Jonothon visibly flinched as the thunderous bang ripped through the air, heralding the bullet that seemed to stop time, space and life. He watched as the projectile cut a hole across the world, its inevitable and sinister purpose refusing to be denied. He watched as time stood still, the moment between breadths becoming an eternity. He watched as the Teacher whose purpose was to guide them unleashed a simple and terrible force upon the world. He watched, his body far too slow to stop the inevitable.

He watched as Emma Frost shot Paige Guthrie through the chest.

With a sickening sound that seemed all too much like the breaking of the world, the diamond shell of Husk splintered and broke, her body punctured by the very means of her death. She silently gasped, a single, short draw of breadth, her eyes unbelieving as a trickle of blood ran freely from the wound. A tide of crimson wept down her front, circling and following the contours of her sparkling body, staining Paige Guthrie with her own life’s fluids.

Her eyes looked up, shock, horror and fear filling her soul, a sense of disbelief, a sense of despair. Unable to draw another breadth she raised a single arm, her hand refusing to hold still, shakes and shimmers running down her limb, as she reached for her friends, her friends who seemed so far away. She reached for them, her world slowly losing its sight and sound, she reached and silently cried for any of them to save her.

Light faded from the world, a terrible darkness wrapping itself around her, and she knew, in some secluded part of her dimming mind, that she had fallen from her feet.

"PAIGE!"

Jonothon cried out, his Telepathic cry reaching out and ripping through every mind within a mile. Time and space snapped back into reality and his body reacted with a speed that could only be fuelled by adrenaline, the young man charging across the ground that separated himself and the girl he loved.

He fell to his knees, the joints cracking under the sudden impact as he scooped up the limp and lifeless body of Paige Guthrie in his arms. He could still see her eyes, those sapphire orbs staring into the sky, seeing past the world of men and towards something else beyond. He held her in his arms as her body trembled, he held her as she drew her final breadths.

"C'mon, Luv..."

The man known as Jonothon Starsmore pleaded, gently wiping the hair from her face and running his fingers down her cheek. She shivered at the touch, a whimper escaping her lips, as a mortal’s all too fragile grip slowly slipped from her fingers.

"Stay with me..."

He begged, his dark and hazel eyes clouding with mist and tears. He reached out for her, his forehead leaning into hers, desperately trying to make their minds as one. He could feel her, as her body grew both cold and still, her broken lungs drawing breadth no more, he could feel her in the centre of his mind.

He could see her, in the fields that surrounded her country home, a warm summer day, a single, perfect moment in the sun. She could see her smile and wave, so very far away. He could see her, in that final moment, as she inevitably slipped away.

As her body fell limp and her mind grew dark, Jonothon Starsmore pulled the girl he loved in tightly to what remained of his chest, refusing to let her go.

With a single shot the world ended.

What remained of Jonothon Starsmore’s heart died with it.

Jonothon awoke with a start, as he always did, momentarily unable to separate the real world from the dream. Moments passed and slowly clarity came into focus, the cold and dreary world asserting itself once more. He lay still for the longest time, the lanky young man remembering what it was it was like not too dream, to not remember that same day.

That same moment.

Jonothon suddenly stretched, every muscle in his body complaining as it was forced into activity. With a noticeable groan, his hollow and telepathic voice reaching out and finding no-one too latch onto; he forced himself to sitting, a hand running through his messy and unkempt hair.

He felt cold, the young man involuntarily shivering; he half suspected the lack of a bed cover was the cause, his quilt seemingly being discarded to the floor at some point during a restless night. He could also blame the weather, the country of his birth, the not so jolly England, not exactly renowned for providing the warmest of mornings. It could also be because he was almost entirely nude, the bandages around his face and chest, and the boxers his wore, his only clothing for the night.

It could be a lot of things, truth be told, he couldn't much care. Not as he rubbed the last semblance of sleep from his eyes, he felt cold a lot these days. He felt cold all the time.

In more ways than one.

Removing his hand from his shattered face, Jonothon focused his sight of the weak light that fell through the dirty window of his small apartment’s bedroom. He could hear the world turning outside, the ever present traffic of London passing right outside his home. A thousand different lives, each as different as the next, right outside his door, and yet none of it seemed to matter.

