Title: Walk the Line
Universe: AU
Type: Dystopic
Pairing: Hellion/X-23
SUMMARY: AU. X-23 reminisces on the events leading up to the end of the world, to a special, unlikely audience. Hellion & X-23.
Inspired by the song 'I Walk The Line' by Johnny Cash
I Walk the Line- Johnny Cash
I keep a close watch on this heart of mine.
I keep my eyes wide open all the time.
I keep the ends out for the tie that binds.
Because you're mine, I walk the line.
I find it very, very easy to be true.
I find myself alone when each day is through.
Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you.
Because you're mine, I walk the line.
As sure as night is dark and day is light.
I keep you on my mind both day and night.
And happiness I've known proves that it's right
Because you're mine, I walk the line.
You've got a way to keep me on your side.
You give me cause for love that I can't hide.
For you I know I'd even try to turn the tide.
Because you're mine, I walk the line.
Chapter 1
Now.
"Be quiet," she mouths, pressing her hand on the little girl's shoulder, her eyes wide, her ears tuned to a far-off noise that means danger. Her face is pale, as is the skin over her knuckles and between them. She is fighting the urge to eject her claws.
Two sets of keen eyes gaze down the darkened alleyway. Except for those eyes, mother and daughter are almost identical; the same cast to the features on their heart shaped faces-thick eyelashes rimming the eyes, brows arched high, straight, perfect noses, full lips, and high cheekbones; the same pale, flawless pallor to their skin; the same long, glossy black hair. The same brilliant intelligence.
But the woman's eyes are a bright, vibrant green; while the child's eyes are a medium blue color.
"They are passing," the older woman mouths, finally. The girl relaxes, but frowns.
"Who where they, mum?"
The woman feels the same moment of wonder that she feels every time she hears this word. It certainly hadn't been her to teach the child this; the child's father had been responsible for the term. She debates: did she ever address Sarah with this title?
No.
She crouches, looks the child in her eyes. "People who mean us harm," she says firmly.
"Okay," the child says, trustfully. The mother wonders how she has managed this-this trust. When she had been young herself, she had trusted no one. Not even her parent, since she was often cruel, out of necessity. She knows that she is therefore considered different from many other mutants-a freak amongst freaks, so to speak. She has been told before just how strange she is.
And yet the child seems, miraculously, to be oblivious to this. How could she teach anyone to be normal when she had no sense of normalcy herself?
"Can we eat soon? I'm hungry," the child says. Her small stomach rumbles, to back this up.
She allows herself to smile slightly, even though their circumstances cause her no end of worry. "Yes," she says. "I will find us something soon. I promise." She smoothes a strand of hair out of her daughter's pale, dirt-and-blood smudged face, then kisses her forehead. Why does she do this? Her own parent used to do this to her, when she could show her feelings. She believes it is a way of showing affection.
The woman stands again, and the child takes her hand as they head down the dark, dirty alleyway, their bare feet occasionally making sounds on the wet asphalt.
Later that night, they find shelter in the ruins of a building. The woman builds a small fire for them, and they cook a tin of beans and a pigeon. They don't usually eat meat, as it is hard to come by.
"Mum?" the child asks suddenly, through a mouthful of beans.
The woman tilts her head and waits.
"Why did we leave dad?"
She inhales sharply. The woman has had ample time to dwell over how to answer this question. So simple and yet so...unsettling. She feels pain, almost physical pain. The events had happened about four years ago…four long years ago.
"He did not have our healing factor," she says, gently.
"I know that," the child says dismissively.
"He was hurt, very severely. We were pursued. You were small. I had to take care of you." The woman pauses. "I made a choice."
The child swallows the beans. "I wish he was still here."
She doesn't answer, closes her eyes, but her face doesn't crumple like it had for a few days after that incident. Her instincts to protect and care for her child were too strong to allow her such moments of weakness.
After eating, the child drifts off to sleep. She does not feel comfortable enough to follow her example; instead she pulls the child's head onto her lap, strokes the tangled black hair and stares into the fire as she remains on the alert. She can't help thinking, however. Remembering.
