crowd, and then at Logan. "They're waitin', mon ami. They 'spect to see a fight."
Logan growled in their general direction. Remy knew that he didn't care what they thought. He pointed a finger at his fellow X-Man accusingly. "No one tells me what to do, Cajun. I'll leave here when I'm damn good and ready!"
Remy nodded. "Okay. You win. I'll make you a deal, then. Fight me. If you win, I'll leave. If I win, you come back with me. Deal?"
Logan snorted once again, and licked some blood off the corner of his mouth, thinking. The wounds from his last battle were already healing. Finally, he gave a slight nod. "Okay, Gumbo. I'll play your little game."
Remy smiled inwardly. He had him just where he wanted him. "Then let's rock."
The fight began. Slowly, the two X-Men circled each other, studying. Remy knew that in a closed arena like this ring, Logan would have the advantage. Although he preferred hunting and chasing his quarry, he knew how to fight hand-to-hand. That wasn't to say that Remy didn't, but he grew up learning the Thief way of fighting. Be invisible, like a shadow. Hit, and run. And then there was the fact that he couldn't very well use his powers here, while Logan, with the exception of his claws, still could. But as stated, the thief always had an ace up his sleeve. And soon enough, Wolverine was going to find that out.
Logan finally got tired of circling, and pounced. Literally. It wasn't the smartest move on his part, and Remy knew the only reason the man had even tried it was to see if he could surprise him, catch him off-balance. However, with Remy's reflexes, it didn't work. He immediately fell to his back, and caught him mid-air, slowing his momentum with his arms, before he flipped the man head-over-heels with one strong thrust from his right leg. Logan went flying, but righted himself in time to land hard on his feet. His head, however, slammed into one of the ring poles, cutting it above his left eyebrow. The impact caused the unstable floor to shake as if there were a sudden earthquake, but he got up, annoyed, and not even remotely hurt.
Now it was Remy's turn to be offensive. While Logan was still slightly off-balance because of the hit to his head, he propelled himself forward, dropping to his knees, head straight out, driving himself into the man like a torpedo. It wouldn't normally be the smartest move given the fact that Logan's adamantium substructure could give him a concussion if he hit him right. But of course, Remy realized this, and at the last possible second, he turned and instead of simply plowing into him, he grabbed his legs and pulled them out from under him. It was a wonder it worked, but somehow it did. Logan slammed hard into the mat landing straight on his back, hard enough that had he been a normal person, he probably would have snapped his spinal cord in half.
He growled, and got to his feet, as did Remy. "Just try that again, bub, just try it." He narrowed his eyes into dark slits and motioned for Remy to attack. "Come on!"
"Well, okay," he agreed. "If you insist."
He pulled a similar move, fully knowing that Logan would be expecting it this time. Sure enough, Logan stepped aside, but just as Remy anticipated he aimed his foot fully ready to kick him right in the face. Instead, he grabbed his boot, and activated the small device that he had been concealing in his pants pocket. "What the...?" Logan exclaimed, and both he and Remy transported back to his ship, leaving nothing behind but a puff of smoke.
"Damn, I didn't think it would work!" Remy exclaimed. He was kind of excited about it. He knew that Hank, in whatever spare time he had, had been trying to duplicate Nightcrawler's powers of transporting. Although Storm had not been paying the least bit attention to the conversation that night at dinner six months ago, Remy had. Hank had said he'd created an apparatus that locked on to a person's genetic signature and that of anyone they touched and transported them to wherever they visualized in a two-mile radius. They only thing was, he hadn't tested it yet. Remy and Logan had taken care of that for him. It seems that he had succeeded.
"What did you do?" Logan asked, looking around the minijet. "How the hell did you do that?"
Remy quickly explained. "I win," he added, with a cocky grin.
Logan glared at him. "Take me back to the bar, now."
He shook his head, and engaged the engines. "I can't do that. You're coming home with me, homme." Logan glared at him, and headed for the bulkhead door, claws unsheathed, fully intending to claw his way out. Remy spun in the pilot's chair and hit the button that activated the steel safety door that had just been installed. It shot down in less than a second. "You ain't gonna get out that way," he said. "Less you use your claws and by the time you saw your way through, we gonna be 20,000 feet up. You think you can survive a fall like that?" He was threw messing around. Logan was coming home, come Hell or high water.
If he had really wanted to, Remy knew that Logan could overtake the plane. But he was betting that it wouldn't come to that. He was right. Logan sighed, and resheathed his claws. "Alright," he said. "But you gotta lot of explaining to do. For example, how the Hell did ya know I was here?"
"You ain't that hard to figure out," Remy mumbled, imputing his intended destination.
Logan cocked an eyebrow, and folded his arms. "Is that so? Well, then, if I'm so damn easy to figure out you should know that I can't come back right now."
Remy put the plane on auto-pilot, and swung his chair around. "And just why not? Is what happened 'tween you, Stormy and me that big of deal? Okay, I get it that you're pissed 'bout it, but..."
"'Roro and the baby don't got nothing ta do with this, Cajun," Logan interrupted. "I admit, that's why I left, but the reason I've been gone all this time don't have nothin' ta do with that." Unsheathing a single claw, he seemed to examine it intensely while he explained what had happened a few months ago involving the F.O.H. soldier that he killed. "You see, that's why I've been staying here. I didn't want to endanger the whole institute if I came back. They're lookin' for me, I know it."
Remy leaned forward in his chair. Suddenly, this whole thing made sense. Storm had said something about the rally. That it had been a retaliation against something. If Logan had killed one of their members, it only made sense that they may stage the rally to get at him. Maybe they had traced him back to Westchester, but didn't know exactly who he was. They knew if they started wasting mutants in the area that it would scare the locals. Maybe into giving up Logan. They must not know that he lived at the institute. And then, things had gotten out of hand, and Bobby...
"What?" Logan asked, seeing the expression on his face.
Remy cleared his throat nervously. "This ain't gonna be easy for you to hear." He explained about the murders, the rally, and about what happened to Bobby Drake.
