Betrayal - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Valerie Jones
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 22

Remy raised his bo staff a little higher and spun it 180 degrees, then back, each movement fluid. He could feel the impacts as the ends of the staff connected with the little metal disks that whizzed around him. His powers were not being very cooperative today, so the intricate handwork and the interplay between himself, the staff and the projectiles was taking all of his attention. Still, it felt good. He was starting to feel like himself again-- Betsy's attack had had more of a physical impact on him than he liked to admit.

Something felt different. A glance at the end of the staff as it spun by showed two of the little disks imbedded in the metal. For a moment, he switched to a one-handed technique and drew a set of cards with the other hand. He scattered the charged cards widely, to clear a short window, and then brought the end of the staff down sharply on the ground. The imbedded diskettes clattered to the floor. Remy brought the staff back up and continued his routine.

After a while, the timer beeped and the shower of flying disks ended. Remy wiped the sweat out of his eyes with the cuff of his coat and surveyed the wreckage. Hundreds of the little disks lay scattered across the floor, dented and mangled. He wasn't looking forward to sweeping them up.

*De exciting life of an X-man* he thought as he went to get the broom. Truth be told, there was a lot more hard work than glamour to being an X-man. But he was beginning to discover that he *liked* the feel of hard work. Before joining the X-men, Remy had never really worked for anything in his life. He had scraped and scrounged and fought on the streets of New Orleans to stay alive, but that was just survival. It wasn't something you felt good about, just something you did because the only alternative was death. And then in the Thieve's guild, he had learned to simply take whatever he wanted. There was a thrill, an exhilaration, to the pinch that still took his breath away, but it was always a short-lived sensation. A fix. Sabretooth's term "glow" often came to mind, which bothered Remy a lot.

But for the first time, really, Remy found satisfaction in what he was doing. It was hard work-- not just the long hours of training and the fighting, but the effort to understand the X-men, why they did the things they did so that he could be that way, too, instead of just following Storm's example without any concept of *why*. It was risking his life on the say-so of people he would have sneered at a couple of years earlier, and then risking his life for other people who probably wouldn't care-- and might not even know-- what he had done. And as completely insane as it all sounded when he spelled it out to himself, he was happier than he had ever been in his life. He was even happy to be sweeping little metal pieces off into the recycler, which, the part of him that was still a thief told him, was completely pathetic.

And although he was happy, he was also scared. The Witness' presence, even though it was just a hologram, frightened him to the very core of his soul. It meant that he, Remy, was important. The things he did mattered, and would make a difference in the future of the planet. And all Remy could think about was what would happen if he made the wrong choices. He'd been making irresponsible, selfish choices all his life, believing that they didn't affect anyone but himself. He couldn't delude himself into believing that any longer, and he *did not* want to be responsible for the fates of the millions of people on the planet. After hearing about the human-mutant war, he was only more convinced that, somehow, changing that future was going to fall squarely on him. And he didn't feel adequate to the job. Saving the world was something for the Professor to do, or someone like Cyclops or Storm-- people who had adamantium in their spines and more courage than Remy had ever believed people *could* have. Not for street rats like him.

He put the broom away, looked over the room once again. It was more training than any real desire to make sure the floor was spotless. A thief should never leave any evidence of his presence.

*An dat's what y' are, boy. Much as y' try t' be somet'ing else.*

He looked around at the metal walls, smooth silver interrupted ocassionally by doors and protuberances that hid weapons of various sorts. Remy tried to imagine what it had looked like to Bishop, when he had discovered the buried remains of the mansion. He turned partway around. The flat projection screen was behind that wall. That was where he would have seen Jean's message. . . . her final call for help before the traitor murdered her. The thought of Jean-- who he had come to respect immensely-- dead, was disturbing.

"Computer," he voiced the thought quickly before courage deserted him, "run program Witness."

The familiar holographic shimmer became the Witness. Remy found himself once again staring into his own face, though worn by nearly a century of passing time. The scary thing was, he felt like he was looking at a stranger.

The Witness' eyebrows rose in interest as he registered who his visitor was, but he said nothing, leaving Remy with the task of finding his voice and asking the questions that churned inside him.

"Is it-- is it really all goin' t' fall on me? Savin' de X-men?"

The Witness was wearing a poker face that even Remy couldn't decipher. "Practically, yes," he answered.

"So what am I supposed t' do, so dat dey don' end up dead?"

The Witness shook his head. "Sorry. Can' tell y' dat."

Helpless anger hit Remy like a hammerblow. "Den how am I supposed t' know what t' do? Aren' y' here t' keep me from makin' de wrong choices?"

"Choices already been made, boy." The calm finality of the statement made Remy's breath freeze in his chest. "I'm here t' make sure y' pay de price."

"What price? I haven' *done* anyt'ing!" Remy's fingers itched for the feel of his cards, as if his mutant power could somehow destroy this image and erase the words. But he knew that his denial was hollow-- he had done too many things in the past to ever be innocent. The terrifying possibility loomed in his mind. . . .

"It isn' . . . . . Sinister?" The name came out as a whisper.

The Witness' brows dipped in confusion, as if Remy had just made a right-angle turn and he hadn't quite caught up. Then his expression cleared.

"Sinister's plans never included de deaths o' more dan a few X-men. Dead people don' have chillen, an' his cloning methods never were too reliable." The Witness had regained his perfect composure.

Now it was Remy's turn to be confused. "I don' understand."

"`Course not."

"Hey!" Remy wasn't certain whether or not he should be insulted.

"You don' understand," the Witness began severely, "because y' not supposed to. Dat's why de X-men end up dead."

"But--?"

The Witness eyed him as if waiting to see what kind of a stupid question he would ask. Remy wasn't sure if what came out was a stupid question or not, but it was the only thing he could think about.

"How am I supposed t' know what I gotta understand?"

The Witness smiled, but Remy couldn't tell what kind of emotion fueled it. "You know when y' find somet'ing y' have t' trade y' life for."

"My life? Dis t'ing goin' t' get me killed?"

The Witness didn't answer, but his expression was answer enough.

Cold, choking fear closed in on Remy. "Computer! End program." He stared at the empty space where the Witness had been. He was shaking.