The Double-sided Blade

*Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men, or the like.. they belong to Marvel Comics. Chapter One of this story (or any chapters following) are NOT meant to offend. I hope to simply address, through an OC, an aspect not usually found within the pages of comicdom. Please read and review, and more importantly, enjoy.


Thomas groaned, pulling himself up from the floor which was now scattered with various broken knick-knacks and picture frames. Stumbling, he wiped his bloody mouth and looked into the eyes of the man he called father.

"Why are you . . doing this?" he managed to gasp out, stumbling a bit more. He groaned, falling backwards into the couch. His swollen eyes shut as his face sunk deeper into the cushion pillows.

He didn't get to rest long, however, as his father grabbed him by the back of his collar: pulling him to his tired feet. "You little prick.. after all I've done for you..!"

Thomas whimpered as he saw his father's fist reer back once more, ready to strike him. There wasn't much else he could do -- he no longer had the strength to defend himself. Or try, as the case had been. He wasn't much of a fighter -- even if he was captain of the football team.

"Dad.. no.."

Blood flew from Thomas' mouth as his father's hard fist connected with it. His neck spun around, and he crashed into the old oak table in front of his father's favorite chair. The table's legs gave way -- leaving Thomas, along with the table, to crash into the ground with a loud thunk.

The boy didn't even notice the large gash in his forearm from one of the old shards of wood -- he was already in too much pain.

His father pulled him up again, kneeing him in the gut. Thomas spat more blood, falling to the ground and resting against the wall.

His drunken father stumbled back this time, looking down at him. "You little faggott. I've done nothing but love you .. nothing but support your athletics.."

Thomas didn't reply. He didn't have the energy.

"And here you are, loving all the boys in our neighborhood! Your mother ain't never gonna have any grandchildren!

You're worse than a mutant, you little freak!"

That's when Thomas' eyes closed, the seventeen-year-old beginning to finally lose conciousness: finally receiving mercy.

"You're not takin' the easy way out, you homo!" The father glared, pulling him up again. Thomas' eyes somehow shot back open.. and if his nose hadn't of been broken, he would've wanted to vomit from the smell of alcohol.

"Da," he wheezed out, no longer even having the strength to form the simple word. He was staring at a complete stranger -- not the man who had always loved him. Who had always been the first to polish his trophies .. who had always been the first to let him go play with his friends, though his mother wanted him to eat dinner.

"You're gonna regret bein' a fag--"

That's when it happened.

His father fell to his knees, releasing him. Thomas fell against the wall once more, losing conciousness.

His father, however, was nothing more than a pile of ashes.

***

Thomas' eyes opened and he groaned. It was very bright in the room he was in, and his head had already begun pounding. He didn't recognize this place -- but he knew it was some sort of hospital room.

The door opened, and a man in a wheelchair entered -- rolling himself, bald head and expensive suit, inside. "Hello, Thomas."

He wasn't sure if he would be able to talk, but he tried anyway. "H'lo," wheezed the remainder of his voice. "Who're you?"

He was barely audible, but luckily, "Charles Xavier," didn't need to hear him to hear him.

"I don't know any Xavier," he continued to choke out.

"I'm well aware," Charles replied with a serious look. "Let me introduce myself." His face had shifted into a smile, leading Thomas to a more relaxed stance. "My name, as I have already mentioned, is Charles Xavier. I'm a friend of your cousin's."

"Which one?"

"Bobby."

Thomas Drake shifted, his face showing the pain it had obviously caused. "So what?"

"Your cousin alerted me to the reason you currently reside in this place," Charles explained. "I wish to help you. There are things about yourself you may not understand, and I believe I can --"

"--I don't need you to tell me that I shouldn't be gay, all right?" Thomas snapped with a groan, quickly grabbing his side as if to put an end to the sharp pain.

Charles simply looked at him, making sure he was quite finished. "I'm talking about your mutant powers."

"What are you talking about..?"

"You're a mutant, Thomas. Your powers were triggered as your father beat you, and you weren't even concious to discover them. Which may have proven to be a good thing."

"I'm not a mutant!" Thomas snapped yet again with a wheeze. Tears swelled up in his eyes. For some reason, he believed his man -- this total stranger who only claimed to know his cousin.

This couldn't be happening to him.

He had already fought back who he was in another field, and now this..?

His father had only just found out about his homosexuality. If he were to discover that he were a mutant..

"My father will.. I .. no.. I can't.. be.."

Charles had a comforting look upon his face. "Thomas, listen to me. Listen closely, all right?"

The grief-stricken boy nodded. He didn't realize that most of his pain was now gone, now too worried about his fate, courtesy of Xavier's astounding mutant abilities.

"You needn't worry about your father," he began. The truth was that when Thomas' mutant abilities were triggered, his father had been killed. He had been incinerated. "You're going to be attending my school for the gifted once you've fully recovered. We'll take care of you.

"I've already spoken with your mother. Things are going to be just fine. The environment will be a much calmer one for you.. exactly what you need. Your cousin will be there for you as well. You're not alone, Thomas."

Charles looked at the boy, his heart heavy for him. He didn't understand what it was like to deal with being gay -- but he knew the penalties a mutant received from a misunderstanding human race.

He had a feeling they were one in the same, which would prove to be quite hard on a young, seventeen-year-old boy.

Healing Thomas Drake would be quite a task.