Notes:
Hi everyone! Some important notes to read before the story begins:
1) This is a sequel to Freedom and Necessity by vikingprincess and eyelessblade. I strongly recommend reading that story before you read this. It's only 8 chapters long! Check it out on LiveJournal.
2) This sequel is written with permission from vikingprincess and eyelessblade.
3) While I strive for historical authenticity, I'm not an expert in the era, and it's definitely not historically accurate 100% of the time. Historians, don't come at me. ^^;
4) I don't write in the same style as the original authors, so please don't expect me to.
5) I'm not following the accents the way the original story did (because I'm a Brit and I just can't), and Remy does not refer to himself in the third person. Sorry.
6) Half of the time the characters are speaking in French/German as opposed to English. I hope to express this through differences in the way they speak/lack of accent. Hopefully it's obvious.
7) This story is set in Nazi-occupied France in 1940-41. I try to be tasteful, but talking about things like concentration camps is going to be inevitable. If things like that trigger you, please read with caution.
To vikingprincess and eyelessblade - thanks guys for the permission to write this sequel to your awesome fic, and for sharing some of your original ideas with me. While I know my story must be very different from what you had in mind, I hope I manage to do the characters justice. 3
To all my lovely readers - I hope you enjoy! :) x
CITY OF LIGHTS
Chapter 1
He jolted awake to light, unbearably white and hot, from a dream he hadn't stopped dreaming the past 8 years. Honey lips and soft, soft skin… the agony of being dragged under, like a rubber band being stretched to its limits, and then… softness, quiet. The sunlight on his body, the sound of birdsong. Beauty and bitterness, the week-long trek through a jungle having nothing left to keep him going but the anger and the rage and the sense of betrayal… and the insidious realisation that he had loved.
He had loved.
Now he blinked in the blinding light, straightened himself slowly. He was sitting in a chair, at a table. There was a spotlight on him, and beyond—blackness.
He didn't know where he was, but he had an idea. Scotland Yard, perhaps. He didn't think they'd taken him far.
His entire body was hurting, the vision in his left eye was blurred, and beyond that, there was something else… a lingering sense of queasiness, the urge to retch, or vomit… the beginnings of a headache, looming right behind his eyeballs.
He never felt sick. Not like this. He felt weak; his joints ached.
Of course, they'd beaten him when they'd found him, and if he hadn't been betrayed by his so-called partner mid-heist, well, he'd be on the next plane outta this shithole and somewhere a little more glamorous. War-torn London held few charms for him. Certainly it was a great place to get away with the most outrageous criminal activity, seeing as pretty much all able-bodied men had been diverted towards the war effort, but… London was dirty. Down-trodden. A cesspool of filth. The Germans had started bombing a month or so back, and fuck, he wanted out now.
He wanted out.
But here he was.
Just woken up to this metal table and this metal chair, with a fat lip and a black eye, and one helluva headache, with a spotlight on his face.
He blinked, turned away from it. He thought he was going to throw up, but the indignity of that wasn't what was getting to him now. What was worse was that he'd been handcuffed to a bar in the middle of the table, and he'd tried to charge them, the table, the chair, anything, and nothing had worked.
Somehow, his powers had been switched off. There was some sort of bracelet on his left wrist, made of a dull, utilitarian metal, and he thought it might have something to do with it.
Fuck, it scared the shit out of him.
He heard footsteps in the blackness outside the ring of light that encompassed him, and he perked up slightly, listening. There was the faint wail of sirens from somewhere outside. All across London, families were hiding in makeshift bunkers, or down in the underground tunnels that made up the Tube. Lovely place for stashing hidden contraband – he'd been there a few times already. He wondered just how much Creed had sold out.
He didn't have time to mull on that question.
A man stepped into the ring of light, stared down on him. He was a slight man, with a lined, worn face, wearing a bland, grey suit. Neatly Brylcreemed hair and a five O'clock shadow. He had the gravitas of every uncorrupted veteran law enforcement officer, the weight of a hundred tested scruples showing in his careworn features.
"Mr. LeBeau," he said, in a flat, almost tired, British accent. Two more men stepped out from behind him, policemen in their starched blue uniforms, pointing pistols at him.
Shit. They knew his name. And, since they were taking no chances, perhaps they knew what he was capable of too.
He blinked up at the guy and said nothing.
"The name's Carver," the man introduced himself when he said nothing. "MI6."
LeBeau remained silent. He'd expected local law enforcement… the Metropolitan police. Not the foreign intelligence agency. Now he was a little less surprised they knew his name.
