Under Grey Skies - Chapter 3

Posted on Wed Sep 23rd, 2026 @ 10:49am by Blake Hayes

2,526 words; about a 13 minute read

Mission: Fallout
Location: 418 West 47th Street, Apartment 5B Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, New York
Timeline: 30th July 2026

The apartment had been dark for most of the day.

Blake hadn't bothered opening the curtains. The grey light that managed to force its way around the edges was more than enough. It fell across the living room in thin, colourless strips, catching on empty bottles scattered across the coffee table and the half-finished glass hanging loosely from his hand. The television had been left on without sound, flickering through images he wasn't watching. News footage. Manhattan. Mutant protests. The aftermath of the attack. He'd stopped listening to any of it days ago.

The bottle beside him was almost empty. Blake stared at it for several seconds before lifting it and discovering there was barely enough left for another drink. He poured it anyway, his hand unsteady as the amber liquid splashed into the glass. He had no idea how long he'd been drinking. Long enough that the distinction between morning and evening had stopped mattering. Long enough that sleep had become something he fell into rather than something he sought.

His phone lay face down on the floor beside the sofa. Blake had stopped counting how many times he'd called Connie. At first, she'd answered occasionally, though their conversations had been brief and painfully strained. Then the calls had gone unanswered. Messages remained unread. Eventually, even the small hope that she might call him back had begun to feel foolish. He'd left one more message that morning, though he couldn't remember exactly what he'd said. Probably something about Lily. Probably I'm sorry. Everything seemed to come back to those two words now.

The funeral had been three days ago.

Three days since he had stood beside a small coffin while rain fell softly over the cemetery, listening to words that seemed to belong to someone else's life. Three days since he'd watched his daughter's name engraved into stone. He could still remember the flowers. The black umbrellas. Connie standing several feet away from him, refusing to look in his direction. He remembered wanting to reach for her and knowing he had no right to. Now the apartment felt impossibly empty. Lily's voice wasn't coming through the door. Her toys weren't scattered across the floor. There was no little girl waiting for him to make pancakes or complaining that he was taking too long. There was only silence.

Blake lifted the glass to his lips again and stared blankly towards the darkened window. Outside, Manhattan carried on without him. Cars moved along the avenue. People hurried beneath umbrellas. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. He took another swallow, feeling the alcohol burn its way down his throat, and let his head fall back against the sofa.

For the first time in twelve years, Blake had nothing left to hide.

And nothing left to lose.

The knock came so quietly that Blake almost ignored it., three slow raps against the apartment door.

He stared towards the hallway, glass still resting loosely between his fingers. For a moment, he wondered if he had imagined it. Nobody was supposed to be coming. He hadn't told anyone where he was going to be, though there wasn't anywhere else for him to go. His world had narrowed to these four walls, the bottles on the table and the memories he couldn't escape.

Another knock came.

Blake closed his eyes.

"Go away."

There was a pause, then a familiar voice came through the door.

"Blake? It's me."

He recognised it immediately. His partner.

The sound of her voice stirred something uncomfortable inside him. Guilt, perhaps. Or shame. She had been there when everything happened. She had watched him unleash the storm. She had been the one who called it in. The one who had said the words that had changed everything, 'We have a confirmed mutant at the scene.

Blake stared at the bottle in his hand.

"Not a good time."

"We know," came the reply.

A second voice followed, deeper and more authoritative.

"Blake, it's the Chief. Open the door."

Blake gave a bitter, humourless laugh.

'Of course its the chief.' came the dry thought to his drink addled mind.

He pushed himself upright, immediately regretting it as the room seemed to tilt beneath him. He caught the edge of the sofa until the dizziness passed, then shuffled towards the door. He hadn't shaved in days. His clothes were the same ones he'd worn yesterday, or perhaps the day before. He wasn't entirely sure anymore.

When he opened the door, his partner stood there in plain clothes, her dark hair pulled back neatly. The concern that crossed her face when she saw him was immediate and impossible to hide. Beside her stood the Police Chief in a dark overcoat, his expression solemn as he took in the state of the apartment and the man standing before them.

Neither spoke for several seconds.

Blake looked between them.

"What?"

