Well, it's been a while...
Dec. 18th, 2003 08:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deathpixieI haven't written X-fic for quite a while now, but [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]'s Powerswap Challenge broke the drought. In more ways than one - I haven't sat down and written a story in under a week for years now.
Although I only managed this one by sacrificing my soul to the Great Plot Demon - he wants another two stories out of this, at least. :P
(X-Men Movierse Powerswap) Heart of Darkness. (1/1)
Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be. No profit, only homage.
Rating: PG; adult themes.
Summary: In a time of tension after Stryker’s attack, Jean visits their secret weapon in the basement.
***
She’s back.
Alone in the comforting darkness of the basement room he has claimed as his own, her presence is flame-bright in the unique vision of his talent. Not that she is ever completely gone from his perception – his ability to sense mutants spans the globe – but no-one shines as brightly as she does. It was her aura, burning like the legendary Phoenix, that drew him from his hiding place to this school. Her invitation had given him a role, a name, when he’d begun to think all had been taken from him.
‘Hound’ is what they call him, his team-mates. His mutant ability is to sense the existence of other mutants, and using that ability the X-Men have found and recruited students for Xavier’s School for the Gifted. For the school, and for the X-Men, whose purpose he is still trying to understand. They claim to be helping those in need, yet he has seen the damage their battles inflict, the trauma suffered by those caught in between. Late at night he creeps from his self-imposed exile and watches television news casts, and surfs Internet news sites, reads discussions in chat rooms hungry for knowledge of a world that has left him behind. It was from these that he discovered the price of Tempest’s tornadoes, called upon to escape the Airforce jets sent in pursuit of the Blackbird. Countless Mid-Western families left homeless by the trail of destruction those twisters had left, fifteen dead and many more injured. But Bobby, when he’d summoned the courage to speak to the young man about it, had simply shrugged.
"Collateral damage," he’d said, using a military term he’d borrowed from Colonel Logan. "It happens."
The contempt in the young man’s pale blue eyes had done more to drive him back to the safety of the basement than the not-so-distant rumble of thunder on a perfectly clear day.
He hasn’t left the basement since then. It’s easier, that way.
***
He’s brooding again.
Jean can sense the turmoil emanating from Hound’s basement room almost as soon as she opens the door. Doubt, confusion, a growing sense of despair, layered over the almost-constant underlying self-loathing; the emotions settle on her empathy as heavy as a shroud. She barely represses her irritation – her lecture at the local college was more draining than she’d admit, and she really doesn’t feel up to wading through Hound’s neuroses again. But she reminds herself that they need Hound if they are going to rescue the children. Ororo’s telepathy is nowhere powerful enough without some kind of boosting device, and there are more and more mutants surfacing every day.
"The young man trusts you, Jean," the Professor had told her only the night before. His fine grey gloves added to his air of refined gentility as he passed her their traditional nightly glass of port, but their purpose was more than the affectation of an older wealthy man; Charles Xavier cannot touch another person without absorbing their personality, their very life force, and, in the case of mutants, their powers. "We need his abilities more than ever now – Stryker’s recent attempted raid on the school shows us there is more than simple prejudice at work in our world. There are those who will exploit mutants for their powers, use them as weapons or such. Those children need us, Jean, and I need you to ensure our guest remains… co-operative."
"You wouldn’t be suggesting I use my powers on the poor boy?" she’d asked, arching one russet-coloured eyebrow at him. She liked to tease Charles, revelled in the delightful conflict of emotions she aroused in him. Charles’ powers necessitated he hold himself aloof, keep everyone at arm’s length, the coping mechanism of forty years, but Jean’s empathy showed her the man’s hidden depths, and she drank them in like the full red wine they shared during their evening talks. "Are you sure that’s entirely ethical, Charles?"
He’d given her a pained look, and she’d briefly closed her eyes, savouring the pangs of guilt that overlaid steely resolve. "I’m sure you’re aware of my feelings regarding this matter, Jean," was all he’d replied.
