Home | Forum | Mailing List | Repository | Links | Gallery
 
 
Chapters
Chapter 1
 
 
 

Imaginary Girl - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by CrystalWren
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 1

I don’t know why I went to the nightclub. It really isn’t my style. But I was bored…and lonely, I guess. I was tired of the silence in my head, so I went to drown it in the noise of others.

It’s easy to get into the place, at least. I am a beautiful woman, and the bouncers wave me to front of the line without hesitation. As I walk through the doors I can feel the envious gazes of the people who are left behind the red velvet rope on my back. I don’t need any psionic powers to feel their hostility, but in a perverse way it’s kind of comforting. They hate me because I am beautiful, and they are not, and because I am walking into the club- and they are not. They don’t hate me because I am a mutant, and the change is refreshing.

Inside the club, it’s exactly how I expected it to be. Noisy. Crowded. The air thick with the smells of spilled drinks, of sweat, of cheap deodorant and equally cheap perfume. It’s well lit, and some may find that odd- but this club is well known and popular because it is the favourite place for many professional dancers to relax and strut their stuff, and other people come to watch them dance. As a result, the music selection is often a little odd, but it’s always quality. I can hear the popular strains of Livin’ La Viva Loca right now, and that’s certainly good music to dance to. I idly wonder what they’ll play next.

I shoulder my way through the press of people to the bar, and shout out an order for a drink. Bourbon and coke, yum! Nothing like bourbon to get you drunk in a hurry, and that’s what I’d really love to do. Get shit-faced, off my face, legless, forget the world exists for a while. Forget that the X-Men exist, forget that I’m a mutant in a world that hates and fears me. Forget the spandex, forget the never ending stream of people who want to kill me. Forget that my name is Phoenix, or Jean Grey-Summers. Forget that the ‘Summers’ bit on the end doesn’t apply any more, because I am now officially a widow. Forget that Scott is dead, and that the silence in my head is deep enough to swallow me.

I move away from the bar, employing my elbows and my knees to move through the press of people, while miraculously avoiding spilling my drink. Years of fighting pay off in the most unlikely of circumstances, enabling me to move gracefully and surely no matter what the place and circumstance. A few metres away from the bar the crowd is a little thinner and I am able to move a bit more freely. I head for the stairs and the tables that are on the balcony, over looking the dance floor. I feel like watching the dancers tonight, even though I don’t feel like joining them. At the top of the balcony, I am quick enough to snatch a table whose occupants are just leaving. I earn a filthy look from a Gothic girl with badly dyed black hair and thick green eye shadow that was aiming for the same table, but looks never hurt anyone. Unless you were my husband Cyclops, of course, whose mere glance could blow you to pieces. I shudder and gulp my drink. The bartender had been heavy handed on the bourbon, and the burning pain in my throat helps ease the burning pain in my chest.

Evidently the Gothic girl takes decides that if she can’t beat me, she may as well join me. She doesn’t even bother asking for my permission as she grabs the other chair on the other side of the tiny table. I shrug to myself. She’s brazen, and in this world it’s a good a trait as any to get you ahead. I can tell from the way she looks at me that she’s looking for more than just a little company watching the dancers. I smile. She won’t get very far, as I am very definitely straight. But I will be honest and say that I do find her attention flattering. Who wouldn’t?

I lean over the polished metal balcony, and gaze over the dance floor below me. It’s packed, but still, at intervals in the crowd there are little empty spaces occupied by a single skilled dancer, their space on the dance floor held open by the people watching them. There are ten or so of these spaces, two occupied by pairs rather than single dancers. One of the pairs looks to be a Latin dancing team- with Ricky Martin playing, they’re in their element. Of the other pair- well, well, well.

It looks like Remy LeBeau, known at times as Gambit, has reverted to his old habits of sneaking out of the mansion late at night. But I guess that I’m in no position to comment. I’m here too aren’t I? I have to say, Remy is putting on quite a show. Dramatic black sunglasses cover his even more dramatic red eyes, tight black jeans and an equally tight black top set off his beautiful body to perfection. His moves are as graceful and wild- and yet the same time as controlled- as they always have been. He’s a gorgeous man, and he knows it. I’ve always had a bit of an attraction to Gambit. Nothing that even came close to what I felt- and still feel- for Scott, but it’s there. I lean on the railing and watch him dance. It’s odd, but the dance itself, while intricate and fast, doesn’t seem quite right. I frown. His partner is nobody I know. She’s beautiful- Remy’s women always are- her hair is long and golden blonde. Real gold, and not the kind that comes out of a bottle. Her body is lean and well muscled. Her tight blouse leaves nothing to the imagination, and her skirt is cut long and with a split in the side to both emphasise the movement of her legs and to show them off. The cloth is a shade that is as gold as her hair. As Livin’ La Viva Loca draws to its close, I realise just what is wrong with their dance. It isn’t about sex. The song calls for sensual moves, and they perform them, and they perform well- but there’s nothing behind them. It’s almost as if Gambit is dancing with- his sister? The music ends and a wave of applause erupts from everywhere in the nightclub, and Remy and his lady are the focus of a great deal of it. The Gothic girl sees an opportunity to get my attention.

