Author's Note: I haven't gotten to do anything really comic book-y in a long while with this fic. That probably is the most depressing reality of SSP. Sometimes I need caped crusaders, and I'm writing about whiny school kids. But my favorite caped crusaders are whiny school kids (Hellion is going to make a brilliant full-time superhero some day--if Fraction does not write him back to the stone age. Give him back to Yost and Kyle! Although I see why they can't use him on X-Force, as on their run of New X-Men they made him the guy who said, "no, we don't kill." They'd have to mess with their own character development to get him to go black ops--not that they did not mess with Rahne's character to get her to go black ops). But I digress.
A lot of people claim that they don't like powerless AUs because the X-Men are about the powers. Yes they are teenagers, but their powers force them into situations normal teenagers couldn't deal with, and only their powers allow them to deal with those situations. I see the other side of the coin. People get pushed into hard situations, and they have to make their decisions as normal people. Just because they're packing a bazooka behind each eyeball does not mean that they would make the basic decision any differently than they would if they were not. The Cyclopses of the Marvel world just have some different options than the Clint Bartons (the totally human and still kicking ass before and after death via Scarlet Witch disintegration, thank you very much). Powerless does not, and should not mean skilless, talentless, or that real life situations cannot escalate out of control as badly as a battle with Proteus.
That said, crazy events that make superhero worlds work are not as likely to have analogues in an AU. I am concentrating on an AU story where I can't write exciting adventures of the Golden Age! into the plot and expect my characters to swallow it. But occasionally story arcs like this one come along, and suddenly it feels as though I'm writing for a fully powered universe. It's brilliant. It can be done in a powerless AU. Admittedly, it took quite a while to build to this point. Still, I got there.
The cloudless day had turned to an overcast, darkly dismal night. John surveyed the sky once more, thinking that it was a clear omen. He should not be doing this. Instead of listening to his better sense, though, here he was, standing in cold, wet grass, eying the brick wall that ran around Professor Xavier's property. John was not going to win any track and field records, but Betsy had mentioned that there was portion of the wall by the small wooded area where the bricks were in less than good repair.
Unfortunately, he was not seeing the black holes for footholds that he had expected. There was a whole lot more bush and undergrowth involved, though. Maybe he would get lucky, and get defeated by nature. It was already past the ten o'clock curfew. When Pietro showed up at school tomorrow, looking betrayed, John could legitimately say that he had not been able to get out of the Institute. Yeah, that sounded good.
Turning around confidently, John was about to walk back to the his room when he smacked into something fairly soft and human.
"Like, ow! Watch it!" Kitty collided with a trunk, as John hastily fumbled for one of his match boxes.
Striking the sulfur dipped head and holding the light aloft, John looked at his house mate in consternation. "Kitty! What are you doing up? What are you doing here?"
Kitty waved a camera, and pointed at the gazebo that perched cat like over the sound. "I was practicing night time photography. Piotr has been teaching me. Well, not so much as practicing, but, well, you know what I mean. I was doing some night time photography. Until I heard some idiot crashing about in the brush. What are you trying to do?"
John decided to go for broke. The worst that could happen would be that Kitty would call Dr. MacTaggart. Well, that was a pretty bad "worst that could happen" but still, Kitty was a nice person, and not likely to hand him over for torture just for a silly infraction of the rules. Right? "I'm trying to sneak out and, um, meet some friends. But well, I can't get over the wall, so no—,"
Kitty interrupted him. "Oh, that's easy enough. I can show you. Strike another match—why didn't you bring a flashlight?"
John blew out the slow burning match reluctantly. It had been so pretty. "Uh, I'm not experienced with sneaking out, I guess. Hey, I was smart enough to bring matches!" He always brought matches.
"Yeah, and when you get beyond the technological advancement of the oil filled lantern I'll be impressed," Kitty grinned in the dark.
With a scrape and a small whoomph, a second match flared. Kitty took John's arm. She lead him, and more importantly, the small pool of light, to the brick wall. They searched along it, or Kitty searched, while John watched the match, fire consuming the wood, reducing it to charcoal. Kitty found the holes in the brickwork just as the starving flames nipped playfully at John's fingers.
He shook out the match, and was left blinking away purple and green blotches from his vision.
