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| Double Hollow Less; (Longshot WwX/XMR swap) | |
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| Topic Started: Mar 4 2010, 02:20 AM (585 Views) | |
| Longshot | Mar 4 2010, 02:20 AM Post #1 |
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Probability, Psychometry, Cloned Origin, Empathic Charisma
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February 19th Late night There were pretty girls in his bed tonight and he was enjoying it immensely. Longshot's rooms in the HFC were strangely decorated. His bed was the focal point of the room, a california king, four poster, with black silk sheets and a mattress so soft one could get lost in it. The rest of the furniture was old, and expensive, some chairs around a small glass topped table, a gorgeous carved fireplace with a roaring fire in it to keep away the February chill. Four long thin windows from floor to ceiling showed the city beyond, but he had long black curtains hiding it tonight because he wanted the prettiness of the girls to shine. The oddness lie in the collection of junk that scattered around the room, not dirty, but arranged in a way only he understood. Toys, next to weapons, next to gems, next to tin cans. He knew what it meant, he knew what each story was and that was why he kept these, to fill the gaps in his memory that had been burnt open by the Phoenix, or purposely torn away by his creators. And in a place of honor on the wall, separated from everything was a painting, a simple landscape, painted in a delicate hand, signed with a name that almost meant nothing to him anymore. Arthur Centino. His donor, the long dead Genoshan art student, had painted it and Alix, his savior, had tracked it down, buying it for him so that some day he might remember. It was the only story in this whole room, he hadn't read. Tonight, he reclined, half prone on his bed, propped up by a dozen soft black pillows, dressed in nothing but black satin pajama pants, his long hair tied back in a matching ribbon, while two beautiful pawns, gorgeous girls dressed in paint, glitter and domino masks played sweet games in front of him. He sipped Chteau Margaux 1995, a blackberry based wine so dark it was almost black, and now and then called out instructions for the pretty pretty games. Life was good, life was perfect. "Pull her hair," Longshot ordered, "She's got such pretty hair" Flicker His hearts beat odd... one... one seemed wrong, and his body seemed too heavy, too weak... the soothing darkness was replaced by white walls, white light.... Flicker The girls were kneeling in front of him. "Sir, are you ok?" One said, stroking his face, "You went blank for a moment." "What's happening?" Longshot whispered, his eyes wide, one filling with golden light. "Something's wrong, I can feel it. I'm losing..." Flicker The Black Knight's eyes blinked and filled with a soft glaze that spoke of drugged confusion. His head lolled like someone who was unused to his body. "I feel light... why... it's so dark..." His words were slurred. "Am I still... Flicker Longshot skittered backwards on the bed, forcing himself into a more upright position. "I can't move, I'm so heavy, I'm so..." Flicker He looked around, slowly, painfully, and he whispered, "Did I... did I finally die? Did they finally kill me?" The light in his eye winked out. One pawn reached out to touch him and said, "Dear Knight? Do you... do you know where you are? Who you are?" The pretty youth blinked at her with sleepy blue eyed disconnection, "My name's Arthur and I'm at the hospital, aren't I?" The pawns were suddenly no longer mere playthings. To be a pawn in the HFC was to be more than just pretty. You had to be smart, you had to be clever, you had to be competent. One girl was suddenly throwing her robe over her smeared paint and glitter. "I'll get the King." She sprinted from the room, her ability being ones that told her the location of anything she concentrated on. The other pawn took the confused knight's hand, "Lay back, Arthur. We'll take care of you." He did so, obediently, "I've been laying still for so long..." he murmured, "Since they killed me..." his eyelids began to flutter closed, "It's nice to move again" ***** Somewhere, somewhere else, Longshot forced his eyes open, and tried to move his limbs. He felt heavy, so heavy, so weak, his arms unable to push him up, his legs trembling when he tried to move. "What..." he whispered, "What happened to me..." the effort of speaking made him wheeze and his voice was hoarse, his throat unused to making sound. Someone had put him somewhere, someone had locked him up... He rolled over, and crumpled out of the bed, hitting the floor hard, with a substantial thump, too loud for his normal weight. He put his hands out to push himself up, and he froze. His hands. He had five fingers. "No..." he whispered, staring at his hands. He saw then that there was a band on his wrist. It told him what he was afraid to know. "I'm Arthur..." he murmured, "I'm Arthur..." Then, exhaustion and weakness took him, and on the floor of another man's room in another man's world, Longshot fainted. |
