“Please, chere—let me say what I need t’say while I still got de time t’do it. Jus’ hear me out, okay?” Rogue nodded, and Remy took a deep breath to steady himself—as much of a breath as the constricting metal would allow—then began:
“Rogue, I always wanted t’tell you how much you meant t’me, how much I cared ’bout you, but ev’rytime I tried, I couldn’t find de right words, an’ den I’d wind up chasin’ you away.” Remy paused. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for puttin’ you t’rough all dat heartache. Sorry for all de pain I caused you over de years. Sorry I could never find de courage to say ... to say, ‘I love you.’ ” A warm, easy smile came to his lips.
“I love you, Rogue,” he said gently. “Always have, always will. You de only woman I ever met who could beat a t’ief at his own game; you did dat t’me de first time we met—when you stole away my heart. I jus’ wanted you to know dat.”
Rogue stared at him for a moment, clearly uncertain of how to reply.
“An’ you waited until now to tell me?” she finally said in a quiet voice.
Remy flashed a lopsided grin. “You know me, petite—always de master o’ timin’.” He gestured toward the others, and turned away from her. “You . .. you better get goin’.”
Rogue stood there, quietly trembling, unable to say anything, until Jean gently placed her hands on her shoulders and led her back to the group.
“God be with you, mein freund, ” Kurt said to Gambit.
“I’d ’predate it if you’d put in a good word or two for me, Kurt.” Remy flashed a melancholy smile. “I got me a feelin’ I’m gonna need all de help I can get when I meet de Big Man.”
“It would be my honor to do so,” Kurt replied.
“Take care’a yerself, Cajun,” Logan said.
Remy smiled. “I’ll see you on de other side some day, mon ami— we’ll drink a toast t’de wild ol’ days.”
“Don’t be lookin’ fer me too soon, Remy,” Logan replied. “I still got plans.”
Gambit chuckled.
“Come on, people,” Mystique urged. “We’ve got to go now.’’
Reluctantly, the X-Men turned from their friend to join the acolytes. Placing their hands on Kurt and one another, the group watched as energy crackled around the teleporter and Cortez, then around themselves.
Immediately, alarms began sounding as the build-up of teleporta-tional forces was detected.
The clatter of boot heels on linoleum caught their attention. A platoon of armed guards dressed in riot gear was pounding down the corridor; behind them charged Samson, Viper, Tyboldt, and Miss Frost.
“Well, what d’you know?” Remy said. “De gang’s all here.” He turned back to his friends. “Go. Now. ”
For the briefest of moments, Rogue and Gambit made eye contact; it was clear her heart was breaking. He almost asked her to stay, then forced himself to say nothing; instead, he smiled encouragingly.
“I love you, Remy,” she said softly.
And then, with a massive burst of brimstone and imploding air, the X-Men and the acolytes were gone.
“Good-bye, chere, ” Remy whispered.
“Damn it! They got away!” said Frost.
“You! Put your hands above your head and lie flat on the floor!” Viper yelled at Gambit as the guards assumed firing positions.
Remy chuckled—an eerie, electronic sound that issued from between icy lips. “I only got de one hand, fille—but I’ll do what I can wit’it.”
With the last ergs of his dwindling life-force, Remy triggered his powers; his hand began glowing with building kinetic energy. He placed it on the metal casing that had become his body, and it, too, began to glow.
“Hope y’all packed for a trip,” Remy said, flashing a wicked smile. “I’m sure St. Pete’s gonna have a lot t’say t'all’a us sinners....”
15
THE FIRES from the chain of explosions that leveled Psi Division Headquarters were still burning when the morning rush hour began. . There had been no sign of either the prisoners or their rescuers since the first report of their escape. Magneto’s whereabouts were still unknown.
It was not the sort of news the Emperor wanted to hear on the day of his tenth anniversary in power. Nor was his reaction to that news something the remaining members of the war council had been eager to witness.
