Hello, Here is a piece of fan-fiction that I cobbled together as a "test" (to get back into writing mode more or less). It does involve Magneto, and so I figure that it might be reasonable fodder for the MML. If I am in error, I will gladly apologize. And, yes, Alara, I apologize in the advance for my primitive grammatical skills. I have some blind spots that I have always wanted to clean up but never have quite found the time . . . The Characters in this story are the property of Marvel Comics and are being used without permission in a non-profit manner. Twilight by Chris Delaney The grizzled old man sat on the barstool and concentrated on the drink in front of him. The sounds of people talking formed a distinct buzz in the background and the air was choked with cigarette smoke: a sure sign that he was in one of the seediest bars possible. The air smelled of unwashed bodies, sour vomit and rotting food. If you peered into the dim corners you could see small rodents scurrying in the shadows or, perhaps, catch a glimpse of a cockroach. The patrons were the scum of the city; the unwashed hopeless from every walk of life. All that they had in common was that they had nowhere else to go. Life was tough in the years after the conquest. Most of the United States had been devastated in the so called war of liberation and few were left who rememmebred something better. The man did and, perhaps, this is why he patronized seedy bars where the drink was cheap and laced with toxins. Places where a man's life wasn't worth the effort it took to cut his throat. Even the higher class of criminal avoided Barney's Bar: hookers who were still even vaguely attractive, cheap pimps and brutal thugs all found better places to be. In the beginning it had all seemed to be so much better. There had been a dream worth fighting for. Hell, it was a dream worth dying for. But that had been in a different sort of society. [Well, Charles], the man thought, [it is probably better that you are long dead then to see your dream fulfilled like this]. The man was a mutant and he had actually known Charles Xavier -- these days an obscure figure. He had once formed a group of mnutants that had later formed much of the leadership of the so called "Army of Liberation" that had done so much good . . . and then so much harm. The man drowned another gulp of sour beer, ignoring the acrid after-taste, and wondered where he would get the money for another. His fellows had long since learned to leave him alone and it was much better that way. He had had enough of people a lifetime ago! So he ignored the commotion in the bar when another stranger entered it. Unlike the crippled and broken man at the bar, she was a woman in the prime of her life. Red hair extended down to her shoulders and her green eyes danced with intelligence. Her features were a merger of classic feminine beauty and tough bitch. She wore a long trenchcoat and stiletto heels. She was as out of place in a joint like this as she would have been on the moon. But the man didn't care so he ignored her entrance and he failed to notice the look if recognition on her face as she scanned the broken form at the bar. He noticed, however, when she came up next to him -- a mistake that people rarely made these days. He turned, looked at her and barely defended himself as a telepathic probe slammed home into his skull. The man was tough and he had been trained by the best. There were a thousand ways to defend against telepathy if one knew how and the man had used them all over the years. But still, the shock was great and the man was half drunk. The arrogant red head confirmed his identity before he was able to shove her out of his brain. "Why?" the man asked with confusion. "Why now after all these years. If you were going to kill me, why didn't you do long before now?" "Nobody really believed that you were still alive, I guess." The red head had a voice that much more resembled her father than her mother. Jean's voice had been sweet as the angels. While her voice wasn't unpleasant, nobody would mistake it for sweet. "Some things are so shameful that you ignore them and hope that they go away. Looking at you, I suspect that we wouldn't have had to wait much longer." The red head was unable to keep the disdain out of her voice. "Who are you?" the man asked. His voice cracked, as if he were no longer used to speaking. Of course, who was there to speak to these days? He was almost certain of her identity, but he had to be sure. If he was wrong there might still be a chance. It seemed unlikely that there would be many tall, red headed, thirty-something telepaths bristling with arrogance around, but the man had long since ignored politics -- even those of his own race. "Rachel Summers. Deputy director of the standing committee for social order. But you already know that, don't you?" The standing committee for social order was a polite term for a group of mutants charged with making sure that things like the conquest never happened again. Ever. They were none too gentle in their methods and, in dark corners, people whispered that they had long since exceeded their mandate. But these rumours were never confirmed and people who spoke them too often or too loudly had a mysterious tendency to disappear. "Yes, I suppose I do," the man replied. "You do realize that I can't just forget that I found you. Rotting old fossil or not, if your existence ever became widespread