No Waiting Room

[Jim Lewinski]

The press conference ended approximately forty minutes ago. More accurately, it had been forty-one minutes and thirteen seconds since Tom Harriman had terminated his dialogue with the press outside Treadstone Tower, and that was precisely when Jim Lewinski barrelled through its front door to the sound of screeching rubber. The howling objection rang briefly in the bright corners of a large open lobby. Jim wore the expression of the proverbial rabbit in headlights, zipping his gaze from left to right, the lobby was a smart and immaculate space full of glistening white walls and polished marble floors, more surprisingly, it was empty save for a blonde woman and a redhead who had been talking behind the welcome desk.

"Oh," he said, faintly, "Looks like I'm the first. Heh!"

Surprise was replaced with an expression of gleeful self-satisfaction and he suddenly took off again, this time at a rather jovial march towards the desk. Jim made something of a peculiar sight, in his trademark beanie and sneakers, in that they were somewhat at odds with the snappy business suit he was wearing. Granted, it was all a bit ruffled from the trip, the shirt had almost completely untucked itself and the tie was doing its best to try and strangle the life out of its owner, swept over his shoulder like an anorexic scarf. The squeak-squeak-squeaking that punctuated each footstep stopped, he slipped his arms out of a hefty-looking rucksack, which was then desposited on the marble floor with a resounding thud. The cute redhead behind the desk found herself on the recieving end of a brilliant beaming grin.

"Hi there! My name is Jim Joe Lewinski, I'm a mutant and would like to submit myself for testing in the name of scientific progress!"

[Emma Temple]

The cute redhead behind the desk was not impressed. Though it was unclear to anyone who hadn't stayed still long enough to have her ear-bending story inflicted upon them, she was swearing off men because of some asshole called Tony who had given her worms. Why anyone would talk so openly about that was beyond almost everyone who had fallen into that trap so far today; but the cute redhead was apparently the sort of person who would say anything, provided there was someone to say it at.

She looked at Jim Joe Lewinski with a look that quite plainly said Keep smiling at me and I'll tear off your balls and eat them in a salad, before reaching for the phone and punching in the extension number that was scrawled on a post-it note in front of her in red pen, along with the note that read:

in case of mutants - 4414

The 'O' was shaped like a heart. The cute redhead made a mental note to stab whoever had written it - probably that infuriatingly peppy lab girl - with a biro.

"Hello?" she said, her voice tumbling out in a dull, disinterested monotone. "This is reception. One of your mutants has arrived."

[Jim Lewinski]

"Hey!"

Somehow, even the echo of Jim's voice failed to lose any of the fiery outrage he poured into it. Behind the thick-rimmed glasses his bright features were locked in a cold scowl. The anger, however, was only secondary to the crushing disappointment which struck him like a body blow. If Tom Harriman's speech had been the spark to kindle his hopes into a blaze, the voice of this sour-faced trout was a bucket of ice water, dousing his spirits with an angry hiss. Turning the inspiring image of Treadstone Tower into another sterile alien operating slab.

"Wh-wh- what d'you mean one-of-your-mutants, huh? H-hey, now you don't look at me like that! You asked for me!" Jim cried desperately, then steeled himself with a diplomatic resolution, "I wanna speak to Tom Harriman. Someone-get-me-Doctor-Harriman!"

[Emma Temple]

Emma sensed the outburst even before the lift had finished descending it's way to the lobby. Normally she couldn't hear the thoughts of people from this far away, but the more agitated and outraged their thoughts became, the 'louder' they were, and the further they carried.

She heard everything; and that made her sigh.

Heels clicked upon the lobby floor as she strode as swiftly as her little legs and precarious balance would allow her to. An arm gracefully swept around Jim's, steering him away from the receptionist in one fluid gesture. "Don't mind her," she offered in a loud, conspiratorial whisper. "She's just grumpy because she has worms."

She flashed Jim her most infectiously warm smile, everything the antithesis of the desk-dwelling Grouch now behind them. "Hello, I'm Emma," she added pleasantly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Jim."

[Jim Lewinski]

"W-worms!?" Jim greeted the new redhead with a start.

