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Avarice
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| Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2006 4:24 am Post subject: Not Just a Dream |
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Foreword: Needless to say Remy LeBeau, aka Gambit, is not my character. He belongs to Marvel. However I feel compelled to say that Dream of the Endless (aka, Dream Lord, Sandman, Lord Shaper, Morpheus, Oneiros, et al.) is also not my character. Dream of the Endless is the sole creation of the incomparable Neil Gaiman. I wanted to write a fiction using two of my favorite characters, though they may inhabit different universes. For more information on the Endless please visit http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Endless_%28comics%29. I hope you enjoy.
Chapter 1: Dreams, Kings and Forbidden Things
She drew in close to him, and he to her. Her brown, white streaked hair draped over his defined shoulder as the sensual cascading of umber water. Their lips first touched, softly, as flower petals wafting upon Spring’s lithe winds, then became intertwined, melding, growing in intensity, fulfilling cravings too long suppressed. Hands caressed longingly, expressing deeper emotions than mere words could ever hope to articulate. Her supple touch pulled him through gates of joy and left him standing in courts of unrelenting ecstasy. And in that instant two beings drunk upon the ambrosia of amatory desire became one.
As affections took shape, the world faded away, until there was only a thief and his lover. Their passion fueled the sands of time, which ground to a halt in reverence to this blessed union. And one succulent breath drew out across untold eternities, frozen as if in the sacramental moment preceding a first kiss between destined lovers.
But like all eternities, this one faded much too quickly.
Remy LeBeau jumped awake with a start and gingerly wiped the sweat from his brow. Hesitantly he abandoned the cozy seduction of his bed and trudged, begrudgingly, toward the bathroom. An unnatural moonless gloom impregnated the room’s every corner, but Remy navigated the fuliginous void in memory-crafted footsteps, careful to avoid the toe-hungry obstructions he commonly referred to as furniture.
Not bothering to flip on the lights, the still groggy X-Man ran some cool water from the faucet and splashed it in his face, trying to chase the sticky sweat away while, at the same time, striving to retain a grip on something much more elusive.
Staring at his reflected visage, Remy found himself entranced by the droplets forming and falling from his well maintained stubble. As the droplets plummeted into oblivion, Remy struggled to remember the dream teetering capriciously upon the precipice of forgetfulness.
Quickly, hoping to recapture the memory, Remy retreated back to bed, hoping against futile hope his dream would pick up where he left off. But as dreams are often wont to do, his new dream would take him elsewhere, far removed from the warm, inviting embrace of his beloved Rogue.
Remy nodded off after a minimum of tossing and turning, only to find himself walking the streets of New Orleans. Nameless street signs dotted vaguely remembered roads, all of which pleaded for the attention of Remy’s feet. His journey took him passed well worn storefronts chiseled by the whims of nature, beyond bars that produced memories of friends gone by and perhaps a bar or two he would have rather remained forgotten. But no matter what street he wandered down, Remy could not escape the feeling he was being drawn somewhere very specific. Finally, after what could have been hours or shards of seconds, he found what appeared to be the confluence, where the endless convolution of roads converged upon a single point.
In this center Remy noticed a figure, tall and wraith-like, garbed in all black. Instantly Remy realized this to be a man of unspeakable importance. And Remy realized, in the way one comes upon such knowledge which transcends experience and reason in dreams, that this man was no man at all. He was infinitely more.
Guardedly, Remy approached the shrouded figure. If the specter noticed Remy’s presence it gave no sign. As Remy neared the stoic eidolon, characteristics became strikingly clear. Pale white skin glistened under the harsh glare of streetlights, providing stark contrast to the flowing cloak, darker than the advent of midnight, dancing upon gusts of unbridled imagination. The looming apparition stood motionless, with its head down, face etched in an eternal grimace, and arms firmly crossed in front of its black-clad chest, as if waiting for something. Even though its eyes were closed, Remy felt certain his every move was being closely observed. Then, more majestic than any sunrise ever witnessed on Earth, eyelids opened, unveiling two iridescent blue stars, burning beyond the scope of glory, where one might expect eyes to reside.
The spectacle brought Remy to a standstill, awestruck by the aura radiating from the esoteric specter before him. Yet for all the uncertainty, an air of familiarity teased the atmosphere, provoking Remy to believe he somehow knew this shade. And this familiarity drew him closer.
“Greetings Remy LeBeau.”
Remy heard the voice. He knew he heard the voice. But not with just his ears. The voice reverberated from within, rising from the depths of his unconscious, touching the recessed hollows of his soul. Remy was beginning to wonder if maybe now would be a good time to wake up.
“Not yet LeBeau. I must speak with you.”
“How do you know me? Have we met before.” asked Remy, hesitantly.
“We have. Many times. I visit your dreams often.”
“What?”
“Your dreams intrigue me Remy LeBeau.”
For a brief moment, the indignation of having his deepest desires violated by this nameless intruder overwhelmed Remy’s reverie. “Jus’ who do you think you are, readin’ my dreams?”
For its part, the figure showed no ire at Remy’s outburst. “You misunderstand. It is you who encroaches upon my kingdom, every time you close your eyes.”
This statement confirmed Remy’s earlier suspicions: This thing, whatever it was, far exceeded humanity, be it Homo Sapiens or Homo Superior. “Who. Who are you?”
“Many existences have called me many things. But names possess little meaning without connotation.”
Remy stared at the wraith-like figure, unable to grasp the koan set before him. The being sensed Remy’s confusion, and in a showing of mercy, provided a more direct answer. “You may call me Dream, for that is what I am. Dream of the Endless.”
“So den you’re a god. S’pose dat makes sense, but why you interested in my dreams?” said LeBeau.
The entity named Dream refolded his arms across his chest, and with a sigh, looked down at Remy. “I am no god. Your gods were formed first in my realm before manifesting in yours. They are merely ideals crafted into physical form, and I was their shaper.”
This bit of information put Remy back into his earlier state of awe. If dis being, if Dream, truly exists above de gods, thought Remy, what could he possibly want wit’ me?
“Your desires for the lady, Rogue,” said Dream, reading Remy’s thoughts.
“What about ‘em,” asked Remy, not fully sure he wanted to know the answer.
“They transcend mortal precepts of touch and feel. They have reached a level of desire far beyond conventional affection. And these unfulfilled desires are causing ripples across the Dreaming. Ripples unlike any I’ve ever encountered.”
“And dat’s bad?” Remy asked.
Remy remained unsure of Dream’s motives, but he knew one thing. It would take more than some Gothic looking ubber-god to take him away from Rogue. Actually, Remy was not too certain he could do anything to stop Dream, if that is what Dream wanted, but he was not going down without a fight.
“I am not here to separate you from your lover.”
A sense of relief washed over Remy at the sound of these words, not that he would have admitted it to anyone. “So den, why are you here?”
“I require a favor. One I believe you can grant.”
Remy scratched his head. “Well you’re de Endless one. Why you needin’ my help?”
“Make no mistake Remy LeBeau, your help is not needed. It is requested because I do not interfere in matters which do not concern the Dreaming.”
Remy stared at the gaunt form of Dream, marveling at how his confusion seemed to keep reaching new heights. “So den. You wan’ a favor, but it don’ concern you?”
“Yes.”
“An’ you don’ need my help, but you’re still askin’ for it?”
Remy’s incessant questioning was beginning to erode Dream’s paper thin patience. “Yes.”
Remy buried his head in his two black gloved, and at the moment exceedingly bewildered, hands. Then he did what all mortals do when faced with the ineffable conundrums regularly presented in dreams; he turned to the two most common and disloyal tools of mankind, reason and logic.
“Of course,” said Remy, having reached his false epiphany, “Dis is all jus’ a dream. Nothin’ makes sense in a dream. Jus’ your mind ventin’ off steam after a long day of puttin’ up with Cyke’s neverendin’ speeches.”
A storm cloud of a scowl flashed across the burning blue stars of Dream’s retinas. “There is no such thing as ‘just’ a dream. There lies more truth in a single dream than could be gleaned in a thousand waking lifetimes. Yet I see you will not be convinced.”
Dream stopped. The resulting silence washed over Remy’s gloaming vagary of New Orleans. Street lights flickered off and on with no pretense of a pattern. The storefronts, once nestling in close to monitor the nighttime meeting began adding distance between themselves and the irritated Dream Lord, and Remy began to think he had quite possible made a terrible mistake. But as suddenly as the thundercloud appeared, it vanished.
“Very well Remy LeBeau. Since you will not be so trusting of dreams, I shall speak with you in the Waking. Until then you shall find yourself trying to piece together the slivers of a dream you can but almost remember.”
Remy started to say something, but Dream’s desire to talk had abated. “It is time for you to awaken Remy LeBeau. Other matters currently require my attention.”
And so the diaphanous aspect of Dream of the Endless faded into an evanescent mist, yet hovering just far enough away as to be obscured, his ghostly demeanor remained bitterly close to the edges of Remy’s recollection. A shrouded dream nearly remembered.
Sweet rays of sunshine peered around Remy’s drawn curtains, desperately seeking any nooks to creep through and announce the arrival of This Morning. Still slightly lingering in the realm separating sleeping from the waking, Remy took inventory of his surroundings. Adding to his disorientation, words seemed to be floating breezily upon the air, only slightly audible. “Wake up screaming. I’m awake and dreaming, and I won’t stop breathing ‘til my heart stops beating. This isn’t me, I used to say. All the love was so gone.” Vinaceous eyes jerked open to an alarmed state of full consciousness. Remy sprung out of bed, searching for whoever might have invaded the privacy of his room, and soon enough he found the melodic culprit: His alarm clock, which was most definitely not on Remy’s usual station of choice for Country music’s number one hits of today and days gone by. In that moment a feeling began gnawing acridly at the pit of Remy’s stomach, a feeling that tasted scarily close to foreboding.
“All the love was so gone. It feels good to be alive. I’ve been dead for so long.”
_________________
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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Avarice
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| Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2006 4:43 am Post subject: |
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Chapter 2: Mansions, Castles, and Health Related Hassles.
Steam covered everything. Remy stood under the torrent of boiling water, staring blankly at the shower head as a myriad of vaguely remembered, and quite possibly related, images paraded around his mind. It was as if somebody had dumped a discordant jumble of puzzle pieces in Remy’s head, and although theses pieces seemed to be from the same puzzle, none of them actually fit together. Remy closed his eyes and watched as resplendent blue stars, blinking street lights, and dark, rumbling voices flashed by with no regard for understanding or sense. Untold moments elapsed, falling and swirling down, down, down, through the drain and into the nebulous beyond, while Remy attempted in vain to restore some semblance of order to the fragmented images pricking his memory. The mirror had long since fogged up, the walls were sweating steadily, and Remy, suddenly remembering where he was, began profusely thanking God he was not the one paying the water bill.
