Lost Things, and People Too (X-Factor)
Title: Lost Things, And People Too
Fandom: Marvel (X-Factor)
Warnings: Mentions suicidal thoughts, but nothing else.
Wordcount: 1,141
Summary: They're not special, but they've all lost something defining, and that's what brings them together.
Notes: It's not said outright who's in this, but anyone familiar with the series or even my fanfiction for it should know easily. Ask if you're confused. No real spoilers for anything.
Lost Things, And People Too
They don't give out real names, and if they see a familiar face they don't recognise its owner. When pressed to explain what they did with their time together, they give a standard throwaway answer. They meet every other week in back rooms or in places they would not be sought. They don't ask questions when one of their number isn't there. They don't ask questions when someone new shows up. They're not special, but they've all lost something defining, and that's what brings them together.
They're in an empty lot today. It was Miranda's turn to bring the beer, since they aren't somewhere that sold drinks, so she carries around a basket and everyone comes up at odd intervals to relieve her of another bottle, another can. She's got a job, one of the few who does, so she gets refreshment duty a lot. She doesn't mind. For some of these people, it's one of the few things they've got to look forward to. She smiles when they approach and makes inane comments, and sometimes they smile back.
"Thanks," says one of the new guys. They got two in as many meetings, after a dry spell; this one came first. He's got a weird accent, not one Miranda can identify, and not what she would expect from a guy who calls himself Juan. But he talks, as she's seen for the past couple of meetings - not a lot, but more than most. He brought drinks last time.
"My pleasure." Miranda smiles at him, like she smiles at everyone, but he doesn't return it. He does stay put, so she goes on to ask, "How's your life treating you?"
He looks surprised at the question, although it may be merited; none of the people here have particularly good lives. "Like shit. So no change. What about you?"
It's a toss-up, whether he cares or not how she answers. Not everyone comes here to care. But they do come here for solidarity, and maybe she'll have something in common with a stranger after all. That's why she comes, instead of keeping the money for herself, instead of keeping her evenings or afternoons or lunch breaks free. "I'm getting a divorce," she says. "My husband doesn't get it. He thinks this is a good thing to have happened to me. To us."
"They always do," Juan says, bitterly. So bitterly, in fact, that Miranda has to wonder if he was in a similar situation. Or maybe he's just seen one too many. "Even the ones who still have it."
"Not too many of them here," Miranda comments. Not since the great power outage a few years back has she seen anyone who still 'has it'. They're all in New York and now San Francisco, she hears. No one cares about Detroit or its dying auto industry, and she can't blame anyone for leaving. She would get out too, if she could. She switches the drink basket from one arm to the other, and sits down on one of the crates they dragged into the lot for the meeting. "And you would know...?"
Juan crosses his arms, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "I've got a friend who didn't lose hers."
"Ouch," says Miranda. "Do you talk much anymore?"
"Not really," Juan admits, like it's a guilty secret. "Only when I have to." He takes a swig from the bottle in one hand, and closes his eyes for a moment as he swallows. His arm is bruised, and there's some faint scarring around his wrist Miranda hadn't noticed before. "The people I work with don't really get it either."
Asking what he does would be against the unspoken rules. Miranda uncaps a beer for herself instead. "There aren't very many people who do," she says, once she's taken a drink.
"If they did, we wouldn't be here." Juan shakes his head, drinks from his bottle, and looks up. It's just uniform buildings around them, and a grey cloudy sky, so he's probably not looking at anything at all. "You know, I met someone who said he could fix me. Make it work again."
The obvious question - did it work? - seems also obviously answered. "What a low guy," Miranda says, shaking her head. "Why would anyone do that?"
"Because it worked," Juan replies. "Just not very well. A lot of people who tried it, maybe all of them, it backfired on them." He looks down, at his hands and the bottle between them, and Miranda gets the impression that she's missing several important parts of the story. That's the price of anonymity, of course. Juan, meanwhile, is peeling the label off of his beer bottle. "I would've gone for it anyway. I was about to. But in the end I didn't."
"What changed your mind?"
He looks up at Miranda, jaw clenched. "He tried to kill some kid I knew. There are some lines you just don't cross." He drinks again from his now-bare beer bottle. "Who knows if it would've worked properly anyway. It could've killed me, even."
He says this just as bitterly as everything else he's said, and Miranda can't help but remember that first night she realised she would really never fly again. She'd been halfway up the last flight of stairs, wondering if it would be worth climbing up to the top. It had been a gusty sort of night. One wrong step and the elements could have taken her and finish the job started with the loss of her greatest ability.
She didn't go through with it, and she's happy she didn't. Usually. But sometimes she doesn't take the care she could, walking home at night, not using the seatbelt in Bryan's car. Tempting fate. Juan sounds like he might be tempting fate, too. Then again -- to fly again, she'd risk her life in a heartbeat. Any of the people here would do the same, for their respective former abilities. None of them are anything special, but they used to be, and no one will forget that. Bryan might, and he might wonder why she's grown so sick of him lately. Juan's friend and his coworkers might not understand why he's such a shadow of his former self. The families and friends of everyone here might never know the meaning of becoming one of them, but the people here will never know anything else ever again.
In Juan she sees a man who knows this. He must see them all as she does, victims of an act of God but also of themselves. He must wish for something he could do, as she does.
But the truth of the matter is, there's nothing either Juan or Miranda can do but bring drinks on alternating weeks. What they have lost is gone forever.
