X-Man
by Babs Yerunkle
From the "X-Men Evolution" universe, beginning
after the end of the first season.
Chapter 14: Desperately male
"Ouch!" Evan said. "Cyke is cleaning up!"
"Yeah," Logan agreed, touching a control. "Kid's
got a good head for strategy. You notice how fast he figured out the real
game."
"Uh huh. But how's he going to get out of there? He
can't blast through a million zombies, even if he is racking up a pretty sweet
body count."
I wasn't saying anything. The whole "butcher the bad
guys" scenario was a lot less amusing than it had been a day ago.
"See that?" Logan pointed at another screen. "Jean
can't do very much levitation, but he's got her taking the high ground. Keeps
her out of danger and gets him the scouting he needs."
"But where's he running to? He has to realize that he
can't… oh, shit."
"Told you he knew strategy. Once he gets that garbage
truck up to speed, he can just plow right over them." Logan turned to
me. "Better get used to getting up an hour earlier."
I nodded glumly. "Talk to Charles. He's planning to
schedule me for some sort of mental stuff."
"Right. He could have mentioned it to me first. Well,
get over it. You look like your best friend died." I must have jumped at
that because he quickly added, "And don't go getting all worked up on me.
Kurt's been patched up fine. He'll be back in full-scale training in a couple
of weeks. He'll be in school Monday. So what's your big problem?"
I tried to glare at him. "It's personal."
"Whatever floats your boat. If it's personal, don't
spread it around so much, okay?"
*****
I wandered through the mansion, but everywhere I went the
same questions remained. Who was I? Who did I want to be? Was I really
stupid enough to go back out there to face another battle like yesterday's?
This last question bothered me a lot, because it helped
answer the first question, too. I'd seen plenty of combat in Italy and later
in Germany. Combat was no stranger. I'd faced my demons, answered my
questions, and gone on to fight.
But yesterday – it was like the first time all over again.
All the questions and doubt. What if I died next time? What if one of my
friends died because of me? Could I bring myself to kill another human being,
to snuff out their life? (Or rather, could I do it deliberately, when I was in
my right mind?)
They were questions I had faced and answered a half-century
ago, but that determination seemed completely absent now. But if I only
*thought* I was Gerard Trautwein, if I was really someone else, perhaps I *was*
facing this for the first time. Did my answers have to be the same? There
were other alternatives. I could run. If I fled, the danger would never catch
me, and I would never be bringing the danger to my friends the way I'd brought
it to Kurt.
*****
"Jackie, got a few minutes?"
She put down the book. "Depends. What for?"
"What can you teach me about creating a new identity?"
*****
That afternoon, the shape-lock faded. Before I realized it,
I felt my face changing. I dashed off to the bathroom and looked at myself. I
studied myself as Rogue, wearing Rogue's clothes, wearing her Goth makeup.
Dressed, naked, and in every variation.
A half-hour in front of the mirror convinced me.
Rogue was a fairly ugly girl.
I had to be reasonable about it. I tried to look at the
situation as impartially as I could. But I could itemize the situation easily
enough:
Point: Rogue was seriously lacking in bust size. So was
Kitty, but Kitty made up for it in cuteness. No one would *ever* call Rogue "cute."
Point: She had that stupid skunk stripe in her hair.
Distinctive? Yes. Attractive? No.
Point: She had a cleft chin. I looked at my face closely in
the mirror, turning my head this way and that. There was no denying it. There's
a reason why they call it a "butt chin."
Point: Her figure. Or rather, what figure? Rogue had a
reasonably small waist and boney hips, but that pretty much exhausted her list
of assets. And while those breasts felt huge from the inside, looking in the
mirror, she was no treat for the eyes. On the debit side, she was too gawky,
her elbows and knees seemed to stick out, and her hands and feet were too big.
Point: Going as Rogue meant never being able to touch
another person. Going as someone else meant a life of headaches, but the
chance to be *anyone*, and no fear of touching people. I might not even have
to skip school, if I got stuck during the day.
Which also meant that if I *had* to be a girl, I'd rather be
anyone other than Rogue. But who? In the meantime, I tensed up that special
set of abilities and resumed my "Jerry" form.
With surprise, I realized that all of Moira's alterations
had vanished. I had a man's waist again, a man's arms and legs. I was fully
male!
