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Alternate Reality: Gambit
*Part One* 

Nathan Essex, more appropriately known as Mr. Sinister, watched the two in training combat with a growing sense of approval. His newest recruit had done well to prove himself as a fit member for his henchmen. He moved and dodged his opponent with perfect rhythm and brought down blow upon blow as easily as Sinister had ever seen one do. It was quite a change compared to his other Marauders. 

 This one had skill. He used his mind as much as his body, combining wit, charm and physical strength and force. All honed to a deadly accuracy that felled every assailant the Sinister sent on him. The other's could just as well destroy their prey but they used brute force which led to messy, untimely and very unsubtle deaths. 

 In Sinister's eyes, Gambit was the perfect weapon. 

 He smiled as Gambit's opponent dropped to the ground. Gambit casually allowed the make-shift bo staff slide from his hand and to the floor, signaling the end of the fight. Sinister strode up to him and surveyed Harpoon's still, somewhat bloodied, form which lay sprawled in front of the Cajun. 

 He frowned deeply as he noted the steady rise and fall of Harpoon's chest. Gambit hadn't killed him. 

 Many unworthy mutants had died in such training sessions. His Marauders tended to get a bit over zealous when training like this. Which was why they rarely if ever trained in such a fashion. The death toll would be too great and Sinister wouldn't have any Marauders left. They would have killed each other. 

 The fact the Gambit fought to disable if possible rather than kill both pleased and dismayed Essex. It meant that Gambit was relying on his mind as well as his power. But the Cajun had a thing about killing people. He didn't like doing it. Which was an attitude completely different than Sinister's usual recruits. He could kill, and would if necessary to survive, but otherwise refused. Sabretooth made complaints daily about how that attitude and way of thinking made Remy LeBeau a poor Marauder. Creed had also picked fights on several occasions simply to rile the Cajun's nerves; to give Creed an excuse to gut the 'worthless thief'. 

 But Essex wouldn't have it. He generally kept the two as far from each other as possible. Gambit was quite an adept fighter but against Creed's healing factor, claws and viscous brutality the results would be bloody and highly inconvenient. 

 Sinister needed a scout. Gambit's skill and training as a thief made for easy information. What Sinister needed, Gambit could steal. Did steal. And, amusingly enough, all out of a twisted sense of loyalty. 

 "You did not finish him," Sinister said calmly, bringing his train of thoughts back to the scene set before him. 

 Gambit looked up at Sinister's pallid face and shrugged noncommittally. He kept his expression blank but Sinister could tell the Cajun was greatly disturbed by the assassin-like state of mind that ran apparent in Essex's group. 

 "He weren't a threat. No need to." Remy had never been much of a talker. He had a unique ability to guile his way through things, especially with women, as Vertigo and Arclight quickly learned. But other than the words he spoke to persuade he was closed-mouthed and secretive. That nature had grown within him since joining Sinister's ranks, almost like a cancer. He didn't speak to anyone if he didn't have to and then only in short phrases and sketchy sentences. 

 But that didn't matter. So long as he got the jobs done and remained more a benefit than a problem, Sinister could care less how anti-social he became. 

 "As you wish. Shall we continue to the next assignment then." It wasn't a question. And Sinister was already moving out of the large combat area and into the corridor of his massive underground base. 

 Remy gave one final glance at Harpoon. The man lying on the floor groaned as consciousness slowly seeped back and the dull ache of all the bruises Gambit gave him became known. Gonna need a'lotta pain killers ta sleep t'night Remy muttered inwardly. 

Gambit followed Essex down to one of the scientist's many laboratories. Remy hated those labs. They scared him. Though he would never admit just how much. Nasty devices, operating tables, surgical equipment and various other things were everywhere. The tables were scattered about the room, machines balanced from the ceiling, computers lined the walls. They looked painful. Were painful. He knew that better than any of the Marauders. 

Sinister ignored Gambit's unease and walked directly to a computer terminal. He punched a few keys on a board before him and an enormous screen lit up. It played back a video tape of a large scale battle that Sinister had acquired. Figures danced across the viewer in a spectacular array  of light. But there was no sound. Sinister had arranged it to play in mute. Some figures Gambit recognized as the Marauders. A fight before his time with Sinister perhaps. Or maybe just one of the many Essex thought he didn't know about. 

Essex didn't tell him a great deal. But he underestimated Remy's skill as an information thief. He'd managed to hack his way into a few of Sinister's systems to find out what things the geneticist was hiding. To see what Remy hadn't been told. There was still a lot that he couldn't get into, so much he didn't know. But those nagging doubts would have to wait until later. 

"What do you think?" Sinister asked after about five minutes of watching the scenes. 

"Dey're good." He could clearly see that. They were a team in every sense of the word. They had skill, power, organization and cooperation. The Marauders would never be that coordinated. Not in a million years. 

