Scars: An X-Men Elseworlds Story

By Maverick

Disclaimer: This is a work of speculative fiction. It is not intended in any way to infringe upon the rights of Marvel Comics, Mr. Stan "The Man" Lee, The New Orleans Thieves' Guild, The Arch Diocese of New Orleans, or any other interested parties.

This story is a prequel to Dannell Lites's most excellent story, "Life Among the Ruins" It was written at her insistence, and with her expressed permission. Actually, she threatened me with bodily injury if I didn't write it.

Cast of characters: Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Rogue, and a few others.

Miscellaneous notes: The church referred to in the story actually exists. It is Our Lady of Guadalupe Roman Catholic Church, in New Orleans. As it has the only known shrine of St. Expedite, it is to his honor that this story is dedicated. There is a small amount of French dialog. A translation follows the end of the story.

Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä

Scars
By Father of Lies

A. D. 2012 New Orleans, Louisiana

Remy LeBeau had had a fairly good day, all told. Scavenging was his forte, and today had been especially good. He'd found a coat, heavy canvas that reached down below his knees, with large pockets that were perfect for stashing the fruits of his labors. Besides the coat, he'd also obtained a sealed bottle of wine, and that was worth a small fortune in the right places. Of course, he'd had to break into a church for it, and that bothered his conscience no little bit; Jean-Luc LeBeau had been a thief, but he'd also been a very pious man, even if it was in more than one religion, and he had instilled this somewhat bent moral code into his son. But, pious or not, Remy was not one to overlook an opportunity when he found one, and the open door of the church had been too much to resist. The priest had discovered him with the bottle in his hands, and had chased him all around the ruined nave of the church. Still, he couldn't blame the man, and in the end, he was sure the good father would understand; he was a priest, after all.

"Prob'ly sayin' prayers for me right now," Remy laughed to himself. He'd traded the wine for a bag of bread and produce that would last him a week or more, a box of candles, a half carton of cigarettes, and most incredible of all, a bottle of aspirin tablets. He reached into the bag and grabbed a pear, devouring it in a matter of minutes. It had been a couple of days since he'd had anything to eat, and he was ravenous. He followed the pear with an apple, a chunk of bread the size of his fist, and washed it down with a long pull from his water bottle.

Yes, he felt pretty good, the best he'd felt in a long time. Jean-Luc, the thief who'd found him as an infant in his dead parents' arms and had raised him as his own son, had been dead since the previous spring, nearly a year. Not a day went by that Remy didn't miss him, but he knew, somehow, his Papa was keeping a watchful eye on him. Jean-Luc had taught him every trick he knew to survive in a world that gave precious few first chances, let alone a second, and Remy was a survivor, one of the best. Now, he was even beginning to regain his usual optimism. He took the day's excellent luck as evidence of Jean-Luc's supernatural intervention, and that made him feel very good. He whistled as he walked back toward the overpass that served as his home, smiling to the few people he passed, most of whom smiled back. This made his mood even better; despite everything - the staggering loss of life, the hardships, the criminal threat - New Orleanians were still, by and large, friendly folk. It would take more than the end of civilization to dampen the spirit of these people.

He was nearly half way to his shelter when he stopped. He heard a noise, one that didn't fit. One of the first lessons his Papa had taught him was to pay attention to sounds, as much as to sights, smells, and anything else he could notice. Information gave you an edge, maybe kept you alive another day. He listened hard, following the sounds to a small house, tucked behind a larger, decayed mansion. He made his way carefully through the rubble of the ruined mansion, silently drawing closer to the sound he heard.

He eased himself up against the side of the building, and looked through the window. Eyes wide, he had to turn away, and for a few moments was violently ill; so much for the celebratory breakfast he'd just downed. With shaking hands, he lit a cigarette, and took the time to smoke it; the tobacco was awful stuff, very harsh, but it had the effect of calming his nerves while at the same time giving him time to build up his courage. He finished it, tossed it aside, and then, squaring his shoulders, continued around the building, until he found the entryway.

It had been well disguised, nearly hidden behind overgrown trees and kudzu. He was sure that most people passing by wouldn't notice it, especially if the inhabitants were silent. It had once been a lovely little house, that was certain, not large, but still showing signs of having been cared for and kept up, and it was apparently whole, a rarity these days. Even now, it had a well tended vegetable garden outside, even a few patches of flowers, and the inside was as clean as current conditions would allow. He took another few deep breaths, and went inside.

