#1 - Bet on Gold
"Tarnish, Part One"

By Thomas Deja

He walked through the double doors carrying a steel briefcase, ignored the casino greeter, declined the server's offer of a free drink. He adjusted the cuffs on his tuxedo, steadied his sunglasses. He afforded himself a quick glance to confirm that his hair was behaving itself. Usually falling in unruly spikes, he had managed to pomade it down and slick it back so that it looked like the kind of hairstyle worn by a man of wealth and taste. He studied the cut on the tuxedo's sleeves; they were draped in such a way that it hid the telescoping bo staff strapped to his right forearm. Strapped to his left was a deck of Bicycle playing cards.

He did not expect to need these items, but he couldn't leave them home. It would be like leaving both his legs back in the hotel room.

He strolled past the banks of slot machines and down into the pit. Eyes that glowed faintly red scanned the floor behind his sunglasses. He took a quick assessment of the general landscape and found that it conformed to the maps he studied three hours previously. His attention shifted onto one of the baccarat tables.

The mark was there, sitting across from the attractive redhead who was dealing. The man had four support personnel--a bald man with a goatee to his right, and three large men of varying ethnicities and muscle tones north, south and east of him. Looking at the goons' stances and the drape of their jackets indicated that they were carrying shoulder holsters and pistols.

But the thing he was most concerned with was not the mark or his support personnel; it was the steel briefcase that was placed on the floor between the bald man and the mark. It was identical to the one he himself was carrying-something that had required him to search through several stores in Vegas to find just the right one.

"Piece o' cake," he said to himself, the twang of his Cajun accent giving the words a languid twist. He removed a pair of white opera gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. They were of finely manufactured Irish linen, and had the pinkie of each shorn away. He had made the alterations himself in the hotel room an hour before.

It would've been easier to wait until the mark had retired for the night, but the fun and the challenge would have been gone. Besides, the client had specifically asked for a demonstration that proved he was worth the price he asked for.

And what better way for a thief to prove his worth but an act of thievery in broad daylight-or whatever passed for daylight in Las Vegas anyway.

He strolled toward the table, his right hand gripping the briefcase. The contents had to be estimated, based on reports he had received concerning the contents of the mark's case. He led with his left, distracting attention from what he carried.

When he reached the baccarat table, he tripped. He wondered what his former allies in Xavier's organization would have made of him playing the role of the buffoon when they knew the kind of laugh-in-the-face-of-injury stunts he was capable of. He placed his briefcase next to the mark's.

Yes, it was on the surface an amateur's ploy. But the client wanted to see his abilities in full, and sometimes the best way to do that was to play the amateur.

The mark was suitably upset, not the least because his actions had caused the man to spill a drink all over his suit. He began to rise, sputtering, "What the Hell?"

He made a big deal out of straightening the mark's lapels, dusting him off. "Ah'm sorry, suh, so sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going and--"

"Carlos! Demetrius! Get the clown off of me!" the mark called.

He smiled. "No need for that, sir. I'll just remove myself."

He reached down to pick up the mark's case. He took a few steps back, smiling, one hand raised in placation. Two of the large men that attended to the mark--evidentially Carlos and Demetrius--stepped forward. They didn't reach for their guns, but he knew they could correct that at any second.

"Jerk!" the mark shouted at him. He didn't mind; he'd been called worse by worse people.

And then the bald guy had to go and ruin it.

"Not a jerk," the bald guy said in very even, plumy tones. He turned to face him, beady eyes studying him with a detached interest. "Thief."

Now that he had a closer look at him, he almost kicked himself for not recognizing the bald man. After all those years of going through Xavier's files, he should have recognized Mentallo, a slightly above average telepath who frequently served as a HYDRA section chief. Obviously, Mentallo had picked up his surface thoughts, which were exposed because he wasn't expecting mutant intervention in the caper.

There would be enough time for kicking himself later, he decided. Now was the time for action.

He spun and tossed the briefcase like a shot put, aiming high and getting it on top of one of the slot machines. Still spinning, he pulled his staff free and let it drop into his right hand. A flick of the wrist and the staff telescoped to its full length. With a grin, he fell into a crouch, the staff held behind him. Ahead of him, the three hired guns ran towards him, pulling their pistols.

"Alright, hommes," he said with a laugh. "Let's you and Gambit dance."