Months had passed since that day, the worst he had ever endured in his life, worse than the day he lost his face and chest, the day he lost his heart. Months, and still he remembered, every night, as though it had only just occurred. Healing, it would seem, was not something he was good at.

Not that he ever was.

With a tired sigh, Jonothon Starsmore stood to his feet, his lanky frame standing to its full height, bare feet protesting about the cold, wooden floor.

The world still turned, life hadn't ended, and yet, for all intents and purposes, he felt as if it should have done.

The girl awoke with a sudden start; fear instantly gripping every fibre of her body as she sat huddled against a dumpster. She panicked, looking about herself as the bitterly cold morning easily cut through the rags that could loosely be called clothing.

How long had she been asleep? Seconds, minutes, hours? How could she have been so stupid? She had huddled here, in the dark and secluded ally, hoping to gain some measure of safety, the quickest moment of rest; she had never intended to fall into a fitful slumber.

The young girl known as Susan could ill afford even the smallest of lapses, not now, not when her life was hanging from the smallest of threads.

She remained deathly silent, the girl of barely sixteen summers curled up tightly in a ball, arms wrapped around legs, her head buried between knees. She shivered uncontrollably, her body shaking from the bitter cold that swept through her hiding place and, more potently, from the overbearing cruelty of the world. A world that had not only scared her, but had also made her a target for both hate and malice.

A world that had seen fit to decorate her otherwise smooth and gentle forehead with tiniest of horns.

It was an impotent bone, the tiniest of nubs protruding from her brow. It had neither use nor purpose, it posed no threat to those around her, and it was harmless. And yet, by its very existence, her life was made so much worse, she was marked, branded, shunned and tormented.

She was a Mutant.

Not fit for decent society.

She was shunned, exiled and now, almost unbelievably, she was hunted. At this very moment, she was being hunted. Hunted by the very same people, who just a few months before, had fallen hand over foot for even the barest moment of her affections. How quickly the world had changed, how quickly she had gone from idolised, too demonised.

She caught her breadth, the mist that escaped her mouth in the freezing air coming to a stop. The hairs on her neck stood on end, her every sense sharpening a hundred fold in a desperate attempt to assure her survival. She could hear them.

Realisation dawned, she had slept for just moments, and those who chased her were still but a hairs breadth behind her. She quietly cried, wanting nothing more than to be left alone, left to survive.

Why couldn’t they just leave her be?

“Please God…”

She prayed with a barely audible whisper, hoping against desperate hope, as the voices that followed her drew every closer, that they would not turn this way.

“…why must I die?”

Jonothon shivered as he splashed his face and brow with freezing water, the cold fluid running, into and around every scar and imperfection on what remained of his cracked and unnatural features. He splashed his face again, a fresh shiver running along his shoulders, the young man leaning forward, his hands tightly gripping the sink on either side. The young Mutant paused for a moment, his dark eyes staring down at his imperfect reflection within the water filled basin, the drops dripping from his forehead sending endless ripples along its surface.

For a moment he could fool himself, thinking that his unnatural face was not some horrific reality, that it was all a trick of the light and distortion. The reflection he stared upon within the water filled sink could not be trusted, its surface was not smooth, its definition was not crystal, and by its very nature was a distortion of the truth. The reflection he stared down upon now with dark and sombre eyes was a lie, he was not the freak the rippling and unclear water would have him believe. How could he be?

How could he be a freak when someone had loved him so?

How could he be a monster in mans dressing?

He realised then that the questions were wrong, he realised as he forced himself to look up and stare, eye too eye, with the truth. The water had lied, there was no denying it, but the mirror before him, one that was smooth and unbroken, one that showed only what the world could see, that could only tell the truth, a truth that he could not hide from.

How could she have ever loved a man such as me?

That’s the question he should have asked, one he had asked more than once before, and yet still, especially now, he did not have an answer.

He doubted he ever would.

Absently he ran a hand across his pretence of a chin, the midnight black bandages that surrounded his lower face and torso dutifully maintaining some façade of normality. In silhouette, in touch, it was the same as it had always been, but the dark coverings hid the terrible truth. A truth that was betrayed by tiny cracks that ran the length of his exposed skin. A truth that robbed him of so many things, the sweet taste of air, the exotic taste of food and drink, the kisses of his youth, his future, his heart….

