A DAY IN THE LIFE.
Disclaimer: I don't own the any mutants. Except the Morlocks, but they were dirt cheap.
Scott Summers is frustrated.
To any other man, being behind the wheel of a '02 Toyota MR-2 Spyder during rush hour might be a palatable experience. And on the outside, it certainly sounds like a worthy trade. Top down, wind breezing through your hair; it's a beautiful summer day.
But, at 6'3", Summers is nearly asphyxiating. Even with the top down. It just lets the sun in faster. A bead of sweat trickles down his oddly relaxed brow. Odd, that is, if it were anyone else but the X-Men's current field leader, the optically challenged Cyclops. This is a man who makes life and death decision's part of his daily routine; and ingests tragedy with his morning coffee.
Today, however, is an uncharacteristically hot day in Westchester. Reality seemingly quivers above the blazing hoods of the vehicles ahead. It is a dry heat. No one walks the streets, and with good reason. Floridians' don't even handle this kind of climate. "We New Yorker's are made of sterner stuff," Scott thinks to himself. Perhaps he says it aloud; he's not sure. The heat has him dizzied.
The traffic light changes color. "Finally," mutters Scott. His lips crack; the heat has dried them out. He pulls his car forward, past the light, and turns into the parking lot of a grocery store. He parks, seemingly unaware of the fact that he's parked in a handicapped-parking area. Even without the actual sign that generally stands in front of such a parking space, most would notice the different colored outline of the handicapped parking space. However, Cyclops is not so named because of his powerful optic-blast, a force to be reckoned with. And, contrary to popular belief, he has not earned that name from his singular vision, or belief, in Professor Charles Xavier's dream of co-existence between all denizens of the planet: Human or..otherwise.
Unlike some other mutants, Scott Summers is cursed by his mutant "gifts". Years ago, before Scott ever heard the words "optic-blast", or ever met Professor Xavier, he suffered a concussion in the same tragic accident which took his parents from him.
For a time, it was believed that the concussion damaged the section of brain tissue that controlled the young boy's powers. It was more recently revealed that Sinister, a mad geneticist, experimented on the child's brain not too long after Mr. and Mrs. Summers' untimely disappearance (or.abduction by an alien race known as the Shi'Ar, but that's a story for another time).
Since that time, poor Cyclops has endured life through a red haze: his ruby-quartz visor, the sole restraint for his mutant "blessing".
How dull a world to live in is that? How very secular, to see things, to see everything, in monochromatic red. And don't think the fact that he's married to a redhead is ever lost on him.
Regardless, our frenzied hero bursts into the store like a man on a mission. And with good reason. Today, Scott has promised his aforementioned wife that he would renounce his duties as an X-Man for one day. Twenty-four hours. Seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. But this is the same woman who has died for the universe and came back to devour it. (Or.live in a cocoon at the bottom of the Hudson. Again, story for another time. Let's just call that Door # 2; a consolation prize to omnipotence.)
In his haste, Slim nearly bowls over a well-dressed, middle-aged man. The elder man stops our hero from collision with a simple gesture of the hand.
"Whoa, there, young man! Whatever it is you're trying to get to, I'm sure it'll still be there," says the mustache man.
Scott is off-guard, and overflowing with apologies. "Oh! I'm sorry, sir. You're right, of course. Terribly sorry. Is there anything-?"
"No harm done, son," the other man smiles. "Think nothing of it." The older man then hurries away.
As he glides through the produce section, the young mutant's mind rewinds to this morning; the beginning of Scott's "day-off", as Bobby put it, though Bobby couldn't say it once without snickering. Jean was cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast as only a telekinetic spitfire can, without even the twitch of her nose.
Scott scanned his itinerary for the day: oil change for Jeannie's car, grocery shopping for the school (!), mailing an armada of package's out to Jean's family, pick up the dry cleaning-why does a woman who wears black leather 16 hours a day need 10 dresses dry-cleaned all at once?
"Ya know, Red," grunts Logan ", ya got alotta stuff there. Y'sure ya don't need eny more help?"
Though no one notices, Scott's eyebrow raises to this. Jean flashes a dangerous look Logan's way. As she turns back, though, she can't help but smile. That flirty smile that screams I'm trying not to be flirty.
"No, I'm sure I can manage Logan," Scott returns.
"Suit yerself, one-eye, but I"-
"I said I got it, hairball," Scott yells!
FWUMP-FWUMP. The door to the kitchen opens and closes, introducing the X- Men's founder and guiding force: Professor Xavier. Logan smiles, slightly, realizing that the teacher's pet has been caught in the act of being himself. Scott, noticing his tone, turns quickly and leaves.
"Logan," Scott growls in the present. His jaw clenched, trapped on the thought of the laughably honorable samurai who can't wait to get his hairy eye all over another man's wife. Distracted by the memory, he starts shopping in a daze. Green bananas, green apples, green grapes all get thrown in the cart.
Seemingly an eternity later, Summers exits the establishment to find a patrol officer waiting at his vehicle in the parking lot.
"Is there a problem, officer," asks Scott?
"That depends," replies the officer. "Is that grocery kart really a wheelchair and I just don't know?"
"Uhm. I don't really..." Scott stammers.
"Handicapped parking, smart guy," the officer explains. "Unless you wanna count being brass enough to spend an hour and a half shopping, while parked inna handicapped parking space as being handicapped!"
Certainly by now one can surmise precisely what shade Mr. Summer's cheeks turn.
