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He's running.
His feet hit the ground hard enough to jar his bones, but he didn't feel the pain spreading to his knees. He didn't feel the harsh wheezing of his breath, the dull ache in his chest, or the burning in his throat. His eyes watered as he raced on, the wind stinging at his face and whipping through his hair. He didn't turn back, dared not even risk a glance over his shoulder. He knew that if he did, they would catch him.
The shouts had died down, though he didn't know if that was simply because his fear had turned him deaf to them. Surely they would not have given up so easily. No gunfire rained at his feet, though he hadn't expected it – at least, not yet. He knew the orders would be to take him alive. He was needed alive. Still, a shot to the leg would both keep him alive and stop him from running, but no one opened fire.
They knew he'd escaped. The alarms had sounded, shrill and loud, seconds before he had bolted through the door. No doubt there was someone back there frantically trying to explain how he had escaped, how he'd been able to pick the locks and free himself from the prison that had been his home for the past two years. There had been strict orders in place to keep this from happening, and someone was going to pay for letting him get his hands on something – anything – he could charge and explode.
He'd planned this. From the second he was thrown in a cage, he'd planned his escape. All it would take is a slip of the hand, a distraction long enough for him to palm a coin, a hairpin, anything at all. He'd played his part, the part of the broken captive, resigned to his fate, and he'd played it beautifully. Of course he had. He knew how to play the game. He'd fought hard, struggled against them and cursed them until his throat was raw from screaming, for more than half a year. Then he'd let the rage simmer, and focused it on his escape plan instead.
The second the guards let him join their game of poker, he'd known his plan would work.
All it had taken was an offhand comment as he observed them playing, and he'd had them hooked. At first they hadn't let him touch the cards – had instead appointed another guard to stand in his place whilst he made all the calls – but eventually they had ignored their orders and given him a deck. He'd known they'd watch him closely, so he played their game and ignored the hum of energy in his fingertips, and he'd earned their trust.
Idiots. They were all the same, so blind and so foolish.
They'd been angry, of course, when he kept winning. He cheated them of their money even though he had no use for it, and when he refused to hand it over they threatened to get violent. He'd put that thought out of their mind the second he had one of them by the throat and gasping for air. It had been worth the week of torture he suffered to put him back in his place.
He'd known he couldn't escape his cage. The bars, electrified to keep him from touching them, would be unbreakable. Even if he managed to palm a safety pin, he wouldn't be able to touch the lock to pick it. He would take his chance when he was removed from the cage – in the lab, the med-bay, or even in one of the many corridors between destinations. He spent two years memorising the layout, the rotas of guards. He studied them all, picked out which workers he could manipulate.
They'd thought they could break him.
They only made him stronger.
He'd been ready for weeks, waiting for the right moment, and when it came he wasted no time. The scientist who had taken him for studies wasn't as cold, and he was more easily manipulated. All it took was prolonged eye contact and a hint of his charm, and the man was his. A gentle smile distracted him long enough for his hand to slip into a pocket, and then freedom was his.
The room was soundproofed to block out the uncomfortable symphony of screams that came from testing, so the explosion that knocked the scientist across the room was silent to those outside. He'd leapt from the table, grabbed handfuls of anything he could shove in his pockets, and then he'd picked the lock on the door and made a break for it.
He was a thief before he was a mutant, and even two years out of practice he was still able to make his way through the labyrinth of tunnels and corridors without being detected. He'd calculated that he had about ten minutes before someone would find the mess he'd left behind, and sound the alarm. Ten minutes to be outside and clear before the guards came for him. Given the route he had planned, that would be plenty of time.
But he hadn't counted on his own hesitation as he passed through the huge room where the mutants were kept.
His first and only thought had been for himself. Get out, and get out fast, and don't look back. That had been the plan. But his safest escape was the door at the end of the huge hall that housed the cages, and he'd found himself coming to a stop in the walkway between them. Mutants of all shapes, sizes and ages had risen to their feet, pressing themselves to the bars of their cages, their eyes upon him. They'd recognised the maroon jumpsuit before they'd recognised the mutant, and they'd known he was one of them – and he was free.
He should have run, but he hadn't. He'd hesitated. He'd considered charging each and every lock that contained them, setting them free. How could he leave them? How could he abandon his own kind when they needed him?
But then the alarm had sounded, and he was still a long way from freedom.
His eyes had found the two mutants he had grown closest to during his time here – the young girl with the shocking white hair, and the silver-haired boy who thrashed in his restraints over and over, desperate to be free – and he'd found himself frozen to the spot.
But then the other mutants had told him to run. They'd told him to go, to leave them, to free himself.
