“An’ how’re you gonna make me understand?”
“By makin’ contact wit you,” he replied slowly. “If you’ll let me.”
“You want t’touch me?” she asked, eyes wide with surprise. “That’s crazy! Don’t you know what’d happen if you did that?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I been down dat road before. But it still be de quickest way t’get you up t’speed I can t’ink of.” He eased himself onto the chair beside her. “Please, chere. It’s important.”
She stared silently at him. There was so much hurt in those eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was be the cause of any more—but there was no other way to do it.
“All right,” she finally whispered. “If’n it’s that important. Just... don’t hate me for what happens.”
He smiled. “You, petiteV He shook his head. “I could never hate you.”
Her cheeks colored, and she smiled. “Thank you,” she said softly.
He nodded. “Anyt’ing for you, chere.”
Slowly, he raised his hand, to touch her face. She instinctively drew back.
“It’s all right, chere,” he said quietly. “Ol’ Gambit, he knows what he doin’ ...” He smiled. .. ’least he t’ink he do . ..”
She gazed into his eyes for a few moments, most likely trying to see if his expression would reveal whether it was a trick, or a trap. Then, apparently satisfied with what she saw, she slowly nodded.
Gently, he reached out, and placed his fingertips to her cheek.
It was like sticking a wet finger in a light socket.
Lightning crackled around his body, overloading his nerves, cramping his muscles. It became hard to think, impossible to move. He was stuck to Rogue as surely as a fly was stuck to flypaper, and could only hope that the contact would break before it killed him.
A wave of nausea seized him as he felt Rogue begin to drain him of his strength, his memories, his life. Her eyes turned black, with red pupils, even as his dimmed to a cool brown. He, in turn, felt her panic and horror. She tried to pull away, but somehow he found the strength to pull her closer with his other hand.
Close enough to kiss.
Their lips brushed together—
And then the change began.
It started with her body—it filled out, skin and bones transforming into solid flesh and powerful muscle. Then her hair began to grow at a lightning pace, becoming fuller and longer, until it reached her waist. The skunk-like streak that ran down the center was even more prominent now. Her face became softer, less angular.
Weakened considerably, Remy at last managed to slide away from her, and collapsed against the seat. He watched in amazement as the woman before him shifted and morphed, becoming less a stranger and more someone he knew—quite well.
“Huh,” he said with some amusement. “Gambit’s kissed a lottafiles in his time, but dat never happened before ...”
And when the process ended, and she finally looked at him, the light of recognition—and shock—shone in her eyes.
“R-Remy ... ?” she whispered.
He smiled, though the effort of forcing his facial muscles to move taxed what little strength remained. “Hello, Rogue,” he said smoothly, casually. “It’s been a while, non?’ The smile broadened. “So, tell me .. . you miss your Remy while he was gone?”
She choked on her reply, and tears began running down her cheeks. She sat there, shivering, staring at him, apparently not knowing what to do next. With some difficulty, he opened his arms wide and drew her close. Grateful, she buried her face on his chest, and cried long and loud while he stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. He could feel the warmth of her tears soaking through his shirt.
“I... I thought you were gone forever,” she said.
Remy chuckled and rubbed her back. “You know me, chere. I’m like dat ol’ bad penny—I keep showin’ up when you least ’spect it.” He shrugged. “Maybe de Big Man upstairs figured my time wasn’t up yet.”
“Or maybe He was afraid’a what you’d do t’his place when ya got in there,” she murmured into his chest, “an’ figured it’d be less trouble sendin’ you back down here.” She slid her arms around him and hugged him tight. “I don’t really care what the reason is, ’long as you’re back t’stay.”
Remy hissed, feeling his ribs scrape together under the pressure of her overzealous show of affection. “Easy, chere. Give a man some time t’recover. What wit’ de rescuin’ and all de runnin’ tonight, an’ den . . .” He waved his hands in the air, trying to find the right words. “. . . what happened jus’ now, ol’ Remy’s had one tirin’ day.”
