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Present Imperfect - REVIEW THIS STORY
Written by Cassandra Fraser Chapter 1 Remy LeBeau had an big old 'coon dog named Happy, his best friend since he'd come to live here. Hap ate all the stuff he didn't want at dinner (he'd slip those bits under the table when Tante Mattie wasn't watching) and slept under his bed (it was cooler under there than it was in the bed with the newly-adopted orphan). Hap watched over him at night. Every hour or two, the hound would wake up, shake his big head, then pad about the cavernous room, checking under the chairs, bed, and doors. Any monsters who dared come into Remy's room would face the terrible wrath of those huge slavering fangs, and he would kill all the monsters, silently so that his young master would not be awakened by the apocalyptic din of the nightly perdition. Then he would amble back to the bed and snuffle Remy's hand to make sure he was safe (and receive a somnolent pat on the head for his vigilance). Tonight Remy felt Hap's tongue lovingly wash his hand as it hung over the edge of the bed. "It okay, Hap," he muttered. "I save you more a' de etouffle' nex' time." He rolled over and focused on the grandfather clock by the door, trying to determine what time it was. The moon came out from behind a cloud, dimly illuminating the far wall. Hap's flayed hide was nailed to that wall, dripping wide red stripes down the patterned wallpaper. The dog's head had been severed like the horse in the "Godfather" movie and was now impaled on the left side of his four-poster bed, the flyblown eyes fixed upon him. Too horrified and scared to call for his Papa, his big brother Henri, Tante Mattie, anyone--Remy couldn't even move--there were SNAKES in his bed, a multitude of snakes, coiling around his bare legs. "Humans lick hands, too, little baby," said Sugar Man. Remy screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed "It's all right, kid. I'm here. Go back to sleep." I'm here. The low voice, a growl forming words. Logan was standing at the foot of his bed. I'm here. Remy groped for those words like a drowning man after a rope. Semi-conscious, but cold, so cold, and there were so many hands and- Tongues He screamed aloud as sudden light from the hall outside blinded his sensitive eyes and arms wrapped around his shoulders. Without even thinking, he began to put up a fight, thrashing like a wild man. His assailant screamed back--but released him. "Easy, Cajun. Easy. Just lie down before ya fall down. Nobody's gonna touch ya. Just lie down." Taking deep breaths to try and slow his heart out of its jackhammer rate, Remy settled back into the pillows and blankets. With his initial terror passed, his strength bottomed out and he was suddenly as weak as a kitten again. It took him a few minutes to focus his eyes and realize where he was And what he had done. Hank, his face still puffy and lacerated, was examining Rogue's right eye. Where Remy had struck her. "Let us go and irrigate the eye with a bit of warm saline, my dear," he told her. "Your eye isn't damaged. Come along now." He took her shoulders and led her away. Cyclops saw them out, then walked over to Gambit's bed. Remy was in tears, too. "I not mean t' hurt Roguie . . ." he whispered. "She knows that. But you couldn't hurt her if you tried. Nobody's angry with you, Remy." Scott spoke gently, but he was already planning what he was going to say to Rogue when he caught her in private. She knew better than to barge in on Gambit like this. He couldn't deal with any sudden moves from anyone, especially when he was disoriented--and most of all, he couldn't stand to be touched. It was just fortunate for all of them that both his hands were heavily bandaged, and Rogue's eyes were just as invulnerable as the rest of her. The instinctive blow had merely shaken her up, and the bandages had protected Remy from her absorption powers when he made contact with her. Ororo, Betsy, and Jean understood the situation, and wisely kept their distance. But Rogue was too young and inexperienced, too much in love with Remy to comprehend that her presence was not exactly a comfort to him. Logan knew all too well. He was the one who had lifted the young mutant out of that sickening bubble bath filled with Calgon and blood. He had seen Remy's skin mottled with sadistic passion, his lips bruised blue. "Gimme your cape, 'Roro," he had said. "Get Rogue outa here, the other women, too. Cajun won't want to be seen if he wakes up." He'd ripped up Storm's cape and bound Remy's wrists as best he could with Scott's help while the others tended to Hank, then wrapped the Cajun's body in the rest of the cape. They had raced home in the Blackbird at full throttle. Ordinarily Hank would be the one in charge, but he had sustained a savage beating with a stout length of lead pipe. Beast bounced back to robust health in record time, but Gambit remained brittle and broken. He seemed blighted; it was rare that he could hold even pureed food down without vomiting, and most of the time he didn't attempt the painful process of trying to eat. His blood was incompatible with most of the other X-Mens'--he desperately needed a transfusion, but blood from any of them would kill him- Except from Logan. His healing factor negated effects of the RH and mutant X factors; he would be the perfect donor But he refused. "I ain't wasting my healin' factor on a man who wants t' die," was all he would say about the matter. And yet he was the one who stayed constantly at Remy's bedside. He alone could lay hands upon the Cajun without provoking more screaming and flailing. He nursed LeBeau with the utmost care and patience, attending to the most mundane chores himself. Remy was weaker than a newborn, but subject to unusual strength and ferocity when the terrors were upon him. These nightmares and flashbacks would always depart, but taking with them what little strength he'd managed to build during the days. Logan spent the nights lightly napping on the floor by his bed; he was the only one who could fight off the monsters now that Hap was gone. The lights in the main house blazed through the windows of the small boathouse near the lake. Jean Grey-Summers was already awake; her psi senses had roused with the activity in the Mansion. Her husband Scott possessed the enviable talent of being able to sleep through anything from a milehigh freefall to Bobby's frat parties. Sensing the terror and embarrassment of the center of all the attention, she sent out her mind to his, gently sliding alongside him, careful not to be invasive, soothing him back to sleep. Feeling Remy's awareness of her and the rest of the world slip away into a warm cocoon of deep slumber, she sat down in her rocking chair. Rocking for a few minutes, Jean allowed herself to smile as she clasped her hands over her stomach and closed her eyes. Professor Charles Xavier was sitting by the fire in his wheelchair. He had eschewed the use of his Shi'ar hoverchair over the past few days; he didn't like convenience at the moment. It wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Not only that; he found himself constantly bombarded by Gambit's thoughts, waxing and waning between abject terror and murderous anger. He had considered merely setting up a psi shield to keep those chaotic impressions out, but prudence and conscience wouldn't allow for shutting out a mind in such turmoil. He had to filter through every suicidal and homicidal thought to determine the intent of it; Gambit was a dangerous man--and no one knew it better than Xavier. He had tried once to reach into Remy's mind and calm him, but the Cajun had formidable psi shields of his own and breaching them was somewhat akin to trying to dig through the Hoover Dam with one's fingernails. But he had managed to probe the shields delicately enough to ascertain that Remy's mind, as well as his body, was tender as a raw wound. He could hear the thoughts of his X-Men tonight. They were all frightened: What had happened to Gambit could happen to any of them. This had always been true for any predicament they found themselves in, but none of them had ever encountered the likes of the Sugar Man. Xavier prayed that none of them ever would again. For all their superhuman powers and combat experience, they were still barely more than children, and their safety and well-being was his responsibility. He had utterly failed that responsibility in Gambit's case. "Come in, Bishop," he said. The X-Man from the future padded into the study on his big bare feet. He wore only a pair of fleece athletic pants, and the smell of sweat was suddenly strong in the room. His skin, the hue of bittersweet chocolate, glistened with perspiration. "You've been working out tonight," Xavier commented. "A soldier must be in the best physical condition possible, sir. In the X.S.E. it could mean the difference between life and death." Charles often tired of hearing Bishop low on and on about the X.S.E. Certainly, the man hadn't had much of a life outside that futuristic organization, but he harped on it endlessly and most of the X-Men were too polite to tell him to shut up. But one of these days Logan was going to suffer through one too many war stories and there would be fisticuffs and/or mammoth sulking. "May I speak freely, sir?" "Certainly." Xavier believed in an open-door policy. "In the future--er, in the future that I came from, LeBeau was an old man. He . . . he looked out for my sister and me when we were children--brought us food, stole blankets for us, taught us how to survive. I . . . always looked to him, Professor." Charles nodded. He knew where this was going. "It is difficult for me to reconcile the two LeBeaus. This LeBeau--now the only LeBeau I will ever see again--is much younger than I. I never expected to see him so . . . helpless. And so ill. You see, sir, I hadn't realized how young he is, in this reality. I always saw him as someone--much older." "Which is understandable." Bishop started to pace around the study, his huge hands clasped behind his back. "I confess that I am at a loss for what to do for my father now. He is not the man I am accustomed to." "Could the Witness have shrugged off such horrors?" The former soldier stopped to ponder the question. "I do not know, sir. The Witness was a strange man; he would be the first to tell you that. No one knew what he thought, where he went when he would disappear at times. Once I went to Rogue's grave, expecting to find him there, but he wasn't. The man could become smoke if he so chose." "And you worry that this version can, as well. The potential is certainly there, Bishop." "What can I do to help him?" Xavier suppressed a sigh. Was the answer so apocryphal as that? "Accustom yourself to Remy as he is. He can't be a father to you in this reality, but he can be your friend, perhaps even your brother. We can relate to people close to us in more than one way. Look at him as he is--not at what he might have become had circumstances been different." "I wish it could be as simple to stop Remy's nightmares--that I could drag the monsters out from under his bed--the ones he screams of, and squash them into pulp--just to give him one night of peace." "Sugar Man is the ultimate monster under the bed, Bishop. The Black Beast and Sinister are just as foul. We can't pretend we don't know what happened." Bishop nodded. "Thank you, sir." He started to walk toward the study door. "Are you going to bed now?" the Professor asked after him. "Later. First I am going to pay my respects to my brother."
Rogue was the first resident of the Mansion awake. She began her morning early, bustling about the kitchen, fixing grits, country ham, fried eggs, redeye gravy, biscuits, and brewing strong hot coffee. She hummed to herself as she worked, swearing only once when she touched the hot castiron skillet; although her skin was invulnerable to burns, she could feel the heat. Finally finished, she arranged the hearty breakfast on a tray, covered it with a red and white checked cloth, then carried it upstairs to Remy's room. She knew that she had done the wrong thing as soon as she pushed the door open. Remy had awakened ill from his soporific excursions, now on his knees in the bathroom, retching profusely. Logan was with him, holding his forehead and bracing him against the wracking heaves. The aroma of food--even food he normally liked--made him ten times sicker. Logan looked out the bathroom door long enough to see that Rogue was the intruder, bellowed at her to take the food and go. Rogue snatched up the tray and ran down the stairs with it, leaving a trail of grits in her wake like Hansel and Gretal's breadcrumbs in the woods. She cursed herself for a fool; Remy hadn't asked for her since he'd been brought home. Didn't he understand how badly she needed to see him? She could heal him, she knew it. What matter that she couldn't touch him? She could BE THERE for him. They loved each other; yet it seemed that they could never be together. But this time he was the one pushing her away. In about an hour, Logan appeared in the kitchen. He found Rogue sitting at the table, forlorn, her face propped up on her elbows and big tears spilling like rain from her green eyes. "Cajun appreciates th' effort ya went to t' fix him some breakfast. He just ain't up t' it yet." Sometimes Logan's gentleness was as startling as his ferocity. He sat down beside her, closing his big hairy hand around her gloved fingers. They sat side by side in utter quiet for a few minutes, then Rogue said, "He took one look at me and started vomitin' again. Ah must be real ugly t' him these days." He suddenly grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her like a naughty puppy. "How come everything's gotta be 'bout YOU, girl?" Just as abruptly he let her go and sat back down. At length he sighed and said, "I'm sorry, darlin'." "No, it's awright. Ah deserved it." "Well, mebbe ya did." He cast a long yearning look at the tray still setting on the edge of the table, and sniffed in its direction. "Ya plannin' on throwin' out that food?" "Not if you want it, sugah." "Thanks. Don't mind if I do." He pulled the tray to himself and fell to with gusto, finally picking up the plate and licking it clean. "Now ya don't have t' wash th' dishes. Mighty good eats, Mississippi." He belched contentedly, then said, "Just remember yer recipes, girl. Gumbo's gonna want some o' that when he's hisself again. Meantime, I betcha he could handle a glass o' warm milk. 'Specially if ya took it to him yerself." "Bless you, Logan," she whispered. Rogue turned to glance his way before she went back upstairs to check and see if he was coming with her, but he remained where he was. The door to Remy's room was left open, so she knocked softly then went inside. The love of her life was dozing, which allowed her to look upon him for awhile without his knowledge. He'd gotten cleaned up after his rough awakening, bathed, wearing fresh pajamas, even shaved. She marveled that Logan of all people would know how good cleanliness feels against the skin of those who are sick: In this case, it was enough to lull Remy back to sleep. His hair always grew quickly; it was long enough to reach his hips by now, and straggled over his pillows like rusty ink. She took off one of her gloves and sifted through some of that hair with her fingers; she could touch his hair if not his skin. Remy had thick hair, even softer than her own; it felt like strands of heavy silk between her fingers. In sleep and without his habitual five o'clock shadow, he looked no older than Bobby. No one knew exactly how old Remy was, least of all he himself, but since he came to live to at the X-Mansion, Rogue had decided upon a birthday for him, and it stuck: She pronounced his official birthday as Christmas Eve, when the surprises are opened. Remy went along with it in surprisingly good nature; birthdays weren't of much importance to the nigh-immortal members of the Thieves' Guild, and this seemed a pleasant novelty to him. A cool breeze stirred the curtains of the open window, and Rogue suddenly found herself looking into a pair of wide-open red eyes. She never tired of looking at those eyes, the glittering crimson swirling in twin black pools like coral snakes slithering in live coals. It was a not-so-subtle reminder that the Cajun demon-chile wasn't human. And yet, how inhuman was he, after all? He wanted only a home and family, to be accepted as one of them, to be forgiven past sins that weren't half as bad as he thought they were, to be safe. Was that so much to ask? "Might be in dis case, chere," he answered hoarsely. "What?! Now you a telepath?!" He gave her a ghost of that famous crooked grin, and shrugged. "Maybe ol' Remy no' play all his cards at once." "Cheater. So ya can read minds. How long ya been holdin' out on us with that one?" The grin became slightly more distinct. "Maybe I no' read minds, maybe I jus' a good guesser. T'ink I gon' tell YOU?" "Heaven forbid," she said. "Ah warmed ya up some milk. Better drink it 'fore it cools off." She helped him to sit up on his pillows, noting with sadness his bandaged wrists and how thin his body felt under his pajamas. His weight was nothing to her superstrength even when he was well, but she knew the feel of him--from the hard plates of muscle armoring those long slim bones to the firm narrow hips to the tender hollows of his throat and collarbone. He looked away from her as her gaze traveled to his face, still so pale it gave him a bruised look. He'd lost so much blood, Hank said; his hope for recovery was still questionable. Logan could help him, bring him out of the woods as Hank the doctor would say. He could give Remy some of his own blood. It didn't make sense that he had refused, and within Remy's hearing. The Canadian was an odd man if there ever was one. With Remy settled into a sitting position, she helped him hold onto the glass of milk so that he could sip its contents without spilling any. After drinking only about a third of the milk, he pushed the glass away. "No more, p'tite," he whispered. "Please." She sensed that her presence was tiring him. "Couldja do something fo' me, Remy?" she asked, hesitant even to make the request. "Anyt'ing you wan', ma amour, you jus' ask ol' Remy--don' be 'fraid." Rogue bit her tongue; of course he knew she was shy about asking--he was an empath, perhaps even a bit of a telepath. But she'd come this far, she might as well swallow the rest of her foot since she'd already stuck it in her mouth. "Could Ah--uh--could Ah hold ya, just for a lil' while?" For answer he held out his arms to her. She melted against him, careful to keep her face against the cloth of his pajamas and avoid touching his bare flesh with her own skin, feeling like an idiot and a selfish one at that: He was the one who'd gotten hurt, and here he was--comforting HER. "Ah'm sorry, Remy," she sobbed as she began to push herself away from him. His arms tightened around her. "Shhhh now, p'tite. You wan' cry, you go right ahead and cry on Remy. Dat what he here for." "Ah wish it'd been me 'stead a' you." He suddenly pried her off his chest with surprising strength and held her at arm's length. "Don' you say dat!!!!!!!!! Don't you EVER let me hear you talk like dat!!!!!!!!!!!!!" "Ah'm sorry--it's just--Ah don't know what t' say--" "Say you love me." "Ah do love you, Remy. Ah'll go t' mah grave lovin' you." "Now DAT sound like my Roguie." He pulled her to him again and began to rock her back and forth in his arms as though she were the injured one. "Long's we got love, we can do anyt'ing, chere. We gotta b'lieve dat. Gotta keep on b'lievin' dat." "Do YOU believe it?" He laughed weakly, but it was still something of a laugh, nonetheless. "I got to. It all I have." "Promise me something." "Que?" "Promise you'll nevah try t' kill y'self again." "Can' be promisin' dat, ma chere." "What 'bout what you just said--'bout b'lievin' in us?" His body was trembling by now. He held her head against his chest and she felt his tears fall damp in her hair. "It's kept me going dis far. It like I in a pit, trying t' climb out. I so tired, Roguie. You not know how tired I be. Sometimes I wan' give up and jus' rest from it all. But I know you up dere, you and de earth and sky up dere, and you make ev'ryt'ing clean and beaut'ful again." She hugged him, careful not to crush his rib cage. "Take your time, mah love. Ah'll be there for you. Ah'll wait fo'ever if Ah have to." Worried about tiring him further, she leaned back and put her gloved hand over his mouth, then kissed the back of her hand. "Someday, sugah, there won't be anything between us. Nobody or nuthin' t' take you away from me, not even mah powers." And then she released him and hurried out of the room.
