Chapter Text
xXxXx
Just as the full moon slipped behind the clouds, he took it as his cue. It wasn’t the night he would have chosen for a break-in, but there was urgency, and he would make it work. He’d had only the previous day to study the place, but he trusted his experience and instincts to get the job done fast and clean.
Using his staff, he vaulted over the gate, almost twelve feet high — legs extended forward like a gymnast’s, his long coat fluttering with the smooth, fluid motion — and landed with his knees bent and the soles of his feet planted firmly on the ground. Not a sound betrayed him. The staff, extended at his side, quickly retracted to a size small enough to fit in his pocket.
The next moment, he was racing along the edge of the path that led straight to the steps, and then to the mansion’s front door. He moved in silence, as if his feet barely touched the ground, using the sparse vegetation for cover while steering clear of possible security traps. Knowing where they were positioned had been partly a matter of luck.
While surveilling the place the day before, he had spotted, through binoculars, a broad-shouldered man with long arms and blue fur — more beast than man — carrying out what seemed like a routine security inspection. The man behind the binoculars had smiled to himself. That would make the job almost too easy.
Now, as he neared the mansion, he disabled the surveillance cameras with his subtlest, quietest explosions. One precisely thrown card per camera, and the way in was clear. He had done his homework, preparing three possible entry points, each with a matching exit plan. Experience had taught him that forcing doors and windows was sometimes necessary — even inevitable — but it was always better to avoid it when possible. The best path was the one that let him slip in unnoticed, and that path often revealed itself only in the moment.
He had planned to enter through a top-hinged window on the upper floor that seemed to stay open, but when he caught sight of a half-open window on the ground floor, he decided to use that instead. It was dark inside, and he melted into the shadows.
Knowing exactly where he needed to go, he reached his destination within minutes. With a small flashlight whose beam carried only a short distance, reducing the risk of detection, he slipped through the open door. It appeared to be a meeting room. At the center stood a round table surrounded by a dozen chairs. On the wall opposite the entrance was an intricate panel and, just above it, a giant screen, currently off. As he drew closer, he noticed a grayish helmet connected to the panel by cables, like metallic spider legs.
Pulling a small rectangular device from his pocket, he hesitated before connecting it to the main panel. There was always a chance the screen might flare to life or give him away with a sound. It was part of the job, he knew, and he plugged the device in. He let out a quiet breath of relief when nothing happened, except for the tiny lights blinking on the device, signaling that the data transfer had begun.
He frowned as the strangeness of it settled in. There were no passwords, no resistance from the system, no obstacles. Given the security outside, he had expected some kind of barrier protecting access to the central computer. Surely they didn’t believe no one could make it this far. There was no time to dwell on it. As soon as the lights stopped blinking, confirming the transfer was complete, he removed the device and tucked it safely back into his coat pocket.
Putting away the flashlight as well, he blended back into the shadows, counting his steps to guide himself back to the window he had entered through. After that, all he had to do was retrace his path to the gate, and the job would be done.
When he spotted the faint moonlight spilling through the window, he quickened his pace, his steps light and silent, almost feline.
It had been easy. Maybe too easy, and that was never a good sign. A look of dissatisfaction crossed his face, as if that unwanted thought had jinxed the mission — just as he threw himself to the side.
In the half-darkness, he barely had time to dodge. He only felt a heavy body lunging toward him, then heard a growl of frustration as the target — the prey — slipped away. When he looked up, his eyes glowing red in the dimness, he saw the silhouette of a short, stocky man, his bare chest framed by the weak moonlight. Again, he had only a split second to move as the man charged at him once more, arms raised, what looked like knives in his hands flashing with lethal intent. Instead, they struck a piece of wooden furniture and smashed it to pieces.
Another growl. The blades came at him again. No — he realized only after they had passed close, too close, to his face that they were not knives the man was holding. They came out of his hands.
Twice now, dodging had driven him farther from the window — from his exit. He had to get out quickly; the noise would have already drawn the attention of the mansion’s other residents. He preferred to do the job cleanly and leave unnoticed, but when things went wrong, fighting was the last resort. The priority was to deliver what he had come for.