Reluctantly, Remy turned off the soothing stream of tepid water and found a towel. Walking back into his room, Remy headed strait for his bed, where he flopped down on his back, desperately seeking inspiration from last night’s still-warm sheets. Predictably his covers provided no answers. Still he laid there for some time, boring holes in the ceiling with his eyes until his thoughts were violently interrupted by a low grumbling noise. Remy’s stomach, evidently jealous of all the attention the mind was getting this morning, began demanding attention for itself, preferably in the form of food.
As Remy walked down the second-floor hallway, down the stairs and toward the kitchen, he could tell Jubilee had already finished her breakfast, even without witnessing the half-eaten bowl of Fruit Loops beside the sink and the dangerously close to getting too warm gallon of milk left out to decorate the kitchen table. “And your pixel army can’t save you now. My finger’s on the kill switch.” Remy shook his head in disgust at Jubilee's latest questionable choice in breakfast music. Somebody’s got t’ teach dat kid some music appreciation, he thought. “I remember I used to compose your dreams. Control your dreams. And don’t be afraid to expose…”
Remy flipped the radio’s power button to off, but he could not shake the feeling that someone, or something, was trying to send him a message. Again he closed his eyes, and again mirages of nameless street signs, ebony cloaks, and unrecognized familiarity floated just beyond the reach of Remy’s comprehension. He might have seen fit to stand there until some spark of sense manifested from the mental chaos, but his stomach had not drug him all the way downstairs only to be denied sustenance.
Rummaging through the pantry, Remy’s mind found a more interesting puzzle to mull over. Specifically whether or not he was living in a mansion, which doubled as a school for the gifted, or a daycare. So far the now starving Cajun had brushed passed, in no particular order, a nearly empty box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, a full box of Fruity Pebbles, an open box of Lucky Charms, and roughly six boxes, all opened but none empty, of Fruit Loops. Remy suppressed a dejected sigh and went about fixing what had become, at least lately, his usual breakfast: two pieces of toast and an apple.
Of course there was a problem inherent with fixing toast around the Xavier Institute, namely finding the toaster. No matter how many times Remy placed the little steel colored appliance back in the cabinets over the stove, that blasted toaster insisted on wandering to some other part of the kitchen. Today’s mystery location was under the sink, behind the island bar that Remy usually took his breakfast at.
About the time Remy found the toaster, Bobby Drake spun around the corner, literally. With his back to the kitchen, Bobby executed some pseudo-Michael Jackson slide-step. “Sweet dreams are made of ME.” Bobby gyrated, or at least made an honest attempt at gyrating, his hips. “Who am I to disagree?” And halfway through a 360 degree spin Bobby noticed the kitchen was not quite as empty as he thought. “I traveled the WHOA…..” Something about the toaster toting Cajun’s wide-eyed stare prompted Bobby to quickly halt his dance routine.
“Uh. Remy. Uh. What’s up? Didn’t see ya there,” stuttered Bobby. Apparently still trying to come to grips with this image, Remy found himself unable to respond.
“You know. I just remembered. I need to be somewhere that is not right here, and now would be a great time to get there,” said Bobby, before hesitantly adding, “You…uh…couldn’t possibly, maybe, forget you ever saw that…Could you?”
Finally regaining his voice Remy responded. “Unfortunately, I doubt it.”
“Okay. Well. Bye then.” And Bobby spontaneously disappeared, leaving Remy to wonder how a guy nicknamed Iceman could turn so many different shades of red.
Fortunately the rest of Remy’s breakfast preparations went by with no further incidents. Before his bread finished becoming toast, Remy managed to find a nice plump, ruby red apple and pour himself a glass of orange juice. Then, as he took a seat at the island, a mightily yawning Kitty Pryde came into the kitchen, without any fancy footwork.
Kitty unearthed her box of Bran Flakes from the relatively untouched pantry of health food and sat next to the Cajun. “Morning Remy.”
“Mornin’ Kitty,” Gambit said, warily eyeing her bowl of what looked to be wood shavings, “You ever tried eatin’ anythin’ wit flavor fo’ breakfast?”
Kitty laughed. “No. I read an article in Women’s Health Magazine that a diet high in fiber can significantly reduce the risk of breast cancer.”
Something about Remy’s quirked mouth caused Kitty to reexamine her sentence. “Oh God. I’m sorry. You probably didn’t need to know that, did you?”
Remy shrugged nonchalantly. “‘S okay. I think it’s great you’re takin’ such good care o’ your breasts.”
“Remy LeBeau! You scoundrel!” admonished Kitty, slapping him playfully on the arm. And as they shared a laugh, the kitchen became just a little more crowded.
“Hey! Get yer mittens offa mah man.”
Gambit swiveled his chair around to face Rogue, a bemused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ton homme? Now yesterday you were sayin’…”
“Oh hush up,” said Rogue cutting him off, “I ain’t got time f’ yer lip.”
The grin expanded. “Dat’s funny. I always got time fo’ yours.”
Rolling her eyes, Rogue found herself fighting an uphill battle not to smile. “Ah swear! One a’ these days swamp rat Ah’m gonna slap ya back t’ the bayou ya crawled out of.”
“Sure you could do dat, skunk head, but den you be stuck tryin’ to find someone else t’ pay fo’ your dinners.”
“That’s fine. Ah’ll just get Logan t’ do it.”
“Oh come on. I’ve seen garbage disposals wit better table manners.”
“Like yer any better,” said Rogue, fully abandoning her attempts at smile hiding.
“I, cherie, am debonair. Not to mention I don’ feel de need to impale my food as I eat it.”
While Remy was having fun at Rogue’s expense and Rogue was enjoying returning fire, Kitty was trying to keep certain white, liquid dairy products from escaping through her nose. “Ok. Ok,” gasped Kitty between bouts of laughter, “Stop it. Please. Or I’m gonna lose my milk.”
Something about that statement, possibly having to do with their earlier discussion concerning the benefits of fiber, snapped a look of irony onto Remy’s face. A look which Kitty instantly recognized. A look which sent her back into a fit of nearly breathless hysterics.
After an alarming amount of time, Kitty stopped laughing and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Y’ alright sugah?” asked Rogue, concerned about her friend’s lengthy lack of oxygen.
“I’m fine,” said a finally composed Kitty, “You want some cereal?”
“Naw. Think Ah’ll pass.”
“But cherie, it’s good for your breasts,” protested Remy.
Not being privy to the earlier discussion, the statement caught Rogue completely off guard. “Remy! That’s it. Ah’m gonna…” Luckily Remy never found out what she was going to do because a loud thump cut her off mid-rant. Curious, the Joker and his Queen turned to check the source of the noise. What they found was Kitty no longer seated on her stool. Instead she was sprawling in the floor, attempting to not laugh her breakfast up all over the shiny white tiles.
“Mon Dieu,” said Remy, running a hand through his almost dried hair, “I think we gonna need a mop.”
*** The Dreaming:
For the most part Matthew considered his life rather nondescript. He had been born, as had most people, did some random, general living stuff, as most people do, and died in a car wreck, as most people prefer not to do but sometimes end up doing anyways. No, Matthew’s mortal life pretty much set a precedent for the term ‘ordinary.’ However his existence after Death is what set him apart as particularly unique. After all, how many people can say they died only to become the personal Raven for Dream of the Endless? A few people actually, but not very many.
Matthew left his cave a little earlier than usual this morning. He knew Dream spent most of the night talking with a certain mortal, and this had Matthew curious. So the Raven had set off to do exactly what it was that he did when he wondered something: Bother his boss until the Dream King either A) answered his question or B) threatened to tear the poor bird from this realm of existence.
Flying as fast as he could, Matthew transformed the scenery of the Dreaming into an indistinguishable blur. And cresting a hill, the Heart of the Dreaming blossomed into view. According to his boss, the Heart of the Dreaming represented the center of the Dreaming, and in that spot, which was anything but a fixed point, a castle dominated the skyline.
Matthew could not count the number of times he saw this castle, but every time the pristine glory gave pause to his breathing. Today, however, the castle looked different, more majestic, if that was actually possible. The towering spires, which usually gave the illusion that they were propping the orange and red hued sky into place, and in this place such illusions could very well be called facts, extended almost higher than eye’s reach. But it was the front gate that brought Matthew’s rapid approach to a sudden halt. Iridescent, seamless obsidian replaced the regularly smoked charcoal stones, bathing the surrounding area in a dark gleaming aura, both eerie and resplendent at the same time. And the substance composing the front gate had spread itself to the whole of the castle.
Upon the front gate sat three guards, Wyvern, the dragon, Hippogriff, the winged mare, and Gryphon, the griffin, each charged with protecting the castle’s main doors. Traditionally any guests seeking an audience with the Dream King first passed beyond that front gate beseeching the trio of guardians for entry. More often than not, Matthew eschewed such formalities and entered Dream’s throne room by simply flying through Lord Shaper’s window. But the castle’s current glooming regal appearance prompted Matthew to check first with the gatekeepers before entering.
“Hey guys. How’s it going?”
“Greetings Matthew,” replied Wyvern.
“All is well,” Hippogriff said.
“How fare you?” asked Gryphon.
“Ah. About as well as a raven can,” said Matthew, “I was hoping to talk with the boss man. Is he busy?”
“He is not,” replied Wyvern.
“You may enter Matthew,” Hippogriff said.
“But take care to not stray from the lighted path,” warned Gryphon.
“Believe me; I’m going nowhere near off that path.”
Heavy stone doors swung open epically slow, and the raven flew in, heedfully minding every bend and turn the lighted path took. Stories still echoed around the Dreaming, which is none too surprising considering the Dreaming is a land made of stories, of those recklessly curious few who dared wander from the path and of the nightmares that claimed their lives. So Matthew followed, very meticulously, that lighted path, all the way to the throne room.
“Matthew. I do not recall summoning you,” said Dream before the bird came into view.
Matthew entered to find Lord Shaper seated upon a raised platform of jagged rock, his throne currently crafted from the gnarled limb of a mystic tree which had long since passed from the minds of mortals. Candles encircled the base of the Dream Lord’s perch, casting their light too and fro with enigmatic flickers. The capricious glimmers added depth to the throne room’s shadows, while an occasional gust of air threw subtle yellow and black streaks across Dream’s deathly pale countenance. The vision froze Matthew in place, but only for the fleetest of seconds, for his master’s eccentricities were well documented.
