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Error – the state or condition of being wrong in conduct or judgment.
Cognizance – conscious knowledge, awareness or recognition.
Error of Cognizance
Magneto – Erik Lehnsherr had always been unbendable in his certainty. His calculations, beliefs – eternal and everlasting, stronger than even the adamantium that he could wield, could shape to his will. A man of remarkable precision, his opinions were undeniable in their correctness and accuracy. True, each of his views of something were open to broadening but the truth of their basis remained. Whatever thesis he would form remained a constant in its fundaments; additional digits could be added (if necessary) to the equation but the initial facts never changed. The outcome could wary, not corresponding identically to what he had assumed it would be or not be satisfactory. However it was erroneous to claim that his outlook was wrong, even if the end result failed to comply with the predetermined route – the constants still stood true.
The master of metal was a great judge of character (and he had to be – his whole life had depended on that; unclear perception would only lead to one’s tomb). Raven Darkholme, known by her alias that matched her metamorphic personality well – Mystique, was not a singularity where it concerned his ability to correctly evaluate character, however that was not quite right – her personality was not a solved mystery, neither static nor solid in shape (a fitting description for the Goddess of a thousand faces).
Decades ago he had met her, a young girl – hidden and protected by a mask of peach-hued skin, sun-loved hair and azure eyes, which concealed the midnight secrets (treasures) beneath. Her persona had been clear to him – still forming, incomplete, frightened, ashamed and seeking approval, filled with raw illusions – but potential was obvious too. Then she had been Charles’ Raven, although with the capacity of becoming something else, something extraordinary – a whole different person. And despite the fact that Erik had been the one to plant the poison seed within her (a minuscule act in first glance but with universal impact) – the birth of Mystique was purely her achievement.
Therefore there were two faces of the same coin: Raven – with the imprint of her brother’s words flowing like a torrent from her mouth (and Charles Xavier was one of the strongest Mutants to live ‘till this day, who believed in nothing but utopian ideologies – which vastly opposed everything Magneto stood for) and his Mystique – a woman of pride, blue and scale. The difference between these two personalities was that of day and night – easily distinguishable from one another. There were also wisps of winds of her each and every worn skin – in-between-ers of sorts, which in the grand scale did not even touch her true personas, remaining just flesh-deep.
Even in that very beginning, the short time before Raven had begun questioning the frames that humanity had told her to fit in, even then his assessment of her was lacking in error. And Mystique, oh Mystique – he knew her well. Well enough to be without doubt that she would follow the Cause, although with her own agenda beneath. There was once a time when he had been pushed into confirmation of that theory – that she was instinct rather than logic, a time he was rather loathe to remember (but in his defense, given for his own sake, a decade of imprisonment could do that to a mind – upturn it horribly, even if the whole of it remained intact).
In his unwavering understanding there had been no conflict between which was (or had been) Raven and which one was Mystique. Alas there had been extremely rare occurrences when he could not tell who the woman was. During those few times she would manage to completely break his mental portrait of her, in those moments the shards would prove to be too many and too sharp for him to put back anything coherent – that way remaining lapses in his impeccable vision.
One of those happenings had occurred well before that cold day in November, in that prison convoy when the metal of it had felt colder than ever – then he had not had the ability to tell just who had whispered his name, for it was neither Raven nor Mystique. The female lying on the steel floor was frighteningly alien yet painfully familiar – but the fact remained that it was neither Raven nor Mystique.
It was cold and damp, despite that it was several levels underground. The dripping water from the cracks in the ceiling and walls, the occasional puddles squelching underneath Magneto’s boots were a testament of the poor and hasty construction of the underground parking lot. It was completely deserted in these wee hours of morn, perhaps having something to do with the subtle involvement of the Brotherhood of Mutants not far from the vicinity.
There weren’t many automobiles parked in this level, however the swiftly striding man thought that where the car they’d arrived in (its ‘borrowing’ the courtesy of the woman that was with him) was parked – there were more. He was clearly agitated but his cold features belied that, only his steps betrayed his state; he was unsettled enough to considering forcing each of the vehicles out of his way (uncaring for the evidence that would be left behind).
Vast amounts of concrete and the metal structures within surrounded him – but that did not lull him in the very least. The powerful Mutant had seen enough of concrete walls and their grayness taunted him now in a way that was far from being common to him. The space was not oppressing at all and the ceilings were quite high, however that did not stop a peculiar feeling of claustrophobia begin ghosting in his mind. He shoved the subconscious sensation away, rationalizing that with the number of cars his power rivaled and outdid that of a small army’s. Furthermore, he could tear this whole building down (although first he would have to make sure of their escape, which was not a very difficult feat considering the layout).
