Out of Context Stuff for a Danyal Al Ghul au i haven't posted - Pit Beast Danyal
Damian, 13: Look, Danyal, -- I am so sorry for everything that happened between us in the League, I hope you can forgive me.
Danny, 10 (allegedly): (has been secretly plotting to murder Damian this whole time, is still gonna do it obvs, but is going to make it significantly less painful now)
Danny: I-- of course, older brother. :]
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Bruce: what do you have there, Damian?
Damian:
Danny: (a hulking 10ft pit beast standing beside him, growling idly with ram horns gouging out his eyes and a second set of horns jutting into the air, spines down his back, and a long, spiked tail with an animalistic, skull-like face)
Damian, who smuggled him in (they've made amends): a smoothie, father
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Damian: this is my little brother Danyal, i murdered him when he was five. He festered in rage for the last half-a decade, took over a League mountain base in Switzerland, murdered everyone inside and then tried to murder me when I went to investigate with Drake.
Danny: hello!
Damian: we're cool now
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Damian: thoughts on resurrection
Danny, (a full ghost): i will succeed in murdering you if you try it
Damian: we'll put a pin in it then
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Danny (still instilled with League values): why don't we just murder him??
Damian, on patrol (Danny followed him): we don't murder people, Danyal
Danyal:,,,,are you sick, Dami?? Have you been possessed? Why not!?
(There is raucous laughing through the comms)
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Danny, five, pre-death: Dami! :D
Danny, dead, vengeful: Older brother (:
Danny, post-forgiveness: Dami! :]
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For some actual context: Danny is fully dead in this au, its a result of the classic DPxDC Demon Twins "death duel" trope but instead of Danny getting revived, he stays fully dead. Danny was five, Damian was seven. His ghost lingered though, and due to the proximity of the pits his ghost steadily absorbed the ambient energy it was letting off. The pits are not corrupted ectoplasm in this au, it's just liquid ecto.
Which means Danny's corruption from an angry and hurt little ghost boy to an unrecognizable monster is from his own doing. It's a result of him stewing in his hurt and anger for years, it physically warped him. He's very powerful. Danny can travel between League Bases but chose a small, out-of-the-way base in the Swiss mountains to fester in and then just. Never Left.
His influence steeped into the very foundations of the building, allowing him to transform and warp the rooms and hallways for his own bidding, Meaning he could turn it into a seemingly unending labyrinth if he so wished to, and block the entrance.
Eventually, blinded (both metaphorically and physically) by his own rage, Danny grew powerful enough to appear physically in the living realm and attacked everyone in the base, slaughtering them all and leaving the base abandoned. He attacks anyone who dares enter -- whether that be other league members, or the unfortunate hiker who stumbled across the base. His conscious is steeped into every nook and cranny of the building, there is nowhere you can hide where he can't find. Nobody leaves without his explicit say so. Nobody ever does.
Him appearing as ten years old before Damian in the skits above is his own physical doing. First it was to prevent Damian from being suspicious of him. Damian initially thought Danny was revived with the pits, he was too busy with his own training afterwards to notice that Danny never showed up again, and when he did notice, he assumed it was because Danny was too ashamed of his loss to face him. He'd always forget to ask about him.
Then it becomes a personal choice to appear as ten. It's how old he would've been had he been alive.
danny forgiving Damian is kinda for an offshoot branch of the main au. Whereas the main au takes the form of a ps4 first person horror game where Damian and Tim are investigating the Base for Plot Reasons. There's no sign of the rumored "monster" living inside until the end, where Danny, who was found inside the Base and has been happily "helping" them look around, manages to persuade Damian into splitting off from Tim in order to "show him something."
This something turns out to be Danny revealing that he never really forgave Damian for that fight, and he reveals through a horrifying transformation, that he was the monster the whole time. Which the game subtly hints at throughout as Danny's strange behavior becomes harder to ignore.
First from his insistence to only refer to Damian as "older brother" (when before the duel he always called him Damian or Dami), to him right off the bat denying the existence of a monster when questioned. ("There's no monster here, older brother. It's just me.") To other various things, like his knowledge of the outside world not matching up to modern times or things going on with the league outside of the base, or what happened to the other league members.
This whole idea was inspired by the song "Scylla" from Epic the Musical, with Danyal being the voice of Scylla as well as Odysseus, while Damian stands as Eurylochus. The instrumentals after Scylla says "hello" is him turning into the pit beast, and Scylla's "drown in your sorrow and fears" part is danny, as the pit beast, snarling at Damian while he attacks him.