Logan stared at him as it sunk in, and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath. "Those Friends of Fuckin' Humanity. I can't believe it. I thought I was protecting you guys but not comin' back. Now it turns out I was just making it worse."
Remy shook his head. "You didn't know, mon ami. How could you? But now you see why you gotta come back? You're healing factor may be the only thing that can save Drake."
Logan was shaking his head, fists clenched. "But my coming back could just make everything worse. If those bastards find me..."
"We worry 'bout that later. Right now, you need to be there for Bobby. And Stormy."
Still growling under his breath, he paced back and forth a little, thinking. Logan was a man who lived by his own rules, his own code, and if there was one thing he didn't take, it was others telling him what to do. But there was another side of him as well, and Remy knew it. He believed heavily in loyalty and honor. Loyalty and honor to your friends. And right now, someone was screwing with his friends. Screwing with them to get at him. Damned if he was going to stand for something like that. "Yeah, I get it," he said, having a seat in the co-pilots chair. "You're right, Gumbo. This whole damn thing is my fault. And I gotta make it right."
Okay, I don't want any nasty e-mails from Canadians telling me that they don't talk like that. It was purely for artistic interpretation. Well, Wolvie's back. Things have to go smooth now, right? Ha ha ha....
It seemed days later, but it was actually only a few hours when Ororo sat with her friends in the den, just a few yards away from Hank's lab where he raced to save Bobby's life. The air was tense, and nobody was saying much. Someone had turned on the TV, although she had no idea who. It was purely for distraction; no one was actually watching it. With the exception of Hank, the professor, and of course, Bobby, everyone was in there, waiting. Bishop and Remy had changed their clothes so at least no one had to see all the blood. Remy had bandaged his head wound, but he would have to wait until Hank could stitch it up properly. He was acting very antsy, tapping his foot, and constantly glancing at the door. He looked like he desperately needed either a cigarette or a drink. She hoped he wouldn't succumb to the temptation.
Ororo looked around the room, and was not surprised to see that even in this time of crisis, everyone was pretty much reacting as she would have expected them to. Jean and Scott sat on the love seat, holding hands. Because of their shared psychic rapport they didn't need to speak to communicate. Warren and Betsy were also sitting, holding hands, each having the other for comfort. Storm briefly wished that she, too, could have someone like that, someone that she was in love and destined to be with. Scott had Jean, Warren had Betsy, Charles had Lilandra, and even though they were estranged, for a long while Rogue and Remy had been in love. Her thoughts turned briefly to Forge. She thought, for a time, that he may be the love of her life. But she was wrong. Forge was in love with his work, using his mutant powers to create fascinating inventions years ahead of his time. There had simply not been enough room in his life for his machines and her too. She blocked all thoughts of Forge and her jaded love life out of her mind. She had no right to mope when she had so much to be thankful for, not to mention while her friend lay nearby fighting for his life.
She felt a hand on hers, breaking her thoughts. Remy smiled slightly at her. "You look a thousand miles away, chere."
She nodded. She felt a thousand miles away. She wished she were a thousand miles away. "Come here," she saidto him. He crawled over to her on the sofa, and she wrapped her arms around him. She suddenly felt so alone, and needed to feel him there. She needed to know that this was really happening, even if she didn't want it to.
"Don't worry, chere," he whispered. "I'm sure he'll be okay."
She squeezed him tighter. "I hope so, my friend. I most definitely hope so."
Finally, after the moon was glistening in the thick New York sky and the Tonight Show was nearly over, Hank appeared at the doorway. It was impossible to read anything on his face, but everyone stood up, slow as if walking under water. Even Scott, who was usually solid as a rock, and Bishop, who had seen dozens of people die in the future he came from, looked shaky.
Remy and Ororo stood with their friends, and she took his hand and held it tightly. If it was bad news, she needed him to hold on to. She held her breath as Hank cleared his throat. "Bobby's alive," he began. Storm let out a huge sigh of relief, as did everyone else in the room at the exact same second. It would have almost been funny if the circumstances had been different.
Hank continued. "However, he has lost a great deal of blood, and I am afraid he is in a coma." He paused, and shook his head. "I've done all I can to repair the damage the bullet caused to his ribcage. Thankfully, it seemed to miss most of the major organs." He sighed. "It is up to him now."
That had to be the longest day of any of their lives. Ororo knew that it was certainly one of hers. However, the next twenty-four hours were even longer. She was fairly certain that no one got any sleep that night. It was apparent at breakfast the next morning when the only thing consumed were massive amounts of coffee. Someone, probably Rogue, had made pancakes, and as delicious as they smelled, when Ororo tried to eat some, they stuck in her throat like breaded glue and she nearly choked. A glance at the others confirmed that they felt the same way. Warren was pushing his around on his plate, but not actually eating any. Scott kept cutting his, smaller and smaller until it was mush. Even Bishop, who usually had a tremendous appetite given his nearly seven-foot frame, couldn't eat. It was the saddest, most morbid morning she had remembered in a long time. No one was talking, and in fact the only noise at all was the steady patter of rain against the roof. The weather report, she saw in the paper Scott was pretending to read really did call for a gray day, but for some reason she was pretty sure it would have been one even if the weatherman had protected a bright, sunny one. There was an article about the rally, but no one read it. They didn't need too. Bobby remained in a coma, and each one of them kept a bedside vigil so that someone was there with him all the time. There wasn't anything that they could do, and they had no idea if he was aware that they were there or not, but still, as painful as it was to see him lying there, he was never alone, not even for a minute.
He looks almost peaceful laying there, Storm noticed. If it weren't for all the instruments that he was hooked up to, she wouldn't have been able to tell that there was anything wrong with him. He looked so young, though, even younger than he really was. With his curly dark blond hair, tanned complexion and dimples, Ororo noticed for the first time how cute he really was, and how innocent he looked lying there. "Bobby," she whispered, holding his hand. "I don't know if you can hear me or not, but if you can, I want you to know that we are praying for you." She smiled down at him. "You have to get better, you know. Think of what would happen to the ratings of Baywatch. Not to mention who would take control of the baby poll? I want my baby to know his or her 'Uncle' Bobby."
