A/N - Obviously this is based on the idea of X-Men, but is not set in the X-Men universe, so we won't be seeing anyone from Marvel crossing over. Sorry!
The title and chapter names are currently all quotes from various X-Men media. I own nothing!
Tobacco smoke hung thickly in the air, obscuring most of the bar's patrons from view. Daryl Dixon raised the glass bottle of not-quite-cold beer to his lips and took a measured sip, before placing it back down on the filthy wooden table.
The bar's door swung open, bringing with it a gust of hot, summer air that did nothing to alleviate the stifling heat in the bar, and Daryl looked up briefly to spare a glance to the man who entered. A nondescript guy of about his own age. Daryl watched him for a few seconds before returning his attention to his beer and lighting a cigarette of his own to add to the thick smog.
The bar was exactly the kind of dive he would expect to find his brother frequenting, and if his careful investigations proved true, Merle had been spotted in the area recently. Of course, Daryl hadn't wanted to probe too deeply. Drawing attention to himself was never a good idea. Especially given his...current circumstances. But he was so damn fed up of being so entirely alone in the world, and if one person could understand how Daryl felt, surely that person was Merle.
The television behind the bar showed a news report about a group of renegade mutants using their powers to rob a bank. Daryl's interest piqued; he tried to arrange his features so that anyone looking at him would think he was as disgusted by the abuse of power that some mutants were showing as any other patron, but secretly he looked for any clues that Merle may have been involved. The footage showed that half the building had been left in wreckage, and the reporter remarked that it was a miracle there had been no casualties. On top of that, it described that due to the quick thinking of bank staff, and fast response by the police, the mutants involved escaped with only around fifteen thousand dollars. However, the news report gave no specific details as to the types of abilities the mutants displayed, and so, with a slightly annoyed huff, he gave up on the report. He'd simply have to scope the area out for himself later and look for any clues.
Damn, though. He hoped to God that Merle wasn't getting involved in anything too criminal. It had been hard enough when they were little kids, and Merle got into constant trouble fighting, shoplifting, vandalizing… If he was now getting involved in more organized crime and helping cement the feeling of animosity towards mutants, Daryl would have to kick his ass. Or at least, try to.
A suited man entered the bar, and Daryl's heart rate picked up for just a moment at the sight of the official-looking person. He plucked nervously at the edge of his sleeve, ensuring that the mark on his arm—currently hidden by his clothing—remained hidden. But after a second the man walked to the bar and ordered a beer, taking it off to a shadowy corner of the bar. Yet another lost soul.
The bar door opened once again, allowing a bright ray of sunshine to penetrate the thick fug of smoke. It threw a white scar on the back of his hand into sharp relief. Daryl stared at the scar for a while, unsure of what particular incident had caused it. He was covered in them, after all.
But he could remember how he had received his first ones, before his powers first began to manifest. He took another sip of beer and pushed those dark memories away, recalling the moment he realized he was a mutant instead.
He had been thirteen at the time. Merle had already been kicked out of home, leaving Daryl alone with their mutant-hating father, who would vary between spouting a never-ending stream of vitriol about Merle, to pretending that his other son simply didn't exist.
Daryl lived on constant tenterhooks, praying that he would never do anything to incur his father's wrath. Praying even harder that he wouldn't turn out to be a mutant himself. He remembered the terrible, sinking sense of dread he had experienced one night when he had accidentally burned their dinner. In his abject fury, his father had struck him several times. Even harder than usual. Daryl had fallen to the floor, but when his father tried to pick him up so that he could strike him again, he had experienced a pain so terrible that he thought he was dying. And as he screamed with the pain, his father had screamed too.
He remembered the blood. He remembered the hospital. He remembered experiencing the pain a second time when the doctors tried to help him. More blood. Being thrown a needle and thread after being told that the doctors could not help him, and he that would have to sew himself up.
Thankfully, as he grew older and his powers grew and developed, he began to heal almost instantly each time his power manifested, but as a teenager, he became quite proficient at giving himself stitches.
