Post by Pyro on Aug 6, 2006 18:15:29 GMT -5
M SRY.
SPX
He pressed the 'Send' button on the mobile phone that would send the seven letters winging their way to Kitty Pryde's phone and then snapped it shut.
John was sitting on the same rock overlooking the ocean that he and Mystique had walked out to the other morning, but this time he was alone.
"You have things on your mind. Don't stay here." That's what Mystique had said to him. She was right, of course. He did have things on his mind. He had a lot of things on his mind. And all he could do to alleviate it was type seven letters into a mobile phone and send it to a girl who was meant to be his enemy.
I'm sorry. Sparks.
Smooth, Allerdyce.
With a vicious howl of rage, he flung the mobile phone into the water. It bobbed briefly to the surface and then sank. It was highly probable that the warranty didn't cover that.
He drew his knees into his chest and buried his head on them. His head was aching badly again and he knew that no matter how many times he found Angie to alleviate the pain, it'd come back again. He knew it wasn't right, that he should agree to submit himself to more strenuous tests, but he was scared. Yes, that's what he was. Scared. He'd known a kid out on the street - what, seventeen years old? One day running around stealing cars complaining of a bad head - the next dropped dead. Just like that.
Brain haemorrhage, the rumour came around a few days later. Not that anybody had really cared, but since then, every time John had got a headache, he'd been terrified that he would go the same way.
He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but his mind wouldn't stop working. The sounds of the deaths of the men of Bravo squad echoed through his ears to the point where he actually clasped his hands over them as though he could drown it out. The smell of scorched flesh, the pink of cooling metal from the warehouse infrastructure...all of the sensations assailed him like it was still happening.
John had not yet had the opportunity to stop by his office and see any news reports on Baltimore, but he didn't think they would help. Slowly he moved his hands away from his ears, the screams of the dying men fading away and instead buried his face in his hands instead, hot tears spilling from his eyes and down over the rock. It was like when he woke from his nightmares. The tears wouldn't stop no matter what he tried to do. He didn't understand why he was crying.
Relentless, the tears continued until they finally dried up and he choked back what was left of the sobs, grief and guilt giving way to another emotion: cold, hard acceptance.
What had happened had happened. Que sera, sera. Veni, vidi, venici. Hasta la vista. Ou est la plume de ma tante? There was nothing that could be done to change it. Nothing.
And a seven letter text message wasn't going to absolve him or even score him any points on Judgement Day.
He got up and dusted himself down, wiped the vestiges of misery from his eyes and stared out coolly over the ocean. In the space of about ten minutes, he had gone from sanguine to anger, to grief and through this almost cold reality.
All that had been constant was the pain in his head.
He stared at the spot where his phone had landed for a few moments, then spun on his heel and headed back inside, boots crunching on the shale.
SPX
He pressed the 'Send' button on the mobile phone that would send the seven letters winging their way to Kitty Pryde's phone and then snapped it shut.
John was sitting on the same rock overlooking the ocean that he and Mystique had walked out to the other morning, but this time he was alone.
"You have things on your mind. Don't stay here." That's what Mystique had said to him. She was right, of course. He did have things on his mind. He had a lot of things on his mind. And all he could do to alleviate it was type seven letters into a mobile phone and send it to a girl who was meant to be his enemy.
I'm sorry. Sparks.
Smooth, Allerdyce.
With a vicious howl of rage, he flung the mobile phone into the water. It bobbed briefly to the surface and then sank. It was highly probable that the warranty didn't cover that.
He drew his knees into his chest and buried his head on them. His head was aching badly again and he knew that no matter how many times he found Angie to alleviate the pain, it'd come back again. He knew it wasn't right, that he should agree to submit himself to more strenuous tests, but he was scared. Yes, that's what he was. Scared. He'd known a kid out on the street - what, seventeen years old? One day running around stealing cars complaining of a bad head - the next dropped dead. Just like that.
Brain haemorrhage, the rumour came around a few days later. Not that anybody had really cared, but since then, every time John had got a headache, he'd been terrified that he would go the same way.
He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but his mind wouldn't stop working. The sounds of the deaths of the men of Bravo squad echoed through his ears to the point where he actually clasped his hands over them as though he could drown it out. The smell of scorched flesh, the pink of cooling metal from the warehouse infrastructure...all of the sensations assailed him like it was still happening.
John had not yet had the opportunity to stop by his office and see any news reports on Baltimore, but he didn't think they would help. Slowly he moved his hands away from his ears, the screams of the dying men fading away and instead buried his face in his hands instead, hot tears spilling from his eyes and down over the rock. It was like when he woke from his nightmares. The tears wouldn't stop no matter what he tried to do. He didn't understand why he was crying.
Relentless, the tears continued until they finally dried up and he choked back what was left of the sobs, grief and guilt giving way to another emotion: cold, hard acceptance.
What had happened had happened. Que sera, sera. Veni, vidi, venici. Hasta la vista. Ou est la plume de ma tante? There was nothing that could be done to change it. Nothing.
And a seven letter text message wasn't going to absolve him or even score him any points on Judgement Day.
He got up and dusted himself down, wiped the vestiges of misery from his eyes and stared out coolly over the ocean. In the space of about ten minutes, he had gone from sanguine to anger, to grief and through this almost cold reality.
All that had been constant was the pain in his head.
He stared at the spot where his phone had landed for a few moments, then spun on his heel and headed back inside, boots crunching on the shale.
