(no subject)
Theresa Cassidy had left the Island. Cable supposed that he could comfort himself with the idea that she has returned to the same home he himself longed for but, in all honesty, he was still largely convinced that she, like every other person on Tabula Rasa, was merely a duplicate of the real Theresa Cassidy created for this Island and now, no doubt, disposed of. Instead, he had merely mourned, offered sympathy to those who might be likewise mourning her and then tried his best to forget about the whole business and concentrate on the future.
It was his time tested way of dealing with things, even if there was no longer so much in the future worth contemplating. All his great schemes and plans were useless here, his only pressing concerns exercising and feeding the giant dog he'd been gifted with. It made pushing aside things like regret and grief, that little bit harder, even for someone as practiced at it as Cable.
The dog, who was currently tied up back at the hut, had arrived in January, one of three presents Cable had been given by his tormentors in that month. Those presents were, without exception, extremely useful and, therefore, at worst merely patronizing. The box he held in his hand, on the other hand, was the other sort of present, the one that came in the springtime. The type he could only describe as a crude attempt at psychological warfare.
He didn't know exactly what was in the box, but it would be an attempt to remind him of some incident in his past or somebody he once knew and was either dead or missing. The problem was that could be so many things.
There was his son, of course. Tyler, who had been kidnapped from under his nose and brainwashed. Tyler who'd he'd shot in the head to save the life of some of their clanmates and who he'd thought he'd killed until he came back into his life years later as the man Cable had made him. A confused, patricidal mass murderer who was unable to look beyond his own hatred and had to be put down. There were more than two gifts in that surely.
Or it could be something his wife had owned. The woman he'd loved and let down. Who had died in his arms, the last thing she'd heard being her husband lying to her. Or something from any of his clanmates for that matter, from any of the foot-soldiers in the vast armies that he had convinced to rebel, asked to follow his leadership, and then led to their deaths and abandoned what few had survived.
The list of people this box could have belonged too was just so long. There were the mercenaries he'd fallen into upon his arrival in the twentieth century, who'd he'd left for dead after they'd stumbled into a situation they didn't understand, shooting one in the back himself. There was Domino who he'd loved for so long and yet had never managed to treat right. Maybe the box contained the manacle that had chanied her to a wall, while he had dated a doppelganger and not once suspected that he wasn't actually with the woman he claimed to love. Or the gun she'd used to shoot him when she'd told him that everything he ever did would go wrong.
Or it could be something Moira had made him. Or that had belonged to Senator Kelly. Or Irene. Or Wade. Or Gareb. Or Scott. Or Theresa. Any of the people who he missed now they weren't here. Any of those who'd believed in him and died as result, any of the enemies he'd made and hated or any of the people who he'd loved and left damaged and bloody in his wake. He had too many ghosts following him to pick just one and too much blood on his back to spend this much time looking behind him.
He raised up the box to study it properly, but he didn't recognise anything else about it.
Perhaps it hadn't ever belonged to any he'd ever known. But rather one of those innocents who had died at the hands of his allies in Peru or Afghanistan, who AIM had murdered with the money he had gave them or who Apocalypse had killed when Cable had decided to bring him back to life and send him after the remaining mutants as a rallying point, considering the inveitable losses a sacrifice worth making.
He didn't care, he realized suddenly, he didn't care what this box was or which of a million deeds he was supposed to feel guilty about. He'd made his decisions, he lived with them and, by the dream, he'd be damned if he was going to start living in the past, now.
He put the box back on the ground and hammered away at it with his metal left arm until it was battered and broken. There had been something mechanical in it, he realised.
But then it could have been anything.
(OOC: Find Cable anywhere. There used to be a small PDA in the box, but that is no longer the case.)
It was his time tested way of dealing with things, even if there was no longer so much in the future worth contemplating. All his great schemes and plans were useless here, his only pressing concerns exercising and feeding the giant dog he'd been gifted with. It made pushing aside things like regret and grief, that little bit harder, even for someone as practiced at it as Cable.
The dog, who was currently tied up back at the hut, had arrived in January, one of three presents Cable had been given by his tormentors in that month. Those presents were, without exception, extremely useful and, therefore, at worst merely patronizing. The box he held in his hand, on the other hand, was the other sort of present, the one that came in the springtime. The type he could only describe as a crude attempt at psychological warfare.
He didn't know exactly what was in the box, but it would be an attempt to remind him of some incident in his past or somebody he once knew and was either dead or missing. The problem was that could be so many things.
There was his son, of course. Tyler, who had been kidnapped from under his nose and brainwashed. Tyler who'd he'd shot in the head to save the life of some of their clanmates and who he'd thought he'd killed until he came back into his life years later as the man Cable had made him. A confused, patricidal mass murderer who was unable to look beyond his own hatred and had to be put down. There were more than two gifts in that surely.
Or it could be something his wife had owned. The woman he'd loved and let down. Who had died in his arms, the last thing she'd heard being her husband lying to her. Or something from any of his clanmates for that matter, from any of the foot-soldiers in the vast armies that he had convinced to rebel, asked to follow his leadership, and then led to their deaths and abandoned what few had survived.
The list of people this box could have belonged too was just so long. There were the mercenaries he'd fallen into upon his arrival in the twentieth century, who'd he'd left for dead after they'd stumbled into a situation they didn't understand, shooting one in the back himself. There was Domino who he'd loved for so long and yet had never managed to treat right. Maybe the box contained the manacle that had chanied her to a wall, while he had dated a doppelganger and not once suspected that he wasn't actually with the woman he claimed to love. Or the gun she'd used to shoot him when she'd told him that everything he ever did would go wrong.
Or it could be something Moira had made him. Or that had belonged to Senator Kelly. Or Irene. Or Wade. Or Gareb. Or Scott. Or Theresa. Any of the people who he missed now they weren't here. Any of those who'd believed in him and died as result, any of the enemies he'd made and hated or any of the people who he'd loved and left damaged and bloody in his wake. He had too many ghosts following him to pick just one and too much blood on his back to spend this much time looking behind him.
He raised up the box to study it properly, but he didn't recognise anything else about it.
Perhaps it hadn't ever belonged to any he'd ever known. But rather one of those innocents who had died at the hands of his allies in Peru or Afghanistan, who AIM had murdered with the money he had gave them or who Apocalypse had killed when Cable had decided to bring him back to life and send him after the remaining mutants as a rallying point, considering the inveitable losses a sacrifice worth making.
He didn't care, he realized suddenly, he didn't care what this box was or which of a million deeds he was supposed to feel guilty about. He'd made his decisions, he lived with them and, by the dream, he'd be damned if he was going to start living in the past, now.
He put the box back on the ground and hammered away at it with his metal left arm until it was battered and broken. There had been something mechanical in it, he realised.
But then it could have been anything.
(OOC: Find Cable anywhere. There used to be a small PDA in the box, but that is no longer the case.)