New York City, New York

The Past, Eleven Weeks Ago

Remy felt inordinately pleased and excited, like a newly-graduated Guild thief with his first contract.

You're acting like a belle who's just been invited to the ball, he chided himself. In an effort not to seem as eager as he felt, he spoke laconically to the Federal Agent.

"So what's in dis for me?" Remy asked Carl Denti, who was seated across from him in the booth at a New York deli. Remy picked up his Kosher pickle and bit into it with a crunch.

Denti had a face like granite that moved from one expression to the next at glacial speed. His eyebrows came together slowly, the corners of his mouth turned downward another fraction.

"I could offer you compensation for your services," he intoned. He had eaten his Reuben with single-minded determination, as if consuming it had been a mission.

Remy leaned back into the booth with a grin. He waved away Denti's offer dismissively. "I don't need money. I'll do it for free. In service to my Uncle Sam."

Denti shook his head and closed his eyes briefly. Clearly, Remy was draining the agent of what little patience he had. "Then what do you want?"

Remy had to concentrate on keeping his feet on the ground to stop himself from dancing. In the weeks that would follow, he would find that giving Carl Denti a hard time was just one of the perks of the job. "I could use a favor," Remy replied. "There's dis one, eensy, tiny felony of mine..."

Denti tapped his finger on a manila folder he had set on the tabletop. "Could this eensy, tiny felony have anything to do with intent to commit mail fraud, identity theft, failure to appear before a judge, contempt of court–?" he began.

"Youthful indiscretion," Remy cut in, and his gaze narrowed a bit. "And I thought those records were sealed."

"When you turned eighteen," Denti affirmed. "But not in instances that include federal investigations."

"I don't really like when people go pokin' around in my history," Remy replied lightly, but there was a hard gleam in his eyes.

"Would you mind telling me why you stole a mail truck?" Denti asked and leaned forward, meeting the challenge of Remy's stare.

"De reasons escape my memory now, but I probably had some." Remy rolled his eyes skyward and smiled.

"I'm sure they were as equally logical and well-thought out as the decisions you make now," Denti said, shifting back into his seat once more. The moment of tension seemed to dissipate as quickly as it had appeared.

"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose," Remy remarked congenially. "So, can you do it or not? Can you get it taken off my record?"

Denti considered him a moment. "I don't know. There will be paperwork to fill out, a formal request. You'll have to appear in the same court you were charged in," he said finally.

"Feh," Remy said and threw his arms along the booth's backrest. "That judge in N'Awlins has it out f'r me. Been suckin' at de Assassins' teat for 'bout forty years now."

Denti considered this. "I can have a talk with your state representative."

"Really?" Remy said, leaning forward again. "You'd do that for me?"

Denti looked incredibly put-upon. "If you are willing and able to do the job."

"Am I being headhunted?" Remy asked.

Now Agent Denti looked uncomfortable. "N-no," he said. "What I mean is – I thought of you when the case came up."

"Don't make me blush."

"Look, Gambit," Denti held his hand palm up, as if begging for Remy to not make him regret his decision. "This is a matter of national security. Please take it seriously."

"Okay, okay," Remy said, sitting up in the booth and squaring his shoulders. "I'm being serious now."

"Then take that smirk off your face," Denti ordered.

"I can't. It's stuck like that."

Denti put his head in his hand and sighed. Really, Remy thought, he shouldn't make himself such an easy target. It was probably the fact that the agent was a cop to Remy's robber that made it so delightful to antagonize the older man.

"I'm trusting you to be discrete," Denti said at last.

"I never kiss and tell. So what's dis job?"

Denti cast a glance around the deli briefly before turning the manila folder around and pushing it across the table towards Remy. "NABC is an international bank headquartered here in New York. They have numerous offshore firms, shell companies, that they are using to conceal certain accounts."

Remy flicked open the folder to reveal an internal memo from NABC. The paper had been folded several times at one point but had been flattened and put into the file. "Money laundering?" Remy asked, glancing over the memo.

Denti nodded. "For several terrorist organizations. This memo was an alert to various violations of AML – anti-money laundering controls, meant for executive eyes only."

Remy sat up and regarded Denti. "Terrorists... What're we talkin' here? HYDRA? A.I.M.?"

Denti gave a slow shake of his head. "No. We're looking at several drug rings, specifically in Mexico City...and there are other accounts. In Turkey. Iran and Iraq."

Remy blinked. "Al-Qaeda?"

Denti nodded. "You don't need high-tech gadgets or mystical weaponry to terrorize a city, a country. Just a few zealots with box-cutters and the funding to get them on board a commercial airliner."

Remy's attention turned back to the memo. "So where'd this come from?"

"This memo was leaked from someone on the inside. I think one of the higher ups, given the sensitivity of the document," Denti said. "A whistleblower."

"You don't know who?"

"No. Likely he or she fears reprisal for coming forward. It would be a career-ending move. It's enough evidence to start an investigation, but I haven't yet."

"What are you waitin' for?"

Denti folded his hands on the tabletop. "I'm no longer a Federal Agent," he told Remy.

Remy cocked his head, confused at the abrupt change in conversation. "Retirement?"

"I was offered a new position. Chief Investigator on the Senate's Permanent Subcommittee. Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs."

"That sounds really impressive," Remy said.

