Note; This chapter contains some mature language.
It is at night
that faith in light is admirable.
Edmond Rostand
1907
The present
Domino watched as Sinister sat back in the chair, a self-satisfied look on his face. He spared only a casual glance to watch his words have their desired effect on Scott's psyche. He gently swirled the rose colored liquid in his glass, impeccably deft as he sampled the bouquet and took a modest sip of the imported wine. In an instant, all of Sinister's attention was entirely devoted to his beverage as she and Scott were relegated to simple background noise and deemed unimportant or insignificant.
No longer the principle object of Sinister's scrutiny, she was able to observe how everything was so carefully choreographed and expertly orchestrated, even their environment. The overly expensive surroundings of the posh hotel were so ideal, so respectable, but was nothing more than window dressing that was used as a means to make them feel inadequate and out of place. She could almost appreciate his skill if she weren't so disturbed by the notion of what he was doing. Scott to his credit, didn't allow himself to be cowed or disarmed.
"Is this where you're going to tell me all these mysterious things that only you know...about myself, my family, maybe even you." Scott walked around from behind Domino, uncharacteristically raising his voice, too angry to worry about being overheard. "I can't tell what it is you're after but you're causing a lot of pain and suffering to people I care about...under the absurd guise of coming clean?" Scott asked incredulously. "I'm not buying any of it and I want it to stop."
"If you are going to bellow like Logan, Domino and I are going to insist that you leave. Up until now, we've been having such a pleasant repast," Sinister said, taking the napkin off his lap and gently tossing it on the table pretending to be put-off by Scott's tone.
Domino almost choked on the small sip of water she had allowed herself.
"I also don't think you are in any position to make demands Scott, and I will not apologize for telling the truth." Sinister said firmly. "I believe your esteemed Professor spends much too much time honing all your martial skills and instead should try and teach you some simple manners."
Scott clenched his teeth and felt foolish for trying to elicit the truth behind any of Sinister's recent actions. "You wanted me here...and I'm here. I'm not interested in any verbal fencing or repartee. Just get to the point of why you wanted to talk to me," Scott responded impatiently.
Sinister shook his head as if he were disappointed. "I believe it's wise if we go someplace else."
"Why is that? Am I embarrassing you?" Scott asked more annoyed than curious.
Sinister shrugged. "You more than anyone else has cause to hate me."
"So what's new about that?" Scott snapped. "After everything that you've done to my son, who could blame me? I also don't get the impression that you're used to being liked by anyone -- or even care one way or the other." Although Scott sounded like he understood what Sinister had meant, he was confused by what he thought was a strange statement.
"You'd be surprised," Sinister said sounding hurt. "But I suppose from your limited perspective it seems that I've done nothing but hurt him -- and despite what you undoubtedly must think, I've always had Nathan's best interests in mind. But I assure you that there is much more -- that has absolutely nothing to do with Nathan."
"Yeah, you've done enough to me, my family, my friends, but it's safe to say you've caused plenty of heartache to a lot of other people as well. But what does that have to do with us going someplace else?" Scott asked.
"You are misinterpreting my meaning Scott. I've hurt you personally, in more ways than you are aware of. You are going to be very angry with me...angry enough to overcome all of your formidable self-control. Let me assure you, it is not my intention to frighten you," Sinister said, his piercing stare belying the benign words he had spoken, "but you will want to know what I have to say and I strongly doubt you will find any of it pleasant."
Scott said nothing and showed no outward emotion but felt his heart beat so loud that for a moment, he thought he and others could hear it in the crowded room. It was key or important events that suddenly flashed through his mind, which caused a wave of anxiety to wash over him. Without any thought with respect to self-pity, he knew his life was rife with an unusually high number of what could only be described as unfortunate incidents. Sinister was immortal, and had been alive as well as utterly capable when Scott was nothing but a helpless child -- when Scott knew nothing about mutants, genetics, and evil scientists.
An even more disturbing thought occurred to Scott. Sinister had complete knowledge of him long before he was ever even born. That was because both he and Jean were enlisted to undertake an important mission on behalf of the Askani. Their journey took them into the past...Sinister's past, to prevent Apocalypse from plundering that early century. Because of it, Sinister knew who he and Jean would become, and probably had samples of their DNA for all those years...and discovered what the potential of their offspring might be. What would Sinister have done to insure that both he and Jean played the roles that he ascribed for them? What parts of his life and other lives did Sinister engineer to obtain the insane results he desired. Shit, he thought to himself. Why the hell had this never occured to him before?
"When you say it's a good idea if we go someplace else...do you mean a less public place...because of what my reaction might be?" Scott asked with icy calm.
Sinister nodded his head slowly.
Scott made his decision quickly. "OK, let's go."
Sinister stood, somehow looking even taller then before. Domino noticed that there wasn't a single crease or wrinkle in his jacket or pants. Why would there be? she thought, realizing how foolish her observation had been. The pants, the suit jacket, even the tie, they weren't separate pieces of material, they were all him.
"If you'd be kind enough to follow me, there is a service hallway beyond these doors that is very rarely used," Sinister said, as he opened the door and stepped into a deserted hallway.
Scott and Domino trailed after Sinister, both of them feeling suddenly vulnerable as the door closed leaving the crowded room behind. The three of them were now completely alone and the thorough silence contrasted with the noisy room adding to their sense of apprehension.
