[It's been two weeks since Raven left, a week since the network glitch, and Erik has done a lot of thinking. He never expected to confront another version of himself, despite hearing about him plenty. He wouldn't call it enlightening, but interesting - yes. Very interesting. Between him, and another Raven, another Moira - he's been very thoughtful as of late.

The video comes on, and Erik looks directly into the camera, though it's clear he's not quite seeing it. His gaze is moving inward.]

I've been thinking about the other Barge.

[He's steadfastly refused to talk about it, for the most part. About the man he was there, about what he did. About the people he tried to save. His gaze grows more unfocused, and he can remember the light, the pain and the comfort of it. Pain has always been a part of this life: it is fitting that it was a part of the end of that one.

If that even was an end.]

I've died here. Just once. [He doesn't rub his chest, but the muscles in his arm twitch and flex as a phantom ache rises.] I don't know if I died there. I didn't care. [His gaze sharpens again, his mouth twisting into a rueful smile.] I was more concerned with saving you all.

[And destroying the Barge. That had been just as strong a need as removing everyone back to their homes. He can still remember how the Barge trembled under his power. He can't do that, here, despite his mutation functioning as normal. The Admiral is too powerful for that here.] I don't know if I managed it. I doubt it, to be honest. If the Admiral ever really died, I don't doubt that he'd just come back, like a phoenix from his own ashes. [It would be poetic, if it weren't a touch bitter.]

I do remember some of it. I remember the pain, and the way I welcomed it. I remember becoming more.

[Becoming powerful. Untouchable. Enduring. Becoming nothing. Erik looks away, thumbs over the pages of a book out of sight. He doesn't know where he's going, but he can't quite stop.] I was so angry. I wanted to crush the ship between my hands. [He lifts those hands, fingers curling inward, palms angled toward each other, before they clench into fists so hard they tremble. He has long been capable of such anger, but there...

They unclench slowly, drop back to the desk in front of him.]

And then I didn't. And then - then, I--

[He stops, looking away sharply, and without another word, kills the feed.]

( spam for charles )

( privates messages for Alex, Anya, Jean, Rogue, Kelsier, David )

[Public]

[A few hours after his initial post, Erik comes back on the network. He's calm again, sharp. There's even a little smile in the corner of his mouth. A real, very satisfied one, with no trace of bitterness. Not now.]

I'll be leaving tomorrow.

[He reaches off screen, and pulls one smiley faced cookie into view, courtesy of the Admiral. Graduation stopped being out of reach months ago, but he never quite accepted that it was this close. He breaks off a piece of the cookie and pops it into his mouth.]

Look after yourselves.

[Alles ist Gut. He can think it without cringing, now.]

[The camera comes on to show Erik with dressed like a soldier, with two red circles painted on his cheeks. He has a cap on, its strap belted under his chin. In his hand, a toy sword that he seems very, very convinced is real, judging by the way he hefts it skyward. And it is skyward: he's clearly standing on the deck, surrounded by snow.]

Soldiers!

[He moves stiffly, not out of pain or the long absence of movement from his coma, but because that is how the toy soldier do.]

To battle! To the Prince! The rats - they come!

[Private to the Admiral]

[He adds this later. Grumpily. Very, very grumpily.]

You can dress this up as nicely and kindly as you like: it's just another way for you to feel powerful. I'm Jewish. I don't need your propaganda shoved down my throat every God damned December.

Get them something they'll like. [Erik that is a cop out. Come on now.

And a frustrated - well that sound is a little like a growl, but not quite.]

Fine! Give Charles a soup cook book and the complete works of Ingeborg Bachmann. Give Anya The Way Meat Loves Salt. Give Alex - I don't know - give him something we won't have to argue about. Give Raven new ice skates, and - something special. Some tradition from when she was younger. Give Jean a Hand of Miriam pendant.

Give David a copy of Pinocchio. No - give it to me first. It ought to be edited. Give Rogue a bracelet. Actually - don't. Give me some small bits of metal. I'll take care of it. And give Kelsier a cabinet full of that absurdly strong liquor, whatever it is. Make sure the bottles are hidden in secret compartments.

[This is not the Erik anyone of this Barge has come to know. Something has shattered in him. He's graduated. The camera floats in front of him, held in the air by his mutation: the angle makes the cause of this change obvious. To one side, Charles' body lays, broken, bleeding; on the other lies Ben's, impaled by a dozen make shift spears. The area around them has been torn up by Erik's ripping panels and light fixtures and anything not metaphorically nailed down from their proper places.]