"It's a desk job. It's going to kill me," Denti said with all seriousness.

Remy smiled. "Probably beats grading term papers."

"You: a school teacher. Shaping the minds of the future generation. Scary."

"Don't worry. My co-workers keep my duties to a minimum to see that I do the least amount of damage possible," Remy said, his voice light. "Something about your tone tells me I shouldn't congratulate you on your promotion."

Denti frowned again. "There was a big show about cleaning house in Washington after the financial crisis. Really it was just a reshuffling. Same asses sitting in different chairs. Cronies, Wall Street connections, Congress in the banks' pockets. I saw thirty investigations go up in smoke, thousands of evidential documents destroyed while Congress carefully looked the other way. There's no accountability."

"I'm glad I keep my money hidden in my mattress," Remy said. Denti regarded him stoically. "That was a joke," Remy clarified. "I won't pretend I know anything about Wall Street, politics, subcommittee whatsis. Don't need to explain it t'me. Just tell me what it is you want me to steal."

"I don't want you to steal anything," Denti said. "What I want is for you to stop the information from getting destroyed, lost, or otherwise stolen."

"Ah, it's an ironic twist!" Remy said. "Send de thief t'guard against thieves. I like it."

"I want someone on the inside. I don't want a memo, e-mail, byte of data...not a single doodle on a scratch pad, to leave that bank. So when the Feds go in, we catch them with their pants down around their ankles."

"Yeah," Remy said. "Stick it t'de man."

Denti paused. "LeBeau, you realize I am The Man, right?"

"Way t'take de system down from de inside," Remy said, raising his fist in a show of solidarity. "All power to de people."

Denti's shoulders drooped and he sighed.

Remy continued: "I got t'say, it's not my usual kinda job. But it seems like a good way t'build my résumé."

"Do you think you can do it?" Denti's tone betrayed his doubts.

"I'm a quick study," Remy said.

Denti gave a final, slow nod. He reached out and turned the memo over, revealing a second piece of paper and a photocopied photograph. "This is the man you're going to replace. Wellesley Baun, IRS Auditor. Les has been accepting forgeries and falsified reports from NABC for nearly a decade. He's going to be pursuing other opportunities."

"What's that mean?"

"I'm going to encourage him to look elsewhere for employment."

"I had no idea you could play de heavy," Remy said. "I thought you were de good cop."

"If I were a good cop, would I be consulting with a thief and vigilante?"

Remy held out his hands helplessly. "Seems clear t'me you have nothin' but de best intentions."

"As much as I would like to see the people responsible for making these decisions," he pointed to the memo, "be brought to justice, the reality is none of them will ever see the inside of a jail cell. This is about cutting off funds to terrorists."

"No short order," Remy said. "I'm happy t'help. But IRS auditor? I don't even know what an auditor does."

"Don't worry about that. I can take care of the reports. The auditor is inside the company, but not a part of the company. Usually relegated, dismissed, and out of sight."

"I think I missed my true calling," Remy said drolly.

"It'll get you in the doors."

"Then what?"

"I'm leaving that up to you. I won't ask any questions."

"I think this is de start of a beautiful friendship."

"You'll have three weeks," Denti said and held up the last three fingers of his right hand. "Secure the data. Get the names and places on those accounts. And if possible, find the whistleblower. See if you can't convince him to come forward. I could use his testimony."

Remy nodded and looked at the auditor's photograph. "I suppose I'm gonna have t'look de part."

"Maybe you should consider a haircut."

"You're quite de cut-up, Carl."

~ oOo ~

Information was not necessarily Remy's area of expertise. He preferred the things he could hold in his hand: jewels, art, money, tangible objects he could see and feel. He liked the weight of stolen goods, the sensation of possession. It felt like success. Remy wasn't sure if this job would give him the same sort of thrill, but he enjoyed the idea of being challenged. He also enjoyed having Denti's trust, and that the man had come to him for help. There had been very few times the X-Men had ever requested Gambit's services when it came to theft. Often they turned to Storm for those kinds of things. Remy didn't blame them; Storm was a trusted and long-standing member of the team. Naturally, the X-Men would turn to her...even if she was a just a pickpocket. Remy did think the X-Men might avoid a lot of sanctimony and high-horsiness if they would just go to the formally trained Guild thief and not the weather goddess turned Wakandian queen.

Remy knew he would need a few things for this job. Some kind of mass storage device, should he need to back up data, but nothing so big as to be conspicuous. He would also need decryption software, something more sophisticated than what he had access to. It just so happened that he would be given an opportunity to procure both.

"I think dis is an invasion of privacy," Gambit informed Iron Man as he placed his hand upon a handheld crystalline device to have his fingerprints scanned.

"You're not getting into Stark Tower without having the proper security clearances," Iron Man said, turning the device around and holding it before Gambit's face. "Look into this."

"Wha – OW!" Gambit blinked as stars danced before his eyes. "What de hell was that for?"

"Retinal scan," Iron Man said and studied the handheld device to verify the scan had been successful.

"This is some kind of discrimination," Gambit complained.

"Here," Iron Man said and handed him a swab on a long stick.

Gambit reluctantly took it. "You want me t'clean out my ears?"

"Cheek swab. I need your DNA."

"Oh, for Christ's sake. You gonna have me piss in a cup next?"

"Bathroom's over there."