He managed to evade the stocky man’s attacks. Strong and fast as his opponent clearly was, he was still slower. He also had the arrogant confidence to believe he might stand a chance against him in hand-to-hand combat. But once reinforcements arrived, he would be outnumbered, and his chances of winning would drop significantly. His only way out was to make a run for it.
He saw the room darken as the clouds outside covered the moon once more. Waiting for the next charge, he dodged again, this time springing into the air with the staff that seemed to materialize in his hand, launching himself toward the window. He expected to pass cleanly through the opening with his body straight, but had to adjust midair when the man suddenly struck with his left arm, which he had kept lowered to throw him off. Despite the force and cunning of the attack, he managed to dodge, but it cost him his clean exit through the window; instead, his right foot struck the glass, and he had only enough time to shield his face from the shards with his forearm.
Outside, he landed in a roll, got back to his feet, and sprinted away. He was fast, and it would not take him long to reach the gate. With his heart racing and his mind focused on survival, adrenaline took over his body so completely that a small, smug smile began to form on his face.
Just as he was about to use his staff and clear the gate, an invisible force held him in place. In the distance, moonlight fell over him as if some outside power had scattered the clouds by sheer will. The frustration of being unable to move seemed to last only a second before it was replaced by a searing pain that nearly made him roar, like lava pouring into his head, blinding and deafening him.
It ended as suddenly as it had begun. Still slightly dizzy, he managed to vault over the gate without further hindrance. Before landing, as if curiosity had gotten the better of him, he glanced back and saw six silhouettes. Then he kept running, heading for the motorcycle he had hidden nearby. On his lips was a triumphant smile. Even if no one was there to witness it, it was the same smile that had gotten him out of trouble more times than he could count.
***
About half an hour later, frustrated and dragged from sleep, the group had gathered around the table in the meeting room — the same room the intruder had breached. Some had thrown on robes or changed clothes; others had not even bothered. The frustration over what had happened made the silence feel even heavier.
Beast, his small spectacles perched on his nose and blue fur covering his body, had hurried to the meeting room, correctly assuming that the computers might have been hacked. A few quick keystrokes at the main console were enough to confirm it: data from Cerebro had been copied and stolen.
Before Beast summoned them there, the others had searched the mansion, trying to assess the damage. Nothing seemed to be missing, however, and the only visible destruction was the broken window and the sideboard Wolverine had smashed during the fight.
“How’d anyone get in here?” Wolverine broke the silence, voicing the question no one else dared to ask. He clenched his fists and held himself back from driving one of them into the table. He seemed to be the most frustrated of them all. He was the one who had failed to stop the intruder; the one who had followed him on his motorcycle and still lost his scent on the road, where the thief had also fled at high speed.
“Good thing you saw him, Logan,” Jean said, the young redhead’s voice soft.
Wolverine didn’t answer, as if he hadn’t heard her. The truth was that he had spotted the intruder by chance. Having trouble sleeping, as was often the case, he had gone down to the kitchen for something to drink when he happened to glance out the window and noticed a broken camera hanging outside. That was when, sharpening his sense of smell and moving into the next room, he had caught an unfamiliar scent. He was furious that he had been awake during the break-in and still had not detected the intruder. Clearly, the man was no amateur. Wolverine had considered the possibility that stealth itself might be one of his mutant abilities, but the Professor’s dismissal of that possibility was like a bucket of cold water.
“But he was a mutant,” Cyclops said, his eyes furious behind the red visor.
“Without a doubt,” the Professor replied.
At Wolverine’s impatient snort, the Professor went on, speaking as if to the whole group.
“Once Beast finishes his inspection and makes sure the computer has not been damaged or altered in any way, we should be able to locate the intruder.”
“Almost there,” Beast said, his fingers moving quickly across the keyboard.
