The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

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John Doe
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by John Doe »

First of all, let me take a minute to tell you some semi-important things. Semi.

(I just noticed that the spacing is kind of messed up. I tried to fix it as best I could, but forgive any descrepancies [sp] and point them out.)

Obviously, I do not own the X-Men, though I sure wish I did.

Anyway, this story is set in X-Evo settings because I thought the nature of the plot would lend itself to the fragile, dependent nature of some teenagers, especially the ones residing in the Mansion.

Also, some events that may or may not transpire (they're in the works, but haven't actually been written) may seem like rip-offs of Rowena's "Unsung Hero" story, which is a brilliant work. Check it out. However, I actually did not rip this off from Rowena, I just posted it later (much later.) So please assume originality, because I have too much respect for myself and my comrades to steal their ideas, even if it is technically allowed.

I think there was more I wanted to say, but now all I can think of is the deliciousness of this chicken pot pie and Barq's Root Beer. So here's the story.

THE BLOODMETAL CANDIDATE

PROLOGUE

“I am sorry, my old friend of many years, but what you are asking me for cannot be done. You know very well my own life is chaotic enough by its lonesome, and it would simply prove impossible to manage two.”

“We fought together, before the accident that landed me in this wheelchair; we laughed together; we were friends, damnit, and all of that amounts to only dust in my hour of need?”

“Were being the operative word. As an act of chivalry towards a partner of friendships long-buried, I have actually taken the time to talk to you, however many miles away I may be. I’ve taken off the helmet that disables your mind from reaching me and I’ve speaking to you courteously for what may be the last time. This alone is a burden in my hand. Let it suffice and ask for nothing more of my tired mind than a solemn eulogy. If there is nothing more you’ve to say than this impossible request, then I suppose this little chat is over.”

“It is not merely this chat that is over, Erik, and I would expect that knowing such a thing would perhaps drain from you the last drops of remorse and compassion you possess, like a hand drains the last drops of water from a sponge. But it appears that you think little of what has come and gone in your life.”

“Please, Charles, do not insult me! Do not reduce me to a man without a soul or feelings, for I am neither of these things! Do you realize the magnitude of the task you are trying to set upon my shoulders? No man on earth can reach your expectations in this sort of a matter, let alone one such as myself! Please, do not leave me thinking I failed you, or worse still, forgot the past! Please!”

“Goodbye, Erik. Goodbye and good riddance.”


CHAPTER ONE

“Your friendship is a fog… that disappears when the wind re-directs!” Zack de la Rocha’s angry lyrics pierced the solitary silence that enveloped Evan’s room. He glanced in the relative direction of Rogue and Kitty’s shared room contemptuously before sliding the King of Clubs into his World History book and rising from his messy, filthy bed that was in dire need of a washing. Exiting his room, he knocked on the door of the adjacent room- the room from which such massive doses of noise emitted. If that girl lived in any state but New York, she'd be in cuffs by now... Evan mentally muttered.

The music paused, providing a momentary reprieve from the assaulting sounds of Rage Against the Machine. The door opened just wide enough for a makeup-enshrouded face to poke out. “Yes?” Rogue glared. She radiated exasperation; clearly she saw no reason to do homework when one can be losing their hearing in a whirlwind of sonic devastation.

“I think you should play your music louder, Rogue; it’s only fair that people in Anchorage should be treated to the same sounds as all us other Americans,” Evan sneered. Rogue looked away, mentally grasping for the comeback to a verbal ambush. Finding none, she simply muttered, “I hate you,” and slammed the door. Evan waited for a few moments to see if she’d turn her music back on. She didn’t. He grinned triumphantly and made a mental note to thank Scott Patterson, if ever they met, for teaching him such verbal agility.

He felt a pang of hunger whip through his skeleton and he jogged down the steps, two-at-a-time, to give his mouth a new coating of peanut butter. He walked into the kitchen, where a blue, fur-coated demonlike creature had apparently had the same idea, nearly shoveling the peanut butter into his mouth with an ice cream scoop, as though a normal spoon wouldn’t do.

“I’m gonna laugh so hard the day you finally succumb to diabetes, Kurt,” Evan chuckled, reaching into the fridge for something that hadn’t been injected with a generous helping of tiny blue hairs and saliva. He took out some cheese and salami, then reached into the pantry for marble rye bread.

“Fez the kid who’f gonna get a calfium overdofe fumday,” Kurt attempted to return the barb with a mouth full of peanut butter. “Ftupid peanut butter!”
Having made a quick sandwich, Evan reached into the fridge for a carton of milk, then headed up to his room to enjoy his snack while poring over the retelling of the fall of Napoleon Bonaparte. As he did, he passed by Professor X’s room just in time to hear shards of sickness and disease escape through the cracks in the door.

The sound of a man vomiting, expelling everything in his stomach from the past few days, is one incomparable to any other sound in existence. It radiates throughout an area, permeating the senses of any within earshot. Evan frowned, staring at the closed door. “Is the Professor sick? He’s never been sick as long as I’ve known him…this is weird,” Evan thought. Nevertheless, he continued on to his room to study, his attention split in two.

CHAPTER TWO

“Pass the potatoes, please,” Kitty asked of Jean, who stared at the potatoes until three of them rose into the air, crossed the table swiftly, and landed on Kitty’s plate.

“Three enough?” Jean smiled pleasantly. Kitty nodded and started eating them happily. “Say, Professor,” Jean began. Charles Xavier glanced up. He had been resting his head on his fist with his eyes closed, a pained grimace set upon his face. All of this had gone unnoticed by the others seated at the table. “Do you think you could make time tomorrow at around six for a little psychic training, one-on-one?”

Through the buzzing chatter of “pass the” and “how was your” at the table, the Professor’s answer somehow cut across the space to clearly resonate in Jean’s ear; whether due to its content or a conscious effort by the Professor, it was unclear. “I’m afraid not,” he said firmly. After uttering this phrase of rejection, though, he dove into a coughing fit, wheezing loudly enough to silence the table. Scott looked worried.

“Are you okay, sir? You don’t look well,” he allowed, cautiously. His mentor’s face was contorted into a divided mix of sickness, fear, and quiet, contained anger. Evan listened closely, remembering what he’d heard the night before.

“I… will be better as time passes, I’m sure. No need to worry. Continue your friendly banter, eat up, eat up. You’ll need your strength-” another two loud coughs which coated his receiving fist with a slick, glossy layer of mucus and spit- “for Logan predicted a tough training session tomorrow. Am I right in this foretelling, Logan?”

Logan picked up his subtle cue to take attention off of the Professor, even without a mental heads-up. He didn’t know what was going on, but he’d find out for himself later. No need to broadcast it to the others. “Sure are, Chuck. A heavy-duty physical fitness session- we’ll be working with weights and balance balls this time to test dual physical capacities- followed by power-free one-on-many combat, old-school style.”

“What, no nunchukas?” Kurt joked. The others laughed. Logan grinned despite his qualms.

“Nope, we’re mastering the basics first before moving onto weapons. Once we get there, though, I’m sure you’ll be plenty satisfied with the array of weapons we’re using. Katana blades, bos, nunchukas, the whole deal. But be ready, right when everyone’s home, to do some serious training.”

“Oh, lovely! So I can roll from grueling soccer practice right into boot camp!” Jean laughed, jesting.

In the midst of all of this chatter, Charles had rolled backward from the table and rolled away to his room, his wheelchair’s smooth motion silencing his departure, while the others looked at the other side of the table where Logan was.

He made his way to the stairs, blotches of pink and violent orange flashing in front of his eyes. He was lightheaded and yet all hell was erupting in his inner organs, a mixture of acid and food turned to magma begging exodus. As the stairs turned into a ramp with the push of a button on the side of the banister, he rolled to his room swallowing hard as he tried to repress the bacterial explosion at the back of his throat. In his room, he opened the door to his bathroom, massaging his temples while silently acknowledging the futility of such an exercise. He stared blankly at the commode, contempt for the inevitable event seething behind his eyes. He lurched forward as it began.


CHAPTER THREE

A hammer struck metal- iron-hard, red-painted metal- with its exact increment of force. Then it pulled back with lightning speed and did it again. And again. And again. And as this was happening, students piled up their books in Bayville High School.

