Chapter Fifteen:
"What were you thinking!?" Steve ranted, angrier than ever. "You could've been killed!"
"I wasn't," Tyron rolles his eyes. "Don't worry."
"What are all these holes in your shirt?" Tony asked, taking his dirty shirt in his hand to inspect it. Tyron batted his hand away, annoyed.
"I got shot a few times, but--"
"You got what?!" Steve snapped, eyes wide with surprise.
"S'fine, don't worry about--"
"Show me."
"No," Tyron said immediately. The bullets had hit his chest, and although he had absorbed it, it still pierced through to his bandages. If he showed Steve and the others, he'd might as well give them a flashing sign that screamed, 'I'm a girl!'
"If you were shot, then--"
"Nothing'll happen. Bullets don't hurt me, 'member?" Tyron sighed, "I dunno why y'all are makin' such a fuss outta it. I've had worse jobs." Tyron winced, he hadn't meant for that last part to come out.
"Like what?" Steve challenged.
"Doesn't matter. Y'all got ya weird-ass scepter, so we can go back home, right?" Tyron asked, changing the subject.
"Don't get so hard on him," Clint spoke up, and several heads turned his way. "He was good. I think the experience would be good for him."
"What are you talking about, Clint?" Natasha asked, confused.
"I mean, he patched me up really well. I think, if he wants to be out there, let him. But, maybe as a field medic instead of a fighter."
"He shouldn't be out there, period."
"Yeah, and last I heard, your story wasn't all black and white with the rules before you became the Super Solider," Clint replied, and the room went silent.
"That was different," Steve defended, crossing his arms. "There was a war going on."
"There's always wars going on," Clint rolled his eyes. "How about, for once, let the kid be a person who helps people instead of hurting them. I mean, he's practically indestructible. I could empty a clip in his chest and he would walk away without a scratch."
"It's dangerous--"
"For normal people like me, like Nat, but mutants like Tyron are special. We can use him, and we should. I mean, come on, the kid's practically dying to help anyway. He'd be better on our side than theirs."
Clint's words gave everyone pause, slowly letting it sink in. "We'll think about it," Steve finally said. "In the meantime, you're in grounded."
Tyron laughed at the word, having not heard it said in years. "Grounded, really?"
Steve's eyes narrowed. "No hanging out with friends, no games, nothing."
"Fair enough."
"And, you'll be getting up and five A.M. every morning for the next three weeks, going on runs with me. After that, an hour in the gym."
Tyron paled, his eyes going wide. "Ya can't be serious." Steve gave him the look, one he had recognized on his mother several times. The 'I dare you to try me' look. "That's insane! Someone tell 'im that's insane!"
"You dig yourself into this," Nat shrugged, and even Clint, the man who just saved his ass a minute ago, nodded agreeingly. Tyron let out a groan, what had he gotten himself into?
- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -
Later, Tyron was leaning back in one of the seats, resting. They had a couple of hours left, and the jet had gone mostly quiet. He had a complicated week and just wanted some peaceful, quiet sleep.
However, someone moved, sitting beside him. Tyron looked and felt his heart jump when Thor sat down, giving him a grin. "Thor," he said, as if the man didn't know his own name.
Thor chuckled, it was a deep sound that rumbled in the back of his throat. "That is I," he replied. "I do not believe we have had the chance to meet probably. You are called Tyron, yes?"
"Yeah, I... Uhm, that's my name." Tyron suddenly got the urge to throw hisself off a bridge. 'That's my name'?! That was the best he could come up with when a literal god was sitting beside him.
"So," he said, rubbing the back of his head, "Ya hammer s'pretty cool..."
Thor smiled, "Ah, yes, Mjlnor is quite the great tool. It was given to me by my father."
"Your father?" Tyron asked. His knowledge of... Viking mythology or whatever they called was lacking significantly.
"Yes, my father, Odin, king of all realms. I am the prince, set to take my father's place after his passing."
"Oh, that's fu--I mean, uh," he coughed. "Messed up."
"'Messed up'?" He repeated. "This means, not good, yes?" Tyron nodded. "Why do you say that?"
"I mean," Tyron shrugged. "He's ya pops. Ya just... Waitin' around for him to kill over? I mean, not like that," Tyron assured, even though Thor looked highly confused. "I mean, what m'tryin' to say is, ya just gonna wait 'til he's... Dead, then take his stuff. Not that I want him to die, but, geez, this is going not at all how I want."
"Are you trying to say that I am simply biding time until my father passes in order to rule the throne?"
"I--I guess," he shrugged awkwardly. "Sorry, it ain't none of m'business."
"You are quite alright, young one," Tyron raised an eyebrow. "Although I have never looked at it from that stand point, I believe you are very much right."
Shocked, Tyron said, "Ya think so?"
"I believe there is room for everyone's opinion, whether right or wrong."
Tyron nodded, agreeing, and Thor straightened. "I hear you are quite the interesting enhanced, yes?"
