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Simon drives up to Cambridge to visit colleges... and finds himself in an impossible situation.

Simon had just needed to get away from the school for a couple of weeks. To the professor, he'd billed it as going to visit both Harvard and John's Hopkins in preparation for his decision on which to attend come January. It was a valid excuse, and it meant that neither Warren or Jean-Paul could come with him, since he needed to be seen doing it on his own. And no matter how much he cared for both of them, he really did need the time alone. So, he'd driven up to Cambridge and had booked a rather nice hotel suite on his father's card (one of the few things the man actually agreed to), and had crashed for the night.

What he awoken to was a nightmare.

At first, he'd thought he was still dreaming. He stumbled out of a small, nondescript trundle bed that most definitely did not have the thread-count of sheets he had been expecting, blinking slowly at the windowless, black-paneled room around him. Still clad in just his boxers and a pair of cashmere pajama bottoms, he took two steps toward the nearest wall, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he peered more closely at what seemed to be a glowing red light pulsing from between the cracks.

Looking around the room, there was no one. He wasn't even sure where the door was, and after a couple of failed attempts at finding it, he turned in place in the center of the room as he felt his heart start to speed up a little. This wasn't happening. This was clearly no joke. He'd been abducted. He didn't know how, or even where, but someone had brought him to this...this sick joke of a room.

Just a few moments after Simon had fully returned to consciousness, a set of panels behind him--distinguishable in no obvious way from any of the dozens of others that defined the room's inky interior, slid apart. The figure they revealed, though lit from behind by the same lambent, ruddy glow that suffused the room, was hardly one to inspire dread. It was a middle-aged man of slight build, graying blond hair in disarray, peering at the teen from behind a pair of thick, round-rimmed glasses. His face had the general cast of one accustomed to worry--as if anxiety were his baseline state, and lighter moods had enjoyed little opportunity to impress laugh lines or crow's feet. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he rubbed his hands together nervously, never making eye contact for long; he seemed more as if he were trying to watch every inch of Simon's nondescript cell simultaneously.

"Mr. Tam?" he began in a soft, tremulous voice. "I am Gordon. Dr. Gordon. I'm sure you must have many questions, but the, erm, Laboratory Director of this particular facility asked to see you as soon as you woke up. If you would come this way, please?" Gordon gestured behind him, into the hall.

Simon whipped around to face the man, then stared at him as he was instructed to follow. "Are you kidding me? Do you know who I am? You just abducted me!"

Gordon shrunk back visibly, but stayed rooted in place, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. "Um. No. I don't know who you are--I'm sorry. He ... didn't seem to think I needed to know, and I don't ask those kinds of questions anymore. Um, I don't leave the lab very much. So I wasn't actually involved with ... however you, er, got here." He wrung his hands again. "Please, it is really much wiser to just go along with instructions. I can't make you, but whoever he sends after me will be a lot more, ahem, forceful, I think."

For some reason, that caused goosebumps to raise up along Simon's arms. He got a small, sick feeling in his gut as he began to wonder just what the hell he'd found himself mired in. A laboratory? The man before him was clearly terrified, and Simon quickly started to wonder if he should be as well. "Who? Who are you taking me to see?"

"The Laboratory Director," he repeated unhelpfully. But then Gordon's expression brightened faintly. "Oh! He said that if you asked I should introduce him as, mm, Dr. Essex. He thinks you might have heard of him." His watery eyes darted back and forth again, as though making sure no one else were within earshot. "We know him by another name here, but that's what he told me to say."

Simon's stomach dropped out completely, and suddenly he really did think he was going to be sick. He knew the name Essex. Not as well as some, but it wasn't as if he was completely oblivious to what had been going on with the research facilities. He knew where the mutants had been held, and that Essex had been a large part of them. He took a step back, swallowing down the bile trying to rise in his throat. "No...no."

At that, the wispy figure in the shabby labcoat took an only slightly hesitant step forward, just barely crossing the threshold into the room itself. "Please, Mr. Tam, this, uhm, it really isn't the time. He's waiting." Gordon shuddered, and the wringing of his hands grew more agitated. "The Dir--Dr. Essex, he can be inhumanly patient, when it suits him. But, er, when it comes to people ..." He trailed off and shrugged helplessly.