And he had.
Self-preservation had kicked in, and he made them a promise he doubted he would keep. He would come back for them. With the alarm ringing out through the base, he'd blown open the door, and made a bolt for freedom.
And now, he was still running.
He'd heard the base being referred to as 'The Island' a number of times, so he had expected it to be in the middle of the ocean, miles from the coast of the mainland. He'd been surprised when he'd broken free and found himself on Three Mile Island. With no time to contemplate his location, he'd run, faster than he thought possible, dodging guards and buildings and trucks, his eyes on the expanse of water ahead of him. There was no way he was hiding away in a vehicle and leaving this place by road.
He would have to swim.
He couldn't hear anyone behind him, but he didn't want to trust too much that he was alone. They wouldn't let him go. Stryker would never let him go. He still didn't have what he wanted, and he wanted it so fiercely that he knew he would be on the run for the rest of his life.
When he reached the water, he didn't hesitate. He was already beginning to tire, his legs aching from the intense run, his lungs struggling with the effort of breathing, but he wouldn't stop, not until he knew he was clear. He swam until his vision began to blur, ignoring the pounding in his head and the trembling of his limbs. He would rather die out here than be taken back to that hell. He didn't dare think about what would be done to him if they caught him now.
When he finally washed up on the mainland, he could do little more than stagger into some cover and hide himself away before he collapsed into exhaustion.
--
It was dark when Remy woke, fear gripping his heart. He jumped up, poised ready to run or strike, his hand clutched around the handful of items he'd stolen from the base, ready to charge and throw them. He expected to be surrounded by men in the uniforms of the guards – or worse, to see Victor looming over him with his sadistic smile in place. But he was alone.
It had been foolish to stop here, so close to the river, but luck was obviously on his side. It would be stupid to test it further, however, and so he straightened up, wincing as his muscles complained at the movement. He ached all over, and he was freezing, but he was alive – and he was free.
He would have to ditch the jumpsuit and find dry clothes somewhere, and then he would lift a few wallets to gather up enough money to get the hell out of the state. If Stryker had sent men out to look for him, he'd have to lie low.
Well, it wouldn't be the first time he was on the run from people trying to kill him, and he doubted it would be the last. He was used to this.
Willing his body to co-operate with him, he staggered towards the direction of civilisation, and away from the river. He had no idea which side he was on, but judging from the distance he'd had to swim, he was west of the Island. West meant that Pittsburgh or Baltimore would be his ideal destination, though getting there was going to be a challenge. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.
First, he needed dry clothing, some money, and some food.
Luck was still on his side, for barely an hour later he'd stumbled across a huge charity bin full of clothes people had donated, and he was able to strip out of the stiff, damp maroon jumpsuit they'd made him wear on the Island. It took a few minutes of searching, but he found a pair of old denim jeans with rips in the knees that were just about his size, a scuffed and worn pair of boots, a thin grey t-shirt and a plain black hooded jacket. After digging around a little more, he uncovered some thick socks and a pair of fingerless gloves, too.
Shivering still, but feeling a lot more at ease in the new clothes, he balled up the jumpsuit and tossed it at the back of the charity bin, along with the boots he'd been given on the Island. When he kicked shut the door, it felt like he was closing the door on the worst two years of his life, and he took a moment to breathe a sigh of relief.
Then his stomach cramped painfully, and reminded him that he hadn't eaten in a few days.
"Well… time to find some money." He murmured to himself. He needed to find the centre of the town or city he was in, somewhere he could slip through the crowds and pick pockets without being seen.
It took him a couple of hours, but he finally slipped into an alleyway in the middle of the city and emptied the wallets one by one. He took the cash only, tucking the notes and coins away into a pocket, and then he dumped the wallets into a bag and left them tucked under a bench on the street. Someone would find them, and maybe they'd get back to their owners. If he'd had more time, he would have picked them, cleaned them out and returned them one by one, but the stomach cramps were beginning to worsen and he didn't want to risk being caught. His pockets full, he inched down the street until he found a fast food place, and he ducked inside and ordered himself a burger.
His hands shook as he handed over the money when asked, and he could tell from the way the guy behind the counter looked at him that he probably looked really shifty. Still, he said nothing, so Remy grabbed his food and slid behind a table at the back of the room, away from the windows. He wolfed down the burger so fast he almost made himself sick, but it felt good to have food in his stomach again.
They'd kept them fed on the Island, but food was treated as a privilege, and they could be left to go hungry for days. As part of an experiment, Remy had been left to go without food for almost a week before Stryker had finally given in. He knocked back the drink he'd ordered with it, downing it in one, not realising how parched his throat was until he'd taken that first sip.
