Lance hated the buzz and he hated the Group Room. Really, it was bad enough to be ripped away from your home, what little home it was, and placed in this sterile and homicidally dull place, without having to share it with a bunch of equally dull people who would laugh at you for thinking something other than the drab nothingnesses they thought. Conversation was impossible and he could only content himself by laughing harder then they did, overwhelming them with the sheer power of his contempt. Except, that didn't work either. Or, it might have, if it was only Jean. After all, Jean liked him -- he didn't actually have contempt for Jean. If they'd been alone together, it would have been okay, because Lance suspected that Jean was hiding her strong affection for him and her non-conformist tendencies out of fear. If the others hadn't been there -- no, if Forge hadn't been there -- Lance was sure the Group Room would be more of a pleasure. One of those "rise above your situations and change the world through love" kinda things. Or maybe not, but it would be better one way or another, he was absolutely sure of that.
It was Forge that destroyed it. Forge, who mocked everything he said and looked down on his art and on him for wanting to change things. As if changing things was stupid. Lance would have hit him yesterday if Scott hadn't gotten in the way -- just to wipe all that confidence off his ratty face. He wouldn't be so confident if he knew anything -- Forge thought he was smart, but he didn't really know anything. Lance knew things -- he'd lived outside the cage, he knew what it was like outside the cage. He knew what the rest of the group was missing. He knew that they should be raging against the cage, beating against its walls, no matter how futile it was. That was nature -- but these people didn't know what nature was.
Nonetheless, Forge was a person and he fit into the scheme of things as they should be one way or another. Lance figured that he could show Jean and even Forge what nature was eventually. It'd be hard, but worth it -- to have allies who really were smart and didn't just think they were. Allies who would share his anger and make it stronger -- enough that they could escape in one way or another. Come to think of it, it was Scott that he didn't think would bend, because he didn't think Scott was any kind of person at all. The others couldn't see it, because they'd always lived with Scott and he was normal to them. Lance knew better. The grey skin patches and flat eyes had to be the result of genetic conditioning -- that just didn't happen. The placid passiveness didn't happen either. Scott was a construct, Lance was sure of that. There to keep the others down by making passivity look okay or inevitable. The fact that the others defended Scott when Lance challenged his highly doubtful human nature (to be human is to act!) showed that the ploy had worked -- but that would change. Lance would find different tactics, maybe. But maybe the attacks would work if he continued them -- or maybe if he caught Forge by surprise, against the wall, maybe, and hurt him (a little) before anyone could do anything. Then, when Scott didn't react, maybe he could convince the others . . . no, that wouldn't work, they'd turn on him. Forge wouldn't understand that it was all necessary and would fight back and maybe Jean would think Lance was too brutal and that couldn't happen.
The buzz sounded again and Lance ignored it as long as he could until they sent the electricity into the floor and shocked him. He cursed loudly at the monitors he was sure were there . . . somewhere . . . until the shock came again, stronger, and he left the room, hating himself for retreating.
To his great surprise, when he finally entered the Group Room Jean was the only one there.
He gaped at her for a long moment as she stretched out longer on the couch, hitching her shoulders and yawning as if nothing was amiss. She was beautiful and alone and Lance was very normal in some respects, even if none of the others were yet.
But it was not the time to flirt.
"Where's the others?" he asked tersely.
"Don't know. Sleeping, sick, or maybe it's happened -- what always happens eventually."
"What?"
She shrugged, a very careful, measured shrug that kept Lance's attention so well he scarcely heard the dragging footsteps until they had stopped and were in the room itself. Then, he looked up, reluctantly . . . and there was Forge, his head hanging and back hunched as if he'd been whacked in the gut. His glasses hung disregarded from one ear.
Lance's jaw hung open as Forge began to shuffle again, the glasses swaying to one side, than another, and Lance couldn't understand how they remained on. Forge only shuffled long enough to press against the wall and sink to the floor, letting his head fall into his hands. The glasses finally cracked audibly against the ground.
The scene was so odd that Lance didn't know what to say.
Forge saved him the trouble.
"Where's Scott?" he mumbled through his fingers.
"Haven't seen him," Lance said curtly, just to feel more comfortable.
"No?" Forge dropped his hands into his lap, although his face remained shadowed. "Not at all? Have they come -- ah, the faceless ones?"
"Just us . . . why are you so late?"
"Just am," Forge said dully, snatching his glasses by the earpiece and flinging them hard against the tile. A lens shattered instantly, scattering clear-plastic-glass in a small radius.
"Forge!" Jean barked, startled.
"No. No, no no. It's only a matter of minutes now, I'm sure. I'm very sure."
"What are you talking about?" Lance asked.
"It's too late . . . too late . . . if he's not here, they'll be coming. One of them will be coming."
"Oh," Jean said loudly. "Well. Nothing to be upset about, then. The worst, he's gone on to a far more interesting place. We should be glad for him."
"What are you talking about?" Lance insisted, incensed at being completely left out.
"Scott might have become a mutant -- maybe you're not that far in your Learnings yet, Lance?" Jean stretched again, no hint of change in her expression -- there seldom was.
"A mutant?" Lance hadn't touched his "Learnings," and he certainly had never heard this particular term used like that.
"Yeah, a mutant. Don't know a thing about being one, except it's probably more interesting."
