PRODIGAL
A story of the second generation
The X-Men and all related charactersare Ó Marvel Entertainment Group. I hold no claim and make no profit. All original characters are mine, and may not be used without permission.
Christian Summers was one of the few teenagers in the world who could hold a conversation with his mother while his head was completely submerged in water.
Perhaps I should just be thankful you're awake at all, Emma said. It's only 8:30 at night, after all. Christian grimaced underwater. Even through a psi-link his mother spoke with that snooty English accent she prized so highly.
Go away, he said, lifting his head from the tub. Soapy water streamed down his face in little rivers.
Don't take that tone with me, young man. I've tried to be nice about this. You're the one making this difficult for everyone. Why won't you come tonight? Your father and I are celebrating our 20th anniversary.
I already told you, Emma. Erik's band is playing at this club and I promised him I'd be there. Christian patted his face dry with a towel and peered at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Blond hair stuck up in wild tufts all over his head. Besides, you and Scott don't even sleep in the same bed anymore. What exactly is there to celebrate?
A long silence followed. Even when she wasn't physically in the room, Emma could be cold as ice. I thought I told you not to call us by our given names. We're your mother and father.
Goodbye, Emma, Christian said. We've said all we need to say to one another. I'm breaking this psi-link now.
Don't you treat me like this, young man—
And like that, she was gone. A satisfying silence, like slamming down the receiver of a phone. Christian paused for a moment to erect psi-blockers to keep his mother out, and then took a deep breath. He'd barely left the bathroom before someone began rapping loudly on his door.
Yanking the door open revealed his younger sister, seventeen-year-old Katherine. "Mother's screaming in my head again," she said. "What have you done to piss her off this time?" A cigarette dangled from her lip, a habit Emma had been railing at her about for months.
"Emma stays in a perpetual state of pissed-offedness," Christian replied. "And no, I don't know if that's a real word, and I don't care."
Katherine pushed past him without asking permission, and stalked into his bedroom. Flopping down on his bed, she took a long drag off her cigarette and blew a smoke-ring. The siblings glowered at each other for a minute, united by genes and a mutual distaste for their mother and not much else. Katherine was two years younger than Christian, one-half of the perfect sibling pair for the perfect nuclear mutant family. Even to him she'd always been Katherine, never Kat or Katie and certainly never Kitten, despite their father's best attempts to the contrary. Katherine was not one for affectionate nicknames, or affection of any sort, really.
"You're going to see Erik play tonight, aren't you?" she asked. Her voice was flat and bored. Katherine was caught in the middle of a maelstrom of teenage ennui, and had been for a year or so now. Christian, who was well past the teenage ennui stage, regarded her with something between amusement and sympathy.
"Yeah," Christian said, pulling a shirt over his head, trying not to irritate his nipple piercings. They were new and still tender. "He's our only cousin, after all. And this music stuff means a lot to him." Erik had taken him to get the piercings a week ago. Scott had seemed so disappointed when he'd seen them. Scott seemed disappointed by everything Christian did.
"Have you heard that CD he burned?" Katherine wrinkled her nose. "It sounds like noise to me." She preferred classical music and opera sung in languages Christian couldn't understand. Stuff Emma would like.
"It's heavy metal, not noise. I like it. He sings his heart out."
Katherine rolled her eyes. "Whatever. I think he's a freak, you think he's a genius." She lolled back on the bed, her skirt inching up higher and higher.
His top lip curled in disgust, Christian threw a coat at her. "Put that cigarette out before you light my bedspread on fire. And put on some damn clothes. You're not even legal, for god's sake."
Katherine tossed the cigarette on the hardwood floor and snuffed it with the heel of her shoe. "Take me with you," she said suddenly. "I don't want to go to that anniversary party anymore than you do."
"What? Take you to a thrash-metal club?" Christian snorted. "Don't even pretend that you're interested, sister. That's not your scene."
"I'd rather hang out there than go to that damn party and watch Father drink watered-down martinis and listen to Uncle Bobby and Uncle Kurt sing bad karaoke." Katherine looked up at him with those sad brown eyes. Her eyeliner was badly smudged, and he realized she'd been crying.
Christian sighed. Sometimes he was really thankful he wasn't an empath. He could barely handle emotions on a purely intellectual level. "Okay. But you're putting some pants on or something. I'm not taking you anywhere looking like some whore I picked up off the street."
When they got to Erik's apartment, Christian just walked in without knocking. He never had to knock, and anyway Erik never locked his door. Wasn't like he had anything in his ratty apartment worth stealing.
The other members of Erik's band, DyNAmite, were already sitting in the living room. The skinny guy strumming a bass guitar called himself Deja. Viva was the tall Mexican sleeping on the couch. And Gem was leaning back in a chair, twirling his drumsticks and tackling a bottle of Jack Daniels with gusto. Christian walked past them, leaving Katherine in the living room clutching her purse.
