Wanted to write this as a script, but since I didn't have time, it'll be in story format.
So far I am only concentrating on his adult life, up to the part where he joins the X-men, although I might put in a few flashbacks from childhood in this part of the narrative. Would that be interesting? (I'm not veering TOO far from canon for his early life – the gypsies, the circus, etc. After the Jardine debacle in his teen years I go totally away from most known official Kurt-origin tales except for some time he spends in the circus and the fact that Jimaine likes him as more than a foster sister).
You may U2U me if you have suggestions or questions about any of it, or post them if they'd be of interest to the other Scrawlers, both lurking and active. Please forgive any formatting errors; I still have trouble going from Word to Scrawlers-Forum.
And *please* tell me if it gets way, wayyyy too convoluted. Am still learning how to braid the strands of a character's history into a cohesive narrative, and am hurting for lack of someone to critique before I post.
"Chasing Darkness" {I'm up for suggestions of a better title!}
Another night, another nightmare. Kurt Wagner rolled over in his sheets until wrapped like a mummy, bound in body by the winding cloth and in spirit by recollections which could never be completely held at bay. From safety to danger, from friendships to fear, his present situation dissolved in slumber, replaced with events he had lived through a very short time ago.
* * *
It was almost 2 AM, but Kurt had some coins jingling in his pocket and a thirst for a beer. The rainy streets of the port city seemed to urge him on in search of a place where warmth spilled from the windows and song from the tables. In this island town, he slipped along the dirty streets, looking for some place that was enough out of the way to harbor someone of his distinct looks, yet not so dangerous as to require fighting skills. He needed to de-pressurize, to think about what he had done and where it would lead him. Center of attention was all very well in the circus or the stage, but at this juncture in his tumultuous life, a temporary hideaway in this small island town would fill the bill.
Someone beckoned to him from a half-opened door. "Mister, come in out of that rain. We have nice fire and good drinks." The urchin's intensity reminded him of his own childhood, desperate for a kind word or simply to be acknowledged by a fellow human. Although many would not count Kurt Wagner as human. Sometimes he wondered about it himself.
As his hand reached out to pat the youngster on the head, the grimy child recoiled. "What kind of costume you wear?" Kurt pressed his lips together and silently prayed for patience. Would he never find acceptance? Was fear always to be the first reaction with which people met him? "I am a performer. I will not harm you." He reached in his trench coat pocket, damp from the night's wanderings, and with his other hand gently drew the little fellow's hand from behind his back, then pressed a few coins of small worth into the grubby palm. Money was usually something which quelled people's suspicions. And Gott knew this lad looked as if he could use some good food.
He smiled – not too widely, for his canine teeth were longer than most – and lidded his eyes so the glowing yellow would not be too noticeable. "I have more change if you would show me to a quiet corner table where I may enjoy a few drinks, alone."
"Yes, sir," the youngster said in the native patois of this backwater village. "This way. I will show you a place where you will not be disturbed."
Kurt slid onto the rickety chair, careful to keep his tail tucked into the special pocket inside the shoulder of his coat. He did not remove the Alpine hat as normal politeness would have required, but kept it on to hide the strange-colored skin and blue-black hair as well as the pointed ears which invariably aroused comment.
"I would like a dark imported beer, please," he told the boy, his German accent explaining the beverage preference. He waited til the boy's back was turned, then pried the custom boot off and massaged his foot. The boots, with long tips and a slight heel, allowed room for his peculiar feet, the hind parts of which sloped into the hollow heels while his two elongated front toes clasped the special toe grip in the sole. Kurt replaced the footwear and tucked both feet well under the chair rung.
As the youth scurried to do his bidding, the visitor tried to relax against the hard wooden chair back. But any unfamiliar place caused him to be hyper-vigilant; with his genetic uniqueness, he had to be alert to trouble before it could get out of hand. The native returned with a foamy mug and was rewarded with the proper amount plus a generous tip. When Wagner was certain the shadows had swallowed himself, he wrapped both three-fingered hands around the chilled mug, lifted it to his lips, and enjoyed a taste of home in this foreign locale.
Home. Had he ever known such a thing? And now, he was out of a home, out of a job, even without friends or family. How had he come to this?
"Humanity is a parade of fools, and I am at the front of it, twirling a baton." From Chapter 9 of _Brother Odd_ by Dean Koontz / from Chapter 10: "Life you can evade; death you cannot."
I like it. I think I said that elsewhere. I like how your story begins at the end... so many good stories begin at the end on this site.
It's like a teaser... He's lost his home, job, friends, family... NOW you're gonna TELL us HOW it happened.
(Whoa, that looks kinda like what they do in the comic books... that slight emphasis on random words. )
~Def.
"A dedicated follower of nothing." -- graffitit artist in Brick Lane, London, England.
Right across the lane from the demon and just down the wall from Wolverine.
RIP Kurt Wagner. You were the character who brought in me into comics, who introduced me and inspired me. Now your death has sent me away again. Wherever you are in the Marvel Universe, I hope its someplace pleasant.
I wasn't sure if you minded my posting on your tale, or I would have commented sooner. I am waiting for the next part.
Comment! Comment! {laps up attention like a starving basset hound}
Next part needs a skosh of decision on my part, then ready to roll. I am hoping that by the 7th or 8th installment it won't be too messy to understand, so you guys keep me in line if I become too obscure as far as what is a flashback and what is more or less current in the dream.
"Humanity is a parade of fools, and I am at the front of it, twirling a baton." From Chapter 9 of _Brother Odd_ by Dean Koontz / from Chapter 10: "Life you can evade; death you cannot."
You have an excellent narrative style, showing the audience what is happening for the most part, rather than outright telling them. Rather than stating that Kurt was upset when the orphan avoided him, you showed it through his reaction and his thoughts. You do it over and over again, attempting to set the scene and tell us what is happening by showing us what is hapening. That's not only good writing... it also may help it to work for a movie!
You also do excellent characterization right off the bat... giving even people who have no idea who Nightcrawler is an idea of his personality. Also, even though he is obviously a minor character, in those short paragraphs you can immediately connect to that little orphan trying to get a few extra coins.
Now on to the constructive criticism.
While this particular narrative style is excellent for relaxed, or at least slow-moving scenes, if you do an action bit, you're gonna want to pick up the pace.
I've seen a lot of people struggle with putting too many thoughts from a character's head onto the paper (I've done it myself loads of times) and then get away from the main point of the story. You haven't done it yet, but for me, it's something I always watch out for.
Over all, it's excellent, I'm excited and intrigued. Update soon, please?
~Def.
"A dedicated follower of nothing." -- graffitit artist in Brick Lane, London, England.
Right across the lane from the demon and just down the wall from Wolverine.
RIP Kurt Wagner. You were the character who brought in me into comics, who introduced me and inspired me. Now your death has sent me away again. Wherever you are in the Marvel Universe, I hope its someplace pleasant.
Thanks to everyone for the interest, encouragement, and critiques. As far as action, Ms. Def, I don't even attempt to keep the ball rolling. Not my style. But if I were writing to please someone else (editor, agent, contest judge), I would keep that in mind fo shizzle. I would love to keep tweaking this chapter til it's exactly as I want it, but there *is* a deadline, and RL keeps nosing in to keep me from editing like a madwoman.
One small warning: this uses a scatological expression that some might find offensive. Probably not anybody around here, but ya never know, so be forewarned if you cringe at manure words.
Here comes the next installment of "Chasing Darkness" [unless you peeps come up with a better title ... shouldn't be hard to top my lame-o working title]:
~^~^~^~^~^~^
The Incredible Nightcrawler mentally replayed the scene of his latest mistake as he enjoyed the shelter of the tavern, unwilling for now to resume wandering the alleys. Nor had he the stomach to return to the cruise ship where, until this evening, he had worked as an illusionist, accompanied by his foster sister, Jimaine. Not after the mess he had made of his ultimatum to the boss.
"They have cruises for all sorts of people now. For the blind, for homosexuals, for Christian musicians, for ornithologists. Why not one for mutants, where we can be free to be ourselves without fear or hiding?"
