Author's Note: This is my first piece of fan fiction. Despite being an avid reader of the comic books, this is a largely AU piece of fiction. It is my version of Scott's life up to and including the movies. Many of the staples of his past are still present, though. I have just always had a different image of him in my mind. Please take no offence.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Marvel Comics and Fox Entertainment. No plagiarism is intended.
Examination at the Womb-Door:
Who owns these scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.
Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.
Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth? Death.
Who owns all of space? Death.
Who is stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than the will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than life? Death.
But who is stronger than death?
Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.
Ted Hughes.
En Anem Mon Daeus:
Chapter One:
Darkness. It has always been his greatest fear, from the days when he could not sleep without the bedroom light on and the door a-jar, to a day like this one when even on an uncommonly hot day no rays of life-giving light can penetrate the darkness. He can feel the scorching New York summer sun striking his bare arms and exposed neck, where the over-stretched collar of his worn T-shirt offers no resistance. He can hear the buzz of the park occupants enjoying the amenities, the squeaky wheel of a bicycle circling somewhere nearby.
Footsteps approach the bench upon which he sits, accompanied by something on wheels, motorised, if he is hearing correctly. Must be a scooter or wheelchair. He sits still, hoping they'll pass him by if he remains inconspicuous. The seventeen year olds nervousness at his choice of eye-wear returns as it has on many occasions. He had wrapped a thick piece of what he hoped was black cloth around his eyes, tying it in away that reminded him of the blind ninja in Mortal Kombat, a game he used to frequent at any number of arcades. It gave a much needed sense of un-reality to his current situation, allowing him to detach as if it was just another one of his role-playing games.
His hopes were dissolved as he felt a presence looming over him. He ran through scenarios, wondering if these were members of authority, curious passers-by or looking to cause trouble. The majority focused on the latter, if experience is anything to go by.
He felt a strange sensation in his frontal lobe that seemed familiar, though his mind couldn't place why. This makes him tense further, as few people from his past were anything pleasant.
"Good afternoon, Scott. My name is Charles Xavier." The voice came from a place roughly level and to the left of Scott, a soft British accent. The other presence remained on the right, caging him, though how effective he could run blind was open to debate. The mention of his name made him curious. He had gone by other aliases, and had used that one none-to recently. Scott remained silent.
"I gather the best way to reach you is through bluntness, and so I'll make my point. I am aware of your powers, your mutantcy, to coin the word." Scott stilled his breathing, listening intently for any movement from the right, figuring that that was the mostly likely origin of an attack. So far, the only sound from the unknown person was a sigh of impatience and a slight rustling.
"You have no need to worry, Scott. Myself and Warren, here, are also mutants." Though his face remained impassive, Scott began to turn more of his attention on the voice, the now-named companion seeming less of a threat in light of this revelation. A brief pause. "I fear this is not the time nor place to discuss matters. Please come with me. I have a house in Westchester county, where you will be safe."
Did this man want sexual favours? Why else would he invite a stranger to his home, which, if Scott had his bearings correct, was quite far? But if that was the case, why would he mention his mutantcy, and how would he know of Scott's? Not to mention most men wouldn't bring a prostitute home. Scott had yet to sink to that level of desperation, despite his years on the streets. The experience with his step-father was enough.
"No, Mr. Summers." The voice took on a sharp edge. "There will be none of that. My home is a refuge for mutants, or at least it will be. As to how to get there, I have a private plane. I am a telepath." Scott began to rise. "You were projecting, Scott. I never read a persons mind without their express permission or under dire circumstances. I believe you know what I mean by the word 'projecting'." This man knew a disturbing amount. A few moments of silence passed.
"I don't think he's going to come, Professor." The voice took on a hopeful lilt, obviously eager to be on his way.
"Now, Warren, give the boy a chance," Charles' tone was the epitome of amused patience.
Weighing the pros and cons, and deciding that things couldn't be much worse than what they were now, Scott decided to take a chance. Feeling it the polite thing to do, Scott extended his hand in Charles' general direction, which was warmly clasped and shook. When turned to Warren, it was used to help the blind boy to his feet, and then squeezed.
"Warren Worthington, the third," the confident voice didn't sound much older than Scott's. Warren's hand moved to his shoulder, ignoring Scott's flinch, and proceeded to guide him to the private plane, which Charles informed him he had christened the Blackbird.
Jean Grey pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose for the umpteenth time as she gazed down at the medical journal on her lap. She sat in one of the leather arm chairs that dotted the professor's office, wondering again how something so expensive could be so uncomfortable.
