xp_logs | LOG: [Forge, Haller] Career counseling

Recent events have warranted a little more staff-attention than usual, but -- regrettable incidents with unarmed prisoners to the contrary -- Haller finds Forge is doing surprisingly well.

"I have to admit, I usually reserve telepathic sessions for powers-issues or the mentally ill," Jim smiled as he took a seat on the representation of a rolling stool, "but then, it does give me an easy out when the other party can't physically be in the same room. Just let me know if this gets uncomfortable for you. I can always pull it back."

"Uncomfortable?" Forge stood behind his workbench and continued moving papers around. "Actually, it's kind of neat. Given that most of my experience so far with telepathic contact has either been with weird ghosts from the future or being psychically assaulted and dragged into Ms. Braddock's childhood memories? This is a step up. Did you know she's really a blonde?"

Despite the apparent bustle of activity around the two of them, the world occasionally seemed to blur at the edges as Forge's attention darted from object to object. This was, of course, status quo with a full-on psychic immersion conversation. In reality, Forge was leaning back with his eyes closed, feet kicked up on a shelf while one of his experiments continued running. The experiment required precise calibrations of mass, he'd explained, and so he didn't feel it wise to leave his lab or have Haller come down to him for a counseling session.

Of course, when offered the chance to do the whole thing psionically, Forge's curiosity got the better of him. And so here they both were.

Jim's expression didn't even flicker. Charles would have been proud. "Yeah, this place seems to be like the Bermuda triangle of psychic phenomena," he said, completely refusing to let the answer to Forge's question make its way even as far as his forebrain. He gestured, the motion dragging with it a trail of afterimages -- arms of different shapes and sizes, differently clad. The connection between the images was tighter than it usually was; a certain amount of centering was inherent in his state of mind while he was counseling. "I'm not precisely a reliable control group for 'normal,' but there's always something. Did you want to ask any questions before we get started?"

Forge walked around the table, the area around him coming into sharp relief as he moved. Glancing down, he held up both arms, then frowned. "When I got dragged into Ms. Braddock's memory, I had all my original parts. Weird. And... okay, what's with you and the double... triple... quintuple exposure thing?"

"I'm a recovering multiple personality." When the boy focused on something, he focused on everything. Every aspect of the object, down to the most minute detail. For the average mind the vast input would almost have been sensory overload. It reminded Jim of the psychic equipment that allowed many telepaths to process and retain information and experience with almost photographic clarity. "The echoes you see are those aspects of myself that developed an individual sense of self-identity, though for the most part they're inactive now. It used to be even worse. There was a time I could walk across a room like this and fill it with alters. Now there's only three." He shrugged and reached into his pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "As astral representations go, I'm pretty creepy."

Forge gave another expressive shrug. "Creepy compared to what?" he asked, "Apparently even in my own head I get artificial parts. That probably says something." He hopped up on one of the counters, balancing himself on his heels. "Doc Samson said that over time, I'd start to identify with the prosthetics, to start seeing them as an extension of myself rather than replacements for the limbs I lost. You think this is an expression of that?"

Jim nodded. "Some aspects of self-identity are surprisingly fluid," he said thoughtfully, taking a drag. "Accepting yourself as you are isn't a bad thing, even if what you are now isn't what you used to think you should be. You said in the past you saw yourself as you were before the accident. Can you think of anything that's changed? Is there a perception or understanding you have now that was different than what you had then?"

Forge took a while in thought. "It was back when we were working on Mr. al-Rashid's upgrades. And part of the theory behind them was that if he could see the cybernetics as part of himself, rather than just a machine tacked on, that his body would adapt. Psychocybernetic theory, you know," Forge rattled off the jargon with a dismissive wave of his hand. "And when you come to think of it, yeah, I suppose I do look at things a little differently. I mean, Jay isn't 'my friend with the wings', he's Jay. Clarice isn't 'the purple girl', she's Clarice. And I guess... I guess I don't think of myself as the guy with the artificial limbs primarily anymore. I think of myself as me."

Turning his hand over to look at the striated metal, Forge gave a wan smile. "I suppose that explains a lot, doesn't it?"

Jim grinned. "Yeah, it does. And it's definitely not a bad thing." He flicked a finger against the base of his cigarette, shaking off ash. "It's very unhealthy not to accept something you can't change about your own reality. It leaves you estranged from yourself, in a way. Maybe not to the point of creating outright conflict, but there will always be inner tension. The fact that you've figured your prosthetics into your self-image is a very big step -- one you took on your own, without even realizing it."

As Forge's attention began to wander, the outlines of everything seemed to blur. Not from indistinction, but almost as if the scenery of his mind was moving nearly too fast to see. Just as suddenly, he jerked his head up as everything rippled back into sharp focus. "Sorry," he said, "computer beeped. Nothing important. I, uh..." he absently scratched the back of his head with a hand. "I hear you went down into the sewers with the team to grab that guy. Intense, huh?"