With a quite sigh that filled absent lungs, a reaction built entirely within a memory; the young Mutant closed his eyes and stood entirely still. The skin of his face was cold, his damp hair clinging greedily too his forehead, droplets of freezing water running down his cheeks, and then, in the back of his mind, he found in the dimmest of memories, there was a touch.

The gentlest of touches that ran down his cheek, the faintest of brushes, the kindest of hands. For the briefest of moments it was enough, a sweet reminder, followed, as it always was, by the terrible sense of loss. The moment passed, the touch was gone, the memory lost, only Jonothon remained.

Jonothon and the cold, freezing water and terrible reflection that didn’t lie, a reflection that only waited for him to open his eyes. With another sigh he turned away from that visage before it could taunt him further. He didn’t need the reflection to remind him of his face, the world had always been kind enough to do it for him.

Her lungs were burning.

Despite the frigid air that continued to persist throughout the day, freezing Susan to her core, her lungs still burned. It was as though they were on fire, a raging inferno threatening to engulf her very being. She could barely breadth, every effort a strangled gasp. She was set to drop, this girl of barely sixteen, and yet, no matter how much she wanted to, she could not stop, she must not stop.

Her continued running was the only thing keeping her alive.

Her efforts to remain hidden and out of sight had failed. By blind chance the mob of youths that had hounded her through the night had stumbled across her path, reigniting the chase once more. So close, she had been so close, on any other day they would have passed straight on by, on any other day she would now be safe. That was not today.

She had never been a runner, she had never enjoyed sports, and yet now, as her life depended on every, struggling, awkward, sprinting step she cursed herself for her idleness. Oh what she would trade for a body that simply possessed greater stamina, a body that could outrun those who would do her harm.

Tears began to run from her eyes, stinging her cheeks as the moisture quickly froze in the frigid air, as she gasped and stumbled into every last staggering step she could manage. It was not so long ago, within recent memory in fact, that life was so much different, that she was different. It was not so long ago that she would have been with the mob of violent youths chasing her down; it was not so long ago that she hated Mutant Kind with spiteful venom.

It was not so long ago that God had seen fit to turn that hate against her.

Good Lord...

She managed a straggled and bitter chuckle and she weaved her way through the depressing ally’s of Central London.

...just what would those she had previously scorned think of her now?

It occurred to Jonothon Starsmore that he couldn’t remember the last time he had played the guitar. It used to be his life, his music, the one thing he was good at, his talent. He had dedicated himself to it, refining his craft, dreaming of the day he would play before the entire world. Then, without warning, his talent changed, and the future he dreamed of died with it.

Jonothon sat idly, all but sinking into the worn out, second hand armchair he rested on. He limply held his instrument of choice across his knee, his fingers gently tracing the line done the strings. It felt familiar, all too familiar, the memory of the different notes wired into his very muscles. It felt natural; it felt like an extension of himself, he would never forget how to play, he would never forget how it felt to play.

He just didn’t want too, not now, the passion was gone, the desire was lost and Jonothon Starsmore wasn’t sure he knew how to get it back. He wasn’t convinced he wanted too. What was the point when there was no-one there to listen?

No-one he wanted to play for?

He found himself distracted as his mobile began to chirp its irritating ring tone, looking to the side and briefly glaring at the device that had disturbed his self imposed exile. It was a text, one of many that had been sent these past few weeks, a text sent by one of the same four people. People he had, until recently shared a home with, a life.

People he had left behind.

They continued to reach out for him, even now, from across the Atlantic, a family pushed apart by the loss of one of their own. A family that would stand divided from this day forth, or so he had believed. That is what he had wanted after all.

He couldn’t have stayed, not after the funereal. He wanted to run, he wanted to hide, he wanted to bury himself in the earth and forget about his pain, and so he had. Jonothon Starsmore returned to the country of his birth, he returned to England and prayed to God to leave his misery behind.

Only it hadn’t worked, the pain had followed him, her memory haunted him. He was alone, now more than ever, alone in a country he barely even still recognised as home.

But he couldn’t go back.

Not now.

Not without…

Nothing was the same without her.

Absently his fingers strummed the length of his guitar, a single note filling the small, dark and mostly empty apartment. A single note, a single sound, a single break in the silence that surrounded him, it was a note that was out of tune. It was almost painful to hear.

Jonothon closed his eyes and sighed, all thoughts of music forgotten.

