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Thread: Beyond the Sword

  1. #1
    Nathan Godfrey
    Guest

    Closed Roleplay [X-Men] Beyond the Sword

    "Tragedy today, as a young mutant boy dies in hospital after an accidental shooting involving the Metropolitan Police."

    The knife clacked against the chopping board as it diced it's way through an onion. Vapours sprung forth from beneath the punctured skin, mixing with the whisps of smoke from heated oil in the pan to assault his eyes. He blinked it away; when you did this for as long as he had, you reached a point where such things didn't even phase you anymore. You built up a tolerance; a callous, almost. The sum of all his years and all his experiences, Nathan Godfrey was an extremely calloused man.

    "The mutant, who was just thirteen years old, was shot by police officers during a confrontation with suspected members of the international Brotherhood of Mutants; the same group that claimed responsibility for the attack on Disneyland in Los Angeles just a few weeks ago. The boy was shot because his mutation, which is physical in nature, led police officers to believe that he was armed."

    A fistful of onion chunks were tossed into the pan; the contents hissed angrily in protest. An idle few jabs with a wooden spoon sent them tumbling around, skating like Torvill and Dean on a bubbling cushion of super-hot oil. Natural sugars bled out, seared and caramelised into angry dark scars within minutes. Razor-thin slices of garlic, prepared and added minutes before, had already suffered a similar fate.

    "The Prime Minister released a statement this morning, urging the public to reserve judgement until the results of a full enquiry - due to start on Monday - have been released."

    The voice on the television changed; while before there had been the soft and gently Welsh tones of the newsreader - part of the cadre of regional accents and gorgeous women that the BBC had employed of late in order to fake a little diversity, and shake off it's stuffy heritage - they were replaced instead by the gratingly Etonian lilt of Britain's latest Prime Minister.

    "There is no denying that these events are tragic; but we live in tragic times. There are groups in the world today that have embraced terrorism: that are prepared to unleash devastating weapons that will claim the lives of thousands, just to inspire fear and terror; just to make a political point. The mutant phenomenon provides them with a terrifying new arsenal of potential weapons, and often lethal force is the only way that our law enforcement agencies can protect the public from the threat they pose."

    Another vegetable was assaulted; peppers, this time. Mind only half-paying attention to the news broadcast that danced across the tiny television set that his most recent - was girlfriend an appropriate term for a man his age? - had insisted that he add to his kitchen ensemble, he spent more time considering the green vegetable beneath his fingers. So many people tossed in a red pepper with a dish like this; but to Nathan, it just didn't seem appropriately Italian if the peppers weren't green. It was strange the kind of quirks you picked up over the course of your life.

    "Yes, mistakes were made; but we cannot allow ourselves to underestimate the danger that these mutant terrorists represent. Our heartfelt condolences go out to the family of the young boy who died, of course; but this Government will not soften it's stance or weaken it's resolve in the face of these mutant-powered aggressors."

    Those words he heard, and an involuntary urge to clench a fist made the knife slip, a streak of crimson appearing as the blade carved through the side of one of his fingers. He swore under his breath, snatching the hand away to suck the worst of the copper-tasting blood from the gash in his hand. A moment later the flow subsided, the fibres and skin cells already knitting them back together as his own mutation sprung into action. It didn't have enough time to hurt; the injury itself didn't even phased him. His annoyance came from having bled across his ingredients.

    "The Shadow Cabinet has spoke out against the Prime Minister's address this afternoon, describing it as inflamatory and warmongering."

    The news reader's voice had returned, but Nathan couldn't listen anymore. The remote was grabbed, and the man silenced, though he continued to bob his balding grey head around on the screen in defiance of being ignored. It wasn't personal; not personal against him, at least. Nathan had simply grown tired of having the posturing of Britain's bureaucrats and politicians recounted to him by the media: he experienced far too much of that already at his day job. It was the weekend; they could bitch about things amongst themselves for the next few days for all he cared, so long as they didn't involve him. Bloody politicians, acting as if this wasn't something that the world hadn't been slowly building towards since the sixties; obsessed with keeping their bloody secrets from the bloody public.

    A soul-grating buzz sprung up from the counter, the back-lit screen of his mobile phone flashing away as it took the opportunity to fill the void of sound left by the now silent television. One of his collegues had thought it was hilarious to change the ring tone to the theme of some kids show or other called Joe 90. Nathan had absolutely no idea how to change it back.

    "Bloody phones," he grunted at it, abandoning his cooking for a moment to read the caller ID displayed on it's screen. Work. He had half a mind to ignore it. "We managed just fine before some idiot came along and invented you."

    He hesitated for a few moments longer before answering with a great deal of reluctance - admittedly, a second or two was spent trying to pick out the correct button on the contraption's tiny key pad - holding the device gingerly towards his ear as if it were about to burst into flames and try to scorch the side of his face off. "Godfrey."

    A voice chittered away on the other end, all laced with pomp and self-importance. "It's a Saturday," he pointed out, helpfully. "I don't work on Saturdays."

    The voice became agitated; began stating the obvious at a slightly increased volume. "I am well aware of the situation." By contrast, Nathan's voice was calm and patient, like a teacher talking to a moronic child. "I have been well aware of the situation in this country since before you were even born."

    That didn't go down very well. People with important-sounding job titles didn't like to be reminded of their own shortcomings, no matter how politely you phrased them. His tirade continued, making it abundantly clear that compliance with his instructions was most definately not optional. A sigh escaped from Nathan as his gaze settled upon the foray into cuisine that he would be forced to abandon. The voice became increasingly pushy. "I'll get there when I get there," he grunted back, pulling the phone away from his face.

    The finality of his statement was ruined somewhat by the few seconds of delay before he managed to find the right button to hang up.
    Last edited by Nathan Godfrey; Apr 13th, 2012 at 10:17:48 AM.

