X-Man
by Babs Yerunkle
(with apologies to Steve Zink and
Marvel Comics)
From the "X-Men Evolution" universe, beginning
after the end of the first season.
Chapter 1: Miss taken
The cab pulled up to the front of the mansion and I did my
best to climb out without yelling out in pain. I managed to stagger up the
steps just as the huge double doors opened in front of me.
Two teenagers were there to intercept me – a determined looking
boy with thick dark glasses, and an attractive young red-headed girl. Of
course, I knew them both from my patient's description, but this was the first
time I'd seen them in person. I glanced at the young man and noticed that his
glasses *did* seem to have a reddish tint. The two didn't seem to be welcoming
me in from the storm – rather they looked to be defending the mansion from an
invasion. I didn't think much of their judgment if they were afraid of a
geriatric like me.
"Mr. Summers, I believe? And Miss Grey. Time is of
the essence. Your friend Rogue will be shortly under attack if she isn't
already. Is Mr. Wagner around? He would be fastest, if he knows where her
apartment is."
It's always nice to get a reaction, and theirs was more than
gratifying. Unfortunately I was in a hurry, and had no time to waste on their
surprise.
"What are you waiting for?" I yelled. "Your
friend's life may be at stake!"
A low voice from the side caught me by surprise. "Who
the hell?"
I turned to see a compact and extremely dangerous man. I'd
hoped to avoid our run-in for as long as possible.
"Logan," I acknowledged. "Mystique and
perhaps others are on their way to intercept Rogue. I have the address of her
temporary apartment if you don't. The last I saw Ms. Darkholme," I
gestured at my battered appearance, "before she beat me to within an inch
of my life, she seemed to be in what I would describe as a clinically insane
fury, raving about how she would 'kill her.' Anything else you'd like to
discuss can wait until after you've rescued your comrade, don't you
think?"
Logan stared at me, scowling. His eyes narrowed and I saw
his nostrils flaring, as if ensuring that it really was me. He seemed more
confused than I would have expected from him, but after all, this was more of a
strategic issue, and Logan's strengths had ever been in the tactical arena,
rather than the strategic.
"Trautwein?" he asked, in some confusion.
"Yes, YES, you fool! Now hurry up before it's too
late!" What did it take to get these people moving?
Before any of us could take further action, there was a
burst of dark soot accompanied by a smell that even my relatively weak human
nose could distinguish: the classic aroma of sulfur and brimstone. A rather
distinguished blue-furred fellow had appeared in mid-air.
"I have arrived! What's the –" upon seeing me,
his face took on a stricken look "—oopsie."
I inhaled deeply, preparing to launch into my spiel once
more, when Logan snapped out a quick set of commands.
"'Crawler, port to Rogue's place. Mystique and crew
may be planning to kidnap or kill her. Stay out of sight until backup
arrives. I think it's a trap. Keep to the shadows and just keep watch,
okay?"
"Rogue? I'm gone!" With a small implosion, the
blue fellow had vanished as quickly as he'd arrived. Frankly, it all left my
heart pumping a bit too fast for my continued health. I'd read clinical
reports, and certainly discussed it with my patient often enough, but
apparently that was still no substitute for experiencing things first hand. As
I collapsed in one of the entryway chairs, Logan gestured at the two teens.
"You two, follow me. Move it!"
And with that, they rushed out into the gathering autumn
storm.
*****
By the time everyone had returned, my fears had been
realized. I had been too late.
Charles organized a briefing in the main sitting room, just
off his impressive library. I looked over the group that I'd heard so much
about this past month: Charles and Logan, of course, the Munroe woman with her
striking white hair and dark skin, the boys: Summers, Daniels, and the
unforgettable Herr Wagner; and finally the girls: Jean Grey and Katherine Pryde.
The only one missing was the girl that I knew as Rogue.
It was fascinating to finally see them. Although I had
dreaded seeing Logan again, I'd been quite anticipating meeting my patient's
young friends. Though upon reflection, perhaps that wasn't the word she would
have used. And it was interesting to note that my sessions with her had left
me with some solid emotional preconceptions about them. Whether this was due
to her descriptions and viewpoint, or whether there had been some emotional residue
from our contact sessions was something that I would wonder about for some time
to come.
"Quiet down, everyone," Charles began. Ever the
father figure, it was predictable that he would try to soothe their worries
first. "We have much to discuss, and the information and plans we
formulate here will serve us far better than rushing forward, unprepared. As
the first order of business, let me introduce you to Dr. Gerard Trautwein. Dr.
Trautwein has been a colleague of mine for many years, collaborating on and off
with many projects dealing with both biology in general, and the implications
of the X-gene in particular. For example, Dr. Trautwein's theories were
instrumental in constructing my mutant ability detector, Cerebro."
I shook my head sharply, dismissing his claim.
"There's no need for false flattery, Charles. We both know that I
provided, at best, a minuscule enhancement to your work."
"I would hardly say that. In any case, students, you
should know that Dr. Trautwein is already familiar with the basic outlines of
your abilities."
"You should also know that he's a back-stabbing
opportunist," Logan growled out, "and if he isn't already cozy with
Magneto's crowd, it's only because they wouldn't accept help from a pure
human."
Logan's statement was so riddled with inaccuracies that I
wasn't sure where to begin, but at least the I could deal with the challenge
immediately instead of waiting for him to blind-side me.
"Logan, I've apologized before. I'll do so again, as
often as you like. The man's papers identified him as a legitimate employee of
the Canadian government. And even afterward, once I was suspicious, what could
I do? Where could I go? I still have no idea where he'd gone. His lab…"
"That's been taken care of," came the gruff reply.
I hung my head. "I never expected…"
"Save it for someone who cares, Doc."
Young Summers was on his feet, speaking angrily to Xavier.
"You told this man everything about us? Without even asking us? What
were you thinking?"
