Capes, Cowls, and Badges?

[Pietro Maximoff]

::Pietro was not in the habit of sitting for standardized tests. The last had been the SAT, well over a decade prior, and that had been uncomfortable. He had been given “special” arrangements, because he twitched with boredom, and would speed through the test. While the others had taken it with students from all over the area, he had been tested in a room alone with the proctor. He had also been released earlier than the rest of them and had met them later at a nearby mall.

As a result, he had reviewed the instructions carefully, for what was to be allowed. He had his driver’s license and his passport, as well as the Admission Card that he had been sent. He had paid the fee, and had it refunded, as a law had passed between sending his application and the test, mandating the test be given without charge. Just in case he had misinterpreted, he had money in his wallet. He had his writing implements, pen and pencil both.

He even had his transcript, from his time in University. That had been the most difficult to acquire, and he had spent more time than he would prefer on the telephone with the Department of Academic Records. They had switched exclusively to computer files years ago, but after he had been enrolled. It was only because of a backlog in the office and some longwinded complaint about not having proper staffing to which he’d only half-listened, that his transcript was still on paper record. It had been a decade. And he had not graduated, which gave him fewer protections than actual alumni. Yet, they had sent it, and Pietro had bit his tongue to keep back a defensive remark when the secretary had confirmed, with surprise, that he still lived at the home he had that decade ago. It had dug at him, the same way his conversations with Samson had dug at him. Yet it strengthened his resolve; he’d show this woman too. The fact that he would never have reason to speak to her again failed to enter into his calculations, as they did when he bolstered himself in this way, with the intent to show another person.

Everything was together in a small bag which Pietro intended to take to the test. All that had remained was dressing and getting there. The arrival was a non-issue; he could be there in four minutes, in less time if he exerted himself even the slightest bit.

All that remained was dressing appropriately. Having never sat for a formal exam such as this, Pietro didn’t know what the dress code was. Deciding to err on the side of caution, he dressed himself in his navy blue suit, the only piece of formal attire he possessed. It wouldn’t allow him to hide his hair, but it would be far worse to be dismissed for improper attire. It was an important exam, after all; he doubted he was overdressed.

Bag in hand, he arrived at the test site four minutes later, and was on the proper floor a minute after that. He was the only one in a suit. Half of the men were wearing baseball caps. He could have easily worn a hood and gotten away with it, but he didn’t want to risk leaving, should he be held up back at the mansion and thus miss the test. He’d simply suffer through being out of place and recognizable for his origins.

When they were called to enter the room, he handed his ticket to the officer manning the desk, a Sergeant; Pietro idly wondered if he was a line officer, or if he only pushed paper at this stage. He was asked for his identification, and he handed over both his passport which proved citizenship, but his driver’s license to confirm that privilege as well. His photographs were checked against his features, and he thought there was an extended pause. However, the officer told him, “You can go in, Mister Maximoff. Good luck,” and it ended there.

The testing room was large, yet cramped, due to the number of desks that had been shoved into it for the hopefuls. He took a seat in the very back of the room, at the left-most desk, pushed against the wall. It was a confining position at first glance, but it set him apart from the others, which is what he wanted for the duration of this.

The vast majority of the people there for the exam were men, but men and women alike appeared younger than he was. His abilities granted him age retardation, and thus he looked young, but he doubted most of these people were thirty or older. Some were young enough to have just graduated Uncle’s Institute, or so they appeared. He remembered reading that they needed to be twenty-one to be placed, but could sit for the exam younger than that. To think that someone could have such ambition, have such direction in life at that young an age…it baffled Pietro.

After telling the group to settle, the exam booklets and the Scantron sheets were distributed. They were told to read through the instructions while the proctor read them aloud, and already Pietro found himself bored. It would be a very long stretch of time.

After what felt to be an eternity, and with the side effect that “fill in the bubble completely” would haunt his dreams from the sheer repetition, they were allowed to begin. Pietro opened the booklet to the first page, scanned the questions, and began to answer them at what he found to be proper pace. He finished the section in record speed.

