12/5/07 - Magneto
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=NYC= Conservatory - Hellfire Clubhouse
Vibrant greenery soaks the air in this large, tall room with the scents, sights, and sounds of growing plants. The dark brick floor forms paths around potted trees and banks of herbs, ferns, and flowers that see regular rotation outside in the formal gardens at the right seasons. The two exterior walls are metal-gridded glass looking onto the rear grounds and those gardens, and provide supplementary natural light that cascades inside to mingle with the regularly placed lamps' harsher illumination. Small wrought-iron chairs and benches of white painting and black cushioning find homes around the room; most of them cluster by the chuckling fountain, rich with multicolored koi and water lilies, at the greenhouse's heart.
A blot of black and silver among a great deal of cheerful greenery, Erik stands upright and alone next to the koi pond. Do koi enjoy bagels? Apparently, for the particularly pretentiuos one that he is breaking into bits and tossing into the water is being gobbled up with enthusiastic haste. As exciting an activity as this is, his mind wanders elsewhere. To potential and possibility. Perhaps everything is not lost.
Xavier is wearing shoes and he is using them, today, scuffing their so-expensive soles on the conservatory's brick pathways. Exploration. His mind skates with it, armored and adrift over the congress of the Hellfire Club. He comes, as usual, with a purpose: to parlay with royalty, or infuriate it. Both are satisfactory.
Greeting touches Erik's mind before Charles's voice does, the spindly rat-tat-tat of the crutches' presence like chopsticks in condoms. "There you are." As though the master terrorist were hiding himself. Illogical. "This fascination of yours with water creatures--"
"They are simple. And they cannot talk." Brows lifted, Erik does not bother with turning to face Charles. Rather, he tears off another bit of bagel and flicks it off into the water with excess force.
"Babies are simple," Charles says, limping the last, undignified few steps to join Erik by the pond. Breath exhales, a trifle restless; the pulse that is lapped by the sagging jowls moves a little fast. Exertion. "Likewise, they cannot talk. Dogs, cats, ducks, fish -- you could have been a veterinarian."
"In another life, perhaps." This conceded without any real regret or irritation attributed to the idea, Erik turns his head enough to sweep a lazy glance over Charles. Then it is back to the fish. "What do you want?"
Charles says, "It is simply a visit," while power floats out across the room, feeding ripples into the mental aether to gently nudge minds and eyes away. He settles his weight more carefully on his heels, digging in the crutches into a more deliberate angle to support his precarious lean. "One can occasionally visit an old friend simply for the sake of his company. --Fish are quite bafflingly...."
One of the koi flips up out of the water, and drops down again. Sploosh.
"Your ancestors may have been fish," says Erik, who curls both hands around what bagel he has left -- subtly disinclined to share. Another glance sinks down after the crutches, and Erik sighs. "You dishonor them with your lies."
"...wet," Charles finishes with grave dignity. Oxford curls its smoky tail around his voice. "I have no particular bias against evolution, given its use in daily life. There's a project for you, if you're that bored. Visit those benighted boards of education and explain the difference between science and religion. You'll have to use small words."
He leans a little further into one side and opens his spare hand in a wordless request. He saw that. Gimme.
"Alternatively, I could strip the adamantium from your Wolverine's bones, reassemble it into a skeleton, and donate it to a museum." Unshakeably droll, Erik does not seem to notice the request. He makes a point of keeping his eyes upon the fish.
"He would complain." The hand remains patiently outstretched. Like a monument, in fact. Except for the part where Charles bumps Erik's chest with it. Just in case he didn't notice its presence. By /accident/.
Magneto looks slowly down to the place where Charles' hand bumped, and promptly tosses the entirety of the remaining bagel into the water. Plop.
Charles watches it plop. His hand returns to the prop of his crutch, and he leans again. Forward, this time. Koi attack the bagel with furious excitement. The deep voice waxes resigned. "You are quite a twat sometimes, Erik."
Cold eyes turn to watch Charles sidelong. Duh. He says nothing.
Neither does Charles.
Flop, go some of the fish. Bibble, go some others. A bubble breaks for the surface, and burps.
Jaw flexed hollow, Erik looks up again, then turns to walk away. Deeper into the conservatory, or out of it entirely. Either way, he does not seem very interested in maintaining Charles' company.
Charles does not move. The koi are fascinating. "I need your help, Erik."
Bagel crumbs dusted idly from his hands, Erik pauses at that. Even from the back, he looks to be in better shape than he was when Charles last saw him. Aside from a typical lack of sleep, he is clean cut and smartly dressed. "For what?" he asks the far wall.
