Returning The Favor

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Brief Title:
Returning the Favor

Gambit Phantasm

Scene Runner/Watcher:

IC Date:


As Remy sort of rescued him from the cult. Mike sort of rescues Remy's mission

Social or Plot:


After the time in Marylebone with a soundtrack containing plenty of 'Action!'s 'Cut!'s and 'Do it again's, it's good to be home. Or, what he's calling home while his part in the movie's production is going on. Oh take him away to your blissful pubs and music culture, Knightsbridge! Oh wait, early morning. Ffff-

Entering in to his hotel room with a brown paper bag, Mike closes the door and locks it before heading over to a table to set the bag down. He pulls out a bottle and pops the cap off. Oh well. He can at least have ONE drink before going to bed.

Mike's cell begins to play Edith Piaf's "Je Ne Regrette Rien," a song Mike never even downloaded onto his phone. It signals an incoming text message. A quick look at the screen shows that it came from Gambit. The message is short and sweet, "55 Standard Rd HLP."

The bottle that reached Mike's lips pull away, uprighting before the sacred contents could be spilt. The fu-? The performer's head tilts down as his free hand comes down to tug the phone out of his pocket, letting the tune finish before pressing the button to look at the message. A brow lifts. "H-L-P…" Is it that much of a timesaver to skip the E? He blinks, head looking towards the window and then regretfully to his beer, taking a swig before setting the bottle down. "If this isn't important…" he mutters, closing his eyes and pocketing the phone again. After a few moments, he fades from the room.

The address from the text leads to a warehouse on the North side of London, surrounded by other equally nondescript warehouses. Most of the buildings are no taller than a couple of stories, made of brick or steel. It's not a particularly rundown part of the city, but it still would be advisable for most not to wander these streets at night.

The full moon hangs high over the city, looming much larger than normal. Along with the various street lights and security lights, it provides great illumination. There is hardly anyone out and about at this time of night, and the area is marked by an eerie quiet. Across the street a security guard sleeps at his post, it's not the most exciting of jobs, especially on a hot summer night such as this.

As Mike steps out of the dream of the guard, it is likely a good thing as he has opted to not come out guns blazing or anything else contradictory to a quiet entrance. Instead he comes in as he left the hotel, unseen and unheard. Not all that sure whatis going on, he looks to the sleeping guard and then towards the building with the ever prominent yet generic '55' displayed on it. Without a sound or a blip on the visual radar, Phantasm makes his way over to the building, looking for what it is that requires 'hlp'. Hopefully it wasn't a misinterpreted request of 'hot ladies, please' because as adrogynous Mike can be at times in the right light and angle, just no.

From the outside of the 55 building, there is no sign of anything or anyone requiring help. A cursory check of the door at the main entrance would, oddly enough, show it to be unlocked. The scene is completely unassuming in just about every way possible. On the outside, that is.

It likely would be a good thing to know but Mike doesn't really check the door. When it appears there is nothing going on outside, he closes his eyes and just steps through the wall to look inside. This may look odd to someone, but fortunately for all parties involved, Mike never bothered with an appearance.

Passing through the outer wall brings Mike into a large open warehouse. There are a few crates and pallets scattered here and there, though seemingly not enough for a properly operating warehouse. The interior is dark, with only a few lights here and there for slight illumination. One of these lights however shines down on a forklift near the center of the room. It's mast is extended a good 20 feet in the air, but the curious part is the man dangling from it's forks.

There hanging by a chain wrapped around his wrists is Gambit. He has been stripped down to his high dollar boxer briefs, and his face shows the telltale swelling and bruising of a man who's taken a bit of a beating. From where Mike entered, it's hard to tell if the cajun thief is awake, unconscious, or even alive.

Oh f- HOW THE HELL DID HE TEXT HIM LIKE THAT?! Well, ok yes, it appears to be an emergency. Shaking his head he makes his way over towards the forklift quickly, glancing around for any signs of other people.

Gambit stirs momentarily as Mike begins to approach. It's a struggle for him at the moment, he did take a pretty good beating earlier in the evening. So far, there doesn't seem to be anyone else around, though in the distance, the sound of a TV can be heard. It's difficult to trace it's muffled origins, but the best bet would be from somewhere in the warehouse offices located across the large empty room.

When there's no sign of anyone about to leap out at him, Mike finishes his approach towards where Remy dangles. "You rang?" Mike asks quietly, keeping his voice low, the tone is less than amused with the situation. But considering what he found, can anyone blame him? He's already looking to the setup, trying to figure out how to get Lebeau down from there.

