'He gazed down silently through the glass window, the thundering of
the helicopter's blades blasting in his ears. Children and adults alike,
ones that he recognized from the school, had started to file out of the
weather-beaten building that seemed to be quickly disappearing in the thick
fog. Tears stung behind his eyes, and he fought to keep them from dropping
as he caught the gaze of a familiar face, looking sadly up at him from
below -- a friend he was sure he'd never see again. But for now she stood
motionless, locking eyes with him, nothing but utter sorrow hidden within
her black orbs. He pleaded a silent goodbye as he watched her, asking her
speechlessly if this was ok. If leaving them was ok. She responded
hesitantly with a distant smile, her cheerless eyes never leaving his own
as she was swallowed up in the growing fog.
But the fog didn't fade away. It kept swirling, like a hurricane, enveloping the hazy scene that had been set around him. He watched in fascination and in fear as the inside of the hovering machine slipped away into the clouds, and he noticed the humming of the blades above was long gone. He was completely surrounded in white, and the extreme lack of color suddenly reminded him of being in an insane asylum; not a wonderful feeling. A piercing silence followed, ringing in his ears like chiming bells, making him want to scream. But the stillness didn't last long. Out of nowhere, a faceless voice spoke to him in his thoughts, haunting him with it's nauseating familiarity. It's words repeated in the back of his brain, echoing within his head. The sound burned a hole in his chest deeper than any acid could have.
'You can't keep using your powers like this, John. They were not meant to be weapons. They will easily lead you to the dark side if this continues...'
He'd heard it before. This had happened before. He whirled around looking for the culprit, one who had spoken, but there was no one. Only white. More voices joined the first, taunting him, mocking his very being. They jeered at him, all too memorable insults being hurled left and right.
'Face it, flame-boy. You're pure evil.'
'You're a killing machine, John. A cold blooded murderer.'
'You can't do nothin' right, can you, boy?'
At every sound, every word inserted into his mind, he turned to face it, but saw nothing. The blank whiteness formed walls around him, locking him in, closing slowly in on him. He screamed in agony as more voices came, pulling at his hair and clutching his head in a failing attempt to kill the penetrating thoughts. His legs buckled beneath him and he dropped limply to the ground, writhing like a maimed animal. Each word spoken was like a knife, burying itself in his stomach, piercing his flesh, his very soul. Slowly, ever so slowly, the poor boy was going crazy. He could take no more. Compliantly, the voices began to fade.
One by one they faded into the fog of his mind, echoing, resounding within his brain. Hesitantly he brought his hands away from his head, his green irises darting wildly around, rimmed with incoherent madness. He blinked hard, trying to make his eyes focus on the new scene that had started to rise around him. Demolishing the last of his insanity, his eyes complied, but soon enough he abruptly wished they hadn't.
For around him began a more recent scene. A time he had been eager to forget. Stone walls appeared quickly around him, hung with linked, metal chains that were attached to a very small, very familiar little boy. The boy's violet eyes, once teeming with life, rolled involuntarily back into his head. His short brown hair stuck out in various directions, in some parts sticking straight up; in others, flat against the falling tears of sweat on his forehead. Gruesome lacerations bled from every limb on his broken body, coloring the dull ground with a bright red liquid. And somewhere within the depths of the rising cage stood Magneto, arms crossed over his chest, a cruel, proud grin plastered onto his face. And suddenly, a scream resounded throughout the cell.'
John Allerdyce bolted upright in his bed, gentle moonlight from his bedroom window gleaming off the beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his face. After taking a moment to realize he was no longer in the chambers, he brought a shaky hand to his forehead and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. His breathing was short and ragged, his heart pounding in his chest, the sound throbbing inside his ears. A nightmare. Only a nightmare.
Unsteady hands ripped the covers off his legs and he stood slowly, leaning on his nightstand for much needed support. He made his way to the doorway, his parched mouth dragging in rapid breaths as if he'd just run the mile in under two minutes. For a while, he leaned in the doorframe, trying to catch his breath and brushing off his face with his shirt sleeve. Only after his green irises had completely focused did he start down the wooden hallway.
The young man wasn't sure exactly where he was trying to get to, but made his way slowly down the narrow corridor all the same. If he ended up in the kitchen, wonderful; he'd get a beer and move on. If he landed in the basement, fine; he'd beat up a punching bag. If he landed in the chambers -- John shook his head defiantly, refusing to think about the cells anymore. He'd had his share of those for the rest of his life, as far as he was concerned.
Rounding the corner, the juvenile mutant stopped thoughtfully and put a hand up to lean heavily against the side wall. Did he really want to elude the thought of the chambers? He was going to have to face them sometime. He couldn't keep avoiding them as if they didn't exist. They did exist. Each damn cell, each damn bird cage locked up inside those chambers had, at one time, contained an innocent child, a living, breathing soul that had been tortured and beaten until their once energetic eyes rolled as far back into their head as physically possible. Every one had been dealt with gruesomely, with searing gashes torn through their skin in various places on all of their limbs; each one dead without a funeral. St. John cringed. He couldn't avoid that. He couldn't pretend that the pointless killing of countless, innocent children wasn't really happening. Because it was.