"They are called the X-Men. I want you to break into their home. It serves as a headquarters as well. Find the best routes for my Marauders to make their entrance and exit. They're a marvelous source for genetic material and I want them under control." 

"Y'plannin' on capturin' dese people?" 

"Yes. As I said they will make wonderful test subjects. As well as the fact that if they are my prisoners they can no longer be a hindrance to my genetic studies. Now go. I will expect a report from you shortly." With that Essex turned his back to Gambit. The computer screen playing the images went blank and Sinister busied himself on another one of his 'projects'. Remy took the hint and left to begin his new assignment. 

"Are we in yet?!" Scalphunter demanded to know. 

There was a silence. 

"Well?!" He asked again. 

"Shut up." The answer finally came. 

For all of ten seconds the order was obeyed. 

"Shit!" Scalphunter swore when his left foot slammed into some unseen stone along the floor. 

"Shut up," the other man responded. 

Again the Marauder cursed at the cluttered footings. 

"Shut up." Gambit said. His tone dangerously low and far more persistent than the first few times. 

"Don't tell me to shut up! Sinister's got us runnin' around down here like rats in a maze. An' he wants us to capture the X-Men too! Yeah, right. An' if I hit my foot one more time I'm gon--" 

A magenta color flared and a thin, rectangular piece of paper was shoved just beneath Scalphunter's jaw line. 

"Not gon'tell y'again!" Gambit hissed. He gave the playing card a forceful push. "Shut up!" 

He gave Gambit a murderous glare but didn't say anything else. He saw the bruises and broken bones the Cajun had given Harpoon. And if he hurt Gambit then he'd have to deal with Sinister's wrath. For some reason, Essex favored the Cajun. More than any of the others. 

Gambit finally decided that Scalphunter had silenced and he removed the card and stalked through the tunnels. He was in a bad mood, having to deal with the past two days. He'd managed to get inside the X-Mansion with little trouble. But on the way out he encountered two of its residence. He'd had to outwit and then outrun a huge black man with a huge gun. Then he had to worm his way around some short furry man with claws that were nastier than Sabretooth's. He had no patience for the other man's gripings. 

"There." Gambit pointed when they'd reached their destination. 

"'There' what?" Scalphunter grumbled. 

"Our way in." He replied just as testily. With all the security systems Remy rewired to get here, surely the other had guessed that they were close. But Remy never bet too much on the Marauders' intelligence levels. 

They stood before a narrow, steep stairwell. The door at the top was closed but a faint line of light shone though the crack between the floor. 

Scalphunter mumbled something incoherent but the tone implied exasperation and relief. 

He checked with all the Marauders through a comm-system, a small diamond shaped clip attached to the collars of their uniforms. They had been split into teams, Sinister and Gambit had spent the last portion of the previous day working out a strategy that could best take the X-Men without as little damage as possible. The optimistic side of Remy wanted to believe that Sinister was thinking about their safety as people. But the optimistic side of him rarely had any say-so in his life and was often overruled by the pessimistic side. Sinister didn't care about them. 

They had set up a power nullifier. A huge monstrosity that settled just outside the detection parameters of the X-Mansion. It emitted a field that blocked their powers. The Marauders were unaffected because of their comm-system which doubled as a generator for a field that canceled the nullifier. 

"Everyone's set." Scalphunter spat. Despite the obvious venom that the Marauders showed for each other, they were actually following the plan. Who'd have thought? 

"Are you comin' or not?!" Scalphunter demanded when Gambit hesitated at the foot of the stairs. 

Gambit glowered at him. But followed up the stairs. 

Even with their powers nullified, the X-Men were a formidable force. Using what few stored weapons they could get to and there skill, it took far longer for the Marauders to weaken them as they expected. Though there good fortune, as well as there strength and resistance, was running out. 

Cyclops and Phoenix kept close together. They could both hear the crackle of their comm-badges. But the changes of frequency, snapping, and fizzing were far too indistinct. They had given up trying to decipher them some time ago. Both were reaching levels of despair. They had all been split up, herded into smaller more manageable groups for the Marauders to hunt.  Neither was certain as to how many were injured, captured, or dead. Cyclops didn't want to entertain the idea that one of his team mates had been killed. As team leader, it was his part to protect his team mates, see to their well-beings. And it hurt to see them divided this way. 

Jean found herself realizing how much she relied on her mutant powers. She wished now that she had taken the time to learn more about physical combat; she was too accustomed to mental affronts as a telepath and telekinetic. It was a savage kick to her ego and self-assurance to suddenly be so helpless. 

She could barely feel her psychic rapport with her husband Cyclops. It was now only a faint echo in the back of her mind. A remembrance more than anything else. But she clung to that ghost feeling as tenaciously as she gripped Scott's hand. 

