The person speaking during the intro is not Magneto or a member of the
Brotherhood, but (as you have seen) is not on Xavier's side. There are many
possibilities to who might have said it, and I won't precise who. You're
allowed to guess for yourself.
Little chat about what's happening with me:
Hey! I went to the Vans Warped Tour yesterday! It was just . . . sooo fun! I saw Simple Plan, Mest, The Ataris, the All-American Rejects . . . it was awesome! And I got autographs, took pictures and chatted with Simple Plan (all except David . . . he wasn't there and he's my fave!) My sister gave me an autograph from the singer in the All-American Rejects (I am now obsessed with that guy's eyes). I'm an idiot, so I missed Rancid (which is probably for the best because I would have been squashed to death). I am definitely going back next year.
Now, I just had to tell you this . . . my friend and I were coming back from the Warped Tour. Her father was driving. We stopped at a red light and this really dumb guy listening to R&B music really really loud stopped next to us. We put 'My Bloody Valentine' from Good Charlotte super loud. But for those who have heard the song, you all know that it stars low and the music 'jumps' higher at one point. Well, it 'jumped' right when the green light started and it was so loud the guy in the other car jumped really high and looked at us with this abselutely flabbergasted look before racing away. We were just cracking up all the way back home.
End of the little chat about what's happening with me.
Thanks to all my reviwers! Tigereyes, TheGriffin, Chaos Issues and Em! Thanks! As you will probably notice, my chapters are going to be longer than in 'A life Worth Living'. You might also find that the writing style is a little different.
Now read on! I wrote this chap in April. A part was corrected and added after I saw the second movie.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Chapter 2: All of us
The professor tapped his fingers on the side of his desk again. Using his power, he had located Scott, and didn't like where he was . . . at all.
Scott was at the cemetery, kneeling down in the grass, looking sadly at the tomb in front of him. It was already surrounded by flowers, but still, the poor man had brought more, a bouquet of roses in his hand. His eyes wandered to the letters engraved in the stone, spelling a name and a quote: Jean Grey Summers. You will be missed.
A tear glided down Cyclops' cheek but he ignored it, passing his fingers on the engraved name.
Two months had passed since the Alkali Lake Base incident. Two months had passed since Jean had died. Two months had passed since Scott's life didn't have a meaning anymore. Two painful months. And it made Scott's heart stop beating when he thought that the rest of his life would be like that. Without Jean. Without his angel, the light of his life by his side.
But still . . . a blind hope still lived heart: the thought that there was no body buried in that grave. Hope, weak but invincible in his heart, the thought that she was alive . . . somewhere.
Scott sighed, smiled weakly and got up, adjusting his visor on his face and whipping the tear strain on his face.
She was going to come back. She just needed to find her way home.
Scott gave one last look at the tomb and turned around, walking towards his car, parked outside the Westchester Cemetery's gate.
When she'll come back, he didn't know . . . but he'll be waiting.
~~~
Scott drove back to the mansion, passing back in his head what had changed since their return from Alkali Lake. For first, Rogue and Bobby's relation wasn't doing very well. Bobby was always trying to touch her, telling her that he would be fine, but she knew better, and it bugged her. Bobby was also sick of waiting around for something to happen, and Rogue knew she would probably have to let him go. She thought a boy like him didn't belong by her side. Everyone knew a break-up was soon to come, but for now, they were just pretending everything was all right and it was destroying their relation.
Logan had been drinking a lot these past weeks, fighting in the Danger Room, staying in his own little world, in his room, blaming himself and saying it was his fault Jean was gone, running off to the city, coming back drunk, and that showed that he had to drink a lot since his healing factor usually did the job to keep him sober. He was incredibly hostile to whoever tried to help him, but was trying to pull himself together. Right now, he was on the good path.
Ororo hadn't cried much. She was trying to give strength to the others, and it was working. She had continued her classes, continued her life, but there was always something sad in her look. She had lost her best friend . . . but Nightcrawler was there to cheer her up the best he could. They were just friends, everyone knew that. She always went to him now, talking to him as she would have to Jean. He wasn't always there, going from one place to another, leaving for a week or two and coming back *literally* out of nowhere, but he was welcomed. He still kept on praying, something Storm didn't quite understand. He prayed for Jean's soul, prayed for all the X- Men, prayed for God's forgiveness for all that he and others had done wrong . . .
Pyro wasn't heard of, and they all supposed he was still with Magneto. The mutant protestant-acts had stopped just a little bit, because of the president's speech, but they were coming back, with more leaders, perhaps.
