Summer was languishing in the mutant ghettos like a disease; the heat seemed to get inside you, making everything sluggish and dense. Remy LeBeau stood at his apartment window in his underwear, alternating between caffeine and nicotine, looking down onto the streets below. Down in the courtyard two ragged little children were playing a primitive game of tag; their mangy dog was lying in a patch of shade as if he had collapsed there, panting in the humid heat of mid-afternoon, his tongue lolling out. Despite the squalor, despite the poverty of this particular neighbourhood, children still found the time to play, to laugh. That was why Remy spent as much time as he could in this apartment, when it was safe to do so; every day he'd get this rare treat, the infectious laughter of children wafting up through his windows from the courtyard down below.
Behind him, in the
dark and disordered recesses of his room, a dilapidated old black and white TV
was playing a classic John Wayne movie; on the rumpled bedcovers, an ancient
cassette player was speaking in a tinny, indistinct voice, announcing heatedly,
“…I swear to the American people, as God
is my witness, I did not do what I have been charged with… I was in no
orchestrated effort to bring down Trask Technologies… It is patently ridiculous
that I may have met that night with a secret agent who offered me millions of
dollars to hack into the database… Where on earth would mutants get millions of
dollars from?…”
Remy moved away
from the window, went to the bed and rewound the cassette.
We have our ways, he thought grimly to
himself. We have our ways…
He stopped the
tape, pressed the play button, taking a swig of coffee from his cup. The tinny voice came back, this time saying
in a harassed tone, “Yes, I 'saw' a girl
with a white-streak in her hair that night… But then I 'see' a lot of girls… I
have provided both Mr. Trask and the court with a detailed description of that
particular individual, and they have both been satisfied with my testimony… But
let me assure you that there was nothing unusual about this girl at all… She
said and did nothing that would lead me to suspect her… She could not have
stolen the access cards I possessed as they still remained on my person until
the day of my resignation from Trask Technologies… Of course, I thoroughly
support FBI and Hound investigations into this girl, if of course she had
anything to do with it…” The man was interrupted mid-sentence and another
voice hastily added: “And of course
national security spokespeople assure all adult women who fit the description that
there is no cause for immediate concern… While they may be stopped in the
streets and searched, and while their identification papers will be checked, if
they have nothing to hide they have nothing to fear…” Another voice cut in,
different from the first two. “Yes, and
it is very possible that the search will be narrowed down to mutants, am I
right…?” “Oh yes…” the second
voice replied, “There has been somewhat of a furore around non-mutant girls being
searched over the past few days, but the President himself has pointed out that
we can't be too careful in today's climate… We have no idea of what these feral
mutants may persuade innocent humans to do in order to further their cause…”
Remy frowned and
hit the fast-forward button, then pressed 'play' again.
“…has also been speculation and rumour about
the identity of this mystery girl… FBI records of the infamous mutant outlaws,
the X-Men - who were eliminated or arrested in the first military raids on
mutant strongholds five years ago - name one of their members, who appears to
fit the description of the woman National Security and Hound agents are
currently searching for… This mutant outlaw goes by the name of Rogue - given
name unknown… status is currently missing presumed dead… What do you think of such
observations, Mr. Rifkind?”
The first voice
returned, this time openly scornful, “Well
that's just ludicrous… The girl I saw was not a mutant, and she was most
definitely not an ex-X-Man. And no, I am not in any way, shape or form in
collusion with the X-Men. It’s a well-known secret that the surviving members
are confined to internment camps across the -”
Remy had heard
enough. He hit the 'stop' button again
and sucked on his cigarette thoughtfully.
So they've made de link wit' Rogue already…
At that moment his
cell phone rang, breaking off his train of thought. He set down his coffee and his cigarette,
went to the dresser and grabbed the phone.
“Yeah?”
The voice that
answered was low, cultured and sonorous, dangerously so.
“I take it you
located Mr. de la Rocha?”
“Yup,” Remy replied
in a dispassionate tone. “I'll get onto pickin' him up tonight.”
“Good. Empaths are such interesting creatures. I'm sure you can appreciate the finer
subtleties of such a power.”
