Apocalypse
Author's Note: This came to me while waiting for the bus. Complete crack obviously. I think I mention most of my fandoms (the fantasy/sci-fi ones, anyway). Virtual cookies (and maybe even chocolate cake!) for those who spot them.
Disclaimer: Found at the end (Ha! You thought you could cheat, didn't you?)
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So, this is it. The Apocalypse.
On one side a Horde of Hell beasties, led by a lovesick empath with floppy hair and a bloated hero complex, a reformed serial killer armed with the deadly wish to be remarkable and a pair of the most extraordinary eyebrows in existence, an inelegant but immensely powerful warlock with a devastating smile and a multiple reincarnated king with an ego the size of Europe and a weakness for certain clumsy idiots.
On the other side a whiny, blonde ex-cheerleader with the mother load of daddy issues and regenerative abilities just for kicks, a skinny nobody with dark, drippy eyes and a voice which alternates between shrill and rough and a grizzled, old man liable to spout gems like "Some must starve so that others can eat!" with an impressively depressing intonation. Their army was unimpressive, mostly made up of recently powered soldier boys although it did have one or two notables, such as yet another grizzled, old man (but with slightly longer hair), this one having a creepy rough voice and a penchant for spouting drivel about revenge thinly disguised as its shinier cousin, justice; and a curly haired younger man who went around shouting "She's nice! I want to infect her with the essence of a long dead Demon-King!" People tended to avoid him.
Peter glanced around. "If we're the good guys why are we on the side of the Horde of Hell beasties?"
His companion, that epitome of villainy, Sylar, rolled his eyes. "Appearances can be deceptive, Peter," he said, using an old phrase which might well have once described the first ensoulled vampire in his role as evil incarnate. He pointed at one of those selfsame Hell beasties. "That Dragon wants to be a ballerina."
Peter blinked. "Really?" You could practically see the image on his forehead as he thought about that. "So, what you're saying is that we're fighting for the power to be what we want and they," he added, gesturing to the other side who were looking a bit frightened especially because certain people who will not be named were growling at them in a (mock) threatening manner (a man in a long brown coat was giving them Looks whenever they neared his blue box so that was deterring them a bit too), "are fighting for the power to make us into what they want."
Sylar gazed at him, a modicum of respect in those dark eyes of his. "Yes, Peter, that's exactly it." He smiled and Peter melted.
The terms 'good' and 'evil' are sometimes very misleading. Take the blonde ex-cheerleader. She looks like an innocent, semi-naive young girl. And maybe she once was. You wouldn't think to look at her but she has caused at least 12,789,637 deaths to date. That green skinned, red eyed demon over there, however, wouldn't hurt a fly and, in fact, would probably try and sing it back to life if he ever (accidentally) did. That devastatingly handsome man with the black coat next him probably would hurt a fly, though. But only if it annoyed him or his companions, a sickly Welshman (who looked like he'd been to Death and then some) and a heavily pregnant brunette.
It's all about perception. And power. Everything comes back to power, in the end.
"We need the power! We want the power! Give us the power!" shouted Peter vehemently. He shook his fist at the other side at the end of every sentence.
Sylar raised one of those impressive eyebrows of his. "If you're not careful, Aaron Spelling might hit you with a copyright infringement charge."
Peter, looking guilty, lowered his fist.
They waited. You could never be too sure.
Nothing.
Peter let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding...then jumped right out his skin (figuratively speaking, of course; he hadn't acquired that power yet) when Sylar grasped his arm tightly and pointed into the Horde. "There he is!" said the man who had once been feared across a nation (but who now could barely muster up enough evilness to scare a Pomeranian).
Peter looked where he was pointing and gasped as he saw Aaron Spelling, producer of such timeless classics as Charmed and Beverley Hills 90210, standing in the midst of their zombie army.
And who was that beside him? Why, no, it couldn't be! It was...but it couldn't be! Peter blinked, rubbed his eyes, looked again. His eyes had not been deceiving him – it was Elvis Presley!
"Where?" Arthur exclaimed as Peter gasped this out. He clutched at Merlin...in a completely manly way, obviously. In no way did he resemble the entity known as a fanboy. "Do you think he might give me an autograph?"
Merlin sighed and pulled an autographed picture from somewhere on his person. He stuffed it into Arthur's all too willing (but very manly) hands. "I got one for you earlier."
Arthur felt (very manly) tears fill his eyes. His warlock could be so bloody thoughtful sometimes!
Sylar and Peter rolled their eyes at the sudden display of affection Arthur, once and future King, decided to give the warlock with the spellbinding smile at that moment. They would never act that way (although sometimes both wished the other would...just once).
These are the people meant to save the human race. To coin a phrase made famous by a certain librarian – "The world is definitely doomed."
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Disclaimer: (and I hope you didn't just skip to the end) I do not own Heroes, Merlin, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Doctor Who or Torchwood. I don't own Aaron Spelling ot Elvis Presley in any way either. Just in case you were wondering.
I hope you enjoyed that random look at the Apocalypse.
Review please. I just love them so.