36. 37. 38. 39.

Math has never been Remy LeBeau's forte, but the counting sets a rhythm to the beating of his heart as his fingers drum a nervous tattoo on the wood of the table. A single drink sits in front of him, paid for but untouched. Picking it up, he inhales the scent of the whiskey, its familiarity giving him a small measure of comfort. There's no move on his part to drink it; not having his wits about him could very well mean death.

40. 41. 42. 43.

He needs a cigarette, he thinks as he gives the waitress a charming smile when she asks him if he'll be having anything else. "Non, merci; your smile is enough, ma belle," Remy coos in the thick Cajun drawl that has her ducking her head while blushing with a pleased giggle. It's practically a reflex now; he doesn't even have to think about it. Flattery has always gone a long way for him, though now, it seems that none of his pretty words will be able to save his skin. Sinister's good with words, too, better than him, and has considerably less of a tolerance for his frequent loquacity and attempts at charm.

44. 45. 46. 47.

A cigarette? Hell, he needs a place to run more than anything. A new life would help, too, but he's needed that for a long while now and he knows he won't be getting it any time soon. He can't ever have nice things. Remy slumps down slightly in his chair, red and black eyes tracing the whorls and patterns in the grain of the table wood. It gives him a purpose, something to follow with the guarantee of it not ending in disaster for once.

48. 49. 50. 51.

Maybe Sinister will let him go after this one if he does this well enough. Remy snorts at his own foolish dreams. As if. He has yet to outlive his usefulness and in truth, he may welcome the day when he does. Death would be better than this. Anything would be better than this.

52. 53. 54. 55.

He's never liked waiting. Jobs are different; he's in control and knows that the outcome will probably pay off well for him. This, however, feels like a walk in a black hood to the executioner. An unlit cigarette dangles from his fingers as he waits for the others to come lead them down into the tunnels. Will it go well? That's anyone's guess. It won't be long now. Sighing, he closes his eyes behind his sunglasses and softly counts under his breath in his native tongue, the state he enters almost trance-like.

"Cinquante-seis…cinquante-sept…cinquante-huit…cinq uante-neuf…"

"Time's up, kid," growls Sabertooth with an air of generalized menace as he sits down in the seat across from him, the other Marauders following behind. "You gonna take us down there or not, swamp rat?"

Soixante, Remy finishes mentally and eyes him coolly with a slight smirk as he hears the waitress gasp and sees her cradle her tray to her chest out of the corner of his eye. Standing up, he cracks his neck and shrugs, deliberately keeping his gaze on the other mutant in order not to draw attention to the other patrons. It's taking everything he has to keep his composure, but he'll be damned if Victor Creed will have him running scared like a chicken with its head cut off. "If y'think you're man enough, ouais."