A Man Called Horse

There was an old Italian saying that went something like, "When no one knows anything, everyone knows something." It certainly seemed to be the case in Devon Bradley's neighborhood in Queens.

Ororo had been going there everyday for the past week, to see if anyone could tell her anything that might help her figure out how that fourteen year old boy ended up dead in an alley in the Bronx. But every person in that damned place had been the exact opposite of helpful. They'd either shut the door in her face, told her to fuck off or else denied any knowledge 'til they were blue in the face. So far, all she'd been able to turn up was that Devon's mother was glad someone had killed her "fucking mutie son."

Spiteful bitch.

This wasn't an assignment Ororo had wanted, not by a long shot.

The day after she, Wolverine and Peter had discovered the corpse of Devon Bradley, the X-Men had had their daily Danger Room exercises. She'd been distracted, to say the least, and had nearly been hit by a laser beam she could have easily avoided in flight.

Luckily, Peter had stepped in front of her and borne the brunt of the attack. Unluckily, that one-eyed nerd Cyclops had decided to blab all to Professor Xavier like a third grade tattletale.

The Professor called her to his office and expressed his concern for her.

"No one could come away unaffected from seeing that massacred boy," he said gently.

Wolverine did, Ororo thought, but didn't say out loud.

"Wolverine," Professor X said, hearing her anyway, "is a little different from the rest of us. His suffering in the Weapon X program, his countless war experiences --- these have hardened him so that he often looks at death with dispassionate interest. But you… you are young and unacquainted with such things. Tell me, Ororo, is this the first dead body you've ever seen?"

Memories that seemed like the tail end of dreams hammered at Ororo's mind --- her father, his face blown apart and unrecognizable, her mother, body bent and twisted, blood everywhere, God, there was so much of it, and herself, screaming in pain, crying out, crying ---

No. She couldn't start remembering it again. Ororo steeled herself against her memories, unconsciously pulling away from the Professor as she tried to stop herself from retreating into that place, that place that had filled her nightmares since she was a child.

"No," she said softly. "No, not the first. But it was bad enough."

For some twisted reason, Professor X thought it would be a good idea if she investigated Devon Bradley's murder as an extracurricular assignment.

She should have said no. She wanted to say no. She didn't want to have anything more to do with it. But the image of Devon's grossly mutilated body kept popping up in her head. It filled her with revulsion and fear, and beneath it --- sympathy. No person deserved to suffer so horribly.

The cops were never going to do everything they could to find the killer. They were probably glad that there was one less mutant in the world. Who was going to give that boy justice, if not the X-Men? Ororo understood that. But why her? Why not Jean, with her telepathy, or Wolverine with his tracking skills?

She knew the answer, though she was afraid to confront it. Professor X had chosen her because she had seen the body up close, the body that used to be a living, breathing boy. He had chosen her because, in a strange way, she had some personal stake in this. She, too, had suffered an enormous loss in her life. Her parents didn't die because of mutant persecution, but they died all the same, in a manner just as violent.

The Professor knew, as Ororo knew, that she had to do this; for Devon, and ultimately for herself.

So here she was now in Devon Bradley's neighborhood, sitting inside a small diner and warming her hands on a mug of coffee. It was raining outside. She'd tried to make it stop, but she didn't have that much control over her powers yet.

Either that, or she didn't want it to stop raining, because then she'd have to start asking around again. She didn't really want to get into that. Not yet. For now, she was content to be indoors, to be warm and safe.

Well, maybe not entirely safe. The other customers in the diner were eyeing her suspiciously. She wasn't surprised. Word seemed to travel fast around here. No doubt they knew who she was and what she was doing. Fortunately, she was already used to feeling unwelcome.

As her eyes roamed over the people in the diner, her gaze fell on a tall boy of about fifteen or sixteen. He was the only one who wasn't staring at her. In fact, he seemed to be deliberately avoiding meeting her eye. More than that, he looked troubled, almost guilty. Ororo made a mental note to herself to talk to him before the day was out.

