There is a fever that burns beneath his skin. Fire spreads down the spine of his back; the ridges bulging beneath skin help pool droplets of sweat that stick to the back of his shirt. Genosha’s climate continues to reign a ferocity that he recalls from the last time he’d been here—in his own universe, in the wake of strikingly similar destruction, while in pursuit for his sort-of mother.
The sullen line of his mouth curves into a wry smile. Billy sways with each subsequent step, following a path of dirt where he can see the crumbs of society taunt what once was. A towering capital, home to millions… With dust kicked up around his feet, even Billy, whose dour optimism would inevitably form permanent lines of stress around his eyes, has to admire the poetic irony of now being in pursuit of Magneto.
Different universe. Same intimidating presence of a man. His grandfather: wise, sharp-tongued, formidable. Would he feel remorseful here? Would he look upon Billy—their same strong chin, dark eyes, heavy brows—and applaud their similarities? (No, Billy urges himself, he probably doesn’t even know—)
There is the crunch of debris beneath his footsteps. Sweltering heat steals his breath and forms additional beads of sweat over a creasing brow. Genosha’s ashes are never pleasant to witness; he recalls photographs of how proud the island stood, amid a world of uncertainty for mutantkind, and feels a swelling in his chest push against his ribcage.
Never again. Never again. Neveragainneveragainneveragain.
“Erik Lehnsherr?” The sturdiness of his voice surprises even Billy once the sound unfurls from his tongue. Hazel eyes flick upwards, recognizing the stature that that forms his grandfather’s shoulders. What do I say? WhatdoIsay?! “My name’s Billy.”
Idiot.
ERIK LEHNSHERR | @housecfm