“Funny. I didn't t'ink emotion and subtlety were in
any way compatible.”
“Well, of course an
uncivilised brute such as yourself would think so. Were you burning the midnight oil again last
night, my faithful friend?”
“Non, not last
night.”
“How delightfully
unexpected. Are you quite sure there are
no empaths around influencing you,
Gambit?”
“Peh. Non.
I'm just workin' on a side project right now. Besides, hormones and emotions are totally
diff'rent t'ings. I don't t'ink an
empath could affect my more 'uncivilised' urges.”
“Ah, but no one is
quite sure on that point. It's the
question of the chicken and the egg rearing its ugly head once again, I'm
afraid.” The voice sounded faintly bored. “Once I have Mr. de la Rocha, I'll be
able to settle the argument once and for all.”
Remy grunted and
went for his cigarette again.
“I'm not int'rested
in all dat bullshit,” he muttered.
“Ah, yes, I
forgot. All you're interested in is your
big fat paycheque. And freeing the other
insignificants who don't matter. Ah
well. That is your prerogative, I
suppose.” There was a pause. “Well, I look forward to our next meeting then,
Gambit. And as to this 'side project' of
yours… please make sure it doesn't get in the way of your… other priorities.”
“I'm an expert at
compartmentalising. Don't worry.”
“You are quite the
least of my worries, my dear boy,” came the slightly mocking retort. “But do make sure you return to me alive,
LeBeau. Despite appearances, I find I do
have a certain fondness for you after all.”
“Hmm. One day I'll work out just exactly why you keep me around. I'm sure it ain't got not'ing t' do wit' any
fondness on your part.”
“On the contrary,
my dear boy, I find myself quite attached to you… in more ways than one.” He
trailed off on a small, ominous chuckle, before adding: “I won't keep your
precious 'side project' waiting. Just
make sure you report back to me when you have the empath.”
“'Kay.”
Remy ended the call
and threw the cell phone onto his bed.
For a long moment he stood in the middle of the room, mulling on this
most recent phone call. Then he stirred
into action, stubbed out his cigarette, drained his coffee, switched off the
TV, and dressed. When this was done, he
went to the cassette player, popped it open, and withdrew the tape. Then, bending down underneath the bed, he
wrenched open a floorboard, underneath which was a jumble of assorted
paraphernalia, and onto which he unceremoniously threw the cassette. The tape now safely hidden, he secured the
floorboard, stood up, and checked himself for equipment. Knife, cards, cigarettes… Yup, all
there. No need for the pack. He'd only be making a short journey today.
Satisfied, Remy
walked out.
*
He took care to
ride as many back streets as he could - it hadn't been safe to take the main
roads for years now, especially with regular Sentinel checks. Hounds wouldn’t be a problem unless he caused
a ruckus and they actively made an appearance, which wasn't overly likely to
happen on this particular mission. Remy
preferred stealth over outright aggression anyhow - he rarely got caught in
situations where Hounds were likely to show up.
The times he'd skirmished with them, he'd managed to get away with more
than just broken ribs, and he had no intention of a repeat experience. Hounds were every mutant's worst nightmare.
Still, Hound
presence had become more visible the past week or so. There was now a feeling that, with the Trask
Technologies mutant info database made public to mutant rebel factions, said
factions would be able to make concerted efforts to free certain mutants in
certain camps. The camps themselves were
being staked out on a twenty-four hour basis; there was also a government
crackdown on rooting out the dissidents.
Remy had no doubt
that these events had been exacerbated by the Guess incident, and his
subsequent infiltration of the Ritz.
Over a week had passed since then, and the wounds he'd received from
that particular affair still pained him - though the wounds were less physical
than they were emotional, when he thought of who had patched up his injuries so
tenderly. Somehow their last meeting had
tipped the scales into something more intimate, too intimate; too intimate for him to accept. Subsequently he'd spent almost every free
minute of his time delving into the ongoing saga of the mysterious girl with
the white streak in her hair - it had been a way of getting close to her, but
not close enough to rob him of his wits and senses. Nevertheless he'd spent every night since
their last meeting alone - it was a dangerous precedent for him and he knew
what it meant. It was the reason why he
couldn't sleep, why he woke up shaking when he did. But try as he might he still couldn't bring
himself to accept it.