"Not quite, Scott. I revealed some details of observed
mutant abilities, without releasing details of age, race, or gender. Dr.
Trautwein only learned more information a few weeks ago, slightly before Rogue
left for the fall break." He inclined his head toward me in an obvious
cue.
"Yes, well…as you're probably aware, Dr. Xavier has had
considerable difficulty training Rogue in the control of her powers.
Considering the seriousness of her condition, he allowed her to seek outside
help. Specifically, me. For the past few weeks, since a little before your
fall break, I have been acting as her trainer, therapist, and mentor."
Miss Pryde spoke up then. "*That* must have been,
like, the ultimate thrill."
Predictably enough, Wagner was the only one to show genuine
sympathy. "Have you been able to help her?"
I shook my head. "I had high hopes, initially, but my
training has been no better than Charles' efforts. We were able to slightly
refine the capability she displayed with you, Miss Pryde. She has slightly
more control at deliberately drawing out a specific trait. Unfortunately, the
goal was to allow her to touch *without* affecting those she came in contact
with. I did have hopes of creating a physical device which might briefly
suppress her abilities, but… that has been destroyed."
I took a deep breath and launched into the biggest news.
"All that has been rendered relatively unimportant. I have been working
with Rogue for several weeks, without minor progress, but no breakthroughs. In
that time I have come to have a great sympathy for a girl who is struggling
under a plethora of burdens. An orphan, manipulated by her closest friends and
family, forever forced to hold herself apart, denied the comfort of a simple
human touch – my admiration for her has grown immensely. Tragically, I haven't
been able to help her as anything other than a confessor.
"But as I said, there is bigger news. Earlier today,
the woman you know as Mystique broke into my laboratory. She appeared to be in
a state that I would describe as a true, clinically insane fury. She had
learned of my device; she knew that Rogue was my patient; and she swore that
she would, and I quote, 'Kill that damned bitch so hard that there won't be
*anything* left of her.'
"I'm afraid that I remain sketchy on the details of
what followed. I believe I struggled with her, judging from the headache that
I am currently suffering and the wounds that I bear. I must have struck my
head on the apparatus. When I awoke, my machine was in ruins, I was bruised
and bleeding, and both my wallet and jacket – containing my address book and
Rogue's new address – had vanished. In conjunction with the telephone outage
we are currently suffering, this explains my rather hasty journey here. I am
hoping that you have at least some good news for us, Herr Wagner."
"Uh, no?" He tapped together his unusual yet
oddly elegant fingertips. I would have thought that two fingers and a thumb
might look freakish, but on him it looked refined and proper. Not human, but
perhaps something beyond and above humanity.
"They vere already leaving vhen I got there," he
explained. "They had Rogue bundled up in a sack, and she was thrashing
veakly. Then they shoved her into the trunk. It was Avalanche and
Quicksilver! They took off before I could do anything. I think they had
someone in the back seat, too. I tailed them for as long as I could,
but…"
Charles interrupted him. "You did as well as you
could. I will see if I can discover anything useful through Cerebro."
"There's one other detail," I mentioned, carefully
dropping my bombshell. "As Charles and Logan are both aware, I am what
you would inaccurately call a 'non-mutant'. I have never had even a hint of
paranormal ability. Until now. Whatever happened as I struggled with Mystique
over my experimental apparatus, it seems to have left me permanently altered.
I seem to have permanently acquired a mutant ability. I don't think I need to
explain to you how this might alter the situation you have found yourselves
in. If this effect can be replicated, Charles, we can finally reach that
reconciliation with Magnus that you always spoke of."
In the silence that followed, only Charles spoke.
"Yes, or perhaps we could be handing him the key to
producing an unstoppable army. Things have changed, since you last spoke with
Magnus."
*****
With Logan hovering beside me, I followed Charles into what
he described as the "new" Cerebro. The chamber was gigantic. I can
only imagine what his budget must be. Telepathy must offer some unique revenue
opportunities. Knowing Charles, I'm also certain that they were also squeaky
clean, ethically.
Logan stood carefully behind me. Body language alone was
enough to shout his suspicion that I might turn into a bloodthirsty assassin at
any moment, and he wanted me to know that he'd be ready before I could move to
harm Xavier. I swear, that man needs to learn how to relax.
Wearing a cortical transducer, Charles fired up the device.
I watched in wonder as he began scanning. He paused to make a few
modifications to the program, then I watched as details began to fill in on a screen
above us.
"You'll notice that the scan begins here at the mansion
and proceeds to radiate outward."
A map appeared, showing red dots around the mansion. Along
the side, profiles and identities were matched up to the energy signatures.
One dot had a question mark and the phrase, "Unknown."
"That would be you, Gerard. Cerebro is definitely
picking you up. I'll just add your name and image to this signature, and file
it for later study."
He fiddled with the line trace of my pattern, briefly bringing
up a page full of similar patterns before typing in my name next to the new
sequence. Then, punching a few more controls, we watched as the scan began to
radiate farther outward.
"And there we have Blob and Quicksilver. Interesting.
Logan, you have the address? If you're correct, I want you to check this out
personally."
"I'm on it, Chuck."
I was amused to see Charles wince at the diminutive.
"Notice that we do *not* see traces for either Rogue or
Mystique. Which would imply that they are either much farther away, or
actively shielded from my scan. Either one would be disturbing. Let me set up
for an overnight run – that will give us far greater range and sensitivity – then
we can discuss this with the others."
As Logan finally left us, Charles led me toward the kitchen
where the others had gathered.
"Professor!" Young Summers approached us from the
group clustered around the large table. "We're worried about Rogue. Maybe
she didn't feel like part of the family yet, but we were trying. We have to do
something!"
Irrepressible Kurt was swinging from the chandelier. I
mentally crossed my fingers, hoping that Charles had reinforced his furnishings
for such unorthodox use. "She could be in real trouble! Mystique
could…" his face became confused "…I don't know *vhat* she could do!
