Post by Drake on Jul 23, 2015 21:20:09 GMT -5
Giant Size X-Factor Annual #1
"Monsters"
By Drake
"Monsters"
By Drake
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Part 1: The Shot Heard Around the World
Four dollars and twenty cents—that’s what it cost to buy a bag of popcorn and a couple sodas at 711. That’s how much money—to the dime—Darian Waters put down beside the cash register.
His head held low, obscured under the hood of his sweatshirt, the boy was conspicuously inconspicuous. The woman at the cash register eyed him warily for a moment before ringing him up and bagging the popcorn and soda.
“Movie night?” the woman asked. Darian nodded. “A date?”
“No. Just watching something with my little sister,” the boy quickly replied.
Darian took a moment to check his surroundings, glancing back at a man—a motorcyclist by the looks of him—waiting behind him. He had on a leather jacket emblazoned with the Confederate flag, and his long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. The man returned his gaze in kind, and suspicion began to creep into his eyes.
Darian faced the cash register again. The bag was ready. He swiped it off the counter, revealing his bright pink hands for just a moment before he stuffed them back into the pockets of his jeans, the bag slung over his arm. Even though they hadn’t been out long, his hands proved hard to miss.
The motorcyclist put his hand on Darian’s shoulder, “Boy, take off your hood.”
Darian didn’t reply. He just shrugged the man’s hand off and headed for the door. The motorcyclist began to follow after him. Darian picked up his pace.
“Ya hear me, boy? Take off your hood!” The man called out.
“Sir, please calm down,” the woman at the cash register said, anxiety rising. She had seen the boy’s hands and she knew things could quite easily go from bad to worse very quickly.
“Like hell,” the man spat back before following Darian out of the 711. The boy was nearly jogging now, but the motorcyclist wouldn’t let up. “Boy, take off your damn hood!”
“Please leave me alone,” Darian begged. He reached the four-way intersection outside of the shop. The way towards his house—south—wasn’t clear yet. Still, he ignored the electronic ‘wait’ sign and started to jaywalk across the road.
“Boy—“ The motorcyclist was cut off by the ‘whoop’ of a police siren as a cop pulled out from a nearby parking lot and neared Darian. The biker smirked and walked back to the 711.
Darian was caught halfway down the street, stuck between two lanes of moving cars on either side of him. He caught sight of the police car, shook his head in frustration, and ducked between a Chevy van and a worn down, dented Cadillac as the light turned yellow. Honks acted as a threat of violence, but Darian ignored them, and by the time he had crossed the street it was too late for the drivers. The light had turned red.
The police car’s siren continued to blare, but the intersection was full enough that no other cars could move to make room for the cop to catch up to the boy. So, the police officer did something unexpected. He parked his car, got out and ran after Darian. The boy realized far too late that he hadn’t outmaneuvered the cop.
“Excuse me, slow down! Slow down!!” The police officer, a hefty man in his thirties, demanded. Darian nearly jumped in shock at the sight of the cop and sped up. “Slow the hell down! You just jaywalked back there!”
The officer tried to catch up to Darian, but he couldn’t. The boy was younger, fitter, and just genuinely faster than him. Nearly a dozen seconds passed and the cop had made no headway. In fact, Darian was getting farther and farther away. So, the police officer made a split second decision. He stopped and drew his firearm.
“Stop or I will shoot you!!”
Darian froze in place.
“Put your hands in the air!”
Darian slowly, regretfully pulled his hands out his pockets, dropped his bag to the ground, and clasped his hands behind his head.
“Just stay—“ The officer frowned, noticing the color of Darian’s hands. “Actually, t-turn towards me.”
Darian took a deep breath and turned around. No hood could hide his glossy pink skin, particularly as it shined in the sun, or his beady black eyes. The officer’s jaw dropped for a moment before he managed to compose himself. He reached for his handheld radio with his free hand.
“Dispatch, I have a potential 10-201 on 41st and Brockton. Requesting back up immediately. I repeat, I am requesting back up immediately.”
