Logs:Enemy Mine

Enemy Mine
Dramatis Personae Erik, Malthus	2022-04-01 "...there you are. There is my enemy."
Location <NY> HAMMER Black Site - Long Island
This nondescript facility is far from just about everything in the pine barrens of northwestern Suffolk County. There isn't much to it, really, just a couple of beige prefab buildings, a garage connecting them, and a lot of empty ground between these and the tall razor wire-topped fence with the familiar "US GOV'T PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING" signs. WHMP. Erik Lensherr's daily newspaper -- a special request he has made (and that has been, perhaps begrudgingly, accepted) -- is typically delivered in the small recreational trailer by a forlorn-looking young man in military fatigues by the name of 'Stan'. Hence the distinctive 'WHMP' as the paper lands in front of him -- sporting a catchy headline describing 'CHAOS AT THE OSCARS', with a split-view between Will Smith slapping Chris Rock -- and a shot of Ryan Black being escorted by police, arrested after an alleged assault. But today, it isn't Stan (with that distinctively haunted look in his eyes) standing behind the paper, looking down at Erik. No, today... it's someone else. A man dressed in black -- who looks as if he's searching for a graveyard to haunt. One functional blue eye examines Erik closely, the other rendered blind by an angry scar that snarls all the way down to his lip -- giving it the slightest upturned curl. Malthus Rogers regards Erik Lensherr for a full five seconds before speaking, his voice a low, thoughtful hum: "You know... I've always had tremendous respect for you, Mr. Lensherr." Erik is already reading when Malthus arrives, pencil in hand to annotate the margins of Chaim Potok’s The Chosen as he lounges in an armchair. He doesn’t look up when he says “Thank you, Stanley,” simply turns the page and continues reading. For a moment. He lowers the book down, ever so slightly, when it becomes evident that there will be no footsteps leaving the trailer, and looks up at Malthus. No surprise shows on his face, but there is a slight tensing of his jaw when he meets the other man’s gaze. The two old men look almost like they belong on the glass chessboard tucked away back in Erik’s cell -- Malthus, in his neat professional black, and Erik in his prison-issued white shirt and trousers and bone-white hair. “Tremendous respect, you say, and yet address me so casually.” Erik closes the book and sets it the coffee table. “Young Stanley has told me you are a stickler for manners, so it does disappoint me to hear you use the wrong name.” He folds his hands into his lap, one leg crossed over the other, pencil disappearing into some cranny. “What can Magneto help you with today, Mr. Rogers?” There is a flicker of something, oh-so-subtle, across Malthus's expression at the accusation that he has been impolite. A thing so strange that it almost seems out of place -- as if it is an emotion Malthus does not even know how to properly express. For a moment, it's almost as if Malthus looks... embarrassed. But then, the rigid mask reasserts itself: "I understand your contempt for me. It is a reasonable thing. A good thing," Malthus tells him. "There is no peace between men such as you and I -- no compromise. No accord. You understand this." "But what I do not understand... is your relationship with Professor Xavier." The name is permitted to linger in the air -- as if to test its weight. A moment of tense silence -- as Malthus regards Erik, as if searching his face for the slightest hint of recognition, the slightest hint of emotion. And then, at last: "A human?" Malthus almost manages to sound insulted on Erik's behalf. "One so... insistent on half-measures? On compromise? On peace?" Before the slip of human emotion disappears from Malthus’ face, Erik allows himself the smallest upward twitch of his lips, in what would be a smirk if the expression was allowed to proceed any further. He dips his head in agreement at Malthus’ assessment, though offers a correction — “Men and mutants, dear Mr. Rogers. Do not insult us both by pretending we are the same species.” Erik’s eyes narrow, just a fraction, in the silence, his gaze on Malthus growing just a little more intense, like he’s a bug Erik’s waiting to swat down. “Most people,” he says at last, “when wanting to interrogate me about my personal life, would buy me a drink first. I don’t suppose you brought whiskey with you?” "Men and mutants," Malthus corrects, almost under his breath -- his eyes drifting from Erik and moving toward the armed guards, as if to remind himself of their presence. As he regards them, he adds: "Regrettably, no. Were it up to me..." His voice trails off, suddenly wistful as he regards the men. "It is not up to me." "How can you even stomach his presence? I see how Holland can -- he believes an accord is possible. But he is a mutant. He is permitted -- he has paid for his belief with blood. But this... this Xavier. What has he paid? What