Chapter Text
Charles sat on his bed, about the only furniture in his tiny room aside from the rickety wardrobe that held his entire belongings; three pullovers, five shirts, two pair of jeans. Old, worn out leather shoes that were slightly too big. A tattered, ancient edition of Charles Darwins ‘The Origin of the Species’. And beneath it, well hidden from the eyes of his housemates, a battered tin can holding the few memories he had of his former life. The life, before his powers awoke.
He was about to become nine when it first started. Headaches grew into episodes of fainting and confusion before it peaked in him hearing voices nobody else was able to hear. At first his mother had thought him crazy and Charles was sure she would have preferred the prospect of him being a lunatic over his telepathy. She tried to deny it as long as possible; he had to give her as much. But on the night he lost control and accidentally entered her mind for the first time, he saw that she couldn’t do it any longer. He could see terror, anger, even disgust and a decision forming in her thoughts. So, without so much as a word from her, he started shoving his few belongings into an old bag and silently followed her into the streets of what used to be a thriving metropolis years before he was born.
He was surprised to find she brought him to a regular orphanage. An orphanage for humans, when the law clearly dictated that any mutant was to be reported to the mutant delegate of his or her district. Charles was tempted to enter her mind one final time to find out why she chose to do so. After all, there was not much more damage to be done to their already shallow relationship. But he was scared his mothers’ horror about having a mutant son would be the last memory he had of her, so he quietly accepted her decision and watched her vanish in the darkness between the shacks of the poor quarter that he called home.
He knew that was how things were nowadays. There was no use in fighting against it.
His father had taught him a bit of the countrys history, the Second World War and the mutant rebellion led by Sebastian Shaw that finally concluded in the world they now lived in. A world of mutant domination and second-class humankind.
As far as Charles knew, a very young Shaw used the confusion and panic of the battles to position mutants and loyal humans in key positions all around the world. He and a few of his allies started to collect fellow mutants for a secret army he disguised as special force divisions in strategically relevant countries. His father used to tell Charles with reluctant respect in his voice, that no one saw it coming, when Shaw finally made his move. The planning, the timing, everything about this rebellion was flawless and to this day, nobody except the ones directly involved seemed to know just how he managed to do it. Detecting all the mutants. Not just strategizing, but seemingly knowing when and where and why he was to move a figure on the chessboard that was the war-torn world. Humankind stood no chance, even though they fought. And they did fight, leaving a destroyed, anarchistic world for Shaw to take over. He was nineteen by that time and Charles not even born.
Roughly twenty years later the consequences of this rebellion caught up with Charles, driving him away from home, killing his father, making his mother detest him for what he was. And he couldn’t even blame her, though it still hurt. He was sat on the cold stone steps to an orphanage in the dead of the night, left behind by his only remaining family, silent tears running down his dirt smeared face. His nine year old self knew exactly who to blame.
Once Shaw had taken over control and established his position as the ruler of America, he started to rebuild what the war had destroyed. With the liberty of a few adjustments here and there. Where mutants were formerly distrusted and suppressed, they now formed a new upper-class of society. They were housed in noble districts near the city centres, the former human owners driven out of their property. They held important positions and jobs fitting their abilities, using their potential to the fullest. At first, the situation seemed bearable. It took a few years for Shaw to reveal his true plans for the humans amongst them. Slowly but steadily their rights deteriorated into what they were today. Banned from the inner districts, living in self-made huts and ailing houses similar to what Charlses’ father had called the slums of Brazil or Africa. They were barred from education; they received but the most rudimental healthcare. And finally, a few years after Charles was born, the mutant reporting obligation law was inaugurated, forcing every family to report mutants in their surrounding and hand them over to the government. The effected mutants were mostly children and they were brought into the inner districts, never to be seen again. Whoever refused to yield in order to protect their child was punished, vanished or in some cases openly executed as a warning. Fear and intimidation were what the system was running on these days and it worked.
That is, why his mothers decision to give him away did not really surprise him. That was just how the world worked. Even as a nine year old, Charles knew that much. But he did wonder why she chose to keep his nature hidden from authorities, thus getting herself in danger, should Charles ever be discovered to be a telepath. He thought about telling the person in charge of the orphanage, St. Buckmans orphanage, as was written over the massive wooden door. But his mother was not the kind of woman to risk her own neck for Charles’ sake so there had to be another reason.
If she hadn’t already hated mutants before, she definitely did after the death of his father when Charles was seven years old. Brian was a renowned scholar before the world had changed and he had always been a part of the underground resistance, in charge for figuring out how Shaw operated, thought, how his powers worked.