"Good, aren’t they?" she yells into my ear. I blink at her. "I said, they’re good, aren’t they? The bloke I see in here quite a bit. Pretty, ain’t he?"

"Do you know who the woman is?"

She shakes her head. "This is the first time I’ve ever seen her here. Wouldn’t mind being her right now, the lucky thing!"

She can’t tell me what I want to know, and I turn my gaze back to the dance floor, and after a few unsuccessful attempts to get me to listen to her, the Gothic girl does the same. On a dais at the edge of the dance floor the DJ grins and flourishers a small thin box, obviously a CD case. I’m nowhere near enough to be able to make out what the CD is, but the people who are close enough seem to recognise it, because they let out a cheer. As the music begins again, I smile as I hear the unmistakable Overture of Jesus Christ Superstar, the 1992 Australian rock’n’roll version. I’ve never been a fan of Andrew Lloyd Webber, but I’d be the first to admit that the Overture is as powerful and eirre as A Night on Bald Mountain. Especially this version- the electric guitars scream and wail like the lonely dead.

The dead.

Scott.

I close my eyes in a futile attempt to stop the tears, but they slip out from underneath my eyelids and slide down my cheeks. I dash them away with the back of my hand. Now is not the time to mourn! I ignore the worried inquires of the Gothic girl and force myself to focus on Gambit and his mystery lady. This music suits then so much more than popular Latin rock. This music has a story, a power behind it. Crass commercialism aside, Andrew Lloyd Webber has written an incredible piece. The music changes and changes again as it touches on each song from the musical itself, telling almost the whole story without words. The lady dances around Gambit who stands still with his hands by his sides. Her skirt swirls and moves around her like a living thing. I almost cry when the music ends with the wails of the soprano singers, and Gambit grabs his fellow dancer and drags her off the dance floor. I don’t want them to leave. I want to watch them forever. I breathe in a shuddering breath, and gulp down the rest of my drink. Despite the alcohol, or perhaps because of it, an impulse strikes me with all the force of an unbearable command.

Why don’t I follow them?

Why shouldn’t I at least learn the name of the golden woman?

Why shouldn’t I?

I leap to my feet and begin to shove my way down the crowded stairs. I am vaguely aware of the Gothic girl babbling something about phone numbers in my ear, but eventually she disappears into the crowd. Using my elbows and my knees to unfair advantage- I could use my powers, but it’s been drilled into me so often that I must not use them in public- I quickly make my way to the door, and it’s a sudden shock when I am suddenly disgorged into the cold night air. I stand there stupidly for a second before turning to one of the bouncers.

"I am looking for a man and a lady," I say, "the man is tall, wearing all black clothes and sunglasses-"

The bouncer smirks in a way that says I am not the first woman to ask after Gambit by any means, and he raises a massive arm and points the direction. I quickly thank him and trot down the street. I can see a flash of long skirt turning the corner in front of me and I hasten my movements, trying to make as little noise as possible. I am no match for Gambit or even Storm, but I can go fairly quietly when I want to.

For the next half-hour or so Gambit leads me a merry dance. He never goes anywhere in a straight line, and I am reminded of that fact every time he turns a corner. I almost loose him several times, but miraculously it seems I only have to turn another corner to glimpse him in front of me. Eventually, we arrive at the edge of town at an expanse of parkland that gradually becomes bush. I vaguely remember that there is a stream running through this particular section, miraculously unpolluted considering the values of today’s modern society, and it seems that Remy is leading his lady towards there. It occurs to me briefly that maybe I owe it to them to leave them in privacy, but I quickly banish the thought. I’m having too much fun to stop now.

Suddenly, I loose them. It was like one second they were there, the next they teleported off the face of the Earth. Beam me up, Scotty! I giggle tiredly to myself as I make my way to the banks of the small creek; I try to ignore the flash of pain that comes from the mere mention of the name. His name. It occurs to me that I may be drunk, but I quickly discard the thought. I can I be drunk from one single bourbon and coke? Then again, how long has it been since I’ve eaten? Or slept? I flop to the ground on the patch of grass that gradually descends to the edge of the water, ignoring the damp that seeps into the seat of my jeans. I close my eyes, and my head swims. I guess I was right the first time. I am drunk. On one lousy drink. I think that I had better get up and call somebody to come and get me or I will go to sleep here, but I’m so comfortable. So peaceful here, with the soft moonlight, and sounds of the water and the softer sounds of the violins.

