Author: Elizabeth Wilde
Title: Emergence
Distribution: Anyone who has my fic, anyone who asks for it, http://www.geocities.com/aloysiusj/xfic.html [my site]
Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men. Don't sue!!!
'Ship: none
Classification: general
Summary: The story of how Scott came to Xavier's school. Set a week after the prom incident in the movie novelization.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: the novelization of the movie
Feedback: to wilde_moon@yahoo.com
Notes: The graphic for this story is at http://www.geocities.com/aloysiusj/emergence.html
"Hey... Scotty... you're back." The coach sounded less than thrilled, though he had a nice, fake smile plastered across his pasty, sweaty face.
"Yep, I'm back. Just... needed time to rest," the boy said, forcing a smile and shifting nervously from foot to foot, barely looking at the coach or at the ten other boys gathered on the field waiting for track practice to begin. "I'm fine now. Really." He looked up hopefully.
The coach nodded, though his expression was far from one of certainty. "Sure... sure, kid. Good to hear." The stocky man cleared his throat. "Listen up, guys. Summers is back with us. He's, uh, feelin' better."
A couple of the guys offered comments to the effect that they were pleased, but most just stared at Scott as if he were a bomb about to explode. //In all fairness,// Scott reminded himself, //I just might be.// His parents hadn't wanted him to go back to school. They said they felt it was "premature".
"After all, Scott, you've only just... just gotten better," his mother stammered, fingers of her right hand toying absently with her necklace as she spoke. "M-maybe you should wait another week and-"
"I've already missed a week of school. I don't want to get more behind," the boy had protested with a stubbornness reserved solely for teenagers who had their minds set on something. "I'm going back. I'm fine. It... it was a fluke," he mumbled, looking down at the carpet, studying the places were it had been trampled down and worn over the tears. "It won't happen again."
What else could he say? "Aw, heck, mom, they had a few gym walls to spare anyway. No big deal." He knew better and so did they. They knew what the incident at prom meant. He was a mutant.
But that didn't mean he had to admit it. "We're gonna have a great season next year," one of the boys commented to Scott, feigning nonchalance.
"Yeah, should be a good one. Lots of people coming back," Scott agreed, basking in the normalcy of the inane conversation. "You're gonna be back, right?"
"Yeah. Sure. I mean, why not, right?"
"Right." Scott tried to remember the guy's name and finally recalled that it was something like Josh or Johnny.
The guy-Jimmy? Jamie?-stood idly by for a moment, glancing around at the others while they stretched out. Finally, he asked, "So... what happened? I mean, with the gym? Y'know?"
"I know. I mean, I don't know. It... just... It's fine now," Scott finally offered, playing the incident off with a smile and a shrug.
"That's cool, I guess."
"Yeah. It's good. Hey, you... you haven't seen Selena around, have you? I kinda wanted to, y'know, tell her I'm sorry about... whatever." Scott seemed suddenly fascinated by the grass growing around the soles of his running shoes.
"Sorry, man. Can't help ya there. I don't know if anybody's seen her. She hasn't been around since, uh, since prom."
Scott masked his disappointment with another shrug. "Oh. Yeah. Okay. No big deal. I mean, I'm sure I'll catch up with her later."
"Sure." The whistle blew and the kid, whatever his name was, bounded off to join the others, Scott trailing behind, feeling the vaguest beginnings of a headache building behind his eyes.
* * * * *
"Hey, mom, we got any aspirin?" Scott called out, eyes scanning the room for any sign of his mother as he threw his backpack down beside the couch. He raised his voice a notch. "Mom?"
"In the kitchen, honey!"
When Scott entered the kitchen, he smiled. His mother held a tray of freshly-baked cookies in front of her. "This dinner?"
She gave him a gentle swat on the arm after setting the cookies down on the top of the stove. "I don't think so. But I also don't think a couple now would hurt..."
Scott kissed his mother on the cheek and grabbed a cookie. "Have I mentioned lately that you're the best mom ever?"