The Professor tried to hide it, but Jean, who knew him well, caught the hint of concern in his voice. It was not only about the computer. It was also the fact that the thief had clearly known what he was doing. While they were wasting time, he could already be working to block his location, if he had not done so already.
“Do you really need Cerebro to locate him?” Cyclops asked, a certain insistence in his voice. He was not a telepath like Jean or the Professor, but he knew the reach of his mentor’s abilities, even without the psychic amplification provided by the helmet.
“I could try,” the Professor said patiently, considering it. “Were it not for the fact that this intruder has a strong mental block.” He had hurt the man when he entered his mind in an attempt to stop his escape, and had hurt himself in the process as well. “The unpredictability of what might happen if I try again is concerning,” he concluded, not speaking to anyone in particular.
“We can’t let him get away with this,” Cyclops pressed, harder now. As the team’s leader, he knew what was at stake. “He got away with classified information. That means he, or whoever sent him, knows how valuable that information is.”
“We know, Cyclops,” Storm said, speaking up for the first time. She sat quietly, calm and composed. As second-in-command, her steady presence mattered in moments like this. “We’ll act as soon as we can.”
Cyclops filled his lungs to argue, but chose silence instead, knowing it was the correct response for the moment.
“I have good news,” Beast announced, without turning toward the group, his eyes still fixed on the computer. “Despite the theft, the intruder doesn’t seem to have left anything behind that could corrupt Cerebro.”
“So we can use it to locate him?” Cyclops said, more as a statement than a question.
The Professor looked at his telepathic pupil. Jean nodded and positioned herself beside him as he guided his chair to the front of the screen.
With both hands, he took the helmet and put it on. Jean held his hand to help him in the search and share what he saw. Both closed their eyes and concentrated. A few tense minutes passed before the two telepaths announced that they had located the thief.
Mentally exhausted, Jean felt the strength leave her body. Wolverine, standing close to her, made an involuntary move to catch her, but stopped himself, giving Cyclops time to take her in his arms. Wolverine looked away.
“Thank you, honey,” Jean said, smiling at her boyfriend.
“He’s about fifteen miles from here,” the Professor said as he removed the helmet, his hands trembling slightly. As expected, the effort of finding a mutant protected by mental shields had been exhausting.
Storm, tall and graceful, stood and placed a hand on the Professor’s shoulder. He raised his eyes to her.
“Prepare the Blackbird,” the Professor said to them all. “Be ready. We leave in ten minutes.” With two members absent, they would need everyone who was present.
The Professor took a deep breath, hoping the thief had not yet used or disclosed the data in any way. He had stolen not only information about the residents of the mansion, but also about every mutant who had ever crossed their path, regardless of whether they had accepted help or not, whether they were heroes or had chosen the other side.
The truth was that it was not yet time for them to expose themselves. Perhaps one day, Professor Xavier, founder of the X-Men, thought. But not yet. The world was not ready to accept his group of mutants. That was why finding the thief and recovering what had been taken was of the utmost importance.
***
The thief knew his time had run out. For the past few days, his hideout had been a large, empty house on an isolated property surrounded by vegetation. He had slipped inside, used the bathroom and one of the bedrooms, and would soon leave as quietly as he had come, without leaving a trace. He had done the same thing many times before.
Sitting on the bed he had been using, he finished tending to the cuts he had suffered during his escape. It had taken him a while. Although his coat was made of thick material meant to protect him, the impact against the window had been strong enough to leave his forearm peppered with fine shards of glass. The wounds had bled, but none of them was deep enough to require stitches. Still, he was methodical, removing each tiny fragment with tweezers before cleaning and bandaging his injured arm.
He hissed at the sting of the thin, uneven cuts as he put his shirt and coat back on. The sleeve, stiff with dried blood, rubbed uncomfortably against the skin the gauze did not cover. He packed his few belongings into his backpack and looked around to make sure he had left nothing behind. He was ready to go when a sound made him stop. He quickly turned off the bedroom light and sharpened his hearing.
He was no longer alone in the house.
