The morning after my first dream, I had just lain in bed for a few
hours, lettin' the pre-dawn silence try and lull me back to sleep. I
didn't have a damned clue why I'd be dreamin' about that kid,
especially now. At first I'd thought it was just my anger riddled
brain givin' me a break and lettin' me think `bout something more
appealing than busting a few skulls, namely a nice day or the odd
sense of family we'd all shared back then. But the longer the dream
went on, I realized what the hell was goin' on.

It was weird, real weird, to be watchin' the whole scene over `gain,
completely removed this time around. Memories and flashbacks I could
deal with, dealt with `em as long as I can remember. No, the freaky
part was that this time `round, I caught everythin'. Everythin' we
missed the first time. They weren't kiddin' when they said that
hindsight is a bitch and a half. Especially when it all hits ya
after the kid's dead and gone. All the things my brain instinctually
picked out didn't help me a damn bit, actually made it all worse.
Pointin' out all the shit we failed to notice.

Like how the kid only had one bag wit' him; one measly duffle bag
when he was supposed to be moving in for good. There are a lot of
things wrong with that, right there. It obviously hinted that he'd
had a hard life before he moved in, no one wit'out some serious life
experience could survive with that lack of stuff, at that age. That,
and he obviously didn't feel comfortable if that was all he was
bringin' in with him. He wasn't "moving in," just stickin' `round
and still ready to run, because he didn't trust us. But we never saw
it, never tried to earn that trust. Never brought him, failed to
bring him into the family. Make him one of the pack.

Failed.

That shit stings. And it ain't like thinkin' about him dyin' out in
the ice and snow didn't make us all feel enough like failures, in
one way or another. Now we were all startin' to see the other ways
we'd failed LeBeau; the small failures that somehow lead to the
worst one o' all. Why didn't anyone notice the way we turned him
into an outsider from the very beginning? There are two god'damn
telepaths in this house, three if you count Bets. Why was everyone
so fuckin' blind? Why was I?

Speakin' of telepaths, Jean really surprised me. Back then, even
from the the first fuckin' minutes the kid was here… she'd warmed
up. Jeannie never was a cold fish, mind ya, but somethin' in her
sparked. Hope. Curiosity. Mother hen instincts. Dunno really, but it
was something. She took an immediate interest in him, a platonic
one – bet Cyke was glad for that shit, too. She hovered around him
the first few days, when everyone else steered clear of the "new guy
wit' the eyes." But even wit' the extra effort she put into it, they
never clicked and they only ever held onto a shadow of the
friendship that she'd offered at first.

Now, that spark of warmth was gone; replaced by anger at his
betrayal and grief at the loss. Jeannie's a smart woman, I know she
knows that leavin' him ta die wasn't the only way we'd wronged
Gambit. I'm sure she's fightin' some kind of mental thing, her pain
at losin' the kid forever warrin' wit' her anger. It's a tough
battle, one I been fightin' fer years. One day she'll realize that
it's all for shit, that neither is ever gonna win. She'll realize
that she's just got to give up and let go. But that day's a long
time comin'. I almost feel bad for her, since I did love her once
upon a time n' all, but I can't seem to care `bout any of them
enough to help `em wit' their guilt. Hate to say it, but they
deserve it this time.

We all do.

The next dream didn't come until a week after first, and I wasn't
any more ready than I was the first time. But this time I knew what
the hell was goin' on. Whoever deals with this shit was havin' fun
tormentin' me with hidden memories and delightin' in showin' me
every mistake we ever made, in person. Talk about relivin' hell.

* It was the first time we'd ever had the kid down to the Danger
Room, a week or two after he came. Cyke was interested to see what
Remy could do but Chuck wanted to let him get settled `fore we put
him through trainin' hell. We both knew about the kid's skills as a
thief, and his powers, but every X-Man needed some kind of fightin'
skill. Not all of us grew up on the team and not all of us were born
fighters, afta all. So Cyke decided we needed to find out how much
work he needed, hand ta hand.

Figurin' that a program could wait until the kid was comfortable
with the idea, he decided to let someone on the team test him out in
a spar. Fer some reason, he picked Wings. Probably since he was the
only one of the originals `round at the time, but probably not the
best idea either.

"Okay, Warren. Take it easy, we just what to see how adept his
defenses are," Scott instructed from the control room where we were
waitin'. I sat in a chair, feet propped up on the consol and an
unlit cigar clenched between my teeth. Somethin' about the kid's
scent made me want a smoke real bad but Cyke'd have a spasm if I lit
up in the lower levels. Grinnin' ferally, I kicked back and waited
fer the show to start. It wasn't a secret that I didn't like Warren
all that much so watchin' him have to work the kid through a few
rounds in his free time sounded like an interestin' afternoon ta me.
Plus, the kid wasn't too hard on the eyes.

