Disclaimer: The X-men and all related belong to Marvel. Anything else is created by my own beautiful brain, and any relation beyond that is purely coincidence.
Author's note: Remy Lebeau is the main character, a boy of about four in the midst of a terrible strike against humanity. Rated a strong PG-13 for blood and language. Other characters will come about, and since I'm sort of writing this as I go, suggestions would be very welcome. Be patient for further parts to come, I tend to write excruciatingly slow.
Further more all parts in Remy's point of view will be written in present tense, while others will be written in past. This is my first try at such a style, so if anyone thinks it is too distracting and doesn't play out right, I'll change it. This is actually my first written story after a long stint of nothing, and serious to boot so hopefully I didn't screw up to horribly.
Have fun ^_~
Every place is the same
Every day is the same
Every place is the same
There's a conflicting sound
Hear the arguments loud
Every day, the sounds of the
Violent violent violent
Dark, an enveloping force that chases out the day and brings about the pale face of the moon hanging out in the distance of a windowpane. The moonlight flitters in and settles lovingly on a sleeping form of a small boy who cuddles into the heap of blankets without notice of rising voices that float up from beneath him. The room is an innocent place with blue shades and fluffy white clouds painted onto the drywall, toys are scattered about the floor waiting to be patiently picked up by the boy's mother while the boy would return to make the mess minutes later.
The boy dreams peacefully of dragons and princesses as he bravely fights for the fair maiden's hand, just like the story books that are read to him as he falls into rest. A serene expression, a wistful exuberance. A delicate balance of life and innocence, unaware and uncaring of the bullets and screams of dieing pain that surround him outside his protective span of home.
The parent's hushed whispers are settling again as they realize their son's slumber.
They sit at the kitchen table with worried faces and they aren't sure of what to do.
"We should leave." The father says. "My brother will take us in."
The mother's face twists again as her tears threaten to fall. "And Remy?"
The father can say no more, and he looks away in guilt. "Then we have to travel North, as far as we can from here."
"Tonight." The mother replies, her eyes are serious and her face is taught in worry. A beautiful woman that is often envied from afar, a woman of wealth and prosperity who had wed a lieutenant in the armed forces to live happily with their small son. Her features were delicate as if carved from porcelain, her husband would say. A man who in all his rugged good looks would still be reduced to nothing when she looked at him. A perfect couple, a perfect life.
He nods, moving to stand when she catches his hand in hers. A look is passed between them and he bites his lip, nodding as she stands as well. He pulls her close, and she feels safe in his arms, a feeling she doesn't want to pass.
"Know that I love you" He whispers. "I haven't a life without both of you."
She breathes hard against his neck as once again she feels an oncoming rush of tears, but she fights them back, only squeezing him tighter as she presses a kiss to his lips.
"One suitcase each." He says after the moment has passed and she nods, pulling away from him. "Go and get Remy."
He sleeps on without notice, without care. The boy smiles softly in his dream land as he receives a kiss on his brow from the fair maiden, standing at the foot of the vanquished enemy. The glass bursts with impact at the sound of an explosion and shrapnel sprays across the room. The mother hurries in, the bed overturned as the boy feels a trickle of wetness coming down his forehead. He reaches for her and she pushes the bed to gather him in her arms. His red eyes blink in wake, remnants of sleep still clinging and beckoning for him to come back. He refuses them with a polite shake of his head and his mother weeps while brushing the blood from his brow.
Another loud crack thunders through the boy's room while the mother carries him out, the father holding a bag of their things.
The air rushes with an oxygenated breeze of a shockwave and a light. The boy watches the windows in awe while his mother carries him with his father away from the house. The sky is orange, and he finds it strange that it would be raining gray.
There are screams and yet more cracking noises. The boy cranes his head upwards as a plane zooms across the sky and he smiles at it as he sees the pilot smile back and a rumbling of the ground evokes gut-wrenching moans of pain around him. The mother clamps her hands over his ears, burying his face in her neck, whispering to him. He tries to move, wants to see the colors and lights.
"Don't let go of my hand!" His father yells to his mother. "Don't let go!"
She's crying, the boy can tell. Her shoulders shake with fright. He wants to console her, to quiet her. His dream calls to him more, and he grins wanting to ask his mother if he can go.
He raises his head to look where he might be going before his mother lets out a shriek, and he's scared when he looks down and his clothes are sticky and red and she falls to her knees when he starts to cry himself. The crowd pushes his father away from him, as he yells and screams their names, but the boy looks down at his mother who closes her eyes, and he doesn't want to go to sleep anymore, and he doesn't want her to either.