The professor was trying, like Ororo, to give strength to the others by keeping his head high, even if the loss of Jean had had a big effect on him, since he considered her as his daughter. But she was gone, and he knew they all had to live on . . . even if somehow, like others like Scott, there was that flame of hope in his heart.
~~~~~~~~~~
Magneto frowned, his eyes fixed on the television in front of him. A man was talking about how mutants were still fighting for their share of the world, with no success. There had been some minor mutants attack across the world since the Liberty Island incident, and Magneto was glad that some mutants could understand what he was trying to impose.
Two boys were sitting not too far behind him, each in comfy chairs. The first one, slouched in the first armchair, was playing with a lighter. He was easily recognizable. His name was John, more commonly known as Pyro, a fire manipulator. He looked relatively bored, flicking his lighter at a regular pace. He was thinking about his choice, the one he had made two months ago: he had left the X-Men, and had joined Magneto's Brotherhood. Why? He sometimes wondered. Maybe it was just for the fun, or maybe he just had been sick of all that X-Men bullshit. What he wanted to do was show to the world that he was capable of something. It was the real reason of his joining the Brotherhood.
The boy sitting in front of him in a large mushy armchair had his knees to his chin. He looked much younger than Pyro, who was probably around the age of eighteen, but he was actually the same age than he. He had a mix of dark blond and light brown hair, but his roots were definitely a dark brown. His hair couldn't be thought of as short, but couldn't at all be considered long. His eyes were of a discrete cerulean tone, and his skin was of a light tone. He looked confident, but too young to be in the place he was.
He was wearing ¾ dark blue pants with multiple pockets, had extra-large white socks and a large used vest. All these articles of clothing looked two sizes too big for this boy not to tall in height. He was also wearing a black shirt, but his big black mountain boots were on the floor, letting him float in his socks. He was playing with his hands, both covered by black fingerless gloves. He was eyeing Pyro's lighter, looking very annoyed by the sound it was making.
"Stop that," he exclaimed suddenly, almost jumping out of his seat.
Pyro smiled.
"I left the X-Men to be able to do what I want, so don't expect me to obey to *you*," he said, flicking the lighter.
The boy sat back in his armchair, an evil glint in his eyes. He watched as Pyro continued playing with his lighter, forming little fireballs with his fingers. After a few moments of silence, the boy's eyes somewhat narrowed as he raised one of his hands. The three fireballs Pyro had formed disappeared.
"Stop that!" John shouted furiously.
"I left my home to be able to do what I want, so don't expect me to obey to *you*," the boy said calmly, knowing that he was truly playing with fire.
Pyro, was now standing up a few feet away from the boy still sitting in his armchair and had his hands in fists.
Magneto turned around from the TV post, glaring at the two teenagers.
"Pyro, Hooligan," he said with authority as a door opened behind them. "Stop this rubbish."
They all turned around at see Mystique standing in the doorway. There was a moment of silence, broken by Magneto a few moments later.
"Come now," he said. "We have business to attend to."
He walked passed everyone, followed by Pyro, the boy named Hooligan and the blue woman.
~~~~~~~~~~
An irritating beeping sound could be heard, and it obviously belonged to an alarm clock, yet it was strange to hear it so late in the night. It was placed on a nigh table, beside a medium sized bed on which were messed up covers between which were sleeping a man. He was just getting out of his sleep, and was probably ignoring the sound his clock was making. He only stirred a little at the beginning, but as his senses came to life, he started noticing that the sound was getting more and more frustrating, and since he was a man with not much patience or tolerance, his arm came out of the covers, searched a moment on the side of the table, and finally, he slammed his fist on top of the annoying piece of plastic, making the noise stop instantly. His arm fell limply on the side of the mattress for a moment, before moving again, in search of the clock. Once he found it again, he took it, his face starting to be visible under the mass of covers. His until-then-not-opened-eyes blinked a couple of times as he looked over at the time on his alarm clock, on which he read two a.m. He stretched under the covers, dropping his timepiece to the floor before getting into an upright position, passing his legs to the side of his bed and finally getting up at a snail's pace. He stretched again, sighing as he rubbed the tiredness away from his eyes.
His apartment was small, packed with things and messy. The carpeted floor was literally covered by all types of books, CDs, papers, boxes, clothing and even things good enough to be in the garbage, like empty chips bags, cigarette boxes and different beverage cans. There were large shelves on one of the biggest walls, where there were more books, CDs and papers, but theses were all properly placed. The highest shelves were reserved for potted plants, whose green leaves and branches hung pretty much everywhere.