And the blobby blob – he took out Volverine!"
"Yes," Charles answered, "and then Rogue
stopped *him.* But try not to worry. I have Wolverine working on this now.
You have my personal guarantee that, for now at least, Rogue is in no physical
danger. Psychologically, though…Mystique has always been a schemer. I hope
that our young friend is up to the test. I'm afraid…I'm afraid that this time
the test may be enough to break her." He looked at me. "What do you
think, Gerard?"
I shook my head and dropped into an oak chair, wearily.
Rubbing my hand over my face, I spoke slowly. "Give me a moment to gather
my wits together, Charles. I'm not as young as I was back in the sixties. You
may still have the fortitude for this sort of thing, but remember that *I'm* an
octogenarian. We aren't all as spry as Raven."
Seeing the mass confusion, I hastened to explain. "The
world was smaller back then. There were few of us involved in a small
collection of specialties. Some came to know each other as Charles and I did,
though professional contacts. Others were there for reasons of their own, such
as Raven Darkholme. At the time, I had no idea why she was interested in our
little group, but the presence of such a beauty was hardly objectionable to a
group of idealists and academics such as ours."
Kurt spoke up in surprise. "You…knew my mother?"
My own shock must have shown. "Your *mother?* Rogue
never hinted…. But now that I've seen her natural form, I'm surprised that I
didn't place the resemblance. Except…" I paused and rubbed my head again
"…except that I'm not sure that the blue skin, red hair, and skull
ornaments *are* her natural form. Frankly, I have no idea what she looks like
in her 'natural' state, or even if that matters."
"What do you mean?" This was from the Evan
Daniels, the young black man.
"Well, back in the sixties, I knew Raven Darkholme.
That is, I knew *a* Raven Darkholme. She was young, I would guess in her early
twenties, but she had both old world connections, and a strong influence with
wealthy patrons. And yes, I've seen the pictures of your school principal.
They could be the same person, except that the woman I knew dressed much
better, had no glasses, and wore her hair down. As for this 'Mystique' person
that I've finally met – well, how do we know that's the woman's 'true' form? A
clever woman, and the Raven I knew was quite clever, would employ a nom-de-guerre.
If she were a shape shifter, she would match the costume and appearance to that
bold persona – a name and look so distinctive that your mind would never
connect that she might *actually* be someone completely ordinary. Rather along
the line of a professional illusionist, and the misdirection they employ."
Kurt looked wounded. His strange eyes seemed almost to glow
yellow. For all of that, they were astonishingly expressive. "Professor,
is this true? Have you known my mother so long? Is she really…old?"
Charles answered reluctantly. "As Gerard says, we all
knew *a* Raven Darkholme. I believe that she is the same woman, but I can't
prove it. I also met several people who knew a Raven Darkholme in the 1920's.
But who can say? Mystique is a true shapeshifter. Perhaps that ability
conveys some resistance to aging. Certain other mutant abilities seem to act
that way. Or perhaps she simply adopted the identity of another woman, taking
her name and appearance."
We all pondered that for a moment before Charles continued.
"But there's no way to answer that without further contact with Mystique.
Perhaps we'll learn more, perhaps not. In the meantime, you should all know
that using Cerebro, I have confirmed that Dr. Trautwein *does* display the
characteristic energy patterns of an X-gene mutant. Gerard, you seemed to
already know this. Perhaps you could elaborate?"
I leaned back in my chair, entering that lecturing mode that I hadn't properly
employed in nearly twenty years.
"It begins, I suppose, with my own theories of how the
so-called X-gene works. I believe that it enables a cluster of neurons to
interact with what I have termed a 'bio-control field.' This field, then, is
what taps into more powerful and obscure energy sources. The idea that a human
body could channel energies sufficient to create a hurricane is absurd. But
the idea that those energies exist, somehow exterior to the body, and that the
human brain can gain a modest control over these energies…that I find far more believable."
"But haven't you, like, tossed Occam's Razor completely
out the window?"
I blinked at the incongruous match of modern idiotic babble
superimposed on an incisive question. "Not necessarily. Miss Pryde,
isn't it?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Well, let us make the simplifying assumption that
*all* X-gene mutations are relatively similar. If you accept that, then I
think my thesis falls into place. For example, we already know that Herr
Wagner can reach beyond this dimension, through his teleportation. We know
that Storm can manipulate energies which far exceed any possible biological
process. And we know that Mystique, through her shapeshifting abilities, can
alter her own body with a complexity that exceeds the processing power of the
human brain. I merely postulate a common exterior mechanism, postulate that
the X-gene provides the *link* to that mechanism, and postulate that this
'control element' resides in the brain. This last would also explain the
clinching fact, that Rogue is able to 'borrow' the abilities of other mutants,
and that she gains memories at the same time. I believe this establishes a
link between the control and the mind, and serves as the only possible
explanation for how an ability such as hers might exist."
Evan Daniels nodded. "Yeah, maybe. But it's all just
a bunch of talk unless you can do something to prove it."
"But that is precisely what I *have* done." That
got their attention. "Rogue was probably the finest assistant in this,
since, if my theories are correct, her ability is concerned with the biological
control field, and *nothing else.* She has *no* mutant abilities in the
convention sense. Rather, she has a *meta* abilities, which is only effective
against other mutant abilities."
Seeing Katherine Pryde inhale, I hurried to cut her off.
"Granted, she was also able to absorb the memories of so-called 'normal'
humans. Personally, I believe that this isn't all that much difference between
'normal' and 'mutant.' A small capacity to generate my hypothetical 'control
field.' Similar, in its implication, to the ability to read and write.
Perhaps I'm stretching the analogy, since literacy is hardly a genetic trait,
but hear me out. Literacy by itself is a relatively modest skill. It is the
implications that are staggering. Without literacy, we are a race of hunters
and peasant farmers. With literacy, we control the lighting, the atom, and
travel to the planets. In a similar fashion, I believe that the X-gene enables
a subtle difference that can produce staggering effects.