What could he do? Hide in a corner of the room until they dragged him out? Simon tried to get himself under control. He knew what those kids had gone through when they were experimented on. If that was what he was doomed for, there wasn't much he could do to stop them. But in the meantime, he couldn't just hide in a corner and make himself sick worrying over what was to come. Maybe if he he went willingly, at first, he might see a way out. He closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath, then started toward the break in the panels after this...Gordon fellow.

He tried to remember everything he'd been training for. He tried to keep his eyes open for anything that might help him. But mostly, Simon tried not to lose his dinner on the floor.

Slumping with visible relief, Gordon led Simon into the hall outside his surprise accommodations. The architecture followed a similar motif as the latter's room, broken up by intermittent tubes conveying varicolored fluids along the walls or suspended from the ceiling and pieces of bizarre medical equipment whirring and humming toward some unfathomable purpose. After a few moments, the pair passed through a large room lined with coffin-sized containers of metal and glass. Murky fluid concealed all but the vaguest outlines of what may have been stored within them, but even that bare hint suggested human--or human-ish--figures.

Simon tried to ignore the containers, but as much as he tried, all he could do was hope, and pray that at any moment, Jean-Paul would zip in, or Warren would bust through the ceiling, and everything would be okay. Realistically, he knew that would never happen. For one thing, his boyfriends had no reason to believe that Simon was missing at all. He'd told them he'd be gone for almost two weeks. They likely assumed he was still taking some time to himself in a hotel somewhere in Massachusetts. He'd already checked. His phone and iWatch were both missing, which meant that he had no way to alert anyone, either. There was no rescue coming. And even if there was, they wouldn't know where he was. He didn't know where he was.

Noticing his unease, and very likely mistaking its source, Gordon piped up, "They're just, er, spares, I guess you could say. Backups. Nothing to worry about, just now, Mr. Tam." He nodded his head. "It's just a little further now, past the next partition." Which he led Simon through almost before he had finished speaking. The next room they entered was much larger--cavernous, even--and lined with ranks of equipment whirring and flashing in a brilliant, disorienting display. The monitors nearest at hand flickered with complex chemical chains or theoretical genetic combinations; organs and pieces of organs floated in viscous gel, similar to what they had so recently passed. Most of the machinery appeared to be automated, but there was at least one other present in the room with them. He stood looming, studying one of the monitors with a finger tucked under his chin thoughtfully, dressed in a long white lab coat and an inky bodysuit beneath.

As the two entered, the room's original occupant turned into the light to regard them, his appearance a stark contrast of jet-black hair combed back from a high forehead and chalk-white skin. A similarly dark beard trimmed in the van dyke style framed his mouth, which immediately quirked into a small smile--a smile which revealed a hint of too-sharp teeth. "Ah, Simon," he said, low voice bearing the vaguest trace of an English accent, one long eroded by time spent abroad. "I have so been looking forward to this. You may leave us now, Gordon," he added with a dismissive wave, his gloved fingers not so much clawed as pointed, as if the tip of each digit had been run through a pencil sharpener.

"Master," Gordon gulped, and all but scrambled out of the room, leaving Simon alone with Nathaniel Essex.

Alone, feeling even more naked than the pajamas provided, Simon stared back at the unnerving man, digging his heels into the floor in order to keep himself from backpedaling. Instead, he set his jaw, fists clenching at his sides. He forced himself to think of all of those kids he'd treated who had been rescued from the Right's lab facilities. "Who do you think you are?" he managed to breathe, low and angry.

Essex looked thoughtful at that. "That ... is a very long story. But please. I know it's an evasion to pose the question at all, and I hope you will indulge me ... Who do you think I am?" He extended one of those unnaturally-pointed hands and added, "I will be happy to explain as much as you like, once I have your answer."

"A psychotic egomaniac who thinks cutting on mutants is best done with Frankenstein's scientific method?" Simon suggested, his tone dripping with disgust. "From what I've seen, what's been done to those kids is a butcher job; clearly not handled by anyone who understands genetic research whatsoever."

"A more pedestrian response than I was expecting," Essex said, clucking his tongue. "Also extremely courageous, under the circumstances." His shoulders rose and fell beneath his pristine white coat. "But, whatever moral objection you may harbor toward my methods, I am a scientist. And, in fact, I acknowledge very few peers in the field of modern genetic research. It would be childish to think such achievements can be reached without cost."