Now for the man in question, he was very tall and, with one look at his muscles, he evidently worked out. He was incredibly tanned, had a straight nose and had eyes the colour of the Pacific Ocean on Hawaiian postcards. Amazingly blue eyes. To his tan and eyes, we could have unmistakably imagined him with sandy blond hair, but it wasn't the case. His hair was plainly the colour of white gold, and only the roots were sandy blond. It was to say, he was incredibly good looking and it would have seemed very normal to see his face on magazine covers, but again, it wasn't the case. So it wasn't because of his looks that he was wanted on posters, it was more because of his . . . record. But that was another story.
He walked to a large window on his left and leaning on the window frame, lit a cigarette with his available hand. The weather outside wasn't exactly pleasant, but he seemed to like it very much the way it was. Dark grey clouds covered the sky, thus the stars and moon couldn't be seen, and it was raining in a way rarely seen in the New York, so no one had been out today. The streets looked more like gigantic kiddie pools than anything else.
The phone rang, and his sharp eyes narrowed, looking at the handset. He walked to it slowly, and picked it up by the fourth ringing. He stayed silent, listening.
" . . . Count me in. What's the job?" he asked after a while. " . . . who do I recruit? . . . fine. I'll have them regrouped together in two days . . . . . . We'll be ready."
He hung up and threw the phone on his bed.
He walked to one of his shelves where his radio was placed after a few more minutes of contemplation in front of the downpour. He pressed a couple of buttons and a good tune started playing through his apartment. As the music played, he walked to his closet, took a look inside and after a brief hesitation, pulled out a pair of black pants and shirt to replace his torn and sleeveless grey top and pair of joggings. After changing, he walked to a nearby table from where he picked up a few necklaces that he passed around his neck. The first one was a silver cross, and the second was a simple string with a couple of beads and a small silver sword for ornament.
Walking to the door after turning off the radio, he slipped on a pair of army boots and an old black trench coat before walking out of the door, grabbing a pair of keys before doing so. He shut the door and walked out into the cold streets of New York. He needed to recruit his old companions together again. The war was getting closer.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Please review! I really want to know what you all think of this! In the next chapter, you'll meet a big part of my assas- euh, my other characters. (*wink wink*)
Little chat about what's happening with me:
Hey! I went to the Vans Warped Tour yesterday! It was just . . . sooo fun! I saw Simple Plan, Mest, The Ataris, the All-American Rejects . . . it was awesome! And I got autographs, took pictures and chatted with Simple Plan (all except David . . . he wasn't there and he's my fave!) My sister gave me an autograph from the singer in the All-American Rejects (I am now obsessed with that guy's eyes). I'm an idiot, so I missed Rancid (which is probably for the best because I would have been squashed to death). I am definitely going back next year.
Now, I just had to tell you this . . . my friend and I were coming back from the Warped Tour. Her father was driving. We stopped at a red light and this really dumb guy listening to R&B music really really loud stopped next to us. We put 'My Bloody Valentine' from Good Charlotte super loud. But for those who have heard the song, you all know that it stars low and the music 'jumps' higher at one point. Well, it 'jumped' right when the green light started and it was so loud the guy in the other car jumped really high and looked at us with this abselutely flabbergasted look before racing away. We were just cracking up all the way back home.
End of the little chat about what's happening with me.
Thanks to all my reviwers! Tigereyes, TheGriffin, Chaos Issues and Em! Thanks! As you will probably notice, my chapters are going to be longer than in 'A life Worth Living'. You might also find that the writing style is a little different.
Now read on! I wrote this chap in April. A part was corrected and added after I saw the second movie.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Chapter 2: All of us
The professor tapped his fingers on the side of his desk again. Using his power, he had located Scott, and didn't like where he was . . . at all.
Scott was at the cemetery, kneeling down in the grass, looking sadly at the tomb in front of him. It was already surrounded by flowers, but still, the poor man had brought more, a bouquet of roses in his hand. His eyes wandered to the letters engraved in the stone, spelling a name and a quote: Jean Grey Summers. You will be missed.
A tear glided down Cyclops' cheek but he ignored it, passing his fingers on the engraved name.
Two months had passed since the Alkali Lake Base incident. Two months had passed since Jean had died. Two months had passed since Scott's life didn't have a meaning anymore. Two painful months. And it made Scott's heart stop beating when he thought that the rest of his life would be like that. Without Jean. Without his angel, the light of his life by his side.
