WELCOME TO NEXUS.

[H Psylocke]

[CF: On the Rocks]

Betsy could thank her rendezvous with Domino for one thing – she had gotten far enough away from the Institute to run into actual, normal people. Granted, New York City was entirely full of ‘normal’ people, but at least people with fashion sense that weren’t aggravating teenagers wondering when their next ‘mutant’ lesson was going to be. When Elisabeth was a teenager, she didn’t have mutant lessons – she had her brother, and mostly she had herself and taught herself almost everything she had to know about her mutant power; considering her self-training helped her escape blindness, the Mojoverse, the Morlock Massacre, and countless other horrible things… she had done a bang up job. The teenagers of the Xavier Institute were just used to the coddling that the people of their generation got these days, and as the Institute rebuilt it also meant getting ‘back on track’ with their fundamentals… fundamentals that Elisabeth wasn’t sure she could entirely get behind anymore. The X-Men felt sprayed about the wind… teammates defecting, quitting, going awol, joining up with the White Queen of all people, or simply meeting their untimely end at the hand of retribution. They were not the law, they were not the bringers of ultimate justice… they were just people with an inherent genetic common place… something apparently so binding that they felt the need to keep each other together – despite the fact that Psylocke had done just fine her life without them… and for some reason found herself unable to leave them knowing that fact still. Perhaps it was her reflection in the mirror… reminders that she had paid the ultimate price, she had lost herself – she was sort of like a ghost behind eyes that weren’t entirely her own even if the thoughts were… no one could understand this experience.

Riding the red motorcycle in towards Little Italy, Betsy stopped the bike and parked it in one of the last parking spots towards the pedestrian-only area of the lower west side of Manhattan. She had a fond memory of Little Italy, as one of her earlier date spots with Warren, and the pier along the Hudson River that always felt entirely not urban appropriate; both run down yet romantic. Walking along the parking area, Betsy’s black stiletto heels pushed against the urban concrete – weaving in and out of pedestrians that walked hand in hand, or people that pushed along at a workman’s furor. The violet-tressed telepath however had no purpose here, and she wasn’t looking for one… she just needed to clear her mind, and hopefully clear the air of any animosities she held towards the unfortunate end to her budding relationship with the billionaire playboy known as Archangel to the skies. The idea of Warren sort of felt awkward to her, despite the fact he made her learn to accept the skin she was given – much like how he had been. She wasn’t one for a boyfriend in her late teens, and the only boyfriend she had as a young adult managed to go and get himself killed… so Betsy had found herself fine to settle for being a flirt, enjoy men as they meant for their moment and leave them the next – the debonair Worthington had managed to change that… but alas, Logan was always right in calling him ‘fly boy’. Besides, commitment wasn’t something that was a realistic goal in the world in which they lived… Jean and Scott could attest to that – life was too short, emotions and lust were far too powerful… and in any given moment it could all be taken away.

As she walked along through the streets, passed the restaurants and bars – the sun had clearly set as a dusky night sky overtook the area. Luckily for Betsy, she had brought her small leather jacket on the back of the bike and pulled it over her sleeveless, cream top to perfectly accent with her black leather pants. Violet braids were coming undone as she moved, her hands needing to occupy themselves lest she felt the need to play with her telepathic ‘knife’. Manicured finger nails moved in and out of the woven braid of violet hair – finally managing to have it all undone within ten minutes; the ethnically Asian hair not holding the volume at all, dropping back into silken strands that could have been pin straight no matter the amount of product used to produce it otherwise. At times, she was grateful for the graceful hair of the Mandarin Assassin Kwannon, but when Elisabeth was a model such stubborn hair as this would not have allowed her career to progress much further beyond ‘a look’. Now, her body and her great hair had been lost the great abyss – not knowing where ‘Revanche’ had gotten herself off to was perhaps a good thing considering how long it had been since she last saw… herself. Lavender eyes surveyed the scene about her, taking note of all those that sat or stood idle – and all of those who took note of her violet tresses and had something to ‘think’ about it.

Unlike other telepaths under Xavier’s order, Psylocke was a bit unethical when it came to mental morality. While she had grieved for her telekinesis during the fight against the Marauders most recently, Psylocke began to understand why it was she adored her telepathic senses so much. Her mind was free again – able to flutter about the wind and see far off places, and understand the foreign concepts that a simple, closed mind couldn’t quite grasp. She could walk down a street and never be bored, always find conversation, and most importantly prepare for when people would be most negative towards her. Being a mutant in the post-Apocalypse world was an interesting tale as well, one that hadn’t yet been told… though the stares of the fellow New Yorkers on her choice hair color could let Betsy know that people weren’t sure what to think either. The rhetoric on the news called for combat of both the political kind, and the physical kind that she was used to… knowing unfortunately that En Sabah Nur had more than likely set Xavier’s dream of co-existence back many years in the making. Magneto would undoubtedly capitalize on the hate mongering, and add to the list of rogues’ gallery that she and her teammates would need to combat. The X-Men were, after all, the morally superior ones… and those that couldn’t make the grade… or compromised themselves were better off on the ‘European’ team, or with the government. Sighing, Betsy closed her eyes – leading towards the end of the block. Once she had reached the corner, she was given a set of options to choose from – she could enter the restaurant, continue down the road, or – better yet – abscond down the alleyway to her left. Grinning, she chose the good old X-Man way and began to walk down the alley.