  2. #2
    John Lester
    Guest
    John was running. It was a good day for it. A pale echo of summer warmth parcelled up in placid country green, and presided over by a smooth white sky. Everything was still, save for the rolling ground and the airy beckon of stirring trees. Departing a footpath, he was swallowed into the crooked jaws of Monk's Wood, trading the scratch of starved dirt for the moist pounding of earth underfoot. Legs punched like pistons, springing from the happy handshake of friendly ground. It was always the same; the brittle crack of twigs and the sweet heady musk, the relentless thumping of worn trainers, the chiselled kick of dirt, and the dry pop of fire upon his tongue. Senses fired, dashing and lapping at every experience like an excitable pup, the old and familiar renewed with vital life. Ahead, ranks of wizened trees strobed daylight into the thinning wood, and the husk of a forgotten farmhouse crept into view.

    Cobbled together of coarse stone and slate, the farmhouse and its adjacent outbuildings huddled close on the hillside, besieged by nettle clusters and towering weeds. Weathered by long winters and empty years, it was a crumpled monument to a forgotten time, lost to the long shadow of the past. There was a time when its windows glowed gold, warm and inviting, when smoke snaked from the chimney stack, and the ring of laughter drifted through open doors. John pushed onwards, haunted, and repelled. He followed a dusty road, divided by the ancient impress of expensive cars into twin shallow trenches, which scuffed his shoes and jostled him off balance down the hill. When he reached the bottom, there was a laboured limp in his gait, and he welcomed the stretch of trusty tarmac that greeted him. He hobbled along for a couple of minutes, willing the strength back into his ankle, as Pickwick Lodge Farm blossomed on the horizon, immaculate and white. In the drive, a family unloaded suitcases from a car, their voices carried brightly across the expanse, punctuated by the menacing roar of a little boy circling the vehicle with a toy plane. John felt his face stretch in a warm unfamiliar way, and just as quickly found himself casting wary glances left and right, before resuming his run.

    Orbiting high above the farm, he followed a scar of sloped green between flanks of ash and maple trees, it was a roundabout detour that kept him off the radar of discerning civilians. And that was how he liked it. Over Hartham Park, a colourful pair of kites battled against the stiff breeze, weaving, swooping, diving, twisting, tumbling to the earth. Youngsters tangled with string to get their craft airborne. It reminded him of a story. The night of the Hartham bomber. The town of Hartham was a small and unassuming place, but it had some rather important neighbours, such as the Colerne Airfield and RAF Box. One night, a damaged German bomber was spotted flying low over Port Hill, a trail of thick smoke billowing in its wake. It was pursued by a couple of fighters, engines rumbling into the Warren as it dipped lower and lower. Some say the target had been the Hatfield airstrip, others say the gas works, but what is known is that the last of the German bombs were unloaded over Hartham, lighting the valley in bursts of red. It is believed the plane went down somewhere around Hunsdon. The body of the pilot was never recovered. Sadly, the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Berkley were found beneath the rubble of their cottage, where they had been buried in their bed. Today, Berkley's Café is a betting shop.

    The lonely road from Hartham to Biddestone was enclosed by tall hedgerows. There was no breeze, his lungs swelled like powerful bellows in his chest, heaving at the stagnant air. A junction came into view, along with a road sign, and John felt the same shameful creeping tug at the corner of his mouth as he turned into The Butts. It was remarkable, he considered, that after all this time he was still amused by something so juvenile. Picturesque cottages lined one side of the street, while a wide field of unkempt grass sprawled out on the other, with white blossoms thick like snow. Family cars formed an orderly queue perched on the curb beside each house. John hated them, they were plastic, angular, homogeneous, prefabricated, soulless shells on wheels, and he feared for the day he saw another bloody Mondeo. A place like this rankled his sensibilities. On one hand, it was a pleasant and placid little community, and that appealed to a big part of him. It was somewhere he could call home. On the other hand, it was a pleasant and placid little community, and he could never live in a place like that. Dead end thoughts abandoned, he ploughed on, up The Butts.

    Biddestone was quaint. Neat rows of cottages framed in smart stone walls with little white gates. English country gardens overburdened with lush pockets of colour and winding gravel paths. Even the streets were accessorised with old fashioned, some would say classic, telephone boxes and a charming village gazebo where there once stood the communal well. It was postcard perfect, but in his heart, John longed for something bigger and louder and faster. In a narrow gloomy lane, he passed a couple of young cyclists wrapped in skin-tight garments of electric pink and neon blue, and pinned them with a stare of iron-clad disapproval. He shook his head. Loud, but not that loud. Young men were playing in the football fields, their faces were pink, their knees crusted brown, they barked and cheered, all impatience and passion, voices hoarse from shouting.

    From the parlour came a chorus of hearty laughter, where the men sloshed hooch and the women danced. A robust gramophone sat in the corner, scratching out the jaunty hoots of Artie Shaw, animating limbs with shades of the collegiate shag. It was all American and new, and they were young and shameless, in their military blues and jitterbug frocks. Outside, a pristine Ford Model B rolled up to the window, there was a girl in the passenger seat, she had full red lips and cascading auburn curls. I caught her eyes in the flickering cigarette light.

    A rush hour commotion of wind raced over the flanking fields and battered the lone runner, nudging him from the embankment and off the beaten track. He sought refuge in the encroaching woodland. Gnarled arms of oak gave a lazy stretch, making rafters of calloused fingers, and the woken bracken whispered beneath a cloud of impenetrable green. He was alone, a labyrinth of untamed terrain vanished into the distance, brash in its unspoken dare. In his chest rose a quiet flutter of joy, fresh and bright, the spark to light the fuse. Legs sprung, unravelling steely tension with a snap, and the uncompromising earth tumbled away beneath seven league strides. They were powerful legs, that had fled a crashing tide of bulls in Pamplona and pursued gunmen through the bustling Tokyo underworld. Ancient branches groaned against his grasp, and upon release shuddered a shower of acorns, fingers clamping like vices. Strong hands, fists hardened by the smack of flesh inside Vancouver's bloody cages and fingers supple from a season of sheep herding across Napier, New Zealand. His chest burned like a furnace, lungs firing like locomotive cylinders, hissing hot jets of steam. Nature had folded him into something hard and powerful; something inhuman, something like a machine.

