The Syrian Desert, Outside Damascus, Syria
The Past, Eighty-Seven Years Ago
Gambit had been to Hell before, or rather, a hell dimension called Limbo. He'd gone because he had been asked and because it had seemed the thing to do; to go and rescue another teammate. Never mind that he'd only been asked because he was expendable. Never mind that the person he'd been tasked to rescue was a woman, or girl really, that hadn't spoken more than five words to him in all the time he had been an X-Man. Never mind the fact that if it had been him and not Illyana Rasputin who had been sucked down into a hell dimension, the rest of the X-Men would have cut their losses and left him to the demons.*
Thinking those kinds of dark thoughts had gotten him into trouble in that horrible place, and since then he'd made a conscious effort to keep a grip on his emotions and stifle negative thoughts, just in case it happened again. Visiting Limbo was not an experience he thought on, not if he could help it. But when he did, he could recall the awesome heat, the oppressive odor, the terrible noise, the calamity and chaos...a bit like New Orleans, really. He should have hated every moment of it. Instead, the side of himself that he wished didn't exist had reveled in the mayhem. Suddenly, he had been in control amidst the turmoil, empowered, feared, and people had to listen and obey, whether they wanted to or not. Later he'd been disgusted with himself for enjoying it so much. Gambit wasn't that kind of person. He wasn't. That person was someone else, it had to be.
Gambit was certain he wasn't in Limbo now, but he wasn't sure that was a good thing. At least if he'd been transported to Hell, he would know where he was. What he had thought was a sea of fire had in fact been the shifting sands of a desert glowing orange-red in the setting sun. He'd fallen several feet to land on his right shoulder on the side of a sand dune, then tumbled head over heels down the slope to come to a sliding halt on the rocky, barren ground. He had had a few moments to comprehend that he wasn't burning for all eternity before lapsing into unconsciousness.
Instead of burning, he was freezing. Gambit woke, shivering convulsively. While unconscious, he had pulled his arms under his body, instinctively trying to conserve heat. He turned his head with a groan, opening his eyes to darkness. The arid landscape was bathed in stark blue-black shadows and silver-white moonlight. The surrounding sand and rock was coated with a thin layer of frost. When he exhaled, his breath plumed white in the air. Gambit forced himself into sitting position, shoving his cold hands into his coat and under his armpits. He looked around, searching for some indication of where he was. Gambit saw rocky hills and long expanses of empty, sandy ground. He looked up at the sky, but there were no answers there either. The sky was a perfect shade of midnight blue, the stars seemed brighter than he had ever seen them before.
For a while, he stared upward, trying to decipher the moon's movement across the sky. When he finally concluded that the moon was still rising, he knew it was not yet morning. Gambit stood on somewhat shaky legs, feeling oddly fatigued. He turned himself to face eastward and began moving. Gambit had no idea if he would find anything to the East, or if there would just be more desert.
With the surrounding darkness and desolate landscape, he was left with nothing but his own thoughts, unhelpful as they were. He became preoccupied with what Sinister had told him. Sinister never lied, but he did withhold certain truths as a way to maintain control and to manipulate. Gambit struggled to puzzle out what Sinister had not been telling him, rather than what he had actually said. What could Sinister have meant about the X-Men having held his younger counterpart prisoner? It certainly wasn't impossible. Beast had gone into the past to retrieve the original five X-Men, for no purpose that Gambit could discern other than to try and punish Cyclops. It seemed unnaturally cruel, not just for the intended target, but for the young time-displaced X-Men as well. Gambit wondered why anyone would bring his younger self to the future. Did they want to make an example of him? Or was it as Sinister claimed: that his teammates wanted to prevent the tragedies he'd been a party to? If Sinister's intent was to throw Gambit off his game, then he had succeeded.
If young Remy was killed, Gambit wondered what would happen to himself. Would he disappear? Would he vanish from history? And if what Sinister had said was true, wouldn't Gambit recall having been to the future as a boy?
Not necessarily, his unhelpful brain said.
"Shut up, you," Gambit said aloud.
Gambit thought that perhaps since he hadn't spontaneously disappeared, his younger self must still be alive. He wondered if he might be able to meet his younger self. He wondered what he would say. What was the turning point where it all went wrong? Could he warn himself away from Sinister? Convince himself that there must be another way other than turning to that madman for help? Maybe he could go further back. Maybe he could stop himself from killing Julien, his crazy brother-in-law. Maybe he could convince himself to take Belle and just run away from it all. Or he could tell himself not to be such a selfish bastard, to not play games, and he could stop himself from endangering his brother Henri and getting Genevieve killed.** Gambit wondered how young his younger self really was...eighteen? Maybe sixteen? Younger? For a moment, his heart seemed to skip in his chest. Could he save his cousin Etienne from his untimely death? How many other lives could be made better if Gambit could just go back and make different choices?
Dangerous thinking, his brain told him.
"Why is it so cold?" Gambit asked. His teeth chattered. The landscape seemed to have not changed at all though he had continued walking for some time. He climbed the slope of another dune, hoping to see something from the summit. At the top, he turned, searching for signs of life. There was nothing but more sand and darkness as far as he could see. With a sigh, he started back down the dune, striding ever eastward.
Gambit knew he had to get back to Jean somehow, to warn her that Sinister was nearby. Gambit feared Jean would be recaptured. What would the X-Men say to that, if Jean was stolen back by Sinister while under Gambit's protection? And what would happen to Jean? He had never asked what indignity or violation she had suffered while in Sinister's company, but no doubt it was something terrible. Sinister could turn the most hardened and cruel men into fearful, meek semblances of their former selves. Gambit himself had been transformed into something...unrecognizable. If Sinister could lay low the coldest and most cynical of men, what would he do to a sensitive and kindhearted person like Jean? What damage had he all ready done to make her question herself, to not trust her friends?
Jean, Gambit thought, concentrating hard on his words. Jean, can you hear me?
He received no response. Well, that just figured. The one time she wasn't listening to his thoughts was when he needed her to. But it was possible that Jean was too far away to hear him, wherever he was. Gambit searched his pockets, looking for something to do other than think. He had a pack of cigarettes, missing one cigarette, and a bag of jelly beans. He should not have had either of these vices, but Lent had proven impossible to stick to, like all of his other commitments.
Gambit continued to walk, feeling better now that he was moving. At least physically. Sinister had given him too much to think about; his powers, his past. Sinister's whisperings in his ear made Gambit's skin crawl. His mind veered away from the words Sinister had spoken, the words about his parents. That was something he never, ever thought about.
