So, with this entry, I start on what's pretty much a recurring theme throughout this storyline. Namely: Erik screwed up. Badly. (But I don't suppose I needed to tell any of you that.)

Chapter summary: Erik and Peter get to Detroit, and Erik has a chat with his contact there.

The weather was starting to cool and the oil prices were starting to skyrocket when Erik and Peter reached Detroit. It had been ten years since Erik had walked these streets, and they had changed little to his eyes, though to be fair, he had never paid much attention to the evolution or decay of cities. He thought Detroit looked slightly dirtier than it had in 1963, but at the same time, memory distorting behind concrete walls and glass could have imprinted a cleaner image than what was reality.

There were a few posters tacked to telephone poles and on the sides of buildings that Erik hadn't seen ten years ago, or even in other cities when he had first been liberated from his concrete prison.

He wouldn't have minded not seeing them at all.

'Down with mutants!'

Childish print on a childishly bright red background.

'Do YOU know who your child's friends are?'

There was a picture of a little child dragonfly-like wings and an insect's compound eyes in line with other, presumably human schoolchildren. The wings were very much like Angel's; it made Erik wonder if one of Trask's underlings, now that the man had been arrested for trying to sell his Sentinels to the Soviet Union, had had the temerity to publish Trask's "tests" conducted upon the mutants brought to his labs.

'Muties! They could be anywhere!'

Should he be surprised at how quickly the humans had come up with a new slur?

It was pathetic, honestly, pathetic and so typical of humans that, once confronted with their fear of the unknown and the different, would go looking for scapegoats. Of course they branded mutants their new scapegoat, now that they knew of them. Erik scowled darkly at the posters, only restraining himself from tearing them down by reasoning with himself that that would be too obvious. They were trying not to draw attention to themselves unless it was necessary.

Erik heard a small noise behind him, and turned to see that Peter's eyes were riveted on the poster depicting the line of schoolchildren. He couldn't really read Peter's expression. The boy's mouth was pressed into a thin, tight line, and he was standing unnaturally still. After a few moments, Erik supposed that Peter might have been worried—beyond that, he couldn't tell what was going on in the boy's head at all. That in itself was a little worrying. It wasn't like Peter had been hard to read before.

"Keep walking." Erik planted his hand behind Peter's shoulders, propelling him forward. "Don't linger too long; don't stare at those posters," he muttered. "Do not draw attention to yourself."

His eyes lingered on the ends of Peter's silver-gray hair, sticking out from his cap as they were wont to. At least when Peter kept his hat on, it was impossible to tell that it wasn't dyed, though at the same time, Erik wondered how much longer it would be before teenagers with dyed hair started to be harassed in the streets. He did wish Peter would cut it; he didn't know how to persuade him, forcing him was out of the question, and Erik had the distinct impression that trying to cut Peter's hair in his sleep wasn't going to end well. The idea of Peter having to hide physical manifestations of his mutation galled Erik more than ever, but it worried him (yes, he could admit that) that Peter would not even think of dyeing it.

They continued their walk east from where the bus had dropped them off, Erik carefully keeping his eyes directly in front of him. It was a trick he'd learned during his years tracking down Shaw's associates—walk swiftly, keep your head held high, make eye contact with others if you must but not if you don't need to, and above all else, behave as though you have a right to be there. There was another usage for it now. If he saw another one of those posters, Erik suspected that he would have torn it down from the telephone pole or building it was attached to. And then tracked down whoever was printing them for good measure. He didn't need to be doing that. All in good time, but not right now.

Finally, after three more blocks, they reached their destination. It was a bar on a street corner, an unassuming little place, really, with more windows than Erik had ever been comfortable with and a sputtering, green neon sign proclaiming its name to the world. 'The Waterfront Bar', it was called, a name that didn't make much sense, seeing as it didn't sit on or near the waterfront. But Erik had never made comment on the name when he visited.

