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 2: The pellet with the poison's in the vessel with the pestle
I woke on one of the beds in the mansion's small medical
suite. A glance next to me showed the imposter sleeping away on the next bed.
I propped myself up on an elbow as I rose to look around. Over the last
decade, I've gotten used to being in hospitals.
Dr. McTaggart was speaking with Charles, while Logan and
Ororo looked on. Noticing me, they came over.
"Well," Charles began, "this presents some
problems. The first one is what we should call you."
"Call her Rogue," Logan growled out. "That's
her name."
I tried to glare at him. "You, Logan, my call me
*Doctor* Gerard Trautwein. The rest of you may call me Gerard. And you can
call the imposter," I pointed my thumb at the next bed, "Mystique.
She's obviously taken this disguise. I suspect that her state of
'unconsciousness' is as much of a prevarication as the rest of this scheme. If
I had to guess, I would venture that her scheme is to secure the design of my
mutation-inducing machine."
"Well, that's the question, isn't it?" Charles
spoke with the tones of a man who is desperately trying to sound reasonable.
"*Did* your machine turn a normal human into a mutant? Or are you really
Rogue, someone who's been a mutant all along?"
In my irritation, I leapt from the bed and towered over the
wheelchair-bound man.
"How can you be taken in by such an ludicrous
idea?" I gestured at myself. "Look at me! I'm a man! An *old*
man! I'm almost ninety! I am *not* a teenaged girl!"
"Sure don't move like an old man," Logan offered.
"I…well…" I looked in desperation to Moira,
"Tell them, Doctor! Explain your idea – the mutant energies, spontaneous
regeneration, whatever it was!"
She shook her head, looking down. "I never said any
such thing. All I said was that on the inside, you were as healthy as any of
the teenagers in the house. I also said that I thought there was a good chance
that you might start looking younger, as your outside began to reconcile with
your inside." She paused, judging whether to continue. "I also got
the results of your blood work back. Your genetic code is XX. You're a
woman. Specifically, we tested your code against a sample of Rogue's blood.
The DNA matches. I'm sorry…Rogue."
I looked at her in stupefaction. "They don't have you
believing this too, do they? You know what a reputation Mystique has for
plotting! Did you do the analysis here, or have it sent out?"
"Well…"
"So it would have been trivial for Mystique to
intercept the samples and alter them, or perhaps she simply rewrote the
report."
"Doesn't cut it, kid," Logan said. "You
*smell* like Rogue. That's what clued me off, right from the start."
"I can't believe this!" I shouted. "Maybe
Rogue has created some sort of special perfume!" I stared at Logan
closely. "Or maybe you're in on this! That would suit your sense of
revenge, wouldn't it? Evil Dr. Trautwein, who did some basic research for the
Canadian government. Well wake up, Logan! I didn't *know* it was a weapons
project, I didn't *know* they planned to work on humans, and I sure as hell
didn't know they planned to involved *you*! So it's time to let it go!"
Logan, ever infuriating, reached up to put a toothpick into
his mouth. "Nope. My beef is with him," he hooked a thumb backward,
pointing at the sleeping man on the bed. "Don't got anything against you,
Rogue. Fact is, I always kind of liked you. You're a scrapper."
I balled my fist up and waved it in his face. "A
WHAT? I can't believe that you're still pretending, even after I figured it
out! I ought to paste you one! That'll show you who's a scrapper!"
"Uh huh. Check your memories. When was the last time
'Dr. Gerard Trautwein' tried to punch someone?"
"I –" Well, the circumstances were unique. I'd
had professional arguments with colleagues before, but I hadn't been this
worked up since the war. Even then, it had been more a matter of hiding in
abject terror or shooting to kill. "Never mind!" With a conscious
effort, I dropped my fist and turned to Charles.
"Charles, you're a man of intellect. A scientist.
Surely you don't believe this absurdity, do you? Read my mind, you'll know
that I'm telling the truth!"
"I'm afraid your mind has been closed to telepathy
since you arrived here. Some sort of 'static' keeps me from seeing even your
surface thoughts. As for being a man of science, I have my own evidence. You
may recall that I used Cerebro to scan for Rogue and Mystique. I couldn't find
either of them, but I did find you. And while it initially appeared that your
mutant energy signature was unique, I was able to quickly determine that it was
actually a combination of the previously recorded patterns for Rogue and
Mystique. It appears to be a permanent join."
That was too much. Without another word, I strode away from
them, slamming open the suite's door and stomping out. In the process, I
nearly bowled over five teenagers, who had been eavesdropping outside the
door. Kurt vanished in a puff of smoke before I could knock him over, I found
myself walking *through* Kitty, but the other three went sprawling.
"Do you mind?" I practically snarled at them.
"Ach," Kurt said, appearing in the corner.
"This is weird. Even for the X-Men."
Scott stood up, trying to regain his dignity. "Look,
Rogue, I'm sure we'll figure this out –"
"*I am not Rogue!* I am old enough to be your
great-grandfather, *boy*, and I happen to be a *man*, get it? M-A-N." I
thumped my chest for emphasis.
I looked at them. They looked at me. I could see that I
wasn't getting through to them. Suddenly inspired, I reached over and grabbed
Kitty, my hand holding hers. Flesh to flesh.
"Look at this! We're touching, see? Rogue can't *do*
this! That's why she came to me for therapy and help. Do you understand?
Nothing is happening here, " I spoke slowly so that they would all
understand, "so I can't be Rogue! What does it take to beat it through
your thick skulls?"
"I don't know," Evan said. "That hostility
definitely sounds like Rogue."
"Hey, he's right," Kitty said. "He, I mean,
she – oh, whatever. He's touching me, but there isn't anything
happening."
