Logs:Extraordinary Men

Extraordinary Men
cn: nazis, violence, holocaust flashbacks, open discussion of eugenics
Dramatis Personae Charles, Erik
In Absentia	1975-02-18 << I was looking for you. >>
Location <AR> MSY Fylgja - Buenos Aires
The Fylgja drifts away from the marina almost lazily, the captain more concerned with the comfort of his guests than breaking from shore at any sort of speed. There is a destination tonight — but there is wine and champagne to share among long lost old friends, and none of them seem to be in a particular hurry to end the reunion. Behind the white wake the yacht cuts through the waves, the lights of Buenos Aires grow more and more distant, some of them disappearing behind the shadow of Costanera Sur as they head leisurely to open ocean. This boat is large, for a yacht, and could accommodate probably another ten or so people in addition to the baker’s dozen already there. The seats are done out in cream and white, with low tables and cushions spread all about the deck. There appear to be staff, here — one young man, seemingly a local, wanders around with the champagne and hor d’œuvres, filling the plates and glasses of this charming assortment of Europeans. Charles Xavier had not come to Buenos Aires for this particular reunion. He might have been hard pressed to tell you why he had come, to begin with, and though he'd schmoozed his way onto the yacht with a purpose earlier, he has gotten quite sidetracked since. Abruptly finding himself on the familiar metaphorical grounds of le beau monde in such literally foreign waters, he fell back with ease on a lifetime of training. No longer the slightly bewildered wayfaring academic, he's once more a dashing young scion of old American money. Whether by his looks, charisma, or novelty, he has quickly gathered a knot of admiring hangers-on who seem particularly enamored of his scientific acumen. "{Mutation,}" he's telling them, his German crisp and academic if conspicuously accented by his native English, "{took us from single-celled organisms to being the dominant form of reproductive life on this planet.}" With the champagne coupe in his hand he is indicating the platinum blond hair of a man beside him, then the lovely green eyes of the woman on his arm. "{Infinite forms of variation with each generation, all through mutation.}" "{Ah, but Herr Doktor, surely you must admit not all of these variations -- these mutations, as you say -- are of equal fitness?}" An elderly man who had been introduced, himself, as some manner of herr doktor, is studying Charles with keen interest. << Americans may protest all they like about the equality of races, but the best of their best know the truth as well as we do. >> "{Were the inferior variations not eliminated, there would be no evolution, no progress?}" Charles blinks, though his smile remains firmly in place. "{Oh, certainly not! But fitness is more a matter of environmental factors than any intrinsic superiority or inferiority. The truth is so much more fascinating.}" The net cast by his telepathy gradually tightens inward. "{It is -- how do you say? -- contextual. An individual may struggle and languish in one setting yet thrive in another.}" His eyes go slightly unfocused as he focuses instead on the old man's thoughts, pressing index and middle finger to his temple as though warding off a headache. "{What kind of environment are you thinking of, Herr Doktor?}" The cluster of genetics enthusiasts are now following this exchange with an intensity of interest that borders on the unsavory. The old doctor chuckles and takes a sip of his champagne to stall for time, trying to estimate how ready this strapping young American is for a more candid discussion of applying genetic science to the preservation of the superior races. "{Give that we are, as you say, the dominant form of life,}" he says at last, inclining his head to emphasize his agreement, "{should we not use our powers of science, society, and industry to create environments that produce even more extraordinary beings?}" There's a gleam of excitement in the old doctor's eyes that recalls his youthful days as a freshly lettered research assistant at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute, dutifully cataloging the steady stream of gruesome specimens sent by their compatriots in Poland. "{Do we not owe it to the future, to ensure the right kind of individuals thrive?}" Charles freezes like a rabbit that's only just noticed it's sitting amongst the hounds. It's almost a relief when the coupe slips from his trembling fingers to shatter on the deck. "Oh dear." His eyes dart to and fro as he pushes his psionic senses outward, riffling through the conversations around them now for the names that had led him to this boat. Essex. Zola. "Terribly -- {terribly sorry,}" he mutters, trying hard to look more embarrassed than horrified. "{I suppose I have not got my sea legs yet.