AN: Watchmen!AU Remember the AU part. Seriously.

The sky is ablaze with red and orange, side-effects of the toxic fumes these filthy humans are pumping into the last remnants of oxygen they can taint with their stupidity, with their vanity. Ignorance runs amuck in their veins, in the city and through the government they mindlessly follow, like cattle. Do they see how they look? They amble, one after another, thinking themselves free when they are lined up in a single gated path, walking deeper into the Machine, just waiting for the slaughter, falling into the greasy little hands of those politicians that they elect blindly. There is no good choice, they all live in a fantasy when they're really living in the dark, a gun pressed into their mouths like inverse-Russian roulette.

They think they're the lucky ones. They don't know that the barrel is full.

They look down on those that are different, like pests, like something they smashed in the bottom of their heels, grimacing in repulsion as they snidely walk on. They are the parasites, they are the lesser beings, the step under the evolutionary ladder.

They found the mutants, hunted them down; they made society into the broken shambles that foul New York. The Registrations in '77, '79 and '81 sought to that. They used the mutants to fight their battles, to die in their wars, they used the mutants as scapegoats, left them to rot in prisons and camps, turned around and preached about "equal rights" and "progress", tossing words like "reform" and "equality" to satisfy the public as they continued their systematic slaughter.

Magneto's Journal.
October 12th, 1985

The streets are swamped with blood. The city cowers as I walk by. They fear me, I have seen the true nature to their 'humanity'.

The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all of the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "save us!"...

...and I will look down and whisper "no".

They had the will to fight this, all of this. They could have broken out of the conformity, from the shallow masses but they didn't. They followed the men that looked the best, who's empty promises sounded the most realistic, wiped their blood-stainded hands on the flag that they marched under.

They had the decision. Don't tell me they didn't have a choice.

Now they look down from the brink of utter destruction, and all of those men that so gallantly spoke, with as much enthusiasm as the Third Reich, all of those liberals and intellectuals, the men with unwavering morals and steel morale-

-now no one says a word.

The two detectives observe the living room with keen yet uninterested eyes, taking in the thousands of splinters and glass shards that litter the light mint carpet. One of the first officers on the scene are talking into a receiver outside the front door, and the detectives partner is eying the chain lock that dangles pathetically on the door from it's connection's hinge. He turns back to the street where an old man is hosing down the large Puddle of blood into the sewer.

"That's quite a drop." He says blandly as small shards from the broken balcony take the plummet down. His blond partner makes a noncommittal humming noise before turning around, the lock's broken end piece in between his two fingers. A slender eyebrow raises as he speaks.

"Well, it looks like someone broke in by bustin' the door." he flicks his cigarette out the door and exhales a cloud of gray-black smoke before continuing. "Either there where two really buff guys that broke down th'door or a super-strong mutant. Those damn Degenerets." He curses under his breath. "It was locked from the inside so the victim was home when they came a-knockin'."

"Hobbs, I saw the body. This 'James Howlette' cat was one beefy mother fucker. He had muscles like a fucking tank-" The detective pauses for a moment. "Must've put up a hell of a fight-guys like that don't just go down, ya' hear me?"

The man is tossed against the glass mirror that stands as tall as the wall and three feet wide, his eyes clenching shut as the impact sends the jagged pieces into his back, shredding the flesh and piercing the muscles. one good fist to the face and he's reeling once more, bloody and disoriented. The cigar he was smoking is still lit beside a glass of whiskey, the chair still warm from whence he had sat.

He's bleeding on the floor, coughing and hacking and groaning because this is all new to him-wounds that do not heal, a foe he can not fight.

Arms come round his neck, he rises from the floor. Fists clench at his shirt and he's powerless, can't fight back, can't do a thing.

The pain is too much. He can't muster energy to be shocked.