I let go of her hand. "Finally! Someone with half a
brain!"
I felt a hand on my shoulder. To my surprise, it was
Ororo. "It's late, we should go to bed. We can discuss this more in the
morning."
"Something about the way you said that…"
She nodded. "It has been decided that we are to be
roommates for a while. We're giving the guest room to Dr. McTaggart, and Kitty
would probably feel uncomfortable rooming with you. There are other rooms in
the mansion, but they haven't been prepared yet…."
Kitty stuck out her tongue. "Me? Sharing a room with
the geezer? I mean, like, no offense, but I *don't* think so."
"Young lady, right now I could kiss you."
"Ick!"
Ororo continued, "And it wouldn't be right to have you
room with any of the boys," the thought did leave me feeling queasy,
although I'm not sure why, "so it has been decided that for the moment,
you should room with me."
I could tell that I would have problems fighting this, so it
was time to concede with what compromises I could manage.
"Agreed, Madame, provided that you maintain your
modesty. I assure you that I shall maintain *mine*. And I want a watch put on
Mystique in there. If you give her a single opening, she'll be at your
throat. She needs to be watched around the clock."
"Agreed, for many other reasons, as well."
"Fine then," I agreed.
"Fine."
"Fine."
I followed the woman to her room, while Logan came behind us
carrying a bed. I suppose that brute strength has its uses. He'd be a godsend
to the moving industry.
Ororo's place was unlike any other room in the mansion.
With plants hanging from the ceiling and walls, it was more like being outside
than inside. I wondered why she didn't just set up a tent out in the woods.
On second thought, I realized that the plants were tropical. I wondered if
Ororo thought of herself as a tropical transplant, and saw this as an effort on
her part to prevent homesickness.
After washing up in the bathroom down the hall, I put on a
modest pair of pajamas and wrapped myself in a wool robe. Returning to the
room, I found Ororo in an oversized long-sleeved nightgown. Somehow, it didn't
seem the sort of item she'd normally wear. I suspect she was using it for my
sake. She was sitting on the bed, looking through a photo album.
"Professor, how do you see Rogue?"
"As a person?"
"Yes."
I thought back, remembering how I'd reacted to her during
our sessions. "I've felt great admiration for her. She's a girl that has
suffered some pretty severe traumas. Being abandoned multiple times is hardly
easy to deal with. In a way, even Mr. Wagner has not had it so bad. He had
loving parents. Even as a circus performer he had admiration and respect. And
he has a solid place in this team. For all his surface differences, he has
always had a place where he belonged, and where he had friends and support.
Rogue never had that, and in the few cases where she *did* have it, it turned out
to be a subtle game intended to manipulate and exploit her. She's never had
love or support or true friends. And despite all that, she's come through as a
tough individual, someone who can take care of herself. And someone who can
still find the strength to open herself up to yet another chance at friendship,
even when past experience tells her to expect rejection or betrayal. I admire
her a great deal."
Ororo listened quietly, hearing everything I had to say.
Then she pushed the photo album closer to me. There were pictures of the rest
of the team, but this page featured mostly Rogue.
"You spoke of her history, and I think you were
remembering how you felt about her. Now I'd like you to look at these
pictures. Tell me what you see. Tell me what you're feeling right now."
I looked, and then looked again. The person I had described
was not the person I saw in the pictures.
"I…"
"What's in your heart, Doctor? What do you feel when
you look at these pictures of her?"
"I see a…" Admitting the truth of what I felt was
a total betrayal of my patient. And yet, somehow I felt I owed it to this
woman. I knew she would keep my words in confidence, and was only asking
because she felt a need to help Rogue. "I see a girl who is weak.
Someone fragile. A –" I searched for a word. An odd bit of modern slang
popped into my head, "—a poseur. A thin shell of toughness, with nothing
underneath. Someone who will crack at the first strain, letting down her
friends and anyone else who depends on her." I left unspoken the last
part – the fact that such a weak person didn't *deserve* any friends.
I felt totally confused. What was it that was captured in
these pictures, that I'd never seen in any of my therapy sessions? I shook my
head. There were mysteries here that eluded me. "You are *never* to let
my patient know what I said here."
"Don't worry, Doctor. Rogue will never hear it from
*my* lips."
I scowled at her. For a moment, I'd forgotten that she was
one of the deluded ones. Mystique was certainly a master (or was that
mistress?) of deception and manipulation.
With that disagreement hanging in the air between us, we
both settled down to sleep.
*****
I think it must have been that conversation that got to me.
I slept solidly throughout the first part of the night, but much later, as the
sun reached its nadir, I began to dream again of Rogue, and the therapy
sessions.
As always, we had worked ourselves to exhaustion, attempting
to get some handle on her strange powers. I would fiddle with instruments and
experiments, then she would briefly touch me to determine how her abilities had
been affected. Not enough to truly drain, just enough for contact and
evaluation. Sometimes trying to refine the skill of just draining a single
skill or memory thread. And afterward, we collapsed together in a pair of
overstuffed armchairs that faced each other in one corner of the lab.
"You know," I said, conversationally, "I've
said some terrible things about you."
"Don't worry, Doc. I know all about 'em," she
replied. "It's hard not to, when I have to keep touching you."
"Hmmm, yes. I suppose you would become well acquainted
with my true opinions and feelings, wouldn't you?"
"Got it in one, Doc."
I noticed that she was wearing linen trousers, a man's dress
shirt, and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. An outfit remarkably
like mine. And, in typical fashion, her accent seemed to fade for a while,
after touching me
"Is that why you've chosen to dress like me? As a form
of flattery?"