Quickly, Pyro whirled around and walked hastily in the opposite direction. He knew where he was going.
~~ * ~~
But the fog didn't fade away. It kept swirling, like a hurricane, enveloping the hazy scene that had been set around him. He watched in fascination and in fear as the inside of the hovering machine slipped away into the clouds, and he noticed the humming of the blades above was long gone. He was completely surrounded in white, and the extreme lack of color suddenly reminded him of being in an insane asylum; not a wonderful feeling. A piercing silence followed, ringing in his ears like chiming bells, making him want to scream. But the stillness didn't last long. Out of nowhere, a faceless voice spoke to him in his thoughts, haunting him with it's nauseating familiarity. It's words repeated in the back of his brain, echoing within his head. The sound burned a hole in his chest deeper than any acid could have.
'You can't keep using your powers like this, John. They were not meant to be weapons. They will easily lead you to the dark side if this continues...'
He'd heard it before. This had happened before. He whirled around looking for the culprit, one who had spoken, but there was no one. Only white. More voices joined the first, taunting him, mocking his very being. They jeered at him, all too memorable insults being hurled left and right.
'Face it, flame-boy. You're pure evil.'
'You're a killing machine, John. A cold blooded murderer.'
'You can't do nothin' right, can you, boy?'
At every sound, every word inserted into his mind, he turned to face it, but saw nothing. The blank whiteness formed walls around him, locking him in, closing slowly in on him. He screamed in agony as more voices came, pulling at his hair and clutching his head in a failing attempt to kill the penetrating thoughts. His legs buckled beneath him and he dropped limply to the ground, writhing like a maimed animal. Each word spoken was like a knife, burying itself in his stomach, piercing his flesh, his very soul. Slowly, ever so slowly, the poor boy was going crazy. He could take no more. Compliantly, the voices began to fade.
One by one they faded into the fog of his mind, echoing, resounding within his brain. Hesitantly he brought his hands away from his head, his green irises darting wildly around, rimmed with incoherent madness. He blinked hard, trying to make his eyes focus on the new scene that had started to rise around him. Demolishing the last of his insanity, his eyes complied, but soon enough he abruptly wished they hadn't.
For around him began a more recent scene. A time he had been eager to forget. Stone walls appeared quickly around him, hung with linked, metal chains that were attached to a very small, very familiar little boy. The boy's violet eyes, once teeming with life, rolled involuntarily back into his head. His short brown hair stuck out in various directions, in some parts sticking straight up; in others, flat against the falling tears of sweat on his forehead. Gruesome lacerations bled from every limb on his broken body, coloring the dull ground with a bright red liquid. And somewhere within the depths of the rising cage stood Magneto, arms crossed over his chest, a cruel, proud grin plastered onto his face. And suddenly, a scream resounded throughout the cell.'
John Allerdyce bolted upright in his bed, gentle moonlight from his bedroom window gleaming off the beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his face. After taking a moment to realize he was no longer in the chambers, he brought a shaky hand to his forehead and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. His breathing was short and ragged, his heart pounding in his chest, the sound throbbing inside his ears. A nightmare. Only a nightmare.
Unsteady hands ripped the covers off his legs and he stood slowly, leaning on his nightstand for much needed support. He made his way to the doorway, his parched mouth dragging in rapid breaths as if he'd just run the mile in under two minutes. For a while, he leaned in the doorframe, trying to catch his breath and brushing off his face with his shirt sleeve. Only after his green irises had completely focused did he start down the wooden hallway.
The young man wasn't sure exactly where he was trying to get to, but made his way slowly down the narrow corridor all the same. If he ended up in the kitchen, wonderful; he'd get a beer and move on. If he landed in the basement, fine; he'd beat up a punching bag. If he landed in the chambers -- John shook his head defiantly, refusing to think about the cells anymore. He'd had his share of those for the rest of his life, as far as he was concerned.
Rounding the corner, the juvenile mutant stopped thoughtfully and put a hand up to lean heavily against the side wall. Did he really want to elude the thought of the chambers? He was going to have to face them sometime. He couldn't keep avoiding them as if they didn't exist. They did exist. Each damn cell, each damn bird cage locked up inside those chambers had, at one time, contained an innocent child, a living, breathing soul that had been tortured and beaten until their once energetic eyes rolled as far back into their head as physically possible. Every one had been dealt with gruesomely, with searing gashes torn through their skin in various places on all of their limbs; each one dead without a funeral. St. John cringed. He couldn't avoid that. He couldn't pretend that the pointless killing of countless, innocent children wasn't really happening. Because it was.
Quickly, Pyro whirled around and walked hastily in the opposite direction. He knew where he was going.
~~ * ~~