The incident happened on a Tuesday. The exact date placed it on the twenty-third day of June at two-forty-seven in the afternoon. The weather was hot and humid, with a veil of cirrostratus clouds dimming a haloed sun. Nothing particularly strange for north-east Texas at that time of year. Just a milky sky on a hot summer day.
It could have been any day, if the catalyst was present. It could have been anywhere. At any time. On a car ride to the science museum with friends. Wandering the local park alone. Only the presence of the catalyst made any difference. So it was a blessing that things were not far worse.
The news wouldn’t have covered what had transpired if the moment hadn’t been televised to begin with. There was no way to deny what had taken place without a significant coverup being noticed by millions. Imagine being in the crowd. One minute, silently nodding along to a live Ted Talk from a world famous theoretical physicist on how the mechanics of reincarnation might “reshape your daily life”; the next, all two-thousand-plus attendees are bound by mysterious chains of light.
No one could scream. No one could move. Not even blink, nor breathe, nor sense anything at all. They were rendered deaf, blind, numb, and even anosmic. For the longest minute of any of their lives, a very captive audience sat in horror as they seemed to be spontaneously paused in experience itself. And then it faded like a mist. No culprit in sight. Nothing missing. Nothing broken. As if that startling episode were nothing more than a whim.
The singular irregularity - the only puzzle piece out of place - was the lone boy that had passed out in one of the bathrooms. Another audience member had been in a stall when he came in. They heard him shout in pain. Like he was having some sort of medical attack. The chains emerged shortly thereafter, as if from nowhere. Then the sensory wipe. Then normalcy again. When the boy was found, he looked pale in spite of his tawny flesh. Everyone present assumed he was the most unlucky victim of them all. News coverage ran with that narrative.
Eleven days passed by. After numerous interviews, that same teenage boy had grown tired of the attention and mystery that still stirred in the public’s hearts. His friends made jokes about it ad nauseam. Neighbors and random adults treated him like an assault victim. Worst of all, his mother felt entitled to drag out the experience for every cent it was worth. She even began to claim that the boy’s younger brother now suffered post-traumatic stress from it. He hadn’t even been present.
It was all simply too tiring to stand. The entire metroplex - the entire nation - knew his name. Total strangers would call out “Dayton” at the sight of his curly pompadour. He hated the attention. He didn’t want to be a part of a mystery like this. The prospect of adventure or fame was ever enticing for most fifteen year olds, but this? No, this was pure nuisance.
Dayton, who by now had taken up wearing a dark grey hoodie and the blackest sunglasses he could buy with his recent birthday money, spent much more time wandering the quieter parts of town than staying home anymore. The concrete greys of the semi-urban commercial centers nearby reminded him of fog. He felt he could lose himself within them, if he walked them long enough. Doing so was dreadfully hot, but there were enough stores to escape in and out of. He didn’t worry about the environmental dangers as a result. The greater threats were the frequent stares.
Eventually, a buzz was felt from the boy’s right jean pocket. Reaching within, he retrieved a scratched flip phone. Opening it revealed a text from his mother. It was a short yet seemingly urgent summons to return home. There was a muffled groan, but Dayton relented.
The teen had walked roughly three miles from his family’s tiny apartment. A decent distance to retrace, and he doubted that there was any real need to hurry. Probably another news crew, he assumed. Still, the sobriety of his single parent fluctuated from hour to hour, so best to get back before his tardiness could be used as grounds for punishment. At least for now, he knew she would behave.
Sixty-eight minutes went by. The teen ascended the concrete steps to the second of his unit’s two stories, casually approaching one of the four doors. He fumbled through the keys in his hoodie’s front pocket. Evidently, this was a pointless effort. The lock turned with forceless silence. He stepped into the dimly lit entryway with his vision to the ground. The door clicked shut behind him. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could roam free again.
And then a voice called to him. It was kindly, and unknowably acquainted. The teen lifted his gaze from the floor. Three figures faced him from within the claustrophobic living room. One tall and fair, with the fires of life hidden deep inside her eyes. Another, stocky and marred with the signs of unending conflict despite his lack of scars. The final man, bald and wheelchair-bound, owned the voice that beckoned him. They offered him a place amongst them, as a student and peer. As a member of their same breed. He knew them well, yet this was their first meeting. How could that be so?
As the unsettling deja vu began to pervade his skin, another feeling quickly took priority. Two sources knocked upon the door of his mind. And although he shouldn’t, the boy knew exactly who and how. An instinct took hold. Something unseen. A sensation welled up within him - the same one that had emerged the day of the incident. Though it lacked the intensity of that first awakening, it still erupted of its own will. A command ran through Dayton’s mind. It was simple and exact.