The proctor noticed him set the pencil down surprisingly quickly, gave him a curious glance, and then did nothing else. However, it was the same for the next section, which was memorization. Pietro stared at the picture until his eyes nearly glazed over from boredom. Finally, the signal to begin the questions was given, and he sped through them also. He had caught the proctor’s undivided attention, and during the third section, he could feel the officer’s eyes upon him.

A break was given, ten minutes for rest room use or drinking water. The proctor called him outside for a brief “conference,” where he was asked point blank if he were cheating. Pietro answered honestly that he would not know how to begin cheating for a police entrance examination. “I’ve always been fast with tests,” Pietro had said.

It had placated the proctor, or perhaps they had nobody else to intervene, or watch him in a second room, and after the break, Pietro returned to his seat. He repeated the process with the remaining sections of the test; when he finished the last, it had only begun a few minutes prior, and he checked his answers and closed the booklet. Not allowed to leave yet, he remained in his chair, bored and staring at the ceiling until the official end time.

Materials handed in, as well as the transcript they had been asked to bring as proof of educational background, he left. Not wishing to return to the mansion quite yet, he stopped off for a drink at the Hellfire.::

[Pietro Maximoff]

::Pietro had been told that scores would be revealed within a few weeks to a month, as part of the NYPD’s attempts at massive recruitment and quick turnaround. He was understandably surprised to received a telephone call a few days later, asking him to come down to the Academy to discuss the circumstances of his exam. The details in the call had been vague, which left an overall ominous feeling; however, Pietro had agreed and made an appointment.

When his appointment time had arrived, he found himself at the Academy, this time dressed in less rigid clothing: dark trousers and a blue shirt, with his boots, of course. He was escorted to the director’s office by a police officer, and then left there. The atmosphere was tense.

“Have a seat, Mister Maximoff.” That was it, no greeting, merely a thinly-tamped order to sit. It was rare for Pietro to meet a man blunter than he was, and he respected it. He sat rigidly in the offered seat, spine straight and several inches away from the back of the chair. Nobody could acuse him of possessing poor posture. He made no presumptions about the topic of discussion, and instead deferred to the officer to explain.

“Officer Jackson informed me that you finished your exam with record speed, and as is part of standard procedure, we ran it through grading separate from the others.”

Pietro chose to ignore further implications of cheating, as he thought they had cleared those up already. Perhaps they wanted to inform him of something else that had arisen during the testing, although he could think of nothing. “Did I do poorly?”

“No, you did exceedingly well. Almost impossibly well considering how quickly you finished it.” The officer let the statement hang in the air. The silence was deafening for the first time in ages to Pietro, because it was an implicit attack on his character.

“I also told the proctor that I didn’t cheat; in fact, I wouldn’t know how to cheat.”

Pietro came off as sincere, as the Director didn’t outright acuse him of anything further. Instead he simply asked, “Would you be willing to verify that?” His tone of voice invited to compromise, and so Pietro acquiesed. Not that he appreciated his honor called into question, but because, like at the airport, there was no other way.

To spare himself the indignity of a lie detector test, Pietro volunteered the information. “I am a mutant; my power is speed.”

That caught the Director’s attention; Pietro had difficult discerning if he were intrigued or upset by it. The next words came after careful consideration. “If that’s true, then you could sit for another exam.”

Pietro was dedjected at the thought of having to sit through another group exam and having the entire process delayed by several months, but again, he acquiesed. He was not quite pleasantly surprised when an exam was brought out to him, as well as a pen by the same officer who had escorted him in the first place.

“This is a fresh exam,” the Director explained to him. He set the egg timer he kept in his desk for compartive theories. “Have at it.”

Pietro did. Free of the constraint of timing and the pace of others, free of reading instructions and mandated pauses, he finished it in record time. Confident, he handed it back to the Director, who stared at him. “That was certainly fast.”

He had demonstrated his case, that he was fast; all that had to come was accuracy. The test was brought down to be run through the Scantron. While they waited, Pietro watched the Director to try to get a better understanding for him. There was dedication to duty in him, which Pietro could respect, but beyond that, he was a wall. That Pietro could also respect.

