Part Four
It was one in the morning. Hank was trying to finish up a series of
tests in his laboratory before succumbing to the pleas of Morpheus.
He stretched, stared down into the bottom of his empty coffee mug,
and started humming Beethoven's "Ode to Joy," Ninth symphony, last
movement.
The door behind him banged open loudly, and he jumped, nearly
dropping the test tubes he held in each hand.
"Hank, y' gotta help her."
*Remy? What could he be here for? He loathes laboratories* "Remy?"
Hank turned around. "Oh, my stars and garters."
It was Remy, tired, wet, miserable. He had a bruise on the right
side of his face. He cradled Tuesday's limp body in his arms,
holding her easily, letting her head fall against his chest. Rain
made streaks down her face, and she looked scared even though she was
unconscious. "Help her," he pleaded.
Hank nodded, momentarily speechless, and set the test tubes in a
holder on his messy desk. He crossed the room, passing the two rows
of lab tables, to Remy.
Remy didn't ask again, at least not out loud.
Hank reached his hands under the girl and tried to pull her away, but
Remy didn't let go. "Remy," Hank said softly. "I need to get her on
the table before I can examine her." Awkwardly, Remy nodded and let
him take her.
Hank set Tuesday on the examining table, the only space in the entire
lab not covered with papers or equipment.
"C'n y' help her?" Remy demanded.
Hank sighed. This would not be easy. "Remy. Go get some coffee."
"But - "
"Brew a whole pot. Bring me a cup when you do."
Remy gestured helplessly toward Tuesday.
"I'll take care of her," Hank assured. "But it's easier and faster
without companionship And get yourself something to eat. Soup, or
the like. You look like you haven't eaten, either."
Remy nodded. He looked around the laboratory, at the cold metal, and
opened his mouth to say something but caught himself before. He
nodded again and left, closing the door gently behind.
Hank looked down at Tuesday, having a chance to study her for the
first time. She was nearly gaunt. Assuming what Bobby had said was
true, that she and Remy were related, he would have expected her to
be thin, but not to the extreme. She had slender hips, like a dancer.
She was very pale, almost white, and cold to the touch. "Blood
loss," he murmured to himself. She was wearing a thin T-shirt and
hospital pants. No shoes.
Muttering to himself, he retrieved his stethoscope from his chair and
began examining her.
He was nearly finished when Remy returned, a steaming mug of coffee
in each hand. Remy passed one to Hank and gulped at his own. "Well?
" he asked, slightly calmer but not much.
Hank held up a finger and stared at his watch. His other hand held
the stethoscope to Tuesday's chest. After another moment he took the
plastic from his ears and pulled down her shirt again.
Remy watched nervously.
Hank sighed and removed his glasses. "You realize that I have to ask
where you've been?"
"Oui."
"Will you tell me?"
Remy hesitated, then shook his head. "Non."
Hank sighed again, as if he expected it.
"So how is she?"
"She'll live, if that is what you were so concerned about," Hank
began. "There are signs of internal bleeding, and she has a few
cracked ribs which I taped. And judging by the way you're breathing,
I would say that you also have at least one cracked rib as well," he
interrupted himself.
"Go on," Remy prompted, no less anxious.
"Massive blood loss. And not all from injuries." He held up her
right forearm for Remy to see. "It was taken from her, in apparently
a clinical fashion." Remy shuddered, remembering. "There are also
signs of violent sexual assault." Hank cast a sideways glance at
Remy, hoping for an explanation but not being offered one. He
exhaled loudly. "Cuts on her arms, which I've bandaged up for the
most part. Lastly, dehydration and no food. I'd say she hasn't
eaten in almost a week."
Remy nodded, despite himself.
"Remy. Where were you."
Remy shook his head.
"Remy," Hank repeated, nearly exasperated. "I need to know where you
were. I need to know who did this to her."
Remy didn't say anything, just stared down at Tuesday.
"She's a child, Remy. I need to know what happened so I can help her.
Can you identify the attackers?"
No response.
Hank couldn't contain himself anymore. He seized Remy by the
shoulders and shook him violently. "Where - the hell - were you,
Remy?" he demanded through clenched teeth.
"I - I - " Remy closed his eye to keep the tears in, but it didn't
work.
Shocked, Hank let him go. "I - apologize, Remy."
