Quentin & Wanda, Wednesday afternoon
Sep. 23rd, 2015 04:02 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsWanda is less than pleased to see Quentin's designs for a tattoo.
Quentin was sitting alone in the library, several books lying open around his feet that he had kicked up onto the desk, some nonsense Europop loudly playing from his headphones. The floor was littered with discarded pages of sketched-on notebook paper. He kept one sheet on his lap, though, which he looked down at every few seconds as he drew something on his left arm with a pen: the number 24005 that, although written in a simple and almost sloppy and uncaring script, he was etching onto his arm with care.
The door to the library swung open and Wanda wandered in, arms full of books and papers. The time she'd been spending in the room had skyrocketed since she'd taken Molly on for history tutoring. They used the library on occasion for the actual lessons but she'd been there more often on her own to lesson plan and gather the right materials. She smiled at the thought - lesson planning, something she had not done in more years than she could remember.
She glanced down at Quentin as she passed, giving his arm doodling a half a glance. Wanda snorted. Teenagers never changed ...
The number she glanced at stirred memories and she froze, staring down at the table.
"Can I help you?" Quentin rudely asked the interloper, not even bothering to look up. Probably someone to scold him for making a mess or drawing on his arm.
"Where did you find those numbers?" The sudden fury in Wanda's voice was unmistakable, even if the person it was directed at had headphones in. The lights above them dimmed to a brownish light before snapping back to their full brightness.
Quentin could not ignore that display. He looked up, eyebrow raised quizzically, and pulled down his headphones so they rested around his neck. He was tempted to poke around a little and see what was going on here, but something told him that maybe that was not such a good idea. Instead he took the defensive, and found himself erecting his meager shields just like Jean had shown him.
"Internet," he answered. "So?"
"The internet," Wanda sneered, venom and anger all rolled into one. More calmly than she felt, she placed her items on an empty spot on the table. Once her hands were free, she scooped up one of the pages with the sketches of the number. Seeing the numbers repeated turned her stomach and she dropped her angry gaze back to Quentin.
"I am hoping," she said slowly, "that you were drawn to these for some innocent reason and not ..." Wanda took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself. "Do you realize the significance of these numbers?"
Quentin eyed the woman, and for a long moment, the only sounds were the music pouring out of his headphones. When he decided he could not place her and therefore had no fucks to give, he shrugged and returned to his sketching. "I'm not sure how you're supposed to tattoo an Auschwitz inmate's ID number innocently," he said indifferently, "but sure, whatever you say. Now if you don't mind, I'm busy."
The paper in Wanda's hand curled, turned brown and, with a shudder, turned into pieces of ash that floated between them. "You are an idiot and a fool," she stated, flicking the last of the ash off her fingers. "You do not get to decide to tattoo your arm with those numbers. With any numbers of the survivors or the victims."
She bared her teeth and stared him down. "You do not get to subvert the pain of others for your pleasure, boy."
"First of all, I haven't actually tattooed anything yet," he replied coolly, as if he could counteract the white-hot rage that emanated from her. "Just drawing it to see how it'd look and if I do want it. And second, this isn't just some random number, and this isn't about pleasure or fun. This is Magneto's number. He wrote in his manifesto that he never removed it because wanted a constant and living reminder of just how deep humankind's evil goes, so if he ever doubts himself and what he does for mutantkind, then all he has to do is roll up his sleeve and remember his justification."
Oh, she was not surprised that Quentin knew her father's damned manifesto. Very likely by heart. The anger was still but it was being tempered with an exhausted type of sadness. "You read the words and you brought them into your heart and yet you still see nothing beyond the word on paper or screen. You miss their weight and meaning."
Wanda shook her head. "That number is his memory to bear, not yours. And he would be enraged to see you bear it without the history and pain. You ..." Her hands rose and then fell helplessly at her side. "You see it as a standard to bear in a war that you think you are in. You do not appropriate someone else's pain and suffering!"
"The flatscans have spent their entire history on this planet torturing and murdering and raping" — his voice broke a little with that last word — "And this? Was the final straw. You're damn right there's a war, no matter what apologists like you have to say. Who even are you, anyway?"
"Wanda Maximoff," she said evenly and then she pointed to the smudged numbers on his arm. "I was younger than you when I first saw those. You see the numbers as something to rally behind instead of the fact that they are part of a complicated set of baggage that he and other Auschwitz survivors carry."
Wanda shook her head sharply. "You cannot decide to take someone else's horror and manipulate it to suit your needs. Magneto is not simply a mutant and you are erasing the suffering he was dealt as a Jewish child because you have reduced him to the pieces that you only care about."
"Erasing his suffering? Bitch, I'm honoring it." He said it like he even believed it. "'Suffering he was dealt,'" he sneered. "Passive voice. Like the Holocaust was something that just happened to him and not the active, mechanized, industrial slaughter of his people. Literally two-thirds of all Jews in the world were butchered, Wanda Maximoff. He didn't just lose his family, he lost his people. And then he found a new people, and now he sees us marching to the same fate. This," he said, holding out his arm proudly, "is his rallying cry."