Remy LeBeau's bedroom in Charles Xavier's mansion wasn't as poshly decorated as some of the other X-Mens' rooms. There was simply a plain coat of whitewash on the walls; the only decoration a small crucifix--a gift from Tante Mattie--hanging over his bed. The bed was his childhood four-poster; he'd sent for it from the home he owned in the Garden District of New Orleans. Not that he always slept in that bed; he typically catnapped wherever he happened to be whenever he became drowsy, but as he lately required sedation to sleep, he stayed put in his room more than usual. Actually, the best sedative they'd found for him turned out to be plain aspirin tablets; it affected his mutant physiology more profoundly than the strongest barbiturate did humans (he could eat a bottleful of pentobarbital and wash it down with a quart of vodka without blinking--an idiosyncrasy which had saved him from being shanghaied more than once--although he didn't advertise it to his many enemies about the aspirin ). Wolverine fed Remy one baby aspirin tablet tonight, made sure he chewed it up and swallowed it before he himself stretched out on the rug by the bed. The rug was Jeannie's idea; Logan didn't care if he had a slab of nails or a featherbed ticked with goosedown to sleep on. He lay awake for nearly half an hour, until LeBeau's breathing became even--then nodded off for some shuteye before the inevitable cycle of night terrors began. But something woke him before LeBeau had time to coast into REM sleep and start screaming again. The two of them were not alone in the room. A strangely metallic scent permeated the air. Like blood or hot chrome. The old four-poster creaked, as it always did when someone lay down on the bed, or got up. It'd take an Act of Congress to wake LeBeau up now. He was too snookered on baby aspirin. Logan could move fast as a whipcord in spite of the bulk his short body carried around. He was up and across the bed before one could say, "Who WAS that masked Canucklehead?" Nathaniel Essex stood just outside a tesseract he'd opened inside the room, cradling an unconscious Gambit in his arms and preparing to step back into the spatiotemporal rift. His smooth metal skin glinted coldly in the moonlight; his eyes were red, like Gambit's, but nfinitely more glacial and even more unreadable. Like a rattlesnake shaking its rattles, Logan popped open his claws with that characteristic snikking sound they made. There are four sounds in the world that even if one has never heard them before, one automatically knows exactly what they are upon the first hearing: the opening of a switchblade knife, the sliding of the bolt on an automatic weapon, the hunting cry of a mountain lion, and the unsheathing of Wolverine's claws. He was instantly between Essex and the tesseract, claws out and ready to get nasty. "Goin' somewhere, Dr. Frankenstein?" The scientist known as Mr. Sinister gave an indifferent shrug. Even with that spooky metal hide, he was a handsome, arrogant creature. "I am merely reclaiming my property, Logan. I have no quarrel with you. You will move aside." "White slavery's still illegal, last I heard. Why don'tcha run along, go pick on Cyclops or somethin'?" "In due time. I have need of LeBeau for the moment." "Well, so do th' X-Men." "That is none of my concern." Logan wasn't eager to get into a slice-n-dice session with Essex at the moment, not with the Cajun between them and especially since he'd been the one proffering the aspirin. Any other time would be just peachy to close with this slimeball. "Ah, ya don't wanna bother with th' kid now--he's too messed up fer yer kinda fun n' games." "Indeed?" "Don't take my word fer it, ol' sport. Just take a good gander at 'im." Essex frowned, but did as Logan hoped and placed Remy back upon the bed. He brought his hand near Remy's face, and his palm lit up like a small beacon, illuminating the room, as he deftly opened the Cajun's clothing with his other hand. "You use EverReady or Duracell fer that trick?" Logan sneered. Sinister ignored him, concentrating instead on appraising the Cajun. The examination took only a moment. "Who has done this?" he demanded, pointing at a gauze-wrapped wrist. "Try thunderin' a lil' louder, asshole--ya'll wake the Cajun." "The Acadian is mine." "That's what everybody says. Looks like yer gonna hafta get in line." "I asked you who did this." "Yer the traveler through time n' space, Dr. Frankenstein, not me. C'mon now, I betcha know somebody who's got a thang for little girls and big boys." "I do," Essex answered with significant distaste on his austere face. "What is the creature doing in this reality?" "You tell me." "I assume that it is not alone." "Well, give th' man a Kewpie doll--he guessed right. So, whatcha hangin' around here for, bub? Ain'tcha got a Black Beast and a Sugar Man to go trash? They been helpin' 'emselves to all those LeBeau stabilizing genes, ya know, the ones you'll need if yer ever gonna jazz up the precious Summers DNA just the way ya want to." Logan enjoyed letting Sinister know he knew what he was up to, and the only thing that bothered him about siccing Essex on Cyclops was any distress it might bring Jeannie. "Yes, they must be dealt with." Sinister frowned. "I shall return for LeBeau later." "Take yer time, ol' sport. I can always saw you apart." He sheathed and unsheathed his claws. "And that's 'xactly what I'll d next time I see yer ugly mug in this house." "I do believe you mean that, Logan." "Back away from th' Cajun and I'll show ya right now how much I mean it." Sinister took a step backward, already beginning to fade from sight as his tesseract shimmered closer. "I choose not to fight with you now, little man. It does not suit my purposes to risk causing damage to LeBeau." "Yeah yeah, yer not scared o' me an' all that crap." But Sinister was already gone, vanished into his tesseract. At least he'd left empty-handed. LeBeau was still here, still ignorant of this latest horror lurking about. Logan kicked the front door of the boathouse until the lights came one and he heard cott Summers yelling about some cretin outside trying to wake the dead. The Canadian snorted; he COULD have just broken down the flamin' door and let Mr. Asshole and his unfortunate wife scramble to put themselves decent as best they could. When Summers opened the door, Logan pushed his way past him, marched straight to the bedroom, and dumped the still-sleeping Remy LeBeau onto the middle of the bed between the amused Jean and the indentation in the mattress on the other side. "e's yer problem f' th' rest o' th' night, Summers." Scott's pajama bottoms were on backward and he hadn't yet discovered that big hickey Jean had put under his collarbone. "What the Hell are you doing, Logan?! He's not spending the night with us!" "Awwwww, don't let Sleeping Beauty interrupt your midnight trampoline, Cyke. He's out cold till tomorrow afternoon, I guarantee it, so carry on as yer were. Right now I need to hose m'self off an' he'd best not be left alone." Jean pulled the blanket more closely around herself, giving Logan the barest glimpse of her shapely thigh and the luxuries enjoyed nightly by her teachers-pet husband. Logan had to check and make sure his tongue wasn't hanging out of his mouth. "What's wrong?" she asked him, supremely kind woman that she was. Logan adored her more every day he knew her. He had loved many women in his life, but perhaps none quite as purely as this one. She looked particularly fetching tonight, with her pale skin aglow and a rosy blush spreading outward across the bridge of her nose and into her temples. "Mr. Sinister just dropped by, that's what's wrong. He was IN our damn house--came to collect his property, he said--acts like the Cajun's one of his lab rats." "Ye gods--is he still here?" Scott demanded. "Keep yer panties on, Summers. He ain't after you at the moment. I just pointed him in th' general direction of Black Beast and his pet monster so he's gone ta kick their asses. But I feel like I just been slimed, I wanna bath, so you babysit awhile." "We'll have to beef up security in the Mansion at first light," Scott said. Logan could almost hear the clicks of the gears turning in his mind. "Jean, we'll have to move you into New Salem." "No, Scott, we're safer here. In town we'd be out in the open." This seemed a strange conversation to Logan; he'd never sat through an English grammar class in his life, but these sure were some funky pronoun usages even for Xavier's little spoon-fed spelling bee champions. He decided to shut up and listen for a second: Then he heard it. There were five heartbeats in that room. He could hear LeBeau's heart skip a beat; he was about to enter the dream cycle again--fine, let Cyclops deal with it. Scott's heart was pounding, passion chimerizing to anger. The old pump in his own chest kept up its steady lub-dup-lub-dup; nothing much ever raised his blood pressure if not his hackles. Jean's heart was steady, too; gawd, the woman had nerves of steel--but the fifth heartbeat was very small and faint And coming from within her belly. "Blindside's right, Jeannie. You gotta get outta here." She suddenly flushed as red as her hair. "Logan," she whispered. "You know." He drove his furry knuckles into Scott's gut, enough double him over with a groan, but not quite hard enough to do any serious harm. "Congrats and all that, Pop." Taking Jean's hand in his own, he kissed her fingers. "This's great news, Jeannie. I'm happy fer ya." She smiled warmly, knowing he meant it. Knowing he longed with his last breath that this child should be his instead of Scott Summers'. He came closer and kneeled before her. But he didn't touch her, even though he yearned to. "It's a girl," he said. "I know," she answered softly. "How long ya known ya were--ya know?" "I heard her first thought three days ago." "Oh, Jeannie." Tears welled up in his yellow eyes. He had never loved her any more than he did in that moment. If she had asked him to reach into his own chest and make her a present of his lungs, he would have done it and died worshipping her. "Scott and I were wondering--would you be the baby's godfather, Logan?" Would he???!!!!!!!! That was like asking Imelda Marcos if she'd like to own a shoe store. His face said it all for him. He didn't care if Summers was jealous or not. She reached out and rested her hand upon his shaggy head, like a queen knighting her champion. "We'll take care of Remy tonight, dear friend. Don't worry, my psionic probes indicate that Essex is nowhere in the vicinity now." Logan took one look at Scott still sprawled on the floor, clutching his belly and groaning, then he gave Jean a grin and scampered off into the woods, howling at the moon as he ran.
"Miserable worms! What a pathetic lot you are." Mr. Sinister sat down in his chair. He liked that chair; one of his "children" had built it for him out of the bones of a thousand abortuses, weaving the soft, malleable skeletons into an appropriate throne. The craftsman had then constructed for the chair a platform formed of the skulls and mortared with blood and dried encephalic fluids so that his master might look down upon whomever assembled before him. This ragtag bunch included the captured Black Beast and Sugar Man, along with Havok, Fatale, and a host of McCoy's other grotesque hobgoblins. Sinister had taken the Marauders out of their cryogenic deep freezes and sent them to collect the deserters. "You thought to hide yourself from me, McCoy?" he asked in his most dangerous tone of voice. "Did you truly believe I would not learn of your presence here?" "My lord, you must surely understand that I wished only to perform some independent experiments," McCoy said. "I might add that my sojourn in this reality has also afforded me the opportunity to read your published articles on the subject of mutant genetics--papers which--as you know--were destroyed by Apocalypse in order that you might concentrate your genius upon his breeding pens. My felicitations to you, Lord Essex: You are this reality's undisputed expert; the entire scientific community recognizes your achievements. If only you would send ALL your results to the journals--" "I am not interested in entertaining your attempts at flattery, Beast. My sole purpose in publishing a few paltrey papers is to attract the right sort of individuals to my employ--scientists who will serve me in my endeavors." "Then allow me to serve you as I did in the Age of Apocalpyse, my lord. Provide me with your protection, and I will give you my time and my genius--which, I admit, pales beside your own." "Whathesaid," chortled Sugar Man. It wasn't particularly concerned with the exchange going on around it: The likes of Sugar Man was beneath the notice of Nathaniel Essex; the hideous creature would end up serving whichever master would give it shelter. It had thought of only one thing for weeks: How much it missed its little baby. The current state of affairs was endlessly boring; its multitude of hands itched to touch its pretty Cajun pet again, and its maw was a den of vermiform tongues that dripped rank cords of slobber whenever it thought of having Gambit back in its clutches again. "Pavlov's monster!" Havok hissed, kicking Sugar Man when he thought no one was watching. "Dangle LeBeau in front of your ugly face and you drool like a damned dog." "You'd drooltoo! Cajunfood sweet." "Stop squabbling among yourselves," Sinister said. Havok and Sugar Man quieted instantly. The Marauders had formed their own group in the corner of the hall. They ranged against the far wall, listening intently to their new members. Essex ran a tight ship; this pack of fools would soon learn their place in the pecking order. For now they were more interested in Sinister's latest revelation: Remy LeBeau, Gambit of the X-Men, was the biological father of them all--except for the Age of Apocalypse refugees and Sabretooth, of course, who hadn't worked with any of them since the Morlock Massacre and was old enough to be LeBeau's great-great-grandfather, anyway. They had a father (or fathers, if you counted the fact that Essex had raised them in test tubes). Harpoon, Arclight, Vertigo, Scalphunter, Riptide, and Scrambler were brother and sister to each other. Did they have a mother--or mothers--too?
She'd been pregnant for nearly a month, and no one could ask for things to be proceeding more smoothly. She hadn't suffered a single bout of morning sickness, not even a moment of queasiness. Jean had never felt better or stronger. She had gone into New York last week with Ororo, Rogue, and Betsy. A girl's day out--no men allowed. They went shopping for baby clothes (since they knew the sex of the baby, there was no dilemma over whether to buy pink or blue), ate lunch at the Russian Tea Room, and treated themselves to the best seats at "Phantom of the Opera" on Broadway (and wept shamelessly at the end). But Rogue was the biggest surprise of all: She'd made a beeline to Barney's lingerie department with the rest of them in tow, and bought the most exquisite peignoir any of them had ever seen, a golden hand-embroidered silk gown and robe that set off her hair and eyes to perfection, and accentuated the creaminess of her skin and her full breasts. "It's fo' mah hope chest," she explained. "Someday Ah'm gonna wear it fo' Remy." None of the women mentioned it, but all were pleased that she seemed to have forgotten Joseph since he had gone off on his own to try to find clues as to who and what kind of man Magneto was. True Love had problems enough finding its way around the convoluted lives of theX-Men. They took the train back to Westchester. None of them had ever learned to crochet, but they had purchased a kit for it back in the city and soon their seats were strewn with yarn as they tried to figure out how to knit booties. They eventually decided that they weren't meant for handicrafts, and it would be best for all concerned if Jean's baby had only one toe on each foot. Still laughing, Jean stood up, "I'm only a month along and I'm already peeing like a race horse," she giggled. She walked two steps in the direction of the bathroom, then collapsed. At first her companions thought that her water had broken from the sudden gush of liquids from her body washing over the floor--but that was impossible--she was many months away from delivering And that wasn't water and amniotic fluid fountaining out of her. It was blood.
