Legal disclaimer: The characters in this story are not mine. I make no claim on them, and write this story purely for the amusement of myself and – hopefully – others.
Personal disclaimer: Blame Troll Princess. She got this whole thing started. I just ran with it.
Feedback is appreciated – review or write to wal_lace@hotmail.com.
Timeframe: After everything, so far, and eventually plus about two years onto the Buffyverse.
temptation and education
It's been a long day, and a longer evening, but, despite far more beer than you would normally even consider consuming, your head is spinning only slightly as you walk towards your car. The parking lot is almost empty, everyone else from the track team gone home while they were sober enough to stand upright (for some reason, alcohol never seems to affect you much), and the shiny little bug-car your parents bought you as a graduation present seems a lot further away than when you arrived at the club, a dozen of you out to celebrate a victory.
It's after four in the morning, and dawn is beginning to show on the horizon. But it's still far enough away that you're plunged into almost complete darkness when all the lights on the block suddenly go out.
You don't panic. You go still, suddenly alert. Without thinking you've shifted, standing on the balls of your feet, ready to move – fight or flight. You'll wonder about this later, at your instinctive reaction. And you'll tell yourself that your first choice would have been flight. And you'll even manage to believe it, for a while.
You can see in the dark. You've known this a long time – you have unusually good eyes. A good nose, too. But you don't see, or smell, the old man's arrival.
One of the lamps suddenly turns back on – going from darkness to bright incandescence without flickering or appearing to warm up – and he's standing under it, watching you from twenty yards away.
He's tall – around your own height – and his silver-grey hair is cut short around a gaunt, intelligent face. He wears a simple black suit with a weird collar, like a priest – but something about the way he holds his bony frame tells you there's nothing holy about this guy.
He's subjecting you to the single most intense gaze you can remember seeing.
'What is your name, boy?' He asks after a long moment. His accent is odd, precise enunciation and the smooth flow of a practiced orator not quite concealing the trace of Eastern Europe beneath.
'Daniel.' You say, and wonder why you answered so readily.
'I meant your real name.' He replies after a moment.
'What do you mean?' You ask, unable to help yourself.
He turns and walks away.
'Hey!' You call after him. You hesitate for a moment – you've seen too many horror movies – but, after all, he's only one old man. You run, overtaking him easily. 'I asked you a question.' He stops dead, clasping gloved hands behind his back.
'And I asked you one first.' He responds. His expression and voice are calm and dignified, and there's something about his attitude that suggests he's in complete control of the situation.
'I didn't understand.' You point out.
'You will.' He replies. He doesn't walk away, this time. He simply stands motionless a moment, and suddenly and silently levitates off the ground.
You stagger back, not believing your eyes, as the thin old man flies into the air. Trying to follow him with your gaze, you fall over backwards, and reflexively catch yourself with one hand.
In the quarter of a second it takes you to get back on to your feet, the old man has vanished.
The lights come back on all around you. You're all alone on the edge of the parking lot. And your car, which you'd swear was parked two hundred yards away, is right beside you, driver's door wide open.
By the time you get home, you've managed to convince yourself it was nothing out of the ordinary, that you just met a creepy old guy in a dark parking lot, and shadows and alcohol did the rest.
It's six months later, and Tracy has finally thrown you out, and you're still not quite sure what it was finally broke the two of you up. You find yourself wandering down to the harbour. You slump on one of the benches placed along the waterfront, and the old man sits down beside you. You don't realise who it is until he speaks.
'Have you learned your real name yet?' He asks, his voice as calm and measured as before.
For some reason, you're not surprised.
'I haven't even learned what you mean.' You reply.
'What have you learned, then?'
'That I shouldn't talk to creepy old guys while drunk.' You reply, and look up and in to his face. It's your first close-up view of the old man, and you can't help but be slightly impressed. His face is bony, lined with age, and his hair white, but his eyes are cold steel, and he seems to radiate quiet strength.
'Nothing else?' He asks.
'Yeah. That I'm not cut out to be a vegan.' And that's been your lesson for the day, courtesy of Tracy.
'Of course not. You're a predator, boy.' His thin lips curl in what might almost be called a smile, the expression cold and hard and beautiful. 'But that's not what you should have learned. That's not what you've been taught.'
'What do you mean?' You ask.
'That you can never live among them, boy. Have you not noticed yet? You are not one of them.'
'Vegans?' You ask, but you're just being facetious, and you both know it. Even so, he chooses to answer.
'Humans.' He replies, and leaves you with your thoughts.
This time, you don't even consider running after him.
The next time, it's rather more dramatic. You took a bad shortcut through a bad part of town, too deep in thought to notice where you were going, and found yourself in a dark alleyway with four tough-looking guys who, as it turned out, were more interested in violence than money. They ignored your proffered wallet, and pulled knives.
You have no explanation for what follows.
