Fallen Angel
By Cdragon
Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men Evolution.
Chapter One: A Life Not Worth Living
Seattle, Washington
9:00 PM
She walked along the desolate rubble. All of it blackened and charred. The gray, dreary drizzle gave way to more of the rubble, washing away the dust and ashes, reopening the wounds. It had been just over a week since everything she loved and cherished had been snatched away from her in an instant. The worst part was that she had to live with the fact that it was all her fault.
A freak. A mutant. That's what she was. On her back were two slight ridges. At will, black feathered wings would spring out. They were only symbolic, though.
Black. A color of darkness. Emptiness. Death.
That's what she was. An angel of darkness. Wherever she went, people suffered. Or died. She was a walking curse, in her opinion. And most agreed with her. She even knew when it would happen. She had horrible nightmares or visions just before the person became a victim of her wretched curse. It would be her. Hovering just above pile of bodies. All slain and bleeding. Her black hair hanging around her form. Her wings fully extended. It would be raining the tears from the heavens, the skies almost as black as her raven wings. She would be wearing a black gown and Romanesque black sandals. In her hand would be a sword, dripping with the blood of the innocents around her.
It's the vision of the Archangel of Death itself. And she could do nothing to change it.
Bayville, New York
1:00 AM
Outside the rain continued to pour. Kurt laid on his bed, still unable to sleep. It was 1 in the morning, and Storm had called lights out hours ago. But he just couldn't fall asleep.
He had been like this for just over a week. It was a night that seemed like any other, until around 3 in the morning. A nightmare like he'd never imagined flooded into his mind. In it was a woman, who seemed young, yet aged beyond her years. She had black hair, black wings, and a black gown. She was looking down around her, silent tears sliding down her cheeks, and falling from the blackened sky.
In her hand was a bloody sword, used to kill all the mangled bodies below her. Nothing but the rain, tears, and blood moved.
The sword suddenly dropped from her hand and she looked up, her pained gray eyes meeting his gaze. It was then that he bolted up in a cold sweat, to find tears streaming down his own face. Such torment. It wasn't what she had done that was so horrifying, but the immense pain she held within.
Visions of her flooded his mind every time he closed his eyes. Sometimes flashbacks—just bits of the dream returning, others, a continuation. These visions plagued his mind. He couldn't concentrate, he couldn't think of anything but her.
He pulled himself off his bed and walked out onto the balcony. He was still in his clothes from the day, a black t-shirt and jeans. He perched on the rail and looked out over the water, like he usually did when something troubled him.
'Who are you?' he thought. The girl's image again came into his mind, looking up at him, her eyes pleading for help, for redemption. He couldn't stand it.
He headed back into his room, soaked after the few moments in the rain. He peeled off his wet clothes and began drying off. He changed his clothes and walked over to his bureau and grabbed his Discman. Maybe some music would help clear his mind.
It was the next morning. Kurt awoke to find his CD player still on, though the batteries were shot.
He looked over at his clock. It was about to be 11. He jumped out of bed.
"Ah, I'm late!" He said. He rushed to get dressed and teleported into the kitchen. He hurriedly grabbed a muffin and a bottle of water. He ran and grabbed his backpack and was nearly out the door before hand stopped him.
"You know, it's Saturday." Scott said matter-of-factly.
"Uh, right." Kurt said, feeling himself blush. "I was just…" He trailed off.
"Kurt, is there something going on? You haven't been yourself. It's been over a week and I've hardly seen you. You're usually jokin' or pulling pranks."
"Nein," Kurt mumbled and started to walk off.
"Kurt, wait. There's definitely something bothering you. Why not just tell me? I don't think you want the Prof to get dragged into this."
"It's none of your business!" Kurt snapped and bamfed back up to his room, accidentally leaving his backpack behind.
"Like, what's with him?" Kitty asked, walking in, hearing the last part of the conversation.
"I don't know," Scott sighed.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Kurt sat on his bed, looking out his balcony at the cold gray sky. Behind him, her heard a light knock on his door.
"Go away, Scott." He said bitterly.
"Kurt, come on, talk to me." Scott pleaded.
"No. I don't wanna talk about it." Kurt said.