Jean walked in the room right then just in time to hear her say that. "I'm sure that he will, Ororo. You don't know how much he's looking forward to being an 'uncle.'"
Storm smiled again. "And what an interesting uncle he would...I mean...will be. My baby is lucky to have so many people to love and play with."
Jean sat down across from her on the other side of Bobby. "You're right about that. I look forward to the day when Scott and I will be blessed with a baby also. Hopefully, one of these days."
"Excuse me," a deep voice said. Jean and Ororo looked up to see Bishop glowering in the doorway. The tattooed 'M' above his right eye seemed to pulse. "I'm sorry to interrupt," he said. "But I thought you might be interested in knowing, Ms. Munroe, that LeBeau just came home, and he is as they say, 'drunk as a skunk."
Her jaw dropped open as soon as the words sunk in. Did he just say what I pray he did not? "Are...are you sure, Bishop?"
"Yes," he said, not trying to hide the disgust in his voice. "I thought you should know."
She nodded, but couldn't manage to say anything else. Bishop turned and left, and Jean sighed deeply. Until then, Storm had forgotten she was even there. "I was afraid of this," she said. "He was so angry at what happened. He blames himself."
"That is something he has been doing for as long as I have known the man. If he could think of a way, he would blame himself for the world being round, and the sky being blue. But I prayed that it would not be the case here."
"Don't be too hard on him," she was surprised to hear Jean continue. "After all, he's been through a lot these past months."
Ororo stood up, and headed for the door. "Yes, Jean, I realize that," she called over her shoulder. "But then again, who hasn't?"
She found him sitting in his room, and at least to his credit, he didn't try to avoid her. She had seen him plenty drunker, but then how drunk could someone really be at three in the afternoon? He looked more buzzed than anything, obviously drowning his guilt in a long, tall bottle. "I figured you be here sooner or later," he said, his voice slightly slurred, without looking at her.
"How could you?" She said, trying to control her anger. But then it wasn't so much anger that she felt as bitter disappointment.
He shrugged. "I don't know. It just happened. I know I broke my promise, so I understand if you hate me."
She felt her jaw immediately clench up. He always did this. He always made it so hard to stay mad at him by making her feel guilty. "You know I don't hate you. But I don't understand how you could do this to me, not to mention to yourself."
Again, he shrugged. "I wasn't counting on anything like this happening, I mean what happened to Bobby," he stopped and stood up, somewhat off-balance. "I don't care what Jean say, or Cyke or anyone. What happened to 'em was my fault. Cyke broke us up into two-man teams, and when things went bad, I shoulda protected him." He slammed his fist so hard against the post of his bed that it echoed. Only it's solid construction saved it from cracking. Storm flinched at the realization of how much that was going to hurt when he didn't have the alcohol to dull the pain. Remy continued, "Drake and I may not have always got along, but I never wanted anything like this."
Storm cleared her throat, and walked over to him. "Remy..." she began. He shook his head. "Don't," he mumbled. "I know what you gonna say, chere. Just don't." He turned and brushed past her out of the room, not even looking her in the eye.
* * * * * * *
She didn't see Remy for the rest of that day. He locked himself into the Danger Room, and refused to see anyone. It was probably just as well, for if Cyclops had gotten a hold of him, God only knows what would have happened. No one talked much, except about Bobby, and it was about as dull as Storm could ever remember it being around the institute. Finally, out of boredom if nothing else, she went to bed.
The next morning, Storm woke up early with a bad case of heartburn. It was just one of the many 'wonders' she had experienced during pregnancy. She also felt a little guilty about Remy, although she wasn't exactly sure why. Did he think that just because he had broken his promise she was now going to give the baby up for adoption? She didn't know. But she knew that she should talk to him, apologize for being angry. Jean was right, he had been through a lot these last six months, and it wasn't fair to judge him just because she had as well.
The huge mansion that the all the X-Men called home was cold and empty in the wee hours of the morning, and it was hard to believe that so many people lived here. Eerie shadows seemed to drift and then linger in the corners; blurred shadows reflecting uncertainty in the marble floors. Ororo crept down from her top floor loft down past the third floor where most of the others slept, past the main floor to the first floor where Hank had his lab and his own room nearby.
The sun was just peaking violet-red in through the windows as she entered the lab, and a new day dawned with the promise of being better then the last two. There was almost no way that it could be worst. She didn't know exactly what she expected to see, maybe a miracle, but Bobby looked exactly as he did yesterday, still deep in a coma, machines beeping and humming, keeping him alive.
It was hard to see him like this. All it did was remind her of the bigoted idiots in the world that would shoot an innocent kid for no good reason. Storm turned away from him, and headed into the other room to see if Hank was up yet. She needed something for this damn heartburn. Although it was still very early, she figured it was likely that her hairy comrade was already up, either working on the Legacy virus or hopefully on some way to help Bobby.
The door leading from the lab to Hank's room was slightly ajar. Ororo knocked lightly on it, peering in. "Hank? Are you awake?" She opened the door a little farther, and smiled at what she saw. Hank apparently had not made it to bed at all last night. His furry blue head was curled up on his arm, next to his computer where an X-Man insignia screen saver bounced around. He had fallen asleep while working on something. Sometimes he was just a little too dedicated.
She shook his shoulder, "Hank, wake up," she said. Hank stirred drowsily. "Hmm?" He mumbled, opening his eyes.
"Rise and shine."
He blinked at his computer a few times, and put on his glasses. "I must have fallen asleep." He said and turned to her. "Ororo? What are you doing down here at this late hour?"
Storm had to laugh. "Late hour! Hank, It's almost six in the morning. I'm afraid you never made it to bed last night."
"Oh, dear," he said. "Well, I fully intended to. I remember closing my eyes for a second, and then you appeared."
"Yes. Several hours later."
"Ah, well. Such is life," Hank replied standing up and stretching. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Ororo explained why she was there, and Hank assured her that heartburn was very common later on in a pregnancy, and gave her some medication that wouldn't be harmful to the baby. Then he checked on Bobby, and shook his head, disappointed that there was no change. "Isn't there anything that can be done for him?" She asked, although she was pretty sure she knew the answer.
