POWER GAMBIT 4
To Cirocco, the BEST editor and teacher in the whole wide world
 

Scott pities his older friend, he has always hoped the man would
come to his senses. He knows Logan needs a lover who`s also
a friend, needs someone to talk to, to unburden his soul to,
someone who would comfort him after a nightmare and who
would need his comfort. Logan is not cut out for the game, he
doesn't even understand it and plays it like a desperate addict,
no finesse, no joy… No, what The Canadian needs is love:
simple, direct, honest love. The game belittles instead of
enhancing him.
He comes abruptly to a decision, if Gambit could lay his body on
the line in a desperate bid to make the Wolverine understand, he
can do no less.
"I have a private message for you" he says "Remy told me I could
explain the gift of the box to you."
The Wolverine grabs his leader by the neck "Spit it out, Slim!" he
almost screams.
"In private, Logan, for your ears only." Cyke repeats patiently.
"What are we waiting for, then?" An impatient growl, then, - eyes
a slit - Logan turns to Jean.
"No eavesdropping, Red. Not even you, not even on your
husband's mind."
"As if I would!" she snorts inelegantly "I wouldn't dream of
listening in, or reading my pet's mind!"
The Wolverine's gaze is still hard on her.
"Logan!" She barks, then, mollified she sighs a little sigh "Oh,
very well, you have my word. Not now nor ever. This is Remy's,
Scott's and your secret. Satisfied?"
The Canadian nods and pushes Cyclops towards the mansion.
As soon as their back is turned, she smiles a very satisfied
smile. `Bravo, Remy!' she hurrahs in her head.
Warren is standing before the door. "What now, Logan?
Rapunzel has cut off her hair?"
The Wolverine backhands him out of the way without even
hearing him, preoccupied with his own thoughts, and, because
he just wants to remove an obstacle, Warren only falls flat on his
blue ass.

************

Bobby has seen it all and grins. He's almost back to the kid he
was, to the young man he is, and the sight of Warren fuming on
the ground gives him an idea.
Solicitously he asks:
"Warren? Are you alright? Want a hand?"
"Fuck off, you disgusting slave! Don't touch me."
"You wish is my command." The Iceman bows and sends a tiny
layer of ice under the Angel's feet.
The winged mutant falls again, rather more heavily, and curses.
Once more Robert offers his assistance
"Come on, Warren, let me help you up."
Grumbling in defeat Angel takes the Iceman's hand and gets
finally up.
"Are you alright?" The boy sounds really worried.
"Yes, yes, I am." Impatiently, he doesn't want to talk to some
animal's slave.
"Are you quite sure? No backache? No bruises?"
"No, stop that infernal nattering, it was nothing."
A huge grin spreads over Bobby face: "I'm so glad to hear it." He
says sweetly, then without a moment's pause, he one-twos him
to the plexus and the outthrust chin with all his icy strength felling
him like prime steer at the slaughterhouse.
Crowing over his fallen enemy the Iceman lets fly a whoop of
victory. `God but that feels so good!'
Ororo and Rogue, back from a flight of fancy, hear the whoop and
land in curiosity.
"Bobby, boy!" Rogue cheerfully hails him "What's happened
here?"
Still grinning like a hyena Robert Drake says
"Do you want the long version or the short one?"
Ro can't help laughing, infected by the flush of victory in one so
recently crushed. "The short one, please? We have things to do."
she smiles.
"Right." He waggles his eyebrows "Scott is back, Remy said he
will not come back here. He left the Wolverine a box with a truly
gross black-and-ruby collar and his ponytail."
Rogue is intrigued: "Remy cut his hair?"
"Yep!" Bobby is still riding high and laughs.
Storm pales at that.
"That is funeral rite, Bobby," her voice is very stern "there's
nothing to look so pleased about."
But nothing can faze the reborn Xman and he grins at her.
"Looked more like a red flag waved to a bull to me." He says
"Logan sure bellowed like one!" and remembering the look on
the Wolverine face, he laughs even harder.
Rogue is curious.
"Yes but what is the matter with Angel?" And watching the light of
victory sparkle into his eyes again she thinks `He's not bad
looking. In fact he's positively dishy. Mmmmm….'
"Well, the wolverine kind of slapped him down and that put me in
such a good humour that I decided to give him a well deserved
lesson too. I just wanted to trip him and make him fall again, but
when I saw Warren Worthington the Third Wanking Wonder of
the World smirking his hateful smirk, I went totally Logan at him.
And you know what, dearest ladies? I'd do it again for two… no,
one cent."
Rogue laughs the thrilling laugh that always makes Ro shiver,
but not this time, she is too worried for his brother.
"We have to find him, girl."
"Oh, come on, sugar, maybe Icicle's right. He wants Logan to
follow him. Played that trick on you once myself, if you
remember."
"Or maybe he was just saying farewell forever. We must find
him!"
"Okay, hon, don't get your thunder up. I'll help you look. Come
on!"
They take off abruptly ignoring Bobby's yell:
"Remy is not gonna thank you if you interfere!"
Alone with the carcass of his felled foe, Robert sighs:
"Women! Never could understand `em, never will."