There's a Good Ending, a Bad Ending, and a True Ending. The Bad Ending results in Damian being killed by Danny, it happens when Damian decides not to question or suspect Danny and treats him kindly. The Bad Ending is a cutscene, where Danny kills Damian quick and painlessly.
Meanwhile the Good Ending is Damian killing Danny. This is a boss fight, and it happens when Damian treats Danny coldly and suspiciously the whole time. Danny as a result, decides to make Damian's death painful as he had planned to, which is why it's a boss fight because it only causes him to double down on his anger.
The True Ending is Damian escapes with Tim. It happens when you treat Danny warmly up until the last minute, where when Danny proposes to Damian that he wants to show him something, Damian goes to talk to Tim and finally, reluctantly agrees that something is off with Danny, and that he'll be careful going in. It starts off with the boss fight until a third through, where it then changes to a cutscene where Tim manages to get the door open and Damian escapes out. It's then a chase scene down a never-ending hallway as the building actively works to keep you trapped inside. But you eventually make it to the exit so long as you avoid all the projectiles and doors.
Remember when I mentioned that Danny only lets people leave when he wants them to? That's where the treating Danny kindly throughout the game comes into play. It causes him to second guess himself and, eventually, reawaken and strengthen the love and admiration he had for Damian prior to his murder. It's why in the Bad Ending he kills Damian quickly -- because by then, he loves him enough that he doesn't want him to suffer, but is still so consumed by his rage and need for vengeance that he kills him anyways. That quiet part is what allows Damian (and Tim) to find the exit, because some part of Danny still loves Damian enough that he wants him to live.
The True Ending ends with a cutscene of Damian and Tim tumbling out into the snow/grass outside of the base. Damian looks up back to the entrance to see Danny standing there. But rather than a ten year old boy, there's a little five year old Danyal Al Ghul instead. He stares at Damian emotionlessly, blood seeping from his chest, staining his clothes, and little, bloody sword in his hands and tearstains on his cheeks, before he turns away and disappears back into the building.
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Danny, the Young Justice member snippet nr 2
these snippets aren't connected in anyway but just some little scenes I came up with, everyone is welcome to build up on them if they want to
Trigger warning: death mentioned, self-harm mentioned, idk, Danny gets flashback to portal incident
unrelated snippet nr 1, unrelated snippet nr 3 (?)
Out, out, out.
He tripped over his own legs and almost fell and it didn’t matter because he needed to get out.
Away, away, away.
He wasn’t sure if he ran or flew or dragged himself on the rough floor but he had to get away. His back hit a wall and he couldn’t get past it, intangibility just out of his grasp.
He logically knew that Zeta Tube wasn't the same as the portal but it was similar. So deadly similar.
He wasn’t sure when his own, corps-like, trembling with rigor mortis cold hands started rubbing his arms. He also wasn’t sure whether it was to comfort himself in this lonely self-hug or to try to rub hard enough that the hazmat and skin underneath would be torn, allowing him to see his own, red blood running in his veins. It was still red, right? It was still red, right? Of course it was still running, why wouldn’t it?
His knees gave up. He fell to the ground with quiet reverbatting thump, his eyes fixated on danger at the other side of the large room. He had to get further away but he couldn’t.
Because he was dying again.
Eyes full of tears and terror were jumping around, unable to see the room around him. Why couldn’t he see anything? Why were there only splashes of various colors, all contrasting with a light gray background. Were these people? Colors were moving, that seemed likely. Ghosts?! He had to get ready if these were ghosts he needed to fight them. People could be in danger and he couldn’t even stand without support. He started it, he had to take care of it, no matter how he felt right now.
His normally overly, unnaturally sensitive ears were filled with constant electric buzz from still active Zeta Tubes.
He was quite sure someone was yelling something but no matter what, Danny couldn’t understand what was being said. He tried looking around again but his teary eyes still failed him. There were no red stains though. Not in the right shade at least. No one was bleeding. It was okay for now.
