Chapter 28: Toil and Trouble
“It’s not here, Stephen. We’ve looked everywhere.”
Eyes darkening, Doctor Strange scratched his chin. “And you’re sure the only people who came through Limbo were us?”
Amanda held up eight fingers. “Brian, Meggan, Dane, Betsy, Illyana, Kitty, Emma, and you. Not missing anyone, I’m sure.”
“Then we must assume the worst: one of us took the pendant.”
Not a moment later, two of the aforementioned suspects--Brian and Meggan--teleported into Amanda’s stronghold, both winded and worried.
“Something’s wrong with Betsy,” breathed Brian.
Of course, assumptions were made.
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The bulkhead finally creaked open halfway and allowed Jean to step through. Logan, outfit in tatters and claws unsheathed, stood before a large screen, warnings and alerts covering its every inch. His muscles tensed.
“Get outta here, Jeanie.”
“Logan, you can’t stay here. The station’s unstable.”
“I told ya,” he growled, slashing at the display, “GET OUT!”
“Why?!”
He motioned all around him to the computers, the rock, the metal floors. “It’s a trap,” he sighed, defeated, “n’ we just flamin’ walked into it.”
“Fantomex tricked you and Scott, I kno-”
“No, Jeanie,” he interrupted, “Look ‘round you. Don’t this place look familiar?”
“A little. I couldn’t put my finger on it.”
The claws retracted and the screen sparked. “It’s Asteroid M.”
Two explosions, one close to their position and another of the mental persuasion, engulfed them. Jean clutched her head, mind ringing from the Professor’s cries. The bulkhead behind her wiggled loose and fell. Logan rushed in to save Jean, propping up the slab of metal with his slight but strong frame.
Another explosion, this one coming from the computer Logan unleashed his fury on. As the station lost its integrity, life support systems shut down. A blast of telekinesis threw Logan’s burden to the side, but before the two regrouped, a breach in the asteroid rock caused emergency bulkheads to slide down and seal all the areas.
Seconds later, the power went out.
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Remy didn’t like this, no way, not one bit. His Spanish escapades painted Vargas as one tough, linear-minded hombre. Getting in his sights was like standing in front of a bullet train--the matter wasn’t if you’d die, it’s how much dying would hurt.
And right now, dying seemed to be a most painful venture.
Vargas swung his massive sword down again, and by the skin of his teeth, Remy rolled out of the way. The madman didn’t mind fighting on a busy Bourbon Street in the middle of the night crowds. Crazy dude also didn’t mind taking out innocent bystanders who got too close to the action. Those idiots were still figuring out that this wasn’t filming for a new movie, and while Remy didn’t want to see innocents killed, he didn’t have the breath to warn the dumber breed of said innocents either.
Vicious attacks, like the one coming for his neck, precluded talking.
He flipped backwards; a lamppost came tumbling down after him, smacking him in the wrist as he gathered himself. His staff popped out of his hands and went end over end into the masses. Great. He had no idea where Bella Donna went to and sincerely hoped she wasn’t dead. People crowded him on all sides, most screaming, some actually in fear. Vargas looked to be toying with him. Now, his favorite staff was gone.
“From bad to worse, non?” he mumbled to himself.
But this was still Nawlins, his hometown, his turf: losing here wasn’t an option. Remy backed away and charged a card, fully knowing it did no good. The brick house of a man withstood even his most powerful kinetic attacks, avoiding the projectiles or shrugging them off like mosquito bites. Strong like Colossus, nimble like Wolverine, and merciless like Apocalypse this one--what in hell was he?
Remy bumped into a wall. From the way it vibrated, the place was probably a club or bar, which meant a big wall, which meant little room to maneuver, which meant certain doom. Vargas smiled and wiped the rivulets of blood from his sword.
“Any last words, mutant?”
Couldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. Wouldn’t let him see the fear. Remy’s red eyes narrowed as he fished into his pocket and produced an entire deck of cards. The close impact of the explosion would certainly kill Remy himself and at least give Vargas a bad day. Desperate? Maybe, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Vargas just laughed. “Do you really think your cards will even harm me?”
“We see ‘bout dat.”
Before he charged another fifty two cards, Vargas’ body locked up and his eyes stopped moving. The sudden freeze caught Remy off guard, but he didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He broke out into a dead sprint, barging through the onlookers and doing his best to put as much distance between him and Vargas.