He had intentionally not watched the clock on the wall, and didn’t know how much time had passed between the officer leaving and returning with the scores. He gave Pietro a look, a mixture of curiosity and respect? - that couldn’t be; they had just met – and gave the results to the Director, who reviewed them and nodded solemnly before turning to Pietro again. “It looks like you were telling the truth.”

“Yes,” Pietro decided now wasn’t the time for a conversation about his code of honor, and let the matter fall where it was. “My scores are on record then?”

“Yes, in fact, Officer Sanchez, can you give us some privacy?” The other officer nodded and exited, which left the Director alone with Pietro. The latter met the eyes of the older man and waited for further explanation of whyever he wanted privacy in the first place.

“The rest of the tests have to go through processing, and then the physical portion is scheduled,” the Director explained, as though he were about to do Pietro a favor. “We can schedule yours now, and if you’re as fast on the obstacle course as you are here…”

Pietro nodded, suddenly almost hopeful. “I am.”

With that, Pietro was scheduled to take the physical exam with an earlier batch of applicants, and was warned of date, time, and location. Pietro shook the man’s hand and wished him a good day, before he left the building and returned to Westchester. He was going to show Samson he could do this.::

[Pietro Maximoff]

::The day of the physical fitness examination, Pietro had dressed himself in a sweat suit and his boots, before running down to Manhattan and the Academy. There were a number of men and women in uniform, although far more men, throughout the area. Inside, he was met by a group of men and women, mostly men, on their way out. Perhaps they had different sessions, morning and afternoon, depending on scores. Minutes after checking in, Pietro learned that wasn’t quite the case. Outed mutants took the test at a different time than baseline humans. It was explained to him to both protect them from prejudice and to protect the “normal” humans from having their egos shattered. As there was nothing he could do to change it, he would simply have to accept the fact.

Men and women were also held to different exam criteria, and Pietro had his opinions about that, but it wasn’t the time or the place. He and the other mutant men were separated from the mutant woman; unsurprisingly, there were only a handful of mutants here, many of them with physical mutations which were difficult to hide. Perhaps others didn’t hide it, or had needed to reveal status as he had. He spoke to nobody, and nobody approached him, not for idle conversation or to comment on his uncanny appearance; he was grateful for both.

When it was time, a police officer came out and explained what was required of them: that there were two physical fitness tests they would have to undergo, one now and one upon exiting the Academy, if they were accepted. The standards involved sit ups, push ups, bench pressing, and running a mile and a half. They would be timed for the obstacle course, had to reach ninety-nine percent of body weight for bench pressing, and given a minute each for sit ups and push ups. They would be compared with one another, and none were expected to be at police Academy exit level, but they had to show a considerable portion of potential for each.

They went in alphabetical order, and as a Maximoff, Pietro was in the middle. Several others went before him, most with qualifying scores, although nothing spectacular. It reminded him of a conversation with that Jack of all people, about how most mutations didn’t aid anyone physically. One of the other examinees could fly, which was impressive in its own right, but didn’t help with sit ups.

When it was his turn, he reminded himself that if he went too fast, he couldn’t be timed. He kept at what was a painfully slow pace to him, but would be more than enough to pass the final test on this try. Fifty sit ups in a minute, fifty-two push ups, and he did the run in two and a half minutes. When it came time for his bench pressing, he did his full weight, to get it out of the way, received his score sheet, and went to wait with the others who had completed their tests. He watched the others with interest, as he might find himself working with any of these men in the future.

Another hour later, and it was painful to watch these people do their runs so slowly, they were told to report for a drug test, before being dismissed. They were mutants, but performance enhancing drugs could work with anyone. Pietro had better things to do than urinate in a cup, but he would comply if it would get him closer to the Force. He handed in his sample, checked that nothing else was required of him, and left. He was told they would be in touch.::

[Pietro Maximoff]

::A week later, Pietro had received a telephone call notifying him that he had been scheduled for a physical exam and a background check and needed to come in on the specified date. As preparation, he had put together a file of medical records, taken from the laboratory and signed off by Hank and Uncle, so that they would know what his life signs normally were; his heartbeat often surprised those who were unused to him.

