He squinted at the light when he finally awoke, his head lolling around his shoulders in an attempt to shield his eyes. His mouth sticky, as if he'd had a hangover without the benefit of a good stiff drink. Spotting a pitcher of water by his bedside, he reached for it only to knock it over the floor.
"Shit," Mackland swore, then groaned at the pounding of his head.
"Hmmm!" An unfamiliar voice huffed at him, "All this nastiness, over a woman! A skinny little tramp you could probably snap like a twig."
The words caused him to jerk; his newfound powers triggered and flung something within his vicinity towards the woman. He heard a thump and watched in horror as the object bounced off her forehead. She gasped and raised a hand to rub at her forehead.
The mysterious woman did not even give him a moment to open his mouth to apologize. Mac saw a blur whipping towards his crotch. On the next beat, he hollered in pain, rolling his body into a ball and clutching his groin. Stars were dancing in front of his eyes.
"Don't you go throwing things at me! I'll beat you with my purse! And trust me, the next time, I'll put a brick in it!" The dark-skinned woman had both hands on her hips and glowered down at him.
Once he was able to think again, he was able to gasp out one syllable: "Who?"
"Huff," she puffed, "The incredible Dr. Ames doesn't know everything? How amazing!" The sarcasm was obvious—but unwarranted, as the man had no idea who she was. Mackland was raised in a polite society in which strangers were treated cordially. This woman had come from a different school of thought.
He watched as her eyes darkened, the scowl becoming almost openly hostile. "My name is Missouri Moseley, Dr. Ames. It's a pleasure to meet you." The words were practically spat out at him. He opened his mouth to ask her what he'd done wrong when she cut him off again. "Was that 'polite' enough for you?"
Mac's head was still spinning, the flood gates that had held his power was still broken down. The power itself had trickled down, steam-like but still active. He closed his eyes and fought for control. Control of his abilities and the current situation. In all honesty, he had no clue what was happening, but his entire life revolved around his ability to control his surroundings… at least, that's what he believed before his accident.
Strengthening his resolve, Mackland opened his eyes and glared back at the woman sitting by his bedside. "Well, Ms. Moseley, what are you doing here?"
"I'm here because you destroyed a hospital room and nearly took down the roof because of your little temper tantrum. I'm here to keep you from hurting anyone else."
The last word brought back his memory. The explosion, the glass, and Alvin—covered in blood. "Alvin? Is he—is he alright?"
Moseley pursed her lips, her sarcasm softening, "He's alive. He's going to have some scarring on his face, hands, and arms. But he's alive and he still has his eyes."
"Oh, God." Mac cried, "I have to see him. I have to apologize." He sat up, almost forgetting the weakness in his legs until he tried to stand without support. He controlled the fall as to not twist on the descent to the floor. When he landed in a heap, Mac threw his head back and sighed. He looked around the room for his cane. He could usually manage the distance of a small room with the cane, just back and forth to the bathroom really; the rest of the time, he needed a wheelchair. He extended his hand to reach for the cane, screaming when the cane flew from across the room towards him. Mackland covered his face with both hands and hollered when it belted him in the gut. It bounced off his abdomen and fell to the floor with a clatter.
Missouri Moseley did not even get up, just arched her eyebrow at him. "Really? I think that you should get your telekinesis under control first. Don't you?"
His anger spiked; the woman was getting on his last nerve! She would never understand how he felt; not now—not ever. "What the hell do you know about it?"
This made her stand up, perching above his fallen form. "Oh, I know more than you can know, Dr. Ames. Your accident has caused your latent psychic abilities to emerge later in life. What can I tell you? You're a late bloomer."
"No. You're wrong; my so-called abilities were triggered after the accident." Mackland was adamant; he had never had any abilities before.
Missouri smiled at him condescendingly, "Silly me, to think that I would know more about this than you. I mean, after all, you've probably read a couple of books on the subject." Her tone changed, became hard, "Psychic abilities –strong ones like yours? They don't just appear after a conk to the head. It's in your blood, Dr. Ames. It's been there all along—and they've been tightly hidden away from you. Until now."
The man shook his head, unwilling to accept her word for gospel. "What do you mean, 'Until now?'"
"I felt your power across states, Dr. Ames. You're incredibly strong—hell, you might be the strongest psychic that I've ever met. And, right now? You're one of the most dangerous. I'm here on the Guardian's behalf. I'm here to determine if you should be taken care of." Her words did not disguise the threat. It made him freeze. He couldn't even get off the floor; he was completely impotent to stop her if she became violent.
"What?" He gasped. "What the hell are you talking about?" Mac struggled to stand up, forgetting how to use the cane in his panic to escape her.
She stopped him, gripping his arm once he was upright. "I'm not going to kill you, Mackland." Her voice grew gentle as if she knew how afraid he'd become. "I'm here to help you.