Her heartbeat was fast and adrenaline pumped wildly through her veins as she stepped through the large double-door entrance to the hotel where she knew her target would be staying. Her nerves were on edge and her body almost shook with the nervous excitement that had been building ever since she'd been told about her mission. Her own mission! A real mission, out in the real world. She'd never had a solo mission before, only going along as an observer to see how the full agents did things. But she was finally more than just an observer, they had finally given her a mission of her own.

She glanced around the large room for a few moments before her eyes settled on the receptionist behind the desk, and she checked her outfit in a tall mirror on the wall behind her before approaching the woman. She wore a tight corset and miniskirt, with thigh-high lace-up boots and enough eye-liner and mascara to cover any number of imagined bruises. The entire outfit would make it perfectly clear why she was here, and was only partially covered by a thigh-length overcoat. The receptionist gave her a disdainful twist of the lips before covering her slip up with a practiced smile.

"I'm here to see Mr. Smith in room twenty-four-oh-seven." 23 put on her best coy smile for the receptionist, who only smiled back. "He should be expecting me."

"One moment, miss." She didn't want to know the girl's name. She never did when that type came in here. It would only be dignifying their profession, and there were few things she would dislike more than dignifying a prostitute. She picked the receiver up off her desk phone, and punched in the number for room 2407, then spoke quietly for a few moments with the voice on the other end before hanging up and turning back to 23. "He said to send you right up. Have a good evening, miss."

23 Smiled again and thanked the receptionist before heading to the elevator, knowing exactly how hard it had been for the other woman to utter those last few words. She could smell the disdain from halfway across the lobby, and the scent was still burning her nostrils five floors later. She huffed loudly to clear it from her nose, then glanced at the elevator's other occupant, a bike messenger by the looks of him. She flashed him a nervous smile, trying to act like a normal girl who'd just embarrassed herself. "Sorry."

"No, It's, uh... fine." His eyes dropped from her face as she turned toward him slightly, revealing the front of the outfit through the gap in her coat. She breathed deep as his eyes dropped, pushing her bosom up to accentuate her cleavage. Better he remember that than her face. When the elevator dinged and the doors opened, he was jolted back to his senses and realized it was his floor.

"It was, um... nice to meet you! I've just got this package to drop off then I'll be...." He was still mumbling as the doors cut him off, and her nervous smile faded the instant he could no longer see her. She knew that anyone who got in the way of her mission was expendable, and someone like him would have been easier to eliminate than most. If they didn't make her do it herself, they'd send another agent to put him down. Unless, of course, he wasn't considered a liability, and who would think of some boob-obsessed nerd as a liability? Besides, they'd told her to avoid non-target casualties. It was part of her mission to keep him from remembering anything that could identify her. It had nothing to do with how it had felt to be looked at like a woman instead of a weapon.

When the elevator hit the 24th floor, she stepped gingerly out of the car, the adrenaline coming on even stronger now that she was so close to her target. She had to focus just to keep her hands from shaking. This was finally it! She was about to take out her first target and prove herself to the agency. Prove that she was just as good an operative as they'd trained her to be. She knocked hesitantly on the door to room 2407, and it opened a few moments later to reveal a clearly inebriated man in a disheveled suit.

"Welcome! Come in, come in." He gestured her forward and she followed him into the room, catching the scent of two more men before she even crossed the threshold. Panic rushed through her, this wasn't supposed to be part of the mission! He was supposed to be alone with her! The guards should have been off-duty by now. What had changed? Something had changed and she needed to know what. Was she compromised? Had they been tipped off about her? She dropped her head to cover as much of her face as possible with her hair, and was relieved when her target addressed the guards first instead of her.

"Ivan, Victor, you know how much I appreciate your services, but I think I can handle this little crisis on my own." He winked knowingly in 23's direction, as if trying to make some crude joke, but neither of the men even cracked a smile. They just nodded, said yessir, and left the room, closing the door behind them. Good, one problem dealt with. Now to focus on the other.

"Come in, dearie. Make yourself at home!" She fidgeted nervously, not sure how to do that exactly. To her, home had always been the training rooms and bunks at the facility where she was raised. He picked up on her nervousness though, and began to walk around behind her. "That coat looks too hot to be wearing indoors. Here, let me help you out of it." He slid a hand along her shoulder and under the neck of her coat, and she almost flinched away when his fingers met the flesh of her neck. "It's alright, darling, I'm not going to bite." He slowly pulled the coat back and off her shoulders, then let it slide down her arms. "...much."

She gasped as his hand gripped the back of her neck and squeezed tight, throwing her forward onto the bed. She stumbled the distance and landed face-first, then rolled over to watch him approach, a lecherous smile curving his lips as fevered lust clouded his eyes. "They told me this was your first time, so I'll be sure and make it rough." The smile grew wider as he came closer, and his hands reached out like claws toward her. The way he looked at her was very different from that of the bike messenger, and she didn't like this gaze one little bit. To him, she wasn't even a weapon whose craftsmanship you could be proud of, she was just a thing that was here to please him.

On instinct, she raised her leg and planted it on his chest, keeping him from coming any closer, though the expression on her face wasn't one of fear like he'd expected. Instead, it was a mix of confusion, anger, and revulsion. She'd heard there were men like this, read about them in files and dossiers, but never before had she actually met one as vile as the man before her. She was disgusted. His cruel smile turned into a small snarl as his hand slapped her leg away, and he made it only one more step before her foot circled around and returned to his chest, pushing him back to where he'd been before. She was stronger and faster than she looked, he noted, and decided to change tack.