"Sure have, but it's always good to hear. What were you yelling about when you came in?" she asked, moving the cookies from the baking sheet to a plate.
"Oh, yeah. We have any aspirin?"
Her smile immediately shifted to a worried frown. "Are you feeling alright?" There was fear behind the concern in her voice.
"I'm fine. Just a little headache. Too much sun and too little water. No big."
The woman breathed a sigh of relief and smiled again, pushing her chin-length brown hair behind her ears, hoop earrings flashing in the sun coming through the spotless kitchen windows. "Of course. Let me see... oh! In the medicine cabinet. Top shelf. In our bathroom, that is. Your father's been getting those migraines again and-"
"Thanks, mom!" Scott was already halfway out of the room. He bounded up the stairs, moving into his parents' bedroom. Their blue flowered bedspread was smooth across the mattress and pillows, no dust revealed on anything in the harsh light coming into the room from outside. In the bathroom, he pulled open the cabinet, briefly searching the bottles there until he found a family size bottle of aspirin. Popping a couple of pills into his mouth, Scott poured a glass of water from the tap and swallowed them. The faintly bitter taste lingered on his tongue as he left the room. //Just a headache.//
* * * * *
It was three days before the headache became a migraine, constant, grinding slowly away at Scott's mind. He tried to concentrate in class, reminding himself that the semester was almost over. It was stress. He needed more rest. Four more days and his parents rushed him to the hospital in the middle of the night because the pain had grown so intense Scott could no longer eat or sleep or speak without the greatest effort. "Everything is going to be just fine, honey," his mother assured him as they sat in the waiting room filling out forms.
Scott merely grunted and pressed his hand tighter against the throbbing in his temples. It felt like pressure was building there. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed the pain away with every ounce of strength he possessed, though that was precious little after so long fighting the same pain. He felt himself being ushered to a room by one of the nurses. It was another fifteen minutes-an eternity-until the doctor finally arrived.
"I hear you've got a severe headache?" the man asked, smiling pleasantly, as if it weren't nearly three in the morning and the young man in front of him wasn't doubled over in the chair, hands pressed to his head. Scott managed to press the pain back long enough to give the man a sufficiently homicidal glare. The doctor merely grinned in response before frowning down at his file folder of special information. The frown deepened as he actually read the words on the page. "You were brought here a week ago after an... incident at the school?"
Scott nodded, the slight motion making him want to throw up. His head swam for a moment, the pressure building, and he forced it back. //Just a headache,// he chanted over and over silently. //Just a headache.//
"I see. Do you think this is related?"
Disgusted with the entire situation and, in all honesty, with himself, Scott snapped, "You're the fucking doctor!"
The man's expression darkened. "Yes. I am. You, however, are more familiar with how you feel than I am. Is what you're feeling now similar to how you felt that night?"
"No." The pain encroached on his concentration again, and Scott had to struggle just to keep his eyes focused on the doctor. "Maybe." He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his palms. "I dunno."
"I see. Scott, we're going to give you some medication that should help with the pain and keep you here overnight for observation. How does that sound?"
//Like I don't have a choice.// "Fine." Scott let the pain take over again when the doctor left to make the proper arrangements. //Just a headache.//
* * * * *
Scott heard whispers, harsh in the quiet cocoon the medication had created for him. He wanted to open his mouth and tell the people talking to shut up and leave him alone, but he couldn't convince the muscles of his jaw to move, couldn't coax his eyes into opening. Or were they open? Maybe it was dark. The whispers continued, but they grew louder as he focused on them.
"...brought here last night."
"You're sure he's one of them?"
"Pretty damn sure. Look at this chart! You can't tell me you consider that normal, doctor." The voice sounded casually derisive.
"I... well, no." It was the doctor's slightly nasal voice, but not as commanding, as certain as before. "No, it isn't. That's why I called you."
"Of course. We appreciate that, doctor. Without concerned citizens like yourself, this problem would be far greater than it is."
"Yes. Thank you." The doctor didn't sound particularly grateful.