They paused outside of the door. "Listen," Erik told Peter, waiting until he was sure he had Peter's attention to continue. "When I am talking with my contacts, do not let on that you and I are related."

It didn't look like Peter had understood, because he quirked an eyebrow and frowned disagreeably. "Any reason why?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. He tapped his forefinger against his arm impatiently.

"For someone who seems to know something about fugitives, you are—" Erik cut himself off before he could say 'painfully naïve.' Peter had never been on the run before. He had never spent days and weeks and months and years at a time peering back over his shoulder. Erik should be grateful for that. "Being known to be my son could cause problems for you later," he said quietly. "You and Wanda. I'd rather you didn't have to deal with that."

After a long moment, Peter nodded, though there was still something mutinous in the set of his jaw. "'Kay." His gaze strayed to the door. "So, how're we gonna get in? Sign says the bar doesn't open 'til six, and it is currently—" he rolled back his sleeve to check his watch, probably just to be melodramatic "—five o'clock. Door's still locked." He'd probably checked that so fast that Erik couldn't see.

The bar's many windows did have one advantage: all Erik had to do was look to see that the bartender was inside, washing down the countertop. So there was that, at least. He turned his gaze back to Peter, staring quizzically at him. "You mean to tell me you couldn't just find a way in yourself?"

Peter snorted. "Contrary to popular belief, breaking and entering isn't really my thing. I prefer places with plenty of exits, not just the one I made myself. Springing you out of jail was just a one-time thing."

At that, Erik actually wanted to laugh. "Never say never, kid."

The lock was easily handled. Erik had learned the ins and outs of manipulating simple locks with his powers as a young adult, a skill that had come in handy from time to time when hunting down Shaw. He pushed the door open, and motioned for Peter to follow him inside.

"Bar doesn't open for another hour," the bartender muttered without looking up. "You're gonna have to…" She looked up, and her eyebrows shot up. After a few moments of staring open-mouthed, she unstuck her jaw and said dryly, "You know, Erik, we used to take down bets on how long it would take for you to show up on national television. Gotta admit, it took longer than any of us expected."

At least there had not been the commingled horror and worry in her voice that there had been in Marya's. Erik didn't like the idea that he inspired fear in everyone he met who recognized him (humans who would do harm to mutants needed to be afraid, but the rest did not), whether or not they knew him, whether or not he was trying to frighten them. It was an idea that had been playing in the back of his mind for a few days now—he had no idea why; it probably came from the memories dug up when he sorted his late allies' belongings—but if she could have such a normal reaction to him, it probably wasn't anything to worry about.

Adara Nejem was a mutant of Lebanese and Arabic descent, an expatriate of the former country who had been living in the United States for her entire adult life. Her mutation was a form of telepathy that allowed her to understand and speak whatever language she heard spoken to her. When she had explained her mutation to Erik, she had explained that there were qualifying factors. Adara's mutation did not enable her to read or write in the language she had "absorbed", and if the language had any different standards between genders, be it standards of politeness or word choices that were considered more appropriate for one gender over another, it was very much for the best that she picked up the language in question from a woman. There was probably a story behind that, but Erik had never tried to figure out what it was.

"Do you want something to drink?" Adara asked, when Erik took what, once upon a time, had been his regular seat at the bar.

"No, thank you. I'm afraid I'm not here to pay a social call."

A grayish blur zoomed past the two of them, and Erik frowned to see Peter standing behind the bar beside Adara, staring at the bottles on display with interest. "You're not drinking anything either," he said chidingly, "unless what you're interested in is non-alcoholic."

Peter held up his hands. "Hey, I'm legal*," he protested. "Mom's never let me drink before; I just want to try some."

"Marya's no fool, and I happen to agree with her. I don't care if you're legal; you're not drinking anything alcoholic here."

