markedformore | (no subject)

When the world falls back to some approximation of normalcy, Erik takes stock in his surroundings. He knows his bearings well because he is back in Schmidt’s office, facing down his creator as he begins to run through a destructive script aimed to try and coax Erik’s powers into being. There is the familiar chocolate bar that will be uselessly used to bribe Erik. There is the room of utensils that Schmidt has (and will) use in order to turn him into something worth fearing and, as Erik knows deeply and with great heartache, there is the threat of something far worse lurking in the room so very close and yet unspeakably far away from him.

One thing is clear: whatever solution Charles and Billy have sought to force upon him has faded away and he is at the beginning once more. His opportunity has not faded away and it is almost as though a sign from God is being given to Erik.

He must.

He will.

There is precious time before his window of chance closes and he is once again brought to make a decision he does not want to make and be hustled along to a conclusion he does not wish to approve of. When Schmidt produces the coin, Erik regards it with careful consideration and thinks of how often he had rubbed his thumb against its’ smooth edges – how constant it had become in his life. Now, the only constant he recalls is the powerful surge of hatred for a man who chose to create Erik from pure grief and anger. He thinks of this and nothing else, making what must come to pass easier.

“You made so many mistakes,” Erik speaks in a meek, disinterested childish version of his adult voice. It sounds distinctly unnerving and innocent at once and Erik finds he enjoys the effect.

It will make David slaying Goliath all the more enjoyable.

“But most of all, you underestimated what killing my mother would do.” It’s clear that Schmidt doesn’t understand. Why would he? What Erik stands here and accuses him of is a product of a future that will not come to pass – not today. He dwells in the dark possibility and watches Schmidt carefully, aware that he will need to use the element of surprise and too much talking will detract from that.

Here he is, a boy once more. Innocence has been robbed from him by a whole population of fearful men following orders, but he has been subjected to experiments by a man driven by no one’s orders but his own and hope is what Schmidt had slowly stolen from him over the many sessions.

Today, that ends.

“You should never have touched my family,” Erik says.

It seems so small – such an economical movement. He digs deep inside of him and seeks out the rage and the desire for vengeance and takes well to Charles’ lesson by tempering that anger with love of his mother. One short, sharp, final movement of his arm and the coin takes flight, suspended in the air for but a moment before it’s driven forward, splitting the hemispheres of Schmidt’s brain. He doesn’t take the time to enjoy this, too frightful that Schmidt will somehow turn this small window of opportunity against him.

He hears the coin hit the floor with an echoing clatter. For a moment, it is all Erik is aware of. He hears the coin, but does not register anything else – not the slump of Schmidt’s body, not the blood all over his face, not the feeling of further rage and relief and happiness and despair flooding through him. He hears the coin and he thinks that he must collect it.

He’s unsure as to why he does this, but he does. On shorter legs – shaking, just so – he moves around Schmidt’s corpse (buckled into his desk chair) and bends in order to pick up the coin, now stained with the blood of his creator.

Strangely, somehow, while it gives Erik a sense of comfort that he has accomplished his task, he is not happy. He sits, there, coin in hand, blood staining his trousers, his shirt, and his face, and he studies the Nazi emblems on the coin that rests in his palms while above him, a corpse lies bleeding.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Charles could have frozen the entirety of the building, Erik included, but he senses before he even enters the office that it is too late. His head throbs with a phantom pain from just moments ago, when they lived these events last, and though some part of him knows that he could summon up the strength to delve once more into so many minds, he can't bother as he all but flies through the door.

The sight that greets him makes his blood run cold. He's seen this before, of course, has experienced this death in a way so intimate as to defy words, and it is no easier to bear, now, knowing that he was equally as helpless to prevent this murder a second time as he was the first. He stops in his tracks a few feet in front of the desk, feet seemingly glued to the floor as he stares, slack-jawed at Erik's efforts. After a long moment, he asks, in a voice breathless with anger, the simplest and most obvious question, despite the fact that he already knows the answer.

"What have you done?"

Edited 2011-12-01 02:08 (UTC)

Billy doesn't expect the sudden change, and the return to where they started makes his stomach turn. The halls are the same, the clothes are the same, the dread he feels is the same -- but when he rushes through the door after Charles, nothing is the same.

Erik had begged them to let him do this, to murder a man for what he'd done, and Billy had done what he could to stop him. Maybe it's Erik's right to do what he wants to a man who would ruin his life, but Billy can't stomach the idea of killing a man for it -- just wishing to kill someone had been more than enough for him once upon a time, and he'd never been able to think that much ill of someone ever since.

He still doesn't understand how others can do it in cold blood, even for good reason.

"You killed him," he says, eyes fixed on the tiny flow of blood coming from such a neat wound. So small and simple, but enough to snuff out a life in a matter of moments.

Erik peers up from his position on the floor and weighs the coin in his hand, as if debating whether this is the equivalent of the weight of a human soul. Surely Schmidt's is not this heavy. Surely, a man with such evil in him is not worth this much. "I did," Erik agrees. There it is, again, that sound of such a high and innocent voice in complete dissonance with his words. "I feel better," he goes on, as if surprised by such a thing.

And he also feels worse, but he needn't say that aloud.

"No, you don't," says Charles, prying into his friend's mind without invitation. (Is he still a friend, even after this? Yes, of course, but that they don't see eye to eye on so important a matter will surely drive them apart rather than bring them together. Neither of them got to see the aftermath of the events on the beach, though only Charles knows the details between the two of them -- or some, at any rate.)

He steps forward, his feet moving like lead across the floor.

"Erik."

Erik looks up and scrambles to his feet when it strikes him that his mother will be just behind the other door, lying in wait. He sniffs to hold back tears of some emotion he cannot pinpoint and brings with him a flying fury of metal as he yanks open the heavy wooden door, trapping the officer with a bayonet and a rusty pitchfork before he goes sprinting for his mother, to assure him of his reasons for doing this, to make sense of the madness in his mind -- that he's sure Charles can see straight into. "Mutter," is all he breathes out, relinquishing all memory of the man he grows into and the blood on his skin.

He will trade it all for this moment. He will do it a thousand times over.

But, as with all things, it won't last.