Immediately feeling their discomfort, Sinister offered a plausible explanation for their location. "There is no need to upset the hotel guests," Sinister smiled and opened up a tesseract doorway, "by letting them see this."
Domino stepped forward. "I'm going with you," she said to Scott and glared at Sinister spitefully.
Scott gently placed his hand on her shoulder. "It's OK Dom. I'll be all right," Scott said earnestly. "Please go back to the mansion and tell Professor Xavier who I'm with and that I'll be back in a few hours. He turned his back to Sinister and spoke just above a whisper. "And Dom, sit down and talk to Nathan and tell him everything you know, even what you're unsure about. I know you both care about each other a great deal. Nothing he can say," he motioned his head in Sinister's direction, "nothing he can say will ever have any effect on that."
She gave him a small smile. "Do all you Summers' have to do everything single-handedly? I can see where Nathan gets his stubborn streak from."
"You should let me tell you a few stories about when he was a kid. He wrote, printed, and published the book on stubborn," Scott said with an exasperated sigh. "Take my advice and talk with Nathan -- he needs someone like you desperately in his life -- despite what he says," Scott said seriously but with a warm smile.
"I will," she answered solemnly, "and be careful," she added giving Sinister one more malicious look.
"We should do this again, Beatrice," Sinister said, a charming smile on his face. "I truly enjoyed your company. You are so urbane and such a warm and wonderful conversationalist."
Before she could reply, Sinister had already turned his back on her. "Shall we?" Sinister motioned to the tesseract doorway, and both he Scott stepped through and were gone.
There was a spilt second of disorientation and then Scott felt a bitterly cold wind strike his face. He immediately recognized his surroundings. They were at his grandparents cabin, in small town outside of Anchorage, Alaska. This is where he had met Sinister once before -- when Sinister had revealed Stryfe's part in creating the Legacy virus.(1)
He remembered that it was such a strange conversation, even as conversations with Sinister go. He had almost seemed sympathetic to the X-Men's plight. Scott recalled his words about Stryfe's reason for infecting this world with the virus. He said it was revenge against both he and Jean -- as well as a way to bring death to Xavier's dream. Sinister had said it was the worst kind of death for people like Scott, who had strived so hard to fight for the dream. He didn't know what to make of it at the time...and still didn't.
"Well, you picked a deserted enough place. We're certainly not going to be disturbed...not like last time I hope," Scott said with a dour expression on his face.
"Oh, you must be referring to the Dark Riders. I am quite certain that we won't be disturbed by them." Sinister responded firmly. "If I recall, we made a rather lasting impression on that presumptuous group of fools."
"Yup -- one of us sure did. You left me alone to fight them by myself," Scott said, disgusted by another memory of Sinister's treacherous conduct.
"That's strange, I don't quite recall that particular detail," Sinister said, feigning innocence.
"So?" Scott prompted Sinister having lost his patience.
"The place to begin...always the most difficult part of relating a story this type," Sinister said, tapping his index finger gently against his lips, seemingly having trouble organizing his thoughts.
After just a moment of hesitation, Sinister began to speak in what Scott could only describe as a conciliatory tone.
"Let me begin by saying that I had nothing to do with your parents plane crash including any and all events that led to the emergence of your mutant power."
Scott almost took a threatening step forward and then stopped himself. He still reflexively reached for one of the arms of his sunglasses -- ready to remove them. "That's an interesting place to start, because after what you've just told me, that's the very first thing that came into my mind."
"Please suppress your more volatile emotions and do try to handle this situation with equanimity. They serve no purpose. And while you've arrived at one possible and perhaps logical conclusion, it is nonetheless incorrect. What do you recall about the time you spent at the orphanage in Nebraska?" Sinister abruptly asked.
Scott felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. His earlier supposition about Sinister's role in his life when he was just a child was suddenly all too real. He decided to play along in order to determine where Sinister was going with this. He also decided to answer Sinister's question as honestly as he could.
"That was a long time ago and I haven't thought about that period of my life for many years. But like most kids who were placed in that kind of home, I remember a lot of the good things...and have tried to forget about as many of the bad things as I was able. "Why are you asking about that particular time of my life?" he inquired, not trying to keep out the suspicious tone out of his voice.
"Because I was able to share a good deal of that time with you...quite closely in fact," Sinister answered. "You must remember your roommate Nate?" he inquired. Sinister shook his head from side to side and then sighed. "I suppose I was never that clever with names."
Once again he felt his body react instinctively to Sinister's words, as he had the sensation of an icy chill run up his spine. "How did you know about Nate? You couldn't have..." He stopped speaking abruptly, remembering how peculiar Nate had been -- how there had been nothing childlike about him. Scott thought if he could see himself, his mouth must have open so wide that his chin was probably touching the ground.
"The State Home for Foundlings. Personally, I have so many fond memories of that charitable establishment. The time we fought together against the Dark Riders so reminded me of the playground where you leapt to my defense against Toby...you remember Toby Rails?(2) He was such a belligerent young lad, always ready to fight."
Scott chewed his lower lip, thinking how he could possibly respond to this unbelievable claim. "Yeah he was," Scott said tentatively, his adaptable nature already adjusting to the possibility that what Sinister had just said was true.
