Log: Forge's arrival at the mansion

[x-forge.livejournal.com]

Friday, just before noon. The school's newest student is dropped off with a mixture of trepidation, fascination, scorn, and wonder.




Forge leaned against the window of the rental car, pressing his face against the glass. He could hear the whine of the engine, feel the strain of every cylinder. A quick glance up told him that his father was barely pushing sixty-five up Interstate 68. But then again, the Sentra was a rental from JFK, and had probably seen more drivers in that seat than he could count.

With a silent sneer, Forge pressed his forehead against the window again, closing his eyes and listening to the rhythm of the four-cylinder engine. Thump-click-hiss, thump-click-hiss, in rapid succession. Fuel injection plus spark plug plus oxygen equals combustion. Combustion equals increase in air pressure equals force on the piston head minus coefficient of friction equals...

Shaking his head, the boy put his headphones back on, running the fingertip of his right hand over the touch-sensitive screen of his PDA. Grinding guitars and rasped vocals burst like shotgun shells into his ears, letting him tune out the voice of one machine for another. Yonkers, White Plains, Armonk, Mount Kisco, the exit signs flew by as his mind wandered. One tire was slightly out of alignment, resulting in an almost imperceptible jolt with every revolution. Axle revolution drove the gearwheel which turned a calibrated system of wheels connected to the odometer. Wheel circumference times revolutions equals distance. So imprecise, he thought. A global positioning system would be more accurate, and could even be linked to a long-range RF transmitter in case of emergency. Definitely more powerful and less... archaic than the Lojack installed on this rental. Wire servos to the rack-and-pinion steering – no, replace the rack-and-pinion with single-piston reverse-gear coaxial steering, and there wouldn't even have to be a wheel. Voice-activation could take over written route plans, linking back along the RF signal to a route mapping server and...

Another brush of his fingertip increased the volume of the spastic guitar melodies to the point where his mother turned around in her seat with a frown. He could see her mouth "turn it down", which prompted him to stare back out the window in silent protest. Not like they were going to have a heart to heart talk in the next one minute and thirty-two seconds left on the track.

Dry leaves crunched under the tires as the Sentra swerved down the winding country road, then through the small town of Salem Center. Two left turns took them onto a wooded road that seemed to go on forever into the darkness, until a final turn around a maple-covered hillside revealed the worked stone walls and wrought-iron gate of their destination. 1407 Graymalkin Lane. Professor Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

The music faded away to a dull echo, leaving Forge to stare out the window at the mansion as his father pulled through the opening gate. He'd seen houses this big outside of Dallas, usually owned by oil families and handed down through generations. This definitely didn't look like the military academy he'd imagined.

When the car came to a stop, Forge opened the door in time with his father, sliding his baseball cap onto his head backwards. Nodding slightly, he tried to put a brave front on.

"Yeah, well, it doesn't look too crappy," he mumbled. His father reached out, patting his shoulder and squeezing gently yet firmly.

"Your mother and I pulled in some favors to get you an interview here, John Henry." Reflexively, Forge rolled his eyes. His father always used his full name, as if it meant that the boy would be obligated to act all upscale and polite. Like hell, Forge thought, wrapping his headphones around his PDA and shoving it into the pocket of his windbreaker. As his father shut the driver's door, Forge smiled. He reached down to the left leg of the camouflage fatigue pants he wore, to the edge of the seam he'd been picking at through the entire early morning plane ride from Dallas and long car ride. One sharp tug, and the fabric parted with a whispering sound. Tossing the loose fabric onto the car seat, Forge slammed the door and walked around to stand between his parents.

His mother looked down and immediately gave an exasperated cluck. "Johnny," she moaned, "you promised." Without acknowledging her, Forge began walking for the front steps. Crunch-click. Crunch-click. He frowned, hating how his left shoe would never fit right. Pausing in mid-stride, he reached down, loosening the untied laces with a finger and kicking the worn sneaker off into the middle of the driveway. He could hear his mother's frustrated sigh as she picked up the shoe.