Charles is dead.

[There is weight in his voice, a heaviness laying on his head, but it doesn't break. He stays steady, out of necessity. Erik is not a defeatist: he is not giving up. He is making a choice.]

So is Ben.

[The camera floats ahead, and behind him, Charles' body rises in his wake, following. Ben is left in a pool of his own blood, abandoned. Erik heads for the stairs, brow furrowed - silent, but not done with the broadcast, not yet.

Along the way, bits of metal come to him, hovering on the peripheries.]

You're all so intent on killing each other. That's what it takes to graduate. [He's heading up, taking the stairs two at a time.] To have a second chance at life. All you have to do is destroy everything you hold dear.

[His throat tightens, compromising his calmness: everyone on board will feel the ship ripple just slightly.]

So be it, then. But I've had enough of this cock fighting.

[More metal is coming to him, faster, melding together around him.]

No more murder. No more pointless infighting. You're done.

[Ahead of him, the door to the deck slams open as he steps through; the angle changes, and he stops walking, but his forward momentum hasn't halted. He's floating. The bits of metal close behind and above him, forming a dome as he floats above the nightmare Arthas has made of the deck. It's open enough for him to be seen, but it's closing fast.

Another tremor runs through the Barge.]

When that door opens, there will be a new Admiral. And it's not going to be someone who doles out death like handshakes. We've all endured enough.

[He remembers Cuba, and he remembers the choices he made there. He knows the choices he's made here, and the one he's making now.] This will never happen again.

[The sphere closes, perfectly enclosed, and hangs above the deck. It will stay there, guarding or waiting, until the door opens.]

More kids went missing last night.

[He's very careful to start with that. Make it DRAMATIC. Make people listen. Or try really hard.]

Taken out of their beds, or never came home to them. And there are so many of you who'd say oh, it's just a few Gyptians. Nothing for us to worry about. [It's strange, coming from someone who is obviously not very Gyptian himself, even though he wears their clothes, talks and acts and is one, as far as he's concerned.] What happens when it's one of your own, huh? When they start slipping into Jordan, and St. Michael's, and your other colleges, will you worry then?

Doesn't matter if they're Gyptian or not, those're kids being taken away from their Mas. And no one that can do anything about that is bothering.

[A beat, and he gives a disgusted sigh.] Don't know why I bother. Not enough of you bother to listen.

[Private to Slevin]

There may be a lizard in your bed.

Unless you crushed it already.

But I'd check.

[Spam]

[It's a while after his grousing on the network - Erik has calmed down, and he's gone walking with Raisa. She flies ahead of him, though never too far, when she isn't sitting on his shoulder. Every now and then, she'll hop onto his head; kestrels are small birds, and despite that fact that it always musses his hair, he doesn't mind much.

The walk started as looking for clues of kids gone missing, but when no secrets revealed themselves after an hour, he took some time to sit and watch the kids, townies and college and Gyptians, playing together. He remembers that fondly; it's why he and Slevin still wind up horsing around, and why one of them never quite makes it through a boat ride dry. He can't remember who threw who into the river last; he'll have to figure it out later.

As it is, the kids are throwing around dirt clods, and Erik is reminded abruptly of how much he misses those games. Simpler times, and all that.]

I know that look, [Raisa tells him, and Erik affects his most innocent expression.]

What?

[She, as usual, doesn't buy it.] You're not a child anymore, Erik.

Never too old to have some fun.

[He's very good at wheedling her; being an adult just means he's head more than enough time to perfect the method. So it just so happens that anyone walking by might just have dirt clods rained on them from above, dropped from a kestrel's talons, while a grown-ass man snickers near by. He is an adult!]

( spam for Charles )

[Private separately to Alex, Anya, Raven, Ivy]

Are you all right? [He's tense, tired, but he needs to know they got back safe.]

[Private to Jean]

[This is harder, because he hates, hates that he couldn't prevent what happened to her, hates that she was one of the ones to suffer.]

How are you feeling?

[Private to Kelsier]

I'm sorry I couldn't come for you. [Awkward, a little, because how do admit he cares without admitting he cares.]

[Private to Barbara]

[Nope this is even more awkward.] He was taken care of.

[Private to Zane]

[He's a little more hesitant, but he did tell Charles he'd try. Besides, at least in this, they have something in common.]

I thought I'd put him down permanently. But well done, dealing with him.

[Private separately to Vin and Marsh]

[There's a lot of hesitation before he says to hell with it and puts this one out: might as well collect all you Mistborn folk.] How did you make out?