His partner's eyes moved past him, taking in the dark apartment, the bottles and the general wreckage of a life that had stopped functioning.

"Jesus, Blake."

He shrugged.

"Apparently I'm doing great."

The Chief looked at him carefully.

"We came to check on you."

Blake gave another hollow laugh.

"You've got a funny way of checking on someone."

"Can we come in?"

Blake almost told them no without thought but after a pause and weighing the options he stepped aside allowing them to enter.

"Sure. Why not? Plenty of room."

They entered slowly, his partner closing the door behind them. Blake returned to the sofa and dropped heavily into it, taking another drink as though their presence made no difference.

His partner remained standing for a moment.

"How long have you been drinking?"

Blake looked at the glass.

"I don't know."

"Blake—"

"I said I don't know Renee."

The sharpness in his voice made her stop as he stared down into the amber liquid.

"I don't sleep much anymore," he said quietly. "Drinking helps."

The Chief exchanged a glance with his partner before taking the chair opposite Blake.

"We're not here to lecture you."

"Good."

"We're here because you're still one of ours."

Blake finally looked up.

"Am I?"

The question hung in the room and Renee's expression fell as the Chief took a breath before answering.

"That's what we need to talk to you about."

Blake knew what was coming.

He could see it in the way the Chief sat opposite him, the careful distance he had left between them, and in the way Renee remained standing near the door as though she couldn't quite bring herself to sit down. He had seen that look before. Not from either of them, but from doctors, counsellors and strangers who didn't know what to say to a grieving father.

There was something else in the Chief's expression.

Something final.

Blake lowered his glass.

"You're here to tell me I'm done."

Neither of them answered immediately.

He gave a bitter smile.

"I've been expecting the phone call."

"Blake—"

"No." He shook his head. "Don't do that, Renee. Don't say my name like you're trying to make this easier."

Renee swallowed, her eyes dropping briefly to the floor.

The Chief leaned forward.

"This isn't a conversation I wanted to have with you."

"Then don't."

"Blake."

"I said don't."

The glass in his hand trembled.

Not from the alcohol.

The surface of the drink began to ripple, tiny concentric circles spreading across the amber liquid despite the fact that his hand had gone completely still. A faint pressure seemed to gather inside the apartment, subtle enough to be mistaken for a change in the ventilation. The curtains shifted against the closed windows.

Renee noticed.

Her eyes moved towards them.

Blake noticed her noticing.

The curtains settled.

He stared down at his hand.

For twelve years he'd learned to suppress those little moments. A sudden gust when he was angry. Static crawling across his fingertips. The pressure behind his eyes whenever a storm approached.

Now, he barely had the energy to care.

"So," he said quietly. "Go on."

The Chief's expression hardened with reluctance.

"Following the incident on the eighteenth, the department has conducted an initial review of your status."

"My status."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah." Blake's jaw tightened. "I do."

Renee finally moved from the door and sat down beside the Chief.

"We tried to argue for you," she said.

Blake looked at her.

Something in his expression softened for the briefest moment.

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"How'd that work out?"

Renee didn't answer and both seemed to pause. Blake looked between them waiting for the answer but in truth he already knew.

"Right."

The curtains stirred again.

This time there was no breeze.

The Chief glanced towards the window before returning his attention to Blake.

"Your abilities present concerns that the department doesn't believe it can responsibly accommodate."

Blake laughed once, quietly.

"Of course."

"It's not that simple."

"It really is."

He placed the glass on the table with enough force to make the bottles beside it clink together.

"I'm a mutant."

The word seemed to hang in the room.

"For twelve years, I kept that part of myself hidden. I joined the department. I did the job. I put myself between people and danger every damn day."

His voice began to rise.

"And the one time I actually used what I can do, it was because my daughter had just been shot."

The room fell silent and all that could be heard was Blake's breathing which had become heavier. Outside, somewhere beyond the apartment walls, thunder rumbled faintly across Manhattan. Renee looked at him with tears beginning to gather in her eyes but all Blake could do was stare at the floor.

"And she still died."

The pressure in the room vanished.

The curtains dropped motionless against the window.

Blake's anger seemed to drain out of him all at once, leaving only exhaustion.