“Imbeciles!” he bellowed, slamming his fists down on the top of the war room conference table. “Incompetents! To think that that worm’s sycophantic followers were within my grasp, only to have them slip through my fingers because of such gross negligence, and then to have them destroy the very facility in which they were held... !” He pounded the table again. “And then to be told that the pain and terror experienced by the agents as they died created a psychic backlash that traveled around the world, crippling or killing over ninety percent of those linked to the telepathic network at the time!” He threw his head back and roared in anger.
“Must Doom forever be surrounded by bunglers and idiots?!” he cried to the heavens.
It was a rhetorical question of sorts, and one that no one was willing to answer... though Stark, Shaw, Dorma, and Wanda cast furtive glances at one another, silently daring their fellow councilors to say something in reply.
And as smart a man as he was, never let it be said that Sebastian
Shaw was not up to a challenge—no matter how great the risks. It was a trait one often found in the most egomaniacal.
“Well, it’s not all bad news, Your Majesty,” Shaw commented. “At least that libidinous psychopath Viper paid the price for allowing them to escape.”
“Yeesss ... Viper,” von Doom said as he took his seat. “How unfortunate that I was denied the opportunity to personally teach her that lesson.” His eyes narrowed as he focused them on Shaw. “But tell me, Sebastian—I understand that you had personally conducted one of the interviews with the prisoners. How is it, then, that you were not present when the facility was sabotaged?”
“I had no desire to spend the night there, Your Majesty,” Shaw replied. “Not when there were far more comfortable lodgings to be had in the apartment I keep in Richmond.”
“Where, I am certain, you spent the rest of the evening?” von Doom said, never breaking eye contact.
Shaw began to answer, then started. “Your Majesty, are you insinuating that I had anything to do with the prisoners’ escape?”
Von Doom sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I have not risen to this level of power by being trustful of those who serve me, Sebastian—you are no exception.”
“B-but,” Shaw sputtered, “what possible reason could I have for betraying you, my lord?”
“A few reasons come to mind,” von Doom replied. “The prisoners were mutants. You are a mutant. You are also responsible for keeping your kind in control. Perhaps, with all this talk of Magneto striking me down at the celebration, you felt it was time to switch allegiances and throw in with that dog, Lensherr. Promise him that the very mutant population you oversee would be more than willing to offer up their lives in a vain attempt to place him on the seat of power.”
“Your Majesty, I assure you—”
“It is also no secret that you disliked Viper—with her death, there is one less voice of dissension to be raised against you at these sessions ... although I am certain Lady Dorma would be happy to stand in for her fallen comrade on that count.”
Shaw looked across the table at Dorma. She glared at him from above her breathing mask; her eyes shone with open hatred.
“And, not to be forgotten, you have always been a man in pursuit of power. I’m certain Magneto’s ceaseless banter about creating a world in which mutants are the ruling class must appeal to you on quite a number of levels.” Von Doom raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Including the position you would receive as a reward for your efforts in a coup, perhaps?”
“Your Majesty, please—”
“But, even more importantly, Sebastian—you have not answered my question.”<
br />
“Yes! Of course I was in my apartment!” Shaw bellowed. “Your Majesty, I swear I am loyal to y—”
“Silence!” von Doom barked. He glared at his councilor. “You think me a fool, Shaw? Or that I would not have you under surveillance twenty-four hours a day—as I do all members of this council?” Shaw noticed he wasn’t the only councilor to have a surprised response to that question.
“I know all about your pathetic little affairs,” the Emperor continued. “Especially those concerning your trysts with the so-called ‘Black Queen’ of the Hellfire Club!” He leapt to his feet, thrusting an accusatory finger in Shaw’s face. “And yet, despite the fact that you were derelict in your duties to the Empire, thereby aiding in the death of a member of my war council, you have the unmitigated gall to sit there and lie to your Emperor!” He leaned forward, eyes practically burning with rage. “I’ll ask you once more, before I tear out your miserable throat with my bare hands: Did you spend the rest of the evening in your apartment?”
Shaw shifted in his chair, trying to break eye contact with von Doom, yet unable to do so; it was as if he had been hypnotized by a cobra about to strike.
“No, Your Majesty,” he said quietly.
