.-=K=-.

"No, you are not dismissed. Perhaps you'd care to tell me what could possibly be so humorous as to account for that…expression?"

Normally, Dr. Henry McCoy didn't give a flying damn what people said about him, whether to his face or behind his back. He was a busy man, a scientific genius. He had no time for (and no interest in) the petty political maneuverings which seemed of late to be the favorite sport of the Citadel's military types. Personally, he was of the opinion that the Summers boys didn't give the grunts enough work to do.

Case in point: this particular young prelate. Normally, McCoy shunned her type -- the hulking geneticist did not frequent the mess-hall or the community quarters, and he wouldn't be caught dead on one of the drunken outings the soldiers called "having a good time on a day off." But even a perpetually distracted recluse couldn't completely avoid human contract in such a hive of activity. Reports were made, new specimens were brought in, refuse from failed experiments was carted out.

And eventually even the supremely aloof McCoy was bound to notice the odd looks, the furtive grinning whispers, and the occasional outright sniggers which had begun to crop up whenever his duties brought him in contact with the prelates who infested the Citadel.

He grimaced at the thought of having to stoop to their level, but it had to be dealt with.

He continued to glare coolly at the prelate in question until the smile which had been tugging at the corners of the woman's mouth died away and she began to look worried. "What expression, sir?" she asked, utterly innocent.

McCoy didn't say a word. The "I can see right through you, you know" glare continued. Actual beads of sweat began to pop up on the prelate's forehead. Finally she stammered, "I-I'm sorry, sir, it was just something someone said…it wasn't true, of course, I didn't believe it for a moment…I…um…" She floundered for a moment and then thrust a report at him. "Here, sir."

McCoy hesitated just long enough to make her feel foolish and then delicately plucked the sheet of paper from her hand with just the tips of his claws. He glanced at the the report coding across the top. It was part of a routine census of the Pens -- not a common notation, no, but one that tended to cross his "desk" so to speak every other week or so. He tossed it carelessly onto his workbench. "So? Three specimens have given birth over the last week. None of them are listed on my primary breeding roster, and thus their offspring are little more than idle curiosities. I don't see what this has to do with my question."

The prelate had seized her chance to regain her trained poise and now gave nothing away in her eyes-straight at-attention stance. "One of the infants was…unusual, sir. There was some talk of it in the messroom, sir. Nothing of consequence, sir."

This caught his attention. He picked up the report and scanned it more closely, frowning. "Unusual…? I note nothing out of the ordinary -- two born with discernable mutant characteristics, yes, but minor and nothing to warrant my attention. OR your laughter."

He glanced up at the prelate. "And seeing as you're obviously not going to favor me with any straight answers short of torture, Prelate Stavros--" she blanched slightly despite his deadpan tone, for he was quite capable of carrying out that idle threat "--I suppose I'll have to solve this little puzzle by examining the child myself. Have it brought here within the next ten minutes, if you'd be so kind…? Dismissed."

As a very pale Stavros fled to carry out her mission, McCoy removed his work glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, exasperated. What is it about those incompetant so-called "elites" that makes me shift into my "bad Disney villain" mode? He allowed himself a chuckle at the thought as he read the report a third time. He could remember those old cartoon movies. It seemed like he was one of the few in the Citadel who did. Was he that much older than the brash "kids" who seemed to fill out the ranks of the prelates today? He didn't think so, and yet there was such a gaping chasm between them…

Just as well, he hrumphed to himself. It wasn't as if he felt the need to get friendly with any of those muscle-headed power-happy goons. He had his lab, and his experiments, and the respect of those who counted. All in all, he couldn't imagine having it any better than he already did. Friendship merely dragged one down…kept one from doing what needed to be done…

A few minutes later -- record time for someone who had to make it to the Pens and back -- there was a small nervous "ahem" at the door to his lab. McCoy turned to regard exactly what he had expected to see: a uncomfortable-looking Prelate Stavros, awkwardly clutching a small blanket-wrapped bundle. He set down his pen and datapad and gestured her over closer. "Set it on the examination table and then remove yourself. If I have any other questions I'll know where to find you."

