Last Day
OOC: Part of Erik's agreement with the government was that he be allowed to have one day unsupervised to get his affairs in order prior to going into outer space. This is that day. There are some continuity blips because I didn't play them in order, but nothing significant!
The night prior:
=XS= Xavier's Office - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
This is a quiet, gracious room, wood panels and polished wooden floor giving warmth to a great and high-ceilinged study. A large fireplace claims the inner wall, a mantel lipped wide under a 16th century painting of Leonidas at Thermopylae. Colors are rich, glowing with life and vigor; the room itself is adorned likewise, thick rugs laid underfoot to draw together the hues of curtains and prints. A large desk dominates the far end of the room, framed behind by high windows that look out across the lawn. Closer to the door, bookshelves curl around the corner, framing a small nook for heavy, butter-soft leather chairs and sofas circled around a small tea table and chessboard.
Erik is on his feet, too restless to relegate himself to any of the furniture present. Whiskey in hand, hollow-cheeked and hollow-eyed, he stares blandly at the corner of Xavier's desk as he takes the first sip. He is scruffy. Scruffier, perhaps, than he was upon arrival, though better dressed in slacks and a soft bronze vest to match over the more austere white of his dress shirt. His tie is loose, and after a moment's calculation, he sips again, apparently finding the alcohol to his taste.
It should be, given its source and cost. Placid by comparison -- though limited perhaps in any expression of restlessness, even if he were not -- Charles reclines in one of the deep-cushioned chairs by the fireplace, his own drink (scotch, tawnier) glowing amber between his fingers. He is pinpoint-precise in his attire, but then, he usually is: suit, tie, slacks, Italian shoes. "You will wear my carpets out eventually," he says, less in admonition than in dispassionate statement of fact. "Are you intending to maintain this level up there?"
"There is no carpet in outer space." Quietly disinclined towards cooperation, Erik manages to respond to statement of fact and the accompanying question with an answer that does not really address either. He remains near the desk, simply standing, rather than pacing, and takes a longer draw from his glass before peering down into it.
"Likewise, no whiskey," Charles notes, though there is a question mark in the comment, the barest upturn of cadence and timbre. He lifts his own drink, inspecting it for utterly imaginary flotsam and jetsam, and adds, "I suppose it's just as well. How do you feel?" It is an oblique inquiry into too many things to be specified.
"There is no whiskey in prison, either." And in Erik's prison, no place to hide it anyway. He savors it all the same, old habits and thirsts and addictions living on as flickers of heat beneath the barren surface. It is good whiskey, after all. "Magnificent," is the answer that follows, as unhelpful as the first. Also factually untrue.
Telepathy, thoughtless and familiar, drifts on an eddy of similar habit across Erik's mind. Charles says without heat, "Honesty and you used to be better acquainted. Then again--" A glimpse of amusement briefly darkens the other man's gaze, making a shadow out of nostalgia, "--I've learned not to answer its calls, either." He stretches an arm to the decanter, lifting it in a mute offer: refill?
Erik has little to say to that. He just looks to Xavier, brows lifted in bland apathy for whatever might be gained through honesty now, with decisions made and paths determined. He does pace for the offered decanter, though, glass only half empty when he holds it down for Charles to refill.
Charles is not stingy with his hospitality, or his whiskey. It is not to his taste regardless, a vagrant thought that slips into Erik's mind without preamble and is followed up with the wry awareness that it is kept on hand mostly for his current guest's infrequent visits. Charming, unspoken collusion. << It would make me feel better if you felt you had a greater stake in success, >> he observes.
His thoughts are as devoid of feeling as one might expect, with no secret hope or fear coursing beneath his sober exterior. Not unlike a celestial body itself, his mindscape is entombed in a silent vacuum, with a rugged surface unstirred by wind or weather. If there is still heat at its core, it is keeping itself well-hidden, and Erik opts to reply out loud. Perhaps for that reason. "You, and the entirety of the United States Government."
"Spare me the flattering comparison," Charles says dryly, his voice following Erik back into the domain of the aural, even if the sense of his presence remains unmoved in Magneto's mind, waiting in patient chiaroscuro. He replaces the decanter on its metal tray, stoppering it again with cut crystal. It clinks quietly, a hollow, muffled sound. "Between us, then. Old friend. I have no inclination to send you out simply to die ahead of schedule."
"At this point," says Erik, "I could die at any time, and still be behind schedule. Even by your standards. ...If your memory is not yet so weathered that you have forgotten your own attempt upon my life. Old friend." The title is matched tone for tone, with an acrid aftertaste that has more presence in voice than it does in thought or manner, and Erik turns away to trod back for the desk, whiskey in hand.
A hit, by any standards. The Charles in Erik's mind flinches, if only by a bit, old guilt seeping out like squid's ink to briefly poison the aether around him. His recovery, such as it is, is patchworked by hard-won humor. "Saved by a mole, as it happens," he says aloud, "eating through some cabling. Or so I'm informed by Forge. Nature defeating nurture, to some extent." And, without apology: << At the time, I believed I would be doing you a favor. >>
Conscious of the recoil, Erik smiles thinly to himself, one corner of his thin-pressed mouth tempted into a lift that is then quick to fade. He sips. It is still good whiskey. He sips again, and sets the glass down on Charles' desk, hardly touched. "I'm sure you had the best of intentions."
<< We usually do, >> Charles sighs, lingering a moment longer in the bald and treacherous honesty of telepathy. His eyes crinkle, if not in a smile, and his gaze turns away towards the rows of books shelved in leather-bound, polished ranks across the wall. Awareness of Erik's movements does not require sight. << Both of us. Or did. Would it make any difference to know that I have occasionally been grateful to that mole? >>
Lazy acknowledgement drifts hazily around honesty, and tips Erik's chin slightly down. Not a nod, really, but near enough. << I haven't really held it against you. >> His hand settles to a rest over his semi-abandoned glass, but doesn't lift at it. He continues to study the desk. "I intend to leave early in the morning. There may be something of a fuss if the government was less than forward in its side of our agreement."
"Imagine," says Charles, with a lightly-toothed acerbity that has a modicum of smugness in it. Telepathic ethics are better preached than practiced. He turns his hand, open-palmed, into a shrug that does not disrupt the smooth line of his shoulders. "It will do them good to learn to deal with the unexpected. The human equation does not particularly conform to regulation. What will you do?"
"The falling action." Alcohol has finally begun to sink some measure of warmth into his frozen exterior, and the rigid flat of his shoulders sees fit to relax. Marginally. "Loose ends to be tied. Unresolved conflicts and unfinished business." His splayed fingers tap over his glass's rim, then curl back around it once more, back still to Charles. "Fortunately I have the advantage of having been away for long enough that some of it has likely resolved itself."
There is silence in the wake of that, and the small tightening of pain around the wise, old eyes. There will be more younger, unfinished lives on this flight than simply Erik's. "If you do not succeed, it seems unlikely I will be about long enough to fulfill any reasonable requests of yours," Charles says after a long moment, fingertips sliding damply across the condensation on his glass. He looks through the clear channels drawn by his thumb's sweep. "On the other hand, if you succeed and cannot return--"
"It won't matter." The glass is finally abandoned, and Erik turns slowly to track for the clump of furniture that is currently playing host to Charles. "I have already contacted the firm in control of my personal assets. The legitimate fraction will be signed over to your name. What happens to the rest is no concern of yours."
"And your people?"
"Will continue to be persecuted, murdered, and otherwise destroyed by the scourge that you are so eager to protect." Whiskey might slacken his shoulders and soften the set of his spine, but it does little to smooth the bitter lines written in around his mouth and brow. "There are no happy endings."
"Odd," murmurs Charles, his own mouth thinning towards rue, more than bitterness, "how the selfsame words could be used by any non-mutant friend I possess. I would give them the same answer that you've heard before. With some of them, at least I would not be wasting my breath. I will do what I can for them, if they want my assistance."
Anger and frustration burn brilliant in the blue of Erik's eyes, but the energy to maintain the feeling isn't there, and fire falls to the usual grey ash of late without a struggle. Strain shows around his neck again, and bunches into wiry shoulders and arms, and Erik turns for the door.
The empty hand lifts as though to call him back, then settles on the seat's arm, loosely curled. << Old friend, >> says Charles in the barren wasteland of Erik's mind, and there is no special emphasis in the words save that of familiarity and affection that has spanned generations. << Come back whole and well when you are done. There are still new conversations to be had. Old dogs can yet learn new tricks. >>
<< I am not interested in learning. >> "I have never been interested. Your optimism for these people has left you blind to reality, as it has shielded you from the reality of my own existence." Frustration is no longer hot, but sinks cold and black through the stiff set of Erik's jaw. His voice is without inflection or feeling, and he looks Charles over once before turning for the door, very nearly disdainful. "All these years, and still you trust that I will someday be something that I have never been. I hope the world is kinder to your /hope/ than I will be."