Gambit opens his eyes, and tries to look around for Mike. Maybe he just hallucinated hearing the man.. He hoped not, and hoped instead that the app had worked. He had set up his phone to automatically send a text to Mike if it hadn't received any input from him after a set amount of time. "Nicea…you…ta show," he chokes out. His eyes roll back in his head, and his head falls forward again. With a jolt, his head lifts back up, and his eyes shoot wide open. "Get de statue," he croaks, and the pants. "In de office." He's not sure if he's talking to himself or not, but after the pummeling he took, who would really question him if he were?

Mike frowns at the condition of the cajun and shakes his head. "Like hell I will, need to get you out first…" He pauses, looking towards the office, "Are they the only ones here?"

The thief lets out a raspy cough. "Dieu merde, mec," he curses painfully. "Get de damn statue. Only two'a dem now," he says, letting his head wearily drop again. "Less more'a dem showed while I was nappin'." He shakes his head to keep himself awake. A concussion is almost a guaranteed at this point, but he has to keep his head clear. "Now… go get de… statue."

There is a sigh and a pause as Mike looks to the setup, determining there to be no way he's going to be able to move any of that stuff without alerting the folks in the office, "Fine. Just hang on." It's quite possible the last line was an attempt at a joke but it's hard to tell as he makes his way over towards the office, stepping through the wall quietly to see what's in there.

Inside the office is indeed the TV heard before. Two men are also present, both wearing jeans and black t-shirts that are at least 2 sizes too small for their large muscular forms. One of them watches a rerun of "Fawlty Towers" on the TV, chuckling occasionally at the program. The other reads a magazine, with his feet kicked up on a side table. The statue itself sits on the same side table. It stands roughly 12" tall, appears to be made of stone, and appears to be very old. Other than that, there doesn't seem to be anything overly special about it.

Not all that happy with the general situation, Phantasm moves over towards the TV, wiggling the plug out of the socket to cut the tv off. He waits near the TV.

The muscle bound couch potato stands up, and smacks the top of the TV rather roughly. "Da faq," he curses with a heavy cockney accent. This draws the attention of his partner, who looks up from his "litterature." "What's the problem," he asks with a much more proper British accent. "Damn tele went tits up," the first explains. The literate goon sets his magazine down with a heavy sigh and moves to the TV to offer his assistance. The last thing he wants is to have to actually talk with his partner. The two begin to examine the TV together. It takes almost a minute before the second notices that the TV has come unplugged. "You daft prick," he chides. "The bloody thing came unplugged." Clearly he's the brains of this operation.

While the two are out of their seats examining the television, one of the chairs lift off of the floor quietly, cautious not to cause for a squeaking motion, the chair is folded up and then lifted into the air. As the literate one chides the questionably literate one, the chair comes swinging down at one of the men's heads, quite violently.

"Oh sod it. How de hell did that happ—" is all the dumb one manages to get out before the chair crashes into his skull, subsequently sending him crashing into the TV with a loud beefy THLUNK. Mr. Smarty looks around, understandably confused by what just happened. His body tenses, ready for a fight.

As he readies himself for a fight, the posessed chair lifts up, swinging over towards Mr. Smarty's head as well. Can he possibly get a two-fer? Or will Mr. Smarty know how to duck?

Were this your average fight, Mr. Smarty would definitely duck. This is anything but your average fight, however. The sight of a chair lifting itself up and swinging at his head gives him pause long enough for the chair to connect with his face. With a crack, the chair hits it's mark, and sends the large man to the floor, blood pouring from his almost certainly broken nose.

The chair floats, pausing as Phantasm looks to the two to see if either of them are in any condition to get right up. When he's assured they won't, he moves over to the table with the statue but pauses as he sees if there are any visible signs of keys lying about.

There doesn't appear to be any keys laying around. There is however a very battered, but still incredibly sneaky Gambit standing in the doorway. "Merci pour de assist, mon ami," he says through a blood caked smile at the sight of the two goons on the floor. He looks around the room, not really sure where to direct his comment to. "De statue," he questions, holding his hand out as if he's waiting on Mike to toss the object to him.

Being at the table with the statue, it lifts up and floats over to Gambit. Apparently THROWING it wasn't on Phantasm's mind. "How'd- Nevermind. Should get going." There's the press of a hand on Gambit's back, trying to guide him towards the exit. Get out first. Questions later.

Before leaving with Mike, Remy takes the statue and smashes it on the floor. Straining, he kneels down to the shattered pieces and digs through them. Pulling out a small black chip, the cajun smiles. He grabs onto Mike's arm to pull himself up. However he managed to get himself free coupled with the beating he had already received has clearly taken a lot out of him. "Now, we go," he says with a sharp exhale. He flings an arm over Mike's should for extra stability, allowing the other man to lead the way.

