The Rise of Apocalypse
There was a man—a real monster—chasing me. I don’t know what he wanted. Maybe it was revenge. Maybe it was just chaos.
He caught me. And when he did, he started hitting me violently, over and over. But his punches? Weak. Pathetic.
They landed with fury but did nothing. My body refused to break.
Frustrated, he threw me down and jumped in his car. Tires screeched, engine roared. He circled me like a vulture, then drove straight into me.
Crash after crash—metal, flesh, fury—but I still didn’t die.
That’s when he tied a rope around me. Started dragging me behind his car, flying down the road like a demon, the pavement shredding around me.
And that’s when I saw it.
A helmet. Lying in the dirt. Old. Heavy. Massive. It looked like something out of a nightmare—ancient, armored, like the one Apocalypse wore in the X-Men comics.
He laughed—actually laughed—and aimed the car straight at it.
He wanted to slam my head into the helmet so hard that it would snap my skull and end it all.
But when my head hit the helmet…
It didn’t kill me.
It changed me.
The metal didn’t break me—it chose me. It fused with me. And in that moment, I understood:
That was how I became Apocalypse.