There is a small snort behind him, Charles's only outward expression of exasperation; it is predictable enough that his eyebrows will be lowering, flattening to a straight, annoyed line over the straight nose. << I have never expected kindness from you, Erik, >> he retorts. Fabric whispers as he shifts in his seat, the scotch lifted to barely touch the firm line of his lower lip. << Infuriating to the last. Well, it would hardly be dignified for you to grow maudlin. >> "Ethan can drive you wherever you need to go, if you prefer not to use your minions at the Hellfire Club."
<< Then what have you expected? >> A simple question, bland in its own rasping exasperation. Erik pauses at the door, right hand braced to work out some of its stored tension against the frame. "I will steal a car in Westchester. I do not wish to be followed."
Charles meets exasperation with still more, and quells it with patience heavy enough to taste. "The last thing you need to do is attract more attention. Take one of the cars in the garage." He rubs gently at his temple, and adds, "The Mercedes. It has government plates. I would avoid the motorcycles if I were you. They do not -- quite -- convey gravitas."
"As you wish." Powerfully polite -- enough so that he is not, in actuality, polite at all -- Erik swallows down further commentary and simply stands for a moment. Awkward.
Headache. That's what Erik is. There are small, fine lines of pain from it creasing the corners of Charles's closed eyes. He opens them after a second, finds the older man still present, and -- despite himself -- the expressive mouth twists into a crooked little smile. Wanker, it says, without malice.
Erik half-smiles back, matching crookedness degree for degree, and slips out. His hand trails after him, lingering at the door before the faux military pacing of his bootfalls begins to fade down the corridor.
Early Morning:
=NYC= White Queen's Suite - Third Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
The heart of the White Queen's rule reflects her color and her taste. Spotless white cover floor and walls--all but the outer window wall that surveys the gardens and the East River beyond them. A lushly upholstered couch in the corner offers a perch for enjoying that view or simply relaxing, with an end table and lamp at hand for reading.
The room's decor lies in the furniture. A slab of gray-veined marble rests atop safety-glass legs and lays clean and empty; the wooden paneling behind her does the work of hiding an impressive array of technology. A sweeping throne of a chair sits behind the desk, and two rather more modest chairs crouch in front of the desk, available for supplicants or other guests. The most recent remodel of the room has utilized non-metallic elements where possible.
A door leads to an adjoining suite, where white reigns with a regal decisiveness softened by fine fabrics, lush carpeting, and the suffusion of well-bred taste. The bed stands sleek with satins and down-plumped pillows, its ash-blond frame matching the wood of its paired night stands and the long, low-slung bureau against one silk-papered wall. Across the room, layers of gauze curtain shield tall windows; a high-backed armchair reigns in a corner there, attended by wide ottoman and neat reading lamp. One door leads into a large walk-in closet and another opens in on a bathroom of echoing design and decor.
It's early. Earlier in the morning than Erik would usually bother to be awake, when he initiates a staring contest with the pawn posted at Emma's door. Dove grey suit pale to match the faded silver of hair and accompanying scruff, Erik studies the younger man with lazy confidence, and in short order, is victorious. He steps aside, and without bothering to knock, the Grey King reaches to allow himself into the office in near silence.
Earlier in the morning than Erik would bother to be awake is probably earlier in the morning than Emma would be. However, his arrival has been noted by more than the little pawn at the door, and a quick phone call has pulled her from her slumbers as well so that she is pulling on a filmy robe over a nearly equally filmy nightgown as she steps out of her bedroom. She straightens and smoothes the sleep from her expression. "Erik," she greets, wary and warm.
"Emma." Likewise warm, if more in the way that a gun barrel or a spent casing is warm after it has been fired, Erik winds his way into the fluffy white of her office. The door closes itself behind him, and he looks her over with a bland absence of shame, and perhaps emotion in general.
"We heard you were with Xavier," she says quietly, running fingers through her hair to smooth the tangles from it.
"Good morning," says Erik, observing some measure of formality at a disconnect from her admission despite the nature of his intrusion. He looks thin and his face is hollow. So is his stare, when it finally lifts back to her face. "I have been. For a short time."
"It... is good to see you." The pause is difficult to interpret, perhaps a cross between insincerity and difficulty in finding words. Maybe neither. She searches his face, then straightens and pads toward the phone. "Breakfast?"
Insincerity and difficulty are both met with a resounding nothing. Not so much as a flicker of offense or contempt disrupts his person, telepathically or otherwise. He has taken up a position somewhere near the center of the office, not too far from the door or close to the desk, and seems inclined to stay there. "No, thank you."
Emma pulls up short, holds, then finishes her path. She depresses a button and orders fruit, then releases the button and folds her arms across her chest as she turns to face him, impassive and waiting in the face of being out-blanded. "So."
"So," echoes Erik, voice still rumbled warm despite the chilly vacancy that marks his existence in her office thus far. "I trust you are aware of the basic nature of my situation."
"That you have been working with Xavier and the government on the impending asteroid problem, yes. Beyond that is speculation. Chair?" She gestures at a chair in front of her desk and hooks a hip over the corner.
"No." No thank you this time, though Erik finally lets his frigid glare fall from Emma for long enough to eye the chair in question. "We are going into space. To stop it."
"I see." A pause, and then a thoughtful glance and "It is worth it to them to release you. It /must/ be a last ditch effort."
"Something along those lines." Chilly distance keeps him from attributing hope or disdain towards the likelihood of success. He remains as mute as his coloring, and continues to focus upon the chair. "I came to ensure that there is nothing that you need before I go."
"That /I/ need..." Emma repeats, a little dumbly. Forgive her. It's early, remember? She blinks and frowns, sliding off the desk to take a step closer, hands falling to her side. She stares at the averted face. "You are speaking as a condemned man."
"I am speaking as a realist." Lazy, leonine confidence lifts along with his attention, back to Emma. "I trust I have not been away so long that anything too pressing as developed in my absence."
"You /have/ been the pressing issue," Emma replies with a soft snort that closes her eyes for a fraction of a second. They open again and fix on his.
Magneto manages a smile for that, if a slight one. "I have a way of making myself the center of attention." One more step is taken deeper into the room, shirking a bit of restless energy, and he settles again.
A mirroring smile reflects in her face, and she steps after him. "Erik. Talk to me. Are /you/ well? Are you..." Sure you're going to die?
"I am not well. And I do not know what will happen." Honesty is as bland as everything that has come before it, and Erik goes back to peering around the office, seeking out anything that might have changed in his absence. "I will ask Ellen to make physical repairs."
Emma clasps her hands behind her back and nods uncertainly. "Is there anything we can do? You are, still, King here."
"No." Erik's answer does, at least, come after a moment's silent consideration. He glances back to Emma, and finally back to the chair. "I don't think so."
Emma lifts a brow in silent expectation and invitation to expound.
The invitation, recognized with a faint frown, is not taken. "Ellen will provide me with whatever is left that I need. My personal belongings and resources are being seen to by Mr. Bach."
Emma nods again, though consternation eats at the edges of her composure. "How long?" Before you go into space? before you die? before you return?
"We launch tomorrow morning." With questions left vague, only the easiest ones are answered, and Erik turns to face Emma more fully, one brow slightly lifted.
"Then, good luck." She closes in and reaches for his arms, brow lifting in reply and requesting permission for the kiss she brushes his cheek with.
Permission is granted, if only by the absence of protest, and his arms press past her touch to envelope her in a rigid sort of...hug.
The ...hug is returned, with less rigidity. Obviously.
"Everything will be fine." His saying so is as much of a rigid formality as the hug is, but it is there nonetheless, and he is still for several seconds before he attempts to go ahead and back it up.
"I never doubted," Emma lies prettily, stepping away with his movement. "Are you staying here for the night? We'll make it as comfortable as possible."
"I have made hotel arrangements." The transition back to honestly hardly exists at all, and he lets his arms fall slack back to his sides.
Relief does not betray itself. Emma smiles and gestures vaguely. "Well, then. Don't let me detain you from your fre-flight plans."
Magneto nods, then, and takes a step back for the door. Then another. "I intend to speak to Bahir before I go. Then Ellen. I assume she will return after I am gone."