"Because," the cruise line owner said with a grimace, "the insurance companies would bleed us dry. Nobody wants to take a chance on so many 'dangerous' people—"
"Dangerous?" Kurt snarled, patience fleeing, pushed out by years of frustration, "I, who single-handedly rescued those imbeciles that launched themselves into a lifeboat, then panicked when it shipped water? Who saved the millionaire whose heart condition put him in peril on the mountain climbing trip, who would have perished but for my ability to pop him to hospital? Am I so dangerous that people do not flock to see my performances?"
He would have continued, but his own emotion made further speech impossible. He settled for a continued glower at the unflappable magnate.
"Now, son --"
"I am nobody's son!" At times his fatherless state caused his insides to roil; at this moment, they seethed alongside the memory of his foster mother's parting words on the day she rejected him forever. Kurt exploded. "I am nothing to you but an oddity!"
Floyd Leggett kept his cool. "Please, take a deep breath and re-think the situation. I realize you're speaking from your pain—"
"Which you have caused by treating me and all mutants like some kind of untamed animals—"
Leggett took his own deep breath, lips moving as he counted to ten. The sturdy man fiddled with his cufflinks, giving his star attraction time to calm himself, then continued. "You and your sister have a wonderful suite, are treated as celebrities deserve, and, I might add, your contract is quite generous. It was you who asked for the extra income from cleaning the cabins."
"I might as well, since people shun me. At least I can see how the other half lives."
The businessman smiled at his tempestuous headliner. "All I am doing is stating the facts as they stand. As long as enhanced individuals are seen as a risk, I cannot afford to take an entire ship full of them and still turn a profit."
"But you are wiling to allow Jimaine and me to work for you. What a hypocrite," Nightcrawler spat.
"I'm sorry. This is simply the situation in which I find myself."
"Well, I find myself in a situation which has me constantly hiding from the very people I am paid to entertain. Should I not have every right to stroll about like the others, without being accosted or accused? I grow weary of hiding in the shadows!"
The boss tilted back in his leather ergonomic chair. "From all reports, you make good use of the shadows when entertaining the ladies."
"I take my amusement where I may, and always behave as a gentleman. But a few open-minded Frauleins do not make up for the dreary existence which forces me to hide away for hours at a time lest the passengers be scared."
"You must remember, Kurt," Leggett spread his hands, "that we are a small line. Very small, not like those huge companies that can cater to a variety of people. My liabilities can only stretch so far. We love your act, we love you, but business facts are facts, and this corporation cannot afford the insurance."
Kurt jammed his hands into his pockets and pivoted away from the boss. "I want no part of your prejudice and injustice, never mind the weak excuses. Why can't I be treated like any other performer?"
The businessman, fingers steepled, swiveled in his chair, looking out the window toward the expanse of ocean. "I won't bullshit you. You aren't like any other performer. You are special. But that uniqueness causes problems too. When we booked a singer who had no arms, certain adjustments had to be made for his comfort and safety. The Chilean Lobster Act necessitated some special measures as well." He twirled back and shrugged at Kurt, who was now facing him over the edge of the desk. "Even the wealthy sometimes have to play by other people's rules. If it were a perfect world you'd be accommodated."
"In a perfect world, I would be married to your lovely wife, and take her on cruises while keeping up with my investments. But instead the poor little mutant must find his way through one sordid career after another. It is obvious that this suits me no more than," he paused, ashamed to admit some of his past enterprises, "other fields in which I have sought employment."
"I'm loathe to lose you, Kurt. Perhaps we can come up with a compromise." A kind smile did not placate the mutant, who had capitulated to his wrath as to a seductress.
"If there can be no change," Nightcrawler gave a dramatic flourish of his arms, drawing himself up to his full height, tail whipping behind his lean form, "then I serve my notice."
"You have a contract, Wagner." Floyd stood, then propped his knuckles on the massive brown cherry executive desk. "If you wish to quit, so be it, but you owe us two cruises after you finish this one."
"I have no more patience with you or your prejudiced customers. Find another freak for your show." In a blast of brimstone, he quit the room, porting to his cabin.
"Humanity is a parade of fools, and I am at the front of it, twirling a baton." From Chapter 9 of _Brother Odd_ by Dean Koontz / from Chapter 10: "Life you can evade; death you cannot."
I really enjoy your writing style, Elfy. I usually tend to like those wordy, thought-oriented stories as well. Well, I like all kinds of writing. But I am really enjoying this.
It appears to me like you're writing this story 'backwards.' You start with the end, and then you went a little further back, and now you're going to go a little bit further back....
More!
~Def.
"A dedicated follower of nothing." -- graffitit artist in Brick Lane, London, England.
Right across the lane from the demon and just down the wall from Wolverine.
RIP Kurt Wagner. You were the character who brought in me into comics, who introduced me and inspired me. Now your death has sent me away again. Wherever you are in the Marvel Universe, I hope its someplace pleasant.
Um, if it goes as planned, first we edge forward a bit in the current flashback (sorta) and then return to the tavern. Unless I change my mind.
My fear, though, is that I will go so deeply into the flashback-within-a-flashback, that Dear Reader will get lost. But it's the way the story came to me; also, it's supposed to get folded into my fanfic (not posted here) in dribs and drabs, so since I had it sitting around, I toyed wtih it to mush it together into its own story (which might be stupid, since I have to change several things due to omitting my OC).
Thanks for the feedback, and keep working on your own fic.
"Humanity is a parade of fools, and I am at the front of it, twirling a baton." From Chapter 9 of _Brother Odd_ by Dean Koontz / from Chapter 10: "Life you can evade; death you cannot."
Although Kurt said his prayers with grateful devotion every night, the memories of his recent past continued to regularly plague any attempt at slumber. It was as if the cruelty of the events, though finished, still marked his hours and marred him deep inside. And so he dreamed, his subconscious piecing together the happenings of that fear-filled night, recalling the raw horror as freshly as when it had all come tumbling upon his unsuspecting head ....
The second beer tasted bitter. He sipped cautiously, but the scene with his boss had left butterflies in his stomach, so perhaps the sourness he felt was only a result of the confrontation, not the fault of the brew. Recalling the more traumatic scene occurring immediately afterwards made his head ache; soon it was swimming, his harsh words and rash actions floating around until he felt he must lay his head on his arms for only a brief moment, to regain clarity. Instead he kept upright and alert, questions buzzing in his heart.
Mein Lieber Gott, what have I done? I had so little to hold on to, und now I have jettisoned even that. For once, he felt the murkiness of the cantina, like a bear's den, penetrate his awareness. This must be what other people saw, not having his gift of vision in the dark.
Darkness seemed to follow him; it seemed almost proved by the way his mutation made him fade into the shadows. If only he could take back the gloom-filled events of this day!
* * *
"Jimaine, you are back so soon from shopping?" He had wanted some time alone, to formulate a plan to present to her, and to nurse his hurt feelings.
"Um-hum. Nothing worth buying in this low-budget port," she said, coming up to put her arms around his neck and give him a peck on the cheek.
Kurt shifted, aware of the growing discomfort he had been feeling lately toward his gorgeous foster sister.
Leggett's economical suggestion to share a suite seemed reasonable since the act partners got along well. Jimaine was family, the one person who had not deserted him after the whole Stephan Affair; however, she had taken to dressing provocatively when they were together, and displaying affection which seemed to push a bit at the boundaries of sibling love.
Kurt would have to address the issue gently, yet with firmness of intent. Perhaps she would follow him if he suggested that the time might have come to try his fortune in America as an adult. They could continue as a duo act with separate private lives, or pursue solo careers, which might be for the best. Either way, he could not allow this burgeoning love to flourish.
He would never have wished for their affection to be broken in the manner that developed.
"Do you require anything to eat, Mister?" The question superseded for a moment the self-recriminations whirling through his head.
He ordered a sandwich, and when the middle-aged waitress brought it to him, he did not bother looking to guess what kind of meat it was. Nibbling at the stringy food was a slight distraction from his worries. But the questions could not be forestalled for long.