Remy shuddered and shook his head. Wiped at his eyes angrily with
the backs of his hands, he whispered, "Essex and - "
"Who's Essex?"
"Sinister." He took a shaky breath.
"Sinister?" Hank repeated.
A curt nod.
"Oh, my stars and garters."
"I don' wan' t' talk about it."
"But Remy - "
"Just - don' even." He rubbed his hands over his face. "God."
Hank adjusted his glasses. "Are you aware that your shirt is on
backwards?"
Remy choked back a string of expletives.
Oblivious, Hank stared to continue. "Why would - "
Tuesday moved slightly, saving Remy from hearing more.
"Tuesday?" Remy asked.
She opened her eyes - and shrieked. She twisted away and would have
fallen off the table had Hank not caught her. Meanwhile she
continued screaming and fought weakly against him. "Not again leave
me alone nononononononono..."
"Remy, what in - " Hank started, his eloquence gone.
"Tuesday," Remy said smoothly. He took the nine-year-old girl from
the confused Hank. "Tuesday," he murmured as he pulled her against
his chest, keeping her from struggling. She was an empath. Physical
closeness helped her pick up on emotions. "Dey ain' here. He ain'
here."
"Get away get away mon dieu - "
"S'okay, chere. S'okay, Tuesday."
"Remy?" she whispered, her words obscured, her face pressed into his
shoulder.
"Remy," he repeated. "Y' be safe now."
"Where be - "
"He's not here."
"An' dem."
"Y' safe now."
She started to cry and clung to his shirt.
Hank reached for his coffee, momentarily satisfied.
"Did y' test for de Legacy virus?" Remy asked suddenly, still
holding Tuesday.
"Legacy..." Hank repeated dumbly.
Remy nodded.
Realization dawned. "He didn't. He wouldn't have. Even he - "
"He would," Remy contradicted firmly. "Will y' do de test?" It was
hard for him to ask. Hank went to get a clean syringe.
Tuesday whimpered and pressed closer to Remy as Hank prepared to take
a blood sample. "Remy, don', please don', I didn' do anyt'ing."
His stomach twisted. His mind flashed back. *Non...* "It's okay,
Tuesday. Hank ain' gon' hurt you. I ain' gon' hurt you."
She wasn't convinced.
"Do y' trust me, chere."
She licked her lips. "Oui."
"Bien."
"Are we ready?" Hank asked uncertainly.
"Jus' close your eyes," Remy told her. "It don' have t' hurt dat
much." He winced at his words and violently shoved away the memory.
She nodded slowly and squeezed her eyes shut. She tried to draw away
when Hank pushed up her sleeve and wiped alcohol on her forearm, but
Remy kept her from moving. Hank drew the blood as quickly and
cleanly as he could, cleaned the spot of blood that appeared, and
gave Remy a small Band-Aid to put on her. Muttering, he went over to
another table and started preparing the blood in a centrifuge.
"I wan' t' go home," Tuesday murmured.
"Dis can be y' home."
"I wan' my mama. She died. Why did she have t' die?"
"Dese t'ings happen, chere."
"I wan' my mama."
She was asleep by the time Hank was finished.
The results were positive.
Lightheaded and exhausted as he was, Remy could see no point in going
to bed now. He stayed awake with Hank in the lab, watching him
continue to bandage her up, and wondering how in hell he would be
expected to tell Tuesday.
"Sinister?"
Remy nodded heavily. "Yeah."
"Are you all right?"
*Honestly?* "I'm perfectly fine."
"No, you're not," Hank replied softly. "I can tape your ribs as soon
as I'm finished with her, but I fear that is not the real problem.
What happened?"
Remy gave him a level stare. "I don' wan' t' talk about it."
"If you are worried about confidentiality - "
"I don' wan' t' talk about it."
"What is wrong with you?"
Remy snorted. "Nothin' a bullet t'rough de head wouldn' cure."
Hank looked at him sadly. "I don't know the transpiring events
subsequent to your capture, but I am certain that you did everything
within your power and that no blame could possibly rest on you for
the actions of another."
"Right."
"What Sinister does - "
"De Marauders were dere, too."
"The Marauders have returned as well?" Hank repeated, aghast.
"Stronger dan ever." Remy could have kicked himself. *You didn't
catch that.*
Hank glowered. "Vicious monsters."
Remy nodded uneasily.
"You weren't here then," Hank continued, "but those savages
slaughtered hundreds of innocent people in the Morlock tunnels.
