For centuries, he had slumbered.
Entombed beneath forgotten rock and ancient seals, his body had decayed, regenerated, and then lain still. But his will—his consciousness—had never ceased. It waited.
Until the world called to him again.
A world where mutants were hunted, forced into hiding, abused by governments and corporations alike.
A world where the strong were shackled.
A world that needed him.
The tomb cracked open with a shuddering groan, centuries-old dust spilling like ash into the morning light. Blue-skinned and towering, his body regenerated muscle by muscle, sinew by sinew, armor pulling itself onto his skin like living steel.
He inhaled deeply — the air polluted, synthetic. He hated it.
The world had changed.
But it had grown weaker.
That would change too.
***
The desert winds blew hot and hollow.
From beneath the cracked sand, something ancient stirred. A faint hum of power vibrated through the stones, and then—silence shattered.
Dust exploded upward as a figure emerged, slow but certain. His body was wrapped in old, worn fabrics, sun-bleached and frayed by time. His face, sharp and weathered, was marked by strange, faded lines — ancient symbols of a long-dead language. He blinked against the harsh sun.
Apocalypse had awakened.
The world was louder now. Faster. Strange machines roared across highways, and towers scraped the sky. The desert had once held temples. Now it was nothing but gas stations and silent highways.
He walked for days. No need for food, no need for sleep. Just… watching.
And as he neared the edge of the city — somewhere new, somewhere broken — he felt it.
A flicker.
A mutant.
Weak. Afraid. But undeniably there.
He followed it like instinct, weaving through the buzzing streets. Neon lights flickered over his robes as he passed unnoticed, blending into the crowd. The city was alive with noise and motion — cars honking, people shouting, screens screaming ads into the night — but he heard none of it.
Only her.
A pulse of weather-torn energy tugged at his senses. His feet brought him into a narrow alley, damp and half-lit by a failing streetlamp.
There, she lay.
Young. Bleeding. Curled into herself like a wounded animal.
Ororo Munroe.
Storm.
Two men stood over her, armored in black riot gear, laughing as they struck her again. She twitched, lightning crackling faintly in her open palms — too weak to control it, too drained to fight back.
"Filthy mutie."
"Try that weather crap again, we'll knock your jaw off."
They didn't see the figure behind them.
Didn't notice until one man's voice caught in his throat.
"Hey… who the hell—?"
The stranger raised his hand.
And with a flick of his wrist, the alley fell silent. Their voices stopped. Their movements froze mid-motion. They stared, wide-eyed, as gravity seemed to warp around them.
Then, in one sharp motion, they crumpled. Not killed — but erased. Their bodies collapsed as if they had never mattered.
Storm looked up through swollen eyes, panting, frightened. Lightning danced uncontrolled across her arms.
"I didn't ask for help," she hissed, voice hoarse but proud.
"I did not come to ask," Apocalypse replied, kneeling beside her.
She trembled as his hand hovered over her forehead — not touching, just feeling. The energy within her screamed, untamed and unstable.
"Your power is unrefined," he said. "But it is true."
He closed his eyes. The lines along his face glowed faintly as his power surged through her. Not healing — no, something more.
Amplifying.
Her body arched. Lightning exploded up into the sky from the alley, shattering a nearby streetlight in a storm of sparks.
She gasped. The pain was gone.
She stood — not shakily, but strong, eyes glowing white with power now fully her own.
"What did you do?" she whispered.
"I reminded you," Apocalypse said, stepping back into the shadow of the alley. "What it means to be a god among insects."
And with that, he turned, disappearing into the city streets.
The world had forgotten him.
But he had not forgotten the world.
And he would find the rest.
One by one.
The city never slept — but it screamed in silence.
Apocalypse moved through its underbelly like a phantom. He didn't take to the skies. He didn't need grand entrances. He walked. Through subways. Under bridges. Past crumbling projects and alleyways soaked in neon and despair.
And everywhere he went…
He felt them.
Scattered, broken embers of mutantkind. Hiding. Starving. Shackled by fear or shame. Beaten not just by fists — but by the world that taught them to shrink.
***
One night, in a run-down neighborhood lined with flickering streetlamps and boarded-up windows, he found a boy.
No older than ten.
Hunched in a rusted-out playground, sobbing quietly, while the air around him shimmered like heated glass. Anyone who came near him felt dizzy — sick. His own parents had called him a "freak." The local gangs tried to "cleanse" the area.
Now he was alone. Cold. Terrified of himself.
Apocalypse didn't speak. He merely knelt before the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder.
The shimmer around the child intensified — for a second, Apocalypse's skin cracked with heat. But he didn't flinch.
"Control is not given," he said softly, voice like thunder in a whisper. "It is taken."
A pulse of energy rolled outward — not painful, but powerful. The boy gasped as clarity washed over him, the nausea vanishing from his aura. His powers — heat distortion and localized gravity bends — focused. Solidified. Harnessed.
He looked up, eyes wide.
"Wh-who are you?"
"I am your future," Apocalypse said. "And you are mine."
He walked on.
***
In the underbelly of an industrial district, he found another: a woman with steel-gray skin, shackled in a pit beneath an abandoned building. Her captors used her for pit fights, betting on how long she'd last against monsters and mercenaries.
When Apocalypse entered the ring, her jailers laughed.
When he left, they were dust.
She rose from the blood-stained sand, confused, body cracked but not broken.
"You're… not human," she said.
"No," he answered. "And neither are you."
He pressed his palm to her chest. Power surged through her, unlocking subdermal metal grafts her body had once rejected. Now they fused into her — beautifully, perfectly — turning her into living titanium, free and invincible.
"Come," he said, walking ahead. "The world has long feasted on us. Now, we return the hunger."
She followed.
***
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