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Author: Flyingskull
SOURCE: Terry Pratchett's Discworld and X-Men comic books.
ARCHIVE: My fics are archived here. DO NOT ARCHIVE ELSEWHERE.
RATING: PG 13
DISCLAIMER: Don't own the X-Men and don't own Mr Pratchett's characters. I do this purely for fun, not filthy lucre.
PLEADING: Please please give feedback!
NOTE: The initial paragraph in every chapter is taken from a Sir Terry's book. It's in italics to separate it from the fic proper... for a given value of proper, that is.
The weathercocks of Ankh-Morpork creaked around in the wind.
Very few of them were in fact representations of Avis Domestica. There were various dragons, fish and miscellaneous animals. On the roof of the Assassins' Guild a silhouette of one of the members squeaked into a new position, cloak and dagger at the ready. On the Beggars' Guild a thin beggar's hand asked the wind for a quarter. On the Butchers' Guild a copper pig sniffled the air. On the roof of the Thieves' Guild a *real* if rather deceased unlicensed thief turned gently, which shows you what you are capable of if you try, or at least if you try stealing without a licence.
Remy LeBeau, Master Thief and X-Man, stared at the weathercorpse as if hypnotised. He had no idea where he was or how he had got there, but several subtle hints made him suspect he was not in New Orleans anymore. The cadaver turning with the wind was one, the inscription over the door of the imposing edifice before him, another. 'Thieves' Guild' it proclaimed proudly in big bold letters. Remy shuddered.
If you'd asked him only a few moments before, Remy LeBeau would have told you in no uncertain terms that he was perfectly conversant with the meaning and scope of the word 'perversion', and that he had no trouble accepting that a man's pleasure was another man's revulsion and so on; but that was before. Now he suddenly understood why people made such a fuss about perversions.
That inscription was obscene, that's what it was. A thief is a modest creature, shy of the light of the sun, much preferring deep cellars to meet in, and friendly shadows to get there. A thief's work is done in secret and is, hopefully, anonymous. At most a certain boldness of execution or adroitness in avoiding capture would indicate - probably - this or that Master Thief as the author of one particular exploit.
What manner of thieves were those, who so loudly proclaimed their craft? Was it - horrible thought - legal to rob here? Was he expected to wear a placard? "Thefts done artfully"? "Have theft, will travel"?
'That depends on whether you have a license or not.'
Remy jumped a foot in the air. Damn! He was so absorbed by the obscenity in front of him that he hadn't heard the man at his back. Until he spoke, that is. The X-Man turned slowly, trying to regain his poise and failing miserably.
'A license?' he croaked.
'From the Guild,' the man said. 'I believe you have to pass exams and what-nots.'
'Ah,' Remy said weakly. 'I was talking out loud, wasn't I?'
'Not loud as such, no,' the man said. 'But definitely talking. Welcome to Ankh-Morpork, 'citie of a thousande surprises', Mr…?'
But Remy was not listening, he was finally looking at the man… no, soldier: breastplate, leather breeches, helmet, sandals… Ancient Roman soldier? With a slim cigar? And what was that? His shock-stunned synapses fired suddenly and sent an urgent message to his torpid brain. 'BADGE!' they fairly shrieked, 'COPPER!'
His training and reflexes gave up on his brain as a bad job and took over his body. He backed up until he had a good run, took the run and jumped on the building behind the cop. A part of his mind which was always watching, noted with interest that the soldierly looking policeman was looking more amused than surprised, and shelved the information for later perusal. Right now getting away from him was imperative and a few complicated minutes later Remy was perched on the roof and looking in some dismay at the paucity of options open to him.
To his right a large square dominated by an imposing palace, back and front of him two streets too wide to jump. It was going left or nothing, so he went left with alacrity.
Commander Vimes of the City Watch grinned mirthlessly and proceeded on his way to the Patrician's Palace. So, he thought, a new thief in town, unlicensed and dressed like a circus performer to boot? Pretty quick on his feet too, and he takes to the rooftops like an assassin. He better get Carrot to keep an eye on him, there was something about this newcomer that had alerted his policeman's instincts. He knew a dangerous son of a bitch when he saw one.
*
Remy LeBeau stopped, not out of breath, but out of rooftops. He'd have to go down... that way, where houses were huddled together and promised a labyrinth of alleys to get lost in. He had no idea of where he was, so, he reasoned, he might as well be lost in a place where he could hide. He abseiled down the building and wandered rather aimlessly until he found a deserted little alley. He needed to think.