"Well, here you are," Kitty told him, also blinking in the sudden darkness. "Just toss your bag over, and then go after it."
John looked at her quizzically, although his expression was lost to the shadows. "How'd you know about this?"
"Pul-lease, Kurt takes everyone on a curfew breaking night to Burger Bomb right before exams. You should try finding this place in the dark in the snow. It's awful. But it is kind of hilarious to see Jean and Scott willingly break the rules. They always look so proud of themselves. Well, I'm mean, he's only done it twice so far, but it's pretty great."
Johnny grinned, tossing his bag over the wall. "I bet the Prof is in on it."
Kitty nodded, watching the Aussie try to hoist himself over. "Probably. He just happened to go to Burger Bomb at eleven o'clock right before finals last year. Scott nearly went purple, but Professor X said he wouldn't remember that we had all broken curfew, if we were kind enough to forget that he had gone to a fast food restaurant. It was actually pretty cool, and nice to talk to him in a more relaxed setting than his office."
John grunted, hoisting himself to the top of the wall. "I'll remember that. See ya!"
His landing, at least, was more graceful than his accent, although his teeth rattled. Picking up his backpack once again, the young man suddenly wondered why he had brought that along with him. Was there going to be a test in the middle of a burglary?
Hmm, burglary, John pondered the word as he trotted along. In P.G. Woodehouse's classic, Jeeves advised against activities of a burglarious nature. Or did he endorse them, encouraging the hapless Mr. Wooster in the escapade of that novel? It was so hard to remember. Plots of various Jeeves & Wooster books blurred together in John's mind. Hmm. Actually, Jeeves generally helped with the various asinine schemes of his employer. If Jeeves did it, then it couldn't be wrong!
But stealing from a local store was just not on the same level as stealing a silver cow creamer from some old man. Or was the line from the one where Bertie had to steal a painting for his aunt? Or did "burglarious nature" appear in the one where Bertie had to kidnap his other aunt's dog from a playwright who had taken the dog because his son liked it?
The only wisdom that St. John was really able to drag from satiric novels set in the early thirties seemed to be that having aunts was a bad idea. He did not have aunts, so that was okay. Maybe people like Betsy filled in the role, however.
Absorbed as he was in conjecture, John barely noticed how close he had come to the rendezvous point. Yellow lamp light illuminated the empty street, reflecting off picture windows of the older quaint Bayville establishments. John set down his bag under a puddle of light, and leaned against the lamp pole. It was not too long before he could hear wheels whirring on concrete.
Evan came to a perfect stop, kicking his Barbie stickered skateboard into his hands.
John snickered. "You still haven't gotten all of them off?"
Evan shrugged defensively. "My mom liked the one with the butterflies. And it is kinda fun seeing people think I'm a lightweight before I thrash them."
"Such violence," John tutted.
Evan smirked, before giving the empty street a suspicious appraisal. Where was Pietro? "Look, why are you here? I mean I know I'm sort of an idiot, but you're supposed to be some sort of genius, right? You have no excuse."
John sighed. "Dunno. I mean, we're gonna get caught—but could you imagine what would happen to Pietro if he tried it alone? I mean this comes under the heading of "I know what I am about to do is stupider than making a chocolate tea kettle, but if I don't do it, I can't hold my head up." Or something like that, anyway. It's weird. I mean, Pietro's not a good enough friend to do this for—but all of my other friends combined would want someone responsible to keep an eye on him. I'm not the best man for the job, but it looks like I'm the only one, you know."
Evan sighed. "I suppose that's good enough."
"What's good enough?" both boys whirled to see Pietro standing under the light, looking bored.
Running his fingers through his orange hair, St. John tried to wordlessly pass the answer ball to Evan. The skater just shrugged.
After a few more awkward seconds Pietro hissed, and turned to walk into the alley between Keigo's Autobody and Sleek Rides (for all of your biking needs). "Whatever, c'mon."
John and Evan shared a silent moment of sidelong glances. We are such cowards.
"So," Pietro began conversationally, "I was thinking that we could try to get the transmission from one of the show cars that Keigo keeps around, but that might be a little hard to grab, so, any ideas?"
John stared at the boy. "You're confusing me for someone who drives."