"She will always be welcome." An assurance of more, perhaps?
Another nod, hazier, and Erik looks over her one last time before turning to go in earnest. "Goodbye, Emma."
"Goodbye, Erik." Emma watches his depart with a blank expression, her voice tinged by an odd wistfulness that translates no where else.
Later:
Somewhere outside a perfectly fine day clouds over to cloudy dampness, with rain and lightning mingling to make for a soggy, chill, and pretty darn miserable evening. But we are not outside. We are inside, /very/ inside, down in the lower levels of the Hellfire Clubhouse.
Basic construction finished on a small addition to the warren of rooms, Bahir now investigates. As it stands, it is bare -- barren, even, with a cold and chill sterility. The room is all white tile and stainless steel, with an ominous pair of drains on the subtly sloped floor and counterspace to spare. The counters are empty, and wiring has not yet been finished as a few half-naked cords trail from various holes in the wall. Dressed in dark jeans, scuffed sneakers, and a yet another one of his cleverly imaged shirts, Bahir looks a trifle out of place. This is a room designed for labcoats and sinisterly glinting glasses.
The room is, indeed, sinister. So much so that Erik pauses at the threshold of basement and laboratory. He lingers there for a moment, the recesses of his hollowed face painted all the more gaunt by chilly flourescent lighting while he scans warily over the lab's interior. For the observantly telepathic, a cold lick of fear might be traced up the length of his spine. For the ignorant, a few quiet steps tread past the doorway, and into the open.
Pale in hair, eye, skin, and dress, Erik has opted for the dove grey suit again. It blends nicely with all the stainless steel, really.
Crouched to investigate outlets beneath one stretch of metallic bench along the wall, Bahir rises at that light shiver of foreign fear, and glances over his shoulder. With identification comes a further solidification of telepathic shielding, drawn up in unspoken courtesy. "Dr. Lensherr." Not quite a suggestion, he glances past him, out toward the rest of the lower level rooms, and then looks back with a slight arch of his eyebrows; if not /comfortable/, at least those rooms do not quite have the same lab rat feel.
Bahir's greeting is fielded with a solid glance, and returned with a nod. Outwardly, Erik's appearance speaks of illness, but his posture lazily confident. As per usual. Nothing at all creepy about this place! Particularly not the drains. He follows Bahir's glance, then looks back to the younger man, nonchalant. "Construction seems to have progressed at a fair pace."
"Apparently," agrees Bahir. He drops his shoulders back in a shrug, and steps back with a turn to look out over the cramped room. His expression is ever so slightly proprietary. (MY SECRET LAB. MINE.) "This is the first time that I've really had a chance to come over and see it." He trails off a trifle awkwardly at the end, glance in Magneto's direction hardly requiring telepathy to decode: he's probably been too busy and in prison to see it, either.
Magneto nods, and does not seem all that bothered by the glance. He has been getting a lot of them, lately.
A long sigh is pushed out through his sinuses after a moment's further visual exploration of the lab. Then he finally focuses on Bahir in full, faded glare tracking from head to toe, as if to check for any damage his property might have incurred in his absence. "I trust your thesis defense went well."
Healthy and hale, Bahir looks, if anything, better, freed of a variety of stresses. At the simple statement, his features break in a slight smile, smug. "Yes. No revisions." He tips his head at a slight angle, the expression faltering as he searches to return the courtesy. After a moment's clear awkwardness, he says instead, "It's good to see you again, Dr. Lensherr."
"I am sorry to have missed it." Erik's honesty falls flat despite its truthiness, devoid of anything more than frank disappointment. Prison is tough on a man's schedule, it is true. He nods to the latter comment with an air that borders upon dismissive, only to correct himself with a marginally more emotive, "It is good to see you as well."
"I could see you have a copy, but as light reading material goes, it fails, and I suspect you have other demands on your time." Fingers smoothing along the mental counter at his side, Bahir breaks his gaze away to eye various tangles of wires. "How do things look? Do you think you have a chance of succeeding?"
"Do," says Erik simply, still starkly sincere. "My reading material has been limited, of late. And I will have plenty of time, in the deep and in the dark." A half-smile slants dry at the corner of Erik's mouth, and he glances down to the floor, then back up to Bahir. Calculating. "I don't know."
Bahir turns his hand at his waist, acknowledging transit time with a flicker of irony in his gaze, and then lets his hand fall so that fingertips press tense to the counter's surface. His lips thin. "And those of you going up? What are your chances?"
After a moment's reluctance, Erik shakes his head slightly. "Barring the potential for complete failure, most of them should be fine." Not unaware of the lack of detail inherent in his response, he lets a brow twitch slightly upward, and then down again.
Nagging after detail in pesky, minimalist fashion, Bahir murmurs an inquiring, "Oh?" with low voice lifting to punctuate that, yes, it was a question, and, yes, more details would be nice. His expression is a trifle bitchy, but large sardonic as he adds after a moment, "I suppose it's classified, so you aren't /supposed/ to talk about it."
Magneto is tolerant. Carelessly, passively so, even in the face of a hint of bitch in Bahir's expression. "What is it that you wish to know?"
Snort of breath somewhat exasperated, Bahir settles back on his heels and regards Magneto a little uncertainly. He frowns, fidgeting slightly as he again rubs his knuckles across the metal counter: back and forth, back and forth! In the face of continued brevity, his answer is overlong: "If you would rather I didn't ask, sir, I won't. If you would rather not discuss it, I'm sure I could think of /something/ else to say. If you came down here for something in particular, ask. But." But! His shoulders square. "I'm concerned because of the magnitude of the task and the company you will be keeping. Dr. Grey, for one, can be unstable. And however useful they might find you, the government finds you far more dangerous. It's worth it?"
"I came down here to talk. If you have questions, then I will answer them." It all seems fairly straightforward to Erik, who cannot be bothered to emote past a further lift of grey-touched brows. "I do not know if Dr. Grey will go insane and kill us all, or if she will see fit to divert the asteroid once she has. But, as you may have deduced, if the government is desperate enough to come to me..." he trails off, and works one hand aimlessly at his side, finally provoked into a private frown. "We do not have the luxury of making judgment calls based upon relative sanity. Power is all that concerns them." The last question goes unanswered for longer, until a flicker of Erik's fingers exposes a warped bit of metal polished between them. "I told Charles that I would help."
At the second sentence, Bahir arches an eyebrow which refuses to come down through all the rest. Returning to that earlier point, he asks, "Are you well enough to do this? Physically, mentally?"
"No." Blunt honesty is delivered with a rough edge, but a straight face. Hardly a second or two later, Erik chuckles, and looks away a little aimlessly. "Not really."
Bahir's lips twist: half a smile, and half a grimace. "Better an awareness of your limits than a foolish overconfidence, I suppose, but fatalism is just as damning. I suppose there's not really any way that I could help? Ellen?" he adds in suggestion.
Magneto says nothing to that. Fatalism, pragmatism. They are nearly the same thing, really. His amusement fades blackly, and with unnatural speed. "I intend to see Ellen. Tonight. Is she still here?"
"Yes, sir, she is." Matching the turns of mood, Bahir sobers. His tone is approving as he adds, "She's been putting in a lot of time on the QuikID project, as well, and has been invaluable. We have the genetic code and amino acid sequence of the protein used for identification, and we are working on modeling the protein structure."
Not entirely sure that he's heard correctly, Erik is slow to nod, jaw braced against talk of QuikID and...everything else that goes along with it. "Perhaps I will surprise her."
Bahir deflates marginally, turning off the geeking as he tips his head in more reserved fashion. "I'm sure she will be glad to see you."
"Achilles was." Matter-of-fact, Erik tips his flattened bit of metal down over and through his knuckles in quick succession. "How have things been, here?"
Smile slight and somewhat grim, Bahir says, "Tense, sir." He scrubs at the line of his jaw, wiping away even that hint of not-humor. "It is /quite/ good to have you back. Now we need only worry about the end of the world instead of fearing joining you in your former accommodations."
Magneto does not seem as flattered by this response as Bahir might have hoped. He merely looks tired, and perhaps bitter. As if he has a bad taste in his mouth that he is having some trouble swallowing down. "It is good to be back."
Thumb sliding up along the metal edge of the counter, Bahir looks from his hand to Erik's features. He hesitates, and then asks, "Is it? Is there something still wrong?"
"Weakness," says Erik after at time. His hand closes into a fist about warm iron, and he uncurls his fingers to consider the dull mash of it. "Are you really pleased to see me, or merely pleased to hear that I did not break at the government's hand." It is not really a question, though it should be.
