I in no way own anything X-Men.
Please let me know how you think this story is going.
--P.
"You realize the process is permanent, correct?"
"Yes." The Green-Skinned girl answers. "I know."
"How do you feel about that?"
The girl pauses. "What do you mean?"
"How does that make you feel?"
"Oh." The girl looks down at her hands in her lap. "Relieved."
The counselor scribbles something down on her clipboard, not looking up. "And how old are you?"
"I'm fourteen. Is… I mean… do I have to be eighteen or something? Is there an age requirement?"
The counselor looks up the young mutant with an unusually cold stare. "Sadly, no." She returns to her clipboard.
The girl looks timid. "What?"
The woman sighs heavily and rubs the bridge of her nose. She's supposed to keep her personal opinions out of this. That's the most basic part of the job. With one hand she reaches up and pulls at the pin keeping her hair in a tidy bun. In one fluid motion, the woman's hair falls like a shiny yellow curtain. It seems impossibly straight and prim for being up as long as it has.
"I'm sorry." The counselor says. "It's been a long day."
They sit across from one another, shoved into a corner of the crowded clinic lobby. It's been like this since the cure became available to the public. Community clinics have swelled to capacity, forming lines down the street for entrance. It's a slow process. The FDA requires counselors be on hand to interview each mutant, counselors like the near-exhausted Emma Frost.
They call it an examination of mental stability; it's to keep things strictly voluntary.
Most of the counselors aren't properly trained. They're biased against mutants. They don't understand. Several times, Emma's had to turn people away after other counselors waived them through. Early she got into a row with a woman who wanted to force her daughter to take the vaccine. She had to be escorted outside.
"Alright, let's continue shall we? I'm sure you're ready to go home." Emma forces a smile despite herself. "I know I am."
The Green-Skinned Girl looks a little less scared now, and nods affirmatively towards the blonde in front of her.
Emma continues. "What is the full nature of your gift…" She pauses; catches her mistake. "Pardon me, your affliction."
"Just my skin." The girl replies, though her eyes take on a more curious expression.
"Nothing else? Heightened senses? Have you found that you can do things better than your classmates?"
"I'm not in school." The girl states. "I'm green."
Emma sighs again. "I'm sorry, I'm just trying to be…"
The Green-Skinned cuts her off. "Are you a mutant?"
"Excuse me?" Emma looks up from her clipboard again, her eyes showing the same amount of odious coldness as earlier.
"Are you a mutant?" The girl repeats, eyes meeting Emma's.
"I am not allowed to answer that question, and it's quite inappropriate for you to ask. We're done here miss." With a sharp flick of her wrist, Emma tears the bottom off of the paper she was writing on. "Give this slip to the lady at the front desk and she'll escort you to the back. Good luck and have a nice day."
"You said gift." The Green-Skinned girl states, taking the slip from the woman before standing up.
"A slip of the tongue. I've been here all day, as I said. Go now."
"Why are you working here?"
Emma stands, smoothing the front of her stark white skirt. "That's none of your concern, dear. Be off with you. You're my last interview for today." She begins walking for the back room. There's an employee lounge back there somewhere--unless of course they've opened it up to fit in more stations for curing--and Emma would like a nice big cup of coffee before she heads home.
The girl follows. "It's not a gift."
Firmly. "Goodbye, little girl."
"How can you call being green a gift?"
Placing her hand against the door to the back of the clinic, Emma turns to give the girl one last look. It's an almost sad expression. "I'm sorry." She says softly.
The girl opens her mouth to speak again, but her eyes quickly glaze, her limbs go slack. Slowly, the green girl turns and jerkily walks to the receptionist counter. Within minutes she's shuttled away into the back.
Emma shakes her head. "It's a gift to be different, darling. I understand it's not easy being green, but it is a gift." She opens the door and continues down the hall, searching for the lounge.
Several cups of coffee later, Emma Frost exit's the clinic via the alley at the back. She declined having an armed security escort because she dislikes guns. Besides, no one could sneak up on her if they wanted to. It's only thirty minutes until the clinic shuts its doors, but still there are people lined up on the street when Emma leaves the alley. Some look fundamentally normal, while others bear spines, strange hair, or disproportionate limbs and features. They'll be there all night, camping on the sidewalk so they can have a spot inside the clinic in the morning. It borders on chaos and police are ever-present.
She gets hit with a full cup of soda.
The cup bounces away, but the liquid splatters over her white coat, trickling down onto her skirt and finally her neat white stockings. It's a mess. Emma stops, too stunned to really do anything else. Someone from the nearby picket line, the same line that moved near the alley just to heckle the nurses as they leave, is yelling something. He's holding a sign that reads Not Sick! No Cure! and he's calling Emma a fascist whore.
Emma is too tired to yell back. This was her favorite skirt. By the time she gets home the stain will have already set. It's ruined. Yelling would only make her look more foolish than she already does. Someone else makes as if to hurl a sandwich, but is quickly stopped by a lone police officer working the barricade of the picket line.
Another person simply doing their job, regardless of how they may personally feel. Emma nods to him in thanks before scurrying on her way, white heels clacking.
A few blocks away she hails a cab and climbs in.
Once seated, moving, and a destination announced, Emma fans a little at her skirt. She knows it's a futile gesture (the fabric is soaked) but it gives her something to do.
"You from the clinic." The cabby asks, noticing Emma's ID badge.
"Yes." She replies.
"Doctor?"
"Yes. Psychologist."
He snorts. "I guess they got you on your way out."
"What?" Emma asks, confused. "Oh, the stain. Yes. Someone threw a soda."
"Seen 'em on the news causing all kinds of shit."
She sighs. "They don't understand."
"It won't matter soon. They'll be fixed and then they won't have anything to complain about, will they?" The man laughs as if his statement were some sort of priceless joke.
"Fixed?" Emma repeats, tone soft but edged like a dagger.
"Yeah. Pretty soon, all the mutants will be de-muted and no one will have to worry. Right?"
"Ignorant son-of-a-bitch…" Emma hisses.
"Whaddidyasay?" The cabby turns his head to look back at Emma.
She narrows her eyes. "You're going to shut up, turn around, keep driving, and when you drop me off you're going to charge me exactly seventeen cents for the trip. Is that understood?" Her voice never raises above that soft daggered edge.
"Understood." The man mumbles, his head snapping back around to lock on the road ahead. The rest of the drive is silent. When Emma arrives home, the cabby requests seventeen cents. Emma pays him, even making it an even twenty.
"For your trouble." She says.
The cabby thanks her and drives away. Once he gets about a block away, he'll wonder where he is and what he was doing before... before what? He'll and notice the meter ran, but he will not remember a customer. He'll look at the clock and discover a twenty minute gap in his memory. He'll also discover that he's soiled himself.
By then, Emma will already be upstairs and in the shower. She'll stand there for an hour or so before the hot water runs out. She'll continue standing for thirty more minutes.
She'll step out and over her ruined skirt left on the tiled floor.
She'll towel off, wash her face, and put on expensive face cream.
She'll wrap up in her white silk nightgown.
She'll skip the news because it's always the same.
She'll read a book before going to be alone.