What have you forgotten?

A man walks slowly up a flight of steps. He is thin, his face lined, the hair just visible under his hat grey, his clothes old-fashioned and just a little worn. Still he moves with a certain impressive certainty of purpose; his eyes sparkle with intelligence and focus. He does not raise a hand, but the heavy iron doors swing open before him in perfect silence.

A young man appears in a blur in the entrance hall, and accepts his hat, gloves and coat, bowing and vanishing. A green haired girl with fangs slides out of the darkness to lead the way. A mountain of a man opens the doors for him, with mocking pomp. The old man knows them all -- he thinks this might be the point -- but he says nothing.

The person he has come to visit -- and the old man hesitates to think of it as a boy for all its youth, or even a man; he has never been given reason to trust much of anything and certainly not appearance -- is standing in front of belching fire. Red-orange-yellow light sweeps across them in flickering waves.

"Dramatic," the old man says dryly. It earns something of a smile.

He takes a seat close to the fire without being asked. The arm-chair is brown leather, warm and just soft enough beneath him. A pot of tea lifts itself, and the old man nods, watching it pour into bone china cups.

"Terrible weather, lately," the old man says, and sips his tea. It's rich and smoky, full of subtle flavours that he savours while he watches the other. "No? To business then. And what name are you using today, Mister Connor? Should I address you by title, perhaps? ( Hile rex; hile the Crimson King )

Tags: brotherhood, hellfire, tm

Thank you to whoever just gifted me with more paid time! (And now I feel bad about how far behind I am, oops.)

I've turned anon-on and IP logging off for a bit if you wanna comment anon and ask me to write you something!

(To be honest, I only have IP logging on so I can see where I was when I posted a comment anyway; I wish there was some way to do that in everybody's journals.)

ETA: Also, someone spoil Dark X-Men for me. I don't get my comics for weeks/months after publication. :(

Tags: ooc

>>> music drabble meme thing

Tags: meme, ooc

Fireworks

"What was that?" Charity demands, barging onto the top floor so hard the doors leave marks in the walls.

"No one died," Mike says without looking around. Papers and gadgets cloud around him, rotating in and out of his reach as he signs things or moves them, filing cabinets sliding open and closed.

"There was a riot! How the hell was there a riot? That was pretty fucking convenient right there! I mean, what the hell?! And you just--"

"No. One. Died," Mike repeats, flicking a look her way. His eyes are red-gold, glittering. She flinches and his lips curl up, a mockery of a smile, before he turns back. Draws slide open, close empty. Chairs and tables stack themselves neatly.

"What--" She frowns at them, and then at him. "What are you doing? Are you-- You're packing! Are we leaving? I like New York."

There's no answer. A set of papers ignites, burns away to nothing. Another lands on the desk, sorted into neat piles.

"Oh," Charity says. "Not 'we'. You."

"Yes," Mike agrees. "Me."

#

"--politics now, and Michael Connor, a major and founding member of the Neo Genosha council today stepped down from his position as co-leader of the island nation. The usually gregarious mutant made this notably terse statement by television broadcast early this morning.

"'For personal reasons, and of my own accord, I hereby resign all commissions, effectively immediately. I will not be taking questions at this time. Thank you.'

"Chairwoman Kincaid, effective head of the country, was equally terse:

"'We are, of course, saddened by his choice, but we respect Mister Connor's decision, thank him for his aid, and wish him all the best in the future.'

"Asked if the resignation had something to do with Proposition X and the subsequent mutant-started riot that lead to the shooting of noted controversial activist Jean-Paul Beaubier, Chairwoman Kincaid declined to speculate. The following statement was released by his former office an hour later:

"'Mike would like it known that this is a personal decision, reached after much deliberation, and should not be seen to reflect upon the council of Genosha, whom he wishes all due providence in their ongoing endeavours. The plight of Genosha and the continued struggle to build something new in the wreckage caused by the massive, whole-scale slaughter of millions and millions of innocent men, women and children at the hands of Sentinels continues to be of importance; however, Mike wishes to now pursue his efforts to establish and maintain equitable human rights on a personal, rather than official, level. Given how much he has done for so many, I feel it would be bad form to begrudge him this little.'

"While Genoshan sources continue to deny that Connor was fired and that the island is politically unstable, speculation continues to run rife, with some commentators suggesting that drugs or infidelity may be behind the move. Whatever the cause, tensions are running high in the area, and Madagascar's navy has tonight returned to a status of high alert.

"In other news, Senator Petrelli today--"

#

He arrives in New York without fanfare, not even light to herald his presence, just there between one moment and the next. From the outside, the mansion looks old, empty, overgrown and boarded up. He walks up the stairs and through the doors as if they weren't there -- perhaps they aren't -- and looks around.

(Memories fight. He fought here, but he didn't. He remembers Wyngarde, the whisper of ages, past and present colliding in one. He remembers fighting Scribe, ripping Mountjoy from her body. He remembers too many things. Plots and conspiracies and backstabbing upon backstabbing. How many Inner Circles have there been now?)

There is a global transmat system that allows the Lords Cardinal to travel discretely. He activates it with a thought, dissolving the security measures, following the energy traces as the cross and recross the world. Some he can not find. Selene masks her presence far too well. Some he discards; Pierce is of no use to him, and da Costa has, for all his faults, a modicum of morals.

(They did this once before, he remembers suddenly, he and Emma and Scott, taking the club in order to use its resources to kill Sinister, except, of course, Rachel had made that moot. His ... whatever she was to him. Mother-sister-daughter. Time-travel, multiverse, issues in every impossible direction.)

They arrive, intrigued or cursing, and he waits until there is quiet. It takes a while. He closes Sat-Yr-9's mouth for her.

"I'm taking my seat," he says.

"As?" someone asks.

"Red King," he says, sitting at the head of the table. "We are at war. If you join me, I'll tell you how the Hellfire Club can help win it."

"And if we don't?" Fitzroy asks.

Mike smiles, and fire explodes in the hearth, bathing them in heat and flickering light and, in the half-shadows, his hair is white as bone, and the dark-red-brown of dried blood.

Tags: hellfire, tm

or

Thursday, and it's raining in New York.

He appears over the Civic Center in a golden flash, trailing psychic fire. The wind catches in his long-coat, sending it creaking and cracking. It's leather, like his shoes, like his gloves. Opaque shades hide his eyes and wind-tossed hair too, here black, here white.

And he should be thinking about Proposition X, about peaceful pacifist protest, but he can't help remembering that it's Guy Fawkes Night in England. It's Bonfire Night. Gunpowder treason and plot.

You really pick your days, Jean-Paul.

He descends, floats slowly down, over the Courthouse and the the fountain, and the gathered people, Doug's banners waving here, and over there, the bright sparks with the "NO BABY BOMBS" signs and the perennial "MUTIE GO HOME". Protest. Counter-protest. It's practically Newtonian.

But he's thinking about Halloween now, about ghouls and goblins and things that mutate in the night. About masks and monsters, things we all have, things we all are. Singing, all unknowing and under his breath, if you ain't got a penny, a ha'penny will do; and if you ain't got a ha'penny, then God bless you.

Trick, he thinks, or Treat. Trick or Treat. Which will you be?

He lands between them, between them all, in the middle, on the edge. Just like always. His coat snaps, loud like a whip, and falls. He lifts his hands, spreads his arms, tilts his head back to the hissing, steaming rain.

There is quiet. Then there is sun. And what is, is; but what will be is anyone's guess.

Tags: tm