His hands clasped his ankles so tightly his knees were pressed into his
chin--and he was lying in a bent shape on his side, on something hard. His
eyes were closed and they burned terribly against the inside of his
eyelids.
A finger nudged his back.
"How long has he been like this?"
"Hours, sir. We found him out just beyond the porch, lying in the snow-- just like this."
"He hasn't moved since? Talked?"
"No, sir."
"You have no idea why?"
"No, sir."
"Hmmmm . . ."
Scott hated that sound, that hmmmmmm, and it was inevitable that it was followed by another prod to his back. Then the prod was on his face, just under his right eye, and he let out a cry that surprised even him and unlocked, pushing himself away from the probing hands.
"Well, that was movement, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, sir. It was."
"Sensitive eyes, perhaps? The sun-glare can be especially intense this time of year--he might have damaged them. Scott--Scott! Will you talk to me?"
"Will you . . . touch them again?"
"No, son, not if you don't want me to. Do they hurt?"
"Yes," he said weakly.
"Can you open them?"
"No. No . . . not now. Never."
The doctor clicked his tongue. "Never? Never is a long time, son. I'm sure we can do something for them that would forestall all that."
"Never," he moaned and he wanted to curl up again.
"Now, now, son, why can't you open them?"
His brain whirred and hedged and finally he lied, "Because my eyes are bleeding."
Silence. Someone coughed a little too loudly in the background.
"Your eyes are bleeding, son?"
"Yes. A lot. I was looking at the sun and then something hit them and then they were bleeding. I don't know why."
"Can I look?"
"No, you can't."
"But, son, they can't be too damaged--your eyelids are clean."
"I wiped them."
"Hmmmmm . . . "
There it was again.
"Mrs. Summers, could you leave the room for a moment? I need to check and I don't think you'll want to see this."
Footsteps retreating, the door creaking open, then a slam as it wasn't open any more.
"Now son," and the doctor's voice was firmer, "What really happened?"
"Just what I told you," Scott pressed stubbornly.
"No, it didn't. I've treated many eyes, even bleeding ones, and if what you said was true, your eyelids wouldn't look normal like they do now. Now tell me what really happened."
Scott couldn't think of anything to say.
"Was it a ploy for attention?"
"No . . . I can't open my eyes."
"You really can't? Why?"
"I . . . I just can't."
"Tell me why, Scott."
There was something hard at the back of his throat and he began to cry. "I can't."
"Scott, you can tell me. I can help you. I've probably treated your problem a thousand times."
"No, you haven't."
"Scott, don't be stubborn about this. I can't help you unless you tell me."
"Would you . . . would you tell my parents?"
"Would you want me to?"
"No! Don't!"
"I won't then. I'll just fix it. Now, tell me, Scott."
Scott swallowed down the hurt and muttered, "Things come out of my eyes."
"Things?"
"Red things and they destroy stuff."
"Really?" The doctor's voice was doubtful.
"I can't show you. I can't control them. I'll hurt someone."
"Hmmm . . . could you open your eyes behind your hands? Would that hurt your hands?"
"No, I did that once."
"Do that."
"But what if . . ."
"I'll be okay."
"You don't believe me."
"Just do it."
Scott exhaled and clamped his hands as tightly as he could over the upper half of his face, even digging in his fingernails, just to make sure. He paused for a long moment, frozen by a certain terror, before opening his eyelids--just a slit.
Power convulsed wildly against his fingers, fighting to seep between them and escape in blood-tinged spurts, spurts that could kill, and Scott hissed in his fear and closed his eyes again.
There was silence. Silence so profound that Scott was half convinced that, despite everything, he had killed the doctor. But then . . .
"You're right, Scott. You can never open your eyes again."
"How old were you?"
He was standing in a plain, a grey-ice plain that shimmered out far beyond him and had only a blurred touch of a horizon. He wasn't alone, either, although perhaps he should have been. Rogue was behind him--at least, it had been her voice. He couldn't bring himself to turn around. Not yet.
"I was twelve."
"That was a long time ago--a long time to live without eyes."
"Huh. Perhaps." He folded his arms and stared out at the blurred horizon, just because he could. "Doesn't matter so much now."
"I . . . I'm surprised they let you keep them at all." There was a tremor in her voice that nearly made him look at her. "When I . . . accidentally hurt someone with my . . . skin, they kept me in a room for nearly a week before I managed to escape. I think they might have killed me if I hadn't. Your eyes, though--they couldn't have kept you if you hadn't wanted to be kept."