***
Outside, the team surrounded the house. They had arrived by air and set the jet down far enough away that it would not be heard. From there, they had covered the remaining distance on foot and were preparing to move in when Cyclops, covering the rear, saw the only light in the house go out. Pressing the X-shaped communicator on his belt, he contacted the rest of the group and warned them.
The thief must have noticed their presence and was preparing to flee. From where, there was no way to know; he had too many possible escape routes at his disposal.
“Mais là,” the thief muttered under his breath. He had slipped into the kitchen, thinking he could make it out the back, but they were not idiots. On the contrary, they had surrounded him strategically. There was no way he would slip out undetected. If he wanted to escape, he would need a distraction. And he needed to hurry. The deadline for delivering the stolen information was closing in, and he could not afford to be late.
Still counting on the possibility that they didn’t know where he was inside the house, he moved from room to room, setting distractions and checking who was where. They were the same six as before. Now he could see them more clearly despite the darkness, thanks to a strong light, almost like headlights, coming from somewhere on the east side of the property. Along with the stocky man with claws who had attacked him, there was a tall, lean man with a red visor, a red-haired woman, a blue beast, a tall white-haired, dark-skinned woman, and a bald man in a floating chair. The last one kept his distance, as if he were there only to give orders, not to fight.
The white-haired woman, the stocky man, and the lean one entered the house at the same time, through the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen, respectively, while the redhead and the blue beast remained outside, positioned at opposite points with a clear overall view of the house.
Their entry was his cue. The thief made his way onto the roof and stayed crouched there. Although he was sure he was well hidden, he noticed the blue beast and the redhead look up at the same time. The bald man must have been feeding them information. From where he was, the man could not possibly have seen him, and yet he knew. When the redhead began to rise into the air, he slipped back inside.
He cursed. He didn’t want to be inside when it happened. He would have to run, and avoiding a fight now seemed unlikely. Whoever reached the second floor first would have the advantage. To his annoyance, the man with the claws ran up the stairs, sniffing as if tracking him down. Without waiting for him to reach the top, the thief jumped over the banister and dropped to the ground floor. The tall man fired an optic blast, which he managed to dodge just as the other man launched himself at him with both arms outstretched.
The thief struck the former in the chest with a precisely thrown card and managed to dodge the other man’s furious attack. That was when the explosions began. He had placed delayed explosives as traps throughout the house. He could delay the release of the charge to a point, but not for long — less than a minute, at most. The force of each explosion also varied according to the size of the object he chose to charge. He had filled small objects in each room with kinetic energy, but the chain reaction was unpredictable.
The ceiling collapsed on top of the two men, and the floor gave way beneath the woman’s feet, making her fall before she could react. The ceiling above her was about to come down as well. This was his chance to escape. He blew the door open with a volley of cards and rushed out.
In a fleeting moment of hesitation, he looked back, expecting the woman to climb out of the hole, but she did not. Then a scream rang out. A scream of terror.
Beneath the rubble, the two men moved faster, trying to free themselves, driven by the scream. But they would not reach her in time. The ceiling was giving way, collapsing in pieces, and would bury the woman down there.
The thief ran back inside and jumped into the hole. He had only enough time to catch a glimpse of the woman’s wide, glassy eyes before throwing himself over her, trying to shield her from the falling debris.
His back took the full impact, forcing the air painfully from his lungs and making his head spin. The woman was lying on her back and would certainly have been injured. They both coughed as dust choked the air, their throats closing with the sharp, immediate sensation of suffocation.
He pushed himself up to see how much room he had, but his head soon struck the limit of the space above him. He would have to stay hunched over, but there was enough room to get off her. The woman curled in on herself and whimpered.
The dust gradually settled, but it still made their eyes sting and their mouths dry. He turned on the flashlight. Blinking quickly to clear his vision, he looked around. They had fallen into the basement. The ceiling, however, had collapsed unevenly, forming a narrow gap between beams and broken concrete, trapping them in a tight space that barely allowed them to move.
Pointing the light upward, he noticed the large beam holding back the rest of the debris and protecting them from being crushed. Then he turned the light toward the woman’s face. Blue, catlike eyes stared directly into his. He studied her carefully. Something was wrong.
