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Surrender by paxnirvana Surrender - Part
7 by paxnirvana Rating: R Fandom: X-Men: The Movie There's minor French usage in here - most of the phrases are fairly self-explanatory from context or vaguely familiar from the comics, but 'poltron' = 'coward'. Special Note: However, I would like to give a huge THANK YOU to everyone who voted for 'Surrender' in the 2001 CB/MFFAs earlier this year. I was quite honored (though pathetically slow in saying so). The competition was amazing and I was very surprised (and tickled) that I won... thanks again everyone! Disclaimer: 20th Century Fox has the movie rights, Marvel the rest. I'm not making any money here, just burning my own time and creativity. Remy LeBeau slid off his motorcycle, glancing casually around the nearly deserted side street as he removed his helmet and ran a graceful hand through loose, sweat-dampened hair. Dark sunglasses, as well as eye-concealing contact lenses, protected his sensitive eyes from the bright sun; it was barely mid-morning and already hot. The day only promised to get hotter. New York City in the summer, he mused ironically, what a joy. Why hadn't he left as he'd been tempted to? Remy hung his helmet on the back of the bike and sighed, knowing the answer to that was plain even as he thought it. He slipped his fingers into his front pocket and pulled out an elegant carved wooden clip. A rather feminine design, but that hardly bothered him. He gathered his hair up at the nape of his neck and secured it there. The clip was hers, of course. Fool. He was lost already. Distance wouldn't matter. He glanced once more around the street, taking note of the few pedestrians and stoop-sitters taking advantage of the morning shade that still clung to the street. People anxious to absorb what little coolness remained before the sun rose high enough to bake it all away. No one seemed to pay him more than token attention, but he lowered his shields briefly to be certain. He detected nothing that focused on him. Plenty of dull irritation/anger/despair here, but none of it directed his way. He straightened up and turned toward his goal, fingers brushing the front of his vest to make certain his deck of cards was within easy reach in the front pocket. He had visited one of his scattered storage stashes on the way into the City and traded in his long duster for the specially designed vest. Leather, of course, and stiff enough to conceal his tools in the hidden inner pockets. The carrying capacity of the vest was far less than his coat, but the heat would make his full attire both far too conspicuous and difficult to wear. It left him weaponless, since he couldn't carry his collapsed bo staff inconspicuously in the vest. Well, it wasn't as if was ever completely weaponless, he thought with a faintly roguish grin as he approached the cracked steps of a certain apartment building. He entered the dim lobby of the run-down building. It was already warm inside and smelled, as always, of dust, mildew and boiled cabbage. He didn't bother to ring any of the battered looking buttons next to the wall of mailboxes inside, but just ran nimbly up the stairs. Three flights. Came to a stop on the landing, not even breathing hard. Strolled down the hallway to the last door on the right. Pulled off his sunglasses and knocked once. The door opened sharply, but only a crack, clattering loudly against a security chain. Remy found himself staring down the barrel of a large caliber pistol. He didn't flinch, just rolled his eyes in disgust. "C'est moi. Poltron." "Gambit," a hoarse voice identified him with undisguised relief. The gun wavered slightly. He smiled, the expression verging on a sneer. "Who else?" "Well, no one else I know is quite as spectacularly paranoid as you are, true," came the sharp reply. "They usually just come down to the office. You know, where my desk is. And a decent coffee maker. And where there aren't roaches the size of Volkswagens in the kitchen・" Remy sighed. Old argument. Even older complaints. "Just let me in, Jake." "Damn it, Gambit, don't do that!" the voice behind the door wailed. "It's 'Courier' when we're working." The gun barrel disappeared. The door shut with a sharp snap, there was a rattling of chain, then it opened again to reveal a slender, handsome vaguely Asian-looking young man dressed in an elegant business suit. The imposing gun dangled carelessly from his hand. "What's this?" the young man sneered as he scanned Remy's attire of tight pale blue tee shirt, black leather vest, dark jeans and boots with clear disdain. "Going for the biker-fag look now are we?" "Why dress up if Gambit jus' comin' to see you, le fou?" Remy said and pushed past the other man, crowding him back as he swung the flimsy door closed behind them. Then he snatched the gun out of the slack grasp and checked the safety as Jake glared at him. It was on, of course. He shook his head in disgust. "It's a miracle you're still alive," Remy said tightly, all accent gone to emphasize his anger. He personally didn't like guns, deliberately chose not to use them, but knew they had to be respected. So he had learned how to use them properly. "The safety's still on." "I know that, you bitch," the other man said airily, not alarmed by Remy's reaction. "I hate guns. Besides, it's not even loaded." The young man Jake rolled his eyes dramatically and, seemingly undaunted by Remy's anger as well, stepped past him into the dingy apartment with a little annoyed toss of his head. His perfectly styled hair fell back into place without any trace of disturbance. His shoes were the finest Italian make; the watch on his wrist alone could probably pay the rent of everyone in the building for a month. He was even more out of place in this neighborhood than Remy was, and yet - Remy pulled the clip and checked the chamber to be certain, lip curling in a snarl as he saw it was true - he was walking around with an unloaded weapon. Remy narrowed his gaze on Jake as he slammed the empty clip back home. Then he tossed the useless weapon onto the dingy couch nearby. The apartment was filled with cheap furniture, but the place was uninhabited. Jake kept it that way as a meeting place. "How many times do I have to tell you - don't carry. You'll only get yourself shot some day." "Right, whatever," Jake said, folding his arms over his chest and pouting almost comically. "Like you actually care." "Non, you're right. Dere's no pity in dis heart for fools," he glared at the younger man, then fought himself back under control. Jacob Gavin Jr. was the spoiled-rotten, filthy rich, bored, dilettante son of the owner of one of the