Disclaimer: I do not own.
Author's Notes: Holy cow! For a character I didn't think was interesting, I sure had a lot to say! Actually, this started out as a story about Witness, but the more I dove into his character, the more I realized he's best when not in the direct spotlight. This story is slightly AU, like everything I write, but overall it's the Bishop you know and love! Spoiler alert: Marvel lost their damn mind when they tried to peg straight-and-narrow Bishop as a baby-killer, so there will be none of that here. Like I said, it's the man we know and love. Please R/R!
The Times and Life of Lucas Bishop
Only Heaven knew why he took the children. He could've done anything with them. In a broken world, thrown into war time and again until the whole of the planet knew nothing else, the Witness sat apart. He was God, and yes, God was mad. He spoke in riddles, alluding to invisible and secret things that had been abandoned for their vanity. It must've worn on his heart, to care for things no longer living. Perhaps that was the reason he adopted the children – a group of half-starved, timid orphans – to reclaim the title "father". His own children were long dead.
Who wasn't?
Trying to revive ghosts through memory had driven him insane; as it would all who followed him. It stood to reason, then, that the mind belonged firmly planted in the present. But the present was the future, which looked like the past.
The earth was dried clay, yielding no flora and holding no clean water. The air was acidic from heightened levels of carbon-monoxide. The sun was the only visible heaven-body, although the edges were obscured by clouds that never faded, and no matter where it presided, its heat always lingered. Buildings dotted the horizon, but they housed only debris. The builders had long-since left.
In the beginning, Bishop haunted those buildings, looking for anything to sustain his life. Then he searched for hope – some sort of communication device, other survivors, anything. He found nothing. Not even wild creatures; not even roaches. Wherever he was, he was alone. A vast and endless loneliness swallowed him, beckoning him back to his childhood days when he would have died for two loving arms. At least then, he'd had the company of his baby sister, and later, he had the Witness. That stale-hearted old man never loved Bishop, but he was company at any rate. The longer Bishop was alone, the more the hinges of his mind fractured and buckled. He was certain he heard echoes of Shard's laughter and car tires. Ghost cities became his hellish labyrinths, luring him further and further after things that weren't there. Finally, he abandoned the cities, too. At least in the open, he could see proof of his insanity. Thus far, his hallucinations proved only auditory.
Without books or pictures or purpose, he grew very restless. Time should've become more precious to him, since he obviously didn't have much left, but the boredom graded his nerves nevertheless. So he passed it in reflection, verbally recalling memories. Sometimes he laughed, sometimes he got angry; mostly he knew regret. If anyone could observe him thusly, they would surely think him mad. Occasionally, he saw outside himself: the way others would. It compounded his frustration and sorrow, and he fled further into the past.
Age 3
His branding was his earliest memory. When he was born, he was tested, as all children were, for the X gene. He was a confirmed mutant and given a date eighteen months later to receive his mark. By that time, his mother had already given birth to a daughter, who was also a confirmed mutant. Lucas's appointment with fate was postponed another eighteen months, so that he and his baby sister could be marked on the same day. The circumstances were highly unusual. Looking back many years later, he would still question the logic behind that decision.
His sister, Layla, was too young to remember the event, but Lucas recalled everything. Before he was branded, he thought the others had been born marked. He thought he wasn't a mutant because he hadn't the mark, and it gave him hope that he might leave the camp one day. At three years old, he hadn't given much thought to where he'd go or if he'd take his family with him. Perhaps he thought his parents chose to live here and deserved to be miserable… He only knew that not everyone in the world lived in a shanty and went hungry day after day. He knew life beyond those enormous steel gates had to be better.
One morning his parents took their children to the facility. He remembered the dusty road beneath his frayed boots, the look of sorrow from neighbors as they passed, and his mother's clammy hand gripping his. He didn't understand. They'd been to the facility many times. The paperwork that the government wanted was infinite, and if anything wasn't completed, they'd come in the night and abduct the entire family. Lucas had never seen it happen, but he'd heard stories. Late at night, when his parents thought he was asleep, they'd exchange stories about a family across the compound that had disappeared. He would reach across his narrow cot to Layla and pull her close so no one could take her. Sometimes he'd even cover her ears so she wouldn't wake up and hear the stories, but she slept like a log. He only wished he could sleep as soundly as she did. After that trip to the facility, he'd sleep even worse.
The nurse who greeted them advised his parents to wait in another room "because it's always worse for the mothers". They never had been brave enough to face unpleasant things, and agreed it to. Lucas vividly remembered watching them sit in comfortable chairs while another nurse led Layla and him away. He felt so betrayed.
"We're going to mark you and your little sister," the doctor said, pulling his gloves on. "You're a brave little man, so we'll do you first. You can show your sister it's not so bad."
But it was bad.
Four nurses held him down as the drill made contact with the flesh on his face. The needles ripped away at flesh, burning and making him bleed. He didn't want to frighten his baby sister, but the tears came violently. He screamed and tried to pull away. Through the struggles and pauses, the man completed his task. Afterwards, Lucas was sore and exhausted, but he would've done it again to spare Layla. She didn't try to be brave at all, and Lucas fought again, even harder than he had for himself. He threw his body like a torpedo, slamming into nurses, against the doctor, and screaming for his parents. They heard him and never came. She was his baby sister, and despite his efforts to protect her, they had hurt her. In his tender heart, he never loved them again.
Age 4
Gelatin was a rare treat, but not so rare that Lucas didn't know how it should taste. Something was wrong. When he refused to eat it, his mother backhanded him so hard that he fell down. He still remembered lying on the ground, looking up at her in disbelief. He waited for an apology that never came. Instead, his father held him while his mother forced the dessert down his throat.
He slept hard that night, like Layla, and woke up disoriented.
They were gone, and they'd taken everything with them… Except their children.