Hushed voices queued Betsy into the presence of another – a shadowy figure escaping down a manhole towards the middle of the alleyway as soon as she had set foot on the older cobblestone. Looking up, and then behind her only to find nothing of note; the lavender-eyed telepath moved towards a slouched figure against the wall… which clearly became known to her as a man, a man that had a putrid scent about him. Kneeling down, it did not take long for Elisabeth and her telepathy to let her know that the man was deceased – and more than likely homeless, as she could gather from his appearance. Shuttering his eyelids, Psylocke rose from the sobering sight; knowing that there was nothing she could do for him – nor could she move the body. Life was a cycle… it was meant to be lived full throttle with no holds barred, because you could be a valiant man in a blue leather suit who cheated death once – but it ultimately would catch up with you again; or you could be a shy, confused homeless person who simply lived to exist…lived to survive, and death would find its way to your door step either way. Psylocke, however, loved aviation – sky diving, thrill, motorcycles, crazy odds and even crazier men… when death came a knocking for her, she would welcome him hand-in-hand, for she would be ready. Unlike the man before her, she swore to herself when her parents died that she would leave no regrets, and no stone unturned. At the end of the day, she knew she could live with herself, and even if she didn’t know quite exactly who she had become – it was still the wild thrill ride she promised herself years ago.

[XxGambit]

“Look, y’see t’is? Just give it t’her!”

Remy flopped the note in front of the man’s face, waving it as if a bad smell was in the area. The man’s dull eyes merely glanced at Remy then returned to his newspaper. Remy groaned, his palm hitting his forehead as he slumped down. One li'l time I want somet’ing t’go my way. Bella Donna had representatives everywhere. Just like the thieves did themselves, their home base was in Louisiana, but agents of the guilds were all across the world. They allowed heists to go down easier, assassinations to go down smoother. Those outside the base mostly served as recon, but they knew the skills needed to get their job done. Trick one for every guild member was a good disguise.

The guy was just a lonely old man who came to the café every day to get a small coffee, sit down in his usual spot, smile at everyone who knew his name, and read his newspaper. There was no way he had the reflexes of a cat within his wrinkled body. There was no way he could kill someone in fifty-two different ways with that crooked pinky of his. Remy threw up his head and glared. There was no doubt about it—this man was part of Marius’s clique. The one that hated Remy with a passion; the one that wished the thief would die for all the damage he’d done to the Boudreaux family. Talking to him was like talking to a metal wall. Trying to get him to do something was like getting kicked in the face by a donkey.

“Look, y’wanna read it?” Remy unfolded the paper, his writing in black on the white sheet as he pulled down the newspaper from the man’s eyes and held the note. “Read it! Oh, what, y’can’t read?” The assassin’s eyes flickered. “Fine t’en, I read it fo’ you.” Remy took his note and said in an obnoxiously slow voice. “Meet… me… at… Val…en… teen… o’s. Ten… o… clock… sharp… From… Rem… eee. Tat’s all it says, now all you gotta do is put down t’at newspaper,” Remy yanked the newspaper from the man, “put t’is,” waving the note, “into yo’r pocket, and go! Dépèche toi!” The man stayed stationary. Remy’s upper lip curled. “Next time I see Belle, I’m gonna make sure she know all ‘bout t’is tête-à-tête. Ya t’ink she gonna be happy? Ya t’ink she gonna like y’not givin’ her messages?”

The man snapped out his hand in quick flourish, snatching the note and standing up. He grabbed his coat and began to wobble outside of the café. “T’ought so!” Remy yelled after the man.

Crossing his arms across his chest, he knew Belle would get to where she needed to be on time. That woman could appear anywhere anytime. With that done, now he could go back to his dream home in the middle of no where a geneticist stood waiting with scissors and extra brain matter. Remy’s chin fell to his chest. Some dream t’at is. Life sucked. There was nothing quite like having every X-Man wanting to kill him for trying to save their stupid butts. How long could he sit here before he was dragged back to the hell-hole in the Savage Land? Not long ‘nough. He raised his head, forcing out an exaggerated sigh before… ’ello! There wasn’t a lot of people who had purple hair and had the confidence to strut down the streets of New York City with a familiar swagger. Unless she was a woman of the night, but that was Betsy alright. Call it a guy hunch considering how much he saw of her behind while she walked away. Where she goin’?

Remy stood up, leaving the outdoor café while following the trail of the purple haired woman. Hands in the pockets of his coat, he followed at a decent distance, eyes cast forward watching the Asian-come-British model disappear into an alley. Here he was following the same woman that threatened to kill him not moments earlier. But maybe this was a God send in some fashion. Betsy was the only person who vocalized actually killing Remy. And maybe, when the time came and he failed in stopping the Marauders in taking out the X-Men, he needed to be killed. Yeah, no if with that statement. He had lost all hope he could actually stop Sinister, but at least he could try. And keep trying. At least he was consistent.

He rounded the bend of the alley, and watched her. He missed the dead body—and glad to do so if he ever found out about it. His attention was on Betsy, hardly anything around her. “Y’serious ‘bout killin’ me?” Remy asked, his voice echoing down the alley. Place smelled putrid, but Remy took a step forward. “Don’ worry, just me ‘ere. And ‘bout explodin’ t’at pipe on ya, at least I got ya t’move, non?” He forced a smile before he frowned again. He took a few glances up, noticing the abandoned buildings before kicking a piece of trash out of his way. He was done trying to be fake-happy for a few moments in his life. “And here I was t’inkin’ y’were a Hilton girl. New York City alley,” Remy actually managed a sincere smile. “Swanky. T'ere a reason y'here?”

[H Psylocke]

It was odd, but Elisabeth’s typical intuition of remaining prepared for whatever would come her way had slipped – and either due to this, or due to the particular risky nature of the man speaking to her, a Cajun accent fluttered through the dull and demented alleyway. A bit of a chill ran up the spine of the violet-haired telepath, a shrill feeling to the ends of his voice… as if his intentions were not clear, and she was already well aware her telepath could do little to hold the man off; there was always that silly something about him. When he asked if she were serious about killing him, Elisabeth suddenly felt as if he was here to do the same to her – kill her. After all, she wasn’t exactly the nicest individual to Remy when he was an X-Man, and she was considerably horrible to Rogue at times…perhaps the altercation with his newfound Marauders was just the icing on the cake to push him over the edge. She wouldn’t assume anything about him just yet, as he did not appear to teleport into the alley – something she would have noticed, meaning he was already here in New York, and that she was probably just a side effect of whatever journey he was on; and not the goal. After all, as a Marauder now, he probably had to handle different duties depending on who Sinister wanted dead, or what genetic material he wanted to clone. Either way, cosmetic lavender eyes narrowed in Gambit’s direction, Elisabeth turning and inching towards him in her stiletto heels somewhat – but not too close, not yet, it was not safe.

