New Orleans, Louisiana

The Past, Eleven Years Ago

Remy opened the door to his father's study to find the room empty. He let out a long exhalation before opening the door just wide enough to allow himself to slip through. Remy turned and quietly closed the door, releasing the worn crystal doorknob slowly. He stood for a moment, staring at the wood grain of the paneled door and collecting his thoughts. Resolved, he turned away from the door and walked to his father's desk. The afternoon light fell from the window across the papers on Jean-Luc's desk. Remy had his books with him, tucked under his arm along with his notebook. He set them down onto the desktop and picked up a stack of manila folders. Inside each one was a contract for a potential client, along with any research and supporting documents for the job. Remy opened one and scanned it, set it down and opened the second. His heart was beating erratically in his chest. Remy swallowed his nervousness and chose a folder at random, then shoved it amidst his books and papers.

He acted not a moment too soon, because just then Jean-Luc opened the door. The man was looking down at a sheaf of papers he held in his hands. He glanced up to see Remy standing before his desk. Jean-Luc's expression was curious, but before he could inquire as to what Remy was doing at his desk, Remy picked up a pen and stalked away to the small table set in front of the window.

"Mind you put that back when you're done," Jean-Luc told his son's back as Remy pulled out the wooden desk chair and sank into it. Remy didn't reply, but opened his schoolbook and stared blankly at the pages within.

While Jean-Luc took his seat at his desk, Remy leaned over his schoolwork with the pen in hand. He doodled in his notebook for several minutes. After what seemed like an agonizingly long period of time, Remy managed to balance the first equation in his long list of problems to solve.

"Sois calme, frétillon," his father said and Remy cringed. He hadn't realized he'd been tapping his feet. He placed one foot and then the other behind the front legs of his chair. Jean-Luc riffled through papers at his desk, searching for something.

Remy stared out the window into the front yard. He felt hot. He'd begun to sweat. He couldn't focus on the book in front of him. His head hurt. The figures swam before his eyes and with a sigh, he lay face down, his nose pressed into the book's spine.

"Remy," Jean-Luc said. Remy felt his shoulders tense. "Remy, come over here."

Remy sat upright and turned a page in his notebook. He copied down the next problem. He heard Jean-Luc stand and approach. Remy felt the back of Jean-Luc's knuckles brush the side of his face. He flinched.

"You look pale. Are you ill?" Jean-Luc asked, and lay his broad hand across Remy's forehead. "You feel hot."

Remy closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of his father's hand on his head. Then he pulled away. Jean-Luc sighed.

"I know you're angry wit' me," Jean-Luc told the back of his son's head. "Believe me when I tell you I only want to keep you out of trouble."

When Remy didn't respond, Jean-Luc continued: "I know you had a rough time these past few months. I know you've been tested. I know it's not been easy, but it's not more'n you can handle."

Remy gritted his teeth, feeling another surge of anger fuel the heat in his face. Who are you trying to convince, me or you? he thought. Then all at once the anger went out of him, leaving him feeling exhausted. His body went slack and he slouched in his chair.

"I'm sorry, Remy," Jean-Luc said, and set his hand on top of Remy's head, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "You should go rest. You can finish your schoolwork tomorrow."

Remy didn't want to go back to his room. He didn't want to let himself enjoy his father's sympathy either. He felt guilty about taking the folder, then he felt the theft was justified. He should have felt the rush, the thrill of success stealing usually brought him. Instead, he felt sick to his stomach. He felt like punching someone in the face, preferably his future-self. Then he couldn't decide what to feel. He watched as his father leaned forward to gather up his schoolwork. He thought maybe Jean-Luc would find the stolen folder amongst his books. He thought he might like to be caught.

The door to Jean-Luc's study opened. There was a short rap of knuckles on the door as his sister-in-law, Mercy, leaned her head into the room. Jean-Luc turned to look at her.

"Enh, Jean-Luc. I need a few things from de market for dinner," she said.

Remy shot out of his chair as if he were fired from a gun. "I'll go," he told her quickly.