Lucas and Layla wandered the shanty round and round, and then the neighborhood – hand in terrified hand. They would never know what became of their parents. Were they taken? Had they managed an escape? Or were they apprehended at the gates and executed? Mostly importantly, how could they leave their children behind? Orphans didn't exist in the compound because they couldn't. Without a guardian, the children would be taken for test subjects. They could not purchase rations. Someone stronger would steal their shanty and, if they let the children stay, would turn them into slaves. They would be beaten and starved and tormented with false hopes. How could any parent condemn their children to such a fate?
Bishop's worst fears never materialized. The young pair weren't enslaved following their abandonment. For once, fortune smiled on them.
An elderly woman took them in and told them to call her Grandmother. She was kind and doting as their parents had never been. She gave them something his parents never could.
Hope.
Unable to complete simple tasks, she needed Lucas and Layla's physical abilities, which made them useful. She made him feel good about who he was. Her handicap never encouraged pity, and despite her dependency, she held them to high standards. They were expected to be clean, compassionate, and courteous at all times.
"It does not matter how others live," she would say, "You are held accountable to your conscience, not the world."
In a world that had lost all sense, Grandmother was their anchor. The only folly she encouraged was her fairy tales: stories about people so brave and powerful they couldn't possibly be real. The X-Men. They were legends, like King Arthur and Hercules. He was sure they were based on something factual, but the stories had been folded and re-opened too often to hold together. The pages of their history had broken into little squares, which were reassembled by memory or leisure. When Grandmother swore they were real because she'd seen them herself, he knew she was lying. Still, he understood her purpose. These gods held themselves to impossibly high standards and were immortalized in folk lore. If Lucas wished to be immortal, he must be set himself apart, too.
She had other stories, too: tales about things like trees, which no longer existed, and blue seas, which Lucas had never seen. She talked about her time in Kenya, when she'd lie in the open fields unafraid, and make a game out of the white, full clouds drifting over the earth. These things bored Lucas, but her war stories fascinated him.
Like anyone scarred by things beyond their control, he was obsessed with discovering how and why mutants were forced to be born and die in camps under human control. The map was complicated. Many roads were involved in the ultimate destination, but they intersected and overlapped so that one's existence was often dependent upon another's. The travelers matter, too. If just a few walked the path, it mightn't have mattered. After all, there were many dead ends that might've led somewhere else. But people were herd animals by nature. They preferred to follow and stay together. If someone else had been at the helm, history might've been re-directed. The possibilities boggled his young mind.
By the time he was age seven and his grandmother died, he was a man.
Age 9
Someone pounded furiously on the door. By now, he knew the difference in an official's knock, a friendly knock and an unfriendly knock. This was definitely an unfriendly one. He grabbed his weapon – a discarded fire poker – and shouted back, "If you know what's good for you, you'll go!"
Sadly, his voice still hadn't taken on the deep grumble of a man's, and the door was kicked open. Six people – four men and two women – entered like locus. They were the Yazu gang, one of the underdogs in the latest shanty war. It was no wonder that they were stealing from orphans. He struck one in the ribs, but the others quickly grabbed him. He got in some good hits, but that only made them stronger. Little Layla threw herself into the frenzy, too, but she was too slight to make a difference. While they punched, kicked and cut Lucas, they were content to merely shove Layla away. She was wearing herself out.
"What's going on?" a man shouted from outside.
Two X.S.E. officials entered the house and aimed their weapons at the group indiscriminately. Too late, they realized they were outnumbered, but kept up bravado. The gang could've killed them and left their bodies in the street. No one would ever see anything.
"Drop your weapons!" the other official demanded.
The gang went into a panic. Lucas could feel it coming even before they acted. They knew they would be apprehended, brought in for investigation, and probably never seen again. Things weren't as severe as they'd been five years ago, but they were still tense. The outside government was content to let the camps govern themselves now, and the X.S.E. (Xavier's Student Enforcers) had been formed in response. Lucas feared them because everyone did – to him, they were just the top gang. But things changed that day.
"Get real!" one of the gangsters shouted, snatching Layla by her slender neck. It nearly snapped. He placed a make-shift blade to her jugular.
"Let her go!" the official said. "Hurt her, and you will NEVER leave here!"
Lucas felt a surge of gratitude in his chest. No one had ever – ever stood up for them before. In that moment, he loved them as much as he loved his sister. These two strangers were his clan; he belonged with them, undoubtedly. Rushing towards the man holding Layla, he threw his weight on the man's shoulders. He stumbled forward, dropping his hostage. Lucas jumped away and a loud, bright explosion knocked the man backwards. A black crater in his chest smoked. His eyes, wide and brown, seemed to follow Lucas. The officers fired at the other gangsters, who were rushing towards them. Maybe they were mounting an attack, maybe it was vengeance, or maybe they were just trying to escape. It didn't matter. In mere seconds, they were all dead. Lucas had never been so happy.
"Nobody's gonna mess with us now!" he told his sister.
"Not so quick, kid," the officer said. "This isn't the last of the Yazu… When they find out what happened, they'll probably come after you… Do you have anywhere to go for a little while? Just until things quiet down?"
"No," he said truthfully. "Could we go with you?"
"Look… The X.S.E. is no place for children…"
"But I'm strong! You saw me take on that guy!"
"And now he's dead. If you wanna join the X.S.E. one day, you need to know that the bad guys are anyone who takes a life."
Lucas couldn't believe there was power in mercy, but he wanted to believe it. It was an ideal he wanted to fight for.
"Hey," the other officer said, "What about the Witness? He's got a thing for orphans… Maybe he'll take them in."
…
Present
Bishop was near what used to be Los Angeles. He walked parallel to the former city, between the former Pacific Ocean and the ancient ruins. It was getting dark and he considered settling down for the night. "Night" in the present was forty-eight hours and seventeen minutes long, which was either evidence of the planet being off-balance or – more likely – it's rotation had slowed significantly. That accounted for many environmental issues, actually. His body still knew the correct time. Instinctively, he awoke at six a.m. every day. He was the only steady element on this planet now. Suddenly, the wind changed directions and he heard a distant howl. A sandstorm was coming. He couldn't see it coming yet, but he could feel the sand molecules pulling towards the vacuum that would soon blast his way.
