Writer: Rowland Wells
Disclaimer: I am in no way any part of Marvel Comics or any affiliation of their enterprise. I do not own the X-Men or any Marvel Characters.
Alternate
X-Men
#13
"the sign outside the door says beware the caged animal"
It had been a trying series of steps to dismantle the entire Weapon X operation in the centre of Finland, and return the prisoners to some state of normalcy. The clean-up procedure after the raid and various explosions had taken several days, but SHIELD agents were still concentrating on the dissolution of the programme's technology and materials used in construction of the underground base. However easy it was to assemble the former prisoners, including the men and women from Xavier's institute, and explain why they ended up in the arms of a deadly secretive Government branch of the CIA, it was infinitely more demanding to put the people responsible on trial and then deconstruct their base of operations. Selling the scrap metal alone would be tricky as any incriminating insignia had to be removed prior to delivery. Captain Nick Fury's men would recall every weapon, medical device and technological ornament in the gutted installation, but time was against them as he was running out of excuses to dissuade the Finland Environmental Protection Agency from visiting the site. To all intents and purposes Weapon X no longer existed, but for Fury to explain why his men, who had no permission to be in the country, were currently examining every rock and leaf in the surrounding area, he had to be sure there was nothing left for the EPA to scrutinize. SHIELD did seem to be a magic password in most countries, but reports were being issued from the nearby city of Lisalmi and the Fin authorities were becoming suspicious.
Deciding to clear the activities with the acting U.S President after sufficient harassment, Fury contacted him from his ground quarters in Washington D.C. The most powerful man in the free world had come to position through an awkward sequence of events, where the original President, Oval U.N Baxteridge, had been assassinated in Dallas, Texas, by mutant militants; in the event of such a catastrophe the Vice President Dwight Jackson was destined to assume the position, only he was killed days later by another unknown assailant. The Secretary of State, McCormick Johnston, was to then take the title, and so far he had not encountered such resilient unknown protest. He had been the one to commission the Sentinel assault on Magneto's fortress in the Savage land, but with good reason. After surviving the leader's display of supremacy, he gained an incredible amount of public support and allowed for sources on both sides of the evolutionary debate to influence further any decisions made. For now, the compulsory mutant registration act was enough; a re-enactment of previous debacles was out of the question for a country which had more authority in the world than any other. The United States could not be seen as a haven for mutant activism or human terrorism.
When finally put through, Fury was pleased to see a veteran face on screen in the Oval office. Since appearing there last, the Captain noticed several subtle changes to the layout; glazed windows, more armed bodyguards and a penchant for paranoia seeped through his digital videophone display. The man himself even looked as if he was sweating bullets just being there. 'Are you still getting use to the title, Sir?' Fury asked, stealing not to light a cigarette whilst addressing such a title.
'Nothing gets by you does it, Nick – I think I'm just weary of all the silence in the country at the moment. Seems like a ticking time bomb.'
'Make sure nobody quotes you on that.' Fury chuckled falsely, suppressing his small contempt for the man whom supposedly ran the country. 'Do you think you're still in tune with your former position?'
'No, no,' the President replied, getting up to sort pieces of paperwork his blonde bubble of an assistant was handing him 'it's a whole new ball-game. Anyway, what about you? Still spearheading the problems we have abroad?'
Deciding to forgo his respect, Fury quickly pulled a smoke from the pack and lit up in front of the videophone. 'Yeah, something like that.' He responded affably. 'Listen Sir, I've already given all the appropriate details to the Secretary of Defence, but it's only proper that I issue you the same material before he busts in there striking up like he knew it all first. Nothing gets by us, as you said.'
The Captain proceeded to lay down the outer structure of the information regarding Weapon X's operation outside U.S soil, avoiding much of the minor groundwork. He covered the previous Commander's motives for such a task, and the way in which he treated several of the prisoners incarcerated. It wasn't vital that he tell the President everything, but to gain significant leeway with the authorities in Finland, Fury had to present enough of a rationale. 'I don't want to burden you with all this, because I assure you it is being dealt with in a pertinent manner,' the Captain continued 'but I just need a little high-order diplomacy to keep the authorities aboard off my back. Normally, this kind of thing never occurs, but since the Fin Government wasn't informed in the beginning, there's little inclination to let us trample their soil.'
