#324 - Respond
If you, as a child, could see yourself now, what do you think you would say?
Mike is three, twelve, seven, six, nine--
Mike's nine, and it's morning, early than, and he's doing his chores, because that's how you get breakfast; you fetch the eggs. Some days it's easy. Some days the hens go for you, all whirring feathers and slashing beaks. One day, you come out and there's a strange man - woman - man in the yard, falling out of a crack of gold into the mud. His hair is long, black - very dark red - and streaked with white like a skunk. He's wearing leather. Lots of leather.
"Wrong," the man spits out, "wrong, wrong, wrong."
"Um," Mike says. "Hello?"
The man looks up at him, and Mike decides it's not a man at all. It's eyes are liquid red-gold. After a long, slow moment, it blinks and looks away, saying, dismissively, "Oh. It's you. Again."
Mike, who is certain he's never met it before, opens his mouth to say so, thinks better of it, and closes it again.
"Always the wrong time," it says. "No focus. That's the problem. Always coming back." It looks back at him, makes something like a smile. He can see himself in it, and it makes him sick to the stomach. "Who are you?"
"I'm Mike," Mike says. He can feel something behind his eyes, and he pushes it away, the way he does with Him. "Who are you?" It looks like him still. Older. Sharper. Stupid hair. Something odd in its movements, like his skin has been stretched over a frame it wasn't made for. Familiar and unfamiliar, all at once. Unnatural. Supernatural. He has a sudden thought, half amazing, half terrible. "Are you my mother? She died."
"Not your mother, no," it says, eyeing him with curiosity now. "You're a far stronger telepath than you remember being. How very odd."
"I don't know what that means," Mike complains.
"The temporal anomalies alone--!" It breaks off, laughing. "And here I am! All I wanted," and its voice goes dark again, half-growled, shaking with anger, "was the rattle. It's mine, and I need it, and they're keeping it from me, for what?"
Mike, not really following, asks, "You're looking for a rattle?"
"My baby's rattle."
"...why?"
"Because without it, whenever I try and jump back, I keep ending up inside your messed up knot of a timeline. Do try to keep up," it snaps. "I need a focus. A way-marker."
"Like on a map," Mike says slowly, trying to puzzle this up. "Is this a treasure hunt?"
"No." It frowns, considering. "Actually, yes. Yes, it is. I'm stuck in that stupid Nicholas Cage movie. Or a Dan Brown novel." It shudders.
"You're weird," Mike says before he can stop himself.
"Well, you're short," it says.
"I'm nine!" he complains. It laughs. He crosses his arms over his chest, pouting despite himself. "You suck."
"Like a black hole," it agrees and something jerks him up, off his feet, crushing around him so it's hard to breathe, everything going fuzzy. "I could kill you now, boy. You and Legion, Sinister, Jean, maybe even Scott. Maybe that would end it, do you think? We could make the world so much better but all they want to do is complain and whine and fight me. Me! I command armies! I eat stars!"
Mike tries to say please, to beg, but he can't get any air in, can't move at all, and everything's gone black and red and pounding. He wants it to stop; he just wants it to end. But there's something else now, attracted by the power, crawling up out of the fields and into him to take a look, forcing his eyes open wide, and it hurts, it hurts so much.
The first gasp of breath is the sweetest thing he can remember.
"Useless," it says, and the air is rippling around it now, all heat-hazy. "Stupid and useless."
"The Harvester is coming," Mike says.
"To reap what it sows?" it asks, mockingly.
"He says," and Mike frowns, trying to listen, because he's always just pushed Him away before, and there's a pounding again, inside his head, like heavy, distant drums. "He says you have no flesh but you have a name."
"Enough of this," it says.
"He says your name is M--" But there's a crack of silence, like anti-thunder, and he's dragged off his feet by the vortex of its passing, one last blast crackling through his head like lightning and--
(And six years after this, he sees Nate and in a half-unconscious burst of almost recognition he attacks without thinking.)
(And nine years after that, Mike wakes suddenly in a manor house in Wiltshire, frowning up at the dark of his room.
"Did you hear something?" he asks.
Draco, drowsily, mumbles, "'s the dog. G'back t'sleep."
Mike, curling around him, does.)
--and he blinks, confused by.
By what?
The yard, empty. The feel of Him, retreating. A ... half-memory. Something. A streak of white hair. What just--? Eggs, he thinks. You fetch the eggs, and then you have breakfast. That's how it works.