He turned back toward the screen he had been studying earlier, tapping two of those unnaturally-pointed fingertips against the it, where dozens of virtual RNA strands combined and recombined in a baffling dance of shifting gene-chains, with brief readouts to the side summarizing how the resulting traits would be expressed in a hominid. "Before we move on to that long story I mentioned earlier, what do you make of this, Simon?"

Simon intended to dismiss whatever contrived asshattery the man was attempting to draw him into. He really did. But, unfortunately, his gaze caught on the screen, and lingered on the calculations flowing by, quickly soaking up the implications of the mutant genetic database and the extrapolation of results based off of any given number of situations. It was an honest to god library of knowledge concerning mutations and powers - something Simon had only dreamed of when he walked through the halls of Xavier's and mentally noted all of the new students arriving. It was a thing of beauty.

Before he knew it, he was taking a step closer, just to get a better look.

"Yes," Essex said, stepping back with a brief flash of pointed teeth to allow Simon a fuller view, "I thought you would appreciate it. A labor of a lifetime--several lifetimes, in fact. The most complete catalog of mutant lineages in the world. And a means of potentially predicting the next phase of our evolution. It has required no small effort on my part to construct. But the potential advantages are ... incalculable."

For a moment, Simon couldn't breathe, staring at the screen, taking another step closer as he took in the shifting calculations of the data. His fingers twitched, eager to touch, to explore, to learn...but something tugged at the back of his thoughts, and after a moment, he frowned, turning toward the man. "Our? You're...a mutant?"

"Would that really be so surprising?" Essex asked, one black brow arching over his sharp smile. "But no," he shook his head. "At least, not in the sense you most likely mean. I was born quite an average physical specimen, though I did possess the advantage of a superior intellect, and the determination to use it. My present abilities are the result of my unlocking the latent potential of my genes over time. I suppose 'mutate' would be the more precise description--and, as men of science, we must always strive for precision."

"So you did this to yourself. Using your research on mutants," Simon breathed. "Your extensive research. How long have you been creating this database?"

"I received my first doctorate in biology from Oxford University in 1859," he replied. "If memory serves, I began in the late 1870's--though, obviously, my work was constrained by the technology of the time. I didn't make appreciable headway until my relocation to the United States in the 1920's." The second World War had also been a time of considerable advancement, but that hardly seemed worth noting.

All of the blood drained out of Simon's face. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I am one hundred eighty-nine years old," Essex said matter-of-factly. "I've spent most of that time researching mutants, and the advancement of the species." He turned toward a side hall, beckoning. "Walk with me?"

"Do I have a choice?" Simon muttered at the man's back, still trying to wrap his mind around the apparent agelessness of his captor.

"Of course." Essex smiled again, revealing a multitude of straight, white teeth. "But every other option takes you directly to the bad ending. I don't recommend it, personally." He led Simon into what appeared to be an office, though the table at the center was made of the same polished black material as the walls and floor. Additional monitors lined the perimeter, though all seemed inactive at that moment. In contrast to the science-fiction aesthetic that prevailed through most of the facility, a marble bust of Darwin perched on one corner of the desk, staring gloomily at the back wall.

Simon tried not to shiver at Essex's veiled threat, but it required his clenched fists biting into his palms, and a tight swallow in his throat. Yeah. He was terrified. He might not want the man to pick up on it, but it was there, nonetheless. "So, let me guess. Now you want my power."

"You're only correct in part," the pale-skinned figure told him, taking a seat at his desk; it appeared to be the only chair in the room, high-backed and looming, like Essex himself. "Your mutation is uniquely suited to advancing my work, and I won't insult you by pretending I do not covet such an asset. But I think your mind at least equally appealing--I've studied your academic record at length, reviewed your university applications in depth. It is, perhaps, the third or fourth time in my long career I've been intrigued enough to bring a stranger into my laboratory. Heavy-handed though my means of bringing you here may have been."

Simon gave him a flat stare. "I'm so very honored," he answered, unable to keep the sarcasm from oozing into the statement.

"I have no particular need to impress you, Simon," Essex said, dragging his fingertips over the polished surface of the desk--and leaving four distinct lines in the strange material. "I am only stating a fact. More to the point, are you really so mired in your juvenile morality that you cannot admit you find any part of this," he gestured, encompassing the entire facility with a wave, "the least little bit fascinating?"