She picked up her materials and thought about the first time she'd seen those numbers. The look on Erik's face at the questions she and Pietro had peppered him with. The smell of her mother's cooking as he, and some of her other relatives, sat them down to tell them the horrors. It had been a cleaned up version, of course, but the feeling ...
Wanda stared down at him and made a decision. She was getting nowhere with him and this was, after all, an open secret and possibly the only thing she could think to get something through to him. Her position on the man her father had become firm but the idea of Quentin or anyone tattooing those numbers turned her stomach. If Wanda had to 'name drop' to get him to actually think...
"A+ for not failing your most remedial history class," she said slowly, "however, you get a failing grade for mansplaining not only the Holocaust to a Rom whose people were also slaughtered but also to the daughter of the man who bears those numbers."
It was not often that Quentin Quire was at a loss for words, but Wanda quite effectively shut him up with just those few of her own. He gaped at her in a mixture of awe and horror. Magneto had a daughter. His daughter was here. Why the hell was his daughter here and not with him, saving the world? When he finally found his voice again, he crumpled up the papers on his lap and pulled down his sleeve.
"He knows you're here, with Chuckles?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.
"Yes or, at least, I would assume so." Wanda's anger was slowly leaving her and all she felt abated was exhaustion. "He brought me here, you know, when I manifested. I spent my summers here." She held up her free hand. "And I do not have the energy to explain exactly why I eventually returned so please do not ask."
It was past time to go but before she did, she said one last thing. "Regardless of who he is now, Erik's suffering in that death camp is his pain. The only person who can turn that and use it for whatever they want is him. Piggybacking off of someone else's suffering and pain cheapens what they went through."
She retraced her steps, original plan forgotten, as she decided she needed some quiet time in her apartment. Well away from Quentin, the anger and the memories he had stirred up.
Quentin did not dare move an inch until the crimson torrent that characterized her mind was far away from his telepathic senses. He slumped back in his seat, almost physically exhausted from the brief confrontation, and mulled over what Wanda had said. Maybe his idea was appropriative. There were other ways to emblazon himself with his commitment to the cause. He licked his thumb and vigorously rubbed the ink off his arm, and then bent over a fresh sheet of paper with a new idea.
The outline of Magneto's distinctive helmet was encircled by the simple words "Magneto Was Right."
Quentin was sitting alone in the library, several books lying open around his feet that he had kicked up onto the desk, some nonsense Europop loudly playing from his headphones. The floor was littered with discarded pages of sketched-on notebook paper. He kept one sheet on his lap, though, which he looked down at every few seconds as he drew something on his left arm with a pen: the number 24005 that, although written in a simple and almost sloppy and uncaring script, he was etching onto his arm with care.
The door to the library swung open and Wanda wandered in, arms full of books and papers. The time she'd been spending in the room had skyrocketed since she'd taken Molly on for history tutoring. They used the library on occasion for the actual lessons but she'd been there more often on her own to lesson plan and gather the right materials. She smiled at the thought - lesson planning, something she had not done in more years than she could remember.
She glanced down at Quentin as she passed, giving his arm doodling a half a glance. Wanda snorted. Teenagers never changed ...
The number she glanced at stirred memories and she froze, staring down at the table.
"Can I help you?" Quentin rudely asked the interloper, not even bothering to look up. Probably someone to scold him for making a mess or drawing on his arm.
"Where did you find those numbers?" The sudden fury in Wanda's voice was unmistakable, even if the person it was directed at had headphones in. The lights above them dimmed to a brownish light before snapping back to their full brightness.
Quentin could not ignore that display. He looked up, eyebrow raised quizzically, and pulled down his headphones so they rested around his neck. He was tempted to poke around a little and see what was going on here, but something told him that maybe that was not such a good idea. Instead he took the defensive, and found himself erecting his meager shields just like Jean had shown him.
"Internet," he answered. "So?"
"The internet," Wanda sneered, venom and anger all rolled into one. More calmly than she felt, she placed her items on an empty spot on the table. Once her hands were free, she scooped up one of the pages with the sketches of the number. Seeing the numbers repeated turned her stomach and she dropped her angry gaze back to Quentin.
"I am hoping," she said slowly, "that you were drawn to these for some innocent reason and not ..." Wanda took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself. "Do you realize the significance of these numbers?"
Quentin eyed the woman, and for a long moment, the only sounds were the music pouring out of his headphones. When he decided he could not place her and therefore had no fucks to give, he shrugged and returned to his sketching. "I'm not sure how you're supposed to tattoo an Auschwitz inmate's ID number innocently," he said indifferently, "but sure, whatever you say. Now if you don't mind, I'm busy."