“Finally! Last bell must have taken a late lunch or something!” Todd Tolensky muttered impatiently to Freddy Dukes as Freddy slammed their chairs atop the acidproof science tables. Jean and Evan were busily discussing the comparative influence of hip-hop or classic rock on modern music (not in such dignified terms, but it was something to that effect).

“Nuh-uh! Just look at Afrika Bumbataa with SonicSound and his influence on modern pop culture. Every third song on MTV is a rap song, Jean, admit it!” Evan squealed, pulling his skateboard out of his backpack and setting it down in the hallway.

“True, but for one thing, the other two are pop rock or R&B; and secondly, I hardly think MTV represents the finest of today’s music!” Jean laughed as Evan growled his frustration, both at not being able to win this debate and at the crowd of people barely moving as he attempted to skateboard out of school. The group was a bunch of men in suits with attaché cases and thick-lens glasses, muttering quietly about the formalities and technicalities of a proper human transaction between third-party representatives.

“Maybe not the finest, but certainly the most popular! And isn’t popular choice the definition of a generation, Jean? The 60’s weren’t called the ‘World War One chant’ era because nineteen old guys still sang them day in and day out; Jimi Hendrix was considered a rep for that era because he was the big thing in those days! Get what I mean?” Evan barked, but Jean was no longer listening. Her psychic abilities were on in the background at all times, but during a lull in Evan’s diatribe, she’d picked up a thought from one of the men in suits: “…if Lensherr would just tell Charles ‘yes’, we could get this matter closed up…”

“Does the Professor know anyone named ‘Lensherr’?” Jean queried of Evan, despite a growing doubt that he’d have any idea. Sure enough, he shook his head in absolute bewilderment and followed it up with a quizzical look.

“Should I?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’d you hear a name like that?”

“Uh, I’ll explain later… gotta go, see you for training…” she walked into the girls’ locker rooms with her duffel bag for soccer, leaving Evan free to wonder who Lensherr could possibly be.

The hour was five o’ clock. Evan stared glassily into space as police sirens and curse words filled the air from the TV speaker. Suddenly, a flash of sulfur and brimstone accompanied a sudden popping, sizzling sound as Kurt Wagner appeared in front of the screen. He extended a deformed digit outward to turn off the object of Evan’s distraction.

“Huh? Hey, Kurt, what gives?” he awoke from his semi-slumber groggily.

“Training. Want a lift down to the Danger Room?” Kurt took off his holowatch. He had already put on his battle suit. Evan was still clad in baggy jeans, Skechers, and a Cypress Hill T-shirt.

“Ah, shoot! I forgot all about training! I gotta go change, then I’ll take a lift, for sure!” Evan cried as he dashed up the stairs (four at a time, a new record in the house except for Kurt’s of all twenty-six, though that was slightly shady in its circumstances) to get his outfit on. Kurt teleported outside to wait for him.

Finally, he had his outfit on (mostly) and ran outside. He gripped Kurt’s arm tightly. Kurt closed his eyes and again left a cloud of sulfur and brimstone behind him as the only sign he’d ever been there. They reappeared in the Control Room/ Viewing Station, where Logan and Ororo were waiting for them.

“Where have you been?” Ororo cried out as she whirled around. The “bamf” of Kurt’s power’s activation clued her in to their arrival. “We’ve been waiting twenty minutes!”

“Hey, I was ready half that time ago! I would have been here only moderately late if not for this slacker, who was still watching TV!” Kurt threw his three-fingered hands up in a “don’t look at me” stance.

“Hey, squirrel,” Logan laughed, “you really expect us to think that you were ready before anyone? Just get in there and don’t be twenty minutes late next time.”

As they walked in, Evan burst out laughing and Kurt took up a face of complete indignance. “She thought it was me who was late? The one time somebody is actually later than I am, I get blamed for lateness?” Kurt griped, growling between breaths.

“Naw, man, not just the one time… you’re always late!” Evan sputtered out between periods of mocking laughter.

“Dude, I’m never teleporting you anywhere again when you’re late…” they walked into the metallic Danger Room and awaited Logan’s commands over the PA. Soon, they came, and the reception wasn’t the only thing cracking.

“Um, uh, kids, just…” Logan stumbled and stammered his way through the opening of his sentence. Looking up to the Control Room, the kids could see him standing, looking like he was about to leave. “Uh, light jogging ‘till I come back…” he then hurried out of the control room looking preoccupied. Ororo was already gone. Jean narrowed her eyes, trying to pick up a signal from Logan. She knew it wasn’t right and she knew she shouldn’t be misusing her powers like this, but this was strange behavior coming from Logan. She tried to channel her mind toward him and pick something up.

"Aw, man…what’s gone wrong this time…Oh, God…”

“What’re you getting, Jean?” Scott asked sternly, concern clear in his tone. His eyebrows were furrowed and the rest of the group stood behind him, awaiting a response.

“He’s not thinking clearly. He’s worried and stressed out to the extreme… he was thinking what could have gone wrong this time… what did he mean, this time? Nothing else seems to have been going wrong around here lately, has it?” Jean asked. Most of the group shook their heads and shrugged. Evan looked hard at the ground.

“Evan, do you know something? Has something been going on that we should know about?” Scott asked. His tone was resting somewhere between an interrogative demand-question and the kind of tone parents ask kids in that semi-serious way. “Evan?”

“I heard the Professor throwing up the other day. He must have been sick or something,” Evan murmured, his voice low, his eyes shifting from Scott’s to Jean’s to the unforgiving steel floor. “I figured it was just a minor thing like we all have sometimes.”

“Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to, like, train with you, Jean,” Kitty suggested, trying as they all were to be strong in the hour of chaos. “He was too sick.”

“So could this just be a continuation of his sickness?” Kurt asked, hopefully, meekly. “Maybe he’ll get over it soon?” His traitorous eyes broadcast the doubt his words were more than happy to shroud.

“If it were just that,” Jean began, then stopped. It was as though she was stuck between voicing her thoughts and her suspicions and trying to keep with them what little morale remained. “If it were just that, then why would they be so worried? Scott was a little sick last month and nobody came sweating, rushing to his aide. The Professor can handle sick spells, Kurt. It must be something else.”

“Then what?” said absolutely nobody.

“Then what?” thought the collective group.

CHAPTER FOUR

The students waited around the door of the infirmary impatiently, an impending feeling of doom settling on them like a cloud of unwelcome dust. Logan, Ororo, Hank, and the Professor were all within the doors enshrouded by fogged, semi-smoked windows.

“So, we still don’t know what happened to him…” Evan stated simply, as though wishing to say whatever struck him first. “Do we?” Jean still had her eyes squeezed tightly closed, concentrating as hard as she’d ever concentrated to mentally penetrate the minds of those inside. Logan’s thoughts did little good as his mind whipped spasmodically from one thing to the next impulsively, like a man stricken with ADHD. Ororo’s thoughts were prayers for the health of the Professor and another young girl who was never named. Who was this girl? It seemed slightly irrelevant. Hank was thinking in medical terms, identifying symptoms. That was somewhat helpful. He was considering multiple drugs whose names Jean scrawled hastily onto a notepad to look up later, so that they could discern the purpose of. And the Professor, suffering though he was, still found it within him to protect his mind from outside intrusion. Jean tried to use their thoughts to piece together their conversation, which seemed to be mainly Hank’s lecturing interrupted occasionally by Logan or Ororo murmuring “mm-hmm” or some other such meaningless phrase. It was clear their minds were elsewhere, even to Hank.

“Well, you say this is the third time he’s vomited this week? I would say it’s a fever had it been three times in two days, but it seems unlike a typical fever to persist for that long in a man of Charles’s condition- or, that is, his typical condition, before this started. Which reminds me, when did he start showing signs of illness?”The non-yes-or-no question shook Logan from his mind riot.

“He had a nasty cough about two months ago, but that was it. It died down and immediately sleep deprivation came to replace it. We tried a few pills, but nothing worked, and we chalked it up to his mutant gene somehow interfering. But at this point, we’ve got no idea what’s causing all these symptoms, nor whether they’re separate or part of the same illness. And you say you’ve got no better ideas, aye, Hank?”

“Right now, I’m ready to say they’re separate and that they were all just overly persistent- a call that agrees with my education and strongly clashes with my instinct and better judgement. I’m going to recommend that he skip dinner tonight, as well as any late-night snacks or beverages. If it’s food poisoning, he’ll probably be unable to keep much down.”

“What about tomorrow? He’ll be starving, then.”

