Dear Jonda Fans,
Greetings! Thank you for choosing "Unsung" for your reading pleasure. I really appreciate the time you're willing to sacrifice to read my work, and in return I hope you appreciate the time and work put in to make it.
That's right. I put in time and effort into the writing of this fanfiction – something I'm seeing less and less of these days. I've noticed deterioration in quality in the Evoverse, particularily in fanfics in the romance category.
I'm talking about those stories with 100-500 word long chapters that are chocked full of spelling and grammar errors, and that randomly shift time-tenses and points of view. Or better yet, the ones that aren't separated into paragraphs or abuse quotation marks out of existence.
I don't like hearing people make excuses for not using proper punctuation in their writing. I learned about story writing when I was seven. If a seven year-old can use quotation marks, then so can a thirteen year-old. If that's an issue, then get a beta-reader. They're free and friendly and deadly useful.
Another factoid that irks me is the dead plots. Those would be the stories that have not substance and/or direction. And yes, it's possible to do that. I suggest making a plot outline for at least the next three chapters before you write them, just so you know where to go with what you write, instead of having those random chapters that have nothing really to do with the story and actually take away from the plot.
Now that I'm done my grammar/plot rant out of the way, I want to get to my Jonda rant.
Jonda is awesome. I can't even get over how awesome it is. I can't even begin to describe how much I love it. To me, Jonda is like fresh coffee on a cold winter's morning in Canada, or… crack cookies… or something…
Anyway, I really love Jonda. And because I love Jonda so much, I refuse to read it indiscriminately. That means I won't just click on any old story because it has "Jonda" pasted in the summary. I used to do that, when I was young and reckless, but I know better now. And my reason is most of the stuff out there now makes my soul weep in unpleasant ways. It's great that so many people think that Jonda is awesome too, but I respectfully request that you treat it with love and care. If you're going to write Jonda (and this goes for anything actually), think about what you're writing. Plot, write, read it, revise it and refine it. It not only makes the reader enjoy their fanfiction experience more, but it gives them the sense that you respect them enough to only deliver the best. And it's great practice for the future, if you ever decide to expand your writing into doing original stories. Random fun is great, when it's cleverly pieced together.
So that concludes my rant. Sorry if any of you were offended. Take my words into consideration next time you sit down to write, or read, anything.
And now for the chapter.
Sirens blared. Cops and fire-fighters were crawling all over the scene like cockroaches in a motor-inn bathroom. Tragedy had struck the literary world. The once prestigious Roddenburry Publishing Corporation was now nothing but a pile of ash and broken support beams. The newspapers would say it was arson. Kids would be writing about it in their journals at school. Fat-Cats would be flustering over their lost millions – pocket change.
But they would never find the root of the fire. It was so skillfully crafted, almost like a painting by a master. Or even a statue of a goddess, as found in the Parthenon in Greece. Not a single detail was missed.
His mind was still reeling from it. It was a total high; one that he hadn't experienced in a long time. It was like getting drunk only without the nasty hangover the next day.
In one foul swoop, he'd engulfed the entire building in flames, and God, was it a fucking awesome show! People had been running and screaming for their lives. Supports were snapped, windows were broken and men in charred suits had to be lifted off their fat asses and carried down to safety on a cherry picker. It was enough to make Pyro giddy.
He was Pyro again. The only time he felt truly alive were the days he'd level public property and frighten people with his firey apparitions.
He stood by in the shadows and watched as the fire-fighters extinguished his art, a pang of anger tugging at his pride. Stupid bloody humans. They always had to ruin beautiful things.
But it was over now, he'd had his fun. Now it was time to go home, turn on some cartoons, light some candles and have a nice victory supper. Just like the old days, he felt the unbeatable urge to cackle.
There was no time to cackle, however. The police were searching the premises for anything suspicious. Silly cops. The perp would've fled the scene by now. They wouldn't have stayed to watch the pretty fire unless they were the most twisted of folk. Pyro had stayed to watch. But now he had to make tracks before they found him in his dingey hiding place.
John opened his apartment door, casually tossing his keys into a small wicker basket perched on top of his television. The basket fell to the floor, taking the keys and several beer bottle caps with it. He glared at the mess, but didn't take any measures to clean it up. "Honey, I'm home!" He announced mockingly to the empty room.
Home was a one room apartment that John shared with a stray ginger tomcat on weekends. And by one room, that meant only one room. His bed, closet, television, writing desk, mini-fridge and microwave were all crammed into the tiny space in such a way that it could only have been described as a miracle. The décor was minimal. The wallpaper was peeling and the drywall was cracked. There was probably mould growing somewhere as well. It didn't bother John. He didn't have any allergies to it. Besides that, he didn't spend much time at 'home' unless he had some serious writing to do.