There were places one could not even walk without stepping on
mutilated corpses. They didn't even spare the children. They
murdered the children. What kind of a monster could do that to a
child..." he trailed off muttering furiously to himself.
"'S'cuse me." Remy raced to the bathroom and immediately was sick.
***
Remy fell asleep in a chair in the laboratory only to be awoken what
seemed like seconds later to hear Hank softly singing an off-key
rendition of "New York, New York." He groaned and rubbed his face.
"Too early, Henri," he muttered.
"And he awakens..." Hank said dramatically. "Jean has just summoned
us for breakfast. Will you come up to dine?"
"Yeah, sure." He stretched but made no effort to get up.
Hank waited, then asked, "Today?"
"Maybe."
"Soon?"
"Maybe."
"Jean is becoming insistent."
Even in her sleep, Tuesday sensed Hank's energy and the telepathic
exchange and awoke. She moaned and clutched at her stomach. Even
before she could speak, Remy was at her side, holding one of her
hands. She tried to smile. "I don' feel good."
"I know."
She frowned and tilted her head, then Hank said, "Jean says Bobby
made pancakes, and if we want them while they're lukewarm we should
hurry."
Remy asked Tuesday, "Can y' eat?"
"I'm hungry," she admitted.
"Then by all means, let us go and eat." Hank led the way.
***
Sensing the minds of so many people, Tuesday hung back behind Hank
and clutched on to Remy's arm as they entered the kitchen.
Bobby was standing at the counter flipping pancakes. Jean, seated
next to Scott at the table, was telekinetically carrying a plate
stacked high with golden brown circles to the table. Warren was
leaning back in his chair, poring over the stock prices and sipping a
mug of coffee. Logan was flipping through the front page. Ororo
seemed to be chatting with Sam, they were sitting next to each other
in front of the window.
Hank cleared his throat.
Scott looked up and jumped to his feet, his chair sounding loudly as
it slipped from carpet to the tile behind. "Gambit! Where in God's
name - "
Immediately defensive, Remy shot back, "It wasn't my fault dis time.
"
"Remy, where were you?" Ororo echoed in a gentler tone.
"Hi, Ororo." Remy walked up to the table, leading Tuesday as she
refused to let go of his arm.
"Hi? That's it?" Scott repeated angrily.
Tuesday whimpered.
Ororo hastily cut in. "What he means, Remy, is that we have been very
worried. Where did you go?"
Hank interrupted. "Please, be calm, you'll upset the child."
"Too late," Remy murmured under his breath.
"Who is she?" Scott demanded.
"She's my daughter," Remy said. "Kind of."
Scott looked as if he were about to explode. "Kind of?!?"
"Calm down, Scott," Jean cut in. "You're not helping anything."
Scott looked ready to retort but grumbled instead and sat back down.
Remy looked down. "Mes amis, dis be Tuesday. She be stayin' wit' us
for a while, she ain' got no place else t' go." She tried to smile,
and he hugged her tightly.
"Is she a friend from New Orleans?" Jean asked.
"Kind of. Not really. Kind of."
Jean silenced Scott with a look. "Remy, we need straight answers.
Where have you been for the past week, and who is she? Why didn't
you call us to tell you where you were?"
"I didn' ‘xactly have access t' a phone."
"Where were you?"
Remy didn't say anything, he just looked at Hank.
Hank sighed. "Let us just say the Marauders are back. With a
vengeance. As is Sinister."
The reaction was both instantaneous and noisy. Logan popped his
claws and snarled.
Tuesday started to cry and buried her face in Remy's chest.
Scott sputtered for a moment. "Sinister?! That blood-sucking
murderer - "
"People, please!" Hank boomed. "Think calm here, there's been
enough trauma for one day."
Remy narrowed his eyes. "More den enough."
Logan growled again.
"What happened?"
"Give them time."
"Time? We need all the time we have if we're gonna track ‘em. We're
gonna get ‘em this time."
"Can't. Dey teleport."
"Do you have any idea where you were?"
"None."
"And you've been there since last Sunday?"
"A week?"
"Oui."
"Jesus Christ."
"A whole fucking week?"
"The Marauders?"
"How are we gonna find them?"
"How do we fight them if we find them?"
"What did they do to you?"