Ah. He'd been waiting for something like that. Jim shook his head. "I did some fieldwork up above with Nathan, and I went down there to talk to the victims after the fact, but I'm still not certified for full team. I wasn't there for the actual apprehending." He smiled a little, waving the cigarette idly. "In any case, I'm not sure how much help I would have been. I prefer to restrict the use of my telepathy to a support capacity, if I can. It's a moral choice. Combat isn't where my talents lie."

"Huh," Forge mused. "I mean, I get that. I mean, I'm not exactly a violent person myself."

He paused there, a slight uncomfortable silence settling in. "Recent incident aside, I mean."

"You were angry. We do things when we're angry. Not always the right things, but . . ." Jim sighed. "I'm not going to condone it, but I'm not giving you a lecture, either. Masque put you and your friends through something horrific. I can't blame you for wanting to hurt him back. That's natural. Not right, but . . . natural."

"I'm going to make up for it," Forge said with an air of seriousness. "The wrong he did? Crippling people, taking away their ability to do basic things we take for granted? That's stuff I can change."

As he spoke, the workshop behind him seemed to spring into motion, ghostly afterimages moving at breakneck speed from computer to lathe to press to bench and back again, pausing to hold up items and devices for a split second before vanishing in a blur of distraction. "Prosthetics for people who can't walk, a house designed for someone who's lost the ability to hear, a car that can be used by someone whose legs got fused. Not just Masque's victims, there's mutants all over that aren't as lucky as the folks here."

Forge's demeanor had a tinge of the crusader to it, the astral landscape around him practically vibrating with intensity. "I'm going to show that the power we have doesn't mean it gets to be used for kicks, or for self-interest. I know I don't have to prove anything to anyone, but... I'm going to do it anyway."

Jim took a drag and let the activity flow around him, the mask solid and unyielding against the thrum of the environment. Thoughts were at once everything and everywhere, the rapid switch from connection to connection to connection humming across the mindscape in a series of pulses so rapid it was little more than indistinguishable roar, more felt than seen -- something just short of psychic whitenoise. Jim relaxed and let the nature of his own mind take over to process the flood of stimuli piece by piece, each in its own time.

"Yes," Jim said, opening his mismatched eyes. "Your power could improve countless lives. No question. And that's the best reason to use it to do so: not because people want you to, or because you owe it to anyone, but because it was your decision. Because it's right." He gave Forge a crooked smile. "Living right is a much more difficult defense than just punching back . . . but it's worth it."

Forge glanced down, then looked up at Haller, an odd look in his eyes. "It's the right thing," he agreed solemnly, "because if I don't, then that's my future."

He pointed over Haller's shoulder to a shelf containing the only item that wasn't recognizable as an actual piece of Forge's real-life laboratory. A very familiar dark burgundy helmet levitating above a chunk of iron.

The telepath's odd-colored eyes flicked from the boy to the helmet and back again, keeping the break in eye contact to an absolute minimum. When he spoke his tone was soft, but neutral. "You really believe you could end up like him?"

"Ends and means," Forge mused absently as he focused on the helmet, the rest of the scene seeming to blur behind him. "Wanting to do good, what you think is right - but you slip from that, and then you keep slipping and you keep slipping..."

Slowly, he turned to Haller, eyes closed as the representation of the laboratory reconstructed itself breath by breath. "I know that I'm more than my power. I define it, it doesn't define me. It's in how I use it. And I can't let that slip. It's always there, though." He opened his eyes, curiously looking at Haller's mismatched ones. "I got a chance with him, to see what it would be like if I'd kept sliding down that slope. I really could set things right, not just make little tiny changes. But the price is one he was willing to pay. I'm not."

The telepath nodded slowly. "There's probably nothing more dangerous than the loss of perspective. The possibility of falling in a hole, and not even knowing you're in the dark. Self-monitoring takes commitment -- both to keep up with it and to look yourself with the honesty it takes to make an accurate assessment. Maybe you'll see things you'd rather you hadn't, but everyone has those. The trick is not to let their existence control you." He raised the cigarette to his lips for a long pull, gaze never once wavering from Forge's. The ash glowed orange with the intake of breath. "Or pay the price."

"I'm not Erik," Forge agreed. "What I am, who I am... that's for me to decide."

He hopped lightly off the counter, the details of the psychic landscape starting to fade into transparency, like a 3-D film going slightly out of sync. A faint pinging noise was becoming audible, reflected in short bursts of distraction. Forge turned his head, the blurs following his gaze. "Ah, my experiment."

"Which I'll take to mean is a tactful way of saying our time is up," Jim chuckled. He rose to his feet, shadows of self flowing after him. "We could do this again, if you like. Maybe we can meet the conventional way next time."

"It might help," Forge said as the link began to go fuzzy. He could almost swear some of the odd afterimages behind Haller were alternately sneering and waving at him. Weird.

Jim dropped the cigarette and ground it out with his heel. When he pulled his foot away nothing remained. "We'll try our best," he said with a lopsided smile, and withdrew.