Red Sam
Here I stand, empty hands. Wishing my wrists were bleeding, to stop the pain from the beatings. There you stood, holding me, waiting for me to notice you. But who are you? You are the truth (you are the truth) Out screaming these lies. You are the truth (you are the truth) Saving my life. ~ Red Sam- Flyleaf
Summer 2010
The lovely weather breaks. Grey skies and freezing rain take the place of sunshine and eighty-degree temperatures. Most likely, it was the result of Storm's grief. But Remy likes to believe that God is weeping for one of his fallen angels. That's just what she was, an angel. Nothing can ever make him stop believing that.
The sermon drags on. Empty words from a man who's never met her, will never meet her. How can this man know the pain tearing through his flesh? The priest is being paid to be here, he's probably said these same words a hundred times to a hundred mourning families. It's pointless, it doesn't matter.
Ororo squeezes his hand, he pretends he doesn't notice and shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his trench.
The sounds of mourning go on around him. They're crying, these bastards are crying. They have no right, they hadn't even fought in the end, they'd just let her slip away- but he'd done the same thing. He should have died before he let them convince him to—to—
Scott attempts to hide his sobs behind his visor, but the tears leak from under it. Remy wants to tell him his hard jaw and squared shoulders aren't fooling anyone, they can all see the love he's tried to hide for so many years.
They are all expecting him to react like Scott is, but he can't, he isn't built that way. Scott's tears give him relief, but Remy's tears drown him. If he cries for her now, while the pain is still so very raw and fresh, he'll drown under the weight of it. He wouldn't be able to stop, he'd kill himself. And while the thought of sleeping for the rest of time seems appetizing, for once he won't be taking the cowardly route. He'll force his battered heart to keep beating and his burning eyes to keep opening and his worn legs to keep walking. Someone has to remember her as ardently as he will.
His life will serve as a penance for all the sins he's committed, and maybe, just maybe, whoever was up there would show him mercy and let him see Rogue, even if only for an instant.
When it's over and the Priest finishes, when the X-men return to the house one by one, when Ororo comes back for him and begs him to come inside, out of the rain, Remy falls to his knees.
An hour, two. He presses his face against her resting place, not concerned with the mud that inevitably smears across his cheeks.
He feels a hand on his shoulder, he opens his blurry eyes and sees wheels beside him.
"Did you know," Xavier murmurs, "that the Phoenix was a mystical bird?"
Is he doing this to torture him? Does the professor want him to crumple under the memories?
"It is said that whenever the Phoenix dies, it is only temporary. That she will always rise out of the ashes; reborn."
Remy turns tortured eyes on his mentor, for a moment he lets himself hope. And then he runs.
He leaves all his possessions behind and hops on a bike. It isn't his, but neither Logan nor Scott will care.
He brings the collar of his trench closer around his neck to block out the cold as he bursts through the mansion gates. If only he'd left before she'd stolen his heart, if only he'd never shown up at this place in the first place. Perhaps if he'd accepted his place with the lowest of the low, he would have stayed away and wouldn't have tried pretending he belonged here.
There was nothing Xavier, or Ororo, or Jean or anyone else could say that could ease the stab in his chest.
It is done, he is done. He's done hiding his tears, he's tired of breathing.
It's over, he's over. He'll probably die in some alley: drunk, forgotten and uncared for.
Rogue. He needs Rogue. That mantra, how many times has he said it and gotten results? How many times had he said it and found her: waiting for him?
But he knows this time it won't work. Sure, he'll continue saying it for the rest of his life, but he'll only be causing himself more pain. That mantra has lost its purpose because—because-
She's dead.
The warmth of your embrace melts my frostbitten spirit, you speak the truth and I hear it. The words are 'I love you', and I have to believe in you. But who are you? You are the truth (you are the truth) Out screaming these lies. You are the truth (you are the truth) Saving my life. ~ Red Sam- Flyleaf
She's dead.
Her heart doesn't beat, all she can taste is blood. Its thick saltiness chokes her, but her lungs burn too much for her to release a cough.
Red blood, pools of it form in front of her. Red pools on a black sky.
He cries for her, and things begin to dim. She screams his name, but the black water engulfs her and she can't breathe. Hands-no, claws dig their way into her skin and drag her down deeper into the pit. Her skin is on fire, she can smell her melting flesh.
Hell. This is hell…
She shoots to a sitting position, her baggy t-shirt is drenched and she pulls it away from her clammy skin. She can't see. She can feel that her eyes are open, but the only sight that greets her is empty blackness.
