(no subject)
=NYC= Central Park South - Manhattan
Deviating from the slightly more.../lonely/ feel of the northern sections of the park, Central Park South is no less appealing to the eye, regardless. In the distance through the thick treelines of maple and oak looms the skyline of New York. Smaller bodies of water than the Reservoir dot the green, as do bronze statues placed seemingly at random. The Shakespeare Garden, Tavern on the Green, Strawberry Fields, and the like of more popular 'hotspots' of the park flank to all sides.
It's nice outside. Chilly, perhaps, now that afternoon has faded into evening, and a stiff breeze has picked up to stir at trees and the surface of a nearby pond. There are people around, as there usually are in this particular section of the park. One of them is an older man in a black overcoat and fedora. He is feeding ducks.
Rocket is chasing ducks. He has bread in his hand, though, and seems to very much want to feed the ducks! Just at very close range. "C'mere, ducky ducky ducky," he calls. Ryan walks behind him, bundled against the chill in a baseball cap and a beaten leather jacket, his hands in his pockets and his mind clearly very much somewhere else. His distracted state of mind is perhaps the reason he doesn't immediately notice and recognize Magneto, instead simply seeing a man in a coat feeding ducks. He walks up to stand near the man, nodding absently as his eyes track the circles Rocket chases in.
The ducks paddle away from Rocket's advances with a sense of urgency that doesn't quite blossom into full flight. Not while there is still fresh bread in the equation. They spurt away, then semi-circle back to pluck at disentigrating bits of crust when the temptation becomes too great. For all that Erik was (is) a terrorist feared the world over, he blends convincingly with his scruff and hat and small brown paper bag, even if his profile is rather distinct. Moreso when his leonine countenance turns to follow Rocket's efforts. ...And even more than that when his quiet monitor of every gun, zipper, piercing, and bit of change in the vicinity sends everyone carrying /any/ of those things staggering towards him. Park benches groan, a partial chain link fence around the pond's opposite border begins to warp. Erik gasps, lungs hard-pressed to rasp out even that much air, and his eyes flare a bright, lurid shade of blue. His grip on the bag clenches into a mechanical fist, and then it halts.
A few people fall down when the tug ceases, but most regain balance with some measure of baffled grace. One or two do the intelligent thing and run. Magneto, of course, stays put, breathing hard, and now looking at Ryan as if he suspects he suspects he might be an alien.
The buttons of Ryan's jacket rattle as they tug under Magneto's grip, pulling Ryan a stumbling few steps closer to the old man. Rocket, in turn, has a whole quantity of zippers -- zippered jeans, zippered pockets, zippered jacket -- he's into zippers lately! The magnetic tug on them and his light body weight and somewhat limited coordination all combine to make stumble and fall to the ground near Magneto's feet, wailing in surprise and dismay, bread scattering from his hands. The ducks hesitate in a circle around him, drawn in by the lure of bread and repelled by the crying wail.
For several long seconds, Ryan holds Magneto's gaze blankly, his face draining pale as what energy he has remaining in him from his meeting earlier in the day with Emma is drawn out in a burst of activity. He sways on his feet, sickly, and for a moment it isn't clear whether he's going to faint or be sick. The next moment, it is quite clear as he falls to his knees, leans over and throws up right in front of a terrorist feared the world round.
Still somewhat /alarmed/ in the narrow of his eyes and the open slack of his mouth, Erik is still panting when his shared stare with Ryan is broken by the younger man falling to his knees and is sick. Bread and ducks forgotten, hands lifted away from his sides, it's on a delay that he turns his head back to take in the /many/ people that are staring, and orders any or all of them to, "Call an ambulance!" Unfortunately, the European ring of his voice across the grass is the last straw for several of them. They turn tail and flock away, much like the ducks. Fortunately one of two of them, at the very least, is likely to call 911 on their own. Meanwhile, Rocket is wailing and he has no idea how to deal with /that/ either. When he turns back to them, it's to stare a little helplessly while one brave little duck nips in to drag a mass of bread away from the epicenter of things.
