Night On The Town

[x-gambit.livejournal.com]

Thursday night in Prague, just prior to flying back.

Prague wallowed in the early winter gloom. Once a city of refined beauty, sixty years of Soviet occupation had left a grey concrete scar across the formerly delicate nature of the city. New construction in the form of American styled complexes of mirrored boxes of steel and glass served only to reflect the block tenements in a painful fusion of two alien cultures.

The Prince of Kiev was a small bar in the old part of downtown. It was a favorite amoung foreign travellers in the know, which turned it into an unofficial clearing house for spies, secrets and industrial espionage.

"Gambit."

"Tom." Remy slipped into a table across from the much older man who had addressed him. Thomas Graves had been in the business since the darker days of the Cold War, when the world was a single incident from it turning hot. His information and connections were always top notch, but his affliations were less certain, even on the jobs that he'd occasionally employed Gambit on in exchange for information.

"You've been quiet for the last few years, Gambit. Rumour was that you'd retired, or-" Graves let out a short merciless chuckle. "-been retired, as the case might have been." The euphemisms for execution made up in chilling finality what they lacked in originality.

"Guess not." Remy said, waving the bartender for a couple of drinks.

"Apparently. A blessing and a shame, in equal parts."

"Guess dat's how de world goes, Tom." Graves was making jokes, a far cry from the icy professional that he was used to meeting. A small flicker of uncertainty twisted his stomach, and settled like a cold knot at the pit of it.

"No doubt. I was surprised to get your message. What do you have to do with someone like Lensherr, Gambit?"

"Professional concerns. De Agency is happy about having-"

"The Agency is not backing you, Gambit. Please, at least grant us the acknowledgement of not being total fools. Chester Whelan was butchered in his own home, and his little protege, Langstrom is hunkered down and circling the wagons. Seems like they might feel someone might be after them." Graves smiled coldly. Well, at least Remy knew why the sudden change in approach. Time to touch back to Gambit, he considered.

"Alright, Tom. You've got me." Remy smiled cruelly, holding both hands up. "De Agency tried to shop me a couple of years back, and unfortunately for dem, dey fucked it up. Haven't been in the position to... express my displeasure at de betrayal until now. Putting out de marker is my way of buying back into de game. When fucking incompetents like Eammon Kelly are making a name in my absence, I figure de time has come to show dem who's boss."

"Then why Magneto?"

"Lensherr making a lot of enemies, homme. Especially when he starts recruiting castoffs like Creed. Figure dat someone's going to put a major price on his head soon, and he''s significantly large t' be worthy of my return." Remy picked up the bottle that the bartender had brought over, and poured a healthy measure of apple vodka into their glasses.

"Well, you've got your work cut out for you, Gambit. Magneto is operating in Europe, but he's spending a lot of time and money to keep it hushed. No one is talking, and the few who might have are already dead." The cold lizard smile flickered on Graves' face again. "I guess your big return will have to wait, Gambit."

"Damn."

"The rest of the continent has been pretty busy. Georges Batroc slipped his handlers after his latest treatment." Remy groaned. "FARC are looking very carefully, in case it gets out."

"Why do people keep trying to recreate de damn SUPERSOLDIER program? Batroc's completely insane, and he's one of de better examples. Remember when dey decommissioned de REDGUARD back in 1990?"

"Speaking of, one of their former associates is in the United States now."

"Who?"

"Arkady Russovitch."

"Don't know him."

"You will. The trail of bodies should provide another Emmy for CNN next year."

"Fabulous."

"I suppose we'll see if that's so. That's all that we've got for you, LeBeau. I'm afraid without the Agency, you're a freelancer, and despite your obvious skills, we don't deal with freelancers with intelligence."

"Now, just a-" Remy paused suddenly. LeBeau. Graves had his fucking name.

"Good afternoon, Gambit. I'm sure you'll hear from myself or the Patriots soon enough." Tom Graves put on his sunglasses and stood up, leaving the bar. Remy took a swallow from his glass and got up to use the washroom. He'd been made in a foreign city. That did not leave him a lot of options.

