Two days after murdering six men and destroying a building, Gambit is here, dressed as himself and not some underworld alter ego; he knows, dealing with the kind of people he'll be dealing with in this venture, that it might be safer to put up a wall between work and his 'civilian' identity, but - are any of them really civilians anymore? Can he ever pass as one, genuinely, with all he's done?

Probably not. And neither can the collection of children staying in his home, whether he likes the reality of that or not.

Wearing a leather jacket and jeans, Remy slips into the temple - also refraining from smoking - but makes no effort to hide himself as he walks through. He's conspicuous for the way he holds himself (careless with savvy versus stupidity) over the way he looks; this city is too diverse for all of that to stand out over-much, but the set of his shoulders and the ease of his gait says he fears no predator.

For any beings who can smell blood and sense flesh, pulse, and heat: mutants, from a purely taste-based perspective, are similar enough to humans that the unpracticed palate wouldn't be able to distinguish without some serious sommelier dedication. In Remy's case specifically, however, the bio-kinetic energy that thrums through his every molecule puts out a very unique, very strange signature. He's over-heated and strangely-powered ionized, and he's got eyes like the devil.

At the altar, he leaves a slightly battered pack of playing cards, wordless.