This is a prequel to my story, Human, in which Scott Summers is deaf. You may want to read that story first. Thanks for reading!

It was early morning, the sun just creeping over a distant hilltop. Dr. Hank McCoy switched on his blinker before turning right down a private tree-lined lane. On his left, a large sign read: Nebraska Children's Psychiatric Center. Professor Charles Xavier dozed in the seat beside him. Hank nudged him gently.

"Charles, we're here," Hank said, as he pulled up to a security booth at the end of the lane. A uniformed security guard emerged from the booth and approached Hank's open window.

"What can I do for you?"

"Hello, I'm Dr. Hank McCoy. This is Professor Charles Xavier. We're here to see Dr. Kenneth Glendale."

"One moment please." The security guard ducked back inside the small booth and spoke into his radio. A few moments later, he returned with two visitor's passes.

"Wear these around your necks please," he said. When the gate in front of them lifted, Hank maneuvered the small rental car through it and into the visitor parking lot ahead.

Hank unloaded Charles's wheelchair from the trunk and placed it beside the passenger side door where Charles sat waiting. He had grown so accustomed to Hank's help that he barely fussed as Hank helped him transfer from the car and into his chair. Hank started towards the entrance, pushing Charles in front of him.

Charles gazed up at the large brick building in front of him. It was at least four stories tall, with thick white columns framing the front door. The building was old, but not unpleasant. To the left of the building was a small basketball court. An abandoned basketball lay on the ground nearby. To the right of the building, a brick path led to a flower garden, overrun with weeds. Park benches lined the path. The grounds were pleasant enough, but seemed to be deserted. It was eerily quiet as Charles and Hank made their way to the door.

The front door creaked as Hank pushed it open. The entranceway was dark and drab. Inside, a second security guard approached them. They were each patted down, their jackets passed through an x-ray machine to the right. With a nod, the security guard directed them to a desk at the front of the entranceway where a surly-looking woman, her hair tight up in a bun, sat filing her nails. When several seconds passed without them being acknowledged, Charles cleared his throat.

"I'm Professor Charles Xavier," he said, "I'm here . . ."

"Go ahead," said the woman, without looking up. She pushed a button and with a low buzz, the large double doors to their right clicked open. With a quick glance at each other, Charles and Hank passed through the doorway.

The change from one room to the next was remarkable. Now they stood in brightly lit lobby, slightly resembling a doctor's waiting room. Sunlight shone through a large window on the eastern side of the building. The floor was carpeted and cushioned chairs were arranged in a row. There was an old vertical piano to the right of the window. Beside it, a wooden bookshelf was stocked with slightly worn children's books and toys. An old black and white television blared in the opposite corner. The carpet could have used a cleaning and the paint on the walls was chipping in places, but the room seemed homey and lived in compared to the deserted grounds and dreary entryway.

As he examined the room, Charles noticed a teenage girl – maybe fifteen or sixteen- sitting on the floor in one corner; her suspicious eyes followed them. On the other side of the room, a young boy no more than eight years old stood perfectly straight against the wall. Unlike the girl, he hadn't seemed to notice the visitors at all. Instead, he stared straight ahead into space. Charles could hear a small child crying in the distance.

Charles and Hank made their way to the front of the room where a woman sat sifting through papers behind a glass window. Seeing them approach, she slid the window open, smiling. "Rosanne" was written on her name tag. Charles was relieved to see kindness in her face.

"Good morning," she said. "Are you visiting a patient today?"

"Actually, we have an appointment with Dr. Glendale," Charles replied.

"Ah, you must be Charles. He's expecting you. I'll let him know you're here." She disappeared for a moment and then returned saying, "He'll be just a moment." Then looking at Hank, she added, "You're welcome to take a seat," and gestured to the chairs behind him. He thanked her and sat. No more than a minute later, a tall, greying man dressed in a disheveled white doctor's robe emerged from behind a closed door. He smiled brightly when he spotted Charles.

"Professor Xavier. Thank you so much for coming," he said. "I'm Kenneth Glendale," he added, holding out his hand.

"Charles, please," Charles responded as he shook the doctor's hand. "Thank you for seeing us."

He then gestured towards Hank, "This is my good friend, Dr. Hank McCoy." Hank nodded and shook the other doctor's hand.

With another smile, the doctor said, "If you'll come this way, we can talk in my office." He led them down a dreary hallway, turning into the second room on the left. The inside of the building was not as well kept as the outside. The carpeted hallways were dirty and stained and the walls were in dire need of a paint job.

Dr. Glendale's office was small, white, and windowless. A wooden desk took up most of the room. Stashed behind it was a bookshelf overflowing with medical textbooks and files. The desk itself was cluttered with papers. The doctor invited them in, offered Hank a spare chair from the corner, and sat behind his desk.

"Thank you again for coming all this way," said Dr. Glendale. "I don't want to waste your time so I'll get right to it. Earlier this month, a young boy arrived at the center with an . . . unusual ability. A former colleague of mine introduced me to your research on mutation and recommended that I contact you. I'm hoping you can help him. He doesn't belong in a place like this."

"I'll do whatever I can," said Charles. "What can you tell us about him?"

