Author's Note: Let me begin by saying that I'm utterly new to this whole e-publishing thing, so if I make egregious mistakes, please forgive me. Basically, it boils down to this: I am lucky enough to be a writer in "real life", I started in comics, I now work in television (and, no, I'm no one you've heard of, nor am I really 'Corinne Carson'—but thanks for wondering.) In 2006, I wrote the following and pitched it as a 3-issue X-Men "movie-verse" graphic novel. It was the first fiction I had written in ten years. It was submitted with fingers crossed, and was politely declined. I then had several cocktails regarding this incident. Along the way—and after the cocktails—I encountered a fellow X-Fan who suggested that she, and maybe some of you kind people, would like to read it—and so it begins. I will say that I try to work on adapting the script into prose in between my paying gigs so it may be slow going at times, and for that I beg your indulgence. I also intend to keep the 3-act structure of the original graphic novel intact, so let's begin with issue one: "Political Animal". And thank you all for stopping by.
Legal line: Hank McCoy, Beast © Marvel Entertainment, Inc. Characters and Situations created in "X-Men: The Last Stand" © 2006 Twentieth-Century Fox Corporation. "Karn Evil 9, First Impression, Pt. 2" © 1973 Keith Emerson, Greg Palmer. Enrique Doble, Harrison Sterling © this author. Author receives no filthy lucre from this publication.
"Once upon a time … on an island called Manhattan; there lived a Beast who worked very hard at being a man."
Out of the Blue: Political Animal
by
Corinne Carson
Chapter 1: Emerson, Lake & Palmer: Live at Turtle Bay
"Gonna' rain, Jefe," Enrique Doble said as he gave a glance to the dull, pewter sky above Manhattan.
Behind the wheel of the black Lincoln Navigator, the handsome Dominican shifted his gaze to the rearview as he addressed the passenger in the SUV's back seat.
Doble's skin was the color of cream-infused coffee, his broad face combined the African, Spanish and Indian signatures of his Caribbean ancestors. The eyes looking into the mirror were an arresting shade of golden-hazel brought to the New World by a generation of conquistadors. Beside him, the man in the shotgun seat could easily have been his twin; both men wore the same sharply-tailored suit—Brooks Brothers meets Tony Montana-and Shotgun Man leaned forward to adjust the radio dial. With a touch of a button, NPR's Morning Edition was replaced by the lively banter of the Latino shock-jocks of WSKQ's El Vacilón de la Mañana.
From the rear of the SUV, the rumble of an emphatic throat-clearing returned the airwaves to WNYC, where the NPR commentators discussed the previous day's memorials honoring the anniversary of 9/11. Five years since that terrible day, six months since the mutant attack on Alcatraz Island that the press had dubbed M-Day.
In the rearview, Enrique's gaze was met with eyes the color of the Irish Sea.
Ambassador Henry McCoy peered from beneath bushy blue eyebrows that swept away from a deep, primitive brow like startled birds taking wing. Rimless bifocals perched on the bridge of a nose that Italian sculptors still carved into Carrara stone-broad and noble, and once broken during a third-quarter tackle. The corners of the wide, expressive mouth turned down briefly as he returned to the newspaper.
He wore the accustomed trappings of a high-level diplomat: Lapis cufflinks peered from beneath his jacket sleeves, his charcoal chalk stripe cut in the classic lines of Savile Row, and the dull gold of a school signet ring glowed on his left hand as he adjusted his tie.
The hand that fussed with the Windsor knot was oversized, but the thick fingers were surprisingly agile, ending in neatly groomed claws that combed briefly through his mane of indigo hair then smoothed the dense mat of Prussian blue fur that emerged from his cuffs. The skin beneath was Celtic-woad.
There was a rustle from the back, a careful folding of The New York Times business section, before Hank spoke,
"It shall not rain, not on my first day."
The corner of Enrique's mouth drew into a smile as he returned his attention to the First Avenue traffic.
