Demons
Part Six
"It's a pretty sunset," Tuesday murmured. "Like God found some
watercolors an' had a field day."
Remy half-smiled. He was getting used to her poetic comparisons.
They were sitting on the porch by a back door of the mansion because
Tuesday didn't have the balance anymore to brave the roof.
"Hank says I only have a few days left."
"He's wrong."
"He's never wrong."
"Prove him wrong." He would have continued if she hadn't started
coughing.
"It's really weird, y' know," she said when she stopped.
"What is?"
"Knowing dat y' gonna die real soon. Dat dis could be de last pretty
sunset I get t' see. I won' get t' see Christmas again. I can' even
turn ten. Y' know?"
He closed his eyes and took a long shaky breath. "Oui."
"Everyt'ing now is last time. De last time I eat spaghetti. Last
time t' watch X-Files. De last time - " she bent over, coughing
violently.
"Stop dat," he commanded helplessly. "Y' might break a rib or
somet'ing."
"C'n I have some codeine?"
"Non. No way." He was adamant about that. Remy was allergic to
most drugs and almost all sedatives. He had been given codeine once
and his heart had stopped. No one was sure how much of that
intolerance Tuesday had inherited, but no one wanted to push it.
Hank had given Tuesday the medicine last week, but a tiny amount.
She wasn't near as strong now.
Logan pushed the door open. "Gumbo, get yer butt in here. Scott's
yakkin' ta everyone."
Remy sighed. "Sure."
The X-men were gathering in the kitchen; all of them were talking at
once. Tuesday hung back, her arms wrapped around her, intimidated by
the noise.
"People," Scott said loudly. The noise died a little. "People,
we're leaving in the Blackbird in five minutes. The Marauders are in
Boston."
That sparked even more noise. Ororo gasped; Sam tried the speak but
only stuttered; Logan swore.
Tuesday shrieked and darted into the living room.
Scott tried to speak over the din. "Everyone in costume, now. I
want to leave in five minutes." Then, quieter, "Beast, you'll be the
only one staying behind. We need all the men we have."
"I understand."
Ignoring the others, Remy walked off in the direction Tuesday had
taken off in. "Chere?"
He found her curled on the white leather couch, a pillow held over
her head, visibly trembling.
She jumped when he sat beside her. "Dey're coming, dey're here, dey
gonna kill us, dey will."
"Chere, dey're in Boston. Dey ain' here. Dey can' come here."
"Why can' dey? Dey could do it again."
"Dey, can', we gotta go t' dem."
"Don' go," she pleaded. "Dey'll kill you, dey'll come back and kill
me."
"Chere - "
"Don' go!" she screamed. "Don' leave me here f' dem!"
She was cracking, he knew. "Okay, okay," he murmured as he pulled
her close. She clung to him for dear life. "It's okay."
"Gambit?" Scott appeared in the doorway. "Ready?"
"Ain' goin'." Remy said, matter-of-factly.
"Gambit, this is serious. You don't know the Marauders in combat."
"I ain' goin'."
Scott broke character for a split second. "Why the hell not?"
"I ain' about t' bring Tuesday back t' dem, an' I sure as hell ain'
leaving her here alone."
Scott opened his mouth to argue again but realized from Remy's eyes
that he had little chance of winning. "Fine. Everybody else to the
Blackbird." He glared at Remy. "This isn't over."
"Bite me," Remy said under his breath.
The house shuddered as the Blackbird took off.
"Y'okay?"
She nodded and wiped at her eyes. "I don' mean t' be such a wuss."
"Y' not a wuss, Tuesday."
"I'm sorry, I jus' - "
"Y' wan' a milkshake?"
"O-okay."
He carried her to the kitchen and made her a milkshake. Chocolate,
just like always.
They watched TV until she fell asleep. Remy carried her upstairs and
got her settled in bed. He wandered back down to the kitchen for a
beer.
The house was completely silent. He assumed Hank was down in his
laboratory.
It would have been almost peaceful if Sinister hadn't been waiting in
the kitchen.
"Jesus Christ!"
Sinister smiled. "Hello, Remy."
"De fuck - non. Dis isn' real. Y' can' teleport int' here." He
struggled to rationalize, his brain swirling, praying to God Tuesday
would stay asleep.
