Word had spread quickly through the grapevine that Sammy Quinlan had died during the night. He was 79 years old but what people liked to refer to as a strong as an ox; he was known among the ladies as somewhat of a charmer. When the already widely known news was made official at dinnertime, the mood was already sombre. In the dining room, Sammy's regular seat was left vacant, and the usual babble of voices had died down to a quiet murmur.

Thee were furtive looks to the man who sat next to Sammy's newly vacant chair, the man who for the last few months was also Sammy's neighbour. Max Lenshaw ate his dinner with his head down and spoke to no one, keeping his own council as he tended to do anyway. One or two of Sammy's old friends patted Max on the shoulder, offering whispered words of condolence. Lenshaw thanked the well wishers an continued to eat with his head bowed, only looking up to take a sip from his wine glass. Lenshaw was new to the community and had taken some time to get used to the structured life that Sunset Palms offered. He was a diplomat, it was rumoured, and no longer as rich and powerful as he once was. He had no family, or so the gossip went; he took no visitors on the holidays.

Any attempt to get close to Lenshaw was politely dealt with a few short words and an apologetic smile but Sammy got through his defences and befriended Max from the get-go. Sammy was a veteran and he was fond of telling stories of his youth misspent during wartime, mostly funny little anecdotes of drunken nights with the boys and the odd naughty night in a bordello. Lenshaw listened to the stories, smiling indulgently, and sometimes would remark upon this point or that, but largely he kept amiably silent in Sammy's company.

The tattoo on Max's forearm did not go unnoticed, and Sammy was the only one with enough chutzpah to ask about it. Everyone knew what it symbolised, what it meant for the wearer; there were several other men of Lenshaw's age at the village with similar tattoos, and they were just as reluctant to reveal the stories behind the brand on their skin.

Lenshaw finished his wine and stood up from his seat, brushing his dinner jacket off and bowing slightly to the other diners at his table. He walked stiffly back to his room and did not offer a look over his shoulder for fear he would see pity in the eyes of his audience.

Sunday was visiting day.

It stirred much excitement and anticipation in the population: this was a day to see children, grandchildren and great grandchildren and feel for a few moments in time that they were not forgotten. Max Lenshaw had never participated in the Sunday activities, and did not sign up to have children from the local high school visit him on the day in exchange for course credits. This was understood and sympathised with by many of the residents, some of whom had no family too. Others knew the burden it was to relive the past. So on Sundays, Max would take his breakfast in his apartment, strolling out beforehand to get the Sunday papers and watch world news on the television.

The Sunday after Sammy died was like any other, really; his passing was noted and life went on, as it did almost every week when a resident died. A period of reflection would take place and then it would be collectively brushed aside as it would bring down the mood of the whole village. The carers were trained to ensure that residents did not think of their time in Sunset Palms as the end of their lives.

Max walked briskly to the corner store to purchase the papers and some fresh coffee. He felt the warm sun on his sallow skin and felt rejuvenated. He smiled as he greeted to the shopkeeper and kindly purchased a candy bar for a boy waiting in line behind, holding his mother's hand. The mother smiled at Max and insisted the boy say thank you. With a mouthful of half chewed confectionary, the boy mumbled "rhank youuu"

Max ruffled the boy's hair and left the shop in good spirits.

Back in his apartment, Max prepared coffee on the stove and switched on the television for background noise. He sat at his kitchen table and spread out the papers in front of him. His ginger cat, Amelia, jumped onto the papers and meowed quizzically. Max smiled at the cat and swept her off the table and onto the floor.

The smell of coffee filled the small room and Max idly scanned the front page of one of the broadsheets, sighing. Genosha dominated the news once more. The UN would impose sanctions on the rogue state if the continuing exploitation of mutants at the hands of the current regime did not cease. He looked up at the television, and the report on CNN led with a similar story. Flashes of shaky footage taken from within one of the mutant concentration camps. A too-perky anchor described the scene on screen, taken by amateur cameramen and smuggled out of Genosha.

Max pushed back from the table in disgust and made his way to the stove. He wondered how things could still be this way, after so many years. When he withdrew from public life, Max knew his cause would be lost. He knew that the children of the world would not take up Magneto's teachings. Now, he thought as he poured his coffee, now I am a spent force; a human, good for absolutely nothing and wasting my life away in this cheery little slice of hell.

He did not immediately hear the sound of the doorbell over the sound of the television and his own thoughts. Frowning, he moved to the door, hoping it would not be some smiling imbecile from the local school with the wrong room number.

The door opened to reveal a tall young man in his mid twenties, wearing an expensive looking suit. His dark red hair was a mess of spikes and he worse elegant designer glasses.

"Mr. Lensherr?"

"I'm afraid not. My name is Lenshaw. L-E-N-S-H-A-W. You may want to ask reception if you have the wrong…"

The young man smiled impishly. "Oh but I have the right person. Erik Magnus Lensherr, otherwise known as Mag…"

The young man was ushered into the room quickly.

The man known to the Sunset palms community as Max Lenshaw glowered furiously at the young man. "Who are you?"

"forgive my intrusion on your retirement, sir, but I represent a group of people who are still fighting for your dream and I come here with a most humble request." The young man watched as Magneto seated himself, and smiled wolfishly. "My name is Fabian Cortez. I am leader of the Acolytes, a group of mutants who fight under your name and under your banner."

Magneto sipped his coffee and shook his head. "Magneto is dead," he said softly. "He died when his powers were taken from him."

"The world now believes that too. The government have downgraded your status. You are now no longer one of their ten most wanted." Cortez stepped forward and clasped his hands together. "It has been years now, and we have known about your existence here for quite some time, sir. We thought you may have been biding your time."

Magneto laughed mockingly. "Biding my time for what? As you can see, I am not going anywhere fast, my young friend. I am old. I am spent."

And then Fabian Cortez made a startling gesture; he knelt in front of Magneto and bowed his head. "What if there was a way to restore to you that which is lost?"

The older man recoiled, sucking in his breath. He stood up, knocking over his coffee. "Restored? By what right do you come here and offer up such a fanciful notion? My powers have been robbed, taken! How DARE you come here…"

Across the room, a metal coffee table lifted off the ground, hovered behind Cortez. Magneto swept his arm as he spoke, and the table went flying. Glass shattered in the hallway near the kitchen. Amelia scattered.

Magneto stared over the younger man's shoulders, his mouth agape.

"How…" He swallowed hard. "Hw did…"

"My power, it can amplify anyone's mutant abilities, latent or otherwise. The 'cure' they forced upon you only repressed the X Factor in your body, but it is still there. I can bring you back to the height of your powers, Lord Magneto, if only you will come back to your people."

"Your… power."

"I can make you even more powerful than before, rejuvenate your body if you so desire."

Magneto stood straighter, regarded the dent in the wall made by the coffee table. He looked down at Fabian Cortez and smiled. "Your friends pray for the return of Magneto?"

"Fervently"

"Well then Mister Cortez, you can inform your friends that their prayers are soon to be answered."