Note: So just a heads up this is a Gifted fanfiction but I have done research on the characters in the show so I am mixing some of them with their comic personalities and the show. For example, Johnny's younger brother is featured in this as well as other X-Men characters but I won't say who. I am also focusing on Johnny's heritage as an Apache first nation's member because I feel like we aren't seeing enough of this in the show. I'm not going to give away any plot points but I am trying to infuse the culture in the story. I'm not Apache, but I'm addicted to First Nation history and have done tons and tons of research on Lakota, Cherokee, and Muscogee Creek nations. So if I get something incorrect with my references let me know. Also, I based James Proudstar and their grandfather off of Eddie Spears and Russell Means in Dreamkeeper. I tried not to plagiarize from the movie but I loved the way the characters in the movie were portrayed and tried to do my own interruption.

Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men or Gifted and this is all for fun!

CHAPTER ONE

John Proudstar paused from his futile attempts at writing, gripping his pen roughly in complex thought while leaning over his recycled desk. There was nothing special about the desk as rust and the mishandling of nature's elements seemed to have destroyed it over time when it had been so carelessly tossed outside. However, it was nicer still than any of the other furniture he had growing up on the rez and had plenty of storage for his various trinkets he collected here and there. Some for ascetic purposes, some as trophies, while others were meant to remind himself of who he was and even to some degree the heritage he had casted aside for the greater good.

No matter what his family thought his motives were.

And so, one man's trash, repaired and rewelded together to become functional with new life, became another man's treasure. If his grandfather had been there he would have artistically thought of an old Apache narrative to tell that was fitting of such an in-depth concept while smoking his tobacco pipe in the consideration. John frowned, but his grandfather was not there and he had moved on from such childish stories when he had joined the Marines.

He could not seem to focus on the letter before him destined to go to home with false optimisms of hope, however, the events of the day plagued his mind in a repeated fashion that only something troublesome could do. Even if the intention had been good, Clarice had become another victim of Elena's ploys and likewise so had he. And although he had taken his words and frustrations of Elena's tactics to a level he had never sought before with her… he was now dealing with a puppy-eyed youth following his movements with the gleeful stalking that only a star-crossed lover could accomplish.

This was not his day.

The night was late, crickets chirping added to his growing headache of helpless not allowing his mind to focus on the symphony nature was providing or the comfort of writing to his one supporter from his former home could offer.

He placed his pen on his desk with a loud thump and looked around the grimy room with a scowl of defiance and aggravation. Perhaps, he had been absorbed in his thoughts too much as he just noticed that something in the air seem wrong. And he couldn't place the feeling as this was not something that came from his mutant abilities but somewhere else. Somewhere deeper inside his being.

He looked around the miniature room that had once been just a storage closet, not sure where to place his uneasiness. His eyes moving from his cot, to the wool blanket folded neatly in the corner, to the small basket of clothes next to it, and then finally the small window directly across from him. He realized much to his own dismay the crickets had now silenced themselves. The hairs on his arms stood on end as the air felt electrically charged with a malevolent entity that he could not name. Moving closer to his window that overlooked some brush and decaying trees of the wooded area the building was hidden by he began to feel the panicking sensation of horror.

This terror was not like the dread he felt when facing the sentinels or the discrimination of being a mutant or even Apache. No, this fear was something different, more deep seeded into his DNA and chromosomes.

The sound of fingernails scratching his window made him pause as he tried to look out the dirty glass pane without getting too close. He narrowed his dark ebony eyes and furrowed his brows in confusion while he tried to use his gift but was unsuccessful.

This had never happened to him before.

His body was tense, poised and ready for a fight. He reached back to his desk slowly pushing aside this or that causing a single playing card to fall to the ground, its corners singed from a battle long ago and kept as a token, before he pulled out of one of the storage units a bone handled knife with a long steel blade. Then in the darkness of the window he began to see antlers. Unsure of what was occurring he move slightly closer until he saw the head of a buck was staring back at him.

But there was something wrong with it. As if the creature had been born from a hellish Apache nightmare that no one from any reservation would even dare speak, he began to comprehend this was no normal deer watching him through the thin layer of fragile glass.