“Well boss, that’s because you didn’t.”
“So then little raven, what brings you here?”
“I wanted to ask you something. But first, what’s with the castle’s makeover?” asked Matthew, alighting gently upon the left shoulder of Dream’s formal blue and purple cloak.
“I had a meeting with an esteemed guest, and I thought this facet would suit him.”
Matthew pondered the wisdom of inquiring as to who merited such an awe inspiring display, but Dream saved him the trouble. “It was Odin, All-Father. We had business to discuss.”
“So I missed Hugin and Munin again? Dang it! I never get to see those guys.”
“It would appear so. But that is not the reason you came here.”
“No,” said Matthew, “It’s about the mortal you visited last night.”
“What of him?”
“I know him. Well I don’t know him, know him. But I know who he is.”
“And.”
“What possible interest do you have in a guy like that?”
“I have requested his services.”
“For what?” Matthew asked incredulously. The impending silence made the raven think that maybe he had just overstepped the line of Dream’s infamously short patience. Matthew waited out the dead air wondering what it was going to feel like, being torn from existence. But Matthew would have to wait for another time to find the answer to that particular question.
“My brother, the Prodigal, he kept many books, Tomes of his work. Some were lost untold ages ago, after he abdicated his responsibilities, and it would seem one has been found.”
“I didn’t know your brother kept any books. What kind of book is it?”
“There are many things you do not know. And a great many more things you do not need to know.”
“Boss you’re being even more cryptic than usual.”
“So I am.”
“But why this guy? There are bigger, stronger, smarter, not to mention more trustworthy people around.”
“Do you question my judgment little bird?”
“Uh. No. Not at all boss,” said Matthew, catching the not so subtle hint of agitation underlying Dream’s words.
“Good. Now if you will excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.”
And with that Dream of the Endless vanished, leaving Matthew alone in the cavernous throne room with his unanswered questions.
_________________
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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Avarice
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| Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2006 4:55 am Post subject: |
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Chapter 3: Cartoons, Delays, and Trips to Cabarets.
After cleaning the spoils of Kitty’s laughter, which had prompted a myriad of apologies and promises to make it up to him from Kitty, Remy finally got to finish his limp, cold slices of toast and decided to forgo the apple. Rogue and Kitty scuttled off to get dressed, attempting, and failing, to suppress their excitement over the shopping trip they just planned post nausea. With an unrelenting cloud of uncertain thoughts still casting its dull haze across the edges of his conscious, Remy retired to his room and, hoping to occupy his frazzled mind, turned on the television just in time to catch a replay of some particularly corpulent, pathetically tone-deaf lummox butchering an Aerosmith song last night on yet another ‘We’ll-Make-You-A-Music-Star’ reality show. Considering how much Remy despised Aerosmith, that took some doing.
“Dream on, dream on. Dream yourself a dream come true. Dream on, dream on…” the man’s cacophonous shrieks produced a disturbing mental image of Banshee attempting to sing soprano in a church choir. Hastily Remy found something more intellectually stimulating to watch, something closely resembling a History Channel documentary on Tom and Jerry, just without the History Channel or the documentary. A few minutes into the cartoonish antics of his favorite cat and mouse duo Remy felt he had achieved a Zen-like state of mental vegetation.
Downstairs, Dr. Hank McCoy made his fatigued way toward the kitchen, trying hard to keep his eyelids parted after a third strait sleepless night spent toiling in his laboratory. However fate was not quite prepared to allow Hank the benefit of breakfast just yet.
No more than two steps beyond the front door, a sharp knock forced more distance between Hank’s empty stomach and the raptures of store bought frozen biscuits and sausage. With a lugubrious sigh Hank turned to answer the door.
Upon opening the door, the doctor found himself face-to-chest with a chalky faced man dressed in a dark billowing cloak, accented with orange and red flames creeping up from the hem. But neither the surrealistic clothing nor the alabaster skin of the ominous stranger captured Hank’s attention quite like the two blazing sapphires deep set into seas of gloaming which peered down at Hank, forcing him into an unlikely state of reticence.
“Greetings Hank McCoy.”
A fuggy moment of awkward silence hung in the air as Hank’s mind raced. Somehow he knew that he knew this man, but he was currently unable to light that candle of recognition. Not wanting to appear rude, Hank formed a quick perfunctory reply. “Salutations my friend. What can I do for you?”
“I come seeking an audience with Remy LeBeau.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll go get him for you.”
“I do not believe that to be necessary.”
Hank followed the Dream Lord’s gaze. Whether by fate, prestidigitation, or blind luck, the man Dream sought stood halfway down the staircase, mouth slightly unhinged, staring at the completed puzzle that had haunted him since waking.
“Ah. Remy. Your timing is impeccable as per usual. You have a visitor,” said Hank, pleased at not having to track Remy down.
“I trust you know why I am here.”
Remy’s mind swam as synapses fired and memories reconnected. So preoccupied was Remy with the dissipating mental fog that he scarcely noticed his head nodding in affirmation to Dream’s question.
“Well, I see you have important matters to discuss. So if you will excuse me I shall abscond to the kitchen,” said Hank. And before anyone could offer protest, the blue-furred X-Man escaped to find breakfast.
Having made his way down the stairs, Remy resisted the urge to pinch himself. “So it wasn’t jus a dream.”
“As I have told you: It never is.”
“Right. Den I s’pose I owe you an apology.”
“No. I desire only an answer. I have an appointment at an establishment known as Bared Temptations.”
“You mean de strip joint on Market Street?” asked Remy.
“I believe that to be the one. Will you accompany me?”
“No offense, mon ami, but you don’ seem like the strip-tease type.”
“There is one there who may have insight into this matter.”
Remy frowned and crossed his arms across his chest, searching for yet another hidden memory.
“My cause is not yet known to you. If you agree to accompany me all shall be revealed.”
“Still ain’ sure what you need me fo’,” said Remy, trying to pry an answer he really did not expect to receive.
“My reasons are my own.”
“Oh well, I don’ guess it’s a good idea to go refusin’ the requests of a guy who makes gods in his spare time, eh.”
“There shall be no punishment for your refusal. I shall merely find another.”
“So much fo’ my self importance,” said Remy, who, upon seeing the lack of amusement on Dream’s face, finished his thought with a shrug, “I’ll go.”
Scott Summers approached just as Remy and Dream’s discussion waned to a close, scribbling notations on a clipboard in his picture perfect calligraphy. “Gambit, I’ve been looking for you. Hurry and suit up. You’re scheduled for a Danger Room session with Colossus and Psylocke in six minutes.”
“Sorry boss, but I’m a lil busy at de moment,” replied Remy, hoping his affable smile would signal Scott to not pursue the matter further.
Evidently Scott was not taking nonverbal cues today.
“That was not a suggestion. Now go get dressed,” Scott said.
“I have requested LeBeau’s assistance for the time being.”
Having not noticed the mysterious houseguest earlier, the voice caught Scott off guard, but Scott recovered quickly, not wanting to offend the man. “Sorry. I’ll have him back to you inside an hour. If you would like…”
“He is coming with me. Now.”
The annoyed edge in Dream’s tone suggested the issue was not open for negotiation. And a voice deep within Scott told the X-men’s leader that any further discussion would only warrant unwanted repercussions. “Oh. Right. Not a problem. Uh, I’ll just go find Bobby instead. Any idea where he’s at, Gambit?”
“Last I saw he was off auditionin’ t’ be a Backstreet Boy.”
Displaying his usual lack of capacity for understanding anything remotely akin to humor, Scott’s face bunched up incredulously. “What?”
Remy poked a thumb over his left shoulder. “Think he went off dat way.”
Without another word Scott marched off in the general direction of Remy’s gesticulation, desperately trying to figure out why Bobby would want to join the Backstreet Boys.
“You’ll have to forgive ol’ Un Orb. When it comes t’ trainin’ time he tends t’ lose his social graces.”
“I know. Are you prepared to leave?”
Remy looked down at his dingy grey, and somewhat milk stained, gym shorts and tattered white New Orleans Hard Rock Café shirt. “Don’ s’pose I got time t’ change?”
Dream frowned, which Remy was beginning to believe was the esoteric Endless’s response to everything. “Yes, but hurry.”
In less than twelve minutes Remy made his way back down the stairs looking much more presentable in a pair of blue jeans, a black shirt, and his omnipresent trench coat.
As he walked through the front door, Remy paused to examine Dream’s flame printed cloak. “I hope you ain’ plannin’ on wearin’ dat.”
“Why not?”
“Oh I don’ know. Somethin’ ‘bout a tall, scary lookin’, pale skinned guy waltzin’ ‘round a New York strip club wearin’ a robe wit fames might draw unwanted attention.”
Before Remy’s words finished slipping from his mouth, Dream’s midnight and flames tunic had transmuted into a pair of dark jeans, a grey shirt, and a black leather jacket. “Will this suffice?”
Remy tried to remind himself not to act surprised, but his wide eyes betrayed him. “Uh, yeah. Dat’ll do in a pinch.”
***
Stepping into the alleyway, Remy struggled to grasp just how he got there. One minute he was walking out Xavier’s front door, hoping for the opportunity to ‘borrow’ Scott’s new Torch Red ’06 Mustang, and the next he was standing in an oily, yellow puddle of unknown origins, not to mention substances, staring at the cracked pavement and carelessly aligned garbage cans traditionally tucked away on the side of Market Street tourists rarely cared to see.
Thoughts of the alleyway and how they got there vanished abruptly as Remy’s attention was assaulted by a black clad, pallid woman casting a warm smile toward the travelers. Her pearlescent milky skin and jet black clothing reminded Remy of the Dream Lord, yet the light, genial aura pouring from her eyes suggested her to be much more amicable than Dream could ever hope to be.
She stood up, her every movement exuding an elegance of grace, and walked toward them, the Ankh on her necklace shimmering like the Gates of Heaven in the lazy midday sunlight. “About time you guys got here.”
“Well I certainly hate t’ keep a lady waitin’,” said Remy.
Remy wished it was nighttime because he would have bet his precious trench coat that the smile she unleashed at his words would have torn the darkness from the twilight.
“So I take it your de one we’re meetin’?”
“No.”
“Non?” replied Remy, a bit disappointed.
“Nope, afraid not,” she said. “So how did you like you trip between the worlds?”
“Huh?” Remy managed to articulate, not quite sure what she meant.
“Most mortals never set foot in the Empty Spaces. The places that exist between the worlds. Someone must be in a hurry.” She delivered her last line with a raised eyebrow at Dream.