He'd lied to her
about his intentions that day. He hadn't
been tailing Guess at all. That wasn't
to say that he hadn't been tailing Guess on other occasions, because he had
been, albeit for slightly different purposes.
Guess had contacts, he knew where to find certain people, people that
Remy had often needed to find before others did. But on that day, Guess had been far from his
agenda. She had been on his agenda, and he'd been following her for the
express intention of spending some time with her. It had just been a coincidence that Guess had
been the one on her hit list, and when Remy had seen Trask enter that warehouse
he'd instinctively known she'd bitten off more than she could chew. And so he'd followed her inside.
It was an
unfortunate instinct of his to play the knight-in-shining-armour routine - that
day had been no exception. Despite his
better judgement he'd allowed himself to cross a boundary he'd promised himself
he'd never cross - he'd got himself involved in her affairs, too involved to
let it go easily. And now it was a facet
of her life that he'd become fixated on, because it was the only thing he
really knew about her, outside of their safe house, outside of their
lovemaking.
He ground the
Harley to a halt outside another old warehouse.
It was the same kind of neighbourhood you saw all over - a quadrant of tall,
concrete coffins which imparted nothing to the outsider except an impression of
cold, stark indifference. He stepped off
the bike and walked towards the warehouse.
It had long been abandoned - the only things that called this place home
were woodworm, rodents, and the odd drug addict. There was no need for stealth in gaining
entry to this place. It was quite open
to the public, and as far as he could tell, had been for years. He sidled into the rank, fetid open space
that was main body of the building - there wasn't a soul inside. That made his job all the easier.
Remy walked across
to the other end of the room, feigning casualness - only his eyes were
watchful, darting here and there with great alacrity, taking in
everything. At last he came to a back
door, which revealed a small set of stairs that led downwards. Taking care to close the door behind him, he
proceeded down the steps. At the bottom
were three doors. Two were hanging off
their hinges; the rooms inside were gutted and strewn with debris. The last door had been grafittied over, but
remained intact. Remy walked up to it
and tried the door handle. The door was
locked, and any amount of pushing and shouldering wouldn't budge it. But he had come prepared. Fumbling at his belt, he produced a set of
skeleton keys and got to work on the lock.
It was only a matter of minutes before he heard it give way with a soft click, and he was finally able to push
open the door.
What greeted him
was an odd room - it was stacked high with various machines that were whirring
softly on their desktops, shelves or tables; directional microphones,
dictaphones, TV monitors, laptops and computers, VHS and DVD recorders,
surveillance equipment… It was a veritable technophile's wet dream.
Remy stepped inside
the room, letting the door swing softly shut in his wake. It took a moment to acclimatise himself to
the room, so neat, so ordered after the disarray that the rest of the building
had been left in. There weren't only
electronics in this room, but hundreds of notebooks, some stacked in piles on
the floor, others standing to attention in their bookcases, others packed into
cardboard boxes, all with their covers marked neatly in Guess' diligent and
deliberate handwriting.
Of course, Remy had
found out about this place entirely by accident; he'd simply been tailing Guess
one day on the off chance, hoping to cut a deal with him over certain
information, when Guess had ended up heading not to his apartment, but to this
warehouse. It was only when Guess had
left that Remy had taken the opportunity to break in and discover just what the
shifty mutant had been hiding. What he'd
found was a treasure-trove of illicit information. And luckily, Guess had been so low on the
government's priority list that both they and Trask Technologies didn't know
about it yet.
Remy looked over
most of the volumes in the bookcase with only fleeting interest. Each was inscribed with a date and a subject,
whether a certain event or a person's name.