Hank interrupted again. "Listen, people. They have been home for
all of seven hours. Among other things, they have not eaten in a
week. There will be plenty of time for questions later."
Scott frowned.
Remy ignored him. "Pancakes, Tuesday?" She didn't speak; she simply
nodded.
Ororo pulled out a chair next to her and motioned for Tuesday to sit
down. Tuesday did, hesitantly. Ororo smiled and said, "Hello, child.
Is Tuesday your real name?" Tuesday shook her head. Ororo asked
again, "What is your name then?"
Tuesday answered in a whisper. "Renee."
"That's a pretty name, Renee," Ororo told her. "Which would you
rather be called?"
"Call me Tuesday. It's what my mama call me."
"Where is your mother?"
"Heaven."
"As is mine, child. My name is Ororo Munroe."
Tuesday tilted her head and studied the African woman. She smiled
shyly.
Ororo smiled back and pointed out each of the X-men in turn.
"There's Sam, Warren with the newspaper, Jean, Scott, Logan there,
and Bobby at the stove. And I think you have already met Hank and
Remy."
Slightly overwhelmed, Tuesday shook her head. "I can' ‘member - "
"Do not worry, child, You are not expected to remember everyone's
name at once."
"But there will be a quiz at the end of the week," Logan added. It
took her a minute to realize he was joking.
***
Scott insisted on talking to Hank after breakfast, and Jean followed
them down to the laboratory.
"What happened to them?" Scott asked first.
Hank sighed. "I don't know yet. I've done a complete medical
examination on Renee - sorry, Tuesday - and...well, it isn't pretty.
"
"I can guess," Scott said bitterly.
"She has not been fed in a seven days. She is extremely weak. She
has been drugged, and many of the drugs I found traces of in her
blood were some I had never seen before." He looked right at Scott.
"She was given the Legacy virus."
Scott swore.
"Superficial lacerations on her face. Signs of intense physical and
sexual abuse as well."
"They raped her?" Jean asked quietly.
"It appears so, yes."
"Jesus," Jean breathed.
"She has said nothing, and Remy did an amazing job of avoiding all
questions when they came in last night."
"What of Remy?"
"He let me tape his ribs, and that is all. He has deep cuts around
his left wrist which he has flatly refused to let me examine, though
his shirt and coat were soaked in blood."
Jean smiled painfully. "That's our Gambit."
"It is."
Scott interrupted, "Did he say anything about Sinister? Anything at
all?"
"No. He flatly refused to talk about it."
"Damn it, Remy..."
"Give him time, Scott," Jean advised. "A day or two to get his
bearings, for Tuesday to get settled in."
Scott sighed. "Fine."
Hank turned back to his experiments. "I will be here if you need me.
"
"Thank you, Hank," Jean said, and they left, Scott wondering aloud
how they could have gotten so strong without the X-men finding out.
Hours later, Hank lifted his head from a microscope and scratched his
blue furry chin. He made a mental note to talk with Tuesday the next
morning, to finish some blood tests.
***
Remy rested his head against the back of the white leather couch and
tried to focus his eyes on the television screen. It wasn't working.
He could see colors, but they weren't coming together to form
pictures. Unless Wednesday morning cartoons were meant to be all
psychedelic.
"Remy?"
"Huh?"
He heard Ororo's quiet laugh. "I was asking you if you would like
any tea. I am making myself some, and it would be just as easy to
make two."
*Tea? Tea, tea... Oh, yeah. Tea.* "Oui. Please."
Jean sat down beside him, leaning forward to set her coffee on the
glass table between the couch and the TV. Exhausted as he was, he
could still sense underlying concern. "You look tired."
"Yeah, well." He sat up straighter and rubbed his face with his
hands. He concentrated on not looking tired but decided it wasn't
anywhere near worth the effort.
"Are you all right, Remy?"
"Oui. Fine. Yeah." He looked confused. "What was the question?"
Jean looked at him skeptically. "Right. What's the problem? Can't
sleep unless you have a hangover?"
"Tha's cold, Jean."
"But apt. Is it Tuesday?"
He nodded. "She hasn't slept t'rough de night." He fell back
against the soft leather. His bare feet curled against the silk
Oriental reg.
Jean stopped joking. "Nightmares?"
"Oui."
"I can't begin to imagine what she's going through."
Remy took a deep breath and mumbled his response. "She wakes up
screaming. An' I never know what t' do. So I jus' hold her until
she's okay, den jus' pray dat her demons'll go away."
