Erik Lehnsherr

Erik didn't think of himself as a particularly materialistic person. Living poor through his childhood, and the constant deprivation and hunger in the camps, had given him a propensity toward a Spartan lifestyle. Even once hunting Nazis proved to be incredibly lucrative, he had preferred to live frugally-- especially since he'd never known when he might have to pack up and run in a hurry.

But Erik had lived in the same place, the same room, for over a year now, and in spite of himself he'd become accustomed to it. Liked it, as much as he could be said to like somewhere he'd been brought to against his will and had no opportunity to leave. Everything he owned except one change of clothes and his helmet had been in this room when it flooded, and unlike Raven he hadn't been mad enough to go diving for any of his belongings.

Now, he stood in the waterlogged ruin that had once been his bedroom, wondering if it was even worth it to try and salvage anything, or if he should give it up for lost and colonize a rec room like Lwaxana. The carpet appeared to have dried out just fine; he could only hope the same would go for the mattress in time.

A bottle of vodka lay on the floor, unbroken and with its cap still screwed on. He picked it up and straightened just in time to hear a step behind him.

"Your room's not a total loss, then." Bond's voice was wry and dry as ever, and Erik found he didn't mind the interruption.

"Not completely," he agreed, leaning back against the dresser with the bottle still in his hand, giving James a wry little smile of his own. "But now I've got this, I think I might quit while I'm ahead. Maybe if I leave it alone for a few days I'll come back and everything will have been put to rights again."

By now everyone knew what to do when the replicator gave you things you didn’t ask for: bring them to the Level 1 kitchen and put them in the refrigerator. It was rather like what Erik imagined living in a university dormitory to be like-- you opened the door and could find anything from a six-pack of questionable origin to a container of something that had once been a vegetable (but what vegetable it had been was better left a mystery).

It was rare Erik found himself unable to wrangle the replicator in his room into giving him something at least resembling what he wanted, but tonight apparently his quest for a glass of milk was too much for the bloody machine to handle. Shoving his feet into a pair of ratty slippers (which had come to him from the wardrobe already worn in; he wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or grateful) he trudged down the hall to the kitchen and started going through the fridge.

The carton of milk was at the back, naturally, shoved in between a bottle of violently green soda pop and a bunch of brussels sprouts still on the stem. Erik reached for it, snagged it, and in an act of petty rebellion against being made to go to such effort, popped it open and drank straight from the carton.

He heard a noise behind him and realized someone was there. He swallowed and turned as he scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, ready to sarcastically defend against anyone who might be ready to tease him--

--and stopped short at the sight of Charles standing on the far side of the kitchen.

Shock numbed his fingers and he felt the carton of milk slip from his grasp, heard it thunk against the metal floor. A moment later his foot grew damp as the puddle of milk spread. His first thought-- not a single set of words so much as a jumble of panic and relief and fear-- quickly gave way before the memory of Mystique running from a phantom assailant, Amy’s moving angel statues, the hellhounds that had hemmed them in and torn Shepard to shreds-- hallucinations made flesh, some madness brought on by the station.

Furious with himself for being so easily taken in, Erik turned his back on the vision of Charles and bent to pick up the carton of milk, throwing it in the sink and going to take a towel out of a nearby drawer.

Erik had been preparing for this for two months. Maybe not this specifically, but for something. After the holidays, he'd known something was coming, and that it was going to be bigger and probably more lethal than what had come before. The screens in the Hub had only shown them a jungle, and his communicator hadn't displayed anything he could make sense of (though judging by Sherlock and Spock's reactions, it clearly meant something to them) but he knew better than to think there wouldn't be ample opportunities for death and mayhem down there.

He'd gone back to his room for the bag he'd had packed, slid the two knives in their sheaths onto his belt (he'd never had occasion for conversation with the big man Mystique had been in quarantine with, but was grateful for his forethought in having taken these) and ran back to the Hub, ready for anything.

Or so he thought. When Erik rematerialized the first thing that hit him was the realization that he wasn't in the middle of the jungle. The second thing that hit him was a wave.

It bowled him under, tumbling him, and he breathed in water, came up spluttering, mentally cursing. He'd been dropped down not too far from the shore; the coast of the jungle was to his left, the late afternoon sun glinting bright off the water, and he bobbed with the next wave, orienting himself and kicking out towards land. He'd managed to keep hold of his bag, thank God. It looked like he was alone down here-- the station must have scattered them-- and he'd need all his supplies if he was going to make it through the night.

"Never a dull moment," Erik muttered. Further down the beach he could see the low hulk of a rock and started toward it. At least he'd have somewhere to sit and take stock before-- he assumed-- he'd be expected to move inland.

It was only about an hour after leaving the hub that Erik made up his mind and knocked on Mystique's door. He'd thought about it for a little while, but in the end he thought she might want to know about Forge, might not want to be surprised by his arrival. He would want the same in her position, he knew. He could only imagine rounding a corner here and being confronted by Hank or Alex unawares.

He heard her muffled reply and the door hushed open. Mystique was stretched out on her couch; Erik made a show of glancing around the room and raised an eyebrow. "Good of you to let your valet off for the evening," he said dryly. "It's so troublesome trying to talk when the help are listening in."