“A pipe is a pipe, I suppose. But you should learn to show your affection a bit more appropriately, Mr. LeBeau. While I can’t comment on what a girl that cannot touch enjoys for pleasure…the rest of us aren’t exactly the asphyxiation and abusive love type.” Elisabeth commented, her eyes retreating from their cold stare – her face still remaining blank in his direction…his motive clearly not that of revenge, but perhaps of intrigue. After all, Gambit may have been a Marauder but he was not like the rest of them…he was one of the X-Men once, and his departure from them was not in the Judas-backstabbing manner, but perhaps something more personal. While Psylocke had been a telekinetic at the time, had she been a telepath she would have bothered to get to the bottom of it, but as Emma, Jean, and even the enigmatic Ororo seemed not to care…it was not her place to go after French Quarter Vermin. She was no stranger to love, and no stranger to betrayal herself – in Betsy’s mind, she had already made up the scenario that Rogue had caused Gambit’s defection…he was smitten with her, for whatever twisted reason. Perhaps she knew his myriad of secrets, and to keep her quiet he pretended to court her; that was always a possibility – after all, if she couldn’t touch him…he would need to find physical intimacy elsewhere while remaining in the good graces of Rogue and the X-Men simply because he gave her someone to love, something to aspire to. Rolling her eyes at the thought within her mind, she had spent plenty of time with Rogue in Australia to know the younger girl was desperate…but this man, this was a bit steep. After all, he was some twisted deviation of French. If they were to breed, it would be entirely unsightly. Then again, Rogue was American of the Country Fried sort…not much better.

“Reason? Meaning? Life holds little of that, anymore. I happen upon the alley because it represents a transition of uncertainty. I grew up in the rich boroughs of London…philosophy and artistry come with the trade of top class breeding, Remy. They left a considerable impact on me, and besides – haven’t you learned yet never to predict something from me? And smile all you want… you need not practice your charm on me… I care not whatever transgressions you’ve made – try to ‘make me move’ ever again, and I promise you; I’ll go die again just to procure the telekinesis to castrate your vile manhood.” She commented towards him, now walking into the vicinity of the red and black eyed, deviant man. He was something of the sort that she would never associate herself with, he was an incontrollable variable – unpredictable, reckless, antisocial, and most importantly, a wild card. Perhaps that was the philosophical and artistic meaning behind his playing cards… a toy on the idea that no two hands were ever dealt the same, he must like that – but whatever the cause, it was clear his thought processes were not exactly as designed or ‘manicured’ as her own; he probably liked cards because they were a dollar a pack and easy to steal from drunks in bars.

“So, is this the part where I need to kick your ass? I tend to fancy these heels, they’re Nine West, sadly.” She muttered, standing a few feet from the Gambit, her Asian features tilting her head upwards, exposing her neck slightly in an arrogant design of stance.

[XxGambit]

“A pipe is a pipe, I suppose. But you should learn to show your affection a bit more appropriately, Mr. LeBeau. While I can’t comment on what a girl that cannot touch enjoys for pleasure…the rest of us aren’t exactly the asphyxiation and abusive love type.”

Funny the first thing people thought about when they saw him was Rogue. Had they become that inevitable pair where one couldn’t be considered an individual without the other? Story of his life, really, always linked to something and never a person for himself. He was the Prince of Thieves, not Remy the thief. He was Rogue’s ex-boyfriend, not Gambit, the ex-boyfriend of Rogue. He supposed that could truly be a blessing in disguise. It essentially made him a chameleon, capable of blending into any role without standing out and being memorable, devil eyes and Cajun accent aside. It was something to ponder about in the future he supposed. “Sometimes t’ings ain’t all dey appear t’be,” he replied softly.

Remy’s mind was trying to tackle the means of Psylocke being in an alley by herself. It didn’t make sense to the thief. She wasn’t wearing a tattered coat patched together with pieces of plastic or thrown away clothing. She didn’t reek of urine or filth; her hair was as purple and clean as ever, unblemished by any knitted hat spiked with the remnants of alley cat hair. She was Betsy, someone who lived and breathed the posh lifestyle, not some hobo trying to find some place to stay and sleep. Eyes flashing to the puddles of liquid near the buildings, this was more of Remy’s place. Back-alley sewer rat, fitting to sit in a gutter and drown. He didn’t even know why he was here, truly. What could Psylocke do for him? What could she possible tell him that could cause his situation to become any better?

Gambit’s eyes squinted at the Asian woman. A transition of uncertainty. Top class breeding. Did that even answer Remy’s question why she was in the alley? The woman who just said reason and meaning didn’t matter to her just gave herself a reason and a meaning to rip his loins away from the rest of his body. Not that he actually did anything to deserve it (Marauders bit aside). He was attempting to move her to save her. Believe it or not, there was far more to Remy than the charming thief. He could deduct things to the tiniest morsel—it came with the territory of being a scoundrel. With words on his tongue, Remy knew something was “up.” Nothing was making sense around him in regards to the British butterfly. She was slowly moving, like a cat inching forward for the kill to Remy. What was her true reason for being here? What was with her actions?

“So, is this the part where I need to kick your ass? I tend to fancy these heels, they’re Nine West, sadly.”