Jean opened her eyes. She was in the Mansion infirmary--specifically, Hank's lab. Rogue sat on the edge of her bed, holding her fingers in both her hands; Remy was bundled up in an easy chair on the other side of her. She wondered what they were doing there, then remembered Hank saying that Remy needed a check-up, and being surprised that the Cajun agreed to it, but she supposed that after all they'd been through together, Gambit must trust Hank a great deal more than he used to. Jean felt like she was sitting on a bale of cotton, and that there must finally be someone in the X-Men even more pale than Remy was--namely herself. "Scott . . . " she whispered, glancing about the room for her husband. "He outside talking to le doctor Henri." "My baby-- !" Panic began to rise in her voice. She could no longer sense the fetus' thoughts. "You be quiet, Jean," Rogue told her. "Take it from me, all that yellin' and hollerin' just wear you out more." "My baby is dead," she said coldly. "We not know dat--" "*I* know it." She groaned as a sudden wave of killer cramps lanced her abdomen. Then she felt Remy's empathy powers steal over her and the spasms subsided. It felt as though he was drawing the pain away from her and into himself. She turned her head to look at him; he was as white as marble, biting his lip until it was bloody. Unlike her telepathy, his empathic abilities were much more visceral and low-level; casting his charm and influencing others to get his way was much easier for him than shouldering emotions and sensations from others. 'Where did we get the idea that he was selfish?' she wondered. "Dat was . . . jus' a rumor . . . I started," he gasped. Mercifully free of the pain herself, Jean turned her attention to the Cajun. "You pull that trick one more time, buster, and I'll find out for myself just exactly how much psi talent you have." "De Red Menace--she blackmail wit'out scruple." "So, do we have a deal then?" Jean squeezed his hand. "You're in nocondition to take on the problems of others, Remy. I don't want you sacrificing yourself for me. Promise me that." "Non--" he started, then buried his face in his bandaged hand. "Ouch! Dat hurt!" "I can make it hurt a lot worse that that, KID. One more telepathic TKO from me and you won't be able to get out of bed and make any more trouble for yourself for the rest of the year." "I give up!" he moaned. "Good." Now that she'd dealt with this foolish boy, she wanted particulars. "Did Hank say what happened?" "Ah don't think he knows." Rogue was fidgeting again. "Ask him to come in here, would you?" Rogue obediently went outside and came back in with Hank and Scott. When he saw that she was awake, Scott ran to her cot and swept her into his arms. "Er, not so vigorously, Fearless," Hank said. "My patient needs her rest." "What happened to my baby?" Jean demanded. She wanted answers. She'd cry later. "Well, urm--" She abruptly lifted her physician a couple of feet off the ground with her telekinesis. "NOW, Hank. My little girl is dead. I want to know why." Scott pointedly shook his head, but Jean wasn't putting up with being treated like a ninny by her husband, either. "You either tell me why I lost the baby or I'll TAKE the information out of your mind. Your choice, Hank." Dr. McCoy cleared his throat. "There appears to have been an in utero mutation, Jean." "The baby?" "No. The placenta. As best I can describe it: Your placenta has mutated. It mushroomed within your abdomen, consuming your baby. The closest analogy I can make is that the placenta has become like a tumor--undifferentiated, unproductive, with no purpose beyond feeding its own hunger." "I . . . see." "For heaven's sake, don't tell her any more!" Scott shouted. She suddenly grabbed his hand. "I have a right to know what is happening to my own body, Scott, and I won't be kept in the dark. You must tell me everything, Henry. If there are . . . decisions to make, I'll need to be informed." Scott bolted from the room, slamming the lab door behind him. Hank sighed, and he seemed more sad than Jean had ever seen him. Rogue sat back down beside her; she could feel Remy's empathy creep over her again, calming her. This time, she let him do it. "The placenta is continuing to mutate and grow, Jean." She squeezed Rogue's hand. "I'd like to be alone for awhile, all right? Just . . . send Scott back in when he's up to it, okay?" Scott was waiting in the hallway when Hank and Rogue left the lab. Hank took one look at him and said, "I am sorry, Scott." "Can't you take that thing out?!" Scott demanded. "It's anchored itself to her abdominal wall. Jean would bleed to death if I tried to surgically remove it--there is too much large-vessel arterial involvement. It's spread so fast; evidence is that she may have already lost some major organ fuction which the placenta has assumed in order to keep her alive as its host." He paused. "She is beyond my skill." Scott barged back into the lab and came out carrying his unconscious wife in his arms. She had bled out more in even the last few minues, and looked nearly dead by now. Hank tried to take his arm. "Where are you going, friend? We can make her comfortable--" "Get away from us!" Scott snarled. "If I want to be alone with my wife, I will!"
"So Dr. McCoy feels that he lacks the skill to save Mrs. Grey-Summers? Interesting." Nathaniel Essex covered Jean's body with a sheet, almost as an afterthought. Beside him, Scott gulped hard, fearing--as he had all along--that he'd made a mistake coming here. Sinister's lab dwarfed any medical complex he'd ever seen. The enormous cavern beneath the old orphanage he'd grown up in was filled with miles of machinery more complicated than anything in Nikola Tesla's wildest nightmare. Just being in the presence of all this inhuman steel was intimidating enough, but being forced to rub elbows with Sinister and his merry band was more insult added to injury. He'd seen Alex here, too--his own brother, working for his worst enemy. Alex had seen him, too, and gave him a hostile smirk and a wave before putting a schmoozy arm around Fatale and heading off to a still-visible corner for some serious trysting. Scott was afraid of this creature, Mr. Sinister. Even more afraid, watching those cold metal hands move clinically over Jean's body. Unlike Hank, Essex had no heart. Jean was just another guinea pig to him; her unique soul, her heart, meant nothing. To speak in his presence was a herculean effort. But Jean's chest labored for breath, working like a bellows. "Well, what about you?" Scott demanded. "Do you have the skill to save her?" Essex looked at him as though he was a babbling idiot. "Of course I can save her. However, I have no incentive to do so. The sort of surgery she will require is quite time-consuming, and I have other interests elsewhere. I have all the DNA from her that I will ever need, her X-chromosomes are completely mapped. Through her clone, Madelyne Pryor, I have determined the sort of offspring she would produce with you so I have no further use for her as a brood mare. Let the woman die." "LET HER DIE??????!!!!!!!" Cyclops had never wanted to open his ruby quartz visor and blast away so much in his life. He tried to calm himself and think rationally. Even he didn't have the power to force Essex to acquiesce to his demands. He pulled the sheet up to cover Jean more modestly; a few of Sinister's henchmen--Scalphunter, Harpoon, and Arclight--had begun to drift into the lab and Sinister made no effort to dismiss them. "You have to save her," was all he could think of to say. Essex seemed amused. "I--have--to?" He laughed aloud. The Marauders thought this was exceedingly funny, and joined in with resounding bellylaughs. "Scott, dear boy, I do not HAVE to do anything. Now please leave. You are wasting my time, and surely you have better things to do than make a nuisance of yourself in my laboratory--such as making arrangements for the woman's funeral." "Please," Scott said in desperation. "I'll do anything you want." Ah, but THAT got Sinister's attention. He turned and echoed Scott's words. "Anything . . . I . . . want?" Scott closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Anything. Cut me open, kill me, whatever you please. It doesn't matter. Just--save her." "Why, Scott. I am touched by your devotion to the mare." A slow smile crept over the metallic face. "I will save her life." Had a genie suddenly offered him three wishes? Five little words, music to his ears: "I will save her life." He was so jubilant he almost didn't hear the rest of Sinister's words. Almost. "--for a small price." Scott's mind began to claxon at him, warning him of the duplicity for which Essex was known. "What price?" he growled, just wanting to get it over with. "Come now, you aren't going to quibble, are you? Are you willing to give me what I ask in return for your wife's continued existence or not?" Beaten, Scott put his head in his hands. "Yes. Whatever you want. Just tell me." "Oh, it isn't so much, really. I am certain that your diminutive friend Logan told you that I dropped by your home some weeks ago, and he prevented me from reclaiming certain property which belongs to me. I merely want the return of what is mine." "You want Gambit back." Scott felt sick. "My supplies of his unique genetic stabilizing factor are nearly depleted. Without it, my clones are deteriorating and I am unable to begin some new experiments I have planned. And as the existence of this factor is now known to others, LeBeau can no longer be permitted to run loose. Due to certain modifications you have recently taken in the security system of the X-Mansion, I can no longer open a tesseract within it. Therefore, you will return to your home and bring Remy LeBeau to me for my permanent keeping." "I promised him--" "I am well aware of your silly promise to LeBeau, my dear Scott, that you would protect him from future defilement. Your ridiculous vow means nothing to me, of course. Ironic then, isn't it, that you will be the Judas who gives the lamb unto the slaughter. Perhaps slaughter is too a severe a word--I see it causes you to become pale. I have no intention of killing LeBeau, rest assured. He is much more useful to me alive. Look at it this way: You are harboring a criminal in your home who would certainly be sentenced to prison for the rest of his life by your human courts and you would staunchly abide by that. In my custody, Remy LeBeau will never steal again. You will be doing the world a favor." "I'll need time to pull this off--and if the surgery takes as long as you say--then I'll meet you here afterward. LeBeau in exchange for Jean's life." Sinister smiled, curtaining those thin black lips over two rows of fanged metallic teeth. "My, but you do make up your mind quickly, Scott. Such decisiveness has always fascinated me. Surely you know what will await young Gambit when he is returned to me, how much he fears it--and yet, you betray him without a second thought. Such a pragmatist you are. So, tell me how you will accomplish this; I am quite curious to hear how you plan to take LeBeau whereas I could not." Cyclops shrugged. He couldn't let Essex see how this was tearing him apart. He'd go along for now, just until Sinister completed the removal of the mutant placenta that was killing the love of his life. He'd find a way to help Remy later--when Jean was safe. But the consummate leader inside him was already planning the excision of the Cajun from their midst. "It won't be easy. I can't do it alone.First I'll have to talk to Warren and Bobby. Hank and Professor X won't have any part of it; Logan, Bishop, Rogue, and Storm won't let the thief go without a fight, and they're all in residence now." "This is most amusing. You will enlist the aid of two old friends, which shouldn't be difficult for one as persuasive and charismatic as yourself--especially Worthington and Drake, who bear only contempt for the wild one in the most cordial of times. Gambit is too weak from his asinine bloodletting to flee or use his kinetic charge powers, so you certainly anticipate no problems in making off with him. But the four X-Men you mentioned are powerful: Bishop regards LeBeau as his father, Storm considers him her best friend, Rogue would take him as her lover, and Logan will naturally be moved to fight for a friend about to be caged." "Just start operating."
"Are you so sure about this, Scotty?" Warren Worthington III asked later. He, Bobby Drake, and Scott Summers shared a back booth at Harry's hideaway. Scott had met with his two old friends in town, away from the ears of the other X-Men, and told them of his situation. They agreed that their undisputed leader had taken the only recourse available to him, and it improved his spirits to find their support so firm and ready. Warren decided he'd spoken too loudly; he glanced toward the front door to see if anyone had overheard. "It's okay," Scott said. "We can talk here." "Yeah," Bobby chimed in. "I may not be the most intuitive guy outside the Safari Bar, but Logan--blast him--Logan's the most oathbound man on the planet. He's never made a secret of how he feels about Jean. He'll take our side." Scott shook his head. All these years, and Bobby still didn't get it. "Sorry, Bobby, but Sinister is dead right on this one. Logan may be in love with my wife, but that doesn't mean he'll go against what he feels that Jean would want him to do, or what he thinks is right." "What's right is to hand over that slimy thief and save Jean's life. We can sort out the rest later. Not that LeBeau has a right to be with us, anyway. That lowlife vermin fathered the Marauders! We can never forgive him for that." Warren raised his hand; a college kid working the bar brought over a pitcher of beer to him. He refilled his friends' glasses, then took a deep draught of mead and hops. "We could sure use Logan's muscle on this one, guys. The three of us may not have the power to take out Rogue, let alone adding Bishop and Storm into the mix." "Well, Hank and the Professor are leaving town for a few weeks to take in that long seminar in Los Angeles, so we won't have to deal with them--especially now that I've called in and told them that Jean and I are at the Miskatonic University Medical Center. It's a perfect cover; Miskatonic's known for its outstanding work on non-humans, and luckily, Hank doesn't have any friends or colleagues there he can call up and consult with, so he can go to the workshop knowing that Jean and I are in good hands--as long as I check in with him from time to time and let him know how it's going," Scott mused. It had taken no small amount of persuasion to get Charles and Hank to go ahead with their plan to attend the seminar. But after all, they were scheduled speaking guests and this was an invaluable opportunity to discuss mutants sanely with some very influential members of the scientific community. He was also glad that Professor X would never suspect that his best and brightest pupil would ever lie to him. "Any chance of getting Bishop, Storm, and Rogue out of the way as easily? Logan won't leave the Cajun, but the three of us are more than a match for him." Bobby hrumphed. "We're talking about the Gambit Fan Club here, Scott. They're even bigger nursemaids for LeBeau than the Canucklehead, and they haven't budged out of the house since we brought the thief home." "Then it sounds like you're gonna need help, sweetcheeks." Warren and Bobby started at the voice in the booth behind them. They hadn't heard it in years, but they knew who it was. Scott couldn't look at them--especially Warren--when the tall, muscular woman slid out of the booth and came to stand to beside their table. "You boys aren't used to this kinda thing, are ya?" she sneered. "Why don'tcha all just go to the malt shop and buy yourselves a soda with three straws. We can take care of this." Scott felt Warren beside him, steeling himself, his wings rising to strain against the leather girdle he wore to fold them against his body when in civilian garb. Especially when a short, stout man with red hair and blunt facial features came to stand by the woman. "Aww, simmer down, Worthington," Harpoon chuckled. "What went down between us a few years' ago wasn't nothing personal. No reason we can't be buds now. We're working on the same side; you're with us." "I'll NEVER be with you!" Warren hissed. "You get this and get it good, you aborigine--when this is over with and we know Jean's going to be all right, I'm taking you for a flight as high as these wings will carry us--then I'll drop you and see how big a greasy spot you make when you land." "That a promise, canary?" "Enough!" A laser-thin red line bisected the ozone between the Marauders and the X-Men, discreetly punching out a pane of glass in one of the far windows of the bar. Harry trotted outside to bawl out some kids playing stickball in the square. They heard the faint click of Scott's visor closing the width of a hairline. "Sinister's already started operating on Jean. We only have a few hours to take Gambit. If he's not back in Sinister's clutches by the time the surgery is over, Essex will reimplant the mutant placenta, essentially killing Jean." "Shouldn't take too long," Vertigo drawled sweetly. "Thief's losttoo much blood to put up a fight. All we need is for you honor students to turn off the burglar alarm, then we waltz in and get the Cajun. Easy as stealing candy from a baby." "Not with four X-Men on the premises," muttered Bobby. "Bah--child's play!" Scalphunter added his two-cents worth. "I can take the thief by myself without breaking a sweat." "IF we're all done with the chest-beating," sighed Scrambler, "we need some plan here. Isn't that your job, Cyclops?" "I won't place Warren and Bobby in combat." "Scott--" "No. It's not open for discussion." "But don't we get a vote--?" "The X-Men aren't a democracy." Scott was assuming the calculating-leader stance again. It was all that was going to get him through this. "Angel and Iceman will be responsible for dividing the core of X-Men still in the house. We need as many of them out of the way as possible. Ideally, Gambit will be left alone, but that scenario is too unlikely. You Marauders will distract any remaining X-Men without killing them." "And what 'bout you, pumpkin?" Arclight blew Scott a kiss. ""What're YOU gonna be doin' for your flimsy little wife while we're trashing your buddies?" "I'm allowing you Marauders to come on this mission for the simple reason that if I go alone after Gambit, it can only end with my opticblasts hurting or killing X-Men. You'll outnumber them, even if none of them can be lured out, you can take them down without doing murder--so show me what you've got, Marauders, show me your strength: No one gets killed." Riptide took a step back. "Whoa! This dude could lead the dead to victory!" "Are we all at an understanding now? I'm in charge of this mission, and I'll not tolerate any dissent." None of them had ever seen Scott so cold. "While the Marauders engage the X-Men, I'll go after Gambit. Once I have him, I'll signal each of you on your comlinks to withdraw from combat." "Doesn't want his palsy-walsies to see him with the likes of us," Harpoon sniggered. "Shut up." Harpoon yelped in real pain as the fifth finger of his left hand was neatly cleaved off the knuckle by a force of such precision and shearing intensity that none of them could believe that this man's control over such power was anything but absolute. He bit down on a scream, knowing better than to squall in a public place. "I noticed that you're right-handed, Harpoon," Summers said. "You won't need that finger to throw your weapon. In fact, you wouldn't even need your left hand . . ."
