Disclaimer: X-men © Stan Lee

A/N: I ignore the canon ages of various character here so I can avoid as many OCs as possible.

.

.

Vacuum of God

arc I: survival

THE YOUNG

.

.

As a child, Elaine feared the dark. As a teen, dependency on others. As an adult, open spaces.

These illusions have been destroyed, in time.

The room holds no indication of how long she's been sitting there. It is no cell. The wallpaper is pastel pink, the bed is queen sized, and the dizzyingly bright light hasn't been turned off even once. "Unnecessary," she mutters—because she always was a fastidious old maid. She imagines herself being a doll in a box, forgotten. She doesn't know where she is or who kidnapped her. That in itself is torture, no matter the luxury.

The door opens.

A man strides in. He's a soldier, she can tell. Young. Plain except a pair of sunglasses and slightly bulky armour. He sits down on the opposite side of the table which her arms are handcuffed to, brushing dust of it. He then dumps a bunch of files down. And then, in the upper corner of it, she sees the photo of...

"I want to see my daughter," she demands, gaze glued on the picture.

"You will," the man says, "but only if you answer our questions." He brings forth a paper from his jacket's inner pocket. "When did her powers manifest?"

"What do you want with that information?"

"We can wait another 48 hours, and repeat this process until you cooperate. Do you want that?"

Reluctantly, she shakes her head. She's a realist.

"Good. Then answer. When did you first become aware of her powers?"

"...Her illness—" What else could one call such a bringer of pain and destruction? "—appeared when her kindergarten class was driven over by a tank. She felt her classmates being smothered, and lashed out. You've seen what happened to the tank, yes? Was used as a picture on the 'why you should send mutants to the Factories' campaigns."

"So she's hysteric?"

"Hysteric? No, no. No. She was a child. Still is."

"Offspring who has not been subjected to proper discipline often act irrational. Emotional, if you prefer. A danger to others and themselves. It is important that you answer these questions honestly."

"Are you sending her back to the Factories?"

The man shakes his head. "Our people don't own any Factories. We're not that sort." It is almost reassuring, but she hasn't forgotten how long they've kept her here. "Did she use her powers afterwards?"

"Only once. To get out of the Brain."

He smiles. Again with these bits and pieces that prove he's alive. She hates him more for that. Would've been easier if he was stone cold. He has feelings, and a past. Like her. Shit.

(When she was young, she'd liked books. That was how she escaped reality. Her fantasies stopped when she'd sat by her father's deathbed, reading, because she couldn't think of anything to say. He'd reached out to her with a frail hand, softly calling, "Elaine... please, Elaine..." She'd just read harder without actually absorbing the text. He'd died like that, slowly, painfully. Lonely. Afterwards, he'd never touched a book again. Still, she vividly remembers one scene she thought was a nice metaphor for humanity. She can't remember the book title, but it goes something like this:

A bunch of prehistoric man apes, having just realized that they can salvage resources; a milestone in evolution. The alpha ape was dragging a carcass up a mountain. Most of the pack wandered around, aimless, not understanding. A few, though, were helping. But the same amount of apes was doing the opposite, trying to get the carcass down again.

Elaine wonders, 'Which way would you be dragging it?')

The man stops smiling. "Does your family have a history of disorders or drug use?"

"Drug use."

He writes it down. "What about psychological problems? In your daughter, specifically."

"The world's at war. Of course she's damaged."

"I meant within your family."

"Well she is... quite sensitive. Oversensitive. Everything affected her deeply." Images flashes in her head; fighting with her husband, her daughter in the doorway, crying. It'd be better if she'd cried loudly, even screamed. Instead she just stood there with those silent, never ending tears. "Let us not talk about it. It's over and done. Irrelevant."

"Hm." The man looks through the files. "I think that about covers it. We'll do some more interviews later."

"Can I see her now? My daughter?"

The man presses a finger to his ear, listening to the earpiece. Then he shrugs. "Boss said sure, why not. Soldier will be accompanying you."

"Aren't you a soldier?"

"Not that type of soldier."

This unnerves her. But she must see her child.

The man keeps his word. Soldiers lead her down a corridor. These, however, are obviously tankbred, expressionless and near identical. Everything is very clean and neat. She likes that. When she reaches the destined place, its sheer size overwhelms her.

