Tranquillité

°

Death waited patiently for the red light to change to green, while his companion, Tom Bradson, sketchpad on his knees, accomplished another of his drawings with rough strokes of his black pen. The lines progressively involved into a hand, a head, ramifying together and creating a new premonition. As the green light appeared, the dark BMW turned the corner and continued its way smoothly, snow flakes hitting the shiny smoked windows.

"What is it?" asked Death, glancing at the drawing. Tom chuckled, letting the ghost white mutant have a look.

A man was shouldered against the wall of a small room, waistcoat and shirt shredded. The dark shadows that dripped from his stomach was probably blood. It looked painful Death mused, glancing at his own shirt and black waistcoat. "Those are my favourite, what a waste."

"Bet there are, buddy." Tom tore the drawing away from the sketchbook, folded it smoothly and pocketed it. He was about to take out his lighter and smoke, when Death stopped him.

"Not in this car."

"Aw, come on. Loosen up, here, we can share..." The shrouded glare stopped Tom from insisting. "Man, you are a tight bad ass."

A smirk was softly drawn across Death's face. "I like it that way."

Indicating, Death entered a small parking lot, a brilliant neon sign declaring that it was part of a motel. A small old caravan and a smart vintage motorbike were its only occupants. As the two men left the BMW, suitcase in hand, duffel bag over a shoulder concerning Tom, Death let his gaze run over the bike and then to the motel's lit windows. He tightened the collar of his felt coat and led the way towards the motel's small automatic sliding doors.

He was soon handed a key to a room and about to head there for the night, when Bradson mentioned that he would go and visit the nearby bar while Death took care "of the business." Death was soon unlocking the door to his room. Switching on the light, he examined it. A small bed, plastic night table with a radio on top, flower patterned wallpaper. In all: bad taste, but it did serve its purpose. He hung his coat carefully at the side of the door. And then, proceeded to set his briefcase on the bed. It opened it with a click. On one side, was set a small screen with speakers. On the other, different gleaming weapons laid beside, encased in foam. Now... the only question was: which one?

°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Logan watched the snow slowly descend over the motel parking, gradually covering up the cars and ground with a growing white blanket. He leaned against his room's balcony rail, wearing his jeans and simple white T-shirt. He knew it was cold, but it didn't feel that cold to him, not with his super human resistance to freezing and high temperatures. When he was in the Gobi Desert, some time ago, he hadn't even broken into a sweat. And right now, not even a shiver ran across his skin. It actually felt invigorating, he decided.

It didn't stop him from feeling angry. The Professor had sent him on the most boring mission ever given to man kind: it consisted of waiting for a mutant to show up, so he might be able to convince the Bub about joining Xavier's cause. Until then, he had to wait. Logan had never, as far as he could remember, been a patient person. He preferred destroying things instead of waiting. He felt frustrated, angry, and bored. A bad combination concerning the Wolverine.

Seeing Rogue so frail again, and having to leave her like that, it was bad luck, very wrong timing. And now he had to wait, while Rogue was recovering in the Med-Lab! The Med-Lab! He thought that he wouldn't hold a grudge against her if she tried to escape before she was fully recovered. He wouldn't have waited, that's for sure.

He drew out a cigar, lit it and placed it between his teeth. The taste of good tobacco filled his senses. That's better. At least he could smoke it here whereas he was restricted at the Mansion. For good reasons, he argued, but it didn't make him feel less frustrated.

Now, back to Rogue. He couldn't hide that he felt and worried deeply for Rogue. It had been a very close shot, with that scythe. He'd come in the nick of time, barrelled the mutant away, gaining a couple of swipes from the weapon at the same time. The mutant had fled; Logan sneered. So much for bravery. He remembered the mutant's face: terribly pale, dark hair, dark eyes, young face. Rogue had mentioned rotting flesh...

Rogue.

So much he wanted to ask, but he had restrained. He had to trust her, forgive her for what she was hiding from him. She had her reasons, and he hoped she knew her limits.

Logan was taken out of his reverie as loud music started blaring from the next door room. Loud Rock, and it was making his sensitive ears bleed. He looked at the time. Nearly twelve, the witching hour. A little late to start a party in a motel room, he thought. Well, the guy that was renting the room must have thought otherwise, for he raised the volume. Logan could feel the walls tremble each time the basses rang.

