Blind Sight

by Valerie Jones

Chapter 1

Remy LeBeau took a deep breath as he pushed open the heavy double doors that led to the Guild council room.  He was late for a session that he couldn't afford to be late to, but the Blackbird had only touched down thirty-five minutes earlier.  Cyclops would chew him out later for skipping the team debriefing, but that was a minor inconvenience.  The eighteen men seated around the polished oak table who looked up at his abrupt entrance were his main concern today.

No one spoke, but their gazes tracked him with expressions varying from mild reproach to downright hostility as he crossed the room.  Remy nodded to his father in silent greeting as he took the seat that waited for him.

"I apologize f' my lateness," he told the man at the head of the table with all sincerity.  Had it been up to him, they would have been back hours earlier.  Unfortunately, he couldn't tell the X-Men that he needed to be back in New York to take care of some thief business, so he'd been forced to wait until Cyke was ready to go home.

The man seated at the head of the table nodded, his expression neutral.  His name was Malcolm Lotho, and he was Guildmaster of the Chicago Thieves Guild.  He was a distinguished man in his early sixties, with a mane of silvered hair that only added to his mantle of authority.  He was the most senior of the Guildmasters, with the exception of Jean Luc LeBeau, and had held the combined reins of the American guilds since Remy was a child.

Remy scanned the table.  All of the other Guildmasters were there, as they were required to be.  There were eight total.  Michael Tyre had been the ninth, and they represented each of the nine American guilds.  Of the others in the room, Remy and one other also held Master status.  The other eight men around the table were representatives from the New York Guild.  None had yet earned their Master's mark, but they were well respected in the Guild, and in the interval since Michael's death they had been working together to govern the New York thieves.

Remy stretched his long legs under the table, wishing desperately that he could have taken some time to soak before coming to the council.  He had only just gone back on active status with the X-Men, and his leg ached from the intense fighting earlier in the day.  The wounds Michael had given him had healed as much as they were going to, but even with the help of Shi'ar medical wizardry, Remy was never going to be quite the same.

Guildmaster Lotho cleared his throat.  "Now that we are all here, we can begin in earnest."  He let his gaze travel around the table, lingering for a moment on each of the men there.

"The New York Guild faces a momentous and difficult choice," he began.  "That of electing a Guildmaster to replace Michael Tyre."  Lotho stared directly at Remy, who met his gaze without flinching.  They had been through all of that already.  The council had come within inches of stripping him of his Master's status for endangering the guilds with such a public fight, and, Remy mused, had they done so he couldn't have blamed them.  But because Michael had been under investigation by the FBI, and because his greed had so obviously set him on a course that would have exposed his guild to the authorities, it had been agreed that Remy had acted in the best long-term interests of the guilds, despite the danger.  Still, it was an embarrassment for the guilds as a whole, and Remy had earned another black mark on his reputation because of it.

After a moment, Lotho's roving gaze moved on.  "There are three possible options, as you are all aware."  He rapped the table lightly with his knuckles.  "One, the council can request that the Guildmaster of another guild relinquish his place in order to take up leadership of the New York Guild."

Remy forced his expression to remain still.  That was a highly unusual event, and it surprised him that Lotho would mention it first.  To become Guildmaster of any guild required an oath of fealty and service, not only to the guild, but also to the clans as well.  There was a unique relationship between a guild and its Guildmaster. The bonds were often as tight as any blood relationship.  To ask a Guildmaster to leave his guild, and more, to ask the guild to surrender their patriarch, was no small thing.

Remy saw similar surprise in the faces of the others as Lotho went on.  "Two, a Master Thief may be invited to become Guildmaster."

Remy glanced across the table at the only other Master Thief who was not a Guildmaster as well.  He thought it highly likely that the New York Guild might ask Shannon to become their new Guildmaster.  Remy wouldn't mind that at all.  Though he and Shannon had only crossed paths occasionally in the past, he liked the other man.  He was a solid thief, capable and level-headed.  He might be a bit lacking in ambition, in Remy's opinion, but that was a matter of personal style more than anything else.

Attention around the table had focused on Shannon, and Remy had to force down a stab of bitterness.  They certainly weren't going to be looking at him to lead the New York Guild.  As unfair as it seemed, Remy figured he was stuck with his rogue's reputation.  He broke the rules too often and too loudly to carry that kind of respectability. 

Unfortunately, the choices for a Master to take over the guild were slim at that particular point in time.  Two Master Thieves had retired in the past couple of years, leaving the ranks thin.  That would change, of course, as upcoming thieves challenged for the rank of Master.  Remy had been the last to do so, and was the youngest in the guilds' history to ever make Master Thief. 

"And three," Lotho continued, "A respected thief from New York can be trained up to the position by another Guildmaster."

That was also a good possibility, Remy thought.  Although it took more time, the New York Guild might very well want to be led by one of its own.  There were two or three men that Remy thought had the ability to become Masters, and of those, at least one was the kind of man he would choose to lead a guild.

All in all, Remy was comfortable with the choices the New York Guild had before it.  Michael could have destroyed them all, but none of the men who stood to inherit his position showed any of the same tendencies.  Those who had been Michael's supporters had lost their positions of influence when the guild had learned what their Guildmaster had done.

Lotho paused for a moment, considering the table.  "The six months allotted for a guild to choose a new Guildmaster have elapsed, so I must now ask the guild for its choice."  Lotho looked over at the group of thieves from New York. 

One of the thieves, a man that Remy respected despite their radically different views on many things, slowly stood.  His name was Artur Valencia.  He spread his fingers on the table top as he turned to Guildmaster Lotho.

"I must admit that this has been a difficult choice, Guildmaster," he said in the soft voice that was his hallmark.  He smiled briefly.  "In the end, we voted twice -- simply because we were surprised by the outcome, I believe."

Lotho raised an eyebrow at that, and Remy saw flickering expressions of concern cross the faces of several of the Guildmasters. 

"However, we," Valencia went on, indicating the thieves with him with a wave of one hand, "have become convinced that our choice is that which the guild desires, and the one that will be best for us."

Expectant silence answered him, and Valencia cleared his throat before going on.  "The New York Guild chooses to invite Master LeBeau to become Guildmaster and take up leadership of the guild."

Remy nearly choked on his surprise as the eyes of every man in the room snapped to him.  He found himself staring at Valencia, dumbfounded, before managing to regain his composure. 

The eight men the New York Guild had chosen to lead them through the transition stared back at Remy with firm intent written in their faces.  Remy knew them all, had worked with them and around them, but had never counted any but one or two of them as strong political allies against Michael.

Remy stared at Valencia for several moments before voicing the single question that he suspected was on everyone's mind.  "Why?"

Valencia favored him with a smile.  "There are a number of reasons, of course, and those are privy only to this council."  He indicated the men around him.  "Suffice it to say that the guild originally chose Master Tyre because the city of New York is a center of influence and of power, and only a man capable of wielding both can protect our guild in such a volatile environment."

Remy digested that statement in silence.  He felt like he was standing on the edge of an impossibly tall cliff, debating whether or not to jump.  He could refuse the position, if he chose, though he would have to have pretty good reason in order to do so without insulting the New York Guild.  The truth was, he simply hadn't ever considered it.  Not seriously.  The responsibility alone was staggering, and then there was the question of how he would manage things with the X-Men.  Even with Bobby running interference for him, he was bound to raise eyebrows and kindle suspicions.

He watched Valencia for a moment more while he tried to contain the chaotic whirl of his thoughts, then glanced at his father.  To become Guildmaster of New York, he would have to relinquish his allegiance to the New Orleans Guild.  But Jean Luc only nodded, his expression pleased.

Remy pushed his personal considerations away.  The true issue was what would be best for the guild, and for the mutants in it.  And that, Remy realized, made his choice simple.  Michael had sabotaged far too many of Remy's attempts to aid the guild, and had put the people who depended on him at risk too often.  As unexpected as it was, the offer to become Guildmaster would give Remy the power to do many of the things that Michael had prevented.  Things that, hopefully, would see the mutants of the guild through the difficult times ahead.  No one could miss the rising tide of anti-mutant hysteria, or the shifting of political power toward the conservative right. The hints that the Professor had dropped before his leaving, and the disconcerting fact that even Remy could not find where he had been taken after surrendering himself to government custody, made the picture even bleaker than his other sources were indicating.

Trying not to wince at the pain in his leg, Remy stood and faced Valencia.  "I'm honored... an' I accept."

#

Remy had no sooner swung his leg over the seat of his bike than his cell phone rang.  The phone was another of those items that he never carried in his guise as an X-Man, like the two pistols and his favorite set of lockpicks.

Remy paused before reaching into his coat for the phone.  It was almost midnight, and he wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep for about ten hours, but he had made a policy of always answering if he had the phone turned on.

"LeBeau," he answered curtly, wrapping his coat more tightly about him to ward off the evening chill.

"There's something I think you ought to see."  Remy recognized the voice on the other end of the line as one of his sources inside the NYPD.  He knew the officer's name, but had agreed never to use it, especially on an unsecured phone.

"Where?"

The man gave him an address on the Lower East Side, which Remy recognized with a sinking feeling in his stomach.  "Got it."

The phone went dead with a click.  Remy folded it up and put it away, then started his bike.

He spent the ride trying to clear his head from the council meeting.  Never -- not once -- had he seriously considered becoming Guildmaster of any guild.  At least, not since he was a sixteen year old boy dreaming of ruling New Orleans.  But New York had offered, and almost without hesitation, Remy had accepted.  Now, he was feeling the delayed shock of that decision.

Y' really ready t' take responsibility f' t'ree t'ousand people? he asked himself yet again. 

Scott Summers would probably have fallen off his chair laughing at the thought of Remy taking responsibility for anyone -- including himself, he thought bitterly.  With great effort, Remy could usually convince himself that it was fun, in a perverse sense, to so completely bamboozle a man like Scott, but real truth was that it rankled.  Still, the only thing that allowed Remy to continue his lifestyle uninterrupted by ignorant but well-meaning X-Men was to let them believe he was the rebellious freeloader he appeared to be.  The connections he had made while working with the X-Men were invaluable -- certainly worth the price of his personal ego -- but still, he occasionally wished for the chance to rub their noses in the truth.

The address he had been given was illuminated by the red and blue strobes that were a sure sign of trouble.  Remy parked his bike several streets away and began a careful approach to the apartment in question.  What he saw alarmed him.  There was a jagged hole ripped in the wall of the building's second floor, from which a thin trail of smoke emerged.  He didn't see any fire-fighting equipment, nor did he see any sign of water on the building, which led him to believe that the fire must have been small and localized inside somewhere.  There was little rubble on the ground beneath the hole, indicating that something had punched through the wall rather than that it had been blown out from the inside.

He crept close enough to listen in on the conversations of the police and ME's as they went in and out of the building.  The only thing of real interest that he overheard was that the man who lived there was most definitely dead.  That didn't surprise him, but it did bother him.  Remy always felt a pang when someone who worked for him was killed.  This looked like it was mutant-related, too, which meant that it was more than likely because of the job Remy had hired him to do.

Remy was forced to wait another two hours before the investigators finished up and went home for the night, leaving a pair of patrolmen on watch out on the street.  Remy ignored them as he worked his way inside the building from the back.  The highly sophisticated security system on the upstairs apartment had been disarmed, whether by the fire or some other action, Remy couldn't guess. 

Remy crouched just inside the door of the apartment, allowing it to swing slowly shut behind him.  The man who had lived there was one of the best hackers Remy knew.  He was one of the first of the second generation of computer anarchists.  His father had been a student radical back in the Berkeley days, and he had been immersed in the culture since he was a kid.  Remy had come to him out of sheer desperation, in the hopes that he was good enough to penetrate the layers of protection surrounding a company named Draxar.

The question now was what had he found that had gotten him killed?

The apartment was a mess.  Burn lines from laser fire crisscrossed the walls, continuing uninterrupted through bookcases, computer equipment and furniture.  Each of the many monitor screens in the room was shattered, and gave Remy an obvious source for the thin smoke.  The destruction was widespread, making Remy think that whoever had done this had been there to destroy rather than steal information.

He avoided the living room area with its piles of mangled computer equipment and instead headed for the back.  Everything important was kept under the bathroom sink, and Remy had high hopes that whoever had done this had only hit the obvious targets.

He breathed a silent sigh of relief to discover that the small safe hidden beneath the cabinet was still intact, its face hidden by a haphazard pile of shaving cream cans, toilet paper and band aids.  Despite his skill, it took Remy until dawn to get the safe open.  He didn't bother to examine its contents, but simply scooped up the collection of disks and CD's and dumped them into a secure pocket inside his coat.

He ducked out of the apartment as quickly as possible, then made his way back to where he had left his bike.  The sun was already peeking over the roofs of the building. As Remy drove down the street past the wrecked apartment, he saw the first shift of police investigators arriving, coffee and bagels in hand.

His stomach growled in protest, and Remy muttered a string of curses under his breath.  Not only was he exhausted, sore and hungry, but the soon-to-be Guildmaster was also going to be late for the X-Men's morning training session.

#

"Where have you been?" Scott Summers demanded as soon as Remy entered the Danger Room.

"Out," he snapped in return and telescoped his bo staff to its full length.  "Y' got a problem wit' dat?"

The other X-Men watched them warily, well-familiar with the sparks that flew whenever the two were in a room together.  In the Professor's absence, it had only gotten worse as Cyclops grew more and more burdened by the responsibility of directing the X-Men alone.  Remy was only just beginning to appreciate how much the Professor had shielded him from the keen eyes of the most senior X-Man, and he sometime regretted making Cyclops' job that much harder.

Of course, that was usually about the point at which he pushed Scott too far and found himself subjected to one of the man's self-righteous speeches about honor, respect and responsibility, which generally sapped his regret right on the spot. 

Scott only glared at him this time, however, and Remy sent a silent thanks to the saints for the reprieve as he took his place.

"Hold just a moment if you will, Cyclops," Hank called to Scott, and then hopped down from his perch atop a simulated rock outcropping.  He approached Remy slowly, his expression thoughtful. Scott turned to watch.

"Remy, how are you feeling?"

Remy kept his poker face in place by an effort of will.  He'd been afraid of this.  "Tired an' sore, miseur Bete," he tried to put as much flippancy into the words as he could manage, "but it's been a long night, neh?"

"Apparently for you."  Hank cocked his head with a small smile.  "I would think that a man your age would have developed the sense not to stay out all night... "  He trailed off when Remy refused to rise to his bait.

"Ah well.  But I do think you should reconsider joining us for this session."  He lowered his voice to encompass just the two of them.  "You're running pretty close to your limits already."

"Got t' push de limits if I wan' t' move dem, Hank," Remy answered in the same low tone. 

Hank pursed his lips for a moment, but then nodded acquiescence.  "It's your choice."

Remy watched the blue furred doctor thoughtfully as he climbed back to his place.  They had reached a kind of understanding during the past six months, as Remy had struggled with the realities of the physical damage he'd suffered.  There had been a time back at the beginning when Hank had had to present him with the possibility that he would lose his leg completely because of the damage Michael's exoskeleton had caused.  And even though that possibility had never come to pass, Hank had been a rock steady presence then, and also through the first stages of rehab when frustration with his own weakness and despair of ever regaining his strength had threatened to drag Remy down into black depression.

Bobby watched the exchange from a short distance away, his face set in the grim lines that Remy recognized.  He considered himself responsible for Remy's injuries. To a large degree, he was.  But still, Remy had made his own choices that day, too.  Given the chance to do it over again, he doubted that he would choose any differently.

The scenario began at Cyclops' command, and Remy's gut tightened.  Predictably, it was an exact replay of what had happened the day before.  It was Scott's usual practice to go back through every mission scenario, which was one of the things that Remy secretly appreciated about the man.   Scott could have simply pointed out the errors made by his team during any particular encounter and then waved his hands at them and said "Go do it right next time".  But instead, he would take them through the events over and over again, if necessary, until everyone was satisfied that they knew how to do it right when the next opportunity arose.

The bad part was, Remy wasn't entirely certain he was going to be able to keep up.

Chapter 2

Bobby Drake evaded a beam of energy aimed at his head, sliding nimbly aside without losing his focus on the temperature shield he was creating.  It was yet another new application of his power he'd discovered in the past few months, and one of his favorites. 

The air along one side of the X-Men shimmered with millions of tiny ice particles, trapped in a narrow wall of intensely low temperatures.  Bobby had learned that he had to fill the cold region with something visible to warn the X-Men of its presence.  Objects that flew through the wall of cold were supercooled by their passage.  Metals became brittle and other materials froze solid, both of which caused the object to shatter upon slamming into the warm air on the far side of the cold zone.  It wasn't a force field, but that was effectively how it behaved.

Unfortunately, the severe temperature inversions interfered with Storm's ability to manipulate weather phenomena on a fine scale.  Physics was physics after all, so Bobby made an effort to keep the shield well away from where Storm hovered.  He was often amazed by the change in his perspective -- and his fighting style.  Where once it had been a matter of having enough power to keep up with the other X-Men, now Bobby spent much of his effort keeping his powers toned down to a level that would not put his teammates at risk. 

Bobby spared a glance downward from his perch atop his ice slide.  Gambit was still doing all right, though he was fighting defensively for the most part.  Bobby suppressed a surge of irritation, fueled by guilt and worry.  Remy had obviously spent the night working.  Bobby knew his body language well enough now that he could see the exhaustion that the others would miss.  And, unfortunately, he also understood why Remy would push himself past what was wise to stay for the training session. 

Staying would most likely be interpreted as a guilt reaction.  It implied a need to make up for what he'd been doing the night before -- at least, that was how Scott would interpret it, and he was the important one.  So, without saying a word and without any other supporting evidence, by staying in the session Remy was implying that he'd spent his night doing something Scott would disapprove of.  It was a subtle form of manipulation, and an art that Bobby was still learning.

Nearby, Rogue was grappling with one of the energy-based beasties the X-Men had been combating the day before.  The creature exploded into long streamers of glowing confetti as one of Gambit's cards found it and Rogue turned to glare at him.

"Ah didn' ask foh ya help, Cajun!" she snapped.  On another day, the same sentence would have been a flirtatious challenge, but not today.  Unfortunately, all of the work Gambit put in to giving Scott the impression that he'd spent the night out partying also worked on Rogue. 

Bobby felt a surge of sympathy.  Rogue's anger and frustration were reasonable, given the lifestyle that Remy portrayed to her and the other X-Men.  It was an ugly trap for Remy.  Bobby had several times had to throttle the desire to take Rogue to the Club and show her the truth.  But he understood the reasons to keep her ignorant of the Guild and the secret life that both he and Remy led.  He wasn't certain enough of how she'd react to take that risk, and he knew Remy wasn't either.

Gambit was forced to move as several of the creatures converged on him.  He launched himself over the back of one of them, somersaulting neatly as he threw a trio of charged cards.  The thing snapped at him with a pincer and Remy twisted savagely midair to avoid it.  Bobby saw the hard landing coming a moment before it happened and winced as Remy hit the ground feet first, then dropped to his knees with a cry of pain, his cards scattering.

Instinctively, Bobby changed his state to water and fell in a cascade, transforming back into his ice form as he touched the floor of the danger room.  Without pausing, he created large hands of ice that picked up the glowing creatures and hurled them away from Gambit.

Gambit didn't move.  He was still on his knees, with one hand braced against the ground.  Bobby felt the first stirrings of alarm at the same time that the holographic projections around him began to dissipate. 

Bobby knelt beside him.  "Remy?"

"Oui?"  The single word dripped sarcasm. Bobby sucked in his breath.  It had been a while since he'd had to stop and think to make sure the next thing he said wasn't stupid.

He was saved from finding a response as Hank bounded across the Danger Room, coming to a stop beside Bobby.  He studied Remy with poorly concealed concern, then reached over and touched his shoulder.  "Can you stand?" he asked gently.

Remy glanced up, the tightness around his eyes betraying his pain.  "Oh, sure, Hank.  No problem.  I jus' t'ought I'd take a lil' breather, non?" 

With a stab of regret, Bobby recognized the biting sarcasm for what it was and held up a hand to forestall Hank from reaching out to help him.  Hank met Bobby's gaze, his lips pressed together in a thin line, but then nodded.  They waited patiently as Remy climbed to his feet.  It hurt Bobby to watch the painstaking process from a man who was normally so graceful he could make a cat jealous, but it was important to let him do it himself.

Remy straightened completely and turned to Hank, his gaze flat, but from somewhere he managed to summon a smile.  "Don' y' dare say it," he told Hank.

Hank appeared to take the small joke for the apology it was, and grinned in return.  "Moi?"  His tone was light.  "My dear Gambit, whatever could possibly have made you think that I would stoop so low as to use the phrase 'I told you so' in your presence?"

Remy gave him a dirty look, which Hank blithely ignored.  The other X-Men had gathered around them by that point.  Rogue stood at a short distance, arms crossed, her expression a cross between relief and disgust.  Scott wore a similar expression.  Beside him, Jean's face was deceptively mild and Bobby found himself wondering yet again just how much she'd seen in Remy's mind that day.  She was by far the most tolerant of the X-Men when it came to Remy's comings and goings-- and his own. 

"After you," Hank gestured grandly for Remy to precede him to the door. 

Remy rolled his eyes at the theatrics, but turned obediently and took a small, limping step in that direction.  Behind them, Rogue growled something under her breath and then, shaking her head, moved forward.  She flew to Remy side, landed neatly and wrapped one arm around his waist for support.  It was the first time in a week or more that Bobby had seen the two of them together like that, and he suppressed a sigh.  Unbidden, he glanced up at the control room windows, where he knew Diedre watched the practice session.  Knowing what Remy had been willing to do to make their love possible made him wish he could, in some way, repay the debt.

Even a brief thought of his wife made Bobby smile, but the expression died as Scott approached.  As much as he liked Scott, the fine line he walked as a thief made him always wary around the X-Men's field leader.  There were too many things he needed to keep hidden to ever be completely comfortable around him.

"Bobby, do you have any idea where Gambit was all night?"  Scott's brow was drawn in a pensive frown.

Bobby shook his head.  "Not a clue." He was curious what Remy had been up to as well.

Scott crossed his arms and stared at the floor, a sure sign that he was thinking something through.

Jean laid her hand on his arm.  "Scott, honey, what is it?"

Scott shrugged and looked up at her.  "I'm concerned about Remy's behavior.  I thought getting hurt would sober him up some, but he's going right back to his old patterns.  He stays out all night doing who knows what, and then can barely drag himself through a standard training exercise.  He disappears without telling anyone where he's going or when he'll be back... "

"Remy has always been there when the X-Men needed him."  Ororo put one hand on her hip as she regarded Scott.

"In general, yes."  Scott made a sweeping gesture.  "But I'm not sure he has the resources anymore to keep up that kind of life, and if he's not careful it's going to get him -- or one of us -- killed."

#

Bobby let himself into Gambit's room as quietly as he could, sparing a glance for the still-sleeping figure on the bed.  He'd come through a couple of times in the last twelve hours, mostly to give Remy an excuse to wake up if he was ready to.  He had the feeling there was a lot going on, and that the Master thief couldn't afford to miss too much of it.

A soft rustle alerted him. Bobby shielded his eyes as Remy sat up and switched on the bedside lamp.

"How long've  I been out?"  Remy folded his legs Indian-style and laid his forehead in his hands.

"About eighteen hours."

Remy rubbed his eyes savagely, as if trying to clear the last of his grogginess.  "Get m' laptop, would y'?"  He waved in the direction of the desk.

Bobby did so while Remy climbed out of bed and fetched a pair of jeans.  Bobby kept a covert eye on him, and was relieved to see that he was limping only a little, which appeared to be more stiffness than pain.

He had the laptop up and running by the time Remy sat down beside him and began sorting through a handful of CDs.

Bobby didn't bother to ask the obvious.  He simply waited for Remy to hand him one of the disks. 

"Y' remember Tom Scales?" Remy asked, his attention still focused on his search.

Bobby shrugged.  "Sure."  Tom was a hacker, and probably the source of the disks.

Remy picked out one of the disks and considered it gravely.  "He's dead."  He glanced at Bobby.  "An' dis is probably de reason why."

Silent, Bobby accepted the proffered disk and put it in the machine he held.  Unsurprisingly, when he tried to access it, he came up with a password screen.  He passed the laptop to Remy, who typed in a string without hesitation.  The screen cleared, giving the two men a view of the contents of the disk, which consisted of about a dozen files with incomprehensible names.

Remy shrugged and opened the first one.  It appeared to be a ledger of some kind, and had the Draxar corporate logo at the top.  Bobby peered at it with interest.  He recognized the software and knew that he was looking at some kind of expenditures tracking, but the file appeared to be encrypted.  Either that or the accountant was fluent in Sanskrit.

Remy closed the file and opened the next.  Bobby guessed that it was some kind of report, but what kind he couldn't guess.  The document was a good twenty pages and encrypted as well.

Remy shut down the laptop and handed Bobby the CD.  "Dere's a little computer parts shop down on 48^th street called Computer Smart.  Ask f' Lee.  He'll deal wit' y' because y' Guild, an' he should be able t' decrypt dis.  Make sure y' burn an extra copy."

Bobby gave him a curious glance.  "Why not have Torri do it?"  Torri was a woman of the Clans, and one of the best computer talents the Guild had.

Remy shook his head.  "I want t' keep dis outside de Guild.  It's too dangerous.  Lee works f' de Martino family.  Let dese Draxar folks sniff 'round de Mafia if dey wan', but I want t' keep de Guild out o' it."

Bobby arched one eyebrow speculatively, but didn't comment.  Mafia had a strong influence in New York, and the Thieves Guild walked carefully around them most of the time.  There was no direct conflict of interest since the crime families weren't into high dollar theft, but the threat of trouble was always lurking.  Bobby was a little surprised that Remy would take the risk of using the Mafia for his stalking horse, but perhaps he found that danger less than that of letting Draxar get too close to the Guild.

Remy stood and returned the laptop to its customary place inside the desk, then began to dress.

"Are you going into the city tonight?"  Bobby asked him.  It was only just past sunset, but he was liable to get himself even further onto Scott's bad side if he took off for another night.

Remy shook his head.  "Non.  I'm gon' get somet'ing t' eat an' den get out o' here f' a little bit t' make some phone calls, but dat's it."

Bobby felt a small wave of relief.  "Do you need me to do anything else while I'm out, then?"

"Don' t'ink so.  Take y' wife wit' y' an' have some fun tonight, neh?  T'ings gon' get pretty busy f' a while an' I'm gon' need y' help.  Especially where de X-Men are concerned."

Bobby frowned at the slightly ominous ring to his words.  "Because of this Draxar thing?"

Remy shook his head again.  "Non.  Dat's a different issue entirely."

Bobby ran through a string of possibilities and came to a conclusion that made his gut tighten.  "It's about the new Guildmaster then." 

Remy flashed him a surprisingly caustic smile.  "Oui."

"So who did they pick?"

Remy dropped onto the bed with a sigh.  He seemed suddenly older, tired.  "Me, Bobby.  Dey picked me."

It took Bobby a moment to find his voice.  "Wow.  That's good though, right?"  He felt like his head was spinning from the implications.

Remy leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.  "I hope so."

The quiet uncertainty in the words startled Bobby out of his thoughts.  One of Remy's strengths was the ability to make solid decisions quickly and to carry them through with full confidence.  It was rare for him to hesitate or second guess himself.

"Remy?"

"Oui?"  Remy didn't look up.

"Are you all right?"

Remy paused long enough that Bobby knew he was lying.  "Fine, Bobby.  It's jus' a lot o' responsibility, neh?" 

"Yeah," he agreed softly, feeling suddenly cold.  The last time he'd heard that tone in Remy's voice had been in Seattle, in the wreckage of an old theater where something terrible had once happened.  Something Bobby still didn't know anything about, and wasn't sure he wanted to.  He knew Remy kept a lot of secrets, and he trusted his reasons for doing so, but there was something about this one that scared Remy, and scared him badly.

Hoping that he was reading entirely too much into a simple comment, Bobby turned and left.  It might just be understandable nervousness, after all.  And no matter what Remy's private fears were, Bobby couldn't think of anyone who was more capable of leading the Guild.

#

Remy's mutant kinesthetic sense picked up the approach of an airborne figure just a little too late.  He cut off his conversation abruptly and dropped the cell phone back into an inner pocket, but not before Rogue had gotten too close to have missed noticing.   She dropped lightly to the ground a few feet away from where he sat on his parked bike and wrapped her arms around herself.

The stance was a sure sign she was suspicious and Remy felt his anger blossom.  He throttled it mercilessly, but couldn't help the accompanying surge of bitterness.  Saints, why couldn' I fall f' a t'ief woman?

If she would just give him one reason to believe that he could introduce her to the Guild without destroying everything he was trying to protect, he would have shown her the truth.  It was tearing him apart to be caught in the middle, but he cared too much about her to quit trying.  Unfortunately, right now trying was synonymous with failing, and all they were managing to do was make the rift between them wider.

"Who were you talking to?" Rogue asked without preamble.  To her credit she sounded curious rather than accusing, and Remy did his best to convince himself that she was, in fact, just trying to make conversation.

Remy sighed.  "Wasn' not'ing important, chere."  In fact, it had been a fairly mundane discussion of some of the details of the upcoming Guild ceremony.  So he wasn't lying to her, which he adamantly refused to do.  But simply refusing to answer wasn't much better.  It eased his conscience some, but did nothing to reassure Rogue.  He clenched his jaw to keep from grinding his teeth in silent frustration.

Rogue's eyes narrowed fractionally.  "For somethin' that ain't important, ya sure got rid a whoever that was awful fast when ya saw me comin'."

Ouch, Remy thought, but kept his expression still. 

"Did y' wan' somet'ing, chere?" he asked quietly after a moment and saw the hurt anger flash to life behind her eyes.

 "No," she answered curtly.  "Ah'm sorry ah bothered ya."  She bit her lip as the familiar shine of tears appeared in her eyes.  But before Remy could find something to say, she launched herself straight up into the sky like a bullet until her form was a tiny dot lost against the darkness.

Filled with impotent fury, Remy grabbed the handlebars of his bike and started it with a savage motion.  Dirt sprayed behind him in a heavy shower as he spun the tires and then squealed out onto the narrow road.  He knew it was impossible to outrun the pain, but that didn't mean he couldn't lose it for a little while in the adrenaline rush as he pushed both the bike and himself beyond the limits of safety and sense, into that fine gray area on the edge of instability where one real mistake would probably cost him his life. 

#

Diedre Drake paused at the entrance to the kitchen, debating whether to go in.  Rogue sat at the little table tucked into the corner of the kitchen, her robe and disheveled hair indicating to Diedre that she had probably been there for a while.  Dawn was only just beginning to lighten the edges of the sky.

Diedre was an early riser by nature and often surprised the X-Men by being up and about even before they were.  She liked the stillness -- the sense of patient expectation as the world waited those last minutes before the sun would return.  Unfortunately, because of the schedule that Bobby kept, it sometimes meant that she was getting up just in time to meet him as he came home and headed for bed.  Not that she was complaining.  Even the hard parts of being married to Bobby and living with the X-Men were better than anything she'd had in the past.

With that in mind, she looked back at Rogue.  The other woman was a few years younger than Diedre, with a chip on her shoulder for all the wrong life had done her and a volatile temper that made Diedre want to keep a careful distance lest she become the latest victim of Rogue's razor-edged tongue.  But for all of the hard exterior, Diedre could see glimpses of the hurt that was hidden underneath.  Hurt she understood all too well.

She went to the counter to fetch a couple of oranges and a knife before taking a seat at the table.  Rogue glanced up momentarily, but then went back to contemplating the dregs of her coffee.  Diedre was content to sit quietly and peel her orange.  She wasn't very good at starting conversations, but perhaps she could give some silent sympathy.

When she'd finished peeling the orange, she separated the sections and offered one to Rogue.  "Would you like some?"

Rogue glanced up again, but shook her head and then set her coffee mug down with a sigh.  "Ah don't mean ta be rude, shugah, but would ya mind goin' someplace else with those?  Ah'd really like ta be alone f' a while."  Her eyes didn't quite meet Diedre's.

Diedre pressed her lips together at the rebuke and carefully set the pieces of her orange down in front of her.  Her temptation was always to take the harsh words personally, and to believe that they were no more than she deserved.  But she understood, in her head at least, that Rogue was being rude in the hopes that she could scare Diedre off and not have to deal with any personal questions.  It was a defense mechanism she had seen Rogue use on all of the X-Men.  That knowledge didn't keep her gut from curling up into a tight little knot, but it did give her enough courage not to bolt from the room.

"The kitchen is going to get busy here pretty soon," she offered, hoping that her voice sounded neutral.  "If you want to be alone, you may want to find someplace else before the X-Men start looking for breakfast."

Rogue's eyes narrowed, but then she looked toward the window, where the sky had turned shades of pink and orange.  "Maybe ah should," she agreed, and pushed herself to her feet.

She froze at the sound of the front door opening and then closing.  Even without her reaction, Diedre knew who that had to be.  Only Bobby or Remy would be coming in through the front door at this hour, and Bobby was in their room, asleep.  Footsteps echoed softly on the hardwood floors, coming closer.

Remy stopped in the kitchen doorway as his gaze locked with Rogue's.  Diedre had the sudden irrational urge to hide under the table as the tension level in the room skyrocketed.  Having known him for several years through the Thieves Guild, Diedre was often surprised by Remy these days.  She was used to his silk suits and perfect manners, not torn jeans and leather jackets, and his hair wild from a ride on the motorcycle.  Until she'd come to live at the mansion, she'd never once seen the Master thief lose his temper.  But Rogue possessed an uncanny ability to set him off, and Diedre had been truly terrified the first time she'd been caught in the midst of a full-blown fight between the two of them.  Even now, the violence that sparked between them made her very uncomfortable.  She understood that they were a little different than she was -- Remy was a lethal hand-to-hand combatant and Rogue was physically invulnerable.  But still, real love didn't treat people that way.  Real love was gentle.  It had taken a lot of hurt and nearly dying for Diedre to come to understand that. It was a realization that had changed her life.  She only wished that she could find a way to explain to these two before they broke something between them that couldn't be fixed.

Swallowing convulsively, Diedre stood as well and gathered up the pile of orange peels on the table. 

"Good morning, Remy," she said as cheerfully as she could manage in that atmosphere, and then deliberately passed between them as she went to throw the peels into the trash.

Her action broke the eye contact between Remy and Rogue, and Remy returned her greeting with a strained smile.  "Mornin', Snowflake."

Diedre couldn't help a small grimace.  It has started out as a joke.  The X-Men called Bobby "Popsicle" on a regular basis, and they had dubbed her "Snowflake" in contrast.  The name had stuck, sort of like an honorary codename, despite the fact that she was not and never would be an X-Man.

Remy's momentary smile faded as he turned his attention to Rogue.  "Y' wan' talk 'bout dis?" he asked frankly.  Diedre didn't know specifically which "this" he was referring to, though she had a list of probable candidates.  Whatever fight the two had had, she hadn't been present, for which she was grateful. 

"Are ya gonna tell me who ya were talkin' to?" Rogue answered.

Remy's gaze flickered to Diedre for the barest moment, and she knew in an instant that it had to involve thief business.  "No, chere.  It ain' any of y' concern."  Diedre could hear the echoes of regret in his voice.

Rogue's lips thinned angrily.  "Then ah don't see as we have anything ta talk about, Cajun."

Remy's fingers twitched as if he were fighting the desire to ball them into fists.  "Fine."  He turned smartly on his heel and left, his footsteps uncommonly loud in the stillness.

After a moment, Rogue let out her breath in a shaky sigh.

"Rogue?"  Diedre wondered if she had any business getting involved.  The Clans were her family. She understood the need to protect them, even from the X-Men.  But she knew she couldn't just stand by and do nothing.

"Leave me alone, sugah."  The words came out as a choked whisper.

"Does it really matter who he was talking to?"

Rogue glanced up at her for a bare moment, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears.  Slowly she shook her head.  "No, it doesn't.  But it matters that he won't tell me."

Diedre watched her sympathetically.  "Why?"

"Because it means he still doesn't trust me."  Sniffling slightly, Rogue tightened the sash of her robe and then wandered slowly out of the kitchen.

When she was gone, Diedre sank back into her seat and stretched her hands out on the table.  Her wedding rings flashed in the first rays of sunlight and she contemplated them solemnly as the morning brought the mansion to life around her.

Chapter 3

As Remy spoke the final words of the ceremony, he felt Guildmaster Lotho's hands tighten over his.  It was a supportive gesture. Remy wondered briefly if his face reflected how thoroughly he was reeling on the inside.  It was partly a matter of the oath he was accepting -- an oath of loyalty and service that bound him to the New York Guild until his death-- but it was also simply a matter of his mutant powers.  Remy's kinesthetic sense was damped down to a level he could stand, but still, his power tracked the motion of each of the three thousand plus people who ringed him.  He could have pushed his awareness down further and saved himself the accompanying nausea, but he wanted to feel them.  These were his family now.  They were his responsibility and wherever he decided to lead them, they would go.

For a man who had spent much of his life running away from responsibility, it was something of a shock.

"If I let you go, son, are you going to fall over on me?"

Guildmaster Lotho's blue eyes glinted with amusement. Remy had the distinct impression the other man was pleased by his reaction.  Around them, the other seven Guildmasters were arranged in a circle, and though their faces were hidden as required by tradition, Remy could feel a sense of approval from many of them as well.  He wasn't certain why, but he had gotten the feeling that, after the initial surprise had worn off, many of the Guildmasters had ended up cautiously agreeing with the New York Guild's choice.

Remy shook his head and took a deep breath.  "I'm all right, Guildmaster."

Lotho squeezed his hands once more, then released him and stepped back.  The ceremonial sword that Remy had taken his oath on was streaked red with his blood, but he ignored the burning pain in his palm as he brought the blade up in a salute.  In response, the silence in the underground amphitheater shattered as the combined members of the clans and the Guild began to applaud.  Within the confined space of the arena the sound bounced around, reflecting off of walls and ceiling until the entire cavern vibrated with the thunderous roar.

Remy closed his eyes briefly, once again overwhelmed, and then brought the sword down sharply to complete the salute.  In a part of his mind, he understood that the applause wasn't entirely for him, Remy LeBeau.  The Guild in particular, but also the Clans by extension, had suffered a great deal of harm at Michael's hands.  They were eager for change and for a new start.  Much of that hope was wrapped up in Remy as the new Guildmaster, and their enthusiasm would probably not have been any different no matter who was taking up the reins.  But still, it was incredibly gratifying and in that instant he was certain that he would do everything in his power to fulfill the oath he had just taken.

#

Remy hesitated on the threshold of the Guildmaster's quarters within the Guild complex.  He had been there before, of course, to see Michael, but he hadn't been back since the other man's death.  He vaguely recalled someone asking him about decor, but with the flurry of preparations it hadn't really connected in his mind that the suite would be redone for him.  He had opened the door expecting Michael's modern impressionist art, the angular furniture and oddly colored lighting.  Instead, he was greeted by a far more pleasant scene.

Remy stepped inside, allowing the solid oak door to swing shut behind him.  The only constant thing in the room was the massive desk.  Even Michael had had the sense not to try to replace that.  It was nearly three hundred years old, made by a master craftsman in Italy for the first Guildmaster of New York.

Remy ran his fingers lightly across the polished mahogany surface and with a sigh sat down in the high backed leather chair behind it.  From there, he surveyed the office.  His office.  The thought was enough to draw a snort of amusement.

A Monet was hung directly across from his seat at the desk. He studied it while his thief's training picked out the details of the room.  The carpet was short but plush, done in a subdued paisley that contrasted nicely with the creamy color of the walls and the dark wood trim. A portion of the room was taken up by a couch and several chairs arranged in a comfortable group.  Remy took note of the low profile video/sound system built into the wall at the focus of the arrangement.  There was also a small wet bar, flanked by a pair of tropical-looking plants Remy didn't recognize.  Everything in the room was of exquisite quality and matched his tastes perfectly. 

There was one other door in the room, which presumably led to the rest of the suite.  Remy had never been through it, and had no idea how extensive the area beyond might be.  He wasn't quite ready to go exploring, however.

Sighing softly, Remy closed his eyes and laid his head back against the chair.  A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts almost before he'd had the time to form any.  He'd been keeping his spatial sense damped as far as possible in the hours after the Guild ceremony in an attempt to bleed off the overload to his system, and so the knock startled him.  But as soon as he set his power loose, he recognized the person outside the door.

"Door's open, Bobby," he called.

The familiar blond head and matching grin peeked around the door.  Bobby looked around as he came inside.

"Nice," he commented. 

Remy was once again amazed by how much Bobby had changed.  The boy who would have been intimidated by that room had vanished, and in his place stood a man who studied his surroundings with casual interest.

"Y' headed home?" Remy asked him.

Bobby nodded.  "Diedre wanted to talk to her mom for a while, but I think they're about ready to call it a night.  I just wanted to check in with you before we left."

Remy waved him away.  "I'm fine.  I'll see y' back at de mansion in a few days, neh?"  Knowing that taking over the Guild would require all of his time for a while, he'd given the X-Men a story about going to visit an old friend in New Orleans.  Scott hadn't been thrilled, but he'd accepted the excuse without question which was all that mattered to Remy.

"Right."  Bobby grinned again.  "Good night... Guildmaster."

Their gazes locked. Remy felt a surge of affection and appreciation for the young man.  He was a rarity in Remy's life -- a real friend-- and the note of pure confidence in his voice was a much needed reassurance.  He found himself grinning in response.

"G'night, T'ief."

#

Scott Summers rapped gently on the open lab door and waited for Hank to look up from whatever intricate work he was doing.

"Can I help you with something, O Fearless One?" Hank asked with a smile as he adjusted his glasses.

Scott shot him a brief look of annoyance.  He couldn't even remember who had hung that particular nickname on him, but he never had liked it.  The X-Men seemed to, though, which was why he tried not to protest too much.

"Yeah, Hank.  I wanted to talk to you about Gambit."  He came forward into the room and stopped beside the table where Hank was working.

"Is something wrong?"  An expression of concern creased his friend's blue face.

Scott cocked his head.  "You're the one who cleared him for active status."

Hank's expression cleared.  "Ah."  He sat back in his chair.  "But you're still concerned."

Scott sighed and rapped the table lightly with his fingertips.  He still wasn't sure what exactly it was that was bothering him about Gambit these days, but Hank seemed like the best person to start with to see if he couldn't bring the nagging uncertainty to light.

He nodded.  "I am.  You said he would recover ninety-five percent of his abilities -- "

"I said he could recover as much as ninety-five percent," Hank clarified.  He pulled off his glasses and tossed them down on the table.  "But no matter what, it's going to take more time than this.  The injuries themselves have healed, but to rebuild the strength and stamina will take longer."

"So you don't think putting him back on active status now is... premature?"

Hank's expression turned thoughtful.  "In terms of his ability to support the team..." He frowned, "Probably.  But in terms of his own recovery, it simply couldn't have waited any longer."

Scott considered that.  He understood Hank's point, but couldn't say that he agreed.  Hank was first and foremost a physician, and as such, his priorities often focused on the needs of the individual X-Men rather than those of the team.

"I can understand that it's important for Remy to feel valuable," Scott said, "but I'm not willing to put the entire team at risk just to bolster his confidence."

Hank chuckled lightly.  "You haven't spent much time with our Ragin' Cajun lately, have you?  He doesn't need confidence."

Scott eyed him doubtfully.  "You think the bravado is more than skin deep?"

"I know so."  Hank's expression turned solemn.  "I watched him learn how to walk again, remember?"

Scott pressed his lips together, surprised by the reaction.  He hadn't realized that Hank was so deeply impressed by Remy's recovery.  It shed a slightly different light on their conversation.  Sighing, he crossed his arms and settled himself to listen.  "O.k. Hank.  Explain it to me."

Hank nodded and flashed him a grin.  "How fit would you say you are?"

"What?"  Scott floundered with the abrupt change in direction.

Hank chuckled at his reaction.  "No need to be embarrassed, now.  I'm your doctor.  But, compared to say... a member of the SEALs... how would you rate?"

Scott fought the heat he could feel building in his cheeks.  His parents and grandparents had always taught him that it was rude to boast about your own abilities, but Hank was his doctor as he'd said.  He should already know the answer, and the opening was simply more than Scott could resist.

"You know I'd eat his lunch," he quipped, and was answered by Hank's bark of laughter.

"Indeed.  And why is that?  Certainly the military's top operatives train as hard as you do, wouldn't you think?"

Scott thought about that for a moment, and then nodded.  "I guess that's a reasonable assumption."  The question started his mind to turning.  Why was it that the X-Men always had the advantage when they clashed with the military's best?  It wasn't just a matter of powers.  As he thought back through some of the conflicts he remembered, he could clearly see the distinct physical advantage some of the X-Men held.

Hank seemed to know when he'd followed his thoughts to their conclusion.  "It's a matter of lifestyle," he said quietly.  "We X-Men train diligently because it could save our lives, but that is no different than a number of other people with dangerous professions.  The difference is, to a large degree, how often we are called on to exercise that training.  We are in more violent conflicts more often than just about anyone else.  And then, on our downtime, we play in the Danger Room or we engage in games of full-powers combat basketball."

Scott had to smile at the memories Hank was conjuring up for him, but despite his amusement, he understood what the other was trying to say.  "All right.  I suppose I take your point. But Remy came to the X-Men in that kind of condition."

Hank nodded.  "Because he was a professional thief.  I believe the same principles apply."

"Hmpf.  Maybe."  Scott stared unseeing at his reflection in the gleaming surface of the lab table.  "I would be surprised if thieving was that demanding." 

Hank very slowly arched one eyebrow.  "Are you suggesting some other source for his conditioning?"  There was a note of uneasiness in his voice.

Scott looked up into his friend's eyes.  "I'm not suggesting anything.  But it does make me wonder."

"Wonder what, exactly?"

Scott shrugged uncomfortably.  "Where Gambit comes from.  I can't say that joining the X-Men has improved his fighting skills one whit -- he was already in top form when he got here.  I suppose I'd be forced to admit that his teamwork skills have improved dramatically, but that's a slightly different issue."

Hank fingered the rim of his glasses for a moment, then picked them up and placed them back on his nose.  "Well, this is your opportunity, then."

"For what?"

Hank's smile was strangely knowing.  "Remy isn't going to be able to regain his abilities without the X-Men... unless he goes back to wherever he got his training in the first place."

#

The Club was in full swing when Remy arrived.  He had taken the back stairs that rose from the underground levels of the Guild complex where his office was located, and so went unnoticed for a few moments as he stood in the shadows in a back corner of the room.  To the untrained eye, he knew the sea of people and the raucous babble of conversations would seem like nothing more than what it pretended to be -- a high dollar night club and casino.  But to Remy, the true significance of the events that transpired all around him was obvious.  This was where the Thieves Guild did its business.  Amid the lights and music, the drinks, the tables and the women, there were pockets of seriousness.  Here was where the Guild negotiated its contracts and accepted its fees.  After all, what simpler means of accepting payment was there than for the person in question to lose the required amount at the craps table? 

Remy narrowed his attention, focusing on Artur Valencia.  Artur sat with a man Remy recognized at one of the little café tables.  They were supposed to be working out the final details of a fairly risky but highly rewarding pinch that the Guild had contracted.  It was the kind of work Remy would have taken had he not had so many other things to do at the moment, and he felt a small pang of jealousy. 

Artur and the man shook hands, concluding their conversation, and Remy stepped out into the crowd.  As he made his way toward Artur, the people around him noticed his presence and moved out of the way with a nod or a brief apology.  It was nice, if a bit disconcerting, not to have to maneuver his way through the crowd. Remy was not quite as composed as he would have liked when he stepped up onto the raised platform that housed the small café.

"Guildmaster," Artur greeted him with a smile.

"Evenin' Artur," Remy returned, and nodded toward the retreating figure of Artur's guest.  "He went f' it?"

Artur nodded and sat back down in his chair.  "No complaints on any of the stipulations.  He's willing to wait on delivery to make sure it can't be traced, so we shouldn't have any problems."

"Dat's good."  Remy sat down opposite him and stretched his legs out under the table.

"The only question now is who the job should be given to."  Artur eyed Remy speculatively, as if debating whether to say anything more.

Remy tapped the slick black table top lightly with one finger as he considered his response.  Artur was almost fifteen years Remy's senior, and knew a good deal more about running the Guild than Remy did.  He was a born administrator who knew the abilities of each and every Guild thief. He had already become invaluable as an advisor on the inner workings of the administrative aspects of Guild leadership. 

But the statement he had made to Remy was more of a test, to see if the new Guildmaster was going to establish himself as the final authority on such decisions, or if he was going to delegate the task completely as Michael had done.  Remy's first instinct was to do absolutely the opposite of Michael no matter what it was, but he squelched the desire.  The fact that Michael had kept out of many of the day-to-day details of running his Guild was probably the only reason they'd survived.  Artur and the other men like him had done a commendable job of keeping the Guild on track, except where Michael's influence had countered their efforts.

He met Artur's eyes.  "Y' have a recommendation?"  It would be foolish of Remy to ignore the experience and expertise of a man like Artur, but he did want to be more involved in the details of the Guild than Michael was. 

Artur favored him with one of his strangely gentle smiles.  "Do you know Joseph Kline?"

Remy couldn't help a small scowl.  Joseph was a talented thief, but he was also one of Michael's cronies.  He'd been found innocent of any actions that would have threatened the Guild. Still, Remy considered him to be neutral, at best.

'Course, I may jus' be prejudiced 'gainst de man because o' his name, Remy reminded himself sarcastically.  A different Joseph was part of the reason for the friction between Rogue and himself.  For some bizarre, unthinkable reason, Rogue had decided to take a de-aged and memory-less Magneto under her wing.  The ex-villain had developed a crush on her that wasn't sitting well with Remy at all.

"Joseph is loyal to the Guild," Artur said, and Remy forced his mind back onto the topic at hand.

But not loyal t' me, he thought, realizing the importance of the difference.  "What about Marcus?"  Marcus Black was one of a very few thieves Remy felt had the ability to become a Master thief.

Artur nodded.  "He has the skill, certainly, but he isn't very familiar with Syndex security systems."  Syndex used a non-standard wiring layout and had the unfortunate tendency to booby-trap portions of their more complex systems.  They were one of the leaders in advanced security, and were responsible for protecting the item that the Guild had contracted to steal.

They talked for a while longer until Remy was convinced that Artur had indeed named the best man for the job, despite his reservations.

Remy sighed and drained the last of his scotch.  "If you've got dat much confidence in him, den I trust y' judgment," he told Artur and was rewarded by the older man's expression of pleased surprise.

"I appreciate that, Guildmaster."  Artur nodded and stood, giving Remy an oddly conspiratorial grin.  "The line seems to be forming, so I'll get on with this and let someone else have a chance at you."

Remy couldn't help but return the smile.  He, too, had noticed the people who hovered nearby, waiting for their turn to talk to the Guildmaster.  In many cases, he already knew what the topics of conversation would be, but there were a few that looked to be new problems for him to deal with.  He fingered his empty glass, debating whether to order a second drink.  He had the sudden feeling that it was going to be a long night.

#

The sharp, insistent ringing of the phone dragged Rogue out of her dreams.  She rolled over, reaching for the handset, as she caught sight of the alarm clock whose digital numbers glowed an iridescent green in the darkness.

Still groggy, she managed to grab the receiver and put it against her ear.  "Hello?"

"M' sorry, chere.  Did I wake y'?"

Recognition drove away her sleepiness.  "Remy?"  She glanced at the clock again.  "Remy, it's almost three in the mornin'.  Are ya all right?"  There was something in his voice that alarmed her. 

"M' fine, chere.  I jus'... wanted t' hear y' voice."

Rogue paused, everything she might have said to him suddenly forgotten as a tingling warmth spread outward from her stomach.  They hadn't said much to each other before he'd left, and now, four days later, she could hardly remember what she'd been so angry about. 

"You sound tired, sugah."  That was what set her internal alarms to ringing.  He sounded utterly exhausted and she couldn't help but wonder if his casual "visit" wasn't for far more serious reasons than he'd let on.

Remy chuckled lightly, though, and his voice lost its dullness.  "I haven' been gettin' much sleep."  He yawned hugely and Rogue grinned.  He was sounding better by the moment. Her worry eased somewhat.

"Are ya comin' home soon?"

"Oui, chere. Day or two, I t'ink."  She heard him rustling around, the sounds indistinct through the phone.  There was a soft thud, followed by a second, that Rogue thought might be shoes hitting the ground.  Then Remy sighed softly and the rustling stopped.  "Y' still gon' be mad at me when I get dere?"

Rogue sucked in her breath in surprise at the blunt question.  She had to stop and think for a moment about the argument they'd had and what it was that had upset her so much about his behavior.

"Ah... don't think so."  She paused a moment, then forced herself to say the rest of the words that hovered on the tip of her tongue.  "Ah just wish ya'd let me into ya life a little bit."  Her heart was pounding in terror as the words left her mouth, and she waited in dreadful anticipation of how he would answer.

"Maybe..." His voice was faint, as if his mind was far away, wrapped up in its own thoughts.  "Maybe dat would be a good idea."

She waited a bit longer, but he remained silent.

"Is that a promise, Cajun?" she asked, hoping that she sounded teasing rather than demanding -- or desperate.

"Oui."  He was back suddenly, snapped out of his thoughts.  "It is.  We'll go out once I get back, neh?  Dere's a place I should take y'."

"All right," she agreed, uncertain exactly what it was she was agreeing to.  It sounded more significant than just a date, but it was the first time Remy had ever offered her information and she wasn't about to pass up the opportunity.

"I'll see y' when I get back den."

"Ah'll be waitin'."

Rogue slowly set the phone back down in its cradle and rolled over to lie on her back.  She stared at the ceiling, her thoughts whirling.  She hardly dared to hope that whatever Remy had in mind might mean some real answers– and a chance for their relationship to finally move forward.

Chapter 4

Remy glanced at the clock and mentally tsked at himself.  He was supposed to be sleeping.  He'd only managed to catch about an hour and a half nap before his monitor duty started that morning, but now there was football on the TV. and a very friendly woman curled up against him on the couch.  He had no intention of giving up either just because he was a little tired. 

Rogue reached across him to grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl Bishop was holding with the uncomfortable ease of a man carrying a disarmed bomb.  She smiled at Remy as she munched on the handful and he found himself grinning back, wondering if he looked as much like a love-struck fool as he felt.  Rogue had met him in the driveway when he'd gotten back and had hugged him with such enthusiasm that it had swept away all of his lingering uncertainty about what he had promised her. 

The risk hadn't changed, though, so he was going to have to introduce her to the Thieves' culture very slowly.  In coming to the X-Men, Rogue had rejected everything having to do with her past.  He still wasn't certain but that the rejection wouldn't extend to himself and his Guild if she found out the truth.  In some ways, she could be as narrowly focused as Scott, and as black-and-white in her definitions of right and wrong.  But now that he didn't also have to worry about Michael finding a way to use her as a weapon against him in the Guild, maybe it was time to find out.

The phone rang, shattering his introspection.  He pushed the thoughts away as Jean picked up the phone.  Her eyebrows flickered in poorly concealed surprise.

"Remy, it's for you."

Remy's gut tightened.  There were precious few people who would call him at the mansion.  He gave her a genuinely puzzled look and accepted the phone.

"'Lo?"

"Hello, Remy. It's Dyson.  Sorry to call you at this number, but I didn't think it could wait."  The voice on the other end of the line was smooth and precise, just like the man it was attached to.

Remy arched an eyebrow.  "What's de problem?"   Around him, the X-Men perked their ears a bit, not rude enough to watch him but obviously curious. 

"You know those accounts you've been having me keep an eye on for the past few years?  Well, I just got a nibble at one of my hooks."

Remy digested that as he forced his expression to remain mild.  Dyson was a security consultant, as he liked to be called, and his specialty was money.  No matter what it was or where you were keeping it, Dyson's job was to make sure it stayed safe.  Remy had used him for years to keep an eye on his own accounts, primarily to make sure that various investigative agencies didn't track him down through his investments or his onshore accounts.  When he'd joined the X-Men on a semi-permanent basis, it had seemed prudent to have him watch the Professor and Warren as well.  Remy didn't expect anyone to find him through either of them, but he believed in protecting his back.  The fact that someone had just tripped one of Dyson's alarms on one of those accounts made him suddenly very nervous.

He nudged Rogue to move over so he could get up.  She did so, curiosity written on her face.

Remy shrugged and covered the mouth of the phone with his hand.  "M' accountant.  Wants t' talk 'bout some t'ings." 

Scott gave him a surprised look, "You have an accountant?"

"Dat surprise y', mon ami?" Remy couldn't help the sarcasm that crept into his voice.  For all that he needed the X-Men to think he was both irresponsible and dilettante, he found the reaction extremely annoying.

Scott favored him with a thoughtful frown.  "A little, I guess.  You've never mentioned it before."

Remy considered that expression to be among Scott's most dangerous.  It meant he was thinking, and Remy had learned from experience what a tremendous intuitive thinker Scott was.  If he got too curious, Remy was certain he would start putting the pieces together.  That was why he felt compelled to use such heavy-handed misdirection with the X-Men, and so far, at least, it had been sufficient to distract Cyclops.

Remy shrugged, an insolent gesture calculated to anger the other man.  "Consider it mentioned."

Scott's lips thinned at the retort, but he didn't respond.  Remy took the opportunity to escape to the back porch.

He settled in one of the patio chairs and propped his feet up.  "Now, what happened?" he asked Dyson.

"Not much to tell, I'm afraid.  Somebody made a couple of forays into Xavier's personal finances.  Not the school money -- that hasn't been touched.  It looks like they were tracing expenditures, which makes me think they're trying to find links."

"Could y' back trace it?"  Remy stared at his boots.  It sounded like someone was trying to identify the Professor's associates by following his money.  It was a standard tactic for agencies like the F.B.I and Interpol.  They weren't going to find much, though.  The Professor had very capable accountants.  Everything he did that was associated with the mutant underground or people like Valerie Cooper was done very discretely.  Even Dyson had been impressed.

"That's why I called.  I followed them back into the banking infrastructure, but then it started getting really complex.  There's a new watchdog patrolling those lanes.  It spotted both of us, but it let the other one through and cut me out." 

Remy didn't pretend to completely understand the cyber jargon.  He was a fair hacker, but nothing compared to people like Dyson.  He did know that a watchdog was a security program that protected a certain set of data exchanges.  The one Dyson was talking about was probably either owned by one of the larger banks, or was a Federal code run by the FCC.  Either way, the fact that it had deliberately allowed the infiltrator to pass was a bad sign. 

"T'anks f' de info," Remy told him.  "Is dere anyt'ing we can do t' keep him out next time?"

"Actually, I was thinking you might want to get a little more drastic than just adding more security.  These accounts you want me to watch have been pretty static over the past few years.  They do leave traces, no matter how hard somebody works to erase them.  If you really want to make them more secure, we need to talk about some judicious rearranging..."

"Can' do dat," Remy answered unhappily.  Scott wasn't an idiot.  He had control of the Professor's accounts in his absence and he wouldn't miss the fact that someone else had moved them around.

Dyson sighed.  "Well, then you're out of luck."

Remy couldn't help a smile.  "Not me, mon ami.  I never run out o' luck."

On the other end, Dyson chuckled.  "I hope so.  I'll beef up my codes and let you know if they come back."

"T'anks."  Another thought occurred to him.  "Anyt'ing going on wit' Worthington Industries?  Dey got decent security."

Dyson snorted at that assessment.  "Nope.  Fat, dumb and happy.  Whatever's going on, they haven't caught wind of it."

Remy scratched the back of his neck where a prickly feeling was starting to build.  "Y' ever heard of a company called Draxar, Dyson?"  With Tom dead, Remy wondered if it was wise to ask any more questions about that place, but more than ever he needed to know.

He was answered by complete silence on the other end of the line.  Then, "Yeah, I've heard of them," Dyson admitted.

Remy waited as the feeling on the back of his neck intensified.

"They call it the Death Star because the security's so good," Dyson told him.  "I don't know of anybody who has managed to hack in.  Not even the anarchists, and they'd probably be the first to make it."

Again, Remy didn't completely follow him, but he got the gist, and he understood enough to realize that Draxar was even more dangerous than he'd believed.  The anarchists Dyson referred to were the people who created the truly nasty viruses.  The kind that could launch missiles and crash Wall Street.  They were among the most skilled and most twisted of hackers.  If they couldn't get in, then it had to be military and that put a slightly different light on things.

Feeling more alarmed than he'd like to admit, Remy turned off the phone and laid it down on the patio table.  He still didn't know enough to gauge the threat that Draxar posed, or even at whom that threat might be directed, but he was convinced now that he needed to start taking some steps to make sure that neither the Guild nor the X-Men would be caught unawares when Draxar finally revealed itself.

#

Rogue smoothed her skirt nervously and turned once more to check her reflection in the mirror.  The gown she had picked was long and sleek, the silk an olive color that was an unusual choice for her.  The fabric was stitched with an intricate pattern of stylized peacocks, the brilliant hues of the feathers picking out the color of her eyes and hair.  It was the most beautiful thing she owned, and she felt a bit hesitant about wearing it.  But Remy had said "black tie" when she'd asked, so now all she could do was hope he'd meant what he said and she wouldn't be overdressed.  She couldn't help the frightened, excited fluttering in her stomach.  He'd made her a promise and tonight was supposed to be part of keeping that promise.

Taking a deep breath to try to settle her stomach, she picked up her purse and headed downstairs.  She found Remy in the foyer with Ororo and Logan.  He turned around as she entered, and she felt a momentary wash of relief as she noted the distinct black and white of a tuxedo beneath the long black overcoat he wore.  But then her thoughts scattered as he smiled at her.  She felt rooted in place by his gaze as he closed the distance between them, a long-stemmed red rose appearing in his fingers as if by magic.  The soft petals stroked her cheek in a gentle caress, their perfume filling the air around her, before he offered her the rose with a flourish.

"For you, ma cherie."

Flushing violently and well aware of the smiles that Ororo and Logan were exchanging a few steps away, she accepted with as much grace as she could manage.  To her surprise, Remy's only response was to offer his arm.  He could be such a gentleman sometimes that it amazed her.

They walked out together. Rogue wasn't surprised to find the yellow Ferrari parked outside.  Remy held her door and she slid into the passenger seat with the thought that tonight she might actually look like she belonged in it.  Smiling, she sniffed the rose.  If he was trying to sweep her off her feet with some kind of fairy tail evening, he was off to a pretty good start.

#

"Is this where ya wanted ta take me?" she couldn't help but ask as they walked into the most astounding restaurant Rogue had ever seen.  They were on the top of one of New York's taller skyscrapers. The entire structure was made of glass.  It was almost as if they were floating above the city, the view was so complete.  The air was filled with the gentle burble of running water from the fountains that were scattered around the room, and a small orchestral group was seated on a raised dais in the middle of the restaurant, their music in perfect counterpoint to the water.

Remy grinned and squeezed her hand.  "Non.  Dis is jus' dinner."  His smile faded.  "But it is a lil' bit o' what I promised y'."

Rogue looked around with even greater curiosity as the maitre'd approached them.  He smiled at them both and bowed in greeting, then gestured for them to follow. 

"Your table is prepared, if you'll come with me."

Rogue arched an eyebrow at the maitre'd's behavior, but kept her thoughts to herself as they followed him out into the restaurant.  Something in the man's tone of voice made her think that he wasn't randomly selecting a table for them.  It was more as if he'd recognized Remy on sight and was now taking them to a place that had been reserved for their use.

After a moment, she dismissed the thoughts.  She didn't frequent any really posh restaurants.  He was probably treating them just like he treated everyone else.  It did give her pause to wonder just how much Remy was paying for the evening, though, and how Scott would react if he found out the school's money was being used for something so extravagant.

Her hopes for an intimate and romantic evening were abruptly ended as she spied Bobby and Diedre seated at one of the tables.  She was startled not only by their presence, but also by how beautiful they looked.  Bobby had always struck her as being attractive in a cute, boyish sort of way, but dressed in a tuxedo and surrounded by such sophistication, she had to admit that perhaps she had never looked closely enough.  The man who stood and greeted them both with characteristic enthusiasm was downright handsome.  Diedre, too, looked surprisingly pretty.  She wore white as if she'd been born for it, and seemed oddly comfortable amid the elegance that surrounded them.

Remy held her chair for her as she sat down at the table, and then the maitre'd took his coat and Rogue indulged herself in a moment of simply staring at him.  There was no doubt whatsoever that Remy LeBeau was a handsome man.  Even disheveled, unshaven and dressed in rags, he was almost magnetically attractive.  This, however, was something different.  Debonair was the word that floated through her mind.  She had once jokingly told herself that he was as close to Prince Charming as she was ever going to get, with the understanding that that wasn't all that close.   At the moment, though, she couldn't think of anyone who fit the description better. The conclusion startled her, and she felt the first stirrings of suspicion.  This was entirely unlike Remy.  He was a rough-and-tumble, blue collar kind of man.  She didn't particularly care about social graces -- they weren't exactly her strong suit either -- but the four of them should have looked like fish out of water in the glittering restaurant.  The only problem was that she was the only one that seemed to be the least bit uncomfortable.  Remy and the Drakes looked like they belonged there.

Their waiter came by, bringing them water in tall, slim goblets.  Rogue toyed with the intricate lemon twist that adorned hers, in the process flicking the edge of her glass with a fingernail.  The pure, clear tone of crystal rang out and she grabbed up the glass to deaden the sound.  None of her companions seemed to notice, though.  The two men were talking about a variety of things with the comfortable ease of old friends.  It amazed Rogue how much had changed in the year she'd been away.  During the course of their admittedly bizarre road trip from Florida to Seattle, Rogue had gotten the distinct impression that Bobby held a dislike for Remy that bordered on hatred.  And yet, only a year later during those few horrible days when Remy was literally teetering on the edge between life and death, it had been Bobby who he had reached out for, whose presence seemed to pull him back every time he started to slide away into the dark again. 

She felt a familiar stab of jealousy for Bobby, who seemed to have all of the knowledge she yearned to possess.  She shoved the feeling away, ashamed of herself, and took a sip of her water.  Diedre caught Rogue's eye over the top of the glass, her smile echoing the other woman's discomfort.

"I suppose we have a long way to go to catch up with them."  Diedre nodded toward the two men.

Rogue understood what she meant, and bit her lip.  She and Diedre were not close.  Rouge wasn't sure why, except that Diedre seemed so fragile and easily hurt that Rogue felt like she couldn't say anything she thought without causing the other woman to flinch.  Rogue knew she wasn't one of the world's most sensitive people --that she could be a little abrupt at times -- and that Diedre had come out of an abusive relationship that no one seemed willing to talk about, so she'd simply concluded that the less contact she had with her, the better.

"Ah suppose so," she agreed softly.

The waiter came back then and proceeded to describe the evening's menu to them.  Rogue found herself getting lost about halfway through each item because of the dizzying array of culinary terms she simply didn't know, but she managed to select something without making a fool of herself.  The others made their choices as well, and the conversation moved on to wines.  After a few moments, Remy and the waiter shifted into French.

Bobby chuckled.  "Snob."

Remy ignored him so deliberately that Rogue was forced to smile.  Her mood lightened slowly as the gentle banter between Remy and Bobby continued.  The waiter apparently managed to get a wine choice out of Remy because he excused himself and left. The four of them settled into a somewhat more comfortable atmosphere as they waited for the meal to be served.

"What do y' t'ink o' de restaurant, chere?" Remy asked her at one point.

Rogue paused in her train of thought, taken aback by the intensity lurking behind his gaze.  She had the strangest feeling she was being asked a loaded question, but she couldn't imagine how or why.  Her sense of wrongness with the evening came back full force. A tiny pit of fear formed in her stomach.