}" The shattering of the glass and resultant clamour as Charles’ doting fans check him for injuries distracts from the too early unwinding of the anchor, the hum of a skiff motor coming close before abruptly shutting off. “{Werner, Heidi, let the boy breathe.}” This admonishment is warm and amused, at odds with the unnatural pallor of the speaker. Leaning against the starboard railing, sleeves cuffed above grey elbows, a tall man with broad shoulders and long black hair swirls a glass of wine lazily in his left hand. He regards Charles for a moment before snapping his fingers at the server. “{Another glass for the young doctor. The best vintage.}” <<The drugged champagne,>> this is code for. “{Help him get his ‘sea legs’.}” At his side, a short and bespectacled man with thinning brown hair frowns while the command is obeyed. “{We should be rid of him, Nathaniel}” he mutters, soft enough to not be heard were he not thinking so loudly about how this loud-mouth American could ruin their escape to America. He looks over at the open ocean, anxiously awaiting some sort of rescue. Nathaniel snorts. {“Herr Zola, you worry too much.”} Nathaniel is fantasizing already — this smart young man at his side in a lab, slicing into some unnatural disfigurement to figure out how it works; perhaps this mutation business is the key to finding the elusive Essex factor after all this time. To Charles, Nathaniel Essex raises his glass. “{Now, I do think that was an excellent question. Should we not make more extraordinary men? These mutations — could we not corral them into, say, two or three bloodlines, and thereby increase the odds of more in the future?}” <<Into *my* blood>> goes unsaid, the wish running over memories of Essex’s past experiments on his subjects and himself. Charles turns towards Nathaniel and makes an abortive attempt to feign seasickness. Mostly, though, he still looks poleaxed. "{Thank you, mein Herr,}" he demures. "{Applied genetics is not my wheelhouse, but to the extent that I understand it...}" His eyes scan the deck nervously, but when he continues it is with a boldness that seems to startle even himself. "{I think the notion that we can decide what makes men extraordinary, or indeed that there is a right kind of individual, is a misapprehension of genetics at best, and dangerous hubris at worst.}" He straightens his wiry frame, tugging on the hem of his linen jacket. "{We are the legacies of the countless mutations that have carried mankind through unthinkable odds to this moment.}" Though he's tensing, his powers poised to seize control despite the distinct sense there are too many there for him to handle, the little jut of his chin is defiant. "{All of humanity is extraordinary.}" The corner of Nathaniel’s lips twitch upward, threatening to become some sort of unsettling smile. He’s intrigued despite his fundamental disagreement – a respect that the rest of the crowd is not paying. The socialite with the green eyes scoots away, her thoughts loud with disgust at having been so close to such a race traitor. Zola’s mind is split between disposal methods and increasing anxiety about time, time, time, << {are Americans ‘’always’’ fashionably late, my God,} >> as he looks over the side. Relief, then, too, as the submarine they’ve been waiting for finally surfaces. If Charles is paying attention as he casts his telepathic reach out, he gets a warning before the rest of the yacht — they have a stowaway. The presence is familiar, the same that he tried to find in the busy Buenos Aires street – a mind filled with the heat of ovens and the chill of scalpels, eyes that see the world through unfamiliar distortions and achingly familiar grief, ears that have drowned out everything but memories of screaming and begging and Nathaniel’s voice. For the rest of the party, the uninvited arrival is announced by a silver knife,Blut und Ehre etched into the side, flying out from the shadows and burying itself deep in Nathaniel’s chest. Charles gasps at the brush of the familiar presence and, whatever his fears about his own situation, shifts his psionic attention almost wholly from vague plans of self-defense toward locating -- -- oh, there he is. His eyes had remained riveted on Nathaniel, and though they'd unfocused with his distraction he is still perfectly placed to watch the knife find its mark. The surprise -- and the second-hand pain -- slams Charles back down into himself and pulls an eep out of him that might have been embarrassing if anyone was likely to notice it over the panicked screams all around him. He tries to shove his way toward the man he had been looking for through the press of fleeing Nazis. Nathaniel seems unrattled as he glances down at the blood seeping down his shirt, lips pressed together in distaste rather than alarm. “Hm.” He pulls the knife out of his chest. “{Little Maxi, I expected better.