Disclaimer: They still belong to Marvel, but Marvel is making me relive Rogneto, which is why a) I write fic to cope and b) threw in some extra Romy goodness that I hadn't originally planned for this chapter.
Annoyingly, the X-Men Unlimited Infinity #130 confirms that Marvel Pride Voices (2023) is canon, and that a massive change in the guild status quo happened off panel as far as I can tell. If I am wrong and missed a major comic, let me know! I would love to read it!
Chapter Four: The Lower Nine
Rogue dreamed of fire and pain. She was burning in a flame that never seemed to die or slacken. She could not move, her muscles and tendons having long since been eaten away. She could not even call for help; she had no lips or tongue anymore. Her eyes were hot jelly, and yet she could still make out Deadpool standing nearby, roasting a giant, pink marshmallow on a stick.
"Almost done, Anna," the mercenary said cheerfully, "Just a few more turns."
She woke up screaming, sheets tangled around her and wet with sweat. Instinctively, she reached across to Gambit's side of the bed, but it was cold and empty. The cats weren't even there in their usual knotted pile of limbs and tails. She was all alone.
New Orleans, she realized, as the dream ebbed and her panic with it. She was in New Orleans in Remy's old Garden District apartment. She looked around herself, taking deep breaths, focusing on the objects around her to steady herself, talking herself down.
The bedroom was eligible bachelor perfect, all dark wood and white linen with a tasteful modernist nude hanging above the fireplace. Remy would have been able to tell her who the photographer was, and what art collector thought he still owned the piece. They hadn't spent much time together in this apartment since their wedding, and so she hadn't had a chance to Rogue it up yet, as he affectionately called it.
His only concession to his new status as a married man was two photographs on the polished dresser. The first was of their kiss at the wedding. It had been soft and surprisingly chaste, his right hand clasped over hers, his left hand cupping her cheek warmly. Some of the others - Jubilee, Pixie, even Bobby - had whooped for him to do more, but he had broken away from her and whispered he loved her.
Much, much later, in bed aboard the spaceship, he'd said, Nothing about our wedding must have been how you imagined, chere. Wanted to give you the romance movie kiss at least.
Wrong again, swamprat. I imagined you standing up there with me, and you were. I don't care about the rest."
The second was Remy's favorite photo of them. He had copies of it in every property he - they - owned. She was sitting on his lap, arms around his neck, wearing a smile and the smallest of yellow bikinis, which had to be the reason why it was his favorite. The salt and the sea had undone the work of her flat iron and styling products, and her hair was a halo of curls around her head. Remy was grinning at the camera, like all his Christmases had come at once. He was shirtless, one arm tight around her waist, the other outstretched to take the shot. They both looked so young and carefree, brown from the California sun, drunk on the ability to touch each other freely. Now, she could barely recognize the woman in the shot.
She untangled herself from the sheets and went to get ready for the day, letting the cold water of the shower wash away the last traces of the dream. She didn't know why she couldn't shake her dark mood. Wolverine got stripped to muscle and bone on a regular basis, and he just dusted himself off, popped his claws, and went after whoever did it to him. Put some dirt on it, kid, she could hear him saying. You got a job to do.
After brushing her teeth, she pulled on a black Chapel Hart crop top, leggings and sneakers. Belle had sent word that her men had found a lead, and to dress for undercover work. She had spent some time last night dying the white patch out of her hair. With a pair of sunglasses, she'd look just like another girl on her way to the gym. Of course, she thought wryly, it was New Orleans. She could go topless or in a sparkly pink tutu, and none of the locals would likely notice or care.
She slipped some lockpicks into the pocket at the back of her leggings, and one in her bra for luck, relieved that she wasn't hiding them in her mouth for once. When they had first gotten together, Remy had taught her how to pick locks. He had told her it might save her life one day, and she had shot back that he just wanted an excuse to feel her up, which he had not denied. Between his lessons and the memories she had absorbed from him, she had become halfway decent at it.