"Actually, they could have."
There was a gasp, "They didn't actually try to . . ."
"They thought about it." Scott kicked edgewise at the permafrost, biting his lip. "They would have, too, if my parents hadn't appealed to the local Empire representative, convincing him that my ability could be very useful in battle--and Magneto was a worry even then. The local representative apparently had a kinder view of mutants than Kelly--assuming that Kelly did order us killed in the first place--because he let me keep my eyes. In a sense."
"You were lucky. I can't believe they trusted you to control yourself with only a will and a blindfold."
"They didn't," his voice was soft, almost a whisper. The horizon trembled as if in anticipation and he fought it down-it seemed the images in his mind liked to seep out into the landscape and this was something he didn't want to see again. Not like that.
"What happened?"
There was no reason not to tell her now. "Some men came to our front door, about a month after I went to see the doctor. They demanded me from my parents-not that they didn't moderate that demand with a promise. That they wouldn't hurt me. That I'd be safer with them. And my parents were a little frightened of what I could do, yes. What if some kid knocked into me at school and I opened my eyes for . . . just a moment-of course going with these official looking men would be safer. It had to be safer. They told me what they were going to do, that I would be going to live with these nice people for a while, that they would help me. I wasn't young enough not to be scared, but I went.
"As soon as we'd walked far enough away from the house that my parents wouldn't be able to see what was going on, they stuck me with something-and I lost all my senses entirely. I was awake . . . heh, but I might as well have been dead for all I could tell. I couldn't move, either. I don't know if they carried me or what, it didn't matter. I was like that for so long-and they could have cut off my legs and I wouldn't have felt a thing."
"They could do that to you?"
"Yeah. I don't know how. They could have been mutants. It doesn't matter. I only know what happened next by guessing-and by seeing the room I was in. It was an odd room-well, the way it was built wasn't too odd, but there was this platform in the middle of it. It was obviously built for a person-because there were these straps positioned around the basic shape of a human body. Probably about three for every limb, two for the trunk, three that bound the trunk and limbs together, one for the neck. That's where I was. I don't even know why they bothered. That room . . . that was where they . . . fixed my eye problem."
"Fixed?" Rogue asked so fiercely, Scott shivered and had to clear his throat a couple of times before continuing.
"They . . . they did a good job. Very tight, very professional. Took me . . . um, better part of a month to pick . . . pick it out when I finally got the nerve to try."
"They sewed your eyes shut?! Is that what they did?"
"Yes . . . yes, they did."
"How can you speak about that so calmly-that . . . look at that sky . . that . . . that up there is what you really feel-it horrifies you."
Scott tilted his head slightly toward the horizon, to the black clouds that roiled over the grey and stifled it completely, to the shards of red that bled through them and if that was his emotions somehow, perhaps it was a fine enough thing he was dead. "I wouldn't be human if it didn't. But they did what they thought they had to do. What else could they have done?"
"They could have allowed you to be who you were-to learn control on your own instead of being forced . . ."
"What does a twelve year old boy know about control?" And now he did turn around to look at her, smiling crookedly despite himself.
She just gaped at him and he realized she had been crying. "Scott, I'm sorry."
"Why should you be sorry? I'm the one who should be sorry."
"Why?" She edged slightly toward him. "The memories? I can handle them-- now, anyway."
"No . . . I apparently didn't die fast enough."
"What . . . " Her voice was so odd that Scott had to look at her, "What do you mean?"
"If you're here, they found you, didn't they? If you're here . . . . " He stopped and a memory not-so-ancient, but briefly forgotten, blared in the forefront of his brain. He raised his hand and there was a transparency, or at least a translucence to it and as he stared at Rogue over his fingertips--she was as solid as if this was all somehow real.
He whirled away from her and ran.
"Scott! Scott--wait, please--Scott!"
She was thumping after him, but he was lighter, and faster, flitting over the tundra with instinctive ease and out of it, into turmoils of red and black, and half seen images that he didn't dare look at closely and while she pursued him, he was in no danger of being caught and had no intention of stopping until he knew . . .
Light blared through his body as it ceased to be his body and he felt larger--felt a coldness at his fingertips and they moved when he desired them to, but they were not as familiar as they should be. His eyes tingled, but were oddly cool, and as he opened them a slit--he could see overhanging leaves and the sky above them and nothing . . . absolutely nothing . . . fired off at all.
Then Jean leaned over him, with fiery bright green eyes and asked him "What happened?" and that was all he'd expected.
