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 necessary.

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 Creed.

-(main) - (biography) - (discussion) - (stories) - (pictures) - (links) - (updates)-