"So I set out to try to detect this 'control field' and
artificially manipulate it, if possible. After many false leads, I stumbled
upon a technique derived from the old Kirilian photography methods. I was
unable to alter or affect Rogue's own field, unless she deliberately channeled
into my device. But with her cooperation, I was able to build a…well, a
capacitor, if you will. A device that could absorb and buffer her own strange
energies."
Charles looked at me thoughtfully. "And how, precisely,
did you determine that it was actually doing anything?"
I returned his look, smirking. "How else? I had her
practice absorbing *me.* I was able to time her, and measure her
effectiveness."
As expected, they all sat up for that little revelation.
Summers seemed particularly nervous, as he adjusted his glasses.
"You mean, you actually let her drain your mind?"
"It's not that bad, really. Not unlike the effect of
getting drunk – a highly overrated pastime, in my view – without any unpleasant
recovery afterward. And what better way to gain her trust and assure her that
I had no ulterior motive? Furthermore, it helped in my primary goal of
desensitizing the poor girl. Do you know how terrified she was of a simple
touch? By making it clear that *some* people, at least, neither feared nor
reviled her touch, it was a step toward helping her accept herself."
"Was she learning how to be happy?" Kurt asked,
very quietly.
I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder. Normally I'm
not a very 'touchy' person, but everything about him cried out for the solace.
"I think she was learning, a little. I can't be sure,
of course. Her transfers are all one-way, so far as I've been able to
determine, so I was never able to see into her mind the way she saw into
mine."
"I believe," Charles said, "that you were
getting to the point about acquiring a mutant ability."
"Ah, yes. So, I had created a working model of my
'bio-control-field capacitor' as I mentioned,"
"Yes."
"And Mystique suddenly burst into my lab. Dressed
all-out: blue fur, long red hair, yellow eyes, skull dress, boots…you know the
look."
"Yes, please continue."
"And then…I don't remember any more."
They were silent for a moment, then Ororo seemed to lose her
grip on her glass. It slipped to the floor and broke, sending glass and iced
tea everywhere. Within moments, everyone was scrambling. Kurt vanished with a
puff of brimstone, reappearing at the kitchen sink to grab a sponge. Jean
placed her hands to her head and concentrated on the mess, where glass and
liquid began to rise into the air. Katherine Pryde just gave a small
"eep" sound and fell backward, *through* her seat. Scott and Evan
leapt back, scanning for other threats. I gazed at Charles in bemusement.
"*This* is the group you want to make into a
crime-fighting team?"
"That *is* my hope…eventually."
I rolled my eyes (not one of my more common mannerisms, I
assure you) and accepted the cup of coffee that the young Daniels boy was
handing me. I took a sip and almost gagged. I despise black coffee. I take
mine doctored to the hilt – fifty percent cream and the other fifty percent
sugar. I suppose that nowadays they'd call it a latté or some such. Back in
my day, we called it an honest cuppa joe, with extra cream and sugar. So I
expected to choke on this, but to my surprise I had one of the finest cups of
coffee I'd ever tasted. I finally understood what the fuss was about. I
suppose that I'd never had it prepared properly, and, enjoying the experience,
decided to actually drink it straight and black. If the coffee fad had taught
people to brew a drink this superb, maybe there was something to this brave,
new society. I decided to be a tad more forgiving to some of the other modern
fads I came across.
"So," Charles finally continued, "you were
explaining about your new-found mutant powers."
"Hmph. Rather." I slurped my coffee, taking an
odd pleasure in the unusual vulgarity. "I can only surmise that Mystique
and I struggled over my apparatus. I suspect I didn't put up too much of a
fight – I'm no longer in my seventies after all – and that somehow we activated
my apparatus. As I mentioned, it is designed somewhat analogous to an
electrical capacitor. I further surmise that somehow, Mystique charged the
device with bio-control potential, which later discharged into my body. I
assume that this unformed, undirected energy was able to activate my own latent
abilities – the 'mutant' power that I would have had were I a possessor of an
active X-gene complex."
"So, like, what can you do?" Miss Pryde asked with
her unique eloquence. The way Rogue had described this girl, she was supposed
to be some sort of polymath!
"Well, when I awoke, I felt different, as if some sort
of power was coursing through my body. I've had the most annoying buzzing
sensation in my head ever since. I have also found my senses strangely
enhanced. Finally, and most impressively, along with the enhanced senses, I
find myself with a unique ability to manipulate matter itself – through the
shear power of mind. If it weren't such an asinine ability, I'd be quite
giddy."
Summers adjusted his glasses and gave me a look of quiet
assessment. "Exactly what sort of senses and manipulation are you talking
about?"
"Well," I had the decency to look embarrassed,
"within a radius of about three feet from my body, I can sense any type of
natural fabric. I mean, I can sense every detail – details of the fiber, type
of weave, color and dye information. You'd be astonished at the poor stitchery
I can see where the seams are hidden. And along with the ability to sense come
the ability," I tried to let my voice grow ominous, "to *destroy.*
Yes, that is correct. I can *disintegrate clothing!*"
Poor Ororo. First there was that unfortunate incident with
her iced tea glass. Now she had a new glass, and incidentally, a mouthful of
that same iced tea. A mouthful that she proceeded to spray all over Scott
Summers and Jean Gray.
"Uh, sorry," she said, very quietly.
"No *problem!*" Jean replied in a gravelly voice.
"I was *so* looking forward to another bath today."
I gave them a wry smile without the slightest trace of
apology, then finished up to Charles. "So, with such a phenomenal
ability, I think I'd make a prime candidate for your budding team of
vigilantes, don't you? I even have my own moniker picked out:
Vaudeville."
Kurt looked confused. "Vas ist?"
