X-Men: The Gifted Ones

3. MAGNETO HEADQUARTERS, LOCATION UNKNOWN

The sun was setting and the study was growing dark as Erik Lensherr sat comfortably in his easy chair, his long legs crossed, with the Westchester Observer newspaper opened in front of him. A wry chuckle occasionally emanated from behind the barricade of dull grey paper as the scent of powdery ink provided an aura of acrid odors indicating the staleness of the paper. His long fingers grasped the edges of the pages, his fingernails were immaculate, the cuticles were perfect half-moons. His long legs were encased in the finest silk-wool blend trousers. His socks showed nary a snag nor sag and his black wing-tip shoes were polished to perfection. Erik could be so meticulous about his appearance, but somehow it did not make him appear foppish, but all the more formidable. This was a man who paid attention to every detail, a man for whom nothing was missed. He seemed to hear and know everything going on around him, no matter how occupied he appeared to be. . Only Erik could give the presentation of a dandy with the presence of a villain. He could never decide if he was truly a villain, or if he was merely a man pitted against the world.

A red-haired woman approached him with a smile, a smile of familiarity and comfort that could only come from being around the man through the best of times and the worst of times. She was tall, slender, and unclothed. Raven Darkhölme did not care much for modesty these days and the passing years made her bolder than she used to be. What some people mistook for nudity, she now considered her natural state. She did not look like other women, and that was why Erik loved her, encouraged her to be natural, and discouraged clothing. "Would a tiger be expected to cover its stripes?" he had once asked her. She used to feel embarrassed, ashamed of herself. Her eyes had yellow sclera with green irises. They were more suited to an alien than a human. Her skin was a deep, rich blue that was covered in dark navy scales that could turn into spikes when agitated...or when she shifted her shape.

Raven once took comfort in the fact that she could change her appearance at a whim to blend in with everyone else. It seemed to save her from the cruel taunts, the violence. It was Erik, not her brother Charles, who encouraged her to use her skill as a weapon, as a tool for perseverance, rather than a method of survival. Now she relished in her ability to appear as she wished to whom she wished. Erik loved her.

They were two misfits, two who were once threatened with annihilation as children because they were different. Erik was Jewish, the only survivor from his wealthy Jewish family once they were sent to Auschwitz, and survived only because of his skill to manipulate metal. Erik had raised himself and never hesitated to stand out. He survived on anger and hate, driven by a sense of vengeance.

Raven had almost been killed by her own parents, and survived on her wits alone until she was adopted by the Xavier family at the insistence of their son, Charles. She was raised as a child of an upper-class English family with every known luxury as long as she blended in and looked the part of a proper English girl. She always made it clear in her mind that Charles' parents did not take her in, rather the nanny agreed to raise both children. She never saw much of the man and woman who claimed to be her parents, unless there was a chance to show off their beautiful blonde-haired, blue-eyed daughter. A made-to-order daughter, she thought bitterly. Designed much the way of Mother's Chanel suits, and taken out and shown off much like her latest Gucci or Dior purses. Still, she owed her survival to the Xavier family. They had enough money that they never minded the expenses lavished onto the little girl who had wandered into their kitchen in search of food.

Their lives had brought them along many paths, paths which crossed in 1963. That was the year she had met Erik. She had found a friend in him. She had traded Charles' careful protection for Erik's acceptance of who she was, who she was meant to be. She had taken the name Mystique, and he had taken the name Magneto. No one could call them anything else. Mystique refused to be addressed by what she referred to as her "slave name". Only Charles could call her that, simply because of their long history as siblings. Only Mystique and her brother could ever refer to Magneto as Erik and get away with it. It was his way of showing his love for his friends, as his range of affection was limited, snuffed out by the years at Auschwitz and later as a teenage boy on his own in a changed world. He seldom thought about his past. His concern now was getting closure on his present and getting even with his future.

"Erik, what are you doing, reading that?" she asked him, her tone half-mocking. "Since when are you concerned with the trivial lives of humans?"

Erik laughed wryly, "I was reading the news about a couple of children who set their school and someone's house on fire. A brother and a sister. Pietro and Wanda. Hmm..."

Mystique could only return his wry amusement with a puzzled glare, "And?"

"My dear, this article explains how they did it! No gasoline was found! They have no idea what started the fire. Wanda set the house on fire and Pietro beat away anyone who tried to stop her with super human strength. No one knows how they set the school on fire because all of the doors were locked, no sign of forced entry! Yet somehow, the fire started from the inside! People swore the children were by the school when it started, yet they were home by the time the fire department showed up. They returned home faster than any car or short cut could have taken them!"

"Maybe they didn't do it, then?"

"Yet people saw them at the school! And they were home within moments!"

She found Erik's joy annoying, "Are you suspecting they're mutants?"

"I am suspecting they will be helpful to our cause. It seems the girl was angry at a classmate who picked on her and Pietro did not have it much better. If these children are mutants, we need them for our fight. They're angry. We need angry. They're held in a juvenile detention facility and my dear, I need your help."

"Don't tell me you're recruiting and using the news to do it?"

Erik chuckled, "My dear I don't have Cerebro! I must use what information is at my disposal. I will need you to disguise yourself as the children's' mother or father."

"Who will you be? You certainly could not pass for either of their parents."

Erik looked devious, "I will be the lawyer. We will pay their bail and take them here."

Mystique could hardly believe what she was hearing, or what he was thinking. "Do you think they will go along?"

"Do you think they will deny the chance to get revenge at everyone who ever did them wrong?" he chuckled lightly, "How can they refuse? Our Brotherhood is too small, and I need members who will only be loyal to me."

Mystique had to smile at Erik's resourcefulness. "When are we going?"

"As soon as possible, I should hope!" He smiled at her and she perched herself on the arm of the chair. It was a gesture of familiarity he permitted no one else. Mystique read the article about Wanda and Pietro Maximoff. She was intrigued by the story of the two siblings.

She realized Erik may be right: They could be mutants, and they could be very useful indeed.

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