Home | Forum | Mailing List | Repository | Links | Gallery
 
 
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 9

Warren woke abruptly. He wasn’t sure what might have startled him out of sleep, but he was momentarily disoriented, unable to identify where he was or how he had gotten there. He felt strangely weak and exhausted. He opened his eyes cautiously, squinting against the harsh white lighting. The sight of the intricate machinery that ringed him brought back Warren’s memory, along with a sinking feeling of horror. He was strapped to a metal table, his arms, legs and wings immobilized. The broken wing ached dully.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since Apocalypse’s lackeys had brought him to this room. Days, at least. Maybe weeks. The stark white light never changed. Even with his eyes closed, the light seemed to burn its way through his eyelids and left him aching for some brief respite of darkness.

He felt the first twinge of discomfort, like an irritating prickle in his bones, as the machines sensed his waking. Warren tensed, his stomach tightening into a hard knot in instinctive reaction. When he’d served Apocalypse in the past, he’d seen this particular device in use, but had never been subjected to it, until now. Though he couldn’t feel them, he knew there were a pair of probes attached to the back of his neck. They fed impulses directly into his nervous system. In this case, the machine generated sensations of pain that began as a mild irritant, then grew to excruciating over the course of many hours. Eventually, the pain would simply become too much and Warren would pass out, but that only brought him relief while he was unconscious. As soon as he woke, the cycle would start over again. And no matter how much he screamed, no one ever appeared. There were no demands, no threats, no promises.

He could see the I.V. that fed him through a vein in one arm dangling off to one side, and knew that he would tear it out if he could. Dying of dehydration would at least bring a release from the pain. But he was certain that he was watched, and that even if he did manage to do such a thing, it wouldn’t go unobserved. The manacles that held him were padded, as were the clamps over his wings. His wrists and ankles were badly bruised from his struggles, but that was the most damage he was able to do to himself. The break in his wing was covered by a strip of some black, tar-like substance that struck Warren as being some kind of techno-organic bandage, but he couldn’t see what, if anything, was happening to his wing. All he knew was that the outer portion -- the part beyond the break -- was numb and unresponsive. In a small place in the back of his mind, he was terrified that he had been crippled once again.

Warren understood the purpose of the device. He’d seen it used with great effectiveness by Apocalypse in the past. It wasn’t intended merely to inflict pain. In Apocalypse’s view, pain was only a tool. No, it was designed to strip away all of the trappings of civilization within a person. To destroy the limits imposed by society and conscience, and to reveal the raw, unfettered creature within. Warren had found that dark and vicious core within himself once before, when the horror and pain of losing his wings had done to him exactly what Apocalyse’s machine was trying to do now. He was determined that he would never fall back into that madness again, but his convictions were hard to keep in focus as the pain built and built until he could no longer hold onto a single rational thought. As it grew, the agony sparked fury for the injustice of what was happening to him.

Warren shoved the thoughts roughly aside. He couldn’t think about how unfair it was. That was what had trapped him the first time. That self-pitying loathing of himself and his situation. Instead, he searched for a distraction. He forced himself to look around, to take in the details of the room about him. He tried to speak to himself in his head, describing the things he could see in excruciating detail as his fingers clenched into involuntary fists in reaction to the growing signals being sent to his pain centers.

He went through each of the banks of machines, describing to himself the various indicators and even the details of each of the indecipherable characters printed beside them. He described the color of each light on the displays, and estimated the diameters of the cords or tubes that ran from the machines to Warren’s table. Eventually, he exhausted that topic and turned to reciting things that he knew from memory. The last status report he’d seen on his company’s year-to-date earnings, stock dividends, lost time accidents and other statistics. Multiplication tables. The Giants’ home game schedule. But after a while, he couldn’t hold on to such complex topics. He started reciting the lyrics to songs he knew, first popular music and finally nursery rhymes.

As it grew hard to breathe except in shallow gasps, he let his gaze fall to the left, toward his uninjured wing, and began to count the feathers. He couldn’t get past twenty-five or so, but that didn’t matter. He just started over at one and kept going. Anything to provide an anchor for his sanity. Anything to keep Apocalypse from regaining his Angel of Death.