“First my manhood,” Remy said, “and now my ass. Anyt’in’ y’don’ want?” He didn’t even smile, not a flicker of a lip or a twinkle in his eye. He wasn’t coming across as threatening. He wasn’t making any attempt on moving in on her. Hell, he didn’t even take a step forward than what he initially did. The woman had issues. Big issues. Perhaps nearly as big as Remy’s own. The jutting of her chin and the neck outstretched in arrogance was enough to make Remy frown. But there was a spark in his face, one that began to grow and expose the threat that always hid underneath the surface. It was his dangerous side, the edge he carried, the manipulations personified.

“So t’at how it gonna be, huh? Anytime I come around, people just go out a t’ink t’ey can kick my ass." Remy shook his head. "Well fine. Kick away. Knock some sense in my head. Tell Remy he be worthless. Tell me all my time wit’ the X-Men was pointless. It won’ make a’lick a’difference. Remy already knew it. I was just too blind t’see it until someone pushed it in my face. But maybe, some o’us do t’ings fo’ a reason, ever t’ought ‘bout t’at?” Remy took his own steps forward, arms unfurled from the front his chest, face now becoming the very threat he could become. “T’ere’s t’ese t’ings called feelings that you ne’er heard of. T’ose feelings make hommes like me do stupid stuff; the kinda stuff people, like you, won’ ever understand.” He was nearly face to face with her, his slight height difference forcing him to look down at the woman. “Maybe right now Remy’s trying t’save yo’r ass. Maybe right now, I’m sacrificin’ my life t’save t’people Remy shouldn’ care for but still does. And maybe right now, Remy can’t take it. Not now, not ever.”

The intensity in Remy’s face and words never left. His eyes flashed red. “And maybe now, death be my only way out.” Remy’s hands rose to Betsy’s jawline, unblemished flesh barely scathing the tips of his fingers. “No more threats, Betsy,” Remy breathed, his composure and face returning to the typical Remy swagger. “Give me my death sentence.” He was forceful, hands slipping behind her head, lips pressing upon her own, intensity igniting every touch he gave. He wanted to give her a reason to lash out at him.

Maybe physical intimacy was the trigger to the gun that was always held precariously close to his head since he left the X-Men. So be it.

[H Psylocke]

Elisabeth could not get a considerable reading on Gambit – the man’s mind was a psychic mess, telepathy would do her no justice… for whatever reason that may be, but his face too was left with such a confusing look until he apparently took offense to her insinuations regarding Rogue. Whatever it was with Rogue, the two of them had found someway to simply ‘belong’, and Rogue would perhaps never again find something so easy. Still, she wished no emotional distress to Rogue, but Remy LeBeau was simply out of her league by and far – it was amazing that she ever humored the idea of a life with him. In fact, the way Betsy saw the cards dealt, Remy was the type of man that needed a woman like Betsy to keep him in control; to keep him tied down and never bored. Clearly, she should have just been herself with Warren – maybe then they would still be together, but she chose to defer to him and act like she was part of his pathetic American money world. Warren had no clue what true class was, as proven by his tryst with Emma Frost – a woman so pathetically desperate that not even her accent could find the right way up the Thames even if it tried. Somewhat relaxed by the fact Remy had not yet blown anything up on her face, Betsy released her tense grip of her knuckles – assuming he was here coincidentally, or just to taunt her – possibly convert her. Still, without the Shadow King in her head, it was unlikely anything would convert her.

Asian eyes narrowed in the Cajun man’s direction as he made a crude remark towards Betsy. She could not understand him, for whatever reason he felt the need to be ‘bad’, or simply felt as if he was not worth anything better for himself. While she hardly gave a damn to play armchair psychologist for the man, she did not want to condemn him either – as perhaps the others had. Rogue was nowhere to be seen lately, either, perhaps trailing around the idea that he had indeed driven her ‘over the edge’. Whatever it was between the two of them, Psylocke was frankly quite happy it was over and that Dazzler had won Longshot all those years ago. Gambit was just a man that represented everything wrong with a man – he was a womanizer, he was dishonest, secretive, and most importantly some horrible off-shoot of French. Still, it could be worse… at least he knew who he was – knew what he wanted, and knew how to obtain it. The worst thing in life was not knowing who you are, or what you were to be… Elisabeth was going through a bout of that, but managed to retain her sanity. Other people, however, were horrible at being committed to one ideal for their own self-being; at least Gambit seemed to be as if he had just left one company for another; she could handle that. He was, after all, not in debited to anyone beyond belief – he could do as he pleased, and hopefully hadn’t sold out the X-Men in any horrible fashion. “I apologize. I suppose I have been doing this for so long Xavier’s idea of black and white has managed to leech its way into my brain. We can play it a little more grey for you –” She began, before being cut off by Gambit’s intense composure… apparently emotional about the idea – who would have thought?

Suddenly, his hand was upon her face and a mental thought reached for telekinesis that was no longer present – no longer able to deter the man in forceful fashion as an impulsive Braddock would aim to do. He continued with his preaching of a death wish, before gripping the back of her head – causing her lower body to tense and prepare a counter-assault against the man; though attacking her did not appear to be what his game plan was. Instead, Gambit had full-on kissed her in a fleeting passion; the charm and charisma being somewhat unnatural, but she fell into his kiss – her tense body relaxing as her glossed lips reciprocated for the moment. It had certainly been a while since she had been kissed – even when she and Warren were dating he was never publicly affectionate and whatever mess took them from spot to spot certainly put a strain on the relationship. Here, in the arms of the enemy, Remy LeBeau reminded her that she was once a creature of such passion and reckless endangerment as he was – he had brought her back to her roots; roots that had seemingly been lost since becoming Kwannon and effectively changing her over into someone she did not want to be; she wanted to be her – she wanted to be free, such as the butterfly she once moved to symbolize.

