Player Name: The New Yorker
Character Name: Remy Lebeau
Moral Alignment: Walking the Line
Affiliation: The Thieves Guild, CIA, NSA
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 preform 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 the 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 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, he was an 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 he was picking up a paper and 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 le diable blanc to show his face, or his eyes in Remy’s case. The prophesy foretold of a young thief with red eyes 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 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 lip 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 ripe 19 year old as far as Fence could see, 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 then getting involved, 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, 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 on attacks on whole communities of mutants. Once he heard about that he called Fence immediately, they’d need a plan to make Remy disappear.
- Psychokinetic manipulation of energy. Remy is capable of changing items on a molecular level, forcing them to explode. Currently his powers are reliant upon Remy touching things. Remy isn’t quite sure what the limits of his powers are concerning size, he’ll have to keep practicing.
- Heightened athletic skill. Remy has learned how to effect his own kinetic energy in a way, 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…
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 into the hallway. They shot at him for a few moments before he was out of sight, and they 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 and 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, stunning the young brunette and waking her from her dream. By the time the guards had come around to where the receptionist was Remy had already jumped from a window onto a nearby rooftop.
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.”
“Answer me, damnit!”
“Jesus, calm down, Remy. Drink some of your fucking coffee and give me a second.”
“I would be calm if you haven’t been treating me like a goddamn 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.
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.”
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