Hi there! I started this a while ago, and decided I should probably finish it. To do so, I am restarting! A big thanks to all those who reviewed the first take. And, of course, I don't own X-Men in anyway. So, without further ado, I introduce;
CIVIL WAR?
Chapter One: In the Beginning
The lunchroom was curiously quiet. Students that had quite carelessly chattered through an irate principal's lecture didn't dare to shuffle of whisper. They stayed still on the colourless benches, not even seeming to breath. This is it. They're going to kill us. We're going to die. Even their eyes, wide with fear, were settled, focused.
One man commanded their attention.
His comrades guarded the exits, standing with dark rifles across their bodies in a way that meant bringing them to aim would be sickeningly easy. They were sombre in black. Like them, he wore black clothing with straps which housed various items of intimidating weaponry. His face was covered by a black, plain baseball cap which was pulled down, nearly to his nose. Unlike the others, his face was free of cammo paint, but all she could see was the cruel curve of his lips and a rounded jaw-line rough with stuble.
Bryony hunkered down. This can not be happening, she prayed, Oh Gods, please don't let it be happening. It had to be a nightmare, or some sick joke; anything. It just couldn't be true. It couldn't be.
"You know why we are here," the man said, cleaning his fingernails on the blade of a survival knife. "There is no cause for alarm. This is for your own safety. An evacuation of the school." He lowered the hand with knife, now dangling it carelessly between two fingers, and looked at the students from below the cap brim. "You will walk calmly to the doors, and from there my colleagues will direct you as to where to go."
It's not true. We're not going anywhere.
A seventeen year old stood up. Bryony recognized him instantly; Jim, who refused to recognize authority in any form and (so the rumours went) put a lot of energy into pulling it to pieces. He wore jeans torn at the knees adorned with a rusting skate chain, and unwashed t-shirt and a derisive expression. His hair was long, limp and greasy. "Fuck that," he snorted, looking at his buddies for support, "We ain't going nowhere."
Without replying, the leader threw the knife at him with frightening fluidity. It sheathed itself hilt-deep in the skate-boy's throat, creating a flow of blood from the fresh wound. The foul-mouthed teen fell to the floor, retched on the blood seeping into his mouth as his eyes rolled up in shock, and then was still.
Around him, students drew away en mass. They looked with fear at the black-clad man, to their fallen classmate, and back again to the man who had killed him. He raised a pale hand to the table nearest the door. The people sitting there flinched, expecting another knife to come fling out of nowhere. "Go," he ordered. The other men moved towards the adolcescents, roughly forcing them to obey. "The mutant problem has gone of for too long," he added in a low whisper.
Gradually the lunchroom emptied, a shocked, horrified silence still reigning over all. They can't do this! Anger rippled through her, but when the time came Bryony followed the others just as meekly. There was nothing she could do against armed guards, and she lacked the courage to be a martyr.
At the doorway, Bryony's hands were clasped behind her back and forcibly bound with some kind of plastic packaging strip before she could even register what was going on. Hey! She wanted to shout, cry, scream, but she didn't dare break the silence. It was a living force now. Her eyes grew hot, but she allowed the men to finish tying her hands and push her in the direction of a bus that was sitting – illegally parked, as an aside – in the courtyard.
As she made her way across the concrete, black men in two lines to either side of her, she heard a commotion behind her. Something's happening. Someone's rebelling! A flicker of hope ignited within her. Could she do something too? Then came the sound of a meaty thump, and a voice blunted by years of nicotine said "let that be a lesson to all of you."
The bus was quite new, but plain. It wouldn't attract any undue attention. Bryony went to the first empty seat from the back, and sat down uncomfortably near the window. With her hands stuck in near the small of her back and her elbows stuck out she knew sleep wouldn't be an option. Her friend Maria sat down beside her, her mascara running with tears.
Bryony caught a glimpse of a boy with a split lip and blackened eye. An entire side of his face was purple and bleeding heavily, contrasting completely with the unscathed white of the other side. Did they do that to him? How could they? There's so much damage! She averted her gaze, feeling sick, and closed her eyes.
A gentle hiss barely registered in her ears, and her eyelids flickered only momentarily as the gas filled the bus. The students' felt their brain patterns shift into that of sleep, their eyes cementing shut. Maria's head dropped awkwardly onto her friend's shoulder and the black makeup stained the light-coloured shirt Bryony had been wearing.
By the time the engine chugged into life and the black men with gas masks stood in the aisle, Bryony was completely unconscious and blissfully ignorant of what she was heading to.
It was a far cry from the dubious school-lunch meatloaf the future had previously promised.
Charles Xavier frowned in impatience as he waited for someone to answer the phone. He could have simply dipped directly into the other man's mind, but here he was, doing the polite thing, and nobody would answer the phone. It was so incredibly irritating. I'll have to if no one answers the phone. This is too important to waste time about.
An annoyed female voice finally broke the never-ending ringing. "What?"
"This is Professor Charles Xavier calling for Mathew Ridgemore. I would like to talk to him immediately."
The nasal voice huffed irritably. "Hold the line."
No respect. The people are letting technology replace their humanity. Xaiver sighed, massaging his temples for the umpteenth time that day. He knew he'd been working too hard, but he was only the one who could do this. As much as he trusted his treasured X-Men, he did not want to burden them with this knowledge unless he had something concrete.
"This is Matthew Ridgemore."
"Matthew, it's Charles Xavier. I trust you remember me?"
"Professor! Of course! To what do I owe the honour of your phone call?"
"A matter most grave, I fear. Matthew, you are a journalist. I trust you are kept up to date with current events, even those which aren't published in the newspapers?"
Xavier could feel as his ex-student began to feel apprehensive.
"What do you want to know?"
"Has there been a homicide in Marksburrow?"
He heard the clicking of keys and waited apprehensively, tension pouring through his blood.
"Nothing reported. But I can get into the police files if you want me to…"
"Do it," Xavier said. He shouldn't be making his students prostitute their talents this way, but, he reminded himself, he had no choice. A few transgressions on the privacy part would only help in the long run.
"Yeah," said Matthew eventually. "a confirmed double homicide, with a missing relative. That's all they've got here. No names, nothing. I can't do anymore, sorry professor."
"That's alright, Matthew. Thank you for your help."
Xavier hung up heavily, gazing around his neat office despairingly. It's true, God forbid. It's true. He reached into a drawer of his desk and drew out a photo. It was grey-and-white, but had been done so for effect. It was not old. Three smiling faces looked up at him, bringing back memories from a far-off world.
He smoothed it and put it back, locking the three in his desk. They're gone, Charles. This is all your fault.
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