Zeke

Age 8

Ezekiel Rutherford had known, from the moment he had laid eyes on the squealing form of his baby sister, his purpose in life.

He was to be a protector.

Stocky with unnaturally crimson skin hidden by jeans, workman gloves, and a baggy hooded jacket, the young Promethean had stood at his mother's bedside, peering at the small bundle she cradled and cooed to, tired but content. At first glance, the boy had been relieved to find that his sister, Katrina as their mother had affectionately dubbed her, bore no tell-tale signs of being a Promethean. Then her eyes had blinked open and he found himself staring into white irises swimming in black sclera, mirrors of his own. She watched him curiously and gurgled at him before his mother asked if he wanted to hold her. His gaze had turned frantic and he had tried to protest it with a furious shake of his bald head, but then he had found the child resting in his large hands, looking up at him with large eyes.

Her fragility had marveled him, and he had to wonder, as she peered about curiously while nestled in his palm, as to whether he had ever been that small. She made weak movements with arms only slightly thicker than his fingers, bouncing excitedly in her new perch. A chuckle had escaped his lips and she had turned suddenly, fixing upon him as an uneasy smile split his broad face. Babbling at him for a moment with a solemn expression, she had then tucked into his chest, searching for food. He had flushed and quickly returned her to their mother, who had laughed before shifting her shirt to sate the infant's hunger.

His visits to the world outside of the sturdy walls of the family cabin and the dense forest surrounding it were, in a kind term, infrequent, and it was only his mother's cajoling and wheedling that he had been permitted to bear witness to his little sister's first hours on Earth. Even then, his father was loath to allow his boy to roam around and had confined him to the hospital room, making no attempt at what awaited Ezekiel should he disobey. They boy had cringed as much from the threat as the near overpowering stench of beer rolling from his elder's throat. Since he had been led in, his hood up and his head pushed to stare at the floor as he was tugged through the hallways, he had not left the sanitary room, ducking into the bathroom when visitors or any of the medical personnel peered in.

The booming laugh caused him to flinch and he glanced towards the door, outside of which his father talked with visitors and well-wishers. Ezekiel's stomach churned and his gaze slid to the frail child, affirming what he knew to be his duty.

Age 12

Katrina shrieked and wrung her shirt between her hands as her father's knuckles cracked across her brother's face. The former's nostrils flared as his dark eyes fixed on her and she began to wail, but before he could advance her brother stumbled to his feet between them. He mixed the metallic blood that was filling with his mouth with saliva and expertly hocked a glob of the solution into the garbage can by the door. Curling his fingers into fists, his nails bit into his palms, and he stared defiantly at the man above him, forcing his attention back towards him.

He told himself that it didn't hurt as he was cast to the floor. That his father didn't mean the rain of 'monster' and 'freak,' regularly interspersed with a variety of epithets that were punctuated by kicks that would have broken his ribs had he been a baseline human. Attempting to curl up his body to earn some defense, he peered through his fingers at his mother emerging from the bathroom and dragging Katrina to safety, ensuring that his sacrifice was not made in vain. Once his sister was secured, he finally let the tears escape, curling further into himself and waiting for his father to tire. As Ezekiel continually refused to offer a reaction, his father stormed to the door, hammering on it and screaming for his wife to emerge.

When his assault upon the door proved fruitless, he hurled an almost creative insult and stomped to the door, tearing the keys from the hook on the wall. A minute later, the truck rumbled to life and its wheels crunched over the gravel, and the house fell silent. Ezekiel waited another moment before trying to move, suppressing a cry as he reached out with a beefy arm, thick fingers finding purchase in the floorboards as he dragged himself forward. It excited his forming bruises and he bit into his busted lip, pushing that pain to the forefront in an attempt to eclipse the others. Upon reaching the kitchen table, he used it for support, staggering to his feet. Pulling a chair out, he slumped into the seat as the strength of his legs gave out and he groaned as his back pressed against the spokes. After a moment of ragged breathing, he reached out to pull the garbage can in front of him, and spat out the blood that had pooled in his mouth again. His vision swam and he clutched at the sides, accidentally splintering the plastic. He clenched his eyes shut, at least the one that wasn't already swelled shut, against both the rising nausea and the knowledge that it would earn him another beating.

There was a click as the bathroom door opened and Katrina raced to him, her feet pattering against the floor as she screamed his name and threw her arms about his abdomen. He winced as she pressed against his bruises, but patted her head before stroking her hair reassuringly, attempting to placate the sobbing child. As she clung to his body, he lifted his gaze to see his mother leaning against the doorframe, ashamedly averting her eyes to the floor. Frowning, he watched her for a moment longer before wincing and lifting Katrina into his lap, rocking her until she stopped crying.