"Who does he think he is? The Rolling Stones?"

Logan thought it was enough. He left his room and knocked on the door of his loud neighbour. "Cut it out, Bub! People are trying to sleep!" Course, he couldn't say it was because of his sensitive ears.

There was no reply, and the music's volume stayed the same. "Open up!" He banged his fist harder, making the door rattle from the force. He could hear someone just behind the door. His suspicions didn't have time to save him from escaping the first blow.

There was a brush of movement, like air being sucked, and then the blow came. Shards of wood flew as something tore through it, and it suddenly was indemb right into Logan's thigh, sending a growl of pain and on to his knees. With clenched teeth, he pulled out the -what looked like a...

"A bloody harpoon? No one told me it was fishing season..." Then he smelled it. Poison coating the sleek metal device.

With a snarl, he sent the door out of its hinges and crashing to the room's floor, revealing a young, ghostly young man, posed against the small bed, silver gun still smoking from the harpoon he'd just sent right through the door. Logan's own eyes became wide. Death cast the gun aside, and extended instead his bo-staff, tipped by a a sharp spear. Animal instincts took over. Logan released his claws and charged, a growl escaping his clenched teeth. Instead of slicing through flesh, they hit th metal staff. Death peered over their interlocked weapons and grinned.

"Sorry, was I disturbing you?"

Logan seethed with rage. He pulled his right claws out and slashed at Death's face. Logan felt satisfaction as he saw the red trails he'd left. However, it was followed by disappointment, as the bleeding soon stopped, the wound healing instantly, leaving smooth skin behind. Taking advantage of Logan's surprise, Death dislodged his staff from Logan's pair of claws and aimed for the heart.

The deadly rod was pushed aside in time.

"You can try to kill me, Goose," said Logan with a growl. "But I warn ya, Yer stick won't beat the Wolverine."

"Well," said Death, taking high manners, brushing invisible dust from his black waistcoat. "You can slice me as much as you like," he said, a smile itched onto his face. "I'll always heal."

"Ya want to place a bet?" taunted Logan, taking a few steps inside the room, while Death took the same steps, in the opposite direction, both mutants now circling each other menacingly.

"I don't usually bet. But if you so wish, I can make an exception." Death's reply only served to irritate Logan farther, who now had his back to the small bed and night table. He seized it and sent it flying across the room. Death jumped aside, letting it crash against the wall and crumble to the cheap fake tiles of the floor.

Death surveyed the mess, his brow scrunched up. "I'll have to pay for that, you know." He then added with a smirk: "By the way, the poison will soon take affect. I might add, for your personal knowledge, that it's a 90 concentrated lethargic..." He was unable to speak farther comment as Logan crossed the small space between them, raising his claws to strike once more.

"Ya're goin' to pay for what ya did to Rogue!" he shouted, steering clear from one of death's blows. His claws soon met death's abdomen, shredding the waistcoat, and stomach. The wound was healed just as quickly. Logan cursed, just as the staff hit him squarely in the middle of his forehead, sending his head backwards with a sick crack. The couple of stars that danced in front of his eyes stayed momentary, but longer than Logan expected.

If he wanted his revenge, Logan knew he had to get rid of the mutant's staff. It was clearly made out of adamantium. With it, Death could get Logan without any close fighting, whereas Logan needed the mutant close enough so his claws could work miracles. The music was still grating on his nerves. The bass drummed against his senses unmercifully.

"Wolverine, I am not here to brawl, not today," said Death. He didn't change his fighting stance though. "I'm here about Rogue."

"Leave Rogue out of this if ya know what's good for ya."

Death shook his head lightly. "Rogue is the root of the problem. I can't leave her out of this."

"Ya're gonna hafta. Ya're the one, bub, that's being a problem."

"Careful, you're deceiving yourself, Weapon X."

The name only spurred Logan's rage.

"Haven't you smelt it? Felt it? Seen it? I would have thought, with your high senses that you would have least suspected it."

"What ya're talking about?"

It was the distraction Logan was waiting for: Death laughed loudly.. It was cut off by Logan's ... long claws planted deeply inside Death's stomach. He didn't stop there, though He slowly started to rotate them, satisfied to hear Death's yell of pain. Dark blood poured heavily from the wound. It didn't, however, stop Death from speaking his last words.

