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xp_logsAfter his 'discussion' with Danielle in the garage, Forge gets an unintentional taste of just what her uncontrolled power can do.
Forge walked down the hall to his locker, for once ignoring the stares and snickerings of the other students. Almost as if in a daze, he stopped and began twirling the combination. He wasn't so much looking at the numbers as knowing instinctively where to spin the dial - left, right, left, and open. Everything was in its place - chemistry textbook, binders, note pads - all organized and neat. Forge smiled to himself.
"Entropy," he repeated, "out of order, chaos."
Reaching into his backpack, he hefted the device he'd put together over the past week. Household chemicals, in the proper proportions, titrated carefully and allowed to precipitate. Low stability, sure, but high volatility. Extremely high. A compound of nitrogen triiodide and simple petrochemicals and alcohols. A timing device constructed brilliantly from the GPS system his father used for camping. Simple blank .22 caliber shells lifted from the track coach's office where he kept the starter pistol were wired in as igniters. The entire construction was brilliant. This afternoon, he would bring it in his backpack to the football rally. Everyone would be there. Everyone who'd looked down at him, laughed at him, disgraced him. The jocks, who took their glee in shoving around the smaller kid who wouldn't fight back. The popular ones, who laughed and snickered at his awkward social overtures. The outcasts, who saw him as someone undesirable even to their antisocial mores. The freaks, so intent on hating everyone else that they wouldn't even see a kindred spirit in front of them. Everyone would be there, and so would he.
It would go off in a spectacular display of noise and fire, and then afterwards, people would sift through the wreckage and know. They would look at the patterns left behind and say, only a genius could have done this. He would make them see.
Forge looked down at his hands, pale and thin. Rubbing them together for warmth, something felt... not right. He opened and closed his left hand, inspecting his fingernails. No, everything was normal - the tiny burn scars from soldering, the bitten-to-the-quick fingernails. Why would he think things would be different.
The buzzing started down the hall, to his right. Forge turned to look at it, cocking his head as the lights started to flicker. Power surge, he immediately knew. The school's power system was old, outdated. Any time the power station had a minor hiccup, the electric system in the Dallas high school would do its own spastic dance of brownouts and surges.
A click, and a subdued beep. Instantly, Forge's mind knew something was wrong. The world turned to molasses around him, even though his brain was processing faster than lightning. Electromagnetic interference would block the signal to the timing device. Blocked signal would be interpreted as a trigger command. Trigger command would pulse the capacitors, which would release their stored electric charge, which would pass along the wires to the small bits of steel wool which would heat up which would fire the igniters which would convey heat and pressure to his witches' brew of chemicals -
-which would explode.
Early.
The light from the explosion reached Forge's eyes before the blast did, leaving an afterimage of white against his retinas. It felt more like a strong wind than anything else, hot, then cold. Bitter cold as sound returned.
Blinking his eyes, he felt sensation returning to his body. He saw the lights above him cease flickering and return to normal. People moved past where he lay in the hall, oblivious. He raised his arm to call for help, and looked quizzically at the bloody, seared stump where his left hand used to be. Trying to stand, Forge only flopped around like a fish, nerves attempting to command a left leg that no longer existed. In his puddle of blood and ash, Forge tried to cry out, but his voice refused to come.
Then it started. The laughter. People stopped and pointed, circling him like the star attraction at the freak show.
Failure, they said.
Couldn't get it right.
Screwup. FAILURE.
And the laughter continued. Forge tried to ball his hands into fists, but found himself unable to move. His body was still in shock, but his mind was active to hear the cries of mockery, to feel the humiliation.
The voices became familiar now as he looked around. His parents, standing and shaking their heads. "We thought you would do better, son," his father said before turning his back. The disappointment stabbed through him more painfully than the bomb had.
"You are a failure, John Henry. I know it, you know it, and we all know it." Forge turned his head to see Charles Xavier looking down at him from his wheelchair. Forge reached out with his good hand for support, but Xavier only sneered and backed his chair away. "We do not help failures here."
Hooting laughter drew Forge's attention to where the others were laughing. Kyle, Clarice, Dr. McCoy, Jay, Marie-Ange - all pointing and nearly doubled over with laughter. "You couldn't even do THAT right!", they chortled, relishing in his pain and misery.