She brings oxygen into her lungs, then releases it slowly. This isn't a new occurrence, there is no need to panic. She needs paper, and a pen. She keeps those close by for nights like these, and as she fumbles blindly for her nightstand, she feels them.
She rests the paper on her headboard and scrawls desperately. The more she draws, the clearer her sight becomes, until, finally, she's Rogue again and she can see.
She falls back against her pillows, her weeping is silent and she bites her lip to keep it that way. This is the fourth time this week, never has Irene's psyche acted up so much. She's always been one of the tame ones, in fact, there are many a time when Rogue wondered if she'd imagined the feeling of Irene's hand on her cheek. That night had been so disorienting after all- but she can no longer believe that petty sentiment. Nights like this are happening more frequently, and her already minimal amount of sleep is suffering even more.
She pretended at first. The images she saw were drawn and then thrown under her bed. She ignored the visions and signs, and went through everyday life. But she's no fool, she knows when the outcome of her future is being thrown in her face at every turn. She's doomed, she can't run from fate, can't escape her destiny.
Irene knew what she was doing all those years ago. She probably saw Phoenix, saw what would happen to the human race if she continued to live. Had her aunt really ever cared about her? Or had Irene known since her childhood that this would happen? Is that why she showed up on their door step randomly one evening? It was all too convenient for Irene to send her images of the bus station through the touch, even more so when she discovered the blonde woman waiting for her. Maybe she knew back then it was all set up, that Mystique wanted her and her aunt was all too eager to help achieve that.
It hurts her to know the one person she'd loved as a child might have not loved her, but it does not surprise her. She's learned to accept the very worse that life can throw at her over the years, only…only Remy's departure isn't as easy to live with.
If she regrets anything in her life, it's losing Remy and that night with Scott. If she dies tomorrow, she'd die happy if she could see Remy one last time and tell him the truth. The truth- God how he believed everything she's said so easily! Every time he asked her about Scott, she silently prayed that he'd be able to read her, like he always does. The way she avoided his eyes or nibbled her lip whenever he asked her, all were tell-tale signs of what she's done!
He cheated, but at least he was upfront with his affairs. If she asked he told, if she stayed quiet and pretended, so did he.
She burrows lower onto the bed and pulls the covers above her head. If only she could stop thinking and just sleep, if only she hadn't given in to her weakness and accepted Scott's hand…and only two weeks after he'd left! How could she? She could have at least waited awhile, waited for any sign of his return…
He abandoned you in the most vulnerable time of your life.
But it's been two months and there hasn't been a call, a word, a whisper of him. He was killing her, whether he knew it or not. She's lost fifteen pounds, nine in the second month alone. She can't sleep, and the lack of food and daylight is starting to take its toll.
And there's a voice, a certain voice, slipping into her conscious more and more frequently and she doesn't even have the energy to fight against it any longer. Besides, who else does she have? Half the team is afraid of her, the other half wants her dead, and those who remained on her side are so intimidated by the great depression she oozes that the don't know how to handle her.
I'll never leave you.
How long is she going to go through life sleepwalking? How many more excuses can she give Scott as to why she's avoiding him?
How much longer can she ignore destiny?
Tears prick her eyes and she leaves the bed, knowing her rest for the night (three hours) has been cut short.
Trailing her fingers along the trim of the French door, she opens it and steps into the chilly January air. The moon looks as lonely as she feels. Why are all the stars so far from it?
Closing her eyes and raising her arms to the night, she calls for Phoenix, sealing her fate. The mass appears almost simultaneously, and wraps itself around the belle.
Rogue couldn't have possibly known that Phoenix never truly departed. The deal with Remy had been nothing more than a plotted guarantee.
It's been so long since Rogue's been held like this that she can ignore what's really happening, what she's letting take place. And Remy...if Phoenix is back, Remy can return, too...
Let the pieces fall, let the puzzle connect, let her doomed future come to pass.
...
Jean knows almost as soon as Rogue enters the kitchen the next day that the assimilation has been completed.
She drops the book she'd been holding, she chokes on the orange juice in her mouth. And just like that long ago day, her placid eyes go wild and her terror is tangible. Before Scott can restrain her, the scream has already erupted from her throat and she's begging those around her to kill Rogue, kill Rogue!
You're too late, my failed hostess.
The belle pretends to be just as shocked as everyone else, and when they carry Jean away she begins to cry, earning the pity and comfort of those around her.