"Flattery? Why you! I'll have you know that I can't
*stand* dressing like this!"
In the way of dreams, I matter-of-factly said, "Well
why don't you change, then?"
"Ah think Ah will!" she said, letting her accent
through.
There was a full wardrobe standing against the wall. Not in
my real lab, of course, but it was present in this dream-lab. That's the way
these things work in dreams. Rogue stripped off her clothes and stood naked in
front of the wardrobe, making a selection. Don't think that this was an erotic
dream – hardly. Although I was seeing her completely naked, my only thought
was, "She certainly is a bony girl."
Around this time, I realized that I was naked too. So I
moved to *my* wardrobe and began to search for something to wear.
"Under mah clothes, next to mah skin, Ah always like a
little something secret that helps me feel sexy," she admitted, pulling on
a very lacy set of French-cut panties.
"Confound it, girl! Now all I can see in *my* drawer
is French-cut panties!" I pulled the pair off of me (an absurd sight on
my old body) and rummaged through the drawer until I found a pair of mid-leg
men's briefs.
"These aren't sexy!" she cried, peeling out of the
briefs. "Ah cain't wear that! How about some lacy bikini bottoms?"
"No!" I yelled. "They make me look like a
fat fool! And they're too tight!"
Everything that fit her snug and tight, like a second skin,
either pinched me or was way too tight on my privates.
"Alright then." She held up a pair of pink satin
boxer shorts. But the cut and styling and tapered hip instantly gave away the
fact that these particular shorts had never been intended for *men's* wear.
"Final compromise. How about these?"
"Alright, alright. But you have to find a pair in
blue."
"Done!"
As we each slipped them on, I noticed that they *did* feel
good. Not only was the smooth texture quite pleasant on the skin, they looked
acceptable on me and very sexy on Rogue. They drew the eyes down her narrow
waist to her generously wide hips.
"Now Ah need a nice bra." She slipped into a
black push-up.
"No, absolutely not!" I said, unfastening the
infernal device and tossing it aside.
"Ah need the support!"
"With a push-up? That wasn't for support, that was to
give you the boobs you've always dreamed of."
"Well, yeah…" She eyed the bra wistfully.
"You don't need the support. Not with those 'B'
boobs. It's not like your slinging around a pair of 'D's like Jean Grey."
She cupped herself gently, sadly. "Maybe if Ah was
just a little bigger…"
She picked up her favorite halter and looked at it closely.
The outside was shiny black leather – hard, like the exterior she tried to
project. But it was lined with a satiny bra on the inside, where only she
could feel it, and only she could know. Soft, protective, supportive.
Delicate, on her most sensitive flesh. Her nipples were firming with the need
to slip the garment on, gently cupping her flesh, holding her safe inside.
Locking her safely away from a touch that was eternally forbidden.
I, on the other hand, looked down on the garment in my hands
with a far different reaction. She'd worn it so often that I could see the
impression she'd left on the padding. I could tell exactly how her breasts sat
in those softly lined cups, and where her nipples rested. It was the young
girl's favorite garment, and it was far too intimate for an old man like me to
be holding. In a near panic I cast it aside and tried not to notice as she
went scrambling for it.
I took the opportunity to slip into a sleeveless
undershirt. "This is what you need. See? Nice effect. Trust me. It'll
drive the boys wild."
"Oh, sure, if Ah walk out wearing nothing *but* this.
And then he'd think Ah was a slut. And he'd be right."
"Fine then. Make a suggestion."
She pulled out a delicate camisole. It was sheer and thin
and tiny. When Rogue donned it, I agreed that it did look good on her –
particularly the way it exposed her lower rib cage and belly. Then I realized
that it looked *terrible* on me.
"How about a little longer, and in blue satin, to match
the boxers?"
"Ah guess that'll work for me." She shimmied into
it.
I looked at myself in the mirror. Almost acceptable. Not
too far from a sleeveless-T and boxers, if you ignored the cut. And the
fabric. And the design.
Rogue, meanwhile, had come up to the pane of glass that
separated my side from hers. Pressing her fingers to it, she said, "Tell
me honestly, Doc. How do Ah look in this? Would *he* like it?"
I looked at her, the gangly scarecrow, with her bony hips,
knees and elbows poking out, and skimpy superstructure. Still, she did achieve
a certain innocence in that outfit. "It's not a bad look," I told
her. "You certainly don't want to push things over into slutty. That
would likely drive him away. This…it has a 'comfortable' look that says that
maybe you put it on casually, merely because it felt good. Not too much
thought, just spontaneous. In that light, I think it's a fine look for you. I
might even say excellent."
She wiped a hand across her eyes and nodded. "Ah guess
Ah'll just have to make sure the outer wrapping look even better."
I had been reaching for a new pair of slacks when the
incongruity of her statement struck me.
"Rogue…you never dressed in a manner that I'd call
'pretty'. Why the sudden change?"
"You don't get it at all, Doc. Ah don't want to look
'pretty'. Pretty is Shirley Temple with little pink bows. That isn't me at
all. Ah want to look *sharp*. Ah want to have *style*. A look that says,
'Danger, don't touch!'" She frowned suddenly. "Yeah, that's
probably for the best."
As she rummaged through the large wardrobe, I found myself
wearing linen pants and a halter top.
"Arggg!" we both cried, simultaneously.
"Look," I said reasonably, "can't we
compromise here? There has to be something that works for both of us. I watch
TV, I keep up with youth culture. Girls dressing like guys is 'hip' or
whatever you call it nowadays."
"The Rogue isn't going out there in any tweed
jacket," she warned me.
"Well what *can* we do?"
She pondered a moment. "Might be a bit of a change for
both of us, but how about an Indiana Jones look? Khakis, leather jacket,
leather hat, the whole bit?"