"It's beautiful," she answered, looking around once more.  Then she centered her attention on Remy, "But ah don't understand what this has ta do with..."  She glanced involuntarily toward Bobby and Diedre.  Her personal relationship with Remy wasn't something she wanted to discuss in front of an audience.

Remy followed her gaze.  "It's all right, chere.  Dey know what we're doin' here."

"And what exactly is that?"  The question came out more sharply than she intended, but the fear in her stomach simply wouldn't go away. 

She saw a flash of anger in Remy's eyes that disappeared immediately, leaving something hard in its wake.  "Y' wanted t' know more about me, neh?"  He made a sweeping gesture.  "So tonight we start."

Rogue blinked in surprise at his tone, her anger suddenly sapped by the strangeness of the conversation.  "What do they have ta do with it?"  She nodded toward the Drakes.

Bobby grinned in response and leaned forward.  "I'm the self-appointed chaperone and peace-keeper for you two." 

"Excuse me?"

Beside her, Remy snorted in sour amusement.  "He's got us dere."

Before she could sort out a response, Bobby reached across the table and grabbed her arm, which was covered by the long sleeve of her dress.  "Come dance with me."

Rogue looked between him and Diedre, who shrugged and glanced at her husband.  "I don't mind."

"But -- " She turned to Remy, who returned her gaze mildly, but didn't comment.

"Rogue, put on your gloves and let's dance."  Bobby's tone was still light, but this time it brooked no argument.

Uncertain, she did as he suggested. Bobby took her hand and lead her out to the small dance floor beside the orchestra.

"When did ya learn how ta dance, sugah?" she couldn't help but ask as they began.  From what she remembered, he had always been a barely passable dancer.  Now, he moved them both with confident poise.

Bobby chuckled.  "Recently." 

Rogue didn't have a response, and the momentary silence stretched.  Everything inside her roiled in confusion. She didn't know whether to be hurt, angry or afraid.

"How long have we been friends, Rogue?"

She turned to look at him, the gentleness in his voice like a sudden anchor.  "Since we were fifteen," she answered hesitantly.  She felt intensely vulnerable, and didn't understand why.

"Then can I give you some advice?"

Part of her immediately shouted No!, but she throttled that particular voice and nodded.  "Ah suppose so."

"Remy is never going to simply tell you what you want to know."

Startled by his bluntness, she stammered, "What do ya mean?  Tell me about what?"

Bobby shrugged.  "Anything.  It's just not part of who he is."  He nodded toward the focus of their attention, who was still seated at the table talking with Diedre.  "I know Remy.  I know how much he loves you."  Rogue's gaze snapped back to his face, her heart lurching, as he continued, "I know he's willing to let you into any part of his life you want to see, but you're going to have to figure out the answers for yourself."

Rogue was mystified.  "Ah don't understand that.  Why?  All ah want from him is a straight answer instead a these games."  Her hand on his shoulder balled into a fist, echoing her frustration.

Bobby squeezed her reassuringly.  "It's not a game, Rogue.  Guaranteed.  But you're going to have to be observant and use your head if you want to get to know him."

"Why?"  She was beginning to feel like a broken record.

"Because otherwise you'll never see what's really there."

The answer was so obtuse it was almost funny.  "That doesn't help me very much," she told him dryly.

He chuckled.  "Then let me give you an example.  What color is the rose Remy gave you?"

She gave him a quizzical stare.  "Red, o' course."

"What about the one on the table?  And no peeking, now."  His grin was guileless.

Rogue thought for a moment.  There had been rose bud in a vase on the table.  "Um, white, ah think."

"Nope, pink.  How many forks are there beside your plate?"

She stared at him in hopeless confusion.  "How should ah know?  What in the world does this have ta do with anythin'?"

Bobby's smile faded.  "It's all about observation, Rogue -- paying attention to the details.  This is all really basic stuff, but you weren't paying attention so you don't remember what you saw."

"Hey!"  She felt vaguely insulted, but couldn't deny that he was right.

"Well?"  This time, there was a note of challenge in his voice.

She sighed.  "All right, sugah.  Ah can't deny that one."

His grin returned.  "Good.  So that's my advice.  Pay attention.  Watch everything Remy does, especially the little things.  Ask yourself why, and then think it through until you figure it out."  He released his hold on her to wag a finger under her nose in almost playful warning.  "But be aware... Remy will be watching you just as closely to see how you react once you do figure him out."

Rogue felt her heart sink.  "It's like ya want us ta spy on each other, Bobby!  Love's supposed ta be about trust--"

She broke off as his fingers tightened fiercely around hers.  "What happened after Israel, Rogue?  After you had all of those answers you want dumped directly into your brain?"  His uncompromising gaze bored directly into her heart.  Had it been anyone else, she probably would have told them that Israel was none of their business, but Bobby had been there -- with her-- through everything that had happened afterward.  She wanted desperately to pull away from him, to deny what he was suggesting, but she was rooted in place by the guilty knowledge that he was right.

He nodded slowly.  "So give the man a little room to be cautious."

#

At night, the Statue of Liberty was lit with a golden glow that seemed to surround her figure with a halo of warmth and strength.  Rogue closed her eyes and let the cool offshore breeze wash over her face.  She leaned out over the railing, hoping desperately to let the night air cleanse the confusion from her mind and heart.  The dinner had gone well enough, and the food had been absolutely wonderful, but she had spent the entire evening in rigid terror, preternaturally aware of the man who sat beside her. The man who now leaned casually against the side of his car, waiting.  Even so, she'd tried to do what Bobby said.  She'd tried to watch, but she didn't have the faintest idea what she was supposed to be looking for.

A moment later, she heard footsteps approaching.  They stopped directly behind her. She held her breath as he took hold of the railing on either side of her.  Part of her wanted to sink back against him and the rest wanted to bolt, and, torn between conflicting desires, she simply froze.

"What did y' see tonight, cherie?"  She felt his breath in her hair as he spoke.

Rogue opened her eyes and stared up at the Statue.  Observation, she told herself.  It was all about observation.  For lack of anything better to offer, she went with her first impression.

"A very expensive restaurant."

He shifted slightly behind her, and she wished she dared turn to look at his face.  "Care t' take a guess at de number?"  There was something playful in his voice, and she felt a small amount of reassurance.

She made a face as she tried to formulate a guess.  It was a very nice restaurant... there had been four of them, and if she was completely extravagant in her estimate...

Rogue shrugged.  "Ah don't know.  A thousand, maybe?"  She looked up to find him grinning at her.

"More like eight, chere."

She gaped at him.  "Eight thousand?  Dollars?  For dinner?"

His eyes danced with amusement at her reaction, but he shrugged.  "De plates start at about fifteen hundred, an' dat wine y' drank was two centuries old."

Rogue closed her jaw with a snap and looked back out over the water.  The first thought that popped into her mind was so absurd, yet she finally decided that the only way she would ever know was if she just voiced her guess.

She tried to make it sound as teasing as possible.  "Please tell me ya didn't steal somethin' ta pay fo' dinner." 

He laughed, sounding surprised.  "Non.  I haven' stolen anyt'ing f' profit since I joined de X-Men."

Rogue's fingers tightened on the railing.  She'd wanted to hear him say that for two years, to state in no uncertain terms that he wasn't a thief anymore.  But every time she'd broached the subject, he had evaded her questions.  Now, as she turned the last few minutes over in her mind, she wondered what was different that he would suddenly just say it.

"How come ya never told me that before when ah asked ya about it?"

He shrugged and looked out at the water.  "I suppose dis is de first time I t'ought y' would believe me."

Chapter 5

Rogue paused in the kitchen doorway, somewhat surprised by the woman seated at the table.  Jean was rarely at the mansion at this hour except for training, and then she would be in uniform.  Instead, she was dressed in sweats, with her hair pulled back in a rough ponytail that didn't look like it had involved a hairbrush in the making.  She cradled a glass of what appeared to be seltzer water in both hands, occasionally taking a cautious sip.

"Sugah, what are ya doing up here?  Ya look like ya ought ta be back in bed."

Jean looked up as Rogue took a seat at the table.  "We ran out."  She indicated the glass in her hand.

Rogue gave her a sympathetic smile.  She hadn't been sick for years -- a side effect of absorbing Carol Danvers' powers-- but she clearly remembered having the flu as a kid.  "Ah always liked Sprite mahself.  Maybe 'cause it was sweeter."

Jean gave her a flickering grin, tipping the glass she held to stare at its contents appraisingly.  "It is awful."  She took a sip and made a sour face.  "But it settles my stomach."  Already, Rogue thought, she was looking a little less green around the gills.

Her observation was interrupted by Joseph, who came into the kitchen bearing a small stack of plates, the obvious remains of his breakfast.  His normally somber expression lifted when he spied them.

"Good morning, Rogue, Jean."

Rogue couldn't help but smile at him.  "'Mornin' Joseph."  It was strange how much his presence brightened her day.  She couldn't exactly say why, but it was true.  She'd spent a fair amount of time trying to figure it out once she realized that it was her reactions to Joseph that made Remy angry rather than anything Joseph was doing.  But still, she wasn't sure.  In part, she knew, it was simply because she cared about him.  She had known him for years as Magneto and had seen both his best and his worst, and had cared about him through it all.  So maybe it just made her happy to see him with most of the worst stripped away, and with a chance to remake his life into something filled with the best of him.

Unfortunately, it was all too easy for her mind to cast back across the years, back to the Savage Land, to that moment in time when she'd offered her heart to Magneto only to have it handed gently back to her as he chose a path down which she could not follow him.  Joseph, she knew, would never make the same choice that Magneto had.  And so, she mused, if her heart was still available to offer him, he might very well accept it and undo the hurt of that day so long ago.

"Ahem."  Jean cleared her throat, her green eyes boring into Rogue.

Rogue flushed, startled to realize that she and Joseph had been staring at each other.  Joseph also seemed suddenly flustered.  Without looking at either woman, he set his dishes in the sink and left with a mumbled comment about needing to finish patching the mansion roof.

Rogue watched him go and then slowly turned to face Jean.  "Don't read me the riot act, sugah, ah ain't lookin' fo' a greener pasture."

The other woman was still pale, but there was a spark of challenge in her eyes.  "Are you sure of that, Rogue?"

Rogue felt a surge of annoyance.  "Of course ah'm sure!"  She sighed.  "Joseph just reminds me a' the might-have-beens is all."

Jean nodded carefully and took another sip of her water.  "Not that it's any of my business, but I'm glad to hear that."  A hint of a smile curled at the corners of her mouth.

Rogue found her annoyance evaporating.  She leaned back in her seat and propped her feet up on a second chair with an exaggerated sigh.  "Y'know, ah've only really fallen f' two men in mah life -- Magneto an' Remy.  Ah wish somebody could tell me what in the world those two have in common so ah could figure out what mah type is."

This time Jean really did smile as humor overcame nausea.  "Oh I don't know.  I see a few similarities..."

Rogue looked over at her sharply, surprised by her tone.  "Like what, sugah?  Magneto was one a the most powerful mutants on the planet, a visionary an' a leader.  He was the kind of man who could change the whole world."

Jean's expression was completely unreadable.  "And Remy?"

Rogue closed her eyes as the familiar tingle swept through her, tightening her stomach and making her feel like her blood was suddenly rushing through her veins.  "Remy?"  She leaned her head back over the top of the chair and stared at the ceiling.  "Remy makes me forget ah can't touch people."

Jean was silent for a while, and Rogue finally lifted her head to look at her.  Jean gave her a sympathetic smile.  "It sounds like you have a pretty good problem there.  Two men: one you admire... and one you love."

Love… but don't admire? Cold fingers wrapped themselves around Rogue's stomach and squeezed.

Jean seemed to understand how deeply her words had cut. She said nothing as she slowly levered herself to her feet and shuffled out.  Rogue watched her go, a feeling akin to terror building inside her.   Is it possible ta be happy lovin' a man if ah can't respect him? she wondered, but then quickly squashed the thought.  Their relationship was difficult enough already and she wasn't fool enough to believe that a person couldn't be worthwhile just because they weren't a Xavier or a Magneto.  Everybody had their role to fill.  She sighed softly.  Sometimes she just wished that Remy would put a little more effort into filling his.

#

Bobby walked out into the crisp autumn sunshine, whistling cheerfully.  In a fit of mercy, Scott had canceled the morning practice session, giving Bobby an extra couple of hours to snuggle with his wonderfully chilly wife.  Ironically enough, it was the one morning that Remy had gotten up early, intending to go into the city as soon as the session was over.  He'd come by and knocked on the Drake's door on his way out, coffee in one hand and a scowl on his face for Scott having so rudely canceling practice on the one day he was planning to be on time.

Bobby walked across the drive, car keys jangling in one hand.  Remy had asked him to take the Ferrari into the city, ostensibly to have it worked on, but mostly because he wanted to park it someplace secure and leave it for a while.  The rumors they had been hearing -- about Draxar in particular, but also less specific rumblings of mutant trouble -- had convinced Remy to lower his profile.  Getting rid of the car was a necessary step in that.

The car was already out, to Bobby's surprise, parked on the edge of the drive.  The day-glo paint job shone painfully bright in the sun.  Cannonball was standing in front of the hood, eyes shaded as he studied it.  From his stance and the tell-tale rag trailing from one hand, Bobby guessed that he was putting the finishing touches on a fresh wax job.

Bobby found himself chuckling.  Sam's infatuation with the Ferrari was a long-standing joke, for which the X-Men rode him mercilessly at times.  Still, since he was the only other person beside Bobby and himself that Remy allowed to drive the car, the others couldn't disparage him too much.

"Morning, Sam," Bobby said, coming up beside him.

"Mornin'," Sam replied.  He glanced over at Bobby, taking note of the keys in his hand.  "Ya plannin' ta take her out?"  There was a hidden note of wistfulness in his voice.

For Sam's sake, Bobby tried to hide his lack of enthusiasm.  "Just to the shop.  Remy's off doing something or other, and he asked me to take it in to the city for him."  To be perfectly honest, he would rather stay at the mansion.  He'd made himself a goal of wheedling Hank out of his lab for at least two hours that day, and a trip into New York was going to severely cut into his time.  However, he could hardly say no when Remy, who was juggling so much, asked him for a favor.

On a sudden whim, he tossed the keys to Sam.  "You want to drive?"

Sam caught them by reflex, a grin stretching his face.  "Really?  Ya don't think Gambit'll mind?  New York's a far piece."

"Nah."  Bobby waved him off.  Actually, he didn't think Remy would mind at all, given that the car was likely to be gone for a couple of months.  The Cajun had once joked privately that he would probably just give the car to Sam someday as payment for all the hours of care he'd put into it.

The two of them set off. Bobby was pleasantly surprised by how well the younger X-Man handled the car's racing clutch.  It required at aggressive touch, but Sam seemed completely comfortable as he moved them in and out of the moderate traffic.  Bobby reflected sourly that Sam was a good deal more mature than Bobby had been at his age.  He suspected it might be Cable's influence.  Cable struck him as having the same kind of life philosophy Remy had, despite how different their personalities were.

The two mutants talked companionably all the way to New York, and were equally embarrassed by the time they got there by the number of women who honked at them on the highway.  Bobby showed Sam the way to the garage. As they pulled into the underground structure, Bobby noted the level of security and was reasonably impressed.  But considering the vehicles they could see as they pulled up to the small office, the security seemed appropriate.  Bobby could just imagine what kind of havoc a skilled set of carjackers could wreak if they managed to get into the place.

Sam got out of the car, craning his neck to look past the barricades at the cars parked in the nearest row.  "Would ya look at this place?  It's like walkin' into a showroom.  Lotus, Lamborghini, Ferrari..."

Bobby laughed at his excitement.  "Down boy."

Sam glanced at him sidelong.  "Ya got any idea how Gambit's payin' foh this?  Ah mean, ah've looked up the going price foh the car--" he waved at the Ferrari, "an' there ain't anything cheap about takin' care of it, either.  Parts, labor, you name it.  Ya can tell just from lookin' around here, even.  Ah'll bet it costs more ta keep a car here per week than most folks pay per month foh rent."

Bobby kept the reaction off his face with an effort of will.  Sam, you are way too observant for a country boy, he thought ruefully.  Bringing you along today was probably a bad idea.

He met the younger man's curious gaze and shrugged.  "Remy's never made a secret of the fact that he has money."

"Ah guess.  It just seems ta me that somebody that's retired from bein' a thief would..."  His eyebrows quirked, reflecting his thoughts, "Ah don't know... give all the money ta charity or somethin'."

Bobby smiled at the thought.  Remy actually did give a fair amount to charity, but he could hardly tell Sam that.  The kid was just too smart.  Plus, that wasn't what Sam had been referring to anyway.  He found his smile dimming.

"No matter what he thinks about stealing now, Remy'd never give all his money away."  And, in fact, if he somehow lost his current fortune, Bobby was certain he wouldn't hesitate to find a way to replenish it, by whatever means presented themselves.  It was something he'd puzzled out about Remy some time earlier and understood, though he couldn't entirely agree with it.

"What makes ya say that?"

Bobby frowned, debating what he could say that wouldn't be an intrusion into Remy's privacy.  "I guess it comes from growing up on the street.  It's hard to be any poorer than that."  Bobby shrugged.  "I think Remy just wants to make sure he'll never be in that position again."  Considering some of the things Remy had said about his childhood, Bobby couldn't entirely blame him.  Poverty was an old fear that probably wouldn't ever go away.

"Hmm."  Sam looked down at his feet, considering.  "Ah guess ah can understand that.  Ah left home partly because ah didn't want ta be a poor farmer all mah life."  He looked up at Bobby.  "Ya know, ya just don't seem like the type ta be best friends with someone like Gambit.  No offense meant ta either of ya," he hastened to add.

Bobby shook his head.  "None taken."  That was one of the reasons he liked Sam.  Of all the X-Men, he was perhaps the most accepting of people's differences.  Bobby didn't know if it was because he'd been given a purer heart than the rest of them, or if it was simply the old fashioned courtesy his parents had taught him.  But whatever the reason, he was probably the only person who could make such a statement to Bobby without drawing an angry response.

Bobby shrugged uncomfortably under Sam's expectant gaze.  "I guess I'm just the first person who ever really took the time to get to know him."

Sam grinned.  "Don't ever let Storm or Rogue hear ya say that."

Bobby couldn't help but join him.  "Well, Storm's maybe an exception and Rogue -- " His laughter turned sardonic.  "I love Rogue to death, but there are some days when I really just want to kick her."

Sam started to laugh as well.  "She'd knock ya all the way ta Brazil if ya did."

"You notice I haven't tried it."

The conversation faded as the made their way into the small but plush office, where Bobby went through the standard routine of paperwork to leave the Ferrari with them.  Sam occupied himself watching the television set up in one corner of the small waiting area, which appeared to be tuned to a news channel.  The volume was turned way down, but that didn't seem to perturb him.

Bobby was just finishing up when Sam sat bolt upright in his chair, his expression filled with both shock and horror.  "Oh mah--  Bobby get over here!"

Alarmed, Bobby ran over to where he crouched by the TV., searching for the volume controls.  "What is it?"

"Ah don't believe it!  Mystique just shot Senator Creed."

"What?"  Bobby stared at the silenced television broadcast as the two employees also hurried over.   As he watched, the news report obligingly replayed the event.  Graydon Creed was just stepping up to the podium for what looked like a press conference when Mystique jumped out, her spray of bullets taking down the Senator and several aides standing behind him.  The massacre was played out for them in utter silence, making the entire thing all the more eerie.

Bobby could only shake his head.  "We'd better get home," he told Sam, nudging the other X-Man away from the TV.

"What?  Oh.  Yeah."  Sam allowed Bobby to herd him away, before the two who manned the garage's front counter could become suspicious of them for recognizing a mutant terrorist on sight.   Luckily, the two workers seemed intent on the news coverage, talking animatedly among themselves, and paid little attention as Bobby picked up his copy of the paperwork and slipped quietly out the door.

#

Remy stared at the envelope in his hands, debating.  He'd been over it twice now, searching for anything that might indicate the letter was booby trapped.  As far as he could tell it was clean, which made him doubly wary.  He couldn't think of a single reason for Raven Darkholme to be contacting him through the Guild.

After another moment's contemplation, he picked up a letter opener from his desk, carefully slit the edge of the envelope and extracted the single sheet within.  The letter inside was short and written in Raven's familiar script.

Remy,

The war between mutants and humans begins today whether we want it to or not, and I intend to see to it that mutants make the first strike.  I'm sure you have been hearing the same things I have, so I expect you'll understand why it was necessary to take the first move away from the humans.  I also expect you to make sure my daughter isn't caught in the crossfire on this one.  If anything happens to her, be assured that I will hunt you down and kill you.

Regards,

Mystique

Remy read the letter through twice, a feeling of dread congealing in his stomach.  Whatever Mystique intended to do, he was certain it was too late for him to intervene.  She wouldn't have allowed the letter to reach him otherwise.  He smiled grimly.  Raven always had had impeccable timing.  And whatever she was doing, he could be dead certain the X-Men were going to get hit by the storm of repercussions.

Galvanized by the thought, Remy shoved himself back from his desk and headed for the door.  He had intended to spend the day catching up on some of his Guild responsibilities, but now he had the feeling he should get back to the mansion.  He threw open the door to his office and nearly collided with Artur  who was standing just outside, hand raised to knock.

"Have you heard?" Artur asked him, his agitation clear both in his voice and the fact that he dropped the honorary "Guildmaster" when addressing Remy.

The knot in Remy's stomach tightened painfully.  "Non.  What's happened?"

"It's all over the television."  Remy stepped aside as Artur moved into the room.  He went over and picked up the TV. remote, flipping quickly through channels until he settled on the one he wanted.

Remy watched the news coverage with a sense of stunned horror as the cameras once again replayed the footage of Senator Creed's assassination.  Raven hadn't even used her powers to hide her identity when she'd done it, which was entirely unexpected. It was a declaration of sorts, that a known mutant terrorist had just targeted and killed the poster boy of the anti-mutant movement.  And, unfortunately, it was just about the most inflammatory thing she could have done.

"Saints, Raven, have y' lost y' mind?" he muttered, and was rewarded by a puzzled look from Artur.

"Do you know her?"

Remy shrugged, deciding to skirt the issue.  "We've crossed paths in de past."  He turned to Artur.  "Y' realize what kind o' mess dis gon' be?"

The other man nodded, his expression somber.  "What do you want me to do?"

Remy sorted through his thoughts.  He was still a little unused to people looking to him for the answers to those kinds of questions, but it wasn't hard for him to figure out what needed to be done.

"Bring anybody who's at risk down into de Guild complex.  Obvious mutants, anybody dat would be a likely target f' pro-human attacks.  It's gon' get nasty out dere f' a lil' while."

Artur nodded thoughtfully.  "We're going to have to do some housecleaning.  Those portions of the complex haven't been used for years."  He ran a hand through his graying hair.  "The last time the Guild went underground was during World War II."

Remy paused as the meaning of the date sank in.  He hadn't spent much time exploring the extent of the New York complex.  He'd just assumed that it would be like New Orleans, where the living quarters inside the underground tunnels were always very habitable so that the thieves and their families could disappear if the Assassins decided to mount a major offensive.

"How badly out o' date are we?" he asked with a sense of trepidation.

Artur pursed his lips.  "As far as security is concerned, we're not.  That has always been kept up to par, and we completely revamped the system about five or six years ago after that band of tunnel-dwellers was massacred.  None of our sensor picked up on the killers."  He shrugged, oblivious to his Guildmaster's sudden paleness.  "It's a good thing the complex doesn't intersect those tunnels.  We could have had a very big problem."

Artur shook his head, dismissing the topic.  "We have a lot of work to do to if we want to bring the living quarters up to a reasonable standard, though.  Almost everything down there is 1940's vintage.  We'll have to check all of the plumbing, and I know some of the wiring is bad..."  He looked at Remy.  "How many people are we talking about?  We can probably do a small portion pretty easily."

Remy was silent for a moment as he clung desperately to his composure.  Although he'd been aware of the New York Guild at the time, he hadn't really put together the fact that the Morlocks would have been literally in their backyard.  It had been a breach of courtesy not to have let the Guild know he was working in their territory, but, considering how it had turned out, he was unspeakably grateful that he hadn't.

A chill scrabbled down his spine as the memories resurfaced.  He shoved them back down into the graves in his mind, silently reciting the solemn promise he had made to himself that it would not happen again.  Not ever.  Not to any innocent, if he had anything to say about it.

Artur was watching him with a mixture of wariness and concern.  "Guildmaster?"

Remy focused on him, his expression carefully schooled, but he knew Artur had not missed the slip.  He took a deep breath.

"What would it take t' be ready t' bring de entire Guild t' ground if we had to?"

Artur blanched slightly.  "A lot.  It would probably break us for a couple of months, at least in terms of operating assets."

"How long would it take?"

Artur shot him an odd look.  "That depends on how much you want to pay."  He paused.  "And how quiet you want to be."  Then his eyes narrowed, as if he could read Remy's thoughts.

"You aren't honestly thinking of -- "

"Oui.  I am."  Remy cut him off.  "I realize New York ain' New Orleans, but de guild should've taken care o' dis long ago.  Dat's what dis complex was designed for -- t' give de t'ieves an' dere families a safe place t' go.  Now, dere's a real possibility we gon' need it, an' you're tellin' me we can't 'cause nobody's had de foresight t' keep de place up?"

Remy found himself pacing agitatedly in front of Artur and forced himself to stop.  He was surprised by how angry the lack of preparation made him, and he had a momentary flashback to Scott Summers berating him for not keeping the tanks on the Blackbird topped at all times.  It was something that had happened when Remy had first joined the X-Men, but it had stayed with him.  Scott had been furious that he hadn't immediately refueled the Blackbird, despite the fact that the other plane was flyaway ready.  It was something that he hadn't understood at the time, but was now surprised to realize that he did.  It might be unlikely, but people could die from something as stupidly simple as not refueling an airplane, if they suddenly needed it and it wasn't ready.  People he lived with, worked with and loved.  He wasn't about to let the same kind of shortsightedness put his guild at risk, either.

"I wan' it done, Artur.  Y' got two weeks t' make de complex useable and t' bring in whatever supplies an' furnishings y' can."

The older man looked like he might protest for a moment, but then he swallowed it and nodded sharply.  "Yes, Guildmaster.  What about cost?"

Remy met his questioning gaze evenly.  "Don' worry about cost.  I'll make sure y' have de resources y' need." 

Chapter 6

Remy held tightly to the handlebars of his bike, adrenaline sliding through him like the touch of a live wire.  He forced himself to keep to a sedate pace through Manhattan's afternoon traffic as he debated what to do about the three dark sedans that had taken up stations around him.  He had a number of choices, none of which were terribly appealing.

The flat case tucked inside his coat with its precious and dangerous contents felt unnaturally heavy as it flapped against his side.  Once again he'd had to steal the CD from a murder scene, and once again he had little idea who had located the disk or how.  Despite that uncertainty, he was grateful that whoever had done it was unfamiliar with the business of data theft.  They'd reduced the interior of the little computer shop and its occupants to ribbons, but had left an appalling amount of the sensitive information intact.  With Dyson's help, Remy had managed to download a partial copy of the decrypted disk from a protected off-site server.

Remy saw the place where the flanking sedans would make their move, and with some apprehension, decided to go along with it.  He could probably outrun them on his bike -- guaranteed, if he used his powers -- but that was a bad idea today.  The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself with the city still reeling from Creed's assassination that morning.  He was pretty certain he knew what was coming, and though it might get unpleasant, he doubted they would be stupid enough to mess with him in any serious manner.

Just as he expected, a few blocks ahead the car beside him gunned ahead and cut sharply in front of him.  The trailing car rode up behind him, effectively forcing him to pull over against the line of cars parked along the side of the street.  Immediately, several men in dark suits got out of the cars.  Though none were obvious about it, the men kept their hands close to the weapons holstered beneath their jackets, their expressions universally wary.  Remy spread his hands obligingly, keys dangling from one finger.

"Mr. LeBeau, if you'd come with us, there's someone who wants to talk to you."  The lead goon's tone was very polite, but lined with familiar steel.  He could afford to be polite, since his job generally included killing anyone who didn't cooperate.

Remy grinned back at him.  "A secret admirer, huh?  I'm flattered."  He looked over the group of men, instinctively categorizing them.  When he found the one who was at the bottom of the totem pole, he flicked his keys towards him.  Fingers tightened on gun stocks as the man snagged the keys out of the air and gave Remy a questioning look.

"Make sure y' don' scratch de paint."  He swung his leg over the seat of the bike and walked toward the man who had addressed him, keeping his hands open and in view. 

The goons traded skeptical glances, but said nothing more as they escorted Remy to the back seat of one of the cars.  As he climbed in, the goon to whom he'd given his keys went over and started the bike.

Then the caravan got underway, and Remy settled himself for the ride.  He occasionally caught one of his guards glancing askance at him and kept his chuckle to himself.  Young and dressed in badly torn jeans, with his trademark duster showing obvious signs of wear, he hardly looked like the head of a Thieves Guild.

The left Manhattan behind, and Remy soon saw rows of warehouses to either side of the car.  He refused to be intimidated.  If they had in mind to dispose of him quietly out here, they would be in for a tremendously painful surprise.

Eventually, they turned toward one of the buildings.  A man dressed identically to the ones escorting Remy rolled the large door aside to allow them to drive in.

The warehouse was big and empty, save for the white limousine that waited for them near the center in a pool of sunlight falling through a high skylight.  As they came to a stop, the back door of the limousine opened and a man stepped out.

Remy wasn't at all surprised to see the Kingpin.  At the goons' urging, he climbed out of the car and, after a moment's consideration, removed his sunglasses.  The Kingpin didn't like people keeping their eyes hidden. He would consider it an insult for Remy to keep the Ray-Bans.  Unfortunately, he also knew how sensitive the mutant was to light, and had deliberately chosen his parking space to put Remy at a disadvantage.  It was a subtle indicator that the Kingpin was less than happy with him at the moment.

The goons stayed back as Remy walked across to where the Kingpin waited.

"Bonsoir," he greeted the fat man courteously.

The Kingpin's flat expression didn't change.  "I thought I advised you to stay out of this Draxar business."

Remy gave him a wry smile.  He might now be Guildmaster, but the Kingpin did not yet consider them equals.  "Y' did.  I decided not t' take y' advice."

The Kingpin's eyes narrowed slightly.  "I suppose that is your right, but I take exception to you getting my boys killed because of it."

Remy couldn't argue that one.  He'd sent the disk to the Kingpin's people because he'd been afraid of something like this happening.  Still, he wasn't the only one who had been playing the odds.

"Y' people had de disk f' days," he reminded the Kingpin.  "If y' were dat concerned y' could've refused de job."  Remy studied the sunglasses in his hand.  "De only t'ing it would have cost y' was de data on it."

The other reason he'd sent Bobby to one of the Kingpin's hackers was because he knew they'd take a copy of the data for themselves.  Remy was fairly certain the Kingpin knew a good deal more about Draxar than he did, and he'd hoped that the disk might spark something that would lead him to a little better understanding of what he was dealing with.  It had done exactly that, in fact, though with deadlier consequences than Remy had wanted.

The Kingpin gave Remy an appraising stare.  "I suppose we have both lost, then, since the disk was destroyed."

Remy kept his face empty of expression.  That was as close to an admission he would ever hear from the Kingpin.  Obviously he had seen the information, and probably knew that Remy had a copy as well.  He shrugged nonchalantly.  "Dat's de way it goes sometimes, neh?"

"Indeed."  The Kingpin shifted his bulk, his demeanor suddenly becoming much more casual.  "Tell me, Remy, have you ever been to Bali?"

Remy lifted an eyebrow.  "White sand beaches, clear blue water, friendly native women?  Oui.  It's nice if y' like dat sort o' t'ing."

The Kingpin smiled.  "I've heard it's a paradise.  I thought I might take a vacation... I was planning to leave today, as a matter of fact, but this morning's events have given me a short reprieve."  He turned away on the tail of that statement and carefully lowered his bulk into the limousine's back seat and closed the door.  After a moment, the darkened window rolled down, revealing a slice of his face.  "If you see her, be sure to give Raven my regards."

Without waiting for a response, he signaled to his driver and the limousine pulled away.  His goons took that as the signal to leave.  Without another word or even a glance in Remy's direction, they climbed into their cars and fell in behind the Kingpin. 

Remy watched them go, his mind churning.  The warning was clear enough.  Raven's stunt had postponed something... something that was so big even the Kingpin had decided to get out before it hit.  For a moment, Remy wished heartily that the Professor was still at the mansion.  It would have been a simple matter to feed the information to the X-Men through him without risking himself or the Guild. 

Shaking his head in frustration, Remy walked over to where his bike had been circumspectly left for him.  Somehow, he was going to have to find a way to warn Cyclops.

#

Dark storm clouds blew in as Remy started home, filling the sky with heavy gray clouds.  The rain came only moments later -- fat, cold drops that hammered into him like tiny knives.  By the time he reached the mansion, Remy was exhausted, soaked to the bone and shivering so hard his teeth rattled.  The storm was a good thing, he was certain, despite his own misery.  The widespread heavy rains had effectively capped the budding violence in and around the major cities of the East Coast caused by Senator Creed's assassination.

He didn't stop to change since his mutant kinesthetic sense told him all of the other X-Men were gathered in the War Room.  No doubt he had already missed out on a great deal of information and planning, but there was no help for it. Avoiding the Kingpin would have bought him more trouble than it was worth. 

With a thoroughly miserable sigh, he wrapped his dripping coat more tightly about his frame and headed toward the elevators.

"Gambit, where on Earth have ya been?!"  Rogue pounced on him the moment he walked into the War Room.   Her imperious tone, piled on top of his physical discomfort, snapped the reins on his temper almost instantly.

"None o' your business, girl," he retorted and saw her jerk back in surprise, her expression darkening.  He regretted it the moment he said it, but Cyclops jumped in before he could decide what to do next.

"You haven't been answering your communicator and we have been unable to locate you with Cerebro."

Remy dragged his attention away from the woman who glared at him in angry silence and turned toward Cyclops.  He pulled his communicator from its customary position inside his jacket collar and glanced at it curiously.  The power indicator, usually a tiny red glow at the center of the "X", was dead.

He shrugged.  At least that explained why no one had contacted him.  "Must've shorted out in de rain or somet'ing."  He tossed the communicator down on the large oval table.

Cerebro, of course, had been unable to locate him because it had been instructed to do so.  When Remy had first started "working" for the Professor, he'd requested a means to avoid having his whereabouts recorded by the mutant tracking device.  Xavier had obliged him with a set of access privileges that allowed him to modify Cerebro's default search parameters.

Cyclops stared at him appraisingly for a moment, but then shook his head, dismissing the subject.  "All right.  Just make sure you pick up another one before you go anywhere."  He expanded his gaze to take in the rest of the X-Men who were gathered around the table.  "Although, until the shock of Creed's death wears off, I'd prefer that you all stayed close to home.  We don't need to attract attention."

The X-Men exchanges startled glances, but no one offered a protest.  Remy debated with himself for one final minute, but then gave in to the overwhelming need to push the X-Men toward the real problem.  He would just have to manage whatever damage resulted.

Quietly, he pulled the CD out of his coat.  "I t'ink I c'n offer somet'ing here."  The X-Men focused on him with collective interest. Cyclops arched one eyebrow speculatively.  Several steps behind Cyclops, Bobby favored him with a skeptical "I sure hope you know what you're doing" look.

Remy offered Cyclops the disk.  "Don' ask me where dis came from, 'cause I ain' gon' tell y'.  I don' even know exactly what's on it.  All I know is dat it's got somet'ing t' do wit' why Mystique decided t' blow her own kid's brains out."

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Rogue's expression of outrage and grimaced to himself.  It was a coldly irreverent thing to say, but he needed the shock value to distract the X-Men from wondering how he'd come up with such sensitive information on Mystique.

Logan alone was unperturbed.  "Mystique's feelin's about the Senator ain't exactly been a secret."  He chewed on the end of an unlit cigar as he spoke.  "What makes ya so sure she had another reason fer cappin' him?"

Remy shrugged and decided to play dumb.  That was the only story that would fool Wolverine.  They had too many common acquaintances.  "All I c'n tell y' is what I was told, mon ami." 

Remy was often amazed by how willing Logan seemed to be to accept him as a minor player in the circles they both frequented.  The Canuck was the one X-Man who had the resources to figure out just who the mutant Gambit was, and what he'd been doing for the past eleven years.  Remy had expected Logan to do his homework eventually and come up with a fair chunk of the truth, but if he had, he had yet to say anything to Remy about it.

Logan crossed his arms.  "How much do ya trust the source?"  He nodded toward the disk.

Remy gave him a flash of his gambler's grin.  "I don'.  But de information's good, neh?"

Wolverine only grunted in response.  Cyclops held out his hand, and Remy gave him the disk.

"Well, let's see what we've got," Cyclops said.

#

Remy closed his eyes and let the hot water of the shower pour down over his face.  Numbers danced behind his eyelids as he struggled to make sense of the information he'd given the X-Men.  Unfortunately the financial reports, though decrypted, had all been annotated with obscure initials that shed little light on the source or destination of the money.  What alarmed him was the size of the dollar sign.  The reports spanned almost three years, adding up to several billion dollars.  It screamed military, and the incomplete report he'd recovered implied that the money was for some kind of technology development.  All in all, it sounded like the government had some kind of new mutant control initiative in work. Remy felt like kicking himself for not paying closer attention to Draxar. 

At least he'd managed to get the X-Men involved without casting too much suspicion on himself.  Mystique had bought them a little time. He could only hope it would be enough.

It took a long time for the steaming hot water to drive the chill from his bones, but he eventually turned the shower off and climbed out.  Intending to do nothing more than dive straight into bed, he wrapped the towel loosely around his waist in at least a pretense of modesty and walked out into the hall.  He stopped short at the sight of the woman who waited for him, arms crossed and a scowl plastered on her face. 

Her scowl immediately gave way to mortified surprise that shaded into anger, as if he'd purposely tried to embarrass her.  Remy noted the bright flush of her cheeks and decided that he might very well have done so had he known she was there, but she'd been standing so still his mutant power hadn't registered her.

It was an unexpected advantage.  Rogue was so frightened of her own sexuality that she usually refused to admit it existed.  Remy held some sympathy for her fear, but the truth was that humans were sexual creatures.  No matter what her ethical or moral standpoint, it was something she'd have to deal with, sometime and in some way, before she had any hopes of maintaining a relationship.  And he, of course, being the other end of said relationship, was stuck in emotional limbo until she finally did decide to deal with it.  Unfortunately, their mutual frustration meant that any situation that involved a sexual subtext was almost guaranteed to blow up violently.

Steeling himself against the inevitable, Remy met Rogue's angry green gaze.  "Did y' want t' talk 'bout somet'ing, chere?"

She blinked, her expression changing ever so slightly as if she had realized that he was willing to avoid the topic of sex if she was. He had to throttle a snort of sour amusement.  Let's fight about de t'ing y' came here t' fight about, eh, chere? he questioned her silently.  Wouldn' do t' get distracted from de matter at hand.

Rogue spent a moment gathering her thoughts, but by the end of that moment her gaze had narrowed along with her focus.  "Where were ya today?" she demanded.

Remy felt the familiar burst of anger, but grabbed hold of it before it could spiral out of his control.  I'm gon' keep m' temper f' at least one round o' dis, he promised himself.  It was a promise he was rarely able to keep, despite his intentions.  He absolutely hated Rogue's attitude that she had a right to know everything about where he went and what he did -- past, present and future. 

"I t'ink I answered dat question earlier," he told her.

The barb struck squarely, punctuated by Rogue's sharp indrawn breath.  "Ah really hate it when ya pull this garbage, Remy.  What happened ta lettin' me into ya life, huh?"  Her glare was backlit by hurt and fear.  "Or was that just another empty promise?  Ya think one night o' dinner an' dancin' is gonna dazzle me ta the point ah don't notice ya sneakin' away from the mansion every chance ya get?"

The accusation hurt a lot more than Remy wanted to admit.  That too-brief evening had been the first small step in the right direction in a long time.  For a short time he'd truly enjoyed her company and felt the almost intoxicating joy of being able to be himself with her.  To have her throw it back in his face as a cheap parlor trick meant to deceive her was a cruel knife in his heart.

"Is dat really what y' t'ink dat night was all about?"  He was aware that their voices were rising, and that pretty soon the entire house would be witness to yet another round of their very public personal life.  At the moment, however, he was too hurt to care.  "'Cause if it is, I don' t'ink dere's any point in tryin' t' make dis t'ing work any more."

Rogue growled at him in wordless frustration and threw her hands up in the air.  "Ah don't know what that night was all about!"  Her eyes shone with unspilled tears.  "That's the whole problem!"  She bit her lip as if the pain was the only thing that maintained her composure.  "Why won't ya just tell me?"

"Why won' y' jus' ask me?" he shot back immediately.

"What do ya think ah just did?!"

Remy shook his head.  "No, Rogue.  Y' demanded.  Y' didn' ask."

She stopped dead, staring at him.  He could see the thoughts churning behind her eyes, but had no idea what might be coalescing out of the mix.  After a moment, she took a deep breath.

"Ya were gone foh hours, Remy.  Nobody had any idea where ya were, ya wouldn' answer ya communicator, Cerebro couldn' find ya... Ah was terrified ya were lyin' dead in some alley somewhere because somebody saw ya eyes an' decided t' get even f' Senator Creed!  Ah'm sorry if ah sounded demandin'."  Her voice softened.  "Ah was jus' worried."

Remy stared at her, torn.  He could simply accept the apology and let the whole thing go, at least until the next time this happened.  It would become just one more short-lived fight and relative peace would return.  Or he could push the issue, and maybe get a chance to broach the real problem.  It would probably cause a lot of hurt feelings and subject him to the cold shoulder for a good long while, but that was beginning to have more appeal than taking the easy way out.  At least it would be forced into the open.

"I know y' were," he agreed softly.  "If I'd known m' communicator was dead, I would've checked in."  He made a small gesture.  "Dat ain' de point."

"What do ya mean?"  She was wary rather than angry now.

Remy took a deep, steadying breath.  He doubted this was going to go over very well at all.  "I mean dat I really resent y' turnin' into a mother hen every time I step out o' y' direct line o' sight.  I'm a big boy, Rogue.  I c'n take care o' myself wit'out y' help."

Rogue stiffened, her cheeks flushing brightly with anger this time instead of embarrassment.  "Well, ah'm so sorry ah bothered ta care about what happens to ya!"  Eyes threatening to spill over once again, she spun on her heel and marched away from him.  "An' here ah thought X-Men were supposed ta take care o' their own!"

Remy watched her go with a sinking sense of dread in his heart and a ball of fury in his stomach.  For all his power as Guildmaster, for all his contacts among the wealthy and influential, for all the favors given and owed, and for all the secrets he kept... he was still completely unable to have a single real conversation with the woman he'd had the overwhelming misfortune to fall in love with.

Chapter 7

"So, what are we looking at here?"  Scott Summers surveyed the table expectantly.  Seated with him were Logan, Ororo and Hank who, along with Jean, formed a core advisory group whose input Scott valued highly.  He often spoke to them individually to avoid giving the impression that he led by committee, but this was an unusual occasion.  He was hoping that between them, they could make sense of recent events and the information Gambit has brought them.

Logan shrugged in response to the question.  "Government's got a new anti-mutant program goin'."

"That does not completely explain Mystique's involvement, I do not believe."  Ororo's brows were drawn in a pensive frown.

"Don't have to.  The woman's crazy."

Hank smiled.  "Even so, she does nothing without a reason.  Perhaps we should ask Rogue.  She might have some insight into Mystique's motivations."

"Maybe."  Scott wasn't entirely convinced.  Rogue had been a young teenager when she was with Mystique and the Brotherhood.  He wasn't certain how well she could understand someone as complex and twisted as Mystique based on that childhood experience.

"I don't think right now would be the best time to ask, however."  Hank's expression was studiously neutral.

"You heard that, too, huh?"  Scott couldn't help his sour tone.

Ororo sighed.  "Voices carry easily in this house.  It did not sound like anything new."

Logan gave a snort of disgust.  "Never is, darlin'."

"Despite that," Scott jumped in before the conversation could devolve into gossip, "it's not really any of our business."  He let his gaze roam the table.  "What I was really hoping for from you three was some kind of insight into where this information came from and what level of threat we should be reading into it."

He had their undivided attention once again.  "Logan, Ororo.  Do you have any idea who might have given this -- " He tapped the disk case that lay on the table beneath his fingertips, "--to Gambit and why?"

Logan and Ororo glanced at each other briefly.

"The who coulda been just about anybody," Logan answered.  "Cajun knows an awful lot o' folks in the business, even fer a thief."

The statement caught Scott's curiosity.  "What do you mean?"

Logan frowned thoughtfully, weighing his words.  "As far as I can tell from what I've heard, Gambit's a fully ranked Guild thief.  That means he's good, 'cause the Guilds won't give the rank ta anyone who ain't."  He shrugged.  "Still, it's a specialized skill an' the Guild guards its territory pretty fiercely, so thieves tend ta be a little... isolated sometimes.  They do their own thing an' don't mess with anybody, so nobody messes with them."

Logan leaned back in his chair, his expression contemplative.  "I ran into Gambit a while back in Madripoor.  Took him ta an old haunt o' mine-- a pretty rough place full o' people who like their privacy, if ya get my drift."

Scott nodded and Logan grinned at his memories.  "I figured I was runnin' a fair risk takin' a stranger inside, but Gumbo's the sort who c'n manage an unfriendly crowd, so I went ahead an' did it."

"What happened?"

Logan's eyebrows twitched.  "I don't think there was a regular in the place that didn't know him already.  I'm still wonderin' how we never crossed paths considerin' how much time he'd obviously spent there."

Scott thought about it for a few minutes, but then shoved the thoughts aside as something he couldn't hope to answer right now.  Gambit was a continuing puzzle that alternately frustrated and angered him.  The fact that he knew all the same shady characters as Wolverine did not give Scott any sudden burst of understanding. 

"So, unless Remy decides to tell us where the information came from, we're not likely to figure it out."  Logan nodded and Scott internalized his sigh of frustration.  Despite the fact that he would never ask her to, he sometimes wished Jean would lower her high ethical standards and scan Gambit for him.  Not necessarily to dig up dirt on him, as some might accuse, but simply to give him some kind of inkling as to how the man's mind worked.  Too often he found Gambit's actions to be completely inexplicable. 

Scott shook his head softly.  "I guess that leads me to my next question:  How seriously should we take this?  Any guesses as to how accurate the information is?"

Ororo straightened in her seat.  "Scott, I do not mean to sound defensive, but if you are suggesting that Gambit has given us false information -- "

"No, Storm.  That wasn't what I was suggesting."  She relaxed slightly as he continued, "I guess I should rephrase that.  What I want to know is how representative you believe this information to be.  Are we looking at a new Sentinels program or is this just funding for research in mutant genetics?  What kind of threat do you see?"

The table was silent for a while.  Finally, Hank rapped his claws lightly on the tabletop, drawing their attention.  "If the connection with Mystique is real, then my instinct is to believe we are facing a substantial danger.  I am convinced she was sending a message by using her true form when she killed Creed.  She wanted to be recognized."

Scott found himself nodding and saw Ororo and Logan do the same.  "My gut's telling me the same thing, Hank."

Logan cleared his throat.  "If ya don't mind, Cyke, I'm gonna do some investigatin' on my own.  Means I'll be gon fer a while."

Scott considered the possibilities and then nodded.  Logan's background gave him an unparalleled ability to gather information that might shed some light on what was happening.  He turned to Storm.

"Ororo, do you think you could try talking to Gambit?  If there's anything else about this disk that we ought to know, you're the one he'd be most likely to tell."

Ororo frowned lightly, but nodded in acquiescence.  "Very well."

Scott sighed.  "All right.  I'm going to put the team on alert status for now.  Until we have a better idea of what we're facing, I don't think there's much else we can do."

#

"Now that Scott knows about Draxar, aren't you planning to let the X-Men take care of it?" Bobby asked as he pulled the car over into the place Remy pointed out to him. They were at the airport, but well away from the passenger terminals. These hangars were leased by cargo companies and others who wanted to be discreet in their presence. 

The rain fell in a steady cascade that was just hard enough to get a person really wet if he stayed out in it for any time at all.  It was the third day of solid rain, and the storm system showed no sign of letting up for at least a couple more.

Remy studied their surroundings intently as he answered.  "Non.  Bringin' de X-Men in was probably de only chance we  had o' nippin' dis t'ing in de bud, but I t'ink it's already too late f' dat an' I don' wan' t' see dem end up dead."

Bobby blinked in surprise at the response.  Remy wasn't the type to be overly pessimistic, and his respect for the X-Men's fighting ability had never been in question. 

"Isn't that a bit of overkill?  We are talking about the X-Men."

Remy turned to stare at him, his careful search of the darkness outside the car abruptly abandoned.  His irises were glowing like embers, and Bobby had to resist the temptation to be intimidated.

"Whatever Draxar is, it's de cover f' some kind o' military black ops.  Normally, dat wouldn' mean all dat much t' a t'ief o' my caliber, but I can' find even a crack in dis one, let alone a way t' break in."  Something in his voice sent a tiny chill of apprehension down Bobby's spine as he continued, "De one installation I've been inside, I almost got m'self killed gettin' out of, an' I still don' have a clue what I tripped dat gave me away."

He turned to look out the windshield once more, his gaze roving.  "Every instinct I got tells me t' crawl in a hole an' hide 'til dis is over."

Bobby stared at the rain splattering on the windshield for several moments.  That was quite possibly the most unlikely thing he'd ever heard out of Remy's mouth.

"O.k... Now you're starting to scare me," he admitted slowly.

Remy glanced over at him, his expression unreadable, and then opened the door of the car and got out.

Thoroughly unsettled, Bobby followed him, turning his collar up against the steady rain.  He followed Remy across the parking area to a small door on the side of one of the unmarked hangars.  Remy paused then knocked on the metal door, eliciting a loud, hollow boom that echoed throughout the vast empty space beyond.  Bobby wished he knew what exactly it was they were doing, but, for once, didn't really feel like asking.

The door opened to reveal the face of a man perhaps a bit older than Bobby but with similar all-American looks, and the business end of an automatic rifle.  Remy held his hands away from his body, palms showing. Bobby copied the stance.

The man looked them over, his demeanor and haircut both very military.  "You must be Gambit," he told Remy, who nodded.

The man opened the door and gestured them inside.  "The Old Man's expecting you."

Bobby followed Remy inside, but found himself hanging back as he absorbed the scene before him.  The hangar was a cavernous metal building and the lights, though bright enough to hurt when he looked at them, did not quite illuminate the farthest corners.  There were three aircraft parked inside the building.  By far the largest was a military-looking cargo plane about the size of a C-17.  It was painted in desert camouflage. The large ramp was down, allowing access to the belly.  The other two airplanes were fighters.  Not being an airplane buff, Bobby couldn't identify them, but he did note the fully-loaded missile racks under each wing.

Scattered around the aircraft and dwarfed by them were various other vehicles and weapons.  Whoever these people were, Bobby thought, they were well financed.  He saw two Armored Personnel Carriers and a HumVee, as well as something that looked suspiciously like a modern cannon.  Men were scattered among the hardware, but Bobby got the distinct impression that they were killing time rather than getting ready for something.

Bobby kept his curiosity to himself as he followed Remy and their guide across the hangar toward a set of tables near the cargo plane's downed ramp.  The tables were covered with a scattering of weapons, some of which appeared to be in the midst of repairs.  A man standing beside the nearest of the tables looked up as they approached, his command aura unmistakable.  Without introduction, Bobby knew this had to be the "Old Man".  He looked like he might be in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair cut in a military burr.  He was wearing fatigues, also in desert colors, and had a pistol holstered at his hip.

The Old Man walked toward them, his weathered face split in a broad smile.  Remy was grinning to. Bobby watched in shock as the Old Man swept Gambit up into a bear hug.  They gained the instant attention of the rest of the men in the room, and several of the others drifted over to greet Remy in somewhat more restrained but equally friendly manner.  The rest watched the reunion in bemused surprise. Bobby got the feeling they knew just about as much as he did about what was going on.

"So who is this?"  The Old Man asked after the initial furor had died down.   He nodded toward Bobby.

Remy made introductions.  "Bobby Drake, dis is Colonel Matthias Midnight.  Colonel, Bobby Drake.  Bobby's a Guild t'ief."

The colonel's eyebrow twitched upward respectfully as they shook hands.  Then Midnight turned his attention back to Remy. 

"I assume all that money you sent me means we have some business to discuss?"

Remy's smile waned.  "'Fraid so."

Midnight shrugged.  "I figured as much."  Then a shadow of his own smile returned as he gestured toward the cargo ramp.  "If you gentlemen would like to step into my office... "

Bobby caught Remy's eye as they followed the older man up into the belly of the plane.  "So, do I dare ask how you two met?"

Remy's answer was a snort, but Midnight chuckled.  "How many years has it been now?  Nine?"

"Ten," Remy corrected him.

"Ten," Midnight agreed as he sat down on a large black crate that was strapped to the aircraft's floor.  He cocked his head as he studied Remy.  "And I would swear you've grown since I last saw you."

"Almos' two inches." 

Bobby was sure he saw a flush creep up Remy's cheeks, and he chuckled. "How old were you?"  Remy didn't talk about himself much, particularly about his past, and it was tremendously interesting to meet someone who knew him so long ago.

Remy looked like he was debating with himself whether to answer, but then shrugged.  "Nineteen."

Midnight leaned toward Bobby, as if warming up to the tale.  "See, we--" he waved his arm to indicate the rest of the mercenaries, "were in Iraq during the last few days of the countdown to Desert Storm.  My team needed a really good breaker to complete the mission, so I sent to Langley for an expert."  His expression reflected a kind of friendly outrage.  "They sent me this child."  He gestured in Remy's direction.  Bobby was appropriately surprised.  Gambit had been contracting with the C.I.A at nineteen?

"At first I thought me and my boys had been sold down the river.  Didn't think there was any way we were going to get into the Iraqi satellite ops center, let alone disable our targets and get out again."  He shrugged as if he still found it hard to believe.

Remy grinned, his earlier discomfort gone without a trace.  "Tol' y' t' trust me, didn' I?"

Midnight laughed sourly and pointed an accusing finger at Remy.  "You gambled my men's lives-- your own included-- and those of a couple dozen pilots in the first bombing wave, on a guess."

Bobby turned to look at Remy, startled despite himself.  But the Cajun's expression never faltered.  "I guessed right."

Midnight dismissed the response with a wave.

Bobby was unable to restrain his curiosity any longer.  "What were you doing?"

Remy gave him a sidelong look, his expression one that Bobby had seen only a few times. His chest tightened.  That look meant that this was something he was telling Bobby only because he trusted him as a friend.

He shrugged lightly.  "Do y' remember de first raids on Baghdad, Bobby?  De Iraqis were defenseless 'gainst de stealth fighters 'cause dere radar couldn't see dem.  Dey had no idea dey were bein' attacked until de bombs were fallin' on dem."

Bobby remembered well enough.  He was only fourteen at the time, but his parents had let him stay up to watch the reports on CNN well into the night. 

Remy went on without pausing.  "De reason dat raid was so successful was because de Colonel an' his team took out all o' de Iraqis' satellite imaging.  Blinded dem."

And you were the one that got them in, Bobby thought quietly.  He was aware that he probably had the skill at this point to do something similar, but the thought sent little chills scrabbling up his back.  One mistake could have altered the course of that war and who knows how many might have died because of it.  He wasn't sure he was ready for that kind of responsibility yet.

Bobby shook his head. Despite his long-time difficulty with his powers, he'd been fighting with the X-Men for four years by the time he was nineteen.  Maybe it wasn't as different as he thought.  There was no way to count the number of lives the X-Men had affected by their actions.

"Why you?" he found himself asking Remy, and received one of the Cajun's eloquent shrugs.

"Deniability.  I was a complete unknown.  Nobody could've traced me back t' de Pentagon."

"Yeah, but why you?"  That was part of the answer, but it didn't tell Bobby how a very young and exiled Guild thief had gotten into the espionage business.  That took contacts.

Remy gave him an evaluating stare, then pursed his lips as he answered, "I met somebody who was pretty high up at de Pentagon."  He shrugged.  "She diverted a couple o' jobs my way."

Bobby resisted the temptation to roll his eyes.  "Met" meant "slept with" when Remy used that tone of voice.  Several names popped into his mind as possible candidates, and Bobby immediately decided he didn't want to know any more.

Remy read him easily and turned to Midnight, his demeanor suddenly businesslike.  "But enough reminiscing, neh?"

Midnight's answering smile was filled with wry amusement.  "You're the boss.  What's the mission?"

"Relocate and protect, mostly."  Remy fished out a piece of paper from an inner pocket of his coat, handed it to Midnight.  "Bobby here'll be y' main contact."  Bobby forced down a surge of annoyance.  It would have been nice if Remy had told him beforehand

He got a glimpse of the list of names as Midnight examined the paper and couldn't help but send Remy a questioning glance.  Remy ignored him.

"Dese are all family t' a group o' people I expect t' come under fire sometime soon.  I wan' t' make sure nobody c'n use dem f' leverage." 

Bobby's mind started whirling, in part because it had never occurred to him.  His own parents were on that list, along with Hank's, Sam's and Jean's, Scott's grandparents, and a couple of names he didn't recognize.  He had a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of someone trying to use his family against him.

Midnight watched Remy appraisingly.  "Do these folks know what's going on?"  He flicked the edge of the paper.

Remy shook his head.  "Non.  Y' might as well play it safe an' plan t' snatch dem.  I couldn' begin t' tell y' who would be willin' t' cooperate."  He motioned to Bobby.  "Bobby might be able t' give y' a better feel f' what y' dealin' wit'."

Bobby nodded at Midnight's questioning glance, but then the mercenary shifted his attention back to Remy.  "Timetable?"

"Soon."  He gave Midnight an apologetic smile.  "Can' say better dan dat.  Jus' be ready t' go when y' get de word.  I don' know how big a window y' gon' get."

Midnight didn't seem perturbed.  "It all pays the same.  We'll be ready."

Remy stood.  "Bobby should be able t' get y' anyt'ing y' need."

Midnight stood as well, and the two men embraced briefly.  Bobby was surprised by the depth of the affection he saw reflected there, on both sides.  Then Remy left, his duster flapping about his lean frame as he made his way across the hangar. 

Midnight watched him go for several moments, then sat back down and focused on Bobby.  "So tell me about these people."  He tapped the list.

Swallowing his thoughts, Bobby nodded and did what he asked.

#

Andrea Black was a tall woman, heavy boned but not particularly overweight.  She had a broad, open face and perhaps the friendliest smile Diedre had ever met.  In almost everything, the two women were exact opposites, yet their friendship had endured since childhood.  Diedre hadn't spent much time with Andrea in the past few years, mostly because she had become so isolated while Michael was alive.  But now that she was starting to learn how to live again, she wanted to change that.

Andrea winced lightly and rubbed her swollen stomach.  She was pregnant with twins which were due in about five weeks.

"Are the babies kicking?" Diedre asked.  For the first time in her life the prospect of having a baby was beginning to hold some appeal and she was curious.

Andrea smiled.  "Wrestling, more like."  She dug the heel of one hand into her side where she was apparently being poked.

Diedre took a sip of raspberry tea and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.  She glanced at the clock, which had not quite reached midnight.

Andrea followed her gaze.  "What time did Bobby say he'd be back?" 

Diedre shrugged.  "He didn't.  I don't think Remy told him what they were doing."

Andrea raised an eyebrow.  She paused a moment, as if debating what to say.  "So what is the Guildmaster really like?" she finally asked.

Diedre had to think about that one.  "... Complicated," she answered after a bit.

Andrea chuckled.  "As opposed to complex?"

Diedre nodded, unable to help a smile.  "Well, that too, I guess.  Bobby's the only person I know that understands him." 

Her statement drew a troubled frown from Andrea and Diedre looked at her questioningly.

Andrea shrugged.  "Marcus told me the Guildmaster wanted to work with him.  He's really excited about it.  He's been wanting to increase his training for a long time, but hasn't had the chance."

Diedre tried to keep the expression off of her face.  Marcus Black was one of the best thieves in New York, but Michael hadn't liked him.  That was why he hadn't been given the opportunity to grow beyond his present skills.  The more distance Diedre gained from her late husband, the more she began to realize what kind of man he'd really been. 

Andrea was suddenly apologetic.  "I'm sorry, hon.  I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

Diedre shook her head.  "It's all right.  I'm... getting over it, anyway."

Andrea gave her a grateful smile.  "The only reason I was asking was because I wanted to get an idea of what Marc's in for.  With the babies due in a couple of weeks..." she trailed off sheepishly. Diedre had no trouble completing the thought.  She didn't want her husband being run ragged and away from home all the time on the whim of the Guildmaster, even for the cause of improving his career.

Diedre contemplated the outlines of the ice in her glass.  "Bobby claims he's a pretty tough taskmaster, but I think he'll be understanding."  Her gaze unfocused as memory impinged on reality.  "He almost died protecting Bobby and I."  She shook her head to clear it, and looked up at Andrea.  "I think, if you and Marcus really love each other, he'll bend over backwards to give you time to be together."

Andrea grinned, looking relieved.  "That's no problem then, seeing as I do love him very much." 

Diedre shared her smile.  There had been a number of times when Bobby had expected to spend the night working, only to have Remy send him away with instructions to take his wife out for the evening.  Of course, there were also the nights like tonight, when going out was just a ruse to provide Bobby with an alibi for the X-Men.  All in all, Diedre didn't find much reason to complain.

She shook her head.  "It's too bad he can't get his own love life straightened out, considering how much effort he puts into helping other people."

Andrea sat up and leaned forward across the table.  "Oh, now this sounds interesting."  She was grinning conspiratorially.  "I hadn't heard anything about a girlfriend.  What's she like?"

Diedre flushed, wondering how she could describe Rogue.  She knew she couldn't say too much, seeing how the rumor mill ran inside the Guild.  Someone would eventually tell Remy.  She couldn't imagine that he'd be pleased to have the Guild talking about him and Rogue.  The X-Men were bad enough.

"I-- I don't think I can tell you very much.  She's--"Diedre realized what she was about to say and smiled sourly.  "She's perfect for him, if they don't end up killing each other first."

Andrea laughed, but Diedre found herself turning the assessment over in her mind.  She knew that she herself had been a poor choice for a Guildmaster's wife.  A man with that kind of power and responsibility needed a very strong woman to be his partner.  Diedre was beginning to understand that one of the things she did for her husband was to act as an advisor and sounding board as well as giving love and comfort.  She still marveled at how much Bobby valued her opinion.  Michael had never cared about what she thought, and she had not possessed the strength or confidence to challenge him.

Andrea seemed oblivious to her thoughts.  "Well, it sounds like there may still be some room for competition there.  You can imagine what the hot topic has been among the single women.  You should hear my sister going on about him with her friends." 

Andrea rolled her eyes and Diedre had to laugh.  The Guildmaster was always a romantic figure for the young girls of the clans to develop their crushes on, but it was a school girl kind of thing.  Most often, a man elected to the position was already married with children of his own.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, and the tiny chill that whispered across Diedre's skin told her exactly who it was.  She jumped up with a grin.  Bobby called it "blowing kisses", but it was much more than an endearment.  It was his powers brushing against hers, melding automatically as they had done ever since Bobby had changed her form to ice to heal her. 

Diedre threw open the door to the Black's apartment and was immediately swept up into a tight hug by her husband.  She returned the embrace, ignoring the man who stood behind them, chuckling.

Andrea followed Diedre out of the kitchen, and Diedre pulled away from her husband at the other woman's flustered surprise.

"Guildmaster... Please, won't you come in?"

Remy did so, nodding to Diedre in silent greeting as he passed.  He approached Andrea and bowed courteously to her.  "You mus' be Andrea."  He gave her one of the charming smiles he was famous for.  "Marcus didn' exaggerate when he told me how lovely y' are."

Andrea blushed as expected, but rather than look away as Diedre would have done, she met the Guildmaster's gaze, her expression diffident.  "I'll bet you say that to all the eight-months-pregnant married women you meet." 

Remy laughed outright and put a hand over his heart.  "Ma chere, y' wound me."

Diedre was alternately pleased by and jealous of her friend's response.  Andrea had always been full of confidence, and so it was no surprise that she could trade lines with the Guildmaster without batting an eye.  Diedre kept her sigh to herself.  Andrea always had made it look so easy.

"Are we going home?" Diedre asked Bobby.

He nodded.  "Provided we can drag Mr. Charming here away."

Looking only partially chastened, Remy glanced back at them. Diedre saw Andrea put a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. 

They said their goodbyes then, and after a few parting words, the three made their way out of the building.  Remy paused on the sidewalk outside to light a cigarette.

Diedre tightened her grip on Bobby's hand.  "Remy?"

He looked over at her.  "Oui, chere?"

"Andrea is worried that if Marcus starts training now he won't have any time for her and the babies."

Remy cocked a surprised eyebrow, and something in his expression made Diedre think that his mind had been somewhere else entirely.  However, he didn't seem to have any trouble shifting topics.

"Y' t'ink maybe dis ain' a good time f' him t' start somet'ing new?"

Diedre sucked in her breath, surprised to be asked her opinion on what was entirely thief business.  "I don't -- That's not my decision to make.  I just... thought you would want to know."

She could see him filing the information away, and after a moment he nodded.  "T'anks, I'll keep it in mind."

Chapter 8

Remy slid out of the open grate behind Marcus, balancing carefully on the slim ledge that ran around the outside of the building as he replaced the grille and tightened the heavy screws that held it in place.  The skyscraper housed the corporate headquarters of a large securities company. Their vault had been the target of the two thieves. 

Remy had taken Marcus with him on the job for two reasons.  The first was to evaluate his skills.  Everything he knew about the man was by reputation.  He hadn't actually seen him at work, and wanted to get a feel for his skills and weaknesses first hand.  The second was that the Guild was quickly growing cash poor as Artur carried out his instructions to revamp the housing area of the complex, and someone needed to turn over a couple of quick, lucrative jobs to make up the difference.  Remy might have been able to siphon sufficient funds from his personal finances, but that was forbidden.  It created too many possible paths by which government agencies could locate the Guild. 

In silent accord, the two men made their way back to the roof of the building, where they paused to repack their gear.  Remy was thoroughly pleased with the entire exercise.  Marcus was as good as his reputation purported, with the result that they had raided the corporate vault for a healthy chunk of negotiable bearer bonds and gotten out again without incident.  And unless someone inventoried the vault's contents, it was unlikely that anyone would discover the theft for quite some time. 

Remy had just slung the bag with his gear in it over one shoulder when his spatial sense went wild.  Something came screaming down out of the sky at him, too fast for him to react.  Too slowly, he dove to the side, and the object slammed into him with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs.  He found himself lying on his back on the rough surface of the rooftop, staring up into Rogue's furious eyes.  Her gloved hands pinned his arms to the ground and the knee planted in his chest made it difficult to breathe.

Marcus crouched a short ways away, poised but unmoving.  In the back of his mind, Remy was pleased by his reaction.  Marcus was ready to jump in any direction, but was waiting until he knew more about the threat before he acted.  However, any pleasure Remy felt from Marcus' reaction was lost in the cold, sinking horror of knowing Rogue had followed him.  Of all the times that she could have decided to actually find out what he did with himself when he was away from her, this was just about the worst she could have picked.  And now Remy had an awful lot of decisions to make in very short order about what to tell her. 

"'Lo, chere," Remy gave her his most confident grin.  No matter what happened, he could not afford to act guilty.

"Don't ya dare 'chere' me, Gambit!" she snarled.  "Ya got no right ta call me that.  Not evah again, ya hear?  Ya lied ta me!"  Remy saw the first glimmer of tears as her fingers dug painfully into his forearms. 

