X-Man
by Babs Yerunkle
From the "X-Men Evolution" universe, beginning
after the end of the first season.
Chapter 10: When life throws you curves
I woke as a girl. It was interesting to lie in bed and feel
myself being a girl. I wasn't moving and I certainly wasn't looking at
myself. But my eyes were open, so I could tell that both Kitty and Jackie were
still asleep.
One of the odd things I noticed was my shoulders. The were
smaller. Not a lot, but enough smaller for me to lie on my side with a fairly
flat pillow and rest my head comfortably without hurting my neck. And my legs
– they felt long and sleek. My hips – I tried to imagine that they felt
different, but it was nothing that I noticed. I couldn't help noticing my
breasts, though. I'd been right. A man might have said that Rogue's breasts
were itty bitty titties, just little B-cup breasts, nothing to write home
about. But on this side of them, it was a very different story. I wondered if
real women were so self-conscious of their breasts as I was in that moment. I
felt two gigantic mounds on my chest, swaying slightly with each breath, each
curvy hill crowned by an incredibly huge and sensitive ring of areola, topped
with gigantic nipples that were even now hardening to become erect.
Oh, so slowly, I carefully moved my hands inside my T-shirt,
and then up to delicately touch my own flesh. Just out of curiosity, mind
you. Just to see how big Rogue was and to make myself familiar with this
temporary change in my body. After all, I *was* still a man, and I intended to
remain that way. But…there were feelings from the girl inside me. She took
comfort and identity in the existence of her breasts. She wanted to know they
were back, wanted to feel the feminine touch of delicate fingers stroking a
woman's sensitive flesh. They formed her identity as much as testicles and a
penis anchored my self-image as a man, and I was beginning to realize that
their absence had hit her as hard as the shock about my organs (or lack
thereof) had hit me.
Another part of me was pure male. Some tits? And I get to
play with them? Hooray! And a third part of me simply enjoyed the sensations
produced by my gentle touch against my own body. At first, I identified this
third part as male, a part of my original memories. But the feelings it was
generating were oddly soft, with strange overtones. It had a complex knot of emotions
tied in with the physical pleasures it was feeling. It had emotions that
almost brought tears to my eyes, and emotions that made me feel yearning and
hopeful and empty and incomplete. The more I touched myself, the more I
realized how incomplete I was. I needed…something.
So I explored my feelings within, as I touched the flesh
without. Carefully I stroked my full, round mounds, discovering that they were
every bit as sensitive as any girl could have hoped for. And the areola! They
were more sensitive yet. A delicate fingertip stroked across that
super-sensitive area made me tighten up in such a fascinating way. I could
feel my nipples rising up off my chest, almost standing at attention. And
finally, I had to explore those insistent nipples. I slid a finger across one,
then the other. The feelings, both within and without, were intense. On the
outside, I could feel things happening to my body. I was intensely aware that
*I had breasts*. I felt shivery sensations travel across my skin. And there
was an almost-echo. With each stroke of my nipple, I felt things happening
inside my body. Down in the *inside* part of my hips. Down where nothing
happens for guys. I cupped a hand around each breast and softly squeezed
myself. I didn't have "hard little titties" like that jerk had
claimed last Thursday. They weren't *hard*, they were *firm*. Firm but
sensitive, covered with the most delicate skin imaginable. But as I gently
squeezed myself, I felt not only the outside skin, but all the way through my
breast. It was all *me*.
The feelings inside, the emotional feelings, were even more
confusing. I was proud and happy, complete and correct and right once more. I
was hungry, but not in the sense of eating. I would simply call it a sexual
hunger, but it wasn't exactly. Not in the male sense. Not in the crude sense
that I wanted something to penetrate, or even to penetrate me. The need was
much richer and vastly more complex. I didn't understand it, but I wanted to
spend a lifetime exploring its nuances.
It gradually penetrated my half-sleepy brain that I had been
fondling myself. Oddly enough, no part of me felt shame. But my male thoughts
suddenly wondered about other feminine secrets. If this is what *breasts* felt
like, what wonders were hidden below, by those secret lips of femininity? Half
in wonder, half in fear, I stretched one hand slowly down toward the velvet
lips of my female sex. Unable, or perhaps unwilling to stop myself, I reached
down. My fingertips felt the mound of my pubic arch. Just beyond were my
secret folds, my hidden entrance, and…I felt my body shift around me, becoming
male once more.
In that strange half-awake state, I was aware of all the
different facets of my mind expressing their feelings. One of the man-parts
was disappointed, furious that a play-toy had been taken away. Another
man-part was relieved that I was a man again. And farther inside, a shy,
insecure part was quietly sad that she could never be herself. It claimed to
be a part of *me*, but I refused to believe that. It was an echo of the *girl*
-- not me. If that was part of me, I might as well be saying that my true
gender was not male – and that was preposterous! Unthinkable.