"Indiana Jones is an *archeologist*. I'm a cellular
biologist. How about a Professor Jones senior, look? Sean Connery is
stylish."
"The Rogue don't wear tweed jackets!"
I tried to give in with good grace. "All right, I
accept. I suppose that all this running around with your X-Men friends
reasonably counts as field work. Dressing the part wouldn't be too outlandish."
When we were finally done, I took a look at myself. Not too
bad, I had to admit. I fancied that I gave the appearance of a serious
professional, ready to tackle whatever presented itself – no matter how grimy
or rough. I definitely appreciated the hat – a practical item that had sadly
faded from the modern consciousness. Done in by the umbrella and too much
indoor living, I suspected.
Looking through the glass at Rogue, I had to nod
appreciatively. The khakis fit her right, but they were a woman's cut, not a
man's. That left them hanging low on her hips, emphasizing one of her better
features. The way she stood, with those bony hips canted at an angle tended to
emphasize them, too. But the slacks softened the harder contours of her hips, and
the shirt pulled tight across the chest, stating clearly that this wasn't a man
wearing the outfit. The oversized leather jacket added a suggestion of
toughness to the image, and softened the too-sharp outlines of her shoulders
and elbows. Finally, she was able to push the skunk-stripe in her hair up
under the hat. The whole effect left her looking surprising female (for
Rogue), a tough customer, and a bit on the provocative side.
"Hey, thanks, Doc. That's downright
complimentary."
I grumbled. "There are too many telepaths in this
house."
"Aw, it isn't like that. After all, you can hear what
Ah'm thinking, too."
Which was true, I realized. She thought that I looked
reasonably well prepared for field work, but somehow I looked like a man who
couldn't step out of the thirties, rather than someone making a fashion
statement. And she liked the fact that I didn't look so old any more, but
thought I should be younger still. I looked in a mirror. Sure enough, my face
had smoothed and my skin had more of the firm elasticity of youth. I now
looked like a man solidly in his fifties, rather than my true age.
"Why don't you take it even younger, Doc?"
"Would you change your age by fifty years, given the
chance?"
"Of course not, but that's different. Everyone wants
to be young. No one wants to be old."
"Age has its own benefits," I told her. "The
weakness inside, I agree, is regrettable. The outside, though, that's my
identity. I'm not so ready to abandon all of that." I gestured to the mirror.
"These cosmetic changes are more than enough."
From that point on, the dream became stranger. A mixture of
Indiana Jones movies, my own experiences in the war, and the propaganda of that
era combined with the famous exploits of Captain America and Bucky (they had
real heroes back in those days). As roving archeologists, Professor Trautwein
and his assistant Rogue battled the Nazis as they tried to create a division of
Nazi mutant soldiers, using my recently perfect mutation inducer. Things were looking
desperate until my plucky young assistant used her power and her curse to
co-opt the super strength of the lead goon. Then, with a cry of, "Don't
mess with the Rogue!" she began to lay into the goons.
I was still weakly thrashing as I woke.
Ororo was up, sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at
me. "That was quite a show."
I was still disoriented. Was it safe to relax? Were the
Nazi goons gone?
"How do you feel?"
I put a hand to my head. "Good. The headache's gone.
So is the buzzing. I feel well rested."
I had apparently spoken too soon, since the buzzing began
again, almost immediately. I groaned.
"Forget that. The buzzing is back. I'll be welcoming
another headache in an hour or two."
"I like the outfit."
I looked down at the rumpled khakis I was wearing. Was it
possible?
"I…I dreamed about getting dressed. It
was…complicated. But I dreamed that I was wearing this outfit. Not something
like this – this exact outfit. Shame I don't have the jacket and hat…"
"I believe you kicked those onto the floor when you
were thrashing around."
I looked onto the floor and found to my amazement the exact
items from my dream. I looked at them in wonder, picking up the hat in my
right hand. Concentrating, I let my new senses caress over the hat, feeling
the inner structure of the leather, noticing every cut and stitch. Then,
concentrating on my other hand, I *pushed* with the power, attempting to
synthesize, however I managed it, a duplicate hat out of the atomic components
of the atmosphere.
What I managed was a leathery terrycloth in something of a
bag shape.
"Remarkable," I said. "I can only surmise
that my unconscious mind is far better at exploiting this ability than my
conscious mind. But if I can harness this, imagine the implications! I have
attained what is perhaps the most valuable and useful mutant ability yet
known!"
Ororo merely blinked at me, skeptically. "How so,
Doctor?"
"Well, unless there's a mutant out there that can
create food, housing, or automobiles at the snap of a finger. Perhaps I'll
have to change my name to 'Wardrobe' once I've mastered this talent. Think of
it, Miss Monroe! How much time do people spend attending to their clothing?
Buying, washing, designing, sewing! With one stroke, I've eliminated my need
for all of that. Why wash clothes when I can vanish them and recreate them
from scratch, brand new! I'm the perfect mending center, and the variety of my
wardrobe is limited only by my imagination!…Which I'll admit, it pretty
limited, so far as clothing goes."
"You do have a point. However, there are still a few
useful abilities out there. Such as the ability to lift large platforms of
metal into space, or teleport instantly from place to place. And control of
the weather has its benefits."
"Oh…yes. Well, perhaps I've gotten a bit carried
away."
"Perhaps." After a moment she added, "Still,
it's nice to see someone so enthusiastic about their gifts. I know that Rogue
always saw her abilities as a curse. As did Kitty, initially. Scott rarely
speaks of his condition, and Kurt almost never lets down his façade."