Susan yelped as she fell, a startled cry that ended with the sudden impact of her forehead against the cold, hard concrete floor. All sense of conscience thought was instantly shattered, her entire world sent tumbling into a chaotic spiral. Up became down, right became left and her insides desperately tried to be thrown up as every one of her senses betrayed her.

She couldn't move, the girl of barely sixteen summers sprawled out across the floor on her front, her arms and legs weakly searching out purchase where none was to be found. Even in her confused state, her senses dulled and scattered by the sickening impact with the concrete floor, she knew something was amiss. She knew the blow to the head should have been devastating, she knew she should be bleeding a small river of blood across the alleyway sidewalk, she knew she should have cracked her head clean open.

Only she hadn't. Pain tore through her side like something fierce, threatening to drown her in the numbing pain, and yet her skull was not cracked. It would seem the bone at the centre of her forehead, the cursed little horn, had a purpose after all. It would seem the pointless little nub had saved her life, absorbing the sudden and unexpected impact as best it could.

Of course, it wouldn't much matter if she didn't get back up. It wouldn't much matter if those who were chasing her found her like this.

"Get up..."

The terrified girl of barely sixteen summers all but growled to herself as she forced herself up to hands and knees, the will to survive driving her increasingly depleted body forwards.

She didn't want to die, please God...

"...I don't want to die".

"Alright, I have to ask..."

Jonothon Starsmore looked up from the bar as the young bartender with flaming red hair questioned him directly. She almost looked familiar, with her crimson hair and emerald eyes, a passing resemblance to a certain Mutant Telepath was not hard too imagine. Of course, he barely knew the woman in question, so perhaps it was nothing, his mind seeking out similarities with the world, and life he had left behind.

"...is this a masochist thing?"

Jonothon almost laughed as the young woman with an inquisitive eye verbally prodded the teen boy on the other side of the bar. Honestly, now than he considered it, he was surprised she hadn't asked sooner, the strange youth that he was seemingly a glutton for some kind of personal punishment.

The midnight black bandages that surrounded his lower face twisted, the Psionic energy, hidden from view, which compromised his chest, subconsciously shifting to mimic an old memory of movement. The slightest hint of a smile entered his eyes, however bitter it may have been.

The young woman perked an eyebrow at the young mans apparently personal amusement, continuing to watch him as he kept his silence. He was an odd one, this lanky young man. For several weeks this quite and frankly depressing young man had come into the Crossbow, a small, out of the way Pub, with the express purpose of being alone.

He would sit, a single Pint before him, some unknown scar hidden from the world, and simply stared at the beverage before him. Not once had he taken a sip, not once had he downed the glass. He would come, he would order, he would sit and he would watch. Eventually he would leave, his temptation denied for another day. He would leave, taking with him whatever misery he had arrived with.

He was a broken man; she could see that, she had seen it often enough in this quite little place, alcohol was often the haven of the sorrowful. She had not, however, before seen a man try so hard to resist temptation when temptation had been placed there by himself.

"No, Luv"

She heard the young man finally speak, the sense of amusement that had entered his eyes now quickly gone. His voice had an odd tone to it, deep and hollow, a whisper that seemed to pass right through her mind. It was a peculiar thing, listening to man who spoke through a bandage veil, his mouth hidden from view.

He paused, as if considering his own answer, a set of dark and sombre eyes looking back to the bar and the pint before him. She leaned forward; the barmaid with flaming red hair, watching as the broken young man retreated within himself, hiding his wounded soul from view.

"You know, people come here to drink for different reasons..."

The barmaid with flaming red hair continued to push, the quite moments before the busier afternoon leaving the young woman with the opportunity to inquire.

"...most people drink because it makes them happy..."

Jonothon looked back up, his own dark eyes meeting the emerald ones of the inquisitive young woman. There was something there, a memory, a stab to the heart, a wound to his spirit that was every bit as pronounced as the one that had been inflicted upon his body.

"...I think you just don't want to be sad. I just thought you should know that it wouldn't work".

The young man paused, both falling silent with the quite pub, two strangers that had absently known the other for weeks. Without a word, for what seemed to be the longest time, Jonothon Starsmore keeping his hollow, whisper of a voice within his chest, he slowly ran a finger around the rim of the glass before him.