“I guess I go by what my mother fed me in these instances. Saltine crackers and popsicles to eat, water and flat soda to drink. If he still expels it, I’m going to look into food poisoning treatment. I wish I could tell you something definitive, but right now it looks like we’re going to have to just wait this one out and improvise a little bit.”

“Ah, fine…if that’s all we can do, I s’pose it’s all we can do, right?”

“Right.”


Jean opened her eyes and immediately closed them again. She had seldom felt so exhausted, so spent. She was completely drained of any energy, mental or physical, except for a tiny sliver which she spent to murmur to Scott, almost inaudibly, “need sleep”. He cracked a slight smile and helped her up, and practically carried her to their shared room, where she succumbed to the temptations of slumber only moments after making contact with her bed. Scott shut the door gently behind her and left to rejoin the group.

“So, we now know absolutely nothing more?” Rogue commented in a flat, dry voice that didn’t indicate so much a question as a finalization.

“Jean learned lots, I think,” Scott replied, to which Rogue raised a skeptic eyebrow. She closed her makeup-laden eyelids, somewhat tired herself.

“Right, then, but all we have fa now is just a list a’ names a’ medicines and the like and a very tired telepath who ain’t sayin’ nothin’ till she wakes up?” Rogue smiled grimly, opening her eyes to reveal a questioning, interrogative glare.

“I suppose it would do us zero good, in the meantime, to look up these drugs and see if their uses could give us some further insight into our mentor’s condition?” Scott snapped, angry at Rogue’s apparent nonchalance toward the ordeal. Rogue shrugged and picked up the notepad, which Jean had failed to take with her in her numb state. She looked with an inquisitive eye at the list, scanning it and moving her finger downward as she read each name.

“Will do, Captain Happy,” Rogue yawned. In truth, her nonchalance and lack of any interest in this affair was her thickest layer of makeup. Inside, she was a wreck, worrying about the first person to take her under their wing after her powers took form. She was simply covering up with it because she was not supposed to have feelings. Perversely, she remembered an old Soundgarden song at this- “Boot Camp”. It was all about being conformed and quieted into the person everyone wanted you to be or thought you were, regardless of what was true of you. The last lines stung: There must be something else; there must be something good…far away. She refused to endorse the idea of leaving the place that had become her home in their hour of need. She couldn’t selfishly hide from her troubles and leave the others to deal with them alone.

Clutching the notepad, she walked into the computer room. She tossed it onto the wooden counter next to a computer and sat down. Bringing up “yahoo”, the homepage, she entered the first drug’s name and hit “search”. The first entry was the usual irrelevant porn site, but beyond that she saw what looked to be an official, authorized site. She clicked on the link, then followed a menu to “what does it treat?”.

Her façade crumbled as she broke down into sobs.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Burn, burn, yes ya gonna burn! Burn, burn, yes ya gonna burn!” Given the religious implications of the 25th of December, could there really be a Christmas gift from hell? Hannah contemplated, amazed at her ability to think through such a testosterone-pumped tantrum. If ever there was, I’m sure Jay’s boom box would be it. Zack de la Rocha’s lyrics sound proletarian enough, but he doesn’t seem to give a care in the world about the working-class student trying to do her homework. Hannah Redges stood up from where she had lain, tapping the eraser end of her pencil against a piece of paper and rolling her eyes around as she mentally puzzled out a sentence in Latin. She pushed aside the door to her room as she brushed a few stray brown hairs away from her eyes. She knocked on her brother’s door as she started to pull her hair back in a ponytail.

The ‘burn’ song stopped momentarily as the door to her brother’s room, which appeared as a transplanted victim of the Cat in the Hat- minus the big cleaning machine at the end- slid open reluctantly. “What?” Jay snapped, his steely gray eyes narrowed exasperatedly. His thin, almost gaunt features reflected such a mood. Even his black, oily hair seemed peeved.

“Y’know, Jay, it’s actually a common misconception that all teenage boys are rude and obnoxious with messed-up rooms. And in fact, most of them don’t even listen to really loud crossbreeds between the Insane Clown Posse and Nirvana.” Jay had failed to inherit their mother’s attorney-like way with words and was taken aback by such an improvised assault on his mini-counterculture.

“If you’re gonna insult my music, do it right. Rage would be more like a mix between Public Enemy, Soundgarden, and Linkin Park, even though they existed before Linkin Park,” Jay defended weakly. “Leave me alone,” he added grumpily, seeing the bemused expression on his sister’s face. “Anyway, what do you want?”

“I want silence so I can do my homework. You’re a junior too, so why don’t you have any to do?” Hannah inquired sharply, raising an eyebrow. Her features weren’t quite as rigid as Jay’s, she having been leaning toward her mother’s appearance. Jay was, by process of elimination, similar to their father in appearance, but that was known strictly through process of elimination. Hannah yanked downward on her baggy orange “Equality Means Everyone” T-shirt so that it just hovered over the belt of her long jeans, the ends of which crumpled around the ankles from length and blanketed her black basketball sneakers- though, not the ones she wore in practice or games, to make sure they remained in prime condition.

Jay stiffened up suddenly. His lips pursed tightly and his eyes widened and shot downward to avoid her gaze, though his head didn’t budge as though his neck had turned to rock. “Fine, music’s off,” he mumbled before slamming the door in her face and audibly stomping off to riffle through papers for that elusive handout sheet.

Hannah laughed at Jay’s troubles. She had only to translate four sentences in Latin before she could do whatever she pleased. He had always been that kind of student- she’d come home and start doing her homework, whereas he’d be doing it at breakfast the next morning. In a way she envied his ability to relax a little and live life. By the time she finished, she’d be lucky to have any daylight left to take a walk or play a game of basketball outside. He, an avid mountain biker, would spend about two to three hours every day just cruising through the woods that was literally right up the street. Then, once it was finally dark and he couldn’t bike without serious risk anyway, would head inside and practice bass guitar for another hour. Somehow he’d then end up remembering his homework and rush to get it done. Hannah was unsure how she would like that lifestyle. Would she trade in her risk-free, placid life for one of half bliss and half stress? Would it be better to get the higher highs and lower lows than just the same rotten flat of a routine?

She’d probably never know. She was too scared to embrace anything new that suddenly came bounding into her life, preferring to try and ignore it. For example, when she learned that her father was actually not related to her, she simply considered it an interesting fact, not letting the agonizing, torturous questions be asked of who her father really was.

She strolled back to her room. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d let this happen. She’d let herself think about her father. Who was he? Why did he disappear? She often saw him in dreams- or, at least, what she thought he might look like. She imagined his appearance as a slightly fuller version of Jay- Jay had somehow ended up almost skeletal, but Hannah was somewhat average, so he must have been somewhere in between average and rail thin- but the what was the centerpiece of her daydreams. Was he a working-class blue-collar man with sizeable muscles who came home tired from physical work every night and treated himself to a family dinner, a beer, and a sports game? Was he a white-collar guy who peered over thin glasses at financial reports and Variable Interest Entities before heading home to a Fifth Avenue apartment, where Easy Mac, a thick work of fiction, and the nightly news awaited him? Was he a professor-type, his face often hidden beneath gigantic textbooks as he lectured endlessly to a class of ‘whatever, dude!’ frat boys and came home to a live-in, neo-hippie girlfriend who meditated every day at two and prepared him vegan dinners every night for so long that he eventually gave in and stopped eating meat? What was his name? Her mother had returned their name to Redges, but Hannah often wondered what they would be called otherwise. Her mother was reluctant to talk about it, so Hannah tried to stray away from the topic. Eventually, though, she’d have to know. Of all the demons that haunted her, this was the most painful one- and the only one that she did not have control over. If her mother didn’t reveal her father’s identity, nobody would.

Nobody.

Bile instantly sopped through his covers, drenching the blankets and his upper body in bloody vomit. His eyes instantly welled up with tears reflective of the excruciating pain he was in. His stomach felt as though impaled with a million toothpicks, slammed through its tender walls from the outside. His tongue burned with a dull sort of feeling from the complex acids that had been subpoenaed up from his inner organs. His vision returned, albeit fuzzy and dull, and he was sure that anyone who saw him would think that he was a ghost or a drunken man. But he was not; Professor Charles Xavier was very much alive and very sober- and very, very sick. He had to wonder whether it was worth it to stay like this, to see this quiet, lingering fall from grace to its damning end. He could easily just down sixteen too many of the pills Hank had entrusted him with the administration of, and get the same end result as if he waited the full projected six months of vomit, blood, fatigue, and finally expiration. He thought of the teenagers who watched his struggle and his fall from grace. Why not spare them the same pain I’m going through? Why not spare myself the pain? Why give Death that satisfaction?