But when he crouches to look in the hen house, he finds all their chickens are dead.
Mike is three, twelve, seven, six, nine--
Mike's nine, and it's morning, early than, and he's doing his chores, because that's how you get breakfast; you fetch the eggs. Some days it's easy. Some days the hens go for you, all whirring feathers and slashing beaks. One day, you come out and there's a strange man - woman - man in the yard, falling out of a crack of gold into the mud. His hair is long, black - very dark red - and streaked with white like a skunk. He's wearing leather. Lots of leather.
"Wrong," the man spits out, "wrong, wrong, wrong."
"Um," Mike says. "Hello?"
The man looks up at him, and Mike decides it's not a man at all. It's eyes are liquid red-gold. After a long, slow moment, it blinks and looks away, saying, dismissively, "Oh. It's you. Again."
Mike, who is certain he's never met it before, opens his mouth to say so, thinks better of it, and closes it again.
"Always the wrong time," it says. "No focus. That's the problem. Always coming back." It looks back at him, makes something like a smile. He can see himself in it, and it makes him sick to the stomach. "Who are you?"
"I'm Mike," Mike says. He can feel something behind his eyes, and he pushes it away, the way he does with Him. "Who are you?" It looks like him still. Older. Sharper. Stupid hair. Something odd in its movements, like his skin has been stretched over a frame it wasn't made for. Familiar and unfamiliar, all at once. Unnatural. Supernatural. He has a sudden thought, half amazing, half terrible. "Are you my mother? She died."
"Not your mother, no," it says, eyeing him with curiosity now. "You're a far stronger telepath than you remember being. How very odd."
"I don't know what that means," Mike complains.
"The temporal anomalies alone--!" It breaks off, laughing. "And here I am! All I wanted," and its voice goes dark again, half-growled, shaking with anger, "was the rattle. It's mine, and I need it, and they're keeping it from me, for what?"
Mike, not really following, asks, "You're looking for a rattle?"
"My baby's rattle."
"...why?"
"Because without it, whenever I try and jump back, I keep ending up inside your messed up knot of a timeline. Do try to keep up," it snaps. "I need a focus. A way-marker."
"Like on a map," Mike says slowly, trying to puzzle this up. "Is this a treasure hunt?"
"No." It frowns, considering. "Actually, yes. Yes, it is. I'm stuck in that stupid Nicholas Cage movie. Or a Dan Brown novel." It shudders.
"You're weird," Mike says before he can stop himself.
"Well, you're short," it says.
"I'm nine!" he complains. It laughs. He crosses his arms over his chest, pouting despite himself. "You suck."
"Like a black hole," it agrees and something jerks him up, off his feet, crushing around him so it's hard to breathe, everything going fuzzy. "I could kill you now, boy. You and Legion, Sinister, Jean, maybe even Scott. Maybe that would end it, do you think? We could make the world so much better but all they want to do is complain and whine and fight me. Me! I command armies! I eat stars!"
Mike tries to say please, to beg, but he can't get any air in, can't move at all, and everything's gone black and red and pounding. He wants it to stop; he just wants it to end. But there's something else now, attracted by the power, crawling up out of the fields and into him to take a look, forcing his eyes open wide, and it hurts, it hurts so much.
The first gasp of breath is the sweetest thing he can remember.
"Useless," it says, and the air is rippling around it now, all heat-hazy. "Stupid and useless."
"The Harvester is coming," Mike says.
"To reap what it sows?" it asks, mockingly.
"He says," and Mike frowns, trying to listen, because he's always just pushed Him away before, and there's a pounding again, inside his head, like heavy, distant drums. "He says you have no flesh but you have a name."
"Enough of this," it says.
"He says your name is M--" But there's a crack of silence, like anti-thunder, and he's dragged off his feet by the vortex of its passing, one last blast crackling through his head like lightning and--
(And six years after this, he sees Nate and in a half-unconscious burst of almost recognition he attacks without thinking.)
(And nine years after that, Mike wakes suddenly in a manor house in Wiltshire, frowning up at the dark of his room.
"Did you hear something?" he asks.
Draco, drowsily, mumbles, "'s the dog. G'back t'sleep."
Mike, curling around him, does.)
--and he blinks, confused by.
By what?
The yard, empty. The feel of Him, retreating. A ... half-memory. Something. A streak of white hair. What just--? Eggs, he thinks. You fetch the eggs, and then you have breakfast. That's how it works.
But when he crouches to look in the hen house, he finds all their chickens are dead.