"True."
"How de hell did y' get here?"
Sinister lifted his arm and passed it through the refrigerator. He
was a hologram. "Feel better?"
"Non. What d' y' wan'?" His heart beating like a scared rabbit,
Remy had to remind himself to breathe.
"I wanted to see how my favorite Marauder is doing."
"I'm not a Marauder, an' I'm not your anyt'ing."
"I made you. I can - do what I like with my creation, can't I?"
Remy cringed and brought his fists to his face. "Go away, f' de love
of Christ get away from me."
Sinister responded with amusement. "I own you. Everything that
composes your flesh, your soul, is there because I willed it to be
there. I made manifest your mutant powers. I trained you. You had
no control over your powers before you came to me. I made you, and
for all intents and purposes, I am your father."
Despairing, Remy peered through his fingers. His red eyes glowed.
"Y' made me a demon, is what y' did."
"Perhaps. But isn't that just a matter of semantics?"
"Why aren' y' in Boston wit' de rest of de Marauders?"
"What if I told you that was just a ruse to empty the mansion so I
could talk to you?"
"What if I don' wan' t' talk t' y'?"
"You don't really have a choice, do you?"
"I c'n choose - "
"Then remember you chose to come to me in the beginning."
*You lost that one, Remy.* "Fuck - "
"And lastly remember, Remy, it takes more than genetics to make a
father."
Remy moaned and clenched his teeth. "What d' y' want."
"Besides the obvious?" He laughed as Remy choked on a reply. "I'm
here simply to tell you how life is going for you right now. To tell
you time is running out for you, literally and figuratively. To wish
your daughter well over the next few days. And now to bid you
farewell and wish you good day." The hologram shimmered and slowly
faded.
"Wait!" Remy pleaded.
The shape reformed. Sinister waited expectantly.
Finally Remy spoke again. *Too many people died because of me...I'll
be damned if she dies too.* "C'n y' cure it?"
"The virus you mean?"
He gave a curt nod.
"Of course."
Remy clenched his fists and asked, "Tuesday - what would it take - "
"Rejoin us," Sinister said simply. "Rejoin the Marauders, and I will
give Dr. McCoy the cure for the virus that ails Tuesday."
"Non. I can' do dat."
"That's all right. I'd say you have another three days to change
your mind."
He whimpered. "Bastard."
"Three days, Remy." He was gone.
Remy collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs and struggled to stop
shaking.
The seeds were planted in his brain.
*My soul for her life.*
"What now?" he murmured.
The house was much too quiet. There was nothing to draw the mind
away from introspection and memory.
***
"What now?" Riptide wanted to know.
Remy sloshed his feet in the calf-deep water. He wished he hadn't
worn blue jeans. The red blood in the water was starting to creep up
to his knees. "Question,." He pointed to either side of him, where
circles of black opened on the main tunnel they were standing in.
"What d' we do ‘bout de tunnels?" The crossroads had been marked on
the maps Sinister had provided. The two were dead ends.
"Fireball them." Harpoon suggested.
"Molotov cocktails!"
"Riptide, you're obsessed. Do you have any idea how long that would
take?"
"Do you have any idea how long you would take?"
"Are you trying to get me to kill you?"
"Yo mama."
"What about my mama?"
Scalphunter broke in then. "We'll do it the way we've been doing it.
Riptide, you push whoever's in there to the end, Harpoon, follow him
up and take ‘em out. Gambit helps Harpoon. When you're done, follow
me ‘n Scrambler." Scrambler waved gleefully when his name was
mentioned. "Arclight and Blockbuster are probably way ahead of us."
Gambit mocked a military salute. Riptide gave the Nazi salute and
even barked out "Heil Hitler!"
Prism glared at Riptide as well as a man of glass can. "Sinister
isn't Hitler." Gambit found out the following day that Prism's
parents were Jewish.
Scrambler looked at both of them like they were crazy. "Course he's
not Hitler. Hitler's dead, you morons. He's Sinister. If it'll
make things easier for you I'll give him a name tag that says ‘Hello,
my name is Mister Sinister."
Silence, save the running and screaming and splashing that echoed in
the Morlock tunnels. Then, "Shut the fuck up, Scrambler," Riptide
spat in mock disgust.