"If there were, my dear, I assure you that I would be doing it. All we can do is wait and hope." He attempted a pitiful smile at his friend. "Well, after my less then restful night, I believe I can use a cup or two of coffee. Would you care to join me with a cup of juice?"
"Certainly. That sounds delightful."
Hank grinned evilly. "Perhaps we can share a pack of twinkies as well. I believe you already know of all my hiding places."
Storm actually blushed. "I...well..."
Hank laughed out loud, and took her by the arm to lead her into the kitchen. "It is quite alright. You can repay me by naming your first born after me."
Storm busied herself in the kitchen making breakfast while Hank went after the paper. There was another article on what had happened, this one actually more informative considering that a lot of the details weren't known by the time the papers were printed yesterday. Hank shook his head as he read it. "My stars and garters," he mumbled. "Would you believe that now they are saying an F.O.H. member was killed? I had no idea that Bobby was not the only victim."
Storm frowned as she sat down next to him at the table. "But how is it possible one of them was killed? I mean, if someone from the F.O.H had the gun, why would he shoot one of his own men?"
Hank shook his head. "No, not at the rally yesterday. Apparently, this man, one Barry Statler died several months ago. The journalist responsible for this piece was not talking about the actual incident the other day, but rather if there might be a connection to this man's death, and the recent string of mutant murders. And the rally of course. "
"Well it is about time someone made the connection," Ororo said, reading the article over her teammate's shoulder. "We already knew this whole thing was some sort of retaliation. But it still does not make any sense to me. Why here? This says the man was a native of Boston, and frequently worked in Maine. Why did the F.O.H. choose to stage their revenge here in New York?"
Hank rubbed his chin, deep in thought. "The only logical solution," he concluded. "Is that they must assume this Barry Statler's death is somehow related to Westchester. Or somewhere nearby. I cannot say that it makes total sense to me, either. But I have the feeling that what happened at that rally was not planned. There was some sort of other goal they hoped to attain that I do not believe they did."
Ororo set down her cup of juice. She didn't like what he was getting at, but she couldn't deny that he was probably right. "Then, if that is the case, we haven't seen the last of them."
Hank agreed, and for a few minutes that sat in silence, not wanting to think what could come next, but unable to think of anything else. Finally, Hank not being able to stand the silence, changed the subject to ask her if she knew whether or not Remy was up yet. He wanted to check on his stitches to make sure that they hadn't come lose. He tactfully stayed away from what he knew happened yesterday involving his drinking. Storm said she didn't know, but she wanted to talk to him, so she headed back upstairs to see.
"Remy," she said, knocking on his door. "Are you awake? I need to talk to you." No answer. She opened his door, and was surprised to see that his light was on, but he wasn't there. She shrugged, and turned to leave, figuring that he must have gone out early again. But just as she was going to close his door, she saw a piece of paper lying on his bed. She picked it up, and was even more surprised to see that her name was on it. Stormy, it said. I want to apologize for what happened yesterday. It won't happen again. Don't think I'm running out on you, but there's something I have to do that I probably should have done a few months ago. I'll see you real soon. Love always, Remy.
* * * * * * * *
It was a clear blue day over Northern Alberta, Canada when Remy landed his small minijet near a clump of over grown pine trees seemingly in the middle of nowhere. But then, Cold River Place was essentially the middle of nowhere. Remy climbed out of his plane and looked around. There was not much to see.
Cold River Place was as about as decollate a place as he had ever seen. They had the 'cold' part of the name right, anyhow, because he was freezing. Despite the fact that it was a clear, cloudless day, there was a whistling artic breeze that when it blew, he felt an incredible longing for a Louisiana August. He wondered, though, were they got the name Cold River Place from. As far as he could tell, there were no rivers anywhere. Hell, if there had been, they would have been skating ponds. He shivered and headed through the pine thicket into the empty frozen wasteland.
The Albatross Bar and Grill was the beginning and the end of the entertainment available to the 200 or so permanent residents of Cold River Place. This small town's livelihood depended on hunting mainly, and tourists flocked here from as far away as Toronto and the Northern states to hunt Caribou mostly. It boggled the imagination to think that anyone would want to live here year round. Remy shook his head, as he headed to the bar. He would go insane from boredom.
Inside, The Albatross was about as dingy and dank a bar as he had ever seen. And being from New Orleans, he had seen some real shit holes. Places that the tourists generally didn't even know about, let alone go to. He had gotten used to Harry's Hideaway and the other bars that catered to the mostly affluent community of Westchester County, and this place just about had the corner of the market on shit holes.
The door creaked loudly as he opened it, and for a second he thought the dilapidated thing might fall off the hinges altogether. Inside, a light hummed with electricity blinking every now and then, briefly hiding the dinginess. The next thing he noticed was the smell, and it made him want to keel over. It reeked of blood, sweat, possibly vomit and God-only- knows what else. But he stepped in anyway, despite the bars appearance and smell, he was glad to be out of the bitter cold.
Now inside, he got a better look of just what he was getting into. The bar itself occupied on entire corner of the place, and it looked just barely clean enough to pass health inspections, if they had such a thing out here. A big fat bald guy was asleep at the bar, snoring almost as loudly as the humming of the lights. Every now and then, he would grunt and scratch at his ass. Remy snorted out a laugh and sat down at the bar, wondering if anyone would be here. It was still pretty early in the morning.
Someone did appear. A short, skinny bald guy that could have been the mini-me of the one asleep. They looked almost exactly the same except for the fact that the other guy was tall and fat, and this guy was a regular midget. He even made Wolverine look tall. "Well," the little man said, "something I can help you with, eh?" He even had the high voice of a little person, and mixed with a Canadian accent, sounded even funnier. He could barely see over the bar.
"Yeah," Remy said. "I'm looking for someone. A friend of mine. I think he may have been comin' 'ere for a couple a months."
"Well," he said again. "What does he look like?"