Disclaimer: I don't own the any mutants. Except the Morlocks, but they were dirt cheap.
Scott Summers is frustrated.
To any other man, being behind the wheel of a '02 Toyota MR-2 Spyder during rush hour might be a palatable experience. And on the outside, it certainly sounds like a worthy trade. Top down, wind breezing through your hair; it's a beautiful summer day.
But, at 6'3", Summers is nearly asphyxiating. Even with the top down. It just lets the sun in faster. A bead of sweat trickles down his oddly relaxed brow. Odd, that is, if it were anyone else but the X-Men's current field leader, the optically challenged Cyclops. This is a man who makes life and death decision's part of his daily routine; and ingests tragedy with his morning coffee.
Today, however, is an uncharacteristically hot day in Westchester. Reality seemingly quivers above the blazing hoods of the vehicles ahead. It is a dry heat. No one walks the streets, and with good reason. Floridians' don't even handle this kind of climate. "We New Yorker's are made of sterner stuff," Scott thinks to himself. Perhaps he says it aloud; he's not sure. The heat has him dizzied.
The traffic light changes color. "Finally," mutters Scott. His lips crack; the heat has dried them out. He pulls his car forward, past the light, and turns into the parking lot of a grocery store. He parks, seemingly unaware of the fact that he's parked in a handicapped-parking area. Even without the actual sign that generally stands in front of such a parking space, most would notice the different colored outline of the handicapped parking space. However, Cyclops is not so named because of his powerful optic-blast, a force to be reckoned with. And, contrary to popular belief, he has not earned that name from his singular vision, or belief, in Professor Charles Xavier's dream of co-existence between all denizens of the planet: Human or..otherwise.
Unlike some other mutants, Scott Summers is cursed by his mutant "gifts". Years ago, before Scott ever heard the words "optic-blast", or ever met Professor Xavier, he suffered a concussion in the same tragic accident which took his parents from him.
For a time, it was believed that the concussion damaged the section of brain tissue that controlled the young boy's powers. It was more recently revealed that Sinister, a mad geneticist, experimented on the child's brain not too long after Mr. and Mrs. Summers' untimely disappearance (or.abduction by an alien race known as the Shi'Ar, but that's a story for another time).
Since that time, poor Cyclops has endured life through a red haze: his ruby-quartz visor, the sole restraint for his mutant "blessing".
How dull a world to live in is that? How very secular, to see things, to see everything, in monochromatic red. And don't think the fact that he's married to a redhead is ever lost on him.
Regardless, our frenzied hero bursts into the store like a man on a mission. And with good reason. Today, Scott has promised his aforementioned wife that he would renounce his duties as an X-Man for one day. Twenty-four hours. Seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. But this is the same woman who has died for the universe and came back to devour it. (Or.live in a cocoon at the bottom of the Hudson. Again, story for another time. Let's just call that Door # 2; a consolation prize to omnipotence.)
In his haste, Slim nearly bowls over a well-dressed, middle-aged man. The elder man stops our hero from collision with a simple gesture of the hand.
"Whoa, there, young man! Whatever it is you're trying to get to, I'm sure it'll still be there," says the mustache man.
Scott is off-guard, and overflowing with apologies. "Oh! I'm sorry, sir. You're right, of course. Terribly sorry. Is there anything-?"
"No harm done, son," the other man smiles. "Think nothing of it." The older man then hurries away.
As he glides through the produce section, the young mutant's mind rewinds to this morning; the beginning of Scott's "day-off", as Bobby put it, though Bobby couldn't say it once without snickering. Jean was cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast as only a telekinetic spitfire can, without even the twitch of her nose.
Scott scanned his itinerary for the day: oil change for Jeannie's car, grocery shopping for the school (!), mailing an armada of package's out to Jean's family, pick up the dry cleaning-why does a woman who wears black leather 16 hours a day need 10 dresses dry-cleaned all at once?
"Ya know, Red," grunts Logan ", ya got alotta stuff there. Y'sure ya don't need eny more help?"
Though no one notices, Scott's eyebrow raises to this. Jean flashes a dangerous look Logan's way. As she turns back, though, she can't help but smile. That flirty smile that screams I'm trying not to be flirty.
"No, I'm sure I can manage Logan," Scott returns.
"Suit yerself, one-eye, but I"-
"I said I got it, hairball," Scott yells!
FWUMP-FWUMP. The door to the kitchen opens and closes, introducing the X- Men's founder and guiding force: Professor Xavier. Logan smiles, slightly, realizing that the teacher's pet has been caught in the act of being himself. Scott, noticing his tone, turns quickly and leaves.
"Logan," Scott growls in the present. His jaw clenched, trapped on the thought of the laughably honorable samurai who can't wait to get his hairy eye all over another man's wife. Distracted by the memory, he starts shopping in a daze. Green bananas, green apples, green grapes all get thrown in the cart.
Seemingly an eternity later, Summers exits the establishment to find a patrol officer waiting at his vehicle in the parking lot.
"Is there a problem, officer," asks Scott?
"That depends," replies the officer. "Is that grocery kart really a wheelchair and I just don't know?"
"Uhm. I don't really..." Scott stammers.
"Handicapped parking, smart guy," the officer explains. "Unless you wanna count being brass enough to spend an hour and a half shopping, while parked inna handicapped parking space as being handicapped!"
Certainly by now one can surmise precisely what shade Mr. Summer's cheeks turn.