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Disclaimer: Remy doesn’t belong to me, he belongs to that undeserving infidel Chris Claremont. The rest of Marvel belongs to itself.

Author’s note: I’ve seen a lot of Gambit fan fiction on the web, but I’ve never seen one storyline: Gambit as an evil character. This is my take on how he might turn to evil, and take those he loves down with him…



They called him a monster, evil, a psychopath. No one would see his genius, see how his search for perfection would someday make the world a better place for all of them. No respectable scientists would work with him, forcing him to use these substandard thugs to carry out his errands. He needed a magnificent act, a coup de grace to catapult himself back into the public eye. To gain the respect a doctor and innovator of his status deserved. Nathaniel’s fingers played endlessly over the keyboard of his master computer, searching through a thousand databases and a million files to find the perfect match. He needed someone strong of character, who would win the public’s favor, and at the same time was underdeveloped enough to make his latest creation appear to be a miracle. The face he chose was no stranger to him, and made Nathaniel smile, his pointed teeth piercing his lower lip and instantly healing. Revenge and redemption. The two went so well together.


"An’ then he said, ‘let’s just be friends, Marie’—all casual-like!" Rogue exclaimed. Jean sighed and tilted her sunglasses down to look at the other woman.

"Rogue, I’m sure he’s just having some personal problems right now. You know leading the unified Guilds isn’t exactly a walk in the park." They were both relaxing by the Xavier Institute’s pool, but Marie’s cheeks were pinker than her slight sunburn, and the familiar high, indignant tone was creeping into her voice.

"You know, Jean, Ah don’t care! If he cares as much as he says he can make time." Jean sighed again, pushed her sunglasses back up her nose and lay back. As if on cue, there was a shuffle of feet at the pool gate and the object of Rogue’s anger appeared in their field of vision.

"Hey cheres," said Remy. "You sure a sight for sore eyes." Rogue softened slightly, and Jean thought they might get through the day without a confrontation, but then Rogue caught sight of the duffel bag in Remy’s thin hand.

"What’s that, swamp rat?" she snapped. Remy’s mouth, with its almost feminine cupid’s bow, twisted into an angry frown.

"It’s called a duffel bag, Roguie." Rogue slapped her hand against the arm of her chair and stood up, toe to toe with Remy.

"Don’t you Roguie me, LeBeau. Where are you going?" Jean stood up quietly and went back to the main house. Remy watched her go and then turned back to Rogue, who’s hands were crossed and foot was tapping the concrete pool deck.

"Not dat it’s any of your business, Marie…up to Lake Champlain in New Hampshire. Gambit need some R & R."

"And?" snapped Rogue.

"And," Remy snapped back in a pitch perfect imitation of Marie’s voice, "I’m goin’ with Veronica."

"Veronica," said Rogue, more a statement of a suspicion than a question.

"We aren’t toget’er, anymore, Rogue. Accept it," said Remy quietly. "I see you in a few days." He took her hand and planted a brief kiss on the glove, then turned and walked away. Rogue slammed her fist into the pool fence, cracking the length all the way down.

Nathaniel watched the red convertible speed along the New Hampshire secondary highway; the satellite picture fuzzing as it refreshed itself. Nathaniel’s jet was tracking the same route, 19,000 feet overhead. The doctor looked back at the parachute jumper, who was also one of his new employees. He’d have to kill them all very soon, hire real lab techs and legitimate bodyguards. But first he had to set the events in motion to bring about his comeback, his rise. His supremacy. Nathaniel watched the red car. And smiled.

Veronica Richardson was a junior advertising executive with a large Park Avenue firm. She had met Remy LeBeau at the LaPaglia Tratorria Italiano several weeks ago, and liked the mutant man. Now they had a quiet, romantic weekend planned at the most exclusive bed and breakfast on Lake Champlain. Veronica leaned against her black Corvette and looked at her watch. Remy was late. Held up a work, most likely. It had never occurred to Veronica to suspect that Remy did anything other than a normal, high-paying job. She thought his Southern habits were a little crass, and if the relationship progressed any further she’d speak to him about it. Veronica had long coltish legs and flowing chestnut hair that held artful and expensive highlights. She was used to having absolute control. Remy screeched up in a vintage Kharmann Ghia convertible before she could ruminate further about how she’d change him. He hopped out, ignoring the door, shoving his hair out of his eyes. Haircut was a good place to start, Veronica thought. He came over and kissed her cheek. "Bonjour, mon chere."

"Hello, Remy," said Veronica, making sure he didn’t lay a kiss on her carefully blushed cheekbone. He looked towards the bricked path up to the cabins.

"Ready?" He slipped an arm around her waist.

"Yes, get my bags please?" she favored him with a Chanel-painted smile. He obliged, shifting his tack nylon duffel up his arm. A man who wore an Armani trenchcoat could certainly afford a good overnight bag, she thought. And what was that ‘X’ painted on the bag? Veronica shook her head, her irritation compounding when a jet went over far too low and interrupted the woodland sounds and peace. Remy’s head snapped up, almost reflexively it seemed, and he squinted into the blue sky.

"Something wrong?" said Veronica, consulting her watch again.

"Non…" Remy was still looking into the air. Veronica heard whooshing from above, which turned into a rumbling as she looked up and saw a parachute jumper ignite a small jetpack and float maybe 100 feet above them.

"He’s got a gun!" Veronica screamed as the man aimed something tiny and black. There was a report that echoed over the trees and across the lake, and suddenly Remy gave a cry and pitched forward, Veronica’s thing’s spilling across the dirt parking lot. Veronica screamed, hands flying to her mouth, and ran over to the tall man. "Remy!" The man with the jetpack had disappeared into the tree line. Veronica slapped Remy’s face, took him by his collar and shook him. Finally his eye fluttered open.

"Wha…what happened?"

"You got shot!" Veronica said, hands still in a death grip on his coat. Remy looked down at himself and then felt the back of his neck.

"Feel like I got a stiff smack, but I all dere, cherie." Veronica fell on him, sobbing.

"I was so worried about you!" Suddenly she felt herself shoved off roughly, sprawling on her rear next to her clothes. Remy stood over her, red/black eyes hard.

"Non, Veronica. You would’ve been a little disappointed, maybe cried, sure had a great story to tell your friends. But you’re a cold, ugly woman an’ you don’ care about anyone but yourself." His voice was flat, and he turned and simply walked away from her.

"Well…well…I’m sorry you aren’t shot!" Veronica shouted after him. He turned slowly, deliberately. "How dare you talk to me that way?" she fumed.

"Someone had t’do it sooner or later." He turned again, placing each foot slowly, got back in his car, and then peeled out of the parking lot with a vengeance. Veronica was left to gather up her clothes and go drown her indignation at the hotel bar, where she met a dot com CEO more suitable to her tastes.

What’s happened t’me?

Don’t you worry.

Like hell I won’t worry. What de hell are you?

A device.

Say what?

A bio-engineered symbiote.

I felt you in my when I woke up. Why are you here?

You’re awfully blasé about this whole thing.

I had worse den you inside my head.

Oh, Remy dear. I don’t know about that.

You won’t be laughin’ when my doctor friends are pullin’ you out an’ grindin’ you under t’eir heels.

No, I will not laugh. Because I am you now, Gambit. And your soul belongs to me.

Go on to Chapter 2