Disclaimer- I own nothing that you may not recognize.
Summary- Lance finds out about Todd and Pietro. Meanwhile, the FoH has learned of a new mutant and wants to capture him. The search for Le Diable Blanc.
Author's Note- Lance swears in here, just a warning. Some other people do to, but it's mostly Lance. This is my best chapter. Boy, Gambit could sure make things more interesting.
Chapter Four- The Search for Le Diable Blanc
Lance Alvers walked quickly down the hallway to Harold Connelly's office. Stopping at the door and scowling at the letters on it, he barged in without warning.
"Where are they?" he demanded banging his fist on the paper-strewn desk.
Mr. Connelly jumped and looked at the brown haired mutant. His jowls quivered. "W-What?"
"Where. Are. They." Lance hissed through gritted teeth. The building trembled slightly.
"How did you get here, Mr. Alvers?" Connelly demanded, slowly standing up.
Lance glared at him. "Where the fuck are they?!"
"They're gone," Connelly growled.
"WHERE!" Lance lost whatever patience he had and kicked the desk. The building trembled again.
"Trask and Gyrich took them!" Connelly shouted back at him, his spit nearly hitting the rock-tumbler's face.
Lance stared at him, his jaw slightly open. He blinked a couple of times and looked at the ground. Rubbing the back of his neck, he whispered, "They took them where?"
Connelly sighed, "Concentration camp. I don't know where."
Lance's head snapped back up. His eyes narrowed to almost slits and mouthed the words, "Concentration camps," silently. He suddenly let out a snarl and a few things slid off the shelves from the sudden earthquakes.
"Why the fuck didn't you stop them?" he snarled, grabbing Connelly by his shirt collar and pulling his face mere inches away from his.
Connelly laughed bitterly, "What was I suppose to do, Mr. Alvers? I don't care what happens to them. I'd leave now, they might pick your powers up."
Lance let go of Connelly and shoved him away. Glaring at him, he turned to leave. But then he stopped, turned around, and walked briskly back to the desk and threw all the papers around.
"Hey!" Connelly protested as all the important files and other things were being disorganized and mixed up. It would take hours to resort them all back to their original files.
With a satisfied smirk, Lance brushed his hands together and walked out, but not before sending another violent tremor through the whole building and a hearty, "Fuck off!" More papers and other objects fell from their respective places.
Connelly was kneeling on the floor and shuffling the papers into one pile and he growled. He wished those mutants were to be rid of, and soon.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He sat on a barstool having his third drink. Two shot glasses were standing upside down in front of him and he gulped the third one down, and set it on top of the first two making some sort of pyramid.
His messy brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the shorter strands falling untidily into his face. He was extremely tan and handsome, and very well built. Covering his eyes were very expensive sunglasses, which were stolen of course but that was beside the point. He lazily lit the cigarette that was dangling from his lips with a match and puffed and inhaled the cancer-causer. Shaking his wrist with the match between his fingers, the flame went out.
This man was a mutant, and he could be a dangerous one at that. He could be an obvious one too, if he wasn't careful. The only thing he really needed were the sunglasses that covered his devil eyes, red irises over black sclera. By touching a non-living object he could charge it up with kinetic energy, causing the object to explode on impact.
He was Remy Lebeau. Or Gambit, as some other people liked to call him. Of course, he had a lot of names. Gumbo, Swamp rat, Idiot, Cajun, just to name a few. Well, he had those nicknames ever since he joined the X-Men just a year and a half ago. He, of course, was not an idiot but a very smooth talker and a very skilled thief. He was the Prince of Thieves.
He was Le Diable Blanc. The White Devil.
"Un autre celui, l'homme," he said to the bartender.
"Speak English, Remy," the bartender said. He worked at Harry's and he knew the Cajun in front of him. Not well, but well enough.
The Cajun put of his ever-arrogant smirk, "Ano'ter one, Bob."
The bartender sighed and gave Remy another shot. "Take it easy, there. Don't want you sleepin' over again. Harry doesn't like it when people get too drunk to get off their lazy asses."