Delicately manicured fingernails suddenly sprung up to press against Gambit’s leather-bound chest, pushing him back from her for a moment, though not in a forceful manner. Her intention was not to assault him – but to brace him, from her. “Gambit – what? What the bloody hell was that? You truly are either bi-polar or – okay, fine, I will stop with the insults.” She spoke, her cosmetic lavender eyes surveying the man before her, before allowing her body to relax once more into his arm that kept her poised, and vulnerable to his intentions. He was handsome – he had the sexual appeal beyond that of a thousand of the world’s most gorgeous men… it was perhaps an unnatural draw, must have been something with the eyes – but she could feel herself reciprocate, she could feel herself give into him; simply because she was lonely…simply because she wasn’t even sure who she was anymore. “If I could be frank… that was absurd, but perhaps I need to learn to think outside the box. I lost myself for a very long time, Mr. LeBeau; I’ve just now found myself again – my mind is once more open to the world, and this is not exactly the first experience I thought I’d stumble upon again.” She admitted to him, her hand releasing from his chest.

“We should be careful, lest we put ‘sleeping with the enemy’ to a whole new definition.” She chided, her right eyebrow raising in his direction, wondering where to go from here – or if that was just some well-thought distraction that was about to end horribly for her.

[XxGambit]

He expected a blow across his head, a grip around the clothing on his chest throwing him to the side, but he got nothing except a requited kiss. Never in his life would Remy think something he did at that very moment. Perhaps it was a sign how deep of trouble he got himself into, or a symbol of how much turmoil his mind was pulsating in, not being able to enjoy what was in front of him. Any other time he’d be thanking himself for a job well done, a beautiful woman entrenched by his charm and locking lips that were ready for the next thing. But he only thought, This ain’ what I want. But he pressed harder wanting to offend the woman, to make her angry, to attempt to elicit such a response within her he’d be thrown into a wall, beaten, battered, and then attacked more, knocking sense into his thick Cajun skull.

Finally her fingers pressed against his chest, her soft lips beginning to separate from his before she finally pushed him away from her. His eyes flashed in annoyance, the demon-eyed thief nearly ready to give such a description an embodiment of its own. “Gambit – what? What the bloody hell was that? You truly are either bi-polar or – okay, fine, I will stop with the insults.” No comment, just a look of pure irritation that had the potential to cause the gravel at his feet to jump and skid away for fear of being blown up. But she never moved, only relaxed in his grasp, hardly afraid and hardly looking as if she could strike him down. The one time he wanted a woman to slap him, beat him up, and kick him down even further than he was, he couldn’t even get her to do it right.

“Absurd?” Gambit asked. “What’s absurd is da woman who didn’ want anyt’ing t’do wit’ me not hitting me.” Her explanation of the ordeal went in one ear and out the other. Yeah, she found herself. Whoop-dee-do. Remy was so glad he could continue to help the X-Men find themselves while he was ever so slowly spiraling downward into oblivion. Was that something fair to think? Remy’s hold on the woman withdrew as he turned his back. He should be hating the X-Men, really. Telling each one of them to drink acid, but he couldn’t even bring himself to voice the words. It was an easy out, having someone give him a death sentence instead of working through the problems he had. But Remy had experienced it all before, the manipulations of a mad scientist and the guilt of having countless deaths hanging over his head. The secret he kept of the Morlock Massacre was eating away at him, and the moment Rogue revealed it to the world at large after promising it’d be kept a secret, he didn’t feel relieved. He felt worse.

He couldn’t find anyone to trust—not Sinister, not the Marauders, not the Guilds, and obviously not the X-Men. So he was alone, as he usually was, trying to block the pain by using his wiles on women for an easy distraction. But it was only temporary until he had to go back into living in the shadow of his darker self—the part that was manipulated, abandoned and scorned by the world. Perhaps he was more like Psylocke than he cared to admit. Both passionate in ways words couldn’t describe, but both scorned and lost in a way not even emotions could express. He moved several steps away. His form was hunched with a hand reaching to go through the curls on his head.

“Tell me why you stay wit’ ‘em,” Remy said, “da X-Men, the mansion, everyt’ing. No one over t’ere cared for ya. No one knew what t’think or say when you got,” Remy turned around, arms waving to the side, “that. So they let ya be, let you live wit’ yo’r own demons, leavin’ ya to fight fo’ yo’rself while expectin’ y’to fight fo’ a greater good.” It couldn’t have been easy, Remy realized, but that was the difference between Gambit and Psylocke. She had others, there, to help her. Warren, mainly, came to her rescue, but she wasn’t scorned by countless shadows that nearly made her unrecognizable and were slowly eating away at her minute by minute. Maybe she did, really, the more he thought about it, but not at the level Gambit was suffering.

Remy realized he really didn’t have a point in caring to begin with and waved off the comment.

“Remy’s done,” Gambit reinstated, turning around yet again, “wit’ everyt’ing. If you can’t gimme what I want, t’en I’ll just have t’go somewhere else. So go home, petite,” he looked over his shoulder, ruby eyes glowing, “it ain’t goin' t'be safe here.”

[H Psylocke]

Watching as Gambit turned around from her – Betsy smirked; she was getting under his skin without even trying, something she never thought possibly from this man of the French Quarter. He always appeared so calm, so cool, so collected – and for once in his life, he was looking more vulnerable than still-breathing road kill. Standing there as he moved away – Elisabeth’s arms reached up to clasp against one another as they crossed her chest, her right leg turning outwards in a stance somewhat defensive, but also somewhat apathetic and cool to the situation before her. Sure, Remy LeBeau had defected from their ‘cult’, and certainly he was allowed to have a mind of his own – as she was also no judge nor jury, and yet he seemed that Betsy Braddock was supposed to treat this situation as black and white as someone such as the late Scott Summers or dearly depressing Jean Grey should, and would. Tilting her head to the side, thin and graceful violet tresses followed suit – dropping about her back, fully exposing one side of her face and neck, as well as the white sleeveless blouse worn by the mutant psion. Leather pants and boots continued to off-set the delicate nature of her features and expensive wear, but her attitude was certainly far from being anything high class and delicate about what she was about to expose.

