Disclaimer: I do not own any Twilight characters. And since this is a parody off of X-Men any Marvel characters that I depict I don't own their characteristics either.
I read "Wolverine" by "StephenKing Reincarnate" and thought that this was an interesting concept so decided to try my hand at a story along these lines. Now if you happen to be one of the readers of my other stories I do have the character "Kyle Moor" in this story. And like I've said in my other stories he's not a "Mary/Gary Sue". I use his character name as my penname because I think it's a cool name that I thought up.
In any case, I hope that this time I do a better job of making Kyle seem like a more realistic character. That's something I've been working on for a while now and your feed back concerning his character would be greatly appreciated.
Now then, enough of my author's notes: On with the story!
"You're sure she's the one we're looking for?"
I groaned as I woke up to the sounds of voices in an adjoining room. I was lying in a hospital bed, feeling groggy, judging by the feeling in my head someone must have snuck up behind me with a bottle of chloroform and a rag and smothered me. It was one of the few things that would actually work against me. I was a strange person to say the least.
I was born Isabella Marie Creed September 13, 1865. By the year 1900 my parents were getting by on the story that I was their granddaughter, whom they were raising after the tragic death of my "parents". In thirty-five years my body had aged so slowly that I looked like I was twelve. Similarly I was never sick. Never. I could stay out all night in the middle of winter in a thin nightgown and not get sick or suffer frostbite. I'd be fucking freezing but that's different than sick I guess.
I had a violent temper as well. A boy "my age" once made fun of me for living with my "grandparents". My parents made me go over to his house and do his chores for the three months he was laid up with a broken leg and wrist. I'd given him a bloody nose, amongst the various other bruises and minor injuries, as well in the beating I handed to him. Because of this many kids avoided me. That was alright because I knew that I wasn't going to be making many lasting friendships as I would soon have to disappear off the grid due to my extreme lack of aging.
I had no idea why I aged so slowly, why I had such a violent temper, and absolutely no idea why I could hear a whisper from the other side of a solid wall or be able to tell who was around me by the scents in the air. It came in handy though sometimes. One time in 1911, I looked like I was around thirteen; a neighbor girl went missing in the woods. I found her by following her scent and heard her sniffling under a bush. She had chased a rabbit and had gotten lost. Her parents were so happy when I came walking out of the woods with her on my back.
My parents passed away in the same year, 1922. Since then I'd been living here and there, finding work where I could, mainly as a bar maid. Unfortunately that typically led to my biggest problem: not being able to keep a job. Inevitably some drunken son of a bitch would try to hit on me, hoping to score a pretty young girl for the night. Most of the time I could shrug them off long enough for one of the bar maids who were older and more interested would come to my rescue or there'd be two of these drunken bastards so they'd end up fighting each other and I'd slip away.
Sadly as many times as I got away I'd get grabbed and in self defense I would practically kill my almost rapist. Knowing the likelihood of a jury would finding me innocent of assault I was forced to run. Especially after the last time this happened.
"Girl another shot," the man slurred. Disgusted that this man existed I pulled out the bottle of whiskey he'd been getting shots from. He downed the tiny glass with a quick throw of his head and held the glass back out again.
"Another shot beautiful," he said.
"I'll take it from here," Christie whispered in my ear.
"No, bitch, I want that one," the drunk grunted.
"She needs to go clean up tables. It's her turn tonight," Christie told him as she poured him his shot.
I was thankful for Christie's save, though in actuality it was her turn to clean tables, but I figured she'd just make up for it later. She always managed to outmaneuver the dirty old men that tried to hook up with one of us for the night so if she could get their affections directed toward her nothing would happen. Tell you the truth I'd prefer to wipe up the tables of their spilled beer, vomit, and uneaten food for the rest of my time at this bar until I had to inevitably move to keep up the farce that I was a normal human being to outwitting a drunken man whore who's itching for a tumble between the sheets with a pretty young girl.
Another typical night, the men who liked to sit at table five had been in and they were messy, as always. Twenty empty bottles of beer, several used shot glasses; a pitcher was lying on its side and its former contents dripping onto the floor. God, why were men such pigs?
I was finishing wiping up the spilled beer when I heard Christie yell and turned to see the drunk I'd been serving earlier stagger up to me and grab my breasts, pulling me to him.
"Kiss me wench," he ordered as he tried to find my mouth. The smell of alcohol in his breath was overpowering my acute senses and bile was forming in my throat. I tried to push him away, gently, for me anyway I was a bit stronger than your average "fifteen year old", but he was strong enough to hold on to me. He slapped me across the face, and I tried to hold my temper back. I'd been working here only a month and a half I didn't want to have to relocate this early already.