Where would he go now? How would he survive? He would not return to the monastery to burden them with the results of his pride and rash action; nor was he thrilled at the prospect of living in the woods like some kind of wild animal. He was a man! That was the entire issue, and he would NOT be denied proper regard to his human dignity. Gott had made him this way; Gott would provide and show him a path, guide him to his true vocation. Not the life of a mercenary nor another circus. He must seek a life outside sheltering organizations, hold his own in regular human society. The beer still foaming inside him, Kurt Wagner allowed a tiny smile to creep over his lips like the first rays of an uncertain dawn. Yes, Gott would provide a change in his status, and soon – he could feel it in his bones.
As he sopped grease with the stale crust of bread, Kurt pondered what he could have done differently to have appeased his foster sister. Probably nothing, well, nothing short of having the sense to remain calm and finish out their contract. It was too late for that, and such things could not be mended. Even if she relented of her bitterness, would her presence be that of a cheerful companion, or a weight around his neck?
A lifeline when others rejected him, she had stayed in touch as much as both their itinerant lifestyles allowed. Despite her good wishes and confidence in him, the valley between them had grown ever since his expulsion from Margali's home.
At first he was full of optimism, glad to be free from his mother's shadow. After sancutary with the Benedictines and the soldier for hire period – that had been a bad fit – there were a few brief moments of bliss when he embraced the circus life again. As a headliner he experienced no shortage of women, and only a few snooty restaurants refusing service to the famous mutant. The days brimmed with fast cars, well-cut clothes adapted to his peculiar shape, good wine, private showings of his favorite movies, comfortable hotels.
And a yawning hole in his inner being. A lack of fulfillment. Troublesome thoughts about spending his short earthly life for very little in the way of heavenly possessions.
His beloved sister, keeping him uninformed that she pursued dark magic, urged him to go away with her and do something different. The illusionist act on a cruise line seemed the perfect thing: a surfeit of interesting people, a chance to pick up extra money cleaning cabins, and the traveling lifestyle to which they were accustomed from their very youngest days.
It all crashed with their disagreement – such a polite term! – the last time he had seen her. Probably the last time he ever would see her.
"Humanity is a parade of fools, and I am at the front of it, twirling a baton." From Chapter 9 of _Brother Odd_ by Dean Koontz / from Chapter 10: "Life you can evade; death you cannot."
"You no-good creep! Ungrateful, ignorant wretch!" Jimaine pounded upon her foster brother's torso, defiance lending force to her fists. "How could you ruin everything for me?"
"This is not an end. It's a beginning." His quiet reassurance did nothing to soothe her, and seemed to inflame her frightening fury even further. He backed around the corner of a bookshelf, more out of self-preservation than cowardice.
She picked up a ceramic trinket and tossed it. The curlicued shepherdess statue shattered, the tinkle of its fragments an echo of a dying sprite's cry. Shards of pearlescent pink nicked at Nightcrawler's toes.
Jimaine rounded the corner, teeth bared and fingers curved like claws. He struggled to keep her at arms' length; catlike, she spat and scratched, almost hissing the invectives that spouted from lips which had kissed him in greeting not ten minutes earlier.
"Mother should have taken the hint that nobody wanted you." She aimed a swift kick to Kurt's ankle. "I wish she'd left you to the elements instead of complicating our lives."
Purple smoke swirled around the wild woman; she whirled around searching for her target.
A voice from the ceiling said, "I understand you may regret my coming, but if your hatred is so deep, why did you talk me into a tandem career?"
In answer, book after book crashed against the ceiling to fall on the floor, splayed like crippled birds. He caught one with his tail, settled several feet up from the floor, and squatted against the cabinet as he regarded the cover.
"Shakespeare's sonnets. Not quite fitting in such a situation," he mused aloud.
The humor sailed past her. She charmed a huge framed picture, sending it to fly straight at him. He dropped the book, caught the painting, then bent to lean it against the wall.
"Maemae," perhaps the pet name he gave when both were small would remind her of their family association, "they will send Security here if you continue this. Let us discuss in a reasonable manner where we can next make a living."
"Let them come! They can arrest you for all I care." Her chest was heaving, face flushed, no sign of slowing down.
"For quitting a job that was below our dignity? That is not a crime."
The young woman crouched, moving toward him as if ready to pounce. "I could tell them why you're always on the move."
"What do you mean?" Kurt began to climb slowly downwards, keeping her constantly in sight.
"Don't act innocent. You might find forgiveness in that dark box from your whore of Babylon, but in the eyes of the law," she rasped, "you are still guilty of murder."
He reeled with the unexpected accusation. His sister had kept the guilty secret all through his season of renewed fame, yet now brandished it with almost gleeful venom. The malicious slap at his religious beliefs was another knife to his heart. "Hush, woman! What would you know of the circumstances?"
She flung herself at him. Once again she clutched at his shoulders, but now with the fevered intensity of anger, in marked contrast to the amorous cling of her greeting.
He tried to silence her, placing his long fingers across her lips. She muttered something, and a glass vase zoomed across the suite.
Nightcrawler ducked, pulling his sister down with him. The force of their descent moved his hands from covering her mouth to encircling her throat. She yelled, "If it weren't for you, my real brother would still be alive."
In a red rage, he almost crushed her windpipe.
Eyes wide in fear, Jimaine mashed hard on his instep. His hands spasmed away and she rushed to the door, jerking it open. She croaked, "Get out of my quarters and out of my life, you fur-covered freak!"
* * *
Kurt shuddered as the fight replayed itself in his mind. From a corner of the café, a robed figure watched the blue demon's head descend gradually into his arms, as if tugged by unseen cords. Soon enough, real cords made of metal, would await the monster.
"Humanity is a parade of fools, and I am at the front of it, twirling a baton." From Chapter 9 of _Brother Odd_ by Dean Koontz / from Chapter 10: "Life you can evade; death you cannot."
I am loving this, Elfie my dear! This is really, really good. I doubt I will win, going up against this stuff. But that's really okay, because it's as much a joy to read your work as it is to write my own!
~Def.
"A dedicated follower of nothing." -- graffitit artist in Brick Lane, London, England.
Right across the lane from the demon and just down the wall from Wolverine.
RIP Kurt Wagner. You were the character who brought in me into comics, who introduced me and inspired me. Now your death has sent me away again. Wherever you are in the Marvel Universe, I hope its someplace pleasant.
The sleeper roused himself, stumbled to the luxurious bathroom of his suite, and splashed some water on his face, not bothering to look in the mirror, for he knew that under his dull golden eyes perched sunken royal blue semi-circles deeper than the rest of the indigo fur. With the slowness of a man carrying a large rock on his back, Kurt Wagner returned to his bed, punched the pillow a few times, used his tail to pull the sheet over his shoulders, and fell into the abyss of sleep.
The dreams continued to plumb the details of his past missteps. Further and further back his memories plunged, spooling out as a lure cast into water passes into deeper and murkier depths. Always the nightmare returned to the bizarre events preceeding his rescue.
After the crude meal, his thoughts had wandered to the days when he tried to break free of the worst career choice. Part of his psyche knew he was not ready to reflect on the heinous dealings that played out following the brief respite in the cantina. Recalling the ordeal of sundering his criminal connections, before the joint venture with Jimaine, was preferable to slipping into the unvarnished terror and panic of the close call with evil which had led to the offer of shelter in this mansion.
"Hurry up, Smudge, no time for your primping," Tiny grumbled.
Kurt smiled at the massive mercenary and wondered why, no matter the setting, one always found a gargantuan man named "Tiny" or "Shorty" or "Stumpy." Tiny enjoyed making other people hurt, but to his team mates he offered an available shelter from retribution. A loose brand of loyalty was a necessity when one worked in the shady side of humanity. None of the group – Passmaster, Tiny, Smudge, or Donny – trusted another human being, not really, not deep down. But alliances were made, and the best squads, the ones whose members survived more often than not, held each other close in what passed for respect in their state of life.