The conversation returns to her now as she makes her way to the elevator for the lower levels. She is fully aware of Hound’s worship of her, the boy seeing almost as a kind of goddess, and enjoys the power it gives her. It’s a rush, using her abilities, but more than that, she enjoys the power to read and manipulate those around her that her empathy gives.
It wasn’t always this way. Jean doesn’t like to think back to the way her powers had surfaced, but the feel of Annie’s death still haunts her dreams. There had been no way to block the tsunami of pain and fear, and the doors the trauma of her best friend’s death had opened between herself and others were impossible to close. Swamped by emotions a nine-year-old didn’t and couldn’t understand, she’d retreated into autism. The Professor, at that time a therapist known for his near-miraculous insight into the most withdrawn individuals, had been called in by her parents. Little did they know his insights were gained through the briefest feather-light contact of skin – brushing ragged-cut hair out of Jean’s eyes, Charles had taken the smallest part of her powers and her personality, and knew what needed to be done. Under his tutelage, she’d learned to block out the worst of the influx, and later to project.
Jean pauses, brushing fiery red hair out of her eyes, and tracing the shallow depression on her forehead. It’s an external legacy of those lost years, time spent locked within herself, banging her head repeatedly against the wall in an effort to drown out the turbulent emotions of those around her. There are other marks, other signs, bracelets of white scar tissue around her wrists, knotted lumps at the crooks of her elbows from the untold needles pumping thankful oblivion into her system… and didn’t Charles have his work cut out for him, bringing her out of her catatonia _and_ combating the addiction? But she survived, she was strong, and those days are past. And as always, she promises herself she will never be so helpless again.
She’s at Hound’s door. She braces herself, locks down any negative emotions she might have, and projects a wave of good cheer as she knocks.
***
He can’t help but grin wryly as she knocks on the door of his room. She is aware of him as he is aware of her, there is no need to knock to see if he is home, and besides, where else would he be? But still, it’s all part of re-learning how to live with others; he spent so long in hiding there is much that he has forgotten. Some things return, echoes of memory: flashes of a woman and a man and a small blond boy, seen in dreams usually, whose faces he feels he should know. He wakes from these dreams with his cheeks wet and a tightness in his chest where his heart aches with loss, but there are too many years, too much damage, between now and what could possibly be then: whenever he pushes himself to remember his past, his family, his name, he is overwhelmed by visions of flames and confusion, and a heavy, crushing sensation. Ororo tells him it is his mind’s way of protecting himself and that he will remember of his own accord and he contents himself with that. He ignores the voice deep inside that suggests that maybe the truth of his origins is just too much to bear, that the knowledge would prove him as much a monster inside as out.
He realises he still hasn’t answered her knock, and stutters over the traditional response in his haste: "C-come in." He winces slightly at the sound of his voice, thick and raspy with disuse, knowing how much it must grate on her ears. As the doorknob turns, he withdraws deeper into the shadows – he tries to spare her the sight of him as much as possible.
"Hello, Scooter," she says. It’s a silly little name, the one she has for him, but it cheers him. "How are things today?"
"Fire-Spirit," he says, slowly, voice rough with disuse; the last time he spoke was sometime about two days ago. "I’m pleased you came back."
"I said I’d be back, Scooter, remember? It was just a speech, not a mission." She seems impatient, his name for her failing to bring the usual smile to her face. Words come to him reluctantly, with much difficulty – in his exile in the sewers he seldom had any use for words, and it seemed that part of his brain had grown rusty with the neglect. Names too, are something he has problems with, preferring those he makes up, descriptions as much as names. Those names make much more sense to him than the ones they give.
"I’m… sorry, I only meant that I miss Fire-Spirit when you are gone."
"I know you do, Scooter. That’s why I dropped in, to let you know I was back. Not that I needed to, did I? You sensed me, didn’t you?" She smiles at him and he basks in the brilliance of it.