The walls were splattered with blood, blood soaked the floorboards, blood soaked the meager furniture. Blood, everywhere, and especially on the nude body lying in the middle of the room. A woman, perhaps in her early thirties, no more. Black hair, and the eyes that stared blindly at him were deep brown. Probably she'd been very beautiful in life. She'd been beaten, undoubtedly raped and tortured before being killed; even in death, her features showed the terror of her last minutes of life. He fought down his rising gorge, and turned away. He tore down the ragged velvet draperies from the boarded window and covered her with it. With that small decency done, he crossed himself, uttering a soft prayer for her soul in the Cajun French his father had taught him. Then, he sought out the source of the crying he'd heard. Following the sound of the weeping, he soon located a survivor of the attack.

She was young, not more than eleven or twelve, if even that; probably born after Mardi Mort, the New Orleans name for the day the old world had ended in a spectacular, deadly display. Her hair was matted with blood, all down one side of her head, and her face bore an ugly, scabbed over wound. She cowered under what had been a table, staring up at him with eyes that didn't register anything but fear. She was covered in blood, and with another gut-wrenching shock, he realized that she'd not been spared the fate of the woman.

Remy knelt down beside her, speaking softly, not making any sudden moves. "It's alright, chere. I won' hurt you. I swear on my papa's tomb, I won' hurt you. You come out here, yeah? Let Remy help you, p'tite. You need help, you can't stay here . . . " Softly, gently, it took the better part of an hour, but he coaxed her out into the open.

He kept up the soft, reassuring patter all the while, and checked her for any other injuries. Aside from the head wounds, and the obvious evidence of the rape, she seemed mostly unharmed, at least physically. She was very cold, though, and probably in shock. He took off the trench coat, and wrapped her in it. Then, he used his precious lighter to set fire to the draperies and the wallpaper; he couldn't do anything for the dead woman, but he could at least prevent her body from being further desecrated. The wooden lath was so dried, it caught almost immediately, and after making sure the small house was well and truly afire, he picked up the child, and left.

What he was going to do now, he had no clue. He only knew he couldn't leave her there, she'd die. A part of him wondered if that wouldn't be the kinder thing, but a louder part of him kept reminding him, she could survive this, she'd already survived this much. And, he knew he had to do it. Jean Luc had often told him: we're thieves, but that doesn't mean we don't do as much good as we can.

So, Remy began walking. The girl wasn't much of a burden, and he had long legs; it didn't take long to reach his destination. He wasn't sure why he chose the direction he did, but it seemed right, somehow. Something told him to return to the church he'd robbed that morning; for some reason he couldn't fathom, he knew that the priest was one human being he could trust implicitly. He gently set her on the ground, in a sheltered place that had once been a shrine. Then, limber as a monkey, he returned to the heavy front door.

"Hey, Faddah!" He pounded on the door as hard as he could. "Faddah! You still here?" He pounded again. "Come on, open up, I need your help."

"Who is it?" came a strong voice from inside.

"It's Remy LeBeau, Faddah." Not that the priest would know the name, but he did ask.

The door opened about a handspan, and a narrow face peered out. "You!" The door slammed shut with a loud bang. A long string of cursing came from inside. "This is a house of God! Have you no shame!"

"Please, listen!" Remy pleaded. "You got to let me in. I found a child, she needs your help." He reached down to his boot, and took out the heavy knife he kept there, using the hilt to pound on the door. "Come on, you a priest, you got to help me!"

"You're right," came the voice from inside. "I'll help you." The door opened again, but this time, the priest was armed. He held a baseball bat, and swung it at Remy. "I'll help you all right! Go away! There's nothing left for you to steal!" His eyes lit on the knife still in Remy's upraised hand, and he swung the bat harder. "So, what, you kill me now? Not without a fight!"

Remy jumped back out of range of the bat. "Look, Faddah, I'm sorry about dis morning, okay?" He quickly flipped the knife around, holding the blade towards himself. "Look, here, you take de knife, yeah? I won't hurt you. Please, Faddah, she needs help."

The priest hesitated, looking from the knife to Remy's face. He peered into the boy's eyes, and slowly let down the bat. He reached out with one hand and took the knife, and waved it at Remy. "Alright, you back away, down the steps. Then we talk."

