Osiris
Title: Osiris
Verse: 616, sometime after the amazingly bad makeover Chamber recieved courtesy of Apocalypse.
Characters: Apocajono. Erhm, I mean Jonothon Starsmore.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own Chamber, I just do horrible things to him sometimes.
Prompt: xmenflashfic: #44 "Supernatural"
Word Count: 'Bout 990
Jonothon was in a pub. The lighting was low, not for atmosphere but because several bulbs had burnt out or been broken and just never been replaced. The tabletops were scarred and glazed with years' worth of spills that had never been mopped up, and the floor may as well have been dirt. Jonothon had been to the loo once and personally considered it was not so much a bathroom as a back-alley abortion center.
The place was almost completely deserted, which was good - while having bizarre facial tattoos and a funky skin tone wasn’t as bad as spewing fire from your face, Jonothon still found he was the object of unwanted attention in public places. He found himself a table near the rear of the pub and sat nursing a pint, trying not to think about how until recently he couldn’t have enjoyed a pint at all. Trying not to wonder what had happened to people he cared about. Trying not to think about what his life was now. Trying not to. Think.
Period.
His attempts at not thinking were interrupted by a low, faintly accented voice. “I know what you are.”
Jonothon looked up through the tangles of his hair. “Sod. Off.”
The man standing in front of his table looked close to his own age, with darkly brown skin and hazel eyes. He was smiling serenely, a pint in either hand. Although he was dressed in jeans and a jacket, there was something about him that seemed far too exotic for a run-down pub in Leeds. Then again, Jonothon supposed that he was too exotic for a run-down pub in Leeds.
The stranger placed one of the glasses in front of Jonothon, and sat uninvited across from him.
Jonothon leaned forward on his elbows. “I don’t know what you think I am, mate,” he snarled, “but I can assure you that if you don’t take me advice and sod off right quickly, I will knock you flat on yer arse.”
The stranger didn’t look concerned. “You bear the mark of En Sabah Nur,” he said. “The one who now calls himself Apocalypse. A false god.” He took a sip of his own pint. “This is good,” he said.
Jonothon sat back. “Great,” he muttered. “Some other bloody cultist.”
The stranger smiled. His eyes glinted amber in the dim light. “No,” he said.
Jonothon shook his head and picked up the pint the man had placed in front of him. What the hell, his own was empty. He drank deeply and with relish, trying not to feel guilty for doing so. He put his glass down and let his eyes wander around the pub. There was nothing to see - the place was just a damp corner of despair, the same as all the others Jonothon had found himself in lately. He drummed his fingers on the table.
“Right,” he said at length. “I’m off.” He started to stand, and the stranger reached over and placed a hand on Jonothon’s wrist.
“You sad pervy-“ Jonothon started to say, but then he froze. The pub went silent, went dark. There was nothing in the world save the other man, who was smiling serenely at him once more.
“I know what you are,” the stranger repeated.
Jonothon swallowed, his throat suddenly too small. The blackness moved, making him feel dizzy, and he groped for a table that was no longer there. Then he was falling, the stranger’s hand still on his wrist...
He was on a table. Overheard was perfect white muslin, rippling gently. The air was hot and heavy and redolent with the scent of unfamiliar spices. Jonothon tried to move his head, but couldn’t. He tied to open his mouth, but failed.
Suddenly a figure leaned over him. The skin was rich brown, oiled and smooth. The head was covered with a huge, sleek black mask: the head of a jackal. In one hand the figure held a sharp knife.
“The lungs, liver, stomach and intestines are guarded by four Holy Sons,” the voice of the man from the pub informed him. “They have come that they may be your protection.”
The figure moved, and Jonothon felt cold metal kiss his flesh. It was a sensation he wasn’t exactly unused to, but considering that he wasn’t the one wielding the blade it filled him with naked panic. He tried to move, to scream, to thrash. His body remained still and he felt skin, tissue, muscle, yield and part. He howled, but no sound issued form his lips.
The jackal-masked figure cut up to Jonothon’s sternum. He then paused, and lifted his bloody hands. “The heart is the seat of the soul,” the same voice said serenely. “And so it is left in the body.
But you have no heart. What shall we take this to mean?”
I do have a heart, Jonothon tried to protest as the figure bent to his work once more. They gave me a new one. Twice, even!
But he could feel a terrible pulling sensation in his guts, could feel ropes of them sliding from their cradle fo flesh, and he fell into blackness once more.
He awoke in the pub violently, legs kicking out and eyes flying wide. He was alone, and drenched with cold sweat. Jonothon forced himself to stay still, lips flicking out to wet his lips. The pub was still filthy and all but deserted. Jonothon concentrated on breathing steadily, laughing shakily at the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing a little at how damp it was, and his eyes fell on the table.
Three pint glasses and a small card.
Jonothon reached out and picked it up, seeing that it was one of the collectible card-game sorts favoured by children. It was cheaply laminated and badly bent and depicted a green-skinned man rising from a sarcophagus set between two pillars in the middle of a desert at night.
Resurrection, read the caption.
“Bloody hell,” Jonothon muttered.
