: HOUSE OF CARDS :
PART FOUR : CORRUPTION
(14) - Lies and Subterfuge -
Remy LeBeau stepped outside the apartment block, paused out on the forecourt, and looked about. A light drizzle of sleet was fluttering about him, filling the dull grey streets and the bleak, ugly concrete high-risers with an inordinate brightness that seldom touched this part of the city. Not a soul was in sight - the sky was virtually cloudless apart from odd wisps here and there, and was a pale shade of lilac. From afar, the plaintive whine of an unknown hound filled the air with a chill other than the bitter cold of winter. It was the wail of despair, of desolation, of sorrow.
It was a feeling Remy knew all too well himself.
But these were things that concerned him little these days. Even in brighter days gone by, he'd always been a little lonely, a little desolate. Resigned, impassive, he glanced left down the sidewalk. A few yards away, a homeless man was sitting in a heap of rags that doubled up as clothing, tripled up as a comforter. He was sitting by a makeshift fire, but making no attempt to warm himself. As Remy stared at him, he stared back, equally as calm, equally as impassive. They knew one another well, far more than an outsider may have thought, had he witnessed the vacant stare that passed between them.
Slowly Remy sauntered down the sidewalk and approached the man, until he stood right in front of him, hands in pockets, breath catching on the frosty winter air. The man looked back up at him, quite unconcerned - he had a sagging face, black, insipid eyes. This close, Remy could see the grimy snout of a mangy dog poking out from underneath the pile of rags, its expression so doleful as to be almost human.
"De lady dat comes out of dat apartment block," Remy spoke evenly, tonelessly. "De one wit' de white streak in her hair. I want you to look out for her. You see her around, I want you to tell me where she was and what she was doin', whenever I come round dis way again. You got dat?"
The man didn't move. Only his eyes showed any animation, travelling slowly to the doorway of the apartment block Remy had just emerged from, then back to Remy himself. His answer was simply a wordless nod.
Words were always superfluous with this one. By way of thanks Remy simply returned a curt nod of his own, then dropped a couple of dollars and a half empty pack of cigarettes at his feet. Then he turned, and walked away.
Behind him, he could here the man, barking, yapping and whining to the dog at his side in a language none but the canine could understand.
-oOo-
By the afternoon, the sleet had stopped.
Remy sat on his Harley beside the Hudson River and stared out into its dark and murky churning waters.
He was blatantly ignoring orders by sitting here and sulking. It was meant to be another day of business, but somehow he didn't have the heart for it. His heart was still back in that dingy little apartment, still in the hands of the woman named Rogue. It had cost everything he had to walk out on her that morning. This morning he'd never wanted to stay so much in his life.
The moment he'd seen her walk out of that hotel building he'd instinctively known there was something different about her. It wasn't the way she looked, wasn't even the way she walked or the way she acted. It was the way she'd looked at him, the aura he'd got from her, the same kind of aura he got from many women who looked at him.
The two previous times he'd crossed paths with her, she'd been nervous, uncertain, hiding her uneasiness under a veneer of deliberate nonchalance. But this time he'd caught something else from her. Fire, greed, recklessness, desperation. Need. Need. All bubbling away under the surface, where it had always existed, where he had always known it existed. And now it had somehow all come to the fore, and he had felt it literally oozing out of her, crackling around her like static electricity. He'd found it intensely sexy, intensely exciting. He hadn't nearly been ready for the way she'd come at him once they'd got into the apartment… He couldn't remember the last time he'd ever felt so aroused when she'd reciprocated to him, when she'd shown him exactly how much she wanted him too. He didn't know what it was, but in the year since they'd last met she seemed to have blossomed sexually, as a woman, as a lover; she was no longer hung up about her body, about his, about sex itself.
And yet there had still been the undercurrent of fear and uncertainty in her, and he couldn't place what it was. Some of the things she'd said and done; the expressions she'd given him; the way her body had tensed up when he'd kissed her down there… They confused him, and he didn't know why. More than once that night it had crossed his mind that perhaps her sudden sexuality and her odd moments of reticence were down to there being another man in her life, but he'd refrained from asking her because he'd made it clear to her that their relationship was based on nothing more than sex, that they bore one another no sense of commitment. He himself was far from faithful to her and had never had any intention of being so. Likewise, he could not expect her to be exclusive to him. She was a beautiful, desirable woman - she had every reason to form relationships with other men, to find pleasure elsewhere - even security, commitment and love. Yet the thought of her with another man was distasteful to him, and whether it was a defence mechanism or not, he couldn't quite believe she was with anybody else. He couldn't believe it because there had been many moments the previous night when she had led him to believe there was more feeling on her part than just a desire for sex.
Doesn't mean she can't have another man on de side though, does it, LeBeau?
He stared into the dark, swirling waters, blowing smoke, his expression morose.
Who're you kiddin'? You know how she feels about you, she holds on too tight, she kisses too deeply, she fucks wit' too much soul. And you let her. You let her 'cos you like it, you like de fact dat you're de only man alive to her.
It wouldn't have mattered, if he hadn't been feeling slightly guilty about it. After all, most women he slept with were just a pleasant memory come the morning; those he slept with on a more regular basis were either business acquaintances for whom sex was a strange form of business contract, or girls he saw purely for the sake of pleasure and because they asked absolutely nothing from him.