"Saving the world," Charles tells the fish. In the same tone of voice he adds, "There really is no way to say that without sounding melodramatic in the extreme. My apologies."
"Saving the world," Erik echoes after a short pause, whiskered lower jaw setting at an angle before he half turns back, well out of arm's reach, now.
"Stop me if you've heard this one." There is irony in that expressive voice now, the lightest touch of humor that is anything but. The aged face rises. "A small blue planet, an asteroid from outer space -- even asteroids must come from somewhere, after all -- a path of intersection, a desperate government--"
"The asteroid strikes, society collapses. Humanity's numbers fail. The population thins, and the better adapted Homo superior fills the void." Having given the matter some thought, Erik lifts a brow.
"The asteroid strikes, society collapses. A debris cloud forms in the upper atmosphere. Sunlight fails to reach the earth. The equivalent of a nuclear winter begins. All life, adapted or not, dies."
"That is an assumption that falls rather short of your usual optimism," Erik observes with only the mildest change in expression.
"Given my usual optimism, you may rest assured that I present you with the brightest of possibilities," Charles says with equanimity. He half-turns at last, the path crunching under his shoes, and finishes the turn with his head to regard Erik. "No doubt Emma has already told you what I asked for my help."
It is an odd sort of standoff. Not with weapons, but with the possible fate of the world. Erik watches Charles through narrowed eyes, scowling all the while. This is not a subject that leaves him feeling particularly warm and fuzzy. "She has said nothing of the sort."
Charles disengages one crutch from the ground and scuffs its rubber tip against the path. Gently. Bump bump. "Really," he marvels. "I would have thought she would share everything with you. --The telepath law will disappear into committee. It will not come out again. It seemed the least they could do, all things considered."
"That is charmingly underhanded of you." A tight, insincere smile accompanies the compliment, and Erik stiffens his spine all the further. "You have no guarantee..."
"None whatsoever," Charles says, mild. "There are no guarantees in life, Erik. We both know that. You have accused me of being an optimist, but you are not. Imagine for a moment, then, what the public reaction would be if it learned that mutants saved the world."
"Greater fear for the power we wield over their destinies." Erik doesn't even have to think about it.
Hazel eyes narrow. "You are an incurable pessimist."
"I cannot imagine why that would be."
"You choose one narrow course of possibility and cling to it, as though it were inevitable. Is it not likewise possible that humanity would embrace mutants with relief?"
"More importantly, is it a possibility that I am willing to risk sidestepping their extinction for?" There is a distinctly bitter edge to the question. It deepens his voice and hoods dark over his eyes, making him seem even older than he already is.
"By deciding on extinction for /your/ kind -- if you must distinguish yourself as separate? Cutting your nose off to spite your face, my friend." The edge on Charles's voice is more exasperation than true irritation. He finishes his turn, one crutch digging hard against the pavement beside the path.
"You don't know that." But this time the argument lacks conviction, and rings hollow. "It is an asteroid, Charles. Nothing of this sort has ever even been attempted."
"We are mutants, Erik." There may be a laugh just out of sight around the corners of Charles's expression. It touches Magneto's mind, just for a second: concern over the possibility of apocalypse, yes, but some excitement for all that. The taste of Cerebro, when they were designing and building it together; the exhileration of new frontiers. "Nothing like our kind has ever been challenged."
Less certain, and certainly less thrilled about the idea, Erik retracts some from that touch. His already concealed thoughts pull into deeper shadow, and his chin dips. He has been burned by Cerebro's existance as he has been aided by it. "And what? Have they sent you to negotiate? Or did you happen to bypass that section of your scheme."
Charles would be better suited with a cane. A cane has personality. Crutches lack them. He shifts his weight in the plastic braces, fatigue hunched like a shadow in the corners of his mouth, and begins to make his way down the path towards Erik and the seats beyond him. "I did not see fit to discuss the matter with them," he says, dry. "They asked me for help. I am obeying the spirit of the request, rather than the letter."
"Of course." Erik is not surprised. He makes this clear in posture and tone while he takes an automatic step aside to allow Charles his right of way.
"You could sound a little shocked." Amusement is a suitable cover for the discomfort of movement; strain stretches lightly at the shallower hollows of Charles's accent. One of the cushioned benches is his target. He leans one crutch against its arm before sinking, painfully, onto black upholstery. "They cannot argue with what they do not know."
Magneto does not endeavor to sound shocked. He watches Charles seat himself in grim silence. This is not even remotely fitting in with his preconceived notions of how the entire end of the world thing was going to happen.
