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From the moment Midnighter was born anew, no past memories and a computer in his brain, everything he looked at was a threat.
Every person he met, the computer immediately showed him a million different ways to slaughter them. Men, women, children. The computer didn't discriminate. And as much as he wanted to be wrong, Midnighter did feel guilt.
Saying he had grown desensitized was an understatement. He was reborn desensitized.
He knew he was, he knew what he was capable of, and what he wasn't capable of…
But then it happened.
He could recall the day vividly. Every step he took, every person he looked at, every one of Henry Bendix minions he'd sent to hunt him down that he'd swiftly slaughtered with ease.
—
Sat up against a tree, waiting for his healing factor to stitch a nasty gash in his Achilles tendon back together, was Midnighter.
It was late in the afternoon. Not quite sunset, but the sun was low enough in the sky to be almost blinding.
He was very quickly growing sick of Bendix’s persistence. Every day, Midnighter fought, ran, recovered. Fought, ran, recovered. Fought. Ran. Recovered.
He wanted nothing more than to storm into Bendix's lab and twist off the top of his skull like the madman had done to the man in his body before he was Midnighter. But he was smart enough to know that was a horrible idea, and Bendix knew that Midnighter was smart enough to know it was a horrible idea. Ergo the constant chase. The fighting, the running, the recovering.
But on that fateful afternoon, something - someone - interrupted that cycle.
A warmth impossible to ignore ran through Midnighter's self mending body. Through the fiber of his torn leather costume and into both his hearts. The warmth was familiar, but for the first time, Midnighter was uncertain. He couldn't recall.
When he looked up towards the piercingly bright sun, low in the sky, he was the figure of a man.
He watched cautiously as the man's feet gently settled on the ground a few meters away from him before he tossed the body of one of Bendix's men in front of him.
His computer should've been buzzing. Telling him to shoot the man. He was clearly strong enough to kill. Definitely superhuman from the flight. But something that Midnighter couldn't link the warmth to silenced the computer.
The closer the man got, the warmer M became, but the heat never became an uncomfortable temperature. Only ever tethering around what was comfortable and bearable.
“I saw you fighting these men.”
The man spoke.
Like the warmth radiating off of him, his voice felt so familiar to M, but he couldn't put his gloved finger on it.
“What of it?”
Midnighter replied with a huff, looking back down to his wound. Both to avoid looking towards the blinding light, but also to figure out when he would have the best chance to fight or run with his injuries.
As much as he hated to admit it, the lack of a response to the man's approaching presence worried him.
When M looked back up towards the man, he'd stepped over the dead body, his tall frame blocking out the sun. M could finally see his face, and still, the computer stayed unresponsive for a concerning amount of time.
There was a glow to the man that M couldn't quite tell if it was from the glow of the sun behind him, or from the man himself. He had hair that fell just past his shoulders in a wave of silky white strands. His skin was this sun-kissed olive with warmth radiating from every pore.
“They didn't bang you up too much, I hope.”
He spoke, warm amber eyes glancing down to M's torn muscle actively pulling itself back together.
The man didn't even raise a brow at the sight.
The computer immediately whirred back to life, immediately working overtime to assess every outcome of this situation. How Midnighter could deal with this superhuman.
His eyes narrowed with suspicion. Which the man immediately noticed.
“My name is Apollo. I was also made superhuman by Henry Bendix.”
He said, extending his hand to M.
Midnighter glanced between Apollo's face and his hand. His computer told him to take his hand and snap his arm in five different places.
“I'm fine.”
He mumbled, placing his hands on his knees and standing up himself, brushing himself off before looking at Apollo again.
“If you're here to take me back, good luck.”
Apollo laughed. Not a mocking laugh. Just a soft chuckle.
M felt the computer short circuit again.
“I'm not here to take you back to that… monster Bendix.”
He replied, holding up both his hands.
“I've been looking for you for a while, Midnighter. During my own escape, I stumbled across files about you. Another escapee. Another superhuman soldier.”
He lowered his voice and added, “I want to work together.”
—
M likes to recall that day. Not so much the bloody fighting and watching his exposed muscles pulling themselves back together. But the first civil conversation he'd had since he'd awoke as Midnighter.
“What are you thinking about?”
M turned his head to his side, where Apollo lay beside him. His white hair splayed across the pillow as he stared at M with those same warm eyes.
“How do you know I'm thinking about anything?”
Apollo snorted and rolled his eyes.
“You're always thinking about something.”
M stayed silent, looking back up at the ceiling.
“What is it?”
“Do you remember when we met?”
He eventually replied.
“Of course. You threatened to fight me then introduced yourself with a fake name. Lucas Trent, my ass.”
Apollo mused, his hand sliding up to rest on M's chest.
“What about it?”
“Nothing. That's just what I was thinking about.”
Midnighter turned his head, studying the man beside him. God, he was ethereal. Every point of contact sent his computer into a spiral. The computer hated it. Midnighter loved it.
Especially when that skin was his lips on his.
That shut the computer up.