1964-06-03 - Same part of the country, but different worlds
Summary: Remy and Rogue go out for dancing and talk about the war. They have differing opinions.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
remy-lebeau rogue 


.~{:--------------:}~.

*

The number of adults in the Institute, or those legally permitted to drink, numbers somewhere around seven. Kick Erik, Chuck, and Logan off the list, it diminishes commensurately. While the other students worried about the denouement of their teenaged years and typical teenaged cares do utterly teenaged things, Scarlett refuses to be hidebound within unwanted rules and restrictions. There's a reason the Winter Soldier nicknamed her Rogue, once.

"Come on, let's go do something other than hurl rocks at targets," she tells the first person she spots. Given it's neither Jean, Gabriel or Pietro, among other sundry mutants, Remy will be all but dragged out of the building by a prospect of wine, women, and song. At least the latter two. The first poison is his own preference, and the choice of venue — Cafe au Go Go — hasn't the option of alcohol thanks to the elusive license denied to the owners. But the club, for all it's only a bold three months old, has a cabaret license and better yet, impossibly good music.

Worry about the booze later. Plenty of places offer that.

The night's headliners qualify as psychedelic folk rock, an emerging fusion that may work, and maybe it won't. An ensemble at the moment involves crooning singers in the vein of the Flying Burrito Brothers or Strawberry Alarm Clock or the Shadows of Knight. Names not actually chosen for being hungry, honest, but instead the furious vivacity of creativity unleashed through the different instruments and beats than any radio would carry.

Into the breach goes the redhead in her equally psychedelic minidress, a fusion of mandarin orange, deepest gold, and swirls of sunset pink. Hard to miss where Scarlett is, on part of that, and the fact the dozens of metal beads in her hair throw back the very little light available.

*

Had he not advocated with Jess for quite some time for her to get straight and sober up? The idea of the wine is what gets him. He hasn't been on a bender in quite some time and finally moving the remaining bits of his stuff out of her apartment and splitting the proceeds between Ava's place, which he still pays for, and the Xavier Institute, which he now calls home, has been a task and a half. The first rule of a crook is not to put all your eggs in one basket and he learned the hard way. He really wants a drink.

So he's a bit forlorn when there's going to be none of that at this establishment. Instead, at the bar, he orders a seltzer water with a dash of orange and leans against the service area in order to light a cigarette and watches Scarlett. He's thankful to her—the woman saved his life. Yet, as far as all of the people he's gotten to know since coming to the mansion, she's the one he knows the least. A sip from the soda, a drag from the cigarette, and blue smoke soon begins to cloud between Remy's head and the ceiling.

*

The redhead doesn't have a drinking problem. Near to impossible; toxins and poisons cannot get a hold on her morphic DNA, or anywhere around her body, so the best Scarlett expects is a buzz. Learn the hard way on that, too, when she drinks just about anyone under the table, a rumour not likely well-enough known in the Institute to be a threat yet for Remy. But soon. If he has a need to sink into alcoholic oblivion, she'll be the psychopomp to walk him into that transitory realm.

It could be worse. The drink quality is halfway good. This scene is a hard one for her, and accounts for the jacket, the leggings, the thin gloves. But thrown into the midst of it, the young woman raises her hands over her head and dances with the sinuous grace of an Indian classical devi expert and a wild child rooted to the beat of a different muse than the one playing right now up there. On the other hand, she makes enough room for anyone else to fall into her orbits.

Music. Music for the masses, the prayers of the modern age:
"I've made mistakes,
But I'm not haunted
Because your faith gives me the strength
Strength I've got to find
I do my best, baby."

The riff rises in a wail of the guitars winding around an electric sitar of all things, and the crowd moves in time, more or less. Welcome to the future, LeBeau.

*

Remy's not one for dancing and so he takes a seat not far from the floor, bringing his orange concoction with him and leans back in one of those small chairs whose metal backings come up and around into a design. One of those small chairs with the cushions not more than an inch thick. His leg comes up over the other as he leans back and watches the dance floor.

The psychedelic scene is new to himhe felt very comfortable growing up in times of greasers and mods. Given his favor of the color purplein his armor anyways—one might think he had more of a background in it. Still, the music is not bad for what it is. It's scattered and chaotic and he can appreciate that, in its similarity to jazz.