    When John spilled out of the forest in an explosion of underbrush, a passing van honked angrily, its senior citizen occupants were unimpressed by the caveman theatrics. It was raining, a relentless drizzle of fine summer mist that kissed his skin and galloped through the tree canopies. He panted, and closed his eyes. Any warmer, and he was toiling the rice paddies of Gazipur, and any colder, he was conquering the razor ridges of Buni Zom. This was English weather. It was Goldilocks weather. It was the best weather in the world. He was home.

    Along the endless crawl of road, skeletal trees staggered and groped at the breeze, spitting ice water. A tall fence of wire mesh rattled ominously into the distance, atop of which its clutching horny claws trembled, shaking diamonds from rusted barbs. Beyond that, a horizon, where curtains of sickly green and grey drew to a close. Fingers interlaced with the cold woven wire, John pushed close, on the other side of the fence heavy breaths dissipated in a pale vapour. Through the shimmering haze, colours and shapes blended like the running of paint on a sodden canvas, ghostly at first, and as formless as a rumour. In time, the shapes sculpted themselves into a congregation of brown block buildings, huddled in the shadow of a massive globe, pocked and white. It was the infamous Colerne Airfield.

    Operational as of 1940, RAF Colerne, as it was then known, was initially established as a subsidiary base during the Second World War. A year later, it housed over a dozen fighter squadrons, with other fighters rotating through the airfield daily. This traffic boom led to a history of ill-fated flights, culminating in the crash of a C-130 Hercules in September, 1973. The crash was attributed to engine failure during a co-pilot training detail, the hulking craft dived into the woods north-east of Colerne and burnt out, killing all six passengers, including the Air Loadmaster. His name was Dave Harrower. He died a Squadron Leader, but back when he was but a lowly Sergeant, he saved the lives of five British soldiers. A black ops team, stranded behind enemy lines in the Aurunci Mountains while the Battle of Monte Cassino unfolded below. Wounded, surrounded, and five days without radio contact, the men braced themselves for a final stand. Then, out of nowhere, came the crackling voice of Dave Harrower and the looming shadow of a C-47 Skytrain to deliver them from the jaws of death. That day, Sergeant Harrower earned himself a bottomless Guinness jar in the Colerne naffy, it then came as little surprise that that was where old Dynamo Dave met his untimely end.

    Twin runways dissected the landscape, empty and vast. It was a graveyard of memories, a glorified flight school where recruits manned handfuls of Grob G's, polluting the air with their anaemic whine. John skirted the periphery of the airfield, hugging the fence, battered by the renewed onslaught of rain. Nothing stood between him and the sky. Wild gusts howled. Clothes rippled like flags in the wind, lapping limbs with wet slaps. Colerne Airfield diminished into the distance. Faded, like an old photograph, a bottled lightning instant frozen in time. Sometimes he watched the planes from his bedroom window as they glided over the valley. Sometimes, when the bottles were empty and the books ran dry, he considered it. Considered doing it all over again. Doing it all for the first time.

    December 20th, 1943. The party boasted the richest of festive trimmings and the spirit of Christmas had infected us all. Marshall, stripped of his jacket and tie, danced with the Crawford girls. The dog has a taste for country blondes, I fancy, to rival his appetite for dry gin. Wayland and Aster were canoodling in a corner, much as they had done for the best part of the evening, together they laughed like school children. Alone in my sobriety, I went out into the crisp night air and walked the courtyard. It was so calm and tranquil. I fished out a Woodbine and listened to the gentle stirrings of Monk's Wood. Above, pinpricks of light swarmed in great arching festoons across the sky. In the morning, I told myself, I'd follow them home.

    It came, at first, as a low mournful groan, sounding into the valley like a great wounded beast. My Woodbine was cast to the ground. The sound climbed steadily in pitch, taking on a note of alarm. I was running. The gramophone scratched silent and, in an instant, the farmhouse was plunged into darkness. Now, the siren wailed. Men passed me in the hallway and piled into cars. Women followed. There was a practised resolve in their farewells. In the parlour, I fumbled my jacket from a chair and pulled it on. I was not alone. Lips, soft as velvet, stole a kiss in the dark. In my surprise, I retreated, left with the lingering sweetness of cranberries. The culprit's breath was warm against my neck. Dwarfing a dainty wrist with my hand, I led the stranger towards the window, and saw red lips and auburn curls in the moonlight. We kissed again. Outside, Marshall called.

    "What's your name?" I asked, as the moment crashed around us.

    "Phoebe," she said.

    Walls built from clumsy stacks of stone lined the road into Thickwood. It was a small forgettable hamlet overlooking acres of sloping farmland. There was a musty post office at its heart which John visited daily for his newspaper. But not today. A rickety stile provided an escape route across an expansive cattle field. He followed a bald lane of dirt which dipped out of view into The Groves. Rain roared applause as he embarked on the last leg of his journey through the thick weave of trees, kicking wood chips, and breathing the sweet summer tang. Clearing the tree line, a row of familiar Bath Stone fangs poked out from behind a hulking barn, but before he could get there, John had to run a gauntlet of sodden sucking mud. Earth squelched, spitting geysers of dirt up the length of his sweat pants, and by the time he'd conquered the treacherous tract of road, his trainers resembled cow pats. In the interest of self-preservation, he thought to himself, he'd avoid Stephanie.

    Rudloe Manor was a modest country house of golden limestone and slate. It stood tall behind locked gates of cast iron and walls riddled with creeping ivy. Flanks of smaller buildings framed the courtyard, where towering trees drooped lazily over the driveway. It had been four weeks since the funeral, five weeks since the phonecall, and still, John could not call this place home. A modest country house was still a country house. He cleared the gates with a leap and quickly rounded the east wing, opting for the stealthier side entrance. Mud clumps scattered the path with a clap of rubber soles. Once inside, he retreated to his room undetected, which was no difficult feat in a building of that size.

