01 - [X-men: First Class] an entire architecture of life has collapsed
Rating: Gen.
Characters: erik, the endless (in order of appearance: destiny, destruction, death, dream, delirium, desire, destruction)
Fandom: super groovers
Summary: manhattan can be an awfully friendly place.
Notes: not satisfied with how i wrote erik, but. prompt from here.
00:06
a subway -- erik shuts his eyes tight enough, hoping to bore them into his skull as he confirms to himself quietly, yes, yes, he's underground new york, going to manhattan -- a subway -- moving through the lines in the middle of the night and howling as it passes through the tunnels. the dark is oppressive and erik -- is shaking, is cold, he feels claustrophobic inside an utterly empty subway which has somehow now functions as a little cage.
his hands feel awfully stiff, as if chained down. he sees a pale reflection of himself against the mirror on the other side and --
he sees against the window a man with robes and a book open, whispering his name as he reads something with the final, heavy weight of destiny. erik, erik, erik, erik --
the image is broken as the subway thunders down into the tunnels and the dark.
1:25
or perhaps it's a dream. perhaps it's the side effect of having chased a dead end for too long. he has papers and maps in his briefcase detailing a certain nazi that could possibly be hiding in the slums, but all week he's turned up dead ends and no names and no shadow. erik functions with coffee and water and a pack of cigarettes. whiskey is now one of his main food groups.
bad enough that he doubts himself. bad enough that nowadays, he's well aware that his lack of sleep and food is making his powers erratic; he's more prone to snap and be angry, and consequently, destroy things. an apartment burnt down yesterday when its electrical grid miraculously failed. it may have something to do, as well, with a landlord who couldn't comprehend the guttural, visceral way he throws out names as if they were devils. or saints.
"Schmidt," he snarls. "kennen Sie Herr Schmidt?"1
(in the angry buzzing of his mind: i dare you to say no. i dare you to say no. i dare you to say)
the landlord shakes his head. "man, i don't even know what you're talking about, we got a whole lotta schmees here, i mean all you gotta do's just look at this list --"
erik is tired of looking at numbered lists.
*
the subway again. he's putting his hat over his head, shading his bloodshot eyes, and with shaky hands pulls out a cigarette, and his lighter. he waits near the edge of the platform for the next train. the station is quiet except for the hum of the lights. he's sitting on a bench, tired, the grooves of his briefcase marking his palms as if he'd been carrying a coffin for the most of his life.
a red-haired man was sitting beside him, jovial, reading a novel. he couldn't read the title at a glance -- he's too tired -- and spends the rest of the time waiting by smoking in silence and wondering how far does he have to go in order to exact revenge. where to go. what should he do. why can't he shake off the feeling that he should never rest?
as if on cue, the red-headed man speaks, and his tone is most sincere:
"you need to have the strength and the kindness to forgive yourself."
he closes his book and smiles at his confused (and offended at just how casual that sentence is, and how easily it cuts through him) face. "your train's coming."
and with a blink of an eye, he was gone, and erik was left cold in his bench with the screeching train halting to a stop in front of him.
1:45
i'm dead tired, he says to himself. he stares at the ceiling, counts the number of cracks he could see, counts the chipped paint and the grimy areas, follows the metal bars that hold the ceiling up. a girl in front of him is staring at the window and her hair is a wild mess of black and silver and her clothing is disagreeable to erik, if only because it reminds him of those children banging out horrible metal tunes in the radio. (bad enough he can control metal. even worse when it starts humming along to his anger.)
from where he's sitting he sees the girl's reflection smile at him, and it's such an emotional smile that he cannot discern the depths of her smile.
"you don't meet loneliness," she says. "it comes from behind and catches up with us."
his mouth twists in cruel cynicism. "i don't recall asking advice from strangers."
she laughs at him, playing with her ankh. in the quiet train
(when did it become deathly quiet?)
he felt so alone.
