Cutscene: Primogeniture

July 18, 2018:

Fathers and sons never get along. Magneto written by Pietro.

Chrysler Building, New York

Characters

NPCs: Magneto

Mentions: Wanda Maximoff

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Over the course of their wandering lives, the Twins have developed a taste for nesting in places of abandoned grandeur. There is something about decayed splendor that appeals to them… about taking what was left unwanted for so long, and making it shine again.

Perhaps each twin has a different reason in specific for loving such things, but they both love it just the same.

Since the bombing in Hell's Kitchen, they have moved frequently, but as of the past week have settled to hide in the sort of place no one would ever think to look for them. Their roost is sixty-one stories high, a derelict apartment hidden in the spire of the Chrysler Building. It has been abandoned since the 1930s, but is easily spruced back up again with a little effort, a lot of favorable probability, and a young man able to run up building faces as if they were roads.

It is not somewhere that Pietro Maximoff expects to be accosted, which is perhaps why it is such a shock when he returns to find someone who is neither his sister, nor Frenzy. Someone seated in one of the two armchairs occupying the apartment's front room.

The other is positioned directly across from the first, with only a small table between them.

"You choose rather extravagant locations," observes Magneto, neither approving nor disapproving. "I wonder if it was for expediency, or merely because you could."

He lifts his hand and summons his son closer. Pietro slowly closes the door behind him, off-balance to be invited back into his own space. For once, he is at a loss, thinking far too slowly to realize that he has already made a concession.

Magneto is not truly here, Pietro realizes as he draws nearer. There is an odd transparency to his form. An astral projection, judging by the even fainter impression of other forms behind him: Acolytes, maintaining the image. Pietro's gaze immediately flicks towards the closed door, off to the right.

"Your sister is asleep," Magneto dismisses, before Pietro can even ask. "We will not be disturbed." He cants his head towards the chair, a 'please be seated' gesture.

Pietro does not sit. He moves towards that door, still facing his father warily. A quick check verifies the truth of the claim. Only then does Pietro turn slowly back to Magneto.

"You haven't bothered with us for the past six months," the younger man finally says. For the past three decades. He settles into a slow pace, back and forth, watching Magneto with the air of a man examining a thousand-piece puzzle. He keeps himself between his father, and his sister's closed door. "Why now?"

"I told you I would come to see you in New York," Magneto replies, his right hand resting on the table's surface. He examines the grain of the wood, in lieu of his son. "I did not specify when. I could not predict when. I have had a country to reform. Much to accomplish. My attentions were required in one place. And at just the right time… a son, to see to things elsewhere. Fortuitous. Or so I had thought."

He glances up, blue eyes briefly meeting blue. "I left the Brotherhood to you. I sent to you one of my best Acolytes. I have not had cause to question these decisions."

An odd expression crosses Pietro's face. The wary resentment he wears like a mask cracks, exposing surprise, a brief hint of uncertainty… a look that searches the man before him for something which has long been missing.

Magneto glances away again. "…not until the bombing," he finishes. "That response you gave — "

"Innocents," Pietro retorts, stung. He withdraws, his expression slamming shut and locking back down into anger. "What purpose to claim the murder of innocents — "

"Humans," Magneto corrects, his voice as low and heavy as the weight of a knife on the neck. It severs his son's protests. "Who should fear us, and what we are able to do. Messages must be sent. Or do you prefer bellying up to them and allowing them their insolence? They have had the temerity to burn your sister all these years, because you allowed it to them."

Pietro steps back, struck silent.

There is a brief quiet. The line of Magneto's jaw has drawn taut, as if with some distant memory.

Presently, he moves on.

"I asked your sister of your upbringing, of the life you have lived, of the things you have seen." Magneto's voice bears a slow inexorability, in its calm tread through each carefully enunciated syllable. His English is precise in that way peculiar to non-native speakers, each word dusted with a lingering Eastern European accent. His diction unrolls like the grind of glaciers against rock. It has long since forgotten how to yield. It may never have known how. "I ask you of your intentions, your conviction, and your will."

He glances up again. "I let you have a legacy of mine," he says. His blue eyes, the same color as his son's, regard the younger man steadily from a face that could be Pietro's own in fifty years. "It is not a standard for the weak to carry, my son."

Magneto stands, his presence already fading around the edges. The projection is terminating. "You are my blood. Do not disgrace it."

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