The Ante - REVIEW THIS STORY

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

Chapter 17

Remy shot off the tomb, his heart rocketing into his throat just as quickly as he pulled out and extended his bo. Launching himself effortlessly atop the nearest crypt, he sprang into action, vaulting over the tombs without concern for the shabby surfaces where his footfalls landed.

His flight carried him across the cemetery to Rogue in little more than a few moments. Skidding to a stop and rolling off the dilapidated roof of a particularly derelict tomb, the tails of his trench coat flapping behind him, Remy dropped into the narrow space between two crypts.

Rogue yelled again, this time, with a guttural edge he’d missed before in his blind chase. It was a battle cry.

Remy skittered forwards, light on his toes, his back flat to the wall as he drew his staff over a shoulder in preparation to swing wide as he hit free air.

The sight that greeted him was not what he’d expected in the slightest.

Keeping to the edge of the darkness that kept him concealed from view, he watched intently, the vision tearing his breath away as three masked men surrounded Rogue.

"Ya hooligans think it’s polite ta sneak up on a lady?" she snarled, grappling one around the wrist and yanking him into the circle they’d formed around her. She planted a foot on his hip, forcing him backwards into the nearest tomb, and heaved. She dragged his arm forwards while the rest of his body stayed pinned; the leverage of the thrust yanking it from its socket with a sick pop!

Rogue arched backwards, and as her body twisted, Remy saw why. The hand she gripped had a long, thin knife clutched between gloved fingers, and each moment she failed to release her attacker, the knife angled downwards steadily, preparing to gouge through her sleeve and into soft flesh.

He bristled. Assassins.

With a muted thud, the knife that the Assassin held dropped to the ground. Rogue kicked it away into the unkempt grasses spotting the bases of the tombs as her quarry howled, his wrist now twisted at an odd angle.

"Quit yo’ bellyachin’," she snapped, grabbing him by the collar as he doubled over, clutching at his dangling arm. She brought her knee up swiftly, catching him in the jaw. His neck snapped backwards, and he slumped to the ground.

"If y’all complain as much as yo’ buddy over here does," she warned, rounding on the two other men who’d begun circling her. "Ah swear Ah’ll have ya eatin’ dirt just ta keep ya quiet."

She kicked the fallen man in the stomach for emphasis, though the only response he offered was a wet squelch forced from an unconscious body.

"This one’s gonna be flossin’ out the rocks in his teeth for weeks," she sneered.

The pair paused, exchanging a glance between them as Rogue sized them up — one to her left, and one to her right. Unfair odds, but nothing she couldn’t handle on her own, Remy surmised.

Maybe it would be best to wait and watch, he considered. If he played the odds to his favor, perhaps if he swooped in at precisely the right moment, well... That might be too much to hope for, he conceded. So what if she wouldn’t forgive him? Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely certain of how he could explain himself - not that he would if he could help it.

Gambit grinned, watching appreciatively as Rogue crouched into a defensive pose, her muscles tightening flatteringly in the places where her long coat swept back off her thighs. Her weight shifted to her left leg, the toe of her right foot barely brushing the ground, and she braced her arms on either side of her, ready to switch stances if necessary. To Remy, it looked as if she was welcoming a good scrap.

Rogue’s eyes narrowed, and Remy caught the flash of something red in their depths, winking out just as quickly as it had appeared.

He started forwards, but yanked himself back into the darkness just as quickly, hissing at the conflicted desire to help her and the more self-indulgent craving to sit back and watch the show.

"C’mon, boys," she purred. "Ah’m havin’ a rotten night. Such a fine evenin’ without a soul ta enjoy it with." She pursed her lips, making a kissy face at the goon to her left.

Inwardly, Remy winced a little at that. On the bright side, if Rogue intended to beat the stuffing out of the two fully-grown, trained Guild members, perhaps that’d spare him the same sorry fate for running off on her.

"What’s wrong, sugah?" she continued. "Don’t wanna fill up this gal’s dance card? Ah promise Ah won’t tell no one ya got two left feet!"

The pair lunged for her, one trying to sweep her legs while the other vaulted, drawing a katana from the scabbard strapped to his back in less time than it took to blink.

Remy hummed, resting his staff against a shoulder and yanking out his cigarettes, eager to preoccupy his restless hands. He should have brought popcorn, he thought with a smirk.

Rogue leapt backwards as the pair dove at her, her back arching as she somersaulted, feet kicking upwards with the momentum and catching one of the Assassins in the ribs. Dropping to her knees, she lashed out with her heel. It connected with an ankle, and one of the pair howled, the katana drooping in his grasp. Remy stuck a foot out from his hiding place nonchalantly, tripping the spare Assassin and sending him sprawling before retreating into the shadows.

"Y’all ain’t afraid o’ lil’ ol’ me, are ya?" she murmured coyly, tossing her head to the side to get the hair out of her face. Slowly, with predatory precision, she stood to full height, rolling her shoulders to work out the kinks. In profile, Rogue’s skin gleamed with the incandescent, lily-white perfection that matched the ageless beauty of the marble statues that surrounded her.

Marvelous, he thought, enjoying the slight thrust to her hip as she looked between the pair of Assassins disdainfully. Like poetry in motion, Rogue moved with the sinuous, feline grace as she turned, bracing herself for the next assault.

Apparently, in the time he’d been away, she really had taken the initiative with her training. Rogue had gotten good.

Remy lit his cigarette, the tip flaring red in the gloom. Oops.

Rogue’s attention snapped to the brief flicker of his powers manifesting, and she frowned.

"Ya gotta be kidding me," she muttered wryly, her mouth twisting downwards.

Remy inhaled, holding the smoke in his lungs for two heartbeats while weighing the number of things he could possibly tell her that would smooth away that look on her face. He blew it out with force, his mind drawing a blank where he should have been able to remedy the hurt.

He couldn’t, he thought dejectedly. It wasn’t the first time.

"Sorry m’ late, chére," he murmured, the words rolling off his tongue with a little too much detached indifference.

It sounded cold.

The Assassin on the ground leapt up, his spine creaking as he pivoted, searching for the source of the voice. At his feet, the first man Rogue had taken out remained motionless.

Rogue hesitated. It was barely a second, but Remy registered it nonetheless. Acidly, she replied, "No worries saloon boy, Ah’ve got these two taken care of."

The lackey with the katana stood with a snarl, nodding silently to his partner and lunging at Rogue. She rolled her eyes, sidestepping him as he flew across the footpath and latched onto his back. The Assassin growled, backing up with Rogue clinging to him so that her back cracked into the nearest tomb.

Gambit saw her wince in pain, and smiling grimly, the cigarette hanging off his lower lip, he stepped from beneath the cover of the crypts and into the bleary light cast off from Washington Avenue. It pooled between them, illuminating the figures who’d accosted her.

"Damnit!" she swore, pained, and released a hand to latch onto the slight overhang of the tomb’s roof. Digging one foot into the Assassin’s back, she propelled herself upwards, kicking him squarely off of her so that he stumbled, sprawling over the prostrate body with the bloody nose already on the ground.