Remy did as he was told, and reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. The priest watched him like a hawk, and tightened his grip on the bat; at Remy's display of the pack of smokes, he let it hang by his side again. Lighting the cigarette, Remy noticed for the first time that the priest's hands were gnarled and badly scarred. Burns, it looked like, an old injury that had healed badly. The man was in his forties, perhaps late thirties; he'd have to be, Remy reckoned, since vocations to the priesthood went out with the rest of civilization. He had black hair, graying at the temples, and very angular features. His eyes were dark brown, and despite the mistrust glaring out at him, Remy sensed that the man was a gentle, kind soul at heart. He felt a twinge of regret and guilt for having stolen from this man. He vowed he'd make up for it, somehow.

"Now, where is this child who needs my help?" The priest had tucked Remy's knife into his belt, and put his fists on his hips, feet planted firmly apart, ready for anything.

"She's, um, over here." For an instant, Remy was reminded of a man in one of the movies his papa had shown him, back when there was still such a thing as electricity in New Orleans; a dashing young man with a broad smile, a flashing sword, and a carefree laugh as he bested the villain. "I found her in a house over in the Garden District. She's been hurt bad. Real bad."

The priest sighed, and nodded. "Very well, go get her. We'll take her inside."

Remy ran to the shelter where he'd left the girl, and was relieved to see that she was asleep. Gingerly he picked her up, taking care to keep her far from the lit end of the cigarette that hung from his mouth, and returned to the front of the church. He followed the priest inside, and up to the front of the nave. Remy paused before the altar, and bowed his head slightly. He noted the priest genuflected before passing the burning vigil light, and with some difficulty, did the same. The priest looked back at him, his face thoughtful.

"So, you are not a complete heathen, I suppose," he said, his voice tinged with the barest hint of amusement.

"No, Faddah," Remy answered, as they went into what had been the Sacristy. "Look, I'm real sorry about stealing your wine. But I got a lot of stuff for it, and it's all yours, you and the child, if you help her." He had no idea why he'd just offered to give away his hard earned loot, but there was something about this man of God that made him want to do something good. Besides, his conscience was giving him a headache.

"Put her down here," the priest said, gesturing to a pallet on the floor. "It's clean, and I'll get a blanket."

"You know any doctorin'?" Remy asked, placing her gently on the pallet. "She's got a bad cut on her head, and - other stuff."

"So you said," the priest opened a cabinet, and began rummaging around.

"You don't have no extra clothes do you?" Remy asked. "She, uh, ain't got none at the moment."

The priest took out what looked to be a large shirt, and handed it to Remy. He unfolded it, showing it to be a surplice. "Will that do?" the priest asked, turning back to the cupboard. "And would you please just tell me what you are trying so hard not to say."

Remy ground out his cigarette on the marble floor, and then unwrapped the girl, tossing his new coat aside and putting the little smock-like garment on her. For the first time, he could see the bruises and the other evidence of her ordeal. With shaking hands, he pulled over her the blanket the priest had handed him, and tried to speak. His throat was tight, and there was a lump in his throat the size of his boot. He dropped to his knees, then, and pulled his arms tightly around his body, fighting against the trembling that threatened to overtake him.

He felt a hand brushing his hair out of his face. "I think I understand," the priest said gently. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder, and squeezed it. "You've never seen this sort of depravity before, have you? Rape, I mean. It's a terrible thing, what human beings can do to each other."

Remy found his voice, more or less. "Yeah, you right." he bowed his head, and brushed away a tear. He'd seen a lot of things in his sixteen years on the planet, but he'd never been exposed to this kind of savagery before. He realized, now, that Jean-Luc had protected him from a lot of things.

Suddenly, the hand on his shoulder tightened, until it was like a vice.

"No." The priest's voice sounded strange. Remy wiped the tears out of his eyes, and looked up. The priest was staring at the girl, his face terror-stricken. He began to shake visibly, and Remy jumped to his feet to keep the man from falling. "No, it can't be!" His voice was anguished. "My God, why?" He turned to Remy, grabbing the boy's shoulders with claw like hands. "Please, my son, you must tell me. Was she alone, this child?"

Somehow, Remy knew his answer could only bring the man more pain, yet he knew he had to speak the truth. "She was wit' a woman," Remy replied softly. "She didn't make it."

The priest shut his eyes, and whispered a prayer. He crossed himself, and then fell to his knees, weeping, great sobs wracking his body, and now it was Remy's turn to give him what comfort he could. After what seemed like a long time, his weeping quieted, and he rose shakily to his feet. Going to a prie-dieu in the corner, he knelt.

