So like I know I've been known to reply to every single review that I get...but I'm in college now and did you guys know how much frickin' reading they make you do! So yeah, I'm about a whole BOOK behind in my history class so I'm just gonna briefly upload this for you guys!
Oh, and I just want to comment on how crazy it is that New Orleans (of all places) was hit by a devastating hurricane. When I heard that—and this shows how big of a dork I am—I thought: Oh my God that's Remy's hometown. Yeah, I know.
x
Cigarette smoke wafted in thin wisps throughout the room, mingling with the sounds of sociable voices and tinkling glasses. Lights were dim to allow convenient shadows where customers might conceal themselves. The bar was one of the minority downtown that enforced little rules and asked no names. Few knew of it and even fewer were sly enough to endure its interior, where good looks gained favor, money persuaded, and the naïve were easily prey to cons.
At one of the poker tables five players were engrossed in a game. A heap of cash sat in the center, eyed warily by every man with a stake in the winnings.
"Moment of truth," the dealer said, looking around expectantly.
Three players folded, scowling bitterly. Of the remaining two, one was a scraggly, red-faced man over thirty, probably indulging in a few hours' decadence without the knowledge of the missus and children. He fanned his cards on the table, revealing a full house hand. Grinning smugly, he looked eagerly at his opponent.
The last player, youngest at the table, seemed subtly amused. His red-on-black eyes peered over his cards, a slight glint in the crimson irises. Russet bangs—too long to be gentlemanly, too short to be grubby—fell over his forehead in a teasing manner. With a subtle flick of experienced fingers, his cards were displayed upon the table: a straight flush.
"That's impossible!" his opponent exclaimed.
The dealer gathered up the cards, "Le Diable Blanc does it again."
He gathered his bounty, looking only vaguely pleased, as though winning for him was perfunctory.
The red-faced man had brightened a few shades of crimson. Without warning he grabbed the youth by the collar and jerked him forward. Chairs clattered to the floor as the other players abruptly stepped away.
"That was two weeks grocery money you just cost me," he glowered, breath smelling like beer and onion rings. "No way a dirty mutie got that hand without cheating."
Le Diable Blanc looked down at the clenched fists by his throat. His gaze flicked back to his opponent, steady and critical, demonic eyes glowing subtly from incensement, "Y' wrinklin' m'shirt, home."
The man scoffed, "Snotty little punk—" He lost the rest of his thought, too occupied with the head-splitting pain that had exploded in his face. He crumpled to the floor, stunned, wondering when and how the dirty mutant had punched him.
The youth reached into his pocket and pulled out three fifty-dollar bills. He stepped over the red-faced man, tossed him the money, "Don' need it anyway." Straightening the collar of shirt, he headed for the bar without a glance at the man's reaction. Dieu, did he hate having to deal with the pompous ones.
Seating himself on a stool, he hailed the bartender, "Shot o'de usual. An' leave de bottle."
"Could've gone a little easier on him, LeBeau."
"Homme shouldn' gamble if he can't take de loss." Remy could almost smirk at the irony of his statement. Speak for y'self. He picked up the tiny glass that had been set before him and gulped it down without the faintest flinch. He took two more shots without pause.
"Take it easy, man," the bartender said. "You'll drown in that stuff otherwise."
"Dat doesn' sound too bad."
"Psh, you're crazy talking now."
Remy shook his head and proceeded pouring himself another glass.
"Suit yourself," the bartender muttered, "but I ain't hauling your shit-faced ass out of here if you pass out." He moved on to serve other customers.
The bottle of liquor glistened like ambrosia in the amber lights. Remy stared at it blankly, focused his attention on the comforting warmth that was already growing in his stomach. Lately, it had come to be the only thing he felt, no matter how artificial he knew it was, no matter how fleeting. The only down side to drinking himself to oblivion was the period between the first shot and blacking out—during that time his mind wandered to things from long ago and far away, things that stirred buried thoughts and feelings that would only complicate his life, no matter how despicable it now was, how pathetic.
Y'ain' not'ing but his dog, Rem, he thought.
A crash exploded on the other side of the room. Somebody had smashed a chair into a man's back. The fight escalated, soon involving every drunkard in that corner of the bar. Slinky waitresses dodged flying objects, some giggling in excitement while the newer ones cowered in alarm. Remy's eyelids fell halfway down as he sighed in irritation. Maybe he was expecting too much in a place like that, but he'd been looking for a peaceful evening. He fingered the wad of cash he'd won from the poker game, debated tossing in the cup of some hobo on the street. It'd be the only good deed he'd done in a long, long while.