The nearest of the trio came at him, fierceness flashing in his eyes. Gambit twirled into a standing position, his staff extended so that it tripped the man up. He fell face first and skidded across the casino floor, scattering nearby patrons. Gambit leapt high into the air as the second bodyguard came in low in an attempt to tackle him. When the Cajun's feet touched the ground, he brought the staff down hard on the man's skull, introducing him to unconsciousness.

Gambit flexed his wrist as he turned to face the third man. A card slid into his hand. He touched it with his exposed finger, and a rose-colored energy began spreading along its surface. The third man had taken aim with his pistol and was shouting about how the 'southern weasel' was a dead man for taking the briefcase. Gambit tossed the card before the gun man could fire, and his gun blew apart in his hand-taking his hand with it.

Not missing a beat and vaguely aware of the way the first gun man was rising to his feet, Gambit braced his staff against the foot of the nearest bank of slot machines. He vaulted up and onto the top of the machines and ran, crouching down to evade the bullets whizzing his way. He dove for the briefcase, clutching it to his breast with one hand. He slapped his free hand against the machine's surface, charging it slightly. He then rolled over to the next machine and repeated the action.

Behind him, the gunmen were gaining, running alongside the machines Gambit was on top of. The gunfire had served to scatter the customers. This was good, as confusion was always the thief's friend.

Gambit kept low, providing his pursuers with as small a target as possible. He gained speed as he got used to the slot machines' slick surface. One of the men, a swarthy monster of a man with a tightly curled black-as-pitch coiffure and a complexion that looked like the top layer of skin had been sandblasted, could hear the Cajun talking to himself.

It took him a second to realize what the Cajun was doing.

It took him another second to ask his partner, "Why's that buttcracker counting backwards."

And it took the slot machines an additional second to start exploding.

One right after another, the machines began flying apart, expelling coins like shrapnel. The gunmen tried to stave off the worse by putting up their arms, but in a matter of moments they were pummeled into unconsciousness by quarters and silver dollars.

Gambit grinned. "C'est la vie," he muttered and leapt off the slot machines. He reached out and grabbed hold of the rim of one of the chandeliers that decorated the gaming room ceiling. Allowing the momentum of his leap to move himself across the room, the thief propelled himself over the craps tables directly in front of the slots. For a moment he seemed suspended in midair before tumbling end over end, scattering cards that pulsed a faint red at the foot of a number of tables and pieces of equipment. He landed on his feet, right next to a roulette table that had been abandoned in the confusion.

He took a moment to look at the chaos he had fostered. Now that the shooting and explosions had stopped, a throng of casino guests now surrounded the insensate goons, picking up the silver dollars Gambit had liberated. He saw more of the mark's employees coming toward him, Mentallo taking up the rear, and he smiled.

"Tre, Deux," he muttered to himself and took off. With one hand he palmed a number of chips, then grabbed a drink off a hostess' tray, downing it in one gulp.

"Get down, you idiots!" Mentallo shrieked. "He's rigged the-"

Once more, explosions of kinetic energy racked the gaming floor. This time, the damage was done to gaming tables, which suddenly crashed to the floor, scattering ball bearings, dice and other accouterments of the trade onto the game room floor. One card collapsed the device that held the Wheel of Fortune in place, prompting the enormous disc to rumble towards the hapless bodyguards.

Gambit grinned and continued running, the casino chips still in his free hand. He passed the opened double doors and flung the plastic discs at the hinges and the ceiling, slamming the doors shut and providing a rain of debris to hinder attempts to open them. He transferred the case to his other hand and flicked the bo staff, a button depressed on its side causing the weapon to telescope back into itself.

The casino greeter, a former welterweight champion who had been hit in the head one too many times, tried to intercept him. The man had his fists up in a classic boxing stance.

"You're not gettin' outta here!" he warned.

Gambit grinned and swung at him with the case. The greeter collapsed like a sack of fertilizer.

"The nice t'ing about preparation, hommes," the Cajun said as he adjusted his jacket, "is you learn t'ings like who has a glass jaw, no?"

He returned the collapsed staff to its sheath on his right arm. He flexed his left hand, causing a card to fall into his hand.

The Ace of Spaces.

He tossed it into the wreckage that was once the doors leading onto the gaming floor. "The name is Gambit," he called out with a laugh. "You give my regards to your bosses."

With that, he ran past the female valet to his car and drove off. But not without kissing the valet and slipping her his phone number first.

Remy, on his drive over to the Golden Nugget, decided he didn't like this Las Vegas much.