knowledge there are those who might use it to further ends that might not be welcome. There is order to be maintained." "And I suppose you are here to enforce it?" The man looked around and realized that the patrons were ignoring the conversation despite the presence of Ms. Summers. Telepathic screening -- if anyone was able to defeat it then they were too wise to let on. "Don't be silly. Nobody cares what happens to the rejects out here on the fringe. No, I was here for an entirely different reason." Rachel smiled and the man felt his blood curdle in his veins. "So you were looking for me?" "No, I was seeking entertainment. In a job such as mine it is important to be able to work out certain . . . stresses . . . outside of the public eye. I suppose that it was only a matter of time until I ran across you." "Tired of getting your kicks torturing dissedents?" the man spat. Once he had had pride and might have done more than that feeble barb. But that was long ago and he was no longer the man he once was. Hell, was anybody? "You should know by now that President Munroe took the silly step of allowing legal ccounil to supervise interogations. They can't stop us, but they can make things messy. It's much cleaner this way . . . " "I know . . . I mean I knew Ororo. A good woman." " A weak minded fool. There are few of your generation left, old fossil, and the way of the future is against your silly compassion for the doomed." "What about the dream? What about equality?" Racchel laughed and the man felt chills run down his spine. "Equality? What a farce! How can I with power that mundanes can only dream of possibly be equal to the scum who populate this warren??? I'm surprised at you -- in the past you showed more understanding of reality than this. But you've pissed away what little brains you once had, haven't you?" "I was there when we fought . . . him. I was there at the end. You were still a child in your mother's womb? What could you know of the price we paid or why we did what we did? How can you forget what was once the reason for it all???" "The reason was that mundanes were pressing against the gifted and pursecuting us. It was always about power and never about ideology. The Conquerer only made us aware of what we could do if we worked together and forever removed the silly notion that we could ever be all one people. Even the reform president, Munroe, was a gifted one. A fool and a dreamer, but she was one of the elite. One of those born to rule." "You don't understand, do you??? This was what we were fighting against. This is why I led the X-Men and this is why we never gave up -- even when it was hopeless. Charles Xavier had a dream and it could have been reality . . ." Rachel mocked the man with more laughter. "You are amusing, do you know that? After all this you don't realize that that fool's dream died with him when the Conquerer crushed his throat? No, the Conquerer was defeated by the combined might of the gifted and the mundanes played little part." "THEY FOUGHT AND DIED WITH US!" "Wow. You can still feel anger, can you? I didn't think it was left in that whithered excuse for a body. The mundanes were cannon fodder, nothing more." "Your mother didn't think so." "My mother died screaming in an interogation chamber for her beliefs. And I watched and felt it all! She gave up her life and the life of her daughter for her silly beliefs. And she died a shamed outcast and a race traitor. Oh, I know all about my mother. Don't you DARE judge me, you piece of crap. If you felt so strongly about it, where were you???" Rachel's composure changed as she gave into the anger. The old fool was actually getting to her. "I didn't know until it was long past. If I had, perhaps I'd have done something about it. If nothing else gotten you away from that maniac Essex. But then. probably I wouldn't have." "Because you were too weak?" "Because something in me died the day that we won." Rachel's eyes widened as she was drawn back into the memories of the old man in front of her to the dying days of the greatest empire the planet had ever known. By the time she realized that he had used her own power to draw her into his head it was far to late to stop him. - - - - - - - - - - Magneto crawled forward over the floor. The air was heavy with the scent of ozone and he could hear the sounds of firing and screaming in the distance. No longer the fierce clash of battle, it was the milder brutality of mop up operation. It frightened him how little effect it had on him. It seemed as if he had spent his entire life in war. What little peace that he had seen was eternally marred by the memories of the horrors that he had endured. Except, perhaps, for a very brief time in the Ukraine. There he was happy. He glanced around the room at his companions, or rather at the corpses of those who had come into the throneroom with him. Filled with power and pride he had faced the despot with a ragtag band of followers and, against all odds, had succeeded. They had been losing, badly, but in one suicide strike they had won it all back again. He glanced at the heap of twisted metal and the pool of blood beneath it -- for a second he was almost afraid that the beast would rise again. Fear was not an emotion that Magneto was used to, but that abomination had certainly been enough to evoke it. He levered himself up using his good hand and tried to scan the room with his powers, searching for any evidence that they