"I'll tell you everything I know, but unfortunately that's not much," he said. He spun in his chair and grabbed a file from the bookshelf behind him. He slid it across the desk to Charles as he spoke, "His name is Scott Summers. He's fourteen years old. He was born in Alaska; his father was an Air Force pilot based in Anchorage. Four years ago, Scott's parents were killed in a plane crash over Nebraska. Scott was on board as well, but survived the crash. He spent two years at the Omaha Home for Boys. Since then, he's been placed in two foster homes. He was removed from the first due to severe physical abuse."

Charles pulled two photos from the file and frowned. The photos showed a young boy's chest and back, covered in bruises, cuts, and cigarette burns. Charles passed the photos to Hank, who examined them as well.

Looking up, Hank asked, "How did he end up here?"

"About three months ago, after being placed with a second foster family, Scott began experiencing severe migraines. His foster parents took him to several doctors and specialists, but no one seemed to know what was causing the headaches. During one especially bad headache, he woke up, opened his eyes, and" – the doctor paused – "blasted an entire wall of the house to bits. According to his foster parents, his eyes emitted some sort of reddish force that easily tore through the wall." Charles and Hank exchanged a meaningful glance.

"Since then, Scott's refused to open his eyes; he wears a bandage across his eyes to keep them shut. He won't let anyone close to him, except for me." A hint of pride appeared on the doctor's face as he added, "He seems to trust me for some reason."

"The foster parents are decent people," he continued. "They don't want to involve the police, but they also don't feel safe with Scott in the house. A friend of a friend suggested that they contact the Center. When Scott arrived, I examined him and recommended that he be admitted. I don't think he belongs in a psychiatric ward," he said quickly, "but I don't want him out on the streets either." The doctor paused, and then asked, "Do you think you can help him?"

"I hope so," said Charles. "Can we see him?"

"Of course, but before you do, there's one more thing I should mention. We think Scott is deaf. We haven't had him tested yet, but he doesn't respond to sound, nor has he spoken since he's been here."

Hank lifted his eyebrows in surprise, "So he can't see or hear? How do you communicate with him?"

"Not very easily, unfortunately," said the doctor. "That's one of the reasons we know so little about him." With that, Dr. Glendale stood. "If you'd like to meet him, I can arrange it. I apologize, but I have an appointment in just a few minutes. However, I can have one of the security guards bring you to him, and then meet up with you as soon as I can."

When Charles agreed, the doctor stuck his head out of his office door and called down the hallway: "Ned!" The security guard in question turned and sauntered down the hallway in the direction of the three men now waiting outside Dr. Glendale's office. He was average height and balding. His uniform shirt was tucked into his pants a bit too tightly so that the fabric struggled to contain his rounded belly.

"Ned, would you mind?" the doctor asked. "These gentlemen would like to see Scott Summers in Room 3B. Can you let them in?"

"Sure thing, Doc," said Ned, looking Charles and Hank over with a smug expression before grunting, "Follow me." The three men took an elevator up to the third floor. Ned led them to the end of the hallway, unlocking the last door on the left. The door was labeled: 3B – Summers.

"This is it," he said, gesturing for Charles and Hank to enter. The room was just as small and plain as the doctor's office. Like the rest of the place, it needed a scrub and a fresh coat of paint. A small metal bed was pushed up against the wall on the left side of the room, a bedside table and lamp beside it. An old wooden dresser was flush against the opposite wall.

Sitting on the bed with his knees pressed tightly to his chest, was a skinny boy with messy brown hair and a white bandage wrapped tightly around his head and across his eyes. He was dressed in a dingy white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, torn at each knee. He was so small that if Charles hadn't known his age, he would have thought him closer to eleven or twelve than fourteen. The boy showed no sign that he knew they were there.

Ned lingered for a moment. Gesturing to Scott, he said "I don't know what you want with the kid. He's dumb. Doesn't respond to nothing." He smirked. "Look at him, he's fourteen and won't go nowhere without that freakin' teddy bear." Charles glanced at the boy again and saw what Ned was referring to. In his left hand, Scott clutched a worn-out, stuffed bear. It was faded brown, torn in a couple spots, and missing one of its eyes, but it was the only thing in the room that seemed to belong to the boy.

Before Charles could respond to the guard's comment, Ned had crossed the room, yanked the bear violently from Scott's grip, and tossed it into the corner. Charles could feel Scott's emotions wash off him in waves: first shock, then confusion, and then anger.

Ned snickered as he watched Scott feel for the lamp on the bedside table, then throw it as hard as he could in Ned's general direction. The lamp, however, was still plugged into the wall and barely went a foot before before crashing to the ground, the light bulb shattering into a million pieces. Ned stopped laughing, a wild look on his face. He grabbed Scott's collar, yanking him forward then slamming him back hard into the wall behind him. Scott's head hit the wall with a thud.

Hank hardly concealed a growl as he clenched his fists and took a few steps forward, just as Charles yelled, "That's quite enough!" Ned turned to Charles with a smirk. "He's just a child," said Charles.

Ned's smirk disappeared. "There are no children here," he said. He turned and left, leaving the shattered lamp on the floor.