}” The wound begins to heal almost immediately, the rapidly forming and disappearing scab just visible through the hole of his shirt. 'Little Maxi' is not so little when he emerges from the shadows, standing a good four inches taller than Charles, eye level with Essex. Hatred radiates out from him, in his thoughts and in the flex of his power when the knife flies out of Nathaniel’s hand, casually slitting the throat of a woman pulling a pistol from her hand bag in its arc back to his left hand. A second wave of hate brings the pistol to his right hand. A hundred retorts hang on the tip of his tongue — << {Take your disappointment up with my maker/you really are a damned vampire you look the same/You can’t call me that only mother did how dare you/Tell hell Erik Lensherr sent you, not Max Eisenhardt} >> — that are all quickly discarded in favor of emptying the pistol rounds at the few Nazis that are still trying to surround him. He tosses the empty gun away and barrels towards Nathaniel, knife raised. Zola, underneath the screams and chaos, is resolutely focused on setting up the gangway and getting himself into the submarine. He’s got one leg in the hatch before he yells back to the deck, “{Get in!}” The press of Nazis scramble for the gangway, threatening to topple each other over board. Charles lets out an even more undignified yelp as Nathaniel pulls the knife out. If he had a mind to gape at a man who by all rights should be mortally wounded healing right before his eyes, his attention is immediately torn away by the knife's next target, who does not fare quite so well. There's no cry this time. He just stumbles back against the railing, eyes fixed wide and horrified on the woman as she collapses, blood gushing from her ruined throat in crimson pulses. His own face is looking pretty bloodless, his breathing quick and shallow. At the next surge of hatred his eyes snap to Erik even as he gathers his mental perception back and throws up hasty shields against the minds snuffed out in a rapid succession of gunshots. He pushes away from the railing unsteadily, mouth opening as if he means to try talking in this maelstrom of blood and pain. All he manages to blurt is "Watch out!" when he spots Werner -- the tall blond had taken cover when the shooting started and is now popping back up to level a flare gun from the yacht's emergency kit at Erik. Perhaps realizing in that very same instant the man he's trying to warn has eyes only for Nathaniel Essex, Charles hurls himself bodily at Werner. It's a decent tackle, but even caught off-guard, his opponent is bigger and stronger by a significant margin and wrestles him to the deck. Charles grits his teeth and pours the pain of the dying woman into Werner's mind while fending off his fists. The flare is knocked off course by Charles’ tackle, searing hot past Erik’s back and into the ocean. Charles’ warning is more of a distraction than an aid – when the knife plunges into Essex again, it’s not into his neck as Erik’s thoughts and body had telegraphed, but into the scientist’s shoulder as Essex sidesteps the blow. “Tch,” Nathaniel says mildly, lips curling into a small smile as Erik drives the knife in deeper with both his fist and power. “{What kind of greeting is this, after all these years?}” His thoughts echo with the last time he saw Erik – long ago, in a satellite camp of Auschwitz – and a flicker of disappointment. Erik pushes the knife down further, twists it. At this flare of pain Essex snarls and swings with his other arm. The blow sends Erik flying off the side of the yacht into the cold seawater below. Splash. “{Kill the American,}” he says to Werner, not seeming to notice the way the man in question has his mouth open in a silent scream of agony, and steps out onto the gangway. As Essex lowers himself into the submarine, he seems to remember the knife in his shoulder, pulls it out and tosses it back onto the yacht deck, then descends. Erik comes up for air, sucking in deep, painful breaths. Brown dye washes out into the ocean, stark white hair pressing wet against his brow. He blinks some of the salt out of his eyes – << {getting away can’t get away so close so close} >> and focuses, ignoring the building headache in his temple. The anchor breaks through the water and swings