[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 )

( 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.

[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.]

[People have been taken, by now; not Erik, he was able to make it back before getting nabbed, but enough. And let's be real, he's only actually concerned about one person, here. Charles is not around the Barge, and Erik is Not Happy. When the video clicks on, he even looks downright outraged.]

Once more the Admiral's deposited us in the middle of devastation and hostility. Worse, he's seen fit to strip those of us who are more than human of our gifts, beyond the limits of the Barge.

[This is the only PSA he's giving. Because he's still furious that he couldn't just rip apart those land rovers.]

These...creatures have taken people. I'm not waiting here to see if the Admiral will think to retrieve them before he decides to leave. [So he's...implying that maybe they'll be left behind, but he's talking about running out there and being left behind himself, if that's the case. Logic!!]

I'm going. Anyone with weapons is welcome to join me. [Since...he has none. But whatever his anger is his weapon, duh.]

( Backdated spam for Wanda )

[Video]

[And here is flood!affected Erik, who escaped the Holocaust, who was never tortured or experimented on by Shaw. He can't really control his powers, but he's kind of a chill guy, now, and that isn't actually a problem. He only sort of notices the dampening effect that's on him. So when the video flicks on, he's smiling, looking fairly pleasant and very very curious.]

Hello, I'm Erik Lensherr. I'm a graduate student at Yale, pursuing a degree in genetics. And this - well this isn't the vacation to Hawaii I'd been hoping for, but I'm not certain I can complain, really. The view is utterly spectacular. [He pauses, looking around the room - because this Erik has never been to Charles' mansion upstate.] Are all the accommodations as lavish as this? It's much more than I'm used to, really. I'm afraid I could get used to it.

((OOC: Yup, Flood!Erik had Shaw picked out of his life, so he's actually a very chill, easy going guy. He'll be your best pal for the next few days. And then hate you for it.

Four days of freedom, and we're dragged back kicking and screaming, like children gone astray.

[He pauses, and though he sounds calm, there's a lot of anger bubbling beneath that facade.]

I spent a lifetime trapped by the ideals of other men. When I first came to America, they promised more ideals: freedom. Peace. [There's derision in his voice.] America's ideologies are as flawed as Germany's; both professed freedom and prosperity, but only so long as they were in control.

They made the same mistakes, and underestimated their enemies. [His voice is cold, now.] And they paid for it.

But not enough.

[There's a shift, of weight, and the sounds of pages being turned.]

How many wardens will decide that their deals aren't worth it? How many will decide to walk away, knowing that no inmate has that right? [A chair creaks, like he's too angry to sit still.] And when they've all left, where does that leave us? At the mercy of a madman who can limit our very selves, with no hope of escape.

[Something heavy and papery slaps down against a hard surface, and a rattle starts, like the communicator is shaking. When Erik continues, his voice is lighter and so, so mocking.] But I suppose that's too dim a view, isn't it? No, I should be grateful for the opportunity I've been afforded here, hm? Thank you, for taking my abilities from me, Admiral. Thank you for taking my ability to control my mutation. And thank you, for giving me the opportunity to earn back a part of me.

You're too kind.


((OOC: Erik pretty much spent the Gotham Port saying PEACE OUT and flying away with all his nice powers, so between that and Parker leaving he is NOT HAPPY. This is also backdated to late last night, so if anyone feels up for late fourth walling, have at!))

[Sup Barge. This is the one time you will see Erik without his helmet on. His hair is a little mussed and he looks more than a little frazzled. He doesn't like this kind of constant mutation okay, it's not really his thing. He liked just catching every piece of metal in the corner of his eye.]

When is this damn flood going to be over?

[Yeah Erik is super talkative. He is, however, broadcasting and receiving, and right now, he's broadcasting a hell of a lot of frustration, and under that some serious yearning. He wants his repo family, even if he doesn't want anythign to do with that world, and he can't stop wanting it. :c]

Is this what it's always like? [He's talking to Charles, sort of, but he realized he didn't make it private and...doesn't care.] You other psychics, is this what it's like all the time?

[Private to Parker]

I want my powers back. [Lol it is not a request. :c]

[There's a strangled, muffled scream when the audio clicks on, which is abruptly cut off by a wet sounding thump. Erik's cheery when he finally talks. NOTHING WRONG HERE, EVERYTHING IS BEAUTIFUL AND NOTHING HURTS except for the poor bastard he's repoing.]

They get so loud sometimes, don't they. Sorry about that, I know how delicate some of you new folks can be. [He laughs, and it's not. particularly. pleasant. He starts whistling to himself, and other sounds fill the audio for a few seconds; very unpleasant, scalpels-meeting-skin sounds.]

The faire has been a nightmare in traffic. Some of us have kids to pick up from school, you know. Can't wait for that opera though, hm? Blind Mag's last show, it's bound to be a real smash. Did anyone get tickets?

[That was the sound of bones breaking; he's still whistling, still sounds like this is the most normal thing in the world.] There you are, you little fucker-- Spine replacements are always tricky. So many bones and nerves relying on one flexible bit of skeleton, mm? Terrible thing to lose one. [Erik laughs again, and this one's outright eery.] But that's debt for you. Every society needs its rules. [Another scream tears over the airwaves, but it's cut short with a few wet gurgles.] Shame.

Magda, sweetheart, if you're listening: do we need milk?


((OOC: Since it's all voice I can't add this in but Erik had some aesthetic/useful enhancements to his teeth. Because he's a shaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaark, duh.))

[Filtered to INMATES, excluding Wanda and Arthas]

Some of you have been here for years. I want to know what you've learned. [He's testing the waters here, putting out feelers. Who's into this redemption line they're spoon feeding us, and who's willing to fight for their freedom. Just not in so many words.] Have you allowed them to try and change you? Do you believe everything they've promised?

[Private to Arthas]

I'm told you hate this ship and everything it claims to stand for. Was I misinformed?

[Private to Ivy]

I think it's time we find out just who sees reason among us. [A pause, and an afterthought:] It would be prudent of you to avoid a man named Charles Xavier.

[Private to Charles]

Pyro. [What is up with this future kid mutants knowing us thing. :|]