underworld's most respected and reliable neutral courier services. If you needed something sensitive or valuable hand-carried from Point A to Point B without detection or interception by either legitimate or illicit sources, International Courier Services was the way to go. Which was exactly how Remy had first encountered Jake. He'd been hired to steal something Jake was responsible for transporting. Then, to his intense surprise, Jake had stolen it right back from him. Something that had never happened to him before. Or since. It had been an insult that the Master Thief Gambit could not allow to pass. However, it had only happened because Jacob Gavin was a mutant too. But not a fighter. No. Not Jake. Jake's talents lay in an entirely different direction; subterfuge, misdirection, deception. Yet Remy had still managed to track Jake down and take the item back once more. Completing his own contract at the cost of some of International Courier's prestige. Something for which Jake had yet to fully forgive him. Their acrimonious friendship had only grown from there. It had helped that Jake was also a self-declared coward and wimp, and often, Remy added with a mental sigh, a major pain in the neck. Like now. Besides, it wasn't as if a simple gunshot wound would do Jake much damage, but it would certainly out the little shit as a mutant. And make Remy's life just that much more complicated. In light of that, he couldn't afford to let Jake get to him right now. The spoiled rotten snot. Too bad he was so useful. In so many ways. "Did you get de information?" He had the brief satisfaction of seeing Jacob Gavin, Jr. blanch, then he went into full alert mode; wary, focused. Because whatever else the little bastard was, he knew his business. Information. And something he'd found bothered him. "You know, the one reason I still take your commissions is because they're invariably weirder than shit," Jake said, clearing his throat nervously and tugging at his subtly striped tie. "They break up the raging boredom that is my life. But, you know, this one is - well, it's beyond weird and is verging on the creepy." "Jake," Remy said warningly, frowning and shifting his sunglasses in his hand restlessly. There was another, better reason Jake worked for him, but Remy didn't feel like reminding him of that. Yet. "Your broker's dead, you know. A tug fished most of his body out of the river this morning," Jake said, looking a little green. Remy simply raised a brow, not truly surprised. "His neck was broken. Clean." Jake shivered delicately in distaste. Remy felt a brief pang of remorse that was swiftly buried under disquiet. Bernard had apparently been right to be afraid. But it was a dangerous business they engaged in. And fucking your people over, as Bernard had done to him, was the surest way to prevent them from grieving for you whole-heartedly when you did end up in the river. He frowned briefly at his own cynical thoughts, certain that his goddess would never understand that portion of him. The part that had fought and struggled and survived against all odds - at any price. And still would. What would happen if that part of him came into conflict with his goddess? He tried not to think about it; survival was rarely pretty. And if he was nothing else, he thought bitterly, he knew he was a survivor. "He also has claw marks on his neck - big ones. They can't figure those out." Remy stayed silent, frowning faintly, gaze unfocused as he pondered his own nature, clearly only half listening. Jake sighed in exasperation. Obviously hoping for a bigger reaction to his news. "Well, if you knew he was dead, why the hell are you harassing me anyway?" Jake snapped. Remy's gaze flicked up to meet his, locking there steadily until Jake dropped his gaze, unable to meet it any more. He flushed and shifted nervously. Remy watched him intently, expression hard. "I just suspected," he finally said. "Did you get the rest?" Jake frowned, looked away. Shifted on his feet some more. He seemed almost embarrassed now. Remy resisted the urge to scan his emotions. He knew Jake. Jake would spill all without him having to do a thing other than frown at him slightly. And after a moment Jake did just that. "I tried. Really I did. But I must have touched off some kind of security flag I'm not familiar with, because Dad came in and wanted to know what the hell I thought I was doing," Jake said, flushing slightly, a touch of outrage in his defiant gaze. "He shut me down and kicked me out of the office for the day. Told me to go home and stay out of trouble." Sudden alarm raced through Remy, but he hid it from Jake. All that from a simple inquiry on a supposedly legitimate scientist? Ah, but the inquiry had come through Jake's semi-legitimate and yet sometimes shady channels. Interesting. Worrying. The closer he came to the truth, the more his instincts screamed for him to run. There was danger here. Mortal danger. But for him personally・ or for his goddess? "Did y' get anything before y' poppa showed?" Remy asked after a moment of silent musing. Jake sighed extravagantly, folding his arms over his chest as he gave Remy a slow once-over. Remy frowned at him, his own eyes narrowed. Courier had recovered his nerve, apparently. And was examining him curiously in return. "What's with you?" Jake demanded, frowning in puzzled annoyance. He unfolded his arms to wave a hand vaguely at the air between them. "You're all broody and shit." "Nothing t' concern you," Remy muttered, crossing his own arms over his chest. "Let's stick t' business here." Jake sneered and widened his eyes mockingly at him. "Whatever you say, Gambit. Business it is. Cash up front." "Jake -," Remy began, irritation rising. "What? You get me in trouble with Dad, show up acting all strange and dressed all tacky・ and besides, you still owe me for the last 'little favor' you asked me to do!" Jake snapped, cutting him off indignantly. Then he frowned, tone softening, "What's going on, Rem? You in too deep?" Silence. He glared at Jake. Unlike Bernard, Remy actually liked Jake - however he'd die before telling the spoiled little shit that - and that was all that saved the other man from a quick smack upside the head for poking his nose where it didn't belong. Jake just smiled at him smugly, flicking his gaze over him as he read Remy's frustrated annoyance and promptly misinterpreted it. Remy's irritation grew. He knew what Jake wanted. Knew the rules of their game well. But he didn't have time to play today. "Got no time now t' take you dancin', Jake," he said flatly, nearing the end of his patience. Jake was necessary. He really couldn't afford to alienate him, he told himself