Chapter 8: Blood Drops

"America was going to be the land of tolerance…of peace…"

-Magneto

Magneto looked right into his eyes. Logan, frozen in place, held by Magneto's power, saw something in those elusive eyes that he had never seen before—honesty.

"I'm going to let you go now," Magneto said.

And Wolverine let his claws continue on their allotted course, sliced through Magneto's face and throat, nearly taking off his head. Arterial blood sprayed every which way, even into Wolverine's own face…

At least, that was what Logan imagined had happened, just for fun.

What really happened was that Logan let his claws hover, free to move, but unmoving. Magneto never flinched or even looked at those furious blades. Centimeters from his cheek, Magneto seemed as uncaring as if they had been a hundred yards away.

Logan let his claws inch a little closer, press against the face of his enemy, and he drew tiny drops of red blood. Not for a millisecond did Magneto try to hold him back. Logan pulled away.

"You would've let me kill you?"

"Well, according to just about everyone, I'm already dead."

Logan retracted his claws. "You must have one hell of a story."

"I must," Magneto replied. "And I was hoping you could help me fill in some of the blanks."

Fifty years ago, Logan would never have dreamt of having a nice little chat with Magneto, the man who had been his greatest enemy in another life. Never imagined that Magneto could actually be in need of anyone's help, let alone his. Nothing about this was right; everything was convoluted. Magneto couldn't be here—shouldn't be here…and yet, there he was, tied to a chair in a room filled with human refugees, who, if given the chance, would tear him to pieces if they thought it would change anything.

"Untie him," Logan ordered.

Vince stepped up to him. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure. If he'd wanted to, he'd've killed you all by now. He's a metal worker."

Vince shrugged. "Ain't that much metal around the place."

Logan raised his eyebrow. "Hey, remember me? The guy with the metal skeleton?" he asked.

Vince nodded. "Oh right…keep forgetting."

Logan did not mention the fact that Magneto was powerful enough to manipulate any magnetic fields in the air and could use such power to flatten the camp in the blink of an eye. No metal worker had ever been as powerful as Magneto. He doubted any metal worker ever would. He also didn't figure on the men in the camp taking kindly to a mutant that was more powerful than himself, or one that had such acute control over his power.

When Magneto was free, he stood up and looked at the men around him, then at Logan. "Is there somewhere we can talk?" he asked.

Logan nodded once and turned. Magneto followed him out of the cabin.

The colony was stark and cold looking, a hodge-podge of cloth, rags, tarps and lumber. A chilling breeze came off of the nearby lake, constantly making roofs shudder, and tarp-enclosed doorways bend. All around there were people, women, men and children. They came in and out of tents and cabins, stood over fires. Some of them were washing clothes in pots of hot water, stirring the clothes around with long poles. Everyone's clothing seemed to be a mix of animal skins and patches of old clothes from times past. No one looked truly wild, though; everyone seemed to be trying to be a civilized as possible, the adults, at least, more so than the children.

The youngest of them ran and jumped about as if the world was their's to command. They slowly began to surround Magneto and Logan, tugging at Logan's sleeves, asking about the mysterious "bubble man." Some of them dared to come forward and push or poke Magneto, and then make a mad dash for the nearest hiding place. It became a game. Logan finally told them to quit it and led Magneto into his own tent. Once inside, he tied the tarp shut.

"These kids," he said, "they don't know anything about anything. Can't read or write. Parents are too busy trying to keep them alive to waste time educating them." He looked pointedly at Magneto.

"And it's all my fault," Magneto finished for him. "Well, they're not the only ones who seem to be at a lack of knowledge. The mutants who—well, I suppose you could say "resurrected" me…their knowledge of history had a few holes in it."

"Yeah, let's talk about that," Logan answered. "You say 'resurrected.' You serious?"

"It seems that at the time I was supposed to have died, I was actually captured and placed in a kind of cryogenic freeze. I do not know the reason for this, I only know that everyone who witnessed my supposed death remembers it clearly."

Logan's mind reeled. "Cryogenic freeze?" he repeated. "How?"

Magneto shrugged. "I have no idea. I woke up in a pool of icy-cold gelatin, with tubes in my nose and a pipe down my throat and about half a dozen people looking down at me that I had never seen before in my life. They told me that I had been frozen for fifty years, that there was some kind of civil war between mutants that been going on since I had died, and that I had been held captive in that state by a group called," he paused, looking pointedly at Logan, "the Brotherhood," he finished.