He reached for the bottle of pills. Five trembling skeletal digits clutched the vial and it began the fragile dance, like a divine wind in the penultimate exodus of life force from his being. His mind, once a thing so grand as to manipulate entire armies, was numb and tired. Charles Xavier could sense that this was the right time, the right thing to do. His life was over.

And then somewhere within the dark, somber chambers of his desensitized mind, one last, sharp, piercing alarm bell sizzled and crackled and exploded a supernova, a black hole in his psyche. He fell into a wrinkled heap of his soggy sheets, Rogue’s shrill, animalistic cry playing off the cavernous walls of his mind like the disappointed moans of the world he could have helped.
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by Saint Kurt »

I think you may want to tweak the spacing a bit more. For instance, there should be a hard return between each line of dialog and each paragraph.

I don't know about anyone else, but I had a lot of trouble following the story because of the spacing. (It may seem like a small thing, but it's very important for readability.) An example would be that I thought the prolog was a letter until I went over it several times. After that I kind of gave up.

You may want to go back again and put an extra line between each paragraph. As it is, I couldn't read through it and I would hate for something so minor to prevent people from enjoying your work.

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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by John Doe »

How's that? I just quickly hit a few enters between each paragraph, but that ought to clean it up. If it still needs spacing or maintenance, please let me know! If not, enjoy and let me know how it is!
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by Rowena »

Wow. Your descriptions of Xavier's illness are quite...graphic. Eew. What on earth is wrong with him?! You've got me curious--and worried!

Your descriptions are great, overall, and you clearly have a very large vocabulary. I particularly liked these parts:

"...his traitorous eyes broadcast the doubt his words were more than happy to shroud."

and

"Even his black, oily hair seemed peeved."

That's awesome! :D

However, there are times when your descriptions become rather convoluted, making it somewhat difficult to follow the storyline and to relate to your characters. I'm certainly not saying you should dumb it down--it is clear and it does make sense. I'm just suggesting you might want to try to make your sentences a bit smoother. For example, I found sentences such as:

"Rogue glared, her Southern accent hinting exasperation at the idea of education taking priority of the potential loss of one’s good hearing in a torrential downpour of guitars, drums, bass, and agonized, angst-racked screams."

"His stomach felt as though impaled with a million toothpicks, slammed through its tender walls from the outside."

and

"But at this point, we’ve got no idea what’s causing all these symptoms, nor whether they’re separate or part of the same illness. And you say you’ve got no better ideas, aye, Hank?”

to be a bit awkward as I was reading. You might want to try breaking sentences like these up into shorter sentences or perhaps changing a few words to make the meaning a bit clearer.

I didn't have any trouble with the spacing.

I'm very curious to find out what happens next! There are an awful lot of questions in there that need answering! I look forward to your next chapter! Evo-verse really is an excellent medium for stories like this, isn't it. Good job so far! :D

:bamf
"There are worlds out there where the sky is burning, where the sea's asleep and the rivers dream, people made of smoke and cities made of song. Somewhere there's danger, somewhere there's injustice and somewhere else the tea is getting cold. Come on, Ace, we've got work to do."
~The Doctor, Survival

"There's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes."
~The Doctor, Robot

"If this isn't civilization, why am I standing in a bomb crater?"
~Hawkeye Pierce, M.A.S.H.

Rowena Zahnrei's Stories: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/526713/Rowena_Zahnrei
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by John Doe »

Thanks for responding, Rowena! I was actually hoping you would. And thanks for your comments. I hope my description of disease isn't too terribly graphic, is it? I conjured up every disgusting image I could think of, and in fact Xavier's experience is mirrored after one of my own, unfortunately. Thing is, he wasn't on a bus trip with 300 other kids and two hours before the next stop!

The toothpicks sentences sounded clunky to me too. I ought to do something with that comma.

I'll try breaking the sentences you mentioned up- I tend to like Shakesperian-length sentences that are riddled with adjectives as opposed to the quick, choppy sentences often displayed by modern writers. However, my parents have said of my previous stories (this being my first fanfic, but I have done three full books that were shameless rip-offs of the X-Evo scenario) that some of my sentences are just confusing as all heck. So thanks again!

I'm glad you're interested. I'm trying to plan this story and lay it out first (something that your story, Hero, inspired me to do) because in my old books I used to just improvise and let it end whenever it seemed to fit. Those books, by the way, turned out to be pretty bad.

I need a second opinion. I am not good at describing actual diseases. I am very good at describing symptoms in action and their effects, but I've never been one for actually outright saying what the disease is. Should I do that here to give it more authenticity and risk it sounding even cheesier, or just leave it as the anonymous, nameless, ever-unknown disease?

(PS: Why are you worried?)
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Post by John Doe »

I don't know if this means anything here... but...

Uppin'!

(For those who aren't familiar with the term, it basically means "more feedback while I continue working on this piece".)
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Post by Rowena »

You're very welcome! :D The description is pretty gruesome, but it works. Perhaps you could let up a bit with the adjectives--huge lists tend to obfuscate rather than elucidate descriptions--but they did provoke an emotional reaction. :)

I had a similar experience on a school whale watching trip. Choppy seas, small boat, no motion sickness pills--not a good scene.

Do you have a real disease in mind, or did you invent one for Xavier? Either way, I personally would be curious to know what he's got, and if it's curable. I'm worried about him! I'm also very curious about your title...

Looking forward to your next update!

:bamf
"There are worlds out there where the sky is burning, where the sea's asleep and the rivers dream, people made of smoke and cities made of song. Somewhere there's danger, somewhere there's injustice and somewhere else the tea is getting cold. Come on, Ace, we've got work to do."
~The Doctor, Survival

"There's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes."
~The Doctor, Robot

"If this isn't civilization, why am I standing in a bomb crater?"
~Hawkeye Pierce, M.A.S.H.

Rowena Zahnrei's Stories: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/526713/Rowena_Zahnrei
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by John Doe »

My title will hopefully become clearer as the story goes on. I know what it means, but I haven't written in its relevance yet as I try to very, very slowly stretch this story out.

I had no real disease in mind. I just threw together tons of harsh symptoms and an inevitable feeling of doom. Sorry, but it doesn't look like we're gonna find out what the disease is during this story. However, I have very, very tentative and only vague plans for a sequel that might or might not explain this disease of Xavier's.
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Post by Saint Kurt »

Ah - Just a few spaces made it so much easier to read than the first version posted. You'd be surprised how important little visual cues like that are. In my former life (before vet school) I worked as a freelance graphic designer for nearly 10 years (that's what my degree is in). Text layout is all about spacing and line length.

So far you've given a taste of things to come and I'm definitely curious about the outcome. I'm a music lover so I like to see music featured in fiction like you've done here. I like the title too - very evocative.

I will agree with Rowena on toning down the use of adjectives. Descriptive phrases are great, but sometimes it can be too much of a good thing. It actually adds ambiguity rather than clarity. While I wouldn't advocate throwing the detail out (since it's good), I would say that you might want to break the description up into more than one sentence. Right now some of it seems a bit strained.

I saw your introduction said you're 13 and I think it's great to see someone your age with an obvious love of reading and writing. (You quoted Anthony Burgess' A Clockwork Orange. That's awesome. One of my favorites.) Part of the reason I like this board so much is seeing so many young and talented authors.

Oh - If I might make a recommendation: check out some Earnest Hemingway. He's a perfect example of a writer who uses very simple sentence structure to convey a lot of complex information to the reader. A Movable Feast is my favorite followed by A Call to Arms.

-e
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by John Doe »

Mm, I checked in to edit and toned down that particular sentence involving Rogue early on. Helpful?

Music, writing, and politics are basically my life right now. When I'm not working on stories, I'm jamming on my Epiphone Classic. That's why I chose to use lyrics to further the story- it may not seem it, but I'm picking certain lines out of songs to foreshadow or explain. For example, notice how that line "your friendship is a fog" in Ch. 1 describes the events of the prologue? I like using subtle clues to hint at things and let my readers try to jump ahead of me. That, and like you said, I love music.

