House of Cards

by Ludi

Three people, one destiny. Five days in four years: is it ever going to be enough to get close to someone when the world and even your life are crumbling around you? Rogue, Gambit, Days of Future Past. Darkfic. COMPLETE.

18. Suspicions

: HOUSE OF CARDS :

PART FIVE : COLLUSION

(18) - Suspicions -

Summer was languishing in the mutant ghettos like a disease; the heat seemed to get inside you, making everything sluggish and dense. Remy LeBeau stood at his apartment window in his underwear, alternating between caffeine and nicotine, looking down onto the streets below. Down in the courtyard two ragged little children were playing a primitive game of tag; their mangy dog was lying in a patch of shade as if he had collapsed there, panting in the humid heat of mid-afternoon, his tongue lolling out. Despite the squalor, despite the poverty of this particular neighbourhood, children still found the time to play, to laugh. That was why Remy spent as much time as he could in this apartment, when it was safe to do so; every day he'd get this rare treat, the infectious laughter of children wafting up through his windows from the courtyard down below.

Behind him, in the dark and disordered recesses of his room, a dilapidated old black and white TV was playing a classic John Wayne movie; on the rumpled bedcovers, an ancient cassette player was speaking in a tinny, indistinct voice, announcing heatedly, "…I swear to the American people, as God is my witness, I did not do what I have been charged with… I was in no orchestrated effort to bring down Trask Technologies… It is patently ridiculous that I met that night with a secret agent who offered me millions of dollars to hack into the database… Where on earth would mutants get millions of dollars from?…"

Remy moved away from the window, went to the bed and rewound the cassette.

We have our ways, he thought grimly to himself. We have our ways…

He stopped the tape, pressed the play button, taking a swig of coffee from his cup. The tinny voice came back, this time saying in a harassed tone, "Yes, I 'saw' a girl with a white-streak in her hair that night… But then I 'see' a lot of girls… I have provided both Mr. Trask and the court with a detailed description of that particular individual, and they have both been satisfied with my testimony… But let me assure you that there was nothing unusual about this girl at all… She said and did nothing that would lead me to suspect her… She could not have stolen the access cards I possessed as they still remained on my person until the day of my resignation from Trask Technologies… Of course, I thoroughly support FBI and Hound investigations into this girl, if of course she had anything to do with it…" The man was interrupted mid-sentence and another voice hastily added: "And of course national security spokespeople assure all adult women who fit the description that there is no cause for immediate concern… While they may be stopped in the streets and searched, and while their identification papers will be checked, if they have nothing to hide they have nothing to fear…" Another voice cut in, different from the first two. "Yes, and it is very possible that the search will be narrowed down to mutants, am I right…?" "Oh yes…" the second voice replied,"There has been something of a furore about non-mutant girls being searched over the past few days, but the President himself has pointed out that we can't be too careful in today's climate… We have no idea what these feral mutants may persuade innocent humans to do in order to further their cause…"

Remy frowned and hit the fast-forward button, then pressed 'play' again.

"…has also been speculation and rumour about the identity of this mystery girl… FBI records of the infamous mutant outlaws, the X-Men - who were eliminated or arrested in the first military raids on mutant strongholds five years ago - name one of their members, who appears to fit the description of the woman National Security and Hound agents are currently searching for… This mutant outlaw goes by the name of Rogue - given name unknown… status is currently missing presumed dead… What do you think of such observations, Mr. Rifkind?"

The first voice returned, this time openly scornful, "Well that's just ludicrous… The girl I saw was not a mutant, and she was most definitely not an ex-X-Man. And no, I am not in any way, shape or form in collusion with the X-Men. It's a well-known secret that the surviving members are confined to internment camps across the -"

Remy had heard enough. He hit the 'stop' button again and sucked on his cigarette thoughtfully.

So they've made de link wit' Rogue already…

At that moment his cell rang, breaking off his train of thought. He set down his coffee and his cigarette, went to the dresser and grabbed the phone.