Fight done and the task of helping the Cajun out of the warehouse now at hand, Phantasm's form starts to shift, giving a visible body to the form playing support. Wearing a hoodie, an unnatural shadow fills in where there should be face, making it to where features can't be determined. His head tilts down, giving reason for the shadow to be there. Upon them going out the door, Phantasm sighs, "After we get out of this area, can you tell me what the hell all that was about?"

"Sho, sho, mon ami," Remy replies. "I tell you all. Though, t'ink we can find me some clothes first?" He hobbles along with Phantasm. "Dere's dis nice lil' Indian joint down de road. Booze an info's on me. Gotta say though, we make a good team, mon ami," he says as a pained grin forms on his lips again.

"Sure." Phantasm murmurs, eyeing Gambit for a second before starting to steer them towards an alleyway, "Do the clothes have to fit perfectly?"

Gambit chuckles as best he can. Yep, that's a broken rib to add to the list. "Any clothes betta den no clothes," he says. "Not too many places let me waltz in lookin like dis, non?"

"Wouldn't think they would." Phantasm agrees, leading them into the shadows. "One sec…" He shifts, leaning Remy against a wall before stepping away and stilling himself. He grows quiet, form fading into one that's a bit more familiar as the musician is standing before Remy. Turning away, he starts tugging off his outer layer of clothes, tossing them over to the Cajun to give the thief the dignity of dressing himself at least.

Gambit graciously accepts the clothes, and starts to pull them over his form. He winces a few times as he works the shirt over his torso. Make that two broken ribs. When all is said and done, the pants hang at the tops of his ankles, and the shirt sits a little funny on him, but at least he's dressed a little more appropriately. "Merci," he says. "Now, how bout you?"

Mike shoves his feet into his shoes once his other clothing has been passed over, leaving him in his own set of boxers. And wouldn't you know it these ones do NOT scream Goodwill. Apparently there are limits to how far he will save money after all. "One sec…" His eyes close. He stills once more, starting to fade from view again. "I'll pop back to the hotel and get more once we get you inside there."

Gambit shakes his head, "Go. I'll be fine. Meet me two block south o here. I'll be de one wearin' yo clothes."

"…alright. Two blocks from here." Then, quiet.


Remy waits outside of the aforementioned bar. At this time of the night, there's almost no one going in. It's not quite closing time, but it's close enough that most patrons are where they will be spending the remainder of the night before heading home. He's managed to wipe most of the visible blood off of his body, though he still looks like he's been through the wringer. He smokes a cigarette on the corner, waiting for Mike's return.

"You know," A voice says next to Remy, "You look like shit right now." An impish smile is given as Mike has appeared right next to him.

"Fou toi, Mike," Remy says playfully to the familiar voice. "I promised booze and info. Whatchu waitin' on? An engraved invitation?" Gambit limps slightly as he walks into the bar, and finds an empty booth near the back.

Following after Remy, Mike's walk is a little less labored as he's feeling pretty fine right now. Following Remy towards the back, the smile fades. He sits down, "You're in luck that I have to be good tonight. Early morning tomorrow."

Gambit grins. "Let's get one t'ing clear mon ami, he teases, "You're never up ta anyt'ing good when you in my company." He motions for the lone waitress working so late to come over to the table. "Bourbon," he says cooly, "An' whatever my friend here would like." The bruised man archs his neck, rolling his head around. The sound of several clicks and meaty pops can be heard as he works out the kinks of the night.

"Well, at least being good with the alcohol. Early morning and all." Mike corrects before glancing over to the server, "Guinness please." When the waitress leaves, he looks over towards Remy, "You probably should get checked out."

Remy gives Mike a stern look that very clearly says "Drop it." "I'll be fine," he says mildly annoyed. He reaches into one of the pockets of the hoodie and pulls out the black chip from earlier. He lays the chip on a napkin in the middle of the table. "De statue was nothin' but a distraction, mais I'm sho you already figured dat much out. Dis was de real target." He slides the napkin, chip and all, across the table to Mike. On closer inspection is resembles an SD card, but this one looks much more high tech than anything you would pick up at the local Best Buy.

Mike looks down to the chip, not touching it. There's really no point in his mindset. "That or you really hated that statue…" Mike replies, looking to the tiny storage device, "What's on it?"