He hurried towards an exposed drainage ditch and crawled inside the cement cylinder. He hoped the approaching storm wouldn't bury him alive, and then laughed bitterly.
Hope.
If he'd never known it, he wouldn't miss it so much. What did he hope for, anyway? Rescue? Survival? For how long? Death by suffocation would be quicker and less painful than death by exposure. Could he hope for death?
He rested his back on the cement curve, willing his mind into tranquility.
Music.
Yes, he could hear it. The soft droplets of piano keys when struck… The glory of harmony: notes uplifting each other… And then he could feel it – his heart softening and his muscles relaxing. A string quartet joined in, flirty violins and grounded bass. And then his mind was far away, to the first time he'd heard the piano sonata.
…
Age 9
"It's so beautiful."
"Don't touch it."
"She ain't gonna break it, pup."
The siblings turned silently to their new caretaker, who'd been watching them. His name was LeBeau, but everyone called him The Witness. He was the most powerful man in North America, one of the most powerful men in the world. If he'd wanted to be called Jesus of Nazareth, he would have it so. Likewise, he assigned codenames to his orphans. Lucas was Bishop and Layla was Shard. The children didn't mind, but they didn't have much choice. They'd suffered worse for less. Under his care, they had luxuries they'd never dreamed of… Soft, warm beds, red meat and milk, security and friends…
They rarely saw their patron. He traveled a lot and lived in a separate part of the building: one they weren't allowed to enter. When he visited, he came to teach them things that didn't make much sense: observation, memorization and how to decipher codes. He was mad and everyone knew it. Only the girls had the patience for him, and he rewarded them with praise and rewards. Shard was one of his favorites. When he visited, he liked to brush her hair and ask her about Grandmother. She must've said or done something to really touch his twisted heart because one night, he invited her to his suite for dinner. She asked if her brother could come and he consented.
Bishop wouldn't want to be alone with him, either; the Witness made his skin crawl.
But the man was entirely different in private. He shed his tattered rags for a dark suit in a style that was popular a hundred years ago and combed his usually matted hair. The air smelled like things that made Bishop's stomach grumble and sounded like angels' laughter. Later, he would learn that sound was true music. The dining room sported objects Bishop had only ever heard of – a table, silverware, china plates, salt and pepper… It was positively archaic. At least the fire was a hologram, but wood for burning was a luxury even the Witness couldn't afford.
"Good evening, children… Would you care to sit?"
Shard happily took the soft chair closest to him, which made Bishop happy, too. However, he wasn't exempt from the Witness's all-seeing gaze.
"Why d'you eat dat way, Bishop?"
Bishop suddenly stopped eating and looked up. "What do you mean?"
"Y' hunch over your plate, stick out yer elbows like someone's gonna take it, and shovel it down quick as y' can… Now, look at yer sister. She's talkin', eatin' when I'm talkin' back, pretty as a lamb."
Bishop blinked and then went back to shoveling his food. He suspected he was about to be sent away.
The Witness clicked his teeth. "If y' were one a' m' kids, you'd get popped for puttin' y' elbows on de table."
Shard discreetly pulled her elbows from the table and asked, "You had kids?"
"Oui, petite. I had many."
"Where are they now?" she asked sweetly.
"Dead."
"Are you sure?"
Bishop paused for a moment, certain the man would strike out at her for pushing a sensitive subject. Instead, he answered, "Oui. I'm sure."
"Because my parents thought Bish and I were dead, but we weren't, and they left us."
The room grew very quiet, and their patron took a long time wiping his mouth on his napkin. Finally, he said softly, "M' parents left me, too, chere. I would never do dat."
His eyes were brimming with unspoken fondness, and Shard beamed back at him as if he'd done something heroic. For the first time in his young life, Bishop felt the sharp stab of jealousy. He didn't care about wealth or power; he'd done without those things long enough to know he could live without them. He didn't care about the truly beautiful things the Witness had access to – like music and portraits, either. All he cared about, all he'd ever cared about, was his sister. She was the only one in the whole world that Bishop had ever loved, and all her life, she'd only ever loved him. But that was because she'd only ever had him to love. Given the choice, she could've loved everyone as much as she loved him. And that hurt.
Over the next four years, Bishop and Shard continued to live under the Witness's care. The other children – Jinx, Shackle, Knives and Link – grew to be their brothers-in-arms. They drew the secrets of life from each other's minds: history, warfare, politics, and occasionally, sex. Mostly, they wondered at their role in the Witness's plans. Even Shard, who was his favorite, knew almost nothing about him.
They did learn some things about him. He was called 'The Witness' because he was the last person to see the X-Men alive. 'I alone have escaped to tell thee', was his motto. Publically, he was the face of the corporation that ruled America, but privately, he funded multiple crime syndicates. Once Bishop learned this, all the other pieces seemed to fall together. He took in orphans because they had nowhere else to go. He groomed them into his image and then placed them at the head of these crime organizations, knowing he could trust them. That's why he wanted them to be able to fight blind-folded, dis- and reassemble any weapon, and still appear educated and polite. He thought his goodwill would enslave them forever, but Lucas Bishop was no man's slave.
Age 13
"Bishop, please don't do this!" Jinx pleaded, tugging his hand.
Clever Jinx wasn't as slender and frail as Shard, but she wasn't strong enough to stop him, either. When she found out what he was going to do, she followed him all the way to the Witness's floor. But any further, and she knew she'd be his accomplice. She watched him pull away with big, sad eyes.
"Please, Bish! Think about Shard!"
But he was.
A rumor had come his way that the Witness had special plans for his sister. Their private dinners were a tradition now, and although he no longer chaperoned, he was confident Shard told him everything. Either she knew nothing of his plans, or she was on board with them… No, he couldn't believe that. She would never abandon him. She was all he had. And she knew that… right?
The Witness knew how to divide and conquer – he couldn't doubt his sister for a moment.