    After a hot shower, he reappeared, dressed in a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. A hearty aroma wafted into the hall from the kitchen and from the family room came the soft tinkling of laughter. Jace Harriman and his daughter, Louise, a cherub-faced little girl with blonde wispy hair, were curled up on the sofa in a lock of limbs. Beneath her father, Louise wriggled frantically to squirm free of his merciless tickling, lost to a howling ecstasy of melodic giggles. It was a warming scene which belied the dark truth of their predicament. The children of Walt Harriman weren't safe in the wide world anymore. By virtue of their bloodline they shared a common enemy. An old friend intervened, smuggling Jace and his family to the house in secret, and Rudloe Manor became both a prison and a home. John was more of a lodger, brought to the manor by the same old friend, and in a way he identified with their plight. Both pursued by phantoms of the past. Jace was hiding. John was running.

  3. #3
    Jace Harriman
    Guest
    Movement.

    It was subtle, but it was there: something on the edge of perception. Maybe it was friend. Maybe it was foe. It didn't matter.

    It was a distraction.

    In that moment the beast broke free, charging with all it's might as it escaped it's captor. Bare, fleshy feet slapped against the tiled floor, pounding like the beats of an overactive freight train as it surged towards it's new target. Arms swung like a clockwork drumming monkey, the top-heavy creature swaying frantically from side to side as it rocketed fowards.

    Arms swung open and clamped instantly closed, latching around John's knees, a face buried between his thighs. Hair flopped backwards as enormous blue eyes turned upwards, a mix of ellation and desperation shining out. "Save me save me!" she insisted, clambering so her bare feet rested atop the giant counterparts of her potential hero.

    From the sofa where he'd been abandoned, Jace let out the kind of good-natured growl that only fathers and uncles seemed capable of producing. "Oh, I see!" he challenged, clambering free of the cushions with a lot more effort than he'd be willing to admit in hindsight. He managed to make it to standing, but his shirt was stretched and twisted all over the place from the ferocity of Louise's escape attempts.

    His arms folded across his chest in an over-exaggerated expression of mock disapproval. "Forming alliances against me, are you?"

    He pounced, his hands wrapping around his daughter. In sheer surprise her grip on John released, and an instant later she was hanging upsidedown, a fatherly arm clamped around her waist, pinning her against his body as she giggled and kicked frantically.

    Jace's head tilted to the side, dodging a potential blow from teeny tiny toes. "Sorry, John," he apologised in a quiet voice, as if somehow his child couldn't register sounds below a certain volume. "Good run?"

  4. #4
    John Lester
    Guest
    "It's always a good run, Jace, even with a spot of drizzle."

    Rain drummed the lattice windows and ran in rippling streams over the glass. The smile spread like an infection, reserved, and irrepressible in the face of such a familial pantomime, with the star of the show upended, pink-cheeked and puffy-faced. It was a happy departure from their first encounter. John returned to Rudloe Manor as Jace and his family were settling in, it was a difficult time for them, fraught with tragedy and grief. Weeks bled into each other, he kept his distance, the long years had made of solitude a familiar bedfellow. Then the season started to change. Jace was a Harriman, he was strong, it was as sculpted into the hard lines of his face as much as the artist was found in the contours of stone. On his tongue was the hallmark of the Air Force Brat, betraying a well-travelled well-educated youth, a soaked sponge palette of myriad people and places. Behind him, the room lied in ruins, a wasteland of brightly-coloured toys, of scattered teddy bears and children's books.

    "Of course, there are other means of exercise," he said, and crouched, regarding the protesting toddler in amusement, "Have you been keeping your father busy, young lady?"

  5. #5
    Jace Harriman
    Guest
    It wasn't an easy expression to master, but Louise achieved it with practiced ease: the perfect combination of overwhelming joy and excitement with pure, unbridled terror. She blasted it squarely at the now-inverted John, her only hope of liberation.

    She managed to quell the laughter from her voice for just long enough to pant out a few desperate words. Her voice was solemn; or at least, as solemn as you could manage to achieve when you were nearly three and upside down.

    They hung ominously in the air. "He's trying to eat me."

    Perfectly on clue, Jace's face split into a grin. "Oh, look!" he exclaimed, gaze settling on the tiny feet that flailed in front of his eyes. "Toes! My favourite!"

    "No!" Louise shrieked, her kicking and squirming becoming more frantic. Giggles tumbled from her throat, but she tried to fight them back, increasing her pleas for assistance. "Help me, Oblierun Kenobli! You're my only hope!"

  6. #6
    John Lester
    Guest
    "Ah. I'm afraid, young Louise, we've rather hit a bit of a snag," John began, quite apologetically, "You see, while this... nasty blighter here is fond of toes. I must confess myself somewhat partial... to fingers!"

    His eyes glistened dangerously. He reached out. And with that, hysterical squeals renewed. Little Louise fought valiantly against the gargantuan predators, but in the end, all her efforts were in vain, and the cannibal feast commenced. John nibbled daintily on the tips of tiny fingers for only a moment, when a frightful reprimand sounded from the kitchen, punctuated by the solid clattering of pans. Survival instincts kicked in, he twisted towards the source of the disturbanced, and then back to Jace, intercepting his gaze. Then, with perfect synchronisation, their alarm melted into amusement. The feast was postponed. Regarding Louise, his eyes shrunk into menacing slits, and a damning finger was raised.

    "Don't think this is over, young lady. That was only the first course," he said, and stood up, turning a quizzical look to Jace, "What the devil's an Oblierun Kenobli, when it's at home?"

  7. #7
    Jace Harriman
    Guest
    "She means Obi Wan Kenobi," Jace explained with a shrug, as if it was obvious. The blank look that John returned made it clear that it wasn't. "From Star Wars. Alec Guiness. Bearded old man in a bath robe." There was still no real sign of recognition on John's features.

    "You've never seen Star Wars?"

    Jace fought the urge to frown. Nathan Godfrey had warned him that John Lester was a little out of touch with the world, though he'd never explained why. He gave the impression of someone who had travelled extensively, on one of those finding yourself type cross-continental expeditions; but that was hardly a full explanation of anything. Nathan had assured him that John was one of the finest agents he knew, one of the most qualified people in the country to help keep his family safe from Hurucan; but there were times when it seemed like he wasn't even from the same planet as the rest of them.