Tubes and wires hang from the roof. Electricity runs through them, sizzling and humming. They're like a brood of snakes, stretching outwards, on the roof and floor and walls. They become thicker at the end of the gigantesque computer chamber. Devices spin and twist. She stands on an erect platform, allowing a better view, but it is so intense she has to look away for a moment. Where is she? All the flickering lights make her head hurt. But she can't stop staring at this otherworldly place.

And in the midst of it all...

Her baby girl, crying silently. Little Jean.

What remains of her, anyway.

Elaine covers her mouth, "Jesus Christ, what have you done with her... her...?!"

"They were unnecessary, Mrs. Grey," says a deep, resonant voice. "So we cut them away. Cut, cut, cut."

.

.

—bang. Bang. Bang.

"Could you stop banging for just one second?" Erik hisses while kneading his forehead. His headache is growing worse. His stomach aches, too, as they didn't bring food.

Bang.

"Why are you even doing that?"

Charles pauses the relentless self harm. Blood trickles from his eyebrow. "To feel something." Hot air comes out of mouth as he speaks. It is very cold.

They're sitting at opposite ends in the train carriage. It was better when they'd fought. Erik still has slits from where Charles' dug his fingernails, looking for bone. He'd screamed his lungs out then. Now his sentences are fragmented and monosyllabic.

"I have come to a conclusion."

He's hoarse. His sickness is getting worse. Both the cold and the... mental one. Erik dares not interrupt, fearing it will push Charles back into that shell of his.

"I must become stone. Hard, improbable. Mourning the children and villagers will do no good, as people die all the time. Our primary directive is surviving. That's all. But I think... I think I must rest first. I'm very tired."

Erik understands. He, too, feels an exhaustion so deep it makes him feel like he's drowning. Or is it depression? While Charles' emotions seem to vaporize, Erik feels prequel numbness, as if his brain applies anaesthesia to itself before a surgery. His sadness is a tumour. He can't bandage it. He to reach in and rip the core out.

Charles' cough startles him. It reminds Erik of those hours standing vigil; the first time he had ever been so focused on saving one person.

"You're freezing."

"'M fine."

The response is too docile for Erik's liking. He clicks his tongue and walks over, sitting beside Charles to exchange body heat. He expects snark, but receives none. "You shouldn't sleep when you're freezing." Erik tries to come up with something to talk about. "Which classical composer is your favourite?"

Charles falls silent, so silent, in fact, that Erik's tempted to check his pulse.

He mentions some composers. "Beethoven? Mozart? Verdi?"

"I'd like something simpler. Bach, maybe?" Charles mispronounces it. The name is foreign on his tongue.

Erik cringes. "I thought you'd prefer Verdi."

"I did. Before." He leans on Erik. "I'd like to hear him again before I die."

That leaves Erik with a feeling of dread. Despite the exhaustion, it is the most awake he has felt in ages.

.

.

The two main reasons they leave the train are these:

1. The hunger. Killed dozens of armies and sharper than any sword, making the ribs jut at odd angles and the gut carve inwards.

2. The atmosphere. The vaporization parallel is true because Erik swears he sees Charles shrink, bit by bit, eyes gaining a dead quality. He's even hallucinating, swearing he sees wolves running beside the Train.

Most of the stops have been empty, with mere plains in the background. Charles is in no condition to wander. Guilt, hunger, and sickness are eating him. "I can't feel my legs," he whispers once, in a half lucid state. Shouting at the passengers in the other carriages will do no good. Erik tried and received no answer. Desperation forces them to leave the Train at the first good stop. And it isn't good.

A Fort. Big, new, intimidating. But it's a mere 200m from the station—and the construction is made of metal. Light shines from the glass between the heavy gauged steel framing. Erik feels movement inside, feels people. Will they let them in?

Charles' weight is heavy on his shoulders. The last time he spoke was hours ago.

Ice and water sloshes under his shoes. He's not certain which season it is. In many ways, this feels like a road to Hell. 'But we've been there already.' To take his mind off the upcoming issue, he tries to recall the religious locations for the afterlife, as sort of a mental exercise. Hell. Heaven. Purgatory. Limbo.

The entrance is one designed for militaristic vehicles. There is a door on the side though, with a microphone and loudspeakers, which a voice comes out of as soon as Erik's near enough. At least he didn't need to knock.

Who are you? says the robotic voice. Artificial intelligence is rarely in use because of the economical strain and required computer specialists. The people on the other side must have good resources.

