In regards to Only Human's comment(s):
The tense change at the end of the chapters has been intentional since the second chapter. In fact, the sixth chapter was the first chapter to end without a tense change, other the the original one-shot first chapter. Chapter seven follows in the vein of six, in that it ends without the tense change. As you'll see, it's to keep in with the mood of the chapter's end. As far as the body of the chapters go, I prefer to write--in a dialogue heavy story like this one--in the present tense. I'm a playwright, and past-tense sometimes throws me for a loop. I'd rather write present-tense well than past-tense shoddily.
Thank you so much for taking the time to review so often, and in such detail. It was really helpful of you. I don't want this to come off as a sort of retort, rather than what it is meant to be: an explanation of my actions. I've never professed to be a genius at the craft of writing. I'm still learning a lot.
Again, thank you.
--P.
And so...
I'll admit to everyone that the sixth chapter may have a little bit of problems with flow and dialogue. I rewrote it four times from four different angles, and I still did not get all the emotion and bits of story into it that I wanted to. I may yet go back and rewrite it again, but I needed to get something posted to continue with the story.
I'll be going back to earlier chapters and trying to clean up some of the minor spelling mistakes and squished sentences. Fanfiction has a terrible tendency to--if you edit your document in their editor--squeeze your edited text together into one long sentence. (example: intoonelongsentence)
That said, I'm still insanely grateful to everyone who's read, reviewed, and liked my story so far. You guys are great!
Enough chatter from me,
Enjoy!
--P.
The scene today is much the same as yesterday, Emma thinks. She wonders if the protesters have something else more constructive that they could be doing. It's not that she doesn't think their criticisms are worthwhile, she simply dislikes having to dodge thrown trash, insults, and the like on her way to work.
If that I had the luxury to stand outside and bitch all day, Emma thinks. But as it stands I have to work.
The alley to the back of the clinic is completely swamped with people, so Emma has no choice but to enter the clinic through the front door. It'll be a tight squeeze, what with the line and all, but it won't be that much trouble. Emma is more concerned about having to walk up to the front door. This puts her in full view of the mob. Though, after a night of rest, she's a lot more spry than she was before. She lets her mind branch out, sweeping over the crowd and analyzing them, feeling their actions, their intentions. Emma would love for someone to try something on her today. It'd be a lark to see some poor dolt spill his soda all over his neighbor. Then they could really have a riot.
She's laughing quietly to herself when she feels it. Rage. Arrogant rage, like a plume of flame, billowing in the center of the picket line. Emma stops. Someone in line yells a slur, throws a wad of paper at her, but Emma doesn't notice. So much pride, self-assurance, animosity… she knows what he's going to do, this mysterious elemental hatred.
"Who are you?" She asks; her lips don't move. They don't need to.
None of your business.
"Don't." She begs him softly. "Please don't."
A red-hot tongue of fire rockets past Emma. Had she been a foot closer she would have been incinerated instantly.
"No!" Emma screams, but there is nothing she can do. The stream of fire connects with the wall of the clinic, shatters the windows, and forces itself inside with a motion that defies what the eye would believe fire capable of. An explosion sends Emma sprawling on her back. Her purse flies from her grasp, she loses one of her white high heels, and a chunk of blonde hair falls down out of the tidy bun it'd been in.
Sitting up, Emma gazes in horror as the clinic erupts into flames. The picketers scatter in fear. The police that had been working the line race towards the clinic, but there's nothing they can really do. Patients and staff--humans and mutants--stream out of the decimated main entrance, some covered in fire and wailing in pain. Their minds cry out, and Emma has to shut them out in order to keep her wits about her. Smoke and bits of ash begin to seep out over the street. She stands, bringing a hand to her head and trying not to topple over. The fall has stunned Emma, but she's not injured. She can do something; she must do something.
And then she hears the laughter.
She isn't hearing it really. It's not physical laughter. It's not sound. It's the burning, pompous glee she'd felt moments before the clinic erupted. It's the attacker. Emma can still feel him. He's close, running away.
Emma Frost kicks off her remaining white shoe and, reaching down, tears a slit in the side of her otherwise constricting white skirt. What a shame, she thinks It was her second-favorite one. Pulling at her bun, Emma releases her curtain blonde hair and gives it a rather hurried shake. A police officer is beside her now, taking her shoulders in his hands and trying to guide her away from the fire. "Ma'am, we have to get you out of here."
"Help the others." She says calmly.
"I'll help the others." And he leaves her to her own devices.