She did so and was gone even before he'd reached the exam table himself. Designed for a much larger beings, the flat expanse of metal looked a little extraneous around the small flannel lump, which twitched and let out an unhappy mew even as he stared down at it.

There was nothing in the report which indicated that the child was dangerous in any way -- merely a note of "superficial mutant physical characteristics" jotted down by whoever had been on duty that night. If there HAD been anything out of the ordinary, it would have been brought to his attention immediately. He usually kept close tabs on births down in the Pens, since most of them were of his own custom design. However, this particular child's mother had been a mere halfscan with latent genes, a nobody who'd been inpregnated either before she was brought in or afterwards, unsupervised, at the hands of one of her fellow inmates.

McCoy checked the records. Hmm. No, the halfscan had been brought in six months ago. Just another undocumented "wild" birth, then. And the mother had died shortly afterwards, leaving the orphaned baby to be nursed by the other two mothers in their pen, so there was no chance of locating the father now. The child was simply not useful, not so far as his meticulously cross- referenced studies went.

So what on earth had the prelates so worked up about it?

Scowling, McCoy reached out and fastidiously peeled aside one flap of the tattered blanket.

Then he simply stopped and stared down at the infant for a full minute.

Ah. So that's what they thought was so funny. Now really.

The baby goggled back up at him with wide eyes as blue as his own, its tiny face dusted with blue fur only a few shades lighter than his luxuriant coat. The curls on its scalp were thicker and the same shade. Finding the "staring contest" most amusing, the infant broke into a smile (most uncharacteristic for a child this young, McCoy thought absently) and giggled, kicking randomly at the blanket which still mostly swathed her strong little body.

Once he was over the coincidence of the similarity of their respective appearances, McCoy…no, he couldn't get away from it. This was something completely new. Oh, certainly there were plenty of telekinetics, and pyrokinetics, and people with wings and claws and animal forms. They were quite accustomed to the knowledge that somewhere out there, there was someone pretty much just like themselves. But there was only one blue furry Beast…

The blue-furred baby reached up and grabbed his nose with one chubby fist and chortled gleefully. Beast carefully disengaged himself from the tiny grasping fingers (quite a grip for a child this young, too! he added mentally) and straightened up, still pondering. Whatever was being rumored behind his back about the infant's parentage, it was simply not possible. It was no relation of his, though he could grudgingly admit to the basic physical similarity. Perhaps a few tests were in order…

The child complained, whimpering and waving its arms. Without thinking the "dark Beast" picked it up, cradlingly it absently but with professional care. He may not have held many babies, but he knew how to handle delicate laboratory equipment, and the principle was roughly the same. Yes, a few tests were definitely in order…but nothing painful. Nothing harmful.

McCoy regarded his latest genetic puzzle with one raised eyebrow. Of course, I doubt there's much to its genetics beyond a few basic physical enhancements, a few run-of-the-mill cosmetic alterations. Nothing remarkable enough to warrant special attention, besides the odd coincidence of its appearance. I'll simply make note of the results and reprimand some gossipy prelates and then it's back down to the Pens with it.

The baby cooed and nuzzled into his chest trustingly, one tiny hand wrapped around a lock of his deep-blue fur.

Well…perhaps.

AUTHOR'S END NOTE: Yeah, I know McCoy's a real heartless bastard who just wouldn't be melted by ANY baby. But I've always gotten the impression that Siku has this weird low-level projective empathy that makes every adult in the vicinity fall madly in love with her. If not, well, even the hard-hearted McCoy might find her interesting enough to keep around for a while (until he gets REALLY attached, anyway!). I mean., how often does he come across a mutant who's a dead ringer for his own potential progeny?
Not bloody often.

And anyhow, if I'd ended the story with ANY version of Siku getting dissected, I woulda gotten lynched. <G>

.-=K=-.