McCormick Johnston nodded into the screen amiably. 'I'll see what I can do, Nick. Until next time, eh?'
Fury agreed, and clicked the link off. Blowing smoke into the open air of his large office, he slumped back in the chair and ran several fingers through a crop of greying hair. Val walked over to him and leant on the desk. She offered a cup of something stirring, and then watched him drink it. 'All cleared up then?' She enquired.
'Yes,' he responded, straightening in the chair 'just time to lock up Hawk Spaskyich and then interrogate him.'
'So, take a knife to his back…' Val said criticising the move.
'That's not what I said – we'll take care of him, but when it comes down to his destination, then yes, he's going to pay for his insubordination and crimes to the State, no doubt.' Fury replied in kind. If it were completely up to him, then the Commander would be executed.
'Where exactly are you taking care of him?' She asked, pushing the conversation further.
'God, Val, why do you want to know? I'm sure we've been working too long together – you're not supposed to be asking me these kinds of questions.'
'Don't be silly Nick, I'm just curious. The man sickens me; I just take a bit of pride in his punishment.' Val answered, sure of his accord.
'I do too; what I can say is that he's in the detention block right now and then he is scheduled to be delivered into the orbiting station above in a few days. No trial, only a sharp interrogation and then he's off. We know what he did, and there's literally no escape for the bastard this time.' Fury stated, finishing his cup. It was an awkward business, detaining many of SHIELD's most high-level suspects and culprits in the basement of the ground headquarters, but the sacrifice of security had to be made ahead of shooting criminals into a geo-synchronous armed space station thirty five thousand feet up. To say that the Captain was violating security protocol would be an understatement, but it was only Val he was talking to.
* * *
In the aftermath of the Weapon X crisis, many emotions ran high, and much had happened in a small amount of time. Overall, the kidnapped students had been restrained for about a fortnight, and Charles had arrived back to witness the collapse of the gutted Mansion with only Kurt Wagner, a German born mutant, as support. The Professor could speak the language, but in his time of need, Kurt had not been much help. Deciding to regain Warren's assistance, the two had flown in the untouched Blackbird to London. Not only was the twenty-six year old mutant healed from his previous encounters, but he had brought with him a rather useful young woman, Betsy Braddock, who seemed to have control of her telepathic capabilities. Considering their situation, Charles deemed it practical that she should aid in the recovery operation. Unfortunately, that still didn't help because no-one on board had any idea where the captured students were. After many days of fruitless searching, even with the technology that was the Blackbird, the hopeful four were contacted by Fury and his SHIELD soldiers who thought it best that they should deal with the sadistic Weapon X agents. Xavier had complied, but took the coordinates gratefully and proceeded toward the dense woodlands in Finland where Spaskyich was veiled. Through some tense and abrupt fighting, they were finally able to escape intact but without their most mysterious member. Logan had gone missing, and without the Cerebro computer unit online, Charles had no method of contact. Ascertaining his whereabouts would be next to impossible as the man was a trained assassin, and therefore extremely difficult to find, so Charles would have to leave Logan to take care of himself for the time being. Whether or not he would return was his choice but Xavier felt he was a source of tension among the students, so if indeed he never revisited, they wouldn't hold a funeral.
His indispensable students had returned in a worthy condition, particularly Scott and Jean, who seemed stronger and more definitely bonded than before the ordeal. Tessa was no different, as she had been the first student Xavier ever recruited, and she had seen a lot more than anyone else attending the school. Hank was another person altogether from undergoing the various experiments the Doctors and Surgeons had performed, especially in his physical appearance, but Charles found himself much more concerned with the mental damage inflicted by the trauma. Not only had he retracted from the main body of the group, such as in communal games and activities, but he stayed a lot more secluded than previously seen. It was rare to see him anywhere other than the refurnished laboratories in the Mansion's basement during daylight hours.