    Hurucan. The name stuck in Jace's mind for long after he'd thought it. He'd never met the man; not really. He'd only been conscious for an encounter with his black-clad lackey; he hadn't returned to the land of the living when the man had allegedly burst into his hospital room and electrocuted the life out of his body. Jace felt a tightening twinge in his chest where the electricity had supposedly run through him; a twinge severe enough that it forced him to flip his daughter back onto her feet, and rub absent fingers at his breastbone.

    He'd died, they said; right in front of his sister's eyes, no less. Nathan Godfrey had explained why it was so important to maintain that illusion: to make sure that Hurucan believed he had been a success. Jace knew this, and accepted that. But what he didn't know - what he couldn't accept - was how he'd gone from being dead to being alive again without a mark on him. Even the injuries from the lackey's assault had gone; and yet he was simply expected to accept that the National Health Service was soley responsible.

    John knew. Jace was a lawyer by trade; he knew when people were witholding, and there was a lot more that John knew - and a lot more to John - than he let on. He couldn't abide secrets; but he forced himself to accept the status quo as it was. Spies and lies were everywhere around him, but at least they were keeping his family safe; so he'd let them keep them.

    For now.

  8. #8
    John Lester
    Guest
    "Oh, I don't know. All that reality TV just blends into one for me."

    His tone was light and conversational, but the slight crease of distaste on his face betrayed his real feelings. Star Wars. His head swam with all-too-familiar images of the limelight has-beens who subject themselves to every manner of degradation in a desperate last bid to resuscitate their flat-lining fame. Celebrity culture was something of a mystery to John, nor could he comprehend the world's apparent obsession with it. And, worst of all, it made for rubbish television. Jace was wearing that nonplussed look again; patient eyes and a thin benign grin, it was a polite effort to evade the fact that he'd just heard something rather stupid, and it was a look with which John had become well-acquainted. He folded his arms in defense.

    "I prefer a good book, frankly. Which reminds me!" he said, with a snap of his fingers, "I must pop into the library the next time I go the village. Started on those Harry Potter books - smashing little page-turners! Went through the first four like a dose of salts."

    Here, his voice lowered, adopting a more covert tone, "You know, I reckon Louise would love them. It's all wizards, and magic, and giant spiders. Well, the first two or three, at least. It gets a bit dark later on."

  9. #9
    Jace Harriman
    Guest
    Jace let out a grunt. "If Louise is going to experience stories about wizards and giant spiders," he countered, "It'll have been written by J.R.R, not by J.K."

    It was strange talking to John at times; strange seeing a man of his apparent age and physical stature talking about the simplest common knowledge with an air of wonderment. It didn't seem to be the big things that surprised him so much as the small ones - bathroom weighing scales that weren't the size of a small house; the way seatbelts did that little pulling back thing; entire cultural phenomenon he'd missed. To him, Star Trek was just a quaint scifi serial, and it's disappointing motion picture adaptation. Football was something he could mention without feeling the need to specify that it wasn't the stupidly named American variant. He didn't even know what a Yorkie was, and it's spoof-sexist marketing campaign had been and gone while he was still slumbering.

    Sometimes, Jace wondered if John pointed out these things to remind people of just how good the present was by comparison. Other times, he just assumed it was just something coded into the British genome: focus on the insignificant so that when the overwhelming comes along, you're already prepared for the worst.

    "Those are movies, by the way," he added. "Pretty good, all things considered; though Gandalf looks a little too much like a terrorist for my liking."

  10. #10
    John Lester
    Guest
    "Doesn't everybody these days?"

    John offered Jace a thin weary smile, then set about gathering up the playtime debris. Even when he wasn't looking, he knew they were there, the assortment of soft colourful toys and books littering the floor. It was an itch that needed to be scratched. And it wasn't as if he was going to get any objections from the father-daughter duo responsible for the mess, first of all, dinner was imminent, and secondly, it was a boring job spared.

    "I shall keep my eyes peeled for those films. Never could get past the first few chapters, I'm afraid. The whole thing read like the Oxford Dictionary. Roald Dahl, now there's a man who knows how to write for children!"

    He held aloft a child's stethoscope and a plush piggy to emphasise his point, and found himself thereafter wondering if young Louise Harriman haboured an early interest in veterinary medicine. Such bright charming items were at dramatic odds with their stately surroundings, and with its tall ceilings, long draughty halls, varnished floors and orante mantelpieces, Rudloe Manor served as no fit place to raise a child alone. Certainly, she had the love and affection of her doting parents, but what a developing child needed more than anything was the company of other children, and not all the toys in the world could remedy that. Instead, she had John, a curious manchild yo-yoing between a pension and puberty - hardly Mary Poppins.

    "Has Nathan been in touch?"

  11. #11
    Nathan Godfrey
    Guest
    It was grey and overcast above Thames House. It always seemed to be grey and overcast in Britain, but today it somehow seemed worse. The dullness had seeped into the grubby, weathered stonework of the building, sapping away all the colour, and the thick, dark, bloated clouds that hung low in the sky seemed to be weighing heavily upon everyone that trudged by. The country was miserable, and it had every reason to be. Everything that had transpired in recent weeks put a whole new spin on the idea of a country working it's way through a depression.

    Nathan was impatient as the police officer at the entrance studied his security pass more intently than was really necessary. "Thank you, Clive," he grunted, shooting a look of scorn at the man who, after several months of fleeting morning, lunch, and evening exchanges as Nathan entered and left the building, had managed to inform Nathan all about his two nieces, the son on the way, his passion for weekend amateur rugby, and the fact that though he was loathed to admit it, he really did actually quite like the music of Taylor Swift. Nathan had no idea who that was, and didn't much care; but he'd feigned interest, and filed the information away just in case it ever became useful. Clive on the other hand seemed to have paid considerably less attention to those exchanges; either that, or he genuinely seemed to think that the security pass that had been perfectly fine since May might suddenly have transformed into a forgery overnight.

    He knew that he shouldn't blame Clive, of course; not really. The police constable was only acting on directives from his superiors, who were - as such superiors had a tendency to be - excessively and unnecessarily paranoid. A couple of mutant protests gone bad, a bit of rioting half way across the country, and suddenly everyone was on high alert for infiltrators and imposters. Because of course, disorganised and emotion-driven groups of rioters were notorious for their use of espionage tactics to subvert the highest agencies in the land.

