Chapter IV: The Sound of Her Wings

"And if I wanted to kill myself, I wouldn't throw myself off a roof. And if I was going to throw myself off a roof, I would put on some pants before I did it."

- Holly Black, White Cat

He blinked at the ceiling and understood that at the root of it, there was always the minor complication that people tried and constantly failed at the art of holding Remy LeBeau down. Or captive. Or twisted up into restraints for very long, regardless how kinky. It just didn't work.

The spaghetti tangle of medical equipment connected him bodily to an array of monitors that hummed and beeped and reported that he was in fact, alive, despite all his misgivings. He sat back into the smell of bleach; starched, squashy pillow linen hugging his head, and contemplated this new development.

The blue teddybear doctor - Hank - had left him some time ago, and though Remy thought he could wait him out, his curiosity was bound to get the better of him eventually.

It took another fifteen seconds. He counted.

After peeling the heart monitor pads from under his gown, Remy gave his IV a tug, and decided that the best approach was to take it with him. He didn't want to escape far, just out of the hospital bed. And maybe the country.

His hospital room, though dimmed, had the gleam of a recently unpacked stainless steel refrigerator. Titanium panels lined the walls, ceilings, and floors; a fact that was reinforced when Remy swung his legs from the bed and his feet made contact. The door to his room wasn't locked, however, but the air had the thickened quality of damp that came with basements. He was somewhere underground, a fact that was reinforced by the numerous air vents and the complete lack of fenestration. No ducts. No immediate way out that he could see.

Challenges? Sure. Made escape all the more interesting.

He surveyed his room, not expecting further help from the good doctor who'd tended his wounds. No boots, he assessed. No clothes. No trenchcoat. Not folded anywhere, not hanging up.

The blue teddybear doctor - Hank - had packed away and hidden his belongings like Cookie Monster packing away his namesake.

The motion detector over the door blinked red and slid open with a hydraulic hiss.

Ever cautious, he stuck his head into the hall, the IV bag trailing him.


When no one responded, Remy wheeled into the hall. Between the draft and the cold floors and the halogen lights and his inability to twist or bend or buckle beyond a two inch shuffle, Remy groaned into begrudging motion. The walk would help clear his head of the morphine fog. The stiffness? Well, accelerated healing was good for something.

He stroked his chest, feeling the rise of stitches in his skin near his breastbone.

"One more scar near the heart, eh homme?" He chuckled. "Nothing ever quite hits the mark."

A series of rooms lined the corridor, all sealed shut hydraulically. None bore signs, save for one with a biohazard plaque which he deduced was a lab. He wasn't interested in the type of experiments that turned a mutant into a fuzzy blue muppet, so he skipped the volatiles, aiming for the elevator at the end of the hall. That is, of course, until the arrow above the doors blinked green, signaling the arrival of an unexpected guest.

Remy acted on instinct, swinging into the motion sensor of the nearest door to his left and slipping into the dimly lit room beyond before whoever descended could see him out of bed. Among the numerous habits he'd picked up in the Thieves Guild of New Orleans, avoiding unnecessary questions about who he was or what he was doing was not merely necessary: it was a prerequisite for survival. The doors sealed shut before him, and waiting a beat before he exhaled, he heard only the vaguest impressions of the humming doctor as he passed. Ten seconds passed, pressed against the thick door, before he was certain that he was alone. He moved away from the sensor with cultivated patience, not wanting to trip the motion detector and be found out. Once he'd cleared its range, he exhaled, and stepped back into the room, running the IV straight into a metal dissection table.

Flinching with his entire body at the crash of metal, Remy turned, one foot raised, clutching the IV's pole, and hoped against all hope the sound wouldn't wake the dead.

If the morgue's occupants didn't seem troubled by the intrusion, it was because there were only two of them: himself, and the hooded figure of death herself - bloodied, pale-faced, and glowering at him from beside the lockers with her arms folded across her chest.

"Nice butt," she deadpanned.