In spite of his normally Arctic body temperature, Bobby Drake shivered as he and Warren left Harry's. He'd never imagined such a thing--Cyclops, slicing off a man's finger without so much as moment's hesitation. He kept seeing the act over and over in his mind: Harpoon's hand gliding over a metal fork, ready to energize it. Then the hand jerked away, but the finger remained still curled around the fork handle. Scott had maimed someone for life, and not even blinked at it. Bobby suddenly stopped in his tracks and started vomiting on the sidewalk. Warren dragged him into the alley and stood watch while Bobby bent over with his hands on his knees, puking from the pits of his innards. When he had finished, Bobby weakly sat back against the wall of a building, formed a thin sheen of ice in his palm, and wiped his face and mouth with it. "Man, I can't believe what I just saw," he said when he could. "What? Scottie?" Bobby just nodded. "Think about it, Bob. Scott is going to have to lead the Marauders into our home and keep them from killing Storm, Logan, Rogue, Bishop, and LeBeau. You think they'd pull back from the kill just on his say-so? No, old friend, Scott knows that the only way he can control THIS team is by making them fear him. Otherwise, they'll just run roughshod. Let's pray he doesn't have to do anything more drastic than he already has."
"I can't believe it!" Warren moaned, hanging up the phone with a sonic slam. "Can't believe what, ol' buddy?" Bobby asked, as if he didn't know. They were back at the X-Mansion by now, sharing a crowded sofa with Storm, Bishop, and a big cauldron of popcorn. They'd found a television station out of New York that showed old "Little Rascals--Our Gang Comedies". As a group, the X-Men unanimously loved comedies. They loved anything with a happy ending, probably because there were so few upbeat endings in their own lives, and today they all agreed that Alfalfa bore an uncanny resemblence to Scott Summers. Logan was sitting in the corner, having assumed the lotus postion and begun meditating. Bobby had verified that the lovebirds were out for their afternoon flight: Since Remy's suicide attempt, Rogue had started taking him on daily aerial spins around the vast estate, flying low enough--at treetop level--that they wouldn't be seen by outsiders, Remy could enjoy the fresh air, and they could be alone for a short while. These outings were usually brief, only about an hour at most, so Bobby and Warren had just a little time to play with. "Betsy!" "What, she'd rather trim her toenails than go out with you? It's the story of your life, my friend--get used to it." "No, Coldass, she's out again--I'm getting her damned answering machine! We had a friggin' date tonight and she disappears! Again! Do you have ANY IDEA how much influence I had to use to get two front-row center seats to "Rent"? How much those tickets COST?" "Why d'ya keep bellyaching about money, Worthington? It's not like you're gonna STARVE." "My family didn't get to be so rich by WASTING money, for your information. Here I am, the handsomest, richest--" "Most humble," added Storm. "Most humble guy on the East Coast and I'd have to pay a rodent to go out with me!" "Ever considered the fact that it might be because you're a dork?" "Be silent, peasant!" "Pheasant? Hey, buddy, you're the one with wings around here--not me." Bobby grinned. He was enjoying this game, perhaps a little more than he should. It worried him a bit. "Nah, pheasant doesn't suit you, War. How about . . . DODO!" "I've got the feathers, Drake--all I need is some tar! Come back here!" Warren yelled after Bobby's insanely giggling form as it retreated toward the kitchen. He glanced at Ororo and Bishop, who were clearly more interested in the Little Rascals than the mock bickering, and shrugged. "Warren Worthington III can't show his face without a date. What would the papparazzi say?" "That you're a dorky boy who can't get a date!" Bobby's voice sailing in from the kitchen. "I'll deal with you later!" Warren yelled back. "Well, Ro and Bish, how about it? Want to go see "Rent" first-class?" Ororo shook her head. "Your offer is appreciated, Warren. I have wanted to see "Rent" for some time. Unfortunately, I find myself short of funds this week and cannot pay you for my ticket." "In the X.S.E., we had no time for such frivolity," Bishop intoned. "Reality calling Bishop! You're not in the X.S.E. anymore, pal; there isn't going to BE any X.S.E. So why not let your hair down?" Warren quickly caught himself; Bishop had recently shorn his locks down to a short buzzcut, almost as bald as Xavier and with even less of a sense of humor. "Look, guys, it'd be a shame to waste these tickets. You two haven't been out of the house in weeks. I can afford to spot you a pair of tickets. After all, I'm Warren Worthington III, boy billionaire." Coming from anyone but Warren, the continual references to his wealth would have been irritating. As it was, he was so generous and unselfconscious that it was endearing. Ororo looked at Bishop, a question on her exquisite face. Warren knew all along that she'd been dying to see the show. Bishop remained unmoved. He crossed his arms and said, "I am sworn to protect LeBeau." The boy billionaire rolled his eyes to the heavens. He was going to have to buy Bishop a case of castor oil; the huge traveler from the future was so anal that if he ever farted he'd blow out his eardrums. But he didn't say that. Levity was always wasted on Bishop. "Protect him from what, Bish? Rogue can't exactly jump his bones and steal his virtue. Rem's not MY type, and I'm sure Rogue, Logan, and I together can protect him from Bobby." "HEY!!!!!!!!!!" The voice of the eavesdropper in the kitchen. Bishop looked just the slightest bit hesitant. "It's not as if any of us are going anywhere," the blond tempter added. "The tickets are yours if you want 'em, kids." Bishop cleared his throat. "Miss Munroe, I should like very much to escort you to the evening performance of "Rent"." "Are you asking me for a date, Bishop?" "Indeed." She blushed in spite of her chocolate complexion. "I accept," she said. "Well, hurry it up, kiddies!" Warren shooed them off the couch. "You've barely got enough time to drive into the city before the curtain goes up." As he saw them off, Warren closed the passenger door of the Lincoln for Ororo and called out, "Don't worry about the Cajun--we'll take care of him!"
It'd been an hour. Warren and Bobby hadn't heard telltale footsteps and floor creakings upstairs to tip off the return of Rogue and Gambit. Just like the lovebirds to dally around when they needed to come right back to the Mansion and get this business finished with. The clock ticked over another hour. Logan still sat in the corner, meditating. Probably searching for his ka or something, must have really lost it good this time. Warren and Bobby were playing canasta, albeit without much interest in the game. The floorboards upstairs creaked. "Um, it's sure getting warm in here," Bobby muttered. "I think I'll go open the window." Bedlam. Even the most tender moment can be interrupted by the sound of a tall china cabinet being pushed over and every bit of glass inside shattering into a thousand slivers. Rogue suddenly lifted Remy out of the bed and shoved him under it. "What goin' on--?" he started to ask, but she put her gloved finger to his lips and hushed him. "You best off layin' low, sugah." He tried to crawl out from under the bed, but she held his shoulders with the merest fraction of her titanic strength, kneeling beside him and trying to keep him still. "I come wid' you, chere--you gon' need help if dere be burglars!" "Ah need you safe, love," she whispered, blowing him a kiss before hurrying out of the room. Left alone, forcibly tucked under the bed, Remy LeBeau cursed himself for his suicide attempt. He'd meant it, he hadn't dreamed it WOULDN'T succeed; anything was better than the miserable perversion his life had become; he'd sliced his way down almost to the bone, opened his arteries as well as his veins, he was submerged in a bath of steaming hot water--why hadn't he died as he wanted to? It hadn't escaped his noticed that the X-Men hadn't left him alone for one second since his return to the Mansion; one or more of them were always with him--until now. He'd also noticed that they'd taken all sharp and metal objects out of his room, including a pet set of throwing knives that had been a gift from his late brother Henri. And now--just when he was beginning to hope the nightmare was over--it was starting all over again. Remy knew EXACTLY who had attacked the Mansion. He felt it down in his bones. THEY had come for him, and the few remaining X-Men didn't have the power or numbers to fight them without spilling blood. He'd nearly--almost--allowed himself to hope that it was all over with and he was free. He closed his eyes, almost blacking out in dread and terror. Only one thing to do--only one way to stop it from happening again. He couldn't go back to it, just couldn't . . . Best to stay put and finish what he'd started . . . He dragged himself back into bed and pulled a deck of playing cards out from under his pillow. For a moment he almost laughed. Did the X-Men think he couldn't kill himself with a deck of cards? The wounds on his wrists had been left open to air. Without even charging the deck, he deftly drew the Ace of Spades across the right wrist, then the left, expertly re-opening the previous cuts down to the quick. Then he settled back into bed, shivering for the sudden coldness, and waited for Oblivion to come for him and carry him to Heaven or Hell, he didn't care which--as long as Essex, Sugar Man, and the Black Beast were elsewhere. But it wasn't Oblivion who had his number--it was freakin' Scott Summers who broke open the door with one shove from his well-developed shoulders, marched to the bed, pulled the bedcovers away from him, and said, "Shit!" If Remy hadn't been in shock yet, he sure was now. Cursing, Cyclops delivered a sharp cuff to the side of Remy's head that almost str uck him blind, grabbed a roll of gauze from the bedside table, and hurriedly bound up Gambit's wrists as securely as he could without making a tourniquet of it. He had no deal with Essex if the Cajun was DOA, but he still had no stomach for seeing LeBeau's hands having to be amputated if he bound them too tightly. To make matters worse, Remy had come to somewhat and was trying to get out of his arms. Scott backhanded him, wondering why this scenario FELT so wrong. Then he realized: Gambit wasn't fighting him at all. He was struggling out of reflex, but he didn't try to summon his mutant powers. Even weakened from blood loss as he was, he probably still could have mustered some sort of kinetic charge if he'd wanted to, and even without his powers he was probably the best hand-to-hand fighter amongst them with the exception of Logan. Cyclops struck him again, more out of his own rage and frustration than any desire to subdue his prey by beating him senseless. Remy's eyes opened; those glowing red eyes yes the eyes of a demon think of him as a demon hit him again but don't don't for one second think of his feelings. Pretend he doesn't have any. Tears welled up in those red eyes, human tears that flooded down over the bruised cheekbones and Scott's hands. He hadn't worn gloves, he could feel the warm wetness of those tears against his skin. He'd split open Remy's lower lip, too, and the Cajun was bleeding from the mouth. Snarling, Scott shook open another box of gauze, shoved half the cotton into Remy's mouth and tied the rest around it. He was sick of watching the damned kid bleed. He just wanted to do what he had to do and get on with his life. Even though he knew it could never be the same. Cyclops picked Gambit up in his arms, feeling the slim body go limp and the auburn head snap back over his arm; he'd fainted from renewed blood loss and being moved suddenly. Good. At least he wasn't squirming anymore. Scott carried Remy downstairs. The Marauders ringed around the bottom landing of the stairs, waiting for him. Just beyond them, he could see Logan's broken body: The ol' Canucklehead had guessed what they were after; he'd fought with all he had to keep them away from his young friend, but in the end, overwhelming odds are still overwhelming odds. Scott caught his breath until he saw Logan's sides move, heard him gasp and wheeze through the debris field of broken ribs and punctured lungs his chest had become. He would heal. He always did. Scott had seen Logan bounce back from much worse than this. He was just glad that Wolverine hadn't seen him. Havok sauntered up alongside his brother and picked up one of Remy's wrists, tsking over the gauze already soaked through with blood, and grinning like a loon. "Where's Rogue?" Scott demanded. "Over there, big brother. Don't tell me you didn't notice." He truly hadn't. The Professor's home was full of statuary, and one didn't notice all the marble after awhile. But there was a new statue--a marble sculpting of a pretty young woman with long curly hair and a bomber jacket leaning with her face smacked against the marble foyer. Her fists were clenched and the expression on her face was that of an animal defending its mate. "What happened to her?" McCoy shrugged. "Nothing that won't wear off in a few hours, Fearless Leader." "Don't call me that!" Scott snapped. "What did you do to her?!" "Nothing much," Scalphunter said. "We were tussling a bit, she figured out that we'd come for her boyfriend so she came at us. It took Vertigo to get her all dizzy, Arclight to throw her off-balance, and Scrambler to touch her just as she hit the doorway. That made her absorption powers go haywire, and she, well, she absorbed the marble. Or it absorbed her." "It'll wear off," added Scrambler. "Hey, we got what we came for, let's get out of here before more X-muties come crawling out of the woodwork." He reached out to take Gambit from Scott's arms, but Cyclops hissed, holding the younger man closer to his chest, "Stay back. I don't want you touching him." Scrambler just laughed and waved him on. "Uh, Scotty--before you go--?" Cyclops turned to see Archangel and Iceman come out of the kitchen, where they'd hidden out during the fight. They looked sheepish, ashamed. "You can't leave us standing," Warren said lamely. "This has to look good for when Rogue and Logan are conscious again." Scott nodded, sad beyond words. This deal with Essex was getting more raw all the time. "You heard the man," he said to the Marauders. "Make it look good."
Gambit regained consciousness as someone tugged roughly on the chain attached to his Genoshan collar. The chafing on Remy's neck forced an involuntary moan out of him, and he tried to get his hands under the collar. His struggles were met with a low chuckle; the tether was jerked again, pulling the Cajun off what little balance he'd managed to get and dragging him forward. A heavy hand twisted in his hair and drew him to a siting position. "That's enough! You don't have to humiliate him!" Remy lifted his head in the direction of the voice that had spoken in his defense, but the hand in his hair cruelly wrenched his head to face front then released him. "Oh yes, I do." The Cajun recognized that voice and began trying to crawl away from it, but Nathaniel Essex pulled hard on the chain and sent him sprawling. The weight of a hand on his shoulder pushed Remy to the ground and held him there as easily as one might a doll. He huddled where he was; he was beyond terror--especially now that he'd just seen some of Sinister's newest Marauders. "Young Gambit here needs to be taught a lesson he won't forget." Sinister suddenly snaked his arm about Remy's waist and drew the Cajun so close he could kiss him, again that other hand enmeshed in the russet hair. "You cut open your wrists, Remy LeBeau. How DARE you. How dare you attempt to destroy my property. Your life is MINE." Held staring into those baleful red eyes that blazed malice like a nuclear furnace, Remy shrank away. He was too weak to fight, too frightened to look back into those eyes. Still holding him by the hair, Sinister drew back his other hand and slapped Remy with enough force to make him see stars. Shaking the Cajun like a dog worrying a mouse, Essex pushed his tears away with a contemptuous flick of his fingers. "You had BETTER cry, boy. Cry to me for the mercy you're not going to get. LOOK at you. Bled out, sick, and half-dead by your own hand. Is THIS how you REPAY me for saving your life?" Remy tore frantically at the metal collar around his neck, trying to escape. "Your life and your flesh belong to ME, child. ME!!!! You'll not get another chance to rob me of what is mine. I've stiched up your wrists and they WILL heal this time--OR ELSE." Scott had never seen Essex like this, never so furious. He hadn't realized Sinister's deference toward him whenever they had crossedpaths, and this roaring rage toward the young Cajun was frightening to behold. He could no longer stand quietly in the midst of the grinning Marauders and watch Essex take out his anger on a fellow X-Man. Cyclops broke ranks with the Marauders and ran to Sinister's chair, pushing his own body between Essex and Gambit, forcing the scientist to drop the hapless captive. "Stop it, Essex!" he demanded. "I didn't bring him here for you to torture him!" He kneeled, gathering Gambit into his arms. To his utter and everlasting shock, the Cajun clung to him as if his betrayer was the only friend he'd ever known. Essex smiled. "Oh? Then whyever DID you bring the thief to me, my dear Scott? Surely you knew EXACTLY what you were giving him over to before you ever went into the X-Mansion after him. While he is rather decorous, I prefer more utility in my prisoners." The smile became broader. Essex was never more terrifying than when he was in a jovial mood. "Please forgive me, Scott. I should have been more considerate of your sensitivities before giving vent to my temper. But you see, the Cajun must be punished severely; he has behaved in a very destructive manner. I could simply kill him for it, I suppose, but that would be counterproductive for my purposes. Perhaps one of my Marauders would be willing to teach the little thief a few valuable lessons . . . ?" "MEMEMEMEMEMEMEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" shrieked the Sugar Man, suddenly darting out from behind the other Marauders. It hopped up and down, licking its rubbery lips. "Wantmy sweetkiddie!!!!!" Gambit took one look at the approaching abomination and started screaming. Scott tried to hold him, tried to shield him, but he'd never seen so many hands and tongues come out of nowhere, coiling around Remy's arms, legs, and torso like an army of squids. The Cajun was nothing but panic by now, clawing at Cyclops' uniform in more desperation than Scott had ever seen him display. "NON!" he screamed. "NON!" "GIMME GIMME!!!!!!!" Sugar Man suddenly rolled Gambit up in a score of tongues and dragged him away from Cyclops. "Come to DADDY!!!!!! Daddymisses 'is lil' baby!" Scott tried to right himself and go after Remy as Sugar Man carried him out like a football team with the championship trophy, but a plasma burst pulverized the stone under him and knocked him over on his face. "Not getting second thoughts, are you, big brother?" Alex barred the way between Scott and the doorway through which the monster had taken the Cajun. "You just beat up a kid who couldn't even defend himself and handed him right over to the vilest fiends in anybody's reality--you're a Marauder now, you've proven as much." "Get out of my sight, Alex," Scott warned him. "Oh, shut up, you sanctimonious hypocrite!" Alex circled him, fists balled and glowing. "I've ALWAYS hated you, and you never even saw it, did you, you prick, you just go on thinking everybody loves you and just can't to step and fetch when you say so, well, I'M not one of your disciples, Scottie, I hate you and you wanna know something ELSE?! That kid you just GAVE to Sugar Man hates you now!! AND THAT'S NOT ALL!!!!!!!! WHEN JEAN FINDS OUT WHAT YOU DID, SHE'S GONNA HATE YOU, TOO, MAN!!!!!!!!!!! And I can't WAIT till she does! I can't fucking WAIT!" "That is enough, Alexander Summers." Sinister had a deep, velvety voice, almost like a purr. "You will refrain from insulting your brother in my home. Why don't you run along now and see if Sugar Man needs any assistance in disciplining its pet?" Havok instantly went into that pout Scott remembered so well. "Shorty just needs to express its feelings, that's all, sir. It's got quite a passion for the Cajun." "You will ensure that Sugar Man does not become too carried away with expressing itself. The boy is of no use to me dead. Now go." Alex stared at Sinister, who didn't back down a millimeter. "Go," Essex repeated. Havok turned on his step and stormed out of the room. The other Marauders started applauding. "Come and walk with me, Scott." Essex stood up. "I want to see my wife." "But of course. That is where we are going."