Lying in bed, half awake, seeing that Kitty and Jackie still
slept, I thought about what I'd just done and what I'd felt, both physically
and emotionally. What made a man and what made a woman? Back in my youth, we'd
known what made real men. They were breadwinners, supporting their family even
if it meant long hard work with the Civilian Conservation Corps. Later, when
the country entered the war, a true man was a brave defender of his country.
You couldn't find a much better example than John Wayne. I'd always had good
work, I'd helped feed my extended family, and I'd defended my country. I'd
never been a John Wayne type, but I'd felt I was a man, good and true. And
what about women? In my formative years, a 'real woman' was someone like Greta
Garbo, or the legendary Mae West. She may have been a bit past her prime by my
day, but everyone agreed that she was a 'real woman.' And a decade later,
Marilyn Monroe set the standard for what a 'real woman' was like. Or was a
real woman a tough chick, a Rosie the Riveter, a Lauren Bacall? Someone who
could pull her own weight and more, and do it with style. As a man, I had
always accepted that Marilyn Monroe was the pinnacle of desirability.
But what was *I*? What did I really feel; what did I really
want? The man I had once been had been comfortable with who he was, but he'd
been ready to end his life – a job done and finished. On the other hand, the
girl who now formed some part of me had been angry and bitter, and had chosen
to end her life rather than let herself be corrupted. And where did that leave
me? A Frankenstein creation composed of the bits and pieces of dead or dying
people. I didn't even know if I was a man or a woman.
Maybe, for a while, it didn't matter. Maybe I'd have time
to make my own choice. I hoped so.
I got up quietly and made my way downstairs without waking
the other girls. A quick pass of my power and I was both sparkling clean and
dressed.
Evan was downstairs, in the middle of his breakfast. I
spotted two empty milk jugs beside his place and made the logical connection.
"You know," I said conversationally, "you've
been duped by the milk council."
"What are you talking about, man?"
"Milk is a *reasonably* good source of calcium, but not
the best. Fish is better. And a couple of different types of vegetables –
spinach maybe? I'm not sure, but you could look it up."
"Huh, maybe I will." He got a speculative gleam
in his eye. "Hey, here's a question for you. You could make me a pigskin
wallet, right?"
I concentrated and handed him one.
"Sweet. Genuine pigskin. Nice work. And lots of
clothes use bone for the buttons and stuff. You could make me a bone button,
couldn't you?"
I handed him one.
"Great. So, make me a pork chop."
I waggled my fingers at him. "Poof! You are now a
pork chop!"
"Cut it with the dumb jokes! Come on, why can't you
make a pork chop?"
I thought about it and concentrated…nothing. I was finally
able to create a piece of leather connected to a T-bone, but it wasn't meat.
"I don't get it. If you can make one, why not the
other? If you can make leather, surely you can make beef jerky. And if you
can make spun cotton, why can't you make me popcorn or potato chips?"
I tried them all. "That *is* sort of weird. Maybe it's
a psychological limit. I'll have to work on it."
That's when Logan showed up.
"You're both up. Good. Let's get a little training in
before breakfast."
"But I…" I looked enviously at the breakfast that
Evan had just finished, then shrugged. "Yeah, sure."
We got in about an hour's work in the Danger Room. Logan
reconfigured it into a training gym, with mats and various practice dummies.
He gave some nice compliments to Evan, saying that he managed a good
combination of offense and defense. Then he sent Evan to attack me, saying
that so long as the wounds were non-fatal, that I'd be able to recover by using
Rogue's absorption to borrow Logan's quick healing. In other words, "Keep
it non-fatal, but everything else is fair game."
It was hell. Evan is *fast*, and more athletic than I'll
ever be. Necessity is a great teacher, and I was starting to get the hang of
arm and leg blocks. But even with plates of arm and leg armor, I was taking
lots of hits. And I really didn't have any sort of decent attack. My fist
wasn't able to even dent his bone armor. Hitting him only hurt me. And even
though I was quickly figuring out how to block or blunt most of his spiky
attacks, his spike-fisted punches penetrated, and when he launched a barrage I
was only able to knock a few of them out of the way. At the end of the hour, I
was a mess, bleeding from a hundred small cuts and bruised on every square inch
of skin below my neck.
"Hey, sorry man, but Wolverine kept pushing me!"
"It's not your fault," I told him. "I think
he's trying to teach me a lesson."
On the drive to school Kurt was particularly solicitous. "You
look really stiff," he said. "Yesterday's fight must have been
terrible!"
I glared at him. "It wasn't *yesterday*, it was this
morning. Logan got me for some 'extra training' and convinced Evan to do his dirty
work."
"Ouch. How hard?"
"Logan told him to keep it 'one notch below lethal.'"
"I take it back. You look *great*."
"Just help me limp to class and I'll be fine."