But still . . . a blind hope still lived heart: the thought that there was no body buried in that grave. Hope, weak but invincible in his heart, the thought that she was alive . . . somewhere.
Scott sighed, smiled weakly and got up, adjusting his visor on his face and whipping the tear strain on his face.
She was going to come back. She just needed to find her way home.
Scott gave one last look at the tomb and turned around, walking towards his car, parked outside the Westchester Cemetery's gate.
When she'll come back, he didn't know . . . but he'll be waiting.
~~~
Scott drove back to the mansion, passing back in his head what had changed since their return from Alkali Lake. For first, Rogue and Bobby's relation wasn't doing very well. Bobby was always trying to touch her, telling her that he would be fine, but she knew better, and it bugged her. Bobby was also sick of waiting around for something to happen, and Rogue knew she would probably have to let him go. She thought a boy like him didn't belong by her side. Everyone knew a break-up was soon to come, but for now, they were just pretending everything was all right and it was destroying their relation.
Logan had been drinking a lot these past weeks, fighting in the Danger Room, staying in his own little world, in his room, blaming himself and saying it was his fault Jean was gone, running off to the city, coming back drunk, and that showed that he had to drink a lot since his healing factor usually did the job to keep him sober. He was incredibly hostile to whoever tried to help him, but was trying to pull himself together. Right now, he was on the good path.
Ororo hadn't cried much. She was trying to give strength to the others, and it was working. She had continued her classes, continued her life, but there was always something sad in her look. She had lost her best friend . . . but Nightcrawler was there to cheer her up the best he could. They were just friends, everyone knew that. She always went to him now, talking to him as she would have to Jean. He wasn't always there, going from one place to another, leaving for a week or two and coming back *literally* out of nowhere, but he was welcomed. He still kept on praying, something Storm didn't quite understand. He prayed for Jean's soul, prayed for all the X- Men, prayed for God's forgiveness for all that he and others had done wrong . . .
Pyro wasn't heard of, and they all supposed he was still with Magneto. The mutant protestant-acts had stopped just a little bit, because of the president's speech, but they were coming back, with more leaders, perhaps.
The professor was trying, like Ororo, to give strength to the others by keeping his head high, even if the loss of Jean had had a big effect on him, since he considered her as his daughter. But she was gone, and he knew they all had to live on . . . even if somehow, like others like Scott, there was that flame of hope in his heart.
~~~~~~~~~~
Magneto frowned, his eyes fixed on the television in front of him. A man was talking about how mutants were still fighting for their share of the world, with no success. There had been some minor mutants attack across the world since the Liberty Island incident, and Magneto was glad that some mutants could understand what he was trying to impose.
Two boys were sitting not too far behind him, each in comfy chairs. The first one, slouched in the first armchair, was playing with a lighter. He was easily recognizable. His name was John, more commonly known as Pyro, a fire manipulator. He looked relatively bored, flicking his lighter at a regular pace. He was thinking about his choice, the one he had made two months ago: he had left the X-Men, and had joined Magneto's Brotherhood. Why? He sometimes wondered. Maybe it was just for the fun, or maybe he just had been sick of all that X-Men bullshit. What he wanted to do was show to the world that he was capable of something. It was the real reason of his joining the Brotherhood.
The boy sitting in front of him in a large mushy armchair had his knees to his chin. He looked much younger than Pyro, who was probably around the age of eighteen, but he was actually the same age than he. He had a mix of dark blond and light brown hair, but his roots were definitely a dark brown. His hair couldn't be thought of as short, but couldn't at all be considered long. His eyes were of a discrete cerulean tone, and his skin was of a light tone. He looked confident, but too young to be in the place he was.
He was wearing ¾ dark blue pants with multiple pockets, had extra-large white socks and a large used vest. All these articles of clothing looked two sizes too big for this boy not to tall in height. He was also wearing a black shirt, but his big black mountain boots were on the floor, letting him float in his socks. He was playing with his hands, both covered by black fingerless gloves. He was eyeing Pyro's lighter, looking very annoyed by the sound it was making.
"Stop that," he exclaimed suddenly, almost jumping out of his seat.
Pyro smiled.
"I left the X-Men to be able to do what I want, so don't expect me to obey to *you*," he said, flicking the lighter.
The boy sat back in his armchair, an evil glint in his eyes. He watched as Pyro continued playing with his lighter, forming little fireballs with his fingers. After a few moments of silence, the boy's eyes somewhat narrowed as he raised one of his hands. The three fireballs Pyro had formed disappeared.