Marcus' expression was almost comically puzzled.  Remy supposed that was hardly a surprise.  Most men didn't get attacked by flying mutants intent on starting a lovers' quarrel.  However, it was probably enough to reassure the thief that his Guildmaster wasn't in mortal danger.  Remy flashed him a hand sign that meant, "Go".

Marcus frowned but began to move away.  Rogue's head jerked up as he did so, her gaze focusing unerringly on the thief who was now poised on the lip of the low retaining wall that ran around the edge of the roof.

"Y'all better just stop right there," she told him in a tone as cold as her glare.

Marcus' gaze flickered to Remy, who repeated the instruction to leave.  He blinked once and then his expression quirked with a wry humor that Remy hadn't known he possessed.

Marcus bowed lightly.  "As much as I'd like to stay and watch, I really can't.  Besides, this looks like a private conversation."  Turning, he dove headfirst off the roof.

Rogue uttered a small gasp of surprise and almost went after him, but she caught herself just before she released her vise-like hold on Remy.  She turned her glare on the Cajun.

"Ah'm guessin' he ain't gonna go 'splat', right?"

Remy could hear the faint whine as Marcus' line played out.  "Right, chere."

Her lips thinned.  "Who is he?" she demanded. 

Remy forced himself to meet her gaze.  If he hadn't already made the decision to start showing her some things, he probably would have stonewalled her completely, taking the risk that she wouldn't do anything that might get him kicked off the team.  But now he realized he wanted to tell her the truth.  He just had to consider how much.

One step at a time, he told himself.  Let's see how she does wit' de first answer.

"He's a t'ief, chere.  Jus' someone I know."

Rogue seemed somewhat mollified by the admission, but the anger in her eyes hadn't changed.   "What did ya steal?"

Remy shrugged as best he could in her grip.  "Why don' y' take a look f' y'self."  His bag with a portion of the bearer bonds had been slung over his shoulder and now lay on the ground beside him.

Rogue eyed him distrustfully, but looked away long enough to note the position of the bag.  Remy could see her thinking through her options.  To open the bag and look inside would require at least one hand, which meant she would have to let go of him.  But to do so from this position would leave her open to an attack at close range, something he'd been able to trick her into doing on several occasions in the Danger Room.

In one fluid motion, she released him and rose to her feet, then stepped back and crossed her arms.  The action reminded him of Raven, oddly enough, and as he would have with the shapeshifting terrorist, he stood and carefully tossed her the bag.  Rogue caught it neatly and flipped back the top flap to rifle through the bonds.  After a moment, her fingers stilled.

"How long?"  She indicated the bag and its contents.  "How long have ya been doin' this, Remy?  Why did ya lie ta me?"  She made a helpless gesture.

"I didn' lie to y'," he answered, holding up a hand to forestall her as her eyes narrowed accusingly.  "At de time I said it, it was de trut'."

She blinked rapidly.  "What?  Ya want me ta believe ya just all of a sudden today decided ta go back ta stealin'?"

The derision in her face and voice made Remy angry.  "Oui, chere.  I do wan' y' t' believe dat," he answered, his tone mimicking hers.  He spun on his heel and stalked to the edge of the roof a few feet away to look down over the city. 

"Why should ah?"  The question was as much plaintive as it was angry and made Remy pause.  There was a note of yearning in her voice that he didn't remember hearing before, as if she were in some way begging him to give her a reason rather than daring him to prove he had one.

Remy took a deep breath of fresh air to ward of the queasy feeling in his stomach.  "Because I jus' violated de one condition Professor Xavier put on me stayin' wit' de X-Men, chere.  I wouldn' do dat wit'out good reason."

Rogue was silent and after a while Remy turned to face her.  The moonlight lit her stripe with silver, leaving the rest of her face in shadow.

"What do ya mean?" she finally asked.  "What condition?"

Wanting to be able to see her face, Remy closed the distance between them.  "No stealin' t'ings f' deir monetary value," he quoted to her.  That was the promise Xavier had extracted from him.  The Professor didn't mind if Remy made a profit off of the things he did that benefited mutants, and in fact had understood that Remy had to do so in order to maintain his reputation.  But he had drawn a hard line on the concept of taking something away from someone else simply because it would make Remy, or anyone else for that matter, wealthier.  Remy might be able to argue that what he was doing was for the protection of the Guild and the mutants in it, but that was a rather fine line.  The Guild could probably manage without the added input-- he just wasn't willing to take that risk.

Remy watched the wheels turning behind Rogue's eyes and wondered what she was thinking.  She didn't offer him any insight when she asked, "So why did ya do it?"  Her expression was closed and the emotions that were usually so easily read on her face were carefully guarded.

Remy paused, uncertain how to proceed.  They had just about reached the limit of what he was willing to tell her.  Finally, he shook his head.  "I can' tell y' dat."

Her eyes narrowed with renewed skepticism, accentuated by anger.  "Ya mean ya won't," she corrected him flatly.

He was forced to concede the point.  "All right.  Won'."  He was amazed by her reactions.  Yes, she was angry, but this was not the emotional, undisciplined tantrum-throwing child-woman he usually found himself dealing with.  He wasn't quite certain why, except that this was the first time he hadn't tried to evade her questions. 

I'm gon' shoot myself if I could've avoided all dis trouble jus' by tellin' her 'no' instead o' refusin' t' say anyt'ing.  As driven as she is, I always figured she'd never give up once she knew which questions I couldn' afford t' answer.

Rogue cocked her head and stared at him.  "So what you're tellin' me is that ya've got a good reason foh stealin' all this -- " she waved the bag in her hand, "but ya won't tell me what it is."

He nodded cautiously.  "Oui... Y' willin' t' trust me on dis one, chere?"

The look she gave him was brimming with sarcasm.  "Trust ya?  Sugah, ah'm beginnin' ta get the feelin' ah don't even know ya."

Remy was suddenly overcome with the urge to laugh.  She had hit the root of the problem exactly, even if she didn't realize it.  He managed to stifle his laughter, but was grinning broadly as he stuck out his hand.  "Remy LeBeau, chere.  Professional t'ief an' occasional hero.  Nice t' meet y'."

Rogue stared at him, her mouth working soundlessly.  He watched the progression of emotions on her face, and was relieved to see her expression settle into something that resembled acceptance. 

He was downright shocked when she reached out and shook his hand, a light of amusement dawning in her eyes.

"Ah gotta tell ya, sugah... Ah don't date thieves."

Keeping hold of her hand, Remy drew her closer.  "We could have a problem, den," he murmured.  He knew immediately that he was playing with fire, and the desire that flared to life in her eyes confirmed it.

She refused to be distracted, however.  "What's the money foh, Remy?" she asked softly as her form molded itself against him and her deep green gaze dove into his own.

Remy struggled to consider his options objectively.  He had told her everything he thought was safe to reveal here and now, but the piercing intensity of her stare made him very aware of how much was hanging on his answer.  For a moment, he wanted to simply sit down and explain everything to her, but the layers of misinformation were deep and the thought of peeling too much away too quickly left him cold and shaken.  But still, she had taken the conversation well so far, so perhaps a little more would be all right.

"It's t' help mutants, chere," he admitted.  Her eyebrows lifted in surprise as he continued, "De world's gettin' ugly an' not everybody dat's a mutant's got de power t' defend demselves.  Or a big mansion an' a bunch o' alien gizmos t' give dem a safe place t' wait out de storm, either."

Wide-eyed, Rogue broke away from him and stepped back.  "Ah... ah had no idea.  Ah'm sorry."  She turned away, her eyes downcast, but after a moment looked back up at him.  "But if you're doin' mutant underground stuff, why steal the money?  The Professor's always funded that kind a thing."

Remy looked out over the city.  "Ain' Xavier's underground, an' Scott's controllin' de Professor's money now.  I don' t'ink he'd approve, non?"

Rogue gave him a troubled frown.  "Why not?"

Unhappily, Remy shook his head and didn't answer.  To try to explain that would give away far more than he was willing to right now.

Rogue watched him for a moment longer, her gaze narrowing.  But all she did was sigh softly and turn so that she could sit down on the low retaining wall.  She stared at her feet while the evening breeze stirred her hair.

"All right, sugah.  Ah won't ask any more."

"T'ank y', chere." 

She looked up. Her face lit with a small smile as their eyes locked.  "Remy LeBeau, what ever am ah going ta do with ya?"

Remy grinned in reply.  "I have a list," he suggested.

She blushed and looked away.  Not wanting to push too hard, Remy picked up his equipment bag and slung it over his shoulder once again.  Without quite meeting his eyes, Rogue silently offered him his thief's satchel with its valuable contents.  He settled that over his shoulders as well and then walked over to where his line lay. He picked it up and attached it to the harness he wore.   Checking the connections and the tension on the line, he made his way over to the roof's edge and stepped up on the wall.

"I'll see y' back at de mansion, neh?"

She nodded.  "Be careful, sugah."

"Never."  Smiling, Remy stepped off the edge and plummeted into the night.

#

Bobby wandered through the mansion, coffee in hand, as he searched for the rest of the X-Men.  It was nearly noon, but he had been out very late the previous evening, trying to track down a rumor of a new Draxar location in the New York area.  The one that Remy had broken into more than six months earlier had been abandoned and the facility stripped.  The skeletal structure that remained gave little indication of the place's intended function.

The sound of cheerful voices drew Bobby toward the back of the house.  He walked up behind Scott who was leaning against the back door frame, his relaxed posture at odds with the sense of repressed excitement that radiated from him.  Bobby gave him a quizzical look, but then dropped the train of thought as Diedre came over to give him a welcoming kiss. 

A number of the X-Men were out on the patio sharing an impromptu picnic lunch in the crisp fall sunshine.  The rain had finally let up and though the ground was still soggy, the air was brisk and the sun uncommonly warm for the season.  Out on the basketball court, Bobby was surprised to see Gambit and Rogue engaged in a boisterous but friendly-looking game of one-on-one.   They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and the game appeared to involve almost as much flirting as it did basketball.

"Now there's an unusual sight," Bobby commented with a nod toward the two.

Scott uttered a snort of sour amusement, but didn't comment.  After a moment, Bobby looked over at him.  Scott was always hard to read, but his senses were telling him that there was something not quite right with their usually stoic field leader.

"Are you o.k., Scott?" he asked after a moment.

Scott continued to watch Remy and Rogue for another moment then dragged his attention away and focused on Bobby.  The young thief had the impression that he was having trouble keeping his mind in the here-and-now.

"I'm fine," he answered, then smiled unexpectedly.  "Am I acting strange?"

Bobby tried to keep his expression under control.  "Yeah, a little," he admitted.

Scott looked back out over the mansion grounds.  He was still smiling, though with an oddly reflective quality.  "I guess I'm still in shock.  I'm sure it'll pass.  Then I'll probably be terrified."

Bobby squinted at him.  "I think I must have woken up in the Twilight Zone.  Gambit and Rogue are getting along and Scott is talking about his feelings.  Did I miss something?"

Diedre giggled and squeezed his hand.  "You did.  Jean is pregnant."

Bobby blinked in surprise, then grinned and clapped Scott on the shoulder.  "Wow.  Congratulations!"  He looked around.  "Where is Jean?"

Scott shrugged lightly.  "Not feeling well.  She went to lie down."

Diedre nodded.  "Ororo and I were about to go see how she's doing.  We're just waiting for Rogue."

Bobby followed her gaze back to the basketball court, where Rogue was unsuccessfully trying to get around the man guarding her.  After a bit more maneuvering, Rogue found her opportunity and dodged around Gambit to make her shot.  Bobby could tell immediately that she'd caught him off guard and even his reflexes couldn't make up the difference.  The ball sailed neatly into the net and Rogue raised both arms over her head, claiming victory.

The two walked off the court together and approached the patio.  To Bobby's eye, there still appeared to be some tension between the couple, but it had lost its ugly edge.  Rogue went to join Ororo with a grin while Remy endured the obligatory round of teasing for letting himself get beaten by the Mississippi Marauder.  After a moment, Diedre gave Bobby a parting smile and then joined the other women as the three of them set off toward the boathouse.

Bobby wandered over to take a seat by Hank who had a premium spot by the food, and began building himself a sandwich.  Scott drifted over as well, though he remained standing.

"You two seem to be getting along today," he told Remy with a nod toward the retreating figure of Rogue.

Remy gave him a sidelong glance.   "Gee, t'anks."

Bobby grinned.  "You're welcome."

Remy made a disgusted noise and Hank laughed. 

"Seriously, did you guys work something out?" Bobby persisted.

Remy met his gaze, his expression strangely whimsical.  "Oui.  I asked her t' marry me an' she said yes.  We eloped last night."

Bobby's jaw dropped.  Beside him, Hank stared at Remy, his blue eyes huge.  They continued to stare at him, speechless, as he levered himself to his feet and picked up his empty plate.

"Bobby?" asked Remy.

"What?" 

"Gotcha."

Laughing, Remy retreated into the house as a storm of snowballs pounded the area around the door.

#

When he hit the hallway, Remy broke into a run.  His footsteps echoed on the stone floor, stirring up little clouds of dust as he raced through the Guild complex toward the medical area.  The small hospital had been at the top of his list for things to refurbish, so he was pleased when he pushed open the doors to be confronted with a very modern-looking facility.  The reception desk was not staffed, obviously, but a young thief stood in front of it and pointed down one of the nearby hallways when Remy looked at him.  Remy turned that way, following the motion that his kinesthetic sense detected.  His powers led him to one of the intensive care rooms, where he found a group of people gathered just outside the door.  Most of them were thieves and leaders within the close knit community.  All of them wore expressions of anger and helplessness.

"How is he?" Remy demanded as soon as he spied Artur.

Artur shook his head.  "The doctor can tell you better than I can, Guildmaster.  He's inside."  He nodded toward the door.

Remy brushed by him and opened the door.  Inside was a single bed with a small, bandaged form lying on it.  Even from the doorway, Remy could see the scrapes and bruises that covered the lavender skin where it was exposed.  A man and a woman stood beside the boy's head, obviously the parents. They watched with ill-concealed terror as the doctor adjusted the I.V. in the small arm.

They both looked up as Remy entered, and Remy was torn apart by the desperate plea in the father's eyes.

"Guildmaster."  He glanced back at the still form on the bed, his expression ashen.  "Thank you for coming."

Remy nodded as he crossed the room, unable to speak through the tightness in his throat.  He stared down at the little boy, perhaps seven or eight years old and an obvious mutant with lavender skin and a shock of wiry, purple hair.  His name was Jeremiah, though his family and friends all called him Miah, and he loved volcanoes.  Of all the things Artur had told Remy when he called, those were two details that stuck with him.

Miah had been walking home from school when he was jumped by a group of  F.O.H boys from the neighborhood where the family lived.  A part of Remy wanted to rant and rave at the parents for not moving into the Guild complex.  He had already blasted Artur for it over the phone, but the unfortunate truth was that the family had chosen not to leave when given the opportunity, and Artur had as much as he could handle with those who did want to move into the underground complex.  It was an unfortunate combination of circumstance and poor decisions that might very well cost one little boy his life.

"How is he?" Remy finally asked as the doctor finished his examination.

The man split his gaze between Remy and the boy's parents.  "He's stable, Guildmaster.  That's all I can say for now."  The doctor extended his hand.  "We haven't met.  I'm Dr. Lancaster."

Remy accepted the handshake.  Lancaster was a familiar name, a member of the clans who was recognized for his valuable contributions to the health and safety of the Guild.  Remy wasn't the least surprised that Artur had sent for the best doctor in the Guild for Miah.

"Where do y' practice?" Remy asked curiously.

"In the emergency room at Our Mother Of Mercy."

Remy raised an eyebrow.  O-MOM was located in the heart of the Bronx and one of the toughest hospitals in the city.  It spoke well of Dr. Lancaster's dedication to his profession.  Remy knew perfectly well that he was good enough to have taken a supervisory position at any of a number of nicer facilities.

Remy looked around the room.  "Is dere anyt'ing else y' need?"

Dr. Lancaster shook his head.  "Nothing that isn't already on its way.  Thank you."

Remy looked back at the parents.  "I'm gon' have y' t'ings moved down into the complex," he told them.  "Dat way you'll be safe an' you'll be close t' de Med Center."

Miah's father nodded jerkily.  "I don't understand how this could have happened..."

Remy bit his tongue.  He'd been beaten plenty as a kid, when the gangs that roamed New Orleans caught up with him.  Sometimes there was a reason, other times it was just because they were bigger than he was and they wanted to.  The only answer he had for the bewildered parents was that children could be just as vicious as adults and they were fools if they thought the world outside the Guild was a safe one. 

Remy closed his eyes briefly as he placed a hand on the man's shoulder.  "I can' tell y' de answer t' dat," Least, not wit'out makin' y' hurt more dan y' already are, "But I promise I'll do everyt'ing I can t' make sure it don' happen again."

The man nodded wordlessly, and his wife looked up at Remy with a tiny flicker of life in her red-rimmed eyes. 

Remy left them then to rejoin the thieves who waited outside.

"What are we going to do about the F.O.H. bullies who did this?"  One demanded as soon as the door had closed behind Remy.  His name was Thomas O'Shane. His Irish lineage was as evident from his temperament as his flame orange hair.  He was a good thief despite being "high-strung", as Artur had once described him, and his loyalty to the welfare of the Guild was unquestioned.

"Not'ing," Remy told him succinctly and was met by a murmur of angry response from the gathered men.

"What do you mean, 'nothing'?!"  Thomas waved wildly toward Miah's door.  "That boy's one of our own!  We can't just sit by and let -- "

"Enough, T'ief!"  Remy's bark cut through the man's anger, silencing him.  Had he been paying attention, Remy would have been horrified by how much he sounded like Cyclops, but he was focused completely on the men surrounding him.

"If y' go after dese boys now, y'd be lookin' f' revenge, but what y'd get is a race war dat could kill us all.  We need t' make sure we c'n protect everyone in de Guild dat needs it before we go startin' any kind o' violence.  Ot'erwise de backlash could come back on y' family, y' friends, an' a lot of ot'er people y' swore an oath t' support an' protect.  Understood?"  Remy was surprised by his own vehemence, and the other thieves stared at him in silence.

Slowly, Thomas nodded.  "Yes, Guildmaster."  The anger was undimmed in his eyes, but Remy was hopeful that he had been able to remind the other man of his primary obligation which was to his Guild, not to his personal desire for revenge.

Remy breathed a tired sigh.  "Good."  He had a feeling the violence level in the city was only going to get worse. He had spent too many years battling the assassins in New Orleans to ever want to get his Guild involved in a war with the humans.  The killing would never end until one side or the other was completely destroyed.

Chapter 9

Remy shifted his position slightly as he waited for his contact who was making her way across the wide expanse of grass separating them.  Central Park was crowded today as New Yorkers got out to enjoy the sun, and Remy debated the wisdom of continuing with the meeting.  The heavy traffic in the park would make it harder to pick out a possible tail. Considering who he was meeting, that could be disastrous.

The woman reached him.  "Hello, Remy."  She was stunningly beautiful, with wide green eyes and russet hair that fell to her waist.  A thick white streak ran through that hair, accentuating the paleness of her skin and the contrasting color in her full lips.

Remy throttled a burst of anger as he scooped up her gloved hand and kissed the back of it lightly.  "Dis is low, even f' you, chere."

She gave him a predatory smile.  "This form was least likely ta draw suspicion," she answered sweetly.

Remy couldn't legitimately argue that one, though he doubted it was the main reason Mystique had chosen to wear her daughter's form. It was another not-so-subtle reminder that she had a few nasty weapons in her arsenal if he ever showed signs of getting too seriously attached to Rogue.

"Why don't we go foh a walk, sugah?" Mystique suggested. Remy did not resist as she slipped her hand into his.  To any onlookers they would look like little more than a pair of lovers wandering through the park on a sunny day, though if said watchers had followed Mystique there, he wasn't convinced the ruse would fool them. 

"Tell me about Creed," Remy said once they had walked a ways. 

Mystique glanced at him sidelong.  "Not in a mood foh flirtin' today, are we?"

"Not anymore."

She pouted briefly and Remy kept his reaction to himself only by effort of will.  Rogue had a naturally luscious pout, and Mystique knew full well how to use it.  It actually made it a little easier for him to remember that this was a borrowed image of Rogue, but didn't lessen the impact any. 

"Creed?" he reminded her brusquely when she showed no signs of saying anything further.

"What do ya want ta know, sugah?" Mystique returned cheerfully.  She was enjoying her game, he could tell.  But then, toying with men's hearts had always been one of her favorite pastimes.  Mystique sometimes reminded him of the little kids who pulled the wings off of flies just to watch them stumble around.  Remy considered himself lucky to have met Mystique the way he had.  She hadn't had much opportunity to sink any claws into his heart.

"What kind o' mutant program was he workin' on?"  Remy forced his mind out of the past and back onto the immediate problem.

Mystique's smile faded, becoming more business-like.  "I don't know."

Remy glanced at her askance.  "What?  Y' shot him f' kicks?"

She stiffened minutely and Remy chalked himself up a point. Then the momentary lapse was gone, hidden behind a wall of nonchalance.  "He deserved it."  Mystique scuffed the leaves with her feet as she walked.

Remy looked out over the park and the people who were there, intent on their own self-involved lives.  "Talk t' me, Raven.  Y' wouldn've called if y' didn' want t' tell me 'bout somet'ing."

Mystique's playful smile returned. She clucked her tongue disapprovingly.  "Responsibility is doin' terrible things to ya, Remy.  Where's ya sense of adventure?"

Remy chuckled.  "Chere, you've always been too much adventure f' dis boy."

Mystique snorted in amusement, but finally he could see her settling into her business mode.

She adjusted her grip on his hand.  "All right.  Creed was the director of a new mutant control initiative bein' funded indirectly through Congress.  The name of the initiative is Operation: Zero Tolerance."

Remy raised an eyebrow.  "Dat sounds ominous."

She nodded.  "It was scheduled ta go online five days ago, which is why ah acted as ah did."  The mixture of Mystique's hard professionalism with Rogue's warm Southern drawl struck Remy suddenly and he had a glimpse of the woman Rogue might have become had she not joined the X-Men.  He wasn't sure if he liked what he saw or not.

"Go 'online'?" he asked.

Mystique shrugged.  "That's the terminology that was bein' bandied around.  Ah don't know what they were referrin' to."

Remy chewed on his thoughts for a few moments.  "A front company f' dis Zero Tolerance spent a couple billion dollars over de last t'ree years.  Doin' what, I couldn' tell y'."

Mystique cocked her head to look up at him.  "Sentinels?  That would fit with some o' the things ah've heard."

"Maybe, chere.  Maybe.  But de Sentinels have never been real effective 'gainst de X-Men or any o' de other teams."

Mystique snorted.  "The Spandex Brigade has never run inta them en masse, either."

Remy felt a small chill at the thought of an army of the metal titans.  "Point.  Still, de human population don' like Sentinels any more dan mutants."  He gave her a lopsided smile.  "Too visible.  Too much property damage."

"So maybe they have somethin' else in mind."

Remy thought briefly of the Draxar building he'd been inside.  It had reminded him somewhat of a prison.  Or a detainment center.

"Y' t'ink dey might have plans t' start separatin' humans an' mutants?" he asked slowly, his thoughts still turning.

Mystique stopped abruptly and turned to face him.  It was obvious from her expression that he had struck some kind of chord.

"Ah've heard one common thread throughout everything dealing with Zero Tolerance, an' that's a sense o' complete certainty that whatever they're plannin' ta do will be done without any significant mutant interference."  She met Remy's gaze.  "They're not afraid of us.  Not this time."

Dread filled Remy.  "Is dat why y' shot Creed?  T' teach dem some fear?"

She nodded.  "And ta throw off their schedule.  Ah bought us as much time as ah could, but ah don't think it'll last much longer.  Zero Tolerance is going ta hit, an' unless you or somebody else has got a miracle up their sleeve, there's nothin' we can do ta stop it."  She shook her head in a gesture of frustration.  "Ah haven't heard o' anythin' kept this quiet since the Manhattan Project."

Remy pursed his lips.  "Sorry, chere.  I'm fresh out o' miracles." 

Mystique's gaze narrowed.  "Then ah hope ya've protected ya people."

Remy shrugged, feeling apprehensive.  "I've done everyt'ing I can.  Most o' de ot'er Guild leaders t'ink I'm bein' paranoid, but at least dey'll be on dere guard."

"An' the X-Men?"  Her gaze was intent.

Remy nodded slowly.  "Wit' any luck, dey'll be able t' take care o' demselves.  But if not... Oui, I made some plans."

She nodded sharply.  "Good enough, I suppose."  With a surprisingly gentle motion, she disentangled her fingers from his.  "The next time ah see ya, we'll no doubt know what Zero Tolerance is all about."  There was an edge of sarcasm on her words.  "If we're not dead, that is."

Remy didn't answer as she turned and walked away.  He didn't need to.  Whatever Zero Tolerance was, it was probably going to be one of the worst nightmares mutants had ever faced.  And if Mystique's prediction was anything close to accurate, they were almost out of time.

#

Bobby leaned against the corner of the building, heedless of the moisture that seeped through his shirt and chilled his shoulder.  He had been waiting almost two hours, and had he not had very specific instructions from the Guildmaster, he might have given up in disgust and left.  It was only an hour past midnight, however, and his real reason for impatience was the six a.m. practice that Scott had scheduled.

Bobby was standing on the border of Ravage territory, in the midst of an ill-defined neutral zone the gang maintained with its neighbors.  He wasn't alone, by any means.  Shadows flickered around him as the scouts that Pitt had sent shifted and watched.  They were looking for tails or any other evidence that Bobby was not what he seemed.

The young thief sighed and crouched down to stretch his hamstrings, resigned to waiting another couple of hours if that was what it took.  He was looking down at the concrete between his feet, but out of his peripheral vision caught sight of the ghostly forms that slid silently out of the shadows to surround him.  He straightened nonchalantly, and had the satisfaction of seeing the figures trade glances, surprised their little trick hadn't startled him.

Bobby waited quietly.  The Ravage was somewhat unusual for a New York gang, which was no doubt why Remy had chosen them.  For one, they were older than the norm-- the boys that surrounded Bobby looked to be a mixture of late teens and early twenties.  For two, they were multi-racial and had no bias against mutants.  Many gangs were human-only along with their other racial, ethnic and/or sex-based orientations.

"You Drake?" the leader of the little group asked him.

Bobby nodded once without speaking.  One of many things Remy had taught him was the power of silence.  Silence was intimidating, if used properly.  Silence implied power, and Bobby was slowly coming to grips with the fact that power was something he had a great deal of.  His confidence was not lost on the gang members and he could see them mentally backing up a step.

Bobby kept his reaction to himself.  Intimidating a bunch of kids was hardly difficult, but there was still a part of him that was amazed by the fact that he was doing it at all.

The leader turned away, jerking his head to indicate that Bobby was to follow.  "This way.  Pitt's expectin' you."

Bobby followed without comment, noting the wary positions the boys took up around him.  They had no idea they were dealing with Guild, of course.  At most, the Thieves Guild was a rumor to them or perhaps an urban myth.  Real knowledge of the Guild was limited to a strict set of people who could be trusted not to betray the thieves' existence.  However, they did know Gambit, or at least had heard of him, and that was enough to win Bobby an audience with the leader of the Ravage.

Briefly, Bobby wondered how Gambit was fairing.  He'd taken the Guild jet to Washington D.C. to follow up on some new information about Draxar's government connections.  Already Bobby was working on what he planned to tell Scott in the morning.  It was unlikely that Remy would make the early practice, and if by some chance he did, he'd be coming straight from the airport.  Either way, Bobby needed to be ready to jump in with a diversion for Scott.

Bobby's guide led him to the edge of a fenced-off lot.  The building inside looked like it had once been a Wal-Mart, but was now abandoned.  The parking lot crumbled in places and the white lines had all but faded away.  The building itself looked fairly sound, though Bobby saw signs that there had been a fire at some point in the past.  The area looked to be commercial, but Bobby spotted several apartment buildings whose upper windows gave them a view of the abandoned building.  He chewed on his lip, considering the implications, even as the boy in front of him pulled up a section of the chain link fence, allowing them to duck through. 

Pitt was waiting for them inside the building, surrounded by the core of his gang.  Bobby took note of their weapons and was reasonably impressed.  The Ravage trafficked primarily in designer drugs and heavy weaponry, which made them both smarter and wealthier than the average gang.  Still, they were small-time criminals, all things considered, but they were a convenient source for the things Gambit wanted.

Pitt himself was something of a surprise.  He was a mutant.  His skin was far too red to be human, and freckled with black.  His lips were black as well, with the tips of fangs protruding from them.  Yellow eyes with oblong cat's pupils watched Bobby with interest. Bobby was happy to return the favor.  Vampire was the first thing that floated through his mind, but there was no way for Bobby to know if the other's mutation included anything besides the visible changes.

"Y' come t' deal or t' stare?" Pitt asked caustically, and Bobby pushed his curiosity away.

"Deal," he answered, then purposely broke away from Pitt's gaze and looked around the interior of the building.  "Is this it?"

Pitt didn't bother to state the obvious.  "Lot's of empty space an' the ceiling's more than twenty feet high.  That's what y' wanted, right?"

Bobby pursed his lips.  The Blackbird would fit quite nicely, though they'd have to drive it through the front wall to get it in.

"Underground access?" he asked.

Pitt shrugged.  "Not inside.  There's a couple of manholes out back that lead into the storm sewers."

Bobby frowned.  That wasn't ideal, but would probably be all right.  He'd insist on checking it out before he left, just to make sure.  "And the rest?"

Pitt gestured to one of his people who brought a large duffel bag forward.  The young man kept the bag's strap securely on his shoulder, but unzipped it and showed Bobby the contents.

"Fuses and timers are there, too," Pitt said.

Bobby nodded.  He didn't have any reason to expect Pitt to make a bad deal.  Slowly, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope, which he handed to Pitt.  The man holding the duffel bag watched his leader open the envelope, and when he saw the thick leaf of hundred-dollar bills, he slid the strap from his shoulder and offered the bag to Bobby.

Bobby took it and quickly double checked the contents.  The blocks of gray plastique were wrapped in paper. He found the bundle of fuses tucked into an inside pocket, along with the timing electronics.

"Looks good," he told Pitt.

#

Remy paused curiously as the program he was watching was interrupted for a special report from the White House press room.  He sat alone in the den, having abandoned the kitchen after two consecutive rounds of sniping with Rogue.  It constantly amazed him how quickly their relationship could bounce from one end of the spectrum to the other.  Today was apparently going to be a bad day.  Partially his fault, no doubt, because he was punchy from lack of sleep and frustrated by his inability to dig up anything on Zero Tolerance.  Still, he wished she would show a little more understanding.  Some days he was just too tired to be anything but passably civil.  Of course, he reminded himself bitterly, the X-Man Gambit was both irresponsible and lazy, so he didn't really have an excuse for poor manners.

Remy's frustration slid toward anger as his thoughts chased each other around inside his head.  Then, in an instant, every thought of Rogue was banished as the man standing before the White House podium uttered the magic phrase, "Operation: Zero Tolerance".  Remy sat forward, instinctively upping the volume on the television a couple of notches.

He didn't recognize the man at the podium, but the coldly calculating stare was enough to set Remy's internal alarms to ringing.  The speaker introduced himself only as Bastion then launched into a very political speech about the threat of mutant powers.  Remy didn't hear anything he hadn't heard a dozen times before, and a number of the instances of mutant terrorism that Bastion cited were conflicts that the X-Men, including Gambit, had been involved in.  To his surprise, Bastion had most of his facts straight, though he never gave the X-Men credit for the disasters they averted, only the collateral damage they caused.

Remy listened with growing disgust that went sour in his stomach at Bastion's final words.

The hawk-faced man surveyed his audience.  "Today, the threat presented by mutants is brought to an end, my friends.  Today, we mark the beginning of a new age because you, the people of America, and all the others like you around the world, have had enough.  No longer will we tolerate those whose genetic mutations give them the power to destroy what we have built.  From today forward, I am declaring a zero tolerance policy toward mutant aggression."  His ringing statement was met with scattered applause from the assembled journalists.

Bastion paused and shifted back a step.  "And what, you ask, can one man or even one organization do to enforce such a policy?"  Bastion smiled, a thin, cruel expression.  "Well, let me show you."  He picked up a remote control from the podium as the room grew expectantly silent around him.  The projection screen behind him came to life, showing an illustrated picture of the Earth with a ring of out-of-scale satellites surrounding it.  A large blue "20" overlaid the picture of the Earth. As Bastion began speaking again, the blue numbers began to count downward.

"Above our heads, a network of satellites are now in position to cover the entire face of the globe.  These satellites were originally part of the Magneto Protocols -- a shortsighted plan that was completely ineffective in protecting the citizens of this planet from Magneto's terrorist attack two years ago."  An unhappy murmur of answered him as the count hit ten.

"These satellites have since been re-commissioned, and equipped with state-of-the-art modulation arrays that will blanket the entire planet with a mutant power suppression field strong enough to curb even Magneto himself."

Remy came to his feet in horror as the details clicked together in his mind.  The large blue number displayed on the screen became a "4" and he watched with sickened dread as it counted down to zero.

The large blue zero hung with terrible finality in front of his eyes for just one moment, and then it was gone. A wave of nausea swept through him.  It took a moment for Remy to adjust to the change, and he knew without any doubt that Operation: Zero Tolerance had struck.  He could hear the gloating in Bastion's voice as understanding swept through the assembled journalists and reporters.

"As of this moment," Bastion told them solemnly, "there are no more mutants."

Remy's mind was still whirling with the terrifying implications when Rogue screamed, her voice shrill with agony.  Without thinking, he turned and ran for the kitchen, vaulting instinctively over the Victorian loveseat, and breathing a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn't misjudged its location.  The doorway to the kitchen glowed brightly with the light that shone through it, and Remy burst through without slowing.  Rogue stood in the middle of the kitchen, her breath coming in shallow gasps.  She held one hand away from her body with the other hand wrapped tightly about the wrist.  An angry red stripe ran across her palm, matching the glow of the cast iron skillet that lay on the floor next to the stove.  She didn't seem to notice him, but continued to stare at her injured hand.

Shock, Remy thought to himself.  He forgot Bastion momentarily as his mind flipped through what little he knew about treating burns.  His inertia carried him to the center of the room and Rogue.  He grabbed her wrist and used his body to push her toward the sink.  The longer that burn stayed hot, the more damage it would do.  That much he did know.  He thrust her hand into the dark square that was the sink and fumbled for the handle, finally pushing it all the way over to cold. 

Rogue jerked back and cried out in pain as the cold water poured across her hand, but Remy held her pinned against the counter and forced her injured palm beneath the dark tumble.  After a moment she stopped struggling, but remained rigid in his arms.  The bright red slash on her palm began to fade to a slightly less alarming color.

"Rogue, what happened?!"  Bishop burst into the kitchen. Remy heard the whine of his weapon charging.

"Get Beast!"  Remy shouted at him.  "She's burned!" 

"What?"  For once, Bishop was taken by surprise.

"Just get him!"  Remy tried to hold his panic in check.  He had no way of knowing how badly she was hurt.  It was just her hand, but she was frighteningly quiet.

To Remy's surprise, Bishop turned and left.  He was replaced almost immediately by Ororo, and then other X-Men, arriving in twos and threes.  Ororo helped Remy to steady Rogue and keep her hand in the cold water.  Remy desperately wished he could read Storm's expression in the hopes that it would ease some of his inner disquiet.

Hank pushed through the crowd in the kitchen without his usual polite pleasantries.  "Let me see," he demanded. Ororo moved out of the way.  He cupped Rogue's hand in his much larger ones as he carefully turned it, examining the burn.

"Let's get her down to the infirmary," he told Remy.  His voice was steady, but concerned, and Remy found himself more frightened than ever.  Why didn't Rogue say anything?  He could feel her shaky breath against his ribs.

Hank stepped away, and Remy realized with a sudden start that he was giving Remy room to pick Rogue up.  And Remy also knew that there was no way he could carry her all the way to the infirmary.

"Take her," he said hoarsely.  He couldn't read Hank's reaction, but imagined the curious lift of his bushy eyebrows.  Still, Hank did as he asked, and carried Rogue swiftly out of the kitchen.  Several of the X-Men followed him, including Storm and Jean.

The rest of them were left staring at each other in silence.

Scott cleared his throat.  "Can any of you still use your powers?" he asked quietly.

Chapter 10

In the War Room, the pandemonium slowly dwindled and then ceased altogether as the telephone handset Jean was holding slipped numbly from her fingers to clatter on the table.  The other hand was clapped over her mouth and her green eyes were wide with horror.  In the silence, the drone of the news report, endlessly detailing the impact of the Zero Tolerance suppression field, seemed inordinately loud.

"Jean, what's wrong?"  A cold, hard knot of dread formed in the pit of Scott's stomach.

Jean blinked and her eyes filled with tears.  She bit her lip as her hand fluttered away from her mouth.  "That was Moira.  Kitty's dead."

"What?!"  Bobby was on his feet, along with several others.  "How?"

Jean glanced at him as her tears spilled over.  "She was in the middle of phasing when it happened. She--"  Jean shook her head helplessly, unable to continue.

Bobby sank slowly back into his chair, stunned, and Diedre placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.  Scott tasted bile as his imagination conjured an image of what must have happened to Shadowcat, and he saw his feelings of horror reflected in the faces around him.

The X-Men sat in silence for several long minutes, numbed by the news.

 "What about the rest of Excalibur?" Scott forced himself to ask.  As much as he wanted to let the loss consume him, there were other people that needed to be considered.

"They're o.k."  Jean wiped the tears from her face, only to have them instantly replaced by fresh.

"Many mutants are dying this day," Ororo said softly, her own eyes glimmering with unshed tears.  The news coverage had already reported on several mutants who had been either airborne or caught in some kind of altered state when the suppression field was activated.  Had the X-Men been involved in a Danger Room sequence, Scott reflected, several of them might now also be dead for the same reasons.  The thought made him a little weak in the knees, as if they had dodged a bullet without realizing it.  Rogue's injury was a fairly minor consequence, all things considered.

Scott glanced involuntarily at Remy.  He was surprised that Gambit had stayed with them rather than going to the infirmary with Rogue, but he stood quietly off to one side, his face expressionless.

"So what's de plan?" Gambit asked when he noticed Scott's gaze.  He was uncommonly serious.

Scott blinked in surprise at the blunt question as heads around the room turned in his direction.  But that's the question of the hour, isn't it? he thought.  And they're all looking to me for an answer.

He straightened unconsciously.  "For now, we sit tight.  We don't know enough about Bastion and the threat posed by Zero Tolerance to form any kind of plan."

"The threat is very clear, Cyclops."  Bishop's voice was nearly a growl.

Scott met the other man's gaze and was startled by the depth of fear he saw there.  "Not yet, Bishop," he countered softly.  "So far, all they've done is shut down our powers.  We have no idea what else they might have in mind."

"What do you mean, Scott?"  Ororo's brow was drawn in a troubled frown.

Scott sighed, feeling old.  "What I mean is that we have no idea if this is just the first step of a much larger plan to control mutants."  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Remy nodding slightly in unconscious agreement and had to stifle a snort.  Of all the times for the Cajun to agree with him... but hopefully that meant he would be more cooperative than usual.

Scott looked around the room.  "Our first priority now is to get in contact with each of the other teams.  Find out if anyone else has been injured or-- God forbid-- killed by this thing.  Then we need to find out everything we can about this Bastion and his Operation: Zero Tolerance, and be on the look out for anything that suggests that they plan to take more radical action towards the mutant population."  His gaze locked with Storm's.  "Logan is already out there, gathering information.  We should hear from him soon."

Ororo nodded briefly. Scott touched the intercom controls.  "Hank, how is Rogue doing?"

There was a short pause before Hank responded from the medlab.  "She's sleeping, and I've started the tissue cloning process.  I should be able to do the graft in the morning."  He paused again and Scott could imagine him adjusting his glasses.  "Unless her body rejects the tissue, there's no reason to think she won't heal completely."

Scott found himself nodding, relieved, as he cut the connection.  "Well, that's good news, anyway."  He spent a moment sorting his thoughts and then began assigning each of the X-Men specific tasks.  There wasn't, honestly, a whole lot they could do right now, but they all needed something to distract them from the sheer immensity of the change that had befallen them.

Slowly the X-Men dispersed, leaving the War Room in groups of two or three.  Scott had consciously arranged the duty assignments to group those he knew to be close friends together.  Today, they all needed the support.

Eventually the room emptied, leaving Scott and Jean alone at the conference table.  Jean stood wordlessly, then, with a small sob, came around the table and into his arms.  Scott held her tightly and let her cry, his own eyes burning.  He didn't want to admit it even to himself, and he certainly couldn't let the X-Men see it in him, but he was scared.  In one single stroke, Bastion had taken away nearly every weapon they had to defend themselves. He was very afraid of what the leader of Zero Tolerance might do next.

#

Bobby walked slowly toward the storage area, his thoughts reeling.  Even Diedre's hand in his was little reassurance.  He'd promised to protect her, but with their powers gone, if the government started hunting the X-Men...

Remy's hand closed on his shoulder, jerking him out of his thoughts.  The Cajun had fallen in behind the couple as the three headed toward their assigned task to inventory the weapons lockers.  It was a little odd, Bobby realized, for Remy to be following him and his puzzlement briefly overrode the panicky thoughts chasing each other around in his head.

Remy jerked his head toward the doors that lined the corridor.  "Let's find someplace private t' talk."

Bobby nodded and released Diedre's hand.  "Right."

Remy shook his head lightly.  "Bot' of you."

Surprised again, Bobby frowned and Diedre gave him a minuscule shrug.  Together, they moved into the nearest room. Bobby watched with a growing sense of trepidation as Remy locked the door.  He definitely didn't want anyone overhearing this conversation, which meant it had to be Guild business.  But that didn't explain why he wanted Diedre to be there.

"Cerebro," Remy addressed the invisible computing system as he turned.   "Turn off monitors and recording f' storage area C-8."

"Authorization?" the computer answered.

"Xavier-beta.  Key t' my voiceprint." 

Bobby arched his eyebrows at that.  Xavier-alpha was the primary access control code for all of Cerebro's functions.  Only the Professor and Scott could use the Xavier-alpha commands.  Bobby had never heard of a Xavier-beta.

"Authorization accepted," Cerebro replied.

Several things clicked together in Bobby's mind. He smiled.  "Is that how you manage that?"  Remy had an uncanny ability to avoid Cerebro's notice.    

Remy flashed him a grin.  "'Lil gift from de Professor.  Nice, huh?"

"Very.  And all this time I thought you were hacking the system."  He cocked his head.  "What level of access does it give you?"

Remy's grin faded. Bobby watched as the man who was Guildmaster emerged from behind the X-Man facade.  His red gaze was intent.  "Same as Xavier-alpha would, wit' authority t' override alpha commands under certain circumstances."

Bobby considered that for several moments.  The Professor had given Remy permission to override even his own commands to Cerebro, at least sometimes.  "Why?"

Remy shrugged, his expression solemn.  "Between knowin' what I really do, an' de information Bishop brought back from his time, de Professor figured dat if anyt'ing serious ever happened t' de X-Men, I'd be de most likely t' survive."

Bobby nodded in sudden, chilled understanding.  "So if we were all dead and somebody tried to turn Cerebro against mutants, you'd be able to stop them."

"Oui."

Bobby took a deep breath to steady himself.  He had been unaware of how thoroughly the Professor had trusted Remy, but now he was grateful.  With Kitty's death painfully fresh in his mind and the frightening reports coming to them through the television news and Cerebro's monitoring, he could very easily imagine the scenario the Professor had been thinking of.  Diedre, too, seemed to understand. She pressed herself a little closer against Bobby's side.

"Dat wasn' what I wanted t' talk about, t'ough."

Bobby shoved his fatalistic thoughts away so that he could concentrate on the real matter.  "Oh."  He paused.  "So, what's up?"

Remy's expression lightened fractionally.  "Were y' payin' attention t' Hank's little lecture 'bout physical an' mental mutations?"

"Uh, yeah."  Hank had left the medlab briefly to give them all a scholarly lecture on the different types of mutations in an attempt to explain why some of their mutations were unchanged by the OZT damping field.  "The damping field doesn't change purely physical mutations, which is why Hank is still blue and furry -- and strong.  Most of the rest of us have powers that come from our brains somehow, and those are the ones that are damped."

Remy was nodding.  "Across de board, we've all lost our powers wit' de exception o' jus' a few."  He ticked them off on the fingers of one hand.  "Hank, like y' said.  Warren's still got his wings, but not whatever it was dat let him cart around eighty pounds o' feathers like dey were not'ing.  An' I'd bet dat Logan's still got his claws, t'ough not his healing factor."  Remy paused significantly.  "An' den dere's me."

"You?"  Bobby looked at him in surprise.

Remy gave him a humorless grin and tapped his temple.  With a start, Bobby realized that he was talking about his eyes, which remained the black and red combination Bobby was familiar with.  He felt a small tingling of dread.

"What about you?"

Remy crossed his arms, the red gaze faltering for just a moment.  "M' 'natural' range o' vision is in de infrared, Bobby.  Only de infrared.  Whatever part o' my mutant powers it is dat lets me see de visual spectrum went away wit' de damping field."

It took Bobby a moment to absorb what he was saying and his eyes widened.  "You're blind?"

"Non."  Remy shook his head emphatically.  "But now everyt'ing is in terms o' temperature.  I c'n see heat, but not colors."

"Oh."  He glanced around, puzzled.  "So why the secrecy?  The X-Men aren't going to care.  We've all lost our powers."

Remy cocked his head, his expression vague.  "What's in dis room, Bobby?" he asked with deceptive mildness. 

Bobby's thoughts snapped into focus as he realized the intensity that lurked behind the question.  He looked around with a critical thief's eye, but saw nothing that would warrant such a reaction.  "Not much," he answered after a moment.  "Stacks of boxes and some old furniture and stuff from the boathouse."

Remy nodded, a small crease between his brows hinting at hidden emotions.  "I can' see any o' dat.  It's all de same temperature as de floor, de walls an' de ceiling.  All I c'n see in dis room is you an' Diedre, because y' warmer dan de rest."

The meaning of the words sank in slowly as Bobby struggled to envision seeing things the way Remy was describing. He began to understand the other man's concern.  It was a sizable handicap.

 "It's going to be more important to keep the Guild from finding out than the X-Men," he finally commented.  Although Remy had gained the approval of many in the Guild, he still had plenty of enemies that would see the OZT damper as a prime opportunity to attack the Guildmaster's position.  The last thing Remy needed was to give them an exploitable weakness as an added weapon to use against him.

Remy's expression was approving as he nodded.  "Oui.  But I can' afford t' have de X-Men hoverin' over me because o' some misguided good intentions, either.  Dat's where you two come in."

Bobby traded looks with his wife, who nodded.  "Right," he agreed.  That just meant that running interference for the Guildmaster was going to get a little harder.  "Is there anything you need us to do right now?"

Remy shook his head.  "Non.  Jus' warn me if somebody rearranges de furniture.  I shouldn' have any problems inside de mansion."

On the other hand, outside the mansion could be a very big problem, Bobby thought grimly, but decided not to voice his concern.  He was certain Remy already knew what he was facing.

#

Remy paused on the threshold of the infirmary, mentally reviewing the layout of the room.  Were it not for his training and skill as a thief, he wouldn't have stood a chance of navigating the mansion without help, but luckily this was nothing he hadn't done before.  The arrangement of the mansion, its dimensions and everything else were laid out in his head in excruciating detail.  What little he could still see served to fill in the less static items in the house-- mainly the people.  He could see Rogue lying on one of the beds, her form still but glowing with reassuring warmth.  Hank sat several feet away at a computer terminal. The rhythmic clacking of the keyboard was all the indication Remy needed to conclude that he was working.  The heat coming off of both Hank and the computer served to illuminate a portion of the desktop, which was piled high with notebooks, disk cases and other scientific paraphernalia.

The tapping of the keyboard ceased as Remy walked over to Rogue's bedside. He stood looking down at her.  Her hair was a dim tumble compared to her face and he resisted the temptation to stroke it.  Then realization struck him and he snorted ruefully.  No powers. Slowly, he reached out, indulging in the softness of her hair and the sensation of her smooth skin beneath his fingertips.

"She's going to be fine," Hank said softly.  He had turned his chair around and was watching Remy.

"Oui."  Remy forced his attention away from Rogue and focused on the doctor.  "Gave me a pretty bad scare, t'ough," he admitted.  Aside from Bobby, Hank was the only person he was willing to talk to about such personal things with.  During the long, hard course of his recovery, Hank had seen him with all of his normal defenses stripped away.  And though Remy would never tell Hank about the Guild or any of the other secrets he lived, he no longer made any attempts to mask his real feelings around the man.

Hank stood and came over to the bed.  "I can imagine," he answered the comment Remy had nearly forgotten.  "Her body is used to being invulnerable, a byproduct of which is the blunting of her pain receptors.  A burn like this would be enough to send a normal person into shock, at least briefly, and for her it was significantly worse."  He tilted his head to look down at Rogue.  "However, the physical damage is localized and given the advanced medical equipment we have access to, I estimate she'll be completely healed in a couple of weeks."

Remy felt the last of his tension draining away.  "T'anks, Hank."

The soft glow of Hank's face twitched, and Remy guessed he was smiling.  "You're welcome.  Would you like to sit with her a while?"

Sorely tempted, Remy paused.  But then he shook his head.  "Non.  Got some ot'er t'ing t' take care of."  He glanced over at Hank.  "Will she be awake tomorrow?"

Hank nodded.  "I expect so.  I can do the surgery without anesthetizing her, so she should be ready to receive visitors sometime after lunch."

Remy sighed and nodded.  "Maybe I'll drop by den."

They were silent for several minutes, until Hank cleared his throat and turned away.  "I'll just leave you two alone for a while."  He walked away, and Remy looked back down at Rogue.

Almost involuntarily, he reached up to stroke her cheek one more time.  He had dreamed of having the freedom to do just this, without having to worry about her powers.  It was the only bright spot in an otherwise black day and he reveled in feel of it.

Wish I could stay, chere, he told her silently, but dere are ot'er people out dere I'm supposed t' be takin' care of. 

Rogue didn't respond, nor did her deep, even breathing change.  Remy smiled to himself.  "Sleep well, mon amore."  He leaned down to kiss her, but paused with his face so close to hers that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin.  Then slowly, ruefully, he straightened and turned away.

Can' stand de t'ought o' stealin' kisses from dat one, can y', O Master T'ief? he mocked himself gently as he left the medlab.

Chapter 11

Remy leaned back in his chair at the head of the Guild council table, searching for a more comfortable position.  He was bone tired, with a stabbing headache from the strain of his mind continuing to reach out with senses he no longer possessed.  He didn't feel like he had the energy to corral the argument that raged at that table, so for the moment he just sat back and let the gathered men vent.

Eventually, he leaned forward and rapped his knuckles sharply on the smooth tabletop, drawing their attention.  The room quieted by degrees until there was silence.  Remy looked around the room, trying to evaluate these eight men who were directly responsible to him for the management of the Guild.  They were also the eight men who had elected Remy to the position of Guildmaster, and by now Remy knew them all fairly well. 

Artur Valencia was his right hand, responsible for the governing of the Guild itself.  Beside Artur sat Chess LaSalle, who was Andrea Black's father and former Guildmaster of New York.  It was rare for a Guildmaster to step down from the position, but Chess had done so when he was diagnosed with bone cancer.  Remy wondered what he thought of the past years.  He had fought a long but victorious battle with the disease at the same time that Michael was destroying everything he had spent his life to build.  Although he was confined to a wheel chair, the mind that had earned him the nickname "Chess" remained as sharp as ever and Remy had come to value his insight. 

Beyond Chess sat Terrence Cooper and Will Sandberg.  Neither were thieves. They represented the Clans in the Guild council.  Next was Tom O'Shane, Remy's resident hot head and instigator of trouble.  Not that he wasn't a good man-- he was.  Remy had no doubts about his loyalty or his dedication to the Guild.  Unfortunately, he tended to cause more problems than he solved because of his short fuse.

A thought struck Remy and he was forced to swallow a snort.  Was that how Scott categorized Remy himself?  Or did Logan hold the title of Chief Troublemaker when the X-Men gathered around the table in the War Room?  Remy wished momentarily that he could sit down and compare notes with Scott.  Just as quickly he dismissed the thought as ridiculous, and turned his attention back to his Guild council.

The other three men seated at the table were far less approving of Remy as Guildmaster.  Ted Bales was probably the most neutral of the three.  He didn't like Remy, but was at least giving the young Guildmaster a chance to prove himself.  Unfortunately, Ted was of the ultra-conservative viewpoint. Remy had the feeling he would eventually prove himself to be far too much of a risk-taker to ever gain the man's approval. 

The other two were definite cronies, and Remy considered them a threat.  If he could find half an excuse, Remy thought, he would probably take Adrian into the Blood Match ring and remind him whom he was messing with.  Adrian Tyre was Michael's cousin. He reminded Remy of Michael just a little too much for comfort. 

Adrian's other half was Carson McCall.  Both were of the opinion that the Thieves settled for far less than they were entitled to because of the no-powers rule.  To Remy that was just another version of Magneto's spiel, that mutants were better somehow and entitled to more than the rest of humanity because of their powers.  Magneto had enough power that Remy could understand how he came to that conclusion, but to hear it from men who hardly had an alpha power between them was almost amusing.  Unfortunately, neither man had been implicated in any of Michael's actions and they were both careful now to express their opinions in subtle ways, which meant that there was little Remy could do except watch his back around them.

"Did you know about Zero Tolerance, Guildmaster?"  The soft question interrupted the silence.

Remy's gaze fastened on Will Cooper.  He could read the man's emotions easily through the variations in his heat signature, but he had no idea what expression might be on his face.

Remy shook his head.  "Non.  I heard de name Zero Tolerance 'bout t'ree days ago an' didn't have any idea what dey were plannin' until it hit."

"But you started sending the mutants of the Clan underground several weeks ago," Will persisted, and Remy realized where the questions were going. 

"I knew dere was a new mutant control initiative in de works," he admitted.  He could tell from the fluctuations in the signatures around the room that these men were concerned by how much Remy seemed to know about the government's anti-mutant programs.  It was hard to come by that kind of information unless you had contacts on the inside, which often meant supplying information in return.  The Guild would not look kindly on its Guildmaster working as a government informant.

"Most o' de information I dug up on m' own, t'rough a lead on one o' OZT's front companies.  Didn' have any details, but de picture was bleak enough dat it seemed like a good idea t' be prepared."

"Very expensive preparation."  Remy could feel the intensity of Adrian's stare, despite the fact that he couldn't see it.  "It might have been... prudent of the Guildmaster to share some of this information with the Guild council."

Remy met the invisible stare with as much nonchalance as he could summon.  His dislike for Adrian was intensified by the fact that he was kin to Michael, but Remy had been playing politics for too long to let that distract him.

"Dere wasn' much hard information t' share.  I made de choice based on intuition an' experience, an' because it was de safest course t' take."

Adrian cocked his head and Remy could imagine his expression of distant disapproval.  "Intuition is an uncertain thing to put so much trust in."

Remy allowed himself a smile.  Adrian was fighting a losing battle today.  Remy had made the right choices and they both knew it. 

"Depends on how good y' intuition is, I suppose," he told the other man.  "I trust mine because it has saved m' life more times dan I c'n count."  He leaned forward slightly.  "An' since you one o' de ones dat made me Guildmaster, y' obliged t' trust it as well."

Adrian didn't respond, and the two men stared at each other in tense silence until Chess cleared his throat, breaking the deadlock.

"What about these new Sentinels, Guildmaster?"

Remy turned toward the source of the voice, wishing he could see the older man's face.  He would have been able to learn a great deal from the subtle shift and play of Chess's expressions.  He had the feeling that the retired Master considered himself something of a tutor in the art of Guildmastership. Remy was inclined to agree. 

Remy resisted the temptation to rub his eyes.  He'd been up almost forty-eight hours straight now, and was beginning to feel it.  "I don' know 'bout de Sentinels.  I ran into a few o' dem about a year ago, but didn' know dat was what I was seein'."  He shook his head at the memory.  "Dey're as nasty as OZT wants us t' believe, t'ough."

The news that morning had been full of reports about the so-called Prime Sentinels that were being assigned to patrol the streets of cities like New York, London, Hong Kong and Los Angeles.  Made to look just like ordinary people, they were human-sized, but equipped with the most advanced mutant detection and tracking equipment available.  The news reports had played down the high intensity weaponry that was visible on the new Sentinels, which left Remy wondering how closely OZT was controlling the news media.  He hadn't seen Trish Tilby reporting yet, which might have given him a better indication.  Despite his personal dislike of the woman, she wasn't the type to let anyone write her scripts for her.  If she reported it, it would be the truth, no matter how damaging that truth might be.  Hank still winced whenever her name came up.

Remy pushed the errant thoughts aside and forced himself to focus.  "Who'd we send after technical info on de mutant trackin' an' detection package dese t'ings are usin'?"

Artur gave him the names of three thieves. Remy nodded as the names jogged his memory.  Information theft was a vastly different arena than the more traditional type of pinch, and thieves usually specialized in one or the other.  The three men that the Guild had sent were probably the best they had, with the exception of Remy himself and possibly Bobby.

"Who are dey reportin' to?"

"To me, Guildmaster."  That was Carson McCall, his voice studiously neutral.  "I'll let you know when I hear something."

Remy nodded, but Artur jumped in before he could say anything else.

"Guildmaster, there's something else here we should be considering."  The rustle of papers punctuated Artur's words.

"What's dat?"

"There are fourteen New York thieves currently working in countries that have very strong and even violent anti-mutant policies.  With the Zero Tolerance field in place, they are at even greater risk."

"How many contracts is dat?"

Another rustle of papers.  "Twelve, for a combined Guild take of eighteen million dollars."

"We can't afford to cancel that many contracts!" Tom O'Shane exclaimed.  "The penalty fees would kill us!"

"Especially since our resources are so low already," Adrian added smoothly.

Remy ignored Adrian and nodded to Tom.  "Oui.  We can' afford dat."  He looked over at Artur.  "Has anybody asked t' be taken off one o' dose contracts?"

Artur shook his head.  "No, not yet.  I just thought it needed to be mentioned."

"An' it did."  Remy looked around the table.  "Do we have a plan f' getting' each o' dose t'ieves out if dere is a problem?"

"Yes, Guildmaster."  Artur leaned back in his chair.  "We're already making changes to account for the Zero Tolerance field, but now there are these Prime Sentinels and who knows what OZT will do tomorrow."  He paused significantly.  "The risk is increasing."

Remy let the words sink in.  "I understand, Artur," he finally responded.  "But we need de contracts.  However, if y' see de day comin' dat we can' get one of our people out, den y' let me know an' we'll cancel de contract.  Until den, we're gon' have t' trust dat our t'ieves c'n get dere deir jobs done."

Artur nodded and Remy heaved a silent sigh.  "Is dere anyt'ing else we need t' talk about right now?"

"There is one thing," Chess said, his wheelchair creaking as he shifted his weight.

"What's dat?"

"Your personal safety, Guildmaster."

Remy blinked in surprise, but since "Huh?" was hardly a dignified response for someone of his position, he kept his mouth shut and settled for raising one eyebrow instead.

"M' safety?" he asked cautiously.  His first instinct was to think that Chess had somehow found out about his blindness.

Chess nodded.  "Are you going to insist on living in Westchester with everything that's happening now?  Every day it becomes less safe for mutants."

Remy had to stop and consider his response.  The Guild didn't know about the X-Men.  Michael had, but he'd figured it out on his own and hadn't shared the knowledge with anyone.  All these men knew was that Remy lived at the Xavier Institute in Westchester because he had unknown contacts through the school that provided him with valuable information about mutant issues.

Slowly Remy shook his head.  "F' now, I need t' stay in Westchester.  I c'n keep track o' what OZT is doin' from dere better dan anywhere else."

Chess wasn't satisfied.  "It's an exposed location, Guildmaster.  What if Zero Tolerance targets the Xavier Institute?  It is known to be a school for mutants."

Remy stifled his reaction.  Chess had hit one of Remy's private fears squarely on the head.  "It's a risk I'm willin' t' take.  I can' explain why, but de mutants at dat school are important.  Dey need t' be protected."  Remy paused.  "Consider dem m' personal investment in de future."

Remy watched Chess' heart rate, which was fast enough to indicate that he was thoroughly unhappy with Remy's choice.  "The Guild and the Clans would feel more secure if you were here more often."

Remy was forced to acknowledge that.  "I know.  I'll do what I c'n but I won' make any promises."

Silence reigned for several long moments.  Then, "Are these people really so important?" Chess asked him.  "Are they worth putting the Guild at risk?  We can ill afford to lose another Guildmaster now."

Remy straightened in his seat.  What he meant was that if Remy were captured or killed by OZT, the political chaos at a time when the Guild was extremely vulnerable would probably result in their destruction.  It was a scary thought.

"Dey worth it, Chess," Remy finally answered.  "Dese people may be de best chance we have t' take Zero Tolerance down."

After a moment, Chess spread his hands in a gesture of acceptance.  "All right.  As you said, I'm obliged to trust your intuition."

#

The cab dropped Remy off at the mansion just a little past four a.m.  He made his way to his bed and collapsed across it, not bothering to shed either his jacket or his boots.  He managed to get in about four hours of solid unconsciousness before the door to his room swung open, slamming into the stop with unnecessary force.

Remy's eyes flew open. He surged halfway to his feet before realizing where he was and who was standing in his doorway.

"Ow, m' head."  With a groan, he collapsed back onto the bed and covered his eyes against the bright glow from the window.

"I don't believe it.  You're hung over."  Scott's voice was filled with reproach.

"I am not," Remy retorted automatically.  And as his mind cleared enough to remember the past twelve hours, he realized that it was true.  He felt hung over, but there hadn't been any alcohol involved.  Just way too many hours without sleep, and too much strain trying to cope with the loss of his powers.

"What d' y' wan', Scott?"

"Want?"  Scott's jaw snapped shut.  "I want you to stop behaving like an adolescent.  I want to see you take something seriously for once.  All of our mutant powers have been stripped, and you're out partying like there's nothing wrong!"

It took all of Remy's willpower to keep his anger off his face as he sat up.  He focused on the emptiness beyond Scott's right shoulder and shrugged with as much diffidence as he could.  "Ever'body deals wit' it in dere own way, non?"

Scott simply stared at him, the wash of infrared colors that made up his figure shifting wildly as he struggled to maintain his composure.  "I want you in the Danger Room in ten, Gambit."  The words were clipped and cold.  "We have a team practice scheduled for eight a.m., which you would have known if you'd been here."  Scott spun on his heel and strode from the room.

When he was gone, Remy let out his breath in a ragged sigh and tried to push his anger away with it.  He couldn't really blame Scott for his conclusion, no matter how much it rankled.  The image was a useful cover that Remy had no intention of letting go of.

Wincing as he climbed to his feet, Remy went and shut the door of his room, then went into the bathroom to splash some water on his face.  The reflection in the mirror over the sink was an undefined morass of colors that Remy had no names for, but he stared into it as if he might find some kind of insight there.

LeBeau, how in de world did y' ever let y'self get into dis mess?

Finding no answers, he changed into his uniform and made his way down to the Danger Room.

#

Scott bit back an exasperated sigh as Gambit walked into the Danger Room, two minutes past the deadline he'd been given.  He was in uniform, and though he was pale and unshaven, his gaze was surprisingly keen as it flicked from person to person.

At least he's walking in a straight line, Scott thought in contempt, then stopped himself.  Remy was a grown man and had the right to choose how he would behave.  The fact that Scott disapproved of those choices didn't make them any less his right.

Scott sighed softly.  He already regretted his words of a few minutes ago.  Remy was correct in that much, at least.  All of them had to deal with the loss of their powers in their own ways.  Jean was showing signs of withdrawal because of the sudden silence in her head.  Betsy's darting glance betrayed a new insecurity for the same reason.  Warren remained in his room, brooding because the sheer weight of his feathered wings left him barely able to walk, let alone fly.  Scott himself felt more vulnerable than he could rationally explain for the simple fact that he was wearing neither goggles nor glasses, and because the world was full of colors he had forgotten existed.

Maybe I should be reassured that Remy has reacted by doing exactly what he always does.

Across the room, their eyes met.  Remy's gaze was flat, disinterested-- seemingly unaffected by anything Scott had said.  Scott felt a familiar burst of frustrated anger.

If only I could somehow know I could count on him.  They stared at each other for a moment more, until Remy broke away to answer Storm's quiet greeting. 

Scott didn't like to admit how much Gambit's unpredictability disturbed him.  There was no getting around the fact that the Cajun was one of the X-Men's cornerstone ground fighters.  Logan was the other, and the two of them were a tremendously valuable counterpoint to the X-Men's airborne powerhouses.  But despite their differences, Scott trusted Logan implicitly to be where he was needed and to get the job done, no matter how impossible the task.  With Gambit, it was different.  Though, as Storm was fond of reminding him, Remy had always been there when the X-Men needed him.  Still, there was something about the other man that left Scott wondering if this time might not be that first disappointment.

Scott shook his head sharply, banishing the thoughts, and turned his attention to the assembled X-Men.  He looked them over, dismayed by how thin their ranks had become.  Jean was no longer on active status because of the baby, and Rogue was out with an injury.  Beast was also out because he was taking care of Rogue.  The loss of his mutant powers was debilitating to Warren, taking him out as well, and Logan was simply absent.  That left Storm, Bishop, Psylocke, Joseph, Cannonball, Gambit, Iceman, and himself.  They seemed like a painfully small force to pit against the full might of Operation:  Zero Tolerance.

"All right."  Collectively, the X-Men turned at the sound of Scott's voice, their attention immediate and focused.

Scott took a deep breath.  "I know you've all seen the same things on the news that I have, so I won't waste time describing the situation.  What it comes down to is that OZT appears to be well-financed, well-supported and, at the moment, very popular, so it's unlikely that we're going to get our powers back by default."  He surveyed the solemn faces that surrounded him.  "We're going to have to fight for them, and that means finding a way to take on Zero Tolerance without the use of mutant powers."

The X-Men remained silent. Scott had the distinct impression that most of them had come to that conclusion for themselves.

He pressed on.  "So, I'd like to use this session as a kind of re-evaluation, to gain a clearer understanding of each of your abilities without the benefit of your powers.  For now, we'll concentrate on hand-to-hand and small arms skills, and then go on to small unit tactics, et cetera."

He received nods of agreement as Storm stepped forward.  "I will volunteer to go first," she said.

Scott acquiesced with a nod and commanded the Danger Room to give them a set of practice mats, which appeared with a shimmer of Shi'ar technological magic.

He turned back to the X-Men.  "Psylocke.  Gambit. You two will be the controls for this."  In Logan's absence, they were the two best hand-to-hand fighters on the team, and should be able to control each situation sufficiently to avoid injuries.  He looked between them.  "This first exercise will be pure sparring.  Push your opponents to their limits, but I'm looking for an evaluation of skill, not endurance."

The two nodded their understanding and Scott expanded his attention to take in the rest of the group.  "Psylocke and Storm, you're up first."

Scott watched the two women spar with a sense of unease.  The loss of their powers was a reality they would simply have to cope with, but even this small evaluation exercise was enough to illustrate with painful clarity the scope of the challenge they now faced.  Storm was a solid fighter, capable but not exceptional.  Psylocke had the advantage not only in skill, but in physical strength, speed and flexibility, and rapidly overwhelmed her. 

