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The Gambit Guild

This was my first fanfic, originally posted at the old place. And at the request of none I bring it back for (hopefully) your viewing pleasure. Disclaimer: Gambit ain't mine. The X-Men ain't mine. And I surely ain't makin' no money off a' this. That being said, I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 1: Beginnings
In which a mission is accepted, and Nick Fury receives a rose.

S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters: Hell has nothing to do with unholy fire and brimstone. No, Hell is a domain comprised completely of paperwork, a never-ending queue of equivocated mission briefings, convoluted work orders and nonsensical budget requests, all requiring some form of drawn out approbation, or so Col. Nick Fury was seriously beginning to think.

For what seemed like eons, Col. Fury sat in his dim lit office, occasionally stabbing the relative silence with an unintelligible grunt or grumble over the paperwork monopolizing his time. Every few seconds Fury would direct a one-eyed gaze toward the slowly ticking clock on the far wall and reaffirm what he already knew, his unofficial 10:30 appointment was running late.

Eternities passed and hands cramped, but slowly the pile of pages showed signs of dwindling, if only slightly. Fury’s secretary timidly interrupted her surly boss to drop off a few more documents in dire need of the Colonel’s signature and received an ear-full for her troubles. A few minutes after the secretary scurried away, at roughly 10:37, a slight rustle of the window behind Fury’s desk grabbed the one-eyed Colonel’s attention.

“About time you got here,” said Fury to the apparent emptiness.

“Sorry ‘bout dat. Got caught up in traffic,” replied the oddly Cajun accented emptiness. Swiveling his chair around, Fury turned to face Remy LeBeau, the X-Man known to the world as Gambit, precariously perched on the window sill.

Few things made Col. Fury testy. Actually an alarming number of things made Fury testy, such as Hydra spies, diplomats,, his subordinates, his superiors, the Hulk, hairbrushes and potluck dinners, but few things assaulted his temper as much as tardiness. “Save the stories Cajun. I got more important things to do than waste my time waiting on some second-rate mutant thief.”

“So I hear. But you’re de one dat called me, and I’m guessin’ you ain’t interested in swappin’ jambalaya recipes,” said Gambit, walking around Fury’s desk and flopping down in one of the two blue upholstered strait-back chairs used regularly to seat Fury’s unusual litany of super powered guests.

“Unfortunately I need you for a little mission, LeBeau,” said Fury.

“Dis one o’ dose national security things you usually send Wolverine or Capt’n America t’ cover? ‘Cause I charge extra for dose.”

“Then I’d probably hate to see the bill for a matter of global security, namely one that my agent’s can’t touch.”

Either oblivious or ignoring the impatient edge in Fury’s voice, the mutant thief picked up a pen from Fury’s desk and idly twirled it between his fingers. “Naw, I usually give discounts on global, ‘specially when I get to show up government agencies.”

“How noble of you,” came Fury’s deadpan response. “Now if we can cut the crap I’ll tell you what I need.”

At this, Fury began shuffling unruly conglomerations of paper to seemingly random areas of his desk. Apparently unable to find whatever he was looking for, Fury slammed an irritated fist into the troublesome desk for having the gall to lose the object of his frenetic search. The punch sent several pages tumbling to the floor. “Remind me to have my secretary shot. I gotta go find my file.”

“No worries mon ami, I hear budget cuts are hittin’ everybody,” said Gambit through the impish grin tugging the corner of his lips.

“I’ll be right back; try to keep your hands to yourself while I’m gone,” Fury said as he stalked out of his office, taking care to slam the door viciously behind him.

Fury, of course, knew exactly where the file was. He knew this because he purposely left said folder sitting outside his office door in hopes of catching Gambit in the act of pocketing some shiny little piece of S.H.I.E.L.D. technology. After counting off 15 seconds, Fury threw the door back open to find Gambit exactly as Fury left him, sitting cockeyed in that uncomfortable excuse of a blue chair, aimlessly spinning a pen, with one leg draped over the armrest. “Finished shootin’ your secretary already? ‘Cause I’s gettin’ lonely in here.”

Silently Col. Fury added yet another entry to the already extensive list of things that needled his skin: Egotistical Cajun thieves who, on rare occasions, doubled as mutant super heroes. Fury stomped back to his desk, unceremoniously tossing the dossier in the Cajun’s general direction as he walked past. “Here. Read it,” Fury growled.

Gambit made no motion to open the file, which came as no surprise to Fury who launched into his summary of the mission, with a sigh and a grimace.

“Five days ago someone broke into a…restricted laboratory and lifted some disks containing sensitive information. If that info got leaked to the public, well, let’s say a lot of lives would be at risk. My operatives found out who took the disks, and we’ve got a real good idea where they are.”

“So den why you needin’ me?” asked Gambit, who, for his part, had stopped twirling the pen to listen, just in case Fury said something interesting.

“Are you familiar with the name Alexander Borislav?”

The red-eyed Cajun returned to performing dexterously impressive tricks with Fury’s pen with an off-handed, “Non.”

“No surprises there. Borislav was a small-time Russian entrepreneur who became an international financier and a very well known philanthropist among certain circles. What most don’t know is that ‘Russian Entrepreneur’ means ‘arms dealer’, and he is very quietly the leader of one of the world’s largest Human’s Rights groups.”

“Anytime you wanna get t’ de point would be nice.”

A scowl crossed Fury’s face, as he stood up and turned to stare at the world beyond the window overlooking his desk. “Fine Cajun, you want to play it that way, I can play it that way. The disk Borislav’s goons took was a registry of known mutants, their identities and their locations. Worldwide. It ain’t complete, by any means, but it’d make a great starting point for some whack-job looking to severely decrease the mutant population. Knowing Borislav, he won’t let his group get involved personally, doesn’t want the blood on his hands, so he’ll most likely sell it to the highest bidder. We can’t touch him because…”

“’Cause de government don’ wanna be caught near dis mess, eh? Don’ wanna get caught helpin’ muties. So instead you send a mutant to do de job for you. Dat way, I get caught, it look like I’s just lookin’ out for mutant interests, and your hands remain clean. How I doin’ so far?”

As much as Fury detested being interrupted, he couldn’t deny the truth of Gambit’s assessment. “If it was up to me, son, I’d send my guys in there, grab the disk and be out before those hacks could remember to blink. Unfortunately my superiors tied my hands, and I’m stuck having to ask you for help.”

Tossing the pen back into Fury’s holder, Gambit unhinged his leg and leaned forward, scratching his chin, “And jus’ who be takin’ mutant roll call anyway?”

“Classified,” said Fury, “I can tell you it ain’t S.H.I.E.L.D., and I can tell you as soon as that disk is in my hand, someone’s gonna be answering for it.”

“So dat’s it? I run in blind, grab de disk, maybe beat some thugs, hand de disk over t’ you and trust you t’ hand out justice? De first part don’ sound too excitin’, an’ de last part don’ too likely. Lucky for you I been real bored de last week or two, so I’ll do it.”