"I. Wherever you are, you shine, like the sun." Although she can’t see him, surrounded by comforting shadows as he is, he beams happily, pleased that she is not angry at him any more.
***
‘He’s like the puppy-dog he’s named for,’ Jean thinks, listening to him prattle on in his slow way. ‘Desperate for praise and attention from its master.’ It’s only natural that he is eager to please her, since it was Jean who lured him out of his hiding place in the sewers beneath New York after Ororo sensed his presence during another, unrelated mission. It is Jean, too, who visits him regularly, makes sure he eats, talks to him. Just as it is Jean who soothes his fears, lightens his black moods, tweaks at his sense of gratitude and heightens his natural admiration of her. A happy Hound is a productive Hound is her philosophy, and if she had to, she would justify her manipulations as self-defence. Wading through the miasma of dark feelings the boy had was the equivalent of having the constant smell of rotting garbage surrounding her. So why not make her own life – and his – a little easier?
Besides, this was what the Professor wanted.
Caught up in what he is saying, Hound moves slightly forward out of the protective shadow, and she looks with curiosity at the hairless white skin and the strange lumps across his head. Despite the improved food and conditions he is still painfully skinny, ribs sticking out beneath the unbuttoned shirt he wears, face hollowed out to the point his blue eyes bulge slightly above knife-like cheekbones. Hound’s background – his family, his name, the nature of the accident that caused the brain damage that means his power runs unfettered, sensing the presence of every mutant on the planet – he knows next to nothing of it, but between the hints Ororo’s telepathy have picked up, and Logan’s government connections they have begun to piece together a picture. It’s not an uncommon one, as far as stories go, and becoming all too common with growing fear and hatred of mutants. Marked as a mutant by his white skin and lumpy head, Hound and his family were targeted whilst he was still very young. A fire, crashing timbers, and suddenly Hound is alone in the world, the injury to his head and the trauma combining to cause him to forget his previous life. The intervening years are still a jumble, but it seems all too possible that he spent those long years in the sewers, hiding himself from the sight of ordinary humans, occasionally using his powers to seek out others like himself in an effort to find help, companionship…
Hound pauses in what he is saying, looks at her questioningly, and Jean realises she has been projecting the combined anger/pity thoughts of Hound’s history evoke in her. She smiles, the fake expression coming easily to her, and generates a feeling of general well-being in him. He shakes his head briefly, like he is bothered by some invisible insect, and then gives her a broad happy smile. Her work is done.
"I have to go now, Hound, Ororo is waiting for me," she says, watching his face for signs her suggested emotions aren’t sticking.
"Of course, I understand. You missed Knife-Mind, when you were away." The smile remains, and she knows there will be no more brooding, at least tonight.
"That’s it exactly. I’ll see you later, when I bring your food, okay? And in the meantime…" She pauses, as if reluctant to ask.
"Yes? Is there something I can do, to help?"
"Logan’s contacts mentioned something about a laboratory, a place where they do experiments on mutants. We need to find that place, if we want to help those mutants. Can you find them, Hound?"
"Yes, I can find them. It’s the only thing I’m good at. How many?"
"We’re not sure. More than five, but not as many as twenty. They’d be in pain, afraid."
"Hound will find them for you. Fire-Spirit will help them." Obviously pleased at having a task, he slips into the odd speech patterns he had when they first found him. He retreats back into the shadows, towards the plain mattress lying in the corner. Whilst he has ample range, specific locations take his utmost concentration, and Jean knows he will spend the next few hours pin-pointing the lab. She leaves him to it.
***
The End.
Scott has Caliban’s mutant-detection powers, as well as his appearance. Jean has Empath’s powers. Xavier has Rogue’s powers. Bobby (Tempest) has Storm’s. Logan has Skids’ forcefield, although it’s not obvious here – there could possibly be a story about his history later. Storm has Jean’s telepathy (and telekinesis, again, it didn’t make this story).