The good news, Scott thought as he watched them, was that there was nothing Zero Tolerance could do to strip away the character of the X-Men.  Storm was at a distinct disadvantage and fell quickly, but not once did Scott see her strength of will or her raw determination waver.  She was a woman of courage. He felt a renewal of hope.  Skills could be learned.  The greatest asset the X-Men possessed was something that no external force could take from them.

For the next round, Scott set Gambit against Bishop.  He didn't expect to see any changes in Bishop's abilities, and was not disappointed.  Bishop was a soldier, and though his natural affinity ran toward other arenas, he was very capable in the realm of hand-to-hand combat.  What Scott found surprising was the visible change in Gambit.  He had expected the loss of his powers to slow the Cajun mutant down, which it hadn't.  But there was a definite change in the way the man fought, and after a few moments Scott realized what it was.  The almost magical way Gambit had of ducking a blow before it was even conceived of-- the utterly uncanny way he had of avoiding damage-- was gone.  Despite that, Scott admitted ruefully, the man was still very good, but it made him wonder.

After a few minutes, Scott called a halt.  "Gambit, just what exactly are your mutant powers?" he asked when the two men paused.

Gambit raised an eyebrow, his expression one of sour amusement.  "It take y' four years t' get around t' askin' me dat?"

Scott blinked in surprise.  It was true.  As far as he knew, no one had ever insisted on defining Gambit's powers.  "I guess so," he finally answered.  "But it's obvious that you've lost something besides the ability to blow things up."

Gambit shrugged lightly, acknowledging the point.  "S'pose dat's true enough."

Scott waited silently, swallowing a growl of frustration when the other volunteered nothing further.  "So is this some kind of deep, dark secret I'm going to have to pry out of you with a crowbar?"

Gambit's expression didn't change, but the tiniest crinkling at the corners of his eyes hinted that he knew just exactly how much consternation he was causing his team leader.

"Non," Gambit said after a long pause.  "It's a kind o' kinesthetic sense.  I c'n track de speed an' direction of anyt'ing dat's movin' around me."

Scott digested the new information silently.  Why hadn't anyone ever asked the man what he could do?

"How closely can you... track things?"

Gambit's answering grin was downright irritating.  "I t'ink y' already know de answer t' dat one."

Scott's gaze narrowed as memory supplied the information.  Close enough to catch bullets and throw them back.  Close enough to stand in a storm of laser fire but not get a scratch.  Right.

"What kind of radius?" he asked.

Gambit frowned as if debating whether to answer, but then shrugged.  "If I push it... two hun'red yards."

Scott was mildly dumbfounded.  "Why didn't you ever tell us any of this?"  Had he known, he might have been able to put Gambit's kinesthetic power to use for the good of the team.

Gambit gave him a disgusted look.  "Y' never asked."  He crossed his arms.  "An' it's pretty much a moot point now, anyway."

Scott considered the other man carefully. Remy, do you really expect me to believe that you would have told me all of this at any time in the past four years, simply because I asked?  

He almost spoke the question aloud, but paused, unwilling.  Not because he was afraid the answer was "No".  He was dismayed to realize he was intimidated by the possibility that the answer might be "Yes", because that would mean that Gambit wasn't quite the man Scott thought he was.

Chapter 12

Bobby watched the minor confrontation between Cyclops and Gambit with amusement.  He was well acquainted with Remy's ways and was not the least bit surprised that Gambit had answered Scott's questions with complete honesty.  It was all a matter of the intent behind the question. Bobby had the sneaking suspicion that this was the first time Scott had ever asked Remy a personal question out of pure curiosity.  From Scott's expression, he was certain it was the first time Remy had ever given him a straight answer. 

The interesting thing to Bobby was that he didn't think Gambit would have answered the question a couple of months ago.  He could only guess at the reasons.  Perhaps out of spite or simply to be annoying, Remy had always shown a lot less inclination to cooperate with Scott than with just about any of the other X-Men.  Bobby was convinced that it wasn't entirely because of the ruse that hid Remy's real lifestyle from the team.  There was some personal dislike in there as well.

Bobby wasn't certain why the change in Remy.   Intuition told him it was a reflection of the other man's growing maturity.  Taking on responsibility for the New York Guild had changed Remy in a lot of ways.  Bobby was often amazed by the difference in his perspective over that of a year ago.  He himself had matured so drastically in that time that he could now see some of the areas where Remy needed to grow.

Cyclops interrupted his thoughts.  "Iceman, Psylocke, you're next."

Bobby walked over to the mats with a sense of nervous anticipation.  He had been working consistently for more than a year to improve his hand-to-hand skills, but had never set himself against any of the X-Men besides Gambit.  There were several men in the Guild who were highly skilled in different disciplines, and he had been taking advantage of the chance to learn from them.  It hadn't seemed prudent to let the X-Men see how proficient he'd become, simply because it might raise questions as to where he'd learned his new skills.

Now, however, he was uncertain what to do.  On one hand, the risk of raising too many questions was as real as ever.  On the other, it had become important for Cyclops to know that Bobby could handle himself without his powers.  The X-Men were probably going to need all of his ability to help carry out whatever missions were required to disarm Zero Tolerance's satellite network.

As he passed Gambit, the other paused in the act of toweling the sweat off his face and grinned.

"Don' hurt her, neh?"  His smile was sly as he cut his gaze toward Psylocke.

Psylocke's eyebrows rose sharply in an expression of outrage and Bobby chuckled. 

"I'll try not to," he answered dryly.  In truth, he didn't have any idea whether he could best their resident ninja.  Probably not.  But the comment from Remy served as a message that he, too, understood the dilemma and thought that it was more important to let the X-Men know what Bobby could do.

To Betsy's credit, they started out slow.  She was obviously trying to be fair, despite Gambit's poke.  Bobby matched her, taking advantage of the opportunity to learn a little about her style.  He'd watched her fight for years, but only recently with enough knowledge under his belt to understand what he was seeing. 

Soon, their pace increased.  He saw the brief flicker of surprise on Betsy's face as she realized he was still keeping up with her, but then he had no more time for such casual observations as she intensified her attacks.  Bobby blocked her and retaliated in kind.  He understood suddenly why Remy liked to spar with Psylocke even though they didn't get along any other time.  She was just... fun.  It was obvious she was enjoying the round, and the more intense they got, the more she liked it.  Bobby found her enthusiasm infectious.  Normally he wasn't much of a fan of this kind of fighting.  He worked diligently at it, recognizing his need to become proficient, but it wasn't the same.  Even sparring with Remy wasn't quite like this because Gambit was always holding back.  Betsy fought without limits.  For her, it was physical art and Bobby had to admit that he had never properly appreciated that aspect.

Soon, however, it became apparent that she was still quite a bit better than he.  He managed to deflect a last flurry of blows, but the exchange left him disoriented and vulnerable, unable to mount a counter attack.  To his relief, Psylocke threw up her hand in the signal to halt rather than administering the coup d'grace. 

Grinning, she reached out to steady him.  "My, you've been keeping busy."

Bobby schooled his expression into an innocent grin.  "A little."

She threw back her head and uttered a silvered laugh, then glanced obliquely toward Gambit.  "Remy only has two redeeming qualities, but they both seem to have worn off pretty well."

"Hey, now."  Remy managed to look properly insulted and Betsy grinned at him as she stepped off the mat. 

Then his hurt look evaporated, becoming a familiar mischievous smile.  "So, do I get any guesses as t' what m' other redeemin' quality is?"

Betsy chuckled, but Cyclops' communicator chimed before she could respond.

"Cyclops here."  Bobby could see the unspoken questions in his eyes, even as he turned his attention to the caller.

"Scott, you'd better gather everyone in the War Room."  Jean's voice was full of concern that was audible even through the tinny echo from the communicator.  "We just received a message from Emma Frost."

A nervous hand gripped Bobby's stomach at her words. He saw his feelings reflected on the faces around him.  They hadn't been able to get any answer from the Xavier school in Boston after the Zero Tolerance field was established.  That in itself wasn't terribly alarming-- the kids were often gone for one reason or the other.  But combined with the unknown agenda of OZT, the silence from Boston had become more ominous.

"We'll be right there."  Scott's expression was grim as he surveyed the room.

#

Emma Frost looked terrible.  It wasn't her appearance, which was as impeccable as always, but instead her carriage and the carefully veiled expression in her eyes.  Because of their bizarre body-swapping experience, Bobby knew Emma better than most. What he saw in her now was a kind of carefully controlled panic.

"X-Men, I am not certain how long it will take for this message to reach you.  Right now it is approximately six a.m. Eastern Standard Time, the morning after the damping field was activated."

Bobby arched an eyebrow, curious as to what kind of security she'd put on the transmission.  It had taken two days to reach them.

Emma took a deep breath. Bobby was once again struck by how disturbed she was.  "I will be brief and direct... Jonothan Starsmore is dead.  The damage his psionic powers did to his chest and face when they first emerged was severe."  She paused.  "It was not a... total surprise that he could not survive without those powers."

A murmur of dismay filled the War Room as Emma continued.  "Unfortunately, that is not the only casualty we've suffered."  She pressed her lips together, her gaze sweeping blindly across them.  "If Wolverine is there, I suggest you restrain him."

"Oh, no," Jean exclaimed softly, covering her mouth with one hand.  Bobby's stomach twisted savagely.

"Jubilee has been captured by Zero Tolerance."  Emma's composure cracked for a moment, then firmed before more than a hint of the cold fury behind her eyes could leak out.  "The Prime Sentinels came for her.  Specifically for her.  The rest of us weren't in their programming, and managed to escape."

The tight set to Emma's shoulders betrayed just how keenly she felt the loss of her charges. 

"I have moved my remaining students to a place I believe will be beyond Bastion's reach and will protect them as best I am able.  Sean has gone to Muir Island to be with Theresa.  Even he does not know where we are."

Bobby was a little surprised by that, though he supposed he shouldn't be.  Siryn had been airborne when the damping field was activated.  She survived the fall but was still in critical condition.  Moira had given them a hair-raising story about the effort to transfer her to Muir Island after anti-mutant activists forced their way into the hospital where she was originally treated. 

Emma's gaze roved across the assembled X-Men once more.  "I don't know if it will be safe to send any further messages, but I will do so if I can."  She nodded once, and the screen went dark.

Silence enveloped the War Room.  Bobby was filled with a hollow sense of dread.  It was hard to imagine Jubilee gone, and even worse to wonder what Bastion intended for her.  Jubes had been his partner-in-crime for so many practical jokes he could hardly remember them all and her fierce tenacity had always inspired him.  Even though she hadn't lived at the mansion for a couple of years now, she was still very dear to his heart.

"I sure hope Logan hasn't gone after her," Scott said after a moment, his voice so low Bobby wasn't certain whether anyone else had heard the words.  But then Jean turned.

"He wouldn't go without letting us know what happened to her, even if he wasn't willing to wait for backup."  Even though she was trying to reassure him, her words were laced with a heavy dose of uncertainty.

Gambit cleared his throat, drawing their attention.  Bobby turned toward him in surprise.  Remy rarely contributed to discussions like these.

Gambit was threading a single card through the fingers of one hand, the motion hypnotically repetitive.  He kept his head down as if watching the card, though Bobby knew he couldn't see it.

"Dis ain' exactly a pleasant t'ought, but is anybody wonderin' why Bastion wanted Jubilee?"

A heavy silence followed, and Bobby saw the muscle in Scott's jaw clench. The knot of fear in his own stomach tightened.

No one answered, and after a while Scott prompted, "Do you have a theory, Gambit?"  Bobby wasn't certain if what he heard in his voice was sarcasm or simply tension.

The restless weaving of the card never faltered.  "She knows us.  She knows where we live.  She knows de security system." 

The card snapped to a halt in his hand, face showing, and Bobby felt a chill.  The suicide king seemed like a bad omen.

"She was the easiest target," Bishop added, his face abnormally grim.  "If Bastion wants information about the X-Men, she's the ideal candidate."  

"She is just a child," Storm protested, but the fear in her eyes testified to how little she believed that Jubilee's age would protect her.

"I don't think that matters to a man like Bastion."  Joseph's expression was hard with anger, and Bobby studied him with sudden interest.  With that expression, he looked far too much like Magneto for Bobby's comfort, yet the young X-Man didn't think the Master of Magnetism would ever have had such horror reflected from his eyes.  Whatever had happened to Joseph, it had changed him radically.

"We should consider the mansion security breached, Cyclops."  Bishop's fingers twitched as if he longed to reach for the rifle slung across his back.  "It would be prudent to evacuate now, before Bastion's forces locate us."

Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby saw the card Gambit was holding disappear with a tiny flicker of motion.  He could tell Remy was pleased.  Bishop had done exactly what he had obviously been hoping he would, and had saved Gambit from having to make the suggestion himself.

Cyclops raised a hand.  "Slow down, Bishop.  I'm not going to abandon the mansion based on a string of suppositions.  So far, all we know is that Jubilee has been captured."

Bishop opened his mouth to protest, but Cyclops cut him off.  "I agree that it's a possibility." 

The two men locked gazes for a moment then Bishop nodded sharply in acceptance.  Scott went on, "However, I don't want to react in panic and endanger all our lives by acting rashly.  We need to double check our security and take whatever precautions we can to prevent a breach.  And, we should prepare for the chance that we may need to leave the mansion in a hurry.  But beyond that, we should be bending our efforts towards finding Jubilee and freeing her."  He turned toward Ororo.  "Storm?"

Storm nodded slowly.  "I agree, Cyclops.  The mansion's defenses are considerable. We should not be too quick to abandon their protection."

Cyclops surveyed the room.  "Anyone else?"

For a moment, Bobby actually thought Gambit was going to argue the point. Bishop also seemed less than happy with the decision.  His eyebrows were drawn in a deep scowl, but Bobby knew that he wouldn't contradict Scott on the same subject twice.

When no one answered with a differing view, Cyclops nodded.  "Bishop, I'm putting you in charge of security.  Do whatever you think necessary and draft anyone you need." 

His scowl slightly diminished, Bishop nodded.

Cyclops turned to Jean.  "Jean, you and Betsy are the most familiar with Cerebro.  See what you can do to locate Jubilee."

The two women exchanged glances and Jean nodded.

"The rest of you should stick to your duty assignments for now," Scott concluded.  "We'll rearrange the roster as necessary."

The gathered X-Men dispersed slowly, their conversations muted.  Bobby angled across the room to fall in beside Gambit, who did not acknowledge him.  Bobby held his tongue.  This wasn't the place to talk, though he was sure they had a lot to talk about.

In the hall, Gambit flashed him a covert look.  "Outside."

Bobby nodded fractionally in understanding.

#

Bobby stopped by his room to change and to fill Diedre in on what had happened before going out to meet Remy.  He found him near the end of the drive, smoking and scuffing the soles of his sneakers across the blacktop.  He looked for all the world like an overgrown teenager. Bobby had to shake his head sharply to dispel the impression and look beyond for the man he knew was hidden there.

They were standing just out of range of the gate cameras and audio pickup, so Bobby pitched his voice low, but didn't bother to switch to hand signs.  The Guilds had a complex sign language, far richer than the military-style signals used by the X-Men, but it was still an effort to hold a conversation in the silent language.  Besides, he wasn't entirely certain how well Remy would be able to see them.

"What do you think the chances are the Bastion knows where we are?"  Just asking gave him a twinge. 

Remy glanced up at him, his expression hidden. Bobby belatedly remembered that he cared a great deal for Jubilee as well.  "Pretty high an' climbin'," he answered then took another drag on his cigarette.

A cold hand of terror reached up Bobby's throat and tried to choke him.  Don't think about it, he warned himself.  Don't let it paralyze you.

"What should we do?"

Remy gave him another of his hooded glances.  "I jus' called Midnight an' told him dey were on."

Bobby's stomach twisted another notch.  The disaster that Remy had been predicting for several months was becoming altogether too real.  He was just grateful that they had been making preparations.  He couldn't express the almost painful relief he felt at the thought of his parents being moved someplace safe and protected.

"What about the X-Men?"

Remy voiced a frustrated sigh and dropped his spent cigarette on the ground, where he stomped on it with excessive force.  "Y' heard de same t'ing I did.  Dey're determined t' stay.  Ain' not'ing I c'n do or say right now t' change anybody's mind."

And that, Bobby reflected, was the downside of not telling the X-Men the truth.  Even if he had proof, the X-Men might not believe Remy.  They certainly weren't going to take his word for anything.

"Bishop agrees, and so does Joseph, I think.  Jean, too, though she wasn't going to openly contradict Scott."

Remy nodded slowly.  "Jean can' afford t' get caught in de middle o' de war zone.  She's got de baby t' worry 'bout."

"Do you think she can sway Scott?"

Remy considered him for a moment, his expression thoughtful.  "Maybe."  He shrugged.  "Worth a try, I guess."  His gaze grew distant.  "But if dat don' work... "

"What?"

Remy's red eyes fastened on him with eerie intensity.  "Den I'll do whatever I have to t' keep dem alive."

Chapter 13

Remy paused at the entrance to the medlab.  A small voice inside him insisted that he shouldn't be there.  Not now, not with so many things happening.  He had done what he could to set the Guild to watching for signs of danger, but that was precious little.  Zero Tolerance was out of the thieves' league for the most part, and those who were skilled enough to take on Bastion and his program were already deployed in search of information on the Sentinels.  That was of higher priority than watching for signs that a single reclusive school for mutants was about to be attacked. 

Unfortunately, Remy's own ability to gather such information was extremely limited by the loss of his powers.  There were still things he could do, of course, and he would as soon as dark fell and he and Bobby could escape the mansion unnoticed.  He made himself a mental note to check with Bishop before then to make sure the other hadn't made any significant or unexpected changes to the security grid.

Despite all of that and the many other things he should be doing, he found himself instead standing on the infirmary's threshold.  The knot of nervous anticipation in his stomach had absolutely nothing to do with Zero Tolerance, either.

Hank noticed his presence first.  He was standing beside Rogue's bed and appeared to be making some kind of cursory check of her condition.  Remy couldn't quite see what the doctor held in his hands, but guessed he was checking blood pressure or some such from his motions.

Hank glanced up then motioned for Remy to come in.  At first, Remy was afraid Rogue was still sleeping, but then she turned her head to look at him.

"Hi, sugah," she said softly.  Remy crossed the room with quick strides.

"How y' feelin'?" he asked once he'd reached her bedside.  He could see her un-injured hand clearly where it lay across the blankets. He knew from the sharpness of the image that she wasn't wearing gloves, but he resisted the urge to take her hand in his.  The ground rules of their relationship had changed radically. He didn't have any idea how she was going to react.

Rogue shrugged.  "O.k... ah guess." Her voice dropped.  "Hank's been keepin' me up ta date."  Remy could hear the tightness in her voice and guessed that Kitty's death in particular had hit her hard.

Ever discrete, Hank had already turned away and gathered up his tools.  He retreated without comment, leaving Remy and Rogue to face each other across a gulf of silence.

Remy found himself fidgeting uncomfortably as he tried to think of something to say, and snorted in private disgust.  Dis is nuts.  I ain' been dis nervous 'round a femme since I was a pup.

Rogue stared downward and fiddled with the blanket that covered her.  Remy watched the shifting colors that made up her form with interest.  Her temperature was rising, the warmth climbing from her chest, up her neck and into her cheeks.  He could tell she uncomfortable, too, and was working up the nerve for something.

Finally, she heaved a sigh, her gaze still fixed on her lap.  "Well, ah guess one of us is gonna have t' say it."

"Say what, chere?"  He couldn't help the small knot of apprehension in his stomach.

The heat in her cheeks intensified.  Had Remy been able to see her, he was certain she would have been blushing scarlet.  She looked up at him, her body language betraying an odd reticence.

"Your place or mine?"

Remy stared at her blankly a moment before the meaning of the words sank in.  Then he shook his head, not certain whether to be hurt or flattered that she had thought sex was foremost in his mind.  What he could read from her heat signature and the way she held herself was... inconclusive, at best.  But, since she'd started the conversation in the context of a joke, he figured he could follow through with that in fair safety.  He summoned a grin and made a show of looking around the medlab.

"Mine, I t'ink," he concluded dryly.  "Yours don' have a lock on de door."

Rogue actually giggled in response, and he felt a wash of relief.  The short exchange seemed to break the tension. Remy was pleased by how easy it was after that to just talk with her.  By unspoken agreement, they avoided discussing Kitty and Jubilee.  Remy had the feeling that Rogue was badly shaken by the sudden loss of her powers, and that Kitty's death was something she hadn't fully come to terms with yet.

After a while, Rogue slid over to make room for him beside her on the wide bed.  "No sense in makin' ya stand there all day, sugah.  Might as well have a seat."

Remy studied her for a moment then accepted.  He felt vaguely disappointed that the invitation wasn't more affectionate, but did his best not to show it. 

Girl c'n tell y' hurtin', Remy.  The constant activity and lack of sleep were taking their toll. His leg ached fiercely.  He leaned back against the pillow with a sigh and crossed his ankles, grateful for the chance to rest despite his mixed feelings.  A short ways away, Rogue rolled onto her side to face him, cradling her bandaged hand gingerly as she moved. 

"Hank says ah can leave tomorrow mornin'." 

Remy glanced at her.  "Good news, neh?"

She nodded, her body language once again betraying uncertainty.  "Yeah."  She paused to take a breath.  "Ah know this sounds stupid, but ah keep thinkin' that ah'm goin' ta go upstairs an' everybody's goin' ta be watchin' me."  She ducked her head.  "... watchin' us."

To see if they'd taken advantage of the sudden loss of Rogue's powers.  Remy smiled.  "Dey prob'ly will be.  Y' know how de gossip goes in dis house."

"Some help you are."  Remy desperately wished he could see her expression.  Her voice was a little too sharp.

Then she sighed softly.  "Ah guess ah shouldn't care what people are thinkin'."  She sounded like she'd been turning thoughts like these over in her mind for a while and wasn't very happy with where they led her.

Remy rolled onto his side so he could look at her directly.  "Y' right 'bout dat.  In de end, it ain' anybody's business but yours an' mine."  He shrugged.  "Ain' gon' stop folks from wonderin', t'ough."

Rogue didn't respond immediately.  Remy watched her, taking particular note of her position.  She lay with both arms tucked up against her, her posture reflecting an obvious reluctance.  Nowhere did he see any hint that his touch would be welcomed. 

Frustrated and more hurt than he would like to admit, he struggled to keep his expression neutral.

The silence stretched until Rogue cleared her throat.  "Remy?"

"Oui?"

"When ya were a kid, did y' ever play one a those stupid kissin' games at a party or somethin'?  Y'know, the kind where ya get matched up with some boy an' they make ya go in the closet an kiss each other?"

Remy was taken aback by the off-the-wall question, but he managed to swallow his surprise.  "Not really, chere, but I know what y' talkin' 'bout."  Having grown up on the street, he'd become sexually active long before running across one of those parties, so it hadn't ever held much appeal.  "Y' sound like y' have, t'ough."

She made a sour noise.  "Ah was eleven... more than a year before I got mah powers.  Ah was supposed t' kiss Donny Knuffner."

Remy raised an eyebrow, tremendously curious.  Rogue almost never talked about her childhood.  "So what happened?"

She laughed a little, sounding embarrassed.  "Poor kid.  Ah was so mad because ah didn't want ta do it, so ah punched him an' ran." 

Remy couldn't help but laugh.  He could see Rogue doing something like that.  "Is dat y' way o' warnin' me not t' be too forward, chere?" he teased.

Rogue was silent and Remy's smile died.

"No, sugah," she finally answered.  "Ah guess what ah was tryin' ta say is that, with the Zero Tolerance dampin' field an' all--" She sighed resignedly.  "Ah kinda feel like you an' ah have been shoved inta the closet."

Sudden understanding hit Remy.  It was all about expectations.  Their relationship had never gotten to the point where they could talk about those kinds of things, especially when it had to do with physical expectations.

In truth, there was really no understanding at all between them of what would happen if they ever had the opportunity to touch.

"Guess I c'n understand dat."

"Ya do?"  Her voice was filled with hopeful surprise.

Remy had to bite back a sarcastic response.  Saints, Remy.  Y' spend y' life bein' a playboy an' when y' finally find a woman t' get serious about, y' insulted dat she's afraid she gon' be treated like de ot'ers once her powers are out o' de way.  It hurt that she had so little faith in his love, yet he couldn't help but understand the source of her insecurity.

"Oui, chere, I do."

Rogue sighed as if he'd lifted a great weight from her mind.  She didn't say anything though, and the silence settled between them once again.

Remy had just decided he needed to say something when Rogue moved.  She raised herself gingerly to avoid bumping her injured hand, then resettled herself on the bed.  The change was subtle, but it put her just close enough that she could reach out and lay her good hand over his, and, hesitantly, she did so.

Remy found himself grinning like an idiot as he curled his fingers around hers.  Rogue laughed softly, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and possibly something more.  For a moment, Remy forgot about Zero Tolerance, forgot about the Guild.  All of the things that constantly turned in the back of his mind fell away. He found himself getting completely lost in the indescribable warmth that spread through him.

They lay quietly like that, the only conversation between them the sensation of one hand against another.  Remy stroked Rogue's palm absently with his thumb as his exhaustion settled on him like a soft weight, blurring everything.   And slowly, without realizing it, he drifted off to sleep.

#

"Ready?"  Bobby asked as he came into the room he shared with Diedre.  Two small bags were packed and set out on the bed. Diedre sat beside them, her hands folded in her lap.  She was dressed in jeans and a mint green sweater that clung attractively to her trim form, and Bobby admired her even as he crossed the room.  She looked up as he approached. He was surprised to see the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

"Hey, what's wrong?" He knelt on the carpet in front of her and scooped up her hands in his.

"I don't want to leave," she answered simply.

Bobby stared into her sad blue eyes.  "I don't want you to leave."  He kissed her fingertips.  "But I want you to be safe, and you won't be safe here."

"Neither will you."

Bobby sighed.  Ain't that the truth.  But that was definitely something she didn't need to hear right now.

"You know I have to stay with the X-Men."

Lowering her gaze, she nodded.  Bobby released her hands and then sat beside her so he could take her in his arms.  "I'll be fine," he promised, "and I'll come see you whenever I'm in the city."  He brushed his lips against her hair.  "This won't be for very long."

She sighed and glanced over at him, a hint of a smile in her eyes.  "It'd better not.  I'll be lonely without you."  The corner of her mouth crooked playfully.

Bobby returned the smile with one of his own, a feeling of delight in his heart.  She was always a gentle tease, and the depth of her love shone from her eyes with a clarity that took his breath away.

They spent the drive to New York talking about inconsequential things as if this were just a normal outing.  Bobby had hopes that the X-Men would soon move to a more secure location and that he would be free to spend some time with Diedre in New York.  But the truth was that he couldn't begin to guess what would happen while Zero Tolerance remained in place.  It was possible that he wouldn't see his wife again for quite some time.

He kept his thoughts to himself as he pulled into the parking lot of a small bakery.  It was a typical two-story brick building on the end of a row of similar shops.  The buildings all shared communal walls, creating a continuous face of brick along the tree-lined street.  The bakery sat on the corner and had the unusual benefit of a small lot capable of holding four cars.  The shop was Clan-owned, and housed an access to the Guild complex.  It was too conspicuous to go to the Club during the day, so the two mutants needed an alternate route.  Bobby knew of several. 

Together, he and Diedre got out of the car and walked into the store.  They would need to trade code phrases with the shop's owner and then get instructions from him about how to proceed.  Diedre's bags remained in the trunk of the car so they wouldn't draw attention.

There was a line in front of the counter, so the two mutants fell in at the back, content to wrap their arms around each other as they waited for their turn.  The man at the front of the line had just accepted a brown bag from the man at the counter and turned away.  As he turned, his gaze swept across the people behind him with a flat disinterest that shattered when he spied Bobby and Diedre. 

Without warning, the man lunged toward them, his form shifting rapidly. His face became a mask of frenzied rage.  Instinctively, Bobby dragged Diedre behind him and pulled out the handgun he habitually carried as a thief.  In the space of two steps, the man changed from a recognizable human into something that had glowing red eyes beneath a shock of white hair.  Bobby recognized it as it raised its hands and he knew from watching the news reports that the Sentinel would have weapons built into each arm.

Without thinking, Bobby fired directly into the Sentinel's face, then turned and ran, pushing Diedre out the door of the shop before him.  Screams and shouts followed them out into the parking lot, but Bobby ignored them.  He glanced back just in time to see the Sentinel leap through the front window of the bakery.  Its face was covered with blood, but it did not seem otherwise incapacitated. 

They bleed? Bobby thought dizzily as he ran.  I thought the Sentinels were just machines.

Bobby turned and fired two more rounds at the menacing form that closed in on them, then followed Diedre around the corner and onto the crowded sidewalk.  His hand remained locked in hers as they ducked and dodged through the lunchtime crowd that had become a sea of chaos because of the nearby gunfire.  They had only a moment's respite as the Sentinel took to the air and flew down the street over the tops of the cars, its head turning from side to side as it scanned for them.  Around them, people screamed and ran from the flying figure.

Bobby grabbed Diedre and shoved her through the nearest door.  They plunged into a room filled with books and sunlight, and the musty scent of old things.  Bobby didn't stop to look.  He and Diedre raced toward the back of the little store as the woman behind the counter gaped at them.  The back door that Bobby had hoped to find was in the farthest corner, a tall wooden monster that was secured with multiple loops of heavy chain and a padlock. 

Growling curses under his breath, Bobby slid to a stop.  Stepping in front of Diedre to shield her, he shot the lock, shattering it.  He frantically unwrapped the door handle and shoved on the huge door.  He was terrified that he might open the door only to find the Sentinel waiting outside for them, but he pushed that thought away with every ounce of determination he could find.  Never t'ink about how y' can lose, Remy had told him on several occasions.  Always t'ink about how y' can win.  People have a tendency t' do whatever dey're t'inkin' 'bout, whether dey want to o' not.

Bobby put his shoulder into the door.  It burst open, sending him stumbling into the alley.  He scanned it quickly, his thief's senses tuned for any signs of trouble.  Seeing nothing, he brought Diedre out as well and they turned back toward the way they'd come in the hopes that the Sentinel would still be headed down the street in the other direction.  His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he ran.  Pain turned into pure horror as a familiar figure appeared in the mouth of the alley and raised its arms to fire.

Diedre uttered a tiny shriek as Bobby dragged her to the side of the alley, pressing them both against the flat brick wall.  The Sentinel's white beam sizzled as it passed them, close enough for Bobby to feel its heat through his shirt.  Bobby stared in numb terror as the Sentinel turned slightly, reorienting on them.  The memory of Diedre falling limp in his arms as her blood poured out of her filled his mind.  The Sentinel's laser would cut through her just as viciously as Michael's exoskeleton had, and this time he would have no power to save her.

From the corners of his vision, he caught sight of two dark forms up on the roof tops.  Each held some kind of energy rifle. In the split second before the Sentinel fired at Bobby and Diedre, the alleyway filled with a storm of crisscrossing beams that enveloped the Sentinel and ripped it to shreds.  Diedre buried her face against his shoulder, but Bobby watched mutely as the laser fire cut out, leaving nothing in its wake but the bleeding, mutilated form of the Sentinel.

After a moment, Bobby shook himself out of his stupor. He walked forward with Diedre.  The two men on the rooftops used quick lines to rappel to the ground and met them beside the Sentinel.  Bobby was startled to realize that he knew them both.

Bobby gratefully shook the hand that Marcus Black extended to him in greeting.  "You have no idea how glad I am to see you," Bobby told him.  "How did you know we were in trouble?"

Marcus exchanged looks with his partner, a man Bobby knew only distantly.  "We're patrolling near all of the accesses, in case our people are spotted trying to get below.  Too many Clan mutants are still living above ground."  He shrugged.  "We've had a couple of instances already."

Bobby began to tremble from the adrenaline still pumping through his system.  "That Sentinel-- " he gestured toward the body at their feet, "It looked just like a regular person.  I mean, it was in line getting a bagel when it saw us."  Something inside Bobby rebelled at the thought of a seemingly normal person suddenly leaping out and trying to kill him.

Marcus nodded his understanding.  His expression was the grimmest Bobby could remember seeing.  "Whatever these new Sentinels are... they used to be people."

Bobby looked down at the body that lay at his feet.  "Cyborgs?"  He could see some traces of machinery inside the Sentinel, particularly in the head and arms, but Marcus' point was valid.  Bobby reflected that the news coverage of OZT had never mentioned this aspect of the Prime Sentinels.

Marcus shrugged.  "I don't know.  Something like that, anyway."  He looked around.  "We'd better finish this conversation inside.  The last thing we need is to be around when this thing's friends show up."

"Right."  Bobby felt a twinge of panic at the thought of another Sentinel but suppressed it. 

As the four of them slipped quietly inside the bakery, Bobby turned to Marcus.  "Whose idea was the patrols?"

"The Guildmaster's, of course."  Marcus gave him an odd look as if he were surprised Bobby didn't know that.  "We've got two-man patrols around each of the complex entrances and a couple more floating around the city, particularly in the neighborhoods where groups of our people are still living."

Bobby swallowed a snort.  Standard X-Men tactic when we have a lot of ground to cover and no idea of where the trouble is going to come from.  

They moved down into the tunnels leading to the Guild complex. Bobby was both amazed and disturbed by the transformation.  They passed through three rings of sentries armed with metal detectors and several types of imaging technology.  He was reassured that a Prime Sentinel wouldn't be able to get into the complex unnoticed, but it was unnerving to be scrutinized so closely by people he was coming to think of as kin.

The complex itself was a hive of activity.  The dust that covered many portions of the underground caverns had been turned into a film of grime by the constant passage of feet.  People passed them going every which direction.  Some carted suitcases, others were moving pieces of furniture.  Children chased each other through the crowded tunnels, their laughter heartening in the general air of unease that permeated the complex.

"It's amazing," Diedre breathed.

Marcus nodded.  "Once the Sentinels started targeting mutants, people came flooding down here.  Nobody wants to live in the city right now." 

"I can't blame them."  Bobby felt a hard knot of anger growing in his stomach.  "The news is playing down the Sentinels.  We haven't seen anything to suggest they're hunting mutants."  And since Jean and Betsy had co-opted Cerebro to search for Jubilee, they hadn't been watching the tallies to see if there were an unusually high number of mutant deaths occurring.

Marcus voice was tight.  "Well, they are, and there's no way to tell who's an ordinary person and who's a Sentinel."

Having just experienced it for himself, Bobby had no reply.

Marcus and his partner left them to return to their patrol once they'd reported the destruction of the Sentinel. Bobby and took a place in line as they waited for their turn to get a room assignment.  Bobby was surprised by the amount of organization amid the chaos.  Artur and his assistants were doing an amazing job of managing the influx, especially considering that Remy had only started them on this project a couple of weeks earlier.

It took a couple of hours, but they finally got their instructions from Artur and made their way to the stone chamber that was now their home in the Guild complex.  Diedre voiced a small sigh of disappointment when she saw that the furnishings consisted of a single mattress on the floor and a small table with a rather ugly yellow lamp.  But then she straightened her shoulders resolutely.

"I suppose I can work on decorating while you're gone."

Bobby chuckled and hugged her.  "Have fun."

Diedre turned in his arms, her expression suddenly frightened and filled with a passionate yearning that made his breath catch.  "Be careful, Bobby."

Bobby leaned down and kissed her.  Her response was immediate. It drove away all of his lingering thoughts as her arms closed around his neck.  Bobby held her tightly as all of the emotions he'd forced away while the Sentinel was bearing down on them came boiling out of him in desperate longing.

With one hand, he managed to turn the lock on the door, so they were undisturbed as they said their goodbyes.

#

Bobby wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell that assaulted his nose as soon as he stepped into the room that housed Cerebro.  Jean and Betsy sat together at the console, while Scott stood off to the side, watching impatiently.

Scott looked up as he entered.  "Where have you been?" he asked and Bobby raised an eyebrow at the sharpness of his tone.  Privately, however, he took it as an encouraging sign that Scott might not be as certain of the decision to stay in the mansion as he pretended.  After what Bobby had learned about the Sentinels, that was very good news. 

Bobby hadn't yet spoken to Remy about what happened in New York.  He'd only gotten back a short time ago, in fact.  When he'd asked, Cerebro had told him Gambit was in the infirmary, but he simply couldn't bring himself to interrupt.  It was important news, but news that could wait long enough to give the two of them some time alone.  So instead he had gone looking for Scott, to see if anything had changed while he was gone.

After a moment's hesitation, Bobby decided to push Scott a little bit.  "I took Diedre to her parents'," he answered the question calmly.  "It's too dangerous here." 

Scott's expression flickered then disappeared completely. Bobby swallowed a satisfied smile.  He was honestly relieved to know Diedre would be safely tucked away in the Guild complex, despite how much he might miss her presence.  And, with any luck, he would still be able to find time to go see her.  Right now, however, the most important thing was to make sure the X-Men weren't about to fall into OZT's clutches.

Jean looked over at the exchange, her expression interested, and Bobby realized suddenly that the smell was emanating from the bowl in her hands.  It appeared to be filled with a salad of some sort. She took another bite as he watched.

"What in the world are you eating?" he asked curiously.

Jean glanced down at her meal.  "Spinach."

"With vinegar," Betsy added without taking her attention away from the screen in front of her.  She was currently wearing the heavy Cerebro interface on her head, but that didn't keep her from joining the conversation.

Bobby made a face.  "Vinegar?"  A lot of vinegar, from the smell of it.

Jean shrugged.  "It's about the only thing I can keep down right now.  That, and lemons."

"Which she eats peel and all," Betsy chimed in. 

Jean gave her a dirty look.

"Lemon peels?"  Bobby wasn't certain he dared laugh.

Jean grimaced good-naturedly.  "Hank said I should eat whatever I have cravings for, so long as it's real food."

"Guess that depends on your definition of 'real'."

"Bobby!"  Jean grinned despite herself.

Bobby echoed her smile, but it quickly died as he focused his attention on the screens.  "Any luck?"

Jean and Betsy both sobered. Jean shook her head.  "No, not yet."

"We have to assume OZT is keeping her in a shielded facility."  Betsy glanced over at Scott as if punctuating an earlier discussion that Bobby had missed.  "If she's still alive."

Beside Bobby, Scott blanched ever so slightly and Bobby felt his stomach tighten.  That was a frightening thought, but a legitimate one.

"We have to believe Jubilee is still alive," Scott grated, the knotted muscle in his jaw twitching reflexively.  "OZT wouldn't have taken her if they planned to just kill her."

Once they've gotten what they want, they will kill her, Bobby argued silently.  And she's just a girl.  For him, torture had become an unpleasant reality.  Not necessarily the mad scientist variety, though that did exist, but the simple expedience of breaking bones until the poor slob in question gave up the required information.  Bobby didn't have much in the way of personal exposure, but it was a fact of life in the circles he sometimes frequented.  Remy spoke so matter-of-factly about the subject that it sometimes gave him chills.  But then, Remy had scars. Bobby now knew enough to guess how he'd gotten them.

If he was brutally honest with himself, he didn't have much hope for his friend at all.  Not if this Bastion was a coldly ruthless as he appeared.

Shaking his head, he turned to Scott.  "Sorry, Fearless, Betsy's right.  And even if she is still alive, Bastion isn't going to store her someplace where we can find her."

Three pairs of eyes fastened on him with varying degrees of surprise. Bobby realized with a start of apprehension that he'd slipped very badly out of character.  Idiot! he scolded himself.  Talking to Scott like a professional.  What are you thinking?

"What, don't I get to have an opinion?" He whined defensively and saw an immediate response of anger in Scott's eyes.  Whining annoyed the man almost as much as outright defiance, which was a good thing for Bobby.  There was no way he would ever be able to maintain a rebellious bad-boy image like Remy's.  Falling back on his old, immature ways was usually his best recourse when he needed to distract Scott.

After a moment, Scott's anger shaded into exasperation. He turned back toward Cerebro's displays.  He was obviously dropping the subject.  Betsy just shook her head as if puzzled by Bobby's behavior, but Jean tossed him one last glance as she, too, turned away and Bobby could have sworn she was hiding a smile.

Bobby felt a small burst of adrenaline.  How much does she know? he wondered for about the hundredth time.  For once he found himself hoping that it was more rather than less.  If she knew the truth about Remy, then she would certainly have recognized the danger that Remy had tried so subtly to warn them of.

Jean didn't give him any further insight, and Bobby allowed himself to fade into the background.  He watched the women work quietly, until Jean's comment jerked him out of his thoughts.

"Scott, do you think Bishop could be right?"  Jean's gaze was fastened on the screens as she helped Betsy, but she spared her husband a single concerned look.  Bobby wanted to cheer.

Scott frowned, his brow wrinkling.  Bobby found it strange to be able to see his entire face, though it did make reading him a little easier.

"Of course he could be," Scott finally answered.  "But I don't think that Jubilee knows enough about our security system to be a threat, if that's why Bastion kidnapped her.  She hasn't lived here for almost two years. We've made a lot of changes since then."

Jean chewed on her lip.  "Maybe."  She shrugged.  "I guess I'm just not convinced those changes have been significant enough to protect us.  It might be a good idea to ask someone who can give a more informed opinion."

Scott cocked an eyebrow, his expression skeptical.  "Who would that be?"

Jean cut her eyes toward him.  We do have a trained thief in the house who has proven on several occasions that he can break the mansion's security."  She sounded vaguely irritated and Bobby seconded her feelings emphatically.

Scott stared at her for several long moments, his expression unreadable.  "Why are you so worried about this?" he asked, sounding puzzled.

Jean straightened unconsciously and met his gaze.  "Because I'm not an X-Man any more, Scott.  I'm not a soldier."  She gestured aimlessly as she tried to put her thoughts into words.  "I'm not even a mutant."  Sighing, she let her hands fall into her lap.  "I'm just a woman-- a mother.  How can I protect our baby if I have a bullseye painted on my forehead?"

Bobby could tell immediately that her words had cut to the root of Scott's private fears.  Even if the X-Men's leader would never admit those fears, Bobby could see the shadow in his eyes that spoke volumes about his internal conflict.

After a moment, Scott sighed resignedly.  "All right.  I'll talk to Gambit if it'll make you feel better."

Jean smiled.  "Thank you."

Bobby forced himself to maintain an expression of polite interest, but inside he couldn't help a wide grin.  Jean, you're the best, he thought toward her, even though she couldn't hear him.  No matter what Remy's reservations, Bobby was very glad he'd trusted her that day.  Now, he could only hope that Gambit would be able to convince Scott of the danger they were in.

#

Scott paused in the doorway to the medlab, surprised despite himself, then crossed quietly to where Hank reclined in his lab chair, apparently resting as he sipped from a steaming mug.  The lights in the lab were dimmed. Hank's form was illuminated by the glow from the computer screen behind him. 

Scott raised an eyebrow in silent question, canting his head toward the single occupied bed. 

Hank grinned.  "They're downright cute when they're asleep, aren't they?"  His voice barely rose above a whisper.

Scott only shook his head.  Remy and Rogue were curled up like a couple of children on the wide bed, their foreheads nearly touching.

"Just so long as they're not arguing," he answered in the same low tone.

Hank chuckled lightly.  "Did you need something?"

Scott shrugged.  "I was looking for Remy.  I wasn't expecting to have to wake him up, though."

Hank paused and lowered his mug.  "Actually, I'd prefer you didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Wake Gambit.  He was evidencing several symptoms of exhaustion when he came to visit Rogue.  I would prefer to let him sleep as long as possible."

Scott was puzzled.  "Exhaustion?  He looked like he had a hangover to me."

Hank shrugged lightly.  "The two can appear very similar."

Scott frowned and turned to look more closely at Gambit, his thoughts turning.  Finally, he returned his gaze to his friend's.

"Hank, is it just me, or am I really that completely in the dark about Remy?"

Hank's eyebrows rose fractionally.  "What do you mean?"

Scott shrugged uncomfortably.  "I don't know.  It just seems like every time I turn around someone is telling me I'm overreacting because I don't know Remy well enough."  He made a frustrated gesture.  "If it isn't Bobby, then it's you, or Jean."  He sat down in the empty chair beside Hank's desk with a resigned sigh.  "I tell you, Hank, the man drives me up the wall."

Hank chuckled softly.  "That goes without saying."  Then he sobered.  "Unfortunately, I suspect that Gambit does it deliberately."

Scott frowned.  "Does what?"

"Irritates you."

Scott was at a loss for how to respond.  Of course he was aware that Remy's attempts to provoke him were sometimes deliberate.  It was just one of several juvenile traits that frustrated him no end, but Hank seemed amused rather than disapproving.

"You seem to find that awfully entertaining."

Hank's grin turned wry.  "From a certain perspective, I suppose it is.  Just like Bobby's practical jokes are fun so long as you aren't the one with peanut butter and saltines in your fur."

Scott swallowed a snort of laughter.  "I think I missed that one.  What happened?"

Hank's response was dry.  "It was his version of tar and feathering.  I locked him in the women's bathroom at the library for a number of hours because he wouldn't let me study, and that was his payback."

Scott raised an eyebrow.  "Seems like a bit of overkill to me."

Hank grinned.  "Well, the head librarian found him there.  She was... unpleasant, to say the least."

Scott gave in and laughed quietly at the schoolboy pranks, but then returned to the subject at hand.  "All right.  So Remy annoys me on purpose.  Why?  Why me?  Or are you going to tell me it's purely his dislike of any and all kinds of authority."  He paused.  "He doesn't do this to Storm."

A slow smile spread across Hank's face and Scott rolled his eyes.

"So if I were a woman, I wouldn't be having this problem?"

Hank's smile spread.  "Possibly.  It's quite an image."

Scott gave him a disgusted look.  "Seriously, Hank."

Hank sobered.  "Seriously?  I suppose my best 'educated' guess is that you are on the receiving end of a rather extensive sleight-of-hand.  The tool of the con man is distraction, after all."

Scott narrowed his eyes as the meaning of Hank's words sank in.  "Distract me from what, I wonder."

Hank shrugged.  "I have no idea, but I haven't seen anything to suggest I should find out."

Scott watched his friend for several long moments.  "You trust him, don't you?"

Hank lifted an eyebrow.  "Does that surprise you?"  Then he nodded.  "Yes, I do."

"Why?"

Hank cocked his head as he considered his answer.  "If there were nothing more to Gambit than the scruffy, irresponsible scoundrel we see, he would have died on the street after that fight.  In fact, he was clinically dead when we arrived here, but somehow Jean managed to hang on to him."  He spread his hands.  "I don't know how.  The only thing she would tell me afterward was that his will is tremendously strong and he simply refused to die."  Hank shrugged.  "A two-bit criminal doesn't have that kind of character."

Scott mulled his thoughts silently.  Character was not an attribute he ascribed to Remy.  Was there an entire facet to the man that he simply hadn't ever seen?

"As further evidence," Hank went on, "let me add this.  I don't know if you or the other X-Men are truly aware of the extent of the injuries Remy suffered."

Scott bit back his instinctive response and let the other man continue.

"He was tremendously lucky with the gut wound.  It missed the spine, missed the liver... " Hank eyebrows rose, punctuating his words.  "His leg, however... " He looked over at Scott.  "Do you realize that I debated amputation for more than a week before Remy's condition really started to turn around?"

Scott's stomach knotted at the thought.  They all faced the possibility of crippling or deadly injuries in their roles as X-Men, but to come even this close made the possibilities too real for comfort.

"No, I didn't realize that."

Hank nodded.  "I wasn't sure what Jean had told you.  The point I'm making, though, is that Remy probably should not ever have walked again.  Most people wouldn't have, even with our Shi'ar equipment."

Scott favored him with a puzzled frown.  "Are you saying he did something miraculous?"

Hank's smile was amused as he shook his head.  "No, not miraculous.  Amazing, perhaps."  He took another sip of his tea.  "Most people do not have the determination to come back from that kind of injury.  The rehabilitation is too hard and too painful."  He paused, thinking.  "Remy drove himself far harder than I would have, or even could have.  He set his own goals and pushed himself mercilessly until he reached them-- sometimes to the point where I was cringing to watch.  But he never gave up."

Scott remained puzzled.  "That certainly doesn't sound like the Gambit I know."

Hank nodded in agreement.  "I can't begin to explain why he keeps all that drive bottled up and instead spends his days so frivolously..."  He spread his hands helplessly.  "But it's his choice.  Just don't be fooled into thinking that's all there is to him."

In unspoken accord, the two turned to look at the object of their discussion who remained soundly asleep, oblivious to their attention.  The silence stretched between them.

"So, is it something important you wanted to talk to Remy about?" Hank asked after a while. 

Scott shook his head, his mind still churning.  "I'm... not sure.  But it can wait a while, I suppose."

Chapter 14

Remy closed his eyes, glad to rest for a moment though he would never have admitted to being even the slightest bit tired.  It had been a strange few weeks for the twelve-year-old.  He remained deeply uncertain about this LeBeau man, despite the kindness he'd shown Remy so far-- or perhaps because of it.  Nothing was free on the streets, but for the life of him, Remy couldn't figure out what this man wanted from him.  Little things like wearing the clothes LeBeau brought him and brushing his hair were simple enough.  And he could endure the endless corrections about how to stand and how to behave at Misseur LeBeau's table and how to eat with the knife and fork that were so much less efficient than his fingers... He heaved a sigh he hoped couldn't be heard by the two men on the other side of the door.  But this reading...

Remy was well aware that the hundreds of signs that lined the streets of New Orleans meant something.  In fact, he knew them all on sight and a bunch of other words as well.  But it was downright baffling that LeBeau wanted to break each of the words up into pieces and give different names to all of the parts.

"Pere, are y' sure y' wan' t' continue wit' dis?"  The slightly muffled voice from the other side of the door belonged to Henri.  He was LeBeau's oldest son, and the only other member of the household that did more than simply tolerate Remy's presence.

"O' course I do, Henri.  He'll get it eventually."

Henri barked a laugh.  "Oui, if y' pound his thick head against de wall enough times, he prob'ly will."  He sobered abruptly.  "But what're y' tryin' t' accomplish here, eh?  Y' keep tellin' me dis boy's special-- different-- but he's half-grown already an' as wild as dey come.  What good he gon' be t' de Guild if y' can' even teach him de most basic t'ings?"

Remy's hands closed unconsciously into fists at the flood of information.  Different?  Special?  How?  Why?  What 'things'?  What did these people really want? A hard knot of fear tightened his gut. His instincts screamed at him to run now while he had the chance.  But instead he remained frozen in his place outside the door, waiting for LeBeau's answer.

LeBeau's chuckle was hardly reassuring.  "Do y' know what our resident gutter snipe did yesterday?"  There was a short pause.  "He managed t' sneak an entire handful o' Miss Adelle's treats, right out from under her nose."

Remy's mouth began to water at the memory.  He liked Miss Adelle, the family's cook.  She was a big, cheerful woman and though she didn't seem to like him particularly, her absolutely wonderful food more than made up for that.  He'd never tasted anything like her molasses treats. He'd been more than a little angry when she limited him to only one of the sweet, sticky candies.  She'd rapped him smartly across the knuckles with her wooden ladle when he tried to take another one despite her warning, and that was when he'd decided that he would have to get a little sneakier if he wanted any more of them.

"I watched him, Henri."  LeBeau continued with his story.  Remy found it strange that he seemed so pleased.  He was also dismayed to think that the man had been watching him.  Remy had not had even a suspicion that he was there, and that was a little scary.  LeBeau was the quietest man he'd ever met. 

"He sat in de corner o' de kitchen, sulkin', but what he was really doin' was watchin' Adelle.  She was busy fixin' de dinner, so she didn' notice dat he was timin' her."  There was a significant pause.  "He only had a five second window, but he was across de room, got what he wanted an' was out de door.  No excess motion.  No wasted time.  Adelle jus' stood dere wit' her back turned.  She never heard a t'ing."

"So de boy c'n steal a few candies."  Henri didn't sound pleased like his father, and the fact that they knew what he'd done made Remy nervous.  Still, LeBeau was happy with him, and his word was law in the house.  No one would do anything to him that LeBeau didn't approve of.

"De boy made a pinch, Henri."  LeBeau sounded like he was trying to impress something on his son, but Remy couldn't quite follow his meaning.  "A blindingly simple one t' be sure, but a pinch none de less.  De mind is dere.  So are de instincts.  He jus' needs t' be taught."

"But taught how t' read, Pere?  An' how t' use a fork?  By de time dis boy's ready t' apprentice, he'll be grown.  De apprentices his age are startin' t' learn circuits an' chemistry.  How can he ever keep up?"

Remy's mind was whirling.  He still didn't understand what LeBeau had in mind for him, but it was beginning to sound like a long-term thing.  It also sounded like Henri didn't think he could do whatever it was.  Somewhere deep inside that assessment angered him, but on the surface it barely fazed him.  A gutter rat was a gutter rat, after all.  Life was a matter of staying alive and finding enough to eat. Remy had never spent much time considering anything beyond that.

"I'll make y' a wager," LeBeau said, sounding smug.  "I get three months t' teach him t' read.  Not jus' his name or anyt'ing like dat, but t' really read.  If I'm successful, y' agree t' stand wit' me when I adopt de boy, an' y' agree t' help me teach him."

Adopt? Remy thought dazedly.  As in a real family?  A last name?  Dat kind of 'adopt'?

"An' if y' can' teach him, Pere?"  Henri still sounded skeptical.

Remy found himself holding his breath.  His heart was pounding in his chest for no reason he could define, except that he'd never thought about having a family for real.  That was just a dream, a happy story to tell the little ones to help them fall asleep when their stomachs were painfully empty.

LeBeau sighed softly.  "If I can' teach him... I'll send him back t' de street.  Wit'out y' support, de Council c'n outvote me on dat."

Henri uttered a snort, but after a moment he acquiesced.  "Very well.  I agree, Pere."

There was a shuffle of bodies moving, then Remy heard the sound of a door opening and closing and he guessed that Henri had left by one of the other doors to the room.

"Remy, come here."

Remy jumped a foot at the sudden command from inside.  Heart pounding in terror, he turned instinctively to run, but something stopped him and he instead found himself going to the door and creeping cautiously into the room.  LeBeau sat in one of the beautiful chairs that populated his house, his legs crossed and his hands folded calmly in his lap.  He did not seem the least surprised to discover Remy eavesdropping outside the door.  In fact, he was smiling.

"Did y' hear, Remy?"

"Did I hear what, Misseur?"  Remy was pretty good at playing innocent.  He had long ago discovered that having big blue eyes was an asset, and had cultivated an angelic face to go with them.  Women were almost sure to fall for it.  Men were a little less certain...

"Don' try dat game wit' me, boy."  LeBeau's voice was sharp.

Remy dropped the pretense.  "Oui, Misseur."  LeBeau continued to stare at him.  "I heard y'."  Remy steeled himself for whatever the man might have in mind as punishment for listening in on his conversation.

Instead, LeBeau only nodded.  "Good."

Good?  Remy couldn't help the surprise that showed on his face.

LeBeau's smile turned wry.  "Oui, chile.  Now y' understand de stakes an' what it'll take f' y' t' stay here."

Remy stared at him in confusion.  Stay? The word swam around in his brain until it collided with 'adopt' and he was stunned to realize that this man was really offering him the impossible.  His stomach tried to turn itself inside out as he considered the concept, but hope was far too painful a thing for him to want to encourage it.  He'd learned that lesson well.

His eyes narrowed.  "Stay here?  Why should I?" he asked LeBeau with as much belligerence as he could muster.

LeBeau's smile died. He pinned Remy with a solemn, intimidating stare.  "Because dis is prob'ly de only chance y' gon' get t' get off de street, boy.  Y' got what it takes.  I wouldn' have brought y' here if y' didn'."

Remy eyed him suspiciously.  In his experience, the only way to get off the street was to find yourself a sugar daddy, and he didn't have any intention of paying his way out like that. 

LeBeau seemed to know what he was thinking.  "Do y' know what I do f' a livin', Remy?" he asked quietly.

Remy shook his head, suddenly uncertain.

LeBeau's eyebrows twitched.  "I'm a professional t'ief.  An' I'm givin' y' de chance t' learn de craft."  His stare was uncompromising.  "I'll take y' in as m' own blood an' teach y' everyt'ing I know.  Y' never gon' have t' worry 'bout where y' next meal be comin' from o' what kind o' danger might be sneakin' up on y' in de dark.  De Guild looks after its own.  An' when y' grown-- if y' become de t'ief I t'ink y c'n-- dere's no limit t' what y' could do o' where y' could go."

Spellbound by the images LeBeau was creating for him, Remy barely managed to stutter the question that hovered in the forefront of his mind.  "W-what do I have t' do?" 

LeBeau smiled warmly, his intensity vanishing.  "Right now, all y' have t' do is learn t' read."

#

Remy LeBeau took a deep breath as he let go of the memories.  I hate Braille, he thought sourly.  It was almost useless to him as a thief, but the prospect of not being able to read was more than enough motivation for him to start resurrecting his limited knowledge.  It was strange, perhaps, but the conceptual breakthrough of understanding what Jean Luc had been trying to teach him was almost like a rebirth.  If Remy were ever asked to point to the specific time and place where his entire life had changed, that would be it.  That was the moment that his life on the streets ended and his future began.  Everything he was today he owed in some way to Jean Luc LeBeau, and was hinged on that first, crucial understanding. 

Sighing, Remy closed the Braille tutorial he had kept and pushed it away.  When he'd discovered that losing his powers would also cost him his sight, he'd made an effort to learn the language, but he had never honestly expected to lose his powers in a non-combat situation.  Now it bothered him deeply that he couldn't read the technical briefs the Guild had recovered on the Prime Sentinels, just like it bothered him that he couldn't access his email.  Not just because it was frustrating and inconvenient.  No, if he were truly honest with himself he would have to admit that the loss of that skill terrified him in some deep corner of his heart.  He knew it was ridiculous to think he would end up back on the street.  Losing his powers hadn't wiped out one iota of the knowledge or intelligence resident in his head, and those were the things that mattered.  But he was still disturbed.

The shrill ring of his cell phone startled him out of his thoughts.  Remy had taken to leaving it on whenever he was in his room at the mansion, just to make himself a little more accessible.

"'LeBeau."

"Remy, we have a problem."  Dyson sounded perturbed, which was an unusual event. Remy's general sense of unease coalesced into a tiny shiver of apprehension.

"What is it?"

"Xavier's accounts have been raided.  They didn't even trip my alarms on the personal estate, so I didn't know about it until they started into the school money.  The personal stuff is gone and I'm sitting here watching the school's accounts drain away as we speak."

Remy sat up in his chair, biting his lip to restrain the instinctive panic reaction.  If Bastion had found them, it was more likely that he would attack the mansion first, not the bank accounts.

"Do y' know who's doin' it?  C'n y' stop dem?" 

"No and no."  Dyson paused.  "Remy, whoever this is has a lot of power behind them.  The FCC codes just locked up when these guys came in.  I'm paralyzed.  There's not a thing I can do to salvage anything from the Xavier Institute."

"What about de rest?"  Losing Xavier's money was a blow, but a more of an inconvenience than anything else.  The Shi'ar equipment and Cerebro were the real treasures, and those would require a physical assault if someone wanted to get them. 

"You're safe, as far as I can tell.  I haven't seen any signs that our thugee friends here have been sniffing around any of your accounts.  Worthington Industries is a different story, though.  There are plenty of ties between it and Xavier."

"Y' t'ink dey'll go after Worthington next?"  Remy found himself drumming his fingers on the desktop and forced himself to stop.

"I do.  I--  Hang on."  Dyson muttered under his breath at something taking place on his end. 

In the midst of the tense silence, Remy's communicator beeped.  He answered it with a growing sense of impending disaster.  The X-Men had a unique relationship with the phenomenon of coincidence.  Whatever this was, it was almost guaranteed to be worse than the financial disaster Dyson had brought him. 

"All X-Men report to the War Room now."  That was Scott and he sounded more uptight than usual.  Remy felt his stomach sink.

He acknowledged the command then turned back to the cell phone.  "Dyson, I hate t' do dis to y', but I've got t' go."

"What?"  He could almost hear Dyson shaking his head.  "Wait.  What do you want me to do about Worthington?  They're making some forays into the corporate security protocols already."

Remy grabbed his duster, juggling the phone as he put it on.  "Dey gon' get t' Worthington's money?"

"Fifteen minutes, tops."

Remy muttered a string of curses under his breath.  It was hard enough to juggle being a thief and an X-Man.  It was impossible for him to do both at the same time.  "What c'n y' do t' stop dem?"

Dyson laughed.  "Me?  Nothing.  The only way to save that money is to drain it out ourselves before they get there and hope I can hide it fast enough and well enough that they can't find it again."

Remy picked up his bo staff with his free hand and walked out of his room.  "So do it."

Dyson made an annoyed sound.  "I can't, Remy.  I can't get through the security any faster than these guys are doing it.  I told you, these are pros."

Remy took the stairs down to the main floor of the mansion, but then paused at the bottom.  The cellular transmission would be cut off as soon as he went below ground level because of the heavy blast shielding that helped protect the lower levels from an above ground strike.

"So what c'n we do?"

"Well, if you've got a magic wand that'll grant me access to Worthington Industries' core, that would help."

Realization struck Remy and he began to chuckle.  "I c'n go one better dan dat.  Hang on, Dyson.  I'm gon' transfer y' t' a different system here.  De line'll be blank f' a bit, but when I come back, I'll have y' access ready."

"Right."  Dyson didn't sound entirely convinced.  "The clock's down to about twelve minutes."

"Got it."  Remy let the hand that still held the phone fall to his side, too far away to pick up his words as he addressed Cerebro and instructed the computer to transfer his cellular call to the mansion's phone system and route it to the War Room.  That done, he folded up the phone and pocketed it, then turned and headed back up the stairs.

#

Scott Summers paced a short track across the head of the large table that occupied the War Room as he waited for the last few X-Men to arrive.  His stomach was twisted into a tight knot of fear and adrenaline, even though he did not yet know what the crisis was.  It was enough to read the expression in Logan's eyes.

Logan sat near the head of the table, his stance calm but his appearance disturbing.  Scott often forgot the Canadian's age because his healing factor kept him eternally young, but now there were streaks of silver in the dark hair and a few more lines in the grim face.  As more time passed without his powers, Scott knew, Logan's body would eventually catch up to his eighty plus years of age.  Beyond that, Logan was covered in blood, much of which was old enough to have dried and crusted, and he looked like he hadn't had a bath or a minute of sleep since leaving the mansion almost a week earlier.  But at least the blood didn't appear to be Logan's for the most part. 

Scott mentally shook his head.  At another time, the evidence decorating Logan's shirt would have angered him.  Today he was simply glad it was the enemy and not his own that had been hurt, and a small part of him felt shamed by the callous thought.

Storm entered the room then, accompanied by Sam and Bishop.  That left only three of their members absent.  Beast had escorted Rogue to the table and then gone to check on Warren, so he would be a little later than the others. Gambit could be anywhere, though at least he'd answered the summons.

Storm greeted Logan with a relieved smile as she settled in her customary place at the table. 

"What has happened?" she asked Logan, her posture as casual as his.  A deep furrow between her brows was the only visible sign of her concern.

Logan's gaze swept the table, as if he were deciding whether to answer or to wait for the last few X-Men to arrive, but then he shrugged and leaned forward.  He split his attention between Ororo and Scott, and Scott felt a tiny chill of apprehension.  Usually, Logan talked to the team as a whole when he had information to give, but when the threat was immediate his military training tended to kick in.  The fact that he focused solely on the two leaders of the X-Men gave Scott a glimpse of how serious Logan considered the situation to be.

"Found out a couple o' things," Logan said, his gravely voice rougher than usual.  "The first is that there's a full-scale political war brewin' over Zero Tolerance, an' the X-Men are on the agenda fer both sides."  He met Scott's gaze for a moment, the blue eyes hard and sad.  Scott was certain he already knew about Jubilee, but his voice gave nothing away.

"I ran inta Val Cooper.  She had some interestin' things ta say, off the record."  He leaned back in his seat.  "Accordin' ta her, there were a couple o' factions inside OZT that were vyin' fer control o' the operation.  Graydon Creed was the golden boy up until Mystique shot 'im an' gave Bastion's clique the upper hand.  Bad news is that most folks in the OZT camp think Bastion arranged that."

"Mystique would nevah support OZT!"  Rogue's green eyes flashed angrily.

"Not on purpose," Logan returned and Rogue's gaze narrowed.  "So it was either an unlucky coincidence or Bastion was canny enough ta dupe her inta it."

Rogue sat back with a pensive frown, cradling her injured hand in its sling.  "Mah momma's a lot o' things, Logan, but she ain't stupid."

"Never said she was, darlin'."  Logan's grim expression didn't waver.  "But if Bastion did somehow provoke her inta attackin' Creed, he's a lot more dangerous than anyone's givin' him credit fer."

Scott found himself growing impatient with the exchange.  He didn't know Mystique very well and didn't like what little he did know of her.  Debating the reasons behind her involvement with OZT did not strike him as being of particular importance at the moment.  Whether she had acted knowingly or in ignorance did nothing to change the fact that they now had Bastion to deal with.

"So who's opposing Bastion?" Scott asked.  That was the important issue.  If mutants could find some kind of ally in the political arena, it would be a significant step towards regaining their powers without violence.

Logan snorted.  "Don't get too excited, Cyke.  Senator Kelly's taken up Creed's banner."

"Kelly?"  Scott felt a wash of dismay.  Robert Kelly was one of mutantkind's most uncompromising opponents.  He was the man who had invented the Sentinels, and a strong political voice in the anti-mutant camp.

"Why would Kelly go against Bastion?"  Bobby crossed his arms, his expression surprisingly intent.  "I'd think they'd be best buds right about now."

"No, Robert."  Ororo shook her head.  "Kelly may hate mutants, but our destruction is not his ultimate goal."  She pursed her lips as if her thoughts were coalescing even as she began to voice them.  "Operation: Zero Tolerance is a springboard into the Presidency.  That is his goal."

Logan nodded in agreement.  "Right.  He's takin' the moderate position an' portrayin' Bastion as a dangerous radical that don't care if he kills his friends as long as he gets his enemies."  He paused.  "From what I've been hearin', that ain't too far from the truth."

Scott picked up immediately on the things that were left unspoken.  "What do you mean?"

Logan shrugged.  "Creed's original plan was ta use the satellites ta neutralize mutants so they could be rounded up, categorized, marked an' released.  Most of 'em, anyway.  Our names were on a list o' folks who needed ta die resistin' the new order, but most mutants would've been tossed back out inta society."

"Valerie told you that?"   Scott didn't know which was worse.  The plan itself or the idea that Valerie might have known about it and not seen fit to warn them.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bishop pale, making the black M tattooed across his face stand out in sharp relief. 

"No, she don't have a clue 'bout that part," Logan answered.  "I got that from an' old contact o' mine."

Storm's expression slid from distressed to angry.  "Such marking of mutants would be the first step toward creating a second class of citizen."  Her pupils narrowed, catlike.  "A legal slave race."

Her words struck Bishop more forcibly than if she had turned around and slapped him.  The giant man reared to his feet, his face twisted with horror.  "I warned you!"  His gaze swept across them, both accusing and guilty.  "But you wouldn't listen!  This is the beginning of the war that destroyed the X-Men and created my world!"

Storm reached up to place a hand on his arm but he shook her off.  "I am not overreacting," he told her flatly.  "And I am not paranoid."  He continued to stare at Storm for a moment before turning to Scott.  "You cannot possibly look at the events taking place all around us and not realize where these things will lead.  If we do not somehow stop Bastion you are all going to die, and this entire way of life--"  He made a sweeping gesture that took in the larger world outside the mansion, "is going to die with you!"

Scott couldn't break away from the other man's gaze.  There was a kind of horrible certainty in his eyes that compelled attention.  For Bishop, he realized suddenly, the events occurring all around them were not a frightening present.  They were a fixed past, the heart-rending destruction of his world that he was being forced to experience firsthand.  The realization made Bishop's horror entirely too understandable and for the first time Scott found himself feeling sympathy for the time lost man.