warningly. Really. Le fils de la putain. "Tease," Jake said, running his gaze over his body again, this time ogling him blatantly. "I could change and we could go tonight - Dad never lets me have any fun anymore since you caught me. And it's been months. Nobody dances like you do, Rem. I'm bored with everyone else." He pouted briefly, watching Remy for a reaction, frowning when he didn't get what he expected. "Hm, maybe I should just go home like Dad said・" Remy fought his ballooning irritation for a moment, felt himself losing. Now was definitely not the time for their little game. He was already on edge about the new woman in his life - the woman who managed to intrude on his thoughts even while he was working - and he was still nursing annoyance from his earlier encounters with first an insulting Logan and then an idiotic car rental agent, so he decided to change the rules. Remy let a predatory smile cross his lips. Knowing. Filled with heat. Then he lowered his lashes and gazed at Jake intently from under them, letting the grin play over his face and dumping a little menace out through his shields. Let the little worm deal with that, he thought recklessly. "You so bored, maybe I quit teasin' den, mon petite ami," Remy said, lowering his voice to a husky purr. Jake's gaze widened almost comically and he gasped, taking a startled step back. "Maybe I take you・ dancing・ right now." "N-now, Remy, I-I was just kidding you know!" Jake said, paling. Recognizing Remy on the prowl. And appalled that for once Remy had taken him up on his invitation - he was even starting to sweat, Remy noted with some satisfaction. Jake and his strangely twisted morals. The boy felt safe flirting with him, because he knew Remy knew he had no intention of following through. Not like this, anyway. It was a dangerous game of bluff and innuendo they'd played with each other for quite some time now. All the more dangerous because Remy had long been aware of Jake's big secret - and the possibilities it entailed. Because Jake was a mutant too. A shapeshifter. "Really? And I thought you wanted me," he said, voice still barely above a soft purr. "Who's teasin' now, Jake?" He took a short step toward the other man. Who backed away three whole steps before bumping up against the couch and falling down on the rickety arm of it with a little yelp of surprise. He sat there staring up at Remy in a kind of fascinated shock, swallowing hard. Remy could feel the reluctant excitement, the guilt, the confused longing roll off Jake in waves and felt a pang of remorse. But only a pang. Poor boy, but he'd just picked the wrong day to push. "NO! I - I don't - not like this! Remy! I was just yanking your chain・" Remy shook his head in amusement and slammed his shields closed again, banking the fire in his gaze back down to simple annoyance. Jake slumped back with a sigh of relief. "What's with you today?" the boy whined, wiping his hand across his brow. Remy left the sneer on his lips. If he eased up on the boy he'd be back to teasing in no time. And he didn't have time for that. "Info, Jake. Now." "Okay, okay! Man. Whew. Lighten up," Jake said, shooting him a wary look before clearing his throat. "Okay. Essex is attending some huge scientist convention downtown at the Ritz-Carlton this week. Main speaker and everything. He's a double Nobel Laureate; Genetics and Medicine. Main residence is in London, but he has a rather impressive lab in Edinburgh. Holds several dozen medical and drug patents. The guy's a freakin' genius. " "I know all that already," Remy said impatiently. "Oh. Well, he's a widower. No known current lover. Had a kid, but he died a while ago too." "Jake." "So what don't you know?" Jake wailed. Remy just shook his head silently, gaze still hard. Jake looked uneasy again. "Well, did you know he's got a house right on Long Island then?" Remy came alert, hands dropping to his side, all pretense gone. "No. Tell me." Jake obediently reached into his suit jacket's inner pocket and pulled out a green and white printout. Remy snatched it out of his hand and read it, quickly memorizing the address and coded description detailed there. Then he handed it back, letting the teasing smile return. "Dat's a good one, Jake. Might even be worth a kiss." Jake blanched as he tucked the printout away again, shaking his head tightly. Remy just smiled wider. Ah, the bluff had been well and truly called. He had the upper hand now. "I've got more - you asked about the Assassin's Guild too!" Jake said desperately. And inside, Remy went very, very cold and very still, all amusement and satisfaction wiped instantly away by old fear. "Start talkin'・" * * * * * Bright sunlight made the city glow with an oddly fresh aura beyond the tall windows. Even though it was heating up rapidly, and the humidity was climbing, the city appeared clean and calm from this air-conditioned height. The very air outside the windows seemed to shimmer with promise, perhaps, of happiness or satisfaction. But not in this office. Candra, the head of the Assassin's Guild, stood rigidly by the window, staring blankly out it. "I have so far been unable to locate him," she said to the air. "I am forced to conclude that he has left town. It is part of his pattern that when he feels threatened, he moves on. He could be anywhere in the world by now, using any alias." "I disagree, Madame Candra," a cool, cultured voice said from the speakerphone on her desk. It was an excellent quality phone because all of Essex' subtle menace was clearly conveyed. "I believe Gambit is still in town, and, with a little judicious manipulation, can quite easily be convinced to complete his job for me." The tall blonde woman whirled around to glare at the inoffensive phone as if it were the speaker himself. Her hands fisted at her sides. "If you have leads that you are holding back from me・" she began, a hint of irritation seeping through into her own cool tone. "On the contrary, Madame Candra, I have no direct information. I simply perceive patterns few others are capable of detecting. While your・ zeal is appreciated," he said, tone becoming subtly mocking for an instant. She glared at the speakerphone, lip lifting in a slight snarl. He suspected, she realized. Suspected that she hoped to find LeBeau first - and keep him. "If you simply place your men at points where they can be dispatched efficiently, I am certain our thief will surface shortly. Indeed, I am confident it will not be so very much longer at all." "And what leads you to that confidence?" she said, keeping her voice calm with some difficulty, and pacing a few steps behind her desk before stopping herself. The sound would carry