He kept trying to count feathers, beginning at the wing tip and moving slowly inward toward the root. The feathers close to his body were much smaller, the newest growths interspersing bits of gray with the pristine white. In the back of his mind, a little piece of Warren noted the dark feathers as something of importance, but he couldn’t hold on to the thought long enough to wonder why.

Remy’s breath caught in his chest as the man walked into the room. He knew he was invisible in the shadows, but the man stopped abruptly and turned, a twitch of his wrist causing the knife sheathed there to drop into his hand. Remy tapped his powers ever so gently, knowing that it would set his eyes to glowing in the darkness.

The man paused in surprise, then let out his breath in a relieved sigh. "Remy? Is dat you?"

Remy stepped out of the shadows. "Hello, Father." It had been a challenge to infiltrate the Guild catacombs, to enter his home without invitation or consent, but Remy had found it oddly satisfying. He was done with blind obedience to Guild traditions, rules and laws. He needed to ask this man some questions, and he had no intention of asking anyone’s permission to do so.

Jean Luc did not seem to have any trouble reading the simmering anger in his son’s eyes. His welcoming smile died and was replaced by something both hard and sad. "What is it, Remy?" he asked quietly.

Remy felt a pang of regret. It was the Guild who had exiled him from his home, not Jean Luc, but Remy found it hard to separate the two. Especially with Rogue’s mocking last words still echoing in his heart.

"I need t’ ask y’ about someone."

Jean Luc raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"A woman." Remy dug a cigarette out of his coat and rolled it between his fingers. He wouldn’t smoke it here -- the scent would alert those nearby to his presence.

Jean Luc watched him dubiously, but with a tiny curl at the corner of his mouth. "It’s been years since y’ asked me f’ advice about women."

Remy snorted sourly at the joke. "Not dat kind o’ woman." He paused and looked directly at his father. "Accordin’ t’ what I’ve heard, dis woman looks jus’ like me." He tapped his temple. "Eyes an’ all. An’ she calls herself LeBeau."

Jean Luc’s face remained politely interested, but Remy knew him well enough to see the knowledge that clicked into place in his mind with a tiny "Oh" that Remy could almost hear.

"I t’ought y’ might know somet’ing about dat." He let a hint of sarcasm leak into his voice, challenging Jean Luc to admit what he knew. Whatever that was. Remy’s gut twisted into a knot in a kind of horrible anticipation of what his father might say next.

After a moment, Jean Luc shook himself out of his thoughts. He briefly met Remy’s gaze, but then looked away, pressing his lips together in a thin line. "I’m sorry, Remy. I can’ tell y’ who she is." His voice was colored with regret.

"Can’ or won’?"

Jean Luc shrugged. "Take y’ pick."

Remy felt a burst of real anger. "Y’ know who she is." The words came out as an accusation.

Jean Luc stared at him in silence, until Remy began to think he simply wasn’t going to answer. But then he let out his breath in a tired sigh and sat down in a nearby chair. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together.

"I can’ tell y’ about her, Remy," he said softly. He looked up, his expression firm. "I swore an’ oath. I won’ break it."

Confusion swept through Remy. "An oath? An oath t’ who?"

"It isn’ important, Remy."

"It is t’ me."

Jean Luc straightened slowly in his chair. Remy could see the conflict reflected in his eyes, but wasn’t certain he understood the source. "If I tell y’ who, will y’ promise me dat y’ won’ try to find dis woman?" he finally asked.

Remy frowned. "Why is dat so important t’ you?"

Jean Luc rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "T’ tell de truth, I don’ really know how important it is at dis point." His gaze dropped, centering on Remy. "But I want y’ word."

Remy paused, considering. There had been a time when he would have agreed without the slightest intention of keeping his promise, if it would get him what he wanted. But in the three years he’d spent with the X-Men, he’d never once intentionally broken a promise or betrayed a responsibility that had been given to him. It was something he was proud of -- and something that he’d only just realized that he wanted to continue.