"Guess I get to represent the family today," she told the grinning Remy in the photo, "Wish me luck, sugar."
Belladonna was already waiting for her outside of Remy's - their - apartment. The assassin was wearing frayed jeans and a silky blue camisole top, her blonde hair in a loose braid. To an outsider, Rogue thought, they would seem like two gal pals meeting up for coffee and beignets, not the queen of thieves and the queen of assassins on the hunt. Which she guessed was the point.
"Anyone tell you thieves don't always wear black, chere?" Belle said by way of greeting.
"Really?" Rogue pretended shock, "And here I thought my husband had a cupboard full of pink body armor for the hell of it."
Belle laughed, low and rich and surprisingly genuine, "Remy always too flashy, even for a thief," she dropped her voice an octave, "But, Belle, it gives them a target that's not my head. Like he makes any decisions with the one on top of his neck."
"He'd tell you he's made all his best mistakes that way," Rogue returned the laugh, "But you didn't call me down here to swap stories about Remy. We should follow that lead of yours before it goes cold."
"Oui," Belle pushed herself away from the wall in a fluid motion, and pointed at a nondescript silver Honda Accord parked down the tree-lined street, "This way. I got us a ride."
When she reached Belle's car, the assassin in the driver's seat looked at her flatly. She recognized him as one of the men who had taken Gambit captive for Candra. His nose was crooked, set badly with a bump on its bridge, and she would have bet money she was responsible for that. She clenched her fists, shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet. At least Belle had sprung her trap early. It would give her the rest of the day to deal with the External.
"Gustave here wants to make up for his past mistakes, ain't that right?" Belle's voice was honey over cyanide, "He deeply regrets what he did to the king and his queen."
He nodded at her and said, "Madame LeBeau."
Rogue nodded back, still wary. Belle climbed into the front passenger seat, and gestured for her to take the back. Rogue followed her lead. It wasn't like the assassins could trap her back there. She could have the door off of the sedan and be back out in the street any time she wanted. She rolled down the window, letting in fresh air to ward off any poison or knock-out gas they tried to release. Mystique had raised her to have a suspicious mind, and she was grateful for it at times like this.
"You know where to go," Belle said, and turned on the radio. Jazz, soulful and sweet, filled the car. A man's voice began to croon about how the night has a thousand eyes, and it knows a truthful heart from one that lies. They went out of the garden district with its oaks and old mansions, out of the parts of town where hungover tourists were waking and squinting blearily at the morning light, across the industrial canal that divided the east of New Orleans from the rest of the city.
Here, the damage from Katrina was still obvious. Many of the lots were vacant, choked with weeds and tall grass. Some people had rebuilt their houses, and they shone in the morning light with their new wood and fresh paint, but more stood abandoned, doors and windows either boarded up or smashed in. Many still bore Katrina crosses on them, slashed x's with dates and numbers around them, markers of and now memorials to the living and the dead found within them. Next to one of them, an artist had scrawled in an angry hand: "Tourists, my pain ain't your entertainment."
"We be here. The Lower Nine," Belle's face was expressionless, her lips pressed together in a tight, white line.
The car stopped in front of what had once been an apartment building. Now it was a wasteland. It was mostly intact: the walls and doors still stood along the open-air corridors that overlooked a central courtyard, and the windows were covered with clapboard. But the courtyard was clogged with trash, and weeds and scrubby saplings grew up through cracks in its concrete. Graffiti and x-codes competed for space on the bricks.
Belle got out of the car and Rogue followed her. Gustave drove away without a word.
"My men, they tell me that Candra has one of her collection points in this building. They change every three days. She won't be here. Bitch never liked to do her own dirty work, but one of her new recruits should be guarding it."
Rogue surveyed the building, "Reckon she picked the second floor. There would've been less damage to those units."
"I was thinking the same. You ready to go, Rogue?"