wide at the submarine, missing and wrapping the chain around the boat instead. Charles extricates himself from Werner's convulsive grasp and scrambles upright. Though evidently no worse for the tussle, he seems at a loss what to do with the -- it cannot be stressed enough -- temporarily incapacitated Nazi at his feet. But then the flex of Erik's magnetokinesis lights up his mind in beautiful incomprehensible patterns, and he looks up just in time to see the anchor breach the water's surface like some great robotic sea serpent. His eyes go very wide, his jaw drops slightly open, and for a moment all he can do is gaze in awe. It's an exceedingly brief moment. Charles starts moving before the anchor has quite missed its mark. The chain tears into the bow of the yacht, splintering the foredeck in a surreal wave of destruction before catching on something integral down below. The entire vessel shudders and pitches as the anchor whips around, shedding an arc of glittering water. He just manages to clear the path of devastation as the anchor crashes through the gunwale like a giant's flail, throwing up an arm to shield his eyes then immediately peeking out from behind it. "Splendid!" Charles gives a bark of astonished laughter. "What a remarkable mutation!" He runs a hand through his hair, dislodging briny fragments of yacht as he casts his mind out for Werner — evidently not processing the smear of gore on what remains of the deck where he had been, for Erik's rage and desperation, for the Nazis aboard the gradually accelerating submarine. Erik spits up more water, sucks in more air and sea spray as he treads water. There’s salt stinging at his eyes, and his shoes are rapidly filling with water as he treads water. Heedless of this, he reaches out, hand grasping at empty air as he pulls, pulls, pulls on threads of force he doesn’t really understand but can see shimmering through the water, looped around and around the aluminum of the submarine. His head sinks beyond the surface. A wave of anger rushes through him, slower, weighed down by dread, and Erik yanks on the line. The submarine stutters in the water, twists a half angle back towards Erik but otherwise maintains its course. Erik sinks further under the waves, down and down and out into the submarine’s wake. "Magnificent," Charles breathes, though the boyish wonder on his face is shifting to concern as the submarine starts dragging Erik along. He raises his voice, stunningly clear above the roar of parting water. "Let it go!" Then in German, "{You can't --}" He leans over the gunwale, staring out over the blue water that has just swallowed Erik. His eyes skip to the submarine, its sail still cutting a long white chevron but subsiding rapidly. He looks to the stern of the yacht, unmarred by the anchor and chain, back to the diving sub, then to the empty water along its new trajectory where it will cross abaft. Before he's quite fixed on a target he's already heading aft, shedding his jacket and breaking into a dead run. The submarine passes the yacht, fully submerged now, but he does not look in the least put off. He hits the transom without slowing and dives into the churning wake. Despite the drag of clothing, his momentum carries Charles unerringly through the turbulence to intercept Erik as the sub tows him past. Even with this impressive display of arithmetic and athleticism, he barely manages to throw one arm around the larger man, then another to hold fast against the current. A rush of warmth envelopes Erik, as though it were a shaft of undiluted sunlight that lanced down through the water to him and not some meddling American. The warmth is comforting and soothing, entirely at odds with the searing fire of Erik’s hatred, billow vengeful smoke tinged with the smell of burning flesh. Erik pulls again on the shimmering lines, finds himself struggling to get any mental purchase on them. << You can't. You'll drown. You have to let go. >> The voice sounds like Charles, somehow unhampered by the water and weirdly directionless. The words sound like English, but Erik comprehends them instantly, without translation or ambiguity. << I know what this means to you, but you are going to die. >> This is surpassingly gentle, tinged with sorrow and a faint note of pleading. << {How can you possibly know,} >> Erik thinks, the edges of the Yiddish language making everything sound more harsh, more hurt, each sharp as the tips of barbed wire. << {How dare you (who are you) (what are you)?