Peter getting drunk was not something Erik ever wanted to deal with. He could not imagine the way the boy would behave after a few mugs of beer, not unless he was willing to delve into the realm of nightmares. Alcohol and a teenager who could probably get from one side of the continent to the other faster than a jet plane didn't sound like anything resembling a good combination.

Then again, Peter had mentioned that his mutation required him to eat much more than normal humans (And likely more than most mutants as well). That would indicate that his metabolism was also much faster than a normal human's (Or mutant's). In that case, was it possible that his body would metabolize alcohol much more quickly than was considered normal?

It would be worth investigating, but only under controlled circumstances, and these were not controlled circumstances. Besides, Adara didn't put up with much foolishness in her bar. She certainly wouldn't appreciate it if it turned out that Peter metabolized alcohol at roughly the "normal" rate and proceeded to wreak havoc.

Unless Erik was very much mistaken, Peter actually stuck his tongue out at him for a fraction of a second before zooming back out from behind the bar, and heading off towards the pool table instead. Erik directed his attention to the windows long enough to draw the blinds shut. The windows may have been tinted, but that wouldn't be enough to keep passersby from seeing Peter moving at full speed.

Adara watched Peter as he played a game of high-speed pool against himself; the sharp clack of the balls hitting each other quickly became a regular sound feature in the background. "Thought you didn't recruit kids," she remarked, pursing her lips. The look she proceeded to direct at Erik was a reproachful one.

"I don't," Erik said shortly. "I'm just keeping an eye on him."

"Hmm." Whether or not Adara believed that explanation any more than Charles had, Erik would never know. "Okay, you've got half an hour before the wait staff comes," Adara told Erik, laying her washrag down on the countertop. She stared seriously at him, the soft lighting making her face seem carven. "If you're not here for a social call, why are you here?"

"I've been out of communication for a while."

"You don't say? Personally, I was starting to wonder if you hadn't died." Adara's voice was light, but her tone had just the right amount of strain in it to ring false.

"He was in jail," Peter called from across the room with a laugh, before Erik could say anything.

Erik shot him a look, but didn't respond—it wasn't like Peter ever seemed to mind that. "Like I said, I've been out of communication. Now that that's no longer a problem, I've been trying to get through to my other contacts throughout the country, but have heard nothing from most. Have you heard anything from them?"

Adara frowned, her brow creasing. Slowly, she shook her head. "You know I never had contact with the out-of-towners…"

Erik sighed heavily. He'd been afraid of that; except for the odd visit back to Lebanon, Adara had never been very interested in what went on outside of Detroit. "Alright." For a moment, he really did want that drink Adara had offered him. "What about the mutants here in Detroit?"

Detroit had a small underground community of mutants, most of whom counted this bar as their 'base.' Nearly eleven years ago, Adara had been the only one receptive enough to Erik's offers to even agree to act as a contact. Maybe that had changed.

She shifted her weight uncomfortably. "Gone."

"What?! All of them?!"

There was no mistaking the flash of distress that flickered in Adara's eyes. "Yeah, all of them. Nearly all of the men got drafted into Vietnam. We started to get rumors about how mutants who went to 'Nam didn't come back, and some of the men who were still left started draft-dodging; I haven't heard back from them, either."

"And the rest?" Erik started to feel a cold knot of dread in his stomach, and viciously quelled the feeling.

"Well." Adara drummed her fingers against the countertop. "Naoto Ishikawa got medical dispensation. He was the one with the botched surgery, couldn't walk without a cane, remember?"

Erik nodded. "I remember him." He remembered the long conversations Ishikawa and Adara would have in this bar, the two of them carrying on in fluent Japanese. He used to marvel at the range of Adara's abilities, lamenting the fact that she wouldn't take any more of an active role in the Brotherhood—Adara would have made a wonderful translator if every they took their activities to another country. The lights would get brighter and brighter when Ishikawa got excited, and Erik would smile into his glass. "What happened to him?"