"We're not going to let that happen, Bishop," Scott told the other man with such certainty that he almost surprised himself.  But to Scott, the things that Bishop described from his own time were inconceivable.  He simply could not believe that the Professor's dream could fail that horribly.  On some level he understood that it was true in Bishop's future.  That it was fact.  But for him, it could never be more than a possible future.  A future the X-Men would somehow find a way to avoid.

Storm once again laid her hand on Bishop's arm. This time he didn't pull away.  Scott turned to Logan.

"Is that what Bastion is doing?" He watched Logan closely in the hope that his expression would give away some hint that the news was going to get better, not worse.

Logan drew a breath that he let out in a rush, and Scott's heart sank.  "No.  Unless they've got special programmin', the Prime Sentinels have kill on sight instructions."

"What?!"

"That's insane!"

"We have heard nothing like that!"

The general clamor of surprise and outrage died out after a moment as the X-Men waited for Logan to expand his statement. 

The tense silence shattered as Cerebro chimed, indicating an incoming call.  Frowning, Scott checked the display, noting that it was an audio signal only and from an unrecognized number.  He glanced over at Logan who shook his head lightly.

Still reeling internally, Scott accepted the call.  "Who is this?" he demanded of the faceless caller. 

The voice that came back to him, amplified by the room's sound system, was colored with surprise.  "I could ask you the same thing.  LeBeau put me on hold.  Is he there?"

On hold?  Gambit? The sudden intrusion was like a dash of ice water.  Scott's thoughts switched tracks without registering the magnitude of the jump. 

What in the world is Gambit doing using the mansion's tactical communication lines for personal business? Scott felt a burst of anger at the Cajun's typical recklessness. 

"No, he's not here," he snapped.  "What is this about?"

"Sorry.  Privileged information."

Scott was about to open his mouth for a heated retort when the door to the War Room slid open on an argument in progress.  Heads turned that direction, as startled by the sudden change as Scott.

"All I'm sayin' is call y' people!  Dey tell y' exactly de same t'ing."  Gambit and Angel stood in the doorway, glaring at each other while Beast watched them warily from behind.

Angel brushed past Gambit and walked into the room, his stride stiff both from anger and the weight of his wings.  "My security staff would have called me if there was a problem."

Gambit gave him a disgusted look.  "No dey won'.  Dey gon' try t' handle it demselves.  Dey won' call y' until it's too late."

"Remy, is that you?"  Belatedly, Scott realized that he still had the unknown caller on the open line.

Remy glanced over at Scott, apparently unsurprised by the new voice.  "Oui.  Y' got a camera on y' phone, Dyson?"

Scott absently filed the name away as Dyson answered.  "Yes."

"Turn it on."

Dyson did, apparently, and the large projection screen filled with the image of a man in his mid-thirties, with short sandy-blonde hair and a matching goatee.  He wore small round glasses with gold rims and he struck Scott with his air of competence.  Dyson looked the X-Men over with interest, but quickly centered on Gambit.

Gambit smiled grimly without ever looking directly at the screen and motioned toward Warren.  "Dyson, meet Warren Worthington III.  Warren, dis is Dyson.  He's de one watchin' dese folks dat're goin' after y' company."

Scott was beginning to get an inkling of what the argument about, but it seemed ludicrous to think that Gambit was meddling in an apparent takeover attempt on Worthington Industries.  Somewhere, he was certain, there must be something he'd missed that would make sense of Gambit's involvement, but for the moment all he could think was that this was horrible timing for a personal crisis in light of what Logan had been telling them.

As Scott sorted through his thoughts, Dyson's professional air solidified.  He nodded to Warren in terse greeting and was met with a flat stare. 

"Mr. Worthington, here's the short version," Dyson began, his words clipped and efficient.  "An unidentified person or group is making a hostile raid on Worthington Industries' corporate accounts and other holdings.  I estimate it will take them another six to eight minutes to break through the security protocols and begin siphoning off the liquid assets."  He paused as if to let the import of his words sink in.  "Your security people don't stand a chance of stopping them.  I can't stop them either.  But if you'll give me access to your core, I may be able to play a variation of the shell game with those accounts and keep these people from getting to them."

Warren crossed his arms, his expression a mix of anger, concern and disbelief.  "Why should I believe you?"  Two steps away, Gambit rolled his eyes.

Dyson, however, was unperturbed.  "I represent my client's interests to the best of my abilities," he answered with a nod in Gambit's direction.  "In this case, my client has asked me to intervene on your behalf.  I don't know the reasons why, nor do I care.  You'll have to ask him, but that will take precious time that, to be honest, you really don't have."

Dyson's gaze flicked to Gambit and Scott wasn't sure if he should be pleased, angry or downright mortified that the Cajun X-Man was the 'client' Dyson was referring to.

"Five minutes," Dyson added succinctly.

In response, Logan rose to his feet.  He speared Gambit with a single unrevealing glance before turning to Angel.

"Give 'im whatever he needs, Worthington, an' cut him loose.  We've got bigger problems ta deal with right now."  The scratchy growl of his voice brooked no argument.

Angel's gaze narrowed as he considered, while on the large screen, Dyson's expression furrowed as if he were chasing a stray thought.

"Do I know you?" he asked Logan.

Logan glanced up at the screen, annoyed.  "Doubt it," he growled.

Dyson continued to stare at him for a moment, and then something clicked in his mind. His face lit with a small "Ah," of recognition.  "That's who you are.  The golden boy of Landau, Luckman and Lake.  I knew you looked familiar."

Logan's expression went from annoyed to dangerous in a heartbeat. Scott had to throttle the desire to break in and demand an explanation from one of them.

"What d' you know about Landau, Luckman and Lake?" Logan demanded.

Dyson shrugged.  "I've done some contracts for them.  Interdimensional finance is fun work, if you can get it."  The blond man didn't smile but Scott was fairly certain he was making a joke.

Without pausing, Dyson looked back to Angel.  "Four minutes."

Warren turned to stare at Gambit for a bare moment, then walked over and picked up a handset and spoke with someone on the other end.  Scott didn't try to listen in, or to follow the complex business-speak.  Instead, he found himself staring at Gambit as well, trying to figure out what he should be seeing.  Hank's comments from the day before kept floating through his mind, but he just couldn't quite put it all together.

Angel finished his conversation and put the handset back down in the receiver when Dyson began to nod.  "Thank you, Mr. Worthington."  Then he turned his attention to something in front of him.  "I'll see what I can do."  He glanced up momentarily.  "Remy, I'll call you."

Gambit nodded.  "M' personal line."

"Right."

Logan reached over and hit the disconnect switch in front of Scott.

"Wait!" Warren reached instinctively toward Logan, but the older man held out a hand.

"Forget it, Warren.  I won't pretend ta know where Gumbo dug that guy up, but he's a professional.  He'll take care o' yer company if anyone can, an' like I said, ya've got bigger problems ta worry about right now."

Like a switch being thrown, Scott's mind snapped back to the earlier conversation.  His feeling of apprehension returned in full.  "What kind of problems, Wolverine?"

Logan cocked his head.  "That was the second thing I was gonna tell ya.  OZT's got a bead on the X-Men.  This thing with Worthington Industries just confirms it."  He turned to Gambit as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him.  "Did they get ta Xavier's estate, too?"

Gambit nodded.  "Drained."

Scott's alarm at the fact that Gambit seemed to know an inordinate amount about the financial status of the X-Men was immediately drowned out by a new realization.

"Then OZT is on its way here."  The conclusion was liberating in a way.  Here, at least, was a threat Scott knew how to deal with.  "How long?"

Logan shrugged.  "Eighty minutes, give or take.  They launched the team from Langley."

Scott had never been in the espionage business, but he'd been a soldier long enough to know that that meant C.I.A assassins, most likely.  And for once that was a frightening prospect.  Without their powers, he wasn't certain they had the skills to match a team with that kind of training and weaponry.  However, he needed more information before he could make any kind of rational decision.

"How many?" he asked Logan.  For example, a standard four man team, even of elite assassins, would be simple to repel with the resources they had.

Logan's eyebrows twitched in the equivalent of a shrug.  "Don't know fer sure.  Twenty, twenty-five would be my guess."

Scott chewed on his lip.  That was a full blown assault team, then, which meant covert ops in addition to assassins.  The X-Men weren't going to get any slack from Bastion.  These were likely to be the best the U.S. government could field.

"Now will you agree that we must evacuate the mansion?"  Bishop remained standing, his arms crossed and the muscles in his chest flexing rhythmically in response to his emotions.

"The mansion is well equipped to defend us," Storm interjected.  "And we are not helpless simply because we have lost our powers."

Logan shook his head.  "We'd be sittin' ducks fer whatever Bastion wants ta throw at us."

"We've faced worse odds before and won, Logan."  Warren stepped up beside Storm.

"Yes, we have."  Jean climbed slowly to her feet.  "But what would we be defending if we stayed here?  A house and a bunch of equipment?"  She swept her gaze around the room.  "Or our reputations?  If Bastion knows that this is the home of the X-Men, I don't think he'll stop until he has what he wants, which is-- "

"Our collective heads on a platter, I presume," Beast interrupted with a frown.  "However, if that were his intention, I would expect him to dispatch Sentinels to deal with us, not mere men."

There was a momentary silence as the X-Men considered his statement.  Scott wasn't certain he agreed with Hank's logic, though he didn't have an immediate counter argument.  The truth was that he was just plain leery of being trapped in the mansion while trying to fight off a vastly larger enemy.  It was a tactical blunder of the worst kind.

"Ah hate ta burst ya bubble, Hank," Rogue's slow drawl brought Scott out of his thoughts.  "But Bastion's sendin' an infiltration force f' good reason.  He obviously knows we got security here, an' his supply o' Sentinels is limited.  'Least right now it is."  She shrugged.  "The Sentinels won't show up 'til our defenses are neutralized."

Her analysis earned her a round of surprised looks.  Even Scott was startled, though he'd known Rogue long enough to realize she knew a thing or two about tactics.  In years past he had seriously considered training her for team command, but her interest in such things had dwindled radically since that time and he'd never gotten around to suggesting it.

"If we abandon the mansion, we will be turning its contents over to Bastion."  Joseph looked acutely uncomfortable as the X-Men focused on him, but he forged onward.  "There are things here that you have been unwilling to show me because of my past, and I am a mutant.  I would think you would want Bastion to see them even less."

That started a round of discussion that Scott cut off with a wave.  "Sorry, folks.  We don't have time for this."  He glanced at Logan as he organized his thoughts.  "We are going to have to evacuate. Bastion has too many resources for us to be able to win a decisive victory and we can't afford to get pinned down here."  He shook his head.  "We're going to have to stay mobile if we want to be able to take on Zero Tolerance on our terms."

He paused a moment to survey their expressions.  They seemed to agree with him, or at least were willing to abide by his decision.  "However," he continued, "Joseph's point is extremely valid.  We can't let the Shi'ar technology or Cerebro fall into Bastion's hands."  And we simply don't have time to move any of it.  If we don't get out now, we may not get another chance.

Scott leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table.  "So, right now what I need from all of you is a list of everything we have to destroy to keep Bastion from gaining an advantage by invading the mansion."  He ticked one point off on his fingers.  "Cerebro is obviously at the top of the list, and it already has a self-destruct mechanism.  We can take the data with us.  Jean--" He turned to his wife.  "When was the last backup made?"

She frowned.  "First of the month."

Scott nodded.  "So we'll lose a couple weeks worth of data, but that can't be helped."  He turned back to the group.  "What's next?"

"The nuclear reactor that powers our systems is primarily a Shi'ar device."  Hank tapped his claws lightly against the arm of his chair.

Scott blinked at him, surprised despite himself.  That hadn't even crossed his mind, and it made for some unpleasant possibilities.

"How long to shut it down?"

Hank gave him a worried frown.  "At least forty-five minutes.  Probably an hour."

Scott's pulse quickened.  That was pretty close to their deadline.  "Then you'd better get started," he told Hank with a good deal more composure than he felt.

"So what's to keep Bastion from firing the reactor back up if he gets to it?"  Bobby asked as Hank rose from his seat.

Hank shook his head.  "We'll have to find a way to destroy the control systems and the reactor chamber.  Otherwise, I will be forced to create an internal meltdown, which will leak a fair amount of radiation."

Gambit flashed a grin that seemed out of place in the grim atmosphere.  "Don' do dat, Hank.  If y' need t' blow de systems, I c'n help dere."  A single playing card turned lazily through his fingers.

Scott threw him a sharp look.  "This is hardly the time for jokes, Gambit."

The other man returned his gaze evenly, his smile unwavering.  "Who's jokin'?"

Scott stared at him, debating how hard to push.  They didn't have time for a contest of wills, and they certainly didn't have time for any of Gambit's foolishness.

"What did ya have in mind, Cajun?" Logan asked before Scott could decide how to respond.

Gambit shrugged.  "C-4.  We gon' need most of it f' de house, but dere's a little extra."

Scott's thoughts jerked to a halt as his words sank in, but Rogue beat him to a response.

"Whoa, sugah.  Ya want ta blow up the mansion?"  She had both hands on her hips, her expression openly disbelieving.

"Y' got a better way t' hide de fact dat we blowin' up all de stuff underneath de mansion?" he shot back. Scott was forced to admit he had a point.  A set of underground explosions wasn't going to do anything but alert Bastion to the fact that there was something hidden there, and the debris from the house would effectively hide any evidence of an underground complex.

Gambit shrugged lightly, his expression giving nothing away.  "De first time I saw dis house, it was flat.  Can' see as it's a big t'ing, chere."

"So where'd ya get the plastique, Gumbo?" Logan interjected as the couple stared at each other.

Gambit's expression flickered, then disappeared.  "Bought it."

Bought it? Scott echoed silently.  From whom and with what?

Logan didn't seem to share his curiosity.  He simply nodded as if that was sufficient explanation for him.

Storm cocked her head, regarding Gambit with a thoughtful expression.  "It seems you have been preparing for this day, Remy."  There was a wealth of unspoken questions in her voice.

If possible, Gambit's expression became even more guarded.  "Seemed like a good idea, Stormy."

For once, Storm ignored the nickname. Scott took it as an indicator of just how strange their situation had become.  He looked up at Hank.  "Go, Hank." 

Hank nodded and left. Scott turned back to the X-Men.  "What else?"  He found his gaze lingering on Gambit, curious and apprehensive.  The man had been making contingency plans.  Not only that, but he'd carried through on those plans to the point of having the means to enact them ready and waiting.  It was so completely out of character that Scott wasn't sure what to think.  Gambit was the type that didn't make lunch plans because it was too much of a commitment.

"The Blackbirds."  Storm's words jerked Scott out of his reflection. 

Scott nodded, quickly re-centering his thoughts.  "Right.  The A bird is still at Muir with Excalibur, and we'll take the B when we leave."  They didn't often loan out their Blackbirds, but a small altercation several weeks earlier had left Excalibur without air transportation.  He was especially grateful now that they'd decided to give them the airplane, since the British team had been able to use it when they rescued Siryn.

"What about the medlab?" Bobby asked.  "It's got a bunch of Shi'ar equipment."

Scott surpressed a groan.  "The Legacy research."  There was no telling what they would lose with the destruction of Hank's equipment.  He looked at Bobby.  "Talk to Hank.  Find out what he needs to keep and pack it up.  He should have backups for all of his electronic files."  He glanced briefly at Gambit.  "We'll have to borrow a little more of that plastique." 

Where would we be right now without that particular bit of foresight? Scott asked himself ruefully.  Though they had limited stores of grenades and a few highly combustible liquids available to them, they would have been hard pressed to devise a dependable means of sabotaging their equipment in the time available.  Plastique was exactly what they needed if they were going to keep Bastion from gaining anything useful from the mansion.

Bobby nodded and rose to his feet.  "I'm on it."

Scott surveyed the X-Men as Bobby retreated.  "Anything else?"

He was met with silence and shrugs.  No one offered any additions to the list, nor could Scott think of anything that they had missed.  After several moments, Scott drew a deep breath.

"All right, duty assignments."  He glanced at his watch.  "We have approximately seventy minutes left.  Bishop, Psylocke, you're on security patrol.  I want to know if our visitors decide to show up early." 

Bishop nodded sharply and rose.  Psylocke fingered the hilt of her katana as she followed him.

Scott went on.  "Jean, you've got Cerebro."  Jean nodded tersely.

He turned to Sam.  "Cannonball, take Joseph with you and start loading the portable weapons and equipment onto the Blackbird.  Storm, you and Rogue have Blackbird prep."

The two women shared glances. Ororo nodded.  Scott turned to the other side of the table.

"Angel, go with Jean.  Before she shuts Cerebro down, we need to send a message to Muir Island letting them know that we're abandoning the mansion.  I'll leave it to you to work out the security measures.  Logan and Gambit-- " Scott suppressed a sigh.  "You two get to wire the house.  Coordinate with Hank and Jean on the final timing."  A final thought occurred to him.  "We're going to need to be able to remote detonate from the Blackbird."

Logan nodded.  "Shouldn't be a problem."

Scott mentally ran through his plan once more, then, satisfied, pushed himself back from the table.  "Then let's get to it, people."

Chapter 15

As the Blackbird dove out of the hanger, Rogue found herself unconsciously gripping the arm of her seat so hard that it made the fingers of her good hand ache.  She forced herself to let go, then opened and closed her hand a couple of times to relieve the tension.  The Blackbird seemed to skate across the ocean for just a moment before beginning to rise into the night sky. 

She could put no names to the emotions that roiled inside her.  In a very short period of time, nearly every single marker by which she measured herself and her life had been stripped away.  First were her powers and the physical invulnerability she took so much for granted.  Then her home, which would be gone as soon as Logan pressed the button on the small remote he held.  And finally, there was the man who sat beside her.  A man whom she had, until recently, believed she knew. 

She glanced obliquely at Gambit, but he was leaning back against the head rest, eyes closed.  His body language was calm, relaxed, and she found herself wanting to kick him just to get a predictable reaction.

Through the headset she wore, Rogue heard Ororo reading off the altitude.  Logan was supposed to wait until they'd climbed through two thousand feet before detonating the explosives. He would have to wait for Scott to deactivate the cloaking field because the low-power signal couldn't penetrate it.

"Looks like Rogue was dead-on," Scott said from the cockpit, startling her from her thoughts.  "We're picking up four stationary bogeys about six miles out.  They look like Sentinels."

Rogue felt a sense of gratification that she'd been right, but that was quickly drowned out by concern.  She had no idea what these new Sentinels could do against their Blackbird.

"Two thousand feet," Ororo announced.

"Preparing to de-cloak," Scott answered her.  Rogue's stomach tightened.

"Hey, aren't the Sentinels goin' ta see us?"  Across the aisle, Cannonball looked nervous.  Rogue sympathized.  She, too, was used to being invulnerable.  It was very hard to sit in that airplane knowing that her survival was entirely dependent on one man's piloting skills.  She was used to picking her own risks and managing her own destiny.  But without her powers, she was dependent on the technology and on the abilities of the people who best knew how to use it.

"Yes," Scott answered Sam tightly.  "So we'll just have to make the window as small as possible.  Logan?"

"Ready, Cyke."

The Blackbird rolled into a steep turn and Rogue realized that she could see the mansion and the grounds through the downward windows.

"De-cloaking... now."

Rogue stared out the windows at the ground wheeling below them.  There was a horrible pause as Logan's thumb depressed the button on the remote, then the mansion shattered as a ball of fire engulfed it.  In the harsh light from the expanding flames, Rogue was startled to see the shadows of tiny human figures outlined against the grass.  Her stomach clenched instinctively as the threat to their lives became painfully real.

"Re-cloaking," Scott said.

Then Rogue's view of the explosion disappeared as the Blackbird went into a full-fledged barrel roll.  She gripped the arm rest of her seat as her harness bit into her.  Rogue counted two complete rolls and most of a third before the Blackbird stabilized its bank angle and began to pull away on a different trajectory from that of their original turn.  Rogue understood the maneuver.  With any luck, the Sentinels would be looking for them along the flight path they had been tracking when the re-cloaked, allowing them to slip through the cordon without being spotted.

The airplane leveled out and the minutes passed in tense silence until Scott announced that they had passed through the Sentinels with no sign they had been spotted.  Rogue breathed a soft sigh of relief that was reflected in the faces around her.

Hank adjusted his glasses, which had slid down his nose under the high g-load.  "Now that we've survived the immediate crisis, may I inquire as to where we plan to make our new base of operations?"  Like the rest of them, he was wearing a headset that allowed him to communicate both with the cockpit and the other X-Men.

"For now, at least, we're heading for New York," Scott answered him.  "It's one of Bastion's 'target' cities, and as good a place to start as any."

"Ya got any ideas where we're gonna park the 'Bird?"  Logan asked.  He carefully unwrapped the old, bloody bandages that covered his hands where his claws emerged and began rewinding them.  "Even with a cloakin' device, it's gonna be hard ta hide."

There was a short pause, which to Rogue meant that Scott had to stop and organize his thoughts.  "I'd like to find an abandoned warehouse, though I'll certainly entertain any other suggestions people have.  At this point we're pretty much winging it."

"We must assume the city's airspace is being patrolled."  Bishop's voice sounded in her ear.  Rogue turned in her seat to catch a glimpse of the time-lost mutant.  He sat rigidly, rifle across his knees and his face as impassive as his voice.

"Well, if anybody knows a good place to land, I'm listening.  Otherwise, we're just going to have to risk a search." 

Unwillingly, Rogue's eyes slid sideways.  Beside her, Remy was shaking his head ever so slightly, his mouth curled into a small, almost amused smile.  He touched the controls that would let him speak over the communication net.

"Cyclops, dere's an abandoned building at de corner o' White an' Bethany."  He spieled off a set of grid coordinates with an ease that left Rogue certain that he hadn't just thought of it. 

At another time the ensuing pause might have been comic, but when he came back on the headset, Scott's voice was painfully wary.  "Is this more of your contingency planning, Gambit?"

Rogue watched as the smile disappeared from Remy's face, leaving something hard in its wake.  She felt a twinge of sympathetic pain because she knew Scott's mistrust hurt him, even though she also felt like Scott had a right to his misgivings.

"Oui," Remy answered curtly.  "Y' got a problem wit' dat?" 

"Only because it isn't like you."

Remy arched one eyebrow.  "Dere's where y' wrong, Scott.  It's exactly like me."  He fingered the mouthpiece support on his headset, his gaze distant.  "I may not know too much 'bout runnin' around in spandex savin' de world, but I know a lot 'bout survivin'."

Rogue looked away, her thoughts churning.  The echoes in her mind reinforced his words with half-seen memories and vague feelings she could not place.  She knew Remy didn't define his life by his membership in the X-Men, but she was too afraid of what she might find in the memories she inherited from him to go looking for what he did define his life by.  Somewhere deep in the core of her heart, she was terrified she would find herself absent from the list of things he considered most important.

#

"Not bad, Gumbo."  Logan stood at the bottom of the Blackbird's ramp, surveying the interior of the building. 

At the top of the ramp, Remy forced himself to respond with a grin he most definitely didn't feel.  Everything beyond the bottom of the ramp was a complete unknown.  The steel, concrete, flooring and other materials that made up the building were all of nearly uniform temperature, turning the world around him into a murky soup.  The only things he could see clearly were the Blackbird, because of the still-hot engines and the residual friction heat that warmed the airplane's skin, and the X-Men themselves.  From Bobby's description, he knew there was a fair amount of clutter filling up the inside of the abandoned building.  He had heard the crunching noises as the Blackbird drove over some of it, as well as Scott's muttered comments about not wanting to start a fire with their jet exhaust.

Remy walked down the ramp and stopped beside Logan.  The downside to all of it was that there was simply no way he was going to be able to do anything without giving away his loss of vision.  In itself, that didn't bother him too much.  The X-Men had just been rather rudely stripped of their false sense of security.  He didn't expect anyone– except Rogue, perhaps– to have particular attention to spare for him because of his handicap. 

The problem was more the cumulative effect of too many changes, too quickly.  In general, the X-Men distrusted him because they thought he was immature and irresponsible– not because they knew he lied to them on a regular basis.  The more they saw of the truth, the more that balance would shift.  If it shifted far enough, Remy would be forced to sit down and very literally come clean with them or else forfeit his place on the team, and that he did not want to do.  It was going to be a very delicate balancing act.

O' course, y' could tell dem everyt'ing now an' eliminate de problem, he reminded himself sourly.  That was the other option, one that sent chills scrabbling up his spine every time he thought about it.  No, there were some parts of the truth he could never tell them, and if he were ever to attempt to win the X-Men's trust based on that kind of exposition, he would have to give them everything.

Remy continued to consider his options as he dug a cigarette out of his duster and lit it.  The burning ember was a tiny star of brightness against the muddled background. He studied it with detached interest as he exhaled.

Descending the ramp behind him, Betsy groaned lightly.  "I suppose it would be too much to ask to reinstate the no-smoking policy, Gambit?"

"It's a big building, chere," he answered her.  "Lots o' ventilation."  Most of the front wall was no doubt missing now, since they'd driven the Blackbird through it.

Logan chuckled.  "Yer fightin' a losin' battle on that one, Gumbo.  They outnumber us."

Remy took another drag on the cigarette.  "Mebbe so," he answered.  "But I'm payin' de rent."

Standing a short ways away, Scott turned sharply at his words.  "Since you brought it up, Remy..."

Remy turned to face the X-Men's team leader, his body language carefully schooled, and waited for Scott to continue.

Scott closed the distance between them with two long strides.  "How exactly did you come by this– " he waved a hand, "place?"

Remy deliberately blew his smoke away from Scott as he considered his reply.  The last thing he needed right now was to antagonize the man unnecessarily.  Then he shrugged.  "Ain' a big deal, really.  We're deep in gang territory here.  I jus' made a deal wit' de gang in question t' lease some o' dere space."

"Lease?"

Remy could imagine Scott's expression and had to suppress a smile.  "Oui."

"Isn't that a little risky?"  Joseph asked.  He was standing by Rogue and Remy had to throttle a sudden burst of jealous anger.  Another drawback of his restricted vision was the fact that warm things tended to blend together.  He couldn't tell if Joseph was standing a short distance behind Rogue or if she was literally leaning back against him.  Chances were, it was completely innocent, but there was always that possibility...

"What if this gang decides to sell us out to Operation:  Zero Tolerance?"  Joseph continued.

Remy forced himself to concentrate on the question and not let his imagination run away with him when he needed to be calm.  He shook his head.  "Ain' likely."

"Why not?"  Scott's voice was openly questioning.

Remy sighed and ticked the points off for him.  "One, dey mutants.  Dey ain' gon' tell OZT anyt'ing.  Two, dey're bein' well paid t' keep quiet.  An' t'ree, I have a... reputation f' bein' a bad person t' double-cross."  He gave Scott a thin smile.  "It ain' a guarantee, but it's about as close as y' gon' get."

Scott's stance betrayed his reluctance, but he nodded.  "All right."  He began to turn away as if dismissing the subject in favor of more pressing matters.

Remy hesitated for a moment, but then forced himself to speak.  There was no way around it.  "Scott."

Scott turned back to him and Remy imagined an expression of suspicion on his face.  "What?"

"Dere's... one  more t'ing."

Expectant silence answered him and Remy braced himself.  "A couple days ago, y' asked me 'bout m' powers an' what I lost when dey went away."

Scott nodded tightly.  "I remember.  Your kinesthetic sense, which no one knew about."  His words were laced with sarcasm.

Remy ignored the verbal jab as he dropped his spent cigarette on the ground and stepped on it.  "Oui.  But dat ain' de only t'ing."

Scott's sigh spoke volumes.  "And?"

"An'... I've also lost most o' m' vision."  He tapped his temple lightly.  "Red an' black, non?"  His words produced a ripple of surprise as he continued, "At de mansion, it didn' much matter, but here–"

"It didn't much matter?"  Scott interrupted incredulously.  "You're telling me you're blind, but it didn't much matter?"  He managed to mimic Remy's tone without picking up any of his accent.

Remy bit down on a growl of frustration.  This was exactly what he had wanted to avoid.  "I am not blind."  To Scott's right, Rogue's heart rate had gone up which, Remy thought unhappily, probably meant that the over-protective mothering instinct he detested was kicking in. 

"I said 'most'."  He tried to keep his voice reasonable.  "I didn' say 'all'."

Scott crossed his arms, his glare a tangible thing.  "Explain."

Remy sighed.  "I c'n still see in de infrared, but not'ing in de visual spectrum."

"Really?  How fascinating."  While Scott was still processing the new information, Hank stepped up beside Remy.  "Your eye structure is quite unique.  I had been wondering if your vision didn't extend beyond the normal range."

Remy nodded slightly in acknowledgment of Hank's presence, but kept his attention focused on Scott.  The other man's heat signature indicated that he was beginning to get truly angry.

"This is so typical, Gambit."  Scott's voice was cold.  "Everything's a secret with you.  Your powers, your past– " He leaned forward, his stance aggressive.  "Out of the blue, you pull these stunts–" He waved one hand to indicate their present location.  "Several pounds of plastic explosives, this hiding place... "  Scott trailed off in apparent exasperation.

"A good t'ief don' ever give away an advantage."   Remy told him, his fingers balling involuntarily at his sides.  "Y' can' get it back."  That was a matter of survival, but in a context he wasn't certain Scott would understand.

Scott made a disgusted sound.  "I thought you were an  X-Man."

Remy's temper snapped.  "I am!  An' don' y' dare tell me de X-Men don' keep some parts o' dere lives private!"

"This isn't about privacy, Gambit.  It's about concealing important information that could have significant impact on the team."  Scott had regained his composure.

"Fine."  Remy bit the word out.  "Den tell me what Rogue's real name is."

Rogue's exclamation of surprise was clearly audible in the silence.  Scott did not respond, and Remy gave him a sardonic smile.  "Ain' dat 'important information dat could have significant impact on de team'?"

"That isn't exactly the same thing," Scott responded stiffly.

"Why not?  Seems de same t' me."  Remy couldn't help the mockery that colored his words.  He'd never pushed this argument with Scott because it ran too close to a rather painful truth.  Today, however, had become a day to draw some lines. 

Scott's heat signature intensified as his temper flared.  "Rogue has proven her loyalty to the team--"

"But I haven'."  Even though he'd seen it coming, Remy wasn't prepared for how much the words hurt as they left his mouth.

He was answered by a dead silence that said more than any words could have.

"Dat's what I t'ought," Remy said after a moment.  It took everything he had to keep his voice steady.  He couldn't bear to look at Rogue or Ororo, so he kept his attention focused on Scott.  To his credit, perhaps, the other man's anger began to abate. Remy watched as his shifting heat signature settled.

"All right."  Scott sounded suddenly very tired.  "I can't deny that, but trust doesn't exist in a vacuum, Remy."

Remy noted the use of his given name with a touch of surprise.  He understood the message and was oddly gratified that Scott would make the gesture.

"Oui," he agreed softly.  "An' I haven' exactly told y' a lot about m'self."  Briefly, he wished that he had the opportunity to look Scott in the eye.  "But dere never seemed t' be much point since y' had y' mind made up 'bout me since de beginnin'." 

Scott was clearly taken aback, though he didn't get angry as Remy half expected him to.  He was silent for several long moments, his stance contemplative.  Finally, he sighed.  "So just what is a 'fully ranked Guild thief'?"

Remy blinked at him, thoroughly startled.  "Who tol' y' dat?"  In all his years with the X-Men, Scott had never once attached any kind of significance to the word "Guild", until now.

"Logan's words.  I'd like to know what they mean." 

Remy glanced over to where the Canuck stood, watching them.  He couldn't read anything useful from Logan's posture, but that wasn't unusual.  It did confirm that Logan knew something about the Guilds, a fact Remy had long suspected.

Unfortunately, the question also put Remy in a very bad spot.  It was an uncanny talent Scott had.  "Why don' y' ask him?"  He did his best to keep the question casual rather than defensive.

Scott stiffened.  "I may.  But right now, I'm asking you."

Remy's shoulders slumped in resignation as he shook his head.  "I can' tell you."  He saw the sudden flare of heat that he was sure was reflected in Scott's face, and felt his own composure shatter as he found himself once more trapped between incompatible loyalties.  "Dere are rules, Scott!  I managed t' get out o' one death sentence from de Guilds– I ain' likely t' survive anot'er one!"  And, as Guildmaster, he had a responsibility to uphold Guild law that had nothing to do with the threat of punishment.

They stared at each other in angry silence until Logan cleared his throat.  "He's tellin' ya the truth, Cyke."

Scott turned sharply to look at Logan. The other man shrugged.  "I ain't an expert on the Guilds, but I know that much."  He looked toward Remy for a moment.  "An' since I ain't a member, I can talk."

Remy couldn't help a small grin.  "True 'nough."  He was intensely curious himself to hear what Logan might say.

Scott crossed his arms and waited.

Logan spent a moment collecting his thoughts.  "In a way, the Guilds 're organized crime the way groups like the Mafia and Yakuza can only dream of."  Remy cocked his head at that assessment and knew that Scott was similarly interested.

"What do you mean?" Scott asked.

Logan shrugged.  "Guilds 're family-based an' loyal to the death.  They're spread across the planet, but never step on any o' their neighbors' toes.  An' as far as anyone can tell, they don't have the internal politics that plague other groups.  If there 're betrayals and backstabbings, they don't happen in public, an' everybody knows that ya don't mess with Guild because if ya mess with one, yer gonna have ta take on all of 'em."  He paused.  "T' tell the truth, nobody knows how the thieves make it work."

Remy tried to cover his reaction.  Logan's description wasn't exactly correct, but he was close and his words gave Remy some very interesting food for thought.

Scott turned to Remy.  "I suppose you aren't at liberty to explain."  He sounded annoyed, but that was far better than Remy had expected.

Remy shook his head.  "'Fraid not."

Scott stared at him thoughtfully for several moments.  "I thought you were banished from your Guild."

Remy winced internally.  That was still painful, despite the passage of years.  "I was banished from New Orleans," he clarified.  "Dat ain' de same t'ing."

"Why not?"

Remy weighed his answer carefully: what he wanted to tell Scott, balanced against what his enemies in the Guild could crucify him for if it was made known.  Finally, he sighed and opted for the safer answer.  "Bein' Guild ain' somet'ing y' c'n undo.  I can' stop bein' a t'ief any more dan you c'n stop bein' a Summers."

"I don't believe that."  Scott said.  "Everyone has a choice in their actions -- "

Remy shook his head emphatically.  "Non.  Dat's not what I meant."  This was one of the hardest things about talking to Scott.  They so often had completely different concepts attached to the same words.

"Scott, when you use de word 't'ief', what y' mean is somebody dat steals t'ings, non?" Remy asked, and was rewarded with a cautious nod.  "Don' matter if dey takin' a pack o' gum from de corner store or a Michelangelo from de Louvre."

Scott crossed his arms.  "And your point?" 

Remy spent a moment gathering the scattered shreds of his patience.  "When I say 't'ief', I mean somebody dat's a member o' de Guilds.  Dat one word is like a family name an' a nationality an' a rank all rolled into one.  It ain' about stealin' at all."

Scott digested that in silence.  "I'm not going to pretend I understand that."  He paused.  "But I guess I'm going to have to accept it."  His tone made it patently obvious that he didn't like the fact.

Remy sighed.  "Can' ask f' more dan dat."  He wasn't sure what they had accomplished with the conversation.  Now Scott and the rest of the team knew there were other factors in his life that he couldn't simply ignore because he was an X-Man, but if anything, the knowledge had made Scott less trusting rather than more. Remy didn't even want to consider what might be going on in Rogue's mind.  He knew perfectly well that she saw him as an X-Man and only that.  Her vision of the future didn't include the Guild, which was another reason he was so hesitant to introduce her to the truth.

After a few moments, Scott moved away and began giving instructions for unloading the Blackbird and setting up their temporary headquarters.  The gathered X-Men slowly dispersed to their various tasks.  Rogue turned away without comment. Remy sadly watched her go as he lit another cigarette. 

Logan waited until everyone else was gone before stepping up beside him.  "You an' me need ta talk," he said without preamble.

Remy kept his gaze on Rogue.  "What about?"

Logan flexed the fingers of one hand, examined his bandages.  "'Bout how much help the X-Men are gonna be able ta count on from the Guild."

Remy abandoned his thoughts of Rogue and turned to Logan.  "'Scuse me?" he asked guardedly.

Logan growled deep in his throat.  "I ain't Scott, Gumbo.  The Guilds have a vested interest in seein' the end o' Zero Tolerance an' we're gonna need information if we're gonna stand a chance o' takin' 'em down."

Remy acknowledged the rebuke with a small nod.  "Oui."  He paused.  "What particular information did y' have in mind?"

Logan folded his arms over his chest.  "Technical data on the satellites, locations and building layouts of OZT's main facilities -- "

Remy snorted.  "Y' don' want much, do y'?"

Logan growled again, sounding frustrated.  "Listen, Gambit.  I don't know how the Guilds're organized, an' I can't say where ya are in that organization, but I've worked with a couple o' thieves in the past.  When it comes right down to it, the Guilds're the best there is fer this kind o' thing."  He turned an invisible stare on Remy.  "There're men in the Guild that can get us what we need.  Yer just gonna have ta find a way ta talk ta the Guildmaster here in New York or D.C. or wherever ya have ta go, an' convince 'em."

Remy arched an eyebrow.  Logan knew more about the Guilds than he'd suspected, though, luckily, not too much.  It was obvious that he saw Remy as an ordinary thief and did not suspect more.  For Remy, it was something of a relief to finally have at least that much out on the table.  He would be able to deal with Logan on a more professional level now, but still without much risk of exposing his real role in the Guild.

"De Guild don' do pro bono work.  What y' askin' for gon' be expensive."

Logan's stare didn't change.  "Like I said, it's in the Guild's best interests.  Yer Guild leaders ought ta be able ta see that."  He shrugged.  "But if it comes down ta price, I can probably work somethin' out with Landau, Luckman and Lake."

"Scott's gon' throw a tizzy."

"Let 'im.  Eventually he'll calm down an' realize it's the best option we've got."

Remy stared at Logan and tried not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation he was being put in.  From Logan's standpoint, it made sense.  Use Remy to make official contact with the Guild and establish some kind of working relationship with the Guild leaders to exchange information in return for the X-Men destroying OZT and its fledgling police state.  In truth, it was exactly what Remy was hoping to convince the New York Guild to do, but Logan's involvement would make it more complicated.  On the up side, though, Logan would also add some legitimacy in Scott's eyes, so as long as he could keep Logan from discovering the Guildmaster's identity, it just might work.

Remy found himself nodding as his thoughts coalesced.  "I'll see what I c'n do."

Chapter 16

With Bobby's help, Remy spent some time mapping the area immediately around the Blackbird in his head.  Though his spatial sense was no longer functioning, his brain retained the long-practiced ability to calculate precise geometric relationships. As they walked Remy kept one hand on the young thief's shoulder, listening as Bobby described the dimensions of each obstruction they passed.  They often stopped to let Remy explore with his fingers, letting his sense of touch fill in what his eyes could not, and in the end he had a sketchy but workable three dimensional mental diagram of the building.

Once he was certain he could walk more than a couple of feet without running into something, Remy went in search of Rogue.  He found her on the far side of the Blackbird with Jean.  The two women sat together, their heads nearly touching as they bent over whatever they were working on.  From their conversation, he guessed it was the mini-Cerebro, but that was purely a guess.

He stood behind them for a moment, unnoticed, then deliberately scuffed his foot across the floor.  Both women started at the sound, their heads snapping up in surprise.

"Remy!  You startled us."  Jean placed one hand over her heart.

"Sorry, chere.  I ain' used t' bein' able t' sneak up on y'."  He grinned to take the sting out of his words.

Jean shook her head, seemingly unperturbed.  Beside her, Rogue had turned back to their project and was ignoring Remy with determination.

After a moment, Jean stood and Remy wondered what expression might be on her face.  Her voice was both sad and wry.  "I'm not even going to try to come up with an excuse.  I'm just going to go away and let you two talk."  She stepped away from Rogue.

"T'anks, Jean," Remy told her retreating figure.  He stood where he was for a while, watching Rogue, uncertain how to proceed.  She continued with what she was doing and could have seemed completely wrapped up in the task were it not for the telltale flush of anger in her form and the rapid pounding of her heart.

Finally, he worked his way cautiously around to where Jean had been and took a seat next to Rogue.

She froze.  "Go away, Gambit," she grated without looking up.  "Ah don't want ta talk to ya." 

"Why not?"  He tried to keep his voice gentle.

"Because it's been a bad day already an' ah ain't in a mood ta fight."  He could hear the husky note in her voice that meant she was trying not to cry.

Remy sighed softly and leaned his elbows on his knees.  A dozen possible responses leapt into his mind and struggled for release, but he bit them back.  He wanted so much to try to explain to her, but he knew that there was nothing he could say right now that wouldn't make things worse.  He didn't want to fight, either, so all he could do was wait in the hope that his silence would be enough to draw her out.  

A few minutes later Rogue paused, as if she had finally run out of the ability to keep her attention focused.

"Ah thought ya were done with the guilds," she said without looking at him, her voice raw with disappointment.

Remy watched her, wishing that he dared touch her.  "I gave up stealin' as a career," he explained carefully.  "But I can' leave de Guild, Rogue.  Y' know dat."  And she did.  Or, at least, she should.  They'd been through it before, every time family and duty had drawn Remy back to New Orleans, but still she tried to believe that the Thieves Guild would someday release its hold on him.

"Right."   The single syllable was mocking.

Remy felt a familiar flash of anger.  "Back up, girl," he warned her.  "Y' got no idea how de Guild operates."

Rogue looked up at him.  "Ya right about that, sugah."  The words were thick with sarcasm.  "Ah guess it ain't any o' mah business, right?  Just like ya goin' back ta stealin' ain't any o' mah business.  Just like ya vision ain't any o' mah business.  Just like ya wife ain't any o' mah business -- "

"Ex-wife," Remy interrupted her, feeling cold.  Did she still resent him for that?

Rogue stared at him, silenced. He had the distinct feeling he'd caught her off guard.

"Ex-wife?" she repeated cautiously.

He nodded as her heat signature shifted subtly.  "An' ya didn't think it was important enough ta mention?"  The cold bite of sarcasm was back in her voice.

Remy struggled to keep hold of his temper.  "Y' were gone when it was finalized, chere." He couldn't help the vague accusation in his tone.  She was the one who'd run away rather than sort out the truth. "An' contrary t' popular belief, I don' spend much time t'inkin' 'bout Belle."

Rogue stiffened, and Remy berated himself for taking a cheap shot.  He sighed tiredly.  "Lot o' t'ings happened since den."  Includin' me nearly gettin' m'self killed.  "It was over an' done an… I forgot 'bout it."

Rogue wrapped her good arm around her sling as if seeking comfort.  "Ah sure wish ah believed ya, sugah." 

Remy's gut knotted.  "But y' don'." 

"No."  She refused to look at him.  Then she stood.  "Ah'm not stupid, Remy.  Ah know that who ah think ya are an' who ya really are ain't the same person."

Remy rose beside her, startled.  His heart began pounding in a mixture of horrible anticipation and a kind of painful hope that she might have begun to understand.  Her next words dashed his fragile hope.

"Ah'm tired o' being in love with a shell, Remy."  She shook her head sharply, words ragged with the threat of tears.  "Ah told mahself ah wouldn't make any ultimatums, but ah just can't do this any more."  She drew herself up to her full height, her posture stiff and brittle.  Remy wanted to grab her and shake her to keep her from saying anything else.

"So either ya start tellin' me the truth about some things or -- " Her voice cracked. 

"Or what?" he demanded harshly as hurt and anger threatened to choke him.  "Y' gon' stop lovin' me?  Jus' turn y' heart off like it was a light switch?"

"No!" 

Remy reached out and captured her face in his hands, ignoring her startled flinch as he pulled her close.  "Rogue, listen to me."  He felt a keen stab of regret that he couldn't look into her emerald eyes.  "I. Love. You."  He punctuated each word with a tiny shake and heard her gasp.  They weren't words he had used very often.  "But I can' tell y' what y' wan' t' hear."

"Why not?"

Remy closed his eyes, not certain he knew how to explain.  "Because dey jus' words, chere."   He looked back at her.  "Words ain' enough t' make y' understand."  Words can' talk t' y' heart, chere, o' open y' eyes o' change y' mind.

Rogue pulled away.  "Words work pretty well foh the rest a the world."

"I ain' de rest o' de world."  There were some things about his life-- his past-- that words simply could not encompass.  Reduced to words, those things would condemn him and he cared too much now to let it all be stripped away.

She crossed her arms.  "Y' ain't all that different, sugah.  At least it would be a start."

He shook his head slowly.  "Would do more damage dan good."

She threw up her hand in a gesture of frustration.  "How?  Would it really be any worse than this?"

"Probably," he answered with a snort, but forbore mentioning the primary example.  The less she thought about Seattle, the better.

Rogue stared at him.  "Fine, ya won't talk, but ah meant what ah said.  Ah can't keep goin' on like this.  Somehow, ya've got ta find a way ta tell me or show me or-- "

"Dat gon' be a two-way street, chere?"  He tried to suppress the caustic bite to the words and failed.

"What?" 

At her defensive rejoinder, Remy turned so that they faced each other directly once again.  "Y' gon' tell me about y' past, too, miss junior terrorist? O' am I de only one?"

Rogue inhaled sharply. Her heart rate jumped, but she said nothing. 

Remy watched her, his anger souring.  Round an' round we go.  I'll tell y', but only if y' tell me first. He sighed.  "Do y' know why I won' tell y' 'bout m'self, Rogue?" he asked.

Her response was scathing.  "If ah knew that, don't ya think ah would've done somethin' about it?" 

Remy clamped his jaw shut on his instinctive response.  When he was fairly sure he had control of his reaction, he nodded.  "Oui, chere, if y' could."

The unexpected agreement made her pause.  "If?"  Suspicion replaced anger in her voice.  "What's that supposed ta mean?"

"What do y' t'ink it means?" he snapped in return.  "Don' y' t'ink I realize I ain' exactly what y' had in mind?"  He took a step closer to her, knowing that she would interpret the move as physical aggression, but wanting it anyway.  Wanting her.  "I ain' Prince Charmin' on a white horse."

Rogue stiffened, though whether from fear or anger Remy couldn't tell.  "Ah'm not askin' ya ta pretend ta be somebody ya ain't!"  She leaned ever so slightly toward him, her posture softening.  "Ah just want ta know who ya are."

"Even if y' don' like what y' find?" he asked softly, all too aware of her nearness.

Remy could sense the change as fear overrode attraction.  Rogue shifted away and raised her chin.  "Ah can handle it, sugah."

As well as y' c'n handle bein' less dan half a foot away from me?  he queried her silently, hurt by the tacit rejection.  "If dat were true, y'd already know everyt'ing y' wanted t'."

He regretted it the moment he said it and Rogue's heat signature flared.  "Ah didn' say ah wanted ta live it!  Ya got a lot o' gall thinkin' ah want all ya garbage floatin' around in mah head, Remy!  Ah don't."  She turned away.  "Ah hate it." 

Remy felt the familiar wash of guilt and fought it.  Was a stupid mistake, but it was de first time she'd ever reached f' me...  He shook his head, banishing the thought, but the regret lingered.

"Havin' me in y' head? Is dat what y' hate?" he asked bitterly.

Rogue glanced at him over her shoulder.  "Can ya blame me, sugah?"

Remy barked a short, painful laugh.  Objectively?... No. "I got bad news f' ya, chere.  Dose t'ings are a part o' me.  Dey ain' gon go away."

"Ah know that."

"Den why do y' get mad at me every time y' hear somet'ing y' don' like?"

Rogue spun to face him.  "Ah do not--!"  She cut the retort off and took a deep breath.  "Look, Remy, ah'd be lyin' if ah said ah was thrilled with ya past, but it ain't somethin' that can be changed.  Ah accept that.  But ya past has this bad habit of becomin' part of the present an' no, ah don't like it."  She paused, regrouping.  "The whole point of becomin' an X-Man is ta leave all the bad stuff behind, sugah."  Her voice held a note of appeal.

Remy shook his head, frustrated.  "Dis is where we started dis argument.  I can' jus' leave everyt'ing like y' wan' me to."

Her tone hardened.  "Ya could try."

Remy's gaze narrowed.  "An if I don' want to?" he challenged.

Rogue's mouth closed with a snap.  He could only imagine her expression as she stared at him and he gave her a sardonic smile.  "See, chere?"

He waited a moment more to see if she would say anything.  Then, disgusted with the stalemate, he turned away.

#

Scott watched Remy walk away from the Blackbird with a guilty stab.  He was opposed to eavesdropping, but he hadn't been able to block out the words and now he found his thoughts turning in disturbing circles.

Gambit had called Rogue a terrorist, a label that bothered him.  It shouldn't, he realized.  It was true.  But he still didn't like acknowledging that Rogue had spent her years with Mystique learning exactly that.  The fact didn't fit well with the image of the headstrong, somewhat naive young woman he knew.

Well, she's an ex-terrorist, anyway, he amended. Across the cleared area surrounding the Blackbird, Logan met his eye with a shrug for the familiar antics of the volatile couple. 

We seem to have a lot of ex's in the X-Men, Scott thought sourly, his gaze lingering on Logan.  Ex-spy.  He looked back towards Gambit's retreating figure.  Ex-thief.  He turned slowly until he'd located Psylocke.  Ex-assassin.

He shook his head briefly, dismayed at himself.  They're not exactly the wholesome team of heroes I keep trying to convince myself I'm leading.  Maybe he was the one who was naive to think that these men and women would simply abandon their past lives once they joined the X-Men.  They had certainly brought some parts of those lives with them, namely their fighting skills and their mutant powers... and their enemies.  Perhaps he shouldn't be so resistant to the idea that they brought a lot of other things with them, too.

He shook his head.  But the whole purpose of the Dream is to give them a different kind of life to lead, and to get rid of the need for all of those 'other' things.

His thoughts were interrupted as Bishop stepped into the building, his rifle trained on the three unfamiliar men who walked in a loose formation in front of him.  The man in front was definitely a mutant, with red skin and yellow cat's eyes that scanned the area with keen interest.  Scott felt a burst of anger.  What was Bishop doing?  The Blackbird sat uncloaked and clearly visible in the middle of the impromptu hangar.

The other two men appeared to be human, and all three were dressed in a ragged mixture of leather and canvas that labeled them as gang members more clearly than if they had signs plastered on their foreheads.  Scott felt a second wave of consternation when he realized that Bishop was herding their visitors toward Gambit rather than himself.

Just because he's made himself the banker for this little operation, doesn't mean he's in charge, Scott thought darkly as he angled across the building toward Gambit.  He arrived a moment before Bishop, pinning the giant man with a stare that he hoped conveyed his disapproval. 

Bishop's reaction was somewhat disconcerting.  He nodded to Scott in respectful acknowledgment, but then turned immediately toward Gambit, his demeanor unchanged.  The underlying mixture of anger and disgust that had always highlighted his interactions with Gambit was gone, replaced by a kind of resolved acceptance.

Gambit seemed to notice the difference as well. He studied Bishop for a moment before turning his attention to the three men. 

He certainly doesn't act blind, Scott thought.  He could clearly see Gambit sizing each of them up and promised himself a chat with Hank to find out just what kind of vision the Cajun now had.

"Who's the bull dog?" the lead man asked, jerking his head toward Bishop.  To Scott he appeared intimidated, but was doing a credible job of covering it.

Gambit flashed a grin as Bishop's eyes narrowed.  "Nobody t' worry 'bout."  Scott was vaguely pleased by the smooth evasion.  At least Gambit wasn't giving out their identities.

Gambit's smile disappeared.  "Y' people in place?" he asked the mutant.

Bishop's finger tightened on the trigger as the man dipped one hand into his pocket. He fished out a small black box that he tossed toward Gambit.  The Cajun mutant snagged it, a tad clumsily in Scott's eyes, though he didn't think anyone not familiar with Gambit would notice.

"If anybody comes around, y'll get a page," the man said. Scott frowned thoughtfully.  It was a crude warning system, but might just be useful if these "people" were stationed outside of the Blackbird's sensor range.  He wondered if Gambit had taken the Blackbird into account, since this agreement had obviously been worked out in advance.

Gambit nodded, fingering the pager. The red-skinned man cocked his head.  "So let's talk payment." 

Scott listened to the ensuing conversation about bank routing numbers with little comprehension.  He had always dismissed the Hollywood portrayals of criminals doing their business in cryptic but very cool-sounding slang as being nothing more than a device to make otherwise reprehensible characters seem attractive.  He was more than a little surprised to discover how strangely close to the truth Hollywood was.

The conversation ended abruptly and Bishop ushered his charges away.  Scott could only guess that Bishop had been able to follow the discussion and knew they were finished because he had seen nothing from Gambit that he might interpret as a dismissal.  It was very strange to watch the perfect coordination between the two X-Men.  In fact, given their past track record, it was downright eerie.

Scott waited until Bishop had disappeared outside the building before turning to Gambit.  "Care to explain what all that was about?"  He couldn't keep his aggravation with the entire situation and Gambit's weird behavior out of his voice.

Gambit's gaze flickered toward Scott as the familiar poker face slipped into place.  In the same flat tone he used whenever he was required to give Scott a report, he explained, "De man's name is Pitt.  He's de leader of a gang called Ravage."  He turned the pager over in his hand once more and then offered it to Scott.  "He'll keep a roamin' patrol around de building, twenty-four hours a day, f' as long as he's paid to."

Scott pushed aside all of the disconcerting questions that he knew Gambit wouldn't answer and concentrated on business.  "How wide is the net?"

"Between one an' two miles radius."

Scott swallowed a snort.  In power-save mode, the Blackbird's passive sensors reach just over a mile.  The Shi'ar equivalent of batteries were pretty impressive, but most of the aircraft's sensing equipment required so much power it could only operate off the engines, which they couldn't leave running all the time.  The Blackbird's fuel efficiency was downright astounding compared to Earth technology, but all they had was the one tank.  Their refining equipment had been destroyed with the mansion, and the only other set had been installed at Muir Island way back when.  They couldn't afford to waste a drop of the precious liquid.

Scott crossed his arms and regarded Gambit for a long moment while he sorted his thoughts.  "So, do you have anything else hidden up your sleeves or is this it?"

Gambit's response was a wolfish grin that did nothing to reassure the X-Men's field leader.  "Maybe."  He shrugged lightly, as if acknowledging that the answer wasn't sufficient.  "Wolverine asked me t' run an errand, so we'll see."

Scott's suspicions sharpened.  "What kind of errand?" 

Another shrug, this one reserved.  "Guild business.  Ask Logan if y' wan' details."

Scott bit back an instinctive desire to demand an explanation anyway.  It wouldn't do any good.  He could see the brick wall behind Gambit's eyes and knew from experience that all he would get for his trouble was a load of frustration and a tension headache.

"Fine," he agreed shortly.  "Just let me know before you leave."  He would have to go have a talk with Logan.  He was getting very tired of being in the dark.

#

Remy forced himself not to run through the twisting tunnels of the Guild complex as he made his way toward the Great Hall.  For one, even with Bobby beside him, he probably couldn't navigate the rocky passages at that speed without hurting himself, and two, he needed to project calm confidence which required deliberation, not speed. 

With every step, he cursed his own lack of foresight.  He should have realized the warning Chess had been trying to give him, but he had mistaken the man's concern as being for Remy himself rather than for the Guild.  Unfortunately, he hadn't yet truly begun to think of himself as Guildmaster.  It hadn't occurred to him that the Guild would react so strongly to anything and everything that happened to him.  Instead of arriving to find mild concern for his whereabouts in the wake of the mansion's destruction, he had found the Guild in panicked disarray, believing that their Guildmaster was either dead or captured by OZT.

The sentries they'd passed on their way into the complex had nearly come unglued at Remy's appearance, though, to their credit, they'd scanned both thieves very carefully for Sentinel components before allowing them to pass.  From them Remy had gotten a fair picture of what was happening with the Guild.  It didn't surprise him that opinions were divided, with some wanting to remain in New York until a real threat materialized and some wanting to scatter to the other American Guilds now, before the Sentinels could find the underground complex.

They turned the final corner. Remy was relieved to see that the doors to the Great Hall remained closed.  He could hear the muted rumble of many hundreds of voices through the walls, and allowed his pace to slow a notch.  The critical thing had been to get there before someone made the decision to scatter.  The other Guilds were primarily located in Bastion's target cities. Those who managed to survive the trip would find no more safety there than in New York.

Remy paused with his hands on the heavy brass handles of the double doors and took a deep, steadying breath.  He was shaken by the fact that he'd misjudged so badly.  Not so much because he'd been wrong, but because his mistake could easily have cost many of these people their lives.  Remy had watched innocents die because of his mistakes before. He did not ever want to repeat the experience.

Slowly, he straightened, unconsciously adjusting his grip on the door handles.

"Knock 'em dead, boss," Bobby said from behind him, his voice full of confidence.

Remy was startled into a grin and he pushed the doors open with a renewed sense of determination.  They were not too late.  This mistake, at least, could be put right.

The doors swung ponderously open, grinding into the stops with a resounding boom that echoed in the giant cavern.  Remy ignored it as he strode into the room, down the main aisle that led to the center ring.  The overwhelming din quieted for a moment in surprise as people craned to see who had arrived, but quickly swelled to its original volume and beyond.  People who had been standing in the aisle gave way, stepping aside to create a pathway toward the center of the room.  Each of them seemed intent on greeting Remy personally and enthusiastically as he passed.  Dozens of people reached out to touch the Guildmaster as if wanting to verify that he was solid and real, and Remy had to suppress the sudden desire to bat the invading hands away.  He had always spent his time in the shadows, avoiding notice. He didn't know how to react to celebrity.

It was a relief to step into the center ring, away from the press of people.  With Bobby behind him, Remy took a moment to acknowledge each of the council members, but ignored their questions.  For now they were going to get the same explanation as the rest.

Turning, Remy stepped up to the microphone.  He looked around at the indistinct mass of warmth that was the crowd and waited for the room to quiet.  Although he really didn't have any experience with public speaking, he found that he had a fair idea of what to say.  He grinned.  Been listenin' t' de Professor long enough dat I've picked up a feel f' it.  But that didn't keep his stomach from fluttering in nervous anticipation.

He was almost ready to begin when a disturbance near the front caught his attention.  He watched in bemusement as the disturbance resolved itself into a small, familiar silhouette that pushed determinedly through the crowd.  Once free of the press, she ducked into the ring and rushed forward to throw herself into Bobby's arms, sobbing in relief. 

Remy was unable to contain his smile as he watched Bobby comfort his wife with kisses.  He felt a pang of guilt for having caused Diedre so much distress, even unintentionally, but it was almost worthwhile just to see the reunion.  Remy's reaction was echoed by the crowd, and he had to wait a short while longer for the laughter to die away.  Bobby would probably never know how much Remy envied him in that, he decided as he turned back to the microphone.

Remy chose his words to the Guild carefully.  He couldn't tell them about the X-Men, but he needed to reassure them that there was no immediate danger to the Guild from Bastion and OZT.  As a result, he ended up giving only a sketchy account of what had happened at the mansion. He instead focused on the Guild itself, relying heavily on his natural charisma to draw the crowd in and renew their confidence in themselves and the organization that had been created to protect them. 

Remy was unprepared for the emotional feedback his short speech generated.  As a group, the New York Guild had complete faith in him, which was entirely new in Remy's experience.  They were more than willing to believe in him and to trust because he asked them to.  After so many years of being rejected by the Guilds, the total acceptance was exhilarating in a way Remy had never experienced.  It stripped away his defenses and swept him up into an intense emotional high as the Guild responded to his words. 

Remy was trembling in reaction as he dismissed the gathered crowd back to their homes within the complex.  The applause rang in his ears, the sound immensely gratifying. He stepped away from the center of the ring, taking several deep breaths to compose himself.

"Well said," Chess commented as the crowd began to disperse. Remy flashed him a weak grin.

"T'anks."  Despite his somewhat wobbly knees, he drew himself up as the other council members gathered around. them and tried to concentrate. 

Chess leaned back in his wheelchair.  "I'm certain the Guild will feel better knowing that you will be here from now on."

Remy was taken aback by the pointed comment and knew that Chess could read his expression all too easily.  Then he shook his head.  "Non.  I still can' do dat, but I will be here more often, neh?"

Chess's reaction was one of dismay.  "After what just happened here, Guildmaster, I'm surprised to hear you say that."

Remy raised an eyebrow.  The other man's tone was just shy of openly disapproving.  Remy studied him intently.  He knew that Chess didn't like his choice in living arrangements, but he had never criticized.  It made Remy realize just how strongly the ex-Guildmaster felt about the matter.

Remy was all too aware of Adrian watching the conversation, his body language nonchalant, but his interest obvious.   Remy kept his sigh to himself.  Adrian would be quick to take advantage of any schism between the new Guildmaster and his most ardent supporter on the Coucil.

Remy organized his thoughts quickly.  He needed to reassure Chess without telling him any specifics about the X-Men.  Perhaps in private, but not in front of men like Adrian. 

"Dere are some t'ings I c'n do t' protect de Guild dat I have t' do out dere."  Remy nodded toward the doors to indicate the larger world outside the complex.  "I know it ain' traditional f' de Guildmaster t' work outside normal channels, but in dis case de Guild is gon' have t' accept it."

"And the Guild should simply accept the risk so that the Guildmaster can continue his lifestyle uninterrupted?"  Adrian's words oozed a kind of menacing civility.

Remy froze, but managed to recover before giving away his feelings.  Anger swept through him at the insinuation, though he knew it was nothing more than the man's typical maneuvering.  He forced his voice to remain light and unconcerned as he replied, "If y' were gon' call someone t' task on dat, it should've been y' cousin." 

Adrian's heat image flared brightly.  "Don't throw Michael in my face!  He made his own choices."

Remy suppressed his smile. Y' ain' half de enemy Michael was, Adrian.  He wouldn' have let me manipulate him like dis.

"Oui, but, as family, who else had more responsibility t' challenge him?"

Adrian stared at him, his mounting fury evident in the flickering of his heat signature.  "It was most appropriate for another Master to make that challenge," he finally grated.

Remy inclined his head fractionally, having achieved the concession he wanted, and turned back to Chess.  "I can' deny dat dere's a risk t' de Guild."  The near-disaster they'd just averted was testament enough to that.  "But de return is well worth de risk."

"What return?"  Tom O'Shane asked.

Remy met his invisible gaze.  "De end of OZT, an' de destruction o' dere satellites," he replied reasonably.

Disbelieving silence answered him and he smiled, wondering what Logan would think of how he was going about his errand.  "Dis is a matter f' de Council, neh?"  He made an inviting gesture.  "So if y' gentlemen would like t' adjourn t' chambers..."

Chapter 17

Scott stepped outside of the warehouse that had so recently been converted into the X-Men's operations center, his gaze sweeping the area in search of a familiar figure.  He walked most of the perimeter of the building before he found Bishop, perched on the highest platform of a fire escape that clung to the side of the building.  The time-lost X-Man stood facing out across the city, his stance vigilant. 

Since the Blackbird's sensors continued to report the area as clean, Scott went ahead and called the other man down.  This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have up on Bishop's self-assigned watch post.

Bishop climbed down then leapt the last few feet from the bottom of the fire escape, landing in front of Scott with remarkably little noise for such a big man.  He straightened and regarded Scott with familiar stoicism, but Scott thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty in the other man's eyes.

He knows what he did, Scott thought, relieved.  That fact would make the conversation a lot easier.  However, as commander, he still needed to make the point.

He pinned Bishop with a disapproving stare.  "In the future, I expect that all arrangements affecting the safety of this team will be brought directly to me.  Is that clear?" he asked.  He was still baffled by Bishop's behavior earlier that afternoon.  Bishop was a good soldier, but he had completely disregarded the chain of command to bring their visiting gang representatives to Gambit, a man Scott had thought Bishop detested.

Bishop stiffened.  "Yes, sir."  His gaze was focused straight ahead and did not meet Scott's, giving the senior X-Man little insight into what he might be thinking or feeling.

Scott crossed his arms, consciously forcing himself to adopt a casual stance.  "Do you want to tell me what you were thinking this afternoon, Bishop?" he asked as gently as he could.

Bishop's stance faltered.  His gaze darted to Scott's face, then away.  "I... am not certain that I can."  An expression that might have been pain crossed his face and disappeared.

Scott was puzzled.  He had the feeling that this one incident had broken the scabs on a far deeper, more painful subject, but he didn't have the faintest idea what that might be.  He sighed internally.  He didn't know the what, but he could guess the who.

"This is somehow about Gambit, right?"

Bishop nodded reluctantly.

Scott waited, wondering what might be going on behind Bishop's calm mask.  He knew Bishop had some kind of close connection with Gambit in the future he came from, but he had never gotten a good feel for what kind of relationship it had been.  On the day they'd met, Bishop had accused Gambit of being both a traitor and murderer, but there were also a number of instances where he had stepped up to defend Gambit when someone made a disparaging remark.  Jean's only input was to label it a classic love-hate relationship, at least on Bishop's side.  Scott had the feeling Remy didn't know what to make of Bishop's attachment to him, any more than the rest of them.

Bishop seemed to collect himself as he turned to face Scott directly.  His expression was somber.  "I have always wondered how a man like Gambit could have become the man I knew-- the Witness."

Scott's interest was immediately piqued, though he tried to keep his expression neutral.  "What do you mean?"

Bishop's gaze grew distant.  "The Witness raised my sister and I after our grandmother died.  He was a... hard man."  He darted a glance toward Scott.  "Not cruel, just--" A small shrug betrayed his frustration. He took a deep breath, and then the words poured out in a minor torrent.  "The Witness spoke six different languages fluently.  His company, Stark Fujikawa, had legitimate fronts in eight countries and illegal operations in more than twenty, all of which he personally controlled in some form.  He had blackmail material on just about every public figure you could name.  He manipulated elections within the United States, arranged coups in other countries--" Bishop made a sharp gesture.  "Even used assassination, if that's what it took to accomplish his goals.  In some ways, he was one of the most powerful men on the planet."  His dark eyes bored into Scott's, filled with conflict.  "To be honest, I have never been able to see that man in Gambit.  Not... until today."

Scott was taken aback, both by the flood of information and by the image Bishop presented.  "And today?" he prompted, dreading the answer.

Bishop's face regained its composed mask.  "Today I saw the Witness staring back at me from Gambit's eyes," he said quietly.  "And I reacted as if that was who he was."  He blinked, regret and shame reflecting momentarily from his gaze.  "I will not let it happen again."

Scott managed a nod, his mind whirling with disturbing thoughts.  He wasn't sure he believed Bishop's assessment, but on top of the many other disquieting things that had happened in the last few days, particularly those involving Gambit, he found himself unable to completely dismiss them. 

#

Though Bobby returned within a couple of hours, it took Gambit a full twenty-four hours to come home and by the time he reappeared Rogue had half-convinced herself to go looking for him, Sentinels or no Sentinels.  Her relief at seeing him again was almost painfully intense and was followed by an equal flash of anger.

'Least the man could've done is tell me what he was up tah, she groused as she trotted across the warehouse toward him.  It rankled that it was Scott who had informed the rest of them that Remy had left to try to work out some kind of agreement with the Thieves Guild.  Remy didn't tell Scott anything, but now even he seemed to know more about where Gambit was and what he did than Rogue.

She was among the last to gather at the folding table that had been set up beside the Blackbird.  The table served as their planning center, and held the mini-cerebro as well as an interface to the Blackbird's on board systems.  One end of the table was clear, and as she arrived Remy was already pulling a sheaf of papers from a familiar satchel at his side and laying them out on the tabletop.  He tossed a document tube down on top of the pile then shrugged out of his coat, running his fingers wearily through his hair.