Was Sleeping Beauty herself ever so lovely as she lay dreaming of her prince? Jean Grey was still alive, and the movement of her chest as it rose and fell with her breathing was the most beautiful sight Scott Summers had ever seen. That precious heart was still beating. She slept in one of Sinister's many laboratories now, her fair skin beyond pale, yet holding the faintest bloom of color, a promise of love tomorrow. "She weathered the surgery without setback," Sinister was droning on somewhere a few thousand miles away. "An admirably strong creature." "I want to take her home now." "My patient is not yet ready to be moved, Scott. The operation was most extensive, and no surgeon but myself could have successfully completed it. Please consider yourself my guest as she convalesces." He paused, then said, "I feel it prudent to keep her sedated for the time being. It would not do for her to regain her consciousness here in my laboratory--or learn the price you paid for her life." Hating himself for agreeing to Jean's artificial funk along with everything else, Scott shook his head. "Why did you throw Gambit to that--thing?" "To reward Sugar Man's efforts in my cause, and to punish the Cajun for attempting suicide." "I--know what you intend to do to LeBeau--again. I understood that when I surrendered him to you. But that monstrosity wasn't part of the deal. If I'd known that Sugar Man and the Black Beast were here--" "You would have done exactly as you have. We had very few particulars between us in our little arrangement, as I recall. Yes, I intend to subject the thief to further harvests of his genetic stabilizing factor, but I myself lack the time to guard him against future efforts at self-harm. Such duty must be relegated to my subordinates. If the Marauders wish to make a plaything of him, it is none of my concern as long as he comes to no physical harm." Scott stopped. Where WERE the other Marauders? Essex smiled thinly. "You really must re-examine your organizational skills, Scott. They appear to be slipping somewhat. Did you imagine that the Marauders would not have an interest in LeBeau? He is, after all, their biological father--even though I artificially advanced their ages far beyond his tender years. They--that is, the original Marauders which don't include your brother and his companions--are quite curious about him. I'm sure they feel he owes them at least something. And of course, McCoy wishes to continue his own experiments under my auspices, which I will allow him to do as long as Gambit continues to produce enough of the target factor for both our uses. Even your brother Havok has requested time alone with the Cajun." "Alex?! What does HE want with Remy?" "I honestly have no idea, dear Scott, nor do I care as long as LeBeau isn't hurt." "He's already hurt," Scott muttered. "His emotional health is irrelevant to my research." "I have to see him. I have to talk to him." "And tell him what? That you're sorry? I am quite certain that at this very moment Remy LeBeau would kill you if he could." Scott shoved aside Sinister's hand on his arm and went in search of the man he'd betrayed.
It wasn't hard to find Gambit. Sinister's subterranean lair boasted many rooms, some of them with clear plexiglass walls so that Essex could simply look into them without bothering with doors. Scott simply followed the sound of the shouting, jeering, and unfortunately, screaming--to find himself outside a large chamber. What he saw made him ill: Sugar Man had backed Remy against the wall, cornering him like a great mastiff does a fox just before killing and devouring it. Gambit had curled himself up as much as possible, hugging his knees with his locked arms, tucking his head down, but he would tire of this cramped position and a foot or hand would briefly move away from his body--Sugar Man would grab the limb and loosely wind a few tongues around it until Remy would shake himself free and ball up again. His pajamas were already torn to tatters, but he was desperately trying to keep the remnants of the shirt on his back. The pants were mostly gone, the legs ripped off until there was nothing left to cover Remy's groin but a short kilt formed from what material still hung on to the waistband. Sugar Man would circle him, giggling like a rabid hyena, and make a half-trying attempt to grab him or strip away what little clothing still remained on the Cajun. The other Marauders formed a half-circle around the corner Remy was trapped in, egging Sugar Man on with much laughter and mirth. Scott could only watch helplessly as Remy's body was fully exposed and his tormentors advanced upon him in earnest. They dragged him out of his corner, Scalphunter pulling the chain still attached to the collar around his neck, McCoy seizing his arms and Arclight his kicking legs--then they all kneeled and gathered around him like a football team huddle until Scott couldn't see him in their midst. He could stand no more. Scott pushed open the door and went into the room. Somewhere inside that terrible huddle, he could hear Remy sobbing, even begging. What he asked for was simple: Not to be touched. But they ignored him. Essex had said that Gambit was theirs for the taking and they each had a lifetime of bitterness to make up for. Sinister wouldn't stand for their killing him, but they knew they could get away with anything short of that--they knew plenty of ways to make him WISH he was dead. Of his several varied powers, the one Remy held the least control over was his charm power; of course he could use it to his advantage, but it never really ceased to function at all times, which sometimes made life at the X-Mansion a bit uncomfortable for most of the X-Men at one time or another. It was part of his natural empathy and wasn't linked to the mutant kinetic powers, now blocked by the Genoshan collar. Weakened and scared, he had even less control over it than usual, and it was inciting the Marauders to savagery. The fact that he was beautiful made it that much worse for him. Scott tried to speak, tried to say something that would stop them, but his voice died in his throat and all he could do was groan. "You here for your piece of him, too, big brother?" Scott saw Alex sitting in the opposite corner of the room, grinning at him. "That isn't funny." "But it IS," Alex laughed, aping Essex. "Little Papa there deserted his 'children', left 'em all by themselves to be Sinister's tubie babies--now he's got to pay for it." "How? With his life?" "Oh, not at all. With his body. His lean, lovely body." Scott ran out of the room, his brother's laughter echoing in his ears.
He spent most of his time sitting at Jean's bedside while she slept and her body slowly mended from its horrendous surgery. He didn't urge Essex to reverse the sedatives; while he yearned to look into her eyes, he couldn't bring himself to face her just yet. He hadn't tried to see Gambit again, dreading it even more than confessing himself to Jean. Sinister treated him like an honored guest, showing him about the lair like a proud father with the family business. Scott sat down to three excellent meals daily, and Essex provided him with a cot in the laboratory where Jean lay recuperating. He even showed him the tank where he was keeping the mutant placenta--the hideous abomination was still alive, swimming in synthetic amniotic fluid with ferocious crablike movements. Scott knew why he'd been led to see it: He hadn't forgotten Sinister's threat to sew the placenta back into Jean's body. But soon Scott Summers' mind turned to other thoughts than maintaining his vigil at his wife's bedside--escape being the highest priority. He didn't meet with any protest from Sinister when he left; he mostly came and went as he pleased even now; he just had to leave his special visor with Esex and accept a plain pair of ruby quartz glasses, which served the simple and elegant purpose of removing the control over his powers that the visor provided. Being beloved of an archvillain was not without its advantages. And as Essex displayed little interest in Jean beyond restoring her to health, Scott didn't THINK there'd be a fight when she could be moved back to the X-Mansion, but one was never quite sure when dealing with Mr. Sinister. No, the problem would be getting Gambit out of here, along with himself and Phoenix. The Cajun had more watchdogs than the Gates of Hell. Scott began to tick over his options. There would only be one opportunity to make a break for it, and he couldn't carry both Jean and Remy. Easier by a long shot to just escape with Jean, but Scott was determined that THIS time he wouldn't leave Gambit to Essex and the Marauders. Even if he himself didn't survive, he swore that Jean and Remy would. Still, that tempting devil in his mind asked: Why bother trying to rescue Gambit? All he wants to do is die. If he doesn't find something sharp and do it himself, then Sugar Man or one of the Marauders will get a little overzealous with passion one of these days and end up killing the Cajun. No, the problem with Gambit went far beyond merely ferrying him out of harms' way. For the first time in his life, Scott knew shame at himself, and found it something he couldn't live with. All he'd wanted was to save his wife--yet he found himself sinking deeper and further into his own lies like a sinner tossed into the quicksand of his perfidies. The X-Men believed in him. Worse, Gambit had believed in him, believed in his promise of protection. Now he had to make Gambit believe his promises again.
Remy LeBeau had learned not to think. If he were to even once consider his situation, it would drive him mad, so he settled into a dull fugue of numbness--vaguely conscious, but unfeeling, uncaring. The obscene "harvesting" of his genetic material by Essex and McCoy for their respective experiments had resumed. The familiar bitter milk Essex had fed him before was being forced down his throat again, he had no say in whatever was being done to his flesh. Best to block it out or pretend it was someone else's bad dream, someone else's body. But try as he might, he couldn't shut it all out. Sugar Man loved to bathe its delectable captive, and Remy was too weak to do little more than lie there in the cradle of tongues and endure the touching, probing, and fondling. Every day was Bath Day, which meant that his lanky frame was subjected to another dip in saliva and Mr. Bubble. Sugar Man would wash his hair, perhaps the least offensive of its attentions, and when it finished bathing the prisoner, it would bring him out up of the water and into a big warm thirsty towel, carry him to a bed or pallet, and go wild with baby care products. Today, Remy was sleeping on the floor in a corner of the bare room that served as his cell. Although his clothing was long gone, he'd been permitted a bedsheet, which he kept wrapped around his body like a security blanket until the usual harvest times, and it was such a small kindness that the sheet was always returned to him, if he begged for it. He had initially tried to stay awake here--but he was so tired and hungry all the time. The spermatogenic "milk" wasn't designed to improve his overall health, and he found himself dreaming of sitting down a table laden with all his favorite foods: Blackened monkfish, crawfish etouffle, fresh peaches, ice-cold milk, Tante Mattie's fresh hot cornbread, gumbo spicy enough to put skin on skeletons, good wine from France, beignets dipped in honey . . . Like all picnics, this one was invaded by insects. There were insects crawling over his skin, great ivory-hued cockroaches. The roaches pulled the sheet away from him. Remy tried to protest, but his throat was dry from choking back his own screams. A harsh slap rattled his jaws, and the insects before his eyes drew their wavy legs in and made themselves round, darkening dull as slate. There were two of them, with dark spots in their centers. "Youbacktalkin' me, baby?" No, not insects at all, but Sugar Man's piggy occularies boring into his confused red eyes. "C'monpunk, gimme th' sheet; yer notgonna needit whereyergoin'." "Going?" Remy hazily and fearfully wondered where he was being taken this time. A trio of arms wrapped around the Cajun's waist to lift him to his feet. Remy's legs went to gelatin as he tried to stand; the horrors of the past and present had taken their toll on him. Sugar Man just grinned, showing all its filthy teeth at once, like a mouthful of steak knives, then picked him up and half-carried him out. Remy heard water trickling down stone walls. Heard it distinctly. A metal door changed shut, and all the light in the rectangular room came only from a small peephole. He flailed at the shadows, only to find manacles clamped around his frantic wrists and his shoulders almost pulled out of their sockets as Sugar Man lifted him higher. The short length of chain between his cuffs was looped over a hook in the low ceiling. Remy writhed in mid-air when Sugar Man released him, trying instinctively to get his feet on the ground, but he couldn't find a purchase for the life of him. Bewildered and terrified, the young Acadian could barely see in the the near-darkness. Then his prankish eyes saw a long snake coming toward him. 'A boa constrictor? Python?' The blast of cold water hit him in the face, and then ran up and down his body like icy flames. Drowning as he hung in the air, the captive finally screamed. Mercifully, he passed out again, but was brutally revived by a burst of water against his temples. Twisting in agony, every bone in his body seemed to splinter. The water suddenly stopped and he was left alone. Remy hung soaking wet and suspended in the darkness, left to dry for nearly an hour in the frigid temperature, and soon lacked the strength even for shivering. His arms protested nonstop and his lungs were in a panic. Then his dulled senses felt arms draping around his waist and hips. Short, clumsy fingers made a lazy tracery from Remy's forehead to his mouth, circling the bruised lips and sliding over his perfect teeth. Sugar Man pounced, and the Cajun soon discovered that he hadn't run out of screams, after all. Remy heard the monster talking. Wearily, he raised his head. "Jus' lookitall this blood alloveryou, Remy. Looks like yagotta have 'nother bath." He was able discern the meaty, gross hands working together in the dimness; at first he didn't understand why. Then he realized: Sugar Man was lathering them up with soap; Remy could smell the disinfectants in the suds. Somehow, he hadn't expected contact with the open wounds on his body to hurt quite as much as it did. The pain made him recoil--away from the stinging lather and further into Sugar Man's outstretched arms. "Can'twait, canya, lil' Remy?" cooed the coarse, oily voice. Sugar Man closed one hand around the scruff of Remy's neck to hold him while spreading the lather over the smooth back and hips. "Shhh," whispered the Sugar Man, making languid circles over Remy's chest, then soaping lavishly between the Cajun's legs. "Shhhhhh." Then Sugar Man was spitting teeth and cursing him. All of Remy's strength had gone into into ramming his knee into Sugar's chin (since he couldn't reach anything else he could hurt); now he had no recourse but to wait for the punishment. The monster ranted some gibberish, then abruptly stopped talking. Remy was terrifed. In spite of the pain and disorientation, he was totally and sanely terrified. "Time t' washoff all th' soap, lil' baby." The rumbling voice was almost gentle, but the explosion of near-freezing water wasn't. Remy was buffeted by another blast from the hose. He was barely conscious when Sugar Man hissed in his ear (one of Sugar's front teeth dislodged and bounced off Remy's shoulder on its way to the floor), "Well, notquite ALL th' soap . . ." The steady ache in Remy's limbs became wrenching stabs as Sugar Man lifted him off the hook and threw him onto the stone floor. "Daddy--is--very--angry," hissed the abomination, speaking slowly so as not to garble its words. "Tell Daddy yer sorry." Remy shook his head. He knew he'd pay dearly for the defiance. Knew it only too well. He fought, jabbing for his enemy's eyes, but Sugar Man flung him down and crushed him as easily as a child. The prisoner shrieked in spiralling pain that dwarfed his ordeal of the last hour. Not all the soap was washed away in the deluge, Remy realized that much now. He knew he should be grateful for it; it was probably all that stood between him and certain death, but it stung like hot razors and the world was void of all but pain. "Stillthink yer so tough, lil' baby?" Remy only curled up on his side, drawing his knees protectively toward his wrists. He began to pray that lightning would strike Sugar Man, Sinister, and all the Marauders dead. Tears were still flowing over his cheekbones when Sugar Man lifted his head. "Thatwuz wonderful, wadnit, lil' baby? WADNIT?!" "It was wonderful," Remy said dully. "Say you love me." "I love you." "I love you, Daddy." "I love you, Daddy," Remy echoed. He was at the point that he was willing to say anything. Anything to spare himself one second's more pain. "Liar." Sugar Man slapped him so hard that he lost consciousness. Falling onto the stones, Remy imagined that his body broke into a million shards and his blood spilled out like water, soaking between the cracks in the stones.