He could only suppose that a mutant ability to rip other people's
memories from their minds meant that there was more information to sift through
than most people had - Guess had had to write everything down on paper, or save
it all onto discs and CDs, in order to collate what he had stolen from other
people's brains. Remy spent half an hour
flipping through Guess' most recent memory records, both in the notepads, and
on the floppy discs and data CDs that had been stored away in a desk drawer. In none of these did he find the name of
'Troy Rifkind', nor the date of the night he had met Rogue at the Ritz. He could only guess that these files had been
in Guess' apartment, and had been confiscated by government agents or Trask
Technologies after his death. Thoroughly
thwarted, Remy stood in the middle of the room and wondered what to do next.
That was when he
saw the videotape, lying unnoticed on a nearby desktop. He picked it up and looked at the label on
the spine, his stomach flip-flopping when he read 'Ritz Security Tape, 2nd duplicate, X-X-2010'. So Guess had been savvy enough to make two
duplicate copies of the tape. He'd
guessed as much…
There was another
tape in the recorder, and Remy ejected it, slipped in the Ritz tape, switched
on the monitor, and pressed 'play'. The
screen flickered, came to life.
Rogue was sitting
at the hotel bar, legs crossed, sipping a tequila. She was looking intently at something
off-screen. He barely recognised her
face - the deep cherry red lips, the dark, charcoal grey eyes. She was wearing a dark green dress of
shimmering satin, strapless, low in the neckline and just a little above
knee-length. Her hair was loose,
cascades of cinnamon hair tumbling over onto her shoulders, the milky streaks
of white hair giving a café-au-lait effect.
Remy sucked in a breath when he saw her.
He'd never seen her looking like this, like a woman, a beautiful, sexy,
self-possessed woman who knew the power she had over men. He knew the look, the pose - it was the kind
of look he'd seen on women many times before.
It was the look of
seduction, of the temptress.
On the screen,
something seemed to have half-startled her; he saw her swivel back round to
face the bar. A few moments later, an
unknown man approached her and offered her a card, which she handed back with a
few, short words. The man inclined his
head and withdrew; she turned back to the bar and sipped a little more of her
drink; and then, suddenly, someone else approached her, someone whom Remy
recognised immediately.
Troy Rifkind.
Remy leaned in,
watching Rifkind buy her a drink, engage in small talk. To Remy, the body language was unmistakable -
Rifkind was interested in her, he was chatting her up, she was in direct line
as his next conquest. And Rogue was
talking back to him, smiling, laughing, joking.
She wasn't oblivious to Rifkind's intention at all, but encouraging it,
milking it, acting coy and demure and playing along with everything he said…
Rogue was flirting
with him.
The realisation hit
Remy like a sucker punch to the stomach.
It wasn't the first time it had crossed his mind, but now,
involuntarily, he found himself asking the question he'd been dreading for
months… …
Did Rogue sleep with Rifkind that night?
Remy swallowed hard
and hit the 'stop' button before he could watch anymore. Reason was telling him that it was entirely
natural for a beautiful woman to use her charms to worm information from a man,
without having to take the plunge and sleep with him. But on the other hand, Rogue had changed
considerably over the past few years… She'd gone from being an awkward girl who
had massive hang-ups about her body to a mature and experienced woman, and it
stretched belief that he alone could be credited for being the cause of that
particular change in her… And of course,
she was perfectly entitled to be with other men…
I don't believe it. Not Rogue.
Sure, she'd charm a man any day of de week, but anyt'ing deeper den dat,
anyt'ing physical… she just wouldn't do it.
Dis was de femme who'd throw a fit if I even suggested de mere notion of
touchin' her arm… No way she'd sell herself for de sake of de cause…
He didn't know
whether he believed this reasoning or not, because he knew that despite her
defensiveness over her body, she still agreed to meet with him on a regular if
sporadic basis, with no pretence at commitment whatsoever…
But dat's diff'rent. Her and me, we got past, we got history…
We're more den jus' strangers…
Much, much
more. He still didn't like to admit it.
Merde.
Dis has gotten too deep, LeBeau.
You shouldn'ta stopped her dat first time round, you shoulda just left
her alone and gone quietly about your own bus'ness… But you just had t' follow
her, you just had to have a taste of her, didn't you?
And now she'd
hooked him, dragged him down with her, down into the depths of something that
was more than just lust and physical need and he couldn't handle it.
