La Mere Du Diable
Nathaniel Essex sat at his desk, logging his latest findings with detached precision. When the final entry was complete, he set the notebook aside. No sooner had it hit the polished wood than the scent of jasmine flowers drifted through the air—sweet, familiar, and uninvited.
Her footsteps followed, smooth and unhurried, growing louder as they neared his door.
Titans of industry, heads of state—men and women with entire cities in their hands—had all once hesitated on the threshold of this very room.
But not her.
Olivia, daughter of one of Essex's most generous benefactors, walked in like she owned the place. Like the world owed her attention.
He didn't look up.
"So?," he murmured dryly, "did Madison convince her mother Paris was the only suitable place for fashion this year?"
Olivia raised one perfectly shaped brow, her smile teasing as she entered. "Paris, then Milan, then New York. None of it was good enough, of course. Eventually they just hired a designer to craft a gown to hide her many flaws."
"And?"
He turned then, slipping seamlessly into his human disguise.
"None of it mattered," she said, radiant. "The moment I entered the ballroom, every eye turned to me."
He chuckled low. "That's my girl."
She launched into a tirade, listing the many men attempting to win her favor and Madison's increasingly sour expressions. Essex let her speak. Let her glow.
A distraction, yes—but a fascinating one.
A spoiled heiress with no understanding of genetics, barely enough scientific education to know the word cell. And yet, he always let her in.
Because she reminded him of Rebecca? Perhaps.
Because her voice calmed something in him he didn't want to admit existed? More likely.
He'd theorized it was a mutation—low-grade psychic suggestion, gentle empathic influence. But she didn't know. She thought it was charm. Wit. Presence. All hers.
She was the unknowing heir of something far more dangerous.
"You're special," he said quietly. "Let the boys beg. Make them earn you. But don't let any of them claim you."
She smiled—but for the first time, it didn't quite reach her eyes.
She was quiet. Truly quiet.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice slipping lower.
"There is one," she murmured. "He's different. Kind. He doesn't try to impress me with his wealth or name. He just… listens."
Essex said nothing. He kept his face still. Let her believe he was impassive.
But inside, something soured.
Remy's scream tore through the air, a visceral howl of torment that reverberated off the sterile, unfeeling walls. His body convulsed violently and the metal restraints sliced mercilessly into his flesh. His entire body writhed in agony as yet another vile injection blazed through his veins, igniting his nerves with an inferno of excruciating pain.
Sinister remained unmoved, his expression carved from stone, a chilling mask of apathy.
"She stayed with him," he uttered, twisting the dial with deliberate, sadistic precision. "Even when cancer ravaged him, reducing him to a shell of a man, his body disintegrating before her eyes. Her family fought tooth and nail to pull her away, yet she stayed."
The lab erupted with a piercing, sizzling hiss of steam, filling the air with a suffocating intensity. "She married him after he clawed his way back from the brink of death," Sinister growled, his eyes searing as they finally locked onto him with a predatory focus.
"She could have had anyone," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "Countless suitors wielding power, wealth, and prestige at their very fingertips. But no! She chose a man barely able to carry the crushing weight of his own wretched existence. A man destined to pass down his pitiful frailties to future generations."
He knelt beside Gambit with a slow, calculated malice. "She called it love," he sneered, his voice a venomous whisper. "I called it...pathetic."
Sinister watched with indifference as Remy's body violently thrashed through another convulsion. He waited to confirm Remy's conscience and then continued. His voice remained unnervingly smooth as if they were old comrades revisiting a shared past.
"She came to me again, years later," his words slicing through the tension like a scalpel. "Begging."
Remy groaned through clenched teeth, blood pouring down his temples and stinging his eyes.
"Infertility, you see. Not her. Him. The charming man with blood as weak as water. She was so convinced he was the one—so utterly sure that love could defy the laws of biology."
Sinister stepped back, raising a vial to the light, scrutinizing its hue with meticulous interest.
"I agreed to help her. Naturally, I did. What kind of monster would I be to deny a desperate, childless woman a glimmer of hope?"
Sinister looked into Gambit's crimson eyes and a smile spread across his lips, cold and calculating.