"A sobering thought. Thank you for putting it in
perspective, Ororo." I rose to claim the shower before any other early
risers could beat me. "And perhaps I understand a bit more of the fear of
mutants, as well."
"How so?"
"Not the unthinking prejudice," I said, "but
the alarm from those who should be more thoughtful. Remember the riots at the
World Trade Organization a few years ago? If our livelihood and way of life is
threatened by such a modest event as globalization, how much more threatening
are mutants who can replace an industry with a moment of mental concentration.
A thousand mutants like me and the worldwide clothing industry might be eliminated
– along with the garment workers, retailers, growers, and all other aspects of
the industry."
"An interesting point," Ororo conceded, "but
isn't the same true of many things? Automation, foreign competition, even
better recycling might all have similar effects."
"Yes, and all of those have stirred both passion and
violence. But saying 'automation' doesn't put a face on it. Saying 'mutant'
provides both a face and a target. A focus for the anger. Remember, that's
ultimately what caused those World Trade Organization riots – for the first
time there was a public meeting. There was a focus. I'm just realizing that
*I* don't want to become the focus for the rage of a million garment
workers."
"Are you always so philosophical first thing in the
morning?"
I grinned at her. "I usually live and wake alone. In
the past day, I have been given my life back, discovered a fantastic power, and
awakened with a pretty woman. Who could fail to be stimulated under such
conditions?"
With that, I hopped up out of bed and made my way down the
hall, hoping to grab the shower before the horde of teenagers. I suspect they
all liked to sleep in, since I succeeded. I locked the door and undressed for
the shower.
The first thing I noticed was the face in the mirror. As
with my dream, I looked to be in my fifties again! While I'm sure I'd still
look ancient to the teenagers, a man of fifty is still active and vital,
bursting with energy and health, but secure in his position as a senior. It
didn't hurt that on the inside I felt better than I had in decades. Right now,
my outside was just about perfect, so far as I could tell.
I ran a hand over my chin, but didn't need to shave today.
That was a pleasant surprise, since I have a sparse but tough beard. With all
the changes in the past few days, that was the least of my worries.
Undressing, I noticed that my underclothes were the blue
satin camisole and "boxer shorts" of my dream. That was a bit of a
shock. Not so much to see them since I half-expected them, but to gain more
evidence of the tie between my dreams and my reality. I pulled off the camisole
and examined it closely. The fabric was exquisite, the seams and stitching
flawless, and the feel of the garment was oddly exciting. I took a moment to
feel the quality of it against my cheek. I don't know what hidden recess of my
psyche had expressed a desire for this garment, but it felt so sinfully
decadent that it had plainly never been meant for a man's skin. Clothing this
fine and this sensual was designed for the soft and vulnerable epidermis of a
woman. As a man it was fundamentally *wrong* for me to be wearing these
garments. Regretfully, I stripped out of them.
I showered and lathered up with more than my customary
vigor, while pondering this situation. Point the first, I had brought no
underwear in with me. Point the second, I had some perfectly serviceable
underwear draped over the towel bar. Not just serviceable, *excellent*. Point
the third, this underwear would not only work well, it would feel good. Heck,
it would feel magnificent. Point the fourth, this underwear hadn't been taken,
stolen, appropriated, or borrowed from anyone; no one would suffer for my using
it. In fact, now that I had worn it, it was no longer appropriate for anyone
else to use it. Point the last, the only reason I *wouldn't* wear those fine
garments was that they seemed to be of a feminine cut, and might somehow demean
my masculine dignity.
As I roughly toweled dry, I scoffed at this last point. By
the time you reach your late eighties, you've long since bid farewell to much
of your dignity. It goes bit by bit as the bodily systems fail. I thanked God
that I had mostly retained my mental faculties, along with good bladder
control. Too many colleagues had lost bits and pieces of themselves through
strokes or physical collapse. So what did I have to worry about, losing my
"masculine dignity?" Right this very moment, I had more of that than
I'd possessed for the last twenty years. How would wearing satin undershorts
diminish that in any way?
With that bit of rationalization firmly settled, I pulled on
the "boxers." I had been right; the sensual feel as the exquisite
fabric slid up my legs was magnificent. And the garment was so light and
tissue-thin that I was almost afraid of tearing it. I needn't have worried.
The satin was quite strong. I shimmied into the top and stood for a moment,
stroking it. As I twisted and turned, the waist whispered over my skin with a
touch as light as a feather. I felt a pair of odd, small stiffenings on my
chest and looked down in surprise to see my nipples responding to the thought.
Fortunately there was no swelling from below, so I was saved that
embarrassment.
It was no wonder women wore this type of clothing.
Gathering the remains of my self-control, I finished
dressing quickly and exited the bathroom – still before any of the teenagers
had woken.
I poked around upstairs for another half an hour, acquiring
a comb and toothbrush, attending to other matters, and was finally drawn
downstairs by the heavenly aroma of a large country breakfast. The sight that
greeted me was chaotic lunacy, but I was to learn, hardly unusual.
Charles sat at the head of the table, presiding over a
elegant meal. Logan and Ororo were eating like civilized adults, as was
Scott. Evan had grown a rather alarming projection from his arm, and was using
that to spear up sausages from a platter. Kurt was using a long serving fork
to duel with him. Kitty suddenly popped up *through* the table to grab the
platter, accidentally knocking it astray, and Jean Grey clutched her temples as
she telekinetically stabilized the tray.
"Oh, gross! It's, like, full of *meat!* That is just
the sickest thing I've *ever* seen!"
"Ja, it's a German tradition! Knockwurst helps the
boys grow up to be strong and good looking, like me!"
"Only if you can snag them, fuzzy."
"Ach! Weiner thief!"