Reflecting on their psychological reports, Charles noted in each the condition of the owners upon return. Bobby was in a weaker mental state, and this was mirrored in his enthusiasm for activities and class work; Charles might have assumed this simple decline was the result of stress in the workplace, but he knew better the demands of his institutions enrolment. Perhaps he was a less hardy individual from the initiation and Xavier had been clouded by the advanced state of his abilities for such a level of maturity, but that was part of the risk of running a school which accommodated for all ages. If this was the case, all that was required would be more intense training in a less detrimental environment. Charles predicted that he could persevere with more experience and more luck. If the odds were constantly stacked against him, morale was bound to sink to depressive levels.
Background individuals such as Kitty and Piotr appeared much more resilient at first glance, but as Charles had to admit, his knowledge of both were purely superficial. He was the one who influenced the two to join, but after an increasing array of awkward circumstances there would undoubtedly be a rift of unfamiliarity between them. To gain a sufficient slant on both their psychological profiles, Charles asked Tessa to aid him in structuring the reports. Only time spent with Kitty and Piotr alone or together would yield a more beneficial relationship.
The one student left was Ororo Munroe, the African American, long white-haired drifter girl who Jean had found sulking in the Manhattan district stationhouse after being brought in for petty theft. Although putting up a stern exterior, the girl was quite the personality underneath. Her initial reaction to the school had been one of an alternative to rotting in a jailhouse for several years, but growing accustomed to the like-mindedness and familiarity that members of the institute presented, Ororo was quickly absorbed into the ranks. She had a rather apparent maternal instinct, but at the same time revelled in letting her young, sly and mischievous side shine through. Charles considered her, along with everyone else under his care, a contradiction of emotions. Despite the general air of nervousness, Ororo was sturdy under pressure and could hold her own in a number of situations. Whether or not she had been distorted drastically by the experience away from her new home, Charles wasn't at liberty to say; she certainly seemed fine.
An emotional link to Hank, the Professor assumed Ororo might be willing to bridge the distance placed by him with the other students. His enquiries had met with little success, and it was unlikely that the thirty-three year old was just going to start opening up to his mentor once more. He called the young black woman into his office after several days back, and sat her down by the window overlooking the rear gardens. 'I understand this will be a difficult thing to ask Ororo, but I should know before I make any decisions regarding Hank's mental health.'
She looked at him strangely, noting the troubled anxiety just below the surface of his chiselled features. 'What exactly do you want to know?'
'Your relationship with Hank – at what level of intimacy are you two?' He asked, stepping lightly around the question.
'We can talk to each other about things… you know.'
'What I mean is: do you think you two are close enough to allow him to open up to you about something as important as his… experiences?' He asked again.
'It's obviously not like we've known each other for years or something, but we have discussed each other's lives and events and so on.' She replied cautiously.
'Have you had made love yet?' Charles posed, choosing to do away with timid subtlety.
'Yes – a couple of times, but that was before we were taken. Not since we've come back.'
'Well that's the kind of confirmation I was looking for. You understand this I'm sure, but a bond between two people in a relationship cannot further past slim emotional ground until sex. Maybe it's clichéd, but pillow talk is essential in many respects.' He chuckled, watching the response on her face as she started to smirk uncontrollably. 'That's why I need that kind of intimacy, so that he may open up not just on a vocal level, but a passionate emotional one as well. So,' he continued, calming them both 'I'm asking if you would get him to discuss his trauma. Not only is it unhealthy if untreated, but many illnesses manifest themselves through neglected psychological damage.'
'When should I ask him about those kinds of things then Charles, you don't think I haven't tried so far?' Ororo asked, suddenly becoming sceptical of the unattainable results.
'Have you?'
There was a hiatus, and she managed to pull from his unfaltering stare. 'It's not like I haven't tried! There just never seems to be an appropriate moment. God! What a screw up.' She walked to the fireplace, gazing into the black burnt-out coals embedded among ash and soot.