Remy just smirked and downed his fourth glass. He put it on the bottom of his pyramid. "Ano'ter," he said.
The bartender just shook his head and gave Remy another. He downed that one and put it on the top row. "Jus' one more, mon ami."
He got one more and gulped it down faster than the previous one. He put it on the very top, effectively finishing his pyramid.
"Jus' wanted to finish dat, homme. Don' worry, Remy ain' havin' no more," he said, his words slurred just a little bit.
"You better wait a while before you head back home. Have some coffee, but it's not free," and then the bartender placed a mug of black coffee in front of the thief and went to see about the other drunks.
Remy Lebeau was a notorious lady's man. He avoids falling in love (although he did once) and has had many one-night stands. Of course, that was before he met Rogue, or well, got to know her. The first time he met her he tried to blow her hand off. Sure she was cold and sometimes mean, but she was getting softer and softer where he was concerned. They went on a couple of dates, and usually always had a good time. Though one time, they went to a restaurant (it wasn't expensive or anything like that), and he flirted with the waitress to lessen the price of the meal. Rogue of course got the wrong idea, yelled at him, slapped him (boy, *did* she slap hard), and stormed out. The side of his face was sore for a week.
He was falling in love. There relationship couldn't be anything but platonic, but that doesn't mean he couldn't love her. If she wasn't so insecure . . .
Remy shook his head. He shouldn't be thinking about her. He was drinking and he shouldn't have to think about her.
Remy decided to listen in the conversations around him. He knew people were giving him a weird look because he was wearing sunglasses at night and because the lights were very dim but that didn't matter to him. He just wanted to know about some of their personal life.
He put his finished cigarette out on the ashtray nearest to him that looked like it couldn't hold anymore. He lit another one. Vaguely he heard more people coming in.
Four men came in all clad in black. They were wearing some sort of wire that was hooked up in their ears and they had some sort of gun.
Remy's eyes widened slightly. It was a tranquilizer gun. He slowly put his hand in his brown duster to see if he didn't forget his cards. No, they were there.
Remy beckoned a young barmaid over. She bustled over hurriedly, her wide chocolate brown eyes were full of innocence and her dirty blonde hair was tied into a ponytail, the left over hair that was too short surrounded her round face in little curls.
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked in a sweet voice.
"Shh, chere," he said in a flirtatious voice, looking at the men with the guns out of the corner of his eye. "Dere be a back exit to dis place, non?"
She looked confused, "Sir, you're not allowed to-"
He stuffed a crisp twenty-dollar bill into her apron pocket. It wasn't his money, he pick pocketed it from the guy sitting close to him who was too drunk to notice.
"You tell Remy where de exit is, chere, comprenez*?" he said to her in a low voice.
She nodded, "You go through that door over there, turn right, and then there's a fire exit from there. Easy to spot."
"You get back t' work now, fille,*" he whispered to her and he turned back to face the bar, looking casual. He wanted to find out who these people were.
"Excuse us, sir," one of the agents said to the bartender. Bob turned around wiping a glass with a dishrag and a toothpick in his mouth.
"We're looking for a mutant. Goes by Le Diable Blanc, he could be dangerous. He was quite well known in New Orleans. He probably speaks French. Last time we heard of him he was around this area," He said as if this was the most important thing in the world. "Have you seen him?"
"No," Bob said gruffly even though he knew exactly whom they were talking about.
"You sure?" they asked, not exactly believing him.
"I might of seen him, homme," Remy swiveled around on the barstool and faced them, leaning casually back on his elbows against the bar, the cigarette still lit.
"You have?" the agent asked, sounding slightly suspicious.
Remy twisted the butt of the cigarette in the ashtray. He looked back at them and smirked. "He about 6'2" one hundred and seventy-five pounds?"
"Yes," he said nodding.
"He a handsome devil?" Remy's smirk grew wider. The agents looked confused. Then one with iron-gray hair said, "It's him."