Ororo nodded toward me. "Good morning."
"Good morning, Miss Monroe."
Kitty looked at me and smiled. "All right! Someone's
getting into the Halloween spirit right from the beginning! Looking good,
'Indy!'"
Charles turned awkwardly to look at me. "Ah, take your
normal seat, Rogue."
That little irritation was enough to push the buzzing in my
head into a full headache. Not bothering to conceal my temper, I spoke rather
brusquely. "The name, Charles, is Gerard Trautwein. You may call me Dr.
Trautwein or even Gerard. I do not answer to my patient's name. Speaking of
which, how is Ms. Darkholme this morning?"
Dr. McTaggart entered, only hearing my last sentence.
"Dr. Trautwein? He's still unconscious. I would diagnose it as a light
coma, but that's only to be expected, given his age and the rough handling.
With luck he'll come out of it, but I can't be sure how quickly." She looked
me over. "Nice outfit, Rogue."
I massaged my temples, but the headache really came from
deeper within. "Doctor, would it be too much to ask you to use my real
name?"
Scott Summers broke in at this point. "Perhaps I can
suggest a solution. Since," he gestured toward me, "Dr. Trautwein
will be training alongside us, he needs a codename. And I really don't think
that 'Vaudeville' is going impress Avalanche and company. You need something
more dashing, more threatening. I'm thinking, perhaps, 'Scalawag.' Is it
appropriate for a ne'er-do-well from the forties?"
Jean Grey looked at him in puzzlement. "Scalawag?
What sort of stupid idea? Just call her –" her eyes widened "—oh!
Yeah, that might work. Or how about…'Rapscallion'?"
The other children caught on quickly, I'll give that to
them.
"Yeah, great idea! I like 'Scoundrel.'"
"Do it modern. Call yourself 'Gansta'."
"Nien! She – I mean, he, should be 'Axis'."
Everyone stared at Kurt.
"Vhat? Doesn't anyone watch old war movies?"
"'Axis' it is," I agreed. I gave Scott a hard
stare. "Don't think I didn't figure your little plan out. But since some
people seem determined to persist in this lunatic bit of mistaken identity,
perhaps they will agree to this compromise, as well."
Charles and Moira both nodded.
"Not that I enjoy being named after such a threat to
liberty, but I presume that I'll only be stuck with this until this
preposterous identity crisis is over."
"So…" Scott ventured again, "uh, nice
outfit…Axis."
"Thank you, but an outfit like this I can practically
put together in my sleep."
Since I was keeping a close watch on Ororo, I had the
delight of watching her expel her orange juice through her nose.
Unfortunately, she was facing Jean Grey at the time, who ended up wearing the
spray.
"What is with you?" Jean yelled. "Am I
wearing a 'spray me' sign? Great, and I just got my hair dry." She
pushed away from the table and headed upstairs.
I just smiled. It wasn't so bad, seeing the cheerleader
taken down a peg or two.
"Should I be taking you literally?" Charles
asked. "Is that outfit something that you actually synthesized in your
*sleep*?"
I nodded, reaching for heaping portions of food. The last
time I'd had an appetite this big, Ronald Reagan had still been president.
"Yes. I had an odd dream where my patient and I argued
over clothes." No need to go into too much detail. "I ended up
wearing this outfit as a reasonable compromise between age, fashion, and
practicality. When I woke, I was wearing it. I've got a hat and a leather
jacket to go with it."
"Wow," Kitty said, around a mouthful of fruit.
"My powers first showed up in a dream, too. It must be, like, the
subconscious mind connecting to all that new brain-stuff."
"Perhaps. And perhaps it's part of my mind trying to
tell me something that the conscious mind hasn't yet realized. I'm realizing
that between this outfit and the name 'Axis', I see this whole escapade as
hearkening back to my time in the second world war. Hopefully the adventure
serials we watched rather than the grim reality of the foxholes, but a return
to a time that I had long since put behind me."
Evan spoke up in surprise. "Are you kidding, Doc? Did
you really fight in World War II?"
I nodded. "A decade later, we were calling it 'the
good war,' but at the time nothing could have been farther from the truth. We
thought the entire world might fall under the control of a few madmen. And it
was a time of real heroes, too. I guess my dream reminded me of that, too.
Did you know, I actually met Captain America once? Bucky, too. I have never
met a finer or more noble pair of human beings. Or anyone who was such a true
hero as Cap."
"I hope your dream turns out not to be prophetic,"
Charles said. "But I sometimes fear that we may again be approaching a
time of madmen and heroes. Only this time, the battle will be fought on our
home soil. And instead of national socialists seeking out Jews as their
scapegoats, it will be 'pure' humanity lashing out against mutants."
Despite my headache, I felt a horrifying knot of fear in the
pit of my stomach. "You aren't serious, are you Charles?"
"Totally. Don't you re-- Didn't 'Rogue' tell you
about Magneto?"
"She mentioned him, but gave few details. Why? Magnus
was as concerned about discrimination as any of us. In fact, that was always
his primary cause."
"And it has become his obsession. To put it in terms
of World War II, he feels that the problems might have been avoided if the Jews
had launched a pre-emptive strike against Hitler."
I stared at him in disbelief. Charles nodded, affirming
that he was serious.
"And THAT is ultimately what my work here at the
mansion is working to prevent. Firstly, to prove that mutants and humans can
live side-by-side, but also to train all of you, in case the situation
explodes. We must *never* let the madmen win."
I nodded in heartfelt agreement.
"But in the meantime," Charles said in a lighter
tone, "there are issues of day-to-day concern. I know you people are planning
something for our private Halloween party tonight, so I won't keep you too
long. But school starts in two days, and Rogue must be present. Any
suggestions?"