Gambit stared at Iron Man for a moment.

"That last part was a joke," Iron Man amended.

Gambit was informed that he was given Level Eight clearance, which got him into some, but not all areas in Stark Tower. But he wasn't going to let a little thing like high-level security restrictions stop him from exploring the entire facility from the ground up. After leaving the War Room standoff between his teammates the X-Men and the High and Mighty Avengers, he ventured into the private quarters and kitchen area. Gambit explored the pantry and uncovered a bag of Goldfish crackers. He prepared a sandwich, traveled to the lowest level of Stark Tower and had a brief and disappointing discussion with his former leader, Cyclops.

After realizing his folly, Gambit returned to his exploration of Stark Tower still clutching the bag of crackers. In a sort of technological atrium, he found a laptop sitting on a large steel work table. With his hand buried to the wrist in the cracker bag, he sat himself before the computer. Gambit lifted the lid. It was a very nice laptop in Gambit's estimation, with a beautiful retina display. However, the laptop lacked username and password protection, a fact which Gambit found incredibly amusing considering the security rigmarole he'd been subjected to. Sometimes the most obvious things went overlooked.

Gambit brushed crumbs from the front of his uniform, and then set to work reconfiguring his security clearances to match that of Tony Stark's. He took some time to explore some of Stark's personal files. He found the stash of pornography, hidden in a folder labeled "tax returns," to be surprisingly mundane. Gambit downloaded some suggested viewing material to the folder, changed Stark's desktop background to a picture of a cat wearing a lime as a hat, and set up a proper username and password, then locked the computer. He was just closing the laptop when he heard the sound of a man clearing his throat.

Gambit turned to see a man standing at the entry to the atrium. "Should you be in here, sir?" the man asked politely but pointedly.

"I got a little peckish," Gambit said and showed the man the bag of crackers.

"I expect the bag's owner will be disappointed to find his crackers missing," the man said.

Gambit regarded the bag and stuffed a few Goldfish into his mouth. The exterior of the bag had the name 'THOR' written in black marker on it. "Hm...," Gambit said. "Sorry 'bout that. Where we live, it's kinda a free-for-all situation. I'm Remy, by de way."

For a moment, Gambit thought the man wouldn't respond. Finally, the man said: "Jarvis, sir. Can I help you with something?"

Stark's collection of personal photographs had given Gambit an idea. "Ah, weh, monsieur. Can you tell me, is Mademoiselle Virginie around?"

The man's brows furrowed. "Do you mean Ms. Potts, sir?"

Remy nodded and stood, crumpling the empty bag of crackers. "That would be her."

"Is Ms. Potts expecting you?"

"Nobody expects much from me," Gambit told him. "It's been awhile since I seen her last. Let's surprise her, shall we?"

Jarvis looked at Gambit doubtfully. "You know Ms. Potts."

"Oh sure. She and her sorority sisters made dis out-of-towner feel mighty welcome in de Big Apple," Gambit grinned at the older gentleman and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Jarvis seemed momentarily nonplussed, but recovered his professional demeanor quickly. "Right this way, sir."

Mr. Jarvis led Gambit down the hall to an elevator. They traveled up several floors to a penthouse suite. The elevator chimed their arrival and Jarvis guided Gambit into a modern living room. The furnishings had industrial fixtures and motifs of chrome and exposed rivets and bolts juxtaposed with rich and comfortable-looking upholstery. Gambit's eyes scanned the walls and appraised the art hung there, figures tallying up in his mind. He quickly came to a rather large sum and carefully placed his hands in the pockets of his coat in order to resist any impulsive thieving urges.

There was a figure seated on the couch facing the large window overlooking the panoramic vista of the New York skyline. The woman looked up from the device she held in her hands, a smaller version of the scanning device Iron Man had used before. She had been poking at the surface of the clear glass screen, moving figures around with a touch.

"You get Angry Birds on dat thing?" Remy asked Pepper Potts.

Her face was momentarily confused, her mind delayed in processing the inexplicable sight of seeing Remy LeBeau standing in her living room. Then her expression cleared and she smiled.

"As I live and breathe," Pepper said, assuming a faux-Southern Georgia accent. "If it isn't the esteemed Remy LeBeau."

Remy gave her a short bow from the waist. "And the lovely Miss Potts."

Pepper pushed back the fur throw she had covering her legs and stood as Remy approached. When he stood before her she kissed the air beside his right cheek. Remy leaned back and took in her appearance. "You look beautiful, as ever," he told her, which was true though she was only wearing a plain v-neck tee and jeans. Her complexion was paler than normal under its smattering of freckles.

"Please," she said flatly and turned her head slightly to look past him and to the window. "I look tired and sick."

Remy rested his hands on her shoulders. "You feelin' okay, chère?" he asked.

Pepper turned back to him and looked up into his eyes. She smiled slightly. "A little under the weather, is all."

"Ms. Potts?" Jarvis prompted from the door.

She turned to him slightly. "Thanks Jarvis," she said. "I'm glad you managed to snag this one before he could get himself into too much trouble."

Jarvis nodded at her. "Is there anything I can get you?" he asked, still warily eyeing the thief.

"No, thank you. We'll be fine."

When Jarvis departed Pepper looked back to Remy. "What on earth are you doing – ah, wait. I'd forgotten you run with the X-Club now."