“Surely you can’t think I would have any normal motive for belonging with them,” She began, her head then tilting to the other side in a defensive mannerism. “But you need to realize, I have no identity – I have no life, I am no one anymore. There is no Vogue. There is no Royal Air Force, no Braddock Manor for me, this day. I am an investment fund set aside by my twin brother to live off of, tending to the idea I actually manage to survive whatever ridiculous notion of heroism is consistently thrown my way.” She continued, her cosmetic lavender eyes narrowing in his direction – watching as his hand gripped to his own mane, and his uniquely devilish eyes continued to act along side his emotions and words; the most genuine Gambit may have ever been towards her, or around her. “I do not necessarily believe in what they do – existing as a mutant has never been a problem for me, nor a concern of mine. I suppose I enjoy a great thrill ride, I am after all, the kind of girl that gets hot off jumping out of planes – but let us be real here… nothing is realistic about these lives we lead. None of us have a real place in this world; none of us have a real sway – we just preoccupy ourselves with the notion that we are responsible for the balance between good, and evil – between power, and responsibility. We don’t get paid for that, we are not heralded as legacy heroes… we just do it because it’s all we known, all we are, and have become. We let the rules of old men, sick with the idea of being visionaries to control us – to guide us, and now that we’ve become pulled in… we’ll never be free, never be loose of it.” She spoke, her British drawl rolling from the sharp, graceful tongue of the Asian Butterfly.

Releasing her arms from her chest, Psylocke slinked closer to Remy – wary of his temperamental nature, however. “Done? Done with all of it? You’ll never be done with it. You’re hardly a man with any laurels, and because of that you let the intentions and ambitions of other people become you. You think you have yourself under control…you think you control a situation, but you’re just a force of chaos – an unpredictable, untargeted, and unbridled force of chaos. You let the idea of passion get to your head far too much. I’ve seen you with her – and you clearly don’t want her to define you – but look at you now.” Betsy spat, her smirk growing into a grin, face tilted viciously outward as she stood juxtaposed to Gambit. Betsy wasn’t sure what more to say to him – or what more he would listen to. History came to let her know that he could teleport from here whenever he wished, however he wished. She also knew that he more than likely was not going to assault her, no matter how ‘unsafe’ here was going to become. He seemed scorned, touched by the horrors of rumination…and he was hardly a telepath to worry about such thoughts like that. He was kind of cute, in his confused and heart-torn mannerism…but she knew it wasn’t that, she was going to rip it from him; she needed to know. After all, teenage years in a socialite British boarding school taught one how to be quite the vicious bitch.

“If I were a tabloid, I would call your Benedict Arnold nature quite the result of a horrible end to a pathetic idea of romance. We have all been scorned before, betrayed – it’s human nature. No matter what our genes tell us, we are all still human. Look at Warren Worthington…the man claimed to have once loved me, and now he is off making ‘something’ of himself with a woman that can be presented to the public…a woman that has so much more to offer a man of ‘his stature’… but what have I become? Did I let it destroy me? No, Remy. I have just returned to being who I am – I am no longer hiding behind the pretentious nature of wanting to belong with a man who was only one tenth of the woman I am. I am no longer trying to foster a relationship based off the fact he turned blue, and I turned kung fu.” She spoke, her tongue then clicking – eyes rolling to the space behind LeBeau, and then back to him – knowing his retort was soon to come, his promise to her that this was not because of Rogue…that this was bigger than them both combined, that this was who he was, and so forth. The type of confession prepared for Oprah, after all – not reality, was what she could already see coming from the Cajun man, and she did not even need her precognition to clue her into it. Dropping her wicked grin, Betsy’s face then appeared more serious now than yet before – a true curiosity intent behind her false irises.

“All I want to know – for my own curiosity, is one thing… and I’ll give you the same regard.” She began, before taking a breath in. “Is this all because of her? Or is this because you’ve finally found you?” She asked him, knowing that he was quite the intelligent creature and could easily infer the ‘what’ she was referring to. She hadn’t known him long – none of them had. He swooped in and blossomed in their friendship, and their reliance upon him…and then it had all turned sour, unpredictably so. Alas, that appeared to be the nature of the Gambit…and having known Rogue as she did, she wouldn’t blame the southern girl for being easily jaded and too naïve to the fact that the man she loved was hardly the man she thought he was. Remy was, perhaps, nothing more than a thief – a deviant, malicious criminal…but if that were his true nature, then Psylocke wouldn’t hold it against him. What she would find horribly pathetic, though, would be to learn that this was all some lover’s spat – some horrible cry for attention, and stab at the sanctity of the X-Men…for what?

"I promise you. I am a wealth of a woman. You share yours, and maybe, just maybe - I'll share mine."

[XxGambit]

Remy’s jaw clenched. When Gambit said it wasn’t going to be safe here, he literally meant it wasn’t going to be safe here. He already had the scenario mapped out in his head. The mortar, bricks, stone, everything around him was going to charge up. In one cataclysmic explosion, it’d be nothing but rubble. The cops would come, people would scream, lights from helicopters and police cars would splash across him as he’d raise his hands and begin to charge the vehicles and everything else around him. Network cameras would roll, breaking news alerts would blare across television screens. They’d show Remy gunned down and destroyed in one fell swoop before breaking away and letting the lingering trickle of shock turn into despair for its viewers. He’d go out in one big bang and he’d have too many eyes on him to even be saved by Mister Sinister.

