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Chapters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
 
 
 

The Game of Empires - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Valerie Jones
Last updated: 02/13/2010 03:54:13 PM

Chapter 6

Valerie Cooper leaned back in her seat with a sigh. "I wish I knew how you people manage to keep waltzing in and out of here. This is the Pentagon. It’s supposed to be a secure facility."

Jean smiled at her chiding tone while, beside her, Scott shrugged. "Trade secret," he said lightly. They were seated in Val’s office, a somewhat dismal cube buried in the depths of the labyrinthine complex.

"So, spit it out. What do the X-Men want now?" Val regarded them evenly and Jean admired her composure. She would most likely lose her job if anyone ever discovered her connection to the X-Men.

"This isn’t exactly official business," Scott told her, and Jean felt her interest sharpen. "The other X-Men don’t know we’re here."

Scott paused, his discomfort obvious to Jean, but probably not apparent to Val. Valerie looked between them. "I’m not going to run out and tell them."

Jean shook her head. "No, that’s not it. This is just a... difficult topic."

Val frowned and set her glasses down on her desk. "All right." She steepled her hands in front of her. Jean could feel her settling herself to wait.

"How is Professor Xavier?" Scott asked suddenly. Val’s eyebrows arched, but the rest of her face remained impassive.

"Honestly, I wish I knew," she finally answered.

"Then you haven’t heard anything more?" Jean had been hoping that she might have stumbled across some mention of the Professor.

Val shook her head. "Why the sudden interest? It’s been months since Operation Zero Tolerance was terminated, and we didn’t know where he was then, either."

Scott and Jean traded glances. Jean was suppressing their natural rapport to avoid detection by the Pentagon’s mutant screening systems, but she didn’t need it to read her husband’s thoughts. She had the same question in her own mind. How much could they afford to tell Valerie? She was still a government agent, despite her mutant sympathies.

Jean saw Scott take a deep breath. "This is off the record, Val."

Val stared at him intently, then nodded.

Scott looked down at his hands for a moment, then looked back up at her. "We didn’t ask about the Professor earlier because, when he made the decision to turn himself in voluntarily, he asked us not to interfere on his behalf. We have honored his request."

"Until now."

Scott nodded. "Until now." To Jean’s surprise, Val waited silently for him to continue. After a few moments, he did. "Recently, we have seen evidence -- some -- evidence that suggests that the Professor might have had an agenda that we were unaware of."

Val’s frowned. "What kind of evidence?"

"I’d rather not say." Jean could feel Scott carefully choosing his words. "But it seems to predate Onslaught, perhaps even by years."

Jean could see the impact of his words in Valerie’s eyes. She laid her hands flat on her desk. "Do you have any idea what you’ve just told me?"

Scott nodded somberly. "Is there anything you can do to help us find him?"

Val’s gaze flickered between them. "Off the record?"

"Off the record."

She drummed manicured nails on the desk top. "A couple of splinter projects survived the end of OZT. The only name I’ve heard is Grayscape."

Jean frowned. "Do you know what it is?"

"No." Her hands closed into loose fists. "And I’m afraid that’s all the help can give you."

Warren woke slowly, consciousness returning to him in stages. As soon as he was aware of himself, the pain hit him, weighing him down like a heavy blanket of lead. For a while the pain was all he could see or feel, but eventually it began to recede. Not enough to simply become part of the background, but at least he could think beyond it.

The first thing he noticed then was the cold. Something cold that stretched the length of his body. It seemed to be molded to him, leaving the skin of his thighs, stomach and chest chilled. After a moment, he oriented himself and realized that he was lying on his stomach on a cold surface. Then he remembered. The bird. And he knew that the pain he felt was from his right wing, which had snapped in the grip of the bird’s talons. Slowly, he began to move his fingers and then his toes, checking to see if he had any other injuries. He discovered that he was very sore, but everything else seemed to be in some kind of working order.

His right wing was unfurled and stretched out beside him, covering his arm. Warren opened his eyes and raised his head to look, hissing at the pain even that slight motion caused him. The light was poor, but he immediately spotted the break and his heart sank. The radius and ulna had both been snapped in two. He could see the pale ends of the bones poking out. And with the main structure of the wing gone, the outer portion hung limp, lifeless.