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| Max_Coleridge | Mar 5 2010, 10:23 PM Post #2 |
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Darkforce Manipulation, Teleportation
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The lower levels of the Hellfire Club hold many hidden place, catering to vices not satisfied by the gambling, drugs, and endless varieties of sexual pleasure, of the floors above. Beneath the massive Hellfire Pleasure Palace is a jungle; created by plant manipulators and heated by steam vents, the gymnasium-sized room looked and felt like a sweltering primordial jungle. Sweat slid down Max’s oiled skin as he waited, listening for the tale-tell markers: breathing, the rustle of leaves, or the absence of an expected sound. His senses weren’t as keen as a feral’s but training sessions with Kraven had honed his remaining senses and skills to their peak. He bowed his head and listened for the three others; all of them hunters and hunted, naked and sweating in the impossible jungle under the streets. Kraven was not among them, for obvious reasons - he was too good. To his right, a bird squawked and took flight. Seizing the opportunity of the noise, Max leapt silently to the foliage covered floor and darted into the thick undergrowth. Sulking in a half-crouch, Max used his memory to lead to where he heard a noise before. “My king!” a woman had wailed in panic. “My king!” He burst from the undergrowth, his arms out-stretched to grapple. The Pawn shrieked in surprise as he caught her and they collapsed to the jungle floor. Too caught up in the hunt, he forgot that a world still existed beyond this small jungle – the Hunt and the orgy of sex afterward. Looking down at the frightened Pawn beneath him, his “Well” was a harsh bark. “Sir,” she began breathlessly, “it’s Longshot, we… we think he had a mental breakdown or his mind is being attacked somehow. He’s in his room,” there was more she wanted to say, if only to prolong the feel of him on top of her, but the Black King was already moving. A swirling abyss of darkness opened in Longshot’s chambers and Max strode out, tying the sash of a black silk robe around his waist. He expected to find Longshot painting the walls with blood; instead, he was sitting blankly, looking like a lost child. And most importantly, there was no flicker of recognition in his eyes to Max’s presence. Max brought a small communicator out of his robe pocket. “Control, alert the guards for an impending attack. Contact all resident mentalists, have them search for any mental waves that could be affecting Longshot. I want our best brought to his chambers.” “Longshot,” he said, putting away the device and standing his knight’s line of sight, “do you see me? Answer me.” |
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| Betsy Braddock | Mar 5 2010, 11:44 PM Post #3 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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Since the White King had returned home for a well earned break, Betsy had naturally taken to running her Court with relative ease. She had taken duties on for the King before, but he had always been in the Club then…Or workshop at least. No, this break would do him good, she was sure of it. Having finished her courtly duties for that night, the White Queen was now mingling with the masses, a cocktail neatly in her hand as she applied all the social graces she had, meeting patrons and making sure they were all happy. It was the Pleasure Club after all, if you didn’t enjoy yourself then obviously something was not right. About to step on to the dance floor, Betsy found an urgent but polite hand gripping hold of her elbow, coupled with an intense sense of urgency surrounding the Pawn who had took hold of her. Turning her head, a small frown on her face, she sidestepped out of the way of some tepid popstar who was making their wobbly little way for another drink. “Orders of the Black King, my Queen. If you might come with me?” he nodded, an urgency in his words and thought patterns that immediately brought a prickle of concern to her and she nodded to him, withdrawing quickly from the public room, through a side door and into a quieter, private corridor. “My Queen, something seems to have happened to Longshot, it’s possible there is some sort of mental attack effecting him, the Black King -” Holding up her hand to silence him, Betsy motioned for him to simply lead on, utilizing her powers, scanning the Club. It did not seem that there was anything attacking, she had sensed nothing that evening, no prickling feeling of a hostile power, waiting to slide in and damage the Club. Her concern grew for the Black Knight as they approached his room and she hurried through the door, looking