The mould added a bit of culture.
This little hole in the wall was only temporary. As soon as John got one of his books published he was going to take his big fat royalties cheque to the bank and get himself a nice penthouse in the Hamptons, a large-breasted and pretty blonde bimbo of a girlfriend, a nice car to drive and maybe a pet spider monkey. Well, maybe not the girlfriend. Things tended to get crazy when women got involved.
He'd name the monkey Horatio.
Alas, the book publishing gig had been a bust. It'd gone over the same way it did the last seventeen times John showed up at that building with a brand new, polished and refined manuscript.
John took great pride in his creative work. He was good, and he knew he was good. No, he was better than good! He was great. The things he wrote would've been instant classics if the idiots at Roddenburry's had pulled their heads out of their asses and actually bothered to read the preface before turning him down.
No chance of that happening now though. Thanks to Pyro, they were just a smudge of dirt on the face of the planet. And that was all they ever will be.
Of course, now that the biggest publishing company in the city was destroyed, John's chances of getting one of his books out and into the world was slim to nil. He'd have to stand on the street corner and push it at people as they walked by. That wouldn't work. And the price of printer ink was downright ridiculous these days.
John turned on his 9" television and flipped to the cartoon network. He had to do it manually, because his remote control had been stolen some night a few months back. It was probably the neighbour's kid pulling a prank. There was probably a cash of items that little brat had stowed away somewhere, and among them was John's remote, a bag of cheese-puffs and about seven half-finished packs of cigarettes.
Sadly, the cartoons weren't helping him unwind a bit. There was a limit to the number of times Bugs Bunny could bash Yosemite-Sam over the head and still make John laugh. No, his mind was still focused on that fire; that beautiful, roaring, all consuming blaze that he had created. God, the rush was even better than getting laid. Of course, John hadn't gotten much action since he left Australia – meaning that he hadn't done it in the past four years. Well, no wonder he was going crazy! He was a man in his prime, and here he was wasting away in a rat-infested hell hole. He should've been out in the world, sewing his wild oats, impregnating thousands of women! Well, on second thought, that wasn't such a good idea either. Kids also complicated things. And they were annoying.
John really wanted a cigarette. He hoped the little twerp from across the hall would die of lung cancer.
On a lark, he decided to change the channel, since all the Looney Tunes were reruns anyway. He had about four other channels to choose from. Idly turning the dial, he must have cycled through all five of them at least a dozen times. Cartoons, soap opera, soap opera, cooking show, another soap opera, cartoons, soap opera, breaking news-
John stopped. These things were usually pretty entertaining. He wondered what the story was this time. Armed robbery? Missing child? Some celebrity slipping back into a huge cocaine habit and having to go to jail for accidentally eating their neighbour's dog?
"We will return to the scheduled programming in just a moment-" John snorted at the news anchor's monotone voice, as if anything he had to say was important. Really… Manny McWhatshisface needed to get over himself.
"Chaos emerged today at Roddenburry's Publishing Corporation. The building suddenly erupted in flames at approximately 11:15 am."
John suddenly burst into manic laughter as he watched them replay the footage of his work. Ah yes, such beautiful craftwork. He inspected each tiny detail, from the colour of the flames to the tiny shapes he had made within them. Had the spectators paid better attention, they would have noticed the famous Battle for Helmsdeep scene being replayed in the thick of it all.
Oh well, some artists would never be recognized.
"Police suspect that it was caused by a man described as 6' with red hair and facial hair-"
John absently scratched the patch of fuzz on his chin.
"- wearing a white t-shirt, blue jeans and a leather jacket."
John sniffed the collar of his shirt, thinking that it could go another day before he needed to wash it.
"- believed to be a man named John Allerdyce of Australia-"
John chuckled to himself, thinking that poor bastard was going to get pinned for something… he… did…
"Oh shit!" He jumped to his feet, nearly hitting his head on the rotating ceiling fan. Damn! They'd caught him! They'd said his name on the news! Now each and every one of his neighbours would be out for blood, probably just so they could get any reward the cops were offering.
"- terrorist action. Allerdyce is believed to be a volatile mutant."
"Fuck!"
He'd have to get out. Run, flee, get the Hell away from this place. Get the Hell out of this city.
In a flourish, he'd stuffed all his scattered laundry into a tattered briefcase, stopping only to grab his wallet and his passport. Without them, he'd be doomed.
On that thought, he grabbed his laptop and shoved it under his arm as well. And as he scrimmaged around to find all his floppy disks – containing back-ups of all his written work – a knock came on his door.
"Fuck!"
