I do not own X-Men anything.
I do own a red-haired baby!
What Makes a Man a Man
He lay on a soft, slightly musty surface. A mattress maybe. Or a cot.
The air was cool and still. With a disconnected feel, smell.
Like when you stayed in the hospital.
It was quiet.
Muffled, faraway sounds distant and unimportant.
And that was all fine.
He could deal with that. Almost welcome it.
Except he wasn't fine.
Everything about him hurt.
Everything.
When he moved, every muscle, every fiber, ached.
From the top of his unruly ginger hair to the tips of his bare toes.
His bare toes.
That didn't seem right.
But he didn't know why.
Then he opened his eyes.
Where are my clothes?
Realized his Banshee clothes . . .
I'm dressed like a mental patient.
. . . were gone.
Or a labrat.
And understood.
Through the daggers of light stabbing into his brain, Sean Cassidy, aka Banshee, squinted blearily at his surroundings.
A six by ten space.
White, dingy walls. Bare row of fluorescent light overhead.
Toliet. Sink.
Thin, sway backed cot on which he lay.
And a door.
Which now opened.
To reveal two hefty, blank-faced soldiers.
Who wordlessly approached, took him firmly by the upper arms.
And escorted him from the room.
His head was still spinning as they marched him along the corridor.
Half-dragging him past other silent doors like his.
And into a big, laboratory-like room.
With tables and shelves lined with scientific equipment and accoutrements.
Has Hank finally gone mad scientist?
Where they released him.
To stand wobble-legged.
Before a most unusual man.
Not Hank McCoy.
Unusual enough in his own way.
No offense, man.
But nothing like this.
Short, unnaturally so.
Dark, wavy hair. Absurd caterpillar mustache.
Neat brown suit. Polished shoes. Vest. Tie.
Just visible under a starched white lab coat.
"Hello, Mr. Cassidy," the little man greeted him mildly. "How are you feeling?"
Sean didn't, couldn't, reply. Only managed to stare numbly.
What the hell are you, man?
His host, quite unperturbed by Sean's lack of response, smiled cordially.
"My name is Bolivar Trask. I am a scientist. You have been captured and brought here because I am very interested in your kind."
Through the drilling pain in his head, Sean's ears weirdly zoned in on the curious nuances and inflections of the man's distinct voice as he spoke.
"By your kind, of course, I mean mutants," Trask continued, seeming to warm to his topic. "You are a fascinating new species with varying talents and abilities. Differing physical attributes and adaptive natures."
The man smiled again, open, honest.
"I must admit, I rather admire your kind. You are a most remarkable advancement in the human evolutionary path."
Did you kidnap me here to compliment me? Do I get a prize? A kewpie doll?
In any other instance, the normally lighthearted Cassidy might have laughed at the absurdity of the situation.
But aside from the pain in his head, he was too busy.
Too busy being slowly sucked down.
Down into a quicksand of deepening disquiet.
Rising fear.
Paralyzing terror.
Well, not entirely paralyzing.
"I would very much appreciate your compliance and cooperation while you are here, Mr. Cassidy. It would be most beneficial to my research."
Bet you would, creepy creep.
Sean smirked.
Opened his mouth.
And shrieked.
Sending powerful sonic sound waves blasting through the air toward the little man.
Knocking him head over wing-tipped shoe.
Carefully quaffed hair flying. Glasses knocked askew.
Surprise painted all over his wide little face.
Sean's eyes narrowed into daggers as he focused all his energy.
And continued his assault, intending on powering all the way up if he had to.
Remembering the time he'd nearly made Charles and Moira throw up on the lawn of the mansion.
He'd almost passed out himself that day.
But it'd be worth it to make the little guy and all his minions suffer.
Maybe he could even escape.
He never even got the chance.
Immediately half a dozen soldiers in the room drew down on the mutant with guns that he could only hope were simply taser-locked.
One of the soldiers behind him smashed the butt of his rifle into Sean's skull, erupting eye-exploding pain there.
Dropping him in a heap to the concrete floor.
And stopping the viscious onslaught.
"No, stop!" The little man cried out, struggling to rise. "Don't hurt him!"
The soldiers complied, standing at the ready, guns leveled on the crumpled Sean, who struggled to his hands and knees, determined to stay conscious.
Bolivar Trask approached, readjusting his glasses, smoothing his clothing.
Speaking calmly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
"He will be much less useful to my work if his mind is damaged."
He smiled again, most self-assuredly sane behind his large glasses.
"That is a very impressive and powerful ability you have, Mr. Cassidy. However, since I can't have you destroying my facility and injuring my employees . . ."
Hello! Yes, another X-Men fic, go figure.
This ones gonna be focused on Banshee. Since DoFP just offed him and left with me with nothing, I got to make up my own.
You know the outcome and so you also know this won't be a happy story or a happy ending. But since it is Sean, maybe we can find some levity as well.
Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.