Fic: Token (X-Men Movieverse, Hank McCoy gen)
Title: Token
Author: harmonyangel
Fandom: X-Men Movieverse (spoilers through X-3)
Disclaimer: Marvel and Fox own it all!
Character: Hank McCoy
Rating: PG for some mild cursing
Word Count: 1,900
Summary: To quote caia_comica: "In which Hank McCoy is Sarah Palin." (But a lot more sympathetic.)
Author's Notes: Written for the Catchallthon challenge, for lonelywalker. The prompt was "A view of the mutant situation from the Capitol, via Senator Kelly, Stryker, Mystique-as-Kelly, Hank, Jean, Charles, Erik, or whoever else might be looking at the political side of things rather than the helmets-and-latex side. All pairings or gen very welcome." I hope this fits; it's more character study than story, but I tried my best. Thanks to second_batgirl for beta-ing/reassurance.
When Hank McCoy met Charles Xavier, he was already twenty-two years old. Four years of Harvard studies in biochemistry and genetics had given him an inkling that his oversized hands and feet were more than just a quirk of gangly adolescence, and he'd made it his mission to track down the man who'd published the few available texts on the alleged mutant gene. What he found, completely to his surprise, was a fully-functioning mutant school, run by Xavier and his partner, Erik Lensherr.
The school only had a handful of students, most of whom were only around fourteen years old, but Xavier was constantly looking to expand the student body. Hank, fascinated by this new environment, settled in, teaching freshmen-level science and literature classes to Scott, Jean, and Ororo and having long conversations with Xavier over tea about the science of mutation and the future of mutants in a society notoriously intolerant of difference.
When Xavier decided to set up a strike force, Hank was skeptical. He'd never been the violent type. But he did acknowledge that their special abilities could be put to good use, and, as new mutants began to pop up across the country and distrust spread, it didn't seem like a bad plan to learn self-defense, either. When Mr. Lensherr left the school in an explosive snit to start a strike force of his own, a force determined to destroy all the Xavier Institute had worked for, the need for defense became ever more palpable.
But the more battles these newly-formed X-Men faced, the more Hank couldn't help feeling out of place. His punches and kicks were powerful, his reflexes electric, but for all his physical ability the battles never felt right. He couldn't help thinking that this--this dressing up in a costume and living in an isolated mansion--wasn't his destiny. He wanted to help mutants, but punching out Mortimer Toynbee's teeth wasn't the way to do that. Not for him.
And so, at 25, Hank decided to leave the X-Men for the greener pastures of graduate school. His GPA at Harvard had been impeccable, and he had recommendations from professors on file; three years ago, his acceptance anywhere would have been guaranteed. But a lot had changed in those three years, not least of which was Hank's new unwillingness to apply without openly, and proudly, declaring his mutation. Rejection after rejection found its way to his mailbox until, finally, a small, progressive, upstart college in Vermont welcomed him into its fledgling science program. Five years later, Hank had earned his doctorate in biology and was immediately hired by a firm to research the cause of mutation. In his spare time, he toured the country, making a name for himself as the nation's first outspoken mutant activist.
Despite his brilliance, Hank soon learned that the work of an activist was arduous and thankless. On his lecture tours, security guards paid for by his employer, the Brand Corporation, ushered him up the steps to the podium, barely containing their own distaste along the way. Once he reached that podium, thrown shoes and rotten fruit were not an uncommon spectacle. Over the years, Hank appeared on numerous conservative talk shows to defend the apparently unthinkable proposition that mutants had a right to live as human beings, and when Senator Robert Kelly began a push for mutant registration, Hank was on the front lines, leading rallies and publishing literature to prove just how offensive the idea was. But no matter what Hank did, he never seemed to rise above the level of a very small fish in a very big pond. He stirred people up, but he was seen as a rabble-rouser at best, a fringe quack. After all, he didn't even have much in the way of a visible mutation. Some wondered if he was even a mutant at all, or if he was merely clinging to a cause for tabloid fame.