Gambit stood up, stretched his legs a bit and walked toward the window. “Now if dat’s all; I needin’ a cigarette.”

Fury turned around and glared at the indifferent thief. “Listen son, this ain’t no kiddy-pool, pinching art from an indolent-fat-slug-rich-boy’s-living-room mission. This is serious. A lot of innocent people…”

Generally speaking Gambit did not like interrupting people mid-sentence. After all that’s just rude. But in Col. ‘Blowhard’ Fury’s case exceptions were being made. “Look, I done had one inspirational speech on de day, and dat’s my limit.”

“Xavier?”

“Non, Cyclops.”

“Unh,” said Fury, shaking his head sympathetically, “If you’d said that earlier I mighta offered you a stiff drink instead.”

“’Preciate de offer, but ev’dently I got other things t’ do.”

Turning away from Gambit, Fury clasped his hands behind his back, and assumed what his agents very secretly referred to as his ‘I’m-giving-orders-now’ pose. “Right, well the first thing you need to worry about is…”

A warm summer breeze lightly touched the back of Col. Fury’s neck informing him that he was debriefing a room with an open window, a room that was noticeably lacking in any red-eyed mutant thieves.

Arrogant little punk. If he screws this up I’ll kill him myself, thought Fury, who resumed his seat of power behind the mountain of documents immediately demanding his attention. Leaning back, the Colonel swiveled his chair around to inspect the curious locking metal box he kept behind him, the one containing S.H.I.E.L.D.’s newest prototype weapon, one he had yet to test out for himself. With the events of this evening, Fury needed to put his hands on something deadly.

Something about the contents of said boxed produced a loud, pronounced, “YOU IMBRED CAJUN SON OF A….”, which was thankfully interrupted by his unshot secretary and a small contingent of uniformed guards.

“Col. Fury, sir, what seems to be the matter?” asked a fresh-faced guard, oblivious of the dangers inherent in disturbing one of Col. Fury’s verbal tirades.

But no tirade came. Much to the dismay of the sudden cadre of troops in the room Fury began to laugh inanely. “That worthless, sneaky, egotistical mutant crook,” said Fury, “I think we got the right man for the job.”

Gambit knew better to hang around S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters too long, but he could not bring himself to miss the show. So he parked himself on the roof of an adjacent building and had a little chuckle to himself over Fury’s scurrilous yelling. Deliberately unearthing the glistening mystery gadget out of his trademark brown trench coat, Gambit gave the pirated contraption a little pat. “Wolverine was right. Dat was way too easy. Oh well, hope Ol’ Un Oeil enjoys his gift.”

Back inside headquarters, Fury turned and eyed the gathering in his office. “Don’t you ladies have anything better to do than stand around my office looking stupid?”

The guards cleared out quicker than they swarmed in. After the door shut Fury turned his attention back to the safe, where he reached in and pulled out what appeared to be a red rose. Attached to the rose was an elegantly scribbled message which read:

‘You always were the poetic type, Patch. So I thought you’d appreciate the irony of Gambit leaving a Rose for a Pansy. Now pay up.
Your Pal,
Logan’

The admiration Fury just developed for the sneak who craftily lifted S.H.I.E.L.D.’s newest toy from right under the Colonel’s nose flushed away with the color in his face. Fury tore up the note and the rose, spewing enough invectives to keep the Devil blushing for weeks. He needed a break, a long break, probably one that required expending an obscene amount of ammo on short targets with pointy hair.

Across the way, the shrouded form of the X-Men’s resident Joker lit a cigarette, savored the first slow drag, and evaporated into the shadows.
_________________
I am Loki Scar-Lip, Loki Skywalker, Loki Giant's Child, Loki Lie-Smith.

I am Loki who is fire and wit and hate.

I am Loki. And I will be under an obligation to no one.

Chapter 2
Which mostly concerns breaking and entering.

Marcy’s Grill was running at full steam. Most worthwhile eateries closed shop early from Monday to Thursday, but Marcy’s kept the party going 24 hours, so long as your idea of a party consists of greasy hamburgers, something closely resembling waffles and endless cups of the strongest, blackest coffee in New York.

Tonight showcased the usual 12:00 in the morning, on a working night, denizens at their groggy finest. Nan Tuckett, the lucky grave shift manager, ran around making sure cups remained full and meals met expectations. With short, vivacious brown hair, and green doe-eyes that could stop a runaway train in its tracks, Nan possessed a beauty typically found nowhere near a grave shift position at a 24-hour diner, which meant she spent just as much time fighting off groping hands as she did pouring coffee. However, as most gropers found out, the only thing that matched Nan’s beauty was her spunk. Tonight though, she glided around in a much better mood than usual, as the late-night partiers streamed in and out the door, dropping by to stave off their post-party munchies. Of course more than a few drunks huddled at various tables around the joint, busy laughing, staggering, swearing incoherently, and being all together annoying, as many drunks are given to do.

In the far reaches of Marcy’s, a pair of red-on-black eyes peered over the roisterers, enjoying the scenery while passing the time. Nan stopped by to check on the level of brew in her favorite patron’s cup. A patron who in all probability served as the reason for the increased resplendence in her smile.

“Lively in here tonight,” said Nan, through the steam of her pot, “You need toppin’ off, honey?”

“Aww, Nan, you know you always draw a crowd,” replied LeBeau’s silken voice, “An’ I s’pose one more cup won’t hurt, eh?”

“’Course not. Keep ya on yer toes,” said Nan, putting a hand on LeBeau’s shoulder.

“Careful with that hand lady. You don’t know where he’s been,” came a gruff voice from behind the flirtatious manager.

Nan jumped slightly at the unexpected voice and turned to find herself staring at a short man wearing a timeworn brown leather coat and a cowboy hat. Breaking out into a wide grin Nan slid her arm around the man, “LOGAN!! My god. I haven’t seen you in forever. You’re lookin’ good as always. Where have you been hidin’? ”

The usually curt Canadian let loose an almost perceptible smile. “Back atcha darlin’. Sorry I ain’t been around. Feels like I’ve been everywhere at once lately.”

“Everywhere ‘cept here. Want your usual?” Nan asked, as her already dazzling smile reached a level most men would describe as destructively stunning.

“Sounds good,” Logan called to the already departing Nan, then turning his attention back to the diner’s other super powered resident, “Did ya get it?”

“Course I did. You bring de stuff?”

Digging into his jacket, Logan produced a small black box, which he handed toward Gambit, “Right here. Don’t know who got ya hooked on this stuff Gumbo, but it ain’t good for yer health.”

“Dat’s almos’ funny comin’ from you,” replied Gambit, taking the box, “I jus’ wish I knew where you keep gettin’ dis from.”

The booth shook under the weight of Logan flopping down in the seat opposing Gambit. “Ya know better’n that bub. I tell ya where I get this junk an’ I lose my main bargainin’ chip.”

A small object, shining like freshly polished silver, slid across the table into the Canadian’s waiting hand. Logan picked up the contraption, admiring his reflection in the smooth seamless surface. “What is dat thing?” asked Gambit.

