(no subject)
((Ficlet. Ric this time.))
Terry's words came back to him during the briefing. "It's nae normal!" Ric didn't understand that, at least not in reference to them. For him, "normal" had been lost with half of Guadalajara sunk in the earth, and the smile of the recruiting man for the Right. Lost along with so many other things, like innocence, hope, and the ability to sleep through the night.
He looked at his gun, and back up at Cable, still talking. The men of the Right had been wrong. He couldn't gain redemption. Not from what they had wanted him to do, and not from this. But he could (he reached for the hum of power, the little vibration that was always at his core), he could do his damnest to make sure no other young mutant with too much on his conscience was ever broken with whips and machines. He could make sure that no other city was destroyed for hatred.
The way of the closed fist, Sam called it. He didn't know about that; he had never believed in Xavier's dream, and all the way of the open hand was was an easy way to get yourself killed. All he knew was that what he had lost with "normal" was somehow, improbably, made up for with training and a gun and this dysfunctional family unit. Ric could spend the rest of his life regreting one morning in the desert. But he could also pull his power up into his hands, and pick up his gun, and go where Cable told him, and tonight, when he woke up screaming, he could shudder his way back to sleep with something close to peace.
Terry's words came back to him during the briefing. "It's nae normal!" Ric didn't understand that, at least not in reference to them. For him, "normal" had been lost with half of Guadalajara sunk in the earth, and the smile of the recruiting man for the Right. Lost along with so many other things, like innocence, hope, and the ability to sleep through the night.
He looked at his gun, and back up at Cable, still talking. The men of the Right had been wrong. He couldn't gain redemption. Not from what they had wanted him to do, and not from this. But he could (he reached for the hum of power, the little vibration that was always at his core), he could do his damnest to make sure no other young mutant with too much on his conscience was ever broken with whips and machines. He could make sure that no other city was destroyed for hatred.
The way of the closed fist, Sam called it. He didn't know about that; he had never believed in Xavier's dream, and all the way of the open hand was was an easy way to get yourself killed. All he knew was that what he had lost with "normal" was somehow, improbably, made up for with training and a gun and this dysfunctional family unit. Ric could spend the rest of his life regreting one morning in the desert. But he could also pull his power up into his hands, and pick up his gun, and go where Cable told him, and tonight, when he woke up screaming, he could shudder his way back to sleep with something close to peace.