"Rogue... has changed way unimaginable to your animalistic mind."

Logan stumbled back face contorted in pain as the poison of his words, and poison that seeped through the shot he'd received earlier taking effect over his body.

"Arhhh!" he yelled, hitting a couple of night table debris and falling over, holding his head between his hands.

Death looked at Logan with hooded eyes. He leaned against the wall and slowly slipped to the floor, enable to stand up anymore, hand against the open wound, face as still as stone. It was as painful as he had expected. But now that the Wolverine was taken care of, he knew that he would survive. It would take a couple of minutes to heal, though.

Logan was now breathing hard on the floor, his muscles lax by his side, his senses blurred.

"Wait and see," he breathed. "I'm gonna finish ya off!"

"Oh please, how? By sending me a death glare?" Death asked, his head resting against the wall behind him. He was presently sending waves of his powers to his wound. He was already feeling better. "Look, Weapon X. Rogue left the Institute to meet Sinister or Dc. Nathaniel Essex. Talented Genetic Scientist of the 19th century. Or Nathan Millbury or... too many names for just one man, believe me. The point is, this man has Rogue in the palm of his hand..."

"What would Rogue want from a genetic scientist!" protested Logan.

"You are already aware of the transformations Rogue has lived through."

Silence fell over the room, leaving Logan to his thoughts.

It couldn't be true. And then... He could remember Rogue's strange smell, a smell he remembered from his early days. A sore on the back of her neck, or was it a scar? She'd looked frail. But she'd returned with something else: control over her powers –more exactly those she'd absorbed-. Returned with her psyches gone. "So Stripes could have control over her powers..."

"You're catching up fast. Maybe faster than I had planned... It was a successful operation, except for one major loop."

Logan kept still, straining his senses to discern the lie behind the words. He found none, and panic, something he hadn't felt for some time, started to rise. "Liar," he said. But his faith was dwindling. Sincerity was something very hard to fake, especially if you're trying to fake it in front of the Wolverine. He was slowly able to turn his head towards Death who didn't seem to be in a very good state either, he was pleased to note. "What is the price for control?"

"It's usually servitude. You have never met Sinister, not in all the years you've lived, Weapon X. You wouldn't know how obsessed he is with his project. He is searching the means to make the most powerful mutant ever. "

"Rogue can absorb any mutant power. Probably every mutant power."

"Exactly. Rogue became one of his big assets, and he believed that he could clone her, make her a better, even stronger mutant. Make the perfect killer."

Dread filled Logan' s mind. No, it could be possible. He wouldn't... And still Death's voice did not betray him: every word spoke the cold truth, as if they were imperturbable truth. "Did he... succeed?"

Death eyed Logan with surprisingly, pitying eyes. "Why aren't you asking how I know all this, Weapon X? Why am I telling you this? Have you never learnt to check your sources?"

Why, why why?

Logan scoffed. "Let me guess. World domination?"

"Thanks goodness no," came Death's reply. "He wants to survive the next world wide threat first. He'll consider World Domination afterwards, trust me."

"I hardly do."

-

"Which world wide threat-"

"Listen to me carefully," he cut Logan off promptly. Death slowly lifted himself off the floor, surveying the Wolverine's form, enough to now direct his power towards the other mutant. Logan growled, his fists clenched. The sedative was enough to keep two elephants in deep coma: it revealed how strong his healing ability was. His eyelids swooped progressively closed, the strained muscles of his neck relaxing. Death's tone became much more sombre. "I am going to take you to Sinister, Weapon X. He was gained interest in you, that it be interest for your powers, or your relationship with Rogue, I'm not sure."

Logan's forehead was creasing with wrinkles, something that he'd never experienced before. Needless to say, he was feeling a little raise of... panic? "What'cha doing?"

"Weakening your body, Weapon X. Working against you natural mutation, so that I can transport you without fearing for my life... or my clothes," he added, gesturing to his ruined shirt and waistcoat.

