[ WP ] A villian who thinks he 's a hero realizes he 's the villian . What is he thinking ?

Erik sat in the Oval Office and smiled. He had done it. President of the United States of America. Finally Homo Superior would reign supreme, a Master Race. 
 Running his hand through his thin, wiry hair, he thought to his old friend, Charles Xavier. May he rest in peace. It seemed a lifetime ago that they had first met. In truth, it was moreso. A mutant like himself, Charles had believed that humans and mutants could co-exist peacefully. Erik knew otherwise. He had been subjugated before, though not for being a mutant. Never again would his brothers endure such an atrocity. 
 Non-mutants were being rounded up by the tens of thousands. They would be killed. ‘ Why mince words ’ he thought. It was the only solution. An end to predjudice against the superior race. An end to the weak controlling the world. A final solution to the human question. 
 Those words seemed eerily familiar in his mind, a distant echo from a memory not quite forgotten. 
 Their deaths would further the world. Natural selection, the survival of the fittest. It had happened before, as the mammals overtook reptiles, as Humans overtook Neanderthals. Were not the mutants the fittest in this scenario? 
 He sighed, and looked to his helmet, sat on the desk. After all these years, still shining a brilliant red. His eyes widened as he noticed his reflection – it was not a face he recognised. For the first time, he felt old. 
 Why shouldn ’ t he? He was old. He had been born in the 1920s. He looked good for a man that was nearly 100. 
 ‘ A century ’. It had been for the best part of a century he had fought for this. And now here he was, Erik Lehnsherr, President of the United States. 
 
 Erik wasn ’ t even his real name. That was... 
 What was it? It had been taken from him so long ago. 
 It didn ’ t matter anyway. Most people knew him by something else entirely. To the world, he was Magneto. 
 President Magneto. It had a ring to it. For years he had led his race, and would continue to do so. He was their figurehead, their one leader. Soon he would unite the mutants of the world under his banner. One Race. One Nation. One Leader. 
 
 His eyes widened as the words passed through his mind. He remembered. 
 
 Max. Max Eisenhardt. That was his name. It all came flooding back. His family executed before him. Alongside him. 
 He felt the mark on his forehead where the bullet had been stopped by an early manifestation of his powers. 
 Pulling himself from a pit of corpses, fetid, diseased, weak. Being captured, tortured, for not being superior. Falling in love. Magda, a Roma girl. Her being torn away from him. Their child, killed. For not being part of the Master Race. A Final Solution to the Jewish Question, they had called it. Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Führer; One race, One nation, One Leader. 
 A lone tear rolled down his cheek, past the small square moustache sitting on his lip. With one hand he brushed his thin hair away from his face; with the other he reached for the gun in the drawer. He placed it against that mark on his forehead. 
 
 “ Es tut mir leid, Magda ”