'Let us both just support him, that's all I say. To ask him to talk about it might be a mistake, then.' Charles began to second-guess himself, hoping that Ororo might pick up on his reverse psychology.
'That's not what I said, now. I can try as hard as I can to talk with him, because I say that what we have developed is worth pursuing. Let us leave it at that.'
* * *
On the same mid-morning, when the rain was beating heavily on the flowers among the gardens, Hank was below the Mansion floors, studying in the newly refurbished labs. The builders who were currently working on the mess decorating every corridor and passage had stopped for a break in the name of the weekend, and were due to begin again on Monday. Charles had control over them, ensuring that the contractors knew they were fixing up a broken-down orphanage instead of an undercover mutant training facility just outside of New York City. Once reconstruction had been completed, Hank kept the doors to the labs locked a lot of the time, glad that none of the vacant workmen stumbled in on a blue werewolf crouched over a microscope. What he was actually analysing, and had been since returning, was his numerous blood draws and bio-culture swabs. Although starting to accept his metamorphosis, Hank didn't have to like it. Any attempt to return to normalcy was as interesting as much as it was a viable solution.
Requesting the documentation and recordings of his surgery after the Croatia accident, Hank poured over each and every transcript in an effort to determine what turned his body hair blue. Forget Cannabis and Peroxide, I'm looking for the serious stuff that stays in hair, he thought. His systematic processing of data had kept him in a various state of undress and hunched shoulders for over two days now, and the light bulbs were about to burst in their sockets. Bobby had come looking for him on Saturday night, but the blue mutant held not a warm reception for his arrival. As good a companion as the young Drake was, Hank could not feel fully welcomed home until his continuous stream of questions had been answered. He would never know exactly why his life had been changed so dramatically, nor would he know who by exactly, but Dr Kryles's death had given him some aspect of satisfaction. Considering it though, the execution now only felt hollow and vengeful. His riddance had served to purge the world of some malicious intent, but now Hank could never know what exactly they had done. His mind had been so clouded with unadulterated rage that the thought to collect the information from the labs never occurred to him in the escape. Fury would have it either consumed in a furnace, or shipped to a safe room somewhere in Area 51. Whatever the destination, pondering over such a dilemma was fruitless. In the end, Hank wondered why he had ever started thinking about it at all. The concept of living his life out as a blue fur ball at the moment didn't appear all that maddening, it was only the reason as to why he was changed that lead to such anger; it only seemed unfair.
* * *
The Professor had set up several rudimentary strip lights along the length of the basement corridors, but the sterile darkness that shrouded many of the damaged rooms encroached on the white glow, threatening to extinguish it altogether. Ororo had taken the lift to the bottom floors in search of Hank, finding him stuck in a sea of paperwork and equipment. Not knowing how to act in order for him to confide in her, Ororo seemed at a loss before Hank noticed her presence and turned. 'Oh hi there,' he said nonchalantly 'what's up?' His voice seemed pleasant enough, but she knew him well enough to at least tell when a weight hung on his mind. 'Just checking on you.' She replied, smiling all the while amid the darkened interior of the large lab. 'Do you need anything?' Hank asked his attention on the microscope underneath his chin.
'I wouldn't mind talking for a bit. You've been down here a long time so far Hank.'
'Maybe I have better things to do other than sit on my ass all day watching tv.' He replied annoyingly.
'No need to get defensive, Doctor, I just wanted some communication.' She exclaimed, angry at his shielding emotions. 'We haven't talked in quite some time, that's all.'
'Well I'm busy, can't you see? If these samples don't get analysed in the first fifteen minutes of gaining them, then I lose several hours work.'
'I guess I'll come back later then!' She shouted at his turned back.
Suddenly reprimanding her angered personality, Ororo gave him another chance. 'I'm sorry; I just need to talk to you, understand what you're feeling.'
Hank wheeled on his girlfriend quickly, getting off his swivel chair to bear down on her. She took a step backward from his towering form.
'You don't know what I'm feeling! You have no idea what I've gone through in the last three weeks – no-one does, so stop doing Charles's dirty work and tell him to piss off!'
