The black cars started their journey, the rubber tyres rolling over the asphalt road. A wide-ranging cover of dark clouds passed by the sun, covering it; rain upon the horizon as the UK settled into the gloom. A coincidental but fitting atmosphere for a morbid event.
As they exited the central gate, remaining relatively undamaged from the previous skirmish, they were joined by a squadron of police. Each was equipped in conspicuous, yellow outfits, the same as their motorcycles. They turned their sirens on, blaring into the distance as a warning, two behind and two in front.
With his hands interlocked, he sat on the right side with Jenny to his left. Her crutches were placed on the floor; slight discomfort was on her face.
"Is there a need for such a pompous display? I'm not part of the Royal Family. An escort is a bit much." Mark voiced to no one specifically.
Jenny replied, her words echoed onto the display and defined under her name, "It isn't that grand, Mark. The press hang around like vultures on trees, waiting for a scoop. Our escort is primarily for opposing covert actions, whilst the bikes are because we have a VIP."
"Surely, we don't need such security, though. My presence should be enough to deter anything, no?"
"You would imagine, and we would like to hope the same. However, the world is paused, awaiting with bated breath. What happens over the weekend will determine reactions. Perhaps one might take the initiative."
"No pressure, then." Mark uttered, staring out at the greenery on the side of the motorway as it whizzed by, "You mentioned the press. Surely this big group of vehicles is exactly what they are after..."
"The press will figure out who you are swiftly. Chances are, they already have. Someone has surely identified your face, so confirming it by such protection to a funeral doesn't particularly matter. Even more so when the press conference is tomorrow."
"Huh, makes sense, I guess."
With that, the conversation stalled. The rest of the ride was silent, the atmosphere turning more despondent the closer the transports got. As they passed the halfway point, a sickly feeling arose in Mark's stomach, similar to nerves or anxiety. Becoming uncomfortable, he decided to put his mind to further discovering his powers and to take his mind off the upcoming event. Turning towards the window, closing his eyes as the orange hue vanished, he concentrated.
Grasping handfuls of the swirling and pulsating energy, he gathered enough, refining it into a string or line, attempting to link it to Barak. The process was incredibly stressful, trying not to alert anyone as his mind strained extensively. Gradually building enough control, lightly wincing from slight pain, he formed the bridge to the man's head. Unsure of where to go, he sought his sense inside of him, encountering resistance.
Spazzing almost unnoticeably, sharp pain rippling through his soul, every effort was used to keep anonymous whilst drudging through the barrier. Pushing forward, he 'saw' Barak's body. Not his physical one, an ethereal and immaterial type, pure light in a mixture of yellow and white, shining luminously. It disgusted him for reasons unknown, but he hated it with a burning passion. The feeling when he consumed the monster, the disgust, scorn and contempt, arising with undeniable emotions of hatred and anger.
Quickly becoming overwhelmed by the sudden surge, he pressed it down as he had before. Focusing, he fixated his sight upon the towering beacon towards the top of Barak's spectral body. The risks weren't lost on him. It could go drastically wrong in numerous ways, but who best to test on than the one to blame for his hearing. Nevertheless, he tried to minimize the chances of a negative occurrence, thinning the bridge to a singular strand.
The ache, starting to become unbearable, the emotions bubbling below the surface, rising like a tsunami, he pierced the radiating beacon of illumination. His eyes shot open, the black pupils overcoming the orange iris as they widened. Thoughts inundated his head, ripping through him like a train, memories blurred within them. Staying for less than a few seconds, he whispered words of nothing, a test.
He got the reaction he hoped for, the theory a partial success, as Barak suddenly jumped in his seat, frowning and confusion plastered across his face. Even better, loud and clear as the forefront thought, he heard the man think, 'What was that?'
"Did you guys hear that?" The suited man spoke, his shades covering his quivering eyes. Getting confused glances from everyone, each saying they heard nothing, he settled down and shook his head.
As the people in the car sat, unaware, Mark inwardly laughed. He might not be deaf forever, but he had done something significant. Something he could use in place of his hearing.
Arriving at the funeral, a towering church with a large plot of land surrounding it, the greenish-brown grass was dotted with gravestones. Gravel paths bent and twisted around them, lending routes to deceased loved ones.
