Post by Pyro on Jul 8, 2008 0:46:05 GMT
The time has come, I think, for John to move on: there is, as he's about to say himself, something hideously pathetic about his continuing to lurk about the Institute, and he's off to have adventures in pastures new. In time he might be back - if there's a big world-changing plot, he may well put in a guest appearance, - but for now, this is goodbye. Fret not, I am not abandoning 100m, just working on a new disguise, but for John, this is it for a while...[/color]
This isn't home
It's an oddly nostalgic thought, isn't it? Especially for him, who's always maintained that this definitely wasn't[/u] home, just a layby on the road to somewhere else. For while that somewhere had been the Brotherhood, and then fuck knows where, but here is definitely not in the long-term-plan...
And now's the time to move, that much is certain. It had been a nice illusion, the idea that maybe it wasn't so bad, maybe this time it'd be sort-of-okay to stick around. But then everything that made it sort-of-okay had... gone. To college, or to adulthood and a teaching career, or to... okay, come to think of it, where the fuck had Rogue gone? Whatever. Point was, the comfortable scenery which had made resuming his act as if nothing had ever changed and the audience wouldn't notice the interval of a few months (which they obligingly didn't seem to... one advantage of audience and scenery being one and the same, probably) has left the stage, and the audience is all fresh-faced and alien now, and pottering around infront of them, continuing to skulk and snark and play the bad boy...
... truth be told, it's rather fucking pitiful, isn't it? More "yeah, whatever" than edgy, like some eccentric relative who's tolerated but left firmly on the edge of the circle, their antics unremarkable and unremarked upon. And fading out isn't something John does.
He's told himself once before, he's not going to grow old here. But with every new student it feels more like that reality's sneaking up, turning him into a museum exhibit from the Old Institute, and if there's one thing John Allerdyce will never be it's a relic. No fucking way.
It should feel worse, probably, breaking his promise to Storm (well, it wasn't like he was ever going to graduate, surely she sees that?), and to Bob (the protest is cut short here, before it can add that he wasn't the one starting the abandoning trend...), but it doesn't. They'd understand, right?
Fuck it, why should that matter? Fuck them all. He's leaving, and that's that.
Someone'll find the note - Enough of this kid's table bullshit (hopefully someone who'll appreciate both the meaning and the amount of time burning it into the card took - 'not enough control over his power' my ass... he smirks darkly), someone'll order the requisite mind-probe, and someone somewhere'll note that he's gone. Life will go on; it did before, and this time there's no one left to give a fuck.
John repositions his rucksack (setting a multitude of lighters clinking against the glass of a certain one-off action figure sloshing around in his jar) and briefly considers turning back for one last look, but that would be fucking pathetic, wouldn't it? Definitely not how he wants to go out. Defiant, head held high, eyes on the horizon... even if it is some godawful hour in the morning and the choice of timing feels like skulking, trying to avoid farewells (which of course it isn't, don't be fucking stupid...).
Somewhere in the distance the sun's coming up - real 'first day of the rest of your life' material - and he smirks again, because that 'first day' bullshit is so fucking lame... but whatever; staying here stagnating isn't living, and to live... to live is going to be an awfully fucking big adventure.
Indefinite Hiatus begins... now![/color]
This isn't home
It's an oddly nostalgic thought, isn't it? Especially for him, who's always maintained that this definitely wasn't[/u] home, just a layby on the road to somewhere else. For while that somewhere had been the Brotherhood, and then fuck knows where, but here is definitely not in the long-term-plan...
And now's the time to move, that much is certain. It had been a nice illusion, the idea that maybe it wasn't so bad, maybe this time it'd be sort-of-okay to stick around. But then everything that made it sort-of-okay had... gone. To college, or to adulthood and a teaching career, or to... okay, come to think of it, where the fuck had Rogue gone? Whatever. Point was, the comfortable scenery which had made resuming his act as if nothing had ever changed and the audience wouldn't notice the interval of a few months (which they obligingly didn't seem to... one advantage of audience and scenery being one and the same, probably) has left the stage, and the audience is all fresh-faced and alien now, and pottering around infront of them, continuing to skulk and snark and play the bad boy...
... truth be told, it's rather fucking pitiful, isn't it? More "yeah, whatever" than edgy, like some eccentric relative who's tolerated but left firmly on the edge of the circle, their antics unremarkable and unremarked upon. And fading out isn't something John does.
He's told himself once before, he's not going to grow old here. But with every new student it feels more like that reality's sneaking up, turning him into a museum exhibit from the Old Institute, and if there's one thing John Allerdyce will never be it's a relic. No fucking way.
It should feel worse, probably, breaking his promise to Storm (well, it wasn't like he was ever going to graduate, surely she sees that?), and to Bob (the protest is cut short here, before it can add that he wasn't the one starting the abandoning trend...), but it doesn't. They'd understand, right?
Fuck it, why should that matter? Fuck them all. He's leaving, and that's that.
Someone'll find the note - Enough of this kid's table bullshit (hopefully someone who'll appreciate both the meaning and the amount of time burning it into the card took - 'not enough control over his power' my ass... he smirks darkly), someone'll order the requisite mind-probe, and someone somewhere'll note that he's gone. Life will go on; it did before, and this time there's no one left to give a fuck.
John repositions his rucksack (setting a multitude of lighters clinking against the glass of a certain one-off action figure sloshing around in his jar) and briefly considers turning back for one last look, but that would be fucking pathetic, wouldn't it? Definitely not how he wants to go out. Defiant, head held high, eyes on the horizon... even if it is some godawful hour in the morning and the choice of timing feels like skulking, trying to avoid farewells (which of course it isn't, don't be fucking stupid...).
Somewhere in the distance the sun's coming up - real 'first day of the rest of your life' material - and he smirks again, because that 'first day' bullshit is so fucking lame... but whatever; staying here stagnating isn't living, and to live... to live is going to be an awfully fucking big adventure.
Indefinite Hiatus begins... now![/color]