'I'd have an idea if you would just tell me!' She retorted, suddenly standing up to him.
'Well I don't feel like talking right now! This isn't Jerry Springer, and I'm not some teenage kid with a drug problem!'
'You have to talk to someone – if not Charles, then me! For chrissakes, choose me!'
'There's nothing wrong, Ororo – I'm totally fine! I don't need your assistance here!' He shouted, backing down from the confrontation for his repudiation.
'That's utterly ridiculous!' She exploded, almost laughing in the process. 'Of course you're not bloody fine, you're in denial!'
'Oh, just get the hell out of here…' Hank scowled at her, finally giving up. He sat back down gruffly and tapped at the keyboard. The silence echoing in the darkened lab was near deafening, and Ororo could stand it no longer. She whirled on her heels and marched out, irate with his pathetic refusal to accept the truth of the matter. Not only was he a freak, but a damn stupid one at that.
* * *
Later on in the same day, Hank made an effort to leave the labs and spend some time reorganising his room. During the Mansion raid, Scott had managed to take away much of the wall fixtures holding the men's dormitory corridor together. The explosion had mostly impacted upon the ceiling and therefore sent all the rubble and debris through the roof, but remains were still present. Chipped wood and mortar, bricks and splinters lined his carpet corners, most of it being cleared out of the centre by the builders. Hopefully they would be able to reconstruct the entire room in a matter of weeks or so, but for now, Hank would have to sleep in the reserved bedrooms in the basement. Like several others, he did not find the prospect so endearing, but sacrifices would have to be made in order for his original room to be restored. Goodness only knows what the workman think, Hank wondered while pouring through his scattered bits and pieces. Reminders from a notice board, tattered remains of sheets and clothes, bits of old VHS videos and other memorabilia embellished his carpet and shelves. Thankfully, all of Hank's books were safe from harm – locked in a chest of drawers across from the impact point. He took great pride in his well-established collection of books, having most of them bought through a cheap connection to a local store, but they paled in comparison to his extensive department of high-quality science magazines, Internet articles and specialist knowledge documents. Anything to do with physics, chemistry, mathematics, computing, biology and politics was logged in his anthology, including all derivatives from those umbrella terms such as: epistemology, biomechanics, nanotechnology, metaphysics, electronics, cosmology, chaos theory and finding a way around a car engine. He even had an article explaining the off-side rule in soccer, but that was kept well out of sight.
To Dr Henry McCoy, knowledge of all these things was paramount to his survival. Without formulating an opinion or knowing a fact relating to one of those areas of philosophy, he could not have it in the collection. Everything there had been studied and absorbed, processed and then spewed out in a former discussion or argument. It was a firm belief of his that the pursuit of knowledge was what made life worth living. He was a great man for what he knew, but right now his intellectual fountain of knowledge was not helping him. Already having leafed through the documentation from the experimental life-saving procedures performed on him by Charles and Jean, Hank was now trying to find a shred of information which might account for his current appearance. His hands blurred over every magazine and paper stuck in the chest, hoping in vain to find an answer. Coming across a stack of useless war journals, he sliced a finger on the thin front page. He knelt with his back to the door, cradling a sharp sting pulsing through the length of his forearm. Angrily, he whipped the stack of journals into the wall and heard a shatter.