Pietro glared back. "Oh, c'mon, you're smart. You must know something useful, Johnny-boy."
John shook his head, as Evan added: "I'm fourteen, and holding my only set of wheels. You started this. Don't you know what we're looking for?"
"Why would I know that?" Pietro grabbed the handle of the side door, and gave it a shove. The door flew open. "I have two feet to get me places. Aw, who cares? Everyone can use a new CD player, and those are easy enough to jack."
Making his way nervously into the dark garage Evan couldn't help berating himself. Helping out Pietro? What had he been thinking? First of all, it wasn't as though they were friends. Secondly, the guy could not plan to save his life. What did he expect? That the world would just let the pieces of his scheme fall into his lap. "Figures the one time you'd want to have listened to those Car Talk guys is also the one time you realize that you're in trouble. Let's leave—,"
"Not so fast!" Pietro's voice was edged with glee in the darkness. "You're right, I think I can remember some stuff from Saturday mornings. John, snap on a light, would you?"
Getting out his matches once more, John stuck one, and then began to examine the walls for a light switch.
Pietro, on the other hand, was in full planning mode, much to Evan's exasperation. "Lessee, catalytic converters are under cars, and along the main tail pipe. We could grab one of those once we find some sort of cutting tool. Oh! But an alternator runs the belts of a car, and that's located in the engine block, I think—,"
"I think you're talking out your hat. Do you even know what any these things look like?" Evan pointed out dryly, before pain shot though his leg. "Ow! John, get the lights on, would you? I think I found the work bench."
As the world is a neat and delicate place, it was at about this minute that St. John found the light switch on the wall. Shaking out his match sadly, he flicked the overheads on, and stepped back to survey the garage. The half with the light switch turned out to be the place where the tools were stored in racks and strewn out over the table. A few old fuel containers were stashed behind a counter barricade, and there was a small door leading to the actual shop. Where the trio had entered, however, was the huge, open work space. A car had half ascended to the ceiling on a lift, and there was a convertible on the floor—which was what Evan had walked into.
Pietro dashed over to survey the various benches, muttering about the need for parts. St. John raised a hand. "What if we take tools, instead? Some of these must be really expensive," he waved a wrench in Pietro's general direction.
As Pietro considered the suggestion, Evan climbed a rickety staircase that seemed to wrap around the garage. Perhaps there was something up there. Besides the smell of grease and fumes was making his head feel floaty. The place was pretty cool, but there were way better things that Evan could be doing at twelve o'clock at night.
The stairs lead him to a small loft, filled with old junk, and the smell of gasoline. Looking around in the shadows, he found one grimy window looking out into the street. Curiously peering out, he saw a car pull up front, lights flashing on the roof.
"GUYS! Turn off the lights!" the freshman yelled down the stairs. "There are police out there!"
With a click, Evan was left to clatter down the stairs in the dark. His fingers brushed along the old insulation and wooden studs as the boy careened down, hopping that he didn't lose his balance and fall into the banister-less void.
From the front office, a flashlight cut through the partially open door, seeking miscreants. Someone muttered something, and a shriller voice answered: "I saw the light on, and Niko never locks up. It would be just like the kids around here to vandalize his place."
Evan crawled as stealthily as he could to where the terrified breathing of his friends could be issuing. It was hard to tell, as the mutter of voices rose and fell in the background but a short gasp as his hand came down on something like denim told the skater that he had found his compatriots. One of them grabbed his shirt, pulling him roughly forward, the skateboard under his arm scraping gently against the floor.
The boys held collective breaths, but there was no change in the voices.
"Okay, new plan, guys," Pietro hissed, figuring that the conversation in the office was sufficient cover, "we wait until they're gone, and then run for it."
With the swish of worn shoes on smoothed concrete, John realized that the voices had stopped rumbling. The door between the office and the workshop creaked slightly as it opened. "Hettie? Where's the light switch?"
"Right by the door, Captain."
Pietro grabbed the nearest thing to him, John's arm, in pure terror. He could not get caught! He had to get financial aid and scholarships next year! Why had he let Lance's bad attitude talk him into this?
John wrenched his arm away with a vicious tug, and ended up crashing into the large red plastic drums of gasoline next to them. They fell with a clatter, and in the next instant there was a horrifyingly loud click of a gun cocking.