"Yeah?"

The voice that answered was low, cultured and sonorous, dangerously so.

"I take it you located Mr. de la Rocha?"

"Yup," Remy replied in a dispassionate tone. "I'll get onto pickin' him up tonight."

"Good. Empaths are such interesting creatures. I'm sure you can appreciate the finer subtleties of such a power."

"Funny. I didn't t'ink emotion and subtlety were in any way compatible."

"Well, of course an uncivilised brute such as yourself would think so. Were you burning the midnight oil again last night, my faithful friend?"

"Non, not last night."

"How delightfully unexpected. Are you quite sure there are no empaths around influencing you, Gambit?"

"Peh. Non. I'm just workin' on a side project right now. Besides, hormones and emotions are totally diff'rent t'ings. I don't t'ink an empath could affect my more 'uncivilised' urges."

"Ah, but no one is quite sure on that point. It's the question of the chicken and the egg rearing its ugly head once again, I'm afraid." The voice sounded faintly bored. "Once I have Mr. de la Rocha, I'll be able to settle the argument once and for all."

Remy grunted and went for his cigarette again.

"I'm not int'rested in all dat bullshit," he muttered.

"Ah, yes, I forgot. All you're interested in is your big fat paycheque. And freeing the other insignificants who don't matter. Ah well. That is your prerogative, I suppose." There was a pause. "Well, I look forward to our next meeting then, Gambit. And as to this 'side project' of yours… please make sure it doesn't get in the way of your… other priorities."

"I'm an expert at compartmentalising. Don't worry."

"You are quite the least of my worries, my dear boy," came the mocking retort. "But do make sure you return to me alive, LeBeau. Despite appearances, I find I do have a certain fondness for you after all."

"Hmm. One day I'll work out just exactly why you keep me around. I'm sure it ain't got not'ing t' do wit' any fondness on your part."

"On the contrary, my dear boy, I find myself quite attached to you… in more ways than one." He trailed off on a small, ominous chuckle, before adding: "I won't keep your precious 'side project' waiting. Just make sure you report back to me when you have the empath."

"'Kay."

Remy ended the call and threw the phone onto his bed. For a long moment he stood in the middle of the room, mulling on this most recent call. Then he stirred into action, stubbed out his cigarette, drained his coffee, switched off the TV, and dressed. When this was done, he went to the cassette player, popped it open, and withdrew the tape. Then, bending down underneath the bed, he wrenched open a floorboard, underneath which was a veritable jumble of assorted paraphernalia, and onto which he unceremoniously threw the cassette. The tape now safely hidden, he secured the floorboard, stood up, and checked himself for equipment. Knife, cards, cigarettes… Yup, all there. No need for the pack. He'd only be making a short journey today.

Satisfied, Remy walked out.

-oOo-

He took care to ride as many back streets as he could - it hadn't been safe to take the main roads for years now, especially with regular Sentinel checks. Hounds wouldn't be a problem unless he caused a ruckus and they actively made an appearance, which wasn't overly likely to happen on this particular mission. Remy preferred stealth over outright aggression anyhow - he rarely got caught in situations where Hounds were likely to show up. The times he'd skirmished with them, he'd managed to get away with more than just broken ribs, and he had no intention of a repeat experience. Hounds were every mutant's worst nightmare.

Still, Hound presence had become more visible the past week or so. There was now a feeling that, with the Trask Technologies mutant info database made public to mutant rebel factions, said factions would be able to make concerted efforts to free certain mutants in certain camps. The camps themselves were being staked out on a twenty-four hour basis; there was also a government crackdown on rooting out the dissidents.

