Just Unique
'. . . Strange. . .' Thought Astrid Wagner as she stirred her famous (in the troupe, anyway) Breakfast Oatmeal over the remnants of last-night's campfire. 'Kurt's usually here before I even put the oats in. . . breakfast's almost ready! . . .Where's my walking stomach of a son?'
Instructing one of the young children lazing about on the grass to keep stirring the meal, Astrid strode towards her son's small trailer, at the edge of camp. Rapping her knuckles on the door, she called, "Kurt? . . .Kurt! Are you in there? Breakfast's getting cold. . ." 'I never thought I'd ever have to say that. . .'
There was no reply.
Worried, Astrid knocked again.
Still, no reply.
The woman opened the door; it creaked ominously. The trailer was older than she was
"Kurt. . .?" she called, looking around. "Liebe? Are you alri- Gott Im Himmel!" She saw the scene. Kurt was sprawled on the floor beside his bed; not as if he had just fallen out of bed during the night, but as if he'd just. . . dropped. His clothes were singed, and his breathing was harsh and labored. The smell of burnt cloth and hair filled the trailer.
'What has happened to my son. . .?'
*** *** ***
'Oww. . .'. That was Kurt's first coherent thought.
He was sore all over. He felt like his body was one big bruise. It hurt to breathe. His feet and tail were the worst off. . . it felt like somebody had stuck them into a campfire, or something. . . . . .Oh wait. . . somebody had. . .
His memories came back in a disorienting rush.
The walk.
The light.
The villagers.
The stake.
. . .The fire.
How had he escaped?
. . .Had he escaped? Perhaps the people of Winzeldorf were saving him for some kind of further torment? . . .But no. He was lying on something soft. . . His feet and tail were wrapped in something. . . He was warm, but not too warm.
He was safe.
Kurt knew he wouldn't have gotten that impression if he was lying trussed up in a cellar, somewhere.
He tried to roll over, his muscles screaming their protests at even that simple movement.
"Kurt?" That was his mother. He knew her voice anywhere. ". . .Mama?" He croaked, then coughed.
That sole cough turned into a coughing fit. Of course. . . smoke inhalation. He felt himself being maneuvered into a sitting position. When the coughs abated, a cup was put to his lips.
"Drink." His mother's tone brooked no arguments. . . not that he would want to argue, the way he was feeling. Kurt obediently drank, regretting it as the taste of one of his mother's famous herbal teas stabbed at his taste buds. His mother was famous for a lot of things, around the troupe. . . The teas worked, but were more bitter than ashes. "Swallow." He did so. Almost immediately, he felt better. The pain from the bruises all over his body faded to a dull ache, at the back of his mind.
"Dankeshoen, Mama. . ."
"Kurti, what happened?" Normally, he would have protested the use of what he considered his 'baby name', but now, it comforted him.
". . .I don't know. . ."
*** *** ***
It'd been a week since that incident. The troupe had moved on to other places, but Kurt was banned from doing any kind of strenuous physical activity. Unfortunately, that meant he wouldn't be able to perform with the rest of the acrobats. He was barely allowed to carry water for meals, which meant that he had a lot of pent up energy. But, his mother was strict, and had eyes everywhere; if he was caught doing anything she deemed 'strenuous', she'd confine him to his trailer for half a day.
Talk about over-protective mothers. . .
Kurt knew that she was just worried about him, but he couldn't help feeling a little frustrated.
That was why he was now practicing his fencing with Jimaine. Sure, he couldn't fence against her, but he could practice with his foils; he'd just go through patterns, along with his near-sister.
She was the only one to whom he'd told what had actually happened in Winzeldorf. He could trust her not to spread the story to the entire troupe.
He was pretty sure his mother knew, or at least suspected, what had happened; how else could he have gotten such burns on his feet and tail? Astrid had tended to her son herself; she had seen the burns, the bruises, and even the rope-burns. But, she didn't comment on it; she knew her son would talk to her if he needed to.
They had been practicing for nearly an hour; the two's patterns getting increasingly more complicated as the day progressed. Jimaine held two foils, now, one in each had, whereas Kurt had gotten to holding three foils, a feat only he could accomplish with ease. The bandages on his feet only impeded him slightly as he spun on his heals in a blur of blue fur and metal. His tail, holding the third blade, had no more bandages.