He looked back to the girl. "She's my niece, you see," He said. "The woman, she is - was - my sister, Raven. I've asked her and asked her to come here with me, but she - was so stubborn. They were all the family I had." He turned back to Remy. "I'm glad you brought her here. It must have been God's will that you came here this morning." He paused. "Thank you." He paused again, and Remy was about to reply when he spoke again. "You are a Catholic, my son?" he asked. Remy nodded, and the priest gestured to another prie-dieu beside him. "Perhaps, then, you would not mind joining me in a Rosary? For the soul of my sister?"

"Sure, Faddah," Remy did as asked. The priest pulled his beads from his pocket, and together they intoned the old prayers. Remy watched the man's fingers, twisted and bent as they were, slip over the beads with the practice of a lifetime. When they'd finished, he seemed calmer, and Remy was surprised to find that he felt somewhat better himself.

"So, I guess I'd better be going," Remy said, standing and collecting his coat. "You prob'ly don' need my kind around here." He reached into his pocket, found a cigarette, and made to light it.

"You don't have to go, do you?"

Remy took a pull on the cigarette. "No, I ain' got no pressin' engagements."

"I would appreciate it if you would stay. I am not very good with -" He lifted his hands, and shrugged.

"Yeah, okay," Remy replied. Truth to tell, he was reluctant to leave them alone. A crippled priest with a severely injured child, not a good combination.

"Good." The priest took a deep breath, relieved. "It would help a lot." He came to his feet, and went back to the cupboard. "I have some things, we can - clean Rogue up, at least."

"Rogue?"

"My niece," the priest gestured to the child. "Her real name was too difficult for her to say, she's always been Rogue." He smiled at some memory. "Such a sweet child, a little chatterbox. Raven -" his voice caught for a moment, but he took a deep breath, and went on. "My sister used to joke about it, saying that the only time she was quiet was when she was asleep."

"My papa, he used to say the same t'ing about me, " Remy grinned. "I guess kids are all the same, huh, Faddah?"

"Please, call me Kurt," the man replied. "Kurt Wagner. My niece is Rogue Darkholme. And your name? I know you said it before, but -"

"Remy, Fa - Kurt. Remy LeBeau." He offered his hand to shake, and after a moment's hesitation, the man grasped his hand warmly. Remy couldn't help staring briefly at the scars. As if reading his mind, Kurt nodded.

"I came through Mardi Mort fine," he said. "This was just last year. I got a bit careless, digging through some rubble after a fire." He held up his hands, turning them so Remy could see the thick scar tissue. "Crushed, and burned. Not the smartest thing I'd ever done." He shrugged. "Still, I'm alive, that's a miracle."

"Yeah, I guess so," Remy agreed. He looked at Kurt thoughtfully. It took a special kind of man to see such a terrible crippling injury as a miracle. He found himself liking the priest even more. He reminded him, in many ways, of Jean-Luc.

In his mind, suddenly, he heard his father's last words to him: "Family is the most important thing, Remy, you remember that. A man without family, he ain't got nothing, I don't care how much food or guns he got. You weren't born to me, but you're my son, right? You don't stay alone, you hear me? You find yourself someone you can trust, and you hold onto them for all you worth. They'll get you through anything. That's the real power in this world, now. A man alone, he ain't gonna survive."

He looked at the girl Rogue, asleep on the pallet, and watched as Kurt gently washed away the blood and the dirt. They needed someone to protect them, someone to go out and scavenge for them, and that was Remy's line of work. He, on the other hand, needed a family, and these two suited the bill pretty well. He didn't know why he felt the affection for them that he did, but he knew, that very moment that he agreed to stay, that he would gladly give his life for them.

Give his life, or take that of anyone who threatened them.

Over the next few days, Remy brought over what few belongings he had to the church. It was a better shelter, at any rate, with most of the roof still intact, and with the fortified doors and the boarded windows, it was fairly secure. Still, he slept with a knife in reach, and woke at the least sound. He was unwilling to leave Kurt and Rogue alone for long, but the priest convinced him that he could do more good for their little band by doing what he did best. So, he went out, foraged for food and whatever else he could find, but he didn't stay away for long periods of time. He obtained clothing for Rogue, and obtained antiseptic for her wounds; he wouldn't tell Kurt how he'd come by the precious medical supplies, knowing that the priest would forbid him from doing it. But, Remy was accustomed to breaking into even the most heavily fortified compounds, and he was not afraid of the ganglords' goons. Well, maybe a little, but he was very careful, and never, ever caught.

