I'm a very happy camper after seeing XMen Apocalypse. It, was, amazing! And I must say, I was rather please with Sheridan's preformance of my absolute most favourite mutant, Scott Summers. So, to spread that happiness and excitement, I have decided to create this. Please, enjoy!
Snippets of the life Scott Summers could have had, currently has, and might have in the future. There will be spoilers for Apocalypse, no doubt, but I will attempt to keep them at a minimum.
Grey Summers
Jean tugged at his hand. "Over this way," she corrected, a smile visible in her voice. Scott could just barely see through the tint of red, as it was dark and the night was dark as well. It frustrated him to no end, but what could he do? It was a condition beyond his control now; it was a miracle he could see at all!
"Where are we going?" he prompted for what seemed the umpteenth time.
"I'll tell you, soon enough," Jean returned evasively and continued to tug Scott onwards.
Soon.
What seemed to be mere moments after she spoke, Scott felt her slow and could vaguely see her spin in the moonlight to face him. Sit down with me, she spoke in his head. Softly. And he obeyed.
The grass with soft and it tickled the back of his neck as he leaned back. Movement beside him was a telltale sign sign that Jean had done the same. His gaze, however, was focused on the black sky above— on the red-tinged stars twinkling with their red-tinged light— and he almost forgot what they looked like normally. That was, until he realised it was all part of the lens, a ruby red lens that prevented him from seeing the ways others did.
Frustration rose inside him not for the first time, and not for the last either. He wanted to see! These glasses were what kept him apart, different… a freak. He may be among mutants, but he considered one of them. He was still considered... well, not normal. He could almost laugh at his luck.
There then came a hand, a soft breath, a smooth curtain of hair, and Scott's smile began to battle his hopelessness. It was slight in response, yes, but it earned another in reply as his head turned the telepath's direction. Jean's beam was as bright and warm and welcoming as a fire could be. And his mind wandered, not for the last time, what she saw when she looked him dead on: an unable mutant or helpless boy?
Jean faced the stars again.
And the question remained unanswered. ...at least for a silent moment or two.
You're wrong, Scott.
The voice startled him to the extent which he jerked his head, bewildered for just a moment before the realisation hit him. His head turned to face Jean— or at least, the faint outline of her— with a brow just visibly arched as if to question over her use of telepathy.
You're wrong.
You aren't helpless, nor unable. You are an X-Men now, Scott! It was then that Scott answered his own question: Jean's smile was too bright to tarnish with spoken words. It glowed, radiated, through his lenses; like a lighthouse on the shore signalling to lost travellers. You need to stop doubting yourself. If others had said that, he would dismiss it as one of those lame statements said to boost one's confidence. But somehow, Jean had a way of making anything seem valid; something to listen to.
Scott found himself sinking into that glow and soon all the lights blurred into one. He was drifting a thousand miles away, to a place only he and Jean were, and nothing else mattered.
For once, the red didn't seem too bad.
And for the rest of the night their hands didn't become undone.