Rogue was different. He had absolutely no reason to fraternise with her - their lives were spent in separate spheres, and he knew nothing about her life outside of the mission, outside of the few precious hours of her time that he shared. After that first night when their paths had so fortuitously crossed, he'd simply formed an attachment to her that he still wasn't quite able to break. That simple attachment went against the entire business code that he lived by. Instead of forgetting about her and carrying on with his life, he'd gone out of his way to keep her there. Knowing she was still around, knowing she was still alive was enough for him. Whenever the need to see her again would get too great, that was the time he'd find out exactly where she was and he made sure he'd be there for her, waiting.
She never showed any surprise when he turned up. She never even asked him how he knew where she was. It had grown to be an unspoken rule between them, and he liked it that way. He liked her for never asking him about his secrets. It was good to know she'd always accept him when he showed up, without any questions asked. He liked it because despite all the lengths he went to keep her in his sights, it gave the illusion that the attachment between them was still a casual one, nothing deeper than a coincidental meeting once a year.
His cigarette had almost burnt down to the butt and he flicked it into the water, lit another. He knew they'd both danced too close to the edge last night. Because something had changed between them - even he had felt it. For the first time he'd felt a true sense of connection with her, something that had crossed the boundary of the physical and into something purely emotional. It wasn't even love exactly. It was something clandestine, something dangerous and bold and illicit. It was the mutual recognition that they'd both crossed an unseen line together, that had made them unwitting partners-in-crime.
The collusion had transformed them into lovers, had forged a bond between them that now could not be broken.
It was the thing he'd taken such great pains to avoid, and he had no idea how it had come about. It meant that now, wherever they were in this world, however long they were apart, they were linked by more than just casual, sexual acquaintance.
They were linked by something far more powerful, far more potent, and he could feel it now, bearing down on him, inescapable, irresistible, drawing him towards her as inexplicably as the moon drew in the tides.
Their lives, so dark, so desolate, so ravaged and torn… they had been interwoven, interlocked by something invisible and untraceable, that thing called Fate.
His cell phone suddenly went off, interrupting his train of thought. Sighing, Remy dug into his coat pocket and flipped it open.
It was the boss.
His natural inclination was to ignore the call, but for some reason, he took it.
"I'm on it," was all he said.
He flipped the phone shut with a sharp clack. Rain was beginning to fall on the gloomy, grey waters of the Hudson, breaking his reflection. He didn't need to see it anymore. Now all he needed was to forget himself, what he was and what he looked like. He threw the cigarette into the river, clasped the handlebars and revved up the engine. Spinning the bike round, he left.
-oOo-
It was one of the trendiest restaurants in town, a place where the beautiful, the rich and the famous would come to socialise and to be seen.
Of course, every good thing has its ugly side, and The Princess was no exception. It may have been one of the places to be in New York City, but by night it was also a veritable den of iniquity. Underneath its opulent and elegant veneer, it was the favourite haunt of many of the city's crime bosses, a place where all types of shady business dealings were de rigeur and would be happily discussed over a five-course meal.
Remy didn't come here often, but now and then it would be part of his job description, which he had no particular complaints about. Hobnobbing with New York's aristocracy happened to be as natural to him as slumming it with the riffraff. And it made a nice change to dress well and eat from a silver spoon once in a while.
Very often, the views weren't half bad either.
Tonight the view in question was the woman sitting opposite him, a woman he could only loosely term as a business associate, since even on the rare occasions they made a business transaction, money was only rarely exchanged, and they never said enough to be even vaguely aware of what it was that the other did, let alone what they were like as people. Neither of them particularly cared about this, since they didn't have a great deal of liking for one another, and whenever they did fraternise outside of business, it certainly didn't involve any kind of talking.
All he knew was that she was one of the greatest and most cunning of international crime bosses. She owned her own kingdom, a south-east Asian nation named Madripoor, and she had once headed the New York branch of Hydra, one of the world's most feared terrorist organisations. She was no small fry - if there was ever a woman to be feared, it was the woman currently sitting in the seat opposite him. Her name was Viper, and as with many of the people within whose circles he moved, he had no clue as to her real name. But Viper suited her well enough, and so it was Viper everyone called her. In fact, Remy couldn't imagine her being called anything else.
"So, Mr. LeBeau," she began, in an accent that may have been Eastern European, but that also held the distinct quality of something more exotic, perhaps the Far East. "I'm given to understand that you wish to conduct business, is that so?"
She sucked at the exceptionally long, shiny, lacquered cigarette holder in a gesture that was loaded with suggestion, and blew smoke voluptuously into the air. Remy took his time lighting his own cigarette, without once taking his eyes off her.
"As usual, ma chere," he drawled, "you would be right."
He smiled. She smiled. Still, he didn't take his eyes off her. To do so would be to invite disaster, since nobody could ever be sure what she was likely to do next. She could strike at any moment, swift and vicious as the cobra, and Remy wasn't about to take any chances with her. He may have liked the look of her, but he didn't trust her any further than he could throw her, and that wasn't very far.
Tonight she looked every inch a predator, the kind of femme fatale that would grace a noir B-movie from the forties. Dressed in lush, forest green velvet, diamonds, and with her glorious mane of raven locks tumbling over her shoulders in thick, voluptuous waves, she exuded the kind of confident sexiness that almost always gave her the upper hand in business dealings simply by default. Men were either intimidated by her, or so entranced by her that they were left slavering at her feet. Remy was different though, and she knew it. He was a seducer of seductresses; he knew every tactic of hers off by heart, and if she tried to use her charms on him he could outmanoeuvre her a thousand times over. Viper was always forced to play fair with him, and whilst she resented this, he thought she secretly enjoyed it too.