"Juvenile morality?" Simon asked incredulously, his eyes widening slightly. "Are you kidding me?"

"Much as it might please you to think that monsters are born and not made," he replied, smirking, "there was a time when I was not so different in my outlook. When helping others--in the particular, rather than the general sense--was my greatest priority and highest calling. I did not realize that the practice of medicine was simply a stepping stone until much later in my life. That securing power was the surest means to advancing my scientific interests until still later yet. I see enormous potential in you, Simon; I'm simply attempting to offer you a little shortcut. You needn't do things the hard way, like I did."

Simon felt sick. He didn't want to think that he had anything at all in common with the fiend sitting before him. This...unnatural, possibly immortal being, bereft of what seemed like any compassion whatsoever. "Potential for what?" he breathed. "To become like you?"

"Like me," Essex agreed. "Or potentially even more accomplished." Jagged fingers drummed over the surface of the desk. "My son died at the age of four, of numerous birth defects which, by modern standards, would have been quite treatable. My wife, in childbirth some years later, cursing me for my attempts to restore Adam to life." He barked a humorless laugh. "I know now, of course, that restoring life to the original shell is impossible. What is required is a reserve clone body, and brain-patterns and memories backed up on neuro-compatible computer systems. But such is the benefit of hindsight. And exhaustive research."

Recalling the glass containers down the hall, Simon felt his jaw drop open a little. "You're a clone."

"A clone who remembers events of the mid-nineteenth century as vividly as though they had happened only a few weeks ago," he said. "I suspect I'll remember the twentieth century as my favorite, however. The twenty-first seems a bit too hesitant as it hovers on the cusp of advancement."

"My god," Simon breathed. It was no wonder that 'Essex' seemed to have limitless resources. For as long as he (and his predecessors) had been on Earth, he'd had ample time to build up exactly the kind of power base he wanted to. More than that, the man could build upon almost two centuries of knowledge, never needing to worry about his mind failing to keep up with his ambitions. The worst part about it was that Simon couldn't tell if he was disgusted by the man...or envied him. And that? That scared the shit out of him.

"Charles tried to keep God involved, too," Essex observed, casting an amused glance at the bust at the corner of his desk. "Then, as now, one's social standing could be negatively affected by too much radical thinking, and he was always so dreadfully afraid of that." He shrugged. "But we live in a world of calculable, observable phenomena, phenomena which we can move and shape to advance ourselves and the species, in general. If God exists, then He doesn't care, and is irrelevant to my work in either case."

At first, Simon thought the man was referring to Xavier. Then he followed Essex's eerie dark eyes toward the bust and he realized that he was speaking of a contemporary. He was standing with a a man - an honest to god clone - of someone who had perhaps spoken to, or worked alongside Charles Darwin, the father of evolution. To be honest, Simon had never really decided whether or not he believed in a higher power. He believed in an order to the universe - a mysterious working of rhythm and pattern that never ceased to amaze him, but a hand behind it? He wasn't sure he could go that far.

Then again, after everything Simon had witnessed in the past few months, why not believe in God? It wasn't any more strange than time travel, or reincarnation, or aliens. And, if that was the case, he wasn't sure that Essex could afford to ignore the possibility when it came to shaping the evolution of mutants. God might seem to be absent, perhaps, but irrelevant? Hardly. To ignore something that could be - could affect and reflect the research he was involved in was hubris.

His gaze flicked up toward the man again, studying his pale skin, and claw-like hands. His too-white, too-many, too-sharp teeth, and the oily dark slick of his hair, and Simon felt his stomach turn. Very slowly, he began to realize that he was caught between a rock and hard place. He wasn't just one of Essex's captives, no. He was being offered something more. Something much more dangerous to his soul (should such a thing exist). "You want an apprentice," Simon murmured quietly.

"You've almost got it, Simon," he replied, holding the pointed tips of his thumb and forefinger about a half-inch apart. "What I want--what I've wanted for some time, in fact--is a colleague. Somebody capable of truly comprehending the full implications and potential ramifications of my research and experimentation. You weren't wrong in your assessment of the Right--their methods are sloppy, at best, and a distasteful blend of fantasy and overt malice, at worst. However, they've proven not totally without their uses--mainly as a means of locating promising subjects. And occasionally culling those who would otherwise impair the advancement of the species.