"It's not your 'first day', Patrón. You presented your credentials to the Secretary-General the day after El Presidente made that big speech in D.C. You know: 'so it is with the thanks of a grateful nation that I introduce our new Ambassador to the United Nations', " Enrique gave a sonorous impression of the U.S. President, and Shotgun Man gave a short laugh as Hank's driver displayed his annoyingly exceptional recall. From the rear, the blue-green eyes rolled in a self-deprecating response, and there was a strange animal quality to Hank's dismissive snort. Enrique checked the side view mirror, and continued. "I've been driving you to your office for a whole month now, what you been doin' there - shopping on eBay?"
Hank addressed Enrique's impudent remark with a curl of his lip, briefly revealing a set of dangerous-looking fangs before he replied.
"Since the destruction of the Worthington facility on Alcatraz, I've spent this last month forming a World Health Organization committee to reorganize distribution for the Cure. I spent last week with the Security Council; who, along with the World Court, are very keen to draw up an indictment against Magneto -"
"Gotta' catch the pendejo first," Shotgun Man interjected.
"I assure you we will," Hank replied succinctly, and caught Enrique's gaze in the rear view once again, "And it is my first day in the General Assembly, you smart pup! It's not all organizing Netflix queues and downloading iTunes, you know … and it was Fantasy Football, not eBay."
"Oh, yeah, Octavo says you owe him twenty on the Jets game," Enrique replied.
"You may tell Octavo I never welsh on a bet … and remind me to fire the lot of you."
"You can't fire us, Patrón," Enrique chuckled as he swung the Navigator into the crescent arc of the United Nation fs Delegates Entrance. "We know too much."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Hank growled good-naturedly.
A UN security officer checked the vehicle's parking permits and waved them through. Enrique slid the Navigator into an open space at the curb and nodded to Shotgun Man who exited the passenger door and opened the rear door for Hank.
"Here you go, Prince Charming," Enrique grinned. "Have a nice time at the ball."
"Appropriate metaphor, Primero," Hank replied as he slipped his glasses into this jacket pocket and collected his attaché. "Wrong fairy tale."
Several dozen of the UN ambassadors and their attendant delegations mingled on the broad concourse. Hank was aware of the brief hush that settled among them as he gripped the open doorframe with his great, blue hand, dropped neatly to the curb and began to walk toward the entrance of the Assembly Building.
"Hey, Patrón!" Enrique called, and leveled an irritated stare at Hank. "Bodyguard, comprende? We had a deal. I get paid to do a job, you let me do it."
It seemed ludicrous that Hank McCoy, former team member of both the X-Men and the Avengers, would need to employ a security detail; but as Ambassador to the United Nations and former Secretary of the Department of Mutant Affairs, his government had insisted. Enrique Doble-a street-hardened tough from the Dominican Republic-had more than filled the requirements. Enrique was dedicated and utterly dependable, committed to furthering the cause of mutant rights and, in addition, possessed a lively sense of humor. He returned Hank's agonizing penchant for abominable puns and black humor with an equal aptitude and enthusiasm.
The pair fell into step beside their employer. Enrique nodded to the small crowd confined behind a block of metal barricades on First Avenue.
"Looks like your fan club's here, Jefe."
The protestors had arrived early. Pro-Cure and anti-Cure, mutant rights advocates and pro-humanist groups, the divided sides were equally represented. There weren't many of them, and aside from a small group of professional political agitators, there was no real threat from the crowd; no bite, only a very loud and ill-tempered bark.
The majority seemed to be college-age youths shopping for a cause, others were mutants still longing for the Worthington vaccine. Some just wanted to catch a glimpse of themselves on the local news and played to the cameras. Scattered among them were clusters of unrelated demonstrators who sported causes against global warming, nuclear testing and the illicit small arms trade.
Police walked the line of the barrier, and brief manifestations of mutant powers erupted like summer grass fires. A pair of mounted officers touched their heels to their horses, and swept a handful of protestors back into the crowd with a neat sidepass.
"Ahh," Hank sighed, and favored them all with a showy wave, "I was beginning to miss them. It's nice to know they still care."