"Stop that!" John shouted furiously.
"I left my home to be able to do what I want, so don't expect me to obey to *you*," the boy said calmly, knowing that he was truly playing with fire.
Pyro, was now standing up a few feet away from the boy still sitting in his armchair and had his hands in fists.
Magneto turned around from the TV post, glaring at the two teenagers.
"Pyro, Hooligan," he said with authority as a door opened behind them. "Stop this rubbish."
They all turned around at see Mystique standing in the doorway. There was a moment of silence, broken by Magneto a few moments later.
"Come now," he said. "We have business to attend to."
He walked passed everyone, followed by Pyro, the boy named Hooligan and the blue woman.
~~~~~~~~~~
An irritating beeping sound could be heard, and it obviously belonged to an alarm clock, yet it was strange to hear it so late in the night. It was placed on a nigh table, beside a medium sized bed on which were messed up covers between which were sleeping a man. He was just getting out of his sleep, and was probably ignoring the sound his clock was making. He only stirred a little at the beginning, but as his senses came to life, he started noticing that the sound was getting more and more frustrating, and since he was a man with not much patience or tolerance, his arm came out of the covers, searched a moment on the side of the table, and finally, he slammed his fist on top of the annoying piece of plastic, making the noise stop instantly. His arm fell limply on the side of the mattress for a moment, before moving again, in search of the clock. Once he found it again, he took it, his face starting to be visible under the mass of covers. His until-then-not-opened-eyes blinked a couple of times as he looked over at the time on his alarm clock, on which he read two a.m. He stretched under the covers, dropping his timepiece to the floor before getting into an upright position, passing his legs to the side of his bed and finally getting up at a snail's pace. He stretched again, sighing as he rubbed the tiredness away from his eyes.
His apartment was small, packed with things and messy. The carpeted floor was literally covered by all types of books, CDs, papers, boxes, clothing and even things good enough to be in the garbage, like empty chips bags, cigarette boxes and different beverage cans. There were large shelves on one of the biggest walls, where there were more books, CDs and papers, but theses were all properly placed. The highest shelves were reserved for potted plants, whose green leaves and branches hung pretty much everywhere.
Now for the man in question, he was very tall and, with one look at his muscles, he evidently worked out. He was incredibly tanned, had a straight nose and had eyes the colour of the Pacific Ocean on Hawaiian postcards. Amazingly blue eyes. To his tan and eyes, we could have unmistakably imagined him with sandy blond hair, but it wasn't the case. His hair was plainly the colour of white gold, and only the roots were sandy blond. It was to say, he was incredibly good looking and it would have seemed very normal to see his face on magazine covers, but again, it wasn't the case. So it wasn't because of his looks that he was wanted on posters, it was more because of his . . . record. But that was another story.
He walked to a large window on his left and leaning on the window frame, lit a cigarette with his available hand. The weather outside wasn't exactly pleasant, but he seemed to like it very much the way it was. Dark grey clouds covered the sky, thus the stars and moon couldn't be seen, and it was raining in a way rarely seen in the New York, so no one had been out today. The streets looked more like gigantic kiddie pools than anything else.
The phone rang, and his sharp eyes narrowed, looking at the handset. He walked to it slowly, and picked it up by the fourth ringing. He stayed silent, listening.
" . . . Count me in. What's the job?" he asked after a while. " . . . who do I recruit? . . . fine. I'll have them regrouped together in two days . . . . . . We'll be ready."
He hung up and threw the phone on his bed.
He walked to one of his shelves where his radio was placed after a few more minutes of contemplation in front of the downpour. He pressed a couple of buttons and a good tune started playing through his apartment. As the music played, he walked to his closet, took a look inside and after a brief hesitation, pulled out a pair of black pants and shirt to replace his torn and sleeveless grey top and pair of joggings. After changing, he walked to a nearby table from where he picked up a few necklaces that he passed around his neck. The first one was a silver cross, and the second was a simple string with a couple of beads and a small silver sword for ornament.
Walking to the door after turning off the radio, he slipped on a pair of army boots and an old black trench coat before walking out of the door, grabbing a pair of keys before doing so. He shut the door and walked out into the cold streets of New York. He needed to recruit his old companions together again. The war was getting closer.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Please review! I really want to know what you all think of this! In the next chapter, you'll meet a big part of my assas- euh, my other characters. (*wink wink*)