“You hurt?” he asked, forcing the words out with tremendous effort; his throat was so dry it felt swollen. He choked and coughed so hard his stomach hurt. The woman did not answer.
He knew from the beginning that group was made up of mutants, people with special abilities, just like him. The woman seemed strong and decisive; she certainly wouldn’t start crying just because she was trapped in a hole. He had a guess, but she spoke first.
“I’m claustrophobic.” Like him, she choked on the words and coughed for a long time.
“Yeah, I can see dat. We got enough air for a while,” he said. From above, he could hear the scrape of debris being moved and the muffled sound of voices. “It gon’ be okay. Your friends are coming.”
“You’re the thief. How did you end up down here with me?”
“Bad luck,” he answered after a few moments of silence.
“Can you keep talking to me?”
“About what?”
“Somewhere that isn’t here.” The words brought on another coughing fit; her throat felt raw. She was still trembling, but talking blurred the otherwise vivid memory of the ceiling coming down on her when she was a little girl.
She had been trapped under the rubble for days. Even so young, she had carried the morbid certainty that she was going to die. She had cried until there were no tears left. In cycles, she slept, then woke screaming, burning through what little air she had. She had been close to losing consciousness completely, ready to give in, when she was finally found and rescued. Dehydrated, starving, and in a state of panic. The trauma had triggered her claustrophobia. As if that were not enough, she soon realized she was then alone in the world.
He hesitated as she looked at him expectantly.
“You been to New Orleans in early autumn?” he asked.
She shook her head.
He swallowed, then let the memory come.
“I remember the streets after the rain… all wet, all shining… lights breaking up in the puddles, every color you can think of. Music coming from somewhere you can’t see. Warm air on your skin, like the city itself breathing right next to you.”
“What’s your name?” she asked, clearly calmer now, studying his face with curiosity. “I’m Storm,” she added when he hesitated.
“Gambit,” he finally answered, lifting his eyes just enough to give her a sidelong glance. If she thought he had done it out of kindness, he would let her. He knew better.
Before either of them could say anything else, the hole was flooded by a beam of light that widened quickly. They both coughed again as more dust fell, but the rush of fresh air was a relief to their dust-choked lungs.
Storm was carefully lifted out of the hole. Their concern for her was such that, for a moment, they seemed to forget about him. Gambit could have run. He might even have made it. But the intensity of the scene — one he felt he had no right to witness — held him in place a second too long.
When their attention finally turned to him, Gambit simply surrendered, letting out a defeated sigh as he raised his arms in mock compliance. Unexpectedly, the blue-furred man extended a hand to help him up. It was more kindness than he deserved, he thought. In the next moment, however, the clawed man shoved him hard, and the tall, lean one handcuffed his hands in front of him.
Gambit did not resist.
“Forgive the savagery,” said the blue beast, “but I’m afraid restraining you has proved necessary. By the way, you may call me Beast.” His voice was not only soft and gentle, but polished as well — or perhaps the word Gambit was looking for was erudite. It contrasted sharply with his animalistic appearance.
A minute later, Gambit was being taken toward the bald man. A few yards away, he understood where the bright light was coming from. Partially hidden by the vegetation was a jet, apparently nicknamed the Blackbird. He remained silent, just listening.
Since the guy with the claws, whose name Gambit had picked up as Wolverine, wasn’t exactly gentle, Beast took over, making sure he would not try to escape while politely directing him to sit at the back of the jet.
In full view of Gambit, Wolverine rummaged through his backpack, tossing the spare clothes aside.
“Where’s the device you used to steal from us, you little shit?”
Gambit just stared at him with a mocking smile.
“Take it easy, Logan,” the redhead said, placing a hand on his shoulder. The man, who had been furious, simply took a step back as if her words were an order. Gambit suspected that girl was the only one he listened to. To be honest, it wasn’t hard to understand why.
“Where is it?” she asked him, with the same politeness as Beast.