Like it was yesterday, he was easily able to recall Nate's strange nature, always hovering around him, offering advice, and telling him to trust no one but him. Even as a child, he remembered that there was something he just didn't like about Nate but could never quite put his finger on it. A gut instinct that told him that there was something off about Nate -- something sour. Even many of the adults had been scared of him.
Jesus Christ, Nate was Sinister, Scott thought. No matter how utterly bizarre the possibility sounded, Scott's intuition told him that this nightmarish prospect was true. "Let's say I buy that you were Nate, my roommate at the orphanage. Why the hell were you there masquerading as a kid?"
"After the tragic plane crash -- your condition was rather grave. I saved your life Scott," Sinister said bluntly and with a touch of possessive pride. "Your skull was crushed and you had suffered irreparable brain damage -- irreparable to the medical science of that time, but not to me. I repaired your injuries but you needed the time to heal. I needed an environment where I could not only observe you, but also interact with you in certain predetermined ways. In that manner, I was able to help foster your mental repair and insure that the damage in no way jeopardized the development of your mutant powers. An orphanage, where I was just another lost boy, was the setting and guise that I decided would best serve my purposes."
A chilly silence descended between the two of them. "Toby stepped off a roof and killed himself," Scott said with an unreadable expression on his face.
"Yes he did. I tolerated his actions for a time as again, they served a purpose. But I have an extreme dislike for bully's."
"You don't like bully's?" Scott scoffed incredulously, his voice rising an octave. "You...you forced a thirteen year-old boy to jump from that roof," Scott shouted, his voice thick with emotion. "I remember that Nate...that you wanted him to jump," Scott said through clenched teeth.
"I did no such thing," Sinister snapped back as if offended. "The boy was a product of an extremely abusive household. I merely removed certain fears he had of doing himself harm. In the end, the choice was entirely his. Trust me when I say the boy would have grown up to be a homicidal maniac. What I did was best for everyone...including Toby," Sinister said without a shred of remorse.
"You actually believe what you're saying...you rationalize everything," Scott said shaking his head, both anger and distress coloring his tone.
"Perhaps, but there are some things that occurred in that orphanage, which even I have difficulty rationalizing," Sinister said, his eyes indifferent, looking like empty holes leading into a dead soul.
Scott felt his heart stop and the frigid air temperature drop another few degrees. "What else did you do?" Scott heard what sounded like his own voice utter the question, but wasn't sure that it had come from him.
"I coerced the head administrator, a Mr. Pearson from approving any potential parents from adopting either you or your brother. Eventually, I saw to it that Alex was placed in a good home. The Blanding family, a household I handpicked myself after long and careful scrutiny, was just what he needed.(3) Surely Alex must have spoken of them from time to time."
"Although Alex and I were never openly close, he often spoke about his adoptive mother and father -- and how much he cared for them. He's still very close to his adoptive sister, Haley. But it would have been too much," Scott stammered with rage, his voice dripping with spite, "too damn much to let Alex and I be adopted by the same family -- keep us together."
"I don't deny that it was...unfair, separating you from your brother. But at the time, I had other plans for you that kept you in the orphanage." Sinister sounded more embarrassed -- if that was even possible, than apologetic.
"Did you stop Mr. Pearson from..." Scott stopped and asked a different or more direct question. "Is that what happened to the Bogart's...Trish and Rick?" Scott asked.
Again, the memories came back to him, the images clear and vivid...as well the pain. He was surprised that even after all these years, the disappointment of not being adopted by the Bogart's felt like a raw newly opened wound. He remembered what good and decent people the Bogart's were. He still recalled with such fondness the compassion exhibited by Colonel Bogart when a teary eyed twelve year-old boy cried on his shoulder. That boy had been him, and at the time, he had wanted nothing more than to be part of a loving family. He could also remember Rick's promise, and the genuine sincerity in which it was said -- that after he and Trish returned from a necessary trip, they would do everything in their power to make him a part of their family.
He remembered his own response to that promise. For the first time he allowed himself to hope, allowed himself to believe -- and called Rick... dad.
"What happened to the Bogart's?" Scott asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I killed them."(4) Sinister's answer was delivered without any consideration to care or kindness, but was simply blunt and succinct.
Scott began to hear a loud roaring in his ears and felt the pressure begin to build in his head -- just like the headaches he used to get when he lived in the orphanage. Somehow he was still able to think clearly enough to form a question. "Why couldn't you use your powers, your telepathy to just make them forget about me? That's what you did to Robyn, isn't it?" Scott asked tremulously.
Robyn Hanover was a medical doctor who came to work at the orphanage when Scott was twelve years old. She was a rare and caring human being, who had taken a personal interest in Scott. In turn, Scott had come to trust her and eventually began to care a great deal about her as well.
"Colonel Bogart was a very dynamic and determined individual. He would have eventually found a way to adopt you and...and I wasn't quite ready to allow that to happen. I took a much less dramatic approach with Dr. Hanover -- but just as effective. I simply muted Dr. Hanover's...Robyn's emotions, subdued her compassion so to speak. The result was that you were no longer the focus of her attentions."
"I simply...," Scott repeated what Sinister had just said, his tone overly arrogant, mocking. "I remember how she was never the same after that. I was just a kid and always thought it was something I had done." A hysterical edge had crept into Scott's tone. "You took away everything that made her special, her caring, her unselfish passion for helping people...you made her an emotional cripple. You took away her soul. It was no different, you killed her too, just like the Bogart's, except you hurt her even more!" Scott cried as he tore off his glasses and an optic blast erupted from his eyes.
