The street light cast a dank glow into the street, reflecting off of the mist that flitted from the sky down to the ground, settling on his body as he lay in the back streets of the city that had taken him in as a child- saw his eyes and invited him to join the hordes of freaks and criminals that already infested the streets of New Orleans. And look where that got him.
A groan of pain ripped itself out of his lungs as another fire lit itself under his skin.
What had those scientists done to him? After stealing him off of the very streets he now lay, 'Weapon X' had rearranged something. Changed something.
He'd had control.
He'd had his demon eyes.
He wanted them both back. They made him who he was. He couldn't live without them.
"Merde." He moaned, the burning sensation kicking up to another level of agony. The arms he had crossed over his stomach tightened their hold across the center of the fire in his chest. His teeth ground together with enough force that the sound of grinding drown out the rest of the world.
The string of events that had led him to laying on a back street, writing in agony, alone in the night weren't entirely clear to him at the moment. He knew it involved Julien at some point.
A knife.
A cigarette burn.
An explosion.
The fire flared, sending his pants for breath into near nonexistence as he dragged one rough gasp into his lungs and held his breath to limit the motions that seemed to fuel the fire as he struggled to keep it contained.
He turned his accusing brown eyes to the heavens, the gloss of tears amplified the innocence of the question in his eyes- Why? What had he done to deserve this? Was there no mercy?
The street light flickered out, leaving him alone in dark.
A shattered sob escaped his lips as he continued to stare up at the stars in the sky, the only source of light he could find in this dark situation.
…Until he noticed two small pits of glowing red that could have been eyes if they had held an emotion other than 'merciless'.
"I find it sad that a young man of your incredible abilities would simply allow himself to be beaten and abandoned in the back streets of a slummy city." The dark figure belonging to the eyes said conversationally, as if finding men writing in pain in the gutter was a daily occurrence for him.
"Who the hell are you?" He ground out, immediately on defense, learning quickly that the entirety of the world was turned against him in some sick twist of fate.
"Call me Sinister." Said the man. "But I prefer to think of myself as… a saint."
"Y' don' look like any saint I've ever seen 'fore."
"Because, I'm sure you've seen so many, Remy." The man chuckled. "I'm here to help you."
"Sure." He said in what was meant to be a sarcastic tone, but really came out as more of a growl as the pain under his skin spiked again. It didn't even dawn on him that while Sinister had offered up his own name, he had made no such sacrifice.
"I understand you have an issue with control." Sinister continued in the same chatty form. "What if I could make it go away?"
He hesitated, wary of the stranger.
"The pain-?"
-Burned.
"Your eyes-?"
-Were normal.
"Your control-?"
-Was a thing of the past.
"What would you do to make it all go away?" The red of the other man's eyes glowed.
"Anything." Remy gritted his teeth again, pulling the charge out of his gloves as he lost control again.
A Cheshire smile appeared below the eyes.
"That's exactly what I wanted to hear."
-
Remy woke up violently.
-
(JAMIE) I'm a bad author. With writer's block. (The writer's block's name is Pat*. Feel free to verbally harass it.) But I'm sick and I'm tired and I have to write an essay comparing Odysseus and Captain Kirk. (Awesome.) I'm really, really, really sorry if the next chapter isn't out in a speedy fashion. (Good news- It'll be longer and contain a plot monster!) Nap time for this chica.
*Yes, I named my writer's block.