"A mutant?" Lance repeated.
"Yes! What's wrong?"
"That's not . . . that's weird. That's not possible."
"You know something we don't, Lance?"
"Man." Lance ran a hand through his hair, eyeing the oddly silent Forge suspiciously. Surely know-it-all Forge knew this. "A mutation . . . see, it's when there's something wrong in the genetic code and the person born has somethin' wrong with them. Scott's probably a mutant . . . normal people don't have that kind of complexion . . . but you don't just randomly become one. You don't go mutating more. It doesn't 'appen!"
"Hmmm . . . fascinating."
Lance gaped at her again. Didn't she care? This would make an interesting conversation, if nothing else!
"Where's Scott?" Forge asked almost inaudibly in his corner.
And there was something wrong about it all.
The sudden influx of darker and harder footsteps from Scott's doorway was almost a relief.
"Oh no," Forge moaned, but stood up, if his eyes still remained lowered.
A tall figure -- a faceless guy, as everyone here called them -- walked stridently in, his eyes moving behind his heavy cloth mask. Those eyes sifted past Lance and Jean to land on Forge. He just watched Forge for a while and there was something about his presence that made it impossible to ask questions or even move, really. Finally, the faceless guy sighed, a remarkably human sound for something like that.
"Scott has become a mutant, Forge."
Why's he only talking to him?
"I know," Forge snarled (snarled?) raggedly, his small hands clenched. "I know."
"How do you know?"
"Inference. He's not here. That's what that always means."
"You didn't move very quickly this morning, Forge -- why?"
Wait . . . if they had to shock me twice and I got here a good bit before Forge . . . must of practically stood his hair up. Lance might have enjoyed the image any other time, but something was wrong.
"I was tired. Couldn't sleep."
"It was abberant behavior, Forge. I want you to look at me and tell me why you didn't get up."
"I've lost my glasses . . . it won't do any good."
"You broke your glasses, Forge."
"Maybe."
"Why did you break your glasses, Forge?"
Forge exhaled, a long shuddering breath that shook his body. Lance took an involuntary step backward.
"I don't know . . . sir."
"Look at me, Forge. You can follow my voice and your vision isn't that bad."
"I don't want to . . . sir."
"Are you angry about your friend, Forge?"
"Maybe."
"Why? It can't be helped. You will go through the same process soon enough."
"I don't like it."
"Neither do we, Forge. We don't want to keep you and your friends here, but we have no choice. Things will change, eventuallly -- but we need your help. We need you to listen to us. It's okay to be angry, Forge, but you have to realize that we can see more than you."
For the first time, Lance felt a certain affinity for Forge -- wanted to walk over there by him and stand up to the faceless guy that was trying to cow him with words, make him obey. For the first time, Forge seemed a rebel, a kicker, like him -- who wouldn't break or back down, someone to be admired. Lance wanted to help him . . . to at least put in an appropriately fierce and angry word.
But he couldn't move or speak.
Although he couldn't admit it, he was terrified.
"No . . . no, you can't."
"We can't, Forge? We've had years of experience -- we know what's happening to you. Please, don't hurt yourself to fight us."
"I'm not trying to. I understand. Scott's gone. You can go now."
"I want you to look at me first, Forge."
"No."
Forge backed against the wall, his fists clenched.
"Forge . . . please, this isn't hard. We'll get you new glasses and everything -- just look at me and I'll be gone."
"I won't."
What is he doing?
"I don't want to have to use force, Forge." The tall man began to approach Forge, his hands out, palms up. "Just look up!"
"No!"
Lance cringed as the man shot out and grabbed the much much smaller Forge under the chin and yanked it up . . . and his expression froze in that position as he saw exactly what was happening.
Forge's eyes were sheer white, bereft of iris, pupils, anything.
"Well . . . " the man said, his fingers making tight lines along Forge's jaw. "Well."
"Blood-sucking jackal!" Forge spat through clenched teeth, shifting hard and uselessly in the man's grasp. "Young-eater! Dung sifter!"
"Creative," the man said with chilly amusement, his other hand closing firmly on Forge's upper arm. "Very. Come now, Forge. It's time."
"I'll kill you, I swear--"
The hand gripping the jaw moved up to hold it shut. The man shook his head apologetically at the motionless remaining members of the group as he dragged Forge toward a door Lance hadn't noticed before. "This happens occasionally. It's not half as bad as he thinks it is. Right, Forge?" With a muffled cry, Forge kicked him hard in the shin with the side of her foot -- the man didn't seem to notice. "You're both welcome to leave in a few minutes! Consider it a holiday!" He vanished into that door, which seemed to just suddenly . . . not be there and, except for the mild rustling echo in the air, it might have just . . . never happened.
Lance blinked, once, twice . . . and turned toward Jean, stiffly -- his muscles were painful and creaked.
"What . . . what . . . what just . . . what was that?"
Jean didn't say anything, merely swung her legs off the couch and paused there, half sitting, and for all her lounging position, as tense as Scott had ever been.
Lance bit his lip -- too hard.
"I . . . think I'm scared."
"Yeah? That's good of you." There was so much loathing in her voice that Lance shivered and dragged his eyes to the glittering fragments of Forge's glasses, unable to raise them again until Jean's footsteps had petered off into her hallway and the door rapped shut.