In the Year of the Cat (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

2. A Brave Little Volunteer

"I'll give you all the details later," Dr. K replied.  "Now, I must go.  Gotta get it all set up."

"Don't I get at least some idea what I'm about to do?" I complained.

"It's worth twenty points," he said.  "Perhaps more.  I'm good friends with your professor.  Is that sufficient enough?"

"I guess," I grumbled.

"Meet me in the Physical Sciences building in three hours," was all Dr. K would offer as explanation.  "Oh, and don't eat anything till then.  I'll need you as minimally massive as possible."

That last, I definitely didn't understand.  Certainly didn't sound to me like any psychology study.  Unless, of course, this mysterious Dr. K was one of those archaic barbarians, a follower of those psycho (not psych, but psycho) science pioneers who waterboarded their patients, sent powerful electric shocks through their bodies, and then locked them up in insane asylums when none of their treatments worked.

Good grief, I said to myself.  I could be selling myself to a maniac, for twenty frickin' points.  Is it worth it?

It couldn't be that bad.  Scientists today weren't like they had been in the old days.  They had a code of ethics now.  They wouldn't just mercilessly tamper with innocent young college kids for the fun of it.

I burst out laughing.  Now, THAT was funny.

Whatever my doubts, however, I stuck around the campus another three hours.  I found a little nook in the library, where I played my music full blast and did some homework, singing along with the exceptional dead guy as I went.

Okay, okay.  I'll stop calling him that.  But in those days, that's how I referred to him.  I felt the need to constantly remind myself of how ridiculous I was being, obsessing for (by that point) seven years over a wild and crazy rock star who, if alive today, was old enough to be my grandfather.

That was my version of self-therapy: perpetually telling myself, "Freddie Mercury isn't alive anymore, get yourself a real boyfriend, you wouldn't be his type anyway."

Oops!  Guess I let the cat out of the bag.  But there it is.  Of course, we've all got something, some little bitty neurosis causing mischief in the mind.  Mine materialized as the dark, complicated man whom I spent seven years of my life studying just to get some raw hint of what made him tick. Is that weird?  Don't answer the question, I'll only get mad.

I did indeed find all the members of Queen interesting.  But there were degrees.  Roger was on the bottom of my list. 

I may have just made some people angry.  Don't get me wrong, in his prime he was extremely pretty, but he always struck me as nothing more than a handsome face with fantastic rhythm, as someone without any real substance behind the blue eyes.  And it would be a sin not to respect Brian May and the countless things he excels at- science, guitar, stereoscopy, astrophysics, songwriting- but I just could never get really excited about him.  Maybe it's the badger thing.  I don't know.

John came second.  I loved how normal he was.  He seemed very sweet and easy-going, but even he had hot buttons, and when he wrote hit songs, they were absolute grand slams.  But the most fascinating and most deliciously mysterious bloke of them all, Freddie himself, captured my imagination far more than the rest combined.

I was not in love with him.  Do understand.  People can be obsessed without being emotionally attached.  I admired him, though, immensely.  He opened the doors for many of the arty things I still enjoy in life, whether it's drawing or teaching myself the guitar.  I'm not very good, but I enjoy them.  I suppose I could even say he's what sent me into psychology.