Chapter 48: Loose n’ Low
Americans were crazy.
Brian decided on the observation when a bunch of very American looking planes dropped the boom, boom, boom on down-freakin’-town Manhattan--why, Captain America would be spinning in his grave if he was dead... which he wasn’t, so he was just probably spinning, period. The civil servant who decided on the stupid act should be dragged out to the street, beaten with cinder blocks, and then shot in the crotch repeatedly until he (or she, in this politically correct society) died from it.
Strong sentiments, but he did have his reasons.
For starters, the bombs caught Brian at a bad time, which was to say, while battling a demon-cum-Magneto. Exorcising a rogue spirit was difficult to do when it flung large, and often sharp, projectiles at the exorcists. And the good Lorna Dane, instead of helping, joined the demon in the flinging of metal, altogether ruining Brian’s day even further. Add to that a sudden sense of foreboding prickling in the back of his mind and out came a dissatisfied ruler of everywhere not earth.
A bullet whizzed by mere centimeters from Brian’s head. Ah yes, and the ski masked marksman, couldn’t forget him, the coward and the weak link of the bunch.
The former Captain Britain thinned his lips. “Stephen, how long until you can drive the corrupted spirit out?”
“At this rate?” grunted the Sorcerer Supreme. Iron beams, wild debris, and pot shots kept him busy, each trying in their own little ways to hurt him. Mid-flight, he put on a burst of speed and lost some homing weapons around a corner. “Never.”
Magneto and Polaris had shields, but the weasely gunman didn’t. “Get the spell ready. I can buy you a few minutes.”
Like an angry god, Brian harkened back to his superheroing days, flew high into the sky, and dive-bombed onto the Empire State Building’s roof. Caught flatfooted by the immense shaking after contact, Fantomex stumbled to keep his balance, and during his stumbling, a screaming fast fist collided with his jaw.
A lesser man would’ve died.
Fantomex buckled, unconscious.
“Jump!” yelled Brian’s instincts, and jump he did, just in time to avoid iron rods burying themselves into the cement where he used to be. Despite his superhuman speed, the combined efforts of these two magnetism mutants made him feel like cheap target practice. Not wanting to fly away (ending his effective diversion for Strange) or get impaled (pretty obvious why), Brian tore a chunk of the wall off and batted metal away like a master cricket player.
“Papa, I’m tired of him.”
“So am I,” Magneto replied, his attention split between trying to locate Strange again and trying to do away with the burdensome Braddock. “Enough games. Even Captain Britain is flesh and blood, and where there is blood...”
Brian dropped his concrete slab and gripped his chest. Suddenly sluggish, the blonde man struggled for breath. His veins dilated with great effort. Vision doubled up. His entire body threatened to pop like an over inflated balloon. Couldn’t think right. Right hand numbed.
“Flesh and blood. We are all flesh and blood.”
Ding.
The elevator doors slid away and out strode Emma. “Not me, darling.”
Lorna gleefully clapped her hands. “So cute,” she squealed, “Like an action figure!”
That, of course, didn’t set too well. “How about some of this action in your figure?”
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“Holy shit on a stick.”
Was that Emma Grace Frost jump kicking Magneto and this other lady like a ninja? Slack-jawed, Yvette continued filming and ignored the cries of a hungry baby some feet behind her.
*****************
The yelp labored to her ears, yet as soft as it was, Rogue knew who it came from.
“Mama,” she whispered.
Behind the flames, battle, and chaos, tires screeched, carrying her mother’s surprise away parabolically. “’Ro, can ya stand?”
Wincing, Storm leaned against her friend. “Barely.”
Hated doing this, hated leaving the team behind, but, “Ah think Mystique’s in trouble.”
“What does Mystique have to do with anything?”
The glare meant Ororo was unhappy. The dripping acid in her voice burned. Unconsciously, as if the metamorph’s name sullied her, she edged away from Rogue. If she had the strength, Ororo would’ve huffed and stomped, but for now, she resorted to scowling.
Rogue didn’t appreciate the sour mood. “Yer overreactin’.”
“I shouldn’t be? Child, this woman you call mother has brought you nothing but grief, and by that look in your eye, you’re going to her aid again. Haven’t you learned your lesson?”
“But-”
“But nothing,” Ororo snapped, “Mystique doesn’t deserve your notice, let alone your love.”
Being the headstrong girl she was, the more someone pushed Rogue one way, the more she rebelled out of principle. Taken by Lorna’s negative emotions, Storm pushed Rogue away from Mystique, and predictably enough, Rogue pushed back to return to Mystique’s banner. Maybe it was the cold words, commanding tone, or insults to her mama, but one weather witch upset a brunette to the point of outrage.