"I feel bad now," Logan sneered, trying to fight the druggy state that falling over him. He couldn't let the psycho kidnap him, the Wolverine. He felt unusually helpless, trapped, without control on the outside world. He couldn't let this happen, couldn't- for Rogue. One thing for sure, boy the poison was effective. "Bastard," he added, but it was only a faint whisper. What was he now, bate, guinea pig, experiment? It made his blood run cold, made him what to struggle harder, made the animal inside frantic.

Death nearly leap back out of sheer astonishment when Logan suddenly emitted the most animalistic cry a man had ever uttered, trashing, against his power, against the medicament.

"No! Impossible!" Death shouted, pushing harder, beating Logan's mutant power with stronger resolve. His smooth features turning lumpy with the effort. He rushed to his gun, charged another shot of tranquilliser and aimed for the jugular while Logan was now pushing himself up, his eyes wild with rage, ready to pounce and shred his attacker.

Death didn't hesitate another second. He squeezed the trigger. Logan fell, eyes rolling back into unconsciousness.

For a moment, Death thought to himself, he'd nearly lost his cool. How undistinguished of myself. On cue, Bradson appeared, jumping over the fallen door and into the room, bottle of bear swinging in one of his hands. He wordlessly gave the pale mutant another of his drawings.

Death sneered. "You could have warned me that one shot wouldn't have been enough," he accused, throwing the paper aside, and putting away the gun in his case, switching off the music as he did. Eerie silence filled the room.

"The ultra sounds did the trick anyway," he explained, glancing at the lying Logan. "Sensitive hearing isn't always a gift. Now, my dear Weapon X, it's time for your appointment with the doctor."

°°°°°

Sophia groped for her glasses at the side of her bed. "Coming!" she repeated as the knock persisted at the front door. As soon the world became neat again, her square black glasses on her nose, she grabbed her night-gown, put her large slippers on and headed downstairs. "I'm coming!"

She peeped through the door, and recognising the late intruder, unlocked the door and let him. There was a rush of cold air and snowflakes before she had the door firmly shut again.

"I need my beauty sleep sometimes if I want to be gorgeous and shining tomorrow morning..."

"Please, Sophia, dis be urgent," Gambit pleaded. Sophia eyed him warily in the dimness of the sitting room; it wasn't Gambit's kind to plead. His eyes, red lights in the dark made her uneasy.

"What is it?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I want ya to analyse dis," he said handing her a small vial. He hardly ever used the pronoun 'I' either. Something was up. She switched the small side lamp and inspected it. It was dark with blood.

"Who's blood is it?" she asked, glancing back at Gambit. The small white sticker on the side indicated O, Rogue's name, and a two days' worth date.

"S'not yar business..."

"Not my business?" Sophia snapped, giving him a glare. "You barge in at two in the morning, looking like a..." she let her eyes run over his form. "like a tramp, a burglar..."

Remy's nerves were about to brake. "Sophia, how many times gambit hav'ta tell ya," he said, exasperated. "Remy's a thief, not a burglar."

"It sounds the same to me."

"Well it ain't." This was going no where. "Sophia, please. Remy want ya to check for infections, anything..."

She stayed silent, but then headed for the kitchen. Remy followed her, close behind. She pressed the side of her dinning cupboard, the wood sliding away to reveal a panel of flashing buttons and switches. Soon, a passage gave way in the blue wall, and she quickly jumped the steps that led down, taking them down two by two familiar with the place. Bright lights were flicked on, revealing a small room, stuffed with vials and microscopes, cages full of mice and rats.

"Sit", she told him, doing so herself while she gestured to somewhere with her hand, not realising that, in fact, there was nowhere to do so. Gambit slowly paced the small lab, eyeing the rodents, while Sophia was busying herself with the blood sample. He flexed his injured arm painfully, she took note of the blood staining the arm of his coat.

"What happened to you, Remy."

"A cabot took Remy's arm for steak."

Sophia flexed an eyebrow. "I'm far from being fluent in French."

"A chien, a dog. Got bitten," he explained.

With the help of a pipette, she filled three smaller vials with the blood, before popping them in the ... "Show me?" she asked, already grabbing antiseptic spray from a shelf.

"No time for dat. Just get on with de business."

"I have to leave it in there for a couple of minutes anyway. Just take your coat off and show me. You're under my roof, and I can't let you stay like this. It's my job to heal," she said. "I vowed so under Hypocrathis law."