They had almost reached the weapons locker; it was in the sub-levels of the mansion. Several stories underground by now, the low orange tint given off by the emergency lights was the only light they had. It bathed everything in strange unfamiliar colors. The metal walls and floors reflected orange and the blue of their uniforms looked a brownish-black. This was how Scott must see things through his visor, she realized. 

Since he was thirteen, Scott Summers had to wear special glasses or a visor to keep his optical blasts from shooting out of control. They were made of ruby quartz and had a blood red color to them. Cyclops probably didn't even remember what colors looked like. And he never complained. Complaining showed signs of weakness. His pride kept him from showing that. 

"There you are!" 

Both turned sharply to see Arclight and Vertigo running down the halls after them. 

"Jean, run!" Scott yelled over the tinny echo of footsteps. 

"I'm not going to leave you!" She yelled back. How could he even imagine such a thing. They were in this together. Always. 

"See if you can reach the War Room. I'll distract those two and you send out a distress call!" He was getting desperate. She could hear it in his voice. He was running low on options and grasping at any hope that he could see. 

They rounded a corner and were momentarily lost from Arclight and Vertigo's line of vision. 

"But Scott--" 

"Go!" 

Jean let go of his hands and shook her own fists once in a show of hopeless frustration. She did as he asked and set off as fast as she could for the War Room. He waited a moment for the two Marauders to get a bit closer, then led them down another corridor, away from Jean. He was right. She knew he was right. If she could get a signal out to one of the other X-Teams, they might get help in time. 

She had gone ten yards when she was overcome by a horrible sense of dizziness. She stopped and gripped the walls, sliding to the floor in an attempt to stop everything from spinning. She clutched her head and tried to get her equilibrium back under control. 

Vertigo's power. Some part of her mind registered that fact. Heard the footsteps walking calmly up to her. Saw as the aforementioned Marauder brought her fist down straight into Jean's head. Phoenix gave a piteous yelp of surprise and dropped unconscious onto the floor. 

"This is far too easy," Vertigo smiled coldly down Jean's unconscious form. Though it was still a bit of an annoyance to have to chase down the X-Men it was still so much easier than having to deal with them when they had their mutant powers. 

She smoothed out an offensive wrinkle in the skirt of her uniform and placed her hands on her hips. She could hear Arclight swearing explosively just down the hallway. The dark haired Marauder came into view around one of the metallic hall corners in another moment. 

"Something wrong?" Vertigo asked primly. She groped at a stray lock of her own pale hair and pushed it back into its proper position. She was something of an oxymoron. For someone whose power was that of disorientation and chaos, she was extremely organized. That didn't make her any less of a cold killer though. The delight in her eyes when she watched a victim fall would erase any doubt of that. 

"He got away!" Arclight fairly screamed in her own frustration. Vertigo frowned. 

"Well, let's go find the little Summers." She replied sharply. How hard could it be to capture one silly X-Man without powers? 

So they dragged Jean Summers to a large transport in the Morlock tunnels. The transport was filled with containment units and inhibitor collars. Iceman, Archangel, Rogue, Cannonball and the Beast were already locked and collared to prevent further interference. And the two women went back to find Cyclops. 

Riptide was dead. He lay in an unattractive heap of blood and innards just outside Xavier's study doors. If one was to ask Wolverine what happened to him, the Canadian would have growled that he had fallen on his bone claws. There would then be a grunt of disgust, not for Logan's own handi-work but for the waste of cloned flesh that Riptide had been. 

The bloodshed hadn't ceased outside the doors. Harpoon, though still sore from his bout with Gambit, Wolverine, Sabretooth and Charles Xavier himself were inside. Logan was doing his level best to prevent Xavier from being hurt. He'd known Victor Creed (Sabretooth) long before he ever became an X-Man. He knew what an animal Creed could be. He had stepped between Xavier and the two Marauders telling Xavier to 'keep clear an' stay behind me, Chuck!'. 

Without the use of his hover chair (It had been turned over and sat derelict in the corner) the professor had minimal mobility other than where he could pull himself with his arms. He had no power to assist in any way. 

Wolverine snarled viscously as Sabretooth ripped a gash into his left thigh. 

"Gettin' slow runt." Creed hummed, a line of saliva dribbled down his chin. "Not so hot without yer healin' factor are ya?" 

Another inarticulate snarl and Logan hurled himself at his rival. Since his bone claws were a result of government experiment rather than a mutated gene he had a slight advantage that the other X-Men did not. But it still didn't help him much. 

After fifteen minutes Logan couldn't hold up any longer despite a will power that had pulled him through over one hundred years of a life filled with tragedies that would kill a lesser man. Logan was many things but weak was not one of them. His body didn't want to withstand what it was going through even though the mind kept fighting. Creed hefted Wolverine off the floor, licking the blood off his lips from where it had splattered. It was a mixture of Logan's and his own blood but he didn't care. He sneered at Xavier and walked briskly out of the study. 

Xavier stared after him somewhat baffled. 