“To what do we owe this meeting?”
She shook her head slowly, her mass of onyx black hair trailing slightly behind the motion. “You know little brother, for being so concerned with formalities, your manners are horribly boorish.”
“Sister…”
Ignoring her brother the lady extended a hand toward Remy. “Fine. I’ll just introduce myself. Nice to meet you Remy LeBeau. I’m Death, this lunkhead’s older sister.”
“Sister!”
Remy took Death’s proffered hand and placed a friendly kiss upon her unblemished snowy knuckles. “Enchante, ma Belle. Never thought Death would look so temptin’.”
Death slipped her other slender hand over her mouth in a mock attempt at covering up her infectious giggling. “Oh you are a charmer. I bet you are no end of trouble for the ladies.”
“I try,” said Remy, with a nonchalant shrug.
“Again I ask: What brings you here, sister?”
“Hmm. Oh I’ve got a pick up a few blocks over, so I thought I’d stop by and say ‘hello’ to my favorite little bro. Is that alright?”
“Perfectly acceptable.”
“Oh. You’ve got that ‘I’m-in-a-big-rush-to-get-somewhere-important-stop-bugging-me’ look going on.”
“As always it is a pleasure to see you my sister, but unfortunately certain matters require my attention.”
Death pasted a potentially fatal, albeit not sincere, moue on her face. “Aw. You never have time for your big sis.”
“Sister, I…”
A bout of Death’s lilting laughter summarily ended Dream’s attempt at smoothing over the situation. “I’m kidding. Go take care of your business. But, seriously, when you get some time drop by the house, I need to talk to you about something.”
“Very well.”
“That’s a cue to leave if ever I’ve heard one. Fare you well brother. See ya around Remy.”
Remy broke into a devilish grin. “I’ll be holdin’ my breath, belle.”
“Don’t hold it too long, or I’ll be paying you a visit you won’t like.”
“Says you.”
And Death evanesced into the stagnant alley air, her laughter still lingering in the atmosphere a moment after her departure.
Ignoring any semblance of explanation, Dream stalked off around the building to his destination. Remy, resigned that no explanation would be forthcoming, followed the gaunt figure to the front door of Bared Temptations.
A balding, bored mountain of a man slouched next to the rickety ingress that served as an entrance. Upon seeing the incredibly odd duo, the bouncer parked himself firmly between them and the door.
“Whadda ya want?”
Sensing the man’s obvious distrust, Remy switched on the empathy. “Bonjour mon homme. We…”
Dream, in no mood for further delays, cut Remy off. “I have business here. Step aside.”
The muscle bound door guard didn’t budge. “Yeah. Well this is a strict no fairy zone buddy. Take your ‘business’ elsewhere.”
“’Eh now. Dere’s no need for…” Remy started.
The surly bouncer interrupted mid-sentence, and forcibly grabbed Dream’s sleeve. “Don’t make me tell ya again. Take your little pasty faced boyfriend here and get lost.”
Remy knew what was coming. Even without the benefit of seeing Dream’s lustrous eyes flare to a level of supernova intensity, he knew the man just pushed the wrong esoteric entity a bit too far.
“You dare.”
Remy took a few steps back, involuntarily shivering at the bile dripping from Dream’s statement.
“You will remove your hand from my vestments.”
With a sense of sacrament, the burly doorman released his grip on the glossy black leather.
“You will look upon us again and notice two well respected, frequent patrons of you establishment.”
The man blinked rapidly, as if clearing a fog from his mind, and saw two of Bared Temptations’ premier customers appropriately attired for an afternoon of gazing at lithe, sensually adept dancers. “Oh. How nice to see you back again. Please enjoy your stay.”
But Dream apparently was not finished. “Upon returning home tonight you shall find your companion cheating on you with a female. And every night you shall dream of the fulfillment of his touch. And every morning you shall awaken broken and distraught. Now open the door.”
As the soon to be jilted bouncer wordlessly opened the door, a dank odor of acrid sweat and musty darkness assaulted Remy’s nostrils. Remy stopped upon entering and allowed his eyes to adjust to the oppressive lack of lighting.
“You know, I coulda talked us past dat brickhead, no need t’…”
Dream halted Remy’s sentiment with a scowl. “Do not assume to instruct me on how to conduct my affairs.”
“Right. Sorry,” Remy said, and with violent quickness he changed the subject. “So, how we s’posed to find dis friend o’ yours?”
“Oneiros!” cried an immaculately sculpted dancer with golden brown hair and eyes the color of melted emeralds, inadvertently answering Remy’s query from across the room. She ran to Dream and wrapped him in a friendly embrace.
“Stop that, Kleio. It is unbecoming.”
Instantly Kleio’s face turned a brilliant red and her shoulders scrunched meekly. “My apologies Lord Oneiros. It’s just. Well. I’ve not seen you in so long. Haven’t seen anyone in so long.”
“You are the only one here?”
“Yeah. Don’t think the other’s made it. There’s not much worship to go around here, and what little there is is pretty pathetic.”
“My sympathies. Times have become hard for your kind.”
“Are all your friends dis beautiful?” asked Remy, entering the conversation.
Kleio’s disposition instantly perked as she devoured the angular Cajun’s appearance with lustful eyes. “Who is this? I like him.”
“Remy LeBeau of the X-Men, meet Kleio, Greek muse of history and epics.”
“Yeah, well that was a long time ago. Nowadays everybody calls me Contessa, goddess of leather and pole grinding.” She looked Remy up and down, measuring him with a salacious intensity. “Care to worship me for a while?”
“Uh. Thanks, but no thanks, chere. I doubt my Rogue would appreciate dat too much.”
A sigh of displeasure caused Kleio’s ample bosoms to shake lasciviously. “Well that’s just too bad.”
“We are here on business, Kleio.”
“Figures. You never were much of a socialite. So. What I can I do for you?”
“You once were close to my brother, the prodigal.”
“Yes. Sixty years. Or thereabouts. I was sad to hear he left. Is he in trouble?”
“No. It would seem someone dared to unearth one of his forgotten Tomes. As of yet the book remains unopened. And so it must ever remain.”
“It’s true then. I didn’t believe her when she told me. Someone really got his hands on the Tomes of Destruction.”
_________________
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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Avarice
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| Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2006 4:57 am Post subject: |
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Chapter 4: Poems, Gods and Fighting Against All Odds
A tendril of smoke curled across the low hanging full moon. As Remy watched the small grayish cloud dissipated upon the night’s gentle breeze, he reran, for the couple hundredth time, the events that led him to be perched on an iron rail fence in the front yard of one Dr. Harriston DeMerris.
Listening in on Dream and Kleio’s discussion had provided Remy with precious little in the way of concrete information. Apparently a former oracle of Aphrodite stopped by Kleio’s place of work a few days before, muttering something about books, Destruction, and the end of the world being caused by some “hackneyed lump of a floundering archeologist” named DeMerris.
Kleio admitted that the old oracle seemed more than a touch hammered at the time, but quickly added that the seer gave her best presentiments under the influence of alcohol. Something about that failed to make Remy feel any better about taking the word of an inebriated, disgruntled, has-been priestess in the matter of possible, and very literal, global genocide.
Of course Remy was left with the task of filling in all the blanks. Dream said the bar was as far as he could go, citing that he could not get personally involved with the affairs of his missing brother. And Kleio flat out refused to help, not that Remy would have taken the sex starved doxy even had she volunteered, saying that one makes infinitely more money shaking one’s perfectly statuesque body in front of a group of depraved middle-aged sots than could be made saving the world a hundred times over. “After all,” Kleio had reasoned, “I’ve got rent to pay.”
“So much for de social responsibility o’ ancient Greek muses,” said Remy to no one in particular.
Then Remy charged the remaining stump of his cigarette and flicked it over his shoulder, where it popped silently in midair. End o’ de world or not, no reason t’ leave cheap evidence fo’ de cops t’ find, Remy thought.
Returning his focus to current affairs, Remy gave the grounds one last cursory inspection. DeMerris’s house was tasteful, if not spectacular. The plain white abode stood three stories high, with shuttered windows and vinyl siding. Roughly 150 yards of uninterrupted rolling green grass spanned from all corners of the house to the fence currently serving as Remy’s seat. Remy’s short hand reconnaissance revealed no thermal sensors, no obvious cameras, not even a sign from one of those unreliable home security installers. Remy briefly toyed with the idea of leaving Dr. DeMerris a note suggesting affordable home security options, after pinching the book of course, but nixed the idea. No lights had been on since he arrived, roughly 45 minutes ago, so Remy decided now would be as good a time as any to get started.
The mutant thief picked his way deliberately across the yard, fully aware that the pellucid moonlight and open yard afforded no cover from watching eyes. Thick, soft turf muted Remy’s masterfully silent footsteps as he closed the distance to the house. Reaching the halfway point, Remy stopped and took a crouching position and listened for the rustling of a languid night watchman or a sneaky guard dog. Nothing. Only the faint whispering of a breeze dared to contest the surrounding hush.
Ill content with the night’s overwhelming serenity, Remy crossed the rest of the yard in short order and picked the front lock with depressing ease.
The inside of Dr. DeMerris’s house offered a stark contrast to the exterior. Where the outside had been kept conscientiously prim and clean, the inside closely resembled the aftermath of a volcanic eruption, provided the volcano in question had been chocked full of paper.
Remy had never seen so much paper in his life. A layer of it smothered every available surface in the room. A mahogany sofa, a matching recliner, four end tables, one glass coffee table, and a healthy portion of the floor had been rendered invisible by the multitude of sheets. Remy picked up a few pages draped over a golden bejeweled statue of what looked to be a fierce warrior with a head comprised mostly of tentacles. The arcane symbols lining the page more closely resembled the scribbles of rambunctious third graders than ancient Sumerian hieroglyphics.
Replacing the papers exactly as he found them, Remy moved past the living room, down a lengthy, narrow hall. Remy’s intuition told him the object of his search would not be on the first two floors, so he slinked noiselessly up the winding staircase, up to the third floor.
The third floor ingress split the hallway in half. Remy peered down both directions before capriciously deciding to go left. The door at the end of the hallway stood open just a crack, and as Remy drew near, an acrid scent of iron settled into his throat. Voices in Remy’s head screamed for caution, and if Remy’s years of thievery taught him anything, it was to pay close attention to his instincts. Remy slowly reached his right hand toward the doorknob, while his other hand deftly fingered a few cards.
The door pushed forward inch by inch under the slight weight of Remy’s hand, until it opened just enough for the agile X-Man to slip through. Remy stopped, transfixed, and a card slipped from his hand, alighting face up on the floor: The Ace of Spades.
