In Meiner Seele [Eine Schlacht] || In My Soul [A Fight]
Title: In Meiner Seele [Eine Schlacht] || In My Soul [A Fight] (2/?)
Fandom: X-Men First Class
Pairing/Characters: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Raven Darkholme, Hank McCoy, Sebastian Shaw, others.
Rating: NC-17
Content: Serial killer!AU
Word count: 1,976
Warnings: Detailed description of violence, abusive themes, mind-fuckery.
Summary: A non-powered serial killer!AU. Charles Xavier, a detective that spends almost a year on the case of the serial killer, the victims of whom are the former Nazi high-ranked officers. The killer has a distinctive style- precise and accurate hit, leaving only a carved ‘EL’ on their faces. Eventually, some clues were left at the detective’s door step, courtesy of serial killer himself. Torn between his duty as the officer of the law and astonishment of the killer’s mind, he arrives back to a place where it all started and where the killer shall perform the ‘confession’ to his crimes.
A/N: The main source of inspiration for this fic turned out to be Mein Name by Nachtmahr. That’s what the serial killer performs, thus making his ‘confession’.
Read Act I here
Act II
-158 days ago-
“Charles..?”
Her gentle voice, with a tint of sleepiness and worry, reaches your ears. You cast a quick look and a small smile, just a slight curve of your lips, in her direction, and after a moment, you get back to the papers before you.
“It’s way past midnight,” she states, and at that, your attention shifts to the old wooden clock on your wall and your eyebrows lift up; it’s five minutes past three-in the morning. “Sleep, maybe?”
And that offer sounds spectacular, because you feel it now; your whole being feels drained all of a sudden, exhausted beyond any limit, the eye-strain killing you. You run a hand through your hair and with a sigh, you rise up and walk towards the sofa, which now looks like a heaven-sent creation. She taps the soft fabric beside her and you take up that invitation, sprawling not quite elegantly on the couch, your head resting on her lap.
“Why are you doing this to yourself, Charles?” she asks, running her fingers through your hair, soothingly.
‘She has the touch of an angel’ you think, while basking in this sensation; it’s so calming, you feel at ease. You choose to smile and ignore the question; she did not insist on you answering. You drift off to slumber astonishingly fast.
=================================================================
Judging by the golden-lit room, you woke up somewhere around late afternoon. She was no longer there; your apartment seems so quiet without her, lonely and bitter. You yawn, lazily stretching your limbs; and as you turn around in hope of finding a more comfortable position on the couch -that was much softer this morning, you’re sure- you stop. Something was amiss, not quite the same, you just feel it.
You feel awake all of a sudden, as you get up and sit motionless on the couch for a couple of seconds, listening, trying to spot any unfamiliar sounds. Nothing out of the ordinary, as it seems. You relax a bit and exhale, letting the trapped air flow free past your lips. And as you were about to make your way to the kitchen, that flowery mess of drapes, that made your eyes sore on regularly basis, were crumpled in a way that annoyed you; if this monstrosity found its way into your home, then it should at least look decent. As you were straightening the cloth, you could have sworn that you saw a man standing at your front door. You immediately rush there; the colorful flowers left in abandon.
The door swings wide open and you expect to catch the suspicious person, standing right there-you don’t know what you’ll ask once you’d come face to face-but none of that matters right now. To your disappointment there was no one, just cold wind greeting you, like a slap in a face. You look around once more, just to make sure, hoping that you did not imagine that man after all; and in your peripheral vision you see something to your right, something white. A letter?
It sits on your kitchen table for good twenty minutes, and if it had eyes, it would definitely stare at you in an accusation of ‘what are you waiting for?’ You take a sip of tea, too sweet for your taste and cold, only now you realize that it was her tea that she hadn’t finished this morning. But you drink it anyway, drinking tea -cold or hot, doesn’t matter- was your way of thinking, of finding the answers to questions, that exist only in your head.
What could be in it?
You had similar letters, just like that, with no address or anything that would help you to pinpoint the sender -most of them were hate letters, with occasional threats and promises to drown you in the nearest river- none of which you have taken seriously. Although, you have to admit that some of them were disturbing, especially when the mystery sender had mentioned ‘your blonde gal’ or ‘your fair-haired lady’, some of them even had assumed that she was a member of the world’s most ancient profession, some assumed that she was your wife; only after those, you opted to be more careful, more alert to the things around you and of course, around her. For a couple of months, at least.
There were other letters that were more; you don’t even have a word for it -embarrassing, maybe? Those were what others would call ‘love letters,’ with heated confessions and in-depth details of what the writer would do to you, if given a chance. It’s astonishing that you have secret admirers, given your line of work, but you did not, not even once, feel humbled or excited after reading them. In fact, you felt a bit disgusted, just a slight bit, you don’t know why. Or maybe you do know why, but you choose not to think about it.