They were right. He was a failure. A freak. A cripple. The kid who couldn't even kill himself right.
"You failed, Forge." He heard the voice in his ear, tinny and distorted. The walls of the ventilation shaft seemed to be closing in on him. "You failed, and you got everyone killed. But that's habit for you, isn't it?" Nathan's voice was cold and clinical. "I don't know why we brought you along, it was only a matter of time before you'd panic and screw up again. And this time, it wasn't just you who paid the price."
They knew. They knew he was good for nothing. They knew he was a failure. And they laughed. He was less than them, and they would never let him forget.
Forge watched as, piece by piece, the metal bits and plastic joints of his hand assembled from his wrist, like one of those science class videos of a flower blooming. He smiled, knowing that he could make himself whole. He would be normal, they would all see. He could fix this, and they would celebrate his genius.
"Freak," they said instead, circling around him. "Half-man, not even worth the time to shit on. You don't belong. You're nothing. You are nothing."
Forge gasped, rising to his knees, hands clenched over his eyes, the cold metal digging into his skin. "I'm not... I'm not..."
Failure
Screwup.
Freak.
NOTHING.
Opening his eyes, Forge saw everyone around silent, staring at him through cold, emotionless eyes. Slowly, one by one, everyone he knew turned their backs on him and walked away.
Alone, with only the ashes of his failure surrounding him, John Henry Forge heard the bell in the distance, and wondered if he would be late for class.
***
Forge's eyes shot open as he sat upright in bed, cold sweat making his sheets stick to his body. The sudden movement sent a tingle through his bionic leg, the red lights of the diagnostic unit protesting the interruption of their maintenance cycle. Forge ignored them, looking over at his clock. 3:42am.
Nightmare. It had only been a nightmare.
He looked over to where Kyle was sleeping, snoring occasionally and twitching. It hadn't been real.
It had been more real than anything he was looking at right now. Shocks of terror still ran up and down his spine, and he hugged his arms together, holding himself and shivering.
John Henry Forge did not sleep again that night.
Forge walked down the hall to his locker, for once ignoring the stares and snickerings of the other students. Almost as if in a daze, he stopped and began twirling the combination. He wasn't so much looking at the numbers as knowing instinctively where to spin the dial - left, right, left, and open. Everything was in its place - chemistry textbook, binders, note pads - all organized and neat. Forge smiled to himself.
"Entropy," he repeated, "out of order, chaos."
Reaching into his backpack, he hefted the device he'd put together over the past week. Household chemicals, in the proper proportions, titrated carefully and allowed to precipitate. Low stability, sure, but high volatility. Extremely high. A compound of nitrogen triiodide and simple petrochemicals and alcohols. A timing device constructed brilliantly from the GPS system his father used for camping. Simple blank .22 caliber shells lifted from the track coach's office where he kept the starter pistol were wired in as igniters. The entire construction was brilliant. This afternoon, he would bring it in his backpack to the football rally. Everyone would be there. Everyone who'd looked down at him, laughed at him, disgraced him. The jocks, who took their glee in shoving around the smaller kid who wouldn't fight back. The popular ones, who laughed and snickered at his awkward social overtures. The outcasts, who saw him as someone undesirable even to their antisocial mores. The freaks, so intent on hating everyone else that they wouldn't even see a kindred spirit in front of them. Everyone would be there, and so would he.
It would go off in a spectacular display of noise and fire, and then afterwards, people would sift through the wreckage and know. They would look at the patterns left behind and say, only a genius could have done this. He would make them see.
Forge looked down at his hands, pale and thin. Rubbing them together for warmth, something felt... not right. He opened and closed his left hand, inspecting his fingernails. No, everything was normal - the tiny burn scars from soldering, the bitten-to-the-quick fingernails. Why would he think things would be different.
The buzzing started down the hall, to his right. Forge turned to look at it, cocking his head as the lights started to flicker. Power surge, he immediately knew. The school's power system was old, outdated. Any time the power station had a minor hiccup, the electric system in the Dallas high school would do its own spastic dance of brownouts and surges.