"Very well, little flower. We'll do it your way. For now." His hands slipped down the length of her boot-clad leg until they met the flesh of her thigh, then his fingers found their way to her laces. "Slow at first, as a favor to your employer, but afte..." He was cut off by the sound of leather being cut and the sensation of the tip of a warm blade against his throat. She should have ended it then and there, all her training told her to simply extend the claw further and drive it through his skull, but something stopped her. She'd never killed a man before, never taken a life in cold blood. This felt different somehow from the training she'd been through, felt wrong. That moment of hesitation was all her target needed, though, and while he didn't move from his position, unwilling as he was to risk having his jaw split in two, he lifted his head enough to shout for help.

"GUA..." The gurgling sound of a man choking on his own blood and trying to breath through a hole in his throat replaced the shout as the claw extended seemingly of its own accord, then 23's leg jerked to the side, tearing the gash open wide. She watched in horror as he fell to the floor and the word "FAIL" flickered across her vision, followed by orders to return to base for re-evaluation. No! This can't be it! She can't have failed! She had to prove herself! She was ready for this!

She didn't have long to beat herself up, however, as the last attempted shout of the target had alerted his guards to a problem, and both of them came barging into the room almost simultaneously. They had their guns out and aimed at her, taking in the scene in an instant. Their eyes narrowed when they fell on the body of their boss, and their guns spit lead at the petite form of the girl on the bed. Except she wasn't on the bed anymore. The split second it had taken them to confirm the threat had been too long, and she'd already covered half the distance before the first shot rang out, ducking beneath their aim to cover the remaining distance before reaching up to grab the gun barrel of the nearest guard. She twisted toward the thumb while simultaneously pulling down, applying upward pressure with her shoulder as she came up to a standing position facing away from him. The gun slipped out of his hand easily with a grunt of pain from the man himself, and she drove her other elbow up into his face, knocking him out cold with one blow and breaking his nose in the process.

She followed up by gripping the wrist of his extended arm and pulling his weight onto her back, then thrusting backward with her legs, throwing his unconscious body into the other guard. She spun and half raised the gun before remembering her orders to keep non-target casualties to a minimum, and instead of pulling the trigger she jumped to her right, planted a foot on the wall, then pushed off and drove her knee into the side of the second guard's head just as he was recovering from catching his buddy. He was out cold before he hit the ground.

She landed in a crouch, her breath calm and steady and the adrenaline well under control now. Her mind still reeled at the fact that they had forced her to kill a man, but she pushed the thought to the back of her head. There wasn't time to deal with it now. She had to escape. Had to evade the police and the rest of her target's thugs and make it back to the rendezvous point.

If she hadn't been so shocked at what her handlers had done, at what they'd forced her to do, she might have remembered to pull the bodies fully inside, close the door, and clean herself up before leaving, but she was too shaken to think clearly, apart from that singlular, all-encompassing need to escape. She left a trail of bloody footprints down the hall as she ran for the stairs and a scream echoed behind her. One of the other guests coming out to investigate the noise and finding the bodies. They'd be calling the police now. She only had a few minutes before they arrived and her mission became much more bloody.

She took the stairs this time, it would be too easy to get trapped in an elevator, and jumped down entire flights at a time until she saw a pair of policemen climbing up toward her. They weren't supposed to be here yet! How did they get here so fast? The questions flashed through her mind even as she spun around without hesitation and ran the other way, back up the stairs until she reached the roof. She slammed into the metal door to force it open, but it didn't budge. That meant a deadbolt lock, or several if they really wanted tight security. She removed the problem by unsheathing a single claw and sliding it down the crack in the door, shearing off any locks that were preventing her escape. Once on the roof, she ran to the edge, looking frantically for any way to escape. There was a building across the street, shorter than the one she was on but still an impossible distance away for any human.

She retreated to the far side of the roof, taking a runners stance before setting off at full speed toward the edge, just as the cops burst out of the door. They must have heard her running and followed. Or seen the bloody footprints. Cops were observant like that. They didn't hesitate when they caught sight of her, and even though they could barely track her speeding form they raised their guns and opened fire. That was also against procedure, her training told her. Something tickled the back of her mind, a realization that hadn't quite fully formed yet. Something that tugged at her like a relentless child begging for attention. She shoved it aside and pushed herself harder, faster. She had to make this jump. She had no other choi... "AGH!"

She cried out as a bullet bit into her leg, just as she was pushing off of the roof. She faltered, the muscle giving out in the split second before she went airborne as she realized with horror that she wasn't going to make it. This was gonna hurt.

The cops ran to the building's edge as soon as she dropped below it, looking down at the twisted form of the young girl sprawled on the street below. One of them reached to the radio clipped to his shoulder. "Base, this is Alpha team. Twenty-three is down. Repeat, twenty-three is down. Moving in for retrieval." Both cops left the roof and headed for the lobby, then out onto the street, but when they arrived on scene, all that remained was a blood smear on the pavement.

The girl was gone.

Peter Benjamin Parker was born to Richard and Mary Parker. All that Peter could remember about his parents was that his father, Richard, was a geneticist and genetic engineer and that his mother, Mary, was a nurse. While Peter was still very young, his parents tragically died in a plane accident. Therefore, the burden fell upon Peter’s aunt and uncle, May and Benjamin Parker, who gave the young Peter all the love that they could. Even when the Parkers struggled to support their nephew financially, they gave the young Peter all the love they had. This was only the first tragedy in Peter’s guilt-ridden life.

Through elementary and middle school, Peter was belittled and bullied since Peter was a book-worm, nerd, and an ‘A’ student. Although his academic studies helped him through this time, thinking that someday he would be all the ‘popular’ kids’ boss, there almost did not seem like there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Not until he first met one of his future best friends: Angelica Jones. She and her widowed father, Bartholomew Jones, moved to Queens from Massachusetts after Angelica’s paternal grandmother passed away. Both being lonely and outcasts, Peter and Angelica quickly became friends. Things looked bright for Peter, or at least that how they seemed until Angelica’s microwave powers began to manifest. With the anti-mutant sentiment, Angelica’s father enrolled her at the Xavier Institute of Higher Learning. After a bitter and sad departure, Peter had lost his best friend almost as soon as they became friends.