The moon's traversal of the sky signaled it was nearing dawn. Gambit had been walking for hours. He wondered if he could see the sky lighten, or if it was just the hopeful imaginings of his mind. He encountered another hill and started up it. Once at the top he could spy a rocky outcropping in the distance. He had to veer off slightly to the south to reach it. As he walked, the sky did indeed grow lighter. A wind came and snatched at the hem of his coat and threw his long hair forward into his eyes. Gambit pushed his hair back, but the wind came again, this time bringing a light sting of sand against the back of his neck. He pulled up his collar and shrugged into his jacket. Gambit glanced up from his feet to see the rocks looming closer in the distance. He picked up his pace. The sun crawled over the horizon, spreading pale yellow light across the sand. He expected brightness, but the light seemed muted and the air a hazy brown. The wind came again in a burst that had him hunkering down into the protection of his coat. Gambit could detect a faint sound, like the rushing of a current. He became hopeful. Perhaps beyond the rocks he would see the ocean. The wind pushed at him again and Gambit looked up at the sky and the weak sunshine. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw something in the distance. It appeared a giant brown cloud was rising on the horizon. Gambit squinted as sand was suddenly blown into his face. He came to a halt and stared at the brown cloud. The wind tossed his hair and sent his coat flapping against his legs.
"Ah, crud," Gambit said, though the statement really didn't convey the sensation of imminent doom he was experiencing.
Gambit turned and started at a run towards the rocks. The sound he was hearing was not water, but the rush of wind and sand in the storm coming up behind him. He was running full out towards the rocks, hoping to reach them before the storm reached him. As he ran, he pulled his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on. He searched his pockets for a handkerchief, but found none. Instead he seized the hem of his pink shirt and tore it open. It split at the seam under his arm and he ripped a square section from the fabric to tie it tightly around his nose and mouth. The storm was traveling faster than he was. The windstorm was upon him before he reached the rocks. Visibility instantly diminished and he was lost in darkness. Gambit clutched his hands over his ears and continued forward, stumbling over unseen stones. He tumbled against the rocks, finding them at last. He crawled along until he found the leeward side of a large rock and ducked down, taking shelter under his jacket. The sand still managed to reach him under his coat as the wind buffeted him. The wind threatened to suck the air from his lungs, the sand scoured his nose and throat. It became unbearably cold as the wind's fierceness increased. Gambit's arms were over his head and the sand burned his bare hands.
He wondered how long he would have to endure the tearing winds. His breaths were shallow as he gasped, his body curled in fetal position as the storm raged around him. The sand claimed every piece of him, parching his skin, mouth, and throat. Even as the sand set his skin on fire with pain, the temperature continued to plummet. Gambit didn't know what would kill him first; suffocation, dehydration, or hypothermia. Wouldn't that be ironic, freezing to death in the desert and suffocating on dry land?
In desperation he thought: Help! Someone help me! He didn't know if he was still hoping Jean could hear him, or if he was praying to God.
The storm eventually began to ebb, though it seemed a long time coming. Gambit imagined he must have gotten lost in a daze as it was awhile after the storm had ended before he unfurled himself from his makeshift shelter. When he finally moved, sand and debris fell from his jacket and hair. He had been partially buried in sand. Gambit used the rock to pull himself to his feet. It was a struggle to swallow, his mouth was full of grit in spite of the scrap of fabric he had tied over his face. His sunglasses were so badly scratched he could no longer see through them. He blinked, his eyelids felt as if they were made of sandpaper. Gambit hugged the rock, spontaneously coughing in prolonged bursts that had his chest aching. With his head on his folded arms, he groaned. After a long while, he began to move again. Gambit turned back to the rocky outcropping and began to climb. He had to stop several times when his muscles began to cramp. He realized he needed to find water fast. Once at the top of the rocky incline, he was able to gain an understanding of the land much better than he had from the dunes. To the East lay nothing but the fading mass of the storm cloud. Gambit turned in a slow circle. He thought he spied a smudge of something in the West. It might be another rocky hill, or it could be a city. Gambit sank to a crouch, his elbows resting on his thighs, his head hanging down. Of course, if it was in fact a city, he had been traveling in the wrong direction.
Gambit made his descent, slipping several times on the rocks as his strength failed him. At the base of the rocky hill, he slouched with his back against the stone. He sat in the shade, contemplating what he should do next. He could begin walking towards the West and hope what he had seen was civilization. Or he could wait here until nightfall and conserve his strength; sandstorms would be less likely during the night. However, the longer he remained here, the more likely he would die of dehydration. Gambit coughed dryly. It seemed fatigue was making the decision for him. His eyes closed as he leaned forward to brace his forehead on his knees, his chin lowered to rest against his chest. The sun moved, but he made no effort to hide himself from its rays. He wondered if sleep would refuel him, or kill him.
It took several hours to find the answer. Gambit was rudely jostled awake with a jab to the shoulder. Gambit reared back with surprise, his eyes blinking rapidly as he looked about in a daze.
"Jinnī!" cried a voice, which was then echoed by several other male voices.
"Oh, that can't be good," Gambit said, looking up at the group of shadowed figures standing around him. They were silhouetted against the fading daylight, blue-black shadows against the fiery orange of the sky. One thing was clear to Gambit however, all of the men were armed.
"Jinnī! Jinnī!" one of the men continued to declare, his voice expressing shock.
"Shayātīn!" another shouted, readying his rifle.
"No! No!" Gambit said, raising his hands in a show of surrender and protest. "Not Satan, definitely not him! Mutant, mutant!"
There were five men in all. Some seemed to want to flee, others held their ground and seemed intent on doing Gambit harm. One simply stared with a stupefied expression on his face. Gambit saw that all were bearded and dressed in what he recognized as Bedouin garb, a long, cotton robe-like dress with a sort of white hood tied over their heads. They all had curved blades at their waists. Gambit searched his memory for a greeting.
"As-salāmu `alaykum," he said, though he was pretty sure he butchered the execution. The second go-to phrase he knew in several languages was: "Please, don't kill me" followed by "Where's the toilet?"
The men paused, muttering to themselves with indecision.
"English?" Gambit asked hopefully, his hands still raised.
"English! English!" the men repeated. One man, the leader of the group, nodded decisively to himself. The man suddenly stepped back beyond the rocks and disappeared from view, only to reappear with a boy in tow. The leader held the boy firmly by his thin arm and then thrust the child in Gambit's direction.
The boy took a few stumbling steps forward, and as he righted himself looked straight on into Gambit's eyes. He paled under his dusky complexion and startled with fright. The men shouted at the boy and he tore his gaze away from Gambit to look back at them for direction.
"Do you speak English?" Gambit asked the boy.
The boy flinched and averted his eyes, making some kind of sign with his hand. Gambit recognized the gesture; he'd seen something similar in a lot of different cultures. It was a warding off of the evil eye.
"Look, I'm not a devil," Gambit told the boy. "I won't hurt you."
"Do – do not speak to me, Whisperer!" the boy told him in heavily accented English. He continued to look away.
"Not a whisperer either, though my elocution ain't the greatest. Name's Remy," Gambit told him. "What is –."
"French! French!" one of the rough-looking fellows shouted. He picked up a stone and flung it at Gambit.
"What de –!" Gambit said and ducked as the stone struck the rock behind his head, raining debris down onto his head and shoulders.
"French shayātīn!" a man cried and aimed his rifle.
"No! I'm not French, I'm an American! American!" Gambit cried, though he had second thoughts about admitting he was from the States to these people. Judging from their dress and language, Gambit guessed he had to be in the Middle East or northern Africa.