Was it really? He hadn’t bled when he was dying had his accident though. It was all inside him, the crushing hollowness inside him and infinite outside pressure making his body implode. Ectoplasm bubbling in his mouth, throat, stomach and fingers, silencing his scream of agony and destroying his muscles. His limbs were limp and tense, twitching like a broken light bulb, out of his control but not out of his senses. It was so cold that it bit his bones and so hot that his skin was melting. There were screams so loud that it could shatter glass, as if every inhabitant of the Ghost Zone wanted to be heard and absolute suffocating silence. He was alone like nobody ever was and stuck in a stifling crowd that could stomp him to death any second. It was all contrasting, impossible but happening, existing together. He lived died it.
It was impossible, just like him.
There were others, they could help while Danny got himself together.
They couldn’t help if it was a ghost. He had to calm down and get ready to fight.
He couldn’t.
It was all happening again.
He was dying again.
It hurt to even think about.
Would it at least kill him for good?
Air he hadn’t needed before, not since his first death he always needed, like all functioning, alive human beings, got stuck in his lungs. He was gasping for it, choking on it. There was something stuck in his throat. SOme part of his brain that wasn’t screaming in agony and panic and loneliness had considered tearing his neck open just to get whatever was stuck swallowing but it didn’t help.
He rubbed his arms harder. His eyes were locked on a blurred, still active portal. One of the color blobs moved, growing larger but he couldn’t think about what it meant. His arms hurt. It was good. Pain was grounding. In a gray room with few portals. Not the basement. Ghosts still could be there but it wasn't a basement. He still needed to get ready to fight
If he could feel pain, it meant he was alive, right? Ghosts never showed that they felt pain right? His parents always said they couldn’t.
He knew it was a lie but he felt like it was his last hope.
He realized that growing group of colors actually looked like a person but he had no way to tell whether they were alive or not. His ghost sense was quiet but he didn’t trust himself to not miss it. His throat was still shut tightly. His body kept twitching like a glitching character. No matter what, he couldn’t fight right then. He had to get himself together.
He scratched his arms almost violently.
Warm, soft, gentle hands pried his palms away from his arms. It wasn't a ghost. Ghosts weren't this gentle, this calmingly warm. Someone, someone who was alive, was crouching in front of him, face at the same level as his, hiding portals from his sight. Danny nearly sunk into their gentle touch.
“-om." their voice also was so gentle, filled with concern but firm enough to get to him over the buzz of portals. He tried to concentrate on this voice. He didn't want to hear portals.
"-ntom." It sounded like they were calling someone. He had to focus more to understand. Gentle grip on his wrists got more firm. There he was. He wouldn't feel it if he was dying again.
"Phantom." They called quietly, like little windbells Sam gave him as a birthday present. It was his name, they were asking him something he couldn't understand, something he couldn't do.
"I'm sorry."
He wasn't sure if any sound came out of his mouth.
Grip on his hands loosened a little, not enough for him to do anything about it, but enough to return to the pure feeling of safety and reassurance it gave him before.
“It's okay Phantom." they murmured. Danny nearly cried at their kindness and calmness. Air slowly started to fill his lungs again. It truly was okay, he wasn't dying again."Can you focus on five things you can see for me?"
He could do it. It wasn't much to repay the gentle person kneeling in front of him.
He blinked tears away and started the list in his head.
Black Canary in front of him.
Superboy in the middle of the room. He looked like he didn't know what to do.
Kid Flash next to him, ready to come to where Danny was shaking on the floor.
Robin and Artemis both made sure that Kid stayed where he was.
Miss Martian for sure feeling his panic and having trouble coping with this. He should calm down as soon as he can, he didn't want to cause any of his teammates too much stress.
Danny nodded, looking once again at the only adult hero in the room.
Molecules in his body were rearranging again. It all hurt.
"Thank you Phantom. Can you focus on four things you can hear?"
Five racing heartbeats.
One heartbeat that sounded more like buzz because of its speed. KF's heart was always weird.
Tapping of someone's feet.
Zeta Tubes.
He had been in the portal again, it had turned on with him inside again. He was dying again.
Next cautious nod.
"Alright. Now three things you can touch." Black Canary still sounded so calm, so sure she had it all under control. So contrary to her panicked heart. Danny wanted to believe her voice.
Canary's hands still on his wrists. In fact she was touching him more than he was her, but it still counted. There was some physics rule about it.
Cold stone he was sitting on. Weird, he was sure this cave was heated.
Hard wall pressing on his spine.
"Excellent. Two things you can smell?"
Jazz had done same exercise with him before.
Cookies made by Megan before she went on a mission.