He looks o.k., Rogue thought, watching him.  Tired.  She didn't see any indication that he might have gotten hurt, though, and the hard knot in her stomach loosened a notch.

Remy gave no indication that he'd noticed her presence.  Instead, he nodded in Logan's direction, his attention split between Wolverine and Cyclops.  "Guild's willin' t' deal."

Logan raised an eyebrow as Scott picked up the document tube.  "Is that what this is?" Scott asked.

Remy frowned, but nodded.  "Pretty much."

Logan flipped through the stack of papers for a moment then looked up at Remy in surprise.  "These're technical briefs on the Prime Sentinels."  His gaze narrowed suspiciously.  "What's the deal, Gumbo?  Even Guild couldn't turn this around so fast."

"Non."  Remy raised a hand to massage his temple briefly.  "De Guild's been puttin' together information on de Sentinels f' it's own protection."  He let his hand fall and looked over at Logan.  "I jus' convinced dem t' share."

Logan's expression didn't change.  "What're the terms?"

"No terms."  Remy held out a hand to Scott, who handed him the document tube after a moment's consideration.  "Dis is a nods 'n whispers t'ing only."

"A what?" Scott asked.  Rogue had heard the term before, from her mother who had always used it to refer to missions where deniability was the most important issue.  She was surprised to hear it coming from Remy, considering the political connotations.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Remy answered the question while he opened one end of the tube.  "It means dat de Guild is willin' t' extend some protection an' provide information t' de X-Men t' bring OZT down."  He slid a set of schematics from the casing and began spreading them out on the table.  "Y' c'n ask de Guild f' what y' need, an' y' get whatever dey willin' t' provide.  But if anyt'ing goes sour, de Guild's gon' evaporate an' y' be on y' own."

"That sounds a little flimsy," Scott said.

Remy glanced at him.  "It's better dan what y' got now.  De Guild don' know dey dealin' wit' de X-Men."

Scott digested that for a moment, then turned his attention to the schematics.  "What are these?"  From Rogue's vantage, they looked like a set of drawings from the city planner's office.

Remy looked down at the curling pages, his gaze empty. Rogue was struck by how obvious it suddenly was that he couldn't see what was there.  "Dere's a Guild safehouse we c'n use.  It's got decent livin' quarters an' it's in a residential area, which makes f' better camoflage."  He tapped the top drawing.  "Dese should be enough t' map a route from here t' dere t'rough de storm sewers.  We've got access right outside de buildin' here an' in de basement on de ot'er end.  From what I've been told, de Sentinels' sensor range is only a couple o' feet while dey're human.  Stayin' underground should be enough t' keep us from bein' noticed."

Scott spread the drawings out on the table, studying them.  "What's the safehouse like?" he asked without looking up.

Remy shrugged lightly.  "Gon' be a little cramped, but its solid.  I went by t' check it out before comin' here." 

Rogue glanced over at him in sudden concern.  He was out wandering the city alone?  Was he insane?

No one else seemed to share her feelings, however.  Ororo turned to Remy with a pensive frown.  "We will put innocent lives at risk by living in a residential area."

Remy cocked his head.  "Mebbe, chere, but we can' stay here."  He gestured with one hand, taking in the confines of the building.  "Dis was jus' a bolt hole-- an' a good place t' ditch de 'Bird."

Scott looked up from the schematics.  "That's a valid point.  This building doesn't even have running water, and we can't live off the Blackbird's systems for very long."  He scanned the gathered X-Men.  "However, I can't say I like the idea of using the residents of the city as camouflage."

Logan crossed his arms.  "We don't have much choice unless we want ta leave New York.  Anyplace we find that's livable is gonna have people around."

Scott's brow furrowed. He chewed on his lip as he thought.  Rogue didn't envy him the decision.  Their current living conditions were pretty primitive, with the exception of the Blackbird's medlab.  The situation was especially bad for Jean because she really needed more than emergency rations and the Blackbird's limited store of recycled water to keep both herself and the baby healthy.  But if they went into the city, even to forage, they faced the risk of being discovered by OZT.

Finally, Scott's expression cleared.  "I want to take a look at this safe house and get a feel for the area before deciding anything.  Gambit --" Gambit raised an eyebrow as Scott tapped the schematics spread out before him.  "You get to play tour guide.  We can find out how good these drawings are while we're at it."

Looking somewhat surprised, Gambit nodded and Rogue's gut tightened, but she bit her lip rather than voice the fears that clamored inside her.

#

"All right."  Scott clamped the end of the small flashlight between his teeth, mumbling his words as he peered at the schematics in his hands.  "There should be a ladder about four feet in front of you, right side." 

He looked up, the beam from the flashlight spearing into the darkness that filled the sewer.  The light swept across Gambit, and Scott watched as the other man moved along the wall, fingers trailing lightly across the rough surface until they lit on the steel bars bolted to the cement. 

In the course of their damp, difficult trek through the underground tunnels, Scott had gained an appreciation for how Gambit was managing his handicap.  Originally, the Cajun had driven him to angry distraction with a near-constant stream of questions about the dimensions of the tunnels, but eventually he'd begun to notice that Gambit was using the information rather than just pestering him with it.  If Scott told him that the ceiling dipped a certain distance ahead, Gambit would duck at exactly that point, following the description Scott had given him.  He'd found it a little unnerving until it occurred to him that the other's experience with a "spatial" power might very well allow him to do exactly that. What continued to bother him, however, was the ease with which Gambit moved in what he claimed was utter darkness, save for the heat of their own bodies. 

He's done this kind of thing before, Scott thought for about the hundredth time since they started out.  He's obviously been trained to do it.  Scott didn't think there was any way Gambit could do what he was now unless he'd had a lot of practice. So who trained him?  This Thieves Guild? That thought didn't sit too well with Scott.  He was singularly unimpressed by the various organized crime factions he'd run across in his time.  They were selfish, undisciplined and universally destructive. Logan's description notwithstanding, he doubted Gambit's thieves were much better.  The fact that Gambit himself behaved like an overgrown punk only lent credence to his conclusions.

Unfortunately, for the last few days Gambit had been acting like anything but.  Scott couldn't remember a time he'd ever seen the other man behave in such a responsible and level-headed manner.  The only time that even came close was when they'd first met. Gambit had deliberately allowed himself to be hit by some shrapnel in order to use the metal sliver as a lockpick.  Thinking back, Scott was surprised to recall how impressed he'd been by that.  In fact, he'd originally categorized Gambit as an unpredictable and dangerous operative of much the same caliber as Logan, but that impression had quickly been shattered by his juvenile behavior on later missions.  

Is that the sleight-of-hand Hank was referring to? he wondered suddenly.  Has Gambit been deceiving us for the entire time he's been with the X-Men? The thought was frightening. But surely the Professor would have known.  He would never deep scan Gambit without his permission, but he kept surface contact with all of us.  Gambit couldn't have hidden the truth from him.  Not for four years.

Only partially reassured, Scott dismissed his suspicions for the moment. He moved forward to where Gambit was carefully climbing the ladder into a long pipe that lead toward the surface.  Scott followed him, pausing when the other held out one hand.

"Hang on, Cyke.  We've reached de security grid."

Scott looked up at him.  "Do we have a problem?"

The light from the flashlight didn't quite illuminate Gambit's grin, but Scott could hear it in his voice.  "Non.  Here."

Out of the dimness, he handed Scott something that looked like a pocket calculator.  "What's this?"

Gambit shifted slightly on the ladder rungs. Scott caught a metallic glint as he opened the cover on a small keypad attached to the wall.  "A code generator.  De system has a randomly generated password dat change every day."

Scott raised an eyebrow as he glanced down at the little calculator in his palm.  He hadn't been expecting a decent security system.  Mulling his thoughts privately, he followed Gambit's instructions to call up the day's password and they proceeded upward into the basement of a building.

Scott was still climbing out of the pipe when Gambit straightened and walked confidently toward the stairs. He paused with his foot on the bottom one to wait.

He knows the building, Scott observed as he carefully closed the trap door they'd come through.  He said he came by here earlier today.  So did he walk through it and learn the dimensions today or was he already familiar with it? They climbed the stairs, emerging on a very normal-looking kitchen.  He'd never been inside the building where we're storing the Blackbird, obviously, so chances are at least fair that he's never been here before, either. It hadn't taken very long for Gambit to learn his way around the hangar, though.

Scott paused, turning a full circle as he studied the kitchen.  That's a lot of memorization for one day. He glanced involuntarily at Gambit who lounged in the doorway that led to the rest of the house, idly shuffling a deck of cards.  A lot. He made a mental note to ask Jean if she'd ever seen any sign Gambit had a photographic memory.  At the moment, he couldn't find any other answer to fit what he was seeing.  However, if that was true, then there was no way Gambit could be as ignorant as he appeared.

Frustrated by his train of though, Scott pushed it aside and concentrated on the safe house.  He was glad to note that the house appeared to be furnished, since everything they had had been lost with the mansion.  The kitchen let onto a combination living/dining area, and he immediately understood why Gambit had referred to the house as "cramped".  It was going to be hard to fit everyone into the same room at once. 

Gambit seemed to sense his thoughts and flashed him a familiar, irritating grin.  "On de bright side, dere are five bedrooms."  He nodded toward the staircase that lined one wall.  "Three upstairs an' two down here."

Scott ignored the comment and proceeded to make a thorough examination of the house and the small yard behind it.  But except for the security system, which covered the yard and the roof in addition to the windows and doors, the squat brownstone was utterly normal.  The neighborhood was almost too picturesque, with two neat rows of houses lining the empty street.  In the distance, he could hear children playing, their laughter seeming out of place in the midst of what was, to him, a reconnaissance mission.

He returned to the living room to find Gambit lying on the couch, ankles crossed and eyes closed.  He appeared for all the world to be asleep. Scott felt a burst of real anger.

"Gambit!" he snapped.

"What?"  The other man did not so much as crack an eyelid, though he sounded alert enough.

Scott stepped very firmly on his temper.  "You could at least pretend you're on a mission here."  Oddly enough, he had discovered sarcasm worked much better on the Cajun than any kind of honest disapproval, though he rarely found a way to use it.

Gambit opened his eyes and Scott silently congratulated himself on a small victory. "Mission?  An' here I t'ought it was a house," he quipped and Scott's gaze narrowed. 

Abruptly, Gambit sat up and swung his legs off the couch.  He ran the fingers of both hands through his long hair, then looked up at Scott.  "Don' y' t'ink y' takin' dis a bit too serious?"  He gestured at the house around them.  "I mean, de whole idea is dat nobody's gon' come lookin' f' us here.  De security's armed-- " He paused.  "An' I've been up f' de last thirty-six hours workin' de deal, so lighten up, all right?" 

Scott was taken aback by the weary anger in the other man's eyes.   Thirty-six hours? But that made sense if Gambit had been busy the entire time he'd been gone. He frowned ruefully as his thoughts turned.  For once he's dragging for a legitimate reason, so I guess I should be a little more sympathetic.

He sighed softly.  "I've seen everything I need to.  There's no reason you can't get some sleep once we get back to the hangar."

Gambit cocked an eyebrow, his expression reflecting traces of surprise.  He stood without comment, though, and followed Scott back toward the basement stairs and the underground route that would take them back to the X-Men.

Chapter 18

Bobby crept up the basement stairs, cautious of his feet.  The warped wooden steps creaked at the slightest excuse and only his thief's training allowed him to move up them in silence.  Two steps below the top, he paused.  A brief flicker in the light shining under the kitchen door indicated movement-- someone was awake.  Bobby cursed his luck.  It struck him as extremely ironic that Remy now came and went openly on his trips to the Guild complex while Bobby was forced to sneak in and out, but he was well aware of how little they could afford to let the X-Men learn the truth.  Even Bobby wasn't completely certain of Scott's reaction.  He wanted to believe that older man would understand, that he would agree with the necessity of protecting the Guild, that he would approve of the life Bobby had chosen... but Bobby doubted it.  And that doubt was more than enough reason to keep the truth hidden.

Sighing silently, Bobby weighed his options.  He could stay in the basement, waiting for whoever was in the kitchen at three a.m. to leave, or he could go on in and admit to having snuck out for the night.  He could concoct an excuse easily enough.  The scent of Diedre's perfume clung to him, filling his thoughts with remembered passion.  Too often he didn't have time to stop to see her when he was working, but tonight he'd made time while Remy was embroiled in yet another Council session.  As far as he knew, Remy was still there, arguing risks with the more conservative among the Guild leaders.  Bobby doubted he'd accomplish anything.

He glanced up at the door.  If I don't get to bed, I'm not going to get another chance to sleep until the night after tomorrow.  The very thought was painful, but the X-Men's first mission against OZT was scheduled for tomorrow night, which meant that he would be on the go for at least another forty-eight hours if he didn't get some sleep now.

Oh, for the good ol' days, he thought with a smile.  I had no idea how easy I had it. That was before he'd started training to be a thief and had his schedule rearranged permanently by a certain Cajun taskmaster who made Scott look like a slugabed.

Squaring his shoulders, Bobby took a deep breath in preparation, then carefully changed his posture to mimic the exaggerated furtiveness of a college kid sneaking back into the dorm.  Thus prepared, he opened the door into the kitchen, crept through, turned and did a credible double take at the sight of the woman who sat at the kitchen table.

Rogue raised her eyebrows at his sudden appearance.  "Bobby!  Do ya know what time it is!?"  She cocked her head, expression evaluating. "Where'd you come from, sugah?"

"Uh..."  Bobby scuffled one foot, keeping his gaze on the floor.  "Diedre's."  He darted a glance at Rogue.  "Just don't tell Scott... Please?"  He stared at her hopefully.  The appeal was real enough.  The last thing he needed was trouble with Scott.

For a moment, he thought she was going to scold him, but then she sighed and waved the request away, her expression reflecting pain and regret before disappearing altogether.  "F'get it, sugah.  Ya takin' a pretty big risk, but ah guess ah can't blame ya." A sickly smile crossed her face.  "We're all idiots when it comes ta the heart."

Sudden concern chased away Bobby's desire to go find his bed.  He walked over to the small kitchenette and took a seat beside Rogue.  "Did something happen?"  As far as he knew, she and Remy had pretty much been ignoring each other since the X-Men had moved into the house.  He hadn't had a chance to talk to Remy about it, but had gotten the impression it was just more of the same old argument.

Rogue shook her head and looked away.  "Nah."  He saw the muscle in her jaw knot for a moment as she clenched her teeth.  "Ah'm just sittin' here in the middle o' the night, wonderin' where he is... wonderin' if he's all right."  Her gaze darted to him and then away again.  "Wonderin' when he'll run out o' reasons foh comin' home."

Bobby couldn't quite suppress his snort.  "Remy'd cut off his own fingers before he'd leave you, Rogue."

She turned to look at him in surprise and he saw the hope flare in her eyes.  "Ya think so?"

Bobby decided to take a chance. He reached over to grip her bare hand.  "I know so."  After all, Remy had been willing to sacrifice his life for a love that wasn't his own.  How much more would he give up for the single greatest desire of his heart?

Rogue continued to stare at him for a moment, searching his face as if looking for reasons to believe, but then her expression hardened. She extracted her hand from his grip and leaned back in her chair.  She crossed her arms, fingers drumming against her biceps as she stared at him.

"So what am ah supposed ta be lookin' foh?" she asked abruptly.  Bobby blinked at her mercurial shift in mood as she went on, "That night at dinner, ya told me ta watch Remy, watch everything he did, so ah could figure him out."  She shrugged, the motion painfully sharp.  "He's made it clear enough he ain't gonna tell me anything, so--" She pressed her lips together in a thin line, fighting emotions that Bobby couldn't read, but could guess.

He sighed.  That was a dangerous question to try to answer, as much as he wanted to.  But maybe he could still help.  "Well... why don't we talk about dinner, then," he suggested.  It was a safe place to start, anyway.  Rogue gave him an odd look, but he pressed on.  "What did you see that night?"

Her expression grew thoughtful and she fiddled with the small bandage that still covered the burn on her palm.  Eventually, she looked up at him.  "Did ya know that meal cost about eight thousand dollars, sugah?"

Bobby nodded.  The restaurant was one of Remy's favorites.

She watched him for a moment longer before lowering her gaze to the tabletop.  "Ah asked him if he'd stolen somethin' ta pay foh dinner."

Curious, Bobby arched an eyebrow.  Remy hadn't mentioned this particular conversation.  "What did he say?"

A tiny smile lit her features.  "He laughed."  She shook her head lightly.  "Ah felt so stupid askin'..."

Bobby gave her a moment to indulge the memory.  Then, "Do you know where the money came from?" he asked.

Her brow crinkled as she shrugged.  "Ah guess it was Remy's... from somethin' he stole back before he joined the X-Men."

Bobby smiled.  "Pretty much.  It all comes out of his investments now."

"Investments?"

"You know.  Stocks, bonds, real estate..."

"Real estate?"  Her expression was almost comically puzzled.

Bobby chucked lightly and ticked them off on his fingers.  "A penthouse here in New York, a house in New Orleans, a house in Paris, a couple of office towers in Hong Kong--"  He quit as Rogue's eyes widened.  "You had no idea, did you?"

She shook her head.  "Ya ain't pullin' mah leg, are ya?"

"Nope."  His smile faded.  "Here's the real question, though:  Why don't you know anything about his investments?"

She shrugged uncomfortably.  "He nevah told me."

"Why didn't you ask?"

Rogue's brow dipped as she moistened her lips.  "Ah didn't realize there was anythin' ta ask about.  He doesn't exactly live like a millionaire."

Bobby gave her a skeptical smile.  "He had a custom Ferrari shipped here from France."

Rogue stared at him.  Her normally green eyes had gone nearly gray in reflection of the troubled thoughts that were so obvious on her face.  "Ah--"

Bobby waited quietly.

"Ah don't know," she finally admitted.  "Ah just... nevah thought about it."

"Why not?  Weren't you curious?"  That alone was probably the biggest reason Bobby had learned so much of what he had. 

Rogue's eyes narrowed as she thought.  "Ah guess."  She looked down at her hands.  "But ah figured it was all... dishonest money... an' ah didn't want ta know the details."  She glanced briefly at Bobby before returning her gaze to her lap.

Bobby watched her as he sorted his thoughts.  Instinct told him he'd stumbled on something important, though he couldn't pinpoint why.  He debated where to go next, without inspiration.

"So is that what ah'm supposed ta figure out?" Rogue asked after a while, her gaze once again fixed on him.  "That he's rich?"

Bobby smiled ruefully.  "No.  It's a place to start though.  Do you have any idea what he does with all that money?"

"Obviously, he's been buyin' office buildings with it," she returned, her voice thick with sarcasm.  Then she sat bolt upright, her gaze fastened on something distant.  "But he said he was stealin' because he needed the money ta help mutants."   The words came out as a protest.

"Huh?"  Bobby was lost.

Rogue glanced at him, her expression hooded.  "Ah caught Remy an' another thief stealin' from a buildin' downtown.  He said the money was ta help mutants."  Her lips thinned.   "He implied it was a kind o' mutant underground... but not the Professor's."

Rogue's expression darkened with anger.  "But if he's got that kind o' money, what in the world would he need ta be stealin' anything foh?"

Uh oh, Bobby thought and raised a hand to ward her off.  "Hang on, Rogue."

"What?" she demanded.

He kept his voice mild with an effort of will.  "Remy told you the truth.  He can't use his own money because there would be too much risk of a government agency tracking the... underground down through him."

Rogue stared narrowly at him, but he could see her anger diminish by degrees.  "Ya seem ta know an awful lot about it," she commented after a bit.

Bobby scrambled for a response that wouldn't give away any more than he already had.  "Remy tells me things."

Rogue's expression soured.  "A lot more than he tells me, sugah."

Bobby pushed himself to his feet, his exhaustion returning.  "Maybe it just depends on how you ask."

Rogue looked up at him thoughtfully, but said nothing as Bobby left the room and headed for bed.

#

Scott paused in the doorway to the kitchen to gather his thoughts.  He considered it a stroke of good fortune that he'd managed to find Gambit alone in the crowded house. He wanted a chance to talk to him before finalizing the mission plans.  Mentally kicking himself into motion, Scott crossed the kitchen.

"Afternoon," he told Remy with a brief nod, then busied himself rummaging through the cabinets for a glass.

The other man paused in the act of stirring his coffee and glanced over at him.  "Is it?"  Scott noted that his hair was wet from a recent shower. His demeanor gave Scott the impression he'd just gotten up.

"It's about one thirty."  Scott found an unused glass on the top shelf of the cabinet and went to the freezer for ice.  Behind him, Remy went through a painstakingly precise process to measure out a second spoonful of honey for his coffee. Scott shook his head.  Gambit got picky about the strangest things.  This was one of them, and he'd actually seen Remy forego his morning coffee rather than drink it with sugar instead of honey.

Scott watched the process with interest.  Every motion was smooth, with not a single drop of the golden liquid spilled.  Scott abandoned his own drink preparations as curiosity got the better of him.

"How do you manage to do that without spilling anything?"  If his understanding of Gambit's vision was correct, then he was unable to see either the honey or the spoon.

Gambit's face lit with a grin as he dumped the perfect spoonful of honey into his cup and stirred it lazily.  "Would y' believe me if I said I was measurin' de weight by feel?"

Scott frowned at the vaguely challenging note in the other's voice.  He thought about the process of measuring a liquid into something as small as a spoon, and the tremendous sensitivity that would be required to feel a change of what he estimated to be less than an ounce.  He knew for a fact that he couldn't do it and he had his suspicions that even Logan might not be able to.  If Gambit was implying that he could...

"No, I wouldn't."  Scott crossed his arms and leaned against the counter.

Gambit's grin widened.  "Good."

Scott raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Gambit seemed to sense his reaction.  His grin faded and his tone became matter-of-fact as he shrugged.  "De coffee's hot, so it glows.  Makes a nice backdrop to see everyt'ing else against."  On the heels of his explanation, he flashed Scott an enigmatic smile, picked up his cup and turned away.

Scott stared after him, thoroughly startled.  I don't believe it.  Was he teasing me? In his experience, Gambit irritated, angered and openly defied him whenever possible.  The idea that he had just been on the receiving end of a gentle ribbing was hard to accept.

"Gambit, wait."  Scott shook off his bemusement with an effort.

The other man paused in the doorway and turned.  Scott picked up his now ice-filled glass and waved toward the small table.  "Have a seat.  I wanted to talk to you."

Warily, the other man complied.  He settled at the table, lounging in the wooden chair with one elbow hooked over the back.  All traces of his earlier behavior were suddenly gone, replaced by the prickling defiance Scott was used to.  Scott took advantage of the time it took to pour himself some tea from the pitcher in the refrigerator to gain control of his reaction.  It shocked him that he was disappointed by the change.  For the last few days it had been, if not exactly pleasant, then at least... refreshing... to work with the Cajun.  He was still incredibly irritating, but he'd been on the ball and had done exactly what Scott asked of him, without argument.

Even if its just an aberration in his behavior, Scott told himself, I shouldn't get discouraged.   At least now I have some vision for the future. He stifled a smile as he closed the refrigerator.  Maybe this was what the Professor was always talking about.  The Professor had never been anything but pleased with Gambit's presence on the team, a fact that had continually mystified Scott.  There's obviously a lot of potential there, if I can just find some way of unlocking it.

Thoughts turning, Scott took a seat at the table and met Gambit's flat gaze.  He resisted the urge to shake his head in disgust.  Not two minutes ago I would swear this man was at least making an attempt to be friendly.  What caused the sudden attitude? He thought back through the conversation.  What did I say last...? Just 'I want to talk to you'. Sudden understanding struck and Scott felt dismay like a physical blow.  Wonderful. He managed to internalize a long and frustrated sigh.  He knew from experience that Gambit was now set to endure a lecture from his field leader, and that the carefully casual exterior would not waver one iota, nor would the hard, empty gaze change until they were finished.  The only time Scott had ever managed to break through that shell was the rare occasion when he managed to make the other man so angry that the situation erupted into violence.

I don't want to do that.  For one, they couldn't afford the chance that the neighbors would notice something strange and call the police on them, and two, he'd been hoping to gain Gambit's cooperation.  He knew the other wasn't going to like it, but he had been hoping to settle the issue in some kind of calm, reasonable manner.

That's going to be completely impossible with Gambit in this mood. Unfortunately, it was the only chance Scott was going to get before the team briefing.  So what can I possibly do to break through that mask without making things worse?

Sighing softly, Scott leaned back in his chair.  "I'm sorry, Remy.  That didn't come out like I intended."

Both eyebrows arched sharply in surprise over the red eyes and Scott felt a stab of triumph.  Gotcha.  He took a sip of tea to cover his response.

"I do want to talk to you, though.  About the mission."

Gambit's surprise turned skeptical.  "What about it?"

Scott shrugged lightly.  He wasn't sure how to broach the topic except to plunge straight in.  "As I'm sure you're aware, we've had to pull several X-Men off the active list for various reasons.  Jean, of course, because of the baby."  He fingered his glass.  "And also Hank and Warren because of their mutations.  They're just too obvious to be risked."

Gambit nodded.  "An' Rogue," he added.

Scott paused for just a moment, but decided not to read anything at all into the statement.  "Yes, and Rogue, though I'm planning to include her on tonight's mission.  Her hand is still a bit tender, but she's been managing with it just fine during practices."  The basement had become their staging ground.  Gambit had been in on some of those training sessions when he was around, proving that he could handle the weapons and the scenarios at least within the limited environment of their practice room.

Gambit didn't react to the news except for a brief flicker that Scott couldn't interpret.  "An' y' point?" he asked after a moment.

Scott braced himself.  "I intend to add you to that list as well."

He watched warily as Gambit's expression closed in on itself.  He couldn't tell if the mask hid anger, disappointment, fear, or something else entirely.  Gambit didn't move for several long moments, but then he picked up his coffee and took a sip, his solemn, eerie gaze meeting Scott's over the rim of the mug.

"Guess I can' argue wit' dat," he said softly.  "Wit' good blueprints an' enough time t' absorb dem, I c'n navigate easy enough, but y' turn it into a combat situation..." He shrugged, his body language betraying a sense of regret.  "It could get pretty dicey."

Scott felt an unexpected pang of sympathy that was immediately drowned out by his relief at the other's easy acceptance. 

Gambit must have been able to sense his feelings because his expression quirked wryly.  "Dat was easier dan y' were expectin', neh?"

"Uh... yes.  I guess so."  Scott wasn't sure why the question made him uncomfortable, except that it was so completely unlike Gambit.  He'd been expecting several rounds of argument, at the very least, and to eventually be forced to pull rank just to gain the other man's grudging cooperation.

His gaze narrowed at a sudden thought.  It was a question that he had asked of several of the X-Men about Gambit, but had never felt he could ask the man himself.  He cocked his head as he studied him.  "Remy, do you deliberately contradict me just for the sake of argument, or do you really disagree with almost everything I do?"

Gambit laughed outright and looked away while he recovered his composure.  Scott watched him with interest, tremendously curious to hear his response. 

Eventually, Gambit looked back at him and Scott was surprised to realize that he was fighting a smile.  "'Bout fifty-fifty," he admitted.

Scott felt a flash of anger, mixed with consternation.  "Why?"

The hidden smile escaped, familiar and smug.  "'Cause half de time I t'ink y' dead wrong."

Scott stiffened defensively, despite the fact that he knew better.  "And the other half?" he demanded.

Gambit's humor faded.  His expression turned cold, though Scott would swear he sensed regret in it as well.  The Cajun pushed his coffee cup back, making the spoon rattle loudly in the tense silence.  "It's been nice talkin' to y', Scott."  He stood abruptly and walked out.

Scott stared at the place where he'd been for a long time as he tried to sort his thoughts.  Eventually he gave up and forced himself to move.  They had a mission to perform.  Everything else would have to wait until after that.  Then he would find some way to figure out what was really going on inside Remy LeBeau.

#

Remy sat a little ways to the side of the crowded table as the X-Men went through their briefing, idly shuffling a deck of cards.  The repetitive motion helped to soothe his frayed nerves while he listened to the discussion.  Since he couldn't see any of the schematics laid out on the table and wasn't going to be on the mission anyway, he stayed back, but that didn't keep him from paying close attention to everything that happened.

The plan was simple enough and characteristic of Scott's frontal assault methodology. The target was a small factory they believed was a manufacturing facility for several small Sentinels bio-components.  They were hoping to gain some insight into the control and/or transformation technology that, so far, was only sketchily described in the technical briefs the Guild had managed to obtain.  The facility was one of several that manufactured the same components, and was expected to have light defenses compared to OZT's primary locations.  Scott's plan was to use the maintenance entrance during shift change and from there to make their way to the Director's office, which was targeted as the most likely location for the information they wanted.  The route would also give them an opportunity to see the manufacturing line.

Remy didn't like it.  He could think of about fourteen different locations inside the building where there was likely to be internal security.  He had no idea what form that security might take, from heat sensors to retinal scanners to simple locks on the doors.  But no matter what it was, he was certain that the X-Men, with their tactics adapted from long years of full-powers missions, would trip the alarms long before they could afford to.

"Logan."  He pitched his voice low and brushed the other man's elbow.  Logan turned his head fractionally in acknowledgement.  "Y' give any t'ought t' de security inside?"

Logan shrugged.  "We're just gonna have ta manage.  It's a shame ya can't come along."

Scott paused in the middle of his description and looked over at them.  Remy was struck by a sudden desire to see his face.  He couldn't begin to fathom what the X-Men's field leader might be thinking about him at this point, which was disconcerting.

"Y'know, it's ironic."  Sam's country drawl distracted Remy from his thoughts.  "The one time when we really need a thief on the team an' ours ain't available."

Remy turned to look at the younger man in surprise.  He liked Sam quite a bit, but it was downright strange to hear something like that from him.  Most of the X-Men seemed to have developed a new comfort with the fact that Remy was a professional thief, if a retired one, as they believed.  He was too used to being discussed in whispers.  This new forthrightness was... unsettling.  However, it could be useful as well.

Gathering himself, Remy nodded to Sam.  "True, 'nough," he agreed easily.  "But jus' because I can' be dere don' mean y' have t' go wit'out an expert."

"What do you mean?"  Scott demanded.

Remy clamped down on his instinctive anger at the suspicion in the other man's tone.  If anything, their conversation that afternoon had only served to make a bad situation worse.  "I know somebody dat could help."  Marcus Black would be ideal for the mission.

"A thief?" Logan asked.

Remy nodded.  "Good one."

"No," Scott answered immediately.  "We're too exposed as it is.  I'm not going to risk X-Men's lives on an unknown like that."

Unknown t' you, Remy thought angrily, but didn't say it.

"He's got a point, though, Cyke," Logan said.  His scratchy voice managed to cut through the murmur of discussion that had enveloped the table.  "We're runnin' a risk by not takin' someone along."

"I thought you were going to handle anything that came up."  Remy could hear the frustration in Cyclops' voice.

Logan was unfazed.  "I ain't expectin' ta find anything I can't handle, but there's always the chance.  We haven't tangled with these folks before."

There was a pause before Scott replied, his voice stiff.  "Between you and Ororo, I'm confident we can manage." 

Remy kept his reaction hidden by force of will. Logan was a skilled operative, but even Weapon X had hired breakers like Remy when they needed real expertise, and Ororo was only apprentice-level and badly out of practice.  Between them, they didn't have all that much of the kind of skill they would need.  If all it took was ingenuity, Remy would have full confidence in them, but he doubted that would be the case.

"'Ro, what do ya think?"  Logan turned to Ororo.

The X-Men's co-leader cocked her head in contemplation.  "I would have no problem working with a Guild thief if Remy vouched for him," she nodded in Remy's direction, "but I agree with Logan that we are unlikely to need the help."

Remy arched an eyebrow, somewhat mollified by her vote of confidence, if dismayed by her opinion.  She, like Logan, knew something of the Guilds even though her master in Cairo had been exiled from them long before she came into his care.  Unfortunately, she had her own portion of conceit when it came to her thieving abilities, but that came from the fact that she had never been introduced to the more advanced types of security.  Even Remy, when she had been his de facto apprentice, hadn't taken those steps because of her age at the time, so within her limited experience she was indeed pretty good.

Remy could almost feel the change as Scott's attention shifted from Ororo to himself.  He seemed to be watching Remy, waiting to see what argument he would make and ready to counter it.

Frustrated, Remy swallowed his protests.  "I can' give y' help y' don' want," he said simply.  That didn't mean he wouldn't do anything, but Scott didn't need to see or know of the contingency plans he intended to put in place.  He resisted the impulse to look over at Bobby.  More than ever he was grateful for the events that had thrown the young man into his life.

Chapter 19

Bobby realized something was wrong about a half second too late.  The strange construction of the building, the heavy doorframe, the apparent ease with which the X-Men had penetrated the facility's security...

"No!"  He jumped toward Wolverine as the other man twisted the handle on the Director's safe.  "Don't--" His words were cut off as a heavy metal door sliced down across the entrance to the plush office with a hiss of pneumatics.

"...it's a trap," he concluded softly as the X-Men spun toward the door.

Logan was the first to lower his weapon.  He spared Bobby a single unrevealing glance then bent to examine the wireless transmitter affixed to the inside of the safe.  At the same time, both Scott and Bishop went to the now-sealed door. 

Rogue shook her head, muttering under her breath, and began to prowl the office.  "Mah momma would kill me foh makin' such a stupid mistake."

"She ain't gonna get the chance, if we don't get outta here."  Logan straightened from his examination of the safe and turned to Scott.  "Looks like the safe was rigged with a wireless transmitter.  Ain't sure how the guy usin' the office got in an' out without settin' the thing off."

Bobby had a couple of ideas, which he couldn't verify unless he spent some time looking at the safe.  Probably a magnetic print on the key. Logan had picked the lock, but obviously hadn't disarmed the security measures.  And, unfortunately, that meant that OZT now knew someone was breaking into one of their facilities.

Fear tightened Bobby's gut, a fear that he saw reflected on the other X-Men's faces.  We have to get out of here before OZT comes to get us.  As far as they knew, there weren't any Sentinels stationed inside the factory, but all that bought them was a precious few minutes.

A short explosion of gunfire, deafeningly loud in the enclosed space, startled him.  Rogue pivoted on her heel, the snub-nosed automatic rifle in her hand swinging to point toward a small grille in the ceiling, which she destroyed in another burst.  She repeated the action two more times then lowered her weapon.

"There.  That takes care o' the cameras.  Anybody got an idea how we're gonna get out o' here?"

Cyclops stepped forward, instantly gaining the team's attention.  "Everyone, split up.  Just because the door's sealed doesn't mean there isn't a way out.  We'll tear our way through the walls if we have to, so let's see what our options are."

The X-Men didn't need any further direction.  They paired off as if pre-assigned and began searching for any exit from the room.  To their dismay, they discovered their prison had been well engineered.  The floors, walls and ceiling were made of heavy steel plates that Bobby doubted anything less than Scott's optic blast would cut through.  Air circulated into the room through a set of very small vents, each barely large enough for Storm to fit her fist into once the cover was removed.  Electricity for the lights and outlets as well as the computing lines ran through contoured bulges of metal bolted to the steel plates.  At some point, Bobby knew, those lines had to punch through the armored cube, but he doubted the access was large enough to be useful.

Bobby made his decision without consciously registering it.  There was no way out of that room except through the door.  He abandoned his X-Man role in an instant and snapped into what Remy termed "thief mode".  Everything came into sharp focus around him as he realized that he knew what to do.

He swung the small backpack he carried off his shoulders and motioned to Logan as he moved to the door.  "Wolverine, come here.  I need your claws."

His preemptory tone earned him a round of startled looks, but he ignored them as he set the bag with its precious set of thieves tools down at his feet and began rummaging through it for the things he knew he'd need.  Logan came over, his expression tense, expectant.

"What are ya thinkin'?"

Bobby didn't look up from his search.  In his head he was already counting the passing time and cursing every moment that passed.  "Cut me a hole in the wall next to the lock there.  I need to get to the control circuitry."

A few steps away, Scott watched them both with an air of suspicion.  "Iceman, what are you doing?"

"Getting us out of here."  Bobby lit the end of a small acetylene torch as Logan's claws screeched against metal.

"Walls're lined with steel," Logan reminded him.  Blood welled from the punctures in the backs of his hands.

Bobby nodded.  "Yep.  Just peel off the paneling so I don't set fire to the place cutting through."

To his relief, Logan did what he asked, without comment.  Scott's gaze grew narrower and narrower. Bobby quickly cut through the metal lining and began sorting through the bundles of wiring he exposed.  A small voice inside him gibbered in panic, but he forced that voice down, ignored it.  His days of panicking in a tough situation were gone, though that voice of fear would never be completely silenced.

Muttering to himself, Bobby stared at the wiring he'd exposed.  He didn't have a chart to tell him what the color coding meant, and that was a problem.  His only real hope was that he could recognize the system manufacturer and decode the circuits based on that.  After all, OZT would have had to contract their construction out to have kept their secret so long.  It stood to reason that they'd also contracted the security work.

"Think, Popsicle.  What does this remind you of?"  He snorted softly.  A candy store, was the first answer that leapt to mind.  Red with white stripes, blue with yellow stripes, green, purple and brown... They didn't even have the decency to mark the ground wire with something obvious.  But, that was the point, and the thought jiggled something in his memory.  He paused, searching for the connection.

"Ya got it?" Logan asked, his voice deceptively mild.

All of a sudden, information clicked together in Bobby's brain.  "Yes!  It's Hakimura."  The manufacturer was a subsidiary of Mitsubishi, and one of the best security system makers on the planet.  Bobby's initial excitement died.  "Ugh.  This isn't gonna be easy."

"What isn't?" Scott demanded.  From his voice alone, Bobby could tell he was angry.

Oh well, Bobby thought resignedly.  I've pretty much committed myself now.  He picked up a pair of wire strippers and glanced at Scott.  "Building an override for the door."

Scott blinked at him as if he hadn't expected such a forthright answer.  Bobby ignored him and went back to work.  He moved as fast as he could, and under other circumstances might have been pretty pleased, but with their lives hanging in the balance all he could do was curse himself for not being able to splice the wires with Remy's uncanny speed.  He wasn't even certain he was doing it right.

Nevermind, he told himself firmly, twisting the final wire pair together.  He sat back, eyes roaming the tangle to verify that he hadn't overlooked something obvious.  Then, satisfied, he turned to Logan.  Now all they needed was a surge to the system to trip the safeties and retract the door.  He stood and unslung his automatic rifle.

"Everybody ready?" he asked.  To his surprise, they were, despite the stares.  Bishop and Rogue stood to either side of the door, ready to cover the hallway with strafing fire.  Behind them, the other X-Men were split into two teams.  All of them watched him with varying degrees of expectancy.

He adjusted his grip on the rifle.  Please let this work, he prayed silently, then smashed the butt of the rifle into the control panel beside the door.  The plastic cover shattered and sparks flew, making Bobby flinch.  With a hiss, the door rolled upward.  Bobby wanted to cheer and throw up at the same time.  He did neither.  Instead, he grabbed the bag of tools and the data from the safe and followed his teammates out into the hall.  He could already hear the sounds of gunfire ahead of him and could only hope it was human security forces they were dealing with, not Sentinels.

#

Remy was at the house when the X-Men returned, sitting in the living room chatting with Jean and Hank.  Scott felt a completely irrational urge to simply walk over and strangle the man.

"You have an awful lot to answer for, Gambit," was all he could think of to say as the X-Men filed in.  He had no idea how to put into words the sense of betrayal he felt.  The hurt.  What had Remy done?  Bobby was a good kid, a good X-Man.  He didn't deserve to have his life messed up by a lazy, amoral, authority-hating criminal... Scott paused, taken aback by his own thoughts.  The unthinking vilification made it suddenly clear how deep his animosity toward Gambit went, and it surprised him to realize it.

In the silence that followed his words, Jean got up and came over to him, her expression worried.  "Did something happen?" she asked, laying a hand on his arm.

"You could say that," he answered tightly.  Around him, the other X-Men looked distinctly uncomfortable though no one made a motion to leave.  Remy looked at Scott for a few moments before turning to Bobby, one eyebrow raised in silent question.  Scott dreaded hearing what the young X-Man might say.

Bobby stepped forward and set the knapsack he'd been carrying down on the coffee table.  He glanced once at Scott, his expression diffident, and shrugged.  "We ran into some trouble." 

To Scott, the blinding understatement did nothing to describe the events of the past few hours and the horrible ways in which his world had been permanently rearranged.  It wasn't just Bobby, he knew.  In the firefight following their escape, they'd been forced to kill most of the guards who'd been outside the office, waiting for the Sentinels to arrive.  Scott was a soldier.  He'd seen carnage before.  But X-Men didn't kill, and the sprawled bodies of the uniformed guards were permanently etched into his memory.  Their blood was on his hands.

He turned to Gambit, shoving the memories away.  There was nothing he could do about those guards.  Remy, however, was right in front of him, and could be dealt with.  "How long has this been going on?" he demanded, his gaze split between Bobby and Remy.

Bobby surprised him by answering first, his tone scathing.  "Come on, Scott.  You didn't really think we were out bar hopping every night, did you?"

Across the room, Rogue stared at Bobby in wide-eyed surprise that quickly narrowed into a thoughtful frown.  Scott's anger coalesced into a hard ball in his stomach.  But before he could say anything, Logan stepped forward and held up a hand.  "Before this gets ugly, there're some questions that need answerin'."  He looked pointedly from Gambit to Bobby and back. 

Scott had to admit to himself that Logan was probably a better person to do the asking, despite how much he itched to lay into the two X-Men.  He forced himself to nod in agreement.  Jean's fingers tightened on his arm. He drew her closer, taking some small comfort in her presence as Logan turned to Bobby.

"Learnin' a few tricks from Gumbo ain't the same as becomin' a thief."  The silver that streaked Logan's hair glimmered in the light as he nodded toward the other man.  He managed to give the impression he was chewing on one of his cheroots though he didn't have anything in his mouth.  "That was a piece o' professional work tonight."

Bobby nodded cautiously.  "Thank you."  His voice was sardonic.  Scott was stunned by the hardness in his blue eyes.

Logan gave Bobby an evaluating stare, as if trying to figure out exactly how to take the comment.  Then he cocked his head.  "Ya wearin' a Guild mark, Bobby?"  His voice was that soft tone that automatically set the hairs on the back of Scott's neck to prickling.  Around the room, the other X-Men had turned wide-eyed stares on Bobby. 

"A what?" Scott asked as his stomach sank.  He was dead certain he wouldn't like the answer, but he needed to understand what Logan meant.

Logan shrugged lightly and touched a point at the base of his skull.  "The Guild marks its members.  I don't know what the marks mean, exactly, but I've seen 'em verified."  He shrugged again.  "Mark's made out o' metal, burned inta the bone.  Hard ta fake."

"Hurts like anything, too."  Bobby spread his hands, a familiar guileless grin flickering on his face.  After a moment, the smile died.  "Yeah, I'm wearing a Guild mark," he admitted.

For the first time since the conversation started, Scott saw anger on Logan's face and felt a sense of satisfaction.  If even Logan was upset at Gambit for what he'd done, maybe Scott's feelings weren't quite as out of line as he'd feared.

The Canuck turned on Gambit.  "I got no problem with ya teachin' him some o' the trade," he told Remy severely, "But the Guild's another thing entirely--!" He stopped and his gaze widened, as if he'd come to a sudden, startling conclusion.  He turned back to Bobby.

"This is about Diedre, ain't it."  It wasn't really a question.  His anger seemed to evaporate.

Scott held his breath as he waited for Bobby to answer.  He wanted to hear Bobby say that yes, it was all a horrible mistake, but he'd been in love and not thinking straight...  His hopes were dashed as Bobby slowly shook his head.

"Not really."  He sighed tiredly and ran a hand through his overlong hair.  Scott noticed absently that he was going to be able to pull it back in a queue soon.  "It started out that way... " For the first time since the conversation began, Bobby looked to Remy.

The Cajun's flat mask softened.  "An' if I'd known at de time who she was, I would've told y' 'no' an' sat on y' 'til y' came t' y' senses."  His voice was tinged with wry humor.  Scott couldn't imagine finding anything funny about the situation at all.

"What do you mean, 'told him 'no''?" On some level, Scott was amazed they were still discussing this rationally, rather than arguing about it at the top of their lungs, or worse.  But maybe OZT had shaken them all out of their normal patterns.  His own anger was there, pushed down and knotted up in his stomach, but not likely to explode out of him and put them all in danger.

Bobby's fair skin began to redden.  "I asked Remy to teach me to be a thief," he admitted.

"You what?"  Scott couldn't quite believe his ears.

Bobby ignored him.  "Because it was the only way to get to Diedre."  He shrugged.  "But after a while, it stopped being about Diedre and started being about me."  He met Scott's gaze with an honesty that surprised the X-Men's field leader.  "I became a thief because that's what I wanted to do... and to be."

"Taking from others is wrong, Robert."  Ororo's expression was painfully closed.  "Surely you know that."  She looked from him to Remy.  "I can understand stealing to eat, to survive, to get off the streets.  I have done that, and feel no shame for it."  Her gaze locked with Remy's, filling with compassion for a moment before she broke away to look at Bobby once more.  "But you have never known such need.  How can you claim any reason as good enough?"  She turned to Remy.  "And how could you let him?"

Remy stiffened, an expression of real pain flitting across his face before it turned to stone. 

"Stop it, all of you."  To Scott's surprise, Jean stepped away from him, holding up her hands, palms out, as if to keep combatants from leaping at each other.  She turned slowly, examining each of them with the keen expression Scott knew was the precursor to something momentous.

She lowered her hands.  "I can't tell you the basis for this, because I consider it privileged information."  She paused, turning to face Scott.  "But the Professor knew about all of this."  Several exclamations of surprise punctuated her statement, which she ignored.  Her piercing green gaze, so incredibly dear to him, was full of appeal.  "Not only that, but he approved, Scott."

Taken aback, Scott could only stare at her.  It seemed unfathomable, yet Jean would know if anyone did.  "Why?" he asked.

She glanced back over her shoulder at Remy and Scott felt a new burst of anger.  She almost seemed to be looking for his permission to answer and when he shrugged in response to the unspoken request, Scott's suspicion was confirmed. 

Jean turned to face him once again, her mouth set in a crooked line.  "Because Remy has been feeding him information almost from day one, and we've saved countless lives because of it."  She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear as she spoke.  "As he did with Logan on a consistent basis, and sometime Bishop and Elizabeth, the Professor used the X-Men's resources to their fullest.  A good deal of the information this team has operated on is information that only a thief like Remy could come by."

Scott felt as if the rug had been yanked out from underneath him.  He could only stare at Gambit as a thousand little details from the past four years cascaded into place all at once.  He could suddenly see that the Cajun thief had, indeed, been working for the Professor all that time, maybe working for himself, too.  Lying through his teeth about being retired, and then dragging Bobby into it…   He suddenly realized just exactly what kind of sleight-of-hand Gambit had pulled on him, on them, and he found himself staring at a complete stranger wearing a familiar face.

A deep guffaw shattered the silence.  Scott turned to see Logan with his head thrown back, laughing uproariously.  Even Gambit stared at him quizzically.

Logan shook one finger at the Cajun, unable to speak through his laughter.  Eventually, though, he regained control.  He shook his head in disgust. 

"I can't believe I fell fer that act o' yours."  Logan rolled his eyes.  "Four years."  With a grin, he mimed tipping a hat in Remy's direction.  "Mighty well played... Master Thief, ain't it?"

Remy returned the gesture with a flourished bow.  "Oui."  Despite his smile, his eyes were serious and wary.

Scott was beginning to hate the ignorant feeling he got every time the subject of the Guilds came up.  "What's the significance of a Master Thief?"  He hadn't missed the capitalization, or the clear note of respect in Logan's voice.

In response, Logan turned to Bobby.  "Drake, how many Masters are there in the American Guilds?"

Infuriatingly, Bobby looked to Gambit for permission before he answered.  "Ten, at the moment."

Logan went on, "An' how many in the rest o' the world?"

"Eighteen."

Logan turned back to Scott.  "Those twenty-eight men 're acknowledged, world-wide, as the very best in the business.  Even the government can't field anything like 'em."

Scott looked at Remy, trying to see the kind of man Logan was describing inside him.  Bishops words from a few days before floated through his head, mixing with his own realizations until he found that it wasn't quite as impossible as he might have once believed.  If it hadn't been for what Jean had said about the Professor, he knew he would have been utterly horrified.  Instead, he wasn't certain how to feel. 

For a moment, his own curiosity got the better of him.  "I suppose there's some kind of internal rating scheme between these twenty-eight Masters as to who's best."  The statement won him a look of surprise from Gambit, who nodded cautiously.

"So where do you fit on the scale?"

Remy stared at him. Scott could see him debating whether to answer.  Finally, he came to some conclusion and shrugged eloquently.  "Third."

Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw Ororo's jaw drop.  She recovered immediately, but her eyes remained wide.  Even Logan looked slightly scandalized, as if that admission had been a good deal more than he'd been expecting.

Remy scanned the room, his expression closing in on itself when he reached Rogue.  Scott wasn't sure if he could see the other's dangerous stare, but it was obvious he could feel it, and Scott was momentarily surprised that she had remained silent throughout the discussion.  That wasn't like Rogue at all.

Gambit's red eyes flicked to Scott.  "Are we done wit' 'Dis Is Y' Life'?" he asked.

"Not yet."  Scott met Remy's flat stare, for once unperturbed by it.  He felt strangely calm, perhaps because he finally felt like he understood what he was dealing with.  The fact that Gambit had effectively played him for a fool made him mad, yes, but... but he felt a whole lot better about dealing with a competent, even dangerously capable thief than the two-bit drifter he'd always taken Gambit for.  He swallowed a laugh.  At least now I know he won't get my people killed through incompetence.  He watched Gambit for a moment longer.  Malice, maybe, but not incompetence.  If it weren't for Jean's emphatic support, he would have been extremely suspicious of Gambit's motives.  But if both she and the Professor had known all along, and had trusted him...

He sighed.  "I guess I only have one more question."

Gambit watched him expectantly.

"Why the secrecy?  Why didn't you tell us?"  Why didn't the Professor tell me? 

Remy cocked his head.  "Do y' honestly t'ink de X-Men would've left me alone t' do m' job de way it had t' be done?"  He smiled briefly.  "I had enough trouble keepin' de Prof from sendin' de team out every time I hit a snag."

Scott stiffened instinctively.  "The X-Men are supposed to look after each other--"

"Yeah, Scott."  Remy looked thoroughly disgusted.  "But none o' de people I deal wit' would come near me if dey smelled de X-Men."  He waited a moment to let Scott digest that.  "It ain' a matter o' trust, if dat's what y' t'inkin'.  It's jus' de way t'ings are.  If y' wan' my kind o' help, y' got t' let me do t'ings my way."

Scott found that he didn't have an answer to that.

#

"Well, looks like ah finally got the truth out o' ya."

Remy stiffened, but kept his back turned to the doorway from which Rogue's voice emanated.  He needed the time to get his expression under control.  This feels like an ambush.  He snorted to himself.  It probably was one, and he couldn't honestly claim he didn't deserve it.

Slowly, he turned around.  "Guess so," he agreed.  They stared at each other in silence for several long moments.

Eventually Rogue pushed away from the doorframe and walked into the room.  She didn't approach him directly, but instead prowled the limits of the small space, her bare fingers trailing across the edges of the furniture, the windowsill, the wainscoting.  Remy turned slowly, watching her.

After a while she stopped and turned toward him.  "Ain't ya got anythin' ta say ta me?"  Her voice was harsh.  Hurt.

Remy bit down firmly on his tongue and the sarcastic response that wanted to leap off it.  He was painfully aware that he could lose her forever in the space of the next few minutes if he wasn't careful.  Maybe even if he was.  But I never really expected to tell the X-Men even as much as I just did. 

He swallowed a sigh.  "Not'ing y' wan' hear, I'm guessin'."

She paused, turning her head away for a moment as if hiding her expression.  When she spoke, her voice was scathing.  "Nah.  Ah suppose 'Ah'm sorry' ain't in ya repertoire, is it?"

"I tried t' tell y'!"  Involuntarily, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

She cocked her head mockingly.  "Tried?  Sugah, how hard is it ta say 'Ah'm a Master Thief, Rogue, with no intentions o' evah leavin' the business'?  Hmm?"

"Dat's 'gainst Guild rules."  The words came out flat, angry.  It was true.  He couldn't identify himself as a Master to anyone who wasn't Guild or Clan, unless they already knew enough to ask the right questions.

Rogue relented, crossing her arms and staring directly at him.  "All right.  Ya couldn't say that much.  But ya sure coulda told me more than ya did."

Remy's stomach sank.  That one hit close to the truth.  He took a deep breath.  "Oui, chere.  I could've."  But there were two sides to that coin.  "Y' didn' wan' hear it, though, so I didn'."

Rogue gaped at him.  "'Ah didn't want ta hear it?'" she demanded incredulously.  "Remy, what've ah been askin' ya foh the last two years?"

Remy bit his lip.  He could give her the answer she wanted to hear, which was true, or the answer she didn't want to hear, which he suspected was even more true.  Neither one would do him much good, though, so he kept silent.

A frustrated growl escaped her.  "All ah wanted was ta know was what ya were up ta."  She held up a hand.  "Not because ah wanted ta keep tabs on ya, all right?  Ah didn't even want ta tag along, not most o' the time, anyway."  Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head.  "Ah guess ah just wanted ta know that ya trusted me that much."

The pain in her voice robbed him of breath.  As much as her behavior made him angry, even furious sometimes, he'd never meant to hurt her.  He felt incredibly weary.  "How could I, chere?" he answered.  "When every time I showed y' somet'ing 'bout me, y' got mad?"

Rogue stared at him for a moment, then threw up her hands.  "O' course ah got mad!"

Remy just stared at her.  "An' dat's supposed t' be all right wit' me?  I should jus' tell y' everyt'ing y' wan' know, an' never mind who y' might go to t' try an' stop me if y' didn' like what I was doin'?"

She recoiled a step.  "Ah would nevah have done that!"

"Really?" he challenged.  He found the claim hard to believe.  She was far too protective.

"Yes."  She planted her fists on her hips.  "Ya forgettin' who raised me."

He snorted.  "Y' don' act like Raven's daughter, chere.  If y' did, we wouldn' be havin' this conversation."

Her gasp was part shock, part fury.  "Just because Mystique raised me doesn't mean ah want ta be like her!  How dare ya stand there an' tell me ya won't trust me because ah ain't up ta mah eyeballs in the business!"

Remy struggled to keep his temper from exploding.  "I never asked y' t' get involved," he grated.  "Y' didn' wan' it, so I tried t' keep y' out."  He wished with all his heart that he could see the gaze that bored into him.  "All I wanted from y' was f' y' t' accept dat it's a part o' m' life."

Rogue sank onto the edge of the dresser.  "Ah'm involved by definition, Remy.  Ya bein' naive if ya think ya can keep me out by keepin' me in the dark."

The bitter truth settled like a lump in Remy's stomach.  "I wasn' tryin' t' keep y' out.  I was tryin' t' get y' t' come in."  He shook his head sadly.  "I t'ought, if I took it slow enough, y'd eventually come around."

She stared at him in dismay.  "How am ah evah gonna get it through ya thick skull that ah don't want ta have anythin' ta do with that life?"  There was no anger in her voice, only painful determination.  "Ah'm an X-Man now an' ah don't intend ta let you o' Mystique o' anyone else drag me back inta that."

She sighed.  "Ah was just a fool foh thinkin' ya'd evah walk away."  She touched her head.  "Ah should've known better."  He understood that she meant because she had absorbed him.

Remy realized he was shaking and pressed his palms against the sides of his thighs.  "So is this where it ends?" he asked.  The words hurt coming out, as if they were tearing his heart out with them.

Rogue turned her head away.  "Ah don't know, sugah."  She levered herself to her feet.  "Right now, ah am so mad at ya."  Her voice was even, controlled.  "Ah don't want ta make any kind o' snap decisions."

She pulled herself erect, then slowly walked away.  Remy couldn't think of a single thing to say, and so he had no choice but to watch her go.

Chapter 20

Remy stood in the midst of the chaos in the Guild's communications center, eyes closed as he listened to the television coverage of events currently taking place in Los Angeles.  Around him, the Guild members who had taken up responsibilities within the center babbled at each other and at Remy, voicing a hundred questions for which they had no answers.  On the television monitors, breaking news programs described the horde of Prime Sentinels that had descended on the city, uprooting and destroying a group of mutants hidden there.  The reports were using words like "secret organization" and "mutant terrorist cells", but Remy was very afraid that truth was something far worse.

Please don' let dis be what I t'ink it is.

Though OZT did not officially control any aspect of the government of the United States, it was becoming painfully clear that Bastion was pulling all of the strings.  The news was becoming more and more obviously censored.  Every local and national television station currently showed coverage of the blitz on Los Angeles, but the extent of the damage could only be guessed at from a few clues.  Even Trish Tilby sounded strained, as if the words she used were so grossly incorrect she was having trouble with her lines.

Beside Remy, a small phone began to beep. His gut clenched into a hard, cold knot.  In the communications center, the discrete noise managed to pierce the din.  The babble of voices fell away and Remy could feel the eyes of every person there turning toward him.

With a nonchalance he didn't feel, Remy reached over and picked up the sleek handset.  It was the Guildmaster's private phone, a secure line that linked the Guild leaders.  The handset itself was coded to Remy's fingerprints and could not be used by anyone else.

"LeBeau," he said quietly.

"Are you watching the news, Remy?"  Guildmaster Lotho sounded as grim as Remy had every heard him.

"Oui."

"Then you know that the Los Angeles Guild has been compromised."

Remy's stomach twisted savagely as his worst fears were confirmed.  "Oui."  He grabbed control of his feelings and tried to concentrate.  "How bad's de damage?"

Lotho paused.  "Bad.  The Guild was particularly vulnerable because they didn't have an underground complex to retreat to."  If he condemned that branch of the Guild for its lack of preparation, he didn't let it show in his voice.  "They only had a few minutes' warning before the Sentinels began their laser bombardment.  They did manage to mislead the Sentinels to some degree and got two aircraft off the ground, but that's all.  As far as we can tell, the Guild has been completely destroyed.  Some of the Clans may have managed to scatter, but they're hunting mutants up and down the street.  You can see that on the TV."  He sighed, sounding incredibly weary.  "I doubt that many will survive."

Adrenaline poured through Remy as his instinctive fight-or-flight reflex came to life.  "How did Bastion find out 'bout de Guild?  Are de ot'ers at risk?"  He had ideas, plans for how to protect the Guild if OZT ever discovered the New York complex, but those were inadequate and he knew it. 

"No, we don't think the other Guilds have been compromised," Lotho answered.  "They would have hit the other cities at the same time.  Their assault method doesn't lead me to believe they suspect our existence, either.  Otherwise, they would have been trying to take prisoners for questioning."

Remy wanted to put the phone down, but couldn't.  The L.A. Guild had boasted more than five hundred thieves, with a Clan population matched only by New York.  They were the newest, most aggressive of the American Guilds, and one of the most profitable.

An' now dey're all dead. It was hard to fathom.

"The two aircraft that made it out of L.A. are still in the air," Lotho said, drawing Remy out of his thoughts.  "I've diverted them to New York."

"What?"  Remy was caught off guard.  "Why?" 

Lotho's tone turned sharp.  "Because, of all of us, you're the only one who saw this coming, Guildmaster, and New York is the most secure site because of it."  He sighed softly.  "It'll take a miracle to get those planes down in one piece, but I trust that you can find me that miracle."  He paused and lowered his voice.  "Between the two, they have almost a hundred children on board, Remy.  They were trying to at least get the kids out."

Remy caught the corner of the table to steady himself.  His vision swam, filling with a scene from his nightmares-- torn and mangled bodies strewn across the floor of the Morlock tunnels, empty-eyed children whose only crime had been to belong to the band of underground dwellers.  He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.  Never again. It was a promise he'd made to himself, a fierce oath that alone let him live with the guilt.  Never again.

"I'll get dem down," he told Lotho grimly.

#

The basement always smelled a little bit like mold, Scott thought.  Despite the new smells of gunpowder, oil, metal and nylon that now characterized the dank space, the underlying smell of flourishing mildew remained.  It made his nose itch whenever he noticed it.  Currently, the basement was full as the X-Men practiced.  Sparring mats took up one corner of the cement room, while an obstacle course had taken over the target range.  Storm's team worked their way through the course, practicing squad tactics and pausing occasionally to discuss how adapt their old techniques to the current circumstances.  Scott sat off to the side, observing while he cleaned his rifle.  A small radio sat beside him, playing news coverage of the Sentinels' attack on Los Angeles. 

What I wouldn't give to have even half of the equipment we had at the mansion, he thought grimly.  Jean was upstairs with the remaining members of the team, watching the coverage on the television, but there was absolutely nothing the X-Men could do about it.  Scott ground his teeth in silent frustration.  He hated feeling helpless.

On the practice floor, Storm had split her group into squads led by Logan and Rogue.  The two groups covered each other as they advanced through the obstacles, following a path marked for them by Bobby, who held the vanguard position.  Scott frowned unhappily.  Storm had adjusted to the knowledge of Bobby's chosen... profession, if one could call it that... much more quickly than he'd expected.  Scott was still struggling with it.  It was one thing to find out that Gambit was so much more than he appeared.  In a bizarre way, that was almost good news, despite the questions it raised.  But Bobby-- Scott shook his head.  He just couldn't understand how anyone who didn't have to could choose to become a thief.

Scott watched the squads advance for a few more moments, his attention focused on the young blond haired man that crept through the shadows, his movements confident and professional.  He sighed.  Even more disturbing, perhaps, than Bobby choosing to follow Gambit to the Thieves guild, was the effect it had had on him.

Or maybe I just resent the fact that in less than two years Gambit managed to do more with him than I did in the eight previous ones.   Bobby's development had always been a source of concern both for himself and the Professor.  It rankled that Gambit-- with all his street-smart arrogance and hatred of authority-- had waltzed in, dragged Bobby into every dark alley and shady deal he could find, and had somehow managed to give the young man exactly what he needed.  Something that neither Scott nor the Professor had ever been able to give him.

The general commotion in the basement came to an abrupt halt as the trapdoor in the corner swung upward and Gambit climbed through.  Even Scott was taken aback, his earlier train of thought scattering.  The Cajun's angular face was set in a grim mask that did little to cover the desperation lurking behind it.  Scott recognized the expression, but had never seen it on Remy's face before.  Every danger instinct he possessed came alive in that instant and he jumped to his feet, rifle in hand.

"What is it, Gambit?" he demanded.

Remy stared at him for a single instant, his expression torn.  Then the expression disappeared completely.  "I need de Blackbird an' a good pilot."  Despite the composure he wore on his face, his voice was ragged.

The X-Men gathered around them curiously as Scott digested the statement.  He cocked his head, baffled rather than angry at the sudden demand.  "The Blackbird?  What for?"

Beside Storm, Bobby watched Gambit with an expression of horror.  "Remy, what's happened?"

Remy's gaze snapped from Scott to the young thief, then returned.  "Y' been watchin' de news?" he asked Scott.

Scott nodded.  There was only one event that he could be referring to.  "Los Angeles."

Remy's lips thinned as his gaze moved to Bobby's once more.  "Dat's de L.A. Guild dey been huntin' down an' murderin'."  Bobby paled at his words and Remy shook his head.  "Dere two airplanes on dere way here, wit' de only survivors."  He looked back at Scott.  "I need some kind o' air coverage t' get dem on de ground safely, an' de Blackbird's de only option I've got."

Scott noticed the words Remy was using with interest.  I need, he'd said, not the Guild needs.  But that thought was quickly buried by others.  "That's a big risk.  We can't afford to lose the Blackbird."  Or the X-Men flying it.  His conscience twinged even as he said the words.  The X-Men were supposed to protect those who couldn't protect themselves from people like Bastion, no matter who they were... and no matter what the cost. 

Remy, apparently, had similar thoughts.  His red eyes sparked dangerously, even without their eerie mutant glow.  "I ain' askin' y' t' put de X-Men at risk f' t'ieves, Cyclops."  His voice was angry.  "De Guild takes care o' dere own."  Remy stopped abruptly, his voice breaking on the last word.  Scott stared in surprise as the other man's flat mask shattered.

"Dose planes 're full o' children, Scott."

Children.  The bottom dropped out of Scott's stomach as he stared at Gambit. Similar feelings reflected on the faces of the X-Men around them.  Somehow, in imagining Remy's guild, he'd always thought of thieves only.  Dark men who broke the law without concern for the rights or property of others.  He'd never imagined families, never imagined children.

For a moment, he wondered if Gambit could be making that part up, manipulating him through his conscience.  He wouldn't put it past the Cajun, if for no other reason than he'd lied to them before when he thought there was a good enough reason.  

Scott made his decision.  He couldn't ignore the need, but that didn't mean he had to take Gambit's word without testing its truthfulness.  He nodded sharply.  "All right, Gambit, you've got the Blackbird-- and me to fly it." 

Gambit's gaze flickered in surprise that shaded into approval.  But, there was little argument that Scott was the best pilot they had. 

Scott turned to the gathered X-Men, his expression grim.  Time for that test. "Rogue, you're my co-pilot," he told her.  She understood the Blackbird's systems better than most, and was a capable pilot.  But more importantly, he knew Remy would never agree to risk her life without a very good reason.

Startled, Rogue nodded.

Scott turned back to Gambit, gauging his reaction.  All he saw was a flash of dismay, quickly hidden as the thief nodded again.  Scott kept his reaction to himself.  Looks like he was telling the truth.  Strangely, that made Scott feel better, and with his doubts resolved, the intense focus that was his hallmark came to life.  Everything that needed to happen in order to get the Blackbird into the air scrolled through his mind. He automatically began juggling pieces to make the most efficient use of their time and resources.

"What about the rest of us?"  Logan asked, his arms crossed over his chest.

Gambit shook his head.  "Y' can' do much on de ground 'gainst Sentinels.  If we can get dose planes down, de Guild c'n take care o' gettin' de kids out."

Logan scowled at him.  "Ya ought ta take all the help ya c'n get, Gumbo."

"De X-Men can' disappear like t'ieves can," Remy answered.  "We ain' plannin' t' fight.  Jus' snatch an' run.  Anyt'ing else be suicide."

Scott was forced to agree with the logic and saw Logan give Remy a begrudging nod.  "What's our time frame?" Scott asked.

The Cajun paused for several seconds as if referencing an internal clock the rest of them couldn't see.  "Forty-three minutes."

#

Who are these people? Scott thought as he turned the cloaked Blackbird to make an arcing pass across the makeshift landing strip the thieves had chosen.  The landing site was simply a street, four lanes wide, that ran between two rows of office buildings.  The late night traffic was sparse but present, and he worried briefly about the chances that some innocent motorist might get hurt.  Two of the tallest buildings flanking the runway had significant activity on their roofs as people worked feverishly to finish assembling two high-density laser anti-aircraft cannon.

What are thieves doing with that kind of artillery, anyway? Scott shook his head.  He wasn't certain why they were bringing the airplanes into the heart of the city.  It seemed to him that it would be safer to choose a more open landing site.  The narrow tunnel between buildings would take both skill and luck to navigate, and that was without Sentinels.  But maybe they felt they could disappear more easily in the dense city center.

"Rogue, where are they?"  He made a quick visual sweep of the flight instruments.  Everything was green, but they were burning precious fuel.

Beside him, Rogue kept her attention focused on the displays.  "No sign yet, sugah.  The Sentinels 're still on their regular patrol routes."  She glanced out the window for a moment as they circled and shook her head.  "That's quite the professional operation they've got goin' down there."  Her voice had a reflective quality that Scott had rarely heard.  "Whoevah's in charge knows what they're doin'."