*******

"I also told him where we were and what ship he took this
morning."
Scott is tense, not afraid of physical punishment - oh, no! – but
of having disappointed the woman he loves more than life itself.
"Oh, pet!" Jean smiles fondly "Of course you did well."
"I forgot you could not stop me if you wanted to, I just wanted to
help him. Remy thinks he never loved him, but I think Logan
does love him, only he hasn't understood it yet. Remy said you
want happy endings and that sometime there are none, but I
want them too, so I told Logan all I knew. I'm sorry if I did wrong."
Cyclops sits heavily on the bed, head bowed down.
Jean, who is also the Phoenix, sits near him and kindly forces
his head up.
"I love you, pet. I loved you since I met you, so many years ago. I
love, as I loved, your courage, your generosity, your deep and
unafraid kindness, your passion and your integrity. Why should I
carp at them now? What does that mad Cajun always call you?
Nice Scott all silk and fire? Got you in one, pet.
"As for punishment…" and suddenly she kisses him hard biting
his lower lip to blood which she drinks together with the
shudders that now shake him "Love and pleasure need no
excuse. Now get that stupid uniform off."

*******

Remy looks at the departure board in the Athens airport.
`Nice coincidence' he thinks and a sudden grin lights up his face
and makes the clerk's rather protuberant eyes to bulge.
Still grinning, oblivious of the clerk, he boards the flight to
Stockholm.
But afterwards he will go to Canada, his last move in the gambit
for power he's played on the chessboard of his life, sacrificing
almost all his pieces to catch a king.

******

The trail seems to end here. Logan looks at the rather dinky
saloon bar, the only one in this small town in Quebec. It took him
months of tracking, of losing and reinventing hope to come here.
Only one thing has kept him going all this weary while, the fact
that a track exists. If the Cajun had wanted to disappear for good,
no amount of tracking would have found his trail.
He hears music coming from inside, and is afraid to go in. Afraid
of another blind alley, even more afraid of finding his prey and
being rejected, absolutely and forever. He still doesn't quite
know why he can't let the boy - `the man, dammit!' he silently
corrects himself - go. The Acadian is like a drug, he's hooked,
addicted, cannot let him go.
`Come on, Logan, take a deep breath and just go in. At least see
if he's there.'
The Canadian takes a deep breath and goes in.

******

A brushed velvet voice dripping sadness like tears amid the
jeers and catcalls, the raised voices in laughter or lust, the
indifferent drinkers crowding the small stage.
Logan doesn't need to see the ragged russet hair or the mutant
eyes to know who this is. He pushes through the people without
a thought, until he can see the singer hunched on a stool,
battered Strato in his hands, thin body covered, more than
dressed, in a shirt, jeans and the everpresent duster, clothes
that have seen better times, but are not stylishly torn, just old and
used.
The guitar, like a harpsichord of old, had been gently lulling the
senses, but now brutally changes voice and rhythm in a
hammering accelerating heartbeat 2/2 to 4/2 to 8/4 to 12/8 and
still not stopping until it explodes in a wail of despair while the
singer - eyes closed, head thrown back – weaves another
melody, a slow and howling descant, soaring, soaring like a bird
to the sun, spiralling higher and higher until it drops like a
wounded hawk in a sobbing counterpoint to the renewed
hammering chords
Logan blood freezes, the words that incredible voice is singing
are an anthem of despair, of utter desolation. A serenade to
what? The funeral dirge of a love?
The Wolverine's first impulse is to flee:
Run, Logan, run! Run far and hide and never come out of hiding!
This is too much for you.
This is way over your head.
Way over what you desire or can accept.
Run!
Or is it already too late?
Remy has felt Logan come in and his heart is beating far too
fast. He manages to end the song, but has to bow his head
clutching his guitar. He cannot move, he is panting like a dog,
and, most frightening of all, he cannot think.
`Why does the man not move?' he's waiting for a blow, a kiss, a
word… anything but this unnerving stillness, this frightening
silence.
Then thought returns and with it a small flame of hope: `He's too
frightened to move, I'll have to do it myself, as usual…'
He lets his training take over.
"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" he says, insolently
enough, thanks to any wellwishing god who may be passing, "A
wolf come to a sheep's door?"
Logan finds his voice – sort of – and says in a whispering
strangled rasp:
"We have to talk."
"At my house." Remy says.