Remy had no doubt that these events had been exacerbated by the Guess incident, and his subsequent infiltration of the Ritz. Over a week had passed since then, and the wounds he'd received from that particular affair still pained him - though the wounds were less physical than they were emotional, when he thought of who had patched up his injuries so tenderly. Somehow their last meeting had tipped the scales into something more intimate, too intimate; too intimate for him to accept. He'd spent almost every free minute of his time delving into the ongoing saga of the mysterious girl with the white streak in her hair - it had been a way of getting close to her, but not close enough to rob him of his wits and senses. Nevertheless he'd spent every night since their last meeting alone - it was a dangerous precedent for him and he knew what it meant. It was the reason why he couldn't sleep, why he woke up shaking when he did. But try as he might he still couldn't bring himself to accept it.

He'd lied to her about his intentions that day. He hadn't been tailing Guess at all. That wasn't to say that he hadn't been tailing Guess on other occasions, because he had been, albeit for slightly different purposes. Guess had contacts, he knew where to find certain people, people that Remy had often needed to find before others did. But on that day, Guess had been far from his agenda. She had been on his agenda, and he'd been following her with the express intention of spending some time with her. It had just been a coincidence that Guess had been the one on her hit list, and when Remy had seen Trask enter that warehouse he'd instinctively known she'd bitten off more than she could chew. And so he'd followed her inside.

It was an unfortunate instinct of his to play the knight-in-shining-armour routine - that day had been no exception. Despite his better judgement he'd allowed himself to cross a boundary he'd promised himself he'd never cross - he'd got himself involved in her affairs, too involved to let it go easily. And now it was a facet of her life that he'd become fixated on, because it was the only thing he really knew about her, outside of their safe house, outside of their lovemaking.

He ground the Harley to a halt outside another old warehouse. It was the same kind of neighbourhood you saw all over - a quadrant of tall, concrete coffins which imparted nothing to the outsider except an impression of cold, stark indifference. He stepped off the bike and walked towards the warehouse. It had long been abandoned - the only things that called this place home were woodworm, rodents, and the odd drug addict. There was no need for stealth in gaining entry to this place. It was quite open to the public, and as far as he could tell, had been for years. He sidled into the rank, fetid open space that was main body of the building - there wasn't a soul inside. That made his job all the easier.

Remy walked across to the other end of the room, feigning casualness - only his eyes were watchful, darting here and there with great alacrity, taking in everything. At last he came to a back door, which revealed a small set of stairs that led downwards. Taking care to close the door behind him, he proceeded down the steps. At the bottom were three doors. Two were hanging off their hinges, the rooms inside were gutted and strewn with debris. The last door had been grafittied over, but remained intact. Remy walked up to it and tried the door handle. The door was locked, and any amount of pushing and shouldering wouldn't budge it. But he had come prepared. Fumbling at his belt, he produced a set of skeleton keys and got to work on the lock. It was only a matter of minutes before he heard it give way with a soft click, and he was finally able to push open the door.

What greeted him was an odd room - it was stacked high with various machines that were whirring softly on their desktops, shelves or tables; directional microphones, dictaphones, TV monitors, laptops and computers, VHS and DVD recorders, surveillance equipment… It was a veritable technophile's wet dream.

Remy stepped inside the room, letting the door swing softly shut behind him. It took a moment to acclimatise himself to the room, so neat, so ordered after the disarray that the rest of the building had been left in. There weren't only electronics in this room, but hundreds of notebooks, some stacked in piles on the floor, others standing to attention in their bookcases, others packed into cardboard boxes, all with their covers marked neatly in Guess' diligent and deliberate handwriting.

Of course, Remy had found out about this place entirely by accident; he'd simply been tailing Guess one day on the off chance, hoping to cut a deal with him over certain information, when Guess had ended up heading not to his apartment, but to this warehouse. It was only when Guess had left that Remy had taken the opportunity to break in and discover just what the shifty mutant had been hiding. What he'd found was a veritable treasure-trove of illicit information. And luckily, Guess had been so low on the government's priority list that both they and Trask Technologies didn't know about it yet.