The detective stares at the broken mirror and grimace at the cracks that reflect his very gaze, marred with drying blood. The detective stares at a photo of the victim, short but packed with muscles, hair slicked and grin smug, shaking hands with the Secretary of Arms during the Great War. His blond partner turns away from the mirror, a question in his gaze.

"From the info we have on him he must've been on some Diplomatic work for a few years. Lotta expensive shit."

"Must have gotten soft." His partner shrugs.

"Harr-Harr." The detective rolls his eyes. "Some money got stolen, but there's no way this could have been a simple robbery. Someone really had it out for this guy. I mean, he got tossed out the fucking window." The detective shifts slightly, the window open and breeze filtering in through the gaping opening. His partner gives only a curt nod and they head out the door and into the hallway of the complex and towards the elevator.

"Maybe he tripped against it?" Detective Washington finally offers.

"Forget it, man. That's some strong-ass glass. Even a bulky guy like Howlette wouldn't be able to break it. I think you'd have to be thrown."

The arms that clutch his shirt tighten and he freezes for a moment, eyes wide. Fuck. Fuck-no, no nonono!-

They toss him seamlessly into the glass and he feels the heavy, double-panel glass gives way under the brute impact. He's weightless, falling and falling faster and faster.

He catches the light on his attacker's face, gasps out the name, and then-

Impact.

Darkness.

"So was this a burglary or does this have some other motive?" Detective Washington asks, watching the descending numbers on the elevator's dull signal.

"It could have been a burglary, maybe just some drugged up guy that wanted to have some fun-" The elevator open adn they walk out of the building and down the stairs away from the whole scene.

"So what are ya' saying, Drake?"

"I'm saying that maybe we shouldn't start kicking up dirt. Don't want any Masked Avengers interested on the case. We'll do follow ups behind the scenes, ya' know? Away from the light, out of the public's eye..."

They start walking back to the station, shoulder's bumping as they speak in low, hushed words.

"I think you're taking the whole 'vigilante' thing too seriously, ever since the Keene Act in '83 you know that the only masked freaks that are still loose are the government sponsored ones. And not even those interfere." Washington snorts.

"'Cept for Magneto." Drake grins.

"Magneto never retired. Not even when he and his buddies fell outta grace. He's still out there somewhere." Washington mock-shudders. "Guys a little crazy if ya' ask me. We have a nice little homicide of a political guy.." Washington pauses as they continue in a quick stride.

"Wha's wrong?" Drake asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Uh, nothing." Washington doesn't look convinces. "Just a little cold." and he bumps shoulders against a tall, angular man in order to stick close to his partner. The man turns subtly, his mossy green eyes following them until they're out of sight. His stoic mask slips and he grins toothily before walking down the street, pulling his brown leather jacket closer against the cold wind of the night.

The streets are vacant, lifeless; the faint remnants of scarlet stain the concrete sidewalk and the lone figure approaches, his shadow looming across the concrete slabs. A small glint catches his eye and he crouches down be the sewer intake. The object slaps into his open and waiting palm. It's a metal pin, black and silver; the round pin has a silver perimeter, a silver X crossing through, and there's a single, dried spot of blood at the center.

He shoves it in his pocket and enters the building.

The elevator is empty, but there's no need for a worker to be there. He sighs and clenches his fist, lifting it just as the elevator begins to raise. He stops where he counts the twenty-third floor and forces the elevator to stop, pries open the door and steps under all of the yellow tape. He clicks on his flashlight and maneuvers around the destruction.

Once in the main bedroom, he stops.

Stretching out his senses, he feels an anomaly-a hidden panel behind the closet. He walks towards the closet, depositing the flashlight on the bed so that it lit up the entire closet space. He feels for any switch or lever and feels one, just behind the clothes hangar. He presses the button and waits for the wall to slide.

He doesn't expect, well this.

