Post by Pyro on Aug 5, 2006 2:15:31 GMT -5
09:45
Less than an hour.
It had taken less than an hour for the previously peaceful Baltimore street to descend into Dante's Seventh Circle of Hell. His team were battered and beaten and, in the case of Dead Man, permanently out of action. Only the Juggernaut and Python were relatively unscathed: the one up front driving with an air of grim determination, the other snoring contentedly over the other side of the truck.
Around him, people were variously sleeping or unconscious or both.
In his arms, Mystique had fallen into a semi-doze, a result of the healing factor that Angie had passed through to her, obviously. Emma Frost was sitting in her chair at the front of the truck space.
Even in his state of despair, John marvelled briefly at the fact Emma had a chair to sit on. The woman clearly had her standards.
He stroked Mystique's hair gently and ran his hand lightly over her shoulder, astounded at how beautiful she was in her natural mutant form. Erik had always waxed lyrical to him about the fact that Mystique was so beautiful. John had not seen it at first, unable to see past blue naked breasts. He had only been eighteen at the time.
Now, though? Now he could see it. He'd been strongly attracted to her for some time before she had been hit with the Cure. It had been a moment of real torment for Pyro in the back of the prison truck when Magneto had so coldly turned his back on her. He'd looked down at the beautiful young woman on the floor of the truck and had known true, cold fear. If Magneto could dispense with her, his most loyal and best so easily, what hope was there for the rest of them when the shit hit the fan?
When the shit had hit the fan, he'd been left to pick up the pieces.
And what a fantastic job I've done, he thought, bitterly. All those people in the warehouse...dead. I never meant for that to happen. It was all under control.
He shook himself slightly to clear the growing sense of misery and distracted himself by tracing his finger along the lines of Mystique's jaw. His relationship - if that's what it was - with her puzzled him. He knew, on a deep, instinctive level that they didn't truly trust one another and that had added a certain fire - pun intended - to their interactions. But when he had thought for certain she was dead, it was like someone had reached into his chest cavity and ripped his heart out.
And yet...and yet, here she was, lying back in his arms.
He looked down at her, both perplexed and a little angry at her for churning such emotions in him. Python derailed his train of thought.
"You awake back there, Pyro?"
"Yeah. Just about."
"We headin' back to the plane?" Python's tone was curt, tense, irritable. He was disappointed in the way NovaTeX had gone, too.
What Pyro couldn't see was that their mission objectives had been achieved. All that was in his head was the moment he had been consumed by his own power; the fear, the ecstacy.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, if you think you're up to flying, let's get back to Genosha."
"Genosha it is," affirmed Python, then paused, obviously wanting to add something else.
But it never came.
Less than an hour.
It had taken less than an hour for the previously peaceful Baltimore street to descend into Dante's Seventh Circle of Hell. His team were battered and beaten and, in the case of Dead Man, permanently out of action. Only the Juggernaut and Python were relatively unscathed: the one up front driving with an air of grim determination, the other snoring contentedly over the other side of the truck.
Around him, people were variously sleeping or unconscious or both.
In his arms, Mystique had fallen into a semi-doze, a result of the healing factor that Angie had passed through to her, obviously. Emma Frost was sitting in her chair at the front of the truck space.
Even in his state of despair, John marvelled briefly at the fact Emma had a chair to sit on. The woman clearly had her standards.
He stroked Mystique's hair gently and ran his hand lightly over her shoulder, astounded at how beautiful she was in her natural mutant form. Erik had always waxed lyrical to him about the fact that Mystique was so beautiful. John had not seen it at first, unable to see past blue naked breasts. He had only been eighteen at the time.
Now, though? Now he could see it. He'd been strongly attracted to her for some time before she had been hit with the Cure. It had been a moment of real torment for Pyro in the back of the prison truck when Magneto had so coldly turned his back on her. He'd looked down at the beautiful young woman on the floor of the truck and had known true, cold fear. If Magneto could dispense with her, his most loyal and best so easily, what hope was there for the rest of them when the shit hit the fan?
When the shit had hit the fan, he'd been left to pick up the pieces.
And what a fantastic job I've done, he thought, bitterly. All those people in the warehouse...dead. I never meant for that to happen. It was all under control.
He shook himself slightly to clear the growing sense of misery and distracted himself by tracing his finger along the lines of Mystique's jaw. His relationship - if that's what it was - with her puzzled him. He knew, on a deep, instinctive level that they didn't truly trust one another and that had added a certain fire - pun intended - to their interactions. But when he had thought for certain she was dead, it was like someone had reached into his chest cavity and ripped his heart out.
And yet...and yet, here she was, lying back in his arms.
He looked down at her, both perplexed and a little angry at her for churning such emotions in him. Python derailed his train of thought.
"You awake back there, Pyro?"
"Yeah. Just about."
"We headin' back to the plane?" Python's tone was curt, tense, irritable. He was disappointed in the way NovaTeX had gone, too.
What Pyro couldn't see was that their mission objectives had been achieved. All that was in his head was the moment he had been consumed by his own power; the fear, the ecstacy.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, if you think you're up to flying, let's get back to Genosha."
"Genosha it is," affirmed Python, then paused, obviously wanting to add something else.
But it never came.
