3389The Fatted Calf [1/1] movieverse, Cyclops, Gambit
- Aug 28, 2001Title: The Fatted Calf [1/1]
Author: Kat Solano (orchydd@...)
Category: X-Men movieverse; Cyclops & Gambit
Rating: R if only for the swearing
Archive: Red Shades, Lebeau Library, X-Men Movie Fan Fiction Central; anyone
else, please ask.
Summary: Scott remembers life before coming to Xavier's while tracking down
someone he has tried to find for years.
Disclaimer: I'm sorry. I didn't want to do this, I really didn't. But these
two NICOMPOOPS ganged up on me and wouldn't let go of the dang idea and...
*sigh* I blame my newfound liking of Cyclops completely on all the authors
(such as Minisinoo and Kaylee) who've managed to write such excellent
Cyclops fics, both movie & comicverse and the fact that James Marsden looked
absolutely scrumptious in leather.
Further Hoopla: No, you _don't_ need glasses; I _am_ writing a stand-alone,
short story! Lots of swearing-- yeesh, kids nowadays! Has only been read
over and over my yours truly the morning after I wrote so my PJ's still have
muse-vibes on it. As usual feedback is desired; lots of feedback is even
I finally found him.
I leaned back, pinching my nose and telling myself that I wasn't getting
misty-eyed. Over _that_ brat? Not a chance!
Who are you kidding, Summers? You're no more immune to those damned
puppy-dog eyes than anyone else in the world.
I stood up, needing movement, needing to do something so I couldn't tremble.
It was hard to shield the emotions from Jean; she'd know I was shielding
anyway and ask me about it later but... but well, that's later and I could
come up with something for later. Right now, I needed to move.
* * * * *
sixteen years ago...
"Freak! Freak! Freak! Red-eyed, inbred freak!"
The cruel chant drifted over the juvie playground. Scott lifted his head
from his book, searching for the source.
There was a mini-mob gathered at one corner of the building. He couldn't see
what they were looking at but he could guess: a new kid. If you were unlucky
enough to have to stay for more than a week, the first few days were torture
to those guys. You had to learn to stand up for yourself or pray that you
found some dipshit older and stronger than anyone else who was willing to
back you up. The latter didn't come for free, of course. Payback started
from letting them get half your lunch and moved downhill from there.
Scott had chosen the first option. It had been harder and more painful but
at least he wasn't beholden to anyone.
Deciding that the song was really getting a bit tedious, he stood up, dusted
the seat of his jeans off, and headed in that direction. He'd heard lots of
crap about the innocence and purity of children. What a load of bullshit.
Kids were the worst type of creatures out there; selfish, conscienceless,
egocentric. No one wanted to get on the bad side of a kid.
The chanting suddenly escalated into out-and-out yells. Scott moved faster.
The mob had decided that a more physical beating was in order and had
proceeded to deliver it. Whoever they'd been teasing was in the middle of
that dogpile. Scott sighed, grabbed two collars and yanked.
"What's up?" he asked conversationally.
The snotty-nosed grub wiped mucus, saliva, and blood from his face. "We're
just havin' some fun with the freak!" he said gleefully, "You should see his
"Yeah? Well, you should see your face." He dropped the kid and kicked his
pants for good measure.
Someone from the doggy-pile saw Scott. By some mysterious kid-code, she
transmitted that information to the rest of the little demons. They
scattered all over the playground. By the time the last of them staggered
away, the new kid was already standing up. He drew his foot back and
viciously kicked one boy who still hadn't gotten up then whipped his small
fist into the face of another one that was, unluckily, also in the way. He
was about to punch Scott, too, but the older boy grabbed his wrist.
"I'm the calvary," he said.
The kid dropped his head and his hand. "I don't need no help." He had a
slight drawl. But then again in middle America almost everyone seemed to
have an accent.
"Of course you didn't," said Scott wryly, "Next time I see two dozen little
turds piling on top of you, I'll just wave and wish you a good day."
"Yeah, you do that." The boy wiped his face. Scott saw a streak of red on
"You better get that cleaned up."
"What are you, some sort of big brother?" His sneer was obvious though Scott
had yet to see his face completely.
"You wish." He took the boy's arm, intending to drag him inside if necessary
but the kid whipped it back so viciously that Scott was almost carried along
with him. He stumbled, catching himself in time to keep from falling on top
of the boy.
That was when he got his first good look at him. The kid had red-on-black
eyes. It matched his bloody nose.
