It's Who You Know

Part One of the X Chronicles

by Smoot

Chapter 6

His eyes were sealed tightly, his teeth clenched, his muscles straining with the unusual strain placed on them. Every jolt shot like an electric current through his nerves, adding to the grotesquely contorted features of his normally charming face. The wind whipping against the top of his head sent his hair flying all around, most of it matting down over his face. Beads of sweat rolled down his cheeks, and he tried his best to ignore the itching sensation that assaulted his brain as a result. 

His elbow was cramping up. He looked at it, twisted over the top of a rusting brown pipe, the veins standing out in the forearm from the tension. His other arm wasn't wrapped around anything, but his right hand was clutching a valve, the pressure being put on his fingers seemingly enough to snap the bones. But they held. 

His legs were crossed at the ankles, braced on top of a long pipe, the dirt rubbing off on the jeans, some other substance covering bits of the boots. He swore under his breath, and regretted it as a bit of sweat trickled into his mouth. The sour taste lingered in his mouth. 

A sharp, painful sound caught his attention full-force, and he felt something shred underneath him. Ignoring the pain that shot through his arms and legs, he pulled himself up against the bars quickly. The draft that was rushing along his back told him that the end of his shirt, which had been lapping at his lower back, was no longer attached to the rest of the shirt. He swore violently, and spat out the sweat that ran into the opening. 

The cold air against his back, the pain in his arms and legs, the taste on his mouth, and the hair whipping around his head reminded him of his current state. He was Quentin E. Bailey, and he was hanging onto the bottom of a moving truck, the pavement below him hurtling by at well over fifty miles an hour. 

This was definitely in the top five dumbest things he had done, and if it were not for that one Kroger's incident, it would probably have been number one. 

After driving around like a maniac for a while, he got his guts back, and decided to go after the people who tried to have him killed. He was surprised that his little kick worked as well as it did, and he had to wonder about it, and why he was able to get away so easily. But when he saw a group of people that resembled the ones that attacked him climbing into this truck, he ran up from behind, slid up underneath it, and had barely enough time to hook himself in a good position before it peeled away. 

The deceleration of the truck brought him back to reality. He risked a glance ahead of him. A speed bump was approaching. "Oh, damn." 

****** 

Gambit shifted around slightly in his position, uncomfortably situated in between three metal struts and holding onto one of the rafters, looking down on the warehouse, which was, for all intents and purposes, empty. His eyes, working perfectly in the dim light, took in every detail numerous times, assuring him that he could do whatever was needed to take care of anything that arose. 

A whirring sound tore his attention away from his soul-searching and redirected it at the metallic door on the far end of the building. It slowly rose up from the ground, light pouring in from underneath it. Gambit shielded his eyes for a moment with his free hand. 

The sound of a diesel engine filled the chamber, and a large, ordinary-looking truck pulled in, the high beams flooding the room. Gambit pulled himself up a little more out of sight, making sure that no one would be able to spot him until he decided that they should be able to. 

The truck slowly pulled to a stop, the whine of its brakes echoing through the desolate room. A man dressed in black jeans and a white shirt walked alongside it, his hands in his pockets, his shuffling steps matching the slow speed of the truck. Remy watched every move carefully, his eyes locked on the man walking freely. 

His mind raced as he tried to recognize that person. But the face failed to ring a bell, even with Remy's near-photographic memory at work. Pushing that out of his mind, Remy concentrated on the task at hand. 

From the shadows, another man emerged, a man Remy recognized as Pitchford, and walked up to the man walking by himself. "I see you brought transportation." 

"If this is as much as you made it out to be, we would need all this space," the man replied in a low, flat voice. "Now where is it?" 

Pitchford waved a hand behind him, and four men emerged from the shadows, each wearing nondescript clothes, their faces too far away for Remy to discern. Each one was carrying a large crate, about half their size, which said a lot, seeing as these men easily dwarfed the Cajun. One was easily six-foot-eight, and looked to be well over two hundred pounds of ripped muscle. The others weren't a lot smaller. 

"Sit them down there," the lead man snapped quickly. Turning to two of his men, he said, "Go check the boxes." 

Gambit calmly fingered the base of his staff as the two Assassins inspected the wooden crates and their contents, which appeared to be the weapons that had been ordered. After a long series of inspections that found Remy to be growing increasingly bored, the man walked forward and said, "All right, everything seems to be in order.  Pack those in the truck." 

As the two lackeys started dragging the crates towards the truck, the leader walked up to Pitchford with an envelope, the contents bulging out of the sides. "And as we said, here is our side of the deal." 

Pitchford took the envelope and slipped it into his coat. "Thank you, my friends. I hope this merchandise serves you well." The two men shook hands and lingered there for a second, neither letting go, neither breaking the stare away from each other's face. 

Remy quickly pulled six cards out of the small packs attached to his belt. He hadn't bothered to change into his body armor before coming out, and was sorely missing the storage space. He charged them quickly, and the light thrown around him hurt his eyes for a second. But that was an afterthought: the cards were flying before anything could've taken advantage of his temporary blindness. 

****** 

The ear-rattling sounds of explosions all around him startled Quentin, and he quickly untangled himself from the gut of the truck. With quickness brought on by an intense desire not to be flattened by the truck hanging above him, he rolled out from underneath the behemoth and stayed flat on the ground for a second. 

Smoke clouded his vision, but from what he could see, something had detonated in the warehouse, and he could hear people running around, some shouting orders to others, and some screaming about being hurt. 

He saw this as his opening to make his move, to finish what he had started in hitching a ride. He sprang up off his shoulders and landed on his feet, and backed out into the middle of the room, waiting for the smoke to clear so everyone could see his perfect entrance. 

****** 

Remy landed in a crouch on the floor, his adrenaline flowing freely from the acrobatic geometry of the controlled fall. He had his staff fully extended and held it in his right hand as he backed into the center of the room, his eyes scanning the smoke for any threats. 

His back hit something soft and fleshy, and instinctively he spun and swung the staff in a wide swath even with his line of sight, and just swished air. With a sneer, he looked at the person who had ducked and was surprised to see a familiar-looking blond-haired kid standing there, staring up at him with the same surprise on his face. 

"Remy?" 

"Quentin?" 

A silent, tense moment passed. 

Then as one, both of them exclaimed, "What in hell are you doing here?!?" 

That was quickly followed with, "I'm gonna catch Pitchford!", when in turn was followed by, "No you're not, I am!", and so it went for almost a full minute. Then Quentin raised a hand, stopping Remy in mid-sentence. "Wait a sec. I'm here to stop Pitchford. You're here...?" 

"To stop de Assassin's Guild from gettin' too much power," Remy replied. 

"Okay. Pitchford's helpin' the Guild, right? Right. So we can kill two birds with one stone here, right?" 

A loud, sharp click caught their ears, and they turned to see Wilson Pitchford, a harsh, graying, clean-shaven man with a sleek black crossbow in his hands, held with the obvious hint that he knew how to use it. "Two birds with one stone? My thoughts exactly." 

Quentin looked at the bolt readied in the weapon, then in Pitchford's eyes, then over at Remy. "Please tell me that you have dealt with this at one point in your life, 'cause I haven't, so I'm kinda at a loss for plans here." 

Remy merely shrugged. Quentin swore. Pitchford grinned menacingly. 

On to Chapter 7