Remy offered her a smile. "Most of de time I think I should be runnin' from them," he told her. They were still standing in fairly close proximity, not that Remy minded at all. He studied the freckles across her cheeks and recalled the time he'd promised to kiss every freckle that appeared on her body. But that had been some time ago, back when he still skirted the periphery of the real world and the normal people who lived in it. He casually stepped back from her and let his hand trail down her arm to her hand, which he brought up to his lips. "But in this instance, my allegiances t'de costumed set grants me good fortune. As it puts me in de company of les plus jolies filles like yourself."

Pepper's smile faded and she said: "I was so sorry to hear about Professor Xavier."

Remy found himself turning away to look at the window. Beyond the glass he could still see portions of the city smoldering; smoke smearing the otherwise blue sky. He saw his own reflection in the glass and was somewhat disturbed to see how little his expression matched what he was feeling inside. He'd trained his face so long into its expression of bemused arrogance; it was assumed he cared very little at all. Remy preferred it that way. When disappointment and failure came, as it inevitably did, it was easier to hide behind the veneer of nonchalance. There was a ringing in his left ear and he lifted a hand as if to block out the sound.

"Remy...?" Pepper said, her voice concerned.

Apparently, he had been silent a moment too long. "Sorry," he said. "Tinnitus. What did you say?"

Her expression was sympathetic. "How about a drink?" she asked.

"That's de first intelligent thing I've heard anyone say all day," he told her and softened his expression.

Pepper walked past him and towards a mirror-backed wall. There was a minibar with various bottles set upon the dark wood shelves. She looked at Remy's reflection as she took down a highball glass. "You're going to have to drink from a glass," she said. "I'm afraid we don't have any plastic funnels or tubes."

"I've found my tastes have changed since we hung out last...at least when it comes t'alcohol," he said and made a point to regard her figure thoughtfully. "Women on de other hand..."

Pepper shook her head with feigned impatience. "Bourbon? Scotch?"

"Bourbon, s'il vous plaît. Neat," he said and wandered closer to the window. Pepper joined him and handed him the glass with a measure of amber-colored liquid inside. She gazed out the window as well.

"So what comes next?" she asked, looking out at the city. Far below, rescue workers were putting out flames, construction vehicles moved piles of debris, and police directed the flow of traffic.

"I try not t'think too far ahead," Remy told her. "De future is beyond my control."

"Where are the other X-Men?" she asked him and glanced back towards the elevator as if they might manifest there.

"Havin' a pissing contest wit' de Avengers," Remy responded and watched her raise her glass of ginger ale to her lips. "Had my fill of fighting."

She reached up and touched the bruise that darkened his jaw. "What's this from?"

"Fell face-first into Cap'n America's shield," Remy told her and took a sip from his glass.

"Well, I'm glad you're here, anyhow. It's good to see you again. I wish the circumstances were different."

Remy brightened. "How 'bout you and me take our leave and have ourselves a night out on de town?" he suggested. "That is, if we can find anyplace open that isn't a smoking ruin. Will you allow me t'enjoy de pleasure of your company?"

She shook her head at him and smiled mischievously. "I'm going to have to respectfully and reluctantly decline your offer, Monsieur," she said and waggled her finger under his nose. "I don't think my heart can bear the excitement."

Remy felt himself relaxing incrementally. The bourbon helped, but the sight of a pretty woman, one who looked at him with fondness, improved his mood immeasurably. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had the opportunity to casually flirt with a woman; to lavish attention on a girl and make her feel special.

"I see how it is," Remy told her over the rim of his glass. "You gone and got yourself a high-class lifestyle now. Won't give this poor Cajun de time of day."

"Really Remy? Your usual charm doesn't work so you try to play the pity card? That's so beneath you," Pepper said.

"Nothin's beneath me," Remy said. "When I'm wit' you I'm walkin' on air."

"Awful!"

"I can beg and grovel too," he added.

"I wouldn't mind seeing that," Pepper said, and looked down her nose at him haughtily, her glass held aloft in her hand.

"May I beg you t'have mercy on me and grant dis boy a favor?" he asked smoothly.

"Oh, here comes," Pepper said dryly. "The real reason you came to see me."

Gambit grinned wolfishly. "Well, I thought I might just go ahead and avail myself to de many mysterious wonders of Stark Tower, but then I thought...it'd be much more fun t'charm what I need from de hands of a beautiful woman rather than just steal it outright."

"And what is it you hope to acquire?" Pepper asked and shifted her weight to her right leg, hand on her hip. Her expression was still playful and she looked less tired than she had when Gambit had first seen her.

"I wondered if you might have some kinda electronic storage doo-hickey," he told her. "That I could store some intel on."

Pepper's eyes narrowed a fraction. "What kind of intel?" she asked.

"Leads and accounts to various international terrorists and crime syndicates," he said with a blasé tone and swirled the bourbon around in the glass.

Pepper let out a puff of air which set her bangs fluttering. "I'm sorry I asked," she said, her disbelief apparent. "But I might have something you could use." She set her empty glass down onto the windowsill and walked to the opposite side of the room. There was what appeared to be a rather large steamer trunk set on its end which she pulled open to reveal a small home office hidden within. She pulled open a drawer and retrieved something from inside. When she returned to Gambit's side, she was holding a small, black square device in her hand, no bigger than a pack of playing cards. Gambit's grin grew wider.