The wall had slid to the left mechanically, revealing a yellow and navy mask, a leather costume and some of the most intricate weaponry known to man. He looked at all the objects with a keen eye and took them down, placed them on the floor as if one where to wear them, and found, behind all of the costume, a few framed news clipper articles and a photo, nostalgic, old, and fading orange with age.

There's a man in a yellow mask with blue claw marks, a woman in all white, another man, more familiar, that brings all of the old sentiments-hurt, anger, love- with shining blue eyes, a bright smile and a blue and yellow leather suit, a young woman in a black and white dress with mostly short brown hair that tapers long at the front, long and white hair that is framing her grinning face, and another woman, a stunning blonde with flushed cheeks that is sticking out her tongue, beside her is a younger man with dark glasses.

But besides the one with the cheerful blue eyes, is him, a pleased smile on his lips, an arm slung around the other.

Rogue, Magneto, Professor, Mystique, Scott the White Queen and Wolverine.

Magneto looks back at the laid out clothes and frowns to himself.

"It's all in the past. It's all in the past-"

"-I turn the corner and BAM! I'm face to face with Mesmero, that guy Vincent something, in the middle of the dairy isle! Mesmero, you remember him, right?" Scott asks, motioning with a cigaret in his hand..

"I think so..." Hank replies, leaning forward in his seat.

"Well, there we where, and I'm thinking 'holy-he thinks I'm Cyclops, he's gonna kill me!' but no, he just talked to me about himself and-oh, he's a devout catholic now, since he's got kids 'n everything... oh, it's getting late, time flies when you're thinking about the past." Scott grins and gets up with Hank.

"Mm, you should get going, it's dangerous to be out so late, especially now-a-days." Hank nods, walking with Scott to the door.

"Sorry if I bored you." Scott teases with a laugh.

"Nah, you know these get-togethers keep me sane." Hank grins, and is surprised at the amount of honesty laced in his tone. They're at the door and Hank get Scott his jacket, hands it over to the aging ex-vigilante, grinning at the roll of eyes behind the long repulsor he knoes is there.

"Damn shame you quit, you where the best replacement, better hero I ever was." Scott grins as Hank opens the door.

"BS and you know it." Hank calls out after him, shoving his glasses up his nose with a quirked eyebrow. Scott's laughter follows him as he closes the door. Hank sighs and flinches at the light turned on in his kitchen, at the distinct rattling of metal. He gasps as he opens the door and E-no, Magneto is leaning against his table, flipping something metal (not the Reichsmark Hank tells himself, trying to lift himself out of the murky memories of the past) between his fingers idly.

"Magneto?" Hank finally asks, his voice lower than he'd like.

"Let myself in. Hope you don't mind." Magneto says, uncrossing his legs, boots thudding on the tile floor. Hank stutters a 'no' as Erik finally stands. Hank won't lie, he's... a little intimidated, Magneto is tall, broad shouldered with his leather jacket, dark black pants and boots.

"Uh, L-Long time no see?" Hank tries for casual but knows it came out a little pathetic. He shrugs out of his coat and throws it across the table, trying damn hard to Avoid that piercing hazel gaze. "How are you keeping?"

"Out of prison so far." E-Magneto shrugs. "Hey-catch." The coin flies through the air and Hank catches it instinctively, surveys the familiar but unknown insignia before cocking his head.

"What the hell is on it?"

"Blood." Magneto says simply, as if it's an everyday thing. Hank shudders at the thought that maybe, to Magneto, it is an everyday thing. "It belonged to Logan, 'Wolverine'. He's dead."

"D-Dead!" Hank spudders, his head snapping towards Magneto. "What the-what are you talking about!"

"Investigated a routine homicide for one James Howlette, turned out to be Logan. Was tossed out of his window, all the way from the thirty-second floor."

"S-somebody..." Hank repeats, then shakes his head and opens a faded violet door. "Maybe we should talk, you know, er.. in more private quarters." Hank shoulders the door the rest of the way and Erik follows into the room, alcove-cave and Hank flicks on the light. The Black-Bird jet is there, in all of it's old glory; chains and hooks are drooping from metal beams and in the corner there are a series of counters with beakers and scientific jargan.