Of course, his father had thrown him out of the house that first day. He had lived on the streets and squatted with a group of other homeless mutants until he finally found his brother. And together they had earned what little money they could and stolen the rest. Never enough to draw too much attention. In fact, in the days before the Mutant Registration Programme, Daryl would have happily taken a steady job if he could, but the restrictions imposed on mutants meant that many had turned to petty crime to survive. And if the current news trends were anything to go by, it looked like some were moving on to major crime.
Several years ago, he and Merle had parted ways once more after Merle had used a little too much force during a robbery. Daryl glanced back at the television, at the wrecked skeleton of the bank. A part of him didn't care. He was angry enough at the world to feel that the world deserved whatever it got. But individual people getting hurt? No. He would never be angry enough to harm someone who didn't deserve it. Merle on the other hand…. Merle was exactly the type to take revenge against the world that had shunned him. Another reason for Daryl to try and find him, to reconcile with him, before his brother got into serious trouble. Or made life even harder for the rest of the mutant population, already living on the fringe of society.
The nondescript man who had entered earlier came and sat at Daryl's table uninvited. Daryl glared at him for a moment, annoyed that this man was disturbing his vigil, but almost immediately, he couldn't remember why he was annoyed.
"Give me your wallet," said the man without any preamble.
He felt a strange urge to reach into his pocket and hand the ancient, battered leather wallet to his companion. Companion? he thought hazily. He must be. Can't remember his name though…
"Why?" he asked, fighting desperately through the baffling fog that seemed to cloud his mind.
"Because I said so," replied the man, leaning forward very slightly.
Once again, Daryl felt the bizarre compulsion to hand over his wallet. A small voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to ignore the man's instructions. His hand hovered awkwardly in mid air, halfway between his beer bottle and his jeans, just as the man reached for his hand.
It was the sudden wake-up call he needed. Daryl snatched his hand away from the man in a panic. "Don't touch me," he hissed, as his heart pounded painfully in his throat. If he'd been a split second slower, and that man had touched him, there was no way he could continue to wait here on the off-chance of finding his brother. He'd most likely be driven out of the entire town.
"Calm down," said the man, and immediately Daryl felt the rage and panic dissipating. "And give me your hand. My...gift...works on most people without contact, but some people need just that little extra push."
The man's voice was as smooth as silk, and despite Daryl's misgivings, his words made sense. Of course the man's powers would work better through physical contact. It was silly of him to try and resist. Daryl placed his hand, palm down, on the sticky wooden table. He watched passively as the man reached for him, wrapping his fingers almost lovingly around Daryl's wrist.
The effect was instantaneous. Both of them howled with pain, as they looked with horror at the foot long, bloodied white spike that had grown suddenly from Daryl's arm, and that pierced the other man's hand.
Daryl yanked his hand away with a sudden twisting movement, grimacing with pain as the spike—rapidly formed from his own bone—snapped away, leaving an open wound on the back of his arm. A small piece of fractured bone was still visible protruding from the wound. Dammit,he thought. He'd broken the spike away prematurely, which would stop it from healing properly. Trying not to think about how much this was going to hurt, Daryl quickly reached inside the open wound and pinched his fingers tightly around the broken part, pulling hard. A piece of bone the size of a shark's tooth came away in his fingers and Daryl threw it to the ground as the skin and flesh began to pull back together, leaving a fresh, shiny white scar on his arm.
But his own physical pain was not the worst of it. He had drawn the attention of every single person in the bar. Someone may have already called the authorities. They stared at him, some showing fear on their faces while others showed disgust. The barman had reached behind the counter and now pointed a shotgun straight at him. "You ain't welcome here, mutant. Get the hell out of my bar. You got ten seconds."
Daryl froze for a moment, his gaze flitting between the mutant who had tried to rob him, who now sat before him whimpering and clutching at his bloody and mutilated hand, and the bar owner pointing a gun at him. In silence he downed the remainder of his beer, then walked straight to the bar. The barman raised his gun higher but still backed away a little in fear. Daryl flashed him one disdainful look before he reached over the bar and snatched a cloth, quickly wiping the blood away from his arm and hands, before he stormed back out into the Georgia heat.