Ryan coughs and then gasps, pulling in a lungful of air and releasing it slowly to give his brain time to process. He stumbles to his feet and takes a step backwards on clearly shaky legs, his face still pale as he looks at Erik with unmitigated horror and revulsion. The expression soon intensifies even further as his attention is soon drawn to his son, collapsed on the ground at Magneto's feet and crying. "Stay away from my family," he says, his voice hoarse. He moves, still weak, shaky and slow, to place himself between the terrorist and his son.
Magneto is pale-faced himself. Suspicious. Drained. Ill, even, though his posture remains stiffly upright in the face of Ryan's display. He says nothing to his command. Rather, he's struck abruptly in the back of the head by a cell phone. It wheels off into the pond once it's bounced off, and Erik turns slowly to eye the culprit. She stands still, apparently under the impression that he cannot see her if she doesn't move. T-Rex like. "Let's try an experiment," he mutters, voice quiet enough to limit itself to Ryan and Rocket when he lifts a hand. The cellular phone blasts out of the pond, vomiting water out and up as it hurls itself at the offending woman -- and explodes before it reaches her. Literally explodes, into white sparks and twisted plastic and glowing metal. Eyes alight, this time it's Erik that falls to his knees on his way to being on all fours.
"C'mon, Rocket, get up," Ryan says, hauling his son up by the elbow and even managing a step or two away from Magneto before he's hit by another wave of tiredness and sickness and stumbles, dropping to one knee. Confused and frightened, Rocket's tears continue unabated, and his breath hitches with the sobs. "Run!" the older Hewitt urges, pushing Rocket forward to get him started. "I'm coming. Run straight ahead and find a cop or a mom with kids and wait for me." Rocket's eyes widen with fear and he keeps crying, but he obediently turns tail and starts running straight away.
Magneto's breathing is reduced to a strained, whistling wheeze. One elbow buckles out of its support, and he nearly falls onto his side, hat lost to the evening's adventure. It is floating in the pond, leaving the blue blaze his eyes bared to what few observers remain while it fades to nothing, and he chuckles. Grating, phlegmy. Not a pleasant chuckle. Notably, however, he does not try whatever he just did again.
That is not the sort of laugh you want to hear out of a world-reknowned terrorist, but Ryan really cannot get much more alarmed than he already is. His chest heaves, drawing in great gasps of air as he struggles to recover his strenth, eyes closed against the panic-inducing sight of Magneto. He is there, on one knee, for what might possibly be the longest minute of his life before dragging himself to his feet and opening his eyes to cast Magneto one last look of unadulterated hatred before turning to look in the direction his son bolted in.
"You are a mutant." Slower to recover, Erik keeps his head down and his eyes squeezed shut, as if in pain. He does chuckle again, more weakly this time, only for the sound of it to scatter into a cough. He coughs some more, then slowly, slooowly starts the process of heaving himself back up onto his feet.
The words are enough to keep Ryan from leaving after his son, momentarily frozen in place. He holds his open hands in the air in front of him, as though physically pushing the idea away. "You're wrong," he says, defensively. "Mutants make me sick." The vomit pooling on the ground near Magneto would indicate that, at least. He takes a deep, ragged breath, and turns his back firmly on Erik, walking away as quickly as he can. Which is not terribly quickly, a stumbling shamble of a walk.
"Ironically, I have never felt better." Magneto has looked better, though. In the space of a few minutes, he looks as if he has lost weight. The shadows around his face are long and hollow, and his rumpled coat hangs awkwardly on his wiry frame. Then again, his stance leaves something to be desired. He vaguely resembles a toothpick tower, only barely able to keep himself up off the ground. "Have yourself tested. See that I am right. Your /son/ is probably one as well." His voice finds strength in its mirth, lifting after the pair of them.