Remy closed his eyes and took off his sunglasses, folded them, and put them in one of his pockets. He opened his eyes showing them red and black.
They immediately began to attack him, but they did not know that Remy was a skilled fighter. He already had dove off the stool, and did a side summersault to his feet. Moving one side of his trademark trench coat to the side, he grabbed a small metal stick, raised it a little above his head, and with an expert flick of the wrist, it lengthened to its full length.
He twirled it and transported it to his right hand. He almost laughed at their shocked expressions.
"All t'iefs need a weapon," he said.
They all charged him trying to shoot him with the tranquilizer darts but he just whacked them out of the way with his bo-stick.
"Dat de best you can do?" Remy mocked, doing a back-flip onto the bar. With a twirl of the bo-stick he knocked the gun out of one of their hands, and then hit him hard in the spot between the shoulder and the neck. He collapsed in a heap on the floor. No one noticed some of the customers fleeing from the bar and some of them were watching with great excitement, quite a few were shouting drunkenly, "Go Remy!", "All he wanted to do was drink and you ruined it for him!", and "What the *hic* going on?".
One of the other agents managed to knock Remy off of the bar with one of the barstools and tried to attack him from the ground but Remy recovered quickly from the fall. He swiped out his leg, knocking the agent to his feet, and then he quickly kicked him in the temple.
'Two down, two more t' go,' Remy thought with bitter amusement.
Remy turned to the remaining two. "Give up?" he asked, and of course, his smirk was plastered to his face.
"Rot in hell, mutie," one of them who was about thirty years old spat. And then he spat a giant loogey at Remy's feet.
Remy looked down at the small puddle of spit that ALMOST landed on his expensive, but stolen, combat boots. He curled his lip slightly in disgust and looked back up at the agent with a raised eyebrow.
"Dat was pretty, non?" he asked and then went back to work beating the hell out of them.
The iron gray haired man was easy enough to knock out but the one who likes to spit phlegm balls was not quite as easy to knock out. He seemed to be a pretty good fighter. But of course, with Remy's extremely agile and flexible and fit body, there was no way in hell he could beat him.
The agent swung his fist at Remy's face, but Remy just as easily bent back to block it. The agent swung at Remy again, and again Remy dodged it by moving to his right, but the agent did something that he did not expect. He swung his left leg out and it collided into Remy's side, and then he went to punch Remy in the jaw. He hit it.
"Gettin' better, non?" Remy teased even though his mouth was in pain. Remy then punched the guy in the stomach, and he doubled over. He stomped his heel as hard as he could into the man's foot and then he quickly smacked his elbow up as fast as hard as he can under the man's chin. Remy definitely heard a crack and he was sure he broke a few teeth. Then, with his hand straight like he was going to do a karate-chop, he brought the hand down between the neck and the shoulder blades as hard as he could and the man crumpled to Remy's feet.
"Se perd,*" Remy whispered to the man and spat in his face. He hopped over the bar and ran out the back entrance.
Climbing swiftly on his motorcycle that he parked at the side, he drove off but he headed towards the woods that were close by. He followed the narrow path throw the thick foliage of the trees, small branches hitting him as he drove by. Small, innumerable scratches covered his face and hands.
The woods led him to the Xavier Mansion and he drove up the driveway and the gates automatically opened for him. He kept driving until he was right at the steps to the front door.
Swiftly hopping off the bike, he ran inside. He met Wolverine face to face.
"What happened, Gumbo?" he growled. The Professor wheeled his way in.
"We got a problem, Professor," Remy said looking at the bald man in the wheel chair straight in the eyes.
"Tell me in the study, Remy," the professor said and headed his way there.
Remy followed quickly after shoving Logan out of his way.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A/N- Well what do ya know? No Pietro in this chapter! Actually, I think this is my best chapter yet. It's my longest also, for all three stories. Hoped you liked the Gambit action! But really, aren't you proud that I can manage without putting Pietro in one chapter?
Pietro- (examining self in a hand mirror) What did you say about me?
Translations- Comprenez- understand Fille- girl Se perd- get lost
R&R!!!
