Fan Fiction ❯ Black Phoenix ❯ Been There, Done That ( Chapter 3 )

Black Phoenix

Chapter Three

There's a gun pointed straight towards me. And strangely, as I stare down the barrel of the weapon that could so easily take my life, I think two things. Firstly, Rian's words. I remember once, when his life as an assassin was over, he actually began to open up to me about his choice of career. But then he looked at my quite seriously and said, "Syrian, don't ever pretend to be a brave person, okay? Cos when the danger shows up and you find that you can't handle it, you'll never be able to forgive yourself."

I was never quite sure what Rian meant by that, but now the words play constantly in my head.

And the second thing I remember is a man standing before me like this, pointing a gun to my chest. Only that man was my father, and although he never fired, the pain he caused me was much worse than the pain of a bullet.

So now I'm standing, unaware of how long I've been in silence, and the only two people I can think about is the one I love the most and the one who I despise. Life's a bitch. I think that's my philosophy of life.

I don't think Rian was calling me a coward, cos even now there's a gun pointed at me I don't show my fear. The loss of control is there of course, and I'm struggling to breathe, but to the outside world I appear almost calm.

That's because I'm no longer there in the room. Well, in the literal sense I am. If the angel of death pulls the trigger I'm going to die, no mistake about that. But my mind, my soul, whatever it is that leaves the body after death and in dreams, is gone. As I stand, Cindy and the waitress sobbing on the floor opposite me, all I can think about is him. And it makes me despise him all the more that my last thoughts are about him of all people.

He's standing in front of me, my father, his face twisted in that strange spastic way it sometimes did, his body almost heaving. He looks like he's in pain, and I would feel sorry for him if his face wasn't twisted in a sneer of such raw disgust that my heart almost stops in my chest. And his body is twisted and deformed, but his shaking hands are pointing the gun straight at me. His son. He's just holding some object at me, but this object has the power to kill. He knows it.

I know it.

"Piece of filth," he spits. Physically spits. Saliva is hanging from his lips, but he does little to remove it. "Disgusting piece of filth."

I look at him. I can do little else. Me? He's talking about me. I'm the piece of filth. And we're alone, and he's going to kill me.

A high-pitched shriek brings me from the past back into the present, and yet strangely the gun is still pointed at me. Strange. A hallucination? Okay, Syrian, just breathe. I blink my eyes. No, the gun's still there. Okay, blink again. Blast, the gun's still there. And now I raise my eyes and see a man as cool and composed as can be; probably middle aged, wearing a black suit and sunglasses and a terrible grin that causes me to shiver. Not my father, and not a hallucination.

How many times can a seventeen-year-old boy be threatened with a gun? It's getting pretty tiresome now.

And then I realise where the screech came from. Cindy is kneeling on the floor like a hideous fruit, her hands on her lime green hair, her eyes wide in terror. I almost laugh, but for some reason the intense glare from my would-be-assassin prevents me from making any noise. I think that if I was brave I would laugh, and stare death in the face, but I'm not.

The waitress looks a lot more composed than my half-drunk friend. She is kneeling on the floor too, but propping her head up with her hands and elbows. She seems vaguely interested in what's happening, and yet slightly bored. Perhaps she's seen this situation one too many times.

But me? I'm fed up with it, and my anger was never a good trait of mine. Sod this silence crap. Cindy's on the floor, and she's innocent, and as far as I know, I'm innocent too.

"What's going on?" I say slowly, not breaking eye contact with the man in black. Only I can't actually see his eyes behind his sunglasses. Curse the day sunglasses were invented. Or made. Or whatever, who care? I'm about to get my head shot off and I'm thinking about bloody sunglasses!

"So it does speak," the angel of death says in a tone of voice that sounds suspiciously like a drawl. I shiver again. This self-righteous, smug git reminds me too much of Larry to keep this situation serious, gun or no gun.

"Yes, I speak," I snap. "And do you want to tell me what the hell is going on? Cos I'm getting just a little bit confused as to why all these people keep showing up flashing their guns and trying to fucking kill me."

I almost cursed myself at the intensity of my words. The assassin, or what I assumed to be an assassin by now, was scowling. He's going to kill me. Oh Jesus, he's going to kill me. Syrian you idiot, you don't go around shouting at big men with guns who already want to kill you.

And then his scowl faded and was replaced with a grin. I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God. This guy has a sense of humour.