Logan looked up. "The Brotherhood? Those were your people."

"Yes, I remember that as well. Unfortunately not one of the mutants who had revived me had any recollection of what the Brotherhood was or that it had ever existed before. And yet they all know, even revere, me."

"That doesn't make sense."

"No. It does not."

Logan crossed his arms and sat down on his cot. It was too surreal…too incredible to be fact. But, Magneto was there, alive. That was true. So…his story could be true, as well. For all its absurdity, Magneto's story seemed like the only viable explanation. A thought occurred to him. "How did you know where to find me?"

Magneto looked somewhat embarrassed—embarrassed with dignity, if that were possible. "I was in a state of shock. I needed to know whether or not all of this was real. I asked the mutants around me whether there were any mutants left that I would know. One of the mutants, Tymah, who was among those that captured my frozen body, told me that she knew an old mutant named Pyro, and that he might be able to help me. I found him. After recalling the memory that he had of me dying in his arms, he told me where I might find you. Maybe you would know something. Clearly, you don't. And I am back at the beginning."

Logan laughed. He looked squarely at Magneto and laughed.

Without losing a step, Magneto replied, "It's hilarious. I know."

Still laughing, he said, "I lost everything…because of you. You and your Brotherhood. It started with Jean. Well, actually with Xavier—but he came back to life, too. Then he was killed again!" he thought his sides would bust. Magneto stared at him with something like fear coupled with concern. "And then," he said waving his hand back in a carefree gesture, "it was Storm and Rogue and Bobby. The ones that actually lived aged and died eventually." He sighed, the laughter draining out of him. "This colony is all I have left…and here you are. It's gonna start all over again, isn't it? Just like last time. You'll suck me into this world, make me fight for things I never knew I cared about, and then they'll all just disappear and somehow you'll survive!"

Magneto eyed him curiously. "Logan, we both fought. We both lost things. I've seen what that fighting has done to the world." He looked down. "What I have done to the world…," he added quietly. "I'm just an old man now, looking for answers." He smiled sadly. "Maybe there's a reason for all of this Logan. Maybe you and I have survived for a reason."

"Yeah, and what reason is that?"

Magneto looked up at him and Logan saw his age—all one-hundred and twenty-five years of it. The other man shrugged. "To save the world?"

A full day and night's travel had brought the three well away from the city and into upstate New York. The river had slightly narrowed, but the foliage had grown thicker; they clung to the coast for its protection and for its shade. They had taken turns all night, one sleeping, one steering, one watching. Tymah was still sleeping. Daytripper kept a close watch on the sky, the forest and the water, but so far, no one and nothing had come for them. It was at once a welcome circumstance and a suspicious one.

"Maybe she thought we were dead," Spit suggested.

Daytripper looked to him. "You'd think she might want to make sure of that, though, you know?"

Spit shrugged and looked beyond the prow of their little boat.

"Thank you for all of this," Tripper said for the thousandth time.

Spit laughed. "You don't have to keep thanking me," he said cheerfully. And just as easily, he grew grim. "You know, I've spent my whole life killing Animalis…and I'm talking since day one of me getting my powers. Thinking that might have been all for nothing, and that what I'm doing now might mean something—I should be thanking you," he finished quietly.

It had taken several times to convince Spit of their story. And they had told him absolutely everything, giving him chance enough to get out of going with them, and dropping him off somewhere along the way. He believed them, at last, and had decided to go with them wherever—and that had been asking a lot.

After a fierce argument with Tymah, Daytripper had decided that the best and safest place for them to go would be the human colony on the Canadian border. He knew exactly where it was. If he had had his powers, they could have gone their in a moment. As a teleporter, he somehow had an innate sense of where everything was—and even without his powers, that same sense of direction lingered. It was like having a map of the whole world constantly at his disposal. Without his powers, it was not as a clear, but it was still useful. He knew, for instance, that the Hudson followed a path into the Adirondack Mountains and from there they could walk to the human colony. Both Tymah and Spit had thought that the idea was insane, but Daytripper had finally convinced them that it would most likely be alright. Spit looked human, Tripper and Tymah were human. If anything went wrong, Spit still had his powers.

"Is there a reason you're called Spit?" Daytripper asked the young man.

Spit smiled. "Short for Spitfire. The nickname just kind of evolved."

Daytripper nodded. "I like it," he said.