Ectoplasm. Somewhere there was ectoplasm that wasn't inside him. He couldn't smell his own ecto. But there was no ghost in the cave. His sense was silent. It was there somehow else. It was concerning but not enough to make him panic again. They could handle it.
His lungs were still aching but air started filling them nearly as much as it did normally. His limbs stopped shaking so much too. He knew he wasn't dying this time. He was calming down.
"You're doing great Phantom. Now think, what's one thing you can taste?"
Aftertaste of ectoplasm he spat between the rough fight and the moment when Kid Flash rushed him to the nearest Zeta Tube, talking about medical attention. Danny tried to tell him, he didn't need that but he was inside before his explanation left his mouth.
"Do you feel better now?"
"Yeah," It was all he was able to say at the moment. He truly felt better but that didn't mean good. It was only a little less bad than shitty, one step from fully dead.
I considered writing continuation with Danny explaining a bit what happened and how he even ended up in Zeta Tube but
a) lost spark to rewrite it
b) hated what already had
But if you want, I can probably rub my remaining two braincels together and continue. Or someone else can. Do it if you want to. Do it. Do it
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♧ ⎯ THE DEVIL YOU KNOW
summ. Something is wrong with Gambit. Deadpool & Wolverine are attacked— but they aren’t the target.
pairing. Void!Gambit x f!Anomaly!reader , (established in #WELUCKYFEW)
w.count. 3.6k
a/n. Kickstarting a potential storyline?! I’m gonna be so honest I don’t know either but. Maybe not. C’est la vie. Warnings for canon-violence & gore!
CURRENTLY, IN DOWNTOWN NEW YORK:
WADE HAS A BLADE EMBEDDED through his throat.
He hadn’t expected his Friday night to go like this.
This, by way of meaning: getting glass shards straight to the eyes after some asshole decided not to use the front door, and proceeding to wreak absolute havoc throughout the entirety of Wade’s apartment in an attempt to kill him.
Which brings us to now.
“Can we— eurgh— please ta— ack—!” Wade retches, gargling in his own blood as he slowly unsheathes the sword out his neck.
He spits the metal-tang-curdle of saliva to the floor with a hiss. His teeth and the house carpet stains an ugly vermillion. Somewhere amidst the long fight, Dogpool has scampered for cover with the roomba.
“Canwepleasetakeatimeout?!”
A picture frame shatters above him in reply. Wade dives to the living room, booting the coffeetable onto its side for cover. “Fuck me, this’ll all be a pain in the ass to clean up once we’re done h— ooh, what’s this?”
The tipped over IKEA table Blind Al set up two days ago reveals, stunningly: a concealed Glock 47. And knowing the old lady, these— alongside every weapon she’s likely squirrel-stashed around this house— is probably loaded.
(It’s by no means a gold-plated Desert Eagle from Nicepool— God rest his soul— but Wade makes a mental note to kiss Al on the mouth once she’s back from the laundromat.)
He unholsters the pistol; unclips the magazine; gauges— only 5 bullets. (…Does she kill people in her spare time? He’ll have to ask.) “You couldn’t’ve attacked me in my superhero suit? Would be so much more visually appealing for the audience, y’know.”
The assailant lets out an accented snarl beneath the dark of her hood. “D’ya ever shut th’ fuck up?”
“Uh, no? Wow, it’s like you don’t even know who you’re trying to kill here—”
Wade slides across the floor and fires. With a sharp dodge, the first bullet narrowly misses, bursting brick and drywall instead; The second clips the assassin’s shoulder as she curses.
“You sure you’re not supposed to be after Elektra instead? I mean, the whole hooded ninja-assassin-lady fit is kinda giving edgy early-2000’s era.”
A scowl. Ninja-lady hurtles a dagger just as he stands, slicing a whistle into the air. Wade only just deflects it with a timed swing from the same sword he’d yanked out his neck.
“Aw, all out of steel? This is why you shouldn’t bring a gun to a knifefight, beautiful.” He narrows his eyes. “Hold on I said that wr—”
“All this fuckin’ chatter!” she groans, brandishing another sword. Dusklight scatters through the drizzling rain and the window curtains, glimmering against her blade— and for a moment Wade catches it reflecting in her eyes: crescent-like; amused.
She’s smiling. Purposefully.
“Where did you even—? Did you pull that out your prison-wallet?”