"Would you believe me if I say that I am?" Tone a trifle dry and exasperated, a pinch away from irritated, Bahir tips his head. "I'd offer to show you, but--." He turns his hand out in a gesture, horribly vague. Tangent slight, he adds, "I would regret anything happening to you, sir. You indicate that this is worth the risk, however, so I will simply wish you luck, and god speed."
"It wouldn't go amiss, I don't think." Matching Bahir dry for dry, Erik tucks metal away into his pocket, and roughs a hand back through his hair. It could use a trim. He could use a shave. The elegant grey of his suit saves him from appearing /entirely/ homeless, but only just. "Is there anything you need, before I go?" One last glance is skimmed across the lab before cool eye contact is sought, and he untucks his hand from its pocket. "An autograph, perhaps."
Quashing inappropriate humor so that it finds expression only in a twitch at the corner of his lips and a glint in his eyes, Bahir tips his head. "No. Thank you. I'll collect the autograph on your return. Would you like me to help you find Ms. Dramstadt?"
"If you like." Not averse to the extra company or to the idea of getting out of the lab, the speed with which Erik steps backwards for the door is somewhat telling. "I should see Emma as well, before I go."
"Finding Emma is seldom a challenge," Bahir says, tone light. Implicit in that, hiding from her is a challenge; implicit in /that/, sometimes one wishes to hide from her. There is nothing implied in that -- or at least, nothing in particular. "Finding Ms. Dramstadt can be." The door to the lab closes heavily behind them as they step out, Bahir leading the way up through Hellfire's halls. Seeking out Ellen's mind amidst all the rest, he leads Erik most of the way, and pauses at the end of the hall. "Second door, Dr. Lensherr. And good luck." (Not with Ellen. With the /asteroid/.)
Magneto nods, jaw a bit slack while he eyes the door, and then Bahir. "You too." For an awkward moment, he just eyes the younger mutant. "Hopefully, you won't need it."
Bahir spreads his hand in a silent gesture. Surely, it would be terribly eloquent if only it weren't so terribly vague. With a last tip of his head, he sweeps Erik in a glance and then turns, leaving him to his crazy blonde.
Evening:
The club is quiet. Beyond the walls, through the shaded windows of the conservatory, dusk has settled over the muggy city like a cloak. It is a bad time for the conservatory to be closed for 'maintenance,' or whatever excuse the Pawns have come up with now, and yet, a liveried servant informs passersby that the room is not presently available.
Of course, this does not apply to /everyone/.
Inside, Ellen kneels before a bank of herbs and flowers, and the foliage has thickened, growing under her hands and spreading to nibble greenly at the edges of the criss-crossed greenhouse paths. The vines teem under her touch, and she watches them with eyes that see little, her mind focused on the accidents and warpings of their growth and the power of harnessed biology. Her hair falls loosely forward about her face, gleaming pale in the harsh illumination of the white garden lamp just a little above her head.
There is a small commotion elsewhere in the Hellfire Club, and quite suddenly, two separate hallways that lead into the conservatory are...also closed for maintenance. Or perhaps for a carbon dioxide leak. There seems to be some confusion on the matter, for which Erik cares little. It is not his problem, and the pawn that he tells as much is left to look slightly dismayed in the hallway behind him.
Still grey-suited and grey-haired and grey-eyed and all around just really grey, he is decidedly mute in contrast with the greenery that dominates the conservatory. Visually. Though he does not make much sound either, save for the thump of his boots over brick flooring.
Ellen's focus is on the opening spread of a new leaf, forced into being from budding tender growth to fully fledged vegetable adulthood in too short a time. The sound is not clear to her, as though it comes through a thick haze; she hears it only as an indicator that her solitude has been broken, and she responds to it unthinkingly, whipping her head around with the glitter of a pale glare to begin, "I believe I gave instructions--"
Ellen stops, as vision cuts through her other senses to force awareness into place. She loses voice and stares, frozen still but for the faint tremor visibly rippling through her limbs. She too wears grey. The thin fabric quivers where she trembles, betraying her.
"Ellen." Erik's greeting is decidedly commonplace for their situation and surroundings. Posture upright and face hollow, he betrays no emotion when he stops a few feet short of contact. A slight smile, perhaps. His grey is solid and set. Stony.
"Sir--!" There is more breath caught in the single syllable than voice. Ellen surges to her feet, her face lit up earnestly in the filtered daylight. The work of the evening forgotten, her hands flex at her sides, seizing at nothing. "How do you come to be here? Did they free you without me?"
"No." Not so much, really. His eyes fall to her hands, measuring there for a moment before he decides to take a step forward, and then another to close the distance between them. "The government has, with the help of Charles Xavier, organized a final attempt to preclude the coming apocalypse."
Lifting her head like a rising standard, Ellen almost smiles, and the light in her eyes is hard and sharp. "Ha!" she says, and the sound has no humor in it. Instead it has edges. She reaches to take his hands as he comes to her, her whole face lit with renewed vitality and the familiar sliver of madness. "They come to you now as supplicants to stave off divine wrath. Did they show the courtesy to beg?"
Magneto's hands are cold and rather lifeless to her touch, though bone and muscle does stir to return a fraction of her grasp once his fingers are laced loosely through hers. "They did." His physiology has an uncharacteristic frailty to it borne of malnutrition and a more psychosomatic disbelief in his own immortality. He seems older, perhaps even more inside than out when he mirrors her near smile. "Unfortunately, as I have agreed to their terms, I am only here until tomorrow."
Troubled by what her senses find beneath the surface of his skin, Ellen lifts a searching gaze to his with a faint furrow to her brow, and tips her head slightly to one side. "Until tomorrow, then?" she says. "I would not abridge your word of honor, sir, but I would not see you bound again. I would destroy them all." Her grip tightens slightly in its hold on his hands, and her voice quivers with the threat of shattered reserve. "Show me where to strike and they will never fear the skies again."
Eye contact is returned evenly and with subdued affection. Subdued, and perhaps resigned for the veil of crazy that sheathes most everything that comes out of her mouth. "I will not be going back to prison. Rather, outer space." A pause there, and one hand wraps more firmly around hers so that he might turn it over for an examination of his own. "They have opted for a more hands on approach, this time."
Ellen's hands are clean and pale, showing little signs of work or wear. Her skin is fair, with no signs of, uh, for example, random burn marks, scars from cutting herself, or any other significators of self-directed madness. Her pulse races too quickly at the moment, blood humming with surprise and energy and passion (such as rage, such as faith, such as love). "So. You shall battle Loki's chaos beyond the air," she says. "Do they know it for mercy? This is a debt. A debt beyond all debts. From their people to ours." The idea that any such mission might not be successful does not even touch her mind, staved off by the fierce faith that burns there. "And to you."
"They know it for self-preservation. That is all they know." When his study finds her hand to his satisfaction, he slackens his hold on it again, and sighs. Coffee breath. "It is complex in a way that is of no significance to you. Or most people, really. Suffice it to say, they will not thank me, regardless of what happens. They will not thank any of us."
Ellen swallows, her frown deepening with the dark edge of a glare, not for him but for an absent 'they'. "It will be a debt owed," she says, "acknowledged or not. And with debts come a reckoning, always. Sooner or later." Firmly, she insists, "They may not pay in gratitude, but they /will/ pay."
Magneto does not agree or disagree, lacking the drive necessary to make an argument against, or assuage whatever evil may be brewing otherwise. He merely looks her over in close proximity, and smiles thinly to himself. Some things do not change. Ellen does not change! "I have made arrangements with a hotel for the evening. I will need you to do whatever you can to fix what has gone wrong over the course of the summer."
"I will do my utmost, sir." Ellen bows her head slightly in acknowledgment and certainty. "Any strength you may have lost, I will restore." She withdraws from her hold on his hands, reaching into the pocket of her pale grey trousers to remove a thin black band; she uses it to bind her hair as she yanks it back, renewing the severity of her expression.
MEETME: Creed has summoned you. Type "mjoin Creed" to go to his location.
"I trust that you will. There is more to discuss." But. The slate of Erik's eyes skims down again, this time to her hips, and he works his jaw in unsettling fashion before he takes a step back. "It can wait."
"All right, sir," Ellen says, looking at him with a slightly puzzled expression reflected in her pale eyes. She folds her hands neatly behind her, straightening almost imperceptibly.
Magneto smiles thinly to himself again, and tips his head to indicate that she should follow when he begins to pace back in the direction from whence he originally came. Back to his borrowed Mercedes and a ridiculously elaborate hotel room after that.