LET NO PSYCHIC WITHIN.
>⪢⫸⨷⫷⪡<
The following Monday, Dayton boarded a plane bound for the state of New York. It was a one-way flight from Lovefield to Westchester. Tailwinds shaved ten minutes off of what would have been two-hundred and eighty. He had slept through most of it.
He was met at baggage claim by two individuals. One was the thickset man from the day of his recruitment, wearing the same brown bomber jacket and matching brick hat as then. His olive leather boots were the same as well. There was no telling if the man’s black shirt was the same one as well, but at least it was clear that he wore a different pair of jeans. The one’s today were darker blue close to the color of his hair, and lacked much of the damage the other pair possessed. His thumbs each hooked inside the front pockets as he hunched forward. His posture hid much of his face from onlookers beneath the brim of his hat. From any angle except the sides, one could only see the end of his wide, crooked nose and his thin lips curved into a perpetual scowl.
Dayton recalled that this “Mr. Howlett” was prone to a highly guarded disposition, and the evidence certainly agreed. Howlett was quiet the entire time, only offering the occasional nod or grunt in response or greeting. Dayton took no offense. Though he still didn’t understand how, he was aware that the man meant no disrespect.
The newer face was a much more pleasant acquaintance. The woman also stood out from the crowd ever so slightly. White hair flowed down to her waist, curling more at its ends. It was swept back with a red-violet headscarf knotted on the left side. Her dark blue eyes echoed in the polished lapis lazuli centered upon her gold beaded choker. Her face wore a pink blush and lipstick, as well as long-drawn eyeliner and a thin stripe of lavender eyeshadow. Strong yet slim arms reached out from her sleeveless shirt to shake the boy’s hand. Sturdy legs stood together within a long, lavender skirt that’s end was striped and frilled. Likely due to the seasonal temperature, she wore a pair of woven straw sandals that just barely managed to share its hue with her jewelry. Dayton guessed from her grip that she was the sort of person you wanted to stay on the good side of; pleasant as a breeze until trifled with.
She made the effort to introduce herself, but Dayton quickly enlightened her of his awareness to her name: Ororo Munroe. She seemed more impressed than shocked. Ms. Munroe was more of a conversationalist than the boy was prepared for, however. She asked numerous questions, ranging from the trivialities of “how was your flight” to more personal interrogations like his aspirations for the future and personal fears. None of her canvassing seemed malicious, although Dayton did feel some apprehension towards the abruptness. At least she helped him carry one of his two suitcases out to their waiting brown and gold Phantom IV - the director’s car.
The vehicle’s owner was waiting patiently in the front passenger’s seat; the Charles F. Xavier. Founder and chairman of the institute Dayton would soon be residing at. His advanced wheelchair locked into the space a normal seat would have occupied. The bald man beamed warmly as the trio approached. His clothing blended in with the exterior of the car, making it seem as if he were a floating head from afar. He remained silent, besides a brief hello, as they worked to get the boy’s bags into the trunk.
Dayton entered the back of the Rolls-Royce, sitting behind the driver’s seat. Ms. Munroe joined him in the seat behind Mr. Xavier, while Mr. Howlett took to operating the automobile. Despite appearances, the gruff man drove cautiously.
Conversation quickly resumed as they left the airport. This time, Mr. Xavier took the lead, once more introducing himself and the other two adults. Out of curiousity, he asked the tan-skinned teen what information he might be aware of regarding each of them and their destination.
“Given your display at our first meeting”, Charles framed with care. “I believe it would be safe to assume you know far more about us, than we might ever know of you. Would that be correct?”
Dayton wasn’t sure what to say. Rather, he wasn’t sure of how much to say. Their code names? Their histories? Their futures was an obvious point of issue, but Dayton was more concerned with how any of this knowledge could be found within him in the first place. But he knew he was safe here; that he could answer the man without fear. And he did. Within reason.
“Probably”, he began. “I know that you’re- I mean, we’re all mutants. I know you’re a psychic, that Ms. Munroe controls the weather, and that Mr. Howlett has a, um… Difficult past. Sorry about the metal bones thing, by the way.”
Mr. Howlett gave the nicest response he could: silence.
“Uh, yeah- I know we’re going to the, uh… ‘Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters’, or something like that? The property belongs to your family. Has fer generations. The kids call it the ‘X-Mansion’. Um…”
His flat tone began to crack. Dayton’s face strained as these memories began to overwhelm him. The more he tried to answer, the more the floodgates to this mysterious data source seemed to open. Ms. Munroe took notice, placing a hand on his shoulder. Dayton flinched on contact, but quickly relaxed.