Age 17

He tucked his hands into the pockets of his thin jacket, giving a rare smile as he watched Katrina frolic through the snow. Periodically, he would swoop down to form a snowball and lob it at her before it turned to slush. She would turn and howl at him, forming her own sloppy snowballs that she pelted him with, and he shouldered them gracefully, breaking his typical silence with a small chuckle. It had been far too long since he had seen her toothy grin or heard her laugh. Since their mother had abandoned them to their father only a few years ago, moments between the beatings were largely filled by terse silences. They capitalized upon the times when their elder was at work or just as commonly drowning his problems in booze or a conflux of other vices.

Pulling his hands from his pockets, he crouched to collect his next projectile, but found Katrina missing when he lifted his head. Frowning, he glanced about, growing increasingly frantic when he couldn't find her when a heavy load of snow landed atop him. He whirled about to see his giggling sister crouched upon the porch roof, the space in front of her devoid of snow. She beamed at him before leaping towards him and he brought up his hands to catch her only for her body to shift into a cloud of acrid green gas. The gas whirled downward, swirling about him for a minute and he winced at the scent before it coalesced back into the form of his little sister, her arms wrapped about his thick neck as chortled. Shaking his head but smiling, he reached back to pluck her from his back and tossed her into the air, catching her as she descended.

Repeating the process several more times, he paused to roll her in the snow, using her as the basis for a gigantic snowball despite her vocal protests. She managed to wriggle free and raced away from, throwing clumps of snow at him as he chased after her, growling playfully in his throat. Another sound emerged from the forest and he halted, glancing about suspiciously and giving a sharp whistle to bring Katrina to heel. He narrowed his gaze as he peered into the pines surrounding their home, straining his ears before he heard the distant crunch of snow. Turning to Katrina, he nodded his head towards the cabin and fear darted across her features before she darted inside. Glancing at the snow they had trampled through, he gave a grunt in his throat before loping inside.

He shed his jacket and gloves before hurriedly mopping up the snowmelt left behind by his sister as well as his own. His father's truck pulled up, rumbling for a moment before falling silent as the mop was returned to its proper position. Glancing about the room, he winced as he caught sight of Katrina's boots haphazardly kicked off beside the couch. Shifting his eyes towards the door, he bit his lip before shooting forward to collect them. As he gathered them up, the door opened and he stiffened as his father stumbled in, muttering to himself. Reddened eyes snapped towards him and he averted his gaze, hurriedly collecting the boots and rushing them to the closet and as unobtrusively as he could.

As the door creaked open, he could feel his father's eyes upon him and he forced his breathing to calm as he tucked the footwear beside his utilitarian, black pair that easily dwarfed them. Straightening slowly, he gave a sudden jump when he heard a door slam and he whirled to see that the door to what was once his parents' bedroom, but was now his father's alone, was now closed. His brow furrowed for an instant when another creak echoed through the house and his head snapped to Katrina, peering worriedly out. Wrinkling his nose, he nodded to her and she ducked back inside her room, pressing the door closed softly. He hesitated after her disappearance before moving cautiously to his father's door and leaning his ear in to listen.

Surprise filled him as he recognized plaintive sobs tearing from the normally harsh man's throat, broken by cries and gasps of what he recognized to be his mother's name. Wavering for a second outside the door, knuckles raised to rap against the wood, he clenched his eyes shut and instead pushed through the front door. Emerging onto the porch, he set his feet one the bottom of the short arrangement of steps and lowered himself with a tired sigh. Night was falling swiftly, and with it the temperature, but even as the degrees plummeted, he found himself unbothered by the cold. He had first noted it several years back that he could walk through the fiercest of storms without much more than a shirt and pair of shorts and while useful, he was a little put off that he was left with such a basic ability while his sister could turn herself into some sort of gas.

Turning his gaze to the night sky, he searched the stars for the pictures his mother had taught him in one of the more memorable lessons that they had shared. She had even managed to obtain a telescope, basic as it was, from a friend in town, and had looked between the papers she'd printed out and him as she guided him in a tour reaching beyond their tiny world. Katrina had still been a baby and his father at work, leaving the two of them to marvel at the inky heavens before the wails of the former had drawn her away. As he looked upon the sky once again, he wondered when she had decided that she would abandon them. Had it been a long dreamt plan born from the first blow when she failed to produce a baseline human heir or it had been more spontaneous, such as when she found that no amount of makeup could hide the accumulated bruises? Why had she left him, or more importantly Katrina, behind? Where was she now? Was she happier without them?

