Disclaimer: I don't Own X-Men, and I have no permission to use it, because if I
owned them, I'd be Tyco and very, very rich.
I couldn't think of a title for this, so I started thinking about a fanfic reader/writer that
I find very kind, so I named it for her.
Yer ol' pal, The Bud.
For Opaque Reasons.
"You thought yourself rid of me." A man no less a man, and no more a demon that
the devil's own fallen angels, mused as he faced his screen. "But I've been here,
behind you all along, planning your next move. Your next hundred moves before you,
yourself know them." He sits and watches, for little more than amusement,
for a world more for reasons few people have come to fathom.
He sits and waits. He sits to watch the fruit on the genetic vines he spent
decades more than just a century growing, pruning, at other times burning to
the ground to bear fruit.
Life is a chess game to him, just black and white squares with no right, and sadly,
no wrong. There are only peices to play on this board, and to topple when seen fit.
Scott Summers toppled when this man saw fit, and Scott's wife lain to be
unprotected, with no other peice to keep her from being captured.
" Yes, this is how it would be, had I not been the wiser and placed my small
kight to fill the space." He chortles to himself. His white, sharp toothed, devious
self. "The queen, and the knight, how very Athuric, except, I do not choose
to let Lancelot and Guenivere to be parted this time."
He watches his pieces interact with the other, less inportant now, but soon
to be interesting players on "His" stage.
Storm, how her powers can be so usefull, and Gambit, the poor player whom
now strutts his final hour, unbeknown to him, and Rouge, the tragic beauty
whom shall benifit though Gambit's demise, by finding whom would make the best,
genetic partner for her.
"The Professor, his only use to me, is but to teach, raise my
future warriors and then to death." The pale villan says with a flair.
Mr. Sinister bellows in what might be called a laugh, but only by streaching
the word to it's furthest meaning as he regards his pawns. He watches
the young children play, he watches them grow as his own solders, in infancy
just babies, for now. Later, to be weapons, unstoppable weapons. Something higher
than mutants, something more like the monster he is.
End
owned them, I'd be Tyco and very, very rich.
I couldn't think of a title for this, so I started thinking about a fanfic reader/writer that
I find very kind, so I named it for her.
Yer ol' pal, The Bud.
For Opaque Reasons.
"You thought yourself rid of me." A man no less a man, and no more a demon that
the devil's own fallen angels, mused as he faced his screen. "But I've been here,
behind you all along, planning your next move. Your next hundred moves before you,
yourself know them." He sits and watches, for little more than amusement,
for a world more for reasons few people have come to fathom.
He sits and waits. He sits to watch the fruit on the genetic vines he spent
decades more than just a century growing, pruning, at other times burning to
the ground to bear fruit.
Life is a chess game to him, just black and white squares with no right, and sadly,
no wrong. There are only peices to play on this board, and to topple when seen fit.
Scott Summers toppled when this man saw fit, and Scott's wife lain to be
unprotected, with no other peice to keep her from being captured.
" Yes, this is how it would be, had I not been the wiser and placed my small
kight to fill the space." He chortles to himself. His white, sharp toothed, devious
self. "The queen, and the knight, how very Athuric, except, I do not choose
to let Lancelot and Guenivere to be parted this time."
He watches his pieces interact with the other, less inportant now, but soon
to be interesting players on "His" stage.
Storm, how her powers can be so usefull, and Gambit, the poor player whom
now strutts his final hour, unbeknown to him, and Rouge, the tragic beauty
whom shall benifit though Gambit's demise, by finding whom would make the best,
genetic partner for her.
"The Professor, his only use to me, is but to teach, raise my
future warriors and then to death." The pale villan says with a flair.
Mr. Sinister bellows in what might be called a laugh, but only by streaching
the word to it's furthest meaning as he regards his pawns. He watches
the young children play, he watches them grow as his own solders, in infancy
just babies, for now. Later, to be weapons, unstoppable weapons. Something higher
than mutants, something more like the monster he is.
End