Erik has a pattern he follows when he wants to make an important announcement. He finds me, interrupts me, says his piece, and leaves. Calmly. The first time he did this was in 2005, a month after our truce, four months after he killed Sebastian. I was showering.

I had sensed him moving down the hallway, but was surprised when he opened the bathroom door. Before I could flay his mind apart and leave him catatonic, he said, loud enough to be heard over the water, "I'm starting a group, a brotherhood of sorts. A brother-and-sister-hood, I suppose. Of Meuchelmördern, ah, assassins. We have already killed for money, and we know others whose professions are not quite legal. From the shadows, we could change the world." He pulled back the shower curtain and looked me in the eyes. "You are going to help me."

Then he left. The water drummed against my back and shampoo dripped down my face; I had to wipe a particularly large clump of foam from my brow to properly glare at Azazel when he passed by the still-open door and snickered at me.

A year later, I awoke with a start at two thirty in the morning to find Erik sitting on the edge of my bed, staring intently at me. "Shaw was right: mutants are superior beings. We are strong. We are the future. Humans will react badly when they discover us. They will fear us, and hate us, and hurt us." For a second, I felt his fear. "The Hellfire Club will remain in place, but I will speak with all the mutants in our ranks, and anyone else we find – we can protect our kind from the humans. Emma, will you help me claim our rightful place in the world?"

He didn't give me a chance to answer before he left, but I don't suppose he needed to.

The third time, I was in my office, briefing Fred Dukes on an upcoming mission, when Erik flung the door open, his face almost comically blank despite the visible tension in the tendons of his neck and the stiff set of his shoulders. Behind him, Wilson – Oh. My. God. Sparkle-face – we have codenames for a reason. Because they're AWESOME. Call me "Deadpool", or "Sexy", or "Sir McAwesome-pants", or, yeah, anything like that. Or we can have a race – how fast you can turn to diamond versus how fast I can shoot you.

Behind him, Wilson (ugh, bitch, EAT LEAD) was giggling maniacally, never a good sign. Dukes hunched in on himself in a futile effort to look small.

"I have children," he said, completely monotone, eyes focused on a point behind me, "Twins. Toddlers. Children. They can't live here. There has to be a house on sale in a nice suburb, with a yard, and three bedrooms. Find it. Buy it. Use my savings account. You know the PIN."

"Aww, Maggie's a mommy…AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…" Wilson was choking for air.

So when I see Erik walking towards me now with that non-expression on his face, his thoughts carefully fuzzy, I turn away from my debate with Wilson about how a "My Little Zombie-Pony" theme is inappropriate for interior decoration and prepare to organize another vigilante group or relocate more children (two remarkably similar endeavors, really).

"Emma. I. Emma."

"Yes, yes! That's amazing! She, Emma; you, Maggie; me, Captain Deadpool. Can you say – GAH! Emma! Stop raising that eyebrow at me! Your face is scary…scary scary face."

"Emma. There's a man. I think he's human…. I took the kids out for lunch. He was at the deli. He smiled at me. He might have poisoned me. I can't breathe. Emma. I can't breathe and my stomach is – He had blue eyes."

There is no emotion on his face. I do not read his thoughts. I could. I should.

You know, I don't know why Frosty didn't like my idea. Who doesn't like zombies and ponies? There's blood and rainbows and blood and sparkles! And blood! The turned ponies would be all "MAAAANES" (Heh, see what I did there? Brains and manes? Geddit?) It'd be "My Little Pony: Zombies are Magic" – is that not the BEST IDEA EVER? FUCK YEAH IT IS.

C'mon, all you Bronies – back me up here.