"All right, nice and slow, you want to stand up, and keep your hands where I can see them," the policeman told the darkness calmly, trying not to laugh at the idea of seeing anything in the garage. He felt along the wall, trying to locate the light switch. There were the sounds of scuffling in the dark, and gasoline fumes were making him giddy, however, he had the perps right where he wanted them. Then he saw a small orange glow cut off from his vision by a dark chest high long rectangle.
"No, you crazy idiot!" someone yelled.
Someone else laughed.
The glow disappeared for a second, as two darker shapes lunged for the open shadows of the garage. Then all Captain Rogers could see was light.
Years of gasoline soaked into concrete, with a newer thin film of the flammable liquid running over the surface lit the darkness as soon as the match John had used landed. He rose in the middle of the flames, laughing like a demon, as gasoline soaked hems smouldered, and then caught. Pietro and Evan were already running from this impromptu spectacle.
Light danced with shadow, hissing and spitting in marvelous ecstasy. The fire crackled at his ankles spreading around him like a huge flower, a thing of real beauty. Words were a sublime form art that could move people to love and tears. The pinnacle of perfection was the moment when the reader could no longer see the page, when the reader transported themselves into the reading. Rapturous. The moment when words disappeared—the moment when the world was content with existence.
Fire started at that point. Fire made everything else fragile, ephemeral shadows, bowing to its dance of living light. Beauty rawly transforming everything into itself in selfish joy. Words were unnecessary for John. This was what really mattered.
"You crazy nut job! You're on fire!"
A pair of arms wrapped around his skinny frame, and hauled him clear of the bright river spreading across the garage. Something exploded. The shock caused the strong man to falter. John slumped to the floor, and rolled. The hungry flames dipped, dying in protest. Someone else grabbed his arm again.
John went with inertia, allowing his second rescuer to pull him from the garage. After a few seconds he managed to make it to a shambling run. Agony seemed to be running from his ankles in cracking red waves. Nine feet into the alley, he collapsed. The fire was probably dying down—there had not been that much gasoline spilled. He wanted to stay and watch it forever. Instead, here he was, lying face down, broken glass poking into his cheek. His rescuer stared at him.
"Okay. Okay. Okay. Can you keep going? The cops will be swarming all over. I can already hear the firetrucks. We have gotta get moving."
John peered blearily at the young man standing over him. "Evan? But we gotta save that police man. I'm good for it, promise. He saved me. Gonna make him a hero. The best there ever was."
Daniels looked around nervously. John was clearly not in the land of the normal right now. Maybe he'd inhaled something weird. There had been a lot of paint cans and chemicals that probably did not react well to fire.
"Hurry up already!" Pietro dashed down the alley to the slumped shadows. "There are rescue workers all over the place, we gotta get to safety. If you two slowpokes don't move it, you're gonna get caught!"
Evan tried to pick up John once more. He was smaller than the fire starter, but John did not weight that much. Still, Pietro running around insulting him did not make the boy weigh any less. "Hey! I got him out of there rather than running like a scared rabbit! He needs medical help."
Pietro went livid as the observation his home. "I didn't run away!"
"Yes, you did! Or was that some other guy who shoved past me to get out the door! There's even a real hero still in that death trap!"
The dim view that Evan had of Pietro's face wasn't enough to make out the details, but it did seem to contort for a few moments. Then the boy was just gone.
Evan breathed out, wanting to sink in the ground. He was suck in the back alley with a burned and delirious crazy boy, all alone, with the cops all around. What on earth was he supposed to do?
John coughed, struggling to his feet. "I know a place. I think. It's where we hang out all the time. Either Lance or Todd is prolly gonna be sleeping there. They can figure ow—," he crashed against a wall as his throbbing ankles nearly gave out on him, "out how to fix this. Just along Yost Lane, and then up the alley, and then—then, I'll remember when we get there."
"Got it," Evan nodded."You need my help?"
John grinned, although the sunniness was lost in the gloom. "I'm gonna make you a hero, too."
"Whatever, man, let's go."