* * * * *
I didn't tell anyone why I was going to Seattle. "None of your business" was
what I told my students. "Some things to take care of," was the excuse to
the Professor and the others. Actually, I felt kind of sorry for my kids;
Hank's vocabulary takes a little getting used to and everyone in my math
class was going to hate me or adore me by the time I return.
Either case was a bit alarming.
Since that good-for-nothing, Logan, had stolen my bike I couldn't even have
the enjoyment of road-tripping. The more rational part of me, the one I
mentally labelled "Cyclops," said that the Jeep was more practical anyway,
more comfortable in the long run and was roomier. But I felt like getting
pissed off at Wolf Boy so I let myself wallow in a sulk as I threw my
backpack into the passenger seat. My hand hovered then, with a sigh, I threw
in one last item.
A deck of cards.
* * * * *
Sixteen years ago...
Scott glared at Remy over his cars. "I saw you palm that card."
The younger boy threw his hand down with a disgusted sigh. "How the fuck am
I supposed to cheat when the damned cards are twice as big as my fuckin'
"That's why you should distract them, shithead." He slapped the boy upside
the head, not too gently but not too hard either. "Like that."
In retaliation, Remy grabbed Scott's wrist and twisted. But Scott knew this
move; he taught it to the little turd. He forced his hand away and pushed
the boy just hard enough that he fell out of his seat. "You fight like a
"Thanks." Seeing Scott's surprise, Remy explained, "You ever seen girls
fight? Vicious bitches from hell."
"True." He started the clean up the scattered cards. "You're pretty enough
to be a girl," he teased.
Remy grimaced. At nine years of age, he was just old enough to know that
being liked by the girls wasn't necessarily a bad thing but being hated by
the guys _because_ he was liked by the girls was all too horrible. That and
his eyes. Sometimes, he didn't know why they beat up on him so much: his
baby face or his devil's eyes.
"Why you doing this?" he asked the older boy.
Scott shrugged. "I've always wanted a pet freak." He ruffled the kid's hair
to take the edge off of the words. "'Sides, the rest of those guys are
idiots. You're smart enough to fight back; most of them just hang onto the
nearest big kid."
"I ain't no hanger onner!" He drew his arm across his eyes, wiping away
tears. "I ain't cryin' either. The sun makes my eyes water."
Scott put both arms up, a peace sign. "That's cool with me." He took the
cards from Remy's end of the make-shift table and started shuffling them
again. "Five card stud, jokers are wild."
* * * * *
I pulled into the cheap little hotel. My car screamed "rental mistake" and
I'm sure the owner took notice of that. She threw me a look that said "I'm
watching to make sure you pay" before reluctantly handing me the keys
I had my choice of car rentals when I got off the plane; the Professor has a
business AmEx that was nigh onto unlimited. I could have gotten a smooth
sports car and booked a five star hotel. It would have been much more
comfortable for me but I wasn't sure if that was the case with Remy.
Hell, that kid could be comfortable from a cardboard box to the Taj Mahal.
At least, that's what would show.
* * * * *
Sixteen years ago...
He felt something warm and little wiggle into bed with him. Instinctively,
his arm went out hold it still while his other hand made a fist and ploughed
it deep into the something's softest part.
Remy didn't even whimper. The only reason he knew it was Remy was because
his eyes were glowing dully.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Scott growled, shaking the
younger kid roughly. "Get back in your own bed!"
"I can't!" he whispered back.
Scott had only seen real fear twice in his life. Once was on his mom's face
when she threw them out of his dad's burning plane with that faulty
parachute. The other time was when social services had taken his little
brother, Alex, away to his new family three days after Scott was let out of
the hospital. Tonight with Remy made up the third.
"Why not?" he asked, gentling his tone just a little bit.
"I just can't, okay?" Remy tried to drag his arm away but it was
half-hearted at best and Scott's hand was like a clamp. "Look, do... do you
want me to do something for you?"
When Scott felt the younger boy's hand rest on his upper thigh, he thought
he was going to throw up. A look at Remy's expression told him that the kid
felt the same way. But apparently, something was worse than playing a
"Get your friggin' hand off me and stay on your end." Scott threw himself to
the edge of the bed to make more room. "The minute you steal the blanket,
you're on the floor, got it?"
Scott was just about to fall asleep again when Remy poked his back.
"What?" He hoped his voice let the kid know how pissed off he was.
"Sorry I came onto you."
Scott sighed. "It's okay, kid. Just don't do it again. There are better ways
to get what you want."