"You've done your duty. Why don't you slip out and we'll take care of this. It'll all be over before anyone notices." Scott's sluggish, narcotic-laced brain began to function a bit then. //What'll be over? What are they talking about? Who is he talking to?// "We've done this before."
"Yes. I'm sure you have. Just be quick about it." Footsteps retreated from the room and Scott tried to open his eyes. They remained closed. He tried to scream, but no sound passed his lips. Panic flooded his brain, slowly edging out the calming apathy of the drugs. //What is happening?//
"Chart says he's due for meds. Give him a shot of something. We don't want him waking up. That could prove... annoying."
No voice responded, but Scott felt the sting of a needle in his arm and the panic receded, edged out by unconsciousness.
* * * * *
Consciousness returned in a manner Scott deemed painfully quick. In an instant, he was fully aware of the itchy rope holding his hands behind his back and his feet to the wooden chair he sat in, the material tied tightly around his eyes, the familiar pain whirling in his brain, the musty smell of the room. He groaned, wondering if it was a good idea to call attention to himself at all. //Too late now.//
"Looks like you've finally decided to wake up." The voice from the hospital.
"Where am I?" Scott asked, figuring his situation couldn't really get much worse.
"That would be telling," the voice taunted, almost sing-song in its mocking. "We just figured you should know why you're here before we finish this."
"Finish... finish what?" The panic was returning full-force, and it did nothing to ease the throbbing behind his eyes. "What are you going to do with me? Who are you?"
"So many questions! We are a concerned group of citizens. You see, this country of ours is currently being visited with a plague. Oh, it's other places too, but that really isn't all that important just yet." Scott could hear the voice moving closer and wished he had the leverage to scoot the chair back without throwing himself to the floor. "For now we need to take care of our own."
"Own what?" Scott demanded, twisting his hands, the rope digging into his skin. He winced as he felt blood trickling across his palms.
"The damn muties, of course! Not the brightest crayon in the box, are you, boy?" the voice demanded with a snort. "Damn muties like you."
"I-I'm not! I... That thing at the gym, it... it just... It wasn't... I'm not!" A meaty hand connected with Scott's jaw and his head snapped sideways. He let out a moan as the throbbing behind his eyes upgraded to a more piercing level of attack.
"Don't you argue with me, boy! Don't you-" There were shouts coming from another part of the building, loud and frantic. "Shit!" the voice hissed. "Don't move a fucking muscle. I'm gonna be back and we're gonna finish this!"
Scott waited until the footsteps ran out of range. He twisted his hips, the chair shifting to the right. //Yeah, that did a lot of good. Now you're facing a different direction. Very helpful.// Deciding that his only chance would be to break the chair, Scott took a deep breath and threw his weight backwards, knowing there was a greater chance of breaking his hands. Something snapped. Not the chair. A finger. Scott bit back a howl of pain and tried jerking his legs against the chair, tried leaning forward enough to lift his hands over the back of the seat. A red haze of pain settled over everything as he worked.
The shouts were fewer, then gone. Scott cursed, assuming the man would be back to "finish," a word whose meaning was all too clear to Scott. He heard footsteps approaching and froze. He was dead anyway. No sense in struggling more, in making it worse. Maybe they'd just shoot him and be done with it. Instead he felt the chair being lifted upright again, hands brushing against his as the rope was untied.
"You okay?" a new voice asked calmly. It was a cultured voice, so polished it almost sounded English. The hands were untying his feet.
"My head-"
"Yeah, I know. We're going to take care of that in just a minute. There we go," the voice said as the last rope fell to the floor. "I'm going to take off this blindfold, but don't open your eyes until I say so, alright?"
Scott nodded, feeling nauseous again. The pain and overdose of medication were threatening to take his focus away again. The blindfold was tugged away gently and Scott felt something slide onto his face. Glasses. //Why the hell do I need glasses?// "I don't wear glasses," he pointed out, voice sounding sluggish, words slurring slightly.