Getting off the floor, Hank wandered dwarf-like over to pick up a small broken picture frame with an image of his parents inside. There was a lot of bad blood within the family, especially as the mother and father were both discriminative bigots for reasons Hank would never understand. Although their relationship constantly teetered on the edge due to their unfounded prejudice, a memory of some good times never hurt when he looked at the photographs. Many years of unanswered telephone calls and unsent mail existed, but he knew they still thought of him. During his early teenage years, Hank was already a larger boy than many of his friends, and unknown to him his mutation was slowly evolving. Mutants were largely unheard of by the mid-eighties era, and Hank knew nothing of his condition until he suspected himself of being oddly different. Muscles in his arms and legs were developing much faster than other teenagers around, and he grew inhumanly strong for such an age. His hands and feet extended in size, and soon people began to notice; not just in school but outside on the streets. He favoured crouching much of the time, preferring to carry himself with a more simian gait that resembled an animal among humans. At that time he wasn't an outcast mutant but more of a freak – not persecuted by society, but simply avoided by them. Once in the early nineties, mutants became more widespread, and the growing population could not live in isolation anymore. Although not as widespread in media coverage as today, societies all over the globe became aware of this small corner of the Earth's population welling up, and learned to ignore it. Only when the mutants started to assert their superiority over people did anything really stir up. Nobody wanted to know a thing until they themselves were affected by it. His parents were simply part of this naïve sect in the world that was offended by the mutant presence. Alerted to his unique condition, they promptly ignored the cries for help and kicked him to the curb. Over the past sixteen years he had learned not to resent them so much as pity; love still existed, but it was more than tainted by fear of the unknown.
Remembering with a tear of regret and angst, Hank ran his bloody finger over the cut glass in the frame. Drops sank down the whisker thin hairs and sharpened nail, then seeped into the colour photo paper; their faces became stained red under his blue finger. Ororo knocked at the broken door and stepped over a large strewn plank of wood. Hank ignored her presence until she recognised his fragile state and came over. Many thoughts welled in and around his mind; angry thoughts, violent prospects, but they were quelled, quieted and then replaced with sensitive memories driven home by his teary eyes. If he wasn't careful, he might cry. 'I'm sorry Henry.' She said sincerely, suddenly having to cradle his head as he wept. His hand dropped the picture frame, discarding it amongst the splayed magazines. Arms fell to his sides, and he cried into her shoulder as she crouched beside him.
* * *
A rainbow had spawned over the low-lying clouds while the sun peeked out from behind a veil of grey sky. Water dripped off the tree branches and their leaves, plopping delicately into small puddles of muddy dark brown. The rain had been so strong it had left behind a static air of charged energy that vibrated the entire Mansion grounds as Hank and Ororo stepped outside. He had put on two large boots and a long dull green coat to walk among the gardens while Ororo simply went barefoot over the wet, springy grass. Coming up to one o'clock in the afternoon both ignored the call for lunch and went silently around to the rear of the estate. Perhaps Hank had purged his denial and anger in that one liberating cleanse, but whatever state he was in, Ororo was prepared to meet him on his own grounds. He was walking with a face in the ground beneath his feet, whereas she observed the brightening skies and beautifully glowing life surrounding them.
'I'm glad you came out today.'
'I am too; maybe I just needed some fresh air to rid the tension. I felt stuffy and much too worked up to be stuck in the labs.' He replied, attempting a smile for the first time since being home again. 'I consider this my home, you know.' He said.
'I know you do Hank.' Ororo said enthusiastically.
'I want you to be a part of it – I'm glad that you live here now.' He continued, pouring honesty into the compliment.
'Well I'm not going anywhere soon, Hank, love. I'm staying right here – I knew this thing was too good to just throw in the gutter.'
'Is that what you were going to do then?' He asked, suddenly suspicious.
'Of course not!' Ororo laughed trying to calm him. 'I know our relationship is going to be better than doing that. You agree?'
'Yes, yes. Yes, I do. I need your support right now; I need you to stand by me so I can figure out who I am once more.' Hank said.
'You can have my support – I shall be your rock, on which you lean.' Ororo turned to him, her kind eyes bright. He nodded ever so slightly, fully understanding her resolve. 'You and I, we're the same now.' He said. Abruptly, he lunged and captured her lips in a rough uncompromising kiss. She almost physically pulled away, but then thought to herself, and tried to kiss back. Retracting at her sudden but small withdrawal, Hank moved off and stared at her through critical eyes.