Then there was the day Peter gained his powers. Peter was attending a demonstration of the latest findings of Doctor Curtis Connors, an expert on cross-species genetics. During the demonstration, one of the genetically altered spiders escaped from its container on that faithful day and bit Peter, infecting him with a virus that caused Peter to develop his abilities. After suffering a miserable night due to his body trying to cope with the virus that had infected Peter, Peter woke up feeling like a new person.

Now with super-human powers, Peter knew what he had to do with them: earn money for his loving aunt and uncle, who had struggled to support him. It was the least he could do. While Peter was successful early on, having created his ‘iconic’ red and blue costume to conceal his identity, Peter’s cash supply was destroyed by a man who would be a pain in Spider-Man’s backside for years to come: J. Jonah Jameson. After Jameson’s crusade against Spider-Man in the Daily Bugle, Peter was distraught. How was he going to be able to help his aunt and uncle now? In his misery, Peter ignored a bugler while Peter heading home from the studio for the last time. While it seemed insignificant at the time, Peter would later regret that decision. Later that week, Peter’s Uncle Ben was killed when a robber broke into their house. When Peter caught the murderer, he was shocked to the core when he discovered that the murderer was the same man whom Peter failed to stop earlier that week. Shaken by the experience, Peter finally learned the lesson that his Uncle Ben had been trying to teach him: With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility.

After he got his powers, but prior to his uncle’s death, Peter finally rallied up the courage to ask his dream crush, Gwen Stacy, out on a date. She was his Penelope. The death of Peter’s uncle just brought the two further together. However, as Peter’s career as Spider-Man began, Peter discovered how much damage his alter-ego had started to inflect on their relationship. Therefore, Peter revealed his secret to the love of his life. And this knowledge was the kiss of death for Gwen, although neither of them knew this at the time.

There was yet another bright spot in the sea of darkness that was Peter’s tragedy life. Peter and Angelica crossed paths again and they would never go separate ways again. The X-Men (in civilian garb) were visiting a science museum as a field trip (since the institute was a school, after all) when suddenly the Juggernaut attacked. After Peter helped the X-Men subdue the Juggernaut, both Peter and Angelica discovered the other’s secret identities. From that day forward, Peter, Angelica, and Angelica’s fellow X-Man, Bobby Drake (a.k.a. Iceman) formed the Amazing Friends.

After his first year of fighting petty crocks, Peter thought this super-hero gig would be a piece of cake. Or at least until he began to meet his first super-powered villains. His first ‘super’ was the Chameleon, a super-villain who could change his appearance at will. After his encounters will the Chameleon and some other villains, like the Lizard and Doctor Octopus, Peter realized that he could no longer rely solely on his powers, as he did in his first year of super heroics. He needed to use his intelligence in order to overcome the obstacles in his way.

However, Peter’s happiness could not last forever.

Over the last decade, the Kingpin of Crime held an iron grip over the criminal underworld on the East Coast. However, when his wife, Vanessa, grew deathly ill, which prompted the Kingpin to focus on curing his dying wife, the Kingpin of Crime began to loosen his grip over the city as his attention was directed elsewhere. Then, out of nowhere, a crime lord called ‘the Rose’ started to encroach onto the Kingpin’s turf. As a result of the Rose’s challenge to the Kingpin’s hegemony, a power struggle spiraled out of control, all the gangs of New York vied for power, and the NYPD were caught in the middle of it.

One night, when Peter was going to the Stacy residence so that he could take Gwen swinging around the city, Peter heard an explosion from within. After changing in his Spider-Man threads, Peter entered into the Stacy residence and found the mercenary, called Jack O’ Lantern, had kidnapped Gwen Stacy. Believing that someone had discovered his secret identity, which would made Gwen, his girlfriend, vulnerable, Peter chased after Gwen’s captor, following the Halloween-themed villain to the Rose’s base.

However, once at the Rose’s hideout, Peter, undetected by the Rose’s men, discovered that the Rose was going to use Gwen as leverage against Captain Stacy in order to get the NYPD off the Rose’s back. Knowing that his dual-life as Spider-Man was not the cause of Gwen’s kidnapping, Peter rushed to Captain Stacy and updated him on the situation. Once everyone was on the same page, Peter and Captain Stacy drafted a plan to save Gwen.

While the NYPD established a perimeter around the Rose’s headquarters and prepared for a raid on that base of operations, Peter snuck in to free Gwen. Synchronizing with Peter and Gwen’s escape, the police burst into the base, taking the Rose’s men by surprise. However, on their way out, Peter and Gwen ran into the Rose and Jack O’ Lantern. The Rose aimed to strike down Peter, but, utilizing his Spider Agility, Peter pushed Gwen out of the way and ducked away from the bullet.

Nevertheless, that bullet still struck someone: Captain Stacy. When Peter and Gwen had not exited from the building, Captain Stacy charged into the epicenter of the base in order to find them. Unfortunately, Captain Stacy was in the wrong place in the wrong time. While Peter and Gwen mourning the loss of Captain Stacy, the Rose made his escape. But the Jack O’ Lantern remained to cover the Rose’s flight.

During the chaos of the police raid and Jack O’ Lantern’s distraction attempt, Gwen was knocked off some scaffolding while Peter attempted to protect her from the Jack O’ Lantern. Peter tried to catch her with a webline, but the Jack O’ Lantern ignored the deadly situation that Gwen found herself in and sucker punched Peter in the back. Hoping to get out of the reach of his assailant, Peter leapt off the scaffolding and dove toward his girlfriend, catching her with a webline. However, when he dropped to the floor, Peter discovered that Gwen had not survived whiplash of his rescue attempt.

