Mutant.
That word seems like it has had a different meaning every time I say it. Even in my sixteen years, I've never been able to figure out why it is such a big deal. I have a certain problem with mutants, but I've always been afraid to talk about it to anyone; most of all other mutants. I myself am a mutant and have been so for as long as I can remember. Unfortunately, I've been "gifted" with the ability to produce fire from any part of my body at will. The only problem is: it doesn't always happen at will. At times of extreme emotion, I cannot control it. When I am angry, sad, or anything of the sort, I always end up burning something. Or someone. It's people like me who humans are trying to figure out how to deal with. Some humans support the mutant community while others would like to see us all dead or incarcerated.
I am also unique from most humans. My body doesn't function exactly as other humans' do. Though I breathe oxygen, it is for a different reason. Being able to produce fire without hardly any effort, I must have a "fuel" source, which is where oxygen comes into play. One could possibly say that I am a living flame. I don't eat regular food unless I absolutely have to. It's revolting, really, and I don't need it. Yes, I do have internal organs, I have blood and a pulse and a regular heartbeat, but it all thrives on the energy from the heat I produce. I can heal any cut or injury, interestingly enough, in a cinch by burning it. It's as normal as human skin or bone regeneration. I don't even have to think about it.
I have also been granted the gift of knowledge in my life. Either that or I just care more about understanding the world around me than most teenagers. Though I have this advantage over most people my age, not a single soul is willing to take my propositions or sharing of knowledge seriously. The only ones who actually care about my information (and even they about only the fact that I have knowledge) are the people trying to have me properly "dealt with."
Recently, I have been working with one man who really does consider mutants as an acceptable part of society named William Stryker. Lately, I have been assisting him with a research project called Weapon X. He swears up and down that he is not going to stop at X and that he will continue to XI, XII, etc. It is my belief that X will be sufficient, but he strongly disagrees. Stryker's plan is to graft an indestructible metal to the entire skeleton of a specimen that could potentially survive the procedure. Stryker so proudly calls his synthetic metal adamantium. I am a huge part of the success of this experiment because no one else in the world can get the metal hot enough to melt it. That kind of heat is also extremely dangerous to produce and only I can do it safely.
It does weigh on my conscience to be experimenting on someone, but if we do find someone, they will have to volunteer to do the procedure. That lifts some of the guilt, but one can't help but wonder if the "volunteer" really knows what they're getting themselves into.
Soon after that, I could not figure out how, but Stryker found a volunteer who he believed could survive the procedure. I was called to the laboratory at Alkali Lake, Canada where we'd been working. By the time I arrived very early in the morning at the lab, the volunteer, James Logan, was there and more than ready. I still refuse to believe how eager this poor soul was to put himself through this experiment. Nonetheless, I kept my mouth shut knowing what Stryker could do if I interfered. Still, I remember that day as if it were today. It was one of the my worst.
As Mr. Logan disrobed, I could hear Major Stryker talking to him. I heard him explaining how this experiment would help them both in their mission to kill a man named Victor. I had no idea what he was talking about and became skeptical that Stryker wasn't telling me everything I needed to know. Regretting every second of it now, I continued with Stryker's experiment. While Stryker was strapping the man to his cold hard sheet metal bed, I heard "wolverine" in a conversation about dog tags. I stopped eavesdropping and continued my metal heating duties. I would be heating those two heat conducting bars through the entire experiment.
The experiment began as I watched James Logan slowly fall into the container filled with water in which he would receive the adamantium bone graft. I watched the needles begin to spin and turn red with the heat from my body, I watched as those needles entered that poor man's body. As soon as the metal had begun to surround his bones, he started convulsing. When I saw this, I started to shake in my own fear and let go of the bars for a moment. I wanted this procedure to stop now, I wanted to stop hurting him. I quickly realized that letting go of those bars wouldn't help as the metal cooled off, thickened up, and took even slower and more effort to graft his skeleton; I grabbed the bars and immediately heated them up as much as I possibly could to reduce this man's suffering. There being absolutely nothing more that I could do, I held those bars with a death grip and watched until this horrible procedure was over. Being extremely exhausted from the amount of heat I was forcing from my body, I collapsed as I let go of the bars. A couple of lab assistants tried to come to my aid, but my skin temperature was far too hot to touch.
The whole room was silent as everyone including I stared at the man in the water filled container. I could no longer hear the heart monitor as he lay still.
"I guess he can die." Stryker said in an almost victorious tone as he turned around. I stood there in shock as a tear inadvertently streamed down my face. I'd killed him.