New York, Thursday Evening
The going had been slow. Looking the way he did, Jonothon hadn't dared to venture out of the alleyway in the middle of broad daylight, and so he'd spent the better part of Thursday trying to remain unnoticed in the shadows. But, after nightfall, going back to the hostel for a shower had been a mistake. Jonothon had all but frozen as he'd stepped into the bathroom, the first glance at the mirror revealing one hell of a sight, even with his jacket collar still turned up over the bottom of his face. His jacket was smeared in dirt, his face and clothing caked with dried blood.
And none of that was what had actually caught his still crimson eyes.
It wasn't his face. This would never be his face. He'd left his face behind months ago, along with his voice and his sense of hearing and his flames, and what was in its place now had been thinking of horrible things to do to those men as they'd kicked him and mocked him and tore him down and stripped him away from himself, leaving only that hate that burned in the pit of him. He watched his lip curl as he pulled off his coat. Took his shirt off next, eyes fixed on the sight in the mirror.
That tattoo still stood out, bright red and angry against skin that barely let the bruises he'd gotten show through. Under the filth and grime, under the smears of blood, that tattoo was right there, plain as day.
A chill ran down his spine. Something twisted in his guts, grabbed at the inside of his chest, left him gasping for air. Not him. Not him not him, but there he was, staring into the face of Apocalypse, and that burning hate was staring right back at him.
Jonothon didn't even think, just jolted back away from that mirror as though he'd been burned, grabbed for the doorknob, stumbled out of the bathroom and down the hallway. Air. He needed air. He was smothering in here, struggling for breath, and no matter how deeply he inhaled, he just couldn't catch it again. Stairs. Pushing past people staring in shock as he stumbled down the hallway, pushing through the door at the end and stepping out onto the roof. Cool air washed over him, hitting him full in the face as he stumbled toward the edge. He needed... he needed to...
It didn't ever stop. It never would. He was mutant not mutant human not human stripped bare and hollowed out and dead inside, so old, and whatever had taken his place, just waiting for the right moment to tear itself free and leave the shell of him behind... The world was better off without it.
He took another step toward the edge. Down below, the bustle of traffic, a million miles away from all of this, from a world where he had to hide in his own home, from a place where kids could become targets in the streets even when they weren't what it was that the world hated and feared so damn much any more.
He leaned forward. Took a breath. Everything hurt, inside and out, and it would just be so damn easy to...
"One hell of a view from up here, isn't it?"
Jono didn't glance at the man who had appeared on the roof beside him. Didn't so much as breathe a word in acknowledgement that he was suddenly not alone.
"Jonothon, is it? Or do you prefer Chamber?" The man waited a moment, and when Jonothon didn't answer, he pressed on, seemingly unbothered by the silence. "Jonothon, then. You're a difficult man to track down, did you know that? It's like you dropped clean off the radar months ago, and just now decided that you wanted to exist again. But then, given your history, I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. It seems like at any given point in time, there's always been somebody looking for you. Gayle. Emplate. Logan."
That got Jonothon to look. Briefly, long enough to realize that the man he was looking at was a man in costume.
He should have realized.
"I can use a man like you, Jonothon."
"I'm not interested. There's not a single sodding thing you could offer me that could make me interested. I told off Captain bloody Britain and let Xavier know where he could stuff it when somebody tried to recruit me to some super-team last. What in the world do you think you have to offer me that they don't?"
"Redemption."
Jonothon was silent for a long, long while. Night Thrasher stood beside him, silently, patiently waiting.
And then Jono eased back from the ledge.
"I'm listening."
[NFB for distance, and establishy, and based on Jono's personal account of how he joins the New Warriors in New Warriors Volume 4, Issue 9. Um. With some artistic liberties taken because so help me, this bit of canon is so handwavey I don't even. Whee?]
And none of that was what had actually caught his still crimson eyes.
It wasn't his face. This would never be his face. He'd left his face behind months ago, along with his voice and his sense of hearing and his flames, and what was in its place now had been thinking of horrible things to do to those men as they'd kicked him and mocked him and tore him down and stripped him away from himself, leaving only that hate that burned in the pit of him. He watched his lip curl as he pulled off his coat. Took his shirt off next, eyes fixed on the sight in the mirror.
That tattoo still stood out, bright red and angry against skin that barely let the bruises he'd gotten show through. Under the filth and grime, under the smears of blood, that tattoo was right there, plain as day.
A chill ran down his spine. Something twisted in his guts, grabbed at the inside of his chest, left him gasping for air. Not him. Not him not him, but there he was, staring into the face of Apocalypse, and that burning hate was staring right back at him.
Jonothon didn't even think, just jolted back away from that mirror as though he'd been burned, grabbed for the doorknob, stumbled out of the bathroom and down the hallway. Air. He needed air. He was smothering in here, struggling for breath, and no matter how deeply he inhaled, he just couldn't catch it again. Stairs. Pushing past people staring in shock as he stumbled down the hallway, pushing through the door at the end and stepping out onto the roof. Cool air washed over him, hitting him full in the face as he stumbled toward the edge. He needed... he needed to...
It didn't ever stop. It never would. He was mutant not mutant human not human stripped bare and hollowed out and dead inside, so old, and whatever had taken his place, just waiting for the right moment to tear itself free and leave the shell of him behind... The world was better off without it.
He took another step toward the edge. Down below, the bustle of traffic, a million miles away from all of this, from a world where he had to hide in his own home, from a place where kids could become targets in the streets even when they weren't what it was that the world hated and feared so damn much any more.
He leaned forward. Took a breath. Everything hurt, inside and out, and it would just be so damn easy to...
"One hell of a view from up here, isn't it?"
Jono didn't glance at the man who had appeared on the roof beside him. Didn't so much as breathe a word in acknowledgement that he was suddenly not alone.
"Jonothon, is it? Or do you prefer Chamber?" The man waited a moment, and when Jonothon didn't answer, he pressed on, seemingly unbothered by the silence. "Jonothon, then. You're a difficult man to track down, did you know that? It's like you dropped clean off the radar months ago, and just now decided that you wanted to exist again. But then, given your history, I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. It seems like at any given point in time, there's always been somebody looking for you. Gayle. Emplate. Logan."
That got Jonothon to look. Briefly, long enough to realize that the man he was looking at was a man in costume.
He should have realized.
"I can use a man like you, Jonothon."
"I'm not interested. There's not a single sodding thing you could offer me that could make me interested. I told off Captain bloody Britain and let Xavier know where he could stuff it when somebody tried to recruit me to some super-team last. What in the world do you think you have to offer me that they don't?"
"Redemption."
Jonothon was silent for a long, long while. Night Thrasher stood beside him, silently, patiently waiting.
And then Jono eased back from the ledge.
"I'm listening."
[NFB for distance, and establishy, and based on Jono's personal account of how he joins the New Warriors in New Warriors Volume 4, Issue 9. Um. With some artistic liberties taken because so help me, this bit of canon is so handwavey I don't even. Whee?]