The title was meant to be thought-provoking and unique, because despite the common cliche, people judge a story first by its title or whether they know the author. And as I said, I hope to very, very slowly make it clearer what the title is about.
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by John Doe »

Wow. It has been far too long since I posted the first five chapters of this story that my new posting is unforgivably insufficient. It is only six pages in length and for this I am truly sorry, for as I related to Zamweasel I intended to do three chapters but realized I had let this thread become antiquated and hurried an end to my second. I only hope my work's quality makes up for its lack of length. I am sorry!

CHAPTER SIX

Her tears had embraced her and quieted her. They’d spilled ferociously, unrelentingly, the soft touch of salt seeming to fry her tongue. What, then, was she still here for? You said before you wouldn’t leave them when you needed you. Well, they don’t need you! He’s gonna die anyway and you can’t do a damn thing about it! Just get the hell out of here and don’t bother yourself crying!

The computer exploded. The monitor was struck by a glowing, incandescent, sizzling projection and was decimated by the blast. Rogue whirled around, tears gone from her eyes. She barely got a glimpse of her attacker, clad in a steel shroud of inky black, before something hit her in the eyes. She closed them, but the hazy acid had already temporarily blinded her. She spun around with her right arm reaching out for something, anything to steady her haphazard spinning, her left trying futilely to rub the acid from her eyes. Something cold and hard struck her on the back of the head. She blacked out.

Kurt stared up at the ceiling, wishing he had a TV up there to show him sheep. Lots of sheep, to count, and fall asleep. He needed to think of something other than Professor Xavier’s sickness, or trauma, or whatever the hell was going on in those never-dusty rooms, so white as to singe your eyes… he’d spent a lifetime fearing those rooms, the rooms where no shadows were cast. It wasn’t normal for a room to cast no shadow.

Jean finally woke up with a small cry. She didn’t recall falling asleep. She was awake, now, at two o’ clock in the morning and wide awake as though she’d just mainlined a cappuccino. She squinted her eyes against the darkness that seemed out of place and tried to place back into order the Rubik’s Cube of memory, like shattered splinters of glass, into the right order. She remembered leaving training early to check on the Professor…listening in on their conversation in the infirmary… the explosion of buzzing, screeching, shrieking pain known vicariously through the mental link Jean shared with her mentor. She could not divine his thoughts, but his pain permeated the walls of the world his ghost inhabited.

Deep within dreams, Scott felt another mind brush against his own. The feeling was far away and muffled, but it pierced the giddy feeling that his visions of life without his glasses gave him. He was torn immediately. He knew that these illusions of control over his abilities were just that; they were a glimpse into the world he’d never know, a shadow of the things he could never have. Yet still, long, lingering days full of anger and resentment were generally set off by dreams like this, dreams that made each day like standing in line to go to sleep. But the distraught call for aid roared and whined like a badly tuned violin negating the dazzling beauty of the life he could only ever see apathetically, like Christopher Reeves watching a horse race. Finally, his teeth spiritually clenched and he forced himself to swim to the surface of his mind. There had better be a damn good reason for upsetting him like this.

Ororo had finally surrendered to insomnia and devoted a few hours reading whatever book she could yank off the shelf. It turned out to be a book of Evan’s that she was borrowing, some vapid tale popular with the kids, which she turned the pages of mechanically, wondering how teenagers managed to be entertained by this. She thought about Evan a moment, and the kids in general. She’d already dried herself of tears after hearing about the Professor’s illness, a rare one that would end his life. She’d played along like a puppet, not knowing what else she could do. How twisted, how sadistic were the fates this way, granting her with powers that would brand her as an exile irrevocably, yet never granting her the powers that really mattered! She could summon the lightning and storm of barbaric, almost cathartic angry release; she could bring about hurricanes that could mangle and mutilate both body and mind of the world at large. She could blanket the world in unrelenting, biting cold and melt it away in a second. But she could not help the people who needed her the most.

Logan stared at the floor with about as much facial emotion as Vin Diesel. His face was blank and empty, but inside of his skull thoughts were being borne that he’d never thought his seemingly one-sided, ultra-violent mind could comprehend. Fear. He had never feared before. His power to heal had spoiled him and let him forget that not everyone was invincible. And worse yet, he could do nothing but stand by and let his best friend die the most painful, excruciating, punishing death imaginable and yet he’d done nothing wrong. Logan could have believed that Xavier had never sinned, and yet he received this for his lifetime of benevolence?

Maybe the Holy Father had a little something against mutants after all.

“Mm,” Evan whispered as he sipped the cool tap water from his Dixie cup. He crumpled up the cup and tossed it away. He couldn’t sleep, and unlike Logan, Ororo, and Kurt, he wasn’t denying it, either. If he wasn’t going to sleep, he may as well have done something productive- he still had to leaf through Sigmund Freud’s “On the Interpretation of Dreams” for his research paper. He’d chosen the topic of dreams. He’d always liked to believe that they were far more than just shards of possibility, taunting their viewer with the answers to the questions they’d ask themselves for the rest of their lives. He believed they were prophecies, dark predictions of possible fortune, inevitable downfall, and the anomalous tragedies that exploded their way to the surface every now and then. He’d seen much in recent dreams. He’d seen a man keeled over, begging of Morpheus to help them fall in peace. He’d seen a girl unsure of her place in a world that had always seen her as unwanted disruption of the status quo, now that the only reprieve she’d gained from the static cruelty of life amongst the flatscans was playing its swan song. He’d seen another girl whose entire life was laid out before her so she could simply follow the brick road; the girl was clearly unaware of the gargantuan monstrosity that was slithering into her life nearly unnoticed. He was wise beyond his years, but with the knowledge of age came its withering corruption.

Hank was frustrated. Anyone who happened to see him then would have said he looked like a cross between a cobalt gorilla and a mad scientist as he raced through pages of medical treatises. He pored over each page, his mind inhaling the text off the page as he hurried to the next one. He knew it was hopeless, but he could not simply kick back and read a novella or two while the mutant species’ harbinger of salvation turned to dust in the coffin. Who would operate the gigantic facility of the mansion in the event of Charles’ death?

A tear slithered down Hank’s cheek. He didn’t stop searching, but he was no longer looking at the pages. It was over- the dream’s end was right outside their door. For a while, it had been Elysium, a beautiful glimpse of the world that the strange beings called mutants never thought they’d lay eyes upon. They were free and nobody cared whether they could fly or turn into animals or read minds. The man who was now slowly expiring was the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. of the mutant race. But the Reverend died in an instant when a bullet pierced his skin. Conversely and perversely, Charles Xavier was imploding. He was falling apart, first physically, and of course soon the depression, mania, and hysteria would make their presence emphatically felt.

The soundproof doors of the infirmary shielded Hank from Rogue’s modern trauma.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Geoff Neimmach yawned, not bothering to put his hand up. Somehow he didn’t think that it would be a yawn that would cause him to lose his soul. He stared sleepily at the girl. Rogue was supposedly her name, according to the wallet they’d dug up hidden under the sole of her shoe. They’d put her in a cell that, like all of the others at the AX Studio for Mutation Research and Prevention, neutralized her abilities. Nevertheless, for sanitation’s sake, the guards at AXS(MRP) could under no circumstances come into physical contact with the prisoners, lest the diseases inherent in mutations make their way into good, clean human veins. For interrogation purposes, the freaks also had to be allowed as much sleep as would naturally occur after a well-placed but nevertheless brutal strike with a nightstick so that they could access all of their memories. Geoff had been leaning against his steel desk watching the prisoner sleep motionlessly in her cage for what his wristwatch claimed was two hours. But before that, he’d won thirty-seven exhilarating games of solitaire, sent seventeen emails to obscure relatives and hoping he got their names right, taken four naps, paid back all of his forgotten library fines from the past four years, and contemplated using lighter strikes with his nightstick in the name of time.

The girl turned over and moaned, her gloved hand- Geoff had been lucky to get this one, she being all covered up and whatnot- immediately flying to the goose egg on the back of her head, which was just within the reach of her handcuffs’ chains. She probably had a minor concussion, but Geoff really didn’t care. He wasn’t like his father, one of the leading scientists in interrogative torture in their small complex. Geoff’s father was a passionate man when it came to this anti-mutant business, but the son he’d sired was only a shadow of the original. Geoff really couldn’t care less about, well, anything, and simply entered this business because it was handy. A lot was expected of him because of his father’s achievements, and Geoff was more than ready to let everyone down.

