She crouched low over his desk, the cat-like stance predatory, hissing in a sharp breath she smirked at him. This was getting easier by the day, and tonight it was easier than even she could have imagined, a middle aged bald-headed man in a wheelchair.
Now really, she asked, where was the challenge in that?
Oddly he seemed strangely calm ‘bout the whole thing, just sat there tapping his long fingers together even as she had crashed through the ceiling, sending plaster and dirt everywhere, her heeled black boots landing with a thump on the expensive mahogany desk. He’d barely flinched, almost as if he’d been expecting her.
She stood up straight, cocked her head to one side and smiled widely, her keen ears picking up the sound of fast running feet, heading down a wide corridor, heading in her direction. She back flipped off the desk, sailing effortlessly through the air, even as a red hot blast of heat hit the desk she’d been standing on and shattered it, splintering the expensive wood to a million pieces.
Nailing the landing perfectly, she turned to look towards the door, where at last a challenge seemed to have presented itself. And recognition stopped her briefly, the briefest of hesitation before she’d managed to draw her guns, snapping them effortlessly from their holsters and covering both men.
Holding them both in her deadly range, she looked at them sternly as the older man wheeled towards the younger, her tensed arms, fingers hovering over the triggers followed every roll of his wheels. Her sight held fast down the long barrels of her weapons, deadly cargo, primed and ready to be released.
Recognition had stopped him in his tracks as well, his mouth set in a menacing grimace, his jaw set tight, and she knew, underneath that red visors, those red glasses that sat prominent on his face, knew the look that held underneath was pure hate.
She could almost taste the detestation in his words, the venom that spat from every pore of his being, and hung heavy in the air. And she knew he had no good reason for it, whatever he believed, his blame had no place, certainly not with her.
She watched as he stepped forward, a quick movement, tantamount to his expert training no doubt, his hands balled into fists, ‘you bitch…you killed my brother!’
She smiled and shook her head, the slightest tremble in her fingers the only thing betraying her true sentiment, ‘Sorry red-eye…not true, your brother killed me…’
Her words were spoken quietly, and with a reserve that hid the full extent of the bitter memories forced forth by his accusation.
‘LIAR….!’ He sprang forward and she acted instinctively, her fingers tensed and she pulled the trigger, both guns primed, the sounds of bullets leaving their chambers resounding like thunder, burning forth like an unending fire.
The spray of ammunition was obscured slightly by the flashes from the muzzle and the smoke that came as the friction of the gun hammers hitting chambers repeatedly, spitting out deadly metal, shell after shell.
But through it all they could make out her smile, a deadly smile, wholly without empathy.
Alex Summers had been a beautiful man; she believed he had to be the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. And at ten years old it seemed her crush on him would last forever, she would love this man ‘til the day she died.
Life had been hard on her; from the ages of seven to now she had known only bitterness and pain, being deposited in the camps had seen only the continuation of a nightmare that never seemed to end.
The camps had been vast sprawling abandoned cities, on the edge of nowhere, flanked by all sides with walls that reached high into the air, dark stone, that shut out the light at the top, shutting mutants in condemned to a life of eternal darkness.
The conditions were appalling, there was never enough food, never enough blankets, never enough food and clothing, never enough…and they fought, mutant against mutant, man against woman, boy against girl, and all for the small scraps they were offered.
Effectively ghettoised in every sense of the word, they were confined in fallen cities, in condemned buildings, into a rotten meagre excuse of an existence, and for the orphans of this injustice it was all the more worse.
And for little Marie, it was worse than that, she could not make friends, could not garner companionship, could not find a confidant, so painfully shy and emaciated, what little resolve she had would be done away in the instant her powers were discovered.
That she could take the power, the life force and memory of another mutant simply through touch, meant she was ostracised on all levels, it seemed she could not be accepted or wanted by any, reviled by the humans for what she was, and ironically rejected for the same reason by her own brethren.
But she survived, through sheer force of will; she survived to spite them all, living as a rat if necessary, stealing food, stealing clothes, stealing snatches of existence to make it bearable.
She could have only seen it as a god send when she at last found Alex Summers, or when he found her, it was in those last months, she’d contracted an illness, too many nights spent exposed to the bitter winters had left her in the grip of a deadly fear, she still remembered his strong hands scooping her up, taking her away, and she, for so long despairing of a rescue had never thought it possible.
But it was true, he had saved her, had taken her back to his room, hidden her under his cot, she was such a small fragile thing then she fitted easily and neatly into a box, tucked safely under the metal springs of his bed, like a stray cat, she had shivered and sweated her fever away, safe at last.
He had been a fighter, a gladiator, a tall towering strength of a man, subjected to live out his days in the camp as a combatant in the brutal matches that were set up by the human guards as a way of passing time. Their was big money to be made in the fights, bets saw a large amount of bills passed one way or the other, the outcomes of the brawls guessed and speculated upon, matches that were often to the death.
But even this was better, better than survival on the streets, no less brutal but there was at least the assured warm meal, the cell, complete with bed and a roof, basic but even that was something to be grateful for, especially when bitter winds chilled to the bone outside.
