This isn't my first attempt at a fanfic, but this is the first time that I have had the guts to post to a group or even let anyone read one of my stories. Be nice to me. Please. I'm fragile. Comments and criticisms are more than welcome. I can always use advise.
DISCLAIMER: The following contains characters that I lack the imagination and creativity to invent on my own. So I steal them. From Marvel Comics for example. I don't make any money. I have no money. In fact, if I were to be sued, they would have to pay for my taxi cab to the courthouse. Please don't sue me. I am just unimaginative rabble. I am not dangerous. Thank you.
This takes place in an alternate reality that even I don't know where it is. I have left everything up to the reader's imagination.
A Son's Prayer
by Bludgeon
He steps from the shadows. The street lamp illuminates the pale, worn face with its harsh yellow light. He pulls the collar of his coat closer to his cheek to keep out the chill wind. Two people pass him on the sidewalk, giving him wide berth. Not that he can blame them. Everyone knows who he is now. He walks into the smoky bar. For once, no one looks up. They are used to him. Used to the weak, weary demon that sits in the corner and sips whiskey. The same blond waitress asks him what he wants. He tells her the same thing. She smiles the same smile and walks away, her slim hips swaying with every step.
Perfect genetic fodder, he thinks again. He thinks this every time he sees her. She places the glass of whiskey before him. He picks up the glass with a trembling, thin hand and watches her move. He raises the liquid to his lips, and it burns his throat. He never gets used to it. He never gets used to music that plays here, or the people that frequent this place. The night has been like every other, but now it changes.
A man in a long dark coat stands at his table. He doesn't bother to look up. There is only one person who calls him father.
<What can I do for you, Scott?> He never speaks out loud to him.
"I just wanted to see you," the man replies.
<Why?>
"It's been a long time since we've talked."
He laughs. <Scott, we never talk.>
"True."
<So what do you want?>
Scott clears his throat. An annoying habit. One he should have been broken of long ago. "I came to ask you---"
<Stop.>
"Come with me." Scott reaches over and grabs his icy hand. "Please. Father, it hurts me to see you like this. After all you used to be......"
He pauses and looks up at his son's visored face. <I am not that man any longer. I'm broken. After what Apocalypse did, after the sacrifices I made, do you think I could ever be who I was again? Go.> He pulls his white hand away.
"Father . . ."
<Go.>
Scott looks deeply into his father's blood red eyes. He remembers the hate and evil they once held, and he wonders which is better; hate or defeat? Malignancy or despair? He finds himself yearning for the man his father had been. The man in the black metal cape.
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