With one exception. I pulled the clothes off of me to
double-check. There on my chest were two proud double-A mounds, topped with
those oddly-large nipples. I tenderly touched the proof of my dawning
womanhood. Somehow, while everything else was associated with trauma, these
small treasures were something that I couldn't bear to erase.
Wrapping myself in a thin training bra, I hid my secret so
that no one would know.
*****
"I don't know," Evan said, "what do you feel
like doing?"
*Anything, provided it's guy-stuff.* I only had three days
left as a guy, provided I decided to stay. I wanted to cram in as much time as
I could. Aloud, I tried to understate things. "I don't know, but I'm
tired of hanging around the girls. Kurt's on enforced rest today and tomorrow,
but maybe Scott would volunteer his car for something…?"
Evan looked at me like I was nuts. "Stranger things
have happened. The worst he can do is turn us down."
But Scott was in the middle of a huge pile of college
entrance applications.
"Thanks, but I've got to figure out this mess, first.
I'd really like to commute from here – that would let me stay with the X-team –
but what's the train going to be like?"
We left him with his dilemma.
"Maybe Auntie O could drop us off at the mall. There's
got to be some stuff worth doing there."
I shrugged. "Okay. Let me change."
Evan turned toward the kitchen saying, "Hey, there she
is! How long will it take you –"
By the time he turned back around I was wearing a white
T-shirt, a black leather jacket, jeans, and brown high-top boots.
"Urk. Yeah, that should be quick enough." He
looked me over with a calculating eye. "Nice jacket. You don't happen to
have another one like that around, do you?"
"Two guys in black leather? We don't want to look like
a Hell's Angels convention. How about dark brown?"
"Yeah, sure. I mean, beggars can't be choosers, right?"
I grinned. "Okay. It's on the chair behind you."
The sucker looked. By the time he turned back to me, I was holding it in my
hands. My wrist cuffs were completely gone, but it had been worth it. "Oops,
my mistake. I was holding it in my hands after all."
"You – but – I –" He shrugged and took the
jacket. "Thanks."
"No problem. You could do the same, you know."
"What are you talking about?"
I would have explained, but Ororo walked past saying, "If
you insist on 'bumming a ride' as you say, I am leaving immediately. I trust
that you are sufficiently acquainted with the bus system to find your way back
on your own."
"Uh, yeah, Aunty O. Thanks."
With a cry of "Shotgun!" Evan grabbed the front
passenger seat, while I claimed the seat behind him.
"So," I continued, "in some way your talents
have a lot in common with mine. You create things. You make items that
persist. The trick is to find places that are willing to pay for items crafted
out of bone, and then practice until you can supply those items."
"Oh, sure. That should be a piece of cake. That's
really the hot thing these days: bone wear."
"You're being too pessimistic. How much control do you
have over the shape and density?"
"Well, I can kind of control it. Professor X has been
pushing me to practice more." He gave a guilty look at his aunt, but she
concentrated on driving. "I should be able to make it in pretty much any
shape I want."
"Okay," I said. "How about antlers, for
hunting trophies. Anybody interested in buying those?"
He shrugged. "I don't know."
"Full skeletons, for medical students?"
"Ouch. That's a lot of work. And it would have to be
really accurate, wouldn't it?"
"What about different densities and compositions, such
as ivory? You could make billiard balls and piano keys. And dice? There's a
reason they call it 'rolling the bones.' Maybe you could make special
high-quality dice."
He was nodding now. "Yeah, particularly for the gamer's
market. They're always spending for those special dice. I might even be able
to sell to a local shop, and then branch out."
I nodded, even though I had no idea what he was talking
about. "It's not exactly a career, but it might get you some extra
spending money while training your abilities at the same time."
Ororo didn't say much, but I thought I saw a look of
approval as she dropped us off at the mall.
"So what's on the agenda?" I asked. "What do
you usually do on a day like this?"
"Well, most of the time I practice with my board at the
ramps in the park over there," Evan said, pointing. "But I didn't
bring my board and shorts-and-jacket aren't exactly the right clothes for
outdoors today, even if the weather's still good."
