author: Lucinda

rating: PG 13

Hank McCoy's perspective.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hank McCoy or anyone else from Marvel.

Distribution: please ask first

note: do not try this yourselves.

Hank McCoy was a mutant. Fortunately, his abnormal characteristics were not horribly obvious. He was also a genius, although he supposed that the two were not connected. He had gone to college, and had acquired a very thorough education in biology, biochemistry, and genetics. While at college, he had observed the hatred and fear that people held for mutants, for those who were different, who were 'other'.

In some ways, he wasn't that different from the rest of the teeming masses of humanity. It disturbed him, on a deep and unreasoning level that he was different. That his hands and feet
were so large, larger than a normal man's would be. That no matter how good his grades, no matter how well he'd scored on the football field, the whisper of fear that he might be a mutant had frightened some of the charming young women away. The fact that he knew those hurtful little whispers, those rumors saying 'he can't be normal', 'what if he's one of them', and 'freak' had a grain of truth to them.

He was a mutant. It had caused him to have his oversized hands and feet. He was also stronger and more flexible than a normal man as well. He was a mutant, and everywhere he went, those
whispered rumors would follow, even if they didn't know, even if it was only a desire to hurt that prompted them. Even if they didn't know, the whispers would be there.

Freak of nature.

What sort of future could he have with those whispers? Those evil, spiteful whispers that named him a freak, that labeled him as different, as something that was not part of the human race? When he had never managed to have a steady girlfriend despite the fact that he was not ugly, that he was on the football team, that he was on the honors list for his grades. When even the members of the football team that had done little more than practice and sit on the bench could find a steady girlfriend? How else could he feel when the resurgence of those whispers would cause whatever young lady he had managed to charm into going out with him to make some excuse why she couldn't see him anymore?

Nobody wanted to date a freak. They didn't want to get to close to him. The only people that he had managed to get at all close to were the others from Xavier's, and they were also mutants.
He had very few real friends, and they hadn't been able to convince him that he would ever be accepted in the world if the truth were known.

He was different, not like everyone else.

But he had a plan. A brilliant, if risky plan that should fix everything. What was a person's body but a combination of their expressed genes and the result of environmental factors? If he
could produce the right formula, he should be able to render dormant his own mutated DNA. He should be able to make himself normal, to be like everyone else. He'd been working on his formula, putting in long hours at the lab, slaving over his theory and formula. As far as he could tell, it should work. The only thing left was to test it, to find someone willing to 'sacrifice' their 'unique genetic gifts' as Professor Xavier would put it.

How could he ask someone else to do what he was unwilling to do? How could he ask someone to trust their self to his formula, his theory and guesswork if he was unwilling? In truth, if he was
unwilling to risk himself, he had no right to ask anyone else. Which was why he had decided to test it on himself. He would drink his formula, would discover if he could reverse the joke of destiny that had marked him out, set him apart. Made him a freak.

He was holding the beaker now, the contents swirling gently around the sides as he tilted it under the light. It was a rich blue color, a startling hue that he hadn't expected. He studied it for a time, losing track of the minutes as he contemplated what he held in his hand. He held in his hand a new destiny, a new fate. Once he drank this, everything would change.

He brought it closer, inhaling a uniquely chemical scent, unlike anything he'd made before. A rapid glance showed that his meticulously taken notes were clear and legible, ensuring that he could recreate the contents of this beaker at his will. He brought it to his lips, and tilted it, allowing the fluid to flow into his mouth, down his throat. It burned, like a fierce, hot itching as it touched his flesh. It spread forth from his throat, almost faster than he could follow, as if the burning fluid were bing absorbed directly from his throat, not even waiting for it to reach his stomach.

The pain only grew, a burning itching deep inside of him, spreading through his body. He could feel the fumes rising from his throat, filling his sinus cavities, making him feel as if his skull were filling with hot noxious vapors. His muscles began to spasm, uncontrolled twitches and jerks, sending a slightly different sort of pain through his body. His veins felt as if they were filled with fire, with acid. He felt as if he was being burned up, to be reborn from the ashes of his body into a newer one, a better one.

The pain was growing stronger. His hand spasmed again, crushing the beaker with it's tiny residue of blue fluid. Sharp lines of pain blossomed, and he could hear, as if from a distance, the almost delicate sound of the shards of glass falling to the ground, the soft splatting of his blood, flowing from the slashes in his hand to the floor, staining the tiles with crimson, and the traces of his blue potion, the diamond brightness of glass. He screamed as the pain flared brighter, and felt himself falling towards the floor as his vision went dark.

He felt almost as if he were floating underwater. He could hear slightly distorted voices, sounding concerned, worried. Something was wrong, something was frightening the people that he could hear. Wasn't it his duty to try to save them? Shouldn't he find out what was wrong? The effort that it took to open his eyes felt far greater than any feat of athletics he'd ever performed on the football field.

Bright lights glared overhead, sending stabbing needles of pain through his eyes. Gradually, he was able to open his eyes, and turn his head slightly, trying to find out what was wrong.

By this time, the distortion of the sound had faded. He was laying on the floor of the chemistry lab, his hand bleeding sluggishly from numerous cuts. He turned his head, trying to look at his hand, to judge how damaged it was.

His hand was blue.

Not slightly stained, or speckled from ink, but it was a deep, rich blue color, almost identical to the shade of the droplets of some blue fluid on the floor, intermixed with shards of glass and some of his own blood. That was his formulae on the floor. Why did his fingernails look so long? They could almost pass for claws, at a bad angle.

His mouth felt funny, as if he'd been hit, and his lip had split and swollen. Carefully, he poked his tongue forward, trying to find out what he'd done to his mouth, to his face. The tip of his tongue ran over his upper lip, finding it whole, if slightly dry. Trying to make the same examination of his lower lip, something blocked his tongue. Something large and a bit pointed... what had happened to his tooth? Both sides of his mouth now had very large lower fangs, jutting up, the tips protruding from his mouth slightly.

Oh, merciful mother of God, what had he done to himself? The formulae was supposed to make him human! To change him, but only in such a way to make him like everyone else. It wasn't supposed to make his hand blue, or his fingernails into some sort of menacing claws, or to give him tusks in his mouth! How much more freakish had he made himself? Groaning slightly, he slid back into merciful unconsciousness.

It wasn't until much later, in an oddly private room at the college medical center that he learned the extent of what he'd done to himself. His entire body had turned blue, from his skin to his
nails to his hair, and his eyes were now a startling yellow. His ears had become pointed, and his canines had enlarged, the bottom more than the top, and they now looked like fangs. His lower jaw had become slightly broader, as if to allow the larger teeth to have more space. His body hair, fairly plentiful to begin with, seemed to have thickened, becoming almost a fur covering over his body, and it was also blue.

He was truly a beast now.

Hank McCoy covered his mutated face with his newly clawed hands and tried not to weep. How had things gone so wrong? He had only wanted to be normal, to have the same opportunities and chances that every other person had. Now, he was even more of a freak than he'd been before. People would see him, and they would be afraid, might even attack him, especially if he smiled. What sort of future could remain for him now?

end.