A low growl issued from von Doom’s throat. “Were you not a close friend of the Empress—” he held up his hands, to display the Mandarin’s deadly rings “—it would give me the greatest pleasure to show you what each of these baubles is capable of doing to a man.”
“Th-thank you, Your Majesty,” Shaw replied. “You are most generous.”
“Do not be so quick to offer me your thanks, mutant,” the Emperor said. “Until you have given me irrefutable proof that you have not, as they say, ‘gone over to the other side,’ you have no place in this war council. Leave now, before I resolve the matter... with a public execution.”
Shaw rose from his seat, glancing to the side just in time to see Dorma grinning broadly. There was nothing friendly in her sharktoothed smile. He was certain, though, that she was sorely disappointed in the Emperor for not ordering his immediate death.
The sound of approaching boot heels momentarily diverted attention away from the disgraced councilor.
Agent Harada—Ororo’s new personal bodyguard—stopped a few feet from the table and stood at attention. “Excuse me, Sire.”
“What is it, lackey?” von Doom rumbled.
Harada looked as though he wanted to turn and run—a thin layer of sweat was already forming on his brow—but he stood his ground, back ramrod straight, eyes respectfully averted from the royal presence. “Sire, the Empress requests your presence. The guests are beginning to arrive for the celebration.”
The change in the Emperor’s mood was instantaneous. “The celebration ...” A small smile played at the comers of his mouth, and his eyes shone with merriment. “Very well—I shall join her shortly.” Harada bowed, turned smartly on his heel, and quickly headed for the exit.
Von Doom turned back to his councilors—and found Shaw standing in front of him. His joyous mood of a moment before was immediately forgotten.
“Why are you still here, Shaw?” he growled.
“I was just leaving, Your Majesty,” the mutant councilor replied quickly. With a small bow, Shaw left the table, heading for the elevator at the far end of the war room.
“Oh—Sebastian?” the Emperor called after him.
Shaw halted and turned around. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Did you learn anything from the prisoner you interviewed?” Shaw opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and stood silently for a moment. “No, Your Majesty,” he said at last.
A satisfied smile played at von Doom’s lips. “I thought as much.” He waved a dismissive hand at Shaw. “Now, leave—your continued presence sickens me.”
Ignoring the smug looks of the others, Shaw turned on his heel and, head held high, proudly strode toward the elevator.
“Well, that could have gone better.”
Sitting on the edge of a coffee table in a Bethesda, Maryland hotel suite, Mystique looked to Magneto for a response. Grouped around him, like spandex-clad members of a cult, stood his followers, eager to hear his every word.
“I suppose so,” he replied slowly. “But at least it was a successful mission.”
Magneto looked around the room. Across from him, the costumed ones called Cyclops and Phoenix were seated on a couch, his legs comfortably stretched across her lap as he lay back on the cushions. From the ways in which they touched and gazed so intently at one another, it was clear they were more than friends—lovers, perhaps, or even husband and wife. On the far side of the suite were Wolverine and Night-crawler. The gruff Canadian was the only member of his group not in costume, having scrapped the tattered remains of his yellow-and-blue outfit in favor of jeans, boots, and a red plaid shirt. The team appeared well-rested after a few hours’ sleep, their injuries having faded in the short time since their escape. All in all, the former prisoners looked a great deal better than when the acolytes had first brought them before their dread lord.
Such accelerated healing had not come easily, though—not without some degree of pain. There had been a short, yet extremely torturous, period during which Scanner had used her bioelectrical talents to short out the neural inhibitors blocking their mutant powers. Had the mutant escapees not been made of sterner stuff, the treatment might have proved as fatalloThem as any punishment to which the late Psi Division could have subjected them. Nevertheless, they had endured, and then these “X-Men” had been introduced to a rather plain-looking woman named Harmony. She was, as Magneto had explained, a mutant gifted with the ability to heal the most serious injuries within the space of minutes. With a simple laying-on of hands, she had treated Jean’s electrical bums and cramped muscles; Kurt’s damaged hands and the crippling exhaustion he had suffered as a result of the group teleportation; and Scott’s bruises, cuts, and broken arm.