} >> The memories are tossed at the enveloping warmth like an accusation — crawling out of a mass grave with his mother, only to be separated again under the iron banner of “Arbeit macht frei”; countless painful procedures without anesthesia, the all-too pale face of Nathaniel Essex grinning all the while; the kick in the stomach from an angry villager, while a young girl screams in terror of the growing flames; all this and more Erik tears open for the guest in his brain, even as his vision begins to darken at the edges. The surge of emotion that comes when he next tries to pull the submarine back is not anger but grief, overwhelming grief and pain. << {This, you think you know? I have seen hell – how can you know what this means?} >> The warmth around Erik flares into blistering heat, and though it cannot burn, not really, it feels very much like it should. Then, just as quickly, it fades, the strange bright presence in Erik's mind shrinking from the cavalcade of horrors. There's nothing approaching an articulate reply, just a confused torrent of << (no)(stop)(can't)(hurt)(stop) >> Charles hasn't let go, physically -- if anything, he's drawn closer, his hands clenched white-knuckled around Erik's clothing -- but he feels like he's pulling away. Despite the fuzziness on the edges of his awareness, the heat is sharp enough to cut through Erik’s oxygen deprived haze. Erik flinches back from the sudden flare, confused and afraid as the heat conjures up the scent of burning flesh << (stop?)(can’t)(always hurts)(always is) >> In the water, Erik shivers with a chill that has nothing to do with the cold Atlantic currents. << ”{Stop,}” >> plucked from Charles’ thoughts, is echoed in a higher register. Another keening rush of grief flows through Erik’s mind as the mental touch pulls away, accompanied by the image of a woman with ash in her hair and fear in her eyes pulling off a wedding band and tossing it onto the cobblestone. << ”{Stop, Magda, please—}” >> comes in Erik’s voice, but the woman turns and runs, her metal band still spinning on the ground. Charles tenses hard, the connection between their minds drawing thin and taut for a moment, a plucked string humming with loneliness. << "-- please, Moira --" >> A flash of another woman, with brilliant mesmerizing fractal thoughts, of another ring rejected, her rage and horror as her mind recoiled from his. << (not always)(not alone)(not this time) >> The warmth eases back down around Erik, more carefully this time, whispering comfort and safety. << Please, Erik, calm your mind. >> Though there is fear and desperation in that impossible voice, an incongruous sense of peace descends over Erik as Charles pulls him back up toward the surface. When the two men break through the water, the submarine is well on its way to the open ocean. Erik can feel it slip from his senses, but the rage that should come with losing Essex again is dull under the warm calm draped over him. Instead he focuses on breathing, forcing oxygen back into his lungs and holding his own weight in the water. He pushes away from Charles, spitting up water when he spins to face him. “You were in my mind,” he yells in accented English. “How did you do that?” Charles, though he did not come so near to drowning, is also breathing hard, though he keeps himself afloat with admirable ease. The warmth of his presence -- or whatever it is -- does not withdraw this time, but it quiets so that memories and emotions and thoughts are no longer washing freely between them. "Just breathe!" He does not raise his voice, but his words still cut through the white noise of the chop lingering in the submarine's wake. "You have your tricks, I have mine." He does not point or turn to or even glance at the bloodied anchor teetering over the side of the yacht's main deck, but Erik knows exactly what he means. "I'm like you." Erik squeezes his eyes shut, heart beating fast in his ears. He tries to breathe. In — << {Like me}(what)(how)(after so long) >> — then out. Carefully, he pulls at a shimmering line, coaxing his stolen skiff closer to where they tread water. Erik’s trying so hard to stay calm (it’s easier than it ought to be, which is curious). When he speaks again there is a little bit of accusation in his tone. << Your tricks — they bring you here for what? To use? >> There is too much earnestness in Charles’ tone for Erik to think that for long. “I thought I was alone.” << I was looking for you. >> Whatever Charles did to limit the mental connection, it does not hide his surge of startled delight when Erik moves the skiff. << I felt you in Montserrat, just for a moment and -- I can't explain it, I just knew I must find you. But all I had were those men's names, so... >> He does glance at the Fylgja now, littered with corpses and adrift without propulsion or an anchor, then back to Erik, blue eyes wide and achingly sincere. "You're not alone."