"I let fate decide what the child would inherit. Her beauty. His fragility. My flawless precision. No interference. No control. Just… let the genes play their merciless game."
The knock on the lab door was weak, uncertain.
Uncharacteristic.
She never even used to knock, Nathaniel thought as he opened the door.
Olivia stood at the threshold, soaked in rain, dress torn, eyes hollow. Her once-glowing aura was gone. Behind her, the storm raged. In her arms, a bundle swaddled in pale blue linen.
"I have nothing," she murmured, her voice a fragile whisper, splintered like glass. "My husband—he accused me of betrayal, claimed the child isn't his. My parents turned their backs, bolted the door on me. No one will help me."
She edged closer, her movements tentative and strained. "You told me I was special." Her plea hung in the air, unanswered.
Her gaze dropped to the infant cradled in her arms—a delicate boy, scarcely weeks into this world. She lifted her eyes once more, and her breath faltered. She saw him—truly saw him—for the first time.
Not Nathaniel Essex. Not merely a man behind a façade.
Sinister.
He let the illusion slip away, revealing the ghostly complexion and the impossibly flawless features that whispered of an unnatural origin. The realization seared through her soul, just like the fiery red of his eyes.
And she didn't scream. Her silence was a storm contained. With trembling hands, she unwrapped the infant, each motion heavy with dread. The baby blinked up at them. He was calm, too calm, and curiosity gleamed in his eyes like a challenge.
Eyes red as blood.
"He's yours," she whispered, her voice a fragile thread on the verge of snapping.
Essex tilted his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "I only nudged the sequence," he declared, a hint of pride coloring his tone. "Fate did the rest."
Olivia's arms quaked as if the weight of her decision was a physical burden. She pulled the baby closer, then recoiled, a battle raging within her soul.
"I tried to kill him," she confessed, her words shattered and raw. "I couldn't."
The baby cooed, his smile an innocent weapon that pierced her defenses. She stared down at him, eyes wide with disbelief, as though he'd delivered a blow that left her reeling.
"I can't love him," she said, her voice a mix of defiance and longing. "But he makes me want to."
She pressed a desperate kiss to the baby's forehead, a silent plea for forgiveness, then turned sharply, leaving him on Essex's table like a relic of a war she couldn't win.
She left you with me and I unleashed you onto the world. Sinister said looking over at Remy, his eyes bitter and full of hatered.
"You were my masterpiece. My secret. My chaos. And what did you do?"
His voice dropped, low and hateful.
"You clawed your way back to me, pleading desperately for my aid, just like she did! Did I turn you away? No, I granted you everything you desired, and you still whined like she did! But you didn't stop there—you adopted every one of her weaknesses as your own. You wasted your immense powers with the X-Men, falling hopelessly in love with someone who corroded your heart, rendering you even more fragile!"
"You burn cigarettes with hands that should wield power. You let love consume you, over and over. Just like she did!" He leaned in, eyes burning with a manic intensity. "So I'm fixing you."
He drove the syringe into Remy's neck with vicious precision. "You shall no longer be Death..." he hissed, "and I will purge you of the cancer your father cursed you with." His words dripped with venom. Another brutal stab.
"But your freedom," he snarled, "you have shown you are utterly unworthy of it.
The streets of Manhattan lay in a rare state of tranquility at this hour, their usual bustling energy replaced by a serene stillness. Only the occasional taxi whispered by, while the distant hum of neon lights cast vibrant, elongated reflections across the shallow puddles that dotted the pavement. The city seemed to hold its breath, wrapped in the glow of artificial light.
Beneath her, the motorcycle purred with a gentle, rhythmic vibration, as if it were a living entity sharing its heartbeat with Laura. She maintained a steady grip on the handlebars, feeling the rush of the wind tearing through her jacket, the chill biting but invigorating. Her eyes, focused and determined, narrowed beneath the dark visor, shielding her from the wind's relentless assault.
This motorcycle was no ordinary machine; Remy had crafted it with his own hands, modifying and perfecting it until it was more than just a vehicle—it was a masterpiece, infused with his spirit and passion, a work of art that roared with life beneath her.
She leaned into a curve, let the bike skim inches from the concrete barrier.
