| Loose End Author: Lamashtar (Lamashtar@aol.com) Setting: Comic AU, sometime after Apocalypse. This is not in character. Cyclops wouldn't do this. But if he *did*, this is how I think he would do it. Disclaimer: I do not own Cyclops, nor make any money from him. Marvel does. This story is for them. Rating: PG-13 for suicide. Implied violence. Very bleak darkfic Cast: Scott Summary: When it comes to the end, Cyclops takes care of the final details. Archiving: Nadja's if she wants it. Always at http://www.geocities.com/althea6302/Unmasked.html Feedback: Private email is preferred. Note: Thanks to Mosca. Warning: CHARACTER DEATH. He left the number of the motel he could be reached at. He wasn't sure why. It wasn't as if he were planning on coming back. Just force of habit, probably. After waiting patiently for the incompetent clerk, he registered and took his room key. At the door to the assigned room, he paused, taking his time. There was little enough to look at. Just a cheap little room with carbon copy furniture and a television set. There was always a television set. Closing the door behind him, he hesitated briefly, then locked it. He checked the windows and drew the curtains before putting the bag he'd packed for camouflage down on the bed. He sat down and unzipped it. Feeling through the folded clothes, he finally found what he was looking for. With deliberate fingers, he snapped open the plastic case. He hefted the gun he'd hidden inside. It was an unlovely weapon. Blunt and blocky, the M1911A1 Colt .45 was known as Old Ugly among connoisseurs and had been the preferred choice of both military men and gangsters for much of the 20th century. Including his father. It wasn't the sort of weapon he'd normally have chosen for personal defense, though. He'd never used guns much in his career. Superhuman powers had always been more than enough. If he were going to use a handgun, he'd probably have picked the M9 Beretta 9-mm. Better distance, better penetrative power, larger magazine capacity, legendary safety record. The .45 was almost equally legendary for it's safety hazards. A live round in the chamber could go off if the gun simply fell to the ground. A choice of weapon, however, depended on what it was wanted for. Even an off-center shot with a .45 made a big hole. Being in the room with the gun fascinated him. He couldn't get used to the feel of it. The cold, hard, heavy weight. He examined the smooth carbon steel, rubbing his fingers against it lightly. It smelled of gun oil. Pulling the slide back, he peered inside. From the little he could see, the barrel shone silver-black and clean, marred by only a spiraled groove. He let the slide ease closed. A cartridge with a single bullet lay on the foam padding of the gun case. He picked it up between three fingers and pushed up with the heel of his hand until it clicked into place. He double-checked the safety. Shoving the gun into his pocket, he rose and went over to the desk and took the provided motel stationary and a complimentary pen. The pen hovered over the paper a moment before he wrote a few short sentences. He signed it with his full name. Leaving the note along with his wallet, he used the telephone to dial for emergency services. "There's a dead man in the bathroom of the Howard Johnson motel on River Avenue, room 105. I'll be here when you arrive. No, I'm sorry, I can't stay on the line." He hung up before she could ask anything more. Looking around, he considered if there was anything left undone. Deciding there wasn't, he went to the bathroom and pulled out the gun before stepping into the bathtub. He settled himself comfortably, gun cradled limply in his lap. There were those who envied him. He had, after all, enormous, frightening power. His teammates were like family. He was held in respect by many, even among his enemies. His wife was beautiful, intelligent, strong--and vivacious. His children... He flipped off the safety. Rising suddenly to his feet, he got out and returned to the desk. Leaving the gun next to the note, he took up the pen and wrote precisely at the bottom of the page: "Mutant eyes fire force blasts! Use caution before removing protective glasses!" He came back and looked down the black hole of the barrel again, this time from the other side. A flash of doubt ran through him. Everything he was had been sacrificed to make the world better. His entire life he'd spent doing things for other people. That was probably the best reason of all, he thought. It was enough. He would be selfish for once. This one time. He cocked the gun. Everything seemed distant, as if only that small room existed. Scott put the muzzle under his chin and pulled the trigger. |