Erik clicks his tongue. Negotiation is Charles' speciality, not his. "Travellers. We're hungry and my friend is very weak. Our property was stolen. We need help." His pleas comes out robotic, too, so he tries harder, "Please. My friend he's... he's dying, and... and I don't know what to do."

Is that true emotions? Or fabricated? It is so hard to tell the difference.

There is a pause.

Then the door opens. It reveals a bespectacled teenager with hair like a giant black cloud that she'd probably given up on controlling ages ago. "Hello. Welcome to Haven. My name is Olivie. Oli for short." She has a French accent, but it tells little of her roots. "I'll be guiding you to your main hall, where we do the regular check ups."

He had expected more guards, but elects not to mention it. The walls are polished, but the militaristic metal soothes him in lieu of Shaw's marble halls, and the futuristic technology he feels moving beneath them puzzles him. It doesn't take long before they reach the check ups section. A lot of people expect them. Teens, mostly. Despite looking welcoming, they wear guns. Oli help him with Charles, who's unconscious by now.

"This is the headquarters of Organization 7Q. Welcome," says a scarred boy who smells strongly of incense. Odd how they demonstrate the broad spectrum of youth—one pretty and naïve, the other battle worn and cold. Most of the people here seem to belong to one group or the other. Their varying skin colour has nothing to do with it. It's all about chance. "We don't get a lot of visitors, so we'll have to do the required scan."

Of course.

The problem is that Erik's—Magneto's—face will immediately be recognized by computers. But it's too late to turn back, and even if they shoot Erik, Charles will probably remain alive. The thought is oddly comforting. At least then one of them could fulfil the goal of survival. They fasten a bulky digital reader to his face. It is done with surprising gentleness and words of comfort. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Charles receive the same treatment.

Facial scan beginning at 0%

It happens surprisingly fast. They're talking to him, but he isn't listening. His muscles stiffen in preparation for the imminent battle.

Facial scan 100% complete.

He awaits an alarm. Nothing happens.

Relief dawns on him like cool water, only to be crushed a second later.

Warning: an anomaly has been detected.

"Aw shit. Problem with everything being technological is that nothing..."

The scarred boy pauses. Looks up the screen, then down again. Calmly, he does an intricate gesture with three fingers, and then every gun in the room is on him. Erik has been in this situation before. In contrast, this is young people, and the situation previous had been full of old villagers.

Target identified as Magneto. Danger level: extremely high. Shoot to kill.

It then proceeds to share the numerous bounties, in a quieter volume, but all the teens are too frozen to react.

And then they're shooting—

(Spending time with Charles was like entering a world that blurred his past one beyond recognition. But Erik recalls it now. Parts of it, anyway. Despite working in shadows, he'd earned a reputation as someone who'd messed with the gears behind the biggest conflicts in recent history; massacres, coups, major battles... Quite a feat when his boss was near unknown. However, one musn't dwell on the past.)

—and he has all their bullets in his grasp, easily as nothing. He felt the bullets in their guns before they pulled the safety off.

Erik grits his teeth. What would've been easy before is hard now, because he feels them—a bullet inside a gun inside a hand, warm and trembling. Whatever Charles did inside his head unlocked his empathy. Fuck. The bullets tremble in the air, because even his powers are unstable. A riddle he'd heard long ago answered why: what is deadlier than hate and flows without limit? The answer was boredom. Erik had not cared before. He hadn't cared enough to use his power, even, preferring using his hands, if not just to spite Shawn.

Charles wouldn't like waking up to a bloodbath. Charles wouldn't like a lot of things.

Erik looks towards him. A grave mistake. The scarred boy notices it—and as a test, he slowly moves his guns towards Charles' unconscious body. The others follow his lead.

Erik's reaction is immediate.

The walls surrounding him suddenly bends, bulks appearing everywhere at the extreme emission of power. The sound is as if you slammed a hammer on every metal surface in the main hall. Those kids are going to shoot both him and Charles, which makes them kids no longer, just obstacles. Metal stakes push themselves out of the wall, ready to pierce every living thing in the room. Empathy is forgotten.

Until Charles pauses them.

He's standing up and trembling.

Erik swears he hears him sigh, mentally.

I am Professor X. Some of you might not know me or remember, but I saved Organization 7Q in the Netherlands, ages ago. You have seen what I can do to your enemies. Do not make me do the same to you. Magneto is my ally. He's loyal to me, and I to him.

(Erik thinks about how much easier this situation would've been if Charles had just said this in the beginning.)

