Erik Lensherr. (eriklensherr) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2014-07-06 21:08:00 |
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No more mutants. They had all told him that it was impossible. That there was no conspiracy to rid the world of mutants to avoid the bleak fate their universe would one day encounter. That there was no one capable of altering the fabric of reality in that way. To strip mutants of their powers, to eliminate the x-gene, to commit an act of genocide on that scale without drawing attention. Of course, they had failed to mention that someone had done it before. His own daughter, his own blood, had saved one man by destroying a million. To save her brother, she had eradicated a species. After ten years of nothing, ten years spent alone in quiet meditation completely disassociated from the outside world, he was almost surprised that he could feel anger this deep and immediate. The familiar pulse of growing rage made the blood beat faster in his veins. Once, anger had been the only thing that fueled him, the only thing he lived for, and now, it made him feel alive. It felt like reconnecting to a part of himself, just as it had the moment he stepped outside of his concrete cell and sensed the the brushed metal countertops of the Pentagon kitchen. He could hear the hum of the electromagnetic fields around him, could see the metal bones hidden beneath the skin of this world and feel them without touching them. And he could rip them apart with a thought. Every muscle in his body shook with rage, and as they did, he could feel the room begin to shake around him. So he pulled. As his hands clenched into fists at his sides, the hum grew stronger. The wall sconces began to warp in place, cracking the drywall; the metal headboard curved and twisted under the pressure; screws began to twist themselves from chairs; the window frames bowed inward; his lamp, his radio, his television all hovered around him in a tense silence. And then he yanked. There was a crash of light fixtures being ripped from the walls, of bed springs being torn from his mattress, of his window panes shattering as their frames twisted around them, of his clock being thrown across the room and impaled by a series of kitchen utensils. The energy was palpable, but the destruction did nothing to calm him. He stood stalk still in the middle of his room, the eye of a growing hurricane, as the radius of the blast slowly widened around him. Erik wasn't great with bad feelings. |