“No need to overload yourself, now. You’ve proven yourself plenty”, she consoled.
Dayton nodded, and began to take deep and steady breaths to wind himself back down. The headache these thoughts induced was intense, but not from any specific type of pain. It was an ethereal pressure. Even calling it a headache was inaccurate. The feeling overwhelmed every speck of his being with an oppressive awareness. How the air swirled against each alveoli within his lungs at every inhale. The way his blood circulated across his body with each heartbeat. The electrostatic buzz of his own synapses firing. How the photons collided with the individual rods and cones of his indigo eyes. He was thankful this distress didn’t last long. Another three exhales, and then it was over.
The boy apologized for being unable to continue, but Mr. Xavier eased his worries. He had revealed that he knew plenty about them, and that his cognizance was genuine. A definitive byproduct of his active mutant gene. The gentleman reassured him that, as they were sure he knew, learning to control this newfound ability would come with time and training. They were there to help with the latter. Dayton quietly confirmed with the nod of his head.
Due to the conversation, he had not taken much of the passing landscape in as they drove towards the institute. He was afforded the occasional glance at the miles of green ash and basswood through the dark tinted windows. Rarely, he would notice a bridge, or an underpass in a clearing before the verdant sprawl would resume. It wasn’t until they passed through Golden Bridges or Purdys that any signs of civilization besides the road could be witnessed - and even those were brief. And then, the reservoir came into view.
“Oh, excellent”, announced Xavier as he noted the familiar scenery. “We’re almost home, and with time to spare!”
As the car rounded the lake road, a hilltop property emerged from behind the looming trees. The perimeter of the land was surrounded by high plaster walls of beige, with a gate and occasional metal bars of coated iron - which opened autonomously at their approach. Dayton could barely spot the dark red roof tiles peaking above the honeycrisp trees that dotted the yard. As they drove round the fountain circle, he gazed up at the many windows that covered the two beige stories of the building’s three wings. A peculiar thought struck him.
Figured it’d be bigger.
As the boy’s eyes were affixed to the architecture as he exited the vehicle, he neglected the presence of the welcoming party waiting for them on the front stoop. The voices faded into the background. Dayton’s mind fixated on analyzing the building based on the exterior alone. Which version of the mansion was this? How many basement levels? Did they already have classrooms allotted, or-
“WELCOME TO THE INSTITUTE”, shouted a youthful chorus.
Dayton hopped an inch off the ground. His head snapped towards the source of this disturbance, eyes wide as a spark of glowing lilac swirled inside. The seven greeters laughed at their unintended response. The adults smiled to themselves. Even Mr. Howlett, much as he tried to hide it while unloading the car trunk.
The first to step forward from the crowd was the same girl that had been with the recruitment party before. Today, her deep red hair was tied in a low tail, and she wore a sparkling yellow dress that screamed “date night”. Or “formal charity”. It showed off her model-like figure particularly well. The jewel-encrusted choker, brace bracelets, and golden fringe earrings echoed the sentiment. Her eyelids displayed a granular depth. Her lashes were thick with mascara. Glittering red-gold blush highlighted her cheeks, and balanced out the shine of her clear lip gloss. Her fingernails and heels matched her iridescent cheeks. Not at all the girl-next-door facade that had met him back in that little apartment. With a well-practiced smile across her angular face, she shook Dayton’s hand gently.
“Good to see you again! Sorry for startling you.”
Dayton’s sight remained on the newer faces, though he had visibly relaxed.
“All good, Jean. Just a lot to process today.”
Jean Grey - another psychic mutant, according to his internal data stream - followed his gaze. She gestured towards her peers as she looked back at the new boy, a gleam of mischief in her eye.
“Want me to introduce you?”
She knew the answer, but good etiquette made for good impressions. As predicted, he shook his head.
“Just me. No need, otherwise.”
The other teens were puzzled by these words. A few looked between each other, only to receive mirrored shrugs. Jean’s smile only widened.
“Don’t worry, guys - you’ll understand in a sec. In the meantime, allow me to introduce you to Dayton! He’s our new recruit from Texas!”
Dayton waved and gave an anxious bow of his head.
A few of the kids seemed to connect some dots on his identity. One equally tanned individual with a coily blonde crew cut snapped their fingers as they verbalized their deduction.
“The kid from that news story last month, yeah? At that crazy TedTalk!”
A brunette boy with short hair and crimson-lensed sunglasses concurred. A finger crooked against his squared chin as his memories formed.
“Right; the one with all those glowing chains. I remember that.”