"An’ what a wonderful sight y’ are." Remy smiled, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and running his tongue over his lower lip, all the while watching her movements with rapt attention.

Rogue hauled herself backwards, legs kicking up, the momentum hauling her topside to her knees atop the crypt.

She frowned at him, the expression turning into a sneer.

"Where the hell have ya been?" she asked, exasperated. The slightly higher pitch of her voice betrayed her true sentiments, and Remy repressed a frown. She was upset with him and uncertain how to remedy it; he opted to rely on convention.

He swung his staff off his shoulders, and using it like an over-extended golf club, he knocked one of the Assassins backwards just as he’d brought himself to his knees.

"Smoke break," he explained out of the corner of his mouth, gesturing to the cigarette and puffing on it with crass enthusiasm.

Rogue couldn’t seem to find a reply to that, and Remy couldn’t find the gumption to suck the words back. For a moment, he wasn’t certain if he even wanted to or not with the way she was looking at him.

She frowned. It wasn’t more than a small downturn of her mouth, her lips still too red and plumped from their shared kiss, but it jarred him nonetheless. His hand raised, palm upwards in a gesture of apology, Remy opened his mouth to reply, and promptly choked on a suitable explanation. The cigarette drooped from between his lips clumsily.

Rogue frowned, turning away from him a little, her posture conveying more than words could at that moment.

Disappointment.

If the tightness in his chest were indicative of anything, he’d have done his best to brush it off as heartburn or something a little more mundane. He couldn’t place the sensation, although it was familiar. He didn’t want to identify the feeling, though it reminded him strongly of something he’d successfully forgotten a long time ago.

His expression, a cool mask of indifference, kept the facade from cracking as he appraised her on her perch.

"Not now, Cajun," she said tersely, still not meeting his gaze.

Inwardly, Remy winced.

"Rogue," he began, his voice stilted. He cleared his throat, squinting through the rising smoke.

She looked at him, her green eyes washed out to a bleary grey, defeated, mournful - perfectly suited to their surroundings.

Beneath the cover of shadows, a mottled speckling of thicker shades offered by the twined branches overhead, Rogue appeared to shrink into herself. The trees offered their hushed conference of sighs, drowning out the many possible things he wanted to say to her in that moment. It made his chest tighten, barely perceptible, but budding with uncertainty nonetheless. Remy knew she remained in the same spot: silent, somber and watchful. But all too soon, the moment was gone, stolen by the idiot with the katana who’d gotten to his feet.

"Remy, watch out!" she yelled, eyes widening.

Blinking, he turned in time to see the sharp blade arcing towards his head.

Rogue leapt at him, knocking him clear, and landed atop the sword-wielding Assassin.

She parried with the attacker, snarling as their arms lanced together. He lifted her by the elbows, locking her arms near her neck and preventing her from taking a clear shot. Between them, the katana gleamed menacingly, catching the light and reflecting ugly patterns over the faces of the old tombs. She kneed him in the groin, hard.

Remy winced with mock sympathy. "Homme, dat’s gotta hurt."

Again, the one with the katana stood to full height, brandishing the sword like a baseball bat rather than with the balanced precision the instrument deserved.

"What are y’?" Gambit cocked an eyebrow, frowning derisively at his attacker. "Rookies?"

He slung his staff across his shoulder, draping a wrist over one end, the other hand plucking at his smoldering cigarette and exhaling through his nose.

"Ya jus’ gonna watch, Cajun? Or maybe give a girl a hand?" Rogue snapped, one arm breaking free from the Assassin’s hold and uppercutting him. He took the blow, and despite the audible crunching noise that accompanied it, he didn’t back off.

"Didn’t t’ink y’ needed one. But since you asked, an’ so nicely... we should mebbe go now."

"Ya think?" she shot over her shoulder, fending off katana boy with all she was worth.

Remy grimaced, dashing his cigarette to the ground and sweeping his staff around to his front. It sliced through the air with a low whistle.

"Hey ugly!" he called, poking at the nearest Assassin. His head snapped towards him, and although he was wearing a mask, Remy sensed the man’s lips curl. There was a light speckling of blood near the mouth of the mask, making the black fabric shine a little more brightly. "I got a message f’ y’ boss!"

Three cards slipped between his fingers from beneath his wrist guard. He held them to the side, his staff rolling over the knuckles of his left hand to keep him at a distance. A vibrant flash of pink illuminated the ground near his feet as the charge increased steadily, and with it, the air filled with the whining crescendo of excited molecules.

"Ah don’t think these idiots know what a memo is, swamp rat!" Rogue snapped, ducking a sweep of the sword and leaping backwards in the process. Remy caught her, his staff coming to rest across her chest, his fingers splayed at her collarbone. She was breathing hard, and her heart hammering steadily.

He jabbed at the Assassin, sending him staggering backwards a few steps.

"Dey know, m’ sure. I dealt with dere sort before," he murmured. "We got two more incoming," he said into her hair, his spatial awareness picking up the warm bodies moving hastily, "from Prytania Street."

"What?" she asked, incredulous. "How do ya know that?" She tried to push off him, but Remy yanked her backwards, hoisting her by the waist and waltzing two steps to the side as katana-man swung wide at Rogue’s midsection.

"T’ink of it like m’ spidey sense," he joked.

Rogue tensed beneath his arm, and Gambit hugged her against him firmly. "Y’ safe with m’," he assured her, pivoting to shield her from the next blow. At his side, the sizzling, whining cards gained in amplitude.

"So long as yo’ around!" she spat. "Ya left," she hissed, more fiercely, "again!"

"An’ f’ some reason, I always seem t’ come back t’ y’." He grinned into her hair, feeling her relax slightly, though she stiffened again a moment later. He took the opportunity to crack an Assassin in the knee soundly, bowing with her still fit snugly against him as if the fight were of no consequence at all.

"Ah’m sorry Ah waited this time," she growled.

Bad territory, he cautioned himself.

"Consider y’ dance card filled, chérie," he cut her off, grinning as her hand clasped his wrist. He noticed she still wore her gloves, but he didn’t question it. Rogue still refused to use her powers even in combat, even though their lives were both very much at risk. "Dere are two more on foot. Y’ good for it, or y’ want me t’ take ’em?" he asked instead.

"Ah could use a change of pace," she muttered dryly, matching her steps to his as they swept to the right. Remy turned her, gently, but with deliberate direction. He was grateful that she followed without struggle as the pair of Assassins descended on them again.

"Thought I shook t’ings up enough earlier, non?" he said restrainedly, making a small noise of effort as his staff took a wide arc, catching an Assassin roughly in the jaw, and sweeping overhead to block a blow from the katana. Remy registered the first impact and the following light spray of blood that splattered the grey slabs of flagstone that made up the broken path beneath their feet. The Assassin staggered, groaning, his mask torn at the mouth in a jagged line that displayed a glimpse of sliced flesh lanced with scarlet so dark it appeared black in the gloom. He stilled a moment, teetering in a swoon, and then slumped over a nearby grave marker that jutted off into the darkness.

Two down, Remy thought, grinning a little.

The cards in his hand crackled menacingly, and his fingers began to burn with the itch of unfulfilled release.