A click, and a subdued beep. Instantly, Forge's mind knew something was wrong. The world turned to molasses around him, even though his brain was processing faster than lightning. Electromagnetic interference would block the signal to the timing device. Blocked signal would be interpreted as a trigger command. Trigger command would pulse the capacitors, which would release their stored electric charge, which would pass along the wires to the small bits of steel wool which would heat up which would fire the igniters which would convey heat and pressure to his witches' brew of chemicals -
-which would explode.
Early.
The light from the explosion reached Forge's eyes before the blast did, leaving an afterimage of white against his retinas. It felt more like a strong wind than anything else, hot, then cold. Bitter cold as sound returned.
Blinking his eyes, he felt sensation returning to his body. He saw the lights above him cease flickering and return to normal. People moved past where he lay in the hall, oblivious. He raised his arm to call for help, and looked quizzically at the bloody, seared stump where his left hand used to be. Trying to stand, Forge only flopped around like a fish, nerves attempting to command a left leg that no longer existed. In his puddle of blood and ash, Forge tried to cry out, but his voice refused to come.
Then it started. The laughter. People stopped and pointed, circling him like the star attraction at the freak show.
Failure, they said.
Couldn't get it right.
Screwup. FAILURE.
And the laughter continued. Forge tried to ball his hands into fists, but found himself unable to move. His body was still in shock, but his mind was active to hear the cries of mockery, to feel the humiliation.
The voices became familiar now as he looked around. His parents, standing and shaking their heads. "We thought you would do better, son," his father said before turning his back. The disappointment stabbed through him more painfully than the bomb had.
"You are a failure, John Henry. I know it, you know it, and we all know it." Forge turned his head to see Charles Xavier looking down at him from his wheelchair. Forge reached out with his good hand for support, but Xavier only sneered and backed his chair away. "We do not help failures here."
Hooting laughter drew Forge's attention to where the others were laughing. Kyle, Clarice, Dr. McCoy, Jay, Marie-Ange - all pointing and nearly doubled over with laughter. "You couldn't even do THAT right!", they chortled, relishing in his pain and misery.
They were right. He was a failure. A freak. A cripple. The kid who couldn't even kill himself right.
"You failed, Forge." He heard the voice in his ear, tinny and distorted. The walls of the ventilation shaft seemed to be closing in on him. "You failed, and you got everyone killed. But that's habit for you, isn't it?" Nathan's voice was cold and clinical. "I don't know why we brought you along, it was only a matter of time before you'd panic and screw up again. And this time, it wasn't just you who paid the price."
They knew. They knew he was good for nothing. They knew he was a failure. And they laughed. He was less than them, and they would never let him forget.
Forge watched as, piece by piece, the metal bits and plastic joints of his hand assembled from his wrist, like one of those science class videos of a flower blooming. He smiled, knowing that he could make himself whole. He would be normal, they would all see. He could fix this, and they would celebrate his genius.
"Freak," they said instead, circling around him. "Half-man, not even worth the time to shit on. You don't belong. You're nothing. You are nothing."
Forge gasped, rising to his knees, hands clenched over his eyes, the cold metal digging into his skin. "I'm not... I'm not..."
Failure
Screwup.
Freak.
NOTHING.
Opening his eyes, Forge saw everyone around silent, staring at him through cold, emotionless eyes. Slowly, one by one, everyone he knew turned their backs on him and walked away.
Alone, with only the ashes of his failure surrounding him, John Henry Forge heard the bell in the distance, and wondered if he would be late for class.
***
Forge's eyes shot open as he sat upright in bed, cold sweat making his sheets stick to his body. The sudden movement sent a tingle through his bionic leg, the red lights of the diagnostic unit protesting the interruption of their maintenance cycle. Forge ignored them, looking over at his clock. 3:42am.
Nightmare. It had only been a nightmare.
He looked over to where Kyle was sleeping, snoring occasionally and twitching. It hadn't been real.
It had been more real than anything he was looking at right now. Shocks of terror still ran up and down his spine, and he hugged his arms together, holding himself and shivering.
John Henry Forge did not sleep again that night.
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