Although I only managed this one by sacrificing my soul to the Great Plot Demon - he wants another two stories out of this, at least. :P
(X-Men Movierse Powerswap) Heart of Darkness. (1/1)
Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be. No profit, only homage.
Rating: PG; adult themes.
Summary: In a time of tension after Stryker’s attack, Jean visits their secret weapon in the basement.
***
She’s back.
Alone in the comforting darkness of the basement room he has claimed as his own, her presence is flame-bright in the unique vision of his talent. Not that she is ever completely gone from his perception – his ability to sense mutants spans the globe – but no-one shines as brightly as she does. It was her aura, burning like the legendary Phoenix, that drew him from his hiding place to this school. Her invitation had given him a role, a name, when he’d begun to think all had been taken from him.
‘Hound’ is what they call him, his team-mates. His mutant ability is to sense the existence of other mutants, and using that ability the X-Men have found and recruited students for Xavier’s School for the Gifted. For the school, and for the X-Men, whose purpose he is still trying to understand. They claim to be helping those in need, yet he has seen the damage their battles inflict, the trauma suffered by those caught in between. Late at night he creeps from his self-imposed exile and watches television news casts, and surfs Internet news sites, reads discussions in chat rooms hungry for knowledge of a world that has left him behind. It was from these that he discovered the price of Tempest’s tornadoes, called upon to escape the Airforce jets sent in pursuit of the Blackbird. Countless Mid-Western families left homeless by the trail of destruction those twisters had left, fifteen dead and many more injured. But Bobby, when he’d summoned the courage to speak to the young man about it, had simply shrugged.
"Collateral damage," he’d said, using a military term he’d borrowed from Colonel Logan. "It happens."
The contempt in the young man’s pale blue eyes had done more to drive him back to the safety of the basement than the not-so-distant rumble of thunder on a perfectly clear day.
He hasn’t left the basement since then. It’s easier, that way.
***
He’s brooding again.
Jean can sense the turmoil emanating from Hound’s basement room almost as soon as she opens the door. Doubt, confusion, a growing sense of despair, layered over the almost-constant underlying self-loathing; the emotions settle on her empathy as heavy as a shroud. She barely represses her irritation – her lecture at the local college was more draining than she’d admit, and she really doesn’t feel up to wading through Hound’s neuroses again. But she reminds herself that they need Hound if they are going to rescue the children. Ororo’s telepathy is nowhere powerful enough without some kind of boosting device, and there are more and more mutants surfacing every day.
"The young man trusts you, Jean," the Professor had told her only the night before. His fine grey gloves added to his air of refined gentility as he passed her their traditional nightly glass of port, but their purpose was more than the affectation of an older wealthy man; Charles Xavier cannot touch another person without absorbing their personality, their very life force, and, in the case of mutants, their powers. "We need his abilities more than ever now – Stryker’s recent attempted raid on the school shows us there is more than simple prejudice at work in our world. There are those who will exploit mutants for their powers, use them as weapons or such. Those children need us, Jean, and I need you to ensure our guest remains… co-operative."
"You wouldn’t be suggesting I use my powers on the poor boy?" she’d asked, arching one russet-coloured eyebrow at him. She liked to tease Charles, revelled in the delightful conflict of emotions she aroused in him. Charles’ powers necessitated he hold himself aloof, keep everyone at arm’s length, the coping mechanism of forty years, but Jean’s empathy showed her the man’s hidden depths, and she drank them in like the full red wine they shared during their evening talks. "Are you sure that’s entirely ethical, Charles?"
He’d given her a pained look, and she’d briefly closed her eyes, savouring the pangs of guilt that overlaid steely resolve. "I’m sure you’re aware of my feelings regarding this matter, Jean," was all he’d replied.