"Not the time for that, Remy." Rogue sucked in a breath, and Remy swooped around with her, the heels of her boots edging up onto his toes, the bo locking her against his chest. Narrowly, they missed the brush of the katana again, metal scraping against metal where the katana slid off the barrier of the staff, its wielder grunting from the effort of tracking them.

"S’ never a good time with y’, is it?"

"Ah wasn’t aware Ah was workin’ around yo’ schedule," she retorted snidely.

Remy clutched her harder, his arm crossing her ribs, and Rogue gasped. He felt the inhalation beneath his hand, and he thought, were this another time and another place, it could almost be romance.

Almost.

One of the sprawled Assassins crawled to his knees, and seeing the glint of a blade cast away from Rogue’s earlier victory, he staggered forwards.

"M’ sorry," Remy said quietly, a compounded apology for many things he couldn’t begin voicing, and with force, he jabbed at the man squarely between the shoulder blades. The hit sent him face first into the dirt, the blade forgotten.

"Ya said that already," she returned, her hands wrapping around his forearm and leaning back against him as she kicked out, her heel coming down on the Assassin’s shoulder.

"What else m’ I supposed t’ say?" he asked.

"How’s about ya tell me why ya bailed ta begin with," she pressed, her voice strained.

When Remy remained silent, Rogue took the momentary lapse in conversation to strike at the man fumbling with the katana, tugging away from him for a moment, but coming back to rest against him in a matter of seconds.

He hadn’t needed to hold her to him that time.

"Y’ wanna play with m’ stick?" he asked, feigning innocence while trying to veer the conversation in a different direction.

"Twirl me, Cajun," she muttered flatly, ignoring the invitation to parry with him. "If ya can’t do nothin’ else."

"S’ better den ’screw ya’ I suppose." He complied, the staff compacting and disappearing up his sleeve as he gripped Rogue’s fingers. She swung out with her leg, her shin clipping the Assassin and causing him to stagger, before Remy snapped her back against him neatly.

"How’s about we just f’get about it?" he murmured smoothly.

Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say.

"How’s about ya go ta hell, swamp rat?" she snarled in response, struggling to break free from him though he held firm.

"Only if y’ goin’ with me," he returned.

"Ah’m already there, Cajun!" she yelled, her shoulders twisting against his chest.

Unable to stop himself, he breathed into her ear, "Y’ tellin’ m’ dis is dat bad?"

"Ah’m tellin’ ya that Ah don’t care!" she shouted, tearing away from him. Before them, the Assassin struggled to his feet unsteadily. Rogue turned on her heel, facing Remy down. "Ya made yo’ choice. Ah’m only dealin’ with ya ta get that stone, an’ then Ah’m gone, Remy. Do ya understand? Ah hope ya do, ’cause Ah’ll have ya know ya not the only one who can leave!"

Gambit stiffened, the flames encircling the cards licking at his sleeve and spreading - they dripped to the ground, rolling down his coat and suffusing the air around him with a charge so strong that it nearly made him sway on his feet. He held firm, molecules shuddering uncertainly and rocketing across the flags below his feet. Each illuminated one at a time, a series of charges primed for detonation. He felt the burn of each and every one as they grew.

"Take it," he said, unsurprised at the cold tone that laced the statement. He snapped the staff from his sleeve and pressed it into her chest. Continuing with forced civility, he said, "Y’ get one clean shot, den m’ gonna blow dis coyoon straight t’ de other side of de Mississippi. Comprends?"

His hand was beginning to ache from the strain. It was almost a welcome pain, and Remy relished it. It took his mind off her nearness — but only just. He remembered the feeling: the slow constriction and the hard knot at the base of his throat. With that bitter realization, he recalled where that old ache in his chest had once blossomed.

He looked disdainfully at the felled Assassins and at the one who still approached, determined to finish the job despite his obvious injuries.

He remembered all too clearly. He knew who’d sent them, after all. It was just like Belladonna Boudreaux to try and forget old wounds by making new ones.

It created an unnatural sort of cicatrix cycle, he thought wryly. There was never enough time to heal over from the first scars she left behind.

His wrist burned with an ache that filled his bones. It took his mind off the real pain.

Funny, he’d told himself he wouldn’t put himself through that sort of torture again for a femme, and here he was.

"Remy, yo’ hand -" Rogue started, her eyes widening.

"S’ nothin’," he replied, his teeth grit together. He pressed the staff into her again, hitting the button that brought it to full extension with his thumb. Remy became acutely aware that the burn had spread to his muscles, and the charge was now lancing through the flags beneath their feet.

"Ya such a liar!" she said bitterly as her fingers wrapped around the adamantium bo.

Mentally, he agreed, his mouth twisting with solidified resolve. He wouldn’t put himself through it again, not even for her.

Business before pleasure, as it were, and pleasure to blunt the pain. Rogue would do in that department.

"Keep it in check, swamp rat," she snapped, her features hardened to the point where Rogue became near unrecognizable. "Ah don’t want ta think of the property damage," she spat, and leapt backwards with a shout as the last Assassin leapt at them.

Remy smirked, a caustic twist of his mouth that fixed itself firmly to his features.

That settled it, he decided.

"T’ink of it as artistic license!" he shot back, and with a grunt, Gambit let the cards fly.

---

"We’re blowing up!" Kitty cried.

"What?" Logan spun in his chair, straining to see the large red dot blinking on the laptop’s monitor. Beside it, several faint pinpricks glowed feebly, indicating a handful of other mutants in the area.

"We have a target. We’ve got him!" She grinned, not looking up, her fingers mapping out the exact coordinates where the signal had shown up.

"Storm!" Logan bellowed. "Take this bird down now!"

"Was?" Nightcrawler yelled, struggling with his seatbelt so he could see for himself. After several seconds of an unsuccessful battle with his harness, his teleported out to land beside Kitty’s chair in a puff of noxious smoke.

"No, Storm! You keep this plane level. We do not have confirmation to land." Cyclops yelled. "Everyone! Sit back down this instant!"

Logan growled. "Are you insane? That punk’s down there!" he snarled.

"And we’re not landing without the proper protocol!" Scott snapped in return.

"Protocol schmotocol," Bobby interjected. On the prompter before him, Tabitha rolled her eyes. Bobby stuck out his tongue at her, and the feed went dead. "Crap," he deadpanned. "She did it again."

"Doesn’t matter," Logan snapped.

"I’ll go," Kurt volunteered grimly. "If we can’t land, just fly a little lower, I’ll port out."

"And yer takin’ me with ya, bub," Logan said.

"Scott?" Storm asked, waiting for confirmation.

Conflicted, his hand still clamping his earphone to the side of his head, Cyclops grimaced at his co-pilot and then peered over his shoulder at Logan and Kurt.

"Fine," he replied. "Get us clear, Storm, and give Nightcrawler the least amount of distance to the ground that you can."

---

"Oh, mon dieu! C’est pas vrai!"

"Shh, Emil! Quiet!"

Emil swept up the perimeter wall, rattling along the edge that followed Prytania and led to Lafayette’s gates. Behind him, Henri followed, his gait a little shorter, but keeping up to his younger cousin nonetheless.

