sickle_stories (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sickle_stories) wrote2007-10-29 05:33 pm
sickle_stories) wrote2007-10-29 05:33 pm
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Toad fic: The beginning
Here's the first bit of my one-and-only Toad fic. It's pre X Men Movie 1.
I'd gotten into Movie!XMen fics, and, after the requisite angst that was Rogue/Wolverine, I found a gorgeous fic on Toad. Thanks to that, I started looking more into the character, particularly his apparently miserable comic!childhood. (From there, I discovered the Toad->Ray Park->Darth Maul connection, which landed me firmly into a small subsection of the Star Wars fandom.)
I wrote this in the first bit of my 18th year. I'd only just begun writing serious fanfic, thinking for the first time about how other people might react to my writing. Thus the following is in a unpolished and inexperienced style. I've actually taken out the first paragraph, because it was too emo, and a lot of the lyrics. (Well, all, so far.)
"Piss off", he muttered at the already retreating back. Shoving his way into the bar, glad to be rid of his feline "brother", Mortimer (known to everyone but himself as Toad) shook back his hood. He hated wearing the bulky jacket that hid his shape, the heavy hood that limited his vision but protected him from the stares of others.
Once in the bar, however, he could almost breath freely again and show his face without fear. Though the chance that some of Xavier’s little group would recognize him chilled him a little. Not that he was scared of them or thought he couldn’t fight them off, just that...
There were many people, or rather, mutants, in the bar, it being a mutant bar and all. It would be hard to manoeuvre, to avoid making a scene, in such an enclosed space full of others. Never mind that "innocent bystanders" would get hurt. He knew there were no innocent bystanders, ever. That was partly why Mortimer never had liked crowds. They had a nasty tendency of turning into mobs.
Memories of his younger days threatened, as always, to overtake him and drag him back down. Instead he focused on his rage and soared over and away from the past. He thanked Magneto every day for teaching him that. To hate. Before he had feared, disliked fiercely. But never hated. Not like this.
He hated, for example, Sabertooth, the one no one called Victor Creed, though that was his name. Another member of the Brotherhood, Sabertooth nevertheless managed to stay apart from everyone else save when he wanted something (even if it was just to piss Mortimer off). How like the cat he was. He was glad to be free of him that night.
Mortimer had taken a liking to this mutant bar, "Different People", and came here on the odd day that Magneto wasn’t bent on ridding the world of humans.
Humans.
He’d been human once. He barely remembered it now, but once he had blended in with the crowd. But then he’d changed, and the crowd had turned on him, cast him out of their midst. He wasn’t a human, to them or to himself. He was a mutant, and it showed. Being green and having an unbelievably long and prehensile tongue did that.
Eventually he made his way to the bartender, ignoring the occasional "look" that went his way. He wasn’t bothered by other mutant’s stares, most of the time. Usually the glances were just superficial, noting his differences that were as strange as theirs.
Ordering his drink, he leaned against the bar, eying the late crowd. A few were on the dance floor, swaying to the easy music, whilst others were in the corners of the dim bar, sipping their drinks and conversing freely. In the shadows. Some still felt that even here, they had to hide. Like he did...
A woman was on stage, he noticed. She was swaying to the music that the band behind her played, closing her eyes in apparent ecstasy. Mortimer examined her closely, wondering, as all mutants did when appraising each other, what her mutation was. She showed no visible mutation, which, Mortimer thought bitterly, gave her a chance at a normal life. She could blend in, hide in their midst and survive in a human society which every day hated mutants more and more. But Mortimer hated them back thrice as much.
Over the edge of his glass, he watched her sway. He didn’t listen to the music. It was some sappy tune or other. He turned a blind eye to the lovers crooning on the dance floor. He hated them too, these mutants that were growing up with others of their kind, with a fighting chance. His own fighting chance had come too late to save him the scars of —
He focused on the singer. Her hair was black, her eyes, when they fluttered open, were green. Her light blue summer dress, too simple for the place but suiting her body perfectly (he noticed that especially), swayed about her calves.