After grieving the deaths of his girlfriend and her father, who had been a surrogate father to Peter since both his real father and his uncle Ben had been killed, Peter turned his anger towards Jack O’ Lantern. In a fury of rage, Peter would have beaten Jack to a pulp, if he had not realized that he would have become just like the Rose and Jack O’ Lantern: a killer. Instead, Peter left Jack O’ Lantern for the police to deal with.

In the direct aftermath of the two Stacys’ deaths, Peter could not bring himself to dawn his Spider-Man costume, feeling that his alter-ego had been the cause of his girlfriend’s death. Combined with the rising uneasiness caused by the public reaction towards mutants and Jameson’s ever-continuing mudslinging, Peter retired his Spider-Man threads, believing that throwing in the towel would protect all his loved ones who were still alive.

Using his spider-powers to cling to his bedroom wall, Peter was staring at a photograph of his deceased girlfriend, Gwen Stacy, reminiscing all the good and the bad times they had together. For the last couple months, even since the day that Gwen died, Peter could not get himself to pull out his Spider-Man costume from his closet. In his head, Peter kept replaying images from that night and he contemplated how he could have changed those events so that Gwen, and even her father, might be alive today. But unfortunately, thinking about how he could have changed the various outcomes of that night could never bring either of them back from the grave.

“Peter! You have a guest!” Aunt May hollered to her nephew from the bottom of the stairs.

“Tell him I’m no here!” Peter shouted back. But instead of the silence that Peter wanted, he heard a knock on his door. Landing softly on his bed, just like a cat leaping down onto the floor, Peter flipped a switch on his desk that unlocked his door.

“It’s unlocked!” Peter said to whoever was on the other side of the door.

“You do realize that shouting down to your aunt kind of defeats the purpose of trying to get me to think that you are not here. And assuming that I am a ‘him’ is sexist.”

Angelica Jones walked into Peter’s room. Angelica and Peter were best friends in middle school, but her father enrolled her at the Xavier Institute of Higher Learning once her mutant powers manifested (although at the time neither of them knew what mutants were). But once the two became acquainted with the other’s secret double life, as Spider-Man and Firestar, the two old friends were able to rekindle their friendship.

“Whatever.” Peter said as he gazed at the floor, not looking his friend in the eyes.

“’Whatever’? That’s not what the Peter I know would say. He would have thrown a pun my way, no matter how bad it is! Are you sure you aren’t an imposter?” Angelica joked, trying to liven Peter up.

“No. I just have had a few rough months, that’s all.” Just mentioning the last couple months brought back painful memories of Gwen to Peter, causing him to sigh. Angelica plopped beside Peter on his bed, wrapping her arms around him, trying to give him the comfort and support that he needed.

“Maybe we should go out on patrol. Just to get your mind off of things.”

Peter shrugged off Angelica’s grasp on him, jumping up from his bed. “I don’t know. I just have not been in the mood since Gwen died.” But when he turned back around to face his friend, Angelica was trying to make the saddest facial expression that she could make.

“But do you even have your costume with you?” Peter asked. But almost as soon as Peter had uttered these words, Angelica lifted up the bottom of her shirt, revealing the yellow fabric that composed her ‘Firestar’ costume.

“Never leave home unprepared.” Angelica smiled at Peter.

Peter paused for a moment, contemplating whether he should even dawn his Spider-Man costume again. After much internal debating over this subject, Peter finally crumbled to Angelica’s peer-pressure. He opened up his closet door and scrambled to find his costume. The first costume he pulled out was the one he had worn on that fateful night when the girl of his dreams died. However, Peter had neglected to wash to since then. Therefore he made a mental note about washing it and continued to search for his spare costume.

“Okay, let’s do this.” Peter told Angelica, holding his spare costume in his hand.

Player Name: The New Yorker
Character Name: Remy LeBeau
Moral Alignment: Walking the Line
Affiliation: The Thieves Guild, CIA, NSA

Character Origin & Backstory:
Remy’s mother worked in a restaurant in Back of Town, New Orleans as a waitress. She had her ass slapped more times than she could remember, but that Cajun kid with the darling eyes was the only one she never slapped back. They got married, had a little red-eyed child, and everything went downhill from there. That Cajun kid with the darling eyes couldn’t stand that he was a big nothing in the middle of nowhere, ball and chained in the swamps as a mechanist. He drank, and he smoked, and he got high; then he’d slap that little waitress everywhere but her ass. The kid (Remy) got to sleep on the porch under the awning if it was raining and his mother would make sure he got food every once in a while even. But that damn kid was so rowdy as a toddler that his papa had taken to chaining him up to the front porch. If his dad wanted to come out and have a beer or something, Remy would have to get off the patio or risk getting a licking.

At night, when his papa was done screaming, and hitting, and drinking, and he’d fallen asleep, Remy would sneak out of his chains and collar. He used the paper from his papa’s matchbook, which he molded into a fine picking device, to open all the locks that were thought to keep him chained. He’d run off into the vibrant New Orleans streets and just bask in it all: the people, the lights, and the smells. The puffed, pungent smells of gumbo wafting from street-side diners mingled in Remy’s nose with the sweet, buttery smell of fried choux paste. He’d sit at a bench, where he met several other children, all seemingly street urchins, and watch them perform tricks. The group of children were like a traveling band of street performers, yet not an adult among them. Remy met them every so often, he learned tricks and skills which he’d commit to memory. None of the children made fun of him, the way everyone at home did. They didn’t seem to mind that his eyes were different, they didn’t seem to instantly despise him. Then, after the children had played, and some had earned a little bit of money, they’d separate. Remy would shuffle back from the city and walk the dark, dusty road to his country house. He’d quietly put the chains back on and sleep on the cushioned mat his mother had made for him. Then he’d dream, the kinds of dreams where it was only him and his mom. The kinds where he got to sleep inside and talk to people without getting hit. He knew that this dream would come true, he’d just need to be strong for his momma, she’d come through.