He always was a fast healer, and, along with the natural poultices that his mother had made for him, it wasn't difficult to feel up to strength sooner than one would have thought possible.
The near-siblings were thinking of stopping to get something to eat when the Gadje came.
There were two of them; one bald with wheels, the other short, hairy, and irritable-looking. They weren't the kind of people that would just come to see the performing tigers or the bearded ladies. . . they looked serious, strolling down the center of camp.
The people of the troupe fell silent, stopped and stared as they went past. None of them had ever seen anybody like the bald man. . . it was like he was something of the future; he didn't belong in their camp.
The two stopped beside Astrid's campfire. The woman didn't seem to notice that the cup of coffee she was pouring for her husband was overflowing. The only sounds in the camp where the slight crackle of the many campfires, the odd munch from the horses grazing at the edge of the Romani troupe's camp, the steady drip of the overflowing coffee and the quiet wwrrrrrrr of the man's wheelchair.
The said man then spoke, in flawless German, "Your coffee's dripping on the ground, you know." Astrid blinked, noticed the flaw, and blushed a little. Then she looked around and made shooing motions to the rest of the camp. Everybody went back to what they were doing, but there was a tension in the air that hadn't been there minutes earlier.
Kurt and Jimaine, watching from behind a trailer several feet away, didn't though. They wanted to know who these auslanders were.
"My name is Charles Xavier." The bald man spoke calmly. "This is Logan. I have come to speak to you about your son." Kurt gulped and ducked behind the trailer. Jimaine glanced at him, and then looked back to the conversation. Astrid looked to her husband, Johannes, then to the still- staring troupe, then to the two men. Johannes stood up, and motioned for the two auslanders to follow him.
"Ah. . .Come with me." He walked towards the edge of camp, Astrid brining up the rear. As the walked, the woman, looked to where Kurt and Jimaine had eavesdropped with unnerving accuracy, and motioned with her eyes to follow. Jimaine shook her head, but poked Kurt, who stood up and blended himself to the few late-morning shadows made by the troupe's trailers.
Logan sniffed quietly, on instinct, as he and Chuck were led towards a clearing at the edge of the Romani camp. He himself only knew a little German, but he felt he should still keep a lookout. . .Not that there was a time when he didn't keep a lookout. The Wagners smelt of nervousness, fear and even a little confusion.
There was also something he couldn't quite trace. . . His extra-sensitive ears perked up at a faint sound. The short man turned towards it; nothing was there, that he could see. Just an extra-leafy tree. He sniffed, to be sure.
There was something there. . . To quiet to be human. Suppressing a growl, he tried to focus on the conversation between the two parents and Charles.
At first, the Wagners had feigned ignorance. But, they soon realized that Xavier knew more than they'd first thought. They then dropped their charade. Astrid puffed up her chest and spoke angrily to the Professor.
"[If you want us to sell Kurti into a freak show, or something, we refuse! Besides, somebody has already tried that. We fought him off then, we can fight you off now!]" She huffed in German.
Xavier steepled his fingers calmly.
"[We do not wish to put your son in a freak show.]" He winced at the word. "[Your son is a mutant, as am I and Logan. I run a school for such people, so they might learn to control their powers.]"
"[Kurti has no powers!]" Johannes protested.
Logan raised an eyebrow. He'd caught some of the last part of the conversation. Perhaps it was just that his German was rusty, but first Mrs. Wagner had said something about a freak show. . . Then Xavier had explained his whole mutant spiel. . . then Mr. Wagner had said that his son had no powers? How did that make sense? Somebody had tried to put their son in a freakshow, but he had no apparant powers?
How strange was this kid?
Kurt swallowed nervously from his perch on a large tree branch, listening to the conversation.
This auslander. . . had answers.
He knew things. . .Things he wanted to know.
"Kurti has no powers!" his father protested. Over the past week Kurt had eventually come to a conclusion on how he had escaped. He'd told Jimaine, but of course she didn't believe that part. She'd told him to prove it. He'd tried. . and was suddenly on his near- sister's other side. It had made him hungry. Ever since, he'd taken to feeling his forehead, every little while. . . just in case he was growing horns.
