Part 15

Darkness. And pain all over.

"Am I dead?"

"Not quite so lucky." The voice is Emily's… but it sounds wrong… distant.

Distinct. Far away.

He forces his mind to focus and clear so that slowly the darkness dissolves into what he knows to be the astral plane. The pale green form of a woman stands before him, so lost in a hazy mist that he has to check a few times to make sure it isn't his own mind creating the blurry effect.

"Emily?" It's so strange to say the name and not be referring to a direct part of himself.

"Yes, Remy." She says his own name in a way that he has never heard before, and the effect is soothing. And yet… her voice is an echo, its origin hard to trace. It leaves him feeling confused and a little lost. If he'd been in a physical form, he thought that the hair on the back of his neck might have raised.

"We separated?"

"Yes."

He takes a moment to try to get his bearings, still dazed. He looks down at his own form and sees patches of light and dark, the dark areas flickering occasionally. It makes him think of an animation he saw on the Discovery Channel once designed to illustrate the firing of nerve endings. He realizes that the dark areas are where the pain is coming from.

"What's wrong with me?" He asks, looking back at her, and squinting at her multiplicity. It makes him dizzy, or the astral plane equivalent of dizzy.

"You suffered mental damage." It sounds so matter-of-fact the way she says it, as if she expects him to know already.

Suddenly, he feels much more alert. "What?"

She seems to smile a little in amusement at his fearful reaction. "Only in the parts that control your mutant abilities. We basically burned ourselves out trying to save ourselves with your powers. I mean… you burned yourself out."

"So… it worked? Shadow King and New Son are dead?"

She nods. There is a hint of uncertain relief that radiates from her with the affirmation.

"How did you know? It was your idea how to defeat the Shadow King, wasn't it?" He can't quite be sure, it is hard to assign ownership to someone he'd considered to be at one with himself at the time.

"Yes. It just… seemed the natural thing to do. That tactic was similar to a training exercise I was taught when the Witness held me captive." The idea seems to puzzle her, as if there were something about it she'd already been trying to understand before he'd asked.

"And the kinetic field around us worked too? It protected us from the explosion, like when we blew up the cave Storm and I were stuck in?"

"Yes… and no. Everything except for the protected part. The kinetic field shielded us from any debris, but we still felt the force of the explosion." It seems like there is something else she wants to say and he realizes he can reach into her mind to find out what it is and she will probably let him.

Instead, he asks. "What is it?"

"You suffered a lot of physical damage along with the damage to your mutant powers. You'll barely be able to charge a card now, but your collar bone and a few ribs are broken so you won't be throwing any for a while anyway. There's other damage too… but I'm not completely sure what it is. Remy… I…" She stops.

He waits for her to finish. She doesn't seem afraid, just unsure.

"I don't think I can help guide your body to heal you faster this time."

He looks at her for a moment. She seems to be getting hazier as he watches. "Emily… what's wrong with you?"

A pause, then: "I'm dying, Remy."

---

Dr. Hank McCoy bent carefully over the prone form, immediately checking the vitals. It was amazing, but they'd found him lying there, on top of the pile of rubble that used to be a building almost 20 blocks away from where they had been battling in Washington Square Park. They'd felt the explosion from there.

"I don't understand it. He should have been crushed," Hank whispered, shaking his head. He moved quickly, checking the man for injuries. "Remy LeBeau… even cats run out of lives eventually, but you?" He shook his head some more and continued his examination. Soot and blood stained blue-furred paws ran over Remy's unresponsive form, deftly picking out the broken bones and swollen places.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Rogue asked with a worried tone.

Hank turned for a moment to look up at her. She would be dead if she hadn't absorbed some of Wolverine's healing factor following her release from Shadow King's hold, after he was apparently defeated. Her hair was a mess and her costume marred with gashes and holes, but she was alive. That was what counted in the end. The whole team had come out of this alive, somehow, though most of them had to be carried home by either himself, Logan, or Rogue. Even Jean had been left unconscious by the final climax of the battle. But despite that… given time, he thought that they might all be okay, and that seemed to include Remy too.

"I think so," he finally answered. "Multiple rib fractures, broken collar bone, dislocated shoulder, multiple abrasions—"

"Sugah," Rogue interrupted. "Just the short version please." She smiled weakly as she touched her temple to massage away what Hank guessed was probably an excruciating headache.

"His vitals are strong."

She nodded, looking relieved, and holding her hair back from her face with one hand, she knelt next to Hank over Remy's body. He watched her stare at him with wet eyes and trace his jaw line with the one finger of her hand that still remained gloved. There was such a tenderness in the gesture and Hank found it beautiful. He'd always been amazed by the power of humans to connect with one another in a way that he was sure science would never be able to explain.

