Ficlet: Most Wanted
Most Wanted
When the phone rings, Scott is in his office, staring at the desk in the same listless, lifeless way that permeates his every action lately. Shaking himself to regain at least some amount of the professionalism his student's parent's rightfully expect of him, even if faked, he picks up the receiver.
"Xavier's School for the Gifted, Scott Summers?"
There is a second's pause at the other end, then
"Scott, it's John. I'm in some town in the middle of nowhere. Oak Ridge, North Carolina."
Another pause, then the sound of someone taking a deep breath. "Can you come get me?"
*
The caller’s identity and the nature of the request is not something Scott’s numbed, grief-stricken mind can instantly process. He hasn't dared hope for this, has watched his students religiously scan the Boston Gazette, watched them hope and wait for this, watched them lose hope one by one as another and then another week came and went. In the almost forgotten non-Jean compartment of his heart, he hasn't expected to ever hear from this particular teen again, has expected the loss of security to be too much to ever give the school as well as Scott himself a second chance.
*
"Of course," he says after what he hopes has not been a lengthy pause. Slightly bemused at hearing his voice convert to a bleak version of the Cyclops mode both he and most residents of the Mansion presently have deemed irrevocably lost, he asks, "Are you in trouble?"
A quiet snort. "What, is that a condition?"
"No, just inquiring whether I need to take the jet or break any speed laws."
There is relief and a trace of humour in the second snort on the other end. "I'm fine. I'll just sit here by this town square fountain and wait."
*
Left arm already reaching for a map to plan the trip, a sharper note enters Scott’s voice. Though St John's tone has been light, youth and teacher both know a bit too much for comfort about wishing and waiting for things that never happen. "I'll be on the road in eight minutes, John," and he waits for the closest thing to an affirmative sound he's going to get out of his neglected and dispirited advanced maths class' most wanted pyromaniac before he hangs up the phone.
When the car leaves the school premises, it's been seven minutes and eighteen seconds.
*
Some day, a third part will exist.
Oh, and according to open office, each of the smaller parts is exactly 100 words. Which I'm proud of.
ETA: Continued here
When the phone rings, Scott is in his office, staring at the desk in the same listless, lifeless way that permeates his every action lately. Shaking himself to regain at least some amount of the professionalism his student's parent's rightfully expect of him, even if faked, he picks up the receiver.
"Xavier's School for the Gifted, Scott Summers?"
There is a second's pause at the other end, then
"Scott, it's John. I'm in some town in the middle of nowhere. Oak Ridge, North Carolina."
Another pause, then the sound of someone taking a deep breath. "Can you come get me?"
*
The caller’s identity and the nature of the request is not something Scott’s numbed, grief-stricken mind can instantly process. He hasn't dared hope for this, has watched his students religiously scan the Boston Gazette, watched them hope and wait for this, watched them lose hope one by one as another and then another week came and went. In the almost forgotten non-Jean compartment of his heart, he hasn't expected to ever hear from this particular teen again, has expected the loss of security to be too much to ever give the school as well as Scott himself a second chance.
*
"Of course," he says after what he hopes has not been a lengthy pause. Slightly bemused at hearing his voice convert to a bleak version of the Cyclops mode both he and most residents of the Mansion presently have deemed irrevocably lost, he asks, "Are you in trouble?"
A quiet snort. "What, is that a condition?"
"No, just inquiring whether I need to take the jet or break any speed laws."
There is relief and a trace of humour in the second snort on the other end. "I'm fine. I'll just sit here by this town square fountain and wait."
*
Left arm already reaching for a map to plan the trip, a sharper note enters Scott’s voice. Though St John's tone has been light, youth and teacher both know a bit too much for comfort about wishing and waiting for things that never happen. "I'll be on the road in eight minutes, John," and he waits for the closest thing to an affirmative sound he's going to get out of his neglected and dispirited advanced maths class' most wanted pyromaniac before he hangs up the phone.
When the car leaves the school premises, it's been seven minutes and eighteen seconds.
*
Some day, a third part will exist.
Oh, and according to open office, each of the smaller parts is exactly 100 words. Which I'm proud of.
ETA: Continued here