One morning, Charles woke up to indistinct clamour wafting through the streets of his district. Two soldiers in their signature black and purple uniforms had kicked down the thin wooden door to their house. Shouting, they grabbed his father by the arms and dragged him away from his screaming and begging family. Charles later learned that one of the underground cells had been discovered organizing a riot and every one of the captured members had first been interrogated and afterwards hung. Maybe, Charles figured, his mother couldn’t stand the idea of her own son being raised by the people who killed her husband. Or, even worse, she saw him as a kind of reinforcement to Shaws forces. Whatever the reason, Charles decided to honour it. Mainly in memory of his father, who opposed to partake in any kind of violence and always seemed to strive for a peaceful solution, no matter how hopeless the situation; Charles had adored him for that. And a little bit to show his mother just how wrong she was about him, too.
So, on that night nine years ago, Charles had wiped his face dry with the torn sleeve of his faded shirt. He decided to bury his powers deep inside his mind, alongside the remaining memories of his family. Determined to hide his true identity, he balled his small hand into a fist and gave the wooden door three firm knocks. It took a while before it opened slightly, producing a loud crack that must have woken up the entire first floor of the house. But nobody moved and so Charles was left alone with a grim looking man in a black bathrobe.
The memory of his first meeting with Edward Buckman brought him back to the present, to the room in the St. Buckman orphanage that he had been occupying for the last two years. Before that, sharing a different room with three other boys, as was usual for the younger residents. And yes, the man had declared himself a saint and named an orphanage after himself. That was just the kind of person he was.
Edward Buckman hated mutants, and Charles hated him. But opposite to Charles, Buckman had never made an effort to hide his sentiments. If there was one thing Charles was looking forward to when he was finally thrown out of the facility, it was that he would no longer have to put up with that narrow-minded, hateful man. And it wouldn’t be too long anymore. Charles was about to become 18 years old, thus growing out of the social system. He was to be tossed back out onto the street he was once saved from, with only as little as he owned to help him survive. And he had no idea what he was supposed to do from there on. He had no connections. Returning to his mother, should she still be alive, was never an option either. Most of the former orphans became part of one or another street gang, engaging in crimes ranging from thieving und blackmail all the way up to actual murder. None of them were bad people; they just usually didn’t have much of a choice. After two or three days out on the street, most of them would do about anything for a meal and a dry place to spend the night. The fewest of them being able to find an apprenticeship to make a living for themselves.
Charles didn’t judge them or their live choices. It was simple biology, survival instinct. They were outcasts, they did what was necessary. No more, no less. But that had never been an option for him and so he was left with little prospects and a lot of fear-inducing helplessness.
He would have to figure it out on the go, seeing that this was his last day in the orphanage. His morals would only get him so far after all and all the thinking in the world hadn’t helped him with a solution yet.
Tomorrow, they would have one last breakfast together, one last chance to say goodbye to children and young adults who had become the closest thing to family he had since his dad was taken away. He would most likely never see them again. The system was not designed for sentimentality. It was made to select, to sort the seemingly weak from the fighters. And as much as he opposed to this way of categorizing living creatures of any kind, he would still have to convince the people he belonged to the fighters in order to get a real chance for survival. Because dead people didn’t make a difference in these times. There were simply too many of them.
He refused to be another nameless boy, forgotten by the world, cast into one of the pits somewhere outside the city borders. As a child he had to witness injustice on a daily basis and now that he would finally come of age, he could start doing something against it. He just had to figure out how. Charles was determined to carry on with the idea of a just and equal world that his father had planted inside his head at a very young age. He would live long enough to play his part in it, whatever that might be.
Packing the last of his belongings into the linen bag he arrived with all these years ago, he decided that there was no use in overthink right now as it would only keep him from his much needed last night of proper rest. Taking in a deep breath, he changed into the worn out shirt that served him as a pyjama and forced himself to lay down on his saggy mattress. Making a mental list about the things he had to do once he was back on the streets and homeless calmed Charles down a little bit. It gave him the illusion of having just the tiniest bit of control. Though it couldn’t stop his hands from shaking in anxiety.
He was scared about what would await him after he left the house. He was scared of the uncertainty of his future. He was scared of what he might have to do to pursue his admittedly ambitious goals. But deep down, there was another emotion seeping through the panic. Excitement.
Excitement about the fact that from tomorrow on there would be no excuses any longer, no hiding, no going back. No one was to make him a bystander in his own life anymore.
Those were the kind of thoughts he concentrated on, while he finally drifted off into a restless sleep.