Beyond the Sword

[Nathan Godfrey]

"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.