Utter terror gripped Warren. He’d lost his wings once before because they’d been so badly damaged that they had to be amputated. Now, having finally gotten them back, he couldn’t bear the thought that they might be damaged again. He began to shiver as his fear amplified the cold seeping into him from the stone floor, and a single tear squeezed out of the corner of his eye and traced a path down his cheek.

Get a grip, Warren, he snarled at himself. He wrestled with his panic for several long minutes, then finally brought it under control. He wasn’t dead, or even maimed. He was injured. And imprisoned, he added after a moment. A metal shackle encased his neck and the attendant chain ran across the floor past his head to a large loop that was bolted to the wall with a pair of screws that he knew he had no hope of pulling out. There was little slack in the chain. Enough that Warren would be able to sit or stand easily, but he would not be able to move far from the wall. He debated sitting up, then decided that it would hurt too much. He would rather live with the cold than jar his injured wing.

He craned his head to look around his new environs, and realized with a start that he wasn’t alone. The cell was surprisingly large, perhaps ten feet by ten, and chained to the opposite wall from him was a woman. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. Her hands were curled around her bare toes in a vain attempt to keep them warm, and she had her forehead pressed against the tops of her knees. She was shivering violently. Warren could see the light that drifted down from a small slit of a window flashing off of gold ornaments in her hair as they trembled. It was a strangely beautiful effect.

"Hey," he called softly. The woman’s hands tightened convulsively, but she didn’t answer. He tried again.

"Do you know where we are?" That was the first order of business. The bird that attacked him was both puzzling and frightening, and had filled him with a sense of foreboding. He knew of one mutant in particular that might use such an agent. One that already had an interest in him. But he needed to be sure before he started thinking too much about that.

The woman made a snuffling sound and Warren realized that she must have been crying, though he hadn’t heard a sound. After a moment she raised her head slightly, but did not actually look up. "You’re Apocalypse’s prisoner."

Warren’s heart froze at her words. The name itself sent a tiny bolt of terror through him. He had never told anyone except Professor Xavier just how much Apocalypse frightened him. Not because of what he could do to Warren, really, though his blue skin and former biometallic wings were testament enough to that. It was because the things that he offered Warren-- the power, the fury, the total abandon -- were like a siren song that nothing could completely block out. He had left Apocalypse once and had made the long, hard climb back into the sun, but like every recovered addict, he was secretly afraid of the day when he would again tumble over the edge.

To distract himself, he looked back at the woman. Her demeanor suggested both fear and dejection, but for all of that she was remarkably composed.

"I suppose introductions are in order," he said as diffidently as he could manage. "I’m Warren."

Slowly, the woman raised her head, and Warren felt his jaw go slack. Blood red irises, lit with some inner fire, stared at him from the depths of dark eyes in a face that Warren had thought he’d never see again. She was slightly younger than Gambit, he guessed, but her face was a near-perfect duplicate of his.

She watched his recognition with interest. "Renee LeBeau."

"Well that certainly clinches it," he quipped. "Gambit never mentioned he had a sister." He couldn’t help the distaste that crept into his voice. There were a lot of things that Gambit had never mentioned.

Renee’s eyes widened in surprise, and Warren could see the flare of her nostrils as she drew a sharp breath. "Gambit?" She stared at him, her gaze flickering as if the comment had set her mind to racing. Warren watched her curiously, and even more so when she seemed to reach a conclusion. She let out her pent breath in a relieved sigh, nodding to herself.

"It worked," she whispered with something that sounded suspiciously like awe.

"What worked?" Warren was thoroughly intrigued.

Her gaze darted back to him, clearly startled, and Warren realized that she had been so involved in her thoughts that she had completely forgotten about him.

The sound of approaching footsteps forestalled whatever answer she might have given him. A key rattled in the lock, the sound an unmistakable scrape of metal on metal. Curious, Warren craned his head to look up at the door and was amazed to see that it was, indeed, an iron lock.

Doesn’t make much sense, he thought as he heard the bolt slide back. Why would Apocalypse be using this low-tech cell? The X-Men would be in here in less than a second. In Warren’s experience, Apocalypse had always favored his highly advanced technologies when he simply wanted to get something done. Apocalypse was conveying a message with this archaic prison. Warren glanced over at Renee, wondering which of them that message might be directed toward.