He couldn't stick around here for long. If there were men hunting him, this would be the first place they'd look after discovering where he'd washed up from the river. He rose from his seat, dumped the wrapper from his burger and his empty drinks cup in the trash, and ducked into the bathroom to splash some water on his face before he left.
When he crossed to the sink and looked into the mirror, he didn't recognise the young man staring back at him.
Only two years had passed since he was captured, but he looked so much older. He had no idea if he was any taller, but he was certainly a lot thinner – and he looked sickly and ill. His skin was pale, his eyes heavily shadowed, and he had healing bruises on his jaw and his neck. He hadn't even realised they were there. His hair, once kept beautiful, hung lank and limp, and he desperately needed a shower. Probably needed a shave soon, too – they'd kept him clean-shaven on the Island, though he didn't know why, but he could already feel the stubble returning.
He didn't look like Remy LeBeau.
Not wanting to look at the stranger in the mirror any longer, he ducked his head and turned on the taps to splash water on his face. He tried to ignore how his hands were shaking, and when he lifted his head again, he leant into the mirror and tapped into his power. He watched his eyes shift to fiery red, and actually smiled. He was still Remy, even if he didn't look it.
He dried his hands and zipped up the hoodie even further, and he stepped out of the bathroom. He'd lift a couple more wallets on his way out of town, and then he'd be on his way. He froze on the spot when he saw three huge guys step into the fast food joint, his eyes finding the silver tags that hung around their necks. He shrank back against the door to the bathroom, a bolt of fear spearing through his heart as he remembered the tags that hung around Victor's neck. The guys were blocking his only exit, and he was still feeling weak enough to know there was no way he'd get through a fight with them. He'd have to slip by them somehow.
His heart thudding painfully fast, he tugged the hood of his jacket up over his head, tucking his hair behind his ears. They'd know what he looked like, had to have figured he'd have swapped his clothes by now. Hell, the ones with tags were mutants – there was no way to know if one of them had the ability to track him based on his scent or the signature of his power. He'd have to risk it, however. He couldn't stay here and wait for them to catch him.
He inched toward them, keeping his head down and trying to make himself as small as possible. They were loud and brash, and as Remy drew nearer to them the fear coiled in his gut and made him feel sick. He just had to get by them, had to get out the door, and he'd make a run for it. One of them let out a roar of a laugh, and drove his shoulder into the one standing next to him. The other man laughed with him even as he staggered to the side, and Remy froze again as the huge hulk of a man cannoned into him.
"Whoa, hey… sorry buddy." Even as Remy pivoted to put distance between them, the man's hand shot out and caught his arm. "You alright?" Remy looked up for a split second before he remembered he was supposed to be keeping low, and he hurriedly ducked his head and twisted out of the man's grip. "Hey…" The man frowned as Remy darted out of reach, stumbling into a chair as he did so. Several people turned to look, and as fear twisted stronger inside him, Remy bolted for the door and slipped out onto the street beyond. Behind him he heard a few people call out, but he didn't stop running to find out if he was being chased.
Back in the fast food joint, the guy looked over at his friend with confusion, and he gave a shrug in response.
"What's up with that guy?"
"No idea, man." Their third friend turned away from the door. "Looked like a junkie to me. Probably off his face."
--
Remy ducked into an alley and huddled down behind a dumpster, bringing his shaking hands to his face as he pulled his knees up to his chest. He was safe here, in the shadows. He'd been living in the shadows since before he could remember. He knew how to hide when hiding was the only chance for survival. He couldn't hear angry voices or running footsteps, but they could be anywhere. They could be reporting back to Stryker that he'd been sighted, and a whole team of bad mutants or guards could be on their way from the Island.
He curled himself up tighter, making himself as small as he could, and ignored the bitter smell of trash and piss that came with the alley. If he stayed here for just a few minutes, he could gather himself, and then he could be on his way. The sooner he got as far from here as possible, the better.
"This is my turf, brat." The rough, harsh voice startled him – and it shouldn't have. He didn't yelp like he wanted to, but he cowered back against the side of the dumpster as a figure lumbered out of the shadows. He was clearly homeless. His clothes were filthy and torn and reeked of stale beer, and he looked like something that had died on the side of the street. "Get yer own place." When Remy didn't move, the man lurched forward and grabbed his ankle, and dragged him out from behind the dumpster. "Ya hear me? Get out of my alley, boy!"