Of course, not that the point of outrage was far away to begin with
“You would save Mystique and ignore the X-Men?”
That sounded like a challenge. Rogue lifted her eyes and stared at Storm--yup, looked like a challenge too if the fierce, defiant stare had anything to add. If she was calmer, Rogue would’ve explained Mystique’s motivations. If there was more time, she would’ve said that the X-Men had each other but Mystique had no one, hence why she should go to her mother’s aid.
If, if, if. Here’s a good if: if Rogue took off after Mystique, would an injured Ororo be able to stop her? No? Good.
Not wanting to talk, Rogue followed the sounds of screeching tires and left her team leader, broken ribs and all, to simmer. Part of the conflict traced itself back to Lorna’s work, but the sad thing was that the words tumbling out of Storm’s mouth were true, unadulterated feelings about Mystique. Would she have said them without proper reason? Probably not, but hurt, angry, and desperate gave her enough motivation to voice her deep seated opinion, once which many X-Men shared.
Till now, Storm thought Rogue would choose the X-Men over her wayward mother. Something changed, and with all the terrible things that happened tonight, that something had to be a negative if only to fit in with the current trend.
What’s done was done. Rogue made her decision and Storm didn’t approve. Any contentions, conflicts of interest, and arguments would be squared away later if there was a team to go back to. Wind buoyed her up, and a few short breaths later, Storm re-entered the fray, glad to see Brian Braddock, Stephen Strange, and Emma Frost all working together with varying degrees of success.
This was what the X-Men should’ve been doing.
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Blood pooled in his hands and spilled over onto the dust laden floor. He spit a phlegm-blood blend which was unfortunately more blood than phlegm. His hand reached around to his back, and right away, his fingers grazed where the bullet made its exit.
A hiss of pain escaped him.
“Gambit, can you hear me?”
“Oui,” he grunted. “Loud n’ clear, mon ami.”
Tessa unloaded on him, and even though he was fast, he wasn’t faster than two clips of bullets. As he charged and threw a card at her, one of her shots pierced his gut. The resulting explosion propelled her out the window and the resulting gunshot wound brought Remy to his knees. Maybe he should’ve been thanking God he wasn’t dead, but as blood gushed out of him, praying became the last thing on his mind.
He concentrated on breathing.
“Gambit, if you can release me, I can treat your wound.”
The Cajun brought his knuckles down on the cement to prop himself up. “Non. Tessa, da woman probably hit my stomach. Whatcha gonna do? Sew it up wit da hair on my head?”
“Tessa, how could she do this?”
“Remy dunno, but he t’ink she was mad you.”
Mad, the understatement of the century. As far as Remy could tell, Tessa never gave a voice to her emotions. She was a lot like Scott in that way, except she pulled it off with an aloof class and eerie consistency. Tears, he should’ve picked up on the ploy when she started crying. Women like Tessa only cried when they wanted something, but Remy had a soft spot for attractive, crying women.
Thinking with his dick cost him... again. If he looked closer, he might’ve picked up on the calculated steel and the much-too-passive body language that he recalled with too much clarity after the fact. She set him up and he fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.
In Remy’s humble opinion, that alone made Tessa a good t’ief, but the thought was neither here nor there.
He gagged, and this time blood, no phlegm, came out of his mouth. Weak, his arms buckled and cement slapped his face. A familiar, comforting detachment touched him, and versus the agony he endured now, he embraced the escape.
“Listen to me!”
Mon dieu. “Be busy. Kinda dyin’ here.”
“You can cauterize your internal injuries with your powers.”
“Eh?”
“The pain will be immense, but the task is not impossible. Focus, Remy. If you create enough heat at the torn tissue, you can stop the bleeding and save yourself.”
Easy for him to say. What was this? A idea from Rambo or something?
“Don’t fade away, Gambit! The others are counting on you. Rogue is counting on you!”
Roguey. Aw, low blow right there, but then, “Dat’s why you da Prof, non?”
Couldn’t croak now since the man put Rogue’s name in his head. Stubborn girl would probably bust down the door and drag him from the afterlife if he so much as skipped a heartbeat. Stubborn girl, but sweet all the same, and Remy, in addition to having a soft spot for crying women, also had one for sweet, stubborn brunettes.
He concentrated like the Professor ordered. An intimate knowledge of his body and a bunch of experience in wounds of all types helped him envision the tears within him. Reaching beyond the overall burning, Remy guessed where he needed to focus his powers.
“Dis betta work, mon ami, else Gambit get mighty unhappy.”
Taking a deep breath, he charged all the regions of his wounds. Before the pain even hit, he blacked out.
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- To be continued...
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