With Ned gone, Charles focused all of his attention on Scott. The boy was pressed up against the wall, knees back to his chest. He held his hand tenderly to his head where it had hit the wall a moment ago.

Charles was lost. He had no idea how to earn this boy's trust, especially after that display. After all, he had never spent much time with children. Let alone children in psychiatric wards. That were deaf. And blind. Unsure, he tried speaking:

"Scott, my name is Professor Charles Xavier. Can you hear me?" Scott didn't move.

Charles tried again, this time sending telepathically, "Scott? My name is Professor Charles Xavier. Do you understand?" Scott's head shot up instantly, the slowly forming bump on his head forgotten. Charles felt Scott's feelings shift; the pain, fear, and anxiety were still there, but there was something else too . . . curiosity?

Encouraged, Charles continued, "My friend Hank here is a doctor. Perhaps he could take a look at your head. Would that be okay, Scott?"

Scott continued to sit stock-still and alert. Charles turned to Hank and nodded. Hank approached the bed slowly, and sat down on the edge. Scott started slightly at the movement of the bed, but stayed put. Hank slowly reached out with his hand. He touched Scott's hair lightly, and then felt around for any damage. Scott seemed to be holding his breath, but allowed Hank to work. Within seconds, Hank found a large bump. Scott winced slightly as Hank touched it. Though the bump was tender, there was no blood. Normally Hank would have examined Scott's eyes to check for a concussion, but given the circumstances, that was impossible.

When Hank was finished, he pulled his hand from Scott's head. As he did so, his hand just grazed the side of Scott's head, shifting the bandage that covered Scott's eyes. Scott lurched back violently, throwing himself into the far corner of the bed and pressing himself against the wall, as though he were trying to disappear through it.

"I'm sorry," Hank mumbled, more to Charles than to Scott.

"It's alright. He's a bit skittish it seems."

"A bit?" Hank questioned.

Hoping to win back Scott's trust, Charles sent "Scott, you're okay. It was an accident. We just want to talk. No one is going to hurt you." Scott, seemingly unconvinced, stayed where he was. Looking around the room for anything that might help him, Charles's eyes fell on the bear in the corner.

"Hank would you mind?" Charles asked, pointing to the teddy bear on the floor. Hank bent down, picked up the bear, and handed it to Charles. Charles rolled towards the bed, getting as close to Scott as he could.

"I think this is yours," he sent, placing the bear next to Scott's leg, just within his reach. Scott reached out, taking the bear and holding it tightly to his chest. For a few minutes, nothing changed; they all sat in silence, waiting.

Minutes later, just as Charles was about to give up, Scott inched, ever-so-slightly forward. Charles held his breath. Over the next few minutes, inch by inch, Scott made his way to the edge of the bed. Soon, he sat close enough for Charles to touch him, though Charles didn't dare try.

Surprisingly, it was Scott who reached his hand out, hesitantly at first, in Charles's direction. Charles held still, not wanting to startle the boy. Scott's hand brushed against the frame of Charles's wheelchair. If Scott was surprised to find the wheelchair there, he didn't show it. He moved his hand slowly, feeling the armrest, then the top of the wheel. After a few moments, he moved his hand to the right, feeling Charles's leg for the first time. He pulled his hand back quickly, as though the leg were on fire.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Dr. Glendale had returned from his appointment.

"How are you doing?" he asked, glancing at the broken lamp on the floor with an enquiring expression. Hank's expression became angry again as he opened his mouth to reply, but Charles held up a hand, quieting him.

"We'll explain in your office," Charles said. Dr. Glendale looked unsure, but nodded. "I think we're making some progress," Charles continued, looking back at Scott.

"Glad to hear it. Do you mind if I perform a quick exam?" Charles moved aside to make way for the doctor. He watched as Dr. Glendale banged twice on the side of Scott's bed. Scott perked up immediately, turning in the doctor's direction.

At Charles's curious look, the doctor explained, "It lets him know I'm here." He opened his medical bag and went to work. He took Scott's blood pressure, looked into his ears, nose, and throat, and took his temperature. Scott was a perfect patient. When the doctor was finished, he turned back to Charles and Hank.

Looking from one man to the other, he asked, "So what do you think? Can you do anything for him?"

"Yes, I think we can," said Charles. "But I'd need to take him to our facility in New York. I've been planning for some time to open a school – a sort of sanctuary – for young mutants. Scott would be my first student, but with time I could help him control his mutation. That would be a good start."

"I think it's worth a try," said the doctor. "He's a good kid. He deserves better than this," he said, indicating the room around him. "Let me get started on the paperwork. If you're willing, you should be able to take him home with you this evening." With that and a quick pat on Scott's shoulder, the doctor left.

With the doctor gone, Hank asked, "Are you sure about this Charles?"

Charles glanced at Scott, and then turned back to Hank, "Absolutely not. But I can't leave him here. We wanted to help young mutants, Hank. And here's a young mutant who needs our help." With that, Charles reached out a hand, placing it on Scott's knee. When Scott turned in his direction, Charles sent "Everything will be okay." And he knew that, somehow, it would be.