Remy’s mother ran off when he was 8, left him shivering on the porch with the looming shadow grasping at her heels with every step. It didn’t take Remy long after that to realize that the next time he snuck out, he wouldn’t be coming back. Remy joined the gang of street urchins instantly, feeling finally free. He learned that the group was actually led by someone older, a teenage acolyte of the Thieves Guild. The gang was a way to breed new promising members, Remy was instantly recognized as an impressive force. One day, at the ripe age of 12, Remy was following a mark, a juicy one at that. He snagged the man’s billfold while the man was picking up a paper, then slid into an alley way. He counted the bills under the florescent lamp light, but was stunned to find a note, stuck in the middle of it. Two red eyes drawn in the center of the piece of paper floated above the words, “Come Meet Mr. LeBeau”. Remy had no idea how important that name would become to him. The invitation was to meet the leader of the Thieves Guild, who had been awaiting the prophesized diable blanc to show his face, or his eyes in Remy’s case. The prophesy foretold of a young thief with red eyes and pale skin who would reunite the two warring guilds, that of the Thieves and the Assassins.
So Remy agreed. Soon he began showing signs of mutant abilities, which pleased Jean-Luc LeBeau greatly. He adopted the boy and taught him all of his tricks, the tricks of a master thief. Remy grasped the ideologies of the guild very easily, it was easy to accept a family when he’d never truly had one. He even agreed to the arranged marriage between himself and Bella Donna Boudreaux, the granddaughter of the head of the Guild of Assassins; not as if he would have any reason to deny the southern beauty. The wedding day, in order to completely understate it, was destroyed by the intervention of Bella’s brother Julien. He challenged Remy to a duel, saying that he would not have some glorified sewer rat marrying his sister. Remy, in self-defense and through pure ignorance, obliterated Julien. The Assassin’s attacked first, of that Remy is sure. Everything after was a bit blurry. When Remy awoke on the crimson painted rooftop the wedding was taking place on, he was horrified. He was covered in blood, as was everyone and everything else around. A bloodbath had occurred and there were very few survivors. Remy was lucky enough to limp away with several broken bones and a very bad bullet wound.
It wasn’t long until Remy was out of the south, he traveled to New York in search of some work. In search of a life away from the sweet scented swamps which brought only bad memories. He was quick to find Fence, a half robotic man who dealt in stolen goods. Remy was a talented 19 year old as far as Fence could see, so he put him to work. Remy was hitting museums and laboratories in no time. The Guild had him stealing jewels and paintings, Fence had him hunting blueprints and scientific do-dads. Soon Remy got word that the CIA was on his trail, and the NSA, too. Knowing that hiding was more of a death sentence than the alternative, Remy gave himself up to the agency.

They knew all about le diable blanc, had a fat ass stack of files and everything. They asked him to cooperate with them, help them help him. Nothing made Remy more uncomfortable than working with the government, but what could he do? They had information on his life on the streets, his life in the Guild, and his involvement in the massacre. They could pin the whole thing on him if they wanted, him being a mutant. So he played along. He got them plans, and planted bugs and did some field work for the NSA every once in a while. He interrogated some prisoners, planted a couple of bombs, and dealt with a little insurrection. No biggie. They kept him fed, housed, hidden, and happy. Besides, it allowed him access to some high priority places, which made Fence pretty happy. Though not too happy, since Fence was furious that Remy was in so deep with the government. That was a big no-no for thieves. Remy didn’t mind until he got the word of his next assignment. He was to join up with a top secret team, created with people just like him. The assignment was concerning insurrection, terrorists. It outlined plans for attacks on whole communities of mutants. Once he heard about that he called Fence immediately, they’d need a plan to make Remy disappear.

Powers and Abilities:
- Psychokinetic manipulation of energy. Remy is capable of changing items on a molecular level, invigorating the cells of any non-living organism to an unstable level. This generally leads to an explosion, proportionate to the size of the object and its level of instability. Currently his powers are reliant upon Remy touching things. Remy isn’t quite sure what the limits of his powers are concerning size, so he’ll have to keep practicing.
- Heightened athletic skill. Remy has learned how to effect his own kinetic energy. Making him faster, more balanced, and all around more confident in his movements.
- Psychokinetic mental barrier. Remy possess an amazing gift which he has no control over and hardly understands. His mind is mostly untouchable to telepaths.
- Charm. Remy has an irresistible charm. It’s origins are a mixture of his time as a thief, a secret agent, and an inherent likability. It is yet unclear whether his powers have anything to do with it.
- Master Thief…

Sample Story Archs:
-Infiltrate Trask Industries and stop the Marauders
-Clear his name with the CIA and NSA (Involves sabotage and blackmailing)
-Join the X Men

Sample Post:

