Authors Note:

By now you might be wondering what I'm doing with this story. Despite the fact that I have other stories waiting on the side. But this story was nagging at me and nagging at me since I watched "X-men First Class." I don't know what it is about the story or the chemistry behind the characters of Charles and Erik that called to my Muse and made her rampage inside my head like an ADHD kid high on Adderall. So please don't shoot me. Don't tell me this one doesn't make sense and that this is going nowhere. Just please be kind since I did the inconceivable blunder of not only stealing the characters from a comic book—I just had to steal Miller's 300 too.

300 was a fabulous film—and yes I can say that without thinking of all those 'rippling male pectorals'* on display. But no one captured my attention more than that blond dude that flew up in the air to slice off that whipping guy's arm. That for me—made 300.

And so here it is—the product of a nagging Muse that simply refused to relent and leave a poor writer alone. I will get back on my 'mafia dudes'. That much I can promise. So again. Just—try to be kind.

GOD IN THE MACHINE

Chapter One:

STELIOS X

"Where there is only a choice between cowardice and violence,

I would advise violence."

- Mohandas Gandhi

Silence…

All around him there was a palpable silence…of echoing silence…of tangible, enveloping silence…

The pain that wracked his senses for the longest time has finally ebbed…deadened perhaps by the cold assuaging feel of emptiness and peace he has not known since he was a babe living innocently in his mother's home.

The agony of countless edges slashing into his yielding flesh has died down…the maddening burn of wounds cauterized by the numbness that flowed just as easily into his veins as the very lifeblood that escaped from his body with every piercing stab of yet another arrow gouging out another piece of his form.

It is finished…finally…rest…finally…no more pain…

The constant tension that was bred into his bones has finally grown lax…the endless churning inside his mind quieted until for the first time since forever he could hear his own thoughts—the sound of his own introspection no longer haunting him…no longer taunting him…For the first time since forever—he was at peace.

The sense of peace that assailed him was so alluring…so seductive that for once he allowed himself to simply surrender and not think—not suspect—not look for any hidden agenda or meaning…for once the warrior and the man known as Stelios allowed himself to let go….

Peace…finally…peace…

'Open your eyes, Warrior. We know that consciousness has taken a hold of you already…'

The soft echo of voices shattered the pervasive cloud of succor that enveloped him…awakening his drugged senses, nagging at him in a soft cacophony of insistence and plea until he had to inevitably give in and rouse himself once again…

'Where am I? Is this…am I not dead? Surely I know that I have taken my last breath on that blood-soaked land...'

'You are correct Warrior… It is as you have proclaimed...you have passed on. You have finally achieved what you desired the most…death on the battlefield…'

In an instance scene of unending carnage flashed through his mind's eye. The keening screams of arrows flying by the tens of thousands as they hurled a torrent of death on those that waited below. He watched yet again as his fellow warriors—brothers of his blood and soul one and all—fell under the unending onslaught of the amassed invaders…one by one drawing their final breath until at the very end all that remained with a single breath to his name was their mighty king.

'Who are you?' Why did you pull me from oblivion's sweet embrace only to show me the last pain my brothers and my king?'

'Don't you know who we are Warrior? Don't you know where you are?'

His sight—blurry and unfocused for a moment before clearing abruptly revealed the arid views of a twilit badlands…the arid landscape stretching as far as the eye can see…dusky unforgiving mountains that stretched straight into an onyx sky while bracketed by a tempestuous fiery column of flame. And there in the faint dying illumination of burning magma…there lies a pair of massive ebony gates sentineled by the imposing statues featuring a myriad of death scenes.

Gods of my ancestors...I am in the Underworld…are those not the Gates of Judgment?

'That they are. These are the very gates where everyone passes to receive their final place. You, brave warrior, stand before the gates that judges mortals for their merit in the Underworld.'

'What judgment has befallen my blood-brothers? What hand of fate was dealt my mighty King? Where are they?'

'Where judgment deemed them worthy. You and your brothers fought bravely for your lands. You have protected the shores of your home. You demonstrated loyalty and fearlessness. For your actions, your battle, your Kings name will live on in the annals of time and your deed sung for all eternity. They have been sent to Elysium. Your brothers and your King deserve no greater reward.