Panic began to bubble up inside Darian. All he had wanted was to get his little sister a treat. All he had wanted was to make her smile again after the hell they’d gone through. Now, this…
“Please let me go. I’m sorry I jaywalked. I swear, I just thought this guy was gonna—“
“Quiet, now!” The cop ordered, turning off his radio. “Are you a mutant?”
“…Yes, sir,” Darian quietly admitted.
“Did you steal this?” The cop picked up the bag of snacks off the ground and waved it in front of the boy’s face.
“No, sir,” Darian replied immediately. The police officer squinted his eyes and looked the boy up and down. He didn’t believe him.
“Tell me the truth,” the cop said.
“I am, I swear to God.”
The cop leaned in a bit and Darian flinched, glancing away. That seemed to be proof enough for the police officer. He holstered his pistol and produced handcuffs.
“I’m going to need to take you in for questioning. You have the right to remain silent. Anything—“
“No! No no no—“ Darian began to back up. His throat tightened. Panic seeped through his bones.
“Stop—“
Darian’s dark eyes began to glimmer pink. He continued to back away from the police officer. The cop also became increasingly nervous. He dropped the handcuffs and reached for his pistol.
“Please, leave me alone! I swear to God I didn’t do anything—“ Damian began to sob, tears creeping out of his glowing eyes. All he’d wanted was to make his little sister smile.
“Kid, stop—stop whatever it is you’re doing! I’ll shoot you! I swear I’ll—“
“L-leave…” A pink aura emerged from Darian’s body and dyed his tears magenta.
All he’d wanted was to enjoy a single night with his sister. All he’d wanted was to make her smile…
“LEAVE ME ALONE!!”
BANG!
…
Pietro Maximoff stood in a black specially designed SHIELD uniform in the midst of an open metal room. Dents and faux-panels hinted at the room’s purpose, even as it remained relatively empty.
The silver-haired teen smirked cockily and crossed his arms. “Ready when you are, Summers.”
The voice of one Scott Summers boomed through speakers into the room, “That’s Agent Summers to you.”
“Sure, sure, Agent Summers,” Pietro waved the comment off. “Get on with it already.”
Scott sighed in frustration, but continued nonetheless, “Training simulation Alpha, level 1, beginning…”
Turrets and laser blades emerged from holes in the walls. All immediately began to attack Pietro.
“…Now.”
As quickly as the simulation started, it crashed and burned—literally. Pietro disappeared for a moment, and a hurricane of silver exploded to life around the room. In but a second, the winds slowed and Pietro returned to his resting position in the center of the room. The only difference between the ‘before’ and ‘after’ was that the teen was surrounded by a heap of scrap metal—what once had been the room’s training and defense system.
“Got anything tougher?” Pietro hummed.
“I’m glad you asked,” Scott shot back. Silence fell over the room for a moment, before the red-eyed field leader continued on almost meekly, “…but could you try moving a little slower this time?”
Pietro chuckled to himself as Scott upped the danger levels from ‘1’ to ‘5.’ The scraps of metal were drained into recycling containers before the room suddenly blacked out. Pietro’s smile flipped upside down. This was unexpected.
“Summers…?” Pietro wondered.
Scott grinned and tapped a button on the control monitor. “Training simulation Alpha, level 5—start!”
What once had been darkness was replaced by a flurry of silver and red as blaster turrets tried their damndest to stun Pietro and the teen single handedly began to dismantle them all.
“You know, Summers, I’ve been thinking. When you join the team, you get a codename, right?” Pietro’s question was essentially rhetorical, but Scott felt the need to reply anyway.
“Yes.”
“Well, I came up with a few ideas for mine.” Suddenly, Pietro appeared in front of the bulletproof glass separating the monitor room from the training room, dangling from a ceiling panel. Scott flinched, but only slightly. The teen continued on as the turrets broke into pieces, “How’s ‘the Flash’ sound?”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking,” Scott scoffed.
“Too bad. I liked that one.”
Pietro zoomed back to the center of the room as Scott wondered whether the boy was being serious.
“Amp it up, Summers,” Pietro demanded.
