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X2: Make Your Own Olympus
Originally posted not here, but I can't find the other link.
Make Your Own Olympus
X-Men movieverse. John. PG. 1180 words.
"For the first time since he changed sides, standing between Bigfoot and proof that dinosaurs once roamed the earth, Pyro felt out of his depth." Post-X2.
The king of hearts and the king of spades. The fours of hearts, diamonds, and clubs.
“Hah!” Toad exclaimed, slapping down his spread on the table. “Fork it over, hot lips.”
Pyro regarded his spread: a random assortment of clubs and spades, and a docile-looking queen of diamonds. He handed his lighter over. He’d get it back in the next round.
“You will stay with Sabretooth and Toad for the meantime,” Magneto had told him. “Mystique and I have matters to attend to on our own. We’ll be back within a fortnight.”
The jet rose into the sky, leaving the three figures standing alone miles beyond Chicago city limits. For the first time since he changed sides, standing between Bigfoot and proof that dinosaurs once roamed the earth, Pyro felt out of his depth.
“Welcome to the Brotherhood,” Toad had said, grinning.
“Yeah, he already said that,” said Pyro, staring after the jet.
That was a week ago, and everyone was getting restless. Sometimes at night Sabretooth and Toad would go out under the cover of darkness. They didn’t ask Pyro to come along, which was fine with him. When they returned, they looked just slightly the worse for wear, but more refreshed, and sometimes slightly more bloodstained. Sometimes they brought ‘souvenirs.’ These they would show to him and laugh, and Pyro tried to laugh along with them, wondering when his sense of humour would become as warped.
Pyro went out too, sometimes. He met a group of people who hung out at a basketball court downtown. Sapien, the lot of them, but they were funny. Pete and Laurie and Tyler, and some others he couldn’t remember. Decent company overall. Pyro had introduced himself as Erik and everyone got along fine.
He passed a TV in a window display one day that showed him blowing up the squad cars in Boston. He didn’t like to be reminded of Boston, but the siren call of fame, no matter what kind, kept his eyes on the screen. It was a low-quality video, probably shot with a handycam by a neighbour, but oh man. He was on TV. “St. John Allerdyce. Must be considered armed and extremely dangerous.” He got a kick out of the ‘extremely dangerous’ part, but he limited his outings after that. He stopped meeting Pete and co. altogether.
Which brought him to now.
Four PM. The second-floor foyer of a condemned building. Poker with an imitation Spiderman, winning and losing his lighter one from the other, over and over again like some nihilist nightmare.
Toad took the lighter from him and flicked it open. The first time he had done this, Pyro made the fire explode in his face. Toad retaliated by spitting, and had stood over his writhing body and observed silently as the resin solidified over the boy’s nose and mouth. Pyro was on the brink of unconsciousness before Toad called Sabretooth to cut the resin out, and Sabretooth was no Florence Nightingale. There was now a cut down Pyro’s left cheek to commemorate the occasion.
“So,” said Pyro.
“So,” Toad replied as he dealt them a new hand.
“This wasn’t exactly what I was expecting when I, ah, switched sides.” Pyro gestured at the room.
“You joking? This is the fucking Hilton.” Toad slapped the deck down on the table. “You try living in a cave in the Canadian wilderness for a few weeks. At least Chicago’s temperate this time of year.”
“Yeah? I didn’t see you up there at Alkali Lake.”
Toad smirked. “I’m before your time, kid.”
“You were the one at Liberty Island?”
“One of them.”
“Right.” Pyro arranged his cards in ascending order. “How many mutants are there in the Brotherhood anyway?”
Toad studied his cards, and didn’t respond when Pyro repeated his question.
“Hey. Toad?”
Toad looked up, tipping his head to the side. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
This seemed to call for a change of subject.
“So,” said Pyro, “where are you from, with that accent?”
Toad stared at him. “Are we playing cards or not?”
Pyro took a deep breath and hoped he was doing a good job of maintaining a veneer of cool. Toad’s face showed nothing more than the usual belligerence.
Pyro had a feeling that if he didn’t do something soon, his identity would forever be the wet-behind-the ears-newbie. It was time to gain some level ground. Show the frog that St. John Allerdyce wasn’t some doormat for someone to step on. St. John Allerdyce, no, Pyro was One Of Them.