Verse: 616, sometime after the amazingly bad makeover Chamber recieved courtesy of Apocalypse.
Characters: Apocajono. Erhm, I mean Jonothon Starsmore.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own Chamber, I just do horrible things to him sometimes.
Prompt: xmenflashfic: #44 "Supernatural"
Word Count: 'Bout 990
Jonothon was in a pub. The lighting was low, not for atmosphere but because several bulbs had burnt out or been broken and just never been replaced. The tabletops were scarred and glazed with years' worth of spills that had never been mopped up, and the floor may as well have been dirt. Jonothon had been to the loo once and personally considered it was not so much a bathroom as a back-alley abortion center.
The place was almost completely deserted, which was good - while having bizarre facial tattoos and a funky skin tone wasn’t as bad as spewing fire from your face, Jonothon still found he was the object of unwanted attention in public places. He found himself a table near the rear of the pub and sat nursing a pint, trying not to think about how until recently he couldn’t have enjoyed a pint at all. Trying not to wonder what had happened to people he cared about. Trying not to think about what his life was now. Trying not to. Think.
Period.
His attempts at not thinking were interrupted by a low, faintly accented voice. “I know what you are.”
Jonothon looked up through the tangles of his hair. “Sod. Off.”
The man standing in front of his table looked close to his own age, with darkly brown skin and hazel eyes. He was smiling serenely, a pint in either hand. Although he was dressed in jeans and a jacket, there was something about him that seemed far too exotic for a run-down pub in Leeds. Then again, Jonothon supposed that he was too exotic for a run-down pub in Leeds.
The stranger placed one of the glasses in front of Jonothon, and sat uninvited across from him.
Jonothon leaned forward on his elbows. “I don’t know what you think I am, mate,” he snarled, “but I can assure you that if you don’t take me advice and sod off right quickly, I will knock you flat on yer arse.”
The stranger didn’t look concerned. “You bear the mark of En Sabah Nur,” he said. “The one who now calls himself Apocalypse. A false god.” He took a sip of his own pint. “This is good,” he said.
Jonothon sat back. “Great,” he muttered. “Some other bloody cultist.”
The stranger smiled. His eyes glinted amber in the dim light. “No,” he said.
Jonothon shook his head and picked up the pint the man had placed in front of him. What the hell, his own was empty. He drank deeply and with relish, trying not to feel guilty for doing so. He put his glass down and let his eyes wander around the pub. There was nothing to see - the place was just a damp corner of despair, the same as all the others Jonothon had found himself in lately. He drummed his fingers on the table.
“Right,” he said at length. “I’m off.” He started to stand, and the stranger reached over and placed a hand on Jonothon’s wrist.
“You sad pervy-“ Jonothon started to say, but then he froze. The pub went silent, went dark. There was nothing in the world save the other man, who was smiling serenely at him once more.
“I know what you are,” the stranger repeated.
Jonothon swallowed, his throat suddenly too small. The blackness moved, making him feel dizzy, and he groped for a table that was no longer there. Then he was falling, the stranger’s hand still on his wrist...
He was on a table. Overheard was perfect white muslin, rippling gently. The air was hot and heavy and redolent with the scent of unfamiliar spices. Jonothon tried to move his head, but couldn’t. He tied to open his mouth, but failed.
Suddenly a figure leaned over him. The skin was rich brown, oiled and smooth. The head was covered with a huge, sleek black mask: the head of a jackal. In one hand the figure held a sharp knife.
“The lungs, liver, stomach and intestines are guarded by four Holy Sons,” the voice of the man from the pub informed him. “They have come that they may be your protection.”
The figure moved, and Jonothon felt cold metal kiss his flesh. It was a sensation he wasn’t exactly unused to, but considering that he wasn’t the one wielding the blade it filled him with naked panic. He tried to move, to scream, to thrash. His body remained still and he felt skin, tissue, muscle, yield and part. He howled, but no sound issued form his lips.
The jackal-masked figure cut up to Jonothon’s sternum. He then paused, and lifted his bloody hands. “The heart is the seat of the soul,” the same voice said serenely. “And so it is left in the body.
But you have no heart. What shall we take this to mean?”
I do have a heart, Jonothon tried to protest as the figure bent to his work once more. They gave me a new one. Twice, even!
But he could feel a terrible pulling sensation in his guts, could feel ropes of them sliding from their cradle fo flesh, and he fell into blackness once more.
He awoke in the pub violently, legs kicking out and eyes flying wide. He was alone, and drenched with cold sweat. Jonothon forced himself to stay still, lips flicking out to wet his lips. The pub was still filthy and all but deserted. Jonothon concentrated on breathing steadily, laughing shakily at the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing a little at how damp it was, and his eyes fell on the table.
Three pint glasses and a small card.
Jonothon reached out and picked it up, seeing that it was one of the collectible card-game sorts favoured by children. It was cheaply laminated and badly bent and depicted a green-skinned man rising from a sarcophagus set between two pillars in the middle of a desert at night.
Resurrection, read the caption.
“Bloody hell,” Jonothon muttered.