"Do now," the voice replied. "You can open them now."
Scott complied, blinking a few times. Everything looked red. The shades ranged from pink to a near-black blood color, but it was all red. He felt the pressure behind his eyes ebbing and rolled his head from side to side before looking up at the man standing in front of him. He looked clean-cut, all-American. Pale hair that Scott assumed was blond, pale eyes. He wore a strange, tight uniform type thing that Scott would have doubled over laughing at if he hadn't been so doped up. //I'm having a hallucination.// Then it struck him what the white things peeking up over the man's shoulders were. "Am I dead?"
The man smiled and laughed quietly. "No, you're not dead. My name's Angel-well, Warren. It's good to meet you, Cyclops."
"Cy-My name's Scott!" he protested, standing on legs that obviously weren't ready for it. The index finger of his left hand screamed in protest at the motion. "Shit!"
The man reached out, taking Scott's hand and looking at it. "Broken. But we can fix that up no problem. Scott, this is Charles Xavier," he said, gesturing to an older man in a wheel chair who Scott hadn't even noticed before.
"Who are you? What the hell is going on?" Scott demanded, swaying slightly until Angel's hand landed on his shoulder.
"As Angel said, I am Charles Xavier. Professor Charles Xavier. I run a school for people with... special abilities. Like yours, Scott," the man said, smiling benevolently. "Those glasses should keep your optic blasts in check until we come up with something that will allow you to control them."
"Control...? Optic blasts? You mean-"
"Yes, Scott. Those men were right about one thing. You are a mutant."
Scott sank back into the chair. "I know," he said, shoulders sagging.
"It isn't a curse. It is a gift. A gift you will learn to use, hopefully to help others as Angel has just helped you." Xavier smiled again, wheeling closer and reaching out to pat Scott's hand. "You have a grand adventure ahead of you, Scott."
Scott looked up, meeting the man's gaze. There was something there, something that whispered, "I know you." He took a deep breath and nodded, finally returning the smile. "Where do I sign up?"
Xavier nodded his approval. "You already have."
Title: Emergence
Distribution: Anyone who has my fic, anyone who asks for it, http://www.geocities.com/aloysiusj/xfic.html [my site]
Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men. Don't sue!!!
'Ship: none
Classification: general
Summary: The story of how Scott came to Xavier's school. Set a week after the prom incident in the movie novelization.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: the novelization of the movie
Feedback: to wilde_moon@yahoo.com
Notes: The graphic for this story is at http://www.geocities.com/aloysiusj/emergence.html
"Hey... Scotty... you're back." The coach sounded less than thrilled, though he had a nice, fake smile plastered across his pasty, sweaty face.
"Yep, I'm back. Just... needed time to rest," the boy said, forcing a smile and shifting nervously from foot to foot, barely looking at the coach or at the ten other boys gathered on the field waiting for track practice to begin. "I'm fine now. Really." He looked up hopefully.
The coach nodded, though his expression was far from one of certainty. "Sure... sure, kid. Good to hear." The stocky man cleared his throat. "Listen up, guys. Summers is back with us. He's, uh, feelin' better."
A couple of the guys offered comments to the effect that they were pleased, but most just stared at Scott as if he were a bomb about to explode. //In all fairness,// Scott reminded himself, //I just might be.// His parents hadn't wanted him to go back to school. They said they felt it was "premature".
"After all, Scott, you've only just... just gotten better," his mother stammered, fingers of her right hand toying absently with her necklace as she spoke. "M-maybe you should wait another week and-"
"I've already missed a week of school. I don't want to get more behind," the boy had protested with a stubbornness reserved solely for teenagers who had their minds set on something. "I'm going back. I'm fine. It... it was a fluke," he mumbled, looking down at the carpet, studying the places were it had been trampled down and worn over the tears. "It won't happen again."
What else could he say? "Aw, heck, mom, they had a few gym walls to spare anyway. No big deal." He knew better and so did they. They knew what the incident at prom meant. He was a mutant.
