Matthew stood before a jewelry counter with his eyes firmly planted on the Rolex watch that sat like a silvery beacon on the glass countertop. The voices of the clerks were jamming the inside of his head, while the powerful cry of thoughts from the customers was constantly cutting into his own: Will she say yes? What if he doesn't like this? Oh, my God, if a man ever bought me that, we would be married forever. Two-hundred dollars for a necklace?! Are you kidding me? Matthew closed his eyes and tried to calm the aching hammering thoughts slamming into his cranium like nails against dry wall. It was as if each thought splintered his mind into thousands of pieces. He opened his eyes with a fierce resolve appearing in his bright brown irises and he stretched out his hand, the watch slid casually across the counter and into his fingers. He looked down at the watch, his vision going blurry from the sudden pressure on his head. He turned his head to the nearest clerk, she seemed busy with other customers, but that didn't matter to Matthew. He could have escaped with the queen's diamond and still gotten out of it unscathed, but that wasn't the point of his thievery—to get away. It was to escape from something else entirely.
The young boy turned sharply from the counter and ran out of the jeweler's, setting off a plethora of screeching alarms. He flipped his red hoody up so his face would be hidden to the mall cameras and charged down the hall. His heart raced as the thoughts of those around him dissipated, leaving him with only his adrenaline and his fear of being caught. He ran out of the mall and into the snowy parking lot outside, slipping over a chunk of ice and falling face-first. His tooth chipped and he felt his nose crack and blood spew from it. He grinned slowly to himself—this would be the best chase, yet. He dug his fingernails into the ice and attempted pulled his scrawny body up, struggling to right himself as mall security charged after him.
He realized with a sudden sickening thought, he couldn't get up. He fought to stand, but his ankle was twisted at a nauseating angle. He felt a hard tug on his shoulder as one of the mall security officers yanked him to his feet. "You've done real bad today, kid." He said with a sigh. He pushed Matthew's sleeves up to reveal the long and jagged scars across his arms; some were only recently scabbed, while others looked years old. The officer let out a little gasp at the sight of the kid's painful scars, swallowing loudly as if in shock. Yeah, take that in, asshole. Matthew thought to himself as he spat blood into the snow from his chipped tooth. Despite the serious wounds, the officer managed to handcuff Matthew, as if the boy could do anything about it.
Bleeding and feeling pretty pathetic, Matthew felt sadness from deep within himself rise up into his chest. A small tear slipped from his eye and rolled down his cheek where it hung on the edge of his jaw like a drop of dew. They thought he was a thief, a criminal, and now, a very manic-depressive fourteen-year old boy. He wasn't. If only they knew the truth. If only they could understand. He knew they never would because he could hear their thoughts. He could hear them, now—surrounding him, crushing him, and eventually, destroying him. He fell to his knees, falling into the wave of unconsciousness and into the newly-fallen snow.
Mia, be a ballerina. Mia, be the best ballerina. Mia, lose that belly fat, my God, ballerinas cannot have extra weight. Mia, your hair is to be in a bun every moment of this class, do you understand? Mia, why aren't you wearing the proper ballet slippers? Mia, dancers do not sit like that. Mia, ballerinas do not slack off. Mia, if you ever talk back to me, again. Mia, are you listening? Mia. Mia. MIA.
That was her life. A constant swirl of her mother's voice that shoved her to be the best dancer of the class, pressuring her to dance until her feet bled, and not allowing her to eat for two days, at times. Mia Hemming: the world-class ballerina. That's what her mother wanted her name to be, so that's what she was. A dancer and a world-class ballerina who was known as being one of youngest Olympians of all time And now, as she stood above the rooftop watching the city move beneath her at a million miles per hour, she couldn't understand why everyone was so wound up about everything and anything. The slowness of the world astounded her; it drove her to realize the utter beauty of imperfection. This was what the poets like Hemingway and Shakespeare had written about—the slowness of time escaped everything. It escaped the boundaries of society like magic.