"hey, i'm only telling you something you already know. it's worth a shot to try and remind you, yeah?"
"a thoughtful sentiment, but unnecessary."
"don't worry, bub." she says 'bub' with some guttural accent he can't place. probably because he hasn't met the man she borrowed it from. "you'll find the guy who's horribly perfect against that grumpyness of yours."
and she disappears at the next stop. walks out of the door, and --
gone. erik sighs, frustrated, running a hand through his hair. it's shaping up to be a horrible morning already.
3:15
he's walking to his hotel room when he hears the words rising and falling inside his head and around the walls of the suddenly confining hall:
as the pattern becomes more complicated it becomes more difficult to estrange yourself.
his hand hovers over the knob of his door and he hears the flapping of wings.
4:50
erik doesn't sleep at all. he never sleeps easily, to begin with; however, this morning seems exceptionally determined to make his life absolutely more difficult than usual.
in the silence of his room, listening to the ticking of the clock, his mind curls and plays its own horrors unto itself: the smell of the dead, the marking of his skin, mother in her fear and quiet trust telling him that alles ist gut (never again), the taste of metal in his mouth, dirt in his hands. a coin that refused to move.
his mind is a theatre of his own failures and erik sleeps grinding his teeth in the dark, a silver coin embedded in his closed fist.
5:35
his dreams were flashes of metal against skin. a vivid dream of the past involving blood and well-meaning doctors who said they were just following orders and he's a very strong boy, how good, how kind.
in other words, a fool.
he could barely put on his necktie in rage and as a response, the metal bars of his window collapses into itself and lands down the street in a tight ball with a dead sound. erik thought he heard it hit against something, so he surreptitiously moves towards the window to look.
a girl with the most ridiculous colour of hair waves up at him with her balloon (a goldfish?) and her dog.
"hey mister," she calls up. "what's a word for the precise moment you've actually forgotten about how to love someone when you've changed so much?"
erik stares at her, completely nonplussed with the question (what is it with manhattan and its overly friendly strangers?); then with a haunted look, shuts the window from her view.
6:03
a subway -- erik counts the number of humans crawling in the platforms and his hand closes to a fist as he curdles his disgust for this species -- erik shuts his eyes, gripping the briefcase tight in his hands (a week of a dead end, maybe it's time to retreat) -- hates the smell, the sound, the horrible screeching of the trains. the intimate space of the subway and its smell. the heat. he's suffocating in his suit.
he's moving towards the entrance, glaring at the push and shove of human hands around him. there's a cacophony of voices and words yelling and screeching as loud as the train around him, and erik feels trapped, erik feels angry, and the beams threaten to wail in his anger --
(it goes quiet)
and he hears a whisper. it is low and quiet but he catches the words:
"-- das Recht der stärkeren Rasse, die niedere zu vernichten." 2
he misses his train as he turns around to look at a man (?) with a leather jacket embossed with the word desire.
something like fear drops to the bottom of his gut and he doesn't know, doesn't understand yet what is going on.
he walks to his next train with sweaty palms.
7:06
he's woken up in the subway again -- too empty for something at around 7 in the morning; what happened? where are the people -- to face the same, red-headed man again, and erik massages his temples, glaring.
"i am tired. i have been accosted by strangers all over manhattan and you are not helping me."
the man nods. "we're trying. we're not supposed to directly intervene, but we're trying. hell, even me."
erik looks at him, half in despair and half in incredulity. he's gotten so expressive nowadays. "i'm sorry, but i do believe that i said i wasn't looking for help from you, or --"
"the word you needed," the man interrupts him, gently, but firmly, "is mercy."
erik stares at him.
"though i'm not sure if you'll understand that anymore." he says with a grim smile. "'never again', right?"
he is so tired.
he shuts his eyes.
*
when he opens them again it is 7:06 and the subway is filled to the brim with the chatter of human voices that drown the dark theatre of his mind and the howling of the train.
1 - "do you know mr. schmidt?"