[Open spam in the CTS]

[A few days after returning to the Barge, when the exhaustion has ebbed and Erik feels like himself again, he can't put off the excitement anymore. He hasn't pushed himself very hard, here; he hasn't had to. Since Raven gave him the glitter, it's been on his mind, but only in port did he realize just how far he could be pushing himself. And he intends to push hard, as hard as he can, now.

In the CTS, he's bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to test these new limits. He had known them, once, but they keep changing, evolving (he likes how that sounds), and there is so much more he can do with magnetism than throwing metal around. That's easy: he's here to practice something much more difficult.

Electricity crackles through the air; it's like the weather itself is attacking him, not terribly unlike the port they just left. But that's all right; that's what Erik wants. He just needs to figure out how to conduct it without that almighty anger. So far, he's just been shocked a lot.]

[Several hours after this thread sees Erik and Charles drinking quite a bit in Erik's room. The communicator coming on is a complete accident; Erik manages to sit on his, and this is the height of butt-dialing. Things are muffled at first, but there's a song in the background and alcohol-light laughter that gets clearer as Erik picks it up out from under him. There's a flash of his sharkgrin smile, and a shaky, unclear sweep of his room that comes from jerking the communicator at someone. If you look very closely, there may be an empty bottle of scotch and another that's already three quarters gone.]

You think you know everything because you're wearing a sweater!

[Then the device goes sailing, and the picture turns end over end, catching a quick shot of Charles looking bewildered and very amused , before it bounces against the couch, and winds up covered by a pillow.]

[This is not something he wants to ask where the Barge can see him, not something he wants to put on display. But some things need to be risked for possible rewards; he just doesn't know if this will be a reward or a punishment.

So the video clicks on, and for a moment, his jaw just locks. He's not sure if he can speak at all. He breathes in through his nose, and exhales through his mouth. If it's not worth the risk...]

My name is Erik Lensherr. Magda, if you're listening-- [His jaw locks again, and there's no I miss you, or I'm sorry. But there is an almost apologetic, very intense look at the camera, before his eyes avert and the feed dies.]

( spam for Charles )

( Content warning for Holocaust discussion and imagery. )

[Spam for Megamind]

[He needs to clear his head, desperately. The post helped, but the anger is still there, will always be there, he thinks, because he hadn't told everything. He hadn't said a word about Shaw, about the experiments. He hadn't mentioned the Vanquish, though it might have driven the point home; those were things he didn't want to face, publicly. Not yet. So he's walking, avoiding people and eye contact, though his posture is probably enough to put most off.

But he sees a flash of blue as he passed the lab, and Erik's gait slows and pauses for a breath. Megamind, who he wanted little than to punch yesterday. He doesn't know what it is that turns him around, that makes him lengthen his stride.]

Stop.

[Private to Tosh]

You've been quiet.

[Or at least he thinks so, he doesn't actually look for her on the network.] Didn't care for the underwater wonder? [The sarcasm is strong with this one.]

[Open Spam]

[The pub, the CTS, the spa, a dozen amenities are gone from the ship, and Erik knows what's happening. The Barge is finally becoming a real prison.

He walks down the halls with his head high and his chin up, but underneath the facade, his skin is crawling. The halls are narrow, but the common rooms were the worst shock yet. It was chance that he discovered the bolts at all, but when he couldn't move one of the chairs by hand, he reached out with his mutation. He could see the metal, the magnetism was malleable, but it wouldn't move.

For one long, horrible moment, he thinks it's gone again, that Toshiko has stripped him of the only thing that makes him himself - but a tense, furious moment later sees the walls around him rippling and trembling under the force of his mutation. It calms him, at least, and the muted trembling stops, for now. The room gets one long, sweeping look before Erik turns on his heel and leaves.

The Admiral can nullify his mutation as he likes, so how long, Erik wonders, before they're all limited and locked in at night? How long before they march down the halls in double lines, to do progressively worse jobs? How long before they're being told, arbeit macht frei?]

[All backdated to just after the flood!]

[Private to Pietro]

I know you're here, and I'm certain you're aware I am. [A beat. He's trying, but trying is hard especially when he has no idea how to broach this. It hasn't gone spectacularly with Anya or Wanda in the past.]

It's not a very big ship. And I'm obviously not the man you know. We could continue to avoid each other, if that's what you'd like. [He cracks a dry half-smile.] But I've found it's better not to assume anything, here.

[Private to Wanda]

[He took a while before turning the feed on for this, so he's perfectly composed. She doesn't need to see or deal with his issues; he wants to say this, and let it lie.]

