The Common Man

by Acetal

Mr. Hudson is not a mutant. Nor is he a member of the Friends of Humanity. Mr. Hudson is neither for, nor against mutants. In fact, on most days he doesn't even think about such things. He is not a particularly angsty person. He is the common man.

On Monday morning Mr. Hudson did not rise with the sun and begin a training programme. In fact, Mr. Hudson did not get up until 7.15 because he slept in for fifteen minutes as usual. As he stared bleerily into the mirror while shaving he did not notice that he was suddenly covered in blue fur. Getting dressed in the usual suit of a white-collar worker he did not notice that his physique had changed dramatically overnight or that he had a horn sticking out of his head. As he had breakfast he did not peer cautiously through his blinds at his mutant neighbour. He didn't have one. In fact, to his knowledge, he'd never met a mutant before in his life. Today his life was suddenly not about to change.

Mr. Hudson drove to work as usual. He did not have a car that looked really cool, had lots of weapons and had a jet exhaust sticking out the back. He drove a Pontiac. As he drove from the suburbs to the New York city where his job was he was not delayed by any riots or rallys or rampaging mutants. He arrived at his usual space in the parking garage on time.

As he walked from his car to the office where he worked he did not notice the battered and torn body of the dead mutant lying on the steps of the place he worked. He did not bend down and check for a pulse or identification. In fact, he didn't even notice that the mutant was wearing spandex, a red visor and had X's all over his costume. He went straight through the door without noticing any of this. The fact that none of this happened did not affect him in the slightest. Why should it?

Mr. Hudson does not work for a shadowy government organisation, nor a corporate one. He's a laywer. He works in a law office. He is currently not working on pushing legislation through to take away the rights of mutants, or trying to overturn the conviction of a mutant killer on death row.

As he walked in the door he did not notice that the cameras that were not in the foyer were tracking him. Mrs. Jones, the secretary, did not notice the suspicious flecks of blood on the white cuffs of his suit. A fact that she did not comment on, or report to the police when they later did not investigate. Mr. Hudson did not flirt with her as he passed her desk. Mrs. Jones was not young and attractive with the body and dress sense of a supermodel. She did not keep a gun in her desk drawer and was not profficient at various forms of martial arts. Neither was she remarkably fit.

As he walked down the corridor towards his office he did not overhear anything suspicious. A side door did not suddenly burst into matchwood as Sabretooth did not throw anyone through it. Sabretooth was not anywhere near New York. Mr. Hudson was therefore unaware of how lucky he was to have escaped being painfully torn to shreds by the claws of the psychotic mutant who was not there. He did not nod politely to his boss as he walked by as this gesture could not in fact be seen. He greeted him verbally instead.

"Good morning, Mr. Murdock."

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