I wasn't kidding. At school, I threw my arm around his
shoulder and limped toward class. Kurt took the opportunity to speak quietly
with me.
"I am thinking that I have to look out for you. I've
never before had a…sister."
That sent a jab of pain through my emotional centers. I
think he felt me flinch, so I tried to make things clear, without making them
*too* clear. "I don't think I'm quite ready to talk about that yet."
He looked tragic, so I added, "Don't worry. It's not that I wouldn't love
to be related to you, it's just that…there are other things going on."
That was as close as I could get to the truth. The truth was that I wasn't
sure how *I* felt, so how could I explain it to Kurt?
He nodded and helped me into my seat for the
ever-fascinating public speaking class.
Surprisingly, a few of the other kids came by to check up on
me before class started. Word had gotten around.
"Heard what you did, man."
"Pretty gutsy."
"You scared that they'll come gunning for you now?"
"Heard you were with Tolensky and Dukes. How'd you
pick up with losers like them?"
I had to protest that last part. "Hey, Todd and Freddy
aren't so bad! They may be a little different, but give 'em a chance. They
might surprise you."
The only negative reaction was one fellow who told me I was
going to get "seriously fucked up" if I tried anything with Slick
Rick's new replacement, who was apparently due to set up shop in a day or two.
Well, I supposed that dealing with drug pushers was a bit like trying to fight
the proverbial hydra. Still, maybe it would be worth looking into this new
guy, too. I'd have to talk it over with Freddy and Todd.
By my second class, I was seriously feeling my wounds. The
haze of my bruises fought against the drone of the 'history' instructor,
fighting against the ever-present buzz in my head. I was getting too tired to
hold out forever, and something had to give. I'd moved to the back of the
class, hoping to escape notice if I nodded off. As always, I had to put up
with watching the imposter flirt with Kurt. She was really starting to get on
my nerves. At least the irritation helped keep me awake.
The nice thing about wearing a trench coat was that I could
just sort of sink back into it, hiding from the class and the world. The
teacher had long since been trained to ignore the back of the class. What I
really needed was a pair of sunglasses. With dark glasses on, I could close my
eyes for a moment with no one noticing. Could I synthesize glass? I tried and
failed. But I realized that I'd seen pictures of Mystique in her "Principal
Darkholme" disguise. The principal wore glasses. How had Mystique
managed? Hmmm, the frames wouldn't be too hard. Wood perhaps, or real
tortoise-shell. That had an amusing element to it. How could I simulate the
black plastic frames of modern glasses? What about black lacquered wood? That
used shellac and other natural ingredients for the finish. I tried and it
worked perfectly. I materialized a coin-sized disk of black plastic in my hand
– only it was actually black lacquered wood. Vanishing it, I moved on to the
next part. How could I make lenses, either clear or shaded? There were plenty
of membranes that were quite clear when dried, but they didn't have the look of
glass. But what about amber? Yes, I could materialize it. Could I make it
transparent? No, but I could make it dark. It made a pretty fair sunglass
substitute. Creating a pair of sunglasses, I reached inside my coat for them
and pulled them on. Not one person in class was fooled, but it seemed to be an
acceptable way of putting up a "sleeping, don't bother me" sign.
Except that I couldn't sleep. Not only did I hurt too much,
I realized that I *didn't dare* fall asleep. If I did, the class would
suddenly see Rogue in my seat. That would ruin my life real quick.
So instead, I did what I could to relax without sleeping. I
could handle two of my problems, but not all three: the droning teacher, the
mild buzzing in the back of my head, and the pain of my massive bruises. And
as I tried to mentally adjust things to relax, I stumbled across a discovery.
There was a certain way of…of relaxing, I suppose. It helped to stretch out my
legs and stretch my sore butt muscles. Not only did they feel a lot better,
the buzzing was less, too. Curious, I "tensed up" again. The
buzzing was back to normal and my sore muscles returned, but the stretch had
helped. They weren't quite as bad as before.
Mildly intrigued, I relaxed my arms and shoulders. *Much*
better. And that's when I noticed: My hand wasn't *my* hand – it was a
smaller, thinner, girl's hand. It was Rogue's hand.
I tensed up immediately and saw my hand return to normal.
Disturbing, but interesting. I relaxed again and then tensed up, watching the
change. After doing the shift several times and giving my arm time to "relax",
I noticed that it felt better, too. I pulled my arm deeper into my trench coat
and vanished the sleeve of my shirt. Did my cuts and bruises look a little
better? It was hard to say. Perhaps. I vanished the shirt sleeve on my other
arm and compared. Maybe. I spent a productive class stretching, relaxing, and
resting. At the end of the time, the right arm that I'd been "exercising"
was definitely looking better than my left arm. There seemed to be several
factors involved. First, the mere act of shifting provided a little relief.
