virulent fate, wade wilson

𝐈𝐈. The Man

  

FOR I AM YOUR CREATION

 

Humans, as a whole, were a danger to the lives of those they considered 'Other' to them. Murder ran in their blood. For decades, they fought battles with rifles in hand and basked in the cries of the children they ripped from their grieving mothers. They conquered worlds that did not bother them, marched their way into planets that shed tears of agony.

            Most notably in the history of the Humans' destruction was the thirteenth day of the storm raking through Varuna, the storm that destroyed homes and labeled infants orphans. It calmed down on that day, leaving behind a couple stray winds as it fled the planet.

            Yet, in walked a greater chaos: a Man, dressed in the colors of a spaceman. Painted on his suit was ichor, and it dripped from his shoes with every step he took. The people of Varuna cowered before him, knees scratching the wet floor and shoulders hunched over in despair. Tears fell from the eyes of his victims, and not a single individual was strong enough to stop him from taking the lives of the innocent.

            A young Virus joined his hands together in prayer to the gods, begging them to protect his mother, begging them to spare his people. On this day, he hid in the attic, willing ichor to line his eyes.

            Still, he did not cry.

            Before his eyes, beyond the speckled window of his home, he saw his brothers and sisters forced to their knees before a spaceman donning white. The color of purity no longer, as he struck them down, one by one. The sword never left his hands.

            A raw scream left Virus' lips as he watched the heads of his family roll, only to be trampled by their bodies that followed after.

            His mother pressed her palm to his lips and whispered a lullaby into his ears, attempting to quell his nerves. She was his shield of red, white, and blue—his star-spangled woman. Uncle Sam spared her no mind, however; he was not going to protect a woman with the blood of Varuna coursing through her veins.

            Ichor spilled from his mother's abdomen, a wound caused when she ran from the Man holding her family captive, but she paid it no mind as she consoled her lone child. He coughed into her palm, and she removed it to reveal the gruesome nature of his illness.

            Virus was a child not meant to be born, a child Varuna rejected as its own. Cursed blood coursed through his veins, poisoning his young arteries. The punishment for being an abomination took form in sickness, an ailment that remained in his body for years to come.

            Startled, his mother watched as the skin of his neck began to rot. It came down in ribbons, spelling out the Happy Birthday she hadn't been able to give him, and her next few intakes of oxygen came out in heaving gasps at the sight.