You guys are awesome. 'Nuff said, really - you keep me going and I love you! Don't stop :D
XXXV
The unrest in Japan is far away, but not far enough, it seems; of course it makes it into the papers, and from there it’s like some kind of visually-transmitted disease. The words and photographs from far across the ocean infect the population here and leave them muttering and ill at ease, striking back at the police who try to calm them and speaking out publicly in a way they haven’t really dared, before, gathering together on street corners and in shady bars to share their malcontent and spread it further.
Three more of the faces on that list, that verdammt list, are shot in early May, one a prominent mutant doctor and two City Leaders, each of them recognised as having played significant roles in the Uprising last year. Only Ghast, the Chicago City Leader, is sniped the way the previous dead were. The other two are killed by regular citizens who have read the list a few too many times and seen a few too many movies. They’re caught, of course. But it doesn’t solve the problem. The population has tasted blood, and they’re hungry for more.
Anti-mutant hate crime is on the rise again, no matter what rights mutants now have to defend themselves - whatever means necessary - and it’s too late to censor the press, to keep the poison from leaching in. The enemy is already inside the walls.
It makes Magneto even less popular, but the curfew is the only thing that even starts to curb the death toll - both mutant and human. The ratio would be in the humans’ favour if only they bothered to make sure of the powers they were up against before assaulting people who can kill with a touch, wipe a mind clean in the blink of an eye or turn limbs to lead, leaving their attackers weighed down to the pavement and screaming for the cops, when their dead, frozen hand is still clutching a knife.
“If people cannot control themselves, then I must do what I can to preserve their lives, regardless of their stupidity,” Magneto says on television, looking down the camera with a practiced assurance he had not had a year ago, six months ago, curls his hands around the lectern and leans towards them, meets the audience’s eyes and stares them down. “If you cannot stop killing one another, mutant or human, then I will stop you.”
At home Charles has fallen asleep in front of the television Erik had brought him, a blanket falling off his lap and head tipped back against the couch cushions, his solitary plate washed and stacked beside the sink. When Erik wakes him Charles smiles at him sleepily and says “Out after curfew? Whatever will the First Mutant say.”
“He’ll probably ground me.” Erik offers him a hand and pulls Charles to his feet, tugging Charles in close and wrapping his arms around him when the other man leans in, drowsy and compliant, tucking Charles in against his chest and sighing. “We can’t keep this up forever. Something’s got to give.”
“People are afraid of being made obsolete.” Charles strokes a hand down Erik’s side to settle at his hip, heavy and welcome in the space between them. “All through history, wars have been fought and lost over human beings’ need to continue their line, to be remembered. They’re afraid of disappearing.”
“Humans are already obsolete,” Erik replies thoughtlessly, and Charles stiffens in his arms, pushing away to frown at him disapprovingly. “You said it yourself, Charles. It’s not personal - it’s evolution. When a more advanced species is born, the less evolved species fades or is killed. It’s in your dissertation.”
“It doesn’t mean they don’t matter, Erik,” Charles says, and for once Erik knows what he means underneath his words.
“Of course you matter,” he says, and when Charles is still frowning, adds, “it’s not as though I only called the curfew to protect mutants. It’s for the humans’ sake, too. Would you really want to try and surprise me in a dark alley?”
Charles doesn’t look mollified in the least, hands stiff where they’re still pressed against Erik’s chest to hold him at arm’s length. “It’s all very 1984, though, don’t you think? There’s a reason they call it a dystopian novel. It’s not supposed to be a model for a good society!”
FILL: Everyday Love in Stockholm 140/?
The unrest in Japan is far away, but not far enough, it seems; of course it makes it into the papers, and from there it’s like some kind of visually-transmitted disease. The words and photographs from far across the ocean infect the population here and leave them muttering and ill at ease, striking back at the police who try to calm them and speaking out publicly in a way they haven’t really dared, before, gathering together on street corners and in shady bars to share their malcontent and spread it further.
Three more of the faces on that list, that verdammt list, are shot in early May, one a prominent mutant doctor and two City Leaders, each of them recognised as having played significant roles in the Uprising last year. Only Ghast, the Chicago City Leader, is sniped the way the previous dead were. The other two are killed by regular citizens who have read the list a few too many times and seen a few too many movies. They’re caught, of course. But it doesn’t solve the problem. The population has tasted blood, and they’re hungry for more.
Anti-mutant hate crime is on the rise again, no matter what rights mutants now have to defend themselves - whatever means necessary - and it’s too late to censor the press, to keep the poison from leaching in. The enemy is already inside the walls.
It makes Magneto even less popular, but the curfew is the only thing that even starts to curb the death toll - both mutant and human. The ratio would be in the humans’ favour if only they bothered to make sure of the powers they were up against before assaulting people who can kill with a touch, wipe a mind clean in the blink of an eye or turn limbs to lead, leaving their attackers weighed down to the pavement and screaming for the cops, when their dead, frozen hand is still clutching a knife.
“If people cannot control themselves, then I must do what I can to preserve their lives, regardless of their stupidity,” Magneto says on television, looking down the camera with a practiced assurance he had not had a year ago, six months ago, curls his hands around the lectern and leans towards them, meets the audience’s eyes and stares them down. “If you cannot stop killing one another, mutant or human, then I will stop you.”
At home Charles has fallen asleep in front of the television Erik had brought him, a blanket falling off his lap and head tipped back against the couch cushions, his solitary plate washed and stacked beside the sink. When Erik wakes him Charles smiles at him sleepily and says “Out after curfew? Whatever will the First Mutant say.”
“He’ll probably ground me.” Erik offers him a hand and pulls Charles to his feet, tugging Charles in close and wrapping his arms around him when the other man leans in, drowsy and compliant, tucking Charles in against his chest and sighing. “We can’t keep this up forever. Something’s got to give.”
“People are afraid of being made obsolete.” Charles strokes a hand down Erik’s side to settle at his hip, heavy and welcome in the space between them. “All through history, wars have been fought and lost over human beings’ need to continue their line, to be remembered. They’re afraid of disappearing.”
“Humans are already obsolete,” Erik replies thoughtlessly, and Charles stiffens in his arms, pushing away to frown at him disapprovingly. “You said it yourself, Charles. It’s not personal - it’s evolution. When a more advanced species is born, the less evolved species fades or is killed. It’s in your dissertation.”
“It doesn’t mean they don’t matter, Erik,” Charles says, and for once Erik knows what he means underneath his words.
“Of course you matter,” he says, and when Charles is still frowning, adds, “it’s not as though I only called the curfew to protect mutants. It’s for the humans’ sake, too. Would you really want to try and surprise me in a dark alley?”
Charles doesn’t look mollified in the least, hands stiff where they’re still pressed against Erik’s chest to hold him at arm’s length. “It’s all very 1984, though, don’t you think? There’s a reason they call it a dystopian novel. It’s not supposed to be a model for a good society!”