For his part, Kurt did what he could to take care of Rogue and Remy. The boy was street tough, undoubtedly well able to survive on his own, and Kurt knew that staying with Rogue and himself was placing a burden on him, but still, he could leave any time. Kurt also knew that beneath that tough exterior, Remy had a strong code of honor and a gentle, generous heart - not always an asset in the post Mardi Mort world, but still valued by those with faith. And Father Kurt Wagner may have lost all else - his parishioners, his sister and the full use of his hands - but he still retained his faith. He made it his goal to give this to Remy and Rogue as well.

After about a week, Rogue seemed to recover, for the most part. The physical wounds began to heal, but the emotional ones were more stubborn. She jumped at every noise and any sudden movement, and was visibly frightened when Remy came near her, but his gentle manner eventually won her over, and Kurt's presence seemed to comfort her. Within a few weeks, she was running about the church, helping Remy prepare meals, and joining Kurt in his daily prayers - but silently. She never spoke a word, not in fear, not in laughter, not even in her sleep. Neither man could see any physical wound that would have caused her muteness, yet, it was obvious.

It was also obvious that they could not stay in New Orleans much longer. Mardi Mort had destroyed much of the intricate system of canals, drains, and levees that had kept the Crescent City livable for centuries. Few of these survived now, and the least rain storm could mean flooding. Entire sections of the city were lost to the ever encroaching swamps and river. The church was located at a fair distance from the river, but it would only take one good storm to flood the entire area. To this end, Remy began stockpiling supplies, foodstuffs that could travel, extra clothing, matches, blankets - cigarettes, of course, and even some pralines for Rogue - whatever he could find. He located a map of the former United States, showing major highways and rivers. While most of the highways were impassable for vehicles - even if they'd had one, and had by some miracle found fuel for it - they would still provide a reliable route to follow.

More importantly, he obtained a gun, and a good supply of ammunition.

Kurt objected to this at first, but as Remy pointed out, they had no idea what lay beyond the environs of New Orleans. Rumors abounded of raiders roaming the countryside, attacking anyone fool enough to leave the relative safety of the cities. No one really knew, either, how much damage had been done to the land - radiation was still a very real threat, and with three quarters or more of the human population dead, wildlife was a real danger. Not only had several predatory species made an amazing comeback, but the numerous zoos had provided a host of new terrors. Wolves had been spotted on the outskirts of New Orleans, and once there'd been a report of a lion - and you didn't even want to think about the alligators.

Unlike many other surviving cities, New Orleans had a ready supply of food, in the river, bayous and lakes, so the numerous horses and mules that had once pulled tourists were now put to work as dray animals. Somehow - and Kurt didn't dare ask how - Remy acquired a horse, and a good one, a young one. He rigged up a saddle, and at the onset of hurricane season, the three of them set off for higher ground.

They made good time; about fifteen to twenty miles a day, by Kurt's reckoning. Remy had found, by some miracle, an actual piece of flint, and Rogue proved a fast learner; soon it became her job to build the fire every night.

In fact, Rogue seemed to thrive on the outdoor life. She regained color to her cheeks, and even seemed to put on a bit of weight. Watching her weave flowers into long chains, Remy commented on this seemingly miraculous recovery.

Kurt looked up from his missal with a curious expression. "Yes, I've noticed," he said, shutting the book. "I'm not so sure it's a good thing."

"What you mean?" Remy asked, smiling as she brought the chain over to him, and then ran back to pick more flowers. "Look at her, she's happy, she's healthy. Her head's all healed up, can't even tell where she was cut, 'cept for that white." There was a large flash of white among the brown locks on her head, a legacy of the shock to her system. Remy thought it was about the prettiest thing he'd ever seen, but then, he thought just about everything about Rogue was wonderful. He was a thief, but she'd stolen his heart from the start. He turned back to Kurt. "'Cept for not talkin', she's pretty normal. Helps a lot, eatin' regular, I suppose."

"There are other things that cause weight gain," Kurt said softly. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

"What?" Remy furrowed his brow. "Say what you mean, Kurt. You know I ain't got the education you do."

Kurt sighed heavily. "I think she's pregnant."

Scars part two

Back to Fan Fiction

Back to The Yat Cave

E-mail Maverick