A mangled hunk of metal, that might once have been the door to a safe, laid haphazardly at the foot of Dr. DeMerris’s uninhabited bed. Above the crumpled door a pair of messages served both explanation and warning to any potential trespassers. The first message was composed of words scrawled in reddish-brown smears. It read:
The Tomes of Olethros have been found.
The days of Order are dead and bound
Burned away by Chaos fires,
Fueled by lips of wolves and liars.
Let now the final battle begin,
Where none shall stand to see the end.
The other message proved less poetic but probably provided the sickly ink used in the first. The other message was Dr. Harriston DeMerris. Nails the size of railroad spikes pierced his wrists and ankles, connecting the empty shell of his body to the bedroom wall. DeMerris’s glazed bulging eyes and broken jaw, which hung agape, told Remy that the archeologist lived long enough to suffer though his own crucifixion.
Reverently, Remy ran a gloved hand over DeMerris’s face, forever shutting the man’s eyes and breathed a silent prayer Tante Mattie used to say over the deceased. He stood there for a second, trying to comprehend the torture DeMerris consciously suffered. Then Remy shook his head, as if the gyrations would free his mind of DeMerris’s death grimace, and turned his attention to the crimson stained, empty safe.
First glance told Remy someone, presumably with more strength than patience, tore the door right off its hinges. Ignoring the rancid scents of death attempting to repel him, Remy leaned in to inspect the safe’s metallic innards. He was not sure what he hoped to find, but he visually combed every interior square inch of the safe. Usually on the thieving end of the Cops and Robbers game, Remy found a perverse sense of satisfaction in playing detective for a change. But for all the damage, the assailants left no obvious clues as to who they were or where they went.
Well maybe that was not entirely true. Remy stopped examining the safe and stood up. “You want t’ sneak up on me you gonna have t’ be quieter den dat.”
The off-handed statement caught the shadow creeping up behind Remy by surprise. Before he could recover his wits, the man found himself on the floor with a thin stream of blood stinging his eyes.
Undeterred by Remy’s unnatural response time, the man lashed out at Remy’s feet. He connected solid with the Cajun’s right shin and Remy stumbled backward. With reckless abandon the man launched himself off the floor, aiming a right hook at the X-Man’s solar plexus. Remy turned his body sideways, and as the man’s errant punch sailed through empty space, Remy grabbed the back of his attacker’s head and thrusted it down to meet Remy’s rising knee. The man’s nose exploded with a sickening crack.
The man landed, cradling his busted face with his hands, but he refused to stay down long. And once again the seemingly overmatched man threw himself at Remy. He feigned with another right and pulled back at the last second to send a left jab toward Remy’s jaw.
Remy recognized the ploy just quickly enough to evade full impact, but still the blow partially found its mark. A grunt escaped from Remy as the man landed another punch in the face. However, this time the attacker received a left foot in his ear as payment for his troubles.
The kick sent the assailant sprawling headlong into the wall, where he crashed just beside the perforated archeologist. He tried to return to standing but another left foot, a bit more forceful that the last, drove the man back to the ground. The man tried yet again to get up, but Remy met his effort by kicking him across the room.
Remy figured the last kick would keep the man down. Evidently someone forgot to pass that message on to the obstinate assailant. While Remy admired the man’s resolve to fight, the Cajun was beginning to grow supremely irritated.
Doggedly the man rolled over and, obviously ignoring Remy’s angst, contorted his blood coated teeth into something resembling a smile. Then came his voice, a hoarse, rasping whisper. “You fight well, thief, but my master will not allow me to lose.”
And the battered combatant hobbled unsteadily to his feet. Despite the questionable state of his balance, the man charged at Remy with a determined howl. He punched, left, right, right, left, left, right. Remy dodged each attempted strike with relative ease, hoping the man would just collapse from exhaustion.
Remy passed the point of irritation roughly six missed punches ago, now he was just fascinated by the man. Despite all the wounds and blood loss, the man continued assault after assault, paying no heed to pain or lack of success. Remy knew he needed to put the man down fast, but doing so without killing the guy was beginning to look unlikely.
The man, seeming to sense Remy’s mental preoccupation, charged again, throwing a hand at Remy’s throat. Remy spun as the man approached, swept the man’s feet out from under him, and drove him face first into a night stand, not bothering to loosen his grip on the back of the man’s neck.
Finally, his body wrenched beyond its breaking point, the man lay still, as his breathing caused bubbles to form in the torrents of blood saturating his face. Remy took a deep breath, hoping he had not caused too much damage to the man.
After a few minutes the man tried to push himself from the pool forming around his skull. He twisted around to find Remy’s hand reaching down to offer assistance. The beaten attacker looked awkwardly at the proffered hand.
“Let me help you up, mon brave.”
A sense of disorientation pulsed through the man’s body, as real as any convulsion of pain. “Uh. Thank you.”
Remy wrapped his steely grip around the man’s wrist and pulled him to standing. “You all right? Don’ look so well.”
Remy released his grip and the man instantly collapsed onto the bed. “I’m fine. Really. Thanks for helping me up.”
“Il n’y a pas de quoi.”
“What?”
“Don’ mention it. I’m guessin’ you had somethin’ t’ do with de late Dr. DeMerris.”
The man jerked a thumb toward the figure nailed to the wall. “Huh? Oh you mean him. Sorry. Didn’t know his name.”
Remy fought to retain his composure, knowing that his empathy only worked when he was calm. And as much as he wanted to rearrange this guy’s face for his involvement in Dr. DeMerris’s horrific death, Remy needed answers.
“Yeah,” the man continued. “We ritualistically killed him, consecrating his death to our master. You know, deaths consecrated to a god provide a great source of power.”
“You don’ say. So who’s dis god you consecratin’ to?”
The man smiled as if Remy had just asked what color the man’s red robe was. “The Barer of Chaos. The Harbinger of Bloodshed. Lord Ares, God of War. Who else?”
Remy’s stomach sank. He felt no fear dealing the likes of Magneto or Mr. Sinister, but crossing fists with the Greek God of War remained curiously absent from Remy’s list of things to do before death.
“An’ jus where would I find dis Ares?”
“Most of the time he’s at the third warehouse in the old district. I think it’s 1372 Waterfront Drive, but it may be 1327. I get confused.”
Remy turned his back to the currently sedate, and very much blood soaked, man and pondered his options. If he stormed down to fight Ares, he would probably end up dead and disfigured. If he did not, and Ares opened that book, everything would end up dead. Remy found himself missing the days when his most daunting decisions concerned whether or not to wear his fuchsia outfit during Danger Room sessions.
“Thanks fo’ de help.” And with that Remy spun around, uncorking his retractable staff in one fluid motion and tried his best to break the staff in half across the man’s skull. Then Remy calmly picked up the bedside phone, dialed 9-1-1 and dropped the receiver next to the unconscious murderer.
“Well, guess it’s time t’ go have a lil talk wit god.”
_________________
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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Avarice
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Joined: 01 Sep 2006
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| Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2006 5:49 am Post subject: |
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Author's Note: I forgot to mention this earlier, but any gods, muses, fairies, or other mythological beings appearing in this fiction are meant to be like those from the Sandman series. Also there is a bit of dialogue in this chapter denoted as such, "<<>>" that means the text inside the <<>> was actually spoken in a different language, in this case ancient Greek.
Chapter 5 – Artists, Messes, and Slightly Wrong Addresses
Remy spent the next morning walking the labyrinth of back alleys and side streets surrounding Ares’ supposed hideout. Evidently Remy had given that dunderpate back at Dr. DeMerris’ place too hard a beating. There was neither a 1372 nor a 1327 Waterfront RD. However there was a warehouse at 2731 Waterfront RD. Remy severely hoped that empty looking shell of a building played house to a Greek God of War ostensibly planning the end of the world and not to a covey of girl scouts scheming to overrun the planet with snickerdoodles and Do-Si-Dos.
For just over three hours Remy walked the immediate area, checking for guard posts, blind spots, dead ground, escape routes and alternative escape routes. Idly, Remy wondered what kind of counter theft measures a Grecian god employed. He could not quite imagine deftly cloaked snipers or fully automatic wielding foot soldiers, but Remy hoped that the annoyingly persistent, red-tunic wearing pillock currently in police custody was not the best Ares had to offer. Otherwise this was going to turn into a colossal waste of a master thief’s time.
Catching his off-beat train of thought, Remy stopped and tried to refocus his mind. As much as he fretted a conflict with Ares, this was no time to hide his concern behind false moxie and wisecracks. Remy looked at the markings on the wall in front of him and realized he once again had reached the only intersection in the area that remained occupied.
As casually as possible, Remy strode across the alleyway’s entrance; a look askance confirmed that the man still held his position. This bewildered Remy, who after four trips by this alley over the three hour period expected the man to be gone. A feeling in Remy’s gut told the Cajun this man shared no connection with Ares and posed no threat, but Remy could not afford to trust gastrointestinal instincts at the moment. Remy decided to forego guessing games and went straight to the direct approach. And so Remy changed direction and casually walked toward the man.
The man paid no heed to the approaching Remy, his attention fully enwrapped by the alley wall. Thoughtfully, the man reached his right hand toward something in his left hand and then he made a light waving motion toward the bricks which seemed to preoccupy him. “Curiosity finally gotcha, huh?”
Despite his surprise, Remy played it cool. No need to let this guy know he got the drop on Remy. “You’ve walked past here four times. Coulda just asked me what I was doing you know,” the man continued, genially.
“A’ight den, what are you doin’?” Remy asked.
“Legally, I think they call it vandalism. Come on over here. The lighting’s terrible over there.”
Remy made his way over to stand just off of the man’s right shoulder. For the most part the dingy, weather stained brick facing of the alley’s wall looked like one of the countless thousands of alley walls lining any given New York street. However this man somehow succeeded in transmuting this dull compilation of stacked brick into a canvas. Feathered clouds hued with kissing pinks and whites dotted a sky of impossible cerulean and orange streaks. Under this celestial canopy frolicking hills of emerald grass danced with a placid body of water. The drawing captured Remy’s attention, holding him tighter than any painting he had ever before laid eyes on.
“Ever seen a sunset over the Mediterranean?”
“I’ve been t’ Greece once o’ twice, but, non, never had de pleasure o’ seein’ anythin’ like dis.”
The man shook his head, an irrepressible grin splitting his face. “There’s nothing like it. Not anywhere.”
Remy leaned closer to the painting, examining something in the lower right hand corner. “I didn’ know dey had giraffes in Greece.”