“We been fightin’ a while now, Wilson,” the assassin ignores, looming like a living shadow in the dim of the kitchen. There’s blood splattered against her plain mask and the edges of her cowl. Most of it belongs to him. “Y’know y’self that this shoulda ended, say, ten minutes ago, now?”
“Well, that’s why I politely asked for a time-out, genius.”
“Makes y’wonder if this whole fight’s really ‘bout you, non?”
Wade stutter-steps.
His gut twists.
Logan, he thinks, instinctively. Then: Vanessa, Blind Al, Laura, Gambit, and you— Stray.
This has been… a stall. A fucking distraction.
“Hah! See, now you’ve just pissed me off,” the merc sing-songs, tone falling flat. It’s one thing to come after him; another to come after his family.
He tamps down the worry, rolls his shoulders. “Right, well.”
Deadpool recalls his rounds.
Three remain; one already chambered. More than enough.
“Let’s fucking dance, shall we?”
…ALSO CURRENTLY, SOMEWHERE IN NEW YORK:
“WHO—”
Stab.
“THE FUCK.”
Stab.
“SENT—”
Stab.
“YOU?”
The mountain of a man— if Logan can even call him that anymore after the absolute carnage he’d dealt to him in this seedy back alleyway— cries out a desperate ‘Wait, wait, wait!’ just as he rears back for another strike.
“God, wish they never assigned me to the fuckin’ Wolverine. Goddamn suicide mission,” he coughs out. His curly beard looks near black from the fountain of blood dribbling out his lips, and pooling down his neck where it stains his torn hood with gore.
Thunder rolls in the distance. The flash in the nightsky swaths Logan into cutting edges; paints him menacingly in every sharp crease and divot of his features. Rainwater mix with the streaks of red on his arms, dripping down, down, down to the blade-edge of his claws.
“Tell me what I wanna know and I might just let your sorry ass live.”
“I wasn’t told who sent us, okay—?” The answer has Logan snarling. “—Dude, I said wait, I said wait! You pointy prick— Jesus. None of this is personal, okay?”
A grunt. It’s nigh animalistic in sound. “Holding a gun to my head when I was mindin’ my own business is pretty fuckin’ personal to me.”
And they were Adamantium bullets too. He’d come prepared.
“Chill,” he laughs. “We’re not here for you. Or Wade Wilson, for that matter.”
Logan’s hairs stand on end. “What the fuck did y’just say, bub?”
“I said,” the man heaves, head lolling under its own weight and eyes heavy from the bloodloss. “This ain’t about you, or your cancer-fucked boyfriend.”
The crunch that resounds from between his jaw and Logan’s fist is monstrous. He’s half-sure he may have unhinged something, or dislodged a row of teeth.
He snatches the assassin by the collar and slams him against a dumpster, hard enough to leave a dent. “How many else of you are there? Who the fuck are you after?”
“Not enough to be honest,” comes his wheezing answer. It’s a laughter churned in derision and obvious resignation. He knows he won’t survive this. The corners of his vision have already begun to vignette.
“Do you really want to measure your pride against my fucking mercy, bub?”
A huff, akin to the flap of a white flag. The behemoth relents. “Four… of us. Too many… and we’d cause an incursion.”
There’s no time to question what the hell that meant. He’s slipping.
“You didn’t come here to kill me,” Logan repeats, grip loosening. “So why’d you bother trying?”
The assassin grins, teeth shining crimson with fresh blood.
“To buy ‘im time.”
5-ISH MINUTES AGO:
If war had taught you one thing, it’d be that instinct will save your life.
And something is definitely wrong.
It needles over your skin and nape, makes your insides pace like a caged animal— you feel it whenever you turn the cornerstone down 5th Avenue, when you pass the pour of newsstands at the end of the street; feel it at the cafe just opposite the X-Men’s Academy grounds where you go to mark papers.
You tell yourself to shake it off. That it’s just you settling into a new Universe, but—
“Rain caught you?” you ask, between the vinyl-croon in your shared downtown apartment, “Dinner’s ready soon. Allons manger.” *
“Ooh! Smellin’ mighty fine up in here.” The front door is closed shut. Remy slides his coat off and tosses it lazily to the sofa armrest. Your eyebrows shoot up, but you don’t comment. “And oui. Rain caught me out a bit.”
“Them brigands give y’any trouble?” he asks, taking the plates from your hand to set once he’d come up to the kitchen island. *
You make a noise as you shut the fridge door and turn with two beers in hand. Remy laughs. “Mais, y’been dealt a bad hand today, chèr?”