Christie was shouting at him to get off me and calling for the bar's owner. She grabbed the drunk mans hair and yanked, probably in the hopes that he'd let go of me. It worked, he let go, long enough to turn and hit her across the face so hard she fell backwards with a bloody nose.
Turning back to me he started tearing at my blouse. I shoved him away from me, now mad enough at him to not be worried about beating the shit out of him. Not only that, he'd assaulted one of the other bar maids so he'd get in trouble with the law instead of me.
He rounded on me and punched me in the face, not enough to hurt me that in itself was a difficult thing to do, but it did throw me off balance and cause me to fall over. I was getting back up when he climbed on top of me, slapping me across the face several times and ripping my blouse completely open. My long skirt was pushed up and as I tried to fight back I realized that the man was much stronger than I had originally given him credit for. My arms were pinned to the floor and my drawers were ripped off me.
For the first time in my life I was truly scared. This man was actually about to rape me. And he was strong enough that I couldn't get free as I thrashed about. He was between my legs so I couldn't close them and I couldn't get a grip on him with them to kick him off me.
I froze completely as I felt something touch me where nothing other than my own hand had touched me before. I was still a virgin, but as the thing entered me and the pain that I had been told that came with the loss of a woman's virginity coursed through my body I knew that was no longer the case.
As I lay on the floor of the bar and had a drunken man fuck me tears welled up in my eyes. I was physically fifteen years old, but was sixty-eight in reality. I had been fantasizing about my first time and how romantic it would be since 1907 when I was my hormones finally kicked into puberty for me. Losing it in the middle of a bar to an old man who I didn't know, didn't love, and didn't want to do it with broke me.
Rage suddenly flared up where panic had once been and I thrashed around managing to break the hold on one of my arms and struck my rapist several times in the face. He in turn hit me across the face and grabbed my throat, choking me.
Suddenly he was thrown off me and the bar owner was kneeling next to me.
"Rachel, are you alright?" he asked, calling me by the alias I was currently going by, "No, don't answer that. That's a stupid question."
Tears were flowing down my face in torrents. The man was staggering back to his feet and yelling at the owner about interrupting. The owner ordered Christie, who was just now getting back up, to call the police and walked over to the man, shoving him back into a chair.
The man stood right back up and knocked the owner off his feet. Reaching down, he grabbed the owner and threw him forty feet across the bar. He turned back to me and started stalking back over to me.
Then he stopped. Staring at me on the floor.
A searing pain in my knuckles brought my gaze to my hands. Three, long claw-like bones were slowly sliding out of each of my hands. They looked sharp. What the hell was this? I had healing abilities, aged mind bogglingly slow, acute senses, was strong for my size (though not strong enough), and now this?
I looked around and saw Christie staring at me in confused horror, the owner blinking at me dazed but with a similar look on his face.
I was going to have to relocate.
I was angry. Angry that a drunken man had raped me and somehow managed to cause me to grow six blades, three in each hand. I had to leave my job and go somewhere far away. Again. It hadn't even been two months yet.
I screamed as I rose to my feet and tackled the drunk. He tried to push me back off him but my newfound weapons sliced through his wrists, severing off one of his hands. I reared back and plunged the blades in my right hand into his chest.
He coughed up blood.
And lay still. Dead.
I sat there, straddling the dead man's waist, panting. Slowly I came to realize what I had just done. Oh, God. I'd just killed a person. Granted he'd just raped me and I was probably justifiable but I'd just killed someone. And I was a freak. Even more of a freak than I used to be too.
Stumbling backwards I ran into the owner, who was trying to comfort me but I couldn't hear his words. All I knew was that I had to run.
Breaking away from the owners grip I sprinted out the door into the night. Never to be seen in this town again.
(Present day- 1943)
I tried to raise my hand to my head, but couldn't move my hand. I looked down at my body as I lay in the hospital bed. My wrists and ankles were strapped to bars along the side. Similar straps held me at my knees and elbows. Across my stomach and shoulders were more straps keeping me from sitting up. The tattered, dirty dress that I'd been wearing was also gone, I noted, replaced by white pants and a white shirt.
Where the hell was I? And why was I so heavily restrained? And who knew about me well enough to know to restrain me so heavily?
A door opened and a young man with relatively short hair and a short beard walked in. He was average in height and build from what I could tell. It was difficult to get a good idea of what he was like since he wore a crisp suit, complete with a tie. All very non-distinctive of any type of personality. I inhaled slightly getting a whiff of him.
He didn't smell like a human. That probably wasn't a good thing.