He could remember the taste of it, from years ago, and the headiness it left him with. He could remember it as he remembered many things, sensations he would never feel again. It was a list that had grown longer with every passing day.

"I know Luv..."

Jonothon announced reluctantly as he stood to his feet, the lanky young Englishmen standing tall. Defeat was in his eyes; along with many other things that conspired to break even the strongest mans spirit. Once, not so long ago, he had been bold enough to declare that all things were possible, that he could adjust to whatever trials and torments life put in his path.

He had been wrong.

"...but it would make it easier".

Susan yelped as her ankle finally gave out from underneath her, the girl of barely sixteen summers forced to stumble towards a near by wall. The little horn that adorned her forehead had saved her skull from splitting open from her previous fall, and yet it had failed to save the rest of her tired and fatigued body.

With a strangled cry of defeat she slumped to the hard concrete floor, the bitterness of the wind and the gravel she sat upon sending shivers through every fibre of her body. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breadths, her heart pounded within her breast and her muscles burned as though they were on fire.

She was finished.

She had been running for what felt like forever. She had been running since the youths had spotted her and seen fit to give chase, youths that hated her because what she was, youths who did not care for who she was. She had run, keeping to the back ways and alleys that honeycombed the capital, fearful of darting out into the light of day, fearful of only running into more hate and fear, of running into more rejection.

She had chosen to run, she had tried to hide.

She had failed, her body had failed.

She was finished.

Time is all she had left.

"Bloody Pratt!"

Jonothon bitterly cursed himself as he pulled his black leather jacket more tightly around his shoulders. The chill wind cut through what remained of his flesh like a knife, biting deep into his very bones, an unwelcoming day if there ever was one, a day that complimented his increasingly bleak mood.

Every day was the same, he would leave his squalled little apartment and torment himself with yet another memory he could not have, a sin he could not indulge in. He could remember well the taste of beer, the effect it had on his mind, he could remember well the jovial nights and the hectic fights.

He could remember well the numbness it granted his soul, a numbness he desperately wanted now more than anything. Oblivion was what he craved for, a chance to escape the memory that haunted every waking and sleeping moment of his life.

The memories of what he had lost, and most importantly, the memory of what he'd once had. It was the memory of being content, a memory of being complete, and a memory of being happy, a memory that had been stolen from him.

But it wouldn't work, not anymore, life had stolen that sin from him, the ability to both eat and drink was long lost to him. Jonothon Starsmore could not drown his sorrows. He would not drown at all.

With a sigh that was as bitter as the chill wind that swept through London Streets, another voice passed through his mind like a whisper in the breeze. It was a voice he was becoming accustomed too, a voice that he had known in a life previous to this one, a voice that reminded him of thoughts such as love. It was a figment of his imagination.

Only now it was different, it was followed by another. It was a second whisper in the wind, one that belonged in the here and now, one that he did not recognise, one that existed in the world of the real.

"Please God..."

The man known as Jonothon Starsmore, the Mutant known as Chamber, swore he could hear the unknown voice whisper.

"...help me..."

The stranger called from so far away.

"...please help me".

"Sorry, Petal"

Susan squirmed and pushed herself backwards into the wall as far as she could manage, the hot breadth of the youthful man saturating her pores with scents she'd prefer not too identify. She had been running from this man and his cohorts, five in all, for what felt like hours on end, fearful of the violent phantoms on her heals. Somehow, as she stared upon them now, the men of various sizes, races and creeds, leering down upon her helpless form with an equal sense of hate and disgust, they appeared far more terrifying than anything her mind could have imagined.

The phantoms in her mind had been fearful, but these, these hate filled young men, they were real. They were here, standing above her, looking down at her, brandishing weapons before her, they were very real, and so was their wish to harm her. Their wish to kill her. They had chased her long and hard to do just that, to remove the mutant stain from their midst.

This...this was to be their reward.

"God stands with us sweetheart"

The young man continued with a twisted sense of a smile as she stood to his full height, a rusted, old lead pipe held tightly in hand. Unlike the others, those who followed him, there was not only hate in his eyes, and there was no fear, there was something else entirely, conviction.

An utter belief in what he was doing and saying.

He was a believer, one of Gods chosen, his righteous right hand to smite the wicked and unclean from the Earth. The Friends of Humanity banner that encircled his bicep his Cross, the lead pipe in his hand his holy sword.