There was a second or two of silence. Scott would hear the gears in Remy's
head moving. "I know. Someone told me I got the stickiest fingers this side
of a gecko."
Scott snorted, unable to choke down a laugh. "Then you got something to
teach me. I couldn't steal candy from a blind-deaf baby."
"Yeah, you aren't exactly sneaky."
Scott turned around to face the kid. "What am I then?"
Remy shrugged. His eyes swept down to the loose thread. He picked at it like
it was the most interesting thing since sliced bread. "A brick wall," he
replied, "Something big that you can't move even with a truck."
Now Scott had to laugh aloud. At five-foot-four and ninety-three pounds, he
was anything _but_ a brick wall. A walking stick was a better description.
"I don't mean like that," Remy said, rolling his eyes. "Look, Jake
McNamara's a friggin' truck but the only reason he gets his way is 'cause
he's biggest on this side of the fence. He's such a wimp when the big kids
come around; he's practically their dog."
"He doesn�t push me around," Scott said with a self-satisfied smirk.
"Exactly." Remy stopped picking at the thread; it was starting to unravel
the pillowcase and Scott might get pissed off. "No one can push you around.
You're a brick wall. You don't let anyone hit you or make you do things you
don't want or... or..."
Was the kid crying? Scott wasn't sure but he let Remy grab a few minutes to
sniff his snot back up and save face. "My dad told me that I shouldn't even
let anyone push me around."
"Cool." Remy sniffled again. "I don't know who my dad is. Or my mom either.
I heard people say they found me in a garbage bin on account of..." His hand
waved in front of his face, gesturing at his eyes.
"My dad was awesome," Scott said. He shifted to lie on his back and tried to
recall his dad's face. It got blurrier and blurrier each year. "He flew
planes in the army. I'm gonna be a pilot, too, when I get older."
"Me, too." Remy piped up. "Or a motorcycle racer." Then he sighed and to
Scott's ears it was one of the saddest things he'd ever heard.
"Are you cold or something?"
"Naw, I'm okay. It's a helluva lot better than alleys and sidewalks."
"No kidding." He opened his mouth to ask another question but changed his
mind. He and Remy both needed to get some sleep.
* * * * *
I flipped the paper I had picked up at the airport to the third page. The
building formerly known as "Casa Flamenco" was completely gone. Well, that's
a bit of a lie. There were a few charred chunks of plywood and some melted
remains of the steel frame but otherwise the hotel was a crater in the
middle of downtown Seattle. I'd never been in the (in)famous hotel myself
but unless you lived under a rock, you'd've heard of it.
Outwardly, it was one of the most opulent of the grand hotels, even more so
than any of the places in Las Vegas. It wasn't as big as, say, the
Waldorf-Astoria, but it that was probably one of the reasons it was so
popular. Some rooms had to be booked two years in advance. The restaurant on
the third floor was voted the best worldwide for three years in a row; the
menu was so expensive, they didn't bother quoting the prices.
But by far, Casa Flamenco was known for the theatre that stood beside it.
People flocked to it by the thousands and not only to watch the classic
greats. NeoRoma also opened its doors for magical acts, hard-core bands that
weren't permitted to play elsewhere, and the now-outlawed rave parties.
There were also rumours of old-fashioned bacchanals, satanic sacrifices, and
I was doubtful about everything but the last.
God, Remy, where are you?
* * * * *
Sixteen years ago...
He wasn't going to miss Remy sleeping beside him. The kid kicked and punched
and talked and his sleep. If anything, he'd admit that he was a bit jealous.
The kid had only been in here for a couple of weeks and already, someone was
going to pick him up.
When he had been in the orphanage, everyone's eyes had always gone right
over his head. If you were under seven, you had a chance of being adopted.
Once you hit nine, it was over. Scott also had records with "brain damage"
in red ink. He didn't know if he really had brain damage; sometimes he just
didn't feel like talking, that was all. He'd gone through eight foster homes
in the three years since then. They hadn't all been bad; some of them were
awesome, and some were terrible, and most were right in between. He just
didn't want to be part of their "family;" he _had_ a family already.
Remy hadn't told him about the man who'd come in. The brat didn't talk much
unless he was trying to weasel out of trouble; then he was unstoppable.
Scott found him playing with some bugs at one end of the playground, those
bugs that curled up into balls when they were touched. He was picking them
up and rolling them into each other like miniature marbles. "Hey you."
Remy didn't look up. "Know what these things are called?"
"Those bugs?" Scott shrugged, not really caring. "I dunno."
"Neither do I."