And then, one day, with no explanation, he awoke to find himself covered in blue fur, tiny fangs and claws making short work of his pillows and bedding.
His first television appearance after the transformation brought with it a wave of media attention the likes of which Hank had never experienced. Here's my chance, he thought. Here's my opportunity to finally make a difference. With that single-minded focus, he was almost able to ignore the fact that he could no longer sit on unreinforced chairs, that he could no longer walk through a room without shedding, that he could no longer go out in public without stares of fear and horror. He could hang from the ceiling, after all. It wasn't so bad.
When the call came from the President, asking Hank to fill the newly-created position of Secretary of Mutant Affairs, Hank almost laughed. Once he'd ascertained that this really was the leader of the free world offering him a Cabinet position, his near-laughter turned to suspicion.
"Forgive me for asking, but why do you want me, sir? I'm afraid I have little background in politics, and certainly none at the highest levels of government," he'd stated, politely but plainly.
"Hank, my man," the President replied, as if it were perfectly normal for a man of his station to call someone he'd never met by a nickname. "You're a well-known, articulate mutant. What better candidate is there?"
Hank told the President he'd need time to decide, and called Charles Xavier.
"Why wouldn't you take it, Henry?" the Professor asked, when Hank explained the situation.
"I'm not certain I'm interested in being a token," Hank replied, hanging upside down in his living room with one foot and holding the phone with the other. There it was, put out there baldly. Hank knew he wasn't qualified. A degree and a few years of activism wasn't enough to place him at the Cabinet level. But he was the only open mutant in the country with even that level of experience, and, unlike the rest of the X-Men, he had very little history of armed resistance. He was the perfect pawn, a harmless, friendly muppet to cart out at press conferences to prove the administration's dedication to "diversity."
A long silence followed Hank's statement. Finally, Xavier spoke up. "Would it be better to keep your pride, and lose the chance to make an impact?"
The next day, Hank accepted the President's offer.
But the position was everything Hank had feared, all flashbulbs and faux respect. The president seemed to like him well enough--he was a great fan of 19th century British literature, a topic on which Hank could expound for hours. But the rest of Washington was careful to avoid any association with their mutant colleague, and most of Hank's hours were spent alone in his office, book or magazine in hand. Of course, all of that would have been fine if Hank had gotten the chance to really influence policy. But his security clearance was laughably low, and he was rarely asked to do more than talk to reporters about the "mutant situation" and give the President as much information as possible about the man who now called himself Magneto. Hank had accomplished more when he'd simply been an activist. When he finally resigned in the middle of the cure mess, it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. It had been a long time coming.
After San Francisco, Hank was at the lowest he'd been in a good long while. Two of his former students were dead, as was his mentor. He'd been sorely tempted to leave all his hard work behind and accept a "cure" just because he waned to go to the movies without being stared at. And, perhaps worst of all, he'd been complicit in something he'd never dreamed he could do: stripping another mutant of his abilities. Yes, that mutant had been Magneto; yes, he'd been prepared to kill innocents, and curing him was the only way to stop him, short of murder. But Hank's brief return to the world of vigilante warfare was ultimately an exercise in shattered morals and horror, and Hank knew it would be his last time in a costume. He'd been willing to sacrifice a lot for his cause--his privacy, his free time, his dignity. But he wasn't willing to sacrifice his soul.
And then the President asked him to be a United Nations Ambassador.
"He's insane," Hank railed to no one in particular, marching through the halls of the mansion past rows of portraits from the Professor's youth. He'd come back to the school temporarily to regroup and help out in the wake of Alcatraz. Ororo was there, and Logan, but that was it; they needed more adults to care for all the children. "He's off his rocker. He's lost his proverbial marbles. He's mad, crazy, an utter loon."
Logan happened to be passing through and caught the tail end of Hank's ranting. "Christ, furball. Never seen somebody so pissed off about getting some hotshot government job."