"You know? The old slapstick routines? I can't do the
pie in the face, but my new ability makes me a natural for the trouser drop. I
suspect that would be my primary attack. After all, what nefarious villain can
continue to run rampant with his trousers down around his ankles? And I'm sure
that every villain has nightmares of showing up to a crime with no pants on. I
can make those nightmares a hideous reality!" I gave a demented, evil
laugh, which I allowed to degenerate into a coughing fit. "Of course, I
*am* getting on in years, so I may require the use of a walker from time to
time. And I could be thwarted through the simple but tasteless expedient of
wearing polyester pants."
I gleefully noticed Charles rubbing his temple, as if trying
to hold off a headache of his own. Kurt, bless his soul, seemed to have caught
on right away and was holding his hands over his mouth to keep from laughing.
Miss Pryde just looked to the heavens. Other members of the group seemed to be
staring at each other in alarm. Plainly these people had no sense of the
absurd. They needed to read more P.G. Wodehouse.
"Professor," young Summers began, stiffly,
"in combat, we couldn't really…."
"Relax Scott. I'm sure Dr. Trautwein was only
joking." I rolled my eyes again. "On the other hand, I *do* think
it would be appropriate to enroll him in our normal training regimen.
Calisthenics, self-defense exercises, and perhaps even a mild session in the
Danger Room."
This time I was the butt of the joke. "Charles, for
heaven's sake, I'm in my late eighties. Are you planning to kill me?"
"Hardly, Gerard. But your condition is – how should I
put it? – of vital importance to both of us. Very often the initial
manifestations of an ability represent merely the tip of the iceberg. You need
training. You need challenges to stretch your range. And exercise certainly
won't kill you, not if properly supervised. I'll tell you what, I'll call in a
specialist for this. A medical doctor who is also a specialist in mutant
abilities and familiar with your work, as well."
"Hmmm, that might be reasonable. Who is he? Anyone I
know?"
"Yes. 'He' is Moira McTaggart."
"Little Moira? Did she ever finish her degree?"
"Quite a few years ago. When was the last time you saw
her?"
I searched my memory. "I think, it must have been at
the Amsterdam conference. Yes, that was it."
"Well, 'little Moira' has already boarded her plane and
will be here in the morning. Now, I think we've all shown great patience –
it's time for you to demonstrate your new talent for us."
"Oh, very well. It's not exactly superhero stuff,
though." I picked up one of the linen table napkins. "To you this
looks like an ordinary napkin. With my new perception, I can literally feel
the weave. As a matter of fact, this napkin appears to be cotton, but there
are trace amounts of polyester in the weave. The stitching is pure cotton
thread, though, and the dyes – although they look natural – seem to be a
petroleum-derived compound. And along with the ability to perceive these
qualities, I have the ability to undo them. The natural elements, at
least."
I concentrated, evaporating the dye. The napkin turned
yellow-white, before their eyes.
"That's what it looks like without the dye. Some of
the petroleum elements remain, giving it a yellowish tinge. Removing the
bleach is more of a trick, since the chlorine atoms cause some permanent
changes, but I can apparently 'un-do' those changes and…" the napkin
returned to its natural, whitish-tan color. "I can eliminate just a
bit," as I evaporated the stitches around the edge, the seam came suddenly
undone, displaying a more ragged edge, "or I can destroy more." With
this, I let half the napkin melt, until it was a gooey mass of organic
chemicals pooling on the table. There were some long-chain polymers in the mix
that I couldn't effect, but they were impossible to see in the goo. "If I
like, I can simply 'evaporate' it." And the remainder of the napkin
vanished away, leaving only powder and dust – invisible to anyone but me. As
an afterthought, I evaporated the puddle on the table, too.
"Remarkable," Ororo said.
"My good friend," Kurt said, leering at me.
"Vant to come to some parties vith me?"
I smiled in return. "Why not? After all, with modest
powers comes only modest responsibility."
Charles looked at me in alarm. "You wouldn't
really?"
I looked back at Kurt. "Is everyone in this place as
serious as him?"
"Ja, pretty much. Maybe you could help out if you
explained to me more about this 'trouser drop.'"
So while the storm raged on outside, I demonstrated my
strange ability, and enlightened these poor folks with the wonders of the
long-lost era of vaudeville.
*****
That night, I dreamed. There was a football stadium, filled
with shadowy spectators. Hundreds of thousands of people, surrounding us,
watching, judging. In the manner of dreams, I realized that I was the coach.
I looked toward my team and saw most of the mansion's inhabitants, save
Charles. On the opposing team were images my mind filled in from Rouge's
description of the 'bad boys' of the school – Avalanche, Quicksilver, the
charming Toad, and the massive Blob. And heading the other team was none other
than our main problem: Mystique.
As the game started, I gave some detailed coaching
instructions to Rogue, then she ran out to join the game. The odd thing was,
she seemed to be playing for both sides, first one, then the other, then just playing
her own game. But after the opening plays, Mystique badly fumbled and left
Rogue wide open for a sacking. After that, Rogue seemed to play only on the
side that called themselves the 'X-Men.'
The game proceeded from there. After each play, I would
coach Rogue and give her some piece of advice or moral support. I did that
from the start, even before she'd chosen a side. I suppose that made me her
personal trainer, rather than a coach for the X-Men. Sure enough, as I looked
down the field, the X-Men had their own coach – Charles. Although there was
some rough play, it was always just a game. But as we approached the end of
the half, a new player entered the game: Magnus. Suddenly, things became much
more serious, and I realized that they were playing for blood. The half ended
with Magnus and Mystique both leaving the field. The X-Men seemed to hold some
sort of nominal advantage, but I wasn't sure how.
Half time consisted of a parade. It was all the girls in
school, demonstrating how much better they were than Rogue. Some were
prettier, some were smarter. Some had boyfriends. Katherine Pryde was both a
dancer and a brilliant student, but she also seemed to be the only girl who
looked at my patient with anything approaching sympathy. Jean Grey had her
cheerleader's outfit and was being carried aloft by the girls' soccer team.