This conclusion seemed paradoxical to him, considering that Las Vegas was nothing if it wasn't a giant monument to his beloved music of chance. Here in the numerous casinos, people worshiped the very thing he valued more than anything. But in the years that he'd been away, tied up in the X-Men and Xavier's dream, someone had come and replaced the orchestra playing said music with a garish wedding band. In this Las Vegas, the Vegas that was proud to boast of being 'family friendly,' he felt more than a little out of place.

Remy had heard from his ex-wife Bella Donna that it appeared Vegas was reverting back to its old ways; the United Guilds had been getting requests for assassins to help the mobs regain their foothold in the city they built. To Remy, it could not happen any quicker.

He slid out of the car and tossed the valet his keys wrapped in a fifty dollar bill before heading into the hotel. He didn't acknowledge the greeter or the concierge or the bell-hop, choosing to head directly for the bank of elevators on the far end of the lobby. He passed by the twelve standard cars to press a single button on an unassuming elevator in a little cubby hole off to the side. This led directly to the penthouse floor, and his appointment.

As the elevator rose, Remy amused himself with the tourist brochure he had lifted off a chubby man yelling at his wife in front of the main desk. He made note that Tom Jones was playing a show at the Dunes late that night; he might just call Belle or Sek and see if they could fly in....

There was a ding, and the door slid open with a whisper. He smiled as he beheld the sight that greeted him.

The woman who stood in front of him was short, maybe 5'3" if that, but had the kind of curves that men broke their necks to get a second look at. She was dressed in a short, gauzy shift of Grecian design that managed to make her already indecent body look positively obscene in its promise. Hair the color of captured morning sunlight--gold with just a hint of red--was piled high on an elfin face. "Did you get it?"

Remy grinned and tossed the case to her. She struggled with it briefly before tucking it under one arm. "He in that conversation pit, Fil?"

She nodded. "He's been waiting for you."

Fil led Remy past the foyer and the living room of the penthouse suite to a sunken area just beyond the double doors. Remy waited a moment, taking in the beauty of the girl's sway, before following her lead.

The area was probably once part of the suite's bedroom, but renovation made it something else entirely. The room was circular in shape with a sunken floor. The walls displayed ionic columns at even intervals, each one topped with a different bust of a different Greek hero or heroine. To the right was an oversized throne, upon which sat the owner of the penthouse--the client. Like his lackey, he wore a Grecian robe of white. Of course, Remy reasoned, it was not necessary for the penthouse's inhabitant to dress flashily due to his condition.

Namely, that he was apparently made of solid gold.

The golden man stood up from his throne and studied Remy. "I have heard word of your venture into the outside world, sirrah. You do not do things quietly, do you?"

Remy slid into a nearby chair and stretched out, hands behind his head. "You didn't want quiet, no?"

The man's metallic lips twisted into a grin. "No, I did not. And I must say that the recommendation to contact the United Guilds has turned out to be a wise one. Filligree, the case."

"Certainly, Mr. Midas." The blonde stepped forward with the case in hand. She undid the locks and opened it for the golden man to examine. Inside were a number of crystal chips that seemed to shine from within with an ever-changing light.

"You approve, homme?"

"I approve, sirrah," the golden man said (perhaps a bit more exultant than Remy would have expected). "I have heard much of the Judas Crystals, but this...I never imagined them to be this beautiful."

"Gambit, he has an eye for beauty," the Cajun said, his gaze settling on the young lady Midas dubbed 'Filligree.' The woman blushed and graced him with a winsome smile.

"Now, of course...to test the validity of the claims made as to the Crystals ' potency."

Midas paused and took a deep breath before scooping up some of the chips. Gambit watched as the man stared at his fist with an expectation one would expect from an impending father.

Remy found out why Midas was so expectant a moment later. The shifting colored lights slowly seeped out between the fingers of the golden man, throwing shadows on himself and Filligree. Slowly, the energy's intensity changed, and Midas' fingertips began to lose their shine. Filligree began to laugh nervously, but Midas continued to watch as the effect spread down his fingers, golden metallic flesh becoming soft, pale....

In the space of two minutes, the golden man called Midas was looking at his normal, flesh-and-blood hand.

He gave forth a cry of excitement. "It works! It bloody well works!"

"That is all to the good," Gambit said. "But why do you keep me here?"

Reluctantly, the golden man returned the crystals to the case. Filligree snapped the case shut and retreated to store it elsewhere. Midas sat back down on his throne. Reaching for a carafe of wine and pouring out a goblet, he asked, "Are you familiar with the history of the Judas Crystals?"