Mercy regarded him archly. "Really?" she said disbelievingly. It wasn't often that Remy was particularly helpful.

Remy gathered his books and looked at his father. "I can go," he told him. They were the first words he'd spoken to Jean-Luc in over a week.

Jean-Luc considered Remy for a moment. "All right," he finally relented. "Some fresh air would do you good." Jean-Luc took his wallet from the interior pocket of his jacket and handed a folded twenty-dollar bill to Remy.

As Remy started toward the door, Jean-Luc told him: "I'll expect you back in an hour."

Remy glanced over his shoulder at Jean-Luc, whose face had returned to its normally stern expression. Mercy stood in the open doorway with her hand on her hip. She held out a list of groceries. Remy took it from her.

"You get what's on dis list, hear?" she said. "I don't want no surprises."

Remy made a face at Mercy and slipped past her and into the hall. He jogged down the staircase to the ground floor. In the kitchen, he picked up his canvas carryall from the row of hooks by the door. He dropped his books into it. The grocery list and the twenty he shoved into his front pockets. Lastly, he took his jacket from where it was hung and pulled it on. He pushed out the back door and ran to the shed where he kept his bike. It was a regular bicycle, not the sport bike he wanted. He climbed onto it and shoved off down the bumpy gravel drive to the street. He arced across the pavement, building momentum by standing on the pedals of the bike. The early spring air blew in his face, cooling the heat he felt in his cheeks. He raced down the street, the sentinel of Big Charity loomed in the distance.

Remy reached the hospital in a fraction of the time it took to walk there. He coasted through the main entryway into the grassy courtyard of Big Charity, pulled his bike up to the bike rack, and chained the bicycle there. He glanced up at the sky, which was just beginning to darken with heavy purple clouds. Remy walked under the covered walkway flanking either side of the main entrance and leaned up against the curving railing. He opened his canvas bag and removed the folder he'd stolen. Remy opened the folder and looked over the contents. His heart leapt. The client was located in New York. Remy was convinced this was fate. His trepidation left him in a rush, leaving excitement in its wake. The papers in his hands fluttered, and he saw that his hands were shaking.

Calm down, he told himself and drew a breath. Lights were dancing before his eyes and he tried to blink them away. In the distance, he could hear a low rumble of thunder.

It would still be awhile before dark and he didn't know when his future-self would arrive. Remy put the folder back into his bag and removed the list of dates and times from his back pocket. The schedule his future-self had given him was beginning to show wear from being folded and refolded. Remy glanced over the list. According to this schedule, he was supposed to be in his room doing homework. He experienced a brief flash, and he could picture himself on his bed staring down into his math book. Dizziness swept over him and he had to grasp the railing to keep from falling. The list fell from his hand to flutter to the ground. Remy waited until the vertigo passed. Could it be he'd changed the future already? A gust of wind caught the list and sent it tumbling. Remy lurched after it.

As he stumbled after the schedule, he wondered: if he'd changed the future, what would happen to his future-self? Would he cease to exist? Would he return to his own time to find it changed? Or had Remy only changed his own future, and his future-self was now on a different path? Were there now two of him? Were there multiple timelines? Remy's hand grazed the wall and he came to a halt, seized by panic. What had he done?

The schedule caught itself against the stone facade and Remy slowly walked up to it. When he crouched to retrieve it, he glanced up to see his future-self walking across the hospital courtyard.

"Hey!" he called, but his future-self was walking away to enter the hospital. Remy watched as his twin disappeared though the front doors. Remy moved to follow.

He passed through the front doors and into the main hall. He saw his twin far down the hall, turning the corner.

