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[His whole room is shaking. It's like an earthquake has gripped his room, but it keeps lasting and lasting, and only the last dregs of his control are keeping him from causing some serious, actual damage to the ship. But that won't solve anything. None of this will solve anything.

His communicator shoots across the room without being touched, without even a gesture. It slams into the wall, and Erik stares, glares at some empty, middle space without seeing anything. Without seeing the room, at least. He's certainly seeing red. It's a tantrum like he had when he was a child, gutted with loss and rage and heady with the power - things creak around his room, and things shift and shoot and move on their own, and he doesn't think he wants to stop it.]

[Video]

[The video clicks on, and Erik is sitting in his room, at his desk. He's wearing a black turtleneck, and though this is very much an I prefer Magneto time for him, he isn't wearing the helmet. He's composed, but there is such anger in his eyes for anyone looking for it. In front of him is a pile of books, and next to that another pile, half off screen; there may well be more.]

When I was a boy, I saw the Nuremberg Laws passed. It was 1935, and the government of the country I was born in took it upon themselves - with great Aryan support - to refine our understanding of who was German, and who was a Jew. If you had three or four Jewish grandparents, as I did, you were a Jew. If you had one or two, you were Mischling. A half-breed. Mixed blood.

The government told us what we were, but they didn't stop there. They told us who would could associate with. Who we could have sex with. My uncle was beaten and paraded through the streets, forced to wear a sign: Ich habe deutches Mädchen getchändet. I have shamed a German woman. Never minding, of course, that she made a choice, too; she was Aryan. She was above reproach.

That is what I was taught, when I was young. That those in power can do anything, and they will be backed so long as they speak charismatically enough.

[His composure is starting to slip, and he's far from calm - but he hasn't started yelling yet.]

I have been here exactly four hundred and forty-nine days, nearly a year and three months, and in that time I have made ample use of the library. Not long before I was judged and delivered to Barge justice, I learned of a man who denied the genocide that occurred in Germany and Poland. An American man, born in the land of the free, the home of the brave. [The disgust lacing his voice is thick, and he holds up a pamphlet; the most legible thing is the author's name, Harry Elmer Barnes.] He called us the swindlers of the crematoria.

[His voice goes strained, there, almost breaks, and he pauses to take a slow breathe.]

I know not all of you know what happened, in those camps. I know not all of you are from Earth, or my time or after. But these books-- [he gestures to the stacks] --they write about it as history. As past and gone, as fact, in most cases. [He's tossing the pamphlet away with a small sneer, letting it flutter to the floor behind him.]

It isn't just the past. It isn't something that happened a long time ago, though God knows I've tried to put it behind me. I can't. I won't. I shouldn't have to. [He pulls up the sleeve of his left arm, and holds himself so that it's just visible on camera: 214782.] This is the number they gave me. This was my identity. This was the number they called when they told me I was to be sonnderkommando.

[His voice is shaking now, and it's all anger.] Historians write about them, too. They wonder if we should have been prosecuted as war criminals. They say that because we had easier work, we're no better than the Nazis. They think we had a choice, but the only choice was dying slower - and searing into memory the hope on a woman's face when she's told she's going to be allowed to shower, the way she comforted her crying infant. And what could I say? Run? They'd have been gunned down, and me with them. [His hands are in fists.]

We watched them walk willingly - for a poor definition of willing - to their deaths, and when it was done and the gas had cleared, we carted them to the crematoria. I knew others who were buried under piles and piles of bodies. I learned-- [His voice does break there, and he glares harder, pushing on.] I learned how to set an old man's body and a child's together so they would burn better. I carted familiar faces into the furnace. And I should be held accountable.

[Another slow breath; some things on his desk have shifted and spilled, though he hasn't actually moved. The camera, at least, stays steady.]

I'm saying this now so you know. I've seen the limit of human suffering. I know what it is to endure. And my lingering anger over what I - what we were made to endure, is legitimate. I'm not screaming incoherently. [Yeah Megamind, he's talking to you.] And I am not, have not demanded that Toshiko live through what I lived through. That it's been assumed that I would put others through that is grotesque and ignorant. [See Alex, you don't get it.]