Unlike his teammates, though, Wolverine had had no need of Harmony’s ministrations. Once the neural inhibitor was deactivated, his mutant healing powers had kicked in, instantly healing his injuries.
As for the one called Rogue ...
Looking past Scott, Jean gestured toward a closed door at the far end of the suite; it led to one of three bedrooms. “I think I should check on her. She hasn’t slept since we escaped, and sitting alone, replaying their last moments together over and over in her head, is only going to continue eating away at her.” She glanced at Scott. “I think we both know what that’s like.”
Scott nodded in agreement and swung his feet back onto the floor.
“That yer expert medical opinion, ‘Doctor’ Grey?” Logan asked with a small smile.
Jean smiled warmly at him, then rose from the couch and walked toward the bedroom door.
Scott turned to Magneto. “You’re wrong, you know,” he countered.
“It wasn’t a successful mission—we lost Gambit. Even one death was too high a price to pay for our escape.”
Magneto nodded. “One more life for which von Doom must answer—and he will, my friend.”
On the other side of the room, Nightcrawler leaned over to whisper in Wolverine’s ear. “Why is it that, each time he calls one of us his ‘friend,’ I get a chill up my spine?” he asked.
“Pro’bly ’cause we know what a snake he really is,” Logan replied. “A snake lyin’ in the brush, waitin’ for the right moment t’strike .. .”
“Rogue?”
Stepping further into the sizable bedroom, Jean spotted her friend sitting in a chair by a window, legs drawn up against her chest. Rogue was hurriedly wiping away tears with the heels of her hands, turning her head away from Jean so she wouldn’t see her crying. Jean closed the bedroom door, but made no move forward.
“Hi, Jeannie,” Rogue muttered. “You feelin’ okay now?”
“Yes, thank you,” Jean replied. “Magneto was right—Harmony does have a wonderful gift for healing. Between her touch, and the deactivation of the neur
al inhibitor, I almost feel like my old self.” She paused. “How are you doing?”
Rogue laughed curtly—a short, phlegmy sound without any humor. “I been better,” she replied, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her bodysuit. “Too bad that girl can’t do nothin’ for healin’ a broken heart, right?”
Jean nodded, even though she knew Rogue couldn’t see her.
“He’s really gone this time,” Rogue said quietly, gazing out at the bright Maryland sunshine. “After all the times he used to disappear on us, goin’ who-knew-where, and then showin’ up at the front door like no time had passed, with that big, ol’ stupid-lookin’ grin on his face . . .” She looked to Jean, a haunted look in her red-rimmed eyes. “He’s not cornin’ back, is he, Jean?”
“I honestly don’t know, Rogue,” Jean replied. “I certainly pray he will.” She walked over to join her friend. “Maybe Scott is right—maybe all of this will disappear once we’ve corrected whatever Doom has done, and we’ll wake up in the mansion, thinking it had been nothing more than a bad dream.” She smiled encouragingly. “And Remy will be standing at the front door, with that stupid-looking grin on his face.”
Rogue nodded her head, but it was obvious that she didn’t really believe it would happen. She turned back to stare out the window.
“I miss him so much,” she said quietly.
Jean placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I know.”
* * *
“How’s your friend holding up?” Scanner asked Wolverine, tilting her head toward the closed bedroom door.
“How’d you expect her t’be holdin’ up?” Logan replied gruffly. “She just watched her boyfriend die, an’ with all the powers we got in this group, none o’ us could do anything t’help ’im.” He snorted. “It ain’t the kinda thing ya just shrug off, kid.”
Scanner nodded in sympathy. “So, what was that whole thing about him not being able to touch her?”
Logan grunted. “Gambit an’ Rogue never had what ya’d call a ‘stable relationship,’ but what they did have was somethin’ special—somethin’ the rest o’ us can only dream about havin’.” He glanced at the door with a melancholy expression. “That girl’s gonna be a long time hurtin’. I just hope she’s got the strength t’get through it.”
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