"It's alright," he shrugged, smiling to himself. He looked over at the sleeping Tymah. "I've known her my whole life…since I was a kid. We trained together and fought. She saved my life once. In our first battle, this clawed mutant jumped on my back. He gave me these scars, see?" Spit pulled back the shoulder of his shirt. Four finger length claw mark scars stretched down past his shoulder blade. There were identical marks on his opposite shoulder. "Anyway, Tymah pushed this huge gust of wind towards the Animalis and knocked him off my back." Spit's eyes defocused as he added, "Then I killed him."

Daytripper looked closely at him and said, "We were all born into this war. Until now, we didn't know that there might be an alternative."

"I still hate them," Spit said suddenly, "what does that make me?"

"It just…makes you you," he answered. Spit looked away.

The boat made its way casually along the river bank. The water sloshed peacefully against the sides as the motor hummed and sputtered. Daytripper could see in his head where they were on his "inner map." It would be hours before they were close to their destination. He wondered just then where Magneto might be. He was afraid for him. The man had been so long out of the world, violently thrust back into it and now he was alone. Had he gone back and found Fellswoop and the others? Was he still in the South District? There was no way to know.

As if Spit were reading his mind, he said quietly, "He's really back? Really?"

Daytripper nodded. "He really is."

Spit shook his head and whistled. "Ain't that something…" he muttered.

Himmel stared at the floor. "Dead?" he repeated.

Fathom linked her fingers together, nervously. "I don't know…she must be. She was there and then she was gone…her signature just disappeared from my mind. It was so powerful…like she was using all of her powers…and then…it just wasn't there."

Fathom watched Himmel pace, a slow, methodical gait. There was no expression in his face except for a slight concern, something like confusion. "A metal worker?" he asked Fathom.

"There was one with her. I could try to find him."

Late in the night, Himmel had come to Fathom's room. He had beckoned her with a brief, emphatic hand gesture and said, "Godspeed."

She had followed him reluctantly and he had led her into the room where they kept Godspeed. She was dead. She had been strangled. There were finger marks on her arms and on her throat. One person had held her down, the other had killed her. "Sky," Himmel had said. Fathom had not been sure if he had meant that Sky was the culprit, or that he wanted to know where Sky was. Either way, Fathom had known by his tone that he wanted Sky in his presence as soon as possible. She had stretched out her senses. Sky was nowhere in the facility.

Himmel had frowned. "Further," he ordered. Fathom went further. There she was, by the river. Her powers were enormous…pulling in energy from everywhere. Fathom had felt it tug at her core. She had gasped with strength of it.

And then it was gone…as if it had never been there at all.

Fathom assumed Sky had died. Regardless of how or why, Fathom was sure Sky was dead…the total absence of her presence confirmed it. It was not like someone who was difficult to find…it was like a hole in reality. Fathom felt that hole, a dent in her perception.

Now, Himmel was pacing. When Himmel paced it was as if one could see his mind working, churning, figuring things out. Fathom had always assumed that Himmel spoke so little because he thought so much, that his thoughts were so clear and rational, it was not necessary for him to go into litanies and great speeches. Suddenly, he stopped.

"Fathom," he said, "four days ago."

Fathom thought and it came to her. "Four days ago…I remember, I was looking for you. I ran into Sky. I had felt a powerful metal worker, class four, in the South District. Someone I had never felt before. Sky said she would tell you. She would take care of it. And I had also sensed Tymah…and a teleporter."

His eyes widened. Tymah's name had struck a cord with him, that much she could see. "The metal worker…the same as tonight's?" he asked.

"No," Fathom answered, "the one I felt tonight was class three."

Himmel shook his head. "Tymah…a class four…South District?" He began to pace again. Himmel was not a tall man and his powers were limited. He was a great man, though, or so Fathom had been told. He was nearly fifty years old, ancient, a survivor. He had seen countless battles and had worked his way through the ranks despite his lacking powers. It was said of him that he had a brain in his head, an eye for detail, a sense of timing and planning that was unique among the commanders. Sometimes Fathom thought she saw it, but he was just a class three, what right did he have to command? He looked up at her. "Spit?" he asked.

"I don't sense him anywhere," she said.

"Dead?"

"No," Fathom answered, "just not nearby."

He put his hand under his chin. A long scar lined the left side of his face, down beyond his jaw line and beneath the collar of his shirt. He touched that scar now, thoughtfully. "All connected," he murmured. "Spit, Sky, Tymah, Godspeed…" Suddenly, his eyes flashed. "Follow me," he said.

