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TWO
Rewind
He had spent a very long time by himself, living alone amongst the scum of the city, so it took a fair amount of bravado and poorly-feigned nonchalance for John Allerdyce to confidently follow his former employer through the streets. The crowds still faintly bothered him, but he was holding onto his anxiety well.
This was in no small part due to the genuine pleasure he had felt at realising that Magneto had, in fact, come for him in the end. He walked a couple of paces behind the other man, out of sheer force of habit.
The kerosene tank and flameproof suit had been left – for now – in the safety deposit box where they'd been stored since his original 'death', much to his disappointment.
"There will be time to play later, John," Erik had said, soothingly. "For now, however, we need to talk. There is much about the world that you need to be made aware of."
Not to mention that I need to work out why it is that you're even alive.
Erik Lensherr hadn't been present when Pyro, finally consumed by the Legacy Virus, had prevented the assassination of Senator Kelly, but he'd seen it on the evening news. He'd watched the young mutant's final death throes and had known a twinge of regret for the death of one of his own. Apart from reclaiming the young man's uniform and equipment for storage, he'd then proceeded to not give Pyro another thought.
Until six months ago, when he'd read the review in a tabloid. David Allyson, purveyor of trash, gothic, pulp romance had a new book out after a four-year absence - and it had already returned him to his status as cult great.
The review had been less than complimentary – they always had been - but it hadn't stopped thousands of young women snapping up copies. For days afterwards, every time Erik rode the subway, he'd see a dozen or more people avidly reading the work, titled 'The Captivating Courtesan'. The alliteration had been so very…familiar.
At first, Erik had merely smiled in fond recollection. So some kid had found a gap in the market, filled a pseudonym's shoes – and was making money out of it. Good for them.
But a certain amount of curiosity wouldn't be ignored and the man whom the world had once known as Magneto had made a few discreet enquiries into the matter. He'd expected to be directed to a young writer, just out of college, working from the bedroom of their parent's house. He'd not expected to be directed out into the slums of New York, to the dirty streets where St. John Allerdyce had lived in the sleazy little apartment where he'd been when the two had first met so many years ago now.
Erik had been around long enough, and knew enough about the world by now to know that coincidence was merely a word penned by those without the mind broad enough or capable of accepting in Fate.
He'd watched the apartment block for several days before the totally unmistakable figure of St. John Allerdyce had slunk out one afternoon. It had been something of a shock to Erik's system to see a dead man walking and had put a further nail in the coffin of the idea that everything was as it had always been.
He KNEW Pyro had died. He still had the archived news footage from four years previously. If he had lived, he would have been thirty years old this year. The young man that Erik watched was clearly the same age as the Pyro he had seen die on the evening news.
For six months now, Erik had been struggling to come to terms with any number of matters. The highly insane state of his beloved daughter. The devastating changes that had seen so many mutants no longer with powers – his own son amongst them – and, for that matter, the matter he dwelt on the most. The loss of his own abilities.
Not that he was going to tell John about the fact he no longer had mastery over magnetism. He needed to gather as many allies around him as possible – and it certainly seemed, from what he'd observed, that John hadn't lost his fiery touch. The pyromaniac was distanced enough from reality not to question why Erik was no longer wearing the helmet that had always protected him from the infernal Charles Xavier and his probing mind.
"Tell me what you've been doing with yourself, John. It's been quite a while." Erik made gentle conversation in a well-practised attempt to calm the anxious, agitated young man down. The last time Erik had seen him before his death, he'd been covered in lesions and was in constant pain from the Legacy Virus. Being so close to death had strangely brought a level of sanity to him that had rather suited him.
That was gone, now. You had only to look into the young man's troubled green eyes to see that. He was freed from the Legacy Virus, but back in the grip of madness. Erik had never been able to pity him, though. He was happy in his madness – and there were precious few people who were happy with their lot. St. John Allerdyce was a rarity in that respect.
"I've been working, mostly," said John, eagerly. "I got a book out. My publisher was dead surprised at first, said something about me having fallen off the face of the planet four years ago, but it did OK. Paid the rent for a couple of months. I – ah – I was most the way through a second when I got your message. 'It's time', right?"