The shades-equipped boy approached Dayton now. The guy was nearly a full head taller. He wore an all-navy suit, save for a yellow necktie and socks. The disparity between his shoulder width and the narrowness of his lower body made him look top-heavy. Like a push would topple him over easily. His face was clean shaven. His eyebrows were slightly thick, much like those of Jean. The pair matched in both complexion and formal attire. The more scrupulous boy held his hand aloft as he attempted to introduce himself. Looking past his hand, shiny black oxfords protected his feet. Dayton locked his eyes upon those.
“Glad to have you, Dayton. The name’s Sc-”
“Scott Summers; A.K.A. Cyclops.”
The interjection granted the rest of the gathered teens, save Jean, the same reaction they had gifted Dayton before. Scott himself nearly withdrew his hand in surprise. Dayton glanced down at it before finally clasping his palm against his senior peer’s own. The shake was firm, but notably less so than it could have been.
“The nickname befits your eye beams- er, optic blasts, I guess”, Dayton continued to reveal, still shoe gazing. “You’ve got a brother. A younger one: Alex. Y’all had an accident when you were real little, which is why you need those glasses now. Bumped your head on the landing. You and Jean are some of Xavier’s earliest pupils, and as a result, you two are, um…”
Dayton stopped short of his info-dump, looking back and forth between the two in question. A splinter in the info chain compelled him to consider his next words carefully. Certainly the two were equally dressed up, but a number of explanations existed for such behavior. His eyes narrowed in self-doubt as he finished.
“... Close? Some kind of close, right?”
Their faces flushed slightly. Both began to stumble through excuses and half-answers, yet neither one confirmed a thing directly. It just confused Dayton more. A kid still in the group let loose a heckling whistle, causing the others to hold back their laughter. Mr. Xavier and Ms. Munroe struggled to stifle their own as well. The former then rolled more into view of the group, refocusing the conversation.
“Yes, well. As you might have gathered, Dayton has a kind of information tap related to his abilities. Though he’s not a telepath like myself or Jean, he seems to know who most of us are, without prior meeting.”
With this, he turned himself towards the front door, slowly wheeling up the ramp with Ms. Munroe in tow.
“We’re still not certain how deep his knowledge pool goes”, the woman added, her deep voice taking on a maternal air.
“I realize this won’t be easy, but try not to feel offended if he happens to know something you’ve never shared before. His powers are still new, and will take time to adjust to. And Dayton; try your best to only divulge small details for now, yes? Nothing too personal.”
Dayton gulped and gave another nervous head bow, his eyes wandering about the ground between them. The group itself seemed to have mixed reactions to this exposition as the adults continued inside. However, one eager individual shot their hand into the air: A scrawny, blue haired boy with a thick accent.
“Zhis is so cool! Is it like you have zhe internet in your mind? Vhat can you say about me?”
A great amount of images filled Dayton’s mind again. All of them were of the foreign boy. Some moved, while most were still. Numerous comic book panels faded in, but their styles - their dates - were scattered across decades. Eventually, they fixated on a set that matched the figure before him best. Red t-shirt, brown jacket, olive bell-bottoms and shoes. Pointed chin and ears. Long nose and smallish eyes. And that dark blue hair grew straight, down past his chin, with a centered part. But no; this wasn’t correct. This wasn’t the real him.
If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
“You’re… Blue, aren’t you? Like yer… Actual self.”
The trepidation in his voice underwrote just how many facts were in Dayton’s head. Many conflicted. Was the blue part fur or flesh? Both answers were correct, but not at the same time. There were other instances, most of which seemed to follow a certain template. He was of a deviated kind. But he was still Kurt Wagner.
Kurt, himself, gave a sound of awe. He fiddled with his wristwatch and his appearance changed suddenly. The holographic disguise flashed away to reveal exactly what Dayton expected to see: Blue fur from the top of his head to the bottom of his two-toed, digitigrade feet. Even down to the tip of his spaded tail, and across all but the palms of the three-fingered hands. His ears were even more elf-like now than before. His irises, previously black, now shown with a bestial gold. Dayton was likely the first of his peers to not flinch at this unveiling.
“You really do know about me! Do you know my name and power too?”
Without giving any chance to answer, Kurt excitedly disappeared in a puff of smoke. The brimstone smell doubled as he reappeared on top of the roof of the Rolls-Royce, squatting down as his tail swished behind him. Then the realization struck.
“Way to, like, spoil the answer”, chided a notably short brunette girl towards the right of the gathering. Shortest of the group, even.
Dayton shrugged in agreement, but replied anyway.
“I did know about the brimstone dimension-hopping, but uh… Yeah, guess you did give that away, Kurt. Or Nightcrawler? Whichever you prefer.”