“What? They don’t.” The man followed Remy’s gaze, and he frowned as he covered one side of his face with a hand. “That’s not a giraffe. That’s a goat.”
“Oh. Right. Must be de lightin’.”
“Or maybe it’s the way-too-long neck.”
Not wanting to upset the man, Remy started to say something, but that something failed to get said as the man erupted into a bout of raucous laughter. “Oh well. Guess I still haven’t figured out how to draw live stock. You should have seen the portrait I tried to paint of my old dog. Ended up looking like a lopsided gerbil after fighting a lawn mower.”
The two shared a good laugh at the mental image before Remy got to his next question. “What’s a talented artist like you doin’ paintin’ out on warehouse row?”
“Hmmm. I would’ve thought the ‘giraffe’ would’ve answered that.” The man paused for a little chuckle. “I just like the quiet out here. Good place to come be alone with the art.”
“S’pose dat makes sense.”
“And what about you?”
“Huh?”
“What brings you out to the deserted? You’re clearly not a cop.”
“Oh, jus’ out doin’ a lil sight seein’.”
A suspicious wrinkle passed across the artist’s brow, but it broke into yet another fit of laughs. “Right. I know ‘None of my business’ when I hear it. That’s ok. Way I figure it, a man’s business is his own. Besides, you have good taste in art.”
“Speakin’ o’ which, I prob’ly taken up enough o’ your time.”
“Yeah, like I got anything important to do.” Looking down at his watch, the man’s eyes shot to an impressive width. “Actually I do. I’m supposed to be making dinner for some guests tonight, and I’ve not quite been to the grocery store yet. Hate to paint and run, but I gotta go. Take it easy, friend.”
“Oui. You do de same.” And Remy left the artist, who was hurriedly tossing brushes, pallets and paints into a large green bag.
Remy rounded the far corner and waited to see if the man would leave. After a 20 count, Remy, discretely as possible, peered around the corner to find the alley empty. For the rest of the afternoon, Remy planted himself on an adjacent rooftop to his target and watched the warehouse for signs of life.
***That Night
The descending curtain of nightfall comforted Remy. His recon turned up a big, fat nothing. No one entered. No one left. The only movement that afternoon was the slow meandering of shadows obstinately hiding from the light of day. Still, uneasy thoughts kept gnawing at Remy. At least under the blanket of darkness some of Remy’s worries assuaged. He always felt more ‘at home’ at night, like he drew some sort of ineffable power from the twilight. This, as far as Remy knew, was not particularly true, but Remy was grasping for any advantage he could find right now.
At the tick of 11 Remy pounced into action, alighting from rooftop to rooftop with the silent grace of a prowling tiger until he reached his destination. Remy found a busted skylight and looking inside, spotted a line of dim lanterns casting an eerie aura along the colonnade of support beams. Long shadows swayed unsteadily; the continuous flickering, combined with Remy’s vantage point, made it impossible to tell what was casting these shadows.
Remy pulled a length of wound steel cable from a pouch on the back of his ‘tool belt’ and attached it to an anonymous pipe protruding from the roof. After a few trial tugs, Remy buttoned his coat and let out enough slack in the line to get through the already opened skylight. Inch by painstaking inch, the Cajun made way through the rafters.
Seconds passed, marked only by the subtle rustling of leather on steel. Remy reached a beam forming the bottom of a rafter’s triangle and unhooked his cord. The position offered a slightly better view than from above, but not by much. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the yellow-orange glint of the lanterns, Remy began searching for both the quickest and the best covered escape routes. Unfortunately the warehouse’s spacious design and state of emptiness were not well suited for playing hide and seek. The main support girders represented the only available cover in the building, other than a decrepit forklift and three oddly intervaled crates shrink-wrapped in clear plastic.
Having gotten used to the lighting, Remy decided to keep the advantage of high ground. He worked his way around to the edge of the storage building’s ceiling nearest the loading dock, taking care to avoid any area invaded by the glimmering lamps.
From his new position Remy could see six men in hooded red and tan robes gathered in a circle around what looked to be a pulpit. A low humming noise rose from the encircled coven. After a few notes the hum repeated, reminding Remy of chants intoned during the abstruse, fuliginous Voodoo ceremonies usually relegated to the most remote of bayous.
The object inside the halo of chanters caused Remy’s heart to skip a beat. Centered on the pulpit sat a thick volume with rich wooden covers adorned with specks of silver that shone like a thousand stars and engraved with golden lettering that sparkled ethereally in the flames.
A voice thundered across the void of the warehouse, breaking the spell of the book’s reverie. “Well! Have you broken the seal?”
The cadre of robed men cut off their incanting mid hum, visibly shaken by the harsh utterance. Petrified glances passed amongst the men, until one finally unearthed the courage to speak up. “No my lord. As of yet the seal remains intact.”
Remy fought to stifle the chill surging down his spine as an inhuman growl pierced the darkness. “What purpose does your life serve me? I require but one duty from you squalid priests, and you cannot open a mere book?”
“My lord, the sorcery binding…”
An ominous silhouette interrupted the firelight, towering over the panic-stricken priests. “ENOUGH! Your plangent excuses grow tiresome. I will have results, or I will have your entrails woven into a jacket. Now open the book.”
The six cried in unison, “Yes my lord. All glory to the Harbinger of Chaos, underneath whose feet flows the blood of the fallen.”
Without acknowledging his worshipers, the sinewy form melted back into the darkness from wince it came. The men wasted no time in returning to their desperate chants, displaying a renewed sense of vigor fueled by the threat of failure. Remy waited an extra three minutes, just in case Ares decided to pay a return visit, but the god seemed to have gone.
Half sliding, half climbing, Remy descended a support beam located a few feet outside the ring of light incandescing the harmonious priests. Once his feet touched the dust soaked concrete floor, Remy crouched low to the ground and crept noiselessly behind the priest farthest away from where Ares previously stood.
Reaching his hand out to grab hold of the man’s collar, the shadow of Remy’s hand crossed the barrier from dark to illumination, and as that barrier was broken, the man threw himself away from Remy with a pained screech. And just as suddenly, six daggers appeared from six red and tan tunics.
The man who had been standing in front of the book stepped forward to address the intruder. “You who have impregnated the most holy keep of our lord, now shall we consecrate your death unto the endless wrath of the God of...”
Remy, still crouching, braced himself on his left hand, and finished the man’s sentence with a boot to the jaw. The dagger flew from the man’s grasp, while the dagger’s owner connected head-first with the gnarled facing of what Remy had thought to be a pulpit. Crumpling to the floor, the man curled into a ball of tears and blood.
Three of the remaining priests charged Remy with their daggers drawn back. The first to arrive took a swipe at Remy’s face. Remy ducked under the man’s arm, and grabbing that arm for support, flung a foot at stooge number two. A solid connection dropped stooge number two to the ground, while Remy’s momentum sent the first attacker sprawling to the ground.
The third assailant, presuming himself intelligent, paused briefly until Remy’s back was turned after the kick. He then rushed the Cajun’s blind side, aiming his knife at the base of Remy’s skull. Remy spun as the man approached, took his feet out from under him, and used the man’s falling weight to break his own arm.
Priest number five stood paralyzed by the red irises hovering coldly over the bodies of his friends. Then, in an incredible display of stupidity, the priest ran at Remy, holding his dagger over his head with both hands. Whatever the man’s rationale, it failed. A swift right hook to the left temple redirected the priest’s trajectory, easily rendering him unconscious.
Remy stared at the final priest, wondering what genius stratagem he would come up with. The red-eyed Cajun did not have to wait long. The man, with a barbaric howl, threw his stiletto to the ground and ran, as fast as he could, away from the intruder.
“Can’ say I’s expectin’ dat.”
Remy also did not expect the truck, well it felt like a truck, that smashed into his left cheek. The blow knocked Remy off his feet; he landed squarely on his right shoulder and rolled awkwardly back to his knees.
The darkness behind where Remy previously stood shifted, and a large man with violently blond hair and a matching goatee stepped into the light. He stared at the downed thief with a macabre smile. “Sorry ‘bout that. Usually I like ta announce m’self ‘fore I go knockin’ ‘eads, but I thought I’d make an exception fer one o’ Westchester’s finest.”
Remy frowned slightly, wondering how this brute knew how to expect him. The man smiled, anticipating the thief’s question. “I wouldna worry about it. Ya willna be alive long enough fer it ta matter.”
Lurching up from his knees, Remy returned to standing, only to find that his new play mate loomed over him by nearly a head. As Remy attempted to pop the pain from his neck by stretching it, the man crossed his arms, patiently waiting for his quarry to get ready.
Finished rolling his neck, Remy took some initiative and sprung toward the man. “Wait just a minute now,” said the man, halting Remy’s advance. “Doesna seem right, tearin’ each other ta shreads without a proper introduction.”
Remy struggled though the brogue, hoping the man was easier to fight than understand. “I s’pose you also want t’ shake hands an’ exchange MySpace pages.”
“Nah. Just do na think ya oughta kill a man without first knowin’ ‘is name.”
“Careful now, dat sounds eerily like honor.”
“Just because I serve Chaos doesna mean I ‘ave ta be a boorish slag. Tha name’s Alistair.”
“What? No last name?”
“Afraid I fergot that a long time ago.”
“Fair enough. You can call me Gambit.”
“A pleasure. Most folk refuse ta trade names, nice ta fight a man with some confidence fer once.”
Picking up where he left off, Gambit resumed his bull rush. He launched a left jab, which he never intended to land, at Alistair’s nose. Alistair dodged the punch easily enough, but Gambit used the force of his missed blow to swing his right leg up from behind his back. The surprise foot struck Alistair in the chin, and as the big man rocked backward, Gambit followed with another left jab to the eye. Reeling from the last jab, Alistair grabbed Gambit’s arm, but the large Gaelic was not so much groaning in pain as he was smiling. “Begorrah lad, I’ve not been hit that hard in ages. Yer startin’ ta get me excited.”
Alistair barely finished his sentence before shoving a hard right into Gambit’s face. Gambit turned his head, deflecting some of the impact, but it threw him back enough for Alistair to put another fist in Gambit’s gut. The blow knocked the wind out of Gambit’s lungs, but the Cajun maintained his calm and drove a knee into Alistair’s groin.
Alistair clutched Gambit by the collar of his jacket, pulling the hard-breathing X-Man up to face level. “Do ya mind? I plan on puttin’ those ta work sometime soon.”
With a grunt Gambit head butted the genitally throbbing Irishman in the nose. Alistair spat enough invectives to keep a truck driver’s convention blushing for weeks and threw Gambit into one of the main support beams. Gambit bounced off the unforgiving steel and face planted on the equally unforgiving concrete.
