[video]
[The video starts abruptly, fuzzing in off-center on a man's face. The details are pretty common--Caucasian skin, sharp nose, mouth downturned in a frown, a five o'clock shadow that's creeping well on towards six or seven o'clock--but the one eye that's visible is startling, all glowing red iris on black sclera. The camera's angle is realigned a moment later to show a better angle on the man's face.]
Sapristi, finally. So. Uh. I ain't real sho' what I'm supposed to be doin wit' dis t'ing, but here goes not'in', neh? Won't be de first time I made a damn fool of m'self.
Hello out dere. Bonjour. I'm Gambit, and I 'fficially got no 'dea what de hell is goin' on here. I been given de whole rundown of de city an' its finer tourist attractions an' all...
[Here he digs under his shirt briefly, showing the chain for his dogtags for a moment as if there were any doubt.]
... but I got to say dis whole t'ing sounds like a load'a hooha t'me. An' dis comin' from de homme who jus' spent most o'his weekend in space fightin' some sorta alien fungal 'nfection. Which was jus' about as gross as it sounds. But all asides aside an' all...
[He takes a deep breath, his eyes flash as he rolls them to the side and up before returning them to the camera]
...much as I'm grateful I ain't freezin' my Cajun ass off in Antarctica no more, dis ain't 'xactly much of a step up on de weirdness scale. So coul' somebody help a homme out, mebbe? Is dere 'nybody out dere?
Pref'rences bein', o'course, for 'nybodies' out dere dat got a clue who I am. 'Less I owe you moneys. Whatever dem powers dat be be, dey didn't see to fit to send ol' Gambit t'rough wit' his wallet, so I gotta 'xtend de IOUs a l'il furt'er, desole.
[The man's face pulls away and a wobbly shot of a largely empty apartment whips drunkenly across the camera. There is quite a bit of muttering in Cajun French concerning newfangled devices and the location of the off button before the screen goes black.]
Sapristi, finally. So. Uh. I ain't real sho' what I'm supposed to be doin wit' dis t'ing, but here goes not'in', neh? Won't be de first time I made a damn fool of m'self.
Hello out dere. Bonjour. I'm Gambit, and I 'fficially got no 'dea what de hell is goin' on here. I been given de whole rundown of de city an' its finer tourist attractions an' all...
[Here he digs under his shirt briefly, showing the chain for his dogtags for a moment as if there were any doubt.]
... but I got to say dis whole t'ing sounds like a load'a hooha t'me. An' dis comin' from de homme who jus' spent most o'his weekend in space fightin' some sorta alien fungal 'nfection. Which was jus' about as gross as it sounds. But all asides aside an' all...
[He takes a deep breath, his eyes flash as he rolls them to the side and up before returning them to the camera]
...much as I'm grateful I ain't freezin' my Cajun ass off in Antarctica no more, dis ain't 'xactly much of a step up on de weirdness scale. So coul' somebody help a homme out, mebbe? Is dere 'nybody out dere?
Pref'rences bein', o'course, for 'nybodies' out dere dat got a clue who I am. 'Less I owe you moneys. Whatever dem powers dat be be, dey didn't see to fit to send ol' Gambit t'rough wit' his wallet, so I gotta 'xtend de IOUs a l'il furt'er, desole.
[The man's face pulls away and a wobbly shot of a largely empty apartment whips drunkenly across the camera. There is quite a bit of muttering in Cajun French concerning newfangled devices and the location of the off button before the screen goes black.]