Chapter Text
Professor Xavier sat in his wheelchair, looking out at the world he had created around him. In the distance he could see the town of Westchester, the point of arrival for every Guest who entered Genosha, eager to taste the synthesised delights of the Old World in a time that had moved far beyond it.
It had been many years since he himself had entered the town; it held nothing of interest for him now. His enjoyment lay solely in creation – and, on the occasions that he managed to pull himself away from the cold sterility of his laboratory, in wandering his lands alone, far away from human company.
A movement in the corner of his eye caused his gaze to drift away from the roof of the town saloon to the distance beyond, where a plume of smoke signalled the arrival of the steam train bringing a new batch of Guests to Westchester. The train came every day, like clockwork. Just like the town’s inhabitants: clockwork. Or, at least, something very like.
The Professor watched it for a moment and then turned his gaze away. He looked down at the sand – manufactured, every grain of it, by a scientist in a laboratory, just like everything else in this world – and watched as a lizard, small and sand-coloured, darted its tongue out at him as it crawled over the sun-baked rock. He smiled. He wondered if the lizard was one of his own, formed with his own two hands.
Probably not, he decided. He had only made a few in his time. He had always preferred creating human forms, human brains. Animals only kept his interest for so long.
People only keep your interest for so long. He could practically hear the words said aloud, the tone rich and mocking even in its fondness.
He closed his eyes and sighed. Magnus had known him well.
It was strange, sometimes, to remember that it had been thirty years since they had last seen each other. Since Magnus had died, the Professor corrected himself. It was strange how unnatural those words felt, even now – Magnus had always been such a powerful character, so larger-than-life, so alive … so much so that the Professor had a hard time remembering that he had passed, even decades later.
But of course, you are still here, the Professor thought, casting his eyes around at the desert sands. Every inch of you is in this place, as much as I am. Even if no one else knows it.
It had broken his heart to have had Magnus’s name removed from its place beside his own as one of the founding fathers of this world of theirs – the world that the two of them had built out of simple personal pleasure, out of love and curiosity and from the innocent desire to create – but it had been necessary. Magnus had never been one to accept realities; for all that he had called the Professor naïve, it was he who had been unable to see things for what they were, and it was this, in the end, that had destroyed their friendship.
The Professor sighed. He had no desire to dwell on such matters – especially not now when he had such plans for the park – but he knew all too well that the past was inescapable. The very nature of Genosha was evidence of that.
‘It’s a lovely view, isn’t it?’
The Professor looked up and smiled. ‘Hello, Charles,’ he said, nodding his head in greeting. Just as he always did, he marvelled at the expert hand which had formed the features in front of him. Had he really looked like that, he wondered. So young, so handsome … so innocent. He had changed a great deal in the thirty years since.
‘Hello,’ Charles greeted him, smiling warmly, his hands in the pockets of his rough wool trousers. They were getting worn, the Professor noted idly. They needed replacing. ‘What are you doing all the way out here?’
‘I thought I would take a stroll,’ the Professor said, waiting as Charles came to stand by his side. ‘I like the quiet.’
‘So do I,’ Charles said, still smiling. He did that a lot; the Professor was sure that he had never smiled quite as much when he had been young. Then again, it had been Magnus who had built and programmed this Host; he had obviously believed that Charles had been that way, or else he would not have made him so.
‘What are you doing out here, Charles?’ the Professor asked.
‘Kurt was driving me crazy,’ Charles sighed. ‘I had to get away.’
‘Ah.’ The Professor nodded. Even now he did not fully know why he had gone to the trouble of recreating Kurt Marko in this world. Kurt was Fifth Generation; the Professor had built him in the aftermath of Magnus’s death, in a time of terrible upheaval and personal turmoil.
Realism, he had told himself.
Punishment, he had secretly admitted.
‘It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?’ Charles was saying, looking out at the barren landscape. ‘Wild, and empty, but beautiful all the same.’
‘Most people wouldn’t think so,’ the Professor observed.
Charles smiled. ‘Then they’re not really looking.’
‘No,’ the Professor murmured. ‘They never do.’
They both paused to watch as the billows of smoke from the train abated slightly as it pulled into the station. The Professor wondered how many Guests were even now entering Westchester – entering Genosha – for the very first time. He could not help but feel envious; the first time was always the best. At least, that’s what he had been told.
‘I’m going to get on that train one day,’ Charles said, almost to himself. ‘Some day soon, I’m going to leave this place.’
‘Oh?’ The Professor turned to look at him. ‘Where will you go?’
Charles laughed and shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, smiling. ‘Wherever the tracks take me.’
The Professor nodded. ‘I’m sure it will happen some day,’ he said. It wouldn’t. Charles would never leave this place. It wasn’t in his Story.
The Professor sighed. Art, it seemed, imitated life. After all, he couldn’t say that he had left this place in the last thirty years either.
The thought was a sobering one. The Professor suddenly felt tired. He glanced briefly at Charles. ‘You can go now,’ he said offhandedly. Their conversations usually lasted longer than this, but he simply wasn’t in the mood for it now. He just wanted to be alone.
Charles blinked at the dismissal. Then he turned and walked away without saying a word, unconsciously directing himself on to the next part of his Story. Tomorrow he would come to the same spot at the same time and say the same things to the next person he met there. It was all part of his Script, and that Script had not changed for the last thirty years. It never would.
The Professor turned his eyes back to the sands of Genosha. In the distance he could hear muffled gunshots and explosions that were carried on the wind, signalling the end of another orchestrated gunfight put on for the pleasure of the Guests. Idly, he wondered which of his Hosts were currently being carted off for repairs, to be patched up and cleaned and then returned to their stations for the next day’s revelries.
Any regret that he had felt for the fate of his poor Hosts had disappeared a long time ago. They felt nothing; and so he, in turn, felt nothing either.
He wondered, briefly, what Magnus would have thought of what he had created here, of what Genosha had ultimately become.
He wondered if he even cared.
The Professor sighed and took one last look at the land around him. ‘Look on my works, ye Mighty …’ he murmured, the words oddly bitter.
Then he turned his chair and pushed away without looking back.
Behind him, the lone and level sands stretched far away.