It happens at the worst possible time.

It happens at the worst possible time, because he is alone, and no one is around to see it happen.

For the last few weeks, Max has been trying to come to terms with things he had seen, things he knew he had done, and letters he had read. Letters written in his handwriting, saying thing that only he would know to be true, to validate the integrity of the letter. The words tell him to believe what he's reading, to believe what he's seeing. To believe what he's feeling. Because a side of him is far stronger than the other, and it's time he let that other side take control. He doesn't understand what that means, and is pretty sure he'll never understand that - it's the second (or possibly third) time he's read those words, going over the letter as if it would tell him something else.

As if it would help solve his current problems and frustrations, as if it held the key to everything that was seemingly locked away. He was wrong of course, to try to find his answers in a piece of paper he didn't even remember writing on. So he tries to focus on something else. Anything else other than what is currently going through is mind, what is currently plaguing him, what is currently frightening him.

It's not a good start to the new year, he can admit that much.

It's when he's run low on his glass of bourbon, when he's starting to leave his home office to yet again refill his glass that his metal letter opener comes flying towards him directly off his desk. He hears it first, and turns around to face it. He then sees it, flinches, and holds out his hand and the letter opener stops in mid-air. With one hand on his empty glass and the other hand holding out to seemingly stop the opener, he takes a step forward. Curiosity gets the better of him, because once again the laws of Physics are failing him, the second time in a few short weeks. Only this time, there is no one else around to witness it. There is no car being lifted in front of him, someone begging him to believe her, to believe what he's seeing.

He's alone. Because of course he is, because now he feels like he's going crazy. Because of course there is no one around to witness this, because when a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, it doesn't make a sound. (Or, however the phrase goes).

He reaches out to touch the opener, and he does so, the letter opener frozen solid in mid air. It's not until he lowers his hand and he's not thinking of how it's suspended in mid-air that it drops. This can't be right. This doesn't make sense. Everything he's known as a scientist is denying that this could be possible. He shakes his head, blinks a few times, trying to clear his mind of what happened. He's tired. He's been drinking a lot. He must have been seeing things.

As he walks out of his office and through is living room though, other objects start lifting from the ground, some suspended in air above their normal resting ground, and others following him towards his kitchen. He thinks that if he walks a little faster, these metal objects will stop coming towards him as if he was suddenly magnetic, but it only causes the objects to follow him faster.

Without thinking about it, he turns around and makes a motion with his hand as if he's pushing back everything following him, and to his surprise, they all fall back to the ground. Some objects go flying, due to the speed in which they were travelling, and he's surprised that that particular law of physics was working. Because of course it would be that one.

His thoughts go back to the letter he had been reading, the one he apparently wrote. You studied Electromagnetism for a reason, Maxwell, it said. Why do you think your preference has always been metal, silver, chrome? Why do you think you've always been more comfortable in large homes with metal rather than the warm tones of wood everyone else prefers? He remembers what he was told. He remembers what others called themselves. He remembers what he apparently called himself in the letter.

Magneto.

The realization hits him hard, and he drops the empty bourbon glass, and the crystal shatters to the ground. This can't possibly be real. There are too many consequences to this, and if he was this supposed man, why didn't he have any of the memories of being him? Why didn't he have any memory of any of it? Still only blank spaces and nothing more.

It takes a moment, but he leaves his kitchen and heads into the living room, looking around at the objects on the ground, the vase lodged deep into his wall, the couch turned over on it's side, various objects resting around his living room. It looks like a hurricane came through. But it wasn't a hurricane. It was apparently him.

Then he sees it. A quarter, resting on the ground. He picks it up, turning it over in his hands, as he moves to find the nearest seat that hasn't been completely destroyed. He sits down, and stares at the coin, studying it, before he finds himself willing the coin to rise from his hand and to float seamlessly around his fingers with precision he couldn't have even imagined having.

One coin becomes two, becomes other random objects floating around the room, and soon becomes him sitting cross legged, hovering in mid air, using the polarity of the metal objects around him to keep him up. As if it's the most natural thing in the world. Because it feels and is the most natural thing in the world. For a brief moment, he feels a moment of clarity that he hasn't felt in years.

It quickly disappears. He thinks of what he's lost in the past year, and what he's gained. What he's bound to lose. The last thing he wants is to push anyone else further away. He fears that is exactly what this will do.

So he keeps the knowledge between himself, and his destroyed apartment. Because at the moment, with no one else around to hear it, the metal crashing to the ground doesn't make a sound.