"Nah. Not an enhanced, a mutant. An nhanced is a normal human who gets powers with experimentation or any other unnatural causes. A mutant is born with the X-gene and mutants them. People love the enhanced, but it's not the same with, uh, people like me."
"People do not like you?" Thor asked, confused. "How so?"
"I... Uh, it's too much to explain. People get impressed by people who were like 'em but changed due to circumstance. Usually, you're the only one of your kind. But, if ua like me, someone born different, then... Well, ya a monster."
"I have seen true monsters, young Tyron. You are surely not one," Thor comforted.
"Thanks," Tyron smirked, "I appreciate it."
"All is well," Thor smiled.
Tyron looked down. "If ya don't mind m'askin', then... What kinda metal is ya hammer, uhm, mill... Nare? Sorry, m'not good at pronouncin' stuff. Anyways, what's it made of?"
Thor lifted the hammer to his lap, "My hammer was forged from the deeps caverns of Asgard by the most noble and strongest welders. It was made of a powerful stone called uru, and was blessed by no one other than my father, Odin, himself." Thor turned the hammer, diplaying a insigina and a mesage written in a language he didn't understand. They both glowed bronze, as if it knew someone were looking at it because it was not glowing before.
"Cool," Tyron awed. He reached out the touch it. The scent of the metal was powerful, filling his senses. He noticed it early, but hadn't wanted to say anything, but when he finally got the chance to look and see it. Tyron couldn't help but wonder what taking a bit of this... This alien metal.
"I wouldn't touch it, if I were you, Tyron," Tony spoke from the other side of the ship. Tyron was shocked out of his trance, and turned to the inventor.
"Why not?"
"Well, for someone like you who can absorb any metal he touched, if you touch Thor's hammer... I have a feeling he won't get it back," Tony explained. "Hey, Thor, can I talk to you?" Thor nodded, but didn't move yet.
Tyron considered his words, and then sighed, "Damn, ya right..." He muttered. Touching mill-near, or however you say it, was a great thought, but he knew it was better if he didn't.
"Is this true?" Thor asked, surprised.
Tyron nodded disappointedly. "That's my mutation. I, uhm, eat and absorb metal..."
"Fascinating," Thor replied. "You humans never fail to disappoint the imagination."
Tyron nodded, grinning. "That's us, yep. Interestin' as hell."
"It was great meeting you, young Tyron. I hope our paths cross in the future."
"Ya too, Thor. Maybe, I can take ya to the court someday. Ya seem like the good BBall player." Thor gave him a peculiar look, but didn't denounce it.
"I will look forward to it." He smiled. Then, he got up and went to speak with Tony.
Tyron smiled, almost giddy he had the chance to talk to the Thor Odinson! He wanted to brag all about it to the others. Tyron frowned, realizing that he really couldn't tell the others without telling them that he was a mutant.
Tyron let out a sigh, definitely ready to go home and sleep.
- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -
"How's delinquent boot camp coming along?" Tony chuckled as Tyron entered the kitchen, sitting on the barstool. His shirt was soaked with sweat and his throat burning for water.
"Steve... Tried to kill me," Tyron gasped.
"Hardly," Steve said, coming in behind him. Tony chuckled, handing him a glass of water. Tyron downed it instantly, and Tony refilled it again. "He's really strong, I'll have to admit, but he's outta practice. The next few weeks should definitely sharpen his skills."
Tony nodded, approvingly. "Well, if you're done torturing the kid, then he needs to get ready for school. You have thirty minutes." As if Tony had just blown a bullhorn in his ear, Tyron jumped up, eyes wide.
"Shit!" He screeched, racing for the elevator.
"Language!" Tony and Steve called after him, and Steve glared at the mocking smirk on Tony's face.
- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -
"You, my friend, look like hell," Peter said as Tyron slipped into his seat for first period.
"He's right," Ned replied. "What'd you do, run a marathon?"
"Somethin' like that," he wheezed.
"Don't make a habit of this, Mister Tyron," their teacher, Mr. Gildwin scolded. He was a overset man with balding, white-blonde hair. He wore the same beige pants every single day, and only changed the colour od his button down shirt. He was old, by the looks of it, and was very particular about his class and the students. He didn't like Tyron, and, honestly, he had no idea why.
"Yessir," Tyron mumbled, taking out his maths textbook.
"Today, I thought it'd be more interesting, since everyone thinks that math time is the equivalent to nap time," his dark eyes, weary of age, narrrowed as it scanned the room, landing on a few people of interests. "So, I've added some real world issues into our teaching."
"Yeah," Flash Thompson cheered from the back corner of the room, where all the jocks and sluts sat. "One bitch fucked plus one cock sucked equals a hell of a good night!" Then him, and his possee of other friends, laughed heartily, slapping hands and punching fists. Tyron rolled his dark eyes, immaturity annoyed him.
"I think you'll find that these problems might be more interesting than cheap sex, Mr. Thompson. And, after all this, you and your friends can look over it in detention tomorrow." The class ooohed at Mr. Gildwin's words, and Flash rolled his blue eyes.