Dangerous people always seem to enjoy it when they think they've met their match.
"So what is it you want exactly?" she inquired, raising a well-marked eyebrow. "Intelligence? Technology? Arms? Narcotics? Or…" and she leaned in closer, her voice dropping a notch, low and husky, "would it be business of a more… physical kind you're after?"
The small, knowing smile was still on his face; he lowered his eyelids briefly as he tapped his cigarette against the ornate, crystal ashtray at his right arm, moving his eyes back to hers and pouring all the charm he possessed into that one, smouldering look.
"Unfortunately, no," he replied with exaggerated regret. "While I do so enjoy our little encounters, Lady Viper, I'm afraid t'night is just strictly business. I need some information."
She pouted, slouched back in her chair, and propped her right arm over the back of it, scratching her temple with a long, gloved finger.
"Information? About a mutant, I presume." Her lips contorted into a disapproving grimace. "At the behest of your so-called boss?"
"My boss is interested in a certain mutant - or rather, a bunch o' mutants, and where dey can be found," he replied, non-committal, the smile on his face fading somewhat. He raised the cigarette to his lips and stared at her with narrowed eyes.
"Really?" She cocked her head slightly, considering his expression. "And what would your boss be willing to pay me in return for this information?"
Remy said nothing, but reached down for the briefcase by his side and slapped it meaningfully onto the table. Viper stared at it a moment, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"I have no need of money," she returned scornfully.
His expression didn't change one iota.
"It isn't money," he informed her evenly.
Her eyebrow shot up again, her countenance suddenly questioning.
"Then what-?"
"It's a serum," he interjected softly, lowering his voice. "A cure to dat disease dat's been spreadin' like wild-fire through Madripoor's Lowtown. It's only a matter of time before it reaches Hightown, isn't it? And if your scientists can't find a cure in time…" He trailed off meaningfully, and, with a glib smile, opened his hands amiably. "Think about it. You could be waitin' months for those yes-men of yours to find a solution. By which time, of course, Hightown's population could be totally decimated, leaving Madripoor's economic centre a virtual ghost town. On de other hand, I have de cure right here." He patted the edge of the briefcase teasingly. "Within a couple of days, you could stop de disease right in its tracks and avert a national catastrophe. Sounds like some great PR to me, Lady Viper."
Viper's eyes went wide. She hesitated and her jaw twitched; first she stared at the briefcase, then at him, then the briefcase again.
"What is it that you wish to know?" she asked quietly.
"De Hounds," Remy spoke in a lower voice, his tone cold, practical. "And where exactly dey can be found."
Viper stared at him a moment before giving him a short, humourless bark of a laugh.
"Ahab's Hounds? You must be out of your mind!" She leaned forward again, those dark, dangerous eyes of hers narrowing again. "Even if I wanted to give you that information, Gambit, I wouldn't be able to, for the simple reason that I don't know. The truth is, nobody knows." She sat back again, spread out her arms in a rather helpless gesture. "That isn't to say that I haven't tried to find out. I've set many of my best spies on Ahab and his sick pets, but predictably, none of them have ever returned. I don't think even the President knows of the whereabouts of the Hound headquarters. So far as I can tell there are only three people who know of the location - the Secretary of Defence, General Saunders; Director of Trask Technologies, Bolivar Trask; and Ahab himself." She paused, put the cigarette holder to her lips, and stared at the briefcase again longingly. "You'll have to ask me another question, darling, and this time make sure it's one that I can answer."
"All right." Remy laid his hands on the table and linked his fingers together. "Tell me what you do know about de Hounds."
Viper picked up the wineglass sitting in front of her, gazed into the blood red liquid pooled within.
"The Hounds I can tell you a little of. They are an elite group of mutants chosen specifically for their telepathic, empathic, or psionic abilities - any power, in short, which allows them to locate and pinpoint the whereabouts of another mutant. That is why they're so good at what they do - namely hunting down mutants." She paused, sipped at her wine with relish and continued. "From the information I have managed to glean, Ahab can enhance their ability by 'switching on' a certain gene that allows the Hounds to detect the genetic scent of others. It's this that makes the Hounds so deadly to mutantkind."
"And de programmin'?" he probed, finally feeling that he was getting somewhere. "Has anyone been able to find out how it's done?"
Viper glanced at him, half-smiled, weighing up exactly how much she should tell him. Again she glanced at the briefcase and after a moment she relented.
"I'm not sure exactly how it's done. But I did manage to track down Moira MacTaggert, a prominent geneticist with whom Ahab once collaborated on his more 'mainstream' scientific projects."
Remy nodded silently. He remembered her from his days back with the X-Men; she'd been a close personal friend and former lover of Charles Xavier himself.
"And what did she say?" he queried.
"She said that Ahab had been toying with a form of brainwashing - one that she thoroughly disapproved of on both scientific and moral grounds," Viper replied airily. "You'll have to forgive me - I'm no scientist by any stretch of the imagination - but from what I gather, the Hounds' brainwashing isn't exactly brainwashing per se. Brainwashing, you see, implies the total annihilation of any memory and all thoughts stored within the brain, thus making the subject susceptible to mind control. But Ahab's programming works differently. He essentially masks the subject's memories, deadens his or hers ability to act upon their own thoughts, their own needs, wants and desires."
