"They're not scared of you, they're scared of me," you tell the newbie, not looking up from your book. "The latest issue of Vogue apparently predicts florals for spring, how revolutionary," you say in mock surprise.
"E-excuse me? Are you talking to me?" The newbie stutters in his nervous way, shifting in the chair across you.
You shrug, looking up to see a twitchy blonde-haired man rub at his ear, muttering to his side. A nervous tic, perhaps? The dour overhead lights cast a warm glow on patients mimicking a healthiness they lack.
"Sure, you'll do." Holding out your hand you introduce yourself, "Yena, and you are?"
"David," he mutters, quickly shaking your hand, suddenly pushing himself to his feet. Eyes wide and panting.
"Wh-what was t-that?" David starts pacing back and forth in front of you, cradling his head before running his hands through his messy locks. He rounds on you, looking around for orderlies who are usually too busy in the office gossiping over the newest doctor.
"They can't see us if that's what you're worried about." You aren't scared of David, from his reaction you deduce that he's a mutant too, an outlier who has no idea what he is. Most likely a mental mutation. Oh boy, these guys are work, you think to yourself.
A manic chuckle escapes his lips, "What? No-n-nooo. That's impossible, you're crazy, we're crazy," David sighs as he reaches to rub his head, he stops midway before pinning you with a stare of disbelief. "Where did they go?"
"Where did who go?" You ask as he frowns, scratching at his neck. The ugly orange suits they give out to patients itch like crazy no matter how many washes they're put through.
"The voices, Dr. Kissinger said—"
"Oooh! I forgot, what did they 'diagnose' you with," you quote-unquote with your fingers, " multiple personality disorder?—DID, technically. Mania? Bipolar? wait—schizophrenia!" You point at him shamelessly. David gives you a suspicious look before answering with a nod, coming closer to where you're seated.
"Yeah, how did you know? Do you have it too?" He curls up beside you on the couch you commandeered from Drool guy.
"Pfft, no. Apparently having an aversion to dumbasses is a call for help. 'Antisocial Disorder'," you roll your eyes. "They try to label things they're scared of. Normies, man, they're living in a fantasy world, the blinders are on and no one is home." You say tapping his head with a giggle.
"Normies? What do you mean, you—we're sick, aren't we? I mean, we are here, in this place." His index finger twirls around Clockworks. You can practically feel his heart beating out of his chest and see smoke coming out of his ears. Does he really not know?
"Do you really not know?" Turning towards him so your knees touch, you really look at him. His blue eyes are so sad and…hopeful? Desperate, if you're being honest. You grasp his face in both hands.
"David, we're not crazy. So far from insane that we're on another fucking spectrum. Do you understand?" At your words, his brow crinkles, so you continue. "Have you ever done something you couldn't explain? When your emotions are at an all-time high? Hear things when you're all alone?" Every word that comes out of your mouth causes his eyes to wander over your face, mapping it for lies and tells.
A broken 'yes' is wrenched from his throat. His adam's apple bobs in slight distress. You don't want to overwhelm him but he needs to know he's not alone anymore. You remember when you ran into another mutant as a runaway teen, he had ridiculous hair and was built like a brick shithouse, he not-so-gently told you 'To get lost, kid, I got enough people up my ass' before giving you a ride to the Big Apple in a beat-up truck. 'Mutants' was the word he used to describe you both.
"We are special David. That spectrum I was talking about? It's superhuman, totally meta in ways we can't understand but it's what draws us together and breaks us apart. We're mutants, David."
"Mutants?!? I thought they've all gone? Wait…The voices, why can't I hear them?"
"You hear voices?" You muse, stroking his temple gently, "Telepathy, that's difficult to control without help. What else do you do?" You ask, counting his gifts on your hand. A multi-powered mutant is super rare but not impossible.
"Tele-telepathy? Like a psychic?" His brow raises. "I don't know…umm sometimes things move and break." He could tell her the basics, it's not like Kissinger doesn't already know these things. He avoids telling her of the things he keeps locked away, the ones he fears because he can't remember.
There is a thread on his shirt cuff that he plays with, a question rolls around in his mouth wanting to be released. His fingers shake from the meds they give him, 'to calm the voices' and numb his mind until he's nothing but a vegetable. If this girl, no more than five years younger than him to be honest, can explain something, anything to him and make him feel less crazy, he'll hear her out.
He rips out the thread. "What do you do?" Pointing to his head, "What did you do?"
"I'm still working on the range," you say wiggling your fingers at him, "but the closest I've gotten to figuring out what I do can be called erasing." You whisper, David just gives you a look.
"What?"
"Ugh, fine. I was trying to sound cool, you totally killed the vibe," he lets out a snort causing you to laugh, "I'm serious!"
"Sorry, okay, I won't laugh. Tell me what you do, in layman's terms. Please?" Blue eyes look earnestly at your tired face, gauging your reaction to his hand slowly inching closer to yours.
"I erase people's— mutants," you correct yourself, "I erase their power. As long as they touch me, or are within my vicinity after, I take their mutation and turn it…off."
A warm huff of breath escapes from him in disbelief. Blue eyes turn watery for the first time as he realized he hasn't been able to hear anyone for the past five minutes. A torrent of emotion fills his chest at this sudden peace, this enigma, he's found in you. As long as he could remember, which isn't much, his head has always been filled with the cries of others—their desires, pain, pleasure, the good and the bad sides of humanity. This chance of fate or luck, on his last day of freedom, he's found an escape. No more voices, no more pain, and now that he realizes it, no more Yellow-Eyed Demon haunting the corners of his mind.
A sudden clarity comes to him as you wave your hand in his face.
"Hey, guy? Daaaavid? Are you with me?"
He grabs your hand, as you whip around looking for orderlies. Breaking the strict no-touching policy is grounds for more meds or worse, a mandatory group session.
"Teach me," David pleas. "This thing I have, I can't control it. I-it's too strong, too dangerous." He licks his lips, voice lowering enough to cause your hair to rise. "I need you to teach me, I don't want to hurt anyone else. I don't want to hurt anymore."
You don't know what hurts more, hearing the break in his voice or the pain. Perhaps both. What you do know is that you agree. Squeezing his hand, feeling the roughness of his fingertips and scars on his palms, you say four simple words that put a smile on his face.
"Let's get to work."