He knew what he had presumed to be deer antlers were in reality branches of a tree that had been stripped of their bark while some twigs and dried leaves were carelessly left attached. Indeed, a head of deer looking back at him, however there were no eyes. Only black holes where the eyes should have been. The flesh of the mutilated deer skull was rotting, curled and frayed and even had in patches of bald spots from where the fur the dead creature had fallen out. He even now could make out the movement of maggots that were now digesting the rotting flesh of the poor creature. There was a smell that began to fill the air as well and in the moment that the smell touched his nose he knew exactly what was staring at him. The mixture of sulfur, the iron smell of old blood, and wet fur assaulted his nostrils at once causing him to gag in disgust.

The creature let out a freighting howl that pierced through to his very soul before in his head he heard the word ciye.

The voice in his mind was not his own but the creatures and it was speaking the language of the Apache people.

He took a step back, and as he did so he noticed a pair of eyes peering out from under what would have been the otherworldly deer's neck glowing similar to a coyote's facing the headlights of a truck as it looked back at him with a menacing sense of intelligence. The creature took a long dirty human-like fingernail and scratched at the flimsy glass. It smiled underneath the ragged deer's flesh which hung as a gruesome curtain around it's face. Ivory predator fangs snarled in the dim light between thick lips painted with mud and ash as it's slender and lanky body, which mimicked a man's body with exaggerated portions leaned in pressing it's camouflaged face against the glass. Stepping back even further not only from fear, but also in deep rooted superstition Johnny could not seem to believe his own eyes.

From behind him he heard a female voice state shockingly, "What the hell is that?"

Startled, he broke from the trance the creature seemed to have had him in, and reacted the only way his training would allow. He found himself face to face with Clarice, her bright green eyes wide as she felt his blade against the thin, soft skin of her neck, "What the hell are you doing?"

He let her go and murmured an apology before stating, "You can't just sneak up on people like that you can get hurt."

He glanced back at the window for only a moment and noticed that the creature was gone.

"Sure," she agreed trying to smooth out her clothes before slyly adding, "I see that now. But what the hell was that?"

John put the knife back where he had taken it and then meeting her eyes, he shrugged. He wasn't going to tell her even if she had just witnessed it with her own eyes. This was not something the others needed to know about. This wasn't a mutant problem. This was an Indian problem.

Through her curiosity Clarice made her way to his window and peered out as if she were cat watching for a bird in the shadows of the that nothing was there she turned to him and inquired, "Was it a mutant? I've never seen a mutant like that."

"No."

He didn't offer any further communication on the subject matter and was grateful for Marcos interruption the latter of which had suddenly came bursting through his door. Covered in sweat and panting, Marcos announced in between breaths, "You gotta come look at this!"

Not waiting to see if the two had comprehended his words he took off down the hall. Clarice and John looked at each other before taking down the hallway in great haste. They followed Marcos outside. The Latino placed his hand on his head in dismay as he looked around wide eyed and confused. He met John's eyes and stated adamantly, "It was just here..."

"What was?" Clarice asked moving closer to John and weaving her slender fingers in with his as she held his hand with one single movement.

"If I had to say my guess," Marcos hesitated and then stated, "Ay dios mios, I think it was a….a chupacabra!"

"That's not possible," Johnny muttered as he let her hand go.

This was Elena not her and he would not be a part of victimizing the girl any further. Clarice looked at him with the same pain in her eyes as Elena had so long ago. He was reliving the episode of unreciprocated love all over again and was helpless to stop it.

Marcos, not noticing the tension between the two, paced in a circle for a moment before stating, "It was the weirdest thing. This creature I saw it outside your window. Did you see it?"

"No," John began to walk back towards the building.

Clarice watched him with curious eyes as she began to say, "I.."

"It was probably just an animal," John cut her words off with a harsh look that she immediately comprehended. Deciding that she would ask him later Clarice closed her mouth and followed the two men back inside the building with her head down in thought.

He was hiding something and she wanted to know what it was.

John went to his room and sat on his cot in dismay. He knew he would have to leave the Underground for a little while. He needed an Apache medicine man and the only one he knew was all the way across the country in Arizona. He looked at the window hesitantly and as he saw nothing was there he sighed in relief. There was a demon on his back, and everyone around him was in danger.

"And so, the two children abandoned by their mother gave her nothing. And she left in shame and starving. And she smelled so bad no one would talk to her for the rest of her life."