Remy didn't need to be told twice. Fear still fuelling his stamina, he staggered to his feet and bolted out of the alley, ducking into the thinning crowd of people on the street beyond. He was slipping. He'd let those men get to him, and it was putting him at risk. He slowed himself down, forced himself to even out his breathing. He yanked the hood down and tipped his head back a little, and he took a long, slow deep breath.
And brought himself back.
He weaved in and out of the people, lifting wallets here and there and emptying them of the cash. This time, with his hunger satisfied and his confidence restored, he was able to lift them, empty them, and put them back all in one fluid motion. Even out of practice for two years, it was easy as blinking for him. By the time the streets were almost entirely empty of people, he had enough cash to get him a ride out of town.
He'd pick up a coach ticket or something in the morning. Until then, he'd need to find himself a place to hole up and rest. Evidently the homeless community in the city was territorial, so he couldn't just pick an alley or an abandoned building at random. He wished he was back home, in New Orleans, where he knew all the places he could crash for the night – but he wasn't, and soon enough he'd be too easy to spot on the streets. He needed to hide away until the morning.
Or, maybe not. A lot of cities had late night or early morning buses, after all. With that in mind, he figured it was safest to get out as soon as possible, so he'd track down the nearest station and see what his options were. He stopped in the middle of the street, and glanced around, trying to get an idea of which direction would be best to try his luck. Getting lost in the city wasn't going to help, although it would at least stand a chance of throwing anyone off his trail. But he also didn't want to risk circling around and getting himself cornered.
He spotted a couple of women walking together in his direction, and he decided to try his luck. He'd always been easy with the ladies, after all.
"Ah, excuse me…" He put on his best smile as he approached them. They paused in their conversation and turned to look at him, and for a second Remy saw something in their eyes that told him he might have to watch his words. They looked a little cautious, as though they didn't trust him. "Sorry to bot'er you, but ah… was jus' wonderin' where de coach station migh' be? Need a ride outta town, see, an' I got myself a lil' lost." He dragged a hand through his hair, shoving the other into his pocket in an attempt to seem like a harmless kid.
"Oh, um…" One of them smiled now, but he could see in her eyes that she was still unsure of him. "It's a couple of blocks that way." She pointed in one direction. "There's a gas station halfway down the street, you can't miss it."
"T'ank you." He gave her a brilliant smile, the same smile that had often brought women to their knees. "Sorry again fo' disturbin' you." He stepped to one side to let them pass, and didn't miss how they gave him a wide berth. Remembering what he'd seen in the bathroom mirror, he couldn't blame them. He didn't exactly look like someone you could be comfortable around. Still, he had directions now, and with any luck he could be out of the town before sunrise.
Luck was indeed on his side. He grabbed the first coach out of town, not caring where its final destination was, and he curled up on a back seat and slept.
--
His plan was to go home. It would take him a while, and the route he'd planned meant he crossed several states unnecessarily. He didn't want to take a direct route – they'd expect that. They probably expected him to go back to New Orleans, and so they'd probably be waiting for him there. Victor almost certainly knew his old haunts, after all. No, he was going to go a really roundabout way that would almost certainly take a couple of months.
He'd stay in each place a few days, maybe more depending on if he needed more money or supplies, and then he'd move on. He'd never sleep in the same place twice, never hit the same food stores twice, and he'd cover his tracks. They weren't going to find him. He couldn't let them.
He reached Pittsburgh by the time the sun had risen, and he snagged himself a road map as he exited the station. He'd need to plan his route, and start preparing for it. He found a quiet diner where he could grab some breakfast, and he opened up the map and began to study it. As much as he wanted to go straight home, he'd circle around Louisiana until the very last minute.
"You heading somewhere, sweetie?" He jerked away from the waitress who'd come to his table. He was definitely too distracted lately. He needed to focus more. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." She had a kind smile, but he didn't dare relax. Stryker hadn't used any female mutants that he knew of, and the guards at the Island had all been male, too. The women had all been scientists or lab techs, or medical staff.
"Non, sorry… been a long night." He tried a smile, found it came a lot easier than he expected. Her saw her glance shift to the road map, where he'd been marking cities. "Ah… a road trip, o' sorts."
"How nice." She gave him another smile. "Anywhere nice at the end?"
"Jus' home, hopefully." He shrugged.
"And where is home?" She cocked a hip to one side, holding her little notebook and pencil in one hand. "You're not from around here, I can tell that much." When he gave her a confused look, she laughed gently. "The accent, sweetie. You're from down south, right?"
"Oh. Righ', yeah." He fidgeted awkwardly in his seat, which she took as a cue to move the conversation along.