Summary- Lance finds out about Todd and Pietro. Meanwhile, the FoH has learned of a new mutant and wants to capture him. The search for Le Diable Blanc.
Author's Note- Lance swears in here, just a warning. Some other people do to, but it's mostly Lance. This is my best chapter. Boy, Gambit could sure make things more interesting.
Chapter Four- The Search for Le Diable Blanc
Lance Alvers walked quickly down the hallway to Harold Connelly's office. Stopping at the door and scowling at the letters on it, he barged in without warning.
"Where are they?" he demanded banging his fist on the paper-strewn desk.
Mr. Connelly jumped and looked at the brown haired mutant. His jowls quivered. "W-What?"
"Where. Are. They." Lance hissed through gritted teeth. The building trembled slightly.
"How did you get here, Mr. Alvers?" Connelly demanded, slowly standing up.
Lance glared at him. "Where the fuck are they?!"
"They're gone," Connelly growled.
"WHERE!" Lance lost whatever patience he had and kicked the desk. The building trembled again.
"Trask and Gyrich took them!" Connelly shouted back at him, his spit nearly hitting the rock-tumbler's face.
Lance stared at him, his jaw slightly open. He blinked a couple of times and looked at the ground. Rubbing the back of his neck, he whispered, "They took them where?"
Connelly sighed, "Concentration camp. I don't know where."
Lance's head snapped back up. His eyes narrowed to almost slits and mouthed the words, "Concentration camps," silently. He suddenly let out a snarl and a few things slid off the shelves from the sudden earthquakes.
"Why the fuck didn't you stop them?" he snarled, grabbing Connelly by his shirt collar and pulling his face mere inches away from his.
Connelly laughed bitterly, "What was I suppose to do, Mr. Alvers? I don't care what happens to them. I'd leave now, they might pick your powers up."
Lance let go of Connelly and shoved him away. Glaring at him, he turned to leave. But then he stopped, turned around, and walked briskly back to the desk and threw all the papers around.
"Hey!" Connelly protested as all the important files and other things were being disorganized and mixed up. It would take hours to resort them all back to their original files.
With a satisfied smirk, Lance brushed his hands together and walked out, but not before sending another violent tremor through the whole building and a hearty, "Fuck off!" More papers and other objects fell from their respective places.
Connelly was kneeling on the floor and shuffling the papers into one pile and he growled. He wished those mutants were to be rid of, and soon.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He sat on a barstool having his third drink. Two shot glasses were standing upside down in front of him and he gulped the third one down, and set it on top of the first two making some sort of pyramid.
His messy brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the shorter strands falling untidily into his face. He was extremely tan and handsome, and very well built. Covering his eyes were very expensive sunglasses, which were stolen of course but that was beside the point. He lazily lit the cigarette that was dangling from his lips with a match and puffed and inhaled the cancer-causer. Shaking his wrist with the match between his fingers, the flame went out.
This man was a mutant, and he could be a dangerous one at that. He could be an obvious one too, if he wasn't careful. The only thing he really needed were the sunglasses that covered his devil eyes, red irises over black sclera. By touching a non-living object he could charge it up with kinetic energy, causing the object to explode on impact.
He was Remy Lebeau. Or Gambit, as some other people liked to call him. Of course, he had a lot of names. Gumbo, Swamp rat, Idiot, Cajun, just to name a few. Well, he had those nicknames ever since he joined the X-Men just a year and a half ago. He, of course, was not an idiot but a very smooth talker and a very skilled thief. He was the Prince of Thieves.
He was Le Diable Blanc. The White Devil.
"Un autre celui, l'homme," he said to the bartender.
"Speak English, Remy," the bartender said. He worked at Harry's and he knew the Cajun in front of him. Not well, but well enough.
The Cajun put of his ever-arrogant smirk, "Ano'ter one, Bob."
The bartender sighed and gave Remy another shot. "Take it easy, there. Don't want you sleepin' over again. Harry doesn't like it when people get too drunk to get off their lazy asses."