This time, he found himself closing his eyes in earnest prayer and gratitude. They have done it. They have achieved a death like no other and now awarded a judgment fairest of all. They have all gained the kind of rest given only to the most valiant and blessed. The heartfelt words—so foreign to his own clime and mindset—escaped on a sigh.

'Gods be ever merciful. Am I to be judged now mighty Fates? Is that why you had come to awaken me from the endless limbo of slumber? So that I might join them?'

'You have been judged and deemed worthy of Elysium brave warrior. But that is not where you shall be. For you another path lies open.'

The surge of pleasure and thankfulness that bubbled within him died a fraction of second longer than he would've believed. The words that echoed inside of him caused a thin sliver of unease to penetrate his consciousness and wariness once again took residence inside his heart.

'Honored Fates, what manner of offense had I committed in life that you deny me Elysium?'

'Do not mistake our actions for punishment unbefitting such a warrior as you, brave one. We are only delaying your rest for one final task, one ideally suited for a soul like yours.'

'I fear I do not understand merciful ones. You are asking me to take another leap of fate when by all accounts I no longer have an existence and a life to parlay to the whims of the great Fates themselves. I fear that only confusion enslaves my mind thusly.

'Come, brave warrior. Come and peer at the undulating face of the River Acheron yourself. Tell us, what do you see?

Even in death he knew enough sense not to deny the calm orders of Fate. Grudgingly he acquiesced and approached the banks of the River Acheron. Peering into its glassy obsidian surface his eyes were greeted by the visage of a young figure. Quickly he stepped away from the water's edge and muttered his response.

'I have eyes enough to see that an untried man stands there...but honored Fates-why am I alone being withheld from my brethren. I beg you, merciful goddess, tell me why I am to be given this trial? Am I not worthy of the end you have so generously bestowed upon my brothers? Have I been found so wanting in your eyes, ever-merciful Ones?'

'Your questions will be answered soon enough. Now, do as we bid you. Look closely warrior and tell us what you see.'

This time he didn't bother complying. With a slash of his hand he gestured swiftly and dismissively at the image that still wavered in the surface of the Acheron.

'What do I see? I see a man, like any other my lady Fates, dressed in a strange manner of apparel. He looks—he—gods of all mighty Olympus he why does he wear my visage?! What manner of sorcery does this fiend possess to bear my face as his?

'Chance. Fate. He was born with more than a mere passing resemblance to you brave warrior. But alas, he is no longer. His body is alive and whole, that much is true but his spirit, his essence-alas, that to him is lost forever. He battled many, battled for so long and now, he lost. But his duty, his place in the weave of Fate and Chance-that place, however, has not yet ended. He is still part of the weft and warp of the thread of destiny. He has yet to escape that part of his fate.'

'You speak of riddles honored Ones. I have no business with this man. What does this matter to me if one man or a hundred shared my face and form? What connection does he bear to my denial of Elysium?'

It matters because his body shall soon be yours. Our master requires a loyal man as you have proven yourself to be. A brilliant warrior, one gifted with exceptional prowess in battle and a steadfast, stout spirit that would rally worthy men to his side and train them.

Anger—hot and pulsating as the lava that swirled like a river all around them burned through whatever patience he was born with and he found himself snarling at the glowing, wispy figures that spoke to him so calmly.

I am nothing of the sort now! I should be, by rights dead and therefore no longer of service to anyone else. I have fought for my lord and king. I fought for my country with my brothers and rightfully earned my beautiful death. Who are you fiends to take me from my eternal rest to be playthings for your madness? Who are you to assign me this dead man's shell to be my own? Why should I forsake the chance for Elysium when I have by the rights of the gods themselves earned such a privilege?'

You would rather be kept as a mere soul content for all eternity? You wish to thwart the hands of fate? You wish for our master's benevolence to be wasted on someone he had fought hard to preserve? You would rather fade into history's obscure footnotes and be remembered simply as one of a number?

'I am not a possession for anyone save my country and my king. I have served them both bravely-I have done my task! I have earned my end—my rest! Surely even the mighty Lord Hades understands my claim. And I have claimed my rightful place in the annals of time! I have fought the foul Persians at my lord and King's side. No greater honor can equal that.

'You were meant for even greater glory…this end is not fit for someone as vitally alive as you, brave Stelios.'

The anger at his stolen rest thrummed deeply in the heart of him and he could not—even through his own sense of self-preservation and inculcated respect for the gods—assuage the rage that gnawed at him. He didn't wish to listen any further to the lies that these voices where telling him.