For the better part of Scott's life, he had literally saw nothing but the color red. But for the first time, he felt he had a grasp of the color itself a natural affinity. He now understood why he could indentify with it and why there was nothing strange about the fact that he now felt red, ate red, inhaled and exhaled red. It was the color red that was at his molten core and felt like a festering ulcer in his belly. It now fueled the blistering emotions that wanted nothing more than to see the color red splattered everywhere....blood red. He responded impulsively, emotionally, his mutant power welling up inside of him like never before, craving release. This was the way he always felt his mutant power wanted him to behave, wild and unrestrained. Up until now, he had never allowed himself to lose control -- up until now.
The ruby red beam ripped through Sinister's head, its power undiminished as the crimson shaft cleaved a path into the evergreen oak thicket that surrounded the house. The concussive force of the optic blast smashed the trunks of huge trees, the splintering wood producing multiple earsplitting snaps. They were launched high into the air like matchsticks until they came crashing down into the canopy of neighboring trees. A huge boulder was pulverized by the force of the very same beam, nothing but a cloud gray dust and a few pebbles remained of the granite rock.
It wasn't enough. The area on Sinister's body where the beam had made contact with immediately reformed. Most of the beams energy just passed through him. His body was whole again, showing no signs that he had been touched.
Scott raged at Sinister, firing blast after blast. Sinister was inhumanly quick, agile, moving like some ghost-white demon. Some of his optic blasts made contact, while others, he was incredibly able to avoid. Scott fired at Sinister's feet, turning ice, rocks and dirt into dangerous projectiles that would have killed or wounded most any being. Sinister just shrugged off the attack and didn't seem harmed in the slightest.
Scott then changed his tactics, gouging large areas out from under Sinister's feet, in an attempt to create a huge trench to ensnare him. He then planned on collapsing the trench, burying Sinister alive under tons of debris. But no matter how many times or how large he made the holes, Sinister was incredibly able to find firm footing and never once fell into any of his traps.
He felt himself tiring, his optic blasts weakening. The sky was completely cloud covered and the sun that was behind those clouds was low in the sky and weak. His energy reserves were almost completely expended and his ability to absorb solar energy would be of little help in this environment especially with the current weather conditions. A stray but now unfortunately rendered moot thought passed through his reputedly strategic mind. He wondered if Sinister had moved their meeting place here, where his ability to absorb solar energy was most certainly limited.
In a desperate attempt, he ran straight at Sinister, firing with everything he had, running the beam up and down the full length of Sinister's body. He watched in horror as Sinister's body formed and reformed a shifting globule of jelly, rippling, changing shape. It was similar to squeezing the center of a balloon -- two smaller balloons just formed on either side of your hand...overall the balloon's size and mass were unchanged. No matter how hard he tried, could not get Sinister's form to lessen or fully break apart. He was now no more than a foot away when his optic beam began to sputter. Almost impossible to believe, an arm suddenly formed from an unrecognizable amorphous mass and grabbed his head and drove it into the ground with a punishing force. His last coherent thought was about Nathan, and that he had failed him once again.
A few days before...
He went looking for Nathan immediately after the Professor informed him that he had returned from his meeting with Sinister. Charles thought it might be wiser if Scott spoke to Nathan first. For some reason, the Professor believed that a father-son type chat might be good for the both of them. Scott wasn't too sure if it was indeed a wiser course of action, but was anxious to hear what Sinister had to say to his son. The Professor was perfectly content to speak with Nathan later.
He found Nathan alone in the kitchen, an all too familiar pensive look on his face. He was unsure if he should intrude on his son's thoughts -- or maybe was afraid to was a more appropriate way to describe it. Nathan was such a private person and he would never consciously seek to unburden himself or share any of his problems with anyone -- especially him. And he knew from his own personal experience that after meeting with Sinister, you were usually left with more questions than answers. And the things he said...that black hearted self-serving bastard had hurt him and his family all too often.
He stood a few feet from the entrance, but had a clear view of the interior of the kitchen. Nathan was looking down, his elbows resting on his lap seemingly oblivious to his presence. He watched his son for a good ten seconds before entering the room, all the while knowing that Nathan knew that he was being observed.
He could stare at his son for hours -- just like he had when Nathan was a little boy in the nightmarish future that Apocalypse had created. Sometimes he tried to reconcile that innocent face with the battle-hardened one that he was staring at now. He was always thankful that what he was searching for was always there.
Although many years older and an accumulation of battle scars enough for a hundred soldiers, behind it all he could still incredibly make out the face of an innocent little boy. It seemed so long ago that Nathan was just a lonely and desperate child, who would confide all his fears to him. He remembered Nathan's innocent trust in him, -- the complete childlike certainty that Slym could make any and all hurt go away. He remembered how much that made him feel like a father, and how much he cherished that feeling, longed for it -- and now how much he missed it. He also remembered how that very same boy when worried, would interlace all of his fingers, palms face up and gently tap both of his thumbs together and intensely scrutinize this action as if some wisdom could be gleaned from this accomplishment -- just as he was doing now.
"Do you mind if I sit down?" Scott asked.
Cable motioned towards the seat next to him, although his expression was not particularly inviting.
