Fic: Iridescent | part three: love (magneto) con't
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8.
“Fuck,” Logan swore, above the roar of fighting. His claws dripped and he howled, ripping savagely into one of the mind-controlled mutant’s sides.
“Don’t kill them,” Charles snapped. “They’re still mutants, they’re just under someone else’s control.”
Logan snarled. “Fuck you, bud. They’re trying to kill me. I’m going to kill ‘em right back.”
The telepath would have argued, but he was too busy trying to work as many mutants loose as possible, and it felt like someone had taken his skull, cracked it open, filled it with nails, and was now rattling it vigorously.
Stryker must die.
Mutants fell left and right, some killed, some stunned, and some (precious few, too few) freed from whatever was bending them to Stryker’s will.
Sabertooth howled, vaulted over a fire-breather, and landed beside Charles on all fours, a growl twisting his lips, and he glowered at Logan.
Mine-Jimmy-mineminemine no one can kill you but me-
Not now, Creed.
“Hey, Wolverine,” called Wilson, grinning madly, as he neatly separated a many-armed mutant from about half of his limbs. “Twenty-four!”
Wolverine swore. “Twenty,” he muttered, and charged back into the fray.
Sabertooth growled, and Charles hissed a breath. “If you want to kill him so bad, keep anyone else from doing it,” he snapped, and Creed glowered, bounding back into the writhing bodies.
Another three mutants reeled, released from their illusions, and blinked.
Not enough, damn it.
There were still forty-some mutants running around under Stryker’s power, and Charles’s head was threatening to split in two-he needed to find the source of the rot, not treat the symptoms.
Angel, Logan, he snapped. I’m going deeper. Can you hold them here?
Two affirmations later, Charles was racing down deeper and deeper into Stryker’s labyrinth, following the dark, swirling mass of dreams that spread through the minds of mutants like a taint, a stain, visible only to a telepath but damn ugly.
He passed labs, operating rooms, rusty, bloodstained cages, and Charles’s fury rose, lashing out. Any human guard with fifty feet dropped as he passed, and he snuffed them out like candles.
Torture my people, will you, he snarled.
Farther and farther he went, humans fleeing from him, and light grew watery and dim. His ears popped. He was low in the earth, and there couldn’t be much farther to go, the black cloud was just ahead, thick as fog, he could barely see anything-
“Hello, X,” said a voice, and a gun snapped out and hit Charles’s nose, dropping him like a rock.
Stryker, Charles thought, and tried to lash out, but the black dream-cloud was everywhere, covering everything, and he realized that Stryker had a helmet.
Hands grabbed him, dragged him to his feet and held him fast.
He growled, focusing all his razor blades on Stryker, slipping and sliding at the helmet, and the dream-cloud brushed his mind, a stutter-flash of happybeachcubaiknowyoutelepathiknowyou.
He flinched, and tried to hide it.
“Come,” said Stryker. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Charles stared.
“Erik Lehnsherr is an annoyance,” Stryker elaborated, clearly amused, “but not a real problem. He prefers politics and covert missions to all-out war, you see. He’s dangerous, of course, and violent enough if we rattle him, but you, on the other hand, well. You brought Wolverine and Wade Wilson with you. Bloodshed doesn’t shake you at all, does it?”
“You attacked a school,” Charles said lowly, viciously. “And I’ll kill you for it.”
“The school was a distraction,” Stryker said. “As I was saying, Lehnsherr’s annoying, but not my real problem. You are.”
Charles blinked, suddenly afraid. He’d heard that tone of voice, once, and then his power had been damaged forever.
“You’re much harder to find, though, you know? I knew where Lehnsherr was, and I remembered how eagerly he came to your rescue, back in ’85. I figured you’d do the same for him.”
“Erik was bait,” Charles whispered, eyes wide. He understood.
“Not quite, but close enough. I needed him to build Cerebro, but more importantly, I needed him to lure you here. What goes is a machine like that if you don’t have a telepath to use it, right?”
Charles went very cold.
“You want to use Cerebro,” he said. “So you can find all of the mutants and hunt us down.”
Stryker’s grin was edged and bloody. “Close.” He opened the door behind him, and beckoned to the two men holding Charles still. He fought them, lashing at their minds, but they wouldn’t fall, they too were under the black dream-cloud, and didn’t feel pain.
