Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men. Also, I based my character's mental condition off of a romanticized version of insanity, so please do not comment on how unrealistic it is. I'm a fan fiction writer dammit, not a doctor! Same scene as last Chapter, different POV. Some characters may seem out of character. Sorry, did the best I could!


Dogbert: "Reality is always controlled by the people who are most insane."
Scott Adams, Dilbert


Kurt was not having a good day. It started out with him falling out of bed. For once, his natural athleticism failed him, and he had fallen on his face. True, he was still asleep when it happened, but now he could no longer brag that he could do backflips and the like in his sleep. And what was the point in going on, if you could no longer do that?

So he marched along to breakfast in the kitchen with an icepack on his forehead. He was glad bruises didn't show up on is dark skin.

What was worse, Logan, with whom he was developing an odd friendship, had seemed to be in an especially rotten mood, and had felt the need to make several less than polite references to his apparent clumsiness. Kurt, not feeling especially generous as a result of his pounding head, had risen to the bait, and was tricked into agreeing to spar with him.

There was a reason why people avoided sparring with the Wolverine.

So Kurt stomped into his German class, giving the fidgety class a beady-eyed glare. His tail refused to be still, lashing in a distinctly predatory manner. Some of the more feral children recognized this, and shrank back into their seats.

Now he felt bad.

Not bad enough to refrain from giving them a pop quiz, though. He ignored the glares, which were beginning to look a bit beady themselves, and decided that torturing his class made him feel better.

"Maybe I should give pop quizzes more often?" he mused.

"NO!" the class chorused as one. He cackled silently, and perched up on top of his desk, keeping careful watch his students to discourage any cheating. Grumbling mutinously and fishing out pencils, the class began to fumble through strange words and phrases.

Maybe today won't be such a bad day after all, he mused.

And maybe fish would fall from the sky, giving all the poor bums in New York food to eat!

Things began taking a nosedive again when Storm snatched his arm and dragged him into the library as he was making his way downstairs for lunch.

"Kurt, I need that book up on the top shelf there for my next class, but I can't reach it. Will you get it for me?" she said, somehow making a request into a demand.

Now, normally, he would have done so with a bow and a flourish. But his mood simply wasn't the best, and plus something to the side had just caught his attention.

"There's a ladder three feet to your right," he pointed out.

Ororo gave him a stern, disappointed look. "Am I to understand Kurt, that even though I have asked you-"

"All right, all right, I'll get it," Kurt grumbled. With minimal effort, he scampered up the shelves. Near his hand was a book with the title, "Eighteenth Century Literature."

"Is this it?" he asked, showing it to her.

"No no," Storm sighed impatiently. "The one next to it. With the green cover. That one . . . No that other one! The one that's right next to your hand! Your left hand. Your other left!"

"This IS my left hand!" Kurt snapped.

"You were looking towards your right," Storm said, folding her arms.

"I was trying to get a better grip on the shelf so I wouldn't fall on my head!" he explained condescendingly. He snatched the green book and handed it to her. "Here."

"This isn't it! The dark green book, Kurt, the one that is right. Next. To. Your. Left. Hand!

Snarling with irritation, Kurt snatched to book back, flung it back in place, and shoved the darker one into her hands, and made a dramatic exit, pausing by the door to glare at her.

"Don't damage school property!!" Storm called after him indignantly.

Muttering angrily to himself, Kurt slouched his way to the kitchen to get some lunch before classes resumed. Alas, it was not to be. Logan was really spoiling for a fight. Normally, Kurt wouldn't have allowed anyone to grab him by the collar and drag him off to the Danger Room to beat the tar out of him, but he was beginning to feel a little resigned to his fate.

"Classes…" he protested weakly.

"…Don't start for another fifteen minutes. Don't go trying to weasel out of this Elf, you promised you'd spar, and God help me if I don't make you into a man of your word!"

"But my life insurance!"

"Don't worry! I'm your beneficiary, remember?" Logan half-turned and gave him a sadistic smile.

"You are?" Kurt gulped. Gott in Himmel! He was going to die!

But before he could even muster up enough energy to teleport, the stainless steel Danger Room walls had closed in around him, and the sadistic bast- oops, he meant jerk- had raised anti-teleportation shields that let him bamf within the walls, but not outside.


Kurt was a good fighter. He was nearly impossible to catch, he was flexible, acrobatic, and not too shabby with a sword, or whatever was handy that might serve as a sword-like weapon.

However, Logan was relentless.

And he refused to put those damn- oops, he meant darn - claws back inside his arms where they belonged!

As Kurt bounced and flipped and dodged and bamfed, he also nursed a small fantasy of shoving those claws up a place that would ensure Logan sang soprano for the rest of his life.

Enacting the fantasy was just not something Kurt was ready to try just yet.

Twenty minutes later (late for class, of course) Kurt was pulling himself up the stairs, sore, more than a little bloody, bruised, and with crossed eyes that didn't seem to want to uncross. That last kick in the head really did a number on him.

And he still hadn't had lunch.

Instead of pulling his brain back together, Kurt just gave the students a free period and sat crouched on his swirly chair, feeling miserable and sorry for himself as he pressed his warm icepack to the side of his head.