=================================================================
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Repeat as much as needed. You rub your forehead, in a vain attempt to calm the roar of blood thumping in your head, and after a minute, you jump to your feet. Grab the cup with cold tea and then place it back on the table with a loud clang, you don’t feel like drinking it or anything at all, you don’t feel like you have what it takes to think everything through evenly, without haste and white spots of shock dancing before your eyes. You rub the said spots away and get back to that letter- a piece of paper and five photos. Photos that you don’t want to look at, but you have to, and a letter signed by E.L.
E.L. - a man you were trying to locate, to hunt down and bring justice straight to his doorstep. A man that had some sort of vendetta against some men, who, as far as you’ve been able to find out, had nothing to pay for with their lives. E.L. was a merciless killer and the fact that this is the third letter from him, makes you shudder with anger; he knows that you haven’t got much on him, that so far your case is as good as no case at all. What are those letters, then? A mockery of sorts? A way for him to rub your nose in your failure and frustration? You are at your boiling point, you can tell, but you reel yourself in; anger is not a solution.
You take a look at the letter again; now reading it thoroughly, not skipping straight to the two letters in the bottom corner, curse them. It’s a clue -no, more like evidence- that would give you a rather significant break-through in your case. You re-read it, again and a couple of more times after examining the photographs enclosed with it. The pictures showed a bald, but rather well-fit man in a fancy tuxedo with a young woman hanging on his forearm, as if she feared that he may slip away from her grasp; with champagne in his hand and a smile on his face. The other photos showed a young man, most likely in his early 30’s, with broad shoulders, a strong, distinctive jaw line, and light hair. His look’s fierce, even when looking at the photos you want to look away, it’s too intense, and you can’t imagine what it must’ve felt like to look the man straight in the eye. He’s in a military uniform, you notice seconds later. No doubt that it’s the same man on all of the photos, the resemblance is uncanny.
And as your eyes skip though the details, you realize that what you just saw is something you wish to forget. Eradicate from your brain. Your gaze darts back to the photo of the same man talking to someone and behind him a banner with a symbol - a traitorous equilateral black cross with four arms bent - Third Reich swastika.
=================================================================
You don’t remember the last time you arrived so early at work, not to mention the messy hair and the rumpled shirt peeking out of your half-opened trench coat and the E.L’s letter stuffed into your pocket. There are just a few people present at the precinct at this ungodly hour and quite a few give you a look, their eyebrows shooting up in surprise. You smile at some and ignore the rest as you nearly run to your desk. You plop into the old chair and immediately begin searching for the man E.L. gave you photos of. You still can’t wrap your mind around it -why did he send you this? Maybe that letter was supposed to end up in someone else’s hands?
You remember the first two letters sent by him, there were just facts -coordinates and a name of the victim. After thoroughly examining the files of his previous two victims, almost nothing worth of value came up. First was Imre von Maur, male, 57 years old, former citizen of Germany, who moved to America in 1954. Based on the profile, he was a barber, had two kids, his wife having died in a car accident- nothing out of the ordinary. The second was about the same age, Carl Eisenhauer, 51, no job, no family. No connection between the two, except for their Germanic names. You’ve spent hours -days- starring at their photos, re-reading their case files, trying to see what E.L. definitely wanted you to see. And you were the only one who saw his letters, in return. You can’t explain this, there’s simply no logical explanation for your actions that clearly read as infidelity to everything you stand for. Even now, as you sit here, buried in papers and official documents, trying to find any information on the man from the photo with the banner, you are going against not only your own principles, but against the law. Why are you doing this?
You don’t have an answer. You don’t want to think of an answer, not now. You understand that E.L. has to be brought to justice, you truly do. But aside from the detestation churning in your gut for the things he’d done, you can’t help feeling that there is something more behind his motive, that he’s not a lunatic who kills just for fun, it’s something way more complicated than that. Such thinking won’t do you justice, though. You lean back on your chair and close your eyes for a moment. Think, god damn it.
“Detective,” the too familiar voice of the captain calls out to you and you straighten up in an instant, “You’re up early. Did something come up?” He takes a look at your desk -autopsy and colonel reports- all about Carl Eisenhauer and Imre von Maur, and asks, “News regarding E.L?”
It’s like he can read your mind, it’s creepy. Keep calm, keep your face straight and answer as normally as you can, “Unfortunately, no new information on the case, sir.” Short and simple- a better way to conceal your lies.
For a second there you thought that you’re done for, that he can read you like an open book, as the silence stretches. He scratches his chin and smiles, the kind of smile that was more polite, than anything close to honest and sincere, and says, “Inform me immediately of any changes; I want to be the first one to know when you have any progress on the case.” With that he retreats to his office and the old oak door shuts behind him.