Rogue nodded and headed up the stairs before Belle could take the lead. The assassin was tough, but still human, still very breakable. As much as she didn't like or trust her, she had a responsibility to keep her safe until she gave her a reason not to do so. She had failed at it once before, envious of and tempted by all the memories that the other woman had stored up in her head. Memories of Gambit, of what it was like to be touched and kissed and held by him. She wouldn't do it again, and not only because she had her own memories now.
She walked down the corridor, scanning the area, looking for discrepancies. Her eye caught on a tiny chalk mark beside a doorway, almost invisible beside the drawing of an erect penis, as if it might have been spray thrown off from that artist's enthusiastic attempt. A crude drawing of a tower. No, a spire.
She looked back at Belle, beckoning her to come over and drawing her attention to the mark. The assassin nodded, murmured, "Thief sign. You got a good eye for an outsider."
Rogue crept towards the door and tested the handle. It was locked. She reached into her back pocket and extracted a lockpick. She took a deep breath, remembering Gambit's lessons, which had been only slightly less pornographic than the graffiti in her peripheral vision. You pick locks by touch, chere. You slide it in gently, find juuust the right spot that feels good to you, and move it around until it all opens up. Heat rising up her chest and neck, she had asked him whether that was how he explained it to all the thieves he trained. He had given a low laugh and told her it was a special lesson just for her.
The final tumbler clicked into place and the lock opened for her, some minutes slower than it would have for her husband. One day, she'd beat him.
"Surprised you didn't punch it in," Belle muttered at her back.
Rogue turned the knob and the door opened, releasing the stale smell of old potpourri and furniture polish and meals long since eaten. The two women stepped inside a living room that reminded Rogue horribly of the one of which her Aunt Carrie had been so very proud. The light from the doorway illuminated faded wallpaper, pink roses and gilt stripes that climbed up against the wall in rigid lines. The sofa and armchairs were pink too, with yellowed doilies covering every surface that a head or arm might touch. A rag rug, striped green and white like toothpaste, covered the floor. Against one wall was a china hutch lined with plates and cups covered with pastel bunnies and spring flowers. Two of the plates were set on the round table in front of it, along with a vase of dried flowers, dyed unnatural shades of neon pink and yellow and blue. The only sign of modernity was a tube TV standing on a small brown table, which also had been covered with a doily. Rogue was surprised it hadn't been looted, but then what would they have taken?
A thick layer of dust shrouded the entire apartment, disturbed only by a broad track of footprints that led from the front door through to the hallway. She was just about to say something to Belle, when she heard footsteps creaking on the floorboards in the hall off the living room. Either her Aunt Carrie's zombie or their supersoldier thief.
"I'm on it."
Rogue took off, flying, streaking into the hallway, mentally rehearsing an apology if it turned out to be a frightened old woman. It was not.
In the dimness of the hallway, she saw a burly, dark-skinned man, heavily bearded, his hair in braids with beads at the end. He was wearing red ritual garb, a spire chased in gold thread over his heart. He started charging at her when he saw her. Rogue slammed into him hard, wrapping her arms around his waist, driving him to the end of the hallway. Beads clattered noisily, but the man himself made no sound. Weird.
He raised both arms in a clubbing blow, hitting her in the square of her back, and driving the air out of her with a grunt. Even by her standards, he was furiously strong. Belle hadn't been lying about the elixir making supersoldiers.
She grabbed his arms before he could hit her again, grappling with him, trying to get control of his elbow, his wrists, any of his joints. It was a while since she had been in a fight where she had to use technique.
"Time to use your powers, girl." She tightened her fingers around his wrist, and drew in as she had so often before. No connection with his mind, no memories in her head. She had no time to think about what that might mean, as he took the momentary pause in her assault to wrestle his other arm loose and punch her hard enough in the head that white lights exploded in her vision.
"Drop, Rogue," Belle yelled from behind her, and she released his arm and rolled away from him, glad for the moment to recover. A blast of superheated plasma tore through the air above her, and then another, and another. She got back to her feet, and was dismayed to see the man lunge at her again, seemingly unphased by Belle's attack.
"Go for his eyes, Belle," she shouted.
