THE LOST BOY
I always wanted to know Scott's and Jean's Origin Stories for X-men evolution. So I wrote a story. I've followed some of the canon origin for Scott and mixed in a bit of my own ideas as well as trying to bring it in line with the Evolution Universe. It is likely AU from the Cartoon, but I found the characters would not head in the direction I had originally planned. There is only a hint of the beginning of the x-men.
Disclaimer: I do not own any Marvel story or Character. I am borrowing them for the simple purpose of practising my craft.
Chapter one
SCOTT
I can't remember most of the years before the plane crash. There are bits and pieces floating around in my head, glimpses of the forgotten man and woman who were my parents. They loved my brother and me. I know that much. At least the thought is so firmly entrenched in my head that until I realized how much of what I thought were memories were mingled with nightmares I never questioned that belief. Maybe it is simply another delusion that I have wrapped myself up in, but I need to believe that they loved me, so I refuse to let the ugliness that is my life warp the image of a good man and woman.
My name is Scott Summers. The story of my life, what I can make out of my jumbled memories and nightmares could be summed up in the words of an old saying. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Over and over again.
I was eight years old when the plane crash took the lives of my family and left me with brain damage to a seemingly useless part of my brain as well as shaking up all my memories up and leaving me unsure what really had happened. My miraculous survival and recovery were soon overshadowed by the neglect and even abuse in most of the foster homes in which I landed. I never lasted long in a home. I've always been a fighter, even when I know I can't win, so I'd stand up again and again to whatever bully or brutal foster parent was my newest challenge. In the one home I think was actually good they decided not to keep me because of the terrible headaches that had begun to plague me. They just could not handle my special needs.
Then my life truly shattered into pieces when I was twelve and the worst, most debilitating headache I had ever suffered turned into the raw outpouring of red energy that pounded a hole straight through the wall, breaking one of the other foster kid's wrist and leaving the man of the house in a coma. I was a freak, something called a mutant. No foster home, no one wanted to take me in after that. The energy just wouldn't shut off. The only way to stop it was with my own body.
I was put in Juvenile Detention and left locked up in solitary for months, blind and growing terribly sick from lack of sunlight, though I didn't know that was why I was getting so weak. No one knew what to do with me and everyone was terrified of me. When a scientist offered to take me in and see what he could learn about my power, the social workers leapt at the chance. I never found out how deeply they researched the claims of the man who came to get me. I hope they were fooled and did not deliberately hand me over to the man called Nathaniel Essex.
At first, I thought perhaps this man would help me. He soon realized that I turned sunlight into energy. However, my hopes were dashed within days of my recovery. This man did not care about me, but only about the secrets my body, my genetic code could reveal. I was only a lab rat and he pushed me to my utter limits trying to learn the scope of my power. I can remember only bits and pieces of this time. One particularly horrible experiment left me in a coma, once more stealing my memories.
When I came out of it, I was in a hospital. Someone had discovered Essex's work and apparently, it was illegal. He was arrested and his company was shut down. I was found at this time and once more was returned to the care of the social system. By now, I was very aware that they would shove me off into the nearest person who would take me, letting that person use me as they wished. However, as I said, I'm a fighter. I don't give up.
I ran away. In hindsight, it was almost laughable that I believed I could take care of myself better than anyone else. I was blind and had only just woken up from the coma. I'm still not sure how I even got out of the hospital without knowing where I was going. I ended up on the streets and learned my way around through the kindness of strangers.
The streets are a dangerous place to anyone, never mind for someone blind and more helpless than the rest. I stubbornly stuck it out. Any pride I had once borne had been stripped from me in Essex's lab. I begged, I stole, I did whatever I had to survive. As always, I was good at what I had chosen for myself. I never became anyone's slave on the street. I made a reputation for myself with a few, careful demonstrations of my power. Soon I had a small rag tag group of runaways who would seek out the alleys I laid claim too in hopes that I would protect them from the pimps and gangs seeking new meat.
It was cold and we never had enough to eat, though my perceived blindness earned me a little more money through begging than the others, yet this was one of the happiest times in my life that I can remember. There were a few bad parts, like the nightmares and headaches that pounded at me, or the day I lost one of the kids I had grudgingly started to protect. But all in all I was happy. I was in control and I had the beginnings of a family.
It was during this time that I learned Braille. There was a library near the territory I staked out and protected with my power. On Saturdays and in the afternoons when we knew the schools were not in session and a group of kids wouldn't be so unusual we sought the warmth out and pretended like we were studying. We did not fool the librarians, but they ignored us, close enough to the streets to know we weren't part of the gangs, that we were just struggling to survive in a life that was still better than the hell we had all suffered before. One of my kids felt sorry that I could not even have the enjoyment of reading, so she sought out some Braille books and spent the afternoons helping me learn the new language. Soon even I was able to find relief in the world of books.
Then the bottom of my world dropped out again. There was a raid on our alleys. Five of my six charges were captured by the police. I was arrested when I tried to frighten them off, but I couldn't bring myself to actually use the power to hit the police. I spent three days in lock up before I was to be transferred to a Juvenile hall. The van they took me in was carjacked and that is how I met Jack Winters.
Jack is a con man, a leader of a gang who had heard of my power. He had reported my scraggly group of children to the police as if he was a concerned citizen, but it was only to separate me from the children that I would fight to the death for. He only wanted me. He only wanted the power I created. I was to be his new secret weapon.
I've lived with Jack for nearly a year now. I think I'm fourteen, but I can't count time anymore. When Jack is not using me to terrifying his gang into submission or to break into places he keeps me locked up in an underground room. He's smart enough to figure things out. He somehow is able to know when my headaches come on and when I'll be at my weakest, unable to withstand him for long. That's not to say I won't try. I'm always fighting him, always refusing to give up. No matter how many times he has made me hurt someone or break something I make him work for it. I force him to punish me severely before I open my eyes, forcing him to pick his battles so he doesn't kill his 'weapon'.
One day soon, I think I can hold out long enough to be unable to open my eyes, to be too weak to obey him. My pain tolerance is growing. I maybe the ugliest, scrawniest, freakiest kid in the world, but I am growing stronger in my resolve. One day I will make my stand and not give up. One day Jack will have the choice to either kill me or let me refuse to do his dirty work.
One day I will manage to bring this to a climax and I will escape this life, one way or the other. Through death or freedom. I do not plan to live as a slave, as a tool, as a plaything of Jack Winters any longer.