On the Last Quarter

[Rictor]

Rictor huddled into the pay phone's small protective box. He missed the full telephone booths he had found in the midwest - this type provided little shelter from the ever-present rain that seemingly followed him through every state. Though New Jersey's definitely the shittiest state so far.

He pulled a business card from the pocket of his black hooded sweatshirt. He looked out from each side of the phone's glass sides, the water droplets and running rain providing a small amount of cover from watchful eyes.

He was just so tired of running. It had been almost a year - or maybe it was more, or less, honestly he wasn't sure - since his escape from The Right and subsequent flight from the hospital and authorities.

He looked down at the card in his hand:

Magneto's Gone. His Dream Remains.

And on the flip side, accompanying a phone number:

The Brotherhood. Take back what's yours.

Rictor slipped a quarter from the pocket of his jeans and dropped it into the phone's slot. The quarter clicked into place and he dialed the number.

[Pyro]

He received the same messaging service as Nightingale, Aurora and Dominic had received, suggesting that perhaps he might care to leave his name, contact details and a short message - and that someone would get in touch with him as soon as was possible.

The voice on the messenger system was young, male and sounded faintly self-conscious, as though talking to a machine was the most embarrassing thing it had ever done in its life.

[Rictor]

"Pick up," he whispered as the phone rang. "Pick up."

Rictor, for the first time in his life, felt truly desperate. Even when captured by The Right, even when he was shot, drugged up, and put in handcuffs by the Elko police, he hadn't felt like this.

The bullet wounds in his stomach still hadn't healed, and it had been almost a year since it happened. They remained half-scabbed-over and a black pus occasionally oozed from them. He did his best to keep them bandaged, as he had just after his escape from the hospital, but without the real care of doctors, he wasn't getting any better.

His eyes were sunken in and his skin was paler than it ever had been. He had lost weight, and any clothes he stole often hung on him like he was a scarecrow. He had a cold, and he was coughing and sneezing almost continuously.

The old wounds, the sickness, the lack of food and sleep, all contributed to a complete state of weakness. And Rictor had never been weak. His power was destructive, dangerous, and frightening. Now he had barely enough strength to shatter glass.

Overall, he just didn't know how to deal with himself anymore.

He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Finally the phone clicked and he opened his mouth to talk - and a recording began.

"What the-" Rictor looked at the phone in his hand. They were being careful, he understood after a second, but it still wasn't what he expected...or needed.

The recording ended and he took a deep breath.

"My name's Rictor. I'm in Cherry Hill, New Jersey...and I..." Rictor hesistated. Since his father had died, he had never asked someone else for...

"...I need help."

[Brotherhood NPCs]

Gill looked at the blinking message light on the device and sighed, half inclined to patch it directly through to Pyro's office. He wasn't quite sure when he had become the Brotherhood's answering service, but the transformation was not a particularly welcome one. Now he spent half an hour at the end of each day sifting through messages from freaks, geeks, lunatics, occasional and slightly rabid girls lusting after Pyro and, very occasionally, prospective Brotherhood members.

This one sounded genuine.

At least he sounded desperate.

That was ok though; alot of the Brotherhood members had been desperate members of society at some point in their lives. It came with the mutant territory.

He cleared his throat and adopted a faintly irritating South African accent before punching the redial button.

The line at the other end started to ring.

[Rictor]

Rictor glanced around at the rainy highway, not knowing where to go or what to do now. The pay phone sat silently on its ringer - When would it ring? Would it ever? He had no way of knowing if they could even call this phone back, or if they could, how long he had to wait.

But what choice did he have now, really? So he huddled further into the booth, hiding from the storm and waiting for a call to come.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rictor awoke and looked around quickly. What's that noise? He thought it was sirens at first, in his half-awake daze, and then realized the pay phone itself was ringing. It sounded distant because something was wrong with the ringer - it was muffled and quiet, sounding like it was wrapped in cloth.

Rictor snatched at the phone, fumbling it in his fingers for a second and then gripping it tightly. He brought it up to his ear.

"Hello?"

[Rictor]

Rictor held his breath, waiting for whoever was on the other end to speak.

[Rictor]

He didn't know if the person had hung up, if they didn't know what to say, or if the line had gone dead. Rictor looked around, peering through the rain to see if he was being watched.

"Hello?" he yelled into the phone again.

Still nothing. A low growl rose in Rictor's throat, and the phone began to shake in his palm. Seconds later, he was wiping small pieces of plastic dust from his hands. He took a deep breath, and seemed to calm himself for a moment.

Then he punched his hand into the phone booth glass, creating a spiderweb of fractures. He let loose a scream of rage and grasped the phone box with both hands. The black plastic cracked down either side, then the metal faceplate did the same. The phone box exploded, sending plastic shrapnel, circuitry, and quarters everywhere. A small piece of circuitboard sliced open Rictor's cheek, but he didn't notice for now. He spread his hands outwards, placing them on opposite walls of the booth. The glass exploded outwards, showering the street with tiny crystals.

Rictor's breath was coming out in quick, angry gasps. The old bullet wound in his stomach was aching. He reached up and felt the small pooling of blood on his cheek, then took a step out of the destroyed booth.

Looking around, he saw no one looking at him, but the ever-present fear remained. He knelt down quickly and scooped up as many quarters as he could, then took another glance around and fled the scene.