"It's ludicrous," Hank replied. "Je--" He stopped himself. "A mutant destroys half of San Francisco and I'm offered an ambassadorship? After I resigned my last position? I should be persona non grata in Washington. This is pure manipulation."
Logan shrugged. "You wanna give up the chance to make the mutant case in front of the bigwigs, ain't my place to judge. I got kids to teach." He reached into his pocket. "Here. Mail came for you." And he walked away.
Hank stared at Logan's retreating back, then reached down to open the crumpled letter that had been thrust into his hand. It was postmarked Boise, Idaho, with the Xavier's Institute address stamped over the original, his office in Washington.
"Dear Secretary McCoy,
My name is Sammy, and I am twelve years old. I am also a mutant. I have scales and gills and a head like a fish. My parents won't let me go to school. They think the kids will make fun of me. They're probably right. Sometimes I'm afraid to even go in my backyard to swim in the pool. But I still do, because I can breathe underwater, and that's kind of cool.
I used to think I could never be anything when I grew up. But then I saw you on TV. You were all blue and fuzzy, but you were wearing a suit, and the President was shaking your hand. That's so cool. If you can do that, maybe one day the President will shake MY hand. I really hope so.
My mom teaches me at home, and she said that I had to write to one of my heroes. That's why I'm writing to you. You're my hero, Secretary McCoy. I just wanted you to know that.
Your friend,
Sammy Paré
P.S. Is your fur itchy? My scales sometimes are, when they're too dry."
Hank smoothed out the letter and slipped it into his breast pocket, then reached into his pants pocket and ran his fingers over the oversized buttons of his cell phone. He'd still be a token. He'd still have little influence, in the grand scheme of things. But influence, Hank knew, was a relative thing. And he'd always wanted, from the time he'd first driven through the wrought-iron gates of this estate, to make a difference, however small that difference might ultimately be.
Hank took out his cell phone and dialed the White House's private line. Across the hall, a portrait of the late Charles Xavier seemed to smile a bittersweet smile.
Author: harmonyangel
Fandom: X-Men Movieverse (spoilers through X-3)
Disclaimer: Marvel and Fox own it all!
Character: Hank McCoy
Rating: PG for some mild cursing
Word Count: 1,900
Summary: To quote caia_comica: "In which Hank McCoy is Sarah Palin." (But a lot more sympathetic.)
Author's Notes: Written for the Catchallthon challenge, for lonelywalker. The prompt was "A view of the mutant situation from the Capitol, via Senator Kelly, Stryker, Mystique-as-Kelly, Hank, Jean, Charles, Erik, or whoever else might be looking at the political side of things rather than the helmets-and-latex side. All pairings or gen very welcome." I hope this fits; it's more character study than story, but I tried my best. Thanks to second_batgirl for beta-ing/reassurance.
When Hank McCoy met Charles Xavier, he was already twenty-two years old. Four years of Harvard studies in biochemistry and genetics had given him an inkling that his oversized hands and feet were more than just a quirk of gangly adolescence, and he'd made it his mission to track down the man who'd published the few available texts on the alleged mutant gene. What he found, completely to his surprise, was a fully-functioning mutant school, run by Xavier and his partner, Erik Lensherr.
The school only had a handful of students, most of whom were only around fourteen years old, but Xavier was constantly looking to expand the student body. Hank, fascinated by this new environment, settled in, teaching freshmen-level science and literature classes to Scott, Jean, and Ororo and having long conversations with Xavier over tea about the science of mutation and the future of mutants in a society notoriously intolerant of difference.
When Xavier decided to set up a strike force, Hank was skeptical. He'd never been the violent type. But he did acknowledge that their special abilities could be put to good use, and, as new mutants began to pop up across the country and distrust spread, it didn't seem like a bad plan to learn self-defense, either. When Mr. Lensherr left the school in an explosive snit to start a strike force of his own, a force determined to destroy all the Xavier Institute had worked for, the need for defense became ever more palpable.