"I'm very sorry about the beating you suffered during your arrest," Carver said in a polite monotone. "We knew what you were capable of, you see. We've heard many things about you from our counterparts across the Atlantic. They told us what it is you can do; we had to take every precaution you wouldn't hurt us. That bracelet on your wrist," he gave a throwaway nod in its direction, "is a nullifying device. It switches off mutant powers."
That was when LeBeau spoke. Grunted out a bitter laugh and said:
"New weapon you been developin' as part of the war effort? Seems a bit of a waste, neh, focusing your efforts on neutralizin' mutants and not Nazis."
Carver's demeanour changed. The line of his mouth dropped into a grimace, and he took his seat, linked his hands on the table, stared at LeBeau a moment. LeBeau stared right back.
"We didn't make this," he said, looking at the bracelet on Remy's wrist. He paused, slipped a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, then a battered box of matches. "We took it off of a Nazi spy we managed to capture, who'd infiltrated the domestic branch of our intelligence. He, of course, was a mutant. Like you. You know what his power was? Photographic memory. A very useful attribute to his Nazi paymasters, I should say. Well… let's just say he doesn't need that bracelet anymore. So we gave it to you." He paused, smiled without smiling. "Cigarette?"
Remy nodded. He could see where this was leading.
"You see," Carver continued, shaking out two cigarettes from his packet and leaning over to pop one between Remy's lips, "we learned some very interesting things from this mutant, before we… 'lost access' to him, so to speak."
He raised his gaze meaningfully to Remy's, striking a match as he did so. Remy rolled the cigarette into a more comfortable position, said: "Oh yeah?"
"Yes," Carver stated laconically, lighting Remy's cigarette for him. Damn Brits. So fucking staid. Never anything to work with. He took in a deep drag, and waited for the nicotine hit. When it did, it still didn't ease the creeping sense of malaise. He simply watched on as Carver lit his own cigarette, waited for him to speak.
"We learned, for example, that the Nazis have been developing a secret weapon. That the base of operations for this weapon is located in the occupied territory of Alsace-Lorraine in France. That there appears to be some sort of transportation hub for this operation located in Paris."
He felt a little steadier, a little more settled now. The headache was still there, but he didn't feel the need to vomit anymore. He blew smoke through his nostrils, said nonchalantly: "Uh huh?"
"Yes," Carver replied, equally nonchalant.
There was a pause.
"We know all about you, of course," Carver began again, without relish, as if this was all just a game he'd played a million times before. "Gambit, they call you. Prince of Thieves. And then there's the small matter of the powers you possess, and what you can do with them."
"And lemme guess," Remy rejoined sarcastically. "You want dis Cajun to help sabotage a few li'l shipments of dis 'secret weapon' down in France, is dat right, Mr. Carver? Mebbe steal a li'l sample of de goods for you while he's at it?"
Carver looked aside, tapping ash from his smoke almost thoughtfully.
"We would like very much," he began at last, "for you to help with our war effort. The two previous people we sent were never heard from again. We think you, however, are more likely to survive. To complete the mission."
He laughed softly.
"I'm a U.S. citizen. And the U.S. is neutral. If I was t'call de embassy…"
"Ah yes, the embassy." Carver's voice was bland, unfalteringly polite. "I'm sure they would love to know all about those lovely jaunts you went on for the Nazis. And I'm sure you got a high price for those treasures you hauled. The so-called Holy Grail. The Spear of Destiny? Where others failed the Fuhrer, you always managed to deliver. Quite the feat." He tapped aside ash, looking for all the world as if he was talking about lunch. "Neutral your homeland may purport to be, but I'm not entirely sure your countrymen would take kindly to Nazi collaborators."
He sucked in another drag. His hands were still shaking and he didn't know why, but he thought it might be the nullifier.
"What's in it for me?" he said at last.
Carver shifted in his seat slightly, his pokerface still in place.
"That haul that landed you in here," he said. "We currently have custody of it. Think of it as… a reward, for completion of your mission. You get the prize, and you get to walk away scott free. Your friend J. Edgar of the FBI will never even know you were here."
He laughed again. He'd spent years perfecting this laugh, not to make it sound forced.
"Y'tink dat haul is worth my freedom?"
"I think, Mr. LeBeau," Carver said with inestimable politeness, "that you don't realise just how much we know about you. That strange little detour you took to Mesopotamia all those years ago… all those digs you've been funding there since…"
He let that linger. Remy looked down at the bracelet on his arm and considered.
"Won't be much I can do undercover, mon ami," he pointed out. "My eyes tend ta get me noticed."
Carver was silent. Wordlessly he opened his well-worn jacket and took out a mirror. When Remy looked at his reflection, he was stunned to see that his uncanny gaze was gone. Now only dark brown eyes stared back at him.