Remy just smirked and downed his fourth glass. He put it on the bottom of his pyramid. "Ano'ter," he said.
The bartender just shook his head and gave Remy another. He downed that one and put it on the top row. "Jus' one more, mon ami."
He got one more and gulped it down faster than the previous one. He put it on the very top, effectively finishing his pyramid.
"Jus' wanted to finish dat, homme. Don' worry, Remy ain' havin' no more," he said, his words slurred just a little bit.
"You better wait a while before you head back home. Have some coffee, but it's not free," and then the bartender placed a mug of black coffee in front of the thief and went to see about the other drunks.
Remy Lebeau was a notorious lady's man. He avoids falling in love (although he did once) and has had many one-night stands. Of course, that was before he met Rogue, or well, got to know her. The first time he met her he tried to blow her hand off. Sure she was cold and sometimes mean, but she was getting softer and softer where he was concerned. They went on a couple of dates, and usually always had a good time. Though one time, they went to a restaurant (it wasn't expensive or anything like that), and he flirted with the waitress to lessen the price of the meal. Rogue of course got the wrong idea, yelled at him, slapped him (boy, *did* she slap hard), and stormed out. The side of his face was sore for a week.
He was falling in love. There relationship couldn't be anything but platonic, but that doesn't mean he couldn't love her. If she wasn't so insecure . . .
Remy shook his head. He shouldn't be thinking about her. He was drinking and he shouldn't have to think about her.
Remy decided to listen in the conversations around him. He knew people were giving him a weird look because he was wearing sunglasses at night and because the lights were very dim but that didn't matter to him. He just wanted to know about some of their personal life.
He put his finished cigarette out on the ashtray nearest to him that looked like it couldn't hold anymore. He lit another one. Vaguely he heard more people coming in.
Four men came in all clad in black. They were wearing some sort of wire that was hooked up in their ears and they had some sort of gun.
Remy's eyes widened slightly. It was a tranquilizer gun. He slowly put his hand in his brown duster to see if he didn't forget his cards. No, they were there.
Remy beckoned a young barmaid over. She bustled over hurriedly, her wide chocolate brown eyes were full of innocence and her dirty blonde hair was tied into a ponytail, the left over hair that was too short surrounded her round face in little curls.
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked in a sweet voice.
"Shh, chere," he said in a flirtatious voice, looking at the men with the guns out of the corner of his eye. "Dere be a back exit to dis place, non?"
She looked confused, "Sir, you're not allowed to-"
He stuffed a crisp twenty-dollar bill into her apron pocket. It wasn't his money, he pick pocketed it from the guy sitting close to him who was too drunk to notice.
"You tell Remy where de exit is, chere, comprenez*?" he said to her in a low voice.
She nodded, "You go through that door over there, turn right, and then there's a fire exit from there. Easy to spot."
"You get back t' work now, fille,*" he whispered to her and he turned back to face the bar, looking casual. He wanted to find out who these people were.
"Excuse us, sir," one of the agents said to the bartender. Bob turned around wiping a glass with a dishrag and a toothpick in his mouth.
"We're looking for a mutant. Goes by Le Diable Blanc, he could be dangerous. He was quite well known in New Orleans. He probably speaks French. Last time we heard of him he was around this area," He said as if this was the most important thing in the world. "Have you seen him?"
"No," Bob said gruffly even though he knew exactly whom they were talking about.
"You sure?" they asked, not exactly believing him.
"I might of seen him, homme," Remy swiveled around on the barstool and faced them, leaning casually back on his elbows against the bar, the cigarette still lit.
"You have?" the agent asked, sounding slightly suspicious.
Remy twisted the butt of the cigarette in the ashtray. He looked back at them and smirked. "He about 6'2" one hundred and seventy-five pounds?"
"Yes," he said nodding.
"He a handsome devil?" Remy's smirk grew wider. The agents looked confused. Then one with iron-gray hair said, "It's him."
Remy closed his eyes and took off his sunglasses, folded them, and put them in one of his pockets. He opened his eyes showing them red and black.