"Then -"
"Yes. Beneath the mask, the individual subject's personality is still very much intact, and has not been 'washed' away at all. As far as Dr. MacTaggert could tell, somewhere within the subject's mind, they are still very much aware of exterior sensation and information, but utterly unable to react to it. The essential components remain, but are suppressed and controlled."
Remy stared over her shoulder, the ash dropping from his now-neglected cigarette and into the bottom of his ashtray.
"De chink in de armour…" he muttered half to himself.
"Indeed," Viper returned coolly. "It means that once the programming is broken, there isn't just a clean slate left. The subject's psyche may be damaged by the programming - who knows? But essentially, the subject's psyche will still be there. The only problem is, no one knows how to deprogram a Hound." She grinned wryly at him. "But I'm sure your boss would be more than willing to figure that little conundrum out."
Remy said nothing. Of course, that's what this was all about. Deprogramming Hounds. He didn't even want to know what his employer wanted to do with them afterwards.
"So," Viper was saying, casual once more, "what is it that your employer wants with the Hounds anyway?"
"Dat's my boss' business," Remy grimaced. "I couldn't give a shit about de Hounds, as long as dey stay de hell outta my way."
"Hmph," she snorted haughtily, raising the waiting wineglass to her lips and taking a generous sip. "I have always thought, Gambit, that this 'alliance' with your so-called employer is such an unfortunate waste of good talent." She set her glass down, frowning. "The skills you possess could be put to far better use. Why do you fetter yourself to such a distasteful creature?"
It was an opening to flirtation that he simply couldn't resist.
"Why?" he asked, a lopsided yet charming grin returning to his lips. "Would you rather I was fettered to you, Viper?"
Under the heavy lids, her eyes glittered seductively.
"Gambit, darling, if you were fettered to me 24/7 I'd soon get bored of you," she purred. "Contrary to popular belief, I have no interest in subjugating a man such as you. I find you far more enticing when you come to me of your own volition." She pressed her tongue behind her teeth and threw him a lascivious look, which he wholeheartedly returned.
"You mean you prefer dis Cajun wild and untamed?" he drawled, and she laughed appreciatively.
"Very much so. But bantering aside, darling," she added, with a more serious air, "you would do yourself less of a disservice if you were to operate as a free agent. Think of the things you could achieve, Remy, if you were your own master. Break the bonds of those that control you, and you could go far. Very far indeed," she murmured emphatically, and he felt her foot trail sensuously up the inside of his calf.
"A very tempting proposition, ma chere," he returned lazily. "But contrary to what you may believe, I'm not interested in power. Think about it. If I had power, what'd I do wit' it? I'd just gamble it all away. Power is a useless commodity t' someone like me."
"So what are you interested in?" she asked softly, propping her chin in both hands and gazing at him with those calculating, snake-like eyes.
"I dunno," he shrugged. "Bein' myself, and doin' what I want t' do."
"But surely," she protested, "surely working for such a master-"
"No one has a hold over me," Remy replied firmly. "I walk de edge, I don't take sides and I play for me. No one knows what I want, no one knows who I am. I am where I am right now because dat's where I want t' be. And when I decide dis ain't where I want to be anymore, dat's when I'll move on."
"So what keeps you here now?" she probed quietly.
He thought a while.
"Here and now… I get t' do somet'ing for de mutant cause, I get paid well, I get de cheap thrills, and I get de beautiful women. Why de hell would I want to move on?"
She laughed. There was something harsh and rapacious about her laugh, but he suspected he was the only one who could make her laugh at all.
"So beautiful women is one of the requisites in your life, is it, Remy LeBeau?"
"I guess you could call it a weakness of mine," he answered without a hint of shame. She chuckled quietly, her glance now ravenously searching his face.
"I pity the woman who steals your heart, Remy LeBeau," she murmured reflectively.
"Why?" he asked, stubbing out his cigarette with feigned casualness and lighting another.
"Because a thief like you will do everything in his power to steal it back. And perhaps," she added mischievously, "because I'd feel a little envious of her."
He leaned forward across the table, held her eyes unflinchingly - he was so close he could smell the heavy, heady scent of her perfume, intoxicating as opiate.
"De night is still young, cherie. How about I throw in a little bonus for de oh-so-useful information you've given me?"
Her smile was red and sumptuous, yet faintly sardonic.
"She's out there, isn't she?"
"If I said yes, would it make any difference?"
"Not to me," she murmured back, her eyes greedily tracing his mouth. "But to you…" and she smiled, wide, knowing, "maybe."
-oOo-
He rolled into Louis's Place about half past one in the morning.
He was feeling beat and disillusioned, but he didn't feel quite ready to go back to the loneliness of his apartment just yet. What he needed was to have people around him, people who would ask him no questions and would leave him alone, yet who would give him the sense that he was still connected to the real world. And what he needed most of all was a very stiff drink.