    Nathan let out a sigh as he stepped inside, climbing the familiar stairway with every effort that his many years had accrued. He had no reason to struggle: his mutant abilities saw fit that all the aches and pains of age were healed and refreshed. There were no scars, no worn cartilage, no bones improperly healed despite the number that the years had broken; any after affects from those wounds existed purely inside his mind, but the sheer weight of them was almost unbearable. His mutation was more than just a gift-come-curse: it was a burden, an ordeal, a never-ending uphill struggle that he endured each and every day, for no matter how many days of work, stress, and hardship lay behind him, the number that lay before never seemed to shrink. There was no retirement to aspire towards, no escape to somewhere sunny to live off his more than respectable pension; because he never stopped being needed. His work was never done.

    "There you are," muttered a voice, equal parts exasperated and exhausted.

    "Here I am," Nathan agreed. Not at home. Not making the most of his weekend. "Why?"

    The young officer, Bailey, thrust a memo into his hands, corner crumpled from the vice grip that had held it. Nathan's eyes scanned the words: overly florid language to disguise utterly stupid content. His jaw clamped in anger: cast aside the arse-covering language, and you had a memorandum to the Ministry of Defense ordering them to assist the police should riots break out in London.

    "Did the Prime Minister authorise this?" Nathan asked, his voice eerily calm.

    Bailey winced. "Lackluster," she replied. "PM is still in the States: unofficial word is he won't be back unless the riots run to a third day."

    Lackluster. Nathan ground his teeth in disgust. Harold Lackland had earned his all too appropriate nickname in the media when he'd jumped into bed with the Tories and formed the Coalition government Britain was currently burdened with, and then utterly failed to follow through on any of the policies that his election campaign had been built on. Nathan had nothing against the Liberal Democrats or the Conservatives specifically: every political party in the UK was just as ineffective as each other. The problem was that most parties could barely even agree on a course of action amongst themselves; two parties trying to reach an accord was doubly futile.

    As for the Prime Minister; Nathan couldn't quite bring himself to share Bailey's frustration at his choice of priorities. While yes, home affairs were supposed to be his top priority, Nathan had lived through enough riots in Britain over the decades to know that his presence wouldn't make a damn bit of difference: riots would happen with or without him, and would continue until the passion and anger that caused them burned out. No one - as far as Nathan knew, at any rate - had the power to go back and undo the unfortunate shooting that had sparked this unrest, and no amount of appeasement or promises of action was going to stop them in their tracks.

    On the flipside, the meeting of major NATO leaders at the A.C.T centre in Virginia to discuss new approaches to the mutant phenomenon on a global scale? Nathan had to agree with the Prime Minister on this one: that was pretty damn deserving of his uninterrupted attention.

    Far more worrying was Lackland's gargantuan overreaction now that he'd been left holding the reins. "What the hell has him so worked up?" Nathan wondered aloud.

    Bailey's eyebrows arched. "You don't know?"

    Nathan shot her a look. "Clearly not."

    The young woman's complexion took on a decidedly more pallid tone, and her expression became decidedly grim. She beckoned for Nathan to follow, and he did, allowing her to lead him on a weaving course through the desks of analysts and into one of Thames House's glass-walled conference rooms. She flipped on the lights, flipped down the blinds, and flipped open the laptop sitting waiting on the desk. A few keystrokes and mouse clicks later, and the unnecessarily large screen on the far wall flickered into life, a youtube video slowly buffering.

    The screen flickered; fake interference, typical movie scare tactics. Sinister noises, ominous visuals, the works. Probably some media student, out to stir up a little bonus anxiety, attention, and maybe support for tonight's round of riots. Exactly the same as just about every other video that floated across their -

    A flicker of recognition sparked in Nathan's features, and drained the colour from his own face as the narrative began, the voice deep and distorted, lyrical and full of malice.

    "We struck the beast; cut off it's head;
    Next comes the first, who's not yet dead.
    Where the first sword was is where he hides;
    A fitting end, for there he dies.
    No man alive can come between;
    No hero, nor servant of the Queen.
    Give up now, for all is lost -
    Lament, for I cannot be stopped."


    The video ended in another burst of static. Bailey stared at the screen with unaffected detachment; "Our best guess is it's just smoke and mirrors, out to stir up a little extra fear and anxiety, but the Home Office has them tightening security around the Royals and the Cabinet just in case. No idea what all the sword business is about though. We're cross-referencing with Arthurian myths, inventories at museums and the Royal Armouries and such, but so far we're coming up empty. I don't suppose you -"

    She trailed off, finally casting her eyes in Nathan's direction and seeing the expression on his features. "You know something, don't you? One of your -" There was a tired and frustrated lilt to her voice. "- way above everyone's pay grade insights, right?"

    Nathan nodded, slowly. "Contact the Ministry of Defense. Tell them we have a Code 13, and that they need to rally everything they can get their hands on; up to an including Trident. I'll contact them directly as soon as I know more."

    Mention of Britain's nuclear defense programme certainly captured the officer's attention, and widened her eyes appropriately. "That bad?"

    "If this is who I think it is -" Nathan's mouth drew into a grim line. "- it's worse."

    Mind racing, Nathan became intensely distracted. "I need a helicopter. Priority air clearance. A pilot who doesn't ask questions -"

    "Walk and talk," Bailey interrupted, incurring a frown from Nathan. "I'll arrange it all when we're on the way. Seems like there's no time to waste."

    "We?" Nathan echoed. His chest was gripped by a strange blend of admiration, affection, and fear. He placed his hands on either shoulder, and stared directly into her eyes. "Not this time. I cannot stress this enough. Stay clear. No one follows me; no one helps unless I expressly instruct it. It's not safe: not for anyone."

    "You're going," she countered, defiantly.

    Nathan's gut squirmed. There were two answers he could give, the secret and the lie; and while his head screamed for one, the tightening knot of guilt in his stomach begged for the other. Every day felt like an elaborate falsehood; just this once, perhaps it was time for a little change. Time for a little trust.