It was nearly dinnertime before he stopped seeing double. He probably should have been concerned about possible damage, like a concussion.

The dining room was a mess. Somebody had decided to start a food fight. He did not want to deal with, so he grabbed a bag of chips and fled.

After devouring the contents, he decided to go to a local chapel, and try to get some things off his mind. It was late, so it would probably be empty. The more he thought about this idea, the more he liked it. It would be a nice, uplifting ending to a rotten day.

Wrapped up in a duster, thick wooly scarf, sunglasses, ski cap, gloves and large heavy boots (massively uncomfortable for his poor uniquely designed feet), he probably attracted more attention on the warm August night than he would have if he had gone without a disguise. As soon as he could, he ducked down a grungy looking alley and 'ported.

There were no lights on, which was encouraging. Of course since it was empty of people and full of valuables, the doors were locked, but who needed doors? Peering through a window to make sure of where he should land, he 'ported in.

He noticed the smell of brimstone wafting through the air, and fanned it frantically. He hoped it would be gone by morning, it wouldn't do for people to walk in and find it smelling like the Lake of Fire.

Giving up, he shed his excess clothing, went over to the pulpit and awkwardly kneeled down. His body was designed for crouching, not kneeling.


Kurt was deep in his prayers when he noticed it. He was being watched. Feeling ice trickle down his back, he slowly opened his eyes, tense and prepared to fight or flee. His bright yellow eyes pierced the darkness easily, casting about for an enemy.

He almost laughed aloud. It was just the Virgin Mary, gazing down on him with loving eyes and widespread hands. Mentally shaking his head at his paranoia, he bowed his head and closed his eyes again.

Just as he was becoming deeply involved in his praying once again; the sense of danger returned at full force, bearing down upon him. He snapped his head up, eyes wide.

There in front of him sat a wild-eyed young woman, staring at him with her full concentration. Without thinking, he bamfed straight up to the rafters. Below him, she began making strange noises.

He clutched at the supporter beam, breathing hard. Stupid! Never let your guard down, and never teleport as your first option. Only in emergencies, which this was not. He could easily have gotten away from her the mundane way.

Then he looked down in confusion. The strange noises she was making… laughter. She was laughing. No, not even that, she was giggling. Giggling and clapping her hands.

What the…

She spun around for a minute, obviously searching for him. After only a few seconds, she picked him out with unnerving accuracy, then her feet were no longer on the ground, and she was sitting right next to him, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Ah. Mutant. Probably also why she was not terrified.

Up close, Kurt realized she was not the most gorgeous; nor the cleanest of women. Her hair was long, greasy, and ragged at the ends. She carried the scent of a body that had remained unwashed for far too long. Her face was long and pinched, sunken in around her cheeks, and her eyes looked at him from deep within her head. Even if she was cleaned up, she would never be beautiful, her face held no sign of beauty, however faded. She was irrevocably plain.

Kurt only realized that he had been staring when her voice broke the silence, garbled and senseless.

"Doogan! Doogan!" she said in a commanding voice.

"Excuse me?" Kurt asked, certain he had not heard right. Maybe it was an atrociously thick accent, maybe she was drunk or on drugs…

"Doogan! Ahwannawangchihgan" she repeated, giving him a stern look. Do again…a slew of chiggers again? No, I want to WATCH again! Her words were understandable, just badly slurred.

"Do…again?" he repeated cautiously. She nodded - she didn't just nod her head, her entire body followed the bobbing motion, rocking until he was concerned that she would fall off the rafter.

Taking it to mean that she wanted to watch him teleport again, Kurt decided, why not? He'd never had anybody outside of the circus and the X-Men think it was amazing in a positive way before. He generously bamfed around to her other side.

The delight on her face was nothing short of childlike, as she whirled around, her fists stuffed in her mouth.

Kurt grinned, basking in the attention before realizing his oversight.

"My name's Kurt," he introduced himself quickly, feeling embarrassed. "What's your name?"

With the air of someone who has not heard a single word you've just said, the girl stood up, looking ridiculously solemn, and told him seriously, "Wangch. Ahmoowhirld" And with that obscure statement, she launched herself up in the air, doing a loop-de-loop for good measure.

Kurt laughed, but inwardly he was starting to grow a little concerned about her mental state. Was the childlike behavior and baby talk due to being mentally handicapped? Or had she been abused badly enough that her social growth had been halted? Anything was possible.

"What's your name?" he tried again. She continued to smile at him blankly. Her eyes looked disturbingly flat, almost plastic.

Finally, Kurt made a decision. She was a mutant, and one obviously in need of help. Xavier's school was built for people like her!

He stood up. "I know a place where you can go to be safe. It is called Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Its for people like us to go to. Would you like to go?" he asked, being sure to enunciate very carefully past his thick German accent.

She smiled, a blank, not-quite-there smile, and said, "'Kay."


For all the people out there wondering why they had to suffer through the same scene twice, its because while looking through the eyes of a crazy person could certainly be interesting, it's not going to be very helpful when it comes to the details. So, voila.