At that moment, the man who was sitting beside the boy got up from their booth and began to walk toward her. Ororo pegged him as the boy's father; there was a strong resemblance, though the man had none of his son's good looks. He was huge, easily three times her size, and mean looking to boot. She turned her attention to the street outside the window, pretending not to see him.

But then there he was, suddenly standing in front of her, big as a bull and twice as ugly. He bent down so that they were face to face, his mouth set in a menacing scowl.

"We don't welcome your kind around here," he said. His breath was hot and smelled strongly like Scotch.

"Yeah? Too bad," Ororo said flatly, toughing it out. She'd met bigger and scarier men while she was living in the street. She could handle this one, same as she'd handled all the others.

"I heard you've been snooping around, asking questions and sticking your nose in other people's business," the man continued. "That's a good way to get yourself into a whole shit load of trouble."

All the occupants of the other booths were watching them now. The suspicion in their eyes had turned into outright hostility. Ororo took a sip of the foul tasting coffee then set it down. She smiled coldly at the man.

"Thanks for the advice. Now fuck off."

The man blinked, and a dull, pugnacious look came over his bloodshot eyes. Ororo thought for a moment that he was going to throw down with her right then and there, but he only gave her an unpleasant half-grin, half-grimace and went back to his booth.

Ororo finished her coffee, got up from her seat and went to the counter to pay the bill. She could feel everyone in the diner watching her. Before she reached the door, a gust of wind blew it wide open, and she stepped out.

The rain had finally stopped. Ororo sat on the stoop of an apartment building next door to the diner, waiting for the boy to come out. When he finally did, she walked up to him, grasped his shoulder tightly and said, "We need to talk." Before he could protest, she steered him into an alley not unlike the one where Devon was killed. And despite the fact that the boy was bigger than Ororo, she saw that he was frightened of her.

Good, she thought. He damn well ought to be. She may have been scared and sick to her stomach when she first saw Devon's body, but now she was pissed. It seemed that everyone who knew the kid wanted to pretend he never existed. That he didn't matter. That pissed her off enormously.

Once they were out of sight, the boy broke away from her and asked in an unsteady voice, "What do you want?"

"Did you know Devon Bradley?" Ororo asked shortly.

The boy looked down at his feet. The action was so childlike that Ororo realized he was younger than he looked. He was probably fourteen years old too.

"Horse," the boy mumbled.

"What?"

"That's what we called him," he said, looking up. "Because he had big teeth like a horse."

"Cute," Ororo said, shaking her head in disgust. "So what happened to him?"

The boy looked up at her, visibly alarmed.

"I-I can't tell you," he stammered. "Look, I have to get out of here."

He tried to rush past Ororo, but she planted her feet directly in front of him and shoved him backwards, so that he was forced to sit on a crate.

"No," she said forcefully. "You're staying right here until you tell me everything you know."

"I can't!" the boy burst out.

Ororo quickly switched gears. Clearly, the boy was scared. Bullying him was not the best way to gain his confidence. In a gentler tone, she asked,

"Why not?"

"He made me promise not to," the boy answered.

"Who?"

But the boy only shook his head.

"Your dad?" Ororo guessed, pressing him urgently. "Did your dad tell you not to tell anyone about Devon?"

Slowly, reluctantly, the boy met her eyes and nodded.

"Christ," Ororo muttered. She knelt in front of him. He was looking smaller and more lost by the minute. "Okay, okay… Listen. It's really important that you tell me the truth. I know you're scared. Your dad… he looks like a fucking scary guy. But I know people who can protect you from him. Just tell me what you know. Please. A boy is dead. He's dead and it's not fucking right."

The boy was now shaking his head slowly, his face buried in his hands.

"It's not about that. You don't know," he said, his voice quiet and despairing. "You couldn't know. There's nothing you can do about it. You're way in over your head."

"Aren't you going to let me decide that for myself?" Ororo replied.

