Sins of the Father *OTA*
Things had been going well for Martini lately. The new base provided him with a whole new playground to explore, his birthday had been wonderful, and there had been a lack of drama in his life. This just meant, of course, that universe, or God, or whatever, felt the need to correct that problem. It began when Martini was walking down one of the halls.
“You’re going to screw it up. Otra vez,” a heavily Spanish-accented voice called out. Mark looked up, his mouth dropping open in shock. There was an older looking man standing there, dark, heavily lined skin, salt-and-pepper hair, shorter than Mark, but with the same chiseled look to his chin and jaw line. But it was the eyes that gave him away. They were a brilliant shade of green, light when they were happy, dark now with anger. Identical to Mark’s own.
“Dad?” Mark whispered out, a note of fear entering his voice. For a moment, he forgot where he was. He was seven years old again, and his parents were leaving, no, abandoning their only son. He attempted to summon up what little courage he had. “You are not real!” Mark said almost angrily, turning around to walk the other way.
But his father was already standing there, a disapproving look upon his lined face. He backhanded Mark, sending the mutant reeling into the nearest wall. “¿Importa, mijo? Usted sabe que tengo razón. It’s inevitable. You do it to yourself. I mean, if tu madre y yo couldn’t even stand the sight of you, what makes you think he will? Or anyone, for that matter. The little pelirroja already left once. Face it, mijo. You’re meant to be locked up, away from everyone. Alone.”
The words stung much deeper than the blow had, cutting straight to his heart. Why Martini's mind tormented him like this, he’d never know. He’d had visions like this before, but nothing so real, not for almost a year. His strength deserting him, he slid down the wall, coming to rest on the floor. “Go away, go away, go away,” Mark chanted, eyes screwed tightly shut, his legs curled up beneath him.
“You’re going to screw it up. Otra vez,” a heavily Spanish-accented voice called out. Mark looked up, his mouth dropping open in shock. There was an older looking man standing there, dark, heavily lined skin, salt-and-pepper hair, shorter than Mark, but with the same chiseled look to his chin and jaw line. But it was the eyes that gave him away. They were a brilliant shade of green, light when they were happy, dark now with anger. Identical to Mark’s own.
“Dad?” Mark whispered out, a note of fear entering his voice. For a moment, he forgot where he was. He was seven years old again, and his parents were leaving, no, abandoning their only son. He attempted to summon up what little courage he had. “You are not real!” Mark said almost angrily, turning around to walk the other way.
But his father was already standing there, a disapproving look upon his lined face. He backhanded Mark, sending the mutant reeling into the nearest wall. “¿Importa, mijo? Usted sabe que tengo razón. It’s inevitable. You do it to yourself. I mean, if tu madre y yo couldn’t even stand the sight of you, what makes you think he will? Or anyone, for that matter. The little pelirroja already left once. Face it, mijo. You’re meant to be locked up, away from everyone. Alone.”
The words stung much deeper than the blow had, cutting straight to his heart. Why Martini's mind tormented him like this, he’d never know. He’d had visions like this before, but nothing so real, not for almost a year. His strength deserting him, he slid down the wall, coming to rest on the floor. “Go away, go away, go away,” Mark chanted, eyes screwed tightly shut, his legs curled up beneath him.