AN: I do not own the X-men. Before anyone asks, I don't write out anyone's accents; partially because I'm a touch typist and it takes forever to sit there and look at the keyboard to deliberately misspell words. Besides, we all know what they sound like. And has anyone noticed that in Evo, Remy does not speak in third person? The story's PG-13 for now; I will probably raise it later on.
This is AU. The world is aware of mutants but hasn't quite decided what to do with them yet. Remy LeBeau does not know Magneto or Sinister (he's not in this story anyway). And the last anyone has heard of the mutant known as Mystique was that she had died of unknown causes...
A museum in New Orleans, the dead of night...
Remy crouched quietly, waiting for the security guard to pass. Crawling through the vent hadn't been easy; but it was either that or go down the elevator shaft and he hated elevators. Ever since he was a child when he had been afraid he'd get stuck in one and be trapped. A completely irrational fear now, considering he could get out of almost anywhere, but that still didn't erase the residual dislike. So through the vent he had gone, and now here he was, crouched in the utilities closet while the guard outside the door picked his nose. A truly disgusting habit, and he would have pointed out to the guard that the whole point of boogies ending up in his nose was so that the germs in them didn't end up in his body so eating them rather defeated the purpose, but the whole point of him being in the utilities closet was so that the guard out there didn't know he was around, so Remy kept quiet.
Eventually the hygienically lacking guard finished his snack and moved on down the hall, turning a corner and going out of sight. Remy waited a couple of minutes to be safe then got up, sighing silently in relief. He needed to get moving; he didn't really feel like spending the entire night in this museum. He just wanted to get the painting and get out of there; Emil and Henri were on the roof waiting for him and he'd never hear the end of it if he took forever. Remy could just hear them now, going on about 'the prince of thieves losing his touch'. He snorted. As if. He'd show them who was losing their touch. He may love his cousin and brother but that wouldn't stop them from finding a charged card in their shorts. For now though, on to Matisse.
Remy rolled his eyes as he crept down the corridor at the thought of the collector who had decided he just had to have the painting he was going after tonight. It wasn't even Matisse's greatest work, he thought as he stood in front of the painting in question, but then Remy wasn't a huge fan of the man. He'd take Cezanne any day.
The whistling down the hall of his friend the boogey-eating guard from earlier told him he had better hurry. Conard.(damn fool) You weren't supposed to come back this way for at least another ten minutes. Either the info they had been given was wrong, or the guard was slacking off and not performing his entire rounds. Deciding it was safer to be paranoid than be sorry, he chose to believe the former. If they were wrong about that though, what else were they wrong about? Best not to hang around and find out.
He made quick work of the frame and soon had the painting rolled up and in his trench coat. Deciding to take the elevator shaft back to the roof after all, he went down a different corridor than he had come from previously then halted. Hello, you weren't here before.
"Stop right there, thief", said the unseen before guard that was waiting for him in the corridor, gun drawn.
Remy smirked. "Normally excellent advice mon ami, but I think I'll have to ignore it this time." He did a little salute then turned and ran back the way he came. What the fuck? There was only supposed to be the one guard on this floor. I've been set up!
He heard the sound of gunfire from behind him as he ran but instead of just the normal pain that a bullet would have when it hit him, he also felt a slight numbing sensation go over his body. Power suppressor. Someone told them I was a mutant. Bastards. He could hear the sound of sirens approaching from outside. Merde. Merde merde merde. Merde on toast. Merde on a shingle. This was going wrong in so many ways it wasn't even funny. The elevator was out. It would take forever for him to crawl back up the ventilator shaft. The sirens had stopped now and he could hear voices outside. They were waiting for him outside so the front door was out. That left the window. He was on the third floor but he'd jumped from higher spots before.
Remy raced down the hall, faltering a little from the after effects of the power suppressor, but determined not to get caught. Eighteen years old and Jean-Luc LeBeau's star pupil, he'd never been arrested. He encountered the first guard from earlier, but not even bothering to take out his staff he just shoved the man out of the way with all his might and headed for a room at the end of the hall. There was a window there, he knew.