. . .Just in case.
'Now is the time to interfere. . .' Kurt thought.
"Ah. . . Yes, I do, father. . ." He focused on appearing next to his mother. {BAMF!}
"[Ah. . .Yes, I do, father. . .]" Came a voice from a particularly leafy tree. {BAMF!} Both Logan and the Professor watched with interest as, in a puff of smoke, appeared a. . .person.
Cerebro hadn't been able to detect physiology cross-continents, so Kurt's. . . unique aspects. . . was a bit of a surprise. Xavier assumed he wasn't dangerous; he knew not to judge by appearances. Still, he did a surface scan for thoughts; the boy's dominant emotion was. . .shame? Currently he was being hugged protectively by his mother, and his father was glaring at the other two men. They weren't too phased, in the least. Xavier nodded slowly.
"[Kurt. As I'm sure you know from your. . .eavesdropping. . . I run a school for mutants such as ourselves. We are not freaks. . . We learn to control our powers so we might use them for good. Will you come with us to learn more about your. . . teleportation?]"
Kurt looked up from his mother's hug.
"Kurt. As I'm sure you know from your. . .eavesdropping. . . I run a school for mutants such as ourselves. We are not freaks. . . We learn to control our powers so we might use them for good. Will you come with us to learn more about your. . . teleportation?"
The young mutant paused.
"There are . . .others like me?"
"Not. . . exactly like you. We are all unique. I myself am a telepath; I can read people's thoughts. Logan, there, has a set of metal claws and an advanced healing ability." Kurt looked to his parents, then to the two auslanders. . .mutants.
Like him. . .and yet, not like him.
"We can help you help others."
That phrase seemed to affect Kurt, in some way. His slightly hunched-over position straitened, and he looked Xavier in the eyes.
"I'll think about it."
Xavier smiled. He could already sense Kurt's acceptance.
"Welcome to the X-men."
Kurt know knew. . .to an extent, what he was.
A mutant. . .Not a freak. Not a demon.
Just unique.
'. . . Strange. . .' Thought Astrid Wagner as she stirred her famous (in the troupe, anyway) Breakfast Oatmeal over the remnants of last-night's campfire. 'Kurt's usually here before I even put the oats in. . . breakfast's almost ready! . . .Where's my walking stomach of a son?'
Instructing one of the young children lazing about on the grass to keep stirring the meal, Astrid strode towards her son's small trailer, at the edge of camp. Rapping her knuckles on the door, she called, "Kurt? . . .Kurt! Are you in there? Breakfast's getting cold. . ." 'I never thought I'd ever have to say that. . .'
There was no reply.
Worried, Astrid knocked again.
Still, no reply.
The woman opened the door; it creaked ominously. The trailer was older than she was
"Kurt. . .?" she called, looking around. "Liebe? Are you alri- Gott Im Himmel!" She saw the scene. Kurt was sprawled on the floor beside his bed; not as if he had just fallen out of bed during the night, but as if he'd just. . . dropped. His clothes were singed, and his breathing was harsh and labored. The smell of burnt cloth and hair filled the trailer.
'What has happened to my son. . .?'
*** *** ***
'Oww. . .'. That was Kurt's first coherent thought.
He was sore all over. He felt like his body was one big bruise. It hurt to breathe. His feet and tail were the worst off. . . it felt like somebody had stuck them into a campfire, or something. . . . . .Oh wait. . . somebody had. . .
His memories came back in a disorienting rush.
The walk.
The light.
The villagers.
The stake.
. . .The fire.
How had he escaped?
. . .Had he escaped? Perhaps the people of Winzeldorf were saving him for some kind of further torment? . . .But no. He was lying on something soft. . . His feet and tail were wrapped in something. . . He was warm, but not too warm.
He was safe.
Kurt knew he wouldn't have gotten that impression if he was lying trussed up in a cellar, somewhere.
He tried to roll over, his muscles screaming their protests at even that simple movement.
"Kurt?" That was his mother. He knew her voice anywhere. ". . .Mama?" He croaked, then coughed.