“How could you tell?” you feign a gasp, sliding a bottle his way and leaning back the counter as you sigh. “Students were restless today. And, my phone’s dead too. Drenched in the rain the second I stepped out the school. Stuffed it in rice and praying it’ll live.”
Then, suddenly— your nose wrinkles. You turn sharply towards the stove to check if anything’s burning. “Smell’s like smoke.”
A pop of his beercap. It clatters as he makes a hum of assent. “Probably me. M’sorry, chèr, I’ll change—”
“You smoke—?”
Remy colours a little.
“—Since when?”
There’s blatant surprise in your eyes more than there is confusion. Your gaze flickers to his hand. He has a deck in his palm; Charlier cut. One-handed shuffle.
Anxious tic. You haven’t seen him do it in a while.
“Mais…”
Needles, you’re reminded. That reflexive needling at the back of your mind is creeping at the margins again.
“I, I’m not stopping you,” comes your quick answer. Your hands are raised in surrender; you aren’t here to interrogate or stop him from his will. “Just— I didn’t expect it. Is, Is everything okay?”
“Mais oui,” he nods, trying to reassure you. “S’not often. S’just t’help me blow off some steam. Ain’t gotta worry that pretty lil’ head a’ yours, chèr, I promise.”
Your Remy had been a smoker. You’ve told him this before. Perhaps it’s a Multiversal thing, too. “No smoking indoors, though, deal?”
He purses his lips, looking sheepish. “Deal.”
The topic is dropped; A bated silence falls as he watches you dish dinner for the both of you. His intuition has always been precise, however, and it’d only been a matter of time before he spoke up again after he watched you sidle into your high-chair opposite his and push your food around.
“And you?” he presses, carefully, “Can hear the gears in y’head turnin’ from here, chèr. Talk t’me. Quoi ça dit?” *
It’d be pointless to lie. You glance at the rain pelting like hellfire at the window, then back at him, shaking your head as if in dismissal. “Nothing. I just feel like there’s someone out there, lately. Like we’re being… I don’t know.”
“Watched?” he offers, gauging your reaction.
Yes, you think to say, but you didn’t want to appear paranoid. You’ve had this conversation with Logan before; the thrown looks over your shoulders, the twitchiness, the habit of sitting with your back against the wall; Unending disquiet that simmers to a slow boil in your marrows.
(The war in your Universe may not have killed you, but it’d broken you beyond repair.)
“...I feel like something bad’s coming. Like someone’s gonna break through the window or—” You shut your mouth with a click before that thought goes off on a nervous tangent. “My, my body keeps preparing for a fight. Like there’s something out to get me all the time.”
Remy’s eyes are curious. Observing. He’s stopped fidgeting as he listens, deck resting in ready position.
“Chèr,” he begins, gently taking your hand from across the table and—
You almost yelp.
His touch is cold.
(Needle-like.)
You very nearly pull away.
(Instinct.)
Dread crows like a song; a banshee’s cry in your mind’s eye.
“Easy, hey,” he frowns, worry painting across his face when you slide your hand from his. “Chèr.”
“I—” Panic roars in your chest. Your lungs expand. It’s the beer bottle, you reason, that’s why his touch is cold. Maybe even the rain. Hell, this could just be an anxiety attack.
“I’m fine. I’m fine, sorry, I’m just— tired. Yeah.”
His gaze softens.
“Hey. Look at me, chèr. Y’home. Y’safe. Y’know that.”
You nod. Press your eyes shut. Take a gulp of beer, focus on the burn; on the distant New Orleanian croons of the record player just under the window.
“Gambit ain’t gon’ let anythin’ happen t’you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you agree, smiling tightly. It doesn’t reach your eyes; does little to dispel your razor-edged wariness.
He notices. He always does.
“How ‘bout a game t’clear y’mind, chèr?” he offers, nudging his plate an inch to make way for his deck of cards. “Go fish?”
You laugh. It’s fragile. “You’re gonna let me win, anyway.”
“There’s that smile,” Remy hums under his breath, just enough that you can catch it. “—An’ no, chèr. Cross my heart, Gambit ain’t gon’ let y’win. Mais, y’know how I get wit’ games.”
He does cross his heart, playful, then shuffles his cards. You try to let yourself sink back into familiarity in his flourishes and its sounds; watch his hands work deft to chase away the anxiety still clawing under your skin.