"So, what can I get you?" Remy hurriedly grabbed the menu and scanned it, muttering out an order as quickly as he could. "It'll be over in a few minutes." He didn't miss the look of concern she sent him, and he shrunk back away from her, studying his map again.
He began circling major cities in various states, following roads between them to get an idea of the route he'd prefer to take. Obviously a lot of it relied upon public transport or being able to hitch a ride, but if he had a rough idea then it would help. He pushed back his sleeves as he finished, circling New Orleans several times. One day he'd be back there, where he belonged. Until then, he had work to do.
The waitress came back with his soda and the waffles he'd ordered, and he folded away the map before she could see the circled New Orleans. The fewer people who knew exactly where he was going, the better.
"Here you go, sweetie." She flashed him another smile as she set the plate in front of him. "If you need anything else, just…" She trailed off, her gaze shifting from the plate to his exposed arms – and the marks upon them. Remy followed her gaze to the scars that couldn't be anything but needle marks, and he hurriedly pulled down his sleeves again to cover them. "I'll be over there, if you need anything." Remy didn't look at her as she left. He knew exactly what she was thinking.
Junkie.
He hadn't thought of that. He was pale and thin, and very twitchy, and add to that the marks on his arms, it wasn't difficult to jump to that conclusion. He'd have to find himself some long-sleeved shirts, at least until the scars faded. He wolfed down his waffles, feeling eyes on his back as he ate, and he knew he'd have to get the hell out of here soon. For all he knew, someone could call the cops – he was still young, and looked it, and his 'road trip' story could be seen as a lie. Someone might think he was a runaway.
He ate as quickly as he could without being suspicious, already tucking the map away into one of his pockets ready for his escape. As soon as his soda was finished, he rose from the table, already fishing money out of another pocket. He put the notes on the counter and fished out some coins to go along with them, and turned to leave.
"Are you alright, sweetie?" He turned back, just lifting his eyes to meet the eyes of the waitress. "Do you need any help?"
"Oh. Um." He shook his head, taking a step back. "No, t'ank you."
"If you need to call someone, you can…" Warning bells rang in his head, and he knew he had to get out, now.
"Non. T'ank you." He repeated, taking another step back. "Gotta go… got somewhere to be." Before she could say another word, he turned and hurried to the door, and out onto the street. He had to find somewhere to clean up, make himself look more human, and then he wouldn't stand out so much.
He found a fairly decent hotel and booked himself in – he remembered at the last minute to give a fake name, Robert Lord. He went immediately to the shower as soon as he'd locked the door, and stripped off the stolen clothes and boots. Whilst he waited for the water to heat up, he stepped in front of the full-length mirror he found in the small wardrobe, and studied himself.
There were fresh bruises littered over every inch of him – darker ones on his back, from what he could see, nasty purple ones on his thighs, and splotches of black, blue and yellow spread across his chest and stomach. Amidst the bruises were angry red healing wounds, and the pale white lines of scars. Before the Island he'd only had a handful of scars from his time on the streets, simple accidents as a child or mistakes he'd made during training with his father. Now he was covered in them.
He'd have to keep himself covered up as much as possible in public, at least until the bruises had faded and the wounds didn't look so fresh. He already looked suspicious enough – if anyone saw the beaten up state of him, they'd know something was wrong. Then the police would get involved, and he wouldn't put it past Stryker to have connections. He was still too close to be safe.
The shower helped. The hot water was a shock to his system at first – they'd only ever been allowed to bathe in cold or barely-warm water, and only when given permission – but after he stood under the spray for several minutes, he adjusted to the temperature, and it began to soothe. His body still ached from the intense run and the frantic, long swim across the river, and from sleeping cramped up on the bus to Pittsburgh, and so the pounding water was a relief to his sore muscles.
He was in there for almost an hour. He'd scrubbed himself clean twice, washed his hair three times, and then he'd simply slid down to the floor of the shower stall, and stayed there. It took what was left of his strength to keep himself from simply curling up and passing out. When he finally dragged himself out of the shower, he snagged one of the bathrobes and pulled it on, staggering through to the bedroom. He stopped beside the bed, and very slowly leant over to place his hand on it.
Very carefully, he pressed down, and felt the soft mattress give way beneath his hand. The sheets were soft – basic material, of course, but decent enough. As carefully as he'd laid his hand upon them, he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed, and then slowly tipped himself back until he lay across it. It was soft beneath his weight, not cold and hard like he was used to.
That simple feeling brought tears to his eyes.
Two years of sleeping on the cold, hard floor of his cage, two years of sleeping curled up tight to fight off the chill, and now he would get to sleep in a bed again. A warm, soft bed, in a room with heating, no chains or cages or guards waking him in the middle of the night to haul him off for testing.