“In my pants. Right pocket.”
“Excuse me,” she said before searching him.
Gambit pretended to startle.
“Careful, chère. I got valuables in dere,” he said in a suggestive tone.
The redhead paid him no mind, realizing he was only trying to get under her skin. But Gambit saw the tall guy’s jaw tighten and heard Wolverine growl. He found the dynamic interesting. She took the device out of his pocket.
Within minutes, they were back at the mansion. They landed on a deck, which Gambit assumed was inside the mansion, and disembarked. Wolverine didn’t take his eyes off him.
As Storm passed by him, Gambit’s eyes flicked toward her for a moment before he looked away. He did not need anyone thinking he was worried about her.
Out of nowhere, Wolverine shoved him hard again, driving a sharp elbow into him and knocking the air from his lungs. Gambit was about to retaliate when he saw Storm start to protest, politely but firmly, and noticed she seemed genuinely concerned about him. So he said nothing.
He was taken to the same room from which he had stolen the data and seated at the central table. The others surrounded him. Storm, who had disappeared for a moment, returned with water for him. Gambit didn’t hesitate or look for a trick; he downed the entire bottle. It was a relief to feel his throat finally clear.
She sat beside him, hands on the table.
“Thank you, Gambit. If I’d been trapped down there alone... well, I appreciate it.”
“It cost me a lot,” he said with a scornful smile.
Storm ignored the comment. She looked around and introduced the group; after all, he had trusted her with his codename.
“These are Cyclops, Wolverine, Jean, Beast, and Professor Xavier.”
“I don’t think it’s a pleasure for anyone,” Gambit replied, forcing hostility into his voice.
“Hold out your arms,” Storm instructed, again ignoring the insincere comment, as if she knew it was insincere. “We’re going to remove your handcuffs.”
With an exaggerated, mock-guilty expression, he extended his arms, and the cuffs simply slipped off his wrists. He had already opened them shortly after being restrained. He hadn’t expected them to release him so easily. That group must be very confident, or very naïve, he thought.
Either way, he was sure he was about to be interrogated. He imagined what tricks they would use to make him talk.
As he had expected, the one who started the interrogation was the bald man, the one they called Professor.
“The device. Did you deliver a copy to anyone?”
By then, Beast had confirmed that the device was the same one used in the theft. He had also determined that it was an exceptionally sophisticated piece of technology, enough to interface with Cerebro and bypass its defenses. What remained to determine was whether any copies had been made or any information had been leaked.
“Non. I didn’t have time.”
Beast adjusted his spectacles, still examining the device. “Where did you obtain it?”
“It was delivered to me when I took de job.”
“By the person who hired you?”
“Through de intermediary,” Gambit replied with a shrug.
“Why did you break in?” the Professor asked.
“I was hired,” he replied after a bored sigh. He crossed his arms and slid down in the chair, settling into a more comfortable slouch. His back hurt. Later, when he looked in the mirror, he would see several welts and purplish bruises where the debris had struck him.
A moment later, an entire deck of cards seemed to materialize in his hands. He performed a card spring, letting the cards flow from one hand to the other, again and again. There was a veiled threat in his gestures, in the fact that those cards could become weapons. Everyone clearly noticed, and still they let him continue. Gambit found that confidence unnerving, but also worthy of respect.
“Who hired you?”
Gambit shrugged, unconcerned.
Wolverine growled again, impatient.
“Look, Gambit,” the Professor began.
Gambit lifted his eyes in challenge, regretting that he had given his name to the woman.
“I could search your mind for the answer,” Xavier said calmly, his voice carrying an almost imperceptible hint of threat. “Your mental defenses make it dangerous, but I could do it. So I would rather hear it from you.”
Believing the man was not bluffing, Gambit adopted a more serious tone, even though his relaxed posture and the card tricks remained. Xavier’s words all but confirmed Gambit’s suspicion that the Professor had been responsible for the excruciating pain he had felt during his escape, and he did not want to test what might happen if the man tried again.