Gambit grinned. "We get Scrambler a tag dat say dat. ‘Shut-de-fuck-
up-Scrambler. It's what we call ‘im all de time."
"Yeah," Riptide agreed. "Shut-up for short."
"I like it."
"I don't," Scrambler pouted.
"Shut-up-Scrambler."
"Will you get to work?!"
***
Everyone was somber at breakfast the next morning. Most weren't even
eating. Remy stopped short when he walked in, but no one seemed to
notice him.
The sense of loss in the room was almost overwhelming.
Warren was ignoring everyone as he concentrated on the coffee maker.
Scott and Jean were holding each other; each looked as if they'd been
crying. Resting his head in the palm of his hand, Bobby was stabbing
his spoon into a bowl of cereal so soggy it couldn't be identified.
Logan was leaning against the bar, flexing his arms and popping his
bone claws in and out. Rogue and Joseph looked almost exactly like
Jean and Scott, except Rogue was still crying, and Remy forced
himself to look away. He locked eyes with Storm.
In answer, Ororo pulled him aside. There were tears in her eyes.
"Remy, Sam was killed yesterday."
"What?"
"In Boston.
"By de - "
"Yes, by the Marauders."
"What?" Then, "Sam. Shit."
"We got them, though," Bobby said with bitter hatred. "We killed
Vertigo."
"Killed ..." Remy stopped short. *No reaction, no reaction. No,
wait. Use it for Sam.* "How dey kill Sammy?"
"Vertigo hit him first, then Scalphunter shot him when he was down.
Least it was a clean shot," Logan answered, never looking up. He
extended both sets of claws. "He was just a kid, those bastards."
"Bishop got so pissed he fired off all his energy at Vertigo and
Scalphunter, but he was too dizzy to aim, but he hit anyway," Bobby
said. "Tore her apart, but she wasn't dead yet. Riptide started
freaking out and went down to her, screaming at everybody.
Scalphunter yelled to get her out, but Riptide started howling that
she was already dead. He caught us in a tornado that broke Psylock's
arm and nearly killed Scott. When the wind died, they were gone."
"Dead..." Remy said numbly.
Warren turned and gave him a sad half-smile. "The Marauders strike
again."
"Yeah."
"I never knew Riptide and Vertigo were a couple," Logan commented
gruffly.
"Dey're not," Remy said before he could stop himself.
Logan stared at him. "How you know that, Cajun?"
Remy tried to smile. "Dey talk a lot. Y' don' stay wit' dem for a
week an' not pick up on dese t'ings."
Logan shrugged. "Well, Summers? What now? How are we gonna go
about nailing these bastards?"
Scott pulled Jean closer and looked through his blood-red visor over
at Logan. "Honestly? I have no idea."
Sam Guthrie's parents wanted a small funeral. He was to be buried
back home, in Kentucky. Psylock and Warren flew the Blackbird to
pick up Paige and fly her home as well.
Remy watched the plane from the roof and felt a sudden need to find
someone to talk to. He stood and walked back toward the open window.
***
"Computer, end program."
The silver metal androids disappeared, as did the rock holograms that
had coated the Danger Room walls. Ororo took a deep breath and
stretched like a cat. She was wearing a purple body suit with green
stripes running down each side. With a quick though, she summoned a
small rain cloud to cool herself off.
Feeling slightly refreshed but still empty at the death of Sam
Guthrie, Ororo pushed her wet hair away from her face and exited the
Danger Room.
Remy was leaning against the wall, waiting for her. He offered her a
towel, which she accepted gratefully.
"Hello, Remy," she greeted him as she dried her hair.
"Stormy," he nodded back.
There was silence, until she spoke again. "Remy?" she asked softly.
"Are you all right?"
He took a deep breath. "I wan' t' talk t' y'. If y' not busy now."
"Of course, Remy. What has been bothering you?"
"It's...hypothetical."
"Okay."
"What would y' do if someone y' loved was goin' t' die, an' y' could
do something t' save dem?"
"I would do it, of course," she said simply.
"What if it were somet'ing y' hated, or dat y' were scared shitless
of?"
She shrugged. "Anything for my friends."
"What if it'd kill you?"
"You mean sacrificing my life for someone else?" Ororo thought for a
moment. "If I loved them enough, certainly. I would do it for any
of the X-men."