I was not *about* to comment on his attire. I had wondered
about his near-constant choice of shorts, but who was I to argue? If I'd been
in a curious mood, I would have asked why he and Kurt both wore their underwear
the way they did. Pulling up your boxers so high that everyone could see them
seemed more like a sign of senile dementia than teenaged rebellion, but who was
I to say? If only one of them had done it, I would have asked, but since both
of them (and plenty of other boys at school) followed the trend, I assumed it
was just "fashion."
"I guess the top of my list would be to grab a soda at
the food court and do some serious babe-watching."
Oh joy. Well, I had wished for typically male activities.
Perhaps that will teach me to be more careful what I wish for.
Evan set up in a far corner which gave him a wide view of
the entire area, as well as the main thoroughfare through the mall. I brought
my coffee over and sat next to him.
"Coffee? You really are an addict, man. You need
something good for your system, like a coke."
Despite his joke, I noticed that he was actually drinking
one of those sports electrolyte-replenisher drinks.
"Well I usually prefer tea, but for some reason theirs
doesn't taste right. The coffee was good, though, which is odd. I usually can't
stand black coffee."
"Okay, target number one," Evan said.
"Where?"
"Purple skirt, coming past the tree."
She was nice enough, I suppose. The pleated maroon skirt
went acceptably well with the white blouse, but the blue jacket didn't do
anything for the mix. And I finally began to realize how important shoes could
be. Her dark blue flats turned the whole outfit into a jumble, rather than
adding the proper finishing touch.
"Yeah," I agreed. "The shoes don't do it for
her. And, my God, she's carrying a *brown* bag? Unbelievable."
"What are you talking about? She's got a balcony you
could do Shakespeare from!"
"Huh?" I looked again, trying to figure out what
he was saying. Oh. She *was* fairly well endowed. "Gee, Evan, I kind of
thought you'd go for a girl who was more…"
"What?"
"Well…blacker."
"Oh, man, don't be going *racial* on me! In case you
hadn't noticed this is millennium three, okay?"
"Sorry."
"Don't let it happen again. But – oh, God, I'm in
love. Cream sweater, black jeans at the Mr. Jerkey."
The girl this time *was* black, with a creamy café-au-lait
skintone that was several shades lighter than Evan's. I thought it over,
trying to see his point. After all, I could now choose my race on a whim.
Should I allow myself to be blinded by skin color? Of course, I'd always felt
that the real division between racial groups was different cultures, but my own
culture was trapped in the wartime era. These days, I was probably as much an
alien to white culture as I was to black culture.
With that in mind, I tried to look at the girl with an open
mind. Her cream-colored sweater went *very* well with both her jeans and skin
tones. And that same skin tone set off her gold necklace and bracelet
perfectly. I had to admit, in those clothes, her light chocolate skin made her
much more attractive than if she'd been more of a pale white. The dark
lipstick, almost black, was initially surprising, but it echoed her pants and
boots. I had to admit, she was stunning.
"I see what you mean," I told Evan. "She's
superb."
We continued on in that vein for another hour, almost. I
was surprised that 'girlwatching' had been much more interesting than I'd
expected. I also had ideas for about a hundred outfits that I wanted to try,
once I got back to the mansion.
"Hey, I just noticed," Evan said. "Are you
sporting a five o'clock shadow?"
"Maybe," I said, rubbing my jaw and smiling. It's
nice when the little touches get noticed. Not that this was all that subtle.
"And your face…it seems less, I don't know, less
delicate."
It was interesting to realize how little of my bodily
modifications got noticed, even by someone that saw me every day. Of course, I'd
been deliberately wearing baggy clothes. I wouldn't be in this outfit, if I
hadn't resumed my fully masculine build. Well, except for my small breasts.
Suddenly paranoid again, I shrugged the jacket a little more forward. Could
Evan see my training bra? I'd made it beige, to match my skin tone. Surely my
modest swellings wouldn't attract attention. I'd made the T-shirt triple thick
and slightly baggy. I wanted to glance down, to see how much curve I was
showing, but didn't dare.
Possibly, I could have shifted, eliminating the problem.
But that wasn't an option at the moment. The full-sized whoppers that I'd had
this morning were just scary. My small young breasts, on the other hand, were
different. Every time I thought of them, I was filled with wonder. I could no
more abandon that aspect of myself than I could willingly forego my
masculinity.
Actually, I would probably be abandoning masculinity
*before* loosing my breasts. I chose not to dwell on that disturbing aspect of
my psychology.