Gambit could hear Alistair closing in behind him, and from a kneeling position, Gambit unsheathed his retractable staff with a practiced flick of the wrist and forcefully brought it to rest between Alistair’s eyes. “Did I forget t’ ask if weapons were illegal?”
Undeterred, the Irish brawler ripped Gambit from the ground by his throat, separated him from his bow and held the smaller man in the air, letting Gambit’s own mass do the work. “Aye ya did, but feel free ta use ‘em if ya need ‘em.”
Pulling from deeper energy reserves, Gambit wrapped his hands around Alistair’s wrists and connected with a left foot to the back of Alistair’s head. The man refused to relinquish his hold, so Gambit repeated the process. Evidently tired to being booted in the head, Alistair tossed Remy back into the column.
Upon contacting the floor, Gambit launched himself back toward his foe. But Alistair figured that might happen, and Gambit succeeded only in driving his face into a large, unyielding Irish foot. Gambit tried to get back up, but his attempt was met with a foot stomping down on his back. “A’right, yer bate. Give up.”
Gambit, not sharing in that belief, drove a heel into one of Alistair’s shins. The force caused Alistair to take a step back, and one step was all Gambit needed. As Alistair regained his footing, Gambit dug a small rectangular object from his coat and flipped. The card hit, and simultaneously exploded, on Alistair’s chest. Gambit took advantage of this opportunity to reunite with his staff.
Staff back in hand, Gambit renewed his attack on Alistair, who was just regaining his bearings. Gambit aimed his staff at Alistair’s midsection, figuring that to be as good a place as any to find a weak spot. Unfortunately Gambit was not quick enough, and the towering Gaelic caught Gambit’s staff with his left hand. “Did ya just hit me with a playin’ card? That bloody ‘urt.”
Alistair punctuated his sentence by slamming his free hand again into Gambit’s gut. Falling backward, Gambit tried to arrest his plummet and turn it into a wheel kick, but Alistair jerked the Cajun by his coat and flung him away like a red-eyed Cajun accented Frisbee. With the speed and agility of a cheetah, Alistair pounced as Gambit landed, landing a forearm across the dazed thief’s ear. Gambit twisted at the impact, but a well placed boot sent Gambit skidding across the room.
Gambit flipped out of his tumble and turned to find a massive fist speeding toward his face. The fist made solid contact, and Gambit went airborne. After about 8 feet, and an incalculable amount of pain, Gambit landed hard on his back. Unsteadily he picked himself back up.
“Ya want ta stay down! Now get back down on tha floor, and do na’ get back up again.”
Gambit smiled. “Mon brave, you and I ain’ even started yet.”
The smile on Gambit’s face faded into a look of uncertainty, as a pricking pain spread down his spine. A warm, rasping whisper echoed discordantly in Gambit’s ear. “<<Enter eternal Mania.>>” Unable to move, Gambit caught the image of a large, ornate iron helmet topped with what seemed to be the blade of an axe in his periphery, and then the world went black.
“Why’d ya go an’ do that for? I was finally ‘avin’ some fun around here.”
Rising from over Gambit’s prone body, the shadowy god appraised his henchman with a glare. “We do not have time to indulge your violent fetishes. Now dispose of this trash.”
Alistair wrestled Gambit’s body over his shoulder. “So does that mean I at least get ta kill ‘im?”
The god considered this briefly. “No. His current fate far exceeds anything so temporary as death. Let us send a message to his friends. Make them understand that my plans are not to be trifled with.”
*** The Next Morning
Hank McCoy walked outside and stretched mightily, enjoying the autumn breeze rustling his fur. Still somewhat stiff from his first night’s honest sleep in five days, the X-Man known as Beast made his way toward today’s New York Post. Later it would strike Beast how quickly trauma wiped out any trace of grogginess, but not right now.
“Oh my Stars and Garters,” was all McCoy managed to articulate at the sight of his teammate, and more importantly his friend, Remy LeBeau hanging suspended from Xavier’s front gate by his trench coat, his body devoid of anything resembling movement.
_________________
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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Avarice
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Joined: 01 Sep 2006
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| Posted: Wed Sep 13, 2006 6:27 pm Post subject: |
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(I didn't mention this when I moved this story from Guild to Shining Guild, but I did put up a new chapter when I moved it here, so if you did not catch that chapter you may want to before reading this one...otherwise things that won't make much sense will make less sense.)
Chapter 6 – Galleries, Pets, and A Need for Cigarettes
After the initial shock of finding his friend dangling unconsciously from a gate, Hank climbed up with feline agility and retrieved Remy, taking special care not to rip the Cajun’s sacred coat. Then Hank jumped down, cradling Remy in his arms, and sprinted madly through the mansion’s front door.
Once inside, Hank hung a hard right and almost plowed over Kitty. He tried to avoid the collision but stumbled inelegantly as she phased through him and his charge. Regaining his balance, Hank turned to find Kitty staring at the motionless form in his arms.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Hank answered.
“He’s not…” Her voice trailed off, unable to complete the thought.
“No.”
“What…”
“Kitty, we don’t have time. I need you to go find Scott, and tell him to meet me in the med lab.” Hank did not wait for an answer; he bounded down the hall, melting the distance between him and the med lab with alarming rapidity.
After opening the door with a well trained foot, Hank rushed to a bed in the far left hand corner, placed Remy down, and began gathering equipment. No sooner had he started hooking electrodes to Remy’s barely rising chest than the lab doors aggressively separated themselves from their hinges. Hank suppressed a shudder as screeches of rupturing metal scraping against shards of glass reverberated inside his bestially sensitive ears.
Hank figured Kitty might run into a certain other member of the team before finding Scott and mentally patted himself on the back for having the foresight to keep his patient away from the doors.
“REMY!”
Hank had seen that look in Rogue’s eyes before. It usually preceded some poor, villainous schmuck getting punched across state lines. Hank vehemently prayed he would not be gaining any first hand knowledge about the force of a Rogue haymaker.
Rogue shifted her wild-eyed gaze at Hank, who began to fear his prayers would be going unanswered today. “What happened? Who did this?”
Hank threw his hands up as if he could placate Rogue through hand motions. “Rogue. Calm down. I need to...”
Unable to contain her rage, Rogue yanked the doctor from the ground by his collar. “Hank. Tell me. Who. Did. This.”
But Hank found himself unable to respond, his usual loquacious powers of speech cut off by the unintentionally too tight squeezing of Rogue’s yellow gloves.
Scott and Kitty entered the lab to find Hank struggling to breathe. Hank had never been happier to hear Scott’s voice. “Rogue, put Beast down.”
Although Rogue did not comply with Scott’s directive, she did turn to glare at the X-Men’s leader.
Now that he had the Iron Maiden’s attention, Scott continued. “Look, Beast is the only one here who can help Gambit. If you really want to take some aggression out, punch Kitty.”
“WHAT!” Kitty screamed, clearly unhappy with that suggestion. “Why me?”
The suggestion also took Rogue by surprise, and as she attempted to make sense of Scott’s statement, her grip on Hank loosened. “Why would Ah want t’ punch Kitty?”
“Hopefully you wouldn’t. But it got you to let go of Beast.”
Rogue turned to find that she had indeed released her hold on Hank. “Oh god. Hank. Ah. Ah’m. Sorry. Ah just…”
Hank smiled, undoubtedly glad to retain usage of his jaw. “It’s okay, Rogue. Although the door might find occasion to disagree with me.”
The four conscious occupants of the room warily eyed the mangled lump that quite possibly used to serve as a door. Scott broke the silence. “Doors can be replaced. What is Gambit’s status?”
“Four broken ribs, a busted shoulder, probably a herniated disk or two, and a disproportionate enumeration of cuts, lacerations, bruises and blood. I haven’t had time to check for internal injuries.”
“Ok. Finish checking Gambit. Kitty, is Elixir around?”
“I think he is with the rest of the kids. Logan was supposed to be running them through some obstacle course today.”
“Go get him, and bring him here.” Scott paused for a second. Kitty, figuring he was finished with her, headed through the wall. About halfway through her phase Scott spoke again. “Wait. Don’t tell Wolverine why you’re taking him.”
Kitty threw a quick affirmation over her shoulder and went to retrieve the aurulent skinned healer. Her foot had not yet vanished into the wall when Scott addressed the last member of the group. “Rogue, I want you to have a seat over there,” he said pointing at a bed across the room.
“But…”
“I’ll help Beast finish up, but I need you try and calm down. Okay?”
Nodding her acquiescence, Rogue walked over to the bed in question and reluctantly took a seat. As much as she hated to admit it, she could not help her beau right now.
Hank got back to attaching electrodes, and Scott assisted with some equipment moving. Within minutes Hank’s machine was taking internal diagnostics of the prone Cajun. Scott discretely raised an eyebrow at Hank, who retuned the gesture by shaking his head.
“Think he’ll be alright?” Scott said, keeping his voice low enough that only Hank’s keen ears could pick up on it.
Hank bit back a chuckle. “Yeah. Remy’s too obdurate to stay down for long. I’m more concerned about who did this.”
Scott nodded. “Right. If somebody took Gambit out this hard, we may have some serious trouble on our hands.”
“Perhaps,” said Hank, sneaking a glance at the red-eyed thief’s girlfriend and the metal bed frame presently being remolded under the pressure of her gloved grip. “But I was referring to the wellbeing of said somebody after Rogue finds out who executed this heinous assault.”
From the far side of the room a surprised exclamation, followed by what might have been the sound of a freshly torn bed shattering a wall, summarily ended Scott and Hank’s conversation. “Who’re you?” Rogue’s voice growled.
Hank and Scott spun around to find Dream of the Endless looking completely unamused at the hand ruffling the front of his black leather jacket. “I have come to check the condition of Remy LeBeau.”
The vice-like grip on Dream’s jacket intensified. “Whatda ya know ‘bout this? Answer me or Ah’ll suck the answer outta yer head.”
Carefully picking the most inappropriate time possible to return, Kitty phased back into the lab with Elixir in tow. “Hey,” started Elixir, before noticing the tense situation he just entered, “I heard you guys needed me to…uh…maybe come back later?”
If anyone heard, or even noticed, the newly arrived Elixir, they were too busy holding their collective breaths in the face of this confrontation to acknowledge him. And upon seeing the eerie star-eyed stranger facing off with the infuriated Southern Belle, Elixir eagerly accepted his cold-shouldering.
