Bastian's arrival in the American capital was motivated by curiosity and concern, at least initially it was. The city had been leveled by an attack unlike any other witnessed in mankind's history. Whispered rumors and vigorously aired news reports indicated that the assault was connected to the mutant extremists who had recently been active in the likes of New York. A time traveling super soldier sent to the past to prevent a global mutant-human war from steering the world into Hell, naturally all things related to mutant terrorism garnered his attention. And so as he arrived in a city no longer glorious and inspirational in its architecture, the Black Baron's measured gaze took in the sight of broken concrete and rubble.
Smoke hung in the air and weakened the lungs of many. The irony scent of blood crept into his nostrils as he walked all about the city in silence, a quiet sigh escaping him as he silently acknowledged the similarities between Washington DC's current state and that of the world in his future timeline. It seemed as though he was already too late to stop the events that were now in motion. For a moment, frustration caused his blood to boil but the Black Baron's expression remained collected. He internalized his frustration and annoyance and allowed only a single word, uttered just above a whisper in his native German to voice his irritation, "Scheiße (F*ck)". Beyond that, he expressed nothing. True he was a conditioned soldier, his quote, 'Composure is a soldier's greatest weapon' coming to mind, however, Bastian was poised under pressure, he oozed a cool air of control and precision. Cold. Efficient. German.
Then in the most abrupt moment, he felt compelled, lured towards a particular direction. He didn't know why, and at the moment he didn't seem to care why he didn't know. All he knew was that he needed to find the source of whatever it was that called to him. He couldn't even choose to ignore it, lest he risk driving himself mad. And so he did, he continued forward, walking until he reached his apparent destination, the White House. There he set foot inside without any complications from security. He carried himself as he always did, with the gelid confidence and wicked swagger of a mercenary who seemed to know that his target never had any hope of survival. His was an aura of mute intensity and mystifying self-assurance. Its mystique simultaneously allured and intimidated. Then finally, his journey it seemed, came to an end. In an office.
There was a man. Seated, the perfect picture of composure. He had an air of omniscience to him that was unsettling. Bastian discarded that for the time being. He didn't care. All he cared about was what had compelled him to come to this man. "Why have you called me?", he inquired, his prominent German inflection magnifying the disarming bass and gravitas of his voice. He was under no illusions. A man with an aura that screamed 'mysterious' was where this... phenomenon that reached out to him was at its most concentrated? How could it not be his doing?
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