But that didn't mean he had to admit it. "We're gonna have a great season next year," one of the boys commented to Scott, feigning nonchalance.
"Yeah, should be a good one. Lots of people coming back," Scott agreed, basking in the normalcy of the inane conversation. "You're gonna be back, right?"
"Yeah. Sure. I mean, why not, right?"
"Right." Scott tried to remember the guy's name and finally recalled that it was something like Josh or Johnny.
The guy-Jimmy? Jamie?-stood idly by for a moment, glancing around at the others while they stretched out. Finally, he asked, "So... what happened? I mean, with the gym? Y'know?"
"I know. I mean, I don't know. It... just... It's fine now," Scott finally offered, playing the incident off with a smile and a shrug.
"That's cool, I guess."
"Yeah. It's good. Hey, you... you haven't seen Selena around, have you? I kinda wanted to, y'know, tell her I'm sorry about... whatever." Scott seemed suddenly fascinated by the grass growing around the soles of his running shoes.
"Sorry, man. Can't help ya there. I don't know if anybody's seen her. She hasn't been around since, uh, since prom."
Scott masked his disappointment with another shrug. "Oh. Yeah. Okay. No big deal. I mean, I'm sure I'll catch up with her later."
"Sure." The whistle blew and the kid, whatever his name was, bounded off to join the others, Scott trailing behind, feeling the vaguest beginnings of a headache building behind his eyes.
* * * * *
"Hey, mom, we got any aspirin?" Scott called out, eyes scanning the room for any sign of his mother as he threw his backpack down beside the couch. He raised his voice a notch. "Mom?"
"In the kitchen, honey!"
When Scott entered the kitchen, he smiled. His mother held a tray of freshly-baked cookies in front of her. "This dinner?"
She gave him a gentle swat on the arm after setting the cookies down on the top of the stove. "I don't think so. But I also don't think a couple now would hurt..."
Scott kissed his mother on the cheek and grabbed a cookie. "Have I mentioned lately that you're the best mom ever?"
"Sure have, but it's always good to hear. What were you yelling about when you came in?" she asked, moving the cookies from the baking sheet to a plate.
"Oh, yeah. We have any aspirin?"
Her smile immediately shifted to a worried frown. "Are you feeling alright?" There was fear behind the concern in her voice.
"I'm fine. Just a little headache. Too much sun and too little water. No big."
The woman breathed a sigh of relief and smiled again, pushing her chin-length brown hair behind her ears, hoop earrings flashing in the sun coming through the spotless kitchen windows. "Of course. Let me see... oh! In the medicine cabinet. Top shelf. In our bathroom, that is. Your father's been getting those migraines again and-"
"Thanks, mom!" Scott was already halfway out of the room. He bounded up the stairs, moving into his parents' bedroom. Their blue flowered bedspread was smooth across the mattress and pillows, no dust revealed on anything in the harsh light coming into the room from outside. In the bathroom, he pulled open the cabinet, briefly searching the bottles there until he found a family size bottle of aspirin. Popping a couple of pills into his mouth, Scott poured a glass of water from the tap and swallowed them. The faintly bitter taste lingered on his tongue as he left the room. //Just a headache.//
* * * * *
It was three days before the headache became a migraine, constant, grinding slowly away at Scott's mind. He tried to concentrate in class, reminding himself that the semester was almost over. It was stress. He needed more rest. Four more days and his parents rushed him to the hospital in the middle of the night because the pain had grown so intense Scott could no longer eat or sleep or speak without the greatest effort. "Everything is going to be just fine, honey," his mother assured him as they sat in the waiting room filling out forms.
Scott merely grunted and pressed his hand tighter against the throbbing in his temples. It felt like pressure was building there. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed the pain away with every ounce of strength he possessed, though that was precious little after so long fighting the same pain. He felt himself being ushered to a room by one of the nurses. It was another fifteen minutes-an eternity-until the doctor finally arrived.