Remy’s eyes continued to glow over his shoulders, watching the figure of the woman rather than her lips. She was spewing word vomit, over and over, thinking as if she knew everything about him when she didn’t know a thing. They didn’t even know Remy’s first name until Bishop first appeared, and now, a short time later they thought they knew everything about him? His reasoning for actions, the thoughts in his head, the way he swept from one place to the next? Psylocke was they—the X-Men, the same people who cast him out when it was revealed to him no one even wanted him around. It was the same feeling he felt when the Guilds wanted him dead. It was the same way he felt when looking at the Morlocks pleading for their lives. Yes, he was passionate, but not in a way Betsy was trying to make out. He was passionate about trying to find a place where he was wanted. It had nothing to do with her or anything else.

Though perhaps it was, a little bit. Rogue was the one who pointed out the entire X-Men hated him bit to begin with…

“Don’ you ever shut-up?” Remy asked.

“All I want to know – for my own curiosity, is one thing… and I’ll give you the same regard.” Remy’s eyes narrowed. He thought he made it clear he was done talking. “Is this all because of her? Or is this because you’ve finally found you?” Remy didn’t respond. He stood like a statue, attempting to reflect Betsy’s words as a sign she should finally—in a dialect she should understand—bugger off. After moment’s hesitation, and her last words, Gambit realized she wasn’t about to leave. He turned his head away, facing toward the exit of the alley, stuffing his hands into his coat. He was stupid to come here to begin with. He should have just started blowing things up instead of trusting the words of some born-again Christian as she spewed about finally finding herself.

Stupid him in going along with what she asked.

“Neither,” he answered. “It’s about findin’ a place where Remy won’ have t’keep runnin’ from. Y’got a home, petite, a family, just like y’said. A brother t’at at least takes care o’ya and an entire mansion full o’people welcomin’ y’back.” His boot kicked a stray stone as it leaped into the main road. “I got a guild t’at wants me dead, a dad t’at don’ want t’come help me, an ex-wife t’at don’ even ‘member me,” or maybe she did now, Remy wasn’t completely certain how much Belle remembered—guess he let that out of the bag, “a pale man usin’ me fo’ his own sick pleasure, and a mansion full o’mutants t’at insist I shouldn’ even exist. It’s gotten to da point where I know I shouldn’ even exist.” He looked like an incredibly broken man with the weight of his wrongs on his shoulders and his legs getting ready to buckle. He felt exactly as he looked. “Remy don’ want t’hear ‘bout y’findin’ yo’rself or whatever y’gotta say. We both know who we are and how we got here. You got a home and a place where people want ya. Remy don’ have t’at. Let’s leave it at that.”

He really wasn’t interested in anything else Betsy had to say, but he had in his body a courteous bone. It wouldn’t let him just walk away and leave someone empty when he wasn’t stealing from them. The Gambit before Psylocke wasn’t the thief everyone knew, but the man with respect toward others in a way of his own. It was always kept locked tight inside, never allowed to be free most of the time. But now, Remy just didn’t have anything left to keep it from coming out. If Psylocke wanted to reveal whatever she wanted to reveal, he’d let her. But he couldn’t promise her he’d actually give a care in the world when she finished.

[H Psylocke]

Gambit didn’t like it – he did not like being interrogated, he did not like being assumed that someone else could possibly understand him, relate to him, connect to him, or violate his defensive wall of privacy and parlor tricks. Betsy Braddock could tell this from a mile away – and even if she was way off base with her assumptions, accusations, and interrogations…well, at least she would have struck a nerve with the Cajun that would not soon be forgotten; and that would be cause enough for him to either continue down his path of darkness, or reassess why it was he was behaving how he was. Braddock was no stranger to impulsive creatures – people that simply did not stop to think and evaluate their position and life and how the grass was not always greener; but occasionally false sod, or in the sun for far longer than the owner would intend it to be. Psylocke took note of Gambit’s body language – the distraction of kicking a stone, his hands hidden in his coat; or perhaps preparing to toss a charged card at her, though that would be more fun than she presently deserved.

Cosmetic lavender eyes lowered in Remy’s direction as he began to prattle off on his life issues, alluding to the X-Men, some woman Betsy did not know, a ‘pale man’ that must have meant Sinister, his time in some guild – a word that Braddock thought would never be used again, or since the idea of ‘union’ had been invented; but leave it to the French and their dirty derivatives. What resonated with Psylocke most were his words about the mansion – assuming everyone wanted him dead, assuming that she even viewed it as a home, and so forth. She wanted to interject; but felt it was best for the red-eyed charmer to speak his mind, say his peace, vent to someone that was not ready to gut him with three adamantium claws or telekinetic slam him against a brick wall for simply being in their line of sight. Betsy Braddock was a woman that always touted the grey area – walked the line, and lived by the sword. Remy LeBeau was no different, but he took the chaotic unlawful way about it…Psylocke was always a bit more chaotic lawful herself. He was running from something, always running, or looking for something that never wanted to be found, or perhaps never should be found. He was basically a high class transient, a man with his full sanity that never felt it the best choice to just ‘deal’ with his circumstances and exist within their confines. Much like the psychic butterfly herself, Gambit exuded the desire to be free with himself, and free with his circumstance – unfortunately, the porridge he was given to taste was never ‘quite right’.

“Well…Remy. I am sorry for you that nothing in your life seems to ever go right – I can imagine that you are just a creature of a series of unfortunate events and circumstances you could not control. Losing control of your life is a whirlwind of an event… trust me, I would know. You never got to see the old me, I was…different, I was the epitome of bombshell – I was on Vogue, and now I am just an instrument of war.” She responded, her eyes dropping to the floor, distracting herself much as he had done before she slinked closer to him – wanting to put herself in front of him, to perhaps deter him from assaulting her yet; she was hardly in the mood to fight with him – if he couldn’t tell. “Working for that ‘pale man’ must be suffocating…but the X-Men and those at the mansion fail to see things other than black and white. Scott Summers died because he couldn’t see the grey area, he just wanted to be a ‘hero’. He got that wonderful release people like us just seem to endlessly chase…” She spoke in a hushed voice, her delicate drall caressing her tongue as it escaped from her verbally. Her bright, illuminated eyes danced across his body – trying to sense if he were about to tense up, about to assume the worst in her…though perhaps her lack of action against him so far had succeeded in proving otherwise.