and Essex would know of her irritation. It didn't pay to reveal too much to the man, that was obvious now. She was less and less sanguine about this working relationship, and if LeBeau hadn't been involved she would have severed all ties with Essex long ago. The man was chilling, even to an Assassin. But for the chance to have Remy LeBeau under her power again, she would risk much. "Certain inquiries were detected. He is gathering information," Essex said, a cold amusement touching his tone. "Perhaps he will even come to me." Candra's eyes widened slightly. A feral smile curled her lips. Essex was at the Ritz-Carlton this week. A highly publicized event. "Very well, I will deploy my personnel as you suggest," she said crisply. "See that you do," Essex said, still with that annoying hint of cold amusement in his voice, then the line was disconnected. She verified the call was fully disengaged before rapidly dialing again. She folded her arms over her chest, staring blankly at the desk as the phone rang. Essex could become a problem, but she had other priorities right now. "Toussaint," she snapped as soon as the line was answered. "I want the best team to infiltrate the Ritz-Carlton immediately. LeBeau may appear there soon." "As you wish, Madame," a male voice replied obediently. She snapped off the connection, then turned to stare out over the city once more. Satisfaction curved her lips. Soon. Soon she would have him in her power again. Kneeling before her. Bound. Stripped. Subdued. Her thief. In the years since he had slipped away from her, she had had a great deal of time to ponder the best ways to break him to her will. All of them painful. All of them degrading. Because break him she would. And perhaps once the novelty of having the once-proud thief serve her every whim faded, she would kill him. Slowly. And then there would be no one alive who could resist her power. * * * * * This waking was far from easy. She lifted her head from the cold floor slowly. The throbbing in her skull was making her dizzy, but she still pushed herself up on her hands, fighting a groan, and looked around. She was in a cell. Narrow, dim, made of concrete. Metal toilet at the back. A tiny sink beside it. A fold down bunk up against the wall. Bars covered the far end. She could see out through them into another one of those glitteringly clean lab rooms like she'd passed through before. Intimidating equipment covered the far wall. A central exam table, like in a doctor's office, took up the middle of the room. But unlike a regular doctor's office, this table had straps all over it. It looked as if they were intended to hold someone down who didn't want to be there. She shuddered and swallowed hard, sitting up slowly, bone spikes scraping against the floor as she moved. "'Bout time," a low voice growled from the room beyond. Creed paced into her field of view, massive arms folded over his chest. He was watching her from narrowed eyes, an avid look on his face. "It's just about show-time, girlie, or so the boss says. And you'll wanna see what's comin' up next." He laughed harshly and walked away. Sarah huddled around herself, head aching, body sore. Glared back at the spot where Creed had been as despair washed over her. Too little, too late. She should have tried to leave last night, in the dark. Hadn't she learned anything from the street? Night was the time to move. But instead she'd stupidly fallen asleep after stuffing her face. What good had the food done her after all? She should have run instead. Because now... now she was probably going to die. And there was no one out there in the whole world anywhere who would miss her when she was gone. * * * * * Dr. Jean Grey sat at a table in the elegant caf・just off the main lobby of the Ritz Carlton, trying to suppress her impatience. She was nursing her second cup of tea. Ever since Scott's call had dragged her out of her first seminar, she'd been trying to pin down the Professor, but he was engaged in a closed-doors discussion with several colleagues in a private conference room. She'd risked mind-speaking him to give him the flavor of Scott's concern, but he'd asked her to wait; all his considerable powers of concentration had been focused on the conversation he had been having. She'd brushed off Scott's concerns earlier, but the longer she waited, thinking about the potential for disaster for the School and the children if someone revealed they were mutants to the press, the more nervous and worried she became. The threat was all the more menacing because it was so well-informed. A world-class thief, one who just happened to have excellent mental shielding, had been hired to copy their medical data. For what purpose? And who in the world, outside the members of their small school, knew enough about their abilities - about the Professor's, at least - to understand that would be a critical requirement? Her stomach dropped suddenly. One person, at least, was intimately familiar with Charles Xavier's mental abilities. Eric Lensherr. Magneto. "You must excuse my intrusion on your solitude," a faintly accented masculine voice interrupted her suddenly fearful musings. "But do I have the pleasure of addressing Dr. Jean Grey?" Jean jumped slightly, looking over her shoulder in surprise. She hadn't heard or felt anyone approach her table. A tall, austere-looking man with dark hair slicked back from his narrow face was standing behind her. His skin was very pale, nearly pigmentless, like an albino, yet he watched her with piercing intensity from deep brown, almost black eyes. He was dressed in a charcoal colored suit that clearly said expensive European tailoring. A convention badge hung from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, nearly obscuring the neatly folded handkerchief it contained, but she couldn't read the name inscribed on it from this angle. Jean shook herself mentally, confused. She felt nothing from him. No mental presence at all. Even when she was blocking as heavily as it was necessary to do in a densely populated location like this she could often still feel a kind of mental echo from those around her. Particularly when they stood as close as he was. But from this man there was nothing. Which just wasn't possible - unless he had telepathic shields of some kind. Her pulse jumped slightly in alarm. "Why, yes... I'm Dr. Jean Grey," she answered calmly, covering the faintly stretched moment of silence by carefully setting her teacup down before turning around completely in her chair to face him. The man allowed a tiny smile to touch the corner of his thin mouth, his dark gaze never wavering from hers. It was a strangely chilling