Scott decided not to beat around the bush, it was useless with Nathan anyway. "So, what did he say?" he asked with a casualness he didn't feel.
Nathan lifted his head, a weary look in his eyes. "He said a lot of things." He quickly went over the more fantastic parts of Sinister's story speaking freely and with very little hesitation. To Scott's credit, he took it all in offering his own opinions and much to Nathan's own surprise, believed what Sinister had related.
"If half of what he said was true, those are some incredible revelations. I think the Professor is going to be very interested in hearing all of it." Scott went on hesitantly, trying to chose his words carefully. "But he said something else, something more personal," Scott said more as a statement of fact rather than a question.
Nathan sighed. He could never get anything by his father, not now, and not when he was...younger. "He questioned my motives, my objectives...said they were no different from his." He ran his hands through his silver hair and Scott couldn't be sure but he almost thought he saw his son shudder. "He also said the methods I used were just as bad or maybe worse than any he used." Cable laughed harshly. "You know something, that's the first time that that lying bastard ever said something which I could tell was the truth."
"Come on Nathan," Scott said softly, "this is Sinister we're talking about. That's what he does best. He makes you question yourself, puts doubt in your mind for whatever screwed up or sadistic reasons he has."
"Jesus Scott," Cable said irritably. "I'm not a flonqing Xavier rookie. I know when that manipulative flonq is trying to mess with my head, but what he said was true...or pretty close to it," he added faintly.
An uncomfortable quiet descended between them. Scott waited about a minute, giving Nathan a chance to speak first, and then decided to break the silence himself. "Do you want to tell me about something Nathan?" Scott asked tentatively recognizing his son's mood. A more forceful approach and Nathan would shut down completely.
For a second, the familiar mind your own business fire flashed into Cable's eyes but quickly faded as he decided to talk -- and then astonishingly, opened up completely.
"I could do a lot of things that a normal or even the best mutant soldiers couldn't," Nathan said abruptly. "A real wonder kid even among the genetically gifted -- but I guess that's the way Sinister made me," he said not trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I didn't have just one mutant ability but a baker's dozen. I learned to use them in clever ways -- sometimes individually, or even a couple simultaneously if I concentrated hard enough. I guess the corporate types call that multi-tasking now, right?" a humorless smile crept across his face but never reached his eyes.
He stood up abruptly and began to pace around the kitchen. "I could reach out with my telekinesis, grab and squeeze heart, pinch a windpipe, snap a spine. We were all well trained in human and mutant physiology -- and the number of ways they were vulnerable to someone with my special abilities. Of course I was a flonqing telepath as well," Scott could hear the anger and hysterical anguish in his son's voice. "Do you know how many ways you can flonq with a soldier's head? You tend to get creative. Of course you try to mind-pick the officer's heads. Intel stuff, battle plans, troop strengths, weaknesses. But with a common grunt, you could make him think he sees something else, run him right into enemy fire, through a minefield -- a whole host of nasty things. Hell, you could even get them to fire on their own troops. That worked pretty well -- for a time."
Scott shuddered but tried to keep all the signs of his physical tremor from being visible. Just as he saw first hand the horrors his son had endured when he and Jean traveled to the future, here again was evidence of the pain and torment his son had suffered because of Apocalypse and Sinister..and because of him. He quickly suppressed the spasm of heartache he felt for his son from reaching his face. He knew that Nathan would not speak of the things he endured because of what it would do to him and Jean.
"Do you know what you find even when you lightly brush up against a soldier's mind -- when he's coming up against heavy fire?" Nathan went on, his voice becoming thick with emotion. "When he starts feeling like he might not make it out of where he is. Shit, you know first hand about the phenomenon -- when your life flashes in front of you? We both know it's true. A soldier thinks about the things that are most important to him. The people that he will never see again...friends, a wife, a husband, a mother and father, kids... Dehumanize the enemy. Isn't that what all the armies of the past recommended...made it a lot easier for soldiers to kill? That's kind of tough for a telepath. When you're in the middle of a battlefield, the thoughts are too strong and saturated with the most primal of emotions. It was too difficult to screen everything out. And you know what? The vast majority of Apocalypse's dog soldiers and the big bad Canaanites, were just scared grunts. Sure you had your bad ass squad leaders making sure no one got out of line, but that wasn't the norm, just a bunch of scared kids...like most wars. Hell, what could you expect them to do? If you didn't fight on Apocalypse's side, you were a dead man...along with your family. Even if you didn't believe in the cause, that made for a pretty powerful motivator."
Nathan opened a cabinet door and picked up a pot. He filled it with water, and then just placed it in the sink. "Even after I read their mind, I didn't let that stop me. Flonq it, I couldn't. Apocalypse was relentless. He would put more and more troops onto the field, his objective was by sheer numbers to overwhelm and completely exterminate every last bit of opposition. I killed men, women,..." his voice caught for a second, "by the hundreds, thousands. I'm not sure who has more blood on his hands anymore, me or Apocalypse."
Nathan steadied himself, his voice taking on the tone of relating simple facts. "Of course Apocalypse's scientists found ways around my telepathic and telekinetic tampering -- electronic psi shields, psi scramblers. Then he came up with a few offensive things of his own -- kind of point, counterpoint. But Apocalypse always liked to make it more personal."
Scott saw that Nathan's eyes looked empty, devoid of any life or compassion, and was frightened by whose eyes they reminded him of.