But the more battles these newly-formed X-Men faced, the more Hank couldn't help feeling out of place. His punches and kicks were powerful, his reflexes electric, but for all his physical ability the battles never felt right. He couldn't help thinking that this--this dressing up in a costume and living in an isolated mansion--wasn't his destiny. He wanted to help mutants, but punching out Mortimer Toynbee's teeth wasn't the way to do that. Not for him.
And so, at 25, Hank decided to leave the X-Men for the greener pastures of graduate school. His GPA at Harvard had been impeccable, and he had recommendations from professors on file; three years ago, his acceptance anywhere would have been guaranteed. But a lot had changed in those three years, not least of which was Hank's new unwillingness to apply without openly, and proudly, declaring his mutation. Rejection after rejection found its way to his mailbox until, finally, a small, progressive, upstart college in Vermont welcomed him into its fledgling science program. Five years later, Hank had earned his doctorate in biology and was immediately hired by a firm to research the cause of mutation. In his spare time, he toured the country, making a name for himself as the nation's first outspoken mutant activist.
Despite his brilliance, Hank soon learned that the work of an activist was arduous and thankless. On his lecture tours, security guards paid for by his employer, the Brand Corporation, ushered him up the steps to the podium, barely containing their own distaste along the way. Once he reached that podium, thrown shoes and rotten fruit were not an uncommon spectacle. Over the years, Hank appeared on numerous conservative talk shows to defend the apparently unthinkable proposition that mutants had a right to live as human beings, and when Senator Robert Kelly began a push for mutant registration, Hank was on the front lines, leading rallies and publishing literature to prove just how offensive the idea was. But no matter what Hank did, he never seemed to rise above the level of a very small fish in a very big pond. He stirred people up, but he was seen as a rabble-rouser at best, a fringe quack. After all, he didn't even have much in the way of a visible mutation. Some wondered if he was even a mutant at all, or if he was merely clinging to a cause for tabloid fame.
And then, one day, with no explanation, he awoke to find himself covered in blue fur, tiny fangs and claws making short work of his pillows and bedding.
His first television appearance after the transformation brought with it a wave of media attention the likes of which Hank had never experienced. Here's my chance, he thought. Here's my opportunity to finally make a difference. With that single-minded focus, he was almost able to ignore the fact that he could no longer sit on unreinforced chairs, that he could no longer walk through a room without shedding, that he could no longer go out in public without stares of fear and horror. He could hang from the ceiling, after all. It wasn't so bad.
When the call came from the President, asking Hank to fill the newly-created position of Secretary of Mutant Affairs, Hank almost laughed. Once he'd ascertained that this really was the leader of the free world offering him a Cabinet position, his near-laughter turned to suspicion.
"Forgive me for asking, but why do you want me, sir? I'm afraid I have little background in politics, and certainly none at the highest levels of government," he'd stated, politely but plainly.
"Hank, my man," the President replied, as if it were perfectly normal for a man of his station to call someone he'd never met by a nickname. "You're a well-known, articulate mutant. What better candidate is there?"
Hank told the President he'd need time to decide, and called Charles Xavier.
"Why wouldn't you take it, Henry?" the Professor asked, when Hank explained the situation.
"I'm not certain I'm interested in being a token," Hank replied, hanging upside down in his living room with one foot and holding the phone with the other. There it was, put out there baldly. Hank knew he wasn't qualified. A degree and a few years of activism wasn't enough to place him at the Cabinet level. But he was the only open mutant in the country with even that level of experience, and, unlike the rest of the X-Men, he had very little history of armed resistance. He was the perfect pawn, a harmless, friendly muppet to cart out at press conferences to prove the administration's dedication to "diversity."
A long silence followed Hank's statement. Finally, Xavier spoke up. "Would it be better to keep your pride, and lose the chance to make an impact?"
The next day, Hank accepted the President's offer.