"I like you kid," he said slowly. "It's a shame I have to kill you."

"What?" I cried. I was alarmed to say the least, but I'm not stupid. I was playing for time. I needed more time. "What do you wanna kill me for?"

The man seemed shocked, and yet he never lowered his gun, not once. He looked almost like a goldfish, and I would have laughed. But I didn't trust myself to laugh and not giggle hysterically. And I thought that he looked at my tattoo again. Or was I just being paranoid?

And then Cindy saved me for a moment. I didn't know if she was trying to save me, or if her fear and drunkenness spurred her on, but I was grateful. Still huddled on the floor, apparently oblivious to the fact that the gun was pointed at me and not her, she suddenly shouted. "Oh my God! Oh my God! They're gonna kill Syrian! With a gun! And then I'm going to be raped! I knew this was going to happen one day. I'm going to be raped. I'm just too gorgeous to pass up."

A lot of habits disappear when you're in danger. Somewhere deep inside I wanted to roll my eyes, but everything important inside of me was saying, "Run you fool! Big man plus gun equals danger." But Cindy, even in a situation like this, still had the ego.

But it was then, as the assassin finally let his guard down to turn and face Cindy, that I struck. I leapt forward as fast as I could, which wasn't too fast: I'm not that athletic, and brought my hands down onto the back of his head. I wanted to knock him unconscious, but I just didn't have the strength. He stumbled beneath my body, and of course I fell. Ungraciously I fell on the ground hard, pain shooting up my arms and legs. And I heard Cindy gasp. And I looked up and saw the angel of death turning, a look of nausea and confusion on his face, and he faced me. He was standing; I was sitting in his shadow, but he stumbled a little. Perhaps I had done some damage after all.

But how I wished I had the gun instead of him.

And this time there was no grin, just the scowl. And he was shaking but he lifted the gun to my face this time, and there was no doubt in my mind that the gun was pointed straight towards the mysterious phoenix tattoo. And I was staring straight down the barrel of the gun. There was nothing I could do.

Cindy was shouting, but she sounded so far away.

"Piece of filth. Disgusting piece of filth."

I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn't.

And his finger was resting on the trigger. And he was pulling it.

I could hear the sound of flesh against metal as the trigger moved, signalling my death. In front of the waitress, and Cindy who was screaming. But the angel of death was silent.

And at that moment my whole world crashed around my ears.

Huh? Unless I was mistaken, my world was crashing around my ears. Literally. And I let myself drift back into reality where Cindy's screams were loud and almost deafening. I turned and watched in horror and amazement as the whole café window came crashing in. Glass rained down on us like a dangerous weather hazard, shredding my skin. But the glass shards seemed to sparkle, and as they flew across tables and chairs, I realised what was happening.

Someone had thrown their weight against the glass and was now spectacularly flying through the air towards us, surrounded by the remains of the huge window. A figure that to me, at that moment, put me in mind of a god. The sound of breaking glass surrounded me, replacing the horrific sound of the trigger, and then I heard a loud thump as a body fell heavily to the ground. I saw him roll on the broken glass and pull himself up into a kneeling position opposite me. He was breathless, I was breathless, and everyone was frozen.

The last shards of glass hit the floor, and there was a deadly silence.

Two figures, both dressed in black, were kneeling on the floor staring at each other in deathly silence. I held my breath, stared at the scene. Glass shimmered around me like a broken rainbow, and it was cutting into my skin, but I didn't care. I just looked at the figure who had so spectacularly leapt through the glass and was now confronting the assassin.

And it was another assassin.

My heart caught in my throat.

That same dark hair. The same bright green eyes. The same slender build. The person kneeling before me was none other than Rian.

And instead of feeling relieved, my joy turned to fear. Rian was here now, and he was in danger. The gun dropped. The assassin turned to face Rian. I was momentarily forgotten, but my best friend in the whole world, my guardian, my saviour, was in danger because of me. "Rian," I breathed, but he wouldn't turn to face me. Instead he kept his eyes on the angel of death.

They both remained kneeling, facing each other, dressed in black like two huge and powerful wildcats; eyes remained locked on each other. The angel had a gun; I had figured that out pretty quickly, and now he was turning it to face Rian. There was no look of amusement on either face, no grin, no self-confidence. No smugness. When he had faced me, I was easy prey, but for whatever reason the assassin could tell that Rian was a formidable enemy. This would be a fight.