"All right," he finally agreed. "Y’ have m’ word." After all, Token had predicted that Remy would soon meet this woman. It was something of a conundrum, but chances were fair that he would find her whether he was looking for her or not. "An oath t’ who?"

Jean Luc leaned back in his chair. "To y’ father."

For a moment, the rest of the world went away. Remy felt like his knees were going to buckle. "Y’... know... who--?" A million questions spun through his mind, the implications of which turned everything Remy had ever believed upside down.

Jean Luc nodded slowly. "Oui."

"But-- I don’ understand..." Remy stared at nothing, his mind whirling chaotically.

"I know."

Remy’s gaze snapped upward. The calm statement was, if anything, more unsettling, though he thought Jean Luc was probably trying to reassure him. "Why didn’ y’ ever tell me?"

"I couldn’." His frustration was obvious. "I can’. I’ve already said more dan I should, but I wanted y’ t’ understand dat dere was a good reason."

Remy stared at him, his natural suspicion warring with the love he held for the man who had raised him.

Jean Luc watched him for a while, his expression sympathetic. "Out o’ curiosity, have y’ asked Xavier about dis?" he asked.

"Xavier?" Remy floundered for a moment until he caught up with the sudden turn in the conversation. "Xavier’s gone."

Jean Luc sat bolt upright in his chair, startling Remy. "He’s dead?"

"Non." Remy frowned in surprise at his reaction. "’Least, dey don’ t’ink so. He turned himself in t’ government custody after everyt’ing wit’ Onslaught." Actually, since Remy hadn’t been back to the mansion since before Bastion was overthrown, it was entirely possible that the Professor had returned in his absence.

Jean Luc looked confused. "Really? What did Xavier have to do with Onslaught?"

Remy pulled himself away from the restless churning of his thoughts long enough to flash him a sarcastic grin. "Didn’ y’ know? Xavier was Onslaught." And even if he had returned to the X-Men, he wasn’t going to be of much help to Remy.

Jean Luc’s eyes widened as his face slowly drained of color. "Merde."

Remy found his reaction rather odd, and it rekindled the suspicion he had just about discarded. "Why do y’ care, anyway?"

Jean Luc ran his fingers through his hair and voiced a sigh. "Because I t’ought maybe he could help." There was a deep rooted sadness reflected in the long lines of his face, along with a sense of helplessness.

"Help wit’ what?"

Jean Luc turned to look directly at him, his gaze piercing. "Not’ing, Remy. Jus’ let it go."

Scott Summers closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in the hopes of relieving the headache that was threatening to pop his eyeballs out of their sockets. But after a moment, he returned his ruby glasses to their customary perch, and went back to work. He and Jean were in a small office on the grounds of Whiteman Air Force Base. The office was the bureaucratic home of a little project named Majestic, which was somehow tied to Grayscape, though, as yet, they didn’t know how.

Scott readjusted the penlight gripped in his teeth and turned another page in the file he was looking through. It was their third week of searching, with little result, and Scott found himself wishing bizarrely that Gambit could have been there to help them.

Thoughts of the Cajun thief twisted his stomach into a painful knot. The things they had learned about him from Hank and the others after their return from Antarctica left Scott with a keen sense of betrayal. Not so much that Gambit had once made a mistake in working for Sinister. That was forgivable, despite the horrendous results. The thing that bothered Scott was how thoroughly Gambit had deceived them during his years with the X-Men.

Gambit had seemed to them all to be nothing but a scoundrel -- a thief, admittedly, but a fairly petty one. Bragging about his abilities, but never showing exceptional talent, save for a few separated instances when it had been his life on the line. Scott had always overlooked those brief flashes of ruthless efficiency, putting them down to the extraordinary circumstances, but now he knew better. It amazed him how blind he had been. Logan had always maintained that Gambit was dangerous. Sean Cassidy had never trusted him, nor had Psylocke. Somehow, they had sensed the truth hidden beneath the facade of harmlessness, and Scott had just refused to listen to their warnings. But then, even as now, he believed that Gambit had been sincere in his desire to start a new life with the X-Men. The problem was, he had done it under false pretenses. He had never been willing to show them where he was coming from. He had hidden his past, his abilities, his beliefs and his motivations, and fed the X-Men an intricately woven set of lies, half-truths and misdirection. And that was what hurt so deeply.