He dragged a pillow from the end of the bed and curled himself around it, burying his face into it as the tears broke free, and he cried for the first time in two years.
--
He stayed in Pittsburgh for three days, gathering money together and picking up a couple of essentials. When he boarded another bus heading for Cleveland, he had a backpack filled with spare clothes, a few bottles of water and some snacks, three packs of playing cards, and a travel kit of toiletries. He'd cleaned himself up nicely – he'd shaved, he'd tied his hair back, and he'd bought himself a couple of new shirts that didn't look quite so old and thin. Maybe now he wouldn't draw so much attention to himself.
Cleveland was just a brief stop – he didn't intend to stay too long, unless something came up. He stayed a couple of days before he boarded the next bus for a short ride to Columbus, where he ended up staying for four days. He went out each day to lift more wallets, restock his supply of water and food, and gather anything else he might need for the long trip home – and then he bought a ticket to Indianapolis. He settled down for his last night in Columbus, and curled up gratefully in the warm sheets.
And woke screaming from a nightmare.
The sheets were twisted around his legs, sticking to his skin by the film of cold sweat that coated him head to toe, and his chest heaved with every shaking breath he drew in. He'd been back at the Island, on one of the tables as faceless scientists stuck needles into his skin, ignoring his screams. He'd struggled, he'd fought, but they hadn't paid him any attention – and then there he was, standing at the end of the table and watching him with that cold, cruel smile. Stryker.
"Let's see what's inside, shall we?" He'd moved closer, holding a big sharp knife, which he then plunged into his stomach – and that's when he'd woken, screaming, fear gripping his heart in an icy grip.
It wasn't the first nightmare he'd had, and he knew it wasn't going to be the last. Knowing he'd never get to sleep again, he climbed out of bed and headed for the shower, hoping the hot water would clear his head. By the time he boarded the bus for Indianapolis, the nightmare had been pushed to the back of his mind to lie forgotten until the next time he woke up screaming.
--
He left Indianapolis after four days, passing through Effingham to get to St. Louis. He'd intended to stay longer, give himself a break from travelling, but on the third day he ran into some more men with dog tags, and they spooked him enough to put him on the next bus out of town. He ended up in Kansas City, but it wasn't far enough away for him. He huddled down in an abandoned building for one long, sleepless night, waiting for Victor to emerge out of the shadows and snatch him up.
The next day, he headed in the direction of Denver. That was the next major city he'd marked on his map, so that was where he was going. He got public transport where he could, and hitched a ride where he couldn't. He was careful who he got into a vehicle with, of course – he felt them out with his empathic ability, touching on their nature and seeking out any ill feelings or ill intent. When he found none, he climbed into their car or truck, and went as far as they'd take him.
He was so exhausted from travel when he finally reached Denver that he booked himself into the first hotel he could find – once again under the name Robert Lord – and he collapsed onto the bed as soon as he was through the door. Thankfully the exhaustion chased away any potential nightmares, and he slept right through to early evening the following day. His next step was a shower, where he discovered, to his delight, that many of his bruises were already starting to fade. Even after two weeks, some of them were still as ugly and nasty as they had been back in Pittsburgh, but they were healing, even if the process was slow. He was still thin and pale, but he looked healthier than he had before, which was better than nothing.
It was a week before he left Denver. He'd taken a couple of days to rest up and recover some strength, and then he'd gone out to replenish his supplies and palm some more wallets. He was carrying around a fair bit of money now, enough to afford a second change of clothes and a nice jacket, and he even paid to get his hair cut a little. He was starting to feel more like the Remy LeBeau he'd been before Victor had snatched him.
From Denver it was Salt Lake City, and it took him almost an entire day of travelling to get there. By the time he clambered out of the truck who'd picked him up two hours earlier, he was exhausted again. He was cold, and tired, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up in a bed and sleep for a week – which he very nearly did.
For the first couple of nights he stayed on the streets, getting a feel for the city before he settled down. He found a use for his scars – he huddled down in alleyways with them on show, and with the shadows under his eyes and his current twitchy nature, he looked the part of a junkie craving his next fix. It kept people away from him. After a few days, he ducked into a public restroom and changed his clothes, cleaning himself up as best he could so he didn't look like he'd been living on the street, and then he checked himself into a hotel.
By the time he left Salt Lake City, he'd been travelling for a month.
He was still looking over his shoulder every minute of every day, avoiding anyone who looked like they could be in league with Stryker, and when anyone paid special attention to him, he made himself scarce as fast as he could without seeming suspicious. He still didn't trust that someone wasn't following him every step of the way, just waiting for him to make a mistake, waiting for the right moment to snatch him up and take him back to the Island and the cage that was waiting for him.
