(no subject)
---
"The other prisoners did it, sir."
"The other prisoners beat him."
"Yes, sir."
"The other prisoners. In a facility that only houses Dr. Lensherr."
"It was the darnedest thing, sir. They came out of nowhere. We couldn't stop them."
"Clean the floor please, Mr. Singer."
"Yes, sir."
It is night. Or day. Perhaps noon -- what of it? Time has no more meaning anymore, under the deliberate, calculated cruelty of the lights overhead. Brilliant, always, save when they fade (long enough to close one's eyes, to remember that there was sleep in the world, once upon a time...) and then on again, harsh. Unforgiving. Mr. Tisman stands over the bed with a guard, watching with dark-eyed supervision as another one mops the floor. Streaks of red against the plastic. The light does not age him, as it ages everything else; his dark skin is impenetrable to it, repelling even the suspicion of vulnerability. "I trust," he says in his cool, dark voice, "that you are being treated well, Dr. Lensherr?"
Erik is, in stark contrast, not looking particularly well. Not eating well, not sleeping well, if at all. And now this. Seated on his bed, back propped against the clear plastic of the wall, the elder man's initial wave of anger goes unseen and unheard. Unfelt and unregistered, with the notable exception of a single device designed to keep track of his unique mutation. Predictably, however, it fades out quickly, as the power behind it fails, and Erik presses the slow burn of his glare onto Tisman. His nose seems to have stopped bleeding, for the most part. The narrow split over his left brow is blackening. Elsewhere, seen across temple and cheekbone and unseen beneath the red-stained white of his uniform, bruises are forming. "Excruciatingly. Mr. Tisman."
It is not amusement that moves behind Mr. Tisman's face: nothing so giving, or as human. Appreciation, perhaps, pride meeting pride. "Your injuries will be tended to," he says quietly, watching the guard at his cleaning. The rag that swabs the floor turns pink and lurid with the old man's blood, a movie prop in a comic book world: clean lines, hard corners, stark colors, skewed reality. "A change of clothing seems appropriate. I regret the necessity that makes your situation uncomfortable."
"I'd like a copy of the Times." Erik rasps blandly in return, until he can clear his throat and swallow, head and glare both tilting slightly aside, to focus upon the guard. And then the rag. "I believe you missed a spot in the corner there, Mr. Singer. If you would be so kind."
The pale, slightly bulging glance from the floor promises retaliation at a later date -- deeper bruises, harder blows -- before it turns back to Tisman, and submits reluctantly to that remote, patient regard. "I believe that can be arranged," says the warden, loosely clasping his hands together behind his back, the slight paunch pouching against the dark and somber suit. "I will ask if there are any objections, and send it with your breakfast. There /are/ ways in which you can make your stay easier, Dr. Lensherr."
Magneto smiles slightly. No effort is made to keep pain from lessening the expression's impact, as his brows fall into a faint knit, and he swallows again, keenly aware of that one look's translation. "We've been over this before, Mr. Tisman. Oversee as many beatings as you like, but I still do and will -continue- to refuse to engage in such vile acts before a live audience. My personal sexual preferences aside."
The guard by the door moves before Tisman moves, or speaks -- or perhaps moves for him, speaks for him, proxy for that unblinking sphinx. The plastic club lifts, stealing momentum from his quick step; descends with the weight of the meaty arm behind it, brought down by gravity and abusive will. "As I say," says the grave warden, over the dull thud of flesh and the nightstick's second blow. "There are ways in which you can make your stay easier. Cooperation and information will be rewarded."
Erik cries out, and again, as might be expected - bared teeth grinding against any further indication of weakness, only to rattle into a shiver as he clasps his left hand automatically over his right shoulder, the rest of his limbs tugged wearily inward. Not fighting back, anymore.
One more blow, one more thudding, vengeful, retaliatory strike -- the face behind the punishing stick warms, tasting again the pleasure of the bully, the savage satisfaction of injuring, of /hurting/ -- and then the guard steps back, breath quickened, face flushed as though in lust. "The other prisoners?" asks Mr. Tisman dryly, head turning to mark the retreating man in the corner of his eye.
Singer makes one last, desultory wipe, and stands with a smirk. "The darnedest thing," he says, blandly. "Sir."
Having slid over onto his side, Erik shivers again, his own breathing quick and irregular. Short and shallow, to avoid straining against his ribs. His back. His gut. Glare focused intensely upon something or someone that does not actually appear to be present, he does not seem to be very inclined to move or speak just yet.
