Disclaimer: You know the deal - I own nothing, I'm just drawing from my imagination, yadda yadda yadda. To be clear, I have not read any of the comics; I am just a fan of the movies, and of Magneto in particular. So, for any inconsistencies, I am sorry.

Either way, I hope you enjoy this story, in which I will hopefully explore the uncharted past of Erik Lensherr during his time at the camps and beyond. Thanks.

Preface

Beneath its fleshy surface, my body ticks and clicks as cogs whirl round and round in their customary revolutions, as they had the day before and as they will the day after next. Hard, cold, strong, and smooth, I am a machine with glassy eyes that burn red hate into every object on which I set them. My face is stone; expressionless, mirthless, merciless, devoid of all emotion except the occasional burst of rage. I look down out my forearm where the serial number is located. We're sorry, but this model has been discontinued. We can no longer accept returns or refunds. If you have further questions feel free to contact the manager.

I smile grimly and flex my fingers, watching the muscles contract and release as they grip an invisible throat. I know whose throat belongs in them - that above all else I am sure of - but timing and availability is a problem that I cannot avoid. That throat always evades me, but one day I will find it and crush it between my palms.

Shaw is his name. Shaw is the one responsible for destroying my life, the life of my mother, and countless others. Shaw is going to die a slow, painful death one of these days; I will make sure of it.

But Shaw also created me. As much as it disgusts me, I am this machine, this cold-blooded magnet because of him. My skills are honed and sharp like a spear tipped with anger and pain because of his teaching and his torture. I had the humanity and the empathy kicked out of me as a teenager by him, but in return I had gained an assassin's peace of mind and clarity of thought, if that counted for anything. It doesn't matter now what he did back then and why he did it. He is going to die. I am going to kill him.

Revenge is my mission, my reason for living, the grease in my wheels and the air in my lungs. Maybe, just maybe, when he is dead I can rest easy. Maybe things will then go back to the way they were before the camps; simple and peaceful and uncomplicated.

I laughed out loud. No, things are never going to be the way they were, if they ever truly were that way. I am different, I am better than I was then. I am remarkable. I deserve more than a two-room house in Poland, never knowing who would invade and declare themselves sovereign. Being what I am, I'm above governments and laws. I am a machine, cold, hard, strong, and smooth. I am superior. I am alone.

I was not always such, though. Once upon a time I was as soft as putty, uncertain and afraid. Once upon a time I felt emotions besides anger; pain, hope, love, regret, and fear. Once upon a time I was a plaything, a serial number with no name and no future.

I am 407128. This is my story.