"You, uhh, haven't been down here for a while." Hank states blandly, eying Magneto warily as he slides a finger across the Black Bird's dusty wing.

"Neither have you." Magneto retorts curtly. He leans against one of the support beams and waits for Hank to continue.

"Well, about Wolverine- couldn't it have been a petty crime? Robbery gone wrong? I mean, that bastard wouldn't go down without a fight..." Hank drags on.

"That's ridiculous. No robbery would have killed off Wolverine. "

"Well, I guess it isn't very likely..." Hank sighs and leans against the wall beside the long passage from the tunnel opening. "I heard from Ch-the Professor," Hank corrects with a wince, catching the glint in Magneto's eyes (a flash of Erik)," that he was doing government stuff, maybe... political killing?"

"Maybe." Magneto nods his head and turns away slowly," or maybe someone is picking off costumed mutants." Magneto pushes off the beam and starts towards Hank.

"That sounds... a little paranoid." Hank points out.

"Is that what he's calling me now?" Magneto half growls. "Whatever. Thought I'd let you know in case someone is gunning for masks. Gotta go, things to do. People to scare." Magneto is already a few feet in the tunnel when Hank shouts:

"The tunnel takes you two blocks away, behind the warehouse!"

"I remember" Magneto calls back. "From when we were still partners!"

"Those where great times...whatever happened to them?"

The silence stretched out until Magneto's voice echoed down the tunnel.

"You quit."

"Logan is dead?" The White Queen's voice is laced with surprise, a complete contrast to her stoic demeanor. "But why?"

"Richest person in the world with infinite sources of knowledge at your disposal, you tell me." Erik replies gruffly, glaring heatedly at the blond bombshell. Her skirt hikes up slightly as she crosses her legs, knee-high boots clocking against each other.

"I never claimed to be the smartest person in the world." She purrs. "Maybe...political killing? Russia or the Cubans?" She tries.

"McCoy said the same thing." Magneto sighs. "The US has Ch-the Professor. They wouldn't raise a finger against a friend of his. I think we have a Mask-Killer." Magneto tries to ignore the glint in those icy blue eyes.

"Erik-"

"DON'T call me Erik." Magneto growls. He eyes the empty, wide office, from the porcelain floors to the white walls-everything is so pristine it makes his head hurt.

"Mm, well with Charles on our side I don't see how Logan's death is anything but unfortunate. The guy was a brute." The White Queen scoffs.

"Yeah, a brute but he fought for the country, for mutants. He didn't whore his story out, his identity, in posters and books and newspapers. I'd take a brute over a prostitute any day." Erik says stonily, already heading for the door.

"Listen here!" Emma shouts, furious. "What happened back then-that wasn't my fault, Shaw and you and Charles-"

"-Don't say his name so easily!" Erik shouts back, turning away from the door. "And don't you dare say you had nothing to do with it. You where, what, only fucking the enemy, right Emma?" Erik growls. Emma pales visibly before biting back any retort she might have shouted. "Damn straight." He mutters and, as he walks by the door, turns around.

"And Logan was killed by a mutant."

"How do you know that?" She asks, curiosity softening her tone.

"He would have healed."

Erik Lehnsherr's Journal.
October 13th, 1985. 8:30 p.m.

Meeting with Frost left a bad taste in my mouth. She's pompous and decadent, betraying and shallow to the core.

McCoy was just as bad.

Why are there so few of us left active, healthy or sane?

Rogue is gone, MIA since the second registration, McCoy is a sullen failure, Frost is still the Public's Mutant CEO of a technology company and Logan is dead.

That leaves only two more on my list.

I'll tough it up and see them; they're both living at the Rockerfeller Military Research Center. I'll have to tell the Professor and Mystique that someone's out to kill them, kill us. Will they even listen? Will they even care?