At the time when Nightcrawler resolved to make a fresh start, PassMaster had gone out alone to locate the most vulnerable point in an upcoming political procession. The rugged former athletic star never told his associates any specifics about his previous career; they guessed from the few small slips in conversation that it had perished through drugs, temper, or a combination of such weaknesses. Donny, so named because he favored poisoning with belladonna, joined Tiny and Smudge on their way to eat. A few years of proven confidence allowed them to snatch a bite without feeling squeamish in Donny's company.
Kurt, hands in the pockets of his black denim trousers, said, "I want to stop off in a church first." Pretending to misunderstand the glares of the two companions, he explained, "It's on our way, and will not take but a few minutes. Give you fellows a chance to rest somewhere safe and comfortable."
Landing an assignment in the shadow of the monastery had made him loathe to continue his current lifestyle. In the shadows of its massive stone walls he had passed so many pleasant months in younger days, even under stressful circumstances. None of the crew mentioned the change in their mutant companion, but he felt their observation at certain times, caught them discussing him when his stealthy entrance to their apartment caught them unawares.
Tiny and Donny started a card game in one of the side pews. Smudge removed his sword, stashed it under the back pew, and entered the confessional through the door marked "Screen". Mortification coursed through him as he avoided "Face To Face."
On a kneeler whose threadbare pad must be older than himself, he waited for the priest to pull aside the panel on the interior side, leaving Kurt to speak to a silhouette framed in the mesh square.
"Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been 3 years since my last confession." He fumbled for a moment, hands twisting around each other. "Ahem, I am a Soldier of fortune, and … have done shameful things in my chosen career."
"You mean Mercenary, don't you, son? The Lord demands honesty if we are truly contrite, so start over and describe how you have spurned the laws of God's while chasing monetary gain."
"I have frightened people, innocent people, made them think they were visited by demons. I have stolen and lied and cheated and lusted and betrayed confidences." Tears ran like thermal springs, coursing down the fine-furred cheeks and dripping onto his thighs as he sagged to his haunches. "Father, please, I cannot continue like this, but if I leave, it would mean a life of hiding." He choked on the unfairness of the lot given him. "I cannot easily blend in a crowd. Always having to look over my shoulder, that would be no way to live."
"Haven't you described an existence full of misery in your current condition? Are the few brief pleasures you will gain in this life worth losing your very soul?"
"No, Father, but ... I do not wish to die just yet. I haven't even found out why Gott put me here. I have chased so many dreams, and they all ended in blind alleys. In darkness." He did not tell of the times, in many strange cities, where he had crept in via belltower or open window, to cling to the shadows in the ceiling and watch the Mass. Only to watch, never to answer the yearning internal call and receive the Savior's mystical embrace. Sometimes the words of the ritual spilled forth in a whisper, the longing to feel part of the community, to be part of the Body, undeniable. No one heard. Perhaps not even God.
Urgency colored the words of the invisible priest. "You know about the Seal of Confession."
"Yes, Father."
"And surely you knew that I would recognize your voice, if not your predicament."
[Edited on 12/9/09 by Elfdame]
"Humanity is a parade of fools, and I am at the front of it, twirling a baton." From Chapter 9 of _Brother Odd_ by Dean Koontz / from Chapter 10: "Life you can evade; death you cannot."
Kurt was silent. How should he answer such knowledge? Lie to the one who dispensed the grace of his Redeemer?
Compassion seeped through as the voice spoke behind the screen, "Seek sanctuary here as you have done before."
"Father, these men, they will not respect that idea. If you try to hide me, you will pull danger upon your own head. I cannot have that." He rose to go.
"We have not finished. If you leave now, I cannot give you absolution."
"But if I do not leave, I will place you in jeopardy. This is not how I wish to repay your kindness."
"Then why did you send that child to me?"
Kurt slumped with the realization of his deceit in using the tiny messenger to ask the priest to wait for a penitent for whom secrecy was vital. "I am sorry ... I thought only of my own safety."
"Are your friends stealing our chalices, perhaps breaking into the poor box?"
Friends. If only that were true. "No! Not at all. I needed forgiveness, but ... the cost is too high."
"Is it so hard to find a new profession?"
"The cost of your life, Father. The safety of the brothers." He sighed. "My own life is of little value, it seems."
"Look at the corpus on the crucifix in front of you, Son. Is that life, given for your redemption, of little value?"
Kurt tried to respond, but his throat squeezed shut from shame. In a few moments, he said, "I did not think this matter through. It is clear to me now that I cannot endanger you or the good brothers by hiding in the monastery. But please, Father, please, I will give up this way of life. I will amend my ways and run away where there will be no temptation to do such harm to people."
The rite continued, and at the end he crossed himself with grateful fervor and soaring relief.
Kurt's smile plummeted as he approached his stony-faced companions.
"Smudge," Tiny said, picking his nails with a well-honed knife, "you shouldn'ta spilled your guts to the priest. Now I hafta spill yours, and his too."
"No, my friend, I didn't tell him anything specific, only my sins."
Donny tossed his last card onto the pew and cocked his head toward the blue man. "What kinda stuff counts for sin nowadays?"
Kurt shifted on his feet, embarassed at the close inspection. "The usual things that people do."
"Such as?"
He reminded himself that his sins were removed as far as east from west. Nonetheless, he bent to retrieve his sword, hoping his words would be muffled. "I have lied, stolen, killed—"
"You ain't never killed nobody, Smudgepot, I know it for a fact," Tiny said with a chortle, still letting the knife flash.
The mutant froze, fingers wrapped around the sheath. He swallowed hard and said, almost to himself, "Not for money. Not a stranger."
Silence curled around the threesome like nerve gas.
"You are in no danger from me. It was an accident," he said, voice quavering. He cleared his throat and continued, "But I have committed all these other terrible sins, and for what? For nothing."
"For a lotta cash," Tiny grunted. Passmaster clomped in through the large oak front doors and quoted, "For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?"
The three stared. Tiny said, "Where'dja learn that? You watch TV preachers back home in the States?"
Passmaster shrugged his well-defined shoulders. "My granny taught me some Bible learnin', but I ain't noticed too many Christians trying to live what they all flap their gums about on Sunday. So I settled for sports as my goal. That didn't turn out too well, but this game suits me fine. No pressure, and time to enjoy myself when the job's done."
"But mein Freund, what will happen your last day on earth? How will you answer the Great Judge?"
"I'll go to my grave happier than them suckers who lived for the pie in the sky. Do without all their lives, or do and then regret it, and we all die just the same. I plan on enjoying my stay here."
Donny wiggled his hands in the air. "Enough of this religion stuff. The point is, Smudge squealed us out and now there's gotta be payback." He rose, pulling a gun from an inner pocket of his coat. "I'll take the priest, you guys deal with Smudge here. Nothin' personal, of course."
Kurt pulled his sword, but it would not budge. Tiny's grin told him everything he needed; a favorite tactic of the behemoth's was to superglue doors shut to prevent his victim's escape. With the ease born of a lifetime's practice, the former acrobat hopped to the wall and scrambled across the vaulted arch, hoping to distract the trio in a chase, giving him time to think of how to save the good Father.
No luck; Donny was headed toward the confessional.
[Edited on 15/9/09 by Elfdame]
"Humanity is a parade of fools, and I am at the front of it, twirling a baton." From Chapter 9 of _Brother Odd_ by Dean Koontz / from Chapter 10: "Life you can evade; death you cannot."
Kurt teleported onto the ceiling of the middle unit for fear of materializing inside the clergyman. "Father! Give me your hands!" The priest raised his arms and – BAMF! – they were soon in the basement of the parish hall annex. Many times had Kurt given out food to the hungry during his time in hiding. It would only be safe for a while, but perhaps that was all he needed.
"Father, I must find a way to secure your safety – and that of the others."
"God will protect us."
Kurt wanted to believe that, but he had seen too many things in his young life to trust only to divine aid. His team members were far more ruthless than he, and they would not consider the immorality of slitting anyone's throat, much less that of an innocent priest. "I am sure He would want me to do a good deed and spare Him the trouble of protecting you," he said , forcing a smile.
