Hank's Interlude - Statements and Reasons
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Author's Note: I apologize immensely for the long delay. I had the schedule from Hell (test, projects, math competition and drama performances). Truly, I'll be picking up the loose ends and working hard on this and a few other projects now that that's out of the way. Now go on, imagine Hank as Pepto Bismol pink.
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"Hell will, and always will, involve blow-drying blue fur." ~Hank McCoy
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Of anything you can study in a textbook or learn in a classroom or laboratory, there remains one area that science has yet to understand - the human mind.
You think I'd learn, eventually, that people are irrational and never act according to reason. You think little ol' Hank would figure out just why we act the way we do.
Unfortunately, I have enough trouble understanding why I do the things I do, much less anyone else.
Remy's mad at me. I took his victory away from him at the last minute. He'll get over it; he always does. But it doesn't shake that nagging feeling that I've ostracized myself even further from them all.
The outcast among outcasts among outcasts. Perfect.
It's hard enough being Homo Superior in this backwards world, harder being one of the two 'fuzzy blues'.
Looking in the mirror, I suppose there could be worse colors. I could have ended up - God forbid - some awful shade of Pepto Bismol pink or neon yellow.
Then again, at least I wouldn't get called a Smurf. But there are definitely far worse colors.
I used to walk down the halls, blue, and even a blind and deaf man could have heard the whispers and seen the odd looks. Technically, a blind and deaf man couldn't, but it's an expression, another exaggeration of the English language.
Eventually, through time, the whispers quieted and then stopped. The odd looks became smiles and winks and other friendly gestures. But still, it felt like the singular memory was far more separating than a bulky azure coat could ever be.
For some as-of-yet unknown reason, I feel that odd urge to show off constantly. I imagine it must be slightly irritating. Undoubtedly if I were to take time off and examine some of my characteristics, I'd find it all a bid for acceptance.
A bid for acceptance. Isn't that what human nature is anyway?
You know the thermostat needs to be turned up when the furry guy gets cold walking down the halls. Or maybe that's just Bobby's room.
The other fuzzy blue is down in the Danger Room. I could swear that he never sleeps. Maybe his constant attempts at physical perfection, athletic perfection, are all just one of those infamous bids for acceptance.
He must know that we are currently on our vacation leave, but he's probably the most diligent of us all. He isn't going to let his body go to waste. I figure I will not either.
"Guten nacht." Kurt's tail sways lazily when I enter. I don't think he'll mind if I exercise with him.
"May I join you, Fuzzy Blue?" I ask politely.
He beams. "Of course."
For hours we just practice, strengthen ourselves. Quite honestly, when one sweats in fur, it gets very uncomfortable.
Eventually we shut off the simulation. I feel a swell of pride that my instruments were so successful. I almost say something, then decide against it. There's a pile of towels in the locker room. We both grab some. A few get knocked over, but we both concede that we're way too lazy to pick them up.
"Ach, I could practically wring my tail out!" He laughs and jokes. I suppose that's his answer to being different, much like my interest in the arts and knowledge.
I guess every creature has to sleep, and Kurt does too. He yawns loudly. "I guess the Incredible Nightcrawler will be changing his name to Incredible Sleepwalker, no?"
After giving him a hearty pat on the back, we go our separate ways. I'm going to actually sleep in a bedroom tonight, not lose consciousness on the computer keyboard. I'm getting tired of waking up every day with a nasty case of qwertytis.
Upon going to sleep, I wonder if all our little quirks are attempts to be brought into the fold.
I started sleeping in the lab when Trish left; apparently she couldn't stand a blue, furry boyfriend. The numbers and patterns and sentences on the screen started to mesmerize me once she was gone. I guess knowledge wasn't a bid for acceptance, just a replacement for what I couldn't have. It's not a bad-suited replacement either; I rarely think of her anymore. And when I do, I don't obsess about it. Not like I obsess over genomes and literature and Greek history.
Just maybe, love is dangerous when it doesn't end. It was probably better that we went our separate ways. There's an old myth about the Roman Emperor Heliogabalus, that he suffocated his drunken guests in over a ton of falling rose petals.
Call me crazy, but Hank McCoy is never going to drown beneath rose petals. I'm part of something greater now, a family and a home, but never so cloying and deep that it would interfere with my life and send me into a monotonous pattern. Hello, goodbye, I'm sorry, hello, goodbye, I'm sorry.
No, I'm never going to let life stick me as a cliché. Hank McCoy is not a cliché.