The knocking continued as John snatched his lighter out of his refrigerator and prepared himself for an attack. Outside John's door stood the landlady and seven armed police officers. John could sense them. He could practically smell the cops' shoe polish and Mrs. Fenderson's knock-off perfume.
Perfume was highly combustible.
"Mr. Allerdyce?" she crooned in her croaky cigarette-scorched voice. "It's Jody Fenderson! Open this door immediately!"
It was a trap; did they really think he was that stupid?
"I want to check your pipes!"
Clearly the answer was 'yes'. If they really wanted to surprise him, then John would've suggested the cops not talk to each other in the hallway that echoed no matter how soft the sound was. But there was no accounting for human stupidity. They must've missed that lesson in Sneakology 101.
The knocking escalated into full-out banging. John could see splinters coming off his door as the hinges held on desperately for dear life. He flipped open the top of his Zippo lighter and held his thumb over the trigger expectantly. If it was a fight they wanted, then it was a fight he'd give them! He'd show him just how volatile he could be-
Unfortunately, John didn't take into account that because he was a mutant, they wouldn't refrain from opening fire. Before he knew it, there were bullets ripping through his door and walls. He stood, frozen, staring at the barrier that was gradually becoming the consistency of Swiss cheese. John's lower eyelid barely twitched as a bullet grazed the shoulder of his leather jacket. Instead of running scared, like any sensible man would, he flicked his thumb and sparked a tiny flame into life. The corner of his mouth curled into a wicked smirk as the sight of three of the police officers came into view through his broken door.
"There he is!" They shouted unnecessarily. Their discovery seemed to inspire them to stop shooting, and start kicking down his holey door.
Let them come! He could take them all down! It seemed like ages since Pyro had a good fight. The officers had knocked a good deal of wood out of their way, still smashing and banging their way to him. John cracked his knuckles in a sinister way, clenching and unclenching his fist in anticipation. He'd blow them all away.
He'd kill them.
Cold blooded murder.
No, self defense.
He wanted to make them scream.
He wanted a quick escape.
They deserved no mercy.
He was just a writer!
They were just humans; nothing to worry about!
That didn't mean he was immune to guilt. Murder was murder.
The officers opened fire again. In a flash, John shot out a giant fireball in self defense, and then turned tail and made the only escape he could. Case and laptop at hand, he leapt through his window, smashing the glass. He was falling. Falling quickly. Falling away. John lived on the fourth floor of the building. A jump like that could and would break a man's neck. Pyro on the other hand had been trained extensively, and had a higher resistance. He tucked and rolled as he made contact with the pavement and he scurried into the alleyway as the officers continued their barrage of bullets through his apartment and out his broken window.
He could hear their superior officer barking orders from his place behind a dumpster. Now John was scared.
Terrified.
They were going to hunt him down and kill him. He couldn't die! Not yet. He hadn't had any of his work published. He refused to be snuffed out before his career ever truly ignited.
Where could he go? The city would be swept in search of him. And what would they do when they found him? They'd probably go against years of history and laws and hold a public lynching.
Never mind the city. They'd hunt for him all across the state, maybe even the whole country!
This would make a great novel some day, should the writer live long enough to write it.
There wasn't really a safe place for him to go. He needed a place that was low-key. He needed to find something that was hidden away, where it didn't matter than he had an active X-gene.
There was Xavier's. The Professor had extended him the welcoming hand once before. Years ago, after the Apocalypse ordeal that nearly killed all life on this planet, Xavier opened his doors to all of them, inviting them to stay in his Haven. Colossus had jumped at the chance to get away from the life of a mercenary. The metal-man had a hard exterior, but a soft heart. He wanted to follow in Xavier's ways of peace.
Gambit had just wanted a change of scene. John doubted he stayed for long unless Xavier started paying him, or if that Rogue girl started putting-out. Otherwise the Ragin'-Cajun was probably back in New Orleans celebrating his own kind of Mardi Gras.
Pyro had hesitated. He'd been raised a fighter. He loved conflict. He lived for a good argument that could escalate into a fist fight. Crazy was what people called him. He was just looking for a challenge so he could show off. Xavier didn't tolerate that kind of thing. He was all about uniting the masses.
Pyro wanted Chaos.
But here he was, hiding amongst garbage, waiting for cops to run out of bullets. He could hear sirens off in the distance for the second time that day.
The bullets stopped. The sirens faded off into the distance. They were chasing a phantom. They thought he was running. They probably just spotted some poor fool that looked like him.
He pulled a black hooded sweater out of his briefcase and quickly changed out of his leather jacket. He covered his distinctive red hair with the hood, dropped his shoulders and began walking toward the nearest bus station.
It was time to return to Bayville New York, and see if there was a welcoming hand still open.