“Dunno. Just remember Patch crowin’ over some new gizmo they just finished cookin’ up.”

“Den why you want it so bad?”

Nan returned, offering a brief, yet pleasant, pause in the conversation. She sat a vanilla coke, no ice, and a hamburger, which had evidently not touched the grill for more than 6 seconds, in front of Logan. Then she refilled Gambit’s coffee mug and, sensing the two were holding an important discussion, scurried off, her radiant smile etching its memory onto the retinas of any who dared cast a glance her way.

“Ya know Cajun, if you and Rogue ever….”

“Don’ even think it ‘cause dat ain’t happenin’,” said Gambit, stabbing a finger toward his friend for emphasis, “‘Sides, I think she was smilin’ at you. Now back to de…whatever dis is.”

“Let’s just say Fury owes me somethin’, and he ain’t been to keen on payin’ up. So I thought I’d give ‘em some incentive. What’s Fury gotcha runnin’ anyway?”

“’Fraid dat’s classified mon brave.”

Logan shook his head with a good-natured smirk, but stopped as something caught his eye. “Always is. Well watch yer back Gumbo. Fury’s a decent guy, but he ain’t ta be trusted,” said the now fully distracted Logan.

Gambit followed Logan’s eyes to the front of the diner where a group of slobbering drunks were busily pushing around with another group of equally slobbering drunks. Poor Nan, trapped in the middle, seemed to be having no luck keeping the peace, and that was about to be an extremely unfortunate event for the crowd.

A wicked smile, which usually appeared right before something got stabbed, crossed Logan’s face. “Hey Cajun, feel like havin’ a little fun?” he said, already standing up and walking up front.
Gambit stood up as well, but was aimed at a different door. “Temptin’ as dat sounds, I gotta go play thief,” said Gambit, and with that he left Logan to do whatever it was Logan did best, before the fun got too physical to avoid.

* * *

Once outside the city, New York’s country side offers up some amazing beauty. Most visitors only see the steel and concrete jungle, but those who dare to venture out stand to find deep, pristine lakes, majestic mountains crowned by luscious trees in the summer and blankets of snow in the winter, and, every few miles, a gorgeous, oversized, manmade structure posing as a house. But at this time of night all the marvels of NY’s underappreciated countryside were lost on Gambit, who saw nothing but inky darkness flying by as he concentrated on the ever flowing road streaking through the yellow gream of his bike’s headlight.

While waiting at Marcy’s, Remy managed to memorize Fury’s files for this Borislav and his mansion. How S.H.I.E.L.D managed to garner so much intel without nabbing the disk itself astounded Remy. Such is de world o’ politics, I s’pose, he thought. And coming to a bend in the road he thought he recognized from the area layout, Remy stopped, leaving his bike hidden in the trees, and walked the rest of the way to the outskirts of a three-story estate that came depressingly close to giving Xavier’s place a dollar-for-dollar run for its money.

Finding a good tree to provide shelter, a little short of the tree line, Gambit unearthed a pair of binoculars from his trench coat pocket and gave the grounds a once-over. Then leaning back behind the tree for cover, he glanced at his watch, and pulled out the little black box provided earlier, opening the lid slowly. “Here’s t’ bad health,” said Gambit sanguinely to the chill of night air surrounding him. With that, Remy gingerly removed two glazed, raspberry filled doughnuts, hand baked at that, from the box, sat back and enjoyed the wait until his appointed time.

Around 3:40, the shrouded mutant burglar finished licking the remnants of raspberry jelly off his fingers and promised to find Logan’s supplier. He shrugged off his coat and devoirly folded it before hiding it behind the tree. Gambit stood up and stretched, his stark black uniform making every part of his body, save his face and unruly hair, virtually indistinguishable from the early morning gloaming.

At exactly 3:43 a blur of shadowy action emerged from the trees, made its way soundlessly under the moonless night to a small assortment of shrubs trimmed in the shapes of indecipherable Russian symbols, where after an ever so brief pause, it whirled away unnoticed to the eastern side of Borislav’s residence. Having timed the security camera’s rotation sequences perfectly, Gambit arrived at his destination, a metal gutter piece running up the house’s entire three stories, undetected. Another peek at his watch confirmed Remy remained on schedule. Thirty-three seconds, dat should be plenty, he thought, and proceeded to scale the sleek edifice by way of the gutter. He reached the top and flipped up onto the roof just as the night watchman’s flashlight beam rounded the corner.

Continuing with the silent trend, Gambit padded cautiously toward the skylight which, according to Fury’s file, should lead into a sitting room. Gambit eased the window open and shook his head in disapproval. Dat’s de problem wit rich people. Dey put alarms on de doors and windows, but dey always ignore de roof, he though as he slinked through the skylight and landed in the third floor sitting room.

As Gambit landed, the plush Berber carpet muffled any sound that his fall might have made, if in fact his fall made any. Alertly, the Cajun took a quick inventory of the room. Something about the thick, glossy mahogany table, the crystalline half-chandelier and inordinate amounts of exquisite paintings and sculptures from various artistic movements told Gambit this would be a great house to revisit if ever a more leisurely time presented itself.

Getting back to the task at hand, Remy made his way toward the door and found the outside hallway lacking of anything resembling a guard. According to Fury’s file, which to this point had proved disturbingly helpful, the disk should be in a safe room just beyond the dining room on the first floor.

Gambit snuck down the ill-lit hall, hugging the wall in case any unexpected cameras popped up, and came to one of those supportless helical staircases he never trusted. Ignoring the need to stop and figure out just how such a staircase refused to collapse, Gambit transversed the steps in short order, reaching the first floor in a matter of taciturn seconds.

Not even two steps away from the stairway a slow shuffling of feet warned Gambit of an approaching night watchman. Well de folder didn’ cover dis part, thought Gambit, searching for a nook to take cover in.

The watchman turned the corner, stopped briefly at the stairs, and raising his hands about his head, let out a mighty, bored yawn. Then he proceeded with the monotonous responsibilities of his job, checking each of the doors lining the daunting expanse of Borislav’s main hallway. Had he bothered looking up as he approached the first door on his right, he might have caught the unnerving sight of two red eyes hanging, suspended in the spandrel between yet another stairway and the wall. But not used to having extraordinarily agile mutants break onto the premises, he failed to look up and went on with finishing his rounds, grumbling something about sleep deprivation the whole way.

Easing his way back to the floor Gambit allowed himself a little sigh, half a second slower and he would be trying to figure out what to do with an unconscious guard. Not to mention the noise an encounter might have caused. Gambit watched the guard round yet another corner and moved stealthily toward where the dining room should be.

And fortunately enough, the dining room was exactly where it should have been. Creeping in, Gambit almost whistled. The room opened into a cavernous, vaulted ceiling dining area, complete with three six-foot tables, all surrounded by regal chairs, probably also mahogany, reasoned Gambit, a series of full chandeliers, and yet more aesthetically pleasing paintings. At the head of the row of tables sat another table. This one seemed almost sacrosanct, adorned by a silk, velvet cloth and decorated with some unrecognizable, at least to Gambit, golden idols. In the middle of all that sat a bowl of waxed fruit that looked so real Remy fought the urge to grab an orange and start peeling it.