    "Remember that crackpot who ran me through with a sword?"

    Bailey nodded. "Kind of hard to forget," she admitted, watching with a frown of confusion as Nathan fumbled with his shirt, tugging it up to show the unmarred flesh where an ugly mass should have been. "There's no scar," she breathed, almost in wonder.

    "No," Nathan concurred. "And there never will be."

    Realisation dawned. "You're -?"

    "I am." Nathan felt like he'd begun to plummet, innards strangely weightless as they waited for gravity to catch up. "Is that going to be a problem?"

    Bailey's shoulders squared with resolve. "Is what going to be a problem, sir?"

    Nathan's face split into a flicker of a smile, but the situation at hand stopped it from taking hold. "You're the best officer I've got, Bailey. I can't do this without your help."

    She nodded, dutifully. "Get yourself to the roof, sir. I'll sort out the rest."

  12. #12
    Marshall
    Guest
    It was just as he remembered, more or less. Outside the walls had been less overgrown, and the lawns weren't as meticulously manicured as they had been of course. And Rudloe Manor, the house itself, was showing the same signs of deterioration - the same cracks and wrinkles of age - as Marshall's own features. But then sixty years had passed, for both of them, and those who had once loved and cared for them had simply abandoned them to fall into disrepair.

    His feet crunched upon the gravel of the driveway as he approached, noting with a slight wrinkle of his nose that the lush green ivy that had once sprawled across the walls was now dead, threadbare, and brown. It was a stark contrast to the overgrown gardens and untamed trees which, despite the weather, still retained much of their summer verdance. He lingered for a moment, staring at the stretch of grass where they'd whiled away many an hour with improvised stumps, a scuffed willow bat, and a tired old leather ball. Curse James and his infernal accuracy; no amount of skill or strength had ever been enough to stop him from tumbling the bails.

    He sighed, dragging himself away, a few more laboured steps bringing him to the Manor's robust oak door. He reached for the cast iron handle and with three practised flicks of the wrist unleashed a knock that would resonate through the entire house. It was strange the things the mind chose to remember, and those it chose to forget; he could tap into a talent he'd once prided himself on without effort, but expect him to remember a name or a birthday and his mind drew a total blank.

    He waited; heard the shuffling of movement from beyond the door; watched as it swung open.

    "My god," he breathed, as his eyes settled on the figure responsible, and the face so unchanged that mocked the decades that had passed. There was an air of wonder in his words. "Eric, you haven't aged a day..."

  13. #13
    John Lester
    Guest
    When John opened the door, he'd prepared himself for anything. They didn't get visitors at Rudloe Manor. That was the point of it. So when door knocks rolled like thunder throughout the house, glances were exchanged in the firmest of silences, and the Harriman's promptly retreated to the kitchen with Jace keeping watch from the door. Needless to say, when John was greeted by a crooked old man he was somewhat surprised, but when the old man addressed him by his name - his old name - he wasn't ready for that. And yet, at once, mention of this alien identity conjured ancient memories from the darkest corners of his mind; images which substituted the stranger's sunken palor with a plump pink youthfulness. In the old man was his expression mirrored.

    "Marshall?"

    First, a flutter of nostalgic warmth, replaced all too quickly by a sinking, stomach-churning sense of dread. Long and troubled was his - Eric's - history with this man. He remembered it all, the good and the bad, as surely did the old man. The question remained then: which spectre of the past lurked beneath that weathered visage, and what came with it, good will or ill? Himself frozen in demeanour somewhere between the familiarity of an old friend and the readiness of an enemy, John stepped forward, filling the doorway, he gave the old man a once over and said:

    "You've seen better days, old boy. Now is it entirely foolish of me to hope age has made you the sentimental sort?"

  14. #14
    Marshall
    Guest
    Something shifted in Marshall's expression: a flicker of confusion followed by one of memory, and then every last trace of nostalgia and harmlessness tumbled away, his weary features falling into a dark, sinister mask.

    "Eric Lester died," he rumbled, his words at the last moment nudged by the faintest questioning tone, as if he were informing himself as much as the man to whom he spoke, not entirely trusting the facts that his mind knew but his ravaged memory failed to quite recall.

    He took a step forward, his average height and elderly build no match for Eric's imposing frame, but his eyes more than making up for the deficit. "I know it is here, and I must find it," he announced, his voice louder as if he expected to be heard by countless others hiding behind the bushes. In an instant it was quiet again, barely louder than a breath as he stared with disapproval straight into Eric's eyes. "I have no time for -" His lip curled into a sneer. "- imposters."

  15. #15
    John Lester
    Guest
    "Nor I intruders."

    The change in the old man struck him like a chill wind. It was met with a look of steel, but inwardly, John's mettle was weathered; brittle. Eric Lester died. The words struck like hammer blows, the tremors from which almost tangible deep in his bones. He was not Eric Lester. He was not the decorated war veteran or the hardened agent with ice-water for blood. He and this stranger were not old comrades with a soured history. And he was most definately not the sort to utter the words "old boy" in common parlance. And yet, he did. And yet, he was. There were times when it seemed like his thoughts were not his own; when words from a retired vernacular tumbled from his lips; when there was another driver behind the wheel. Sometimes, what time and experience had taught him, it was just best to trust the co-pilot. Python arms folded with resolve.

    "You want to walk away from here, Marshall Godfrey. Don't make me manhandle a pensioner."

  16. #16
    Marshall
    Guest
    Walk away? Manhandle?

    Reluctant resolve formed inside Marshall's fractured mind. He knew why he was here, knew what he must do, and knew it was not something that could be shrugged off by some mere echo of the past. He would have preferred this to have been simple; tidy; devoid of unnecessary violence; but alas this fraud of a man was determined to force the issue.

    "You know who I am."

    Marshall's words were a proclamation; a sound uttered as his mind found focus, his powers igniting like an invisible flame.

    "You know what I can do."