The girl moved to an animalistic hands-and-knees posture. She shook her head, her brown hair (albeit with a strange, anomalous white forelock) waving gently. Finally, she moved to her feet and stumbled into the bars of her cell. Gripping them, she slowly realized that she was indeed holding on to bars. She looked up quickly and glanced around. Like a squirrel before being turned inside out, her eyes widened and she screamed… very, very loudly.

“Let me out! Where the hell am I? Help!” Her cries only served to amuse Geoff, who always questioned the sanity of someone who asked his or her captors for freedom. It was like asking Christopher Reeves to reach up to the top shelf to help you get something; a completely unreasonable request was what it was. He lazily strolled to the door of the cell and opened it up. In one swift movement, he yanked out another pair of handcuffs and connected the chain of hers to the cell’s bar, limiting her movement further.

“Mmkay, then…” Geoff yawned again as he noted the way the girl strained against her restraints. “Y’know, that ain’t gonna do any good.”

“Let me go!” She screamed, and continued to do so until it was unknown what she was on about. Taking care to hit only as hard as was necessary, Geoff swung his nightstick into her face, hitting her squarely in the mouth and knocking out a tooth or two. She spat, blood and teeth staining the already disgusting floor. He hit her again in the stomach and she slid to the floor, her hands still chained to the bar.

“All you gotta do here is just answer a few questions for us good people. That’s all.” The girl moaned and spat more blood up as she tried to climb to her feet. “Question one,” Geoff clicked a button on the tape recorder looped into his belt. “Are you a mutant?”

The girl only let out a whimper of pain and rolled to face away from him. Geoff took the nightstick and struck her this time in the right side of her rib cage, probably snapping something. “Are you a mutant?” he barked again, louder now. The girl still refused to answer, only hacking and coughing. He kicked her hard in the same rib area as before and she screamed in pain. “Fine. We’ll talk later.”

Geoff left the room. Just like he did when he worked at Guantanamo Bay, he turned on a boom box in one corner of the room and cranked the volume to maximum- it was a strange sensory torture technique the guards at the Bay had been instructed to use. The lyrics boomed insufferably until Geoff closed the door behind him and basked in relative silence: “I understand why you’re afraid at the dinner table, voices raised. They’re chained the front door of your new home, because where I’m from, you’re on your own. The rain falls quiet on the sinner, the rain falls quiet on the saint. But the rain will whisper and the wind will moan. What’s done is done. You’re on your own.”

Erik Lensherr set down his helmet, unveiling himself to the machine known as Cerebro. But he knew it mattered little, for the only person with the mental capacity to operate the machine was slowly dying and far too enfeebled to strain himself on the machine’s demands. Erik, known to some as the mutant Magneto, had to wonder what his friend-turned-nemesis’s death would mean to him. What had happened that had locked the two in this painful cycle of violence? They’d met as young adults, in that beautiful space between thinking you know everything and being glad you didn’t. They were vibrant and full of life, each eager to combine forces to help their ilk. Those were days long gone. Erik could not seem to recall the last time he smiled; had it been back in those days, a life of peaceful revolution laid out, not yet corrupted by greed and bias?

But their ideals, seemingly brethren philosophies, had split horribly. Erik had wanted to bathe the human race in its own blood and show it the errors of its twisted manifest soul. But in trying to accomplish his nightmarish dream, he’d somehow gone awry. He became just like them, as violent, hateful, aggressive, and malevolent as the people he sought to destroy. His colleague, however, had chosen a path of peace. He believed that to use his gifts in the name of violence would only lead to backward steps. It would cement in humanity’s minds (for he had always believed in the human’s individuality) the theory that mutants were terrorists spawned to breed violence on the earth. He believed that acceptance had to be earned, not seized.

But Erik had scorned his way of peace, insisting that humankind shed a blood drop for every tear drop that rolled down the face of a mutant as he or she realized that they’d never be like the people who hated them. They’d always be lepers, but at least they could die in a blaze of glory rather than the blaze of a cremation chamber. And that had been the end of their allegiance and their brotherhood. They’d sworn to shut down any attempts by the other to promote their respective agendum.

Now that his longtime friend and longer-time arch-rival was in his final hours of life, what was the point? He’d long realized the hypocrisy inherent in his philosophy, but had only continued so as to quell any opposing movements by his opponent in this deadly game of chess that involved the fate of their world. It was time to move on.

A song blasting from the room of his young comrade Toad interrupted his train of thought. With a start, he realized that his train of thought wasn’t broken at all. It was immortalized. “Long days and nights you fought for truth, and I gotta hand it to you.” Why did music always do this? It was the finalizing blade that cut right to his soul. Someone could tell him to his face the beautiful truth, but it would take music to make it resonate. “Uprisings paid for in blood, only to lose…”

“Mom, would you tell Jay not to play his music so loud?” Hannah Redges voiced her frustration. “I’m not even doing homework and I can’t think over that!” She’d had no homework on this day and devoted it to practicing basketball on the almost obsolete hoop in their driveway. Most of the time, Hannah finished her homework too late to play like this, and for some reason this same day was the one on which her brother chose to stay indoors and crank his music loudly.

“Jay!” Her mother cried.

“It’s the cost of my desire,” the vocalist shrieked over a loud, rolling guitar riff. “Sleep now in the fire!” The music stopped.

“What?”

“Turn your music off!”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a nice day, now go biking.”

“I can’t, I’ve got a flat I need to fix.”

“Use your other bike!”

“I don’t have another bike!”

“Ride your sister’s bike, then! Just get out of the house!”

Hannah rolled her eyes, laughing quietly. She continued to take shots, and decided to check her foul shot percentage out of ten. Shot one was a hit. Shot two, another sinker. Shots three and four bounced off the rim to the right. Shot five flew in off the backboard. Shot six bounced off the rim, but came right back to her. Shot seven was way wide and went back behind the house. As she walked back, she glanced up only a few feet through the screen window to her mother’s first-floor study. She saw her mother talking quietly to two older Italian-American men in suits, one of whom was lighting up a cigarette. She crouched in close to the window so she could not be seen and listened.

“Look, the father is in bad shape, okay? And we know he ain’t gonna make it past, eh, let’s say a half a year, okay, and since his handsome donations to your, eh, family are your, eh, how do I say? Primary source of income, that’s it—”

“Yeah, like he said, since it’s your primary source of income, we have inclination to believe that in the absence of said donations, you would not be able to fulfill the proper needs of your two children.”

“What are you saying, Mr.…?”

“Castrichini. Mr. Castrichini’s my name. Anyway, what we’re saying is that your children, Hannah and Jeremy, or Jay, if that’s how he prefers to be addressed, would have to be relocated.”

“No, they won’t! I’m doing fine! I’ve got a job and—”

“You had a job. We received word of your release yesterday. Have you told your children yet?”

“Um, no, I’ve held off on that. I’m still looking for a new one, y’know…”

“But in the event that a librarian does not suddenly find a job as a heavily publicized lawyer and get two hundred thou’ a year, we’re gonna have to find new guardians for your kids.”

“And?”

“And Mr. Xavier has suggested a candidate.”

It had been a long time since these matters had grown restless. Many years had they lain dormant in the back of his vast psychic stronghold, gathering the dust of meaningless age. He’d been happy to surrender the room, so long as they were quiet and made no commotion. But now, old issues bubbled like molten hate to the surface for what would both gladly and sadly be the final time. He would end his life trying to safely continue someone else’s- someone he’d never know. Hannah had been born just as Xavier was beginning what would be a long journey through life with Erik Lensherr. He’d never even seen her, except in a few pictures- one from the day after her birth, one from her eighth birthday party that she was only partially in, and one from a year ago that showed her smiling as she applied for a learner’s permit. He had no idea who she was, nor she him. He had spent millions of dollars feeding a stranger, and for what?

It didn’t matter now. What mattered was finding a suitable replacement family. Caroline Redges had never been very good at keeping jobs, and oftentimes Xavier would roll far out of his way to get her new ones. He had already made his primary choice. It was the penultimate contradiction, in Charles’s mind: the only person who he could be sure would take good care of his daughter was the person who Charles could be sure would never take good care of anyone else. If Erik agreed at all, it would be out of guilt (what hangman’s humor in that; guilt!). But Erik was, fittingly, not agreeing.