But I am telling you that demotion isn't enough. A week in Zero isn't enough, an apology isn't enough. We deserve reparations, and maybe she isn't guilty of war crimes, but she is guilty. I have been an inmate for four hundred and forty-nine days, and I have been her inmate for two hundred and ninety-four of those days. She's seen my file. She knows this information. And when I was sent to Zero because I was defending her, she did nothing.

[Something crosses his face, largely frustration.] Maybe she couldn't. But that doesn't erase what happened, because of her.

Don't tell me she's gotten what she deserved. We're told that this ship is meant to redeem, that it's meant to heal, but don't think for a moment that just because it works occasionally means it's equal, or just, or that everyone has the same chance.

We're told we're wardens or inmates. We're given a title and a job, and we watch each other fail, and fail, and fail. The Admiral would have us convinced that we all have the same opportunity, and I am telling you that we don't. That justice is in flux, that we cannot trust our charismatic leader peddling his deals, that graduation is a combination of work and good fortune, and that deluding yourself otherwise is not hopeful, it's foolish.

I was told that I could graduate, if only I tried, and did the right thing, the same as every other inmate here. I did the right thing. And I am done playing by arbitrary rules.

[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.

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[Charles can feel it happening before the wall they share starts to vibrate, and by the time he's on his feet and rushing for the door, things in his room are starting to rattle around too.

He pushes the door open and steps inside, watching things shake and shoot across the room for a second or two before turning to the one causing all of it, and he's almost not sure if he's forgetting to breathe, or just on the edge of hyperventilating.]

Erik- [He doesn't know what else to say, but takes a cautious half step into the room, the door slamming shut behind him without him touching it.

He feels helpless, and lost, has felt that way for days now, and it almost feels like he's drowning, between that and having the feeling echoed back to him from his friend, albeit different. Erik's helplessness was colored with rage to mask it, and Charles' was just. There. For anyone to look at or notice, and he should probably be recoiling from the anger, but instead, he pushes forward, prepared to duck if anything accidentally shot his way.

He leans down so they're at eye level and puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, projecting calm and comfort and security in all the ways that he couldn't while Erik had been in Zero, and tries to keep his voice steady.]

Erik, calm your mind.

[Something does - a stapler - but it averts course on its own, jerking unnaturally and without much regard to physics in the other direction, slamming into a wall and springing open. For a long moment Erik doesn't answer, but he does, finally, turn to look at Charles. His face is red, angry, wrathful. A moment later, he stands abruptly, grabbing the back of his chair and hurling it away from himself.]

Calm? How am I supposed to stay calm?

I don't- [He doesn't know, that's the problem, because there's no where to go, there's nothing to do, and his response when he's like this is to just collapse in on himself and ignore everyone else. Erik's isn't.

He wants to reach out, wants to do something, but while he knows Erik doesn't want to hurt him, he can still remember getting punched and being held down by the throat because his friend was just too focused to care more than abstractly that he was hurting him, and so he stays back, scrambling for something to say that could fix this.]

I don't know. They don't understand what they're talking about, Erik, but losing control isn't going to change anything. [His voice wobbles and breaks a little on the last word, because suddenly all he can think about is Zero and what it would mean for him to wind up back down there, how much this has set them both back, and his control starts to waver too, because he's just exhausted and miserable and angry with so many people, and that's just not like him, and it's scary.

I'm scared, I'm scared and I need you.

He doesn't know what to do, and any amount of resolve he had is crumbling faster than he can try to build it back up again, and again it feels like it's hard to breathe.] Erik, please.

[It's the unspoken words that he hears best. Erik turns, sweeping several books off his desk in one violent, angry shove. But he goes still after, and most off the things moving about stop abruptly, dropping to the floor. He's still angry, he can't entirely calm himself, but the creaking around his room becomes less frequent.]

This is bullshit, Charles, and you know it is. [He turns to look at his friend over his shoulder.] None of this is right!

[It's at least something, and Charles tries to use it as something to cling onto, something to pull himself up with, maybe, but it's a desperate attempt that's not really working, because everything still feels like it's falling apart.]

I know it's not. I know. What happened to you was so, so wrong- [And he's not just talking about Zero, it's what happened with Shaw and the Nazis and the Overlook and the Vanquish, and that had been his fault, wasn't it? If he hadn't gotten caught, if he'd been able to protect himself, if he hadn't been fucking useless in Cuba, maybe they wouldn't be here at all, and it's that thought that really almost shoves him over the edge, taking a shuddering breath and holding back tears, wiping a hand furiously over right eye and staring hard at the floor.]