    The slightest movement of his hands - an involuntary flex, a resisted first, the shudder of an old man not entirely in control of his motor functions - and a bow wave of unseen power blossomed around him, trailing behind his motion like the tail of a comet. Even friction with the air, subtle as it was, became a catalyst by which his unstoppable gift could gain strength.

    "I shall say this only once, Eric, or whoever you are -"

    He placed a hand gently on the centre of the doorkeeper's chest.

    "- move aside."

    And then with a simple shove, Marshall's powers slammed Eric with an unstoppable wall of inertia.

  17. #17
    John Lester
    Guest
    John stumbled backwards, after several steps and an unflattering flail of arms, he came to a stop with pronounced screech of rubber on varnished wood. It had been like catching the brunt of a wave as it rolled into the shore; a steady and irresistible force, the sort to ease a man from his feet and plant him down again just as softly. All that from a gentle shove. The corner of John's mouth ticked in amusement, mostly at himself, also at his rather regrettable choice of footwear. When it came to battle attire, pumps were scarcely his preference.

    "I see you haven't lost your touch."

    Outside, the rain had stopped, but the bitter afternoon air tumbled in through the open door and groaned high up in the rafters above the staircase. All else was silent, which was enough to assume Jace was evacuating little Louise to safety, and hopefully, that the intruder remained ignorant of their presence. He wanted it, John recalled, whatever that was, not him or her. A cautious glance left and right to familiarise himself with his immediate surroundings, and suddenly, John became very aware of just how clean, and old, and expensive everything looked. His gaze returned to Marshall, narrowed in silent reprimand.

    "This is a really nice house. Care to take this outside?"

    In a heartbeat, and a single inhuman stride, he closed the distance between himself and the old man, and greeted him with a firm, gentlemanly shoulder barge.
    Last edited by John Lester; Sep 27th, 2013 at 05:08:16 PM.

  18. #18
    Marshall
    Guest
    In that split second, Marshall found himself with two options. With ease he could have turned into Eric's charge, meeting him with all the force of running into a brick wall. Instead he let the seemingly younger man donate his inertia, the momentum carrying them both out into the open air. The impact as Marshall met with the ground imparted enough force to crack the flagstone beneath him; he bent his knees, propelling Eric upwards so that his egress from the house could convey him still further.

    Marshall clambered back to his feet with more ease than a man of his age should have been able to achieve. His features tugged into a small, unsettling smile as he turned to face Eric, now a good few meters further down the drive.

    "There is no shame in this," he assured, casually brushing the dirt and grit from his palms. "There is no way that a man with your skills and abilities could possibly defeat me: and no one could ever expect you to."

    He repositioned his flat cap, knocked askew by the tumble. "For now, all that is wounded is your pride." The slack-featured menace returned to his expression once more. "Remain out of my way, before you lose count of the number of bones I break."

  19. #19
    Nathan Godfrey
    Guest
    Nathan's pace was brisk as he strode through the Home. He'd already forgotten it's name, but it didn't really matter: the mostly male residents had the regal air and retired military bearing that made it clear that this was the right place. He strode with purpose; didn't stop at reception, or for directions.

    "You can't -" a nurse tried to insist.

    "The hell I can't," Nathan countered as he breezed past her, pressing his military ID into her hands.

    The air was dank and stale; that's what he hated about places like this. It was a sick, depressing practice: collect your society's elderly together in a handful of specific places so they could all wither and die in the same location. It was one of the few benefits to his mutant gift: he would never grow old, and so he would never have to find himself in a place like this. Not so for almost everyone he had ever known, loved, or cared about, however. He had seen far too many people left to rot in places such as this, and his sorrow at that penetrated to his very core.

    His eyes scanned the doorways, both numbered and named as he passed. Hartnell. Troughton. Pertwee. Baker. Davidson -

    He stopped, his destination reached; felt his stomach protest his presence. What lay beyond that door was no mystery, and yet he was overcome with reluctance every time he found himself needing to see it. But now was not the time for sentimental reluctance. He mustered his resolve, hesitating for only a moment longer to trace the name engraved on the door plaque.

    Godfrey.

    The room was tidy and surprisingly spacious; or perhaps surprisingly empty. Where one would have expected photographs of loved ones and family, or souvenirs of a long life, the room had only what it had contained when it's occupant had moved in. There were a few coffee mugs, Nathan noted: not used for drinking but rather displayed like trophies, adorned with the logos and livery of all too familiar military units. A small personal touch, but then, this was not the room of a sentimental man.

    The occupant himself was just as plain: simple tweed, simple looks, and a blank gaze that came into slow focus as Nathan entered.

    "Hello, Wayland," he offered in a neutral, middle of the road tone; not too familiar, and yet not too cold.

    Conflict ruffled Nathan's brow as he regarded the man, nearly eighty years old now. He'd been a celebration baby, conceived from a father returning in triumph from the First World War; a soldier who'd fought in the Second. He'd fought many more battles since, and that war fatigue was etched deep into his features. He was a simple, tired man; and yet, Nathan knew, he was one of the only men on the planet who stood a chance of stopping the unstoppable danger that was stampeding towards Rudloe Manor.

    "I need your help."

    It pained him to say it: Wayland had done his part, suffered far more than his share; his country had no right to ask any more of him. But then, this wasn't a request of country: it was much more important than that. This was about family.

    "Marshall is back. Walter's son is in danger."

  20. #20
    Wayland
    Guest
    "A mission."

    It wasn't a question; rather a contemplation, a verbal processing of the facts. Wayland's features furrowed, and his concentration focused on the dull brown carpet for a moment. Memories flashed through his consciousness, more slowly than they would have in his youth; familiar names, the matching faces, and the exploits that went with them. Marshall, the unstoppable force. Wayland, the immovable object. Walter, the young man who'd done nothing but his duty and yet had earned the ire of the most dangerous people in the world for doing it.

    With slow, creaking movements he raised himself to his feet; not because it was difficult, but because it was rare. When you had no place to go, and nothing to fetch, you didn't bother standing up all that often. He looked around himself; reached for the tweed flat cap on the dresser and brushed off a layer of imaginary dust before placing it atop his head.

    His gaze shifted to Nathan; what had once been vague was suddenly steel.

    "It's about bloody time."

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