********

It's not much of a house, but it's clean and isolated.
Logan looks around feeling very nervous and fragile, it seemed
such a good idea when he left, hot on the trail of his obsession,
but now, in front of this cool self possessed stranger it starts to
look like the most stupid notion in the world.
Because he's nervous he feels the need to break the ice and
says inanely:
"That was a very good song."
"Glad you liked it." The Cajun sounds indifferent "It is nothing
much really."
"No it's good and you play very well." `Oh, no! What am I saying?
*must* I be so stupid?!'
But maybe he's said something right because the cold face
breaks into a charming grin
"You are tone deaf, aren't you?"
"No!"
"No. Thank you, but it's just a song. Music helps me live through
the dark and let go a little."
Now or never, Logan. You won't get a second chance, and now
he's smiling.
"I brought you this." the Canadian says, and takes a leather
collar from his pocket.
Instantly Gambit the Menace is flashing cerise eyes, making
even the mighty Wolverine tremble.
"It's for me!" Logan yelps "Not for you! For me! See? It's got your
name on it and everything! You don't want to sub, okay, I treated
you bad, okay, I am ready to pay, see? It's got your name…" he
slowly stops like a toy winding down. The look in the Cajun's
eyes is enough to melt adamantium.
"Very well, Logan," Remy is in the grip of a terrible cold anger; too
exasperated to watch the consequences he plays his last card.
"I see that I'll have to try another way to awaken some sort of
intellect in your adamantium-cast brain. Alright, then, sit down
and make yourself comfy, this is going to be a long tale. You
should like it, it's about slavery.
"You know I was Essex's toy for years, don't you? My father had
schooled me in pain control but his training was nothing to the
schooling I had at Essex's hands. I'm going to describe a typical
exercise, one of many I was made to perform when I was his.
Pay attention now."
"I am naked save for black gloves and black bootees" he stops
grimacing a bit, then goes on
"That was the man's idea of sexy elegance. Must be something
about people like that that destroys their good taste, don't *you*
agree?" He turns his back on the seated man, muttering "Black
gold and rubies…!" and preparing his clothes.
When he turns again he lets the duster slip down over his
shoulders and starts taking off his unbuttoned shirt. While he
strips he talks in a calm clear voice, like someone telling a tale
of no great moment.
"As I said I'm naked save for black gloves and black bootees. I
am kneeling on a smallish platform in the prescribed position:
89 inches exactly the distance between my knees, my feet are
slightly towards the centre at an angle of 5 degrees, the toes are
extended so I can't use them for leverage. I am kneeling up, but
my body is relaxed. My arms are relaxed down my sides. My
head is erect, I look straight in front of me and see nothing at all.
I await my owner."
While speaking he has stripped completely and, naked, kneels
in the position he has described.
"Then my owner comes and I am glad. Soon the exercise will
start. After he has spoken to the servants there, he comes to sit
by me on his chair, on the left side and slightly to the back, so I
cannot see his face or his hands. I want to look at his feet, but I
am not allowed, so I don't. When he is seated, one of the
servants affixes three four-pronged pincers to me.
"Each prong is pushed into a quadrant of my gland. I am
aroused, but am not allowed to be, so my cock is limp. When all
four prongs are in place the pincer is locked shut. A thin steel
chain dangles from it, it is not attached to anything at the
moment. The other two four pronged pincers are placed on my
balls. I have not moved or made a sound. The servant waits. I
wait. We all wait on our owner's pleasure."
Remy falls silent, still and indifferent. Logan's breathing is not
quite normal anymore, the Acadian goes on his voice soft and
hypnotic, but devoid of feeling.
"At his leisure my owner gestures, I cannot see his hand, but I
feel the air's slight movement behind me. The servant takes the
cock-chain and affixes it to a ring on the platform. He does the
same thing with the other two chains. The rings form a triangle
on the surface of the platform. Now I am fixed to the platform.
Through all this I have not moved or made a sound. The pain is
nothing. Yet.
"Now my owner says: `Right up the back, left high, fists.' He is
not speaking to me, he is giving voice commands to his robot
toy. I place my right hand behind my back and stretch it so that
the wrist touches the shoulder blade. When the arm is in
position, I make a fist. Now my owner draws a line with a blade
on my back just under my hand. It must not move from its
position. I then stretch my left arm straight up as high as it will
go. When it is in position I make a fist. I wait."
Logan's breathing is ragged now, his eyes are wide. He too
seems nailed to the chair. There is another pause.
When the voice starts again, Logan jumps.
"At his leisure my owner has a steel ring affixed to a steel bar