Rogue’s unexpected voice echoed in his head. *Sugah, y’ok?*
Now, Remy LeBeau wasn’t a religious man, but he glanced into the sky and made the sign of the cross. *Chere, Remy don’t care whatcha did, but he’d wanna kiss you real good ‘bout now.*
*Ah can’t hold him fo’ long. Cerebra ain’t made ta do stuff like this, so ya betta git, and git fast.*
*Way ahead of you, Roguey.*
He turned sharply off into a less traversed section of the French Quarter. Women of the night and shady businessmen mingled as one under ancient buildings and seedy bars. The old outlaw spirit remained strong here, and through it, so remained the Guild’s power. Those in the know dipped their heads to him; those not knew a dangerous man when they saw one and left him be. Remy came here for one man, and he hoped that one man wasn’t somewhere else.
Picking his teeth, Quiet Bill savored the leftovers from his meager dinner. With no cares on his mind and a beer in his hand, the world seemed like a wonderful place. What could possibly go wrong in Nawlins, especially for a bum? Peaceful place this town, much more peaceful many other cities he’d been to. Warm clothes on his back, no rain in the sky, beautiful women on the street--perfect, until Remy LeBeau came streaking around the corner.
“Mon ami,” the man in the trench coat puffed, “Dis be serious business. Remy gotta go back to de landin’ up north.”
Again? Bill rubbed his stubby chin and held out his hand.
He might’ve been harried, but Remy knew the universal sign for “Pay up” like none other. “Be kiddin’ me, mon ami.” He patted himself down to show his current state of pennilessness. “Don’t got nothin’ dis moment.”
Arms folded, Bill stared off into space, or namely, everywhere Remy wasn’t. The Cajun took a hint and lifted a wallet from a passerby--twenty bucks and a library card. Didn’t take Quiet Bill for the reading type, so, from another unfortunate denizen, he pilfered a watch... a Casio watch. Of all the dumb luck tonight.
“Uhh, how far a Casio and twenty bucks get me?”
A dirty mitt snatched the goods and Quiet Bill got to work, opening a familiar portal.
“I owe you, mon ami,” Remy exhaled in relief.
Bill just urged him on, silently saying “Keeping this portal open ain’t easy, you know.” So Remy stepped through, fully expecting to come out behind a bunch of rocks in the North Cove of Manhattan. That’s what they called “the landin’ up north”--far enough from X-Men territory, easy to access, and secluded in the right parts. What he got wasn’t the landing but rather a mouthful of water courtesy of the Hudson River.
The landing, meanwhile, mocked him from about a hundred feet away.
“Oh, dat be harsh,” Remy coughed.
Soaking wet, freezing, and tired, he hauled himself back onto shore. Some people glanced at him but kept moving, unsure what to make of this man. Wringing the water out of his sleeves, Remy couldn’t care less about the icy reception. Next he see Quiet Bill, there’d be hell to pay.
*Roguey, you still dere?*
*Ah’m comin’ ta pick you up. Somethin’ just went down at the mansion n’ Magneto’s out on the loose.*
Sheesh. No rest for the wicked. *Magneto? Ain’t he dead yet?*
*If dead men can tear the roof off the mansion, then sure, he’s dead. Just stay though, ah come get ya first.*
*Thanks Roguey. Love ya.*
*Ain’t outta the woods yet, Remy.*
And she cut off, presumably shifting powers again to accomplish her new task. Man, now he had to wait in the New York winter while drenched and sore. He had his bike parked here, but having the wind nip him at sixty miles an hour felt miserable even in thought.
Yup, stuck in the middle of Manhattan shivering and with no way to warm up. How could his night possibly get any worse?
Well, as luck would have it, in the southern sky, a flash of fire lit up the New York Bay, and an awfully familiar plane dove from the furthest reaches of the clouds and toward the chilly water Remy so enjoyed a moment ago. The few cars on the street stopped, visions of 9/11 rekindled in many New Yorkers’ minds.
Closer the vessel drew and the sinking feeling in Remy’s stomach amplified. The Blackbird, that thing was the Blackbird, and it looked to be in a bad way, broken up, wingless, and on fire. Who was in the plane? Which nefarious villain committed the act?
No time to ponder now. Remy shrugged off his soggy trench and made a beeline for his motorcycle. Ok, so this was how things could get worse.
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- To be continued...
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