"Thought dat was 'bout not divulging any personal information 'bout the patients." Remy accepted, though, shedding his coat, and pulling up the bloodied sleep, revealing a makeshift bandage.

"That is not a proper bandage," she criticised harshly, pulling it off with surpassingly gentleness. "Oh dear, look. The skin is swollen and irritated." She slipped on a glove and pressed Gambit's forearm. "And hard. Congratulations, you've got an infection, Mister. Have to stop it from becoming feted."

"I've had worse, Chère," Gambit protested, trying to get his arm out of Sophia's grip.

"Don't be a fool. It won't take long- have you been vaccinated against rabies?" She had to make sure, as it was a dog that had bitten him.

"Remy thinks so."

"When was the last time?"

Remy rolled his eyes. Would she ever stop? Sophia might be kind hearted, but as soon as she was in her element (her lab and medical science in this case) she became the most bossy, authoritarian woman. "Can't remember,' he confessed. He had to repress a hiss as she disinfected the wounds. As soon she'd finished dressing it properly, with brand new, sterile bandages, she fished out a glass of water, and two tablets and held them out to Remy.

"Drink," she said simply. "They're antibiotics. You need the swelling to go down immediately. Wait another two days, and I would be thinking about amputating that arm. Another hour outside, and you would have been hit with fever."

Remy took them. She watched intently as he placed the two white tablets in his mouth, and then took a gulp of water to make them go down. Gambit was never an easy patient. "Good, now go and rest on the couch. There's a blanket already there." He was about to protest, but she beat him to it. "It'll take another three hours before I get any information out of the samples. And you look shattered. Immunity system will be running slow. And you don't need that right now."

True, Gambit felt the heavy weight of sleep pushing against his senses. He could trust Sophia, that much he knew, and he needed his strength. Sophia still had her eyes intent on Gambit's face, as she noticed, even with the dark circles incrusted around his eyes, that he still looked incredibly handsome, his hair dishevelled, a several days' subtle roughening his skin. If she didn't have a fiancé, she might have been more willing to join him on the couch.

He wearily trod back to the main floor, not before turning around and voicing his thanks with a small, tired smile.

Sophia turned away and went to work.

Meanwhile, Remy rested his head down on the couch's arm, his eyes dwelling on the piles of magazines and newspapers on the small table. He'd taken off his coat and left it at his side, instead covering himself with a blanket. If he hadn't had anything else on his mind, he would have seen this like a moment of tranquillité. Tranquillity. Where all he dreaded was waking up too early instead of sleeping till eleven. Those days seemed now so far away, as if they were part of another life.

All he could see now, as he closed his eyes, everything he dreamed of, dreaded of, concerned Rogue. How had it come to this? He'd already asked himself several times. How could he really justify his love?

It did not need justifying. It did not need reason. Wasn't a man allowed to love, without having to explain himself every step of the way? Wasn't a man allowed to give love freely? It was simple, why should it be complicated?

Sleep came with difficulty, his mind lingering on Sophia as she busied herself in her lab with Rogue's blood sample, thieved (not robbed) from the med-lab. He still thought about Death whispering these words of fear.

Doesn't she seem unusually distant… let's say… different?

I must say… I, first, then Sinister were rather surprised the way things turned out. Rogue wasn't meant to live that long.

You see… it was all an experiment, and it's soon coming to an end.

Gambit felt confident that he would soon find out what exactly this meant. It was soon coming to an end. It was this, more than anything else, that helped him ease down onto the couch, and go to sleep.

---

Voilà!

Rogueless chapter, but she lingers in our favourite mutants' minds! I'm hoping I'll finish Concrete road before the end of the holidays, so look out for more updates.

Thanks for the support, el diablo, an' Ice Angel46

WolvGambit Le Diable BlancThanks for the compliments. I might be creative, but grammar sometimes doesn't follow, and it's one of the most frustrating things: not being able to put what you think into words.

AngstWolf, Glad the entertaining is working, then! Looking forward to your update.

Spotless mind, Actually, I wouldn't mind a betta reader. Thanks for the riddle, I'm working on it. ;D

Sangofanatic, yeah, my grammar is crap. But I'm updating the chapters slowly to try and correct the mistakes. 'Throw' instead of 'through' is indeed a terrible mistake, one that I'm cured of for life.