Chapter Four - Perfection
A dull groan turned his attention away from the men he'd killed at towards the boy, his face was flushed with fear as he struggled against the stone that had grew to cover his chest, and the two men locked eyes.
He didn't see the strong young man he'd taken from the Academy.
He saw a boy determined not to scream.
"I'm sorry kid, but a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do. It's nothing personal"
And the boy moved no more.
It was a strange sensation - dying that is.
He could feel himself solidifying - feel his body becoming a stone statue. Both on the inside and the out. It felt like he was being bitten by thousands of fleas, all of them nipping at his feet, piercing their tiny fangs into his skin, thousands or needle-like razors digging straight into him, stinging his muscles and then they were stabbing deeply into his bones.
He scrunched his eyes closed in pain, determined to be strong.
To not be weak.
I am afraid.
He can't remember the last time he admitted to that, or even really felt it. He'd learned to bury his fear, to lock it away, to replace it with his anger, with his fury. Instead of letting himself freeze with his fear, he'd learned to burn with his rage, but this time, it's just too much, it just hurts.
If this is how he dies, then why can't it be quick? Why does it have to take so long?
This is because of Thomas.
Everything I did to him, and everything I let Christian do to him.
This is my penance.
The pain stops in his feet, he can't feel them anymore, but the pain just moves up to his shins, he can see how quickly it happens to the other three, he can see how the stone is climbing them like a tree, rapidly coating them, but this feels like forever.
By the time it reaches his hips, he's starts begging for it to be over.
When it reaches his stomach, he prays one of the other three will take a shot at him.
When his lungs start to burn as he tries and fails to breathe, he stops begging.
It's clear that no one's listening.
When the pain reaches his head, and then stops, he tries not to laugh.
Death is a sweet release.
Death should be a sweet release.
But he's still breathing.
He can hear it.
He can hear his breaths bouncing off the stone around him, cooling and condensing against it, sending little droplets of water dripping down the front of his face. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, the blood still pulsing through his veins.
He isn't dead.
There's an audible 'CRACK', and then the briefest glimpse of the brightest light he's ever seen slips through.
More crunching noises can be heard, he can start to feel the wind on his face, hear its light whistle as it moves past him, blowing through the nearby trees.
And then he can see again.
The stars are out, and the moon is bright, half-covered by the light coating of clouds, but still bright enough to illuminate where he is.
He can see the other three people that assaulted them earlier, who are still stuck, unmoving, in their stone coffins.
They're dead.
He fell to his knees as the rest of his stone crumbled around him, turning to dust, and panting, he was determined not to cry tears of relief, he was just grateful to be alive.
"Kid!" He turned his head to see Hank staring at him, his backpack in his hands, which he had obviously foraged from the wreckage of the truck, "Oh my god", he muttered to himself under his breath, "you're one of us"
"What did you do to me!?"
Hank continued to stare at him, his mouth opening and closing, but making no sound.
Finally, feeling the rage inside him snap, he lunged.
He looked on as the four of them were encased inside of their stone cases, and felt a twinge of regret as his eyes lingered on the stone statue that used to be the kid.
He didn't want it to happen - why would he?
He was a good kid, and he would've made one hell of a soldier that his country could've been proud of later - maybe he'd could've been some big-shot general in the future - but it wasn't going to be.
Well … there was no point crying over it now was there?
Methodically, and very slowly, taking care not to jar his injured ribs and head (he really needed to see a doc), he stripped the car for what he could. Making sure that his case of Terrigen pods was still secure, he placed them at the side of the road, out the way of the wreckage, while he examined the rest of it.
The pods were his escape plan, and he couldn't risk anything happening to them.
Going through the rest of the car, he pulled the supplies of food and extra clothes he'd nicked from the Academy's stores off the back, while he pulled the boy's pack of clothes and other supplies from their place on the floor in front of the passenger's seat.
There was a little bit of blood on the dashboard, where it had dripped down from the boy's head injuries, but his pack was still in good condition. The boy was taller than he was, but he was still skinnier than him, so he could use the boy's clothes as spares to his own, and wasted no time in throwing them into his own Bergen.
He grabbed the last of the gear, pulled the straps on his Bergen tight, and slung it over his shoulder. All he needed now was the briefcase and then he could get out of there.
He was just stepping up to pick up the metal briefcase when he heard the first audible 'CRACK'.
Setting the case back down, he moved around the truck, looking for the source of the noise, and expecting to see some kind of new tear in the body of his truck, only to find that there was none.
The three idiots that had tried to take him out were still encased in stone, but he could hear deep breaths being forced into someone's lungs, and then, almost timidly, he moved around the rest of the way.
"Kid!" The word escaped his lips as he took in the sight of the broken cocoon. The boy was short of breath, and no doubt terrified at his change.
Change
"Oh my god", the words just kept slipping out, "You're one of us"
He saw the second the emotions switched across the kid's face, flipping from terror into pure, unadulterated rage.