She knows that the Professor will follow them to the med-lab, and that his mind will be connected with the red head's. Something like guilt pokes her, but she ignores it. She can think about consequences after Remy is back in her arms.
She can barely contain herself as she runs through the halls. She boards the elevator and takes it all the way down, to the restricted area.
Once there, she shifts into Xavier himself, then let's molecules morph back when the retinal scan beeps and the doors open before her.
She places the magnifier over her head and using her stolen telepathy, activates cerebro.
"Ah'm comin' for ya, Remy, wherever ya are. Wait for me." She should have done this the very first day after Remy left her. She isn't some sniveling, pathetic woman that let's life bury her. She is The Rogue, she fights and scraps for what she wants, and she wants Remy; more than anything.
She isn't expecting the torrents of thoughts and feelings that assault her all at once. Xavier's face always remains so serene whenever he uses the machine, that she assumed the process was painless.
She's wrong.
So many voices, so many different personalities and situations. It's worse than when she'd absorbed all those people during her Brotherhood days, and hadn't known the comforts of mental shields. How is she supposed to find her man in all this confusion?
She braces her hands on either side of the helmet and right before her eyes, a map forms. Thinking of the cajun, the map narrows from a world view, to just the U.S., then finally to one state in particular. The image zooms and zooms until she's in a warehouse in Seattle. She murmurs his name and sees him drop his cards. He turns and she can feel his confusion, his need for her…
She rips the helmet from her head with a cry, holding her head and wishing the hammering in her temples away. Phoenix offered to help, but the belle holds back her tears and declines. She has to do this on her own, without her help.
She knows now…with no doubt. He wants her, God, he needs her! The thought of his arms around her brings a smile to her lips, she can almost ignore the splitting of her skull.
"Rogue?"
The spell breaks and she finds herself staring at the Wolverine. With a shock, she realizes she'd neglected to close the heavy, metal doors behind her. He must have heard her from the med-lab. Damn super senses…
She stands shakily and raises her hand to try and push him out using her telekinesis, but he shakes his head and comes forward.
"No dice, darlin'. Only telepathy works in here." He approaches her like he would a frightened animal. "What were you tryin' to do, kid?"
Panicking, she tries to run past him, but he catches her easily.
"Lemme go!" She wriggles and arches in his grasp.
"Calm down, Rogue! It's me, you know I ain't gonna hurt you!"
Flustered and spent, she sinks into his arms. "Please Logan, ya can't tell."
He shrugs and helps her up, somehow knowing she isn't going to try and run again. "That depends on whether you spill the beans or not."
She resists the childish, but tempting urge to stick her tongue out on him. "Whaddya think, shuga? My boyfriend is missin' an' Ah happen to have a couple a telepaths runnin' around in my head. Ya do the math."
He nods and pockets his fists. "Figured as much, just wanted to hear it from those pretty lips of yours." He faces the doorway, looking back at her from the corner of his eye. "You find him?"
Grinning, she attempts to swallow the rush of excitement that comes with the question. "Yeah. He's in Seattle."
"Thought about how you're gonna get there?"
"No big deal," she waves her hand at the issue, "Ah figure Ah'll just fly or somethin'."
"And risk gettin' tired and losin' control? I don't think so."
Her cheeks burn scarlet. "Yoah not gonna stop me, I'm leavin' tonight and that's final!"
He chuckles and throws up his hands in a gesture of peace. "Never said I was gonna try and stop you. I was plannin' on offering my bike up."
She smiles sheepishly, only to raise her eyebrow. "Wait, the Wolverine is lettin' somebody else borrow his bike? To go out of state?"
"Funny, kid," he laughs heartily, "but no, I plan on drivin'."
Her amusement vanishes and she cocks her hip. "What?"
He smirks and continues on his way. "I'll go talk to Chuck. Meet me in the garage when you're ready."
Her mouth is still ajar when he leaves. There is no way he's coming along. No, not happening.
...
It isn't long before Remy gets tired of relying on Jean-Luc's 'generosity', and once he rents a room for another three weeks, he discards the card and proceeds to spend his time exploring the dark underbelly of Seattle.
The word of Gambit being in town spreads quickly, soon he's getting jobs left and right. One for a rich Russian in need of a priceless necklace, located in the vault of another rich man. It's the first big heist he's pulled in years, and it almost surprises him how smoothly it plays out.