I have no use for your beguiling promises of a future unknown and unwanted. No glory could ever match or equal that of the glory I had already attained with my brothers, my king. Leave me be you servant of the dark fiendish thief that stole me. Leave me to Elysium.'

Why do you lie, brave warrior? Do you think my master could've stolen your soul away had your very spirit been unwilling? Nay, it was your soul that called out to him. It was your very own spirit that called out for my master's benevolence. Your own heart's voice that sent out its cries into the very ether when you stood before the Gates of Judgment and waited for the end you were not ready for.

'You speak of lies! How dare you—fiends of this land of the dead to spout off those ridiculous vile untruths! I desired death on the fields' battle-it is the only kind of death I desire, nay, the only kind i deserved for the battles I have waged and offered for the pleasure of the gods. I was ecstatic to die on that field of combat. I will not be have you say otherwise and accuse me of cowardice in the face of the one goal that is bred into the very bone of every Spartan that walked the earth!'

Are you completely certain of that warrior? Certain that there was no doubt that clouded your mind, no fear that held your hearts notice captive, no hesitation that assailed even the tiniest fraction of your soul?

The voice this time was insidious with its insinuations and innuendos…like a nagging prickle of a splinter under his skin it gnawed at him until the dark truth that spoke so softly in his ear seemed to burn holes through his own skin. Like the sharp bitter bite of a wound, tingling and stinging and as annoying as a gnat one cannot ignore for long.

There were none of those things in my heart, my mind or my soul! I felt none of those things when my life ended—only the joy that I have done my duty to my king and country—only pride that I have shared the fields with such men of honor. Only fierce gladness in my heart that I have achieved the kind of death that is noteworthy of being written down in the annals of time itself!

No lingering sense of regrets? None at all? For the all the things that you wish you could've changed? No fleeting thought about words unspoken or feelings unacknowledged? No yearning for the chances you have missed—for the future you could've had?

'None. You can ask and keep on asking. The answer would be the same no matter the number of times you ask me. No matter how prettily you weave the words or how softly you whisper your vile insinuations the truth inside of me would not waver.'

The voice when it came once more was soft though unyielding.

It would do you no good to lie to us. Do not lie. We can see your mind as clearly as if you were of a pane of glass. You do yearn for things unspoken Stelios. You have suppressed the dreams for so long that you have forgotten how it was to want for something for yourself.

'I wished for a beautiful death. One that would make a Spartan like me worthy of bearing that title, worthy of that moniker of honor. I implore you, oh mighty and just Fates, return me to my eternal rest and spare me the unending drudgery of living. Whatever desire I may or may not have had before matters little now. I am content with my lot in life.'

This time it was his words that were far softer. Stelios knew that his heart has been tested and found wanting. Denial might spring from his lips but even he knows that this was not a battle he could conquer with the blustering edge of a sword. All he could do now is beg that the Fates change their minds and simply give him his earned rest.

Do not fear brave Spartan. Your entrance to Elysium is guaranteed—in this life and the one that you will live as destiny has seen fit to bless you with. Be proud. You are a rare soul—one that comes rarely in this unending sea of death and rebirth.

'Did I really call out for your master's hand to rescue me? Did I really lose my honor so easily that I have succumbed to being such a pitiful thing that I begged for succor like a helpless babe?'

You did not beg brave Spartan. It was your spirit's strength that called to us. You were so strong…so powerful—so vitally alive that your life-force pulsed like a beacon in the dark seas of dead soul. We cannot permit such a waste-your spirit is so strong-a finer leader or warrior cannot be found in this age or time. As for your waiting shell-he is also a strong, worthy fighter.

'What do I care for his foolishness? What does it matter to me that my skills as a warrior is far better than those of one born in the future.'

It matters because in the coming days ahead your skills would be all that will stand against the possibility of eradication of every mortal in the future realm. All that death and destruction—all those lost lives and chances—all that would hold it at bay would be your hand, your skills, your very will Spartan.

'A task worthy of raising a dead Spartan indeed.'

He has certain gifts that would please one like you. His body is unharmed. But his mind had been shattered beyond aid...he is reckless with it and it is now lost to his body and spirit.

His gaze was drawn to the image that still glimmered in the river's surface, and noted the unblemished flesh.

'But his body lives on? How can this manner of magic be?'

