Disclaimer: Needless to say, I have no claim to any of these characters, places, stories, etc. I'm just playing with them.
A note on canon: This story is set after my fic 'Broken, Discarded Things' in the First Class timeline. It should make sense without reading the first story, though; it's First Class plus one year and one emotionally fractured teenager.
In October, 1962, bomb shelters were in the minds of every American.
Eight months later, most were more concerned with stories of the new superspy James Bond, the introduction of diet cola, and—some more than others—Civil Rights actions in the South. The resurgence of the bomb shelter was effectively over.
Not every bomb shelter had been abandoned to gather dust and wait for the next Cold War blister, though. One in particular was still used quite regularly, this one to contain a threat rather than protect against it.
In general they didn't call it containment but training. And since "threat" is a harsh term for a teenage boy who can't help it, mostly he was just called Scott.
That is, when his companion remembered the formality of actually addressing him at all. At the moment Hank was hip-deep in technobabble and since they knew who they were speaking to what was the point? He seemed happiest there, anyway, filling the world for a few moments with the rational, comprehensive world of his own mind, with things like 'manifestation' and 'refraction' and 'hypothesis-based testing'.
Not everyone had Hank's love and understanding of science.
"But will it work?"
A note of whine crept into his voice, but Scott's dislike of training was no secret. He wasn't a particularly whiny sort, usually. He accepted any chore or math assignment with no more than a nod, but the closer he came to the bomb shelter, the more visible the battle between his desire for approval and his dislike of his mutation.
So Hank ignored the whiny tone and replied matter-of-factly, "Well, we won't know for sure until it's tested."
"What if I break it?"
Hank shrugged. "No one can use this but you."
He hadn't seen a way to make it work as glasses. Once Hank abandoned that idea, though, his mind opened to new possibilities. A single lens simplified the equation immensely, removing the problem of parallel modification.
Because, of course, Scott's ability required adjustable moderation. Previously, Hank helped design external power enhancements—wings for Sean, concentrated energy for Alex. They learned to control their own abilities, whereas now Hank was attempting to create a means through with Scott could achieve similar degrees of control.
Any control at all would be nice.
Scott chewed his lip nervously. "What if it doesn't work and I, like, blow up the house?"
"You've been using your ability unchecked for months now," Hank reasoned. At the moment, Scott's ability had only two extremes: either it remained wholly controlled behind his glasses, or he attempted self-control and blasted until—in his words—his eyeballs felt gooey.
Scott hesitated. He sighed, then declared, "I'm never going outside in this thing."
There was no arguing that point.
Hank held onto Scott's glasses while Scott adjusted the… "What do you call it?"
Hank thought for a moment. "I dunno. A visor?"
"That's kind of lame."
"Yeah, I know."
It didn't seem particularly important and neither of them pressed the matter—especially not when, a few moments later, it allowed Scott to use only a very limited amount of his ability. He laughed in something like disbelief.
Hank grinned. His creation had worked! He had managed to—
The following few seconds seemed composed mostly of sounds. There was the kra-boom of the visor breaking and Scott's full power blasting forth, then the thud of a body hitting the ground and the sickening crack of skull-floor collision.
"Scott? ...Scott?"
Scott coughed and blood stained his mouth.
A moment of panic seized Hank. He panicked in his own quiet way, freezing in place. Before he could recover Scott sat up, coughing more blood.
"'m okay," he said thickly. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, smearing rather than lessening the stain. "Bit my tongue."
As best Hank could surmise, Scott had simply lowered his defenses. Possibly the visor's failed containment had been a factor—but Scott insisted he was fine, just a bump on the head was all, don't worry about it.
Hank pressed Scott's glasses into his hand, feeling more than a twinge of guilt over the whole situation. What had gone wrong? It should have worked. Scott's power should have modified just as light would. It had, too, for a few seconds.
"Hank?"
"Yeah."
Blood dripped from Scott's mouth, staining his jeans, his skin where it slipped through the torn knee.
"I don't wanna do this anymore."
Anymore. Not 'again'. For Scott, this experiment had been one in a series, just another piece of the far-too-old 'what can be done with Scott's ability' sequence.
"I'll talk to Charles. I'm sorry about this."
Scott shrugged. "Science, right?"
But he took the reprieve.
Gladly.
To be continued.