Especially not in nothin' but black pants ridin' low on his hips and
his hair pulled back, bangs all up in his face anyway. It really
seemed to get on Slim's nerves that the kid might as well have come
right after a nap for the way he was dressed. Ha, another reason to
like the kid. He could push Scooter's buttons without even tryin'.
Hell, maybe he was tryin', who the hell would rather dual barefoot
and shirtless anyway? He'd even dropped his signature black coat off
in the corner of the room.

"Yeah, Cyke, I got it. Just a few offensive moves." Warren answered
back lazily, glancing at the smirking Cajun with contempt. "Wouldn't
want to scare the brat." My sensitive hearin' barely picked up his
muttered sneer and I sat up a little straighter, grinnin' from ear
to ear and decidin' this was definitely worth the wait. They hadn't
even started and Warren was bein' his cocky, condescending self.

Warren grabbed a long, wooden training staff and waited for the kid
to grab the other. When he did little more than raise an eyebrow,
Worthington just shrugged, grinned, and lunged. Now I may be a
survivalist, someone that'll kill ya if you get in my way. I might
even be a dirty fighter, wit' the claws and all, but that wasn't
okay in my book. It was just a fuckin' trainin' session, the kid's
first, and Warren surprised him before he'd even gotten his hands on
a weapon. Scott didn't seem to care, probably thinking that he'd
have to be used to this shit if he wanted to be on the team fer
real.

But the kid surprised us all, smoothly vaultin' into a quick back
flip at the last second and ending in a defensive crouch a few feet
away, grinnin' at Warren.

"Well, well," Cyke muttered under his breath. "Looks like our new
friend has a few surprises up his sleeve."

All I could do was think `what sleeve?' with a sneer and watch the
scene unfoldin' down on the floor. Warren obviously didn't like the
surprise, or the smirk on Gambit's face, and immediately forgot it
was the kid's first training session. Gettin' his wits `bout him, he
took a step back and waited for the kid to stand again. Spinnin' the
staff, he circled Remy until their positions were reversed. Then in
a bust of speed, he charged the Cajun with the stick held
horizontally in front of him.

Not enough speed though, since Gambit grabbed onto the staff and
used the force to propel him up and over Warren, droppin' into
another crouch and effectively sweepin' Wings' legs out from under
him. He stood enough to snatch the staff from the air, the one that
Warren let go of in surprise, and held it to Warren's throat. All in
one quick, smooth movement. Gotta admit, it was all Cyke and I could
do but stare and wait for the next development. This shit was better
than a car accident.

"Why you little…" Warren trailed off, watchin' Remy back off a step,
keepin' the staff out in an offer to help him off the floor, where
he'd fallen on his pretty boy face. That same smirk was back on the
Cajun's face as Warren got up on his own, glarin' daggers at the new
kid kickin' his ass.

"Dropped somethin', mon ami." The kid tossed the staff at Warren as
the blue-skinned mutant got to his feet. Even from my seat in the
control room, I could see a muscle in Worthington's jaw jump as it
clenched way too tightly. Oh man, this just kept gettin' better and
better.

"Don't test me, you swamp rat," he growled in warning. The Cajun's
eyes narrowed and Cyke decided to step in and try ta ruin my fun.

"Okay, guys, that'll do. Gambit, I'm surprised…" Yea, and he was
even more surprised when they both ignored the crap outta him and
went back to stalking each other dangerously, both seriously itchin'
for a little ass kickin'.

The two of `em circled each other, low and slow, turnin' their
session into an ep of Wild America. Slim just fumed, mad they were
ignorin' him. And I watched like it was goin' outta style.

One false moved from Warren and the kid's hand whipped behind him,
pulling out somethin' silver that extended into a bo-staff almost as
tall as him, held at ready in an instant. Not only was the kid
skilled and acrobatic, he was quick as fuck, showin' off that cat-
like grace of his.

"Impressive toy, thief. You steal that, too?" That got under the
kid's skin and the fight started. It was a good ten minutes of
staff's smackin' each other and no one gettin' a hit in before
Warren staggered back, leaving Remy enough space between. Takin' the
opportunity, he vaulted on his bo-staff, kickin' the wooden staff
from Warren's grasp before spinnin' and extendin' his towards Wings,
like before.

Only this time, the staff held against Worthington's throat was
glowin' red and tippin' Warren's head back in predatory victory.
Glarin', Remy answered Wings' earlier insult in a dangerous voice,
knockin' Wings down a few pegs.

"Don' be talkin' `bout stuff you don' know nothin' `bout, homme." *