Velocity stood near Fellswoop. He shifted from foot to foot.

"Dead?" Fellswoop repeated. "She's dead?"

Velocity nodded. "It's rumored that Sky is also dead. Can I ask what's going on?"

Fellswoop looked at the other mutant. "You can ask," he said flippantly.

Back at headquarters, Fellswoop had been waiting for news…any news. It had been nearly a week and Magneto, Daytripper and Tymah and all disappeared. Velocity had brought word that Godspeed was dead. It was all falling apart. Almost without realizing it, Fellswoop put his face despairingly in his hands.

"Fellswoop," said Creature, "it is only the same."

"The same?" he asked. "The same what?"

"Where we were before," Creature responded, "we are again."

Fellswoop nodded. He was right. If he erased the events of the past three weeks, most especially this past week, Fellswoop and the Animalis were in almost the exact same situation as they had always been. At war with the Elemental mutants—the only difference being that their principle enemy, Godspeed, was dead. In all respects, they were actually better off than they had been three weeks ago.

But that was not the point, was it? No. Fellswoop had, for a moment, been introduced and open to the possibility of there being no more war with the Elementals, that perhaps the resurrection of Magneto could bring peace in his time. It had been a foolish whim, but one that he had clung to more desperately than he had previously realized. It had become more to him than just a simple dream—it had manifested itself as a possibility.

He had seen Magneto with his own eyes. Touched him with his own talons. Breathed the same air as that mutant who was the father of mutants. For the first time in his life, he had imagined a world without conflict. He had tried to hide it away, bury the hope, strangle the dream, but there it had been—and now…

And now?

Now was the same as it had always been. Nothing had changed. "Centaur was right, Creature. Peace is a fool's dream…and I was a fool to dream it…"

Creature walked towards him and touched his arm. "You never closed your eyes, Fellswoop," he said, "and the night is not yet over."

Fellswoop sighed. "No…I think the night is just beginning."

You can hear me.

Yes.

And see me?

No.

You must find me.

Where are you?

Trapped. Trapped. Save me!

How can I save you if I don't know where you are?

Oh!

What is it?

It's dying! It can't hold me! I'm killing it!

What?!

A scream…a piercing, wrenching, wretched scream pierced through the entire camp. When he heard it, he thought it was still part of the dream.

Then he heard it again.

"OH GOD! GOD! MY BABY!"

Magneto tumbled out of his sleeping bag. Lights and lanterns flashed and moved outside. He could see them through the tarps. People rushed out of their tents to find the source of the scream. It continued unceasingly. A woman screaming, relentless.

Magneto followed a group of men, whose wives watched them from inside the tarps and tents. The screaming grew louder until finally they had reached its source. A woman stood at the opening of her tent, clutching a young girl. The girl was lifeless and limp. Blood spilled out of her ears, her nose, her mouth…even out of her eyes, like thick, red tears. It was ghastly. Her fingertips were red with what seemed to be burst capillaries and her forehead had a large, swelling bump on it, as if something were trying to push its way out from inside her skull.

The woman herself, deranged and incomprehensible, was covered in blood. She could not, or would not, explain was had happened to her daughter. She was senseless and knew only her own grief and nothing else. Magneto left the scene just as they had convinced her to let go of the body and give it to them.

The dream had been only one of sound. He had seen nothing. And it had not felt like a dream. It had felt, and still felt, as if it had been a conversation with someone living. It did not, as most real-seeming dreams do, become less real as one wakes up. It was more like a faded memory of something that had actually happened. He could not remember what the voice had said exactly, but somehow he felt it had something to do with what he had just seen, that there was some connection between them. He wracked his brain for the full context of the conversation, but all he could remember was, "Trapped, trapped, save me."

"Save you from what?" he found himself asking aloud.

A man suddenly grabbed his shoulder. He looked into Magneto's eyes, but the man's eyes were cold, lifeless and nearly all white. He held onto his shoulder with bone breaking strength. "Nothing…nothing can hold me," he said in a scraping voice that did not seem to belong to him. "Help me."

While still maintaining a strong grip on his shoulder, the man collapsed, taking Magneto with him. He began to shudder and writhe and then stopped moving altogether.

"Help!" Magneto cried. "This man needs help!"

The man lay quiet and wide-eyed at Magneto's side. As Magneto watched, his eyes cleared, turning blue, and two red blood drops dripped out of the corners. "Help me," he whispered in his own voice.