Current mood:	pleased
Entry tags:	emma frost, erik lensherr/magneto, gen

Cold Front, for excoriate (Emma Frost, gen, PG-13)
Author: Apathy
Title: Cold Front
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
Summary: Emma goes to visit an old mentor.
Written for: excoriate
Pairing/scenario requested: Emma Frost.
Warnings: Vague violence.
Spoilers: Set post-X3.




As far as secret underground lairs go, she finds this one distinctly unimpressive.

She runs a finger across a patch of rough-hewn wall, wrinkling her nose at the slime that cakes itself beneath the perfectly-manicured nail. Mostly rock, some metal supporting structures here and there.

It's just sad.

'Welcome to my humble abode.' The same wry smile as always, but tireder, older, in a way not attributable to the passage of years alone. 'I'm afraid we had to move in rather a hurry, and therefore have yet to find the time to decorate.'

You would have been able to make this place into a fortress within minutes, once, she does not say. She supposes it is impolite to point out the obvious failings of others. Not that it's ever stopped her before.

Magneto gestures for her to sit down on one of the wooden chairs. Murder is acceptable, but good manners are vital. Always a gentleman, right to the bitter end.

There's a wariness to his movements, always keeping just out of her reach, never for a moment turning his back. There are guards at the cave entrance -- Pyro, and another she doesn't recognise.

He sits himself down, joints protesting audibly, and pours two cups of tea. He peers at her over the rim of his cup.

'So, Ms Frost.' He says the name like it's some sort of private joke. 'I understand you wish to join our little club?'

She blows cool air at her own cup, watching the steam curl and rise. 'Do I have any choice?'

'Ms Frost, there is always a choice. Perhaps not a good choice, but it is always available.'

'My father injected me with the cure while I slept. I do believe that qualifies as "no choice".' Her voice is silk-smooth, the anger only audible to those who know how to listen for it.

'I would have thought you'd be aware of any such intentions he may have held. You are a telepath, my dear.'

She bristles inwardly at the condescension, but only shrugs. 'I never actually made a habit of spying on my family's innermost thoughts. More fool me, I guess.'

'Oh, Emma. I thought I taught you better than that.' Magneto smirks, and the telepathic voice in her head tells her to smile back, so she does. Infiltration's a bitch, but she has someone to tell her exactly what to say, and Magneto's off his game.

'What can I say? Obviously, there are things I still don't know, and I'm not going to learn them at Xavier's. You always were the better teacher.'

A memory flits through the back of her mind, barely conscious: Mr Lehnsherr reading Shakespeare to the class on a warm, lazy spring afternoon, motes of dust hanging in the golden air like flies in amber as Mr Lehnsherr's voice echoes off the walls. She shakes it off.

'And you always were my favourite student.' He smiles knowingly. 'My dear, you always were far too smart for that place. Charles, rest his soul, was never able to chain you down, the way he did the others. No, you were too much like me -- able to see what really needed to be done, and willing to make the appropriate sacrifices.'

She laughs. 'No wonder I got expelled.'

'Not expelled, Ms Frost. Asked very politely to find a new school.'

'Your influence, no doubt.'

'If I had had my way, you would be running that school now.'

'Well, I may not be able to manage that, but I can mostly certainly help you.'

A satisfied smile spreads across his face. 'I'm pleased to hear that. Would you care to show me what you're able to do, these days?'

She raises one hand before her face, examining her nails. 'My telepathy still hasn't fully recovered from the "cure", although there are signs that it's coming back. However, my secondary mutation is working fine.' She moves the hand towards him slowly, turning it to diamond in the process.

He examines her hand in wonder. 'Extraordinary. How long have you been able to do this?'

'Only since a couple of years ago. Pure diamond, as far as I can tell. I haven't been able to break myself, anyhow.'

Magneto raises his voice. 'Guards, dismissed.'

There are protests -- Pyro is particularly loud in his disagreement -- but the guards leave. Magneto leans in towards her conspiratorially.

'There's a place for you in the Brotherhood.'

'Well, I should hope so.' She smirks.

'I mean by my side. You would be my second-in-command.'

She arches one elegant eyebrow. 'And the others?'

'Would either obey your orders, or find somewhere else to live. We could use you, Emma. Not just your gifts, but your intellect and leadership.'

'And my money.'

'Well, that wouldn't hurt, either.'

'What do you say? Will you join the Brotherhood, White Queen?'

His face is earnest, almost pleading. The Magneto of even a year ago would have died before stooping to such a display of weakness. His entire body seems to be collapsing in on itself, overwhelmed by a gravity it once defied with ease.

Pathetic.

She leans forwards slowly, reaching out one perfect diamond hand to cup his chin.

'Your powers may be returning, but they're slow. Weak.'

Her hand melts and unfurls; she swiftly re-assembles it, cell by cell, lengthening it until the light gleams off the blade. She presses the serrated edge to his throat, teasing a drop of blood from withered skin. She doesn't bother making any further concessions to identity, preferring the delicious satisfaction of watching slow realisation wash across his face.

'Me? I've moved on. I've evolved, Erik. You? You're obsolete.'

Emotions pull at his features: shock, recognition, betrayal... and a spark of the old pride. For that, Mystique digs the point in further, smiling as he twitches and moans. Blood runs red down his neck.

'Time to pass the torch, old man.'


*

Emma exits the newly-rebuilt Cerebro, the doors closing behind her with a quiet hum. Storm seems to materialise from out of thin air, falling into step beside her.

'Did you find him? Did you locate Magneto?'

Emma's gaze remains locked ahead, unwavering.

'I don't think we have to worry about him, anymore.'

The clicking of Storm's footsteps abruptly stops. Emma walks on.