...
...
Author's Note: I apologize immensely for the long delay. I had the schedule from Hell (test, projects, math competition and drama performances). Truly, I'll be picking up the loose ends and working hard on this and a few other projects now that that's out of the way. Now go on, imagine Hank as Pepto Bismol pink.
...
...
"Hell will, and always will, involve blow-drying blue fur." ~Hank McCoy
...
...
Of anything you can study in a textbook or learn in a classroom or laboratory, there remains one area that science has yet to understand - the human mind.
You think I'd learn, eventually, that people are irrational and never act according to reason. You think little ol' Hank would figure out just why we act the way we do.
Unfortunately, I have enough trouble understanding why I do the things I do, much less anyone else.
Remy's mad at me. I took his victory away from him at the last minute. He'll get over it; he always does. But it doesn't shake that nagging feeling that I've ostracized myself even further from them all.
The outcast among outcasts among outcasts. Perfect.
It's hard enough being Homo Superior in this backwards world, harder being one of the two 'fuzzy blues'.
Looking in the mirror, I suppose there could be worse colors. I could have ended up - God forbid - some awful shade of Pepto Bismol pink or neon yellow.
Then again, at least I wouldn't get called a Smurf. But there are definitely far worse colors.
I used to walk down the halls, blue, and even a blind and deaf man could have heard the whispers and seen the odd looks. Technically, a blind and deaf man couldn't, but it's an expression, another exaggeration of the English language.
Eventually, through time, the whispers quieted and then stopped. The odd looks became smiles and winks and other friendly gestures. But still, it felt like the singular memory was far more separating than a bulky azure coat could ever be.
For some as-of-yet unknown reason, I feel that odd urge to show off constantly. I imagine it must be slightly irritating. Undoubtedly if I were to take time off and examine some of my characteristics, I'd find it all a bid for acceptance.
A bid for acceptance. Isn't that what human nature is anyway?
You know the thermostat needs to be turned up when the furry guy gets cold walking down the halls. Or maybe that's just Bobby's room.
The other fuzzy blue is down in the Danger Room. I could swear that he never sleeps. Maybe his constant attempts at physical perfection, athletic perfection, are all just one of those infamous bids for acceptance.
He must know that we are currently on our vacation leave, but he's probably the most diligent of us all. He isn't going to let his body go to waste. I figure I will not either.
"Guten nacht." Kurt's tail sways lazily when I enter. I don't think he'll mind if I exercise with him.
"May I join you, Fuzzy Blue?" I ask politely.
He beams. "Of course."
For hours we just practice, strengthen ourselves. Quite honestly, when one sweats in fur, it gets very uncomfortable.
Eventually we shut off the simulation. I feel a swell of pride that my instruments were so successful. I almost say something, then decide against it. There's a pile of towels in the locker room. We both grab some. A few get knocked over, but we both concede that we're way too lazy to pick them up.
"Ach, I could practically wring my tail out!" He laughs and jokes. I suppose that's his answer to being different, much like my interest in the arts and knowledge.
I guess every creature has to sleep, and Kurt does too. He yawns loudly. "I guess the Incredible Nightcrawler will be changing his name to Incredible Sleepwalker, no?"
After giving him a hearty pat on the back, we go our separate ways. I'm going to actually sleep in a bedroom tonight, not lose consciousness on the computer keyboard. I'm getting tired of waking up every day with a nasty case of qwertytis.
Upon going to sleep, I wonder if all our little quirks are attempts to be brought into the fold.
I started sleeping in the lab when Trish left; apparently she couldn't stand a blue, furry boyfriend. The numbers and patterns and sentences on the screen started to mesmerize me once she was gone. I guess knowledge wasn't a bid for acceptance, just a replacement for what I couldn't have. It's not a bad-suited replacement either; I rarely think of her anymore. And when I do, I don't obsess about it. Not like I obsess over genomes and literature and Greek history.
Just maybe, love is dangerous when it doesn't end. It was probably better that we went our separate ways. There's an old myth about the Roman Emperor Heliogabalus, that he suffocated his drunken guests in over a ton of falling rose petals.
Call me crazy, but Hank McCoy is never going to drown beneath rose petals. I'm part of something greater now, a family and a home, but never so cloying and deep that it would interfere with my life and send me into a monotonous pattern. Hello, goodbye, I'm sorry, hello, goodbye, I'm sorry.
No, I'm never going to let life stick me as a cliché. Hank McCoy is not a cliché.