"Scott, look at this." Jean’s low voice dragged Scott out of his thoughts. He turned to her as she brought a manila folder over from one of the filing cabinets that lined the wall.

"What is it?" He looked at the top page as she laid the file down on the desk before him. It was stamped "Secret" and the letterhead was from the Office of the Director of Project Grayscape.

Scott grabbed it up and began to read. The page was only a short memo about staffing limits, but the letterhead was invaluable. It gave an address for Project Grayscape.

"Pack your bags, honey. It looks like we’re going back to D.C.," Jean commented with a smile.

Renee raised her hands over her head, stretching slowly until she stood on her tip toes with her arms fully extended above her. The skin of her back felt like it was pulled painfully tight, but she ignored it as she bent forward to touch her toes. After all, that was the point of this exercise. As the scars began to form on her back, the skin tended to pull inward and to lose its pliancy, despite the medicated oil Shala rubbed into it each night. Renee was aware that if she didn’t do something to stretch the scars as they formed, she would end up splitting them open during any kind of extreme physical activity. And so she gritted her teeth against the pain and pushed the last inch to touch her forehead to her knees. She had taken up a far more stringent exercise routine of late, much to Shala’s amusement. The slave girl was delighted by Tai Chi in particular, though Renee was trying to practice a full spectrum of martial arts, along with basic strengthening and endurance exercises. She was limited by the confines of her room, and had also discovered that, if she wanted to work out, she needed to do so either late at night or very early in the morning. Apocalypse expected her to be presentable -- which in his terms meant dressed, perfumed and ornamented -- at all times during the day and evening in case he decided to call for her.

At the moment, it was very late. Shala was curled up in her usual place beside the hearth, sleeping soundly. Renee envied her peaceful slumber. She had slept only an hour or two before nightmares woke her and drove her from her bed with their disquieting echoes. Renee was hoping that a little bit of stretching would help calm her enough to get back to sleep.

She finished her normal set of limbering and warm-up stretches feeling refreshed, but invigorated rather than tired. She sighed softly and pulled on the band holding her hair, letting the heavy auburn waves tumbled down around her. The brush that Shala used was lying on the low table beside the bed, and Renee picked it up. She ran it through her hair experimentally. It had been a while since she’d brushed her own hair. Bemused, she sat down on the bed, brush in hand, and began to brush her hair. The smooth, repetitive motion was oddly comforting.

Her life had once again settled into a routine that might have been a comfortable one, were it not for the looming knowledge that one misstep would bring instant retribution from Apocalypse. In the morning she got up, worked out, bathed, dressed, and then let Shala braid her hair as she ate a sparse breakfast. Apocalypse, apparently, wasn’t a breakfast person because there was never anything to eat before noon, save for some kind of dry biscuits and tea, which Shala would bring to her. Renee had always liked large breakfasts, which were the norm in the X-mansion, but since no one had asked her what she liked to eat, she had concluded that she was stuck with whatever Apocalypse preferred.

By the time Renee was ready, Apocalypse was usually awake, and a cat man would be waiting to take her to him. He was making a quicker recovery this time, and was already beginning to get out of bed for short periods of time, though where he went or what he did, she didn’t know and was not going to ask. But even healing him had become routine. Renee went to him in the morning and evening, using her powers at a level that left her weary, but not exhausted, and allowed her to keep a normal daily schedule.

Often, when she saw Apocalypse in the evening he seemed thoroughly wrung out, and she ended up using most of her energy just to bring him back to where he’d started out that morning. It made healing him a slow process, and in the inbetween times, Renee was left to herself most of the time. Unfortunately, there was little to do. Apocalypse’s palace was an austere place, and he would not condone anything that he did not consider appropriate for an Egyptian woman. Nor would he give her any access to the outside world. Renee spent much of her time working to learn the language that the slaves used, simply so that she would have someone to talk to. But the slaves were just as sheltered as she, if not more, and when Renee asked Shala about the world outside of the palace, she received only a blank stare. Though she would probably never say so aloud, Renee was growing bored.