Fandom: Marvel (X-Factor)
Warnings: Mentions suicidal thoughts, but nothing else.
Wordcount: 1,141
Summary: They're not special, but they've all lost something defining, and that's what brings them together.
Notes: It's not said outright who's in this, but anyone familiar with the series or even my fanfiction for it should know easily. Ask if you're confused. No real spoilers for anything.
Lost Things, And People Too
They don't give out real names, and if they see a familiar face they don't recognise its owner. When pressed to explain what they did with their time together, they give a standard throwaway answer. They meet every other week in back rooms or in places they would not be sought. They don't ask questions when one of their number isn't there. They don't ask questions when someone new shows up. They're not special, but they've all lost something defining, and that's what brings them together.
They're in an empty lot today. It was Miranda's turn to bring the beer, since they aren't somewhere that sold drinks, so she carries around a basket and everyone comes up at odd intervals to relieve her of another bottle, another can. She's got a job, one of the few who does, so she gets refreshment duty a lot. She doesn't mind. For some of these people, it's one of the few things they've got to look forward to. She smiles when they approach and makes inane comments, and sometimes they smile back.
"Thanks," says one of the new guys. They got two in as many meetings, after a dry spell; this one came first. He's got a weird accent, not one Miranda can identify, and not what she would expect from a guy who calls himself Juan. But he talks, as she's seen for the past couple of meetings - not a lot, but more than most. He brought drinks last time.
"My pleasure." Miranda smiles at him, like she smiles at everyone, but he doesn't return it. He does stay put, so she goes on to ask, "How's your life treating you?"
He looks surprised at the question, although it may be merited; none of the people here have particularly good lives. "Like shit. So no change. What about you?"
It's a toss-up, whether he cares or not how she answers. Not everyone comes here to care. But they do come here for solidarity, and maybe she'll have something in common with a stranger after all. That's why she comes, instead of keeping the money for herself, instead of keeping her evenings or afternoons or lunch breaks free. "I'm getting a divorce," she says. "My husband doesn't get it. He thinks this is a good thing to have happened to me. To us."
"They always do," Juan says, bitterly. So bitterly, in fact, that Miranda has to wonder if he was in a similar situation. Or maybe he's just seen one too many. "Even the ones who still have it."
"Not too many of them here," Miranda comments. Not since the great power outage a few years back has she seen anyone who still 'has it'. They're all in New York and now San Francisco, she hears. No one cares about Detroit or its dying auto industry, and she can't blame anyone for leaving. She would get out too, if she could. She switches the drink basket from one arm to the other, and sits down on one of the crates they dragged into the lot for the meeting. "And you would know...?"
Juan crosses his arms, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "I've got a friend who didn't lose hers."
"Ouch," says Miranda. "Do you talk much anymore?"
"Not really," Juan admits, like it's a guilty secret. "Only when I have to." He takes a swig from the bottle in one hand, and closes his eyes for a moment as he swallows. His arm is bruised, and there's some faint scarring around his wrist Miranda hadn't noticed before. "The people I work with don't really get it either."
Asking what he does would be against the unspoken rules. Miranda uncaps a beer for herself instead. "There aren't very many people who do," she says, once she's taken a drink.
"If they did, we wouldn't be here." Juan shakes his head, drinks from his bottle, and looks up. It's just uniform buildings around them, and a grey cloudy sky, so he's probably not looking at anything at all. "You know, I met someone who said he could fix me. Make it work again."
The obvious question - did it work? - seems also obviously answered. "What a low guy," Miranda says, shaking her head. "Why would anyone do that?"
"Because it worked," Juan replies. "Just not very well. A lot of people who tried it, maybe all of them, it backfired on them." He looks down, at his hands and the bottle between them, and Miranda gets the impression that she's missing several important parts of the story. That's the price of anonymity, of course. Juan, meanwhile, is peeling the label off of his beer bottle. "I would've gone for it anyway. I was about to. But in the end I didn't."
"What changed your mind?"
He looks up at Miranda, jaw clenched. "He tried to kill some kid I knew. There are some lines you just don't cross." He drinks again from his now-bare beer bottle. "Who knows if it would've worked properly anyway. It could've killed me, even."
He says this just as bitterly as everything else he's said, and Miranda can't help but remember that first night she realised she would really never fly again. She'd been halfway up the last flight of stairs, wondering if it would be worth climbing up to the top. It had been a gusty sort of night. One wrong step and the elements could have taken her and finish the job started with the loss of her greatest ability.
She didn't go through with it, and she's happy she didn't. Usually. But sometimes she doesn't take the care she could, walking home at night, not using the seatbelt in Bryan's car. Tempting fate. Juan sounds like he might be tempting fate, too. Then again -- to fly again, she'd risk her life in a heartbeat. Any of the people here would do the same, for their respective former abilities. None of them are anything special, but they used to be, and no one will forget that. Bryan might, and he might wonder why she's grown so sick of him lately. Juan's friend and his coworkers might not understand why he's such a shadow of his former self. The families and friends of everyone here might never know the meaning of becoming one of them, but the people here will never know anything else ever again.
In Juan she sees a man who knows this. He must see them all as she does, victims of an act of God but also of themselves. He must wish for something he could do, as she does.
But the truth of the matter is, there's nothing either Juan or Miranda can do but bring drinks on alternating weeks. What they have lost is gone forever.