2 - the right of the stronger race to annihilate the lower.
Characters: erik, the endless (in order of appearance: destiny, destruction, death, dream, delirium, desire, destruction)
Fandom: super groovers
Summary: manhattan can be an awfully friendly place.
Notes: not satisfied with how i wrote erik, but. prompt from here.
00:06
a subway -- erik shuts his eyes tight enough, hoping to bore them into his skull as he confirms to himself quietly, yes, yes, he's underground new york, going to manhattan -- a subway -- moving through the lines in the middle of the night and howling as it passes through the tunnels. the dark is oppressive and erik -- is shaking, is cold, he feels claustrophobic inside an utterly empty subway which has somehow now functions as a little cage.
his hands feel awfully stiff, as if chained down. he sees a pale reflection of himself against the mirror on the other side and --
he sees against the window a man with robes and a book open, whispering his name as he reads something with the final, heavy weight of destiny. erik, erik, erik, erik --
the image is broken as the subway thunders down into the tunnels and the dark.
1:25
or perhaps it's a dream. perhaps it's the side effect of having chased a dead end for too long. he has papers and maps in his briefcase detailing a certain nazi that could possibly be hiding in the slums, but all week he's turned up dead ends and no names and no shadow. erik functions with coffee and water and a pack of cigarettes. whiskey is now one of his main food groups.
bad enough that he doubts himself. bad enough that nowadays, he's well aware that his lack of sleep and food is making his powers erratic; he's more prone to snap and be angry, and consequently, destroy things. an apartment burnt down yesterday when its electrical grid miraculously failed. it may have something to do, as well, with a landlord who couldn't comprehend the guttural, visceral way he throws out names as if they were devils. or saints.
"Schmidt," he snarls. "kennen Sie Herr Schmidt?"1
(in the angry buzzing of his mind: i dare you to say no. i dare you to say no. i dare you to say)
the landlord shakes his head. "man, i don't even know what you're talking about, we got a whole lotta schmees here, i mean all you gotta do's just look at this list --"
erik is tired of looking at numbered lists.
*
the subway again. he's putting his hat over his head, shading his bloodshot eyes, and with shaky hands pulls out a cigarette, and his lighter. he waits near the edge of the platform for the next train. the station is quiet except for the hum of the lights. he's sitting on a bench, tired, the grooves of his briefcase marking his palms as if he'd been carrying a coffin for the most of his life.
a red-haired man was sitting beside him, jovial, reading a novel. he couldn't read the title at a glance -- he's too tired -- and spends the rest of the time waiting by smoking in silence and wondering how far does he have to go in order to exact revenge. where to go. what should he do. why can't he shake off the feeling that he should never rest?
as if on cue, the red-headed man speaks, and his tone is most sincere:
"you need to have the strength and the kindness to forgive yourself."
he closes his book and smiles at his confused (and offended at just how casual that sentence is, and how easily it cuts through him) face. "your train's coming."
and with a blink of an eye, he was gone, and erik was left cold in his bench with the screeching train halting to a stop in front of him.
1:45
i'm dead tired, he says to himself. he stares at the ceiling, counts the number of cracks he could see, counts the chipped paint and the grimy areas, follows the metal bars that hold the ceiling up. a girl in front of him is staring at the window and her hair is a wild mess of black and silver and her clothing is disagreeable to erik, if only because it reminds him of those children banging out horrible metal tunes in the radio. (bad enough he can control metal. even worse when it starts humming along to his anger.)
from where he's sitting he sees the girl's reflection smile at him, and it's such an emotional smile that he cannot discern the depths of her smile.
"you don't meet loneliness," she says. "it comes from behind and catches up with us."
his mouth twists in cruel cynicism. "i don't recall asking advice from strangers."
she laughs at him, playing with her ankh. in the quiet train
(when did it become deathly quiet?)
he felt so alone.
"hey, i'm only telling you something you already know. it's worth a shot to try and remind you, yeah?"