The door to the cell swung open, flooding them with bright light. Warren saw Renee wince in pain and shade her eyes, but other than that, she did not react to the man who stood in the doorway. Warren found himself staring at Ozymandias as the reality of his situation slowly sank in. The terror that he had managed to ignore until now forced its way to the front of his mind.

Ozymandias glanced at Warren, but then turned his attention to the girl who now stared at her toes. He watched her for several moments, his expression oddly sad.

"That was a foolish thing you did, girl." To Warren’s amazement, his voice was gentle, as if he actually regretted seeing her chained.

Renee continued to stare at the floor. "I know," she answered, her voice tinged with sarcasm. She flexed her shoulders minutely and Warren saw Ozymandias’ eyes narrow. He wasn’t certain what barb Renee had thrown with her understated body language, but he was certain that it had struck Ozymandias squarely.

Ozymandias stiffened, the anger obvious in his clipped tone. "I did as I was commanded. No more, no less."

From his vantage, Warren could see the humorless smile that stretched across Renee’s lips. "So did I," she said without looking up.

Ozymandias stared at her, his face darkening. Warren tensed, anticipating the explosion. He didn’t know what he could do to protect Renee from Apocalypse’s warlord, but he knew he would try. But after a moment, Ozymandias threw back his head and uttered a short bark of laughter.

"I admire your audacity, child." He walked into the cell and dropped to a crouch in front of Renee. "Apocalypse is still fuming." Something about his stance made Warren think that he was enjoying Apocalypse’s discomfort immensely. But it also left him wondering why Renee was still alive. Those who angered Apocalypse did not often survive the experience.

Warren was surprised when Renee shivered, her fear obvious. There was none of the extravagant bravado he had always attached to Gambit, and so by association expected from her. Instead, she seemed truly afraid of Apocalypse’s anger, though she had obviously defied him in some way or she wouldn’t be in the cell to begin with.

"Is that why you’re here?" she asked Ozymandias and Warren refocused his attention on the exchange.

Ozymandias stood, wrapping his cloak about his sparse frame, and looked down at her. "Perhaps, child." His voice was heavy. "Apocalypse has called for you."

Renee’s head snapped up, and she looked directly at Ozymandias for the first time. Warren saw the dread written there, but as he watched, she seemed to gather herself and the expression shaded into acceptance. Ozymandias stepped back as she slowly climbed to her feet. He did not offer to help, though it was obvious that the simple feat required a great deal of effort on her part. She clung to the wall for support, her breath hissing through her teeth, until she was completely upright. Then she let go of the wall and stood, swaying slightly, as she stared at Ozymandias.

Warren was almost certain that he saw a flash of approval in the old man’s eyes as he reached up to unlock the collar around Renee’s throat. Warren pulled quietly at his own chain, gauging distances, but he knew it was useless. He could see the two guards who waited outside of the cell. Even if he could get to Ozymandias’ keys, he wouldn’t have time to free himself before the guards were on him. Maybe, if he knew Renee would back him up, it would be worth the risk, but he had no idea how she might react. In truth, she looked like she could barely stay on her feet, and her very face made it hard for Warren to trust her. So he forced himself to lay still as Ozymandias unlocked the collar and dropped in on the floor with a metallic clang.

Ozymandias stepped aside and gestured to Renee to precede him. She took a deep breath, then looked over at Warren.

"What about his wing?" she asked.

Ozymandias also looked at Warren, and something in the man’s face made Warren’s stomach clench in apprehension. "His suffering has only just begun, child. He is not your concern."

Renee looked for a moment like she might protest, but then her shoulders slumped and she hung her head. Without another word, she walked toward the door. Warren felt a sharp stab of anger for her acquiescence which died when he caught a glimpse of her back and the lines of dried blood and surrounding bruises which covered it.

Stiffly, gingerly, Renee moved out into the hall. Ozymandias followed her and one of the guards closed the door, leaving Warren in solitude. He watched the door for a while, until his neck began to ache, then laid his head back down on his arm and closed his eyes. For the moment, there was nothing he could do except wait, and hope that the X-Men would be able to find him. But instead of the X-Men, he found his thoughts returning to Renee. Gambit had told them so little about himself in the years he’d spent at the mansion. Amazingly little, as Warren had come to realize recently. And what they had finally learned about him, apparently, was only the beginning of the truth. Renee was living proof of that, and it left Warren wondering bitterly how much more they still didn’t know, and what damage the Cajun might yet do to them.

 

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