In the wake of the Senate investigation, and the nation's reaction to the events on Alcatraz, Hank's appointment as the U.S. Permanent Representative to the United Nations had been met with kudos and curses. His first week as Ambassador had drawn the expected protestors. Eventually, their numbers had dwindled to a few stanch advocates and activists who had set up camp outside his offices of the U.S. Mission, located a few blocks away.
Today, as the General Assembly gathered for its opening day, they had returned. Their ranks increased through Internet alerts, text messages and plain, old fashioned, word of mouth. His greeting was returned by the harsh shouts of the anti-mutant hate group that called themselves the Friends of Humanity. Their voices mingled with the mutants who shouted invectives as though Hank were the very devil and others who screamed his praises as though he were a rock star.
He scanned the press corps for a particular face, did not see it, and sighed a little.
As his entourage continued, he turned his attention to the profile of the Secretariat Building which rose as a green glass curtain behind the graceful, limestone slope of the General Assembly. He drank in a long, satisfied breath.
"Look at it! 'Vehement silhouettes of Manhattan—that vertical city with unimaginable diamonds,'" Hank proclaimed grandly, and gave a short laugh at Enrique's silent look of weary inquiry. The young man was all too familiar with Hank's passion for spontaneous recitation. "Le Corbusier," Hank explained.
"The guy who made your office furniture?" Enrique frowned, referring to the iconic leather and tubular chrome-frame sofa and chairs that formed Hank's office suite.
"The very same. He also designed a building or two."
Briefly, Hank considered regaling his security men with the history of the UN Headquarters. From his avid interest in architecture, Hank could recite the credentials of the impressive team assembled to design the buildings which housed the international organization. With his expansive gift of rhetoric he could expound upon the bold, geometric design submitted by the French master Le Corbusier. He considered it a symphony of construct, a Post War style known, appropriately enough, as Internationalism which had served to influence the urban architecture boom of the 1950s. He could point out the end-cap of white marble that sheathed the slim vertical ascent of the Secretariat and compel them to regard the unique treasures in the General Assembly building: the stained glass window by Chagall, the Rockwell mosaic, or the marvelous Foucault pendulum that described the rotation of the Earth. However, anticipating the nonplussed reaction he would receive from the two men, he rejected the notion outright. Hank knew he could easily endure the blasé expression from a single man, but to see the look reflected from his brace of bodyguards was too much to be considered. He, therefore, admired the Bauhaus-influenced architecture in silence.
"Ambassador McCoy!"
Hank turned toward the direction of the voice.
Near the Delegates Entrance, a tall man detached himself from a small knot of officials and approached. With a quick glance Hank noted that the man's jacket was cut to hide a shoulder holster, and in his right ear he wore the communications worm-wire favored by diplomatic security agents. He walked with the spring-steel readiness of a military officer and offered his hand as he drew near.
"Harrison Sterling," the man introduced himself. "Chief of UN Security and Safety. I wanted to take this opportunity to welcome you to the General Assembly; also, I'd like to offer an extra security detail to your delegation."
Sterling nodded to the smartly dressed man and woman waiting behind him. Both wore the solemn, no-nonsense look that Hank remembered from the dull-colored members of the FBI and the Secret Service. He regarded the security chief with an amused smile.
"Just for me, Chief Sterling? You're apt to turn my head with such attention, I have to warn you though, I turn purple when I blush."
Sterling allowed himself a slight smile. His lean face had the malleable features of an English music hall comedian and the steel-blue eyes of a caustic physician. Eyes to twinkle or pierce, Hank thought. Eyes that now took a warrior's measure.
"I assure you, we're not in the habit of personally meeting all our incoming delegates," Sterling spoke with a crisp Oxford accent, "but I'm sure you appreciate the unique circumstances surrounding your appointment. Quite a bit of press today … and the other."
Sterling gestured to the supporters, protestors and the attendant media circus that was now shooting B-roll footage of the noisy crowd; looking for filler on a slow news day.
"We like to call that the 'Amen Corner'," Sterling said with a tight smile.
"Hmm, yes, we've met," Hank replied, and directed a fang-filled smile to the more vocal members of the FOH, who howled at him, brandishing posters which featured misspelled Bible quotations.