La-la-lala-la, I'm not listening! If Ryan were not too much younger than he is, he might say such a thing. He ISN'T listening. Magneto's LYING because he's an EVIL LYING TERRORIST MUTANT. As it is, though, his step merely pauses, his shoulders shuddering with revulsion at the very idea. He presses forward, however, finally gaining sufficient distance from Erik for the drain to ease off entirely, allowing him to quicken his pace in his search for his terrified tot.
=NYC= Kitchen - Hellfire Clubhouse
The large and quite modern kitchen boasts of the equipment and staff to make meals of one course or ten for one person or one hundred. Black marble counter tops stretch around and between brushed-steel fixtures: stoves, ovens, refrigerators, freezers. A bewildering array of pots and pans, copper and stainless steel, hang from the ceiling cupboards. A swinging door provides access to the dining hall, and the pantry lies in the back past a plain wooden door.
Black marble and brushed steel define the Hellfire Club's kitchen. Erik, perhaps hoping for some sort of camouflage effect, matches. His suit is a sooty shade of charcoal. He does not quite manage to blend into the countertops as he pours himself a glass of (amber) whiskey. The crisp shirt beneath it is pinstriped grey. Otherwise white. His tie is a vaguely metallic shade of steel. His sandwich is off-white. His peanut butter is brown. And so on and so forth.
It is hard to dress in black over black with black in Hellfire's halls and not be construed as making some sort of statement, but Bahir is all innocence with a light black jacket open over a black dress shirt which is sloppily tucked over a silver belt and suspiciously girly if somewhat faded black denim. The colors must be a coincidence. Passing out of the pantry, which isn't at all suspicious in how people come out of there, but never seem to go in, he heads for the booze to find someone already drinking his whiskey. He seems mildly surprised to see Erik here, and grunts a greeting as he reaches for his own glass.
Magneto is unruffled. Both by the idea that Bahir would be within the walls of the Hellfire Club, and by the fact that he has just emerged from a pantry that was unoccupied when he took peanut butter from it approximately four and a half minutes ago. "Hello," says he, voice close to an octave lower than is strictly necessary when he looks down and aside to take note of Bahir's girly pants. The whiskey bottle is held aloft in offer on a short delay.
"Hi." Bahir does not need to overcompensate, so his voice remains smack in midrange of baritone as he leans over to curl his fingers around the neck of the bottle and yoink it. There are no flowers on his pants. Their cut is just tragically trendy, and his belt is metallic and jangly. At least his wrist is firm and strong as he pours a splash or two into the low glass. He glances sidelong. "Peanut butter?"
"Mmm," says Erik. "The grocer was all out." Who runs out of peanut-butter? Erik does not say. Rather, he eyes Bahir's trousers for a few somewhat awkward seconds longer before lifting his eyes to the cabinet before him and sipping his whiskey. "You're looking rather black."
Bahir's feet shuffle at the prolonged scrutiny. His shoes are also black: low sneakers of black suede with satiny and plasticy stripes. "I was headed out." He braces one hand on the counter, leaning. "I like black," he adds, prickly and defensive for no good reason.
"Really?" Polite interest prompts polite inquiry, and Erik continues to study the cabinet through a longer draw of the stuff. It is difficult to determine what he's asking about, particularly since he seems allergic to elaboration today. His expression gives away very little when he finally turns to face the younger man, only to glance down to exchange whiskey for peanut butter and jelly.
"Really." Bahir grabs his glass as defense, fingers curling around it as he lifts it to take a quick swallow. His gaze lifts, tracking various known cameras and then wandering to try to guess where the others are. "Are you supposed to be here?"
"I /am/ in the Club." Shallow defense is offered only once he has chewed, swallowed, and dropped his sandwich back upon its paper plate. Polite. His eyes study the flicker of Bahir's, then follow, lancing from camera to camera as only a true cheater can. The last of them snuffs quietly out for no apparent reason, and he leans for the whiskey bottle. "Probably not, though. Perhaps if you were to invite me."
Bahir opens his hands. "Dr. Lensherr." His tone is flat, humor released through the faint gleam of dark eyes alone. He nudges the bottle over for easy grasping. "Why don't we step aside and have a drink in the kitchen. It's been a few weeks. We can catch up. How have you been? Are you finding civilian life as charming as you remember?"