"Mum?" a voice asks, about an hour later. The child is stirring. She looks down at her daughter and feels a gentle tug in her chest.
"Tell me about dad," the child whispers.
Laura blinks. She is about to say no; then she realizes it is the girl's right to know about the man she'd come from. Memories jump to light, some inappropriate. She does not want to tell her daughter—her innocent child—about the violence, about some of the moments she feels were to be experienced only by her and the other person involved.
But she can modify it slightly.
She closes her eyes and begins.
...
Memory sequence 1
Hellfire Club, World's End Tavern
New York City
Six years ago
22:54 April 6
She sits at the bar on a stool, her head tilted slightly, her forehead resting gently on her knuckles. She is weary after a long week of assassinations, terrorism and torturing for information.
For a long while-since her creation-she has been a force of destruction. A weapon. She is used to being the cause of death, even on greater scales than she has been of late. But then, then-she'd had no choice. She had been a weapon sitting in a cage. The difference is, nowshe's supposed to be an 'independent, free-thinking woman with choices', as was told to her by her commander when she had agreed to all of this.
The truth is, she is still a weapon in a cage. The only change is that the cage is invisible. The literal bars have become figurative ones, but they are bars all the same.
"Refill?" the bartender asks, nodding in her direction.
"Please." Her voice is low-pitched, smooth, and tired (despite her healing factor). She's been yelling all day at a prisoner. Interrogating.
Clunk. The glass of whiskey sloshes around on the counter between her elbows. She watches it dully. Life was hardly what she had imagined it might be like outside the Facility Cell. Here she is-about twenty-three years old by her calculations-her only accomplishments being trading one handler for another. Where is the independence she'd thought she would have, the understanding of people?
She still doesn't have this, after ten years outside her Cell. She is no closer to understanding human behavior than she had been as a weapon. The people in her organization shun her-call her a freak. And they are supposed to be freaks themselves. She has a sense that this implies she is too detached for even them, too abnormal.
Footsteps, approaching the bar. "This seat taken?"
She doesn't answer. Creak, as the seat is occupied.
Wrapping her fingers around her glass, she downs the whiskey in one shot and is rewarded with a quick burning in her throat, warmth in her stomach, and a slight blurring of her vision. Then it's gone, scrubbed away by her healing factor.
She wishes it would scrub away more than that. She wishes she could take some sort of shower that would wash her clean of all the confusion, the disappointment that life is so difficult...that she could be thirteen years of age again, feeling the adrenaline surging through her system as she escapes the facility.
With a small exhalation through her mouth, she looks down.
"Come here often?"
She tilts her head slightly to her other side, takes in her uninvited neighbor. He's about her age, maybe a bit older; dark hair, blue eyes, medium build. He is leaning on his elbow and studying her with something akin to appreciation. She's seen this look many times before, knows what it means. Only in the last three years has she begun reacting when she feels responses, and sometimes she still accepts payment.
She wrinkles her nose.
"Occasionally." She eyes him warily now. She knows all the members of the Brotherhood; even the new recruits, and this is a mutant bar. He is not on her side. Fraternizing is not encouraged. Is he a spy?
"Just when you're depressed, right?" He grins at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Or should I assume you're here for the view?"
He gestures, with his free hand, to the girls dancing on the stage behind them. She closes her eyes, mildly irritated. She knows what he is insinuating; it's hardly an original comment.
Creak, as he leans a bit closer. "I'm surprised they haven't asked you to leave."
"What?" She opens her eyes again and focuses on him.
"You're bad for business." He pauses. "I can't take my eyes off you...even though you're fully clothed."
She decides she is annoyed. "Please, go away."
"It's true. I haven't looked away since the first glance." Creak, as he leans back. "You're beautiful...and you look so sad, you just broke my heart right away." He puts a hand on his chest.
"Left," she says, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
"Huh?" he asks.
"Your heart is more to the left side of your upper torso."
He is about to respond when the bartender returns. "What'll you have?" the man asks her neighbor, drumming his blunt fingers on the counter surface.