to Max for one moment, before kneeling besides the darling clone, her bright blue evening gown gathering over her knees. Reaching out, she placed a slender, pale hand on the clone’s. “Max, what’s wrong with him?” she asked, although she did not expect an answer, it was simply more a statement of disbelief. The Knight was staring, blankly into some unseen space, his gaze unnerving and totally out of his character. Reaching into his mind she found…Well, not him. There was a mind there but it did not fit, at all, in the head of Longshot, in the literal sense. It felt wrong, after years of being able to read minds, she knew when all was well and all was not, and things were certainly not well with him. “His mind…It doesn’t fit,” she voiced, the pink butterfly that was her signature glowing around her eyes as she focused on the face of the clone, concern building. |
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| Longshot | Mar 6 2010, 12:25 AM Post #4 |
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Probability, Psychometry, Cloned Origin, Empathic Charisma
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One of the pretty girls had run away to get a king, and the other girl stayed, brushing his long hair... why was his hair so long? He wore it short because he was in school, he was... no, wait, that was a long time ago. School ended when the Mutants rioted, and he was trapped in New York, Genosha wouldn't let him back, not during the war, not after... then there was the attack, and then there was the hospital... ... and then there was here... A sound of whispers filled the room, and the girl stopped her restless caressing. He opened his eyes, and watched shadows become a man, barely dressed but carrying a majesty about him. This was a king, Arthur knew it, because the girls, the pretty soft painted girls, bowed to him. Arthur watched, blankly, wondering why this story was playing out before him, why these people were here, why he was here... The man said nonsense that meant as much as the distant call of doctors, who sometimes spoke about him as if it was his mind that didn't work instead of his body, and then he looked at him with weird black eyes, and said, "Longshot,” he said, putting away the device and standing his knight’s line of sight, “do you see me? Answer me.” "Lon--" Arthur's voice was still thick with disuse, but it was getting stronger, as his mind slowly recognized that this body had begun to function again. "Is... is that a New Name? We aren't allowed to take New Names. Genoshan law..." His hand fluttered to his mouth, butterfly like in its movements. "Is this Jus Soli?" The shock made his eyes widen, his expression freeze. A woman entered then, dressed richly, purple hair. She called the King, Max, which meant she was probably a queen because no one calls royalty by their given name, never in any fairy tale he ever heard. She spoke, but not to him, even though she took his hand gently. A butterfly of light appeared around her eyes and she said more somethings about him. "I don't understand..." he said, quietly, "Where's the doctors? Where's the girl who plays with me and talks to me?" He looked down at where the pretty queen held his hand and something was wrong. Arthur pulled his hand out from under hers, and he cried out. His hands were disfigured. One of his fingers... he had been mutilated. These people had done something to his hands. Scrambling backwards, he slipped on the silk of the sheets, moving too uneasy in his body, out of control of his limbs. There was no weight to him, there was nothing holding him to the ground. He slipped off the end of the bed, landing on legs that seemed unable to support how much a man should weigh, he was a man, he wasn't the boy who had been attacked. Clinging to the four poster with hands that should hurt in their mutilation, but didn't, Arthur said, "I followed the rules, I followed the rules. I was hurt. It's not my fault..." His head spun, "Please, take me back to the hospital... please. I don't belong h..." He looked around the room and saw the painting on the wall. "That's mine..." Arthur crossed the room, moving like an infant learning to walk, too fast and too out of control. He put his hands on the picture, and said, "I painted this, I painted this. Where did you get this?" |
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| Max_Coleridge | Mar 10 2010, 01:22 AM Post #5 |
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Darkforce Manipulation, Teleportation