That sole cough turned into a coughing fit. Of course. . . smoke inhalation. He felt himself being maneuvered into a sitting position. When the coughs abated, a cup was put to his lips.
"Drink." His mother's tone brooked no arguments. . . not that he would want to argue, the way he was feeling. Kurt obediently drank, regretting it as the taste of one of his mother's famous herbal teas stabbed at his taste buds. His mother was famous for a lot of things, around the troupe. . . The teas worked, but were more bitter than ashes. "Swallow." He did so. Almost immediately, he felt better. The pain from the bruises all over his body faded to a dull ache, at the back of his mind.
"Dankeshoen, Mama. . ."
"Kurti, what happened?" Normally, he would have protested the use of what he considered his 'baby name', but now, it comforted him.
". . .I don't know. . ."
*** *** ***
It'd been a week since that incident. The troupe had moved on to other places, but Kurt was banned from doing any kind of strenuous physical activity. Unfortunately, that meant he wouldn't be able to perform with the rest of the acrobats. He was barely allowed to carry water for meals, which meant that he had a lot of pent up energy. But, his mother was strict, and had eyes everywhere; if he was caught doing anything she deemed 'strenuous', she'd confine him to his trailer for half a day.
Talk about over-protective mothers. . .
Kurt knew that she was just worried about him, but he couldn't help feeling a little frustrated.
That was why he was now practicing his fencing with Jimaine. Sure, he couldn't fence against her, but he could practice with his foils; he'd just go through patterns, along with his near-sister.
She was the only one to whom he'd told what had actually happened in Winzeldorf. He could trust her not to spread the story to the entire troupe.
He was pretty sure his mother knew, or at least suspected, what had happened; how else could he have gotten such burns on his feet and tail? Astrid had tended to her son herself; she had seen the burns, the bruises, and even the rope-burns. But, she didn't comment on it; she knew her son would talk to her if he needed to.
They had been practicing for nearly an hour; the two's patterns getting increasingly more complicated as the day progressed. Jimaine held two foils, now, one in each had, whereas Kurt had gotten to holding three foils, a feat only he could accomplish with ease. The bandages on his feet only impeded him slightly as he spun on his heals in a blur of blue fur and metal. His tail, holding the third blade, had no more bandages.
He always was a fast healer, and, along with the natural poultices that his mother had made for him, it wasn't difficult to feel up to strength sooner than one would have thought possible.
The near-siblings were thinking of stopping to get something to eat when the Gadje came.
There were two of them; one bald with wheels, the other short, hairy, and irritable-looking. They weren't the kind of people that would just come to see the performing tigers or the bearded ladies. . . they looked serious, strolling down the center of camp.
The people of the troupe fell silent, stopped and stared as they went past. None of them had ever seen anybody like the bald man. . . it was like he was something of the future; he didn't belong in their camp.
The two stopped beside Astrid's campfire. The woman didn't seem to notice that the cup of coffee she was pouring for her husband was overflowing. The only sounds in the camp where the slight crackle of the many campfires, the odd munch from the horses grazing at the edge of the Romani troupe's camp, the steady drip of the overflowing coffee and the quiet wwrrrrrrr of the man's wheelchair.
The said man then spoke, in flawless German, "Your coffee's dripping on the ground, you know." Astrid blinked, noticed the flaw, and blushed a little. Then she looked around and made shooing motions to the rest of the camp. Everybody went back to what they were doing, but there was a tension in the air that hadn't been there minutes earlier.
Kurt and Jimaine, watching from behind a trailer several feet away, didn't though. They wanted to know who these auslanders were.
"My name is Charles Xavier." The bald man spoke calmly. "This is Logan. I have come to speak to you about your son." Kurt gulped and ducked behind the trailer. Jimaine glanced at him, and then looked back to the conversation. Astrid looked to her husband, Johannes, then to the still- staring troupe, then to the two men. Johannes stood up, and motioned for the two auslanders to follow him.
"Ah. . .Come with me." He walked towards the edge of camp, Astrid brining up the rear. As the walked, the woman, looked to where Kurt and Jimaine had eavesdropped with unnerving accuracy, and motioned with her eyes to follow. Jimaine shook her head, but poked Kurt, who stood up and blended himself to the few late-morning shadows made by the troupe's trailers.