"Sinister don't want'em dead, old man." Harpoon said, taking notice of the confusion on Charles's face. Charles shuddered. He'd forgotten the other's presence during the scene the other two had caused. "He just want's. Except for you. He doesn't really have any need for you. Guess that means I get ta do what I want with ya." 

Harpoon raised the weapon (a harpoon-like staff) that he carried with him over his head. He was ready to bring it down to bear just across the professor's neck. The action would severe the man's head from the rest of his body. 

"Stop!" Xavier said. "Why are you doing this?" 

"Why not?" Harpoon shrugged. The harpoon began its descent downward. It made it less than halfway because a hand clasped painfully tight over Harpoon's wrist. 

One minute he was about to enjoy a cold-blooded killing and the next minute he was flying across the room and slamming into a bookshelf. He pulled himself angrily to his feet to face his attacker, more than one muscle screaming in protest. Paper bits and books settled about his ankles after being thrown from their appointed positions on the shelf by the impact of his body. 

"Whose fucking side are you on!?!?!?" Harpoon screamed at Gambit. 

The Cajun stood there, arms crossed and eyes blazing. His features were set in a stoic unreadable expression usually worn on his face. The diamond-shaped comm-link was a stark red against solid black body suit that was the Cajun's uniform. The color made his slightly tanned skin seem pale and white which only added to the glowing effect of his eyes. 

"We leavin'." Gambit said flatly. "Comin'?" 

Harpoon spluttered at Gambit in rage. 

"He don't gotta die." Gambit answered the question Harpoon was trying to verbalize. 

"What?! I'm gonna--" 

Gambit raised his arm abruptly and pointed at the study door. "Move or get another set a' broken bones ta worry 'bout." 

Harpoon stormed out of the study swearing death and destruction on the Cajun and all he cared about but did nothing to approach him. 

Remy watched him go, lowering his arm only after the Marauder was out of sight. He felt like some angry father rebuking a child for a bad deed and then sending the child to his room. He began a steady stride to the door when Charles reached for him. 

"Please, don't harm my X-Men. They're my family now." He pleaded from his position on the floor. 

Gambit stared at him a moment, taken aback by the plea. This man before him genuinely cared about his charges, his X-Men. Jean-Luc and Henri LeBeau were the only people who had ever shown such caring for him. They had been the only family he had ever known and he'd had to leave them forever. As it seemed the X-Men would now have to do. 

Without even realizing that the words were coming out of his mouth he said "I'm sorry." He wouldn't be able to understand why he said them. Perhaps because it was the truth. He was sorry. About what he was doing and for what Sinister would most likely do to them once they were in his possession. Maybe it was the way Xavier looked at him. The eyes of a proud man forced to humble himself for the sake and lives of those he cared for. Maybe he didn't say it to Xavier at all. Perhaps he directed it at himself for all the stupid things he had done in his life that cost him everything he cared about. 

But for whatever reasons, it had been said and it was time to leave. So he did. On half an impulse he pulled the study door shut behind him, stepped over Riptide's demolished body and down to the basement levels where he would meet the others and begin the hour long ride back to Sinister's laboratory base. It would have taken a good deal longer than an hour on normal terms, but they were using positively alien technology and so the travel time was considerably lessened. 

How much longer till de debt's paid, eh? How much longer ya gon'do dis work for Essex?

Questions he found himself asking more and more frequently. Things had been so different once. A freelance thief who had made a name for himself in the underground as Gambit. A conscience was forming, a small voice in the back of his mind that sounded so much like the woman who had taken care of him when Jean-Luc LeBeau adopted him off the streets. Tante Mattie, her name was. He would have thought that working with the Marauders would have depleted his conscience, not the other way around. 

The Marauders were gloating over their victory, while they hadn't managed to capture all of them they had captured most of them with only two losses on their side. Riptide and Prism. Remy saw how Riptide died but he didn't want to know what had happened to Prism. Prism was weak anyway. Gambit didn't want to hear their bragging. Tante's voice was yelling at him in the corner of his mind now and she said to get away from these people. These were bad people. 

He tried to shove it back but the voice was rebellious and wouldn't quiet. So he went into the back compartment where the X-Men were being held, shutting the air lock door behind him. None of the Marauders noticed. The X-Men were in low crate-like cages with adamantium alloys for bars and flat board-like metals covering the tops. They were low, the X-Men could sit up straight in them but would not be able to stand up. 

Most were still out like a light but one had come to and was watching him with wary feral eyes as the Cajun moved in the dim lighting. Gambit jumped up onto an empty crate in the farthest corner. He brought his knees up close to him, leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes. He tried next to drown out the gleeful voices coming from the front of the transportation craft which sped down the Morlock tunnels. Without realizing, he fell asleep. He dreamed of the first time he encountered the enigma known as Mr. Sinister, but would never remember having done so when he awoke. 