"Yes," I said with a bit of anger, "you could
get off your backsides and start searching for her!"
"I think," Moira said, "that an expert in
shapechange form-lock might be useful."
"That's not a bad idea," Charles agreed, "but
I'm beginning to think that we're dealing with a long-term problem. What can
we do in the mean time?"
Moira had a wicked smile. "The man I have in mind
might be able to take care of that aspect, too."
"We might need someone to substitute for Rogue for
several weeks. Would your man be willing to spend so much time in a female
role?" His eyes flicked toward me. "Some men have a problem with
that."
I growled a reply, "Give it up, Charles. Subtlety
isn't your strong suit."
Moira's smile got wider. "What do either of you know of
Jacob Gavin?"
I shook my head. Who?
"The name rings a vague bell," Charles said.
"Some sort of courier? Why am I thinking that he knows about
mutants?"
"Because he is one himself. Specifically, a
shapeshifter." She looked at me. "*And* he knows Mystique, so he
can help us on that front. The only problem is that he's expensive. Still, if
we pitch this as something of a vacation for him, with other perks, and we can
meet his fee, I might be able to negotiate something…"
"Get on it as soon as possible. School starts the day
after tomorrow, and Rogue has already missed too much school. If Bayville's
principal has suddenly disappeared, school absences will be harder to explain
than ever."
"Wait a minute," I said. "If this guy knows
Mystique, is he a friend of hers? I don't trust that woman one inch, *or* any
of her friends."
"No." Moira sounded quite certain. "He
knows Mystique, but he's certainly no friend of hers."
"That should be fine, then." Hopefully, a
shapeshifter would be enough on the ball to spot her disguise and convince
everyone that I was right all along. With that happy thought in mind, I was in
a reasonably good mood throughout breakfast. That is, as good a mood as I
could manage with my ever-present headache.
After breakfast, we practiced calisthenics and self-defense
again, then Charles took the teens for some advanced training in the Danger
Room. He handed me a pile of old socks.
"I've had everyone gather the singles and lone socks
from around the mansion," he explained. "You need a lot of practice
working with fabric and clothing. From your outfit, you obviously have plenty
of ability – you just don't know how to consciously use it. So practice with
these socks. If you manage to duplicate any, we'll have a pair again. And
once you have that mastered, try some other variations – color changes, fabric
changes, things like that.
Well, at least they were clean. I picked up the first sock
and let my senses seep into it.
Hmmm, 50% rayon, 50% orlon. There were so many synthetics
today. I hunted around until I found something in cotton. I *much* prefer
working with natural fabrics. The cotton sock (which actually included elastic
in the upper portion) still had traces of sweat and grime. Not much, but the
microscopic traces were there. I first reached in and "evaporated"
the contaminants. Holding a suddenly gleaming sock, I realized that I'd found
another use for my fantastic abilities – I was a mutant clothes-washer! From
now on, every Chinese laundry need beware my powers!
I experimented with that aspect for a while. Cleaning
clothes and fabric was a natural. Dirt, oil, stains – they were all gone with
a thought. I could do the same with skin and hair, but I quickly discovered
that skin and hair both *need* some of the oils on them. Now the trick was to
see if I could replace the oils that I had just removed. While everyone was
out, I snuck into the bathroom and examined the bath products. Let's see…hair
shampoo, creme rinse, conditioner. That was what I wanted. I studied the
structure of the oils, then practiced combing my own hair, while synthesizing
oils and scents. The results were gratifying. My hair was already fuller than
it had been yesterday, but now it almost glowed with life. The scent was a
mild, but pleasant mixture of herbs, a set of chemicals that was easy to
memorize and replicate.
Skin proved to be a greater challenge. I tried rubbing
myself with a variety of oils and crèmes, trying to examine the results. At
the end, I had made serious progress. I learned quite by accident that I had
the same control over hair and (dead) skin cells that I possessed over cloth
and fabric. This seemed obvious in retrospect, since I could control both
leather and wool. Along with my cleansing and oil-replenishing ability, it
meant that I would never need to shave again. A rub of my hand down my face
left my skin cleaner than any shower, scrubbed of dry and dead skin, with all
hair removed (down to the follicle), and a magnificent blend of oils to soften
and preserve my skin. And with hair, I only had to stroke my fingers through
it to untangle it, wash it, and leave it simultaneously cleaned and
conditioned.
These abilities might not help me in a fight, but they would
make me *very* popular around the house.
My diversion taken care of, I returned to that damned pile
of socks. Initially, I was able to make little headway. The more I
concentrated, the more my socks came out looking like a wad of gummy noodles.
After an hours' worth of struggle, I sat back to think, idly running my hands
over a lone nylon. Perhaps the problem was that I was concentrating too hard.
I had proven that I could literally create fabric in my sleep. I hadn't been
concentrating then. My fingers paused as they moved over a run in the nylon.
How could I attack this problem? In frustration, I clenched my hand around the
nylon. The artificial fabric rubbed at my senses, having none of the proper
feel of a natural, biological material. In a moment of anger, I changed it. I
flipped the molecules in my mind, switching the stupidly regular nylon polymer
for complex organic chains of silk. I couldn't really touch the nylon
molecules, but I could copy their outline, weaving silk in the same shape. The
silk required a bit of braiding, as well, with strands looping and twisting
around one another. A pair of hose wasn't made from individual strands, but
from threads, which are strands woven together. In a moment, it was done, and
I held a nylon in one hand and a matching silk stocking in the other, both with
matching runs. I fixed that in the silk stocking, pulling the fabric back into
place as you might pull closed a zipper. The feel of the silk was very
different from the slick and regular nylon. This had a warmth and texture that
the artificial fabric entirely lacked. Touching it against my cheek, I thought
that perhaps this was what I had been lacking: a sense of appreciation. I had
to *like* the fabric I was working with. I had to truly *want* to create the socks.
