InsaneJournal

His first real memory was of someone calling him 'Remy'. The sky was gray and rain was falling and it was hard to see. He couldn't even see the face of the person calling to him. But he knew it was Fagan.
Fagan was the one who raised him, as much as anyone ever raised the homeless street kids. Fagan gave him and the other orphaned children in the French Quarter a roof to keep the rain off and hand-me-downs to keep them warm. He taught them how to beg and pick the pockets of the tourists. He was there to make sure the adults with younger tastes didn't hurt them too much and paid for the privilege.
Remy was never really happy, but he was never really miserable either. So long as he paid Fagan a percentage of his earnings, the man would keep him as safe as one could be. The drug dealers left him alone and the pimps didn't try to horn in on his profits. Fagan was not a man to be messed with.
It all fell apart when Katrina hit. The only semblance of a home he could remember was washed away by the rain. None of the kids evacuated. They had no where to go. Most of them didn't survive. Fagan didn't survive. Remy was sixteen with no social security number, no birth certificate and no family to present to the rescue workers and tell them who he was.
The recovery efforts were one of the best things to ever happen to him. Hospital records had washed away with the rest of the city. He told them his name was Remy, they assumed he didn't say more because he was in shock. So they gave him a list of Remy's his age that were unaccounted for and just told him to nod when he heard his.
Remy Enteinne LeBeau sounded pretty good to him. Turned out the LeBeau's were moderately wealthy, middle class. And dead. He thought it would be polite to go to their funeral before he signed the papers declaring him an emancipated youth and having all the accounts transferred into his name.
He opened a new account with half of it and used the other half to buy himself a bike and some new clothes and a year of living out of hotel rooms. He's been living off what he can make on the street since and letting the other half earn interest. Remy would like to actually go to college one day. School was something he'd never tried before. Heck, he didn't learn to read until he was ten. Writing came to him at about thirteen.
In the past few months since he started blowing up cards, he's been drifting from town to town, making his way north to New York. Big city like that, there's lots of opportunity for a man who can talk a good game. And Remy LeBeau, he can talk with the best of them.

Depsite his upbringing on the streets, or perhaps because of it, Remy is generally a very fun loving guy. Often flirtatious and care free, he finds enjoyment in physcial exersion and lately can't ever seem to sit still. Remy enjoys a cigarette every now and then, to help calm his nerves and keep the figiting to a minimum.
Occationally, Remy is given to bouts of meloncholy, if he's around others at these times, he'll promptly attempt a joke or some baffonery or show-off. Anything to keep them from noticing or thinking too hard about it, because he doesn't want to think too hard about it. When he's nervous, he tells a lot more jokes. They tend to be increasingly poorly executed the more nervous he is.
Gambit enjoys parkour, basketball, and rock music as well as zydeco. He covets the two cassette tapes he has of his favorite zydeco band that is no longer together due to the singer leaving for better pastures after Katrina hit. He is also a surprisingly good cook with an over abundant love of spice.
Remy is given to speaking in mixed french and english, often translating his own french and repeating himself in English for the benefit of others around him, a habit he picked up after leaving New Orleans. He also occationally speaks in the third person, either when really, really upset ("Gambit does not cook TV dinners!") or in an extremely playful mood ("Everyone can relax, Gambit has arrived!").
If asked about his past, Gambit is prone to telling very tall tales, calling himself a 'Prince' of theives and embellishing the stories of his grand life in the 'Theives Guild' and the woeful reason he had to leave the city that has absolutely nothing to do with Katrina. He swears.
And there's a good chance you'll believe him.