What are we?
We are so many things. We're the the whole universe, bottled up right here into a lifetime. We're imperfect and warm and soft like dirt. We're shimmering and bright and eternal like the moon.
What are we? What are we?
Humans.
Messy...
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The bedroom door is hot, vibrating like it's under a summer sun. I can sense the strength of the energy seeping through the wood. My fingers draw away, only able to withstand the heat for a couple minutes. The energy is foreign, something unearthly.
It feels like power. Raw and ancient and sizzling with chaos.
"What do you sense?" Hank asks while looking at the door with curiosity. We're standing outside of Jean's door.
I shake my head, "I don't know. It's an energy signature I've never sensed before. It's still Jean but...it almost feels like an entirely different energy field merged with hers."
"It's it a negative energy?"
I feel the energy still lingering over the pads of my fingers, "No. Not necessarily. It's not explicitly good either. It just feels like a neutral energy source, an old and extremely powerful energy source."
"It must be whatever energy source saved her earlier today."
"You said her powers just subconsciously released at the party?" I ask, secretly grateful Peter and I made it out of there. All that frenzy of emotion wouldn't have been exactly pleasant to sense.
"Something like that. It reminded me of...well, it reminded me of you. When you first came to the mansion and were having those nightmares."
I remember those nights. Waking up in the darkness drenched in sweat. Seeing the walls of my room burned and crumpling and glowing from uncontrollable outbursts of power. I kept reliving the explosion, my grandmother's death, leaving Peter...
I step closer to the door again. I really don't want to touch it again, but I force myself. The burning of the raw energy source comes back, but I keep my hand there. I try to search and read Jean's energy signature beneath it.
I finally spot it. She's scared. She's reliving some repressed memory. A traumatic one.
My hand flinches away, unable to endure the pain any longer. Hank steadies me with a hand to my shoulder, "You alright?"
"Jean is remembering something. Something traumatic. Does she have any history of amnesia or some sort of memory loss?"
Hank's face scrunches up, "Not that I know of. We'll have to ask Charles." I sense the fear and sadness before we hear one of the students bawl from the main lobby. "We should go help Peter and Storm with the students," Hank adds. We hurry down the corridor.