It has been days since Death claimed Remy's body, niether the Avengers nor the X-Men have turned up any leads. None of the usual ways I know to find him are of any use right now. He is not the man I knew, the one who earned my friendship through kindness. The one who, made me believe in myself, the one I love.
I miss him.
I lean into a curve, letting the bike skin inches from the concrete barrier. Coming to a stop at the next traffic light, I look around into the night,
Something feels wrong.
My instincts stir.
Someone or something is watching.
I twist the throttle, the engine roars in respones as the bike surges forward.
Then—a flicker. A shadow across the side of a glass building. Too fast. Too silent. It vanished the moment my eyes can focus on it.
I can't see it, not fully. Just the shape. The speed.
Sniff sniff. I can tell it's Remy, but his scent is off. He doesn't smell like horseman I fought last time. He almost smells the way he use to. But he's...
I cut down a side street and opened up the bike's speed mods—letting it scream down the alleyways and sharp turns. The wind became a blade. My eyes stung.
Then—a hand.
It swiped toward me —missing by inches. My bike however..
Spun out, metal shrieking against asphalt. I hit the ground hard body rolling, limbs breaking, bones snapping—then resetting mid-motion.
I cough choking as blood fills my mouth, and force myself up. Eyes darting around.
Everything was too quiet.
Footsteps. No.
Not footsteps.
Movement.
I look up. And there, standing at the edge of the wreckage, cast half in shadow—was him.
Or what was left of him.
No words were exchanged. Not yet.
He stepped closer, silent and slow. His eyes gleamed. Not red. Not normal. Something… darker.
I couldn't breath.
"Remy?"
And then he was gone.
Vanished again.
Then—
A chill ran through me.
And the world went dark.
The cold hit first—sharp and clinical, like the inside of a morgue.
My eyes blinked open. White lights glared overhead. I try to move but I'm immobilized against a smooth metal slab, tilted just enough that I can see the dimly lit lab.
Everything was sterile. Quiet. Too quiet.
Until—
"Oh good," Someone uttered in a smooth voice laced with satisfaction. "You're awake." her silhouette sleek and predatory. Her long coat swept the floor, and the body she wore was eerily perfect—flawless skin, calculated beauty, but too symmetrical. Too plastic. A placeholder.
Temporary.
Miss Sinister,
She smiled with red lips too sharp to be warm.
"I was starting to worry you'd miss your own transformation."
I turn away for her my eyes searching for,
Him.
Remy.
There he is, standing next to Sinister, helping him modify one of their horrid contraction the one I can only assume will grant Miss Sinister use of my body.
He was thinner—gaunt in a way that looked deliberate. His face was younger, smoothed down like a corrupted memory. His skin was pale, hair darker, eyes glazed over with an unsettling emptiness.
"Gambit?" I plead searching for any sign of recognition. But he didn't flinch Didn't react at all.
He wasn't in control.
He wasn't... there.
Miss Sinister turned to admire him.
"Yes. He's... improved, isn't he?"
She approached him and circled once, like inspecting a statue.
"He used to be so... messy. Sinister always said he was a walking paradox. So much potential, constantly wasted on guilt and addiction. But now?" She smiled wider. "Now he's useful."
"You did this." I state with disgust.
"Oh, I helped," Miss Sinister said sweetly. "That was the deal. I help Sinister rewire your little flame—and in return, he helps me get you."
She walked slowly toward Laura, eyes glowing with hunger.
"You have something I need. Your healing factor. Your durability. Your strength. This body I'm wearing?" She gestured down at herself. "Is a shell. A temporary vessel. But you—you're built to last."
Laura stared up at her, silent fury behind her eyes.
"I know what it's like to be engineered," Miss Sinister said, voice softening into something sickeningly intimate. "To be shaped into a weapon. But unlike you, I remember who I really am. And I'm ready to live again. In a body that doesn't rot."
She leaned closer, her breath cold on Laura's face.
"And I can't wait to wear your face when I kill them all."
The X-Men war room glowed with dim, tense light. Screens hummed with soft static, and a holographic map flickered above the table, the outline of Manhattan pulsing with overlapping red grids. An automated voice looped quietly: "Search zone saturation: 92%… no results."