Renee’s stomach grumbled, distracting her from her musings. She was usually hungry by the time she woke, and that hour wasn’t all that far off. Renee glanced at the door, then quickly slid off of the bed and retrieved her cloak. It was the middle of the night. Surely she would be allowed to go out without her normal trappings.

She slipped to the door and opened it a crack. The guard turned slightly to look at her, but he made no move to bar her way as Renee opened the door fully and stepped out. Breathing a short sigh of relief, she set off toward the dining room. As far as she knew, the baskets of fruit that adorned the table were never removed, and she was hoping that the slaves did not go so far as to put the fruit away each night.

The light in the halls was dim, even for Renee, but she knew her way by memory. She turned down a narrow hall, intending to shortcut her way through the sitting room just outside of Apocalypse’s chamber, but she stopped short as soon as she stepped into the room. Apocalypse was seated in the single chair that fronted the fireplace. His head was tucked into the corner of the high backed, overstuffed chair, and she could tell immediately that he was asleep. It wasn’t Apocalypse’s presence that stopped her, however. It was the staff that was propped against his knee, one end loosely clasped in his hand. The embers from the dying fire were reflected in lines of glowing orange along the metal surface.

Renee sucked in her breath and crept forward. Just the sight of her staff evoked a dozen memories -- of her home, her life, her family. It was the last link she had to her past, and as a real and solid reminder of the people she loved, it was very important to her. Silently she dropped to her knees in front of Apocalypse and stretched out her hand to gently touch the cool, smooth surface.

Apocalypse’s eyes flickered open and Renee froze, her fingertips hovering just above the metal surface. She stared up at him in guilty terror, but his expression reflected surprise rather than anger before disappearing altogether. Renee snatched her fingers back as he straightened, his grip tightening on the staff. He looked at the weapon in his hand for a moment, but then turned an appraising stare on Renee, who faltered under the intense gaze and looked away.

"How did you come to possess an X-Man’s weapon?" He tucked the staff under one arm and leaned forward until his face was nearly level with Renee’s. Something about his manner made her think that the question was some kind of test, as if, perhaps, he knew a good deal more about her than he appeared to. That thought was frightening in its own right, and Renee struggled with her fear, wondering desperately what she could tell him. It had to be the truth. She didn’t think she could lie to Apocalypse, and she continued to stare at the floor rather than meet his questioning gaze.

"It was a gift," she finally said, which was true enough.

He shifted slightly. "An interesting gift."

Renee didn’t respond. She continued to stare at the floor in silence until a hand on her chin forced her head up. She gasped in surprise and horror as she desperately tried to grab hold of her powers before they could cause any harm, but then she grew still as she realized that her powers had not been activated. The shock of the unexpected contact robbed her of her defenses, left her vulnerable. She found herself staring into Apocalypse’s eyes with her heart completely unguarded, watching as he read her, but unable to guess what he saw.

"Who is Gambit to you?" he asked.

Renee felt like she had been pinned to the floor by his gaze. She couldn’t have given him anything but the truth. "My father."

The gray eyebrows twitched as his gaze left her eyes and drifted upward to her hair. He held her that way for a moment longer, then abruptly released her and sat back. Renee’s heart was pounding as she watched him, but he seemed to become engrossed in the staff, which he turned slowly in his hands.

Eventually, the motion stilled and Apocalypse extended the staff toward her. His face was still, expressionless, but it was obvious he was offering the weapon to her. Hesitant, Renee accepted it and felt the familiar weight settle comfortably in her palms. She felt horribly confused by the emotions that were tangled up inside her. She didn’t know whether to be frightened or pleased by the gift, and Apocalypse was inscrutable as he crossed his arms and watched her examine it.

For lack of any other direction, Renee fell back on the lessons of her childhood. "Thank you," she said quietly.

Apocalypse did not respond. After a moment, he levered himself to his feet and stepped past Renee. Without another word, or even a glance in her direction, he turned and walked away.

 

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.