You can finally let go of that breath that you did not even know you were holding. “Yes, of course, you’ll be the first one to know, Mr. Shaw,” you mutter, a bit sarcastically, under your breath.
Fandom: X-Men First Class
Pairing/Characters: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Raven Darkholme, Hank McCoy, Sebastian Shaw, others.
Rating: NC-17
Content: Serial killer!AU
Word count: 1,976
Warnings: Detailed description of violence, abusive themes, mind-fuckery.
Summary: A non-powered serial killer!AU. Charles Xavier, a detective that spends almost a year on the case of the serial killer, the victims of whom are the former Nazi high-ranked officers. The killer has a distinctive style- precise and accurate hit, leaving only a carved ‘EL’ on their faces. Eventually, some clues were left at the detective’s door step, courtesy of serial killer himself. Torn between his duty as the officer of the law and astonishment of the killer’s mind, he arrives back to a place where it all started and where the killer shall perform the ‘confession’ to his crimes.
A/N: The main source of inspiration for this fic turned out to be Mein Name by Nachtmahr. That’s what the serial killer performs, thus making his ‘confession’.
Read Act I here
Act II
-158 days ago-
“Charles..?”
Her gentle voice, with a tint of sleepiness and worry, reaches your ears. You cast a quick look and a small smile, just a slight curve of your lips, in her direction, and after a moment, you get back to the papers before you.
“It’s way past midnight,” she states, and at that, your attention shifts to the old wooden clock on your wall and your eyebrows lift up; it’s five minutes past three-in the morning. “Sleep, maybe?”
And that offer sounds spectacular, because you feel it now; your whole being feels drained all of a sudden, exhausted beyond any limit, the eye-strain killing you. You run a hand through your hair and with a sigh, you rise up and walk towards the sofa, which now looks like a heaven-sent creation. She taps the soft fabric beside her and you take up that invitation, sprawling not quite elegantly on the couch, your head resting on her lap.
“Why are you doing this to yourself, Charles?” she asks, running her fingers through your hair, soothingly.
‘She has the touch of an angel’ you think, while basking in this sensation; it’s so calming, you feel at ease. You choose to smile and ignore the question; she did not insist on you answering. You drift off to slumber astonishingly fast.
=================================================================
Judging by the golden-lit room, you woke up somewhere around late afternoon. She was no longer there; your apartment seems so quiet without her, lonely and bitter. You yawn, lazily stretching your limbs; and as you turn around in hope of finding a more comfortable position on the couch -that was much softer this morning, you’re sure- you stop. Something was amiss, not quite the same, you just feel it.
You feel awake all of a sudden, as you get up and sit motionless on the couch for a couple of seconds, listening, trying to spot any unfamiliar sounds. Nothing out of the ordinary, as it seems. You relax a bit and exhale, letting the trapped air flow free past your lips. And as you were about to make your way to the kitchen, that flowery mess of drapes, that made your eyes sore on regularly basis, were crumpled in a way that annoyed you; if this monstrosity found its way into your home, then it should at least look decent. As you were straightening the cloth, you could have sworn that you saw a man standing at your front door. You immediately rush there; the colorful flowers left in abandon.
The door swings wide open and you expect to catch the suspicious person, standing right there-you don’t know what you’ll ask once you’d come face to face-but none of that matters right now. To your disappointment there was no one, just cold wind greeting you, like a slap in a face. You look around once more, just to make sure, hoping that you did not imagine that man after all; and in your peripheral vision you see something to your right, something white. A letter?
It sits on your kitchen table for good twenty minutes, and if it had eyes, it would definitely stare at you in an accusation of ‘what are you waiting for?’ You take a sip of tea, too sweet for your taste and cold, only now you realize that it was her tea that she hadn’t finished this morning. But you drink it anyway, drinking tea -cold or hot, doesn’t matter- was your way of thinking, of finding the answers to questions, that exist only in your head.
What could be in it?
You had similar letters, just like that, with no address or anything that would help you to pinpoint the sender -most of them were hate letters, with occasional threats and promises to drown you in the nearest river- none of which you have taken seriously. Although, you have to admit that some of them were disturbing, especially when the mystery sender had mentioned ‘your blonde gal’ or ‘your fair-haired lady’, some of them even had assumed that she was a member of the world’s most ancient profession, some assumed that she was your wife; only after those, you opted to be more careful, more alert to the things around you and of course, around her. For a couple of months, at least.
There were other letters that were more; you don’t even have a word for it -embarrassing, maybe? Those were what others would call ‘love letters,’ with heated confessions and in-depth details of what the writer would do to you, if given a chance. It’s astonishing that you have secret admirers, given your line of work, but you did not, not even once, feel humbled or excited after reading them. In fact, you felt a bit disgusted, just a slight bit, you don’t know why. Or maybe you do know why, but you choose not to think about it.