Surprised by the analysis, Scott nonetheless had to agree.  The two anti-aircraft emplacements had nearly unlimited fields of fire and could cover the entire length of the street from aerial assault.  The cannon were heavy enough to damage Sentinels, possibly even bring them down.  Remy had assured him that the people manning them knew about the Blackbird and that it would splash as a friendly on their targeting screens once he dropped the cloaking field.  Scott could only hope he was right.

Rogue straightened abruptly in her seat.  "Got 'em, Cyke.  Two bogeys comin' in on heading one-one-zero.  Sentinels are breakin' off to take a look."  She touched several keys on her instrument panel.  "Let's see if we can identify 'em."

On the pilot's heads up display, Scott could see two blips that represented the distant aircraft and the larger splashes that marked the Sentinels.  Adrenaline tingled through his veins as he turned the Blackbird on an intercept course and accelerated.  They closed on the Sentinels with frightening speed, reaching them just as the first Sentinel opened fire.  Scott decloaked the Bird and returned fire, cutting between the approaching Sentinels and the two business jets, and thanking Lilandra over and over again in his mind for the matchless performance the Shi'ar technology gave them.

Scott arced the Blackbird up and over the Sentinels, fighting to breathe through the g-forces that shoved against his chest.  He rolled out, lining up on another Sentinel as he did so.  He pressed the firing button, noticing at the same time that the trailing airplane of the two had a thick billow of smoke coming out of one engine.  It was still on course, though, and Scott silently wished the pilot luck. 

Bright red beams lanced out of the Blackbird's underbelly, striking the Sentinel full on, staggering it.  Shrill alarms began to wail in the cockpit as several other Sentinels locked onto them and Scott jinked wildly to evade the laser barrage.  Twisting through the air, the Blackbird pulled away unharmed as the sky behind them lit up as the Sentinels came in range of the anti-aircraft guns.

Rogue's face was pale as they rolled into a steep turn to bring them back into the fray.  Below, the two business jets cut between the long row of buildings, losing both altitude and speed as they came in to land.  At rooftop level, lasers crisscrossed the gap, creating a protective net that captured the Sentinels' fire. 

"Uh oh, sugah.  They're goin' after the guns now."  As Rogue spoke, two of the Sentinels dropped into a hover, their laser bombardment concentrated on the rooftops where the thieves maintained their counter fire.

Scott tried to target the nearer of the two, but couldn't hold his position as three additional Sentinels barreled toward them.  "They're coming from everywhere!" he snarled as he threw the Blackbird into a steep climb to escape the forming trap.  Seven Sentinel icons now swarmed on his display, with more arriving every few minutes.

"South gun emplacement destroyed," Rogue informed him, her tone flat.  Scott didn't need her to tell him that the men who had been manning the cannon were dead.  As they came around again, he could see the pillar of flames rising from the top of the building.  The wreckage of a Prime Sentinel tumbled from the sky, trailing smoke. Scott felt a wash of grim satisfaction.  They'd taken one of the enemy with them, at least.

Scott advanced the throttles to make a strafing run of the line of Sentinels pursuing the two airplanes toward their landing site.  The lead airplane was already on the ground, its engine noise a muted roar that echoed between the buildings as it poured on reverse thrust for braking.  The second, smaller jet was just above and behind it, wavering slightly as the pilot struggled to land with only one engine.

Then several things happened at once.  The Blackbird sliced across the space in front of the advancing Sentinels, spraying laser beams as the second gun emplacement exploded behind them in a ball of flames that engulfed the entire top of the building.  In the sudden emptiness, one of the least damaged Sentinels opened fire on the business jets. 

"No!"  Rogue's strangled cry was his only warning as the beams speared the wing of the smaller jet, shredding it.  The suddenly destabilized airplane wheeled sharply and slammed into the face of one of the office buildings, exploding into flames.  A wall of fire and smoke briefly hid the other jet from view.

Scott was filled with a nameless fury. He pulled hard on the controls, bringing the Blackbird around in a high-g loop that made the edges of his vision flicker and dove back toward the Sentinels, hammering them with his lasers.  Return fire from the Sentinels slammed into the Blackbird's shields, making the plane shudder.

An unfamiliar voice crackled across Scott's headset.  "Break off, Blackbird."  Whoever it was was breathing heavily, as if he were running at the same time.  "I repeat, break off.  We're pulling back.  We got everyone we could."  Even through the static and electrical noise, Scott could hear the suppressed anguish in the man's voice. 

The voice paused for a moment, then came back, full of raw sincerity.  "I don't know who you are, but thank you.  We couldn't have saved any of them without your help."

Scott looked over at Rogue and saw her mouth form a strained smile that matched his own feelings perfectly.

"You're welcome," he told the unknown thief as he rolled the Blackbird into a turn, aiming for a break between two of the hovering Sentinels.  "Blackbird, out."  And with that he switched the cloaking field back on as they ducked between the machines and made a break for home. 

Chapter 21

The main tunnels leading into the Guild complex emerged into a monstrous natural cavern that had somehow become the center of the thieves' underground community.  Part of the area had been taken up by a kind of flea market, despite the fact that in the present situation the Guild provided for all of its members in a surprisingly effective socialist manner.  Another portion of the cavern had been marked off into playing fields which were almost always in use.  Bobby sometimes marveled at the organization of the Guild.  They had soccer and volleyball leagues going to help keep the children active and entertained in the underground complex.

Right now, though, the cavern was simply full of people as the Guild and Clans came out to meet their returning members and the children they had risked so much to save.  Bobby glanced over at Remy, secretly afraid of how he might react.  There was a hardness in his eyes that hadn't been there a few hours earlier and Bobby had the strangest feeling that something inside the Guildmaster had snapped when the second jet crashed. 

From the expressions on the faces that surrounded him as the returning thieves made their way into the cavern, Bobby could tell they'd already heard what had happened and knew about those who were not returning with them.  The noise level remained a murmur of voices interrupted by wails as the exhausted, terrified children were absorbed into the front rows of the crowd.  All eyes remained on the Guildmaster.

Remy seemed oblivious to the attention.  He held a boy of seven or eight in his arms, but looked past the child, his gaze distant.  After a little bit, though, he came back to himself and looked around at the sea of expectant faces.

"Dese seventy-one children are all dat's left o' de Los Angeles Guild."  He raised his voice to carry across the crowd, his long face somber.  "Dere homes are gone-- dere families."  He paused and Bobby could see him gathering himself.  "So from today on, dis will be dere new home.  We will be dere family."  Nods and a murmur of agreement followed the Guildmaster's statement.

Remy turned a full circle, looking out over the crowd in appeal.  "If any o' you have room in y' home, in y' family... in y' heart... dese children need it." 

Bobby glanced down in surprise at the girl in his arms.  She couldn't have been any more than two years old, a golden-haired, blue-eyed angel with streaks of soot covering her face and clothes.  If he and Diedre were ever to have a daughter, he thought, she would probably look just like this one.  Filled with sudden resolution, Bobby squeezed the little girl tightly.  Diedre would be willing, he was certain.

He watched with a growing sense of pride as thieves and clansmen came forward, claiming a child or sometimes several as siblings were identified, then picking them up and carrying them away.  Artur Valencia, with both of his teenage daughters beside him, took the boy from Remy's arms.  The two men talked quietly for a few minutes and Bobby took the opportunity to study his friend, his mentor, his Guildmaster.  There was something wrong with Remy, he decided, though he couldn't put his finger on what it might be.  Nothing in his behavior seemed out of place, yet Bobby couldn't dismiss his feelings of concern.

Pushing the thoughts away, he went in search of his wife.  There was nothing he could do right now.  Maybe later, when he could find an opportunity to talk to Remy privately without the strict hierarchy of Guild ranks. 

He found Diedre after a few minutes and couldn't help his smile as her eyes lit up on seeing him.  She slipped up against him, gentle and beautiful as her snowflake nickname, her blue eyes full of questions as she took in the little girl he held.

"We have room--" he began, only to be silenced as she reached up to kiss him.

"Of course we do."  Her smile glowed as she backed up a step to look into the girl's face.  "Hi, sweetie."

The girl only stared at her, her face empty.  Bobby supposed that wasn't too surprising.  An adult would be overwhelmed by the things that had happened that day, let alone a tiny child.  Diedre's smile dimmed, but she held out her arms to the girl. After a moment's hesitation, Bobby felt the body in his arms lean toward her.  He let Diedre take her, oddly pleased as the girl curled up against her and laid her head on Diedre's shoulder. 

Diedre stroked her hair, then looked up at him.  "Can you come home?" she asked softly. 

Bobby turned to look for Remy, but didn't see him.  He shrugged.  "For a little while, I guess."  Then he would either have work to do making sure OZT didn't find the Guild because of the stunt they'd just pulled, or he'd need to go back to the X-Men.

He put an arm around her shoulder and together they turned toward their quarters.

#

Remy sank into the leather chair behind the Guildmaster's broad desk and held his hands out in front of him.  They were shaking, blurring the edges of their faintly glowing outlines.  He stared at them intently, concentrating, until the tremor disappeared.  More than anything, he wanted to curl up in a fetal ball around the pain in his gut.  His stomach heaved and twirled in a nauseating dance that left him swallowing hard against the bile that rose in his throat. 

Not'ing I could do.  Not'ing I could do. Not'ing I could do. He repeated the words over and over again to himself as if that might make them more believable.  All he could see when he closed his eyes was the brilliant flash of the explosion followed by an expanding ball of glowing gasses and flame.  And over that, he could hear the terrified cries of the children inside as they were cut down, torn apart by laser fire and flashing claws...

"Non!"  Remy slammed both palms down on the surface of the desk as one image impinged on another.  Sweat covered him, sliding down his back in cold rivulets as he fought to hold the past at bay.  Dis ain' like de Morlocks, he told himself.  It ain'.  Slowly, he pushed the crowding memories away until he could breathe again.

Later, he reached out and picked up the small phone that lay on the desk.  The tech that answered him from the communications center quickly patched him into his secured line and put through the call to Chicago.  Remy waited while the phone on the other end rang, his fingers flexing spasmodically on the handset.  He wanted to break something, destroy something... anything to release the fury pent inside him.  In some ways, having the Danger Room to let loose in had been an incredible benefit.  Within the Guild he could never afford to lose control that way.

The line picked up with a click.  "Hello, Remy."  Guildmaster Lotho said without preamble.  "I saw the news reports.  How many survived?"

Remy hadn't seen the TV, but he could guess what the news had been showing.  Nausea clenched his stomach once again.  "Seventy-one, plus de pilot."  Miraculously, his voice sounded only a little strained.

"And the second plane was lost completely?"

Remy bit his lip and nodded.  "Oui.  We lost bot' de gun crews, too.  Eight men."  Men Remy had assigned to their posts.

Lotho sighed tiredly.  "A bitter victory... You did well, Guildmaster.  No one could have done any more."

Remy wanted to tear the phone away from his ear.  Lotho's gratitude didn't seem appropriate or deserved when there were thirty-three dead children in the wreckage of that second plane.  Luckily, Lotho went on, sparing Remy from a response.

"I do have to question where you got a Blackbird, though."  His voice had become businesslike.  "Involving the military is a heavy risk, no matter where the individual pilot's or commanding officer's loyalties might lie.  What precautions are you taking to make sure OZT can't trace the Guild through that airplane?"

Remy dragged his thoughts into line as the meaning of the Guildmaster's words sank in.  "Ain' a mil'tary bird," he answered, his thickening accent showing just how thin his emotional self-control had been stretched. 

Lotho paused.  "A private SR-71?  Who has--?"  He stopped abruptly and in the silence Remy could only shake his head.  Just as he'd never intended to tell the X-Men about his real role in the Guild, he'd never intended to let the Guild know about his involvement with the X-Men.  They might forbid it as a risk to the Guild's anonymity.  But giving that information away was preferable to lying outright to the leader of the American Guilds.

"Well, that explains a few things."  Lotho sounded thoughtful when he finally spoke.

Remy almost asked what he meant, but then decided he didn't really care.  He waited in silence for Lotho to go on.

"How much do they know about the Guild?" Lotho asked after a moment.  The question was serious, but tinged with curiosity.

Remy chewed on his answer, deciding that a judicious application of truth was in order.  "A lil'.  Not enough t' be a threat."  He didn't mention Bobby.  Lotho would have to figure that one out for himself.  Remy had followed all of the Guild's requirements in bringing Bobby in to the thieves' world.  No one had ever asked, so at worst he'd get his hand slapped for not telling them who the young man was.

"All right."  Lotho sounded like he was shaking his head in consternation.  "I suppose I'll have to trust you to keep that under control.  They saved Guild lives today-- I can't argue too much."

Remy breathed a silent sigh of relief as Lotho hung up.  He carefully set the phone down in its cradle, grimacing as his hands began to shake again. 

Get busy, Remy, he told himself.  That was the only way to hold off the pain.  He had plenty to do.  The battle with the Sentinels had most certainly alerted OZT to the fact that the L.A. mutants had friends in New York.  They would come looking, and it was up to Remy to make sure there was nothing to be found that could lead the Sentinels to the Guild... or to the X-Men.

Taking a deep breath he began to organize his thoughts, and after a few minutes he picked up the phone again to call for Artur.

#

Rogue crept quietly into the bedroom Remy shared with Bobby and Bishop.  Midafternoon sunlight fell against the drawn blinds making the plastic slats glow, but the light didn't penetrate very far.  In the musty gloom she could barely make out Remy's lanky form.  It was the first time he'd come home in the three days since the fight with the Sentinels.

Rogue stopped beside the bed, watching him critically as her eyes adjusted.  To her surprise, he was still asleep.  But then, he looked like he'd done nothing more than walk in and collapse across the bed.  He was completely dressed, down to his boots, and was so thoroughly tangled in the blankets that she wondered if he'd be able to get out of bed without some help.

Nightmares, she thought succinctly.  Remy lay mostly on his back, his eyelids twitching frantically with the motion of his eyes beneath them.  His hair was matted and damp with the sweat that glistened on his forehead.  Hopefully that means he won't mind mah wakin' him up.

She sat carefully on the edge of the bed and reached over to touch his shoulder.  At her touch, Remy uncoiled like a striking cobra.  In an instant, Rogue found herself staring directly into the snubbed nose of an automatic pistol.  Over the gun she could see a pair of red eyes, wild and angry and empty of recognition as Remy stared at her through the sights.

Rogue's breath froze in her chest.  Don't move, she instructed herself firmly.  Whatevah ya do, don't react. Her mother's teachings came back in a flood as she forced herself to hold perfectly still.  She could see his finger tighten on the trigger and knew that even a little flicker might get her shot.  He isn't seein' me. 

The moment stretched, scary and interminable, as they stared at each other.  Then recognition flooded Remy's face and his eyes widened in horror.  The gun disappeared, returned to its holster with a single motion. 

"Rogue!  What are y' doin'?!  I could've killed y'!"  Angrily he tried to throw off the covers but didn't get very far.  Rogue watched him struggle, finding it odd that a man as agile as Remy could be trapped by bedsheets.  He gave up after a minute and glared at her, chest heaving, as if she were somehow personally responsible for his predicament.

Shaking with adrenaline, Rogue took a deep breath.  "Ah was just comin' ta see if ya wanted ta get up foh dinner."  Somehow she managed to keep her voice normal.

His anger shattered.  He looked away, lips pressed together in a thin line.  She could literally see the tension running out of him as he reached up to scrub his face with his hands, running them through his unkempt hair.

Rogue looked down at her own hands which had retreated to her lap, searching desperately for something to say.  "That musta been some doozy of a nightmare ya were havin', sugah."  He looked up at her comment, red eyes narrowed intently, as she pressed on.  "Ya want ta tell me about it?"  She tried to keep her voice light-- a simple question, not a demand.

To her dismay, his face closed up, sealing his thoughts behind an impenetrable wall.  "Was not'ing."  He began carefully unwinding the bedding from around his legs.

Rogue's frustration with him exploded out of her like flash fire.  "Nothin'!  Ah don't call comin' within a hair o' puttin' a bullet through mah skull 'nothin'', Remy!"

Hurt flashed behind his eyes, mixed with fear.  Then he closed his eyes and tipped his head back as if fighting for control.  Tryin' not ta lash out at me. She knew it was a low blow, even if it was true.  She was pretty sure he'd scared himself far more than he had her.

When he straightened and opened his eyes, they were full of conflict.  "'M sorry, chere.  Y' know I'd never..."

She nodded as his words trailed off, her anger evaporating.  "Ah know."  She was confident Remy LeBeau would never intentionally harm a single hair on her head.  She shrugged.  "Comes with the territory, ah guess."  She cut her gaze in his direction, meeting his eyes for an instant.  "Ya real jumpy these days, though, sugah."

He nodded but didn't say anything.  After a moment, he retrieved the pistol from its holster and turned it over in his hands, absently thumbing the safety on.  He stared blankly at the weapon as he spoke.  "Dere was a time when I lived like dis."  He didn't look up at her.  "It's all comin' back so fast."

Rogue studied him while she tried to decipher what he'd told her.  The feeling he described was all too familiar.  Every day Rogue felt herself becoming more and more the person she'd been before joining the X-Men.  It was frightening how easily she fell back into the old routines, the old mindset.  A part of her hated being forced to remember her training under Mystique.  She'd done things for her mother she could never forget and never wash away. 

But it's also the trainin' that's keepin' me alive now, an lettin' me be useful ta the team.  She stifled a sigh.  Mah Momma taught me a lot about the business.  Ah know what questions ta ask, if ah'm willin' ta hear the answers.

Biting her lip, she cocked her head and gave him the calmest stare she could muster.  "So, are we talkin' general troubleshootin' here?  O' black ops maybe?  Espionage?... Assassination?"  Even though the list made her stomach clench, she tried to hold onto her nonchalance.

Remy looked up at her in surprise and she silently congratulated herself.  See?  Ah'm not as intolerant as ya think ah am.

He watched her silently for several long minutes, until it was all Rogue could do to meet his gaze.  She wanted to scream at him in frustration for not being open with her, never telling her even the tiniest details about his life, where he went and what he did.  But instead she clenched her jaw and waited.  He's got ta say somethin' eventually.  Even if its just ta tell me he's not gonna tell me.

"All o' dose an' more, chere."  Remy's voice startled her from her thoughts.  His eyes on her were wary, tense. 

Rogue fought to keep her face expressionless as a cold shiver worked its way down her spine.  All of those... Maybe she should have known it already.  Probably, in fact.  But somehow she'd always managed to convince herself that he was more of a scoundrel than anything else.  Certainly nothing so dark... so ugly.

Is that why ah want to know so much about his past? she wondered in a flash of insight.  Because ah'm afraid there's somebody inside him just like there is inside me?  Somebody who's done horrible things? Somebody ah'll hate?

She shook her head sharply, trying to banish the thoughts.  A moment later, Remy threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat up.  They sat there side by side, not looking at each other.

"Dis probably an unfair question," Remy interrupted the silence after a few minutes.  "But y've had some time now t' t'ink."  He turned his head, his expression evaluating.  "Is dis where it ends, chere?" he asked plainly.  His voice held a flat note of resignation that hurt Rogue even more deeply than the cold anger with which he'd asked the question the first time.

Tears burned her eyes and her heart seemed to fold in half as if made of nothing more than flimsy construction paper.   She didn't know what to say, or if she could force herself to say anything.  If she answered yes, it would mean admitting that she couldn't love him unconditionally, couldn't move past the faults and the hurts... that she preferred to live the rest of her life without him.  But if she said no, then she was committing herself to accepting his life and living it with him because there was no way she could stick around and not have all of his oh-so-familiar baggage dumped squarely into her lap.   The thought alone was enough to terrify her.

Ah can't say yes, ah'm too afraid ta say no, an' there's no way he'll take maybe foh an answer.  The absurdity of her dilemma finally overrode her other thoughts. She smiled deprecatingly as she brushed the moisture from her eyelashes.  "Ya right, sugah, that's an unfair question."  She shrugged, feeling the first stirring of hysterical laughter rising in her gut.  "Ah mean, a week ago ya were a two-bit thief an' troublemaker, an' now ya suddenly turned inta a Master Thief an' professional hitman an' a couple other things."  She risked a glance in his direction.  "Ya gotta give a girl time ta adjust."

Remy blinked owlishly at her, as if she'd taken him completely by surprise.  His comically glazed expression snapped the last of Rogue's self control.  Giggles climbed her throat, emerging in staccato bursts until she collapsed backwards on the bed and let the pain and confusion inside her vent in uncontrolled laughter.  Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks in a steady stream.

After a while, the laughter faded, leaving her feeling limp and weak, but more relaxed than she'd felt in a long time.  She opened her eyes to find Remy leaning over her on one hand, his expression still troubled, but with a smile tickling the corners of his lips.  Rogue traced the outline of his face with her eyes-- high, angled cheekbones, arching brows, demon's eyes that smoldered with a heat that could set fire to her very bones...

Her breath caught in her throat as he leaned down, all traces of his smile gone.  The conversation had taken on such a sense of unreality that it didn't occur to her to be afraid of touching him, and it seemed like entirely too much effort to try to stop him when she wasn't certain she wanted to.  Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and felt his mouth cover hers, warm and incredibly sweet.  She sank into his kiss, one arm wrapping tightly around his neck.

He withdrew after a while and Rogue regretfully opened her eyes.  His face was only a few inches from hers, his gaze searching.  She raised a hand to touch her tingling lips.  "What was that foh?"

His expression remained solemn as he shrugged.  "Guess I wanted t' make sure y' knew how dis Master T'ief feels about y'."

Rogue couldn't help her smile as a ball of warmth formed in her stomach and spread outward.  It seemed strange that she could suddenly feel so good, even though he'd just confirmed all of her worst suspicions about himself, his past, and given her a look at the real size of the obstacles standing between them.

Sighing, she shook her head.  "Remy LeBeau, whatevah am ah goin' ta do with ya?"

The devilish grin she loved so much lit his face for a moment.  "Y' wan' a list, chere?"  His tone was pure suggestion.

Rogue groaned and cuffed him affectionately on the shoulder.  "No, ah do not."  She did her best to affect unconcern as she sat up.  He let her, backing up to give her a well-defined space, and Rogue suppressed a sigh.  One kiss wasn't going to heal the rift between them.  But this is a step in the right direction, girl, she reminded herself.  Ya asked a question an' got a real answer.  Maybe there's a chance, after all.

Chapter 22

Bobby felt incredibly weary as he climbed the stairs to the X-Men's kitchen.  Little Clarissa was going to break his heart.  He could understand her not taking immediately to Diedre and himself-- they were total strangers, after all-- but to watch her toddle around the room in a two-year-old's equivalent of an exhaustive search, turning every so often to the two adults and asking "Mama?  Mama?" was enough to make him want to cry.  And worse yet, there was simply no way to make the little girl understand that her mother was never going to come back for her.

He walked into the kitchen and was greeted with a round of hellos from the X-Men, most of whom were squeezed into the kitchen in the hopes of getting the first pancakes to come off the griddles manned that morning by Sam and Ororo.  The heavenly smell, combined with the familiar bustle of the X-Men at breakfast-time, lifted Bobby's spirits. He managed a smile as he threaded his way through the packed room toward Remy.

By the time he arrived at the Cajun's side, however, his smile had become utterly genuine.  Remy noticed his gaze and grinned back.  The thief held a premier seat in one of the dinette's chairs, with Rogue perched on one knee and her bare fingers tightly twined with his.  In the nearly three years of their relationship, Bobby couldn't think of a single time he'd seen Rogue actually sitting in Remy's lap. From the smirks the two were earning, he doubted anyone else had, either.

"Why does everything interesting around here seem to happen while I'm gone?" he asked as he slipped in beside Remy and Rogue.

"Y'all 're just unlucky, sugah," Rogue answered with a smile.

Bobby looked between them, wiggling his eyebrows for effect.  "So, do I get details?"

Shadows gathered in her eyes, and Bobby's stomach sank.  "Ah'd guess ya know more details than ah do, Popsicle," she answered softly. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Remy's expression disappear.  Rogue straightened her shoulders, glancing briefly at Remy before returning her gaze to Bobby.  "But, one step at a time, right, sugah?"

Bobby wasn't certain who the question was intended for, so he simply nodded at the same time Remy uttered a soft "Oui, chere."

Rogue turned to look at Remy who reached up to gently stroke her back, the gesture one of pure, simple affection.  Rogue's gaze softened and Bobby breathed a sigh of relief.

Remy tossed him a curious glance, which he answered in signs rather than aloud.  I was afraid you two were permanently... broken. The hand language had a limited vocabulary, but Bobby decided the word expressed his meaning remarkably well.

Remy's eyebrows quirked in an expression of pain that disappeared immediately, but he flicked Bobby a simple, Me, too in reply.

"So, what are you two whispering about?" Elizabeth leaned across the table, her conspiratorial gaze split between Bobby and Remy.  At her words, Scott looked over at them, his expression narrowing.

"More secrets, Remy?"

An uncomfortable silence enveloped the room. Remy stiffened and turned slowly to look at Scott, unmistakable anger in his eyes.  Even Betsy seemed taken aback by what she'd started. She sat back in her chair and looked between the two men.

"Was a private conversation."  Remy's gaze slid to Betsy, who shrugged apologetically, before returning his attention to Scott.  "Y' got a problem wit' dat?"

Jean laid a forestalling hand on her husband's arm, smiling wanly through the nausea obvious on her face.  "Why, yes.  I thought we telepaths were the only ones allowed to hold private conferences."

Scott looked over at her in surprise at the tart comment, which drew scattered chuckles from the X-Men.

"She's got a point there, Fearless," Logan commented with a wink for Jean.

Scott shook his head sourly as the tension in the room dissipated.

"So, what's our next target?" Logan asked Scott, apparently returning to an earlier topic.

Scott took a sip of his coffee and Bobby could see him settling into what he'd privately dubbed Scott's "commander mode".  It was a little odd, perhaps, how very similar that was to the state of concentration Remy had taught Bobby as a thief.  Scott just had a different focus.

"We haven't been able to pinpoint a useful weakness in the Sentinels' biotechnology, so it doesn't make sense to go after them or their manufacturing centers until we know how to effectively cripple them.  And, we simply don't have the raw power to take them down in a fight."  Scott frowned.  "So, the best choice right now is to try to interfere with their power supply."

"The refueling centers are heavily guarded."  Bishop crossed his arms over his chest.

Scott nodded.  "Yes, particularly against aerial assault and high-energy weapons.  What they may not be able to counter so well is a small, lightly-armed force carrying enough explosives to send their fuel depot sky-high."

Bobby stared at Scott in surprise as Logan chuckled.  "Yer talkin' sabotage."

Looking somewhat uncomfortable, Scott nodded.  "I don't see that we have any other choice."

There was an expectant pause before Ororo spoke.  "We will need a significant amount of explosives for such a mission."

Scott nodded again, his expression sardonic.  "Luckily, we seem to have a supplier."  He looked over at Gambit.  The other X-Men followed suit.

Remy rolled his eyes.  "I swear, I'm turnin' into an arms dealer," he told Bobby in an undertone.

Bobby grinned.  The Guild was still completing contracts despite OZT. Remy had just spent thirty-eight million dollars on weapons systems for the Guild.  Marcus Black and his team had only gotten back the day before from Chechnya with the delivery.

Remy turned to Scott, his expression wary.  "What do y' need?"

The two men regarded each other for a moment in silence, interrupted only by Scott's fingers tapping on the table.  Finally, Scott's expression firmed as if he'd made a decision.  "Actually, I have a list."

Remy's high brows arched in surprise as Scott fished a piece of paper out of his jeans pocket and passed it over.  Rogue accepted the sheet of paper when it arrived and unfolded it, pursing her lips as she quickly scanned through the contents.  "Quite a list, sugah."  She glanced at Scott before returning her gaze to the paper.  "Fifteen pounds o' plastique with fuses and timers, a case o' HK high-energy rifles with additional power paks, night vision equipment, synchronized GPS trackers with scrambled upload and military precision--"

"Gon' have t' steal dose," Remy commented.

"-- high-tensile wire grappling equipment, harnesses--" Rogue went on, "base jump chutes--" She began to chuckle.  "This sounds like fun."

"It's not a game, Rogue." 

Rogue gave Scott an odd look.  "'Course not, sugah."  Schooling her expression, she finished reading off the list for Remy, then handed him the paper.  Remy took it and turned toward Scott, watching him expectantly.

"Is there anything there you can't get?" Scott asked him.

Remy shook his head.  "Non.  Have t' steal de trackers, like I said.  Military keeps a pretty tight lid on dose t'ings still."  He shrugged.  "When do y' wan' dem?"

"As soon as you can manage it without taking any unnecessary risks."

Remy cocked his head, studying Scott.  "An' y' not gon' have a problem wit' whatever I have t' do t' get a hold o' dis stuff?"  His tone was faintly disbelieving.

The muscle in Scott's jaw clenched for a moment, though his flat expression never wavered.  "No."

Remy fingered the slip of paper thoughtfully.  "How y' plannin' t' pay f' dis?" 

The senior X-Man shrugged.  "That's up to you.  If you can't manage it, then put your head together with Logan and Warren and anyone else on this team who has private funds."

Bobby forced himself to hold a straight face.  Who would've thought Scott would ever come around?  Remy was looking a little startled as well, an expression he didn't often see on the Cajun.

"Not ta rain on the parade or anythin'..." Rogue turned a severe look on Remy.  "But ya ain't gonna be breakin' into any military installations ya'self.  Can Bobby do it?"  She cast a single glance in the X-Man's direction.

Scott gave Bobby a questioning look.  And as much as he would have liked to say yes, Bobby instead shook his head.  "Not without help."  He didn't have enough experience yet for something like that.

Logan leaned back in his chair, tipping it onto two legs.  "Is the Guild gonna be willing ta get involved?" he asked Remy.

"As I understand it, Logan," Scott didn't look at the other man, but instead stared evenly at Gambit. "The Guild will give us anything we need."  He paused significantly as all attention in the room focused on himself and Remy.  The challenge in his gaze was unmistakable.  "Isn't that right... Guildmaster?"

Bobby sucked in his breath as Remy stared at the X-Men's field leader. Scott knew.  Somehow, he'd figured it out.   Bobby resisted the temptation to shake his head.  No one had ever accused Scott Summers of being stupid.  Occasionally obtuse, maybe, but never stupid.

After a minute, a slow grin spread over Remy's face.  He gave Scott a wry nod of acknowledgement.  "Oui." 

Satisfaction flickered across Scott's features.  He took a deep breath.                                                                                                  "Well, now that the cards are all out on the table, so to speak, do we have a deal?"  To Bobby's surprise, he held out his hand.

Nudging a stunned Rogue off his knee, Remy stood and accepted the handshake. "Deal," he answered.

#

"Guildmaster?"  The word was a squeak of outrage from Rogue.

Scott watched with great interest as Remy's face closed in on itself, becoming painfully wary.  "I tol' you it was complicated."  He turned to look at Rogue.  "Y' already knew I had responsibilities in de Guild I couldn' walk away from."

"That ain't quite the same thing as bein' Guildmaster, sugah."  Her green eyes were filled with reproach.

Remy shrugged.  "Details."

Scott saw the anger flash in her eyes and felt a completely unexpected stab of sympathy for the couple. 

"Sorry, I didn't mean to start a fight here," he injected before he could consider the words.

Remy's gaze snapped to his, utterly bewildered, and Scott had to stifle a smile.  He could remember any number of times when he would have given his right arm to be able to throw Gambit that far off balance.  It felt good, he had to admit, as had seeing Gambit's look of shock when he'd called him by his Guild title.  He grinned to himself.  It had taken him several days to come to terms with that particularly unpleasant bit of truth once he'd figured it out, but Gambit didn't need to know that.  

Gambit laughed raggedly, as if he couldn't quite believe his ears.  "Ain' your fault, Cyke."  He waved the apology away, and sank into his chair.

Anything Scott might have said was lost in the sound of a loud car engine gunning up the street, and then the piercing squeal of tires just outside the house.  In an instant, every person in the room was on alert, weapons drawn if they carried them.  Bishop ducked through the kitchen doorway, headed for the front windows. He was only halfway there when a figure burst through the front door, skidding to a stop with her hand still on the doorknob.  She took in the rifle aimed directly at her midriff without reaction and turned to Scott.

Scott stared at her in surprise.  "Mystique?"

"Mama?"  Rogue stepped up beside Scott.

Mystique spared her daughter a short glance.  Her unnatural blue skin was streaked with sweat, her red hair wild. 

"The Sentinels are on their way here, right now."  The words were clipped, terse with strain. 

The bottom dropped out of Scott's stomach.  "How long?"  He'd been afraid of something like this happening, ever since they'd used the Blackbird to help the thieves land that plane.  And though he didn't trust Mystique, he couldn't think of any reason for her to risk herself out in the open unless the threat was real.

"Three, four minutes.  They're already in the air."

Scott nodded his understanding and grabbed hold of the fear that wanted to leap up and choke him.  "All right.  Then we go out through the tunnels--"

"No!"  Mystique shook her head emphatically.  "They're expecting that.  They've been specially armed with cluster bombs to collapse the sewers if you go underground."

"How do you know that?"  Scott eyed her suspiciously.

Mystique gave him a scathing look.  "I haven't spent ten years at the Pentagon for nothing.  Now move!  Get your people out of here!"

For Scott, everything suddenly snapped into focus.  Their only means of getting away from the house were the sewers, which led to the Blackbird, and the two very ordinary cars parked outside by the curb.  The cars had never been intended as anything but basic transportation.  They were too slow to outrun Sentinels and completely unarmed.  The X-Men's only protection was the fact that OZT hadn't known where they were.

Scott didn't hesitate.  "Bishop, Cannonball, Storm, get the heavy weapons from downstairs.  We're going to have to cover our retreat.  Wolverine, Psylock, outside.  You're lookouts.  Gambit--" He turned to find the thief standing beside him, cell phone to his ear.  "I need a miracle.  Get us some kind of transportation out of here." 

Gambit nodded.  "Helicopters 're on dere way.  Eight minutes, give or take."  The thief turned to Bobby.  "Upstairs-- m' laptop an' de tools."

Bobby nodded once and was gone, sprinting up the stairs.

Scott didn't spend any time wondering how or where Gambit could get helicopters on such short notice, despite the fact that he couldn't have had them less than a week earlier or he, and by extension the Guild, wouldn't have needed the Blackbird.  A short ways away, Mystique threw the Cajun a sharp, inquisitive look. 

Trained by years of combat, the X-Men took to the street, everything but survival forgotten.  They formed a loose phalanx, the three tripod-mounted heavy cannon spread out to provide the maximum field of fire.  The others filled in the gaps with lighter weapons, mainly laser rifles and rocket launchers.  He let his gaze linger just for a moment on Jean, then forced himself to look way.

Angel grabbed one of the rocket launchers and nodded to Scott.  "I'll give you whatever air support I can, Cyclops."

Scott watched in surprise as he turned and started off down the road at an ungainly, lumbering run, his wings unfurling like streamers.  When he'd built some speed, the huge white pinions snapped open. With a last lunge, Warren rose into the air with powerful strokes.  Something inside Scott soared with him, buoyed by the indomitable will of the X-Men. 

"What d' y' know?  He can still fly."  Standing beside him, Gambit seemed thoroughly bemused.

"Focus, Gambit," Scott snapped at him.  "How long on those helicopters?"

Gambit threw him a sharp look.  "Four minutes."

"Here they come!" someone shouted.

Scott spun to see four dark dots on the horizon that swelled rapidly to become Sentinels flying low over the houses.  The three X-Men on the cannons opened up as soon as the Sentinels came in range, forcing them to peel off from their original attack vector.  Each cannon tracked a Sentinel, with the remaining X-Men concentrating fire on the fourth.  One of the Sentinels flew nearly over their heads, scattering laser beams. 

Scott saw Jean go down as if it were a scene from a nightmare.  Her shriek of pain drilled through him as she collapsed and lay still.  One of the cannons swung around, hammering the Sentinel that had hit her with bursts of red fire as it flew past.

"Jean!" A hand grabbed Scott's arm, holding him back as he tried to lunge toward her.

"Non!"  Gambit kept a grim hold on him with one hand and maintained a steady stream of laser fire with the rifle in the other. 

It took only that moment for the soldier in Scott to wrest control from the husband.  He had to get his team out alive first.  The familiar whomping sound of helicopter blades filled the air as four missiles streaked over their heads.  Angel darted and dove between the white contrails, adding his own destruction.  Scott turned to see three helicopters racing toward them.  The two in the lead were narrow gunships, their angular, armor-plated noses flashing strobe-like with laser fire.  The third was a Russian troop carrier, distinctive for its double-decker configuration.

"X-Men, fall back!" Scott bawled over the horrendous machine noise as the carrier descended toward the street behind him.  He saw Beast scoop Jean up, bounding across the cratered street in huge leaps.  Firing off a last rocket, Angel folded his wings and dove toward them, backwinging just outside the circle of the helicopter's blades.  He dropped heavily to the ground as the main group of retreating X-Men reached them.  The three manning the cannons stayed in their places, providing support fire for the helicopters that darted around the Sentinels like angry bees. 

Scott took stock of the team as they passed him.  Sam was nearly unconscious, half-supported, half-carried by Bishop.  A large red stain spread across his thigh.  Storm bled freely from a deep cut across her forehead, covering her face in scarlet.  The wound didn't seem to be slowing her however.  Mystique looked to be injured as well, though Scott didn't get a good look.  And Jean... Jean lay limp in Hank's arms, her neck, shoulder and chest stained red.  Scott could hear the scary, wet rasp of her breathing.

The three X-Men manning the cannons finally abandoned their positions, sprinting toward the carrier.  One of the Sentinels evaded its pursuer and flew after them, tearing up chunks of blacktop as it rained its store of cluster bombs around them.  Rogue went down in a cloud of cement dust and fire, but when the smoke cleared, she was rolling to her feet, coughing as she ran.

Scott jumped into the helicopter, grabbing the safety straps near the door. He leaned out to fire at the closest Sentinel.  As the last of the X-Men climbed aboard, he could hear Gambit yelling at the pilot to take off. With a stomach-churning lurch, they began to rise, wheeling away as soon as they'd made enough altitude to clear the trees.

A short ways away, one of the Sentinels exploded midair.  The other three turned to pursue them.  Scott twisted to look for Gambit.

"Where are we going?" he yelled over the noise of the blades.

Gambit leaned toward him, a headset pressed to one ear.  "De chopper's gon' drop y' off near Wall Street," he yelled back.  "Thieves'll meet y' dere.  Split de team into small groups, an' each group'll be guided t' a safe rendezvous point by a different route."

Scott nodded his understanding.  "What about you?"

Gambit's red gaze was steady.  "I'm gon' take Jean an' Hank an' go straight in t' de med center, if we c'n buy a clear space from dese Sentinels.  She's de only one hurt bad."  Scott looked involuntarily toward his wife as Gambit turned to Hank.  "Beast, how far c'n y' free jump wit'out hurtin' y'self?"

Hank looked up from the large hand he held pressed against the wound in Jean's chest.  His blue eyes flicked from Gambit to Scott and back again.  "Fifty, maybe sixty feet," he answered.

Gambit nodded.  "I c'n do about sixty."  He turned to speak into the headset.  The helicopter abruptly changed courses, sending Scott's stomach climbing into his throat.  Nearby explosions rocked them as the Sentinels continued their barrage.

Then, suddenly, they were in the city, flying the steel and glass canyons between the buildings.  The sound of the rotors echoed back to them from the skyscrapers, drowning out everything else.  Scott leaned out the door, trying to look behind them as their transport rose sharply.  For a moment he caught a glimpse of one of the gunships, but he didn't see any Sentinels.

Their helicopter crested the top of one of the skyscrapers and hovered there, less than five feet from the roof.  Gambit gestured to Beast and the two clambered to the open door.

"What happened to our sixty foot jump?" Hank asked as he cradled Jean against his chest.

In response, Gambit leaned out, firing his laser rifle across the roof below.   The assault shredded a large steel cover directly beneath them, revealing a six foot by six foot shaft that fell away into darkness inside the building.

"Is de cover clear?" Gambit shouted to Hank.

Hank nodded.  "Yes."

"Den go!  I'll follow y'."

Hank nodded and leapt into that gaping maw, taking Scott's heart with him.  Remy stepped up to the edge of the doorway. Scott stopped him with one hand.  "Take good care of her," he told Remy, the words half promise, half threat.

Remy simply nodded, and strangely enough, that was enough for Scott.  Without a backward glance, the thief stepped out of the helicopter and dropped into the shaft, disappearing from view.

The helicopter swung around, diving for the narrow spaces between the buildings as soon as Gambit was gone.  Scott leaned back against the cool metal wall of the cabin, feeling the vibration all the way into his bones.  They weren't out of the woods yet, but with every thump of the rotor blades, he thanked God for their lives... and for the Thieves Guild.

Chapter 23

Scott was among the last to arrive at the rendezvous.  It was nothing but a natural stone cavern somewhere beneath the city.  Electric lights were bolted to the walls, their cables disappearing quickly into the darkness at the edges of the cavern.  Water trickled across rock somewhere in the distance, making Scott painfully aware of how thirsty he was.  He ignored his body's complaints, however, as he took mental stock of his team.  To his immense relief, they were all there– dirty and battered but alive, and apparently no worse than when he'd last seen them.  Sam sat with his back propped against Psylocke's leg while he adjusted the makeshift bandage on his thigh.  The others were all on their feet.  The thieves who had served as their guides stood a little ways away, talking in low voices and keeping a wary eye on the X-Men.  Bobby stood with the thieves. He looked to be trying to reassure them, though about what Scott couldn't guess.

Not too much later, Gambit arrived with a group of men trailing him, their expressions ranging from dismayed and angry, to furious.  From the immediate, respectful way the thieves stepped aside, Scott decided these must be men of significant authority in the Guild.  Unfortunately, he didn't know anything about the thieves' political structure other than being fairly certain Gambit held the top slot.

Gambit was limping. From the tightness of his expression Scott guessed he was in a fair amount of pain.  But other than the limp, he gave no indication as he came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the cavern, his red gaze sweeping over the X-Men as if he were checking to make sure they were all there.

"Absolutely not!"  One of the men behind Remy said, apparently continuing a previous argument.  He was a fairly young man, with sharp features and a superior air that made Scott immediately wary.  "This is outrageous!  I don't know who you think you are--!"

Gambit pivoted on his heel to glare at the dark haired man.  "I think I am Guildmaster and you will address me as such."  His tone was cold and hard.  "Is that clear?"

The man closed his jaw with a snap, his eyes furious.  "Yes, Guildmaster."  His mouth worked silently as he ground his teeth.

"It is a clear violation of the law, you must admit, Guildmaster."  An older man seated in a wheelchair said mildly.  Remy turned to look at him, and Scott was surprised by how much the man reminded him of Charles Xavier.  It wasn't really his appearance or even the chair, but instead something about the man's demeanor that brought the Professor to mind.

"In the interest of saving a life, I can understand it, though not approve."  The man's gaze moved across the X-Men, studying them.  "But this is unacceptable."  The look he turned on Gambit was stern, almost authoritative.

Remy's expression didn't change.  "Lettin' OZT slaughter de Guild is unacceptable," he answered flatly. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw Bobby moving cautiously across the room toward the X-Men, skirting the arguing men widely.  He stepped up beside Scott, his attention focused on the Gambit.

"What's going on?" Scott asked him out of the corner of his mouth.  He, too, did not want to take his attention off the argument even for a moment.

"Bringing anyone who isn't part of the Guild into Guild territory is against the laws," Bobby told him, his voice pitched low. 

"Who are these people?"

"The Guild Council.  They're a bit like the Senate."

"And the Guildmaster is the President?"

Bobby's gaze narrowed.  "Sort of, though he's got more power than that."

Scott didn't reply as Gambit began to speak again.

"De question, gentlemen, is what it's gon' take to bring OZT down.  Y' should all know me well enough by now t' know I don' hold wit' breakin' Guild law."  He pinned several members of the group with his stare.  "But we're talkin' 'bout de survival o' de Guild."

"I still don't see how these... people will help protect the Guild."  This time, a man standing to Remy's left spoke.  His voice was surprisingly soft, though his expression was wary.  "Even talking about this here is dangerous."  He jerked his head toward the X-Men.

Gambit smiled briefly, though Scott doubted it was sincere.  "Den maybe I should make some introductions," he said.

Scott straightened as Remy gestured toward him, his expression completely unreadable.  "Members o' de Guild council, may I present Scott Summers, better known as Cyclops, field leader of the X-Men, an' dese are his team."

Scott saw the eyes of several of the councilmen widen in shock.  The soft-spoken man turned to Remy.  "The X-Men?"  His gaze swept across the assembled mutants as if searching for something recognizable.

Scott stepped forward, his expression carefully controlled.  "Yes, the X-Men," he confirmed with a nod to Remy.  He understood showmanship and the need to present a strong face to the opposition.  He and Gambit could discuss the thief giving away Scott's real name some other time.

Gambit crossed his arms, his attention still on the Guild men.  "Y' say de Guild simply don' have de power an' skills t' put together a strike team t' go after Bastion an' OZT."  He recaptured their attention instantly, and the X-Men's as well.  "I agree.  Information gatherin' we c'n do.  Hit an' run, we c'n do.  A toe t' toe throw down wit' de Sentinels is out o' de question, n'cest pa?"

Scott saw where he was going-- where he'd been going all along-- and was grudgingly impressed by what Gambit was trying to do.

Gambit waved one hand toward the X-Men.  "Well, dere's y' strike force," he told the men. 

"What good are they without their powers?"  Scott bristled at the snide question from a red-haired man who hadn't before spoken.  He held out a hand to forestall Wolverine whose low growl was clearly audible in the tense room. 

Gambit smiled dryly.  "Y'd be surprised.  However, dat's where de Guild comes in, non?"

The man in the wheelchair held up a hand for silence and received it.  The authority he carried impressed the X-Men's leader. 

"Guildmaster," he said quietly, but with a note of warning Scott recognized.  "I am reminding myself that we chose you to lead this Guild specifically because you have demonstrated many times your willingness to do whatever is necessary to protect it... including breaking the laws you have sworn to obey."

Scott could see the impact of his words in Gambit's eyes as the mutant nodded.  "An' I've paid de price each time," he answered solemnly.  Beside Scott, Bobby paled, an expression of pain flitting across his face before disappearing, and he wondered just what that statement might be referring to.

The man glanced at the X-Men, then back to Remy.  "You're asking us to take a very big risk, with no assurance other than your word that these people won't betray the Guild."

Scott couldn't read it from his expression, but he had the strangest feeling Remy was truly hurt by that.

Gambit's face remained a flat mask.  "I'm askin' de Guild t' make an alliance, f' de good of all.  De X-Men are in de business o' protectin' mutants, not betrayin' dem."

"Will they swear blood oath to that?"  The man's gaze centered on Scott.

"This is absurd!"  The sharp-faced man who had protested before stepped forward.  His expression, Scott suspected, was supposed to be one of righteous indignation, but it was overshadowed by triumph.  "With all due respect, Master LaSalle." The speaker nodded, and his silky smile made Scott's spine prickle.  "This cannot be allowed.  Even the Guildmaster can't toss aside centuries of Guild law to suit himself!  We saw the results of that with Guildmaster Tyre, did we not?"

Remy's gaze snapped to the other man's as Bobby drew a sharp breath.  The man gave Remy a smug, dangerous look.  "If the Guildmaster insists on this course, there will be no choice but to call him into the ring, for the good of the Guild."

The other council members looked startled by the pronouncement as the two men locked stares.

Scott glanced questioningly at the young man beside him.  "Bobby--"

"Shhhh."  Bobby didn't take his gaze off the thieves.

Gambit stared resolutely at the dark-haired man.  "I do insist on dis course, Adrian."  His voice was soft, dangerous.  "An' if y' wan' call me t' de ring, dat's y' right."  He turned to look at one of the other men in the group, his tone becoming businesslike.  "Artur, I wan' y' t' call an' assembly f' tonight, bot' Guild and Clans-- but no children."  The man raised an eyebrow at that as Remy went on.  "I'll explain everyt'ing den, an' if Adrian--" He cut his gaze in the other's direction.  "--or anyone else wants t' challenge me, dat will be de time t' do it."

Gambit straightened, expanding his attention to take in all the council members.  "Until den, dese people need medical attention.  If y' feel it's necessary, dey c'n stay in de med center under supervision until tonight."

Scott's eyes narrowed.  Remy was presuming an awful lot of trust on the X-Men's part.  The idea of letting his team be placed under a kind of house arrest in such an uncertain environment made his skin crawl.  He could see similar thoughts reflected on the other X-Men's faces, but no one spoke.  They were all looking to him to make the decision.

When none of the thieves protested, Remy nodded and turned toward Scott.  "Is dat acceptable t' de X-Men?"

Scott stared at him, trying to read the other's strange, red eyes.  Everything he'd thought true about Gambit had turned out to be a lie; this man in front of him was little more than a stranger.  And yet, when his team's lives had hung in the balance he'd turned instinctively to Remy for the means to save them.  If Jean were there, she would have told him to listen to his heart and his conscience, he thought. His heart clenched.  He didn't even know for sure if she was still alive.

Do I trust you? Scott asked Gambit silently.  That was the crux. The answer to that question would determine what course the X-Men took from there.

Very slowly, Scott nodded.  "It's acceptable."

He would have sworn he saw Gambit breathe a sigh of relief.  Then his expression firmed as he turned to Mystique.

"Den dere's jus' one more t'ing."

Mystique returned his stare archly from where she leaned against Rogue.  "And that would be the fact that I'm not an X-Man, and you don't trust me like you trust them." 

Remy almost smiled.  "Do y' blame me, chere?"

"I've never betrayed you," Mystique countered.  Beside her, Rogue looked between the two with a dark frown.

Remy shrugged.  "It's never been in y' best interests."  He paused, his gaze steady on Mystique's eerie, pupil-less one.  "But y' risked y' life f' ours today, an' y' hurt.  I won' send y' back out dere if y' willin' t' play dis t'ing by my rules."

She cocked her head appraisingly.  "Which would be...?"

"Y' never get t' see de route in or out o' where we're goin', an' y' swear an' oath on Irene's blood-- which is de only t'ing I know of dat c'n bind y'-- dat y' won' ever reveal what y' know 'bout de Guild."

Mystique stared at him for a long moment, lips pursed.  Then she nodded abruptly.  "Very well. You have my word, on Irene's life, and her memory.  You're going to need my help." 

She pulled herself painfully erect and stepped away from Rogue, a sultry, dangerous smile appearing on her lips as she approached him.  "I suppose this means you're going to knock me out now."  She swayed forward until they stood face to face.

"I'm in no mood f' games, Raven."  Remy reached up to encircle her throat with his hands, his thumbs moving to cover the main artery feeding blood to her brain.

Mystique's hands balled into tight fists at her sides, but she didn't resist as he applied pressure. 

"Pity," she said, her eyes never leaving his. 

Rogue stared at them both, her green eyes full of questions as Mystique's eyelids began to flutter.  The blue-skinned woman slowly sagged to the floor.  Remy followed her down without releasing his hold. Scott could hear him counting the seconds under his breath.

When he was apparently satisfied, he let Mystique go and stood.  He met Scott's gaze and then gestured toward the entrance through which he and the councilmen had come.  "Dis way, X-Men."

#

Bobby sank into the empty chair beside Scott with a sigh.  "How is she?" 

The chairs were pulled up beside Jean's bed, which was currently covered by an oxygen tent and surrounded by carts of equipment that beeped and whirred reassuringly.  Barely visible inside, Jean lay like some red-haired Sleeping Beauty waiting for her prince.  She seemed strangely serene lying there, as if even a laser bolt through the lung couldn't disturb her inner equilibrium.

"Hank thinks she'll be okay."  Scott ran his hands tiredly through his hair.

A strange dual beeping caught Bobby's attention.  He looked over at the tangle of equipment, noting that there were two separate heart monitor traces, one of which was beating about twice as fast as the other.

"Is that the baby?" he asked, surprised.  "I thought--"

Scott looked over at him with a frown.

"The newest addition to the Summers clan is doing remarkably well, all things considered."  Hank's voice rumbled from behind them as he walked into the room with Dr. Lancaster.

Bobby turned to look at his long-time friend with a sense of apprehension.  He'd never had a chance to ask Hank what he thought of his choice to become a thief.

Hank's blue eyes were solemn.  "Hello, Bobby," he said.

Bobby couldn't summon a smile.  "Hi, Hank."

Scott ignored the exchange as he gathered himself and stood.  "Is it time?"

Bobby looked up at him, grateful for the distraction.  "Yeah.  The assembly will start in a few minutes.  I'm supposed to bring the X-Men to the great hall."

With a last look at Jean, Scott turned. Bobby could see him putting his personal concerns away.  His tone turned professional.  "Do you know what Gambit's planning?"

Bobby frowned as he climbed to his feet.  Scott's choice of words struck an uneasy chord.  "No.  He's been brooding for the last couple of hours."  In Bobby's experience, that was a bad thing.

"Brooding?"

Bobby shrugged.  "He gets like that."  Though usually only when he was trying to gather up his courage for something, and Bobby was beginning to worry. 

Scott nodded.  "Hank, are you coming?"

The blue-furred mutant shook his head.  "I'm afraid not.  Someone needs to stay with Jean..."

"...and Artur Valencia specifically requested that I be there, with a medical team."  Dr. Lancaster looked as concerned as Bobby felt about the upcoming assembly. 

Bobby was beginning to think Remy really expected to have to settle the matter in the Blood Ring, which would be disastrous.  Even if he beat Adrian soundly, it would only illuminate the fact that he was breaking Guild law and getting away with it.  He couldn't see any way for Remy to get through the day without serious damage to his reputation, and by extension, his power in the Guild.

Scott accepted Dr. Lancaster's statement without comment.  He gestured for Bobby to precede him and they left the room together. 

Most of the X-Men and Mystique were waiting for them outside.  Bobby could feel their combined stares like a physical force pushing him away.  He'd known this day would eventually have to come, but he'd had no idea how much the separation would hurt.  But he would forever be a thief first and an X-Man second, and now they knew it.

Taking a deep breath, he returned the gazes with as much fortitude as he could muster.  "Let's go."

Bobby led them to the great hall, the cavernous amphitheater where the Guild and Clans could meet as a single group.  Every seat was filled, it seemed. The noise of the crowd echoed deafeningly in the enclosed space.  Bobby led the X-Men toward a set of seats that had been reserved for them near the Guildmaster's platform, which currently stood empty.  Bobby looked down at the stage that took up the center of the sandy floor.  Remy and the Council were all there, standing off to one side.  On the other side of the stage was a tall wooden construction whose purpose Bobby didn't immediately fathom.  It looked like a frame of some kind, and had manacles dangling from each corner.

Rogue noticed the direction of his gaze.  "What's that foh?" she asked suspiciously.

Bobby shook his head.  "I don't know."  But he was dead certain he wasn't going to like it, whatever it was.

The X-Men settled quickly in their seats. Bobby was well aware of the many curious looks they were earning.  He deliberately placed himself next to Rogue and was glad to see Logan sit down on her far side.  The only instruction Remy had given him about this evening was to make certain he sat next to Rogue, though he'd been unwilling to explain why.

On Bobby's other side, Ororo looked around the amphitheater with great interest.  A line of stitches crossed her forehead, the black thread standing out in marked contrast to her white hair.  "I remember Achmed telling us about such places when I was a street thief in Cairo," she remarked.  "At the time, I held hopes of gaining a place in the Guild there, and I always wondered if the stories were true."

Surprised by her reminiscence, Bobby turned to look at her.  "Were they?"

She gave him a brief, troubled smile.  "Yes."  Her gaze drifted down toward the stage, her smile dying.  "I have a very bad feeling about this, Robert."

"You and me both, 'Ro," he answered.

The speculative buzz that filled the amphitheater died away as Remy walked up to the microphone.  Without a word or a gesture, the Guildmaster commanded the attention of the entire room, and Bobby found himself holding his breath in unconscious anticipation.

"Guild members an' Clansmen."  Remy's voice rang in the stillness.  "I'll be direct.  I'm sure y' already aware dat dere are strangers in de Guild complex.  Strangers I brought here."  He raised a hand, gesturing toward where Bobby and the other X-Men were seated. Three thousand pairs of eyes turned toward them.

"Dey are de X-Men," Remy continued as the cavern filled with murmurs and speculative voices.  "An' dey are pledged t' help us bring down Operation: Zero Tolerance."

Beside Bobby, Rogue was slowly shaking her head, her expression pained.

"Rogue?" he asked her in an undertone.

She glanced over at him, her lower lip clenched between her teeth, her gaze clouded.  "Ah don't know this man, Bobby."  She canted her head toward the stage.

Bobby reached up to squeeze her hand sympathetically.  He'd been shocked the first time he'd seen the real Remy LeBeau, too.  "Yes you do," he told her.  "You just didn't realize it."

He didn't have a chance to gauge Rogue's reaction as Gambit began to speak again.  "I would have preferred t' make dis alliance a little less abruptly..." The Guildmaster shrugged.  "Bastion didn' give us dat option.  So, we live wit' it, an' we adapt."

He took a deep breath, looking out over the audience.  "De Guild is strong, even in de face o' deadly opposition.  OZT has proven dat.  We have become what our ancestors dreamed of building-- a home, a community, a refuge in difficult times-- an not jus' f' de mutants among us, but f' all of us."

Bobby glanced down the row of X-Men, looking for their reactions to that statement.  Gambit was a natural orator, and already Bobby could feel the Guild being drawn in. Most of the X-Men's expressions were thoughtful, which reassured him.  Maybe they would understand after all.

"But strength is useless wit'out a means t' apply it," Remy continued, and Bobby dragged his attention back to his Guildmaster.  "An' dat is where de Guild suffers, because we can't act against Zero Tolerance wit'out giving away our presence an' sacrificin' everyt'ing we've worked so hard to achieve." 

The low level murmuring in the room intensified as the gathered thieves and clansmen began to understand the Guildmaster's plan. 

"So dat's where de X-Men come in."  For a moment, his face and voice lit with a grin.  "Believe me, dey're used t' bein' on de pointy end o' de stick.  Dey c'n strike where we cannot, an' dey can bring Operation Zero Tolerance down." He paused significantly, his conviction sending a thrill through the room.  "If we can give dem de chance."

The amphitheater exploded into a raucous babble as everyone began to speak at once.  The subdued air of fear that had permeated the Guild since the plane crash had given way suddenly, replaced by intensity, an urge for action... and hope.  Those seated nearest the X-Men leaned over to greet the mutants, asking dozens of different questions about how they planned to destroy OZT.  Bobby couldn't help but grin at the X-Men's expressions as they tried to respond to the unexpected barrage.

But despite their renewed energy, there remained a strong undercurrent of uncertainty in the crowd.  Bobby could feel it, hear it.  They wanted to believe, because Remy had saved all of their lives.  They knew his dedication to the Guild and they trusted him.  But they were afraid because strangers always threatened the Guild's safety.  The Guild survived in anonymity, kept safe by the strict laws that punished anyone who put that anonymity at risk.

Cold, sinking dread began to invade Bobby's gut.  Remy seemed to sense the feelings of the people surrounding him, because raised his arms, calling for silence.  The crowd noise fell away by degrees and when Remy finally lowered his hands, the room was quiet.

"De fact remains, however, dat dis alliance-- no matter how beneficial-- violates de most basic principles of de Guild, an' de laws I swore on oath before each o' you t' uphold."  Remy's voice had grown somber.  The council members were watching him with surprised, confused expressions, making Bobby think they knew as little about what Remy was doing as the rest of them.  All but Artur.  Bobby's gut twisted another notch.  Artur Valencia stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression painfully closed.

Remy paused. Bobby could see him gathering himself.  "It's been said dat y' c'n judge the depth of a man's beliefs by what he's willing t' sacrifice for dem."  A ripple of reaction ran through the X-Men.  The Professor had made that statement many times.

Remy raised a hand to his heart.  "I believe de only way we will ever live wit'out fear again is t' work wit' de X-Men t' destroy OZT."  He looked out over the silent crowd.  "I also believe dat de law is de key t' our survival.  It exists f' a purpose an' cannot be broken, o' everyt'ing de Guild stands for will crumble t' dust."

Bobby's brow dipped as he chewed on the contradictory statements.  On stage, Remy turned toward the gathered councilmen.  "Artur."

Artur nodded, then stooped to pick something up out of the shadows near his feet.  He gripped the dark coil in one hand as he walked forward, stopping just behind the Guildmaster.  Remy turned back to the crowd.

"De law defines punishment f' bringing strangers into de Guild complex."   The dark loop in Artur's hand uncoiled, and Bobby was unable to contain his dismay.  The braided leather whip trailed across the floor at Artur's feet like a snake.

In the amphitheater, the silence was so complete Bobby could hear the hiss of his own breath.  Remy looked down for just a moment then raised his head to face the crowd, his expression resolved. 

"De Guildmaster has spoken.  Guild law stands."

With that, he stepped back from the microphone and with quick motions stripped off his suit jacket, dropping it unceremoniously on the ground, and began unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt.

"Is he out o' his mind?" Rogue demanded, starting to rise.  Bobby slapped his hand over her wrist where it rested on the arm of her chair, curling his fingers under the armrest's edges to create a kind of manacle.  Every muscle in his body had gone rigid in reaction to his deep-seated horror, but he knew he had to keep Rogue under control.

"Sit down, Rogue," he snapped at her, and saw Logan grab her other arm.

All around them, the Guild and Clans shifted in their seats, the noise rising and falling in uneasy waves as they watched Artur step in front of the microphone.  To his credit, the thief looked deeply disturbed, but his soft voice held no hesitation as he spoke.

"When no harm to the Guild is intended or incurred, the penalty for violating Guild anonymity is twenty lashes."

At his words, the huge cavern exploded into chaos with every person there expressing their feelings, either for or against, with loud fervor.   Bobby tightened his grip on Rogue's wrist as the pain in his gut intensified. 

"X-Men, hold!"  Scott's authoritative bark stopped several of the team in their tracks.  Bobby was gratified to realize the X-Men were set to jump to Gambit's defense, Guild or no Guild. 

Scott's expression was firm.  "Everyone, sit down.  We can't interfere."

Bobby felt a swell of gratitude and respect for the other man as the X-Men backed up, their expressions uncertain.  Rogue struggled against the two men who held her, her protests lost in the din.  Bobby ignored her as much as he could and concentrated on the stage.  Remy had taken off his shirt and had walked over to the wooden frame, where he was calmly allowing Adrian Tyre to clamp his wrists into the manacles.  Bobby was a little surprised that it was Adrian doing it, but then he realized he shouldn't be.  Remy never gave up an advantage, and after this there would be no way for the thief to challenge his decision without making a fool of himself.  If Adrian's glare were any indicator, the other man knew it as well.

Nauseated, Bobby watched as Adrian finished and Artur stepped into place.  Once again, the amphitheater fell silent.  Bobby could hear the braided leather whispering across the stage floor as Artur adjusted his grip.

Bobby flinched violently at the first crack of the whip.  The sound echoed through the cavern like a gunshot, harsh and frightening.  When Bobby could look again he saw a long line of blood drawn across Remy's skin.  The muscles in Gambit's shoulders and back were corded in pain as Artur readied the lash a second time. 

Bobby wanted to scream.  Once more, Remy was paying a price in blood to do what was right and to protect his Guild.  Bobby could feel the bones of Rogue's wrist grinding beneath his palm as he squeezed the chair arms until the edges dug painfully into his fingers.  He couldn't interfere in this, not without destroying everything Remy hoped to accomplish.  But next time...

I swear, Remy, on my honor as a thief... never again.  Never again.

He repeated the vow to himself every time the whip bit into Gambit's back, watching silently as the man who was brother, mentor and friend endured each one.  And by the time the final blow fell, the promise had been etched into his soul, never to be erased.

Chapter 24

Rogue followed Diedre through the twisting tunnels of the Guild complex, feeling as if all eyes were on her.  There was some truth to it.  People in the halls did stop to watch her as she passed.  Some nodded in friendly greeting, some simply stared, and some were decidedly cool, but absolutely everyone noticed her.  And if that weren't enough, brushing elbows with that many strangers made her jittery even though she knew her powers were inactive.

And so, when they reached the particular doorway that was their objective, Rogue breathed a silent sigh of relief.  The door was short enough she would have to stoop a little to walk through, but since everything in the complex seemed to have been chiseled out of solid rock, she could hardly blame the constructors for not making the doorway any larger than they had to.  It was painted a cheerful yellow and had the name "Black" stenciled on its surface.

"This is Marcus and Andrea's home," Diedre said unnecessarily as she knocked.  Remy had apparently assigned Diedre the task of finding room for the X-Men in the crowded complex, but rather than rearranging anything to give the mutants a space of their own she had found thief families willing to take each of them in.  Rogue didn't like it.  It spread the X-Men out, made them vulnerable.  Unfortunately, she suspected that was the point and to her dismay, Scott had gone along without a complaint.  We're committed to trusting Gambit at this point, was the only explanation the senior X-Man had given when she protested.

Rogue shivered and pushed the thought away.  Her trust for Gambit had shattered some time during the past twenty-four hours, leaving her heart in a shambles.  The man she'd seen up on that stage was no one she knew, but she understood instinctively that he was the real Remy LeBeau, or at least as close to him as she'd ever seen.  At the moment, she had absolutely no idea what she was going to do about it.

The door opened to reveal a woman about Rogue's height, with dark hair that fell almost to her waist and warm brown eyes that lit with interest when she looked at Rogue.  She was heavier than the X-woman and extremely pregnant.

She smiled.  "Hello, you must be Rogue.  I'm Andrea Black."  She held out her hand and Rogue was obliged to shake it. 

"Nice ta meet ya," Rogue answered automatically, fighting not to flinch from the sensation of Andrea's palm against her own. 

"Please, come in."  Andrea stepped back, graceful despite her bulging stomach, to let Rogue pass.  She greeted Diedre with a hug as the blond woman followed Rogue inside.

The Black's home was a small cavern divided up into several living areas by heavy drapes hung from wires strung across the uneven ceiling.  The area where Rogue stood appeared to be a combination living/dining area with a small couch and an even smaller table surrounded by four mismatched chairs.  Beyond it, through a gap in the hangings she could see what looked to be the Black's bedroom and, possibly, a nursery.  She didn't see any signs of a kitchen, though there was another wooden door at the back of the cavern that looked like it might lead to another room.

Rogue struggled for something to say.  By normal standards, it was little more than a hovel, despite being neatly kept.  Not that Rogue cared, but polite chitchat didn't come easily to her.  Where's that Southern charm, gal? she chided herself.

Just as she was about to speak, a man walked around the corner of one of the hangings.  He stopped in his tracks when he spied Rogue, an expression of pure surprise on his face. Rogue stared back in equal shock.

"You!"  They exclaimed in unison. It hadn't occurred to Rogue that the thief she'd seen that night with Remy would be a member of the New York Guild.

Diedre laughed while Andrea looked between the thief, who Rogue surmised must be her husband, and Rogue.  "I take it you two have met already?"  Her voice was curious, but not particularly alarmed.

Diedre gestured toward the man.  "Marcus Black, this is Rogue.  Rogue, Marcus."  She turned to look at Andrea with a surprisingly gleeful expression on her delicate face.  "Remember that time Marc came home with a story about he and the Guildmaster running into a flying woman?"  She gestured toward Rogue.

Andrea chuckled, arching one eyebrow at Rogue.  "That was you?  Well, I'm doubly glad to meet you now."

Marcus, too, was laughing quietly as he came forward and held out his hand.  "And I'm glad to make your acquaintance as well... under friendlier circumstances this time."  He shook Rogue's hand, then put an arm around his wife's shoulders.  "Welcome to our home."