With an elevator lift and twenty steps, Bishop was inside the Witness's private suit. The hall hummed with steady, all-showing lights, but his room was deadly silent. The old man was nowhere to be seen. At first, he was too afraid to exhale. But if that batty old coot knew he was here, wouldn't he stop him? What was he waiting for? This was the only chance he would get to solve this puzzle, and it wouldn't last forever.
With equally quiet feet, he dared to cross the threshold. A leather-bond book lay beside his chair near the fireplace. A diary? His trembling hands opened the cover. It might've been his private reflections, but nothing was written in words. He'd sketched faces… All of them beautiful, but none of them familiar. He'd drawn out maps, too, and then there were the names of the legendary X-Men: Nightcrawler, Colossus, Storm and Rogue.
What was his connection?
Bishop closed the book, desperate to dig around for more. But if he disturbed too much, the Witness would surely know he'd been spied on. He didn't want to accidently uncover some global conspiracy; he only wanted to know Shard was still safe.
He heard a soft breath pass through careless lips. In the adjacent room, the Witness slept. Yes, he was sure of it now. For all his messages about "constant vigilance", he'd gone rather soft. Or maybe he thought his disciplines blindly loyal. In this world, no one was ever safe.
Bishop pulled his weapon to eye-level and stepped carefully into the dark, silent room. He could see the man sleeping through the shadows, his breathing deep and sure. The bed was enormous and inviting: a fine place for an old man to die. Standing at the foot with his barrel dead-set, he finally turned the safety off. The inaudible shift synchronized with the lifting of his eye lids. Those red-on-black eyes bore into his. No, don't let him maintain eye contact - that was how he deceived his prey.
"Are you for real?" Bishop growled, his voice menacing.
"'Fraid y' read m' thoughts."
Bishop's vision clouded over, so he focused his attention on sensing his patron's powers. He was still on the bed, under his gun.
"Are you planning to adopt Shard?"
"Dat bothers you, does it? It doesn't change anything."
His finger found the trigger. "Doesn't change anything? You adopt her, that makes you her family. No different from me. When you die, she'll inherit your empire. You think she'd accept it? I know what you are! Thief! Assassin! She's too good for you!"
The Witness gave a rare, spine-chilling smile. "Like I said… It doesn't change anything."
Bishop should've killed him, but he would let him live so that he could do worse. He found his sister and told her they were leaving their gilded cage. She was reluctant, but complied in the end. He rushed her through a tearful good-bye to their friends, and then led her back to the compound where they'd grown up. At the time, he was certain she followed him out of love, but the seed of doubt planted by the Witness took root in his heart. She was so sweet and innocent – had she really accepted that sinister old man? Bishop couldn't bring himself to use those words in front of her – "murderer", "traitor" – so he never asked. In time, he realized that she would've adored her adoptive father, and whatever he encumbered her with, she would be safe. More, her goodness outweighed his corruption. Bishop had been so certain he would turn her evil that he never considered she might turn him instead.
Present
Bishop awoke to darkness. The sand had indeed buried him, but thanks to his uncanny sense of time and space, he knew he only needed to dig himself out. So he did. When he broke the surface, he saw himself as a passerby would – a strong, desperate hand breaking from the ground like a zombie. He laughed, nearly choking on sand. Here he was, living like a vampire when everyone thought he was a good guy.
"Who thinks you're good?" he asked himself, pulling his headscarf off since the sun was still down.
Everyone who thought anything about him was long dead. Anyone who might still be a part of him had long ago followed their species into space. It brought him comfort to think some part of him would keep on living, even if they didn't know his name. It seemed impossible, but he still carried a part of that first fish that crawled from the sea. Millions of years ago, he'd been born a man… What did the human race look like now?
He could not accept extinction – for himself or his kind.
Brushing the sand from his clothes, he continued north.
Age 14
"That's not the price we agreed upon," Bishop argued. "Why are you trying to cheat me?"
"You made me think you didn't have anything better," the man offered a toothless grin. "You didn't say nothin' about that pretty little sister of yours… So now the price has gone up. 'Course, I'd be willin' to settle for an hour alone with her."
"She's twelve," he growled, his hands clenching into fists. Behind him, Shard gripped his shirt.
The trader's two lackeys circled them from behind, apparently sharing his disgusting lusts. Bishop wasn't the least afraid. On the contrary, rage fueled his courage. He might die today, but he would die on his feet. When the first one lunged towards them, he fell short on Bishop's blade. The second knocked the weapon from his hands, but was no match in hand-to-hand combat. His was making quick work of his ugly face when Shard let out a cry.
The trader had her.
"Here's the deal, boy… I can kill her and then kill you and then rape her… Or I can rape her now, and when I'm done, you two can have the water and be on your way. What's it gonna be?"
"Luke," she pleaded, tears brimming in her beautiful, clear eyes. "A good soldier knows when to fight and when to regroup."
"That's right!" The toothless trader laughed, "Now be a good boy and wait outside!"
She shut her eyes, losing hope.
But the rage inside him couldn't be denied. He knew his sister was a virgin, and all the water in the world wasn't worth this! He thought about that X.S.E. officer who'd shot the man holding her hostage years ago. She hadn't survived that to live this sort of life! Bishop didn't have a gun, but he still had the weight of his body, and it had proved weapon enough before. With a savage roar, he charged the man. But before he could reach them, the villain pulled a blade and placed it to Shard's back, intent on running her through. For a heartbeat, Bishop was certain his sister was about to die. A heartbeat was just long enough to spark something deep and primal inside of him. His mutant powers activated, and his body fired plasma blasts quicker and more powerful than any weapon. He didn't know where the strength came from, but it felt marvelous to unleash it. He felt almost godly torturing this man thusly.
"Bishop! Bishop!" Shard shouted. "That's enough! Come on, let's get out of here!"
The rage subsided, taking with it his amazing powers.
Three men dead.
For one girl's virtue.