The leader raised his arm to stay one of his men from firing. He muttered something to the boy and tossed a coil of rope in the boy's direction. He indicated that the boy should pick up the rope and tie Gambit up. The boy just stood there looking frightened and the man began to shout at him.
"Hey, relax!" Gambit said. "Look, I'll come peacefully. No troubles from me!"
The boy cast a glance over his shoulder, looking wary. Hesitantly, he crouched and picked up the rope. "No troubles, Whisperer," the boy said, trying to sound confident. He took a step forward with the rope outstretched. "You just stay where you are."
"Sure, no problem," Gambit told him. "You wouldn't happen to have any water, would you?"
"Put out your hands," the boy ordered.
Gambit complied but said: "About that water..."
The boy looped the rope around one of Gambit's wrists, then the other. He deftly tied Gambit's wrists together, then stepped back hurriedly, letting a length of rope unfurl from his hands. Gambit studied the knots. "Nice job. You're pretty quick," Gambit said. "I've been out here a good while now, and could really use –."
The boy placed the end of the rope in his leader's hand and hurried away. Gambit found himself yanked forward. He managed to catch himself on his elbows to prevent himself from landing on the rocky ground face-first. The men continued shouting at him until he managed to climb to his knees. The leader tugged on the rope and Gambit nearly pitched forward a second time. Instead, he grabbed the rope with his bound hands and tugged back.
"All right, mon capitaine," Gambit said darkly. "Be nicer, or you'll catch de devil from me. We'll see where you lead me, then."
Gambit managed to climb to his feet by bracing himself against some rocks. He patiently followed after the quintet of men. Now out in the waning sunlight, he could see that all of them looked much the worse for wear. They were all scarred and unkempt, their features hard, their clothes soiled. Beyond the rocks Gambit saw they had three camels and a pair of horses. There was also a mule which was being tended to by the boy. The pack animals were heavily laden with goods. From the looks of this band of travelers, Gambit thought he recognized the sort he had fallen in with – likely they were mercenaries and thieves.
The group leader moved to the better looking of the two horses and slung himself into the saddle. He gestured at the boy with the length of rope, shouting and beckoning for the boy to come forward. The boy led the mule and reluctantly took the rope from his leader, then affixed it to the mule's pack with another smart knot. With the rest of the band mounted and ready, they started off towards the setting sun. Gambit trailed behind the boy, who traveled on foot beside the mule. The boy occasionally cast glances back at Gambit.
"Hey, boy," Gambit said hoarsely. "D'you like candy? I got some jelly beans. I'll trade you for some water."
"Be silent, Whisperer!" the boy hissed.
"How about some cigarettes instead?" Gambit bartered.
The boy made the ward-sign again and looked away. Gambit sighed, which turned into a spate of coughing. By the time he caught his breath, he was too exhausted to speak again. He trudged after the boy and his mule. Gambit thought the boy might be nine or ten. He was thin, with lots of dark curly hair, large, haunted dark eyes, and a frowning, full-lipped mouth. The boy was positively cherubic and Gambit felt bad for him. It wasn't easy to have a mug like that when you were a boy. He wondered what this kid was doing with a bunch of rough-necks out in the middle of a desert. Nothing good, probably. The dusk faded into night. Gambit concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. The slack between his bound wrists and the mule began to grow taut as he lagged further and further behind. Gambit felt lightheaded and his gait was uneven. It wasn't long before his toe caught a rock and he stumbled. When he fell he did not have the strength to catch himself. He hit the ground and was dragged several feet by the bindings around his wrists. The mule stopped, but Gambit continued to lay flat on his stomach, his arms stretched painfully in front of him.
Gambit lay with his eyes closed, just glad to have a moment to rest. He was startled awake when a splash of water hit the side of his face. He managed to open his eyes, feeling some blessed moisture at last on his lips. Another burst of water in the face had him sitting upright. Ahead in the darkness, the leader was berating the boy for lagging behind. It seemed not to matter, as the rest of the men were dismounting to set up camp. Gambit looked at the boy who stood before him. He held a bladder of water in his hands. The boy's expression was a mix of stubbornness and bravado. He extended the water skin in Gambit's direction.
Gambit reached out tentatively to take the bladder from the boy's grip, unsure if the boy would actually relinquish the container into his hands. The boy released the bladder and Gambit felt the weight drop suddenly into his hands.
"You weaken, shayātīn," the boy said uncertainly.
Gambit put the skin to his lips and took in a mouthful of water. He thought he might be hallucinating, he had never tasted anything so good. After he swallowed several gulps from the skin, he lowered it to his lap. He breathed heavily for a moment before saying: "Thanks. Thank you. Dieu. God bless you, boy."
The boy shuffled forward. "You are not a shayātīn, are you?"
Gambit shook his head. "I have no idea what that is, but I can guess. I'm not a devil or demon or whatever else."
"But your eyes," the boy began. "You must be cursed."
"Sometimes it sure do feel that way," Gambit agreed, looking up at the boy. "You speak English pretty good. Better'n me. Someone teach you?"
The boy took a moment to process Gambit's words. "The Englishman," the boy nodded. "He taught me."
"You must be a quick study," Gambit said. He nodded his head in the direction of the band leader, who was issuing gruff orders to the other men. Gambit asked: "That your father?"
The boy turned to glance at the leader, then looked back at Gambit, a surly expression on his face. "No. That is not my father. My father and mother are dead."
Gambit blinked slowly and looked at the boy. "I'm sorry t'hear your folks're dead. But glad t'hear that man ain't your poppa. Wouldn't want you t'be offended when I told you that man seems like a real horse's ass."
The boy paused to parse out Gambit's words, then smiled a bit. "Do not insult the asses of horses," the boy said.
"What you doin' with a bunch of men like these?" Gambit asked. "They send you t'do their dirty work, having me tied up. When they think me a devil. Bunch of cowards, them."
The boy hunched his shoulders. "There is no one else. When my parents were killed, I had no where else to go."
Gambit nodded. "Them's tough breaks, petit. Were your momma and daddy killed in de war?"
"In al-Hariqa," the boy answered. "The fire. My father was a professor, at the school of medicine. I was to be a student of medicine as well. Now I am just a thief."
Gambit gave him a close-lipped smile. "Sometimes life deals you a bum hand. Found myself in a similar situation myself when I was your age."
The boy blinked at him. "You are a thief as well?" he asked.
"Well, I was...until some dreamer put ideas in my head that there was somethin' bigger for me," Gambit said.
The boy's eyes flashed defiantly. "There is more for me... something more than wasting my time with these –," the boy cast a disgusted look over his shoulder at the five men, " – these cretins."
"De company you keep makes all de difference," Gambit shrugged. "I had myself a rude awakening... Sometimes it's time t'stop dreamin' and make the best out of reality."
The boy turned his surly expression onto Gambit. "You are wrong, there is no best in this reality," he said. "The Englishman said I show promise. He says there are rewards for a clever boy like me."
"That so?" Gambit said. "You mind tellin' me where –."