September 5th, 2012
9:31 PM
Remy’s boots squeaked against the polished ivory floor as he darted down the plain white hallway. As he rounded a corner out of the hallway, a platoon of guards rounded a corner on the other end into the hallway. They shot at him for a few moments before he was out of sight, and then followed after him. The Cajun’s blood was warm as he felt the thrill of the chase once again. Sure, the idea of being a thief is that you shouldn’t even be seen, but the blood boiling excitement of being chased was something Remy could never get over. It would be absurd to assume that Remy had let the guards see him, because an assumption of that caliber would also assume that Remy was unprofessional. Of course, that wasn’t true, because Remy was, indeed, a staunch professional.
He giggled as he sped down the hallway, briefcase filled with precious information hoisted over his shoulder. He was nearing a reception area and an eventual exit. He rounded the corner and spotted a quiet brunette, shell shocked, with a phone pressed to her ear. Remy slowed his sprint into a run then a jog, and eventually a steady, easy walk. The cool Cajun rested his arms up on the reception desk and let himself breathe for a moment. He took the phone from the Brunettes hand and placed it back on the receiver.
“You got a ball” he asked, his drawl dripping onto the desk, melting the young woman.
“A… ball?” She looked down in her desk and noticed there was a ripe blue rubber ball, calling to her. She gave it to Remy and smiled. The Cajun charged the ball, allowed his red eyes to wallow in the putrid pink. The girl must have seen all the pain in his heart, all the years of running, and probably how much he’d just been running. She rested her hand on his free one, sighed deeply. This was most certainly the man she’d been waiting for. They’d go on really romantic dates and meet each other’s parents. He would cook her dinner sometimes and she’d give him massages. They’d get married and her mother would stop nagging about her going back to school, because she’d have a husband. Then maybe they’d have children, though they wouldn’t have to. She always wanted to adopt. He’d probably want to adopt, too.
Remy threw the ball into the hallway, winked, and dashed off. The ball exploded, dislodging cement structures around her, stunning the young brunette and waking her from her dream. A thick dust cloud rolled in from the mostly destroyed hallway and filled the reception area. The doe-eyed receptionist coughed in confusion as Remy jumped from a window onto a nearby roof.
It didn’t take long for Remy to reach the headquarters Fence ran out of his bakery in Brooklyn. He settled up with Fence, handed him the info, and took a nearby seat, a cuppa at his side.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t think much, Gambit.”

“Well give me something, damnit!” Remy responded with an exasperated yell.

“Jesus, calm down, Remy. Drink some of your fucking coffee and give me a second.” Fence said cooly as he continued with his work.

“I would be calm if you haven’t been treating me like an asshole for the last two weeks.”

“Please not now.”

“Well when Fence? I mean… Where the hell were you when I called you?”

“Guatemala. No Egypt.”

Remy didn’t have to look at all the tiny cables attached to Fence to get the joke. He’d been resting obviously. No more than a month ago Fence was pulled out of a club and beaten half to death by some men in black. They tried wiping his memory core. Luckily Fence was a lot better than them, and Remy. He stayed away from the Devil eyed thief for a few weeks while the heat on him wore off. It isn’t clear if he felt guilty or just obliged, but he contacted Remy a few days ago asking him to retrieve some information. The deal was simple: retrieve some intel and some tech stuff and Fence would try his best to help get the Cajun out of this mess with the CIA.

“I was stuck on top of a 65 story building with combat drones up my ass. I could have used your help.” Remy said, coyly chiding.

“Well you seem fine. I was rebuilding what was left of my arm, so I was a little busy myself.” Fence responded without looking from the datapad. Remy nodded, allowed Fence to have this one.

The big half metal man flipped through pages of info on a holoscreen he had displayed in front of him. His blue eye made note of every detail, his lips flicking as he tried to remember it all.

“Well,” Remy said after calming down, “What it say?”
“It say you’ve been blacklisted. It say you a terrorist. And, as always, they called you a slut.”

September 5th, 2012
11:58 PM
“Here’s the problem, Remy, we’re dealing with the fucking government.” Fence stood on his powering station, a partially raised, circular dais with a bright blue light shining upward. Sprouting from his mechanized hand was a flat hologram which he read from intently. His eye was damaged in the beating he received a month ago on the Cajun’s behalf, he could not use it to project holograms or virtual reality HUD’s. The aforementioned Cajun was laid in a loveseat set between two marble columns. He still wore his sneaking suit and running shoes, his legs were innocently slung over the edge of the loveseat. The joe in his hands had cooled since he got there, and coincidentally, so had he. He took a sip of the brown stuff as his red eyes pierced through the light steam which rose from the cup. “If we were dealing with some kind of a street hustler, sure, easy-peesey. A mob-boss? Easy as the shit I pass off as cake here. But what I can’t do…”

“I thought you said there was nothing you can’t do.” Remy interrupted. He looked sly, and vicious, he wanted blood but he wasn’t ready to kill for it. Remy sometimes felt like that, like he was impotent, like he wasn’t a man of integrity. But what does a thief know about integrity?

Fence seemed annoyed by the suggestion Remy made, he stepped off the powering station and pointed his human, broken, hand at the devil in the darkness. “That was six years ago, before you started playing footsies with government organizations. And,” he added, continuing where he’d left off, “what I can’t do is hide you from every security agency in the United States, public, private, or, otherwise, deeply, deeply hidden.”

Remy’s eyebrows perked up, he was interested in the implications of Fence’s statement. Fence was particular, he was a man of practicality. He never said anything that didn’t need saying, unless he was hyping himself up. “What do you mean? There info in there about secret organizations, looking for me?”

Fence calmed and got back to the station. He waved his hands behind him and flipped through the hologram. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, “Not explicitly, but yeah.” Fence made a throwing motion with his robotic arm toward the smart board which sat at the opposite end of the basement they were talking in. The walls were exposed stone and the floor was red cracked marble aside from the area around the powering station; that was metal tile. Remy assumed it was because there was some sort of defense mechanism around the station, Fence was paranoid like that. Fence had put a lot of money into this place, Remy was happy that when the spooks came around they couldn’t find this place too. Behind the smart board was a door, one of two. It led to a vault and more things beyond that which Remy wasn’t even entirely sure about. At the opposite end was another door which led to the elevator to the bakery. That end was stocked with tables, and tools, and computers, and weapons, and all sorts of do-dads. The document flicked onto the screen moments later.

On the screen was a long document which included lots of codenames, and locations where Remy had been, and security business lingo. Fence circled all the names he brought up on the board from where he stood. “I’ve never heard of the Murauders. Or Project X. They must either be new or top secret. I’ve never had a non-doctored document like this.”

Remy made sure to let Fence know he was still worth something, “You’re welcome,” is all he said.