"Oh . . . crap . . ." he moaned in a voice that was not his own and fell back into the miasm.
A finger nudged his back.
"How long has he been like this?"
"Hours, sir. We found him out just beyond the porch, lying in the snow-- just like this."
"He hasn't moved since? Talked?"
"No, sir."
"You have no idea why?"
"No, sir."
"Hmmmm . . ."
Scott hated that sound, that hmmmmmm, and it was inevitable that it was followed by another prod to his back. Then the prod was on his face, just under his right eye, and he let out a cry that surprised even him and unlocked, pushing himself away from the probing hands.
"Well, that was movement, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, sir. It was."
"Sensitive eyes, perhaps? The sun-glare can be especially intense this time of year--he might have damaged them. Scott--Scott! Will you talk to me?"
"Will you . . . touch them again?"
"No, son, not if you don't want me to. Do they hurt?"
"Yes," he said weakly.
"Can you open them?"
"No. No . . . not now. Never."
The doctor clicked his tongue. "Never? Never is a long time, son. I'm sure we can do something for them that would forestall all that."
"Never," he moaned and he wanted to curl up again.
"Now, now, son, why can't you open them?"
His brain whirred and hedged and finally he lied, "Because my eyes are bleeding."
Silence. Someone coughed a little too loudly in the background.
"Your eyes are bleeding, son?"
"Yes. A lot. I was looking at the sun and then something hit them and then they were bleeding. I don't know why."
"Can I look?"
"No, you can't."
"But, son, they can't be too damaged--your eyelids are clean."
"I wiped them."
"Hmmmmm . . . "
There it was again.
"Mrs. Summers, could you leave the room for a moment? I need to check and I don't think you'll want to see this."
Footsteps retreating, the door creaking open, then a slam as it wasn't open any more.
"Now son," and the doctor's voice was firmer, "What really happened?"
"Just what I told you," Scott pressed stubbornly.
"No, it didn't. I've treated many eyes, even bleeding ones, and if what you said was true, your eyelids wouldn't look normal like they do now. Now tell me what really happened."
Scott couldn't think of anything to say.
"Was it a ploy for attention?"
"No . . . I can't open my eyes."
"You really can't? Why?"
"I . . . I just can't."
"Tell me why, Scott."
There was something hard at the back of his throat and he began to cry. "I can't."
"Scott, you can tell me. I can help you. I've probably treated your problem a thousand times."
"No, you haven't."
"Scott, don't be stubborn about this. I can't help you unless you tell me."
"Would you . . . would you tell my parents?"
"Would you want me to?"
"No! Don't!"
"I won't then. I'll just fix it. Now, tell me, Scott."
Scott swallowed down the hurt and muttered, "Things come out of my eyes."
"Things?"
"Red things and they destroy stuff."
"Really?" The doctor's voice was doubtful.
"I can't show you. I can't control them. I'll hurt someone."
"Hmmm . . . could you open your eyes behind your hands? Would that hurt your hands?"
"No, I did that once."
"Do that."
"But what if . . ."
"I'll be okay."
"You don't believe me."
"Just do it."
Scott exhaled and clamped his hands as tightly as he could over the upper half of his face, even digging in his fingernails, just to make sure. He paused for a long moment, frozen by a certain terror, before opening his eyelids--just a slit.
Power convulsed wildly against his fingers, fighting to seep between them and escape in blood-tinged spurts, spurts that could kill, and Scott hissed in his fear and closed his eyes again.
There was silence. Silence so profound that Scott was half convinced that, despite everything, he had killed the doctor. But then . . .
"You're right, Scott. You can never open your eyes again."
"How old were you?"
He was standing in a plain, a grey-ice plain that shimmered out far beyond him and had only a blurred touch of a horizon. He wasn't alone, either, although perhaps he should have been. Rogue was behind him--at least, it had been her voice. He couldn't bring himself to turn around. Not yet.
"I was twelve."
"That was a long time ago--a long time to live without eyes."
"Huh. Perhaps." He folded his arms and stared out at the blurred horizon, just because he could. "Doesn't matter so much now."
"I . . . I'm surprised they let you keep them at all." There was a tremor in her voice that nearly made him look at her. "When I . . . accidentally hurt someone with my . . . skin, they kept me in a room for nearly a week before I managed to escape. I think they might have killed me if I hadn't. Your eyes, though--they couldn't have kept you if you hadn't wanted to be kept."
"Actually, they could have."
There was a gasp, "They didn't actually try to . . ."