During the seven hour trip he took to the next big city, Remy thought about the mutants he'd had to leave behind. He wished again that he could have freed them, even if most of them probably wouldn't have made it off the Island. He wondered if any of them had suffered for his escape – it wasn't a stretch to think Stryker would take it out on the others. He hoped that wasn't the case. Leaving them behind was enough guilt on his mind, he didn't want to add more.
They'd understand. They'd told him to go, after all, when he'd hesitated in that room. They'd told him to run, to free himself, and even though he'd made a promise to return and help them, he had a feeling they'd all known it was an empty promise. Still… if he ever found himself with the chance to go back safely, then he would. He just didn't know if he'd ever get that chance.
When he stepped off the bus in Las Vegas, he forgot everything for a moment. He forgot the horrors he'd faced over the last two years, the hell he'd been through, and the nightmares that still haunted his mind. For just a moment, he was Remy LeBeau, prince of the Thieves Guild and a master thief, right in his element. Though not yet twenty-one – he still had some years to go before he hit that number – he knew he could get into any bar or casino in town, and within an hour he would be ten times richer, if he so wished.
He couldn't stay long, or else he'd stay forever. He knew that much. The tourists here would be easy pickings, as they'd been on Bourbon Street back home, and they'd be all too willing to give up their money for a game of cards in the back of a bar even though they could easily nip into one of the licensed casinos on the same street. He knew from experience that tourists often liked the thrill and the risk of illegal gambling. It would take him a day to scope out the right establishments to set something up, but if it was anything like New Orleans, he'd be able to spot them from a mile away.
He wouldn't even need to set something up, not here. He could just sit himself down at a table and win the money by merely playing. He knew all the tricks, and he'd been taught well. That would be his first stop, after he checked into a hotel. This wasn't a place for sleeping on the streets, especially if he wanted to waltz into high-end establishments without being stopped. He didn't quite have his old confidence back, but he would get by.
That night, he walked out of a casino with a hefty sum of money in his jacket pocket. He wasn't entirely on his game, but he'd worked the table well enough to score the cash, and now he had enough to indulge himself on some of the things he'd missed. Like expensive bourbon and silk shirts. If he wanted to get back to his old life, he had to get back into the swing of things. The next day, he went shopping for new clothes, clothes he would save for the evenings when he needed to blend in. He tried them on in the hotel room, smoothing out the black silk shirt and the slim waistcoat, and he felt even more like himself than he had so far.
But that didn't stop the nightmares from waking him, pulling him from sleep with terrified screams and leaving him huddled in the corner of the room, hugging his knees whilst he fought back the shadows of the room. It didn't stop him from checking the locks on the door and the window four times before he was satisfied enough to risk sleep in the first place.
And all the confidence in the world didn't stop his hands from shaking when somebody got too close, didn't stop him from getting edgy when someone paid a little too much attention to him.
He left Las Vegas after four days, and moved on to Phoenix, and then to Colorado Springs. After a month and a week of travelling, he was eager to get home, and be done with it. He only spent enough time in each city to sleep, shower, and swipe some more money, and then he was on his way. He spent another couple of days in Oklahoma City, before moving on to the final major city on his list before home – Dallas.
--
It was in Dallas that it nearly all went wrong.
He'd been there a couple of days, resting himself up before the long trip to New Orleans, when it happened. He was on his way back to the hotel after a nice night of stealing cash and a good meal in a nice restaurant, admittedly a little distracted thinking of home, when he heard the shouts.
Instinct told him to run and hide. Instinct told him to get the hell out of there. But the guilt of abandoning over a dozen kids fought that instinct, and he found himself inching closer to the sound. He didn't have to move far before the fight came to him. When a couple of men staggered into the street, he ducked into an alley and pressed himself against the wall, hoping to blend in with the shadows enough not to be spotted. Fear gripped him, urged him to run, and he fought it back. Now that he was here, he had to try and see it through.
The men were hunting a kid. A mutant. Remy didn't need to be a telepath to work that out. It was a girl, barely more than sixteen, with a shock of pink hair – and they were blocking her exits, one on other side of her. Remy slipped a hand into his pocket, fingering the deck of cards he kept there, and he felt the energy hum beneath his fingertips. He could do it. He could charge the whole deck and toss it out there and trust the girl was smart enough to make a run for it. By the time the guys – if they survived – realised what had happened, they could both be well clear of the street.
But then they'd know he was here. They'd know, and they'd report back, and he'd never be safe. He was too close to home. They'd find him.