As ice hit his lips, he turned from the scene and called the bartender over for another shot. That was all he ever ended up doing. Watching others and drinking. Watching others talking, laughing, and dancing: having a normal, carefree life in the space of a few hours. He never dared join in their midst. As the bartender served Mortimer another whiskey on the rocks, he became aware of a change in the atmosphere. It took him a while to figure out what had caused the atmosphere to become so...so blue, so slow. The woman on the stage was singing. Staring at the ice cubes, he listened to the lyrics.
Mortimer turned to watch the woman as she crooned the chorus one last time. She stood stock still, gripping the microphone softly in one hand, her eyes again closed. But her voice was strong and full of emotion as it echoed over the silent crowd. When she finished, the players merely carried on playing, the dancers danced, and conversation continued.
Mortimer was struck. Maybe it was the whisky, but suddenly sappy songs didn’t seem so bad after all. He enjoyed watching the woman on the stage. She was interesting. And beautiful. The way she swayed with the music, her eyes closed as if she was oblivious to the rest of the world, in utter peace... But then she’d open her eyes and, though still moving to the music, she’d glance about the bar, her gaze fixing on people from time to time. As if she was sweeping the crowd for someone’s presence, or just studying others, like he was she. He saw her head shifting in his direction.
Suddenly the last thing he wanted was to have her see him. He turned away, leaning his elbow on the bar as he swished the ice cubes. He wanted her to sing again. If she saw him, she wouldn’t...
He almost sighed when he heard her voice fill the bar once more, and felt the subtle change in atmosphere it caused. He wished it would never stop. She must have bowed after that last song, because some polite clapping rose from the crowds, and Mortimer heard the dancing couples return to their seats as the band picked up its tempo.
A voice came out over the microphone: "Right guys, it’s eleven. Rock time!" With that the entire bar changed as loud pumping music began pounding the walls. Mortimer grit his teeth, cursing youth, techno, dj’s and swivel lights. Time for him to go. After the "call of the crazy", as he called it, the place would really pack up.
Turing to his drink, not really caring if it was the same one or a new one, he settled on a stool. He wanted to go, but he also wanted to enjoy his last drink before going back to the island. To Magneto’s Lair. He shuddered. Life there was getting worse by the second. Maybe if he got drunk enough, one day, he wouldn’t go back. He doubted the bartender had enough alcohol for that to happen.
Mortimer couldn’t leave, and he knew it. It was like he was chained to it, to him And there was the added incentive of knowing that if he left of his own accord he’d be hunted down and torn limb from limb. He couldn’t decide who he’d rather have kill him: Sabertooth or Mystique. One was brutal but quick, the other crafty in the multiple ways of torture. Both physical and mental. Thinking on it, he’d rather have the cat have him, give Sabertooth that last battle.
From the corner of his eye he saw the bartender approach him. No, not him. Someone sat beside him, someone who smelled sweet, like jasmine. He knew about jasmine, how it’s blossoms opened wide at night and filled the air with their scent. How the sun’s rays wilted them so they no longer smelled. It was one of the few night scents that he enjoyed in the city. A woman’s voice beside him addressed the bartender.
"Hey Blake. What haven’t I tried yet?"
"Do you mean tonight or ever?"
"Both."
"That’d have to be Sex on the Beach."
"Right then, one of those, but not with you." Her voice held no mirth at her joke, but rather seemed utterly devoid of emotion. The kind of void that occurred when a whirlpool sucked all of one’s emotions tightly into some deep cranny. Mortimer would recognize that tone in anyone’s voice. He’d sounded like that many times. But Blake, unobservant, chuckled good-naturedly.
"And put it on my tab, would you?" she called out to the retreating bartender, who was off to work his magic.
