Who: Gambit, tag Rogue and any other stout-hearted passersby When: Tuesday afternoon, 14 October 2008 Where: The Institute foregrounds What: Books, cigarettes and a little southern charm Status: In progress Rating: PG (give or take a 13)
Click click. A meager flame sparked to life and quickly died – its memory lived on in the rosy glow that emanated from a freshly lit Marlboro Red held loosely between thumb and forefinger. Inhale. The light flickered, briefly illuminating unmistakably gallic features and a stubbly chin. Exhale. Smoke seethed in coiling ringlets from nose and mouth as luminous ash particles plummeted towards the cracked cement. He was a shadow of a boy. Booted feet were silent when they should have grated discordantly upon the sedimentary floor below, and in spite of the hazy grayish light of the autumnal afternoon, he seemed to snake along easily amid the sparse curtains of darkness.
One-hundred and fifteen steps, twelve minutes, and two cigarettes from a late lunch in the school’s near-vacant cafeteria, Remy LeBeau found himself frozen at the base of a once-flowing fountain, red eyes reflected in the murky depths of the stagnant pool. His bearing was listless and his expression distant, the nuances of which were shadowed by the shallow curtain of his hair. One hand was buried in his trench coat while the other loosely grasped an empty disposable lighter, and even as a chilling North Salem wind waltzed through the courtyard, he remained motionless as the sculptures and monuments surrounding him.
He had forsaken his burgeoning place in the international crime ring for two things: the comfortable fixedness of life at the mansion and the convivial nature of its patrons. In less than a year, both facets of existence at the Institute seemed to have dissipated as quickly and as subtly as they had first crept upon him. As a result of God’s fucked up sense of humor, the community all but disintegrated before it could wholly receive and come to accept him and he had begun to feel as though he had made a dire mistake in wandering onto the grounds that fateful summer evening.
What business had a thief (coward, murderer) gallivanting about alongside a lineup of freak Power Rangers struggling towards a neo-Civil Rights Movement recently run afoul? Good question.
With a slight grimace in ode to his present inner-conflict, he shook his head dismissively, adjusted the collar of his trench coat, turned on a heel, and began the reluctant return journey.