Magneto was walking fast, anger evident in his pace but with ever-present regality. His memory was extraordinary, however if anyone were to ask years later why he’d been so reservedly furious then – he would not have been able to remember. The exact reason for this emotional state had escaped him very soon afterwards (then he had known the cause for it but with negligence to even recall the day made a lot of it slip away from his conscious, only certain details remained with vivid clarity). The ploy had been a success – that much was true, although not everything had gone as he had calculated that it would. Aside from the moderate triumph of the small-scale scheme – all else was forgotten about it. And there had been so many plans – it was easy for one or two to pass into the seas of past forgotten.
The mission had not been directly tied with the event he and his Mystique had attended. His life, dedicated to the Cause, did not allow for careless leisure and pointless dwindling. But while he did not live a hedonistic lifestyle, he still combined the realization of his ideology with certain forms of entertainment and luxury. It was not necessary for survival, however for sanity’s sake one did not immerse oneself in the unending atmosphere of war.
The evening gala had dictated their garb. He wore a dark ensemble, semiformal attire (as he quite humorlessly had thought to himself) that was easy to transform into the clothing that represented who he truly was. His clothes had the slightest sheen of silver to them, which further attested to the expensiveness of the material they were fashioned off. The cape-like (but not quite) coat was asymmetrical, part of it resting on his right arm, reminding of a long sleeve but not actually being one. The slightly visible inner material of the ‘sleeve-cape’ hinted at a velvety sanguine red color, the same as the inside of the coat itself.
Magneto did not wear his helmet, instead a band of the same metal but dyed in silver embraced his head from behind, stopping at his temples. It was a necessary precaution because they had anticipated meeting a troublesome telepath. Not one of Charles’ little pupils nor a candidate, actually the Mutant belonged to neither of the domineering ideologies and (perhaps not intentionally) opposed both. The Leader of the Brotherhood of Mutants was simply not as passive as Professor X where it concerned such matters (therefore he had no qualms against eliminating obstacles). A barrier, as the one he wore, against mind-controlling mutations was sufficient to stop such a pest, even if he was indeed a level three Mutant. The helmet was a way of keeping the strongest telepath out of his mind, but he was not within Charles’ range or at least not in his old friend’s thoughts – which removed the dread possibility of Cerebro being used against him.
He was very aware of the heels that clicked in a quick, near staccato beat. Mystique was not far behind and she was not falling behind him (she never would), still she made no move to catch up to the most powerful Mutant that controlled the physical world. He did not need to turn around to see her, for he saw her perfectly in his mind’s eye (her visage was just that engraved in his brain). He could clearly imagine the white high-heels hitting the concrete floor and the same colored dress swishing with each of her steps (and were they just as equally angry as his or did they simply match his hastiness?).
She still wore what she had to the evening event (now all that remained of that was a vague, floundering memory of politics and people related to it, silk and satin, champagne and caviar – a gathering that was far less serious than it should have been; a detour on their part). And she actually wore clothing, which was a truly rare occurrence. There was no practical sense to it (although if a very low temperature was combined with a lengthy time spent in it – for his lovely companion clothes were relevant then), there had been naught a possibility that upholding her flesh-generated garb would be somehow difficult.
Seldom Mystique would be struck by an unexplainable fancy to wear, to possess something, it was a sign of her instinctual nature losing to her vanity (which he knew that she had, and he was prideful of the fact). Whatever she wanted – she had; the man was not wary of providing anything, no matter how costly it was – for a Goddess had a right to acquire whatever she wished.
Perhaps in a fruitless attempt to relax, Magneto tried to focus his thoughts into the female Mutant’s, that walked behind him, image. It provided him with a fractured relief for the moment – but he was too distracted to care for the shortness of the mental break. He envisioned her once more, seeing as if from the side rather than from his own perspective. And the visage was powerful indeed – as hers often were, it carved a niche into his brain – bent on staying there forever.
Her evening gown was a snowy white – a color he had found she enjoyed wearing, for if she ever did wear anything it was always white. The fabric was heavy but flexible – moving very enticingly when the marvelous wearer did. It embraced her body tightly – showing just how beautiful her figure was. Sleeveless and high-necked – it did not seem as daring as what one would have thought her to wear. However the back of it was a sinfully low cut, accompanied by a slit in the bottom – the dress was so tight that the slit was nearly invisible but when she moved – the cut in the material exposed her legs up to the back of her knees.