But the position was everything Hank had feared, all flashbulbs and faux respect. The president seemed to like him well enough--he was a great fan of 19th century British literature, a topic on which Hank could expound for hours. But the rest of Washington was careful to avoid any association with their mutant colleague, and most of Hank's hours were spent alone in his office, book or magazine in hand. Of course, all of that would have been fine if Hank had gotten the chance to really influence policy. But his security clearance was laughably low, and he was rarely asked to do more than talk to reporters about the "mutant situation" and give the President as much information as possible about the man who now called himself Magneto. Hank had accomplished more when he'd simply been an activist. When he finally resigned in the middle of the cure mess, it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. It had been a long time coming.
After San Francisco, Hank was at the lowest he'd been in a good long while. Two of his former students were dead, as was his mentor. He'd been sorely tempted to leave all his hard work behind and accept a "cure" just because he waned to go to the movies without being stared at. And, perhaps worst of all, he'd been complicit in something he'd never dreamed he could do: stripping another mutant of his abilities. Yes, that mutant had been Magneto; yes, he'd been prepared to kill innocents, and curing him was the only way to stop him, short of murder. But Hank's brief return to the world of vigilante warfare was ultimately an exercise in shattered morals and horror, and Hank knew it would be his last time in a costume. He'd been willing to sacrifice a lot for his cause--his privacy, his free time, his dignity. But he wasn't willing to sacrifice his soul.
And then the President asked him to be a United Nations Ambassador.
"He's insane," Hank railed to no one in particular, marching through the halls of the mansion past rows of portraits from the Professor's youth. He'd come back to the school temporarily to regroup and help out in the wake of Alcatraz. Ororo was there, and Logan, but that was it; they needed more adults to care for all the children. "He's off his rocker. He's lost his proverbial marbles. He's mad, crazy, an utter loon."
Logan happened to be passing through and caught the tail end of Hank's ranting. "Christ, furball. Never seen somebody so pissed off about getting some hotshot government job."
"It's ludicrous," Hank replied. "Je--" He stopped himself. "A mutant destroys half of San Francisco and I'm offered an ambassadorship? After I resigned my last position? I should be persona non grata in Washington. This is pure manipulation."
Logan shrugged. "You wanna give up the chance to make the mutant case in front of the bigwigs, ain't my place to judge. I got kids to teach." He reached into his pocket. "Here. Mail came for you." And he walked away.
Hank stared at Logan's retreating back, then reached down to open the crumpled letter that had been thrust into his hand. It was postmarked Boise, Idaho, with the Xavier's Institute address stamped over the original, his office in Washington.
"Dear Secretary McCoy,
My name is Sammy, and I am twelve years old. I am also a mutant. I have scales and gills and a head like a fish. My parents won't let me go to school. They think the kids will make fun of me. They're probably right. Sometimes I'm afraid to even go in my backyard to swim in the pool. But I still do, because I can breathe underwater, and that's kind of cool.
I used to think I could never be anything when I grew up. But then I saw you on TV. You were all blue and fuzzy, but you were wearing a suit, and the President was shaking your hand. That's so cool. If you can do that, maybe one day the President will shake MY hand. I really hope so.
My mom teaches me at home, and she said that I had to write to one of my heroes. That's why I'm writing to you. You're my hero, Secretary McCoy. I just wanted you to know that.
Your friend,
Sammy Paré
P.S. Is your fur itchy? My scales sometimes are, when they're too dry."
Hank smoothed out the letter and slipped it into his breast pocket, then reached into his pants pocket and ran his fingers over the oversized buttons of his cell phone. He'd still be a token. He'd still have little influence, in the grand scheme of things. But influence, Hank knew, was a relative thing. And he'd always wanted, from the time he'd first driven through the wrought-iron gates of this estate, to make a difference, however small that difference might ultimately be.
Hank took out his cell phone and dialed the White House's private line. Across the hall, a portrait of the late Charles Xavier seemed to smile a bittersweet smile.