Finally reaching the door on the dining room’s far side, Gambit took a second to fish a cigarette out of his pocket and light it. Then he turned the knob and let himself into a dank, smallish room that appeared to be nothing more than four unpretentious, forgotten walls.

Of course Fury’s considerate footnotes ended at the dining room door, but Gambit needed no notes here. As he approached, Remy spied a floorboard just in front of the back wall that sat a touch crooked. And since every other floorboard sat ramrod strait, Gambit removed the board and smiled at the foot button cleverly concealed underneath. “Not bad homme, but not quite good enough,” said Gambit, admonishing the door’s owner.

Gambit pushed the button and retreated a step as the back wall slid into the side walls, revealing a glass case. And inside that glass case the outline of a stack of CD’s could be seen.

Slowly Gambit approached the case until he stood with his face roughly four inches away from the glass. Gambit took a long drag off his cigarette, letting the nicotine burn deep in his lungs, and blew a stream of smoke at the immured data disks. The pale gray smoke illuminated a series of otherwise unseen lasers forming a grid around the thief’s objective.

Reaching into a pouch on his belt, Gambit produced a small device comprised of two mirrors pointing in opposite directions. Deftly he slipped the device between a series of beams, clearing a path to his next obstruction: the glass casing.

Gambit rubbed his fingers together and reached in to the glass, and touching it, he charged it ever-so-slightly with his kinetic energy. Releasing the energy slowly, he caused the glass to melt, technically the glass peeled away from a series of imperceptibly small explosions, but it looked like melting to the casual observer.

After waiting for the glass to erode under his touch, Gambit worked his hand through the hole and grasped the disks. Hearing the tiniest of creaks as he did so, Gambit rolled his eyes, and let loose an agitated breath. Just as he figured, the disks were being kept on a pressure plate. Zut, he thought, Guess I don’ get to keep it after all. The ‘it’ in question referred to a small golden statue he surreptitiously pocketed upon leaving the sitting room. Arduously, Gambit worked his other hand through the hole, exchanging the disks for the statue with an effortlessness brought on by much practice and, if he were truly honest, a touch of luck.

Pocketing the disks, Gambit replaced his mirror gadget and prepared for the most exhilarating part of any good heist: The Escape.
_________________
I am Loki Scar-Lip, Loki Skywalker, Loki Giant's Child, Loki Lie-Smith.

I am Loki who is fire and wit and hate.

I am Loki. And I will be under an obligation to no one.

Chapter 3: Confrontations
In which fights occur, discoveries are made and limes prove deadly.

Gambit returned to the dining room, pulling the safe room door closed behind him. Turning around he found himself staring at the Herculean chest of a sculpture that had not previously been in the room. Predictably the heavily chiseled chest belonged not to a hunk of stone, but to Borislav’s personal bodyguard, one Dmitry Yoramir. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s case file on Yoramir contained precious little in the way of useful information. All de important stuff was prob’ly classified, thought Gambit sardonically. It only mentioned Yoramir as being a former Russian body building champion and undyingly loyal to his boss. Literally. The file documented at least three instances where the bodyguard took a bullet meant for Borislav’s skull and walked away unscathed, thus earning the beefy Russian his nickname, Rampart.

Yoramir scowled at the smaller LaBeau. “I thought I smelled a rat” boomed the nearly seven foot tall, and quite possibly, bulletproof monster, “Vat business do you have here? Is this all that S.H.I.E.L.D vould bother to send?”

“Well,” started Gambit before being cut off.

“It matters not thief, for you vill not valk avay from here,” said Rampart drawing a mammoth pair of fists into a traditional boxing position.

Gambit quickly pasted on the best innocent, charismatic smile he could and said, “Now I don’ see no reason t’ fight. How ‘bout we jus’ walk our separate ways and forget all ‘bout dis?”

“You think yourself charming thief?”

“You could make dat argument.”

“You vill not talk yourself out of this!” shouted Rampart. Unfortunately for Gambit, the behemoth did more than shout. With startling agility and speed much more befitting a man half his size, Rampart launched himself at the intrusive Cajun, firing a haymaker with enough force to cause the Hulk to take notice.

However, fighting larger, stronger opponents was no new task for Gambit. He fell away slightly to his left, just under the train-wreck of a right-hook coming his way, and used the Russian’s arm as leverage to kick off of into a back flip and put some much precious space between him and Rampart.

Gambit turned to find the towering Rampart flaunting a wicked smile. “It vould seem you have some skill little man.”

Then with an alarming rapidity the wicked smile faded, and Rampart lunged forward for his second attack. Increased distance made Gambit’s life a bit easier this time, as he again dodged to the left well before the ham-sized fist could connect. Gambit landed, rolled and flipped up unsheathing his retractable staff with a murderous swing. A swing which found nothing.

After the first attack was so easily evaded, Gambit figured the bodyguard would surely go for a two-part attack. Instead the Russian stood towering over the bleeding form of a shadow who just got sent through a bookcase.

“You worthless Cossack dog,” spat an acrid voice, still short on air, “Are you %^@$ing stupid?”

The shadow picked up a couple of shiny objects too short to be swords, too long to be daggers, and too pointy to be ignored. He pulled himself up to full height, which proved to be shorter than Gambit, and down right comical in comparison to Yoramir. “I had a shot. I had ‘im dead,” stewed the mysterious smaller man, not the least bit cowed by his hulking counterpart, “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t run you through right here and now, you half-witted Communist piece of...”

Evidently Rampart had heard enough. In less time than it takes for Quicksilver to finish a Snicker’s Bar, and in much less time than the brazen runt could finish swearing, the man found himself yanked to Rampart’s eye-level dangling by his purple collar. “This is my fight Rapier. You vill not interfere.”

“Put me down you lummox. When Borislav hears about this…”

“ENOUGH! Interrupt me again, and you vill not live to speak of it,” growled Rampart, who finished his sentiment by not-so-gently tossing the punk, now known to be Rapier, across the room, his flailing body taking out several tables along the way.

Upon landing, and after skidding a few feet, Rapier flipped to his feet, silently replacing his blades in their sheath, one blade going over his right shoulder and the other beside his left hip. Then, crossing his arms, the malcontented thug took to leaning on the wall, content to play the role of observer. For now.

With that nasty episode out of the way, Rampart refocused his attention on Gambit. “Ah, I see you have not run yet little man. You either have great honor or great stupidity.”

“Oh I figure you catch up wit me soon enough. Easier t’ jus’ go ahead an’ deal wit you now,” said Gambit, wondering if maybe he should have made a break for it when the opportunity so presented itself.

A deep, rich laughter filled the murky gloom of Borislav’s ritzy dining room, Rampart’s laughter. “You have moxie, thief. I think I vill enjoy this fight.”