"What did you do to me!?"
He could hear the aggression in the boy's voice, and tried to tell him, to explain, but the words just wouldn't come out.
He watched on as the kid's self-control was finally lost, and then, he lunged straight at him, his hand grabbing his wrist.
Both of them seized up.
And together, they fell down.
Life for me, has always been about the opportunity.
It's all about finding the right moment, the perfect opportunity, and in that moment, at that time, you're able to do just about anything you've ever wanted. Just look at me.
I left the Army when I couldn't stand being shot at and yelled at anymore, and then, when I finally got back home, I struggled for work, I couldn't make ends meet and then I lost Sara.
And what did they do to help me after my years of service?
Fuck.
All.
Assholes.
So I decided that if I wanted something to improve, then I had to make my own opportunities appear.
I started out small - I'd knock over a few small stores here and there, took part in the occasional mugging, but I always got bored. I tried bigger stores, moving onto jewellers, banks, and I put myself together a nice little nest egg, until one day when I tried to mug the suit carrying the Terrigen pod.
This government toolbag or whatever he was, took one look at me when I came out of the cocoon and wasted no time calling for security.
So I ran.
Or rather, I smoked, a trail straight outta there.
And then I stayed off the radar.
Until they found me.
Until she found me.
Fucking Inhumans.
But then again, all I had to do was wait, and eventually, the right opportunity showed up.
"What's an Inhuman?"
The question snapped him back to reality, pulling him back to his feet abruptly. There was no dizziness, no desire to vomit or light headedness.
Gingerly, he prodded the back of his skull, where he had shattered the door mirror against his head, only to find nothing.
No cuts, no shards of mirror glass, no blood.
Nothing.
The soft 'crunch' of boots on gravel snapped his head away from staring at his hands, and towards where Hank was attempting to run off.
"Hey!"
The older man stopped to stare at him, and he used his pause to run forwards.
Only he didn't run.
He vanished and reappeared a few feet in front of where he had been stood, surrounded by a cloud of smoke.
"What the Hell!"
"Woah"
He looked up from where he was panicking, attempting to bring his breath under control, to see Hank do the exact same move, and reappear right in front of him.
"Kid, you've got-"
He threw himself into the punch, hearing the satisfied break of a broken nose as he lunged to tackle him, throwing more punches against his already injured ribs.
"WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME!?"
Hank grunted and groaned in pain, spitting blood off to the side as he threw his weight upwards, throwing the kid off, before sending a blast of smoke his way, the blast connecting with the kid's chest, sending him flying backwards.
"FIX ME!"
He blasted the kid again, as he scrambled for his gear, throwing the bag back over his shoulder, the kid dashed straight in front of him, sending a front kick into his ribs, the added weight of the Bergen sending him sprawling onto his back
"WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME!?"
He and the kid had the exact same powers of smoke manipulation - that was practically unheard of, nobody ever got the same powers - and while he'd had a good few years of practice using them, he was sore as hell, he'd been beaten enough that needed to go to a fucking hospital, and the kid was a bloody good fighter in a scrap.
Seeing a town in the distance, he threw as much power into his dashing ability as he could, knowing the kid wouldn't be able to keep up with him, and he did what he'd been doing for the last few years.
He ran away.
He didn't notice as the boy picked up the briefcase he'd left behind, as he ignored his screams for help.
9 Hours Later
His insides were burning.
He could feel it on the inside, trying to force its way out. The needles had gone from stabbing into his skin to trying to pierce their way out, each one mauling at him internally, tearing at his innards, burning him from within.
Tentatively, he took another few steps forward, taking another breath of relief when he didn't dash forwards in a haze of smoke.
It had taken him a few hours and a powernap, but he finally seemed to have some minuscule grasp on his new freakish ability.
Or, at least, he'd finally stopped leaving a trail of smoke whenever he so much as moved a step forwards.
After he was done with his immediate goal, he was going to find Hank, no matter where he was, and he was going to have him fix whatever it was he had done to him.
He wasn't going to stay abnormal.
Inhuman.
It had been a long journey. He'd had to walk slower than the pace he could've run if he hadn't ended up turning into a bloody freak. He couldn't run without moving at least ten feet in a blaze of orange and black.
In the end, he'd controlled himself just enough to smoke-dash onto the back of a moving flatbed truck carrying hay, and from there, he'd caught three hours' sleep, resting his head on the briefcase Hank had left behind, while he was unknowingly taxied across the state.
He awoke when they passed into Boston and rolled off the truck, straight onto the early morning road. The fall had resulted in a nasty bruise on his arm, but he was happy when he realised that he no longer had to deal with any of the blood loss, bruises and glass piercings from whatever the hell had happened earlier.
From before.
When he was normal.
He snagged a backpack from where it had been left next to a dumpster, and securely tucked the briefcase into it, before throwing it over his shoulder. The backpack was black in colour, it had a few tears and was covered in dirt, but it suited his purposes.
And then he walked.
