Title: Lost Causes

Author: the laws of transitivity

Rating: PG-13 (For now, at least)

Summary: Toad thought that he could put his torturous childhood behind him, but someone appears from his past and brings it all screaming back.

Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men.

Please Read and Review.

Prologue

York, England 1982

They brought him down here almost a year ago. Another boy. Another freak. They said this one looked more like the Devil than I did. He was still young. They kept him upstairs with the rest of the kids until he could walk and talk, just as they'd done with me. Now he was chained to the wall across from the one I was chained to. It's always pretty dark in the basement, but his eyes caught and reflected the small bit of light that filtered in through the grimy windows so it appeared that they were glowing. It was a bit demonic.

The priest calls him Child Lucifer. His skin was completely black, so he blended in with the wall behind him in the dark room. Clothed in hand-me-downs from the sixties, it was easy to see how that leather-like skin clung to his bones, displaying ribs, hips, and collar bone. He did not have eye whites, irises, or pupils. The eyes were just red- bright, glowing red.

I suppose it's some odd sort of kindness they show him: starting out easy. It was a while ago, but I suppose they did the same for me. When they come down, they'll belt him around a little, give a good grope or two, then come for me next. I get the real shit end of it. At best, they'll kick the shit out of me, tell me that I'm a disgusting toad of a boy, that the Devil has a special place in hell for demons like me. At worst… well, I try not to think about 'at worst'. They've raped me for more hours than I can count.

Sometimes, Sister Doreen will sneak down to us. She's always been good to me, and she extends the same affection toward this new boy that she calls Michael. If she bandaged us up at all, they'd notice, and she couldn't come down anymore, but she'll bring us food sometimes and tell us stories. When we're well enough, she makes us walk around in the small space that the chains provide so our legs don't forget how. The kind old nun has been teaching me how to read from the Bible. She says that Michael is too young to learn just yet, but that when he's five or six like me, she'll teach him, too.

Last week, when she came to see us, she brought each of us a small figurine of a woman, a nun. She told us that her name was Saint Rita of Cascia. Saint Rita is the patron saint of lost causes and abused children. Which reason she was giving us the figurines for, she did not say.

Last night, Michael was crying again. He does that a lot, but I don't think it's just because he's hurt. "Michael," I sighed, "Keep it down or they'll hear you." Then they'd come downstairs and yell at us.

"I w-w-want t'go out," he sobbed from across the room. The ruby glow of his eyes was blurred with tears.

"You can't go out," I muttered, "You live here."

There was a pause while he tried to pull himself together, to stop crying. He sniffled, then said very quietly, "Mort?" That's my real name. No one but Michael or Sister Doreen calls me that.

"Yeah, Michael?"

"D'you think I'm a demon?" His voice was shaky, threatening to weep again.

I thought about it. Only one person had ever told the two of us that we weren't, but she was the only person that was any good to us. "I don' think so," I decided.

The next night, something weird happened to me. It was like a tingle, energy rushing through my limbs, my freakish tongue. They'd beaten me pretty badly that night, but suddenly I felt myself coursing with an almost frustrated need to move. My legs kicked out furiously, the left one connecting with one of the chains that attached my arm to the wall. It wrenched at my wrist hard and made the metal groan where it connected to the wall. I stopped, looking down at the offending leg. I didn't know I could kick that hard. I tried again, aiming the kick closer to the wall. The metal connector wrenched loudly in the brick and came part of the way out. Michael's red eyes were open and glowing across the room, watching me intently as I gave another kick and dislodged it. I did the same with the other and leapt to my feet. I was free.

"Come get me!" he hissed pleadingly, "Mort, come get me!"

But the noises had attracted unwanted attention from upstairs. I could hear them coming, and I knew that they'd beat me if they found out I tried to escape. They'd chain me back down and beat me. I looked at Michael, then at the stairs where I knew they would be any minute.

With one leap, I was at the window. With one kick, I broke it open. Without a second thought, I left the younger boy behind me and ran toward freedom.