Gambit was suddenly interrupted when the leader appeared to bark an order at the boy. The boy gave him a defiant glare and the man raised his hand as if to backhand the boy in the face. Before he could strike, the boy spat on the ground and whirled away to tend to the animals. The man snarled at the boy, then turned to stare at Gambit. He pulled his curved blade from his belt and pointed it in Gambit's direction with a muttered curse. Gambit offered him a pleasant smile and let the constant flow of energy build in his body, setting his eyes alight with a bright red glow. The man took a step back, his blade still held at the ready though his confidence wavered. The man let out a curse, then he too spat on the ground and turned away, but not before Gambit saw him make the suspicious ward-sign with a nervous hand.
Gambit settled himself into a more comfortable sitting position and drank some more water from the skin. He could free himself from his bonds at any time, however, his chances of finding his way out of the desert were better if he remained with this ragtag crew. He watched as the men built a fire using dried camel dung. They squatted down around the small fire eating provisions they had taken from their packs. Gambit watched the boy feed and water the animals. He unloaded some of their burden and unsaddled the horses. When he was through with his chores, he sat and leaned his back against the side of a camel that hand hunkered down into the sand. The sun had set. Gambit figured he was in for another cold night, but then again, he wanted nothing to do with camels or camel by-products. At least he had water. He drank as much as he could before stoppering the skin and setting it down into his lap. He still had no idea where he was exactly, or where these men were taking him. He also didn't understand why Sinister would send him to the Middle East. Gambit resolved in his mind that this recent incarnation of Sinister was an insane, clone-molesting, doughnut-eating, psychopath and just leave it at that.
He let his ruminations lull him into a daze, half-in and half-out of sleep. He was still sitting upright for the most part, but he'd slept in a lot more uncomfortable positions before (which brought his teammate Frenzy to mind, but never mind that). The cold eventually began to eat its way through his coat. Gambit shivered and rose to his feet. He saw that his bindings had been affixed to a stake in the ground. The guard in charge of watching him noticed Gambit moving and rose as well, his blade flashing in the moonlight. The guard shouted something, giving Gambit every indication that he wanted Gambit to remain stationary.
Gambit shrugged and said: "Whazzat now?" Gambit shuffled his feet and blew warmth into his hands.
The guard repeated his command and took a step forward with the knife. Gambit withdrew his cigarettes from his coat pocket, holding the pack in both his bound hands. "Wanna smoke?" he asked the guard.
The guard looked suspicious but lowered his weapon slowly.
"Mm...nicotine. You likey?" Gambit said, offering the pack.
Within a few minutes, he and the guard were happily puffing away. Gambit relinquished the rest of his cigarettes to the guard in exchange for a blanket. It smelled like camel. Gambit made the best of things and hunkered down under the blanket, waiting for the dawn while willing his brain to stop nattering at him. Gambit might have nodded off somewhere between two in the morning and dawn. The gang of thieves roused themselves just as the sky began to lighten to a pearly gray. Gambit hoped the change in temperature wouldn't bring another sand storm. The leader continued to harry the boy, who was now even grumpier than he had been the previous night. Gambit found his leash affixed onto the mule once more and in no time they were off again. They were heading West and somewhat to the North.
"Hey, where we goin'?" Gambit asked the boy.
The boy turned to look back at him. "To the Englishman," the boy answered.
"Yeah, you mentioned him. Where abouts does de chap reside? 'Cause I can tell you for certain, this ain't England," Gambit said.
"Do you not know where you are?" the boy asked incredulously.
"I know I ain't in Kansas anymore," Gambit said.
"Pardon?"
"Can you please report our approximate location?" Gambit annunciated loudly.
"We are outside of Dimashq," the boy told him slowly, as if he were talking to someone very slow-witted.
"Ain?" Gambit said.
"The City of Jasmine," the boy continued. "Do you not know it? In Sūriyā."
Gambit came to an abrupt halt, but then started up again when the mule pulled him forward. "I'm in Syria?" he asked, appalled. "In Damascus? Ah...shh – shoot."
The boy seemed a bit amused. "You really are cursed."
"You're de one who has to live here," Gambit informed him. "So what do you call yourself?"
The boy frowned.
"You can tell me," Gambit said. "I promise I won't put no hoodoo hex on you or nothin'."
The boy just looked at him with confusion. "I do not understand your words."
"You and everyone else."
"I am Achmed," the boy said.
"Pleasure bein' your prisoner, Achmed," Gambit said. "How far 'til we get where we're goin'?"
"A day's travel," Achmed replied.
"I guess we got time for a singalong," Gambit said, thinking of Jean and their car ride. "You know A Horse With No Name?"
Achmed shook his head.
"Okay, you do de 'la las' and I'll supply de rest. Here goes. Oh, I been through the desert on a horse with no name, it felt good to be out of the rain..."
"You are a strange person. Why do you sing? You are a prisoner tied to a mule."
"Things could be worse," Gambit told him.
Achmed frowned. "For you, I think things will become much worse."
"You're a real kill-joy, y'know that kid?" Gambit said.
The boy shook his head again, failing to understand or simply irritated with his prisoner. He turned away, no longer interested in entertaining Gambit's inquiries. Gambit kept up his pace with the mule and the band of travelers. He was no longer dying of thirst and thankfully not being pummeled by a random storm. Keeping in motion had a rejuvenating effect on his body but made his mind restless. The barren landscape offered nothing interesting and no respite from his leaping thoughts.
Gambit tried to think of some alternative life for the young boy walking alongside the mule. What was it that nine-year-old boys did, anyway? Gambit tried to think back on his childhood but came up with little. Probably a boy would go to school. Perhaps he might play sports of some kind, but Gambit didn't know if boys that age played soccer or baseball or what. Gambit recalled climbing Live Oak trees in the park, scaling the sides of buildings, splashing around in fountains. He thought of rummaging through waste bins, picking pockets, and shoplifting candy. He remembered avoiding speeding cars, and gangs, and stray dogs, and people who might otherwise seem nice but gave you a weird nervous feeling in your stomach. Mostly, he remembered the freedom of no one telling him what he could and couldn't eat, or wear, or do and pitying those kids who had to keep their clothes clean and be rounded up and held captive in schoolyards. Gambit wondered what would be best for Achmed. What kind of life could be had for an orphan boy in a war-torn country? He seemed a smart enough kid. He spoke English quite well, though in a strangely formal way that reminded Gambit of Storm.
As the day progressed, the party continued on without breaking. Some men ate and drank in their saddles and at least one of them smoked. Gambit and Achmed walked. Gambit was bored, bored, bored of being a prisoner tied to a mule. He was contemplating what he could do to make things more interesting when they began to climb a slight incline. Gambit became hopeful that he might see something new once they reached the summit. When they neared the crest of the incline, Gambit picked up his pace a bit. The travelers were rewarded with the sight of yet more desert, but there in the distance was a rocky outcropping and beyond that, the city of Damascus. Gambit's first impression was that the city was very beige and also very flat and smaller than what he had imagined. He squinted through the haze at the city. He was close enough to civilization that he contemplated making a break for it. However, his captors had rifles and he could only run so far over a flat expanse of land.
