MIRROR, MIRROR
DISCLAIMER: I own myself, Marvel owns the rest.
RATING: R for language.
SUMMARY: You know other people dream about visiting the X-Men universe? Well, that's my nightmare. Honest to God. Oh, and this has no plot, except, like I said, trying to get rid of a stupid nightmare I keep having. It ain't pretty. It also raises some interesting philosophical questions that I skipped in this entirely...
FURTHER NOTE: I swore to try everything once. This is a Mary Sue. Run. Run while there's still time!
*
"And this is the Danger Room."
I sorta nodded weakly at that, clung to the wall and continued to try and not die of shock or curiosity. If this is a nightmare - and it had damn well better be one - I'd like to wake up now, please.
Scott turned to face me, and expectant look on his face - what I could see of it, anyway. "So, what do you think?"
"Uh... big?" I ventured weakly. I really needed to sit down.
"Are you okay?"
Nope. Not even a little bit. "Sure... just need to sit down for a moment... little dizzy..." And then I doubled over and threw up.
All over him.
Please God. Let this be a nightmare.
You know that whole thing where you wish your life was more exciting? I mean, especially as a writer, I sometimes wish that I knew more about what I was writing about. Well, considering what I normally write about, that's a blatant lie, but you understand the theory. You want to understand your characters, to know them better.
I am never going to write again. Ever.
I mean it. I tried writing about real characters once - you know, people I know from everyday life. Boy, was that a mistake and a half. First of all, they found out about it, and wanted to know what I'd written. Not real good, since I'd slashed them (I know, naughty, naughty me). Hey, I wasn't going to post it anywhere... and it wasn't explicit or anything...
But I digress. Know why I'm never picking up a pen (or keyboard) again? 'Cause of this.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my personal nightmare.
"Miss --"
"Vic."
"Vic. Scott tells me that you, um, weren't feeling too well?"
"Shock. Well, that and the spandex." Did I say that out loud? Um, oops.
A blank look. "Um..."
"Look, Professor..."
"Yes?"
"Can I go?" Yes. Go. Before I throw up over any more of your team.
Frown. "Go where?"
"London. You know..." I waved a hand vaguely. "Home."
As soon as I said it, I knew myself for a fool. And if you knew me, you'd know that I don't like feeling stupid. But, oh boy, this took the biscuit. What law on God's green earth guaranteed that I'd be going back to my home? That there wouldn't be an alternate me running around somewhere, always running late and trying to apply foundation on the train? Nothing at all.
There was no 'home' here.
I felt my stomach rebel again.
"Are you okay?"
No. Do I look like I'm okay? God, the guy could ask stupid questions. "Oh, fine. You know, I think it'll be a funny aneurysm."
On the other side of the room, Remy chuckled.
I froze.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
He chuckled.
Okay, okay, so I admit it. I'm in heaven. Fit blokes to the left of me, fit blokes to the right. Whatever else they had against them, there was certainly enough eye candy to keep me occupied...
And. Remy. Laughed.
At something I said.
Did I mention I was in heaven?
I'll shut up now before you think me a hopeless cause. But, see, it is. James Marsden in spandex. And you know what? It fit him. But I kept wanting to call him James instead of Scott. Hugh Jackman in denim. Droolsome.
And then we got to Remy. Who, naturally, did not have an actor play him, and so had been made up by my overactive imagination. Did I mention that I had a thing for cheekbones? Watch me thud.
Anyway. All thudding aside, he was mighty fine. Did I mention that he was real? Ooooh, the fun one has jumping dimensions.
I'm not even going to pretend I forgot to mention that at the beginning, 'cause I didn't. I was blatantly holding on to it for a nice moment. Like now.
A real Remy. Wearing spandex.
I might need a moment by myself...
Okay, so that little interlude made me feel much better. I mean, amazingly gorgeous guy laughed at something I said, and okay, I admit it, I'm sad and I feel deprived (or depraved, take your pick). In any case, it made the whole dimension-jumping thing a little easier to swallow.
Those with dirty minds, get them out of the gutter right now.
I thank you.
Back to the Professor. Who wanted me to answer some questions, so they could talk about a placement. Did I mention that the States over here - wherever the hell 'here' is - has some really strange laws?
"Um... that's... very kind, but actually, I was about to move out from my parents' house when this, um, dropped in my lap."
"Really? Where were you going?"
Oh, stop looking at me like I was a potential runaway. "Edinburgh. I was going to do my MA." Fat chance of that now. Is it just me, or is the world conspiring to keep me away from Scotland?
Yeah, right. The universe decided to drop me in someone else's lap 'cause it was worried at misbehave at the festival city. I think not.
... she said, and promptly disappeared.
Sorry, sorry, had to get it in there somewhere.
Anyway. "No, I'm not a runaway. And, um, what kind of 'placement' do you mean?" 'Cause if you're talking about an internship at, say, the New York Times, I wouldn't say no... what's that you say? First I must study at Harvard/Yale/Princeton on a full scholarship? Why, thank you. I never thought you'd ask.
Okay, so it's stupid. And here it comes...
"A foster family..."
"Fuck off."
Yeah, great one there. Tell oh He Of the Scary Brain to fuck off. This hasn't been one of your brightest ideas, has it?
The Professor blinked, and everyone else stared at me agape. Including Remy. Oops. "Excuse me?"
