Chapter 2: Learning Curve
Dawn light crept through the hole in his wall, bringing with it the sounds of New Orleans waking up. Tour groups gathering in Jackson Square. Street musicians tuning instruments. The distant clatter of streetcars on St. Charles.
He hadn't slept.
The night had been spent pacing his apartment, testing the feel of Remy's body, trying to understand what had happened to him. Every mirror in the place confirmed the same impossible truth—he was wearing the face of a fictional character, complete with the unusual eyes and auburn hair he'd seen in countless comic panels.
His stomach growled with unfamiliar intensity. Whatever enhanced metabolism came with this body, it demanded more fuel than his original form ever had.
He raided the kitchen, moving carefully around the blast crater his powers had created. Leftover gumbo in the refrigerator tasted incredible—his new taste buds seemed more sensitive to spices and heat. Even day-old bread felt more substantial between his teeth.
Everything's more intense. Colors brighter, sounds sharper. Enhanced senses to go with the enhanced physiology.
When he finished eating, restlessness drove him back to experimentation.
The remaining playing cards called to him like a drug. He selected a single card from the deck—the ace of spades—and held it between thumb and forefinger.
Small charge. Controlled. Just enough to understand how it works.
The energy built slowly this time, flowing up his arm like warm honey mixed with electricity. The card began to glow with that distinctive pink-purple light, vibrating with contained force.
Kinetic energy, he thought, remembering the comics. Gambit transforms potential energy into kinetic energy. Makes things explode on contact.
He aimed the card at an empty soup can on the counter and flicked it with practiced precision his original hands had never possessed.
The card sailed across the room in a perfect arc and struck the can dead center. The explosion was smaller this time—just enough to dent the can and knock it flying. No property damage.
Progress.
Emboldened, he tried again with a spoon. Charged it lightly, then tossed it at the wall. Another small explosion, leaving a scorch mark on the paint but nothing worse.
I can control the intensity. The key is not panicking.
He reached for another card, then stopped. Someone was pounding on his door.
"LeBeau! What the hell you doing in there? Sounds like World War Three!"
An older man's voice, heavily accented. Angry but not quite ready to call the police. Yet.
Panic spiked through him. He had no idea how to handle this situation. What would Remy say? How would he charm his way out of trouble?
Play it cool. Act normal. Whatever normal means for a master thief.
He opened the door to find a man in his sixties wearing a paint-stained undershirt and the expression of someone who'd been dealing with problem tenants for decades. The building superintendent, his mind supplied.
"Sorry about the noise, Mr. Boudreaux," he said, the words flowing naturally in Remy's accent. "Had a little accident with some electrical equipment. You know how it is."
Something strange happened as he spoke. A warmth spread out from his chest, subtle as a whisper. The superintendent's angry expression softened almost imperceptibly.
"Electrical equipment?" The man's voice lost its sharp edge. "What kind of equipment makes holes in walls?"
"The experimental kind," he said with a grin he didn't feel. "I'll have it patched up by tomorrow, promise. And I'll keep it down."
The warmth pulsed again, stronger this time. The superintendent nodded, suddenly looking confused about why he'd been angry.
"Well... alright. Just be more careful, yeah? Mrs. Evangeline next door thought someone was shooting at her."
"Tell her I'll bring by some of my mama's pralines as an apology."
"That... that'd be nice of you, boy. Real nice."
The superintendent wandered off, humming to himself. Through the peephole, he watched the man pause halfway down the hall, shaking his head as if trying to clear it.
What the hell just happened?
He closed the door and leaned against it, heart pounding. Something had passed between them during the conversation—some invisible force that had changed the man's mood from angry to accommodating.
Charm. Empathic manipulation. Another one of Gambit's powers from the comics.
But in the comics, Gambit's charm had been subtle, almost unnoticeable. This had felt like turning a dial, consciously influencing someone's emotions without them realizing it.
And I did it without thinking. Like breathing.
The implications made his skin crawl. How many times in the comics had Gambit used this power without the readers knowing? How many relationships were built on supernatural manipulation rather than genuine connection?
How am I supposed to know if anyone actually likes me, or if I'm just making them feel that way?
He pushed away from the door, suddenly desperate for fresh air and distance from his own thoughts. A walk would help clear his head. Maybe find somewhere to practice his powers without destroying his apartment.
The French Quarter greeted him with familiar sights that felt brand new through enhanced senses. Jazz music drifted from open doors. The smell of beignets and coffee mixed with river water and motorcycle exhaust. Tourists wandered between street performers while locals moved with the efficient grace of people navigating their daily routines.
He found himself studying every face, wondering if these were real people or fictional characters he should recognize. The woman selling newspapers—was she someone important? The police officer directing traffic—friend or future enemy?
I'm in a fictional universe that's become real. Everyone here has their own story, their own life, their own problems. They're not just background characters anymore.
The thought was dizzying.
He took a shortcut through an alley between Royal and Bourbon, lost in contemplation, when three men stepped out of the shadows ahead of him.
"Well, well. Look what we got here."
The leader was tall and lean, with the kind of face that suggested violence was always an option. His companions flanked him, blocking the narrow alley. All three wore the casual clothes and hard expressions of people who made their living taking things from others.
"Nice jacket, friend. Looks expensive."
"I'm not looking for trouble," he said, raising his hands peacefully. His voice was steady despite the adrenaline starting to flood his system.