"Samuel Addams, an Irish car bomb, and whatever my lady friend here has been drowning her sorrows in...some more of that," he says, reaching out and patting her shoulder. "And keep them coming."
She looks at his hand on her skin, and realizes there are two direct pathways from a choice she is about to make: either she will hit him, as hard as she can in the face and he will stop bothering her; or she will let him continue touching her, which will mean prolonged association.
She's had a bad day.
POW!
Her fist comes out of nowhere and catches him midway between his nose and his mouth; his head snaps back from the unexpected force.
"HEY! Hey! Guys, play nice," the bartender snaps as he thumps the glasses down on the table.
Her neighbor corrects himself on his seat and touches his lip, which is starting to swell slightly. "…what the fuck?" he asks her, his eyes full of astonishment.
"I have had a bad day, and my patience is short. I do not want to be touched," she says, picking up the drink and chugging it down. Perhaps she should leave, before he retaliates and makes her unwelcome at this bar for good.
"Okay, my bad," he says, to her surprise. "I'm sorry."
She pauses. "It's fine."
He extends a hand to her. "Julian, by the way. Julian Keller. I'm an X-man."
"I'm aware," she says flatly, giving him a quick returning shake.
"How?" he asks, surprised. "There's no way we've met. I'd remember you. Although, the X-side is getting pretty big, and-"
"I am a member of the Brotherhood," she says.
"Oh, shit." His forehead wrinkles. "Why would a number one like yourself pick the losing team?"
"That is your opinion." She arches her eyebrows.
"I'm always right, about everything," he says confidently. "My opinions are bonafide facts."
Despite herself, she smiles slightly.
"Fuck," he says softly, staring at her like he is...worshipping, she thinks. She has seen the expression of reverence before, on those kneeling before alters. "Your power must be to kill with a smile, 'coz I'm about to have a heart attack over here," he says after a few moments.
"Your heart is fine," she says, although the smile remains. "It has increased by approximately ten beats per minute, due to-" she stops, and she feels embarrassment and surprise. He is 'responding', as she thinks of male arousal, and this is not as per usual because no clothing has been removed.
"How can you tell?"
"I have enhanced senses and some medical knowledge." She usually doesn't share this information with others, but she doubts she will see him again, or that anyone will know who she is by a few descriptions alone. The Brotherhood is a massive force and she usually stays in the shadows of the operation.
"God, you're smart too," he says, leaning his head against his hands. "So...be level with me. What do I need to do?"
"For what?"
"Your name, for a start."
"Laura." The bartender places another whiskey in front of her.
"Okay, so nice to meet you, Laura. Really nice to meet you." He grins, even with his slightly swollen lip. "My friends are never going to believe that the first angel I've met is called Laura. You can get me into heaven, right?"
"You cannot tell anyone you have met me," Laura says seriously. She looks at her drink. "And no, I cannot assist you with spiritual experiences. I have yet to have one myself."
Fingers, touching her cheek. She whirls towards him, drawing her fist back to plow it in, but she stops to watch his expression as he feels her skin. The playfulness that has been present in his comments and behavior is not apparent now. He looks entirely serious.
"Stop," she murmurs, wrapping her fingers around his wrist and pulling it away. "We can't be seen talking to each other...and touching. It is not appropriate."
He freezes, then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet.
"How much for both our tonight's tabs?" he asks the bartender.
"I am not done," Laura protests.
"Hers is one fifteen, yours is twelve."
Julian pauses, eyes her. He is amazed that she appears to be completely sober. Then he takes out two, crisp hundred-dollar bills and lays them on the table.
"Keep the change," he says.
Laura stares. Money is hard to come by these days.
"Done?" he asks her hopefully.
She nods mutely, and allows him to take her by the arm. She is led to the door; he disappears for a moment to a side room, and returns with their coats. Laura watches him drop his on the floor, and wonders if he is possibly drunk. Then he touches her arms; and puts on her coat for her.
Laura fingers the edge of her jacket and bites her lip slightly.