Yesterday's Clarity, Tomorrow's Madness
by ALC Punk!

So, dad sort of fucked up when he was building my DNA. Instead of being super-powered, I ended up withone ability. The Marauders thought it was a scream, apparently. Me, I was pissed. After all, what use is turning people red?

That's okay, though. Without that little rebellious streak, only the Gods know what I'd be doing. Maybe helping dad take over the world. Or killing Apocalypse. That could be fun.

Instead, I'm stuck back in the past, since I was stupid enough to think I was needed. Although what I hoped to accomplish I didn't know. Maybe I just thought it would be fun.

I'm wierd like that.

Although, it's not all bad. There are a lot of nice guys back here. Some gorgeous ones, too. And then there's Pete.

Pete's one of those guys who would have been working for dad if he paid him enough. I think. Not that it matters, I just think he's sort of interesting. In a grungy-smelly-buy the 18 year old drinks kind of way.

I came back to save the X-Men, but I ended up getting put onto the X-Force team. Oh, joy. The rookies. Except they weren't rookies. Not really. They had several years of experience under their belts. Not that I was as good... In fact, there was talk of throwing me to the little teenyboppers in Generation X. I stopped that by informing them of my parentage.

Cable thought it would be good if he kept an eye on me. After all, who better to look after Sinister's daughter?

But then Cable went sort of nuts and ran off. And Dom sort of followed him and tried to kill him. There was soem Twelve crap in there, too. I forget, though.

That's when Pete showed. Apparently, Dom sent him to watch us. And watch he did. When he wasn't making us go through grueling training and starve. He said it was for the best. I am SO sure.

Even with all that, I sort of like him. Sort of.

When I'm not fantasising about killing him. Boot to da head, baby. Or a nice slit throat... Wrists? Nah, too messy.

Except... He's dead now. Bullet to the head--POW! No ressurection, although dad's clone tanks might be useful. If I could get there in time. But I can't.

It's really irritating, too. 'Cause Sam won't buy me booze. Tippling hick.

Not that it matters. In two years dad's gonna kidnap various members of the X-teams to steal my DNA. Oh joy. Wonder if I'm my own mother?

It could be worse, of course. I could be living on the street and selling myself. Not that it would get that far, especially since I certainly don't mind killing people for cash. A few knife fights, and, BAM, I'm at the top and rolling in dough.

Sounds fun, sometimes. As compared to the relentless boredom of hanging with the X-types. All they do is get in battles and then get yelled at. And scorned and hated as they fight to protect a world that... wait for it... fears and hates them.

Mindless is what they are. Stuck on this ideal that will never be fulfilled, not as long as they live, nor as long as their childrens childrens children are alive. Sad, really. All this effort, for nothing.

Not that I'm any better, considering I'm aiding and abetting them so that I can stop my own birth.

Why?

My life sucks. My name is constantly misspelled, I have no useful powers, and my dad is an evil mad geneticist. Plus, he works for Apocalypse.

Not things that are conducive to getting a job. They look awful on a resume. Not that I'd know, since I don't even have a social security number.

I don't exist, here. I won't, either.

And all they have to do is cooperate. And die tonight.

That's why I'm recording this, you see. It's the last account of an X-person, in an attempt to explain why they died.

Not that I think it will ever get published or see the light of day--you fucking politicians are like that. Freedom of speech is a farce, and everyone knows it.

No, I'm recording this for myself. So that if I survive, I'll know I didn't succeed.

Hear that, me? I didn't succeed. You have to do it again.

Again.

Again.

...

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