Logan sniffed quietly, on instinct, as he and Chuck were led towards a clearing at the edge of the Romani camp. He himself only knew a little German, but he felt he should still keep a lookout. . .Not that there was a time when he didn't keep a lookout. The Wagners smelt of nervousness, fear and even a little confusion.
There was also something he couldn't quite trace. . . His extra-sensitive ears perked up at a faint sound. The short man turned towards it; nothing was there, that he could see. Just an extra-leafy tree. He sniffed, to be sure.
There was something there. . . To quiet to be human. Suppressing a growl, he tried to focus on the conversation between the two parents and Charles.
At first, the Wagners had feigned ignorance. But, they soon realized that Xavier knew more than they'd first thought. They then dropped their charade. Astrid puffed up her chest and spoke angrily to the Professor.
"[If you want us to sell Kurti into a freak show, or something, we refuse! Besides, somebody has already tried that. We fought him off then, we can fight you off now!]" She huffed in German.
Xavier steepled his fingers calmly.
"[We do not wish to put your son in a freak show.]" He winced at the word. "[Your son is a mutant, as am I and Logan. I run a school for such people, so they might learn to control their powers.]"
"[Kurti has no powers!]" Johannes protested.
Logan raised an eyebrow. He'd caught some of the last part of the conversation. Perhaps it was just that his German was rusty, but first Mrs. Wagner had said something about a freak show. . . Then Xavier had explained his whole mutant spiel. . . then Mr. Wagner had said that his son had no powers? How did that make sense? Somebody had tried to put their son in a freakshow, but he had no apparant powers?
How strange was this kid?
Kurt swallowed nervously from his perch on a large tree branch, listening to the conversation.
This auslander. . . had answers.
He knew things. . .Things he wanted to know.
"Kurti has no powers!" his father protested. Over the past week Kurt had eventually come to a conclusion on how he had escaped. He'd told Jimaine, but of course she didn't believe that part. She'd told him to prove it. He'd tried. . and was suddenly on his near- sister's other side. It had made him hungry. Ever since, he'd taken to feeling his forehead, every little while. . . just in case he was growing horns.
. . .Just in case.
'Now is the time to interfere. . .' Kurt thought.
"Ah. . . Yes, I do, father. . ." He focused on appearing next to his mother. {BAMF!}
"[Ah. . .Yes, I do, father. . .]" Came a voice from a particularly leafy tree. {BAMF!} Both Logan and the Professor watched with interest as, in a puff of smoke, appeared a. . .person.
Cerebro hadn't been able to detect physiology cross-continents, so Kurt's. . . unique aspects. . . was a bit of a surprise. Xavier assumed he wasn't dangerous; he knew not to judge by appearances. Still, he did a surface scan for thoughts; the boy's dominant emotion was. . .shame? Currently he was being hugged protectively by his mother, and his father was glaring at the other two men. They weren't too phased, in the least. Xavier nodded slowly.
"[Kurt. As I'm sure you know from your. . .eavesdropping. . . I run a school for mutants such as ourselves. We are not freaks. . . We learn to control our powers so we might use them for good. Will you come with us to learn more about your. . . teleportation?]"
Kurt looked up from his mother's hug.
"Kurt. As I'm sure you know from your. . .eavesdropping. . . I run a school for mutants such as ourselves. We are not freaks. . . We learn to control our powers so we might use them for good. Will you come with us to learn more about your. . . teleportation?"
The young mutant paused.
"There are . . .others like me?"
"Not. . . exactly like you. We are all unique. I myself am a telepath; I can read people's thoughts. Logan, there, has a set of metal claws and an advanced healing ability." Kurt looked to his parents, then to the two auslanders. . .mutants.
Like him. . .and yet, not like him.
"We can help you help others."
That phrase seemed to affect Kurt, in some way. His slightly hunched-over position straitened, and he looked Xavier in the eyes.
"I'll think about it."
Xavier smiled. He could already sense Kurt's acceptance.
"Welcome to the X-men."
Kurt know knew. . .to an extent, what he was.
A mutant. . .Not a freak. Not a demon.
Just unique.