Behind him were three very large men, also in suits, they smelled human though. The men walked up to me and began unstrapping me from the bed. They ignored my questions of where I was and who they were and roughly pulled me to my feet. Grasping me tightly by both arms I was marched down a rather bare hallway with white tiles, which were fucking cold on my bare feet. The younger man with the beard led the way with two of the larger men holding me and the third following close behind.
The young man opened a door in the hallway and I was led inside. There was a table and two chairs, one on either side. Other than that there was nothing in the room other than a large mirror on one of the walls.
I was sat down in one of the chairs and the young man took the other one. The large men filed out of the room and the door was shut. A click alerted me to the fact that the door was locked. I couldn't get out, but I had a feeling that the mirror wasn't really a mirror and if I started doing things that people didn't want me to do they could get in very quickly.
I concentrated on listening for the slightest sound. The young man hadn't said a word yet, just flipped through papers in a folder he brought in with him. As I had figured there were people on the other side of the mirror, I could hear them mumbling but couldn't quite make out what they were saying.
"You're a difficult one to find," the young man said suddenly.
"What?" I asked.
"I said you're difficult to find, and knowing how good our special ops people are you should consider that a compliment," he said again.
"Oh, I should, should I?" I said sarcastically.
"Now, now, there isn't any reason to get snippy with me," the young man said amiably. I growled at him. I had been abducted, I didn't remember how, I had woken up strapped to a bed and had been marched down a hall in my bare feet and was now sitting in an interrogation room. I knew what this was. I'd been in and out of police stations since I'd killed my first victim ten years ago. I hadn't had an honest job since then. Mostly I stole from groceries to get food, sometimes stealing from farmers during the harvest. I hunted most of my meat though. But I had been caught pick-pocketing, breaking and entering, bar fights (I just drank at bars now I didn't work at them). This whole interrogation deal wasn't new to me and I knew what was going to come next. The man was going to list off what I in here for and tell me my options.
"Why are you growling at me?" the young man asked.
I blinked. I hadn't expected that.
"Though I guess I shouldn't be surprised really," he continued before I answered, "If I woke up in a strange hospital bed that I was strapped to and big men came and half carried me into a room and left me there with a person I didn't know but I could obviously tell wasn't human I'd be cautious myself."
"How do you know…?" I started to ask.
"We know a great deal about you, Isabella Creed," the young man said, interlocking his fingers as he leaned forward on the table, "Or should I call you Leah Johnson? Rachel Logan? Victoria Griggs? Marie Gibson? Molly Stowe?"
"How do you know my aliases?" I demanded, "Who are you people?!"
"Isabella, we are a faction of the national government," the young man said, "We are what keeps the nation running smoothly."
"That doesn't answer my first question," I growled.
"Let's just say when birth records put someone's birth twenty-four years before they start attending a primary school and said person still looks like she's a young girl and twenty-two years later she shows up again in a completely different area and only just older than she used to be the people that I work for tend to have a great interest in that person," the young man said. He put three pieces of paper in front of me.
One was my birth certificate, dated September 13, 1865.
One was a record of me being in school at the age of eight in South Dakota, dated September 5, 1889.
The last one was a record of me enrolled in a school at the age of thirteen in New York, dated September 4, 1911.
My parents had no way of knowing that people in the government would take notice of this apparent anomaly and hadn't changed my name when I was temporarily enrolled in schools. But because of enrolling me in schools people they didn't know apparently knew me and probably started watching our movements.
"Just how much do you know about me?" I asked, slumping back in the chair given to me.
"Just about everything," the young man told me, "The ability to heal incredibly fast which we believe is the cause of your decreased rate of aging, increased strength, acute senses—you've noticed that you can't hear things outside of this room. That's because this particular room has incredibly thick walls and the mirrored window is made of experimental "soundproof glass". It doesn't really block the sound but it does deaden the noise to a level that normal humans can't hear things on the other side of it and it's muffled to people like us. And of course those claws of yours."
I self-consciously hid my hands under the table, remembering the first time I used them. That man wasn't the only person I'd killed. There'd been a few other times when I'd been living on the streets where some person tried to take advantage of me and I'd freaked, remembering my rape, and killed them without a second thought. Most times I ran until I couldn't run anymore after that happened and I'd cry myself to sleep under a bush in the middle of some forest.
"I should tell you it's natural to feel guilt for killing someone," the man said, "even if they did mean to cause you harm."
I opened my mouth to ask him what he was talking about but he held up his hand.