The effect was much greater if I could shift, stay in a state for several
minutes, and then shift again. I speculated that shifting brought cells closer
together or farther apart, and gave them a better opportunity to re-bond and
heal wounds. Or perhaps shifting itself stimulated cell growth. In any case,
occasional shifting with a rest seemed to be the best approach. And since my
whole body below the neck was bruised….
I thought about this a lot during class and on my way to
French class. My whole body was one massive bruise. On the other hand, I was
a man. If I followed through with my plan, I wouldn't be. Bundled under
several layers of clothes and a trench coat, I didn't think anyone else would
notice, but *I* would know. On the other hand….
In French class, they showed a film. It was a
black-and-white piece from "way back" in the 1960's, with French
subtitles for the hard-of-listening. My main problem with French was that I
couldn't ever forget the Vichy government or the way we had to save their
country. Sure, the resistance deserved some credit, but I thought the French
had had more than their share of collaborators. So I sat in the back of the
class in pain and stewed.
Well, why not? No one would know. I'd feel a lot better.
And it wasn't as if a person needed to be ashamed over being a woman
temporarily. Perhaps my logic was a bit faulty, but I'd made up my mind.
Internally, I "relaxed" and felt the change come over my body. My
arms and legs stretched out while my torso shrank. My waist was already thin
so that stayed pretty much the same. My shoulders became slightly smaller and
more rounded. My hips widened until they were stretching my pants. My bikini
panties still fit. In fact, now that I thought about it, they fit me better
than ever: a snug fabric ribbon wound tightly around pelvis, clinging very
tightly where before my masculine anatomy had rather ruined the fit, causing it
to bind a bit.
Lastly, I watched my chest enlarge. It was extremely odd
watching my shirt swell up and tighten. On the inside, it felt intensely
*right* as my breasts grew into the soft cotton bra cups awaiting them. It was
instantly obvious: this was why my subconscious has been forcing me to wear
this underwear – so that when this moment came, I would be "coming home."
So that I would have the proper fit and the shivery delight of soft cloth that
perfectly caressed my sensitive and delicate skin. So that I could experience
the odd mixture of pride and pleasure. Pride, knowing that I was wrapped in
supportive, stylish, protective, good looking lingerie. No one else in the
world might know…but I knew, and that was all that mattered. Pleasure, because
the fabric and the fit felt so right and so good. It was tight in all the right
spots, but not too tight – just exactly right. It was supportive. I might
only be a B-cup, but it felt good to have that bra holding me up, holding me in
place, keeping me from bouncing or jiggling. It felt protective and secure,
like a pair of arms wrapped around me, holding me gently.
Staring at my suddenly-tight shirt and thinking all of those
girlish thoughts, I noticed two prominent bumps starting to show through the
front of my shirt. I couldn't believe it. Ten seconds as a girl, and I was
already giving a display. My own peep show. Concentrating momentarily, I
adjusted the fit of all my outer clothes. I lengthened the pants, shortened
the shirt tails, and loosened everything up. That hid things a bit. I tried
crossing my arms, but they crossed *under* my breasts and only made the anatomy
more obvious. Instead, I readjusted my trench coat and tried to sink back
inside, pulling the front around me. Now, if everyone else would watch the
stupid movie, I could try to stay perfectly still and ignore the fact that I
was now a girl – in every sense except for my face and hair.
The task is a bit like trying *not* to think of a white
horse. The way I sat, the feel of the chair underneath me, the urge to cross
my legs – the geometry is different for women. My initial attempt had me
crossing my legs in a modest female stance. This is impossible for men. Not
only is the hip geometry wrong, but you'd squeeze the heck out of your gonads.
On the other hand, with a woman's body, I had to make a conscious effort to put
my ankle up on my knee, guy-style.
And every breath I took made me acutely aware of the
jiggling mounds of flesh that I'd just acquired. The feeling wasn't entirely
pleasant, either. Thanks to Logan, my sensitive new mammaries were covered
with bruises. I was acutely aware of every shift of fabric over my flesh.
After about ten minutes, I'd had all I could take. I tensed
up again, and to my relief I changed back into a man. Or rather, if I am to
believe the body-thief, I took the *shape* of a man once more. The buzzing was
back full-force again, but I felt a bit better. I was also a *lot* less
self-conscious. I wasn't worried that someone would accidentally notice that
my proportions were completely different or that I was 'sporting a pair'. I
actually found myself able to concentrate better, despite the return of the
buzzing.
There was another thing I couldn't figure out. Rogue is a
bit on the short side. My male shape was easily four inches taller than she
was. So why, when I turned back into a man, were my shirt sleeves and pants
legs suddenly too long? Was Rogue's shorter stature entirely in the torso?
That seemed to be the case.