The boy raised his head from his hands and gave her a bitter smile that was eerily similar to his father's half-grimace.

"You don't know what you're asking," he said, sounding strangely low and hollow.

"Try me," Ororo said gravely.

The same neighborhood, four years ago:

Horse got out of the cab and stepped onto the curb, pulling his suitcase along with him. He looked up at the sky.

Damn, it had to be a cloudy day. He could only hope that he could pass off wearing shades everyday, like Popeye Pataki, the coolest kid on the block, did.

Horse paid the cab driver and began to lug his suitcase up to his apartment building. As the cab whizzed by, he heard Joel Sullivan calling out to him, "Hey, Horse! Where you been all summer?"

Horse turned to face his friend, who was jogging towards him. He smiled wanly.

"Visiting my pop up in Syracuse," he told Joel.

"What's up with the shades, brutha?" Joel teased. "You tryin' to look like Popeye Pataki?"

Horse winced inwardly.

"No," he said. "I was just trying it out."

"Need help with that?" Joel said, pointing to Horse's suitcase.

"Sure," Horse said gratefully.

Joel picked up the heavy suitcase easily. He'd always been the strongest kid their age. He was kind of Horse's hero. Horse followed him now up the steps of the apartment building.

"Thanks," Horse said as Joel set the suitcase down on the top step.

"No problem," the other boy replied. He stood next to Horse, saying nothing. He was obviously waiting to be asked in.

"Listen," Horse said hastily, fumbling for an excuse, "I'd invite you in, but Mom says she doesn't want anyone inside the house today. And I'd hang out with you out here, 'cept I'm kinda beat."

Joel looked mildly disappointed, but not at all surprised. Mrs. Bradley was known for her temper and mood swings.

"Okay, then," he said. "Guess I'll be going. See ya, Horse!" he called as he hurried down the steps.

"Yeah," Horse said after Joel disappeared from sight. "See ya."

Horse let himself in with his key, then dragged his suitcase up two flights of stairs to the apartment where he lived with his mom. He trudged through the living room and started to remove his sunglasses.

His mother, who was sitting on the sofa, saw him and snapped loudly, "Keep those on. It's bad enough you're a- a mutant. I don't want to have to be reminded of it every time I look at you."

Horse immediately put his sunglasses back on. Without saying a word to his mother, he went into his room and locked the door behind him. He heaved his suitcase on top of his bed and looked around.

Well, his mom sure didn't waste any time. She had boarded up all his bedroom windows in anticipation of his return. She hated her son and what he had suddenly become over the summer, and she sure as hell didn't want the neighbors finding out about it.

He couldn't blame her. He hated himself too, even more than he hated her. Sometimes he wished both he and his mother would just drop dead.

He turned and saw his reflection in the window. It was almost as clear as a mirror because of the wooden board outside. He inspected himself closely and saw a goofy-looking kid with his world famous buck teeth and freckles. His nose and cheeks had gone sweaty in his efforts to carry his suitcase up the stairs. The sunglasses his father bought him were sliding downwards.

Slowly, almost fearfully, he lifted the sunglasses from his eyes. What he saw was enough to make him sob in fear and scream in rage at the same time.

He was now staring at two enormous, lidless eyes. His corneas were blood red and his irises were yellow. His eyes seemed empty and soulless for the lack of pupils.

He looked like a monster. Worse than that, he was one. He stared at himself, and his reflection seemed to mock him. With an anguished cry, he smashed his fist against the windowpane. It cracked with enormous force.

He hit another pane, and another and another until all his bedroom windows were destroyed. Then he cast himself onto his bed, fists hacked and bleeding, and began to wail. His cries were piercing, heartbreaking and not remotely human.

Outside in the living room, Liz Bradley heard her son screaming in his bedroom and breaking glass. She shook her head and turned up the volume of the soap opera she was watching.

Somebody ought to put that animal out of his misery, she thought.

To Be Continued