Not long after that incident, the mutant camps were closed, and all the inhabitants were thrown into a world they didn't understand and a world that didn't want them. Tensions between humans and mutants were at an all-time high. The X.S.E. was desperate for strong officers. So desperate, in fact, that the cadet academy accepted Bishop and Shard at just fifteen and thirteen years old. The reasoning was that most cadets take four years to finish training. By then, they would both be adults or close to the age of majority.
Bishop was certain that everything in his life had led to him becoming an officer. If his parents had never abandoned him, he would've never met Grandmother, who instilled strict morals. If she hadn't died, those gang members wouldn't have tried to steal her house. If those officers hadn't been there and sent him to the Witness, he and Shard would be dead. And if the Witness hadn't been so corrupt, Bishop wouldn't have clung so desperately to his standards. Those things had all been tragedies, but they'd led him down the path of destiny.
With some strong food and a physical regimen, the brother and sister pair excelled exponentially. Bishop seemed to never stop growing. He got taller and wider weekly until he was the tallest person at the academy. Likewise, Shard traded her fairy frame for an understated strength. She was like a willow tree – slender and flexible, but durable. When she struck, the mark was deeply felt. Their grades soared as well: something that would've made Grandmother proud. For Bishop, the passion for police work came naturally. He devoured every piece of information he could get. Shard had to work a little harder, but she succeeded just the same. Her talent was the people-side of police work. Even though she couldn't interrogate or investigate during school, she was a natural detective. She smelled a lie before it was spoken, and her tender heart made people want to open up to her. They would've been a perfect team except family members weren't allowed to be on the same squad.
Just like any student, Bishop earned his share of enemies: Trevor Fitzroy being the greatest of them. Fitzroy was the spoiled son of an extremely wealthy, influential man. A lifetime of ease and luxury had made him hard and uncaring; everyone was a tool to be used for his own leverage and nothing more. Sometimes Bishop tried to find some good in him, but never could. In the end, he decided that since even Shard distrusted him, there wasn't a decent molecule to be found.
But for all his foes and trials, Bishop found friends more abundant. Malcolm and Randall were some of the truest friends he'd ever find.
Age 17
"I dunno… You reckon Razor likes me more than Icarus?" asked Malcolm.
Bishop couldn't resist rolling his eyes. Ever since he'd known Malcolm, the kid had been – Shard's words – "girl crazy". Rand used to be on Bishop's side, and it was easy to shut him down before his topic was fully discussed. But lately, even Rand had turned his eyes from the goal of making officer to the hopes of getting laid. Since the male to female ratio at the academy heavily favored the former, it was only a matter of time before one of them set their sights on Shard.
Thankfully, she had more sense than Malcolm and Rand. She was still very focused on becoming an officer, and leading her own squad one day. The time for romance and possibly a family would come, but much further down the road. Before she could sensibly bring a child into this world, she needed to ensure it would have a better life than she'd had. Bishop was proud to call her "sister". His chances of graduating would be significantly lowered if he had to fight off her suitors.
"It's not Icarus you've gotta worry about. It's B over there."
Bishop's neck burned and he turned to Rand with a warning stare.
The older man didn't flinch. "The girls think he's mysterious, and you know how birds love a good puzzle…"
"Stop," he said.
Rand continued. "They think that below that tough exterior, he's a big teddy bear, and they all want to be the one to bring out that side of him. 'He just needs a good woman', they say."
"What he needs is a good lay," Malcolm muttered.
"I've heard 'm talking about you in the hallways, Bish," said Rand, "Don't act stupid."
"I really am an ass," confirmed Bishop. "You bozos should know that better than anyone."
"That's what I tried to tell them!" Rand finished with a shrug, "Girls."
Instructor Speaks approached the table where the three cadets were supposed to be studying, effectively ending their conversation. Speaks was the only female instructor on campus as well as the head director of physical regulations and Bishop's class advisor. Perhaps in an effort to appear more masculine, Speaks was the hardest instructor the academy had ever had. If she overheard them discussing the female cadets in a sexual way, they'd be running laps for sure.
"Cadet," she nodded to Bishop as the boys leapt to their feet. "A word?"
He followed her into his office without hesitation. Unlike the others, he knew he'd done nothing wrong and had to reason to fear an admonishment. He took a seat opposite her impressive desk while she shut the door.
"Cadet Bishop, we have a problem." She sat behind her desk and leaned back easily, folding her hands as she spoke. "Due to your class load, we've run out of classes to assign you. There are no classes for you to take next semester…"
He watched her without speaking, without breathing.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to graduate you." A smile finally broke through her hard expression. "You'll be the youngest officer in X.S.E. history, Cadet… Congratulations."
He felt his face transform from reluctant hope to jubilation. Dormant muscles pulled his face into an expression he knew he'd never made before. After all, he'd never been so happy. Feeling lightheaded from glee, he leapt to his feet and shook her hand, thanking her repeatedly. Tears misted her eyes as she congratulated him again and sent him on his way.
Shard was the first person he told, and after Instructor Speaks presented his diploma, she cheered the loudest. It wasn't until he left the stage and embraced his little sister that he realized he would be leaving the academy – and Shard. For the first time since he was an infant, he would be living and sleeping away from her.
They were true adults now.
Age 18
He promised Shard he would write daily and visit weekly, but his schedule didn't allow for those luxuries. As an officer, he pulled twelve – sometimes sixteen – hour days. Many missions pulled him away from that station and required days out in the field. Sometimes he got to be a hero, sometimes he arrived too late. He wasn't the helpless little boy anymore: he was the guy with the deep voice and a big gun. But not all battles could be won by brute force, and war was ugly, even for the victors. When the world got too unbearable, he found comfort in her letters. He was very proud of his work, but he worried about her.
Luckily, she graduated a year after her brother, breaking his record for youngest officer. He wasn't jealous. In fact, her graduation gave him an excuse for a much-needed break. He hadn't seen her since his graduation, and seeing her again made him feel all those missed days acutely. He would never get that year back again.
"Bishop!" she squealed and hugged his neck.
His arms could've wrapped around her twice over, so he didn't hold her as tightly as he wanted.