"But none of their so-called scientists is even close to my equal. If I acknowledge them at all, it's with the restrained condescension of a schoolteacher for the banal accomplishment of a six-year-old. But in you, I see potential. Potential not only to appreciate the singular pleasure of unlocking the ultimate potential of the human genetic code, but to contribute to its enhancement. A genuine peer, given some little instruction and the proper access. It's not an assessment I've made often, and it is certainly not to be taken lightly."

Simon had a thousand questions, and about as many curses for the man, but when he attempted to speak to any of them, all that came out was..."Why? Why are you doing this?"

Essex tilted his head inquiringly at the young man before him. "Why? Well. We each must make our own meaning in life, I think. Without a goal to strive toward, it's all too easy to sink into the ordinary and complacent. The finite. Why do you work so hard to fill a mold that no longer fits? To please your father? To satisfy expectations laid upon you long before you were old enough to grasp what they actually entailed? Do you study medicine because you wish to heal the sick, the infirm, the vulnerable, or do you do it for yourself? Because you desire the knowledge?" He tapped a finger against his chin. "I pursue my research because the work itself is fulfilling; I have reaped its rewards, personally, and, in the long term, it serves to advance the species, as a whole ... but, ultimately, those are secondary benefits. I want to know. The knowing is worth every sacrifice I have made, up to this point. And more."

The man's words hit Simon hard. They weren't so different than words he'd been asking himself for the last few months. Those same questions were the biggest reason he'd taken the trip to begin with. He just wasn't sure where his worth was anymore. And frankly, the only avenue he truly saw open to him was genetic research. Did Essex somehow know that? It was...very convenient, if not. But how would he know, unless he was a telepath? There was no evidence to support that he was; none that Simon knew of, at any rate, but he couldn't rule it out.

Needless to say, telepath or not, Essex had his number, and Simon wasn't exactly sure how to answer him. So, instead, he asked more questions. "So you're doing this to...learn. To expand your knowledge. But you mentioned furthering the evolution of mutants."

For his part, Essex seemed not to mind Simon's evasiveness in the slightest. He gestured back the way they had come. "You studied the readouts. I've been assembling my database for over a century, cataloging mostly latent mutations--at least, up until the last few decades. Its expanded exponentially in the last few years, as both latent and expressed mutants have been vastly more commonplace. I winnow through the possible matches, seeking the fittest and most valuable combinations. Where I can, I encourage in one direction or another. Discourage, when necessary. Their advent is a step forward in my acquisition of knowledge, and improving the species shows me ways to improve myself I might not have considered otherwise. I think of it as a win-win proposition."

Simon stared at him quietly. It was monstrous - the man trying to play God like he was, but on the other hand...he had so many questions. How had he done it? Why were expressed mutants becoming more commonplace? How long had the latent gene been there? What was the Right, and what was their purpose? He wanted to ask all of it, but on the other hand, he also wanted to get the hell out of there. He swallowed quietly, still trying to hold his mask of bravery even in the face of a sudden need to curl up and shake like a child in a corner somewhere. Essex was terrifying - physically, psychologically. He was a madman of epic proportions, and Simon knew that there was no escape. Not when Essex now had his hands on Simon's abilities...and his mind.

"So..." Simon began, ignoring the slight shaking in his voice. "What's your plan here? Attempt to...what, convince me to work with you willingly?"

"That would be the ideal scenario," the madman in question acknowledged with a nod. "I have various implements of persuasion at my disposal, of course, but volition seems important, for a proposition like this one."

"Not that I expect you to agree straightaway," he added, smile widening. "You haven't quite suffered enough yet, to be really receptive to my unusual worldview. It took a great deal of time and a succession of personal failures and tragedies before I realized I was myself the greatest obstacle to my advancement--or, rather, my excess of sentiment and hesitation to commit to a path of pure rationality." Essex shrugged. "In any event, I'm in no hurry. I'll simply keep an eye on you, until I judge you ready."

Simon just stared. "And if I flat out refuse to hear you out?"

