Chapter 4: The Charm Offensive
Two days until the heist, and he still didn't know nearly enough.
The Heart of New Orleans could be anywhere in Marcel Boudreaux's mansion. The security could be anything from simple alarms to high-tech laser grids. The artifact itself was a complete mystery beyond Henri's vague warnings about its "bad reputation."
Time for research. Real research.
The New Orleans Historical Collection occupied a beautiful old building on Chartres Street, all wrought iron and aged brick that had weathered countless storms. Inside, the smell of old paper and preservation chemicals mixed with the faint scent of jasmine from the courtyard garden.
The curator's desk sat near the entrance—an attractive woman in her forties with graying hair pulled back in a practical bun and the slightly harried expression of someone dealing with budget cuts and demanding scholars.
"Excuse me," he said, approaching with what he hoped was Remy's confident charm. "I'm looking for information about local artifacts. Specifically, anything called the Heart of New Orleans."
She looked up from her computer with barely concealed irritation. "Are you a researcher? Student? Do you have credentials?"
"Just a local history enthusiast. Family connections to some of the old Creole families."
"I'm sorry, but our archives are primarily for academic research. You might try the public library on Loyola."
Dismissive. Professional. The kind of brush-off he'd gotten from bureaucrats his entire previous life.
Then something strange happened.
As he spoke, trying to convince her to reconsider, warmth spread through his chest. The same sensation he'd felt with the building superintendent, but stronger, more controlled. Like turning a dial to adjust the intensity of some invisible broadcast.
"I understand you're busy," he said, letting the warmth flow into his voice. "But this is really important to me. Family history, you know? Sometimes the stories our grandparents tell us are the only connection we have to who we really are."
Her expression softened almost imperceptibly. The irritation faded from her eyes, replaced by something warmer.
"Well... I suppose I could make an exception. What did you say your name was?"
"Remy LeBeau."
"Michelle Broussard." She smiled—genuinely smiled—for the first time in their conversation. "Why don't you come around the desk? I'll see what we have in the restricted collection."
As she led him toward the archives, he noticed other small changes. A security guard who'd been watching him suspiciously now nodded in a friendly manner. A scholar researching at a nearby table looked up and smiled for no apparent reason. Even the elderly volunteer manning the front desk seemed to beam at him with grandmotherly approval.
What the hell is happening?
Michelle unlocked a climate-controlled room filled with filing cabinets and document boxes. "Coffee?" she asked. "I was just about to get some from the café next door."
"That's very kind, but—"
"My treat! Really, I insist. You look like someone who could use some caffeine."
She bustled off, leaving him alone with the archives. As soon as she was gone, he concentrated on that warm feeling in his chest, trying to understand it.
Turn it off. Whatever this is, turn it off.
The warmth faded. Immediately, a splitting headache lanced through his skull, like someone had driven an ice pick behind his right eye. Around the building, he could sense a subtle shift—people returning to their normal emotional states, the artificial friendliness evaporating.
Empathic manipulation. I'm literally making people like me without them realizing it.
The realization made his skin crawl. How many genuine relationships had Remy built versus how many had been influenced by this supernatural charisma? How was anyone supposed to trust their own feelings around him?
"Focus. Deal with the moral implications later. Right now, I need information."
Michelle returned with coffee and a helpful smile that seemed more natural now, less artificially enhanced. Together, they went through the archives, searching for references to the Heart of New Orleans.
What they found made his blood run cold.
The artifact first appeared in records from 1894, during the height of New Orleans' Voodoo renaissance. A group of practitioners had gathered to deal with what they called "a tear in the fabric between here and elsewhere." The Heart of New Orleans wasn't originally a treasure—it was a prison.
"According to these documents," Michelle explained, spreading yellowed pages across the archive table, "they sealed something inside the crystal. A doorway, they called it. A portal to what they described as 'the place between places.'"
The place between places. His skin prickled with recognition, the same sensation he'd felt looking at the photographs. This artifact was connected to wherever he'd been before waking up in Remy's body. Connected to the void-space where his consciousness had drifted after dying.
"What was supposed to happen if someone touched it?"
Michelle consulted her notes. "Legend says it would show them 'what shouldn't be seen.' Visions of other realities, other possibilities. The practitioners considered it extremely dangerous."
Other realities. Like the reality where X-Men were fiction and he'd lived a mundane life until a pickup truck ended everything.
"Why is it called the Heart of New Orleans?"
"That's unclear. Some sources suggest it was meant to be the spiritual center of the city, a focal point for mystical energies. Others imply it was more literal—that the city's essence, its soul, was somehow bound up in the artifact."
He spent another hour going through records, taking notes on everything that might be useful for the heist. Security systems, floor plans of the Boudreaux mansion, guard rotations. But his mind kept returning to the artifact itself.
It's connected to me. To how I got here. Maybe it holds answers about what happened to the real Remy.
By the time he left the archives, the sun was beginning to set. Michelle walked him to the door, still friendly but no longer unnaturally so.
"I hope you found what you were looking for, Mister LeBeau."
"More than I expected. Thank you for your help."
"Anytime. It's nice to meet someone who appreciates local history."
He walked away feeling like a fraud. Michelle had been genuinely helpful once he'd turned off whatever supernatural influence he possessed. But how much of her initial cooperation had been real versus magically coerced?
Another problem for the list. Right now, I need to test whether I can actually pull off this heist.
The warehouse district after hours was perfect for practicing. Abandoned buildings, minimal foot traffic, plenty of walls and targets that wouldn't be missed if he accidentally destroyed them.
He found an empty lot between two defunct factories and set up a makeshift shooting range. Tin cans balanced on fence posts, cardboard targets drawn on the sides of shipping containers, anything that would let him measure accuracy and power control.
The first attempts were disasters.
Charged cards that exploded before leaving his hand, sending him diving for cover. Cards that flew true but failed to detonate on impact, bouncing harmlessly off their targets. One spectacular failure launched a charged playing card in completely the wrong direction, blowing a hole through a "No Loitering" sign fifty feet to his left.
"Concentrate. Consistency. Small charges first."
Gradually, frustratingly slowly, it began to click. The key was emotional control—staying calm while building the charge, not letting excitement or frustration interfere with the energy flow. Muscle memory helped with the throwing motion, but the charging itself required a kind of meditative focus he'd never possessed in his original life.
After an hour of practice, something finally worked perfectly.
He selected the ace of spades from his deck, held it between thumb and forefinger, and let the energy build slowly. Pink-purple light danced around his fingers as the card began to vibrate with contained force. Instead of panicking, he maintained his concentration, letting the charge stabilize.
Fifty feet away, a tin can sat balanced on a fence post.
He drew back his arm and threw the card in a perfect spiral. It sailed across the lot with unerring accuracy, struck the can dead center, and exploded with exactly the amount of force he'd intended. The can vanished in a small burst of light and sound, leaving only a scorch mark on the fence post behind it.
"Yes!"
His hands were burned. Small blisters had formed on his fingertips from channeling the energy, and his right palm felt like he'd grabbed a hot stove. But the pain was worth it—he'd successfully thrown a charged card with precision and control.
"Not Gambit yet. But maybe I don't have to be."
The sunset painted the sky in shades that matched his energy signature as he walked home. Tomorrow night, he would attempt his first real heist—stealing an artifact that might hold the key to understanding his own presence here.
Somewhere across the city, hidden in shadows he couldn't see, something watched him with too many red eyes and smiled with anticipation.
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