Stryker led them into a huge, dimly-lit room, and Charles couldn’t help but stare. Metal whirled, rose and spun high above them, twisting and fitting with other panels neatly. It looked like Hank’s Cerebro, but not, and Charles didn’t know what to make of it.
Wires tangled together neatly, panels snapped, lights whirred and hummed to life. Cerebro took shape, and Stryker grinned.
In the center of whirling metal stood the black cloud, a man with blank, vacant eyes and power clinging to his skin like poison.
Erik sat in a plastic chair beside the man, hands outstretched, metal spinning at his command, and tears streamed down his face.
For a second Charles whited out, ragefurykillkillkill welling up, unstoppable, and he lashed out-
Only to have his power bounce off Stryker’s helmet, reduced to harmlessness.
Fury made him inarticulate, and he growled.
Erik, Erik, I’m so sorry, this is my fault, he wants me-
“Jason,” Stryker said sweetly, and the black-cloud of a man turned. “This is Charles Xavier. You know what to do.”
And the black cloud focused on him, poisonous dream-words whispered, a hundred of them, a thousand, and Charles howled-
The last of Cerebro clicked into place, and it was then Charles noticed the helmet, just the right size and shape for his head, resting in front of a panel of blinking lights.
9.
Lightning crackled down the hallways, and Ororo grinned fiercely. Behind her, Scott and Jean led the children carefully, whispering reassurances. Ahead, Mystique, Bobby, and John spread destruction, leaving the hallways suspiciously empty and smoking.
William Stryker had underestimated Magneto’s mutants.
Sure, the Professor was old and occasionally absent-minded, these days, but he made sure each and every mutant in his school knew how to protect him- or herself.
Stryker had, apparently, forgotten that.
The mutants bulldozed a path through the sprawling base, checking every hallway and door for the way out. They hadn’t found one yet, but no one was going to stop them from finding one. No one could stop them, at this point. They were kicking ass.
Somewhere far away, Storm heard yelling, bangs, and screaming. Somebody somewhere was fighting, and she was half-tempted to go check it out. Was it Mags, wreaking holy hell with some metal? Or Logan and Wilson, cheerfully ripping everyone up?
Or X, she thought, and wasn’t sure if she hated the idea or liked it. On one hand, X fucked things up. He tried to do “right,” sure, or whatever the fuck he thought right was, but he just caused problems. And made the Professor sad, and Ororo hated when the Prof got sad. On the other, he cared about Magneto, or had once, a long time ago, and he owed Erik. X’d do what needed to be done.
Gotta stay out of it, she thought, and rushed on down the hallways, letting lightning fizzle in her blood and glow in her eyes.
Behind her, Jean’s mind swooped out, tinged with confusion, and Storm stopped, turned to face her.
She had time to see Jean’s eyes go red-orange with fear and then she went down-
Horrible, awful screaming ripped into her mind, blade-sharp, and a hundred thousand voices hummed and sang die mutant die die mutant die, and Ororo clutched her ears and wailed-
***
Wolverine grinned, viciously ripping into a huge, thundering mutant and digging in deep. The mutant howled, twisting, and Logan felt his metal bones rattle.
He snarled, pulling out, and shoved the bigger mutant to the side where he crashed, twitched, and lay still.
“Twenty-eight!” he bellowed, and Wilson laughed.
One of X’s mutants, Sabertooth, snorted, his teeth bared.
Logan glared. He didn’t know why, but Sabertooth was familiar, and if he wasn’t currently shredding people to keep the Professor and the kids alive, he’d be circling the other man until he knew what kind of creature Sabertooth was, and why he looked so damn familiar.
“Twenty-nine!” Wilson howled, swords flashing.
“Falling behind?” Sabertooth sneered, claws flicking out (a lot like his own, now that he thought about it) and shredding some guy’s shoulder.
Logan bared his teeth, dropping his shoulders and tackling a mutant with spikes sticking out of his face. The spikes pricked his skin, tearing, and Wolverine winced and followed through. The mutant howled, apparently not mutated to withstand the several hundred pounds of force.
Oh well.
“Twenty-nine!”
Sabertooth snorted again, disdain crinkling his nose, and fuck if that wasn’t such a familiar expression Logan damn near twitched out of his skin.
“Listen, bub, if you got a problem -”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Die mutant die, someone whisper-screamed inside his head, and Charles Xavier was there like razors and barbed-wire, and he heard Sabertooth howling Jimmy Jimmy no one gets to kill you but me! and the screaming, and everyone was writhing, and he roared-
***
“You see,” Erik-Jason whispers, and his face is a lopsided grin. A hundred million red lights, one for each and every mutant in the world, glimmers, and it’s so beautiful Charles can feel his heart breaking.
Erik’s hands are warm on his shoulders.
“Now,” he says, and Charles loves him, he does, so much, he wants to say i’m so sorry but he can’t. “Here’s what I need you to do…”
And one by one, the millions and millions of lights started to flicker.
10.
There is something wrong with his house.
It’s hard to notice, at first, because it looks just like his home, but it’s not. There’s something wrong.
There are no children.
The house is too quiet. For the last forty years he’s had children around him all the time, and children are loud. Children are messy. Children break windows and vases and paint on the walls, or sneeze and blow out a wall, or break into the liquor cabinets and get loudly, hilariously drunk.
And none of that is happening.
The mansion is quiet, and Charles smiles at him sadly.
“You’re a smart one, aren’t you?” he says.
Erik narrows his eyes, and lets rage build and build in his bones until the whole mansion shakes with it, and Charles stares at him with wide, Cuba-blue eyes.
No. That’s wrong. Charles’s eyes are wrong. They’re the wrong shade of blue.
And his face is perhaps too round, he’s a little shorter than he should be, and his smile is wrong, and all of a sudden Jason Stryker is standing there in the shaking mansion, and Erik’s furious.
“Get out,” he says, slowly and clearly, every word laced, “of my head.”
And he throws himself out, power quaking, and the mansion shakes and falls to dust, and Jason falls, torn apart by his own blood-
Erik woke up howling, hands thrown, his power tearing from him like bullets. Die mutant die screamed in his ears, whispered against his mind, and he fought it.
Metal snapped and creaked and groaned, suddenly alive, bristling, and he struggled against the whisper-screams, and the knives in his head-
His eyes found William Stryker’s, and he bared his teeth.
Stryker laughed, ugly, and Erik grinned.
His power surged. Stryker’s body was absurdly low in iron, but there was enough-
Erik crooked his fingers, and Stryker gasped, clutching his head, his stomach, eyes going wide and surprised. He opened and closed his mouth, and crumpled.
The walkway shuddered and Cerebro-complete, he realized, through the sheeting pain-quaked, and Charles Xavier made a sound half-way between a cry and a laugh.
Jason Stryker stumbled back, hands shaking, eyes still mostly blank, and he looked at Erik and said “please,” and before he could stop himself, Erik reached out and stopped his heart.
“Charles,” he rasped, clutching his head, and the walkway jumped and shuddered, Cerebro’s panels clacked together, wires twisted, sparks flew, a hundred million red lights wavered-
Erik, Charles said, and his face was wet, his mind was a broken arrow. Erik, I can hear them.
“Charles.” Erik reeled, blood boiling, power thrashing. “Charles, you have to stop, you’re killing us.”
The red lights flickered, and the pressure-
“Erik,” Charles croaked, and the knife-stab retreated. The red lights flickered again, and then grew brighter and brighter. Erik breathed again, and the agony faded,
“You’re alright,” Charles said, and he looked relieved even though he was clearly in pain. “I thought-Stryker was using you as bait.”
“He wanted you here,” Erik murmured, “to kill all the mutants.”
Charles’s face went suddenly, blindingly hard. “Yes,” he said grimly, and gritted his teeth. The red lights began to shift, blurring, and flicked out entirely. Erik shouted, but Charles waved him off. New lights, bright white, replaced the red, and instead of a hundred million there were billions of these lights; one for each and every human in the world.
Erik was cold. “Charles,” he began, “what are you-”
Charles’s face screwed up in agony, and the white lights began to flicker.
Oh no.
“Charles,” Erik snapped. “Stop it, Charles, you can’t, you can’t kill them all.”
“Why not?” The telepath snarled. “I’ve been in their minds, Erik, they’d do the same. Look at Stryker! They tried to do the same, and would do it again, if we gave them the chance! But I won’t,” he said, low, deadly. “I won’t, ever again.” He cried out, bit down on it, and the lights pulsed wildly.
Humans were dying.
“No,” Erik said forcefully, reaching out. His hand brushed Charles’s shoulder. “Don’t, not all of them are Stryker-”
“You don’t get to decide!” Charles shouted. “You let them try to take my power away!”
Erik reeled back, pain blooming behind his eyes, and Cerebro rattled and swayed. It was drawn to him. He could stop it, easily, but he didn’t want to hurt Charles.
(again)
“Listen to me,” Erik said, and he pitched it above Charles’s cry, above the rattle-quake of Cerebro, the whining howl of the machinery. “My friend, listen to me. Killing them all will not bring you peace. You’re wiping out an entire race of people. Billions of lives, each one with the possibility of having a mutant child, or of being a good person.”
Aren’t you angry? Charles’s mind roared, too much after decades of silence. You should be. They took your children. Nearly your life.
Of course I’m angry, Erik wanted to scream. Of course I am. I’m furious, I want to rip Stryker’s men apart.
You have no right to judge me, the voice hissed, greater and more terrible than it had ever been. You hurt me! You betrayed me!
I’m sorry! Erik howled, trying to get above the noise. The white lights dimmed, flickered, pulsed, hanging by a thread. Do not take your anger out on innocent people, take it out on me, Charles, I hurt you. You have to let the humans go.
Never.
Erik reached out, grabbed the machine he’d been forced to build, and held it in his palms. With a twitch, he could cut its power. It would be easy. And billions of people would be safe. But Charles…
You’ll die, he whispered. Charles, you have to let go. You’ll die.
You would chose them? Outrage, wild and hot and overwhelming. Over your own people? Over me?
Erik’s heart hurt. His head hurt. His power hurt, twisting out of him, and the walkway bounced and Cerebro rattled.
Let go, he ordered. Sorrow welled up, an ocean, and he tasted Cuba-salt and metal on his tongue. Let. Them. Go, Charles.
I can’t. Fear now, and anger, twined together so close one was the other. They’ll kill you.
No, they won’t. They’ll understand, but you have to let them go, now.
I-
Let them go!
And Charles, a howl lost and dying in his throat, let the lights flare vividly, viciously white, and slumped forward.
The helmet slid off his head, clattering, and Cerebro creaked, almost startled, and the light died.
Silence.
Without Charles connected to it, Erik reached out and ripped Cerebro down, cutting loose bolts and wires and watching them tumble. They fell, an avalanche, and he thought, under the terrible ringing clatter, he heard Charles sobbing.
He felt old, older than seventy-something. He was a hundred, five hundred, a thousand years old, and helpless with the weights pinning him down.
He couldn’t breath.
Charles, he whispered, and his old friend’s mind was a razor blade, wounded, defeated. Charles, you did the right thing.
Oh? Bitterness, and resignation.
Yes, Erik said, and held out his hand, tugging Charles’s chair back and back until he was close, and the track marks from years ago were stark in the dim light. Guilt twisted. I’m sorry.
Broken fingers tugged at his thoughts, and anger stirred, but it was mostly ash. Yeah. Me too.
Erik offered Charles a lopsided grin, and couldn’t speak. He just felt, and let Charles feel-
Peace, he whispered, over and over, like a prayer and a benediction. Peace, peace, shalom.
Shalom, Charles agreed, laughter-knives tickling. He-hesitantly, shattered-took Erik’s hand, and they waited.
three months later
11.
“I do not know how to apologize to a nation. I do not know if this nation will accept my apology, or if they even should.
“But I will try anyway.
“The mutants of the world have suffered much, since their discovery in 1962. Yes, there have been mutants who have been evil, who have murdered and stolen and destroyed with their abilities, but there are also humans who are evil, who murder and steal and destroy.
“We have forgotten this.
“There have been faults, on both sides, and intolerance, on both sides.
“But we will never heal if we continue hating each other.
“As many of you know, a rogue scientist attacked a peaceful school of mutants several months ago, resulting in the Telepathic Crisis that harmed both human and mutant. That rogue scientist lied to and tricked not only mutantkind, but me as well. He came to me asking if he could take down a training facility, and I gave him my permission.
“I will regret this forever. I should have examined his information myself. I should have looked into his background. I should have taken steps to make sure he wasn’t abusing mutants, and twisting them for his own gain.
“I did not, and I am sorry. I am sorry I didn’t care enough to check. I am sorry I ignored the pleas of a whole nation of people. I am sorry I allowed my fear to get the better of me, and that innocent people suffered for it.
“I am sorry that, for forty years, we have denied your rights, and your humanity. What happened to you at places like Alkali Lake and Three Mile Island, and other facilities all over the world, is an atrocity. I will not allow it to happen again.
“Mutants of America, of the world, I am sorry. From now on, I will not fight with you. I will meet you, in peace, and we can work together to mend this rift.
“And as the first step, I name Doctor Henry McCoy the Secretary of Mutant Rights, so that we may move forward in these turbulent times-”
***
“Fucking human,” the young mutant spat, his fists balled.
“Hey,” said the old man, cutting in. He pressed a hand to the young mutant’s chest, holding him back. “Knock it off.”
The mutant sneered, trying to shake off the old man. “Back the fuck off, human. This asswipe insulted my father. He’s got it coming.”
“Didn’t you hear the President this morning?” the old man asked mildly. “Leave him alone. Go on.”
The mutant rolled his eyes, sullen anger flashing, and drew back to throw a punch.
Go, Charles ordered, and the mutant blanched, staggered back and jogged the other way. Charles rolled his eyes. Kids these days.
The human nodded to him.
“Don’t insult people’s fathers,” Charles suggested. Probably not the best way to make friends.
The young man, too, blanched, and he nodded hastily.
Charles smiled, picked up his chess board, and continued on.
Chicago was lovely in the spring. Lincoln Park was alive, budding, and the air smelled of rain, and new flowers.
The mutant called X took a deep, satisfied breath and made his way over to the chess tables, settling in among the other old men. He didn’t want to play anyone, not yet. This was a new chess set, and he wouldn’t let anyone else touch the pieces until he’d learned them himself.
Half the pieces were wooden, smooth, deep mahogany that smelled sharp in the clean air. The other half were metal, sleek, polished to a sheen.
Charles smiled, turned them over in his fingers, and began to play.
***
Erik twitched the TV off with a finger and leaned back.
“That was strangely heartfelt,” he mused, and Logan snorted.
“Politicians. They’re all the same.”
Erik shrugged. “This one meant it, though. He put a mutant in his Cabinet. That’s a big step.”
Wolverine shook his head and hopped off the desk. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all very proud of the furball.”
Erik laughed quietly, rolling the kinks out of his shoulders.
“So,” Logan said. “What’re we going to do now?”
Erik looked up at him. “Rebuild,” he said. “Carry on.” He tapped the files on his desk. “Order another year’s worth of supplies, and repair the damage. It’s about time for a remodel, anyway. This place has been the same since the first World War.”
Logan snorted, leaned against the doorframe. “Good idea. The kids’ll want to paint their own rooms, though.”
“Let them,” Erik shrugged. He studied the blank television screen thoughtfully. “If the President meant what he said, I get the feeling we’re not going to need this old place for much longer, anyway.”
Logan arched an eyebrow. “Yeah? You mean that?”
Erik shrugged again. “It’s always been my intention,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” said Wolverine, and he looked mildly disturbed. “It’s just, I’ll miss the little brats, you know?”
Erik laughed. “You could always be a real teacher, you know. You have a way with pottery, after all.”
The infamous, bloodthirsty, battle-crazed Wolverine blushed. “Shut up,” he muttered, and ducked out.
The professor smiled to himself, looking out the hole in his wall to the fields below. Spring was beautiful in Westchester, and the children were enjoying themselves. They had somehow roped the teachers into a particularly vicious game of football, and it was amusing to watch Scott and Wade try and outdo each other.
The mansion was only half-repaired. Windows still gaped, the West Wing was still gone, and his office was missing most of a wall, but Erik didn’t mind. He had renovation plans drawn up already, and the contractor would be coming in a few weeks.
I must sent Wade to Genosha after Alex, too, he thought. He’d given Alex a few months, to find his own way. It was time to bring him home.
Still half-smiling, he pulled his new chessboard out from under his desk, turned the pieces, half rich mahogany, half solid metal, over in his hands.
Windows, he thought to himself, as he began to play. That’s what I want here. Huge, enormous bay windows.
He paused, double-checking the budget, and grinned. Oh yes. There was plenty left for the windows, and several gallons of paint.
Perhaps he could convince the children to paint Logan’s classroom magenta.
epilogue