Unfortunately, the jobs after that haven't been very classy. He usually never gets involved with heists that involve drugs, but the Mexican who approaches him offers too much money for Remy to refuse, and in his months away from the X-men, it's gotten easier to lose the shaky morals he'd managed to build in his time with them.
Taking another drag of his cigarette and adjusting his shades, Remy revs his bike down Bell street and turns onto 4th Ave, glancing nonchalantly at the building. The computer service doesn't seem like much from the outside, but he knows from his nights spent observing it that that isn't the case.
Pulling into a nearby Bar and Grill, the Cajun parks his bike and jogs around back. Reaching his destination, he hops onto the dumpster and quickly climbs to the roof. Once there, he reaches down the metal vent and retrieves his pack.
The sun has only begun its descent into the earth a few minutes ago, and anyone from the other building could easily see him perched on the roof, binoculars in hand. But playing things safe doesn't give him the kind of thrill he needs, so he decides to chance it. After all, his name isn't 'Gambit' because he takes precautions, it's his name because he takes risks that no one else is crazy enough to take.
When nightfall hits he abandons his trench, revealing the black body suit underneath. He hops down from the roof, sticking to the shadows as he makes his way to the warehouse.
He's noticed at least three guards at the front, two in the back, and five out-dated cameras scattered on all four corners. Other than that, the security is surprisingly minimal. He'll have this job done within the hour.
He's in the process of hooking the camera feed to a recording he'd done the night before when he hears her voice.
His cards drop from the wires he'd been sizzling, he smells her intoxicating aroma, he can feel the silk of her skin.
"Chère -?"
A beam of light falls in the space in front of him and he curses underneath his breath. He does a backward somersault and hides behind the brick chimney. The noises fade after a few minutes, and he slams his head back against the wall; punishing himself for his stupidity. Distractions aren't welcome in his line of business, distractions get you killed. But her voice, it'd been so clear…
Like he predicted, he completes the job within the hour without a hitch. The work is good, it keeps his mind from wandering to her.
He deposits the money in one of his many bank accounts and returns to his motel. He decides he'll celebrate tonight, and showers quickly and dresses even faster. He leaves the motel in black slacks and a navy blue shirt, he lets his auburn tresses flow wildly over his eyes and about his neck. Hailing a cab, he asks the man to drive him to the best club in town. The man laughs pleasantly and does as asked.
The first thing his light-sensitive eyes catch when he enters the club is a pair of sexy legs and a head full of chestnut curls. His heart lurches in his chest before he can stop it. He knows the woman isn't her, just like none of the brunette women he's seen around this damned town have been her.
He needs a round of drinks and a femme to take with him, more so the latter. Two months of letting himself dream of green eyes in his bed; alone, is a couple months too many as far as he's concerned. The thought of having that sexy brunette- no. No brunettes. A blonde will do just fine. A tall, leggy blonde, with straight hair and blue eyes. No southern accent, no honeyed voice, and no innocence. Tonight he wants a woman with enough sins to match his own. He wants a woman with that hard look in her eyes, one that doesn't play hard to get, one that doesn't care enough about herself to decline when he takes her against the wall next to the dumpster around back.
Decision made, the cajun saunters to the bar and orders a rum and coke set. A blonde (she must have read his mind!) winks at him and he motions for her to come over. They flirt and force laughter and press their bodies against each other in just the right way. She knows the game almost as well as he does, but not quite. Licking his lips and letting her view his hypnotic eyes, his hand slips up her thigh. He knows how to end it quickly for a woman and when her body ceases to spasm she leans against him heavily, her fingers bunching in his sleeves.
He downs more shots, seemingly unaware of the pleasure he's just caused her.
Six shots later, she finally raises her head from his shoulder and asks if he'd like to get out of here. He smirks and plants his hand on the small of her back. But before he can whisk her away and forget himself this night, her face pops into his mind, and stays there.
He slams the shot glass down and silently curses her for never leaving him alone, for constantly haunting him.
Two more shots and a disappointed blonde later, Remy returns to the motel, alone. There is only one woman he yearns for, and she's at a place he never plans on returning to.
...
"Now," their uncle begins, "where did we go wrong?"
He and Henri are on the ground: too bruised and sore to do anything more than lay on the ground and sweat. Of course, their beaten egos do nothing to aid in their attempts.
"Come on, pups," he chuckles. Standing above his subordinates. "Know I didn't beat y' bad enough to cause damage to y' throat boxes."