She had been waiting little over an hour for the Professor and Warren to return with hopefully the newest member of the household, finally one her own age. So far it was just Warren, Hank, and herself. A bit of childish excitement at the prospect of a new face had kept her in her seat. When footsteps approached from down the hall, she removed her glasses, snapped the book shut- forgetting to mark the page- and held it in her lap, gazing at the door expectantly.
Warren entered first, holding the arm of a slim young man whom he led to the chair near Jean's. The Professor followed, positioning himself at his large oak desk.
"Jean Grey, this is Scott Summers." Scott hadn't been aware of another presence in the room.
"Pleased to meet you, Scott," Jean's tone was friendly, inviting, coming from his left. He turned slightly.
"Hello," which was the first word he had spoken in any number of days, causing his voice to come out a little hoarse. Scott had always made a practise of silence.
Jean studied him. After looking away from the cloth covering his eyes, she was struck by his face. Hair dishevelled, torn clothes, but still he was one of the most beautiful people she had ever seen. His back was straight and tense, arms on his thighs, hands curled into fists out of what she felt was nervousness. Despite his blank expression, it came roiling off him in waves.
"Our other resident, Henry, wished to express his regret at not being here to greet you, but he had to attend to some rather urgent business," Xavier leaned forward on his desk. "I would like to welcome you to Xavier's School For Gifted Children."
Warren had shown him to his room. He had been asked to choose one, a pretty pointless question, he thought. But old habits die hard, like dealing with someone who can't see the rooms to choose. In the end he asked for any room with a single bed with crawl space underneath. Warren had helped him push the bed up to the corner of a wall, and then had left.
Ten minutes of stumbling had revealed a desk facing the window, and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf lining an entire wall. Having no personal belongings baring the clothes on his back, there was nothing left for him to do but sit on the edge of his bed, having quickly memorised the distance of the sparse objects.
Scott felt overwhelmed. He had gone from living on the streets to living in a mansion in the country in mere hours. The professor had assured him money was not a problem. It all seemed too good to be true. He was still waiting for the drop.
Thinking back on all his acquaintances on the streets, he was strangely glad to realise none of them would realise he was gone. There were some good things about being invisible. It meant few of the people he had screwed over would have the will or the means to find him, if they even realised it was the reticent, unassuming boy who had grifted them.
A quiet knock on the door, three taps.
"Enter," Scott called, feeling slightly put out. How long had it been since someone asked permission from him for anything?
The door opened, and Jean entered, closing it behind her. She nervously leaned her back against it.
"It's Jean," she had just remembered he couldn't see her. Scott bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Um, I'm going into town. The professor said I should get you some clothes." She quickly added, "Don't worry. I'm not paying for them. I just thought I'd ask what you like, though I guess it doesn't really matter, since you can't see them. I mean, sorry, you will be able to see them, I hope, since Hank and I are working on something to control your powers, though we still don't know specifically what you're able to do, apart from it's some kind of energy beam…"
"You mean I might be able to control it?" It had taken a moment for that to sink in as he listened to her. Deciding it might be a good idea to help put her at ease, he invited her to sit down. Jean stood uncertainly for a moment before sitting on the bed, so he would at least know where she was.
"We're working on something that might be able to control them, but we still need to run some tests to find out what kind of energy it is, where is the source, the capacity. Things like that."
"You and Hank?"
"You'll meet him eventually."
"Hm. May I ask what your- ability- is?"
"I have two actually. I'm a telekinetic, and a low level telepath."
"So it comes in levels?" she laughed softly, not expecting the question.
"Something like that. I'm no where near the level of the Professor, and it's not completely under my control. I have no idea if it will mutate further or if this is it's full potential."
"I see. Do you like puns?"
"What? No, Not really. Were you making one?"
"Good. I hate puns. No, I just have a habit of saying that, you know, 'cause of Cartman?" The conversation had taken a strange turn. "Sorry. I tend to ask strange things when I'm nervous."
"I ramble, so questions give me more options." A pause. "So what kind of clothes? I'll only get a few days worth, since hopefully you'll be able to pick them out yourself."
"Anything loose. I don't like things that cling." A sigh. "Damn, this is strange." Scott ran a hand through his hair before rubbing the back of his neck.
"Okay. Though clichés are derogatory, are you preppy, sporty, what?"
"Uh, I'm more a geek kinda guy. Magic the Gathering, computer nerd…"
"Do you know the real meaning of the word 'geek'?" Jean was beginning to relax around him. She liked his soft voice, a pleasant monotone - an unusual combination. He was unassuming, and the perfect pronunciation of the words and rounded 'p's implied intelligence.