"See that Cooper pays him a visit," says Tisman, sparing a glance for Singer before returning that indifferent, impassive regard to Erik. "If you have any broken bones, he will be able to treat it. I trust that there will be no need, however. You serve no one with your continued obstinance, Dr. Lensherr. If you truly wished the best for your fellow mutants, you would help us in removing their greatest threat."
"Second hand smoke?"
Mr. Tisman's mouth moves into a thin smile. His eyes do not mirror it. "I'm glad to see you're able to keep your sense of humor."
A shuddering breath expended on an awkward delay, the dark chuckle that might normally be an appropriate response is not attempted. Instead, he extends one leg, very slowly - and then the other, pushing painfully over onto his back somewhere in this delicate process, head turned away to hide the shine in his eyes. "It is disquieting that they seem to have managed to relieve you of your own."
The brown, opaque regard reflects nothing back: not acknowledgment, not shine, not even the belying ghost of emotion. "I have an adequate sense of humor," Tisman's gravelly voice informs, patient. "Enjoy yours while you can. You will find it poor comfort, if you continue to be stubborn."
Magneto coughs weakly. Not a laugh, but as close as he is likely to get. Which is to say, not very close at all. Eyes squeezed shut, the roll is completed - up onto his slightly less-bruised side, so that he's facing the wall, and his back is facing everything else. "Kindly go to hell, Mr. Tisman."
Mr. Tisman turns away. The guards, falling in line behind him, touch the prisoner with their gazes before pushing into the umbilicus with him. "Good day, Dr. Lensherr," bids the warden, dispassionately civil -- and then they are gone, past the hiss of the door into the retreating tunnel itself. The human eye is kinder than the mechanical; perched like vultures in the dark beyond the cell, cameras open their irises wide at that seamed, aged face, to goggle at the humiliation of men.
In the absence of physical company, Erik's shoulders slump down into the stiff set of his mattress. Cool blue eyes open once again despite their exhaustion, studying the lurid reflection of his bloodied person for several minutes before the mutant drifts into a shallow and uneasy sleep.
[Log ends]
"The other prisoners did it, sir."
"The other prisoners beat him."
"Yes, sir."
"The other prisoners. In a facility that only houses Dr. Lensherr."
"It was the darnedest thing, sir. They came out of nowhere. We couldn't stop them."
"Clean the floor please, Mr. Singer."
"Yes, sir."
It is night. Or day. Perhaps noon -- what of it? Time has no more meaning anymore, under the deliberate, calculated cruelty of the lights overhead. Brilliant, always, save when they fade (long enough to close one's eyes, to remember that there was sleep in the world, once upon a time...) and then on again, harsh. Unforgiving. Mr. Tisman stands over the bed with a guard, watching with dark-eyed supervision as another one mops the floor. Streaks of red against the plastic. The light does not age him, as it ages everything else; his dark skin is impenetrable to it, repelling even the suspicion of vulnerability. "I trust," he says in his cool, dark voice, "that you are being treated well, Dr. Lensherr?"
Erik is, in stark contrast, not looking particularly well. Not eating well, not sleeping well, if at all. And now this. Seated on his bed, back propped against the clear plastic of the wall, the elder man's initial wave of anger goes unseen and unheard. Unfelt and unregistered, with the notable exception of a single device designed to keep track of his unique mutation. Predictably, however, it fades out quickly, as the power behind it fails, and Erik presses the slow burn of his glare onto Tisman. His nose seems to have stopped bleeding, for the most part. The narrow split over his left brow is blackening. Elsewhere, seen across temple and cheekbone and unseen beneath the red-stained white of his uniform, bruises are forming. "Excruciatingly. Mr. Tisman."
It is not amusement that moves behind Mr. Tisman's face: nothing so giving, or as human. Appreciation, perhaps, pride meeting pride. "Your injuries will be tended to," he says quietly, watching the guard at his cleaning. The rag that swabs the floor turns pink and lurid with the old man's blood, a movie prop in a comic book world: clean lines, hard corners, stark colors, skewed reality. "A change of clothing seems appropriate. I regret the necessity that makes your situation uncomfortable."
