Virgil took a breath, then launched himself off the roof and toward the edge of the crowd. He was happy with his decision, he thought. It might have been, who knows, braver, to go as himself – but that wasn’t safe for Static, let alone for Virgil. No one knew, and he wasn’t planning to tell them, and it wasn’t because he didn’t feel safe; it was only because the more people who knew, the more people who could connect him with Static.
Maybe it was because he was afraid. Virgil couldn’t tell anymore.
It was a moot point, anyway. He’d landed in full costume, and already been caught on camera, so even if he had wanted to change, he couldn’t anymore. Instead, he gave the news van his trademark grin, and held up his sign for them to see. Several people snapped pictures.
Black Mutant Lives Matter, the sign read.
It was a good sign, he thought. He’d spent all week second guessing himself. Maybe he wanted something more political, maybe he wanted something funnier or more eye catching, maybe he wanted – Virgil didn’t know. He just knew that the bang babies he fought weren’t the biggest threats out there, and so many of them were only making mistakes because they didn’t have a lot of choices, especially not with the current outlooks.
And even more of them were just…trying to live with what had happened to them. Having accidents. Being driven to things they never wanted to do in the first place, and there was only one solution for that: creating more organizations to help mutants.
So this was Static’s issue even more than it was Virgil’s, and maybe the costume would make the right impact. Lend some credibility to the movement. Make it seem more – relevant. Everyone knew Static wasn’t a bad guy, at least.
He’d considered not going at all, but Virgil had never been the kind of person who could walk out on the right thing.
He looked into the crowd, a lot of other people wearing bright or strange clothes, a few in masks like him. Most of the protesters were in everyday clothes, though, the younger crowd mostly in jeans and t-shirts or hoodies, and the crowd did skew younger, but some in high fashion, some in business casual, and a few even in suits. Older people seemed to dress extremely professionally, or like they were ready to go to war.
Virgil hoped they weren’t going to war.
The people who really caught his attention were the couple in pajamas, or something close – sweatpants or yoga gear. It wasn’t the fancy kind, either (although there were some here; mutants showed up in all walks of life), it was like they’d rolled out of bed and put on whatever they could bring themselves to, or sometimes didn’t even change at all, and all of them had determined faces on, like it was taking all they had just to hold up a sign. And suddenly, it felt a lot more important that Static be here.
He held up his sign more determinedly, chanting along with the crowd. Mutant rights are human rights was easy to get caught up in. He called it out, at least once into a microphone, and read the signs around him. Recent bills, most of them, simply crossed out or marked with a big NO, and other times summarized or rebutted. Sometimes the writing was too small to read from a distance, and Virgil wondered whether it was a conversation starter for the protesters near them, or if they had more information to hand out. Others had popular slogans, or just pictures of mutants who were (or weren’t) in the news lately.
Virgil got a couple of nods and smiles for his own sign, mostly from other black and brown faces in the crowd, and he found himself thinking that, even in the midst of it, the crowd tended white, and it wasn’t just the cameras being biased after all. Well, he could understand that, at least, and he held his sign up higher.
“Don’t make this political,” a voice called, somewhere to his right, and Virgil turned, startled. Not so much that someone was angry at him – that was a common enough occurrence – or even that someone else in the crowd had a problem with him. He’d predicted that when he’d picked out his sign; even something that it seemed like no one could disagree with was bound to cause its share of disagreements.
No, his confusion was very much at the idea that Static was somehow, by himself, turning a carefully organized mass protest political.
“Hey, I know you,” someone else called, and Static tensed.
It wasn’t anyone who knew him as Virgil, though. And it wasn’t even a friend of the first protester; it came from the other direction. It also came accompanied by a half dozen other people, all of whom had set down their signs, and turned to face Static instead of the cameras.
“Hey, guys,” Virgil said, doing his best not to reflexively lower the sign, “I don’t want any trouble. Just looking to fight for our rights, same as you guys.”
“Our,” the one in front said, “oh, he says our like he’s one of us.”
Virgil’s grip tightened around his sign.
“Get out of here,” one of the other ones said, quietly, hunched over and hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Didn’t you hear him? Leave,” said another, fists clenched tight by his sides.
Virgil considered making some sort of platitude about how they were all in this together, but somehow, he couldn’t seem to find Static’s voice.
“You’re not a real mutant,” the first one spat.
And Virgil simultaneously relaxed and tensed, because what the hell, he was a real mutant, no one treated Static like he wasn’t a mutant, and what was a real mutant, anyway, what did that even mean? Most people started showing their mutations in high school, the same as he had, so even if it had come from a different source –
“Look, you don’t understand,” said another protester, plaintively, one of the ones who had barely managed to climb out of bed, “it’s not the same for you.”
“Oh, because I had an accident,” Virgil said, finally finding, if not Static’s voice, something close enough, “I’m not the same. Everyone says, oh, poor Static, it’s not his fault he’s a freak.”
“Don’t use that word,” someone else growled, glaring as she stepped closer to him. “That’s not your word to use unless it’s used against you.”
And Virgil wanted to say that it was, that what did they think people called him, that just because people thought of him as a hero they thought he couldn’t have anything to do with the big bang, that he must’ve been like that all along –
“No one has a problem with you,” Virgil heard, as if that wasn’t the most laughable thing in the world, as if he’d grown up with everything he wanted instead of whatever his parents could manage to scrape together, as if people didn’t question his humanity the second they took a look at him. Hell, Virgil would probably be better off if he’d turned blue.