Gambit hoped there was some branch of the Thieves' Guild in the city. He needed a passport and transportation back to the States immediately. Most importantly, he needed to make a phone call and contact Wolverine. He needed to let the X-Men know that Jean was alive, something he should have done from the start. They had to protect her before Sinister got to her first.
The band of travelers started down the hill and made their way to the rocky outcropping. Gambit watched where he put his feet, stepping carefully over rocks and stones as the terrain grew more rugged. They seemed to not be going towards the city.
"Hey, I thought we were goin' to de city," Gambit called to his young guide.
"No. I told you we were going to the Englishman," Achmed corrected.
"What's he doin' way out here?" Gambit asked. "Who does he think he is, Lawrence of Arabia?"
The boy turned and gave him an odd look. "Do you know ʾAmīr Lawrence?" he asked.
"'Course I do," Gambit replied. "Peter O'Toole. Great movie."
The boy continued to eye him warily. "You make no sense."
"What're you doin' with dis Englishman, anyway?"
"He is our patron," the boy explained. "We bring him what we...find."
"So you all do de stealin' and whatnot and then turn it over t'him," Gambit stated.
"That is so," Achmed said, after a long pause.
"In exchange for what?"
Achmed looked away. "He has taught me English," the boy said hesitantly. "He has told me I can be more. That I should be a leader of men."
"Do you hear that?" Gambit asked.
"What am I to be hearing?" Achmed asked.
"De warning bells going off in your brain," Gambit responded.
"I tell you, I have little choice," Achmed told him.
"Is that what you tell yourself, too?" Gambit asked.
"Be silent, Whisperer," Achmed said, not for the first time.
"Why you keep callin' me that?" Gambit asked.
"Because the shayātīn whisper lies into the hearts of men and women," Achmed said.
"I tell you, I ain't a devil," Gambit told him. "And I'd prefer you call me 'Remy,' instead."
The boy frowned. "You have a Frenchman's name," he said. "Better to call you 'devil.'"
"You got a problem wit' French folks?"
"They dropped bombs upon my city and murdered my parents in their home. It was they who created al-Hariqa," Achmed said.
Gambit tried to conjure up any recent events about the war, but he hadn't been paying any attention for the longest time. "I didn't think they were even in de war," Gambit said, somewhat confused.
By now they were upon the rocks and in the shadow of the outcropping. The rocks gave way to furrows in the hills, creating caves and hidden passes. Gambit walked behind the mule now, wary of its back-end.
"How do you know of ʾAmīr Lawrence and not of the French and their treachery?" Achmed asked, leading the mule through a narrow gap between two rocks. "Of the treaty they signed dividing up our lands between the British and the Russians?"
"I – what?" Gambit asked, his footsteps faltering. "But Lawrence is a – a historical figure an' – I... Oh. Dis is bad."
"We will continue onward," Achmed told him. "We are not far now."
"Wait, Achmed," Gambit said with a sick realization dawning on him. "What year is dis?"
"I beg your pardon?" the boy asked.
"When am I?" Gambit asked.
"Did you suffer a blow to the head, or perhaps from some mental illness?" Achmed asked him. "The Englishman is a man of science. He will know what is the matter with you."
Gambit came to a dead halt. "Oh, no –," Gambit said and suddenly the curved knife he had lifted from the guard the night previous appeared in his hand. He quickly drew it through the rope binding him to the mule, then freed his wrists.
"Aie!" Achmed shouted, seeing Gambit pull the last of his bindings free. Achmed alerted the other men with a cry. "He escapes!"
"Thanks a lot, kid!" Gambit snapped before turning to run down the path they had just climbed. "I thought you and me had a rapport!"
Gambit didn't turn as he heard the shouts behind him. The men were struggling to turn their mounts in the narrow path between rocks. Gambit put a bit of distance between himself and the men before they left their animals behind and began to follow him on foot. Gambit skidded on some gravel and turned around a switchback in the path. He moved to dart forward but was suddenly brought up short by the sight of a man dressed in white standing in the center of the path. The man was tall and clad in Bedouin garb, the lower half of his face concealed behind a mask of loose fabric. Gambit's feet slid out from under him, and with a spray of sand and grit, he landed on his backside. He turned, scrambling to his hands and feet, but before he could dash away, a hand claimed the back of his coat.
"Hurk!" Gambit said as he was pulled backwards, like a cat caught by the scruff of its neck. He was thrown against a boulder and pinned by his opponent's forearm pressing hard against his throat. Gambit found himself looking into dark eyes. The eyes studied him, as if he were a very interesting insect.
Gambit still held the blade in his fist. With a quick jerk of his arm he drew the curved tip of the blade under the man's bicep, hoping to injure him badly enough to gain his freedom, but not so badly as to kill the man. The man's grip on him did not falter. He glanced down at the knife in Gambit's hand. Gambit readied the weapon again, but with inhuman swiftness, he found his wrist smashed against the rock, causing him to drop the knife as he spasmed in pain. The man did not bleed, though Gambit had felt the knife slide through fabric and flesh. With a jolt of fear he looked up into the masked face.
"LeBeau," the man said. His tone bore no inflection of emotion, but only a slight British accent. "We meet again."
"Ah, crud," Gambit said.
~ oOo ~
Gambit found himself inside a cave, held in a primitive cell and manacled to the stone walls by chains that had likely been around during The Inquisition. In a situation such as this (which he unfortunately seemed to find himself in more often than he would care to admit), Gambit would typically take stock of his surroundings and parse out any opportunities for escape. It only took a few seconds to understand his situation, to feel the cold numbing sensation of dread spread from his gut outwards. To closely study the workings of this place would be to go insane. Strangely enough, the cave seemed to be odorless, despite the desiccated and mutilated human corpses stacked like kindling along the walls.
"It is the arid climate that aids my work," Sinister explained, though Gambit had not asked. "I preserve the bodies using sand and heat...for further study."
"What in blue blazes are you doin' here?" Gambit asked. He was seated with his back against the stone wall, his arms held in place above him. The soft glow from a nearby torch illuminated little of their surroundings and for that, Gambit was grateful.
Sinister smiled grimly. "War and calamity bring a number of opportunities," Sinister replied. He remained dressed in his appropriated garments, appearing for all the world comfortable in this newly assumed identity of desert dweller. "Disappearances and untimely deaths...tend to go unnoticed in times like these."
Gambit stared at the man, his face expressionless. His stomach roiled with a mixture of fear and pure hatred.
"I work unencumbered, aided in part by my little band of – marauders," Sinister told him as he slowly approached the rusting bars of Gambit's cell. "I am curious, as well. What is it that brings you to this region, my young friend?"
"You did," Gambit responded. "You brought me here."
Sinister raised a brow and it was clear to Gambit that the expression was carefully orchestrated, as if the man had become unused to relaying emotion. "Did I? I admit, I detected your heartfelt plea for assistance," Sinister said and touched a forefinger to his temple. "But it wasn't your mental distress that drew my attention. How is it that you have appeared here in this time? I had thought when I restored your abilities,*** tenuous as they were, you would have since destroyed yourself."
