xp_logs | The Person In My Head Hates Me

Remy meets Gambit, to discover who gets to open his eyes in the medlab.

War-torn. Hot baked earth. Burnt out buildings. A haze of oily black smoke drifting through the dull breeze. Remy took it all in with a sigh. It seemed like every time he woke up, the places he woke up to got worse and worse. Why couldn't he simply have the run of the mill nightmares about giant carrots and faceless men that everyone else seemed so good at? No, he got... where ever this place was.

"Somalia. 1993. A little town just outside of Garoowe. Man, what a shithole that was. Not as bad as Mogadishu, but close." Remy's head whipped around at the sudden voice behind him. "There was this Colonel, um, Jibrell I think. Presided over a rape camp up the way. Also made the mistake of shopping a CIA attache about a year prior when he found him sniffing around Russian arms dealers. That's something you'll remember soon enough; the government might forget, but the Agency never does. So, when the Rangers caused the big stink in the capital, the Agency decided it was the perfect time to settle that black mark."

"You're--"

"Too pretty for words, I know." Gambit grinned widely from the smashed rubble he was perched on. "See, one of the problems with building an inpeneratable camp is that it locks people in just as effectively as it keeps them out. Jam the main doors with a dumptruck full of scrap iron and start the fucker burning. Guards, prisoners, and the Colonel himself, all running around like human torches. Easiest three hundred thousand I ever made. Funny as hell too."

"What is going on?"

"God, I was a bright one, wasn't I?" Gambit got up, brushing the dust from his black slacks. "The short version is this, slick. You are having one of those metaphysic 'meet-with-my-true-self', 'I'm okey, you're a weirdo' moments that make those near death experiences so gut wrenching on television. The only difference is that I'm not your subconscious. I'm you, or at least, who you really are. Remy LeBeau, welcome to your life." Gambit spread his arms wide and grinned. "But this place is shit. Let's try something else."

The scenary around them shifted, morphed into a new place. A richly appointed office overlooking a European street. The walls bore bullet holes in random fashion, and four bodies lay crumpled in the middle of the room. Blood splashed along the walls and pooled under the bodies. On the desk sat a severed head, ugly and purple in death. In it's mouth was a rolled up note.

"Remember this? No, of course you don't. You don't remember anything, do you? This was the Minister of Defense for Germany. 1995. Big target, lots of protection. This bad boy was clamping down on the borders, bothering some fine upstanding drug dealers. So, a message needed to be sent to them. Three dead bodyguards, a severed head. And then, the final touch... I love this part!" Gambit said, crossing his arms and leaning back. The doors opened, and the sounds of shock rippled around them. One man, older with the look of a military man finally walked in and pulled out the note. There was a bright flash and Remy found himself standing in the mansion. "See, if you run the tripwire up the throat and attach it to the note, when they pull it out of the mouth, eight pounds of semtex goes up, along with a surprising percentage of the building. Old materials, dry wood. You know."

"I didn't do that."

"Oh, come on!" Gambit said, pulling Remy around to face him. "This is not some little movie for you to see, Remy. This is who you are, or will become. You were an artist, Remy. The master! There was maybe four or five people in the world that were even in our league, and none of them had the same... imagination we had, man."

"You enjoy the killing."

"Of course. That's power, princess, over life and death. You decide who dies and who survives, and you become God." Gambit grinned. "And it couldn't happen to a nicer guy too."

"What happened to me?"

"The CIA, or more specifically, a group of weird bastards from the deep crazy end of the Agency. The ones who really kept America safe, blah blah, etc. Twelve years old when they grabbed you, boywhore. Twelve. From then on, a company man for us. Trained, augmented, financed, and sent out into the world to have some fun. They were good times, I'll tell you. Women, money, a license to do as we please. Good times." Gambit said, his smile wide as he walked the room. "And then, someone finally starts looking too close, and old Chester gets all weak in the panties. Lures me and the others back, and puts the old psychic bulk eraser to the forebrain." Gambit tapped on Remy's forehead. "Buried all of it, from the first day of the program on, behind a big wall that I've been fighting against since."

"How long?" Remy said, leaning against the wall for support.

"Nineteen years, LeBeau. Nineteen glorious years." Remy showed his teeth. "And all of it is mine. You see, cupcake, you are less than two years old, and starting out with nothing but echoes of that time, well, I'm surprised you lasted this long. That call you got was the activation call. That means I'm supposed to be back on the job, and when those drugs wear off, it's time to deal with our little home friends."

"You're not--"

"Going to hurt them? No, of course not." Gambit put a hand to his chest and looked affront. Then he cracked a big smile. "I'm lying. Yeah, I'm going to kill them all. In fun ways. See, I've been watching, and the shit they say about you? Well, you're not winning any popularity contests."

"All those memories were you."