Gambit stares at Mike with a deadly seriousness.. "Dat card right dere is filled wit' the names an info'mation o' e'ry mutant e'er registered in de states. Some from de old Sentinel programs, an' den more from de Mutant Registration Act, and the Superhero Registration." He shakes his head solemnly. "Pro'lly more, t'be honest."

The rocker's brows raise as he glances back to the card accusingly, "F-" He shakes his head, looking over to Remy, "What the hell were they doing with that on them?"

"Dey were just de carriers, mercs for hire" Gambit states. "Dis was on it's way to a man name'a Marcell St. John." He reaches across the table to pull the card back as the waitress returns with their drinks. "Merci, chere," he says to the tired woman with a wink. You may be able to beat him, but you can never stop the lothario from being a player. He waits for her to leave before he continues in a hushed tone. "Not entirely sure what St John wants wit de card, but I'm willin' t'bet my reputation dat it's nothin' good."

Mike tilts his head forward, lifting a hand to press a couple fingers to the side of the table, eyes closing as he sighs, waiting for the waitress to leave before responding any further, "Any other cards out there?"

Gambit nods ominously. "So far, dis de only on St John knows bout accordin' ta my sources," he says. "You can be sure when he learns bout tonight, he ain't gonna stop 'till he's got one in his hands." He picks up his bourbon and lifts it to his still somewhat blood crusted lips. "Gotta say, though, mon ami. You an me, we make a good team, non," he hints ever so not subtly.

"Did you really think I'm going to leave a friend hanging?" Mike asks, lifting up his beer. "And if by as a team you mean doing two separate things and not interacting much at all," Mike murmurs, pausing for a sip before continuing, "Then yes, I guess we do." The glass lowers, "Though, the communication thing could use some work."

Gambit grins devilishly. "What'cu mean? My text worked. Communication worked. You showed didn' you?"

Mike takes a prolonged sip of his beer, glance not directed over towards the Cajun until after he puts the drink down once more, "Not that part. Yeah, I showed. But now I have that address tied to that phone."

Gambit shakes his head dismissively. "I have a guy who'll take care o dat for us," he says confidently. "All record o dat text be gone by de mornin'." He eyes Mike, trying to read his emotions. "I'm serious though. This St John guy is bad news, and big. I could use someone wit yo particular abilities. I can do my best ta be invisible, mais toi, you can actually /be/ invisible. Dat is, long as you don' mind gettin' yo hands a lil dirty." He takes a drink of his liquor and pockets the chip again.

The musician's jaw shifts as the blue eyes fix on Remy's, there is quiet. Likely awkward quiet for those not privy to the conversation that just occurred before hand. After a few moments, there's the slightest tilt of the head in what's likely a nod. "Alright. So long as any future texts you end up sending also vanish, and you help me with the disappearing when not using the abilities."

Gambit nods in agreement without saying a word. He drinks again, letting the moment ride. "I may not always be on de right side o de law, Mike," he says with a pause, "Mais I always try ta do what's right." He sets the drink down. "I wouldn' ask yo help 'less I had e'ry intention o' keepin' you safe n' clean. Somet'in tells me, though, dat dis is bigger den me, an I might be needin' de help. Not sayin' sit by yo phone an wait fo' me ta call, but I may need a hand, ifn you're willin'."

"Damn you people and all your varying shades of grey." Mike deadpans, eyes shifting to look about the room but upon not seeing anything of interest, his glance moves back to the table. "I'll do what I can to help." Mike adds in, "Just-" He pauses, shaking his head, "right…covered that."

Standing up from the table, Gambit lays a couple of large bills on the table. He downs the rest of his drink, and pats Mike on the shoulder. "You got an early shootin' schedule in de mornin'," he says. "Should pro'lly get some sleep." He reaches into a pocket and pulls out Mike's cellphone and offers it to him. "Don' wanna fo'get dis. I gotta a flight back ta New York ta catch. Hopefully, you won't be hearin' from me 'gain for awhile, non?"

Mike glances to the phone, seemingly remembering that he left it in that pocket when he handed the clothes off to Gambit, his hand reaches over to take the phone. He gives a half smile, "Yeah, not all that sure I'd be able to help in a timely manner if there's a damn ocean to cross in the process." He looks to Remy's attire, "Just toss those in the condo when you get back. I'm sure you know your way in."

Gambit grins slyly. "Course I do, but I'd neva do dat less is absolutely necessary." He starts to walk to the door, when he stops and turns back to face Mike. "One mo' t'ing, Mike. Le's not say anyt'in to Ruth 'bout dis."

There is a sigh at the reminder of Ruth. "I won't." He assures, "But that doesn't mean she won't KNOW."


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