The priest sat on a wooden folding chair and pulled the rosary from the belt of his robes, but paused before beginning his prayers. Instead of a loop, it hung in two uneven strands.
"Ach, Father, I am sorry! I broke your rosary!"
"Such a small thing, it's not worth worrying about. As in all human endeavors, a circle is only as strong as its weakest link, and it got hung up on the garden gate several times last week."
An idea swooped into Kurt's consciousness. Yes, he thought, that might be the answer. "Father, please, stay here and do not leave. Secure the door behind me and check that all the windows are locked."
Father Ludger aimed at him the stern look he often gave to wayward novices. "You aren't going to break a commandment so soon after receiving absolution? I would hate to think you had such a flimsy purpose of amendment."
"No, I promise, no one will be harmed." Not permanently, he added to himself. He rummaged around in the storeroom until satisfied with a makeshift weapon.
Nightcrawler held true to his name, climbing from the roof of the annex to the church and entering via the bell tower. From his wanderings on the large panels in the vaulted ceiling, he snuck around until the others were directly below. Movements masked by the obscurity of shadows, he somersaulted to lessen the impact of landing. Dropping behind Donny, he grabbed the poisoner before any of the trio could fire a shot, then BAMF! spirited him away to the bell tower.
Donny tugged at the strings of the sack pulled over his head and tied around his neck, but Kurt's large hand wrapped with savage strength around the diminutive villain's wrists. "If you plan to yell for the others," he hissed into the trembling fellow's ear, "I suggest you choose your last words carefully." Seeing that there was still a bit of fight in the other, he teleported to several different points until Donny wobbled from the disorienting effects. He bent his captive backwards over the waist-high wall. "The sound you hear is the wind ready to sweep you away if you struggle against me. And this," his tail tapped the muzzle of the purloined gun at the part of the mask where Donny's temple would be, "is of no use to you now." Strange noises emanated from the poisoner's throat, the gurgling sounds of breath strangled by fear.
Kurt pulled him upright, then shoved him onto the floor. A bit of rope hidden in the belt loop of his trousers served to bind the captive's hands; one prehensile foot was sufficient to press Donny's knees against the cold concrete. "Is this how you wish to die?" He had always thought that poisoning was a coward's way, and now the proof lay quivering before him.
"No, Smudge – I wasn't gonna hurt nobody. It was all an act."
Kurt's voice was harsh as the wind. "This is no act, be certain of that! What will you give for your freedom?"
"Anything you want. Name it. I got money the others don't know about, I can show you some women who'll have ya worn out in a weekend. Whatever you need, Smudge, I'm your man."
"My needs are much simpler that that. You and the other partners will pledge never to harm the monks here. Not now, not in the future." His hollow laugh punctuated the statements. "Impossible as it may be for you to believe, Father Ludger will not reveal the secrets I told. But my trust is not as firm where you are concerned." Nightcrawler's foot twisted, locking Donny's knees, as the gun again stroked the sack covering his head. " I know many secrets of you three, because I have been listening when you did not know I was there. Remember how easily I overcame you now. If anything suspicious happens to these god-fearing men, no matter how far in the future, you shall be repaid in a most unpleasant manner, and more quickly than would seem possible."
"You're bluffing," Donny said, but his voice had no more strength than a toy trumpet.
"Anastasia. Mercury."
"I – I – I don't know what you're talking about."
"Taylor's Tontine."
The supine mercenary stiffened. Kurt's smile gleamed like an electric eel. "I can tell the authorities what I know, and I can show them proof. And Passmaster and Tiny will be very interested to know about the settlement in that affair."
"Whatever you want. I'll protect the monks myself. The others, they'll listen to reason," came the hoarse reply.
Got him on the ropes. "Pray that you will be convincing. Or it will be the last mistake you make."
Kurt ported them into the crypt below the church, then took off the man's makeshift mask. "I will leave your hands tied up for now, less trouble for me. Lie face down on the floor between the bones of the good brothers and await my return." In a few moments the three teammates, all disarmed in Kurt's surprise hostage-taking, were assembled in the musty chamber, nauseated by the teleportation and the nearness of so many skeletons.
He waited until certain the pledges extracted were going to be kept, then left the trio to find their way back to the world of the living.
"Father Ludger?" His eyes swept the room where he had left the priest.
"In here," the monk replied, coming to the threshold of a door, wiping his hands on the inside of his scapular. "As long as I was confined, I thought it a prudent use of time to mix up some cookies."
"Our lives in danger and you make cookies?"
Father smiled. "Ora et labora, work and pray, remember?"
Kurt responded with a grin of his own. How long it had been since he had felt such peace, such companionship!
"You know, Kurt, you are always welcome to return here, as a lay brother if need be."
His mood underwent a swift dive as reality set in. "My place is not here. There are many who still think I am dangerous." He crossed the space between them and held out his hand. "But your offer gives such warmth to my heart. I am grateful indeed."
The older man ignored the extended hand and wrapped Kurt in a hug, patting his shoulders before turning loose. "I will miss you ... again. If your journeys bring you to Winzeldorf in the future, you must visit us. Promise me this."
"I will return, you have my word." He knelt, steepled his knobby fingers, and bowed his dark head. "May I have your blessing before I leave?"
The priest placed his left hand on the waves of blue-black hair, "May the Lord bless and keep you, may He make his face shine upon you, may He smile upon you and give you peace." His right hand traced the Sign of the Cross in the air. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."
"Amen," Kurt responded. He could not bear to look at his friend again, and so teleported as far as his fatigue allowed. He took a room in a shabby hotel, curled on the bed, and wondered where his life would take him now that he had burned his bridges. Where could one such as he find a niche? The empty room had no answers, and despite his renewed relationship with God, he felt unworthy to ask for guidance. Although the cleansing of his conscience was a comfort, the future seemed dark. He tossed and turned, feeling lost in a world with despair as his only companion.
* * *
The memories of his mercenary days still haunted him. On the wooden chair in the grubby cantina, he shook his head to dispel the cobwebs; the stuffy room was making his mind as murky as his surroundings. He sat and swilled his beer alone, and it was not refreshing at all, but acrid. Fallout from the day's misunderstandings with Floyd and then Jimaine was taking its toll: his body was tingling with tension as sweat started to stream from his pores. The place took on a heavy feel. It even seemed dark: was something amiss with his eyes? He closed them ... and opened them to see a high ceiling, and far too close above him, dangled a shining, sharp-edged dagger.
* * * Author's note: The words Kurt used to unravel Donny don't actually refer to any part of the story. Unless of course I decide to write a spin-off someday and figure out exactly what that evil little Donny did ...
[Edited on 16/9/09 by Elfdame]
"Humanity is a parade of fools, and I am at the front of it, twirling a baton." From Chapter 9 of _Brother Odd_ by Dean Koontz / from Chapter 10: "Life you can evade; death you cannot."
Ooooh, this is GOOD. Yup, that's it for me =D but thats ok, your story is REALLY good, I'm waiting for the next installment but I'm a little confused. Who's mercenary days are you mentioning?
Kurt's mercenary days. When he went by "Smudge." My story takes bits and pieces from comic canon and various animated series, but the cruise ship and soldier of fortune parts are all my own invention.
I was afraid I might be nesting too many flashbacks-within-flashbacks ... in the very very beginning of the whole story, he's sleeping and having nightmares, remembering his recent past (right before the next scenes to come ... if I have time *blush*). Those start with him wandering around after messing things up with his boss (Floyd) and foster sister (Jimaine). But while he was chilling out in the tavern, he reflected back even further to the mercenary days. Next (Lord willing) he'll be waking up and then flashing way back to some time spent with the monks before all the other stuff, interspersed with the events which brought him to the relative safety of Xavier's.
Which, since I needed to take a whole paragraph to explain it, means I didn't do a very skillful job of integrating my flashbacks. But I'm glad I tried; no guts, no glory. Writing is a learning process, and maybe if I keep utilising this method I'll learn how to do it well some day.
Thanks for all the responses and encouragement!