She apologized and drew back, her face creased with concern. “Sorry,” she said quietly. “I shoulda waited ’til your powers came back. It’s just that—”
“It’s okay, petite,” he said with a strained smile. “Jus’ lemme get my second wind, an’ den I’ll be happy t’give you a proper greetin’.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her around, so she could lean back against him. She snuggled close as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and he sighed. “Dis is nice, norfl Jus’ lyin’ here t’gether like dis, wit’out a care in de world.” A frown bowed his lips.
“Too bad we do got a care in de world, tho’. A lotta worlds, for dat matter. An’ we still gotta do somet’in’ t’fix it.”
“The Cosmic Cube,” Rogue said with a nod.
“Yeah, de. . .” He paused, suddenly feeling totally confused. “Chere?”
“Yeah?” she asked, turning her head to look up at him.
Remy scratched the top of his head for a moment. “What de hell is de ‘Cosmic Cube’ . . . ?”
“Haven’t either of you listened to a word of what I’ve been saying?” Kurt Wagner—Nightcrawler—pounded his fist on the metal table in front of him. “My loyalty to the Party is beyond questioning!” he barked. “I will not stand by quietly and allow some . . . some verdammt housefrau to tarnish my good name!”
Standing on the other side of the table, Hauptmann Englande pointed a thick finger at the heavy, metal chair next to the blue-skinned mutant. “Sit down, Wagner,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Any further outbursts, and I will take the greatest pleasure in silencing you— permanently.”
Wagner opened his mouth to continue voicing his outrage, but paused, fist poised in mid-arc above the table, when he saw the fire burning in Englande’s eyes, took note of the stance the costumed warrior assumed. One more word, he realized, and the captain would be across the table, crushing his throat in hands powerful enough to twist steel. Slowly, Wagner’s mouth closed, and his fist opened. He lowered his hand to his side, then threw himself into the chair with a huff and folded his arms across his chest. He glared at a spot on the floor, knowing better than to direct the heat of his gaze at his superior.
“Preposterous . ..” he muttered sullenly.
Beside Englande, Amim Zola sat in another chair, hands folded on the tabletop. “Not so preposterous that the Reich isn’t looking into the matter, Herr Wagner,” he said. “Serious charges have been leveled against you, and others of your kind. Perhaps if you just told me what your group had planned—”
Wagner rounded on him. “I have done—” he began, then caught sight of Englande as he took a step forward. “I have done nothing,” he said quietly. He looked imploringly at the Health Minister. “I am no traitor to the Fatherland, no mutant revolutionary seeking the Emperor’s destruction. My record in service to the Empire should be proof of that.” He shook his head. “This is all a mistake.”
“If that is so, Herr Wagner,” Zola said, “then you should help us to resolve the matter, not make it worse by pounding tables and shouting
about character assassinations. This is a medical facility, not a beer hall.”
“I. . . apologize, Minister. I want to be helpful. I want to clear this up.” Wagner drew a deep breath, then released it. “Um Gotteswillen, how can the Ministry of Defense take the word of... of some civilian trophy wife over
that of an officer of the Reich? It’s madness!”
Englande grunted. “ ‘Madness’ was ever letting abominations like, you join the ranks of normal,men and women. You should have all been exterminated, a long time ago. Before your kind began to multiply . . . like cockroaches.”
Zola waved a hand at him in annoyance. “Captain, please. You’re not helping.” He turned to Nightcrawler. “What would you expect the Ministry to do, Herr Wagner? When the wife of an officer as highly decorated as Major Sommers is provides information concerning a revolutionary movement among the mutant population, an investigation must be launched.”
“But I have never even met this woman!” Wagner replied. “How can I be part of something if I don’t even know what this woman looks like?”
“That is why it’s called a ‘network,’ imbecile,” Englande snapped. “You don’t have to physically meet someone to be an active member in their organization.” His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, placing the palms of his hands on the table. The metal groaned slightly under the pressure. “But you do know the other one. The black one we brought in. The mutant. ”
Zola turned to him, one gigantic eyebrow raised in a quizzical expression. “Fraulein Munroe? How so?”
