Death was nothing more to him than an obstacle to overcome. Like a child learning to walk, he had to learn to strengthen himself from the bottom up before he could take those first crucial steps. His consciousness was scattered those first hours, unable to focus - blasted to atoms, how could it be otherwise?
And yet, the pull was there.
The magnetism in his very cells was strong, honed after years of training, of enhancements. Weakened by the blast, but still present, still yearning for connection, he developed again. Revenge was his motivation. His lust for power, lust for evolution- they fuelled him, made his molecules reverberate with the strength of their longing.
He thought he had known death. The concentration camps stank of it. It lived on the doorstep, slept in the beds, was carried by the very air they breathed in Poland. Once religious, science had become his saviour. Science, Captain America, had saved his life in Poland. Not God. He had escaped death once, determined he always would. He was no fool. He took his precautions, did what he could to slip just out of its clutches. No prayer could save him, no heaven awaited his arrival. There was no God to coddle him, to love him. Death, he once thought, was black, cold, empty. It was lonely eternity, and even in his age, he swore that eternity would never have him. Not without his consent. He would not surrender.
He had not planned to go the way he did. That was not part of his plan.
Death had been surprisingly painless, reconnection so painful that he wished the blackness had taken him. Atoms bouncing off atoms, jarring, angry, trying to find their place, like keys forcing themselves into their niches. Some drawn in clusters, some repelled by the power of others. It took months before the pain subsided and he could begin to call himself whole. He deserved every moment of agony, every searing pain as the residual cells migrated to their proper place.
He had failed in life, paid with it, but his resurrection, his reconnection, would be his chance at regaining glory.
Molecule by powerful molecule, polarized by Apocalypse and yet brought together by his Darwinist desire to survive, he would return. He always returned.
Next time, he, the Great, would not fail.
-FIN-
Author's Notes: No good villain ever stays dead. Constructive criticism is appreciated.