She flew up and over him, as Belle's next beam hit him square in the face. Her assailant stopped, blinking and running at his eyes. She dropped onto his back and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling up tight to cut off the blood supply. He thrashed beneath her, clawing at his back, running her into the wall behind them until it gave way beneath them and they tumbled into the bathroom. Tiles cracked as they hit the floor, her body beneath his, crushed by his weight. Rogue tightened her legs around his waist, gripping as hard as she could with her thighs, pulling up even harder with her arms. It was over. He just needed to realize it.
After eternal seconds, his body went limp, and she pushed him off her. She lay next to him, chest heaving, gasping for air. Belle's face appeared above her.
"Good work, Rogue. Let me handle the rest."
The assassin knelt next to her and pulled a small metal vial out of her shorts. She opened the man's slack mouth and poured it inside. A little dribbled out the corner, dark and smelling of fermented herbs and rot.
"A sedative. A nasty one we use … sometimes. Enough to keep a gator down."
"Will he be okay?"
"Ever the hero. How does Remy stand it?" Belle asked mockingly, "If he gives us what we need, if we get him to Tante in time, maybe. Worry about yourself, Avenger. He rung your bell pretty good."
"I've had worse," she sat up, hugged her legs to her chest, "Give me five minutes. I'll be fine."
"I can give you ten. Not sure if Candra will give you any."
"Damn it," Rogue pushed herself off the ground, staggered over to the basin to turn on the faucet. Water sputtered out, brown and smelling of rust. She turned it off again. In the spotty mirror, she could see that her cheek was tender-red where he had punched her, and she knew she would have a bruise later. She couldn't remember the last time that had happened.
She turned back to Belladonna, "Okay, time to find out what he knows."
Cocking an eyebrow, "Do your thing, girl."
Tentatively, Rogue reached out a hand to the man unconscious on the floor in front of her. She didn't need to touch him to absorb him anymore, but old habits were hard to break. She extended her power, braced for contact with the other mind and … nothing.
Confused, she knelt down next to him and placed her fingertips on his cheek. Still nothing. She could feel the heat of his skin, the hard line of his cheekbone, the coarseness of his beard, but otherwise it was like touching a mannequin for all it got her. She looked at her hands. Had absorbing Wade and his out of control healing factor messed with her own powers somehow? Or had Candra found out about their mission and stripped their powers from them before they could reach her? Or were the supersoldiers simply immune to her? So many possibilities, all of them bad.
"So?" Belle asked impatiently, voice sounding as if it was coming from very far away.
"I'm not getting anything," she whispered, "My powers ain't working on him."
"Knew it was a mistake to count on you, pute," Belle sat down next to her, folding her legs beneath her, "Can I at least trust you to watch my back while I go in? You won't sneak a touch, steal my memories again?"
"That was an -" she broke off. They didn't have the time to have that old argument again, "Yeah, I'll keep watch."
The assassin settled more deeply into her seated position. She closed her eyes, and then opened them again moments later, a look of horror on her face.
"Putain de merde. There's nothing there to get. His mind's like …" she paused, groping for the image, "Like one of those old-timey diving bells. Whatever he was has been sealed off, closed up from the rest of the world, and sunk so deep that I can't reach it. We might need one of your X-folks after all."
"We'll need to take him with us then," Rogue stooped to pick up the man and throw him over her shoulder. He was a bulky, awkward armful, and she struggled to keep a hold on him. She could feel his chest heave as he breathed, slow and labored, "Get Tante Mattie so he doesn't die on us. After that, I'll see who I can find. Tracking down a telepath ain't as easy as it used to be."
"Bien," Belle nodded, "You take him by air to my house. You know the way. I meet you there once Gustave comes back round. We can pick up Tante on the way."
NOTES:
1) Rogue stole Belle's memories in the first Gambit (1993) limited series.
2) Aunt Carrie is from the third Rogue (2004) limited series.
3) Candra took away Rogue and Belle's powers in the first Rogue (1995) limited series.