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Max watched the wretched creature on the bed, cringing and flustered. Clearly, it was Longshot in body but not in mind. Something or someone had gotten to the Black Knight and jumbled his mind. He didn’t answer Betsy’s question as she ran into room and went to Longshot’s bedside. Helplessly, he watched as the ephemeral purple butterfly image manifested around Betsy’s eyes like mask then flutter to Longshot’s mind. He could only guess at what she was seeing in the young clone’s mind. “His mind…It doesn’t fit,” she turned and gazed at him with wide eyes. The revelation sent Longshot into a new flurry of hysteria. Max hurried rushed forward but hesitated when Longshot clung to the bedposts, cringing and pleading over and over that ‘he followed the rules’. He listened intently as a new flood of information poured from the knight in his strange fit – Genosha, New Names, a hospital, the horror on his face when he saw his inhuman hands, but it was Longshot’s claim on the picture, that sealed Max’s conclusions. “That’s Arthur’s mind,” he told Betsy has he slowly crossed to Longshot, advancing on the confused clone as he would a frightened animal. “The rambling thoughts are Arthur’s trying to resurface. I see at least three possibilities,” he continued, knowing it would be gibberish to ‘Arthur’ but Betsy would be able to understand: “Someone has discovered a way to remotely activate his donor’s dormant personality; the doctor deliberately implanted some kind of trigger to make the donor personality surface; or… this is a genuine flaw.” Finally, Max stood before the hysterical clone and addressed him. He had watched stoically as Longshot had tottered and swayed his way to the wall; it had been gut-wrenching, Max had failed Maria and Longshot was crumbling before him. “Yes… you painted that; it’s very beautiful. It was a gift, … Arthur,” he said, deliberately using the donor’s name although Longshot would hate it. “I know you’ve been following the rules,” Max went on as he processed the young man’s ramblings, “if you want to keep following the rules, you must go back to the bed.” He took the young man’s elbow and steered him back to the bed lest he fall. “Regardless of the cause,” he said, addressing Betsy, as though the conversation with Longshot hadn’t happened, “we must send a team of scientists to Mojo’s island to comb through the doctor’s files and find an answer.” He turned his face to Betsy, “I suggest you take precautions regarding Shatterstar’s mind as soon as possible,” then turned back to Longshot. “What do you suggest about his mind? Is he safe to leave unconfined?” |
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| Betsy Braddock | Mar 10 2010, 03:13 PM Post #6 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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The change in Longshot was alarming. All at once he pulled his hands out from under hers and went hysterical, starting to talk of things that made little sense to them, but to him…It was like he had never seen them before, not even his own King. She could not feel any intruding presence, none at all; the only difference the telepath was able to sense was this badly fitting, seemingly new mind within the little clone. As he clung to the bedpost, Betsy was about to move to him, but hung back as Max approached him instead, explaining his idea on the scenario. It made the most sense to her and she nodded. “The question is how. I cannot feel any intrusive minds or psychic attacks of any sort. There’s nothing left to indicate such a thing, nothing I can pick up anyway and I can assure you, there is not much I can’t pick up,” Betsy said seriously. She wasn’t boasting; she was the most powerful telepath at that branch of the Club at least, if anything had gotten in past her, then it was someone very, very skilled. All three possibilities were worrying and she thought of Shatterstar, concern mounting for her own Knight before Max even wisely suggested precautions. “I am already sending someone to watch over him and I have scanned his mind, all seems well…for now,” she added, not wanting to sound too cocksure as the aura around her eyes continued to burn with pale pink and purple lights. “I am also arranging for a team of scientists, affiliated with us, to be here prompt in the morning so you might brief them,” she nodded, hoping she was not treading on his toes or anything of the sort, but while the White King was away resting, Betsy was ruling the White Court and temporarily Max’s equal, if only briefly. As the light died around her eyes, her instructions given out across the Club to be alert and to take precautions, she watched the poor young blond on the bed. “As for…Arthur’s mind, it’s hard to say. This is a great shock to his system, obviously, he will need someone with him as he adjusts,” raising her eyes to Max she offered him a slight smile. “I shall stay with him for now, if you would agree to it or have someone from your own Court informed on the situation,” she walked around the bed to the other side of Longshot and reached across, gently stroking his hair. “Would you like someone to stay with you darling? Don’t worry, you’ve not done anything wrong, just to keep you company so you can see you’re nice and safe here, eh?” Betsy spoke encouragingly to him, as if he were a sleepy little child being coaxed to sleep. |