Healing has made great strides since you last faced battle. I assure you, his body will serve you well.

'What of his life? What of his past, his ties, his duties and his family? What of his rightful path?'

Does it matter?

'Matter? Are you mad? Of course it matters! What of his family? His name-his honor? What of his past? What manner of a man lives with no ties, no duty, and no reason for living?'

There is no one that he cared for, that much we know. None that matters since his family has been lost to him many years ago. He had no wish for companions, save for a connection to a man he once came in contact with…for some reason his name was in his last thoughts.

'He has lived alone? Fought alone?'

As was his choice and want.

The knowledge that he was replacing a man that had no sense of responsibility to his own companions, country or king was repulsive to him. He was an honorable Spartan—one bound by discipline and courage—to serve the greater good and a greater goal.

'He is no warrior then. He is a mercenary. A rouge wolf that howls at the moon and does nothing for any other purpose than to live for himself.'

Yes. That is what he is. But you, you will be a soldier. You will have a chance to return to the field of combat where you revel in the most. Isn't that a reason worthy enough for resurrection? For a chance to bathe once more in the fires of conflict—to have your blade clash with another—to attain glory once more in the grounds bathed in your defeated foes blood.

'To battle once more? To feel the fire of combat burning through my veins? I admit that I have missed it. But not enough to leave Elysium for.'

Than what manner of temptation shall we offer you brave Stelios of Sparta?

'The chance of changing fate what else. To move the pieces of fate as you have so masterfully done with me. For that chance, my honorable Fates—I would dare more.'

A wind passed through the darkness and for a moment Stelios felt what the effervescent joy of Goddess' was like. It brought a wicked grin to his own thin lips and with the impish nature that once upon a time landed him in more trouble than he knew what to do with, he gestured towards the man whose form he would soon take over.

'Tell me more about the cause for my untimely revival. Who is this king that you speak so highly of?'

A wave of shimmering light and the face on the surface of the River Acheron changed to show a different figure and face. Stelios found himself grimacing when he noted that the figure belonged to a youth.

'I may have died but I have not lost my mind. Kind Fates—surely that untried whelp is no king! He is but a mere boy! How can one boy change the fate of mortals?'

He is a special one. A mortal gifted with powers unlike none other. He will bring peace-lasting peace to man and usher in an age that would honor all that the gods have wished for in all these millennia of their reign. Not since the dawn of Greece herself would such accomplishment be realized. But he will not be able to do it without you by his side. His enemy grows and multiplies with every day he breathes. He will need your strength to be able to change mankind's fate. If you deny your part in this weave of fate-he will die and the end of man will come much sooner than they deserved.

'Desperate times call for even the most dire and unexpected of solutions then. Kind Fates, may I make a request?'

Speak freely Stelios. We would do to accommodate what you desire.

'Show me his death.'

The Louvre, Paris

The bastards trapped him in a stone box. There was no way out. The information the broker sold him were now proven falsified and he felt impotent fury for falling for such obvious ruse. His enemies however had very good intel on him. They were forewarned and forearmed. They knew of his gifts and were well aware of where they could drive him up against the proverbial wall. They had lasers on them made of synthetic resin and ceramic knives. They used the most minimal amount of metal and here, in this nightmarish labyrinth of stone, he had no other place to go, no refuge. Even while there were metal around him-all of them were too far away and with his body already pushed beyond all its limitations calling upon them to break through the solid slab of marble that fenced him in would be nigh impossible. His end waits for him with greedy hands and it was all he could do not to howl.

It wasn't fair! He was so close—so close to finally getting back at all the ones that stole everything from him. He was so close to gaining freedom for those like him and now this!

It wasn't the inevitable end that he fears, nor the choices that lead up to this moment that he regrets. It's the fact that his death would come before the one he swore to bring to justice. Nemesis played her hands and chose her side and it was his unfortunate strike to be against her this time.

I can't die here yet! I cannot let them win! Not yet! Not until we are free! Not until I know this world is safe for those like him and me!

With the last burst of his waning strength, he tried to summon the closest weapon at hand. He could feel the cool slick feel of it, tingling, humming, and trembling with anticipation. There, just a few feet behind the solid wall of stone...something metallic hummed, its song muffled by stone and something else. He managed to move the weapon but its current location was limited, it's confinement restricting any kind freer movement. Adrenaline added a little more force to his will, the bio-cocktail in his blood blotting out panic and pain and restlessness. He freed the weapon even through the imprisonment of a glass case.