The washroom was a pokey little affair in the back of the bar, and was lacking the convenient window out the back. However, it did possess a drop ceiling, and Remy pushed one of the panels aside and peered into crawl space. The fat aluminium ducts of a heating exchange wove through and into the brick work. Remy levered himself up into the space, and with two kicks punched the vents out of the housing. The vent leading to the outside was small, but not too small fortunately. The screws were removed by four quick kinetic charges, and another kick sent it spinning off into the alley. Remy eeled through the opening and dropped into the space. His spatial sense was already picking up movement around him.

"Merde." He said quickly, understanding the trap. He turned and raced down the alley, gathering for a leap and catching a fire escape ladder with one hand. he hauled himself up, clambered over the iron steps and on to the roof. The rest bullet slammed into the brickwork behind him, but LeBeau was already racing down the rooftops.

Le parkour is the action of treating the obstacles between the point you are at and the point you wish to be at as inconsequential. LeBeau's enhanced agility and senses made him a master of it, and the jumbled rooftops of Prague provided all sorts of opportunities. As snipers tried to draw a bead on him, he vaulted a chimney, caught the edge of a tiled roof with his fingers and levered himself above the drainpipe. The flat roof led directly into another building, and Remy threw himself through an open window while three rounds splattered into the brick behind him. Rolling and coming up running, he dashed past a surprised family at dinner and down the hallway. At the very end, Remy crashed through the door, sprinted to the window at the end and went through the glass, his arc taking him close enough to snag an aerial and drop on to another roof.

That should delay them for a few minutes, he thought grimly as he fished out his cell phone and called Lorna.

***

Prague Castle was enormous. Not by the standards of New York's skyscrapers but for something built before modern machinery? Damned huge. Lorna would have liked to have been more impressed but she was somewhat preoccupied wondering what the hell Remy was up to. She was staring somewhat blankly at a painting of some former ruler when a cellphone began to ring. It took her several seconds to realize it was the one Remy had given her. She fumbled it out of her bag and snapped it open. "Hello?"

"Lorna? It's Remy." He said, taking a long jump between two buildings and landing with a light 'whuff' sound. "Dere are some problems wit' our vacation plans, chere."

She was already walking towards the door, briskly but not so much as to attract attention. "Oh, is this a vacation? What do you need?" He sounded like he was running and she wondered where he was.

"Get your things from de hotel and find a taxi." He ducked as a shot clipped the steel frames above him, and looked up to see a helicopter starting to buzz around the buildings. This was turning into a especially bad day. "Meet me in the Invalidovna metro station in 25 minutes. Keep de taxi running."

All in less than 25 minutes? Did he think she was a teleporter? "On my way. Are you being shot at?" The second was more a horrified realization than a question. Her walk increased to a run.

"A little, oui." Remy said, momentarily pocketing the phone as he launched himself off the rook and across a city street, landing heavily against the rails of scaffolding and pulling himself inside it for some cover against the helicopter. "If I can make it to de metro station, dey won't be able to track me, and at de airport, dey be looking for a man travelling alone. If I'm not at dat station in thirty-five minutes, you head straight to de airport and catch your flight."

Her impulse was to tell him to that wasn't an option but saying it would make it not an option and-- fuck. "Don't be late. I hate waiting," she said instead.

Remy pounded down the flat wooden slats and leap out into the forest of new girders and posts of construction. "Remy never late for a date, chere. Just keep dat taxi running." He shut off the phone and stashed it into his pocket just as he ran out of roof. His leap took him in a solid arc out over the street. The edge of a sign stole enough momentum to allow him to twist and land on the top of an awning. He slid awkwardly off it, and landed badly beside a group of shoppers. He ignored their stunned looks and got to his feet, dashing towards the entrance to the metro. So, Graves wanted him did, and was willing to put some serious muscle behind it. That was interesting, he mused, as he disappeared into the metro crowds.