"He began putting children on the field of battle -- boys, girls, it didn't matter, and the younger the better. And they were beautiful little kids, created from the best genetic pools, bred for their good looks." Nathan shook his head. "I can still remember, they had the most angelic features," his voice had the strangest wistful tone. "We understood this for what it was, an age old method used in many wars -- a tactic meant to demoralize the enemy." A hollow chuckle fell from his mouth. "We were battle-hardened warriors and pretended that it didn't bother us."
Scott was unsure if he should say something at this point or even try to physically comfort his son. Anything might jeopardize this rare and Scott thought, beneficial catharsis. He didn't want to risk what he thought might help to heal the incredible number of emotional wounds his son seemed to have accumulated. He decided to let him speak until Nathan wanted to stop.
"They were nasty little fighters. Some of Apocalypse's scientists found a way to download years of combat experience into the brains of these kids -- some as young as six, seven, and eight years of age. All it would take was a second of hesitation and these bright young lads would cut your throat. After you'd see them do that to a few of your friends," Nathan eyes looked at his father almost as if he were pleading for forgiveness, but you couldn't hear it in his voice, "well it wasn't too difficult to return the favor."
"We've all done things that we're not too proud of," Scott said and then immediately regretted saying it. He couldn't believe how that came out -- banal and trite.
"You don't understand," Nathan yelled and slammed his fist on the table before Scott could take back his words and offer something more substantial. "I want Apocalypse dead. I want to hear the very last beat of his heart and feel his skin grow cold underneath my fingertips. I want my own two hands around his neck, choking the life out of him while I reach into his mind and force-feed him every nightmare, every misery, every flonqing bit of pain and suffering he's visited on all his victims over the centuries. I want to package all that shit up and shove it up his ass, and I want him to know that it's me that's doing it...no one else!"
Large beads of sweat had welled up Nathan's forehead -- Scott knew his son was losing control.
Nathan snarled, his anger seemingly directed at Scott. "I want that more than anything I've ever wanted in my life. More than wanting something normal between me and Dom...more than I want Aliya back. I know what I've become -- and the scariest part is that I don't even care. Sinister flonqing knows and can see that. And do you know what's even worse -- I see the same thing in Sinister's eyes. I don't know what Apocalypse did to him, or what he did himself," Nathan wiped the sweat off his forehead, violently. "But behind all those manners, all that phony refined civility, I see someone who hates himself for what he is, what he's done. When I looked at Sinister the last time, I saw my eyes staring back at me."
"I didn't come back two-thousand years for a visit and a cup of tea. I came back to kill someone...and along the way I killed a lot of people and I changed. I had to change. Whatever I've become...was necessary."
"What you've become?" Scott asked softly, no longer able to keep silent or stop the pain from creeping into his voice. "We spent eight years...eight long years trying to make up for letting you go," Scott swallowed, "for giving you up. I'm not interested in the Askani'Son, or the Chosen, I'm only interested in my son -- his happiness. I'm only interested in making it up to you for my failure as a father. No child should have had to make all the sacrifices you've had to make, putting your own personal happiness aside time after time for some quest that was chosen for you. That's my quest...and no one and no prophesy is going to get in the way of that," Scott said with utter certainty in his voice.
Some of the steam seemed to have gone out of Nathan. Just as Scott had thought, Nathan needed to get this off his chest so to speak. He seemed to have partially returned to himself. Scott's words had actually registered with him.
"You don't have to..."
"Maybe it's for me, Nathan. I'm not going to sit here and let you do this to yourself. We dance around each other like two adolescent kids dating. You're a telepath and I'm married to one and yet we can never say what's on our mind. But when I think back and see you lying on a table at death's door covered with techno-organic virus -- no child should have to go through that(5) -- and you went through a hell of a lot more than that, a lot of it by yourself. I asked myself then, how much more can my little boy take? I didn't do enough -- or maybe I did the wrong thing," he went on with a haunted look in his eyes.
"I thought...," tears started to stream down Scott's face. "I thought maybe I had done the wrong thing -- maybe you were better off staying in our time, where you could have," Scott's voice caught, "where you could have died in peace and not gone through...everything you did."
Nathan stopped him. "Scott, please," he said softly.
He wouldn't be deterred. "I don't want to turn this into you making me try to feel better about my guilt. But I have to tell you how I feel so you can understand things about yourself, things that you can't see."
Nathan sat back down and simply and surprisingly said, "go ahead."
"Sometimes when I see you now, older than I am, bitter, cynical...it's difficult, so difficult," Scott stammered, worried about hurting Nathan more. "Again, I can't help seeing a sweet little boy and wanting him back. And I want everything done to that boy...my son, I want it all taken away. But that's not going to happen," Scott said with a humorless laugh. "So what am I left with? I'm left with a son...whose older than I am and whose literally been through hell and back...and, and after all that, is still everything I ever imagined a son could be."
"You're nothing like them. You never were and you never will be. You know I'm proud of you Nathan...you know that?" Scott said with some insistence, letting Nathan know this wasn't a rhetorical question.
Nathan simply nodded. "You know...that I feel, that I'm proud of what you gave me as a father, how you and Jean raised me."
Scott laughed through his haze of emotion. "You think with all this honesty about how we feel, we're ready to go on Jerry Springer?"
"Jerry who?" Nathan asked perplexed.