"They thought about it." Scott kicked edgewise at the permafrost, biting his lip. "They would have, too, if my parents hadn't appealed to the local Empire representative, convincing him that my ability could be very useful in battle--and Magneto was a worry even then. The local representative apparently had a kinder view of mutants than Kelly--assuming that Kelly did order us killed in the first place--because he let me keep my eyes. In a sense."
"You were lucky. I can't believe they trusted you to control yourself with only a will and a blindfold."
"They didn't," his voice was soft, almost a whisper. The horizon trembled as if in anticipation and he fought it down-it seemed the images in his mind liked to seep out into the landscape and this was something he didn't want to see again. Not like that.
"What happened?"
There was no reason not to tell her now. "Some men came to our front door, about a month after I went to see the doctor. They demanded me from my parents-not that they didn't moderate that demand with a promise. That they wouldn't hurt me. That I'd be safer with them. And my parents were a little frightened of what I could do, yes. What if some kid knocked into me at school and I opened my eyes for . . . just a moment-of course going with these official looking men would be safer. It had to be safer. They told me what they were going to do, that I would be going to live with these nice people for a while, that they would help me. I wasn't young enough not to be scared, but I went.
"As soon as we'd walked far enough away from the house that my parents wouldn't be able to see what was going on, they stuck me with something-and I lost all my senses entirely. I was awake . . . heh, but I might as well have been dead for all I could tell. I couldn't move, either. I don't know if they carried me or what, it didn't matter. I was like that for so long-and they could have cut off my legs and I wouldn't have felt a thing."
"They could do that to you?"
"Yeah. I don't know how. They could have been mutants. It doesn't matter. I only know what happened next by guessing-and by seeing the room I was in. It was an odd room-well, the way it was built wasn't too odd, but there was this platform in the middle of it. It was obviously built for a person-because there were these straps positioned around the basic shape of a human body. Probably about three for every limb, two for the trunk, three that bound the trunk and limbs together, one for the neck. That's where I was. I don't even know why they bothered. That room . . . that was where they . . . fixed my eye problem."
"Fixed?" Rogue asked so fiercely, Scott shivered and had to clear his throat a couple of times before continuing.
"They . . . they did a good job. Very tight, very professional. Took me . . . um, better part of a month to pick . . . pick it out when I finally got the nerve to try."
"They sewed your eyes shut?! Is that what they did?"
"Yes . . . yes, they did."
"How can you speak about that so calmly-that . . . look at that sky . . that . . . that up there is what you really feel-it horrifies you."
Scott tilted his head slightly toward the horizon, to the black clouds that roiled over the grey and stifled it completely, to the shards of red that bled through them and if that was his emotions somehow, perhaps it was a fine enough thing he was dead. "I wouldn't be human if it didn't. But they did what they thought they had to do. What else could they have done?"
"They could have allowed you to be who you were-to learn control on your own instead of being forced . . ."
"What does a twelve year old boy know about control?" And now he did turn around to look at her, smiling crookedly despite himself.
She just gaped at him and he realized she had been crying. "Scott, I'm sorry."
"Why should you be sorry? I'm the one who should be sorry."
"Why?" She edged slightly toward him. "The memories? I can handle them-- now, anyway."
"No . . . I apparently didn't die fast enough."
"What . . . " Her voice was so odd that Scott had to look at her, "What do you mean?"
"If you're here, they found you, didn't they? If you're here . . . . " He stopped and a memory not-so-ancient, but briefly forgotten, blared in the forefront of his brain. He raised his hand and there was a transparency, or at least a translucence to it and as he stared at Rogue over his fingertips--she was as solid as if this was all somehow real.
He whirled away from her and ran.
"Scott! Scott--wait, please--Scott!"
She was thumping after him, but he was lighter, and faster, flitting over the tundra with instinctive ease and out of it, into turmoils of red and black, and half seen images that he didn't dare look at closely and while she pursued him, he was in no danger of being caught and had no intention of stopping until he knew . . .
Light blared through his body as it ceased to be his body and he felt larger--felt a coldness at his fingertips and they moved when he desired them to, but they were not as familiar as they should be. His eyes tingled, but were oddly cool, and as he opened them a slit--he could see overhanging leaves and the sky above them and nothing . . . absolutely nothing . . . fired off at all.
Then Jean leaned over him, with fiery bright green eyes and asked him "What happened?" and that was all he'd expected.
"Oh . . . crap . . ." he moaned in a voice that was not his own and fell back into the miasm.