"Yes, John, that's right. It's time." Yes, it had been time to extract John from what was clearly the wrong environment for him. He may no longer have been the Master of Magnetism, but a little mystery was always a pleasure. It had actually given Erik genuine pleasure to see the thrill of delight on John's face when he'd reached the locker. So many young mutants had passed through Magneto's 'care' over the years, even some who had started out with Xavier. John, though – he'd always been a little like an over-zealous puppy: eager, often annoying and with a worrying tendency to burn things instead of shred them – but at least he was house trained. It had been hard not to actually like him, despite his obvious mental state.
And he'd been steadfastly loyal. Erik liked that in his employees.
"Where are we going?"
"I have a place outside of the city. It had been a safe house at one time, but since his powers had so mysteriously ceased, Erik had used it as a base of operations. It was close enough to the city for him to stay close in case other mutants emerged, but far enough out for him to remain innocuous. It was nothing particularly over-the-top in terms of appearance; merely a large country house, about a third the size of Xavier's mansion. And it had been very lonely.
Pietro had stayed for a little while, but as always, it had only been for a little while. He had been having difficulty adjusting to living life at a normal pace and Erik had been of little help. He'd drop by every couple of weeks or so. They'd sit opposite one another at the dinner table and say very little, then Pietro would get up, make his excuse and leave to go back to his apartment in the city.
It had become routine.
But now, Erik mused as they walked, routine would be very definitely broken – if John was as erratic as he remembered.
"Tell me what you remember of working with me, John," said Erik as they got into a yellow cab. The driver had the glass screen well and truly shut. This was, after all, New York.
John screwed up his face with the effort of recall. "That's the peculiar thing, Boss," he said, easily slipping back into the use of the word. "My memories have been shot to ribbons over the past few months. I keep thinking of one thing, then another, and I have no idea which memory is the real one, or even if ANY of them are real. D'you know what I mean?"
Oh yes. Erik Lensherr definitely knew what John meant.
"Well, I'm here with you now, John. We can sit and talk things through, maybe help you untangle that…mess inside your head, hmm?"
John, who had been distracted by the passing New York cityscape blinked, then nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I'd like that. Talking to someone, I mean."
Erik got the definite impression that John's sentence was a little ambiguous, that he actually meant the novelty of being able to talk to someone, anyone would be a pleasant change. He felt a little guilty for having left the man alone for so long.
"I mean, I'm no Charles Xavier, of course, but any problems that you may have…"
"I have lots of problems."
"I know you do, John, but maybe we can sit and take them one at a time."
Erik could think of a thousand and one things he'd rather be doing than acting as psychiatric nursemaid to one of the most psychologically screwed up men he'd ever known, but he had a niggling suspicion that somewhere in John's mind was the key to everything that had happened, maybe even the key to fixing the problem.
"Will I have a room of my own this time?"
"What do you mean, 'this time'?" John's sudden question caught him unawares and he recalled that at one of their former bases, space had been at a premium, and the Brotherhood had been required to room share.
Nobody had wanted to share with John, something which the Australian had remained happily oblivious to. It pleased Erik that the man remembered that much detail: perhaps uncovering the secrets he held locked up in his head wouldn't be so hard after all.
Erik smiled, a genuine smile. "Yes, John, you can have a room of your own, and you can decorate it however you see fit, how does that sound?"
"Cool." After a few seconds, he added an uncertain, "Thanks."
John returned to staring out of the window. He was still dealing with the conflicting emotions of fear and excitement and his left leg jiggled up and down agitatedly, something which Erik found faintly annoying, but said nothing about. It wouldn't do to lose the boy's trust before he had even started, after all.
"Are we there yet?"
The question reminded Erik sharply of his own son. Pietro, as a youngster, had asked that question all the time. He curled his fingers into fists. He did not have space to deal with the problems with his son right now. He had located a major piece of the jigsaw puzzle that had become his life and there was no time to break off to play with other toys.
"Soon, John. Another few minutes. Why don't you carry on telling me what you've been doing?"
How easy it was to bring out the fatherly, kind old man, how simple to set aside the megalomaniac of the past.