He found his cousin Erik sitting balls-naked on the mattress in his room, a blunt in one hand and a pen in the other, scrawling down lyrics on an envelope in front of him. The room was lit by a naked light bulb swinging overhead. Glancing up, Erik smiled and said, "What the hell took you so long?"
Christian took the blunt from him and took a long drag. "It's Scott and Emma's anniversary tonight," he said. "I told them I wasn't coming, and that didn't sit well with the fam."
Screwing up his nose, Erik reached for his favorite pair of ragged jeans. "That sucks, man. I wouldn't have made you promise to come if I'd known."
"I would've insisted, anyway. I can't handle Emma's crap right now. She hates me because I'm more powerful than her. She always has. Besides, I've missed every show you've ever played. I owe you one."
"For what?" Erik asked, pulling on his jeans. "Sharing a blunt every time you come over? It's not like I've ever saved your life or anything. But I am happy you're here." He crammed the envelope into his back pocket.
Christian followed him into the living room, where they found Katherine sitting on Gem's lap, sipping from his Jack Daniels. She flashed her brother a shit-eating grin and kissed Gem on his cheek. Erik looked over at him and arched one eyebrow. "You brought Katherine?"
"She insisted."
Erik's face lit up at that, his smile spreading so wide that it threatened to crack his face in two, and little creases appeared at the corners of his eyes. "Really? She wanted to come? That's awesome." It almost hurt to see how happy Christian's lie had made him.
Katherine pried herself away from Gem's tongue-ring long enough to glance over at her cousin and say, "You got some more tattoos."
"It's the rock star in me," Erik said, absentmindedly caressing the ink on his chest and stomach. "I've got the hair, I need the tattoos and the piercings." Unlike probably every other wannabe rocker in the world, Erik didn't need dye to achieve that astonishing green hair. He'd inherited it from his mother as part of his mutation. "Thanks for coming, by the way. Tonight's really special for me."
She shrugged carelessly. "I had nothing better to do."
The club was packed, a fact that pleased Christian. DyNAmite had quite a reputation in the local scene, thanks in part to its electrifying lead singer. He pushed through the crowd, making his way towards the stage. Erik's set was about to begin, and he wanted the best seat in the house. The lights grew dim, and the band took the stage. The sickly red lights lit them up like demons as Deja adjusted his amps and Gem sat down behind the drum set.
Now the crowd pressed towards the stage, all eyes on the four figures standing in the spotlight. The mass of humanity breathed and moved like one gigantic animal. Christian could feel their psyches brush against his mind like soft fingertips. Someone grasped a hold of him, and he looked over to see Katherine holding his arm. Like a real sister or something.
Gem tapped his drumsticks, and then launched right into the first song. Viva and Deja joined in with their crushing guitars, and the sound rolled off the stage like a hurricane-force wind. A slim figure stepped up to the mic, and finally Erik unleashed that wonderful terrible voice.
"Hate binds me
Me and my born enemy
Dark age, dark signs
Hate came for me in '39.
In my skin
Like numbers
In my skin
Like religion
In my skin
Like race
In my skin
Hate written deep in my skin
Burning inside
Too hot to be denied
Hate is deep within."
Erik's voice was like nothing human. It was so big, so powerful, like some separate entity escaping his body through his throat. Christian reached forward and touched the stage. He was so close he could see the sweat gleaming on Erik's face, and the numbers tattooed on his cousin's left forearm. 24005.
The same numbers Erik's grandfather had tattooed on his arm in Auschwitz, decades before.
"In my skin
Like numbers
In my skin
Like religion
In my skin
Like race
In my skin
Hate wrote numbers in my skin
Before I was even born
Digging deep as a thorn
Hate killed all my kin."
The stage was so small, and yet Erik ruled the crowd like a god, stalking back and forth, his body tense with predatory power. Every pair of eyes was fixed on him, and every pair of lips mouthed along to the words. Electricity rippled through the audience, and the pure power was intoxicating. Erik's voice rumbled like thunder on the last word, and the crowd roared. Katherine grabbed Christian's shoulder and shouted, "He's amazing."
Christian smiled his crooked smile. "I know. It's his gift."
Thirty minutes later, DyNAmite finished their last song, "I'm the Addiction You Can't Kick." Erik stormed off stage and handed his Ibanez to Christian.
"You're incredible! Even Katherine liked it."
"Thanks," Erik said. The next band had taken the stage, their lead singer yelling, "Hallo, Brooklyn!" in his British accent. Viva started heckling him, and pretty soon everyone was laughing. A mosh pit formed, and Erik dragged them off to a corner to meet Deja's brother-in-law, a shifty-eyed punk who always scored the best weed. Gem brought Katherine a beer and they were making out again. Christian leaned against his cousin and sipped watered-down wine that tasted like grape juice. Erik's green eyes glowed in the darkness, and anyone who approached him thought better of it and disappeared back into the crowd.
Viva heard about a party somewhere in Queens he wanted to go to. Erik waved him off, saying he needed to take his cousins home. "I'll see you guys tomorrow," he called over his shoulder as he followed Christian and Katherine to the parking lot. A light rain had started up, and drizzle tickled everyone's faces.