He glanced back down at the bracelet sharply, took in a breath. Then he said:
"Just how many of these things de Nazis made, hmm?"
"We don't know," Carver answered. "The person we sent to look into that never returned either." He slipped the mirror safely back into his pocket. "So, Mr. LeBeau. What do you say? It's up to you, of course. We can keep you here and call our friends back in the U.S. Or you can take this mission for us, and when it's done we let you off with your precious haul, and it will be as if you never even existed to us. You can think about it, if you want – but we'd very much prefer to have an answer sooner rather than later."
The cigarette was already nearly burnt down to the butt. He thought about his haul and how long it'd taken him to acquire it – years and years. He could let it go again, steal it sometime later down the line, but… they'd be waiting for him. They'd know he would be coming. And he didn't have the time or the inclination to deal with the feds. Not again.
And besides… despite past associations he had no love for the Nazis. He'd heard stories. Of mutants going missing, probably headed to those labour camps. Unfounded rumours, sure, but he had an inkling it might all be true. And this bracelet… So simply and economically made… it screamed mass-production. His curiosity had been piqued. He wanted to find out more. He had nothing else going on at the moment, except for lacklustre heists across now war-shattered countries, and cajoling his way into the beds of beautiful women.
So he inhaled a final mouthful and spit his smoke out, replied:
"Sure. Been a while since I been in Paris, guess it can't hurt t' make another trip."
Carver's mouth tipped into a weary smile.
"We are very glad of your cooperation, Mr. LeBeau."
He slid a brown paper bag across the table, while one of his flunkies removed the handcuffs. The first thing Remy did was try to remove the bracelet at his wrist, but it wouldn't budge.
"There's a catch," Carver said flatly. "You'll figure it out soon, I'm sure." He stood, placing his palms on the table, and leaned towards Remy with that same, almost apologetic glance. "We have a contact for you to get in touch with. She's in the French Resistance. She should be able to help you with your mission. Now," he concluded, picking up the bag and upending its contents onto the table, "take what you need and get ready to leave. We'll give you a briefing in the car."
"Car?" he blinked. He'd been expecting at least a moment to grab a shower.
"Yes. We'll be going to the airport. We already have a plane waiting."
He stared. For a moment he was confused. And an actual smile almost lit Carver's face.
"Why, Mr. LeBeau, how else did you think we were going to get you into France? You'll be parachuting in. Under cover of night. And we don't have many hours left. There isn't much time to waste, I'm afraid."
He turned and left. All that was left behind was Remy, and two men with their guns trained on him. He looked down at the items left, higgeldy-piggeldy, on the table – the few belongings he'd had on him when they'd arrested him. Wallet, hotel key, sunglasses, comb, playing cards, condoms… a half empty packet of Kensitas cigarettes. In the middle of the pile, the chain he always carried with him, the plain metal ring attached to it. He pocketed everything except the hotel key. The chain he slipped over his head, tucking the ring into his shirt. As the cool band of metal touched his skin, a calmness descended over him. He felt grounded. In control.
By the time he was on his way to the airfield, he'd already worked out the fiddly catch on the bracelet. He slipped it off and as soon as he did, his headache receded. It was only then that he realised that this nullifier came with some not very pleasant side effects.
He watched the dark, dingy, ruinous streets of London give way to fields and hedgerows and bumpy country lanes. He listened to Carver's briefing with a meticulousness that hid an inner detachment. The lonely footsteps of his journey had led him here. He didn't want to feel empty anymore. He was going into uncharted waters, and maybe that would give him something other than his haul to live for. Maybe. He wasn't sure he cared anymore.
They arrived at the airfield and the place was deserted. His plane was already sitting on a short runway, and it felt too soon, too sudden, too amazing a godsend to be real. But it was real. Soon he'd be flying away, not to some desert island where he could run from it all, but right into the heart of Nazi-occupied territory. Well. He was okay with that. Sometimes, the thought of a bullet in the heart was a welcome one.
"Well, Mr. LeBeau," Carver said, as they stood under the wings of the plane, his voice nearly drowned out by the sound of the engine. "If you have any questions, I believe now is the time to ask them."
He had no questions. He knew exactly what it was he had to do.
"Very well," Carver nodded, mostly to himself. "Then I very much hope that this is not the last time we meet. For both our sakes."
He very cordially reached out a hand, and Remy, smiling a little to himself, shook it. Carver's grip was the grip of an honest man, firm and true.
He boarded the plane and once he was strapped in, he looked at the paper in his hand. He read it over to himself silently.
Millicent Collins, 2 Square la Bruyère, Paris.
-oOo-