Where is he going? Remy asked himself. He dodged around the people in the hall, following after his wayward twin. He turned the corner and heard footfalls coming from the descending stairwell. Remy leaned over the silver railing and peered downwards. His future-self was disappearing around the turn in the staircase. Remy continued down the steps. He found himself on a lower floor. It was quiet. There was a pair of swinging doors before him. Remy walked to the doors and stood on his toes to peer through the small square window. He spied his twin slipping into a room. Remy pushed through the swinging door and into a hall lit with ugly yellow light. His footfalls on the linoleum tiles were the only sound. He approached the door he'd seen his twin vanish into. He pushed the metal bar to open the heavy steel door. The room beyond was dark as pitch.

"Hey," he hissed into the darkness. "Where are you?"

His hand reached out to feel along the wall for a light switch. The room was suddenly ablaze with harsh fluorescent lighting. He blinked in the glare. The room was round in shape, and descended in tiers to an oval floor below. It was an operating theater. He felt his skin prickle with gooseflesh. There was a soft creak of wood from below. Remy approached the waist-high wall and peered over to the next tier below. He experienced a jolt of surprise. There was a man seated on a wooden bench. As the man looked up at Remy, his appearance began to shift. Remy's mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. The man, who was pale in the harsh light, had dark black hair. His eyes changed from brown to red; not bloodshot, but dark red in color like Remy's own. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead.

"You are lost, young man," the man told him as he rose to stand. He was dressed in a white coat, like a doctor.

"N-no," Remy stuttered. "I...I volunteer here. I took a wrong turn." Remy began to back up towards the door as the man turned to him.

The man took the stair to bring himself to the upper tier to stand before Remy. "Lost and in need of a guiding hand."

Remy stared at the man, transfixed by his gaze. "Are you a doctor here?" he asked.

"No, not a doctor here. But I was present the night of your birth. And I've been waiting some time to meet you...son."

~ oOo ~

Sinister had found Remy LeBeau not long after the boy's mutant powers had manifested. The boy had been taken in by a secretive and ancient cult of thieves that predated the ancient Apocalypse himself. Sinister believed that the boy's living situation could potentially be exploited. He had even enlisted the child to steal a diary from the Weapon X facility.* Unfortunately, young Remy's independent mindset proved greater than his conditioning under the Thieves' Guild tutelage. After witnessing the horrors within the Weapon X facility, the boy had destroyed the item he'd been charged to steal, failing in his mission. It displeased Sinister to see the boy so free-willed and making his own decisions. Now the boy seemed to be at an impasse, torn between wanting to leave and live on his own or stay and remain tied to his adoptive family. Sinister couldn't risk the boy leaving his family on his own. He couldn't risk misplacing the boy in the city of New York or have him draw the attention of certain locals in the New York area.

When Sinister's monitors had detected multiple identical power signatures in New Orleans, he arrived to discover the boy had managed to manipulate his powers in a way to transport himself across short periods of time. Sinister had set his sights upon the older, more able twin, only to have him slip through his grasp like so much vapor. That boy was too confident, certainly more than his younger counterpart. Sinister realized his mistake; pursuing the stronger boy when he should have targeted the weaker, less sure twin. Now Sinister had the boy cornered in the empty operating theater of the old hospital. Sinister allowed the boy to see his true appearance; pale skin, dark hair, red eyes.

"No, not a doctor here. But I was present the night of your birth. And I've been waiting some time to meet you...son," Sinister said. The words had the effect of sending a shock through the boy. He seemed physically stunned at the pronouncement.

When the boy didn't respond, Sinister continued: "Fifteen years ago, I came to claim you, only to find that your mother had already given you away. She feared you for your eyes...so like my own."

Remy blinked at him. "You...?" his voice sounded strangled. "How did –? Are you a...a mutant?"

Sinister smiled. "I'm certainly more than human," he told the boy. "But a monster...or a devil? Nothing of the sort."

Remy nodded slowly. He seemed glad to hear this confirmation of his suspicions.

"Imagine my surprise to discover you here, at the very place I'd hoped to find you fifteen years ago. I did not need to look far to find you at last." Sinister reached out and lay a hand on the boy's narrow shoulder. Remy was still nervous, poised to flee. "Tell me son, are you well taken care of? Is there anything you need?"