He abandoned as fruitless any speculation as to where he was and tried to concentrate on how he had got there. He slunk further back in the shadows that the city kindly provided for the enjoyment of passing lurkers, and reviewed past events.
Cerebro had detected a very unusual mutant in New Orleans and Xavier had decided it was imperative they make contact with that extremely powerful person. He had therefore assembled a team which, oh surprise, included Gambit as the New Orleans expert.
Remy was under no illusions about his inclusion in the team. He was recently returned from Antarctica and the X-Men trusted him even less than they had before. But he was the only one who could help the team navigate in his native town, and no-one gave a damn that he was supposed to be exiled and forbidden to return to it.
To avoid lacerating his sensibilities, Rogue, Hank and Warren had not been included in the team, so Gambit had boarded a Blackbird singularly devoid of rancour and accusations. The rest of the team, under the fearless leadership of Cyclops, kept their emotions to themselves and were clearly more focused on the mutant they were going to meet than on their resident thief's past crimes.
It was well worth risking a more permanent, and terminal, form of exile to bask in delicious indifference, and Remy had savoured every minute of the trip. He had savoured even more Cyke's words on the outskirts of New Orleans: "Take us to the Creole quarter, Gambit, we'll follow your lead." He was doing exactly that by extremely devious ways, when he had turned a corner and had been faced with the "Thieves' Guild" obscenity.
He focused on that moment. No eerie lights, no tremors in the fabric of space-time had heralded the transition, yet he was undoubtedly in another reality; Another Universe, he corrected himself, slotting the capitals gracefully into place.
So this Universe had cops - and robbers were legal. He briefly wondered what the cops were for? Arresting lawful citizens? Or removing unwanted intruders from Other Universes from the town? Maybe permanently? And, on a quite different note, where were the others? None of the team was with him when the cop had made him loose his poise, a thing which rankled. Had they remained in good ol' Nawlins, then?
Remy realised he had a container-full of questions and not one answer. He decided he needed to get back to Thieves' Guild, disgusting as that was. He could probably claim sanctuary as a visiting Master Thief and try and find a way to get back. He had no money that would serve here, he was sure, but finding money wasn't that hard for him. He just needed to formulate a plan and...
His thoughts were brutally interrupted by a scream. It was a very impressive scream. It had harmonics that said plainly: 'Hey! This is a life or death situation here!'. Unthinkingly, responding to the urgency in the scream, Remy ran towards it. Rounding a corner at full tilt, he saw three burly man of the thug persuasion closing in on a woman. He needed nothing more to spring into action. He may have been bewildered and more than a little shocked, but he was Gambit and he didn't have to think to save a damsel in distress.
His bo stick was elongated while he ran, he got one of the bullies behind the knees and twirling it elegantly smacked another on the ear. The third one bellowed: "Git kilt ya lousy bastaaaard!" and lunged at him. Remy bent like a willow under the punch and kicked. 'No thanks,' he said, 'I much prefer trousers.'
He looked with some satisfaction at the man going down, but, as he stopped, he was grabbed from the back. A twist, a flip, a lunge and he almost fell face down. Dieu, but they were quick! Remy regained his balance and his poise; he energised three cards and threw them unerringly where they would do maximum damage with minimum expenditure.
The three bullies yodelled high and warbling and fell like rain forest trees at the passage of a monster lumberjack machine. Remy went smiling to the damsel, no more in distress, and bent, extravagantly kissing her hand. "You're safe, now, ma petit," he said.
The girl looked at him appreciatively and smiled. "You a newcomer in town, handsome?" she asked. "Would you like a bed?"
Remy understood at once her profession, but he was too much of a gentleman to harp on it, so he said: 'I have just arrived here, chere. I wouldn't mind a bed, but I find myself destitute at the moment.'
The girl laughed and said: 'It's on the house, I'm sure. Such a heroic action can't be unrewarded.' She then took the unresisting Master Thief's hand and led him through winding alleys and unsavoury traboules.
She stopped in front a very discreet place, which nonetheless managed to yell "high class brothel" in a very compelling voice. 'This,' she said, 'is Mrs Palm's House of Negotiable Affection.' Remy was impressed by how easily she could pronounce the capital letters. 'I'm Reet, Mrs Palm's daughter. Come on in.'
TBC
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