Remy looked over most of the volumes in the bookcase with only fleeting interest. Each was inscribed with a date and a subject, whether a certain event or a person's name. He could only suppose that a mutant ability to rip other people's memories from their minds meant that there was more information to sift through than most people had - Guess had had to write everything down on paper, or save it all onto disc, in order to collate what he had stolen from other people's brains. Remy spent half an hour flipping through Guess' most recent memory records, both in the notepads and on the discs that had been stored away in a desk drawer. In none of these did he find the name of 'Troy Rifkind', nor the date of the night he had met Rogue at the Ritz. He could only guess that these files had been in Guess' apartment, and had been confiscated by government agents or Trask Technologies after his death. Thoroughly thwarted, Remy stood in the middle of the room and wondered what to do next.

That was when he saw the videotape, lying virtually on a nearby desktop. He picked it up and looked at the label on the spine, his stomach flip-flopping when he read 'Ritz Security Tape, 2nd duplicate, X-X-2010'. So Guess had been savvy enough to make two duplicate copies of the tape. He'd guessed as much…

There was another tape in the recorder, and Remy ejected it, slipped in the Ritz tape, switched on the monitor, and pressed 'play'. The screen flickered, came to life.

Rogue was sitting at the hotel bar, legs crossed, sipping a tequila. She was looking intently at something off-screen. He barely recognised her face - the deep cherry red lips, the dark, charcoal grey eyes. She was wearing a dark green dress of shimmering satin, strapless, low in the neckline and just a little above knee-length. Her hair was loose, cascades of cinnamon hair tumbling over onto her shoulders, the milky streaks of white hair giving a café-au-lait effect. Remy sucked in a breath when he saw her. He'd never seen her looking like this, like a woman, a beautiful, sexy, self-possessed woman who knew the power she had over men. He knew the look, the pose - it was the kind of look he'd seen on women many times before.

It was the look of seduction, of the temptress.

On the screen, something seemed to have half-startled her; he saw her swivel back round to face the bar. A few moments later, an unknown man approached her and offered her a card, which she handed back with a few, short words. The man inclined his head and withdrew; she turned back to the bar and sipped a little more of her drink; and then, suddenly, someone else approached her, someone whom Remy recognised immediately.

Troy Rifkind.

Remy leaned in, watching Rifkind buy her a drink, engage in small talk. The body language was unmistakable - Rifkind was interested in her, he was chatting her up, she was in direct line as his next conquest. And Rogue was talking back to him, smiling, laughing, joking. She wasn't oblivious to Rifkind's intention at all, but encouraging it, milking it, acting coy and demure and playing along with everything he said…

Rogue was flirting with him.

The realisation hit Remy like a sucker punch to the stomach. It wasn't the first time it had crossed his mind, but now, involuntarily, he found himself asking the question he'd been dreading for months… …

Did Rogue sleep with Rifkind that night?

Remy swallowed hard and hit the 'stop' button before he could watch anymore. Reason was telling him that it was entirely natural for a beautiful woman to use her charms to worm information from a man, without having to take the plunge and sleep with him. But on the other hand, Rogue had changed considerably over the past few years… She'd gone from being an awkward girl who had massive hang-ups about her body to a mature and experienced woman, and it stretched belief that he alone could be credited for being the cause of that particular change in her… And of course, she was perfectly entitled to be with other men…

I don't believe it. Not Rogue. Sure, she'd charm a man any day of de week, but anyt'ing deeper den dat, anyt'ing physical… she just wouldn't do it. Dis was de femme who'd freak if I even brushed up against her arm… No way she'd sell herself for de sake of de cause…

He didn't know whether he believed this reasoning or not, because he knew that despite her defensiveness over her body, she still agreed to meet with him on a regular if sporadic basis, with no pretence at commitment whatsoever…

But dat's diff'rent. Her and me, we got past, we got history… We're more den jus' strangers…

Much, much more. He still didn't like to admit it.

Merde. Dis has gotten too deep, LeBeau. You shouldn'ta stopped her dat first time round, you shoulda just left her alone and gone quietly about your own bus'ness… But you just had t' follow her, you just had to have a taste of her, didn't you?

