[ Erik has been called many things in his time. Poor, pathetic, Juden, untermenschen - less than human. He’s been called a monster and worn that as a mantle, a crown, a shield, a creation of another person, some Frankenstein novel creature come to life. He was born under the hand of twisted experimentation and the death of his kin, so ‘mutant’ seems almost like a kindness.

His expression twists a little as he watches her. ]

Mutant is better than whatever else the humans might call us. Mutation is the next stage in human evolution - our genes themselves are stronger, better. Why not claim the title?

[ Perhaps, in her world, ‘Grisha’ is a better term. It’s meaningless to Erik, who has the so-called science to back up his thinking, his pride, his arrogance. So many years of being lesser, of being broken, beaten, called worthless and nothing, just another faceless number: of course he wants to be more. Of course he clings to the possibility of better.

He’s seen what happens to people when the world decides they’re not worth keeping around. When fear becomes the mouthpiece of the masses.

Leaning forward a little, he brings the metal close to him, letting it move between their bodies. It strokes along her skin, then, warm from the touch of his power, his mutation, even if she loathes the name. It’s the mantle Erik has chosen to die on, and he’s give his life for his kin if needed. ]

I showed you mine. Why don’t you show me yours?

[ An echo of an older conversation, but this time no body at his side, warming his arm with a jovial smile. ]