Preludes to Heartbreak
Chapter 2: In which Henry McCoy ruminates on the past and the present.
Henry McCoy stared at the computer screen in wonder.
Oh, he had read everything there was to read on the theories of nano-cybernetics, but to see the real thing, that was a whole different box of Twinkies.
Speaking of which…
He reached down and opened the lower drawer of his desk, accessing his private stash of the yellow delights. Pulling out one pre-packaged piece of heaven, he deftly slid his thumbnail into the cellophane and pulled, opening the wrapper in one quick motion.
Well, he mused while taking a bite, there were definitely a few advantages to this new Hank McCoy.
That thought, however, proceeded to bring forth a slew of unwelcome memories.
********
Junior year, Dunfee High School in Dunfee, Illinois. Hank "The Beast" McCoy had led the varsity football team to three years worth of championships since signing on. Make that four years worth. With the win tonight, Dunfee had just broken the regional record for successive championships, and while the team was good, he was the star.
"Hank!" he heard from over his shoulder, "You gotta come to the party!" It was the voice of Jimmy Lambert, the quarterback. "We are gonna celebrate this one all weekend!"
The blond senior clapped Hank on the back, while grasping his left arm.
"C'mon, man," he insisted, "You brought us here."
"James, m'friend," Hank responded. He was the only person in the school who could refer to Lambert as "James," to everyone else, he was pointedly "Jimmy."
"I would love to attend the soirée," Hank continued, "But, alas, my parents have made other arrangements." He put his hand up to his chin, appearing deep in thought. The truth was, there were several college recruiters here for this game, and they had come to see him. The idea of a 4.0 average football hero graduating a year early had been quite the incentive for their attendance. Hank suspected he'd have his choice of three or four full scholarships before the evening was finished.
"However," he continued, turning to the quarterback, "Perhaps later tonight?"
"Abso-fuckin'-lutley, Shakespeare," the blond grinned, using the nickname that he had coined for Hank three years earlier, "We'll be at it all night."
"Splendid!" Hank grinned in return, "Then I shall see you later!"
As the two parted from the locker room, Hank made his way out to the parking lot. His parents and coach had told him that they would meet him after the game with the recruiters. However, as he walked away from the field, he heard shouting.
"What the hell do you call that, Mackenzie?"
That would have been directed at Frank Mackenzie, the coach.
"I call that some damn fine football you asshole!" Mackenzie shouted back.
"Now, Frank," came the voice of Norton McCoy. "No need for names here." Always the voice of reason, that was Hank's father.
"Names?" came another voice, "I got one for ya, howabout Mutie? As in that kid of yours?"
"Now see here," McCoy's voice grew hard, "That's my son your…"
"Your son isn't even human McCoy," came the first voice again, "He shouldn't be allowed in a public school, let alone out there on the goddamned field. Jacobs had it right when he left at half-time." A car door slammed, and then he could hear someone pulling away from the parking lot.
"Yeah, woulda saved us a lot of time," came the other unfamiliar voice again. As Hank got closer to the parking lot, he actually saw this one pull away.
His parents were standing there, along with Coach Mackenzie and someone he didn't know. He assumed this was the fourth recruiter. Their voices were lower now, so he couldn't hear them until he got closer. He cautiously snuck around the few remaining vehicles, wanting to hear the conversation without being seen.
"…Mrs. McCoy, believe me. It's nothing personal," he heard the recruiter saying. "Hell, if it was me, I wouldn't even notice…"
"What's to notice," asked Mackenzie, "I mean, he's big, yeah, but…"
"Not just big, Coach," came the voice, "Those moves, the size of his hands and feet, hell, his whole physical build. It's not normal."
"And so my son has to pay for being different," his father said.
"Mr. McCoy, please, listen," the man said. "If I go back and tell the board your son's a mutant, well they'll assume that's why his GPA is so good, and if I don't, they'll know it as soon as he shows up, and then fire me for not telling them." Hank peeked around the bumper of the car he'd hidden behind, and saw that the man looked truly regretful.
"I wish…" the stranger started, "I wish I didn't have to tell you these things. You're good people, I can tell. And I suspect your boy is too." He opened up his car door and got inside.
"Take care of your son, Mr. McCoy, Mrs. McCoy," he said while starting the engine. "This world can be very hard for some folks."
Sixteen-year-old Henry McCoy had heard enough, and took off running. It was four hours before he stopped, and truth be told, he had no idea where he was. He didn't care where he was.