Gambit’s bow spun around his head twice before being brought to a stop behind back, the staff parallel to the ground. “Wish I could say de same, mon ami, but I’m on a bit o’ a tight schedule.”

And once again Rampart led off with a hellacious right-hook. Either dis guy’s got some kinda off-beat strategy goin’, or…Gambit ran out of time to finish his thought. Instead of avoiding the Russian’s onslaught, LaBeau parried the blow with the left end of his staff and drove the right end strait into the larger man’s larynx. And this time Gambit took the offensive. Lunging forward, the Cajun came off his feet and rammed the bodyguard into the luxurious natural oak floorboards, keeping the bow squared in Yoramir’s throat.

Gambit got the impression that this move, while usually lethal, wouldn’t go very far in killing his quarry, but he figured Rampart might need some time to catch his breath. Gambit figured wrong.

No sooner had he landed, Rampart reached up, grabbed the thief by his waist and tossed him effortlessly across the width of the room. While somewhat caught by surprise, Gambit twisted sideways, and throwing out his left hand, transformed himself from wall-bound missile into gracefully landing acrobat.

Rampart was already on his feet, and, Gambit noted ruefully, not even holding his throat. Borislav’s bodyguard began the launch of yet another attack when suddenly he stopped, crashing to his knees. Continuing his epic fall, Rampart face-planted onto the floor he had just got up from. Gambit just stood there, wondering if this was some awkward attempt at strategy or just a heart attack. A faint splinter of sheen informed the Cajun crook that neither was the case.

“Oops. Looks like I interfered,” taunted Rapier through a vicious grin, “Oh well, guess I’ll just have to kill you now.”

Gambit could count the times in his life where he had been surprised to speechlessness on one hand and probably have enough fingers left to charge a few cards, but this decidedly counted as one of those times.

“But…he was…you killed…why?” stammered the enraged LeBeau.

Rapier retrieved his crimson stained blade, affixing Gambit with a look teetering precariously on the edge of lunacy. “You really want an answer? Well you’re going to have to pay for that answer. WITH YOUR BLOOD!!!”

Rapier’s attack came with impossible quickness. He seemed to melt the distance between himself and LeBeau instantaneously. Both blades flew toward their target, only be the blocked by Remy’s trusty staff at the last minute. But Rapier’s style of fighting proved much more fluid than his fallen partner’s. An unnaturally nimble left foot slammed into Remy’s face sending him backwards, and the mercurial blitz of Rapier’s blades began in earnest.

The first swing came from high and right. Gambit blocked it and thrusted strait in, trying to impale his assailant through the chest. No such luck, the aforementioned blocked blade, ran down the side of the staff, pushing it offline, while the as-of-yet unmentioned, yet not forgotten, left blade sought out Remy’s neck. Gambit spun away, throwing a leg of his own to kick the blade away from its target. Then using his bow as a fulcrum, Gambit’s back leg made just enough contact with Rapier’s shoulder to throw the sword-dancer off balance for half an instant.

Quickly recovering, Rapier renewed his assault, this time with both arms angled back, his deadly blades held backwards, their edged running along his sinuous forearms. Gambit stood at the ready, bow diagonal in front of his body, trying to predict which blade would come first. But Rapier’s body state gave nothing away. At the last possible second, the left blade exploded from stasis toward the right side of Gambit’s neck again. Gambit quickly adjusted, and blocked the swipe. Gambit noticed, almost a second too late, this attack was nothing like the last. His first swipe parried, Rapier’s body spun, slinging his other blade around, not once but twice. The dual-sabered whirlwind’s final blow knocked Gambit’s staff across the room, leaving the Cajun weaponless. Gambit tried to put some feet between him and the insane sword-wielder, but a back kick from Rapier ever so barely caught the red-eyed mutant mid-flip and sent Gambit off course. Remy landed on Borislav’s ornate head table, sending it and the painfully placed bowl of waxed fruit sprawling.

“So much for the fun fight, eh Cajun?” laughed Rapier, as he stalked closer to finish off his prey. “Oh well, I can still enjoy taking you apart piece by bleeding piece.”

Amidst the haunting laughter, Gambit brought his hands underneath him and slowly pushed his way toward a genuflecting position. “Wat’s dat dey say ‘bout countin’ chickens?” he asked though pants of breath.

“Save it Creole. You’re done, and now it’s time to play skewer the thieving rat.”

As Rapier catapulted toward to deliver the final blow, Gambit pushed back off the ground with his right foot and launched an eerily red glowing wax lime toward his overconfident opponent. The kinetically charged citrus, fake though it may have been, exploded with enough concussive force to throw Rapier almost completely through the far wall.

Remy’s little back-jumping landed him in a rather plush chair, which now leaned tenuously against the wall. Seeing the traitorous thug lying in a pile of boards and drywall, Gambit allowed himself a slight smile. “Bang. You dead, imbecile.”

Gambit dismounted the chair and turned to once again find himself face-to-chest with a rather large, and extremely not dead Russian bodyguard.

“Déjà vu? Ain’ you supposed t’ be dead?”

“You vill find, thief, that I do not die easily,” said Rampart, who seemed preoccupied with ogling his partner’s prone body. After a lengthy pause Rampart spoke again, with a hint of concern in his voice, “Did you kill him?”

“Non. He may be needin’ an Advil or deux, but he’ll be fine.”

Now Yoramir seemed perplexed. “But vhy? He vould have killed you vith no hesitation. Yet you let him live? Not a vise choice vere I come from.”

“Yeah, well I may be many t’ings, but I ain’ a killer,” said Gambit, “So, you up fo’ round two, or you needin’ a breather?”

Reluctantly, Rampart peeled his eyes away from his fallen comrade, unable to comprehend the strains of the thief’s logic. “Vhat are you? “Vhy are you here? You could not be lapdog of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“T’ain’t nobody’s lapdog, dat’s fo’ sure. Well, dey’s one person I wouldn’t mind keepin’ me on a leash, but dat’s a story fo’ a different day,” said a grinning Gambit.

Rampart’s eyebrows quirked in bewilderment. “I. I do not understand you thief. You could have slaughtered your enemy with no problem, yet you hold back. You claim not to be lapdog, and then you offer yourself to be held on a leash?”

“Nev’r mind de leash. De name’s Gambit. I’m a mutant, much like I’m startin’ to think you are.”

“Da,” came Rampart’s terse response.

“But if you are a mutant, why are you helpin’ Borislav sell out mutants to ses amis?”

If it were possible, Rampart’s eyebrows quirked even more, to the point where one might start thinking Rampart’s powers centered around eyebrow manipulation. “Vhat you are talking about? Vhy vould Mr. Borislav sell out mutants? Who has told you this? S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Oui. I’s told your boss stole some disks containing a listin’ of known mutants’ identities and locations,” said LeBeau, starting to feel a twinge of uneasiness creeping into his stomach.

“Lying government pig-dogs,” Rampart exploded, “Ve have taken no such thing. The disk ve took vas a list, alright. A list of undercover S.H.I.E.L.D agents. Ve vere to retrieve this information in exchange for the release of Mr. Borislav’s family from KGB detention.”