After a minute or so of psychological adaptation (honestly
speaking it was a mixture of relief and regret) I decided to turn inward and
consider the problem of armor once more. The 'scale cloth' that I'd created
was a good first pass, but it obviously needed work. For the cloth itself,
there were several improvements that needed to be made. Each 'scale' needed to
be tougher, the cloth itself needed to be more resistant to strikes, cuts, and
punctures, and it needed to remain just as light and flexible. And if I could
do something to stop Logan's nasty gun, I might be making some real progress.
I didn't learn a bit of French, but I spent a very busy
class. Ten minutes as a man, and ten minutes as a woman. I fiddled with all
the details of the armor. By the end of class, I had a much better design.
Each 'scale' was a layered composite of alligator leather, chiton (for combined
toughness and flexibility), and black-tinted tooth enamel on the surface (for
hardness). The scales were now more oval in shape, and instead of lying flat,
they were in overlapping rows, like the scales of a real snake or lizard. That
way, each scale pressed on the row below it, distributing any impact over a
wider area. The scales were bound together in a thin leather-skin, reinforced
with a weave of silk threads for strength and structure. Under that was
*another* thin layer of silk in a serpentine weave that should be highly
resistant to any puncture – much better than a simple cross-hatch weave.
I also discovered that once I'd made the initial adjustments
to my male-shape and female-shape clothing, the clothes tended to shift
automatically when my shape changed. I could consciously control it, but if I
just let things 'flow' then the clothes automatically shifted with my body.
As the movie finally ended and the lights came up, I hastily
changed back to male, and then synthesized a full-body suit of my latest scale
cloth under my outer clothes. I wanted to gauge its flexibility during lunch.
Kurt made sure he was by my side before we left the room.
"Did you sleep through the entire class?" he
asked.
"I didn't sleep a wink. I was hard at work. Logan
made sure I was beaten to a pulp this morning. I'm going to make sure he can't
do it again."
'Rogue' gave me the eye and answered in her fake Southern
accent, "He had a good reason. Ah think Ah agree with him. If you're
going to be walking into trouble like that, you need to know everything he can
teach you."
I grimaced at the body thief. She'd been nice enough, I had
no reason to dislike her, but seeing her strut around in a body that belonged
to someone else just set my teeth on edge.
"I was experimenting with a little project," I
told her. "Why don't you help me try it out? Give me a punch in the
gut. Make it a hard one."
"But you're all bruised!" Kurt protested,
protectively.
I shook my head. "I'm okay. It's your knuckles you
should be worried about."
'Rogue' looked concerned. "Well, let's step out of the
way, first. I don't want people to get the wrong impression." I pointed
toward an empty classroom and she continued. "I was talking to Logan,
too. He was telling me that you're still far too naïve and that you needed a
bit more training in that regard."
"What's that?" I had just entered the classroom
and was starting to turn to look at her. I caught the barest glimpse from the
corner of my eye as she lunged forward with the knife.
I think maybe Logan has the right idea. He's been drilling
me pretty hard on the basics. I was trying to spin out of the way as Jackie
slammed into my side. The impact knocked me back, but I was already kicking
out at her arm and bringing my hands up for a return punch.
"Not bad," she said, dropping the knife. "Let's
check your side. If it's bad, Kurt can 'port you back to the mansion."
I didn't move; I stayed in a ready position, facing her.
"Look, drill's over. Logan's been saying that you were
too naïve, that you leave your back open, that you're easy to ambush. Ah think
we just proved that all of those are true. He also said that your defense is
tons better than your offense. Looks like that's true, too. Ah got a pretty
solid hit on you. How are you doing?"
I poked myself in the side, then dissolved away a hole of
cloth so I could look at skin. "Nothing cut or broken, just some rips and
tears, and those are easy to fix."
Jackie reached forward and fingered the scale cloth. "Hmph.
Body armor. Ah'm not sure Ah like that too much."
"Upset that your backstabbing attack didn't get me?"
I couldn't help but put a little acid in my comment.
She ignored the tone. "It's not that. The problem
with armor is that it changes your psychology. You depend on it. Instead you
should be getting used to the fact that you're always vulnerable. That's the
attitude you want to take. Always alert, aware, always ready to roll from any
hit, no matter how unexpected. Not *hyper* sensitive, you don't want fatigue
setting in, but always loose and ready for anything. Armor is the exact
opposite of that."
I nodded, warily. "I'll think about it."
"And that's just the beginning. You need to be quick
on the counter-attack. Hit hard and fast. Move faster than your opponent and
put yourself where they don't expect you, or don't want you."
"Yeah, yeah. We're missing lunch."
Through this all, Kurt just blinked owlishly at the two of
us arguing. The part that bugged me most was that I could tell that his
loyalties and normal feelings were all messed up. I mean, it was *Rogue* that
had done the backstabbing, and was taking the aggressive drill-sergeant stance
with me. And while he knew that my body was Rogue's, it sure didn't look like
it at the moment. He finally shook his head to clear the confusion. As he
did, his eyes took on a horrified look. "Oh, no!"