"Humanity is a parade of fools, and I am at the front of it, twirling a baton." From Chapter 9 of _Brother Odd_ by Dean Koontz / from Chapter 10: "Life you can evade; death you cannot."
No more willing to follow the dark paths of restless dreams, Kurt sat tailor fashion on the king-sized bed, barely making an indentation in the memory-foam mattress. Loneliness stalked and cornered him, for though fellow mutants inhabited the rooms around him, they would all be asleep at this hour.
Alone, always alone.
Abandoned by his birth mother, despised and evicted by his foster mother, his thoughts turned with overflowing affection to one mother, whose love remained pure and sure. His large fingers reached for a rosary which hung on the bedpost. For a time he did not begin to pray, but stroked the oversized wooden beads, handmade by Brother Robert of the monastery in Winzeldorf, pausing at the decade beads of lustrous stones, shaped like tear drops.
"She never sinned, yet her life was full of uncertainty, tragedy, misunderstanding," Brother Robert had said, shaking his shaggy auburn hair. "This is why we can cling to her with such assurance. She understands, and will never turn away from embracing the lost."
Kurt thought of the reason he had sought sanctuary with the monks: like Cain, he had killed his brother. A murderer, and only 17 years old. "Why would she care for a son such as I am? How could I deserve her love?"
Considering his unworthiness, Kurt's mind meandered; the memory of a terrifying time, now only a few nights past, impinged on his more calming recollections. It was still so raw in his consciousness that he almost relived the scene.
* * *
The chains at his neck barely allowed for a view of the rough marble table on which he lay. It featured a shallow trough around the edges, stained brown and reeking of carnage. He HAD to get out of here. But his body wouldn't respond to his wishes. They must have put something in his beer or the meal; he had dozed off and ended up in this hell. No telling where he was or how far to freedom, or even where it would be safe to teleport. No idea how long he'd been in the drugged slumber; they might be in another country for all he could guess.
A wizened hand stroked his arms one by one, fingernails scraping across his fur and leaving an odd numbness in their wake.
A woman, dressed in fluttering clothes of various vivid colors, spun around the room in a frenzied dance. "The demon god!" she wailed. "We offer him to you, oh mighty warrior-king of the invisible realm!"
"Great. A demon and a god. And none of it does me a bit of good," he thought. "If this is what I was born to become, what a shame and a waste of time my life has been!"
* * *
With effort he pulled himself back to the present, clutching the rosary like a lifeline. The words of the monk who had fashioned the prayer beads came back to him, a comfort causing the clammy sense of fear to recede.
"If love were a matter of deserving," Brother Robert had chuckled, "none of us would dare approach the blessed mother whom we have sorely disappointed, much less our good Lord." He patted the young mutant on the shoulder; his hand rested there for the remainder of the conversation, its friendly warmth giving credence to the kind words. "She knows our weaknesses, and even more knows how her Son longs to forgive. Her embrace is for all because He died for all. Saint, sinner, mutant, sapiens – He sees no distinction. Do you not remember the scripture 'for I am a worm, not a man'?"
Kurt nodded, ashamed to look directly his mentor. "Ja. The suffering Servant."
"The world viewed Him as one despised and rejected." A heartfelt insistence changed the monk's voice to a strong whisper. "Everyone knows what it is to be cast off, to be considered a failure. But only the wise take the leap of faith into the arms of One Who knows how to rise again from such desperate straits."
Desperate – how well that described his near plunge to death. It washed before his mind's eye, vivid as a 3-D movie ...
* * *
As the symphony of crushing panic reached a crashing crescendo, he heard a voice inside his mind. "Kurt Wagner. We are coming to get you."
Head swirling from the drugs, all limbs tense from frantic straining, heart bellowing from adrenaline, he marshaled a last-ditch effort at life. Even a blind port, possibly into a wall or fireplace, was preferable to succumbing to this torture.
Taking the leap of faith into unknown darkness had indeed given him a new chance at life, an escape from those who would have murdered him. It was, in a way, similar to the discussion he'd had when the prayer beads were given to him.
In response to Brother Robert's call to trust the Savior, he had trembled as self-loathing and hope wrestled inside. Finally he asked, "If there is no place for me on earth, why should I expect any welcome in Heaven?"
Again Robert patted his shoulder. "He Himself had no place to lay his head, eh? Rejection is a part of this world. But in the next – we will all be family. All will be love."
"That is hard to imagine."
* * *
But, he mused from the safety of his new home at the Institute, it was hard to imagine his miraculous escape from the altar of human sacrifice. Yet he had done the impossible and regained his freedom. Such a shame that it did not last. At the time, he had really thought he'd beaten the odds.
* * *
Kurt closed his eyes, marshaled the thoughts in his dizzy head, and in a wild frenzy of fear felt himself fade for a fraction of a second to wherever that Other Place was, then found himself flying. Out in open space, whizzing through the air as he used to do in his aerialist act. Perhaps it had only been a nightmare after all. The wind stroked his temples, soothed his aching chest –
--and he plummeted, like a pigeon shot from the sky.
"At least I landed in clear space," he spluttered to himself as the waters of the bay grasped his sluggish limbs and dragged him down.
* * *
In the present day, Kurt sighed and tugged his concentration back to continue his reflections on the kindness shown him by the monk years ago.
Robert dug in the copious pocket of his robe and placed a rosary in Kurt's distinctive hand. "Let the mother of our Lord show you the way. Meditate on how much God did for this insignificant girl, and see how his love can extend even to you." He spoke almost directly into the pointed ear. "Even to you, Kurt Wagner." The monk straightened, and said, "Those of low accord are blessed beyond measure in the reckoning of God. Do not ever forget that."
The Incredible Nightcrawler, creation of God, crossed himself with the rosary's crucifix; he kissed it tenderly and began to recite the Apostles' Creed. Perhaps peace would find him at last. By the middle of the second sorrowful mystery – in which Jesus is tied to a pillar and whipped within an inch of his life – he had slumped against the pillows, dead asleep.
As his body thrashed against the clean sheets, his dreams returned to the agonizing moments when he tried to make his uncooperative body swim to the beach. The surf opposed him, and the poison they'd used certainly did not help matters any. He wondered, if the waters claimed him now, would anyone notice him missing? Or mourn? Or, celebrate his demise?
A flare of common sense shot through the misty clouds of his mind. Float. Yes, if he could relax enough to let the waves carry him but remain alert enough not to sink, he had a chance to cheat this fate which seemed intent on seeing him dead.
For a while, it was pleasant to float along, praying and watching the constellations, until the tip of his tail dragged against the sandy bottom. Soon he scrambled up on the shore and lay for a while panting, salt water stinging the scrapes on his arms and streaming from his hair to blind him with a constant need to blink. But he was alive! And, for the moment, free. At least he blended in with the darkness; perhaps no one would find him until the drugs wore off. And he had always been a quick healer; Mutti had alwyas chalked it up to whatever caused his special traits, a likely enough explanation.
Even so, his strength was sapped. He mustered himself, got on hands and knees, rested a bit, then pushed up to his customary crouch and began his stealthy walk into the alleys of the port of call. His limbs were still slow to obey, and he had no idea where he might seek shelter, but he would not give up and lie down to die from exposure or perhaps thugs who might roam the city to prey on rich vacationers.
The sights of the city were clearer to his eyes now: rough-walled buildings linked by wires like an overturned plate of spaghetti, roofs made of so many different surfaces. What fun it would be to explore it, if the situation were not so dire. Gritty streets crunched underfoot. Incredible Nightcrawler or not, he needed to rest.
Although this part of town seemed deserted at the late hour, the susurration of voices erupted from time to time, stopping when he paused to listen. Surely that was not a coincidence. He hurried along the dark corridor, wondering what section of town would be most likely to provide a hiding place. Wounds needed tending, and hunger began to assert its presence. Could he jaunt to the liner? No, it would be too far, even if he could find someone on board who was not angry with or afraid of him.