expression. "It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Grey," the man said with a faint, respectful inclination of his upper body and head. A very European gesture. "I have observed the recent U.S. Government hearings on human mutation with great interest. Your presentation to the Senate on the reluctance of mutants to be persecuted for the simple fact of genetic variance, was, in my humble estimation, superb, particularly in the face of such vitriolic and myopic rhetoric." "Thank you," Jean said shortly, her sense of unease growing quickly, and she fought hard to conceal it. She wanted to move away from him; her skin crawled faintly at his nearness. But why should this man's mere presence upset her so? "Ah, you must forgive me, my manners are sadly lacking," the man said with a faintly self-deprecating laugh. "With these vulgar badges on display, I have become far too accustomed to being accosted by total strangers." He took a step closer, and Jean fought back a shudder of unease as he extended his hand to her. "Allow me to introduce myself," the tall man said with a faint inclination of his head, dark eyes watching her closely. "I am Dr. Nathaniel Essex." With a forced, polite smile, Jean reached up to shake his hand. * * * * * Remy LeBeau crouched just inside the towering hedges at the rear of the park-like estate that Courier's printout had indicated belonged to one Dr. Nathaniel Essex, of London, England. This was, apparently, just one of many homes the doctor had, scattered about the world. This one was a 'small' retreat on Long Island, a little more than an hour's drive outside New York City, yet far enough to provide refuge from the crowds of the great metropolis. He frowned at the house, gaze running over it professionally. Worth several million, at least, but not outstanding in style or landscaping, except for the concealing hedge. But most of the homes in this area had been isolated from each other in some extreme fashion; by distance, fences or dense plantings. Rich lifestyles. Privacy at a premium. Isolation prized. It made a thief's job so much easier, he thought with a saucy grin. Then Remy LeBeau faded until only Gambit remained; the Master Thief intent on the job. The house looked like it had at least a dozen bedrooms on the upper floor. Most of the living areas; dining room, kitchen, library and such appeared to take up the main level. He should be able to find a way in through the kitchen, usually the most vulnerable point, which was why he'd approached from the rear of the property in the first place. But first, he needed to assess how many occupants the house had. No one was immediately visible through any of the windows he could see into, so he would have to use his own personal method since he didn't have the luxury of time to do the more thorough research and mundane observation of a target that he preferred. He lowered his mental shields cautiously. Rage/despair/pain/unease/rage/fear/rage/anticipation/rage/rage/RAGE... Hot and red and dripping with bloodlust, anger poured out of the house in front of him like a wave, consuming everything else. It seemed to come from someone - something - inside the house・ Instantly, he reeled back in shock, even losing his balance and falling awkwardly against the hedge before he could slam his shields closed again. Gambit shook his head, moaning softly in pain, nausea churning his gut. What the hell had that been? He sat, sprawled gracelessly on the ground near the hedge, staring at the house in horrified shock. He hadn't been so overcome by an emotion outside himself since - well, since Scott Summers opened that strange chamber in the basement of Xavier's mansion yesterday - but before that, it had been years. Years and miles away. He frowned. It couldn't be・ He steadied himself, bolstering his internal shields. No. He'd been taken by surprise once, but now he was ready. That wave of rage wouldn't put him on his ass again, he vowed grimly as he climbed slowly to his feet, still unsettled. The brief exposure had been enough for his reconnaissance purposes, however. There were three people in the house, but the rage had been so overpowering he hadn't been able to get a good sense of their locations other than 'in'. He was dressed for work, in a body-hugging navy blue suit, covered for his approach to the property by a non-descript and untraceable dull green workman's coverall. The coverall was already bundled under the substantial hedge behind him. He'd removed it as soon as he determined the hedge blocked all views from surrounding dwellings. His working suit was made of kevlar cloth, lightly armored at knee, hip, shoulder and elbow with high-impact plastics, and covered with zippered pockets and attached pouches that contained all his working tools. As well as a few extras. He pulled the pieces of his bo out of their loop holders on his thighs and snapped the adamantium staff together with grim determination, placing it by his side. Then he opened two fresh packs of cards, fanned them, and slipped them into the special holders on his belt within easy reach of either hand. The concealing mask went over his face; darkened goggles over his eyes. He tucked his bound hair down the high collar of his shirt. Nothing remained exposed to identify him. Except after a second's pause he abruptly pulled off his gloves, drew a utility knife from a pouch and cut the ring finger off of each glove. He had to touch an item with his bare skin to charge it. He had no way to know if he'd have time to get his gloves off once inside, and blowing off the finger of a glove would hurt. That raw rage had unsettled him. He'd just have to be extra careful not to leave fingerprints behind. He slipped the knife away, tucked the pieces of glove into another pocket reserved for trash he didn't want to leave behind, and placed his staff under his arm with a quick spin. Then he walked straight over the lawn, up onto the terrace and crossed briskly to the kitchen door. Where he tried the handle like anyone would. It was locked. With a philosophical shrug he pressed his face as close to the glass as possible without touching it, peering inside. The visible room was empty. It was a big kitchen, set up in a vaguely industrial way as if it were frequently used to prepare large quantities of food. He didn't see the tell-tale shape of an alarm box near the door, but that didn't preclude a warning system of some kind. He'd have to risk it. Gambit smiled devilishly under his mask and drew out the appropriate tools before settling down to pick the lock. He had it open in only a few seconds. Then stepped inside and checked again for an alarm system. Eyes