#311 - Recognition
Thank somebody for something.
Though his own puissance waxed and waned, Magneto nevertheless regarded himself -- perhaps rightfully -- as one of the most powerful mutants on the planet. He understood power in a way no flatscan or most mutants could; the power to reshape the Earth and move the stars. The power to change things changed you. That was inevitable. It made you inhuman, or it made you more than human. It marked you, set you out as different, as apart from the herd.
Shamans walked on the edges of the world, he knew. And sometimes, perhaps, they fell off.
Somewhere, up above them, it was Thanksgiving. Here, in the HYDRA base, it could have been any time at all. They'd done this before, and no doubt would again, searching for their target and wiping out the vermin along the way. It was a good plan, audacious and far reaching, genius and just a little bit mad, and Magneto knew he was being lied to, but not what about or why.
"Have you forgotten what you're looking for?" he asked mildly.
"I remember lots of things," Red said, absently. Not king, never king, not to Magneto, who served no master but the needs of his people, but not Mike either. Red, for the warning. "I remember the lives you've ended and the lives you saved and the children that died because your people got sloppy." Red frowned a little. "I remember Australia."
Australia? They'd never been in Australia together, and Magneto had no idea what else could be being referred to. Finally he gave in and just asked, "Australia?"
"Australia," Red agreed, and the security cabinets around him rippled like water, breaking like the surf. "Nice country. Rather flammable in places. The trees explode. It's really quite lovely."
There was something wrong with his voice, with his accent that slipped and slid all across America from Alaska to Kansas to New York. A distance, perhaps. Something of an echo.
"Am I talking to the Phoenix?" Magneto asked, earning an eye roll but no answer.
He felt the local electromagnetic fields shift, opened his mouth to speak a warning, already bending lines of force, around himself as a shield, around whatever was approaching as an attack; and he had a moment to recognise it, recognise the styling as one of Bastion's Prime Sentinels; a moment to fall back under its onslaught as it slipped through this grasp like it wasn't there; and then it twitched and collapsed on him, sheer dead weight.
"Thanks for your help, chum," Red said, with all apparent sincerity, holding the sentinel's processing core, still dripping viscera. "On to the next installation, I think."
Power was the problem. Power was the key. There were plots within plots, genius and madness endlessly entwined. Ten thousand winding paths, forwards and backwards through the world. Power was the problem and the key and, somewhere deep down, under layers of magnetic force and psychic shields, Magneto remembered the Savage Land and the mutate process and the people who remained, still loyal to him after all these years.
"As you say," Magneto agreed. "On to the next."
Though his own puissance waxed and waned, Magneto nevertheless regarded himself -- perhaps rightfully -- as one of the most powerful mutants on the planet. He understood power in a way no flatscan or most mutants could; the power to reshape the Earth and move the stars. The power to change things changed you. That was inevitable. It made you inhuman, or it made you more than human. It marked you, set you out as different, as apart from the herd.
Shamans walked on the edges of the world, he knew. And sometimes, perhaps, they fell off.
Somewhere, up above them, it was Thanksgiving. Here, in the HYDRA base, it could have been any time at all. They'd done this before, and no doubt would again, searching for their target and wiping out the vermin along the way. It was a good plan, audacious and far reaching, genius and just a little bit mad, and Magneto knew he was being lied to, but not what about or why.
"Have you forgotten what you're looking for?" he asked mildly.
"I remember lots of things," Red said, absently. Not king, never king, not to Magneto, who served no master but the needs of his people, but not Mike either. Red, for the warning. "I remember the lives you've ended and the lives you saved and the children that died because your people got sloppy." Red frowned a little. "I remember Australia."
Australia? They'd never been in Australia together, and Magneto had no idea what else could be being referred to. Finally he gave in and just asked, "Australia?"
"Australia," Red agreed, and the security cabinets around him rippled like water, breaking like the surf. "Nice country. Rather flammable in places. The trees explode. It's really quite lovely."
There was something wrong with his voice, with his accent that slipped and slid all across America from Alaska to Kansas to New York. A distance, perhaps. Something of an echo.
"Am I talking to the Phoenix?" Magneto asked, earning an eye roll but no answer.
He felt the local electromagnetic fields shift, opened his mouth to speak a warning, already bending lines of force, around himself as a shield, around whatever was approaching as an attack; and he had a moment to recognise it, recognise the styling as one of Bastion's Prime Sentinels; a moment to fall back under its onslaught as it slipped through this grasp like it wasn't there; and then it twitched and collapsed on him, sheer dead weight.
"Thanks for your help, chum," Red said, with all apparent sincerity, holding the sentinel's processing core, still dripping viscera. "On to the next installation, I think."
Power was the problem. Power was the key. There were plots within plots, genius and madness endlessly entwined. Ten thousand winding paths, forwards and backwards through the world. Power was the problem and the key and, somewhere deep down, under layers of magnetic force and psychic shields, Magneto remembered the Savage Land and the mutate process and the people who remained, still loyal to him after all these years.
"As you say," Magneto agreed. "On to the next."