The boy's red eyes widen when he becomes jerked away from her. He doesn't want to leave, he doesn't want to leave her.
There are men in green uniforms holding machine guns, and the boy looks up when he sees a man with silver hair flying far above with a frown on his face. Suddenly the men with machine guns cry out in anger as they fire on the flying man, and the boy runs as hard as he can away from the noises, as far away as he can.
Eric Magnus Lensharr stared out at the flashing lights outside his window, his hands clasped behind him with a frown on his rigid features. The man is tall and imposing despite his age, which showed on his wrinkled face. His ice blue eyes drifted across the plane of ground before him, beyond him.
"So it has finally come to this." He whispered against the glass, head bowing to turn away and face another man that sat with the same air of importance. Charles Xavier stared down at the brandy that sat on the table, willing it to give him the answers that he sought.
"It was always going to come." He replied without looking up, and Magnus pursed his lips as he agreed. "The spark was just waiting to light the flame."
He smirked. "I see a trend in humanity, Charles. Fear of the unknown."
"Or fear of their own capabilities."
"Hmm." Magnus trailed off, turning away. "What do you say we do, old friend? Will you finally join in with me? Will you admit you were wrong about them?"
"I was never wrong." Xavier looked up to match Magnus' stare. "But as you said, they fear unknown. They follow one who promises answers. It is the way we all are."
A shockwave made itself known, rattling the fine china. Magnus frowned. "Do what you will, Charles. But I cannot stand by and stare as they destroy our very existence" He left the room then, and Xavier let out a cold breath of foreboding.
"I doubt you can." Xavier sighed softly to the empty room, eyes not lifting away from their fixation on the brandy.
He tried so hard to stop this, wanted so much for peace among themselves. Humans and Mutants, a fear between them that Charles Xavier could not break, no matter how much he had prayed for it, how much he fought for it. It was a war now, and with so many mutant civilians being herded into captivity, afraid while armies of men march into battle against the 'enemy'. Those different from themselves, those they dread.
He knew Magnus would be the first to act against them. He had rallied fighters for his own army, a resistance. But while the war waged, Charles couldn't help pray for the souls of the innocents.
The boy breathes hard, eyes teary, tracking lines down his cheeks. He wants for his father to come for him now, he wants to go home now, and this is beginning to frighten him.
The sky is dark, and the boy has fled into the inner alleys that were unfamiliar and frightening. He sobs quietly now, not wanting to be heard. He can still hear the shouts and firing, and he puts his hands to his ears like his mother had done, wanting to drown out the noise. He shuts his eyes, hoping that perhaps all this will go away, that everything would be as it was before.
Footsteps echo through the narrow pathways as they travel towards the boy, but he doesn't move, only slips down the wall, bringing his knees close to him, trying to disappear.
He hears the voice but doesn't open his eyes. He begins to hug his knees and breathes in shakily.
"Are you hurt?"
He finally unclenches his eyelids, slowly looking up.
"Holy fuck…" It's one of the men in green, and he stares wide eyed at the boy, bringing up his gun. "A fucking mutie!"
He cocks the gun, but the boy stares at the man in green, not quite understanding what that means, and why the man in green is so angry with him. He wished his father could tell him, and then he remembers that his parents aren't here and begins to cry again.
The man doesn't move, his face wavers, then there is a gunshot. He blinks a couple of times, blood trickling into them before falling to his knees and to his side. The boy doesn't look, he doesn't care. He only cries.
A trail of smoke wisped out of the end of a pistol, and the man known simply as Logan put it back into his holster. His disgust was plain at the soldier, a snarl set across his face and dark blue eyes glittering dangerously with hate. They traveled past the body, knitting his eyebrows as he finds the form of a small boy no older than six.
Logan had seen many things during his long life, and he was no stranger to war having been in the previous ones, but there were some things that he would never get used to.
Walking towards the boy, Logan kicked the soldier's body aside, kneeling down to be level with him.
The kid was from a good family, Logan could tell. His clothes were splotched with red, and his face dirty along with a pretty nasty cut along the top of his forehead.
"Hey kid…" He said softly, "Its okay now."
The boy doesn't seem to hear him, and Logan stands up, picking the boy up as he does. Its dangerous for him to stay in once place, and it would be better if he got the kid back to the others. The boy now buried his face into Logan's shoulder, and the he frowns, hurrying through the darkness.