Remy started to nod his head. He was uncomfortable with the physical contact, but Sinister did not want to let the boy loose.

"And you're not treated badly...The ones who took you – they accept you in spite of your eyes?" Sinister asked. "In spite of what you are?"

The boy's expression clouded over. "That's de only reason they want me," he muttered.

"I hate to think that you are being used," Sinister told Remy. "I can give you whatever you need. I hoped you would allow me the chance to make up for the time we've lost."

Remy swallowed nervously. "I don't –," he began, then his expression became mulish. "How do I know you're telling me de truth?"

Sinister's hand moved to the pocket of his long coat. "I have the papers your mother signed...transferring you to my custody. Your birth certificate." Sinister held the papers out to the boy. "I am your legal guardian. But instead of having you as my own, I found that she had instead sold you away."

Remy took the papers and held them in his shaking hands. "This can't be true," he murmured to himself. "I...I don't believe you."

"I thought you might react this way," Sinister said and placed his other hand on Remy's opposite shoulder. "That to find your father after all this time, you might think it too good to be true."

Remy pushed the papers back into Sinister's chest. "No! This is some trick!"

Sinister tightened his grip on the boy's shoulders. "What reason would I have for tricking you, Grant?"

Remy froze. "That's not – that's not my name! I – I have to go home," he said.

"What home is that?" Sinister asked. "To a family that only wants to use you? Who allow you to dress in rags? What ties do you have to them that can't be broken?"

Remy paled at this and clutched the bag he had at his hip. He began to back out of Sinister's grasp. "I need time to think!" he said, a little frantically.

Sinister tightened his grip and he saw the rising panic in the boy's eyes. He hadn't wanted the situation to escalate in this way. He wanted the boy to come willingly, but he would take him if he had to. He forced the next words from his lips: "Grant...Please."

The metal door behind Remy squealed open on unused hinges. A boy stood in the hall, all color leached from him by the cast of yellow light. He was thin and dressed in a hospital gown, his narrow feet bare on the floor tiles.

Sinister felt his grip on Remy falter. He stared at the strange thin child standing in the hall with his overlong mop of pale hair. "Adam...?" was his perplexed inquiry. But it couldn't be...the child looked like the very specter of his deceased son.

Remy was loosed from Sinister's grasp. Sinister tightened his hold at the last moment, seizing upon the thief's wrist.

"You should go," said the phantom from the hall.

Remy gasped and his eyes cast about for a means of escape. Sinister blinked in the sudden wash of bright light. He saw then that the light was shining from Remy. Remy's head turned from side to side, his gaze falling on scenes only he could see. He made a strangled sort of sound.

"Where?" Remy choked.

"Forward," said the boy in the hall.

Sinister turned his head as the light became overwhelming. He felt his hand clamp down on empty air. Remy had vanished, just as his future twin had. There came a slamming sound as the metal door fell shut. Sinister flew forward, yanking the door open with a strength that tore it from its hinges.

"Who are you?" he roared. His voice echoed down the empty hall.

Sinister moved towards the double doors and threw them open. The mysterious pale boy was nowhere to be seen. As Sinister's appearance changed to something more acceptable to the average human's eye, he started up the staircase. At the top he found a man seated on a bench. The man's head was down, his long pale hair falling into his face. His eyes were shaded by a pair of smoke-colored lenses and he steadily wound an old gold pocket watch.

"Did you see a boy come through here?" Sinister demanded. "In a hospital gown?"

The man seemed to regard Sinister for several moments, though with his dark glasses, Sinister couldn't be sure if the man was sighted or not. Finally the man answered in a dry humored voice: "Nobody here but us chickens."

Sinister made a sound of disgust and passed the man to proceed towards the hospital's main hall. He would search the hospital for the pale impostor who looked so much like his dead son. Someone would pay dearly for this trickery.

Behind him, the old man muttered to himself: "All in good time."

~ oOo ~

Sois calme, frétillon – Be still, fidget.

*Weapon X First Class #3

Next time: Out of the frying pan...