"Course you're not. But trouble found you anyway."
The leader produced a knife, holding it casually but ready to use. "Wallet, watch, jewelry. Everything you got."
Time slowed.
His body moved without conscious direction, hands reaching behind his back to grasp something that shouldn't have been there. A staff materialized in his grip—collapsible bo staff that must have been concealed in his jacket. His original mind watched in amazement as Remy's muscle memory took over.
The first attacker lunged with his knife.
He spun left, the staff extending to full length with a sharp click. The weighted end caught the man's wrist, sending the knife clattering across concrete. His body flowed into the next movement—a sweeping arc that took the second attacker's legs out from under him.
The third man rushed him from behind.
Without looking, he reversed his grip and drove the staff backward, connecting with solar plexus. The man folded over, gasping. A spinning heel kick sent him crashing into the brick wall.
The whole fight lasted maybe ten seconds.
He stood there afterward, breathing hard, staring at three groaning men who'd learned the hard way that he wasn't easy prey. The staff felt perfectly balanced in his hands, like an extension of his own body.
When did I grab this? When did I learn to fight like that?
But he knew the answer. Remy LeBeau had been trained by the New Orleans Thieves Guild from childhood. Street fighting, weapons training, acrobatics—all muscle memory encoded in this body's nervous system.
I can fight. Actually fight. Like, really well.
The muggers were picking themselves up, shooting him wary looks as they limped away. None of them seemed interested in a round two.
He collapsed the staff and tucked it back into his jacket, mind reeling. The weapon had been there all along, waiting for him to need it. How many other tools and tricks came with this body?
I need to make a list. Figure out what I can do before I accidentally hurt someone.
The walk home passed in a blur of new awareness. Every shadow could hide an ambush. Every face might belong to someone from Remy's past. Every step carried him deeper into a life he didn't understand but was now responsible for living.
His apartment felt like a sanctuary when he finally made it back. He locked the door behind him and reached for his cell phone to order Chinese takeout, then stopped.
The phone was ringing.
Unknown number, but something in his gut suggested he should answer.
"Hello?"
"Remy! Finally! Where the hell you been, brother?"
The voice was familiar in a way that made his chest tight. Warm, concerned, with the same Cajun accent but a different rhythm. This was someone who knew Remy well—too well to fool easily.
"Henri?" The name came automatically.
"Who else gonna be calling you at this hour? You missed the meeting last night. Jean-Luc was asking questions. Bad kind of questions."
Henri LeBeau. Remy's adopted brother, according to the character bible in his head. Thieves Guild member. Someone who would notice immediately if Remy started acting strange.
"Sorry, brother. Had some... complications. You know how it is."
Silence on the other end. Then: "No, I don't know how it is. That's the problem. You sound different, Remy. Off somehow. You feeling alright?"
His heart hammered against his ribs. Less than twenty-four hours in this body, and already someone who knew Remy was getting suspicious.
"Just tired, mon ami. Been working on something big. Can't talk about it over the phone."
"Something big? What kind of something big?"
"The kind that pays enough to keep the Guild happy for a year."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Remy... you're scaring me a little here. Your voice, the way you're talking... it's like you're trying to remember how to be yourself. What happened last night?"
What happened last night? I died and woke up in your brother's body. That's what happened.
"Nothing happened. Just need some sleep, that's all."
"Right. Sleep." Henri's voice carried new layers of worry. "Look, I'm coming by tomorrow. We need to talk. Face to face. Something's not right here."
"Henri, you don't need to—"
"Tomorrow, Remy. Afternoon. Be there."
The line went dead.
He stared at the phone in his hand, stomach dropping into his shoes. Tomorrow, he would have to convince Remy LeBeau's closest family member that nothing had changed. That he was still the same person Henri had known for years.
Except he wasn't. He was a stranger wearing Remy's face, fumbling through Remy's life with no idea how to be the person everyone expected.
He walked to the dresser and picked up Remy's journal, flipping through pages of handwriting that looked like his own but contained thoughts he'd never had. Guild politics. Heist plans. Personal relationships with people he'd never met.
One name appeared more than any other: Bella Donna.
Sometimes written with obvious affection. Sometimes scratched out violently. Sometimes underlined three times with enough force to tear the paper.
Whoever she is, she matters. A lot.
He flipped to the most recent entries, looking for clues about what Remy had been thinking before... before whatever had happened to let him take over this body.
The final entry, dated yesterday, made his blood run cold:
"Something's wrong. Been having dreams that don't feel like dreams. Visions of places I've never been, people I've never met. Feel like I'm losing time, like someone else is wearing my face when I'm not paying attention. Henri thinks I'm just stressed, but this is different. This is..."
The entry ended mid-sentence, ink trailing off like the hand that wrote it had simply stopped working.
Oh God. What happened to the real Remy? Where did he go when I got here?
He set the journal down with shaking hands and looked at his reflection in the dresser mirror. Remy's face stared back, but now he could see something the real Remy's friends and family would notice eventually.
His expressions were different. His mannerisms belonged to someone else. Even his posture carried the weight of a different personality.
I'm living in a stolen life. And tomorrow, the people who love the real Remy are going to figure out something's wrong.
The hole in his kitchen wall suddenly felt like a metaphor.
Everything was about to fall apart.
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