He couldn't understand why such a simple night had to go so out of control. Come and watch an old friend as she starred in a new play in Seattle, meet her back stage at the cast party and then leave. But it didn't go that way. Not at all. Some barrier of protection, some block, that he knew was falling apart but had no way of repairing, finally shattered in his mind. He had never felt such loss of control over his own faculties. His mutant powers had never flown so far beyond his reach.

His kinetic charge lashed out at whatever his spatial sense detected, splaying out from a mental power he never knew he possessed. He felt his insides burn with pain as his power even struck him. Support beams, stage lights, glass, curtains, everything fell under the pure destructive force that he had no grip over.

Eventually he lost count of how many different screams he heard. Even the friend he had come to see, who had rushed to his side when he collapsed under the inner pressure, was no longer a distinct sound among all the others. She died with the others. It all bled together in one horrid, mind boggling trauma that left him with a redness all over his hands that no amount of scrubbing would seem to erase in the time to come.

When blackness began to overwhelm him, he welcomed it, flinging the door open wide for it to seep in. It took away the pain and guilt and anger, or at least masked it for a time.

The next thing he could remember was someone picking him out of the wreckage. One arm went under his knees and the other across his back. He could still hear flames crackling and people moaning.  He could smell it. He could taste it in the air. But he refused to open his eyes. He didn't want to see all the people who had been hurt because of him. He didn't get a chance to open his eyes anyway. A jolt of pain flew up from somewhere along his ribs and the blackness took over again.

He later learned that it was Sinister who lifted him away from the theater in Seattle. His wounds were tended to and when he was able to get his bearings and function properly by himself Sinister asked him to join the Marauders. Essex said that Remy owed him that for saving his life. Said that he had taken care of the problem he had with control and that Remy's services would be payment. So Gambit agreed and had been Sinister's puppet ever since.

He woke up to the faint jarring of the transportation craft locking into a docking area. Had he slept for so long? Hell, when did he fall asleep in the first place? He must have for they were now back at Essex's lab base. He couldn't see that, there were no windows in the holding area. That way any captive wouldn't be able to see the area they passed or figure out where they were fro that. But he could feel it. That uncomfortable confining feeling that he'd associated with this place ever since Sinister had brought him here. 

Another shake nearly knocked him off his perch. Gears ground noiselessly and grabbed hold of the transport to keep the vessel from shaking out of place after it was docked. 

He heard a faint humming sound then. He couldn't remember the gears ever making that sound before. He had only been on the transport once but it had never made that sound. Sinister kept everything too neat and organized and clean for things to clog up so the only sound he ever remembered hearing was a faint whir as things went to work. He jumped off the cage he sat on, wincing at the dull ache in his joints that had formed in his drowsy state. The hum changed pitch as he moved, becoming more insistent. Then it returned to the original tone. 

Gambit reached the door and the realized. Not humming. Growling. He spun around spanning the cages until his eyes rested on one in the middle. He could see the whites of the others, glinting dully in the dimness. The man was short, hairy, though not as furry as the Beast. Claws poked out over his knuckles even though an inhibitor collar was tight around his neck. 

So this was the all-famous Wolverine. 

He had heard Sabretooth and Sinister talk of him. He had been the one who killed Riptide the first time. He had also been the one who killed Riptide's clone, whose body now decorated the hall just outside Xavier's study. Logan, as Sabretooth had also called him, had a past as a government weapon and enemy to Victor Creed. Remy had prodded Creed at just being weak to let this man get the better of him, but truth be told, Gambit didn't want to be near the end of those claws. 

Their eyes locked at that moment. Red-on-black with a demonic, hypnotic glitter stared back at those Canadian blues that held a feral quality interlocked with courage and bravery. They knew each other. It was a vague recognition. The way one remembers another that they bumped into in passing on the streets. Not necessarily by names or faces but by the very air and attitude that the other carried. 

They knew each other at once. 

The transport shook again, breaking the spell as Gambit had to grip the door jamb to remain on his feet. The final lock had pulled into place, completing the docking sequence. Gambit turned away an slammed his palm into the control pad square beside the door. The air lock hissed open. He was uncomfortably aware of the other man watching him as he left. 

"Sinister!!" Hank bellowed again. He tried to rattle the adamantium alloy that made up the bars of his cell with all the force he had. They didn't budge. 

Essex glanced at him over his shoulder from the computer terminal, then turned back to the screen ignoring Hank once more.

Dr. Henry McCoy shook at the bars again. Without his powers he had little of the strength or agility he should have but he doubted he could break them even if he did. That didn't mean he wasn't going to try. Hank never thought of himself as a quitter. He prided himself on being persistent about a problem, sometimes even to the point of being down right annoying. But he never quit. 

The bars still wouldn't rattle. They didn't make a sound. So Hank tired to make up for their lack of effect by being louder still. 

