Hey there!
So, like the description says, "Specter" is a fanfiction piece taking place in an AU, focusing mainly on Nightcrawler (Although not all of the sections are written with an emphasis on him).
Some important things to note about this particular AU are:
-Jean Grey is not currently Pheonix
-When characters die here, they're pretty much dead.
Everything else should be pretty self-explanatory. I hope you enjoy it!
-Elle
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE X-MEN, THE FANTASTIC FOUR, , SPIDER-MAN, IRON MAN, NICK FURY, THE AVENGERS, ALPHA FLIGHT, OR ANY RELATED CHARACTERS/PLACES/OBJECTS ETC. THEY ARE THE PROPERTY OF MARVEL COMICS.
Prologue
To do the impossible
It was inconceivable. No one had ever been able to do it before. No one had ever successfully captured the Master of Magnetism and brought him to trial. How had the United States government, out of all the potential candidates, managed it? When there were so many others vying for the honor. Nobody knew.
How it happened was a very hush-hush affair. "No comment" became the government's slogan. Nothing was confirmed or denied. People were left only with questions.
The only thing officials were willing to discuss was the trial. There was a grand to-do; the media was everywhere, the courthouse was packed to capacity. They were expecting the trial of the century. What they got was a surprise.
He pled guilty. To ALL of it; murder, extortion, theft. He didn't defend himself; he just sat there calmly as the judge sentenced him. The punishment was death by lethal injection.
Then he stood up. He turned to face the cameras. He opened his mouth to speak. "You," he began slowly, "humans, are all fools. You let your fear dominate you, override your judgment. You condemn mutants as a race because of the way we were born. You call us freaks; say we are unnatural, when it is exactly the opposite. We are nature at work; the next step forward in evolution. Change is the only constant of existence; we are change, we embody all that is, was, and will be. And yet you scorn us, shun us; even kill us, because you cannot abide by the idea that we are better than you. I submit that anything that we have done has been a direct result of your actions, your intolerance. My crimes are on your hands, Homo sapiens." Then he turned around and sat back down. He didn't say another word to anyone for the rest of his life.
Part I
Because dreams are as the lives of men- fleeting
There were very few times in Charles Xavier's life that he had had a reason to doubt his dream; the glorious ideal of humans and mutants living together in harmony. Until that fateful day when humans had killed Erik Lehnsherr, Magneto, the mutant terrorist, the X-Men's deadliest foe, and, once, Charles' friend. On that day, his resolve had wavered; people whom he had helped to save, people whose lives had been spared by his efforts, cruelly murdered Erik.
He had been tried, convicted, sentenced to death. Erik had been defiant, proud, sure of himself and the righteousness of his actions. He had known they were going to kill him, and that there wasn't anything he could do about it. He didn't care. It only helped his case, his point of view, to die.
Xavier had gone to the execution, to try to provide…he didn't know what. Comfort? Friendship? Redemption? Acceptance? What he did know was that whatever he had been trying to give, he had failed miserably.
When Charles had attempted to talk to him, Erik had just stared at him, closing his mind to the telepath with shields Charles was too scrupulous to violate. His eyes had said everything. I told you so. They seemed to say, I told you. They have no morals, they're afraid of us, and they're going to kill us all. We should have stopped them; you should have listened to me. Now it's too late. You're all going to die. They hadn't moved him out of the cell to kill him. They had just gone in with a specially prepared needle and injected him.
That should have been it. He should have just…faded away. But he didn't. He began to shake and writhe on the floor, his mouth began to foam. Charles was horrified. They had poisoned him! And they were all just standing there, looking down. They were all feeling…satisfaction, a horrible kind of delight. It disgusted him. He reached out with his telepathy, almost frantic, but Erik refused to let him in. He just looked at Charles, his eyes still bright and clear; Goodbye, Charles. I'll see you soon.
Yes, Charles' faith had been shaken that day. Shaken, but not destroyed. He had convinced himself that those were only a few, sick, corrupted individuals. He had felt sorry for them, pitied them. But then…then they hadn't even been tried. No one had seemed to care about what they did; they thought it was right, justified. Charles was even more revolted. But he let it go. Erik HAD done some terrible things; it was only human nature to be angry. But then, that was the problem, wasn't it? That it WAS human nature. That people instinctively turned to anger and hatred. Had Erik been right all along? The question haunted him, but he forced himself to move on. There was too much to do; just because Erik was dead, didn't mean the X-Men had nothing to do.
Then, one day, without any kind of warning whatsoever, the government unleashed thousands of Sentinels. They swarmed all over the entire country, picking up mutants and taking them to these…camps; these horrible, vile, concentration camps. Charles couldn't help thinking that Erik would never have let it happen. He would have stopped it before it had even begun. But it didn't matter; it was too late now. Because the X-Men; his children, his family, were mutants. And the sentinels were coming for them.