The day of his physical, he ran into Manhattan with the file, and when he reached the Academy, he handed over his necessary identification. Again, the birth certificate, his passport, proof of residency, and his driver’s license. All were validated to make certain he was a citizen, that he could legally drive, that he was of appropriate age, and that he was in an eligible area. His transcript was already on file, and they told him they didn’t need a second copy.

He was taken for the background check first, which consisted of being fingerprinted, and running a check on his social security number and his name, along with the fingerprints. It would take a few days, they told him, and he could save them the time if he wished to confess to a criminal record. He had none, and thus he didn’t confess.

He was taken to the medical area, and told to wait for his appointment. When his name was called, he followed an orderly into the back area, for the basic information; it was to be a complete physical, he was warned, and he handed over the file of materials. His height was recorded, as was his weight. They tested him for body fat, and remarked on what excellent condition he was in, and how all of his body weight appeared to be muscle. It was a repeat conversation as one he and Samson had had, and he took it in stride with a brief acknowledgment and little else.

His blood pressure was remarkably low, in stark contrast to his respiration and his heartbeat, the latter of which nearly gave the orderly a heart-attack, when he counted 250 beats; he’d nearly lost count. “It’s normal for me,” Pietro had said, and left it at that. His file was already tagged as mutant.

They took his temperature, which was a degree warmer than the usual, but again, was normal for him. He went through his medical history, what vaccinations he’d had and what diseases he’d suffered. They drew blood to test for a variety of illnesses, and he was then left alone in the small room, a bandage on his arm and told the doctor would be with him shortly, could he please change into the gown?

All of Pietro’s medical matters had been handled either by family or in small clinics, and this was his first experience with anything close to hospital regulation, as far as his own body was concerned. He remembered how Uncle was dressed in bed after the accident, but that had been over a decade ago. He never believed he would have to wear a garment described as a “gown.”

Upon further examination of it, there wasn’t enough material for it to constitute a “gown,” and he kept his undershirt and boxers on, to shield himself from the otherwise all-too revealing outfit and the cold of room, brought on by too much air conditioning. He sat atop the bed, feeling every bit as ridiculous as he looked, and waited for the doctor.

What was an agonizing time later, the doctor entered. A man who was likely only a few years Pietro’s senior, with an all-too pleasant disposition, which had to be forced. He smiled at Pietro, who didn’t smile back. He was cold, dressed inappropriately, and the exam had only begun; there was nothing to look forward to, apart from leaving, and certainly no reason to smile.

“Mister Maxioff,” The Doctor began, speaking as though this were normal. For him, perhaps it was, to remain fully clothed with his patients who were anything but. “I’m Doctor Blake. I see your readings are a bit different from the norm so far, but we’ll take that into consideration with the rest of the exam.”

Pietro merely nodded. There was nothing to say at the moment, and he didn’t care to blather on about the weather or whatever sports teams were winning or losing.

“We’re going to start with your reflexes,” Blake informed him, and he reached for that small hammer doctors used. Pietro felt his back stiffen.

“That wouldn’t be wise.”

“Nonsense,” Blake said. Many patients didn’t care for these tests, and he could see no reason not to get them over with. He found the appropriate spot on Pietro’s knee and gave a firm tap with the hammer. The reaction was what Pietro expected but evidently Blake wasn’t prepared. Pietro’s leg rose at the stimulation, too quickly for the doctor to see. He was aware it had worked, however, as he was kicked in the abdomen with a bit of strength. Blake made a noise of surprise and perhaps of pain, and Pietro lowered his leg.

“My legs are powerful,” Pietro explained, and although he wished the doctor no malice, he also wasn’t particularly apologetic. “And I am told that I’m tightly wound.”

“I can see that,” Blake said before taking a minute to catch his breath. After a long moment, he set the hammer down and reached out to feel Pietro’s leg. His fingers were far gentler than Pietro’s own were, and the man was older than him. The result of a soft life. Those fingers felt along his tendons and bones, examining them. “Your tendons are remarkably strong.”

“I know.” He had no reason to mince words here.

“How much can you bench press? Your agility test says 175 pounds, but your muscles are too well formed to stop there.” It seemed that Blake was a mutant sympathizer, which was better than Pietro would otherwise ask, but meant he would have to deal with questions.