We have travelled far. Consider it repayment to shelter us for a moment before we'll travel away, I am not well at the m—

And then the voice grates, and Charles falls. The grip loosens and Erik regains control. He reacts in a second, bending the floor tiles to his will, grabbing hold of Charles to lessen the fall. He then sprints over to him, making the bullets scatter. "Charles," he mumbles, "Charles." Oli sits nearby, gaping.

The scarred boy lifts his gun. "Shot," he orders. A tremble moves through the crowd.

"Stop, my dear children."

Every single teenager in the room do as commanded. A shadow moves forth, revealing the father of the hoarse voice—an ugly little man, wearing a black cloak and a priest collar.

"Do not hurt them. These men are apostates, sent here on a mission. Let us help them, as Professor X once did with us." He bends his wrinkly crooked fingers together, grinning a toothless grin. "Come now. Don't be shy. Take Professor X to his room. I will handle Magneto, yes yes yes."

.

.

Erik does not rest. Does not blink.

Instead he makes certain Charles is taken properly care of, eyes that of a wary watchdog. It takes quite some time before Father Cornelius—the name of the priest—can gain his whole attention.

"I do apologize for the children's reactions," is one of the first things he says, "but they are right to be paranoid. They have been at war all their life. That being said, I also understood your reaction. I understood why you'd kill them."

Erik is sick of understanding. He watches Father Cornelius out of the corner of his eye. They're walking through a long hall, near enough Charles' room so that Erik can still feel his heartbeat against the metal bed.

"I hope you'll find rest here. We are what remains of organization 7Q—and so, most are here are disabled in one way or another. Our base is a haven, or little Heaven, if I may say so. A resting place."

"I have been to Hell, Father." The village. "Saw them burn. And I've seen Limbo, too." Beist. "This is not Heaven, this is Purgatory. Heaven is dead. Gates are closed. Do you even remember what 7Q stands for?"

Father Cornelius shrugs. "Nobody cares what anything stands for. They care about a roof over their head and a hot meal once a day, and who can blame them for that? In flesh and spirit, they are members of 7Q. That's all they have left, now. Loyalty. Order. Faith—in what, matters not. Better a god than a general."

"I don't like it," Erik intervened. "Makes people into numbers."

"Oh? I thought you, responsible of thousands of deaths, would use a generalization technique."

"Did. I changed."

"How so?"

"I woke up."

"But you remember everything you did."

Erik's jaw sets. "Most of it." The past has become a blur in the corner of his eye.

"Not all, then," Father Cornelius says. "But I hope you understand the philosophy, here. We try not to engage with the outside world anymore. I won't ask you anymore questions, I promise. Old habits. I am an old man. The children would have behaved differently."

"They're not children."

"They were too young to join the war, and too old to be lumps with arms, legs and an appetitive too big for the parents to stifle. They had established connections, and so, most of them weren't sold."

"I think," Erik says after a pause, "that awareness was a mistake in nature. A mutation gone wrong. Like dinosaurs, getting too big. Or deer with too big antlers. That's why humankind is growing extinct as of late. It was only a matter of time after the one monkey said to the other monkey, you are weaker than me, you are different than me, or you have something I want—and therefore I will kill you. Perhaps this is how it should be."

"So you don't look upon life as something positive?"

Erik shrugs.

Father Cornelius leads him to a different set of quarters, one with rooms akin to classrooms (which he has never seen, only read about). Erik sees teenagers learning each other, talking to each other, establishing group dynamics. Little adults. They pass quarters specified to shooting, and other for art. Quarters for the old. Quarters for the insane. This is a thriving environment, but also very quiet.

(Erik imagines Haven as a small ecosystem hidden beneath a grotesquely obese and dying person's (the world) skin flab.)

"You could stay here, you know. We don't have anyone your age. Might be refreshing."

"Our goal was survival."

"Who...?" Father Cornelius catches up. "Would staying here not complete that goal?"

Erik's lips thin. "Charles has awakened. I must see him."

.

.

He's pretending to be asleep.

That, or he simply does not care for Erik's pretence.

The room is painted baby blue—intensely baby blue. For Erik, the colour somehow produces a feeling of dread. Erik sits on a chair in the same colour, and he licks his lips, nervous, oh so dreadfully nervous.

Charles begins speaking, "You know when you projected a memory to me to stop me from entering your mind? After the initial shock, I wondered... still do... what the fuck was that?" Even the curse word is said tonelessly.