"Of course," says Erik to the whiskey bottle and to the pouring process. "Kind of you to offer." He finishes with a flourish that suggests that this may be his third glass rather than his second. Another camera starts showing static, followed closely by another. "I've been well-enough. Burnt in effigy, but not assassinated. Civilian life is an adventure a minute."
With a faint demurring noise, Bahir flips out his hand as if to say, 'Think nothing of it.' Then he grabs the bottle back, so that he can top off the sip he has already taken. "Burnt in effigy? I can only hope for such fame. Civilian life must be a trial. Running out of peanut butter. If you had proper minions, you could make them get more peanut butter for you."
Magneto drinks, nose rankling against the whiskey's bite when he swallows too much at once, and is forced to set the glass down again, voice rasping. "I've read that you can order groceries online." He clears his throat, coughs, snuffs out the rest of the cameras (One fizzles and buzzes audibly in its nest. It sounds sick.) and breathes deeply. WHISKEY. Then he coughs again. "How has life been within the confines of the circle?"
Bahir looks a trifle smug, having not sputtered over his own sip, and takes a slow drink -- careful not to swallow too much, and thus ruin the point of smooth urbanity he is trying to (obnoxiously) make. He grimaces slightly as his glass lowers, gaze lifting again to the dying camera, fizzling and buzzing as it is. "Things have been worse. We're having a hell of a time finding the people who blew up the Greenwich apartments. Really pissed Beckah off."
"At what point does anger become murderous rage?" Earnestly speculative, and manfully recovered and upright in the wake of his coughing episode, Erik silences the struggling camera with a metallic crumple and a few sparks that skip down from the top of the refrigerator. "If I find them first, I suspect I will have people to go and buy me peanut butter before you know it."
"Around the time you get mad enough to commit murder, I suppose." Master of circular logic, Bahir watches the last moments of the camera's death secure in the knowledge that he won't have to fix it (because he doesn't know how). He takes a longer sip of his drink, expression guardedly thoughtful. He glances in Magneto's direction. He opens his mouth, closes it, clears his throat, and then tries again with a last circling gaze of ex-cameras. "That wouldn't surprise me. I also wouldn't be surprised if, say, Beckah was first in line to buy a jar. Percy and Adel are--" He breaks off, pause slight. "--/mildly/ concerned that a few pawns might follow you, you know."
"You can seriously contemplate killing someone before carrying through." Erik speaks from experience. Blandly, even, eyes dull in their distant skim over the counter while he hefts his glass again. He takes it more slowly this time, limiting the burn of it to a more familiar dull ache. "Rebeccah is easily pushed from one point to the next. That you should have difficulty retaining /her/ does not bode well for you and your fine friends."
"I said I wouldn't be surprised," says Bahir, nettled. He straightens, chin lifting. "I didn't say I saw her running toward you with arms open. Unless," he adds, "you've seen her, say, running toward you with arms open. It's not that surprising, anyway. Beckah, Zenith -- they were both closer to you than Frost."
"Interesting choice of words." Voice muffled into his glass, Erik chuckles hollowly to himself once he's downed the rest of it. Lax, he leans aside into the counter, resting some of his weight there while he appears to ponder another round. "Beckah never slept with me. She is a lesbian." Just in case Bahir didn't know. Stating as much has reminded him of the other mutant's pants, and he eyes them again; "Who is close to Frost? Adel," he ticks off on one hand. "...Adel."
Bahir nudges the base of the bottle, scooting it an inch or so back over and then opening his hand in a short wave. All yours. "There's more to loyalty than sex." Just in case Erik didn't know. His pants are still pretty gay, but the metal links of his belt are /chunky/ and /manly/ rather than delicate and fragile. That's something, right? Watching the tick of points, he snorts. "There are a few others. That blonde teleporter of hers. Felice." And oh, whoops. That's only two more ticks for fingers.