It would be a peaceful ambience, tranquil even, if not for the rumbling thunder booming amongst the swirling storm, the sun hidden behind grey clouds. As the car doors opened, suited men stepped out and checked the area for supposed threats; the light pitter-patter of water leaked from the sky.
"Damn rain." Someone moaned amidst the groans and complaints of annoyed security guards. They opened the car boots, picking out umbrellas and handing them out. Giving one to Mark, two soldiers hanging around Barak and Jenny, both incapable of holding one without discomfort and pain.
Mark opened the covering, the rain striking the fabric in increasing amounts, a loud boom of thunder erupting above. He spotted other transports covering parking spaces, not many, but enough for ten to twenty people. Looking towards Jenny, both hands holding something, he walked beside her.
"You alright? Funerals are always a solemn affair. I dread to think of the atmosphere for all those lost at the base." She shook her head, "Sorry, that was insensitive. Today is your day, not others."
"It's ok. How many passed?" Mark questioned, stopping outside the reception doors as soldiers in suits entered, "We've stopped?"
"Sorry, standard procedure, unfortunately. They're just securing the premises, double-checking that everyone has been run down. No guns or weapons, that sort of thing. As to your first question, 122 are unaccounted for."
Mark tutted, "122? So many..." He sighed, "It reminds me to visit Jeremy. I've... been putting it off. His disfigurement was my fault. If I'd been more self-assured, I could've stopped them."
"Don't live in events gone by, Mark. It happened, and Jeremy got unlucky. Every experience, good or bad, shapes us into who we are today. Make it a good change."
"Everything's good. Security will be on the perimeter, and only us 4 will be beside you, Mark. That good?" Barak interrupted, gesturing towards himself, Jenny and two burly men holding umbrellas.
Slightly chuckling at the peculiar sight, Mark stated it was fine as they moved inwards. Stepping into the reception as the unpleasant feeling returned, lingering in the pit of his abdomen, he grimaced from the sensation and examined the room.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the sharp stares burrowing into him. Most, he didn't know, but vague distinct features aligned each person to one of the deceased, likely blood-related. They were in packs, barely communicating with each other, what he presumed to be Amelia's side dressed smartly with gem earrings and designer watches.
Their affluence was in stark contrast to the left side of reception, merely a small group of four, two women and two men. One of the men had a very familiar face to his father, almost certainly his brother. He had the same middle-aged wrinkles crowning his forehead and balding becoming more pronounced. Glancing at the rest, he presumed one of the women to be his dad's sister, fuzzy memories of hearing about her emerging in his recollection.
Mark was getting progressively more uncomfortable at them gawking, his unique appearance causing varying thoughts and emotions. There was one, however, that he could feel thoroughly. It bore into him like a knife, digging deeper in, a gaze of pure emotion, unfiltered and unbothered by all things.
Mark watched an elderly lady stomp over, slight nervousness at first, before she asserted herself mentally, her stride forceful and hurried. She had a look of superiority around her. It was almost hidden by her bursting anger, as the veins were practically popping out of her face. Arriving before him, she paused, perhaps preparing her words.
"You! You're the fucking cunt! You're the one... you killed my baby! My only child!" The woman practically screamed, becoming a wail as she continued. Mark was stunned, expecting a tirade of insults but not blame. He stood, rooted to the spot, unable to speak as one of the muscular men accompanying him tried to intervene. He stared at the screen for a moment, unsure whether it was malfunctioning.
"Do not touch me!" She shrieked, even more hysterical, tears streaming down her face as she scratched the man away, "You deserved to die! Not Amelia. Not my baby! All because she fell in love with your bumbling, retard of a father!"
He snorted, a half stunted chuckle and half scorn, a reaction he didn't control. This seemingly set the woman off, even more, spitting out theories of how Mark caused everything, that it was purposeful, vengeful even. That he had given his soul to some dark god, or demon, all for his lust for power.
"This woman is completely out of control." Barak voiced out, "Mike, you mind?"
"No, Sir. Mam, please come with me. If you do not calm down, you will be thrown out."