“Contact was confidential, through an intermediary. I don’ know who’s calling the shots. I just do the job and get paid for it.”
“So it was just a job?”
“Dat’s what I said.”
“Sounds stupid,” Wolverine spat.
Gambit had to swallow his pride at that.
“Who would know about Cerebro?” Cyclops asked.
“Or worse,” Jean added, “what would they use the information for?”
“What if we set up an ambush to find out who hired him?” Cyclops suggested. Then he turned to Gambit. “You can set a meeting point.”
Gambit shook his head firmly.
“I didn’t make the drop. Dat means the contract was broken. Terminated.”
“You can call and come up with an excuse.”
“Dat’s not how it works,” Gambit replied, already bored. “I don’t call them. They call me. Look, I took a job and got caught. Now I don’t get paid ‘cause I didn’t deliver. I don’t know what was in those files, and I don’t care. You can’t keep me here. So unless you’re turning me over to the police, I’m getting up, walking out, and we can all pretend we never met.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not that simple,” the Professor replied firmly. “You’re right that we cannot keep you here, but we also cannot simply let you go without guarantees that you won’t come back once things settle down.”
“What if I promise?” His voice and expression were mocking. He paused, then continued, impatient. “I already told you. The contract terminated itself when I missed the drop.”
“Whoever hired you can’t send someone else to do the job you failed?” Wolverine asked.
Gambit held back a grimace of contempt, if only to keep from giving that arrogant man the satisfaction. After all, the words had been chosen to humiliate him. Failing a job was not something he was used to. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“It’s possible. And no, I have no way to help.”
“You are like us,” the Professor said suddenly, as if the previous subject had been closed.
“You mean a freak? What gave me away?” Gambit asked rhetorically, insisting on the mockery, although it was not having the desired effect. Tough crowd, he thought.
His eyes alone left no doubt. Gambit had met others like him before, but not many. Never so many together.
“Did your eyes change during puberty?” Storm asked, with genuine curiosity.
“Non. I was born like dis,” he replied, somewhat reluctantly.
Uncommon, but Storm had also been born with a striking combination — white hair and blue eyes contrasting with her dark skin — which had marked her since childhood, just like Gambit’s red-irised, black-sclera eyes. Eyes that had earned him the name Le Diable Blanc in his hometown. In any case, like her, the young man could pass unnoticed as a mutant most of the time.
The Professor observed the interaction, the deliberately relaxed posture with which Gambit sat, the provocative and detached rhetoric. He was sharp and bold. There were contradictions in that young man — indeed, a young man, Xavier thought. Mid-twenties.
“Here at the Institute, we take in mutants who need help, who are lost.”
There were immediate protests from Wolverine and Cyclops, which Gambit pretended not to hear.
“Merci, mais non. I ain’t lost.” It was not true. He had been wandering without direction for years. Since he had run away, leaving everything behind.
“Are you not tired of running?” the Professor asked.
“Why the question? You actually poked around in my head?” Gambit said, fully aware that the question itself sounded like an admission. Still, rather than surrender the upper hand, he turned it into a challenge, daring Xavier to admit that he had.
“I didn’t need to.”
It was hard to believe that man could be so trusting, inviting him to join the team and live in the very place he had just robbed, simply because he was a mutant too. Maybe it was a trap. Gambit stood, and the cards vanished from his hands as if by magic.
“You got back what I stole. I’m leaving now.”
He waited a few moments, but when no one made any move to stop him, he simply headed for the door. Before leaving, he turned back.
“I know I’ll be escorted, so could one of the mesdemoiselles do the honors?”
“You—” Wolverine began, but Storm interrupted him.
“I’ll go with you, Gambit.”
“Wouldn’t you at least like to consider the invitation?” the Professor insisted.
For a moment, Gambit lost his arrogant posture. He lowered his gaze and said nothing, before turning around to leave.
Wolverine held himself back from going after him. As soon as Gambit and Storm were out of sight, he said:
“He’s dangerous.”
“He didn’t lie about being hired,” Jean stated.
The Professor confirmed it.
