"If monsters are shaped." Erik's voice is dull and bitter, eyes turned up towards the ceiling, fixed on the patterns there. He sees Shaw only in the corner of his vision. "Who shaped you?"
“Now, son,” he says, and his voice is like a knife inhoney, the edge just barely visible, barely tangible-(reach in, just a little further, just an inch, and you’llcut yourself-)“What kind of a question is that to ask somebody?There are no monsters in this world. Not a one. There’sno such thing and never has been. There’s only men, only different types of men. That’s all. Some better thanothers, sure- but we knew that, didn’t we?”That bony hand, no longer as stark a white as it used tobe but still so hot and cold and wrong, lays itself likea patient spider on Erik’s knee. It squeezes. A bone creakssomewhere.“Of course, if you’re asking where I was born, that sort of thing,I’d have to say I was surprised at the sudden interest. But Ihad a mother, I had a father, just like anybody else. Fine people.Small. But fine people all the same. A sister too, can you imagine?Her name was Karla. I wonder if she’s still around.”










