Post by Pyro on Jun 25, 2006 10:52:19 GMT -5
In which a seventeen-year old John Allerdyce arrives at Xavier's Institute for the first time.
When he had been five years old, St. John Allerdyce's teacher had asked the class to put up their hands and say what they wanted to do when they grew up. John had said he wanted to write books. The rest of the class had laughed at him.
He'd never really lost that ambition in all fairness, but his personal circumstances had never allowed him to explore it. He'd fallen in with the wrong crowd very early on - and peer pressure meant that if his friends (and even HE knew that he could only use the term very loosely) cottoned on to his 'poncy' aspirations to be a writer, he'd suffer their ribbing and jibes. And he didn't want that.
So he'd gone along with them and all their wild schemes.
As he sat on the bus which rattled along out of the city and into Westchester, he mused on the chain of events that had brought him to a state of such desperation that he was considering returning to education.
For two years now he'd been aware that he was different. He'd always, with the easy arrogance that had been his since puberty, believed that anyway - but now he knew it was the truth. He was a mutant. He was a freak, a weirdo, an outcast - but he'd have been all three of those WITHOUT being a mutant. The fact that he was a mutant actually made him feel better about the situation.
"I can drop you at the end of Graymalkin Lane, kid," the bus driver called, looking in the mirror at his only passenger, a scrawny, hollow-eyed kid who looked like a good meal wouldn't do him any harm. He was dressed in a ripped pair of jeans and dirty t-shirt, a pair of decidedly battered Converse All Stars and wore a possibly archaic duffle coat over the ensemble. What a kid like this, so obviously straight off the streets of New York was doing here, in Westchester, was beyond him.
It was also none of his business. He'd done his bit for the greater good by letting the boy ride for nothing as it was. He'd stood there, flicking that damn Zippo lighter open and shut, open and shut that the driver had agreed to take him out of town rather than have his bus set on light.
He'd also done it because he had a son about the boy's age and a faint sense of guilt niggled at him. The kid had said 'thank you', which had surprised him: he'd not expected manners. Another kid who'd fallen from grace and into the gutter.
Such a waste.
"Thanks," came the response from the passenger. "Look, I appreciate the lift, pal."
"Think nothing of it. I was off shift and going home anyway." The driver pulled the bus over at the end of a very plush-looking street. "You take care now, son."
"Sure I will. It's what I do best." The kid turned a piercing, green-eyed stare on the driver and flashed the briefest of brief smiles before dismounting.
The bus door shut and the vehicle pulled away leaving John alone at the end of the street.
Graymalkin Lane, Westchester. Easy to find, John, and the Institute is about half the way down. Come to the gate and say you're here to see me. You won't experience any trouble.
So had spoken Professor Charles Xavier when John had spoken with him on the phone earlier that day (using a stolen credit card in the payphone). He'd finally reached the end of his tether. His mutant ability to manipulate fire was - pardon the pun - burning out of control and he knew that if he didn't do something, he'd end up in jail, or dead, or both.
Possibly even at the same time.
He'd read, in a thrown-away newspaper about Charles Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning and Gifted Youngsters and he was also intelligent enough to have read between the lines. The 'Gifted Youngsters' were more than just smart academic types, he'd be willing to bet.
Getting a telephone number for the Institute had been easy. He'd rung a few times and hung up every time the phone was answered. Except for the last time, when a gentle, male voice had spoken.
"Don't hang up, John. I can help you."
How the hell had the old geezer known his name? Be that as it may, it had the desired effect. He'd had a conversation with the Professor that had only lasted maybe five, ten minutes at the most, but it had been long enough for him to agree to come in to meet the Professor in person.
Now, as he walked down the tree-lined avenue, he regretted that decision. He felt like a stain on the face of the street's pristine pavement.
The Zippo came out of his pocket and in his usual nervous way, he flicked it on and off, on and off, on and off.
He found the main gate to the Institute easily enough and stood outside it for an age, staring at the heavy iron gates, the long drive that led up to the mansion itself and at the intercom.
Eventually, he pressed the button, announced himself, using the name John Allerdyce and was warmly welcomed by a woman's voice. The gates had swung open and he'd stood there, everything he owned in a small backpack that he carried loosely over one shoulder, for a good ten minutes, struggling desperately with the conflicting urge to go in and to run away.
He'd spent the last few years of his life running from one thing or another. He'd run away from home when his parents had lost control of him, he'd run away from thieves, bullies and muggers alike whilst on the streets and here he was, afraid of a building.
"Can't run forever, Johnny-boy," he murmured to himself, flicking the Zippo firmly 'off', slipping it into his pocket and squaring his shoulders.
Then he entered the mansion grounds.