She reached out to touch the sun wanting to feel the last stretches of its rays before she leaped for a final pirouette. Her fingers slowly turned lightly green as baby saplings of trees began to root themselves into the ground beside her. She felt bile bubble in her throat as her whole body began to turn green like a stem of a rose. She shook wildly. No. No. No. Don't do this, now, please. She pleaded to the curse, trying to keep her power at bay, while flowers began to spout from her skin and roses root themselves in her hair. She screamed and pulled at the green roping around her feet.
"Let me go! God, let me go!" She cried to herself as small, sappy tears escaped from her eyes. The dancer turned sharply to the edge of the building, her green form shimmering like a star in the night sky. Mia gritted her teeth and finally ripped away from the vines that held her to the ground, stepping to the edge of the building. She looked down and unsteadily slipped from the ledge. "Wait, n-no!" She reached out and tried to grip the side of a window, a brick, anything! But she couldn't get a hold of something to keep her from falling, until she felt herself snag on the edge of a building. She looked up shakily, scared of what it was and realized it was the vines that had tangled themselves around her feet. For once, she found herself silently praising her cursed powers or whatever the hell they were. She curled upwards and grabbed hold of the vine, crawling back to the edge of the towering building.
Dakota was sitting on the edge of his bathtub watching the sink with a fearful gaze. He swallowed hard as his stomach began to coil in anxiety, his palms began to grow sweaty, and he could feel the clenching tightness of his gut switch on. The sink burst on then, gushing water at an insane velocity as it began to flood the floor, the counter and everything in its path. "Dakota, are you ready?!" His father rapped sharply on the door. His voice was deep and snappy—a definite sign of his moodiness.
"Uh, yeah, Dad—just a sec!" He called to him, reaching out for the sink and jerked the tap close. He let out a sigh of reprieve and leaned against the counter for a moment, before coming out of his bathroom. He caught sight of himself in the mirror on his way downstairs and stole a glance. His dark hair was combed over precisely, but a few waves had managed to escape his gel. His bright blue eyes gleamed with a youthful glint, but obnoxiously bulged—as he would say. He was wearing the required navy-blazer and khaki pants of the uniform for St. Peter's, along with his tie impeccably tied straight and his shoes gleaming like new. He knew that a uniform was meant to hide all differences among his classmates, but why was it that in a uniform, he felt more different than anyone?
His father's Mercedes came to life as he started the car. He had promised that Mercedes to him when he turned sixteen, but that was still years away, with his fifteenth birthday right around the corner. With one final look at himself in the mirror, Dakota grabbed his book-bag and slipped it on his shoulders. Then he pushed the door open, walking out to the driveway where his father awaited. He got into the passenger seat and held onto his book-bag clutching it nervously and toying with the strings at the end of the zippers. He didn't want to look at his father or even try to make conversation with him. Lately, after everything that had happened, neither father nor son had spoken.
Finding the silence excruciating, Dakota pressed on the radio and heard Lady Gaga's Paparazzi come on. He wanted beyond anything to just stop and listen to his damn Gaga, but knowing his father, he would just look like an idiot. He flipped the station to some shoddy 80's, looking out the window as his father backed out of the gated entrance and out onto the road. The young boy looked up at the impressive architecture of his house, hearing his grandmother's voice in his head rambling about how a hundred-fifty years ago his great-great-grandfather built that house and how he made those pillars on the front porch with his own saw and how the mahogany tables were made from the trees he grew and how honored he should feel to be living in a piece of history. Well, to be completely honest, Dakota hated the house. It was old, creepy, and filled with a bunch of crucifixes that all portrayed the dying Jesus on the cross. At the thought of it now, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The very thought of religion really just made him nervous.
"Dakota, my boy," his father spoke, suddenly. His son swallowed and blinked hard, trying to swallow the lump that appeared at the back of his throat. "You don't have to be this-this abomination. This is a choice, son, not a genetic mutation." He said factually, but it stung Dakota deeply. He bit into his lip and turned away to look out the window once more.
"I know, Dad… I'm trying…" He whispered softly. He knew that if he spoke any louder, his father would notice he was on the verge of tears.