"Looks like you thought wrong," Gambit told him.
"And yet, if you were in possession of your full abilities, you would easily be able to gain your freedom," Sinister said.
"I could do that without my powers, thanks very much," Gambit replied.
"But here you remain," Sinister said. "Perhaps you find yourself with few options."
"That's pretty much par for de course," Gambit said.
"Always quick with a bon mot, LeBeau," Sinister said.
"When you put my head back together you knew I'd burn out, enh?" Gambit asked.
"The sample you provided me gave very specific instructions," Sinister replied. "You would never gain full control over your abilities. You are far too damaged. The repair was a temporary reconnection."
"Yeah, I been offline a while. But your future-self seemed to be able to hot wire my head and jump me to – where I am now," Gambit said.
"To what purpose?" Sinister asked.
"I'll tell you if you unchain me," Gambit said and flapped one of his wrists where it was pinned to the wall.
Sinister continued to smile his coldly benevolent smile. "Very well," he said. He produced a key from his robes and unlocked the cell door with a dry 'clack.' The door swung inward and Sinister stepped into the cell, treading upon the straw strewn on the floor. Gambit shrank back as Sinister leaned over him. Sinister took one of Gambit's wrists and released it from the manacle. Sinister then stepped back.
"You missed a spot," Gambit said, waving his opposite hand which was still shackled.
"I miss nothing," Sinister said. "Why are you here, LeBeau?"
Gambit frowned. "Because your future-self is nuttier than squirrel turds," Gambit informed him. "I feel a little – I dunno... happy – when I tell you, in de future, you have gone completely 'round de bend. Certifiably insane."
Sinister put a hand to his own face and stroked his jaw, considering Gambit for a few moments. "Is that so? I wonder how that came to be?"
"Other hand, please," Gambit said, pointing with his free hand to the one still chained to the wall.
Sinister reached out to take Gambit's wrist, unlatching the manacle with his other hand. Even when Gambit's wrist was freed, Sinister failed to release Gambit's hand. "And why would my insane future-self send you here to me?"
"Oh, he wants me to destroy whatever it is you're working on now," Gambit said, trying to pull his hand free of Sinister's grip.
Sinister's hand tightened and Gambit's eyes squinted in pain. "Ow."
"Why would I plot against myself?" Sinister asked.
"I tole you, you're plumb loco," Gambit said and yanked his arm from Sinister's grip. He rubbed his bruised hand, but it was the sensation of Sinister's touch that truly irritated him.
"You will tell me the complete truth," Sinister said, looming over Gambit threateningly.
"I might. If I get somethin' out of it," Gambit said.
"I will suffer you to live," Sinister informed him. "Perhaps you might even survive...intact."
"Your past-self is so gracious," Gambit said. "Bein' surrounded by de ravages of de First World War does wonders for your generosity."
Sinister's eyes narrowed slightly. He had since dispensed with his human appearance and was now the pale-faced, red-eyed monster Gambit knew him to be. "It has thus far been dubbed 'The Great War,'" Sinister said. "Shall I anticipate a Second World War in the making?"
"Oh, sure," Gambit said. "You of all people would enjoy that sort of thing. But don't get too excited. Your hometown takes quite a pummeling."
"Scientific pursuit transcends a sense of nationalism," Sinister said.
"Really now?" Gambit said. "'Cause you in de future struck me as a real patriot. I think he might go rabid if he couldn't find loose-leaf tea."
"I grow weary of your taunting remarks," Sinister told him.
"So take a nap," Gambit replied.
"I find my mind to be at its clearest when I work," Sinister said and stepped back. He turned and stepped through the open cell door, then closed the door as he exited. "I wonder that you will offer much useful commentary while I attend to the newest subjects my Marauders have brought to me?"
Gambit stood and walked to the cell door, wrapping his hands around the bars. He cast a quick and wary glance at the dead bodies on the ground, piled in the other empty cells. "And deny me the pleasure of your sparkling conversation?" Gambit asked as Sinister began to turn away. "Hey. Come back. I'll tell you more about de future. I can tell you who wins de World Series. What stocks to invest in."
When Sinister failed to respond, Gambit let his hands begin to glow. He pushed the charge through the metal bars. "Don't you walk away, monster. You t'ink dese bars'll keep me put, you'd better think –."
Gambit found himself pulled tight against the bars, held in place by a hand knotted in his hair. He quickly released the charge harmlessly. His face, pressed to the cage door, was inches away from Sinister's own. Sinister's expression was an impassive mask. "You do not threaten me," Sinister told him an instant before Gambit felt something fiercely cold pinch his neck.
As Gambit felt his muscles fail him, he saw the syringe in Sinister's hand. Gambit collapsed to the floor, unable to speak. His spine curved into a rigid arc, his hands curled into fists. He gasped as the tendons in his neck grew painfully tight, his eyes widened against his own volition.
"I will consider what I will do with you, LeBeau," Sinister told him. He paused and watched Gambit struggle, fighting against the poison Sinister had injected into his veins.
Gambit's brain railed at Sinister, throwing out every curse he could think of in several languages. Sinister must have heard him, because in a moment of near-humanness, the man gave a short, dry chuckle while briefly shaking his head in admonition. Then Sinister turned away, leaving Gambit alone with the dead.
Gambit had learned, to his regret, that Sinister was less of a surgeon and more of a butcher, piecing out human parts like so much meat. He appraised human beings in terms of the value they might bring him, either as genetic specimens or as servants. Gambit knew which side he fell on in Sinister's value scale; it wasn't his genes that Sinister wanted. As much as Gambit wanted to turn a deaf ear and blind eye to the sounds and sights of suffering near him, he knew the moment he did that was the moment he stopped being a human being. He endured screams of terror and agony, pleas for mercy, ratting coughs and dying breaths. It was unfortunately all too familiar. Gambit struggled to right himself, but like a turtle trapped on its back, his limbs were helpless. He wanted to scream against the futility he felt, but his voice was nothing more than a rasp of air through a tightened throat. As he exhausted himself he continued to fight against his paralysis. He couldn't simply lay there and do nothing. At long last, he managed to turn his head. In the leaping shadows on the cave walls, he spotted a dark silhouette that bore more substance than the other dark shapes. It was the boy. Gambit could see the orange flames reflected in the whiteness of his wide eyes.
When a tortured scream pierced the dusty stillness of the cave, the boy flinched. Slowly, the boy approached and then knelt outside the cell door near Gambit's head. Gambit saw the boy had a blade in his shaking hand.
"I should kill you now, Whisperer," the boy said quietly. "It would be the merciful thing for you."
Gambit's fingers twitched as he tested his mobility. His jaw worked and he drew a breath. "Achmed," he hissed out. "El Gibar."
The boy startled. "How – how do you know my name?"
"I know. Your future," Gambit gasped, a startled flash of realization as he learned his suspicions were correct. He knew the boy's identity because he had seen him as the aged man he would become, many, many years in the future. "You don't. Belong. Here."