I'm sorry. I haven't done a very good job of being easy to tolerate. You deserve better.

[Private to Alex]

I still don't expect your trust anytime soon.

[Private to Ivy]

[There is far too much kid drama here, so it's clearly time for something much less family oriented.]

'Generally regarded as sex on legs.' [Your warden, Ivy, he's very amusing to troll.]

[Private to Charles]

[Jesus Christ buddy we have got some stuff to talk about.] I spoke to Anya during the flood.

[Private to the Admiral]

This is your doing, I assume. If I ever feel so compelled to write something like this again, rest assured that it will be filled with the horrors I continue to hope you go through.

( this is the worst wishlist I'm sorry )

[Private to Toshiko]

I want a hanukkiah. I'm sure the Admiral will acquiesce.

[Private to Anya]

We should talk. [He pauses, mindful of all the missteps with Wanda; he's trying.] If that's all right.

[Private to Ivy]

[He's not death tolling anymore, and he's being jaded about the world and wound tight over Anya's appearance here - but belatedly he adds this in, because by now it's been a while, and he has no idea how she weathered port.]

We haven't spoken in some time. [Which is code for should I be worried, or are you okay in your semi-poisonous greenhouse.]

[Public]

I've always found it difficult to tell the month, here. I assume it's December, now, with the snow - but it's not as if we all came from the same time.

[He pauses, and there's some shuffling, the sound of pages turning.]

Every year, December 25th is celebrated around the world. [Dryly:] Something to do with a man and a cross. And every year, around the same time, the 25th of Kislev is celebrated to a much, much lesser extent. I have no idea what month it is by the Jewish calendar, let alone what day; but if it's December, it's more than likely that Hanukkah is approaching.

When I was a boy, we would celebrate each night by lighting the hanukkiah, one candle a night, for eight nights. [There's something almost, almost nostalgic in his voice; he hasn't observed any holiday since he was eight or so.] In better years, my parents managed presents for each night. Small things, but always appreciated.

[Another short silence, another page turning, before he goes on.] My father told me the story when I was very young - of the Maccabees fighting King Antiochus, the desecration of the Temple and the great victory Judah led against the Syrians. I believed the miracle then - that when the Jews, newly freed to practice their religion again, went to rededicate the Temple, there was only enough oil to light the menorah for one night, and yet it burned for eight, long enough to prepare more oil. It was the Eternal Light, meant to symbolize God's eternal presence. [He sounds almost dismissive, now, like he's laying out a lecture he doesn't believe in. Erik has never been a religious man.]

When I was small, I believed it. I know better now. There was no miracle; there are no miracles. The oil likely burned, and the flame likely guttered and died again. And two thousand years later, parents still lie to their children to give them hope, and make them feel less disconnected from the world around them at this time of year.

[He snorts quietly.] At least it's a pretty sham.

[When the camera clicks on, there's just the Cloverfield/Blair Witch Project effect: everything is shaky and slow to focus. The feed shows one of the suites, and the movement blurs things over - is that confetti on the floor, or just dust? Is the drapery meant to be that red, or was something splattered there? But there isn't long to dwell on those mysteries, because the camera finally focuses on Erik. His eyes are wide, and a little wild; at first the camera is too close as he shifts his grip on the device, and that's all there is to see: very wide, very angry eyes.]

Shh, [he says sharply, pulling the communicator back again. The door into the hall is behind him, and wide open.] Can you hear it?

[Maybe you'll hear nothing. It's faint, certainly, and Erik scowls, glancing around.] Shh, shh!

[And then, just maybe, you'll hear a song drifting up. It's old, decades old, but he recognizes it. His eyes leave the device, and he stares at something off screen for a moment. Then he lets go of the communicator, and for a moment, the camera is in free fall - but it lifts again, steadier this time, without Erik's hand holding it. It hovers in front of him again. Behind him, the door is closed.

Some of the anger clears from his face, and as the song gets louder - for him, at least, he joins in the verse.]

Il me dit des mots d’amour
Des mots de tous les jours
Et ça me fait quelque chose

Il est entré dans mon coeur
Une part de bonheur
Dont je connais la cause.

[For a moment, everything is still and (mostly) quiet. Then the anger floods back, and Erik waves his hand; the communicator is thrown across the room, where it falls, propped up against the wall. It has a good view of the suite, and of the damage Erik is doing to it. Mirrors shatter as their metal frames twist in on themselves, drawers with metal runners launch themselves out of dressers and desks, the room seems to destroy itself. And Erik steps into the frame amid the wreckage, pointing at - well. At what might be nothing, or what might be a man in a silver helmet.]