"Is there?" Erik does not seem convinced. How atypical of him. Scruffy chin tipped to the inching scoot of the whiskey bottle, he abandons his study of Bahir's manly (gay) pants to ogle it instead. The shift in angles of observation is slack, and his fingers have already managed to lose count. He is still on two, and hesitating his way to three while he tries to remember the one he's talking about. "Why are you still here?"
"So I have been told." Picking up his drink, Bahir takes a long, slow sip. He watches Erik study the bottle, and lowers the glass to give a flippant and breezy answer to his question: "Habit." His fingers splay around the rim of his glass, spidering in lazy grasp. He watches the glass press against flesh with apparent fascination. "I like the theoretical--" Theoretical, mind; in practice, his time all too often ends up on other projects. "--freedom to pursue my own research goals. I can't imagine a lot of people would line up to pay me money to diddle about trying to biochemically enhance my telepathic abilities. Of course, if you are being more /specific/, why I am /here/, in the /kitchen/--" He picks up his glass. "--then the answer is, 'I haven't finished my drink.'"
Magneto's study of the bottle is distracted at best. The chill grey of his glare is focused somewhere else entirely, and he does not make any motion to pour himself another. "You are a telepath," he reminds eventually. Full of helpful but apparently amnesiac information, as the elderly tend to be. "You could force people to give you money beyond the boundaries and pressures of the circle." Once that last bit about the kitchen sinks in, he is called back to awareness long enough to give Bahir a lazy /look/.
Bahir takes a sip from said drink, returning the look with a very good attempt at bland. He pulls the bottle back over, if Magneto will not be using it, to pour another splash and a half in his glass. "I could, I suppose. I prefer not to use my telepathy so selfishly. Short-sightedly. I like to think it isn't all just lip service about serving a higher purpose, too. I believe in the purpose of the circle to pursue a broad mutant agenda -- while improving the talents, and the lives of its members."
Magneto chuckles. It is not a nice chuckle (they so rarely /are/) and there is a certain condescending cruelty to it that depletes from his overall inebriated charm. If he could be said to have any. "You will use your research for selfish reasons -- to enhance your telepathic abilities, in your own words -- but not your mutation."
"That /isn't/ all I want to do with my research." Bahir's expression sours, gaze turning up toward the far corner of the kitchen. He looks stung -- and not to put too fine a point on it, but a little sulky. "I'd like to enhance /all/ mutants. I want the freedom to head off the inevitable attempts to neuter us, or cure us. I want the freedom to create antidotes to their poisons. Humans won't fund those sort of things."
"Bahir the Idealist." Well-aquanted, for whatever reason, with what it looks like when he has offended someone, Erik eases off. His eyes fall back to Bahir's clothing -- not the pants specifically, this time -- and he draws in a slow breath as he sinks himself further back into the cornered join between counters behind him. "Perhaps that should be your code name. Keeping in mind that self-interest is the driving force behind your remaining Monarch and those loyal to her."
"Code names are ridiculous." Bahir glances over, purses his lips thoughtfully, and does not add, 'No offense.' He picks up his glass and draws a long breath, holding it through a quick sip. Lips pressed to a thin line, he releases the sigh through his nose, ending in a snort, and then a cough. Vapors. "I know. Much as I'd like to think fucking otherwise. Frost has always cultivated a cult of personal affection rather than encouraged any higher loyalty or ideals."
"Code names are a source of confidence, power, and unity. Much like uniforms, when properly encouraged and cultivated. But you," Erik lifts a brow at the cough and cages a hand into a rest over his empty glass, "are not a team player. What is it that you're afraid of losing? Dignity?"
Yes, so of course Bahir says, "No." It is a little boy's response, instantaneous, syllable lifting in a noOo. "I've worked in teams, but I've rarely found a group I'd be proud to be a part of." He shrugs. "Maybe that means I'm not a team player. Maybe that means code names are ridiculous. /Maybe/ all the good ones are already taken."