Ellen shadows at his heels, quickly and quietly, without ever losing the determined earnest of her expression.
The night prior:
=XS= Xavier's Office - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
This is a quiet, gracious room, wood panels and polished wooden floor giving warmth to a great and high-ceilinged study. A large fireplace claims the inner wall, a mantel lipped wide under a 16th century painting of Leonidas at Thermopylae. Colors are rich, glowing with life and vigor; the room itself is adorned likewise, thick rugs laid underfoot to draw together the hues of curtains and prints. A large desk dominates the far end of the room, framed behind by high windows that look out across the lawn. Closer to the door, bookshelves curl around the corner, framing a small nook for heavy, butter-soft leather chairs and sofas circled around a small tea table and chessboard.
Erik is on his feet, too restless to relegate himself to any of the furniture present. Whiskey in hand, hollow-cheeked and hollow-eyed, he stares blandly at the corner of Xavier's desk as he takes the first sip. He is scruffy. Scruffier, perhaps, than he was upon arrival, though better dressed in slacks and a soft bronze vest to match over the more austere white of his dress shirt. His tie is loose, and after a moment's calculation, he sips again, apparently finding the alcohol to his taste.
It should be, given its source and cost. Placid by comparison -- though limited perhaps in any expression of restlessness, even if he were not -- Charles reclines in one of the deep-cushioned chairs by the fireplace, his own drink (scotch, tawnier) glowing amber between his fingers. He is pinpoint-precise in his attire, but then, he usually is: suit, tie, slacks, Italian shoes. "You will wear my carpets out eventually," he says, less in admonition than in dispassionate statement of fact. "Are you intending to maintain this level up there?"
"There is no carpet in outer space." Quietly disinclined towards cooperation, Erik manages to respond to statement of fact and the accompanying question with an answer that does not really address either. He remains near the desk, simply standing, rather than pacing, and takes a longer draw from his glass before peering down into it.
"Likewise, no whiskey," Charles notes, though there is a question mark in the comment, the barest upturn of cadence and timbre. He lifts his own drink, inspecting it for utterly imaginary flotsam and jetsam, and adds, "I suppose it's just as well. How do you feel?" It is an oblique inquiry into too many things to be specified.
"There is no whiskey in prison, either." And in Erik's prison, no place to hide it anyway. He savors it all the same, old habits and thirsts and addictions living on as flickers of heat beneath the barren surface. It is good whiskey, after all. "Magnificent," is the answer that follows, as unhelpful as the first. Also factually untrue.
Telepathy, thoughtless and familiar, drifts on an eddy of similar habit across Erik's mind. Charles says without heat, "Honesty and you used to be better acquainted. Then again--" A glimpse of amusement briefly darkens the other man's gaze, making a shadow out of nostalgia, "--I've learned not to answer its calls, either." He stretches an arm to the decanter, lifting it in a mute offer: refill?
Erik has little to say to that. He just looks to Xavier, brows lifted in bland apathy for whatever might be gained through honesty now, with decisions made and paths determined. He does pace for the offered decanter, though, glass only half empty when he holds it down for Charles to refill.
Charles is not stingy with his hospitality, or his whiskey. It is not to his taste regardless, a vagrant thought that slips into Erik's mind without preamble and is followed up with the wry awareness that it is kept on hand mostly for his current guest's infrequent visits. Charming, unspoken collusion. << It would make me feel better if you felt you had a greater stake in success, >> he observes.
His thoughts are as devoid of feeling as one might expect, with no secret hope or fear coursing beneath his sober exterior. Not unlike a celestial body itself, his mindscape is entombed in a silent vacuum, with a rugged surface unstirred by wind or weather. If there is still heat at its core, it is keeping itself well-hidden, and Erik opts to reply out loud. Perhaps for that reason. "You, and the entirety of the United States Government."
"Spare me the flattering comparison," Charles says dryly, his voice following Erik back into the domain of the aural, even if the sense of his presence remains unmoved in Magneto's mind, waiting in patient chiaroscuro. He replaces the decanter on its metal tray, stoppering it again with cut crystal. It clinks quietly, a hollow, muffled sound. "Between us, then. Old friend. I have no inclination to send you out simply to die ahead of schedule."
"At this point," says Erik, "I could die at any time, and still be behind schedule. Even by your standards. ...If your memory is not yet so weathered that you have forgotten your own attempt upon my life. Old friend." The title is matched tone for tone, with an acrid aftertaste that has more presence in voice than it does in thought or manner, and Erik turns away to trod back for the desk, whiskey in hand.
A hit, by any standards. The Charles in Erik's mind flinches, if only by a bit, old guilt seeping out like squid's ink to briefly poison the aether around him. His recovery, such as it is, is patchworked by hard-won humor. "Saved by a mole, as it happens," he says aloud, "eating through some cabling. Or so I'm informed by Forge. Nature defeating nurture, to some extent." And, without apology: << At the time, I believed I would be doing you a favor. >>
Conscious of the recoil, Erik smiles thinly to himself, one corner of his thin-pressed mouth tempted into a lift that is then quick to fade. He sips. It is still good whiskey. He sips again, and sets the glass down on Charles' desk, hardly touched. "I'm sure you had the best of intentions."
<< We usually do, >> Charles sighs, lingering a moment longer in the bald and treacherous honesty of telepathy. His eyes crinkle, if not in a smile, and his gaze turns away towards the rows of books shelved in leather-bound, polished ranks across the wall. Awareness of Erik's movements does not require sight. << Both of us. Or did. Would it make any difference to know that I have occasionally been grateful to that mole? >>
Lazy acknowledgement drifts hazily around honesty, and tips Erik's chin slightly down. Not a nod, really, but near enough. << I haven't really held it against you. >> His hand settles to a rest over his semi-abandoned glass, but doesn't lift at it. He continues to study the desk. "I intend to leave early in the morning. There may be something of a fuss if the government was less than forward in its side of our agreement."
"Imagine," says Charles, with a lightly-toothed acerbity that has a modicum of smugness in it. Telepathic ethics are better preached than practiced. He turns his hand, open-palmed, into a shrug that does not disrupt the smooth line of his shoulders. "It will do them good to learn to deal with the unexpected. The human equation does not particularly conform to regulation. What will you do?"
"The falling action." Alcohol has finally begun to sink some measure of warmth into his frozen exterior, and the rigid flat of his shoulders sees fit to relax. Marginally. "Loose ends to be tied. Unresolved conflicts and unfinished business." His splayed fingers tap over his glass's rim, then curl back around it once more, back still to Charles. "Fortunately I have the advantage of having been away for long enough that some of it has likely resolved itself."
There is silence in the wake of that, and the small tightening of pain around the wise, old eyes. There will be more younger, unfinished lives on this flight than simply Erik's. "If you do not succeed, it seems unlikely I will be about long enough to fulfill any reasonable requests of yours," Charles says after a long moment, fingertips sliding damply across the condensation on his glass. He looks through the clear channels drawn by his thumb's sweep. "On the other hand, if you succeed and cannot return--"
"It won't matter." The glass is finally abandoned, and Erik turns slowly to track for the clump of furniture that is currently playing host to Charles. "I have already contacted the firm in control of my personal assets. The legitimate fraction will be signed over to your name. What happens to the rest is no concern of yours."
"And your people?"
"Will continue to be persecuted, murdered, and otherwise destroyed by the scourge that you are so eager to protect." Whiskey might slacken his shoulders and soften the set of his spine, but it does little to smooth the bitter lines written in around his mouth and brow. "There are no happy endings."
"Odd," murmurs Charles, his own mouth thinning towards rue, more than bitterness, "how the selfsame words could be used by any non-mutant friend I possess. I would give them the same answer that you've heard before. With some of them, at least I would not be wasting my breath. I will do what I can for them, if they want my assistance."
Anger and frustration burn brilliant in the blue of Erik's eyes, but the energy to maintain the feeling isn't there, and fire falls to the usual grey ash of late without a struggle. Strain shows around his neck again, and bunches into wiry shoulders and arms, and Erik turns for the door.
The empty hand lifts as though to call him back, then settles on the seat's arm, loosely curled. << Old friend, >> says Charles in the barren wasteland of Erik's mind, and there is no special emphasis in the words save that of familiarity and affection that has spanned generations. << Come back whole and well when you are done. There are still new conversations to be had. Old dogs can yet learn new tricks. >>
<< I am not interested in learning. >> "I have never been interested. Your optimism for these people has left you blind to reality, as it has shielded you from the reality of my own existence." Frustration is no longer hot, but sinks cold and black through the stiff set of Erik's jaw. His voice is without inflection or feeling, and he looks Charles over once before turning for the door, very nearly disdainful. "All these years, and still you trust that I will someday be something that I have never been. I hope the world is kinder to your /hope/ than I will be."