Mortimer shifted slightly when he felt her brush up against him as she settled on the stool. Blake returned, a funny-shaped glass in his hand. "Oh for the—" Mortimer heard her mutter. It was a curious glass... Setting it down before her, Blake said seriously, "Angua, if you’d blow the audience off their asses once in a while, instead of making them blow their nose, you might be able to pay up your tab."
"Yeah well that’s me. I’m a heartbreaker." Blake’s hand still cradled the glass loosely. "But I’m not broke. You’ll get your money Blake, no worries." Blake released the glass slowly and Angua picked it up daintily, smelling its contents before taking a long swallow. As she smiled at the bartender, showing her appreciation for his work, a bill was slipped onto the counter.
"For her drinks," was all Mortimer said. With that, he downed the remains of his drink, slipped a bill under the glass and walked through he crowd, crunching ice.
Once outside, he paused for a moment, remembering the haunting voice of the woman in blue, and then directed his feet towards the beach, his boat, and the island. To his master...
But the last echoes of the woman’s voice still rang in his head, the strange atmosphere that had settled over him in the bar had not yet dissipated. He didn’t want to return to the island feeling like this. He didn’t want to taint this memory with —
He didn’t have to go now, he realized. Magneto wasn’t even there. He’d gone off to listen to some conference or other somewhere. Mortimer never cared where Magneto was. He was just interested in the here/not here aspect. And right now, Magneto wasn’t there.
In fact, that was partly the reason why Mortimer had dared an excursion to the bar. He preferred it if Magneto didn’t know; he’d probably whack him on the head with something and make him fix something else.
Mortimer sighed heavily. Even without going to the island he’d tainted the echoes in his head. Making up his mind, he walked faster. Though his feet still pointed towards the island, as if it were a magnet (a bitter twitch of the lip), his destination wasn’t the docks. Not yet. He was going to a little river that poured into the harbour, one that flowed through a park. He sometimes liked spending time on the fringes of the park late at night, when it was empty and still and all he could hear was the river and its creatures. This time a true smile graced his lips. He’d stay there, until the echoes faded. Then, only then, would he return.
When Mortimer had finally convinced himself that he had to go back and finished cursing himself for it, he made his way through the park, avoiding the odd streetlight. Walking stealthily down empty streets, he made his curving way towards the docks. It was second nature to him, not to go anywhere in a straight line in case he was being followed. This tendency had even been encouraged by Magneto. Mortimer’s shoulder twitched at the memory.
When he was within sight of the harbour, he paused, holding his breath, and listened, his eyes darting across the docks and nearby ground. Satisfied for the moment that all seemed clear, he inched forward, keeping to the shadows as best he could.
He hated this part.
There was almost no cover from here to the docks. Tensing his muscles, taking a final glance about him, he readied himself for the traditional mad dash to the first wooden column of the dock. And almost fell flat on his face in his effort to stop the momentum. He’d heard something. Damn he wished he had Sabertooth’s senses...
There it was again.
He scrutinized the dock and the pathway leading towards it, finding nothing. He strained his eyes on the beach and was finally rewarded. There, by the docks, hidden by the shadows and blending with the wooden column against which it rested, was a bulky shape. Mortimer rocked slightly on his heals as he waited for the shape to move or make some sound.
He was soon rewarded.
Across the silvery sand he heard a female voice singing. He relaxed slightly. He doubted any member of the bloodthirsty we’re-bloody-imitating-the-pathetic-KKK Friends of Humanity would be singing on the beach. Or any X-Man either.
Again he tensed his muscles and, with great care to make as little sound as possible, ran for the docks. Or rather hopped. He’d momentarily considered waiting until the woman left, but he’d had enough of the city for one night. Besides, he didn’t think one lone woman would be much of a threat to him. If he didn’t manage to slip away on the boat unnoticed, he could always just knock her out cold.
Crouching under the wooden pathway that led to the ocean, his eyes pinned on the dark figure, he waited to see if his approach had be noticed. It hadn’t. He crept closer towards the ocean edge, half listening to the woman’s singing, attentive to any change that might indicate discovery. As he got closer, he was able to discern some of what she was singing. He sighed inwardly: it was another sappy love song.