With a satisfied sigh, sweat beading his brow, the young man filled with righteous vengeance raised the club above his head and prepared to unleash the Lords Will. That is until the startled cry of one of his follows filled the air.

Jonothon didn't waste time with warnings, announcements of threats, there simply wasn't time and, frankly, when he was outnumbered five to one, he really didn't want to surrender any advantage he could get. He grabbed one scraggly looking youth, the runt of the litter standing towards the back of the self important lynch mob, and hurled his fellow teen against the opposing wall. The boy let out a startled yelp and smacked against the unforgiving brick structure with a satisfying crack. With a groan and mumble the boy in mans clothing slumped to the floor.

The Mutant wasted no time as the others quickly became alerted to his presence, smashing a clenched fist into the face of a blonde hair youth as he had turned to face him. A curse was about to escape the youths buck toothed mouth before his nose was splayed across his face with a burst of blood and a resounding crack of bone.

The buck toothed youth was stumbling back as Jonothon did likewise with his elbow. His arm instantly snapped backwards, the leather covered limb colliding with the throat of the third youth. As the skinhead leaned forward, clutching his throat as he chocked and rasped on the very air he should be trying to breadth, his suddenly arriving Mutant assailant grabbed him by the shirt and sent him hurtling forwards. The startled skinhead collided with the already stumbling buck toothed youth sending both of them tumbling down to the hard and unforgiving concrete.

Jonothon hadn't stopped since his sudden arrival, spinning to the side as a cricket bat swung in a wide ark beside him, he knew he could ill afford too. Adrenaline pumped in his veins, the raging furnace that filled his chest demanding to be set loose, to explode its fury upon the world. It begged to tear apart the bandages that hid it from view and show these idiot youths that surrounded him what power really was.

He was sorely tempted to do just that as the Mutant christened Chamber caught a lead pipe mid swing as it was aimed towards his head, the impact cracking his thumb. His mutant heritage, although it had shattered his body and face long ago, was his too command. A mutant heritage that could topple the mightiest of foes, that could make short work of those who would terrorise the helpless in the name of hate filled righteousness, a mutant heritage that could make short work of those who would take the lives of others.

"Restraint Boyo, self control..."

He could hear the advice of his one time tutor echo across his memory as he continued to fight in the here and now. He yanked the lead pipe from the ring leader’s hands, his broken thumb protesting with a sharp reminder of the injury, swinging the weapon into his previous wielders gut. Breadth exploded from the man’s body, the instigator and spreader of fear keeling over and dropping to the floor with a painful gurgle.

"...do what you have too lad, not want you want to."

Jonothon swung his newly won lead pipe in a wide and powerful arc, the weapon colliding and deflecting the savage swing of a cricket bat. The crash of the impact filled the air with a terrific crack, the impact sending a vibrant jolt through both the fighting youth’s bodies. Jonothon ignored it, quickly stepping forward and cracking the lead pipe into his opposites shoulder.

The bone was quickly broken, the youth falling to the floor with a whimper on his lips, the victory was short lived. The others were getting back up, the young mutant having to avoid the wild swing the buck toothed blond already, the longer this lasted the more the numbers would count against him. He didn't have to last long though, nor did he need to keep them down.

It was time that he needed, time for the girl, then himself, to escape.

He just needed time for her to run away.

For the love of God why wasn't she running away?

Susan couldn't move, she could only watch with wide eyed astonishment as those who had sought to do her harm were being waylaid by a stranger. He had arrived like the wind, the black clad young man diving into her attackers and unleashing his fury like a tornado, hurtling fists, feet and lead into all those that would surround him.

She was frozen in place, her eyes disbelieving and her muscles unwilling to move as such violence was unleashed before her.

Susan had never before seen a fight, not within the context of the real, not outside the boundaries of the fictional. It was violent, it was brutal, the snapping of bones, the flowing of blood, the cries of pain, it was savagery.

It was unlike anything she had ever seen before.

"Oh Blood Hell Fine!!"

Jonothon Starsmore cursed, his telepathic voice blasting its way through everyone present as the skinhead thrust at his torso with a broken bottle. Frustration gripped him, the girl wasn't running and the Pratt’s that wanted to do harm to them both were beginning to gather in numbers. They outnumbered him five to one and apparently they had figured it out.