Scott opened the door of Sugar Man's torture den and found himself coughing. A heavy white cloud of powder--(it smelled like--Baby Powder?!) hung thickly in the room. Waving his arms to dispel the powder, Scott soon found teammate and tormentor. Remy was lying spreadeagled across a bed, his arms and legs separated by that multitude of sticky tongues. He was nude, his crimson eyes closed, and so pale he looked dead. Then he coughed, tried to move away--only to feel the tongues ratcheting more tightly around him so he stilled, but managed to avert his face somewhat. Sugar Man had an industrial-strength cannister of Johnson's Baby Powder and was busy rubbing the powder onto the Cajun's skin, going over and over its favorite spots as many times as it pleased, salivating lustily whenever Remy flinched--all the while singing what sounded like some sort of lullabye. There were also gallon-sized bottles of Johnson's Baby Shampoo, Baby Lotion, and Baby Oil lined up on the floor beside the bed. "Tell McCoy I needmore hands! Needmore tongues, too!!!!!!!" "What in the world do you need more hands and tongues for?" Scott coughed. "Lil' baby too tall! I needmore surface area for touching 'im! Need 'xactly seventeen more tongues an' twelve more hands! Wannatouch every last inch o' my Remybaby all at th' same time!!!!!" "He's not your baby." "Is TOO my baby!!!! Cajunbabydoll for good Sugar!!!!!" Scott decided to try a parley. It wasn't yet time to make an escape attempt, not without a plan. But he had to get that thing off Remy. Somehow. "Leave him alone. Take me instead." "Huh. One-Eye no fun. Not sweet like Cajun demonbaby. Go 'way." "I'm warning you, you troll--" Sugar suddenly hefted an axe and swung it at Scott. "Don'tcare if you Bossman's pet! Not take my Cajuncandy!!!!" Scott felt like cursing. For all the latitude he received while Sinister's honored guest, Essex still kept his visor while he was in the lab complex. With only a plain pair of ruby quartz glasses, he didn't have enough control over his powers to challenge the monster without killing him. And lately, although he hated to admit it, he had thought more than once about blasting Sugar Man, McCoy, Essex, and the rest of the Marauders into pulp. Jean was doing well and should be able to be moved home very soon. If he took her home and then returned to Sinister's lair, Essex would know that he had only one purpose for the visit. He wished he could get Jean out first, then return for Remy, but that idea wasn't viable. For him to escape with both Jean and the Cajun would require help. Help he hated to ask for--because there was only one person who could make it work.
Logan listened to Scott's story without comment or change of expression. And Scott held nothing back in the telling of it. Lying wasn't in his nature, and sharing his burden was an enormous relief for him. He told Logan everything--from his bargain with Sinister to his part in the Marauders' raid on the X-Mansion to his helplessness to rectify Gambit's current hellish existence. After Scott had finished, Logan sat back in the booth they shared at Harry's and lit a cigar. Per Cyclops' request, he had come alone and without telling anyone where he was going or why--an action unquestioned for a man of his habits. Of course he'd smelled a rat as soon as the Marauders broke into the Mansion, and he'd THOUGHT he caught Summers' scent during that imbroglio before he got trashed. It made sense. Heaving a long sigh, Logan sat back, puffing on the cigar to start it burning. "Un'erstand, Cyke, nobody'll blame yer motives. But ya shoulda come ta us first." Scott gulped. "I know that." "Well, yer right not ta invite along th' others now." Logan didn't reproach him further. "Only other X-Man I'd want along f' this would be Beast; he got back last night--I'll talk to 'im. This ain't a job fer a herd." "I didn't think so, either," Scott said weakly. "Jeannie's ready to travel?" "Yes. The only things Sinister doesn't falsify are his research and records; his charts and journals are immaculate. Hank taught me how to read some of that stuff, so Jean can be moved. Essex said I could take her home tomorrow." "An' the Cajun?" "Probably about 30%. He's not well." "An' he never will be as long as that two-legged landlubbin' octopus is still breathin'." "We'll have to take Sugar Man prisoner, too, and make sure it never gets loose again." Logan looked at him sharply. "I got no intention o' takin' any prisoners, bub." "We can't--" "YOU can't. I can. Don't argue with me on this one, Summers. Kid'll never be free as long as he knows that thing's out there burnin' fer him. An' wanna know somethin' else? If I got enough claw left over, I'm goin' after Essex an' th' Black Beast, too." "X-Men don't--" "Ya wanna know what X-Men don't do, Cyke? X-Men don't hand over their own ta th' likes o' Mr. Sinister. Don't like bein' reminded o' that, do ya? Well, don'tcha dare tell me what I can or can't do with these claws. Here's th' plan: Tomorrow ya make like takin' Jeannie home. When ya get outside Sinister's lair, Hank an' I'll be waitin'. He'll take her home, get her out of harms way--while you an' me go right back in and do what needs ta be done." Logan crossed his arms, waiting. He half-expected Scott to say, "Why don't I take Jean home while you and Hank take care of Sinister and the Marauders?", but Summers only nodded in agreement and said, "I only wish the poor kid didn't have to take another day of it." Logan arched an eyebrow. Maybe there was hope for Summers yet. Oddly, he felt no anger at Cyclops over the situation; any of the X-Men might have done the same--hell, even Gambit might have volunteered for the mission. But Scott should have made his arrangements with the X-Men, not with Sinister and the Marauders. Well, nothing for it now but to wade into that nest and clean it out. His bone talons needed sharpening, anyway, and he was getting mighty tired of having nothing to shred except Chuck's carpet when the urge to hone the claws hit him.
Scott had to admit that he had never tasted a better dinner in his life. Sinister's chef had prepared Maine lobster with a drawn butter/sherry sauce, beef Wellington, fresh asparagus, mushroom pate' on polenta, carmelized onion confit, a wild mushroom soup with grated carrots and leeks, and creme brulee' with fresh raspberries. Essex, however, seemed oblivious to the gustatory elegance and spent the dinner sitting across from Scott expounding on and on about his genius as a scientist. The man had an ego as tall as Mount Everest, and the scary thing about it was that he was right. Cyclops was almost grateful for the monologue; he sat where he was and shoveled food into his mouth, taking seconds and thirds. Scott Summers was a very tall man, and his body had filled out since his days of being called Slim, thanks to endless hours working out in the gym and the Danger Room. His impressive muscle mass required a lot of fuel, and he knew he'd need it for the jailbreak. For all he could guess, he'd have to carry both Jean and Remy out of this place, so he ate his fill, surreptitiously slipping a couple of dinner rolls into the pocket of his jacket (he had worn civilian clothes tonight so that he would have pockets if need be) while Essex wasn't looking. After dinner, Sinister escorted him to Jean's room, then left him to return to his laboratory. Scott sat down at her bedside; she looked well now, just sleeping. Her color was good; her pulse, blood pressure, and respiration were all back to normal; laboratory studies were within normal range. Scott stayed with her awhile, just enjoying looking at her. He also wanted to wait a few hours to give Essex time to embroil himself in some new conundrum and tune out the rest of the activities in the lab complex before he went to see Remy. When he judged the coast clear to be out and about, Scott left Jean to go in search of Gambit. He knew where to find him: He could hear Evil Beast and Sugar Man arguing at three hundred decibels all the way to the next floor level of the lab complex. "He'sMINE!!!!!!!!!!! All MINE!!!!!!!!!" "Essex SAID I could run some tests of my own, as long as I share the results with him. Now be a good little gnome and get the Cajun dressed." "NO!!!! Sugar notlike lil' baby all coveredup! Cajun tomkitten MINE!!! You can'thave 'im!!!!" Scott lifted his glasses just a millimeter, and blasted a small chunk out of the flooring. "You two go fight over Gambit outside. I want to be alone with him for a few minutes." "YOU??!!!!!" Sugar Man squawked. "You stay 'way--not take Sugar's lil'baby! Botha' ya stay 'way! Evilbeast get cooties on sweet Cajun!" "I DO NOT HAVE COOTIES IN MY FUR!" "DO SO!!!!" "DO NOT!" "DO TOO!!!!" Scott had to remind himself that the Sugar Man was a deadly enemy. The monster was almost comical in appearance, but it weighed at least five hundred pounds and was possessed of deadly intelligence and no hesitation when it came to killing. Beyond Sugar Man's bulk, he could see Remy, suddenly interested in the exchange and sitting up, still desperately trying to hold the bedsheet wrapped around his body. He optic-blasted the poleaxe out of one of Sugar Man's many hands. "I'M Sinister's guest, remember? He won't appreciate hearing that you haven't shown me proper respect. Now get out." Reluctantly, they skulked out into the corridor, thereupon resuming their argument. Scott didn't care, fine with him if they picked up clubs and powderized each others' skulls. Remy was out of the corner and in his arms before he had the door locked. "Ol' Remy, he KNEW Cyclops jus' playin' along, he know all 'long Scott Summers not 'bandon him!" Then he buried his face against Scott's chest, unable to hold back his own broken tears. He wept raggedly, like a child cries, sobbing wretchedly, drowning in despair. Awkwardly, Scott put his arms around the Cajun, wrinkling his nose when the cloying scent of Johnson's Baby Shampoo wafted from Remy's hair to his nostrils. The baby smell was enough to strengthen him when being too close to Gambit became suddenly uncomfortable; they were going to have to do something to get that charm power under better control one of these days, for their sakes as well as Remy's. "I brought you something." Scott had already decided not to get into any soul-searching conversations with Gambit until later, if at all--they didn't have time for recriminations or apologies, but the problem seemed to have solved itself: Remy knew about Jean's condition, knew that Scott hadn't known in advance about the presence of Evil Beast and Sugar Man in Sinister's base, and didn't hold it against him. He'd done enough shady things in his own young life to reprove others for it. "Here." Scott brought the dinner rolls out of his pocket and offered them to the Cajun. Remy only stared at the bread, as if he couldn't believe it was for him. He hadn't had any food except the spermatogenic milk in weeks. As a result, his strength and reserves were mostly gone. He'd almost given up: And now Scott Summers was here, bringing him food and hope. He grabbed the bread and wolfed down both rolls in a matter of seconds. "Got any more?" he asked, mouth full of food. Scott shook his head. "Not now. But give me a little while and I'll find some. There's a kitchen somewhere in this complex. Will you be all right?" "Don' worry 'bout ol' Remy." The Cajun grinned, and suddenly seemed more like his old self than Scott had seen him in ages. Perhaps he was so mired in desperation that any glimmer of rescue was enough to ignite the spark he needed to survive this. "Mebbe de two ogres from dat--what did Bishop call it?--de Age a' 'Pocalypse?--mebbe dey stay outside an' fight all night." "Let's hope so. Listen, Logan and Hank are coming first thing in the morning. We've got it all worked out--just follow my lead." "Dat no problem--I used t' jumpin' when you say frog. But I got one question." "What's that?" "When you offered t' take my place wid' dat Sugar t'ing, did y' mean it?" "I've never said anything I meant more." The Cajun looked away from him, shuddering. Scott reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "I won't leave without you." Remy abruptly dropped his head; a fanfall of auburn hair covered his face. Cyclops got to his feet, then hurried out to search for the promised food.