"So tell me," he whispered. "Tell me how I'm supposed to care about losing my job when I've already lost her."

Renee was quiet for several seconds. She looked down at her hands, turning the simple ring on her finger absent-mindedly before finally looking back at Blake.

"There is something I need to tell you."

Blake said nothing.

"I don't trust mutants" she continued.

The admission was blunt enough that Blake actually looked at her and Renee held his gaze.

"I know how that sounds. And after everything that's happened, maybe it's not something I should be saying to you right now. But I'd rather tell you the truth than sit here and pretend I've suddenly become someone I'm not."

Blake's jaw tightened but Renee continued before he could respond.

"I've seen what they've done. I've seen what they've been capable of. I've watched the news, the attacks, the people who've been hurt. And I've spent years hearing stories about mutants who lost control of what they could do." She paused. "So yeah. I was afraid of them."

Blake looked away.

"Was?" he asked.

Renee gave him a faint, sad smile.

"Not entirely."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows against her knees.

"But then I met you."

Blake stared at her "You didn't know I was a mutant."

"No."

"And that changes things?"

"It changed everything."

Renee's voice softened.

"For years, you were just Blake. My partner. The guy who'd bring me coffee when I was too busy to get one myself. The idiot who kept insisting that British police dramas were better than anything American television could produce."

Despite himself, the corner of Blake's mouth twitched and Renee noticed.

"See? That."

The tiny smile disappeared almost immediately, but she continued.

"I worked beside you for years. I trusted you with my life. I've watched you walk into situations most people would run from because somebody needed help. I've watched you talk angry people down when everyone else was ready to draw their weapons. I've seen how you treat people who can't do anything for you."

She took a breath.

"So when I found out what you were, I had a choice."

Blake looked at her again.

"And I realised I'd been wrong about one thing."

"What?"

"Mutants aren't one thing." her words were simple, but Blake felt them more deeply than he expected. "Some are dangerous. Some aren't. Some are good people. Some aren't. Same as everyone else."

Renee glanced towards the window.

"I don't suddenly understand what you're capable of. And I'll be honest with you, seeing what happened out there scared the hell out of me."

Blake lowered his eyes, feeling a sudden shame he'd not felt before now. "I know."

"But..." she continued, " I also know the man who stood in that street wasn't trying to hurt innocent people." Her voice cracked slightly. "You were trying to save Lily."

Blake's eyes closed as more tears he had thought had entirely dried out threatened to fall once more.

Renee reached into her bag and pulled out a thin folder. "I brought you something."

She placed it on the coffee table and Blake stared at it. The cover carried a faded photograph of a large estate surrounded by trees. Beneath it was a name he hadn't heard in years, Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

Blake frowned. "I thought that place was gone."

"It is."

Renee opened the folder.

"At least officially."

She pulled out several photocopied pages, photographs and handwritten notes.

"Before everything happened, the Xavier Institute was one of the few places in the country specifically designed to help young mutants understand what they were capable of. Training. Education. Control. A safe place for people who didn't know what to do with abilities they never asked for."

Blake stared at the photographs or Children, Teenagers. People who looked frightened, confused, hopeful, People like him.

"After the X-Men disappeared, the school effectively collapsed. But from what I could find, some of the people connected to it didn't simply disappear."

She slid another sheet across the table.

"There are still people out there trying to help mutants."

Blake didn't touch it.

"Why are you giving me this?"

Renee looked at him for a long moment, "Because you're sitting here drinking yourself into the ground, and I don't think that's what Lily would have wanted for you."

The words hit harder than anything else she'd said.

Blake's eyes dropped to the folder.

"I don't know how to do this", his voice cracked as the tear finally started to cut it was across his cheek.

"I know."

"I don't know how to control any of this."

"I know."

He swallowed.

"And I don't know how to be without her."

Renee's expression softened, "I don't think anyone can tell you how to do that."

She pushed the folder slightly closer, "But maybe you can learn how to be everything else."

Blake stared at the information for a long time, a silence expanding between them all as Blake took it all in. For the first time since Lily's death, something other than grief moved inside him. Not hope, not yet, it was just the faintest possibility that perhaps his life hadn't completely ended when hers had.

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

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