After leading a cheer, Jean was carried off the field by Scott, Evan, and Kurt.
I later thought that dreams aren't usually so easy to
interpret, but that's probably because this dream expressed concern for my
patient, rather than being wound up in tension about my own problems. Until,
that is, the second half began.
In the opening play, the X-Men had possession, with Rogue
carrying the ball. Wolverine appeared in the opposition, and charged her.
Rogue made a lateral to Kurt. Wolverine veered, transforming into Mystique.
She reached toward Kurt, calling out, "Give it to me, my son."
As Kurt froze, Mystique popped out a set of adamantium claws
and moved in to kill him. I watched in horror. Rogue saw it as well.
Screaming and crying, she flung herself in the way, taking the wound instead.
Somehow, she managed to claw Mystique in return.
The play ended, both players being carried from the field on
stretchers. As I rushed to my charge, she passed her helmet to me.
"Looks like it's your turn now, Doc," she said in
a whisper. "Sorry to do this to you. Do the right thing, okay? I tried
to, I really did…" And then they carried her away.
I sat there stupidly, staring at the helmet in my hands,
until Charles yelled at me to get in the game. Sighing in resignation, I put
the helmet on and trotted onto the field.
But things look a whole lot different when the other side is
charging at you. Being a spectator is easy; being on the front line – that's
hard. I panicked and used my powers. In a twinkling, everyone's pants had
vanished, including my own. The other team didn't seem to mind. In fact, it
seemed to excite them, judging by the physical reaction. A reaction that I
found extremely disturbing. Perhaps that whole element of the dream says
something about my sexuality. All I know is that I suddenly felt *very*
threatened.
Suddenly, history was repeating itself. Kurt had the ball.
As the enemy rushed at him, I stood to the side, watching it all. Avalanche
used his powers, as Blob hurtled through the air.
Kurt looked around desperately, then moved to lateral the
ball to me. "Will you take it from me?"
Time slowed to a crawl. The shadowy audience of hundreds of
thousands was focused entirely on me. Kurt needed me. But once I accepted the
ball, I would be committed. I would be judged. I would be the focus of all
attention. I would be the victim of all the attacks.
"Won't you accept this?" he begged.
"I can't!" I replied in agony.
And as Kurt was crushed under the oncoming tide, I screamed
in despair.
I awoke suddenly, the woman's scream still echoing through
the mansion.
*Who screamed?* It seemed too coincidental, to have that
scream coming exactly at the climax of my own dream. Was this the result of
sleeping in a house full of telepaths?
Something else was wrong, as well. There was movement in my
bed, something bumping, twisting, like rats in my bed. I leapt up to see what
was going on.
There was a pounding on my door, and as I opened it, Logan
stepped in, eyeing me oddly.
"You okay in here?"
Others were appearing in the hallway.
"Who screamed?" Jean was asking. Well, that let
out the only female telepath.
Miss Pryde came around the corner, swatting at a very
chagrinned looking Kurt Wagner. "Mr. Joker here decided to 'port into my
room, right after the scream. I think he was trying to scare me to
death!"
"But I thought I heard – oh, never mind!"
"You okay, Doc?" Logan asked.
I was still catching my breath. "Yes, I think so. I
was having my own nightmare when whoever it was screamed. But…I think there's
something in my room. Just as I woke, I felt something moving around in my
bed. Rats or snakes or something."
They all trooped into the guest room to hunt for the mystery
animals, but nothing was found.
Jean Grey cocked her head at my nightshirt. "Nice
nightgown, Doc."
"What?" I looked down at myself, noticing for the
first time what I was wearing. It seemed to be an oversized football jersey,
extra long, with the number "15" on the front. I suppose I hadn't
spent much attention on what I wore to bed. Could this have been what
triggered my odd football dream?
"I believe this is a 'nightshirt', a perfectly
acceptable item of bedwear. Not a 'nightgown'."
"Whatever," Miss Pryde said, covering her mouth as
she yawned. "Can we, like, go back to bed now?"
And the house settled down once more. This time, I had no
further nightmares.
*****
By the time I had finished my breakfast, Logan had returned
from the airport with little Moira in tow. She burst into the room and came to
a full halt, staring at me.
"Dr. Trautwein?"
"Moira McTaggart. It's good to see you again. I'm
afraid I haven't been keeping up on your work, but I've been hearing good
things from Charles."
She looked at Logan in confusion. "You're sure?"
He nodded. "Run a checkup. You'll see."
I nodded. "That might be a good idea. Charles has the
demented idea that I should join his training regimen. He thinks it will help
me gain control of my 'mutant ability.' I've been telling him that, at my age,
making it between table and chair is considered plenty of exercise."
"Well you must be in your nineties by now…"
"Late eighties!" I corrected, perhaps a touch too
loudly.
"…but I think we all agree that a checkup might be a
good idea. Particularly after your incident."
*****
It turned out that the mansion had quite an extensive
medical suite. The lab was a cruciform steel chamber with instruments and
equipment supported on articulated metal arms. More than anything else, it
reminded me of something out of the old "Star Trek" TV program. Once
the doctor and I shooed everyone else out, I was able to speak to her
confidentially. Even if it was hard to think of little Moira as "Dr.
McTaggart."
"…so Dr. Brown should have my full file. His
conclusion was that it was simply the combined effects of old age. Angina,
steady weakening of the heart, arterial blockage, enlarged prostate, depressed
immune system. I'm a bit of a mess, I'm afraid. I've already survived four
heart attacks. I remember when it was a miracle to survive two. Frankly, with
all the excitement in the last twenty-four hours, I surprised that I haven't
dropped on the spot. If that does happen, try to ease the load on everyone
here at the mansion. As I've said, this condition isn't new. I have long
since accepted it. As a doctor, I'm sure you've also had to deal with
death." She nodded. "As I said, I have no regrets. My time is
near. I'm more afraid of the effect I might have on the children here at the
mansion. Some of them seem quite innocent, and I don't know how it might upset
them."
