Magneto leaned heavily on a metal pipe, his breath ragged as he tried to steady himself. His hands, still faintly trembling, adjusted a cable that had slipped loose from the mutant-conversion machine. The monstrous device loomed above him, silent and waiting, its metal curves glinting in the gray light. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his cape dragging in the dust behind him, his back aching in a way that made him wince.
"Just a little more…" Magneto muttered under his breath, jaw clenched. "They'll all see. Mutants will rise. And then… maybe I'll sit down for five minutes." He paused, closing his eyes briefly.
A sharp buzz cut through the air, vibrating insistently in his coat pocket. Magneto opened one eye, glaring toward the sound as though it were a personal enemy. "What now?" he grumbled, fishing out the phone with stiff fingers.
The caller ID glowed back at him in sharp letters: We Are Evil Bankers Inc. – Banking for Super Villains Since 1852.
Magneto's lips thinned, but he swiped to answer. "What is it?" he barked.
A voice oozing with cold politeness filtered through the speaker. "Ah, Mister Lehnsherr. This is Mortimer Malice, Senior Vice President of Villainous Accounts at We Are Evil Bankers Inc. How lovely to speak with you again."
Magneto's head tilted, his eyes narrowing as he adjusted his grip on the metal bar. "What do you want, Malice?"
Malice's voice was all sugar and venom, perfectly polite and perfectly condescending. "Well, Mister Lehnsherr, I'm calling about your recent credit card bill, which, I must say, has reached an impressive—if not alarming—two point five billion dollars."
The metal in Magneto's hand groaned under the sudden force of his grip. His breath caught. "Two point five… billion?"
"Oh yes," Malice said smoothly, the sound of flipping pages echoing over the line as though he were consulting a record. "Let's see, shall we? Charges at Macy's, Sears, Prada, The Shops at Columbus Circle, and of course, the rather ambitious purchase of the entire Mercedes-Benz showroom in Manhattan. Quite the spree."
Magneto's jaw locked tight, his eyes flaring. "Mystique…" he muttered, a low growl simmering in his throat.
"Yes, well," Malice continued, his voice darkly amused, "we at We Are Evil Bankers Inc. pride ourselves on catering to a discerning clientele of world-dominating visionaries. However, even we have… limits."
Magneto drew in a slow, sharp breath, adjusting the helmet on his head as though trying to hold himself together. "I'll deal with Mystique. This plan will work. The money will be paid back."
Malice let out a quiet, false little laugh. "Ah, Mister Lehnsherr. How many times have we heard that?" His tone darkened just enough to slice through the air like a knife. "You see, since you have demonstrated a unique inability to settle your debts, we've made… arrangements. Once your latest 'take over the world' plan inevitably fails—because let's be honest, they always do—we've secured a lovely gold mining position for you in South Africa."
Magneto's face twisted, his jaw grinding. "This plan will not fail."
Malice's voice practically purred through the speaker. "Yes, yes, of course. Just like the last dozen, Mister Lehnsherr. If we had a dollar for every time you said that, we wouldn't need your account to stay in business."
Magneto's fingers flexed around the metal bar, the steel warping under his grip. "This time is different."
"I'm sure," Malice said smoothly, the sound of papers shifting again. "But should it fail—as I'm quite certain it will—please rest assured we'll be waiting. Pickaxe in hand."
"I'm not going to be working in some mine," Magneto hissed, his voice low and dangerous.
Malice chuckled quietly, all fake warmth. "Mmm. Well, then, good luck with your plan, Mister Lehnsherr. And do remember—we always have a spot open for you… underground."
The line clicked dead.
Magneto lowered the phone slowly, his fingers trembling slightly as he stared out over the water toward the city skyline. A sharp wind whipped around Liberty Island, tugging at his cape, making it billow behind him. His shoulders tensed as he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to push away the cold dread settling there.
"They think I'll fail. They think they can put me in chains again," he muttered, voice sharp and strained. "I'll show them all…"
But as he stared at the Statue of Liberty, a flicker of doubt crept into his sharp gaze, softening the hard lines of his face for just a moment.
Behind him, a few Brotherhood members stood near the machine, shifting uncomfortably.
"Did he say two and a half billion?" one whispered, glancing around nervously.
"Yeah," another replied quietly. "That's… a lot of zeroes."
A third muttered under their breath, "Do we still get paid?"
Magneto heard them but didn't turn around. He could feel the doubt rippling through them like a cold wind.
Grunting, Magneto reached out and levitated another piece of the machine, dragging it toward its place on the platform. His hands shook slightly as the metal groaned and creaked.
His eyes flicked to the statue again, a grim line pulling at his lips. "It's all going to work," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "It has to."
Yet as the clouds gathered thick and gray above him, swirling over Liberty Island, the weight of failure seemed to press heavier on his back than any machine he had carried.
As Magneto continued to work, dragging pieces of his plan into place with sheer stubbornness, the first drops of rain began to fall—soft, cold, and sharp against the steel and his skin he began to wonder if Charles is also burdened by crippling debt.
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