"What's dis?" he asked as he took it from her hands. The object was smooth and jet black, seamless and as stylish as anything Apple had ever produced.

"It's a prototype of something Tony developed based on a data drive Daredevil got ahold of. The Omega Drive,* he called it. It's made up of unstable molecules and can't be destroyed, technology developed by Mr. Fantastic. Able to store large amounts of electronic data, and impossible to decrypt without the right security...and programs. Programs that Tony designed as well."

"Seems like everyone's got a finger in dis pie," Gambit remarked and turned the small drive over in his hands.

Pepper raised her light-colored brows at him. "I'm trusting you're going to use it for good and not for evil?" she prompted.

Gambit nodded and palmed the drive. "And what reason will you give for lendin' me dis thing?"

Pepper shrugged a shoulder. "It could stand some real-world user testing. Quality assurance."

"And what if I told you I might need software to un-jumble some encrypted data bein' transferred over a network?"

"I'd tell you I could load something I have onto that drive," she said slowly. "Something that would take ten minutes what thousands servers couldn't process in over a thousand years. As long as your intentions were pure."

"My intentions, certainement ...but I can't say de same for my thoughts," Gambit told her, his voice growing low and dark. "At least not wit' you standin' so close t'me."

"Worse and worse." Pepper turned and gave him a wry grin over her shoulder.

"You used t'fall for my lines," Gambit said and followed her to the couch.

Pepper picked up the glass device she had been toying with when Gambit first arrived. "I used to throw ping-pong balls into Solo cups of cheap beer too."

Gambit sighed with forlorn longing as he sat beside her on the couch. "I miss those days. And de little tight sweater you wore. De one with de Greek letters stitched on."

Pepper smiled and looked into the device, tucking her bare feet back under the throw. "I still have that sweater," she remarked.

Gambit sighed again, long and loudly. She took the drive from his hand and tapped it to the surface of her handheld. There was a small beep and she handed the drive back to Gambit. "Transferred," she said simply.

"In addition to being breathtakingly gorgeous, have I also mentioned how intelligent and compassionate you are?" Gambit asked her convivially.

"You forgot generous and trusting, Remy," she said pointedly as Gambit slipped the drive into his coat pocket.

Gambit took her hand once more and pressed his lips to it. "I am forever in your debt, ma chèrie."

"What. Are you doing. In here?" asked a voice from the hall.

The pair seated on the couch turned to see Tony Stark standing in the doorway, his hands folded across his chest and an irritated expression on his face.

"Just catchin' up wit' an old friend," Gambit said coolly.

Pepper extricated her hand from Gambit's and looked at Tony with a nearly sheepish expression. "I didn't hear you come in," she said lightly. "You know Remy, right?"

"I had the pleasure of shooting at him not too long ago," Tony responded, then pointed at Gambit. "You. Off my couch."

Gambit turned to Pepper and said: "I'm so sad our time together has been cut short. Perhaps we could talk again soon...someplace more private. My apartment, perhaps?"

"No," Tony interjected.

"I could maybe make us something to eat," Pepper suggested. "What are you feelings about tapas?"

"Remove yourself," Tony insisted as Gambit slowly stood.

"You have my number," Gambit said to Pepper.

"She does?" Tony asked, flummoxed.

"Au revoir, ma chèrie," Gambit said to Pepper with one last bow. He turned and walked past Tony towards the elevator. "Nice place y'got here," Gambit commented.

"It was," Tony groused. "Until you showed up."

Before the elevator doors slid shut, Gambit heard Tony say to Pepper: "Call my decorator and tell her to have this couch reupholstered."

"Call her yourself," Pepper said flippantly and returned her attention to the handheld.

"On second thought, have the couch burned," Tony continued. "And wash that hand. You don't know where he's been. What's this? Why are there are two glasses? You didn't serve him a drink, did you? Pepper. Pepper? Are you listening? Okay, just sit there and ignore me. If you'll excuse me, I have to go count the silverware."

~oOo~

New York City, New York

The Past, Seven Weeks Ago

It was Robert Lord's second week on the job. He had come to the conclusion that auditing was not a career he was particularly suited to. Nor was working in an office. Denti had been right, being the auditor meant you were placed among the lowest echelons of the company, where you could potentially wreak the least amount of havoc. In spite of all these factors, he found that he was happier and more comfortable in his own skin than he had been in recent memory.

Robert, also known to his friends as Remy and to the rest of the world as Gambit, was very good at his job, thanks to the behind-the-scenes tinkering of his co-conspirator Carl Denti. While reports were completed by someone else, Robert spent most of his day sitting idly in his cubicle on the lowest floor of NABC. The basement, sardonically dubbed the "Garden Level" by his office co-workers, was filled with the monotonous mechanical drone from the nearby server room. The floor was at times uncomfortably warm, at its worst, blazing hot. The Garden Level was shared by his fellow auditors, the few AML staff remaining to the company, members of the lazy and inept IT department, and after five-thirty p.m., the janitorial staff.

When Gambit wasn't in his cubicle, he was milling about with his co-workers, listening to them complain about the terrible office coffee baking away in the communal carafe, the unpredictable heating and cooling system, the annoying hum from the servers, and the incompetence of upper-management.