"You look about dismal as I feel."
He didn't turn to acknowledge the speaker, only sipped his liquor.
She sat in the stool next to him, slender body wrapped in a black strapless cocktail dress. Her skin was pale, even in the warm light that glinted off the auburn of her hair. "But I think we can cheer each other up." She caressed his forearm tenderly, clear eyes begging to be looked at.
"Off," was all Remy said. It hadn't escaped him the resemblance she bore to someone he knew. Someone that continued to haunt him every waking day, every solitary night.
"You don't gotta act so cold," the girl said. She was young, barely past her teens though her demeanor would convince otherwise. How long had she been in the business? It was a pity. A real pity. Like it was with everyone in this decrepit bar.
"Fille, y'don' wan' do dis," Remy said, finally turning to look at her. Oui, she looked like her a lot. But not enough. Never was it enough.
The girl pouted, glossy lips pursing in a perfected act. "Usually I'm not the one asking," she sighed. "But I don't much feel like the thugs tonight."
Remy suppressed the huff that threatened to insult her. "Den go home," he said, almost a command.
She bristled noticeably, "Some people need to work for a living." Her eyes, no longer coy and welcoming, hardened at his tone. He could almost admire that sort of fortitude, that sort of self respect. At least she wasn't the type that enjoyed what she did, at least she knew better. But that only made her situation ever the more tragic.
Remy suddenly felt deflated. He finished his drink and reached into his pocket. As he moved away from the bar, he brushed past the girl, placing his poker winnings into her slender palm. "Dere's always another way," he whispered in her ear. "Don' make me regret dis kindness, mon cherie." He walked away without turning around, but could still appreciate the expression of shock, confusion, and yes, even gratitude, that radiated from the girl's face.
The street outside proved to be much more peaceful. Remy flipped up the collar of his duster and buried his hands in the pockets. He strode down the city avenue, warm and slightly dazed by the liquor. He thought about the heist from earlier that day; he thought about the young prostitute; he thought about all those worse off than him but felt none the better. As always when in such a state, memories began resurfacing in his mind, each as torturous and aggravating as they were beautiful and precious.
Let's just say it was my powers she wanted to nurture. — You an' I, we could write a book 'bout it. Been down de same roads...
I'll take care o'dis, chere. Promise. — Don't disappoint me
Just give me one night, Remy, one night.
Wait f'me….Don' forget 'bout dis, chere. — Ah won't.
He shook his head, feet pounding the concrete sidewalk in his heavy stride. It wasn't that long ago, just long enough to be forgotten, to never have any real hope of getting back. At least, not much. Especially after all that he'd done, what he had become. Sometimes if he allowed it, he could hear the screaming in his ears, see the dead, bloody faces of his victims; he could feel Belle pounding her fists weakly against his chest, pretty blue eyes pouring tears in rivers. Not just her either, non, not just her.
Others, people–mutants–he didn't even know by face let alone name. They screamed too. Dieu did they scream as they died.
But not tonight. He wouldn't torture himself tonight—at least not in that way. Instead he imagined locks of silky auburn hair, the twin streaks of dove feather framing her face. He listened for her husky Southern drawl and imagined the bright green emeralds of eyes he had willingly fallen into. And her skin, dieu, her skin, the touch of her warmth, her breath on his chest, her hands caressing away every and all discomfort…
Beep beep beep.
Remy looked down at his belt where a pager was clipped. A text message blipped on the view screen: report promptly. He shut off the alarm and tilted his head back, drew a deep breath of metropolis-tainted night air. It looked like rain, confirmed by the large thunderclouds rolling and boiling in the sky. His evening didn't seem like it'd be any more peaceful, his hopes vanquished by the devil's call. Pulling the trench coat tighter around himself, he strode in the direction of Essex's compound.
x
The large warehouse appeared ramshackle and decrepit from without; siding of old bricks crumbled from age, while metal pipes left streaks of unsightly rust upon its haggard construction. Remy entered with the familiar stride of one who had walked the area far too many times.
He moved through the crooked bolt-iron door, past wide spaces littered with abandoned manufacturing equipment, until he reached the seemingly broken twin elevators. He pushed the cracked, down arrow button; it did not light up, but rattling metal on screechy old pulleys sounded behind the closed automated doors. When the elevator car arrived he looked into the familiarly disheveled interior, no longer put off by its dilapidated appearance–anyone else would have hesitated to enter, or even walked away entirely.