Counting on the fact that most people searching for an escaped sacrificial victim would look on street level, he clambered up a wall and hid between a couple of dormer windows. A shriek shattered the night as one of the cult members dropped from above. Must have been hiding on the far side, Kurt thought, cursing himself for the carelessness. Before he could wriggle from underneath the heavy body pinning him down, another stranger smeared some kind of goo on him. Kurt shoved the interloper off and tried to rise to his feet. A queasy feeling enveloped the acrobat, whose normally acute sense of balance suddenly fled; his limbs became limp as wash newly hung on the line and, trembling, he collapsed back and tumbled down and off the roof to the grungy pavement, paralyzed. His heart beat wildly, but he could no more push himself up than a newborn baby. Even his tail lay strangely limp, not a twitch in response to his desperate mental commands.
"You lie quiet and nice. Small curse hold devil long enough I think," said the stranger, who then spoke rapid-fire in a tongue which Kurt had never heard in his travels through many countries and cultures.
Three beefy men appeared, casting fearful glances at him despite his infirmity. The leader laid a sheet over him. Three sets of large hands grabbed parts of his useless body and, with a combination of grunts and curses, they lugged him up and down a maze of dark streets.
He strained to see his environs lit by the moonlight, or even the glow of a lamp, but under the pall, all was muzzy. Finally he made out what must have been a roof with a cooking fire on top; he concentrated on that spot and prepared to disappear.
Nothing.
Whatever the poison, or curse, or unknown technology – it nullified his special gifts as well as simple muscular control.
Gott in Himmel, save me! I am helpless, and nobody knows where I am. Jimaine will be too angry to search for me before it is too late. I have no one on earth to come to my rescue. Send me a miracle, You Who guarded me from my youth and showed me your love despite the cruelty of the men You have created. Do not forsake me; I cast myself upon your care.
A quietness seeped into his panicked mind, and he breathed normally, still unable to make the slightest move for his own salvation. But all would be well. Live or die, he would be carried in the arms of his Savior, even as these voodoo believers carried him to an unknown but certainly unpleasant appointment.
"Danke, mein lieber Gott," he whispered. The man who had disabled him heard the faint aspiration and cuffed him on the temple.
"You talk no to your silly god, Demon. Our powerful king soon take you as offering." The voice, bobbing as they traversed the path to the place of sacrifice, came close to him, fetid breath uninhibited by the sheet. "Much blood make our spirit happy. The High One say we have pros-per-i-ty then. You good luck for us, Demon."
Kurt let a soft sigh slip. Things never changed, no matter the continent. Would he never have a time in his life where people did not assume him to be evil simply because of his external appearance? No matter. Win or lose, live or die, he would be in the embrace of Jesus. Unable to fight for himself, he set about making a very, very thorough examination of conscience, trusting to Gott for forgiveness since it seemed destined that he should die without making a formal Confession.
* * *
Kurt awoke, heart spasming in fear at the memory of what had happened next. He rubbed his face, willing the dream to go away. It was in the past. He was making a fresh start, here in America at the lovely Institute For A Better Tomorrow. But the bile in his throat symbolized the acidic taste of the experience which yet clung internally.
He started to pray again, but the exhaustion of his last ordeal pulled him down, and once more the events played themselves out in his mind's eye.
* * *
The blue "demon" squirmed and squealed as they chained him again to the marble, unable to disappear as he normally did in times of trouble, muddled as to what was a dream and what was reality ... someone was calling his name ... Herr Wagner? Can you hear me? Someone with a foreign voice, a cultured tone, but ... American perhaps? Yet the chanting around him was in Latin ... not the familiar and lofty Latin of the Church, but a language full of demons, and bloodlust.
The High One took a silk cloth in his hand, and tugged at a crucifix on a chain which, through all the ordeal, somehow had not come undone. Brown teeth exposed in a malicious smile, bloodshot eyes bulging, he taunted the helpless mutant. "See this? Your religion celebrates sacrifice and bloodshed, devil-man. We offer sacrifice too -- you! One born amiss, claiming to be innocent, yet marked before birth for destruction." He wrapped the golden symbol in the cloth and dropped it in a large iron brazier. As the chanting and dancing reached fevered heights, light from the flower-shaped fire pit flickered across the whirling faces, disorienting the victim even further.
The knife hung on its cord above the altar, glinting in an almost mesmerizing manner. Kurt found it difficult to breathe, as if the heavy smoke and the malicious desires wound themselves into a cord about his lungs. The man in crimson and black robes grabbed the dagger, and roared the hate-filled words as he traced arcs across the blue-furred figure, the metal causing a cascade of gooseflesh wherever it slid.
Kurt's breath came like fire in a breeze: harsh and thin and then disappearing, so dry he couldn't swallow. How to get out? The knife made small pricks at each bottom point of his jaw; the High One used that blood to traced a line across the mutant's throat.
Herr Wagner, Kurt, help is on the way. Can you hear me? Perhaps it was his guardian angel ... Ja, I am here. He hoped the angels could hear his unspoken words. Please help me .. I cannot escape and they plan to slice me open!
"Humanity is a parade of fools, and I am at the front of it, twirling a baton." From Chapter 9 of _Brother Odd_ by Dean Koontz / from Chapter 10: "Life you can evade; death you cannot."
Without warning, the ceiling burst into a volley of fragments as some type of man-sized projectile entered the chamber. "Yee-hah!" It yelled, swooping directly over the interrupted sacrifice to deposit another human-looking thing on the floor by the High One. "Git-r-done!" was the battle cry that bounced in dull echoes through the chaos as it caromed in expanding angles over the assembled worshippers, tossing stink bombs extracted from its pockets.
The intruder's passenger looked like a human version of the robot Gort from the 50's sci-fi flick, "The Day The Earth Stood Still." It wore a shiny blue suit which reminded Kurt of a diving outfit with boots instead of flippers.
The High One raised his arms and called down curses upon the newcomers. Lightning flashed from his fingertips, and he began to levitate. In response, the Gort-thing took a step backwards and balled his fist, then pitched forward to deck the mighty leader. After the sickening sound of a head hitting the floor, before the robes had stopped billowing, the aggressor approached the helpless victim.
All he could think of to say in his mental haze was, "Klaatu barada nikto."
The man in the skintight suit said, "Hold still, Herr Wagner." The captive watched in horrified fascination as thin red laser beams ripped from the creature's eyes. But his limbs were not pierced by the lasers, or whatever contrivance the humanoid controlled in that odd helmet; instead, the chains securing his wrists to the altar disintegrated.
He was free?
Not exactly. As the garnet-colored gaze broke the remaining chains, the flying hayseed scooped Nightcrawler up, turned him around until they faced the same way, and hugged him around the chest, saying, "Hang on fella, it might be a rough ride." Perhaps they were from a warring cult, or some mad scientist group, but they obviously intended to abduct him from his current abductors.
They cleared the ceiling of the squat building, the sudden rise further confusing his perceptions. He was flying through the air, and again the sensation of being back on the trapeze enveloped him. He tossed his arms wide, heedless of the agony, and looked around for something to grab.
They were zooming through the night sky; to poison-muddled eyes, the town seemed a tiny Lego city below them. His tail was tugged by the momentum of their swift flight, pressed hard against the Southerner's legs. How embarrassing. On the bright side, the fresh air was an improvement on the room filled with the smoke of their incense, firepots, and black candles, and the pervasive stench of death. Although fur was not sufficient to ward against the chill, the constant blast of cool air was lessening his delirium, another thing for which he could be thankful.
"I'm Cannonball," his travel companion shouted into his ear, "sorry we didn't rightly have time fer no proper introductions back there."
The cold and the stimulation caused the weary passenger to stutter a semi-coherent response. "Y-y-your s-space man, he kn-new my name?" At least his English hadn't deserted him amidst the unexpected events.
"Sure's shootin', Kurt. Professor X was s'posed ta zap a head message that we were comin' to get ya."
Ah. That would explain it. "Things were a bit confusing in that place," was the best he could manage, not even certain if his strained voice carried enough for the strong fellow to hear. Curiosity consumed him, but the cumulative effect of the day's many stressors caught up with Kurt, and in the middle of this amazing flight, he passed out.