"I hear you've got a severe headache?" the man asked, smiling pleasantly, as if it weren't nearly three in the morning and the young man in front of him wasn't doubled over in the chair, hands pressed to his head. Scott managed to press the pain back long enough to give the man a sufficiently homicidal glare. The doctor merely grinned in response before frowning down at his file folder of special information. The frown deepened as he actually read the words on the page. "You were brought here a week ago after an... incident at the school?"
Scott nodded, the slight motion making him want to throw up. His head swam for a moment, the pressure building, and he forced it back. //Just a headache,// he chanted over and over silently. //Just a headache.//
"I see. Do you think this is related?"
Disgusted with the entire situation and, in all honesty, with himself, Scott snapped, "You're the fucking doctor!"
The man's expression darkened. "Yes. I am. You, however, are more familiar with how you feel than I am. Is what you're feeling now similar to how you felt that night?"
"No." The pain encroached on his concentration again, and Scott had to struggle just to keep his eyes focused on the doctor. "Maybe." He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his palms. "I dunno."
"I see. Scott, we're going to give you some medication that should help with the pain and keep you here overnight for observation. How does that sound?"
//Like I don't have a choice.// "Fine." Scott let the pain take over again when the doctor left to make the proper arrangements. //Just a headache.//
* * * * *
Scott heard whispers, harsh in the quiet cocoon the medication had created for him. He wanted to open his mouth and tell the people talking to shut up and leave him alone, but he couldn't convince the muscles of his jaw to move, couldn't coax his eyes into opening. Or were they open? Maybe it was dark. The whispers continued, but they grew louder as he focused on them.
"...brought here last night."
"You're sure he's one of them?"
"Pretty damn sure. Look at this chart! You can't tell me you consider that normal, doctor." The voice sounded casually derisive.
"I... well, no." It was the doctor's slightly nasal voice, but not as commanding, as certain as before. "No, it isn't. That's why I called you."
"Of course. We appreciate that, doctor. Without concerned citizens like yourself, this problem would be far greater than it is."
"Yes. Thank you." The doctor didn't sound particularly grateful.
"You've done your duty. Why don't you slip out and we'll take care of this. It'll all be over before anyone notices." Scott's sluggish, narcotic-laced brain began to function a bit then. //What'll be over? What are they talking about? Who is he talking to?// "We've done this before."
"Yes. I'm sure you have. Just be quick about it." Footsteps retreated from the room and Scott tried to open his eyes. They remained closed. He tried to scream, but no sound passed his lips. Panic flooded his brain, slowly edging out the calming apathy of the drugs. //What is happening?//
"Chart says he's due for meds. Give him a shot of something. We don't want him waking up. That could prove... annoying."
No voice responded, but Scott felt the sting of a needle in his arm and the panic receded, edged out by unconsciousness.
* * * * *
Consciousness returned in a manner Scott deemed painfully quick. In an instant, he was fully aware of the itchy rope holding his hands behind his back and his feet to the wooden chair he sat in, the material tied tightly around his eyes, the familiar pain whirling in his brain, the musty smell of the room. He groaned, wondering if it was a good idea to call attention to himself at all. //Too late now.//
"Looks like you've finally decided to wake up." The voice from the hospital.
"Where am I?" Scott asked, figuring his situation couldn't really get much worse.
"That would be telling," the voice taunted, almost sing-song in its mocking. "We just figured you should know why you're here before we finish this."
"Finish... finish what?" The panic was returning full-force, and it did nothing to ease the throbbing behind his eyes. "What are you going to do with me? Who are you?"
"So many questions! We are a concerned group of citizens. You see, this country of ours is currently being visited with a plague. Oh, it's other places too, but that really isn't all that important just yet." Scott could hear the voice moving closer and wished he had the leverage to scoot the chair back without throwing himself to the floor. "For now we need to take care of our own."
"Own what?" Scott demanded, twisting his hands, the rope digging into his skin. He winced as he felt blood trickling across his palms.
"The damn muties, of course! Not the brightest crayon in the box, are you, boy?" the voice demanded with a snort. "Damn muties like you."