=================================================================
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Repeat as much as needed. You rub your forehead, in a vain attempt to calm the roar of blood thumping in your head, and after a minute, you jump to your feet. Grab the cup with cold tea and then place it back on the table with a loud clang, you don’t feel like drinking it or anything at all, you don’t feel like you have what it takes to think everything through evenly, without haste and white spots of shock dancing before your eyes. You rub the said spots away and get back to that letter- a piece of paper and five photos. Photos that you don’t want to look at, but you have to, and a letter signed by E.L.
E.L. - a man you were trying to locate, to hunt down and bring justice straight to his doorstep. A man that had some sort of vendetta against some men, who, as far as you’ve been able to find out, had nothing to pay for with their lives. E.L. was a merciless killer and the fact that this is the third letter from him, makes you shudder with anger; he knows that you haven’t got much on him, that so far your case is as good as no case at all. What are those letters, then? A mockery of sorts? A way for him to rub your nose in your failure and frustration? You are at your boiling point, you can tell, but you reel yourself in; anger is not a solution.
You take a look at the letter again; now reading it thoroughly, not skipping straight to the two letters in the bottom corner, curse them. It’s a clue -no, more like evidence- that would give you a rather significant break-through in your case. You re-read it, again and a couple of more times after examining the photographs enclosed with it. The pictures showed a bald, but rather well-fit man in a fancy tuxedo with a young woman hanging on his forearm, as if she feared that he may slip away from her grasp; with champagne in his hand and a smile on his face. The other photos showed a young man, most likely in his early 30’s, with broad shoulders, a strong, distinctive jaw line, and light hair. His look’s fierce, even when looking at the photos you want to look away, it’s too intense, and you can’t imagine what it must’ve felt like to look the man straight in the eye. He’s in a military uniform, you notice seconds later. No doubt that it’s the same man on all of the photos, the resemblance is uncanny.
And as your eyes skip though the details, you realize that what you just saw is something you wish to forget. Eradicate from your brain. Your gaze darts back to the photo of the same man talking to someone and behind him a banner with a symbol - a traitorous equilateral black cross with four arms bent - Third Reich swastika.
=================================================================
You don’t remember the last time you arrived so early at work, not to mention the messy hair and the rumpled shirt peeking out of your half-opened trench coat and the E.L’s letter stuffed into your pocket. There are just a few people present at the precinct at this ungodly hour and quite a few give you a look, their eyebrows shooting up in surprise. You smile at some and ignore the rest as you nearly run to your desk. You plop into the old chair and immediately begin searching for the man E.L. gave you photos of. You still can’t wrap your mind around it -why did he send you this? Maybe that letter was supposed to end up in someone else’s hands?
You remember the first two letters sent by him, there were just facts -coordinates and a name of the victim. After thoroughly examining the files of his previous two victims, almost nothing worth of value came up. First was Imre von Maur, male, 57 years old, former citizen of Germany, who moved to America in 1954. Based on the profile, he was a barber, had two kids, his wife having died in a car accident- nothing out of the ordinary. The second was about the same age, Carl Eisenhauer, 51, no job, no family. No connection between the two, except for their Germanic names. You’ve spent hours -days- starring at their photos, re-reading their case files, trying to see what E.L. definitely wanted you to see. And you were the only one who saw his letters, in return. You can’t explain this, there’s simply no logical explanation for your actions that clearly read as infidelity to everything you stand for. Even now, as you sit here, buried in papers and official documents, trying to find any information on the man from the photo with the banner, you are going against not only your own principles, but against the law. Why are you doing this?
You don’t have an answer. You don’t want to think of an answer, not now. You understand that E.L. has to be brought to justice, you truly do. But aside from the detestation churning in your gut for the things he’d done, you can’t help feeling that there is something more behind his motive, that he’s not a lunatic who kills just for fun, it’s something way more complicated than that. Such thinking won’t do you justice, though. You lean back on your chair and close your eyes for a moment. Think, god damn it.
“Detective,” the too familiar voice of the captain calls out to you and you straighten up in an instant, “You’re up early. Did something come up?” He takes a look at your desk -autopsy and colonel reports- all about Carl Eisenhauer and Imre von Maur, and asks, “News regarding E.L?”
It’s like he can read your mind, it’s creepy. Keep calm, keep your face straight and answer as normally as you can, “Unfortunately, no new information on the case, sir.” Short and simple- a better way to conceal your lies.
For a second there you thought that you’re done for, that he can read you like an open book, as the silence stretches. He scratches his chin and smiles, the kind of smile that was more polite, than anything close to honest and sincere, and says, “Inform me immediately of any changes; I want to be the first one to know when you have any progress on the case.” With that he retreats to his office and the old oak door shuts behind him.
You can finally let go of that breath that you did not even know you were holding. “Yes, of course, you’ll be the first one to know, Mr. Shaw,” you mutter, a bit sarcastically, under your breath.