Rogue grew tired of waiting for the Dream King to respond and clamped her now bare left hand on Dream’s face. Though still not fully able to recollect who this semi-familiar shade was, Hank’s instincts told him the stranger was probably not going to be very pleased with Rogue’s actions. “Rogue. NO!”
A frown creased the corners of Dream’s mouth as he enveloped Rogue’s hand with both of his own. But that frown contained no malice or indignation. If one did not know Lord Shaper better, one might conclude that frown expressed a sense of remorse.
Gently, Dream removed the hand from his cheek. “Fortunately for you Anna Marie, you powers have no hold over the Endless.”
Shock seeped through Rogue at the ineffectiveness of her powers. “Who. Are you?”
Dream bowed, touching his forehead to the top of hand, which he still held. “I am Dream of the Endless, and I owe you an apology. LeBeau was acting on my behalf, concerning a personal matter.”
Rogue’s anger abated, if only a little. “What happened? If yer strong enough that mah powers don’t work on ya, then how could this happen ta Remy?”
“I. Was elsewhere.” Dream stopped, his eyes narrowing. “It would appear that I misjudged the situation.”
Small embers of fire worked their way back into Rogue’s eyes. She knew Dream was holding something back, and she was determined to find out what. “Tell me what happened t’ mah Remy,” she pleaded.
Dream fixed his sullenly burning eyes on Elixir, and Elixir fervently wished he could go back to being ignored. “Have Foley tend to LeBeau’s wounds.”
Elixir’s mouth dropped wide open. “But. How do you…”
Kitty shoved the perplexed healer in Remy’s direction. “Less talking, more tending.”
The urgent edge in Kitty’s voice drew immediate compliance. “Yes ma’am.”
Finally releasing his hold on Rogue’s hands, Dream walked over and stood behind Elixir while the young mutant nervously began rewriting Remy’s damaged physiology. “When I left LeBeau, he was to seek out an archeologist who had come across an item of some importance. However, it would seem someone else has taken possession of the Tome.”
After a few strenuous minutes, Elixir finished his job, leaving only a few streaks of dried blood as evidence of Remy’s pervious injuries. “Okay. I’m done, but he’s still not moving. I don’t get it. He should be fine.”
“Although you have cured LeBeau’s body, his essence remains separated.”
This proclamation brought a chorus of gasps from the room’s non-Endless occupants. “His essence…” Rogue repeated unsteadily.
Scott spoke up before Rogue lost it again. “What do we need to do?”
Crossing his arms, Dream stared hard at the floor. “Nothing. I will handle this.”
“Ah’m goin’ with ya. Whoever did this is gonna answer ta me,” said Rogue, slamming a fist into her palm for emphasis.
“No. This is my responsibility.”
Rogue had planned on continuing her protest, but Dream silenced her by raising a long, pale finger. “You could not survive where I must to go, but I give you my word Anna Marie, I will bring him back.”
And before Rogue could press the issue further, the image of Dream of the Endless melted away like so many desert mirages.
* * * Elsewhere
Remy woke to find himself nowhere. Splotches of greens, reds, indigos, ecrus, and blacks swirled in upon themselves, defying any concept of borders. A girl, apparently young, sat at Remy’s feet. Her chaotic yellow, pink, and green striped hair shone with the harsh light of broken rainbows. Half of her hair was shaved precariously close to her scalp while the other half sprouted haphazardly in every conceivable direction. She wore a mustard colored sweater with one sleeve ripped off and a red skirt over tattered fishnet stockings. Yet for all the visible entropy Remy perceived an aura similar to that which emanated from the Dream Lord, one of unimaginable importance.
“HeY!! You’RE nOT Dead! i THOuGhT you MIGHt bE. I ThOUght i wAS DEaD once, BUT I wASn’t. I WAs jusT huNgrY.”
“Well I’m glad t’ hear you ain’ dead. Hopefully dat mean’s I ain’ dead either.”
Remy stood up. And upon standing up Remy wondered if he had, indeed, stood up, for he noticed this place had no discernable floor. And no ceiling. And no sky. Nor any walls. To be honest, this, wherever it was, seemed devoid of anything save for violently smudged colors and occasional semi-recognizable shapes which swam though the air, evidently of their own volition.
“nO silLY I’m nOT MY sIsteR. HaVe yOU evEr beEN a Pet? i HaD A pET. a TALkinG doG. hE wAs nicE, eXcept whEN hE made fuN OF me. BUT i lOst hIM. Do yOU kNOw the WORd for wHen You rEmEmBeR to nOT iNTROduce soMEOne you dOn’t Know tO aNOTHer somEONe you DON’t knoW?”
Remy was having a terrible time keeping pace with the child’s discordant rambling. “Non, ‘fraid I don’. I don’ s’pose you could tell me where I am could ya?”
The question brought on a fit of unstable laughter. “YOu’Re fuNNY. ‘Course I CAn telL yoU wHERE yoU ARE.”
She stopped for a minute, her attention avidly enwrapped in a blob of silvery purple that closely resembled an owl holding an umbrella. It was about that time Remy began having serious doubts about the condition of his sanity. “Will you tell me where I am?”
“I thOUGht i dID.”
“Non.”
“SoRRy sOMEtimes I gEt loST. MosT tIMES I find mYSElf, buT SometimES i DON’t. YoU’RE hERE.”
“Oh. Does here have a name?”
“HerE alWAYS has A NAMe. UnLESs iT doeSn’t. My NAmE’s Delirium. I Used to hAve A DIfFereNT nAme, bUT I don’T HAVe it aNYMOre.”
Remy scratched his head, all but abandoning his efforts at finding coherence amidst Delirium’s disarray of sentences. However she had given Remy her name, or at least Remy thought she had, so he felt compelled to complete the eccentric introduction. “Enchante, Petite. De name’s Remy LeBeau.”
Delirium’s right eye incandesced like an emerald held up to pure sunlight, and her left eye gleamed like Winter’s crisp cerulean skies with occasional specks of silver. “ReALLy! YoU MEAn iT? MosT PEOple dON’t LIKe me.”
A golden speckled fish crafted from butterscotch chose that moment to float by on winds that were decidedly not blowing. Seeing this, Delirium jumped in circles around the fish completely lost in a fit of giggles. After a few jubilant seconds, Delirium remembered she was talking. “BuT YOu don’T not LIke me DO YOu?”
It took Remy a second to piece together the double negative. “What’s not to like petite? A pretty, bubbly fille as yourself?”
Delirium clapped and twisted her body in awkward movements closely akin to a dance before handing Remy a string attached to a pink and green floating fish. Remy, not wanting to seem rude, took the fish, but what he really wanted, what he really needed, was a cigarette. Or two.
*** The Dreaming
Dream returned to his inner sanctum only to find his loyal librarian Lucien waiting for him. Lucien, who had been there for some time now, was busily polishing his glasses. Dream’s abrupt return snapped the impossibly thin librarian to attention. “Greetings my Lord. I trust your visit to the Waking proved satisfactory.”
“No.”
Having served under Dream for eons beyond count, Lucien possessed a keen understanding of Dream’s myriad of terse moods, and the sharp rays pulsing from the Endless’s eyes provided all the explanation Lucien needed.
At length Dream spoke again, but Lucien thought he sensed a twinge of regret underlying the Dream Lord’s tone. “It seems I must pay a visit to my youngest sister.”
Lucien arched a long eyebrow at this assertion but abstained, as always, from unnecessary queries.
Dream approached his throne, now a marvelously bejeweled settle crafted from deep amethyst and framed with the purest of topaz. On the throne sat the symbol of Dream’s office, a helm carved from the skull and spine of an ancient god who dared try to usurp Dream’s position. Picking up the helm, Dream stared at it long and hard, his focus seemingly lost in the beams of violet and saffron refracting from the helm’s opalescent surface. “Lucien, why are you in here?”
“My Lord, emissaries have arrived representing Odin All-Father, Zeus and the Realm of Order. They each are requesting an audience with you.”
Dream pressed the fingertips of his right hand against his forehead, as if trying to channel some solution from the cosmos. “I could send them away if you so wish.”
“No. They are honoured guests and will be treated as such. Prepare for them each a room to rest from their journey here. Then have the palace staff fix our guests a feast of their choosing.”
“Very well. Will there be anything else my Lord?”
Pausing for a second, Dream turned to place the helmet back on his throne. “Yes. Inform my guests that I regret being unable to greet them personally, but a matter requires my immediate attention, and I will grant them each an individual audience upon my return.”
“I shall have Nuala prepare their rooms and deliver your message myself.”
“Thank you, Lucien. Now, I must take my leave.”
The gangly bookkeeper bowed his assent and left to attend to the Dream Lord’s visitors. However, as Lucien exited the throne room door, Matthew landed in the window sill. “Hey boss, Loosh find you?”
“Yes Matthew. Unfortunately I have not time to chat.”
“Oh, you going somewhere? Can I come with?”
Predicting the raven’s response, Dream bit back a smirk. “I travel to the realm of my sister, the Lady Delirium.”
Matthew did not disappoint. “Oh. Well. In that case. Nevermind.”
“Very well then. You may assist Lucien in attending to my guests.”
Matthew sighed and took to flight, heading toward the door recently exited by Lucien. “Sure. Fine. Whatever. But if I have to listen to Thor crack any more jokes about ‘stroking his hammer’, I will peck his eyes out.”
Finally alone, Dream moved to the wall behind his throne and created a door in the shimmering lights, a door which led to his Gallery.
The Gallery was a tight, dark room lacking of any décor or substance, save for seven hallowed articles resting tranquilly in seven picture frames. Dream passed an antiquated book that radiated the culmination of all knowledge, a plain, silvery Ankh gleaming amicably, an ornate mirror, a gnarled heart oozing a fug of mistrust, and a jagged hook that stunk of fractured hopes. Stopping at the seventh frame, Dream took an unruly conglomeration of unconceived colors from its resting place. “Sister, I stand in my Gallery, and I hold your sigil. I would speak with you.”
The flittering, unsteady voice of Delirium, who was once Delight, spilled from the multihued mass. “UMm. OhKaY.”
And so Dream entered Delirium’s opaque realm, only to find the youngest Endless sharing lukewarm, peach flavored tea with one Remy LeBeau.
Remy looked at the newly arrived Lord Shaper, shrugged and waved affably. “Bonjour.”
Performing a series of herky-jerky motions that challenged Bobby’s earlier attempts at dancing, Delirium approached Dream. “HEy bRo. WanT sOME peA?”
Remy would have paid for a snap shot of the look that question elicited. “No worries, mon ami. It’s some kind o’ peach tea. Not all dat bad really.”
“Are you all ri | | |