I don't know what to do. I feel like every time I- [He cuts himself off, drawing another shuddering breath and trying desperately to hold everything back one more time.] What can I do?

[He doesn't need Charles to speak, he doesn't need him to say anything out loud, because those thoughts are so clear to him, so obvious, that Erik jerks around to face him, walks over, all his movements sharp and angular. He grabs Charles by the shoulders, hard, not quite shaking him, but he feels like he's on the verge of it.]

This is not your fault, [he says, fingers digging in too hard.] None of it is your fault!

[Too hard, but he doesn't try to pull away even though he immediately shakes his head, because it was his fault, for the Vanquish at least, and he just hates what being here has done to him, so he shakes his head again, struggling to find words.] I'm, I should- I should have- Erik-

[It's almost scary, to feel everything finally fall apart and not be able to scramble and pick the pieces back up, and it almost feels like he's just collapsing on Erik when he hugs him and actually starts to cry, because he's overwhelmed and frustrated with himself and everyone else on board, and scared, and utterly failing at coping with the memories this had dragged up, and he does still feel responsible.

Deny it all you want, but if he'd been healthy, he could have at least had a chance of getting away from the Vanquish in time.

But it becomes apparent that this is just as much to comfort as it is looking for some, because there's a fierceness under the desperation and despair. He might be a mess right now, in this moment, but he wants to help, wants to do anything to make this better, to make people stop treating this like it wasn't a big deal, to stop them from acting like Erik was some comic book villain who deserved to be hurt for what he'd done, because he doesn't deserve it, he doesn't deserve this. There's no question that Charles loves him more than anyone or anything, and he just wants Erik to be happy and safe, because he deserves it, and it kills him that this keeps happening and he's powerless to do anything about it.

So he tried to project that, that he's loved and cared for and will always, always have an advocate in Charles, and grits his teeth for a moment, drawing in a few short, quick breaths, trying to force himself to stop sobbing and get back under control, apology tinging the edge of his thoughts because really, this was just a catastrophe.]

Edited 2013-04-06 03:50 (UTC)

[He hugs Charles hard, holds him tight and doesn't let go, doesn't mind the sobbing. Some of his anger spills out through his eyes, dampens them, and he wants to scream and scream until he wears himself out, until he feels less like hurting everything and every one around him. He wants to feel in control again. He wants to feel capable, and all he really feels right now is trapped.

His hands clench around Charles' shoulder, in his shirt, holding tight and fully unwilling to let him go any time soon. Maybe they both need it, the comfort of having someone there, someone who is willing to walk through the gates of hell and not abandon hope for each other. It's not enough, right now - it feels like nothing will ever be enough - but it's more than there was a moment ago.]

[Charles isn't going anywhere. He buries his face in Erik's shoulder and holds on like his friend's the last real thing in the world, because that's what it feels like, and Erik's thoughts match almost exactly how he feels, incapable and trapped and he's scared too, because he just wants Erik to be okay, for things to not fall apart again, to not lose the only things that really matter to him, and so he clings and just tries to breathe through the desperate sobs.

It's not enough, but it helps, just like it's always helped to know that they're not alone, that they have each other, and Charles just keeps projecting that love and devotion and acceptance, that if Erik needs to scream or cry or anything, it's okay, Charles will be here, and he always will be.]

[He doesn't move for a long time. He doesn't scream, cries only a little, because he is so unwilling to let himself fall apart. Charles is an anchor, grounding him, but he needs to know - Charles needs to know that he does not have to be strong for Erik. He does not have to constantly be a crutch, he is not there for Erik to lean on.

His thoughts are a jumble, they are unrefined and laced with anger and pain, but he makes them clear enough: neither of them are all right, and Charles doesn't need to pretend to be. He doesn't have to be strong for everyone. Erik knows that so very, very well.]

[He barks out a noise that might have supposed to have been a laugh, and under different circumstances, he might have tried to project his counter argument, but right now, his control is sloppy, focused so hard on just projecting that he's here, he's here, you're not alone, that anything else feels too difficult, and so instead he struggles to find words, his voice muffled against Erik's shoulder and thick with tears, but still somehow almost normal sounding, something almost like black humor being forced in with the grated out syllables.] Erik, I'm- [He's still crying a little, even though he's wrestled his voice into something intelligible, and he has to stop to take sharp gasps of breath before he can get the words out at all.] Crying hysterically into your shirt and- [And another short breath.] Have been for quite some time. I'm fairly certain I'm not all right.