There was a silence between them, and Ororo's face went straight. She studied his features, considering her options in this most delicate of situations. Were she to back off, he would surely be offended, so instead she moved against him once more, stepping in for another embrace, though this time not so sudden. Imperceptibly Hank's eyes flared, and he knew she was accepting him after his silent but physical and forceful proposal. She came closer and they kissed fully once more. After a moment or so, he slowly brushed her hands away from his side and face, and then pushed her up against the Mansion's brick wall behind. Pinning her arms in place, they proceeded to kiss each other passionately, letting love and anger filter through the lifted emotional cloak.
* * *
'I think there has always been a reluctance to face the facts here.' Hank started, sitting in Charles's office toward the end of the day. The windows were open, allowing for the fresh cold air to bundle through any gaps while a small fire heated their legs. Hank sat in the leather armchair, legs crossed and a glass of wine in one hand. 'What we do,' he continued, letting Charles acknowledge his answer 'no-one else could do. I mean, we're an elite organisation that moves from one place to another, taking care of business with our powers. Apart from a human militarily enforced solution, the X-Men are a unique bunch of individuals, created to do well in the world. I'm grateful for being here – I am, and we've all just got to remember that life could be so much worse if things were to get on top.'
'Did things get on top of you for a while?'
'Things got on top of me for a while. I nearly lost my head because I was so caught up in why I had been traumatised.'
'Are they still on top of you?'
'Maybe, I don't really know. I feel better – a lot better.' Hank paused for a second, reflecting on his most recent experiences. 'There was catharsis among the chaos, Charles… Catharsis…'
'What do you think you've discovered?'
'That I'm jinxed!' Hank laughed, brushing off the serious reality of his predicament. 'No, I'm not under a spell or anything – it was all random; every little piece that fit into the puzzle was arbitrary, and it just happened to come together badly.' He shook his head. 'I'd like to say that I'm taking it all very well.' Hank said, not proud in the least.
'You seem alright with it. You do.'
'Only on the outside; I feel pretty down in here though.' He pointed to his chest and smiled despondently. 'But there comes a point in everyone's life, I think, where people are just ready to say: I am what I am, and whatever happens, happens. I used to think that I had undergone that life-affirming incident years ago when my parents closed their doors to me, but now it feels like a new family has treated me to a new experience.'
'Do you mean that you blame us for what has happened to your body and mind?'
'Well yes and no – of course in no offensive sense, because you know I'm not like that Charles.' He stated with sincerity. 'Yes, because clearly if I had never got involved with the team then I never would have been caught by Weapon X and changed, but no, because something else just as bad could have happened to me even if I wasn't with the X-Men. It's like a double-edged sword that you cannot wield.'
'Then do you ever feel that you might lose control of yourself among us?'
'An honest answer would be: doesn't everyone?' Hank asked rhetorically. 'But to lose control entirely and lash out… mentally, it's possible for everyone – even you. But physically? It would only ever be like a fight in the family. I don't want to hurt anyone here for what I've undergone, just like you wouldn't want to harm for the disability in your legs.'
'Perhaps a different question now – do you… would you resent a normal human being for their appearance, now that yours is altered and therefore perceived as peculiar?'
'Envious of a "normal" image? You're looking at the wrong guy – I was always a fish out of water when it came to people.' Hank chuckled at the phrase, finishing his wine. 'You already understand this, don't you…?'
'We're talking about you though, Hank.'
'Listen, I've been a freak all my life; plain and simple. And now that I'm a blue furry freak, it makes no damn difference. I'll never resent an individual who looks like everyone else in the world – same skin tone, same haircut, same eye colour – same person. You know why? 'Cos a couple of hours ago I had sex with a woman that looks like a supermodel, and has a heart more glorious than a hunk of shining gold. Maybe I didn't realise this at the beginning when I came back here, but I have something to be proud of. So far, I have the love and support of a good girl, I have friends around me –who mean something to me. Whatever the future holds Charlie, I'm prepared to face it head-on.'
'Do you feel any different from before the experience – in respect to your health I mean?'
'Well I guess I'm a little more drunk now than back then.'
There was a pause in the office while Charles scribbled several lines indifferently in Hank's psychological profile folder. Placing it with the others on the desk, he wheeled over to the fire and helped down the rest of the wine bottle.