Before he could knock sarcastically at the large oak door, it swung open. Forge's ears pricked up. There, almost at the edge of hearing... the sound of a gas piston? That meant an automatic door. He looked at the hardwood floor in the foyer. No rugs, hmm. And... there! A dull matte patch of black against the waxed shine of the parquet. A quick glance up to the ceiling revealed a dime-sized black panel that he instinctively knew was a proximity-sensor RFID trigger linked to the automatic door. This house was designed for someone in a wheelchair, he knew.

His deduction was confirmed when the bald man in the chair wheeled himself around the corner. "Richard and Cheryl Anne Forge," his tone was friendly, but not questioning. "And you must be John Henry. My name is Professor Charles Xavier, and I would like to welcome you to my home. Please, make yourselves comfortable." The Professor waved an arm, beckoning the family into a nearby study.

The chair, however, intrigued Forge more than the man. Slightly canted wheels for a lower center of gravity, an almost silent motor definitely meant nonmetallic axial drive mechanisms which meant a high-torque drive which would require a bigger power source than was hidden under the chair unless...

"Suspended dual-layer vibranium reaction coil power supply," Forge said tonelessly, his eyes snapping to attention as the Professor's wheelchair circled around a low coffee table where four places had been set with tea, coffee, and white toast. He felt his father's hand on his shoulder, squeezing firmer than before.

"I apologize, Professor Xavier. John is a very... inquisitive boy." The Professor merely smiled, inclining his head to silently dismiss Richard's apology before focusing on Forge himself. The boy shrunk back mildly, repressing a mild shudder of fear at the intense attention. However, Xavier's genial grin assuaged his nerves, and Forge settled himself into the expensively-upholstered chair.

"Henry used the words, what were they...?" Xavier asked himself, voice trailing into reverie for a brief second. "Ah yes, 'buttered cat power'." Xavier's grin grew larger, yet Forge could find no insincerity in it. In fact, he felt the need to smile himself at the reference.

"Well, of course. If toast always lands butter-side down, and a cat always lands on its feet – then you strap the toast to a cat's back, voila, perpetual motion." He chuckled along with Xavier. The man didn't seem like the theoretical physics type to get the joke. His parents certainly weren't, so Forge tried to explain.

"You see, if you suspend a magnetically-opposed wafer of Antarctic vibranium in a semi-metallic mimetic solution, it'll repel the metal and create a vacuum, which makes it spin, and if you put a driveshaft on it and seal the unit into a reverse-polarity ceramic coil, then-" A sharp wave of his father's hand silenced the boy as Richard Forge put on his "business face".

"Professor Xavier," he began, "we were told that your school could be a place for someone like our son to continue his education in a more... understanding environment." Richard brushed a hand over his chiseled cheeks, then through his salt-and-pepper hair. His tan complexion gave away his Cherokee heritage, although his son's took more to his mother's Dutch-Irish ancestry, with only the sharp cheekbones indicating John Henry's proud pedigree. Forge's father continued,

"You see, our son is... well, he has a gift."

"As do all my students, Mister Forge," Xavier replied, silently sipping his cup of tea. "I am aware of the special circumstances involved in your son's earlier education, and I promise you that this school will be a place where John will receive an education second to none, one that is uniquely tailored to his gifts and talents." The Professor finished his tea, then nodded to Forge before focusing on his parents.

"I expect that you have doubts. You have had counselors and therapists speak with you about your son. And while John Henry indeed has a gift, we all must never forget that behind this amazing ability is a young man who I am certain has a great deal to offer both this school, and the world." Xavier turned to Forge, who sat stock-still in the chair, not touching the teacup in front of him.

"Our son is a mutant, Professor Xavier," Cheryl Anne explained. "He... he's got a way with machines. It's just, well, he's not-"

"I'm inadequately socialized," Forge blurted out, his words dripping venom as he parroted what numerous counselors had told him over the past year. "John Henry has such potential, but lacks the cooperative learning skills expected of a child his age. John Henry should engage in more group activities. John Henry needs team-building exercises." Raising an eyebrow momentarily in defiance, Forge quickly shrunk back under his father's harsh glare.

