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Rating: T for mild language, implied but never explicit sexual situations, super-power violence.

Disclaimer: I do not own X-men.

Spending six weeks as a one-man assembly line was considerably more taxing than Erik had anticipated.

The crate of automatic weapons—disguised of course—wobbled slightly as he set it atop the last subway trolley, and Erik glared at it. It weighed nearly ton, far less than his usual capacity, and was filled with pure, familiar metal. He should have been able to lift two or three at once, juggle them even—and yet the damned thing had dared to wobble. It was infuriating.

He should not be this tired. Even if he was, he should not be showing it. Every mutant in the factory had been working as hard as Erik had to get these weapons finished for the updated deadline. Even his protection detail had left him alone—and thank God for that—long enough to do their share. They were all tired, a reasonable voice in his mind said. It reminded him of Charles, and Erik longed briefly to connect with his old friend again. It had been months. Anything could have happened. Erik wondered what Charles had been doing, if he would look as worn out as Erik did, as everyone in the factory did: thin, underfed, dark eyed from lack of sleep and the particular anxiety that the constant threat of a sentinel attack induced, pale like some crawling subterranean thing that dared not poke it's head out in the sunlight for fear of being immediately squashed. That was perhaps his favorite thing about the end of this project. He would be leaving the subway; he would see the sun again. The sun and Charles.

The next box wobbled too. Only one remained, and, determined that it should float flawlessly into place, Erik groped for a pleasant memory to solidify his concentration. Ten years… twenty years… thirty years… The cool pleasant taste of ice cream filled his mind, and a splash of sunlight… an elegant chessboard, and his usual partner. That had been a lovely afternoon, one of the last lovely ones. The crate rose gracefully—not effortlessly, but at least gracefully—and ticked itself snugly into place on the loaded subway trolley. He regarded it with grim satisfaction.

Every gun inside the crate had been assembled almost completely by Erik himself, save for the actual firing mechanism, and the rounds. Those were not metal, but instead had been designed by a mutant who claimed that the bullets could fade in and out of existence—theoretically making them impossible for the sentinels to adapt to. It was a tantalizing idea, and Erik had been delighted to bring the design to life. In the first few weeks he'd moved with flawless speed and confidence, feeling the guns take shape, guns that would hopefully save mutants lives and take human ones. Shaping the sheet metal into compact gun cases was easy; he'd done all seven hundred of them in the first three days. It had been refreshing to actually be doing something once again, after spending months strategizing, wrestling dead-end theories and flickering hopes, all the while dodging constant attacks from the sentinels. Strategy was a fine occupation—when one had options to strategize with. The mutants had no options.

Erik's inability to produce a plan, something to stop the ceaseless slaughter of his fellow mutants, frustrated him immensely. He'd always been the one with a strategy, always one step ahead, and now it seemed he was two steps behind. It wasn't his fault, reminded the voice again, and Erik wondered if he missed Charles so much that his subconscious had begun mimicking him. That was unsettling. It would be just perfect if he suddenly developed a stress-induced neurosis and ruined everything again. Because whatever the imaginary Charles said, it was his fault.

Don't dwell on the past. That was something the real Charles had said, and since Erik valued his own sanity, he was going to follow that advice. Focus on the task at hand. He needed to meet Charles and discuss the new plan his partner had come up with, this earth-shattering plan that would supposedly change the world. He wished their communications network had allowed Charles to be more specific.

Regardless, he needed to get to Charles, which meant he had to leave the factory, which meant—unfortunately—that he had to stop stalling and go find his protection detail. He was not looking forward to it. Being shepherded across the globe like a priceless heirloom by his touchingly annoying team of bodyguards reminded him of how impotent he was. To think he used to be one of the most powerful mutants in the world… a world that had depended on metal. Now the world ran on plastic polymers, and he couldn't protect anyone from plastic, not even himself.

Don't dwell on it. Go find Quicksilver.

Easier said than done. The boy never stayed in one spot long enough to catch sight of him. Erik gave a nod to the loading team he'd been helping and strode into the underground complex that had been built secretly in the abandoned subway. It was cramped, filled with more equipment than people, and more people than food, but Erik headed towards the jerry-rigged kitchen anyway. Quicksilver was likely there trying to refuel; he'd been looking a little old this week.

