Bobby Drake || Adelaide Roberts (whiteempathy) wrote in _unite_, @ 2008-01-21 00:26:00 |
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Current mood: | blank |
Devils and Demons
Characters: Remy "Gambit" Lebeau
Location: His apartment in New York
Time: Present
Description: Remy's chased by the demons awoken by his most recent job.
It had been almost a chore for Remy to get back to his apartment after he had handed Clarice over. The poor woman... it was just another death he could attribute to the long list of ones he seemed to accrued in his lifetime. Started when he was just a child, his cousin, and then went on a downward spiral from there.
He slid into his apartment and shut the door behind him, locking it and leaning against the door heavily. He really did feel dirty, dirty like he hadn't felt in a long time, not since the first work he had done for Sinister those precious few years ago, before he knew better. Before he realised what a monster the once esteemed Dr Essex really was. He was a monster, and trying to pull Remy down that path by making him do these things.
He wasn't a kidnapper, and he wasn't a monster. The name reminded him of too many days spent on the streets as a child, taunts and shouts of 'Le Diable Blanc' tossed after him, his mutation obvious in a way that damned him, he could sympathise with those who had blue skin, or fur. It was easier to hide, sure, but just as painful for a child to be taunted for something he was because he was slightly different.
He hauled himself to his feet and tried not to think about Clarice in Deah's lab. Tried not to think about what the psychotic telepath would be doing to the young woman's mind. He gripped his coat tightly between his hands before he tore it off, letting it fall to the floor to one side as he kicked at the doorframe, an explosion of frustration and upset coming out of him in a grunt that had him pressing his hands against the wall and head hanging, eyes closed as he breathed in and out raggedly, fending off the nausea, fending off the panic that wanted to grip at him at what he was becoming.
He wasn't a monster. He wasn't. He knew it, but then everone had been so sure in their taunts and teasing when he was a child, he was the Devil's son, only someone evil would have black and red eyes, be able to blow things up with a simple touch. His childhood had been nothing short of horrific, but he had tried to get past it. He had friends, he had a purpose. Well, not a purpose so much as a marketable skill, he had a friend and a lot of women who he had accidentally scorned during his life, really, he needed to be part of something, something that would give him purpose.
He couldn't be an X-man, too goody-goody, too restrictive. He appreciated their sentiment, that was for sure, but he didn't think he could do it, with all the rules and the laws and the obligations, how he had to do it all by the book or else not be on the team. If Magneto were still alive, Remy would have been tempted to join him, the other man made a lot more sense, actually doing something to help mutant kind instead of just talking about it and swooping in to save the day and still being hated for it. But Magneto died in the attack on the Pentagon. Remy didn't much trust the shapeshifter who had supposedly been his second in command. Shapeshifters by nature were slippery and untrustworthy, he found.
His foot throbbed a little, the shock of kicking the wall reverberating up his leg and he shook it of, reaching for his cards to shuffle them. He just needed to do something with his hands. He hated how doing jobs for Sinister made him remember things he would rather have forgotten, things he would never think about otherwise.
In sheer frustration and anger at himself, he punched the wall with a shout that bordered on a scream before the pain registered and he forced himself to go into the bathroom. He stripped down and stood underneath the shower, water swirling and steam curling around him as he stood underneath the water that was more than hot enough to burn him. He just closed his eyes and pushed everything aside, focusing on the heat and the water, imagining that the scorching shower was washing everything away, all his sins swirling down the drain. He didn't even notice the slight pink colour as the blood from his knuckles slid down to the tips of his fingers, dripping and faintly discolouring the water like an inkdrop in a pool.
He just needed to calm down and sort his head out, get his act together. And then he would be fine, he could face the world and pretend that he wasn't the kind of man that would put a price tag on someone's life and freedom. Really, he needed to get away, or find something that would help, something that he could do short of rescuing her that would right the balance of the cosmos.
He dried himself off and got dressed quickly, watching the city quieten down but not sleep. New York City never slept. And neither would he tonight. The demons of his mind were too awake, too active for him to get any kind of peaceful rest, the painful throb in his wrist whenever he moved his fingers enough to keep him grounded. It would have to do for now.