When the story was finished the storyteller glanced around at his audience with quizzical eyes as he raised his dark brows letting the lesson sink in. He hoped that the ones listening had not notice his creative take on the story. However, as he looked around he was reminded that while the old traditions, even with a few creative changes he had taken the liberty of making, were only relevant in his mind but in the world this was another matter. There were only two faces mounted on tired and thin frames looking back at him with little enthusiasm in their charcoal eyes.

"I don't want a story," the boy whined placing a hand on his stomach for more of an emphasizes of his frustration"I want food and lots of it!"

"So, do I," his younger sister exclaimed tears swelling underneath her raven colored eyelashes making her seem more pitiful than before as she looked around at the many houses made of various make shift items including cardboard boxes, found scrap metal, and patchwork of other questionable material.

Both children gathered to their feet and glaring down at the storyteller with desperation in their young impressionable eyes. A desperation that he himself knew all too well. Clearing his throat, he raised his hand to the air pointing down the road at a tiny shack and stated, "Go see my mother, Jessica Proudstar. She has been making fry bread and beans I can smell it from here. It should be finished now. Tell her son, James, says to feed you his Indian tacos."

Enthusiastically the little girl smiled flashing her crooked teeth between tan, cracked lips as she tried to shove her long unkept hair back from her face, "Oh I'm excited now. I haven't eaten anything in a whole day!"

Catching his sister by the hand the boy stated, "I could eat a whole buffalo."

His sister blink, giggled, and replied back as they began to walk down the road, "Now Silas you have never even seen a buffalo so how would you know if you could eat one? Besides, the buffalo are all dead. No one has seen one in almost thirty years!"

"I've seen pictures," he insisted, "In the old books. And they look pretty big to me!"

James Proudstar watched as the children made their exit, his stomach growling almost in protest as they skipped down the dusty road, feet bare the symbol of their poverty. He couldn't remember when had last eaten, but knew that it had to be close to nearly two days now. He started to stand, dusting his ripped jeans as if it would deter the Arizona soil from further dirtying his clothes. He reached for his old drum made of rabbit hide and fur; he stopped as he heard a noise from to the right of him. From underneath an awning made of old wool blankets that had long lost their color to the unforgiving desert sun, words were spoken within the shadows from a deep and familiar voice, "You didn't tell the story right."

Looking up with annoyed expression, the latter responded, "You are so old how can you remember how the story goes?"

"For it is my age that I know the story is not right," the tone was kind but stern, "Grandson. And if you are going to tell the stories of our people you must tell them as they are supposed to be told."

"What people?" the grandson sneered looking around at the abandon Apache reservation with dark, hopeless eyes, "Everyone is gone Grandfather. Your just too blind to see it."

Shifting his head slightly, allowing the sun to highlight his high cheek bones beneath sagging, wrinkled skin, the grandfather sighed as if the truth of the matter suddenly plagued his mind, "James, you cannot change the ending or the lesson will be lost."

"Grandfather," his tone had gone from sarcastic to dark as he tied his long hair back from his sharp cheeks, "We are starving. Silas and Mary are the only children left. The people are dead. When are you going to learn that? It doesn't matter if I change the ending. There is no one left to listen."

The old man stepped from the shadows into the blaring sun. His wiry gray hairs braided back as he looked over his grandchild with hard and yet sorrowful eyes. Underneath his hat the wrinkled skin was taunt with despair and heartbreak as he spoke his words, "If there is a single child then the Apache live on. And we have two children here now!"

"Brother and sister," came the sinister reply, "The Apache will die with them."

"Are you not here? Are you not Apache? Is your brother not alive?"

James glared at his grandfather at the mention of his older brother, "John abandoned us for the outside world. He isn't here he's gone!"

"He is fighting his battle," remarked the grandfather wisely.

"He fights for the mutants while our people are still being suppressed! If he had stayed maybe…"

"They would have taken the mineral rights anyways."

"But.."

"But nothing," James' grandfather reached into his pocket as he continued, "This is the governments way. It has always been so and will always be so."

"We need him here, not fighting a cause for these people."

"Our people need many things," taking a few steps forward the old man took a wrinkled hand and placed a crumpled envelope in the much younger, taunt hand in front of him, "But not hatred."