"D' y' t'ink y' could sell y' soul t' save someone else's life?"
"My soul?" He nodded. "Remy, where are these questions coming from?
"
He shrugged miserably. "I don' know."
"My soul?"
"Like, would y' sell y' soul t' d' devil if it meant one of y'
friends could live?"
"To the devil?" she repeated. "I - I don't know. I'd like to say
yes, but a person's soul is everything. That's a difficult choice."
He laughed humorlessly. "I know."
"What about you, Remy?"
"I'm tryin' t' figure dat out."
"What is this really about?"
"Not'ing. Jus' hypothetical." He walked out, leaving her standing,
watching after him. Finally she turned away.
***
He found Tuesday sitting on the floor of his room, building castles
out of playing cards again. Her hands were shaking so much she
couldn't build a stack any taller than two levels. After her third
attempt, Remy spoke. "Y' heard about Sam?"
She jumped and twisted her head to look at him. He was leaning
against the door frame, his right arm outstretched, swinging the door
back and forth. She tried not to appear startled. "Oui. I heard."
"Yeah." He crossed and sat down on his bed.
"Dey killed him."
"I know."
She looked at the cards for a long time. "De X-men ain' gonna catch
dem, are dey."
He didn't answer.
She lowered her head miserably.
He cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but changed his
mind.
"What?"
"Huh?"
"Y' gonna say somet'ing."
Her empathy was working sporadically, he reflected, but not
completely gone. "I have t' talk t' y' ‘bout - Sinister."
"Is he your father?"
He started violently. "Why you t'ink dat?"
"I don' know. You're scared t' tell me somet'ing, and dat's ‘bout de
worst I can t'ink of."
Remy tried to relax at that.
"Y' knew dem before, t'ough, right?"
He sighed heavily. "Oui."
She thought of something suddenly. "But - but you be my father,
right?" He didn't say anything. "Aren' you?"
"There's more dan one way of bein' a father," he said, hating himself
for admitting it.
"It takes a mother an' a father, an' dat's it."
"Usually. But in - in dis case, Sinister - what's de word -
orchestrated it. He arranged it, he used his technology stuff t'
change it - y' understand?"
"Non."
"He - designed you. Y' know ‘bout genetics?"
She shook her head. "Non."
"Non. Course not," he said to himself, running him hands through his
hair. "Okay. T' make a baby, y' need - "
"Sperm an' an egg," she interrupted.
"Er, yeah. He took these and changed dem and den - made you.
Understand?" *Tell me you understand. Please don't make me go into
more detail. You still think Aimee's your mother...*
Tuesday said very slowly, "So he is my father." Unsure, she fell
silent.
*Yes, in a perverted sense of the word, he is your father. And just
as he shaped your DNA he shaped my soul, so that makes him my father
which makes me your older brother and your real father and oh my god
I'm gonna kill the motherfucking he is not my father he is not my
father I am not a Marauder oh god shut up shut up SHUT UP - *
She was frowning. "Aren' y' supposed t' respect a father?"
"HE IS NOT MY FATHER!!" Remy screamed.
Tuesday started to cry.
*Way to go, dumbass* He hesitated. "Merde." He hugged her. "Look,
I'm sorry. I didn' mean t' scream, I was t'inking of somet'ing else.
" He started rocking her back and forth. "Christ, y' shaking. Y'
okay now? Y' okay? What's wrong?"
Even her voice trembled. "Y' were lying, Remy."
***
He spent the next two days suspended, almost in a daze. How to weigh
one's soul against a human life. He could save her - if Sinister
kept his word - and it would cost his life, his soul, his name. He
couldn't look at Tuesday without being racked with guilt, and he
spent hours staring at the waning moon at night. His thoughts and
self-recriminations weren't doing anything at all.
*Can't win...he'll never let me win...*
Hank confronted him in the kitchen. Remy had been staring at a cup
of coffee going on ten minutes. He couldn't make himself drink, much
less eat.
Hank hesitated so long that Remy had to speak first. "Hank?"
"Yes. Remy. I have - to talk to you."
"Again?" Remy managed a dry smile.
Hank didn't smile back."Remy, I warned you before, and I know that it
didn't matter then, but - "
"Speak, homme."