Remy stared at the strange little man for a second. "Ah, well, he's short, but muscular, and hairy. Always in a bad mood. Got a funny hair style. His name's..."
"Oh, yeah, eh," the man interrupted. "You must mine ol' Jim. Although he ain't so short to me. Funny hair, though, yah. Ha ha."
What in the hell is with this guy? Mon Dieu these Canadians is strange. "Jim?" Remy asked, confused.
"Yah, eh. Jim Logan be the man you want, I think. Fits your description anyway."
"Oh, yeah," Remy said, grinning. "Jim, sure, he's the one. You know 'em?"
The man nodded. "Oh, sure. Jim comes 'round here almost every night. Bad attitude, you hit that on the head, alright. But a fighter like I never saw. Real good for business. People come from miles to try and beat him. None have yet, ha ha."
It was right at that moment that Remy caught sight of the large steel cage in the middle of the place. He didn't know how he could have possibly missed it before. It had to be twenty feet by twenty feet, and it vaguely resembled a primitive WWF ring, except that this one was surrounded on all four sides by chain link fence. The floor of it was wood covered in just enough padding so that when you hit it, if you were lucky, you might avoid breaking your neck. Overall, being in it did not look like a pleasant experience. He turned back to the midget. "You say that Log...I mean, Jim, fights in that thing almost every night?"
"Oh, yah. I say, he be 'bout the best fighter I've ever seen. And I seen lots of cage fighters, ha ha. Maybe little, but when he fight, it's like an animal or something. I dunno, a bear, or a tiger, something."
Or maybe a wolverine... "Yeah," Remy replied. "I know what you mean. So, do you think Jim'll be here tonight?"
The man nodded emphatically. "Oh, sure. Friday's take on all comers. Anyone stupid enough to fight him can tonight. Don't know if too many people left who will, but we'll see, eh?" He paused and narrowed his eyes at Remy, almost suspiciously. "You not thinking about fighting him?"
Remy felt a grin creep onto his face. "We see, homme. We see."
"That a nasty cut you got there, friend," the man continued. "But I tell you, I seen ol' Jim do much worse."
He had almost forgotten about the cut on his head Beast had stitched up. It burned right then almost as if it knew he had mentioned it. But Logan wouldn't really hurt him, at least, he didn't think. Maybe fighting him ain't such a bad idea. Whatever it takes to get it through his thick head that I ain't leaving here without him. "I wouldn't worry," Remy said. "Logan...I mean, Jim may be a damn good fighter, but he got buttons jus' like everyone else. You jus' gotta know how to push 'em."
The little man stared at him like he was insane. He told him that the cage fighting would start around six that night, and he was welcome to stay there until then, if he wanted. He didn't know where Logan lived, but he doubted it was in town. He may have a cabin somewhere, but there was an endless amount of open space around here, and it was easy to get lost, according to Shorty. Remy did not particularly want to go back out in the freezing cold, and possibly end up lost and frozen to some tree stump in the middle of nowhere. He opted to spend the day waiting in the bar.
A few hours later, he had all but decided that a bar was not the best place for a recovering alcoholic. He had drank three cups of coffee, (or what the little man said was coffee, it tasted more like liquid dirt), and later in the day, added four cokes to that. He had also been to the bathroom three times. But at least had avoided the tempting bottle of scotch that he could all but taste, staring at him from right behind the bar.
For most of the day, the bar was completely empty, and besides drinking way too much bad coffee and soda, he spent the day talking to the midget. He came to find out that the man was the owner of The Albatross, and that his name was Steve MacDonald. The fat guy, who eventually woke up, and went out in the kitchen, actually was his brother, although according to Steve, he "wasn't right in the head, ha ha." His brother, Herbert, served the purpose of the bar's 'cook' and also the bouncer when things got rough. "Ol' Herbie may not be much in the way of thinking," Steve had said. "But he be strong as a bull, and folks round here be knowing that Herbie's not to be messed with, eh." He also told him that he had a third brother, Charlie, who managed the place and was sort of the 'm.c.' of the cage. His job there was mainly to make sure that no one killed anyone. That was the one rule in the cage.
Eventually, Remy managed to get the conversation back to Logan. He asked him how long he had been coming here, and Shorty said that he figured about six months now. That would mean that he came straight here as soon as he had found out what happened involving the three of them. Frankly, it pissed him off. The baby, after all, could be his just as easily. What right did he have?
Finally, around five that afternoon, people began to show up, although Logan was not one of them. None of them really paid much attention to Remy, but Steve seemed to know everyone that came in. Soon, the bar had about ten people or so in it, but in a town like this, that was a lot. The only thing he really noticed about them was that they all talked as strangely as the little midget. He briefly wondered why Logan didn't talk that way, and if he ever had in the past.
The minutes ticked by, and as the six o'clock hour drew nearer, Remy began to wonder if maybe Logan wasn't coming after all. It would be just his luck. He hated to think that he may have to stay at this place over night, but he wasn't going to show back at home without the man.
"Don't worry, friend," Steve said at one point, "Jim, I tell you, he be here. Always on a Friday he be here."
Before Remy could respond, a cute blond lady wearing a skanky red dress came up and leaned on the counter. She'd been eying him from the minute she walked in. She didn't exactly look the type of girl that would live in the middle-of-no where Canada, with her big boobs, tons of makeup and especially the way she was dressed, but who knew what to expect from these Canadians? "Hi, Stevie," she said in a seductive voice.
Steve almost dropped the glass he was holding. "Hi...hi, Laura," he stuttered in his funny little voice. "Um...can I get you something?"
Remy watched in amusement as Steve tried to set the glass back on the counter, but missed. It shattered on the floor, and Laura giggled. "Oh, Stevie." He obviously had a thing for her, but as far as Remy was concerned, he'd seen (and had) better. He definitely liked 'the femmes'; that was well known around anyone who knew him, but unlike most men, he really didn't like dumb women. There was no challenge with them, and he lived for challenges.
She turned to Remy and giggled again. He especially hated women that giggled. "Hi," she said. "I've never seen you around here before."