“If you recall, Minister, Frau Sommers’ list of conspirators included the black as one of the revolutionaries—Nightcrawler, as well.” Englande looked to Zola. “But, as for how they might know one another . . . I’m really not the one to ask.” He pointed toward Nightcrawler with his broad jaw.
“What are you talking about?” Wagner asked.
“You said so yourself,” Englande replied. “You thought you had met her before, but couldn’t remember where.” He flashed a sinister smile. “Perhaps at one of your underground plotting sessions?”
“That... no. It was nothing like that,” Wagner said, though he knew they could hear the hesitation in his voice. “It was just... a feeling .. .”
“That maybe she looks like someone you knew before,” Englande commented. It was clear from his tone, however, that he didn’t believe it. “A coincidence, then.”
“Something like that,” Wagner admitted, staring at his hands.
The brawny captain grunted. “A coincidence that your paths should cross again on this mission, you mean.”
Wagner looked up, panic in his eyes. “No!”
Englande sighed and looked to his superior. “With all due respect, Minister, I don’t see the point in standing around, wasting precious time, acting as though this traitorous freak—”
“ ‘Traitorous’?!” Wagner cried.
“—were one of us. Not when we both know he won’t say anything we need to hear about the plans for this proposed insurrection.” Englande smiled grimly. “Not when you have the means at your disposal of wringing the truth from him.”
Zola paused, then cast a glance at Wagner. A sly smile creased the aged features that appeared on the viewscreen. “There is some work I’ve been doing recently—a variation on a series of psychic experiments started by the Russians during the war. Most of the test subjects haven’t survived past the initial brain surgery . ..”
Wagner leapt to his feet. “No! I won’t allow it!”
Englande glared at him. “You won’t what?”
“I won’t allow it!” Wagner repeated. “I am not some animal to be led to the slaughterhouse! I am a man—a decorated officer of the Empire! I have rights!”
“Not true, Herr Wagner,” Zola said. “As a mutant, you have no rights. The laws of this monarchy were written for the true sons of Woden—the genetically pure. Your kind are no better than the very animals you obviously consider yourself above, to be used however I see fit—including ‘leading you to the slaughterhouse,’ if that is my wish.” He rapped his knuckles on the tabletop. “This piece of furniture has more right to exist than you. At least it serves a useful function.” Wagner staggered back and grasped the back of his chair for support; the strength had suddenly drained from his legs, and it was difficult to stand. “But... but I am a valued member of Lightning Force ...” Englande laughed sharply. “Who ever told you that? The only value you ever had to the team was as comic relief—the freak who considered himself a human being! What a fine joke that was! And to watch your pathetic attempts to romance my Meggan!” He smiled coldly. “I must tell you, there were times I thought I’d split my uniform from laughing so hard.”
Wagner shook his head. “No. You’re lying. You trusted me in battle—”
“I’d sooner trust a Skrull to watch my back,” Englande shot back. “I simply knew you would allow no harm to come to me, or Meggan, to avoid being reprimanded should you fail to protect your superiors. Acts of courage, bom of fear.”
Wagner trembled; his head began to ache. Why were they doing this to him? What had he done to make them turn on him so quickly? Why did they refuse to believe his innocence?
He should have known something was wrong the moment the V-wing jet touched down in Genosha. But he was so intent on proving just how wrong the African mutant, Munroe, was in her summation of his place in the Empire that he ignored the warning signs: the icy stares from the soldiers that came to meet Lightning Force; the whispered comments as he walked through the halls; the way Englande and Meggan had been ushered into Zola’s office, alone, when they arrived at their meeting with the minister. If only he’d been paying closer attention—but no, he’d merely grinned smugly at the prisoner, strolled casually into the office when called ... and been placed under arrest.