There is a small snort behind him, Charles's only outward expression of exasperation; it is predictable enough that his eyebrows will be lowering, flattening to a straight, annoyed line over the straight nose. << I have never expected kindness from you, Erik, >> he retorts. Fabric whispers as he shifts in his seat, the scotch lifted to barely touch the firm line of his lower lip. << Infuriating to the last. Well, it would hardly be dignified for you to grow maudlin. >> "Ethan can drive you wherever you need to go, if you prefer not to use your minions at the Hellfire Club."
<< Then what have you expected? >> A simple question, bland in its own rasping exasperation. Erik pauses at the door, right hand braced to work out some of its stored tension against the frame. "I will steal a car in Westchester. I do not wish to be followed."
Charles meets exasperation with still more, and quells it with patience heavy enough to taste. "The last thing you need to do is attract more attention. Take one of the cars in the garage." He rubs gently at his temple, and adds, "The Mercedes. It has government plates. I would avoid the motorcycles if I were you. They do not -- quite -- convey gravitas."
"As you wish." Powerfully polite -- enough so that he is not, in actuality, polite at all -- Erik swallows down further commentary and simply stands for a moment. Awkward.
Headache. That's what Erik is. There are small, fine lines of pain from it creasing the corners of Charles's closed eyes. He opens them after a second, finds the older man still present, and -- despite himself -- the expressive mouth twists into a crooked little smile. Wanker, it says, without malice.
Erik half-smiles back, matching crookedness degree for degree, and slips out. His hand trails after him, lingering at the door before the faux military pacing of his bootfalls begins to fade down the corridor.
Early Morning:
=NYC= White Queen's Suite - Third Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
The heart of the White Queen's rule reflects her color and her taste. Spotless white cover floor and walls--all but the outer window wall that surveys the gardens and the East River beyond them. A lushly upholstered couch in the corner offers a perch for enjoying that view or simply relaxing, with an end table and lamp at hand for reading.
The room's decor lies in the furniture. A slab of gray-veined marble rests atop safety-glass legs and lays clean and empty; the wooden paneling behind her does the work of hiding an impressive array of technology. A sweeping throne of a chair sits behind the desk, and two rather more modest chairs crouch in front of the desk, available for supplicants or other guests. The most recent remodel of the room has utilized non-metallic elements where possible.
A door leads to an adjoining suite, where white reigns with a regal decisiveness softened by fine fabrics, lush carpeting, and the suffusion of well-bred taste. The bed stands sleek with satins and down-plumped pillows, its ash-blond frame matching the wood of its paired night stands and the long, low-slung bureau against one silk-papered wall. Across the room, layers of gauze curtain shield tall windows; a high-backed armchair reigns in a corner there, attended by wide ottoman and neat reading lamp. One door leads into a large walk-in closet and another opens in on a bathroom of echoing design and decor.
It's early. Earlier in the morning than Erik would usually bother to be awake, when he initiates a staring contest with the pawn posted at Emma's door. Dove grey suit pale to match the faded silver of hair and accompanying scruff, Erik studies the younger man with lazy confidence, and in short order, is victorious. He steps aside, and without bothering to knock, the Grey King reaches to allow himself into the office in near silence.
Earlier in the morning than Erik would bother to be awake is probably earlier in the morning than Emma would be. However, his arrival has been noted by more than the little pawn at the door, and a quick phone call has pulled her from her slumbers as well so that she is pulling on a filmy robe over a nearly equally filmy nightgown as she steps out of her bedroom. She straightens and smoothes the sleep from her expression. "Erik," she greets, wary and warm.
"Emma." Likewise warm, if more in the way that a gun barrel or a spent casing is warm after it has been fired, Erik winds his way into the fluffy white of her office. The door closes itself behind him, and he looks her over with a bland absence of shame, and perhaps emotion in general.
"We heard you were with Xavier," she says quietly, running fingers through her hair to smooth the tangles from it.
"Good morning," says Erik, observing some measure of formality at a disconnect from her admission despite the nature of his intrusion. He looks thin and his face is hollow. So is his stare, when it finally lifts back to her face. "I have been. For a short time."
"It... is good to see you." The pause is difficult to interpret, perhaps a cross between insincerity and difficulty in finding words. Maybe neither. She searches his face, then straightens and pads toward the phone. "Breakfast?"
Insincerity and difficulty are both met with a resounding nothing. Not so much as a flicker of offense or contempt disrupts his person, telepathically or otherwise. He has taken up a position somewhere near the center of the office, not too far from the door or close to the desk, and seems inclined to stay there. "No, thank you."
Emma pulls up short, holds, then finishes her path. She depresses a button and orders fruit, then releases the button and folds her arms across her chest as she turns to face him, impassive and waiting in the face of being out-blanded. "So."
"So," echoes Erik, voice still rumbled warm despite the chilly vacancy that marks his existence in her office thus far. "I trust you are aware of the basic nature of my situation."
"That you have been working with Xavier and the government on the impending asteroid problem, yes. Beyond that is speculation. Chair?" She gestures at a chair in front of her desk and hooks a hip over the corner.
"No." No thank you this time, though Erik finally lets his frigid glare fall from Emma for long enough to eye the chair in question. "We are going into space. To stop it."
"I see." A pause, and then a thoughtful glance and "It is worth it to them to release you. It /must/ be a last ditch effort."
"Something along those lines." Chilly distance keeps him from attributing hope or disdain towards the likelihood of success. He remains as mute as his coloring, and continues to focus upon the chair. "I came to ensure that there is nothing that you need before I go."
"That /I/ need..." Emma repeats, a little dumbly. Forgive her. It's early, remember? She blinks and frowns, sliding off the desk to take a step closer, hands falling to her side. She stares at the averted face. "You are speaking as a condemned man."
"I am speaking as a realist." Lazy, leonine confidence lifts along with his attention, back to Emma. "I trust I have not been away so long that anything too pressing as developed in my absence."
"You /have/ been the pressing issue," Emma replies with a soft snort that closes her eyes for a fraction of a second. They open again and fix on his.
Magneto manages a smile for that, if a slight one. "I have a way of making myself the center of attention." One more step is taken deeper into the room, shirking a bit of restless energy, and he settles again.
A mirroring smile reflects in her face, and she steps after him. "Erik. Talk to me. Are /you/ well? Are you..." Sure you're going to die?
"I am not well. And I do not know what will happen." Honesty is as bland as everything that has come before it, and Erik goes back to peering around the office, seeking out anything that might have changed in his absence. "I will ask Ellen to make physical repairs."
Emma clasps her hands behind her back and nods uncertainly. "Is there anything we can do? You are, still, King here."
"No." Erik's answer does, at least, come after a moment's silent consideration. He glances back to Emma, and finally back to the chair. "I don't think so."
Emma lifts a brow in silent expectation and invitation to expound.
The invitation, recognized with a faint frown, is not taken. "Ellen will provide me with whatever is left that I need. My personal belongings and resources are being seen to by Mr. Bach."
Emma nods again, though consternation eats at the edges of her composure. "How long?" Before you go into space? before you die? before you return?
"We launch tomorrow morning." With questions left vague, only the easiest ones are answered, and Erik turns to face Emma more fully, one brow slightly lifted.
"Then, good luck." She closes in and reaches for his arms, brow lifting in reply and requesting permission for the kiss she brushes his cheek with.
Permission is granted, if only by the absence of protest, and his arms press past her touch to envelope her in a rigid sort of...hug.
The ...hug is returned, with less rigidity. Obviously.
"Everything will be fine." His saying so is as much of a rigid formality as the hug is, but it is there nonetheless, and he is still for several seconds before he attempts to go ahead and back it up.
"I never doubted," Emma lies prettily, stepping away with his movement. "Are you staying here for the night? We'll make it as comfortable as possible."
"I have made hotel arrangements." The transition back to honestly hardly exists at all, and he lets his arms fall slack back to his sides.
Relief does not betray itself. Emma smiles and gestures vaguely. "Well, then. Don't let me detain you from your fre-flight plans."
Magneto nods, then, and takes a step back for the door. Then another. "I intend to speak to Bahir before I go. Then Ellen. I assume she will return after I am gone."
"She will always be welcome." An assurance of more, perhaps?
Another nod, hazier, and Erik looks over her one last time before turning to go in earnest. "Goodbye, Emma."
