Precipice

by Alicia McKenzie

The sun on the water, breaking through the clouds, warm and golden and shining. He should feel the warmth of it, but doesn't. The water is too cold, its depths shadowy and so inviting. But he'd tried to reach them already, dared the lightning to strike him down and let himself fall from the burning helicopter. Only he hadn't died. He wishes he knew why.

A long fall. A bullet in the head. Simple, obvious ways to die, but they hadn't worked. None of the subtler ways had, either. He knows a great deal about putting himself in harm's way, knows the exact dimensions of that fine line between necessary risk and recklessness. He's crossed that line without looking back, but yet he's still alive.

Alive.

Maybe he should be happy with having killed parts of himself. So many of the people he's been have died now. Nathan Dayspring, with his Clan. Cable, the broken link between the now and a future that no longer exists. Even Nathan Summers, a mercy killing if there ever was one. The man had wasted entirely too much time indulging in delusions of family and a life in the here and now.

It begs the question of what's left, if anything. He doesn't know that, either. He has a head full of everyone else's thoughts and only the most fragile of grips on his own. Everything is slipping away, and every time exhaustion claims him, he wonders if he'll remember who he is when he wakes up.

No use in pretending that it all stems from his uncontrollable powers, either. The roots go much deeper. He's not used to uncertainty. That's been the problem all along, since that day in the desert and his psimitar shattering Apocalypse's astral form. No more purpose, no more holy cause. The end of his war.

He thinks that maybe his life ended that day, and he just didn't notice.

The voices in his head are dying to murmurs now, quieter than than they have been in weeks. He closes his eyes and floats, listening. Wondering why it feels almost soothing, now, instead of invasive and painful. Did he really get that far away from land, flying into the storm into his stolen helicopter? He can't remember details, only a blur of lightning and clouds and bitter self-loathing.

Distance. Maybe that's the answer. Find an island in the middle of the Pacific, or take refuge in Antarctica. Magneto's old fortress, maybe. Somewhere far away from people, where the noise of the world would fade into the distance and let him find some semblance of peace. Somewhere where there would be nothing requiring using his telekinesis. One crater left in the world is enough.

He's tired of leaving marks on the world. On lives.

He could float here forever and never felt clean.

But the clouds are still breaking, and the sunlight's getting brighter. Bright enough that he has to close his eyes, strong enough that he is beginning to feel the warmth of it on his face after all.

Reviving him, somehow. He still feels hazy, dissociated, but the warmth brings with it a whisper of clarity, and a slow, careful train of thought is forming in his mind.

His powers won't let him drown, but they won't save him from hypothermia, or dying of thirst and hunger if he stays here, floating in the ocean, a piece of human driftwood. If he wants to die, it's within his reach. He just has to settle for a slow, lingering death, one that gives him enough time to dwell on each and every one of his multitude of regrets. All it would take is choosing to do nothing.

Something in him doesn't like that choice. And it is a choice, but a passive one, a surrender. As much as he's wanted to end this void he's been stumbling through since Apocalypse's death, the idea of just letting it happen repels him. It's why he's sought out conflict--not to change the world, whatever lies he's told himself, but to die on his feet. Fighting.

Fighting. When did he stop fighting? When did he stop caring? But then, caring is dangerous. The last time he was angry, he disintegrated a chunk of Kazakhstan. Gentler emotions would be just as risky. If he lets himself care for anyone again, he could lose himself in them, and there's so little of him left--

It stings, to be so afraid.

He needs to decide. No deus ex machina is going to reach down out of the clouds and set him on the proper path this time. He's done his duty, run his course. The Askani, if they're still out there, have no more use for him. He hopes.

What happens to the weapon when the battle's over? Depends on what shape it's in, he supposes. Put away for a rainy day, perhaps. If it's been a faithful weapon, maybe it gets displayed on the mantel.

If it's too broken, it only makes sense to throw it away--

He recoils at the thought of living and dying as a thing, a tool. His powers respond reflexively, taking him from the middle of the ocean to somewhere else, and he's too dizzied even to grunt as he crumples onto wet sand.

There's a rock or something, digging into his ribs. Squeezing his eyes shut, he focuses on that sensation, gasping for breath as the murmuring in his mind swells once more to a roar.

Beach, he realizes, finding the strength to raise his head and look around. Empty of people, but he can sense them close, a lot of them, their voices all blending together into nonsense so that he can't make out anything that might tell him who they are or where he is.

But does it even matter? He supposes he made his choice, or his subconscious did. Funny to think that part of him wants to live after all, even if it's only to prove to people who may not even exist any longer that he's more than their crusade made him.

He's not floating in the ocean anymore. That's a start, he supposes. But a start of what? Maybe his instincts can decide for him that he doesn't really want to die, and his powers can put that decision into practice, but that doesn't help him decide how to live.

He never had to, before. Before, there was the mission. The war. Momentum that carried him onwards, even when his own strength was gone.

So much easier. Even when it was so hard that it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other.

At least he can do that much, now. One foot in front of the other, across the sand. It shifts beneath his feet, and he staggers. Someone watching would think him a drunk who'd passed out on the beach for the night, probably. Or someone who'd had an accident. The survivor of a shipwreck who'd somehow managed to make it to shore?

A survivor.

He was never supposed to survive. It's a surprise, to still be here when Apocalypse is dead.

Surprised by life. It sounds like such a pleasant thing, put that way.

There's a small building ahead. Public washrooms, empty at this time of the morning. He picks the lock and goes in to the sink, some shadowy thought of splashing some cold water on his face surfacing amid the din.

The face that stares back at him from the mirror when he looks up at it is haggard and pale, sunken eyes nearly lost in shadows.

Unrecognizable.

"Who am I?"

His voice breaks on the words, and he has to grip the edges of the sink hard as his knees begin to buckle. He has no idea why he asked the question aloud, who he expected to give him an answer.

None is forthcoming, of course.

He takes a deep breath, his chest hurting, and looks up at the mirror again. The eyes that meet his are sharper this time, bright with anguish. Not quite so bewildered.

"Who am I?" he murmurs again, more softly. Almost ironically. "Who are you?" A laugh slips out, but he bites the next one back, hard.

Questions. Answers. He needs to find his way from one to the other. Until then, he's just the ghost of the man he used to be, and he doesn't want to live like that.

He needs to know if there's another way.

Taking another breath, less painful this time, he turns away from the mirror and walks out, into the sunlight.

fin

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