“So instead you want to keep them all prisoner for the rest of their natural lives?”
“If need be.”
“And then? Do we add new offenders to the gene pool, so they can breed more terrorists in the primordial soup we’ve provided them with?” Her expression stays as neutral as his, but her eyes are fixed on his, daring him to look away. “They are having children in those camps, Magneto, and while we have been removing the obviously mutant children for their own safety we are leaving the human-seeming children with their parents.
“But what happens if they breed a human-looking, mutant child powerful enough to break them out? What happens if they breed a whole civilisation of humans in there who are dedicated to our destruction?” She shakes her head, slapping a palm down on the surface of the table and making a loud enough noise that several of the others present jump half out of their seats. “Better to let them free on our own terms and control them when we do so that we are the ones who decide, not them.”
“How do you propose to control them?” Magneto sits forward in his chair, plants his index finger firmly on the table, pinning down his point and focusing all of their attention back to him. “You’re strong, Emma, but I can’t imagine you intend to mindwipe all of them into obedient little slaves. Surely that would undermine the entire exercise. If you can present me with a reasonable plan of how this would work, I’ll look at it, but you know my opinion on this - you wouldn’t release a mutant murderer just because it would win us political points. A murderer is a murderer.”
“You would know,” she says, and he stiffens, breath catching in his throat in a moment of pure and utter affront, muscles snapping taut with hot and fiery rage.
“Don’t make me show you how well I know it,” he rumbles, in a voice like a storm breaking, gravelled and furious. His scalp prickles with static, pen rattling on the tabletop, metal nib and cap flicking it up and down in a rocking motion that transfixes the half of the room that aren’t leaning back and away from him, eyes wide. “I am being very openminded letting you even suggest this, Emma. Raven died in your arms. Many more have died and will die if I let you follow through with this - this ridiculous plan. But I, at least, was courteous. This meeting is adjourned.”
Most of the committee members leave without looking back, palpable relief rolling from them as they scoop up their papers and escape. Emma and Azazel stay seated, like an angel and a devil at his sides, one on either shoulder.
“It’ll be on your desk this afternoon,” Emma says, smoothing her skirt across her lap until it lies smooth as satin, her expression as serene and untroubled by his anger as it ever is. “You know full well I don’t love humans either, pet. I’m not suggesting this idly. I’m just being pragmatic.”
Magneto scowls at her, the pen still writhing and roiling on the table, like a thing in pain. “Get out.”
“With pleasure,” and she blinks, slow and deliberate, long lashes a sweep against her cheek, before rising to her feet and turning to click out of the room on those spindly, elegant heels she always wears, perfectly poised and unhurried.
“Kurt and I have been reading together, lately,” Azazel says, leaning forward to catch Magneto’s eye and drawing his attention with a grim smile that has nothing of humour in it. “Last night we were reading C.S. Lewis. He asked me if Frost is related to the White Witch.”
And despite himself Magneto laughs, hoarse and uneven, raising a hand to his face to wipe at his face. It’s as though Azazel has somehow found the release valve and let the fierce pressure of Magneto’s rage out, deflated it enough to let him cool down and contain himself again. The pen falls silent, lays still and unmoving on the tabletop, exhausted. “She does bear certain similarities.”
FILL: Everyday Love in Stockholm 176/?
“If need be.”
“And then? Do we add new offenders to the gene pool, so they can breed more terrorists in the primordial soup we’ve provided them with?” Her expression stays as neutral as his, but her eyes are fixed on his, daring him to look away. “They are having children in those camps, Magneto, and while we have been removing the obviously mutant children for their own safety we are leaving the human-seeming children with their parents.
“But what happens if they breed a human-looking, mutant child powerful enough to break them out? What happens if they breed a whole civilisation of humans in there who are dedicated to our destruction?” She shakes her head, slapping a palm down on the surface of the table and making a loud enough noise that several of the others present jump half out of their seats. “Better to let them free on our own terms and control them when we do so that we are the ones who decide, not them.”
“How do you propose to control them?” Magneto sits forward in his chair, plants his index finger firmly on the table, pinning down his point and focusing all of their attention back to him. “You’re strong, Emma, but I can’t imagine you intend to mindwipe all of them into obedient little slaves. Surely that would undermine the entire exercise. If you can present me with a reasonable plan of how this would work, I’ll look at it, but you know my opinion on this - you wouldn’t release a mutant murderer just because it would win us political points. A murderer is a murderer.”
“You would know,” she says, and he stiffens, breath catching in his throat in a moment of pure and utter affront, muscles snapping taut with hot and fiery rage.
“Don’t make me show you how well I know it,” he rumbles, in a voice like a storm breaking, gravelled and furious. His scalp prickles with static, pen rattling on the tabletop, metal nib and cap flicking it up and down in a rocking motion that transfixes the half of the room that aren’t leaning back and away from him, eyes wide. “I am being very openminded letting you even suggest this, Emma. Raven died in your arms. Many more have died and will die if I let you follow through with this - this ridiculous plan. But I, at least, was courteous. This meeting is adjourned.”
Most of the committee members leave without looking back, palpable relief rolling from them as they scoop up their papers and escape. Emma and Azazel stay seated, like an angel and a devil at his sides, one on either shoulder.
“It’ll be on your desk this afternoon,” Emma says, smoothing her skirt across her lap until it lies smooth as satin, her expression as serene and untroubled by his anger as it ever is. “You know full well I don’t love humans either, pet. I’m not suggesting this idly. I’m just being pragmatic.”
Magneto scowls at her, the pen still writhing and roiling on the table, like a thing in pain. “Get out.”
“With pleasure,” and she blinks, slow and deliberate, long lashes a sweep against her cheek, before rising to her feet and turning to click out of the room on those spindly, elegant heels she always wears, perfectly poised and unhurried.
“Kurt and I have been reading together, lately,” Azazel says, leaning forward to catch Magneto’s eye and drawing his attention with a grim smile that has nothing of humour in it. “Last night we were reading C.S. Lewis. He asked me if Frost is related to the White Witch.”
And despite himself Magneto laughs, hoarse and uneven, raising a hand to his face to wipe at his face. It’s as though Azazel has somehow found the release valve and let the fierce pressure of Magneto’s rage out, deflated it enough to let him cool down and contain himself again. The pen falls silent, lays still and unmoving on the tabletop, exhausted. “She does bear certain similarities.”