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Chapters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
 
 
 

Betrayal - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Valerie Jones
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 37

"You low-down, slimy, belly-crawling snake!" Forge stops dead in the doorway and stares at the machinery that occupies most of the cavernous room.

Several steps ahead of him, the Witness turns. His expression is only mildly curious.

"I thought it was destroyed!" Forge gestures toward the machine.

"You were supposed to."

"You set that up?" Forge's anger has not dimmed. In fact, the expression in his eyes has grown black.

The Witness only nods.

"My. . . . daughter was *killed* in that raid." Forge forces the words out. His hands have balled into fists.

The Witness nods again, sadly. "I know. She wasn' supposed t' be dere. De folks dat were supposed t' be sittin' on her underestimated her powers." He turns away and steps toward the machine. "But, in a little while, she'll never have been born. So it don' much matter anymore."

Forge stands silently for several long minutes as the Witness busies himself with a control panel. Then, "You really bet everything on that, didn't you?" he says.

"Oui." The Witness does not look up.

"Why?" Forge crosses the room. His anger has been replaced by pained curiosity.

"Why what?"

"Why take this?" He gestures at the intricate metal construction that rises well above their heads. "I was going to go back to the X-men. Warn them."

"Dat would've been `gainst de rules."

"How? You weren't *sending* me. That's the loophole that let Bishop go back. He made the choice himself."

The Witness pauses to look at Forge. "De difference is dat you were actin' on information *I* gave you. Bishop wasn'. He made de choice blind." He flips a set of switches. "If y'd gone back, de paradox would've wrecked everyt'ing."

Forge is silent, thinking. Then, "You should have asked me, Remy." His eyes are old and sad. "I could have mothballed this project myself. . . . No one had to get hurt."

The Witness' gaze is flat, but not unsympathetic. "You weren' listenin' t' me in dose days, remember? I ran out o' choices."

A deep thrumming rises through the floor as the machine powers up.

Forge sighs and checks his watch. "How much time do we have?"

The Witness closes his eyes, feeling with his mind for the disturbance. "On dis end, `bout five minutes." The impending time wave rushes toward them like a black wall. Remy LeBeau has no interest in being present when it hits. Not yet, at least. He sets a countdown timer.

"De automatic recall'll trip two minutes after we leave. It's set t' give us forty-eight hours in de past. Den--"

"Then we get yanked back here just in time to be smashed by the new time line." Forge's expression is grim. "I know how it works."

Without another word, the two men step between the focusing arrays. After a moment, their forms seem to ripple and elongate as invisible energy is bounced back and forth across the space they occupy. Then, with a miniature thunderclap of displaced air, they are gone.

Remy found himself out at the end of the small dock, staring into the water. He hadn't planned to go there, but it was a straight line from the back door. He had been walking blindly-- long strides that took him away from the house as quickly as possible without admitting that he was running away. The only reason he had stopped was that he had run out of land. The next step would put him in the lake. He rocked back and forth on his heels, considering. It has suddenly become a difficult choice whether to turn around and backtrack so that he could go around the lake, or just to jump in and swim. All he was really aware of was that he wanted to be as far away as possible from this place and these people as he could get. He had seen their eyes and their knowing stares. Their disgust at what he had done. Even Storm, though she had been kind, had only sadness in her eyes. It made his gut ache.

He noticed his distorted reflection in the rippled water. *Should've know better,* he told it. *Carin' only gets y' hurt.* Then his mouth quirked into a haunted smile. *But maybe dat's life's way o' evenin' out de score.*

"Is that really what you believe, Remy?" The question was soft and sad.

Remy stiffened. "You readin' my mind dese days? I t'ought dat was against y' personal code o' conduct."

Charles sighed. "I'm afraid your defenses are not what they have been in the past. You're projecting-- I couldn't help but overhear. I'm. . . . sorry for the intrusion."

Remy turned around, but could not bring himself to meet the other man's eyes. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, he finally blurted out, "I don' even know what t' call you." He felt completely helpless before this man who was supposed to be his father. Helpless and. . . . insufficient.