"You have the Legacy virus, Remy."
"What?"
Hank cleared his throat. "You're dying, Remy."
"What?" His body shook with hollow, haunted laughter.
"You heard me."
"I knew dis was coming," Remy said to the air. "It was obvious. He
doesn't care ‘bout her, he doesn't fucking CARE!" His chair fell
over as he stood bolt upright.
Hank ventured uncertainly, "Remy, I don't understand. Who are you
talking about?"
"Can't win," Remy mumbled. Then he caught Hank's worried glance and
tried to smile. "Not'ing. T'anks. I be okay."
"Remy, this is serious."
"I know. But I gotta worry ‘bout Tuesday first." He stopped
suddenly. "Nine years old is too young to die."
"Only the good die young, Remy."
He laughed humorlessly. "What dat say for me? I have it on good
authority dat I'll live a long, long time. De only way dat could
happen now - " He froze. "Merde."
Hank figured the best thing for Remy would be time alone. He hastily
excused himself. Remy barely noticed.
In his room, tucked in the back of his sock drawer, Remy kept a
folded piece of white paper. Typed neatly on the paper was a phone
number.
*You're dying, Remy.*
He fumbled with the paper and unfolded it even though he had the
numbers memorized. He idly reflected that he probably should have
given the number to Cyclops. Leaders like to know things like these.
There was one way left, he knew too well, to save himself and his
child. A series of numbers, a code, a cure, and to get it, one man's
soul.
*And he so loved the world he gave unto them his only son - *
"Fuck no!"
Remy slammed the drawer closed, his heart beating frantically. He
ran his fingers back through his hair, now slick with a thin layer of
sweat. "What de fuck am I doin'?"
"Remy?"
"Shit!" He whirled around. It was only Tuesday. "Sorry, chere."
Surprised, but not frightened, she ducked her head. "S'okay. C' I
take a nap in here? Hank said I needed - " she broke off coughing -
"some rest an' stuff."
"Oui. Fine. I was gonna go try some pool anyway," he lied. She
didn't notice. He winced.
"I don' wan' t' kick y' out or anyt'ing."
"It's no problem." He nodded goodbye. "Sleep good."
"Well," she corrected him.
"Y' been hanging around Hank too much." Remy left the room and
wandered through the house until he came to the game room. He set up
the balls and began to play, alternating solids and stripes. The
overall score was two games to solids and one to stripes when he
heard voices at the door.
***
The sky was a horrible, horrible shade of gray, broken and fragmented
with small jagged pieces of white and larger gulfs of obsidian black.
She was floating in the sea of nothingness; she looked down and saw
herself dressed in a long white baptismal gown that reached far past
her bare feet. The dress and the green ribbons tied in her brown
hair rippled behind her.
A distance away, Remy was floating completely still, his back to her.
He wore a black shirt with jagged white lettering she was too far
away to read. He wore blue jeans but no shoes. The wind twisted his
hair behind and in front of him, as if it had yet to decide a
direction. He was gazing up at the rents of white and black, a
gilded sword in his hand. She shivered. Wind whipped her hair in
her face, and she tried to tuck it behind her ears.
She approached him, but he couldn't hear over the cacophony of wind
and howling banshees. He was whispering to himself and the sky, and
she startled him when she touched his arm. He turned, acting on
instinct, and in a continued motion sliced the sword down her,
cutting open her chest from throat to hip.
And yet she did not feel pain. She looked down from above, detached
for corporal form. Remy's violence turned to shock, which melted to
sorrow and regret. He knelt beside her in the air.
Riptide appeared. It wasn't a sudden appearance, more as if he had
been in the background all the time and had now been relegated to the
action. He looked down at Remy and smiled. Riptide himself crouched
low. Remy glanced at him dolefully but with heavy acceptance, as if
accepting the ill fortune he had always knew would come but had no
chance to prevent. Her disembodied soul cried out no, that peace was
impossible between the two. They were opposite ends of a never-
ending line, but this line was a circle. The more one tries to run
the closer one is to one's starting point.