"Come on," she took his arm, "I wanna show you the new work-out room."
He'd been genuinely looking forward to seeing the new equipment. (Of course the academy got all the latest stuff after he'd left.) But she had no intention of giving him a tour: she only wanted to get him away from the party.
"You should know, brother, that your 'friends' are planning a prank… And you're the target."
His back stiffened. He'd heard of practical jokes being played against new recruits, and while he understood they were made in jest, he didn't see the humor in it. The "games" were mild forms of torture, really: taking the target against his or her will and threatening him or her with various degrees of discomfort unless they did something unpleasant. Surely, his friends knew he'd take offense to such things.
"They've hired a girl," Shard elaborated. "I don't know who, but she's supposed to seduce you. I knew how… uncomfortable… that would make you. So I thought I'd warn you in advance. If you want, I can pull you away. We can grab a bite somewhere else."
He'd enjoy that very much, but this was her party and he wasn't going to ruin it by playing coward.
"Shard, I think I can manage a single prostitute… Enjoy your day. You've worked hard for it."
She smiled and left him.
He didn't mind being alone. His eyes scanned the room, memorizing all faces. Everyone stood in small groups and strolled from one group to another, socializing easily. Only he stood alone. The whore wasn't here yet, then. His brown eyes shuffled through the faces once more and noticed someone new. No, not new; someone familiar.
Jinx.
She wore a cadet's first year uniform, and when her eyes caught his, she smiled. He instantly knew that she was the hired girl, sent not by his friends – but by the Witness. Bishop didn't believe in coincidence. He did, however, believe that once someone was caught in the Witness's web, they were never truly free again. It made him sick to think his foster-father had resorted to this. He knew he'd made the right decision in getting Shard away from that villain, and it filled him with righteous fury. Instead of turning Jinx over to the authorities – as he should've done – he confronted her himself. After all, she might prove invaluable to the X.S.E. as a double agent. And if she were his sister, he would want someone to offer her another sort of life.
He quickly realized he was out of his league. She was charming and cunning, and while he struggled with small talk, she still managed to extract too much information from him. Within a year, the Witness would be running the academy from the inside. But what could be done about it? It wasn't a crime to have a criminal as a foster-father. He decided to keep her close and wait for her to make a mistake, but she was playing him, not the other way around.
She took him to her dorm room and made him comfortable enough to lower his virginal guard. Like all sexually inexperienced folk, he bore a natural and staunch distrust of all things sexual. She made it seem… spiritual, even though he knew they were both deceiving each other. She praised him like a needy disciple, inflaming his ego and curiosity. Yes, he fell for her game. When confronted, she even acknowledged that she'd been paid by his friends, but returned the money to Bishop's palm, swearing she'd come of her own free will. They had been childhood friends, she said, and this was an experience meant to be shared between friends. When at last they united, he discovered she was a virgin, too, and then he was completely ensnared in the Witness's schemes.
Present
His camel pack was bone-dry. Time for a journey into the ancient ruins. Any trace of water had vanished long ago, but he found the nitrous pumps still useful. Sometimes, he could chip ice away from the crevices and wait for it to melt. Once he even found a snow-globe intact. The water was half-gone and dirty, but sweet nonetheless. By now, there wasn't much he wouldn't trade for a tall glass of water. The levels of liquid he consumed couldn't match what he was losing though sweat and urine, but he wasn't desperate enough to consume his own urine.
Not yet.
He traversed over the sand covering the old roads. The tops of power lines and buildings peaked at him, like an army waiting for him to pass. The wind wasn't severe here, so he removed his protective goggles. Tears immediately sprung to his eyes. He wasn't crying; his eyes were adjusting to this radioactively air.
His skin prickled as if someone had a weapon aimed at his back. But he was alone; utterly alone. Then why did he feel watched? Was the paranoia taking over? Or was that murderous Cable watching him telepathically?
"Sure!" Bishop shouted. "Just watch me die, you miserable old bastard! You think I'll beg for your help? Go to hell!"
The wind cut through the alleys, answering him with a low and lonesome whistle.
…
Age 23
It was an enormous raid on the underground movement. Trace, from the Gamma Squad, was the first one to make the break. Of course, the X.S.E. had known that mutants were coming together in secret for months, but they didn't know why, who, or even where they were meeting. And then Trace made an arrest that broke the whole conspiracy wide open. Trevor Fitzroy, Bishop's old archenemy from the academy (now calling himself Chronomancer) was planning a global annihilation of all humans without the X-gene that created mutants. Bishop knew that such plans had helped generate the mutant concentration camps that he'd grown up in, so the X.S.E. needed to stop this madman quickly and quietly. If word of this got out – it could be war all over again.
Every squad at the X.S.E.'s disposal was used to seal off the exits, isolate and apprehend the traitors. In the end, it was Bishop's squad, the Omega Squad, which arrested Chronomancer and delivered him to the maximum security prison. The governor planned to present them all with medals, but first there were pompous parties to throw and attend.
It was Shard who convinced him to go, "for the guys". Parties never were his forte.
He was almost relieved when Colonel Carey pulled him aside to discuss more relevant matters.
"Hope you'll pardon the interruption, Squad Commander, but your attention is better served elsewhere."
"Not at all," Bishop followed the middle-aged man into his office. "My skills in the field don't translate well at balls."
"Don't know who the hell decided we needed to throw a party every time an officer did his job… If you ask me, these funds are better served in the school systems. These parties are supposed to create a better image of mutants, but if we could just educate people about mutations during their youths, we wouldn't have to worry about prejudices later."
"Sir, you have too much common sense to make the council committee. I suggest you retire now."
The Colonel gave a polite chuckle. "If I had my eyes set on politics, I would've left the force after my first medal… No, sir. Folks like you and me have never been any good at covering what we mean to say. Which is why," he hesitated, "I know how difficult this mission is."
"Sir?"
"I know about your time with the Witness, Bishop. I have never questioned your loyalty… or your sister's. But the man has a lot of secrets and the X.S.E. can't touch him. Any intell we might have on him isn't going to be volunteered."
