"He's a good possibility. All our reports say he fits into the category perfectly. He may be the one."
"Don't get your hopes up. We've had ones like him before, and they've often turned out wrong. This is a delicate situation and I'm trusting you to not screw it up."
"The great Professor, trusting another human being, and he chooses me? Why Anderson, I'm touched."
"Sarcasm will not get you a raise."
"And here I thought you liked your employees ironic and cynical. Just like you, I mean. Hey, settle down, no need to get prickly."
"If you mess this like you did with the O'Hara kid, you'll regret it for a long time. If you handle this well, however, I might recommend you to the Tactical Center. A little incentive."
"I have been wanting to get a CharlDock car-"
"Don't push it."
Peter stared at the nurse calmly. He liked unnerving people. Once, he'd heard his father's friend talking about him. How unsettling it was to have a child, infant, really, stare at you with that look, as if he could see you, know you, and judge you. Peter found that it made the other person off balance, nervous, which gave him an edge. When you're only four you need every edge you can get to stay in the game.
"Petey-wetey," the nurse began, "the doctor will come in a minute. He's going to check you all over, from your little head to your little feet. Won't that be fun?"
Peter very nearly gagged. Yuck. I think I'm going to puke. I mean, Petey-wetey? Ugh. He decided to have some fun. He stared at the nurse for a moment longer, and then his big blue eyes narrowed.
"No. I do not think it will be fun. If you think it will be fun, go do it yourself. I like my privacy, thank you very much." He paused for effect, relishing the look on her face. "Now, Janey-waney, go get the doctor." Perfect! Her expression was priceless. He only wished he didn't still have that babyish lisp. It was embarrassing! Peter hated anything babyish; 'babyish' was not a word he wanted in connection with his name.
After she'd left, flustered and pink, he slowly reached a hand to the back of his neck, feeling for the small machine embedded there. The monitor. Is that what the genius you need would do? Am I right for your program?
Peter had always scorned those over-eager kids in the class, the ones who in answer to a question would stretch their arms up so far, wave them wildly about, and shout, "Ooh, pick me, pick me!" But that was how he felt. Desperate to gain attention, to be the right one, to be elevated above the others.
Please, please, pick me. Pick me.