"I'd like a copy of the Times." Erik rasps blandly in return, until he can clear his throat and swallow, head and glare both tilting slightly aside, to focus upon the guard. And then the rag. "I believe you missed a spot in the corner there, Mr. Singer. If you would be so kind."
The pale, slightly bulging glance from the floor promises retaliation at a later date -- deeper bruises, harder blows -- before it turns back to Tisman, and submits reluctantly to that remote, patient regard. "I believe that can be arranged," says the warden, loosely clasping his hands together behind his back, the slight paunch pouching against the dark and somber suit. "I will ask if there are any objections, and send it with your breakfast. There /are/ ways in which you can make your stay easier, Dr. Lensherr."
Magneto smiles slightly. No effort is made to keep pain from lessening the expression's impact, as his brows fall into a faint knit, and he swallows again, keenly aware of that one look's translation. "We've been over this before, Mr. Tisman. Oversee as many beatings as you like, but I still do and will -continue- to refuse to engage in such vile acts before a live audience. My personal sexual preferences aside."
The guard by the door moves before Tisman moves, or speaks -- or perhaps moves for him, speaks for him, proxy for that unblinking sphinx. The plastic club lifts, stealing momentum from his quick step; descends with the weight of the meaty arm behind it, brought down by gravity and abusive will. "As I say," says the grave warden, over the dull thud of flesh and the nightstick's second blow. "There are ways in which you can make your stay easier. Cooperation and information will be rewarded."
Erik cries out, and again, as might be expected - bared teeth grinding against any further indication of weakness, only to rattle into a shiver as he clasps his left hand automatically over his right shoulder, the rest of his limbs tugged wearily inward. Not fighting back, anymore.
One more blow, one more thudding, vengeful, retaliatory strike -- the face behind the punishing stick warms, tasting again the pleasure of the bully, the savage satisfaction of injuring, of /hurting/ -- and then the guard steps back, breath quickened, face flushed as though in lust. "The other prisoners?" asks Mr. Tisman dryly, head turning to mark the retreating man in the corner of his eye.
Singer makes one last, desultory wipe, and stands with a smirk. "The darnedest thing," he says, blandly. "Sir."
Having slid over onto his side, Erik shivers again, his own breathing quick and irregular. Short and shallow, to avoid straining against his ribs. His back. His gut. Glare focused intensely upon something or someone that does not actually appear to be present, he does not seem to be very inclined to move or speak just yet.
"See that Cooper pays him a visit," says Tisman, sparing a glance for Singer before returning that indifferent, impassive regard to Erik. "If you have any broken bones, he will be able to treat it. I trust that there will be no need, however. You serve no one with your continued obstinance, Dr. Lensherr. If you truly wished the best for your fellow mutants, you would help us in removing their greatest threat."
"Second hand smoke?"
Mr. Tisman's mouth moves into a thin smile. His eyes do not mirror it. "I'm glad to see you're able to keep your sense of humor."
A shuddering breath expended on an awkward delay, the dark chuckle that might normally be an appropriate response is not attempted. Instead, he extends one leg, very slowly - and then the other, pushing painfully over onto his back somewhere in this delicate process, head turned away to hide the shine in his eyes. "It is disquieting that they seem to have managed to relieve you of your own."
The brown, opaque regard reflects nothing back: not acknowledgment, not shine, not even the belying ghost of emotion. "I have an adequate sense of humor," Tisman's gravelly voice informs, patient. "Enjoy yours while you can. You will find it poor comfort, if you continue to be stubborn."
Magneto coughs weakly. Not a laugh, but as close as he is likely to get. Which is to say, not very close at all. Eyes squeezed shut, the roll is completed - up onto his slightly less-bruised side, so that he's facing the wall, and his back is facing everything else. "Kindly go to hell, Mr. Tisman."
Mr. Tisman turns away. The guards, falling in line behind him, touch the prisoner with their gazes before pushing into the umbilicus with him. "Good day, Dr. Lensherr," bids the warden, dispassionately civil -- and then they are gone, past the hiss of the door into the retreating tunnel itself. The human eye is kinder than the mechanical; perched like vultures in the dark beyond the cell, cameras open their irises wide at that seamed, aged face, to goggle at the humiliation of men.
In the absence of physical company, Erik's shoulders slump down into the stiff set of his mattress. Cool blue eyes open once again despite their exhaustion, studying the lurid reflection of his bloodied person for several minutes before the mutant drifts into a shallow and uneasy sleep.
[Log ends]