She looked at him, her emerald eyes a little bloodshot from all the dust and soot in the air. "Can we more him?"

"Can? Yes. But not without a stretcher. He has too many broken bones and if one of those ribs moves the wrong way it could puncture a vital organ or slice open a major blood vessel." He looked around the heap of rubble a little helplessly. There was nothing he could see that they could use. Why was it that he could never have the right equipment available to do his job when he needed it? And where were the police and paramedics? He'd have expected to hear some sirens by now. It had been a full 15 minutes since the explosion.

As if on queue, the sound of emergency alarms suddenly blared through the air and a few blocks away he could see ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks careening down the deserted streets all at once. Well, then. There they were.

Rogue looked toward the noise. "No time, Doc. We gotta move now. Can't risk them firing on us or somethin' an' hurting Remy more."

Hank looked around a little more frantically, there had to be something they could use. He looked up at Rogue, who was now standing up straight next to him, watching the various vehicles coming toward them. She was… standing up straight. Hank McCoy felt the spark of a slightly insane idea flicker alive in his brain and rose to his feet suddenly.

"Lay face down on the rubble parallel to Remy," he commanded, pointing to where he wanted her to go.

"What?" She looked at him confused, brow crinkled.

He returned the expression with a hard look. The sirens were coming to a stop a block away, where the debris pile began. "You are going to be the stretcher. Now do exactly what I tell you to Rogue. We don't have much time."

She seemed to understand and did as he said, lying on the ground.

"Okay, now I want you to keep you body perfectly stiff, rigid and straight, like a board. I'm going to carefully slide Remy on top of you and you CANNOT move."

She obeyed again, doing the best she could to imitate a flat board. He kneeled beside Remy, taking a moment to decide how best to move the young man. Glancing at Rogue he silently cursed her curvaceous-ness. She was a far approximation from a flat stretcher.

He could hear the cops yelling that they could see people on top of the rubble. He was out of time. Carefully, he wedged his large fingers under Remy's shoulders and thighs, sliding him very gently onto Rogue's back, trying to line up their two spines as best he could to keep Remy's body as in-line as possible. But the first touch was enough to cause Remy to stir, and as Hank finished getting him into position, the injured man cried out suddenly, before falling unconscious again with the delirium of his own pain. If it was even possible, Hank thought he saw Rogue stiffen even more.

"Alright Rogue," Hank said finally. "Now fly back to the mansion, and remember, stay as straight and rigid as you can. Be careful not to jar him at all. There are a lot of sharp broken bones that can puncture a lot of very vital places. When you get there, wait until I get back before you try to move him."

"Like hell, Sugah. Ah ain't leaving ya here." She rose into the air next to him until she was just above his head. Then, reaching down with both arms, she waited for him to grab on.

"We go as a team."

He looked up at her, and knew immediately there was no point arguing. Sighing, he gripped her forearms. "You're right Rogue, how silly of me to forget."

Together, they rose into the sky, leaving the bewildered cops behind.

---

Remy felt a flash of sudden pain light up his world, heard himself scream and then felt the soothing feathers of unconsciousness reach up, whisking him away, he numb and unresisting. He had the sensation he was floating up into the air and wondered if maybe this is what it felt like to be dying. Finally, he was caught up in dreams, somehow more real than the reality that he had just left behind.

He is standing on the shoreline, the sun hanging low over blue-green waters. He recognizes the place at once. It's a private beach off the Florida cost, on the outskirts of Clearwater. He'd spent some time here once, robbing some of the expensive homes by night and sipping Martinis on the shore by day. It had been a carefree time, a break from some of the more complicated projects he'd tended to get involved with.

He looks down at himself, dressed in flipflops, what had been his favorite swim trunks at the time, and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. The sand is white like sugar and feels wonderful between his toes. He remembers how he used to insist on laying on it without a towel while soaking up the midday sun to work on his tan. The beautiful bikini clad women that tended to frequent his usual expanse of the beach liked to giggle when he'd get up covered in sand and then stare as he washed himself off in the lukewarm Gulf waters. Of course, he did it because he liked the feel of the sand… not the stares of the ladies. Well, okay, the stares helped…

But that was a long time ago, years. What is he doing here now?

Looking up, he realizes that the beach is deserted except for a lone female figure standing near the water's edge. He knows without seeing the face that it is Emily, appearing in her physical form, long black raven's hair flowing in the salty sea breeze.

He walks up behind her, looking so small and alone standing there. Her black tank top and cargo army-style pants seem out of place here, and it is fitting with who she is—a girl out of time, out of place.