“He might’ve lied about not being hired again,” Wolverine said. “It’d be a hell of a lot easier for him to screw us over from the inside.”
“Logan has a point, Professor,” Cyclops agreed reluctantly.
“Well,” Jean said, hesitant. “When the house was collapsing... I saw him go back inside. He could’ve run, but he went back for Storm.”
“From a collapse he caused,” Beast countered, though he was not taking sides.
“So one supposedly heroic act erases the fact that he broke in and stole from us?” Wolverine scoffed. “He knew exactly where he was going. We can’t just let him walk around free out there.”
“All the more reason for him to accept my offer,” the Professor said.
“He doesn’t want to stay, Chuck.”
“You didn’t want to either, Logan.”
“Not the same. He’s a thief.”
Storm returned at that moment and pretended not to have heard what Wolverine had said. Wolverine knew Storm had once been a thief. It was not the same, of course; she had done it to survive, before Xavier found her, he thought, but kept it to himself.
“Has he gone, Storm?” Cyclops asked.
“I asked him to wait a moment.”
“You left him alone, ‘Ro?”
“I would like to speak with him a little longer,” she continued, ignoring Wolverine’s complaint. She had a good eye for character and found herself intrigued by the young man.
“Stay in touch, Storm,” the Professor said, as if giving his blessing.
She quickly returned to the living room, where, fortunately, Gambit was still waiting for her.
“So, am I free to go, or did you change your minds?” he asked with the mocking tone Storm was already beginning to get used to.
“You can leave, but I’d like to come with you. Perhaps we could go somewhere and have something to eat. Breakfast?” she added, seeing through the window that dawn had already broken. “As new friends,” she added quickly, with a small smile that suited her serious demeanor.
“Can I have my backpack first?” he asked, implying that the invitation had been accepted.
“I’ll get it for you.”
As soon as Storm left the room, Wolverine appeared farther down the corridor and stood with his arms crossed, making sure Gambit would actually leave without pocketing anything on the way out. The others appeared shortly after, each moving to a different spot in the room, though all remained standing and silent. Perhaps it was not even intentional, but Gambit felt surrounded again, although nothing in his posture showed any discomfort.
Storm returned quickly and handed him his backpack. Gambit thanked her, removed his coat, and stuffed it inside. The gauze on his injured arm was stained with blood.
Noticing the injury, Jean approached.
“Can I take a look?”
He hesitated, but extended his arm.
“The window. By the way, sorry about the damage.”
Ignoring another one of his ironic comments, Jean unwrapped the gauze and lifted it carefully.
“You did a good job here.”
“Not the first time,” he said matter-of-factly, not intending to evoke pity. He slowly pulled his arm away and began to wrap it again. “The cuts ain’t bleeding anymore.”
“But the bandage needs changing.”
“I’ll take care of dat as soon as I’m outta here.”
“Let me do it,” Jean offered with a smile. “Wait a minute.”
Quickly, Jean went to the infirmary. It didn’t take her more than a couple of minutes to come back, but since no one said anything, time seemed to stretch. Discreetly, Gambit evaluated each of them, suspicious of their kindness. Even so, no alarms were going off in his head, no defensive instinct flaring as it usually did in dangerous situations.
Jean skillfully redid the bandage. Gambit might have felt intimidated by Cyclops’s and Wolverine’s disapproving looks if he had not been so confident, bordering on cocky. He found their angry faces hilarious. He raised his eyes to them and smirked, lifting his eyebrows while Jean carefully applied antiseptic and wrapped fresh gauze around his arm. When Jean looked up at him after finishing, his smirk disappeared, replaced by a grateful smile.
Without saying a word, but meeting each one’s gaze in challenge, Gambit headed for the door. Storm followed close behind. He would rather have left alone, but having that knockout tag along didn’t seem so bad. Maybe they could have some fun. Either way, he needed a ride, since his motorcycle had been left at the collapsed house. When she returned to the team, he would go far away, and his path and theirs would never cross again. That was his thought as he walked out.
xXxXx