*

Wild manifestos come forth from guitars and clashing percussion, the singer's voice a sharp tenor clashing and blending in the moody depths of a dark smoky club. Cafe au Go Go has no pretensions to be other than what it is. Let the music gain its worshippers, and those who shepherd in the new era be met by thrilled, willing hands. The redhead's engagement at the heart of that energy web is no mistake, for the soul-thief drinks in everything by proximity even if she absolutely cannot, must not, should not touch. Their joy is her joy. Their delight is her delight. Their pain and their sweat and their wonder, their confusion and their wraithlike movements with lighters in the air or cigarettes lifted from mouth to fingers all enough to give her reason to lose herself for a few seconds. However one reaches oblivion, may the path be fair.

The quieting of her mind follows as the number flips over, and precious silence meets the last clamouring hum of the sitar strings. One of the performers on stage flops back against the brick pillar, and someone changes over an acoustic guitar. It's as good a time as any to thread her way back through the wearied bodies and eager audience, amped up on amphetamines in some places, and in others, just good old fashioned excitement.

"I wasn't sure what they would have on offering tonight," she admits, zeroing in on Remy and flitting his way. In those go go boots, it's easy as day to spot her as it is him. "Penny for your thoughts, or will I be charged closer to a pound sterling?"

*

"Be luckeh if I dun stole three from ya already," Remy says as he looks up to her with a devilish grin. "Jus' be tinkin bout lotta differin tings goin' on. Been a crazy six months, for me, non? Dat bein' said, been pretty happy with de Institute. Nevah got de chance t'thank ya bout bringin' me dere and savin ole Remy's life."

He drains the rest of his drink and looks back up to hers. "Din know you was a dancer, chere. Dun know much bout you neither. How you get wrapped up in Westchestah, anyhow?"

*

"That requires a place for three pounds, or three pennies, and I am fairly sure such is lacking." Sartorial graces Scarlett's mod wear has much, but pockets, it does not. Some factors simply cannot be helped, alas. She lingers near the seat without propping herself on it, or worse, dropping onto the questionably sticky floor in a lotus position to consult with the Remy oracle. "Crazy? Oui, understandably so. The world flipped on its axis about a year ago and still we find our footing on a different spin." A faint shadow trails over luminously green eyes, their shade too surreal to belong to any natural human. His betray him far more than Scarlett's ever will, but those traceries of radiance play idly over her irises. "Have you gained any sort of stability, all things said and done? I regret not to provide more assistance than I did already, given you had a rougher landing than some."

Fate treats its prodigal daughter hard, at times. Her mouth softens slightly, and then she breathes out a low breath that disrupts the upward puddling dance of smoke. "You and I both." A mutual joke, there, about knowing her. "Ah, what mystery would I maintain in tarnishing the allure of a good story? I felt the calling of destiny and followed the thread, bloody-handed and wild-eyed, as we all do, until discovering someone who could set me to true. Or at least what seems to be straight. Mine has never been an easy path. Yours, I think, is a fair bit harder. That policeman."

*

"Be sure dat special someone could find a place," Remy says with a sinister chuckle. The thought of a year ago wipes his smile from his face, though. Has it been that long? Has it gone that quick? So much has happened since he first joined the Brotherhood a year ago.

Yes. That Policeman. But there were many "That Policemans" in recent memory. The one he helped torture or the one who tortured him. "Dat police man got what he deservin', chere," he says quietly. It's not clear which one he means, because it could end up meaning either.

*

"You think you can secret away three pounds sterling without burying coins in my hemlines, and you have yourself whatever coinage you can grasp," Scarlett replies, a tincture of laughter chasing every word though her response will cool in the bedimmed memory of a barn ill-lit by the day, and the screams of torture. Instinctively her gaze goes to Remy's hands, measuring any lasting damage done, or not. "I am sorry, though. For you deserved better than I offered when you came through, and a remotely familiar face did not greet you. For all the Institute is a fine place…"

She trails off on that note, the vibration humming against her throat. The pursuit of reckless oblivion demands more than fair response. "You deserved better. And yet do. Thus, here we are."

*

Remy snickers, "You just ain't tinkin' creatively." He leaves it at that. His hand seems to be healing decently enough. There are little nubs where the nails are growing back as well as can be expected. It definitely looks a lot better than it did on that fateful day. "Y'aint got nuthin' to be sorry for, chere. Movin' t'Westchestah was a good idea." At the very least it allowed him to live in less fear of the police busting down his door, wherever his door happened to be at the time.

"Well," he says with a laugh, "I'm sure dere be plenty a-folks who be tinkin ole Remy got exactly what he deserve. No mo, no less."

*

The glimmering of lights around the stage marks out a row or three of lighters. Off with one psychedelic group and on with another, slightly more toned to folk rock. Their clarion call is a shimmering use of cymbals, counterpoint to the emotive wail of the instruments at calculated odds with one another.

