Catastrophe Jones

He’s not sure how long she’ll be gone, but he’s gone to her apartment, to look for her, and there’s no sign. Dutifully, he lets himself in and waters the plants, dusts things, picks up the mail and newspapers, makes it look like she hasn’t abandoned the place. The young man, after fussing about for long enough he can’t think of what else to do, naps in her bed, face pressed to the pillow to breathe in the scent of her, his heart aching so sharply he reaches to splay his hand over his chest, as though he fears he has to hold it tight, so it doesn’t shatter.

He wakes to the golden light of the sunset, and the sound of someone futzing with the lock. Grinning, he moves to get up, to go open the door. He grabs the handle and pops it open, beaming as he says, “So I was thinking–” His adorable grin is twisted into a moue of bafflement, when he is met by someone who is Distinctly Not Her. “Who’re you?” he says, narrowing his eyes.

The only answer is the barrel of a gun being lifted, as Distinctly Not Her marches in, his eyes blank, his grizzled face covered in burn scars. The muzzle of the gun nudges the young man in the middle of his chest; he glances down, and his expression twists into a confident smirk. They don’t know he can stop C4. Bullets are nothing. He puts a hand over the barrel and gently guides it away from his chest. “Th’fook’re’y’doon?” he growls, warning, his brogue thick in his adrenalized anger.

“She’s not in,” the grizzled man calls, back to someone in the hallway. The strawberry blonde with icy grey eyes walks in, with a blue-eyed young man trailing her. He also has a blank look on his face.

“Who are you?” she asks softly, cocking her head to the side, smiling at him, the expression brittle, and without any trace of actual warmth.

“S’not y’concern,” he snaps. “Y’shouldn’t be here, n’I’m askin’y’t’leave.”

“A confident boy,” she says, smiling quietly. “I like those.” She turns to the older man, and says, “Kill him.”

The man pulls the trigger, but nothing happens, not even a click — the young man with the confident eyes flipped the safety back on with a thought, and is carefully concentrating, holding the slide in place with his eyes, keeping the gun from firing. He keeps his hand over the end of the muzzle, and glances back to the woman, smirking. “Yeah, see, I’m only gonna tell y’one more time.”

The woman’s expression falls, and she sighs. “An overly confident boy. I don’t like those as much. Do you know what a void is, boy?”

“What?” he wonders, frowning, looking irritated.

The blue-eyed boy finally speaks, his eyes still blank. “We eat people like you for breakfast,” he says quietly. “All that power. It’s amazing.”

The young man feels his head swimming, his heart stuttering. “Wait,” he slurs. “No, y’can’t–” He snarls, animalistic, panicked, lashing out with the telekinetic fury that is his birthright, but the blue-eyed boy in front of him lifts his own hands and seems to drink it down, shuddering like an addict receiving a long overdue hit. Blue eyes roll back as the boy moans in ecstasy, drawn up on the balls of his feet, tipping his head back. “Ohfuckhe’s good,” he laughs, no longer quite blankfaced.

The telekinetic’s eyes get huge as his shoulders sag, all confidence disappearing. “What did you do?” he gasps, grabbing the muzzle of the gun now, not in surety, but because he’s staggering, dizzied.

“Nothing, yet,” the strawberry blonde says, walking to stand near him. “I want you to deliver a message for me.”

“Fuck you,” he pants, reaching up with one hand, to clutch the side of his head.

“Yes, yes, it will sound remarkably like that,” she murmurs, and then she gives a nod to the man holding the gun. “Tell him, Francis,” she says.

The burnscarred man flicks the safety with his thumb, with deliberate exaggeration, and then pulls the trigger.

It’s a quieter sound than the young man expected. More of a pop than a bang. A hole appears in his chest, on the right, and he watches the dark redness well, and then begin to run. His knees give, and he drops to the floor, falling back with a grunt. He squirms, reaching up to put a hand over it, his vision doubling, trebling, and he’s staring up at the three, who turn, and walk out the door. The dark stain on his shirt spreads quickly, and he finds he can’t breathe well. He fumbles for his phone, knowing he hasn’t got much time, and dials.

Far enough away, while she is playing with kittens, and someone else is ordering Chinese, taunting them, a phone will ring.