"If you are intent on holding us as prisoners, you could at least allow me to tend to the other X-Men! Rogue has a detrimental wound! She needs to be bandaged and cared for! It could become infected! Without her powers the shock could kill her!" 

Sinister still wasn't paying him any mind. 

"At least treat the wound yourself if you  won't let me out!" 

Finally Sinister looked at him. But there was no emotion in those dull red eyes. Hank wondered if having this monster's attention really was better than being ignored. "I will tend to her in my own due time. For now I have more pressing matters than her health that need my attention." 

Sinister tapped a key and turned the computer off. He turned away from Hank and left through a door on the far wall that Hank could barely see past the wall of his cells. He yelled after him one more time and then fell silent. He needed to think. 

The situation was getting worse as time went on. Rogue had lost a great deal of blood. If she wasn't already dead, she might be soon. He couldn't even be sure of that assessment. They had all been separated and placed in different room. If they were close they would be able to communicate. If they could do that they might be able to devise a plan. Some means of escape. 

But they couldn't. They were trapped in these cells, ten feet high, fifteen feet across and back with a slab protruding from the back wall. It must have been meant for a bed. An uncomfortable one. Sinister wasn't worried about their comfort. Hank, a scientist himself, knew what would happen if the others didn't find them soon enough. Sinister had more plans for them than just letting them rot in these cells. He wanted to study them. Dissect them. Cut them into little bits and stick them under a microscope. Hank shuddered. 

And he was being watched. He glanced across the room to find two small glowing pools of red light shining in a dark corner off the room. They hid in the shelter of the shadows watching him. The embers slanted slightly as the owner tilted his head to the side. He was considering Hank with obvious interest even though Hank couldn't see the form or facial expression that went with them. At first Hank thought that it was Sinister. That he had snuck back into the room without him noticing to watch him as he brooded over the X-Mens' situation. But somehow he doubted that. 

"Who's there?" Hank demanded. He walked up to the bars and rested his furry blue hands on them, though he didn't bother shaking at them. 

The glowing spots hesitated. But eventually came out of the shadows. The form melted out of them into a tall handsome red haired man. The red glow of his eyes subsided into red irises surrounded by black. He walked casually over to the cage until he was five feet away. It was a good distance. He could talk to the doctor without risk of the Beast reaching out and grabbing him. 

"How bad is she?" he asked. 

Hank stared at him. It took him a moment to realize that he was talking about Rogue. The man must have been in the room during the entire conversation with Sinister. 

"Bad." Hank said. "At least that is the prognosis I was able to give her. I was not able to examine her properly." 

"What's gotta be done?" the man asked. 

Hank stared at him again. He would have asked why he cared. He was a Marauder, wasn't he? He had been in the entire battle. And not on the X-Mens' side. But Rogue needed help. If this man was really going to help treat her, Hank would need to take that chance. 

"She has a deep wound on her left arm. The wound may or may not have penetrated an artery. It is bleeding profusely and I do not believe the blood is clotting properly if at all. She needs wrappings for the wound and blankets." 

The young man furrowed his brow. He didn't know why she would need a blanket. Hank saw that and elaborated. 

"Her mutant powers make her invulnerable. Without them, her body is so much weaker than she's accustomed to. She may have gone into shock. She needs to be kept warm." 

The man nodded and headed for another door, one one the opposite side of the lab room. Hank watched him, hoping and dreading the events that might happen. Not wanting to think about what might befall his friends but not being able to conjure up any thoughts that would block out the more morbid ones. He only hoped that the X-Men that were left could find them quickly. 

Bishop stood behind Professor Xavier and Elizabeth Braddock, a deep frown on his face and his arms crossed in front of his chest. He wasn't sure how much time he had stood behind the two telepaths. But did it matter? Yes, it did. The more time they wasted doing nothing, the greater the chance became that there would be no X-Men to save even if Professor X and Elizabeth found their location. 

They had joined their mental powers to boost cerebro, the mutant tracking device. It hadn't found the others yet but they hadn't stopped trying and probably wouldn't for as long as they were able to maintain their powers. Bishop felt completely useless just standing there watching them. 

But there was nothing else he could do. He was no telepath. He had done what he could when he deactivated the power nullifier that sat on the edge of the forest that fenced the mansion grounds. Demolished was a better word. After hitting the 'off' button he blew the crap out of it with the stored energy that his mutant powers had collected. It was only charred metal and irreparable circuitry now. He told himself that he destroyed so much because he didn't want anyone else to use it against them. But it had been very cathartic. Destroying the machine was a release. A feeling that he could stop this machine when he hadn't been able to stop Sinister. 

He ground his teeth together in his frustration with himself. He didn't like losing. 

Quietly concentrating, the omega class telepathic professor and the telepathic ninja sat facing each other, trying desperately to find their missing friends before it was too late.