There was no point
in staying. Wordlessly he switched off
the monitor, ejected the tape and stuffed it into his duster pocket. Then, silently as he had come, he left.
*
“Hey Remy.
It's Rita. I have some important information for you about that guy you
asked after, you know, that so-called Multiple Man or whatever the heck he's
called? But darling, you have to promise
me you'll me out to dinner first, okay?
And you know I won't complain if you wanna party a little afterwards. I still
have that red dress I know you like… But listen, I've gotta go. Murray's here. Call me back when you're free. Take care o' yourself, sexy. Muah.
Bye.”
Remy deleted the
voice message and dropped the cell phone down onto the mattress beside
him. For several long minutes he stared
blankly up at the ceiling, at the fan whirring round and round and round like a
Ferris wheel moving ever onward, oblivious.
Summer had drawn on
lengthier and more stubborn than any other summer yet, dragging on and on
without any sense of respite. The past
couple of days he hadn't been taking any calls except from his employer, hadn't
changed out of his underwear, hadn't even stepped outside the apartment. He'd been living on a steady diet of spam and
coffee and cigarettes; he'd even imposed a limbo-like state of celibacy on
himself the past three weeks, and it was killing him. Life ached like an open wound that would not
heal, and he could take pleasure from nothing anymore.
Moving his head
slightly, he looked at the tape that had been left untouched on the nearby
dresser for the past ten days. He'd seen
no more of it than he'd watched in Guess' hideout the week before. He hadn't wanted to, for fear of what he may
find. He knew he was being foolish and
irrational, but he needed to talk to her, he needed to find out from her own
lips what had happened, he needed to know if she'd slept with Rifkind, he needed
to know if there had been others. He
needed her.
Merde.
He picked up his
cell phone again, dialled a certain number.
There were several rings before the call was answered.
“Yeah?” The cheap
and cheerful male voice was faint, hushed.
Remy stared up at the fan, turning, turning…
“Did you find her?”
he asked.
“Nope. She's gone.”
“Whaddya mean
'gone'?”
“Gone as in
gone. Split. Made tracks.
Her and her family… they've moved house, know what I'm sayin'? She's not there
anymore. But I could tell you where they
used to hang out, y'know… Maybe you could go check it out… Pick up her trail
again or somethin'…”
“Non.” His tone was
quick, decisive. “I don't wanna know about dat.
Dat was her business, ain't got nothin' t' do wit' me. B'sides, they would've cleaned up b'fore they
left, you ain't gon' find nothin' there.”
“Suit yourself.”
Remy looked at the
tape on the dresser again, refusing to believe she was gone from his life...
“Look…” he began
again, “jus' keep an eye out for her, okay?
She may have moved house, but she's still gotta be workin' in de City…
If you see her again…”
“Remy, bro… Listen
t' me. I've looked for her. And I ain't
findin' boo, man. I swear it.” There was
a pause, a sigh. “Look, man, maybe you might seriously wanna reconsider the
girls you see anyway. I mean, I ain't
stupid, I watch the news too, you know.
And that girl, she's hot stuff, and I don't mean in a good way. Half the city's looking for her. A mutant girl with a white streak in her
hair? She's in deep and she knows
it. She's gone dark, man. Invisible.
You ain't gonna find her, not if she don't wanna be found no more. You wanna see her, you gotta wait for her to
call on you, know what I'm sayin'?”
“Yeah, I know what
you're sayin'. You t'ink I'm crazy and I
should back off, but lemme tell you right now dat ain't gonna happen.”
“Shit. Yeah, I know.
You're fuckin' crazy, and I don't know what the hell is up with you and
this broad, but yeah, I am seriously getting the impression that you are not gonna back off.” Another pause,
another sigh. “Look, Remy, I owe you several favours, so I'll keep a lookout
for the girl. If I ever see her again,
I'll let you know. 'Kay?”
“'Kay. T'anks, mon ami.”
“Don't mention
it. I'll talk to you later.”
He switched the
phone off, dropped it on the bed and stood up.