“A ton, more if I train,” Pietro spoke as though it were an everyday feat. It was for him, and he didn’t care to be in the center of attention, not even in his own physical examination. This was far too reminiscent of sessions with Samson.

“Remarkable,” Blake said, before dropping Pietro’s leg. He appeared content to stop there, for which Pietro was silently grateful. He didn’t care to be touched, and certainly not to be scrutinized.

The next portion of the test was fairly simple, testing his vision, which was perfect as usual. Followed by the hearing exam, where he also always excelled; he needed particularly clear hearing to cope with the wind when he ran.

Followed by an equally simple but less comfortable test. Light in his eyes, ears and throat, then fingers checking his neck and throat for growths. He had an aversion to being touched in the throat, not surprising considering his constant battles with Magneto involved strangulation. He was apparently growth-free, and Blake moved on.

Blake insisted on listening to his heart rhythm, and Pietro gave warning that, “it was faster than others.” He was forced to sit down, with a cold, metal stethoscope under his “gown” while Blake listened to his heart and tried to isolate the beat. It took far longer than Pietro was comfortable with, but settled for Blake’s assurance that it was “rhythmic.” The stethoscope remained on his chest, now to listen to his lungs, as he took several clear breaths. These, too, were more rapid than the average person, but Blake assured him that his lungs were clear.

Pietro had to lie back, then, while Blake lifted his gown and began to probe his stomach. The touches were light. An organ check, the doctor explained, as he then pressed harder for anything out of place or inflamed. Nothing was.

Next the white-haired mutant had to stand and bend forward to touch his toes. Hands felt along his spine for curvature, but it was perfectly straight. Rigid, in fact, as Pietro had excellent posture. While standing, Pietro was checked for two invasive forms of cancer, and with his perceptions, it was more than unpleasant. The first uncomfortable enough, but the second was downright intrusive. After asking “was that necessary?” and being informed that “Be glad you don’t need a colonoscopy,” Pietro was allowed to sit again.

Next were a few questions, while Blake prepared needles. How much did he drink? Did he smoke? Was he sexually active? It was as though he were in Samson’s office a second time. When asked if he took medications, he gave an emphatic “no.” He briefly explained his metabolism, and was then subjected to a battery of blood tests. He explained that his white cell count should be in his medical file. It ended with a tuberculosis test and a warning that he would need to return in two days to have it checked.

“You’re in remarkable health,” Blake told him, when all was said and done. It was nothing Pietro hadn’t heard before, and he settle for a murmur of acknowledgment, before bidding the doctor a good day. He left the health center feeling as though he passed a trial, and covered in bandages.::

[Pietro Maximoff]

::A week later, Pietro had been scheduled to return to discuss the results of his background check and to sit for the psychological test component of the application process. To say he was less than thrilled was a semester’s study in understatement. He went, however, as the reward if successful was worthwhile, and he dressed nicely for the occasion because he had no reason not to. Being well dressed as both a sign of respect to company and of self-respect.

He waited an inordinately long time for his appointment, but he remained calm, particularly because of the psychological component. For all he knew, they were watching him, recording his reactions; his experiences with Samson hadn’t left him with a love of psychologists.

Finally, he was called and taken to the Director’s office, under escort, as with the last time. Pietro had come to expect it and thought little of it; for once, he didn’t take it personally. He sat, and waited for the Director to finish speaking to the officer escorting him.

“Mister Maximoff, you’re here to discuss the results of your background check.”

Pietro nodded and said little. He knew he didn’t have a criminal record, and assumed, at the moment, that this was mere formality.

“Your check occurs against state and federal databases, for past criminal activity and flags any records the Department might find necessary to know of.” Again, Pietro nodded. He had assumed as much.

“You listed a Django and Marya Maximoff as your adoptive parents, in Ostrov. As well as date of adoption and being brought to America, all of that was in order. That your biological mother passed away.”

“Yes, Officer.” He felt himself tense, realizing what this had to regard, and he mentally cursed the man.

“Your records also indicate that your biological father is Erik Lehnsherr, also known as the mutant terrorist Magneto. Your name change records popped up; I can’t say that I blame you.”

