ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Teaching Opportunities

Vignette - Teaching Opportunities
Dramatis Personae Malthus	2013-07-17 Malthus is excellent teacher.
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"Notice," Malthus spoke, his voice as soft as a whisper, "the angle of impression." His fingers drifted to the small, flat stone against the earth. "The way the stone has slid -- what does it tell you?" William crouched beside his uncle. The boy was a wiry sprout; only fourteen, but already eager to join Malthus on the hunt. He held his bow tightly, his knuckles turning bone-white. "It tells you -- the direction?" he said. "That the deer ran in?" "Yes." Malthus smiled; his approval was a rare gift, but he was always quick to offer it when it was deserved. The gesture crinkled his mutilated face -- the jagged, gruesome scar that rode past his right brow, down across the ruin of his eye -- down to his lip, splitting it, exposing a small sliver of teeth. Despite the grotesque injury, there was a gentleness in his eyes -- in the curve of his mouth -- that defied the savagery of the scar. "Very good." William smiled. Together, they continued, into the woods that surrounded his uncle's estate. "--why don't we use guns?" he asked, as they crept forward, following the trail. "Wouldn't it be -- easier, sir?" "Easier," Malthus explained, with gentle patience, "is not always better. A bow and arrow requires the discipline a firearm demands. Master this, and I will show you how to use a rifle." "You will?" There was an edge of nervous excitement in William's tone. "Yes. Shhh." Malthus' hand descended atop of William's shoulder, squeezing it. He pressed him down, into a crouch; they watched, then, their eyes locked on the sight before them. A lovely buck had emerged from the foliage 20 yards down. He grazed, oblivious to the two hunters who stood up-wind. "Nock your bow," Malthus whispered. "You have a clear shot. Aim for the heart." William trembled, but did as he was told. Malthus' hand squeezed down upon his shoulder. The buck continued to graze, unaware of the arrow aimed for his heart. Moments drew out to seconds; soon, there was nothing but the beat of William's heart -- and the faint murmur of the forest -- to be heard. When William fired the arrow, it was off by nearly ten feet -- thudding roughly into the trunk of a tree. The buck's head sprang up at once; he was gone in an instant, leaping through the foliage with effortless agility. Malthus drew in a slow breath as he rose to his feet. His grip on William's shoulder never flagged. "William." "Yes, sir." His voice was downcast; his eyes fell to the ground. "Did you miss on purpose?" William drew in a heavy, nervous breath. When he spoke next, his voice trembled: "...yes, sir." "William." Malthus' grip turned to steel; the man fell to his knees, turning the boy to face him. "Why did you miss?" William lifted his eyes to look into Malthus' own; one colored a dark, penetrating hazel -- the other, pale and unseeing: "I--I didn't want to--kill him. He--I'm sorry, sir. I--" At once, Malthus embraced him; his hug was fierce -- sudden -- and all-encompassing. "/William/. Do not apologize. The fault is mine; I thought you were ready." William squeezed back as best as he could. "--I, um, I'm s--I mean. Aren't you -- you aren't -- disappointed, uncle? I thought you'd be --" Malthus pulled William back and fixed him with yet another of his rare smiles: "Disappointed? Of course not. I'm /proud/ of you, William." William stared at his uncle, mystified by this revelation: "Pr-proud? But -- I thought -- wouldn't you have been proud -- if I /had/ --?" "To have a nephew who can kill," Malthus said, through his smile, "or to have one who cannot. Both are things for which I can be proud." Two days later. "He's got three hostages," the commanding officer spoke into the radio with one hand, crouched behind his car. Four police cars were arranged in a curved shield in front of a lone diner that sat along a lonely stretch of highway; the officers stood at the ready, guns pointed toward the entrance. "A man and two kids. He's -- some kind of fire mutie. Keeps yellin' stuff." "I JUST WANT TO COME OUT!" the man inside the store front bellowed, head popping out from behind one of the counters. In front of the glass, the officers could make out the adult hostage and his two children -- he clutched at one of his arms, where severe burns had emerged. The kids were cowering. "JUST -- I WANT TO TURN MYSELF IN! JUST -- PUT THE GODDAMN GUNS DOWN!" "Christ," the commanding officer responded, setting the radio down. "What a fuck-up. Alright, gimme the bullhorn--" "Sir." The nearby police officer's head craned up. "He's here." "Oh thank /fuck/," the commanding officer said. In the distance, a vehicle was rapidly approaching -- it looked to be an armored car. It wasn't long before it was coming to a halt, scraping across grit and dirt with a low growl of tires. The doors opened. Malthus stepped out of the passenger seat, flanked on both sides by Marines in uniform, armed with assault rifles. "The situation?" Malthus asked, casually. "--fuckin' mutie's got fire-powers," the commanding officer said, gesturing. "Blew up one of my squad cars. Took three hostages. Wants to turn himself in, but we don't even know -- if we can contain him. I mean, hell, what if he just -- blows up /another/ squad car? We can't--" Malthus' remaining good eye narrowed. He turned toward the store front, then back to the commanding officer. When he spoke, his voice -- level and quiet -- sliced through the commanding officer's like a razor: "You called me for /containment/?" "--we can't. We don't have the--isn't that--we were told to contact HAMMER. That you're handling -- mutant situations," the commanding officer said, suddenly apprehensive. "I thought--" "Officer." Again, Malthus' tone cut in, /demanding/ silence. "Are you familiar with 'Cain Marko'?" "Y-yeah. The--guy on TV? The 'Juggernaut'." "Cain Marko," Malthus corrected. His voice never rose. "A mutant who is not only, by all appearances, indestructible -- but capable of walking through a tank as if it were made of tin-foil." He reached, then, for one of his soldiers' rifles. It was handed over without thought or question. "--right. Yeah, okay," the commanding officer said. "But--" "/That/ is the mutant I am currently in the process of tracking," Malthus explained. He turned, dropping to a crouch; the assault rifle was brought to hover just above the hood of the car in front of him. "/That/ is the task you pulled me from. For -- what does this one do, again?" "He -- blows things. Up," the commanding officer said, voice shaking. "But he wants to -- turn himself in, and--" This time, it wasn't Malthus' voice that cut him off -- it was the gunshot. Sharp. Quick. Instant. The mutant inside had just peeked out from under the counter -- and suddenly, the wall behind him was painted red. His body slumped to the floor. "Next time," Malthus told the officer as he rose back to his feet, "save us the trouble." He snapped the gun's safety back on and passed it to the soldier. As they returned to their vehicle, Malthus continued: "And just kill it."