When he awoke, lying between clean sheets in a well-furnished room, surrounded by a bald man in a wheelchair, a tall young man in overalls, a lady in black with flowing silver hair, and a large primate-looking fellow whose blue fur was shaggier than his own smooth pelt, Kurt thought he had exchanged one delirium-induced dream for another. Granted, this was far more pleasant, since the bald man wore a concerned expression and the black-caped woman's face bloomed in a welcoming smile as his eyes found hers.
"Herr Wagner, now that you have had a few hours' respite from your recent ill fortune, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Professor Charles Xavier, and I am interested in helping individuals with special talents."
"Mutants like us," a tall fellow with hair the color of corn silk put in, his boyish grin setting the German at ease. The voice seemed quite familiar.
"This is Sam Guthrie," the older man said, gesturing toward the Southern lad. "He participated in your rescue last night."
"Danke schoen, Herr Cannonball" Kurt said, his voice rasping like a knife on a strop.
The lovely lady bent toward him, helped him sit up, and turned toward a nightstand. "I am called Storm," she said, offering a cup of mint tea, "although my true name is Ororo." Her gracious smile melted any lingering fears.
The largest mutant stuck out a hand and gave a toothy grin. "As you might imagine, I am delighted nigh unto the point of euphoria to make the acquaintance of another mutant with sapphire pelage." Kurt shook his hand as the other blue man added, "Hank McCoy at your service, my fellow fur-enfolded friend. Alternatively appellated in X-man parlance as Beast."
Nightcrawler's head swam with all this talk, all these new people, new surroundings, and –
"Where am I? What do you want of me?" he asked. Better to cut to the chase and give himself plenty of time to adjust to the dismal truth.
"You are in America, at the Xavier Institute For A Better Tomorrow. I have endowed this campus as a place where people of all mutations may develop their talents. We also hope to reach out and influence the world around us in order to create a harmonious cooperation between sapiens and mutants."
Beast smiled again and said softly to Ororo, "Perhaps a more potent libation might be appreciated." He turned to their guest and asked, "Would you prefer an invigorating beer in place of that calming cup of tea?"
"Aren't you afraid it might interact with any residual poison in his system?" the Professor asked.
"There is no need, my new friends," Kurt said. Nonetheless, the offer of a good beer comforted him immeasurably, even though his last brew had been an instrument of deceitful men.
"It is our hope that you will indeed consider us your friends, perhaps even join the group who extracted you from the cult sacrifice, once you have had a chance to become familiar with our philosophy and methods."
Kurt fumbled for words. This was all so humiliating. These people thought he might fit in at their Institute, but he had no income, no way to contribute. "I – I am honored that you would consider one such as myself for a position at your Institute, but I have little formal education, you see. I was raised in the circus." He wrung his hands, conscious of the large knuckles, the broad fingernails. "I am an entertainer, an athlete perhaps, but not a hero."
"Shoot, we ain't heroes. Not by any stretch," Cannonball said.
"Your English is quite capable, and judging by these, you seem well read," the Professor said, gesturing to built-in shelves in which many books waited. His books. Dear Floyd, he must have sent them over. Such kindness despite the impetuous, rude behavior his star attraction had shown.
"We come from a variety of backgrounds as well," the beautiful Storm said. "Each career or culture has shaped our destinies to afford us with unique skills that we offer in service to humankind."
"We expend a prodigious amount of effort learning to meld our disparate habits and strategies into a feasible fighting force," added Beast. "Thus, any addition to our repertoire strengthens the team dynamic."
"Eh, ja," Kurt commented, weakness pulling at his concentration like quicksand. They departed shortly after, each one patting him on the hand or shoulder as if they'd been compatriots for years. He tumbled into sleep.
The next few days saw patches of dozing, stitched together with meals brought by various members of the ones calling themselves X-men, and then more sleep. Nightmares plagued his attempts at rest; at times he sat awake, reviewing the paths he had taken in life and wondering what horizons lay ahead.
One day Xavier wheeled himself into Kurt's room. Perched on the arm of a large chair, the young mutant felt severely underdressed in his khaki shorts and polo shirt, compared to the crisp business attire of the Professor.
"Herr Wagner-"
"Bitte, call me Kurt. Or even Nightcrawler, since your 'X-men' seem so fond of stage names," he grinned.
"Very well. Kurt, you hardly seem refreshed at this juncture, and I do beg your pardon for broaching such a disquieting subject so soon after your rescue. But circumstances force me to ask your help in a vital undertaking."
"In what way can I help you, Herr Professor?"
"Recently, some of our team members went on a mission into the Negative Zone." His eyebrows lifted, as if asking if the term meant anything to his visitor.
"I am not familiar with that. Is it a place, a state of mind, or perhaps a mountain of debt?"
"It is … difficult to describe. An alternate place of being is perhaps the closest I can come in layman's terms."
"Und these X-men of yours know how to get there."
"They went with Reed Richards. Have you heard of him?"
"The one they call Mister Fantastic, ja? He is famous the world over. A brilliant man, they say." A tiny wisp of concern coiled inside his belly. Why would these mutants be needed to assist the Fantastic Four? And what kind of part could he play in these otherworldly affairs?
"Before he left, Richards left an apparatus with me. After ten days, the device played a message stating that enough time had elapsed for the mission to be considered in jeopardy." He folded his hands and remained quiet for a few moments. "Other members of the X-men are engaged in various hot spots around the world. It would not be fair to call them from their necessary endeavors in order to send them in a search party."
"Ah." The reason for his presence came into focus. "I understand that you need people of, eh, 'special talents' to send. Und a teleporter might indeed be useful. But I am not trained for such operations." No need to mention the days with the shady covert crew.
"I understand completely. But as you have stated, your abilities could prove most necessary. Cyclops and Storm can alternate training sessions over the next few days if you are willing to accept this challenge."
Kurt Wagner sat still as stone save for the tail twitching behind him. Then he spoke, "I suppose I owe my life to you, and it would be fair to sacrifice it in thanksgiving for your generosity."
"You will not be alone. And the risk is minimal, despite the semblance of danger. Richards is a forward thinker and excellent planner. That is why he left a way to signal us so we might send reinforcements."
Kurt nodded. It did not matter. He had nowhere else to go. "I am willing to aid you, if you are willing to take a chance on my limited skills. If your X-men will have me, then consider me your latest recruit."
"Understand that I ask no commitment beyond this first mission. You are entirely free to leave after its completion."
"Danke, Herr Professor."
Xavier observed him, then turned to wheel toward the door, saying, "You are still tired. I'll inform Cyclops of your decision and send him in a few hours to conduct your first exercises. Good day, Kurt, and," he paused at the door, circling to face the blue mutant, "welcome to the X-men."
Later that day he worked hard for the grim-faced Cyclops. There was a certain exhilaration in stretching his abilities, and a quickly-cemented sense of camaraderie with these strangers. Lessons with the graceful Storm left him with lightning-singed fur and hail-battered pride, but also a feeling that new vistas were opening to him.
That night, he slept in peaceful repose. The sun awoke him, and he opened the windows of his second-floor suite. Fresh air surrounded him; he breathed it in and closed his eyes, grateful for yet another chance at a new beginning. He would work hard to prove himself a capable first responder, a worthy teammate, a loyal ally. Although most of the people he encountered here seemed to accept him, he was used to false fronts and superficial friendships. It did not matter; if no one here chose to truly befriend him, the saints and angels would be his companions.
Perhaps he would always carry shadows with him, and in this broken world, darkness was sure to hound his pathways. But the Light would also be inside him, able to outshine any evil which tried to extinguish it.
~ ~ ~ FIN ~ ~ ~
"Humanity is a parade of fools, and I am at the front of it, twirling a baton." From Chapter 9 of _Brother Odd_ by Dean Koontz / from Chapter 10: "Life you can evade; death you cannot."
I like it. I think I said that elsewhere. I like how your story begins at the end... so many good stories begin at the end on this site.
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I am loving this, Elfie my dear! This is really, really good. I doubt I will win, going up against this stuff. But that's really okay, because it's as much a joy to read your work as it is to write my own!