Her head shakes when he suggests he got what he deserved. "They who think such have cold hearts and small spirits," says Scarlett. Beads throw spectral glints of light in the dim interior, and she breathes in the smoke rather fearlessly. "Let me have the grace for recognizing the error in the past, making amends for it now. You join a rather select group, those capable of rising from our bruised pasts, and making something of it." Her tone brightens a touch, even as it skims the black silk range her soprano allows; compared to some, it's fairly high and inflected by the arch English overtones of Savannah and distant Kent, the Garden of England. "What then do you plan to do, given your freedoms?"

*

"T'help," Remy says simply. "In some otha way den beatin' up police." He sighs, reaching for another cigaratte. "Still fightin' de war, chere. Same philosophy. Different team and different rules. But still fightin dat war."

Remy reaches his hand up to shag down a wait staff and orders another drink, same as the the first. "And whatevah she be wantin, too."

*

"Water," explains the young woman simply to the server. Boring, yes. Though anything she might want will be treated simply the same by her system, so might as well keep it simple. "Slice of lemon or orange as you have it, thank you."

Remy's statements bring a look, long and mindful, to the fey oval of her face, discreetly shifting her expression into a sharpened regard of curiosity and measured attention. "That war. Which? Tell me, for I would know. Is it possible to fight without fighting? For the violence seems to me just cause for enemies to strike back at us, and there must be times when we withhold our hand. Not wholly subscribing to the concept of Gandhi, but still."

*

Susie arrives from Out <o>.

*

Susie has arrived.

*

"Dey be killin' us hand over fist. In New York. In New Orleans, and now in New Mexico. I realize dat a lot of folks be likin' Gandhi. Lot of folks be likin' what dat King fella doin. Ah ain't interested in all dat philosophy, chere. Where ah come from, you get punched in de mouth, you punch back. Dey cut your arm off, you cut off two of dem. And if dey kill your brotha, it's war."

*

Susie heads to Out <o>.

*

Susie has left.

*

The Cafe au Go Go hasn't been open but three months, tops, and it already attracts a cult following of regulars. Not much in the way of seating exists, confined to the back corners of the space. People push in, probably far exceeding the fire marshal's preferences, listening to a band blending psychedelic music — or what they'll call that, in another year — with folk-rock, attaining something mournful and holy and viciously poignant. Lighters in the air are the primary source at hand. The spotlight leaves the four piece band sweating and bright-eyed with their convictions.

Through the screen of swaying bodies and nodding petitioners to the mod hymnal, one might spot a pair. He is seated, she stands. Both hold drinks, albeit no alcohol; the place doesn't have the license to serve such libations. Remy's Cajun voice may not travel far, and the more melodious soprano weaving around it from the redhead proves even less so.

"Albuquerque. They die there. They die in the streets of Johannesburg, Calcutta, Jakarta. They run and take cover in Copenhagen as much as Warsaw, and we wage a revolution in the streets of Biloxi or Louisville. What does it amount to?" asks the girl, soft-spoken, her questions not accusatory. Oh, if this is a fencing match, her first foray after Remy's flourish is measuring the reach of his thoughts against her own experience. Experience as the flower girl of riots, the diplomat in an army. "It's a conversation that rarely gets spoken of. Mr. King has fine ideas, and I regard the need for a gun before words unfortunate. Mind, when an alien fell out of the sky onto me, the validity of a dual-pronged approach grew rather more apparent."

*

"What does it amount to?" Remy asks as he sits forward, with an incredulous look on his face. "Are you serious?" He regains his composure through bringing the cigarette up to his lips, but his black and red eyes peer at her. Leaning back in his seat, he exhales and flicks some ash away from his cigarette. "Dat de million dolla question."

*

The Soul-Thief meets his eyes. They may be utterly damning to some, but hers is a distant fear at best staring into them. The danger are the personae embedded in her psyche choosing to reveal themselves at any given time, all told. "Yes. Is it worth abandoning an attempt to work peacefully for integration and turn to violence and strength of arms to sue for a detente, a cessation of hostilities? For it is a popular notion that a show of force would earn respect, or at least force those who dislike us to back off. Take a tiger by the toe, as it were." Her expression remains thoughtful, lines drawn faintly between her brows. "An eye for an eye, otherwise. You were raised to that, you said. Does it work? Because I have not determined what is more effective, more likely to aid us in the long run. Our own people with different coloured skin still struggle to receive the designation human 'like the rest of us.' Now there are aliens, there are hybrids, mutagens and metathings, which further dilute the meaning of 'human' or completely distills it for some. Nasty churches, for example, that praise only the purist of origins as worthy of redemption or respect. It's another brand of hate. Yet what does one do to defuse that? Because, yes, we are in a war. A struggle. A revolution of some kind. And I have no answers, only those wise enough to proffer some understanding and illumination I lack."