The excitement spiked again. Voices converged in an elevated burst.
“BRIMSTONE DIMENSION!?”
Kurt’s eyes were alight with questions.
“Vhat’s zhe Brimstone Dimension? Sounds… Eerie!”
Dayton tried to gather more information. For once, it was a swell of emptiness. And a tinge of pain. He placed a hand to his temple, bracing for the growing headache.
“Mmh… All I’ve got is that your powers tap into it. It’s a flat nothing, otherwise. Sorry.”
Kurt was a little let down, but seemed to accept that much for now. The German boy waved off the apology casually. Even assured Dayton that he could use whatever name suited him most - he liked his code name just as much as his given one.
“Oo, oo! Do me next! Do you know me?” pestered the other black teen, taking center stage.
Looking at them again, Dayton took in more of their details. Their yellow-dyed hair had a shaved stripe that went around the back of their head in a V-shape. They wore a light grey shirt with no sleeves and brown cargo shorts with a black canvas belt. Their shoulders were broad, but their hips were fairly wide too. Otherwise, they were athletically skinny. A good physique for a gymnast, as they were on the shorter side - though not the shortest of the bunch. White skater sneakers, and a pair of elbow pads gave a good indication of their main hobby. The fingerless leather gloves were a bit curious, but Dayton supposed they added character - or were supposed to, anyways.
A brief spark of irritation accompanied the influx of information.
“Um… I actually don’t know your real name, but you like to go by Spyke, right? Another name-match-powers kinda’ deal.”
They nodded, eyes shining excitedly.
“Obviously, you skateboard, but you used to be on the basketball team at your old school, too. Star player, even.”
Spyke grinned from ear to ear.
“I dunno’ about ‘star player’, but… I guess I am pretty good, still!”
“I… See yer as modest as expected, too… Juxtaposes well for being Ms. Munroe’s nephew, though.”
There was a bit of astonished silence that Dayton didn’t quite understand, but the information was affirmed with pride. Spyke - or rather, Evan - even extended an offer to help him settle in, if he wanted. Dayton accepted. Kurt regretted not offering sooner.
Jean and Scott took this as their cue to continue with their own plans, so they promptly waved goodbye and wandered off to where the estate garage stood. One of the girls made a face, but stayed quiet. The remaining teenagers moved their meet-and-greet indoors, with Kurt poofing himself to a head-start and the shortest girl walking straight through the front doors as if immaterial.
The foyer of the institute befit the grandness of the estate as a whole. It had a largely traditional style, but with a firm tone of opulence. The pink granite floor tiles were pristine, as though no sole had ever tread upon them. The red, gold-bordered rugs which paved and filled the open room ran from just past the entrance, up the centered stairs, and continued down the main corridor at the top. The banisters of both the steps and balcony were equally ornate. Marble statues, exotic urns, sofa chairs, and numerous paintings occupied much of the vacant space. In truth, Dayton felt out of place surrounded by such wealth.
“All good there?” asked another of the group - the particularly pale girl with two-tone hair of silver and brown.
Steel-colored irises were ringed by sharp wings of black, and hooded by lilac powder. Her lips were painted in purple shades, the top darker than the bottom. A long sleeved sheer top of dark green covered most of her upper body, but allowed the outwardly black tank within to show. The sleeves and neck were somehow connected to a set of black, nickel-spiked bands. Both hands were clad in dark leather gloves which, despite their purpose, exposed a square patch of skin on their backs. A reflective skirt ran down from below her navel to her mid thigh, below which charcoal stockings clung to her thin legs. She was taller than the other brown-haired girl, but still slightly below eye level with Dayton. This was only a small part due to her black leather boots, which were fitted with dark green, buttoned straps. Everything about her appearance firmly cemented her as some type of goth.
A cluster of synapses somewhere near the core of his brain screamed not to touch her, followed by a throbbing at his left temple.
“Yeah, just- uh…”
Dayton turned slowly to take in the full splendor of the room again.
“Not used to this tax bracket is all.”
The other six laughed before the shorter brunette responded blithely.
“Went from, like, rustic-to-ritzy, ‘ey cowboy?”
He shook his head.
“Just a normal pauper-to-prince. Not much cowboyin’ in the suburbs; Usually.”
“Vait, ‘usually’?” Kurt puzzled.
“Suburbs ‘n farmland can run pretty close together down south”, answered the goth, Dixie accent shining through.
“Yep”, Dayton confirmed.
Some surprised reactions were returned from the others. It seemed only the one had lived below the traitor line. Less to remind him of home, which Dayton considered a boon.