"He got arrested for… something, I can't imagine what, about six months ago. Nobody's seen him since."

"What about Catherine and Maryanne Bowles?" Those two were identical twins, both of whom possessed vivid purple hair and the ability to make dead plants come back to life with a touch.

"The same thing." Adara's lip quivered slightly, before she forced it into stillness.

Erik squeezed his eyes shut. While he didn't like to admit favoritism, he had to admit that the idea of the Bowles ending up in Trask's laboratories was an especially disturbing one. He remembered the twins' barracks in Auschwitz, and would never be able to expunge the memory of Mengele's horrific experiments from his mind. The fact that the man still went free was nearly as galling as it had been to consider that Shaw was still free, in all of the years that Erik had tried to track him down.

Erik turned about and stared at Peter, who was still engrossed in his one-man game of pool and was apparently unaware of his father's scrutiny. For some reason, he felt reluctant to take his eyes off of him.

Finally, Erik directed his attention back at Adara. "What about John Adler?"

"Said he was going to visit his mother in France about a year ago. He never came back, but I suppose that all that might mean is that he decided to make his visit permanent."

"Siobhan McGowan?"

"Vanished. There were missing person posters, but nothing ever came of it."

"Sarah Holt?"

"Same as Siobhan."

"Mark Walters?"

"Ran off to Alberta."

"And Jane Brown?"

"Also ran off to Alberta. The two of them got married over there, actually."

"Oh. I'll have to congratulate them if I see them," Erik muttered. They was all of the mutants of Detroit that were known to him, those who either due to gender or medical problems could not be drafted. The only other mutants in this city were either children or adults unknown to him. He cast a glance in Adara's direction. "Have you reconsidered my offer since we last spoke, Adara?"

Adara shook her head sharply, her thick black hair obscuring her face. "No, I have not," she said firmly, more firmly than Erik was used to—though perhaps, in the past ten years, he had simply forgotten that Adara could be so firm. "I'm no more a fighter now than I was then. I like my comforts, and I don't like the idea of being homeless and going without food for days at a time.

"Listen." Her tone and expression was still firm and serious, but worry started to creep in as well. "Ever since you went on television and made your big speech, there's been trouble. Anybody with visible mutations has been harassed or worse, and it's not just mutants, either—people with mismatched eyes or birth defects that make them look 'different' have been having the same problems. I'm lucky." Adara said this without shame, but without pride, either. "I don't look any different from normal humans. I don't want any part of this."

Erik's face darkened as he drank in what she told him, and remembered the posters he had seen tacked up around the city. He was naïve not to realize that hateful words had already morphed into violence. "Well, rest assured that I will be addressing that 'trouble.' One last thing." He drew a deep breath, forced himself to calm down. "At any point in the past year, have you seen a young woman by the name of Wanda Maximoff? She would be around seventeen or eighteen, dark-haired, fair-skinned."

Adara shook her head, brow furrowed. "No, I haven't. Keep in mind that I get a lot of people coming through here. Who is she?"

My daughter. "That doesn't matter. Thank you for your time, Adara."

As he and Peter left the bar, Erik tried to ignore the bitter taste forming on the roof of his mouth.

* Fun fact: The drinking age in the U.S. was still 18 in 1973.

Note: Josef Mengele escaped arrest after the end of World War II and lived until his death in Brazil in 1979, when he suffered a stroke while swimming and drowned. He was indeed fascinated with twins, and performed horrifying experiments upon them during his time in Auschwitz, including sewing their bodies together, injecting chemicals into their eyes in an attempt to change the subjects' eye color, and others.

Another note: While the propensity for a woman to give birth to identical twins is not a hereditary trait, the propensity to give birth to fraternal twins is considered a hereditary trait. A woman is more likely to give birth to fraternal twins if she herself has a fraternal twin sibling, if she has already given birth to fraternal twins, or if she has siblings who are fraternal twins. Just… something to keep in mind in the context of this story.