After a few seconds the elevator came to a jolting stop, the doors opening with creaky rattles. Up ahead was another elevator, clean and sleek with stainless steel coating. Remy boarded that one and descended to the hidden laboratory beneath the abandoned warehouse. The doors swung smoothly, noiselessly open; he stepped into a space of complete darkness. As he moved forward, thin fluorescent bars of light lit up at his coming, gradually revealing bit by bit of the long corridor. At the end twin doors of black glass stood closed, a touch pad to its right glowing red.
Remy pushed his thumb onto the pad. The computer scanned his print and after a few seconds, the touch pad turned green in acceptance. The black-glass doors opened with a soft hiss, and he calmly entered the lab.
As always, metal tables, glass vials, beeping monitors, and strange apparati were his greeting. He glanced around the scientific workspace, seeing it all with a familiar eye, with a familiar pang of dread to the stomach. What now, the dread taunted him, what next. He did not wait long before his mast–employer, made himself known. Not a master. Not.
"You are unusually tardy, LeBeau."
He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing. When he turned around he appeared calm and detached, nothing on his face betraying the tight wad of disgust and loathing writhing in his gut.
There the man stood, the one that had saved his life, restored control to his powers, and yet Remy could do nothing but hate him. He stared at the man's sickly pale skin and red eyes, his inky black lips and oily black hair, and...hate hate hate.
What was close to a scolding look quickly disappeared from Essex's pasty visage. He turned to examine a concoction he was brewing on a nearby lab table. "No matter," he said. "I have another assignment for you."
Remy's jaw tightened. "Oui?" he said, apathetic. Always apathetic. That was the only way to survive. Care too much and he might as well become suicidal. "Dat's funny, I t'ought we'd have a lil' discussion 'bout all dese jobs I still been doin' f'you."
The scientist didn't appear to be listening. Hands as ashen as his face neatly recorded notes onto a clipboard while he examined the chemical brew on the table.
"M'done, Essex," Remy continued, despite the doubt nagging at his stomach. "Dis arrangement wasn' go'n' last forever. I was only bein' polite before not pointin' out dat wit' jus' a lil' effort, I can steal de serum an' be on m'way outta here."
"And how long do you suppose one vial would last you, Gambit?" came the counter.
Remy narrowed his eyes. Hate. He could feel his eyes smoulder with red-hot hate.
A mirthless chuckle ejaculated from the cold man. He looked up from his work, settling demonic eyes on his unwilling henchman. "I can sense the strain in our relationship, Gambit. And yes, I agree that our contract should soon expire–but I presently have an assignment for you."
Remy scarcely dared to hope, yet it was tainted by dread. "What assignment?"
"You should find it fitting, seeing as how it is a simple task of thievery. I have booked a flight for you to Manhattan. An event of great importance is to occur and you must be there for its execution. Further details will be supplied upon arrival."
New York. Bayville. Xavier Institute. For a moment Remy lost sense of where he was. He blinked, immediately regaining composure. He hadn't been back since... It wasn't something he wanted to think about, had been one of the biggest reasons keeping him away. And now he was forced to return by the bidding of...?
"I suggest you get moving. Your plane leaves in an hour. Here are your tickets." Reaching into his lab coat, the scientist revealed a travel packet and offered it for reception.
Remy stared at it a few seconds before accepting. "Dat's all y'go'n' tell me? Even de other jobs were less vague."
Essex shrugged, "You're a versatile lad, adjust accordingly as the situation demands. You may depart." He turned to leave but stopped at realizing the young man did not exit. "Have you more to say?"
Red eyes glowed dangerously in seas of black, orbs blacker than Essex's inky mouth. "Dis de last one," came the hoarse, grave words. "Afterwards m'done."
Essex calmly assessed the young thief, attempted reading that face of potent genetic allure that was kept in such practiced poker indifference. The boy was good, no doubt of that, and such a loss of valuable skill if permanently departed. But there was a time to let go of minions, especially when they were obviously on their last straw of patience and endurance. "As I mentioned earlier, I expected so much. This shall be your last job for me. I will promptly give you the remaining amounts of serum you require once the task is completed."
Remy was too wary to believe him, too frightened to hope. He briskly nodded and left the laboratory without another word or look. For the moment, just getting away from that robotic man would be enough to calm his nerves. He endured the tedious motions of getting out of the decrepit building and was soon breathing free night air.