“There’s also this Sentinel program, very troubling. It implies, whatever this project is, will be able to track down mutants.” Fence stopped as he read on, things he hadn’t yet differentiated from the lingo and backtalk around it. His organic eye widened as he began to understand it. “They’re saying you were instrumental in making all of this possible.” Fence was a little dumbstruck. He turned to the red-eyed devil sitting in the love seat, cooing over a cup of coffee. “Did you do this, Remy?”

The Cajun sipped his coffee again. He felt a sudden chill crawl up his spine and he swallowed the coffee hard. His eyes unfocused and refocused again, and for a moment the Cajun felt like he was falling through the world. “I—I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Come on, Remy. I mean, Jesus Christ, don’t you know never to trust the fucking government?!?” He wanted an answer, the metal man stood on the station staring at Remy, every second the Cajun didn’t answer infuriated Fence. “Well!?!” He bellowed.

Remy was jolted from a daydream, “I—I didn’t know.”

“Well now you know.” Fence stared at the thief, cradled by the cushions, and unraveled what he saw. Remy looked frightened, shocked, betrayed, and embarrassed; Fence could see that. He pursed his lips then exhaled, “I can help you, Remy, I think. It’s not a sure thing, by any means. But it has to be done my way.” Fence was clear, deliberate, forgiving. “My way or the highway.” He punctuated.
Remy hadn’t been looking at Fence for a while, he stared at the cracked red floor and descended into a short burst of agony. With Fences last words Remy’s red eyes flicked over to the metal man’s blues. “Yeah,” he accepted weakly, “yeah, you got it, Boss.”

Concerning the Daydream: Remy was sent to China in 2008 to retrieve plans, and potentially materials, from a secret base in Karamay. Remy led a team of four. It was supposed to be easy, simple. After the rendezvous, which involved Remy boarding a train via helicopter, the team picked up their weapons in a storage crate outside the city, and headed to the base. They hadn’t killed any guards by the time they reached their destination. All four team-members had powers, similar to Remy. One young man could teleport, which came in handy. Another could read minds and the other possessed technokinesis, like Fence. It was the latter teammate who made this distinction between what the team was told they were to collect, and what they were actually collecting. He hijacked the database while Remy searched the storage bins for the marked materials. Remy found it, a green matte suitcase locked and sealed. He brought it over to a table and opened it, it looked like some sort of polymer.

“They sent us out here for some damn plastics?” Remy commented. His hair was longer then, he had it wrapped in a ponytail.

Gerald, the young man mentioned earlier, stood from the laptop he worked at and looked at the material. He waved his hands over the case and small lights flicked on inside the opaque material. He smiled as his hands hovered over the box. “There is no metal in them at all, but they’re electronic all right.” Gerald stopped manipulating the material and went back to his laptop. “You shouldn’t have opened that.” He said coyly.

“And why’s that?” Remy questioned, he shut the case.

“I didn’t see anything, man.” Gerald responded.

“Say what’s on your mind, Frtiz.”

Gerald hesitated a moment and then turned in his chair, he looked up at the Cajun and frowned. “That’s not what they told us we were getting. This is very serious, very scary shit.”
Gerald died on their way out of the base. The two other agents died in a freak fire in the west end no more than a week later. And the Cajun realized now that he was meant to die in that fire as well. Or perhaps the CIA got Gambit out of that room on purpose, to keep him. Either way, remembering that moment made Remy sure that he was a fool, and any work he’d done for the government was pure evil.

September 6th, 2012
2:32 AM

Remy made his way from the subway to the surface quickly, taking long strides, all wrapped in a leather overcoat. He wore sunglasses to hide the glow from his radiant eyes. As he walked down the nearly empty, damp street and turned into an alleyway, and Remy thought about the conversation he’d had with Fence only an few hours before. Remy turned down another alley and stopped at a dumpster. He figured that going in through the front door might be a little too risky.

“See these?” Fence held several small metal balls in his hand.

Remy stood from the loveseat and put his coffee mug down. He was tall and skinny, but his tight, black sneaking suit also showed his solid muscular build. He pulled a wedgey from his crotch as he walked to the powering station. “What are these? For me?”

Fence dropped the balls into Remy’s hand, turned around to open and read from a holographic screen beside him. “Yeah. I was thinking of an alternative to your cards. They work well, I won’t deny you that. But sometimes we might need something with a little more ‘umph’. These babies will make someone think twice about getting into it with you. Even someone as super-powered as you.”

Remy juggled the four balls, smiling wide as he did. He tossed one behind his back and it fell right back into his juggling orbit. He tossed one onto his shoulder, caught the other three in one hand, rolled the one on his shoulder to his palm and forced it into the air with his power, caught it in the other hand. He started another round of juggling. “Aw, you been thinking of me, Fence?” His drawl was so strong then, as if to extend it.

One ball goes over his shoulder and behind him, another higher than the other two. His foot knocks the one behind him further into the air and he catches the two in normal rotation in his right hand. The highest one falls back into his left hand, and he continues the rotation normally as the final one rejoins the juggle.

“Yeah,” Fence puffed, “whatever you say, loverboy.” Fence turned to see Remy begin a feat the Cajun clearly considered to be impressive. He juggled two balls normally while dribbling one with his foot and the other with his knee, like a mad soccer player. “Alright, enough with the circus act. You ever heard of Trask industries?”

Remy kicked and kneed all the balls into his hand and then dropped them confidently on the table next to him, he breathed heavily (despite his attempts to continue looking as cool as a cucumber). “Sure. You had me hit them in ’06. Some sort of capacitor?”

“It was a solar powered portable generator. And you used it for that mission in Kuwait last year (don’t know why the fuck I gave it to you in the first place).” Fence was salty but Remy could tell that he was being reasonable, he wasn’t angry anymore.

“What about Trask?”

