To enjoy this story properly, just presume that Operation: Zero 
Tolerance was a great deal more successful than it was in mainstream 
Marvel. 

  Thank you. Have a nice day. 

  ==================================== 

  APRIL 1999 

The metal bolts were thrown, there was a hiss as the door unlocked, 
the guards all chambered the rounds into their weapons simultaneously, 
and the voice of Bastion himself rang through A Block. 

"Prisoner #98L11161926. Lehnsherr. Stand back from the door." 

"I'm nowhere near the door, Bastion," the white-haired prisoner in the 
green coveralls said, his tone conversational, his fingers steepled in 
front of him. "I'm sitting at my desk. Which, I am certain, you 
already know." 

"Yes. Yes, I do," Bastion said. "I feel obligated to inform you that 
my troops will shoot you if you attempt to escape." 

"Really." The ex-terrorist's voice was sardonic, strong. "Why in the 
world would I want to do that? This nullifier zone you've put me in 
makes me as powerless --" he stopped. There was no need to indulge his 
jailer's ego any more than was necessary. 

"Your new cellmate has arrived, Lehnsherr." The door opened, and 
Bastion filled the doorway. "I trust there will be no trouble?" 

"Why," the prisoner said blandly, "would there be trouble?" 

"Ah. How gratifying," Bastion said in a calm, clear voice, and stepped 
aside. A brown-haired man in the green coveralls of a Operation: Zero 
Tolerance prisoner with mutated genes was pushed into the room. 
Lehnsherr's eyes widened in recognition, but he said nothing. 

"Prisoner #99S04121969. Summers." Bastion's harsh chuckle echoed in 
the metal hallway for a moment. "You two have fun now." 

The door clicked shut, hissed as it locked, and the control bolts 
slammed back into place. Lehnsherr allowed himself a single, quiet 
bark of laughter. 

"Of all the cellmates I could possibly get . . . . they give me you. 
Summers, there is no justice in this universe. This is proof positive." 

Scott Summers blinked his eyes rapidly, looking up at the florescent 
lights and took a deep breath as he unlocked the inhibiter collar 
around his neck. "I'm not exactly thrilled to be in prison with you 
either, Magneto." 

"Oh, please," the older man said, waving his hand expansively at the 
small room. "we're _bunkmates._ Call me Magnus." 

==================================== 

JULY 1999 

"I miss my wife." 

"Pardon me?" Magnus asked, turning around at the desk. "Are you 
actually beginning a conversation? Please allow me a moment to draft a 
telegram to the Associated Press." 

"I don't feel like I have a lot in common with you, Magnus. You're a 
terrorist. I'm a --" 

"A what?" Magnus stood, his clear blue eyes crackling. "Continue, 
Summers, please." 

Scott took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. That was insulting." 

"Yes, it was." An elegant shrug of the shoulders. "But it's no more 
than I've come to expect from you and yours, Summers. Terrorists, so 
the popular wisdom once had it, is what the big army calls the little 
army." 

Another sigh. "I really am sorry. My apologies." 

Magnus turned slowly, seating himself at his desk and beginning to 
write again. "Accepted. What were you saying?" 

"My wife. I miss my wife." There was a pause, a long silence, and then 
finally Magnus spoke, without looking up from the papers on his desk. 

"I miss Charles." 

Scott Summers opened his mouth and closed it, once, twice, three 
times. "I . . . . I did _not_ want to picture that." 

"And I didn't need to picture you and your wife. You see? We're even." 

Scott stretched out on his bunk and stared at the ceiling for a long 
moment. Finally, he rolled over onto his stomach and looked over down 
at the older man. "Can I ask you a personal question?" 

Magnus' pen scratched on paper. "Go on." 

"You . . . . and Charles . . . . were you . . . . did you --" 

Magnus straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, but did not turn 
around. "Whatever the answer to that question is, Summers, it is not 
any of your business. Any such matter would be between Charles and 
myself. And allow me to make something clear to you: you will not 
bring this matter up again. There are certain things that will never 
be spoken of between us. Have I made myself clear, Summers?" 