Sinister's laboratory complex was a cold cavernous maze of computers and various machines the like of which Scott had never seen outside the bounds of the Shi'ar Empire. There seemed no rhyme or reason to its design and arrangement, as if Essex had just kept adding on and on to it over the centuries in a haphazard labyrinthine jumble--but Scott knew the master geneticist better than that: Every last gauge, digital indicator, and tungsten filament had its own purpose here, and there was nothing Essex was unaware of in his lair. Cyclops wandered down one snakelike corridor after another, climbed over mountains of computer hardware and storage towers, opening doors only to find refrigerated chambers, libraries lined with every form of reference material from ancient papyrus scrolls to futuristic electronic spools. Hank could have a field day here; Scott didn't doubt that the most comprehensive information bank on the planet must be in these libraries. It took a few hours, but he finally found the kitchen. Sinister's chef had gone for the evening (whether he lived outside the underground compound or simply inhabited one of its many cells, Scott had no idea--he was just glad to find no one there to catch him filching food), and he was able to find a large, well-stocked pantry. He selected more breads for much-needed carbohydrate energy, some cheese, a small carton of milk--he couldn't carry more than a few food items without calling undue attention to himself--but he needed Remy as strong as possible for the jailbreak. However, when he returned to Gambit's cell, he found it empty. Apparently Sugar Man and McCoy had taken their argument elsewhere--along with the Cajun. This was not a positive indicator. After a brief--but anxious--search, Scott found his way to Sinister's main laboratory, where he'd last seen Essex. He had already devised an excuse to ask the leader of the pack to check up on his stooges; at this point, he needed to know the exact whereabouts of all the parties in the game. He found both good news and bad news when he burst into the lab: The good news: Gambit was there. Along with Essex, McCoy, Havok, and Sugar Man. The bad news: Jean was there, too. The badder news: Jean and Remy were both lying side by side on stainless steel lab slabs, he conscious, and she still sedated. Remy was lying curled up on his side, the white sheet loosely draped over his body, one of Sugar Man's tongues coiled lovingly around his left ankle as a tether. He saw Scott and closed his eyes, humiliated, pressing a new flood of tears over his ashen face. Jean lay dreaming on her back, her nude body likewise covered carelessly with a sheet. Her legs were draped and separated, with her bare feet up in stirrups. "Ah, Scott, I'm so pleased you've decided to join us for this experiment." Sinister grinned nastily, and gestured to an empty steel gurney. "Feel free to sit or lie down while I finish a few preparations." Scott couldn't speak. He just stood there. Essex just chatted on, puttering about the laboratory. "As Mrs. Summers' first pregnancy was complicated by an erroneous mutation, it is safe to assume that another coupling with the intent to achieve fertilization carries an even greater risk of repeating the error--and I may not be available to save her next time. This occurrence is rather puzzling in light of your successful impregnation of the clone Madelyne Pryor, but I believe that was due to her hermetic existence in my laboratory prior to meeting you; thus her X-chromosomes had made no micromutations in response to the environment of several years' of life without the control I can exert here. Therefore," he set a beaker of cloudy fluid into an incubator, "I wish to determine if it is possible for LeBeau's stabilizing genetic factors to moderate the union of your XY chromosomes with her XX cells. The Summers' hereditary potential is indeed powerful, with a few exceptions," he glanced in Havok's direction, "but its erratic nature creates an unpredictable element I find difficult to utilize for my research." Scott Summers stood like a living statue--only the redness creeping around his jawline hinted of his feelings at this moment. "As you appear to be monogamous--now that you have wed your one true love, as it were--I see that I shall have to content myself with studying the offspring you produce on her--for now. I suppose it would be prudent to simply kill the woman, permit you an appropriate period for mourning or whatever, then allow you to choose other mates for breeding--hopefully, females better suited for maintaining a viable gestation--perhaps Ms. Braddock?--I believe you have found her attractive on occasion. "But I am fond of you, Scott. I don't wish to see you suffer the heartache of losing a woman dear to you--however inexpedient she may be. Therefore, I have developed an appropriate blend of natural and synthetic factors and hormones to rapidly advance her healing after the removal of her excessively mutated placenta and bring her into estrus at this very point in time. I have artificially removed several eggs from her ovaries and positioned them at optimal sites within her uterus, along with ripening factors, oophoretic nutrients, and the freshest possible concentration of Remy LeBeau's mutant stabilizing factor--isolated moments ago from his Y-chromosomes, of course, so that he will not be the father per se of Mrs. Summer's next unborn child. "I leave that to you, Scott. You may certainly leave here and take Mrs. Summers with you--as per our agreement--after she is impregnated. I would prefer that this be accomplished quickly, as your dwarfish friend Logan is impatient, and has already entered my lair; I believe you would say that he has jumped the gun on your plan. He will be much less destructive if you will be so good as to meet him on your way out and encourage him to depart with you. Gambit, naturally, will remain here and you will make no attempt to extricate him from my possession. Now, I suggest that we proceed at once with the next stage of the experiment." Essex paused, then said, "You may mount the woman if you wish." Before Scott could assimilate this unexpected turn of events and gather his wits, someone to the side said, "Not so fast, Tinfoil Face." Scott's first thought was that Logan had joined the party, but he whirled to see that Havok had sneaked closer and taken the opportunity to seize Gambit. "Let go of his foot," he said curtly to Sugar Man, who woefully obeyed and began wringing three or four of its hands in dire agony. That allowed Alex to pull Remy closer and wrap one arm around his chest while cupping his chin with his other hand. That hand suddenly began to glow red. Remy stopped struggling. "That's better," Havok said. "If anyone makes one move before I'm finished, I'll turn his head into a raw red mist. And that would be a serious shame, believe me." "Stop this foolishness, Alex," Essex said, angry and arms akimbo. "I'm in a hurry here." "Fine. Just give me what I want and you can have your little stud farm back without a scratch on his pretty skin." Sinister sighed to high heaven. "What is it that you want to end your silly game, tyro?" "Power," Alex said, grinning. "I want you to give me enough power to kill my brother." "Don't be ridiculous--" "SHUT UP!!!!" Havok bellowed. "You--of ALL people--should understand how I feel! To always live in HIS shadow, having nothing but his hand-me-downs all my life--everyone always loved HIM better than me--our parents, all of our kind, everybody--loved HIM better! Even YOU love him better!" "You are mistaken, Alex," Sinister said quietly. "I do not love you at all." "I don't care." Scott gripped the edge of a table for support. He felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach by a mule. "Alex, please," he tried to reason; his only option now was to stall for time till Logan could arrive on the scene. "We're brothers. We're blood. You can't do this." "Oh, CAN'T I? You only remember I'm your brother when it's convenient for you. Together, we could do anything--we're more than men, Scott: We're forces of nature, damn you! We could make a difference for all mutants, we could form our own nation and rule it together, you and I! We could force the world to accept mutants--if you'd only stop farting around with the X-Men! We could have it all--but you've thrown it away! You've pissed it all away--and on WHAT? The pacifistic lowing in your ear from a crazy old man we BOTH know is nothing but a dreamer. Why, even now you cast me aside for a woman and a punk. No, Scott, I have a new dream and I'm going to make it happen. But I'm tired of you hanging around my neck like a big blind albatross. I want to be rid of you. Give me the power, Essex." "I'll give you nothing, upstart." Perhaps Havok didn't think that Sinister was that fast. Or maybe he didn't expect Essex to fire his own energy blasts in Gambit's direction. But that's what he did. The powerful hand opened before anyone could move, and fire surged from it like red lightning. As Sinister intended, he missed striking Gambit by the barest fraction of a millimeter But Havok was wounded long before he could bring his own powers to bear upon the Cajun The arm locked about Remy's chest plopped into his lap Suddenly freed, LeBeau rolled off the table and disappeared into the vast array of machinery faster than a cat can hide in a dark cluttered closet. Havok just stared at his arm as it lay on the floor. His other hand flew to the stump where it had been joined to his body--now nothing but a grisly fountain spewing blood And more The very floor in the laboratory shook as an earthquake flowed from the man called Havok. Stalactites gave up their purchases on the ceiling and struck the ground like a hundred spiny arrows. "You've torn his containment suit!" Scott shouted. "We've got to help him!" Essex had forgotten that Havok's powers were not under his complete control, and that destroying the integrity of his containment suit--plus gravely wounding him in the process--meant the immediate loss of any management he might have had over the rioting plasma energies. Alex cried out, still clutching his stump as his arteries pumped themselves dry. Reeling, he began windmilling his intact arm and the stump, trying to keep his balance, blasting huge craters in the rock walls and sending the occupants of the room scrambling for cover. He was out of control Losing too much blood and too much power He couldn't be saved Not now And maybe he never could have been. Scott dragged Jean's body off the gurney and behind a wall of what looked to be solid computers. There was no way out. The cavern was collapsing. He hoped Gambit had made his way clear before the cave-ins began. He'd lost sight of Essex, Sugar Man, Evil Beast, and even Alex--although he could still hear his brother's screams of pain, anger, and shock--somewhere beyond the concussive bellow of his unrestricted powers. He couldn't be killed by Alex' power, but his own optic blasts were no protection from tons of rock falling on him. All he could do now was shield Jean with his own body. At least they would die together. He closed his eyes. "This's no time fer a nap, bub." Scott opened his eyes to see Logan's grimy face hovering inches from his own. He swallowed hard, then did the difficult thing he'd ever done in his life: He held out his arms and gave Jean over to Logan. If anyone could get her out of this alive, it would be Logan. "Got to go after Remy and Alex . . . if I don't make it out . . . take care of her. . . always . . . " Logan's yellow eyes only regarded him sadly. In that one moment, there was nothing feral about him. He was a man, yet much more than a man hearing his rival give him his blessing. "Just till ya get back, Slim." He'd taken Jean and gone before Scott realized that Logan had never called him by his nickname.
Remy LeBeau could hear the rock walls groaning all around him. As one chamber of the subterranean complex gave way, so would another, then another--until the entire labyrinth fell in. He knew that he couldn't help the others, best to stay out of Scott's way so that he could save Jean. Intellectually, he knew that was the way it should be. And yet--a small voice in his mind whispered that he, too, had a right to live. Bunching his arms together to hold the sheet about his body, he picked his way through the caverns, his hair and his lungs full of cave dust. The rough rocky cave floor cut his bare soles badly; Remy had very tender feet and only went barefooted on the occasional heist when he needed the sensitivity of his bare skin against gimmicked flooring; he had to stop and tear strips from the sheet to wrap about his feet--the small measure wouldn't last long, but maybe long enough. He was stronger now for even the smallest bit of real food; he might survive. The Marauders seemed to have quit the complex at the first sign of disruption down in Sinister's lab. That was fine with Remy; he had no wish to be caught and killed by his own children. Thinking of the Marauders made him feel strange--he was sad for them, the children of his body, losing their youth to Sinister's cages. Surely, he could have done something for them; he knew all along that Essex had them. He should have gone back for them, tried to give them the things he'd never had--yet, he'd deserted them; hell, he'd even tried to kill them. He deserved everything they'd done to him. "Daddy knowswhat lil' baby deserves!" That creepy voice, calling out to him in the direction from which he'd come trying to escape. "HERE COMES DADDY!!!!!!!!" Merde, was the monster a telepath?! "Don'tbe scared, sweet Remy! Daddy jus' comin' t'get tasty lil' cookieface! Daddy LOVES lil' baby!" Remy flattened himself against the cave wall, taking deep breaths. "HERE I COME!!!!!!!!!!!" Sugar Man roared happily, still a few hundred meters away. "Gonna eat you up, my sweetsweet Cajun confection!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Painfully aware of the need to conserve his strength, Remy dropped to his hands and knees and started crawling away from the direction of the loathsome thing's gravelly voice. "Daddy's coming!!!!!!!!! Daddy's comin' to GUT his lil' cupcake!!!!!!!!!!" He had no idea where he was going, no remote inkling of the lay-out of Sinister's underground lab complex--for all he knew, he was crawling toward the next series of caverns ready to collapse. "COMING TO GET YOU, REMY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" And alone. He was so alone. "GONNA GET YYYYYOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Better alone, better dying alone than spending one more second in the ogre's arms. "COME OUT COME OUT WHEREVER YOU ARE!!!!!!!! OH, I LOVEBABY SOMUCH WANNA ROLL IN YOUR BLOOD!!!!!!!!! WANNA SKIN YOU WITH MY BARE TEETH!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Couldn't let his life end this way. Couldn't die for the fiend's pleasure. "BUT FIRST DADDY'S GONNA TICKLE LIL' BABY TILL HE'S SILLY!!!!!!!!!! The heavy call echoed through the caverns. "AND THEN DADDY'S GONNA DO IT SOME MORE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Remy could hear the fiend slobbering between all those rows of sharklike teeth, even from a distance. He kept crawling. "WHAT A PRETTY MEAL YOU'LL MAKE, REMY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" If he hadn't been on all fours, putting his hands out before him as he crawled, Remy would have fallen into the newly-opened chasm. Thanks to Havok's outburst and ensuing loss of his containment suit, the stability of the cavern was wrecked, sinking fissures and crumbling vertical rock supports in a groaning, heaving domino effect. "COMING, BABY!!!!!!!" Remy held his breath as he crawled out onto a narrow shelf still clinging to the cave wall. There was no way of gauging how deep the fissure was, and the lights in the caverns were popping and sputtering like dying strobes. But it was black as pitch down that chasm, must be deep. He was tempted to drop a stone into it, but Sugar Man might hear it land, too, and come waddling Remy's way on the double click. He didn't know which was worse--the content of Sugar Man's utterances, or the relentless cheerfulness in their delivery. "MIGHTASWELL GET NEKKID, CAJUN!!!!!!!!!! SAVEUS BOTH SOME TIME 'CAUSE DADDY WANTS 'LIL BABY SO DAMN BAD DADDY CAN'T WAIT!!!!" The shelf was none too stable. Remy could feel it powdering, crumbling under his weight. Just a little more, he prayed, hold just a little longer--the chasm is narrow--only a few more feet. If it doesn't open any further. "GONNA GET YOU!!!!!!!" Remy had to scramble for the last few inches, but he was now on solid ground (he hoped) on the opposite side of the fissure. Mercifully, the hole was deep enough to drown any sound from pebbles that'd fallen while he made his way along the shelf. Steeling himself, Remy bit his lip then cried out, "Daddy?" There was no answer, but Gambit could hear the scudding footfalls slapping aginst stone. He opened his mouth again and called, "Daddy?!" "LIL' BABY???????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" "Daddy!" The abomination came galloping around the corner, almost slipping in a puddle of its own drool. Remy felt the terror wash over him like a full moon tide. Overwhemling fear caused his knees to buckle and he collapsed to a sitting position, his hands in his lap. The bedsheet Remy couldn't live without slid from his shoulders to crumpled folds around his waist and hips, over his arms, binding him. The vestigial lighting reflected the glowing red embers in his eye sockets, but his suddenly-exposed body and helpless posture made him appear more like prey than predator. He knew exactly how good he looked; this particular bit of posture always worked on women, made them think they had him when it was truthfully the other way around. Closing his eyes, he amped up his charm power and put on his most vulnerable face. "Daddy, I'm scared," he quavered. "Notbe scared, lil' baby," Sugar Man crooned. "Daddy'shere." "I'm cold. I wan' my Daddy." The ghoul came a step closer. "Cajunbaby shouldn't runaway from Daddy." "I sorry." Remy hid his face in his hands. "Forgive me?" "Come to Daddy." "I can'. T'ink I hurt my leg. Wan' my Daddy t' kiss it an' make it well." Remy sniffed. "Daddy haslotsa kisses for lil' baby! Gonnacome overthere and kiss Remy all over!" The terror came bulleting toward Remy, its multitude of arms and tongues outstretched and foamy slobber slinging in all directions. "COMING TO GET YOU!!!!!!!" Sugar Man howled gleefully. Oh, and the delicious Cajun was close, so close Sugar Man could almost touch him--sitting there forlorn and all but nude, with that soft young skin and hard body, all that long thick hair, that delicious mouth, and those crimson eyes that shone like a wolf's. Sugar Man yearned t o eat him up alive. Of all the obsessions and excesses it had enjoyed in its long and wicked life, this was the one Sugar Man adored most. And then it had the most wonderful thought! If it could take Remy back to Essex and clone him--why, there could be a limitless supply of Cajun beauties; it would keep the original and snack on the others! Succulent Acadian desserts four or five times a day! Able to consume them wholly and at will, cracking their bones and sucking out the tasty marrow, burying its face in their opened torsos like a pig in a trough--eating and eating and eating! Such bliss!!!!!!!!!! And there was the original Gambit himself, so handsome and so delightful to terrorize. The THINGS Sugar Man could do to that sensitive body and mind! LeBeau would scream in pleasure as well as pain, crying and screaming in its arms, and there would be tears, oh yes, lots of lovely salt tears to lick away from that finely boned face. The clones would be beautiful and so exquisite to the taste, but Remy LeBeau himself would be the best and sweetest of them all, and maybe someday, if Sugar Man ever grew bored with him--well, it could just devour the One True Gambit. Poached. Maybe pan-fried ever so gently. No. Had to be raw, mustn't cook out that fragrant, savory blood and the vitamins! "DADDY'S COMINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG--" It seemed an eternity before Sugar Man's body finally struck the rocks at the bottom of the chasm. So eager to swoop for its treasure, its batrachian glare enveloping the Cajun and seeing nothing else, Sugar Man plummeted like a boulder, obeying the law of gravity if none other. Remy cringed in spite of himself when he heard the heavy wet PLOP far below. He waited Not daring to move Even to breathe. No sound from the bowels of the pit. Gambit felt as if he could fly. Well, maybe he could walk. He took a step, but couldn't make another. Then he saw One end of a long spiky tongue was wrapped around his ankle--the rest of the tongue disappeared into the chasm. No. Oh, no. "Lil' baby . . . nevergetaway . . . f'm DADDY!" The voice, so far down, deep down must be a mile, yet rumbling like a freight train in spite of mortal wounds. The tongue holding Remy to the edge of the pit suddenly snapped and withdrew toward the filthy maw and all those tongues somewhere down in the darkness, dragging the Cajun with it in spite of his frantic clawing for something to hold on to. "DADDY LOVES--" The optic blasts that cursed Scott Summers' existence were not a silent phenomenom: Rather, they were virtually deafening, like standing next to a cannon. He brought those optic blasts to bear now--as he rounded a corner and saw Gambit scrabbling for his life while being hauled into the chasm by what could only be the Sugar Man on the other end of that serpentine tongue. The sight infuriated him; he couldn't have held back on the force of the blast if he'd wanted to. A concussive force equalled to that of a half-ton of nitroglycerin ripped the tentacle-tongue apart, embedding it into the rock wall of the chasm milliseconds before it also shattered the rock into powdergrain finer than fused silica. The blow caused the bedrock to shift and buckle, sending Remy flying away from the chasm and into the cave wall several feet away. The last thing Remy saw before he lost consciousness was the sole remaining light bulb as it popped and busted.
