All known X-men characters in this story are copywrited by Marvel
Comics. No permission was obtained, but no profit is to be made from
this story. It is purely for my personal enjoyment and those of its
readers. All other characters, concepts, plots, theories, technology
not seen in Marvel Comics belong to me.
Please don't distribute this without asking me; I probably won't
mind if you did, as long as it wasn't altered in any way. I'd just
like to know where it's going.
Please, enjoy this story, and send me your comments, be they good
or bad, to percy@atlas.webo.dg.com or jpercy@clariion.com.
Thanks for reading!
John Percy
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Revelations - Chapter 1
By
John Percy
I never should have gone on this assignment.
Flying a few hundred feet above the ground in a standard prison
transport, sitting in the co-pilot's seat, I read a transmitted report
the ships computer just received. I begin to hope that maybe it was
some kind of fantasy as I read it, but I know that there isn't any
chance of that.
I shake my head as I read. 24 hours ago, Mr. Sinister asked me to
escort this prisoner transport, to pick up some high-rated genetic
material from the Core. Not an unusual request, but a different one.
Usually a few Infinites, or at most a squad, is enough to escort a
transport and some prisoners. I guess I just wanted to get away for a
while. The assignment sounded simple, so I didn't give him asking me
to do this a second thought.
As I think of Mr. Sinister, a small smile crosses my face. My
'father' - at least my adoptive one - probably thought I was working
to hard, and needed a break. He is probably right. I do work hard.
I'm proud of what I've done, what I've accomplished. So is he, I
think. And the trip has been restful, in a dutiful sort of way. So
far.
I sigh, and look back at the report on the computer screen,
highlighting some of the details, and I curse myself for being so
stupid. With an angry jab of my finger, I deactivate it, darkening
the screen, and see my own reflection. One I've seen a thousand
times, but each time, its different. Somehow.
I see, looking back at myself, a tall, muscular man - muscles
gained from a lifetime of training, conflict, battle. Wearing my
standard uniform - a dark blue combat/body-suit; golden utility belt;
golden chest strap holding in place the full-length armor sleeve of
the same color on the left arm; matching gauntlet on the right hand
that leaves that arm bare from shoulder to mid forearm. Long brown
hair pulled back into a ponytail. Perpetual 5 o'clock shadow. A
grim, serious look. As usual.
And the visor. Always, the visor.
=20
I absent mindedly touch the visor that I have worn since I was 13
- the last time I saw my own eyes looking back at me. For almost 18
years, I have worn it, or one of its smaller cousins. Resting,
eating, reading, exercising, working, sleeping, I have always worn it.
I don't even remember what color my eyes are. I'll never see my eyes
again - thanks to my mutant power. My optic blasts. My gift. My
curse.
For nearly 18 years, my visor has contained the power of my twin
optic blasts, ruby red beams of force so powerful, I can lay waste to
a mountain with but a glance. For 18 years, I have never seen the sun
rise without it. For 18 years, no one has gazed into my eyes. If
they had, they would be dead. Such power, fueled by the solar energy
around me (or so I'm told), all held in place by a pair of fancy eye
glasses. My visor.
=09
I look closely again at the visor, admiring its technical
brilliance, its aesthetic lines. No wider than two fingers, it can,
with only a mental command, accurately place an optic blast anywhere I
wish. After years of practice, I use it well. Rarely do I miss. It,
and my training, has saved my life (and those of my fellow soldiers)
many times. Mr. Sinister, my adoptive father, designed it. It is
flawless. It fits effortlessly around my head - I hardly notice it.
Built in comlinks, sensors, range fingers, targeting functions - all
mentally activated. It is a technical marvel. It even holds my hair
in place, as long as it is.
I hate it.
No, hate is the wrong word. Loathe? Despise? No. Those words
are too harsh. I've lived too long with my visor. I'm a part of it;
it's a part of me. If I hate it, I would hate myself. Maybe the best
word is tolerate. Yes, I tolerate it. I wish I did not need it.
Unfortunantly, my power is not controllable like my brother's, and I
do. Is that wrong? I don't think so. Am I ashamed to be a mutant?
No. Ashamed of how I've used my power in the past? No. Ashamed that
I'm different? No.
I just wish I could see the sun again with my own eyes. Look a
woman in the face, and see her look into my eyes. But that will never
happen, never again. I will wear this visor until someone takes it
off my cold, dead body. Even then, they'll probably leave it on. 'It
was a part of him', they'll say. What an epitaph.
I sigh again, and berate myself mentally. Enough pity, Summers.
It's not you. You dealt with this long ago. It's just this trip, and
the report thats made you melancholy. And Alex.
I turn the computer screen on again, and read the report over.
Attempted breakout of the prisoners. Instant response by the Chief of
Security. Breakout crushed. No survivors.
Damn you, Alex.
If I could rub my eyes, I would. Alex has always been a hot head.
