Who: Hank McCoy What: Hank ponders the possibility of further mutation. When: Sept. 22, early morning Where: His bedroom. Rating/Warnings: G/no warnings. Status: Narrative, complete.
Hank sat on the edge of his bed. He hadn’t had any more dreams of that other life since the last information dump of a dream. That didn’t stop him from thinking about them, though.
The events of the dreams were a mixed bag. Some were pleasant, like chats with Emma or nights on the town with Simon. Others were very unpleasant, like Cassandra Nova forcing a student to beat him unconscious, or mutants dying of a virus that only affected them, or so many other terrible things. And from what Scott had said, so many more terrible things to come.
He sighed and looked at his hands. They were still human, still a color which fell within the normal range for human skin color. They were a bit bigger and a bit broader than they had been before the dreams, but they were still the hands he’d had all of his life. And now they were the hands he looked at every morning to see if they’d changed again. To see if he’d changed again.
It seemed, in a way, almost petty to worry about his appearance that way. How would that work in the OC? Would everyone be able to see the change if he woke up someday with blue fur, or with blue fur and claws and paws and fangs? Or would only the people affected by the dreams be able to see? That seemed to be a decent sized sampling of the population of Orange County, for all that it was probably not so large a sample in comparison to the entire population of the county. That didn’t make it any more reassuring.
Hank rubbed his hands over his face and stood up. He stretched a little, then headed to the bathroom for a drink of water. He turned on the faucet and then looked up at the mirror as the water filled the cup. Blue eyes, brown hair, a pleasant enough face. He bared his teeth at his reflection. Regular adult human teeth, in good condition. Average sized canines. He turned the water off and took a drink. He set the cup back down on the sink and headed back to bed.
He checked the time on the bedside clock and sighed again. He fluffed his pillow up a bit and lay down, pulling the covers over up to his waist. He was tired, but his mind continued to whirl.
If…or when…he woke up blue and furry, what would he do for clothes? Well, that would depend largely upon which mutated form he happened to wake up with. Both would involve either a tailor or a “big and tall” store. Which would probably still involve a tailor, as neither his more simian form nor his more feline form exactly leant themselves to the average human man’s proportions. And shoes would be out of the question, nearly. They certainly would be if he went feline right away.
Rolling onto his side, Hank closed his eyes. All he could do was wait. And hope.