The boy seemed to regard Gambit's words as portentous, for he began to shake in fear while remaining rooted to the spot. "You are a jinnī."
"De longer – you stay here. The less human – you'll be. Get...out. Get out – of dis place," Gambit said haltingly.
Achmed managed to shake his head. "I don't – I don't have anywhere... there is no one..."
"Shut up!" Gambit said and managed to raise his head and shoulders from the floor before falling back. "You – listen – t'me! You stay – with that monster...it's your – parents' deaths on your – hands!"
"What? No! I –!"
"Everything they made you – t'be – the person they brought up...will be gone. You'll have killed even the memory – of who they were," Gambit told him. "D'you understand me – now, petit?"
The boy began to cry as he sat on his hands and knees, the blade in his hand now forgotten. "But I am – all – alone," he wept.
"D'you think – you're de only poor boy – t'have lost his parents? There are...two-dozen more just like you – within de first few yards of those city walls! Go...and find them!" Gambit managed to turn himself and grasp hold of one of the bars. He struggled to pull himself upright. The boy turned his tear-streaked face to Gambit. His mouth was a deep line grooved in misery. Achmed stood and reached for his belt. He freed a pair of lock picks and began to work on the cell door.
"There isn't...time for that," Gambit told him, but within moments, Achmed had the door open. "Get – out of here."
Achmed crouched and pulled at Gambit's arm. "Get up," he hissed. "Get up, we can flee together."
Gambit saw that he was not going to be able to convince the boy to leave on his own. Gambit reached out and picked up the forgotten knife. With renewed purpose, Gambit struggled upright, then used the bars to leverage himself into standing position. His knees quaked. He managed a few shaking steps to the opposite wall of the cavern as the boy flitted ahead like a frightened bird.
"You have to hurry...hurry," he whispered.
Gambit nodded wearily and began the slow trek forward. The boy lead him from the cave full of corpses to another passageway. The screams were louder here and Gambit faltered. Achmed had dashed away from the source of the sound and started off in the opposite direction. He beckoned to Gambit with a flapping hand. "This way!" Achmed mouthed.
Gambit looked in the direction where he knew Sinister was even now performing some obscene experiment. He summoned the charge, testing the reflex that would trigger his powers. He wondered if he could push enough into the walls to bring them crashing down on Sinister and his "works." Gambit applied both palms to the wall and searched for the strength to charge the rock. He felt himself begin to sag and Achmed darted forward. The boy fitfully tugged on Gambit's coat.
"Please, Remy," the boy begged.
Gambit released the wall and fell against it. "Okay, petit," he said. "I follow."
The boy skipped ahead and Gambit turned to follow after him. By the time they reached the next turn in the tunnel, Gambit was winded. He had to keep moving. If he stopped again, his strength would fail him. Gambit panted, charging forward from one rocky support to the next. All the time, he could see the boy darting to the next turn, then rushing back to see if Gambit had progressed. Gambit envied him his seemingly endless energy. In the next turning, Gambit felt the hint of cool, fresh air on his face. He drank in lungfuls gratefully, as if he had been nearly asphyxiated by the stink of death. Up ahead, Gambit could see the blue-black sky and the boy's lithe shape standing in the open space. Gambit started forward, no longer needing the support of the walls. Once the exit was spotted, he felt a sudden rush of exhilaration. He met up with Achmed at the cave exit. Beyond was a small apron of rocky dirt. The five marauders were gathered around a small fire. Beyond them were their mounts, standing idly in their harnesses or chewing their cud.
Now what?Gambit thought when the boy suddenly crouched and scooped up a stone. He had it in a sling and a moment later it was flying towards the head of the nearest marauder. The rock struck true and the man fell forward with a short cry to land in the small campfire.
The remaining thieves turned towards the cave exit to see Gambit standing there. Gambit looked down at Achmed who was staring up at him looking for more guidance. Gambit held out his hand. "Rock, please," he said with resignation as the marauders leapt to their feet with cries of alarm.
Achmed tucked two stones into Gambit's outstretched hand. Gambit transferred one to his opposite palm, then flung out both arms to release the stones in two different directions. The stones carried a small charge and when they struck their opponents, the resulting explosion was enough to knock them from their feet. Gambit raced, or rather fell gracefully forward, using his momentum to duck under the raised rifle one of the marauders carried. Gambit's shoulder connected to the man's gut and they both fell to the ground. The rifle fired harmlessly into the air with a sharp crack. The horses startled and raised up on their hind legs with shrill cries of fright. Gambit had an instant to pull back before one of the flying hooves could connect to his skull. The marauder fared far worse and was trampled. Gambit heard a cry and turned to see Achmed held tightly by the leader. The marauder was raising his rifle to club the boy in the skull. Gambit released the blade he was holding, sending it spinning at the thief. It connected with a wet thud in the man's midriff and he gasped. Achmed tore himself away as the man pitched forward. Gambit staggered to his knees. One man still screamed as his robes had caught ablaze. Gambit reached for the fallen rifle and brought it down hard upon the man's head, silencing him. For several moments, he sat on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. The horses still whinnied and the camels balked. Achmed's feet appeared in Gambit's line of vision and suddenly the boy was crouching beside him.
"Come, come!" Achmed panted, tugging at Gambit's shoulders. Gambit nodded and sat up on his knees. He put one hand to Achmed's narrow shoulder and the boy struggled under Gambit's weight. Gambit got one leg and then the other underneath him and stood. Achmed dashed away leaving Gambit wavering on his feet like a KO'ed prize fighter. Moments later, Achmed was back, leading the mule by his bridle. The mule's eyes rolled and it tried to toss its head, taking Achmed off his feet for a moment. Gambit reached out and claimed the animal's reins, then pulled it forward and wrapped a hand around its muzzle. Gambit leaned into the animal's neck and spoke calming words. The mule shuffled and became still, breathing hard through its nostrils. Achmed climbed upon the animal's back and Gambit handed him the reins.
Achmed reached out and grasped his forearm. "Hurry, climb on," he told Gambit.
Gambit shook his head, leaning hard against the mule's side. "You have t'go, petit."
"No!" Achmed said, his voice breaking. "I can't do it alone!"
Gambit nodded. "Yes, yes you can. Be strong. You can do it. You will be a leader. I know it. You'll take in de others...teach 'em what you know. Go – go to Damascus. Then to Cairo. There will be others like you there."
"Please, Remy! Be my teacher. Come with me!"
Gambit looked up at the boy and considered him for several moments. Gambit thought of the possibility that he could stay...to take on the boy as an apprentice, show him what he knew. Gambit envisioned a life here in the past where no one knew him, where he could start again with a new identity. For a moment, he felt curiously unburdened. The sins of his own past had yet to be committed, he had yet to be even born. If he were to stay, he would likely die before he ever lived. Or...if he was lived long enough, he might see Storm as a young girl again. When someday Achmed El Gibar would find Ororo Munroe as an orphan on the streets of Cairo and take her into his little cadre of street urchins. Gambit felt for a moment that he was free. He might have smiled. It was a pleasant fantasy.