The violins?

My sleepiness is shoved aside as I clamber to my feet, searching for the source for the heartbrokenly exquisite and delicate music. Once again I find myself moving as silently as I can through the bushes, but not from any desire to sneak up on the music maker- I just don’t want to disturb whomever it is who is making the amazing sounds. I am beyond surprise when I stumble into a clear area, and straight into Gambit’s arms. He tightens his grip on my waist as I sway woozily, and I can see his teeth flash white in the moonlight. As I find my balance he lets go and raises a finger to his mouth, indicating silence. Then he points to something just beyond the riverbank.

It was the golden woman I had seen dancing with Gambit at the nightclub. Now that I am close enough I can see that she is not so pretty as I had thought- her mouth is too thin, and her face too narrow and her eyes don’t have that characteristic tilt that is desired for somebody to be conventionally attractive, but still-

She is beautiful. Like an orphaned fairy-child, all alone in the darkness.

She is hovering in midair just over the water; her eyes closed in some private ecstasy, her long skirt and her long golden hair swirling around her body as she moves her arms as if conducting an invisible orchestra. The music is vaguely familiar, and I frown trying to remember the name of the piece. My puzzlement must have been apparent to Gambit- he leans over and murmurs in my ear: "Mendelssohn’s violin concerto."

I nod. I can’t take my eyes off her. The music changes and I belatedly realise that she is the source of it, not merely some electronic device. I recognise the distinctive sounds of JC Superstar’s Overture mingling with the elegant and somehow sinister strains of the Pavaine from the soundtrack of the movie Orlando. And through it all is the sound of- crickets? She is blending the sounds of the night with the music.

Everything is music to her, I realise as she adds the faints sounds of cars in the street. Gambit steps away from me, and onto a clear patch of ground. And he begins to dance. Not the way he danced in the nightclub, but a more beautiful, more private dance, a dance that you would only perform for yourself, or maybe the one you loved.

The one you loved.

The phrase, one I have used so often to describe Scott, the one that I loved, breaks through the fragile barriers that I have erected against the world, and my grief rushes in to drown me. It emerges from my mouth as a whimper, a whimper that becomes a moan, a moan that becomes a howl, a howl that becomes a scream. A scream that rasps across my throat like sandpaper, and is impossible to sustain for any length of time. It subsides unwillingly and lurks underneath my skin, waiting to be unleashed once more. I hear the scream again, but that can’t be right- I only screamed once. And I realise that the golden woman has taken it, and turned it to music like she would any other sound that she hears. Hot anger rises, overtaking my grief. How dare she do that? How dare she take something as deep and wounding as my mourning for a man who was a piece of my soul and use it like she would any other noise in the street? My hands clench into fists, and unaware of what I did, I took a step towards her. I want to punish her for making light of my pain. She takes no notice of my advance, lost as she was in her music, but I saw Remy pause in his graceful private dance and look at me sadly. He lowered his body, which had been supported purely by the toes of one foot as a ballet dancer would, and walked towards me. He put his arms around me, and then he pointed at the golden woman’s face.

"Look," he whispered. And I did. And reflected in her face I see what I hadn’t seen before.

She is an idiot, in the oldest and most basic sense of the world. She is only able to abandon herself to the music so completely because there was nothing, no adult awareness hold her back. There was pure music in her mind and there was no room for anything else. Tears blur my eyes as I realise how close I had come to hurting this perfect, innocent creature. She was a child. She didn’t mean to hurt me. She hadn’t even noticed my presence except as a source of more sound, more music to her. Remy seems to understand this. His arms tighten around me as my body shakes with sobs. We sink to the ground, our arms around each other. I find myself kissing him desperately, pressing my mouth to his. He accepts my kisses, but he does not return them. What he’s doing now is the equivalent of a pity fuck, and I realise this, but I can’t stop myself.

Allowing me to watch his dance, allowing me to listen to the exquisite music of the golden woman-child, allowing me to kiss him- behind my desperation I dimly see what so few people do. That Remy LeBeau is a warm, loving person who would give anything, pieces of his soul even, if he thought that it would help even the least of the people he cared about. The music reaches a crescendo and crashes around my ears, and I pull away from Remy as it finally begins to ebb. Remy stands gracefully, and pulls me up with him. I run my hand over my tear-stained face in an attempt to repair the damage, but somehow, I don’t think that it does much good. Remy extends his hand to the music maker, and she gracefully steps out of midair and takes it. She is now close enough for me to see that her eyes are as gold as her hair and her clothes. There is movement in the corner of my vision, and I turn around just in time to see a man slip silently from the bushes. The woman smiles in pure delight and moves up to him. It is obvious that he is her brother; he shimmers with the same golden light that seems to surround her. And like her, his eyes are golden and so is his hair. He returns her smile and takes her hand, and together they slip away into the bushes.

I blink. Now that the golden woman is gone, there is utterly nothing left to indicate that she ever lived.

The night is silent without her music.

I look at Remy, and I find myself at a loss for words. He looks back at me, and once again flashes his famous smile. Finally, I stutter out a question; who was she?

"She is called Golden Flute," he said.

I blink at the mention of the odd name.

"And no, that isn’t the name on her passport. She’s a mutant with the ability to totally control sound." He sighs, and suddenly he looks very sad. "Something happened when she was growing up. Her mind was damaged. In her head, she’s a child. She was lucky, because she had her brother to take care of her. And he does that well."

"So what was she doing with you?" I ask, forgetting that there is nothing Gambit hates more than a direct question. Amazingly he chooses to answer.

"Golden requires twenty-four hour care. Her brother is just like any other person. Sometimes he needs a rest."

"So, you took her to a nightclub," I said.

"Golden is harmless enough to other people. She generally gives the impression of being very sweet, although simple minded. And she likes to dance."

"So do you."

"Yes." Gambit looks at the moon, and pulls a packet of those infernal cigarettes out of his pocket. He says: "Golden’s brother isn’t a man who trusts people." He looks straight at me. "I am one of perhaps three people in this world who he would allow to look after her for any length of time."

My breath catches as I realise what an extraordinary act of trust this is. And I remember all of the times where we, the X-Men have accused him of being slippery, untrustworthy. Compared to the trust that Golden’s brother has in him, it must have hurt like hell. It must have seemed so unfair. I ask him why he didn’t mention this, tell us about this Golden Flute.

And he looks at me with his eyes glowing like hot coals, and he says: "what gives me the right to use her like that? To abuse the trust that her brother gives me?"

There is nothing that can be said in reply.

"Why does he trust you like that?" I blurt instead.

Remy avoids my eyes. "We knew each other. Before."

"In the Guilds?"

"No."

"On the streets?"

He shakes his head. "No," he said. "I mean before. Before the Guild. Before I was on the streets."

He rarely talks about his past, but never has he so much as mentioned what must have occurred before he became homeless. I can tell that it must be something huge, something terrible, and worse even than being homeless. But I can’t bring myself to ask him any more. He so rarely confides in anyone, and I feel honoured that he was compelled to share these small fragments with me. I find myself looking once more at the moon. It seems so distant. It’s hard to believe that I have actually been there.

I lower my gaze to Remy’s and I see that he is smiling again. He takes my hand, and kisses it oh-so-gently, like a true Southern Gentleman. It occurs to me- not for the first time- that despite all of Rogue’s aspirations to being a lady, Remy is wasted on her. He leans over and tells me that I am beautiful. This raises a smile from me despite my tears and my red eyes and splotchy cheeks. Every woman likes to be told that she is beautiful, and for a man like Remy it’s the best way for him to express his caring for me, more than hugs or empty words of comfort. I’ve had more than enough of those. Perhaps what I needed was- music? Something relaxes its grip on my soul even as Remy tightens his grip on my hand. Some- not all- of the grief that has festered there since my husband’s death lightens and goes away. It’ll be a long time before it totally goes away, if ever. But this is enough for the first step, the first movements towards healing. There is still silence in my head where Scott used to be, and it’s still achingly empty. But it no longer seems deep enough to drown me.

This revelation must have shown on my face. Remy smiles again, a charming tilt of the corners of his mouth. He gently kisses the back of my hand again, and lowers it. He points to the moon, which is fast setting.

"It’s late, chere," the husky Cajun drawl that I hadn’t even missed returns to his voice. "We had better get back to de others."

The others. The X-Men. My friends. My family. I need to talk, and it’s past time I did so. I grab Remy’s hand and tow him away from the riverbank and towards the footpaths that would lead us out of the park. I need to talk with my family.

I have music to share.

 

GambitGuild is neither an official fansite of nor affiliated with Marvel Enterprises, Inc.
Nonetheless, we do acknowledge our debt to them for creating such a wonderful character and would not dream of making any profit from him other than the enrichment of our imaginations.
X-Men and associated characters and Marvel images are © Marvel Enterprises, Inc.
The GambitGuild site itself is © 2006 - 2007; other elements may have copyrights held by their respective owners.