The sight of her legs – crura being visible (ankles, calves and up to the tender flesh of the back of her knees) – it was a glorious sight, an enrapturing one indeed, that even his eyes, so intimately knowledgeable with every inch of her skin, could not help but linger. However he could not stop feeling that it was also bitter. And his lover was aware that he felt about it so, he was quite certain that she even wanted him to feel that way too. A hideous scar that marred the flesh of her right calf stood as a painful reminder; the fact that it hadn’t faded although she had tried to banish it away (as she did not scar, not really) only solidified that she could not ignore the significance of it. It remained to remind him that she had not forgotten his actions and never would. While Magneto’s objective did not allow him to experience regret, via Erik Lehnsherr he was able to feel a facsimile of it – which did not make the remembrance any easier to overcome.
In the elaborate party, in the company of the homo sapiens gathered, the shapeshifting woman had worn her soft peach-colored skin. And the older version of the human Raven (perhaps aged thirty but no older than thirty-five) was not as impressive in the gown as was the Mutant Mystique. White was not meant for her human skin – it was meant for the lapis lazuli color of her real flesh. The purity of the fabric accentuated the divinity of the intricately patterned lazurite blue.
She was not without accessory. A belt of diamond encrusted skulls hung low on her waist – and while a rather daring choice such a jeweled piece was, he thought that it represented her dangerousness well. A pair of adamant earrings dangled from her ears, mostly hidden by the mass of her styled crimson locks. Their softness, length and volume were just another apparition-like presence of her waving and resurfacing vanity. She could imitate her hair into anything she liked (even if it would be the only thing to be altered by her gift) but she chose rather to play with it and force its natural, visually wiry strands into submission – purely for her own entertainment (it seemed that she liked to control her being in other ways not connected with her abilities – not that he minded, for adaptation was a source of mutation itself anyway). A diadem of metal alloys weaved with brilliants rested on her head. The centerpiece of it hung at the center of her forehead, it was a tiny skull – also encrusted with miniature diamonds. The headpiece was not just for decoration purposes, the alloy was the very same as the band that clasped the back of his head – they were not naïve to allow any weak links when dealing with telepaths (although in Mystique’s case – Charles was an exception, for her brother had sworn to keep away from her mind and had yet to break that oath; sentimentality as such was a weakness but it was good if it worked for the Brotherhood’s gain). Several rings covered the woman’s fingers – all platinum and adamants, shinning along with the pearlescent varnish on her long, sharp and square-shaped nails. This jewelry in total was worth enough to make even a wealthy man’s head spin, but Magneto was unfazed. His Cause was not as without profit as it might have seemed and although the funds could have been used to further it, he chose to spoil his midnight beauty (for that was logical enough because she was a very profitable investment).
The pleasantness however did not last. It evaporated instantly, like a whisper scattering in the wind, like an abruptly snapped film reel – the soothing illusion shattered. The studying of Mystique’s exquisite visage ended, although he still saw her in his mind – he was still aware of her presence. The male Mutant’s senses were dominated by damp concrete, rusting and new metal, the smell of rubber and petrol.
An ill feeling settled deep within Magneto’s gut. It was not a physical sensation, therefore the idea that his graceful ageing had taken a turn for the worst was quickly eliminated as a possible reason. It was more of a feeling of something being amiss – not right; it was a feeling of foreboding. He ignored all signs of a ‘storm’ to come and simply pushed everything back into his subconscious, winning only more agitation on his part.
He realized that they had taken the wrong entrance and the place they had left the car was still ways ahead of them. His companion had probably not noticed him chose the farther entrance and had only followed him blindly.
Amidst his cold fury-laced marching he started talking or perhaps ranting in his own fashion. It may have been a monologue or perhaps a dialogue but if it was the latter, then somehow ordinary enough, not quite significant enough in content, for him to remember. It was something related to the Cause – of that he was sure but the details were long gone. Judging by the words she’d uttered – the ones that he could not forget, it was most possibly nothing too general or maybe it just hit her own world in a way she deemed unforgivable.
The man came to a halt and turned, his coat swishing wildly with the movement, to face the blue-skinned woman standing meters away from him (the distance was short but it felt as though it was oceans wide). Perhaps if he would have just continued walking to their black means of transportation, things would not have escalated so. Maybe both of them would have been able to move on from the subject, and maybe on his part the memory of the evening would have been drown in the waters of Lethe completely. Alas he had not done so and in turn had allowed fate to make that moment a stark contrast to the overall times he had spent with the woman.
Mystique never raised her voice at him, her only opposition were suggestions – and even those spoken indifferently and with a touch of nihility. Raven had done so sometimes – had come close to arguing passionately with him (and he had hated the influences of her brother that had been detectable there), still it was universes away from this.
Her tone was not much higher than her usual manner of speaking, however the intonation made all the difference. Never had she addressed him with such – it felt as though he was immersed into freezing water, feeling his lungs filling with it in wintery agony; it was shock undiluted although his expression did not reveal that.
