Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.
Author's Notes: I'm glad all of you enjoyed the Russian roulette metaphors; it was very talked about. More if it in this chapter. And if you haven't seen "The Deer Hunter"…
GO. NOW. RENT IT.
That's me, trying to brainwash all of you into watching a fabulous movie. The character of Michael is my idol. But I digress!
Saw the episode ' The HeX Factor' for the first time on Monday. I do a happy dance. In honor of this momentous occasion, a new chapter for you all, in the long-awaited Pietro POV. Enjoy.
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Click.
Empty chamber again.
Take one down, pass it around, spin it in an insane merry-go-round of life and death, slap it shut, point it at your head, and say a prayer.
Click.
Empty chamber again.
The story of my life.
As "The Deer Hunter" flashes by, I suck it all in, absorbing it like a big, malevolent sponge.
Suffering.
Torment.
Russian roulette.
I played Russian roulette once. Quite the eye-opening experience.
It wasn't that long ago, now that I recall. In the hideout. After the Sentinel.
That's how I keep track of time now… Before Sentinel, and After Sentinel. How appropriate that the first is B.S…
Because it was all wishful thinking.
But back to the Russian roulette.
Colossus and Gambit were on some sort of scouting mission, and Magneto was God-knows-where plotting God-knows-what. So that left me in the closest thing we had to a den, sprawled on the couch and throwing darts at the ceiling.
Then John staggered into the room.
He wasn't in uniform, and neither was I; these were the only times I had a chance to connect with him as another teenager. He's only nineteen.
But then, I could instantly tell that he was high on something. His eyes were wild and his gait was wobbly, but he managed to stumble over to the card table. In his hand was a gun, a revolver, which he played with fondly.
"Howdy, Speedy." He giggles.
"Howdy, Matchstick."
"Just us in the house, then, eh?"
"Cozy, isn't it?" Please note the sarcasm.
"Ehhhhh…" Fiddling with the gun some more. "What do people do when they're alone in the house?"
"We could play a game! Oh, goody!" More sarcasm.
"Sounds like a brilliant idea, mate, bloody brilliant. I gots a great idear; roulette!"
"Sure, let's pack up for Vegas!" Cheerfully bitchy.
"Naw, not like that."
Suddenly, he pops open the chambers and spins it meaningfully.
Let the record show this is not my idea.
"I'm game."
He's dangerously high, I'm dangerously suicidal; not a good combination. Give us a gun and you're only asking for trouble.
He goes first. Presses that gun to his temple and pulls the trigger like he hasn't a care in the world.
Click.
Then me, digging the barrel into that tender spot and waiting for the end.
Click.
The game wears on. Every time we hear that 'click', we pop it open and give it another spin before slamming it shut again.
Now, when he puts it up against his head, it slips a bit in the sweat that's rolling from his brow. His pupils have contracted to mere pinpricks, and I know he's secretly just as scared as I am.
Click.
My turn. But this time, I forget to spin the chambers again… why did I forget? It would have taken me one second…
Up against my temple.
BANG.
The explosion rips into my eardrum, and the only thing I can hear is a high-pitched ringing. My eyes glaze over, my whole body jerks in the air instinctively, the searing burn of scalding gunpowder scorches the side of my face.
But the bullet is stopped with the tip barely touching me, branded into my flesh.
Magneto saved my life, the bastard. It would have been over in a blaze of light, a cacophony of sound, John's scream mixing with my own before I plunged into darkness for all eternity.
Instead, I ended up with an hour-long lecture, a private training (read: beating) session with the Boss, and a deaf ear for a week. The scar of the burn is still on my face; I can see it if I examine my reflection closely enough.
Damn it, I can't take anymore.
Switching the TV off in a savage movement, I lob the remote at the set and grimace when it smacks into the screen. Doesn't break anything. Good.
Wouldn't want to ruin Mystique's precious little house.
Damn her. Damn him, the son of a bitch who calls himself my father.
I don't call him father anymore. Just Magneto. Because that's all he ever was to me. Never a father, never the treehouse-building, storytelling, fishing trip-taking, camping, hiking, football-playing man I needed.
I needed.
Doesn't he even realize what he's done to me? That bastard! He made me what I am today. When I needed a guiding hand, I was whipped back into place. When I needed comforting arms, I was shoved into a corner.
When I needed my twin more than anything else, he took her away.
My best friend in the world, my soul mate, the only person in the entire universe that I could talk to without fear of getting slapped and silenced.
He took her away.
But even worse? He made me watch. And then he explained it to me in that brainwashing voice, and convinced me that it was the only thing to do.
Then, when I was nine, I came crawling to him on my hands and knees, screaming for mercy, begging for him to make it stop.
There was a voice in my head. A voice that wasn't mine, but was angry and hateful and cruel. I thought it was Satan, or at least a demon of his, and I seriously feared for my young life.
"Pietro!" he scolded harshly. "Control yourself! You can manage it! Just try, for God's sake!"
So I bit my lip until it bled, pushed my mind into a higher gear, and managed to quell the voice to a whisper.
Nine years old.
