St. John Allerdyce (worst_one) wrote in academy_x, @ 2010-05-05 00:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | pyro, secret origins, wolverine |
Who: John, OT Logan
When: December 12, 2007
Where: Truck stop outside Salem
What: Secret Origins! After his first week at Xavier's, John decides to split. Unfortunately, he's still technically under their custody, so someone has to go haul him back.
Three. Three damn truckers had already turned him down, and John was really beginning to wonder if he looked like more of a homeless vagrant than he ever had. Evidently, hitchhiking with truckers wasn't as easy as it seemed on TV. He'd never had a problem getting around before, but then again, buses and subways were pretty easy to come by in New York City. Out here in the middle of the freaking boonies, it was beginning to seem almost impossible to get a ride even into something resembling civilization. He'd tried the sympathy angle, then what little cash he had on him, but so far he was still completely SOL. The thought occurred to him that maybe he just wasn't offering what they were really interested in, but even the thought made him queasy so that wasn't even an option.
Sighing, John poured out another handful of Reece's Pieces and popped them into his mouth, looking around the lobby of the building while he chewed. There was some scrawny old guy who looked like he was already half-dead, and was apparently supposed to be the security guard. An overweight middle-aged woman sat at the reception desk, and why in the hell a truck stop would need a receptionist in the first place was beyond him. A couple truck drivers were milling about drinking bad vending machine coffee from those flimsy paper cups with the useless little handles, but other than that the place was completely empty. It was kind of depressing, actually, especially given how gray and dreary it was outside -- cold enough to be uncomfortable, and yet still not snowing, which as far as John was concerned was an absolute waste of cold weather.
But he'd had to get out of that glorified hippie commune he'd stupidly signed up with. The past couple years spent living hand-to-mouth and sleeping under bridges and in alleys and wherever else he could find that was relatively safe had finally gotten to him. The suggestion one of the social workers at the group home had made, something about that fancy "special" school upstate, had lingered in his head until at last he broke down, went back to the home, and cut a deal with them -- they wouldn't turn him over to the juvenile delinquency system, but in return he was going to be placed under the school's custody until he was eighteen.
At the time, effectively selling his soul hadn't seemed like such a bad idea. It wasn't as if he really had many other options in life. But just a few days had thoroughly convinced him otherwise, and so on the morning of day seven, deciding he liked it better on his own and without having to answer to anyone but himself, John repacked his pitiful belongings in his backpack and took off. Not that he had any clue where he was going, but he could always figure that out later. So he'd ridden into Salem with a few other students and ditched them, claiming he'd call later for a ride back to school. Then he hopped a bus and got off at a truck stop, figuring that was his best bet to quickly get a decent amount of distance between himself and whoever might actually care enough to look for him.
Now he just had to find a mark who might sympathize with a teenager bumming a ride to anywhere.