Unlike Richard Forge, Charles Xavier looked at the boy with neither anger nor pity in his eyes. "Yes, I've read the files your parents sent me," he explained quietly. "But what do you want, John Henry Forge?"

I want to build things. he thought. I'm going to create things no one's ever seen, that no one but me will understand. They don't understand. They don't appreciate. They can't.

They can. came the unspoken reply in his head. Together, we can show them what you can do, if you wish to.

Blinking, Forge looked over at the Professor, who merely nodded. Slowly, Forge nodded as well. Then welcome to your new home, Forge, Charles Xavier's mental 'voice' sounded inside the boy's head. "Welcome to my school," Xavier reiterated out loud. Leaning towards Forge, Xavier extended his hand.

His left hand.

Gingerly and cautiously, Forge reached out his left hand, the bare metal fingers of his prosthesis clutching Charles' own and shaking firmly once.

"A man's handshake is his word," Xavier said, mostly for Richard and Cheryl Anne's ears. "I give you my word, John Henry, that you need never again fear what you have endured while within these walls. I can show you the world," Xavier promised, "if you will allow me."

Forge just nodded silently, a lump growing in his throat. His eyes went from Xavier's wheelchair to his own prosthetic left hand and left leg, visible where his pant leg had been torn away. The dull finish of the steel-and-aluminum prosthesis contrasted with the nickel plated finish of Xavier's wheelchair, but Forge felt at that moment that he could identify with the Professor – not just as a fellow 'cripple', but as an outsider. Someone that people like his parents would never understand.

"Professor Xavier," he heard his father say, "I can't begin to tell you how honored we are, how honored John Henry is to be accepted here. I know he'll make everyone proud, he's..." the litany continued as Forge's gut turned at the oily, insincere-sounding words of praise coming from his father's lips. The next few minutes seemed to pass in fast-forward, with the words of farewell from his parents ringing hollow, and the emotionless embraces instantly forgotten as the sound of the rented Sentra faded off into the distance, a blue dot against the grey-clouded horizon.

"You prefer to be called simply 'Forge', if I am not mistaken?" Forge jumped as Xavier seemed to materialize at his elbow. The two of them looked out the window of the study as the blue car vanished around the corner. The boy simply nodded, flesh-and-blood hand rubbing over the exposed rods and connectors of his mechanical one. Xavier merely folded his own hands in his lap and continued.

"It is just as well, as we have more than a few Jonathans on the premises, as well as Doctor Henry McCoy, who is currently on sabbatical." At the mention of McCoy's name, Forge's attention was snared.

"Henry McCoy?" he asked, "the Nobel candidate?" Xavier nodded.

"Henry is one of my staff here, along with some other highly skilled specialists in many fields. Among them is Doctor Leonard Samson." As Forge's mind turned immediately to skeptic thoughts, Xavier's expression changed. "I know that you are wary of counselors, Forge. But I assure you, Leonard is no common therapist. He is on call for you, whenever you feel the need to talk."

"Just to talk?" Forge stammered, surprised. "I mean, I don't have to... you're not going to order me to?" Xavier shook his head, and a wave of relief washed over the teenager. "I... um... thanks." In the moment of awkward silence, Xavier leaned over, placing his hand over both of Forge's own, holding both living and artificial hands in his grasp.

"You are among friends here, Forge," Charles asserted. "I know that you are not accustomed to trust, but I promise that as long as you give it, it will be returned to you."

The lump in his throat growing, Forge just nodded, pulling his hand out of Charles' to wipe his eyes briefly. Charles waited a few moments, then smiled that kind grin again. "A student will be by to show you to your room. If you wish, I can have a staff member escort you around the premises when you are comfortable? I also believe that some of the students have fixed a small meal in the master kitchen, if you wish to partake."

As Forge turned to acknowledge the door opening behind him, he felt Charles' voice inside his head again.

This can be a home for you, Forge. Not merely a school. All you have to do is be willing to make it so.

Forge paused a moment, then looked over at Xavier in his chair. This was it, then. This was where he was going to be.

"I'll try, sir."