Well he would damned if he surrendered himself to a bludgeoning in the name of Human/Mutant relations, too Bloody Hell with restraint!!

He could feel the inferno building within his torso and grabbed the bandages that surrounded his chest; he could feel the mental command that would bring an end to this farce. He could feel the power that was his too command.

He could feel the cricket bat collide with the back of his knee with an agonising smack. A cry of pain escaped into his telepathic link as he fell to his knees. Pain raced through his body, pain that was short lived. Something hard and unforgiving collided with his head, first there was blindness, and then...then there was nothing.

Susan gasped and covered her mouth with shaking hands, a cry desperately struggling to escape her chest as frozen tears slid down her face. She watched as the stranger who would save her life fell limply to the ground, a plank of broken wood glistening with his blood. She watched as he lay immobile, helpless before those who would kill them both.

She watched at the sight, the sheer and chaotic reality of violence that had assaulted her senses before came to an abrupt end. Replacing it was something that, unbelievably, was much worse and, indeed, truly horrific. Susan cried, a girl of barely sixteen summers, as the stranger who would have saved her life was now at the verge of being beaten to death.

Murdered for no other reason than because he had tried too save her.

Murdered right in front of her.

Murdered.

It was truly a horrific word.

Jonothon Starsmore awoke, as he always did, to the breaking of the world. He would never forget the bullet that forever changed his life, and forever ended another’s. He would never forget the day Paige Guthrie died.

Only this time was different. This time he didn't awaken in the real world with a crushing sense of loss, he did not awaken to a sense of chilling cold; he awoke to a thunderous kick to his back. It took him a moment to remember where he was, to remember what was happening, the bludgeoning he was receiving was a stark and agonising reminder.

He could barely hear them, his senses dull and distant, young Mr. Starsmore seeing, hearing and touching the world from the bottom of a deep, dark and suffocating well. He could barely hear them, he could barely see them and soon, he could barely even feel them, one blow after another wrapping a blanket of numbness around his very soul.

For a moment, as his vision grew dim, he welcomed it. The world became distant; he was drowning, losing touch from everything without and, more importantly, everything within. He was losing touch with life, he was losing touch with pain, and he was losing touch with everything that made his life a misery.

Jonothon Starsmore faced oblivion, and, for a moment, he thankfully embraced it.

A whisper was all that remained, a memory, the gentlest of touches that ran down his cheek, the faintest of brushes, the kindest of hands.

A whisper in the wind.

The world broke.

Susan couldn't understand it, her senses unable to explain it, as the entire world exploded. In a moment, within a single breadth, the body that lay before her, her savour that was being beaten to death erupted with all the fury of hellfire, a maelstrom of chaos.

She was blinded by the sudden light, the Psionic power that fuelled the nuclear inferno of Chamber striking out at everyone and everything that surrounded him. Bodies were flung wide, bones were broken, cries were made and brick was ripped from mortar.

Within a single, blinding moment the world broke, and yet, as young Susan opened her eyes, the girl of barely sixteen years regaining her senses, she was amazed to see it was still there. Her attackers had been beaten and scattered, flung to far reaches of the ally, her savour, the black clad stranger stood painfully to his feet.

The power that lived within his face and chest existed freely, unrestricted by the trappings of man, the Psionic Furnace blazing a trail around his body and lighting up the dark. It was both terrifying and beautiful, the living embodiment of power, the chaotic nuclear inferno forever moving, forever shifting, burning a scar directly into the body and soul of its possessor, and the entire world around him.

A battery of destruction.

Susan watched, with trembling hands and wide eyes, tears long since wept frozen to her face, as the man in black reached out a hand for her. She looked upon his hollow chest, his scared and broken face; she looked upon unnatural the force that poured from his very being.

She had prayed to God to save her and she had been sent a devil in mans clothing, a demon in human form. She had been sent death.

His temple was swelling dramatically, both wet and dry blood clinging to the side of his face, a painful reminder of the beating he had just endured.

Jonothon couldn't remember the last time he physically felt this bad. Everything in his body hurt, every muscle, every bone and every joint. He could swear even the Psionic force that poured from what remained his chest, a non-physical extension of his being, complained with aches. Still, he was far better off than those who had attacked the girl and that’s what counted.

His footing was unsteady as he stepped towards the girl who, just minutes ago, he had arrived to save. She remained where he had first found her, all but curled up into a ball, desperately trying to understand the world around her.