Gambit stepped back and took the mule by its bridle. He turned it towards the small pathway between rocks. Gambit lead it to the trailhead, then released the bridle, clucking to the mule as he did. The mule trotted past, eager to be away from the smell of blood. Achmed turned in his saddle, looking back at Gambit.
"Remy!" he called, but Gambit raised a hand and slapped the animal on its flank. The mule started with a snort and trotted sure-footedly down the path. Gambit could see Achmed's eyes pleading with him. Then Achmed started with a gasp, seeing something over Gambit's shoulder.
"Run, petit," Gambit called after the boy. Achmed leaned forward in the saddle and kicked the mule with his heels. Then he was gone.
Gambit turned to face the cave entrance. His entire body was trembling with exertion. Sinister stood in the opening, his eyes glowing dully red in the darkness.
"That boy was of some use to me," Sinister told him. "Talented. Malleable."
"Frightened. Desperate," Gambit added. "Your usual type of victim."
"You will repay what you have stolen from me, LeBeau," Sinister informed him.
"Maybe you and me can come to some kinda agreement," Gambit said.
Sinister smiled grimly. "I would consider what you have to offer." He looked around at his fallen marauders. "Perhaps my Marauders could use stronger leadership?"
Gambit's blood chilled. "I don't t'ink so."
"If you have no intention of offering me your service, then I am afraid I have no use for you," Sinister said.
"You've got it backwards," Gambit said. "It's you that should be tryin' t'help me."
"I fail to see how I could benefit from such an agreement."
Gambit raised a finger. "Wait for it...," he said. Sinister gave him an inquisitive look. Then an instant later came a muffled explosion from the inside of the cave. Sinister cast a glance back over his shoulder as a cloud of dust and debris filtered from inside the cavern's depths.
"What did you –?" Sinister began, turning his ire onto Gambit.
"Now hold your horses," Gambit told him. "I wouldn't want you t'break my concentration. I might slip, lose control, and then what?"
Sinister glowered at him, his eyes full of murderous intent. "Then what?" he prompted.
"Well, I might just fulfill all that your future-self hoped and then some. That was a time-delayed charge. How many more did I leave behind? You want to keep on keepin' on with your freakish experiments? Well, I suggest you give me some incentive for not blowing de rest of this here cave to kingdom come."
Sinister took a step forward and Gambit raised his hands. "Easy now. I'm brain-damaged, don't y'know. Too bad someone didn't have de skills to set me right. I guess I should've gone to Doctor Pym or some such – y'know...a real surgeon. Instead of some snake-oil salesman hack."
"I may be of the mindset that killing you now will give me enough pleasure to offset any setbacks you might cause me," Sinister said through tightened lips.
"Let me sweeten de pot, Essex," Gambit said conversationally. "In exchange for you helpin' me out, I'll give you a few words of advice – straight from de future."
Sinister's eyes narrowed. "And why would you do that, LeBeau?"
"On account of I know you ain't gonna listen to me anyway," Gambit said. "But I'll tell you straight up, unless you want to meet an untimely death and be replaced by a pompous dandy in Spanx, I suggest you avoid any and all redheads. If you know what's good for you."
"I shall take it under advisement."
"Now, about that kick-start back home...," Gambit began.
Sinister considered Gambit a moment. "I postulate that certain portions of your brain were stimulated by a telekinetic pulse. Reestablishing the severed connections between the parietal and frontal lobes, giving you temporary access to your powers."
"Sure, when you say them big fancy words it sounds promising," Gambit said. "So you can make them connections and send me back, er – forward?"
"I could...," Sinister began.
"You better work fast, I feel a sneeze comin' on. All this dust and all. Plus de camels." He sniffed and rubbed his sleeve against his nose.
Sinister strode forward to stand before Gambit. It was all Gambit could do not to hastily back away, but to stand his ground. "I have all the time in the world to find you, LeBeau. When I do, I will own you, body and soul. You will not know yourself when I tear your world apart."
Gambit felt his heart hammer in his chest, but he remained stationary. "I'll let that charge go... it'll fizzle out and you can just go about your business, Essex. Alls you gotta do is just pop me back where I belong."
Sinister's hands came to rest upon Gambit's shoulders. "You were damaged long before you reached the maturation of your powers, LeBeau. Perhaps your mother attempted to smother you as an infant."
"Really? You're going to make cracks about my momma?" Gambit asked.
Sinister's hands tightened their grip. "Goodbye, LeBeau. For now."
"You always gotta go out on – aauugh!" Gambit cried as he was suddenly engulfed in bright white light.
"You will defuse the charge, LeBeau," Sinister commanded.
Gambit's vision was a swirl of bright ribbons of light, each leading off in different directions. He was astounded at their beauty. There was so much potential, so many possibilities. He wanted to look at them forever.
"LeBeau!" Sinister shouted.
Gambit's hand drifted forward, reaching for a stream of light. This one pulled at him harder than the rest. What he glimpsed there, he wanted more than anything. Gambit imagined himself twining the ribbon through his fingers, though it was a less tangible experience than that. The future ribbon was still a thing of potential, not made live with a charge or current. He began to channel a charge through the ribbon, felt it take hold and become more substantial.
He was still baffled by the wonder of it, the magic feeling coursing through him when Gambit spoke: "There was no charge. I didn't have de strength to set that big of a bang."
Gambit could feel Sinister's surprise like a physical blow, then his rage. But then Gambit pulled the charge into himself, rather than push it away. The pressure Sinister placed on his shoulders vanished and then Gambit was falling forward. He gasped, his arms limbs seeking out contact, bracing himself for impact though he did not know which way was up or down. Then gravity claimed him and he was falling through darkness. He felt dozens of clawed hands clutching at him, scraping and tearing at his skin and clothes. Gambit fought back, but then something struck him in the chest and the air whooshed from his lungs. He was falling backwards through space when he struck the earth, sending up a burst of damp leaf litter. Gambit groaned, looking up at a starry sky. What he had thought were hands were in fact tree limbs. He stared dazedly upwards as large white flakes began to fall around him. His eyes fluttered closed as the flakes settled onto his face. Gambit thought it was strange that the snow was not cold, and stranger still was that it smelled sweet. As exhaustion settled on him, he realized that it was not snow at all, but blossoms from a cherry tree. It was finally spring.
~ oOo ~
*Happened in the three-part mini, Hellbound.
**X-Men #33, forever ago.
***Gambit's first ongoing solo #12-13 when Sinister restored Gambit's full and uncontrollable abilities, because I guess Gambit was carrying around his own brain sample in a vial...? Don't look at me like that. I didn't write it. This happened when Gambit met Sinister in late 1800s England in his first solo title, which explains why Sinister knows him now in the early 1900s.
Achmed El Gibar was one of the most skilled thieves in Egypt and leader of the street urchins. Achmed was mostly known for taking in Storm after she lost her parents, and training her in the arts of thievery and hand to hand combat. He died several years after Storm joined the X-Men in X-Men Unlimited #7 starring Storm, Jean, and Gambit (and probably one of my most favorite issues ever).
Next time: Young Remy's escape attempt number 3,592.