“Professor! O, Goddess, no… Professor!” Ororo shouted. She dashed into his room, causing his stomach to lurch at the sudden ten-ton addition of stress. “Rogue is gone. There’s a smashed computer in the computer lab and some acid on the wall that Hank is testing right now. She’s gone, Charles, gone!”

Charles Xavier lowered his head. He did not want to deal with this right now. He did not want to deal with this at all. Either it would go away or he would. Since it seemed insistent, he simply directed all of his mental energies into causing himself to fall into a state of catatonia. Frankly, he just didn’t give a damn.

Was that any good? Please let me know!

Oh, and here's the credit to the songs so far- "Snakecharmer" (Your friendship is a fog...), "Bombtrack" (Burn, burn, yes ya gonna burn), and "Sleep Now In the Fire" are all by Rage Against the Machine. "You're on Your Own" is by the Nightwatchman Tom Morello. "Better Bomb/ We Got the Whip" (Long days and nights you fought for truth...) was a studio demo of Audioslave's but was not put on the final album. (Did I miss any songs?)
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by John Doe »

I can be very persistent and actually quite annoying when people ignore my work. Please give me feedback, and if you want feedback on your pieces, let me know!
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Post by Saint Kurt »

It think these latest chapters are an obvious improvemen. I still find awkard sentences here and there, but this installment has a much more linear flow, which I like.

I picked out a few sentences as examples:

[quote]
The monitor was struck by some strange bolt and was decimated by the blast.
[/quote]

This is kind of a nit pick, but in the past it is a nick pick that has served me well. The author Ursula McGinn, an amazing sci-fi author wrote a book called "Steering the Craft" all about good sci-fi writing. I hightly recommend it to anyone writing fan fic in this genre.

Anyway, her two biggest pet peeves are "strange" and "somehow". As in "A strange light somehow blasted her." She calls them no-no's because "somehow" dodn't give any information - we as the audience want to know how she got blasted. (by what, by whom) And she hates "strange" because (to paraprhase her) everything in Sci-Fi is strange.

You're above sentence would have Ursula rolling in her grave were she dead. :) Mainly because you modified it with "some". "Some strange bolt" is about as ambiguous as it comes.

(BTW - Ursula McGinn's "Left Hand of Darkness" is fantastic.)

[quote]
some vapid tale called “Ender’s Game”, which she turned the pages of mechanically, wondering how teenagers managed to be entertained by this.
[/quote]

I'm not an Orson Scott Card fan either, but usually you want to mention books or music that further the plot. In this case I can't see how it will. It might in the future though so I could be wrong to bring it up.

[quote]
Hank was frustrated. Right now, he’d look like a cross between a cobalt gorilla and a mad scientist as he raced through pages of medical doctrines.
[/quote]

There's a couple in here:
First you have a tense mix up. "Right now, he'd look like a ....as he raced through..." You've got present (right now), future (he'd look), and past (raced) all in the same sentence.

Plus the term "doctrine" is used almost exclusively for religious texts. It has a definition closer to "dogma" than "document".

I really like you refering to Hank as looking like a cobalt gorilla though!

[quote]
The soundproof doors of the infirmary shielded Hank from Rogue’s modern trauma.
[/quote]

This sentence sounds beautiful to me but I don't know what is meant by "modern trauma". It sounds like the name of a rock band. :)

Well, I only got through 6, but I'm really tired so I've got to stop. I'd love it if you left a word or two of feedback on Even Angels have Scars. I'm interested in what you think of it.

-e
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by John Doe »

First, a quick note on Even Angels. I like the prelude, and I'll try to read more, but I don't usually like past-set fics. The prelude was, however, extremely well-done and you've been a huge help to me so I'll try to read more in between the final exams and the goddamn research paper.

Now I'll reply in reverse.

Modern trauma is just my way of saying a current problem, yet unsolved. Nothing special, but yes, it does sound like a punk rock band that'll be on MTV in and for fifteen minutes. :)

Hmm, I was not aware of the meaning of doctrine in that sense. And thank you very much! Wow, you've got an observant eye to catch that mistake with the tenses... I'll try and fix that right now.

The Ender's Game was not scheduled to appear later in the story. However, my fascist, tyrannic English teacher once called me a barbarian with no taste for not liking Orson Scott Card (I'm a barbarian for not liking someone who uses the world "fart-eater" every few sentences. Whoopee.) so this is my private way of firing back.

While I see a certain degree of benefit in the sentence's ambiguity, I also see its shortcoming. I'll take those out and replace them with a couple of keen adjectives. I myself am not a big fan of the words, but I consider that particular paragraph where Rogue is captured (and the scene where she is in captivity) by far the worst parts of this story, They seemed rather awkward.

Thank you so much for your awesome feedback! There are so many things I would not have caught without you and Rowena helping me, and I thank you both immensely.
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by John Doe »

Ack. I feel like a lazy excuse for a writer of fine fanfiction. I began writing for this story at a bad time- around the end of the year, final exams, and graduation- and discontinued work on the Bloodmetal Candidate for a while. Only tonight have I made any further progress on the story, and have only just begun work on Chapter 8, though I will hopefully increase my productivity in this matter. So bear with me and I will try to have at least two chapters, one of which I know to be quite sizeable, for you by Saturday.

(And if you're wondering, yes, I realize this is not a story in great demand. But I still feel a responsibility to finish it.)
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by John Doe »

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Away sweet darlin’, away you run; ‘cause nothing stands forever, except our love… and the gates of Jerusalem.” Rogue’s ears had long fallen numb to the melodic maelstrom that surrounded her. It was the constant attack on her mind that prevented her from thinking, from moving, from being. She simply curled up in a fetal ball and waited for it to stop.

Geoff was in no hurry to turn the music off. The sound-buffering doors actually lowered the sweet melodies of Tom Morello, the Nightwatchman, to a very pleasant volume. However, she’d divulge nothing of her comrades’ locations under the constant barrage of wicked loud folk music. Tom wasn’t wrong to write that on his guitar, after all- although Geoff wondered for a brief moment who the fascists really were in this affair.

Geoff strolled lazily into the prison room until the music became as loud to his ears as it was to “Rogue”. He quickly turned the music down to a mute level and then waited for the girl’s reaction.

She slowly climbed to her feet, shaking though the music had died. Geoff removed the miniature cattle prod from his belt as her handcuffs clanged against the bars around which they were fastened. She could only move as far as a few inches from the iron bars and could scarcely even turn round. Turning the machine on, a faint buzzing filled the air.

“Ready to answer those questions?” He growled, not turning on his tape recorder yet.

“Mmhmm.” The faint moan barely reached Geoff’s ears. He grinned and clicked on the recorder.

“Then let’s begin with the first one,” he shouted. Rogue whimpered, her ears no doubt still buzzing. “Are you a mutant?” Another low, barely audible “mm-hmm”. “Where do you live?” Geoff asked, turning up the pickup on the recorder in case all of her answers were this hard to hear, all the while wishing this question was unnecessary. Memory wipes of their field agents after every mission had more cons than pros, sometimes.

“An institute for mutants,” she murmured. Deep inside her head, this answer triggered alarms. What are you doing? She thought. Her brain was still firing though her body was weak from an audio assault that matched the US Armed Forces’ attacks in terms of sheer force- as well as purpose. These are your friends you’re giving away! What do you think will happen once all the information he needs, he’s gotten? You’ll die, that’s what! And where will the others be? They’ll be dead in the ground too! Shut the hell up- he won’t kill you if there’s still information left to get!

“And what is this institute called?” Geoff smirked, adjusting his cap. On a whim, he took it off. The emblem of his anti-mutant organization looked grimly like a swastika as it adorned the baseball cap, which he tossed onto the table next to the boom box.

“Get away from me. I’ve got nothing to say to you.” Thud. Geoff’s nightstick connected with Rogue’s lower back. “Nope.” A carefully placed smash just between the femur and the kneecap, causing Rogue’s legs to buckle. “No.” Geoff wasn’t used to this sort of alliance and chivalry. Most mutants they picked up were ruffians or hoodlums living on the streets, using their powers to commit crimes- if they could indeed control their powers. None of them had anything to lose from giving information about their lives. No one else was at risk- they lived for themselves and no one else. This girl was different. She had people she cared about- people that Geoff’s superiors would care about, too, though the definition might be different.

Geoff wandered out of the cell, not bothering to turn the music on. He slammed the door shut and walked to his phone. He dialed the number of his superior officer, then hung up on a thought. He dialed again.

