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Summary: Magik chooses a second student.
Date: May 8, 2020
A Penny for your Thought
Rating: PG
Dreamtime
Sometimes, it's hard to meet with someone. The being known as Magik has refused to be on the earthly plane for a while now, and with good reason. Since the wars have begun, it is not safe. Magic itself is considered anathema. Wielders are either subverted for the government's desires, and used as slaves, as workers, or killed. Magik… could not allow that to happen. It's 2018. The United States are enslaved. And Magik… along with Strange… have come to the decision. They need others. So, on this night, he has entered the dreams of another.
Magik speaks lightly, voice a blend, to prevent knowledge of identity to seep out. "Attend, Thought. I am giving you this name as a callsign. This is the only thing I will refer to you as. This is the only thing I want you to refer to yourself as in my presence. Your human name bears no matter here. We have things we must discuss, if you wish to secure your future and the future of others."
A dream invaded, the fuzzy rationality of the unconscious mind, struggling to integrate this new presence. At first, confusion reigns, the dreamer twisting in the darkness of unsettled sleep. "Thought? What's going on? Who is this?"
Magik would offer a smile, were a face visible behind the armor. The armor of Magik is… to put it bluntly, nearly demonic in appearance. Curled horns from the forehead. The face is covered by a metal mask. The body covered in silver and spikes. And in Magik's hand… a large sword. It could be recognizeable to some who were around for the inferno, years ago. "Good. Thought… You stand at a crossroads. My name is Magik. I wish to offer you… assistance. Despite my appearance, I am not an enemy. I believe you have it within you. The ability to fight for your world in ways that others would never dream of."
The dreamer begins to settle, aware that the dream has taken on the cast of something…. more. Much more. Struggles abate, the sleeping mind floating in a sea of questions, impressions… and slowly, spreading like the petals of a newly-blooming rose, understanding. Old familiarity, old scars, old understandings, the hard roads traveled lending everything a new perspective. The dreamer stills, then, considering, tasting possibilities, weighing uncertainty. "What assistance? And what price?"
There's a chuckle from Magik. "Good. You don't simply jump in like Devotion, without asking. The assistance… abilities that the Sentinels cannot block. That no mutant power blocker in the world can stand in the way of. Magic itself. I feel a spark of it within you, Thought. Enough that can be fanned into a flame. Strange and I have chosen to take pupils and let them work silently in the world until we can make a stand with the mutants. The price… may be great. For us, the biggest problem… is secrecy and… darkness. Unfortunately, my magic comes with fighting yourself. Fighting that darkness within that urges you to commit attrocities. But, I feel confident that you can withstand."
"You name me Thought," comes the similarly amused reply, "you expected this." Silence falls between dreamer and mage, the dreamscape churning as the mind roils in upon itself. The moments stretch into timeless eternities, and in a blink the sea is still once more. "Yes." A simple word, upon which the fate of all the world may hang. Yet the dreamer has spoken, the word etched in bedrock-firm sincerity.
"Of course. My disciples names were chosen the moment I chose them. Thought and Devotion. Thought for themselves and the world. Thought for a better tomorrow. Thought to save the past. Thought to save their loved ones. Devotion to the world and what it should be. Devotion to persistence and triumph. Devotion… hmm. To love. I suppose. Not that I recall much of that word's meanings." Magik states as he looks over. "It will not be easy. I myself have fought my own demon. On a daily basis, every time I wield this sword, I fight my demon. But, fighting my own demon… allows me to control others. You… may remember some of them." The being's voice intones, flashing memories of ten years ago. Central Park.
"I remember." And the memories surface, breaking the dreamscape like creatures parting the surface of some deep, terrible ocean. Of the demons, of loss and recovery, tragedy and fear and bone-deep horror. "I remember. I remember when it *was* easy. It hasn't been any longer." The dreamer floats again, the thought by which they are Called whispering, evaluating, judging, weighing and measuring. Then… "You need me to fight my demons, to secure the fate of the world. I accept."
Before Thought has a moment to respond or alter the decision, a whipfast strike comes from Magik. A small dagger in his hand traces the arm, welling up blood. Nothing serious. It's honestly no more than a light cut, just long. In the same motion, a sword appears in Magik's hand. This one is pressed against the welling blood. The metal immediately turns warm, matching Thought's body temperature exactly. That… and while it's touching, Thought can feel the darkness of which Magik was speaking. A few words in an ancient language are spoken. "Take the sword. It is now bound to your soul." The sword will feel like an extension of the hand of the wielder when bound.
The dreamscape bulges inward and outward for an eyeblink; the mind echoing the startled cry torn from the dreamer as the wound is made. As the sword is pressed to the shallow cut, the indignant turmoil ceases, all attention drawn to the sword, and the darkness that lurks within. When bidden, the dreamer grasps the sword's hilt, lifting the blade to wondering, inquisitive eyes. "…It will not be easy," the one known as Thought murmurs in echo of Magik's caution, as the darkness swells within their soul, promising vengeance and power and hatred and the destruction of everything that has dared to hurt them. "But it will be done."
"The sword is at your command. You may will it to exist or to not exist. This, is a SoulSword. It was forged decades ago, in another dimension. It has been wielded by others in the past. Now, it is yours. Your first task, over the next few weeks, is to summon it… alone… and learn to control that rage. That darkness. Speak to no one of this. Nobody may know that Magic is alive, nor that Magik is alive. Your secrecy, as well as that of your cohort, Devotion, are paramount. Protect it with your life. I will teach you over the next few years, until the time as we may all stand, and show our faces to the world." Magik explains. "And, I apologize for the cut on your arm, when you go awaken. Be careful. Be strong."
"It isn't the first wound I've been given doing what's needed," Thought replies, the SoulSword vanishing with a flicker of thought, to be summoned again. "Likely it will not be the last." The sword disappears once more, and the dreamer's eyes rise. "Thank you, Magik. I will keep the secret, and learn the sword. I hope… that one day I can call myself worthy of this chance."
"I hope that you live that long, Thought. My last chosen student… succumbed to the darkness. She…" Magik stops there. If a face were visible, it would be stricken. Even the voice is. "We will deal with that if necessary. Once you have learned enough, we will begin staging our own plans. Comfort for some. Strike teams for others. Be prepared. I will not interfere with your daily life though."
Understanding and assent surface in the dreamscape, Thought now standing on a firm foundation of assurance. "I will fight the darkness to my last breath, Magik. I always have. I always will. This…" the hand that held the sword lifts, palm open, and drops. "in my heart, simply a rejoining of an old war. One… that I've missed." The dreamer smiles. "I will not be proof that you chose in error again. I promise you that."
"I believe that. And that is why I chose you. Good luck. I will meet you in th dreamscape again, and begin your training soon. AFter you've had time to adjust to your new sword." And with that, a circle of light appears at Magik's feet. "Until then." The ring rises and vanishes, taking Magik with it,.
"Until then," the dreamer echoes as Magik rises from sight. One final gaze is swept around the roiling no-dream void of the mind, and with a sigh, the dreamer sinks back beneath the waves, giving over to troubled fantasies and reenacted worries. Somehow, the shadows seem sharper, the colors muted, and the first night in the keeping of the SoulSword, markedly more unpleasant.