Remy finished off the last of his third and final coke. "That's 'cause I never been here before."
"I'm Laura," she said, offering a dainty hand. "I work for Stevie here. Who are you, handsome?"
"Remy," he said, taking her hand to be polite. He could almost see the steam escape from the midget owner's ears as Laura drooled over him. Although frankly, he had nothing to worry about. The only woman he cared about was home in Westchester. Laura, however, didn't seem to take a hint very well.
"That's a cute name," she said, leaning closer to him. He could have seen straight down her dress if he wanted to. "You've got a cute accent, too. Where you from, cutie?"
I wonder if she know any other word but 'cute.' "I'm from New Orleans, originally." Meanwhile, Steve looked as if he might drop another glass on the floor, this time on purpose. His face was turning purple and the veins seemed to be taking over. "Something to drink Laura, before you getta work?" He said, sticking his head in between the two of them.
Laura reached out and tussled his hair. What he had left, anyway. "No, thanks, Stevie." She turned to Remy, and leaned so close that he could smell the scent of her shampoo, mixed with what he guessed was breath mints. "But you can buy me one later on my break, Remy from New Orleans. I want to hear all about that cute city. And how you got that wicked cute cut on your head." She ran a finger down his cheek, and gave one last giggle before turning and shaking her ass as she headed over into the kitchen. Remy cocked an eyebrow, and turned back to Steve. He almost regretted doing so. If looks could kill...
"Hey, pal," the little man quipped, pointing a finger at him. "Stay away from her, eh. Customers and employees should stay apart."
"Oh, don't worry," Remy said. "That won't be a problem. She not my type, homme."
Steve frowned. "You married, eh?"
"No, I ain't, but..."
Steve slammed down another coke on the counter, even though he hadn't asked for one. "You ain't married, you're interested. Every man want a piece of Laura Tupper."
He shook his head adamantly. "You wrong, homme. She all yours."
Steve ignored him, and went over to wait on some other guys that had sat down at the bar. Remy spun around on his bar stool and noticed that while he had been 'distracted' with the giggling Laura, the place had gotten pretty crowded. People were starting to find seats on the bleachers that were on either side of the fight cage. Deciding it was probably better to stay away from the little bar owner for awhile, Remy got up and joined the others over there.
The crowd was as rowdy and loud as he had ever seen, especially after a third bald man arrived inside the cage. Everyone started hooting and pumping their hands in the air. "Ladies and Gentleman!" The man said, "Are you ready to rumble?" Everyone yelled and hooted their responses. Remy wondered what they thought this was, the WWF or what? To these Canadians, cage fighting at this dumpy bar must have been as good as professional wrestling or boxing. The bald man in the cage must be the third MacDonald brother. Curiously enough, he looked like an odd combination of the other two. He was tall, like the 'slow' one, Herbert, and thin like Steve, the midget bartender. But the only other thing the three of them seemed to have in common was a shiny head.
The first couple of cage matches started then, and they were pretty boring. The guys that fought in them looked like truckers or lumberjacks, guys that were big and strong, but didn't know shit about fighting. Remy cracked up more then once at their 'technique.' They swung at the air, tried really dumb moves like choking each other, and sometimes resorted to childish pushing and shoving. Obviously, no one in Cold River Place knew very much about fighting strategy.
Soon enough, Remy was bored. And it wasn't just due to the rock hard bleachers, the annoying fighters, and the fact that Logan still hadn't shown up. Not even alcohol could have made it more exciting. He was sick of this damn place he'd been stuck in all day, and he wanted to go home. Actually, he wanted to go anywhere that wasn't here. Finally, he could stand it no longer. To Hell with Logan, he was going to the can and getting out of here. He could track him down some other time. If he had to, he would fly his mini-jet over the whole damn country and land at every cabin he passed along the way.
Coming out of the bathroom, he realized that in the two minutes he had spent in there, the place had gotten noticeably louder and more crowded. The place was now packed with hooting Canadians, and he had to push several of them out of his way just to get back to the bar room. Once there, he saw what they were so excited about. There was a pretty good fight going on in the ring that must have just started up. One guy was the obvious aggressor. He was a big guy, nearly as big as Bishop, Remy realized, and that was pretty damn big. He had to be six and a half feet tall and must have weighed close to 300, most of it muscle. The other thing he noticed was that while none of the other guys he had watched knew a damn thing about fighting, this guy did for the most part. He was pretty good.
However, that was nothing compared to what really caught Remy's attention. The man he was fighting was short, hairy, and already covered in blood and sweat. Logan.
Remy managed to push his way nearer to the cage so he could have a better view of what was going on. He had been surprised for a half a second, but that had long since worn off. Things were starting to go his way now. It was just a matter of waiting to see what happened, and playing it by ear.
"C'mon Earl!" A short, drunk guy yelled standing next to him, waving a beer bottle around like one of those giant floppy hands people had in football games. "Kick his ass! C'mon!"
It certainly seemed as if this Earl would kick Logan's ass. He had him down on the floor and was wailing away with a sledgehammer type blow on his back. Remy was close enough now that he could almost smell the growing anger on his teammate's breath, and he grinned to himself.
"Yea!" The man screamed. "Yea, Earl, yea!" He waved his beer around some more, sending a spray across the crowd. Remy grabbed his arm, stopping him.
"Hey, man, what's your problem?" The little man quipped, breaking free.
"I wouldn't be so happy if I were you," he informed him. "Your friend ain't gonna win."
The man stopped hollering long enough to give him a bewildered look. "You crazy, eh? You watching this thing, eh? Earl's kicking his ass! This Jim not so tough as they all say."
Remy gave him a grin. "You don't know 'em like I do, homme."