He inched back further into the alley, and squeezed his eyes shut as he heard the girl cry out for help. He pressed his fist to his mouth to stop himself from making a sound, and then changed his mind, covering his ears instead as she cried out again. Very slowly, he slid down the wall until he huddled on the ground, and tried not to think about what was happening just around the corner. He looked up sharply when it fell silent, and he held his breath, waiting for them to step into the mouth of the alley and find him. There was a shuffling sound, and then one of the men grunted as though lifting something.
"Quick. Let's get her to the truck before someone sees." Footsteps sounded, drawing closer to the alley, and Remy felt panic rise up within him. He glanced around hurriedly, and saw with dread that the alley he'd ducked into also housed what he could only imagine was the truck the men were talking about. He frantically searched for a better hiding place, knowing they'd see him the second they turned on the headlights, if not as soon as they stepped into the alley. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he rose into a crouch and slipped down past the side of the truck, ducking down behind some garbage cans just in time.
"So, what's this one supposed to do again?"
"No idea. Stryker said she wasn't dangerous, and I didn't ask further. You know what he's like with too many questions." Remy huddled behind the cans, his hands trembling. If he made a single sound, they'd find him. "Especially lately."
"Probably still pissed about that kid that escaped." Remy's heart seemed to stop completely, and he tasted bile at the back of his throat. They knew about him. They probably knew his face.
"Oh, yeah. That sure ticked him off." One of them opened the door of the truck, and tossed what Remy could only imagine was the girl into the back. "You think he's still trying to work out how it was even possible?"
"Probably." The door was slammed shut, and then another opened. "Come on, let's get this brat to the plane. He gets angry if we're late."
"Expects us to be like Creed." One of them scoffed. "If he wanted this kid so bad why didn't he send his pet dog after her?"
"Creed's on another mission, last I heard." Two doors slammed shut, and cut off the rest of the conversation. Remy slid further down behind the cans, hugging his knees to his chest as his whole body trembled. The engine started, and the alley was bathed with angry red light from the taillights – and then the truck pulled out, and disappeared.
Remy let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, but he didn't dare move. Not yet. Not until they were long gone. The men – mutants or not – had known about him, about his escape, and if they were to be believed, Victor was on another mission separate from snatching mutant kids. Remy knew there had been a team of mutants – Team X he'd heard them called – who did the snatching, but during his time there he'd heard from the guards that a few of them were turning their backs on Stryker, and going their separate ways. Victor was the one Stryker had always turned to first. He was the important one, the one who got the job done no questions asked.
So if Victor wasn't being sent to fetch the kids, it was almost guaranteed that he'd been sent to fetch him. Victor could smell him out, follow a trail. Victor had fought him once, and won – he knew his powers, his moves, he knew where to strike and how hard. He'd expected it, of course, but hearing it from Stryker's men made it horribly real. Victor was searching for him, and if he wasn't already in New Orleans then he would be soon.
Remy pushed himself to his feet and hurried in the direction of his hotel, wanting to get off the streets as quickly as possible. Would he have to abandon his plan of finally going home? Would he have to keep moving, never staying in one place, until Stryker called off his dog and left him alone? Would Stryker ever leave him alone? He hadn't got what he wanted from him, he hadn't been able to analyse his power let alone extract it and copy it. Was it possible that he wanted it badly enough to never give up on chasing him down?
There was another option, of course. It was dangerous enough for him to be in New Orleans as it was, since he'd been excommunicated from the Guild and told to never return on pain of death, but he'd managed to survive there for months without the Assassins finding him. If he could get back in and get to his father, then maybe he'd be safe. The Thieves could hide him, even set him up in a safehouse somewhere, and no one would ever touch him. It was a risk, but it was worth taking. Even if his father couldn't help, he'd never let anyone know he was back in town.
No, he wasn't going to abandon his plan of going home, not when he was so close. If he had to, he'd go home to Jean-Luc and risk the Assassins finding out, but he wasn't going to turn his back now. He'd take the risk, and he'd go home – where he belonged.
Shadows chased him in his dreams that night, and once again he woke up screaming.
--
When he stepped off a bus and took a lungful of Louisiana air, he knew he was home.
It would be a long and risky road ahead of him, and he'd be looking over his shoulder for years to come, but he was home. This was his turf, he knew the streets and the buildings, he knew everything there was to know. If anything had changed in the last two years, he'd figure it out within a couple of days. If Victor was chasing him, hunting him, then he could follow him all over town. He wasn't going to get him again. He'd be prepared this time. No one was taking him back to that Island.
And then he met Logan.