"What?" Was I bleeding? Did I need to fix my
clothes? Had he spotted my satin underwear through the hole I'd created? "What's
wrong?"
"They are serving burgers for lunch today, and ve are
standing here vasting time!"
A short while later, we were all carrying trays filled with
school slop. The cafeteria was pretty full, but I spotted a nearly-empty
table.
"Over there," I said to my two tag-alongs. "With
Freddy and Todd."
"You must be joking," Kurt said. "Lunch vith
the blobby Blob? I want to eat it, not wear it."
"Well *I'm* going to eat with them, and if you want to
join me, you'll keep your trap shut, understand?"
"Ja, mein fuehrer," he said, under his breath.
I glared at him, but we made our way over. I sat down next
to Todd. Everyone left a little extra space next to Freddy.
"Hi, guys," I said. "Todd, that is *not* the
way to drink your milk. Not unless you want to be wearing my half-digested
breakfast, understand?"
"Geez, what crawled up *your* butt?" At least he
stopped.
"And Freddy," I continued, "refills. You don't
need to get everything on the first pass."
"Hey, what's the matter?" he asked. "I
thought things went okay yesterday."
"Oh, your part went fine," I told him, heading off
a worried look on his face. "It's just that back at the mansion, damn
near everyone felt it necessary to tell me what an idiot I was. Added to that,
this morning Logan decided to increase my training schedule, and loaded me up
with so many bruises that I can hardly move."
Freddy scratched his shaven head, as if bruises were a
concept that was unfamiliar to him. "Oh, I guess that explains it. I
thought you were trying to copy Rogue's act or something."
Jackie and I stared at each other in surprise. I think we
shared the same thought. *Freddy, being insightful? No way!*
"Yeah, that reminds me," Todd said in an oily
fashion, "what's been up with you, Rogue? You haven't hardly said one
word to your old friends since after before the fall break. You suddenly
feeling too good for us?"
"No, Ah –"
"Lay off her, guys," I said. "She's been
having a tough time lately. Trust me, she'll be over it soon."
And there we had it: my idiot mouth running off and making
promises that I currently had no wish to fulfill. There was a part of me that
was constantly irritated with Jackie for stealing *my* identity. What business
did she have sitting over there pretending to be *me*? Soon enough, I'd be
back to normal and I'd kick her out for good.
The thought wasn't so clear and distinct as all of that, but
the feelings were quite plain. And if it makes sense, at the exact same time
that I was feeling that, another part of me was deathly afraid of 'the girl.'
I *wasn't* her, I didn't want to *be* her, I was never going to *become* her.
I was me, I was a man, and I certainly wasn't…that girl sitting down the table
from me.
If that sounds confusing, it doesn't even begin to scratch
the surface. In a moment of frank honesty, I allowed myself to see all the
conflicts flowing through me. I was sitting next to a disguised blue-furred
boy, who filled me with…powerful feelings. Feelings that were utterly wrong
for dozens of reasons. First, we were both men, and that's just plain wrong.
I mean, if someone else wants to do that, that's there business and I'm not
going to get involved. But NOT ME. I was NOT like that. I would not daydream
about his cute face, or what it might feel like to stroke his soft fur, or how
nice it would be if he just held me for a short while. NEVER. And even if I
ever could allow some thought like that into my mind, it turned out that he was
my God-damned BROTHER! I couldn't even think the thought without profanity
creeping in. For this and every other way that she'd destroyed my life, I felt
a burning rage at Mystique that was probably strong enough to blister paint.
And if that wasn't enough, I was apparently now and forever more trapped as a
weak, scrawny, ugly FEMALE. No matter how much I forced my body into another
shape, no matter how much I insisted that I was a man, I had somehow been
grafted into this female body. Forever more a part of my body, part of my
mind, and part of my soul would be female, thinking female thoughts, wearing
female underclothes, and trying to suppress female desires. And if that wasn't
enough, I found my behavior, attitudes, and even some of my speech altering,
changing to be more in line with who I was supposed to be.
The person I had been, both of them (all three of them?),
were now tangled together and lying in a near-coma at the mansion. And *I* was
composed of random leftovers from those people. A little from here and a
little from there. I wasn't who I thought I was, and I seemed to have no
control over who I was about to become. I pushed the food aside and lay my
head down on my arms.
"Hey, man," Freddy rumbled, "you okay?"
"Yeah," Todd echoed, "This isn't about Rogue
being a flake, is it?"
"She's not a flake!" I hadn't meant to say it so
loudly. "She's…just having a really tough time right now. Something
happened over the holiday. Believe me, she's *really* messed up right now. So
give her some time. She hasn't stopped being your friend. I promise. I guess
she just can't show it right now."
"No biggie," Todd said, shrugging. "It's not
like she was that big a friend, you know?"
Kurt was looking seriously weirded out by this.