Riptide looked down at the girl floating in front of him. He reached
into her chest and took out her heart. He held it; there was no
blood. Remy picked up the child, held her close, pressed her dead
cheek to his. Lightning blazed across the sky; the ensuing darkness
was all the more black for it. Riptide held out the heart, as if to
show what it was made of. As Remy watched, still holding the girl
like and insecure child would a doll, Riptide closed his fist. The
heart crumpled and fell apart, stolen by the wind like broken leaves.
He pointed at Remy, shook his head, and pointed to the child. You
are not like her. The sky darkened as wind turned the girl's body
into ash and dust. The two men stood, and Remy looked around the sky.
He hesitated. The sky fought with itself, the shades rolling,
marbleized swirls of gray, light glowing and wavering. It was
suddenly bright enough for Remy to look down at himself and see the
blood on his hands. Riptide pointed; his hands were similar. They
clasped palms. Remy smiled, wistfully, then retrogressed down to -
The sky turned black. Light flickered once more behind sinister
shadows then was gone. The disembodied astral shape wailed and
slammed into full consciousness.
Covered in a thin film of sweat, she clutched at the sheets. "Remy,"
she whispered. "Where are y', Remy?" Terrified, she threw off the
blankets and jumped out of the bed. Her legs wouldn't hold; she fell
to the ground and almost blacked out. She willed herself up. A
coughing fit seized her, but she held the wall until it passed.
"Remy."
***
"I don't care, Jean. I'm going to ask him."
"Bishop, please, this isn't - "
"Don't defend him. The man is a murderer - "
"The man is our friend, Bishop."
"Your friend, maybe."
"Bishop, don't - " Bishop and Jean walked into the gamme room.
Remy had blocked as much of the conversation from his mind as he
could but he couldn't help glancing up when Bishop entered, a
perpetual frown etched deep into the black man's face. Remy sighed
and stood up straight, looking down at the pool table where he had
been practicing. He was playing very poorly; his mind was jumbled
and unfocused with the news of Tuesday's fading condition and sudden
awareness of his own mortality. It was inevitable, he told himself.
But he couldn't believe it.
He folded his hands around the pool cue. "Yes, Bishop?"
"Were you a Marauder, LeBeau?" Bishop demanded.
Remy stopped breathing.
Jean stomped her foot and threw up her hands. "There is no evidence
whatsoever - "
"There is, Jean," Bishop snapped back.
*Oh shit oh shit oh shit*
"Circumstantial at best, Bishop."
"Are you a Marauder, Gambit."
"Who says I am," he murmured.
"Harpoon. That and the fact that you were upset when we told you we
tore Vertigo apart."
Remy felt sick.
"You see, Jean?"
"I haven't seen anything, Bishop, just wild accusations that you - "
"What did he say?" Remy forced himself to ask.
With an angry glare at Bishop, Jean flashed the scene from New York
to Remy. # Jean and Bishop were alone against Riptide and Harpoon.
The others had been out of earshot. "Where's Remy?" Riptide had
wanted to know. Neither Jean nor Bishop had answered, so he asked
again. "Hiding out in the mansion?" "Geez, he's a wuss," Harpoon
had commented then. "Beat him up, rape his kid, and he refuses to
come out and play no more. He used to be braver than that. He used
to be one of the best." "Best we had," Riptide agreed. "He ever
tell you about the time when we - " Jean had cut him off then with a
telepathic suckerpunch. "No more," she hissed. #
"It's a simple question, Gambit," Bishop interrupted. "Are - you - a
- Marauder."
Remy held tighter to the pool cue to keep his hands from visibly
shaking. He concentrated on not throwing up the sandwich he'd forced
down for lunch.
"He's not a Marauder, Bishop," Jean cut in, exasperated. "He's an X-
man."
"Fine. Were you ever a Marauder, LeBeau?"
"Christ." Remy swallowed hard and twisted the wood against his damp
palms. *It all comes down to this.*
"Yes or no!" Bishop barked.
"Remy," Jean said softly.
"What do y' wan' me t' say?"
"Tell us the truth."
"Yes - or no."
*No no no no no*
"Yes or no, Gambit."
Barely breathing, his stomach twisting violently, Remy had to put a
hand against the pool table to steady himself. In a barely audible
whisper, he answered. "Yes." He didn't look up. He didn't want to
see Jean's face.
"You were a Marauder."
Something snapped. "Yes, I was a goddamn Marauder. What de fuck d'
y' care, anyway?"