Scott picked one up and rolled it, too. He didn't hit anything. As soon as
you left them alone for more than five seconds, they would uncurl and try to
get away. It made for really hard targets.
"You know anyway to sneak out of here?" Remy asked after several minutes of
the increasingly interesting game.
Scott shrugged again. "Why? You're gonna get picked up tomorrow."
Remy's body stiffened. Sometimes it seemed as if he was even scrawnier than
Scott but maybe that was just 'cause he was so small and those eyes of his
were so big. Then he drew his arms and legs closer to his body; if he had
been those roly-poly bugs, he'd've curled into a ball, too, with that
tangled shock of red-brown hair hidden under his arms. "I don't wanna go
with him." The words were whispered.
* * * * *
I never did ask him why he didn't like the man. Somethings don't need to be
explained like why Remy always snuck into my bunk, why he hated being
touched, why he always stole things and hid them under his mattress. I kind
of guessed that whoever it was that came that morning was part of the reason
why Remy was on the streets in the first place.
I bribed the older kids with some cigarettes to make a distraction while
Remy snuck away. They never guarded us younger kids as well as the older
ones which was stupid 'cause we could get in and out of smaller bolt holes
than they could. I gave Remy my jacket, this cheap windbreaker with big
pockets and loaded them with bread and fruits. Peaches. A part of the
chain-link fence was loose on the bottom; we'd been using that since time
The funny thing was they never made a fuss about it. The last time they
found out someone escaped, they brought in five squad cars and a private
detective. When Remy disappeared, life went on as usual. I think I went
along with it just 'cause I was thrown.
It was weird but the very next morning, I was sent to foster with Deborah
and Craig Jameson. I spent the best five years of my life with them up until
I blew up bathroom during my senior prom.
* * * * *
Eleven years ago...
"Scott?" Deb knocked a bit louder. "Scott, please open the door. I've got
your dinner here."
"Just leave it in the hall, Deb, please."
She didn't like the sound of his voice. It was scratchy and ragged, like he
had been or still was crying. And he hadn't gone out of that room since the
"Scott, please, for the last time, you're not in trouble." She put the tray
down on a hall table.
There was no answer.
"Scott." Her tone became wheedling, almost begging. "You've got to--"
A loud engine gunned down the residential street, the stereos blaring. Then
there were several crashes, the sound of broken glass and ceramic.
"Hey, freak!" came the yells, "Why don't you blow up the bank next time
instead of trying to peek into the girl's bathroom, swamp thing!" Raucous
laughter followed by jeers like, "Come on out, Laser Boy!"
"Dammit!" bellowed Craig as he herded the younger kids away form the
windows. One of the girls had been hit by a stone. "I've had it with those
kids! I'm calling the cops!"
* * * * *
I walked out of the Starbucks with a large (or grande, if you want to use
the lingo) black coffee, much to the disgust of the girl behind the counter.
Hey, I _was_ in the coffee capital. It wasn't cold enough to warrant a hot
drink; I just needed something to do while I was walking around aimlessly.
Honestly, once I got here, I didn't even know where to start. The professor
had told me that Remy was incredibly hard to read. In fact, the only reason
why he'd found him was because he had used so much of his power, causing a
granddaddy of all spikes on Cerebro's monitor. The Remy I thought I knew
wouldn't have stayed in the same place that he'd caused such a commotion in.
I was grasping at straws.
I took as sip of the coffee. I certainly didn't stick around for the cops to
come around again all those years ago. The minute I heard Craig yell the
word "cops," I took off. It was pretty stupid; I didn't even eat the dinner
that Deb left behind for me. I just jumped out of the window and ran as fast
as I could with my eyes clenched shut. It was on luck alone that I survived
an entire month before the professor found me. I hadn't opened my eyes in
all that time.
I wonder what Remy's eyes would look like through my shades. White on black?
That was even scarier than before.
The Casa Flamenco was a good fifteen-minute walk away from the Starbucks. It
looked a lot worse in person than in full-colour photos. But I guess
pictures can't capture the smell of the place. They say there were at least
a fifteen hundred people in the theatre when it blew up and another thousand
in the hotel including staff. There were four hundred sixty-one survivors.
There was police tape encircling the perimeter. I ignored it. As long as I
looked as if I had the right to be there, no one would question me. If worse
came to worse, my school ID cared looked official; I could flip it quickly
and blab off something about Bureau C17 and terrorists. It worked in lots of
other mutant related cases.