"It doesn't matter. Although on second thought, the fact that he has a show on T.V. may be the true sign of the Apocalypse."
Nathan just shook his head and then abruptly asked a question.
"Do you remember when Jean prevented the transfer...of Apocalypse's essence into Stryfe?"
"Do I remember? Of course I remember," Scott answered emphatically. "That's sort of how we killed Apocalypse."
"What we killed wasn't Apocalypse."
"What do you mean?" Scott asked dumbfounded.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking about what Sinister said...other than wallowing in self-pity. I told you what Sinister told me about this being the one true timeline -- the one from which all others originated from. As powerful as the Apocalypse from Rachel's timeline was -- he was also weaker in a lot of other ways."
"Weaker? In what way?" Scott asked.
"He was just a pale imitation of this timeline's Apocalypse -- an almost exact copy -- yes, but lacking key or core elements. It's almost as if...he had lost his way, his sense of purpose. It's difficult for me to explain because what I'm saying even sounds crazy to me. You saw what I saw when you and Jean were brought into the future. The city that Apocalypse ruled from -- the populace around him had grown lazy, decadent. The Apocalypse in our timeline would never tolerate that kind of behavior around him. It would disgust him and those people wouldn't be around for very long.
"Was there something else?" Scott asked, seeing the distant look in Nathan's eyes.
"There was something that Ch'vayre said," Nathan responded. "Something I actually read from his mind once -- his own thoughts about Apocalypse."
"Apocalypse's Prelate -- the one who turned against him and helped us defeat him in the future?" Scott remembered. "What did you see in Ch'vayre's mind?"
"I saw that he respected Apocalypse and that at one time, they shared the same goals. Apocalypse believed that the reason that mutants were as powerful as they were, was to ensure that all life here was respected and understood -- preserved. Mutants were protectors of Earth -- including all of humanity as well. That was their true strength.(6) But something went wrong. That timeline's Apocalypse wasn't up to the task -- was too weak."
"So what are you saying?" Scott asked, worried about where Nathan was leading with this.
"We shouldn't have been able to kill Apocalypse the way we did...if he had been himself -- even with Sinister's supposed help. Even given the opportunity, I don't think what we did will work with this timeline's Apocalypse...the real Apocalypse -- and that worries me."
"Tell me again, what did Sinister said about you fighting Apocalypse."
"He said I couldn't beat him, even without the virus."
"How is that possible?" Scott asked in disbelief. "Without the virus, you can do virtually anything."
"I know...and that's what worries me even more," Nathan said, his face looking suddenly pale.
The present
His head cleared and he was unaware of how long he had been unconscious. He turned over slowly, clearing the dirt and rocks from his face and eyes. Sinister was standing over him, gleaming red orbs staring with what Lucifer's eyes must of looked like glaring up from the pit. Sinister extended a hand to help him up. He stood up shakily -- on his own.
"I must commend Professor Xavier. I attempted to wrest control of your mind so that we could avoid," Sinister waved his hands about in a dismissive manner, "all this unnecessary violence. But it seems he placed a few very clever trapdoors in your mind that almost rendered me unconscious. I'm glad to see that you came prepared to meet with me."
"I'm glad you can't shut me down, because as soon as I recharge, I'm going to do this all over again. No matter how many times it takes me, I'm going to find a way to kill you," Scott said with his fists balled tightly at his sides as the veins in his neck swelled dangerously.
"As I said before, you have good cause to hate me, but I was a different man back then Scott. You asked me...you asked me why I killed the Bogarts. Would you believe me if I told you that it was because of jealousy?" Sinister said, a curious expression on his face...one that Scott couldn't quite identify. "My old self saw the Bogarts and Dr. Hanover as nothing more than problems -- and I don't say this out of pride, but I was always very good at solving problems."
"I don't give a damn what it was. You're a murderer -- a hundred times over. And I'm not your priest and I don't want to hear your confession," Scott shot back.
"I don't suppose you do," Sinister said rather softly and without his usual biting sarcasm. "But believe me when I say that I wanted to help you back then and saw you as...my responsibility. It had been many years since I had been entrusted with that type of accountability. I tried so hard to earn your trust -- as Nate, yet it was Dr. Hanover and finally the Bogarts who you truly trusted and befriended. I lashed out because -- because I had the power. I had hoped that after a time, our relationship might progress to...Sinister incredibly fumbled for the right words, almost seeming reluctant to say them. "Not as father and son," Sinister said swallowing the words quickly as if they had escaped his mouth by their own volition, -- "but possibly two brothers..."
"Stop," Scott screamed as he struck Sinister squarely in the jaw. It was like hitting a heavy canvas bag filled with oil...only thicker. Sinister didn't even blink. He swung again anyway, but this time Sinister merely held his up hand meeting Scott's fist with his open palm. His punch was stopped abruptly and Sinister gently closed his hand around Scott's fist to prevent him from making another attempt. Scott could feel the jarring impact in his shoulder but tore his hand away despite the biting pain. "You're insane," he screamed."
"Perhaps I was...for a time, a long time, but the fog of grief that my mind has been enshrouded in has finally lifted. My mind is clear and I have come to understand that you and other are deserving of recompense -- for the damages I've caused."
Scott heard nothing, his thoughts seething in red-hot anger. "I could have killed you right then and there. I could have blown that big arrogant brain right off your shoulders. I should have," Scott cried forcefully.