"Being afraid of looking /stupid/ somehow does not strike me as something that speaks of great confidence. You could stand to loosen up, you know." Erik is pretty loose, as is further indicated in the slow wrap of is left hand back around the bottle. OOone more.
Bahir regards Erik with extreme skepticism. "/Loosen up/," he repeats, incredulous, as if he does not know what that phrase exactly means. He mutters something under his breath, obnoxious enough to make it Arabic. Voice lifting, he adds in English, "Maybe I will start introducing myself and Mind-o, or Telepath-o."
"You're doing it wrong." Erik pours, only about a finger of the stuff in the end, and sets the bottle aside with great care. Then, with less care, he lifts a hand, twitches paired fingers, and drags Bahir forward by his chunky man pants, nearly into him. His breath is an interesting mix of coffee, peanut butter, and whiskey. Mostly whiskey. His voice is quiet. No need to shout when you are nearly nose to nose, after all. "I call myself Magneto. One more cynical comment about what such a name implies, and I will grind off your arms and legs with your own ridiculous trousers, leave you to flop around in the mess, and go /fuck/ one of the other pawns for the time it takes them to find you in here bleeding to death."
That is cheating. Bahir startles, amber liquid sloshing within his glass, but not spilling. Drink held close in white-knuckled fingers, he listens -- closely! Mouth on the dry side, he swallows audibly, and then clears his throat. His attempt at dry humor runs a trifle thin as he says, "And that is why you can get away with calling yourself Magneto." Irony weighs evenly with wary respect and plain, honest nerves as he adds, "Sir."
Satisfied that he's made his point, Erik smirks, and leans aside again to recollect the whiskey he's just poured for himself. "Yes." He sips, jaw worked against some mild tension he's managed to work up in himself in the wake of his display, and sips again. "There is a point where dignity no longer enters into the equation."
Settling back on his heels, Bahir quietly scrapes his dignity back into a pile, from there to reassemble it into usual armor. He looks down at his glass, rolling his shoulders back in a shrug, and tipping his head to the side as he loosens tense muscles. "I know they have their uses," he says in a quiet undertone. "Combat situations. Criminal activities. ...Terrorism. I do most of my work in the lab. Mad scientist or no, not a lot of room there for a code name. In that situation, they /are/ ridiculous. In yours, not so much." But the cape and helmet? Still a bit much.
"There is a psychological impact, I think. One of distance and dissociation. Some of the more normal recruits found it easier to kill when they thought of themselves as 'Bonesaw' or 'Warzone' rather than 'Jason Smith.'" It is easy to ramble when you are somewhat inebriated, and code names are a topic that Erik is interested in. The fact that he is also interested in Bahir's distaste for them likely helps. "Hardly your arena, anyway. I support their use, but have never required them."
"Yes, I can see that, but it seems a false sort of comfort." Bahir shakes his head slightly, eyes tracing various cabinets. There's that cabinet, and the one next to it, and oh, look, another one, and that one there--. "That's really not the right word. A false dissociation, and only an illusion of distance. How many--" He breaks off, gaze skipping back to sidelong study of Erik's profile, and then goes back to eying cabinets. "How many murders have you committed which you are now ashamed to have done? None? All of them?"
What an interesting question! Erik's eyes narrow into something that is not quite a wince in their own study of the cabinets. More like a visible side-effect of the substantial buzzkill that just occurred. He lowers his glass to rest at his middle and lets the silence between them hang until it begins to sag.
Bahir does not break it. Not for a looong time. He winds the silence back up, stretching it with fresh, expectant tension.
More time passes, and Erik keeps the line of his glare down. Back to staring after nothing again. "To say that I..." is attempted, and aborted. There is another pause, and he sets down his glass to scuff against encroaching silence. "There are people I regret having killed. Mutants. No humans."
"I'd rather not kill under the false bravado of a fake name and be ashamed of it, later." Bahir adds, quickly, before anything drastic can happen to his belt, "I don't mean that you did. And I'm not trying to say that is any better, or any worse." His fingers curl again on his drink, as he tips it from one side to the other, watching the whiskey slosh around within the glass. "But any murders I commit, I'd rather commit under my name, because I'd have to accept the weight of them, anyway. I guess ... I don't want it to be easier to kill. I want to be able to be satisfied in each death."