You son of a bitch! You son of a bitch, you turn it off!

[He sweeps his arms wildly, and cracks appear along the ceiling; dust filters down on the communicator, and then there is nothing as beams fall on it.]

( [Spam for Charles] )

( [Spam for Tosh] )

(OOC: Lyrics translation: 'He speaks to me words of love/Words of every day/And it makes me something/He has entered my heart/A place of happiness/Of which I understand the reason.' For maximum dear God why-ness. The German is 'You and I are going to have a lot of fun together.')

[When the video clicks on, Erik stares into the camera for a silent second, his posture relaxed, his expression thoughtful. The helmet still sits on the edge of his desk, just out of site; he hasn't been wearing it. His fingers tap idly on the pages of an open book, da da da da, over and over until they go still, and he sits a little straighter.]

The Admiral enjoys putting us through hell. That much is obvious to anyone who has been here more than a month. Keep your arguments - if he doesn't enjoy it, it at least happens often. We have no control of it, only the certainty that when it ends, we will be back here to pick up the pieces. Sometimes we don't even have that, when our identities are robbed.

[His fingers drum against the pages again, and he glances down, eyes moving left to right, reading silently. After a moment, he lifts the book, showing the title: The Thirtieth Year, by Ingeborg Bachmann.]

This was published only a few years ago, in 1961. Ms. Bachmann grew up in Austria, during the war.

[His mouth pinches at the corners, painfully aware just how much everyone can discern of his childhood, thanks to the regression flood. But he goes on anyway.]

Despite that, there is a distinctly joyful tone in her writing. She philosophizes about language in many of these stories, about the invention of a pure language unfettered by desire, or imagination, or will. A language of truth. [Da da da da go his fingers, and he cups his jaw in his free hand, brows creased in thought.]

I traveled a great deal after escaping Germany. [After escaping Auschwitz; he doesn't say that his travel was, in fact, hunting.] I saw the rubble of cities, bombed out homes and destroyed blocks, as she no doubt did. And there is a choice, when you see those things. [He stops tapping, drops his hand from his jaw.] There can be anger, for those that cause such destruction, rage on behalf of the lives that were ruined, buried beneath stone. Or, there can be hope. Frail, but brave, for though there are ruined towns and millions of bodies to account for, you are still drawing breath.

[He falls silent again; Bachmann experienced the latter, he felt the former. And it's strange to say that their are choices when really he felt like he had none. There is still only one path - but sometimes, maybe, paths can brush before they part again.]

The title story is predictable: a man loses his lust for life, and only discovers it after a brush with death, while trapped in traction in a hospital, amongst the invalided and infirm. It isn't so different here, I think. We are trapped, at the mercy of our invasive and neglectful doctor, left to piece ourselves together after each great accident.

[He lifts the book again, flipping a page and searching for a passage.] And we do it, because to fall apart is to give in. "I say unto thee: Rise up and walk! None of your bones is broken." [He closes the book, and stares into the camera.]

I intend to walk out of here one day.

[But the way he says it doesn't leave it particularly clear - maybe he will graduate. Or maybe he will rip the Barge apart on his way out the proverbial door. Erik leaves the feed for a moment, before reaching forward and ending it.]

[The video feed clicks on to show Charles and Erik sitting on one of the couches in Charles’ room, obviously about to address the Barge about something. Erik in particular has been pretty scarce since the end of the kid flood and doesn’t exactly look thrilled to be here, but 1. when has he ever looked thrilled to be anywhere since turning up here and 2. it’s not the kind of grumpiness that warns he’s about to do something like, say, rip your arc reactor out of your chest. More importantly, he isn’t wearing his helmet, basically for the first time in public without the influence of a flood.

Charles speaks first, and is using what’s probably by now that familiar cadence that comes along with him explaining something, whether that be some science fact that’s caught his attention recently or rights for mutants.]

As I’m certain some of you know, approximately two weeks ago - starting on October 16th - began the anniversary of the Cuban Missile Crisis. For those of you who don’t, in 1962 tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union became so pronounced that the world literally sat on the brink of nuclear war. The commonly accepted story of what happened - or, at least, what seems to be, based on the reading I’ve done since we got here - was that the Soviets were far behind the Americans in the nuclear arms race, and hatched the idea of positioning missiles in Cuba in order to act as a deterrent against a potential attack from the United States.