And now she'd hooked him, dragged him down with her, down into the depths of something that was more than just lust and physical need and he couldn't handle it.

There was no point in staying. Wordlessly he switched off the monitor, ejected the tape and stuffed it into his duster pocket. Then, silently as he had come, he left.

-oOo-

"Hey Remy. It's Rita. I have some important information for you about that guy you asked after, you know, that so-called Multiple Man or whatever the heck he's called? But darling, you have to promise me you'll me out to dinner first, okay? And you know I won't complain if you wanna party a little afterwards. I still have that red dress I know you like… But listen, I've gotta go. Murray's here. Call me back when you're free. Take care o' yourself, sexy. Muah. Bye."

Remy deleted the voice message and dropped the cell phone down onto the mattress beside him. For several long minutes he stared blankly up at the ceiling, at the fan whirring round and round and round like a Ferris wheel moving ever onward, oblivious.

Summer had drawn on lengthier and more stubborn than any other summer yet, dragging on and on without any sense of respite. The past couple of days he hadn't been taking any calls except from his employer, hadn't changed out of his underwear, hadn't even stepped outside the apartment. He'd been living on a steady diet of spam and coffee and cigarettes; he'd even imposed a limbo-like state of celibacy on himself the past three weeks, and it was killing him. Life ached like an open wound that would not heal, and he could not take pleasure from anything anymore.

Moving his head slightly, he looked at the tape that had been left untouched on the nearby dresser for the past ten days. He'd seen no more of it than he'd watched in Guess' hideout the week before. He hadn't wanted to, for fear of what he may find. He knew he was being foolish and irrational, but he needed to talk to her, he needed to find out from her own lips what had happened, he needed to know if she'd slept with Rifkind, he needed to know if there had been others. He needed her.

Merde.

He picked up his cell phone again, dialled a certain number. It was several rings before the call was answered.

"Yeah?" The cheap and cheerful male voice was faint, hushed. Remy stared up at the fan, turning, turning…

"Did you find her?" he asked.

"Nope. She's gone."

"Whaddya mean 'gone'?"

"Gone as in gone. Split. Made tracks. Her and her family… they've moved house, know what I'm sayin'? She's not there anymore. But I could tell you where they used to hang out, y'know… Maybe you could go check it out… Pick up her trail again or somethin'…"

"Non." His tone was quick, decisive. "I don't wanna know about dat. Dat was her business, ain't got nothin' t' do wit' me. B'sides, they would've cleaned up b'fore they left, you ain't gon' find nothin' there."

"Suit yourself."

Remy looked at the tape on the dresser again, refusing to believe she was gone from his life...

"Look…" he began again, "jus' keep an eye out for her, okay? She may have moved house, but she's still gotta be workin' in de City… If you see her again…"

"Remy, bro… Listen t' me. I've looked for her. And I ain't findin' boo, man. I swear it." There was a pause, a sigh. "Look, man, maybe you might seriously want to reconsider the girls you see anyway. I mean, I ain't stupid, I watch the news too, you know. And that girl, she's hot stuff, and I don't mean in a good way. Half the city's looking for her. A mutant girl with a white streak in her hair? She's in deep and she knows it. She's gone dark, man. Invisible. You ain't gonna find her, not if she don't wanna be found no more. You wanna see her, you gotta wait for her to call on you, know what I'm sayin'?."

"Yeah, I know what you're sayin'. You t'ink I'm crazy and I should back off, but lemme tell you right now dat ain't gonna happen."

"Shit. Yeah, I know. You're fuckin' crazy, and I don't what the hell is up with you and this broad, but yeah, I am seriously getting the impression that you are not gonna back off." Another pause, another sigh. "Look, Remy, I owe you several favours, so I'll keep a lookout for the girl. If I ever see her again, I'll let you know. 'Kay?"

"'Kay. T'anks, mon ami."

"Don't mention it. Talk later."