Emma clears her thoughts, reaches, branches out past the screaming and the pain. She feels him, the heat. He's still running, but slower. His pride won't allow him to bolt; to make a spectacle. "There." Emma breathes.
She's off.
Emma runs past the police, past the stampeding protesters, past the onlookers too stunned to move or speak. She ignores the pain of her bare feet as they power her down the sidewalk. Emma runs past stores, past an old lady with a shopping cart. She strains to jump over a fallen trash can, dives past oncoming emergency personal responding the chaos behind her. Emma is breathing hard, but she closes in on the assailant like a heat-seeking missile. At fifty yards she can practically taste the self-assurance cascading off of him. At twenty yards she can see the back of his head as he ducks into an alley.
He's walking calmly away from her when she steps into the alley.
At this range, Emma can sense his every thought, every morbid bit of satisfaction at the injuries, the deaths, and the outright catastrophe he's caused. Her fist clenches. "Stop!" She yells, chest rising and falling heavily.
He makes as if to turn, but Emma's hand snaps up, fist unfurling. The assailant falls to his knees; he vomits.
"You…" Emma advances on the prone individual, her eyes flashing with unrestrained anger. "You… bastard."
"Go to hell!" He snarls between heaves.
She's standing over him now. "What did you say?"
"I said go to--" The assailant is cut off by his own screams. Twitching and writhing in pain, he falls completely onto the alley floor at Emma's feet, clutching his head.
"I know everything about you, little St. John Allerdyce. I know your past, I know your fears, I know what you beat off to at night… I know who you love. I know who you hate. I know who you pretend to hate..." Emma's voice never raises above a soft hiss, but the sound of her words ring deafeningly in Pyro's mind.
He wails. "Stop it! Argh! Get out of my head! Get out!"
"A God Among Insects?" Her lips twitch, she smiles."Oh how you latched on to that, suckled at it like a greedy little beast. You ate it up, and you know why? Of course, you arrogant little shit. You'd never admit it to anyone, let alone yourself. You'd never admit to being afraid, being weak, being pathetic…"
Pyro stammers, saliva dripping out of the corner of his mouth. "Stop it! Stop it, please!"
"I bet you were one of those kids who tortured ants with a magnifying glass just to watch them burn? I bet with your powers you've never even known the sensation, the horror, of being truly hurt by fire, have you?" Emma plants her foot on the boy's stomach, cinching him in place as he squirms beneath her. "Allow me to give you a gift, John."
Emma's eyes roll into the back of her head. She strains, opens her mind as much as she can. Two blocks away, she can still sense the devastation caused by Pyro's attack. There are still people trapped inside the burning building. There are still people lying pained in the streets. Emma takes their anguish, their suffering, and channels it through herself, directing it down tenfold upon the boy beneath her foot.
"Do you feel that? Do you feel everything that you have done? Those were innocent people, you worthless little bug! You insect! They had friends, families… Can you feel their pain?"
Pyro can't answer. He can't even scream. He twitches beneath Emma, eyes wide and staring. Every so often he makes a gurgle or a wheeze. There is too much explosive agony for the body to even react. It shuts down. The boy's mind, however, explodes with activity. It hurls out information, locked memories, and dreams in some desperate last-ditch attempt to fend of the telepath. His brain shudders beneath the crushing weight of Emma's psychic hold.
She's ready to kill the boy.
That is until one fleeting bit of information makes her stop. Her hold lessens, the pain fades. Emma releases Pyro completely and backs away. "My God."
She leaves Pyro in the alley. She leaves him lying in his own vomit and excrement, broken and defeated. He's unconscious, possibly emotionally scarred, but otherwise completely unharmed. The boy is beyond lucky. Emma leaves, but not before relieving Pyro of his cellular phone. Hers, unfortunately enough, had been in her now-missing purse.
Walking down the sidewalk--shoeless, hair mussed, skirt torn--Emma Frost punches numbers frantically, placing a long-distance call.
It rings twice before a male voice answers. "Hello?"
"Chris?"
The voice on the other end sounds pleased. "Ah, Emma darling. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Christian, listen to me, you have to leave San Francisco."
He laughs. "Dearest sister, you've been telling me that for years. I have roots, you know? It'd be like transplanting azaleas in mid-bloom. Besides, the strangest thing happened to me the other night. I met someone, and you'll never guess--"
Emma cuts him off. "Something terrible is going to happen."
ps.
I do not own X-Men. I'm making no profit from this.