The following is a work of fan-fiction. Remy and the Assassins' Guild are property of Marvel Comics Inc. This is not meant to supercede said copyrights.
This story is suitable for readers of all ages though there is some violence. Oh yeah, there's also a bowl of inedible soup. If you are offended by either, don't read any further.
As to the subject of e-mail, any and all e-mail is welcome (please try to keep the profanity down to a minimum). My ego prevents me from providing any response to "flames." So nyah!
I don't mind if you want to post this, but I would like to know beforehand, okay? Just don't change anything and/or shorten this incredibly long and annoying intro.
Oh, yeah. Any grammatical errors were either typos or intentional (ha, ha).
The Strength of Charity
Outside a church in downtown New Orleans, as the last few traces of twilight gave way to dawn, a young boy, no more than three or four, raised his head sleepily. Nestled in the relative safety and warmth between the park bench and a woman's body, he was barely able to see the police officer that was headed for the two of them.
He made a half-hearted attempt to shake her awake, ready for the officer to make them leave the bench and suggest that they "go on home." The policeman stopped in front of them, put a hand on the sleeping woman's shoulder, and gently shook her. Immediately, crystal blue eyes met the policeman's dark brown. The little boy had always thought the lady had the most beautiful eyes. He thought it was God's way of making up for what he hadn't given her anywhere else.
Their conversation was muffled and indistinct: kid . . . cold . . . shelter . . . sleep. Occasionally, he would feel her breast heave with coughing, obscuring whatever may have been said. Finally, she drug herself off him, giving hasty and embarrassed thanks to the officer as he handed her a few dollars. These she stuffed into the filmy smock she wore over a worn paisley dress of green and white. Drowsily, he felt himself being lifted into a sitting position. He watched as the woman rolled up the thin jacket he had been sleeping on and stuffed it into the bag she kept at arm's reach.
The officer walked away slowly, a couple of times glancing over his shoulder to make sure they were leaving. "Remy?" the lady asked, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair and rubbing his arms to warm him. It was only late October but already winter seemed uncomfortably near.
"Huh?" the little boy known as Remy asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand. He consented to remaining still as she snapped up the front of the blue windbreaker he wore over a patched plaid shirt and jeans.
"You hungry?" she asked. He nodded his head, stifling a protest as she wrapped a scarf around his neck. "Mebbe we can find some food at one o' de shelters t'day. That nice policeman tol' me that there's a soup kitchen down the street a piece." Her voice was soft, with less of an accent than most of the other people Remy knew. Remy's stomach rumbled, though whether from hunger or revulsion he didn't know. The soup kitchens were always noisy and crowded, and the soup was either too thin or too greasy. He didn't think soup could be much worse than what it was at the kitchens.
She helped him down from the park bench, stooping to hold his hand as they walked to find what meager breakfast they could.
********
Remy grunted as an overly eager black man jostled him to one side. Himself, he couldn't see why anyone would be in such a hurry to get a bowl of soup. It was, after all, only vegetable and salt pork. The woman glared at the man, pressing Remy against her and deliberately pacing herself so that, while it wasn't obvious that she was trying to delay the man, it didn't seem as if she were trying to make it convenient for him, either.
Remy brushed an errant strand of auburn hair out of his face, tucking it into one of the folds of the scarf tied around his head as best he could. In response, the woman tugged the front of the scarf lower over his face, further obscuring the appearance of his eyes. His tiny hands closed around the two metal spoons she handed him, and he clutched them to his chest, following obediently behind her swishing skirt. They sat at the far end of the hall, where dust-laden bars of light filtered through the barred windows. The sky was white with clouds, and it looked like rain.
Surrounded by the greedy slurps and large gulps of those men who were either too tired or too poor to comb what little hair they had left, Remy ate what he could force down of the soup. He was wrong. Soup could be worse. This time, it was greasy and thin.
By the time they had found an empty bus stop, Remy was already soaked through to his underwear. The woman cradled him in her arms, and he buried his head against her neck, listening to her singing, which was broken intermittently by harsh coughing.
Remy sighed into the crook of her neck as a large, faded blue and silver city bus drove past, not even slowing enough to avoid drenching the two vagabonds. The little boy was beginning to wish he had eaten more of the soup. Already, he felt his stomach tighten with need.