"Colonel, I gave you all my intell on the Witness when I joined... He took me in when I had nowhere else to go, but in case you've forgotten, I asked the X.S.E. for help first."
The Colonel put up a hand. "Your loyalty isn't in question."
"With all respect, what is the question?"
"We're searching for an ideal candidate to infiltrate the man's business. Naturally, you came to mind."
Bishop wanted to send him to Jinx, but he held back. He never could explain his protectiveness towards her, except is own guilt.
Grinding his teeth, he said, "I appreciate the vote of confidence, sir, but this isn't a mission I could completely dedicate myself to."
He nodded once. "I thought so. Before you make a decision, listen to this." He pulled a miniature tape cassette from his desk drawer and inserted it into a player. "This was retrieved from the underground raid."
Static.
And then screams.
The distant shout of a man in charge, demanding something he couldn't get.
'This is Jean Grey… We need your help… Right away… He's lost it, completely- Oh god, Scott! …Please help!'
The static returned and Carey stopped the player. "It's authentic. The lost S.O.S. of the legendary X-Men."
Bishop felt disconnected from his own body. Stunned, he asked, "How did Fitzroy get this?"
"Says it was a gift from LeBeau."
The potential implications made his head spin. What was the Witness doing with this? Why would he give it to Fitzroy? What business did they have together? The curiosity almost made Bishop eager enough to accept the mission… But not quite. Respectfully, he declined the offer and headed back to the barracks. His good mood was shot. He'd always prided himself on his integrity and honesty; how could the Colonel think he'd make a decent spy? Bishop understood the usefulness of one, but the idea of doing the act made his skin crawl. When he took down the Witness, it would be from the right side of the law.
Age 25
The force traditionally assembled every year in January to celebrate the holidays and (for the less jolly, like Bishop) plan for the upcoming year. However, there had been some concern over whether all the squads would attend. Chronomancer had escaped his maximum security prison "with inside help". In Bishop's mind, there was no doubt the Witness was involved, and he wasn't too proud to blast his front door open and demand answers. Unfortunately, one miserable call to Richmond, and the Witness could sever all funding to the X.S.E. More diplomatic tactics were needed for the situation. Ironically enough, Shard's team had been assigned with investigating the matter, and she wouldn't be able to join the celebrations until her duties were completed.
Bishop encouraged her to be successful. But he truly longed to see her: it was his only reason for coming.
The night after he arrived, she called and said she'd arrive the following night, maybe earlier depending on which flight she could catch. He was positively beside himself. His baby sister had made lieutenant a few months prior, and he hadn't personally congratulated her. Also, he was eager to discuss his plans for merging his squad with the Alphas following Keller's retirement and Johan's medical dismissal. Another sister might grow weary of his "shop-talk", but he valued her opinion, and certain topics weren't appropriate over the lines.
He had trouble sleeping that night and awoke early with the intentions of working on his marksmanship to pass the time. Normally, he would've gone alone, but as he passed Malcolm's room, the notion to be social struck him.
"Eyes on your six, man!" he called loudly, opening the door to the sleeping figure he'd expected.
And one he hadn't.
He saw a glimpse of tangled limbs, a flash of panicked movement, and then he realized that beautiful woman in Malcolm's bed was Shard.
"What the hell is this?" he roared, his head pumping so hard he thought it would burst.
"What does it look like?" Shard hollered back. "Christ, will you shut the door?"
"You're with him?"
"That's none of your concern!"
"N-none… None of my…" his mouth couldn't properly function. She had betrayed him as swiftly and heartlessly as their parents. At last, his mind found stability and he retaliated, "Tell me, Shard, are you an ignorant or compliant notch on his post? No woman means more to him than that!"
"Get out!" she shrieked, shoving him out of the room.
The door slammed in his face with all the might of Poseidon. Slowly, he turned away to see the darting faces of curious residents, and felt his rage anew. Those targets were about to take a beating.
For the rest of the day, Shard and Malcolm kept distance from him, and he repaid the act. But it was eating him up. Had the villain really seduced her? Convinced her that she would hold a special place in his heart? Or worse, was his sister the sort of person that didn't need such reassurances? How long had they been lying to him? Running around behind his back? And now that they apparently weren't on speaking terms, would Shard ever forgive him? The longer they were apart, the less he cared about her sexual life. He thought about every letter he didn't write, every secret he kept, every meal where he took the larger share, and the guilt was tormenting him.
Colonel Carey found him in his miserable state – still shooting down targets – and interrupted him.
"Good man, Bishop! I knew I could count on you to stay focused! …A minute?"
"Of course, sir," he powered down the obstacle course and wiped the sweat from his brow.
"We've got a lead on Fitzroy… Think your team's up for it?"
He wanted to leap at the offer, but luckily, he hesitated. Bringing in an escaped convict would mean bonuses, glory and more opportunities. While none of that was bad, Omega Squad had had it's share of it. Perhaps it was time to share the wealth, so to say; especially with a certain, angry sister who might accept his olive branch.
"Uh - sir, my team's taking a much needed break… But Beta Squad just got in last night. They haven't even unpacked."
The Colonel considered him very carefully, and then nodded slowly. "Alright."
"With your permission, I'd like to convey it to the team myself."
The Colonel pressed his lower lip against his upper one. "I don't see anything wrong with that."
"Thank you, sir.
If he had known that the entire operation was a hoax – a trap – he would have never sent Shard. But how could he have known that the Colonel was in league with Chronomancer? Some of the smartest people in the world had been fooled by his cover; what chance did Bishop stand against his cunningness? It seemed too great a conspiracy that the Colonel had helped Fitzroy escape, framed the Witness, and arranged for Bishop's demise to ensure the scoundrel's future success. But it was fact. This was the Colonel's second attempt on Bishop's life – the first being when he pointed the officer after LeBeau. He knew Bishop would feel responsible for reaping justice, that he would act alone, and that he was no match for the Nightwatch. But for once, he'd been thinking.
