[debut] welcome to rapture
The sky is gone.
For a moment, Charles Xavier wonders if he isn't just seeing things. His head is throbbing, the lingering psychic pain of Shaw's murder forgotten for the more immediate shock of Erik's fist striking Charles' own face. When the world shifts before his very eyes from the cheerful blue of the Caribbean sky to the grim grey of unwashed bathroom tile, hallucination seems as likely an explanation for the turn of events as any other -- even to 'Professor X,' a man used to the impossible. (It's a ridiculous name, whimsical and childish, but it's the last thing on his mind.) The beach has disappeared, as have the missiles, the Americans, the Soviets, his fellow mutants. There's nothing except for the tinny sound of music in the background and the steady drip of water. He's alone. Stifling a groan, he rolls onto his side, and pulls himself onto his hands and knees. If nothing else, the rest of his body seems to be in working order, adrenaline, in this instance, as powerful a force as any mutation.
The floor beneath him is dirty, bathed in a flickering yellow light whose source draws Charles' attention, though not for long. There are more important matters to concern himself with, the cause for his displacement chief among them. Quickly gathering his wits, it occurs to him that Azazel is a likely candidate, but there's no telltale smell of sulphur, and his motives would be murky at best. (While the removal of Charles from the equation makes a certain amount of sense, given that he's the only left who stands a chance at stopping Erik, bringing him here, of all places, is a different matter entirely.)
Wasting no time in getting to his feet, Charles presses two fingers to his temple, reaching out with his mind for answers, but is greeted with the same void that so plagued his efforts earlier. Wherever he is, it's enough to set his every nerve on edge, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up on end, his heart pounding in his ears. With a frustrated sigh, his hand drops back down to his side, and he takes a halting step forward, his foot catching against the edge of what he discovers to be a wrench . (If someone's been doing repairs, he thinks, they might be doing a better job; one of the sinks has been dislodged from the wall, and the light fixture that caught his interest before is barely hanging onto the ceiling.) There's a shotgun, too, and ammo, but it's the radio box he ultimately grabs, its design unfamiliar, yet intuitive, like something Hank might've thought up. (But Hank's not here, as absent as Erik and the rest.)
Testing the weight of it in his hand, Charles can't help but feel as though his presence was expected, if not by him, then by whoever it is that brought him here. Just as he's about to attempt communication, however, he hears movement, adding to the sense of unease. His head jerks up at the noise, and a man darts into view from one of the stalls -- if he's even a man at all. With tattered, bloodstained clothes and a ghoulish visage, he looks more monster than anything else, and before Charles can so much raise his voice in greeting (or, perhaps, warning), the man starts after him with unexpected speed, wielding a curved length of pipe that could do considerable more damage to his skull than Erik's fist.
"Please, I mean you no harm," says Charles, eyes wide as he ducks out of the way, scrambling backwards all the while. He's traded one fight for another, the scale incomparable, but still dangerous in its way -- particularly in regards to his own life. "My name is Charles--"
"Leave me alone!" yells the man, taking another swing, and with his powers inexplicably failing him, Charles has no choice but to switch out the radio for the wrench, throwing himself onto the ground to reach for it, and rolling up just in time to stop the man's latest strike, metal clanging against metal.
In spite of their so recently demonstrated differences, Charles can't help but wish Erik were here.
For a moment, Charles Xavier wonders if he isn't just seeing things. His head is throbbing, the lingering psychic pain of Shaw's murder forgotten for the more immediate shock of Erik's fist striking Charles' own face. When the world shifts before his very eyes from the cheerful blue of the Caribbean sky to the grim grey of unwashed bathroom tile, hallucination seems as likely an explanation for the turn of events as any other -- even to 'Professor X,' a man used to the impossible. (It's a ridiculous name, whimsical and childish, but it's the last thing on his mind.) The beach has disappeared, as have the missiles, the Americans, the Soviets, his fellow mutants. There's nothing except for the tinny sound of music in the background and the steady drip of water. He's alone. Stifling a groan, he rolls onto his side, and pulls himself onto his hands and knees. If nothing else, the rest of his body seems to be in working order, adrenaline, in this instance, as powerful a force as any mutation.
The floor beneath him is dirty, bathed in a flickering yellow light whose source draws Charles' attention, though not for long. There are more important matters to concern himself with, the cause for his displacement chief among them. Quickly gathering his wits, it occurs to him that Azazel is a likely candidate, but there's no telltale smell of sulphur, and his motives would be murky at best. (While the removal of Charles from the equation makes a certain amount of sense, given that he's the only left who stands a chance at stopping Erik, bringing him here, of all places, is a different matter entirely.)
Wasting no time in getting to his feet, Charles presses two fingers to his temple, reaching out with his mind for answers, but is greeted with the same void that so plagued his efforts earlier. Wherever he is, it's enough to set his every nerve on edge, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up on end, his heart pounding in his ears. With a frustrated sigh, his hand drops back down to his side, and he takes a halting step forward, his foot catching against the edge of what he discovers to be a wrench . (If someone's been doing repairs, he thinks, they might be doing a better job; one of the sinks has been dislodged from the wall, and the light fixture that caught his interest before is barely hanging onto the ceiling.) There's a shotgun, too, and ammo, but it's the radio box he ultimately grabs, its design unfamiliar, yet intuitive, like something Hank might've thought up. (But Hank's not here, as absent as Erik and the rest.)
Testing the weight of it in his hand, Charles can't help but feel as though his presence was expected, if not by him, then by whoever it is that brought him here. Just as he's about to attempt communication, however, he hears movement, adding to the sense of unease. His head jerks up at the noise, and a man darts into view from one of the stalls -- if he's even a man at all. With tattered, bloodstained clothes and a ghoulish visage, he looks more monster than anything else, and before Charles can so much raise his voice in greeting (or, perhaps, warning), the man starts after him with unexpected speed, wielding a curved length of pipe that could do considerable more damage to his skull than Erik's fist.
"Please, I mean you no harm," says Charles, eyes wide as he ducks out of the way, scrambling backwards all the while. He's traded one fight for another, the scale incomparable, but still dangerous in its way -- particularly in regards to his own life. "My name is Charles--"
"Leave me alone!" yells the man, taking another swing, and with his powers inexplicably failing him, Charles has no choice but to switch out the radio for the wrench, throwing himself onto the ground to reach for it, and rolling up just in time to stop the man's latest strike, metal clanging against metal.
In spite of their so recently demonstrated differences, Charles can't help but wish Erik were here.