does he know?" Malthus's brow suddenly crumples into an expression of genuine confusion; a realization seems to strike him. Turning to Erik, he then asks -- quite sincerely: "...is he... your pet?" “A shame.” Erik sounds already bored of this conversation — one hand leaves his lap and reaches for the newspaper, as if he expects to be able to dismiss Malthus and continue his reading. He does not open the paper quite yet, just considers the headlines while Malthus talks. “I take it he has visited Mr. Holland, then, and that has triggered this ridiculous line of questioning?” He raises one eyebrow, searching Malthus’ features for confirmation. Whatever he was looking for, it was not that hypothesis. Erik stares at Malthus blankly for one, two, three beats, actual shock on his expression before he begins to laugh. “My pet?” Erik asks in between fits of laughter. “Oh, dear Mr. Rogers. Is that the best you can do?” Ah; there it is. A hint of indignation flickers across that brow; a slight rigidness in his shoulders. For a moment, Malthus resembles a raven self-consciously preening itself after being told its ruffled feathers are perhaps not the world's shiniest. "...hnh." Then: "Holland teaches at his special little 'school'. Why, I cannot fathom, beyond some sense of gratitude for whatever scraps the fool has deigned to throw your kind." It takes a few more moments for Erik to catch his breath, as every time he starts to there's another fit of giggles. "My pet," he repeats, low and to himself. "I am sure the Professor will be amused to hear that hypothesis on his next visit." At the mention of the school the last sounds of amusement fade. "I suspect," Erik says, voice suddenly several degrees colder, "it would be difficult for Mr. Holland to be hired as a teacher of art at other institutions, and he does dearly love his craft." More self-conscious preening, though Malthus seems to have at last tapered down on the worst of it. He is certainly not pleased by this turn of events. The mention of the challenge in being hired by another organization seems to satisfy him -- yet he is still perturbed. But then, something suddenly occurs to him... and Malthus's expression resumes its prior serenity: "Oh, it almost escaped me -- the entire reason for my visit. I wanted to inform you in person -- no doubt you'll be relieved to know that your... prior associate, Mrs. Dane, has been officially cleared of all involvement in that whole 'Liberty Island' affair. Her daughter was quite helpful in that regard. Charming woman. Like you, a fan of adopting... what is the term? Ah, yes -- a nomme de guerre." As he finishes, he's already turning to go -- as if he has finally managed to one-up Erik. The men he entered with snap to attention. The cold intensity in Erik’s eyes does not let up through the change in subject — if anything, it gets more harsh, though there is a small crease forming between his brows. Malthus turns — Magneto stands at the same time, so if the other man turns back they will now be at eye-level. “Mr. Rogers,” he says, with a tone that has not been heard yet in this conversation but is familiar from news reports and manifestos Magneto has given before, booming and commanding. “This flimsy prison will not hold me forever — If you value your fragile human life, do not give me additional reasons to seek vengeance upon you when I am free." Erik's jaw tenses. "Leave Mrs. Dane and her family be, and I will be merciful." Malthus turns his head. The men at the door drop their hands to their sidearms; neither draw, but both watch Erik intently as Malthus regards him with that single functioning eye. He does not balk, but -- for the first time -- his face is graced with a strange, placid smile. "...there you are. There is my enemy," Malthus murmurs, his tone infused with a note of wistful satisfaction. "And here I feared this cage might have dulled your claws. I look forward to your day of reckoning, 'Magneto'." He turns to go. There's a pencil in the palm of Erik's right hand, gripped tight like a dagger, and a snarl forming on his face. He doesn't move to stop Malthus from leaving, perhaps only because of the guns surrounding them both. "I was forged in a real cage, Mr. Rogers. Do not worry about the sharpness of my claws -- worry about the day, soon, when they will be at your throat." "Sir." One of the uniformed soldiers has, in fact, unstrapped his sidearm, but has yet to pull it. The other soon follows suit. Malthus stops again, turning as his hand falls on the door's knob -- and then he sees the pencil. Malthus's eyes widen... his entire face brightens and darkens all at once. The serenity is gone; in its place is a fierce, monstrous joy. "Oh," he murmurs. One of the men steps forward, lifting his free hand toward Erik. "Sit back --" Malthus's hand pushes the soldier's down, his eye on Erik. "Stand down. Both of you." Then, to Erik, his voice bordering on hushed reverence, his expression reasserting its prior serenity: "It will be an honor."