"She seems like she's doing so well."
"She tries." Only his lips were moving. If he hadn't been speaking,
Jean would have thought him to be asleep. "She be fine during de day,
it's just at night, when dere are no distractions...no one t' judge..
.and de lights are all dim...can' help rememberin'...demons."
For lack of anything better to say, she lowered her eyes and simply
said, "Sorry."
Ororo's voice startled both of them. "I have your tea."
"T'anks, Stormy."
"Do not call me that, please." She was smiling gently anyway as she
set the mug in his hands. "What is wrong?"
"Not'ing. Jus' tired."
Jean looked at him sadly. "You need a nap, Remy."
"Can' take a nap. Got Tuesday t' take care of, soon as she gets done
wit' M'seiur Henri."
Jean insisted. "You need sleep, Remy. I'll watch her for today.
She needs new clothes, anyway. I'll take her shopping. She should
get away from the house every once in a while."
"I will go, too," Ororo added sipping her tea gently. "If you'll
have me."
Jean smiled. "Of course."
"Fathers don' take naps," he mumbled. The taste of mint tea seemed
to rejuvenate him.
Jean rolled her eyes. "Tell that to my dad."
Remy sat up straighter and tried to wake up. "I'm okay."
"Remy, you are going to take a nap," Jean told him. "Stop being
difficult."
He couldn't help grinning. "An' if I don' wan' to?"
Jean sighed in mock exasperation. "I'll drag you upstairs, throw you
on the bed, tie you up and sit on you until you fall asleep." His
eyes twinkled mischievously, but she hastily cut him off before he
could speak. "Don't you dare say anything obscene!"
Ororo laughed gently and pushed the two long locks of hair that fell
down the sides of her face behind her ears. "I do not believe you
have a choice, Remy."
"It's a conspiracy."
"You're just paranoid, Remy," Jean said.
"Doesn' mean dey're not after me."
"Shut up and go to bed."
He drained the last of the tea, wiped his mouth on the back of his
hand, and struggled to his feet. Jean gave him a telekinetic push.
"Carry me, mommy," he quipped.
"Baby," Jean teased. Nevertheless, she lifted him from the ground a
few inches using her telekinesis, pulling a startled "Whoa!" to his
lips and shocking him fully awake.
"Jean!" Ororo admonished, laughing.
"Yes?" Jean asked sweetly, glancing over at the African woman.
"Uh, down? Please?" Remy begged. He was moving his arms, trying to
keep his balance in the air.
"What do you think, Ororo?"
"Maybe you should be merciful. Just this time."
Relieved, Remy smiled. "T'anks, Stormy."
"On second thought..."
"Hey, no fair," Remy protested. Jean's TK flight always made him
nervous. Not because he didn't trust her; he did, more than he
trusted most people. Her method of flight always made him feel
bereft of control. Control over himself and as much of his world as
possible had always been precious. Albeit rare.
"Hang the putz?" Jean suggested.
Kicking at the air but finding himself not moving, Remy pleaded again.
"Down. Now. Please."
Jean finally relented and set him gently back on the Oriental rug,
making sure he got his legs underneath him. "Happy?"
"Very."
"Tired?"
"Less so now, t'anks."
Jean laughed. "Just go to bed, Remy. Tuesday will be fine."
"Sleep well," Ororo added.
Remy nodded thanks and staggered off to his room, dropping onto his
bed and falling into a deep sleep before he could even take off his
shoes.
Jean and Ororo chatted until Hank was finished with Tuesday. Jean
called her into the living room with a simple telepathic message.
"Where be Remy?" were the child's first words as she entered.
"He's sleeping," Jean said.
"Oh."
"We thought it would be a good idea," Jean continued, "for the three
of us to go shopping, get you some clothes."
"I have clothes. I'm wearing clothes."
"I know, Tuesday, but we should get you some more. You can't wear
the same outfit everyday, and some of Jubilee's cast-off's are, well,
junk."
"It will be fun, child," Ororo interjected.
"Girls' day out," Jean agreed.
Tuesday thought about it for a moment. "Okay."
"Great!" Jean smiled. "Just let me get my purse." She left, her
heels loud on the marble floor as she stepped off the rug.
"So what did Hank have to tell you?" Ororo asked a few moments later.