The conversation returns to her now as she makes her way to the elevator for the lower levels. She is fully aware of Hound’s worship of her, the boy seeing almost as a kind of goddess, and enjoys the power it gives her. It’s a rush, using her abilities, but more than that, she enjoys the power to read and manipulate those around her that her empathy gives.
It wasn’t always this way. Jean doesn’t like to think back to the way her powers had surfaced, but the feel of Annie’s death still haunts her dreams. There had been no way to block the tsunami of pain and fear, and the doors the trauma of her best friend’s death had opened between herself and others were impossible to close. Swamped by emotions a nine-year-old didn’t and couldn’t understand, she’d retreated into autism. The Professor, at that time a therapist known for his near-miraculous insight into the most withdrawn individuals, had been called in by her parents. Little did they know his insights were gained through the briefest feather-light contact of skin – brushing ragged-cut hair out of Jean’s eyes, Charles had taken the smallest part of her powers and her personality, and knew what needed to be done. Under his tutelage, she’d learned to block out the worst of the influx, and later to project.
Jean pauses, brushing fiery red hair out of her eyes, and tracing the shallow depression on her forehead. It’s an external legacy of those lost years, time spent locked within herself, banging her head repeatedly against the wall in an effort to drown out the turbulent emotions of those around her. There are other marks, other signs, bracelets of white scar tissue around her wrists, knotted lumps at the crooks of her elbows from the untold needles pumping thankful oblivion into her system… and didn’t Charles have his work cut out for him, bringing her out of her catatonia _and_ combating the addiction? But she survived, she was strong, and those days are past. And as always, she promises herself she will never be so helpless again.
She’s at Hound’s door. She braces herself, locks down any negative emotions she might have, and projects a wave of good cheer as she knocks.
***
He can’t help but grin wryly as she knocks on the door of his room. She is aware of him as he is aware of her, there is no need to knock to see if he is home, and besides, where else would he be? But still, it’s all part of re-learning how to live with others; he spent so long in hiding there is much that he has forgotten. Some things return, echoes of memory: flashes of a woman and a man and a small blond boy, seen in dreams usually, whose faces he feels he should know. He wakes from these dreams with his cheeks wet and a tightness in his chest where his heart aches with loss, but there are too many years, too much damage, between now and what could possibly be then: whenever he pushes himself to remember his past, his family, his name, he is overwhelmed by visions of flames and confusion, and a heavy, crushing sensation. Ororo tells him it is his mind’s way of protecting himself and that he will remember of his own accord and he contents himself with that. He ignores the voice deep inside that suggests that maybe the truth of his origins is just too much to bear, that the knowledge would prove him as much a monster inside as out.
He realises he still hasn’t answered her knock, and stutters over the traditional response in his haste: "C-come in." He winces slightly at the sound of his voice, thick and raspy with disuse, knowing how much it must grate on her ears. As the doorknob turns, he withdraws deeper into the shadows – he tries to spare her the sight of him as much as possible.
"Hello, Scooter," she says. It’s a silly little name, the one she has for him, but it cheers him. "How are things today?"
"Fire-Spirit," he says, slowly, voice rough with disuse; the last time he spoke was sometime about two days ago. "I’m pleased you came back."
"I said I’d be back, Scooter, remember? It was just a speech, not a mission." She seems impatient, his name for her failing to bring the usual smile to her face. Words come to him reluctantly, with much difficulty – in his exile in the sewers he seldom had any use for words, and it seemed that part of his brain had grown rusty with the neglect. Names too, are something he has problems with, preferring those he makes up, descriptions as much as names. Those names make much more sense to him than the ones they give.
"I’m… sorry, I only meant that I miss Fire-Spirit when you are gone."
"I know you do, Scooter. That’s why I dropped in, to let you know I was back. Not that I needed to, did I? You sensed me, didn’t you?" She smiles at him and he basks in the brilliance of it.
"I. Wherever you are, you shine, like the sun." Although she can’t see him, surrounded by comforting shadows as he is, he beams happily, pleased that she is not angry at him any more.