Part II
The 300 Spartans
Scott was proud of the students. They weren't panicking. They were terrified, certainly, they were pale, some were crying, but they weren't panicking. They were moving quickly and quietly through the tunnels under the school, toward the helicarriers and the jets with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logos emblazoned on them. They did as the adults of the group directed; they got in and sat down and comforted those who needed it. They all looked determined; yes, they were leaving today, but they would be back, back with a vengeance, and their fury would destroy the sentinels once and for all. Or that's what they thought. Scott knew better. The U.S. probably wouldn't be safe for a long time yet. If the students came back at all, it wouldn't be anytime soon.
Scott was supervising, making sure that the children got out safely. What disgusted him was that they HAD to. They were children God damn it, they'd never done anything. And still, the sentinels were coming for them, just because they were mutants. Well, he thought, they aren't going to get them. He looked around. He was pleasantly surprised with the turnout. Dr. Strange, Spider-Man, Nick Fury, Iron Man, and many others; they'd all come, they'd all recognized how utterly, completely wrong this was, and they'd come to help the X-Men try to stop it. The Avengers and the Fantastic Four were attempting to protect others at the moment, to smuggle them out of the country to safety. The rest were preparing to leave on the same mission after the jets and helicopters had taken off. They were only here in the first place because the School for Gifted Youngsters had the largest concentration of mutants in the country. There was tension in the air, and below that anger. Righteous anger, anger at the situation, about how utterly unjust the entire thing was.
Scott looked over at the Professor as the doors to another jet closed. He was worried about him. Charles was just…staring. This entire thing seemed to have utterly defeated him. It was understandable. The idea, the theme that had held his life together for so long had just been shattered into billions of tiny little pieces. Scott wanted to help him, wanted to tell him something that would make everything seem worthwhile, but he didn't know what to say. So he just walked up to the wheelchair and put his hand on Charles' shoulder, letting him know that he was there, and hoping that would be enough.
Suddenly, a great explosion was heard from upstairs, and the roof shook slightly. All activity stopped for a moment, and then commenced double-pace. They were out of time. Scott turned and ran toward the stairs that led to the house. He was already in costume; they had been anticipating this. He ran into Nightcrawler as he materialized with some children, and took the express to the foyer. When he got there he was met with chaos. They X-Men were battling sentinels with everything they had. Wolverine was ripping them to pieces with his adamantium claws; Jean was tearing them apart with her telekinesis; Iceman was skating around and freezing them where they stood. Yet, despite all of their efforts, they were losing. There were too many; thousands, all coming forward. The X-Men were only human despite what everyone said; they would tire eventually. They weren't really even trying to win; they were trying to keep the sentinels away long enough for the children to get out. Scott grimly raised his hand to his visor and plunged into the fray.
Four hours later, everyone was utterly exhausted. And the sentinels were still coming. The jets had taken off only half an hour ago; there had been some technical difficulties getting them off the ground with so many people in them. Eventually, some of the heroes had left the fight to provide assistance. Some of the X-Men had been captured, some killed. They'd lost track. The remaining X-Men would probably follow them soon, but not without a fight. Scott was guarding the X-Men's wounded behind part of what used to be a wall.
Nightcrawler teleported over next to Scott for the umpteenth time that day, almost collapsing with the effort. He looked awful. What he was wearing didn't really qualify as a costume anymore; his fur was singed; he was cut, bruised, bleeding. Wolverine was worse; 'Crawler had obviously 'ported him back here to heal; he looked pretty out of it. Hank walked over to them; Logan was sprawled on the ground, and Nightcrawler was crouched low, panting. He looked up at Beast and gave him an exhausted smile.
"Another one for you, mein freund." He said, "He should be fine soon enough, but I just thought a safer place to heal was in order." Hank moved to look Wolverine over and began talking to Kurt as assessed the damage.
"You know," he said, "You're not in much better shape than he is. It would do you good to stay back here and let me patch you up."
"And miss all of the fun? Nein, mein freund, the Incredible Nightcrawler still has work to do," and with that, a soft "BAMF", and a sulfurous cloud of smoke, he was gone.
Scott shifted so that he had a better shot at the sentinels around the wall. He was angry. He should have been out there, fighting with the rest of the X-Men. It wasn't that bad, really. It just hurt a lot, but pain was something that Scott was used to dealing with. Stop that, he told himself, it doesn't hurt. Something that's not there can't hurt. He stole a quick glance at the spot where his right arm used to be, then looked away. It was better not to look. At least those kids were safe. They had gotten away. What was an arm compared to half a dozen lives? He zapped an already staggering sentinel from behind the wall, finishing it off. He would have asked Hank if he could leave- he was a leader, he should be out there with his team- but the good doctor had already denied him at least a hundred times, and Scott had finally resigned himself to staying here half an hour ago.
Part III
Perseverance
Wolverine was coming around, sitting up, and shaking his head back and forth to clear it. He could hear the battle raging, smell the blood, the death the sharp scent of the sentinels. He didn't know where he was, but he knew where he should be. Hank had moved off by this time, tending to someone else. He lurched to his feet, shook his head one last time, and charged, roaring, back into the battle. Nobody tried to stop him. Not that they could have if they'd wanted to.