"Well, enough torturing ourselves," Evan said,
oblivious to my internal torment. "What do you want to check out? A gun
shop or a sports store?"
"Let's do the gun shop." I had some ideas that I
wanted to start researching. I'd been caught flatfooted during the hit
yesterday, and I wanted to be ready next time. I was sure there *would* be a
next time.
Evan ambled along, he hands stuffed deep into his huge
pockets. "You know man, I just can't figure you out."
"What do you mean?"
"Like, what *are* you? Inside, I mean." He
lowered his voice. "Are you a chick, or what? We just spent nearly an
hour girl-watching, and you seemed almost as into it as I was. And you sure as
hell don't *look* like a chick."
"I…honestly? I don't know. My memories say I'm a
guy. I've been thinking like a guy since before your grandpa was born."
I stopped to stare into a window, then quickly moved on when I realized it was
a lingerie store. "But my feelings…they sometimes feel like they aren't
mine at all. They don't feel the way I should."
"Your life sucks, I guess."
I gave a wry smile. "Could be worse. I could be lying
in a coma, slowly drifting closer to death."
"Point."
"Honestly, though, I owe you for coming out here with
me. I really wanted to do some typical guy stuff."
"Hey, don't make it sound so glum. Like you said, it
isn't like you're dying."
"No, just the next best thing."
He looked at me in surprise. "Huh?"
"Don't tell anyone else, okay." I took a deep
breath. "Professor X and Dr. McTaggart gave me an ultimatum. Rogue is
female. So as of Monday night, I am too. Full time."
Evan sucked in his breath. He looked upset, then angry,
then confused. Finally, he just turned away.
"Sucks to be you."
"Yeah."
The odd thing was that, deep inside me, those feelings that
insisted on causing me so much confusion were responding typically. Rather
than expressing dread, an inner melody was humming along in anticipation.
"Well, as long as you want guy stuff and don't mind the
cruising, let's take our time and follow *that* little group." He spoke
in low tones so that we wouldn't be heard by the quartet of girls that was
about thirty feet ahead of us. "Man, take in the action in that sway."
Honestly I didn't see anything unusual. Women's hips are
canted at an angle, compared to men's hips. The legs are also spread slightly
differently. The design was less efficient for locomotion but optimized
instead to provide greater clearance for the birth canal. True, it did result
in a different gait for women, and this was particularly obvious when you
stared at a woman from behind, but I didn't see much of interest in it. What
was more interesting was how the women had chosen clothing to emphasize their
posteriors, and their gait. The tallest one wore extremely tight jeans, cut so
the waistband was just above the greatest swell of her hips. This tended to
exaggerate the rocking action of her hips as she walked. Her companion wore a
short skirt that came to only mid-thigh length. In this case, it was the dance
of the skirt fabric that commanded attention, as the fabric swished with each
step, brushing against the back of the girl's leg. Finally, there was a girl
wearing a rather unseasonable pair of ragged cut-off shorts. While she shorts
were low cut like the pants, they were also lacking any material for the legs.
It was possible to see the crease of skin where the leg met the posterior. I
thought this the least modest and least subtle, but glancing at Evan, his eyes
seemed most drawn to this sight although he devoted attention to all of them.
I wondered if the girls realized the attention they were
drawing, as they carried their packages and chatted with one another. Did they
enjoy having male eyes focused on their posteriors, or would they consider it
an offensive intrusion? I suspected that I'd have the chance to find out soon
enough. The thought was less than pleasing.
*****
Back at the mansion, I searched around for a private reading
location. I'd decided that I needed to do further research on the female
lifestyle, fashion, and culture. To this end, I had purchased a pair of
magazines designed for precisely that end. The first promised to be focused on
the needs and interest of girls only two years older than my biological age, a
magazine titled simply "Seventeen". I had higher hopes for the
second, as it seemed to speak of urban sophistication with a hint of European
sensibility: a thick magazine titled "Cosmopolitan." I had managed
to conceal my purchases under a copy of "Guns and Ammo" that might
lead to further combat experimentation.
Opening up one of the unused bedrooms, I opened the curtains
and sat on the dropcloth-covered chair. I decided to go for the high ground
first, and delve into the more sophisticated "Cosmopolitan."