I'd gotten into Movie!XMen fics, and, after the requisite angst that was Rogue/Wolverine, I found a gorgeous fic on Toad. Thanks to that, I started looking more into the character, particularly his apparently miserable comic!childhood. (From there, I discovered the Toad->Ray Park->Darth Maul connection, which landed me firmly into a small subsection of the Star Wars fandom.)
I wrote this in the first bit of my 18th year. I'd only just begun writing serious fanfic, thinking for the first time about how other people might react to my writing. Thus the following is in a unpolished and inexperienced style. I've actually taken out the first paragraph, because it was too emo, and a lot of the lyrics. (Well, all, so far.)
"Piss off", he muttered at the already retreating back. Shoving his way into the bar, glad to be rid of his feline "brother", Mortimer (known to everyone but himself as Toad) shook back his hood. He hated wearing the bulky jacket that hid his shape, the heavy hood that limited his vision but protected him from the stares of others.
Once in the bar, however, he could almost breath freely again and show his face without fear. Though the chance that some of Xavier’s little group would recognize him chilled him a little. Not that he was scared of them or thought he couldn’t fight them off, just that...
There were many people, or rather, mutants, in the bar, it being a mutant bar and all. It would be hard to manoeuvre, to avoid making a scene, in such an enclosed space full of others. Never mind that "innocent bystanders" would get hurt. He knew there were no innocent bystanders, ever. That was partly why Mortimer never had liked crowds. They had a nasty tendency of turning into mobs.
Memories of his younger days threatened, as always, to overtake him and drag him back down. Instead he focused on his rage and soared over and away from the past. He thanked Magneto every day for teaching him that. To hate. Before he had feared, disliked fiercely. But never hated. Not like this.
He hated, for example, Sabertooth, the one no one called Victor Creed, though that was his name. Another member of the Brotherhood, Sabertooth nevertheless managed to stay apart from everyone else save when he wanted something (even if it was just to piss Mortimer off). How like the cat he was. He was glad to be free of him that night.
Mortimer had taken a liking to this mutant bar, "Different People", and came here on the odd day that Magneto wasn’t bent on ridding the world of humans.
Humans.
He’d been human once. He barely remembered it now, but once he had blended in with the crowd. But then he’d changed, and the crowd had turned on him, cast him out of their midst. He wasn’t a human, to them or to himself. He was a mutant, and it showed. Being green and having an unbelievably long and prehensile tongue did that.
Eventually he made his way to the bartender, ignoring the occasional "look" that went his way. He wasn’t bothered by other mutant’s stares, most of the time. Usually the glances were just superficial, noting his differences that were as strange as theirs.
Ordering his drink, he leaned against the bar, eying the late crowd. A few were on the dance floor, swaying to the easy music, whilst others were in the corners of the dim bar, sipping their drinks and conversing freely. In the shadows. Some still felt that even here, they had to hide. Like he did...
A woman was on stage, he noticed. She was swaying to the music that the band behind her played, closing her eyes in apparent ecstasy. Mortimer examined her closely, wondering, as all mutants did when appraising each other, what her mutation was. She showed no visible mutation, which, Mortimer thought bitterly, gave her a chance at a normal life. She could blend in, hide in their midst and survive in a human society which every day hated mutants more and more. But Mortimer hated them back thrice as much.
Over the edge of his glass, he watched her sway. He didn’t listen to the music. It was some sappy tune or other. He turned a blind eye to the lovers crooning on the dance floor. He hated them too, these mutants that were growing up with others of their kind, with a fighting chance. His own fighting chance had come too late to save him the scars of —
He focused on the singer. Her hair was black, her eyes, when they fluttered open, were green. Her light blue summer dress, too simple for the place but suiting her body perfectly (he noticed that especially), swayed about her calves.