The flare of fuchsia lasted no more than a moment; the three charges detonated in rapid succession on the far side of the cemetery. In their wake, a blossom of fire sprouted against the wall, illuminating the stark, staggered tombs that littered the landscape in ragged rows.

"Dey not dere," Henri confirmed, leaping alongside Emil and barreling across the uneven rooftops just as Lapin continued his rapid dash around and over the crumbling, stucco-covered gateway.

"We too late?" Lapin asked, ducking his head and cutting across Henri, who swore colorfully having his stride broken.

"Fais attention! Criss..."

"Bec mon cul, bon homme!" Lapin shot back, searching the darkness frantically, wincing against the orange glow of flame that made the shadows denser as his eyes struggled to adjust to the contrast. There was no sign of the men they’d followed and no sign of either the girl or...

"Y’ fuzzy tail’d get in de way, mon ami."

"Remy?" Lapin cried, pivoting so fast that he lost his balance, teetering on the wall a moment and tumbling backwards before he could right himself.

He landed with a dull thud that knocked the wind from his lungs a moment later. He blinked blearily, and with a grimace, his lungs expanded painfully. Lapin sucked in a great gulp of air that was punctuated with several coughs in between oaths.

Wheezing, Lapin rolled over onto his back and stared at the three figures overhead. With a wince, he unholstered his bo and used the weapon to hoist himself to shaky feet.

Feigning injury, he crowed, "Y’ come t’ kiss it better?"

He rubbed dramatically at his backside, casually sizing up the company though they loomed over him. Lapin was short, granted, but with the added several feet of height afforded by the tombs on which they stood, he was the equivalent of an ant compared to the three.

To his left, the girl, Rogue, stood over him; Remy’s staff supported her weight. She held it like a walking stick, fingers twisted around it without any finesse. Her gaze flicked to Remy momentarily, and he peered back at her over Henri’s shoulder. Remy appeared at ease, his hands concealed inside deep trench coat pockets with his trademark, semi-permanent smirk plastered across his face - but something was off.

Rogue was stiffer, her gaze shrouded beneath heavy white bangs that fell across her face in strips, and her lips pursed as she surveyed Lapin’s cousin with thinly veiled hostility.

Lapin cocked an eyebrow.

Remy’s expression faltered. It happened so quickly that Lapin near missed it, but nonetheless, it had happened. His jaw had loosened, and his eyes took on a faraway, glazed look just for a moment before he turned to Lapin distractedly.

That was unusual - hell, for Remy to feel uncomfortable, it almost called for a national holiday.

"Why’s everyone so somber?" Lapin asked, peering at Remy without bothering to be discreet. Lapin raised an eyebrow, inclining his head towards Rogue and making a huge display of stretching. When he turned back, Remy merely blinked at him, his expression stony.

Henri clucked at him. "Manners, Emil." Turning to Remy, he asked, "Boy, y’ alright?"

Remy nodded, grinning lopsidedly and stepping over Lapin’s head to embrace his brother.

Lapin ducked, tapping at Remy’s heels irritably with the tip of his staff. Remy looked down between his boots, and Lapin grinned at him cheekily. He puckered his mouth, sizing him up with a sly gleam to his eyes.

"Y’ keep dat t’ing t’ y’ self, hein?" Remy toed the point of Lapin’s staff away and returned to his perch on the wall with a graceful leap.

Lapin huffed.

"P’tit?" Henri asked Rogue, who nodded in turn.

"Ah’m fine."

Frowning, Lapin realized that after such a long time not seeing his brother, Remy sure was behaving strangely. He flicked his gaze back to Rogue, who peered down at him, offering a strained smile.

"Huh," he snorted.

"Whacha laughin’ at, short stuff?" she asked, bending to peer over him.

The hem of her coat was scorched black, he noted, his gaze instinctively flicking over to the glow of firelight near the northernmost corner of the cemetery. Perhaps neither of them had emerged from the fight unscathed.

"Not’ing," he said innocently, nodding to Remy’s staff still clutched in her hand. "Considerin’ y’ holdin’ on t’ dat t’ing? Not’ing at all, ma belle." He threw her a winning grin. "Since when y’ been using a quarterstaff, ein? Dat what y’ used on de Assassins?"

"That’s who they were?" She looked surprised. Across from her, Remy cleared his throat. Lapin ignored him.

"Mais oui! Who else goes runnin’ across de city tryin’ t’ track someone?" he asked with mock exasperation.

"Ahem, Lapin?" Henri looked at him pointedly.

"Quoi?" Emil asked, not understanding the unspoken message he was trying to convey.

At Henri’s side, Remy shook his head. "If dey ever bring y’ in t’ torture information out of y’, Lapin, dat’ll be a sorry day f’ us all indeed."

"Y’ knew?" Lapin asked Remy, unconvinced. "How’d he know?" he shot at Henri. "We were tryin’ t’ intercept dem before dey could reach y’. We saw dem, didn’t we, Henri? Way back off Rue St. Anne in one o’ de back alleys. De belle femme over here turned a corner, and dey were on her like flies."

Henri rolled his eyes, pressing gloved fingers to the crown of his shaved head and rubbing the dome of his skull as if he’d developed a migraine. It was the sort of weary gesture that usually earned a smack from Mercy, Henri’s wife. "I give up," he sighed.

"They were followin’ me?" Rogue asked, looking to Remy for confirmation, her eyes narrowing. "Ya knew?" she accused, her voice pitched low.

In his defense, Remy held up both hands, palms facing away from himself as if to say he was innocent. "Was sort of busy at de time," he returned, a slow smile curling his lips upwards.

"What...?" Lapin began, unable to repress a shudder at the sight of the girl’s expression.

If looks could kill, Remy would be dead ten times over for the glare she pinned him with.

"Button it, Emil," Henri warned.

"Non!" He pointed between the Rogue and Remy, both staring each other down as if they were preparing to tear one another’s throats. "Dese two are actin’ funny! She looks like a mad alley cat, right ’bout now!" He gestured to Rogue emphatically and then turned to look at Remy accusingly. "What did y’ do?"

"Y’ still at spitting distance, Lapin," Remy cautioned. "Y’ talk about Rogue like dat an’ she might just use y’ f’ target practice."

Rogue snorted. "Trust me, if Ah was takin’ aim at anyone it wouldn’t be Lapin."

Remy smirked, but it was strained. Something had shifted between them, a power play changing hands, Lapin concluded, a little relieved that he’d surmised accurately. Remy, however he’d managed it, had probably done something stupid to the femme. Lapin barked a nervous laugh, grateful that it was his cousin on the receiving end of Rogue’s expression. Chuckling, he crammed a knuckle into his mouth to stifle the sound.

"Hem hem," he said, clearing his throat after a moment. "Y’ bein’ incredibly rude. Eh, femme!" He snapped his fingers at Rogue, grinning, his voice cracking a little, making him wince. She was a sight, tense, and glowering. "De bald one up dere be Henri LeBeau."

"M’ brother," Remy supplied, his gaze trained on Rogue who stood to full height. With a small, forced smile, she acknowledged Henri.

"Ah’m Rogue."