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| Longshot | Mar 10 2010, 08:03 PM Post #7 |
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Probability, Psychometry, Cloned Origin, Empathic Charisma
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“Yes… you painted that; it’s very beautiful. It was a gift, … Arthur,” [Max] said, “I know you’ve been following the rules,...if you want to keep following the rules, you must go back to the bed.” Rules, yes, rules, Arthur understood the rules. He was a mutant in a Non-X country, and he would have been sent to Jus Soli if he hadn't been hurt, hadn't been locked in his own mind. Dimly, he remembered the hospital, through the drug haze, through the dreamlike confusion of being moved and poked and puppetted. A useless body, an awareness that only the pretty girl who played with him seemed to know was there. They talked too much around him, the doctors, and they didn't think he understood the state of the world. Just like these pretty people here. They thought he couldn't understand the way things were. But he got into bed, obediently, because he understood rules, and looking at what he was wearing, he was clearly ready for bed. Why was no one in this place dressed except for the woman in the evening gown, who was talking to the King now, and then to him. What kind of place was this? Mutants running free without law, talk of minds not fitting, and scientists, and donors. Nestling into the pillows, Arthur looked at his hands and said to the Queen, "You can stay if you want... Something bad has happened to me. I don't know if I like it here. There are... bad stories here. If this is a dream, I'd really like to wake up now." He drew himself up into a small ball that emphasized really how slightly built a man he was. "I don't want to go to Jus Soli. Please, don't send me there. I want to go back to the hospital. It's safe and it's quiet, and the pretty girl plays games with me... The world, I know the state of the world, too many people talk when they think I can't hear. I don't want to go back out there. I... I have no luck out there." Sinking into a slump, he allowed one of the pretty ladies wearing only paint and glitter to pull the black silk sheets up around him. "I used to be so lucky," he murmured, "Everything happened the way I wanted... why was that taken away from me? What did I do wrong? What did I do?" |
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| Max_Coleridge | Mar 11 2010, 01:56 AM Post #8 |
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Darkforce Manipulation, Teleportation
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Max watched as Betsy tenderly stroked Longshot’s hair, instinctively extending to the confused clone the kind of comfort that he showed very rarely. Even with Betsy at his bedside, the little man curled up into a frightened ball. Max’s hand tightened into a fist and his jaw set; Longshot had been created to be a cold-blooded killing machine, he’d committed horrors, which this sensitive young man could doubtless feel, but this was torment. Max imagined Longshot somewhere among the Arthur Centino’s patterns, screaming to get out. His thoughts drifted back to almost the year before when he’d been held captive in the Shadow King, that torment, that unspeakable Hell had hardened heart and almost broken him. Ironically, Longshot had been one of the ones to save him. In a rare display of tenderness, he cupped Longshot’s cheek in his hand. “We’ll put things right,” he simply said and withdrew his hand from his knight. “Not just any team of scientists,” Max corrected Betsy’s earlier remark as he straightened, “time may be critical, only the best will do… only Hank McCoy, and he will chose his own assistants. Unfortunately, the man doesn’t owe me any favors,” the Black King’s brow furrowed as he contemplated his scanty knowledge of the brilliant X-Man. He knew of nothing he had that McCoy would want and no desires that he could use to tempt him. There were undoubtedly some; but that would take time to discover. “Nothing… except…” Over the years, he’d learned that no one was inaccessible - you just had to discover the right path. “Worthington… he owes me,” Max nodded with satisfaction as he saw how things would unfold - he would reach out to Warren, and Warren would intercede on their behalf to McCoy. “He’ll persuade McCoy.” Glancing down at Longshot, the frail form tugged at his heartstrings. He couldn’t help his knight by holding his hand and murmuring encouraging words into his ear, that wasn’t who he was, for the most part. The only real comfort he could offer was to act; to resolve Longshot’s pain and torment as soon as possible. “Stay with him,” Max told her as he departed, his robe billowing in his haste as he strode away, “I’ll call Warren.” |