The gates slid shut with an almost ominous 'clang' behind him.
No turning back.
When he had been five years old, St. John Allerdyce's teacher had asked the class to put up their hands and say what they wanted to do when they grew up. John had said he wanted to write books. The rest of the class had laughed at him.
He'd never really lost that ambition in all fairness, but his personal circumstances had never allowed him to explore it. He'd fallen in with the wrong crowd very early on - and peer pressure meant that if his friends (and even HE knew that he could only use the term very loosely) cottoned on to his 'poncy' aspirations to be a writer, he'd suffer their ribbing and jibes. And he didn't want that.
So he'd gone along with them and all their wild schemes.
As he sat on the bus which rattled along out of the city and into Westchester, he mused on the chain of events that had brought him to a state of such desperation that he was considering returning to education.
For two years now he'd been aware that he was different. He'd always, with the easy arrogance that had been his since puberty, believed that anyway - but now he knew it was the truth. He was a mutant. He was a freak, a weirdo, an outcast - but he'd have been all three of those WITHOUT being a mutant. The fact that he was a mutant actually made him feel better about the situation.
"I can drop you at the end of Graymalkin Lane, kid," the bus driver called, looking in the mirror at his only passenger, a scrawny, hollow-eyed kid who looked like a good meal wouldn't do him any harm. He was dressed in a ripped pair of jeans and dirty t-shirt, a pair of decidedly battered Converse All Stars and wore a possibly archaic duffle coat over the ensemble. What a kid like this, so obviously straight off the streets of New York was doing here, in Westchester, was beyond him.
It was also none of his business. He'd done his bit for the greater good by letting the boy ride for nothing as it was. He'd stood there, flicking that damn Zippo lighter open and shut, open and shut that the driver had agreed to take him out of town rather than have his bus set on light.
He'd also done it because he had a son about the boy's age and a faint sense of guilt niggled at him. The kid had said 'thank you', which had surprised him: he'd not expected manners. Another kid who'd fallen from grace and into the gutter.
Such a waste.
"Thanks," came the response from the passenger. "Look, I appreciate the lift, pal."
"Think nothing of it. I was off shift and going home anyway." The driver pulled the bus over at the end of a very plush-looking street. "You take care now, son."
"Sure I will. It's what I do best." The kid turned a piercing, green-eyed stare on the driver and flashed the briefest of brief smiles before dismounting.
The bus door shut and the vehicle pulled away leaving John alone at the end of the street.
Graymalkin Lane, Westchester. Easy to find, John, and the Institute is about half the way down. Come to the gate and say you're here to see me. You won't experience any trouble.
So had spoken Professor Charles Xavier when John had spoken with him on the phone earlier that day (using a stolen credit card in the payphone). He'd finally reached the end of his tether. His mutant ability to manipulate fire was - pardon the pun - burning out of control and he knew that if he didn't do something, he'd end up in jail, or dead, or both.
Possibly even at the same time.
He'd read, in a thrown-away newspaper about Charles Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning and Gifted Youngsters and he was also intelligent enough to have read between the lines. The 'Gifted Youngsters' were more than just smart academic types, he'd be willing to bet.
Getting a telephone number for the Institute had been easy. He'd rung a few times and hung up every time the phone was answered. Except for the last time, when a gentle, male voice had spoken.
"Don't hang up, John. I can help you."
How the hell had the old geezer known his name? Be that as it may, it had the desired effect. He'd had a conversation with the Professor that had only lasted maybe five, ten minutes at the most, but it had been long enough for him to agree to come in to meet the Professor in person.
Now, as he walked down the tree-lined avenue, he regretted that decision. He felt like a stain on the face of the street's pristine pavement.
The Zippo came out of his pocket and in his usual nervous way, he flicked it on and off, on and off, on and off.
He found the main gate to the Institute easily enough and stood outside it for an age, staring at the heavy iron gates, the long drive that led up to the mansion itself and at the intercom.
Eventually, he pressed the button, announced himself, using the name John Allerdyce and was warmly welcomed by a woman's voice. The gates had swung open and he'd stood there, everything he owned in a small backpack that he carried loosely over one shoulder, for a good ten minutes, struggling desperately with the conflicting urge to go in and to run away.
He'd spent the last few years of his life running from one thing or another. He'd run away from home when his parents had lost control of him, he'd run away from thieves, bullies and muggers alike whilst on the streets and here he was, afraid of a building.
"Can't run forever, Johnny-boy," he murmured to himself, flicking the Zippo firmly 'off', slipping it into his pocket and squaring his shoulders.
Then he entered the mansion grounds.
The gates slid shut with an almost ominous 'clang' behind him.
No turning back.