He switched the phone off, dropped it on the bed and stood up. He should have thought about this before. She'd probably gone ahead and dyed her white streak, the one distinguishing feature his network of spies had known her by. If she had any sense at all she'd be lying low, keeping out of sight until the frenzy had died down. And he had no way of contacting her. No address, no number, not even anything to remember her by except a bunch of sordid nights they'd spent in one another's company.

But there was that videotape, sitting so innocuously to one side, taunting him. It was the only keepsake he had of her, and it was the one thing that he didn't ever want to watch .

He didn't have to think. In one swoop he'd snatched it up in his hands, his eyes flashing red in the dusty sunlight. A surge of power, a flash of pink light and the tape had been burnt to a cinder. Remy opened his hands and let the charred remains flutter to the ground.

The tape was gone, and so was the girl with the white streak in her hair.

-oOo-

Summer bled into winter bled into spring; by March he'd learnt to accept that Rogue didn't want to be found, and her name had dwindled to no more than a dull imprint etched upon his heart. By the following summer, the days had dragged into some semblance of normality - he stopped actively trying to look for her and got on with his life. Besides, business had increased; his services were in high demand, wherever it was that they happened to take him, from high security internment camps to ladies' boudoirs. The powers that be were growing restless, skittish. Hardly a day went by where he wasn't being called upon to find this mutant, or that mutant, for participation in this project or that project - Remy could only suppose that genius led to a certain capriciousness of mind that normal folk such as he did not possess.

There were two consequences to this state of affairs: firstly, that there were an inordinately large amount of mutant breakouts that year, which drove the government to distraction; and secondly that Remy had little time to go chasing after Rogue.

That didn't stop him from looking now and then, on the off chance, when he was on the job. There were often times when he would think he saw her on the streets, or lurking in the shadows when he was on a particular mission. Mostly, it would be the hair, or the stance; he'd find himself double-taking women on the sidewalk, only to find their faces were never the same, or the eyes would be there, but not the mouth, or the pout but not the laugh, and he'd walk on again disillusioned. Still, he figured it was better this way; that after all the melodrama the past four years had afforded him, he could go back to being the devil-may-care rogue he'd been before, a lone wolf hindered by no unnecessary attachment or emotion. Nevertheless, though he couldn't quite bear to admit it, he knew he would never be that same devil-may-care rogue again.

-oOo-

The winter of 2012 came on with a chill not seen for seventeen years; when it wasn't snowing, the air was so cold people hurried from house to boutique to café to work as if they had been chased from one building to the other. Remy, while a child of sunnier, humid climes, was as much at home in New York winters as New Orleans summers - nothing the weather could throw at him fazed him. On the contrary, extreme weather brought to mind memories of Storm - there were many days when he would wonder where she was and what she was doing, whether she was still beautiful and proud and insufferable, or whether the years had broken down the wind goddess' spirit too.

It was on one such morning that the phone call came.

The snow had stopped, leaving New York City frozen in its own grime. Sludge lined every street and sidewalk, painting the cityscape in filthy shades of grey. The temperature was so intensely cold that the snow had refused to melt for the past week; there had even been a crisis with some of the older Sentinel models, which had simply frozen into place overnight. Yup - there were a lot of reasons for Remy to feel buoyant these days. Business was steady, his wallet was full, he had a warm pair of arms to hold him at night (courtesy of Tracy, Amy, Collette and very occasionally Rita), and Louis' Place was cheap and open 24/7.

Louis kept the pints coming with his regular stoic calmness. He was standing on the other side of the bar staring at Remy drinking his third pint in forty-five minutes with the same deadpan look he always wore. It wasn't the staring that was bothering Remy. Louis stared all the time. It was the fact that he'd been staring at him non-stop the past half hour that was beginning to tick him off.

"What?" he asked irritably, unable to help himself. He knew it was never a good idea to piss Louis off. He'd seen Louis pissed off, and it hadn't been good.

"I thought you said you had a good night," Louis stated, picking up a nearby cloth and wiping a glass absently, still staring. His voice was as bland as if he'd stated that the sky was blue, or that coal was black. Remy scowled and downed the remainder of his pint.