Looking down at his hand, James asked, "What is this?"

"A letter from one our warriors," the old man smiled sheepishly before adding, "Perhaps written by Coyote but maybe you will find your vision."

James balled the letter in his hand before shoving it deep in his pocket understanding immediately who the letter was from, and then sneered, "You talk like one of their characters in their movies. You live to their stereotypes. You should go dance at one of their pow wows and let them throw their money at you."

"I am too old to dance for money. I'm not as flexible as I use to be," his grandfather laughed and then turned heading back toward the shade of the thread barren blankets. His tone was now serious "Not a stereotype just an old man trying to tell his wayward grandson that changing the story changes the lesson."

"And I am young," came the sarcastic reply mocking the elder's tone, "A grandson telling his grandfather that the lessons are dead."

There came no response as the old man climbed the cinderblock stairs into his abode. As the silence mingled James took in the reservation, ignoring the letter he had so careless shoved inside his jeans. A letter from his older brother that had abandoned him to fight "the good fight" for strangers leaving him to be the only one fighting for their dying people. He would have refused it if it had been any other person, but through his words he still respected his grandfather and accepted the trash without protest for the old man had taught him many things. Even the stories that he had refused to accept as truth and altered at his own will.

Later than night James entered his grandfather's home holding in his hand herbs of an illegal nature, as he climbed the stairs he announced, "Grandfather, I have your special tobacco. Let's smoke!"

But instead of meeting his grandfather in the living room his mother sat in a chair. Her long hair covered her face as her chest heaved heavily. In between her legs she held an old bottle of whiskey, and through her sobbing she welcomed her youngest son in drunken delirium, "B-baby come sit next to your mama."

James knew instantly something was wrong. He dropped the plastic bag in his hand and watched her movements carefully before asking, "What's wrong with you? Are you drunk? Where's grandfather?"

She took a large gulp of the whiskey before placing it back in her lap. His mother lifted her head enough that in the dim lighting of the oil lamps he could tell that she had been crying. And then, as if a ton of bricks had fallen on him he began to shake. He knew his grandfather, the last Apache medicine man, was dead.

"I'm leaving James," she announced her dark eyes surrounded by the irritated red from endless crying that confirmed his fears of his grandfather's fate.

"Leaving? What are you talking about? You're drunk," he accused pointing a tan finger in her direction.

"Yes," she admitted taking another swallow from the bottle before shakily standing, and then added in a stuttering fashion, "I am leaving for Pine Ridge tomorrow. I am taking Silas and Mary with me."

"Pine Ridge," he repeated her words before adding, "That's the Lakota reservation why would you go there?"

Taking a couple of steps forward she stated, "Yes I know. My cousin lives there with her husband. There is nothing left here for us. The land is dead and the government has taken anything of value. And," she paused unable to finish.

"Sue Lightshines isn't going to let you just kidnap her children!" James tried to reason with her slamming his fist down on the unstable table his grandfather had always kept near the door.

He was sure his mother had lost her mind.

"Sue has already left for the city!" his mother snarled, "And left her children here to die. She will not say anything she is too busy being a whore to care!"

"You can't just kidnap her children," he insisted.

"James," her tone was soft as she spoke, "I have cancer."

He could feel a sense of dread taking over his body as his hands went limp, "What?"

"I have known for a long time," her dark eyes caught his, the sadness prevailed, "And I am asking you as your mother to find your brother and make amends before I die."

James moved forward sinking into the chair where his mother had sat previously. She followed suit and handed him the bottle in his hand where he took a long shallow from. When he finished she spoke quietly her words piercing through to his very heart, "Fix this and when you have bring your brother home."

James shoved his long hair behind his ears and watched her for a moment. Then, very uncharacteristically he pressed his lips to her weathered forehead in a tinder, and loving kiss that only a son could provide. He spoke no words. She was asking so much of him. But he would give her this request. And with one large gulp of the bottles contents he finally whispered softly his eyes looking further than just her face, "We are having a bad day."

She smiled weakly as a tear fell to her cheek, "Special tobacco huh?"

With a forced grin he held the bag up to show her the contents and with a soft chuckle she took the bag from him and carefully placed it in her lap. They sat in silence both their minds taking in the day with a sense of depression and responsibility to accept the things they could not control and changed the ones that they could.