New York. He was returning to New York. Instinctively he turned to face east, stared at the hazy skyline, tried to picture it spiked with the edifices of Manhattan. The city was so close to where he'd wanted to be for so long... he wasn't sure he could resist going back to what he'd left behind, what he'd for so long betrayed. But how could he even think of such a thing after all that had happened?
Sapristi, s'jus' a job. Y'ain' havin' no reunion.
Remy ran a hand through his hair. It'd been long indeed. He was probably forgotten, cast aside, or dieu hopefully not – replaced. But he still wanted what was lost. Maybe, if he dared, he could get it back again just to at least catch a glimpse of her.
Of Rogue.
x
Thick, boiling clouds of angry greys and blacks suffocated the skies above Seattle; they rendered the night menacing and hostile, every gust of wind whispering threats, every movement a caveat of surreptitious assault. Fusillades of rain pummeled the city streets relentlessly while thunder crackled not too far away.
Within a towering edifice of the business district, a door slid open in one of the building's many, many rooms. At the center of the room reposed a round table engraved with intricate designs of myth and symbol. The visitor cautiously, quietly approached, taking notice of the strange, rather plain pattern at the middle of the table's smoothly polished surface: silver-embossed circles, one within another and numbering nine.
Suddenly a light flicked on from the corner. The small lamp's warm beams barely illuminated a pair of slender legs, ensconced in the leather arm chair beside it; they were gracefully crossed, a pair of equally slender hands folded across the lap. Shadows concealed half the torso and all of the face the limbs belonged to. "You, sir, are late."
His black coat and fedora were slicked from the outside rain, dripping water that was soon absorbed by the verdantly carpeted floor. Red eyes glowed beneath the brim of the hat. "Apologies," he said, slithery voice flat and perfunctory.
After a few moments of scrutinizing pause, he was asked, "What tidings have you?"
"Progress. All is occurring as planned and discussed. Here is the report you requested, complete with data charts, diagrams, and schematics. Your investments have not been futile." He set a plastic folder on the round table.
"I should hope not, considering their magnitude. How much more time do you need?"
"A project of such ingenuity, of such scale and consequence, cannot be put to a timetable. You were informed of this from the beginning."
"Of course, I only ask for an estimation…"
"…which is unpractical and near impossible to give."
The slender legs, covered at the thighs by a turquoise skirt, slowly uncrossed, then crossed again. The arms soon mimicked the gesture. "Very well, leave it be your way. You are the brains behind this, after all. Have you anything to share regarding your colleagues?"
"As blinded by their cause as usual," he replied, voice perpetually monotone and detached. "They will play right into our hands."
"And your young, oh what shall we call him… slave?" A light, husky chuckle followed the remark.
"He executes nothing but direct obedience, as has been demonstrated by past events. At the moment he is on his way to New York to secure a small, but important, detail to our project. It should not take long."
Ivory hands clapped softly together in excited anticipation. "Oh, I can hardly wait for the day, Nathaniel. When all the pieces come together, after they are all under our grasp…oh, my dreams could never be sweeter. And it is so very close to happening. So very very close. Can't you simply smell it?"
"I do not waste time on reveries. Focused work in the present is the only thing that generates results."
"You know, with an attitude like that, I must wonder whether you will even be able to enjoy our impending victories. I would guess that once your work is completed, you will lose a sense of purpose and have a mid-life crisis or something." After a few giggles, "I am merely teasing, Nathaniel. Crack a smile now and then—it does the heart good…of course, I suppose you would have to have a heart…."
He made no reply and was promptly waved away.
"Very well, I tire of your presence. Our meeting here is finished."
He turned to leave, pulling the brim of his fedora down and further shadowing the pasty skin of his face.
"Ah, one more thing, Nathaniel. She has returned."
He paused, turning around ever so slightly. His stomach would have flipped had he been capable of experiencing true excitement. "You are certain."
"As the sun sets. If you spent more time out of that claustrophobic lab of yours, you might have taken notice of her on the news. But alas, all is happening as has been foretold. I trust upcoming events will be very interesting indeed."
"Indeed," he echoed, then seemed to fall into deep contemplation. After a few lingering moments, "You realize what this means."
"Of course I do. I make that my business."
"Good. Very good. Until next time, my lady." He nodded and left the room, many thoughts running through his machinating mind.
Outside the storm raged ruthlessly, droplets of rain pounding upon any unfortunate pedestrian—but he took little notice of it. Even the abrupt flashes of lightning, the angry cackles of thunder, did nothing to disrupt his stride. He was lost in thought, memory, and planning.
She was back.
At last. At long last.