Nute Drabbles

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The Perfect Cure

Prompt from Tapestry: "How Forge's convo with Monet in Australia last year went."

~*~

"So let me get this straight. You want me to allow you to stick me with that outrageously gauche needle, donate my blood, then you plan to flee the country in violation of no less than six international laws concerning the transport of biological materials containing mutant DNA?"

"That's pretty much it. Aside from the blood part."

"You didn't just ask me for my blood?"

"Bone marrow."

"Aha. And the difference is...?"

"This will be much more painful."

"And if I do this, my little brother will live."

"I can't guarantee that."

"Don't bother me with trifles, you impossible wretch."

"If you don't do this, he'll die. That much I can guarantee. How can you say no?"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, you pathetic little man. I'd never hear the end of it from Father. If this leaves a mark, I will hunt you down and disassemble you. STARTING from the less metallic side."

"Roll up your sleeve."

"And mar these arms? You have to be the most idiotic genius I have ever met. Certainly not."

"The only other option is to take marrow from the hipbone. So, drop 'em."

"And without even an offer of dinner? I feel so cheap."

"Think of how I feel. You think this is how I wanted to spend MY vacation?"

"Yes."

"...well played, Ms. Saint Croix. Well played."

---

Colours

She did not comprehend the color at first.

Simple concepts came easily. That which is green is eaten, but not all green. The long green was best, the small green if there was no long green. The other colors, the bright colors, would not be as good as the green. As a fawn, she had learned this.

The purple smelled different, and was soft on her nose, but it was not eaten. It merely grew amidst the long green, and provided a contrast that would have pleased her, if aesthetic pleasure was a concept her brain could process.

The purple sometimes moved in the wind, when the long green would go back and forth. But it did not leave the long green. Even in her small mind, she knew this was a Bad Thing. And when the Bad Things occurred, she ran.

Across the short green, into the long green and the tall brown. Further into the tall brown where the purple did not grow. There would be no more Bad Thing. She ran untill the tall brown surrounded her. You did not eat the tall brown, but if you stood in its shadow, and you were very still, you were safe.

Then the long green was very close, and she tried to run, but her legs were weak. The long green tickled her nose, and she licked at it, instinctively trying to eat. The red was in the long green now, and she knew somehow that the red was a Bad Thing, but she could not run. She just watched the red sink into the green, and as everything faded, she saw the purple.

The purple smelled different, she knew that. And it was also soft on her nose.

Even in the shadow of the tall brown, standing very still, you were not safe.

---

Electromagnetism

"Papers to the front."

Third row from the back, closest to the windows, the daydreamer looked out at the beach. It wasn't even remotely close to fair, having Physics this close to the end of the day and the waves that close. It totally wasn't...

Someone was calling his name, and he jerked his head forward with an apology, taking the papers from behind him, adding his own, and passing them forward. His classmates were snickering quietly, and the bemused physics teacher simply tapped her foot impatiently.

"The four fundamental forces," she said, jerking a thumb at the whiteboard. "List them in order of strength."

He shrank down, trying to disappear, causing another round of giggles from the class. Finally, with a shrug, he walked to the board, grabbing a handful of pens. Just because he was daydreaming didn't mean he was an idiot. He could have slept through this test and still passed.

Alex uncorked the pen with his teeth, spelling out "ELECTROMAGNETISM" in block capitals across the board, in bright green.

For some reason, that looked right.

---

Power Lifting

"Piotr's up to nine thousand four hundred now. He's going to beat you."

Ororo's words hung in Sam's ears as he adjusted his goggles over his eyes. It was just a bet, a silly wager made in a moment of laughter between two peers. Which would happen first? Everyone had joked about it. The Russian powerhouse deadlifting five tons, or the Kentucky flier breaking the sound barrier?

Sam had never dealt with laughter well if he felt the joke was on him. The granulated surface of the flyer's launch platform scraped the bottoms of his sneakers as he braced himself. Scorch marks across the concrete-and-steel surface brought a frown to his face. Warren didn't leave scorch marks, and Ororo didn't make the explosive booms that let everyone for a country mile know that the oldest Guthrie was taking to the air.

But neither of them would ever come close to breaking that barrier.

And Piotr was only six hundred pounds away.

"Ah hate to lose a bet," Sam Guthrie said, whispering a quick prayer and looking skywards. This was the part he'd never get tired of.

Boom.

---

Double Agent

Note from Nute: Because I was bored. Little longer than a drabble, little less than a short story. Fun with second-person narration and lyrics.

~*~

Where would you rather be?

Anywhere. Anywhere but here.

When will the time be right?

Anytime but now.

You repeat this to yourself when you look in the mirror. But this is where you're needed. Your father needs you.

You don't look a lot like him, you notice, peering closer. You have his hair, gone white at an early age. Maybe something in the cant of the nose, the edge to the cheekbones. Where his skin is lined with age, yours is still smooth, though a little weathered. You're resistant to friction and windburn, but not immune. Moisturizing soap lathers up, scraping away the vestiges of stubble before the mirror can even begin to start fogging.

Wilderness of mirrors, world of polished steel

Gears and iron chains turn the grinding wheel

I run between the shadows; some are phantoms, some are real

The info drop is complex and simple at the same time. A junk email deciphered gives you the location and the time. A double cloverleaf interchange in Arizona. You're bypassing traffic, tracing the thin white line along the edge of the freeway, swerving only to avoid the occasional trucker dozing off for a second at the wheel or an overweight highway patrolman hypnotized by the readouts on his radar gun.