He could feel it closer and much clearer now. A sword...old metal...forged with fiery heat and coated still with something iron laden-blood.

A perfect final piece to his last stand. The sword hummed even stronger as it rammed straight into the marble and managed a sizeable crack. Once, twice, thrice more and a small fissure opened and the tip of the sword became visible to him. Eagerly he reached out to call it further to him but alas, his time had finally run out.

Death when it came was soft and swift and thorough. Ceramic knives...no part of it metal pierced his heart, stealing precious strength with it along with his voice. A hand outstretched brushed against the sword tip and a thin trickle of blood coated the blade anew.

It is time. Your soul shall come unto his when his blood is sacrificed to you.

'How would that come about?'

Your sword was recovered from the grounds of the Hot Gates. The mortals that study the past and histories of your culture have preserved it. You will be called upon when blood bathes your blade anew. When that time comes, you will gain his body, his gifts, and his memories. You will know of his manners, his speech. You will know who he was, the other mortals he knew and all that was in his mind up until his final moment.

'Does that mean that I—as I am—would be lost forever once this merging is complete? Will Stelios the Spartan be nothing more?'

That would defeat the purpose of reviving you Spartan. No, you will still retain who you are warrior. Your skills, your very essence. You will be both him and yourself.

'It is a mad fate honored ones.'

At times only madness could act the sanest and the most logical. It is a gamble but one made for someone just like you. Only you could bring about peace. Only your strength, forged by 300 years of harsh training and military discipline could protect mankind's one waning hope for change. Only you could alter the course towards destruction that they are currently, heedlessly, blindly hurtling through. Only you. Do not fail us.

WESTCHESTER, NEW YORK

"Για την αγάπη των Μοιρών γιατί είναι τόσο φωτεινά!"

The light burned straight through the concealing filament of his eyelids and he wondered how it was that his eyes hadn't melted through from the unforgiving heat. Somewhere beside him he could hear the faint rustle of clothing and the shifting of feet.

Held in thrall by the pain still wracking his body, he made no move to reveal his conscious state and simply listened to the unfamiliar and yet oddly meaningful words that flowed all around him.

"Dude. Did he just say something really funky?"

"Yeah. Isn't that German?"

"Nah, I didn't think so. What was that shit? Russian? Did he just curse out in Russian now?"

"How should I know? I don't speak Russian man. But I don't think that's Russian. I kinda think that's—something like Greek, maybe?"

"Greek? He rants in Greek? Like he wasn't just weird and funky before when he could just spit out German like the war was still up, now we have to dig the funky Greek too? Oh man!"

"Dude, what else don't we know about him?"

"How about everything? I don't think anyone knows him that well—maybe the Prof but that it."

"Seriously? Greek. Sheesh what's going to happen next? Hank would spout off Latin?"

"Dude, if that happens we'll be toast."

"Why the hell would be toast?"

"Dude, you can barely speak decent English and I could barely speak decent. We're pretty much bummed out."

"Bummed out? No dude. If they start babbling in Greek and Latin and all that funky dead language and stuff we wouldn't be just bummed—heck we'd be screwed."

"You think we're not screwed yet? We're guarding the Grand Overlord of Angst here. If he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, we're talking pincushion time here."

"Oh man!"

ERIK

The unceasing babble annoyed him. He decided to simply allow himself to sink into the oblivion of sleep. There would be time enough for him to wake when the sun has set and not trying to burn his eyes out. He would simply rest and recover his strength until then.

This shell is weak, but not disgustingly so. Undertrained, but malleable.

He will tend to the matter immediately. He cannot abide such a weak and potentially useless body as a weapon. He needs to hone his shell until it becomes as he was once-fast, lethal, a force to be reckoned with. The man had companion's too...young men who should've been trained many years past. They too should learn. He will not keep anyone near him that didn't value work. He would start as soon as the useless flesh this man called his body had recovered.

Later that day…or he assumed it was the same one, something else tickled his senses. Carefully opening his eyes in increments, the room around him was slowly revealed. The enclosed space was smooth but they did not have the same shimmer that characterized marble. There were draped fabric everywhere and odd furnishings here and there.