“Hello? I haven’t all day, so make this count,” a gruff voice barked on the other line. In the background, screams laced with the sound of large voltages of electricity being transferred could be heard.

“What do I do? I’ve got a prisoner who is unwilling to talk. I already tried hitting them- I pretty much smashed up their back, ribs, and leg. Nothing. All I know is that there are others like her, where she comes from. From what I gather, quite a few others.”

“Do an about-face, kid. Give them something they want.” The gleam in the shepherd’s eye was not lost in the transfer. Geoff grinned.

“Thanks, dad.” He dropped the phone back on its cradle and opened up his laptop. Opening up to the organization’s homepage, he searched for Rogue. He saw that her family tree had not been filled in. Her mother’s side was pretty much all full except for that pesky cousin who changed his name twice a week in the 1300’s. Her father’s side, however, was a bit trickier.

Actually, there was no trick. Her father’s side was empty. If she had just found one relative, she could have filled the page, but her father was a mystery to her. Geoff knew what he could do with this as he walked quickly into the cell.

A moment later, Rogue was wincing as Geoff walked away with one strand of her hair. He put it into a tester and connected the results screen to the laptop. From there, finding out who her father was would simply be a matter of time.


There had to be some way he could get out of all of this. Out of “candidacy”, out of guilt, out of burden. Like Thoreau said- “simplify, simplify”. But it was very hard to do that with Toad taking up a new musical mission: playing the drums.

Erik had absolutely no idea where he’d found the money for the drums, and he wasn’t interested. However, he was staying at the Brotherhood’s Mansion while Mystique chased down her son’s father (or so she claimed) somewhere in western Europe, so it was his burden to bear. He sighed exasperatedly and stood from his desk to exit the room and walk downstairs.

Standing on the stairs staring almost apprehensively into the family room, from which the noise emanated, Erik was not sure what to feel. Any ordinary father would tell Pietro to stand up from the couch, stop watching the sixty-inch flat-screen TV that also mysteriously appeared in the house, and do something productive, like homework or exercise. But most fathers would not be able to compare such behavior to Todd Tolensky’s spasmodic, rabid, forty-five-minute drum roll- or to Freddy Dukes and Lance Alvers setting a dollhouse on fire and roasting marshmallows over it.

Suddenly, the drums that had brought him here were his blissful cacophony, his soothing melody, his god. For if not for their summons, he would never have had the idea that at that moment was conceived in his mind.


“CHAPTER NINE”


“So, the Professor isn’t in a coma?” Evan whispered nervously. Ororo nodded.

“He’s in a state of self-induced mental catatonia,” she replied. This did little to comfort the fragile, unsure teens around her and Logan.

“In layman’s terms,” Logan explained, “he’s turned off his mind. He’s not dead nor is he comatose, but he’s not sleeping, either. He just…is.”



“So he came in for an appointment how long ago?” Senator Kelly asked, furrowing his brow.

“A week,” replied the young Asian doctor. “He was vomiting, dizzy spells, nausea, whooping cough, fatigue, you name it.” A few moments of crinkling, shifting papers exchanging hands later, Senator Kelly left the doctor’s office.



“Who is your mother?” The tape recorder hummed lightly. Rogue bit her lip.

“Irene.”

“Who is your father?” The tape recorder kept humming lightly. Rogue stopped breathing momentarily.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“I do.”



“Erik Lensherr” had no listed phone number anywhere in the world. “Erik Lensherr” did not have an address, nor a home, anywhere in the world. “Erik Lensherr” did not have an email address or fax number. If her kids went to live with “Erik Lensherr”, she would never see her children again.

("Away sweet darlin'..." is "Eyes As Dark As Egypt", by the Nightwatchman.)

I know this isn't much... but I needed to do something.
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by John Doe »

Up.
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Post by John Doe »

Up. Stop sleeping on this.
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by Rowena »

I had to read this in little installments throughout the morning (I kept getting kicked off the darn computer by everyone who had quote real unquote work to do *growlsnarlsnap*), so I wrote all my comments out on a little scrap of paper as they came to me and now I'm writing them out here. OK, here goes.

Some of the descriptions are still a little long and convoluted, but your characterization is very good, particularly when it came to showing what a heartless jerk Geoff is. I liked the way you showed each character's reaction to Xavier's mysterious illness, and the way that Kurt was creeped out by the notion of a room without shadows. That makes sense.


This next one is the only really major problem I had with your story so far.

[quote]The man who was now slowly expiring was the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. of the mutant race. But the Reverend died in an instant when a bomb went off in his home. [/quote]

Erm. Um. Well.... No.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was shot and killed while he was standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel (now a Civil Rights Museum) in 1968. There is a great deal of contriversy surrounding his assassination, but James Earl Ray, a career criminal, copped to the shooting (even though later he said he was duped into confessing, but the guilty verdict was still upheld) and died in prison in 1998. Loyd Jowers claimed in 1993 that he had arranged the assassination for a Mafia guy and King's family won a wrongful death verdict against him in 1999, but a year later the Justice Department said there was no evidence of a conspiracy to kill King. So Ray still carries the blame for the shooting death of Dr. King. Sorry if that ruins your analogy. It was a very nice analogy, but I just had to put forth the facts as I know them. It wasn't a bomb, but a bullet that killed Dr. King.

[quote]He’d long realized the hypocrisy inherent in his philosophy, but had only continued so as to quell any opposing movements by his opponent in this deadly game of chess that involved the fate of their world. It was time to move on.[/quote] :huh

So Magneto was only fighting the X-Men all those years because he wanted to show up Xavier even though he believed his own philosophy to be wrong? I always saw Magneto as a man of very strong convictions. I'm not sure if he would defend an idea he doesn't believe in so staunchly or that he would be that petty. He is very proud though, so... Hmm. It's your story so it's your interpretation of his character that matters, not mine, but I'm still going to have to think about that for a while.

The musical transitions were very clever! :D

The musical torture Geoff is inflicting on poor Rogue reminds me a lot of my own experience with my brother's music. Our rooms are right across the hall from one another. ;)

[quote]wicked loud[/quote] Awesome! I get made fun of sometimes by people from out of state for saying 'wicked'. Apparantly it's a regional slang word, like bubbler or something. It's wicked cool to see it in someone else's writing! :D

What a place to leave off! Xavier's gone and turned off his mind just when things start falling apart, Mystique is out looking for Kurt's father, I assume, and now Rogue's about to learn the identity of her father too--unless, of course, that evil Geoff guy decides to lie...

Good story so far! You've still got me curious to find out what happens next! :D


:bamf
"There are worlds out there where the sky is burning, where the sea's asleep and the rivers dream, people made of smoke and cities made of song. Somewhere there's danger, somewhere there's injustice and somewhere else the tea is getting cold. Come on, Ace, we've got work to do."
~The Doctor, Survival

"There's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes."
~The Doctor, Robot

"If this isn't civilization, why am I standing in a bomb crater?"
~Hawkeye Pierce, M.A.S.H.

Rowena Zahnrei's Stories: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/526713/Rowena_Zahnrei
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by John Doe »

@ the MLK thing: Oh, well, f&^# that! Grr. Every year in my uber-white little town when MLK day comes around/ Black History Month, they always say a bomb killed him. That ticks me off. Thanks for that- I'll change it... :growl: It doesn't ruin the analogy. Now he died in an instant when a bullet pierced his skin, so I still get the effect.

@ wicked: You'd like my old math teacher. He used it like that all the time ;) I like the term too. :)

@ Magneto: My thinking was this: Magneto IS a man of strong convictions, and everyone who knew him, especially Xavier, knew it. And he is also very proud. The reason he kept on fighting this hopeless battle was because it was that or admitting his own error.

@ Geoff and music: as I mentioned, the idea was borne after reading an article someone mentioned on a hip-hop/ poetry forum I belong to where guards at Guantanamo Bay, Home of the Unconvicted Prisoner, used wicked loud music, generally Eminem, to torture people. Geoff prefers to play rockin' folk music. :)

@ music: The music is not only a transitor... it's a foreshadower ;)

Thanks tons for replying! You're my newest bestest bestest net friend for it ;)
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The Bloodmetal Candidate (Prologue-Ch.9) (New Updates- Ch. 6, 7, 8, &9)

Post by John Doe »

As of Sunday, I'm gone two weeks for sleepaway camp. I know nobody cares that that means no updates on this.
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