As his father pulled up to the dark and shadowy buildings of St. Peter's High School, he put the car into park, and grabbed his son's arm. "Well, try harder, okay? You're not gay, Dakota. I promise you that, my boy." Dakota felt the final knife plunge itself into his heart as the first tear slipped out of his eye. He knew what he was. He knew it was wrong. He knew he was a freak. He knew it all, but his father insisted on bringing it up…all the time. He pulled out of father's grasp and grabbed his book-bag off of the floor. He felt like he was going to throw up, but he couldn't. Not here. Not at school. "Dakota!" His father called after him as he walked off. "Dakota, you know I mean it for your happiness!" He called to him.
Whatever. Dakota thought to himself. You don't care what your father thinks. You don't care what anyone thinks, remember? He reminded himself. But he was a terrible liar. He lied because it was the only thing that kept him going every day. He knew he didn't have any friends, a father who accepted him, or a mother who had wanted to keep him. He knew he wasn't worth anything to anyone… But there was that peculiar gift of his with the water. He could control it like an on-and-off switch. It made him feel alive and free of all ties … He knew he couldn't be alone in this: being a highly gay teenager with a gift for controlling water. He couldn't be alone in the universe, and that's what kept him going. He would find them someday—the people like him. With his hopes raised a bit, he entered the great archway and into the atrium of the school, but as he did, he could feel the last of his confidence drain out of him like water into the street.
Achilles Worthington. The scripted signature was elegant and smooth as it swam across the page like a wave over sand. Achilles stood back to admire his work, looking up at the judge with bright and intelligent eyes. A small smile was pulling at the sides of his lips as he shoved the paper towards the man. "You'll see, your honor, my brother is on due house-arrest, and will remain there for as long as you desire. However, by my proposition's words, I ask of you to please bear in mind my brother's…distasteful characteristics. He gets rather testy when he's confined in such a small space." Yes, the 30,000 square foot estate he lives in is such a misery to bear. He clicked his pen in and stuck it into his suit pocket offering his hand to the judge, who shook it with certain tentativeness before he finally dipped over his desk to sign the court order.
As soon as the judge was finished, Achilles snatched up the file and stuck it into his brief case, then snapped the locks closed on it. He said his parting words of etiquette to the judge before he walked out of the court office and into the waiting area where his impish brother was seated. Warren, of course, was drunk and, with trying conspicuity, attempting to light a blunt. His older brother face palmed and grabbed hold of the rolled-up marijuana and threw it into the trash. "What the hell are you doing, you pompous dipshit?" He snapped at him as he grabbed hold of his brother's shoulder and pushed him to his feet.
"Relax, dude, it was only a little bit." He said to his condescending brother, but Achilles was hearing none of it.
"A little bit? Really, Warren? I just spent the past two hours of my life, fighting for you to stay out of prison another day. They don't care if you're Warren Worthington's son—they will take you in, brother dear. Look, you want to spend Dad's money, play with the fancy toys he gives to you, and get drunk off your moronic ass, that's fine. But do not call me, begging for my help, when you're just going to throw it away as soon as you're off the hook. This isn't how real life works, Warren." Achilles angrily lectured him. He could feel his muscles tightening as his grip on Warren's shoulder grew stronger. His power gripped him and he could feel his rage dissolve into his bones, his muscles, and his very words.
"Jesus, Achilles, let go of me!" Warren screamed at him as they reached the parking lot. Achilles heard a crack of bone and turned sharply back to look at his younger brother. He quickly moved his hand off of his arm, knowing he had been inches away from crushing it. "War, I'm sorry…" Achilles quickly felt remorse flood over him as his eyes showed the clear guilt that glimmered in his Windex-blue eyes.
Warren only laughed at him in a bitter and sadic way. "You tell me to get my shit together, brother, when you can't even control your own strength." He slipped off his jacket and his bright and gleaming angel wings broke through his shirt, growing until they were at least five feet taller than he was. "You can dress up your mutation with your fancy Harvard Law suits, your big, old, and elaborate words—Oh! And let's not forget the degree that you got at twenty years old. But you know something, Achilles, you don't have to change your mutation because it's already changed you. You've become Dad's greatest accomplishment: a mutant-free son. Yeah, I'll hand it to you, bro, you fooled me for a few years, too… Until you didn't." His tone was suddenly dark and foreboding as he took a step closer. The air around the two brothers thickened with tension and the power that was felt between the two of them was intense.