*

"Dat's some elitist bullshit if I eva heard it, chere," Remy says with a smile. He takes a long sip from his drink. "Ah be certain dat sort of re-tor-ick mus' work real well in offices, an' tink tanks, and at Universities. But dat's all it is. It's jus' talk. Ah'd like t'hope you don't have de knowledge of people who you love dat already died in dis. Ah hope y'ain't had t'go through dat. But thru all dem fancy words, if you're answer still "wait and see" dat shit ain't good enough for me. Waitin' sound real good until it's yo poppa. Or yo' daughta."

*

"On the contrary, I do." Her smile is no less glassy and pristine, but the shadows are not hard to find. "Far too much of it. And what if I let go? Not all of us are made from a soft, fine clay with gifts that bring joy and delight to children's faces. Some of us have come from the broken soil, all harsh edges and cutting. That is what I fear, how they can possibly be balanced."

*

Remy sets his glass back at the table. What she says, oddly, seems to put him at more unease. Almost any topic is something he doesn't really care much about. This is about the only thing that can get him riled up, and she's now dug her nails under his skin, whether she meant to or not. "If you have lost people you love and you still want to sit back, dat worry ole Remy even more."

*

"I don't want to sit back." Scarlett shakes her head, staring off at the stage and those assembled on it. Each and every one possibly a source of a riot, the spark to the tinder. All of them in need of shelter against the unknown. "Sometimes, there is the hope of a compromise, a third way between violence or hiding. That's what I spoke of, though in honesty, I commit myself about as well as a cat trying to fry a fish. Forget I've spoken of anything." Her smile is lost, the empty glitter of her gaze fixed into places. For what is the point at all?

*

"Fo-gotten," Remy replies with a wave of his hand. "One ting fo sho, tho, the Professah sure have a lot of differin' ideas under his roof. What's your read on 'im, anyhow? Seem like a pretty good dude, doin' all dis for othas. Ain't a lotta men like dat in dis world, I tink."

*

"Idealist tempered by a better understanding of the world than meets the eye. Better man than I would ever be, in similar shoes. What he seeks to achieve is likely plain, a situation where we can commingle in society and no one thinks it the wiser," Scarlett replies. It's an easier point of conversation than the other path beaten into vaporised blood and horseflesh.

*

"Well, an' he cook a mighty fine hamburga to boot," Remy adds with a chuckle. "Seem like a pretty good guy to me. What about dat Summers? Dun think the preppy think too kindly for ole Remy."

*

A shake of her head follows. "We've barely met. I know Alex better than Scott, though terribly…" Scarlett shapes an hourglass with her hands, and the traces of amusement linger yet in those darkly luminous eyes, stifled after a time. They can only be quenched so long, all said and done, even if her mood lies somewhere in the nadir of being. "Different. I am a bohemian, he is most definitely square by all definitions. Pity he thinks as he does, but experience may temper that. If not, lob a boot at him."

*

"Well, ah don't know how de boy feel, fo sho. Just a feelin'. Figure if ahmma gunna fight on his side, better find a way ta make it work out in some way." Remy raises an eyebrow, "Gimme dat definition of Bohemian, chere. Thought dat was a place in Germany."

*

"Bohemienne. Romantic. Dreamer, unconventional, nonconformist, free spirited sort with a desire to experience all life has to offer." Scarlett gestures to the musicians. "We treasure creative impulses and the occasional bit of running against the grain, but all of it is to celebrate being alive, living wholly and freely, without restraint in a sense. I'm an artist given all the wrong gifts."

*

"Sound like a fun way to live, all tings considered. Jus' wish dere was a better world to experience all dat life has to offer." He chuckles, "Do appreciate runnin' 'gainst de grain, tho." He spies at his watch. "Tink ahm gun be headed back, here. You wanna ride back to de mansion or you prefer to be flyin?"

*

"I'm going to dance until the dawn arrives, and failing that, praise the sun for its arrival and crash into my garden to sleep." Yep, flower child, hinting at their onset months before anyone is ever going to point at a girl and say 'Hippie!' Scarlett nods. "Thank you for the offer, though. And if you ever need a quick escape or a lift, you know how to find me."

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