BISHOP: TIME WARRIOR
A/N: Alrighty then folks prepare to have your minds blown! Or at least be vaguely impressed. Or severely let down. The choice is yours, free world and all that jazz. This is my take on the 'Days Of Future Past, one of the great X Men stories, mixing bits of the 90s X-Men with the Evo characters we all know and love, oh and the ones we don't (Looking at you Summers!)
Disclaimer: You know the drill people, you recognise it, it's not mine.... yet.
Chapter I: Chaos Is Come Again
The old tramp liked this alley, it was an old haunt of his. Of course, by definition no alley was exactly comfortable, but at least in this one was safe and familiar; you could be sure that were you to spend a night in this alley, the odds of being attacked were if not short, at least favourable compared with many others. He shambled over to an overflowing bin to rummage for any suitable scraps discarded by more affluent people. Pillaging bins was seen as disgusting, and the tramp himself would be inclined to agree with that judgement, but it was not as if he had a tremendous amount of choice. He was examining a ragged coat as a potential replacement for his own when a sudden groan from the shadows made him jump in shock. It sounded like a human voice, and a few seconds later to let his eyes adjust to the gloom the tramp could discern the source: a humanoid shape slumped in the corner like a string-less puppet. The figure was twitching as if awakening from unconsciousness. The tramp goggled in shock as the figure stood up... and up... and up... even slouching in pain the figure was well above six foot tall, and muscled like a bodybuilder.
"Gah... won't be trying that again in a hurry," the figure said, apparently to itself. Even weakened by its semiconscious state the voice was even deeper than the barrel chest and imposing height would have suggested. The figure stepped out into the light spilling from the alley-mouth. Fully revealed, it turned out to be an ebony-skinned man with shaven head and a neat goatee beard, but the most curious feature was what seemed to be a scar or brand of some kind in the shape of an M above his left eye. He finally noticed his awestruck audience.
"What date is this?" he demanded suddenly.
"Erk..." was the tramp's first attempt at a reply, which seemed to infuriate the newcomer, who moved with a speed belying his befuddlement to haul the tramp up to eyelevel with seemingly no effort.
"What. Is. The. Date?" he demanded again.
"August 11th," the tramp managed to splutter eventually. Not happy with the answer, his captor shook him like he was a mere doll.
"Year?"
"Wha-?" The tramp realised procrastination was not the way to go about winning his captor's friendship and added quickly, "two thousand and ten."
"Two days." The tramp was not sure if that was addressed to him or not and played it safe by keeping his silence. He was cast aside as unceremoniously as he had been picked up, and decided that staying down was probably his safest option. He watched the imposing figure stamp away, musing aloud. "But 'til what? Damn machine's scrambled my memory..."
The tramp could only shake his head in amazement. No-one would possibly believe this story... not that he had anyone to tell it to, of course.
The man who caused such bemusement was not entirely free of confusion himself. There were gaping holes in his memory, he could remember he had been sent here by someone called Forge, and he could remember he had been sent with a specific mission, but trying to piece together what that mission actually entailed was like trying to construct a puzzle without an image to compare it with- he had nothing to relate to that might trigger a recall. He decided he should start with what he did remember: the name Bishop, which he thought was his own. Underneath his long coat was a huge pistol that felt as much an extension of his body as his arms or legs did, and he knew instinctively he was a soldier of some kind.
He strode through the bustling streets, even in the busy crowds people found a way to get out of the path of such a purposeful, imposing figure. His outlandish outfit underneath the coat, a dark blue bodysuit of some kind with yellow strips down the side and across the chest, partly disguised by the red neckerchief tied around his throat, drew stares but no one dared comment. This industrious, populous environment was in direct contrast to the blasted wasteland he recalled as his homeland. His eyes fell upon a newspaper vendor and he hastily snatched up a copy of the first paper that came to hand.
"Hey, you can't do tha-" a combination of a threatening glare and the sight of the gun unveiled by a twitch of the coat cut the vendor's protest short. Bishop turned his attention back to the newspaper, in particular the headline story: 'Xavier and Kelly to attend Mutant Conference.' Those two names, the first in particular, stirred vague memories in Bishop's mind, he definitely knew of Xavier and it was obvious the conference was the pressing event Bishop somehow had to attend. Furthermore, the mention of mutants was significant, as Bishop realised he himself was a mutant, despite not being totally sure what that entailed. He roughly shoved the newspaper into the chest of the vendor and stalked away, his mind more confused than ever.
He shoved his shovel-sized hands into his pockets to keep them off his firearm, which from the vendor's reaction he knew to be at least disapproved of and probably illegal in this time. One hand came in contact with a small cube, which he pulled out and studied curiously. He quickly headed into the nearest alley, as he couldn't concentrate fully whilst being barged and hustled by the swirling crowds. As his hands ran over the device he must have inadvertently pressed a button or flipped a switch as it suddenly projected a hologram of a scowling, unshaven face framed by sideburns, labelled 'Wolverine: real name unknown." The image suddenly switched to a much younger, handsomer face with the eyes covered by some kind of visor, this one labelled as 'Cyclops: Scott Summers.' The device ran through a whole list of faces and identities, but Bishop was paying no attention. Like he'd flipped a switch on the cube, it had flipped one in his mind, and his brain was providing knowledge and memories as though a veil in his mind had been torn away. These were the legendary X-Men, the predecessors of Bishop and his allies in the future; the mysterious Xavier was their mentor and leader. Now memories had started to return he could not dam the tide, more and more swirled into his mind. Suddenly he realised the significance of the conference.
It was the day Charles Xavier died, shot by a fellow mutant, setting a whole tide of events in motion.
Bishop had to somehow affect the future- and sudden grim realisation fell across his mind. He was the assassin.
He had to kill Charles Xavier.
Oooh, cliffhanger. Way to make an entrance or what? This is the bit where I'd tell reviews don't matter to me, but mother dearest bought up her boy not to lie. So click that button and feed my soul, or you go to bed with no more chapters you naughty boys and girls!