"In more ways den one," Remy muttered dryly. She ignored him.

"S’ m’ pleasure, chére." Henri bowed a little from the waist. "Y’ could say I’m de better half o’ de family."

"An’ dat’d be an understatement," Lapin cut in. "Don’ get any ideas, though. He’s taken." He winked at Rogue, beaming openly. "But I’m still free."

"That’s good ta know, Lapin," she replied smoothly. "It’s not like Ah’m spoken for or nothin’." She smiled coolly at Remy, who feigned indifference.

"M’ sorry t’ say dis, but Lapin’s not much of an improvement from m’ brother," Henri said, patting Remy on the shoulder. "Y’ best bet," he nodded to Rogue, "would be t’ steer clear of ’em both."

"Why y’ gotta go an’ ruin m’ chances, Henri?" Lapin whined good-naturedly, trying vainly to lighten the mood.

"Y’ don’t have chances t’ ruin t’ begin with," Remy interjected, still peering at Rogue shrewdly. "Besides," he added airily, "dere’s not much y’ can do with a fille who can’t touch."

Lapin barely had the chance to duck as overhead, Remy’s staff sailed through the air with a muted whoosh. When Lapin next looked up, Rogue had turned on her heel, the tails of her coat billowing behind her, and Remy was rubbing his forehead, grimacing.

"Merde," Remy muttered, his eyes tearing as he blinked at the pain. The staff rolled to the ground beside Lapin, compacting inwards as it rolled against his boot.

"Dat’s gonna bruise," Henri clucked at him, shaking his head.

"Chére!" Remy yelled, motioning for Lapin to throw him the staff. He looked after Rogue blearily, making an impatient gesture with his hands. Lapin picked it up and tossed it. This time, Remy caught the damned thing instead of letting it hit him in the head. "Merde!" he said again, giving chase, albeit with a slight wobble to his step.

"If dat’s how y’ gotta treat de femmes t’ get ’em t’ like y’, m’ gonna start acting like a jerk more often," Lapin mused aloud.

Henri merely shook his head dolefully. "Y’ hopeless, Emil."

"Quoi?" he called after Henri, who took off across the tops of the tombs, probably to survey the damage left by the explosions. "I bet she kiss it better! Makes de concussion worth it!"

When nothing but the silence returned to him, Lapin huffed, stalking off towards the flickering glow over the tombs in the distance.

"Dat fille knock y’ out twice an’ y’ know y’ a winner," he muttered to himself. "If y’ in a coma, y’ can’t complain."

---

Like a moth drawn to gaslight, her eyes stinging, Rogue leapt and landed hard on the sodden ground, unconsciously moving towards the crackle of firelight from their earlier scrap with the Assassins. Her heels sunk a little as she slid between the rows, making the waterlogged earth squish noisily with each step she took. Past that flare of the lingering blaze, she’d break for the gates of the cemetery and over into the streets of the Garden District.

The cemetery was quiet, but behind her, she heard Remy yell - and that was enough to spur her onwards.

Where she was a lesson in absolutes, Remy was the epitome of caprice.

Saturnine, saturated with the sting of his words, Rogue barreled onwards. She came to a clearing a moment later, blinking hard to clear her vision, and grimly, she realized she’d managed to lose her way amidst the myriad pathways of Lafayette.

"Damnit," she breathed, frantically searching for a way out, a place to hide before he descended on her. She could wait it out, let him pass, and then get the hell out as quickly as she could.

She’d find the stone herself. She didn’t need him, and she definitely didn’t want to deal with him.

"Asshole," she breathed, her voice turning gravely with the exclamation.

Overhead, a mournful hoot permeated the air.

Despite the low note, it seemed out of place in the quiet cemetery. Spinning on her heel, Rogue found herself staring upwards into the wide, unblinking amber eyes of an owl. Its head swiveled, watching her speculatively, and hooted again.

"Git," she hissed, her arms prickling with uneasy gooseflesh.

There was something familiar about its markings. The oily gleam of its coat a little too slick, too grey-blue where it should have been black. Rogue shivered despite the heat, the back of her neck growing cold.

It had been in a cemetery similar to this, years ago in Mississippi, that she’d lost herself for the first time. She’d been at a high school dance that night, some social function or another, whatever it was, it had mattered to her then, though now, she could barely remember the event. Cody had invited her. Cody, the strong, shy, stubborn jock who wouldn’t have taken no for an answer, not even from the one freak at the school: the Goth with the "skin condition" who nobody else would talk to, much less ask to dance.

Cody. She softened at the thought of him — broad-shouldered, ash blond Cody Robbins who had the smile of an angel and the heart to match.

He’d been so nervous around her that it had taken the prompting of one of his football-playing friends to coax him into asking her to the dance floor.

What happened after Rogue could only remember in fragments. He’d fallen into her somehow, his wide, warm palms touching her skin for just a second - and just like that, his mind, his soul had poured into her like water flowing from a pitcher.

She’d run, confused and scared, through the back alleys and over the fences of residential Caldecott County, from herself, from the voices in her head that pursued her.

She’d put Cody in a coma for three weeks.

Rogue shivered, remembering the graveyard that night.

It had been moonlit, cast in slivers of milky silver and shadow, and she’d seen an owl similar to the one watching her now when the X-Men had found her. Her powers had manifested, powers stolen from Kurt, and then Storm. The damage she’d done that night, the flood, the lightening, all of it, had been at the prompting of Mystique.

She’d manipulated her into thinking the X-Men wanted to hurt her for being a mutant.

Rogue bristled.

"Git!" she insisted, waving at the owl.

When it didn’t move from its perch atop a carved ornamental urn, decorating the apex of a crypt’s roof, Rogue dipped her hands into her pockets and rifled for something to throw at it.

She didn’t like it. In some ways, the eerie, incandescent shine to its eyes reminded her of the things she’d left behind or forgotten that night.

Her gloved fingers came in contact with the edge of something palm-sized and firm. The cards, she realized, the deck Remy had slipped her while they were still at his apartment.

Rogue shut her eyes, pulling back her hand sharply as if scalded.

"Ah don’t need this right now," she breathed, trying to control the quaver in her voice. She swallowed thickly, pushing back the acidic rise at the back of her throat.

She didn’t want to think about him, but hell, it had felt just as good to thunk him in the head with that staff of his as it did to kiss him. Funny, she’d have thought his reflexes were better than that.

Rogue barked a laugh, and just as quickly, clamped a hand over her mouth. The sound rang around her, and to her right, the owl hooted antagonistically.

She grimaced. "Ya shut up," she shot back at it. The owl blinked.

Regardless, and ignoring the small well of guilt that came with the vindication of returning a little bit of the pain Remy had doled out, it didn’t staunch the sting of rejection.

He’d all but announced that nobody would want her. He’d all but said he didn’t want her, and somehow, that hurt more than it should have.

"Ah hope Ah left a bruise," she said to the owl, which remained unresponsive this time, puffing its chest. "Stupid bird," she muttered. "If ya understood me, Ah’d tell ya ta go find that swamp rat and shit on his head."

As if on cue, the owl dipped its head, spread its wings, and took to the air.

