The Blood Phoenix: An X-Men: First Class Fanfiction

Chapter 3: Magneto

It had been two years since I was on the run from Shaw and his minions. I had managed to make a small living for myself with a bit of good old cage fighting. Sure there was the bruises and the odd inappropriate comment, but for the most part, I was living a pretty good life. And I was always looking over my shoulder. Always living in fear. And that was the not-so-good part of my existence. I managed to get enough money to move from America to a small settlement in Switzerland. 

Boy, oh boy, was it cold. It was one of the most uncomfortable living arrangements, but it was enough. And more cage fighting as well to keep me occupied. But while I lived there, the anger against Shaw for killing my mother burned incessantly and I attempted to gain a few leads that went nowhere. Frustration started to seep into my everyday, but little did I know that I would meet a man who would gain me my first real lead into the path to find and eventually kill Shaw.

 

Geneva, Switzerland. 1962. 

Fifteen down, I thought. 

One more loser to go. I land a hit punch and he's mine. I eat this ass-hole for breakfast. 

I landed a punch on the guy standing in front of me, who was twice my size. The crowd of motley gangsters and druggies shouted and cheered, making loud wolf whistles. I had bruises all over, plus a nasty cut on my side. But that made no difference as I jumped for another strike. But the big man was all over me this time, and he grabbed me, using my arm to propel me into the fence. I fell over and I saw people in front of me, slightly dizzy, waving Swiss francs in front of my face. I heard a few people shout to get up. Using the fence as support, I struggled to get up, but not before the man charged at me again. Sticking my foot out, I tripped him. The man got up, also groaning. He wiped blood away from his mouth from where he'd hit a particularly sharp part of the fence. 

'That's cheating, bitch!' he yelled out. 

'Not if it counts for blood, jack-ass!' I replied. We charged each other and he swung a meaty punch, with a gigantic fist that would have surely downed me for the count had I not slid under it and tripped him again. I swore he was in the air for about half a second before he crashed onto the ground. On his face. I attempted not to laugh at the ridiculous sight and danced around him, lightly skipping on my toes, my face and fists at the ready. But he wasn't getting up. The referee counted down. I stopped dancing around and waited. When he counted to ten, he came over and held my hand up in victory and the crowd cheered loudly, holding up money. 

A few moments later, I was walking out of the change rooms, with my pack over my shoulder, when I heard a voice behind me. 

'Wait!' I turned to see a well-dressed man approach me. 

'I'm sorry? Fight's over. I'm done. Packing up. I don't have time to talk shit with you.' 

'You know who I am, right?'

'Yeah. You're one of the agents, well dressed people, real sly with their wallets and their mouths.'

'How - how did you know?' he asked, shocked. 

'First, your suit. It's too clean cut. Second, you're too nice to be a druggie or a gangster, or even a mafia/drug lord. What do you want?'

'My name Jason.' He stuck out his hand and I cautiously shook it. 

'Jason, huh?'

'Walk with me.' I walked alongside him and out the front door. He walked me down the street until we came into a bar. When we took our seats, we ordered drinks, me of course using my telepathy to trick the bartender into letting me drink underage. I didn't exactly care. I took a sip of the bitter beer, letting the strong taste seep into every vein and muscle of my tired body. This was how it was. Win a couple fights, grab some money, then go down to this bar and drink one or two drinks, then go back to my apartment and sleep. Eat, win, drink, sleep. Repeat.