Essex's dark brows rose on his unnaturally-pale forehead. "You're a bit young to be dealing in absolutes, I think," he noted with a touch of wryness. "You may say no today, but tomorrow ... Well, there's always tomorrow, isn't there? But, if you're asking absolute worst-case scenario--say, you're ninety-three years old, on your deathbed, being devoured from within by programmed cellular death--I suppose I would have to adopt more extreme measures. Volition, as I said, is important; you have to choose it. Still, I'm not about to just forfeit such valuable genetic potential.

"Really, though, are you in a position to simply reject what I offer? Do you think you'll be satisfied to toil in the shadows of MacTaggert and McCoy for the next decade and a half, perhaps achieve some middling stature of your own, working within scientific boundaries designed to keep the ignorant and the afraid comfortable? All the while watching what you have worked so hard to achieve count for less and less as new mutants emerge with the natural ability to put your earned skills to shame?"

Simon felt like he'd been punched in the gut. All of the air left his lungs and he felt frozen for a moment, cold and angry and hopeless in the face of all of his fears dumped out onto the table in front of them. He couldn't even deny the man. Of course he didn't want that future. He didn't want to be lost to history, replaced by others who could do more, go farther, and faster than he did. He didn't want to become obsolete - not when he'd worked so hard just to get where he was so far. Only sixteen years old, and he could be something great - or he could have been, before the explosion of mutant ability. With Essex's knowledge he could probably give himself new abilities. He could give himself the ability to heal with a touch, or sense another's emotions. He could cure any number of diseases and ailments, driving medical understanding to lengthen the human lifespan. He could become like a god.

And wasn't that a terrifying thought? Simon swallowed hard, clenching his hands behind his back to keep them from shaking. No, he didn't want that. He didn't. He certainly didn't want to step over all the mutants that had been killed by this man in order to do it, either. God, if anyone at the school knew that he was there right now - even just listening to this madman...

After a moment of silence, Essex softly added, "The dead are dead, Simon. But their deaths all meant something--they died for a much greater purpose than most ever do, simply withering slowly until disease or accident or old age take them. Every step forward I've made has advanced the human race, but evolution is measured in populations, not individuals. Every day, the forces of natural selection kill hundreds and thousands more than I have. Is it really so objectionable that I attempt to direct that slaughter in the most productive direction?

Two things horrified Simon at once. One, that the man could be so callous about the children he'd killed. And two... "You're a telepath," he breathed out.

"Well, yes," he acknowledged easily. "But it was an obvious choice, was it not? It's an extremely useful mutation, and it would be quite difficult for me to keep myself concealed from your headmaster, otherwise."

Simon suddenly realized that there was no way he could be rid of the man. If Essex (if that was truly his name) wanted him enough - to the lengths that he might snatch him from his deathbed, what would keep him from going after Warren, or Jean-Paul? Because, as a telepath, of course the man knew about them. He'd done his homework in more ways than simply reviewing his college applications. Essex knew his fears, and was fully willing to leverage them in the name of his cause. Simon just stared at the man, dumbfounded. "Sure," he breathed out in reply. "Because we wouldn't want that."

"No, indeed we would not," Essex agreed, his tone darkening momentarily. "Certainly, your school has been the source of no few inconveniences to me recently. If nothing else, it has deprived me of a number of promising test subjects." He appeared to shrug it all aside quickly enough, however. "In any event, the environment itself makes for a unique sort of experiment in it's own right, wouldn't you say? For now, my curiosity outweighs my irritation. Though you might suggest to those now actively searching for me that the last thing they should want is to achieve any real success in that venture. The consequences would be ... unfortunate."

Simon found himself just staring at the man. One, because of the outright threat. Two... "What exactly do you expect me to say? 'By the way, I'm besties with the man that's been torturing mutants and he's asked me to deliver a message?'"

"In point of fact, no," he said, his vaguely-menacing good humor returning. "In fact, I think it would be in our mutual best interest to keep this little visit between ourselves. We wouldn't want people getting confused over details which really don't concern them, I think. But I'm sure you could find ways to discourage the curious among your classmates without naming names."

"Details that don't really concern them?" Simon hissed out softly. "Are you kidding me?"

"You would rather just tell them you spent two weeks in the lair of the man who, in your own words, has been 'torturing mutants'? And that I just let you go, at the end of it all? Simple as that?" Essex grinned fully, at that point, exposing more of his sharpened teeth than should have been possible. "Tell me, Simon, how do you think that will appear to your school chums? Will they just take your word for it? Or will they assume I've done something nefarious to you, and doubt every second word you speak, for fear it's been tainted in some way they can't fathom? It's what I do, after all. Ask any of the former Right experiments you've gathered at Xavier's Institute."