'Rogue' was just grimacing and rubbing her temple. She
finally stood up with a look of irritation. "So long as y'all are talking
about me like Ah wasn't even here, Ah might as well take a walk. But feel free
to tell them anything you want, honey," she said, staring at me. "Who
knows, maybe Jackie will earn some pay today."
As she sauntered off, Lance and Pietro wandered over.
"Well," Pietro, also known as 'motor mouth' began,
"good riddance. Looks like the goth girl would rather be all by her
lonesome. Tsk tsk. You aren't getting any younger, babe. Get it now, get it
fast, get it while it's hot, and I got it. One piping hot loaf of Pietro any
time you need something a little filling. Something to warm you up on the
inside. Get it?" He wasn't even paying attention to what he said. He
slipped into the seat beside me, practically before I could blink. "Chicks!
Who can figure them? But, you know, more than one fish in the sea. A lot
more. Still, she looks pretty fine in that tiny skirt and that halter. Not
that she's got *all* that much to halt, but she does it so well. This whole 'untouchable'
thing of hers is really getting under my skin, you know? God, she's hot! I
think it's the whole danger aspect – I always went for that. What do you
think? Could I get a kiss in and get away before she sucked me unconscious?
Bet I could. Wouldn't mind trying."
"Pietro," Lance finally burst out, "SHUT UP."
"You and the Rogue," Todd snorted, "that's a
laugh! She'd suck you dry, man."
"Maybe yes, maybe no. Still, love to try. Worth
checking. Fun finding out, don't you think?"
Kurt was simmering, about to reach a full boil. "You…you…don't
you lay a finger on Rogue!"
"Oh, yeah, like you could really stop me, blue boy."
Quick as a wink, Pietro reached over and stole one of Kurt's fries, then swallowed
it in one gulp. "Too slow." He grabbed another one. "Got it
again."
I opened my mouth, about to say something to Lance, then got
irritated. I turned to Todd instead. "Is he always like this?" I
gestured toward Pietro, who continued to steal fries, despite Kurt's best
efforts.
Todd shrugged. "Yeah, pretty much. You get used to
it." He thought about that. "Well, maybe not. But you figure out
how to beat him at his own game. Try ignoring him for a minute. Really drives
him nuts." He started making a rather disgusting little sucking sort of a
laugh.
I rolled my eyes, realizing why Rogue (back when she *was*
Rogue) had left these cretins for the X-men. At least the X-men had some
style.
Lance slapped Pietro in the back of the head. "Pay attention.
We have business, you know." Seeing Quicksilver was listening, he turned
to me. "First, new guy. Hmm, I need a name for you." He smirked. "Considering
what we found out about you, maybe I'll call you 'Sissy.' Yeah, that's a good
one."
Kurt looked at me in astonishment. "They know?"
I nodded, reminding him quietly, "Shaw let them know
that I was Jackie Gavin."
Kurt sank back but didn't show any expression. Some day, I'd
have to play poker with him. Maybe even…I squelched a dirty thought that tried
to worm its way out of the female side of my mind.
"So, 'Sissy,' the first thing is that Freddy and Todd
here are part of *our* group, understand? You don't go running off with them
until the whole group agrees on it."
"But Lance…" Toad started whining.
"'But Lance'," The tone was mocking. "Listen,
loser: With Mystique out of the picture, we got to look out for ourselves, at
least until I plug into some new connections. You want out of the group? Then
hasta la vista. It's a cold world out there, particularly once word of your
*peculiarities* get out. But if you're staying, then you're part of the group,
got it?"
Toad nodded, reluctantly.
"I *said*, 'got it'?"
"Yeah, yeah. I got it. I'm in."
"Good. Same for you, Freddy."
Freddy looked at me reluctantly.
"It's okay, Freddy," I told him. "I don't
think I'm going to have any extra time anyway. Logan's planning on beating the
stuffing out of me at least twice a day for the next few weeks."
Freddy nodded.
"Next thing to discuss, Sissy-boy, is our mutual friend
from the other day. He wants to know if you've picked up on anything."
I thought. Jackie certainly got under my skin when she was
present, but she *had* helped me out, and shared a lot of useful tips with me.
And I was starting to feel guilty about not sharing the truth with Todd and
Freddy. Lance and "Quickie" could go hang, for all I cared. How
could I do something good for most of the crew without messing myself up too
badly?
"Maybe," I began.
"Vhat? No R—uh—Jerry. Don't tell them anything!"
"Don't worry, I don't think this is going to bother
Rogue. The only thing I'll say is that she got a bit traumatized over the
holiday, and that it's left her a bit messed up. It may take her quite a while
to deal with all of this. It's possible that she'll even take off for a
while. Not permanently, but for a while."
"Oh, thanks *so* much," Lance griped. "You're
a real gold mine, aren't you?"
I shrugged. "You know where to send the payment."