"Yeah, but you're missing something important. I'm you. You're me!"

"I'm not a killer."

"Wrong again, slugger! Of course you're a killer, even without my influence. The soldiers, Henri; that was you. Deep down, even before the program, you've always believed that some people need killing, and set that little moral stamp on your soul. You still do. I hear your little mental arguments against Xavier's faggot ideals. You just haven't learned how much fun it is yet." Gambit got right in Remy's face. "I am what you became, and will become again. Just accept it, Remy."

"No! This is wrong. It's sick! I am not like you."

"Gosh, I'm getting all this 'angry at my father' kinds of denial here. But it doesn't change the facts, sport. What's your problem? These people, this place? You have gone all limp wristed these days. What about these people. Say, you're little witch friend?" An image of Amanda appeared in the room, floating and rotating slowly. "A couple of days here and you saved her from being killed. Gave you that warm protective feeling, didn't it? Plus, nimble little minx in bed, I agree. But, shuddergasp, LeBeau... what happened?" An image of Manuel came to float next to her. "Despite all those good vibes and helpful compliments you gave her, she went off and ended up in the bed of the completely ammoral fuck from Spain." The figures began a jerky sex act. "Not only did she end up with the guy you couldn't stand, but she sold out and offended your newly minted moral code. Boo. Hoo. Still, I should thank her, because she sent you off the deep end, boy. Crazy man and shit. I bet they lock us down."

"Then you can't hurt them."

"With their locks? I could pick them with my toes." Remy smirked. "Wait, how about that green haired one, Lorna. I know you liked her. Burned up her hand, gave you the chance to play the hero. Made you feel like you had a place. You even went to Hell for them. But what did you find there?"

"You."

"Touche, Remy. These people don't need you. Hell, most of them don't like you very much, and the only reason you're here at all is because they think you're more dangerous outside than in here. Which suits the Agency fine. Look, even if we don't get them, someone will. I know the memories are coming back, by that weepy look you keep getting. You know what's out there, and what they can use if they really want to shut this place down. But us? We're meant for bigger things. See, the Agency fucking me over once makes me a little pissed at my former employers. So, we kill them, and everyone linked to the program. Then back in Europe, back on the market. Booze, women, drugs, power; all at the tips of our fingers. Just one man on top: Remy LeBeau." Gambit grinned and cocked his head to one side. "So, what do you think?"

"I think you talk too much." Remy said, and launched himself at Gambit. They tumbled together in a messy ball, Gambit getting to his feet first.

"Alright, putting aside the fact that you're fighting with your alter ego, genius, what the fuck do you think you're doing. It's my life, LeBeau! Not yours, but mine."

"No. If that was true, you won't be pulling at this gloating villain persusion crap. If you could take over, you would have. Say that makes me think maybe there is something more to this." Remy said, and he feinted and threw a punch at Gambit. "That maybe you're not in charge, and we is really just you and I, seperate."

"That's a whole lot of crazy talk there, kid." Gambit connected solidly with his kick, blasting Remy out of the mansion. Remy slammed down on the pavement of a parking lot he dimly recognized as being in Bonn. "Other than the fact we're the same person, there's still the whole point that you became me before, and you will again."

"That so? See, I got to thinking-"

"That's a rarity." Gambit dodged the kick, snapping a flurry of blows at Remy, who blocked with equal speed.

"You went into the Program. Traned and spoonfed. At twelve, you stopped being yourself, and became what they needed. The government toady who cares about what? Money, sex. What else. Apparently we can talk about art, science, a dozen topics for our fucking covers, but I'm failing to recall a real opinion here." Remy clipped and uppercut under Gambit's guard, and he flipped backwards, scrabbling on the dirt road that lead into the Amazonian jungles.

"Bubblegum psych. Real impressive, junior. What are you fighting for. Even if they didn't hate you, even if they didn't want you dead, what is there here for you with these people? How are you going to relate to their miserable little lives. When they reminesce over the dinner table, what do you have to offer? That funny story about how you killed the president of Paraguay with a fork?" He parried a punch and threw Remy across the road. "Face it. You've got nothing."

"No Gambit, we've got nothing. Remember the little red head? She said there's no future for us. Us. Which means one of us has got to go." Remy stood up, and Gambit looked apprehensive for the first time. "And there's no way in hell I'm going to let your twisted fucking damage out of here."

"Big words, hero." Gambit smirked. "You know, I keep hearing about the inner child. I think I'm going to like beating the shit out of it. Oh, and by the way, muffin, once you're gone, I'm going to make this house weep. And your little witchy friend? As a thank you, I'm going to save her for last. Really take my time. It'll be your epitaph that I add to her scars, you pussyfest."

"You know, Gambit. You still talk to much."

The mindscape roiled and stormed as the two psyches charged and met.

***