More prone to overreact. More prone to blasting first, asking
questions later. And with his power - plasma blasts - nothing was
often left to examine, much less talk. He has no idea, no concept of
how important our job is, or how necessary the Pens are, to
Mr. Sinister's experiments. The losses in the last 24 hours could set
his experiments back weeks, if not months. Maybe years. Damn it,
what else where the Pens for, if not to hold prisoners and test
subjects? It's not an extermination camp!
Once again I sigh. The Pens - I think back on when we first built
the place. Used to hold human prisoners and genetic turncoats, it was
Mr. Sinister's personal laboratory. Apocalypse himself, our dread
Lord, mandated its construction. Mr. Sinister himself has the task of
bringing about the next generation of mutant kind. The prisoners here
are the genetic resources he uses to further the future of our race.
It is from the Pens that our future will come. How can Alex treat
it so callously, without thought? Damn him.
I never understood him. I don't think I ever did.
I sigh, thinking of how to handle the incident. How to resolve it
without killing Alex. Whenever the two of us are even just in the
same room, the tension rises to the boiling point.
"Is everything alright, Prelate?"
I turn and look at the pilot of the transport. A hulking
monstrosity, it easily towers over me. Heavily armed and armored, the
Infinite is a capable soldier - even if it is a mixture of genetic
soup. An engineered being, the Infinite has a limited life. And
limited uses. And limited intelligence. Still, McCoy is getting
better at it. McCoy - Mr. Sinister's 'assistant', if you can call
what he does that - has a nack for what I would call the disgusting,
but his creations do have their uses. I am actually quite amazed that
this one even said something directly to me without being asked. I'll
have to mention it to McCoy later. Maybe he's developed some kind of
new version, without knowing it. I doubt it.
"Just ...drive." I sigh, and hope McCoy puts more brains, or at
least sensibility, in the next batch.
"Yes, Prelate."
I never should have gone on this assignment.
**** ****
Fortunatly, the next few hours are uneventful, and silent.
McCoy's talkative Infinite wisely notices my mood, and keeps its mouth
shut. No more reports come in, either. Which probably means Alex has
solved the problem in his complete, total, and destructive manner. I
sigh again.
"We are approaching the landing zone, Prelate. Do you wish to
land the ship yourself?" The Infinite actually sounds scared to
speak. Hmm. It seems it can learn, after all.
"No. Standard approach vector. Hail the control center, and give
our recognition code."
The Infinite nods, and open a channel. "Pen control center, this
is prison transport 134. Requesting approach clearance, recognition
code oh-one-eight-alpha. Acknowledge."
Over the small cabin speaker, I hear a sqwuak. "Acknowledged,
prison transport 134. Permission to land granted. Use landing pad
three."
"Affirmative."
The Infinite, though big and brutish, performs the simple duty of
landing the transport efficiently. McCoy at least got that part
right. Sometimes I think he is more interested in seeing what
bizarre, weird things he can make, rather than functional items.
"Touch down in 3..2..1..0." I lurch a bit as the transport lands
with a clunk. I quickly unbuckle the safety harness, stand, and head
for the exit hatch. I open a storage bin next to the hatch, reach in
and yank out the duffel bag I took for the trip.
Not looking back at the Infinite, I say, "See to the transfer of
the prisoners. Take a squad, if you must. I want all the prisoners
transfered without incident. Alive."
The Infinite nods its bulky head quickly. "Yes, Prelate."
I turn back, and I cause my visor to flash quickly - a neat little
trick Mr. Sinister added. Nothing like a little intimidation. "Or
you'll answer to me."
"Y-y-yes, Prelate."
Without another look or word, I exit through the hatch, landing on
the tarmac with a slight grunt. I heft the duffel bag over my
shoulder, and walk towards the entryway. Behind me, I can hear the
Infinite calling for help to unload the cargo. Smart one, that
Infinite. At least this lot of prisoners won't go to waste at Alex's
hands.
The thought of Alex darkens my mood again, and by time I reach the
entryway lift, I hardly notice anyone or anything around me. Barely
acknowledging the two Infinite guards, I enter the lift and jab the
button for the living quarters so hard that the two genetic guards
almost jump with fright. McCoy - figured he would make these guards a
little less ... jumpy. Damn, I must be so angry with Alex, I can't
even make a good metaphor.
The lift doors close, and it starts to slowly descend into the
heart of the Pens, towards the Elite's living quarters. The Elite
Mutant Force, or EMF, is Mr. Sinister's personal army. Genetically
perfect, loyal to him and our Lord Apocalypse. We are the best of the
best, and have the best.
I am the Commander of the EMF.
It's an honor to command. It's also a major pain. Alex is a case
in point. I often have to balance the welfare of my troops, the
preservation of the Pens, and duty to Mr. Sinister with my own troops
arrogant attitudes, violent tendencies, and zealot beliefs.
Not that I'm not a firm believer in the Ascension. It's just that
I, and Mr. Sinister, keep the larger picture in mind. Some of the
followers of Apocalypse would ... how does McCoy say it ... toss the
baby out with the bathwater. Their unwavering fanaticism may seem to
have them 'on top' now, but the methods they use are destroying future
possibilities. The true rising of the future of mutant kind far
outweighs the advantages we have gained so dearly today - and the
methods the others use to keep them.
