The Institute hasn't outwardly changed much since I made my visit years ago, only, maybe, it's slightly larger, there are more shapes in the garden, and the gates are open. There's a shadow adjoining the road and my headlights close carefully on it (I never saw the sense on sprinting the last leg of the journey and smashing night-bound pedestrians) and that shadow turns into a young woman, waving frantically, her expression starkly muddied by the light, but probably concerned.
I press the brake, roll down the window, and lean my head out before she can get too near. I don't need any young ladies opening my door in their haste for conversation.
"I've got a Scott here. Your delivery?"
"Sir! Are you all right?"
Real shower, next time. "I'm okay. Where can I put . . . "
"Go right in, we've got people waiting to carry him," she says, her voice very high and strained. I'm still expecting her to jump in the car with me, so I roll up the window and ease on the gas, making sure she's out of the way first.
My headlights glint off people quickly enough. One is of the massive and hairy species, the other is of a similar massive and hairy species, only slightly shorter and less blue. I park next to them and open the door a tad (the young lady doesn't seem to have followed and it is dark).
"He's in the . . ." They've already wrenched open the passenger door and are tugging the youngster out. "Hey, careful!"
Second hairy man shoots me a glare, visible even in the dark. "An' who're you, bub?"
"I . . . " but he's already gone, striding over the lawn with the body in his arms. First hairy man, still here, shrugs.
"He's like that. If'd you'd accompany me inside, Forge, I'd appreciate your help with Scott."
Where have I heard that voice before? Gingerly, I remove the keys and slip around the front of the car. I can't help but be mortified there might be minors coursing the grounds even at this hour.
"I'll shield you if you want," the voice says, amused. "But everyone awake should be in the library. Come on, now."
He lopes and I follow, my mind still working for recognition.
"So," I venture, somewhere between road and door, "Xavier told you my name, right? Brief, ah, briefing? Sensed my mind coming at a steady tilt and . . . "
"Xavier's had an alert set on Scott's brain waves, should they reappear, on Cerebro. Whether he has one on yours or not, I don't know, although I'm assuming he knew you were coming once he examined the alert. In any case, I remember you."
"Huh." This is beginning to be a trend. "I'm trying to place . . . "
"Hank McCoy, Forge. We shared a few classes back in high school, I believe."
"Oh. Yeah." I eye him a bit dubiously, but decided asking out his condition would be impolite. "Chemistry, right?"
"Right. We might have been lab partners a couple of times."
The door is looming up fast and Hank reaches a massive hand to shove it open. He holds it for me, his face set and grim. It's not time for friendly reminiscence now, but I respond, just to keep the silence from becoming ominous.
"You were, ah, pretty good at chemistry, as I recall."
The hall is well lighted. I wish it weren't. But at least it appears to be empty. Beast lets the door close and knuckles forward, his bulk forming a sort of bulwark against prying eyes should any children come running through, I guess.
"Not good enough, eh? If I were quite the genius I thought I was back then, I wouldn't look like this now."
Oh, how nice, he does want to talk about it.
"You were a mutant," I remember.
"Still am. Obviously. I kept it shackled with chemicals, Forge. Ultimately, my formulas were useless."
"Huh. I'm sorry." Too bad we weren't close, buddy, or I'd pat you on the shoulder. When you're packing arms like that, I think I'll forego the risk.
"I'm sorry, too." He sends a meaningful, sidelong glance back at me.
"Oh? Uh . . . right." He's probably referring to the obvious fact that, indeed, he is likewise sorry that he's a hairy blue thing, thank you very much. We've reached an elevator and I scoot back into it, Hank rumbling after me, pressing a button with a rapid thumb.
"You, ah, you really do have facilities capable of . . . handling Scott, don't you?"
"We have better technology than most, if not all, if the United States," Hank says, his tone uninterested and glib. This is a rote speech. "If anyone can help him, we can. Particularly . . . particularly you and me."
"My gifts and yours combined, then," I say, matching his timbre. "You were always a better chemist than I was, but I can tell you . . .or build . . . "
"Forge, you could always do anything you wanted," Hank says and is that a note of exasperation? "Anything. You can help Scott better than I can. I'm just providing the materials."
I don't know what to say. So I keep my mouth shut until the lift re-opens in a basement of some sort and Hank leads me down yet another corridor. A glass door hangs ajar about halfway along and Hank waves me inside.
Scott's already on a bed, IV in arm, looking very drawn. His glasses are uneasily perched against his cheekbones. The second hairy man is sitting on a chair beside, arms folded, one leg hooked over the opposite knee, his face contorted and scowling.
"What took yer so long? Kid don' got a cold, 'ere."
"I'm quite aware of that," Hank countered angrily. "Forge, what do you know about his condition?"
Feeling awkward, I squint. "Uh . . . besides malnourishment, there seems to be a widespread spore infestation in his blood stream and . . . ah, sebaceous glands." Odd . . . "Ah, spores emit some kind of neural transmitter that affects the cerebellum and pituitary and . . ." I blink, ". . . essentially force the host into becoming a sort of manufacturing plant and incubation room combined."
"All right. Can you counteract it?"
Something's blocking me. "No. No, I can't. It's . . . it's . . . oh, see, there's sort of a center for the spores in the back of the brain, where the vision center usually is, can't remember the name, and -- Hank, that is the entire back of his brain. You can't remove it!" This isn't right. But, then again, then again, I saw Scott without the . . .
