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kmf's stuff: Thanks to everyone who reviewed. Enjoy!
curt's crap: To rogue1984: I'm glad you like the way Remy's written!
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Chapter Two
Remy had...acquired the car upon arriving in San Fransico. He had semi-enlightened Allerdyce on the fact, but was more concerned with getting the hell out of dodge. Allerdyce had passed out not long after Remy had gotten on the road, and had stayed that way until Remy had woke him up when they had crossed into Nevada. The boy had made it clear the surname was not his thing -- strictly John or Pyro. Pyro, he had thought as the boy had drifted off again. Dat's got a nice ring to it. He's got style.
He had awakened John again when, finally exhausted, he had stopped them in a ghost town. It had said "Adaven" or something of the like -- he hadn't paid it much mind. There had been some clothes in the back seat and Remy had given them to John -- the kid had to be hating that prison get-up, not to mention he needed to be out of it...and besides, it was making Remy nervous himself.
They had bedded down in the saloon -- a place were Remy felt right at home. He was sure John hadn't caught much -- the boy had found the rooms upstairs and hadn't made a peep all night. Remy had contented himself by lounging out on the bar.
The sun streaming through the large window and the front entrance was what woke up Remy. He headed up and got John awake and then they were off again.
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John was still groggy as they set off, the road stretching endlessly before them, nothing but sand for miles. As wide-open as the scenery was, he still felt confined. The silence wasn't helping either. He reached forward to figure with the radio. He pressed every button to no avail -- the damned thing was broken. Frustrated and overly-agitated, he slammed his fist down on it. The man called Gambit looked over at him.
"I don't like awkward silences," John said by way of apology, slumping back into the driver's seat, eyes back on the endless road.
"You don't like silence, homme, den talk."
"Why don't you talk?" John snapped. "Let's start with a real name."
Gambit held his hands up in a gesture of complacency. "Alright den. Ma name's Remy LeBeau."
"Alright. You told me why -- I guess that half-assed answer passes as an explanation -- you got me out. Now where the hell are we heading?"
"I was thinkin' t' Nawlins."
"New Orleans?"
"It's where I'm from. Figured it work just as well."
John scoffed. "Friggin' New Orleans. There's nothing down there but skeptics and snakehandlers."
"Maybe you right dere, homme," Gambit smiled. "Dat's why dey done abandoned me when I's born 'cos dey thought I's the devil's spawn."
"Wonder why?" John muttered under his breath. Remy was unperturbed.
"You're right snarky, ain'tcha? But naw, these eyes ain't whatcha see round everyday."
"No kidding."
"Yeah, dey done left me out on the street. Ma first -- only -- home, y'know?"
"So that's where you learned to pick a lock so fast, huh?"
"Yeah. The thieves took me in. They's ma family. My daddy did come back an' took me t' stay wi' him for a while."
John scoffed, bitterly. "Yeah. Dads."
"Daddy wa'n't the nicest of men, by no means. Naw, the booze done took up were humanity was. Dunno why he ever took me back save he's mad at ma mama and thought havin' me wi' him got back at her. Damn fool -- she didn' want me, neither.
"I learned t' pick locks and keep off the radar on the streets -- I learned t' fight wi' my daddy. Why you so quiet over there, John? Thought you done said you ain't big on silence."
"I said 'awkward silences'," John retorted. He grew quiet again, thoughts turning dark and brooding. He felt like the world started to close in on him again and decided to talk. "No. It just reminds me of my dad."
"Your old man done married t' Jack Daniels too, eh?"
"That and every other damned bottle he got his hands on." John gritted his teeth. His past wasn't something he often thought back on. He remembered looking on Bobby Drake's picture-perfect family and wanting to choke him for having it better than he even knew. But Remy was someone who understood that -- the shitty childhood. One where you never knew minute to minute how your dad was going to react, where you learned to dodge beer bottles before you could talk. Where you learned how to shut your mouth or have it shut. The childhood where you were an adult by age two. Where no indiscretion at all could result in a brutal beating. He had been proud when he had come into his powers. He set the abusive bastard straight.
But he wasn't one to just divulge stuff like that. But it was good to know if he wanted to, he wouldn't get the, "Oh, I'm so sorry for you," that made him want to toast whomever had the gall to say that.
"I see you ain't keen on dis. Let's try som't'in' new, den: So why's you after Worthington, mon ami? I mean, I done heard about the whole cure thing, though it didn't mean too much to us down south."
"He cured a couple of good friends of mine," John responded gruffly, recalling Mystique's mortal form. She had been someone he had looked up to, and to be reduced to nothing but a pathetic mortal... It still boiled his blood. Magneto, his mentor, reduced to human. It was disgusting. "By the way" -- he looked over at Remy -- "what is your mutation?"
"Well, you done saw what I can do. Dey told me it's gotta do wi' kinetic energy, but nah...I charge things, an' dey explode. Simple as dat."
" 'Simple as that'," mocked John, under his breath. The sedative's side effects were amplifying his normal impatient nature tenfold.
"Snarky, indeed."
"Look -- I'll flash-fry you, man."
"Speakin' of -- so den how's your power work den, Pyro?"
"Self-explanatory. But, I can't create the flame -- I can control them, hence the flamethrowers." He waved a hand out, showing the leather fittings.
"Kinda like me, den: you gotta have som't'in' t' work with. I got ma cards, usually." Remy took out a playing deck of ordinary cards and bridged them from hand to hand before taking one of the top. Ace of Spades.
"I guess." They stopped and switched off driving. By this time they were a third of the way across Arizona. John was exhausted, and fell right asleep.
When he woke they switched again. And once again the quiet got to him.
"So what about you? What do you think about Worthington?"
"Dere's a sayin' down south: If it ain't broke, don't fix it. We ain't broke. We's just different."
"Nice analogy. I'm gonna finish him. As soon as I get the chance. I screwed up last time. I'm gonna get it right."
Remy yawned. "Alright, then. So's we got a mission den, do we?"
"I never stopped having one."
"Well okay, den."
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It seemed like it took forever, but finally Gambit was driving them around New Orleans. He ditched the car and led John down a few streets, none of which John caught. He only knew they were in the French Quarter because Remy had said so. But at least it wasn't quiet here. It was loud, boisterous. Music and sound everywhere. The delicious smell of spicy food wafted through the air and Pyro realized how very hungry he was. He hadn't had a decent meal since before he was imprisoned.
Remy led the way to an old grand house.
"So what the hell is this?" John asked. He really just wanted to eat and sleep again.
"Dis is ma friend Bella Donna's house. You'll like her," Remy replied. He knocked on the door, a certain pattern.
A buxom black haired beauty opened the door and immediately enveloped Remy in a hug and a thorough kiss.
"Wow," remarked John. "That's some friend."
(The lyric in the page break is from "Image of the Invisible" by Thrice.)