As ice hit his lips, he turned from the scene and called the bartender over for another shot. That was all he ever ended up doing. Watching others and drinking. Watching others talking, laughing, and dancing: having a normal, carefree life in the space of a few hours. He never dared join in their midst. As the bartender served Mortimer another whiskey on the rocks, he became aware of a change in the atmosphere. It took him a while to figure out what had caused the atmosphere to become so...so blue, so slow. The woman on the stage was singing. Staring at the ice cubes, he listened to the lyrics.
Mortimer turned to watch the woman as she crooned the chorus one last time. She stood stock still, gripping the microphone softly in one hand, her eyes again closed. But her voice was strong and full of emotion as it echoed over the silent crowd. When she finished, the players merely carried on playing, the dancers danced, and conversation continued.
Mortimer was struck. Maybe it was the whisky, but suddenly sappy songs didn’t seem so bad after all. He enjoyed watching the woman on the stage. She was interesting. And beautiful. The way she swayed with the music, her eyes closed as if she was oblivious to the rest of the world, in utter peace... But then she’d open her eyes and, though still moving to the music, she’d glance about the bar, her gaze fixing on people from time to time. As if she was sweeping the crowd for someone’s presence, or just studying others, like he was she. He saw her head shifting in his direction.
Suddenly the last thing he wanted was to have her see him. He turned away, leaning his elbow on the bar as he swished the ice cubes. He wanted her to sing again. If she saw him, she wouldn’t...
He almost sighed when he heard her voice fill the bar once more, and felt the subtle change in atmosphere it caused. He wished it would never stop. She must have bowed after that last song, because some polite clapping rose from the crowds, and Mortimer heard the dancing couples return to their seats as the band picked up its tempo.
A voice came out over the microphone: "Right guys, it’s eleven. Rock time!" With that the entire bar changed as loud pumping music began pounding the walls. Mortimer grit his teeth, cursing youth, techno, dj’s and swivel lights. Time for him to go. After the "call of the crazy", as he called it, the place would really pack up.
Turing to his drink, not really caring if it was the same one or a new one, he settled on a stool. He wanted to go, but he also wanted to enjoy his last drink before going back to the island. To Magneto’s Lair. He shuddered. Life there was getting worse by the second. Maybe if he got drunk enough, one day, he wouldn’t go back. He doubted the bartender had enough alcohol for that to happen.
Mortimer couldn’t leave, and he knew it. It was like he was chained to it, to him And there was the added incentive of knowing that if he left of his own accord he’d be hunted down and torn limb from limb. He couldn’t decide who he’d rather have kill him: Sabertooth or Mystique. One was brutal but quick, the other crafty in the multiple ways of torture. Both physical and mental. Thinking on it, he’d rather have the cat have him, give Sabertooth that last battle.
From the corner of his eye he saw the bartender approach him. No, not him. Someone sat beside him, someone who smelled sweet, like jasmine. He knew about jasmine, how it’s blossoms opened wide at night and filled the air with their scent. How the sun’s rays wilted them so they no longer smelled. It was one of the few night scents that he enjoyed in the city. A woman’s voice beside him addressed the bartender.
"Hey Blake. What haven’t I tried yet?"
"Do you mean tonight or ever?"
"Both."
"That’d have to be Sex on the Beach."
"Right then, one of those, but not with you." Her voice held no mirth at her joke, but rather seemed utterly devoid of emotion. The kind of void that occurred when a whirlpool sucked all of one’s emotions tightly into some deep cranny. Mortimer would recognize that tone in anyone’s voice. He’d sounded like that many times. But Blake, unobservant, chuckled good-naturedly.
"And put it on my tab, would you?" she called out to the retreating bartender, who was off to work his magic.
Mortimer shifted slightly when he felt her brush up against him as she settled on the stool. Blake returned, a funny-shaped glass in his hand. "Oh for the—" Mortimer heard her mutter. It was a curious glass... Setting it down before her, Blake said seriously, "Angua, if you’d blow the audience off their asses once in a while, instead of making them blow their nose, you might be able to pay up your tab."