She watched it a moment, soaring up into the night sky - a blackened speck against the deep blue overhead, disconcerted by its quick departure. She snorted nervously, contemplating if the bird had actually understood her.

The nighttime heat returned like a heavy slap across her shoulders, and she stiffened beneath its weight.

She’d lingered too long.

Remy - she sucked in a breath - the smell of him filled her nostrils, making her feel sluggish, somnolent and heavy below his gaze.

"Leave me alone," she said quietly, not turning around.

He didn’t say anything, though she felt the brush of his fingers at her shoulders as he moved behind her, and gingerly swept her hair to the side.

Rogue flinched away from him, grimacing, though she did not turn.

"Y’ don’t want t’ take another swing at Remy, chérie?" Gambit murmured, the low rumble of his voice causing the shiver down her back to renew itself afresh. "He’d deserve it."

Rogue smiled, the expression strained as she glanced at him over her shoulder. She slid her hands into her pockets, fingers brushing his cards and her lungs constricting just the same.

"Sugah," she said with all the false and syrupy indulgence she could muster, "it’s like ya said, what good is a girl who can’t touch ya?"

"’Bout as good as an homme who can’t seem t’ do de same t’ ya," he replied evenly.

Rogue hummed. "’Bout the same," she echoed, brushing his hands off her shoulders idly and replacing her fists into her pockets once again.

"Look at m’."

Rogue squinted into the darkness, swallowing the lump in her throat, hard.

"Ah don’t think so, Gambit."

"Don’t call m’ dat," he said quietly. "S’il-vous-plait."

"Ah could call ya ’asshole’ instead, would that be better?" she asked, chuckling a little to herself.

"At least y’d be calling me."

Rogue frowned, turning her head to the side a little. "Why do ya always have ta do that?"

Remy stepped into her peripheral vision, and she turned away, not willing to subject herself to the intent gleam of his unnerving gaze.

"Do what?" he asked blithely, his fingers steadily working their way back into her hair. Rogue braced herself, feeling the gentle pressure where he pulled lightly on her curls, his thumbs resting against her collar.

"What yo’ doin’ now," she said hoarsely. Rogue cleared her throat, determined to step away, determined to put some distance between them and find that safety net of a few inches once again. "Ah told ya not ta touch me."

"What we want and what we need are two very different t’ings, mignonne. S’ just a matter of drawing de line between dem and finding a way t’ leap over it, non?"

"Ah can’t do that, and ya know it." She sighed, pulling away from him, and finally, achingly, turned to stare him down. She took a step backwards, startled that he’d moved so close. "Stop it," she whispered.

"Quoi, chérie?" he asked, a small quirk to his mouth as he lidded his gaze.

"Stop it," she said shakily, her voice uneven and delicate. She hated it instantaneously. "Ah’m sorry," she ground out, "Ah’m sorry Ah kissed ya, but Ah can’t take it back so..."

Gambit raised a hand, silencing her.

"Pardonnez moi?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. He was determined to draw this out, she thought, her hackles rising.

Rogue jutted her chin, strengthening her resolve. "Ah said Ah was sorry Ah kissed ya, and if ya’d let me finish, it won’t happen again. Ya hear?"

"Non," he said simply, shrugging. "Y’ not allowed having regrets. My game. My rules."

She scoffed, balling her hands into fists. "For the last time swamp rat, Ah’m not playin’," she said firmly. Her head ached something fierce, a dull, pulsating throb that started in her temples and worked its way around to the point between her eyes where it could irritate her the most.

"Too late t’ deal y’ out now," he returned slowly, suggestively.

"Can’t ya just stop for a minute?" she cried, frustrated. "Ya hurt me, Remy!"

"Quoi?" He pulled her forwards, lifting her chin to inspect her then pushing her back to arm’s length. "Where?" he asked, looking her over with a slight lift to his expression. Concern chased by something else, she thought, smothered out by that inscrutable, arrogantly flippant appraisal that made her feel more exposed than cared for.

Like she was a piece of meat. Or just a piece.

Rogue shook him off. "Don’t be obtuse!" she shot at him. He muffled a snigger. "Why would ya care?" she snapped, drawing backwards at last.

"Gambit always cares, chére," he replied indulgently, his eyes glittering. "Y’ tell Remy what y’ need, where it hurts, an’ he promises he’ll help y’ take y’ mind offa t’ings, hein?"

"Full of promises that don’t count for nothin’. Stop talking," she snapped. "Ya wastin’ yo’ precious breath, and ya wastin’ my time."

"Dere’s only one way t’ get m’ t’ shut up, Roguey," he purred, leaning closer.

His eyes pinned her, like darkened pools with molten centers, and Rogue shivered. He lidded his gaze, wetting his lower lip, and despite herself, Rogue found herself doing the same.

"Ya said ya wouldn’t use that charm power on me no more," she whispered, fighting to still the flutter in her chest.

He hummed, "M’ not. But t’ank y’ f’ de compliment."

"Ah didn’t pay ya one," she returned, her face heating up.

"Uh huh," he replied, unconvinced.

Rogue pushed him off, her fists smacking into his chest, but he proved immovable. Still smirking like he knew this was killing her, his hands wrapped around her wrists and held them balled against his chest. Beneath the heels of her hands, when she stopped fighting him a moment, she could feel the steady pulse of his heart. It was firm, constant, and heavy. For a moment, Rogue desperately wanted to press her palms flat against that wall of muscle and feel through the leather and the tight fabric of his uniform, that solid, anchoring beat.

She flinched away.

"Y’ still want t’ leave?" he asked softly, a hint of dry humor lacing his tone. It scared her a little.

Rogue wet her lips. "This ain’t you, Remy," she said quietly, her voice hitching. She didn’t look at him.

"Y’ don’t know me, Rogue," he countered, a sardonic, superior gloat lacing through the statement.

"That’s cause ya won’t let me," she bit back.

He thought about it a moment, and replied simply, "Fair enough."

"And what if Ah want ta know ya, ya damned snake charmer?" she snapped, returning to herself. "If the worst ya can do is tell me that ya hurt someone in an accident and expect me ta freak out on ya, ya obviously haven’t been payin’ any attention ta that stupid file ya claim ya have on me. Ya keep telling me that Ah don’t know what Ah want, or Ah keep denying it - but yo’ observational skills are clearly lacking in that department, LeBeau." She sucked in a huge breath, "Or are ya just scared?" she tossed at him, challenging.

He cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing.

"Did y’ just call me a chicken?" He chuckled, low in the back of his throat. It reminded her of the super villains in the movies who laughed, self-assured and subdued, as they plotted world domination.

"Actually, Ah called ya a whole bunch of different things that wouldn’t be polite to repeat in shared company," she retorted.

"Touché."

"Why won’t ya tell me?" she asked, almost plaintively. "Can’t ya just... Gawd! Remy you kissed me back!"

"Non," he replied stubbornly, too quickly almost. "Non, I didn’t."

Shocked, Rogue gaped at him. It felt like a punch in the gut, her lungs constricting painfully to keep her from breathing, from steadying herself. He didn’t want her. Had she imagined the entire thing?