had failed and that the despot or his inner circle still lived. Except for a brief echo from an scorched adamantium skeleton that had once been a foe turned friend, the room was devoid of life. He twisted as he heard footsteps enter into the room and gazed upwards into eyes of blazing fire. His face relaxed with relief. "Scott! I'm glad you made made it. Look, help me up and we will see what we can do about finishing this." Scott Summers had been the leader of the X-Men when Magneto had acccompanied them on this strike. He looked for any flicker of emotion or for any signs that Scott was about to assist him, but the leader of the X-Men stood silent. Magneto took in the vicious wond on his arm and the generally tattered appearance. Scott had been fighting hard. "Of all of the possibilities, Magnus, of all of the ways it could have worked out, this is the worst." Scott glanced at the bodies of people he had grown to love -- human and mutant alike -- as well as the inner circle of a monster and the twisted mass of metal that contorted around the throne. He allowed himself a brief flicker of triumph at the sight of the blood leaking out from the metal. "What do you mean?" Magneto asked. Weariness enveloped him as he realized that his struggles weren't over yet. That somehow, just before it was realized, that peace had once again been denied to him. "I can't let it end like this. Most of us are dead and there isn't enough strength among us to oppose you. Not once you regain your strength. If only so many us us hadn't been killed. If only you had died like you were supposed to! DAMMIT MAGNETO, why does your life have to be nailed to your bloody spine?" "Don't, Scott. It doesn't have to end like this. We are friends and companions. We've fought and bled together. Just walk away and I'll forget this conversation ever happened." "I don't think you are capable of having friends, MAGNETO!" Scott said the last word with a sneer. "We can build a world without you. A much better world. People whose boots you aren't fit to lick are dead and you are still alive! It isn't right. I can't let this happen." "No, Scott. Listen to me -- you're hurt, injured. Let me help you . . ." But it was too late! Cyclops opened his visor and a blazing stream of ruby red energy streaked towards the master of magnetism. Power met power and a legend died. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Rachel blinked and then looked down to reassure herself that they were still him the bar. She felt a meaty hand descend onto her shoulder and realized that she had dropped the telepathic screen during the episode. She didn't even bother to figure out what he wanted as she used her telekinesis to reach into his brain and tear at blood vessels. Assualting a member of the committee was a capital offense anyway and she could do much worse if she had cared to. Secconds later the screen was back in place and the people in the bar promptly forgot that she was in their presence. "So that is why you ran away? That is why you crawled into a hole waiting to die???" "After that, how could I go back and explain the death to the others. There would have been recriminations and, in the end, I feared I'd cause more distress that way than by simply vanishing. Seeing the future, I guess I was wrong but it's too late for seccond thoughts now. I'm in the twilight of my life now and it is time for a new generation to make their own mistakes and win their own wars. The bastard we defeated was worse than you and so maybe that's a sign of hope. I don't know. Hell, I don't even know if I still care." "Yet if you returned you could be a symbol . . ." "Of what? Of how far a man can fall?" "No, perhaps you are right. You know, I should kill you. There would be some poetic justice in that, I figure. But I can't do it. I don't know why -- it isn't as if I haven't killed people before." "You let yourself get dragged into my skull. Distorts objectivism." The man indulged himself in a brief smile, showing yellowed and rotting teeth. He still had a few tricks left and the arrogantr ones were always the easiest to educate. "So, what now?" "Now, I think I'll go home. Somehow my taste for entertainment is . . . spoiled. Will I see you again?" "Never know, do you?" "You hate me, don't you?" "I hate what you stand for. I don't hate you. There is a difference. So how does it feel to have your world view shattered?" "Awful. Does it get better?" "Maybe. The one certain thing is that death is going to end it all . . . one way or the other." Rachel wanted to say more, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to talk further. So she rose from her filthy stool and slowly walked out of the bar into the cold night. The man watched her go, wondering what if? What if he had had the courage to go back that one last time? But "what if" was for dreamers and there was still more beer to drink and oblivion to find. He swallowed the last of his stale beer and used the last of his money to order another. Death would come soon enough and end it all anyway. And, in the future, who would really care? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 2X 2X 2X DOUBLE REWARDS POINTS! 2X 2X 2X Open a new NextCard Internet Visa account with a qualifying balance transfer and you'll earn DOUBLE Rewards points. Earn free airline tickets in half the time! Intro rates as low as 2.9% APR and NO annual fee! 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