“Oh- And thanks for checkin’ on me, Anna-Marie”, said the boy appreciatively.
The girl scrunched her face. So did the others. A sea of question marks practically burst from their heads. That in turn generated confusion within Dayton, too.
“Who?” Spyke inquired.
Dayton’s eyes darted from face to face, unsure how to salvage this unintentional revelation.
“Uuuuuh, guess it’s just ‘Rogue’ then?”
“Y-yeah”, she replied. Though her tone was dismissive, some buried chord floated an embarrassed tune out with it.
“Just Rogue. Nothin’ else.”
“Sorry…”
The mood grew tense for a short while. Some of the teens exchanged nervous glances. It was hard to tell what specific line had been crossed, but the boundary had been visibly breached. Through crossed arms, Rogue seemed to mull over her own response. Eventually, she relented with a heavy sigh.
“No… ‘Ts fine. I shouldn’t a’ snapped like that. You didn’t know. And neither did y’all.”
Rogue faced her friends with reluctance.
“That’s my real name; my, uh… My birth name. Anna-Marie. Lame, I know…”
“Vhat? No”, dissuaded Kurt. Bamfing beside her, he placed three fingers of reassurance upon her shoulder.
“Zhere’s nozhing wrong vith your name. You zound like a real, eh, ‘zouthern belle’!”
Anna-Marie grimaced. Dayton didn’t blame her. The short girl attempted to salvage the attempt.
“Yeah, yeah! It’s, like, really got that southern charm to it, ya’ know?”
Doubt began to erode off the gloomy girl as she considered the redirection.
“Southern belle ain’t exactly my style, but… I get what yer sayin’. Thanks… I still prefer ‘Rogue’, though.”
All prior tension faded into obscurity, just like that. And with the opportunity present, the other brunette - the one who had phased through the doors moments ago - decided to return to the original quizzing.
Her stature was the most glaring trait as she drew near. Only as tall as Dayton’s clavicle. A high ponytail was held up by a rose hued scrunchy. There was an undeniable cuteness about her face - big eyes, rounded cheeks, and a rather full bottom lip. She clearly plucked her eyebrows thin, but the efforts looked good. Her casual attire consisted of some manner of light yellow shirt and cropped, high-waist jeans of a faded blue. The jeans also had a salmon band running round the ends of each leg. A pastel pink sweater had been buttoned once across the chest. The bottom of it was frilled like flower petals.
On the subject of shape, she was exceptionally thin in all regards. Almost worryingly so. A similarly slim three-beaded chain encircled her neck with a fourth bead hanging down into the cleft of her collarbone. Her woven sandals were quite plain, save for the inch and a half of extra height their platform soles provided. The way she leaned towards him with her hands clasped behind her was somewhere between endearing and pert. It suited her pseudo-valley girl dialect. Dayton had strong assumptions that the girl occupied the minds of many a boy at school. He was, as of yet, undecided.
“Sooo, Dayton? Got any fun facts about moi?”
Dayton filled his lungs to capacity, releasing the air along with the ever-growing thrum of his own grey matter.
“You’re An- Sorry; Rogue’s roommate, for starters. I think? Called ‘Kitty Pryde’, but ‘pride’ with a ‘y’. Youu… Oh.”
He was now clutching the whole side of his head with one hand. Dayton’s eyes shut tight. His brow mashed together. His jaw clenched. Shock waves of pain rumbled throughout his nervous system in a dull hum. He staggered back a step. Kitty and Spyke were the fastest at reaching him, helping to re-establish his balance. Rogue had hesitated out of habit. Kurt was too busy ogling Kitty’s coy posturing to notice in time. The fifth was simply too far away.
“You alright, dude?” Spyke and Kitty asked in unison.
“Nnno… No, not good. Definitely not good. Head’s a mess… Need to sit or something.”
With dual assistance, Dayton hobbled his way into one of the cream sofa chairs nearby. His head drooped against the backrest. Arms atop arms. The plush foam welcomed him warmly, while its leather skin extracted the high heat of the boy’s own. The nerve tremblings continued for a minute longer whilst the others debated calling for adult assistance. When the pain faded, he leaned forward and stared at the ground between his feet. It kept the data flow away.
The first to notice that their new resident had stabilized was Kitty.
“Feeling a little better there, guy?”
After a brief self-inventory, Dayton returned a slow nod. The petite peer placed a hand on the boy’s back, and was met with another flinch. He raised a hand to signal his decline of this physical consolation. Though Kitty was a touch disappointed, she respected his request - just as Kurt placed his own imposition upon Dayton’s opposite shoulder.
“Please don’t”, droned the slouching boy.
“Oh”, realized Kurt, retracting his arm. “Sorry, juzt vanted to help!”
“ ‘Ts fine, just-”
Considering his next words carefully, Dayton lifted his head to better address the other.
“I don’t, uh… Enjoy being touched. No offense or anything.”
A unanimous “Oh” reverberated off the walls.
“Don’t sweat it; if you don’t know, you don’t know.”
Doubled discomfort made a good excuse to put their gathering on hold. Dayton thanked them for the welcome, assuring them that he should recover by evening. Kurt, Kitty, and Rogue bid the rest adieu, heading towards the hallway left of the stairs. The remaining three ascended to the second floor, intending to guide Dayton to his new quarters. Spyke took the lead.
As they proceeded down the thin windowed corridor, an odd idea struck the new recruit. He turned to the last of the welcoming kids: a cream skinned boy with raven hair and the early speckles of facial hair, who had remained entirely silent beyond the first exclamation. That same curly black hair obscured their eyes a bit, and seemed to be better manicured in the front than the back by a large margin. The only one of the group that had yet to proc his mutant memories. In fact, where the last three seemed to deepen his headache, this case introduced a faint haze.
“So, uh. What’s your name, dude?” Dayton pondered, concerned with the way no one had thought to include him.
The unnamed boy returned a despondent smile, and neglected to answer.
Spyke, confused, spoke over their shoulder seeking clarity.
“Who, me? It’s Spyke, remember? Is your head messed up that bad?”
Dayton’s head took on a skeptical tilt. He turned from the unacquainted to Spyke as his forehead crumpled slightly.
“Wha- No, I mean him. He’s been with y’all the whole time, right?”
The stout teen stopped in his tracks, darkened eyes splayed in shock. His hands clasped together tight. His shoulders raised as his head receded. Trying to shrink away to nothing. Spyke turned around. The presence of the unregistered member of their party came as a shock.
“Whoa! Who- When did you get here? Who even are you?”
How strange? Even for the already unusual circumstances of this campus, it was evident that the residents were informed about most comings and goings. The overall-clad unknown had been within the welcome wagon, and yet this was the first any of the group had reacted to him? Was he an intruder? Was he a peer?
Tears began to bubble at the corners of the mystery boy’s eyes. His lips trembled as he spoke. His voice clogged his throat.
“I’m- Um… I'm Xabi? My power makes people… Eh, se pierden sus recuerdos de mí; They, uh… Forget me. I've been here the whole time...”
His accent stood out to Dayton, so used to the timbre of the nation bordering his home state. Though he recognized the language as the same, the feel of Xabi’s words was of a different origin. Dissimilar to the cadence of his old Puerto Rican friend, nor like that of his eighth grade history teacher - a forthright Colombian. The boy simply couldn’t place it.
Once the moment of fresh acquaintanceship passed, the pair were assaulted by a grim realization. They shared a swift look to confirm their fears.
“So everyone here… Forgot about you already?”, Dayton questioned in horror.
“How- Uh, how long have you been here?” asked Spyke, stumbling briefly over their own thoughts.
“Eight months, I-I think…”
“Wait- EIGHT MONTHS!?”
It was clear that Spyke was scouring their memory for even the slightest trace of this “Xabi”. And within a few seconds of looking away to do so, the answer for that failing became clear.
A blink was the signal. The first held that initial conviction. The search was alive in their eyes. The second blink was its funeral. The others could observe the shift in disposition from anxious contemplation to amnesiac confusion. The victim looked up, unaware of their own alteration. Spyke wore a face devoid of the last few minutes of their life until their eyes roamed off of Dayton’s, and back onto Xabi’s. A connection seemed to return.
“Whoa”, they uttered. “I really did blank out for a sec!”
Dayton, who had been watching Spyke intently from beside the presence-stunted teen, had made a realization of his own. He faced Xabi again as the picture pieced itself together.
“So, like… We lose our memory of you when we look away, then?”
Xabi replied with a solemn nod.
“Uh-huh. And like, it kinda’ comes back when we look again?”
“Only, um… When it’s real quick. Otherwise…” Xabi shrugged defeatedly. “No hay nada; Nothing happens.”
With this information affirmed, Dayton put his theory to practice. It had clearly happened once already, but he wanted to be sure. He turned away from Xabi. Turned away from Spyke. He stared at the wall. At the faces hidden in the texture. He stared and tried his best to keep the other boy firmly in his mind. He waited for a while. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Thirty.
And then he returned his gaze to Xabi.
“Huh”, Dayton said plainly, brows still scrunched. “Doesn't seem to work on me?”
Spyke and Xabi shared in Dayton’s confusion. They traded looks, drawing the best conclusions they could off this discovery. Spyke repositioned to maintain view of both of them, hoping that would keep continuity.
“So, like”, Xabi pondered. “You remember everything? No problems?”
“You fully looked away, too”, said Spyke, hands clasped atop of their head. “Like, completely! Quick– What’s their name?”
“Xabi, and you’ve been here eight months. Didn’t give us a last name, thinking on it.”
“Oh! It’s Abaroa”, Xabi answered, flabbergasted by the prospect of this proof.
Spyke, too, felt a perplexing sort of awe at this evidence.
“It really doesn’t affect you!”
“Why though?” Xabi wondered. “The Professor, I get, but…”
So Mr. Xavier was also of the retentive minority. Perhaps because he was a telepath? That usual something told Dayton this was likely the case.
“Maybe something about my memory powers?” Dayton theorized. His eyes stared off at nothing as he tried to make sense of things. Spyke beat him to the punch.
“What if you only forgot what your extra memory knew?”
The other two considered this. It made some sense; The memory altered was not his current storage, but that of wherever these other thoughts were born from. There was certainly nothing to refute the idea. A reassuring thought for all involved.
As the three continued to chat about other hypotheticals, the throbbing in Dayton’s head returned. The remembrance of their original task brought with it a worry for Spyke’s retention afterwards. With the limited comprehension of Xabi’s self-erasure, the best the trio could think to try was to have Dayton catch others up to speed and hope for the best. Beyond that, a talk with Mr. Xavier was the next best option. Perhaps a task for later.
For now, the journey to the new recruit’s room resumed. The three continued down the hall, reaching a fork in the hall. Spyke led them to the left half. Besides the end tables that marked the borders of each room - each of which displayed a different vased flower - this hall didn’t differ much from the one before it. Same green curtains on the left and far walls’ windows. Same red carpeting. Same beige paint. The doors to each room matched the wood of the entrance, but differed in that each was adorned with a brass plaque. Every plaque had the resident’s name or names engraved in black-painted letters - Garamond Bold.
The trio passed several more rooms. The first two were blank, as was the fourth door plate. The third listed only “Daniels, Evan”, while the fifth read “Drake, Robert” above and “Costa, Roberto” below. These two were to be Dayton’s neighbors. Keeping the Roberts together must have made some sort of logistical sense to whomever did the assigning. His room was the sixth of seven, with another double placard listing only "Travers, Dayton" upon the top half. The last unetched plate labeled “Abaroa, Xabi” in what could only be the unfortunate boy’s own paint work. Looking from the newest reminder for Xabi’s predicament to the afflicted boy himself, Dayton was met only with a resigned shrug from his new friend.
“Here’s home”, Spyke announced as they revealed the room to the group.
It was nice. Far nicer than the shared space Dayton was used to. Ash colored walls paired well with the lilac rug spanning the majority of the floor space. Full-sized beds were tucked into the far corners, straddling a pair of armoires with a small table in between. A white granite night stand was placed on the left side of both beds. Waist height dressers of red elm - same as the armoires and table - sat on either side of the door, with large mirrors framed above them. Charcoal sofa chairs that looked newly made occupied the corners between the dressers and beds, turned at an angle to face the room’s center. Everything appeared posh and meticulous.
At the foot of the left-hand bed, both of Dayton’s matte grey suitcases stood neatly together. This came as a surprise given first impressions of the one who had brought them.
“It’s big”, Dayton commented while still scanning the room.
The others chuckled at the usual response.
“If you ever need anything, man, I’m just down the hall”, Spyke continued with a smile. “Catch your breath, settle in. Dinner’s at seven, but feel free to show when you feel like it, alright?”
Receiving another nod, Spyke waved and headed back towards the lobby. Xabi also bowed out, repeating the same offer of hospitality - especially so, being just next door. After an especially cheerful farewell from the forgettable teen, the door shut once more, leaving Dayton alone in the soap scented room.
Exhaustion, with all its opportunistic might, finally overwhelmed him. Staggering away from the door, Dayton dove into the mattress assigned to him. It was soft. Cold and soft.
Such unfamiliarity was not unwelcome. It was the fear of yet more upheaval that could be laying in wait. Lurking upon the horizon. Perhaps it was the shocking disparity of living conditions. Or the stress of whatever was streaming into his head from the aether. Neither theory mattered. The fatigue persisted regardless.
It took only a moment to root itself. Dayton shut his eyes. His chest swelled thrice, growing slower with each expulsion between. The electric hum faded. And a dream-filled abyss washed over him.