I picked my way around the debris, taking care not to step on anything
fragile. Although the explosion had only occurred two days ago, they'd
managed to get everyone out. Everyone possible, that is. I jerked away from
a long thin object that resembled an arm that had been charbroiled.
Apparently, the fire had burnt so fiercely that only those on the outside
escaped whole. Not necessarily alive, but whole.
Everyone in the theatre was ash.
* * * * *
Eleven years ago...
"So," Scott asked as he perched nervously on the examination table. His head
ached; he still wanted used to seeing everything in red. "Can the professor
really cure me?"
The doctor, Hank McCoy, passed his instruments to his assistant, Jean. "I
regret to inform you that mutation is not a condition which can be cured."
Seeing the boy slump minutely, he patted Scott's shoulder. "It is a gift; a
rather questionable one in your case, but a gift nevertheless." He sighed
and rubbed the back of his neck. "You know, of course, of the brain damage
you retained as a child."
"The plane crash, yeah. My old doctor said that didn't damage anything
important," he protested, "I did all right in school."
"Indubitably," said Dr. McCoy, "but although most of your motor functions
escaped unscathed by this predicament, I suspect that your mutation did
"So," Scott said after a few seconds of translating Dr. McCoy's medicalese
into normal English, "you're saying I'm stuck wearing these glasses
"I hesitate using that word for anything in life," replied the doctor,
"Nothing lasts forever."
"Yeah but--" Scott bit off his words in mid-sentence as another particularly
vicious jolt of pain throbbed behind his eyes. It felt like someone was
hammering the middle of his head.
"Close your eyes for a sec," Jean ordered softly. Without waiting for his
word, she plucked the glasses from his nose. He almost protested and jerked
away but then her fingertips came to rest on his temples and before he knew
it, he was lying down on the bed being given the best headache massage he'd
Hank had picked up the glasses in the meantime and studied it. "While the
ruby quartz does absorb his optic blasts, it has a straining point during
which it reflects the blasts back into young Mr. Summers' eyes. I suspect
that is the cause of his numerous migraines."
"Isn't there some sort of... I don't know, alloy or insulation we can use to
redistribute power of the blasts?" asked Jean.
"Possible but detrimental to the more practical aspects of life." Hank
turned Scott's glasses over and over in his paws. "Being composed entirely
of red quartz, Mr. Summers' eyewear, though resembling a banal prop from a
retro-sixties cinematic experience, provides him with nearly conventional
"There is an alloy I could utilize for the frame but I am dissuaded from
using it due to the fact that it would take his peripheral vision away
Scott started to straight up but Jean firmly pushed down on his shoulders.
"Look," he said staying in his prone position, "You said yourself that my
eyesight is above average. I can live without peripheral vision but I can't
stand these headaches any more."
"You won't have to," said Jean soothingly. Her fingers strayed from his
temples to make circles in his scalp. It was the closest Scott every came to
melting into a puddle. "We'll find a way to control your powers."
* * * * *
There was an entrance to the underground levels from the parkade on the
other side of the street. Urban legends notwithstanding, I really wasn't
expecting more than laundry rooms, gigantic heating tanks, maybe another
parking lot just for employees. It was a rabbit-warren of cement tunnels
thinly painted peach. The uppermost floor was scorched and smelled of smoke.
The one below that was in slightly better shape.
That was where I found him.
I was right about the laundry rooms; they had enough washing machines in
there to whiten the uniforms of the entire USA military force. I opened the
next door: hot air billowed out. White sheets hung from the ceiling like
some cheap horror flick. The drying room. I moved on and tried the third
door. More sheets, these ones in the Casa Flamenco's red and violet pattern.
The fourth and fifth doors held more of the same; smaller sized washers and
dryers probably for the guest's clothes.
I almost missed the sixth door. It was tucked away in an odd angle and stood
only to the middle of my chest. It was probably a closet for the detergents
but I opened it anyway.
I remember Hank telling me about a physics phenomenon where the inside of an
object was larger than the outside. That was this closet. I felt like
donning a fur coat and taking on a British accent while I looked for Mr.
Tumnus and Aslan. I ducked in, leaving the door wide open.
Inside, I could stand up straight, reach my arms up and still not touch the
ceiling. Empty shelves lined the walls. I ran my hands along their surfaces.
There was barely any dust; these had been in use recently. The blast hadn't
reached these levels hard enough to upset any dirt that was more than half
an inch thick.
Remember when I told Hank my eyesight was better than average? Well, it's
about three times better. I can discern (that's a Hank McCoy word) the
barest movement and track it all over the place. We're not sure yet if it's
because of my mutation or if it's just a family fluke; my dad _was_ one of
the Air Force's best pilots. In any case, I spotted something shift slightly
at the far end of the room.