He didn’t want her. Not his type. Just a game.

She swallowed the rising sting, trying to ignore the ache in her chest, the pain in her head that thrummed steadily, increasing in fortitude. She had to force herself to take a breath, to ignore the way he was looking at her. It hurt, oh gawd, it wasn’t supposed ta feel like that, she thought desperately...

"Look," she said, thankful that her voice didn’t break right then and there though it felt like it would any second. She sucked in a hard breath; it didn’t help, but she forged onwards trying to recreate the sharp tone she was familiar with.

"Ah don’t know what kinda messed up delusions yo’ livin’ under, but Ah’m sorry, Ah... Ah shouldn’t have done that. Ah didn’t mean ta... Ya just... It just happened."

She exhaled, humiliated and wanting nothing more than to escape him, to get out from under his scrutiny where he kept her pinned like a struggling butterfly. Rogue tugged on her wrists, feeling suddenly boneless and sickened by herself that she had to argue with him over it. "Let me go."

"Dat’s y’ answer f’ everyt’ing," he stated, releasing her wrists, practically tossing her hands back at her, and moved back two paces.

She folded her hands inwards against her chest, rubbing at them and blinking away the burning sensation behind her eyes.

The space between them felt hollowed out, colder somehow though the air was warm. Rogue hugged her arms to herself, and Remy looked on, his face a neutral mask.

"Yeah." Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. "It’s like that when ya hurt people. That’s what happens when Ah stop... thinking. Ah wasn’t... thinking," she ground out.

This was her fault. She’d let herself get too close, and again, she’d gotten wounded in the process.

He was silent a moment, and then, solemnly. "Well y’ definitely done a number t’ m’ face. S’ gonna bruise, chérie. Don’t t’ink I can f’give y’ f’ dat."

Rogue looked up, startled at the fleeting grin on his face. It almost reached his eyes, but not quite.

"That’s not what Ah meant," she said, her voice roughened by the strain of maintaining some semblance of composure. "Ah’ve spent all this time determined not ta hurt anybody with my powers, and the first thing Ah do was try ta test the limits of yo’ abilities. That ain’t right." She added, forcing the words out though it was becoming increasingly difficult to talk, "Ya have every reason ta be afraid of what Ah can do. Ya had every reason ta run, Ah just wish..." She swallowed, then, a little dryly, "Ah just wish ya’d tell me why ya did."

Remy dipped his head, his hair flopping into his vision listlessly. "Don’t matter. S’ done," he said, shrugging noncommittally. "Dere’s no reason t’ apologize f’ de past. Y’ just bury it."

He patted at his trench coat, searching for his cigarettes no doubt.

"Ah’ve got plenty ta be sorry for," she said. "And Ah want ta know," she insisted plaintively. "That is, if yo’ still willing ta tell me?"

A pause grew between them, lengthening, elongating until Rogue almost felt that she might break down right then and there if he didn’t reply.

"F’get it," he answered finally. It was a brush off. Another shrug. Slowly, like an itch spreading across places you couldn’t possibly reach without contorting, realization dawned on her. Fresh pain. This is what it felt like to have a psychic perform open-heart surgery without any instruments. She’d laid herself bare before him, and true to the name of Thief, he’d carved out a little piece of her for himself and hadn’t bothered to close up the hole left behind. This was the sting of rejection. It was new and cruel, and to Rogue, it felt cold. She felt cold.

"Gambit," she said, struggling to centre herself.

"Told y’ not t’ call m’ dat," he said idly.

"Whatever," she brushed the statement off tiredly. Insistent, she pressed, "Why’d ya run from me before? Just tell me that much." Her voice sounded weak, anxious almost. She winced at the tone, not recognizing herself anymore.

"Told y’..." he began.

"Oh, please," she reprimanded him, taking a step forwards. Remy paused in the thorough search he was giving his duster, peering at her from beneath his fringe.

Rogue frowned, hesitantly, and carefully, she took another step forwards.

"Like Ah believe that nonsense about a smoke break." She scoffed, though not harshly. She couldn’t muster the vitriol. Something bubbled in her chest, a slow spreading ache that uncoiled through her musculature like a sedative making her limbs heavy. It thrummed just beneath her skin, a crawling, grave despondency, and the last vestiges of something that felt like hope, begging to be smothered out.

"Chére?" He lifted an eyebrow, and she was struck by just how very strong his features were. Remy was the sort who could conceal his emotions easily. Even with his unusual eyes, he could school his expression without a second thought so that she couldn’t guess what he was thinking. That only left one option, and while the thought unnerved her for the risk it implied, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t done it before.

She could kiss him one last time. She could take the answers from him.

Rogue took another step forwards, acutely aware that if she bent her knees a fraction, they’d brush his.

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

And then she would know what separated the monsters from mutants.

It was desperation.

"Ah think ya overestimated yo’self, Cajun," she continued shakily.

"Remy never underestimates himself, chére," he replied, bemused, unconcerned by her close proximity and unaware of her intentions. "Y’ shouldn’t either." He dropped his gaze, measuring the shrinking distance between them, finally resting on her eyes, sliding to her mouth and then back to her eyes again.

He was smooth, she had to give him that. Rogue squeezed her eyes shut for a second, bracing herself, wondering if he’d struggle against it, or wondering, if she pushed hard enough, could she break past that invisible bioelectric barrier that protected him?

Rogue sucked her lower lip into her mouth. "Let’s finish this, then," she offered quietly, more to herself than to him.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Remy shook his head.

"Can’t," he said coolly, extracting a cigarette and flipping it idly between his fingers. He didn’t bother lighting it, choosing instead to stuff it back into his beaten pack a moment later.

"Why not?" she asked, her hands working of their own accord, her thumbs straining to tug at the leather of her gloves. Plan B.

He didn’t reply, and silently, Rogue cursed his unwillingness to share that part of himself with her.

Now or never, she concluded, disheartened, and lifted herself slowly on her toes.

"Remy?" she whispered hoarsely, tilting her head upwards a little so that she felt his breath grazing her cheeks.

Rogue’s eyelids fluttered, a dribble of wetness escaping from the corner and trailing down her cheek.

He stilled, watching her, though he made no move to pull back.

His expression betrayed nothing, though he watched the tear’s progress over her skin. He didn’t try to brush it off.

"Ah’m -"

"Hey! Mes amis!"

Rogue flinched, dropping backwards on her heels and turning to find Lapin bounding over the tops of the tombs. He stopped a few yards away, sinking to a squat and swiping at his brow.

Rogue sniffed, quickly using the heel of her hand to wipe at her eyes.

"Remy? T’es la?" Lapin called again.

Gambit didn’t even look at her, though he frowned. "We’re over here, Emil," he yelled back.

"Uh..."

Rogue squinted, taking a shaky step forwards, away from Remy, afraid that he’d hear the loud hammering of her heart. She’d nearly tried to absorb him, she thought to herself, horrified. She swallowed, her mouth too dry to facilitate anything more than a painful gulp of air.

Her hands were shaking, and frightened, she looked down to see that she’d managed to tug one of her gloves half off her hand. The fleshy part of pale skin just below her thumb joint gleamed in the dull lamplight - far too pale, though far too sinister to be innocent.