"Hank," and the man is staring at me with intent concentration. "Hank, I don't think this infestation is a recent thing at all. Scott had a severe head injury when he was eight, didn't he? Don't you have the records?"
Hank has been good enough so far not to quiz me about how I know anything about Scott and he efficiently lumbers to a computer terminal handily placed, his fingers already snapping rapidly. The hairy man gives me a suspicious glare.
"Who are ya?" he snarls. I suppose I can spare a word.
"Forge. How de do?"
"So what can ya do, chippy? You an instant ER?"
"Save questions for after the procedure, sir. I'm sure Xavier can tell you everything. Hank?"
"Brain trauma is mentioned on his files, Forge. Mentions severe lack of motor skills and poor eyesight, but it's a surprisingly sparse profile. Sloppy. Reads like he was handed over to adoption agencies before any sort of full recovery could be made."
"Essentially, anything could have happened, then."
"With poor records like this, yes. No X-Rays, no details of anatomical damage, just the bare symptoms."
"Too bad. See, Hank, I saw Scott's injury when it was fresh. It was fatal, Hank. Would-be fatal, anyway."
"Describe it."
"Gaping. I could see well into his skull. Things were obviously missing."
"All right. As Scott is still alive, what are you suggesting?"
"I think maybe something was replaced."
"Somewhere between mountain slope and hospital?"
"I don't know."
"It's a little far fetched, Forge."
"Tell me about it." I sigh and glance back at Scott. "I don't think I know what to do, though."
"We'll be feeding nutrients into him as quickly as possible without doing further damage. But he's pretty far along and it won't be enough, especially if the spores will be eating along with him. I think you need to think harder, Forge."
"I'm trying! Look, he does look a bit better than when I found him."
"An hour makes that much difference? Is he magically gathering strength from the fresh air?"
"I don't know," I hiss and instantly regret it. Hank keeps sending me those sidelong looks that I'm not sure how to interpret and I have to wonder if something is going on here under the surface. Oh, if only I wasn't involved. I'm not good at these guessing games.
"Forge, your power is to know. I'm sorry if I'm agitating you, but this really isn't the time . . ." He pauses. A gleam comes into his eyes. Which makes me uncomfortable. "What if I gave you something to work with?"
"You mean, information?"
"No." He steps away from the computer terminal and puts a massive hand on a bank of dials and blinking lights and wires. Machinery. None of that silly pure IOIOIOIO data stuff either. Hard machinery. "I mean this."
My right hand twitches. I snatch it with my other hand to suppress it.
"What does it do?"
"Synthesizes chemicals."
Now my left hand is twitching. The stupid appendages haven't been so excited in a while.
The hairy man growls. "Beast, you sure this is a good idea . . . ?"
"I think it's a great idea," Hank smiles. "Have a go, Forge?"
"Maybe it's n-not a good idea," I chatter, trying to counteract my hands, which are going into withdrawal convulsions, dangit. "It's probably very expensive . . . I really have n-no experience with . . ." Oh, heck with it. I take some rapid steps toward the machine. "Might wanna stop me now, I'm warning you."
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it."
He withdraws, still smiling, and my conscious mind is horribly creeped out, but my hands are already grasping hungrily at the controls.
Within a few seconds, they're flailing and pushing and adjusting all over the bank and, as usual, I don't have a clue what they're doing.
But something's happening. At least, more lights are blinking than were a moment ago.
"Are you sure 'e knows what 'e's doin'?"
"Better than I do. Which, if I may be so proud, is saying a lot."
"I don't have a cluuuuuue," I repeat to myself in a low whistle. I could put that to music and make it my mantra.
Something dings insistently and Hank moves forward to check it, taking care to stay out of my way. Not that he need have bothered. My hands seem to be satisfied with whatever they just did.
There's a series of tubes running off the bank. These are what Hank is prodding, along with an accompanying display screen.
"I have no idea what you just created," he finally says, shaking his head. "In fact, since I don't even recognize some of these components, it's safe to say we don't have them stored here. Well, well, let's not rule out spontaneous generation. What does it do?"
I peer over his shoulder, putting my accustomed squint back on. "Suppresses the spores. They'll go into hibernation."
"That's a start, then. I don't suppose it could lower his metabolism?"
"Suppresses that, too. It's like a sedative, kinda."
"And I do hope it's safe to administer by IV?"
I squint harder. "Uh, I think so!"
Hank grunts and transfers the material in the tubes into a second IV bag with surprising grace, although he has to circumvent yet another scowl and dangerous mutter from the hairy man before inserting the needle into Scott's arm.
And, you know what, he is looking better. Even if it is only my imagination.
"Now . . . we wait. Mmmph, but, Forge, I think it'd be fine if you took a few minutes off to rinse and change clothes, at this point. No offense, but it does smell."
"I'm in complete agreement with that," I say with forced stiffness. "Uh, where should I go?"
"There's a room just off the infirmary for showering purposes. I don't know about clothes . . ."
"Not lendin' 'im mine."
"That's predictably generous of you, Logan, but I don't think he'd fit. We do have, yes, a set of simple hospital pull ons for emergency, in that drawer there. I hope that'll do for now?"
"I'm not picky. Plan to go shopping as soon as I can spare the time."
"All right, then. Get washed and dressed. Then . . . I'd like to talk to you."
Mmmm hmmm. You and everyone else. But I nod. Hank's not really so bad. Even if I'd rather not chat with hairy man hanging around like a pit bull.