"Goodbye, Erik." Emma watches his depart with a blank expression, her voice tinged by an odd wistfulness that translates no where else.
Later:
Somewhere outside a perfectly fine day clouds over to cloudy dampness, with rain and lightning mingling to make for a soggy, chill, and pretty darn miserable evening. But we are not outside. We are inside, /very/ inside, down in the lower levels of the Hellfire Clubhouse.
Basic construction finished on a small addition to the warren of rooms, Bahir now investigates. As it stands, it is bare -- barren, even, with a cold and chill sterility. The room is all white tile and stainless steel, with an ominous pair of drains on the subtly sloped floor and counterspace to spare. The counters are empty, and wiring has not yet been finished as a few half-naked cords trail from various holes in the wall. Dressed in dark jeans, scuffed sneakers, and a yet another one of his cleverly imaged shirts, Bahir looks a trifle out of place. This is a room designed for labcoats and sinisterly glinting glasses.
The room is, indeed, sinister. So much so that Erik pauses at the threshold of basement and laboratory. He lingers there for a moment, the recesses of his hollowed face painted all the more gaunt by chilly flourescent lighting while he scans warily over the lab's interior. For the observantly telepathic, a cold lick of fear might be traced up the length of his spine. For the ignorant, a few quiet steps tread past the doorway, and into the open.
Pale in hair, eye, skin, and dress, Erik has opted for the dove grey suit again. It blends nicely with all the stainless steel, really.
Crouched to investigate outlets beneath one stretch of metallic bench along the wall, Bahir rises at that light shiver of foreign fear, and glances over his shoulder. With identification comes a further solidification of telepathic shielding, drawn up in unspoken courtesy. "Dr. Lensherr." Not quite a suggestion, he glances past him, out toward the rest of the lower level rooms, and then looks back with a slight arch of his eyebrows; if not /comfortable/, at least those rooms do not quite have the same lab rat feel.
Bahir's greeting is fielded with a solid glance, and returned with a nod. Outwardly, Erik's appearance speaks of illness, but his posture lazily confident. As per usual. Nothing at all creepy about this place! Particularly not the drains. He follows Bahir's glance, then looks back to the younger man, nonchalant. "Construction seems to have progressed at a fair pace."
"Apparently," agrees Bahir. He drops his shoulders back in a shrug, and steps back with a turn to look out over the cramped room. His expression is ever so slightly proprietary. (MY SECRET LAB. MINE.) "This is the first time that I've really had a chance to come over and see it." He trails off a trifle awkwardly at the end, glance in Magneto's direction hardly requiring telepathy to decode: he's probably been too busy and in prison to see it, either.
Magneto nods, and does not seem all that bothered by the glance. He has been getting a lot of them, lately.
A long sigh is pushed out through his sinuses after a moment's further visual exploration of the lab. Then he finally focuses on Bahir in full, faded glare tracking from head to toe, as if to check for any damage his property might have incurred in his absence. "I trust your thesis defense went well."
Healthy and hale, Bahir looks, if anything, better, freed of a variety of stresses. At the simple statement, his features break in a slight smile, smug. "Yes. No revisions." He tips his head at a slight angle, the expression faltering as he searches to return the courtesy. After a moment's clear awkwardness, he says instead, "It's good to see you again, Dr. Lensherr."
"I am sorry to have missed it." Erik's honesty falls flat despite its truthiness, devoid of anything more than frank disappointment. Prison is tough on a man's schedule, it is true. He nods to the latter comment with an air that borders upon dismissive, only to correct himself with a marginally more emotive, "It is good to see you as well."
"I could see you have a copy, but as light reading material goes, it fails, and I suspect you have other demands on your time." Fingers smoothing along the mental counter at his side, Bahir breaks his gaze away to eye various tangles of wires. "How do things look? Do you think you have a chance of succeeding?"
"Do," says Erik simply, still starkly sincere. "My reading material has been limited, of late. And I will have plenty of time, in the deep and in the dark." A half-smile slants dry at the corner of Erik's mouth, and he glances down to the floor, then back up to Bahir. Calculating. "I don't know."
Bahir turns his hand at his waist, acknowledging transit time with a flicker of irony in his gaze, and then lets his hand fall so that fingertips press tense to the counter's surface. His lips thin. "And those of you going up? What are your chances?"
After a moment's reluctance, Erik shakes his head slightly. "Barring the potential for complete failure, most of them should be fine." Not unaware of the lack of detail inherent in his response, he lets a brow twitch slightly upward, and then down again.
Nagging after detail in pesky, minimalist fashion, Bahir murmurs an inquiring, "Oh?" with low voice lifting to punctuate that, yes, it was a question, and, yes, more details would be nice. His expression is a trifle bitchy, but large sardonic as he adds after a moment, "I suppose it's classified, so you aren't /supposed/ to talk about it."
Magneto is tolerant. Carelessly, passively so, even in the face of a hint of bitch in Bahir's expression. "What is it that you wish to know?"
Snort of breath somewhat exasperated, Bahir settles back on his heels and regards Magneto a little uncertainly. He frowns, fidgeting slightly as he again rubs his knuckles across the metal counter: back and forth, back and forth! In the face of continued brevity, his answer is overlong: "If you would rather I didn't ask, sir, I won't. If you would rather not discuss it, I'm sure I could think of /something/ else to say. If you came down here for something in particular, ask. But." But! His shoulders square. "I'm concerned because of the magnitude of the task and the company you will be keeping. Dr. Grey, for one, can be unstable. And however useful they might find you, the government finds you far more dangerous. It's worth it?"
"I came down here to talk. If you have questions, then I will answer them." It all seems fairly straightforward to Erik, who cannot be bothered to emote past a further lift of grey-touched brows. "I do not know if Dr. Grey will go insane and kill us all, or if she will see fit to divert the asteroid once she has. But, as you may have deduced, if the government is desperate enough to come to me..." he trails off, and works one hand aimlessly at his side, finally provoked into a private frown. "We do not have the luxury of making judgment calls based upon relative sanity. Power is all that concerns them." The last question goes unanswered for longer, until a flicker of Erik's fingers exposes a warped bit of metal polished between them. "I told Charles that I would help."
At the second sentence, Bahir arches an eyebrow which refuses to come down through all the rest. Returning to that earlier point, he asks, "Are you well enough to do this? Physically, mentally?"
"No." Blunt honesty is delivered with a rough edge, but a straight face. Hardly a second or two later, Erik chuckles, and looks away a little aimlessly. "Not really."
Bahir's lips twist: half a smile, and half a grimace. "Better an awareness of your limits than a foolish overconfidence, I suppose, but fatalism is just as damning. I suppose there's not really any way that I could help? Ellen?" he adds in suggestion.
Magneto says nothing to that. Fatalism, pragmatism. They are nearly the same thing, really. His amusement fades blackly, and with unnatural speed. "I intend to see Ellen. Tonight. Is she still here?"
"Yes, sir, she is." Matching the turns of mood, Bahir sobers. His tone is approving as he adds, "She's been putting in a lot of time on the QuikID project, as well, and has been invaluable. We have the genetic code and amino acid sequence of the protein used for identification, and we are working on modeling the protein structure."
Not entirely sure that he's heard correctly, Erik is slow to nod, jaw braced against talk of QuikID and...everything else that goes along with it. "Perhaps I will surprise her."
Bahir deflates marginally, turning off the geeking as he tips his head in more reserved fashion. "I'm sure she will be glad to see you."
"Achilles was." Matter-of-fact, Erik tips his flattened bit of metal down over and through his knuckles in quick succession. "How have things been, here?"
Smile slight and somewhat grim, Bahir says, "Tense, sir." He scrubs at the line of his jaw, wiping away even that hint of not-humor. "It is /quite/ good to have you back. Now we need only worry about the end of the world instead of fearing joining you in your former accommodations."
Magneto does not seem as flattered by this response as Bahir might have hoped. He merely looks tired, and perhaps bitter. As if he has a bad taste in his mouth that he is having some trouble swallowing down. "It is good to be back."
Thumb sliding up along the metal edge of the counter, Bahir looks from his hand to Erik's features. He hesitates, and then asks, "Is it? Is there something still wrong?"
"Weakness," says Erik after at time. His hand closes into a fist about warm iron, and he uncurls his fingers to consider the dull mash of it. "Are you really pleased to see me, or merely pleased to hear that I did not break at the government's hand." It is not really a question, though it should be.