"Oh mah gawd," she whispered to herself, trying to still the tremble in her fingers. She adjusted her gloves fretfully, keenly aware that a bare hand was merely a fallback plan. She had intended to kiss him again like some sort of vampire, in the midst of a cemetery, no less... and he’d just stood there.

Damned fool Cajun, she swore.

"Mmmm," Lapin continued, unsure. "I t’ink y’ better come an’ look at dis," he said nervously.

Remy brushed past her without hesitation, and Rogue ducked her head, her hands falling slack at her sides, uncertain of what to do with them.

"Y’ coming?" he tossed over his shoulder, not waiting as dipped into the darkness between the tombs.

Silently, her heart heavy with self-reprimand, Rogue followed at a distance.

---

From its perch on a nearby tree, the owl surveyed the scene below. It shook itself once, its feathers rustling with little more than a whisper amidst the creaking branches of the tangled, sentinel oak tree.

On the ground, in the place where the footpath had converged in two separate directions before a particularly large mausoleum bearing the name ’Boudreaux,’ the bedrock was exposed in a jagged hole of broken concrete. Hissing pipelines that had been too near the surface and clods of wet black earth bulged upwards. All was ringed with scorched stones, and the occasional flickers of a dying fire left behind by an explosive charge.

Three men and one young woman stood around the hole. From the owl’s perch, it appeared to be a makeshift grave, almost, considering its occupant.

"...I didn’t do dis," one of the men was saying, his gloved fingers raking through auburn hair that caught the waning flickers of burning stone left over from the fight.

"They ran," the girl continued. "Remy scared them off. There were three of them originally. Two were wounded. Ah knocked one of them out, but they grabbed him before takin’ off."

"Did y’ see it, Remy?" the short one asked. He too had a shock of brightly colored hair. With the waning fires lit around them, the stocky man shook his head. "How’re we supposed t’ explain dis?"

"I didn’t kill him," the first one, Remy, responded firmly.

"There weren’t any of them left!" the girl insisted.

The third man, balding, in his early thirties at least, rubbed at his face. "We have t’ go. Now. Jean Luc will want t’ hear about dis before Marius gets wind."

"Y’ believe m’, Henri?" Remy asked, his voice cold, though below ran an undercurrent of uncertainty.

A moment’s pause, and the owl, her hearing better than any human, baseline or mutant, puffed herself up, pleased that the man doubted himself.

"Doesn’t matter what I t’ink," Henri replied. "It’s what de Assassins will believe. Even if y’ didn’t do it, Rem..." He shook his head, stepping to the side. "Dis is de grounds f’ real war. Dey’ll hit us jus’ because dey’ll t’ink we hit dem first."

As he shifted to the side, the hole in the ground, blasted wide open at the sides, revealed the body of a man - half singed with the last licks of fire and pinned to the earth by a long sword through the sternum.

The head, though covered by a mask, had been twisted around with such violent force that the face pressed into the earth below. It was an unnatural contortion, the result of a spinal column snapped with no more difficulty than a child stepping on a dry tree branch.

The cadaver’s limbs stuck out at odd angles, bones twisted and broken in places that would have caused him much pain, were he not dead before he was mutilated.

It was a testament to the macabre that matched the murder that had taken place not a few hours ago, three blocks away.

The girl flinched, turning away with her hand covering her mouth.

"We have ta go," the short one continued. "We gotta get clear b’fore dey show up lookin’ f’ dis one."

"Dey might still be around," the bald one added.

"Remy sensed two people before," the girl said, quietly, her hand muffling the sound.

"Dese two," Remy replied grimly, pointing between the two men with them. "Dere’s no one else here. Dey left already."

"Are y’ sure?" the short one asked, peering around suspiciously.

After a pause, Remy nodded. "Not’ing human."

"Y’ can’t go back t’ de safe house. Not now. It’ll be de first place dey look for y’ - bot’ of y’."

"But we didn’t do this!" the girl insisted.

"He’s right," Remy said, somewhat stiffly. "It doesn’t matter right now who’s t’ blame."

"Y’ gonna come, den? Jean Luc’ll figure dis out." The short one nodded firmly. "Y’ still his son, Remy. No matter what y’ done b’fore, no matter what de rest o’ de Guild t’inks of y’."

"He’ll be de first one t’ offer m’ up t’ de Assassins," Remy responded dryly. "Done it before, non?"

"Dat was different," Henri interjected firmly. "Dere’s no time t’ argue, we gotta go."

"M’ bike’s round de corner," Remy said, dejectedly.

"Leave it. De last t’ing we need is t’ be traced."

Reluctantly, Remy nodded. A moment later they departed, the girl throwing one last look at the body before slipping between the rows and out of sight.

Attentively, the owl waited. She listened as the four scaled the wall and took off down Prytania Street in the direction the two thieves had come. Once they had cleared the small gathering of people near Third Street, blending into the crowd of curious onlookers who clustered around the police tape, the air thickened with the morbid, fetid preoccupation of human tragedy, her feathers shifted, her wings elongating into limbs, and her taloned feet morphing silently into long, blue limbs.

Delicately, Mystique dropped from her perch, landing nimbly and drawing to full height.

In the gloom, were anyone around to see the gleam of unnatural yellow eyes, they would have seen her grin over her work.

She toed the remains of the flatscan on the ground, and when he remained unresponsive, she tipped her head to listen for his wounded compatriot.

He was not far. Her adopted daughter and the miscreant who accompanied her had done fair work of the Assassins prior to Mystique’s arrival. It satisfied, at least partially.

She smiled, an expression bearing startling resemblance to a grimace as her lips pulled back across her teeth. Thinking of the blade that had pierced Irene Adler’s neck, and the hand that had held that sharp device, she concluded that she would keep the knife as a memento of Destiny’s sacrifice, when she found it.

Revenge, as it were, was a dish best served cold, and serve it she would - garnished with the garish, fastidious attention that made such vengeance worthwhile and meaningful. The thought calmed her somewhat. With such a task completed, she would be free to focus her attentions on... other things.

Mystique sighed, the tightness in her chest loosening somewhat as her form shifted once again. As she took to the night, the beat of strong wings punctuated the onset of the hunt.

---

Translations:

Bec mon cul, bon homme: Kiss my ass, man

Comprends: Understand?

Fais attention! Criss: Pay attention! Christ...

Femme: Woman

Fille: Girl

Homme: Man

Merde: Shit

Mes amis: my friends

Oh, mon dieu! C’est pas vrai!: Oh my god! It’s not true (lit. Closer to "you’re not serious" in meaning)

Pardonnez moi: Excuse me?

Quoi: What?

S’il-vous-plait: Please

T’es la: You there?

Post Script:

- Dead Man’s Hand: 1) Two pair, aces and eights. 2) The black aces, black eights and nine of diamonds. The hand Wild Bill Hickok was holding when he was shot to death.

- "Ya jus’ gonna watch, Cajun? Or maybe give a girl a hand?" etc. etc. Again I’m missing the issue number on this. Without my collection at my disposal, I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to. (But feel free to supply.)

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