He should have thought about this before. She'd probably gone ahead and dyed her white
streak, the one distinguishing feature his network of spies had known her
by. If she had any sense at all she'd be
lying low, keeping out of sight until the frenzy had died down. And he had no way of contacting her. No address, no number, not even anything to
remember her by except a bunch of sordid nights they'd spent in one another's
company.
But there was that videotape, sitting so
innocuously to one side, taunting him.
It was the only keepsake he had of her, and it was the one thing that he
didn't want to watch, not ever.
He didn't have to
think. In one swoop he'd snatched it up
in his hands, his eyes flashing red in the dusty sunlight. A surge of power, a flash of pink light and
the tape had been burnt to a cinder.
Remy opened his hands and let the charred remains flutter to the ground.
The tape was gone,
and so was the girl with the white streak in her hair.
*
Summer bled into
winter bled into spring; by March he'd learnt to accept that Rogue didn't want
to be found, and her name had dwindled to no more than a dull imprint etched
upon his heart. By the following summer,
the days had dragged into some semblance of normality - he stopped actively
trying to look for her and got on with his life. Besides, business had increased; his services
were in high demand, wherever it was that they happened to take him, from high
security internment camps to ladies' boudoirs.
The powers that be were growing restless, skittish. Hardly a day went by where he wasn't being
called upon to find this mutant, or that mutant, for participation in this
project or that project - Remy could only suppose that genius led to a certain
capriciousness of mind that normal folk such as he did not possess.
There were two
consequences to this state of affairs: firstly, that there were an inordinately
large amount of mutant breakouts that year, which drove the government to
distraction; and secondly that Remy had little time to go chasing after Rogue.
That didn't stop
him from looking now and then, on the off chance, when he was on the job. There were often times when he would think he
saw her on the streets, or lurking in the shadows when he was on a particular
mission. Mostly, it would be the hair,
or the stance; he'd find himself double-taking women on the sidewalk, only to
find their faces were never the same, or the eyes would be there, but not the
mouth, or the pout but not the laugh, and he'd walk on again disillusioned. Still, he figured it was better this way;
that after all the melodrama the past four years had afforded him, he could go
back to being the devil-may-care rogue he'd been before, a lone wolf hindered
by no unnecessary attachment or emotion.
Nevertheless, though he couldn't quite bear to admit it, he knew he
would never be that same devil-may-care rogue again.
The winter of 2012
drew on with a chill not seen for seventeen years; when it wasn't snowing, the
air was so cold people hurried from house to boutique to café to work as if they
had been chased from one building to the next.
Remy, while a child of sunnier, humid climes, was as much at home in New
York winters as New Orleans summers - nothing the weather could throw at him
fazed him. On the contrary, extreme
weather brought to mind memories of Storm - there were many days when he would
wonder where she was and what she was doing, whether she was still beautiful
and proud and insufferable, or whether the years had broken down the wind
goddess' spirit too.
It was on one such
morning that the phone call came.
The snow had
stopped, leaving New York City frozen in its own grime. Sludge lined every street and sidewalk, painting
the cityscape in filthy had refused to melt for the past week; there had even
been a crisis with some of the older Sentinel models, which had simply frozen
into place overnight. Yup - there were a
lot of reasons for Remy to feel buoyant these days. Business was steady, his wallet was full, he
had a warm pair of arms to hold him at night (courtesy of Tracy, Amy, Collette
and very occasionally Rita), and Louis'
Place was cheap and open 24/7.
Louis kept the
pints coming with his regular stoic calmness.
He was standing on the other side of the bar staring at Remy drinking
his third pint in forty-five minutes with the same deadpan look he always
wore. It wasn't the staring that was
bothering Remy. Louis stared all the
time. It was the fact that he'd been
staring at him non-stop the past half hour that was beginning to tick him off.
“What?” he asked irritably, unable to
help himself. He knew it was never a
good idea to piss Louis off. He'd seen
Louis pissed off, and it hadn't been good.
“I thought you said
you had a good night,” Louis stated, picking up a nearby cloth and wiping a
glass absently, still staring. His voice
was as bland as if he'd stated that the sky was blue, or that coal was
black. Remy scowled and downed the
remainder of his pint.
“I had a good
fuckin' night. Get me another.”