He opened the window, looked down at the pavement below and sighed. All this for a fucking Matisse. Some people have no damned taste. Hearing the approaching voices of the guards behind him, he climbed out the window and jumped, tucking up into himself and rolling as he hit the ground. Oh this is going to hurt tomorrow. What am I saying? It hurts now. He got up, and limping slightly, did his best to run. Think I landed on that ankle wrong. He ached now from the fall and the suppressor bullet in his shoulder. He had been set up and now risked getting caught all for a painting that in his opinion wouldn't get more than a second look at Christie's. Bon Dieu, can anything else go wrong? He just hoped Henri and Emil had managed to escape. He rounded a corner and nearly collided with two policemen, guns drawn.
Ask a stupid question Remy, get a stupid answer.
Remy sat in a cell at the police station, his cuffed hands forced out in front of him in something that resembled a smaller version of the stocks from Puritan days. The power suppressor hadn't faded yet, but the police weren't taking any chances. Either someone had done their homework, or they had been given good information. He leaned towards the latter.
A couple of hours later his pere walked in, followed by one of the Guild lawyers. Jean-Luc LeBeau did not look happy at all. He took a look at the officer standing guard outside the cell. "Leave us alone for a minute. I need to talk to mon fils." The man gave them a wary look, but moved to the other end of the room, never taking his eyes off of them.
"Papa, I was set up. There was an extra guard and they knew I was a mutant." Remy was angry and disappointed. He had never been caught before; he felt like he had let his father down.
"Hush Remy, I know. We think it was the Assassins but we can't prove anything yet. Unfortunately the judge is in their pocket and he says you're a flight risk so he won't set bail; you'll have to stay here until the trial."
Remy was worried. He'd heard stories of what was done to mutants in prison. Trial. Such a heavy word. He couldn't believe this was happening. This wasn't supposed to happen, damnit. He was the fucking Prince of Thieves. He sighed. His shoulder and ankle were killing him. No one had bothered to look at his injuries, even though he had been walking with a limp when they took him in.
"Can't you get me out of here, Papa?"
"I'm sorry Remy, but you know things are uneasy with the Assassins right now. We can't afford to upset things before the wedding. Besides, we have no concrete proof it was them yet."
The wedding. Remy almost smiled. If there was a good thing coming out of the business of making peace with the Assassins, it was that. To end the centuries of fighting between the Thieves and the Assassins Guilds, Remy, as the guild-master's son, would marry Belladonna Boudreaux, daughter of the head assassin. Remy hadn't argued at all. He loved Belle; they had known each other for years and had been dating for quite awhile now. They hadn't set a firm date yet but it looked like it would be sometime this year. He sighed again. That was assuming he didn't have to get married from a prison cell, of course.
"I understand. Can't I at least get a shower and a band-aid? They did shoot me, you know."
Jean-Luc cursed under his breath. "Those idiots haven't even given you medical attention? Leave everything to me Remy." He stormed out of the room, a stream of French obscenities pouring from his mouth. Remy winced at a few of them; he'd never heard his father talk like that before.
An hour or so later, Remy was still in the cuffs but he had been taken out of the stocks and his wound had been attended to. He had been given a shot containing a stronger version of the power suppressor used in the bullet he was hit with earlier. He would be given this every night before bed to remove any chance of his charging anything during the night. During the day, they told him, he would be kept in the stocks as he needed his hands to activate his power. He hated the suppressor. It had the side effect of leaving the person slightly nauseous. Remy didn't know if he could stand this every night until his trial. How the hell was he supposed to sleep when his stomach was turning?
Sighing in aggravation, he turned on his side away from his injured shoulder and did his best to fall asleep.
AN: Sorry if this is a little short. This plot bunny has been nipping at my heels for ages and I had to let it out. I will probably update it somewhat infrequently until "Starting Today" is finished, then I'll devote more attention to it. Fear not, our Southern Belle will appear before too long, but this won't be a speedy romance.