Tuesday looked up at the weather-goddess with a simplicity that
bordered on nonchalance. "He says I'm dying."
"Oh." She was at a loss for words. Tuesday sat on the couch and
rested her head in her hands. Ororo sat beside her. "Are you all
right?"
"What is it like t' die?"
Ororo thought. "I do not know what it is really like, child, but I
know how I imagine it."
"How d' y' imagine it?"
Ororo usually imagined death as the ultimate entrapment. The final
loss of freedom, borne, a psychologist would have said, from her
severe claustrophobia. But she didn't say any of this to Tuesday.
Ororo had created for herself another view of death, a heaven, a
belief in which she was struggling to cultivate. "I imagine heaven.
Peace, quiet. Music. Lots of color. Open air." She looked down at
Tuesday. "And you?"
"Never t'ought about it before." Tuesday tilted her head and asked
hesitatingly, "D' y' t'ink, I mean, maybe, dere I might meet my mama
again?"
"I hold the same hope for myself and my mother."
"Really?" Tuesday twisted to look into Ororo's eyes. "Y' t'ink we
can?"
"I pray for it to the goddess."
"What d' dey eat in heaven?"
"Eat?"
Tuesday flushed. "I jus' mean dat, if I'm gonna go dere soon, should
I try t' pack a lunch or somet'ing - " she stumbled over her words.
"Ororo, I don' wanna die."
"No one does." Ororo wrapped her coffee-colored arms around the nine-
year-old who struggled not to cry.
"Got it!" came Jean's triumphant voice. "Now, are we ready - " she
entered and stopped short. Ororo looked up at her and nodded as if
to say, she's okay.
"I'm ready," Tuesday said as she pushed away and stood up.
"You sure?" Jean asked uncertainly.
"Yes. We are ready," Ororo answered.
Scott came in looking for Jean. "Honey? Have you seen the TV Guide?
Hi, Storm. Hi, Tuesday."
Immediately wary, Tuesday sucked in her breath.
"Didn't you leave it in the game room?" Jean asked.
"I just checked there."
"Bobby probably has it then. Find him."
"Okay. Thanks. Where are you girls going?"
"The mall."
"Oh. Well, have a nice time." He went off to look for Bobby.
Tuesday didn't relax until he was out of hearing range.
"You all right, Tuesday?"
"Oui."
*What was that about?* Ororo thought to Jean. *Why is she
frightened of Scott?*
*I'm not sure,* Jean answered. * She acts the same around Logan and
Warren. I think it's an after-affect of the rape.*
*A general fear of men?*
*That would be my guess.*
Tuesday looked from one to the other, not catching the words but
feeling the emotions of curiosity and concern, and realizing it was
about her. "What I do?"
"Nothing, child," Ororo assured her.
Tuesday wasn't convinced.
Jean changed the subject as they started toward the garage. "You
ever gotten your nails done?"
"Non."
"Well, we'll have to make an extra stop before we come home."
***
*****
Remy wandered into the kitchen, sleep still in his eyes, his hair
tousled no matter how many times he tried to smooth it down.
Barefoot, wearing old faded jeans and a white LSU T-shirt, he found
his way to the cabinet and fridge to get a glass of milk, then to the
walk-in pantry for a box of Frosted Flakes.
"You feeling better now, Remy?"
Remy jumped, nearly dropping both the glass and the cereal. He set
them both down on the kitchen table and tapped the side of his head
with the heel of his hand. His spatial awareness hadn't alerted him
to anyone else's presence. Lack of sleep could do that. "Bonjour,
Hank."
"Did I startle you?" The furry blue scientist looked up from his
bowl of soup and _Discover_ magazine. The occasional break, he had
found, cleared one's mind of clutter and fog and better prepared one
for work. He had resolved to take one at least every four days.
Remy shook his head, changed his mind, and nodded instead.
"I apologize," Hank said.
"Tuesday an' dem back yet?"
"Not yet. They called and said they were having dinner out. Are you
feeling better after your nap?" He checked his watch. "You slept
for nearly four hours."
Nodding, Remy spread a handful of Frosted Flakes on the table in
front of him and started munching.
"Feel so much better. Longest I've slept in days."
"Tuesday keeps you awake?"
He nodded. "Not her fault. She be havin' nightmares ‘bout...dem,
and she wakes up screamin'." He shuddered. *And if she knew that I..
.* "She's gettin' better, though."
