xp_logs | New Orleans Is Sinking: Declaration

Remy and Marie-Ange discuss her dreams over lunch.

Remy has decided to splurge a little for Marie-Ange's requested lunch meeting, in part as a way to make up for the disaster that had been Wanda's training session. He'd seen her around the office with the fatigued look of someone who hadn't been getting enough sleep, and was pretty sure that the random and chaotic after effects of Wanda's powers had somehow thrown her whole system out of whack. Not that an upscale lunch necessarily made up for it, but at least it was an effort.

Remy waved away the waiter with their drink orders and leaned his forearms against the edge of the table, resting his chin on his clasped hands. "So, what was it dat you wanted to talk 'bout?"

It was testimony to Marie-Ange's fatigued state that for once, she hadn't remembered to bring her notepad, or sketch pad with her to the meeting. Usually, at least, they were stuffed into her shoulder bag just in case she needed them. Without the convenience of her notes, she found herself stumbling over an explanation. "I've been nightmaring again. Not... not just the usual strange dreams, but... " She leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands. "Almost like before, when I could not control the visions at all.."

"Been a while since dat's been de case, chere. Something t' do wit' Wanda's powers? I know dat my spatial sense took a couple of days to even back out. Remy actually tripped in de subway yesterday. Remy hasn't tripped since I was maybe twelve." LeBeau pointed out. Wanda's power was chaos; the random effects it caused could be exceedingly nasty, especially when other powers were involved.

"I would not be surprised." Marie-Ange answered. "It is not quite like before - I am not seeing everyone's unspeakable death, or corpses stacked up. Or the Professor eating Scott's liver." She set the menu down, wrinkling up her nose. "Pate. Ew. But still, recurring nightmares usually mean something, even if Wanda's power is reacting to mine oddly."

"You sure dat it's a precognative dream? Sometimes nightmares can just be nightmares." Remy pointed out.

Marie-Ange shook her head. "I am not certain, but I almost never am. But I have had some odd episodes. Doug had to stop me from almost flooding my apartment."

"Flooding? What's dis dream den? You figured any of it out yet?" Remy said, leaning back against his chair. They were briefly interrupted by the waiter, and only after they'd picked up their wine did Marie-Ange speak.

"Storms, very bad ones." Marie-Ange explained worriedly. "I have no idea what it means, but... well, it is so cliche to say a storm is coming that I almost do not want to say it that way."

"When dere not storms after us? What makes dis one so different?"

Marie-Ange was ignoring her wine glass, a sure sign that she was upset. "I do not know! It just feels different. Important." Like all the other times things had felt different or important, many of which had not played out. "Maybe it is nothing, and Wanda's powers just gave me annoying hallucinations.."

"Non. You spent too much time wit' Tante to ignore you gut feelings. And if you gut didn't tell you it was important, you wouldn't have told me. So, storm. You thinking dis literal or metaphorical?" Remy said over the top of his glass, taking a healthy sip.

"I hope not literal. Doug thinks it may be related to New Orleans.." Marie-Ange sounded and looked unsure, picking up her wine glass but not drinking from it. "The dreams feel personal, even though everything I seem in them is very, very impersonal. Which makes it very frustrating to try to interpret."

"Maybe you should take some time, go down and see Tante? Bet she'd at least be able to help figure out if de visions are valid, as opposed to some kind of weird backlash effect again." Remy pointed out. "Been quiet de last few weeks. Pretty sure dat we can spare you for a couple of days."

"I was thinking much the same. If anything is going to happen, Tante should know." Marie-Ange agreed. "If she does not know already. If I arrive to find her or one of her girls in the airport just waiting for me, I would not be surprised."

"Dat's de trouble wit' pre-cogs." Remy fished into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Let me send a quick warning down, and we'll figure out who's going to cover you at de Centre in de meantime."

Remy had just leaned back and started to thumb the keys when a fast organic sound ripped through the restaurant. The phone was torn from his hand, exploding in a dozen pieces. Across from him, Marie-Ange sat looking puzzled at her glass, of which only the stem remained in her hand. Almost lost in the red wine all over the table and her shirt was a deeper, thicker stain starting to spread from under her left breast.

Remy moved immediately, grabbing Marie-Ange and pulling her sideways as two more bullets ripped through the table, barely missing them. Remy's spatial sense had already mapped out the restaurant. The shooter was firing through the open patio, and thanks to Remy's habit of sitting with his back to the wall, had only one possible shot at him; through Marie-Ange. If he hadn't had shifted to make the call, the bullet would have hit him in the head.

LeBeau lifted Marie-Ange in his arms and vaulted the marble-topped bar, ignoring the fragments as rounds whined around him. He hit the opposite side in a crouch, laying Marie-Ange down as gently as possible. There was no way to tell exactly how far the shooter was from the restaurant. A slug able to penetrate a body on the way to another meant a big long rifle, and that could put him across the street or five blocks from here. All Remy cared about was the field of fire, which he'd just exited them from, behind one of the few fixtures that was solid enough to stop a bullet.

With delicate fingers, Remy pulled back Marie-Ange's shirt, looking at the wound. It was fairly clean; the bullet hadn't tumbled going through her body, and it hadn't expanded. Armor-piercing round, likely teflon coated. At least the transit channel should be relatively neat. Marie-Ange kept trying to talk, but she couldn't catch her breath, and blood was welling in her mouth.

"You!" Remy snapped at one of the cowering bartenders, amidst the chaos of screaming patrons who fled the restaurant. "Call St Vincent's now! Twenty year old woman, shot through de left lung."

The man hesitated, but Remy's basilisk glare was more terrifying than the possibility of a bullet, and he started dialing. Remy began what he could to try to keep Marie-Ange breathing until the ambulance arrived. He didn't even notice the taste of blood in his mouth. It wasn't important.

This was a professional assassination attempt, and only one person had all the information and resources to order one of those against him. Now, she'd just declared war.