I shake my head and sigh again. Alex doesn't see the future. His
vision is very narrow, his attitude all wrong. He is Chief of
Security, though. And my second. I have to deal with him carefully -
and try not to kill him in handling this situation. Also, to avoid
being killed by him. He has a lot of followers. His personal cadre
are nearly as fanatic as he is. Fortunantly, their own arrogance gets
in the way of their getting organized. Only Alex's own destructive,
violent personality keeps them in check. Fortunantly, while we are
evenly matched, he is easy to read.
Survival of the fittest - Alex takes Apocalypse's credo to the
extreme. It's written on his face in big, bold letters that anyone
can see, if they look. I have no doubt that if I let my guard fall
for an instant, he would take advantage of it without hesitation.
Fortunantly, I never let my guard drop.
The lift comes to a halt, and I stalk out, my mood still dark. I
ignore the saluting Infinites - damn McCoy and his adherence to
protocol - and walk down the corridors towards my quarters. I frown
as I see who is waiting outside my door.
"Welcome back, Prelate." Rook Tabitha Smith, aka Meltdown, is one
of Alex's security people. She can form plasma bombs. A somewhat
explosive, if limited, power. She also happens to be Alex's lap-dog,
his eyes and ears. A flunky, like they used to call them back in the
`60s. That makes her far more dangerous. I have no doubt she and her
cohorts have been watching my every step since I arrived.
I ignore her, go to my door, and start to punch in my access code
to the door lock to my quarters.
She stares at my back a second, and starts to speak again.
"Prelate Havok wishes to speak with you immediately, sir."
I finish entering the code, and the door slides open, and I step
through, still ignoring her. Unbelievingly, she actually follows me
in. I reassess my opinion of her. Not only is she a stooge, she's an
idiot, too.
"Sir? Prelate Havok was insistent."
I drop my duffel bag to the floor, my back to her, still ignoring
her. It really was unbelievable that she was still speaking to me.
In fact, she was arrogant enough to actually approach within a few
feet of me. I could even sense her crossing her arms across her
chest, in an arrogant stance.
"He ordered me to escort you immedi.. urk!"
I whip my arm around, and catch her throat in the vise-like grip
of my armored hand. Scowling, I see the surprise, the fear in her
eyes, as she clutched at my hand. It's hard to be arrogant when you
can't breathe.
She is a small woman, and with us being so close, I can easily
lift her off her feet a few inches. All those years of weightlifting
paid off once again. I squeeze her throat harder, cutting off not
only her air supply, but also applying a little pressure to her
cartaroid. Lack of air and blood to the brain makes one squirm a
less.
=20
I pull her closer to me, so our faces were only inches apart, and
scowl as hard as I can, my visor gleaming into the depths of her eyes.
The look of fear and shock on her eyes make it clear I have her
attention, as she wriggles helplessly in my grip. Pathetic. She
spends all day flaunting her power, her gift, and when it comes to a
crisis, she's as weak as a kitten.
I growl at her, and say in low, dangerous tones. "I. Don't.
Need. An. Escort."
"Urk.. grph..." She wiggles, shaking her feet, as she weakly
struggles against my grip.
"I will see Prelate Havok when I am ready. Not before."
"Ggg....Thch..." She barely gets a few nods off.
With another growl and snarl, I release the bitch, tossing her
away like a used tissue. She collapses in a heap a few feet away,
gulping air like a person who'd almost drowned. Pathetic.
I stare down at her, my visor flashing, the look of disgust on my
face not unreal. "Get out. If you ever enter my quarters again
without my permission, it will be the last mistake you ever make."
Struggling up to her feet, she nods, haggeredly drawing in air as
fast as she can. "Y...yes...si...sir..."
I take a quick step forward and lash out with with an armored
backhand, smashing her back down to the ground. Crying out in pain
and surprise, she crashes back in a squirt of blood from a broken nose
into the door.
I kneel down, gripping her uniform shirt, and snarl into her face,
"And tell your fellow lapdogs that if they try and pull the shit you
just did, I'll kill them. And then I'll kill you."
Holding her shattered nose, eyes wide with fear, pain, and shock,
she just barely nods.
I reach up, trigger the door open, and shove her out. "Now, get
out!"
I turn away as the door closes, getting a brief glance of her ass
as she tries to crawl away like the animal she is.
I sigh again, and shake my head. It's not enough that I have to
deal with Alex, but his idiot followers try to screw with me too.
I've had not quite a few encounters with his squad. This one was
rather tame. Usually, the idiots take their survival of the fittest
dogma to the extreme, and try to prove something. All they end up
doing is proving that they can die just as easily as any other idiot.
They never learn.
Growling at myself, I reach down and pick up my duffel bag.
Alex's lackey's are a pain in the ass, and some are very powerful, but
they are all overconfident, smug, arrogant, and, in the end, simple to
handle. Dealing with Alex, that's difficult.
Cursing life in general, I dump out my duffel bag, and start to
put the few things I brought with me on the trip away.
Welcome home, Scott.
=00
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