Stopping next to her, he glances at her face, the emerald eyes unmoving and transfixed with the site of the setting sun. He follows her gaze. The colors are rich with red and yellow hues.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he says.

She nods. "Yes. I took this memory from your mind. It's one of my favorites." She pauses a moment and seems to be lost in a thought. "We don't have beaches like this in my time. The water was turned murky and black by the war."

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry." He stops, wanting to say that hopefully the war will never happen now, but not willing to take that for granted. Experience has told him never to take anything for granted.

He sees her smile a little out of the corner of his eye. "The war may never be completely avoidable. But at least maybe we've bought some time and removed the Shadow King's destruction from it." He marvels that even with their minds separated, she still seems to know what he is thinking.

She turns to face him, and he turns to look at her. Her eyes are intense and vibrantly green, as if capturing all the color and depth of the ocean next to them. "Promise me something, Remy."

"Anything, cherie."

"No, not like that. This isn't just anything. I need to know… before I die… that it wasn't all a waste. Promise me, that you'll spend your life doing everything in your power to keep my future from happening."

He stares at her for a moment, seeing the age in the young face, the earnestness. "I promise, Emily."

She seems relieved, and turns to look back at the sun, now touching the horizon.

He is about to ask about her dying, held back by an unwillingness to solidify it in words, unwilling to accept that she could be gone. He didn't realize he'd gotten so used to her being there, had come to… like it.

She wraps her arms around herself, body language setting up an invisible wall around her. "You know, I don't hate you, Remy. In fact, I think this is the closest I've come to loving somebody in a long time, probably because I've never been this close to someone before. I'm not sure why I'm telling you this, but I guess something about knowing your existence is about to end makes a person sentimental."

The words come suddenly, breaking through his thoughts. He is surprised by them, and looks at her, more questions filling him. They spill over into his voice as he asks, "How much do you know about me?"

She looks at him again, a small smile at the edges of her lips. He is caught up in the way she wears a countenance of amusement while the serious intensity never leaves her eyes. "Everything there is to know, Remy."

Again, her gaze turns to the sunset. "We were one for a while."

"But there are still so many things I don't know about you."

"You were distracted at the time… and I have more experience with these things. I've been trained, and I knew how to look. You'll learn to eventually, I'm sure of it."

He tilts his head slightly, confused. "But my powers are shot."

"You'll heal. It will just… take a while."

They are quiet for a moment. The sun is halfway down now and the breeze is starting to pick up. She wraps her hands tighter around herself, shivering a little.

"Cold, cherie?"

She nods and he slips off his shirt to put around her. "Don't know if this will help much, but it's something."

She gives him a sideways glance. "You don't need to take off your shirt for me."

He smirks. "No? You want I should take off the shorts instead?"

"The shirt's fine."

He chuckles a little and places the fabric around her shoulders, but before he can pull his hands away she places hers on top of them. He is standing behind her and a little to the side. Turning her head, she glances at him sideways. "I don't want to be alone right now." He thinks he hears fear in her voice. It's contagious and he started to feel a strange sort of discomfort growing in his stomach. Her tone is the tone of one who knows they are at the end, the tone of one who has accepted that their life is almost over. It's a tone he's heard so many times in his life, from former lovers and friends as they died in his arms, from enemies that he'd defeated and were stubborn enough to manage a few last breaths, from too many people. He knows what it means and is no longer able to ignore the words that have been echoing at the edge of his mind since she's said them: 'Remy, I'm dying'.

Unconsciously, he begins to wind his arms tighter around her, as if to keep her there. It's never worked with anyone in the past, but maybe if he holds her close enough she won't be able to leave him. It takes him a moment to fully register his movements, to realize that he is standing behind her, holding her in his arms and resting his chin on the top of her head. It takes him another moment to realize that she hasn't resisted.

"Chere?" he questions uncertainly. "What is all this talk 'bout you dyin'?" His voice comes in soft intonations.

"I'm running out of energy."

Like always, she is short and direct. He is left to prod for more: "Li'l elaboration would help."

"When I came back to this time, I left my body behind. I knew the price I was paying for my mission, and I knew it would have to end this way. I became a being of pure psionic energy that needed a host body for long term… longer term survival. But everything I do, it takes energy. Attaching my conscience to yours, saving your life—numerous times—accelerating your healing, just… existing. It all uses up some of me and thermodynamics says it. Energy can't be created nor destroyed. So what I use, doesn't get replaced—"

"And you're running out. Whatever's left is dissipating," he finishes. She is like a card that he has charged and then holds in his hand, watching the glow of it fade as he lets the energy disperse into the surrounding environment.

She is dying.

