Checkmate: Games of War » [Cherik]

Chapter Three

Erik had a made a lot of mistakes. Erik had made a lot of mistakes in need of correcting. His list of mistakes was snowballing by the second, but of all his mistakes; one was far more poignant. One took priority above all others.

The Maximoff residence. It wasn't toilsome to track down, all it took was a few politely phrased inquiries in at local authorities, work places and a skim read of a phone directory.

It was a stout bungalow, on a quiet suburban street, with a crooked red mail box and small square windows. The roof was absent a few tiles, the chimney crooked and the door had chipped paint. The lawn was lush, having sprouted dandelions and daisies, and the bushes broth-like; but it was homely. The floral curtains and the muslin didn't do much to mask the interior, and inside, Erik could see a silver haired boy zipping forth and back across a room and a toddler clomping about after him, with an unabashed grin.

From the enclave of the shabby Cadillac with its torn beige leather upholstery, he could hear the gleeful squeals of the young girl, and the thumping of the boy's rapid feet.

Erik turned down Mick Jagger's guttural rendition of 'Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby?', rather ironic he thought. 'Sympathy For The Devil' is what he really needed.

Erik flexed his slender fingers on the steering wheel and took a few paced breaths, trying to regain some composure before he confronted the formidable feat. Still, the sound of the children was ringing in his ears, with their squeals and cheers. The sound intermingled with his shallow breaths and the rushing of his blood. It was a concoction of noises that paralysed him with fear.

He stole a look at his ageing face in the grotty rear-view mirror; with crinkles stretching around his eyes that peeked from beneath the rims of his sunglasses. The thinning dark hair, starting to go a stagnant grey under his hat. His lips were craggy and his complexion ashen. His life story was told by the lines on his face.

He sighed deep and plucked the keys out of the ignition. He twirled the key ring around his finger and clambered out of the chic American roller.

The garden path wound up to the door, taking him on a tour of the overgrown garden, trampling on the cracked paving slabs and splitting them further. As he met with the door, he straightened his lapels and flourished his hand to swing the door knocker with only his metal telekinesis.

Before the hammer fell on the metal plate, the door was opened and the teenager with the silver streaked hair was standing there with an unimpressed expression on his face. It only took him a second to twig Erik's identity and recognition cracked out across his face, inquisition in his eyes.

"You again..?" He leant against the doorway with his arms crossed cynically. "Shouldn't you be back in prison by now? You know for all that Whitehouse stuff? And what happened to your long-haired boyfriend? Lose him? You sure as hell look lost... What are you doing on my doorstep? Do you need my help again?" The boy bombarded him with questions at a hundred miles per hour; his mouth moving with unfathomable speed.

Erik gawped at him, mouth hanging open unintelligibly. "Uh... Charles isn't my boyfriend," he grumbled, mind playing catch up and translating the words into coherent singularities. "Is your mother in?" Erik shook himself free of the daze and removed his shades; tucking an arm of his glasses into his t-shirt.

The kid rolled his eyes. "Ma' you have a weirdo here to see you!" He shouted back into the house with boredom, zipping away in an instant; leaving Erik standing redundantly in the doorway.

"Have some manners!" She scolded in her Eastern European accent. "Who is it, Pietro?" She grumbled back in a stressy voice.

He whizzed back into view, doing a supersonic circuit around the mutant and pilfered Erik's wallet from his back pocket.