Pressing the (very clean) single silk stocking to my lips, I let my mind into
it, feeling the fabric, the shape. I felt how incomplete it was alone. It
needed its mate to complete it. Without that, it was nothing, and would soon
be discarded. I felt the fabric against cheek and fingertip, and *knew* that
we needed the other stocking.
And just like that, I knew I could do it. My mind wove it
out of thin air. I opened my eyes and looked. Two identical silk stockings
were in front of me. Quickly, I tried again. It was easier this time. I
created another pair, then a colored pair (black), then white, then pink.
Before I had noticed, I was practically buried in gauzy silk stockings.
Once I had the knack, this was simple! With a sigh, I put aside
my glee and moved to less interesting fare: mens' sweat socks. Again, I picked
up a sock, hardly noticing as I thought it clean. It was a cheap 60% cotton,
40% polyester blend. I tried to think about making a duplicate, but it was
hard. Frankly, I just didn't care. I stared at the sock and held it in my
hand, trying to force my mind to work with it.
Given how ugly it was, it probably belonged to Charles. No,
probably Logan. I should change it to silk for him. But silk socks are
expensive, and I didn't feel like doing him any favors. Besides, Logan was
hardly the type of man to wear silk. He probably appreciated things that were
more manly and durable. Leather socks, that's what he needed. Or perhaps…my
brow creasing, I thought, and suddenly I was holding a sock made of rough,
brown, burlap. Not finished burlap, but the coarse kind used for sandbags –
with sharp little fibers poking out everywhere. Logan would never use just one
burlap sock, but a pair…with a thought, there were two of them. In fact, Logan
needed a whole drawer full of burlap socks. Happily applying my abilities,
socks began to form in the air around me, raining to the ground. Bleached
white burlap, bright red burlap (for Logan's Santa suit), green burlap (for
hiding in the woods), a half-dozen pair of camouflage burlap socks. It was a
job well done. After several pair, though, I started to feel an odd sense of
fatigue that I hadn't noticed with the stockings.
I got up to stretch my legs. Whether the problem was some
sort of mental fatigue or whether I had pulled all the available dust out of
the air, I needed to walk around and give things time to recover. After a few
minutes, I returned and sat down, somewhat fresher again.
I picked up a single sock that I knew had to belong to
Kurt. First, it was stretched out wide in front, with two large toe outlines
stretched in front, and another deep dent in the rear. Poor kid. I hadn't
realized that he'd never fit in normal socks. I let my mind caress over this
one. It was a cotton/polyester blend, but I didn't hold that against him.
Instead, I looked closer at the sock, seeing how the polyester was used for
strength and structure, while the cotton added bulk, cushioning, and
absorbency. But silk would work as well as polyester (and was so much nicer).
The cotton was a bit worn, it needed to be bulked back up. I worked on
crafting a duplicate that incorporated those two changes.
I still needed to adjust it to fit. Changing the size of an
existing garment was an interesting exercise. On the one hand, you had to
erase parts, and meld together the ragged edges. On the other hand, you had to
stretch out other sections, synthesizing and expanding so that the weave wasn't
merely stretched out. Then I went back to work on the shrinking. Destroying
and melting wasn't as efficient as a contract-and-eliminate. And slowly, the
sock stretched and altered in my hand like putty. Now if only I had a live
model…
I fiddled around with socks for another hour, until the
group finally stumbled out of the Danger Room. They looked grimy and dirty,
Kurt and Kitty looked like they were covered in soot, and Scott had a nasty
gash on one arm. I waved at Kurt, but he teleported away before he noticed me.
"Dibs on the shower!" he yelled, vanishing in his
trademarked *bamf*.
Kitty saw and came over.
"Holy SHIT!" she said, looking at the pile of
stockings. I winced at the vulgarities coming out of her young mouth.
"Are these, like, real silk? Oh, DIBS!" She held one up. "Oh,
darn it, this is Jean's size. So is this. And this."
"I'm afraid they're all exactly the same size. They're
all duplicates of the same initial sock."
"Oh. Hey, what are those?" She picked up the
camouflage burlap sock. "Uh, these are for Mr. Logan, aren't they? I
guess you don't like him very much."
I just smiled.
She picked up my reshaped sock. "And this must be for
the fuzz-ball. Pretty good. Um…" she bit her lip "I don't suppose
you have any of those silk stockings in, like, a 'petite' do you?"
"Tell you what," I said, "I need to get Kurt
in here so I can check his real size. Help me catch him, and I'll make you as
many stockings as you'd like."
"Better be careful, Doc. I might, like, take you up on
that promise."
"Try me."
She grinned. "Okay. Just wait here." She
pounded up the stairs. "Kurt, you better be done with that shower!"
There was a muffled reply. "Either you're coming out, or I'm coming
in." More reply that I couldn't catch. "Why would I care if the
door's locked? Maybe I'll just phase through to see if you're done…"
Then, "Works every time."
A short while later, she was dragging him (literally) down
the stairs.
"Here he is. Now take your medicine like a big boy,
fuzzy elf, because I am *so* looking forward to my payoff!"
"But…this isn't fair. You didn't even *vant* the
shower!"
"Kurt! I was hoping you'd come by!" I held up
the sock that I'd modified. "How would you like some socks that
fit?"
"Oh, yeah, I vish. Do you know how hard it is to shop
vhen you –" he saw what was in my hand and did a double-take. "Is
this real?"