Chapter 3: Guild Expectations
The mirror had become his enemy.
He'd spent the entire night practicing in front of it, trying to perfect Remy's mannerisms, his accent, the particular way he gestured when he spoke. Every attempt felt like a bad impression of someone he'd only seen in cartoons.
"Bonjour, Henri," he said to his reflection for the hundredth time. "Comment ça va, mon frère?"
The words felt clumsy in his mouth, like wearing clothes that almost fit. Close enough to fool a stranger, maybe, but Henri wasn't a stranger. Henri had raised this body, knew every expression, every nervous habit, every tell.
"Maybe I'm having an identity crisis, non?" he tried, going for self-deprecating humor.
His reflection stared back with Remy's face wearing his own doubt.
The knock came at exactly noon—three sharp raps followed by two quick ones. Some kind of code, his body recognized the pattern even if his mind didn't. The rhythm spoke of familiarity, of someone who'd been using that particular knock for years.
He opened the door to find a man in his early thirties with the kind of weathered handsomeness that came from a life lived outdoors. Sandy brown hair, laugh lines around green eyes, and a smile that managed to be both warm and worried. Henri LeBeau looked exactly like the character bible had described—younger brother energy despite being older, protective without being overbearing.
"Remy!" Henri stepped forward as if to embrace him, then stopped. Those green eyes narrowed slightly, studying his face with uncomfortable intensity.
"Henri." The name felt right on his tongue, carried emotional weight he didn't understand. "Come on in, brother."
Henri entered slowly, still watching him with that searching look. The apartment's blast damage was obvious—the hole in the kitchen wall, scorch marks on the furniture, the lingering smell of electrical fire.
"Jesus, Remy. What happened here?"
"Little accident with some equipment. You know how it is."
"No, I don't know how it is." Henri sat down heavily in the leather chair, never taking his eyes off him. "That's becoming a pattern with you lately. You been drinking? Hit your head? You're moving like yourself but talking like a tourist."
The accusation hung between them like a challenge. Henri's voice carried the authority of someone who'd spent years reading Remy's moods, someone who knew exactly when something was wrong.
"Maybe I'm having an identity crisis, non?" He tried for that self-deprecating humor again, forcing a grin that felt more like a grimace.
Henri didn't laugh. Instead, he leaned forward, concern replacing suspicion.
"Sit down, brother. We need to talk."
Something in Henri's tone made him obey. The weight of genuine care, of someone who'd noticed his pain and wanted to help rather than judge. It hit him like a physical blow—this was what family looked like. Not the distant politeness he'd grown up with, but real, messy, complicated love.
"You're scaring me a little," Henri said quietly. "Yesterday on the phone, and now... it's like you're trying to remember how to be yourself. What's going on?"
The question pierced straight through his defenses. Henri wasn't interrogating him—he was worried. Genuinely, deeply worried about someone he loved.
"I'm fine, Henri. Just..." He searched for words that wouldn't be a complete lie. "Been having strange dreams lately. Feeling disconnected from things. Like I'm watching my own life from the outside."
It wasn't entirely false. He was watching Remy's life from the outside, trying to figure out how to live it without destroying everything the real Remy had built.
Henri's expression softened. "Dreams can mess with your head, especially if you're not sleeping right. But this feels different. You sure nothing happened recently? No hits to the head, no weird jobs that might have involved telepaths or mind games?"
Mind games. The phrase sent a chill down his spine. In a world where Professor Xavier existed, where telepaths routinely invaded people's thoughts, how long before someone figured out he didn't belong here?
"Nothing like that. Just... tired, I guess."
Henri studied him for a long moment, then seemed to make a decision. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a manila folder, spreading photographs across the coffee table.
"Speaking of jobs, we got a problem. The Heart of New Orleans contract—you remember that, right?"
The photos showed an ornate crystal the size of a softball, deep red with what looked like smoke moving inside it. The moment he saw it, his skin began to prickle with recognition. Not Remy's recognition—his own. Somehow, impossibly, he knew this object.
"Contract was signed two weeks ago. Client paid half up front, other half on delivery. Job's due in three days."