"What are you talking about?" Sinister asked, truly perplexed.
"When Jean and I visited your past. I had you in my sights, when you were nothing more than a vulnerable human being. I should have killed you dead. Maybe your wife and child would be alive today if I had," Scott said, his voice dripping with spite.
"Ahh. Do I hear the pangs of regret in your voice Scott? Multiply that feeling by a hundred, and you have just an inkling of what I've experienced for over a century."
"I regret not killing you. What you're trying to sell me on is that you regret killing -- no murdering all the people you have. They're not quite the same thing, are they?" Scott said with bitter sarcasm. "And I don't believe that you regret a goddamned thing you cold hearted son of a bitch."
"Perhaps you see them as different, but they are not. With no more effort than I'm showing now, I could kill everything you hold dear...your Professor, your teammates, even your wife and your son. But I would regret that -- now. Do you understand that?"
"I do understand that you can and have killed many times -- and I don't think you've changed or are even capable of change. I believe you want Apocalypse dead, but not for the reasons you're giving. I think that somehow Apocalypse is your only competition -- get rid of him and you're free to do whatever the hell you want to do with this planet and the people on it. If Magneto is a problem, you could always wait him out. He's not an immortal like you and Apocalypse. Maybe helping you out is the wrong thing to do. Maybe a stalemate between the two of you is the only thing keeping everyone else alive."
"Despite your pacifistic tendencies, I do not think you believe that at all. Ask your son if leaving Apocalypse alive for even one more minute is beneficial in any way?
Sinister opened a tesseract. "Return to your brood with your hate of me intact," he said, a tinge of resignation in his tone. "Be prepared to channel that hate where it will do the most good -- against Apocalypse."
"If the Professor decides to throw in with you against Apocalypse...one way or another I'm coming for you next."
"I'm sure that you will not be alone," Sinister answered sullenly. He closed the tesseract around Scott, which would take him back to the mansion.
He wanted to clear the air so to speak. Despite his manipulative nature, which he often felt more or less justified in employing, he had a deep and abiding respect for the truth. He could certainly quiet his conscience better than most men, but his inner voice was there nonetheless. And he was well aware of the difference between right and wrong and would never rationalize to himself. That road, especially in an immortal led to insanity.
But he did have two reasons for going about recruiting his own private army -- one mutant at a time...and they were contradictory. A part of him, which he recognized as nothing more than his own robust ego, required that the X-Men know what he had accomplished -- that he was indeed capable of benevolent even virtuous behavior. He respected the X-Men's founder as well as its members and it pleased him to know that they had been exposed to at least some of his more altruistic acts. Even after almost two centuries, it was important that he retained at least an iota of dignity.
But he had to admit that it was perhaps a way to extenuate his guilt. Unfortunately, it was imperative to the success of his plan that he also reveal some of the bad as well. He had divulged some the most petty and heinous actions of his long life. Each and everyone of the X-Men had asked why was he telling them this now. A valid question since most of it put him in such a bad light. The fact that some of his revelations earned him the undying hatred of the X-Men -- was the reason.
There were documented cases of how a 90 lbs. housewife managed to free her child from under a one and a half-ton vehicle because of an andrenaline fed panic. It would be no different when the time would come to fight Apocalypse. It was extremely important that they all tap into hidden reserves of power and reach undreamt levels of psionic energy. Only through their rage and fury would they collectively be able to attain the level of psionic energy his calculations showed would be necessary to execute his clever plan. It made little difference who their rage was directed at. And he had to admit to himself, because of his actions and recent disclosures, the X-Men probably despised him even more than Apocalypse. He took no pride in that dubious accomplishment.
He retired to the quiet solitude of his laboratory. He required no sleep but settled down in his control chair, suddenly feeling almost the semblance of fatigue. He knew it was nothing more than the weight of his actions concerning Scott. With a complex series of thoughts, with specific and necessary intervals between each, a small tesseract opened at the base of his chair. He reached inside and removed the contents from this artificially created dimensional rift.
He kept so few personal possessions -- certainly none that he would openly display, although he admitted what a foolish idiosyncrasy it was. What difference would that have made anyway? His private lab was impenetrable, and only he knew about and could access this particular part of tesseract space. Additionally, he was the only person who had ever set foot inside the laboratory, and it was over a century old.
He did have a few keepsakes...from his old life and a few from other lives he had led. A memento, a souvenir, a simple token, a few photographs. He kept them all in a black leather medical bag --a keepsake itself that was given to him by his parents after he had finished medical school.
He reached inside the bag and pulled out a small stack of photographs, all specially treated to withstand the passage of time. He flipped through the snapshots, stopping on one in particular. Looking at it, he tried to remember if he was happy when it was taken. His arm was clumsily draped around Scott's shoulder, a genuine smile across Nate's -- his face. He shook his head. A century-old adult masquerading as a child -- and yes, he had been happy. A very normal photograph -- if they had indeed been two childhood friends, he thought. He could see the uncomfortable expression on Scott's face.
He placed the photograph back into the bag. Mr. Sinister indeed, he thought.
References:
[1]X-Men #23
[2]Classic X-Men #41 BU
[3]X-Factor minus #1
[4]Classic X-Men #42 BU
[5]The Adventures of Cyclops and Phoenix #4
[6]The Adventures of Cyclops and Phoenix #3