The crutches rattle. They are, given Charles's wealth, ludicrously cheap affairs. He props them both against the bench's arm, tucking them out of sight, if not out of reach. His distaste for them is subtle, but there: in the careful blankness of his expression, in the deliberation of his handling. An old, familiar friend could read it.
Not entirely immune to what he sees, and has seen, Erik is quicker to look away than he might otherwise be. A hand is lifted to shade over his brow, only to scruff down over his beard in relatively short order.
There. Settled. Charles sinks back into the chair. Not his, but familiar enough in shape and contour to serve. "There is opportunity here, Erik, for both of us. For /all/ of us. Surely that's worth some consideration, at least."
Erik doesn't argue, but he doesn't agree, either. He has a headache, actually. One that has everything to do with this conversation. He is tired and Charles is old and this is not at all how things were.
But this is how things are. << ...for a future, >> murmurs Charles's voice in his mind, like the serpent. << You will be saving mutants as well as humans, old friend. Consider it a byproduct if you will, but was that not what you set out to do, all those years ago? >>
His mind is a hostile place, these days. Vigilant and suspicious, all his focus is turned inward after that murmer, austere light sheering through the dark to glance off of metallic surfaces. "Yes."
<< And now you have the chance. >> Earth chases metal, warmer lights and colors settling against the hard reserve. Charles's eyes half-lid themselves, the loosened skin around them crinkling over hazel. << Thank about it, Erik. That's all I ask. >>
<< And now you have the chance. >> Earth chases metal, warmer lights and colors settling against the hard reserve. Charles's eyes half-lid themselves, the loosened skin around them crinkling over hazel. << Think about it, Erik. That's all I ask. >>
Eyes faded into a distracted blank, Erik's presence is more in than out while Charles speaks, and he listens. "I do not really have an option."
There is a small flicker there. Surprise. Charles is tired and Erik is old and this is not at all how things were. "You will help?"
Not happily, is the answer. But he blinks and manages fleeting eye contact in a silent and more specific confirmation. Then he turns to leave again -- somewhat less belligerently, this time.
<< Keep it between us, Erik, >> says the last, fleeting thought. << For now. >> And under that, like the first, fresh wind of spring: << Thank you, my friend. >>
Winter through and through, spring air can do little to warm Erik's thoughts. He paces on without looking back, and he does not say "You're welcome."
=NYC= Conservatory - Hellfire Clubhouse
Vibrant greenery soaks the air in this large, tall room with the scents, sights, and sounds of growing plants. The dark brick floor forms paths around potted trees and banks of herbs, ferns, and flowers that see regular rotation outside in the formal gardens at the right seasons. The two exterior walls are metal-gridded glass looking onto the rear grounds and those gardens, and provide supplementary natural light that cascades inside to mingle with the regularly placed lamps' harsher illumination. Small wrought-iron chairs and benches of white painting and black cushioning find homes around the room; most of them cluster by the chuckling fountain, rich with multicolored koi and water lilies, at the greenhouse's heart.
A blot of black and silver among a great deal of cheerful greenery, Erik stands upright and alone next to the koi pond. Do koi enjoy bagels? Apparently, for the particularly pretentiuos one that he is breaking into bits and tossing into the water is being gobbled up with enthusiastic haste. As exciting an activity as this is, his mind wanders elsewhere. To potential and possibility. Perhaps everything is not lost.
Xavier is wearing shoes and he is using them, today, scuffing their so-expensive soles on the conservatory's brick pathways. Exploration. His mind skates with it, armored and adrift over the congress of the Hellfire Club. He comes, as usual, with a purpose: to parlay with royalty, or infuriate it. Both are satisfactory.
Greeting touches Erik's mind before Charles's voice does, the spindly rat-tat-tat of the crutches' presence like chopsticks in condoms. "There you are." As though the master terrorist were hiding himself. Illogical. "This fascination of yours with water creatures--"
"They are simple. And they cannot talk." Brows lifted, Erik does not bother with turning to face Charles. Rather, he tears off another bit of bagel and flicks it off into the water with excess force.
"Babies are simple," Charles says, limping the last, undignified few steps to join Erik by the pond. Breath exhales, a trifle restless; the pulse that is lapped by the sagging jowls moves a little fast. Exertion. "Likewise, they cannot talk. Dogs, cats, ducks, fish -- you could have been a veterinarian."
"In another life, perhaps." This conceded without any real regret or irritation attributed to the idea, Erik turns his head enough to sweep a lazy glance over Charles. Then it is back to the fish. "What do you want?"