“I will never be home, LeBeau. Do not ever assume I am, home. The X-Men were different once upon a time, the time when I first found them, and they found me. Now they are all about rhetoric, and a vision; not just existence, and adventure. I must say, it is starting to lose its luster – but at least I got the mansion in the divorce.” She spoke sarcastically about Warren, clicking her tongue as an arrogant smirk parted her lips, finally meeting face to face with the Cajun. Whatever she could say would hardly hold a candle to Gambit’s lament. Losing her body was hardly an issue with Betsy anymore – not now that the Crimson Dawn was gone, and that she could finally see clearly. Without Warren, she had no connection to dote upon…she perhaps had found her freedom; whereas Remy was still deeply looking for his own. She was not going to go on a tirade, try to compare herself to him, or explain herself to him…but at least he had somehow managed to find a fan in her. The man needed peace and serenity – his whole life was about movement, but never a consistent forward motion it seemed. “I hope you find what it is you are looking for, Remy. I cannot see the future anymore… or I’d try to will it on for you – but you should do yourself a favor and get far away… the Phoenix is rising; and I can tell you she is not happy her little Scott - or whatever that thing is that Sinister accomplished – went willingly with your ‘Pale Man’. She will, as always, try to have it her way. The world is not right without the Boy Scout at her side.” She spoke, not really annoyed with Jean or annoyed with Remy – but annoyed that people were so clouded by reliving the same thing, trying to always be the same person.

“Life is about change…it must suck royal balls to be immortal.” And with that, Betsy leaned in and kissed Gambit on the lips – on her own terms and then quickly recoiled back from the man in the leather coat. “…now we’re even. There’s just something about you, Mr. LeBeau – all that chaos, all that running…it is sort of charming. You’re sort of like me, ten minutes ago. Alas, maybe now I’ll heed your advice…” She spoke – grinning coyly before turning on her heel, back to Gambit as she walked towards the open street…leaving him behind her a good ten feet before thinking about what had just transpired…did she manage to confuse him more? Did he even care? Was their chance meeting his attempt at exonerating himself – her attempt at trying to calm down his consistent life of focus and uncertainty? She couldn’t say she cared much for the man, but she admired his adversity to the shit that life threw at you…these two had that in common, too much in common with that. Closing her eyes, she spoke once more before preparing to exit the alley way. “You know where to find me, if you want me. But… like I said, I cannot foretell the future, but it is starting to look bleak, yet again. It’s about as uncertain and chaotic as we.” She spoke, smiling towards the street – continuing to waltz out of the alleyway in her own particular, peculiar strut.

[TBC: Breathe Today]

[XxGambit]

An instrument of war. It was certainly a familiar way to describe oneself. Remy turned his head away, the ends of his jaw budding from his cheeks as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. He was thinking in his head, blocking almost everything around him, trying to predict if he’d ever not find himself an instrument of any war. Remy’s head suddenly tilted, confusion settling on his face. Cyclops was dead? He wanted to twist around and say no he wasn’t. He was with the Marauders, doing who knows what, but alive and breathing just as like Betsy saw. Remy just figured he was hit in the head or mind-wiped or something given his strange appearance and abrupt personality. But maybe he was thinking too many things and failed to realize she might have meant the first time he died.

That or just didn't recall anyone telling him Cyclops died again.

There was a lot of what she said that forced Remy to question why she was saying such things. He could tell she was trying to sympathize with him on an honest level, but Remy just didn’t care. He wasn’t trying to be rude or patronizing or mean to a point he was blocking everything out, but he was just in one of those moments where a wall of emotions and darkness had built up around him and no one could get to him. He wasn’t sure if he was depressed or sad or angry or annoyed, maybe a vortex of them all, but he knew he was keeping people at a distance now. If he showed he was actually listening to Betsy, absorbing everything she was saying like a sponge, it could give a sign hope that he might be paying attention. He refused to give it to her, purely because he did need her to stay away.

He was the enemy now, despite not wanting or going to harm her. But knowing Betsy, she also danced around the line of danger.

She mentioned something about balls and immortal as she approached and stepped in front of him, soft lips gently grazing his own. He managed a sliver of a grin in Betsy actually calling him charming. Personally, it was about time she realized it, but sadly enough, he wasn’t even trying. Maybe she liked the pathetic ones who looked broken and ashamed of themselves like lost little puppies. It’d certainly explain her attraction to Warren… despite his loads of cash. There really wasn’t much of a difference between the business man and the Cajun. Both had the looks, the charm, and the money. Remy lacked the popularity in the public eye, and the prim and proper way of being public. But he was sure he more than made up for it in the romance department, especially physically.

And now she was walking away from him.

“You know where to find me, if you want me. But… like I said, I cannot foretell the future, but it is starting to look bleak, yet again. It’s about as uncertain and chaotic as we.”

“Maybe in anot’er world, anot’er time, we coulda been somet’in’ more,” Remy said, walking forward, fingers swiftly pulling out a three cards he managed to keep hidden. He plucked one of the three, glanced down at it, and frowned. When one came from New Orleans, voodoo and tarot cards were common. Gambit hated the bad mojo dabbling in those things, but he was, at heart, very superstitious. “I always leave a callin’ card when a pretty girl kisses me.” He deftly threw it with his typical swagger and grace, allowing it to curve around Betsy like a curveball as he aimed for it land perfect at the base of her neck and slide down the front of her shirt, unless she caught it.

With the distraction in play, Remy disappeared, leaving not a sound behind except a sudden cool breeze. He teleported away using Sinister’s technology.

He left behind the card he randomly drew. The Ace of Spades. The death card.

tbc: Gambit – Probably still in NYC // Valentino’s