Obligatory Disclaimer: <deep breath> Okay. Rogue, Gambit, and the rest of the X-Men belong, alas, to Marvel Comics. Rather astoundingly, I am using them without permission. However, I am not making any money off of this, so please don't sue me. The original concept for this story belongs to Faith Barnett (who is also helping me considerably by beta-reading), and I am using it with permission. Any comments, constructive criticism, suggestions, offers of large cash donations, etc. will be gratefully accepted at Enyo@jps.net. Flames may be directed to bharras@marvel.com. Ratings-wise, I'd say this is a PG-13 for some occasional language. Oh, and one quick continuity (ha, ha!) note: in this story, Remy did not lead the Morlock Massacre because 1) this is a "What If?" scenario, 2) it was a horrific nonsensical retcon in the first place, and 3) this is my story and I can do whatever the heck I want. Thank you.

Casting Stones
by Enyo

Part 1

The tunnels were cold. Remy could feel the chill scornfully slicing through his trenchcoat and body armor, caressing his skin with silvery fingers. The rational part of his mind told him that it was simply his empathic perceptions overlaying the tunnels' psychic resonance with his physical senses. The rest of his mind told that part to shut the hell up.

Senses on overdrive, he heard his nigh-soundless passage through the swirling ankle-deep water like a roaring flood, and was supremely conscious of the bo staff collapsed in his trench pocket and the various dozen-odd cards and miscellaneous weapons secreted throughout his body armor. Remy LeBeau didn't need empathy to sense that this place was bad news, and the sooner he got out, the better.

It was rather ironic, he thought wryly, that only a few months earlier he'd been living it up on the party scene, making good use of his inescapable good looks, incalculable wealth and unbridled freedom. Yet as soon as he hooked up with the X-Men, he found himself wading through sewers. He allowed himself a tight grin. Dat's what you get, LeBeau, tryin' t' be a hero.

Not that he'd stay much longer, not with that anal-retentive Summers in command. He'd only stayed as long as he had as a favor to Storm.

The empty tunnels mocked him hollowly, the close darkness enfolding him in a seductive embrace. Be honest wit' yourself, homme. It ain't all for her.

It had been a long time since he'd had...a friend. Since he'd been exiled from the Thieves Guild, he'd been wandering the globe, living hard and trying to convince himself that he enjoyed it. Trying to convince himself that the Guild's close familial ties and strong kinship had only held him back. But in the still of the night, after the thrill of the heist or the gambit or the conquest had died, he found that every corner of his mind revealed only barren loneliness. And so the small part of him that had not had its capacity for dreaming stripped away was clinging to Storm's friendship like a lifeline. He knew that it wouldn't last, but he just didn't care.

And so he found himself trudging through sewers at two o'clock in the morning. He barked a quiet laugh. Story of my life.

When Storm had mentioned the Mutant Underground, he hadn't realized she was speaking literally. It was an interesting concept. In the course of his lifetime, he had traveled in the same circles as many different underground associations, several of which dabbled in the sort of quiet clandestine terrorism that the MU specialized in. But he had yet to find one that was completely run and operated by the second-class victims. Groups like that were generally organized and financed by the middle or upper-class, using the poor as the brute force, easily expendable. This one was something new.

He wondered if that didn't play into the tension obviously sizzling between the MU and the X-Men, something that had to do with more than simply conflicting ideologies. Either way, it meant that he, an impartial third party--never t'ought you'd be dat, neh?--got to make the meeting.

He shifted a few weapons for easier access as his kinesthetic spatial sense registered someone in the tunnels beyond. The figure was stationary, presumably in the widening up ahead where the meeting was scheduled to take place. He paused, red eyes narrowing. The someone was not quite--human. He sensed a powerful mind, female... But her touch was something new. What little he could read didn't entirely reassure him. Her mind was...for lack of a better word, contained. Not contained like Scott's, all blinding resolution and adamantium morals, but contained as in a Bengal tiger stuffed into a birdcage. And yet she glowed with a radiance a non-psi was not supposed to possess.

Shit. This would be interesting.

A few minutes later, he stepped out into the open, not armed but ready to be in a hairsbreadth time. A little light trickled in through a grate in a corner, but even to him, it was dark. He didn't bother to try and dampen the lurid glow of his eyes, preferring optimal eyesight to the risk of spooking his contact. He located her instantly, leaning up against the far wall in the shadows. She didn't seem alarmed. Straightening, she stepped towards him with silent ease. Her presence was...phosphorescent. He felt his powers drawn to her, like a moth to a flame.

"Gambit."

He blinked in surprise, hearing the unmistakable Southern accent behind the terse word, shimmering blues and greens in his mind's eye. He righted himself against the discordant echoes of her steely presence, eyeing the figure in front of him with covert interest. All he could make out was a slender, hooded silhouette.

"Oui, chere. An' you are...?"

"The Guardian," she answered shortly. The shimmering energy field that was her aura quivered slightly in surprise, though she gave no evidence of it. He saw her hand move, and readied himself.

"Relax," she said, and he felt more than heard a distinct note of amusement under the adamantium veneer, windchimes on a summer day. "A CD." She held up a square package, tossed it at him. He snagged it neatly and felt the smooth circle through the plastic wrapping.

"Anyt'ing in particular I should know about it?" he asked as it disappeared into his trench.

"Not really. Just deliver it to the X-Men." The windchimes were gone, stilled by the dead weight of an oppressive darkness. She turned to go.

"Why not deliver it yourself, chere?"

Her head swiveled, and he felt the steel bubble, sharp anger crackling in reds and oranges. She heard the car the instant before its headlights flashed through the grate, lancing bright-white lasers that struck concrete and flesh impartially. He caught a quick glimpse of vivid green eyes and striking beauty before she whirled, and was gone into the empty silence of the shadowy labyrinth.

Remy closed his eyes, tracking her spatial signature as she navigated the tunnels at an amazing rate before she, and her presence, disappeared from his perception.

With a quiet sigh, he let out the breath he'd subconsciously been holding. He felt ... energized.

Well. Dat was interesting.

With a familiar grin on his face, he turned and headed back towards the surface.

Continued in Chapter 2

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