"When were you going to do it? When were you planning on turning
traitor again?"
"I was never - "
"But you were a Marauder."
Despairing, Remy had to answer. "Oui."
Bishop's face showed nothing but disgust and loathing. He glanced
once at the door and continued. "How many people did you kill,
LeBeau? I've heard stories they tell about the Marauders. I can see
you loving it. Rapist, child-murderer - "
"Fuck you!" Remy screamed. He broke the polished pool cue against
the edge of the table and held half in each hand. "I'm not a
Marauder anymore! I got away from dem!"
"You're still a Marauder."
"Fine! I be a god-fuckin' Marauder!" He charged up the wood and
leapt over the couch to get at Bishop. Bishop blocked the kick and
jerked back from the glowing pool cue. He kicked Remy hard in the
solar plexus, knocking the wind out of the younger man and forcing
him to his knees, and drew his guns in less than a second. Remy
froze automatically then laughed. "Y' t'ink dat scares me?" He
laughed again, lightheaded. "Do it. Blow my fuckin' head off. Do
de world a favor. I'm a Marauder, ‘member?"
"Don't tempt me."
"I'm only a Marauder."
"I said, don't tempt me."
"You wan' t' know ‘bout de people we killed - "
Coughing at the doorway.
#Remy...# Jean thought to him, biting her lip.
*Shit, not now.* He glanced up at the door.
Tuesday was standing in the doorway, wringing her hands and shaking
her head. "Remy," she whispered, her heart broken.
"Tuesday, I'm sorry - " He uncharged the pool cue and dropped the
two pieces. He went closer to the door, wincing as she closed her
eyes and trembled. He put his hands on her shoulders.
She looked up into his eyes. "Tell me it ain' true." He didn't say
anything. She started to cry. "He's lying, tell him, Remy, y' ain' -
one of dem, please - " He didn't need to be an empath to kknow what
she was remembering.
"Tell her the truth, LeBeau," Bishop demanded.
"Y' stay outta dis," Remy snarled over his shoulder.
"Y' are, aren' y'. Y' jus' like dem."
Remy winced again and lightly touched her hair. "I'm not like dem."
Tuesday whispered. "Y' have t' tell me. Were y'?"
He hesitated, staring into her pleading eyes. His own eyes glowed
with shame. He nodded.
She shuddered. "I had a dream - "
"Tuesday - "
"Get away from me!" she shrieked. "Don' touch me!" She twisted away
from his hands. Backing away, she stared right into his eyes. "I
hate y'." The betrayal he saw there in her eyes was enough to twist
the knife he had long ago forced into his heart. She ran down the
hall as best she could, sobbing and coughing.
"Fuck!" Remy turned and slammed his fist through the wall.
"Feel better, Bishop?" Jean asked acidly.
Bishop remained haughtily stoic.
Remy looked at them both then turned away, dazed, not hearing them.
"Tuesday," he murmured. He clenched his fists in frustration and
impotence. "I ain' like dem. I ain' like dem."
"You just keep on lying to yourself."
"Aren't you satisfied, Bishop?" Jean put her hands on her hips and
faced the massive XSE officer. "You knew she was there, didn't you.
"
"She needed to know the truth," he maintained stubbornly.
"I can't believe you. I really can't, Bishop." Jean's expression
bordered between disbelief and disgust.
"You're housing a murderer under your roof, and all you can think
about is a dying child?" Bishop demanded with equal disbelief.
"No, Bishop. This is a friend. A friend whom I have known and loved
a hell of a lot longer than I've known you. His child is dying.
Let's show a little respect."
"Jean, for - "
"Get out." Jean's tone left no room for argument.
With a glare of pure hatred at Remy, who had slouched over into one
of the maroon, deep couches, Bishop stormed out.
She approached the couch and rested a hand on his back. Uncertainly,
she asked, "Remy?"
"Julien," he murmured, not hearing. "I'm sorry, Julien. Tuesday. I
had a second chance and..." His cheek was spotted with white plaster.
He finally noticed her. "Leave me alone."
Jean left without speaking again.
***
She knew she wasn't supposed to run, that it wouldn't be good for her,
that she couldn't breathe well and all that. What she didn't know
is that she was physically incapable of running.