[He still doesn't pull away, and in fact actually burrows closer with something that's somewhere between a sniffle and a whimper, too miserable to be embarrassed as he holds on to Erik tightly. They're leaning on each other, and that's okay. That's how it should be. And that he does manage to project along with the rest of it.]

Edited 2013-04-07 06:55 (UTC)

[How it should be. Yes, that's how it should be - though he can't help but think that this is not how it should be. They should be leaning on each other to create a better world for their kind, a world where they don't need to fear the next Holocaust, one where there is no stigma, no prejudice. Here they're only struggling to help themselves, to retain some semblance of sanity and - ironically - humanity. Erik grates his teeth, and makes a noise that's something like a wet chuckle.]

We will be. [They will be better, they will accomplish everything they've set out to, they will want the same thing when they finally escape this hell and go back home.]

[That thought, the idea of going home and being together, of wanting the same thing, gets a harsh sob out of the telepath, still muffled against Erik's shoulder, because there's literally nothing he wants more than that, to go home to his family, to be somewhere where he actually felt like he was making a difference and not just struggling against a current he was never going to overcome.]

I'm not leaving here without you, [He projects fiercely, "vocalizing" something he knows Erik already knows, has known for a long time.] I don't care how long it takes. But we will walk away from this, together.

[If there's one good thing about the Barge - and right now, Charles is having a hard time seeing anything good about it - it's that it at least gave them this. It mended their friendship.]

[The one good thing, and it almost makes all the rest worth it. Maybe it is worth it, because at least he knows Charles will be there to lean on. Erik jerks a nod, clenching his jaw hard and breathing harshly in an attempt to calm himself. Things are trembling around him again, shivering, but not flying about.

They will walk away from it together, because to do anything else would be - unspeakably impossible. To stay here forever, to be crushed under the weight of it - to end up like Toshiko - no.

The last time he walked away with someone, he'd been running hand in hand with Magda. Erik chokes on a sob, and some objects do jerk around his room, then, slamming into things before settling and growing still again.]

[Charles hugs him a little tighter - if that's even possible by now - at that thought, remembering the face of the girl he'd never met but still wanted to thank for giving Erik a reason to survive when it seemed like all hope was lost. He doesn't know where he'd be now if Erik had died at Auschwitz, and he didn't want to think about it, really, because even with all the bad that had come along with it, he'd never regret meeting him.

Slowly, he uncurls one of his hands from the death grip it'd had on Erik's shirt and carefully rubs his back, projecting calm and security, trying to settle them both back into something that could pass for serenity.

Eventually, he feels himself starting to calm down, his breathing evening out, but he doesn't move to break their hold on each other, refusing to let go until Erik actually felt better and maybe just selfishly reluctant to move away. Both of them were terrible about asking for comfort, even when they needed it, but this was good, right now. It helped.]

[They barely knew how to accept comfort, even from the person who knew them better than anyone else in the world. Erik was still inclined, in some part of him, to push away and wait until he could balance himself, to destroy the rest of his room until he was exhausted. To cope alone, as he always had.

Even knowing he didn't have to be alone didn't make it easy. But he didn't actually want to be on his own, and that kept his instincts at bay, because the seething anger was still there, still threatening to rise and drown him - but with Charles, it felt like he could stay above water.]

[It's progress, however small - even though Charles would argue it's really not small at all - and he lets out a slow breath, lifting his head and resting his chin on his friend's shoulder, still gently projecting calm and rubbing his back.]

Is there anything else I can do?

[Not that he was making any move to pull away or anything. He wasn't going anywhere. Obviously.]

[Erik shook his head mutely, not trusting his voice, knowing his throat was too tight. No, he thinks, and tries to block off the get me off this ship, because he knows that isn't fair. There's no one to blame here but the Admiral.

And maybe himself, but he's not ready to believe that yet.]

[The quiet breath he lets out in response might have been laughter under better circumstances, but these are definitely not better circumstances.]

I'm working on it, my friend. [We're working on it, really, because neither one of them wanted Erik to be a radically different person or be hurt anymore by this place, or anything, really. Charles just wants him to be happy.]

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