When she came to, all she could she was gray. Was she going blind? Blinking, she decided that, no, she wasn't blind, the ceiling was simply very gray. She felt the smooth blanket between her fingers, the warm fabric slipping easily through her numb fingers. She grimaced as feeling returned to them, the tingling pain bringing her fully to consciousness.
"HeatSilk. Developed by NASA to treat people with advanced hypothermia," came a voice, startling her. She whipped her head to the side to locate the source of the voice. A man's bald head, just above her eye level. He smiled. "Good morning. I am Professor Charles Xavier. Welcome back to reality."
She struggled to sit up. Blurred memories of a white-haired woman and a man with glowing eyes vied for her attention, but she pushed them away in an attempt to gain her bearings. She was laying on a warm metal table, her outer clothes shucked for a t-shirt and underwear. Pulling the blanket, or HeatSilk, or whatever the strange man had called it, closer to herself, she gazed around the room with wide eyes. She should have woken up under the bridge. The only bridge this could possibly be was on the Enterprise.
"Where am I?" she asked, turning back to the bald man. Now she could see that he was in a wheelchair, albeit a considerably souped up one. Suddenly she was overcome by a sense of her own unimportance. "Sir," she added hastily.
He smiled. "You are in the basement of my School for Gifted Youngsters. This is the infirmary. You nearly died." He piloted his wheelchair around to the other side of the bed to examine the bank of screens, pulse readouts and various medical information spread-eagled across the terminal. "Your pulse has returned to normal. For a moment, we thought we had lost you," he said, pointing to a reading of the lowest pulse rate. Fourty-seven. So she nearly had bought the farm. The Professor turned. "What is your name, child?"
Her expression of wonder tightened into one of suspicion. "Why should I tell you? You kidnapped me!"
He chuckled slightly. "Kidnapped you? From whom, my dear? Besides, I'll find out eventually." Suddenly, she felt a pressure on her mind, a quiet but persistent search for her name. She recoiled, wishing the man out of her mind. He blinked, looking up at her face, raising a thin eyebrow. "Impressive. Not many can keep me out of their minds."
"Who…What the hell are you?" she cried, shying away from the man in fear.
He sighed. "I…am a mutant." She gasped. "And so are you. A very powerful one, at that. I cannot tell the extent of your powers."
She frowned. "Yeah, I know." She turned away from him.
"What is your name? What can you do?" came his voice from behind her, gentle but insistent. "If I am to help you, I need to know."
She closed her eyes, a silent tear trickling down her face. "My name is Mimic."
She could feel his eyes burning into the back of her skull. She whirled around to face him. "That's what you wanted to know, isn't it? My mutant name. Who gives a shit who I really am!"
He shrugged. "If that's all you're willing to give me."
She shook with fury. He was mocking her. Her eyes burned with anger at the little man in his wheelchair with his mind tricks. How dare he!
The Professor flew across the room, slamming against the wall. The girl screamed.
"What the hell is going on in here?" The door flew open with a bang, and a tall, well-muscled man with long sideburns entered the room. Two kids followed close behind, eyes widening when they saw the Professor sprawled on the ground. Rushing over, they eased the old man back into his wheelchair, as the tall man turned on the girl on the table. Long knives slid out of his hands like the talons of some great bird, flashing in the florescent light. Mimic shied away, clutching the blanket to herself and backing away across the table.
"It's alright, Logan," the Professor said soothingly, settling into his chair, a kid at each arm to steady him. "Thank you, children."
"She attacked you, Professor?" said the boy, turning to face the girl huddled on the table. She returned his angry glare with one so fearsome that he looked away. "Are you ok?"
"I assure you, I am in full health. Just a few bruises, Bobby, thank you," Xavier replied, brushing off his previously immaculate pin-stripe suit. "Bobby, Rogue, Logan, this is…"
"Morgan. Morgan Oleander," she muttered. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean…"
"All is forgiven," he replied. The big man, Logan, snorted. The Professor looked at him sharply. Logan cleared his throat and straightened, the knives retreating back into his hands.. Xavier shook his head, smiling. "Well, we've seen some of what you can do, obviously. Anything else?" The kids hovered closer to him protectively.
She snorted. "I can do anything."
"Anything?" he prompted. "Such as?"
"Anything," she repeated. "As long as I've seen it first. Like this," Morgan said, extending her hand from the blanket. Rogue and Bobby shrank back. "I'm not going to hurt you!" she said exasperatedly. They relaxed slightly, but only just. She frowned and rolled her eyes. Cracking her knuckles, she made a fist with one thin hand.Four long slivers of adamantium shot out like metallic claws, identical to Logan's in every detail. Gasps echoed around the room; three of surprise, and one of pain. Morgan gripped her wrist, lines of hurting etched in her face. She looked up at Logan. "Damn," she chuckled breathlessly. "You make it look so easy."
Logan gazed at them in awe, reached out to touch the blades almost identical to his own. Drawing his finger across the blade, he sliced his finger, letting out a blast of creative swearing, somehow involving Morgan's mother and some foreign sailors. She giggled nervously, but stopped when the cut healed over before her eyes. She eyed her own finger, considering. Then, before anyone could stop her, she reached out with her new claws and drew a thin red line across her palm. She grimaced as blood welled up from the wound for the briefest of moments, then skin engulfed it, healing more rapidly than Logan's had. She smiled. "See?"
Bobby let out a low whistle. "Anything you can do, I can do better," he muttered.
She looked at him. "What can you do?"
He grinned, placing his hand on the table. When he lifted it, a small oval of ice lay on the table, perfectly smooth. His smile widened, raising his eyebrow to her in challenge. She grinned back, cupping her hands together, eyes closed in concentration. When she opened them, a perfectly round orb of ice rested in her hands. She laid it down next to the oval. The icy oval was like looking through cloudy water; the sphere was like looking through glass. It was clear which mutant had won the little contest. Bobby shook his head, assenting. Smiling, Morgan looked up at Rogue expectantly.
"Rogue can't really…show us her talent," the Professor said, patting the red-haired girl's gloved hand. "It's rather dangerous." Morgan nodded, extending a hand to Rogue, who took it reluctantly. "I'm Morgan."
Rogue smiled, her grip firming. "I'm Marie. Welcome to Mutant High."