Louis was the proprietor of Louis's Place, a short, stout yet sturdy man in his fifties with skin the consistency of unbaked pastry, whose wrinkles appeared to be lined with dust. Louis had been in the business for years, so far as Remy could tell - the odd thing was, no one would be able to tell you if he was mutant or static; and if he was indeed a mutant, no one would be able to tell you what his power was. He was silent and stoical to a fault - it was a known fact that he never said anything unless it was strictly worth saying, and even then he would communicate it to you in flat, deadpan tones. Remy liked this about Louis - it meant that he didn't have to say anything when he was in Louis' presence - but nevertheless, he always got the odd sense that Louis absorbed information through his eyes, like a strange form of photosynthesis. Louis' eyes were rarely idle, and if there was any information anyone needed, it would be certain that if Louis had not heard it, he would at least have seen it.
That night there were only one or two patrons left in the bar; Remy recognised them by sight and gave them short nods as he passed, which they returned, grim-faced. Louis himself was behind the bar, cleaning a few dusty glasses with a dusty cloth. Remy crossed the creaking wooden floor, seated himself at the beer-stained bar, and gestured for the usual. Louis, as always, said nothing. He merely stared at Remy a moment, marking his face in his mind; then, satisfied that he did indeed recognise him, set about fixing Remy's order of neat bourbon. Nothing more needed to be communicated between the two.
Remy slouched against the bar and contemplated his hands. He'd got away without killing this night, and for some reason that had felt important to him. In a way he preferred the intel jobs, they meant he didn't have to get his hands dirty.
Louis was suddenly there, slapping his drink in front of him. It didn't matter what anyone thought of his dingy little bar; what mattered was that he was that he served the best drinks this side of town, a fact that was a well-kept secret. Remy paid the exact amount plus a tip and sucked on his drink gratefully, swivelling only slightly to look up at the TV above the bar. The late-night news was on, and he grimaced distastefully. He needed a dirty movie to round off his night, that was what. He was too exhausted for more of the real thing.
"And in the latest update on the Trask Technologies scandal, a recent report has confirmed that Trask Technologies' Assistant Director, Troy Rifkind, has been fired from his job after it was claimed that he was the intruder who broke into the Trask Technologies database last Friday night. It has been alleged that he stole important files listing details on all known mutants currently residing in North America, and that he subsequently deleted those files in an act which many have said will set back progress on the Mutant Control Act for years to come… Rifkind has vehemently protested his innocence, despite several witnesses having claimed they saw him enter the Trask Technologies' 'Core' - where all company information is stored and held - at the time the relevant files were said to have been downloaded…"
Remy swirled his glass round idly, listening only passingly to what was being said on the TV.
"Louis, change the goddamn channel!" hollered someone from the back of the bar, but Louis ignored him, his bottomless eyes trained on the TV with an intent most insects would've reserved for their prey.
"Subsequent FBI investigations into Troy Rifkind's movements over the past month have so far revealed few details pertinent to the case. Special Agent Jack Shaw gave a statement that whilst some of his frequent visits to the Ritz and various New York casinos and gambling dens have led to speculation about his private life, there is nothing to suggest any reason he might have had in sabotaging Trask Technologies' database."
"Louis?" Remy asked the man still absently wiping the same glass behind the bar. "What d'you know about de Hounds?"
"…Having made a detailed investigation into Troy Rifkind's movements over the past month, we have found little to tie him to the Trask Technologies inquiry at present. He made a questionable visit to the Ritz on the Wednesday leading up to the incident, where he was said to have been meeting a dubious business associate…"
Louis's eyes moved from the TV to Remy with a penetrating glare.
"Depends," he answered in a voice like gravel, like a boulder rumbling downhill. "What do you want to know?"
Remy considered.
"Do you know who any of dese Hounds actually are?"
"…However, having questioned this so-called associate, we have no reason to believe that he had anything to do with the Trask Technologies' incident, nor was their meeting related to it. However, on account of that meeting at the Ritz, we have been obliged to press charges against Mr. Rifkind on unrelated drugs offences."
Louis' face tightened; for the first time he lowered his lids, his face as taut as a bowstring.
"No one knows," he replied at last. "No one wants to know. Hounds aren't human. Not anymore. No kin. No loved ones. Just animals."
"…Thus far Mr. Rifkind has declined to make any comment…"
Remy gazed down into his glass, stared at the deep brown pool of liquid within. He could still taste Viper's hard kisses in his mouth, no matter how much of the stuff he drank. It was a bitterness he couldn't wash down, that had stained his tongue and his stomach and his heart.
"Need a distraction?" Louis spoke, deadpan, from behind the counter.
"Nuh-uh," Remy muttered, throwing back the rest of his drink. "No more distractions. Not tonight."
Because there was something on his mind, and it wasn't just her. It was the Hounds. The glee with which his employer spoke of them. He couldn't work it out, but something big was going on behind that unfathomable mind, and he didn't like it. He didn't like it when he couldn't see into that mind. It never boded well. It was far better to be drunk, far better to be senseless than to ponder any of it.
He ordered another drink, and then another. By the time the sun had risen he was still there, still stooped over the bar and trying not to sleep, a curious memory of silk and porcelain replaying in his mind.
-oOo-
The next few months passed in a haze. By the end of spring he was feeling frustrated and managed to spend some time with Rita, most of which he spent talking about Rogue instead. Rita listened with patience and equanimity, but there was always a faint frown on her face as she did so. She'd long given up lecturing him on this particular obsession of his, and besides, there wasn't much more she could say on the subject without repeating herself.