He said nothing in response, instead waited for the Director to make his point and have the inevitable reaction that all who learned of this did.

“You don’t have a criminal record, and no federal intelligence lists an affiliation with his organization beyond your blood. The Feds watch this closely, so I’m inclined to believe them. You’re not on the Do Not Fly list; your information all checks out, your whereabouts during all of Magneto’s strikes, your current address. So I’m going to ask you this once and only once: Do you have any ties to the man that you’d like to confess right now? Lying to an officer of the law is a Federal offense.”

Magneto had been absent from the mansion since Pietro’s last fight; he had no idea where Magneto was and couldn’t care less. He had made it plain that the next time he saw him, there would be bloodshed. “I don’t know where he is, if that is what you are asking. But I want him caught as much as the next man, if not more. He’s killed many, ruined more lives than that, and everything he says is a lie. He cannot be trusted, and I have no desire to see him again or hear his voice. He is no father to me, and I will take a polygraph test for that.”

Pietro needed to learn to stop making that offer. A half hour and a completely negative test later, the Director was satisfied with what he had to say, and the statements were on record. They were learning to deal with his heart-rate, which Pietro viewed as a positive sign. They were making an effort to adapt to him. But he wouldn’t get his hopes up; he never did.

“You can take the psychological test now, Mister Maximoff, and you’ll hear from us within another week.”

“Thank you,” his manners were force of habit. “One thing, if I can ask. I would…appreciate it, if you didn’t mention my heritage to anyone who doesn’t need to know.” Anyone outside of bureaucracy. He could fend for himself, but preferred to not live each day as if it were a battle. It would already be them against the world. He didn’t need it to be him against them as well.

“Again, I can’t blame you. But it won’t go through the ranks. To warn you, though, the resemblance is striking, and there are a lot of angry people out there. You don’t mess with the Statute of Liberty and not expect New Yorkers to resent you forever.”

“I know, but thank you.” He needn’t be reminded of the fact that Magneto was hated or that he resembled the man so closely. He knew each time he looked in a mirror.

The same escort who had taken him to the office took him to where he would see the psychiatrist. He was administered paperwork, but not the same as had been at Samson’s office. This was a test, designed to see what was wrong with him. He knew the proper answers, or had an idea of what was wildly inappropriate. For instance, saying he had thoughts of murder would be a wrong answer. He took greater time with this than with the written exam, as he wanted to be particularly careful. But when finished, he handed it to the appropriate man, and returned to wait. Twenty minutes, the clock on the wall told him.

By the end of those twenty minutes, he was taken back for a discussion with the psychologist. They discussed his reasons for applying to the Academy, his belief system, and what it was like being a mutant in America. The man was less friendly than Samson, but also less irksome; more businesslike he was, but he studied Pietro just as carefully as the other man. When the psychologist ran out of questions, he was thanked for his time and let loose for the day. He felt less confident after this exam than after the last one, but it was out of his hands.::

[Pietro Maximoff]

::Within a week, as promised, Pietro received a telephone call from the Academy. He had been accepted, and was due to begin in late autumn before winter. He would be measured for fatigues and would have to attend various orientations, a schedule and official acceptance had been mailed to him. His scores on the written and physical exams had been ‘superb,’ he was reassured. “Congratulations,” and the call had ended.

The official envelope of materials came that day via certified mail. There was a schedule for the term, a list of what he must accomplish between now and then, which included a list of inoculations. As promised there was the list of orientation events. Also was a handbook that he needed to study between now and the first day of Academy. His scores were listed and seeing them written down side-by-side, he agreed that they had been superb. Most of all, however, he was pleased to have passed the psychological exam.

Included was paperwork to begin a pay schedule; they were salaried to attend the Academy, as it counted as their first year job training. He hadn’t counted on that, but could hardly object to being paid and accumulating a bit of income.

It was an accomplishment, and the first thing he desired to do was go down to Samson’s office and point it out. Before telling Wanda, Uncle, or Rossignol. To show the man that he had done something worthwhile, without taking those medications. Then he would celebrate. By the end of this, he would be an officer.::