Despite his overwhelming weariness, Scott found sleep elusive that night. His muscles ached, and his head pounded with every whispery heartbeat. Much more maddening, however, were the troubling thoughts that he couldn't quiet. He found himself unable to believe anything his mind told him. He didn't know how he should feel. He didn't know what his next step should be. This wasn't Scott Summers. Scott Summers was in control.

That's it.

Since awakening, Scott had found himself completely at the whim of others. They've been in control, he thought. They've been able to control what I eat, who sees me, what they say, and even what my senses tell me. And I've let them do it. I've laid here in this bed and played into their game from the get-go.

The thoughts quieted the maelstrom of confusion. Finally, Scott was able to see the beginnings of a plan. I've played defense long enough. It's time I gave the offense a try. And the first step, he realized, is to stop playing by their rules. Try the unexpected.

The biggest crutch limiting Scott was the lack of his eyesight. By removing his visor, the hospital employees had effectively blinded him, so he had only the most limited amount of sensory information to verify his location, and nothing concrete. But then, there was the incident, the phenomenon when his eyes had been forced open. The light had been blinding, his eyes blurred with tears. Nothing he'd seen could be trusted.

But what does it mean that my powers didn't work? he asked himself. How did that happen? Am I in the Morlock tunnels? Did Leech survive? He sniffed the air. It certainly didn't smell like he was in the sewer, and that was a smell that couldn't be hidden so easily. Not the Morlocks.

It could all be an illusion. He'd fought Jason Wyngarde, Mastermind, in the world of illusions. He'd lived with two of the world's most powerful telepaths for years. He knew there wasn't anything a skilled telepath couldn't make a non-telepath believe. But he'd tried, for hours, to raise mental shields like Jean and Professor Xavier had taught him, and he hadn't noticed any kind of change. If it was an illusion, it was too strong for him to counteract with shields. He would have to find his way 'out' some other way.

So there it is, he thought. Opening my eyes would answer a lot of questions. There's a chance my powers still won't work, and if they do work, then I'll know that all of this is a trick. Getting out might be a problem, but my powers would definitely make it a lot easier.

He turned his head in the direction he had, earlier that day, guessed that there was a window. There was, he knew, a possibility that he was, in reality, laying on a hospital bed in a heavily populated hospital next to either businesses or houses all filled with innocent people. Was it worth the risk?

Scott's thoughts fell quiet. A sort of panic clutched his heart. He wasn't just considering a course of action. He was facing a deeply ingrained phobia.

He raised his thin hand and rubbed the loose skin on his brow, and then ran his fingers through his hair. He was lying on his shoulder, wondering what to do, when an idea struck him. It was so simple! He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before. The only thing, besides ruby quartz and his brother Alex, that wasn't effected by his optic blast was his own flesh!

Without hesitation, and still facing the window, just in case, Scott dropped his hand close to his face. He tried to open his eyes, and his fingers started to shake. What's the holdup? he asked himself. C'mon, you can do this. Just open them a little bit. The shaking of his hand intensified. Genuine fear spread like a chill through his spine, and Scott realized that he honestly didn't know which he'd rather happen, whether his optic power be active, or not.

Scott clenched his fists, and rolled onto his back. He slammed his fists down on the mattress on each of his sides in frustration. Straining his stomach muscles with all of his might, and pulling himself along the rail on the bed, he managed to sit upright. Huffing and puffing through clenched teeth, he once again turned to face the "window." Exhausted, he used both arms to raise his hand to his face. Tears and saliva mixed on his chin and dripped freely onto his heaving chest.

The exertion and adrenaline seemed to be buzzing in his head so loudly that he couldn't hear a thing around him. His arms started shaking violently as the last of his strength started to leave him. With a heavy breath, he said aloud, "Enough!"

He opened his eyes.

It was only a sliver at first, peeking through his eyelashes, but he knew immediately nothing was going to happen. There was no strange, red glow. There was no other-worldly smell or sound. He saw simply the deep navy of nighttime in the city, where light pollution kept true darkness at bay.

He opened his eyes, and slowly he saw the lines on his hand, only it didn't look like his hand. It was the hand of an old man--boney and frail.

"Oh, god," Scott said. His hands dropped, and his eyes again struggled to perceive the world around him. An ordinary hospital bedroom came into focus, slightly illuminated by the moonlight above and streetlights below. He looked the other way, only to see that the room was complete… No sound stage, no fake props. The door was closed, and light shone from beneath. He held up his arms again, and his eyes traced IV tubes to their respective containers.

With every ounce of energy expended from his body, he fell roughly backwards onto his pillow. He slammed his hands into his wet eyes and rubbed and rubbed them with his palms. "What does this mean?" he asked with a shaky voice.

No, he thought. He opened his eyes, allowing his now excruciatingly throbbing arms to drop to his sides. This changes nothing. I knew this was a possibility. This just means I have to play by their rules a little longer… Until I can get to the mansion. The Professor will know what to do. He'll know how to get my powers back.

Scott had often wondered what it would be like to wake up one morning without his gift. He wondered what it would mean for his life. How he would react. As he stared at the empty ceiling, marveling at the clarity with which he could see its contours and intricacies, only one thought echoed through his mind.

This changes nothing.