Disclaimer: None of the characters depicted in this fic are mine, they are all property of Marvel. I'd like to take a second to say that I hadn't picked up a Marvel comic in YEARS but I succumbed to temptation and got the last two Chamber comics and they kick ASS. I'm in love with the colourist. Anyhow, thanks Marvel, for not sucking donkey ass!

Author's Notes: This is an interlude. And as if you hadn't noticed, starched_undergarments and I are taking turns writing the various Mutatis Mutandis fics. Also, I'm personally opposed to suicide so please don't start thinking I'm a baby-bat with fashionable wrist scars. ^__^ (These kids today... god I'm getting old...)

Horror Comes With Waking
By N

"At first I stared back, unable to believe that it was I who was reflected in the mirror, and when I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest sensations."
-Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

He closed his eyes and listened to the murmur of the rain. He had come to believe that all the mysteries of the world were revealed in the secret whisperings of raindrops carving the air; that every event of past, present and future was told in clandestine tones not meant for mortal ears.

Jonothon Starsmore lay still in the dark and strained to hear news of his own destiny.

Someone new was living in the apartment. Clarice said it was Magneto's son and that his name was Pietro; Jonothon found it hard to conceive of Magneto raising a child under any circumstance and figured the kid must have some rather interesting issues about the man who had sired him. He'd heard the new member of their little 'group' talking, but more importantly he could feel him - he had a very high-strung quality that convinced Jonothon that he would not enjoy his company very much.

Not that he enjoyed anyone's company very much.

Clarice was the only one who ever entered his room, and he himself left it only to shower in his own secret hours when everyone else was supposed to be sleeping. He'd passed by the Cajun once or twice, who had been watching late-night infomercials advertising pornographic phone-chats. They'd eyed each other while silicone Barbie dolls contorted on-screen and came to the mutual decision not to speak. Words, Jonothon had discovered, were mostly hollow.

He had in some strange way become the bogeyman - he lived in the dark and emerged only after the last vestige of light had fled the world. He wasn't a person but rather something frightening that lurked out of sight and served as grim and terrible legend to scare the innocent with. And the hell of it was that he wasn't entirely sure he minded… At least this way he was left alone.

Mostly.

Not long after arriving in the pristine white penthouse he had decided that the price of his existence was far too high. The wounds on his face had scarcely begun to heal and his entire body ached with a miserable loss for which there was no cure. There had only been three of them at that point: Magneto, Clarice and himself. He'd seen only Clarice once - a frightened pair of blue eyes looking over the Armani-clad shoulder of his new benefactor.

"You're both here to heal," Magneto had told them in silky, comforting tones. But what were you supposed to do if the wound never closed?

The kitchen tiles had been cold on his bare feet as he padded quietly across the room, glancing at the green neon of the microwave clock. 2:00 am. As good a time as any, he'd supposed. He'd slid open a drawer and paused, nearly hypnotized by the deadly promise reflected in the gleaming steel inside. He selected for his impromptu operation an eight-inch blade with a wicked edge and closed the drawer. The kitchen floor was made up of immaculate black and white tiles in a checkerboard pattern and he couldn't help but think that the red he was about to add to the color scheme would look rather artistic in a morbid fashion.

He'd cut his left wrist vertically, his eyes squeezing shut as he felt the skin part to admit the tip of the blade. Nerve-endings screamed in agony, as was to be expected, but something was wrong. There was no rush of warm liquid, no blissful draining sensation as his life ebbed away.

Jonothon had opened his eyes to find that no blood flowed from his veins.

Jonothon had felt a scream welling up inside him, but there was no voice with which it could issue forth. Frenzied, he lifted the butcher knife above his head, determined to jab it through his traitorous wrist, perhaps nailing himself to the floor with it.

"Jonothon?"

He'd paused, his hand wavering and his vision trebled as tears formed at the corners of his eyes. Standing in the kitchen doorway was a delicate figure in a powder-blue nightgown. Her eyes were huge and instantly recognizable, even in the dark.

Clarice Ferguson crossed the kitchen quickly and knelt beside Jonothon, her hands wrapping themselves gently around the haft of the knife and pulling it form his grip. "Shhh," she soothed. She placed the knife out of Jonothon's reach and then examined his wrist, her brow furrowing as she did so. She'd looked up at him, her eyes faintly accusing.

Jonothon had felt an intense urge to explain himself as tears coursed freely down his disfigured face. Instinctively he reached for the words and tried to push them forth, praying for a way to communicate.

*I…*

"Calm down," Clarice urged him softly. "If you concentrate you can make me hear you. Eric said that all you have to do is focus."

With a concentrated effort, Jonothon had quelled the panic of his emotions and composed himself. After a few minutes of silence, he reached out with his mind, blindly, seeking only to be heard.

*It hurts.*

The feeling was alien, like a radio signal being beamed to an unfamiliar receptor. Clarice nodded, obviously feeling a little strange about having someone speak directly into her mind but determined not to be frightened.

"Yes."

She had held out her arms and he'd fallen mutely into them, letting himself be held. It was the most human contact he'd had since the explosion that had transformed him into a monster and he was profoundly grateful for it.

*I can't… live like this.* It was not easy to express himself in this alien way. *I shouldn't even… be alive, anyway.*

"But you are," Clarice had whispered, her lips moving against his temple. "That's a miracle in a way. Are you so ready to give up on it?"

*No.*

No.

Jonothon sat up, the whisper of the rain still sighing in his ears. After a moment's consideration he crossed the room, passing his dresser and the glassless frame above it; he'd smashed the mirror to pieces his first night in the apartment. He reached the door an opened it, letting himself out into the dim hallway.

There were lights on and voices were issuing from the kitchen. He paused, steeling himself, and ventured cautiously into the main foyer, trying to remain unnoticed.

Fat chance, he thought. All-black apparel against a white wall. Sure, you'll blend right in.

Eyes turned immediately towards him and conversation stopped dead, if only for a second. A second was long enough, Jonothon thought. He was, however, rewarded with his first glimpse of Magnetos' son, who was staring at him with blatant surprise.

St. John broke the silence with a grin. "G'day, Chamber. Unusual for you t'be out in the light."

*It's raining,* Jonothon replied absently, moving into and across the living room. Clarice was seated on the couch, reading. She looked up as he passed her and smiled.

"Hi, Jono."

*'Lo, luv.*

He let himself out onto the patio, careful to close the door behind him. Out here the rain was louder; a low drone of conversation barely masked behind cupped hands. The air was damp and coolly familiar against his skin. How many times had he walked through the streets of East London with the same sweet moisture chill against his face? Jonothon leaned against the porch railing, stretching one arm out so raindrops thudded against his palm. He looked around; their apartment was situated on the top floor of the eight-story building in a relatively undeveloped part of town. Tall trees grew against the west side of the building and the patio looked south over gentle hills that nearly obscured the road leading towards civilization. It was actually very pleasant. Almost peaceful.

Languidly, Jonothon drew his arm back, his hand glistening with fresh rain. The Bogeyman, he thought with a shred of amusement. A walking nightmare.

Jonothon turned away from the railing as the rain continued its enigmatic prophecies. His destiny was already sealed; while others could escape night terrors in the safe light of day, for him the horror would always come with waking.

end