The Americans found out about these new missiles under construction in Cuba on October 15th, and after much deliberation, a naval blockade was set up around Cuba to prevent more Russian missiles from coming in, resulting in a thirteen day confrontation between the assembled Russian and American fleets.

[Erik snorts quietly, and straightens slightly in his seat, uncrossing his arms.] It didn't take thirteen days. [Right to the point, that's Erik.] It didn't even take three hours. And it certainly wasn't the Russians' idea to put missiles in Cuba.

[He glances back at Charles, only briefly, replaying how many people he mentioned Herr Doktor to and realizing he's decidedly glad that Klaus Schmidt changed his name..] It was at the behest of a man named Sebastian Shaw.

[Charles glances over at him until he finishes speaking, picking up on the edges of those thoughts - which was awesome, he’d desperately missed having this kind of easy communication with someone - before looking back at the camera.] Shaw wanted to start nuclear war between the United States and Soviet Union, believing that it would wipe out the human race and leave mutants to inherit the Earth. And aside from the obvious moral issues with committing genocide, the science just doesn’t work. Our mutations don’t make us any more or less vulnerable to radiation than a normal human.

[Erik cocks his head to the side, and looks almost amused - that is, if you don't pay too much attention to the dark look in his eyes. That look tends to show up as a precursor to ripping out fillings or necessary if extravagant pace makers.]

Some of us may, given the variance in our abilities. [His voice takes on a harder tone.] Shaw would have survived it. But he envisioned himself as a post-apocalyptic president for all mutant kind. He called us the children of the atom. [He's sounding harsher and harsher, and it's really a good thing the Admiral hasn't decided that Shaw is deserving of redemption, or the ship would be in bad shape right now.]

He didn't realize he'd have ruled over a handful of us at best.

[Alright, this is going in a direction Charles feels like he’s going to regret, so you’re getting frowned at before he’s just continuing with the story.]

We’d been working with the CIA trying to locate and stop Shaw for a few months before Cuba, but we weren’t certain where he would be making his final move until President Kennedy made his address to the nation about the crisis. The next morning – October 23 – the both of us, as well as a small group of our students, [And he’s careful not to let on how crappy that feels, because they’re not our students anymore, Mr. We Want the Same Thing.] went to stop Shaw from carrying out his plans.

[Erik's mouth quirks up at the corner, just a little, because he is ignoring that frown and the carefully hidden discomfort, because he likes to think he knows what he wants - and hopes that one day Charles will see things his way, too. But that isn't what's being discussed here, so he nods toward the camera.]

Meaning, you have us to thank for the avoidance of a nuclear - disaster. [There's the barest pause, like he was going to say holocaust and thought better of offering an extra reminder of the child he'd been.]

You're quite welcome.

[And Erik leans forward to kill the feed before Charles can add anything else, because he's a good friend like that.]

'Springtime for Hitler.'

[Someone is supremely angry, but hiding it behind bland looks that say 'I am so far from impressed.' Which means someone is about to get a filling yanked out or something, seriously don't trust him when he looks this calm and is talking about Hitler.

And yes, in the background, one of Tony's little robots is playing the Producers. Well, one song. Guess which. Erik lifts a hand, and the tinybot floats into view, hovering in front of his face. He talks over the music, eyes focused on the robot.]

Is this what I should expect of the future? Will they take one of history's most depraved events, and turn it into a joke?

[The song's restarted, and a muscle in his jaw gives a faint twitch.]

Eleven million people died under Hitler's springtime. It sounds like a lot. It sounds like just a number. It has no impact until you see a room piled high with thousands of spectacles. Until you smell burning rags and bone with every breath. [This disinterest is quickly leaving his face, and there's just so much open disgust and rage there instead.] It means nothing until you learn that there are those who would deny that these places existed at all.

You know, I can't decide what's worse. That there are those in such denial that they can ignore the proof in front of their eyes - or the ones who know what happened, and still choose to make light of it. To make a joke of eleven million men, women, children.

[He lifts his hand, and the robot flips, its bottom facing Erik; his fingers twist, and it turns to face the camera, revealing that PROPERTY OF IRON MAN etching. The song reaches the lyrics, 'look out, here comes the master race,' and Erik's hand clenched. The robot crushes in on itself, and for a few seconds there is an abrupt, deafening silence. He looks very ready to murder someone. Particularly someone with a hunk of metal in his chest.]

You pathetic excuse for a man.

[And he is waving his hand to click off the feed. Tony you better make a plastic arc reactor.]