She collapsed at the edge of the wood surrounding the mansion,
gasping for breath. She was lucky, a quarter of an hour later, that
Logan had been in the woods doing his meditation.
Almost instantly, he was beside her. "What's wrong, darlin'?"
She held her throat and coughed. She was on the verge of panicking.
He frowned. If she didn't calm down now, she would hyperventilate.
"Breathe, girl," he said, his voice almost a growl. "Calm down,
focus, and breathe. Inhale, exhale. Come on."
She started coughing and spat on the ground.
"That's it, breathe," he coaxed.
She nodded, coughed again, and tried to push him away. "I'm okay now.
"
"What's wrong?"
She hesitated, clearly torn. "Remy."
"What about Remy?" Before she could start crying again, he went on.
"Tell me what's wrong, and I'll see if I can help."
"Y' can'."
"Try me."
She looked up at him with her brown eyes. "Did y' know ‘bout Remy?"
"What about him?"
"What he did ‘fore he was an X-man."
Logan tilted his head. "He used ta be a Thief. Like you."
"After dat."
"No idea."
"I t'ink - well, I guess I know - but I don' know - "
"Spit it out."
"He was a Marauder." She did start to cry.
Now Logan had to tell himself to breathe. "You sure?"
"He said so."
"How did it come up?"
She shrugged miserably. "Bishop said he heard - dem talking in
Boston ‘bout Remy. Remy said it were true."
Logan knew it couldn't have been that simple, but he let it go
anyway
"He said he hurt people an' he killed people an' - an' he ain' no
different from dem - " she bent over coughing. She choked out three
words, "I - can' breathe - " She clutched at her chest.
"Shit," Logan swore. "Come on, darlin', let's get you to Hank.
He'll make you feel better, okay?" This had happened to Illyana, he
remembered. Then she went into cardiac arrest. Then...
Tuesday nodded, struggling for breath as he scooped her up in both
arms.
Remy was leaning against the porch, searching the horizon. Jean was
standing in the doorway, vacillating between speaking and retreating
into the mansion.
Logan yelled to them as he approached.
Jean's eyes widened, and she telepathically reached out to take the
child. Logan ran behind. "Take her to Hank," he said gruffly.
"Wha's wrong wit' her?" Remy asked, in a bit of a daze.
"She ain' breathin' right."
"I'll take her," Jean said. The air around Tuesday glowed pink as
Jean carried her inside.
Remy started after.
"You and me need ta talk, Cajun," Logan interrupted.
Remy stopped and looked back, resigned. "She told y'?"
Logan wasn't as outwardly angry as Remy had expected. "We gotta talk.
"
Remy shrugged uncomfortably.
Logan waited until Jean was out of earshot. "Well?"
"Well what?"
Logan smiled savagely. "You aren't gonna make this easy, are you?"
Remy didn't say anything.
"Fine." Logan punched him once, in the stomach. Not only taken
unawares but also not physically prepared for a fight, Remy doubled
over. Another punch, and he slid to his knees, his eyes squeezed
shut, his hands folded across his midsection. Logan pulled his head
back and held his fist under Remy's chin. He popped the two outer
claws, cutting both of the younger man's cheeks. Remy's eyes opened
and he gasped in pain. The threat was obvious. Remy didn't try to
move. Partly because he knew he wasn't fast enough; partly because a
part of his mind knew he deserved it.
"All right, bub," Logan snarled. "I got one question. I don't give
a shit what ya used ta be. Are you a Marauder now?"
Remy choked out one word. "Non."
"Why should I believe you?"
*Good question. Better make it a good answer.* "The Marauders are
good. Dey also ain' much for dis spying t'ing. If I were workin'
for Sinister, A, y' wouldn' a found out, an' B, de odds are you'd be
dead."
Logan let that go. Instead he growled, "Was that kidnapping staged?
Did you hurt her?"
Remy blanched. "I swear t' y', I did not do anyt'ing t' her."
Logan considered that. "Good enough." He pulled back his claws.
Remy fell forward on his hands like a puppet whose strings had been
cut. Logan offered him a hand up.
After a moment, Remy took it.
"Your past is your own business, Gumbo," Logan told him. "Just don't
let it fuck up your future."
"T' late, bur t'anks anyway."
"Now go on to the lab."