Magneto's brow furrows. Incredulous. His buzz is beyond dead, now. The last swallow of whiskey he drains from his glass is a hopeless drop in the bucket at this point. He is left muddled, unhappy and lacking inhibitions, which is a state of being most people do not prefer their terrorist omega mutants to be in. Fortunately, as has been clearly established by his taste in pants, Bahir is not most people. "Merely that I've tricked young people into committing murders they might later be ashamed of." That's left to stick or sink as it may, and he draws in a steeling breath. Then leans forward, away from the counter, with one hand left to brace wisely against it. "I kill because yours is a generation that does not have the spine to do what is necessary."
"No." Shake of his head short, but emphatic, Bahir turns away the first point, setting his glass to the side to free his hands for slight, sharp gestures. "I think the young trick themselves -- ourselves," he adds, shrugging. "It is one of the things youth does best. And I think that the deaths you have caused and the fights that you lead are, largely, justified. But there are those who don't have your leadership, who see a distortion of what you do, and who get carried away by grand ideas -- and they are the ones who will take those names and do things which might later horrify them." His hands clasp. "I don't know what is necessary to win this. Neither do you, or I have to think you'd have done it already. If I knew, if /we/ knew, the question of whether or not we have the spine for it would be more valid."
"I kill," Erik continues, going so far as to raise his voice to talk /over/ Bahir, "because humanity is a blight upon this planet, and you are blind to it. I take satisfaction in crushing them as I would a poisonous insect or weed bent on destroying everything of worth that remains in the wake of generations past." He does stop once he realizes that Bahir isn't actually arguing with him, but he is already bitter and frustrated. And angry. Only a little angry. The silent amount, where he doesn't say anything to the idea that he doesn't actually have a plan at the moment.
When Erik talks over, Bahir quiets. He isn't that much in love with the sound of his voice. He shrugs. Yes, and? Human = blight; mutants = better. He watches with a wary alertness. Slowly, he says, "They are a very difficult infestation to remove."
Magneto is not bristled or sneering or torturing the building's structure. He scowls hard at his hand, braced against the counter as it is. "I nearly did it."
He is still Magneto. That is enough. Bahir tips his head. "When? How?"
"The asteroid." Tone flat, Erik does not look up at Bahir again until he's righted himself in full, shoulders slacked down out of their usual set.
"Ah. Right." Bahir scratches the back of his neck, gaze slanted to the side. "Well, you know the logic of that counter-argument: many humans would've died, but likely at the cost of most mutant life on the planet, with no real guarantee that humanity wouldn't cockroach along. Et cetera."
"We are still here." Though he doesn't sound all that thrilled about it. From Bahir, his eyes lift to the ceiling, then fall back to the counter, and his largely uneaten sandwich. "I should go. I've broken the cameras."
"No. I should go. I've nearly finished my drink." Bahir tips his hand toward his glass, and then toward the sandwich. "Eat. All that effort to find peanut butter. Might as well finish it." He slides his thumbs along the zippers of his jacket, pulling the two sides close and beginning to draw the zipper up. His chin lifts. "For what it is worth -- and maybe that's not much, but for what it /is/ worth -- thank you. There are mutants who would be better suited than humanity to survive in whatever world formed after the asteroid impact. Not really one of them. And thank you, also, for fighting a thankless war, often with little support. Good night, Dr. Lensherr."
"You are welcome." Denial the first few times around got him nowhere. Easier to be polite and move on. Jowls slack, he studies his sandwich before he lifts it. Checking to see if he's still hungry, perhaps. "I will think of something. Eventually. Good night, Mr. al-Razi."
Bahir leaves Magneto to his peanut butter, escape made with a suggestion to his slink of his tail between his legs for whatever reason. Someone will surely be by before long to complain about the cameras.