"Can' I do somet'ing, Emily? Give you some of my energy, keep you alive?" He knows what he is proposing, giving part of his life to her, sacrificing some of himself. Remy LeBeau, the selfish thief, willing to give it all to someone else.

He can feel her wry smile somehow. "Sorry. It doesn't work that way. I have nothing for you to bind your energy to. Having a physical form… somehow it holds a person's energy together and recycles it or something… I don't really understand all the details. But it makes the difference."

"Den can't I find you a body? Somet'ing you can occupy?"

She laughs a little, though with no joy. "If it's alive it's already got an energy attached to it and if it's dead then… well, it's dead. No use to me then. Besides, if I'd left it up to you I know what kind of body you'd find me."

"What kind's dat?"

"Some supermodel bimbo."

"Would not!" he shoots back defensively. He tries to look innocent but she turns in his arms to face him. Her look is hard, her gaze steady.

"Remy LeBeau. Remember, I have been inside your mind."

He gives up his defense and looks away. "Yeah, yeah." The mild humor fades from his expression as he watches the last edge of the sun melt into the horizon. His expression grows hard. "Dere's nothing I can do, is dere?"

Her answer drifts up to him with a finality attached, "No."

He tries to accept it, forces it to make sense in his mind, avoiding her eyes. Finally, he faces them. There is a softness in their hard edge and he meets them with an unguarded stare. It is the only time he ever remembers looking at somebody that way, with such a complete trust and surrender, but she knows everything there is to know about him and there is nothing left to hide. Every other person in his life has turned away from him at some point when they've learned things about his past. She has turned toward him.

His arms are still around her, she still standing facing him, one of his hand on her waist and the other absently rubbing her back.

"I'll miss you, my cherie," he says.

She leans in and hugs him. "I'll miss you too."

For a moment, it doesn't seem like they'll ever move and then she pulls just far enough away to look him in the eyes. "There are some things you should know before I go. Some technical details, I guess."

He frowns a little. He doesn't care about technical details. But he says, "Okay."

"First, when you were trapped in Sinister's labs, he infected you with something using the nanos. In my time it's called the Second Great Plague. I've been trained and taught to destroy it, or rather, how to give a host body instructions on how to destroy it, because it interferes with my ability to interact with or control a host. You had it, but I got rid of it for you."

"T'anks." He isn't really paying full attention, his mind focused on the moment, on the few moments he knows are left, but he can sense the information is important and records it in his memory, a skill he's developed over the years. He'll worry about this Plague later.

"And second," she goes on, "when I go, I'll be leaving something behind. It's the box of memories I stole from the Witness the one time I managed to enter his mind. I've never been able to access it, and I guess it's probably irrelevant now, but it's not mine. Maybe you'll have better luck seeing what's inside."

He nods, again, memorizing what she says rather than absorbing it—not that he is likely to forget anything about this encounter with her… "Dat it?"

"Yeah. That's it." She looks away from him, gazing at the sky over his shoulder, her forehead wrinkled as she seems to consider something.

"T'anks, Emily," he says, drawing her eyes back to him. The words are more than a simple gesture. He is thanking her for everything, everything she's taught him, every way she's helped him, for things he knows he doesn't even realize he owes her thanks for yet.

She stares at him a moment, seeming to understand his meaning. He thinks maybe she is about to say something, but the words are choked off by her breath suddenly catching in her throat. Her eyes go wide for a moment and he can see the pain in the lines of her jaw. It seems to subside slightly, but he can still feel it there somehow, a ghost hanging over her features, threatening to swallow her up.

"It's time," she says. A pause. "Goodbye, Remy."

He shakes his head, as if it is her choice and he can convince her otherwise, not really sure what to say.

"And…" She pauses. There is a glint of indecision in her eyes, and then she does the one thing he wouldn't have expected. She kisses him. She pulls herself up against him and presses her lips against his, her touch frightfully cold yet strangely… alive. But as he begins to lean into it, begins to pull her closer to him, the life is suddenly gone, leaving her body limp in his arms.

He slumps to his knees, carefully cradling her as he does, his hand under her head and he holding back tears just in case she can still hear, can still see, can still feel. He wants to be strong for her, wants her to feel protected and safe just this once, when it matters the most.

A look of complete and boundless peace slowly takes over her features. It surprises him with its beauty and suddenness. Staring at the expression, he burns it into his eyes, immortalizing it in his mind. This is how he wants to remember her, in the one true moment of tranquility she has ever experienced in her life.

A gust of wind sweeps over them, her body suddenly dissolving into grains of sand that are taken up in a spontaneous whirlwind, momentarily blinding him.

When the dust finally settles his arms are empty and he is left alone, kneeling on an empty beach.

His cheeks are wet.

---

End Part 15