widened behind his goggles when he found the flat-panel display set flush with the wall beside the door. He scanned it quickly, determining after a few pulse-surging seconds that it wasn't armed. He frowned at it. It was a custom system too. Top of the line. But not currently activated. A fact that made him distinctly uneasy. He put his tools away even as he scanned the vacant kitchen, bo staff once more braced in his hand and tucked under his arm. A hallway lead from one side; there were two doors in the other wall. One probably went to a pantry area. He moved silently across the floor, listening closely before checking behind both doors. One did lead to a pantry, as he'd thought. It was large and very well stocked. The other door, a swinging door, led to a small service room set with wide counters and glass-fronted cabinets filled with elegant glassware and plates. A formal dining room was probably beyond it through the second set of swinging doors on the other side. He eased the door shut, making certain it didn't squeak, and turned his attention back to the hallway that led to the rest of the house. There was an elevator door set a short way down the hall from the kitchen. Pausing in front of it, he noted that the stainless steel doors were bent in slightly, as if something big and heavy had run into them. Odd. Damaged equipment in a place like this? It didn't seem to fit. With a frown he determined to check it out later. For now, he wanted to find the good doctor's office and look through his papers and files. It was usually the best way to start. Gambit moved silently down the hall, all his senses on the alert for occupants, but he kept his mental shields tightly closed, still wary of the source of that searing rage. * * * * * It was already almost three in the afternoon. She had stopped looking at the clock after lunch came and went with no sign of Remy's return. Her bravado of morning had long since faded and a fluttering feeling that she didn't want to admit might be fear had settled in her stomach. With a stifled sigh, she once more adjusted the dark lenses that covered her eyes against the afternoon glare. It was a lovely, hot summer day that she'd had nothing to do with creating. She should just enjoy it. She sighed out loud this time. Was she just being foolish? What real assurances had he given that he'd return? And how had he make her care so deeply so quickly? Touched her heart so completely, this Remy LeBeau? This sudden willingness to make herself emotionally vulnerable to him still made her uneasy. Ororo Monroe lay on a lounge chair at the edge of the Olympic-sized pool behind the mansion, ostensibly keeping an eye on the swimming children. The younger kids had had their turn earlier in the day and this batch was mainly the older ones. A few of them were splashing about in the deep end, diving for colored rings and playing a kind of water polo, but the roughhousing was at a minimum right now, since there seemed to be more furtive muttering and talking going on than swimming. Jubilee and St. John, the usual instigators of mayhem, were lounging on the submerged steps, while Kitty was serenely floating on her back nearby. Rogue, with a skin-covering leotard worn under her practical one-piece suit, was sitting on the edge a little removed from the others, her covered feet kicking lazily in the water. Deceptively peaceful. Like the calm before a storm. And no one could sense coming storms better than she. But would it just be a personal one... or one that would affect them all. All the kids looked up as Scott came briskly down the path from the main house, a set look on his face. Ororo watched his approach, brow furrowing faintly as she noted her friend's urgency. "Is something wrong?" she asked, keeping her voice low. Scott stopped beside her lounge chair and thrust his hands into his slacks pocket. Trying to look casual rather than tense and failing completely. "I don't know yet. I talked to Jean first thing this morning, and she promised to call me back after she spoke with the Professor," he said, equally quiet. His lips thinned as he pressed them together. "She still hasn't called." Ororo straightened up, lowering her feet to the ground. "Have you called the front desk of the hotel?" "Two hours ago and then again half an hour ago. They paged her, but she didn't answer. And she hasn't left any messages for me either." Ororo's pulse leaped with sudden fear. She could see the worry on Scott's face. The anxiety. He was clearly torn between responsibility and need. Just as she was. "They're in a public location, Scott," she said as soothingly as she could manage with her pulse jumping. "Attending a major convention. There are people everywhere. What could happen?" "That's just it. Nothing should be able to happen to them there," he said grimly. "But it's not like Jean to drop out of contact like that. Or the Professor." She sucked in a surprised breath. "You can't raise him either?" "No. The best answer I get is that he's unavailable due to the conference." They stared at each other in strained silence, a tableau broken only when a voice called to them from the other side of the pool. Rogue's. "Mr. Summers? Ms. Monroe? What's wrong?" Ororo rose to her feet, ignoring the girl's question as a wave of apprehension swept through her. "I'm going in to the City." "Ororo, I should..." "You know I blend best," she said firmly, trying not to allow her own unease to show in her voice. "It's better if you and Logan stay here." She could feel the weight of his gaze on her from behind red shades, sense the depth of his frustration. Jean and the Professor. His lover and his mentor; her friend and her mentor as well. Out of touch. Both possibly in danger - or just enjoying a rare day interacting with colleagues. Panic now would do no one any good and this Scott knew as well as she did. But in light of recent events, it paid to make certain. She gathered up her robe and sandals and slipped into them, covering the tiny red bikini she wore as she suppressed the surge of disappointment over the fact that when - not if, she told herself - Remy showed up, she'd miss his return. But her friends and the school had to come first. Scott stepped back, lips held in a grim line. He wanted to protest, she knew. He was clearly torn between his responsibility for the school and its students and his growing concern for two people of vital importance to him too. But without stronger evidence of trouble other than temporary loss of contact, Scott would not act on his fears. But she could - and would. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the four older students watching them both warily. She knew Scott was aware of their alarmed scrutiny as well, and after a tense moment he gave her a sharp nod of agreement. "Take a cell phone." * * * * * The office was near the rear of the house on the northern side. He found it easily. The door was locked, but quickly yielded to his skill. He slipped inside after listening closely for almost a full minute to the quiet sounds of the house around him. Nothing moved close by. He was still alone on this floor. The room was decorated in dark, heavy woods. Deep green silk covered the walls. All the fixtures were muted brass. It was a somber space. Gambit suppressed a shiver as he slipped inside and closed the door. The wall behind the desk was covered with wooden filing cabinets, but he moved to the desk first. It was clear except for the usual office type implements all in matching fine-wood holders and a leather blotter set precisely in the center of the wide desk. There was no telephone on the desk nor any other kind of modern office equipment in the room. Just an ornate antique silver and ivory fountain pen set that he quickly estimated was worth more than the ornate desk it sat on. Yet it looked as if it were still being used. He moved the leather chair slowly back from the desk and assessed the drawers. The unlocked ones didn't interest him. The single locked one did. He picked it carefully - wary of scratching the soft brass of the lock and leaving signs to his presence. Not good for the reputation, that. The surprisingly clever lock finally yielded. Inside the narrow drawer were several unlabeled but sealed glass vials filled with faintly cloudy liquid and a leather-bound book. The book was actually a fancy ledger detailing some kind of coded account transactions. He lifted it out carefully and opened it, then paged through the seemingly ordinary entries within. Well, ordinary for a genetics researcher, apparently. There were notations regarding payments made to several large biomedical companies and health institutions that Gambit was vaguely familiar with. He might have infiltrated one or two of them over the course of his career. Stealing items of interest; samples, papers, computer files. Industrial espionage always paid well. He let his mind wander slightly, trying to find the connections between them all, not focusing his full attention on the transactions until his gaze skipped across one dated two weeks ago. His breath sucked in sharply as he stared at the page. It was a sizeable amount, granted, but that wasn't what had leaped out at him and made him shudder. It was the name of the payee: Victor Creed. He flipped through the ledger again, looking more closely. But there was only the one payment. For security services. To Victor Creed. Otherwise known as Sabretooth. A former assassin. And he knew this because he made it his business to know all the top assassins in the world. If the descriptions in the news were to be believed, as recently as that spring Sabretooth had quite possibly been one of those who had worked for the now-imprisoned mutant terrorist Magneto. Gambit shivered. He had never personally encountered Sabretooth, but he'd heard dark and bloody tales of his lethal skill whispered for years all around the world. Once, he'd even seen the aftermath of one of his hits. The brutal images still occasionally haunted his dreams. He straightened up then, closing the ledger carefully and placing it back exactly as he'd found it in the drawer. All the while remembering the overwhelming rage he'd touched earlier. Creed was here, Gambit realized, as his body tensed. In this house right now. And he remembered something else about Creed; he was rumored to have senses sharper than a wolf. So it was very possible that the assassin already knew he was here・ * * * * * Sarah flinched as the familiar dark shape wrenched open the door at the front of her cell. Her head lifted as she warily watched her tormentor's advance. He was carrying something soft like a blanket in his other hand. She pressed back against the wall beside her, ignoring the aches and pains from some of the remaining bone spikes on her back as they bent under the pressure. "Show-time, girlie," the big man growled, sharp teeth flashing in the dim light. "Leave me alone," she muttered, glaring at him. Creed paused briefly in his advance, but only to throw his head back and laugh. Then he lunged forward, faster than she would have believed possible for such a big man without prior painful experience, and caught her by the leg, just above the knee. The thick nails on the ends of his fingers bit into her skin painfully; she yelped as he dragged her, struggling and kicking, into the center of the narrow cell. He loomed over her, sharp teeth bared openly now, dark eyes flat and somehow dead. "Time to earn your keep, ugly," he said, sneering down at her. Then he flipped the blanket around her arms and head, binding her tightly in the scratchy folds, immobilizing her in an instant. Her arms were trapped at her sides, her mouth gaping open as she desperately tried to suck in more air in the stifling darkness, through the heavy blanket, struggling against the cloth. "Won't suffocate if ya stay nice an' calm, girlie. Plenty of air gets through that weave. But you gotta behave," he said, chuckling darkly. Then he wrapped something around the blanket and her arms, pulling it tight. She gave a short cry of pain as a bone spike broke off under the pressure. Panic flared. Air! She needed air. The blanket was hot. Stifling. Blood throbbed in her ears, pounded sickly in her throat as she struggled, growing dizzier, sicker as she did so. Gasping desperately. Until finally his mocking words penetrated through the primal panic. If she didn't fight she'd be okay. Her body tensed to struggle, to resist, but fighting blindly hadn't done her any good before - he'd just beat her senseless again. So she'd better use her brain this time. With difficulty, Sarah forced herself to go limp as rough hands picked her up and slung her over an iron-hard shoulder, head down, legs trapped by a brutal arm. She was dizzy and faintly sick; air was still too short and hot, but it was easier to get now. She sucked in each breath slowly, pressing her face against the blanket to work more air through the cloth as Creed started walking. A hard hand patted her butt, making her jerk in alarm, her heartbeat racing wildly in terror. "Good girl," Creed said, his voice a low rumble of dark amusement. "Now I'm gonna catch me a thief." * * * * * Despite his certainty that the assassin Creed was lurking somewhere nearby, Gambit continued to gather as much information as he could. The sense of danger made the