Erik let John continue talking, listening with only half his attention on the Australian; not particularly absorbing anything John had to say, but keeping an ear out for anything slightly unusual.
It came, eventually.
"I dream about dying a lot," John said, which caused Erik to turn his head slightly. "Which is kinda weird, I know."
"Everyone dreams about dying at some point, John, there's nothing unusual in that."
"No, I don't mean that exactly. I dream about my own actual death. Not just a recurring theme, but an actual, identical dream every time. I THINK it's a dream, it can't be real, because I know I died. I was in so much pain." John shivered. "It's more like a memory than a dream, but I can't have died, 'cos I wouldn't be here talking to you. Right?"
"Right, John. You strike me as very much alive."
"Yeah. Alive. So it can't be a memory. S'just a dream. Right?"
"Right." Keep him calm. Gain his trust, make sure he feels safe and comfortable and able to talk. This is a delicate process.
Erik wished, just for a moment, that he had Charles Xavier's way with people.
The taxi slowed to a stop and the glass screen slid back with a loud bang, causing poor John to leap out of his seat. Erik put a cool hand on his arm. "It's OK John, just calm down." Erik paid the cab driver and the two men stepped out of the taxi, which sped away, tyres screeching.
"What do you think, John?" Erik cast a sideways glance at his companion, who was staring up at the large detached building with the open admiration of a child.
"It's bloody posh," was the inelegant final verdict. Erik laughed warmly.
"You think it's posh on the outside? Just you wait until you see the inside."
Rather than give the guided tour straight away and overwhelm the young man, Erik had taken John straight up to the bedroom that would serve as his. It was larger than his apartment and had an en-suite bathroom. Erik gently suggested to John that he might like to rest for a while; after all, he'd had quite a big day. He could see that John was suffering from extreme sleep deprivation – a couple of hours rest wouldn't hurt him and might well make him more amenable to the intense discussions they would have to have later. He'd thought that perhaps John might refuse, might be too wound up to want to rest, but he was surprised when the Australian nodded in agreement, having suddenly realised just how very tired he actually was.
He had tried out the large double bed for size and had fallen asleep in seconds, literally before Erik's eyes, something which had left the old man faintly jealous.
Erik went downstairs whilst John slept, fixing himself something to drink and settling down in the room that served as his study-cum-office. He tried not to dwell on the opulence of the past, of the metal-filled rooms that had been his trademark. Far better he live out his non-mutant days in comfort, he had decided, and so he had bought this place.
There were some things that hadn't changed, though.
The VCR, the television sets, the computer – all the latest gadgets were there and Erik could work every single one of them with consummate ease. Apart from successfully programming the video, a skill which continued defiantly to elude him.
He flipped through a stack of CDs until he found the one he was looking for and slotted it into the machine, settling back with his gin and tonic and watching the news footage of St. John Allerdyce's death.
There was absolutely no doubt at all that the man writhing in agony on the screen in front of him was the man currently sleeping like a baby in the bedroom upstairs, but it made no sense at all.
Erik rewound the footage and watched it again. He repeated this process several times, but no ideas popped into his head.
"I always knew you were smart, Boss," came a heavily accented voice from behind him. "But when did you manage to record people's dreams and sit and watch them?"
Erik stabbed at the remote, but it was obviously too late. John stood in the doorframe, his hair sticking up every which way, his eyes riveted on the now-blank screen, a totally unreadable look on his face. Erik could have kicked himself. He hadn't meant for the man to receive this much information so soon, but what had been done could not be undone.
"Come in and sit down, John."
"I'm fine standing, Boss, thanks all the same." John moved inside the office. Erik watched him like a hawk. He had no way of truly gauging exactly how stable or otherwise Pyro actually was; he'd never been any good at reading the pyromaniac's moods – Wanda had been superb at it. In fact, Erik had long suspected that John had an unrequited crush on Wanda which meant that he tended to do anything she asked of him.
Not that this was likely to happen now, not all the time she was in the asylum, wailing like a banshee over the deaths of her family.