“Y’know, I never liked poker that much,” Pyro declared, throwing his cards on the table. It wasn’t kicking Toad’s ass, but the last time he tried, Pyro nearly ended up dead anyway. There was more than one way to engage in a pissing contest.
Toad raised an eyebrow at the boy. “Whatever.” He tossed his cards on the table.
Pyro boggled at the spread. All the spade face cards, the ace of diamonds, and a lone four of clubs. “Holy shit. That’s a—”
He was cut off as Toad shook out a nine of spades and a couple of club face cards from his jacket sleeve. Toad reached for the back of his neck as if to scratch it, and his hand came back with a jack of hearts.
Pyro boggled.
Toad reached into his sock and retrieved a slightly wrinkled three of diamonds.
“You asshole!”
Toad shrugged, shoved his chair back, and sauntered to the door.
”Wait a minute,” said Pyro. “If you had the cards with you, why didn’t you win every time?”
Toad shrugged. “I felt sorry for you.”
Pyro’s face turned red. Whether it was from anger or embarrassment, he didn’t know. “You think I can’t fight my own battles?”
“You don’t have your own battles.”
Toad looked over his shoulder, and they regarded each other for a few moments. Pyro squared his jaw and stood up. Smiling amusedly, Toad turned around and continued on his way.
“Where are you going?” Pyro asked.
“Acapulco. Where do you think?”
Toad disappeared through the doorway, and Pyro had no clue who won what at all.
Pyro reclaimed his lighter and slumped back in his seat. Click open. Click close. Click open. Outside, humanity rolled by, lived and let lived. He could hear them: car horns and shouts and the train passing by. He could see them through the holes in the rotting blinds.
Insects. Brightly coloured insects in ski jackets and three-piece suits, t-shirts and tank tops, red hair, brown hair, black hair, blond hair, blue and purple hair. Gaudy little insects while he was stuck in this shithole until Big Boss and his shapeshifting concubine (or whatever; Pyro hadn’t figured that part out yet) came back.
The flame grew in size, flared into a ring above him, and he, after a hasty glance at the door, crossed the ring with two lines of fire. An X.
A few seconds later, he put it out and slumped back against his seat.
“Mutant freedom, my ass,” he muttered.
Make Your Own Olympus
X-Men movieverse. John. PG. 1180 words.
"For the first time since he changed sides, standing between Bigfoot and proof that dinosaurs once roamed the earth, Pyro felt out of his depth." Post-X2.
The king of hearts and the king of spades. The fours of hearts, diamonds, and clubs.
“Hah!” Toad exclaimed, slapping down his spread on the table. “Fork it over, hot lips.”
Pyro regarded his spread: a random assortment of clubs and spades, and a docile-looking queen of diamonds. He handed his lighter over. He’d get it back in the next round.
“You will stay with Sabretooth and Toad for the meantime,” Magneto had told him. “Mystique and I have matters to attend to on our own. We’ll be back within a fortnight.”
The jet rose into the sky, leaving the three figures standing alone miles beyond Chicago city limits. For the first time since he changed sides, standing between Bigfoot and proof that dinosaurs once roamed the earth, Pyro felt out of his depth.
“Welcome to the Brotherhood,” Toad had said, grinning.
“Yeah, he already said that,” said Pyro, staring after the jet.
That was a week ago, and everyone was getting restless. Sometimes at night Sabretooth and Toad would go out under the cover of darkness. They didn’t ask Pyro to come along, which was fine with him. When they returned, they looked just slightly the worse for wear, but more refreshed, and sometimes slightly more bloodstained. Sometimes they brought ‘souvenirs.’ These they would show to him and laugh, and Pyro tried to laugh along with them, wondering when his sense of humour would become as warped.
Pyro went out too, sometimes. He met a group of people who hung out at a basketball court downtown. Sapien, the lot of them, but they were funny. Pete and Laurie and Tyler, and some others he couldn’t remember. Decent company overall. Pyro had introduced himself as Erik and everyone got along fine.
He passed a TV in a window display one day that showed him blowing up the squad cars in Boston. He didn’t like to be reminded of Boston, but the siren call of fame, no matter what kind, kept his eyes on the screen. It was a low-quality video, probably shot with a handycam by a neighbour, but oh man. He was on TV. “St. John Allerdyce. Must be considered armed and extremely dangerous.” He got a kick out of the ‘extremely dangerous’ part, but he limited his outings after that. He stopped meeting Pete and co. altogether.