Charles says, "It is simply a visit," while power floats out across the room, feeding ripples into the mental aether to gently nudge minds and eyes away. He settles his weight more carefully on his heels, digging in the crutches into a more deliberate angle to support his precarious lean. "One can occasionally visit an old friend simply for the sake of his company. --Fish are quite bafflingly...."
One of the koi flips up out of the water, and drops down again. Sploosh.
"Your ancestors may have been fish," says Erik, who curls both hands around what bagel he has left -- subtly disinclined to share. Another glance sinks down after the crutches, and Erik sighs. "You dishonor them with your lies."
"...wet," Charles finishes with grave dignity. Oxford curls its smoky tail around his voice. "I have no particular bias against evolution, given its use in daily life. There's a project for you, if you're that bored. Visit those benighted boards of education and explain the difference between science and religion. You'll have to use small words."
He leans a little further into one side and opens his spare hand in a wordless request. He saw that. Gimme.
"Alternatively, I could strip the adamantium from your Wolverine's bones, reassemble it into a skeleton, and donate it to a museum." Unshakeably droll, Erik does not seem to notice the request. He makes a point of keeping his eyes upon the fish.
"He would complain." The hand remains patiently outstretched. Like a monument, in fact. Except for the part where Charles bumps Erik's chest with it. Just in case he didn't notice its presence. By /accident/.
Magneto looks slowly down to the place where Charles' hand bumped, and promptly tosses the entirety of the remaining bagel into the water. Plop.
Charles watches it plop. His hand returns to the prop of his crutch, and he leans again. Forward, this time. Koi attack the bagel with furious excitement. The deep voice waxes resigned. "You are quite a twat sometimes, Erik."
Cold eyes turn to watch Charles sidelong. Duh. He says nothing.
Neither does Charles.
Flop, go some of the fish. Bibble, go some others. A bubble breaks for the surface, and burps.
Jaw flexed hollow, Erik looks up again, then turns to walk away. Deeper into the conservatory, or out of it entirely. Either way, he does not seem very interested in maintaining Charles' company.
Charles does not move. The koi are fascinating. "I need your help, Erik."
Bagel crumbs dusted idly from his hands, Erik pauses at that. Even from the back, he looks to be in better shape than he was when Charles last saw him. Aside from a typical lack of sleep, he is clean cut and smartly dressed. "For what?" he asks the far wall.
"Saving the world," Charles tells the fish. In the same tone of voice he adds, "There really is no way to say that without sounding melodramatic in the extreme. My apologies."
"Saving the world," Erik echoes after a short pause, whiskered lower jaw setting at an angle before he half turns back, well out of arm's reach, now.
"Stop me if you've heard this one." There is irony in that expressive voice now, the lightest touch of humor that is anything but. The aged face rises. "A small blue planet, an asteroid from outer space -- even asteroids must come from somewhere, after all -- a path of intersection, a desperate government--"
"The asteroid strikes, society collapses. Humanity's numbers fail. The population thins, and the better adapted Homo superior fills the void." Having given the matter some thought, Erik lifts a brow.
"The asteroid strikes, society collapses. A debris cloud forms in the upper atmosphere. Sunlight fails to reach the earth. The equivalent of a nuclear winter begins. All life, adapted or not, dies."
"That is an assumption that falls rather short of your usual optimism," Erik observes with only the mildest change in expression.
"Given my usual optimism, you may rest assured that I present you with the brightest of possibilities," Charles says with equanimity. He half-turns at last, the path crunching under his shoes, and finishes the turn with his head to regard Erik. "No doubt Emma has already told you what I asked for my help."
It is an odd sort of standoff. Not with weapons, but with the possible fate of the world. Erik watches Charles through narrowed eyes, scowling all the while. This is not a subject that leaves him feeling particularly warm and fuzzy. "She has said nothing of the sort."
Charles disengages one crutch from the ground and scuffs its rubber tip against the path. Gently. Bump bump. "Really," he marvels. "I would have thought she would share everything with you. --The telepath law will disappear into committee. It will not come out again. It seemed the least they could do, all things considered."
"That is charmingly underhanded of you." A tight, insincere smile accompanies the compliment, and Erik stiffens his spine all the further. "You have no guarantee..."
"None whatsoever," Charles says, mild. "There are no guarantees in life, Erik. We both know that. You have accused me of being an optimist, but you are not. Imagine for a moment, then, what the public reaction would be if it learned that mutants saved the world."
"Greater fear for the power we wield over their destinies." Erik doesn't even have to think about it.
Hazel eyes narrow. "You are an incurable pessimist."
"I cannot imagine why that would be."
