Strides long and decisive, Mark Mardon turned down a familiar dark alley. He could hear an echo after his every step. Anyone else might be nervous or even scared - but not him. His name had been made after his first fight with The Flash. Nobody, but nobody messed with the Weather Wizard.
What dumb fuck was going to interrupt his drinking plans? Mark stopped, turned around and shouted, "Show yourself!" No more echoes. The city noises off in the distance were the familiar sirens, cars and the pathetic lives of the idiots he enjoyed stealing from. Garish neon announced a dive bar and Mark swaggered inside.
The tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose but Mark sat at a scarred table anyway and scanned the many faces in the crowd. There was no way anyone was watching him. His power made him invincible. Deciding his paranoia was nothing but an irrational, aberrant moment, he ordered a beer.
A long draft of the cold brew was satisfying. Mark watched the waitress' ass swish back and forth as she tucked her tip into a pocket. She was more his brother's type and that got his stomach in a knot. Joe West was the reason he'd lost his brother. Joe West was the reason his life was nothing but shit. He committed crime after crime, banks heisted and thieving from stores in a quest to fill his pathetic life.
His own goddamn father had been a drunk, making his and Clyde's life a living hell of beatings sprinkled with joyous occasions of abandonment. How sick is that? What kind of father is so shitty that his kids look forward to when he fucks off for weeks at a time? Mark did his best looking after his younger brother. They had been all each other could count on. But his best had still led Clyde down a miserable bank robbing path. Stealing to survive. The past was dead and gone, and nothing could change that.
Mark smelled the subtle perfume of the woman as she moved past him, not believing his eyes as she gracefully sank into the seat across from him. Like a gentleman he lowered the beer from his lips and gave her his most charming smile. "Hey, you lookin' for some fun?"
She didn't speak, allowing the flutter of her lashes to give Mark an answer.
Mark guzzled the rest of his beer and slammed it on the table. Offering his hand to the mysterious woman, he stood, his bar stool skidding. "Wanna ditch this place?"
Outside was distinctly colder than before - he'd been five minutes inside the bar at most. Fuck. Was there another weather meta he needed to snuff or dominate? But this woman had curves in all the right places and Mark needed a distraction from his melancholic thoughts of his brother.
"So, what's your name, darlin'?"
The woman smoothed her white silk blouse and stared at him with deep green eyes, as if they could bore into his soul. "You may call me Desdemona." Her voice was honey and lilted with an exotic european accent.
"Unusual. Just like how I like my companionship. Where are you from?" Mark felt drawn to this woman and didn't question why it had happened so fast. Desdemona reached up, caressing her cold hand against his cheek. Mark's previous question and his desire for the answer was completely gone from his memory.
In a daze Mark led Desdemona back to his apartment. He swore he could hear thumping but there was no way to tell if it was his head or heart. Clinging to his arm the whole way, Desdemona was quiet other than the click of her heels on garbage strewn pavement. "My place is in this building." Mark pointed upwards, then dizziness hit him.
Sharply manicured nails touched his lips, shushing him. "Petty little humans trying to play God." Her formerly soft voice became gravelly and her eyes glowed. "Thanks to you I will be free. My debt paid to him."
Mark slumped into a heap on the filthy ground and the woman calling herself Desdemona stood over him as his vision failed and he saw only blackness.
Pushing himself up, Mark stood on trembling legs and searched for the strange woman who'd left him in the alley behind his apartment. Checking his pockets, he found his wallet and all ill-gotten gains still inside. He took the stairs, leaning heavily on the rails, feeling drained of energy but unwilling to think any deeper about why. Just one beer had never knocked him on his ass like this. Slowly Mark made it to his door, jamming his key into the lock and stumbling inside. In his delirious state everything looked as it should. The small television set sat in the corner blaring a news story, the couch held a raggedy afghan and the spindly coffee table was covered in newspapers.
Closing the door, Mark tripped over a stack of papers he'd been meaning to throw out but his plans for avenging his brother had kept him too busy to get rid of them. He grabbed the edge of the coffee table and tried to shake his head clear of the fog in his brain, pushing himself upright and deciding to go into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He'd feel better with some caffeine. Inching forward he smelled something - but it wasn't coming to mind exactly what it was.
He pushed open the kitchen door, empty. But the coffee machine light was on, and the carafe was full. Knitting his brows together, Mark ran a hand through his hair and then shrugged. Maybe he'd programmed it? Taking a cup out of the sink he grabbed the pot and poured himself a drink. He blew on the hot liquid and then took a sip. What the fuck was that taste? He spat, and red sprayed over his white tiles. The cup fell out of his nerveless fingers and shattered, adding more spatters from the red liquid. Fear iced his spine. Breaking free from his daze, Mark turned the tap on full blast and began to wash out his mouth.
"Tch. That's a waste of perfectly good blood." The voice was male, a bit distorted but clearly amused and his accent matched the woman from last night.
Mark knew his father had always said to hide any fear, but at this particular moment that was impossible. Reflexively he cut the water and turned, rivulets of water dampening his shirt just like sweat would. A man in a black mask sat at his table; staring, his eyes a bright blue and focussed. Mark feared the stranger could see into his very soul.
"Wh-what do you want?" Mark curses himself for the way his voice cracked.
The intruder leisurely stood and shook his head. "To teach the world a lesson they have forgotten." He sauntered closer and held up a hand, wagging his finger. "You, lowly as you are, will be my messenger."
Not in the mood for anyone's mind games, Mark scoffed, "I'm not anybody's messenger boy and you better get the fuck outta here or there's going to be trouble."
Laughing, the dark masked figure stalked closer, his hands thrust into his pockets. Mark raised his hands, ready to attack. The intruder laughed. Mark filled the room with dark clouds, lightning striking beside the masked intruder, leaving a black imprint on the floor.
"Pfft. Is that it?"
Anger filled Mark as he watched the intruder come closer, removing his hand from his pocket. Now black smoke formed around his hand, coalescing into a dagger.
Using his power, the dark clouds increased, causing a strong wind to form. Manipulating the cloud, Mark hit the intruder directly in the chest with lightning. Instead of falling and writhing in pain like all his other victims, the figure appeared to absorb his power as the lightning crackled around his form.
The intruder lifted his hand, the clouds increased, snuffing the light from the room. Everything shook and trembled as thunder clapped and clapped hard. Mark couldn't see anything but felt his heart hammering wildly in his chest. Suddenly, the room filled with a blinding white light as Mark was shot with his own power, sending him flying into the far wall.
"Would you look at that? You Meta Humans think you're Gods...but you're not. I'm here to make sure you mortals don't forget that." As the intruder spoke the clouds decreased, allowing Mark to see. In a blur the figure vanished but popped right in front of Mark, stabbing him with the dagger. The pain was excruciating - like nothing he'd ever felt before. Looking down, Mark watched as the dagger glowed a dull green that grew brighter as he felt his pulse weaken. Mark knew he wasn't going to avenge his brother; he wouldn't see another sunrise or sunset. He was about to die, but he didn't understand how such a death would make him a messenger.
The figure watched as Mark's soul was drained and caught in the dagger. He knew he would need more, this was just the beginning. He had to be ready when the time came for his ascension into full Godly status. There would be no more having to watch over the ants. No more would he have to guide these fools into the afterlife. Standing, he looked around the small kitchen and all the wasted blood on the floor. Hovering his hand over the mess he used his powers to inscribe a message. It was only three words but he knew it would convey his meaning. 'God was here.'
A new fanfiction this one might be a little dark but I hope you enjoy this one. Thank you to DancesWithSeatbelts for helping me with this story.