"The backlog is ridiculous," AML staffer Deborah complained while retrieving a drink from the water cooler. "And we're understaffed. Most days I just throw my hands up in surrender."

"Can you ask for more people?" Robert asked.

Deborah made a derisive sound. "Staffing freeze," she said grimly. "Conveniently occurring after my boss got fired for complaining to the Board about the number of red-flagged accounts we've got in our backlog."

Gambit wondered if he might have some luck tracking down the whistleblower after all. "You haven't said anything to anyone, have you?" he asked in an undertone, raising his paper cup of water to his lips. "About those red-flags?"

"Of course not!" Deborah scoffed. "I've got two kids in college and an unemployed ex-husband! I need this job."

Gambit sometimes found himself cordoned off in his cubicle by his fellow auditor, Rosalie. She used her girth to block off his means of escape. Though "Robert" dressed in ill-fitting and unfashionable clothing (supplied by another Robert, surname: Drake), wore tinted yellow-framed lenses, and had his longish hair slicked back from his forehead, Rosalie must have seen the diamond in the rough. Either that or she was getting really desperate. She managed to turn up in Gambit's path no matter where he went with the intent of procuring herself a boyfriend. Gambit regretted he hadn't invented a Mrs. Lord and several little Lords along with his alias, although Rosalie likely wouldn't have let that deter her.

"I don't know how you're able to get through all these reports so quickly," Rosalie tittered. "You must be some kind of auditing genius!"

Maybe I could have Robert Lord come out of the closet, Gambit thought while smiling wanly at Rosalie. Any other time, he would be happy to charm the shape-wear right off Rosalie. But that would result in her continuing to dog his heels; not something conducive to espionage.

"Some of us are going out for drinks after work," she continued. "If you'd like to join us."

"I don't drink," Robert told her firmly, with a note of disdain in his voice.

Rosalie blinked at him. "Oh...I'm. Sorry?" she began uncomfortably. "Are you–? I mean... Uhm."

"Consuming intoxicants is against my religion," he informed her. "My body is a temple. By the way, have you heard the Good News about our Lord Savior, Jesus Christ?"

"I – think I hear my phone ringing. I have to go. Bye." Rosalie hurried off.

"Thank you, Jesus," Gambit muttered and turned back to his computer.

"Que?" asked the janitor, peering over the top of Robert's cubicle.

"Nada, Jesus. Perdon por molestarte," Gambit said.

There was one other employee Gambit had to tread carefully around. The security guard, Solomon, was not the rent-a-cop he'd expected but an observant and competent ex-military officer. He manned the security office in the late hours Robert typically worked, as well as weekends. The man was always impeccably groomed and smartly dressed in his uniform. He was stationed at the glass-enclosed security desk inside the front lobby, encircled by video monitors that relayed footage from the security cameras. Sol's stern demeanor put Gambit in mind of his former comrade-at-arms, Bishop. The security guard had issued Robert Lord his badge, taking what had to be the worst photograph Gambit had ever seen of himself. That badge was usually stuffed into the bag Robert carried in and out of the office.

Every day, Robert would wander into the lobby, riffle in his bag for several moments, dig into his pockets, and make a show of searching for his missing badge. Solomon sat there staring at Robert with growing impatience.

"Hey, New Guy," Sol said. "Haven't you learned the ropes yet?"

"Uhm," Robert said, flustered. He searched the interior pocket of his sport coat, then patted the front pockets of his slacks. "Oh, here!" He finally uncovered his badge then flashed it in front of the card reader. The reader emitted a double-beep and flashed red.

"Uh, oh," Robert said glumly as he was denied admittance.

Sol sighed. "Give me that," he commanded and Robert turned over his badge. Solomon studied the card's front and back. "It was working fine yesterday. What did you do to it?"

"Could be my ability to manipulate the energy of subatomic particles is interfering with the mechanics of the security system," Robert responded.

Solomon stared at him, his mouth a flat line under his pencil-thin mustache.

Robert added: "Or I put my badge through the wash on accident."

"Ha, ha. Very funny, New Guy," said Sol, who didn't sound amused in the least. The security guard wheeled his chair away from the desk for a moment to verify that the badge was still functioning. While Sol was running the security badge under the handheld scanner, Gambit casually leaned over the security desk and took a photo of the visitors' log with his cell phone. The schedule had the dates, times, and names of every visitor slated to arrive within the week. Solomon turned back to Robert and handed him the badge through the open slot in the glass panels protecting the security desk.

"It seems to be working now," Sol told him. "Try again."

Robert waved his badge in front of the reader and was buzzed through the front door. "Have a nice day, Sol!" he said and waved.

Later, Gambit put a phone call in to Denti. Gambit was standing just outside the exit to the Garden Level, at a steel door that was often propped open with a cinderblock by the cigarette smokers. He had to take several steps up the concrete staircase towards the ground level before he could get a signal.

"Does de name Iron Mountain mean anything to you?" Gambit asked Denti.

Denti paused a moment. "Yes. Sure, it's an information management company."

"Info management? How anticlimactic," Gambit told him. "Here I thought the name was all mysterious and ominous sounding."

"They manage corporate and governmental records," Denti told him. "Offsite storage, large-scale shredding."

"Please don't bore me wit' any more details. They're on de schedule for this upcoming Saturday," Gambit informed Denti.