Christian breathed a sigh of relief that Erik's junky car even cranked. Only one headlight flickered on, revealing "DEATH TO MUTIES" scrawled on the facing brick wall in red paint. There was no rear-view mirror on the driver's side, so he craned his head back to make sure the way was clear. Much to his amusement, Katherine had already fallen asleep in the back seat, curled up like a cat. Erik was yawning and resting his forehead against the dashboard as they pulled up next to his apartment building.
"It's past 3 a.m.," he said. "No sense driving back to Salem Center now. You might as well stay the night." Christian nodded. Somehow his cousin always knew what time it was, down to the minute. They tried to rouse Katherine, but she just kept snoring. Shrugging, Erik covered her with his jacket. "She'll be safe in the car."
Christian had to be dragged upstairs. Erik tossed him on the mattress, and pulled off his shoes. "Are you okay?" he asked. "You look a little sick." Christian didn't respond at first, lolling his head back and rubbing his aching forehead.
"Will you dream for me tonight?" His voice croaked, dry and desperate.
Erik lay down beside him. "Of course," he said. "But remember, I can't control who comes to visit." Thelook of relief on Christian's face showed he didn't much care.His forehead touched Christian's, and in an instant they were in another world.
The world was grainy sepia, as though they were moving through old World War II footage. Christian followed Erik down winding streets in a city neither had ever visited. "The Astral Plane," he said, but the words came out in a soundless hush.
A woman waited for them beside a half-destroyed brick wall. Her face was not old, but worn from hard living. She was washed-out, almost blending in with the wall behind her. Even her brightly colored skirts were muted. "Are you one of mine?" she asked in a language Christian did not speak.
On the Astral Plane, all languages were one. He spoke in English, but she heard Yiddish. "I do not think so, madam."
Erik laughed. "This one is my cousin, from my father's side," he told the woman. He and Christian seemed to burn with the only colors in the entire world. Erik waslit from within by a green glow, while Christian shone icy-blue. They glowed with the vitality of life.
The woman pulled a face and then winked. "Ah yes, the goyim." She kissed Erik on his cheek, standing on tiptoe to reach him. "No matter. You grow handsomer each time I see you." Turning to Christian, she curtsied and smiled. No doubt she had been a lovely woman in her youth. "I am Deborah Lehnsherr. I was born in the Warsaw ghettoes, and died by the bullets of the Nazis. Now my great-grandson comes sometimes to visit my shade in this dream-world."
Deborah walked away, calling to three young children, two girls and a boy, who laughed and dissolved into wisps of smoke. In a moment she faded away, like an image in an old photograph that time had worn away.
Christian started awake when Katherine prodded his shoulder with her toe. "I made tacos," she said. "It was all I could find in Erik's kitchen." Sitting up, he grabbed for his watch. It was 12:30 p.m.
Erik was stretching beside him. He had slept the whole night through with his baseball cap atop his head. "Who else comes to you?" Christian asked, barely breathing as he remembered the dreams.
"I've met hundreds of people. Some I know, most I don't. Some spirits cling harder to the Astral Plane than others. I spoke to the emperor Caligula once. He kept asking where his sister had gone."
Christian rubbed his face. "Does your father ever come to you? Uncle Alex, I mean?"
Erik fell silent for several long moments and Christian wondered if he had made a mistake. "Yes," Erik said at last. "He comes often. He doesn't understand that time has passed since he died. He still thinks I'm six-years-old. Some spirits are more aware than others."
Katherine appeared at the bedroom door then, a plate of tacos in hand, her face white as snow. "Mother's on the phone," she said, holding out the cell phone to Christian.
He took it, grimacing all the while. "Yeah?"
"I thought I'd find you there," Emma said. Her voice was chilly even for her. "I tried all night to contact you telepathically, but you had your psi-blockers up. This morning I finally got Lorna on the phone and asked for Erik's number. You and your sister need to come back to the mansion immediately."
"Why?"
"Charles Xavier died in his sleep last night."
Christian dropped the phone.
NOTE: While researching for this story, I dug up every reference to Magneto's tattoo I could find. There are 3 separate numbers given for his Auschwitz number, from 3 different sources. The first is 214782, as given in Uncanny X-Men #161. The second is 14892, as given in the first X-Men movie. The third (and the one I eventually went with) was 24005, as given in Excalibur #2. I chose the third one because this story wasn't movie-verse, and because the 214782 number is revealed in a memory sequence by Xavier, and it seems possible to me that he simply misremembered it.
Auschwitz was the only death camp that systematically tattooed its prisoners. In 1941 the first prisoners to be tattooed were given serial numbers. Later on, prisoners were tattooed with a letter to signify their race or religion (for instance, "Z" for Zigeuner, Gypsy). That Erik lacks an identifying letter corresponds with the statement that he'd entered Auschwitz very early on.