"Kurt, please."
"No. It's private. Now leave me alone."
"You know what, fine. I just won't talk to you." Scott said, annoyed. Kurt could hear his footsteps as he sulked away.
Seattle
"Sarah." The social worker, Ms. Cortez, said her name again. Sarah looked up, her gray eyes burning with hatred of the social worker. She was seventeen, she could live alone. But o, these people were going to make her live with her aunt, an old woman who was stuck in the dark ages that lived in some small town in New York. Sarah hated her, but she still didn't want her to die. But she didn't have much say in the matter. Her powers were in charge.
She was sitting in the cell in the police station. She had tried to leave. She just wanted to disappear, so no one else would get hurt because of her. But no, the social workers came to cart her off, so she tried to run. They put out a warrant for her capture. They said it was for her own good, but she knew that meant nothing. They didn't honestly care.
"Sarah, your aunt will be waiting for you at the airport in Albany. From there she'll drive you to your new home in Bayville." She continued to talk as she led a reluctant Sarah to her car and drove her to the airport.
Sarah boarded the plane, hoping that she could duck out in Albany when she got off. Instead, she was met by an escort on the plane, like the kind they stick with little kids when they flew alone.
"My, my, aren't you a lovely little girl? Your aunt and Ms. Cortez agreed that I should stay with you for the flight." He said.
"Don't talk to me." Sarah said sourly. She dropped down in her seat and stared out the window.
"Now don't forget to buckle up," the escort said.
Sarah rolled her eyes and buckled up. As the plane took off, she secretly hoped her power would kick in, and the plane would crash. Well, maybe not that. She looked around the cabin, at all the people aboard. There was a little boy and his parents, an old woman, and a businessman looking loving at a picture of a woman who must've been his wife. She'd already killed enough innocent people, and she didn't want to doom these people to that same fate. She just wished she could curl up and disappear. End her own live, end the pain, and end the suffering of others. She really didn't want anyone else to die because of her.
Hours later, she arrived in Albany, exhausted. She headed straight out toward the pickup area. She didn't have any luggage to stop for. She saw her aunt waiting. Her gray hair was up in a tight bun. She was wearing a plain blue dress and she held her floral printed purse in her hands. She was staring, more like glaring, at Sarah over her wire-rimmed glasses.
Sarah had only met her aunt once, but knew her well enough. When she was 14, her mother came to stay with her much older sister, Aunt Mary, for about a month after she had a fight with her husband. She dragged Sarah along with her. Aunt Mary made her wake up every morning a 6 a.m., spend all day doing chores, have dinner at exactly 5:30, and going to bed at 8:30. Aunt Mary nagged constantly about how Sarah dressed, saying it wasn't right for a girl to wear such tight pants, such baggy pant, such revealing shirts, or such short skirts. Sarah never dressed like a slut, like her aunt made it sound. She usually wore tank tops and jeans at that age, and occasionally wore a black skirt that was only a few inches above the knees. Her aunt flipped out one time when she wore a tube top under a zip-up sweatshirt. Aunt Mary was probably one of the most conservative, old-fashioned people anyone could meet.
"Come." Aunt Mary ordered. She led Sarah out to her car— an ancient brown and wood-paneled station wagon. It was rusted through in many spots, and appeared to be begging to be put out of its misery.
"Get in." she commanded in a sharp tone. Sarah did as she was told, too tired to even talk.
The began the two-and-a-half hour drive to Bayville.
It was about an hour into the drive when Aunt Mary spoke, breaking the long silence.
"Now I understand about what happened, and that all your things were destroyed. I'll take you shopping tomorrow to get you some clothes. But listen up, I'm not going to buy any of those hussy clothes you kids are wearing."
'You're talking about clothes? Your sister just died a week ago. You need to get your priorities straight.' Sarah thought.
They continued driving in silence. After another hour and a half, they finally came into Bayville. By now, it was around midnight. Both of them were exhausted. They were passing through an intersection. A loud horn erupted out of a truck, as it suddenly overtook the small station wagon. The sound of screeching tires, tearing metal, and screams followed, leaving behind a sudden eerie silence as the mass of tangled metal stopped.