To his surprise, Charles began to laugh, though his mirth was strained. "I don't know the answer to that one, either." His solemnity returned. "I suppose you should simply pick whatever is most comfortable to you."

*But that don' tell me what *you* want, does it? Or are y' just tryin' t' be nice and not tell me?* The thoughts had hardly passed through his mind before Remy remembered what caliber of telepath he was talking to, and tried to slam shut the doors of his mind. But he knew he'd been far too late when Charles looked away.

After a bare moment, Charles turned back. This time their gazes met. Remy wasn't sure, but he thought he saw both hurt and anger reflected there. Charles didn't bother trying to pretend he hadn't heard.

"I don't know what I want," he admitted slowly. "I-- this is hard. All of these things that are part of the past for you, haven't happened to me yet. My memories of you begin two years ago. I've *seen* your past, but I don't *remember* it. I don't remember a. . . . a child."

Remy shrugged. "Lots o' folks get strapped wit kids dey don' want, Professor. Least I'm plenty old enough t' take care o' myself an' get out o' de way." He started to turn away.

"I don't want you to leave, Remy."

Remy closed his eyes. It was just one little sentence, but one that he so desperately wanted to hear. Especially when it came from the mouth of a man he knew would not lie to him. Especially when it came from *this* man. Still, that didn't change anything, really.

"I don' belong here. You an' me both know dat."

"I know nothing of the sort." There was anger now in Charles' voice. "This is your home."

Remy sighed. "I been tryin' t' be an X-man since I got here, Professor. It's time I stopped pretendin' t' be somethin' I'm not."

"An' if ya don't stop sniveling, it's gonna be time fer ya ta stop pretendin' yer conscious." Both Charles and Remy were startled by the new voice. Logan stood three steps behind Charles' hoverchair, glowering at Remy. His arms were crossed on his chest and was flexing his fingers rythmically, as if itching to extend his claws. Remy hadn't felt him approach, but that wasn't too unusual with Wolverine. He knew how to move so that he both looked and felt like a natural part of the landscape.

Remy wasn't certain how to respond. Sniveling? He was, for once, trying to be responsible and not cause any more pain, for any of them. "Aren' you de one dat's always tellin' me t' grow up an' quit playin' games?"

"I just call `em like I see `em, kid."

"And?" Remy was confused. It sounded for all the world like they were agreeing, but Logan's expression said otherwise.

"And yer a snot-nosed punk most o' the time. But ya earned a place on this team because ya fought for it. Leavin' now just makes ya a coward."

Remy felt a hot flash of anger at the insult. Cards slid into his hand, coming to sudden, glowing life like a newly lit flare. "I'll go `round wit *you* anytime, Wolverine."

Logan smiled like a predator with his belly full. "Prove me wrong an' we'll see, kid." Then he pivoted on one heel and sauntered away.

Remy watched him go, his thoughts tumbling in confusion. He understood what Logan had been trying to say. He just wasn't sure he believed it.

"He's right, you know," Charles said. "The past is not who you are now. What you do from today on is what will determine if you belong with the X-men or not. That choice is yours."

Remy considered the implications of what he said. "Sorta sounds like y' puttin' me on probation," he concluded finally.

Charles tried to stifle his laughter, which emerged as a muffled snort.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry Remy. Please forgive me. I just find it painfully amusing to realize that I seem to be a rotten father, but a very effective professor."

"You're not--"

"A rotten father?" They stared at each other. Charles' expression dared Remy to deny what he said. Remy found that he couldn't summon the glib persona that could have lied to him with a perfectly straight face. All of his facades had been shattered and the pieces ground into dust. It left him feeling dangerously exposed.Charles sighed, but it was a relaxed sound, as if the tension were draining out of him. "Perhaps you should put me on probation, too. This can be a trial period for us both."

Remy nodded slowly. Some of the coldness was seeping out of him. He still didn't feel like he belonged, but maybe it was worth trying to for just a little while longer.

 

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