"I had a good fuckin' night. Get me another."

Louis said nothing, took the glass and filled it up. Remy slapped some change on the bar, not really caring how much it cost.

"Need a distraction?" the older man asked, still staring, though dispassionate. Remy grunted.

"Y'know me. I got de attention span of a hummingbird on speed."

"Looks to me like you've got a woman on your mind."

"I told you, I had a good time last night. Women are de least of my troubles, mon ami. Now leave me alone." He lifted the glass and when he smacked it down again it was already half empty.

"What happened to that brunette you brought here once?" Louis questioned. Still staring. Remy stared back, tongue-tied for a moment. Then he picked up the glass again and muttered: "Dunno."

"Did they catch her?"

Remy could only suppose Louis watched the news too, and that he had a good long-term memory.

"Dunno," he repeated dismally. "What's wit' de twenty questions anyway?"

Louis shrugged. It was most animated Remy had seen him in years.

"She had nice eyes," he remarked off-handly. "Don't never wanna see a girl with eyes like that caught and thrown to the lions."

It was before Remy had the chance to muse over this odd statement that his cell phone started buzzing in his pocket. He knew the soft, cultured voice would speak even before it did.

"I have a job for you, LeBeau," it said. "A very important one. One that may very well play a part in the culmination of my life's work."

This was the not the first time Remy had heard such a declaration made by his employer, for genius often seemed to lend itself to grave errors of judgement. Nevertheless, Remy hadn't heard such excitement or fervour in that dark and elegant voice before, and something about that fact alone left him with deep misgivings about anything the voice asked him to do.

But there was a reason he still worked for his employer, why he still obeyed instructions from him, and it was more than just mere gratitude, or even fear… It was a sense that, out of all the deluded, disillusioned and desperate people of this world, his was the only sure-fire way of ensuring mutant survival, of facilitating their escape from bondage.

And it was because of this that Remy simply said: "What do you want me to do?"

The voice was just as silky, just as smooth in its reply.

"The usual. Release a mutant, and bring her to me. However, your task this time will be slightly different. We will be working in concert with another party, one whose assistance is required in locating this mutant and subsequently freeing her. I have taken the liberty of making a bargain of sorts with this second party… However…" and the voice's timbre changed slightly, sending cold shivers up Remy's spine, "it is often the nature of bargains that one may renege on them, a fact I am sure you are most acquainted with."

"Since when have you ever wanted to keep your side of the bargain anyway?" Remy dared to ask boldly; but the voice merely chuckled.

"Ah, but I have been quite fair to you, LeBeau - and out of nothing more than the kindness of my heart. You mean more to me than this rabble with which I have had to barter through nothing more than tiresome convenience. It is simple, Remy. They have information I don't, information of a sensitive kind that they are holding very close to their chests. And I have something they need too, which I am not about to shout abroad either. The deal with these people was a natural one to make, but I have no intention of keeping it."

"Hmm," Remy broke in on a reflective murmur. "Lemme guess. Dey want us t' split fifty-fifty, and since dis booty is de culmination of your life's worth, you ain't willin' to share, right?"

"Precisely. Their insignificant objectives mean nothing to me. Compared to my work, all other endeavours are mere seeds floating on the wind, tossed this way and that, unheeded by the great forces of time, of evolution. Only my endeavours prevail, only mine will gain immortality, LeBeau, and that is why you will bring the mutant to me and me alone, I will tolerate nothing less from you."

"And if our associates object?" Remy inquired, ignoring the sense of foreboding that was now creeping steadily through him like a frost, cold and unforgiving.

"Kill them," came the nonchalant reply. "Once we have obtained our quarry, I will have no further use for them."

Kill them. It was a command he'd heard many times before, but this was the first time it left such a bitter taste in his mouth and he didn't know why.

"And de goods? Who is it we're looking for?"

It was a name Remy already knew very well.

"Rachel Summers."

-oOo-

-END OF PART FIVE-