Remy LeBeau (ace_of_clubs) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2014-06-17 20:15:00 |
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Gambit had always had the uncanny ability to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.. or was that the wrong place at the right time? The right place at the wrong time? Maybe the right place at the right time, depending on how you looked at it. Ending up here had definitely been a right time, wrong place sort of situation.. but he'd been here less than a week and now there was some sort of hostile takeover going on? Really? What was this, history class? He sort of expected.. Stalin, or Hitler, to come out of the shadows and announce their supremacy. Okay, so maybe it wasn't that bad, but it felt a little like that. Just a little. He'd been in his room, fiddling with the TCOA (The 'Tiny Computer Of Awesome'. She'd called it a laptop, he thought that was a stupid name, he liked TCOA better), and doing as much reading as he could. He was going to figure this out if it killed him.. and with the way his brain felt at the moment, it just might. He'd never been one for schooling, never been one for lessons, so sitting and just staring at the TCOA was driving him insane. He was actually relatively thankful for the distraction of someone beating on his door. Sliding to his feet, the Cajun had answered and flashed a charming smile at the man who'd come to stand in his doorway and demand (in a very polite and politically correct way) that he please exit his room and come with him to a secure location.. something about a drill? Really, Gambit hadn't been listening very closely... his attention had caught on the way that the man was standing. An odd thing to notice, but the way his feet were turned.. they weren't together, shoulder-width apart like someone having a conversation might stand. No, one foot was drawn back, the other slightly forward, one foot turned out just so. It was a position of a man ready for confrontation. It was a position of a man ready to get violent if he refused the polite invitation. So what could the Cajun do but accept? He'd smile a smooth, charming thing and would nod. "Lemme grab m' lighter." He'd want a smoke. Turning, he'd take two steps back into his apartment and swipe the lighter off of the table near the couch. He paused there, however, and the motion must have seemed defiant to the S.H.I.E.L.D. operative, who stepped into his apartment after him. "You won't need it." The guard told him with as much politeness as he could muster. "Oh? D'accord." The Thief turned with a smile and let the lighter drop back down to the table, coming forward in a casual move to head for the door. The agent stepped aside to allow him. As he passed by the Cajun turned and landed a well-placed right hook into the man's temple. He dropped like a rock. Ten minutes later, Remy LeBeau was coming out of his apartment smartly dressed in the S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, pressing his hands over it and rolling his shoulders back. Man, it fit like a glove. The guy had even worn (about) the same shoe size. He looked good. The poor agent had been tied up with lamp cords and gagged with the shower curtain, left in his tub with a chair sitting across his throat and the heaviest object he could find in the apartment settled on the chair. He'd be out for a while. But the Cajun always took precautions. He closed his door behind him and let his fingers trace over the gun. Man, he hadn't used a gun in.. well.. a very, very long time. He had no intention of actually using it, of course.. but it was part of the uniform. He couldn't help the grin that turned his lips, but it was quickly wiped away. No, he would need to be just as stoic as all of the other soldiers. He'd already stand out enough with that red hair (which he'd neatly pulled back, then put on that man's hat, as if it would somehow help to hide it. Mirrored sunglasses were his last touch.. couldn't have those eyes causing any issues. First stop? The room next to him. He would take a glance in each and every room, now that the locks were all lax and the occupants were (mostly) gone. He would admit, he'd looked in a few underwear drawers, but he hadn't take anything. There was nothing interesting enough to take. He had, however, paused to regard a bird in one of those rooms and had refilled its water before continuing on. The sixth floor was boring. Why did he get put on the boring floor? Where was the party floor? Maybe the floors were like the years of your life? The sixth year was for kids, clown parties and Barbies.. which meant the sixteenth floor would be unprotected sex and skipping class, the eighteenth floor would be ending up in jail and getting thrown out of your parents house.. and the twenty-first? Well. THAT would be the party floor. Yes. He took the stairs. He didn't want to draw attention to himself and it seemed like at least one elevator was stuck. He wasn't risking that shit. By the time he made it to the twenty-first floor, half an hour had passed.. surely everyone had been rounded up by then, moved into central locations. As he stepped out of the stairwell, he rolled his shoulders back and gave a sterile nod to one of the other Agents who glanced at him. Upon receiving a nod in return (oh, he was so good at this spy stuff, he should be in a movie or something!) the Cajun carried on past him and further into the center of the floor. There were other guards around, mostly stationary, or quietly talking. None of them seemed to mind Gambit as he re-checked rooms, apparently to ensure everyone had been rounded up properly. He would, however, slow down as he noticed a blonde woman who was talking with one of the other guards. Was she one of them? A superior, perhaps? Oh, shit, they were going to string him up by his ankles like a deer. Turning and moving a bit further down the hall to be somewhat segregated from the other guards, Gambit would feign inspecting one of the locks on the doors. Yep. Broken, just like the others. Nothing to see here. He was going to have to find himself a new floor, the party floor was crawling with other agents. Funny, Remy LeBeau actually looked respectable in the uniform. Amazing, that. |