I overheard him on the phone with someone. He was talking about me. I could only catch snips of what he was saying.
"I feared that this would happen… his mutation… super-sensitive… the connection gets stronger with her anger… she'll bring him down yet… thinking of training him harder…"
And he trained me harder, all right. Pushed me past all my human limits, pushed me until every day was just an effort to keep from snapping in half like a dry twig. Ever see a picture of a horse that's just run a big race? They have foam slathered all over their sides. They're been running so hard and so fast they can't even swallow their own saliva. That's what I felt like.
So here I am, seven years later, a complete wreck.
In "Black Beauty", there's a horse called Ginger. A beautiful chestnut, strong, long-legged. She shows limitless potential; all they have to do it patiently train her until they unearth her best. But they race her before her time, push her past the limit before teaching her what to do. It utterly destroys her.
Is that all I was to my father? A racehorse, not yet in my prime but pushed to be there, whipped and spurred until I cross the finish line? Then my knees buckled and my heart gave out.
I'm just lucky he didn't shoot me in the head.
That's why he sent me back here. Not to train them. No one can train them. Just to get rid of me. He knew his prime racer was useless, so he cast him off like so much flotsam and jetsam.
He didn't know that he made me the happiest man alive that day.
He'd just released that ruined old horse into a bright green pasture.
I can rest at last.
It's so quiet here.
I watch them sleeping. Todd, bless his heart, only his crazy brown hair sticking up from under the blankets he's piled on himself. Maybe he is cold-blooded. Fred, gentle as a lamb and slumbering like a baby, his head pillowed on his arms. Even Lance looks almost decent when he sleeps, all the worry and frustration wiped from his face to be replaced by peace.
And Wanda.
My Wanda.
So happy she looks now! Dozing contentedly on Lance's shoulder, her fingers closed instinctively on the edge of her quilt, like someone's going to take it away from her.
No one's going to take away anything. Not while I'm here.
Wait a minute—LANCE'S shoulder???
Like a slap in the face, I suddenly become aware of it all. Him. Her. Hormones. Damn.
Calm down. They can't be that bad for each other. Two stubborn hardheads who share the same philosophy: my way or the high way. They're bound to soften each other up, like "The Taming of the Shrew" or something.
Still. Jealous jealous jealous.
Slowly, carefully, I slip my arm around her shoulders. She murmurs in her sleep. With equal caution, I shift her weight back in my direction, until her body slumps against mine and her head rests gently on my chest.
Is it just me, or did she nestle her face into my shirt?
My hands find an automatic rhythm massaging her shoulders.
Hello again, Wanda.
You slept like this once before, though I know you don't remember it. We stayed up late watching the old "Frankenstein". I think we must have been five years old. You were so scared, then. Didn't want to go upstairs, didn't want to be alone in your room with that big empty closet.
So I took you into my room, and we snuggled under the covers together. You fell asleep in my arms, Wanda, with your downy soft head resting on my thin chest, your breathing a deep and peaceful rhythm.
"Don't let the monster get me, Pie…" you yawned.
"I won't. I promise."
And here you are, in my arms again at last.
This time, there are bigger and badder monsters chasing you. Nightmares and phantoms from a past that haunts you.
But I got bigger too, Wanda.
I can still protect you.
Your hair is still as soft as down. Your breathing can still calm my racing heart.
He took you away from me, Wanda. Up till then, I had trusted him implicitly, would have agreed to fling myself into a nuclear melting pot for him. But when he violated me, when he crossed the line…
He took away the only thing I ever loved.
What kind of father would do that? Father? I saw a Father's Day card in a Hallmark once; it said "Happy Father's Day, Old Block! Love, Chip". I wanted to scream.
I ended up buying it.
Then I burned it.
You told me once that I was just like him, Wanda. You broke my heart. You broke my heart. You said he was a monster, and I was no different. God, Wanda, I thought I was going to die right at your feet.
I can only hope you'll change that opinion one day.
That's what this horse is running for.
Because a racehorse only needs the right help to become great. Just look at Seabiscuit.
Fred and Todd will be the keepers. Fred's the one that always makes sure I eat enough, even though he probably doesn't realize it. And Todd thought I was asleep all those nights ago, last December, when the weather was freezing and he came in and tossed an extra blanket over me.
Lance can be the trainer. He'll keep me in line, he'll tell me when to shut up and when to stop running. He'll give me a slap (I really needed that, actually), then he'll give me one of those bear hugs and tell me it's okay.
And Wanda, you be the jockey. Ride down my stubborn personality, like a bucking bronco, till you finally break it and teach me to have some humility and patience. Don't be afraid to use the riding crop; even the best horses need a little encouragement sometimes.
With all of you helping me, it could happen. I'm too proud to ask, but you know I need it. Whip me into shape, shut me up, sit me down, teach me to be good. I'll listen.
Maybe this horse can run again.
Maybe this time I'll come across the finish line in glory and pride.
And for the first time in my life, I'll find the roses of victory around my neck.
Race for the dream.
And keep hoping for empty chambers in the gun.
Click.
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