"Well," she answered, with an odd hesitancy,
"you never know. Perhaps this 'incident' you suffered might also have
some effect on your health. You mentioned that you felt like you were filled
with energy."
As she spoke, she had me unbutton my shirt so that she could
begin her work with the stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. I finished
unbuttoning, and had the oddest reluctance to take my shirt off. Almost a
sense of shame or exaggerated modesty. Was it because she was a female doctor,
or was it because I'd once known her as little Moira? Steeling my will, I
pulled the shirt off, showing only a slight hesitation.
"Yes," I continued the conversation smoothly,
"I do feel an odd sense of energy. First, I must admit to a feeling of
vitality that is quite surprising. But aside from that, there is this odd
buzzing in my head. I'm afraid that before long, it's going to end up giving
me another headache. I had one most of the day yesterday, following the
'incident.'"
"And today?" She prodded my chest, very briefly,
as if afraid that I might shock her. Apparently satisfied, she began thumping
me in a doctorly fashion.
"Today when I woke I was fine. But the buzzing started
soon after I woke up, and I've had it ever since."
"I see. Now inhale deeply."
After a bit more prodding, she said, "I'm going to need
to perform a complete exam. Drop your pants, please."
"Is that really necessary?" I'd be dammed if I
was going to expose myself to a woman doctor! Although, in a fashion that I'm
unable to explain, that thought didn't have the iron-clad determination that I
had expected.
"Dr. Trautwein, this is for the sake of science. You
have undergone a unique accident. We'd like to collect as much data as
possible. It's difficult to say what might be important."
I sighed. "Very well. For science. But you'd better
keep away from me with that damned speculum!"
She stared at me. "What did you say?"
I was a bit confused myself. "Just get it over with,
okay?"
She did the usual demeaning things – poked and prodded, I
turned my head and coughed, and she gave me ever-delightful rubber-glove and
prostate search.
"So what does science have to say?" I finally
asked.
"Perfectly normal."
"See, I –"
"Perfectly normal for a man in his prime. Your
prostate is not enlarged as you suggested – I'm not even sure I could find it,
your heart rate is slow and regular, and sounds extremely healthy. Your blood
pressure is just about perfect, perhaps a little on the *low* side. No sign of
congestion, reflexes are absolutely excellent, your eyes are clear and healthy,
and your hearing approaches 20 kilohertz at the high end – exceptional."
"But…how?"
"Let me do some blood work. Perhaps that will help us
find the answer. In the meantime, I want to see your system under
stress." She pointed to the treadmill. "Get on, and I'll wire you
up to the EKG and respiratory monitors."
After giving her that accursedly painful blood sample, I let
her stick her little patches on me, while I stood at the treadmill. I should
be able to put up a modest walking pace for a few minutes, but that was about
my limit. I hadn't actually *run* in a decade at least. Probably two
decades. Still, I decided to humor her. As she switched the treadmill on, I
grasped the side bars and concentrated on a steady walking pace – quite willing
to stop and fall off the instant I felt the first chest pain.
While Dr. McTaggart prepared her samples, I continued to
walk. The pace increased automatically, but I was feeling fine so far, so I
continued. Surprisingly, I was now up to the speed of a brisk walk, and my
breathing still felt easy and natural.
What if something *had* happened to me, some miracle that
returned a portion of youth to me? I had prepared myself for death, but upon
looking at my feelings and really examining how I felt, I came to a surprising
conclusion. I *thought* I'd prepared myself for death, but I realized that
nothing could be farther from the truth. Instead, I had a profound belief that
I *wouldn't* die. Perhaps I might someday, but the threat felt distant enough
to safely ignore. Thinking hard, reminding myself that I was at death's door,
was a strangely alarming concept. My mind repeatedly attempted to shy away
from the topic.
How could I have been so mistaken about my own feelings? I
though I had already undergone this self-examination. Now, it seemed that I
had been fooling myself. I was learning things about myself that both
surprised and disturbed me.
As surprising as that discovery was, I belatedly realized
that I was now jogging along at a full running pace on the treadmill. And
although I was breathing deeply and my heart was racing, I felt fine. Or
rather, although I was becoming winded, I didn't feel in danger of imminent
heart failure. I realized that Dr. McTaggart was watching me closely, one eye
on her monitors.
"How am I doing?"
"Another five minutes at this pace," she said,
"then I want to see your cool-down chart, as well."
After the astonishing feat of running for another five
minutes, I repeated my question.
Her answer floored me. "Well, Dr. Trautwein, you won't
have a medical excuse for avoiding Charles' exercises. According to this data,
you're as healthy as any of those teenagers he's training. Whatever that
incident did to you, you're no longer the same man you were yesterday. You may
look old on the outside, but inside you're in perfect health. In fact,"
she said, with a somewhat sly cast to her voice, "I wouldn't be surprised
if you didn't start looking younger and healthier on the *outside*, as your
body comes to terms with its renewal."
I stared at her with my mouth open, catching flies. Was
this why I no longer accepted my own mortality? Had my subconscious known,
somehow, that I was no longer about to die? And why wasn't I feeling elated?
Instead, my mood was closer to the feeling, 'Of course, I knew that.'
Following the checkup, I think I was in a daze for much of
the morning. I dumbly followed Logan and the teenagers as they suited up in
the classic oriental pajamas, for practicing self defense. Modesty prevented
me from sharing their boisterous locker-room activities; instead I prepared in
my room and joined them outside.
Logan seemed upset that I didn't have the proper response to
any of his moves.
"What's the matter with you? Even the half-pint blocks
better than that." He nodded with his head toward Miss Pryde.