The paper in Wanda's hand curled, turned brown and, with a shudder, turned into pieces of ash that floated between them. "You are an idiot and a fool," she stated, flicking the last of the ash off her fingers. "You do not get to decide to tattoo your arm with those numbers. With any numbers of the survivors or the victims."
She bared her teeth and stared him down. "You do not get to subvert the pain of others for your pleasure, boy."
"First of all, I haven't actually tattooed anything yet," he replied coolly, as if he could counteract the white-hot rage that emanated from her. "Just drawing it to see how it'd look and if I do want it. And second, this isn't just some random number, and this isn't about pleasure or fun. This is Magneto's number. He wrote in his manifesto that he never removed it because wanted a constant and living reminder of just how deep humankind's evil goes, so if he ever doubts himself and what he does for mutantkind, then all he has to do is roll up his sleeve and remember his justification."
Oh, she was not surprised that Quentin knew her father's damned manifesto. Very likely by heart. The anger was still but it was being tempered with an exhausted type of sadness. "You read the words and you brought them into your heart and yet you still see nothing beyond the word on paper or screen. You miss their weight and meaning."
Wanda shook her head. "That number is his memory to bear, not yours. And he would be enraged to see you bear it without the history and pain. You ..." Her hands rose and then fell helplessly at her side. "You see it as a standard to bear in a war that you think you are in. You do not appropriate someone else's pain and suffering!"
"The flatscans have spent their entire history on this planet torturing and murdering and raping" — his voice broke a little with that last word — "And this? Was the final straw. You're damn right there's a war, no matter what apologists like you have to say. Who even are you, anyway?"
"Wanda Maximoff," she said evenly and then she pointed to the smudged numbers on his arm. "I was younger than you when I first saw those. You see the numbers as something to rally behind instead of the fact that they are part of a complicated set of baggage that he and other Auschwitz survivors carry."
Wanda shook her head sharply. "You cannot decide to take someone else's horror and manipulate it to suit your needs. Magneto is not simply a mutant and you are erasing the suffering he was dealt as a Jewish child because you have reduced him to the pieces that you only care about."
"Erasing his suffering? Bitch, I'm honoring it." He said it like he even believed it. "'Suffering he was dealt,'" he sneered. "Passive voice. Like the Holocaust was something that just happened to him and not the active, mechanized, industrial slaughter of his people. Literally two-thirds of all Jews in the world were butchered, Wanda Maximoff. He didn't just lose his family, he lost his people. And then he found a new people, and now he sees us marching to the same fate. This," he said, holding out his arm proudly, "is his rallying cry."
She picked up her materials and thought about the first time she'd seen those numbers. The look on Erik's face at the questions she and Pietro had peppered him with. The smell of her mother's cooking as he, and some of her other relatives, sat them down to tell them the horrors. It had been a cleaned up version, of course, but the feeling ...
Wanda stared down at him and made a decision. She was getting nowhere with him and this was, after all, an open secret and possibly the only thing she could think to get something through to him. Her position on the man her father had become firm but the idea of Quentin or anyone tattooing those numbers turned her stomach. If Wanda had to 'name drop' to get him to actually think...
"A+ for not failing your most remedial history class," she said slowly, "however, you get a failing grade for mansplaining not only the Holocaust to a Rom whose people were also slaughtered but also to the daughter of the man who bears those numbers."
It was not often that Quentin Quire was at a loss for words, but Wanda quite effectively shut him up with just those few of her own. He gaped at her in a mixture of awe and horror. Magneto had a daughter. His daughter was here. Why the hell was his daughter here and not with him, saving the world? When he finally found his voice again, he crumpled up the papers on his lap and pulled down his sleeve.
"He knows you're here, with Chuckles?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.
"Yes or, at least, I would assume so." Wanda's anger was slowly leaving her and all she felt abated was exhaustion. "He brought me here, you know, when I manifested. I spent my summers here." She held up her free hand. "And I do not have the energy to explain exactly why I eventually returned so please do not ask."
It was past time to go but before she did, she said one last thing. "Regardless of who he is now, Erik's suffering in that death camp is his pain. The only person who can turn that and use it for whatever they want is him. Piggybacking off of someone else's suffering and pain cheapens what they went through."
She retraced her steps, original plan forgotten, as she decided she needed some quiet time in her apartment. Well away from Quentin, the anger and the memories he had stirred up.
Quentin did not dare move an inch until the crimson torrent that characterized her mind was far away from his telepathic senses. He slumped back in his seat, almost physically exhausted from the brief confrontation, and mulled over what Wanda had said. Maybe his idea was appropriative. There were other ways to emblazon himself with his commitment to the cause. He licked his thumb and vigorously rubbed the ink off his arm, and then bent over a fresh sheet of paper with a new idea.
The outline of Magneto's distinctive helmet was encircled by the simple words "Magneto Was Right."
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Date: 2015-09-24 01:16 am (UTC)Excellent log, guys. Just amazing.
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Date: 2015-09-24 02:01 am (UTC)