"We know about your—I'll be tactfully polite here—traumatic experience," he explained, "In fact he was one of our agents. We don't blame you for what you did, he was out of hand. He shouldn't have even been at that bar to begin with. If you hadn't killed him, because of his own extraordinary abilities, he would have been executed for abusing them."
"What about the others?" I whispered, looking down, feeling ashamed that I'd killed some two dozen men in the ten years that I'd been running from my rape.
"I can't say that my superiors want to overlook everything that has happened," the young man said, "but considering what I and some of my other colleagues have done in the past they don't have much backing for any sort of extreme disciplinary action against you."
"You're talking like I'm one of your colleagues," I narrowed my eyes at him.
"I suppose this is where I should tell you what your charges warranting your abduction and your options for the future are," he said leaning back. He sighed and appeared to consider what he was going to say to me. This didn't make me feel good. I was closing in on my eightieth birthday and had plenty of experience with people. The man sitting across the table from me struck me as the person who would go out of his way to be friendly with you if he wanted to be.
"You have twenty-seven accounts of second degree murder, four hundred seventy-two accounts of breaking and entering, pick-pocketing, and general theft. In the state of Maryland that would give you at minimum three life sentences to death row. With your condition you would be kept in strict solitary confinement in a maximum security prison."
He paused as if waiting for the weight of the charges to fully sink down on me.
There was always an "or" usually involving me doing so sort of favor, usually community service, in exchange for the jail time. I always took the alternative and ran at first chance. I was good at disappearing off the grid. Something told me that I wouldn't be able to do anything like that this time however.
"You could agree to work for us for a time. Mostly it just means getting paid to pretend to be a normal person until your ability is required for a service. In this instance it would be the war in either Europe or the Pacific. Most likely Europe as Hitler has been tapping into the strengths of the so called "occult", you know, vampires, werewolves, dark magic…"
I cut him off, "That stuff doesn't exist."
He simply smiled at me. My eyes popped out of my head. His canines were elongated.
"You're a vampire?" I squeaked, surprised at the timidness in my own voice.
"Name's Kyle Moor," he, Kyle, said, "I was born in the year 1723 turned into a vampire 1741. I should note that there are two types of vampires. I'll go by Native American terminology because I hate the scientific shit that they have for us. I'm what you would call a Dark One. Those of us who fall under that category are described as more like the "traditional" vampire. Strange psychic powers, move through the shadows like we were the shadow, incredible strength, acute senses, the need to drink blood…"
"Aren't your eyes supposed to be red?" I asked.
I looked into his eyes, a stormy sort of blue color. I blinked and gasped, sitting back in my chair in shock. His eyes were suddenly bright crimson. As his eyes held me captivated they slowly returned to the stormy blue color.
"Strange psychic powers," he listed off again, "I can subtly alter my appearance so that I look different. I could make my eyes be neon pink if I wanted them to be that color. Thing about vampires is that our weaknesses are far more limited than the Bram Stoker novelization of Dracula. Crossing running water, holy items, garlic, fuck—sunlight—all complete bullshit."
"Where'd the idea come from then," I asked, curious as to the nature of the man in front of me.
"We're predator's Bella, and before you ask: yes we do know that you prefer to be called "Bella" when you actually go by your real name," Kyle said, "the most convenient time to hunt is at night. Though actually Dark Ones are far more powerful at night than during the day. Most of our "supernatural" abilities don't work right during the light of day."
"Wow," I murmured, "Why are you telling me this?" I was suddenly rather suspicious of Kyle; no matter how friendly he was he still was a part of my abduction.
"Bella, your healing ability has been causing you to age extremely slowly," Kyle stated, "and has slowed it even more dramatically since the turn of the century. My resident "expert" (he put quotation marks in the air with his fingers as he said this) has analyzed it and speculates that it will slow even more dramatically. You're physically sixteen as of right now. Robert, my "expert", predicts that you'll age to seventeen by the mid sixties, eighteen somewhere in the eighties, and then nineteen by the next turn of the century, maybe a few years after. Thing is, you're going to stop aging once you hit nineteen. And since you stop aging your body will never wear out, meaning that you won't die unless someone kills you and that will be a difficult task in itself considering the same healing factor."
I was stunned. I was probably going to live forever according to that. That meant that if I took prison time…
"I'll take option B," I said, "What is it that I need to do?"
Well, I hope that I've done an alright job so far. This is just the prologue to the main story, but it's going to last a few chapters so just bare with me for a while. I do have a good portion of the beginning of the story already written so I will just wait a few days to get reader feedback before uploading the next chapter.
For reviewers: criticism is appreciated and asked for. If there is something you don't like that I'm doing let me know so that I know what I should look into changing.
And finally, let me know how I did: please review.