"Yeah well that’s me. I’m a heartbreaker." Blake’s hand still cradled the glass loosely. "But I’m not broke. You’ll get your money Blake, no worries." Blake released the glass slowly and Angua picked it up daintily, smelling its contents before taking a long swallow. As she smiled at the bartender, showing her appreciation for his work, a bill was slipped onto the counter.
"For her drinks," was all Mortimer said. With that, he downed the remains of his drink, slipped a bill under the glass and walked through he crowd, crunching ice.
Once outside, he paused for a moment, remembering the haunting voice of the woman in blue, and then directed his feet towards the beach, his boat, and the island. To his master...
But the last echoes of the woman’s voice still rang in his head, the strange atmosphere that had settled over him in the bar had not yet dissipated. He didn’t want to return to the island feeling like this. He didn’t want to taint this memory with —
He didn’t have to go now, he realized. Magneto wasn’t even there. He’d gone off to listen to some conference or other somewhere. Mortimer never cared where Magneto was. He was just interested in the here/not here aspect. And right now, Magneto wasn’t there.
In fact, that was partly the reason why Mortimer had dared an excursion to the bar. He preferred it if Magneto didn’t know; he’d probably whack him on the head with something and make him fix something else.
Mortimer sighed heavily. Even without going to the island he’d tainted the echoes in his head. Making up his mind, he walked faster. Though his feet still pointed towards the island, as if it were a magnet (a bitter twitch of the lip), his destination wasn’t the docks. Not yet. He was going to a little river that poured into the harbour, one that flowed through a park. He sometimes liked spending time on the fringes of the park late at night, when it was empty and still and all he could hear was the river and its creatures. This time a true smile graced his lips. He’d stay there, until the echoes faded. Then, only then, would he return.
When Mortimer had finally convinced himself that he had to go back and finished cursing himself for it, he made his way through the park, avoiding the odd streetlight. Walking stealthily down empty streets, he made his curving way towards the docks. It was second nature to him, not to go anywhere in a straight line in case he was being followed. This tendency had even been encouraged by Magneto. Mortimer’s shoulder twitched at the memory.
When he was within sight of the harbour, he paused, holding his breath, and listened, his eyes darting across the docks and nearby ground. Satisfied for the moment that all seemed clear, he inched forward, keeping to the shadows as best he could.
He hated this part.
There was almost no cover from here to the docks. Tensing his muscles, taking a final glance about him, he readied himself for the traditional mad dash to the first wooden column of the dock. And almost fell flat on his face in his effort to stop the momentum. He’d heard something. Damn he wished he had Sabertooth’s senses...
There it was again.
He scrutinized the dock and the pathway leading towards it, finding nothing. He strained his eyes on the beach and was finally rewarded. There, by the docks, hidden by the shadows and blending with the wooden column against which it rested, was a bulky shape. Mortimer rocked slightly on his heals as he waited for the shape to move or make some sound.
He was soon rewarded.
Across the silvery sand he heard a female voice singing. He relaxed slightly. He doubted any member of the bloodthirsty we’re-bloody-imitating-the-pathetic-KKK Friends of Humanity would be singing on the beach. Or any X-Man either.
Again he tensed his muscles and, with great care to make as little sound as possible, ran for the docks. Or rather hopped. He’d momentarily considered waiting until the woman left, but he’d had enough of the city for one night. Besides, he didn’t think one lone woman would be much of a threat to him. If he didn’t manage to slip away on the boat unnoticed, he could always just knock her out cold.
Crouching under the wooden pathway that led to the ocean, his eyes pinned on the dark figure, he waited to see if his approach had be noticed. It hadn’t. He crept closer towards the ocean edge, half listening to the woman’s singing, attentive to any change that might indicate discovery. As he got closer, he was able to discern some of what she was singing. He sighed inwardly: it was another sappy love song.