His mind immediately provided the names for such wondrous oddities but he paid it no mind because his eyesight finally cleared enough to show him that he actually had company. His eyes trailed down the figure of a man that quietly sat by his bedside.

So this is the man fate designated to be his charge.

This fragile man-boy that looked like the very winds could topple him. It was not an inspiring image. As far as first impressions are concerned his latest charge seemed fit to be with the weak-wristed Athenians than in the company of a Spartan like recalled still the mighty image of his king. This man-child is not even half of the man Astinos was. His form was slight and with hardly any defining musculature, his skin pale and unblemished, his dark hair unkempt and sticking out all over his feminine visage.

Cursed be to Tartarus his charge was worse than a hectoring Athenian flush with first youth.

The worst thing—the man was most certainly a cripple and he was pretty sure it was the man who owned his body had everything to do with it.

Grimacing in distaste and disillusionment he made to close his eyes again when the wind outside seemed to shift and a sudden breeze lifted the curtains that obscured the outside world. The sudden flood of light penetrated the room's enforced darkness and highlighted the face of the figure that continued to watch him in silence.

And that's when something inside of him came to a screeching halt.

Eyes. He had eyes the color of the Aegean seas at the height of summer. Large blue orbs that called to mind the purest skies over the Spartan hills of home. Eyes that gave that young untried youth his singular saving grace. Only this feature halted the curl of disdain from permanently affixing itself on his brow.

"Erik...?"

It was a soft voice. Unlike the firm tones of his king. So unlike the calm, commanding fire of his captain. But it seemed so familiar—his senses so attuned to the lilt and nuances that he wondered if it was Astinos tones that he recalled.

"Erik, do you remember who I am?"

"No. Should I?"

The raspy growl that emerged from his own throat sounded like someone else's but he paid it no heed. The pain that assaulted him stole the rest of what he wanted to say.

"Oh my friend, I had hoped-are you as lost to me now as you were when you first left my side?"

Friend? Is that what he was?

"I once believed that. My name is Charles..."

Charles...the name echoed inside his mind and a surge of heretofore unknown emotion battered him. The idea however made him pause when he realized that he never once uttered aloud the question that Charles had answered for him.

CHARLES

Hair the color of ebony snapped gently in the wind. The long dark locks that sometimes shimmer like gold under the sun's brightest light tied back carelessly in knot that still allowed for most of the strands to fall free. There was a different grace to the man that stood before him now. He had always been blessed with the smooth coordinated grace of a predator on the hunt, but now, now he didn't merely prowl like a predator ever ready for the slightest hint of a hunt—now he stalked like the very king of his own pride—confident that there is no one that could challenge his strength, test his will or overcome his force. His stance used to be tensed and controlled, now it is carefully and beautifully leashed. His eyes were no longer daring people to look at them so that he could answer their gaze with an equally derisive, dismissive one of his own. Now they scalded and riveted, their intensity magnified beyond human imagining. Erik Lensherr used to be just dangerous. Now he is lethal.

.

"Who…who are you?"

The question seemed to have caught the man stretching in front of him unawares. Dark eyes glanced back at him and held his gaze, head tilted in question even as the man spoke.

"What manner of query is that? Don't you know who I am?"

The voice was the same. And yet it wasn't—he was sure there was something quite changed from the way Erik spoke now and constructed his words.

"I know of a man who once stood where you do, who bears the same face, the same thoughts…but you do not feel as he does."

"What do you mean? I don't understand you at all Charles."

He could feel the frustration slowly crawling at the edges of his consciousness and he made deliberate effort to sweep them away. Rushing would not give him the answers he seeks.

"What happened to you my friend? Why do I feel like I sometimes lose you even while you stand before me?"

"Perhaps tension is riding you too hard. Or is it being a lab rat that addles your brains?"

Charles wished he could laugh it off. He wished fervently for some clarity in the things he could see and read in his friends mind. He still feels like his friend—but there had been many moments since his sudden return that Erik isn't completely himself. Now, anyone else would assume a telepath would be the best to know if a fake stood in front of him. Charles would be the first one to agree. But the man that he doubts is most certainly Erik Lensherr himself. There was no denying it—even with the aid of DNA testing Hank could undoubtedly perform.

But he isn't completely Erik either. There was something different about him. Something more primeval—more intense—more present than any other times when the man had kept him company.

"Erik…"

"What is it Charles?"

"Where did the real you go?"