He is not a small man, this dark-skinned mercenary staring in the dirty mirror of an unclean washroom out of his one remaining eye. The dark red M still marks his face.
Didn' t'ink y' could wash away y'r scars, pup?
A voice nags at his mind, casting the only doubts he ever has that he is doing the right thing at the right time. This voice in his head, his memory, it tells him how to manipulate time, people, events. Its cruelty whispers to him about powers and nations and the burning of buildings in time. It drives him to do whatever it takes.
He never wanted to be his father's son.
Raised y', pup. 'Bout time y' returned t' de fold.
"I'm not like you!" He slams a massive fist—the only one he has left—into the mirror. Spiderweb cracks shatter through the glass. Blood wells up under the dark skin.
He loves them. He is not like the Witness, this insidious voice. He loves them.
What makes y' so sure I don't?
Didn' t'ink y' could wash away y'r scars, pup?
A voice nags at his mind, casting the only doubts he ever has that he is doing the right thing at the right time. This voice in his head, his memory, it tells him how to manipulate time, people, events. Its cruelty whispers to him about powers and nations and the burning of buildings in time. It drives him to do whatever it takes.
He never wanted to be his father's son.
Raised y', pup. 'Bout time y' returned t' de fold.
"I'm not like you!" He slams a massive fist—the only one he has left—into the mirror. Spiderweb cracks shatter through the glass. Blood wells up under the dark skin.
He loves them. He is not like the Witness, this insidious voice. He loves them.
What makes y' so sure I don't?
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