“Mon deau,” said LeBeau, “Dey played me.”

“Evidently so,” replied Rampart.

Remy looked up at the gargantuan bodyguard, the reds of his eyes blazing brighter than the fires of Hell ever dreamed of attempting. “Dey played me,” he spat acridly.

“It would seem so Mr. LeBeau. To bad you will not live long enough to exact revenge,” came a slightly Russian accented voice from behind the duo of former combatants.

Gambit and Rampart spun around to find the voice attached to Mr. Alexander Borislav, who stood menacingly behind the shooting end of what might well have been an AK-47.
_________________
I am Loki Scar-Lip, Loki Skywalker, Loki Giant's Child, Loki Lie-Smith.

I am Loki who is fire and wit and hate.

I am Loki. And I will be under an obligation to no one.

Chapter 4: The Sting of Betrayal
In which the fighting concludes and decisions are made.

In Col. Fury’s defense, at least much of what he told Gambit concerning Alexander Arkadi Borislav was true. The wealthy Russian was indeed an arms dealer. At present, he acted as a major financier for many large, albeit questionable, multinational corporations. And he very much preferred to not get his hands dirty, but if being a gun dealer had taught Borislav anything, it was which end of a fully automatic to point at his enemies.

However it was not the fully automatic part that currently had Gambit worried. No, it was the tube mounted below the barrel that concerned Gambit at the moment.

“Well, I certainly seem popular today,” replied Gambit, much more nonchalantly than he felt.

“Enjoy it while it lasts thief. Now I believe you have something of mine,” spat Borislav.

“Non, I’m pretty sure I don’t,” said Gambit, trying to fluster the gun-toting philanthropist.

Borislav took a step forward and waving the gun menacingly said, “Do not play word games with me thief. Give me those disks now, or I will take them off your smoking carcass.”

“Speakin’ o’ which, I could go for a smoke. You mind?” asked Gambit, pulling out a package of cigarettes.

“Sure. Why not? I’ll even light it for you,” said Borislav, who pulled the trigger, sending an explosive projectile toward the Cajun.

Expecting this reaction, Gambit dove to his left, successfully dodging the blast. The resulting concussion, however, caught Gambit’s body mid-dive, slinging him savagely toward a conglomeration of shattered tables. Upon impacting the floor, Gambit rolled twice and slipped behind the remnants of a table slightly less destroyed than the rest. Rampart, however, was too enwrapped in the exchange between his boss and the strangely honorable, albeit deceived, intruder to move. That is, until the explosion hurled his bulky frame through a wall and into the juxtaposed room.

Gambit started to scream something in Rampart’s general direction, but a hail of bullets cut him short. Then much to Remy’s surprise, and dismay, Borislav fired a second grenade. But instead of firing toward Gambit’s position, the arm’s dealer fired through the newly removed wall of his dining room at Yoramir’s sprawling body.

Enraged, Gambit charged his pack of cigarettes and fired it in Borislav’s general vicinity. The resulting blast knocked Borislav off his feet, separating him and his gun. Clumsily the downed Russian scrambled to regain possession of his firearm.

Gambit had other plans in mind. He quickly unsheathed a card hidden in his sleeve and launched it toward the gun in one fluent, well-practiced movement. The card hit its mark, destroying the gun and sending Borislav plummeting buttward yet again.

With his assailant momentarily stunned, Gambit rushed over to the still smoldering hole in the wall hoping to find some sign of life from the unmoving bodyguard. “Yoramir!?”

“Such concern. It’s pathetic really,” said Borislav, staggering to his feet, “He may be able to absorb impact, but there are limits to those powers.”

“What is wrong wit you people?” growled Gambit, “Dat was your bodyguard. He took plenty a’ bullet for you. He…”

“He was expendable,” interrupted Borislav, coldly, “Bodyguards can be replaced. Loyalty can be bought. And those disks will fetch me enough money to buy as much of both as I want.

“But he said your family…,” Gambit started to reply, becoming more and more infuriated with each passing Western influenced, Russian accented syllable.

“Mr. LeBeau,” interrupted Borislav yet again, “I did not take you for such an utter naïve fool. My family remains hidden safely outside of Russia. I needed Yoramir’s obvious talents for a while. Especially to swipe S.H.I.E.L.D.’s fine little disk, and I knew he would go along, no questions asked, for a ‘noble’ cause, but it would seem he’s reached the extent of his usefulness.”

“You monster,” said Gambit, unable to express his anger in any terms of greater loquaciousness.

“Oh spare me, Mr. LeBeau. This is business, and business is all about cutting costs.”

Somewhere between exploding machine guns and nefarious excuses, three more clandestine cards found their way into Gambit’s hand, carefully hidden from Borislav’s view. Peering at the target over his left shoulder, Gambit was uncertain whether the miscreant’s non-mutant body could survive all three charged cards in one sitting, but he was finding it harder and harder to care.

Fortunately, at least for Borislav, something caught the villain’s eye, something that produced a smug grin. “Well, well, look who’s finally awake,” he said.

Not knowing whether Borislav had another gun up his sleeve, Gambit refused to follow Borislav’s gaze. But the clattering of boards punctuated by sharp grunts alerted Gambit that the currently unarmed gunman was not bluffing.

Gambit did not need to look. Instantly he knew, even without the aid of telepathy or some kind of ineffable sixth-sense. The inane crescendo of laughter permeating the room left little doubt in Gambit’s mind as to whose dance card just got repunched.

The laughter subsided long enough to form into something closely resembling a sentence. “I’m. Going to. Tear you. Into table scraps,” Rapier managed to squeeze out between bouts of hysterics.

Turning to face the revived Rapier, Gambit allowed a sly grin to curl the edges of his mouth. “Dis comin’ from a guy who got beat up by fruit,” he said.

“Yeah, that was a cute trick, but it looks like someone’s all out of citrus. I, on the other hand,” said Rapier, pausing briefly to draw attention to his twin daggers, “Have plenty left to give.”

Evidently getting thrown through a wall did nothing to hamper Rapier’s speed. He pounced from his position, covering the distance between him and his quarry in less than a blink. But this time the mutant Cajun had other plans.

Rehiding his cards, Gambit fell to his knees, leaning his torso backward as the sword dancer’s blades whizzed through the space Gambit’s head just evacuated. Then twisting his hips, Gambit launched his right foot forward, effectively taking Rapier’s legs out from underneath him. As Rapier fell, Gambit directed his left leg upward to meet Rapier’s descending face. The resulting impact snapped Rapier’s neck backward, sending him crashing to the floor.

Rapier landed with a thud and instantly buried one of his blades in the floor, he used the blade for leverage, swinging both legs around in a propeller style bevy of kicks. None of the kicks connected with Gambit, but the thief had to roll out of the way to avoid them, thus providing Rapier with a modicum of breathing room. And for Rapier, modicums were enough.