So she lay there next to him and stared at the ceiling, until he realised he was going round in circles and the conversation turned to business.
"So who's on your agenda now?" she asked him when he'd given up talking about Rogue.
"Some guy. Madrox. De Multiple Man." Remy sat up, knees hunched under the covers, and lit up a cigarette. He offered her one, but Rita declined, since she was quitting for about the fiftieth time in her humdrum life. "Guy was loosely affiliated wit' Xavier's brood, at one point," he continued blandly. "Probably not when I was there though, since I don't recall him."
Rita glanced up at him, interest finally sparking in her pale blue eyes.
"What was it like then, Rems? Running with the X-Men?"
"Dunno." He shrugged. "Like bein' in church and listenin' to de priest makin' his sermon 24/7, I guess."
She laughed.
"That bad?"
He mused on it for a moment.
"Maybe not dat bad." A half-smile shadowed his lips. "Dere were some good t'ings about it."
"Like your nameless Rogue?" she quizzed sardonically.
"Amongst other t'ings." He looked down at her and grinned. "De eye candy at dat place was impeccable."
"Yeah," she remarked, her eyes going wistful. "Like that Wolverine guy. He was so hot."
Remy grunted sceptically. He'd never understood what it was about the hairy pygmy that had driven girls wild. Not to mention there had never been any love lost between the two of them.
"About that Multiple Man," Rita broke in, changing the subject briskly, "maybe you should get in contact with some of the other underground mutant organisations. You ever considered it?"
"I work alone unless I have to," he muttered ungenerously. "I don't need no one's help."
"But you need mine, right?" He glowered and she continued with a sigh: "Listen, the reason I'm suggesting it is that maybe they know some things that you don't. Ever since what happened at Trask Technologies last year, top-secret info on every single mutant known to the government has been floating around in the air like dandelion seeds, right there for you to catch. Maybe it's something you should check out."
"Pfft," Remy sounded flippantly. "Whoever took de trouble to hack into Trask's database ain't gonna go round sharin' his winnings wit' all and sundry. If it was me, or anyone else wit' half an ounce o' sense, I woulda kept de information close to my chest and played it for keeps. Dis guy, he's probably spreading misinformation, just t' keep de government on its toes. I'd bet you a thou no one knows what's really in those files but him."
"Him?" Rita raised an indignant eyebrow at him. "What makes you think it's a him?"
He frowned at her.
"Huh?"
"Well, no one knows it's a he that stole the info," she reasoned evenly, though there was an element of defiance in her tone. "Sounds to me like it was a woman."
He gave a bark of a laugh.
"How de fuck d'you know?" he scoffed, though he was inwardly curious. Sometimes Rita came out with the most ridiculous things, things that more often than not held a grain of truth.
"I don't know," she shrugged. "Just feels more like something a woman would do."
"Right." He cocked an eyebrow dubiously. "Is dis just more of dat female intuition crap?"
"Call it what you like, it's come in useful more often than not," she retorted caustically.
"Hmm." His lips were still twisted into a cynical grimace. "Well, whoever did it, dey got de smarts, dat's for sure." He paused, studied the glowing tip of his cigarette reflectively. "I wonder if dey found out anyt'ing about de Hounds?"
"The Hounds?" Rita was staring up at him questioningly again. He chewed on his bottom lip for a second, then placed the cigarette back in his mouth.
"It's not'ing," he returned in his usual blasé manner, throwing her a charming smile. "Just a thought."
-oOo-
The Hounds.
What was it about the Hounds?
Why was it so important to know how to deprogram them?
Was it merely intellectual curiosity, or was it something more?
Remy leaned against the wall and flipped the Ace of Spades between his fingers, stared at the red door opposite him, the one marked '554'. He was still thinking about it weeks later. If he could just figure out this question he'd be staring right into the window of his boss' mind. He'd have the upper hand for once. He'd have the knowledge, he'd have the power.
He'd have the power to walk away.
It was no use. He didn't get it. He didn't understand what it was his employer wanted most in this world. Anymore than he understood what she wanted.
And that meant that he had no power over her either.
He pushed himself off the wall and deftly flipped the card back into the pouch at his belt. That was why he was here of course. Nearly six months had passed before he'd finally made the time to come back to the safe house. It had been at the back of his mind for weeks and weeks now, but he'd managed to stave it off until the very last minute when he couldn't hold out any longer. Maybe it was the privacy. Maybe it was the fact that this was the only place where he felt there were no prying eyes. Maybe it was because in this place he truly felt he had a life outside of work, outside of what he did. Here, he had an interior life, he had thoughts and he had feelings, he had all sorts of dangerous and subversive urges that he couldn't control.
Until he solved the problem of the Hounds, this was where he could come and find a little freedom.
He stabbed the key in the lock, felt it give with a soft click. He pushed the door open. He walked inside. Dust and musk invaded him, but he was used to it, he ignored it. He threw himself down on the creaky armchair, looked about the room and pondered.
He wondered whether she ever came back too. It was quite possible. She could pick locks after all - he'd seen her do it. Maybe she came back and lay on the bed when she had a little time to herself; maybe she slept for a few hours and pretended he was there with her. Or maybe it was too dangerous for her. Maybe they would ask her questions. Of course he had no idea who 'they' were, but he had no doubt that 'they' existed. Maybe they didn't give her much free time; maybe they didn't like her getting involved in anyone else's agenda.