Storm dabbed the disinfectant on the gash on Scott's forehead. His frowned deepened at the sting, but he didn't flinch. He had received the gash after trying to go back for Jean. He blamed himself for her capture. Storm saw that clearly in his eyes. She was no empath, but she read his emotions perfectly. It came from the years she had known him. She remained beside him after the wound was covered with a small bandage. 

"I should never have sent her to make that distress call." He finally said. 

"You could not have known. You were thinking about the good of the team. We all know the risks." she told him calmly. She was as worried for Jean as he was. Jean was like a sister to her. So was Rogue. They were all her family. Storm had only just begun to assist Bobby Drake with his ice powers. They'd had an appointment in the Danger Room for tomorrow morning. But he wasn't going to make it. 

Scott didn't seem to have heard a word of what she said. "What if he hurts her? What if she dies. I don't think I could live knowing that she's gone." 

Cyclops placed his face in the palms of his hands. He felt numb all over despite the ache in his head. 

Storm put a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "We shall find her. We shall find all of them. The Goddess would not be so cruel as to take them from us." 

Scott marveled at her. She had such devotion to her Goddess. Faith was the word. She held a strong faith in nature and the way of things. He had never had such faith. Didn't really believe he ever would. And he was glad she was there. Storm always managed to give comfort when people really needed it. He tried to summon a smile for her to let her know he appreciated it. But he couldn't find one to give her. 

She was in a cloudy haze that blotted out light and sensation. She didn't want to leave the darkness. It was a comfortable. After all, if one fells nothing, one can't feel discomfort. Right now she endured the nothingness. Floated in it without any comprehension of the world outside her. She could care less about what surrounded her. Nothing mattered here. There was nothing to matter. 

She frowned, or she supposed she frowned, as the haze started lifting. She still felt little, but it was not as empty as it used to be. The cloud was gradually lifting the way a fog does as the sun rises. She could hear things now. They were indistinct, like the cloud, but they were there. She couldn't ignore them.

Feeling began to creep back into her body. Something cool and smooth around her neck. Pain in her arms and ribs. There was a sparatic weight on her upper left arm. Not a heavy weight, a gentle one, but it was there. The weight occasionally lifted, accompanied by more sound, then returned. Left again. The sounds. Movement. The weight came back. 

Someone was moving around her. The weight was a hand, she guessed. But she didn't know what the hand was there for. She didn't want to care but awareness and memory began to drive out the stuffing that clogged her mind. She felt like it was leaking out of her ears. Sometimes regaining consciousness is a pain in the ass. She thought. 

Warily she opened her eyes. Just a little bit, just enough to allow light in her eyes. The she opened them halfway and forms began to blur into her vision. One form, larger and constantly moving began to take shape. A man. 

Rogue opened her eyes all the way and everything became clear and defined again. Acting on her instinct and battle training, Rogue lashed out with her fist as hard as she could. 

The man was caught off guard, not expecting her to be awake. There was a grunt of surprise and pain as he slammed into the far wall. He shook his head and his hand came up to his jaw and rubbed it. 

"Who are ya?! Where are the others?!" She yelled. Her voice didn't sound as loud as it should have been. She sounded strained and tired to her own ears. Rogue stood but quickly fell back onto the slab she'd been lying on as everything began to swim. 

"Go easy, chere. Lost blood. Ya body needs de chance to catch up wit' yaself 'fore ya try runnin' around." The man had a thick Cajun accent. She recognized it immediately. She was a southerner herself, growing up in Mississippi, and she had met many Cajuns and heard they way they spoke. But his words and the tone of voice he used didn't seem to fit the scenes she remembered. He was one of the Marauders who had attacked the X-Men. And right now she was in a cell, bars and all, and inhibitor collar locked on her neck. She was obviously a prisoner. Why did he care if she hurt herself? 

"What are ya doin' in here?" She tried to yell at him again but her vocal cords wouldn't cooperate. 

"Ya arm." The Cajun pointed to her arm. Her left sleeve had been cut in a line starting from the cuff and all the way to her neck. For the first time she noticed the half finished bandage that was wrapped around it, partially covering a dark bloody rip. 

"Why..." 

"Ya doctor, de blue one, asked. He's worried 'bout ya." He eyed the incomplete wrapping. "Mind if I finish?" 

She watched him with skepticism and wariness but didn't protest when he stepped closer. He took the roll of gauze that had fallen on the slab and unrolled it around her arm to seal off the wound. he cut the gauze and taped it tightly to hold it in place. He stood when it was finished. 

"Um... thanks?" She wasn't sure she should be thanking a Marauder. He surprised her by smiling. It was a broad grin that was enough to lift spirits in itself. Her heart started to flutter against her wishes so she tried to dismiss it to the blood loss he'd mentioned. 

"No prob. Anyt'ing for such a beautiful lady." His smile faltered and he shifted uneasily, as if remembering himself and something he was supposed to be doing. "I... um, I better go." 