He deals.
You adjust your cards.
…ven of Diamonds, Queen of Hearts, Nine—
Your blood runs cold.
“Is…”
You try to swallow back the horror as you look at the neat fan in your hand. “…Is this a new deck, Remy?”
The next bit of what he says sounded off to your ears; a record scratch, a jerk of a needle.
“Mais non, this the same deck Gambit been usin’ since the start.” He shoots you a confused look.
(It’s like a muslin-thin veil has been lifted:
The nerves and paralysing paranoia, his precious brown leather coat thrown carelessly over the couch instead of being hung reverently on the rack, the grotty scent of cigarette smoke beneath the rain, the anxious shuffling of his cards at the table, the uncanny observation and scrutinising— and perhaps, what should’ve been the most damning of all— his ice-cold touch.
No warmth. To the touch. In his gaze. In his smile. In energy.)
“Chèr? Y’alright?”
No. No, you’re not fucking alright.
Because this deck has a Nine of Hearts. That card has been with you, since the Void; since the start.
This…
This man is not Remy.
“Yes,” you say, and you internally scream at your reply— too quick. Too quick to hide the obvious lie. “Sorry, I just gotta— I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“Chèr—?” he frowns, chair scraping as he stands to try reaching out and steadying you.
Your heartbeat skyrockets. Instinct howls inside you. Everything has been recontextualised, and suddenly every difference about him jumps out: the rough edges, the muss of how his hair falls, the cut at the tip of his ear you never noticed.
“No, stay. Stay, I’m fine—” You teeter your way off the stool. It’s not entirely a lie that you felt like throwing up, but the omission is: there’s a gun you keep under your pillow, and another under the bathroom sink.
Your phone is dead. This will have to be a fight.
And against a mutant? You have nothing but a slim chance.
“Stray,” he calls. His voice would be soft to anyone else's ears, but you hear it now— the difference, the rasp, the hardness as his heavy footfalls draw close behind you in the hall. Frustration. Not concern. “Talk to me, chèr.”
You slam the bathroom door shut with a resounding click of the lock. You let the sink run and drown out the noise of your hands fumbling underneath the sink, and once the weight of the 9mm pistol is in your palm, there’s faint comfort.
The rest is muscle memory: confirming a round in the chamber, unclipping to check the remaining 15 in the magazine; recalling the distance to the front door and whether you can even get through this whole thing without firing a single bullet, much less alive.
Remy— or, no, fake Remy? Fake Gambit? —is knocking at the door. His words are muffled. You barely pay attention as you place your pistol by the faucet, and dip your head down to splash water to your face and ready yourself for a scuffle.
“Stray.”
Your head shoots up.
The door’s unlocked and wide open. Gambit’s loom behind you through the reflection of the mirror is harrowing.
You barely have time to scream.
His hand snarls through your hair— then, like a loaded spring, Remy rams your head against the mirror.
You cry out. Glass shatters in a spray.
“Tell me.” A gruff chirp, right by your ear. “What gave me away, eh?
“Fuck… you,” you choke out, cringing when a shard cuts into your cheek.
“Baw, why ‘de bobin, Stray?” His accent is heavier now that the guise has been dropped. “Y’know, I ain’t never understood ‘dat nickname. Where’d’ya come from, eh? Y’aint from ‘round here?” *
“C’mon, Raven,” you rasp, head reeling as red gushes down your face. “Enough games. Drop the skin.”
He laughs. It sounds painfully like the Remy you know. “Mais la, how disappointin’. D’ya really think I’m Mystique? ‘Dat couyon bleue could never nail ‘de Cajun accent even if she trained for it.” *
You don’t care which Remy this is. The distraction buys enough time. Your hands scramble at the faucet; grasping for your pistol until—
“S’Gambit in ‘de flesh, chèr bébé, jus’ ain’t ‘de one y’used t’cuddlin’ with at ni—”
You fire blindly. A tile bursts. The gunshot booms like a church bell.
Gambit recoils with a sharp yell, vision searing white from the piercing ring in his ears. You take the chance to book it past him with a gasp, nearly slipping on the floor as he barely misses snagging the hem of your shirt.
“Son of a bitch,” he grinds out, shaking his head. He springs his collapsible staff, props himself to his feet. “Gotta give it t’you, chèr, y’got bite. Shame ‘de night had t’end ‘dis way. Was hopin’ we coulda’ got on by peacefully.”