"Cause they're stupid boys!" Mercy laughs along with the other girls in the training session. Most of them are from a different sect of the guild; somewhere in northern Louisiana.
Henri, who's father has made it very obvious that a union between the French Quarter guild and that of Mercy's guild would be of extreme benefit, snorts at his almost-betrothed and finally forces himself to stand.
"O' course he's gonna take it easy on a bunch of filles!"
"Hey!" Toulouse barks. "First of all, dats no way to speak to a lady." He knocks his nephew in the back of the head. "And secondly, it's cause y' let me divide y'."
He kneels down in front of Remy, giving the smaller boy a smile.
"As soon as I separated y'—I won de fight. De girls stuck together, dey didn't let their enemy separate dem." He helps Remy up and tussles Henri's hair. "Divide and conquer: de simplest, mais most effective plot an enemy can use to win."
…
"Remy!"
They do not allow him to turn and face her, instead they rush him toward the vehicle. "Remember Toulouse!"
…
I'll leave if you do…
Divide and conquer.
...
Grumbling and knowing he can hear every curse she utters, the belle adjusts her backpack and wraps her arms around his waist. "What did he say?"
The Canadian lights his cigar. "You know Chuck, he wasn't exactly happy about it but he saw it comin'."
She nods and nibbles her lip. Once she finds Remy she'll apologize to them all. She knows things are going to end, and when they do she wants to be on good terms with her almost-family.
They hear a shout over the roar of the engine and Rogue turns to find Scott running towards them. Logan laughs outright, but she feels dread fill her stomach.
"Figure I better leave you two alone."
"Don't ya dare," she hisses, but he dismounts the bike and returns to the garage anyway.
"Rogue?"
She has no choice but to look up at him, and when she does the love and worry etched into his features makes her sigh.
"The Professor told me you were leaving. Is this true?"
She nods. "Yeah. But Ah'll be back in a few days."
His shoulders slump, he'd hoped Xavier was somehow mistaken. "But-but why?" He's pretty sure he knows why, but he won't allow himself to accept until the truth falls from her lips.
"Ah found Remy, Scott. Logan an' Ah are goin' to get him back."
His nostrils flare. "He left by his own choice. If he wanted to come back, he would've been here a long time ago."
She gets angry, too. "Listen, Ah didn't ask for yoah advice, okay?"
He flinches, but reaches for her hand anyway. "But Rogue, what about…us?"
She expected this but it doesn't make it any easier to swallow. "There is no 'us', shuga. Just Rogue, and just Scott. Separate."
"No," he shakes his head stubbornly, "you care for me, you can't say that you don't."
"Of course Ah do, yoah one of my best friend's, you've always been there for me-"
"Friends," he huffs. "Friends? What about that night? Friends don't usually sleep together, Rogue."
She swings her leg over the seat and stands, shoving him hard in the chest. "Are ya crazy? Do ya want Logan to hear?"
He takes her shoulders in his hands. "I don't care who cares. I love you, Rogue, and I'm so tired of having to hide that love like there's something wrong!"
Rogue wants to shake him. Wishing that action alone could wake him up; could make him sensible again. "But it is wrong. Think about yoah wife, think about Jean…"
"Jean." He looks away and for a moment she sees a brief flash of remorse. "I don't love her, you knew that from the very beginning."
"But ya married her, shuga, and that's a bindin' contract. Goin' around her back was…horrid. For God's sake, she'd just woken up from a coma and we were in the bed ya share with her!" Tears fill her eyes, she turns from him when he tries to wipe them away.
It's only sensation. Instinctual human need.
"And Remy…how will Ah ever tell him? He left because he felt like he had to. Instead of tryin' to convince him to come back, Ah-"
"You wanted me long before he came into the picture! Why can't we go back to those days?"
"Because yoah married… an' Ah love him. Everythin' else pales in comparison."
Silence follows her confession. She feels the hands holding her shoulders tremble. Obviously, he hadn't known. He'd been so confident that Rogue still wanted him, that he thought nothing of her two-year relationship with Remy. After all, they'd broken up and argued more than anyone could count. Scott knows that Rogue is very fond of Gambit, but love…? How? How can she love a man that hurts her so much?
"I'm…I'm so tired, Rogue." his head bows. "I'm expected to be strong all the time, to uphold the morals that come with being an X-man. But if you take away my visor and my uniform, I'm just a normal guy. I make mistakes, and Jean was one of them. There was just so much pressure- from Charles, from our friends-" He shakes his head and pulls away from her. "If only I hadn't proposed, if for once I did what I wanted instead of what was right, I could have left her." He looks back up at her. "I could have you."