The man backed away from her and out the door. Rogue watched him go. Fine piece a'man ta be wastin' as a Marauder, Rogue thought. Then she added: Behave in a stern mental tone. He probably wouldn't be back. 

He came back two minutes later. Wrong, sugah. He was carrying a blanket and he reopened the cage and handed it to her.

"I forgot dis. De blue guy said to make sure ya stayed warm." And he was gone again. 

Rogue couldn't help but smile at his reference to 'de blue guy'. He meant Hank, she knew. She rested her eyes on the bars and the smile faded. She was in a cage, she had to remember that. This wasn't some vacation where she and Elizabeth would check out the good looking men that happened to pass by. She was being held as a prisoner. By Sinister and his Marauders. Not fun. 

She tugged at the collar. It showed no signs of coming loose. She hadn't expected it to. A sudden unexpected shiver crept up swiftly along her spine and then went back down her back again. Se realized that she was indeed cold. And tired. She grabbed a corner of the folded blanket and shook it out to cover herself. Once satisfactorily huddled under it, she gazed out at the bars before her and thought furiously about how she might be able to get out. 

Gambit came back to the room where Hank was being held later that evening. 

"How is she?" Hank asked hopefully. 

Gambit glanced up from the computer Essex had sent him to work on. Hank blinked at the large purple-black bruise that was welling up on the left side of his jaw. Remy groaned inwardly as he noticed the other man noticing. He hoped that he wouldn't say anything. When Sinister saw him earlier he had lightly gripped Remy's face with one hand, tilting his head so that Sinister could see the bruise properly. After wordlessly inspecting it, he gave Remy a stern look. But he hadn't said anything. None of the other Marauders had gotten on him about losing fights. Not yet, anyway. 

Hank's first train of thought was that helping Rogue, if he had indeed done so, had gotten the boy in serious trouble with Sinister. That the bruise was physical evidence of some punishment that Sinister had inflicted. But what Gambit said to answer his question erased that thought. 

"She be fine. Alive an' kickin'. De femme's got a helluva right hook to prove it." He grinned lopsidedly at Hank. 

Hank sighed with relief, both that Rogue was fine and that the man hadn't been hurt helping her. This brought on a question that, despite its obviousness, had been ignored. 

"Why are you helping us?" 

Gambit looked up from the computer somewhat confused by the question. Why? He didn't know. He supposed it was because he didn't want to see any more people hurt. But if that was true then why did he allow these people to be captured. Surely what Sinister would do to them would be far worse than death. Life in a cage, as a test subject, wondering when it would your turn to have your insides spread out across an examining tray. For a scientist who wasn't insane but the lack of insanity was what made the actions more horrifying. 

If he really wanted to help the X-Men he would let them go. Help them escape. 

But he had a debt to pay to Sinister. Didn't he? He had vague recollections of Sinister carrying his near-lifeless body into this very lab complex for treatment, bloodied and cradled gently in the scientist's arms. Sinister treated him with almost paternal care. He was allowed into placed and plans that none of the Marauders were allowed within twenty feet of. Essex trusted him with information that he withheld from all others. And why? 

"Dunno." he finally whispered with a shrug. 

The computer board beside him beeped impatiently and he returned his attention to the computer glitch that he had been sent to fix. He poured all his concentration into it. Anything to keep from noticing the sad gaze the doctor in the cell across the room was favoring him with. It was the kind of gaze that most children give when driving quickly past a dead animal at the roadside. One full of some unknown sadness and regret. The kind that suggested that they recognized the loss but they felt that if they had known the animal as a pet, maybe they might have been able to prevent the accident. 

Remy stopped thinking about it. For one thing, he found he didn't like it that he was comparing himself to road kill. And that maybe the regret he saw in the doctor's eyes was exactly like a child's gaze. That if he had known the doctor sooner he might have been able to prevent his involvement with Sinister. 

The computer gave a final beep, signaling that the glitch had been fixed. Remy took another quick test to double check and then left the room. He tried his best not to look at Hank. The doctor was making him think to much. 

"Whatcha want?" Scalphunter asked. 

Sinister wholly ignored the annoyed tone that resided in the Marauder's voice. Perhaps irritated was the best mood to keep him in if he was to do this correctly. 

"I want you to watch Gambit for me. It appears I may have placed far too much trust in the thief. I believe his loyalty is faltering. I want to know immediately when it does." 

"Teacher's pet finally crossed the line? What he do? Steal one of your lab rats?" 

"Given the time, I fear he may do just that. Do not let him be aware that you're observing him. If need be, I want to be able to deal with him quickly. That will be better achieved if he is unprepared for it." 

Scalphunter nodded, a blitheful sneer forming over his lips. The Cajun would be a challenge in battle and he looked forward to that chance. If and when that chance came. 

*End Part One* 
Spade