No, she definitely didn't come here, he decided. It was too risky. It was indulgent. Redundant. Frivolities like that had no place in the life of an outlaw and a freedom fighter.
Yet he was here, wasn't he?
He rose from the chair, agitated, and went to the window. It was the same view - the same wasteland, the same dusty stone slabs covering the same dirty quadrangle, the same crumbling buildings that had been marked for demolition the past five years. No one that mattered lived here anymore, except for him and a recurring dream that he dreamt once a year.
He gripped the windowsill and frowned.
I walk de edge, I don't take sides and I play for me. No one knows what I want, no one knows who I am.
No one has a hold over me.
Down on the square below, that same old mangy mutt he'd seen the winter before - the one that belonged to the homeless mutant - was chasing its tail round and round in plaintive circles.
"No one…" he murmured to himself.
So what keeps you here? Viper had asked him.
And he should have answered, the lure of something I can't have, the thrill of something that I can't touch and I can't hold - that I can never hold.
This butterfly he couldn't pin down, however hard he tried.
Yah can't pin this butterfly down, sugah. This one's got toxic wings. Touch her and you'll get burnt.
She'd already burned him, she'd already left a horrible scar, and it wouldn't heal, it wouldn't go away.
He stepped away from the window, his brow furrowed.
"You don't know who I am, chere," he whispered. "You don't know what I want, you can't give it to me and you just don't get it."
Because what he wanted was freedom, what he wanted more than anything - more than love and knowledge and power and riches - was to walk the path he chose, a path free from the dictates of Fate.
And once I find out 'bout de Hounds, once I find out what's so special about them, I'm free, I get to walk.
He made up his mind. Without another thought he strode out of the room, he walked away.
He knew what he was going to do.
-oOo-
There were a lot of people that lived in the sewers these days - the statics thought it was fitting, since their inhabitants were lower than rats anyway.
The difficulty was in locating the person that you wanted.
A long time ago - or at least what felt like a long time ago - the Manhattan sewers were inhabited by a group of mutants known as the Morlocks. Since the current government had declared martial law against all mutants, many of the Morlocks had either been killed or incarcerated; those that were left had been scattered, and their few meagre numbers fragmented. Their one-time leader, Callisto, was long dead. There was no one left to guide them, to rally them. Most were vulnerable and dispossessed. They had no homes to turn to, no families to take care of them. Most were left to fend for themselves.
Leech had once been one of their number, before the military had arrested him, before Remy had kidnapped him and sold him on.
It was still a stain that blotted his mind, sometimes, in the dead of night, when he couldn't sleep.
The niche he was hiding in was small, cramped, filthy, and stank worse than the regular U-bend. Remy didn't care. He was biding his time, and when he was biding his time he could wait for the moon to come round and still not even twitch a muscle. He could be as persistent and ruthless as a sniper when he needed to be, stalking his prey with infinite patience. And until his prey appeared, there was no movement, no thought, no force in the world that could distract him.
Splish.
Crouched low in his little hideout deep within the tiny recess, Remy's ears pricked up.
Splash.
Remy swung his head round slowly in the direction of the sounds. Footsteps. In water. His eyes burned like coals in the darkness of the niche.
Presently the footsteps came closer, until he could finally make out their source in the gloomy dimness…
A gaunt, grey-skinned mutant loped past the niche in the wall, neither sensing nor noticing Remy's presence. He walked with the lolloping gait of an ape, with the bent knees, the sagging shoulders, the deformed arms that hung too low at his sides. But there was none of the strength and sturdiness of the ape in this mutant. His limbs had the appearance of matchsticks strung together with sinew, giving the effect that one could break them with just the lightest of touches. The face was grim, haggard, as though locked in an eternal struggle with itself. Wary, haunted, this was a creature as wasted and shrivelled in on itself as a revenant.
Remy didn't have time to feel sorry for it.
With a fluid grace he leapt out of his hiding place, landing in the muck and the mire with a purposeful splash.
The matchstick mutant seemed to bristle, his body so tense it was as if it would shatter of its own volition. And then he was swinging round on those spindly legs, fixing dull, amphibian eyes on Remy, who said nothing, who stood there presenting nothing but himself and his purpose, that he meant no harm.
Recognition filled the dull eyes, then fear. The gaunt mutant gasped, turned and fled, sloshing through the murky waters and into the darkness.
"Caliban!" Remy called, but it was no use - the Morlock wasn't going to listen, he was too panicked.
What does it take t' get a little trust these days…?
Silent, jaw set, Remy whipped the quarterstaff from his belt. It extended with a loud shuck, and he sent it spinning off into the inky blackness with a casual flick of the wrist.
In the distance there was a faint thud and a short, pitiful groan.
Splash.
Remy found Caliban a few yards down the tunnel, spluttering in the shallow water, dazed and trying to get up. Quietly, callously, Remy picked up his quarterstaff and held it menacingly to the emaciated Morlock's throat, whose eyes were bulging up at him in sheer terror.
"P-p-please," the mutant whimpered miserably, "p-please don't hurt me. You've come to take me, haven't you? Please, I'm begging you, don't do it. Kill me if you have to, just don't take me to them…"
Met with this cowering submission, even Remy could not help but be touched. Still, he had no time for sympathy. That wasn't why he was here. If he started feeling sorry for every Morlock he met, he wouldn't have time for anything else.