The police take your statement, and ask you the same questions over and over, a dozen different ways. And you keep telling them the same things; you've never been in a fight before, you've never studied martial arts, you've no idea how you did this to them.
Nobody's pressing charges. They cut you loose.
The old man is waiting for you outside.
'I hear you've had another lesson.' He says, and he sounds almost amused.
'How did I do that?' All your instincts are screaming at you that this is the last person you want to talk to right now – if he even is a person. But you've got too many questions, and no one else to ask.
'I would have thought the answer was obvious, especially to you. After all, of the two of us you're the only one who was actually there.'
You stare at him, remembering how the first knife came at you, and you dodged around it without effort, breaking its owners arm with a twist of your wrist. You didn't think. You didn't need to.
And then, after less than a minute, it was over, and the most that could be said about your attackers was that all four of them were still breathing.
'Well?' He interrupts your reverie. 'How did you do that, boy?'
'Don't call me that.' You turn and walk along the street towards the nearest bus stop. He falls into step beside you.
'What would you prefer I call you? You haven't given me your real name yet.' You look up at him. He's smiling again, goading you. He wants you to contradict him. You won't give him the satisfaction.
'You haven't given me any name.' You point out.
'When I lived among humans, I used the name Erik.' He tells you. It fits.
'Is that your real name?'
'I will tell you my real name when you have learned your own, and not before.' You've reached the bus stop, and you've got no real option other than halting there. Erik stops beside you, and continues. 'Are you going to answer my question? How did you do that?' He sounds genuinely interested.
'I don't know.' But you're lying.
Erik looks suddenly sad, and much older. He turns his back on you without another word, and a long black limousine swings around the corner. It pulls up beside him, and the rear passenger door swings silently outwards. You can see enough into the back to tell that there's no one there.
'Wait.' You say, and he pauses in the act of getting in.
'You have an answer?'
'Instinct.' You tell him, still not sure why you're talking to him. He straightens up, and turns to face you. 'It just came naturally.' He nods, silently, and you find yourself continuing. 'I – I have been dreaming of hunting for two years now. What does it mean?'
'You are a predator, boy.' He tells you calmly. 'You dream yourself to the truth. Will you continue to deny your nature?' He takes a slight step back, and gestures to the open door of the limousine.
'What are you offering?' You ask.
Erik turns away to get into the car. When he looks at you again, he's sitting down, hands folded in his lap.
'If you need to ask,' he tells you, 'You are not ready to receive it.' The door pulls itself shut with a soft click, and the car glides smoothly away.
The fourth time you see him is in Washington DC.
You're not sure why you came here – you originally wanted to visit Los Angeles, but without knowing why you decided against it. But you had to see the sea, and New York was too big, so here you are in the nation's capital.
After your last experience in an alleyway, you should have known better. But then, after your last experience in an alleyway, you have been past fearing other humans. And since your last talk with the old man, Erik, you have been somewhat reluctant to include that word 'other'.
But whatever these two men are, it is certainly not human.
They are faster and stronger than you would have thought was humanly possible, and their faces are twisted masks above mouths full of fangs. They come at you suddenly from out of the shadows, eyes gleaming yellow as they attack.
And, once again, you evade, and counter, without thought, without effort. Their blows miss you, shattering brickwork and denting a metal dumpster as you move, and strike back.
And you are fast, you realise, faster than them, and that makes no sense, for no human is this fast. And you have already beaten them both to the ground before you realise that the trashcan you have seized as a weapon should be too heavy for you to lift, let alone swing one-handed.
You fight, and win, on pure instinct. And it is instinct driving you still as you shatter an old crate with a casual punch, and wrench free two jagged fragments of wooden slat. And it is instinct that drives you as you turn and stab down, impaling both of your opponents before you can stop yourself.
And in that moment, as you strike the death blow, as your opponents crumble to dust before you, in that moment you do not want to stop yourself.
For the first time that you can remember, you feel whole.
This is what you were made for.
You walked into that alleyway slightly hesitant, the instinctive nervousness of the affluent in the presence of poverty, of the educated in the land of the ignorant, apparent in your every movement.
You stride out of the far end with utter confidence. You finally understand what you are. You finally understand who you are.
It comes as no surprise when you see Erik standing on the far side of the road, beside the black limousine. You cross over.
'I'm not human.' You tell him. 'I never have been.' He smiles his thin-lipped smile, and behind him the door swings open.
'And are you ready to come with me?' He asks.
By way of reply, you step past him and climb inside.
As the vehicle accelerates into the night, the driver hidden by a frosted glass screen, Erik settles into the seat beside you, pulling off his gloves. You catch a momentary glimpse of pale blue letters tattooed onto his left forearm before he adjusts his sleeves back into place. You don't ask.
When he is comfortable, he looks at you again.
'What is your real name?' He asks for the fourth time, and this time you answer him.
'Connor.' You say.
'My name is Magneto.'