According to information Zola had received shortly before the team’s arrival, Wagner was part of a plot by mutant revolutionaries to destroy the Empire—or so it had been explained to him as shackles were placed on his wrists and ankles. The ringleaders were Reichsmajor Scott Sommers and his wife, Jean—two people he had never met in his life, though he was familiar with the major’s service record. Munroe and the remaining Lightning Force member, Shadowcat, had also been named, but theirs, apparently, were, minor roles. The others who had been implicated went by codenames he didn’t recognize: Wolverine. Gambit. Psylocke. Archangel. “Rogue,” he was told, was a mutant “translator” who served under Sommers on board the starship Nuremberg. It made no difference—he didn’t know any of them, and said so from the outset. But no one was listening, and he had been hustled into this cinderblock cell, to spend the next few hours fielding questions to which he had no answers. . . .
“Talk, damn you!” Englande roared, and slammed his fist on the table. The thick metal cracked along the top. “Where are the rest of your group? How many others are there? When do they plan to strike? How long have you been plotting against the Emperor?”
“Go to the devil!” Wagner snapped, a slight tremor in his voice. Slowly, Zola rose from his seat. He looked at Nightcrawler, and sighed. “Very well, Herr Wagner. I had hoped we could avoid further unpleasantness, but your lack of cooperation leaves me no other choice.” He turned to Englande. “Captain, escort the prisoner to the psychiatric laboratories.” .
“With pleasure,” Englande said. He took one step, to move around the table—
—and watched in surprise as Nightcrawler vanished from the room, in a burst of brimstone and a sharp implosion of air. The chains he’d been wearing clattered to the floor.
Hauptmann Englande snarled. “So much for the loyal member of the Party . ..” he muttered sarcastically.
Kurt Wagner ran for his life through the corridors of the Ministry of Health. His career was over now—any idiot could see that—and the longer he stayed on Genosha, the better the chance of recapture. He had to find a way off the island, but that was far easier said than done. His teleportation abilities were only useful for traveling short distances, and even then he had to know exactly what his destination looked like, or he might wind up materializing inside a wall, or an object—or a person. He’d considered ’porting—or bamfing as he’d come to think of it, since that was the sound made by the displacement of air during the transition—to the L
ightning Force jet, but he’d been led down so many corridors and hallways and stairwells after his arrest he’d lost track of where he was. For all he knew, the jet could be one level above him, or a hundred.
An alarm sounded. He’d been expecting it from the moment he fled the interrogation room, but the loud, bleeting noise still made his heart jump into his throat. Fighting panic, he glanced up and down the corridor in which he stood—it was empty, but wouldn’t remain so for long. He began trying doors, but every one he came to was locked. He considered breaking one down, but then worried that the broken lock might be discovered, and then he’d be trapped in close quarters.
He settled for teleporting to the stairwell at the end of the hall, and scrambled through the door just as the first heavy footfalls of the security forces begin ringing through the corridor.
Now came another decision: up or down? Down would take him to the lobby, and a footchase through the winding streets of Genosha was something he preferred to avoid. Up led to the landing platforms—and the jet. He paused, waiting to find out from which direction pursuit might be coming, but the ear-splitting klaxon made it impossible to determine.
Up, then, he decided. At least that way he had a better idea of where he wanted to go.
Cautiously, he stuck his head out, over the railing, and looked upward. He didn’t see anyone above him—which accounted for why the bullets streaking past his head were coming from below.
Not waiting to see who exactly was shooting at him—or how close they might be to his position—Wagner bamfed as high as he could go.
A wise decision, because it moved him away from the guards who’d been charging down the hallway in his direction; they burst into the stairwell in time to get a good whiff of the brimstone cloud he left behind.
Wagner reappeared a dozen levels up, in mid-air. With a cry of disbelief, he threw his arms out and succeeded in grabbing hold of the railing with one hand before gravity could take hold of him. He pulled himself over, cursing the literalness of his powers—only being able to see the railing but not the steps past them was the sort of limitation that could get him killed, without anyone’s help. He’d have to be more careful. .. but at least he’d been able to put some distance between himself and his pursuers.
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