"I'm not here t' take you away," he replied calmly, coolly. "I'm not one of 'them'. I just want t' talk."
Caliban's eyes were bulging crazily, whether due to starvation or terror or sheer insanity Remy couldn't tell.
"I don't believe you!" he whined pitifully. "I know you! Remy LeBeau, Gambit! I know what you did to the Morlocks, what you still do to mutants!" He squeezed his eyes tight shut, his whole body quivering beneath the weight of the quarterstaff, as if he were gathering all the courage left inside him for this one single moment, and suddenly he squeaked: "They've been after me too, they have! They need me because I know! I know, I do, and they find that useful, but I won't let them get me and I won't let you get me either! So do me a favour and kill me now, Remy LeBeau, Gambit! Put me out of my misery, I have nothing left to offer anybody!"
Remy stared down at the shuddering mutant, alternate waves of pity and disgust washing over him. He squinted down at that pale, thin face, said: "You're wrong. You have somet'ing t' offer me, and I ain't gonna leave until I get it."
Caliban's eyes were still shut tight, as though to refute the very world in doing so.
"You lie!" he spat. "I don't believe you. A thief and a liar once, always a thief and a liar! Just like them. And I'll not join them!"
"Them?" Remy inquired sharply. "Who's them? Ahab and his fucked up cronies? They want to turn you into a Hound?"
What a coincidence…
Caliban said nothing, but squirmed and whimpered like a dog in the dirt. Remy swore. He was losing his patience.
"Lissen t' me," he rasped down at the cringing Morlock. "If dere's one t'ing I hate in dis fucked up world it's a Hound. And whatever you may t'ink of me, I ain't gon' sell another mutant over to dat bastard Ahab. Believe it or not, I ain't here on business. Dis is personal. I would get someone else t' help me out on dis case, but dey're kinda slow and right now I'm an impatient man, so dat's why I'm here wit' your sorry ass right now - and not because of some screwed up deal I might have wit' Ahab or any of dat bastard scum!" He leaned in, hissed threateningly: "Now are you gonna help me or not?"
At some point during this speech Caliban had opened his eyes and though Remy was by no means acting in a friendly manner, he seemed to have exuded some sort of sincerity, because the Morlock had stopped shaking and had calmed somewhat.
"I-If I tell you," he stuttered, daring to prop himself up a little on his elbows, "will you promise to go away, and never bother me again? That you'll never tell anyone you found me?"
Remy sneered.
"If you can take de word of a so-called thief and a liar, then yes, I promise."
"I-I mean it!" Caliban cried in sudden agitation. "No more questions, no more visits! I want to be left in peace! I don't want any more part of it, any more part of this! Living my life from day to day, living like everyone else's pawn, like I have no future, like I have to stagger from one present to the next! If you ever want anymore information from me you'll have to kill me, I mean it!"
"I've given you my word," Remy replied quietly, his voice wavering with repressed anger. "Now will you do dis t'ing for me or not?"
Caliban's eyes shot this way and that, then finally darted back to Remy. After a while, he nodded.
"All right. Tell me who it is you're looking for."
Remy retracted the quarterstaff, and with a rapid, almost imperceptible movement, had slid it back into his belt. He opened his mouth, but at the very last split second he changed his mind, and before he could stop it a different word was on his tongue, blooming, flowering, escaping…
"Rogue," he said.
Merde…
Caliban's eyes widened, frog-like.
"The X-Man?"
"Oui." Remy nodded briefly.
Fuck…
"No, no!" Caliban squeezed his eyes shut again, shook his head frantically. "I won't sell X-Men either! X-Men are good people, they helped the Morlocks! I won't let you hurt them!"
Remy rarely ever lost his temper but that did it.
In one foul swoop he'd picked up the Morlock by the scruff of his collar, dragged him out of the water and to his feet.
"Lissen t' me," he seethed to the scrawny mutant, who was now staring at him again with that tremulous, amphibian gaze. "Tradin' in X-Men is not what I do. I was an X-Man too, once. T'ink what you like about dat, but it's de truth. Now what happens t' dis girl is important to me, and I ain't got time t' lissen to you weepin' and wailin' about how fucked up your life is, 'cos guess what? You ain't de only one." He shoved Caliban away from him, who staggered backwards, only managing to stay upright on those gangly, spindly legs with an effort. "Now tell me where she is!"
"I can't!" Caliban clasped his hands to his head and looked like he was about to rip out fistfuls of hair.
"Whaddaya mean, y' can't!" Remy growled.
"My power! I can only detect mutants within a twenty-five mile radius…" Caliban dropped his hands, breathed in heavily before continuing disconsolately: "She comes and goes. In and out. I-I don't know where she is right now, but-"
"Where does she go? Where was de last time you saw her?" Remy demanded ravenously.
"I-I…"
"Tell me."
Ten minutes later, when he was top-side again and with this new piece of information in his hands - only then did it occur to him just how foolish he had been.
The location of the Hounds, of the X-Men… his freedom, dust on the wind. Thrown away for a woman he couldn't have and he couldn't keep.
He stared back at the manhole he'd just emerged from. It was too late to go back now.
You're a fool, LeBeau. A fuckin' fool.
Not that it mattered anymore. Because that was the last Remy ever saw of the Morlock named Caliban.
-oOo-
-END OF PART FOUR-