"But ya didn't, shuga." Her kind tone softens the point of her words. "Ya made yoah choice, and Ah can't be the remedy to yoah decisions. Ah wouldn't want to be. Ah'll always love ya, Ah'll always remember what we shared, but Remy is the man for me. The only man."
Seemingly unwilling to accept what she says, he leans forward to kiss her.
Her small hands go to his chest and she shakes her head gently. "No, Scott."
For a horrible moment she fears he might get on his knees and beg her. But Scott is a proud man, it's what attracted her to him in the first place. His shoulders square, he swallows his emotions and she knows he'll never bring this up again. Not for his own sake, but for her own.
"Could I have a hug, then?" He manages a smile, she tries to do the same but it ends up being a grimace.
"Of course ya can, shuga." Warmth expands her chest as their arms lock around each other.
"I love you, Rogue. I can't stop it, even if I wanted to."
She holds him even tighter. "Ah know," she whispers against his neck.
It ends just as abruptly as it began. Logan returns, grunting in awkward recognition at Scott, before he mounts the bike. It's the first time he's neglected taking a shot at their team leader.
"You comin'?" He revs the engine.
She nods, managing to tear her eyes from Scott's. "Yeah, Ah'm comin'."
They speed off and she weeps quietly into Wolverine's back. He squeezes the hands she's bunched against his stomach, knowing all but saying nothing.
...
Cold fear, numbing fright, terror that makes him shake, gut clenching dread, hair-raising trepidation…none of these can even come close to the horror that seeps into his very skeleton. Sabretooth mocks him through the bars and Remy can't even muster up a poker face or a witty comeback. All he can do is stare at the monster leering at him from its chair.
Its skin is nearly blue, its teeth jagged. And those eyes…dieu, how can people find his eyes terrifying when orbs like this monster's existed?
He grips the bars of his cage with quaking fists, a shuddering groan escapes his lips as he bows his head.
A fool. He'd been a damn fool.
He'd known, even through his drunken state- he'd known there was someone in that hotel room with him. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Remy isn't afraid of dying, but Sinister won't kill him. No, he'll cut him open and slice apart his innards like he's done to hundreds of other mutants… mutants Remy himself had helped gather. Then he'll bring him back, only to torture him again. The cycle would continue on and on, thinking about how long it could last makes Gambit physically ill.
The scene before him is familiar. Riptide's hazy form jumping from one side of the room to the other; the sharp projectiles of his mutation freeing themselves from his skin and lodging themselves in a target he'd set on a wall. Scrambler, perched on a table, that eerie smile on his face. The gleefully sadistic bastard is just waiting to get his disruptive hands on the cajun. Malice and Vertigo stand off to the side, each winking at him and blushing at old memories, neither one knowing what the other is doing. He hasn't seen Scalphunter or Harpoon, but he knows they're watching from somewhere: large but carefully silent.
"It's like coming home again, ain't it, pretty boy?" Sabretooth's fangs gleam in the darkness, Remy tries not to cower away.
"I been rollin' wit de X-men," he shouts over at Sinister, succeeding in keeping his voice steady, "dey gonna come lookin' for me soon."
He only laughs, the sound is metallic. "My dear boy, do you really think I haven't been watching you? I know everything my friend. Your departure from the X-men, your trip to New Orleans-"
It's like a shower of ice, Remy's mind begins to unravel. This can't be happening, Sinister hasn't been able to get his claws back around him, not after all these years…
"Where am I," he manages.
"Essex Theatre." He rises from his chair and makes his way to Remy. "In the basement of Essex Theatre to be exact."
Breathing heavily, the Cajun closes his eyes and calls out for the Professor, for Jean, or Emma or Betsy, for anyone.
"That won't help you, Gambit. These walls are reinforced with a special metal: effectively preventing any psionic scans or attacks."
Something wild and not all that foreign makes its way through Remy's veins. Escape, he needs to get out! He can't die like this, no matter how much he deserves it-not like this!
As if reading his thoughts, Sinister nods and the cage glows blue before opening.
Remy has no way of knowing what the madman has in store for him.
My hands are open, and you are filling them. Hands in the air, in the air, in the air, in the air. And I worship. And I worship. And I worship you! You are the truth (you are the truth) Out screaming these lies. You are the truth (you are the truth) Saving my life. ~Red Sam- Flyleaf