skin on the back of his neck crawl, but he refused to be scared off that easily, yet the raw rage he'd sensed earlier made it too dangerous for him to search with his power for the source. So he compromised with his fears by softening his shields enough that if someone came within a room's width of him, he would be alerted. Then he set back to work grimly, discipline restored. No lowly Assassin was going to chase Gambit from a job. He quickly searched the rest of the desk and found nothing of real import in the unlocked drawers, as he'd expected. So he turned his attention to the file cabinets on the back wall. The locks on them were again unexpectedly complex, but not a deterrent to his skill. He chose a drawer randomly, letting whim guide him. The first drawer he opened was filled with neatly organized newspaper clippings. He pulled out a file at random and glanced into it. The National Enquirer. The Weekly World. The Sun. Tabloids. In the older files, pictures and articles on freaks of nature and reputed space aliens had been carefully preserved. As he worked his way through the drawer, skimming rapidly through file after file, articles from more main-stream publications began to appear. And the word used wasn't 'freak' or 'alien' any more. It was mutant. Then he came abruptly to a fairly recent copy of the front page of the New York Times. Filling most of the page was an image that had been flashed around the nation - and the world - for weeks after it happened. It showed the Statue of Liberty standing in the middle of New York Harbor; her torch destroyed, the face and head of the statue severely damaged. And one of the spikes of her crown had even somehow been cut away. He frowned at the picture thoughtfully and rubbed a gloved thumb over the picture, across the sternly beautiful face of the statue. "Ah, ch・e," he whispered, realization striking him, along with a sharp surge of fear. "So brave. So lovely." He closed the file with a snap, lips clamped in a frown as he fought the sudden anger that followed the fear. She'd risked herself for humans. For an entire city-ful of people that would no doubt just as soon see her in a prison like the plastic one Magneto had ended up in if they found out she was a mutant too. Or see her dead. His too-fertile imagination gave him a graphic image of long white hair tangled and stained with blood before he shoved it away, drawing in a hissing breath of denial as he did so. No. Not while he lived. He put the file away and closed the file drawer, carefully locking it again. Then he stared blankly at the elegant wooden facing on the file cabinets for a moment before wrestling his emotions back under control. He was working. There was still the very real possibility of discovery. He couldn't afford distractions now. Fool, he scolded himself as he shook his head and selected another drawer at random. He picked the lock on that one too and found it filled with bound books. Each labeled in some kind of coded system. He pulled out several, skimming them before he put each of them back carefully in place. The inside pages of each book were covered in crisp precise handwriting. Notes, apparently. Formulas. Calculations. Diagrams. Sketches. He fanned the pages curiously. All of it written out laboriously in longhand. Not electronically recorded, unless there were copies of them kept somewhere else. But for some reason he doubted that. They looked like log books of some kind. Written in a kind of coded English. He recognized a word here or there, but it was only after closer examination that he realized it wasn't a code at all, just detailed scientific notations. About genetics and medicine, biotechnology and chemistry. And extensive notes on experiments. In some cases, on living subjects. From the phrasing, and it was hard to tell for certain, he was starting to believe the subjects might have been... human. He shivered. Most of the subjects had not survived. Three quarters of the way through the last book in the drawer the dense notes came to an abrupt end. On the last marked page of that volume, written carefully at the top of a blank page were the words 'Viable test subjects located. Phoenix Project implementation scheduled' and a date. Two weeks ago. The pages after that were blank. Gambit replaced the notebook carefully in the drawer. Slid it closed and re-locked it just as he'd re-locked all the rest. A good thief never made it obvious that he had been there. And in particular this time, he was wary of leaving evidence that someone had rifled the doctor's personal notes. Then, something touched the fringes of his extended awareness. Something menacing and deadly and intent. Turning to face the door, Gambit smoothly caught up his bo staff from where he'd laid it on the floor beside him as he worked and braced himself for attack. * * * * * Long hair blowing back in the hot breeze of motion, Ororo Monroe drove along I-95 south toward New York City. She was nearly to the Triborough Bridge that led to Manhattan Island itself, her mind only partially occupied by the steadily thickening traffic. It had been an hour and a half since Scott had approached her at poolside. She'd showered, dressed and had been out of Salem Center in less than twenty minutes. It would probably be at least another thirty, given the growing density of traffic, before she could reach the hotel where the medical convention was being held. Before she could find out what - if anything - had happened to keep their friends from contact. Her mind wandered between thoughts of gentle concern, surprising certainty and mild amusement as she remembered how Logan had surprised her again by following her to the car as she prepared to leave. "What you gonna do if the thief's neck deep in this?" he had said to her as she tossed her lightweight duster and beaded hip pouch onto the passenger seat of the silver Mercedes convertible parked in the cool dimness of the mansion's garage. "I already know he is, Logan," she had replied, meeting his glower steadily, chin raised. "But not in the way you're thinking. Remy won't betray us." "How do you know?" he had spat, taking a menacing step toward her, a sneer on his lips. She had just smiled serenely back and opened the car door to drop into the driver's seat. Logan had closed the door behind her, leaning over her ominously. "I don't," she had said as she drew the seatbelt across her body, then stuck the key in the ignition. Looked up to meet his gaze one final time as she started the engine. "But I believe it anyway." - - to be continued - - Visit my fanfic page: http://home.attbi.com/~paxnirvana
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