It was still taking me a while to figure out Lance and
Pietro. Well, it was taking me a while to figure out Lance. Pietro was pretty
straightforward. He wanted fun, and he wanted it fast. He also had no idea
that people had any purpose or feelings of their own, except to amuse him.
That made him about as safe as a baby with a machine gun, but I couldn't
believe that he was actively malicious.
Lance was a bit more complex. Maybe I have a tendency to
match everyone up against people I knew back in the war. I have never lived with
people in such close or trying conditions, and I have never known people as
well as I came to know my infantry squad mates. I'm not saying that I *liked*
them all, just that I *knew* them – sometimes better than I wanted to.
Lance reminded me of a corporal. (I snickered to myself. "Lance
Corporal." Heh.) We'd had a corporal who thought that *he* should have
been sergeant. Everyone else in the squad knew he was nuts, but Higby had gone
to his death thinking that *he* was the better man, that *he* should have been
in charge, and he spent his entire life (and death) fighting to prove it. All
he succeeded in proving was that the officers had known what they were doing.
Lance had that same competitive drive, that same burning
look, and that same nervous need to take chances. You needed to walk softly
near him, just so you wouldn't get caught in the disaster.
Throughout the rest of lunch, Lance couldn't let it go. "Maybe
we should just drop in on the Rogue and see how she's doing?" he said. "Maybe
she's rethinking her loyalties. Maybe she's ready to join a crew of *men*
rather than the X-dorks."
And, bless him, Kurt jumped at every piece of bait. "Ve
are not dorks! It's you! You are the stupid ones!"
Things would degenerate from there, almost ending in a
fight. Then I would break it up, and Lance would move on to his speculation.
It was a relief when lunch was finally over.
I worked on the scale cloth a bit more during geometry,
doodling Escher-eque patterns of weave and scale arrangements. I came up with
a far lighter weave for the inside of joints (elbows, knees, armpits), and a
thicker, second layer of scales to go over the vulnerable outside of those same
joints. I was in the middle of a well-lit class, so there was no chance to
practice my "relaxation" and healing.
During study hall, Freddy and Todd wanted to go over the
action from the day before in excruciating detail. It was a mark of green
troops. I could tell that they had a little combat under their belts, but only
one or two significant battles. They certainly weren't showing the combat
fatigue that vets get when they're at the front for too long. Combat fatigue
was an attitude that I occasionally got from Logan, but I don't think anyone
else in the area even recognized it.
I tried to keep up with the excited chatter, lending support
to the troops, as it were, reinforcing and building them up here and there.
Stressing the good maneuvers while mercilessly grinding down on the boneheaded
stunts that might get them killed next time. That's what made me sit up in
alarm.
"What's the matter?" Freddy asked.
"Yeah," Todd said. "You look like you seen a
ghost."
"Logan. Damn him! He was doing the same thing to
*me!*"
"What?"
I explained to them (in more polite terms) about post-combat
analysis. "And that's exactly what Logan has been doing to me. He's
beating on me so that I won't pull the same stupid stunt next time. I mean, I
knew that. He was hardly subtle about it. It's just that some of his guiding
and steering slipped under my radar --" They were looking at me in
suspicion, so I clammed up about the whole idea of directing the analysis.
"What are you talking about? It went smooth! Your
plan went down perfectly." Todd said, enthusiastically.
"No, my plan was idiotic. It had two things going for
it. First, Slick Rick only had a knife, so our intelligence was correct.
Second," I lowered my voice, even though no one was within earshot, "Freddy
here is superhumanly strong and nearly invulnerable. It shouldn't be hard to
storm the enemy when you have them utterly outclassed in both arms and armor."
They looked at me in confusion.
"What if he'd had a gun, Todd? For all our abilities,
neither one of us can stop a bullet, aside from the normal old fatal way.
"Which is part of the reason I both agree and disagree
with Charles' strategy of hiding mutants. This is America, a land with a solid
right to bear arms. A handgun makes most people as powerful as any mutant.
Because of that, I think people will be initially startled, but they will
quickly lose their fear. On the other hand, the availability of guns makes a
misunderstanding or act of fear much more dangerous. Handguns might not be
dangerous to Freddy, but they'd *kill* us Todd."
The both looked considerably sobered at the thought.
"So while I am extremely grateful for the help, and I
think we did an excellent job together, I don't think I'm going to try this
again until I've thought it over a lot more."
"Hell, man," Todd said, "you weren't thinking
*then.* You were just mad, and wanted someone to take it out on."
I nodded. "I'm sorry. I've been a bit unstable
recently." What an understatement! But I successfully held back the
titter. "If I'm really going to call you friends, I can't drag you into
trouble like that again."
"Yeah, I guess." Todd didn't sound convinced. "You
know, you're one messed up dude."
"That I am."
Continued in Chapter 11, "Real trouble" appearing NEXT Sunday!
since 03/31/03
