Xaviers!

Will hurried down the hall, away from Sam and Terezas room. Away. Just...away, as fast as his growing legs could take him.

He wasn't hurt. He wasn't feeling bad. Human beings were hurt. Human beings felt bad. Human beings were the ones who could cause pain and anguish, and who could feel the same. He was not a human being. Not here. Not in this world.

Human beings were the ones who caused problems, who could make decisions. Who could make mistakes. Agency leads to hurting people.

He had hurt people. They may not realize it, in the case of Sam, or care about it, in the case of Tereza, but he had hurt them notwithstanding with his own selfish...selfishness. And not just that. He had hurt his Sara and his Sam. What would they think, if they had picked that moment to come and rescue him? What would they think of him? Of his decisions?

Of his infidelity?

When his memories were back in the box, then at least that was an excuse for his actions. That damned box -- if it had never been opened, he wouldn't have these problems. He could just go on living life, oblivious and happy. Damn ASHLIE for forcing his hand. Damn Miriam for prodding Sam into action.

Damn Sam for reminding him of who he was.


Who he was was a failure as a human being. He can't do it. Not anymore. Only human beings can cause problems. Only human beings can make mistakes. He had to go back to the way things were -- to when he was happy. At least until his happiness can find him here, lost and alone in a strange, twisted mirror world.



As Will walked, he shifted. His hair, already a duller green, turned to brown and then shrank back into his head, leaving his dome smooth and shiny. His eyebrows soon followed suit, as his face melded and merged into a more 'generic' style and look -- not quite a mannequin, because he was clearly still alive, but definitley looking like something mass-produced as opposed to a unique individual.

On his left arm, an olive-green tattoo emerged. The X-logo, as if it had been stamped there. Will Stanton, property of Xaviers University. That was his role now until one day, he would be freed.


Will walked up the closet he had been in previously, and then stopped. Moving to the side, he instead opened up a cabinet underneath a sink, and started wedging himself into the back, behind the bottles of bleach and the sponges and the extra dish soap. It looked uncomfortable -- and it would be uncomfortable, if a person had been crammed into that space. But there was no person there. Just Will..

((open))

Footsteps come once again. The cadence seems vaguely familiar.

Will had many, many talents. The ability to identify someone by their footsteps -- at least, if they were bipedal on vaguely human-shaped feet -- was not, yet, one of them.

He mentally added that to his checklist of things to learn as he waited.

The nearby closet door creaks open, and something long-handled and wooden clatters into it before the door shuts again.

The footsteps nearly pass by the sink but stop.

Will hears... sniffing?

Either someone had a cold, or it was another of the bloody feral brigade. As long as it wasn't Tereza, it'd be alright...probably.

A few more sniffs, and then the footsteps retreat.

Will shifted around a little bit -- both in the literal and figurative senses of the word -- to fit more reasonably in the back of the cupboard. He closed his eyes, as well, and tried to zone out.

It's hard to tell quite how long it is before Will hears footsteps again. They stop in front of the cabinet, and there's a shadow over the crack between the doors.

Soon the shadow is lifted, and Will sees a spot of color towards the bottom of the doors, accompanied by something that smells sweet and bready.

Though the shadow is gone, Will doesn't hear any footsteps retreating.

After a moment's hesitation, Will popped the cabinet door juuuust the tiniest crack, to peek out and see what was going on.

It's a box of donuts from a local bakery. Another note is attached in what is becoming familiar handwriting.

Code: Select all

Chew this time.

Will sighed. What a waste of good donuts.

He opened the door wider so he could actually get at the box, forgetting about the lack of footsteps going away.

"Were you getting agoraphobic?" A voice asks from above him.

Will craned his neck at an awkward, unnatural angle to look up.

"Not at all. It's just that your last piece of trash drew unwanted attention, so I felt it the wisest course of action to move."

"I know you eat," she says, perched on the sink above the cabinet.

"I don't actually have to. There are just forms where it's...inconsiderate, or unusual not to eat."

"And I don't suppose you enjoy eating?"

"Sometimes," Will admitted. "When I'm pretending to be human. But other times, no, I don't particularly enjoy it. Why do you ask?"

"I'm trying to comprehend just the sort of hair shirt you've put on."

"I am not trying to punish myself, if that's what you mean. I'm not nailing myself to a cross, here.

I'm...going back to what I'm good at, that's all," he fudged.

"...I think you don't quite grasp how many people don't think they're good at being... people."

"Well, many people don't have an option. That's what they are, period, end of sentence. I'm not that, and pretending to be one doesn't do anyone any favors. I'm much more useful as a couch or cleaning supplies or a waste bin. Better at it, too. It's a win-win for everyone involved."

"Just because you can be more than one thing doesn't mean you're pretending to be one or another."

"And you speak from personal experience?"

"You tell me."

"Am I a woman pretending to be a wolf?"

"Am I a wolf pretending to be a woman?"

"I was under the impression that most feral shifters had sort of a voice, a personality in the back of their mind, and that the resulting combination was sort of a gestalt of the two. Is that not correct?"

"I am not a mutant."

"What I am is someone who has had a long time to think about whether she makes a better animal or person."

"And, what did you decide?"

"Do I have to?"

"Do you?"

"Would you prefer someone else to decide for you?"

"Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"I don't know. Is it? Because you wouldn't be the first here on campus to do that."

"I know it seems... less complicated when one isn't a person."

"And is that a bad thing? Are you pitching that as a negative?"

"It is what it is. Nobody blames an animal when it acts badly."

"I'd imagine nobody blames an object, either. An object can always be fixed, or discarded."

"Oh, I've seen people blame objects plenty of times. You've never seen someone slam a controller to the floor when they lose at a video game? Or angrily rip a losing lottery ticket in half?

For that matter, ever seen someone kick a puppy?"

"But that says more about the person doing it, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. It turns out, some people don't treat things with the respect they're due. They're bad at being people and, if they had an alternative, they should give that a shot," Will trumpeted, sure he had just scored a point.

"And if you treat an animal better, it doesn't bite."

"Likewise, nobody sane expects an object to fix itself."

"That's where the people do the heavy lifting."

"It's symbiotic, yeah. It's a good relationship, that. A useful object and a caring person have a real bond. There's love in an old patched-up jacket."

"But that assumes a jacket that can't mend itself, or an animal that honestly doesn't know any better."