At that, Simon found himself finally backpedaling, his head swimming. His gut clenched at the sight of the man's wide, sharp smile, and suddenly, he felt nauseated. Essex was right. He couldn't possibly tell anyone what had happened to him. If he did, he'd be ostracized at best...but more likely Xavier would want to quarantine him - test him, both mentally and physically, for whatever the man might have done to him. What would Jean-Paul or Warren think? No doubt they'd hesitate in speaking to him, much less touching him in any way. After all, Simon's power was based on touch, and if Essex truly did plan on keeping him for the extent of his vacation, that was more than enough time for a telepath to poison his mind or turn him against the others. And even if he didn't, how could they trust Simon's word?

His back hit one of those black-paneled walls, and everything instinct beneath his skin told him to run. His mind rationalized that Essex wouldn't leave an avenue open, but his body didn't listen. He had to get out of there. Whipping around, he darted out the door and began weaving through the maze of databanks and grotesque labs in search of an exit.

Essex didn't stir from his desk, but a halo of dull red light appeared around his forehead, and deeper in the laboratories Simon halted, head dipping, and abruptly fell to the floor, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Yes, telepathy was perhaps one of the most useful enhancements he had grafted into his genetic makeup since his first rebirth all those decades ago.

Another of those invisible side-panels slid aside, admitting the nervous figure of Dr. Gordon. "Have Arclight and Scalphunter return Mr. Tam to his room," Essex ordered, rising and moving back toward the research areas. "And have a meal ready for him when he wakes. We've only thirteen short days to make a strong impression, after all. I'd like his time with us to be ... memorable."

The Doctor fled with a nod as sinister laughter filled the office. He'd told Simon they had another name for Dr. Essex here, where his closest minions and most valuable experiments were headquartered. Where he was a daily terror, rather than an occasionally-recurring nightmare. A name far more suitable than the one from the distant past--the one he used as a convenience, and scarcely acknowledged otherwise.

Mr. Sinister.

Date: 2018-06-28 01:15 am (UTC)
ax_speed: (Default)
From: [personal profile] ax_speed
Dun dun DUNNNNNN. Wow. Amazing log, guys.

Date: 2018-06-28 01:30 am (UTC)
ax_northstar: (Default)
From: [personal profile] ax_northstar
OMFG, guys. That was deliciously creepy. I loved it!

And JP is screaming at the back of my mind right now.

Date: 2018-06-28 01:41 am (UTC)
ax_iceman: (Default)
From: [personal profile] ax_iceman
Oh man, this was amazing. Awesome log, guys.

Also, Simon? Pam gets it. Which is probably nowhere near as reassuring as she thinks it is. ;)

Date: 2018-06-28 02:48 am (UTC)
ax_cyclops: (Default)
From: [personal profile] ax_cyclops
This was epic. You guys are amazing.

Date: 2018-06-28 10:18 am (UTC)
ax_mimic: (Default)
From: [personal profile] ax_mimic
Oh, this is fantastic. Ah. Loved it!

Date: 2018-06-28 03:20 pm (UTC)
ax_angel: (Default)
From: [personal profile] ax_angel
ALL OF WHAT THEY SAID but also can I just point out how hilarious it is that Simon's first reaction to being kidnapped is, "Are you kidding? DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM??" ILU, Simon.

John, bro, you have outdone yourself beautifully again.

Date: 2018-06-29 11:41 pm (UTC)
ax_glory: (umm)
From: [personal profile] ax_glory
I STRAIGHT UP GASPED SEVERAL TIMES IN THIS FAST CASUAL DINING ESTABLISHMENT READING THIS.

Also I agree w/ Katey, the best part was Simon’s initial reaction πŸ˜†πŸ˜†πŸ˜†

Essex had Liefeld teeth, doesnt he.

Date: 2018-06-30 06:18 pm (UTC)
ax_hex: (Default)
From: [personal profile] ax_hex
Noooooo :(

Date: 2018-07-01 08:12 pm (UTC)
ax_wiccan: (Default)
From: [personal profile] ax_wiccan
This was amazing you guys!! Oh man poor Simon!!!

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