lowered until it touches my left wrist. `Lock' he says and I lock my
wrist to the ring. I know I must not let go of the ring. The servant
withdraws and the exercise begins."
"The ring starts to move slowly towards the left and my wrist
follows it until it drags my left shoulder with it and stops. My right
arm has not moved. I have not made a sound."
The slender athletic body starts to tilt following the voice and
stops at an ungainly angle.
"Then the ring moves slowly to the right and my wrist follows it
dragging my left shoulder. My right arm has not moved. I have not
made a sound.
"Now the ring moves more randomly, but always very slowly.
When my owner sees I have the rhythm of the movements he
inserts one finger in my anus, pushes deep in and slides it out,
then he inserts two fingers, pushes them deeply in and slides
them out. This is another rhythm I must follow, but my owner
gives me time to adapt and I do so. My right arm has not moved. I
have not made a sound."
Like a liquid snake the kneeling man follows his own voice in a
dance of abstract beauty.
"When my owner sees I follow faultlessly both rhythms, his
fingers change the beat, now faster now slower, the ring has not
changed its tempo. My right arm has not moved. I have not made
a sound."
The voice stops, but the body keeps effortlessly swaying to the
double beat. Logan can't but notice the right arm has not moved
an inch.
"The ring comes back to its starting position but the fingers do
not stop. The rest of my body is still, only my buttocks move
slightly to counteract the pressures.
"Now the ring starts to climb. Very slowly but relentlessly it
climbs higher and higher. My left wrist follows it. My right arm has
not moved. I have not made a sound.
"Soon I have to rise on my knees and stretch my body. The
chains are not yet dragging on me. My owner's fingers dance
inside me. My right arm has not moved. I have not made a
sound."
Logan gulps, a sound like an explosion in the sudden still and
miasmatic air. After a while the dancer on the floor goes on.
"The ring does not stop. My left wrist is locked to it. I cannot let
go. I know there is a point at which my owner will terminate the
exercise, but I do not know when. As long as I can, I must follow
the voice commands. If I fail and unlock before it is time I will be
punished. If my right arm drags under the line, I will be punished.
If I make a sound I am not allowed to make, I will be punished.
"The ring keeps going up and my left wrist follows it, the chains
are taut, the prong bite into my flesh deeper. I gasp a little but
that is allowed."
Straight as an arrow the naked man on the floor seems
stretched to the limit, but it is not so.
"The movements of my owner's fingers are getting more frantic,
it is difficult to follow their rhythm stretched like this, but the ring
keeps climbing and my left wrist keeps following. Blood is
dripping from my cock, blood is dripping from my balls. My head
is thrown back because my owner knows at this point I have to
see the ring to follow it. I do not feel my left wrist anymore. I make
little sounds half breath half screams…"
The voice suddenly starts to cry in little staccato mews that are
like a grotesque parody of an orgasm. After a while the cries
resolve to words, the voice is still soft, still hypnotic, still
indifferent.
"These I am allowed to do, my owner likes them and
encourages them, but I have to wait until the pain is unbearable
or he will not be pleased. The ring has not stopped, my owner's
fingers rape me, I feel the prongs dragging through my flesh. My
left wrist is locked to the ring. My right arm has not moved. I
cannot use my feet for leverage, soon I will be forced to let go of
the ring. I strive not to let this happen. The pain is raging. A black
flame of destruction devouring me. I use the flame to stretch
further."
Logan sight is playing tricks on him now. He could swear the
knees of the Cajun are not quite touching the floor anymore, he
could swear the white body on the floor will take flight in a
second and transmute in an arrow of flesh. He is suffocating.
"When I can do no more and must fail, my owner stops the ring
and slides his fingers out of me. I wait."
The voice is still. The body is still like a statue, each slender
muscle clearly defined by the skin stretched to breaking point.
- A monument to what Logan? Unfair to ask you to think now? Is
it, Logan? Is it unfair? -
Suddenly Remy, again himself, lowers his head and looks
malevolently at the squirming Canadian,
"Are you having an orgasm, Logan? Because I'd rather you
didn't." he asks acidly.
The release from the tension forces out of the Wolverine a
strange sound part moan, part sob and part gasp.
"What fucking game…?"
But he cannot go on, he really cannot breathe.
"Your kind of game." is the hard answer "Only refined to
perfection. Get your breath back, I am not finished."
The Cajun uncoils with a fluid unhurried movement, puts on his
discarded clothes and sits in the other chair.
"Well?" he asks after a while "Are you ready? Really? Then let
me tell you another story."
TBC