By the time anyone had the puzzle put together, Shard was dead, Fitzroy had disappeared, and the Colonel had sold of all the X.S.E.'s secrets.
Malcolm brought him the last, tiny fragment of hope on an information diskette.
"This is her diary. I think… she'd want you to have it."
It was more than her diary.
It was her.
Not just her thoughts, but her thought pattern; more than her handwriting, her actual voice had been recorded. Where she went, how she felt, what she ate, and who she loved had all been recorded in perfect detail. Bishop realized early on the potential for re-creating something more… familiar to contain his sister's memories. However, all the A.I. technicians he approached felt like he was desecrating her memory. It was a cyberpath civilian who finally told him about a new holograph sequencer that could operate independently for hours at a time. Thus far, all the simulations were programmed, but the creators would certainly jump at the chance to experiment with intelligent input. There was no guarantee that anything would work, but Bishop could hope…
And then he hit a glitch. The technology was property of Stark Enterprises, which made it the exclusive property of the Witness.
Bishop had always been a proud man, but his love was compounded with guilt, which eventually won out. So with his chin held high, he pretended not to beg the man for his help. He said the Witness owed a debt to Shard, and that he had loved her once, too. He attempted to gain information while simultaneously forfeiting the next year and a half of his life. (Eighteen months, to be precise: a fine example of the Witness's humor, for the only time Bishop had been away from his sister was the first eighteen months of his life.) The Witness had changed. His lightly tethered thoughts had completed unhinged in Bishop's absence, and he gave no value to missed opportunities. If "pup" was looking to strike a deal because he "couldn't face life alone", the Witness would bargain. After all, Bishop had something that he wanted: inside information on the X.S.E., but he would no more admit to caring for Shard than he would admit concealing the X-Men's ancient S.O.S.
The next eighteen months were sacrificed in Shard's memory. Bishop became the very thing he loathed: a spy – and he wasn't even doing it for the right side! He became a member of the Witness's Nightwatch. They were an efficient, brutal team; as flawless as they were merciless. Bishop knew he'd done right in stealing Shard from this man's grasp, and pitied the youngsters in her place.
Yes, LeBeau was still taking in orphans and still using them in his schemes. But Bishop was using them, too. For every bushel of information he had to hand over, he gained a nugget on his foster-father, and the children were his greatest tool.
A.E. used his telepathy to discover that the Witness was more than some passing associate of the X-Men: he had been one of them!
Little False traced the cause of LeBeau's madness to the death of his first child. They hadn't all died in the war, as he liked to claim. The eldest died quite young, possibly when her mutations manifested, and he never recovered from it. This piece of information was the most personal – and most important – that Bishop could've unearthed. Later, when Adversary said that the X-Men weren't gods, but disgraced outlaws seeking redemption or weak orphans lacking control of their powers, the cogs in Bishop's mind started to turn. He knew from his grandmother that history had a way of making the past seem brighter. It was possible that LeBeau hadn't passionately taken up the banner of Xavier's dream, but had only joined to save his child's life. When that failed, he sought retribution on the lot of them.
"Brilliant theory, Bishop," his superior sneered, "But we can't persecute on theories. We need proof."
"You mean you want a confession," he growled back with gritted teeth. He had given them motive and means for the crime, but they still refused to move against the Witness. He was beginning to think they never would.
"It couldn't hurt your case, squad commander."
Blinded by rage, he foolishly confronted the Witness. Of course, the silver-tongue serpent admitted to everything Bishop already knew (his children had all perished because he'd failed them, and the X-Men had been betrayed by one of their own), but revealed nothing new. Sometimes Bishop thought he was discovering something new, but upon re-examining his words, realized he was being deceived. The Witness confessed to nothing; he only let Bishop believe as he would. Had he done the same with the children? If so, everything Bishop had was lies. By the end of the argument, Bishop was dismissed from the Nightwatch, and although he was certain it was because he'd gotten too close to the truth, he couldn't prove that, either.
Age 27
"Welcome home, squad commander!" Rand grasped his hand and punched his back.
Bishop was deliriously happy to see his ugly face again. He was even happy to see Malcolm. That incident with his sister seemed ages ago.
"Off your asses, boys!" he goaded them. "Party's over!"
Malcolm was visibly relieved when Bishop embraced him with a stiff punch. "Us? I heard the Witness feeds his crew beer-fattened calves!"
"Is that the price of your loyalty, man?"
"Aye," Malcolm grinned, "and some big-breasted women would seal the deal!"
Rand visibly stiffened, and Bishop decided to clear the air. He wouldn't create a rift on his team because some people begrudged an old fight, thinking he was vindictive and unforgiving.
"I guess the X.S.E. is lacking the fairer sex. Or have you just gone through them all?"
Rand's eyes widened and Malcolm gave a deep-belly laugh. "Good to have you back, squad commander!"
Bishop was in great need of an honest mission after his time in the Nightwatch, and the X.S.E. didn't disappoint. The same day that he returned to the fold, there was a riot at the Pool Prison – led by none other than Trevor Fitzroy. The Omega squad was just one of several sent to aid the guards in containing the situation. When Bishop arrived, he was completely overwhelmed. Nothing in his life prepared him for what he saw.
The Chronomancer was so difficult to capture and contain because of the nature of his powers. Time and dimensions didn't guard themselves against him, as they normal men. Unchecked, he was free to travel wherever, whenever he pleased. He wasn't interested in helping right past wrongs, either. Just like his days at the academy, he was a self-centered, spoiled, and greedy bastard without any thought for others.
Bishop was ready to set a "stray" blast through Fitzroy's head.
But when he arrived at Pool, an army of blasts couldn't have stopped Fitzroy. He'd ripped open a time portal the size of a star, and scores of convicts followed him into the vortex. God only knew where or when those violent maniacs were pouring, but the officers were reluctant to follow them.
"It's a one way gate!" Trace tried to warn him.
"Come on, you sons of mothers!" Bishop shouted. "This is what we were born for!"
.
To Be Continued…