He tore his inverted eyes away from the floating diamonds that only seemed to ignite more questions, threatening to drown him in unanswerable ponderings. Staring at his heavy, crimson hands that marked him as something more, or maybe less, than human, he stood. Casting a final glance towards the sky and bidding an unvoiced goodnight to the large moon, he returned to the interior of their house and treaded softly to Katrina's room. Wincing at the screech of the hinges as he eased her door open, he saw her nestled deep in the covers, bathed in the soft light of the fairy nightlight, the final gift before their mother's disappearance. She stirred slightly but did not awake and he smiled softly before closing her room and glancing towards his own before creeping to his father's realm. No sounds emerged from behind the wooden barrier and he steadied his breathing before gathering the courage to slip inside.

Red and puffy-eyed, his father was sprawled across his bed, still in his attire from the day but sleeping soundly. Hesitating for a second, he approached the bed and cast the blanket over his elder to ward off the cold before leaving to retire for the night.

Age 18

He should have killed him.

Blood stings his one eye, dripping from his split brow and he's fairly certain, even without looking at it, that his arm is broken as it refuses to answer to his demands, leaving him to receive yet another boot to his sternum. The insults and denouncements are old by now, having lost much of their bite, and even the physical pain is typical enough that he more catalogues it instead of actually experiencing it.

It doesn't change the fact that Ezekiel Rutherford believes that he should have smothered his father when he had the chance. He should have wrapped his large hands around the man's neck and watched his eyes bulge as he scrabbled about, trying to regain breath. He should have lit his room on fire with him locked inside. He should have grabbed a knife from the kitchen and cut out the man's shriveled heart.

At some point during his delusions, he thinks that it's somewhere between the fifth and seventh rib he hears crack, the beating ceases. Blows no longer rain down on him and even if his ears are still ringing, he can tell that the angry voice is no longer ranting at him. Forcing his head to turn, he pries his good eye open and angles to see Katrina standing there, staring defiantly up at their father as he looms over her. Her eyes, like his own, are hard to read but he recognizes the bravado is a veil only thinly cloaking her abject terror. It's more evident in the tiny tremors seizing her hands, becoming more prominent with each step the taller man takes towards her. Clenching his teeth together, Ezekiel threw his body forward inching forward and dragging red streaks along the floorboards.

Tears start to form in Katrina's eyes and her entire body quakes, but she stands her ground. He tries to reach her, pleads for his body to let him do as he must and shield her, but it refuses his command. Heat fills him, building rapidly as his father's hand rises into the air and he opens his mouth to release scream.

Except his world is suddenly white and without sound, even the ringing of his ears gone.

His first thought is that he is dead, and his second is how is he supposed to protect Katrina like that. Then the pain returns, assuring him that he is oh-so-very-much alive. Managing to roll over, he struggles to his knees and then somehow stands, looking about the white world with a soft but warm ground. He looks about, finding the realm to be without horizon or obvious division between ground and air, its entirety a sterile white warmer than he has ever felt. There's a distant rumbling though as his hearing returns, it grows louder until it no longer sounds as though far away, and begins quieting soon after. The white fades away and he finds himself standing in a desolate landscape filled with ash, some of which is spiraling from the sky, believing themselves to be snowflakes. One lands on his cheek, imparting its warmth and he brushes at it as he glances about at the now eerily silent realm.

In the distance, there remains a scattering of charred trees, divested of any greenery but still standing, and even further remains the foliage outside the blast radius. Ash fills the sky and silences the earth, obscuring any further sights, and he begins to frantically search the stone platform he find himself standing on. His eyes sweep the area before he freezes and begins to tremble. Several feet before him, there is a dark, humanoid shape, a shadow with its arm raised for a blow that never lands, burnt into the very ground. Tears gather in his eyes as he drops to the ground, his entire body overtaken by violent shakes and his breathing growing ragged. He shakes his head, trying to reject the reality behind him, but the ash collects on his broad shoulders, his clothes vaporized. A thick, heavy fluid fills his throat and he coughs into his hand, gazing at the blood that nearly matches its hue as his tears sizzle and evaporate before he lifts his face to the sky and screams.

And a town, which had never given a thought to nuclear explosions beyond their involvement in World War II, suddenly finds itself bearing witness to its second mushroom cloud in a matter of minutes.

So, slight break from Trash's story. Sorry that this guy doesn't have a cool name like most superheroes or villains, but he just never feels the need for one.

Anyway, don't steal or Ira will break your limbs, joint by joint. The usual threats. But please do review. We would appreciate it greatly. Thanks.