"I'm glad. Remy, I need to talk to you."
Remy was immediately on guard. "'Bout what?"
"Two things." Hank hesitated. "First. We need to know what
transpired subsequent to your capture in order to best help Tuesday.
I need to know what the Marauders did to her physically and I need to
know what drugs she was given, as best you can tell. Anything at all,
because the virus is replicating at a much faster rate than with
Illyana. After three days, she is now where Illyana was after almost
two weeks. I'm up the proverbial creek trying to help her. And
Scott, as you might expect, wants to know what Sinister is up to now
and how strong the Marauders are. Leaderly things."
Remy's face was set like stone. "I don' wan' talk t' him about dis.
"
"You don't have to," Hank reassured him. "I know this will be
difficult, both for you and for Tuesday, but unfortunately it is
necessary. If you feel comfortable talking to me, that's fine."
"Tuesday ain' gonna be able t' say much."
"It was that bad?"
Remy stared at him with his glowing red eyes. "Y' have no idea."
"Very well. How about Jean?"
Remy considered. Jean's telepathy would make it all easier. And
Tuesday did feel comfortable with her. But he wasn't sure he'd be
able to shield the pieces that incriminated him. Then he cursed
Sinister that fate had made it necessary for him to weigh his
reputation against the life of his own daughter. "Oui."
Hank nodded. "I am sorry it has to come to this."
Remy shook his head. "What else did y' need?"
"It's about the virus."
Remy sighed. "I know she be sick. I know she be dyin'."
"That wasn't what I needed to discuss with you." Hank took a deep
breath. "Remy, I think you need to know that the virus is airborne.
As she starts getting sicker, and she starts coughing more..."
"Wait," Remy interrupted. "What are y' sayin'?"
"I'm saying," Hank repeated patiently, "that you will be a great risk
for contracting the virus."
"No one caught it from Illyana."
"I know, and I do not know exactly why not. But the probability - "
"What d' y' mean y' don' know?"
"I mean - "
"I t'ought you knew about dis virus." Remy shifted nervously. He
had a milk mustache.
"What I know about the Legacy virus could fill a book. It's a filio
virus. Highly mutagenic. Airborne. Attacks the X-factor, then
spreads to the lungs. I have a map of the protein structures. But
what I don't know could fill at least two books."
"So why does dat mean I'm gonna get sick?"
"I'm not certain it does. Look. The nucleic acids within a mutant's
DNA are configured in a specific way. The combination that manifests
into the mutant power, the X-factor, is attacked by the Legacy virus.
Unless the protein structure and the RNA within the virus match
completely, which is difficult and because of which the virus was
made to be highly mutanogenic, is - "
"Hank," Remy interrupted. "I ain' a biochemist. I be a man who
hasn' slept much recently, who finally got a nap, an' who just woke
up. Make it simple."
"Very well." Hank thought for a moment. "Within each of a mutant's
cells, there is a pattern of nucleic acids. This gives a mutant his
or her powers. It's called the X-factor. Follow?"
"Oui. Dis much I know."
"All right. The pattern within the Legacy virus must match
completely with the X-factor within a mutant's DNA for him or her to
be affected." He looked at Remy for confirmation of understanding
and was given a nod. "The X-factor varies wildly from one mutant to
the next. Jean Grey's X-factor has given her telepathy and
telekinesis. Yours gave you the ability to power inanimate objects
with kinetic energy." Remy nodded again. "The Legacy virus was
designed to wipe out all mutants. To do that, it must infect all
mutants, and to do _that_ it must mutate to fit each different gene
pattern in each different mutant. You comprehending?"
Remy opened his mouth to ask a question, changed his mind, and nodded.
"Okay. For the virus Illyana had to affect Jean would have required
a tremendous mutation. The probability of such a mutation occurring
within her presence is almost infinitesimal." Hank took a deep
breath again. "But the difference in the genetic structure of you
and your daughter Tuesday is almost nothing. She is not a mutant in
the strictest scientific definition of the word."
"What d' y' mean?"
"I mean that your genetic structure did not mutate much, if at all,
when it was passed to her. The mutation required by the Legacy virus
would be small, to say the least. The probability is much larger.
The threat is definitely there."
"So - overall, you're sayin' dat if I hang around wit' Tuesday, I
catch de virus."
"Most likely." Hank searched for a reaction.