“You couldn’t help it,” someone told him, and Virgil couldn’t keep track of them anymore. It was still half a dozen, a dozen at most, but it started to feel like it was the whole crowd, every protester here, like Static was the only one, even though he knew a couple of the big names had had accidents themselves.
“You don’t think it’s easier for you,” someone sobbed, “you don’t think people are more willing to deal with you, because you’re not – not contaminated?”
“Don’t you think it’s easier that you can hide?”
“And what about you?” another voice cut in. Deeper. Older. A gentle hand rested on Virgil’s shoulder, and he tried not to flinch. “Do you think you have no advantage, being able to control your powers, as you can? Do you think you have no advantage, looking as you do – look around you. How many faces do you see that don’t at least look human?”
And that was it. The crowd dispersed. And Virgil thought, maybe he’d overestimated the size. Or maybe the comments were coming from all around because people were just – there. Not because they’d decided to threaten him. Or maybe this guy had just scared them off.
Virgil turned around.
He was looking into a face that was deeply, heavily lined, smiling a smile that seemed real enough, even if it didn’t go all the way to his eyes. He wore a helmet, but no mask. At least he had the decency to be wearing a cape, and Virgil self-consciously rearranged his own costume around himself, hoping he didn’t look as disheveled as he felt.
“Hello. Static, was it?” the old man asked, holding out his hand.
Virgil took it, looking the costume up and down as he shook, and said, carefully, “Magneto. It’s nice to meet you.”
Magneto laughed. “You don’t have to say it if you don’t mean it. I’m well used to dealing with people who dislike me for personal reasons.”
“And you’re okay with, uh, non-mutant mutants here?” Virgil said, and then wondered why he ever bothered opening his mouth, if he couldn’t make his words sound like sense.
Magneto gave him a long look. “You know, I’ve seen people try to divide groups many times over the course of my life. Pitting mutant against mutant is nothing new.”
“Oh,” Virgil said, wondering if there was more to this conversation than he was getting, some mysterious shared referent that Magneto was obviously convinced they were both talking about. He wondered if it had anything to do with the other mutants, the ones who went around being superheroes. One of them had said something about the two being friends. Virgil tried not to follow superheroes too closely. It wasn’t safe for Static.
“They want us to fight each other,” Magneto said, softly. “The more energy we spend against each other, deciding who does and doesn’t get to stay in our little group, the less energy we have to fight back. And the fewer people, too.”
“You’re saying I do belong,” Virgil clarified.
“I’m saying, there’s no point in my – or anyone else’s – saying you don’t,” Magneto told him. “If they treat you like one of us, you need our protection, and we need your help.”
“Help, I can give,” Virgil said, finally managing to find Static’s confidence. “I’m actually pretty good at help. I agreed to two interviews the minute I got here.”
Magneto smiled. “Well, a kind face always benefits the movement. The people like a hero, Static. If that’s what you can do…well, we all do what we can.”
Virgil stiffened. Good publicity – free good publicity – was key to spreading awareness, and awareness, awareness of the regular everyday mutants, the harmless ones, the helpful ones, that was what was going to make people stop hating them, start thinking of them like people. Publicity was what turned an unknown threat into just another way that people were. Publicity, education, that was what they needed, that was what gathered enough force to change the law.
“Oh, I don’t mean it like that,” Magneto said, “don’t take it so harshly. I simply mean that when the law works against us, sometimes we have to work outside the law.”
And Static, about to argue that the law was the law for a reason, suddenly remembered the last protest he’d been at, suddenly realized what the other protesters had meant, about him being able to hide. Because as much as Virgil had to stay on his best behavior, Static never had to fear a pair of flimsy metal circles, the way so many of his friends did. Virgil wasn’t the only one who had to be extra wary of the cops – and even if he had more reason to be, they didn’t know. Not like they knew with Adam. He wondered what it was like to walk around with that many targets on your back.
So when Magneto asked whether he knew how to jam a gun, Virgil’s reaction wasn’t shock, it was just, “of course I do,” and the demonstration the man clearly wanted.
Yet again, Virgil found himself hoping he didn’t end up in a war.
It never hurt to be cautious. And, as far as he could tell, it didn’t hurt anything to humor someone who probably just wanted to see a power like his at work (which, Virgil had to admit, was actually pretty cool). It took a while, but eventually, Magneto was satisfied.
Virgil thought it was probably when he’d shown the trick with mace. He wasn’t sure whether Magneto had run into less mace, or whether his tactics were just generally more offensive than defensive, but it was something Virgil had perfected, with subtle enough use of his power that they couldn’t usually tell where the interference had come from. Magneto showed him how to deal with a land mine, or a grenade.
Sometimes, knowledge didn’t feel like a good thing at all.
“It’s important to prepare for the worst,” Magneto told him.
And Virgil showed him how to overload a taser. Even in situations like this, it was rare to meet someone with powers that were remotely compatible, and it was powerful. He wondered how much Magneto could teach him. He wondered how much Magneto would teach him. He wondered where he would get the time. He wondered whether Static should start showing up to regular community events – support groups, maybe.
He wondered what minor crime Static would be blamed for missing, just so he could go to another pointless protest.