Almost as if the two of them had planned it, Remy watched as right then Logan decided to make his move. Earl, being much bigger and not having near the stamina as he, was getting tired. His punches were losing the steam they had had in the beginning of the fight, and he, along with the rest of the crowd were starting to realize that Logan had just been biding his time, waiting for the man to tire, and now he was going to take control of the match. He got to his feet as quick as a cat leaping on his pray, and he was all over the man. An uppercut to the head sent Earl flying backward into the safety net, and a roundhouse kick to the guy's chest all but gave him whiplash he fell so quick. Logan paused, watching as the big man's body jerked around subconsciously, trying to get out of his way, but not succeeding. These were the times when he allowed his feral behavior to take over, and he was reveling in it. Remy could swear he could see the man smile as he let out a growl and used his foot to thrust it into the big man's head, easily giving him a concussion, almost caving in the top of his skull. The bell clanged, the fight was over.
Logan ran his fingers through his sweaty, tangled mass of hair, and turned to the crowd, giving them an animalistic grin, fangs barred. The whole place had grown much quieter, watching as Herbert, the bouncer, dragged Earl out of the cage by his arms. Charlie, the mc, appeared, and even he looked slightly shocked at what had just taken place.
"Well, well, folks, I've seen it but I don't believe it! Could it be that this man is unbeatable?" Charlie spoke, using a mike, to the crowd. "Isn't there anyone here worthy enough to fight this man?"
There weren't a lot of volunteers.
"Anyone?" Charlie asked. "Or are we going to just have to retire Jim Logan as an undefeated champion?"
Even the biggest men in the crowd, Remy observed, were avoiding Charlie's gaze. They certainly didn't want their buddies to think that they were wimps, but after seeing what had happened to ol' Earl, they weren't to eager to have their heads bashed it either.
"Well, Jim," Charlie continued. "I guess that's that. I'll have to..."
"I'll fight him."
The stunned crowd immediately became alive again, turning to each other to see who could be insane enough to go up against this juggernaut of a man.
"Well, it seems there is someone brave enough to fight our champion. Would the challenger please step into the ring?" Charlie asked, glancing at the crowd.
Remy got a hold of the ring's ropes, and hoisted himself up, climbing into the ring. He could sense the crowd's doubtfulness as they started muttering to each other. There were hoots of laughter. He couldn't honestly say he blamed them. Even though he had more than a half-foot height advantage over Logan, they were almost equally matched in weight thanks to Logan's adamantium and musculature, and the fact that Remy had always had a slight build. But he had an advantage over the man that no one else did: he knew him. He knew how he worked, how he ticked. And as he had told Steve MacDonald, he knew what buttons to push. Besides, he had something else as well, a secret weapon. An ace of his sleeve, if you will.
In the few seconds it took before Logan's brain made the connection, he had a confident grin on his bloodied-up face, but that faded the minute he recognized Remy. But before he could say a word, Charlie motioned them to the respective corners. "All right then!" He said. "Our man has arrived. It seems we have a fight here, folks!" He put his hand over the mike, and slid over to Remy who hadn't taken his eyes off of Logan. "You sure you wanna do this, son? You saw what he did to that guy, didn't you? And Earl's twice as big as you! Plus, you already got a nasty cut there." He motioned to the side of Remy's head, which he'd been trying to forget about. It still hurt like Hell, but he could ignore it. Rolling his eyes, he dropped his long overcoat to the floor. If there was one thing in this world he hated, it was being called 'son.' Who was he to be so concerned over his welfare anyway? Probably he was afraid that Logan would mash his brains in and it would ruin his patrons' good time. "You just sit back and watch, mon ami," Remy told him, patting his shoulder. "Things ain't always what they seem."
Charlie MacDonald gave him a look that clearly said he thought he was nuts.
Stepping out of the way, he motioned for the fight to commence as the bell chimed once. Remy stretched out his arms, hoping Logan would avoid the stitches on his face. He wouldn't put it past him to pull them out with those claws of his one at a time. The crowd had picked up considerably, and they were now hooting once more, pumping their arms in the air, cheering them on.
Logan, however, just stood in his corner, pacing back and forth with his arms crossed. He had a look in his icy blue eyes that said it all. "What the Hell are you doing here?" He growled as Remy stepped into the center of the ring.
"Decided I needed to get out the house for 'while," he said sarcastically.
Logan snorted and shook his head. "Yeah, right."
"Okay," Remy said, getting even closer. "I came here to take you back home. That good 'nough for you?"
Logan was not amused. "Get out of here, kid. I ain't fighting you."
Something inside him tweaked. He made it sound as if he were taking on Xavier or Jubilee or something. "And just why not? You think you can beat me that easy?"
"This ain't a Danger Room training simulation," Logan said "I don't wanna fight you here in the ring. And you sure as Hell don't wanna fight me."
"Whatever it takes to get you back where you belong," Remy countered. It was almost funny. He never would have cared before, but things were different now. It was time he stopped acting like an impulsive kid, and started acting like a responsible member of the team.
"You think just 'cause you showed up here, I'm gonna come back with you that easy?" He added with a sneer. "Thought you knew me better than that, kid."
Meanwhile, the crowd was growing restless. "What's the hold- up?" Some yelled. "Come on, damnit, fight!" Remy glanced at the crowd, and then at Logan. "They're waitin', mon ami. They 'spect to see a fight."
Logan growled in their general direction. Remy knew that he didn't care what they thought. He pointed a finger at his fellow X-Man accusingly. "No one tells me what to do, Cajun. I'll leave here when I'm damn good and ready!"
Remy nodded. "Okay. You win. I'll make you a deal, then. Fight me. If you win, I'll leave. If I win, you come back with me. Deal?"
Logan snorted once again, and licked some blood off the corner of his mouth, thinking. The wounds from his last battle were already healing. Finally, he gave a slight nod. "Okay, Gumbo. I'll play your little game."
Remy smiled inwardly. He had him just where he wanted him. "Then let's rock."
The fight began. Slowly, the two X-Men circled each other, studying. Remy knew that in a closed arena like this ring, Logan would have the advantage. Although he preferred hunting and chasing his quarry, he knew how to fight hand-to-hand. That wasn't to say that Remy didn't, but he grew up learning the Thief way of fighting. Be invisible, like a shadow. Hit, and run. And then there was the fact that he couldn't very well use his powers here, while Logan, with the exception of his claws, still could. But as stated, the thief always had an ace up his sleeve. And soon enough, Wolverine was going to find that out.
