DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to Marvel.
Lucky old them.
This was written for Indigo's "Extraordinary People, Ordinary Situations"
Challenge, after she mentioned that no-one had written a 'serious'
response to it yet ;-). It isn't what I had in mind originally, but
you know what stories are like. You say, 'hey, let's go this way':
they say 'Hm...? I'm sorry ... what? Oh, were you talking to me? I
was busy over there...' It's also a sorta 'What If', but I expect
that will become obvious ... I mean ... it is, right? ...
Feedback loved & adored, always.
With Any Weapon
by Poi Lass
Bobby Drake glanced at his watch as he came out of the hospital.
Had he really only been there two hours? It felt like eternity. Sitting
with his father, trying to find words to make conversation with a
man he barely knew. Trying to fill the endless, awkward silences,
as they found that just because they'd stopped hating each other,
didn't mean they actually had anything in common. Trying to dull the
burning anger that flared in him every time his father reached for
something and winced with pain, every time he was sent out of the
room so the nurse could check on him, or help him to the bathroom,
or up his pain medication.
Damn it. If I hadn't -- if I wasn't --- NO. I am not going
to do this to myself. It was not my fault. It was Creed.
The last word was imbued, even in his mind, with a venom that would
once have been alien to him, but was now almost frighteningly familiar.
The deep, abiding hate he felt for the man was something quite novel
to him. In fact he'd spent much of the five weeks his father had been
in hospital trying to think if he'd ever in his life hated anyone
more. Hitler? Pol Pot? Only in a distant, intellectual sort of way.
Wasn't as if he'd met them. Sabretooth? The father was worse than
the son in many ways, but still not someone Bobby had nightmares --
or fantasies of ripping his head off -- about. Magneto? Not even in
the running. No, he'd decided coolly. Creed was it. The most evil
person of his personal acquaintance, his worst enemy -- and the man
whose life he most wanted to destroy. Which he was going to, he vowed,
with any weapon he had available, with whatever it took to bring him
down. And he knew exactly what would hurt Creed most.
His destination was barely five minutes away, and he walked fast,
his face dark and angry. People took one look at it and stepped out
of his way; he didn't even notice, and would've assumed they were
avoiding someone behind him if he had.
He pushed his way into the right building, eyes flickering warningly
to anyone who tried to approach him, mouth frowning unconsciously
at the crowd pointlessly milling about the room.
His attention was caught by a poster on one wall, and distaste curled
his lip. It was a big smiling picture of the bastard looking sincere:
Vote Creed, For Humanity's Sake. He'd seen far too many of those posters
lately, and his fingers itched to rip it into pieces -- or to draw
a moustache, vampire teeth, and little demon horns on it.
God, how I'd love to be there tomorrow when that smug little smile
finally drops off his face. I wonder if I can manage it somehow. Have
I still got my campaign pass?
The man leaning on the table inside, tired and bored, asked for his
ID. He gave it only a cursory examination, to Bobby's faint relief,
and handed it back, unsmiling.
"Here." He handed Bobby a piece of paper, and waved him in the right
direction. Bobby wandered over there, suddenly doubting the point
of this, but still sickly, furiously angry that it had ever become
How the hell did a fucked up, twisted bastard like Creed ever
get so powerful anyway? How could it have come this far? I still
don't get it...
But it had come this far. And there was really only one thing
someone like him could do about it.
So he unfolded his piece of paper, examined it carefully, picked
up a pen.
And put a cross in the box next to the first name that wasn't Graydon
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