The X-Project

Ever wonder what Magneto's been up to since his hideout in Miami was destroyed? The Master of Magnetism has been very, very busy...



The spring sun beat down on the packed clay streets of Guadalajara. While the city had grown into a reasonably popular resort town in the summer for American college students taking advantage of the paucity of law enforcement, the locals still managed to keep their own culture strong amidst the growing influence from the north.

In the outskirts of the city, one could find 'residenciales' that had stood for over two hundred years, the white-painted adobe buildings that served as a sort of combination public house and hostel. These days, many had been modernized with electricity, running hot and cold water, and even televisions. Few tourists bothered to stay in the residenciales, but those that did were afforded a measure of respect by the locals since they usually paid quite well.

One such visitor sat out on the patio, idly reading an imported newspaper from Europe. For the past four months, he had lived out of the residencial, his stay paid for on time, and his newspapers delivered every Thursday. In his lightweight white business suit, he spent every morning reading over his papers and stirring his coffee, occasionally speaking on his cellular phone. Most of the locals paid him no heed, just another older Anglo businessman, perhaps expanding his company's holdings south.

No one would have noticed the specific articles he saved from the local papers, secreted away among his expensive foreign ones. One word was all they seemed to have in common.

Terremoto.

Earthquake.

The boy bounced a futbol on his knee in impatience. His uniform marked him as a high schooler from the catholic private school nearby and his shaggy black hair was only just keeping with regulation. If he saw the guero casually watching him he gave no notice. His friends were late, and he was starting to get very irritated.

Folding the top of his newspaper down, the older gentleman watched the boy from under the brim of his white fedora. The sun down here was absolutely brutal even this early in the year, but the young boys with their dreams of futbol stardom paid it no heed. The glaring dry heat was their birthright, as it was their parents' and theirs before them.

Placing the newspaper flat on the table, he sipped his coffee slowly, smiling to himself. The boy had another birthright, of course. One that all his research had led him to believe with an absolute certainty.

One of the benefits of living in the residencial was that there was no housekeeping, and thus no one to wander into his room and see the map of the area, with white and red pushpins marking points of interest, black circles drawn around them and notes made wherever they would intersect.

Terremoto. Peligroso. The clippings from the newspapers were tacked up on the walls, an old habit that made him smile. It had been quite a while since he had done this the old-fashioned way. Before the powerful computers and extensive databases. Before web searches and credit card traces. The very effort was its own reward in a way, reminding him that his long experience had so many uses.

The boy continued to juggle the black-and-white ball as he watched. Idly as he tapped his fingers on the table, the stainless steel spoon in his cup began to slowly stir on its own.

This was indeed interesting.

The boy's headache was increasing, a faint pressure that always built up in his temples until his ears rang. To keep his mind off of it, he concentrated on juggling the ball from one knee to the other. His irritation showing clearly on his face.

Next to him, a potted plant began to rattle in it's clay container. The dog in the house next door was going out of it's mind, barking shrilly no matter how much the owner shushed it. The boy stopped bouncing the ball and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"¡Oye, Mocchito! You look like you're about to pass a stone." A boy wearing the same uniform called from further down the street. He and his companion walked as slowly as possible, knowing how much it would annoy their friend.

"You're late, puto." The first boy growled. The pressure in his head released, like a valve had been opened in his skull. Nearby the dog yelped as the owner spanked it.

The older man smiled, stopping the metal spoon in its rotation. Leaving a pair of folded peso notes under his saucer, he tucked his paper under his armpit and walked past the boys.

He stopped briefly and tipped his hat to the young boys in their uniforms. "Buenos dias, senores," he said formally. Looking directly at the one he'd been watching, he gave a smile. "And a good day to you especially, Julio," he said in English.

Julio Richter could only gape after the well-dressed gringo as he sauntered off down the street.

"¿Julio, you know that gabacho?" Raul nudged his arm.


"No." Julio said, thoroughly confused.

"¿Friend of your Papi's?" Chacho offered.

"I, maybe." Julio shrugged. Whoever the man was, he couldn't be that important. Not if he didn't remember him. He bounced the futbol off of Raul's head. "¡I thought I said three, stupid!"

¡Ay! ¡Watch it, joto!"

Erik Lehnsherr watched the boys tussle playfully as they ran down the dusty street. "You do not know me yet, Julio," he said quietly to himself. "But you will. Oh yes."