The boys ran and lipped towards the street. Further down the alley, at the smoking hole of Keigo's side door, Pietro was coughing. He peered inside once again, trying to make out any figures in the flames. He did not run away. Well, he did. But that was not his fault. He did not deserve to be blamed. How should he have known that Johnny-boy was slow?
"Hey, anyone in there?"
Sirens blared up and down the street, but Pietro thought that he saw something lying on the floor. Venturing in cautiously, the white-haired boy crouched. If no one was in there, they couldn't see him looking like such a dork, and if someone was, then they'd already been overcome by the smoke. Most of the fires had burned themselves out, anyway. The concrete was hot under his hands and knees, but the thick black smoke was above his head, and that was all that mattered. This was just like the "in case of fire" lessons that he had learned too late.
The slumped figure of a full grown man groaned and rolled on his side. "Hello?" Anything further was broken by an intense fit of coughing.
Pietro did not bother with introductions. For one thing, he would probably end up dying. They were only a few feet from the exit. "Keep down. The smoke's awful. C'mon, c'mon. Get moving already. Almost there!"
Slow codger. Pietro wanted to hit something in his frustration at the less than fully capable.
He began to back toward the door again. After a moment, the coughing policeman followed. It was the most agonizing thirty two seconds of Pietro's life. He had many half minutes of agony to compare with, as well. However, soon the man emerged, soot streaked and still coughing, but alive and unharmed.
Pietro was already concentrating on the approaching police officers. The firemen were moving carefully past the two. Pietro did not bother to tell them that the fire was almost done. It was not his job, and he was looking for an out, himself. Quickly, he slipped through two firemen.
A policeman came up to the coughing captain, and pounded the man on the back. "You doing okay, Rogers?"
"Yeah," the police captain cleared his throat. "The boy who came out with me. Where'd he get to?"
"What? I didn't see him. Probably headed for the ambulance."
Captain Rogers shook his head, not happy with the conclusion he was coming to. The thin laughing boy in the dark had light hair, and as the kid who had come back for him moved, Rogers had caught a glint of pale hair in the street light. It might have been a burglary gone wrong. There had been two others, there, after all. But that laughter, and the way the fire had lit the boy's eyes—Captain Rogers had seen things like that before.
Arson was a terrifying crime. The fact that the boy had come back to look for any potential smoke victims stated that at least he probably was not a bad person. But still, that just meant that a kid who was slightly sick in the head and needed help was going to run into the full force of the criminal justice system instead. Hopefully, the boy was under eighteen. Things would be easier for him, when they caught him. And they would catch him. Steve Rogers was not about to let an arsonist start a spree in Bayville.
The blonde man sighed. "Williams, get me to some sort of database, or a sketch artist, or something. The fire was—hopefully it was just an accident, but I've seen arsonists at work. If he's just beginning, it's best that we find him fast. We're looking for a young guy, 15 to 17, from what I saw. He's tall, but still gotta catch up with his growth. Really light hair. I thought it was a little wild back in the garage, but on the street in better light it was definitely slicked back. That's our kid. We need to find him."
Simon Williams grinned humorlessly. "Hey, he's probably local. We can start by checking with the high school if any weird fires have been set."
The captain nodded. It was as good a place as any to start.
So, Quickie ended up getting more of an Avengers Quickie feel this chapter. I'd like to say that Evo Quickie could be goaded into doing the right thing, but No Good Deed, while a brilliant episode, says that no, at this point in his development, 'Tro is a selfish coward. This Quickie is more of a synthesis of those two. It has been noted that Pyro often seems to be more like Legacy Virus infected hero Pyro than Evo Pyro. I like to mix and match. As long as the characters are consistent for this universe, where I draw my inspirations from probably does not matter. Speaking of consistent, like Pietro's stealing, I've been hinting that Pyro has this lurking under his surface. It was cathartic to finally bring out the inner Pyro. Crazy Evo Pyro who laughs as he chases people with flaming horses has been missing from this fic, and he finally showed up. It was wonderful.
Plugging for the Season 5 C2. I'm trying to revive it, so I'm looking for any post end of series stories. I've added some new ones recently, and have been casting around. If you're looking for those kinds of stories, I think there's a link in my bio.
Anyway, now that you've gotten some insight to my characterization choices, perhaps you'd like to drop me a line about your thoughts, or a clarification. Review, please.
~ MF