Logan finally got tired of circling, and pounced. Literally. It wasn't the smartest move on his part, and Remy knew the only reason the man had even tried it was to see if he could surprise him, catch him off-balance. However, with Remy's reflexes, it didn't work. He immediately fell to his back, and caught him mid-air, slowing his momentum with his arms, before he flipped the man head-over-heels with one strong thrust from his right leg. Logan went flying, but righted himself in time to land hard on his feet. His head, however, slammed into one of the ring poles, cutting it above his left eyebrow. The impact caused the unstable floor to shake as if there were a sudden earthquake, but he got up, annoyed, and not even remotely hurt.
Now it was Remy's turn to be offensive. While Logan was still slightly off-balance because of the hit to his head, he propelled himself forward, dropping to his knees, head straight out, driving himself into the man like a torpedo. It wouldn't normally be the smartest move given the fact that Logan's adamantium substructure could give him a concussion if he hit him right. But of course, Remy realized this, and at the last possible second, he turned and instead of simply plowing into him, he grabbed his legs and pulled them out from under him. It was a wonder it worked, but somehow it did. Logan slammed hard into the mat landing straight on his back, hard enough that had he been a normal person, he probably would have snapped his spinal cord in half.
He growled, and got to his feet, as did Remy. "Just try that again, bub, just try it." He narrowed his eyes into dark slits and motioned for Remy to attack. "Come on!"
"Well, okay," he agreed. "If you insist."
He pulled a similar move, fully knowing that Logan would be expecting it this time. Sure enough, Logan stepped aside, but just as Remy anticipated he aimed his foot fully ready to kick him right in the face. Instead, he grabbed his boot, and activated the small device that he had been concealing in his pants pocket. "What the...?" Logan exclaimed, and both he and Remy transported back to his ship, leaving nothing behind but a puff of smoke.
"Damn, I didn't think it would work!" Remy exclaimed. He was kind of excited about it. He knew that Hank, in whatever spare time he had, had been trying to duplicate Nightcrawler's powers of transporting. Although Storm had not been paying the least bit attention to the conversation that night at dinner six months ago, Remy had. Hank had said he'd created an apparatus that locked on to a person's genetic signature and that of anyone they touched and transported them to wherever they visualized in a two-mile radius. They only thing was, he hadn't tested it yet. Remy and Logan had taken care of that for him. It seems that he had succeeded.
"What did you do?" Logan asked, looking around the minijet. "How the hell did you do that?"
Remy quickly explained. "I win," he added, with a cocky grin.
Logan glared at him. "Take me back to the bar, now."
He shook his head, and engaged the engines. "I can't do that. You're coming home with me, homme." Logan glared at him, and headed for the bulkhead door, claws unsheathed, fully intending to claw his way out. Remy spun in the pilot's chair and hit the button that activated the steel safety door that had just been installed. It shot down in less than a second. "You ain't gonna get out that way," he said. "Less you use your claws and by the time you saw your way through, we gonna be 20,000 feet up. You think you can survive a fall like that?" He was threw messing around. Logan was coming home, come Hell or high water.
If he had really wanted to, Remy knew that Logan could overtake the plane. But he was betting that it wouldn't come to that. He was right. Logan sighed, and resheathed his claws. "Alright," he said. "But you gotta lot of explaining to do. For example, how the Hell did ya know I was here?"
"You ain't that hard to figure out," Remy mumbled, imputing his intended destination.
Logan cocked an eyebrow, and folded his arms. "Is that so? Well, then, if I'm so damn easy to figure out you should know that I can't come back right now."
Remy put the plane on auto-pilot, and swung his chair around. "And just why not? Is what happened 'tween you, Stormy and me that big of deal? Okay, I get it that you're pissed 'bout it, but..."
"'Roro and the baby don't got nothing ta do with this, Cajun," Logan interrupted. "I admit, that's why I left, but the reason I've been gone all this time don't have nothin' ta do with that." Unsheathing a single claw, he seemed to examine it intensely while he explained what had happened a few months ago involving the F.O.H. soldier that he killed. "You see, that's why I've been staying here. I didn't want to endanger the whole institute if I came back. They're lookin' for me, I know it."
Remy leaned forward in his chair. Suddenly, this whole thing made sense. Storm had said something about the rally. That it had been a retaliation against something. If Logan had killed one of their members, it only made sense that they may stage the rally to get at him. Maybe they had traced him back to Westchester, but didn't know exactly who he was. They knew if they started wasting mutants in the area that it would scare the locals. Maybe into giving up Logan. They must not know that he lived at the institute. And then, things had gotten out of hand, and Bobby...
"What?" Logan asked, seeing the expression on his face.
Remy cleared his throat nervously. "This ain't gonna be easy for you to hear." He explained about the murders, the rally, and about what happened to Bobby Drake.
Logan stared at him as it sunk in, and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath. "Those Friends of Fuckin' Humanity. I can't believe it. I thought I was protecting you guys but not comin' back. Now it turns out I was just making it worse."
Remy shook his head. "You didn't know, mon ami. How could you? But now you see why you gotta come back? You're healing factor may be the only thing that can save Drake."
Logan was shaking his head, fists clenched. "But my coming back could just make everything worse. If those bastards find me..."
"We worry 'bout that later. Right now, you need to be there for Bobby. And Stormy."
Still growling under his breath, he paced back and forth a little, thinking. Logan was a man who lived by his own rules, his own code, and if there was one thing he didn't take, it was others telling him what to do. But there was another side of him as well, and Remy knew it. He believed heavily in loyalty and honor. Loyalty and honor to your friends. And right now, someone was screwing with his friends. Screwing with them to get at him. Damned if he was going to stand for something like that. "Yeah, I get it," he said, having a seat in the co-pilots chair. "You're right, Gumbo. This whole damn thing is my fault. And I gotta make it right."
Okay, I don't want any nasty e-mails from Canadians telling me that they don't talk like that. It was purely for artistic interpretation. Well, Wolvie's back. Things have to go smooth now, right? Ha ha ha....