Louis said nothing,
took the glass and filled it up. Remy
slapped some change on the bar, not really caring how much it cost.
“Need a
distraction?” the older man asked, still staring, though dispassionate. Remy grunted.
“Y'know me. I got de attention span of a hummingbird on speed.”
“Looks to me like
you've got a woman on your mind.”
“I told you, I had
a good time last night. Women are de
least of my troubles, mon ami. Now leave
me alone.” He lifted the glass and when he smacked it down again it was already
half empty.
“What happened to
that brunette you brought here once?” Louis questioned. Still staring. Remy stared back, tongue-tied for a
moment. Then he picked up the glass
again and muttered: “Dunno.”
“Did they catch
her?”
Remy could only
suppose Louis watched the news too, and that he had a good long-term memory.
“Dunno,” he
repeated dismally. “What's wit' de twenty questions anyway?”
Louis
shrugged. It was most animated Remy had
seen him in years.
“She had nice
eyes,” he remarked off-handly. “I don't never wanna see a girl with eyes like
that caught and thrown to the lions.”
It was before Remy
had the chance to muse over this odd statement that his cell phone started
buzzing in his pocket. He knew the soft,
cultured voice would speak even before it did.
“I have a job for
you, LeBeau,” it said. “A very important one.
One that may very well play a part in the culmination of my life's
work.”
This was the not
the first time Remy had heard such a declaration made by his employer, for
genius often seemed to lend itself to grave errors of judgement. Nevertheless, Remy hadn't heard such
excitement or fervour in that dark and elegant voice before, and something
about that fact alone left him with deep misgivings about anything the voice
asked him to do.
But there was a reason he still worked for his
employer, why he still obeyed instructions from him, and it was more than just
mere gratitude, or even fear… It was a sense that, out of all the deluded,
disillusioned and desperate people of this world, his was the only sure-fire
way of ensuring mutant survival, of facilitating their escape from bondage.
And it was because
of this that Remy simply said: “What do you want me to do?”
The voice was just
as silky, just as smooth in its reply.
“The usual. Release a mutant, and bring her to me. However, your task this time will be slightly
different. We will be working in concert
with another party, one whose assistance is required in locating this mutant
and subsequently freeing her. I have
taken the liberty of making a bargain of sorts with this second party…
However…” and the voice's timbre changed slightly, sending cold shivers up
Remy's spine, “it is often the nature of bargains that one may renege on them,
a fact I am sure you are most acquainted with.”
“Since when have
you ever wanted to keep your side of the bargain anyway?” Remy dared to ask
boldly; but the voice merely chuckled.
“Ah, but I have
been quite fair to you, LeBeau - and out of nothing more than the kindness of
my heart. You mean more to me than this
rabble with which I have had to barter through nothing more than tiresome
convenience. It is simple, Remy. They have information I don’t, information of
a sensitive kind that they are holding very close to their chests. And I have something they need too, which I
am not about to shout abroad either. The
deal with these people was a natural one to make, but I have no intention of
keeping it.”
“Hmm,” Remy broke
in on a reflective murmur. “Lemme guess. Dey want us t' split fifty-fifty, and
since dis booty is de culmination of your life's work, you ain't willin' to
share, right?”
“Precisely. Their insignificant objectives mean nothing
to me. Compared to my work, all other
endeavours are mere seeds floating on the wind, tossed this way and that,
unheeded by the great forces of time, of evolution. Only my
endeavours prevail, only mine will
gain immortality, LeBeau, and that is why you will bring the mutant to me and me alone, I will tolerate nothing
less from you.”
“And if our
associates object?” Remy inquired, ignoring the sense of foreboding that was
now creeping steadily through him like a frost, cold and unforgiving.
“Kill them,” came
the nonchalant reply. “Once we have obtained our quarry, I will have no further
use for them.”
Kill them. It was a command he'd heard many times
before, but this was the first time it left such a bitter taste in his mouth
and he didn't know why. “And de goods?
Who is it we're looking for?”
It was a name Remy
already knew very well.
“Rachel Summers.”
* * * * *
Go to Chapter
17 : Go to Chapter 19