Instead he found Cassandra, sitting on top of the workbench, swinging her feet and gnawing on a loaf of compressed bread. Beside her were several small piles of food, apparently the last in the kitchen. Erik assumed that everything else was packed up to be taken with the factory workers.

"Hello Magneto. You can eat now or later. It doesn't seem to matter. On second thought, you should probably eat now. You'll be slightly less touchy this evening if you do."

Erik selected a nutrient solution from a pile and popped off the tin top mentally, taking satisfaction in the opportunity to do so. "Anything else I should know?"

The mutant woman shrugged. "Eating is not really a game changing decision."

Erik nodded. Cassandra couldn't tell him what he wanted to know; she could only see the consequences of decisions that she made. "So what if we were to take the subway trolleys with everyone else?"

Cassandra sighed. "The same thing I told you yesterday. I die. You die. Everybody else dies." She peeked at him from under her blonde fringe. "Those subway trolleys only have half a chance of reaching the Grand Canyon in the first place. Putting you on that train increases the risk that they'll be caught."

Erik knew all the angles. He'd gone over it with Cassandra again and again before finally caving in to Cyber's plan. They had hired a smuggler to get out of the city and that was that. It didn't stop Erik from resenting the situation, though. Bringing in an unknown element, someone who might not be absolutely trusted… He didn't like it, but there were just no other options. There were never any options.

He didn't like it. But of course he couldn't confide in Cassandra, so he changed the subject. "Quicksilver hasn't been in here, then?"

Cassandra gestured to the piles of food on the bench. "Sure he has. Already ate. Looks like he dropped ten years."

Erik looked at the assembled rations. Cassandra's, his, one for Cyber, one for Quill, and one extra—one he'd assumed was Quicksilver's. "Why is there an extra?"

Cassandra down her last bite of compressed bread. "For the smuggler. She's coming tonight. She won't eat it, but she's nicer than if I don't set it out."

Erik almost choked on his own compressed bread. "I thought we were leaving tomorrow."

"I thought we were, too. But when I started sorting the rations I saw it. I'm sure Cyber will explain."

Cyber wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later, looking for Quicksilver. Everyone was always looking for Quicksilver. He seemed glad to see Cassandra and Erik, however. "Good, I was starting to wonder if you'd all just hopped on the subway trolleys and left. Quill is seeing the last of them off now. Are those our rations?"

Cassandra nodded. "Bon apetite."

Erik cleared his throat as Cyber approached the bench. "So the smuggler is coming tonight?"

Cyber's eyes bounced between Cassandra and Erik. He blanched; everyone knew about Erik's opinions on the smuggling idea. "I was going to let you know when I got everyone together."

"Why are we moving the schedule up?"

"Her call. She said it had to happen tonight. I'm picking her up in an hour."

Erik nodded, but it didn't seem to put Cyber at ease. He wondered what was troubling the young mutant. More complications?

"Um, Magneto?" asked Cyber hesitantly. "Tonight, could you be a little more… I mean, well, this smuggler, she's kind of easy to spook."

"Don't tell me your having second thoughts now. The subway trolleys already left. Can she do it or not?"

"No, no. She's perfectly qualified. My sources in espionage say she's the best smuggler they have."

"But if she's going to crack under pressure her skills won't do us any good."

"No, it's not that. Hell, she acts like she's made of steel. It's just… We all have to be careful not to frighten her. Especially you."

Frighten her? What reason could she possibly have to be frightened of him? They were on the same side. Erik was used to a number of reactions from the mutants he worked with: awestruck, loyal, protective—but not frightened. "Why?"

Cyber fidgeted slightly. Clearly he anticipated an unpleasant reaction. Erik was intrigued. "Why would I frighten her?"

"Because she happens to be… human."

Author Notes:

Thank you to my first reviewer, Alice, and for those of you following this story.

Contributions in Magneto's POV will be be few and far between, at least until further on.

This chapter is much shorter, but I don't organize chapters on word count alone. None will be shorter than this one, however.