"Would you believe me if I say that I am?" Tone a trifle dry and exasperated, a pinch away from irritated, Bahir tips his head. "I'd offer to show you, but--." He turns his hand out in a gesture, horribly vague. Tangent slight, he adds, "I would regret anything happening to you, sir. You indicate that this is worth the risk, however, so I will simply wish you luck, and god speed."
"It wouldn't go amiss, I don't think." Matching Bahir dry for dry, Erik tucks metal away into his pocket, and roughs a hand back through his hair. It could use a trim. He could use a shave. The elegant grey of his suit saves him from appearing /entirely/ homeless, but only just. "Is there anything you need, before I go?" One last glance is skimmed across the lab before cool eye contact is sought, and he untucks his hand from its pocket. "An autograph, perhaps."
Quashing inappropriate humor so that it finds expression only in a twitch at the corner of his lips and a glint in his eyes, Bahir tips his head. "No. Thank you. I'll collect the autograph on your return. Would you like me to help you find Ms. Dramstadt?"
"If you like." Not averse to the extra company or to the idea of getting out of the lab, the speed with which Erik steps backwards for the door is somewhat telling. "I should see Emma as well, before I go."
"Finding Emma is seldom a challenge," Bahir says, tone light. Implicit in that, hiding from her is a challenge; implicit in /that/, sometimes one wishes to hide from her. There is nothing implied in that -- or at least, nothing in particular. "Finding Ms. Dramstadt can be." The door to the lab closes heavily behind them as they step out, Bahir leading the way up through Hellfire's halls. Seeking out Ellen's mind amidst all the rest, he leads Erik most of the way, and pauses at the end of the hall. "Second door, Dr. Lensherr. And good luck." (Not with Ellen. With the /asteroid/.)
Magneto nods, jaw a bit slack while he eyes the door, and then Bahir. "You too." For an awkward moment, he just eyes the younger mutant. "Hopefully, you won't need it."
Bahir spreads his hand in a silent gesture. Surely, it would be terribly eloquent if only it weren't so terribly vague. With a last tip of his head, he sweeps Erik in a glance and then turns, leaving him to his crazy blonde.
Evening:
The club is quiet. Beyond the walls, through the shaded windows of the conservatory, dusk has settled over the muggy city like a cloak. It is a bad time for the conservatory to be closed for 'maintenance,' or whatever excuse the Pawns have come up with now, and yet, a liveried servant informs passersby that the room is not presently available.
Of course, this does not apply to /everyone/.
Inside, Ellen kneels before a bank of herbs and flowers, and the foliage has thickened, growing under her hands and spreading to nibble greenly at the edges of the criss-crossed greenhouse paths. The vines teem under her touch, and she watches them with eyes that see little, her mind focused on the accidents and warpings of their growth and the power of harnessed biology. Her hair falls loosely forward about her face, gleaming pale in the harsh illumination of the white garden lamp just a little above her head.
There is a small commotion elsewhere in the Hellfire Club, and quite suddenly, two separate hallways that lead into the conservatory are...also closed for maintenance. Or perhaps for a carbon dioxide leak. There seems to be some confusion on the matter, for which Erik cares little. It is not his problem, and the pawn that he tells as much is left to look slightly dismayed in the hallway behind him.
Still grey-suited and grey-haired and grey-eyed and all around just really grey, he is decidedly mute in contrast with the greenery that dominates the conservatory. Visually. Though he does not make much sound either, save for the thump of his boots over brick flooring.
Ellen's focus is on the opening spread of a new leaf, forced into being from budding tender growth to fully fledged vegetable adulthood in too short a time. The sound is not clear to her, as though it comes through a thick haze; she hears it only as an indicator that her solitude has been broken, and she responds to it unthinkingly, whipping her head around with the glitter of a pale glare to begin, "I believe I gave instructions--"
Ellen stops, as vision cuts through her other senses to force awareness into place. She loses voice and stares, frozen still but for the faint tremor visibly rippling through her limbs. She too wears grey. The thin fabric quivers where she trembles, betraying her.
"Ellen." Erik's greeting is decidedly commonplace for their situation and surroundings. Posture upright and face hollow, he betrays no emotion when he stops a few feet short of contact. A slight smile, perhaps. His grey is solid and set. Stony.
"Sir--!" There is more breath caught in the single syllable than voice. Ellen surges to her feet, her face lit up earnestly in the filtered daylight. The work of the evening forgotten, her hands flex at her sides, seizing at nothing. "How do you come to be here? Did they free you without me?"
"No." Not so much, really. His eyes fall to her hands, measuring there for a moment before he decides to take a step forward, and then another to close the distance between them. "The government has, with the help of Charles Xavier, organized a final attempt to preclude the coming apocalypse."
Lifting her head like a rising standard, Ellen almost smiles, and the light in her eyes is hard and sharp. "Ha!" she says, and the sound has no humor in it. Instead it has edges. She reaches to take his hands as he comes to her, her whole face lit with renewed vitality and the familiar sliver of madness. "They come to you now as supplicants to stave off divine wrath. Did they show the courtesy to beg?"
Magneto's hands are cold and rather lifeless to her touch, though bone and muscle does stir to return a fraction of her grasp once his fingers are laced loosely through hers. "They did." His physiology has an uncharacteristic frailty to it borne of malnutrition and a more psychosomatic disbelief in his own immortality. He seems older, perhaps even more inside than out when he mirrors her near smile. "Unfortunately, as I have agreed to their terms, I am only here until tomorrow."
Troubled by what her senses find beneath the surface of his skin, Ellen lifts a searching gaze to his with a faint furrow to her brow, and tips her head slightly to one side. "Until tomorrow, then?" she says. "I would not abridge your word of honor, sir, but I would not see you bound again. I would destroy them all." Her grip tightens slightly in its hold on his hands, and her voice quivers with the threat of shattered reserve. "Show me where to strike and they will never fear the skies again."
Eye contact is returned evenly and with subdued affection. Subdued, and perhaps resigned for the veil of crazy that sheathes most everything that comes out of her mouth. "I will not be going back to prison. Rather, outer space." A pause there, and one hand wraps more firmly around hers so that he might turn it over for an examination of his own. "They have opted for a more hands on approach, this time."
Ellen's hands are clean and pale, showing little signs of work or wear. Her skin is fair, with no signs of, uh, for example, random burn marks, scars from cutting herself, or any other significators of self-directed madness. Her pulse races too quickly at the moment, blood humming with surprise and energy and passion (such as rage, such as faith, such as love). "So. You shall battle Loki's chaos beyond the air," she says. "Do they know it for mercy? This is a debt. A debt beyond all debts. From their people to ours." The idea that any such mission might not be successful does not even touch her mind, staved off by the fierce faith that burns there. "And to you."
"They know it for self-preservation. That is all they know." When his study finds her hand to his satisfaction, he slackens his hold on it again, and sighs. Coffee breath. "It is complex in a way that is of no significance to you. Or most people, really. Suffice it to say, they will not thank me, regardless of what happens. They will not thank any of us."
Ellen swallows, her frown deepening with the dark edge of a glare, not for him but for an absent 'they'. "It will be a debt owed," she says, "acknowledged or not. And with debts come a reckoning, always. Sooner or later." Firmly, she insists, "They may not pay in gratitude, but they /will/ pay."
Magneto does not agree or disagree, lacking the drive necessary to make an argument against, or assuage whatever evil may be brewing otherwise. He merely looks her over in close proximity, and smiles thinly to himself. Some things do not change. Ellen does not change! "I have made arrangements with a hotel for the evening. I will need you to do whatever you can to fix what has gone wrong over the course of the summer."
"I will do my utmost, sir." Ellen bows her head slightly in acknowledgment and certainty. "Any strength you may have lost, I will restore." She withdraws from her hold on his hands, reaching into the pocket of her pale grey trousers to remove a thin black band; she uses it to bind her hair as she yanks it back, renewing the severity of her expression.
MEETME: Creed has summoned you. Type "mjoin Creed" to go to his location.
"I trust that you will. There is more to discuss." But. The slate of Erik's eyes skims down again, this time to her hips, and he works his jaw in unsettling fashion before he takes a step back. "It can wait."
"All right, sir," Ellen says, looking at him with a slightly puzzled expression reflected in her pale eyes. She folds her hands neatly behind her, straightening almost imperceptibly.
Magneto smiles thinly to himself again, and tips his head to indicate that she should follow when he begins to pace back in the direction from whence he originally came. Back to his borrowed Mercedes and a ridiculously elaborate hotel room after that.
Ellen shadows at his heels, quickly and quietly, without ever losing the determined earnest of her expression.