"Ah..." Rogue swallowed and tried again.  "Thank ya."  She had no idea how to react.  She didn't know these people but they seemed to know her, and they displayed an open affection and unquestioning acceptance for her that shocked the young mutant to her core.  She was used to earning approval... earning friendship... by dint of hard work, perseverance and sometimes, pure stubbornness.  How many people had she ever met who actually liked her on sight?  Would they feel the same way if they knew her powers, her past?

"Where should ah put mah stuff?" she asked after a moment.  Rogue carried a small bag slung over her shoulder.  In it were some basic toiletries and a single change of clothes, courtesy of the Thieves Guild.  They were all the possessions she had in the world.

"Oh, in here."  Andrea led Rogue into the little room she'd guessed was a nursery.  It did indeed hold several items of baby paraphernalia, including two bassinets, but they were all stacked against one wall.  A mattress lay on the floor on the far side of the room, neatly made up with pink sheets and a brightly patterned quilt.  A shelf was bolted to the rock wall over the bed and held a small plant in a clay pot, and an empty plastic tote on the floor looked like it was intended to serve as a dresser.  It was surprisingly homey.

Andrea sighed.  "It's not much, I'm afraid."

"Oh no, it's fine," Rogue hastened to reassure her.  No matter how mixed her feelings about the entire situation, she couldn't begrudge the Blacks' generosity. 

Andrea snapped her fingers.  "I almost forgot.  Here, this is for you."  She bent down awkwardly to open the purple and green tote, emerging with a floppy-eared stuffed rabbit.  "Diedre said you collected stuffed animals and had them all over your bedroom."  She shrugged, seeming a little embarrassed.  "So this is to start a new collection with."

Touched by the simple gesture, Rogue accepted the rabbit, hugging it instinctively.  "Thank ya."  She couldn't quite meet Andrea's eyes and after a moment she turned and walked forward into the room.

"I'll just leave you to get yourself settled," Andrea said from behind her.  "If you need anything, let me know."

"Ah will."  Behind her, Rogue heard the other woman move away and then her voice picked up as she and Diedre talked out in the living room.  Rogue tried to ignore them as she slowly sank onto the mattress.

Well, sugah, this is home foh now.  Better get used ta it. She smoothed the quilt with her fingertips, relishing the feel of the soft cotton.  She wasn't certain how long she sat there, wrapped in her thoughts, but it seemed like only a minute later when Diedre appeared at the opening in the drapes.

"Rogue?  I don't mean to rush you, but we need to be going.  The Guildmaster said he wanted to see you as soon as you were settled." 

Rogue's stomach clenched.  Part of her wanted to cross her arms and tell Diedre to inform the Guildmaster that if he wanted to talk to her he could very well come find her himself, thank you very much.  The rest of her was simply afraid.  Of him.  For him.  The last time she'd seen him had been in the amphitheater, with his back shredded by the whip and his own insane conviction about laws she didn't understand.  He'd been too exhausted then, too hurt, even to stand by himself but Bobby and Logan wouldn't let her go to him.  Now, she wasn't certain she wanted to.

"Ah'm comin'."  She set her bag and the rabbit on the bed and stood.  Saying no wouldn't do her any good.  If she did refuse, Remy probably would come looking for her and then she'd have to deal with the guilt of making him go to that effort when he was injured.

She and Diedre walked the entire way in silence. Rogue soon found herself standing before a polished wood door.  Unlike the rest of the doors she'd seen, this one looked old and expensive.  Diedre raised a hand and knocked.

A rich, familiar voice called for them to enter.  Diedre opened the door and went in.  Rogue followed more slowly and found herself in, of all things, a fancy office.  Remy sat in a high-backed leather chair behind a huge desk scattered with computers, papers and schematics.  One large drawing had been spread out and was weighted at the corners to keep it flat. Rogue noticed that one of the corners was being held down by a loaded nine millimeter pistol.  The Glock Remy had almost shot her with. 

Remy himself was dressed impeccably in a stylish black suit with a dark burgundy shirt beneath.  So the blood won't show, a professional voice inside Rogue concluded.  His face was pale and drawn, but the eyes that tracked her as she came in were as keen as always.

"T'ank you, Diedre," Remy said without taking his gaze off Rogue.

Diedre nodded.  "Do you want me to try to work through some more of your email?"

Remy momentarily shifted his attention to the tiny blond woman.  "Oui, chere.  If Colonel Rasmutov hasn' answered me yet about dose spares, I need t' give him a call."

 Diedre walked over to the far edge of the monstrous desk and unplugged one of two laptops from its cables.  She tucked the slim computer under her arm and quickly left, closing the heavy door behind her.  The click of the latch sounded horribly final.  Rogue turned to find Remy watching her, his expression unreadable.

"How're ya feelin', sugah?" she asked weakly, trying to break the silence.

The aristocratic eyebrows twitched in the equivalent of a shrug.  "Been worse."  She noticed that he did not move his body at all, not even his head.  His gaze moved from Rogue to the chairs pulled up in front of the desk.  "Have a seat."

Unnerved by the utter strangeness of the situation, Rogue obeyed, perching on the edge of one of the plush chairs.  "Ah nevah imagined ya havin' an office," she commented as she looked around.

For a moment Remy's reserve cracked and the man she knew peeked mischievously out at her from behind the stranger's mask.  "Me neither," he agreed.  "I still get de creepy-crawlies every time I sit down in dis chair."

Rogue bit her lip to keep from smiling as the knot in her gut loosened a notch.  That sounded like the Remy she knew, too. 

Well, she thought as the silence began to thicken again.  Might as well dive straight in.

"So, what exactly does the Guildmaster do, sugah?"

Remy's expression sharpened as if she'd asked an unexpected question, but his face gave away no more than that.  He was silent for several moments.

"De Guildmaster is responsible f' directin' de Guild."  A momentary smile lit his face.  "Dat's helpful, I know.  Let's see...  De Guildmaster is, first an' foremost, responsible f' seein' t' de Guild's safety-- keepin' track o' various government investigations t' make sure de Guild ain' compromised an' makin' sure his t'ieves obey de rules so dose government agencies won' have anyt'ing t' investigate.  De Guildmaster is also responsible f' decidin' what kind an how many contracts de Guild takes, an' who works which ones... an' den figures out how t' spend or invest de Guild's share o' de profits.  An' on top o' dat, de Guildmaster is de final authority in matters o' Guild law an' is held accountable to all de ot'er Guildmasters f' de behavior of everyone under his leadership."

Rogue stared into the eerie red-on-black eyes, searching for something she recognized.  Not only was that the longest, most straightforward answer she'd ever received from him, but it was delivered with a comfortable ease that set the hairs on the back of her neck to prickling.  Remy always resisted giving away information.  Getting an explanation out of him was like wrestling a greased pig to the ground.  To have him respond openly to a question only brought home to her the difference between this man and the one she thought she'd fallen in love with. 

"How long've ya been doin' this?" she finally asked and received another motionless shrug.

"Not very long.  I've been Guildmaster f' a little less dan four months.  Beyond dat… I've been a Master T'ief f' six years an' been a member o' de Guild f' nearly twelve."

Rogue looked down at her hands.  More volunteered information.  Details she hadn't even asked for.  "Why are ya suddenly tellin' me all this?"

"Because I can."

Rogue jerked her head up at the longing in his voice.  His gaze burned into her, begging her to believe, to accept.  Rogue didn't want to.  He'd been lying to her since the very beginning, and she no longer trusted his motives.

"So, now that ah've seen this precious Guild o' yours, ya figure ya can tell me all the things you've been lyin' about foh the last four years an' that'll make everything all right?"  She didn't intend for the words to come out as scathingly as they did, and she saw Remy wince.

"No."  He shifted in his chair, the first motion Rogue had seen.  And as angry as she was with him, her hands still knotted into fists at her sides to see the pain that clouded his features at even such a small movement.

Her anger dimmed.  "Ya ought ta be in bed, sugah."  They'd been arguing so long she no longer cared if this particular round got settled today or tomorrow if there were more important things to take care of first.  As far as she was concerned, his health took priority.  She knew from experience that any argument they dropped would eventually resurface.

Remy sighed.  "Maybe, chere.  But first, we need t' talk.  I can' afford t' let y' walk out o' here wit'out y' understandin' some basic t'ings about how de Guild works."

Rogue stiffened at his tone as much as his words.  "Excuse me?"  She didn't like anyone making implied threats, but particularly people she cared for, who were supposed to be friends.  "If ya think ya can stop me, go right ahead."  She stood.

"Dis is about keepin' de X-Men alive, Rogue."  The cold words stopped her more thoroughly than any physical force could have.

She turned to look at him and was surprised to see real fear in his eyes.  Her own worries about putting the X-Men into the Guild's hands redoubled in that instant and her body responded with rush of adrenaline.  "Ah thought the X-Men had ya personal guarantee o' safety as long as we're workin' together ta bring OZT down."  She couldn't keep the suspicion out of her voice.

He didn't react.  "As long as I'm firmly in control o' dis Guild, y' got not'ing t' worry about."

Rogue did not immediately take up the unspoken "but" that dangled on the end of the sentence.  She was instead looking at the man across from her with new eyes and realizing she'd met a number of people just like him in the past.  Like other heads of crime syndicates, heads of private security forces, even heads of governments for that matter, this was a man who had a rather tenuous hold on a great deal of power.  And like them, he would survive only as long as he stayed on top because there were always people underneath who would happily see him dead to further their own ambitions.  That constant wariness and looking over the shoulder was one of the reasons Rogue had no desire to go back to that kind of life.  She bit her lip. She'd found trust with the X-Men, a safe place where she could relax without wondering who was going to try to doublecross her next.  She would not surrender that.

Rogue's heart filled with dismay to realize how completely, horribly incompatible Remy's life was with her own.  He tried ta tell me, ah just didn't want ta believe it.  She drew a deep breath, fighting for calm.  Think, girl.  Keep ya mind on business.  Ya can deal with the heartbreak later. 

She found she was shaking and pressed her palms against her thighs to keep her hands still.  "So ya need mah help ta hold ya political enemies at bay so ya can, in turn, keep the X-Men alive an' well, an' maybe knock Bastion down a few pegs in the process."

Her analysis won her a guarded smile.  "Oui, chere."

Rogue sat down in her chair, this time leaning back against the cushions and crossing her legs.  "All right, ah'm listenin'."

Remy closed his eyes for a moment, seeming to age years in that instant. Rogue was struck by the realization that she didn't have the faintest notion how old he actually was.  She'd never asked.  Perhaps more than anything else, that brought home to her just how willfully blind she'd been where Remy was concerned.  Bobby's words from a few weeks earlier floated through her mind.  Weren't you curious? he'd asked her about her paramour.

Rogue snorted in derision as she answered the memory-Bobby, No, sugah, ah wasn't.  Ah didn't want ta know because ah was so desperate ta hold onto the possibility o' love that ah couldn't bear ta go lookin' f' anythin' that might shatter mah illusions. To her surprise, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders with that understanding.  She felt clear-headed, suddenly, as if her self-deceit was a layer of gauze clouding her inner vision that had finally been stripped away.  What an idiot ah've been!  Ah know perfectly well that pretendin' somethin' is a certain way doesn't make it that way. She glanced down at her feet, sighing.  But ah wanted it so much...

When she looked up, Remy was watching her curiously.  She shook her head.  "Just talk, sugah."

He nodded fractionally.  "Oui."  For the first time in her life, she watched him settle in for a long explanation. 

"In practice, chere, dere 're only two ways to become part o' de Guild."  He paused.  "O' de Clans, actually.  'Guild' is a word dat gets used interchangeably.  At de moment, I mean de sum total o' de Guild, not jus' de t'ieves.  Does dat make sense?"

Rogue nodded.  She'd gotten a sense of the dual meaning of the word already.

"De first is by becomin' a t'ief.  De trainin' process is bot' harsh enough an' thorough enough dat by de time an apprentice takes his oath t' de Guild, it's mostly a formality.  If dere was any doubt about his loyalty, he'd never get t' dat point."

Rogue nodded again, trying to keep her expression neutral.  She had very mixed feelings about Bobby's obvious loyalty to the thieves above the X-Men, but in principle she understood.

"De second is by marriage."  Rogue's gaze jumped involuntarily to his as her heart stuttered a beat, but he continued as if unaware of her reaction.  "O' possibly adoption, but right now I'm only talkin' 'bout how an adult can come into de Guild."

His words recalled something he'd said several weeks earlier. Rogue's head began to swim as she considered the implications.  Was that what he'd meant when he said he was trying to get her to come in to the Thieves Guild? She wondered in sudden terror. Except that Remy LeBeau had never once used the word "marriage" with her, not even in passing.  Her heart began to pound.

"Is that what our fightin' has all been about?" she finally demanded.  "Some kind o' twisted Guild courtin' ritual?"

His expression closed in on itself.  "If by dat y' mean, did I have hopes o' someday marryin' y'? ...den, oui." The words were painfully flat.

Rogue's breath froze in her chest, as much from the fact that he'd used the past tense as from the admission itself.  "An' now?"

Remy looked away for a moment, and when he turned back, all trace of personal emotion had disappeared.  "Guild laws are very strict when it comes t' outsiders findin' out about de Guild.  Dis--" He flicked his shoulders to indicate the raw wounds across his back, "is as mild as de punishment gets f' violatin' Guild anonymity.  Most o' de time, de only resolution is death, bot' f' de guildmember an' f' whoever dey told." 

He paused as if waiting for her to protest, but when she remained silent, he went on.  "De only way t' bring somebody in t' de Guild is t'rough a pretty long an' difficult process.  Jus' like wit' an apprentice, a prospective spouse can' get anywhere near de Guild until dere loyalty is pretty well assured.  De reason is because, in de end, if dat person learns about de Guild an' den decides dey don' want anyt'ing t' do wit' it, dey end up dead."

"That's ridiculous!"  Personal considerations aside, the concept was ludicrous.  "What right do you have to kill people just because they don't want to get mixed up in the Guild?"

Remy's eyes narrowed.  "Morally?  None.  Dat's why we're so careful.  But the hard truth is dat de Guilds have t' be dat strict, even if de cost is murderin' a few innocents."

"Ya wrong, sugah."  Rogue shook her head in unconscious denial.  "There's no excuse foh murder, not evah."  It chilled her to the bone to hear him say such a thing, even though she'd always known he didn't really share the X-Men's ideals.

"Am I?"  Anger lit his features.  "Den let me give y' some statistics an' you tell me what de solution is."  He didn't move, but she could almost hear him ticking points off on his fingers.  "One, dere are twenty-four Guilds worldwide, wit' a combined population of approximately fifty thousand people.  Only 'bout eight thousand o' dose are t'ieves, de rest are Clan-- men, women an' children."

His stare bored into hers.  "Two, de mutant birthrate in de Guild is averagin' one in ten in dis generation an' most o' de estimates I've seen say it'll be one in four in less dan twenty years.  Right now, pretty much everyone carries de X-factor as a latent, whether dey're a mutant or not."

Rogue gaped at him.  Hank's best estimate, using Cerebro, was that mutant births were something like one in one hundred thousand, and fewer than one in ten thousand carried the X-factor.  Her mind started doing the math without her consciously willing it to, and the answer she came up with was disturbing.

"But that would mean nearly ten percent o' the mutants on the planet are in the Guild."  A Guild that only had eight members for every million people on Earth.  The mutant population density was staggering.

"Oui, chere.  De Guilds were one o' de original hidin' places f' early mutants an' dey been crossbreeding f' centuries."  Remy nodded cautiously.  "Can y' imagine what would happen if de world found out?"

Rogue pressed her lips together in a thin line to hide her horror as her imagination conjured images for her.  Yes, she could very well imagine what would happen.  The world was already afraid of mutants.  Bastion had proven that beyond a shadow of a doubt.  But if the general population, let alone any of the governments, discovered the existence of an organized group of mutants the size of the Guild...

She expelled her breath in a long, slow sigh.  "Ah get ya point."  She shook her head.  "Ah don't like it, an' ah can't entirely say ah agree, but ah understand." 

Remy looked relieved.  "Dat's all I c'n ask."

Rogue dithered for a moment, then decided to press on.  "So what does all this have ta do with me, specifically, sugah?"  Other than the fact that ah think ya've said ya want ta marry me if ah could stomach becomin' part o' the Thieves Guild, which ah can't.  She wasn't sure whether that thought made her want to laugh or cry.

Remy watched her, his eerie eyes giving her the impression he could see right through her.  But if he could read her confused thoughts, he decided not to mention it.

"What do y' t'ink would happen if any o' my enemies here found out dat one o' de X-Men I-- very illegally, mind-- brought into de Guild also happened t' be a woman I was seriously involved wit'?" he asked.

Rogue balled her hands into fists.  Her chest ached with every word he spoke.  Everything she'd so desperately wanted to hear him say but never had during the past three years was suddenly being thrown across a desk at her as if it were any other business conversation.  She hated it even as she ate it up, and didn't know which response was the correct one.  And unfortunately, her spinning emotions couldn't keep her mind from answering the question.

"They'd say ya trumped up all this cooperation business as a way ta bring..." Try as she might, Rogue couldn't separate herself and pretend he was talking about some other woman.  "...ta bring me into the Guild without makin' me take oaths o' jump through any o' the other hoops, which ah ain't willin' ta do."

She watched as her words extinguished the last flicker of hope in his eyes.  He nodded slowly, wincing at the motion.  "Dat's exactly what dey'd say, an' it's close enough t' de truth dat it would work.  I can' keep de Guild under control if I'm battlin' halfway legitimate charges o' violatin' Guild anonymity f' my personal benefit. "

"What do ya mean, halfway legitimate?" 

"What do y' t'ink I mean?"  The expression in his eyes was incredibly tired.  "Anyone wit' eyes an' half a brain can figure out how I feel 'bout you.  I don' know how t' hide it."  He spread the fingers of one hand in a gesture of pure frustration.  "An' it feels so good t' sit here an tell y' de truth, chere, even if I hate where we have t' go wit' it."  He shook his head sharply, blinking, and Rogue was stunned to realize he was fighting tears.

When he'd gotten his reaction under control, he looked back at her.  "De only way I know t' protect m'self an' de X-Men is t' play de deniability game.  De only people who can say f' sure dat we were ever involved are you, me, de Drakes an' de X-Men."

Rogue sank back in her chair, clasping one hand across her mouth as the logic hit her.  Combining the Guild and the X-Men was dangerous, but made for a powerful alliance that gave them a far better chance of taking on Bastion and OZT.  That she couldn't argue, having seen a few examples of what the thieves could do.  But to keep the X-Men safe from the Guild's internal politics meant the death of any chance she and Remy might ever have had to be together.  Not only that, but she would have to deny that there had ever been anything between them, and get the X-Men to do the same.

In some way, she'd already come to the conclusion that their plans for the future were totally incompatible, that eventually they'd have to admit it wouldn't work.  But to strip away both the present and the past as well hurt more than she thought possible.

Very slowly, Rogue levered herself to her feet, wrapping her arms about her waist.  She felt cold all the way through. 

"Ah understand, sugah," was all she could think of to say.  She started to turn away.

"Rogue."

Rogue held her breath as she looked back at him.  His gaze on her was as gentle and intimate as a caress.  "I love you."

She fought to keep her knees from buckling.  "Ah love you, too, sugah."  A tear found its way onto her cheek. She wiped it brusquely away.  "It was a nice dream while it lasted, wasn't it, Remy?"

His smile was raw, his voice little more than a whisper.  "Oui, chere.  I'm... sorry t'ings couldn' be different."

"Me, too."

After that, there was nothing left for Rogue to do but leave.

#

Bobby walked into the med center expecting to find the kind of austere, purposeful silence that permeated Hank's lab at the mansion.  It wasn't until the noise hit him that he realized the med center and its staff catered to the population equivalent of a small town.  The small reception area was an ocean of boisterous or wailing children in which the nurse's station was the only island.  Bobby made his way over to that bastion and leaned over the edge to give the attendant his best smile.

She was a young woman, pretty in an overly made-up way, and smiled back at him.  Bobby was doubly pleased when the light of recognition went on in her eyes.  He had no interest outside of Diedre, but her response certainly did his ego good. 

"I'm looking for Hank McCoy," Bobby told her.  "Big, blue furry guy."  He held up a hand to illustrate Hank's height.

She giggled.  "Of course, Mr. Drake.  Go on in.  Dr. McCoy is probably seeing a patient, but someone will be able to help you find him."

Bobby thanked her, then made his way through the double doors that led into the med center proper.  His good humor gave way to apprehension as he did, and his smile faded.  A passing nurse looked up curiously at him. He stopped her with an outstretched hand.

"Do you know where I can find Dr. McCoy?"

She frowned, looking him over, but then nodded back down the hallway from which she'd come.  "Examination room two."

Bobby found the room and paused outside the closed door.  He could hear Hank's bass rumble coming from within, interspersed with a child's voice and a woman's.  After a few minutes, the door opened and Hank walked out, clipboard in hand.  He stopped short when he saw Bobby but then recovered, closing the door carefully behind him.

"Well, Bobby, to what do I owe the honor of this most salutary visit?"

It wasn't as warm a welcome Bobby was hoping for, but he summoned a smile anyway. 

"Hi, Hank.  I thought I'd stop by to see if you were free for lunch."

Hank glanced at his watch, brow furrowing.  "Lunch?  Is it that time already?"

Bobby chuckled, feeling a little more at ease.  Some things never changed.  "They have been remembering to feed you, haven't they?"

Hank grinned, showing teeth.  "Indubitably.  At least, I think so.  Of course, I would be the last person to realize it if they hadn't."  He shrugged and stepped aside as the door behind him opened.  A woman and her young son came out.  The boy sported an orange wrist cast and was covered with a set of scrapes that made Bobby think he'd had a rather rude meeting with the unyielding stone of the cavern.  He grinned and waved at Hank as his mother ushered him out.

Hank returned the wave, flashing blue-black claws as he did so. Bobby reflected that this might very well be the only place in the world where no one would notice.  Hank watched the boy for a moment then turned to Bobby.

"I have a couple more patients to see, but after that I shall put myself at your disposal."  He salaamed over the top of his clipboard.  "Give me twenty minutes."  

It turned out to be more like forty, but Bobby didn't complain.  It was enough to have Hank's company, and as they made their way into the huge communal kitchen that served most of the Guild's needs, the two men talked about Hank's involvement in the med center and Bobby's new daughter as if they were completely ordinary events.  People paused to watch them pass, the murmurs echoing with Hank's name.

Hank finally turned to Bobby with a bemused expression. "Do you know, I do believe this is the first time in my life people have stared at me simply because I'm something of a celebrity... rather than because I'm large, blue, furry and something of a celebrity."

Bobby chuckled.  "It does seem kinda odd until you get used to it."  It had taken him a while to grow comfortable with the Guild's open acceptance of mutants, until he realized just how many of them there were.

Hank stopped abruptly and turned to look at him, his gaze searching.  "Are you happy here, Bobby?  Have you found what you wanted?"

The sadness in his friend's childlike blue eyes drove straight into Bobby's heart.  Taking a deep breath, he answered honestly.  "I have, Hank.  This is where I belong.  It's... it's my place in the Dream."  He spread his hands, unable to explain any better than that the convictions that had led him to become a thief.  His voice fell.  "I just wish it didn't have to cost me the X-Men."

Hank cocked his head.  "The X-Men will always be there for you."

"I know.  But I don't think they'll ever understand."  Bobby was sometimes dismayed by how much the X-Men's approval meant to him. 

Hank pulled off his spectacles and began to clean them.  "You might be surprised," he said without looking up. 

Bobby's chest tightened.  "What's that supposed to mean?"

Hank frowned and resettled his glasses on his nose.  "Charles once referred to the X-Men as the 'rock-stars of the mutant equality movement'.  He... believed... that high-profile teams like the X-Men would mold and influence the culture as a whole, but that the real work of changing peoples' opinions about mutants would have to happen at the grass-roots level."  Hank shook his head.  "Though I must admit I did not properly appreciate the obvious fact that those grass-roots would, of necessity, contain a large criminal element."   He smiled.  "As any gardener can tell you, roots require dirt if they are to flourish."

Hank paused and his tone took on a reflective quality.  "I was always surprised by Charles' willingness-- even eagerness-- to accept the most minimally reformed criminals into the X-Men.  Now I begin to see what he was searching for."

Bobby gaped at him and in return Hank gave him a sad, almost wistful smile. "Truly, Bobby, did you think I would condemn you for choosing the life you have?" he asked gently.

Pure, sweet relief rushed through the young thief as he ducked his head.  "I... yeah, I guess I did," Bobby admitted, feeling somewhat ashamed for ever doubting his friend. 

He looked up and smiled.  "Thanks, Blue."

"You are most welcome."  Hank's grin was guileless as he made a show of looking around the cafeteria.  "Now, you mentioned lunch?"

Chapter 25

What changes a few weeks could bring.  Scott mentally shook his head.  It had been five weeks now-- almost six-- and the changes sometimes seemed staggering.  When the X-Men had first entered the thieves' world, they'd been battered, off-balance, and sadly ineffective against OZT.  Now, they-- and the thieves backing them-- were starting to resemble a serious resistance movement.  Despite his many misgivings, Scott was proud of that.

At that moment, he, Logan, Mystique, Bishop, Marcus and a female thief named Jasmine surrounded one end of Gambit's monstrous desk, while Gambit himself stood at the opposite end, deep in conversation with several members of his Guild.  Schematics of OZT's largest fuel dump this side of Washington D.C. covered the polished surface, as Scott's group banged their collective heads against the site's security. 

"We have ta hit at least four o' these fuel bunkers ta make the trip worthwhile," Wolverine said, tapping the spot with one gnarled finger.  "But I can't see us gettin' more than two.  We can't get far enough inside before bein' spotted."  His voice had grown even scratchier with his body's accelerated aging.  Beast had explained that Wolverine's body had grown so accustomed to the healing factor that it was now effectively in a kind of withdrawal.  The aging was simply part of the process of adapting to a normal level of cellular function.  Several of the X-Men were suffering lesser cases of withdrawal from their own powers as well.  The good news was that Logan's body had already begun to normalize, so he wasn't likely to age too much further.  In fact, he might even regress.

 "What do ya think, Cyke?"

Scott jerked his attention back to the discussion.  They'd had several successes against the Sentinels' fuel depots already, blowing them sky-high and leaving little behind but a crater.  Unfortunately, Bastion wasn't stupid.  It was getting harder and the number of Prime Sentinels kept increasing.  Their ability to disguise themselves as normal human beings until triggered made them tremendously dangerous.  Privately, Scott was very surprised they hadn't lost anyone yet and the thought alone chilled him.  In the past, the X-Men had always headed into a conflict with the expectation of survival.  Scott wasn't certain how much longer that mindset could last.

"I agree."  He nodded to Logan.  "It's not worth the risk if we don't seriously hamper the Sentinels' operation for at least a little while.  OZT still has logistics problems, mostly because Bastion's trying to build his own infrastructure instead of using what's already there.  If we can curtail the Sentinels' flights, we'll hopefully buy ourselves enough clear sky to do more significant damage.  I can't stress how important these missions are--"

The group gathered around the desk simply stared at him.  They'd heard the speech before and Scott felt a flash of embarrassment.  "Sorry, preaching to the choir again."

Logan grinned at that and Marcus, who was cheerful enough for any three people, laughed outright.

"What if we came through here?" Jasmine-- Jazz-- pointed to a spot on the depot's perimeter.  She hadn't so much as blinked at Scott's attempt at levity.  Tall, dark-haired and full of Latin sensuality when it suited her, Jazz could also be as severe as Scott on a bad day.  Bobby's explanation was that it came from trying too hard to be "one of the boys".  Female thieves were highly unusual and, Scott was beginning to understand, not particularly welcomed.

Jazz went on, unaware of Scott's musings.  "We can bypass the electrified fence and the alarm circuits pretty easily.  If we cut through at this point we'd be out of sight of the guard towers, so all we'd have to worry about are the roaming patrols."

Scott frowned.  He really didn't like Jazz, for a number of reasons.  Her attitude, for one -- the woman carried the largest chip on her shoulder he'd ever seen.  She was also the most avaricious thief he'd met.  He knew that sounded odd, and Jean had laughed the first time he'd said it aloud, but it was true.  Scott could literally see the greedy gleam in her eyes whenever any kind of wealth was discussed.  And to top it all off, she had developed some rather obvious intentions toward Gambit, though why that bothered him Scott wasn't quite sure.  Sympathy for Rogue?  Or maybe just because he loathed gold diggers.  But, she did have a point.  He turned to Bishop, who'd gone with the scouting group.  The big man had a surprising number of thief skills hidden up his sleeve, even if he was ashamed of them.

"How regular are the patrols?"

Bishop didn't look up from the large, highly detailed map of the fuel depot and its surroundings.  "The area is covered by three patrols," he explained. "Each made up of two men.  Two of the patrols pass through areas that would give them line of sight to the insertion point-- here, here, here and here."  He used a pencil to show the three routes used by the roaming patrols, then pointed to various places on those routes where buildings and other structures would not screen the assault team, marking each with an "X".  "The timing of the routes is erratic, but they always follow the same paths."

Mystique tapped her fingertips against her lips, her pupil-less gaze intent.  "It can be done."  Scott watched her warily.  Mystique's methods were brutally direct and, unfortunately, all too effective for him to dismiss.  She'd been doing this kind of thing for years, the only difference being that now they were going after people who had no legitimate claim to power in the United States.  Scott couldn't stomach using violence against legitimate authority, which to his thinking meant they needed to get Bastion and OZT before they became legitimate.  Until then it was war.  After than point it became insurrection, something Scott would not foster.

Mystique touched the map with the tip of a long red fingernail.  "Put a sniper here, on this little knoll, and another one over here... in a tree probably.  I'd have to do some quick scouting when I got there, but it shouldn't be that hard to find a usable spot."

Scott stifled a resigned sigh.  When they'd lost their powers they'd also lost the luxury of not killing their enemies.  Sniping had the added benefit of letting them take out some of the enemy without the risk that one might be an un-metamorphed Sentinel.  In his heart of hearts Scott hated it, but he'd run out of reasons to refuse. "What about the timing?"

Mystique shrugged.  "We'll just have to take what we get."

"I'm gonna be goin' through the fence, so who do ya suggest fer the second sniper?"  Logan asked. 

"Rogue."

Logan arched a skeptical eyebrow.  "She ain't gonna like that idea."

"My daughter will do what I tell her."

Scott kept his face expressionless.  The ongoing battle between Rogue and her foster mother wasn't really any of his business.  He just wished Mystique wouldn't go so far out of her way to rub Rogue's nose in her return to her former way of life.  Rogue's skills were an asset to the team, but the more Mystique pushed the harder she fought using them.  Scott had debated asking Remy to say something to Mystique, but hadn't yet convinced himself that it would do any good.

He shot a quick glance toward the man standing a couple of feet away.  Gambit stood near the opposite end of the desk, one hip leaned against the edge, arms crossed, as he listened to a trio of guildmembers rattle on about some internal issue.  They were complaining about space... again.  The X-Men's field leader was more than a little surprised by how much patience Gambit demonstrated with the never ending struggle to fit the needs of an entire population into such cramped quarters.  Still, after being dragged away from the mission planning for the third time that morning, Scott could tell the other man's patience was wearing thin.

"There's simply no room for what you want to do," Will Sandberg said for perhaps the fourth time that Scott had noticed.  The councilman's comment was directed toward a gray-haired woman Scott didn't know.

"There has to be room somewhere," the woman replied severely.  "Educating our children is too important to stop just because there isn't space."

"The apprentices are continuing their classes--"

"That's just the apprentices."  The gray-haired woman cut him off with a scowl.  "What about the rest?"

Scott let his awareness of the conversation fall away as Bobby walked into the crowded office, followed by Diedre and Rogue.  The Drakes had become something of Gambit's personal assistants, helping him with everything from his email to acting as go-betweens between the Guild and the X-Men.  It was odd.  Bobby didn't properly belong in either the Guild's upper echelons or the X-Men's leadership, but he invariably found a quiet, unassuming place in both groups.  And since only a very select few of the thieves knew of Gambit's vision handicap, Scott could understand why the other wasn't trying to discourage his presence. 

On the other hand, Scott had no idea what Rogue was doing there.  She was carrying a thin manila folder with several pages from a legal pad poking out from the edges.

Rogue trailed a few steps behind the Drakes as they approached Gambit.  Bobby gave Scott a friendly nod in greeting as he passed.  Rogue's gaze stayed fixed on the conversation going on at the far end of the desk.  She didn't even glance in his direction.  Or Mystique's for that matter.

Bobby waited quietly until Gambit acknowledged him. 

"What's up, Bobby?" The Cajun turned away from the ongoing argument with a thin but seemingly genuine smile.

Bobby returned the smile with a much brighter one.  "Hey, boss. You wanted to know when those satellite pictures were developed." 

Scott perked up his ears.  One of the thieves had gotten photos of some military satellite pictures of the eastern seaboard.  Hopefully they would give the new resistance better knowledge of where OZT's facilities were.

Gambit had a similar reaction.  He pivoted smartly to face Bobby, expression sharpening.

"But, Guildmaster--" Will Sandberg protested behind him.  "This issue hasn't been resolved yet."

Scott caught a flash of annoyance that disappeared as Gambit turned back to Will.  Sandberg was a council member and not to be dismissed lightly, no matter how much Scott was sure the Guildmaster longed to.  Though he'd never admit it, Scott took perverse pleasure in seeing Gambit bogged down in mundane details.  It seemed a fitting revenge for all those years he'd spent lounging by the mansion's pool, pretending to be a wastrel while Scott was dealing with the like for the X-Men.

"Find some space t' lay dose out, Bobby," Gambit said without turning.  "We'll get t' dem in a bit."

"Sure, boss."  Bobby took his packet of photos and left the desk, which was completely buried already, and instead went to the coffee table beside a leather sofa on the far side of the office. 

Gambit focused on the guildmembers and now Rogue, who had gone to stand beside the gray haired woman and was talking with her about the contents of the manila folder.

"Rosalind?" Gambit asked the woman after a moment.

Rosalind smiled briefly at Rogue then turned.  "Guildmaster, you know Andrea Black has been helping me try to find a solution to this problem -- "

"An' since she's got two new babies ta deal with, ah've been doin' some o' the legwork t' help her out," Rogue interjected.  A little too quickly, Scott thought, judging by how Jazz's gaze abruptly narrowed.  Though neither Gambit nor Rogue ever gave any indication of any special feelings for each other, Jazz, at least, recognized a threat in Rogue.  Scott wondered how much of a problem it might turn out to be.  He understood why Gambit and Rogue had decided to end their relationship and hide its existence, but doubted such a tactic could work in the long run. 

"We think we may have come up with a solution," Rosalind continued, apparently unperturbed by the interruption.  "Rogue just brought me the inventory for the storeroom we've been talking about -- " She handed the sheets of legal paper to Gambit who made a credible show of reading them.  "None of these things are used very frequently.  Right now they're all spread across the floor and sorted into little piles, but they could just as easily all be stacked up against the wall.  It wouldn't be a lot of space, but it would be enough to get started."

"Unfortunately, you're misinformed, Ms. Tanner."  Sandberg's voice was cool.  He and the man beside him had turned so that they squared off against Rosalind and Rogue, with Gambit in the middle.  "That storeroom contains a lot of hardware that gets used regularly for repairs and construction, including plumbing supplies and electrical cables.  There's still about thirty percent of the living quarters down here that don't have running water or bathroom facilities.  It would slow down the retrofit effort tremendously to 'stack' those supplies."  The man beside Sandberg was nodding in a knowing way, making Scott wonder if he was a foreman or something similar.

"Why would it slow things down?" Rogue asked.

Will paused for a long moment as if debating whether to answer.  The guildmembers were such sticklers for their rules that Scott wouldn't have been too surprised if he'd acted like Rogue didn't exist.  She wasn't Guild, after all, and had no real business getting involved in Guild matters.  Scott found it all kind of ludicrous, though he'd been doing his best not to offend anyone with his opinions.  They needed the Guild too much to let anything damage the fragile relationship the two groups were developing.

The foreman ended up answering before Sandberg.  "Well, ma'am, the first reason is because my people have been using those supplies for months.  They're used to where things are so they don't waste time looking around.  But there's also the fact that we need access to that stuff 'round the clock.  We'd be going in and out all the time while you were trying to have classes."  He shrugged.  "I've got kids.  I want them to get a good education, but I know they wouldn't pay attention to any teacher with people coming and going all the time."

"Hmm."  Rogue twined a lock of hair around her finger.  "Sounds like ya need that place left alone."  Rosalind flashed her a betrayed look, which Rogue ignored.  She met the foreman's eyes.  "Could we maybe consolidate somethin' else, though?  There's an awful lot o' wall space goin' unused there."  She waved a hand toward the sheets Gambit still held.

The foreman frowned thoughtfully.  "Maybe.  I'll have to think about it, check with my crews."

Rogue glanced at Rosalind, then Sandberg.  "That seem reasonable t' y'all?"  She got a round of hesitant nods.

"Guildmaster?" Sandberg asked, his tone betraying his reluctance.

Gambit just shrugged.  "Dis is your area, Will.  Do whatever y' t'ink is best.  I know I c'n count on de ladies here t' scream if dey don' t'ink it's a good enough solution."  He indicated Rogue and Rosalind with a wave.

Sandberg nodded, still not pleased.  "Yes, Guildmaster." 

The foursome quickly left with Rogue and the foreman deep in discussion.  Shaking his head, Gambit rejoined the group gathered around the far end of the desk.

"So, what'd I miss?"

Clearing his throat, Scott got his head back in the planning.  He quickly outlined the route they'd been discussing.  Gambit, he knew, had the schematics memorized since he couldn't see them, and Scott was careful to make sure he gave the Cajun enough descriptive clues to keep the other from making a fatal mistake.  Jazz almost certainly didn't know about his loss of vision, and Mystique might or might not be aware.

Gambit raised an eyebrow at the mention of snipers, and even more so at Rogue's name.  "You t'ink she'll agree?" he asked Mystique.

 "She'll do it," Mystique assured him.  "We wouldn't take anyone out unless they looked like they'd spotted the insertion team.  Even Rogue won't have a problem with that."

Scott had his doubts, but they'd find out soon enough.  Gambit just shrugged.  "Well, if she won', I c'n give Belle a call.  She wouldn' have any problem doin' a contract job, even f' me."

Scott resisted the desire to bury his head in his hands.  Remy could talk about hiring assassins from his ex-wife with exquisite nonchalance, but the thought alone gave Scott the shivers.  He pushed his reaction aside.  His feelings on the subject really didn't matter any more.

"Anyone else see any major flaws with this plan?"  Heads shook and Scott allowed himself a sigh.  "All right, then we'll start working it up.  You all know your jobs.  Let's see if we can't put this together inside a week."

The group broke up as people headed out to their separate tasks.  Gambit gave Scott a lopsided grin after everyone else had gone, as if he understood how morally complicated the other man found his position. 

"Y' let me know what y' need?" he asked.

Scott chuckled sourly.  "That goes without saying." 

Together they turned and made their way across the room to where Bobby waited.

#

Well, ya certainly did it this time, gal.  Made a right fool o' yohself.  She hadn't so much as spoken to Remy in two weeks and what did she do at her first opportunity?  Behaved like a stupid teenager with a crush.  She was pretty sure she'd managed to hide her pounding heart and weak knees, but even if no one else had noticed, she knew. 

How am ah ever gonna be able ta talk ta him?  Every time ah get around him, ah'm afraid everyone's going ta  look at me an' know.  Ah guess it's true what they say about the ones ya can't have.  All that time we had ta be together an' all ah did was push him away.  Now we can't be together an' ah'm fallin' all over mahself just ta be in the same room with him.

Rogue strode through the stone halls of the Guild complex, lost in her thoughts.  Her feet took her unerringly to the Black's door even so, and she pushed it open without thought.  Had she been less preoccupied she would have stopped to listen first, but as it was she simply yanked it open and was greeted with the piercing wails of a newborn emanating from the back of the tiny apartment.  Andrea sat in a rocking chair in the main room, nursing one of her sons while the other one gave voice to his opinion about having to wait.

Andrea's gaze snapped to Rogue the moment she opened the door, her gaze full of frazzled relief.  "Rogue!  I'm so glad you're home.  Could you please go get Jacob?"

Rogue froze in a kind of pure terror that dwarfed anything she'd ever felt on any mission.  This was why she always listened at the door before going in.  "Ah… sure."  She didn't bother trying to smile.  Andrea knew how much she disliked any contact with the infants.

Striding into the Black's bedroom, Rogue looked down into the nearest bassinet at the wizened little baby who lay there, his face an angry red from the force of his cries.  No, it wasn't that she disliked contact with Jacob and Daniel, it was really because she liked it and wanted the same for herself.  And because she could never have it.  The truth tore at her every time she tucked one of these tiny babies into her arms.

Carefully, Rogue picked Jacob up.  His screaming cut off abruptly as she settled him in her arms, his head turning instinctively toward her breast.

"Sorry, hon.  Ain't nothin' there foh ya."  Smiling a little at the joke, she walked back out to the main room.  She stood, rocking Jacob in her arms, as Andrea finished feeding his brother.

"So how'd it go with Will?" Andrea asked as she disengaged her son and offered the drowsing infant to Rogue.

They traded babies and Rogue put Daniel on her shoulder for a burp.  "Well enough, ah suppose," she answered.  "Ah swear that man doesn't care anything about helpin' folks, just about bein' right.  It's a good thing he had his construction chief there.  It turns out we can't use the storeroom like we hoped, but ah think the chief'll be able to clear out somethin' else.  He seemed ta really like the idea."

"We?"  Andrea cocked her head to the side with an innocent smile.

Rogue rolled her eyes.  "The Guild."  She pointed an accusing finger at the other woman.  "Ya know what ah mean, so don't argue semantics with me."

Andrea chuckled, but then changed the subject.  "Marc says he's hearing some more rumblings among the thieves… the Guildmaster's too aggressive about OZT, spending too much money, taking too many chances with Guild lives, that sort of thing."  Her tone belied the seriousness of the words.

Rogue frowned.  "Adrian?"  She and Scott were the two main conduits of information between the thieves who supported Gambit politically and the X-Men, who everyone understood would come down squarely on the Guildmaster's side in any real conflict.  The official exchanges of information took place most often between the thieves' council and Scott, Ororo and Bobby, but that was business.  Rogue's involvement was with the people who worked for Gambit's benefit primarily without his knowledge (so they thought) or consent.  Rogue did it because she'd promised, however obliquely, to watch Remy's back during that awful conversation in his office.  It was the one and only time they'd ever really talked-- without lies, without pretenses, and the reality that had slapped her so hard in the face that day still made her throat ache if she thought about it. 

Andrea shrugged in response to the question.  "Who else?  The voices aren't very loud right now, but the first time something goes seriously wrong they're going to be shouting."

"If somethin' goes seriously wrong, sugah, we're all gonna be too dead ta care."

Andrea gave her a reproving look.  "The Guildmaster needs to know what people are saying."

Rogue thought back to their conversation once more and sighed.  "Ah'd bet he already knows, but ah'll talk t' Bobby."  Gambit, she was sure, knew all too well who supported the alliance with the X-Men and who did not.  The biggest problem was that the X-Men didn't answer to anyone in the Guild except possibly Gambit himself, and that made them a personal weapon for the Guildmaster to use against his own people if he chose.  It was no wonder so many guildmembers resented their presence.  She couldn't help a small, grim smile.  But ah've never known Remy t' gamble unless the stakes were dangerously high.

She looked over at Andrea.  "Anythin' else?"

Andrea shook her head.  "Not that I've heard."  Then, business concluded, she switched topics without pausing for breath.  "Did I tell you who my sister went out with last night?"

#

Jubilation Lee woke to darkness.  And pain.  She knew from the feel of the cold metal beneath her and the smell of the place that she was back in her cell.  It was obviously night time, for the lights were off.  The absolute blackness hovered around her like a palpable thing, heavy and dense.  Needles of pain shot down her arms from shoulder to elbow with every breath, making her dizzy.  

Jubilee didn't know what they were doing to her, bit by bit and piece by piece, but she could guess.  She could feel the lines of fresh surgical scars on her arms to match those elsewhere.  Her hair had finally started growing back in to cover the tracks across her skull.  Her head was covered by about a half-inch of wiry black hair that felt like velvet when she ran her hands across it.

She stifled a sob.  They're turning me into a monster.  A voice in the back of her mind cried out for help from the one person she truly trusted.

Wolverine, help me!  Where are you?  I need you!

No gruff, familiar voice answered her out of the darkness.  Jubilee closed her eyes, silent tears escaping.  She was so tired.  Tired of being afraid.  Tired of hurting. 

She knew she was beaten.  The cocky mall rat façade had long since crumbled to dust. She would have shown a very different face to anyone who saw her now, but no one ever came.  She hadn't seen a living soul since Bastion had tortured the details of the X-Mansion's security system from her.

In some ways, the loneliness was even worse than the shame of having betrayed her friends.

Chapter 26

Adrian Tyre paced a short track through the stone cubbyhole that passed for his living room.  He ignored the trickle of moisture that darkened one wall and the fungal smell that accompanied it.  So, too, he ignored the harsh glare from the utility lights bolted to the stone above him in place of a normal fixture.  They were signs of how far the thieves had fallen and of the level of persecution they faced.  Even he, as a member of the council, had nothing.  Oh, his investments and off-shore accounts were secure.  Just inaccessible.

Why in the world had the council voted LeBeau into the Guildmaster's seat? Adrian wondered.  The man's golden tongue, no doubt.  More so than when he was elected, the councilmembers were mesmerized by LeBeau's pretty promises. LeBeau's noble intentions had infected the Guild like a plague.  They were thieves, not heroes.  The goals were wealth, power and self-determination, not the betterment of mankind.  LeBeau, for some reason, didn't understand that.

The strange part was that Adrian agreed with the Guildmaster's actions, though not his rationale.  Michael would have done a better job, of course, but at least LeBeau was taking decisive action.  The Guild should have solidified its position long before OZT came along to strip their mutant birthright away.  Michael would have made certain of it. LeBeau, on the other hand, would empower the Guild only so long as it took to destroy OZT.  Then they would slink back into the shadows of obscurity, never to realize the true wealth that could be theirs.

A knock interrupted Adrian's bitter thoughts.  He went to the door.

Carson McCall stood in the hallway, looking as tired as Adrian felt. Adrian summoned a smile for his longtime friend.  No matter what Carson did or did not bring with him, he knew the other had been working hard in the attempt.  He needed to show proper appreciation.

"Come in.  Have a seat."  Adrian waved to the couches that formed a tight group in his living room.  "Can I get you a drink?"

"Thanks.  The usual."  Carson dropped into a seat and laid his head back. 

Adrian went to a tiny wet bar in the corner.  He fixed scotch and soda for Carson, straight gin for himself.  Returning, he handed Carson's drink to him then sat down on the opposite sofa.

Carson pulled a slim folder from inside his jacket, tossing it down on the coffee table. "This is everything I could find."

Adrian cocked his head.  "Is that good or bad?"

He shrugged.  "Some of both."

Adrian glanced at his friend.  Physically, the two were opposites.  Carson's blond hair and olive complexion stood in marked contrast to Adrian's raven-dark hair and pale skin. Their minds, however, seemed to operate on the same wavelength.

Adrian waved a hand.  "Let's hear it, then."

The other man shuffled the papers lying on the table before him, then began to speak.  "O.k.  Early history: We know Guildmaster LeBeau-- the senior one, that is--" He gave Adrian a wry smile.  "Adopted him around the age of twelve.  Before that he was on the street."

"Gutter rat."  LeBeau's childhood was the subject of much discussion in the Guild, an equal mix of disgust and sympathy.  The city of New York had its own share of homeless children.  The Guild knew their kind well enough.

"Pretty much."

Adrian stared at the ceiling.  "Was he into drugs at all?  Sex-trade?"

Carson shook his head.  "Everything I managed to scratch up says he was clean when LeBeau took him in.  Prostitution is a possibility, but I couldn't come up with anything concrete."

 Adrian digested the information, dismissed it as useless.  "Nothing there.  How about afterward?"

Carson looked down at his notes.  "A troublemaker. Too smart for his own good."  He met Adrian's gaze.  "We have to be careful around this man, Adrian.  When New Orleans took him in, he couldn't count past twenty-five and didn't know how to read.  Five years later he was one of the sharpest apprentices around.  Math, sciences, computing, security layering-- you name it, he aced it."

Adrian felt a familiar twinge.  There was no doubt LeBeau was intelligent.  Dangerously so, in fact.  Still, his education formed a thin patina over the survival-driven street urchin he'd once been.  He had no concept of how much more there was to life.  How much more there could be, Adrian corrected himself.  LeBeau didn't-- couldn't-- comprehend the potential reach of the power he held in his hands.  All he wants is safety and comfort.  Understandable, considering his upbringing, but far too shortsighted a goal for Adrian. 

The last thing Adrian wanted was for anyone to further over-evaluate the Guildmaster, though, so he uttered a carefully cultivated snort of derision.  "He was stupid enough to get himself banished, wasn't he?"

"For killing an Assassin who challenged him to a duel.  His own brother-in-law, I think.  Big embarrassment for both sides."  Carson shrugged.  "They let the Assassins torture him for a little while and then banished him to keep the peace."

Adrian said nothing, letting his silence convey his disgust.  The New Orleans Guild was incredibly backwards.  And why the American Guilds continued to tolerate the insolence of that nest of Assassins was beyond him.

"After he left New Orleans, he traveled up the East Coast," Carson continued.  "A banished thief doesn't find much in the way of work-- especially one that just got his mark-- so he made the jump to espionage.  CIA to start with.  He made some contacts in the Pentagon, too.  Eventually branched out to other governments."

Adrian's head snapped up at that.  "Treason?"  That was too much to hope for.  They might be thieves first, but national loyalties remained important.

Carson shook his head.  "Sorry.  Nothing showed up.  He did a fair amount with British SAS, the French, Japan, and the Saudis.  But nothing that betrayed American interests."  Carson spread out several sheets of paper, looking back and forth between them.  "The interesting thing is that while he was doing all that, he was also finagling a lot of instruction from some very capable people."

"Like who?" 

"Foreign Guilds.  French, Japanese, Russian, even the Chinese."

"Sook Xu?"  Xu, a Chinese national and Guildmaster of Hong Kong, was the first ranked Master Thief in the world-- the very best.

Carson nodded.  "He pretty much lived and breathed the craft for almost four years, until he got his Master's mark. Then he quit cold."  Carson paused, one finger idly tapping the table.  "You want to know what I think?  I think LeBeau was pissed about being banished and set out to get his Master's rank so he could walk back into New Orleans without a by-your-leave from anyone."

Adrian raised an eyebrow.  "Not a bad supposition.  I know I'd want some payback."  He shook his head.  It was one of the first things he'd found to like in the man.   "Can't hold it against him, though.  What else?"

"Well, no one really knew what to do with a Guild-less Master.  They couldn't deny him the rank…"

"But?" Adrian prompted after a moment.

"But, he didn't have a Guild.  No Guild means no Guild contracts."

"He started freelancing?"  Adrian felt a thrill.  Thieving outside the boundaries of Guild control was tantamount to heresy.

"I don't know.  He was working, I know that.  Some rumors say he answered to the Guildmasters in a roundabout way.  He did tithe to New Orleans.  No telling if it was the proper percentage."  Carson shrugged.

Adrian took a sip of his gin, sucking it through his teeth.  If the Guildmasters knew what LeBeau was doing, and if he was giving proper tithe to his home Guild, even banished, there was little there to work with.  Frustrated, he rattled the ice in his glass.

"Go on."

"O.k.  Here's where it starts to get interesting.  He did work as a thief, but he also went back to some of his espionage roots.  Black bag stuff-- some so secret I couldn't get to the records, though I could tell you who he was working for.  And then he flat disappeared."

"Oh?"  Adrian raised an eyebrow.  Thieves made their living by getting to things other people thought well hidden.  To "disappear", in thief jargon, meant something momentous if even they could find no trace.

"There's a blank spot, about four months long, where he dropped off the face of the earth.  There was some talk that he'd taken a private contract, but no one knows for what.  He was doing some scouting, putting together a team for something, and then he just disappeared.  Resurfaced four months later in Italy."  Carson gave Adrian a significant look.  "Whatever it was, it gave him screaming nightmares for months afterwards.  He didn't work at all for almost a year."

Adrian stared blankly at the tabletop, thinking.  That empty gap in LeBeau's history beckoned to him, thrilling his senses with the promise of victory.  There had to be something there.  "Do we know anything at all?"

"Only that he got those claw marks on his stomach sometime during the four months."

Adrian frowned at that.  He'd seen the long parallel scars, as if LeBeau had been mauled by a bear or a lion.  "Keep digging.  I want to know what happened to him."

"I will."  Carson stood and went to refresh his drink from Adrian's tiny wet bar.

"What happened during the year he wasn't working?"

From behind the bar, Carson answered, "He started getting tangled up in mutant stuff."

"The X-Men?"

"Eventually."  Carson returned to his seat.  "He just started showing up when the super-folk went at it.  Crossed paths with a lot of people.  Eventually ended up with the X-Men.  I don't think it was completely coincidence-- it was too much of a change from his old patterns-- but whether he was trying to get in with that particular group… I don't know."

Well, that might be something else to investigate, Adrian thought.  Maybe he could find a way to drive a wedge between LeBeau and the X-Men.  That would be almost as valuable as turning the Guild against him.

"So that was when he came to New York."  It wasn't a question.

Carson nodded.  "Yes.  He didn't make any overtures toward the New York Guild for some months, though.  What little information I could get says the X-Men were out of the country for most of that time."

Something in his tone of voice gave Adrian pause.  "Where?"

"Scotland.  A few other places."

Adrian studied his friend.  "You're leaving something out."

Carson shrugged.  "One rumor I heard suggests the X-Men were in another galaxy for part of the time."

"Another galaxy?"  Adrian stared at his cohort.

Carson looked uncomfortable.  "That's what they said.  I couldn't confirm it, obviously, but I also couldn't specifically put them in another location during that time period."  He shrugged.  "They bounce around the planet.  Keeping track of where and when is difficult at best."

Adrian pushed the bizarre possibilities aside.  If LeBeau had had alien friends to call on, he would have had them blow OZTs satellites out of the sky.  He reached up to massage his temples.  He was getting a headache.  "Anything else?"

"Not really.  You know the rest, pretty much."

Adrian paused, old anger welling up.  "Yeah.  He murdered my cousin, and the fools gave him the Guild instead of punishing him."  He stared off into the distance, remembering. 

"You know, Michael would have made this Guild the premier power in this city," he said, his tone wistful.

Carson gave him a skeptical look. "Maybe.  He was under investigation by the FBI."

"LeBeau tipped them."

Carson's eyes widened.  "Can you prove that?"

"No."  Adrian shook his head.  How he wished he could. For a thief to turn another over to the authorities… Even the X-Men wouldn't be able to protect him.  Sighing, he forced his thoughts back to the present.

"What about his women?  Anything there?"  Unfortunately, LeBeau seemed to have abandoned his womanizing ways in the past few years.  Blatant promiscuity would have drawn disapproval from the Clans.

Carson smiled.  "Do you want the whole list?"

"You have one?"  Adrian looked up with interest.  Carson showed him a two-page list.  There had to be several hundred names, many with dates attached.  Adrian thought about it.  Leaking that could cause some embarrassment.  The Guild was, for the most part, a conservative organization.  Family values and all that.  They wouldn't like a philanderer Guildmaster.  He chewed his lip.  If it wasn't all past behavior…

He held out his hand.  Carson handed the papers over and took a sip of his drink while Adrian scanned the list.  Several names caught his attention, but none would cause the kind of scandal he needed.

"It gets pretty thin there at the end," Carson told him. 

"The reason?"

Carson shrugged.  "Nobody knows.  Pretty much all of his medical treatment for the past few years has been through the X-Men, but I got their blue furry doc to give me a roundabout confirmation that there's no… medical reason."

Pity, Adrian thought.  If anyone deserved to have a venereal disease it was LeBeau.

"Maybe he's gotten tired of the lifestyle," Carson suggested.

With the kind of women who throw themselves at his feet?  Not likely. 

Adrian emptied his glass.  "Any chance he's gotten serious with someone?"

Carson shrugged.  "I haven't seen anything."

Adrian sighed.  "Oh well. Keep after it," he said.  "There's got to be something we can use."

Carson nodded and stood.  "I'll let you know if I find anything else."

#

 "Ah can't believe y'all are askin' me ta do this!"  Rogue combed the hair away from her face with one hand, frustrated by the wall of faces surrounding her.  Mystique, Gambit, Cyclops, Logan, Bobby, Artur, Marcus, Adrian, and several of the thieves' adjutants gathered around Gambit's desk all stared back at her. 

"Why me?"

Scott shrugged.  "Mystique says you're that good.  I need Logan elsewhere, and your name is next on the list."  His demeanor softened.  "I don't like it either, Rogue, if it's any consolation."

Rogue looked from Cyclops to her mother and back.  Mystique was pushing again, pushing her to give up on becoming something better than a trained killer.  Pushing her back toward the fold.  She glanced at Gambit, but his expression remained closed.  She wouldn't find any support there.  She grimaced to herself.  He might even want her to walk that path. After all, it wasn't that big a step from assassination to thieving, and becoming a thief might very well make their relationship possible again.

Rogue bit her lip.  The thought both angered and attracted her.

She uttered a grating sigh.  "Ah got your word we wouldn't shoot unless the team was compromised?"  She kept her gaze on Scott, though the question was really meant for Mystique.  But it was Cyclops' mission plan, and her mother had promised to play nice.

Scott nodded.  "Yes."

Across from Rogue, Mystique smiled.  Rogue tensed.  She knew that expression; it meant her mother was laughing at her.

Rogue sighed.  She brushed the annoying lock of hair out of her eyes once more.  "All right.  What, exactly, do ya want me ta do?"

Scott turned the mission diagram so they could both view it right side up.  "This would be your post."  He pointed to a small ridge about forty yards from the compound fence.  From photos Rogue knew the entire area was covered in a mixture of tall grass and brush-- perfect for hiding.  Scott went on, describing the mission.

As he spoke, Mystique drained the last of her coffee.  She leaned over to say something to Remy in an undertone then, at his nod, took his coffee cup and her own and headed toward the bar in the corner of the office.  Distracted, Rogue kept an eye on her mother while trying to listen to Scott.  Cyclops was going through the mission timing.

"Logan and Marcus will be most vulnerable here."  Scott pointed.  Logan and Marcus were the advance team, responsible for taking down the site's security.  "If there's a roving patrol anywhere in this area--" he outlined a pie-shaped slice of ground on the diagram, "they'll have to be taken out."

Rogue nodded.  In her peripheral vision she watched her mother measure a second spoonful of honey into Remy's mug.  Mystique stirred it, then took an evaluatory sip.  Apparently satisfied, she returned to the table, setting Remy's cup down in front of him and cradling her own in her hands.

Wishing she could shake off her sense of unease, Rogue focused once again on Scott.  Mystique didn't help her efforts.  She stood silently across the table, sipping her coffee and grinning at Rogue as if she were enjoying a truly remarkable joke.

"Y' might be able t' cut down dat vulnerable spot by puttin' a second lookout on de southeast corner o' Buildin' 22."  Each of the buildings in the complex was numbered.  Their target was Building 6.  Remy didn't gesture or point.  He couldn't, of course, because he couldn't see the diagram, though close to half of the people in the room didn't know that.  Still, he never had talked with his hands so it didn't seem unusual.  He picked up his coffee and sipped it absently.

Alarm bells began to ring in Rogue's mind.  Confused, she paused, mentally reviewing the last few moments.  What had triggered it?  Had Remy done something to give himself away?  She considered the possibility and was forced to discard it.  She hadn't seen anything that might hint at his handicap.

"Rogue?"

Disturbed, Rogue looked up at Scott.  "Yeah?"

"You still with me?"

She nodded.  "Ah'm listenin'.  Just tryin' ta think somethin' through."

He accepted that with a nod.  "Do you see a problem?"

Beside Scott, Mystique's smirk widened.  Rogue stared at her mother as she answered Scott, "Don' know just yet, sugah.  Let me think a minute."  She made a show of studying the drawings while her mind raced.  Mystique had done something.  That was what had set off her internal warnings.  But what?  No, that wasn't right, Rogue corrected herself.  Remy had triggered the warning bells.  But what had he done?  She thought back.  Nothing but drink his coffee and suggest an additional lookout.

Rogue's breath caught in her throat.  Her stomach clamped into a cold knot.  Nothing but drink his coffee…

The coffee her mother had made for him. 

With two spoonfuls of honey instead of sugar.

Just the way he liked it.

Something Mystique had taught her, long long ago, about observing people came back in a rush.  Outside the office, if you ever see a woman fixing a man's coffee, she's either his mother or his lover.

Rogue stood frozen.  A tiny chuckle escaped Mystique, the sound nearly lost in the general babble of ongoing conversations. 

Remy glanced at Rogue, then Mystique, a frown crinkling his brow.  "Dat was cruel, Raven."  The mild comment, delivered in an undertone, barely reached across the desk.  Most of those gathered either didn't hear or didn't attach any significance. A thousand questions tumbled through Rogue's mind, questions she didn't dare voice.  A mistake now might kill them all.  Adrian stood not three feet away. She could not react.

Mystique grinned back at Gambit, unaffected by his disapproval.  "Truth often is."

He winced at that, a miniscule flicker of reaction.

Nausea threatened to overwhelm Rogue.  She bit the inside of her lip, fighting for calm.

"Rogue?"  Scott watched her, his expression a mixture of impatience and interest.  He showed no sign of having understood what had just transpired between herself, Mystique and Remy.

Rogue gathered her wits.  "Sorry, sugah."  She smoothed her hair with one hand.  "This looks good ta me."  She risked a glance at Remy, hoping her expression wouldn't give anything away.  "The second lookout is a good idea, too."

Remy gave her a nod and an empty smile.  Rogue felt cold.  A short ways away, Bobby watched her with sympathy in his blue eyes, which only made Rogue angrier.  It was altogether possible Bobby had known and hadn't said anything.

Scott continued with the mission briefing.  Rogue listened as best she could and excused herself as soon as was possible without drawing suspicion.  Remy, she noted, didn't look up as she walked out.

#

It took some careful arranging, but Remy finally found an opportunity to talk to Rogue.  She was in the gym, working out at one of the bags.  He could see warm drops of sweat flying from her as she pummeled the bag with both hands and feet.  Rogue was slimming down, he noticed absently.  Her powers had kept her from needing to be in top physical form. Now she was trading some of her luscious curvature for lean, hard muscle. 

Dressed for his own workout, Remy angled across the room toward Rogue. He came up behind the bag, bracing it before leaning around to look at the woman he loved.

Rogue stopped short when she saw him.  The exercise had warmed her entire body, making it difficult to read any kind of emotion from her heat signature.

"Sugah, that's a dangerous place foh ya ta stand."  She hit the bag hard as if to demonstrate her meaning.

"Better t' be behind de bag den in front of it, neh?"

Rogue shook her head and hit the bag again.  "If ya were standin' in front of it, ah couldn't be held responsible fo' mah actions."  Though Remy couldn't see her glare, he could feel it.

Remy lowered his voice.  The gym was loud and there was no one close, but it was dangerous to have an honest discussion with her.  Dangerous but worth the price, he hoped.  "Are y' mad because Raven an' I were lovers once, or because I didn' tell y'?"

Rogue's taped fists made dull thumping sounds against the bag.  "Both, sugah."

 She paused, leaning on one hand.  Her breath came in harsh gasps.  "She's mah mother, Remy!" Rogue, too, kept the volume down.  The exclamation came out as an angry hiss.

After a moment, she went back to her workout.  In between blows she asked, "So what happened?"

Remy ignored the jostling of the bag and stared at her.  "Do y' really want t' know?"

Rogue stopped cold.  Then she flung her arms wide.  "Yes."  She pointed a finger at his nose.  "It's the new you."  The finger turned toward herself.  "It's the new me.  Yes, ah want ta know."

Remy couldn't help but smile.  This was the woman he'd fallen for. How I wish we could have gotten to this point when there was still a chance to do something with it.  But since it hadn't, he could only admire her from a carefully maintained distance.

He nodded.  "All right, chere. Truth is, I was sleepin' wit' Raven Darkholme-- de real one.  Was fishin' for a connection at de Pentagon t' do some contract work."  He shrugged.  If she didn't realize by this point that he'd often used sex as a means to reach other objectives, she was less willing to be honest than she seemed.

Rogue didn't react, though, so he went on.  "Den one day, Raven wasn' Raven anymore."

Rogue paused thoughtfully. She leaned against the bag.  "Mystique…?"

He nodded.  "Killed her an' replaced her.  I only suspected, o' course, but I figured I was dead if I let on.  Was only eighteen at de time.  She was out o' my league back den."  He smiled, remembering.  "She tol' me later dat de only reason she didn' slit m' throat was because she was convinced I didn' know.  We had a pretty good laugh about it."  He paused.  "'Course, dat was years later."

Rogue stared at him, her face a featureless mass of infrared colors.  "Why didn't ah ever see ya?"  She asked after a moment.  Her tone had lost its angry edge as if, perhaps, curiosity was winning out over outrage.

Remy could only shrug.  "Y' prob'ly did.  I remember seein' y' a time or two.  Couldn' o' been more dan t'irteen."  He gave her an ingratiating smile.  "Skinny lil' t'ing."

Rogue stepped back, hands on hips.  For a minute Remy was afraid he'd pushed too hard.  But Rogue surprised him when all she said was, "Ah'm done."  She gestured at the bag.  "Trade?"

Normal as c'n be.  Whatever she felt, she kept her reaction completely under control. He nodded and they traded places.  Remy threw a few light punches, warming up.  Chere, y' probably never know how much I love seein' y' like dis.  We would've made quite a team.  The thought brought a pang of regret.

Remy picked up his pace.  For a while, the only sound between them was the thumping of his hands and feet against the bag.  Eventually he paused to adjust the tape on one hand.

"So, how many times has she used this ta blackmail ya?"

Startled, Remy grinned.  "A few."

"Ah'll bet."  Rogue seemed to think for a moment before going on.  "Ah wonder why she said somethin' now.  What's she gettin' from it?"

Remy snorted.  "Probably de satisfaction o' watchin' y' have t' choke it down.  Dat would be her style."

Rogue laughed, though the sound was strained.  "Yeah, ah guess that's so.  Ah wonder what else, though.  Momma nevah does things foh just one reason."

Remy agreed, though he didn't say so.  He needed some time to think that one through himself.

He watched her heat signature, which was beginning to return to normal.  "Y' still mad at me, chere?" he asked softly.

"What do ya think?"

Remy couldn't pass up the opportunity.  "Non, chere.  I'm much too charmin' t' stay mad at."  He flashed his infamous grin.

Rogue heaved a long-suffering sigh and chuckled.  "The scary thing is, ya right."

Remy's heart lightened as he went back to his workout.  They might have lost the chance to ever be together, but no one ever said they couldn't still be friends.

"Hey, Remy?"

"Oui, chere?"  He kept his focus on the bag. 

"Would ya ever have told me?  Ah mean, if all this hadn't happened--"

Remy pulled up.  That was a tough question.  He chewed on his lip.  "Raven would've pushed de issue eventually."  He hesitated, then forced himself to go on.  Being honest with her wasn't necessarily easy.  "Ot'herwise, no, probably not."

Rogue was silent for several moments.  When she did answer, her voice held an echo of hurt.  "Fair 'nough.  That wasn't the answer ah was hopin' for, but ah appreciate gettin' the truth."

Remy's conscience twinged.  He could only hope she wouldn't start asking questions about the memories she carried around in her head.  There were some things he didn't ever want her to know.

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