"I see this! Protecting a monster! All for him to use his dark, blood-ridden gifts to aid your debauchery and plots. I see. I know. They talk about it online; it's all over the news, Mark. Everyone knows what you did! Yo-"
Mark watched, his body tensing as his annoyance grew, something darker shimmering within. He loved his family, blood-related or not. He would never hurt them of his own free will. To be accused of such a thing hurt, at their funeral no less. He wouldn't forget this, the slight or the disrespect for the dead, the repugnant words used to describe his father. He would remember her words of contempt.
Getting a direct command from his superiors, the brawny man, rather forcefully, dragged the woman outside to either cool down or not take part at all. Her cries could be heard even as they were approached and led away by the church officials. Both groups ignored him, whether out of fear or respect for his loss, he didn't know. Either way, he didn't mind, as long as Amelia's side of the family didn't make any more issues.
The procession took the expected length, time passing by as they sat and listened to the sermon, a small vigil held for those who had gone through the gates of Heaven. Throughout it all, Mark acted mechanically, his thoughts trailing what he wanted to say. His last words to them. He didn't feel well, reality dawning upon him. He would never see them again, permanently, such a difficult concept to grasp from someone who has lost little before.
He traipsed along - monotonously - as they entered the land outside, the winter chill blowing the spiked trees and brown grass. The rain was pouring now, apt for the depressing situation, rolling off umbrellas and plants endlessly. It was cold too, adding to the bleak atmosphere, barely above the precipice for snow.
Even during the burial ceremony, he acted lost, unsure of how it came to this. So much had changed in such little time; no pause to catch his thoughts, to grieve, always surrounded by events sweeping him in their heavy currents. Yet now, as the burial concluded, the priest presented the last rites, and the family members gave their final goodbyes, one even having an ode or elegy to the deceased.
Nudged by Barak, Jenny and the men holding the cover nearby, "We'll give you time, Mark. Don't worry about a limit."
That said, they walked into the distance, entering the dry church and back to reception, leaving Mark alone in the wilderness, the gravestones staring at him with pitying reflections. He wished he could have seen them, no matter their state, just once. But he didn't, standing before a large grave site, a memorial, soundlessly. The only constant was the unending pitter-patter of rain striking the ground.
Mark stared at the epitaph, all buried together, besides Elise. Putting off this moment for so long, he was lost for words. Even as his tears fell like the rain, he hovered around the marked grave.
Sniffling and taking an assuring deep breath, he spoke his peace, "I don't know if you can hear me. I don't even know if there is an afterlife. But if you are... I wanted to say I'm sorry. I may never know the true reason for what happened, but I know within me... I did it. I... killed you... and it's so hard, so very, very hard to live with myself. For a while now, I've been putting this off, blocking you from my memory, and it's wrong. To cope, to understand that you're gone, and I was the one..."
Wiping the tears from his eyes, still crouched, as his eyes glazed over, reading every name written upon the stone over and over, he miserably resumed, "I miss you. I have no guidance but the professor, no one to talk to, no one to be vulnerable around. It's all my fault, despite how much I accept myself, my changes and gift... deep down, I loathe myself. Perhaps I wish I had gone beyond with you. But yet... here I am." Chuckling in sadness, "I- I can't rest. Not yet. Not without doing my part; to compensate the world for your loss. No matter how much I grieve or mourn for you, I'm required to shoulder on in my apparent duty. How pathetic I must look in front of you, whining. But I'm lost... so very lost. My dreams and yours are shattered. Our shared goals and memories are overridden by a deluge of horrific recollections..."
He sighed, thunder rippling in the sky above, "I'll join you. Soon. You can judge me then."
Squatting for a minute more, searing this moment into his memory bank, he stood up. The rain was torrential now, puddles forming endlessly, the ground feeble and soaked, besides the new grave. Hovering his hand outside the umbrella as raindrops splashed onto his palm, the sensation unimaginably vague and distant, he took a deep breath to end his weary mood.
Taking his time, he strolled back into the reception to the awaiting brigadiers. Besides them, the room was largely empty, only the security detail lingering as family members were long gone.
"Let's get back." Mark uttered as he walked past them.
Barak and Jenny furrowed their brows, glancing at each other before following.