John moved around the room slowly, periodically reaching out a hand to touch one of the many gadgets and withdrawing it again in a hurry. Erik didn't pressure him, merely sat and watched.
Finally, the young Australian took a deep breath.
"Something's wrong," he said, softly. "With you, I mean. You're not the same, are you?"
"I'm older."
"No, it's not that, it's not that. Hang on, let me guess, ooh, quizzes." His face lit up for a brief second, then he shook his head. "I remember…whenever I was near you, all the hairs on the back of my neck would stand up. You told me once it was because of the magnetic field. Remember the time I got sick real bad and you had to get Wanda to take me to the MRI scanner at the hospital? You wouldn't come with me because of the damage you'd have caused? Remember that, Boss?"
"I remember." Erik was surprised that John did. That had been so many years ago. Six, maybe seven – Erik reconsidered. Of course, John was still four years younger than he should be by rights, so it wasn't such a long-ago memory for him. They'd had to sedate him to get him into the MRI, Wanda had said – he'd gone totally nuts over the enclosed environment.
"I got all the hairs on the back of my neck sticking up then, too. Same thing. A…" John's face screwed up with the effort of recall. "An ambient magnetic environment, or something, that sound right?"
"Very good, John."
"I'm not getting that now when I'm in the room with you." John pointed almost accusingly at Erik. "Why is that?"
"John…" The gods be damned. The boy was more perceptive than Erik would ever, EVER have given him credit for. "Sit down, and let me tell you."
"Have you shaved all the hairs on the back of my neck off?" John's hand reached up there and poked around. "Nope, still pretty hairy." He rubbed his nose.
"Sit down, John."
There was something in Erik's tone that invited no argument, and John immediately sat down on one of the swivel chairs and, with absolutely supreme effort, managed not to spin it round. His eyes, large, childlike and trusting, fixed on Erik quizzically.
"You saw the video footage I was playing when you came down, didn't you?" An acknowledging nod. "Do you have any idea why it is that I would have such a thing in my possession, John?"
"You've got a dream recorder."
"John, please. Plug into reality for just a few seconds, son. This is hard enough as it is. Think. Watch."
Erik pressed the play button on the remote again and the news article sputtered back onto the screen. John watched it without comment.
"…the mutant, who has since been identified as St. John Allerdyce, who worked under the codename 'Pyro' due to his ability to manipulate flame, effectively stopped the assassination of Senator Kelly through his own sacrifice. Seconds later, he was observed to undergo some sort of cellular decay and despite efforts to revive him at the scene, was pronounced dead. Specialists in mutant physiology have stated unofficially that it is highly likely that Allerdyce was suffering from the illness known as the 'Legacy Virus', although these reports are unconfirmed. Allerdyce, 26, originally from Sydney, Australia, was one of the most wanted arsonists ever to have worked in this country. Little is known about who he was working for or with as the very group of mutants he fought against were rumoured to be his one-time colleagues…"
Erik switched it off, but John made a little noise and reached for the remote. Almost reluctantly, Erik passed it to him. He rewound and hit 'Play' again.
"…despite efforts to revive him at the scene, was pronounced dead…"
…Rewind…
…Play…
"…at the scene, was pronounced dead…"
…Rewind…
…Play…
"…was pronounced dead…"
…Rewind…
…Play…
"…was pronounced dead…"
"…was pronounced dead…"
"…was pronounced dead…"
"Stop it, John." Erik reached out and pushed the off button on the television screen. "I never meant for you to find out this way."
"Find out what, Boss? That I'm dead? I'm not dead, am I? I'm sitting right here, in your very nice office, nice décor, by the way, and I appear to be alive. Unless you're dead too, we're both dead and this whole place is merely a construct in my afterlife. If it is and I'm able to create whatever I want, a thousand candy bars will rain down any second."
He paused and looked skywards, hopefully.
When it was apparent that no candy bars were forthcoming, he sighed and shifted position on the chair so that his legs were tucked underneath him. He fixed Erik with that same childlike stare.
"You're not you any more, are you Boss?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean…you can't do the stuff you used to. Magneto's turned into Magnet-no, hasn't he?"
Damn the boy. When did he get smart?