Three days. His mouth went dry. "What client?"
"Anonymous, but the money's real. Fifty thousand for what should be a simple snatch and grab." Henri paused, watching his reaction carefully. "Problem is, you already spent the advance."
"I what?"
"Twenty-five grand, gone. Rent, Guild dues, that motorcycle you bought, couple nights at Harrah's that didn't go so well." Henri's voice carried disappointment but not anger. "Jean-Luc's asking questions. If we don't deliver, it's not just the money we'll lose."
Jean-Luc. The Guild patriarch. Someone who could have him killed if he failed to honor a contract.
"Failure means Guild dishonor," Henri continued. "Possibly worse. You know how the old man feels about broken agreements."
The crystal in the photograph seemed to pulse with its own inner light. That prickling sensation intensified, like static electricity building before a storm. Something about this artifact connected to whatever had brought him here, to the void-space where he'd drifted before waking up in Remy's body.
"Where's it located now?"
"Private collector in the Garden District. Marcel Boudreaux." Henri leaned forward. "Remy, you sure you're up for this? Because I can help. We can do this together, like old times."
The offer tempted him. Henri clearly knew what he was doing, and the job would be much easier with backup. But the thought of putting Henri in danger—of this kind, protective man getting hurt because of his incompetence—made his stomach turn.
"Non. This is my contract, my responsibility."
"Stubborn as always." Henri gathered up the photos. "Just... be careful, alright? Something feels wrong about this whole thing. Anonymous client, artifact with a bad reputation, timing that's too convenient. Promise me you won't take any unnecessary risks."
"When do I ever take unnecessary risks?"
Henri gave him a look that suggested Remy LeBeau took unnecessary risks on a regular basis. "That's what I'm afraid of."
After Henri left, he found himself standing at the window, watching his adopted brother walk down the street. Halfway to the corner, Henri stopped and looked back at the apartment building, his expression troubled.
He knows something's wrong. He's just hoping I'll trust him enough to tell him what.
The weight of that trust felt crushing. Henri loved Remy enough to offer help without asking questions, to worry without demanding answers, to risk his own safety for a brother who was acting like a stranger.
"What am I supposed to do with that? How do I honor that kind of love when I'm not even the person he's loving?"
The question hung in the empty apartment like an accusation.
He turned away from the window and nearly jumped out of his skin. An envelope had been slipped under his door—thick, expensive paper with a wax seal bearing an elegant X.
That wasn't there five minutes ago.
His hands shook as he opened it. The handwriting was precise, elegant, clearly practiced over many years:
"Mister LeBeau, I believe we have much to discuss. When you're ready, you'll know where to find us. - C. Xavier"
The postmark showed today's date, but the ink looked faded, as if the letter had been written months ago. The paper felt aged, weathered around the edges.
Charles Xavier. The world's most powerful telepath.
He knows. Somehow, he knows exactly what happened to me.
But if Xavier knew, why wasn't he here already? Why the cryptic letter instead of a direct confrontation? Unless...
Unless he's giving me a choice. A chance to come to him voluntarily instead of forcing the issue.
The letter offered hope and terror in equal measure. Hope that someone might understand what had happened to him, might be able to help. Terror that his secret was already blown, that his time pretending to be Remy LeBeau was already over.
He set the letter aside and walked back to the window. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of purple and pink that matched the energy signature of his powers. In three days, he would have to steal an artifact that somehow connected to his presence here. In the meantime, he had a life to live, relationships to maintain, people to protect.
His reflection in the window glass showed Remy's face wearing his own determination. For just a moment, pink energy flickered around his eyes—visible proof that he was something more than human, something that didn't quite belong in this world.
"I'm not just inhabiting Gambit's body," he realized. "I'm inheriting everything he was—his debts, his enemies, his family. His responsibilities."
The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like a challenge.
Henri cared enough to worry. Xavier knew enough to reach out. The Guild expected enough to trust him with their reputation.
Maybe it was time to stop trying to be Remy LeBeau and start figuring out how to be worthy of the life he'd been given.
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