Gambit descends like a reaper down the hall. His hand draws a card and you hear the cutting whistle of it in the air.
It’s too quick for you to react. The Ace explodes, and the blast has you rocketing to the floorboards by the record player. The tracks skip from the harsh impact:
“-- ZZzrt -- I been in the right place! But it must have been the wrong time!”
Comically perfect. Life sure likes making a joke out of your situations, huh?
You fire two pointed shots as you turn onto your back. One hits the cornice and the other is a near-miss, dodged by Gambit ducking into your room doorway with a curse. It throws him off his rhythm. His growl turns into a sour grimace instead. “Goddammit, woman.” (You’re a sharp shooter, Gambit admits. He had felt the wind on that one.)
Dr. John still croons his ‘70’s Cajun funk in your ransacked home. “---I been in the right world! But it seems like wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong!---”
Pain lances up your leg as you stagger to your feet. You can’t pinpoint where, but nothing feels broken; a small mercy.
You make a break to the front door as you continue firing to keep him back. You’re not out of the woods yet. If you can just get out, dart for the stairs, you’d atleast get a better shot at surviving this insane manhunt—
The front door handle is busted.
Busted, in which: Gambit must’ve charged the handle and melted the lock into nothing from the inside out when he first arrived. Sly bastard.
“---Refried confusion is making itself clear! Wonder which way do I go to get on out of here?---”
Thinking clearly is out of the question, so you think rapidly instead. Fire escape. Right outside your bedroom window.
It’s too late, though. Gambit deals another card the moment you swivel on your feet— and the charge detonates just as you raise your gun.
The flash of purple is lightning hot against your fingers. The force sends you careening to the door and sliding down with a strangled hiss.
Your pistol clatters. You scramble for it—
An aside on all the Gambit’s you have had the (un)fortunate opportunity to come across: all versions of him across the Multiverse are surely relentless. Be it in competition, or charm, or, in this case, pure fucking bloodlust amid combat.
Some of his feats are impressively frightening.
Like charging his staff— and then spearing it straight from across the room and right between your pistol’s trigger guard.
Disarmed in an instant.
Deadly accuracy.
“---I took a right move! But I made it at the wrong time!---”
You really wanted to break that damn player.
“Nice try, chèr,” Gambit says, voice dark as he saunters over to you. The smile that spread across his face is like blood emerging from a quick, precise slit. (In another time, you might’ve considered it attractive.) “But Remy oughta teach you a t’ing or two ‘bout knowin’ when t’fold y’cards.”
That crisp accent of his almost makes the threat sing out sweet. He picks his coat up along the way and shrugs it back on.
“Yeah, well. Not your call,” you snap, scooting to your back with a visceral glare. “What the hell do you want?”
Another aside of Gambit: Like water in a river, Remy LeBeau always takes the path of least resistance. And yet he hadn’t killed you when he had multiple opportunities to do so, and every card he’d dealt throughout the fight was meticulously controlled, just enough to not do any real damage.
The signs are clear— he needs you alive.
“Wanna put a damn gris-gris on you for ‘dis, first of all.” He gestures to his bleeding temple with a wince. Your first shot must have burst his right eardrum. “Mais la, I need me a cigarette.” *
A deep sigh. He fishes an odd gadget out his pocket, and you narrow your eyes. It looks familiar.
“Listen, chèr.” Gambit rips his bō staff off with a grunt, wood splintering out the boards from the force. He lazily kicks the gun away, looming over you with a resigned look on his face. “I ain’t here to kill you, alright? ‘Dat’d make ‘dis a hit, and ‘dat ain’t in the nature of what Remy do.”
“---Head is in a good place, and I wonder what it's bad for!---”
You let out a defeated snort. “So? Is that supposed to make me feel any better?”
“So.” He exhales, triggers his device with a button.
A TVA Time-door warbles open.
…What the fuck?
“Don’t be harborin’ any bad feelin’s on me for what I’m gon’ do next.”
Remy re-grips his staff. You pale.
“Ah, shit.”
You’re out like a light before you register the blow.
No one’s home by the time Wade and Logan barge in, late by a matter of seconds.
*Cajun Footnotes
Allons manger — Let’s eat
Brigands — Troublemakers
Quoi ça dit? — What’s up? (Literally: “What that says.”)
Bobin — Frown
Couyon bleue — Blue fool
Gris-Gris — a curse/bad luck
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