The Naming of Things

Mystique begins her day early so that she can sneak her way out of DC before if fully wakes up. Everyone is on high alert at the moment. There are cops on the street corners, military police lingering around the important buildings, and she needs to be more careful than usual as she makes her escape. That’s just how it is after a mutant drops a football stadium on top of the White House.

At least she has a nice hotel room, bought with money stolen from a nice lady who didn’t think twice about leaving the little boy with the big sad eyes around her purse while she went to go look for his parents. Mystique doesn’t let herself feel guilt over it. She’s been at this a long time, long enough that she understands what is necessary and what is not. Survival is key. Weakness will only get her killed.

Charles would not approve, of course. He’d frown at her, give her a lecture about kindness and responsibility, and then he’d turn around and do it himself if given half a chance. He’s always been a bit of a hypocrite in that way.

Erik would understand. Once, she would have found that appealing, but that’s no longer true. The number of things he understands is far too limited. She can’t be dazzled like the schoolgirl she was, so young and so sheltered that he seemed larger than life, so much more adult than Charles and his tendency towards wooly-headed ideas.

Her leg still aches. It’s still healing. The bathroom is spacious, smooth white porcelain, smooth white tile, shining faucets. She sits on the toilet seat and redresses the wound. There are parts of it that look almost black. Parts of it are still a bright, gleaming red. It doesn’t hurt too much, cleaning it again, wrapping fresh gauze and tape around the wound, but it is awkward. It would be easier if Hank were here, if Hank could give a rambling monologue about the standard healing process of gunshot wounds and laugh at her terrible jokes. She won’t tell Charles this, because she still hates him a little bit, but she had been tempted by his offer when he’d given it, the chance to put this all away and become Raven again, hidden away and cared for and comfortable.

She stands on unsteady feet and looks at herself in the mirror. Her yellow eyes stare back at her. Her blue skin exists in stark contrast to all of the white. Her hair is still flame red, chopped short and easy to manage.

She recognizes herself, but she does not feel like Mystique any longer. As Mystique, she would have died for Erik. She would have killed for him. That same Erik who would not think twice about shooting her to save himself. No, she wants a different name.

Raven does not sit on her shoulders quite right, either. She isn’t that girl, Charles’s sister, who was always so sweet and well-behaved and hoping that he’d one day turn around and see her for who she truly is.

No, she must learn to be someone else. She watches herself transform, the blue melting away into pink, the red lengthening and turning dark black, the yellow fading into green. It’s a new face, one she hasn’t worn before. She likes it. She’ll have to find it a new name, one she likes better than the imperfect ones that linger on. In the mirror, her reflection smiles.