The room I have entered is small and relatively bare. It beats the one Mystique trapped me in on a number of counts. First because there is a sink in the corner. Also there is a utilitarian bed, table and chair - a distinct improvement on the furnishedly challenged room in the warehouse. In fact this room is positively homey compared to that one. I think I'm going to be very happy here. Pollyanna. I lock the door after I enter by inserting a bolt into the sliding mechanism. All the doors down here are sliding doors, very futuristic. I sit down on the table and put my head in my hands, wondering where this is going to go from here. Trying to avoid the pit of despair. This just goes to show how long a sane person can sustain a Pollyanna outlook for. I can manage about thirty seconds on an average day. On a day like this one I'm down to around five. Maybe three.
Why were the kids shouting like that? The Professor had said he thought something like this might happen. If that was true why the hell hadn't he shared that information with me? I hadn't had the first idea that anything like that might happen. Ever. I mean really, think back to your own school days. Did you ever greet a teacher in morning by shouting Murderer repeatedly? I'll bet you didn't. I'll bet, if you chanted anything at all at your teacher first thing in the morning it went something along the lines of "Good Morn-ning Mississ So-and-So, Good Morning Ev-ry-Body." While this is annoying, it's not exactly a crisis situation. How do they even know I'm a murderer? Surely none of the staff would tell them, I mean I know Ms Munroe isn't about to join my fan club but she doesn't strike me as that kind of unprofessional bitch...
Oh.
It wasn't just staff that were present was it. Pryde?
There is a polite knock on the door that brings me gently back to the present. I lift my head in time to see the bolt sliding out of the door as if by magic. My forehead furrows for a moment before I realise what has just happened. It was magic, sort of. The Professor and Jean walk in. They are wearing identical concerned expressions.
"Hey," I say. I know I sound embarrassed and guilty. That's because I feel embarrassed and guilty. I'm supposed to be covering for Kurt Wagner, since I accidentally broke him last week. Instead Dr McCoy is covering from me, since I apparently am even more broken than Kurt is. Not the best start in the world, eh?
"Ah, Ms Jacobson, good morning," says the Professor, smiling benignly. "I'm afraid I don't have long before my next class, so I hope you will let me explain briefly the situation as I see it?" There is the briefest of pauses in which I am able to insert the smallest of gestures to continue. He does so, at speed. "We believe that your mother's machine may have had an unexpected effect on your mutation. At present we can only conjecture as to what the precise nature of that effect may have been. In order to ascertain this more fully we would like you, with your consent of course, to undertake a series of tests and a thorough medical examination. These will allow us to verify the exact nature of you powers and thereby enable us to assist you in controlling them, so that unforeseen circumstances such as this mornings should not occur again."
"Oh," I say, then seeing that they expect a little more than this I add. "Okay." They are still looking at me like a specimen. "Sorry?" I try. Sorry often works because it can mean so many different things: sorry to cause so much trouble; sorry for being here; sorry you're upset; sorry, I have no idea what you are talking about; sorry, I wasn't listening; sorry I don't care that much; sorry, did I say that? Oops. You get the picture.
"Well then, good, if you have no further questions. Jean," he says.
"Yes," she says and she turns and walks away. He rolls after her.
"Hang on," I call after them. The Professor turns politely.
"What the fuck?" I ask, helplessly. I mean, I would have asked a more specific and polite series of questions but I'm having trouble forming thoughts, let alone words right now.
He turns back to me. He smiles with that patient smile you use on the drunken lunatics you meet on buses. You know the ones, the ones who sit next to you and start talking in their own special drunken language. "Jean is going to fetch some equipment," he tells me, slower this time. "You will need to stay here. We'll let you know what is going on just as soon as we have the test results. Don't worry, Amanda, everything is going to be fine." He rolls out.
"Oh," I say to no one in particular. "Okay then." This is all very odd. I'm not a drunken lunatic am I? I get up from the table and try the door. It's locked.
"Oh shit," I say, softly. I hope life gets less confusing at some point. Maybe I should become a drunken bus lunatic. It might be quite restful.
Still, it's nice to know everything's going to be fine, isn't it Pollyanna? I think we are going to be very happy here.