It was like being abducted by cup of sweet tea; the warm smile, the comforting tone, and those honey-coated words all added up to that soothing feeling inside. He whimpered through a giddy grin, debilitated by his cataclysmic inexperience with girls and the sudden inexplicable contact with a really pretty one. Galloping ahead, his brain groped for something, anything, familiar to which he could cling.

"One dose of Mebendazol," Jim blurted suddenly, twisting to catch the grouch's eye, "Sounds-filthy-but-it's-not- should clear it up- maybe two doses-

"Wait-how-did-you-know-my-name?" he fired back at Emma, before rubbernecking back to his patient, "Change your bedsheets regularly- uh, wash your pyjamas..."

Throughout his impromptu consultation, Jim had been led across the lobby and into the elevator, there was a ping and his eyes bulged with inspiration as the doors began to close.

"AND WEAR CLOSE-FITTING PANTIES!"

He sighed with relief, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders, which was ironic because all the way to the elevator he'd been dragging his rucksack behind him like a dead dog. He shrugged it onto a shoulder and snapped an inquisitive look Emma's way.

"So, a psychic, right?"

[Emma Temple]

It was hard not to smile around Jim. Admittedly, it was hard for Emma not to smile under any circumstances; but with Jim it was especially so. Most people's thoughts were slow, easy to read, and in a building such as this most of them were laced with boredom, stress, and frustration.

Jim on the other hand? His thoughts bounced around like a hyperactive puppy, yapping away and pouncing on any idea that might be willing to stoop down and give him a mental belly-rub.

A delicate finger reached for the lift controls; where there should have been a number, one button bore the sigils TH-1 instead. Emma had been in the lift with him the day that Tom Harriman had first noticed it. And while outwardly he managed to maintain a relative amount of maturity about the whole thing, in his brain he was giggling like a school boy about how the fact that he not only had his own floor; it was potentially only the first of many.

"Psychic," Emma replied, casually watching the floors tick by on the screens.

"Though I prefer the term 'telepath'," she continued. A quick glance and a smile was thrown in Jim's direction. "Makes me sound less like a fairground scam artist."

[Jim Lewinski]

"Mmhm, I sympathise with your plight," Jim nodded sagely, "Personally, I prefer the term indefatigueable superspeedster or hot-roddicus supersonicus, but most people settle for freak, or weirdo, or- hey, do you mind if I change my shoes?"

The rucksack dropped with a clunk and was zipped open to reveal a host of files, a pair of black leather shoes, and a packet of wet wipes. Jim kicked off his brand new lightning and flame-coloured Kayano's, and swapped them for the smart dress shoes, into which his feet were practically forced. Next, off came the beanie, unleashing a chaotic head of hair and ears that sprung stubbornly back into their decidedly un-aerodynamic positions.

"Figure it's important to make a good first impression," he said, as he started to apply wet wipes to his dust-caked face, "I didn't mean to think about the time I got that bug stuck in my teeth but since it's out in the open- gotta admit, I was surprised to find the place wasn't packed when I arrived- got here as fast as I could- lunarlon cushioning, what a jip!"

A sudden, horrifying thought siezed Jim's attention, and bulging eyes stared at Emma over a soiled wet-wipe, suspended as though on the cusp of performing the Dance of the Seven Veils- he dispensed of the offending wet-wipe immediately.

"They're not here already, are they? The others," he jabbed a finger at the illuminated elevator button, "They're already assembled in Doctor Harriman's... batcave, aren't they?"

[Emma Temple]

He was nothing short of adorable. There was something about the frantic look in his eyes and the way that he twitched and flitted from thought to thought that awoke a powerful urge in her to take him home and keep him as a pet. Idly, she wondered if the conditions of the lease on her apartment would let her have a pet Lewinski, and if it had any special dietary requirements.

"You're actually the first," she said, fighting down the urge to smile as she imagined how he might react to that. "I think you got here a little faster than anyone else was able to."