"The 'boring and unattractive social misfit' or the 'degenerate' definition?" His facial expression had yet to change.
"I meant the 'a person who is preoccupied or very knowledgeable about computing' one," she couldn't keep the smile out of her voice.
"I see. Knew I forgot one."
"Like any labels, colours? You've barely given me anything to go on." Scott cracked his knuckles anxiously.
"Sorry."
"Bone cracking doesn't bother me. It's just air bubbles in the sinovial of the joints popping." He nodded slowly.
"Look, I don't really feel comfortable asking you to do something."
"I don't mind. Besides, I'd rather get something you like."
"Nothing conspicuous. I don't really like logos or anything, unless it's a band shirt or something. I don't know. I like grey."
"Ooh, what bands you like? Or would you not really have been able to listen to music, you know, where you were?" Xavier had told her the bare bones of what he knew about Scott, but she did know he lived on the streets, though from the way he spoke he grew up in an everyday middle class family chocked high with typical mendacity.
"I found a way. Weezer and Wheatus. Thou?"
"Smashing Pumpkins and Biffy Clyro."
"You've heard Biffy? I didn't know the Scottish band had made it this far."
"And how did you here of them?"
"Nyeh," Scott shrugged. Jean looked at her watch.
"I best be going soon. Do you like to read? The Professor had been looking for you for a while, so he's got some books in brail, if you can read that."
"I love reading, and I understand brail."
"They're mostly classics. I'll get them for you."
"Thank you."
Scott was sitting cross-legged on the floor reading Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment, fingers running with practised ease over the bumps on the pages. It was a favourite of his, the character Raskolnikov getting him each time. The scenes where Raskolnikov simply laid on his couch in that cupboard of a room, Scott always imagined curled in a loose foetal position, facing inwards. Ever since he read the book last year, Scott always tried to position his bed as close as possible to the image in his mind, even going so far as to lay in the imagined position every night. Always right side, never left. Blanket covering ear to keep parasites out. Wouldn't want a repeat of that X-Files episode.
Jean. He liked her, which he never did on a first meeting. She spoke to him like a human being, without any hidden agenda. She was the first person to ever ask him questions about himself, superficial though they were, and actually be interested in the answers he gave, rather than how it could control him, suit their purposes. Anything you say can and will be used against you. She seemed an exception to the rule.
Hold on. Scott sat up straight. He had known her all of ten minutes and already he felt the beginnings of trust. It wasn't the kind of trust where you could divulge your darkest secret - he had never trusted someone so completely - rather, it was the kind where you could relax and let drop the pretence you're wearing without fear of reprisals. He wondered if what she said about being a low level telepath was true, if she wasn't in fact manipulating him, and found he didn't much care. Maybe that, too, was part of the manipulation.
A quiet knock on the door, three taps.
"Enter."
Scott heard what he thought were Jean's footsteps, and the noise of paper bags being rearranged.
"Hey," she sounded slightly breathless, and Scott found himself wondering for the first time what she really looked like. Having spent the last eighteen months blind, Scott had learned that wishing to know the face of whom you spoke to was a painful exercise, and he generally pictured them all as featureless Sims, androgynous. It was less complicated. Thinking of a face that matched the voice caused a stab of pain in his chest.
"I got two plain t-shirts, one grey, one yellow," Jean sensed a shift in Scott's emotions, but one which she was unable to place. "One orange chequered long-sleeved shirt, a pair of loose jeans, and a pair of brown cords. I can go into more detail. Make sure you know exactly what you're wearing."
"That's fine, thanks. Why yellow?"
"I think it would suit you."
"I see. I normally like yellow as a pen or ruler, but t-shirts fine. Thank you."
"There's also a black hoodie, though it's summer. Xavier mentioned something about you coming from somewhere hot, so my idea of summer might be cold to you. Oh, and no offence, but your shoes are kinda shot to hell, so I got a pair of those, too. Nice red converse. Nothing noticeable." Still no reaction. "I also got you underwear." Damn, not even a flicker. "They've got Goofie patterns on them. I thought they looked cute." This guy was impenetrable.
"Thank you. Goofie kicks ass. The only worthwhile character Disney ever made."
Author's Note: Yes, I'm afraid that's my idea of humour. There will be adventures and bad guys and a heavy dose of comic-y mayhem, I assure you, but mostly it will be like that, so I felt I should warn you. My reason for this is I want to get across how I see Scott. The team one supports doesn't define a person. The fact that s/he likes to watch their favourite movie backwards and claims the best gift they ever received was the pock-marked rock with 'moon rock' and a badly drawn shooting star on its face. You get the picture. Thank you for reading.