"Frost, Emma. She's the one who taught me it. Using magnetism, I—"

"No. I'm talking of the memory itself."

"Matha, her name was. Gypsy. Easy prey. A soldier bragged he'd brought her for a mouldy loaf of bread. We met in the training section by a mistake when a guard thought me one of the other children. I was fourteen, and she didn't know her age. Young and foolish as we were, we decided to escape. Our plan went bad." Erik closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, demons stare out. "Shaw did not just kill her to set an example. He liked to paint himself as a God among his subjects. When he was near, it meant peace and gifts. He stopped several horrible, staged occurrences. They trusted him as a kind guard. Martha listened to him too. Standing there, in front of us, he asked, Do you want to know what sort of creature little Erik is? He told her. Scared of me, she ran, rounding a corner, and was peppered with bullets. You couldn't recognize the corpse afterwards. Too messy." The meat grinder metaphor pops up in his head again. Shaw had been the first to voice it. "Gott," Erik says, remembering.

Charles sits up. "It surprised me, at first. You have no good memories."

"If so I don't remember them. I guess hatred is just a part of my personality, yes?"

"No. More like a mechanism. I don't know if it's a natural construction, though."

"They want us to stay," Erik says, changing topic. "Or at least, Father Cornelius said so. Old priest guy. Seems trustable."

"I know. I heard your conversation."

Erik frowns, "Has your powers stabilized already?"

"I'm not certain." Charles chews on his thumb. "I'm not sure they'll ever—stabilize, I mean. Not that it matters. Us staying. We won't be, no matter if we'd wanted to or not."

"What do you mean?"

"She's coming."

"Who?" Erik asks, and his frown deepens.

"Feel."

"Feel what?"

Charles pauses. Then he drawls, "Let go of the bed Erik. I'm fine." Erik's faces heats up, but he does as commanded. "Look up," Charles continues. "Up, up, up. Or feel up. Whatever."

Erik does, and finds the outline of a huge flying iron ship.

Coming straight towards them.

"Scheiße."

Charles agrees.

.

.

South wall breached. I repeat: south wall breached.

Every screen shows the words and every loudspeaker voice them.

The older teens take command, herding the others to the exits like sheep. Erik and Charles move among them, the latter leading on the former.

Southwest wall breached. I repeat: southwest wall breached.

"The ship is specialized to enter great fortresses like this one. Originally made to breach Factories. First that did so, actually," Charles lectures him. "I've read about these. Common among Brotherhood's forces."

The Brotherhood.

"I used to trade weapons to them," Erik recalls. "Like many others."

"The Brotherhood isn't like many other organizations. They're the winning one. And it's mutants only. Specifying it like that... some sick branch of National Socialism, or something."

"Quiet!" someone yells.

Erik and Charles follow the crowd.

"We need to get out of here," Charles finally whispers. "Out of this box."

"Alright," Erik says. There are so many people than slipping unseen into a room isn't too hard. Getting out of there, for Erik, is beyond easy.

A tunnel opens up.

The landscape outside is covered by snow.

Erik feels the Ship breach another wall.

"We could hide, and go back into the ruins afterwards—because they're obviously not here for the fortress. Wait for the Train." Surprisingly, it's Charles suggesting this, tiredly. He was serious when he'd said he would care less, back on the Train.

Erik imagines himself as a teacher, or a scavenger. It reminds him of his previous life.

His sleeping one.

"I think it's time we find a new common goal," Erik says. "A new objective other than surviving."

"What do you have in mind?" Charles asks, blasé. But it's too blasé. Forced.

"I think we need to resurrect rage. Instead of not giving up... How would you like to get revenge? A revenge on all those who harm innocents."

"Revenge," Charles repeats. He sees the ship in the distance, slamming itself into the fortress. Then: "Alert them."

Erik grins so hard his teeth hurt. He raises his arms.

The ship shudders.

Charles moves closer to Erik. General Darkholme, he screams.

"General Darkholme?" Erik repeats, still sending waves towards the ship.

It has stilled now—still in the air, as if waiting for something. Waiting, or thinking.

Charles looks a bit sullen. "Otherwise known as my little sister."

There is no more room for conversation, because the ship is headed their way. It is smaller than one would imagine, but makes up for it with an impressive drilling tool up front. It lands quite impressively right in front of them. The two men do not falter.

They raise their arms up to shield their eyes, but are still blended by bright, white light.