Remy was right about my lack of subtlety. Again, it maybe because of the
visor or that month I spent blind on the streets but I couldn't sneak up on
anyone if my life depended on it. Jean says I have elephant's feet. Whoever
or whatever had been hiding scurried away as soon as I took a step in their
direction. So all I could do was run after them.
It wasn't difficult. His breathing sounded bad, like he had pneumonia, and
his steps were uneven. He knocked down a unit of shelves as I got closer but
I blasted it away and ducked around another set to keep the debris from
"Come out," I said, trying to be gentle and firm at the same time. I think I
only got away with firm. "It's just me and I promise I won't hurt you."
A ragged laugh was all that answered me. Whoever-it-was shuffled away again.
This time, instead of following his heels, I tried to guess where her was
heading for. I hoped there was only one entrance to this place but planned
for the opposite. Sometimes I gut lucky and I never have to diverge from
Plan A, but most of the time, Plans, B, C, and D have be pulled out before
anything could be done.
I think, at long last, I got lucky.
I caught a better view of him as I hugged the wall that had the door. It was
wearing a dark coloured coat, knee-length probably fake leather. Its hem was
torn and fluttered like a flag as he ducked behind some more shelves.
"I know you're back there," I said. I moved more fully into the narrow
walking space between the shelving units. "I'm going to stay right here. You
can come out when you want to."
More laboured breathing. He didn't want to come out but he obviously was too
tired to run any more. Besides, I was blocking the closest exit.
"You're hurt," I continued, "I can get you a doctor."
If anything, he got more panicked at that idea. Inadvertently I suspect, he
let out another mockery of a laugh then gasped. There was a sliding noise--
perhaps he had fallen? If that was the case, I had to investigate.
"I'm going to walk towards you," I said slowly, trying not to sound
threatening, "I just want to see if you're hurt."
The shuffling, sliding sounds increased as I got nearer. He was trying to
get away but his injuries were keeping him from doing so quickly enough. His
breaths were beginning to resemble sobs. I turned the corner. A glowing bar
of wood came up to greet me. I put an arm up automatically to block it then
reached down to yank it away. It sizzled in my hand.
"Oh, shit." I tried to throw it but the shelves were in the way. All I could
do was duck down towards the mutant-- and cover my head and neck. The
explosion wasn't that big; just enough to bring down a few more shelving
The mutant underneath me squirmed and threw wild punches. Several of them
met their mark and for a while, I couldn�t seem to remember how to breathe.
He kicked me off and started to get up but I shot my leg out and tripped
him. Cheap shot, I know. He came down on his chin--ouch!-- and let out a cry
as he curled up.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fuckin' perfect, homme," he replied, "T'anks f'r carin'."
Great. Another smart-ass. As if there weren't enough of those in the
mansion. "I can get you some help."
"Like de help you jus' showed me?" He snorted. "I t'ink I can live wit'out
I think I rolled my eyes. "At least let me see the worst of your injuries.
I've had paramedic training."
"Last time I check, kung fu wasn't in no paramedic guide book."
"I was using the new improved edition," I retorted. I started to get up on
my feet but changed my mind at the last minute and sat back on my haunches.
"I'm a mutant, too. I'm not going to crucify you if you've got green skin,
flippers or feathers for hair."
Slowly, he relaxed his foetal position. I thought I saw the flash of his
eyes from under his lanky auburn hair. I felt his gaze focus on my visor for
a long time, then move down to my hands, which were laced loosely on my lap.
He straightened but with his back still primarily facing me.
"What about devil's eyes?" he asked.
I allowed myself to smile. "Even better."
Got anymore time to waste? Visit my world o' X-Men, Gargoyles and Highlander
fics & pics at http://xeno3kattz.tripod.com/index.htm
Rogue: What am I going to do with you, Remy LeBeau?
Remy: I have a list, but I left it in my other pants.
~Astonishing X-Men #1
Goliath: I never realized when you were human just how beautiful you were.
Elisa (with a smile): You mean you thought I was ugly?
Goliath: Uh... careful! Updraft!!
~Gargoyles: The Mirror
Methos: It's got such a nice ring to it. Yeah, no more fighting, no more
killing. Peace and harmony. Don't tell me you never fantasized about that?
Some young sucker's always gonna fall for it.
Duncan: Richie has.
Highlander the Series: The Messenger
Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp