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Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost

03- New Orleans

He kissed her hand, and then smiled as she ran her fingers through his hair. He reached over and brushed a loose curl back from her forehead. They moved closer and she lifted her chin so he could kiss her more easily. Their eyes closed as their lips brushed together. Her foot nudged against his calf as she kissed him fully. She was warm to the touch, her lips soft and tasting of the beer she had been drinking. As they broke away, Remy caught sight of his own reflection in the glass window of the café. His hair was thick and scruffy, cut in an overlong fringe that got in his eyes, but no longer that that. His eyes were red-on-black, red irises with black whites. His eyes were mutant eyes…

It's not me, Remy thought as he startled himself out of his dream. My eyes are brown. It's just a dream, it don't mean anything. It's not real. She's not real. The truck he was hitching in went over a bump in the road, making the cab lurch and the driver curse. Gambit lifted the rim of his hat and peered out, wondering where they were. The cab driver glanced over and grimaced something that might have been a smile. "Back with us?"

"Yeah," Remy acknowledged. Sitting up in his seat he knuckled the sleep from his eyes. "Where are we?"

"You're home," the driver said. "New Orleans."

Disembarking the truck at the edge of the French Quarter, Gambit made his way down Bourbon Street trying to jog his memory. He knew where he was, that wasn't a problem. The problem was he couldn't associate how he knew his way around. There were no memories of events or people that he could recall happening here. He must have been here before, but when and who with? It didn't make sense.

To relieve his cash shortage, Remy pilfered the wallets of a few overweight tourists before hitting the bars. Maybe a drink would help him remember. Somehow he found himself irrepressibly drawn to a high-stakes poker game and gambled all the cash he had to get a stake at the table. If he lost, he'd have to go out and pick pocket a few more marks. No big deal. If he won, he wouldn't have to work again for weeks. It was worth the risk.

"Jacks over fives," Remy announced, presenting his cards with a flourish. "Gentlemen, I do believe I win."

"Damn it to Hell!" cursed the Texan, slamming his fist on the table. The large man had turned an interesting shade of puce, leaving Remy mildly concerned in case he had a coronary. "How'd you do that, son?"

"Are you maybe implyin' I cheated?" Remy replied casually. He held out a hand and clicked his fingers, "Keys, homme, a deal's a deal."

"You'd better take damn good care of her, you no-good hustler," the Texan replied, and dumped a set of thin steel keys in Gambit's outstretched hand. I just won a 'plane, Gambit thought to himself. He came over all giddy for a moment, and didn't notice the Texan turn and walk away.

"Nicely done," said the black man who was sat to Remy's left. He'd had the good sense to drop out of the poker game before he lost too much, unlike the Texan. Remy smiled and reached out to gather in the rest of his winnings. The black man watched him intently, and asked, "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't."

"Ah," the man smiled, "the mysterious type. Well we're all friends here now, ami. By what name should we call you?"

"Remy," Gambit answered.

"Remy what?"

"You ask a lot o' questions."

"I do," the man stood, his smile fading. Remy stood too, recognising the danger. These people didn't like newcomers, particularly successful newcomers. If he had been hoping to find someone in New Orleans who could tell him who he was, he was disappointed. Maybe he should gamble here too. Someone might recognise the name if not the face, "Remy LeBeau."

There were a few gasps amongst the hangers-on around the table. Remy wasn't sure if he imagined it, but he thought he saw one of the girls swoon. The black man recoiled, taking half a step back. "Is dis a joke?" he asked. "Dere only one LeBeau family around here, homme, and you ain't in it."

"An' you know dis because?"

"I work for 'em," the black man revealed. "Jean-Luc LeBeau is a powerful man. You don't wanna cross him. If I were you I'd get outta New Orleans before he hears you stolen his name."

"I ain't goin' nowhere," Remy replied, folding his arms. "If dis Jean-Luc got a problem, tell him he can come see me." Maybe then, he thought, just maybe I might get some answers…

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Over the following days and weeks, Gambit fell into a predictable routine. Part of him knew this was the last place he should be. Surely Victor and Stryker knew he was New Orleans born and bred? They would come looking for the escapee and recapture him. But the tantalising knowledge that someone here had the same name as him was enough to keep Gambit in the city. He kept waiting, hoping that the mysterious Jean-Luc would contact him. Maybe Jean-Luc would know who he was, and help him piece together his missing memory.

He would wake around noon, and if he was not alone he would excuse himself promptly. He'd take a shower and two painkillers to beat back the hangover from the night before. The afternoons he spent either toying with his 'plane, honing his pilot skills, or else trawling the streets looking for anything that might trigger a memory. Every night he went back to the same bar, drank too much and played poker. He was sure that sooner or later something or someone would come to him.

Remy knew he was being watched. He could feel eyes on him whenever he was out in public. Walking down Dumaine Street with St Louis Cathedral behind him, Remy was acutely aware of being followed. He swallowed, trying not to react. The street was busy with both traffic and pedestrians. Surely no one would attack him here? Not in broad daylight?

He felt the softest of touches to his trench coat and responded instinctively. He caught the wrist of the pickpocket in his right hand, spinning round to face the culprit. Remy was appalled to see a scruffy urchin, filthy and underweight, aged no more than five or six years looking back up at him. The kid still had Remy's wallet in his hand. Gambit took the wallet back with his left hand and secreted it out of the child's reach.

"Where's your folks kid?" The boy didn't answer. He squirmed like a fish on a hook in Remy's grasp, trying to get away. Remy tried a different tactic, "I ain't gonna hurt you boy, what's your name?" Again no reply, so Gambit tried in French instead, "Comment t'appelles-tu?"

"Descendez-moi," squeaked the boy, breaking away by kicking Gambit solidly in the leg, ducking and twisting free of his grip. Gambit let him go. He didn't have much choice. His head was spinning as something was frantically trying to surface. Did he know the boy? He was so distracted he didn't know he was not alone until the stranger spoke to him.

"He's a talented kid, non? Great potential."

"Who are you?" Remy asked, sizing up the stranger. He was older than Gambit but not by much. He too wore a trench coat. His face was hawk-like, his eyes keen and his mouth firm. Gambit again had an unwilling idea that he might know this person.

"Jean-Luc," the stranger replied, extending his hand. "I know who you are, ami. You've been causin' quite a stir around my town." Gambit shook the hand, finding Jean-Luc's grip solid, and asked, "You come to tell me to get out?"

"Non," the leader of the New Orleans Theives Guild replied. "I come for him," he indicated with a nod across the street at the child. As they watched, the boy opened a woman's purse from behind and took a handful of cash. The woman never noticed. "Excuse me," Jean-Luc LeBeau said courteously, and started to cross the street.

"Wait!" Gambit shouted after him, "Do I know you? Either of you?"

"I don't see how you could," Jean-Luc replied with a smirk. Then he was gone.