Which brought him to now.
Four PM. The second-floor foyer of a condemned building. Poker with an imitation Spiderman, winning and losing his lighter one from the other, over and over again like some nihilist nightmare.
Toad took the lighter from him and flicked it open. The first time he had done this, Pyro made the fire explode in his face. Toad retaliated by spitting, and had stood over his writhing body and observed silently as the resin solidified over the boy’s nose and mouth. Pyro was on the brink of unconsciousness before Toad called Sabretooth to cut the resin out, and Sabretooth was no Florence Nightingale. There was now a cut down Pyro’s left cheek to commemorate the occasion.
“So,” said Pyro.
“So,” Toad replied as he dealt them a new hand.
“This wasn’t exactly what I was expecting when I, ah, switched sides.” Pyro gestured at the room.
“You joking? This is the fucking Hilton.” Toad slapped the deck down on the table. “You try living in a cave in the Canadian wilderness for a few weeks. At least Chicago’s temperate this time of year.”
“Yeah? I didn’t see you up there at Alkali Lake.”
Toad smirked. “I’m before your time, kid.”
“You were the one at Liberty Island?”
“One of them.”
“Right.” Pyro arranged his cards in ascending order. “How many mutants are there in the Brotherhood anyway?”
Toad studied his cards, and didn’t respond when Pyro repeated his question.
“Hey. Toad?”
Toad looked up, tipping his head to the side. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
This seemed to call for a change of subject.
“So,” said Pyro, “where are you from, with that accent?”
Toad stared at him. “Are we playing cards or not?”
Pyro took a deep breath and hoped he was doing a good job of maintaining a veneer of cool. Toad’s face showed nothing more than the usual belligerence.
Pyro had a feeling that if he didn’t do something soon, his identity would forever be the wet-behind-the ears-newbie. It was time to gain some level ground. Show the frog that St. John Allerdyce wasn’t some doormat for someone to step on. St. John Allerdyce, no, Pyro was One Of Them.
“Y’know, I never liked poker that much,” Pyro declared, throwing his cards on the table. It wasn’t kicking Toad’s ass, but the last time he tried, Pyro nearly ended up dead anyway. There was more than one way to engage in a pissing contest.
Toad raised an eyebrow at the boy. “Whatever.” He tossed his cards on the table.
Pyro boggled at the spread. All the spade face cards, the ace of diamonds, and a lone four of clubs. “Holy shit. That’s a—”
He was cut off as Toad shook out a nine of spades and a couple of club face cards from his jacket sleeve. Toad reached for the back of his neck as if to scratch it, and his hand came back with a jack of hearts.
Pyro boggled.
Toad reached into his sock and retrieved a slightly wrinkled three of diamonds.
“You asshole!”
Toad shrugged, shoved his chair back, and sauntered to the door.
”Wait a minute,” said Pyro. “If you had the cards with you, why didn’t you win every time?”
Toad shrugged. “I felt sorry for you.”
Pyro’s face turned red. Whether it was from anger or embarrassment, he didn’t know. “You think I can’t fight my own battles?”
“You don’t have your own battles.”
Toad looked over his shoulder, and they regarded each other for a few moments. Pyro squared his jaw and stood up. Smiling amusedly, Toad turned around and continued on his way.
“Where are you going?” Pyro asked.
“Acapulco. Where do you think?”
Toad disappeared through the doorway, and Pyro had no clue who won what at all.
Pyro reclaimed his lighter and slumped back in his seat. Click open. Click close. Click open. Outside, humanity rolled by, lived and let lived. He could hear them: car horns and shouts and the train passing by. He could see them through the holes in the rotting blinds.
Insects. Brightly coloured insects in ski jackets and three-piece suits, t-shirts and tank tops, red hair, brown hair, black hair, blond hair, blue and purple hair. Gaudy little insects while he was stuck in this shithole until Big Boss and his shapeshifting concubine (or whatever; Pyro hadn’t figured that part out yet) came back.
The flame grew in size, flared into a ring above him, and he, after a hasty glance at the door, crossed the ring with two lines of fire. An X.
A few seconds later, he put it out and slumped back against his seat.
“Mutant freedom, my ass,” he muttered.