“Right, well, there’s info in here saying that they’ve approached the government with a prototype Sentinel, these mutant hunters. As far as I’m concerned, the CIA is peripheral to stopping this nonsense. I want you to infiltrate their headquarters. This is a big mission, Remy. Infiltration, subterfuge, sabotage, photographs, evidence. You could be in there for days, who knows? So we need resources, technology, backup even. Do you have any contacts we could use?”
Remy looked down at the floor, his crimson eyes scanned his memory for potential allies. He came up short; as far as he knew, Fence was the only friend he had in the world. “Everyone I knew in the CIA is dead. I don’t think…wait, maybe.” Remy looked in the direction of Fence, yet was doing anything but acknowledging him. He was looking through the metal man, and toward the recesses of his memory, that place which he’d shrouded in the eternal darkness of his mind. “Down south, I could know some people down south.” Remy finally said. “But Fence, I can’t go back there. I—I can’t.”

Fence put his hands on his waist and pondered the situation for a moment. “Alright, you stay up here and gather all the resources and tech that I mark for you. When I get back we can finalize all of our plans and hit Trask.”

“Wait, wait, Fence, where are you going?” Remy had extended his hand, he was touching Fences metal arm. Yet, despite the lack of flesh contact, they were connected, friends again.

“The Bayou,” Fence said with a smile, “gonna’ round up some sewer rats.”

“Fence, you don’t have to do that on my behalf.” The Cajun was touched, he felt a kinship with this metal man.

“Everything we’re doing is on your behalf, Remy. The fact of the matter is that you’re my only friend in the world and I don’t know what I’d do without you. Okay? So don’t start questioning my plans simply because they are about you. You start doing that, you might as well kill yourself now.” Fence ended his conversation by pulling the powering cord from his chest and stepping from the station.

Remy stood at the dais a little embarrassed but mostly proud.

The Cajun climbed the narrow, steep steps of a fire-escape all the way to the 12th floor. The reputable Manhattan skyline hung before him in the humid air like a painting. It was just as beautiful as it had always been, a stunning spectacle. He turned to look into his window, noticed the light was on. Either there was someone in there currently or there was someone there before. Fence had warned him about that, about going back to his apartment, but Remy wouldn’t listen. Just as he didn’t listen to his instincts which screamed at him to run away now. Instead he opened the window slowly and carefully. He wore his armored suit now, the one Fence designed for him. It was light and allowed agility but had dark purple plating all about it. Most of that was hidden underneath his coat.

“Why do you have to go back? If you’re going to fucking kill yourself I might as well know why!” Fence was furious at this point, a little drunk as well. After they made up and planned the hit on Trask, they drank plenty of rum and vodka.

“My cards, asshole! I need my cards, and my staff. Pictures, too, damnit. Leave me alone.” Remy calmly stumbled to the door, fence stayed at the table rubbing his belly.

“Turn your locator on!” he yelled behind the Cajun, just in case.

That was a few hours before Remy crouched on the precipice of his window suffocated by the hot, dense New York air. He was a little more sober now, a little calmer. Remy had turned his locator on, he figured it was the least he could do. Fence was currently watching the Cajun’s vital signs and Seinfeld concurrently.

Remy stepped from the sill onto the hardwood floor. He was careful not to make it squeak. He superhumanly shifted his weight so he wouldn’t be putting excess pressure onto the foot on the floor. Once he was comfortably inside he heard a small clattering, it came from the kitchen. Remy quickly pressed the small device Fence had worked out to deliver the small metal balls he’d gifted the Cajun earlier. One smooth orb fell into Remy’s waiting palm, he rubbed it lovingly. The thief walked from the living-room, where he’d entered, and slipped into the hallway heading into the kitchen. Remy heard a ruffling behind him, his bedroom, and quickly spun in time to see an MIB, utterly unprepared. Remy acted quickly, sending the uncharged ball into the man’s chest. It knocked the air from his lungs and sent him back a little. Remy completed the attack by kicking the man in the chest, and following him further into the room. The spook crashed into the closet behind him and tried to draw his pistol. Remy kicked the man in the face, breaking his nose and knocking him unconscious in one hit. The Cajun turned toward the door of the bedroom, saw another spook in the kitchen. He dropped a ball into his hand just as the MIB drew his pistol. Remy tossed the charged orb into the kitchen and jumped to his side just as the agent fired. Remy bounced over his bed and dropped to the other side, he looked under the bed to find his bo staff case. The Orb exploded and a scream came from the kitchen.

Remy stepped out into the hallway, broken glass crunching under his feet, bo staff in hand. He entered the soot covered kitchen, noticed the twitching feet poking out from behind the island countertop. The agent had been blown to the other side of the kitchen, shrapnel was stuck into his neck and chest. Remy’s heartbeat increased and his breathing seemed sporadic. Fence looked over from Seinfeld to see the spike in Remy’s vitals. He leaned forward and whispered to himself, “Come on, Remy. Get out of there.”

The metal man couldn’t tell what had Remy so worked up, he was no longer in immediate danger. He was frightened because he’d just been responsible for the death of a government agent. And if the .22 caliber pistol next to the corpse meant anything, it was probably a CIA agent. Remy was fast after that, he packed some clothes, and his bo staff, and pictures of him and his adopted family, the LeBeau’s. Along with all that came a pistol, and a few extra clips.

3:30 AM

Remy sauntered up to the reception area of the motel, tapped the bell. It didn’t take him too long to head uptown and find this motel in the North Bronx. He signed a phony name in the registration book, gave the clerk 50 bucks, and made his way upstairs. Remy stripped the bed clean, found no bedbugs, and so laid his head on the naked pillow. He hoped to get enough sleep to be functional for the mid-afternoon meeting he had scheduled with Fence. The Cajun’s stomach growled and he tried his best to ignore it.