Disclaimer - I do not own Mutant X. If I did, Season Two would
have never happened...
A/N- It’s not well put together or all that clear, but it’s something.
The theme is debatable. Don’t hesitate to tell me what you think…
Chapters:
Part 1 : Death of a Hero
Part 1: Death of a Hero
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"What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for
others and the world remains and is immortal."
-Albert
Pike
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was
like suffocating, like something had been pulled from every single part of
her. It had been wrenched hard from every pore, every square inch, every atom
of her body. Her skin shivered with the ghost of the sensation laid thickly
on to her memory. Her throat gagged dryly in disgust of the sickening feeling.
Her stomach felt solid in the pit of her abdomen.
She could
see him in her mind’s eye. His body lay peacefully, eyes upturned, his arm
across his chest as if to clutch his heart, as if to feel his own breathing.
His hand was relaxed, yet with each finger gingerly resting on the other.
His face looked brave and determined, focused on his thoughts. Within his
eyes, she could see weakness, a fear, one of both death and life.
He feared
living as he did. He feared being weak, fighting to breathe, struggling to
stay alive. He was scared of being reduced to nothing and being that nothing
forever. He feared cripplement. He feared powerlessness. He feared watching
the others die.
He feared
leaving the others alone, just as he feared being alone. He was scared of
regret, never smiling at the feline again, never laughing with his strong
friend again, never making the old man proud again, never telling her the
things he needed to say. He feared all his hope of regaining his powers slipping
from his grasp, that his unstable condition would go on too long and loosen
his grip on life.
He feared
dying, weaken by his own sickness; he fearing dying at his own hands and not
those of his enemies.
He feared
being forgotten.
To most,
it was the simple snuffing out of a flame. Quietly, people waft away on the
air, leaving their cold shells behind as a reminder of morning and loss.
To her,
it was a hurricane that racked her body with emotions, all emotions. If she
tried, she could decipher joy, sorrow, relief, regret, anger, and love all
in one compressed, undetectable, explosive moment.
But it
was different this time.
The outburst
of death had been a part of her. All the feelings, all the emotions, were
familiar. She’d sensed them for so long, they’d become attached to her. They
were a small comforting place inside her that held warmth and comfort for
her.
Ripped
from her own body, she felt cold, bitterly artic inside her own skin.
She opened
her eyes. He was still the same.
Still
scared.
Still
weak.
Still
determined.
Still
relaxed.
His body
lay peacefully, eyes upturned. His arm across his chest no long struggled
to rise and fall. The rhythm of his body ceased. His blood floated dormant.
She watched
her thin frail hand reach out. Gently, they touched his eyelids and slid them
down over his limitations and horror, leaving his fearless expression of
focus.
That
was the way she wanted to remember him.
That
was the way he needed to go.
That
was the way a hero died.
“And
you are.” She whispered leaning down and kissing his gray cheek. “You are,
Jesse.”
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