"You choose one narrow course of possibility and cling to it, as though it were inevitable. Is it not likewise possible that humanity would embrace mutants with relief?"
"More importantly, is it a possibility that I am willing to risk sidestepping their extinction for?" There is a distinctly bitter edge to the question. It deepens his voice and hoods dark over his eyes, making him seem even older than he already is.
"By deciding on extinction for /your/ kind -- if you must distinguish yourself as separate? Cutting your nose off to spite your face, my friend." The edge on Charles's voice is more exasperation than true irritation. He finishes his turn, one crutch digging hard against the pavement beside the path.
"You don't know that." But this time the argument lacks conviction, and rings hollow. "It is an asteroid, Charles. Nothing of this sort has ever even been attempted."
"We are mutants, Erik." There may be a laugh just out of sight around the corners of Charles's expression. It touches Magneto's mind, just for a second: concern over the possibility of apocalypse, yes, but some excitement for all that. The taste of Cerebro, when they were designing and building it together; the exhileration of new frontiers. "Nothing like our kind has ever been challenged."
Less certain, and certainly less thrilled about the idea, Erik retracts some from that touch. His already concealed thoughts pull into deeper shadow, and his chin dips. He has been burned by Cerebro's existance as he has been aided by it. "And what? Have they sent you to negotiate? Or did you happen to bypass that section of your scheme."
Charles would be better suited with a cane. A cane has personality. Crutches lack them. He shifts his weight in the plastic braces, fatigue hunched like a shadow in the corners of his mouth, and begins to make his way down the path towards Erik and the seats beyond him. "I did not see fit to discuss the matter with them," he says, dry. "They asked me for help. I am obeying the spirit of the request, rather than the letter."
"Of course." Erik is not surprised. He makes this clear in posture and tone while he takes an automatic step aside to allow Charles his right of way.
"You could sound a little shocked." Amusement is a suitable cover for the discomfort of movement; strain stretches lightly at the shallower hollows of Charles's accent. One of the cushioned benches is his target. He leans one crutch against its arm before sinking, painfully, onto black upholstery. "They cannot argue with what they do not know."
Magneto does not endeavor to sound shocked. He watches Charles seat himself in grim silence. This is not even remotely fitting in with his preconceived notions of how the entire end of the world thing was going to happen.
The crutches rattle. They are, given Charles's wealth, ludicrously cheap affairs. He props them both against the bench's arm, tucking them out of sight, if not out of reach. His distaste for them is subtle, but there: in the careful blankness of his expression, in the deliberation of his handling. An old, familiar friend could read it.
Not entirely immune to what he sees, and has seen, Erik is quicker to look away than he might otherwise be. A hand is lifted to shade over his brow, only to scruff down over his beard in relatively short order.
There. Settled. Charles sinks back into the chair. Not his, but familiar enough in shape and contour to serve. "There is opportunity here, Erik, for both of us. For /all/ of us. Surely that's worth some consideration, at least."
Erik doesn't argue, but he doesn't agree, either. He has a headache, actually. One that has everything to do with this conversation. He is tired and Charles is old and this is not at all how things were.
But this is how things are. << ...for a future, >> murmurs Charles's voice in his mind, like the serpent. << You will be saving mutants as well as humans, old friend. Consider it a byproduct if you will, but was that not what you set out to do, all those years ago? >>
His mind is a hostile place, these days. Vigilant and suspicious, all his focus is turned inward after that murmer, austere light sheering through the dark to glance off of metallic surfaces. "Yes."
<< And now you have the chance. >> Earth chases metal, warmer lights and colors settling against the hard reserve. Charles's eyes half-lid themselves, the loosened skin around them crinkling over hazel. << Thank about it, Erik. That's all I ask. >>
<< And now you have the chance. >> Earth chases metal, warmer lights and colors settling against the hard reserve. Charles's eyes half-lid themselves, the loosened skin around them crinkling over hazel. << Think about it, Erik. That's all I ask. >>
Eyes faded into a distracted blank, Erik's presence is more in than out while Charles speaks, and he listens. "I do not really have an option."
There is a small flicker there. Surprise. Charles is tired and Erik is old and this is not at all how things were. "You will help?"
Not happily, is the answer. But he blinks and manages fleeting eye contact in a silent and more specific confirmation. Then he turns to leave again -- somewhat less belligerently, this time.
<< Keep it between us, Erik, >> says the last, fleeting thought. << For now. >> And under that, like the first, fresh wind of spring: << Thank you, my friend. >>
Winter through and through, spring air can do little to warm Erik's thoughts. He paces on without looking back, and he does not say "You're welcome."