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| Betsy Braddock | Mar 11 2010, 06:05 PM Post #9 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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Looking down on him, curled up small and tight in the bed, she felt a eave of pity strike her at his plight and she was almost relieved when he said she could stay with him. Goodness knew she wouldn’t feel settled if she could not do something for the poor dear. Betsy was worried for Shatterstar as well, but her telepathic check on him had assured her everything was currently sound, and that in the horrible scenario of something going wrong, she would know. “Don’t you fret. We won’t let anything bad happen to you, you’re safe,” Betsy spoke soothingly to the little blond, her tone instinctually protective. Since birth she had always fussed over her twin, despite her fierce demeanour she might show the rest of the world, she was also a care-giver at heart, finding that spark of her in this moment to try and placate the distressed Knight. Nodding as Max took charge she almost rolled her eyes at herself for her own stupid haste; she could not fault any part of the decision he had made, for it was the best course of action, but she had only wanted to assist him, wishing she could do more in this situation. She remembered McCoy from when she had to ‘babysit’ him during the turbulent times the Hellfire Club had spent at the Institute when it was still unsure if he was indeed himself once more. He was a brilliant man, with a somewhat genial personality underneath the scars of what had happened and she felt he would likely agree even if…Oh there was that name she both cursed and owed. If it would have been appropriate, Betsy would have suggested she herself call Warren; he’d do it, no favours asked of her, but she did not want to be perceived as flippant, when the Black King was obviously so troubled. “I’ll take care of him and let you know if anything changes,” Betsy assured him as he left, then turned her attention back to Arthur who was being tucked in by one of the concerned Pawns hovering around, worry evident under their paint and glitter. Easing her shoes off, she pulled her legs up under her, scooting a little closer to him on his comfortable bed so that she could slide an arm around him, stroking his hair comfortingly. “We’re not going to send you anywhere…You’ve not done anything wrong, nothing at all…Now you just go to sleep and rest, alright?” she soothed again in her gentlest tone of voice. Whatever was going on here, she hoped that McCoy would find an answer, soon. |
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| Longshot | Mar 11 2010, 07:54 PM Post #10 |
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Probability, Psychometry, Cloned Origin, Empathic Charisma
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He wasn't a brave man. He was an artist, which made him useful in the society of Genosha. His mutation, when it manifested, was tested to be non-offensive, non-defensive. He was lucky, damn lucky, and he was able to make other people lucky in his immediate aura, but Genoshan magistrates had quickly realized that this power could not be used for selfish purposes. It hurt others when he tried, turned fortune bad. So, young Arthur had just been isolated from his family, like all mutants, and his artistic talents were nurtured. Keeping him happy meant that good luck came to the place around him, and that meant Genoshan thrived. But being a mutant still meant he was a second class citizen, and a certain timidity was trained into him to make him docile, to make him easy to manage. Arthur Centino was not meant to be brave, or bold. He was meant to be a well heeled pet. The only brave thing he had ever done was sacrifice himself to save a sweet girl who had been in the cultural exchange program with him, who had been abandoned here in New York when the Mutants rose up. He had used his luck to try and save them all, but he'd lost control, killing his attackers, killing the girl, destroying himself. Bad luck had happened to everyone that day, and he'd been trapped for six years in a self imposed hell of catatonia. He didn't know why he was awake now, why he was here in this place, in this strange body, with these strange people, but as the man who was King cupped his cheek, and promised he would make things right, and as the violet haired woman curled up next to him and promised he would be safe, Arthur realized that he couldn't keep being afraid, he couldn't keep being a victim of misfortune. Once he had been lucky, once he had trusted that all would be well. He had to trust that now. He had to be brave. "Thank you," he told the King and Queen, "I'm sorry I was hysterical. I'm better now. I'm lucky to have such people to protect me." He closed his eyes, "I... I will try to get some rest." Arthur Centino was going to be ok, even though, right now, at this time, this place, the idea that everything would work out seemed like a long shot. |
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1:01 AM Jul 11