*****
It was an experience. I shuddered slightly as I pushed the
magazine away from me. It was difficult to believe that they would discuss
such things so…openly. "How to make love to a man," "How to
maximize your orgasms," "Shirts 'n' skirts to grab his eye," "Styles
that maximize your sex appeal."
Fascinated despite myself, lured in by the shocking content,
I had been forced to read to the end of each article. If this magazine was any
indication, the girls in the mall had been well aware of the many eyes on them,
and in fact, had sought out that exact effect.
Even more shocking was the article, "Is it cheating to
sleep with another woman?" My eyes were still smoldering from that one.
In one sense, it struck straight to the core of my dilemma. Women *should* be
attractive to me. Damnation, I was rooming with two women that I had now seen
more than once unclad. I should be stiff and in a state of supreme
frustration. Or, if I believed the article, intrigued and willing to touch
them they way they touched me. Instead, I was just confused and worried.
The magazine also gave clear indications of what an
attractive girl looked like and acted like. If I didn't want to be the ugly
Rogue, perhaps I could come up with a face and body that would be more
attractive. I flipped through the magazine again, ripping out pages of
interest.
If I could be any girl in the universe, who should I choose
to be?
*****
We were on our way to the pool. It was an indoor, heated
grotto, I remembered that. Almost a cave, but with warm steam and stone
surrounding inviting waters that were nearly body temperature. At first, I had
thought that everyone was coming, which was a bit intimidating, but soon I
realized that it was just me and Kitty, which was far more comfortable. I was
just wearing trunks, since I was definitely a guy. Kitty was in a lavender
one-piece, and looked insufferably cute. There was something about her
pony-tail, it just made her face look so pretty.
I entered the water, but sat down on the second step. The
blood-warm water washed against me, coming up to my ribs. Kitty sat down
behind me, her legs straddling me, and began to rub my neck and back.
"That Cosmo was pretty slutty, wasn't it?" she
mentioned, casually.
"I can't believe that girls really think about those
things, and talk like that." I twisted to look back at her. "You
aren't like that, are you?"
She blushed, turning her head to look demurely downward. "Well…
I do think about kissing boys."
"Sure," I agreed, "who doesn't? Think about
it, I mean. Not really do it."
"Yeah. Maybe… a little touching wouldn't be so bad.
But the lower body? I don't THINK so. I mean, ick!"
"I agree completely," I said, leaning back into
her friendly touch. I knew I could trust her completely. And hadn't that
article suggested that girls could touch each other?
"So what did you think of all those pictures you picked
out?" Something in her tone sounded a little defensive.
"The models from all those ads? That was strange. I
mean, they were beautiful, I guess. That's why they're models, right?"
"I just thought… I just thought you might like to look
like… like me."
I turned to look at her, standing behind me. I'd forgotten
that she was naked. I took all of her in, looking her over. Those slender
legs, the merest peek at her privacy, with that subtle cleft almost hidden by
wisps of light brown hair. Her slim hips – not boyish, not by any stretch of
the imagination, but young and graceful. But that was Kitty all over, from way
she walked to the way she danced. She'd shared that with me once. I knew
girls who would kill for her prefect waist, and her arms and shoulders were so
well-formed that she could be a sculpture. Her breasts were so cute that I was
jealous. And then there was her face and that ponytail. No one else could
have carried it off, but on Kitty it wasn't an effect, it was who she *was*.
I turned back around and sat in the too-warm water. She
began rubbing my shoulders again, her legs spread on either side of me, wrapped
around my waist. "God, Kitty. I only wish I could look like you. You
wouldn't believe how much I envy you. But I couldn't *be* you – that would be
stealing. And I'm not going to be a cheap imitation."
Her rubbing hands moved from my shoulders down my arms.
Then her hands moved around my front, cupping my small breasts, circling them
with her fingers, then squeezing them gently, so they looked larger. It didn't
startle me at all; I'd been wanting that to happen. I was afraid to touch
myself like that, so she did it for me.
"I thought you liked these," she said, cupping one
side, then the other. "Why are you looking at those big-boob models?"
I was almost crying. Her hands were so wonderful. When she
touched me like that, on the one part of my body that I loved, that I was proud
of…
"I… These small breasts are too real," I
explained. "When I see myself, or accidentally touch myself – I feel
special. I feel happy. Even when I'm supposed to be a man, the memories come
through. They pierce me, and it hurts. Looking like a model wouldn't be like
that. It would just be different. Strange. So what if those advertising
women are sex objects? At least the boys think they're pretty. And… maybe if
I'm just an object, I don't have to worry about how I feel inside…. Like I do
right now."