“Agent Summers,” Scott tried to interject, but the boy had already continued his tangent.
“So, what about ‘Speed?’ It’s pretty on the nose, but I mean it doesn’t sound bad. At least it would make sense, unlike, I don’t know, ‘Rogue’ or ‘Mystique.’” Pietro trailed on.
Scott sighed and shook his head as he turned on the next simulation. He wouldn’t even bother to tell the teen. Pietro was bound to dismantle it in a few seconds anyway.
“Speed’s in bad taste,” Scott pointed out.
“True. How ‘bout ‘Jet?’ And—oh, it’s on,” Pietro said, already speeding around the room.
“Jet’s short, to the point, and clear,” Scott admitted, before adding, “You can do better.”
“Really? IthoughtJetwasaboutthebestwe’dgetwellexceptforFlash,” Pietro gabbed faster than Scott could pick up.
Pietro slid to a stop as the remaining turrets collapsed or shattered. The teen wheezed, his speed finally catching up to him. He looked up at Scott—or more specifically the monitor room—and smiled.
“That the best you got?”
Faster than even Pietro could process, red light exploded out from the monitor room and enveloped him. The energy pushed him to the ground and knocked the air out of him. Pietro coughed for a moment before sitting up.
“Not fair,” Pietro spat.
“Life’s not fair,” Scott retorted.
“Real creative, this one,” Pietro muttered to himself.
Before the teen could ask for another round, threaten Scott, or even stand up, a voice echoed inside their heads. ’Come to the living room. Now! You need to see this.’
Scott frowned upon hearing the psychic voice of his wife, Jean Grey. Pietro shot up onto his feet and sped up the wall into the monitor room.
“I can carry you there in no time flat,” Pietro said. “Want me to?”
“Depends,” Scott admitted. ’On just how bad this is,’ he projected to his wife.
’You tell me,’ Jean immediately thought back.
“Don’t carry me,” Scott ordered, “But we’re going to move quickly. Run—“
Pietro raised an eyebrow questioningly. Scott frowned.
“On second thought, just match my speed,” Scott said.
Pietro nodded and the two left the room, running at human speed towards the living room.
“So, what do you think of ‘Quicksilver?’” Pietro blurted.
Scott sighed. “Now is not the time.”
“Really though. It’s got a nice ring to it. Quicksilver. I mean, I’m ‘quick’ and my hair’s—“
“Pietro!”
…
In the living room, the rest of the SHIELD’s resident mutants were huddled around the TV. Jean was the only one not focused on the screen, instead psychically calming Wanda in order to stop another potential crisis. The auburn-haired teen had curled up into a ball and was rocking herself back in forth, trying and nearly failing to keep her incredible psychic powers in check.
Suddenly, the door to the room shot open and in hurried Scott and Pietro. All eyes turned to them. A wave of relief immediately washed over Wanda upon seeing her twin brother.
“What’s wrong? Is someone hurt?” Scott questioned worriedly.
“No. Not here anyway,” Jean said sadly.
“Is bad, Scott. Very bad,” Piotr agreed.
“What? What is it?” Scott demanded.
Even Pietro began to be overwhelmed by the anxiety and depression wafting through the room. He began to vibrate nervously, scratching the back of his head.
Rogue made room for Scott, and motioned to the TV. “Find out for yourself.”
Scott’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened in shock immediately after he looked at the television screen. Fires blazed through a city. Ordinary people—no, extraordinary people, from the looks of them, mostly mutants—trashed buildings and burned cars. Police tried and failed to slow the rioters down. Scott could tell the situation was only getting worse. A headline at the bottom of the screen read ‘LIVE: Miami Riots Day 2.’
“Oh my God…” he whispered, collapsing onto the couch beside Rogue. The girl scooted to the side, afraid to be near him—or rather, afraid for him to be near her.
“Just wait.” Jean psychically picked up the remote and turned up the TV volume. “It gets worse.”
“…Coming to you live from Miami, where we are witnessing the second day of rioting after mutant teen Darian Waters was murdered by local police officer, Matthew Harrison….”