"Moving on," he cleared his throat. And turned to the whiteboard where there were some long blank papers covering a few sections. He pulled the first one down, revealing a graphic. Tyron recognized it as a Punnett Square. "Recent studies have shown that males are more likely to carry the X-Gene than women. So," he turned to the board, and began to write. "Lets say that a man and a woman have a child. The man is a carrier with the X-Gene and the woman is a not. However, the woman has the dominant trait of producing a child with the X-Gene that will emerge in their teen years. The man has the trait of having the child with the X-Gene that will emerge in it's early years. So, which is more likely for the child to have its mutation being shown?"
"Uh, Mr. Gildwin?" A student said, a weird look on her face. She was chewing gum, her bottom lip pierced and bore a black earring. "This is math class, not science. So, why are we learning this?"
"I am the teacher, you'll learn what I say you learn," he replied tursely. "Anyone else want to answer the question?"
"Won't there be a fifty-fifty chance?" Ned asked, confused.
"Yes. Thank you," Mr. Gildwin said, turning back to the white board. "If there is a fifty-fifty chance, that means that either way, its likely for the child to be born with the X Gene. Now, let's say the child is born a female and will mutate in her teens. She is a very talented swimmer, and also a very good rock climber. Mutalogists have reported that 82 percent of mutants have triggered their mutations based on their surroundings. Let's say, her mutation will be either mutating into a mythological mermaid, due to her swimming, or the ability to climb surfaces easily due to her rock climbing. Raise your hand if you think it is swimming." A few raised their hands, and he nodded. "And the rock-climbing?" Everyone else, including Tyron, raised their hands.
"You're all wrong," He said, and Tyron rose an eyebrow. "Studies have shown that if you possess two skills like that that are similar, you are 25 percent more likely to gain something that'll accomodate both categories." He pulled off another paper. It was a illustration of a pair of lungs, except they were cracked, as if made of stone. "She gained a better use for her lungs, allowing her to breathe underwater for longer periods of time and go hours in air with less than twenty percent of oxygen without the use of a tank."
"Okay. So she's a freak," a male student said, scoffing and leaning back in his chair. "So what?"
"Mr. Jon, do you know the percentage of mutants in the United States right now?" Mr. Gildwin asked, and he shrugged. Mr. Gildwin turned back to the board, lowering the last paper a little. On the board was a statistic.
'FORTY-TWO PERCENT OF ALL AMERICANS HAVE THE X-GENE OR ARE MUTANTS.'
"So?" He shrugged. "I don't care. It's not my problem what those freaks do."
"Mr. Jon, do you know the homicidal rate of Mutant-Americans?" He didn't give him the chance to answer because he had already pulled down the paper again.
'APPROX. 0.0028 PERCENT OF MUTANT AMERICANS HAVE BEEN CONVICTED OF HOMICIDE.'
"Mr. Jon. Do you know the suicide rate of Mutant-Americans?" Mr. Gildwin continued, not even allowing the boy to open his mouth. He moved the paper again.
'THE SUICIDE RATE OF MUTANT-AMERICANS, ACCORDING TO A 2016 STUDY, IS 95.78 PERCENT.' The class began to murmur, a few looking uncomfortable.
"So!?" He asked, his face scrunched in anger. "Why the fuck should I care!?"
"Mr. Jon. Do you know how many Mutant-Americans have died by the hands of a non-mutant?" Mr. Gildwin moved the paper away, folding it on his desk as he moved to sit. The entire class was silent and shocked.
The last statistic was inside a picture of a skull. It said, 'FOR EVERY ONE NON-HUMAN THAT IS BORN IN THE U.S. EVERY DAY, OVER A HUNDRED MUTANT-AMERICANS ARE KILLED IN THE U.S.'
Tyron wanted to cry. His eyes darted to the floor. He heard Flash talk to his friends, sounding proud of the horrifying statistic. "Serves those freaks fuckin' right," one of them joked, making the entire group giggle like schoolgirls.
It took everything Tyron had in him to not get up. It took everything he had learned from Steve and Tony and the others to not walk over there. It took everything in Tyron's will power to not stand up and rip out each and every one of their insides.
His hand gripped his pencil, a foot wrapped around the leg of his desk, slowly absorbing it, on instinct. They laughed again, "You'd fuck a mutant?" One of them asked the other.
"I'm all for exotic animals," They shrugged shamelessly. "Might even cage it up."
"Kinky."
"Tyron?" Peter said beside him. He jumped, his chair falling back, his pencil snapping in half. He blinked, the room was staring at him, confused.
"Freak." One muttered, and the rest of the room began to whisper as well.
He turned to Peter and picked up his chair. "M'sorry. Must've... Dozed off."
"No problem," Peter said as Tyron sat back down. "Are you alright?"
"M'good. Just tired, s'all," he shrugged sitting back down, not missing the death glare the jocks in the corner were giving him. "What're we doin'?"
"Writing our own examples of Mr. G's lesson," he shrugged. "Five different ones. They don't have to be real, and neither do the sources, as long as the math is tight." Tyron nodded and pulled out a sheet of paper, beginning his work.