"It's true that I appear to have lost the ability to manipulate metal, yes," he said. What was the point in denying it? "However, I am sure it is merely a temporary glitch in normality. I have been…ill."
Lies, sweet lies, which Erik almost immediately regretted because of the look of horror on John's face.
"You've been ill, Boss? Are you OK? What's happened to you? Why do you have a bit of video footage of my apparent death, whilst I am very much alive? What's going on? I don't understand any of this…"
He began, much to Erik's alarm, to hyperventilate.
"John, calm down. Come on, son, I know this is a lot for you to take in, but you have to remain as calm as possible. There's an answer inside that head of yours and we need to work together to find it. Breathe. Come on, breathe."
Erik's gentle tone broke through John's anxiety attack and slowly, taking great gulps of air, his breathing began to return to normal.
There was a long, very awkward silence.
"You've lost your powers."
"Yes."
"I'm supposed to be dead."
"Yes."
"Have I lost my powers?"
"I don't think so, John, you used them only a couple of days ago. I was watching you. But just to reassure yourself – here." Rather nervously, Erik threw across a cigarette lighter, which John instinctively caught. Handing the means to make fire to a man not exactly renowned for his self-control was a little like donning a suit of wet copper armour, ascending to a high point during a thunderstorm and shouting 'I'm an atheist!' very loudly.
"What if I have?"
"Try it."
"I don't want to break anything."
"Try it."
"If you're sure…"
"TRY IT." A hint of the old Magneto in there, and John stiffened slightly.
"Right you are, Boss."
John's hands were shaking so badly, Erik noticed with a sense of guilt, that it took him several attempts to light the blasted thing. When he did, he stared at the flame in thoughtful contemplation for a few seconds, almost as though deciding what to do with it. Then he reached out his other hand and lifted the flame free from the lighter with an almost tender movement.
"Pretty," he said, softly, and tipped his head on one side. "Very pretty."
The tiny flame in his hand burst forth in a riot of colour and heat to temporarily engulf the young Australian. Through the flames, Erik saw a maniacal smile return to his face and then the inferno was nothing more than a flame coming from the lighter.
"I still got it," he said, proudly.
"Yes, John, you do." Erik reached over and rather pointedly took the lighter off him. "You'll forgive me if I don't allow you to burn my house down just yet, though."
A long silence passed between the two men during which John attempted, for reasons probably best known to himself, to lick his own elbow.
Erik raised his eyebrows and just watched the young Australian until he flipped back into the right frame of mind again.
"I know I'm crazy, Boss, and I really am sorry about that, but all of this strikes me as more than a little weird. For the last six months, I've been having these constantly confused dreams, memory recalls, whatever – and now here you are telling me that somewhere in my head is the key."
"I suspect so, John. By rights – and please, don't take this personally, you should have been dead these four years gone. You haven't aged a day since that film was shot. You look exactly the same now as you did then – although a little less sickly."
"What was the 'Legacy Virus'?"
Erik winced.
"The scourge of mutant kind," he said, bitterly. "It attacked the genetic code of mutants and humans alike, although our people suffered far more than any humans. Many good people were lost to its ravages – including you. Xavier's people found a cure and released it into the atmosphere. Fortunately for us, it's now nothing more than a memory."
"Xavier. I remember that name. Stern bloke. Bit devoid in the 'hair' department." John ran a hand through his own thick head of hair. "Had a wheelchair, am I right?"
"That's him. Whereabouts unknown, possibly dead."
"Any of his cronies still around?" John was eager and interested.
"I confess, I haven't actually looked into it in great detail," said Erik, with a smile. "I've been busy trying to work out where all my own people ended up and who still has the ability to do anything for our cause."
"How many have you found?"
A pause.
Erik wouldn't look at him.
"Just me, right?"
"For now, John, yes. You are the only one I've found who still has his powers intact and, given you should be dead, I find that all rather strange."
"Did you know," said John, a deadly serious expression on his face. "Did you know…that you can't sneeze and keep your eyes open at the same time?"
"Did I say 'strange'? I meant 'bizarre'."