He didn't know if he was awake or dreaming, blind or simply left in utter darkness. Ordinarily, Remy's complicated eyes and specialized cerebral frontal lobes allowed him to see very well in circumstances a human could not, but there was no light source whatsoever even for the infrared lenses that gave his eyes their red appearance. He could smell smoke and dust, though; the air was thinner and harder to breathe than it had been before he had blacked out. Remy called for Scott, but there was no answer. He tried crawling in the direction from which he thought he'd come, only to be met by solid walls of silent rock--there must have been another cave-in, this one caused by Summer's optic blasts. Remy's first thought was that of abject fear; he was trapped--this, then, was what Storm feared most: Buried alive. He understood, now that he was suddenly a born-again claustrophobe. Surely at some point in his young life, he must have faced a worse situation, but one certainly didn't come offhand to mind now. He had no kinetic powers with the Genoshan slave collar still locked around his neck, there wasn't enough light see in, he was weak from blood loss and semi-starvation, and if he wasn't alone before, he certainly was now. Swallowing his terror along with the bile trying to churn its way out of his stomach, Remy began to feel along the walls, searching for any openings. He finally found one, barely large enough for even a body as slim as his to squeeze through. Knotting the sheet around his waist, he began to crawl elbow over elbow, having no idea in the world where he was going or when even this tunnel might collapse, crushing the life out of him and burying him forever. One thing kept him going, and one thing only: The X-Men. He had to try to find help for Cyclops, and maybe for Logan and Jean. Had to get back to the Mansion and make sure that Rogue and the other were all right. And if they weren't, his errant children the Marauders had some answering up to do. He had to live if he was going to see justice done. The tunnel narrowed, until Remy was only able to push himself along by holding his breath and clawing with his fingernails. If it became much more confining (or if he inhaled deeply), he would be stuck until he starved to death or ran out of air. Abruptly, the tunnel began to widen, until Remy was able to eventually stand again. The air was cooler, sweeter; he thought he could feel a draft or breeze. Then his toes touched the edge of another chasm. Remy tossed in another rock. It took forever to land, seemed like a couple of hundred feet down. He sat down on the edge of the precipice, dangling his legs and testing the vertical surface with his toes. The wall was as smooth as glass. No way to get a handhold or a foothold. But he had to take his chances with it. He couldn't die like this, not with so many things undone. "Hey, kid! Stay put a sec!" Remy couldn't see at all. But he knew the voice. "Logan?" he called out. " 'Way down here. Can ya see at all?" "Non. Can you?" "Enough ta tell yer sittin' on a ledge over a sheer drop." "De others--?" "Jean's fine. I got her out, left 'er with Hank, then came around through th' cave's back door. Dunno what happened ta Cyke, his rat brother, or th' Gynecologist From Hell. You hurt?" Remy shook his head. "Is dere a way I c'n climb down?" "Not unless yer Spiderman. If I come up ta getcha, I'll need both hands t' make clawholds an' you ain't strong enough ta hold onta me." "But I AM! I c'n hold on!" Logan knew better. The arduous trek through the vast cave had to have sapped the Cajun's strength even further, and he'd looked ghostly enough when Logan last saw him, stretched out one of Sinister's lab tables. He couldn't have held on if his life depended on it--and it did. Remy heard Wolverine walking away. He was seized with horror and screamed, "LOGAN, DON' LEAVE ME!!!!!!!!!" "I'm not leavin' ya. Now here's th' plan: When I tell ya ta jump, ya jump." "Quoi?!" "I'm gonna take a runnin' start from here an' hop up ta catch ya. Just do a swan dive, boy, an' go limp as ya fall. I'll do th' rest." Remy was quiet for a moment. He'd seen Wolverine's prodigious ability to leap great distances, like his namesake. He could likely meet Remy halfway in midfall. But even without his adamantium, Logan's bones were denser than stone; it would be like the floor rising to meet him. And was he so sure this WAS Logan? What if he was hallucinating, gone mad from Sugar Man, the cave, Sinister, all of it--and he only THOUGHT he was talking to Wolverine? What if he was just babbling to himself, imagining Logan's voice--and jumped? He remembered hearing that severe schizophrenics sometimes jumped off the tops of buildings because heavenly messengers or the Devil told them to do it. Maybe he was about to take his own life for the same reason. "Don't be scared, LeBeau. I'll take care of it. Just relax." Relax? Did Logan say just relax before he would fillet an enemy? "We ain't given ya much reason to, kid, but ya gotta trust th' X-Men now. It's th' only way yer gonna live." Trust the X-Men? Remy remembered Scott Summers snapping the Genoshan collar around his neck. He'd been awake just enough to hear Iceman, Angel, and Cyclops talking together just before he was taken from the X-Mansion. And then he remembered Cyclops fighting the Sugar Man, even his own brother, to save a friend and rectify his mistake in judgement. "Trust th' X-Men, boy." "Oui. I trus' de X-Men." "When I say Jump . . . . . . . . . okay . . . . . . . . . . . . JUMP!" Remy jumped. His swan dive was actually looked more like a belly buster, but it didn't matter. One instant he was in freefall, the next he felt those short, strong arms enfold him and draw him close, rolling him toward Logan's heavy barrel of a chest, turning and somersaulting in middair like a huge cat. A huge cat that always lands on its feet. But Logan didn't exactly hit the ground feet first--more like he alit on his feet then went down on his knees, tucked his body into a ball, and kept right on rolling, ignoring the bumps and broken bones slowing their momentum for them. Remy couldn't ignore the sounds of Logan's bones cracking, but the shock of landing--even though Logan took by far the brunt of it--was enough to knock the breath and consciousness out of him.
Remy awoke lying warmly wrapped in a medical transport inside the parked Blackbird Jet. Even though it felt too good to want to move, he swung his legs over the edge of the padded coccoon, and was vastly relieved to find himself clean and clothed--even if only in one of the cotton gowns Beast used for medical examinations. Not only that, he felt completely renewed physically--as though he'd never lost most of his blood volume or been starved in order to keep him docile, as if he'd never been . . . Remy pushed the thought from his mind. He felt . . . well. Better than well, better than he'd ever felt in his life--stronger than he'd ever felt. He looked down at himself: Even Sugar Man's ugly passion marks on his skin were fading as he watched. There was only a small bandage in the crook of his arm. He stood up, and was delighted to realize that--for the first time in many weeks--he wasn't at all wobbly; he could walk--and did. He found another occupant in the medical bay: Jean Grey-Summers, but she was sleeping soundly and seemed unharmed, so he padded into the cockpit. Logan sat in the co-pilot's seat, smoking a cigar. He didn't turn around, even though he was bound to have heard the hatch open and shut. "Have a seat, Cajun," he said quietly. Remy scooted around the console and sat down in the pilot's seat. The plane was sitting in a field just beyond the decrepit building he recalled as the orphanage Scott Summers grew up in. No one else was here besides the mutants on the SR-71; there was no threat coming from the derelict orphanage. He remembered leaving some cigarettes tucked under the control panel--sure enough, there they were. He shook a cigarette out of the pack, then leaned over to let Logan light it for him off the cigar. "How ya feelin'?" Wolverine asked. Then Remy saw the Band-Aid over the inside of the Canadian X-Man's elbow. "Hey," he said. "Don' t'ink I not grateful f' your blood an' de healin' factors in it, Logan, I am--but why you not give it to me weeks ago?" Wolverine puffed on the cigar, causing the lit end to glow red. "No sense wastin' it on ya if I'm not convinced ya wanna live, is there?" "Guess not. You convinced now?" "Yep. Oh, by the way, smoking's bad fer ya." "Not anymore. I full a' your healin' factors now. I could buy de whole plantation, set de fields on fire, an' suck down ev'ry last tobacco plant into my lungs, neh?" "Yeah, I suppose ya could. Well, don't start eating all the cookies in sight when we get ya back to th' Mansion--th' healing factors won't let ya come down with diabetes, but ya will get fat--an' I happen ta know fer a fact that Rogue don't like love handles on her men." "Rogue????!!!!! She okay????!!!!!" "You'll see, kid, you'll see. Now that yer awake, I want ya ta stay here and keep watch over Jeannie. I'm gonna go help Hank scour what's left of Sinister's cave for Cyke." Gambit took a deep breath. "He not out of dere yet? He help me when . . . " he couldn't even say the fiend's name, even now that it was dead. ". . . when Remy need help." Wolverine started to stand up, but the outer hatch opened then and Beast pulled himself inside. He looked exceedingly tired, and his fur was caked with dust. "No sign of Cyclops," he sighed, then he saw Gambit. "Remy, perhaps you should be lying down--" "Non--I perf'ctly well now. I help look for Scott. Logan and I go search while le Beast stay wit' Jean." He got up. "But firs', Logan, if you would--?" He pointed to the Genoshan collar still circling his neck. "Sorry 'bout that." Logan inserted a claw under the edge of the collar and sawed it open only a little more slowly than he would have in the days when they were still formed of adamantium. Together Gambit and Wolverine walked the short distance to the skeletal walls of the old orphanage. Remy picked up a loose piece of wood, and willed his kinetic powers to come back from their hiding place and charge the kindling. They came flowing into his arms, obedient to him as always, the white glow coursing into his wrists and hands like living flame, sparking crimson upon leaving his fingertips and contacting the air, then the stick of wood. His powers instantly set the carbon molecules to racing in place, faster and faster until the solid material could no longer contain the mounting energy, and it was consumed by the very fire in his hand. It felt so good to activate that power again, to call it and have it come at his bidding, whipping back and forth though his body, faster and hotter than his own blood could flow in his veins--yet something about it was different now: stronger and more potent than it had ever been in his life. Logan was digging through the rubble with his claws. Moving an impressive amount of soil and quickly, but still only about two feet down for all that mole-work. "Stan' back, mon ami," Gambit said. "I take care a' dis." Wolverine arched an eyebrow. Gambit grinned. It'd been so long since any of them had seen him as anything but an invalid; it was time to pull his own weight and remind them that he was free--and back to stay. He put his hand on the debris at the mouth of the vertical shalft; it'd all collapsed in. But there were only a few tons of earth blocking the tunnels. Was a time when he would have been daunted by such a task, calculating how long it would take to charge up that much dirt and rock. But as he touched the ground, his kineticism raced through him, focusing as he willed, and his hands suddenly became brighter than the sun itself. Even Logan had to avert his eyes. When Remy released the power, he sent his will with it, showing it the way, controlling the progress of the explosions with infinite precision. Closing his eyes, he touched the ground again and the power roared from his hands, more and more building to release in destructive cacaphony. 'Is this how Logan feels?' he wondered. 'So strong at all times? So ALIVE?!' Finally, he stood back from the channel he'd cut, and they both peered into the depths. "Uh, Cajun--?" "Oui?" "There's something you oughta know 'bout those healin' factors I gave ya." "What dat?" "They don't wear off. Ever. Guess it feels like I just stuck yer toe in a light socket, huh?" Remy grinned. "Not t' worry, mon frere. I c'n handle it." "See that ya do. I'd hate ta have take ya down one of these days, and you with THAT kind o' power level. Just make sure ya stay on our side, 'kay?" The ground beneath them trembled like a giant was beneath them striking the ground with an emormous hammer. Gambit and Wolverine looked at each other. "Is dat what I t'ink it is?" It shook again, closer this time, knocking both mutants off their pins and on their backsides. "Looks like we'd better haul ass, boy. Unlike you, Cyke can't control his blasting--and yer still not in HIS league when it comes to th' boom at th' end of th' zap. If we don't move our butts, we're gonna catch th' worst hemorrhoids in history." "Gotcha, mon ami. I t'ink we better retreat." They got the hell out of that orphanage and were safely aboard the Blackbird when Cyclops' optic blasts cleared the last of the debris in his way and scattered the old orphanage--now reduced to nothing more than kindling--across the cloudless sky.
Through the windows of the Blackbird, Gambit saw Rogue running toward the plane as it prepared to make a vertical landing in the field behind the X-Mansion. "Er, Remy," Hank's voice came over the intercom, "--this is your pilot speaking, and the Fasten Seatbelts sign is still lit." "I can't hear yyyyoooooouuuuuu!" Remy sang back. He was out of the straps and bailing from the plane while it was still a hundred feet from the ground. He wasn't worried about jumping this time; a hundred feet was nothing for agility like his, now that he again had the energy to back it up--but Rogue soared into the air to catch him in her arms. And she was so beautiful to him, like he'd gone from Hell to Heaven in the span of just a few hours, looking at him with such love in those glittering green eyes, tossing those crazy curls and her hair's white skunk stripe in his face, laughing at his foolishness, hugging him like a she-bear. The monster that had tormented his mind and violated his body was dead; he was safe from it now; he knew that by his own empathy--and now that empathy was being overwhelmed by his love for this woman and hers for him. Before he could think about what he was doing, he took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth, so hungry for her that he threw all caution to the winds. And, miracle of miracles, she was kissing him back, promising him everything she had and was, squealing, "Ah love you! Ah love you!" over and over. Then she kissed him again. Remy suddenly realized what they had done. And that he wasn't in a coma or dead. "Roguie, how--?" he started to ask. "Ah'll show ya, silly!"
Gambit and Rogue were sitting in the X-Mansion library at midnight. It'd been a busy day: Explanations had to be made, medical checks had to be done, issues discussed, and even a trip into New Salem for an impromptu shopping trip. Between them they now had the remnants of a bag of bagels, a partial block of cheese, and one empty bottle of champagne. He was tipsier than she, not because he'd drunk more champagne, but because he'd always had a tendency to get lit on a very small amount of bubbly--which was why Rogue had insisted he buy them champagne instead of his favorite cognac. Tired as they were, they hadn't been able to break the spell and head upstairs for bed--and they had already decided that they would never sleep apart from each other again. She looked down at her left hand and the impressive diamond, surrounded by tiny emeralds just the color of her eyes, sparkling on her ring finger. "Yuh sure ya didn't heist this ring, Remy?" He hiccuped as she rested her head in his lap. "Oui. I'd recall stealin' a rock dat big. But you be de one who picked it out. You wanted de most vulgar diamond in town, 'member?" He took another sip of champagne and resumed staring at the entryway into the hall foyer. It looked bare and denuded now, with its once-glorious marble archway stripped away. "Lemme get dis straight, ma amour. Scrambler touched you while you had your other hand on de marble an' turned you into marble. Den when it wore off, de absorption powers were still in de marble while you kep' all de good stuff--everyt'ing else like flyin', invulnerability, an' bein' stronger dan Popeye after a spinach binge." "As best Hank can figure it, th' absorption powers was th' only power Ah was usin' at th' time an' they went into the marble of th' foyer. Hank uses big words like porosity and matrix. Ah don't." She giggled again. "Like dat demon-possessed guy Legion and de pigs in de Bible, where de evil spirits jump out of de man and into de pigs." "That marble archway is mah herd of pigs; Ah like th' way you put that, mah love." "What 'appen to de marble?" "We put it down in the vault under th' Mansion. Buried it. Took some doing, too. None of us could directly touch it, 'cause it'd drain our powers--like Ah used to." It was Gambit's turn to giggle. "Kryptonite for X-Men. We better watch out. De villains, dey be diggin' up dat marble an' flashin' it at us ev'ry time we turn 'round." "Ah think you're drunk, Remy." "I AM drunk, chere. You oughta know dat--you de one who got me dis way. Logan, he de soul of discretion as well as de soul of gossip, I bet he de one tol' me you all 'bout me 'n champagne. Dis be your own premeditated doing, witch." "You LET me do it!" Remy held up his hands weakly. "I surrend'r, petite. I no match f' you. I too drunk an' not too clever jus' now." She grinned at him. "Well, it's about time!" Rogue picked him up and began to carry him up the stairs. "Looks like Ah'm gonna have to put you to bed." For answer he only sighed, put his head on her shoulder and slipped his arms around her neck. "I promise I carry you nex' time." Rogue planted a kiss on the end of his nose as she pushed open the bedroom door with her foot. Unceremoniously dropping him onto the bed in the midst of all her other teddy bears, she began to dress herself in a mind-boggling gown made of golden silk--and he wasn't too bleary-eyed to appreciate the view. "Yuh see, sugah, th' way I figure it: Next time you carry me, it's gonna be 'cross a threshold, an' Ah'm gonna be wearin' a white dress."
EPILOGUE: McCoy, also known as the Black Beast or Evil Beast, awoke only slowly. He felt a terrible gnawing and cramping in his innards. What had happened to him? He remembered Havok's own power tearing the former leader of X-Factor to fissioning shreds. Then Wolverine came and took away the woman. He remembered Cyclops pushing his way out of the collapsing laboratory after Sugar Man, who'd gone scuttling after its beloved Cajun playpretty. That left him alone in the laboratory with Mr. Sinister. "I'm glad that you are awake, McCoy. As you know, one of the cardinal rules of science is that if one experiment doesn't pan out, the investigator must be prepared to improvise. With Gambit and the Summers' escaped, and most of my other Marauders killed in that unfortunate cave-in, including your late associate Sugar Man, I am left with very few subjects for examination. I have you, of course--you who were of no use to me while my livestock ran off--and I asked myself: What else do I have in inventory? Then I remembered Mrs. Summers' mutated placenta, which I kept alive by providence for such occasion as I might use it. And I wondered: What effect would this abnormal placenta have upon the body of an alien host subject--that is, a host besides Mrs. Summers herself? It pleases me to report to you that this placenta--which I have now surgically implanted in your body--is meeting with no antigenic activity whatsoever from your immune system. "However, the placenta appears to be displeased with its new host, I fear. It has, interestingly enough, suddenly grown actual bony teeth and is in the process of consuming your internal organs--eating them, as it were; yet not assuming their functions and merely growing rather benignly albeit quickly, in comparison to its tenure within Mrs. Summers' body. This, of course, proves that the placenta is not exactly a sentient organism--because if it were, it would know that killing its host would also result in its own demise. Wouldn't you agree, McCoy? "McCoy? "McCoy? "Ah well, I had anticipated that the duration of this experiment would only be a brief one. My instruments indicate that the mutant placenta has died along with you, my would-be colleague. The expression on your face--now your deathmask--is quite amusing. You fancied yourself my equal; perhaps now you know that I have no peer. I am Sinister, I am alone in my genius, and that is the way it must be. Goodbye then, McCoy. Understand that I bore you no ill will--after all, imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. Or so it has been said." |
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