She was squeezing and massaging me, in a way that made me
just want to melt. I looked down into the water, to see if I was showing any
reaction. Any male reaction. I don't remember when my trunks had come off,
but I remembered that I wasn't wearing any. Fortunately, the ripples in the
water concealed what lay below the surface. I couldn't actually see whether I
was a girl or a boy.
"Did you copy these from me?" Kitty asked, her
breath brushing my ear, "They look just like mine. That's why it's okay
for me to touch them. A girl can touch her own breasts, you know."
I writhed under her touch. She never once touched my tips,
but her fingers were so gentle. Never squeezing so hard that it hurt. I was
very sensitive there.
"I… no, they aren't you. When I was… I remember.
Twelve, maybe thirteen. I had my second training bra." All I could
remember was a single image, looking in the mirror with my top off, admiring
myself. "I was so proud. I hated the rest of my body. Hated it. Mah
face is so ugly! But that bra – it was so pretty. Ah cried. Ah cried, to
think that even some of me could look so pretty."
I realized that part of the reason her hands felt good was
*because* I trusted her. So I told the rest. "Pretty like you are.
Maybe that's why I think you're so pretty. You remind me of that. Only, all
over. Your whole body, your face, your voice, even your personality.
Especially your personality."
Her breath whispered against my other ear, this time. "I
thought you weren't interested in other girls."
"That's why you're behind me, isn't it?" I
explained. "I can't really see you right now. There's only these hands.
You could be either a girl or a guy. None of me has to worry, so long as I don't
look to see for sure."
"So long as you don't look into the water?"
I looked again, between my legs. Fortunately, the water
still concealed things. The hand drifted off my breast and started down my
belly. I touched it, moving it back up to my chest.
"Please don't."
The hands resumed their gentle stroking, their loving caress
of me. "Afraid?"
It was hard to admit. "I can't be a woman. I just can't.
But the guy parts, they're so *ugly*."
"You didn't seem that upset in the guy's locker room."
The memory was now safely removed in time and distance. "That
was different. That was on *them*. But the parts still look ugly *on me.*"
"You could find out, without looking."
I knew exactly what she meant. If I stretched out my hand,
passed it down my belly to… there. Then I'd know. Did I dare?
Apparently of its own volition, my hand moved. It slid down
my belly, finally touching my hair, sliding over the gentle swell of me, until
my middle finger sifted through my hair to just touch the top of my gap.
With a sigh of relief, I pulled my hand back. No creepy guy
parts, but I didn't see, so I could pretend I didn't know.
And come Monday, I'd be a girl for real. It wasn't my
choice – I'd fought against it. I wasn't giving in, they'd forced me. But
never again would I have to wear… those parts. And the extra size up top would
help, too. That would distract everyone's attentions from deeper concerns –
mine as well as everyone else's. It would be just like one of those drag
scenes in the great old war movies. Strap on an old pair of coconut shells and
a hula skirt and you're ready to go.
Maybe I could live with that.
Moving the arms away from me, I rolled over and pulled the
covers up on us. I spooned her, our naked bodies cuddling together, my arms
wrapped around her torso, skin to skin across almost my whole body. I couldn't
remember really sleeping like that ever – not in my whole life. I felt my tiny
breasts poking into her back and that felt good, too.
Even with these new shifting powers, I still couldn't
*sleep* with anyone. The instant I was unconscious, I'd suck them dry and kill
them. Like I did with anyone I touched. But holding my best friend like this,
it didn't have to be sexual. Why did everyone think that? Intimate,
definitely. As intimate as I could imagine. But not sexual-intimate. It was
love-trust-fear hold-me-in-the-night intimate. As far back as I could
remember, no one had ever held me as I fell asleep. And with this terrible
mutation, no one ever would. Which was almost heartbreaking. At that moment,
that's all I really wanted. Just… to hold someone in my sleep. Someone I
trusted and loved.
Like a dream.
A dream that I forgot, for the longest time…
Continued in Chapter 15, " Going, going, gone " appearing NEXT Sunday!
since 04/27/03