"Uh, I mean..." Fuck this. I've never exactly been one for beating around the bush. "It's real nice and all, but over my dead body. I want to go home." I shook my head against his upcoming protestation. "I know that there isn't a home to go back to. But... the damn gateway was opened once, right? Well, it can open again. I want to go home and write."
"We don' need no more of your story lines, chere."
Did I mention I don't get on with those I fancy the pants off? Watch me fight with everyone in the damn room.
"Gee, thanks ever so much Mr LeBeau. I'll remember that next time I write you a nice pointless sex romp. I'll just let Marvel give you a horrible life - with, I expect, an equally horrible death - with no fun in between. Need I remind you, the comics are suitable for children?!"
He stared at me, red eyes wide. Oh, my. Red eyes. Red eyes. You know, I met Hank. He was kinda furry. And I met Angel - oh my God, is he gorgeous - and everything... but, you know. It's the little things that totally freak you out and make you think long and hard about innate prejudices.
Thought about it.
Still fancy the pants off him. The eyes just add to it.
Maybe I shouldn't be thinking so loudly with this many telepaths around...
Ah, sod it. I write slash, for crying out loud. 'S not like they won't find out anyway...
"Sex? Wit who? How?" All of a sudden, this was apparently the most important thing on his mind.
Remy, I'm disappointed. You're, like male. "Well... um, professor, do I have to explain the birds and the bees 'cause I'm not sure I can explain it to a guy I already had to talk to my brother about it and that was hard enough and..."
Smirk.
Sorry. But he's wearing pink.
Giggle.
His ass is still gorgeous.
Er, Vic?
Wow. Cool. My very own 'voice' in my head, and it sounds just like the Professor, too... soon, I can wear them strange t-shirts and everything, and...
Oh, look, the floor.
I don't normally pass out. I'm blaming this on stress and lack of food. Ooooh, food. I wonder if they have any food... But, no, I'm dieting. 'Cause I wanna lose those extra pounds... I mean, this is humiliating. I wander around, looking blindingly average, while spandex-clad beauties swan around sipping healthy shakes. Gag me with a spoon, doesn't anyone eat around here?
"Hey chere. Bought you dis... t'ought you might be missin' it."
"Hey, Gambit. Thanks. Uh... You... look like shit."
He blinked. "Non, be trut'ful, chere... what d' y' really t'ink?"
I laughed. Then I grabbed the sketchbook he offered and cried.
So I'm a little messed up, okay? Not every day your whole life just goes... ppppphusht.
Yep, exactly like that. One minute I'm writing away, happy as can be, the next minute, I'm a mutant. But not just any mutant, oh no. I'm precisely the same as everybody else on God's green earth - my earth. Over here, we're mutants. All of us. Whatever we write comes true - somewhere.
Did I mention that I haven't let the X-Men read any of my work as yet?
Did I mention that I don't normally write happy stories?
I really don't want to be here. I can't write again. I can't.
And there's a hand at my shoulder, and I'm crying even more, because I'm going to carry on writing, whether he tries to stop me or not, I will, I have to finish my story...
Until you've started writing and been gripped by it, you don't understand the addiction. It's worse then smack. Worse than... I don't know. It's my addiction. And, you know, you dream and you dream that one day, you'll write that perfect piece, and everyone will love it. It'll be so perfect, it'll capture the human condition perfectly. It'll have life.
Congratulations, and your next twisted wish...?
I read this story where Remy was the bad guy. Didn't mean to be, but he was. Don't remember the name of the story or what happened, precisely. But I remember that he was the bad guy. An evil bad guy. Who hurt people.
And then I remember what I was planning on writing next, which character I would have fun torturing next.
All of a sudden I don't want to be here. I don't want to have to face Rogue - movie-Rogue or comic-Rogue? I haven't even seen the movie, so I don't know - and want to spit in her face and be too scared to do it, and I do not want to face Jean or Betsy. They scare me. Completely. Because they're the good guys, are always written as the good guys, and still end up hurting people.
And Remy?
Have you read any slash? He's the world's whipping boy. Outside of slash, too. And he knows it. I can see it, as he offers me a tissue.
Oh, very suave. Very not pathetic. Come on, though. He wants Rogue, and I'm pretty much an ordinary kid, ten years younger and a whole lot less, well, spandexy and skinny, and while I don't have any trouble getting blokes, I have a feeling that it's impossible to get this bloke.
"You okay, chere?"
Know what? I don't give a fuck. He could be an axe murderer for all I care.
I grabbed my sketchbook. "No. Can you take me to dinner and make it all better?"
"What'd y' have in mind, p'tite?"
"Strawberries. And chocolate. And... French fries. And king prawns..."
"All at once?!" I've shocked the man.
"In one meal, yes. But not on the same plate."
He grinned. "Tell y' what, chere. I'll buy dinner if you give me a copy of that plotless sex romp you're writing..."
Grin. "Deal."
He put an arm around my shoulders. Okay, so I'm never gonna get this one. But, you know what? I feel like his mother. I've written him as a kid and as an adult, and it's just... too weird. I'll write him some nice happy stories, I swear... I can't promise not to make Rogue suffer, though... giving her a real name like, um, Betty Sue is a good start...
"Say, chere?"
"What?"
"Who's in dis story, anyway? I mean... who do I get t' sleep wid?"
"Oh. Um... Scott."
Pause. "What?!"
Oops.
fin.