Cellmates

by Falstaff

APRIL 1999

The metal bolts were thrown, there was a hiss as the door unlocked, the guards all chambered the rounds into their weapons simultaneously, and the voice of Bastion himself rang through A Block. "Prisoner #98L11161926. Lehnsherr. Stand back from the door."

"I'm nowhere near the door, Bastion," the white-haired prisoner in the green coveralls said, his tone conversational, his fingers steepled in front of him. "I'm sitting at my desk. Which, I am certain, you already know."

"Yes. Yes, I do," Bastion said. "I feel obligated to inform you that my troops will shoot you if you attempt to escape."

"Really." The ex-terrorist's voice was sardonic, strong. "Why in the world would I want to do that? This nullifier zone you've put me in makes me as powerless --:" he stopped. There was no need to indulge his jailer's ego any more than was necessary.

"Your new cellmate has arrived, Lehnsherr." The door opened, and Bastion filled the doorway. "I trust there will be no trouble?"

"Why," the prisoner said blandly, "would there be trouble?"

"Ah. How gratifying," Bastion said in a calm, clear voice, and stepped aside. A brown-haired man in the green coveralls of a Operation: Zero Tolerance prisoner with mutated genes was pushed into the room. Lehnsherr's eyes widened in recognition, but he said nothing.

"Prisoner #99S04121969. Summers." Bastion's harsh chuckle echoed in the metal hallway for a moment. "You two have fun now."

The door clicked shut, hissed as it locked, and the control bolts slammed back into place. Lehnsherr allowed himself a single, quiet bark of laughter.

"Of all the cellmates I could possibly get . . . . they give me you. Summers, there is no justice in this universe. This is proof positive."

Scott Summers blinked his eyes rapidly, looking up at the florescent lights and took a deep breath as he unlocked the inhibiter collar around his neck. "I'm not exactly thrilled to be in prison with you either, Magneto."

"Oh, please," the older man said, waving his hand expansively at the small room. "we're _bunkmates._ Call me Magnus."

====================================

JULY 1999

"I miss my wife."

"Pardon me?" Magnus asked, turning around at the desk. "Are you actually beginning a conversation? Please allow me a moment to draft a telegram to the Associated Press."

"I don't feel like I have a lot in common with you, Magnus. You're a terrorist. I'm a --"

"A what?" Magnus stood, his clear blue eyes crackling. "Continue, Summers, please."

Scott took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. That was insulting."

"Yes, it was." An elegant shrug of the shoulders. "But it's no more than I've come to expect from you and yours, Summers. Terrorists, so the popular wisdom once had it, is what the big army calls the little army."

Another sigh. "I really am sorry. My apologies."

Magnus turned slowly, seating himself at his desk and beginning to write again. "Accepted. What were you saying?"

"My wife. I miss my wife." There was a pause, a long silence, and then finally Magnus spoke, without looking up from the papers on his desk.

"I miss Charles."

Scott Summers opened his mouth and closed it, once, twice, three times. "I . . . . I did _not_ want to picture that."

"And I didn't need to picture you and your wife. You see? We're even."

Scott stretched out on his bunk and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Finally, he rolled over onto his stomach and looked over down at the older man. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

Magnus' pen scratched on paper. "Go on."

"You . . . . and Charles . . . . were you . . . . did you --"

Magnus straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, but did not turn around. "Whatever the answer to that question is, Summers, it is not any of your business. Any such matter would be between Charles and myself. And allow me to make something clear to you: you will not bring this matter up again. There are certain things that will never be spoken of between us. Have I made myself clear, Summers?"

"Of course. Sorry."

====================================

NOVEMBER 1999

The crackle of the door intercom woke both of them out of a sound sleep. :Lehnsherr?:

Scott leaned over the side of his bunk, looking down into Magnus' eyes. Magnus nodded almost imperceptibly. Daria. The night-shift A Block guard. Scott raised an eyebrow, Magnus spread his hands.

"Yes. What is it?"

:Look, I thought you should know,: Daria said quietly. :I have a friend who works in the Advance Intelligence office. He and I were talking . . . . I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but like I said I thought that you ought to know.:

Magnus let a long, slow breath out between his lips. "What is it, exactly, that I ‘ought to know,' Daria?"

:Your son and your daughter. They were part of the Avengers contingent in Seattle. There was a pacification strike on Seattle earlier today.: There was a long pause. :I'm very sorry, Lehnsherr. They were both killed.: The intercom clicked off.

Magnus stared at the door for a long moment. Then, finally, he rose, and, utterly composed, moved to the desk and seated himself, sitting motionless in the chair, staring at the wall.

Scott carefully climbed down from his bunk. He started across the room, his arm extended. "Magnus, I am so sorry --"

"I'm sure that you are, Scott. But do me the favor of not trying to tell me you understand. You've never lost a child. You do not, cannot, understand."

"I had a child once, Magnus. Maybe I've never been through this, but I think I know what you're going through. Even if my . . . ." he paused, wondering if he deserved to use the word, "son and I didn't always get along."

"Really." Magnus glared at Scott, blue eyes blazing into brown. "Do you have the faintest idea of what it is like to look into your child's eyes and see hatred festering there? Hatred for you? Hatred for your every action? To see that fire burning there? That darkness, that utter blackness? Do you know --" He stopped abruptly, making a discernible effort to marshal his feelings. "Do you know what it is to see that hate . . . . and to understand that you deserve it?"

There was a long silence. Scott turned around, walked back to his bunk, and started to climb up - - and slowly stopped. "Yes," he said quietly.

"I . . . . beg your pardon?"

"Yes, Magnus. I know how that feels." He climbed slowly into his bunk.

They sat together in the dark, one on his bunk, the other in his chair. There was silence, save for a few sounds, not dissimilar between themselves. A short while later . . . .

"Summers?"

". . . . yes?"

"Are you crying, Summers?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am, Magnus. Are you?"

". . . . yes."

"Good night, Magnus."

"Good night."

====================================

AUGUST 2000

:Hey. Hey, is anybody in here?:

Scott sprang off of his bunk, moving over to the speaker grille. "Hank? Hank, is that you?"

:You got it, Scotty-boy. Stand clear.:

Scott moved away from the door, looking at Magnus. "We're clear, Hank, go ahead."

There was a brief explosion, and the door threw itself aside, withdrawing into the walls. The furry form of Henry P. McCoy filled the doorway.

"The Avengers, as legally deputized officers of the United States Department of Defense, have assumed command of this facility," the former X-Man said, grinning. "Come, gentlemen. I've arranged for transportation to Westchester for both of you."

"Charles," Magnus said, his voice hushed.

"I'm sorry?" Hank asked.

Magnus' voice was slightly ragged. "Is Charles with you?"

"Yes. Yes, he is. He was very insistent --"

Scott felt his lips moving into a rather silly grin as he extended his hand, helping Magnus to his feet. "Come on, Magnus. He's probably waiting down in the lobby."

"I'm not an old man, Summers," Magnus said. He squared his shoulders, and summoned up a touch of the old imperiousness. "I'm seventy-three by technicality only. _I_ shall lead the way." He brushed past the Beast, then paused. "But thank you, Scott. It's appreciated."

"No problem, Magnus." Scott smiled. "Never will be."

back to Falstaff's stories | Cyke and Logan archive | comicfic.net