Remy considered this, then finally shrugged. "So be it."
"Remy, this is a death sentence."
"I don' care. It be my fault she be sick in de first place. I'm de
only family she got now, an' I ain' gonna abandon her, too."
"Are you aware - "
Remy leaned forward and stared into Hank's eyes. "D' y' wan' me t'
abandon her?"
Hank answered simply, "No." He looked away for a moment, at the
fridge. *Where did that Kermit the Frog magnet come from? Oh, never
mind.* He looked back at Remy. "Just warning you."
Remy smiled, and Hank smiled back. "I won' get sick. Ain' been sick
a day in my life, ain' gon' start now."
"Here's hoping." Hank raised his coke can in a toast. Remy followed
suit with his milk. "To immortality," Hank said.
"To immortality," Remy repeated. "Enough of dat defeatist talk."
They both drank.
"Ah," Hank said. "Caffeine."
"Story of my life."
"Are you aware that you have a milk mustache?"
"Do I? Shit." Remy wiped at his mouth with the inside collar of his
shirt.
"You got it."
"T'anks."
* * *
There was nothing good on TV. Remy was sick of channel surfing. The
cartoons weren't as psychedelic as they'd been before he'd slept, but
he settled on one of them anyway.
Warren stood in the doorway but didn't enter. Finally, he said, "I
heard about what the Marauders did to Tuesday."
"Yeah?"
Words came hard for Warren Worthington III, especially words having
anything to do with personal emotions. He spoke slowly. "And I
wanted to say that I think I know what she went through at their
hands."
"Eh?"
"When they took my wings. It was the same thing." The metal wings
she had been given in substitute shimmered behind him as he moved
them subconsciously. "They took everything from me." His face
clouded over as he remembered. "Tell her she's not alone. Tell her..
. that's what they do. She's not alone. You're not alone either,
Remy." Warren turned and left without waiting for a reply.
The sardonic irony of that encounter struck Remy in the chest like a
round from a shotgun.
He turned off the television and left the room, heading for the roof.
Logan stopped him in the hall. "What's going on? Scott and Hank
won't tell anyone nothing."
"Sinister's back."
"I figured that. What happened to you two?"
Remy shrugged uncomfortably. "I got de shit kicked out of me, she
got gang-banged, I got tortured, and she got de Lecacy virus, what
more d' y' need to know?"
Logan growled. "Where to find the fuckers, how many pieces to carve
them into, and where they want the remains sent."
"Dat's a start."
Logan nodded ruefully. "That's about all it is, though. We all have
reasons ta hate Sinister and his Marauders."
Remy laughed darkly. "Ain' dat de truth."
"I'd love to have at ‘em again."
Remy tried to joke. "Jus' t'ink, one well-placed nuke..."
"Napalm," Logan added.
"Molotov cocktails," he added automatically.
Logan nodded. "Thanks for being straight, Cajun."
Remy nodded as Logan continued on walking. Then, "Molotov cocktails.
Shit."
***
"Well, we just got the Angel," Blockbuster reported.
Scalphunter grunted approval as he wiped his hands on his silver
pants, one at a time so he didn't have to put down the gun he was
holding. Blockbuster's words were hollow in the dank tunnel system.
"Got him how?" Remy wanted to know. "Dead?"
"Nah." Blockbuster shrugged. "Maimed. Harpoon got him through each
wing. He'll never fly again." He laughed. "He was pinned to the
wall like a butterfly in a bug collection. Didn't you hear the
screaming?"
"Yeah."
"There you go, then."
"It was going great until that guy with wings on his hat showed up,"
Arclight cut in.
"Who?" Scalphunter asked.
"That guy..."
Remy ignored the exchange. The splashing in the tunnel crossing
theirs was getting louder. His empathy told him the newcomers
weren't Marauders, which meant -
He stepped away from the circle, more quietly than was necessary. He
reached into his coat pocket and drew out three playing cards. He
sprung forward, to find himself facing the enemy.
A boy of about fifteen, with curly raven-colored hair and glasses
looked up at him. The boy was half -carrying, half-dragging an older
woman, probably his mother, who was clearly unconscious. The boy
gaped in surprise, then fear, then the glowing cards resonated in the
hollow tunnel. The blacked bodies sunk most of the way into the
water.
Remy wandered back slowly, tearing the shrink wrap off another deck
of cards. He was going through decks quickly.