The press ate it up and trained their cameras on Hank. Since his early days in Washington, they knew McCoy was always good for a grand gesture or a well-placed sound bite, and the crews jockeyed for position, hoping to catch the clip that would play endlessly on the cable news networks.
As Hank surveyed the political carnival before him, his former idyllic thoughts of Le Corbusier were replaced by a faded rock lyric,
"Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends …," He had not realized he had spoken the words aloud until he noticed the odd frown he received from the UN security chief.
"I beg your pardon?" Sterling asked, but his eyes held the look of bemused recognition.
"Emerson, Lake and Palmer," Hank replied.
Sterling nodded. "I'm rather more a Black Sabbath fan, myself."
"Yes, you and Tony Stark, I think. Well, I'll try not to bite the heads off of any bats," Hank chuckled, then drew a deep breath and continued with the matter at hand. "Chief Sterling, I assure you that I am quite used to both the press … 'and the other'. I thank you heartily for your admirable attention. I do, however, have the utmost confidence in Enrique's ability to maintain my security. I have no wish to inconvenience your staff."
"My department is aware of Mr. Doble's unique … abilities. But, the organization feels-" Sterling's voice trailed to silence as he looked toward Enrique.
In five quick steps Enrique had produced an equal number of duplicates, shedding copies of himself like autumn leaves parting from a tree. With a sharp whistle, he threw the car keys to the fourth who caught them with a showy backhand and returned to move the truck. There were several surprised stares from Hank's fellow delegates, and an excited shout from the TV press as the remaining facsimiles of the Dominican bodyguard moved into coverage positions. Like the mutant criminal, Jamie Madrox, Enrique Doble possessed the gift to create perfect replicas of himself.
Also like Madrox, Enrique's dupes assumed a variety of individual personalities and abilities. Enrique Uno, as Hank privately thought of him, referred to himself as El Primero, "the first". His dupes followed in ascending numerical order: Segundo, Tercero, Cuarto, Quinto and so on. On duty he was always accompanied by Segundo, his alert and generally silent twin who had a keen interest in baseball. Tercero, was the resident "ladies man", and was dangerously proficient in a style of street fighting known as Jailhouse Rock. Thus far, Hank had encountered copies of the handsome Dominican all the way up to Dicemo - the tenth - who spoke only Spanish. While the majority of Enrique's dupes were dedicated service men, there had been the occasional rebellion among the doppelgangers. Octavo had last been seen at a craps table at the Trump Taj Mahal, and Quinto had fled to a weekend in Bermuda where he had apparently fathered a child, much to the dismay of Enrique Uno who was now engaged in a complicated paternity dispute.
The Dominican smiled briefly at Sterling's look of frank amazement. The security chief turned to face Hank's benign smile.
"My God," Sterling breathed, "I'd take a dozen like him, if I could!"
"That's the beauty of Enrique," Hank beamed as if he had invented him. "You only need one."
As they reached the Delegates Entrance Enrique began to absorb his dupes, the six men reduced to a quartet, the quartet to a duo and with a look of surprised indignation, Segundo disappeared into his host.
"Yeah, and you only have to pay one," Enrique commented flatly.
"That too," Hank agreed with a smug smile.
Sterling gave a short laugh, and again offered his hand to Hank and to Enrique as well. "Ambassador McCoy, there is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Doble is an asset to your Mission. I'll let you be on your way. However, if there's any other area in which I may be of assistance to you, please don't hesitate to ask."
"Actually," Hank replied with a light touch to his voice, "there is something. Could you be so kind as to tell me where I would find the nearest Starbucks?"
To Sterling's own vast surprise, he told him. The Security Chief's cell phone began to ring, and he excused himself to take the call. Hank turned to Enrique with an inquiring lift of an eyebrow.
"Shall we?" he smiled.
Beside him, his bodyguard swore softly and stepped away, Segundo and Tercero appearing in his wake. Segundo muttered an epithet to Uno and there was a hasty exchange of Spanglish curses as Enrique briefed them on Hank's unscheduled detour. Segundo rolled his eyes, and the trio had to step quickly to follow McCoy.