"I-I'm not! I... That thing at the gym, it... it just... It wasn't... I'm not!" A meaty hand connected with Scott's jaw and his head snapped sideways. He let out a moan as the throbbing behind his eyes upgraded to a more piercing level of attack.
"Don't you argue with me, boy! Don't you-" There were shouts coming from another part of the building, loud and frantic. "Shit!" the voice hissed. "Don't move a fucking muscle. I'm gonna be back and we're gonna finish this!"
Scott waited until the footsteps ran out of range. He twisted his hips, the chair shifting to the right. //Yeah, that did a lot of good. Now you're facing a different direction. Very helpful.// Deciding that his only chance would be to break the chair, Scott took a deep breath and threw his weight backwards, knowing there was a greater chance of breaking his hands. Something snapped. Not the chair. A finger. Scott bit back a howl of pain and tried jerking his legs against the chair, tried leaning forward enough to lift his hands over the back of the seat. A red haze of pain settled over everything as he worked.
The shouts were fewer, then gone. Scott cursed, assuming the man would be back to "finish," a word whose meaning was all too clear to Scott. He heard footsteps approaching and froze. He was dead anyway. No sense in struggling more, in making it worse. Maybe they'd just shoot him and be done with it. Instead he felt the chair being lifted upright again, hands brushing against his as the rope was untied.
"You okay?" a new voice asked calmly. It was a cultured voice, so polished it almost sounded English. The hands were untying his feet.
"My head-"
"Yeah, I know. We're going to take care of that in just a minute. There we go," the voice said as the last rope fell to the floor. "I'm going to take off this blindfold, but don't open your eyes until I say so, alright?"
Scott nodded, feeling nauseous again. The pain and overdose of medication were threatening to take his focus away again. The blindfold was tugged away gently and Scott felt something slide onto his face. Glasses. //Why the hell do I need glasses?// "I don't wear glasses," he pointed out, voice sounding sluggish, words slurring slightly.
"Do now," the voice replied. "You can open them now."
Scott complied, blinking a few times. Everything looked red. The shades ranged from pink to a near-black blood color, but it was all red. He felt the pressure behind his eyes ebbing and rolled his head from side to side before looking up at the man standing in front of him. He looked clean-cut, all-American. Pale hair that Scott assumed was blond, pale eyes. He wore a strange, tight uniform type thing that Scott would have doubled over laughing at if he hadn't been so doped up. //I'm having a hallucination.// Then it struck him what the white things peeking up over the man's shoulders were. "Am I dead?"
The man smiled and laughed quietly. "No, you're not dead. My name's Angel-well, Warren. It's good to meet you, Cyclops."
"Cy-My name's Scott!" he protested, standing on legs that obviously weren't ready for it. The index finger of his left hand screamed in protest at the motion. "Shit!"
The man reached out, taking Scott's hand and looking at it. "Broken. But we can fix that up no problem. Scott, this is Charles Xavier," he said, gesturing to an older man in a wheel chair who Scott hadn't even noticed before.
"Who are you? What the hell is going on?" Scott demanded, swaying slightly until Angel's hand landed on his shoulder.
"As Angel said, I am Charles Xavier. Professor Charles Xavier. I run a school for people with... special abilities. Like yours, Scott," the man said, smiling benevolently. "Those glasses should keep your optic blasts in check until we come up with something that will allow you to control them."
"Control...? Optic blasts? You mean-"
"Yes, Scott. Those men were right about one thing. You are a mutant."
Scott sank back into the chair. "I know," he said, shoulders sagging.
"It isn't a curse. It is a gift. A gift you will learn to use, hopefully to help others as Angel has just helped you." Xavier smiled again, wheeling closer and reaching out to pat Scott's hand. "You have a grand adventure ahead of you, Scott."
Scott looked up, meeting the man's gaze. There was something there, something that whispered, "I know you." He took a deep breath and nodded, finally returning the smile. "Where do I sign up?"
Xavier nodded his approval. "You already have."