“If god’s the game that you’re playing, then we must get reacquainted, Erik, because it has to be so lonely – to be the only one who’s holy” the mockery in both tone and words was obvious, delivered not quite with the calm that she mostly used. Her anger and the subtlety of her choice of dictionary – was all wrong, and it only cut into him more.
After her words everything changed – it was as if he was no longer talking to her, it was as if she were someone else (and it was an ironical thing to think about a shapeshifter). It was not Mystique but it was not Raven either, he could not even claim that it was a fraction of one of her morphing-skins slipping into her persona that ruined the balance. It was a stranger, it was not her – but of course it was her. Assuming that because this failed to comply with his mental lines of her – made this not her, then that would deny the existence of this occurrence. It was a paradox that had wormed its way into his order.
Although the revelation was quite frightening, the metal wielder was simply too angered to register it completely (his potent rage nearly twisted his lips into a grimace). It was not in Magneto’s personality to concede, he always had the last word.
In his self-righteous mind she had no right to accuse him of misusing his power – or whatever it was that she was accusing him of. For such an instinct-driven, egoistical, apathetic (when it came to others) creature as her to accuse him of egoism was pure hypocrisy. No, he was not as pathetically altruistic or of such a naively high-morale as Charles – however that did not mean that he was selfish or in possession of a god-complex. And he told her that; his words meaning to figuratively point her to the mirror.
“My dear, you do not deserve a point of view, if the only thing you see is you” there was no need for emotion to soak into his cold, metallic words; a taunting smirk was the best weapon in this battle.
Her jaw clenched and her sun-lit eyes narrowed. She must have said something – but that too was lost. The memory of the continued conversation (if one had even occurred) was wiped from his psyche. He probably had reminded her that she was free to leave (had he not told her, years ago, that it was time for her to be free? He had not changed his mind, valuable as she was, Erik had not planned on caging her and the passage of time had not altered that). He was entirely positive that he had not mentioned the founder of the School for Gifted Youngsters – he couldn’t have. Charles was a heavy subject for them both and no matter how furious he was – Magneto was not cruel enough to mock her with her adoptive brother’s name. It was true that the painfully good-willed telepath would take his sister back at any time (even if all of his students and teachers would eventually find out who she was and would vehemently oppose), no matter what grief and hardships (and murders) Raven had caused (committed). Alas the Leader of the Brotherhood was all too aware that it was not Charles’ acceptance that would be the reason why she would never return. Being surrounded by the man’s forgiveness, understanding and ideology – in that environment she would simply not be able to accept herself, to accept what she had become.
Magneto turned around and resumed his quick and graceful pace towards the automobile, forcing vehicles out of his way. He was sure that he had given no absolution, no closure to the woman, he simply walked away – with neither promise nor word of consolation. It was as if Magneto left Mystique to reevaluate her choices, to attempt at guessing her value to her Leader, her accomplice, her companion, her lover – for if he left her so easily, what was her worth in his mind then? But he did not think of what his choice to stride away without waiting for her meant – he just acted as he thought necessary (she was free, he would not wait, she would have to keep up if she wanted to follow – anything else would contradict the responsibility that came with the place beneath the sun that he had carved for himself).
With every step he became more wary but he had to keep moving. He did not fear to leave his back exposed to her, he could always walk away from an opponent and it was not a habit born out of overconfidence. Erik did not think that she would actually attack him, it was neither in Raven’s nor in Mystique’s interest to fight against him for his verbal ‘crimes’ (or so he guessed she categorized them). However given a good enough reason Mystique would not be against stabbing him in the back with a certain detachment too – a factor that would make the whole act not a vendetta but a matter to simply get over with, it would not make him feel guilty (if his actions would be considered the cause) or betrayed. The male Mutant reckoned that she would never go against him with metal in her arsenal, plastic crafted in the right way could prove to be quite a threat (he knew that well). But the fact that she had the capacity for such did not mean that he would protect his back from her, especially in a place as full of metal as this car park, even if he would not be able to foresee an attack – than he would shield himself by reflex.
Dread and anxiety grew by the passing second. He fervently wanted to hear the sound of her clicking heels and swishing of the opaque gown, but all that there was – were only his own hollowly echoing steps. The man’s walk remained unchanged – swift, with the air of grace and omnipotence, it did not betray his inner turmoil. Magneto had an objective, he could not allow anything to interfere with it (his whims were unimportant). If Raven/Mystique would want to follow him now – she would, if she would want to come back to him later – she would; all else was irrelevant.
The metal answered to his call and the door of the black vintage automobile opened to him, closing when he settled into the driver’s seat.
He did not know whether the added weight in the backseat was a merciless illusion or not – and he could not care. He was a Leader – a Mutant that changed history, he did not have time for caring.
Magneto willed the engine to come to life.