"Of course. Sorry." 

==================================== 

NOVEMBER 1999 

The crackle of the door intercom woke both of them out of a sound 
sleep. :Lehnsherr?: 

Scott leaned over the side of his bunk, looking down into Magnus' 
eyes. Magnus nodded almost imperceptibly. Daria. The night-shift A 
Block guard. Scott raised an eyebrow, Magnus spread his hands. 

"Yes. What is it?" 

:Look, I thought you should know,: Daria said quietly. :I have a 
friend who works in the Advance Intelligence office. He and I were 
talking . . . . I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but like I 
said I thought that you ought to know.: 

Magnus let a long, slow breath out between his lips. "What is it, 
exactly, that I ‘ought to know,' Daria?" 

:Your son and your daughter. They were part of the Avengers contingent 
in Seattle. There was a pacification strike on Seattle earlier today.: 
There was a long pause. :I'm very sorry, Lehnsherr.  They were both 
killed.: The intercom clicked off. 

Magnus stared at the door for a long moment. Then, finally, he rose, 
and, utterly composed, moved to the desk and seated himself, sitting 
motionless in the chair, staring at the wall. 

Scott carefully climbed down from his bunk. He started across the 
room, his arm extended. "Magnus, I am so sorry --" 

"I'm sure that you are, Scott. But do me the favor of not trying to 
tell me you understand. You've never lost a child. You do not, cannot, 
understand." 

"I had a child once, Magnus. Maybe I've never been through this, but I 
think I know what you're going through. Even if my . . . ." he paused, 
wondering if he deserved to use the word, "son and I didn't always get 
along." 

"Really." Magnus glared at Scott, blue eyes blazing into brown. "Do 
you have the faintest idea of what it is like to look into your 
child's eyes and see hatred festering there? Hatred for you? Hatred 
for your every action? To see that fire burning there? That darkness, 
that utter blackness? Do you know --" He stopped abruptly, making a 
discernible effort to marshal his feelings. "Do you know what it is to 
see that hate . . . . and to understand that you deserve it?" 

There was a long silence. Scott turned around, walked back to his 
bunk, and started to climb up -- and slowly stopped. "Yes," he said 
quietly. 

"I . . . . beg your pardon?" 

"Yes, Magnus. I know how that feels." He climbed slowly into his bunk. 

They sat together in the dark, one on his bunk, the other in his 
chair. There was silence, save for a few sounds, not dissimilar 
between themselves. A short while later . . . . 

"Summers?" 

". . . . yes?" 

"Are you crying, Summers?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, I am, Magnus. Are you?" 

". . . . yes." 

"Good night, Magnus." 

"Good night." 

==================================== 

AUGUST 2000 

:Hey. Hey, is anybody in here?: 

Scott sprang off of his bunk, moving over to the speaker grille. 
"Hank? Hank, is that you?" 

:You got it, Scotty-boy. Stand clear.: 

Scott moved away from the door, looking at Magnus. "We're clear, Hank, 
go ahead." 

There was a brief explosion, and the door threw itself aside, 
withdrawing into the walls. The furry form of Henry P. McCoy filled 
the doorway. 

"The Avengers, as legally deputized officers of the United States 
Department of Defense, have assumed command of this facility," the 
former X-Man said, grinning. "Come, gentlemen. I've arranged for 
transportation to Westchester for both of you." 

"Charles," Magnus said, his voice hushed. 

"I'm sorry?" Hank asked. 

Magnus' voice was slightly ragged. "Is Charles with you?" 

"Yes. Yes, he is. He was very insistent --" 

Scott felt his lips moving into a rather silly grin as he extended his 
hand, helping Magnus to his feet. "Come on, Magnus. He's probably 
waiting down in the lobby." 

"I'm not an old man, Summers," Magnus said. He squared his shoulders, 
and summoned up a touch of the old imperiousness. "I'm seventy-three 
by technicality only. _I_ shall lead the way." He brushed past the 
Beast, then paused. "But thank you, Scott. It's appreciated." 

"No problem, Magnus." Scott smiled. "Never will be."