***
‘He’s like the puppy-dog he’s named for,’ Jean thinks, listening to him prattle on in his slow way. ‘Desperate for praise and attention from its master.’ It’s only natural that he is eager to please her, since it was Jean who lured him out of his hiding place in the sewers beneath New York after Ororo sensed his presence during another, unrelated mission. It is Jean, too, who visits him regularly, makes sure he eats, talks to him. Just as it is Jean who soothes his fears, lightens his black moods, tweaks at his sense of gratitude and heightens his natural admiration of her. A happy Hound is a productive Hound is her philosophy, and if she had to, she would justify her manipulations as self-defence. Wading through the miasma of dark feelings the boy had was the equivalent of having the constant smell of rotting garbage surrounding her. So why not make her own life – and his – a little easier?
Besides, this was what the Professor wanted.
Caught up in what he is saying, Hound moves slightly forward out of the protective shadow, and she looks with curiosity at the hairless white skin and the strange lumps across his head. Despite the improved food and conditions he is still painfully skinny, ribs sticking out beneath the unbuttoned shirt he wears, face hollowed out to the point his blue eyes bulge slightly above knife-like cheekbones. Hound’s background – his family, his name, the nature of the accident that caused the brain damage that means his power runs unfettered, sensing the presence of every mutant on the planet – he knows next to nothing of it, but between the hints Ororo’s telepathy have picked up, and Logan’s government connections they have begun to piece together a picture. It’s not an uncommon one, as far as stories go, and becoming all too common with growing fear and hatred of mutants. Marked as a mutant by his white skin and lumpy head, Hound and his family were targeted whilst he was still very young. A fire, crashing timbers, and suddenly Hound is alone in the world, the injury to his head and the trauma combining to cause him to forget his previous life. The intervening years are still a jumble, but it seems all too possible that he spent those long years in the sewers, hiding himself from the sight of ordinary humans, occasionally using his powers to seek out others like himself in an effort to find help, companionship…
Hound pauses in what he is saying, looks at her questioningly, and Jean realises she has been projecting the combined anger/pity thoughts of Hound’s history evoke in her. She smiles, the fake expression coming easily to her, and generates a feeling of general well-being in him. He shakes his head briefly, like he is bothered by some invisible insect, and then gives her a broad happy smile. Her work is done.
"I have to go now, Hound, Ororo is waiting for me," she says, watching his face for signs her suggested emotions aren’t sticking.
"Of course, I understand. You missed Knife-Mind, when you were away." The smile remains, and she knows there will be no more brooding, at least tonight.
"That’s it exactly. I’ll see you later, when I bring your food, okay? And in the meantime…" She pauses, as if reluctant to ask.
"Yes? Is there something I can do, to help?"
"Logan’s contacts mentioned something about a laboratory, a place where they do experiments on mutants. We need to find that place, if we want to help those mutants. Can you find them, Hound?"
"Yes, I can find them. It’s the only thing I’m good at. How many?"
"We’re not sure. More than five, but not as many as twenty. They’d be in pain, afraid."
"Hound will find them for you. Fire-Spirit will help them." Obviously pleased at having a task, he slips into the odd speech patterns he had when they first found him. He retreats back into the shadows, towards the plain mattress lying in the corner. Whilst he has ample range, specific locations take his utmost concentration, and Jean knows he will spend the next few hours pin-pointing the lab. She leaves him to it.
***
The End.
Scott has Caliban’s mutant-detection powers, as well as his appearance. Jean has Empath’s powers. Xavier has Rogue’s powers. Bobby (Tempest) has Storm’s. Logan has Skids’ forcefield, although it’s not obvious here – there could possibly be a story about his history later. Storm has Jean’s telepathy (and telekinesis, again, it didn’t make this story).
no subject
Date: 2003-12-18 05:56 pm (UTC)