Dead Men Tell No Tales

[Jason Campbell]

Sometimes, a job ceased to exist. The world evolved and no longer needed it. Like gravekeeper. Nowadays, it seemed ridiculous to pay someone to stay by a cemetery. Why would the grave need keeping? It's not like they would go away. That is, you might believe this, until you wished one had been there.

Jason was not the kind to go to the cemetery often but he probably did more than many who considered it just the place where you should dump the dead. Whenever his conscience felt a little guilty about his parents, he would come. When he got there, the sadness and guilt was quickly replaced, first by shock when he saw the orange paint on the tomb, then by anger as he read the word freak it spelled. There were reasons to be angry. It was one thing to hate the mutants, but these ones were dead. What did it achieve to humiliate them?

Jason had returned home, and made sure to tell about it. Only, when calling to report it, he got neither the information nor the helped he wanted. Had he been more into the social medias, maybe he would have thought about taking a picture of the grave and post it online to let the trolls living on the internet to maul the culprits for them, even if it was only virtually. But Jason was not tech savvy so his action was more practical. He returned the next day that he had the time for it with a bucket, water, soap and a brush.

“I’m sorry,” he couldn’t help but whisper at the grave once he reached it. Sorry for what? What happened, or for stepping on them while he cleaned it up? Maybe both. He kneeled in front of the grave and started brushing the stone, hoping the products he brought would be enough to wash it away.

[Mason "Tripp" Norwell]

Wearing
Mason ran one hand absentmindedly over the rusted outer gate of the cemetery. It wasn't really one of his frequent haunts, that would be the music clubs downtown, but he occasionally enjoyed visiting the ancient headstones for some peace and quiet. The place intrigued him. Not in a morbid way like most would conclude based upon his appearance, but in a way that he enjoyed reflecting upon who exactly it was that inhabited the place. There were people here, each with their own personalities, faces, and stories, aspects of them that could never be truly captured by a few brief words carved into marble and stone. Sometimes he wished he could ask who they were, but that would be silly wouldn't it? Tough guys weren't supposed to talk to the dead, be sentimental if you will. It went against the status quo.

The tall, black haired man entered the gaping entrance to continue his walking amongst the graves, being absolutely careful to avoid trespassing upon each individual's sacred ground. That was their land, not his. He could only traipse over what they didn't occupy. Somewhere in here lay his own father, a sick sonovabitch that didn't deserve any flowers or memorials that were normally reserved for the more upstanding members of society. But, despite his protests, his mother had ignored his wishes and had spend thousands upon a handsome headstone, one that the man would likely have poured his bottle of beer over in his living days. Mason shook his head. Whatever. What was done is done.

He turned the corner, dodging a large black mausoleum, and came upon a man kneeling over a grave. What was he doing? The singer narrowed his eyes in confusion, but he heard the words, saw the cleaning supplies, and understood. Some insolent creep had come vandalizing mutant graves. Fucking pigs. He thought with a scowl and shifted to one foot. The amount of people who still hated them was astounding. One would have thought that after years of trying they'd have evolved to tolerate each other's presence in the world. There never was such luck, was there? He cleared his throat and tried to keep the frown from his face as he talked. "For what? A bunch of cowards screwing around where they shouldn't be? It's not your fault in the least bit, mate." There was stifled anger in his words, making them shake ever so slightly. Stuff like this never failed to just piss him off. "I'd recommend paint thinner for that, though, plain water ain't gonna do you much good."

[Jason Campbell]

Sometimes, when Jason looked at the headstone signaling his parents were buried here, he ended up lost in thoughts. It was very simple, their names with the year they were born and the year they died. Nothing more. No special words they could have wished to describe their passage on this earth. Jason and his brother were probably the only ones who still remembered them anyway. To think that his father had been a well known and appreciated doctor around here, once. He was now that doctor but it didn’t change the fact that seeing his tomb treated in such a way was both painful and infuriating for Jason. They were dead. They couldn’t defend themselves or anything. He could take any insult thrown at him but this just crossed the line for him.

He didn't tell his brother about what happened. With a bit of luck, he wouldn’t ever know. Raphael had always been closer to their parents than Jason had ever been. He didn’t want to cause him pain because of what some dimwits chose to do to show their dislike for... well, he assumed mutants, although he was a tad surprised they knew his parents happened to be so. He didn't really check if more graves had been equally desecrated but he had a feeling that if it had been the case, he might find out they all had something in common. If it was just theirs, Jason couldn’t help but feel responsible. He was healing the mutants, he had been tweaking with their medical files for years to cover the nature of their symptoms while providing the right care for them. If his parents had to suffer this insult, it had to be because of his actions.

This made him feel terribly guilty. He may be exaggerating, this may not be his fault but he still couldn’t help but to feel guilty. At least he could clean the mess, or try to. It was the least he owed to them. The paint was hard to get off the stone but he kept brushing as much as he could. He had little else but soap in his arsenal, this not being a job he was used to do.

He startled as he heard a voice. He did not expect anyone to be here as well. He looked at the man. Physically, he probably looked the type of person who might have done something like that. But he doubted whoever did this would then come over to suggest a better way to clean it up, at least not while telling him it was not his fault. Plus he seemed rather angry, although this might not be to out of character for someone who vandalized graves. “Paint thinner? I’m afraid I don’t have that. Thanks for the tip,” he said. He’d still try the soap first, in case it worked. He resumed brushing the stone but stopped and turned his face back at the younger man. “I hope you didn’t end up with the same bad surprise,” he told him. He had no idea if that man was a mutant but even if he was not, he wouldn’t wish for whoever’s grave he came to visit to be in the same state.