Fracture || Xmen

6

The dining hall is a hive of activity, buzzing conversations and the rich scent of food fills the space, creating a backdrop to my current mission: navigating with a tray piled high with an edible mountain range. Two plates of pasta stand like peaks, surrounded by a forest of sweet rolls, a pair of burgers lay in wait beside a fortress of fries and mashed potatoes, and a solitary steak sits proudly, a parsley flag planted on top. The twin cans of coke stand by like loyal soldiers. As I wade through the sea of gawking diners, I'm aware of the curious glances tossed my way. I can't resist tossing them a look sharp enough to slice through their stares. Really? You're a walking coral reef, and you're thrown off by my appetite?

I'm weaving through the tables, my tray a balancing act of culinary ambition, mentally blacklisting any spot that's contaminated by company. Then, like a beacon of anti-social hope, I spot it: an empty table tucked in the room's far corner, shielded from the mutant mosh pit.

The path there is short but treacherous, inevitably having to stumble upon the central hub of Mutant High's very own freak parade. Storm catches my eye first, her gaze a soft blue sea as she gives me a gentle nod and smile. She then motions to an empty seat at the table, a silent question raised in her patient smile. Across that seat sit the living embodiment of a fur coat on steroids and his sidekick, Edward Scissorhands. They're already turned to me, bored and careful expressions on their faces as if they too are waiting for my reaction. Memories of our less-than-cordial chat by the laundry machines flash in my mind. Thankfully, they didn't follow after I left. The last thing I needed was their commentary on my laundry techniques or another accidental home renovation project.

I aim a glare at them that could give Scott and his eye beams a run for his money, silently declaring a 'no entry' zone around my personal space. Food is sacred, the untouchable pinnacle of the day, and I won't let Tweedledee and Tweedledum's side show sabotage that. They're the reason why I'm skirting the edges of involuntary mingling in the first place, holding me up near the laundry room before I could make my interaction-free escape for food.

As I maneuver to bypass the freak ensemble, my path intersects with a gaze unlike any other. A woman with a cascade of red hair that seems to hold its own fiery life looks straight at me— or more so, through me. Her eyes, piercing and unsettlingly focused, seem to scrutinize every move I make. It's as if she's trying to peel back the layers of my very soul. For a second, her expression morphs, flickering with a sadness that almost mirrors my own tangled mess of feelings, a reaction that's both baffling and disconcerting.

Her eyes hold a question as she turns to Scott—Mr. Ray-Ban model himself—in a silent exchange that screams 'is this the newbie?' to which he gives a subtle nod. Suddenly, it feels as though I've become the center of their universe. The entire table's attention anchors on me, their curiosity unwelcome and piercing. It's a full-on gawker's gala, their gazes sticking to me like gum on a shoe. Their curiosity spreads like a bad rash across the table and I feel like the main attraction at a circus – except there's no tent, no applause, just a bunch of nosy onlookers with superpowers. The irony is thick enough to cut with a knife—here in a school that preaches belonging, I've become the main exhibit in their personal hall of oddities. Honestly, if this place wasn't so heavy-handed with the whole 'you're one of us' spiel, I might find the gawking less hypocritical.

Their stares feel like needles, and I'm the unwilling pincushion at the center of their little sewing circle.  Suddenly, I'm the evening's feature presentation, a freak amongst freaks.

"Maybe try blinking; it's less creepy," I snap at them, sarcasm heavy as a lead blanket while casting a particularly withering look at the redhead who had practically x-rayed my soul with her stare. She seems almost apologetic for her intrusive gaze, the flicker of something akin to regret—or is it empathy?—crosses her features, but she recovers quickly, burying herself in the renewed buzz of conversation. The rest of them break away like I've got the plague. Good. Let's keep it that way.