Beast adjusted his glasses, his face tight with concern. He pointed to the most recent data node.
"She was here," he said, his voice clipped. "At least three hours ago. Then—nothing. No traffic cams. No satellite hits. No civilian reports."
Logan leaned over his shoulder, jaw clenched like a trap about to spring. "Laura doesn't just disappear."
"No," came a voice from the doorway. "But people like me can make that happen."
Deadpool stepped into the room. For once, no mask. No quip. Just his bare face, pale under the flickering lights. His eyes were sharp, dead serious.
Two others followed behind him.
Agent Combs entered like he was gliding through a morgue—hands behind his back, gaze unwavering. He wore black like it was his natural state. He didn't blink enough.
"Good evening," he said, his voice like chilled glass. "Or what passes for it, under circumstances like these."
Agent Abbott trailed behind, fidgeting slightly but determined to look steady in a room full of legends. He nodded to Beast, then Rogue.
"We… uh… didn't come empty-handed," he said, stepping forward. "We've been tracking anomalous energy patterns. High-frequency surges in Manhattan. One of them matches Laura's trajectory."
Beast looked up sharply. "Mutant-based?"
"Unclear," Combs replied. "Whatever it is moves too fast for satellite correction. No civilian alert triggers. No X-gene flags. But it leaves behind scorched asphalt. Cracks in brick walls. Dead power lines. And silence."
"It's like the city forgets it was ever there," Abbott added. "Like it doesn't want to remember."
Deadpool's jaw tightened. "Until it grabs someone."
There was a beat of silence. The weight in the room deepened.
Rogue stepped closer to the table, eyes fixed on the grid. "Are you sayin'… Remy did this?"
The quiet got heavier.
Storm's eyes flicked to Combs. "Well?"
Combs smiled faintly. "I'm saying the energy signature aligns. And whatever's out there... it doesn't stop. Doesn't rest."
Abbott shifted awkwardly. "We think it's him. Or… something that used to be him."
Rogue's voice cracked like a whip. "Ya'll are talkin' about him like he's already dead."
Combs didn't flinch. "Ghosts are often more dangerous than the living. They act without hesitation. Without restraint."
Rogue's head turned sharply, eyes burning. "He's not gone."
Combs tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle. "You loved him."
Her jaw tightened. "Still do."
That amused him. "Fascinating. Even now."
Storm stepped between them, her voice firm. "He's not a case file, Agent Combs."
"Oh, but he is," Combs replied smoothly. "Born in a lab. Touched by Death. Loved by a woman who couldn't touch him back. That's poetry—even if it ends in blood."
Rogue took a step toward him, slow and lethal. "Say one more word like that, and I swear—you'll be eatin' through a straw."
"Enough," Abbott cut in, raising a hand. "We're not the ones trying to kill him."
That pulled every gaze in the room.
"What do you mean?" Storm asked.
Abbott's voice dropped. "The Avengers are looking for him too. Stark. Danvers. They've flagged him as hostile. No warning. No restraint."
"They think he's gone?" Logan growled.
"They think he's Death," Abbott replied. "And they won't ask questions if they find him first."
Beast frowned. "So what did you do?"
Deadpool smiled, the old mischief flickering back for just a second.
"We hacked Jarvis," he said. "Fed him a story about a Level Seven alien incursion. Something between Galactus and gummy worms. Just believable enough to launch a full global distraction."
Abbott winced. "We bought you maybe six hours. If that."
"They'll realize it's fake," Beast said.
"Eventually," Combs murmured. "But we're not buying time for us. We're buying it for him."
Rogue stared at them, lips tight. "You lied to the Avengers. For Remy."
Abbott nodded. "Because Laura didn't give up on him. And neither will we."
She studied him. Then turned to Combs. "And you?"
"I'm simply fascinated," he said, reverent. "A man caught between love and annihilation. Life and Death. You don't destroy something like that. You witness it."
Deadpool rolled his eyes. "Creepy. Even by my standards."
Outside, thunder rolled. Wind howled faintly against the glass.
Storm turned to the group. "Then we move. Now."
Logan's claws slid free with a snikt.
"Let's bring the kids home."