You smile, doing 412 in a 55.

A film canister with an X marked on the top in black marker. Anyone else would miss it, but your eyes can pick out details like none other. You can count raindrops as they fall, outracing the storm without even getting wet. In the flash of lightning you read the message before it disintegrates from air resistance.

You've made INTERPOL's Most Wanted list. Congratulations.

Wilderness of mirrors, streets of cold desire

My precious sense of honor, just a shield of rusty wire

No one asks you where you've been, your father's errands don't need to be discussed with them. As for him, he knows you inherited your mother's wanderlust, but you always speed to his side when he calls. He trusts you. You're the only blood family he really has left, after all.

He tells you of his ideals, and of locations and methods. He entrusts you with his secrets, because he's proud of you. When no one else looks, he places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently and calling you "my son".

You encode his information into a message, and speed off to hand it over to his enemies.

You're saving the world.

Move fast. Talk faster. Trust no one who can't keep up.

The case had been tried by the jury inside

The choice between darkness and light.

The world moves pretty fast, Pietro. You just have to keep one step ahead.

---

Triptych

Note from Nute: Since I'm still bitten with the second-person narrative bug, a little triptych. Two from XP-canon, one... not exactly.

~*~

Wake up.

Even after more than thirty years out of the Corps, your first instinct is to hit the three S's in under five minutes: Shit, Shower, Shave. First the sergeants yelled at you to get it done, then you were the sergeant yelling at the recruits, then you moved beyond the Corps into something different altogether.

You didn't have to yell then. They did what they were told, or they were punished, or they died. You were making good soldiers. They were trained well, got by on four hours sleep a night if they were allowed the luxury during their training. None of them saw that you pushed yourself right along with them.

Times change. You've changed. You're slower when you wake up in the morning, of course. Good for a man of your age, but pathetic compared to what you used to be. Now it's get out of bed, cough for ten minutes, and go about your routine here on this godforsaken island. Cold up here. Not as cold as guilt, though. Nothing grips your heart in that icy chill like regret.

What'll kill you first, you wonder? The physical ailments or those black stains on your soul? Ain't a damn thing you can do about either. Wouldn't change what you've done.

So you do what you can, Marine. You drive on. Semper Fi.

Wake up, Colin MacInnis. Your soldiers are waiting.

~*~

Lunchtime.

You used to hate it. Watching everyone come out of their classrooms and head straight for the cafeteria, or the vending machines, or their lockers with their brown bags full of processed food and chemical-laced sodas. Scarfing down the carbohydrates and sugars that wouldn't do their bodies an ounce of good. There's a reason they call it "junk" food, you know.

You ate between five and seven times a day. Never any more than the bare minimum your body needs - it's for fuel, not for luxury. Because your body was perfect, you knew this. All-state cross-country runner last year. Captain of the diving team. Your friends in the art class wanted you to model for them, and you always just smiled.

Then the world fell on you. Or that's what it felt like. One morning things just got heavy. You couldn't breathe, you could barely walk. You tried to move, and while your muscles obeyed, your bones protested.

Twenty-seven separate fractures, they said. Pins holding your femur together. A plate in each hip. Reconstructive surgery on your knees. A plaster cast to keep those shattered ribs immobile. You'll be lucky to walk again, they said.

Then came the hunger. It was hospital food, you knew it was horrible, but you didn't care. You ate, and ate. And you felt better. You knew you'd prove them wrong, though. You'd walk again. You'd run. You'd be back in that gym burning yourself out until you were perfect again.

Six months later, you were moved to the 'special' unit, because the regular gurney couldn't hold you. Seven hundred pounds, they said. Freak of nature, they said.

Mutant, they said.

So you walked again. Your own hideous body now able to withstand the strain, your curse became your blessing. You couldn't stand it, you tried to throw yourself into traffic. But when the truck hit you and you didn't even budge - you knew you were something different. You could be something special. He told you that, too. Your family didn't understand you any more, but he did. He'd show you a new world where you would be perfect, because you can make the world perfect. That perfect Brotherhood.

It's lunchtime, Fred Dukes.

Eat up.

~*~

Bedtime.

Of course you don't want to. At least that's what they expect you to say. At your age you're supposed to want to be running around with your friends nonstop, avoiding your bed like it's filled with shrieking eels.

Just in case, you check to make sure there are no eels.

Your roommate and best friend is asleep almost the moment his head hits the pillow. Sometimes you can see what he's dreaming, but you never tease him about it. When he sleeps, he's always happy.

You always make sure he's asleep first, before you get up and crack the door a little, letting that small sliver of light in. Then it's into bed, the blanket tight around you.

When you reach that state where you think you might be asleep but you're not totally sure, you can hear things. Sometimes it's your Mama's voice, remembering when she'd sing to you as you fell asleep, shining with her own light. She doesn't do that now, you're getting too old for lullabies.

But sometimes when you're almost asleep, you hear other voices. Other lullabies, voices that you don't know. You think you can remember the tunnels, but you're not even sure what they are.

You pull your blanket around you, wishing that all the memories make sense when you wake up. And as your eyes close, you smile knowing that the light means everything's going to be all right.

Sleep well, Miles Blaire.

Sleep well.