The Ante - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Lucia de’Medici
Last updated: 05/11/2007 10:19:38 PM

Chapter 2

"If a car leaves New York traveling at fifty miles per hour, and the distance to Louisiana is thirteen hundred and fifty miles, and assuming the driver takes no more than three pit stops per each eight hours of road time, and allocating a reasonable amount of time for rest each night, how long will it take to reach his destination?"

Rogue slumped a little lower in her seat, her elbow skidding across the desk where her sleeve refused to grip the pitted wood. She stared blankly at the board, the problem waiting for an answer scrawled in white on black by their math teacher.

Someone across the room raised his hand.

"Is the driver a mutant?"

Rogue closed her eyes, trying to tune out the accompanying snickers that followed the question.

"If the driver was a mutie, he probably wouldn’t be driving, dumbass!" someone hissed in response. "Some of those freaks can fly."

Rogue bristled, her bare fingers flexing involuntarily.

Louisiana.

Maybe she’d misheard, her ears playing tricks on her. She hadn’t had the time for a cup of coffee that morning, and the whole ordeal with Gambit’s card...

"But if it’s a mutant doing the traveling, then maybe there’d be velocity too - the coordinates would get all whacked, and you’d have to calculate the triangulation and -"

"Thank you Dennis. For simplicity’s sake, let’s assume the driver is normal."

...Had seemingly thrown her off balance.

Rogue inhaled sharply, forcing herself to let the teacher’s comment slide. Mutant baiting was practically commonplace these days, but in a classroom? That was just plain poor taste.

Several heads swiveled in her direction as if anticipating a reaction. She shot a disparaging look at a blonde girl at the front of the class, who scowled at her in retaliation. Dully, she turned her attention to the large windows lining the far side of the room.

Rogue’s cheek sagged against the bare knuckles of her exposed hand, tucked closely to her body where no one would brush her skin accidentally, while her other covered fingers tapped a loosely held pencil against the tabletop.

It had probably been a good thing that Kitty had left without her that morning. If she’d known that Rogue had left without a glove - one ridiculous little article of clothing - the Institute would have probably seen the equivalent of World War III. She liked Shadowcat, really, though admitting to that would probably result in a mall crawl and several hours of gabbing that Rogue could otherwise live without.

Still, the vengeful voice of reprimand, which incidentally was starting to sound a whole heck of a lot like Kitty, was currently berating her for taking off without the damnable thing anyhow.

Rogue glanced at the clock and sighed audibly.

If Shadowcat’s psyche had stuck around in the aftermath of Egypt last year, she probably would be doing a number on her head too. As it were, she wasn’t - Apocalypse had seen to that, purging her of each and every specter who had once inhabited her head; as it were, it was Rogue’s own conscience niggling at her in her own gravelly southern drawl.

It was risky, exposing herself like that. As much as she hated it, she’d spent the better part of the morning with her hand crammed into a pocket.

It was better than winding up with another absence from trig, at least. Why trig was so important in the greater scheme of things... now that left room for debate. Unless, of course, she was trying to measure the distance from where she sat to one particular former adversary who’d disappeared the year before into the swamps of Louisiana.

Obstinately, Rogue mentally declared that she was definitely not doing that.

She peered at the clock again dolefully.

One hour, forty-three minutes, and twelve seconds until lunch. Eleven seconds. Ten seconds. Nine... Her eyelids drooped, and she hummed, slipping into the familiar, comfortable headspace that was conducive only to the illusion that you looked like you were still taking notes. In actuality, you were enjoying the refreshment of a light nap.

How long will it take to reach Louisiana?

She blinked the thought away while the teacher droned on. There were more pressing things to deal with than basic trigonometry, she decided; like how fast the grass grew or whether the group of kids ditching class behind the bleachers were about to get nailed by the school’s custodian doing his late morning rounds.

Clearing her throat, Rogue attempted to focus on the neatly trimmed grass of the school grounds outside, the bike racks lined haphazardly against the main walkway, and the parking lot beyond. It was just another day in the quaint suburban hell known simply as Bayville, she thought blearily.

Rogue let her eyelids close, and the memories rose with absurd ease — though she’d done her best for the better part of a year to repress them.

---

The bayou smells nothing like any other body of water she’s been near before. It’s a thriving microcosm, heady and heavy-lidded with the perfume of wet cypress trees, their roots splayed and anchoring them into the silted bottoms of the swamp. Here and there, tiny white blossoms cling to the shadows, strangled by dry bits of lichen and tangled vines.

She has to brush aside the sagging Spanish moss that catches in her hair. It’s humid and dark; the trees are tinged with the green-black ache of the water where the light catches the reflections cast from their meager torchlight.

She doesn’t need to see where they’re going; the directions have been implanted into her mind alongside the flurry of Julien’s memories. They make her temples throb, but she doesn’t want him to know that.

Gambit is seated at the stern of the small skiff, gently guiding the rudder where she directs him to, and Rogue keeps herself pointed stubbornly forwards at the prow. It’s easier like this. He can’t see her straining to rein in Julien’s psyche.

She feels his eyes on her anyway, two smoldering points of red in the dark; they make the back of her neck burn. They make her blush to the tips of her ears, and she is uncomfortable because of it.

"Nice," he murmurs in appraisal, and Rogue feels the heat rise to her face.

Something sizzles, pops, and flares. The light illuminates the glossy surface of the water momentarily, and she swivels to find the cause of the disturbance, her heart hammering madly in her chest.

Gambit has pulled from his pocket a handful of Mardi Gras confetti, sparkling over the water’s surface with kinetic charge. They’re like fireworks: beautiful, and ephemeral. When they disappear, the shadows seem to grow longer between the trees.

Gambit smiles, satisfied that he’s caught her attention. He watches her expression morph between embarrassment, to wonder, and back into that guarded scowl that hardens the planes of her face.

"So." Rogue clears her throat, trying the squash the unease with her usual, tepid grosgrain. "All this trouble and Ah thought ya didn’t like yo’ father."

"I don’t. Just because someone adopts y’, it doesn’t make dem a parent."

"Yeah," she murmurs, disconcerted by the familiarity of his statement.

"Mystique? Y’ mean it wasn’t her motherly instincts dat led her t’ take y’ in?" She can hear the grin in his voice; he’s mocking her, subtly, but nonetheless...

"Let’s just say it was my powers she wanted to nurture," she deadpans.

He pauses. She can hear him inhale sharply, and she knows with full confidence that he’s studying her from behind. How often has he done this? How many times had she not known that Gambit had been in the shadows prior to this moment, dogging her footsteps, taking in everything about her?

How much does he know?

Rogue shivers, though the air is warm and the humidity from the swamp is making her shirt cling to the sweat on her back.

"You an’ I, we could write a book about it. Been down de same roads." He trails off.

A pause lengthens between them. It stretches to the point of becoming awkward. He’d been so blasted cocky on the train, telling her how he’d known she was awful lonely, that it’d be a good feeling to know that someone was watching out for her.

He’d been the one doing the watching, not Mystique, the way things ought to have been.

She didn’t need it, and she definitely didn’t deserve it.

"Difference is, yo’ here trying to save yo’ father. It’s more than Ah did."

Much more.

Gambit probably knew that, too, and yet, he’d looked past it.

Rogue sucks her lower lip into her mouth, straining to see through the murky darkness ahead. It’s beautiful, she thinks, her conscience suddenly lighter than it had been in days. The bayou is beautiful at this time of night.

---

"Rogue! Rogue!"

"Go ’way! M’ sleepin’," Rogue muttered into the crook of her arm.

"Keetty, Rogue’s not wearing a glove!"

"Rogue, wake up. Come on, we need to get you out of here, like, yesterday!"

Rogue lifted her head, pawing at the indentations left on her cheek from her notebook’s binding.

"Where...? Oh." Blearily, she took in her surroundings. The lunch bell must have rung while she’d been resting her eyes. Kitty and Kurt stood over her, both managing to look suitably fretful though the rest of the class had cleared off.

"You fell asleep, Rogue," Kurt muttered. "When you didn’t turn up for lunch, we thought..."

"You’ve got to get back to the mansion," Kitty cut him off. "Your arm was like, hanging half off the desk. Anyone could have brushed past you, and then there’d be..." She wrung her hands. "Oh my gosh! There’d be someone in a coma on the floor and you’d be asleep and like, how could you do that?"

"Do what?" she muttered, blinking at the smear of pale foundation left on the opened page before her. She clapped a hand to her face and winced at the sensation of bare skin lanced through with pins and needles. She’d fallen asleep on her arm, and her circulation was paying the price.

"You actually left this morning without both your gloves!" Kitty hissed.

"Like Ah had any other choice," she snapped. "Ya left without me. Ah had ta run ta school."

"But, Rogue, what if someone touched you by accident?" Kurt asked, stealing a nervous glance over his shoulders. Thankfully, both the classroom and the hall beyond were empty.

She threw a wry look up at him, pursing her lips as she gathered her things together and dropped them into the opened bag at her feet. "It’s not like anyone’d come within ten feet of me anyway," she retorted. "Everyone in this school skirts around me like Ah’ve got the plague ta begin with."

Kitty bristled, clearly having not forgotten their spat from earlier. "Well... like... maybe if you didn’t dress like death incarnate they wouldn’t be so worried!"

Rogue rose from her seat, ready to spar. "Why don’t you go find some catnip, Shadowcat?" she bit back. "What? Lance ain’t around enough for ya anymore? Maybe ya ought ta find a new scratching post!"

"Are you volunteering? Maybe I could scrape some of that makeup off while I’m at it!"

Rogue dropped her bag, ready to lunge with her bare hand. To hell with the consequences; Kitty always balked before the moment of contact anyhow. In some cases, it was worth it just to see the spark of fear sliver through her friend’s eyes.

"Damen!" Kurt near-yelled, sliding between them with a nervous chuckle. "Let’s leave this little disagreement for the Danger Room, ja?"

Kitty sniffed, turning away roughly and folding her arms across her chest. Rogue repressed a snort as Kitty’s ponytail whipped Kurt in the face.

He sighed, rubbing his cheek.

"Come on, Rogue. I’ll teleport you back to the Institute." He cast a glance at Kitty, and added in a hasty undertone that was loud enough that they both could hear, "I left my lunch in the fridge anyway."

"Just git me outta here, Kurt. Ah was havin’ a great dream before y’all came bargin’ in."

She felt the blush on her face before she could prevent it. Rogue shut her eyes briefly, intent on squashing out the unsettled sensation in her stomach that wasn’t due to hunger or Kitty trying to admonish her.

It hadn’t been a dream. Not really, although these days it sure felt like it.

"Hey, Rogue?" Kurt began tentatively, picking up her bag from the floor and slinging it over a shoulder. He took her arm gently, holding her by the elbow. "Did you know that your accent gets heavier the madder you are?"

"Git!" She scowled, lifting her bare hand menacingly.

Kurt beamed, the hint of two extended incisors apparent at the corners of his mouth the wider his grin got.

"You wouldn’t hurt your own brother, would you?" he chuckled, squeezing her arm playfully before Rogue felt the sudden lurch of Kurt’s mutant power yanking them out of one location, and depositing them in another with a loud, BAMF!

---

"You’re home early."

Rogue waved at the lingering cloud of sulfur. It left the scent of rotten eggs heavy on the air, and as much as she hated insulting Kurt, she couldn’t help but dislike the fact that his teleportation carried with it the strong smack of something offensive to the nostrils.

"Hi, Jean," Kurt mumbled sheepishly. "Forgot my lunch." He cast a sidelong glance at Rogue before excusing himself and ’porting into the manor.

"Are you okay?" Jean asked lightly, the unmistakable look of perfected concern shaping her features prettily. Rogue tried not to scowl.

In response, she held up a bare hand.

"Where -?"

"Don’t ask," Rogue cut her off.

"Are you going -"

"No."

Jean drew back a little as if offended by Rogue’s clipped returns. She had perched herself atop one of the mansion’s stone banisters, one ankle caught behind her shapely calf. It was the perfect place; sunny in the morning and shaded in the afternoon. At lunch hour, Jean could frequently be found sipping a coffee on the steps and enjoying the view over the grounds since she’d graduated Bayville High the year before.

It’s not like she had anything better to do, what with the Professor training her to become permanent staff at the institute like Ororo and Logan, and her correspondence course in genetics being far less of a challenge than any of the mansion’s inhabitants had expected. Jean’s natural aptitude for study had been bolstered, of course, what with Henry McCoy still in residence, and the Professor himself having a degree in the field.

"You shouldn’t be cutting class so close to graduation, you know."

She’d almost forgotten, Rogue thought to herself. Jean had taken to nagging - the second best sport to soccer, from what Rogue understood.

"Is the Professor in?" She ignored the pinched turn of Jean’s mouth.

"I’m not nagging you, Rogue," Jean replied shortly, albeit with a hint of surprise.

"Didn’t say ya were. Is the Professor in?" she asked again, trying to steady her voice.

Jean was picking up every little projection these days. It was if her telepathy had been cranked up to the most sensitive setting. Frankly, Rogue thought it was making her a little more tetchy than usual.

Jean sighed. "He’s in his office," she said, defeated, fixing her gaze somewhere past Rogue’s shoulder.

Rogue bowed her head, her hair hanging listlessly in her face, and trudged past.

"And your missing glove is in the hamper mixed in with Piotr’s uniform," Jean called over her shoulder.

Rogue winced and continued walking, not wanting to linger on the idea of Piotr Rasputin’s leotard in such close proximity to the garment that usually fit snugly around her fingers. Like most things, that was too close for comfort.

She adjusted her bag over her shoulder and tramped through the foyer, letting her boots drag on the hardwood floors, leaving faint scuff marks in her wake. She didn’t care, and the Professor tolerated it.

At this time of day, the mansion was vacated save for the senior staff. Beast was probably working in his laboratory, Logan wouldn’t be in from happy hour for a stretch, and Piotr would more than likely be tinkering with the jet. Cyclops, she knew, had been toiling for the past week reprogramming the Danger Room to ensure that their nightly training sessions were tripled in difficulty — something about slacking on the job, or maybe the stick up his butt had lodged itself in further since being appointed to team leader in chief. Not that she minded Scott’s rigidity when it came to their training sessions; he preferred structure, dedication, diligence, ad nauseum. All fine traits to be had by such a model X-Man, and while she’d be hard-pressed to admit it, she’d learned a lot since Scott had taken the initiative to push them harder. It had furthered the illusion, at least, that Rogue was still managing to hold her own in the aftermath of the year before.

The last thing she needed or wanted was to be singled out as a victim of Apocalypse. She wasn’t a charity case, and she definitely would not let the others tread around her gingerly for it. It had taken one particularly grueling session, a concussed Berserker and a demolished simulation projector, but Rogue had reinserted herself back into the relative normalcy of routine with little effort. They had pretty much left her to her own devices since, and she was just fine with that.

It didn’t make walking the Institute’s corridors feel any less strange when the mansion was this empty, though.

Save for the Professor’s omnipresence, Rogue was alone. Instinctively, she hugged her arms close to herself, and kept walking.

The midday sun warmed the oak-paneled corridors, casting its light through the large windows of the common areas as she passed. Slowly, she made her way to the girls’ wing, to the room she and Kitty had shared for the better part of four years.

In no rush, knowing that the Professor would have sensed her presence by now and would probably summon her telepathically, she slogged onwards. The estate felt different without everyone bustling about. In the evening, the halls rang with chattering, laughter, and the blare of stereos and television sets. Every so often, someone’s powers would manifest themselves loudly - making the sublevels of the school shake despite the solid foundations.

It seemed to Rogue that for once, with the floating particles of dust caught in the sunlight and the ringing silence around her, she felt a little closer to the place she called her home. It didn’t help any that the only reason she could convince herself of the emotional tie was because the empty mansion reflected her own isolation.

She really shouldn’t have threatened Kitty like that, she thought. Out of everyone, even her adopted brother Kurt, Kitty had been a constant in Rogue’s life for as long as she’d lived at the Institute. Kitty had accepted every snide comment, rude retort, and disdainful brush-off. Rogue had memorized the exact look on her face when Kitty decided if she was hurt by Rogue’s coldness towards her; her eyes got a little wider, a little wetter, and her lower lip stuck out petulantly.

She meant well, Rogue reasoned. She just didn’t quite get it.

No one, in fact, ever really got it.

Well, she paused, her still-bare hand resting on the banister leading to the second floor, there had been one person, she reflected...

Rogue looked up into the stairwell, hesitating.

A heart’s beat pause, and then, suddenly afraid that she’d done more damage than she’d wanted that morning before class, she ran.

She took the steps two at a time, barreling down the corridor with her pack slapping harshly against her legs where she’d dropped her arm. Its weight stung where the corner of her Geometry text collided with her shin. Nearly slamming into the door, Rogue pelted into the room. She dropped her bag, breathing hard, and vaulted over Kitty’s bed to the dresser.

His voice lingered like the wisp of a psyche that had long been purged from her mind. Still, she could recall the exact sensation, the warm rush that spread like bourbon in her stomach when he spoke to her.

"S’ what now?"

Hesitating. She was always hesitating around him, even when she’d said goodbye and she couldn’t have mistaken that slight expectancy as he murmured those words.

Rogue swallowed hard, pulling off her remaining glove. She touched her temple with her bare fingers and realized with sudden horror that her hands were trembling. Damnit, why today of all days? Hadn’t she put that night behind her?

"Ah’m goin’ back with the X-Men. Ah don’t care what ya do."

Hadn’t she put him behind her?

"Ah don’t care," she announced to the empty room, to the... to the thing inside her dresser. She winced at the loudness of her voice. It was a hollow sound, laced with uncertainty though she tried to force conviction into each syllable.

"Sure, y’ don’t."

Rogue shut her eyes. She was being stupid. It was a piece of paper, for mercy’s sake. It was nothing to get all worked up over, and nothing to cling to so stubbornly.

Then why had she kept it this long?

Because he’d given it to her, because he’d gotten "it" - lord knew how, but he’d understood at least partially. The Queen of Hearts had been some sort of symbolic talisman; he’d passed his good luck charm on to her, or maybe it had meant something more...

Rogue flinched, embarrassed that she could entertain the idea for even a second. Squashing the thought, she yanked the drawer open.

Still in a wadded, crumpled ball, the Queen remained at the bottom, nestled comfortably between her dainties.

She could remember the exact smell of Blood Moon Bayou; she could remember the chill from the water that soaked her clothes, and the sodden, squelchy feeling of the swamp in her boots. She could remember how warm he felt, standing mere inches behind her, before he pressed his hand into hers, and he slipped away.

She’d let him.

"Y’ will be fine, chérie. Y’ve got people watchin’ f’ you."

Her breathing hitched, and though she reached out for the abused playing card, she did not touch it. It was as if the Queen had developed a life of its own from the time she’d found it that morning, to the moment where she fisted her hand above it.

It was as if by touching it she’d be able to absorb whatever traces of him he’d left behind, and that, she knew, was one great big stinking lie.

Rogue withdrew her arm, feeling her heart rate escalating, and the sure-as-anything bubble of adrenaline as it hit her bloodstream.

For all that she remembered in vivid detail from that night in New Orleans, there had been one thing she’d neglected to dredge back up to the surface.

In the end, he’d left her alone.

Rogue swallowed, her eyes narrowing as she appraised the small token of Gambit’s misplaced affections with renewed understanding. It was nothing more than a parting gift, no more special than anything else handed off to any other girl in any other town with that sly half-grin he’d become notorious for.

She snorted aloud, ignoring the treacherous twinge deep in her belly, and reburied the crumpled trinket beneath her underwear.

She was careful not to touch it with her naked fingers, just in case.

Closing the drawer, Rogue was struck with a sudden and desperate urgency. She wanted her gloves, badly.

---

If a mutant on a motorbike leaves New Orleans traveling at a hundred and fifty miles an hour, and assuming the driver makes no rest stops, save one in North Carolina at four o’clock in the morning for a half hour to stretch his legs and throw back a quick cup of coffee... It would take a little over twenty-six hours to reach the outskirts of New York.

It didn’t mean he’d be feeling particularly pleasant after the journey, but nonetheless, he’d arrived in one piece - barring several welts from insects that had crashed into his chest like his torso was a makeshift windshield.

Remy scrubbed at his chin with the heel of his hand, grateful for the cover of darkness. It was a little past ten, Monday evening, and the sun had long since slipped behind the ramshackle roof of the Brotherhood house. It left behind only the straining, winking stars overhead, and the one streetlight guttering half-heartedly at the corner.

He’d tucked Jean Luc’s Harley around the side of the garage, out of sight and out of the way of the large oil stain on the driveway that expected its maker.

It looked like Avalanche had yet to part from the old, battered up Jeep he’d driven in high school.

Remy smirked. "De more t’ings change," he murmured to himself, slipping around the side of the house and avoiding the dilapidated porch altogether.

His fingers traced the first ledge he came to. Surprisingly, the windowpanes were intact, but it really wouldn’t make too much a difference were he to knock them out with his fists.

Still, one had to respect the codes of breaking and entering. If you didn’t do it with style, you didn’t do it at all... no matter how shitty the venue.

"De more dey stay de same," he concluded wryly while scanning the darkened interior of the Brotherhood’s great room.

He shook his head, appraising the broken furniture, the cracks in the ceiling, and the patches in the walls that had been blackened with... scorch marks?

He chuckled, slipping a card from one of the many spare packs in his pockets, and wedged it under the window latch.

"St. John," he mused. "Been wonderin’ where dat fool had gotten to."

The card warmed beneath his fingers, tingling with kinetic current as it glowed red momentarily, and the lock popped with a dull whump!

Remy slid the window up and listened intently for a sign that anyone was home. When the silence returned to him, he vaulted over the chest-high barrier and landed on the threadbare rug. The only sound he made was the soft brush of his trench coat against the window ledge.

Casually, he strolled over to the couch, swept his jacket out from underneath him, and made himself comfortable.

All he needed to now was wait.

---

"Get off me now, Toad!"

"But baby cakes...!"

"Don’ttouchmysisterslimeball."

"Or what? What’re you gonna do, huh, speedy? Make me dizzy?"

"Could you two just knock it off - hey!"

There was a clatter, several loud yells, and a snarled oath.

"What the hell, mate? Hit the light switch, already."

"Pyro! That’s not the light switch!"

"Well then, was it as good for you as it was for me?"

"GUYS! We’re not alone."

In the darkness of the Brotherhood’s living room, two red eyes gleamed with unsettling brightness.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

A card flashed, restrained from full charge between dexterous index and middle fingers. It illuminated only a small portion of the room, bathing Gambit’s features in deep scarlet and black.

Slowly, with his free hand, Gambit traced the line of his lapel, extracting a small, bound bundle from his coat that he dropped unceremoniously on the coffee table. It made a hollow thunk as it hit the gouged surface, clunking to its side awkwardly.

"M’ here t’ make y’ an offer y’ can’t refuse, mes amis," he hummed, grinning in a way that would make even the Devil reconsider his claim to a man’s soul.

---

Translations: German to English

Damen!: Ladies!

Ja?: Yeah?

Translations: French to English

Mes amis: my friends

Mes belles: my pretties

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