I didn't want that. I just wanted Rian to be safe. So I did what my instinct told me, even though it was stupid and crazy. I shut my gaping mouth, pulled my weary body into a crouching position, heard Cindy cry out in alarm as she realised what I was going to do, and I pounced. I just had to help Rian, this wasn't his fight. He had given up his life as an assassin, and I wasn't going to let him get hurt because of me.

So I leapt, ungracefully, not like a wildcat, but just a frightened boy with adrenaline pumping through my veins. I connected with a hard back painfully, the wind knocked out of my lungs. And then I realised that my body was sprawled across the assassin's and I immediately spread my arms and clung onto him tightly. He was dizzy from my earlier blow, but that didn't mean that he wasn't still strong. I heard him grunt and groan beneath me, trying to get a hold of my body. I tried to elude him, but eventually I felt myself thrown through the air. This time my back and the back of my head connected painfully with the wall with a sickening thump and I fell to the floor, breathless and dizzy.

"Syrian!" I heard Cindy shriek.

Then I saw the angel grinning in dizzy triumph, right before Rian delivered a blow that knocked the man unconscious. It was over, it was over. Nausea spread through my body, but as I saw the man fall, I felt so relieved. And Rian was fine. My vision was blurring and grey spots began to dance before my eyes. I blinked, smiled almost dopily, started to think the strange thoughts you have right before you lose consciousness.

*

When I opened my eyes again I was of course sitting in my English class. Of course. The pain in my body had gone. What pain? Where was I? Oh yes, in English class. I couldn't remember anything about the fight, because as far as the 'English class me' was concerned, there was no fight. My name was Syrian Black, sixteen years old, living at home with my father and going to school everyday like every normal teenager. I had never been threatened with a gun and I had never met an assassin. Yep, life simply consisted of sleep, school and homework.

But there was something bothering me. My father. Last night we had been talking when suddenly his whole body spasmed and, unable to keep his balance, he had fallen to the floor. I wanted to support him, but he scared me when he started shaking like that. It sounded stupid, I always thought I could handle someone in trouble, but when it came to it I was scared. Powerless and out of control. My dad had fallen to the ground, trying to breathe, and all I could do was fall beside him and hope I was offering him at least a little support or comfort.

And then he turned his face towards me, scowling, and it seemed that he was looking straight into my mind and he saw something dirty, something that he didn't like. And he continued to scowl, even though his body was trembling so hard I thought he was going to have a fit. And I didn't know what to do.

"Mr Black?" My father's eyes narrowed in disgust . . .

"Mr Black?" I felt so helpless. How could I help him? Why did he look at me like that?

"Syrian?"

I turned then, blinked, breathed, blinked again and realised where I was. English class, of course, even though my mind had been somewhere else. I froze, felt embarrassed, wondered if there was a blush creeping across my cheeks. Some of the students were laughing, and I realised that the teacher, Mr Harada, had called me several times. Now I looked like I wasn't paying attention, which I wasn't, but for a good reason.

I thought Mr Harada was angry at me, and he deserved to be. The bell rang then and the students around me managed to collect their stuff together and leave the room quicker than I imagined. I blinked again, breathed, and realised that I was alone in the classroom. When did that happen? Only I wasn't alone. Mr Harada was looking at me in concern. Concern, not anger.

"Syrian, are you all right?" he asked carefully, walking towards my desk. The next thing I knew I was standing (when did that happen?) and facing him. He was a middle aged teacher from my knowledge, but fairly good-looking. To be honest, I never realised that he cared so much for me, or his students.

"I'm fine, Mr Harada," I said with a small sigh, so convincingly that he didn't believe me for a second.

"I doubt that," he said slowly. "Does this have something to do with your home life? Your father?"

I frowned, wondered how he knew about my father, and then grew angry. It wasn't any of his business, so why did he care? But when I raised my eyes to argue, I looked at his face, into his grey eyes, and realised that for whatever reason he cared. At least a little. And care was the one thing I didn't have and the one thing that I wanted.

So I said nothing when he began to run his hands through my hair comfortingly. And I said nothing when the concern faded from his eyes as his hands embraced my cheeks. As I said nothing when slowly Mr Harada leant towards me, whispering something I can't remember, and pressed his lips to mine. After all, he was only caring.

~TBC~