And he had hidden her in that space underneath his bed, sharing his meals with her, sharing stories, dreams and hopes. He had told her he’d found her after the guards had let him have a solitary walk in the open air after a particular win, he’d managed to hide to bring her back to his cell.
And because of it she grew in strength, and adoration for a man she had come to think of as a saint.
Something had gone wrong this time; she’d always be worried that some time he wouldn’t win this fight, that he wouldn’t come back, but he always did, bloodied and bruised but he always came back. Her hero, like all heroes should be, was invincible.
But this time was different, he’d returned, but not the same hero, but broken and crying, sobbing. She had not known what to do; she’d crawled out from her hiding place under his bed, he’d always stressed the importance of that, none of the guards must ever know she was there, and she knowing what it would mean if they ever found her readily complied.
She’d kneeled in front of him, he was bawling, holding out his hands in front of his face, the blood on them drying fast, he clutched her shoulders suddenly and she winced under the pressure.
‘I killed her, my darling Lorna…I’ve killed her…’ she could only stare, not knowing who Lorna was and only knowing that he was in pain. ‘How had they known…?’ He shook her as if expecting her to answer, and even as she cried out his fingers digging deep, he released her and collapsed to the floor.
He laid like that on his side, curled up in a foetal position, his knees drawn to his chest, his tears; floods of tears fell to the stone floor. She sat for a while before she lay down next to him, facing him, resting her head on her arm.
At some point she fell asleep, only to be rudely awoken by a pair of rough hands tearing her small jumper from her arms, thinking with horror that she had been found by the guards and would now be force to leave, she pushed the hands away and screamed for him ‘ALEX!’
Only to find that it was Alex, he seemed to be mumbling something and she thought in his grief, he had gone mad, she fought with all the strength a ten year old can muster, but he was a seasoned fighter and she was just a little girl.
A little girl who now knew she had been betrayed once more, he managed to tear the fabric away from her and now contemplated her bare flesh, her gloves reaching up far to her elbows, they were tattered and dirty but they had done their job, protected her for so long, and protected others from her poisonous skin.
He ripped them from her, peeling them away uncaringly and then he pulled her close into a fierce embrace, kissed her hair softly, mumbled, ‘I’m sorry Marie…I’m so sorry…’
And then he did it, he took her bare hands pressed them firmly against his face, and pressed his own rough hands on her small face. Holding her firmly, she screamed as her skin opened up and she took him in.
It was a violation, a betrayal, and he would not let go, even as she screamed he would not let go, and through the pain she realised what this was, suicide, through her. He was using her to bleed himself dry, consenting to have his life force sucked away.
Damn you Alex Summers, for being such a coward.
‘Sometimes you consent to being burned in the fire’, her musings seemed to run forever as she pushed the white bangs of hair out of her face, and realised the clip had run out.
Empty shells littered her feet as she reached for the full clips attached to her belt, reloading her guns before they had a chance to recover.
Sometimes you consent to being burned in the fire, willing to watch it bleed, because for far too long it has come to this, this bitter existence, consisting of darkness, consisting of betrayal, and you choose to bear allegiance to nothing, affiliated to nothing, bearing loyalty to nothing, human or mutant.
Instead you live by that single age old mantra that you now adhere to, kill or be killed.
She smiled as she watched others join in the fight, a tall red head, and another woman with brilliant white hair and dark skin. Strange she thought how it is I can only feel truly alive when I’m killing.
That was when they turned the inhibitor off, when her mutancy, her powers, the powers she’d garnered from others was allowed to breathe. They were allowed full reign and she revelled in them, ‘mine…’ she would scream ‘all mine.’
She had not finished reloading, barely seconds before the clip was driven home and clicked into place, she felt herself lifted off her feet, looking to the red head she saw her fingers pressed to her temple, and she smiled knowingly, telepathy.
She was hovered over to the full length window and a thunderbolt saw her blasted out into the cool night air, she disappeared from view as she fell to the ground. The occupants of the room thought they had won, and they triumphed in the silence of her departure.
But nope, it was never gonna be that easy getting rid of her, and she came floating up towards the room once more, she rushed through the broken window, flying headfirst startling them all barely giving them a chance to react, her guns blazing as she headed for a shocked red-eye.
She pinned him to the ground, he knew her as the girl they had found sitting next to his brother, white streaks in her hair, sat in the corner of his cell, watching his body getting paler by the second. The rumour that had generally circulated thereafter was that Alex Summers had been killed by a very young assassin.
Marie D’Ancanto, the girl who now had another of the Summer’s family to the pinned floor, Marie, assassin, killer, oh yes she’d grown into the role comfortably. She’d been here to do a job, see off the old man, the bald headed leader of what was a new underground mutant movement.
The same bald headed man who now stood up and walked over to her, now that was strange, her brief had been that he was paralysed, but he was walking over to her all the same, even as she grappled with the man, she felt the barrel of her own gun thrust into her face.
She saw the bald man change shape; his body melted into a different form that of a woman, head to toe in blue and with yellow cat like eyes, a decoy. And Marie could only smile as the true target wheeled into the room at last.
Her laughter was cut short as she heard the gun cock, as she watched the trigger being pulled slowly, and she heard the bullet leaving the chamber before everything went black.