Because I almost never sleep, it's really convenient for me to go and do things I don't want to do. I always have time for everything, you see. For instance, medical things, like minimally invasive procedures. I don't have to miss class, or interaction times with my friends. I can just set the appointment for some weird time, like two in the morning on a Tuesday.
Did that suck for Dr. McCoy? Probably. But when he told me about what he wanted to do, he gave me the option to pick a time.
Two hours of surgery later, and I had a new accessory – an implant in the back of my right hand, the size of a raisin. At least, that's what I was told. It was covered in so many bandages, I couldn't see it. It was meant to help me monitor my power level. To be fair, having something I could check myself was a lot easier than randomly asking whoever was around what color my eyes were.
Fresh off of waking up from my medically-induced nap, I couldn't stop staring at my right hand. It felt like there was a rock or something in it, "I trust you Dr. McCoy. I mean, you know the science that goes into my b.s. powers better than I do, but isn't this a little much?" I asked, rubbing the soft cast around my hand.
Dr. McCoy moved my hand away to keep me from picking at his work, "Mister Marcher, I know you're aware of the danger of your power's limitations," He gently admonished, "You do an admirable job of keeping to your limitations, but you're growing more powerful."
Yes, because I was the shit, "That's good," I hoped I wasn't puffing my chest out too hard.
"But it's occurring quickly," Dr. McCoy pointed out to try and bring me back down to earth, "Tell me, do you remember the last time you used a large amount of your reserves?" I frowned and nodded my head. It was during the summer, "Did you feel the change, or did you find out later?" I looked away, and he correctly assumed it was the second answer, "Yes, you have access to much more energy. Your body's capacity to store it is significantly higher than it was when you first came to us, but your body processes only require the same amounts to operate that they ever have."
"So, I can't trust how much I have just off of feeling anymore..." The last fight of any significant value I'd had, I drained myself all the way down to yellow without even feeling it. And I still didn't sleep that night, "...That sucks."
"Now, now. You'll be fine," The brilliant, blue-furred man reassured me with pats on the back, "Alright, Mister Marcher. I think we're just about finished here. Don't remove that cast until the implant settles. Now, be on your way, my boy! You have class to get to later this morning," He reminded me with a toothy smile.
I drew back in distaste, "I still have to go to class? I just had surgery," I lifted up my cast-covered hand, "How am I supposed to write? I can barely feel this arm."
Dr. McCoy looked like he was going to write me a note just long enough to make me believe I was going to get out of classes, before he changed his tone entirely, "You're left handed," He deadpanned, killing my excuse, "No truancy will be sanctioned on my watch, young man," He said, escorting me out of his back office.
I grinned back at him and took off when he swung a mighty paw at me, playing around. He remained in the room, finishing some things up while I left through his lab.
...His lab. Where the Cuckoos told me that dead kid Quentin Quire was. When was I going to get another chance to look around? I took my shot.
Staying quiet and keeping an eye out, I skulked around, keeping an eye out for a dead body or something. I was pretty sure that it would be something obvious when I saw it. And yet, there wasn't a lot of clutter. What I saw around me was what was there. I didn't dare touch anything, seeing as how I had no idea what most of it was or how it worked.
Eventually, my eye strayed to a large container of glowing goo. If anything in the lab screamed mad scientist, this was it. I put my hand on the glass. Whatever was in there felt... alive. What kind of weirdness was this?
"The hell are you looking at, chump?"
I jumped back in shock, "Did you just-?" I said to myself before realizing I could probably be heard by Dr. McCoy if I spoke. This guy was a telepath, so I probably didn't have to talk to speak with him, 'Is this you? Quentin Quire?'
"Well, if it isn't the false prince, come to see the true ruler of Xavier's in his prison."
I didn't even bother acknowledging that, 'Can you, like, stop doing shit in my head, please?' As far as I knew, I hadn't done anything to piss off this guy or anyone he actually liked, if he even did like anyone at the school.
"Nope," Quire thought to me, quite nastily, "You've got everybody fooled into thinking you're some kind of badass. The other losers that run around this place... the teachers... the damn X-Men... even yourself."
'What are you talking about?'
"You're a house cat that acts like he's a lion. But every time you run up against a real one, they turn you into the pussy you are," Anger rolled through me, and I could feel that Quire was loving every moment of it, "And the wannabe X-Men filling this dump lap it all up! It's incredible! It's almost impressive, actually."
I was in disbelief that I was getting lip from some glowing ooze on a table. What had been a burning rage at having my practical performance issues thrown in my face turned into a smoldering one, "...And what have you done? You started a riot and got turned to psychic sludge by the fucking Cuckoos. That's your claim to fame – some punk that got shut down the first time he tried to tangle with the big boys."
That one had gotten to him. I could feel it, "You don't know anything about it."
"At least I lived to learn from my mistakes," I taunted him, patting his container, "I bet sitting in that fucking jar all day every day, all you think about is what you'd have done different, or what you'd do if you weren't goo."
"You think you're better than me? You're a sideshow! At best, you're like a star athlete in some podunk town. The minute you tear your ACL, they'll forget about you. The second there's any doubt; the second you fuck up, and I mean REALLY fuck up, just one time... they'll drop you. All of them. Because paper heroics is all you're good for, and once that's torn through, you're good for nothing."
If he was going to try and cut at me with words, he picked the wrong one, 'You mean like you? You could project to anyone in this school, but you went with me. That's how much I don't matter,' I thought with a silent scoff, 'You're strong from what I've heard. You could probably do some real damage to the X-Men to get your revenge or something, but there's just one problem. Your ass can't move! What's the point of being king if the only part of your kingdom you can experience is the dungeon?' I said, mocking him with his own metaphor.
Quire laughed the way you hear someone do it when they're angry and plan on getting even, "I was just screwing with you before because I was bored. But now? I'm gonna watch you crash and burn, and I'll enjoy every second of it," He thought to me maliciously, "Kid Omega's got his eyes on you."
'You don't have eyes,' I told him, rolling mine, 'Stay out of my head, or I'll pour you down the sink, Quentin.'
He laughed at the threat/insult, "The last thing you, or any of the rest of these sheep want is for you to let me out of here," He thought back to me, quite forebodingly.
Having gotten what I'd come for, I turned to leave before Dr. McCoy found me lingering in his lab, 'Whatever. I just wanted to know that I wasn't losing it. It's just you messing with my head.'
"You think I'm messing with your head? You aren't worth the effort, idiot. It's like rainbow stew up there," Quire thought to me, parting with one last sarcastic shot, "Oh, and happy birthday, Marcher."
I ignored him. I had early morning things to do before classes started for the day.