"So I guess that means you'll be working this weekend," Denti responded. "Nothing is to leave those offices."

"Slave driver," Gambit complained. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"What's that?"

"What happens to all these folks when it gets found out their bosses are crooks?"

"That's not certain. Likely NABC will face some fines and possible sanctions. If we get someone to come forward, we could have the FBI involved and press criminal charges. Any luck on that front?"

"The whistleblower? Not yet. So will they lose their jobs?"

"The bosses?"

"No, I don't care about them. I meant de other employees. On account of the sanctions or whatnot."

"It's possible. Washington's latest ideology is that banks are too big of a business to fail. It's unlikely NABC will go under."

"One of de employees said her boss got fired for complaining about flagged accounts," Gambit told him.

"Do you think you could get ahold of the names on those accounts and who approved them?"

"Sure. Thinkin' this weekend I'll put on my work clothes and take a quick look-see upstairs. Should be quiet. There's some server downtime scheduled for Saturday. Updates to security or somethin'. De IS code-monkeys are bouncin' off de walls down here. Snagged some data transfers from off de network that I'll send your way once I've got them decrypted," Gambit paused for a moment, then asked: "Can I get another favor?"

"What now?" Denti asked warily.

"It's not for me, it's for Jesus."

"Hey-who?"

"De night janitor. Man doesn't speak a lick of English. Lucky for me, I can chat him up en espagnol. He lives clear out in some outer-borough ghetto with about five other guys. I don't think he's here legally."

"Is that so?" Denti asked. "Hiring illegals. We can add that to NABC's list of violations."

"No, don't do that. I was hopin' you could pull some strings and get it so he can work here, in de U.S., legal-like."

"Why in the world would I do that, Gambit?"

"I was just askin' for you to do me a solid. He's a nice guy. I don't want you t'get de man deported. He sends all his funds back home to his family. It's not his fault he had de bad fortune to be born on de wrong side of de border."

"I should have known you for a bleeding-heart liberal."

"A what?" Gambit asked, confused.

"This is the last favor, Gambit," Denti told him finally.

"Do you think you could get his wife and kids up here too?"

"Of course. Why not? Any aunts, uncles, cousins you want to add to the list? A grandmother, perhaps?"

Gambit paused. "Well, I dunno. I suppose I could ask him."

"That was sarcasm, Gambit," Denti deadpanned.

Gambit switched the phone to his opposite ear. "Sorry, sometimes I don't hear so good out of that ear. How you comin' along wit' that other thing? My eensy, tiny felony?"

"I have a meeting scheduled with the senator later today," Denti replied. "But I don't know that you're going to get much leniency from that man."

"Why's dat?"

"He's not exactly a proponent of mutant rights. He's proposed an amendment to DOMA to deny mutants' marriage recognition under federal law."

"Doe-muh?"

"DOMA: the Defense of Marriage Act," said Denti with forced patience. "Don't you pay attention to the news?"

"I sometimes read USA Today. I like de colors."

"This affects you directly. You should take an active interest."

"I'm not married. I tried it and it didn't stick," Gambit said.

"Maybe you should take the future into consideration. They want to take away your civil liberties and treat you as a second-class citizen. Scalia compared human-mutant marriage to bestiality," Denti stated, his tone issuing a challenge.

"Who's this now and why should I care what kinky stuff he's into?"

"He's a Supreme Court Justice! For God's sake, Gambit!"

Gambit switched his phone back to his bad ear. "Okay, okay. Look, Carl, I got t'go back to work. I'll keep you posted on this Iron Mountain thing."

Gambit found it an effort to care about mutant affairs. These things were best left to the individuals who had a better understanding of politics. Although he fought alongside the X-Men in the name of Xavier's dream of peaceful co-existence, Gambit's experience was that the mutants themselves spent more time fighting one another than with humans. Denti was wrong; these kinds of things didn't affect Gambit at all. And even if DOMA or SOMA or what-have-you came to pass, laws were meant to be broken. Gambit got along fine with most humans. Carl Denti was a good example of that.**

On Saturday afternoon, Robert found himself once again at the security office. This time he was standing before the glass door, the words SECURITY etched in the glass at eye-level. Solomon was sitting in his rolling office chair, leaning back in his seat and regarding Robert with his brow furrowed.

"What is it this time?" Sol demanded, his voice muffled from inside the booth.

Robert mumbled something unintelligible.

"What?" Sol asked and wheeled forward to open the glass door. "Speak up, man. What are you doing here on a Saturday? Don't you have somewhere better to be?"

"Not really," Robert responded.

"You got no family? Wife?" Sol demanded, his arms folded across his chest as he looked up at Robert grimly.

"No. Do you?" Robert asked.

Sol looked momentarily startled to have been asked a question. "No...well, I did. Until she left me for my best friend. While I was in Iraq. Why am I telling you this?"

"Everyone's got a story," Robert said. "I'm sorry about your wife."

Sol rubbed his hand over his shaven head. "Yeah...," he said absently. "So what's your story, New Guy?"

"It's mercifully uninteresting," Robert informed him. "I wouldn't want to bore you."

Sol's face reverted back to his usual disgruntled expression. "What is it you want?" he asked. "Did you flush your badge down the toilet again?"