She was terrified, she was exhausted, the girl of barely sixteen summers having lived through the worst day of her life. A day that no-one should ever have to endure.

"It's alright gel."

Jonothon offered his hand, the limb spattered with blood, uncertain if it was his own or someone else’s. She stared at him, her eyes wide, her body shaking, she stared at him and she didn't move. She was staring at his chest, staring at the terrible and destructive power that he housed as it escaped into the world.

He realised then, with a thought that dragged his soul down with an all too familiar sense of depression, he realised that she was afraid of him. This girl, the one he had just saved, was as fearful of him as she was of those who had tried too kill her. Much to his regret, he could not blame her. There was little about his face that didn’t inspire fear.

Slowly, he dropped his hand. Others would be coming soon, he could already hear them, summoned by the unholy racket his own blast had caused. They could help her, care for her, men and woman she need not be afraid of. Men and woman she had no reason to be afraid of.

The last thing she needed to see was another freak.

Turning to leave Jonothon Starsmore un-expectantly came to a stop, a sudden, hard and urgent tug on his arm halting him in his tracks. Susan was on her feet, her fingers wrapped around the leather of his jacket, her eyes looking into his dark and sombre own.

He could still see it, the fear, deep in her eyes, fear of him, fear of his appearance, and yet here she stood. She was right by his side, almost desperately clinging to his arm. Accepting him for he was who he was, for what he was, for what he had done.

"Thankyou..."

She managed to stammer, Susan recognising the man who saved her life, a fresh tear falling down her cheek.

"Thankyou..."

She whispered again.

"...You’re welcome, Luv."

Jonothon tried to assure her, doing all that he could to restrict the Psionic power that swirled from his chest and bathed his body in both light and shadow.

"C’mon Get, I don't know about you..."

Jonothon began to walk once more, his feet a little less unsteady than before, as the girl stayed with him, clinging to his limb as though it were a lifeboat.

"...but I could use a Hospital".

Susan merely nodded, staying close to the man who had saved her life, a man cursed with a terrible scar. She stayed close to him as he lead her from the darkness of the London alleyways, and lead her into the light.

Home.

Or so it had become in recent months.

As Jonothon Starsmore sat back into the single, second hand, worn out armchair he couldn't help but feel the description didn't fit. He absently looked around the tiny, squalled apartment where he had chosen to live, seeming to take note of it for the first time. It was cold, it was dark and it was depressing. In a way, it was everything he had wanted it to be.

It was the same when he had first gone to America, when he had first joined Xavier’s School for the Gifted. He had opted to live in the basement; he had asked for it, he had wanted to be alone. Times changed; even he changed, in little ways. After that one day however...it hadn't taken him long to change back.

It hadn't taken him long to hide in a hole once more.

He absently ran his fingers along the strings of his guitar, closing his eyes and remembering back. Back to when he had begun to believe that life didn't have to be as miserable as he seemed to think, it didn't have to be as miserable as he wanted to be.

Being depressed was easy.

Wallowing in self pity, that was easy.

Living, finding a reason too, that was hard. It was hard because she wasn't there, the girl that had shown him that it was ok to live. That he wasn't the monster he thought he was. That he could be something better. He had tried to be a better man because of her; she made him want to be.

Now she was gone, her memory all that was left.

She was gone but he wasn't alone, no-body was, not if they didn't want to be. With a sigh he looked to the side, his mobile waiting within arms reach, the family he still had just a simple text away, those who had tried to not let him go.

Absently strumming his fingers along the strings of his guitar he was reminded that it was out of tune. It was a harsh sound the instrument created, a depressing sound, but he could fix it. He could fix a lot of things if he wanted too, if he tried.

His life was filled with memories now. The memory that greeted him when he slept, the memory in which his world ended, the memory he awoke to every morning. And yet, despite this, there was another. There was the memory the gentlest of touches that ran down his cheek, the faintest of brushes, the kindest of hands.

It was a memory that had pulled him from the brink of his own death, and helped him in saving another’s, the memory that had saved him.

It was a memory that she loved him, a memory that made him want too be a better man.

Jonothon Starsmore resisted a sigh, there was no-one there to hear it, as he began to tune his guitar. Some things were worth fixing. His heart was among them.