It is second nature to him now, throwing masses of metals about as if they were nothing more than tin foil sculptures. He can monologue while he destroys, can crush a subway and all the people within it into paper thin sheets without breaking a sweat and all the while his mind is a half century away from the catastrophe he leaves in his wake. The words of an old friend ring in his mind as he tosses a bus two blocks away. True focus lies between rage and serenity. This is certainly true for him now. He can lift any amount of weight in metal; can stop any projectile thrown his way because as explosions sound around him he remembers.

He remembers the burn of a needle against his skin as he loses his identity to a number. He remembers the last Hanukkah he spent with his mother, basking in the warmth in her eyes, realizing that there was not a trace of the anxiety he had seen there the past few months. He remembers seeing Sebastian Shaw for the first time since liberation, seeing how healthy he looked, fit and tan and utterly carefree. He remembers how beautiful Charles looked when he came, those all-knowing blue eyes blissful and pink mouth slack. He remembers hating the world for its ugliness and injustice and apathy and loving it for giving him hope and love and Charles.

He will never lose focus because his rage and his serenity both stem from the same place: the bleeding wound in his heart.