They immediately began to attack him, but they did not know that Remy was a skilled fighter. He already had dove off the stool, and did a side summersault to his feet. Moving one side of his trademark trench coat to the side, he grabbed a small metal stick, raised it a little above his head, and with an expert flick of the wrist, it lengthened to its full length.
He twirled it and transported it to his right hand. He almost laughed at their shocked expressions.
"All t'iefs need a weapon," he said.
They all charged him trying to shoot him with the tranquilizer darts but he just whacked them out of the way with his bo-stick.
"Dat de best you can do?" Remy mocked, doing a back-flip onto the bar. With a twirl of the bo-stick he knocked the gun out of one of their hands, and then hit him hard in the spot between the shoulder and the neck. He collapsed in a heap on the floor. No one noticed some of the customers fleeing from the bar and some of them were watching with great excitement, quite a few were shouting drunkenly, "Go Remy!", "All he wanted to do was drink and you ruined it for him!", and "What the *hic* going on?".
One of the other agents managed to knock Remy off of the bar with one of the barstools and tried to attack him from the ground but Remy recovered quickly from the fall. He swiped out his leg, knocking the agent to his feet, and then he quickly kicked him in the temple.
'Two down, two more t' go,' Remy thought with bitter amusement.
Remy turned to the remaining two. "Give up?" he asked, and of course, his smirk was plastered to his face.
"Rot in hell, mutie," one of them who was about thirty years old spat. And then he spat a giant loogey at Remy's feet.
Remy looked down at the small puddle of spit that ALMOST landed on his expensive, but stolen, combat boots. He curled his lip slightly in disgust and looked back up at the agent with a raised eyebrow.
"Dat was pretty, non?" he asked and then went back to work beating the hell out of them.
The iron gray haired man was easy enough to knock out but the one who likes to spit phlegm balls was not quite as easy to knock out. He seemed to be a pretty good fighter. But of course, with Remy's extremely agile and flexible and fit body, there was no way in hell he could beat him.
The agent swung his fist at Remy's face, but Remy just as easily bent back to block it. The agent swung at Remy again, and again Remy dodged it by moving to his right, but the agent did something that he did not expect. He swung his left leg out and it collided into Remy's side, and then he went to punch Remy in the jaw. He hit it.
"Gettin' better, non?" Remy teased even though his mouth was in pain. Remy then punched the guy in the stomach, and he doubled over. He stomped his heel as hard as he could into the man's foot and then he quickly smacked his elbow up as fast as hard as he can under the man's chin. Remy definitely heard a crack and he was sure he broke a few teeth. Then, with his hand straight like he was going to do a karate-chop, he brought the hand down between the neck and the shoulder blades as hard as he could and the man crumpled to Remy's feet.
"Se perd,*" Remy whispered to the man and spat in his face. He hopped over the bar and ran out the back entrance.
Climbing swiftly on his motorcycle that he parked at the side, he drove off but he headed towards the woods that were close by. He followed the narrow path throw the thick foliage of the trees, small branches hitting him as he drove by. Small, innumerable scratches covered his face and hands.
The woods led him to the Xavier Mansion and he drove up the driveway and the gates automatically opened for him. He kept driving until he was right at the steps to the front door.
Swiftly hopping off the bike, he ran inside. He met Wolverine face to face.
"What happened, Gumbo?" he growled. The Professor wheeled his way in.
"We got a problem, Professor," Remy said looking at the bald man in the wheel chair straight in the eyes.
"Tell me in the study, Remy," the professor said and headed his way there.
Remy followed quickly after shoving Logan out of his way.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A/N- Well what do ya know? No Pietro in this chapter! Actually, I think this is my best chapter yet. It's my longest also, for all three stories. Hoped you liked the Gambit action! But really, aren't you proud that I can manage without putting Pietro in one chapter?
Pietro- (examining self in a hand mirror) What did you say about me?
Translations- Comprenez- understand Fille- girl Se perd- get lost
R&R!!!