I have to try.

I'm doing this for him them.

"Good evening, Erik." Charles says from behind a stack of books, eyes not straying from the pages.

"Good Evening, Charles." Erik replies as smoothly as he can, keeping his mind clear of any and all stray thoughts.

"What the hell are you doing here, Erik, or should I call you 'Magneto' now?" Raven spits, her blue skin shifting back into the light tone she uses to hid, uses around strangers. Erik can't help the steady rush of guilt-pain-sorry-guilt that rushes though him; can't stop the bitter thought of how things used to be, how Raven had trusted him just sh he had trusted her.

"Raven, really." Charles sighs and pushes a few stray locks of hair from his eyes, his clear, beautiful blue eyes that are glued to Erik. "And, really Erik, you're the only one that is still clinging to the past. You where already forgiven. You just haven;t forgiven yourself."

"You promised you'd never look." Erik growls, surprised by his own harshness.

"Yes, well a lot of people make promises they never intend to keep." Charles retorts coolly, his eyes cold. "Luckily for me, you tossed your thoughts at me like bricks so I couldn't ignore them."

Erik really can't reply to that.

"What the hell do you want then!" Raven snaps, standing besides Charles' desk.

"Logan is dead." Erik says, finally out of his stupor. "And I think-"

"We heard Saturday morning." Raven states with a roll of her eyes.

"Raven, darling, Erik is trying to say that he thinks that someone out there is killing mutants." Charles hushes and smiles sheepishly. "I had to get a scan for what you wanted. Protocol."

"Like he has a problem with killing mutants-"

"Raven!" Charles shouts and slams his fists on the table, lifting up from his seat. Three of the books in the stacks before him slammed against the wall on the far side of the room. Charles' eyes where squeezed shut, breathing harshly and fists clenched.A few minutes of silence passed with only Charles' harsh breathing between them.

"Get out." Charles chokes out, not even shifting. Raven eyes Erik warily before nearing Charles cautiously. "Now! Get out!" Charles boomed and Raven flinched and took a step back, then another. She looked... terrified, scared witless of Charles, the man that had taken care of her since she was a child, that took a hit for her from another mutant and the sight of it strengthened his resolve.

"No! We have to talk! About this about what happened-" But the room began to spin and he felt it, a painful nudge in his mind and everything turned dark.

"Shit, it's really late. I'm so sorry about dinner, Hank-" Raven rants, sitting back on the park bench.

"Nah, It's okay. We can stay here if you'd like. I have nothing against cool air and the starry night sky." Hank risks a small smile that turns into a full-blown grin when it's returned. He feels his cheeks heat up. "So what dragged you down?"

"Ugh Erik came by."

"How'd that go?" Genuine curiosity. Hank hopes he doesn't have to help Raven hide a body.

"Well Charles is watching over him for now, made the poor bastard go to sleep." Raven waggles her fingers by her temple, a fond, nostalgic gesture that Hank misses very much. "Can I crash with you? 'Cause when Magneto wakes up I don't want to be there. For the talk and whatever happens after."

"Sure, and what do you mean by 'after'?" Hank tilts his head at an angle, watching raven's profile, blue skin, yellow eyes, the stars above, trees behind and the lake just beyond.

God, She's beautiful.

"Well, if they honestly talk, then either Charles is going to kill Erik or fuck his brains out. Either way I think I should steer clear for 24 hours. Maybe more if it's the latter." Raven turns to him and quirks a brow.

"Oh. OH-Oh, ew, gross, I don't want to picture Mags and the Proff, ugh" Hank furrows his brows and shakes his head,

"Well, I can keep you company. It's a lonely, dead night. Can't you hear the wolves howlin'?" Raven jokes and Hank has to laugh.

"Well, what do you expect?"

He fingers the metal pin in his pocket.

"...Wolverine is dead."