"a thoughtful sentiment, but unnecessary."
"don't worry, bub." she says 'bub' with some guttural accent he can't place. probably because he hasn't met the man she borrowed it from. "you'll find the guy who's horribly perfect against that grumpyness of yours."
and she disappears at the next stop. walks out of the door, and --
gone. erik sighs, frustrated, running a hand through his hair. it's shaping up to be a horrible morning already.
3:15
he's walking to his hotel room when he hears the words rising and falling inside his head and around the walls of the suddenly confining hall:
as the pattern becomes more complicated it becomes more difficult to estrange yourself.
his hand hovers over the knob of his door and he hears the flapping of wings.
4:50
erik doesn't sleep at all. he never sleeps easily, to begin with; however, this morning seems exceptionally determined to make his life absolutely more difficult than usual.
in the silence of his room, listening to the ticking of the clock, his mind curls and plays its own horrors unto itself: the smell of the dead, the marking of his skin, mother in her fear and quiet trust telling him that alles ist gut (never again), the taste of metal in his mouth, dirt in his hands. a coin that refused to move.
his mind is a theatre of his own failures and erik sleeps grinding his teeth in the dark, a silver coin embedded in his closed fist.
5:35
his dreams were flashes of metal against skin. a vivid dream of the past involving blood and well-meaning doctors who said they were just following orders and he's a very strong boy, how good, how kind.
in other words, a fool.
he could barely put on his necktie in rage and as a response, the metal bars of his window collapses into itself and lands down the street in a tight ball with a dead sound. erik thought he heard it hit against something, so he surreptitiously moves towards the window to look.
a girl with the most ridiculous colour of hair waves up at him with her balloon (a goldfish?) and her dog.
"hey mister," she calls up. "what's a word for the precise moment you've actually forgotten about how to love someone when you've changed so much?"
erik stares at her, completely nonplussed with the question (what is it with manhattan and its overly friendly strangers?); then with a haunted look, shuts the window from her view.
6:03
a subway -- erik counts the number of humans crawling in the platforms and his hand closes to a fist as he curdles his disgust for this species -- erik shuts his eyes, gripping the briefcase tight in his hands (a week of a dead end, maybe it's time to retreat) -- hates the smell, the sound, the horrible screeching of the trains. the intimate space of the subway and its smell. the heat. he's suffocating in his suit.
he's moving towards the entrance, glaring at the push and shove of human hands around him. there's a cacophony of voices and words yelling and screeching as loud as the train around him, and erik feels trapped, erik feels angry, and the beams threaten to wail in his anger --
(it goes quiet)
and he hears a whisper. it is low and quiet but he catches the words:
"-- das Recht der stärkeren Rasse, die niedere zu vernichten." 2
he misses his train as he turns around to look at a man (?) with a leather jacket embossed with the word desire.
something like fear drops to the bottom of his gut and he doesn't know, doesn't understand yet what is going on.
he walks to his next train with sweaty palms.
7:06
he's woken up in the subway again -- too empty for something at around 7 in the morning; what happened? where are the people -- to face the same, red-headed man again, and erik massages his temples, glaring.
"i am tired. i have been accosted by strangers all over manhattan and you are not helping me."
the man nods. "we're trying. we're not supposed to directly intervene, but we're trying. hell, even me."
erik looks at him, half in despair and half in incredulity. he's gotten so expressive nowadays. "i'm sorry, but i do believe that i said i wasn't looking for help from you, or --"
"the word you needed," the man interrupts him, gently, but firmly, "is mercy."
erik stares at him.
"though i'm not sure if you'll understand that anymore." he says with a grim smile. "'never again', right?"
he is so tired.
he shuts his eyes.
*
when he opens them again it is 7:06 and the subway is filled to the brim with the chatter of human voices that drown the dark theatre of his mind and the howling of the train.
1 - "do you know mr. schmidt?"
2 - the right of the stronger race to annihilate the lower.