In the rural prairie land of central Illinois, a deep, heartsick scream shattered the night quiet.
********
Hank's memories skipped ahead to five days later, when Norton McCoy found his son exactly where he'd expected. Out in the barn, laying in the hayloft, watching the stars. Hank had been coming here since he was eight, and frequently only came back to the house when the smell of breakfast made its way out on the morning air. The last few mornings, however, Hank had never returned.
"Your mother thinks you're still in your room, y'know," he said.
"Hmmm…" was all that came back.
"Son, I know…"
"No, pop, you don't," Hank shot back.
Norton sat down and sighed, pulling the thermos of coffee from his jacket pocket and opening it.
"No, I guess you're right on that one," he admitted, "I don't know exactly what you're going through. But I do know it's not the end of the world."
"No, just the end of my life."
"Hank, don't think for a minute that anything has changed around here. Hell, there's been six people called already this morning asking if you're alright," Norton took a sip of the coffee. "Nothing that was said the other night has changed anyone's mind about you."
"Pop, these folks have known me since I was born. The rest of the world hasn't. I go out there, to college, to work, it's going to be more people like those recruiters." his son said, "They said I'm not even human."
"No, not all of them," Norton replied, passing the thermos over to his son.
Hank took a drink of the coffee, sitting up to look at his father.
"One out of four," he said, "Not the most inspiring of odds."
Norton snickered at that.
"No," he replied, "I suppose it isn't. On the other hand, most elections are won on only twenty five percent of the population voting."
Hank couldn't help but grin. He'd heard many rants from his father on those who didn't vote, but felt the need to complain about the outcome.
"Okay, you've got me on that one," he said, "But what am I supposed to do from here? I never even considered my…abilities as a potential drawback. And now I have no idea what to do."
"Well," Norton answered, "You're mother and I have been looking into some options. We found this place in New York. Xavier's Institute…come on back to the house. We'll talk about it. Besides, you're mother's got four days worth of feeding you to do."
********
Hank returned to the present when the computer beeped at him. He set the remains of his snack down and studied the monitor.
"Oh my stars and garters…" he muttered.
According to the readout, this sample was attempting to rebuild the form it had been separated from. These nanites were self-contained modules, each imprinted with the structure of the entire form that they were to create. Theoretically, given enough time and raw material, they could completely rebuild their host.
Hank had heard some rumors a while back, something that the government was working on. He wracked his mind trying to remember, since he had written it off at the time as another conspiracy theory inspired piece of fantasy. Something about utilizing corpses, and cybernetics, to create the ultimate soldier, one who wouldn't question any orders. For some reason, the word "Deathlok" kept surfacing in his mind.
He cringed at the thought. The Initiative was bad enough, but reanimated corpses?
Something else occurred to him then. What if it wasn't corpses, but volunteers? He knew that anti-mutant sentiment was high, but would someone really be willing to sacrifice his or her humanity on the level that he was seeing? A piece of poetry suddenly inserted itself into his mind, and he found himself speaking:
"Once, furious spirits, sons of night!
In many a rude, vindictive band;
By hatred urged, and cruel spite,
Like locusts, spread o'er all our land:"
"Comforting thought…" came a voice from the doorway.
Hank turned to see Nicholas Graydon standing in the entrance.
"Joseph Cottle. It's called 'Persecution,' aptly enough," Hank replied. He shifted his chair back from the desk. "I take it you're here for the follow up I insisted on?"
"No, Hank," Graydon replied, and Hank noticed the look on his friend's face. Whatever had brought Nicholas back to the lab it wasn't pleasant.
"What is it, Nicholas?" he asked.
"Scott's on his way back, and we're headed to Sunnydale as soon as he arrives," Graydon told him.
Sunnydale. The word itself brought nightmares into Hank's mind. That was where Essex had gotten a hold of him, and tested some of his insane theories on Genetic Potential. That was where Hank became the blue furred Beast he was today. For just a moment, he was there again, chained to a slab, looking at his new form for the first time in the full-length mirror Essex had provided.
If they were going back to Sunnydale, then…
"Glory?" he asked.
"No," Graydon told him. "Glory's dead."
Hank started to breath a sigh of relief when something else occurred to him, and just as he was about to open his mouth to voice his concern, Graydon shook his head.
Hank said nothing. He simply removed his reading glasses and gestured to the door. Graydon walked out, and Hank followed. They both had a few things to gather before Scott arrived in the Blackbird.
Hank briefly wondered if his black suit still fit.