Kipping up to his feet, Rapier switched his blades around, so they ran alongside his forearms again. And once again he charged toward the still rising Cajun. However, Gambit, having seen this trick once, already had a few counter measures in mind.

As Rapier approached this time the last second explosion came from the right blade. Gambit jumped, and placing his hands on top of Rapier’s head, catapulted himself over the thug and, more importantly away from the blades. Rapier instantly recovered, contorting his body enough to plant a swift left boot into Gambit’s back.

The impact forced Gambit to tuck and roll into a standing position, where he landed with his back to Rapier. Smelling an opportunity to kill, Rapier lunged for Gambit, who hearing the motion, sidestepped the attack.

Gambit may have evaded Rapier’s attack, but he was unprepared to avoid, completely, the backwards hurling saber currently aimed at his side. Gambit wrenched away from the thrust, but still the blade found meat.

Invigorated by the scent of blood, Rapier tilted his head toward his stuck victim, and let loose a malevolent sneer. “Let’s see you run away now Creole,” he said, the unmistakable glint of victory dripping from his words.

“You jus’ never learn do ya, imbecile?” said the mysteriously grinning Gambit.

Rapier looked down to see his blade emitting a familiar red aura. Having let the smug swordsman take a peek, Gambit let go of the blade, and the resulting explosion landed Rapier inside a China cabinet, destroying countess dollars in fine dinningware in the process.

Holding his side, Gambit walked laboriously over to retrieve his staff. Upon picking it up, a rasping voice sent a frown across Gambit’s visage. “I’m. Not done. With you yet. Swamp rat,” Rapier spat between deep gasps of air.

He lunged one last time at Gambit, thrusting his remaining blade toward the center of the Cajun’s head. Gambit spun and smashed his bow against Rapier’s face, the kinetic energy he had secretly charged his staff with erupted viciously. “Day’s only one person gets to call me ‘swamp rat’, and dat ain’ you,” said Gambit to the unconscious lackey.

The throbbing in Gambit’s side prodded him to hurry up and finish this expedition quickly. But as Gambit turned his attention to where Borislav had been standing a few moments ago, he noticed only vacant space. Unshockingly the dastard took the first opportunity he had and fled.

Gambit stifled a grimace and took off, as close to full speed as he could muster, to catch the now vanished despot. In one step he bounded the three stairs leading back to the main hallway, and rounding the corner, almost collided with Borislav’s backside, which was currently hanging, suspended from a gigantic fist.

“Mon Dieu! You jus’ don’ die do ya?” exclaimed Gambit, his vinaceous eyes wide in astonishment.

The monstrous Yoramir, seemed oblivious to both Gambit’s arrival and his exclamation. His focus centered solely upon his treacherous former boss. “Of course I heard it all. How could I miss your arrogant speech?” Yoramir said, tightening his grip around Borislav’s already purple hued throat.

“Put ‘em down, mon ami,” said Gambit, hoping Yoramir would listen to reason.

Unfortunately, betrayal seemed to have Yoramir leaning more toward vengeance than reason. “He vill pay for his sins.”

“Oui. He will, but not here. Not like dis,” said Gambit.

“No,” said Yoramir, “Not here. He vill answer to the vones he stole from.” Pausing for a breath, Yoramir finished his thought, “As vill his accomplices.”

“Look, I’ll take dese two and de disks back to Fury. After all, he and I, we gonna have a lil chat. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re free t’ go,” said Gambit.

A melancholy smile spread across Yoramir’s expansive face. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I vill be turning myself in as vell.”

Gambit sensed the big man had already made up his mind but felt compelled to argue anyway. “But dis wasn’ your fault. He lied t’ you. Now get outta here.”

“No,” said Yoramir, steely in his resolve, “The responsibility is mine. I vill not run from it. I only ask to be allowed to drag these traitors in myself.”

“Fine. If dat’s de way you wan’ it, den dat’s how we’ll play it. I take it you know de way?”

“I am very familiar with it,” replied Yoramir. And upon retrieving Rapier’s carcass, the Russian monolith made his way for Borislav’s garage and, ultimately, a life spent in high-security cell, courtesy of S.H.I.E.L.D.

As Gambit watched Yoramir lumber off, he could not help but feel he failed this man in some way.

Bleeding, tired, and more than a touch axed off, Gambit made his way back to his coat and bike. The bike’s engine caught on the first kick, and Gambit sped off toward home, unable to shake the visions of invective woven speeches and manipulative, one-eyed Colonels swallowing explosive cards dancing lustfully through his imagination.
_________________
I am Loki Scar-Lip, Loki Skywalker, Loki Giant's Child, Loki Lie-Smith.

I am Loki who is fire and wit and hate.

I am Loki. And I will be under an obligation to no one.

Chapter 5: Denouement
Which mostly concerns resolutions.

“It would seem your injuries are mostly superficial. The puncture wound fortuitously missed hitting anything of marked importance. Just remember to reapply fresh bandages every day. I would suggest an extensive period of inactivity, but I suppose that prescription would merely fall upon deaf ears,” said Dr. Hank McCoy as he finished tending to Gambit’s battle scars.

“I ‘preciate it Hank, but I still got somethin’ t’ take care of,” said Gambit.

“Something tells me this reticent escapade falls squarely under the category of ‘None of My Business’, so I shall refrain from asking.”

Gambit smiled and shook his head at the blue man’s masterful knack for crafting extravagantly verbose sentences. “One o’ dese days I’m gonna invest in a thesaurus. ‘Til den I’m jus’ gonna smile an’ nod.”

A sanguine bout of laughter erupted from Beast. “Precisely why I endeavor to speak with such a capacious lexicon.”

Joining in with Beast’s laughter, Gambit stood up and tested the amount of flexibility allowed by the bandage job. “Thanks fo’ de patch-up mon ami. Now, speakin’ o’ patches, I got a visit t’ pay.”

“Don’t mention it Remy. Just be careful,” Beast called out to his departing friend.

Not bothering to look back, Gambit threw a hand up in acknowledgement. “Always am mon homme bleu. Always am.”

Outside the mansion a mass of clouds portended threats of rain, as a stiff breeze made its way through trees, taking leaves as souvenirs. Gambit tilted his head back, letting the temperamental gusts flow through the unruly strands of his hair.

“Figures,” growled a distinct voice from behind Gambit, “I just got this thing cleaned up.”

Gambit turned to find Logan roughly stuffing a rag and a bottle back into a worn looking bucket. He was standing beside what quite possibly might have been the most beautiful bike Gambit had ever laid eyes on.

An involuntary whistle escaped Gambit’s lips. “Dat is one nice bike. Where you get de money fo’ dat one? Or do I wan’ t’ know?”

“Let’s just say Fury finally paid up.”

“Dis is what Fury owed you?”

“Yeah,” said Logan, patting his new baby, “Wrecked my old one runnin’ a mission for Patch up in Canada. “Said he didn’t think he aughta pay.”

“So I stole some high-tech gizmo from de gov’ment’s top agency, jus’ t’ make Fury buy you a new bike?” Gambit asked with a chuckle.