Robert had his arms crossed defensively, his hands under his armpits. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. It's just that...I think they must've turned off the heat downstairs. It's cold."

Sol glanced over at the security feed monitoring the Garden Level. "It's usually hot as hell down there with those servers," Sol said, mostly to himself. "Shouldn't be – shit. Those dumb asses." Sol leaned forward to peer closely at the monitor. "I told those nicotine-fiends to keep that damn door closed. Side door's been standing open for who knows how long."

"I could go close it," Robert offered.

Sol raised his hand dismissively. "We follow protocol. Got to check out every violation," Sol said and put his hand to the radio on his chest. "Jim, do you copy? Hey. We've got a 10-34 on the lower level. Jim...Where is that guy?"

"I think I saw him in janitorial," Robert said.

"Probably taking a nap," Sol griped and climbed out of his chair. "Stay out of trouble, New Guy."

"I was just going out for something hot t'drink. I'm freezing," Robert said and put his hand to the doorjamb. "You want anything?"

"No...thanks. And don't forget your damn badge," Sol said as he passed Robert on the way out of the security office. The door swung shut behind him.

"I got it," Robert said, pulling his badge from his pocket. The badge dropped to the floor with a clatter.

Sol shook his head as he proceeded to the elevator. Gambit watched him disappear behind the sliding metal doors. Once Sol was out of sight, Gambit left through the lobby doors to stand out on the sidewalk. Outside the building was a large container for hauling away debris. There was a backhoe poised by the curb, waiting for Monday morning to resume its work. A pair of orange and white barricades flanked the backhoe, alerting motorists to the construction site.

Gambit removed his sport coat, revealing a fluorescent-colored vest he'd taken from the facility manager, Jim's, office. Gambit picked up one end of the barricade and dragged it over to block the side-street that gave access to the bank's loading dock. He pulled out his cellphone and dialed a number while returning to the bank lobby.

"Iron Mountain, this is Melissa. How can I help you?" asked a pleasant sounding voice.

"Yes, hello. This is Solomon Jones at NABC. We have a pickup scheduled for this evening," Gambit said as he slipped out of the yellow vest and re-entered the bank.

"Yes, sir. The truck is currently en route."

"I'm afraid we've got some construction outside our building...they're still clearing debris from the mutant attack," Gambit continued. "Our side-street's completely blocked."

"Thanks for letting us know. I'll radio in to our drivers. Would you like to reschedule?"

"Not right now," Gambit told her and reached for the security office door.

Gambit pulled the security office door back open and peeled the piece of masking tape he'd stuck on the lock to keep the latch from engaging. He scanned Robert's badge in the portable reader and his profile appeared on the computer screen. Gambit quickly changed Robert's profile and gave him access to all parts of the building. He then scheduled Sol's computer to perform several mandatory security updates in the next half-hour, effectively making it unusable while the programs installed. Gambit adjusted the angle of several security cameras, then cut the feed to two others on the rear side of the building.

That'll give Sol a few more security violations to check out, Gambit thought.

After leaving the office, he stopped by the potted plant and picked up two take-out cups of coffee he'd left there earlier. He waited and watched as the numbers above the elevator changed from Lower Level to One and then to Ground Floor. The doors opened to reveal Solomon, looking irritated as usual.

"I got you one anyway," Robert told him and handed him one of the cups.

Sol reluctantly took the offered coffee. "Thanks, New Guy," he said.

Gambit took the elevator back down to the Lower Level, finding the floor completely quiet. He paused a moment, considering the strange absence of noise. He realized that the interminable hum of the servers had been silenced. Gambit set his coffee cup down onto a filing cabinet and walked through the door leading to the utility area, side exit, and bathrooms. There was a freight elevator as well as a set of metal stairs leading upwards. Gambit pulled out a black bag containing his work gear that he had stashed under the stairs. He pulled off Robert's button-down shirt and slacks revealing his form-fitted dark uniform. Gambit tossed his glasses into the bag and pulled on a mask covering his hair, nose, and mouth. Lastly, he donned a pair of red goggles to conceal his eyes. It wouldn't do to be recognized, not that he had any intention of getting caught.

While under the staircase, he heard the rumble and clang of the freight elevator doors banging shut from the floor above. Gambit paused and listened. He heard the elevator come down one level and the doors re-opened. A man exited the freight elevator pushing a pallet jack. Gambit recognized Jesus from behind. Jesus propped open the door to the office area and pushed the pallet jack through.

What in the world is he doing? Gambit thought and followed slowly.

Peering into the office area and over the sea of cubicles, Gambit spied Jesus walking to the server room. Jesus opened the door with his security badge and entered. Keeping hidden below the cubicle walls, Gambit stalked over to the server room. He carefully looked around the open door to see an empty server rack. A second and a third rack had also been emptied. A fourth was in the process of being dismantled.

Son of a...mother, Gambit thought and wished he hadn't given up swearing for Lent. They're stealing the gosh-darned servers! Now why didn't I think of that?

Sometimes the most obvious things went overlooked.

~ oOo ~

plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose – the more things change, the more they stay the same

certainement – most probably

*Daredevil #6-13

**But not really, on account of Carl Denti, aka X-Cutioner, tried to kill Gambit on a couple of occasions but then later felt kinda bad about it. As far as I know, Gambit doesn't know the two are the same person.