"What's the matter with me? I'm an octogenarian! I
should be in a wheelchair, not in these blasted pajamas practicing slant-eye
boxing!"
Logan glared at me. "Never did like that streak of
prejudice you had, Doc. Tell you what. I'll let the half-pint beat up on you,
while you think about how the world's just a little bit bigger than it was back
in the prehistoric times you came from."
Grumbling under my breath, I changed position.
"Alright, Miss Pryde. I understand that you are to be
my instructor today."
She put her hand over her mouth to hold in a giggle.
"Okay, but call me Kitty."
"Very well. 'Kitty' it is."
She proceeded to explain and demonstrate the simplest moves
and blocks, explaining the theory behind it. With her excellent tutelage, I
acquired the rudiments rapidly.
"Now that's more like it. That's where I expect you to
be at." Logan had apparently been watching from just behind me. I
reached out for him with my new senses. He might be just within range. I
considered practicing the trouser drop on him, but decided that discretion was
the better part of valor in this case, and that it might be a good idea to
practice on a target that was less likely to murder me.
Following lunch, Charles led us into a huge metallic
chamber. Steel seemed to be the décor of choice in Charles' mansion.
"This is the Danger Room," he told me. "It
serves two purposes. First, it helps train my students to deal with hostile
situations they might face. Being a mutant is not always a comfortable
position in today's world. Second, many abilities blossom under stress or
extreme conditions. This training not only helps those abilities to blossom,
but it helps ensure that those abilities will remain under control, even under
stress."
"So do you consider me your 'student', Charles? I'm
old enough to be your father. Perhaps your grandfather."
"In that you are a mutant newly come into their
ability, yes, Gerard, I do consider you my student. I have a low level
simulation set up for you, please do your best to succeed. Your goal is to
reach the door marked 'exit.' Try to exercise your abilities as much as
possible."
I sighed. "I don't think the 'trouser drop' is really
much of a combat skill, but I'm willing to try."
"That's all I ask." With that, Charles and his
student left me, filing upstairs to an observation room.
I was admiring the facilities and wondering where Charles
got his funding from, when the metal room shimmered and vanished. Suddenly, I
was standing in a high-school gymnasium, and a trio of costumed thugs were
approaching me. Looking at them, I knew instantly who they were: Toad,
Quicksilver, and the tremendous Blob. I wondered for a moment how I recognized
them, then realized that during our therapy sessions, my patient had described
them in some detail.
"Looks like its time to do some squishing!" Blob
said, moving forward with a tread that shook the gym.
I wasn't entirely sure how Charles had created this
"simulation." Modern technology is disturbingly close to magic in
some cases. I decided that my best course was to act as if everything were
real – exactly as it appeared to be.
"Gentlemen," I said, "surely there's no need
for hostility. Let me be and I'll gladly get out of your way. There's an exit
right over there…"
"Here?" In an eyeblink, Quicksilver was in front
of the door. "I don't think so. Not until you tell us the secret of your
mutant-making device."
Yes, that certainly did put a different slant on things. I
had something they wanted *very* badly.
"Cough it up, Pops." In an eyeblink, Quicksilver
was in front of me, reaching for my lapel. I reacted as Charles doubtlessly
expected me to. I evaporated the waistband of his trousers.
"I don't think so, you young thug." I moved to
run around him, toward the door. Quicksilver moved even quicker, but I learned
a new principle: "The quicker they are, the faster they trip." His
feet tangled, he made a quick trip to the ground and took a nasty blow to the
chin. But now the Blob was almost upon me. I reached forward and tried the
same trick.
"Mr. Blob, your overalls seem to have a slight
flaw." I noticed that Charles had tastefully decorated all of his
villains in red polka-dot boxer shorts.
Blob looked down to discover his predicament. "Nobody
makes a fool outta the Blob! Nobody!" In a moment, he was lumbering
toward me again. Still, I had gained a short distance toward the door.
Suddenly, the repulsive Toad landed in front of me. Surely this 'simulation'
was also an exaggeration. No one could really look and act that disgusting.
"Not so fast, gramps."
I vanished his pants. Evaporated the whole garment. Toad
noticed.
"You think that's going to bother me? People already
think I'm disgusting. This just takes me to a whole new level!"
"You can't stop me!" I said with a conviction I
didn't feel.
"Maybe, maybe not. All I really had to do was delay
you long enough to let Blob get his hands on you."
Before I could turn to look, I was enveloped in a set of
huge hands. Desperately, I sought some way to win, some way to escape. I took
my bare hand and pressed it against him.
"What's that supposed to do, tickle?"
"Put me down, now! Or I'll…I'll…"
"You'll what, Gramps?"
In an instant, I saw it. I knew how to do it. "I'll
make you go blind!" I shouted. And concentrating, I did the reverse of my
clothes evaporation. A sheet, ragged and poorly made, but nevertheless thick
and opaque, suddenly materialized around Blob's head. As my mind raged, the
fabric grew and grew, forming out of the atoms in the air, woven together by my
strange ability. In a moment, the Blob's head was completely engulfed.
Startled, he released me.
"What the--? Hey, what's this stuff wrapping me up?
Get it offa me!"
Not wasting a moment, I turned and sprinted toward the
door. Toad leapt forward again, but I was forming endless dishtowels in my
hands and hurling them at him. His tongue lashed out toward me, but I
deflected it with a well-thrown dishtowel.
"Ew, yuck!"
And with that, I was through the door and panting on the
other side.
"Congratulations," Charles' voice rang out.
"You see? My methods *work*. If not for the stress of this exercise, you
might never have discovered that you have the ability to synthesize fabric, as
well as disintegrating it."
I panted, only noticing in passing as the door behind me
faded, along with the entire gym. In a moment I was standing in the huge metal
chamber once again.
"That was terrible," I panted, "but oddly
exhilarating."