"And it's impossible to lick your own elbow, see?" John demonstrated. Erik rolled his eyes.
"This time frame, John, if you don't mind."
"You said 'it's time'. What is it time for, exactly?"
"Time to regroup and reform. Time to take control back again. We need to start researching all the known mutants on the database and finding out who still has the ability to do some good. And I'm an old man now, John. I need help. I needed to find someone I knew I could trust, who could start working for me again."
Unfortunately, you were the only one available. Look at us. Just look at us. An aging old ex-mutant who once nearly controlled the world and who can now barely reach down to put on his own socks…and a nearly totally mad pyromaniac with one foot in reality and the rest of his body floating off in orbit around Planet Pyro. Dear God, if ever I needed your help, it's now.
"Are you offering me a job?"
"If you want to put it like that, John, then yes. Yes I am. Offering you a job."
"Do I get every other Sunday off?"
Calm. He can't help being the way he is. Stay calm.
"You can have every Sunday off, John, if it makes you happy."
"Pension scheme? Holidays? Sick pay?"
"I'm sure something can be arranged."
"Hmm." John stopped fighting the urge to swivel round in the chair and swung around for a few minutes, clearly considering the options available to him. "A room of my own, every Sunday off…right. How about my own games console?"
"You can have one of each."
"Unlimited access to the Internet?" Round, round, round he swivelled. The squeaking was starting to grate on Erik's nerves, but the older man kept his cool.
"Of course."
"A credit card?"
"Easily arranged."
John's eyes narrowed slightly. This was all too easy. His overactive mind worked hard to figure out the catch. Time to up the ante.
"Chinese food on a Wednesday."
"I love Chinese food."
"The complete works of William Shakespeare in bound hardback leather?"
Oh for…
"That's achievable, yes."
"Midnight blue?"
"If that's what you really want."
Right. Time for the killer stroke. John pointed at Erik.
"A rabbit. Can I have a rabbit?"
That one threw Erik completely. He stared at John.
John grinned back. Advantage, Allerdyce.
"A…yes, yes, of course you can have a rabbit."
"Bonzer." Result.
"I'm not going to feed it or clean it out, though. It'd be YOUR responsibility."
What the hell am I saying? Just in case you're still listening, God, would you mind granting me the ability to remain patient?
John swung around on the seat for a while longer, then stopped himself and nodded. "I accept," he said.
"That's excellent, John. Really, I'm very pleased to have you back under my employ again. Perhaps we should celebrate our renewed partnership with a drink? G&T, perhaps…or a beer?"
"Don't do alcohol. Got any Mountain Dew?"
That was truth enough: John had rarely touched alcohol in the time Erik had known him, apart from one memorable occasion when he'd discovered Sabretooth's secret stash of Jack Daniels and had tried some out of curiosity.
Then everyone in the base had known about it. It had taken weeks to repair the fire damage and John's hangover had temporarily earned him the nickname 'Captain Vomit'.
Splatter damage.
Ugh.
"I – er – I think maybe Pietro had a bottle of Coca Cola last time he was here…or there's juice."
"Orange or pineapple?"
"Either or."
John considered, then pulled a face. "Hate them both."
I've made a terrible, terrible mistake, thought the former Master of Magnetism, grimly. Help me, someone.
After several more suggestions were made and rejected, they finally settled on a glass of milk. Erik got up and crossed to the small fridge he kept in his office. There was a carton of milk there and he poured the mutant a glass out, watching him carefully all the time.
Right now, John had become fascinated by the castors on the chair and was pushing himself around the floor in glee. It was uncanny. He'd been awake for less than half an hour and already everything in Erik's life had altered. It was frighteningly reminiscent of the moment he'd realised what having children had really meant.
As was often the way with John, a few seconds later, he made a delayed verbal connection to something Erik had said. "Pietro was here?" he said. "Pietro…Quicksilver Pietro? Your son, Pietro? THAT Pietro?"
Erik winced. How many times could one man put the same name into one breath? "Yes, that Pietro."
"Where's Wanda?"
Of all the questions Erik had prepared for, this had been the one he'd most been dreading.
"Drink your milk, John."
(c) S Watkins, 2006