"When Dad finds out what you really are, when he sees the monstrosity that you've become… He'll "cure" you, and you'll wish that you had been like me, and had just taken the chances Dad offered me, when you had the opportunity." He flapped his wings once and levitated off the ground, looking heavenward as if he really was an angel being called home by some god of the skies. "Good luck with the whole "lawyer" thing, Achilles. Hope it works out." He spat at him as he rocketed off into the sky, twirling through the skyscrapers of New York.
Achilles sunk to a bench beside him and placed his head in his hands. He was still reliving his brother's conversation over-and-over in his head. His brother might have left, but his words still remained in the foggy and bleak air around him. It was true, what Warren had said. He was a mutant or an "atrocity" as their father called them. His strength could have lifted cars, bent iron, and even lifted a house, in an emergency situation, but he could hide it, like Warren had said. He had always been so adept to hiding it, and when Warren's wings began to grow-in when he was ten, it was perfect timing for Achilles. He was free of his father's suspicious glares and his endless questioning about why he was able to lift his bicycle with one hand or why he had been able to shove a car off his injured puppy. Warren had changed everything, even Achilles' attitude. When he saw the mistreatment done to his younger brother from their cold and calculating father, he set his sights on law school with one goal in mind: to bring down the Worthington Empire, brick by brick.
Yet when he graduated from high school at fourteen, he knew he would have to do better than bring down the lofty heights of his family's empire—he would have to destroy this idea his father had conceived about mutants. He believed they were sick and curable by a miracle drug. As far as Achilles knew, his father had spent Warren's entire life searching for something to cure his youngest son the "disease." Achilles would have to convince his father, his brother, and the rest of mankind that mutants were not atrocities of societal grace, but beautiful and unique beings. But he couldn't do this alone. A war was never one with simply one man, but an army of men. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the contacts until he found the number he had been searching for. Pressing the call button and raising it to his ear, he waited until the familiar and warm voice of his old mentor picked up.
"Achilles, my dear boy?! What a wondrous pleasure to hear from you." His voice was kind and gentle, just as Achilles remembered.
"Professor Xavier, I know, it's been too long, but I've been working a lot of cases with Mr. McCoy up in the State's Office… How is everyone?" He really just wanted to ask the question nagging in the back of his head, but he owed the respect to Xavier to at least brief him on everything going on in his life.
"Mr. Worthington, as much as I appreciate the affection you share for my interests, I know you are really calling for another reason. In truth, I need your assistance if you desire for mine."
Achilles frowned deeply. What could the professor possibly want with him? "Anything, sir." He meant that, despite wanting Xavier's help. His old mentor had given him everything, when he thought he could achieve nothing.
"Your old friend—Miss. Guinevere Brayden—you remember her, don't you?" Gwen. How could he forget her?
"Yes, sir, I do. She was my… She was an old friend of mine." Oh, she had been much more than that. Someone much closer and intimate than a normal friend could have ever been.
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. Xavier was flipping through his mind. He could feel him watching the memories of Gwen. The summer nights where they would lay out in the fields behind the school and watch the stars, the secret drunken days on the rooftop of the botanical gardens, and the hours of time they had simply spent laughing and goofing off together. Achilles didn't want him to see some of it, even though it happened so many years ago… It still felt wrong his old professor was glancing through his mind. "I'm afraid she's missing, Achilles. Director Clancy contacted me only last week informing me she's absolutely disappeared without a trace."
His heart palpitated in his chest as he felt the world become so artificially fragile, one touch may have destroyed it. "What are you saying to me, Professor?" Achilles asked quietly, shutting his eyes.
"My dear boy, you know exactly what I'm saying. It's time for you to come home, Achilles. It's time for you to become part of the X-Men once more."