“Yep. With that man, it’s all ‘bout leverage. Ya either got it, or he’s got you. Speakin’ of which, how’d yer little deal turn out.”

“Rotten. He played me,” said Gambit, losing his grin.

“Hmph. Sounds ‘bout right. Yer goin’ ta see ‘em?”

“Oui. I think we need t’ have a lil talk.”

A sinister smirk played its way across Logan’s face. “Well then. Give ‘im Hell Gumbo.”

“If dat’s all I’ll give ‘im, den he’s a lucky man,” replied Gambit, turning to leave.

* * *

So far it had been a nice morning. The weather proved neither too hot, nor too cold, although the gathering clouds made promises of rain yet to come. Colonel Nick Fury stared out one of his office windows, giving his toothpick a serious workout. Unable to shake the feeling that those clouds foreshadowed more than mere precipitation, he anxiously poured over the latest mission update on the stolen disks for the fourth time this morning. Everything had wrapped up nicely. Too nicely.

In Fury’s experience, which was relatively extensive, if a package came too cleanly wrapped, it was probably rigged to explode upon opening. Needless to say the Colonel made for a horrible guest at Christmas parties.

Somewhere on his cluttered desk, Fury’s phone started warbling. Fury took a deep sigh, his eye rolling involuntarily at the interruption. This, reasoned Fury, will probably be the linchpin that unhinges the whole day. So he decided to not answer it; surely the caller would give up after a couple rings.

But the phone’s incessant bleeping did not stop. In Fury’s mind he decided that Fate had simply decided to ruin his day, and there was nothing Fury could do to avert his destiny. Resigned, he walked over to his desk and picked up the phone.

“What?” he answered with all his usual charm.

It was his secretary, who remained at the moment unshot, but that was a condition rapidly threatening to change. “Sir, you have a call on line three,” she said.

“Well who is it? I’m busy.”

Lying usually posed no problems to Col. Fury, especially if it meant avoiding phone conversations with some depraved government official or, even worse, a desperate super being. However today, unbeknownst to Fury, he was not lying.

As the secretary informed Fury as to the identity of his caller, a disgusted shutter ran through his body. “It’s Reed Richards. He says it’s important.”

“Tell him…” was all Fury managed to bark out before the phone went curiously, if not mercifully, dead. Fury pulled the receiver away from his ear and stared at it quizzically for a second. Then he turned to notice the source of his disconnection: A black, fingerless glove pressing down on the cut-off button.

Fury did not have time to properly identify the intruder before a bundle of disks bounced off his chest and plummeted haphazardly to the floor, where, upon impact, they scattered with little regard for their own safety. If this was not enough of a clue for Fury, the white-hot Cajun accented voice sealed the mystery. “You and I got some discussin’ t’ do.”

Fury replaced the receiver on the cradle, giving his toothpick the chewing of a lifetime in the process. “At least you brought ‘em back.”

Gambit did not respond; he just stood there glowering, as if waiting for an explanation. But an explanation seemed to be the last thing on Fury’s agenda at the moment.

“Your friend. The big guy, Yoramir I believe his name was, turned up this morning. Brought his two cohorts with him, but no disks. I was starting to think maybe you decided to keep ‘em.”

“So he did turn himself in,” Gambit said with a tinge of regret straining through the fire in his voice, “What you plannin’ t’ do wit’ ‘em?”

Fury pulled the toothpick out of his mouth, closely inspecting the damaged sliver of wood. “Thought about offering him a position with S.H.I.E.L.D. Could use a guy with his talents.”

“So den, you jus’ gonna use him like you use ev’ryone else,” spat Gambit.

Of course Fury had been preparing for this scenario well before he actually called the mutant thief in to take the job. “What? You want an apology son? ‘Cause you ain’t gonna get one. I did what I had to do to keep my men safe. Same as you woulda done if one of your little mutie friends was in danger. So spare me the sanctimonious B.S. Cajun.”

“You coulda jus’…” Gambit started, only to be interrupted.

“Coulda what? Told you the truth? Hoped you felt nice enough to lend a helping hand? I couldn’t risk that, and you know it. I needed the best man for the job. That was you. So I did what was necessary, and it worked. And if that means you don’t send me a birthday card this year, well excuse me if I don’t shed any tears about it.”

Fury stalked around the desk, and, determined to not let Gambit get any momentum in the argument, continued with his verbal barrage. “Now I suggest you get outta my office before I have your butt tossed in the brig. We usually don’t let pickpocketing mutants walk away, but since I got my device back and you brought me my disks, I’m feeling generous today.”

Soon enough, the one-eyed Colonel found himself longing for the safety of the other side of his desk. Gambit grabbed Fury by his collar and slammed him on the desk, causing an avalanche of paper. With his left hand Gambit slipped an Ace of Spades out of his trench coat. “A’ight. I think we’ve heard ‘bout enough from you. Now I gotta few things t’ say.”

“Cajun, you better get your hands offa me.”

But Fury’s warning failed to produce the intended response. Instead of backing down, Gambit’s card began glowing. “Now would be a great time fo’ you t’ shut up.”

And something about the Cajun’s violently burning eyes, and kinetically sizzling card, prompted Fury to heed that sage advice.

“I’m gonna say dis once. An’ I’m gonna say it real slow, so even a gov’ment dog like you can keep up. I don’ like bein’ played. De only reason I brought dose disks back is outta respect fo’ de men whose lives would be at risk. But de next time you call me t’ play delivery boy fo’ one o’ your special missions try t’ remember dat my birthday cards tend t’ explode.”

Having said his piece, Gambit let go of Fury and turned to leave. He almost made it to the window before Fury spoke again. “Where you going? We ain’t discussed your fee yet.”

“Bec mon chu,” spat Gambit.

And with that, the disgruntled Cajun jumped out the window. Fury raced over trying to catch a glimpse of which way Gambit was running, but something diverted his attention momentarily.

Gambit had left a little time-released present behind, and that present had just claimed Fury’s desk. Fury stood there scowling at the burning shards of desk, the flaming papers and the now activated sprinklers soaking him and everything else in the office. Then, in direct violation of building regulations, Fury fished a cigarette out of his coat pocket and lit it up. “Well, I suppose that could have went worse.”

He let a plume of smoke escape his nostrils as his secretary walked in. “Sir,” she began before noticing the wreckage, but knowing better than to ask questions, she continued, “Sir, Richards is still on line three. He’s refusing to hang up until he talks to you.”

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Col. Nicholas Fury found himself praying for more paperwork, as he picked up the phone and pressed for the line. While outside the charcoal heavens opened up into a deluge of karma.

Across the way a pair of ominous yellow eyes glistened malevolently through the down pour, as if pleased with the confrontation. If there was a scent in the air beyond the pending rain that scent would be called opportunity.

Fin?
_________________
I am Loki Scar-Lip, Loki Skywalker, Loki Giant's Child, Loki Lie-Smith.

I am Loki who is fire and wit and hate.

I am Loki. And I will be under an obligation to no one.

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