Anne Marie Richanceaux clutched the small boy to her breast, feeling his slight form beneath the thin clothing he wore. She was cold, her feet hurt, and she was hungry. Worst of all, she was sick. And her type of sickness wasn't one many of the "residentially challenged" overcame. At least it had stopped raining. She stifled a cough, not wanting to disturb Remy's uneasy sleep.
Methodically, as she had since the policeman had given it to her, she felt for the four dollars that were pressed so carefully at the bottom of her smock. Remy would need some new shoes, some that were waterproof, and maybe some socks. She thought she might have seen a jacket at a thrift store on Elysian Fields that was about her size. How she longed to buy herself a coat or perhaps even some gloves. But such items were costly, more than what meager amount she was able to panhandle. And Remy wasn't much help. Most people were, at the very least, less reluctant to give to a woman with a child living in the street. But that was when the child was "normal." Remy's red on black eyes were already indicative of mutancy.
The boy didn't understand why Anne always made him cover his eyes with a scarf when they ate at the kitchens or slept at the shelters. As much as she hated the fact that he was a mutant, she couldn't blame him. He was, after all, the only thing of any meaning in her life.
"Hey!" Anne's head jerked up immediately to see the group of boys that were crossing the street. She clutched Remy protectively, one hand tightening around the straps of her canvas duffel bag. As they neared, she could see that all four youths were wearing red bandanas that jutted proudly from various places on their persons. Her legs turned to water. These were hand Assassins and, though they were of the lowest rank in their guild, Anne would have no chance against them and theirs.
The oldest of the four spoke first, his voice's nervousness barely contained. "Whatcha got dere, ya' ol' hag?" he asked.
Anne said nothing, only held her charge tighter. With an indignant whimper, Remy betrayed his presence, one small hand reaching up to clutch at the collar of her dress. The Assassins' leader grinned, stepping forward anxiously.
"You let me an' mine alone, Assassin!" Anne said angrily, trying to keep her voice from trembling as badly as her body.
"For sure," one of the others said, his blonde hair falling in a cascade of gold down his back, "Ev'rybody know de Assassins don' never bother *ladies.*" The comment was meant as an insult, and Anne stiffened, being careful not to let her fear show. Rising slowly, Anne lifted her bag and the child from the sheltered bench. She moved to pass the group and one of the Assassins moved to block her. She turned the other way and found it barred as well. She felt tears well up in her eyes and bit back a sob. She couldn't let it end like this. There was no one else to take care of Remy. Charity was paltry if not nonexistent in New Orleans. Even more so for mutants. If something happened to her, he would surely die.
"Please . . . " she begged, her blue eyes boring through the leader's. The young man made no move at first, then slowly, deliberately shuffled to the side. Anne saw no benevolent force behind his eyes, and she had to force herself not to run from the place. Instead, she walked away as calmly as she could, ignoring Remy's attempts to get a look at the people with whom she had been talking.
Grabbing her shoulder, Remy pulled himself up, peering over Anne's shoulder to see the four boys standing behind them, their arms crossed and their legs slightly apart. What appeared to be feigned interest and disgust at first turned to horror and shock as the Assassins saw Remy's eyes.
"Mutant . . . " one of the boys said.
"MUTIE!!!" his blonde-haired companion shouted. All at once, the four ran after them. Anne tried to escape them, but to no avail. They were on her in a minute, punching and kicking. Just when she thought the pain couldn't get any worse, one of them brought out a switchblade, slashing her face and chest. Remy was sobbing beneath her, protected by her broken and battered body.
He whimpered, clutching at her blood-streaked hair. It was the last thing she heard.
Remy woke up covered by something heavy and moist. His head hurt. Pushing upward with his scraped and bleeding hands, he slid out from under the mass. "Mere?" he asked, his voice no more than a whisper. Her face was slashed, blood running from several deep gashes in her cheek and the side of her neck. Her clothes were torn, her skin turning purple from bruises. Her chest rose and fell weakly, her breath catching in the back of her throat. He watched in horror as a trail of liquid crimson slid down from the side of her mouth to join the gradually spreading pool beneath her.
Her eyes fluttered open to stare blankly at the gray sky. Remy grabbed her hand weakly, heedless of her broken wrist. Anne Marie Richanceaux felt herself slipping away. Away from the endless and agonizing pain of internal bleeding, fractured bones, and shredded tissue. Away from the hunger that was constant reminder of her social ostracization. Away from the one thing she loved. Remy. Her son.
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