It was 0457 hours, according to the wristwatch he'd been given at The Academy, when he finally arrived.
Silently, using the walking techniques he'd been taught in his Academy field-craft lessons, he crossed the lawn leading up to the Ward house.
The Ward house was what it was called.
Not home.
Never home.
It was too early for anyone in the house to be awake yet, which was exactly what he needed. Rose had sworn that she would be at the hospital with Thomas and their parents, and that only Christian would be in the house.
Perfect.
Slipping into the garage with a code he'd known for years, after he'd watched his father type it in, unbeknownst to him, was simple enough, and, being careful not to wake his target in the rooms above him, he crossed the room, ignoring the sports cars that were sitting unused, he headed straight for the far corner, and straight for where she had told him to look.
Half-hidden by a white tarp sheet, was a large can of fuel and a box of matches.
The fumes from the fuel made him feel slightly woozy to begin with, but he was trained now to push through slight problems like that, and besides, being uncomfortable was nothing new for him in this house.
If anything, it made him feel slightly more normal.
He soaked the entrances to the house in fuel - making sure to get all of the doors and the ground floor windows, before covering as much of the exterior decking as he could - the wood would burn nicely, especially in the July heat.
He worked diligently, and in silence, determined to get it done as effectively as possible. The quicker, the better - he had a date with Hank whenever he could find him.
And when he was confident that there was enough done to start a real fire, he struck a match.
And watched as it burnt out instantly.
Immediately dropping it, he grabbed for a second one, striking it against the side of the box.
And the result was the same.
And the result was the same for the third, the fourth and the fifth matches.
When the eighth one fluttered out, he threw the box against the ground, before crushing it under his foot.
IT'S NOT FAIR!
IT'S NEVER FAIR!
Christian always got away with everything! There were never any repercussions. Mom always blamed me, and dad always blamed Tommy. Rose was too perfect for it to be her, and Christian was the star son.
Three-point-four grade average. Track star on his way to college with an all-but guaranteed scholarship - not that they needed the money - class president, and he had a spotless record.
Everything the perfect Ward family needed.
Letting a growl of frustration loose from his throat, he twisted his heel, enjoying the sound of the matchsticks crunching into pieces as he clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, bringing out tiny crescents of blood, before his hands exploded.
From his fists, a ball of smoke burst forth, smashing into the ground, and setting fire to the trail of fuel.
Job done.
The blaze was instant.
And in way, it was beautiful.
The flames danced around, and licked at the house, but it just wasn't enough.
Maybe it was the fuel he'd used, or the way he'd poured it out (was it too thinly spread?), but the flames weren't getting any higher than his waist level, before they started to fizzle out at the edges, dying off.
He didn't know how long he had stood there for.
Seconds.
Minutes.
Hours.
He watched on as the flames continued to dance about, transfixed, and the smoke generated spiralled around him, creating patterns in the early morning air.
Tentatively, he stretched out one of his hands forwards, trying the see what his hand would do to the smoke, before he whipped it back in shock.
The smoke flew into his skin, leaving a slight haze behind, but he could feel it there, the smoke empowering him, making him feel stronger, faster and just better than he had before.
And then, the window to the parlour smashed open, sending glass flying everywhere, and clad in only a pair of boxer shorts, his older brother fell out.
"YOU!"
His brother snarled, twisting his face, as he lunged for him, only to be met by a swift uppercut to his jaw.
Christian was sent backwards, scrambling away from him.
And straight to the feet of their father.
Standing at the front entrance to the property were both of their parents, Rose, and Thomas.
And they were all wearing their nightwear.
They hadn't been in the hospital.
They'd been in bed.
Asleep.
He took a step forward, only to watch as Tommy shrank backwards, and into their mother's side, determined to look as small as possible. Rose shot him a smug look, which baffled him, but it was the expression of absolute fury on the faces of his parents and Christian that gave him pause.
In the process of watching the house burn, he'd failed to notice the front door being kicked down, or their arrival from their bedrooms, as well as that of the emergency services.
Which included the Boston Police Department.
One of the officers, he recognised him from the dinners he'd been forced to attend by his parents over the years, stopped briefly to speak to his father, who wasted no time in pointing straight at him.
Cautiously, visibly scanning him for a weapon as he stepped forwards, the officer moved his hands to his waist.
Where his gun was kept.
He ran through scenarios in his head - juvenile hall, prison, and worse flashed through his head. If his new abnormality came out, then he'd end up on a lab table in some lab for dissection.
NO!
So he did the only thing he could think of.
He turned, ignoring the officer yelling at him to "Freeze!"
He ran.
Author's Note
Writing a Terrigenesis scene was harder than I thought it'd be. I'm still not 100% happy with it, but I don't think I did too badly either.
Anyways, now we have an Inhuman Ward, but we already knew that, and next up, we have a mission in Peru ... with some changes of course.
Please, leave a comment below (kudos as well? Maybe?, and let me know what you thought.
-MarvelMatt