"Non," Remy replied. "But Gambit think you are about to tell him."

The golden man chuckled. Remy noticed that Midas' transformed was very slowly reverting back to its original metal sheen. "The Judas Crystals are apparently the after-effect of an accidental intermingling of a corrupted Super-Soldier serum and a similarly corrupter version of the Sallis Bio-Restorative Formula.* This accident resulted in a crystal formation roughly the size of two men somewhere in the Florida Everglades. Reports have stated that contact with the Crystals can reverse the effects of mutagens on human chromosomes...and as we've seen now, these reports are true. Further reports speculate a large enough dose of the energies given off by the Crystals will make the reversion permanent."

*--a more or less accurate interpretation of what happened at the end of MARVEL TWO-IN-ONE #43--even if the 'catalyst' was Victorius and Jude the Entropic Man.

"The original accident site was claimed by AIM," Midas continued, "and they have a very tight grip on the area. I would like to obtain the entire store of Judas Crystals with an eye toward using them on myself."

"Wouldn't that be counter-productive? Given your obsessions, it would seem you would like being golden." Filligree came up on Gambit's right and offered him some of the wine Midas was partaking of. Remy smiled and shook his head.

"You may not know it by looking at me, sirrah," Midas said before taking a long draw of his wine, "but I did enjoy the finer things in life in excess. My present condition has...muted the sensations from which most of that pleasure came. I miss the way my clothing feels against my skin, the way mutton tastes in my mouth, the aroma of a woman fresh out of the shower..."

"So you want Gambit to steal your sparkly thing so you can be a man again." The Cajun laughed. "He can understand that urge."

"So do we have a deal, sirrah?"

Gambit was quiet for a long time. He removed the remnants of the pack of cards from his sleeve and started shuffling. "You not welch the Guilds? Just because I live offsite don't mean the Viceroy won't tell me if-"

Midas looked shocked. "Do not worry about your Guild not being recompensed. Before I became what I am, I was quite wealthy.* Money is no object."

*--as was seen in a number of issues of IRON MAN, most memorably issues #103-106.

The Cajun smirked. "What makes you think it just about money?"

It was Midas' turn to fall silent. He adjusted himself in his throne and asked, "And what other kind of payment would you accept?"

"You have to wait until you have your sparkly to find out," Gambit replied with an enigmatic grin.

Midas was quiet for a moment before he broke out in gales of laughter. "Oh, I think I will enjoy dealing with you, thief?"

Remy looked briefly toward Filligree. "One hopes you not the only one."

Midas sat back. He motioned to his assistant. "I will have Filligree join you on the trip to aid you in making the mission a smooth one."

Filligree nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll go pack."

"I know how you types work. I know it foolish to ask for regular reports. All I ask for, sirrah," the golden man said, "is results."

Remy rose. "That, homme, I will guarantee."

In a secret room in a secret place inside a casino long thought abandoned, two men stood before their superiors. One of the men, the bald one on the right, could read the thoughts going through the impossibly beautiful twins glaring at them, and he wished he couldn't.

"So the thief got away?" the female twin, her long blonde hair done in a Veronica Lake 'do, asked. Her Prussian accent made her request sound harsh.

The man on the left, whose muscles were going to paunch and whose mind was dull from lack of use, sputtered. "He..he was too fast-he moved like a demon and before we could-"

"He was one of Xavier's," the bald one said simply.

"Xavier's?" the male twin said. "Now that is interesting."

"You don't suppose-" asked the female.

"Certainly not. Everyone seems to have forgotten about the Judas Crystals except for those Elitists at AIM. And if our thief was sent by Xavier, Mentallo would have picked it up," the male replied.

Mentallo acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod.

The man on the left seemed to visibly sweat. "I can certainly head up an expedition to get more-"

The male took the female's hand. "No," the male said, "I do not think that would be necessary."

A harsh white glow seeped from the twins' conjoined hands. The man on the left started backing away. "Please...Herr Strucker I-"

There was a high-pitched whine, and a beam of coruscating energy shot from the twins' hands. The beam enveloped the man, disintegrating him where he stood.

As the energy dissipated and Mentallo was left looking at a pile of ashes.

"Mentallo, mein freund," the young woman said with a smile that would be considered pretty on someone else, "will you see about recovering the Crystals for us?"

Mentallo kicked at the pile gently. "I'll get right on it."

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