She fought another urge, this time the urge to fix his hair. While she didn't actively listen to people's thoughts very often - it was more a case of overhearing most of the time - she couldn't help paying more attention to what was zipping around in Jim's mind than she would have with anyone else. It was actually interesting, watching how one thought raced through a series of abstract connections to reach another. The associations and the leaps reminded her a little of the way Tom's mind worked when he was busy with his research; or rather, Tom's mind stuck in fast forward, given the speed of it all.

A question formed, and prompted a slight frown. "Why does making a good impression matter so much?"

[Jim Lewinski]

"Be-" he hesitated and gave Emma a curious glance, wondering if it had been a trick question, when it was safe to procede, he said, "Because I wanna be taken seriously!"

The revelation that he'd taken the gold medal in the race to Treadstone Tower had elicited from him a small yip of excitement, but the thrill of his innitial success was starting to drown in a rising tide of anxiety. A single look at Emma helped steady his nerves, and inwardly he wondered if that was tied to her mutation or the fact that she radiated warmth like bottled sunshine. Whatever it was, she had it, and with a slump of the shoulders he surrendered to her gentle probing curiosity and her adorably wrinkled nose.

"Look, science is something I really believe in- to do some good, you know, and- and what I got can- it could change the world one day- it matters to me- and I know what I'm like- people see the fast-talkin' and the twitchin' first and that's fine, I get that- but this time-"

Absently, he was shifting his weight from foot to foot, while the words tumbled out of him. It was nice to have someone's ear like that, but Emma was a perfect stranger, and a Treadstone employee at that, and he was sounding off like a nutjob on a couch. And, in the end, the talking only seemed to remind him of just how important this was and that maybe rushing into it wasn't a great idea and- he tugged at his collar.

"Is it gettin' hot in here?"

[Emma Temple]

It was like watching one of those cat videos. Or maybe the sneezing panda. Or the giggling penguin. One of those strange, viral videos that people recorded on their phones and uploaded to YouTube. It was totally inexplicable, and consciously you knew that it was stupid to have any sort of reaction at all; but no matter how hard you tried, the sight playing before your eyes was just so damned adorable.

Emma fought down the reflexive "Aww!" that threatened to leap out of her mouth, for fear it would whack the hyperactive puppy across the nose like a newspaper.

Instead, she offered a flicker of a smile, trying to turn her voice as serious as she could make it sound. "Well Jim," she pointed out, "I've seen inside your brain. I know what a smart kid you are, and I know that you deserve to be taken seriously."

"And you know what?" She smiled again; she couldn't help it. "I know Doctor Harriman is going to see it too."

[Jim Lewinski]

"That's kind of you. Really?" he added, beaming, bashfulness buried under a landslide of renewed confidence, "I am smart. Thank you, Emma!"

Maybe he was coming off as a bit schitzophrenic, unsurprising for a turbo-cognitive, but his visit marked the first time in a long time when Jim actually had something to worry about. Sure, he'd played the role of moving target for the local gangbangers on more than one occassion but that didn't tax his capacity to think as much as it did his capacity to stay alive. Apples and oranges, he concluded. This was where he wanted to be: a place of science and progress, of research and discovery, a place that embraces mutants and employs attractive young-

"So, Emma, what brought you to Treadstone- was-it-Doctor-Handsome-man?"

[Emma Temple]

Jim's choice of nickname for Tom caught her a little by surprise. To her later embarassment, she actively searched through the scramble of thought noise to make sure that it was an innocent enough description, rather than the first glimpses of a fledgeling crush.

Not that she was particularly in a position to judge, of course.

"I started working here before Doctor Harriman, actually," she explained. "I graduated from MIT a few months ago, and applied to Treadstone's new graduate program on a whim. I never expected them to be offered a job at all, let alone -"

The elevator chose that incredibly convenient moment to stop, the doors parting to reveal a corridor that looked like a moving van had exploded in it. Equipment was still arriving after Tom's gadgets and gizmos shopping spree. While Emma doubted - in fact, she knew from his thoughts - that the Doctor was aware of just how much paperwork he was in for over the coming weeks, the fact that his new toys filled him with a sense of such childish excitement was almost - almost - enough to make her volunteer to do it all for him.

She waved Jim into the corridor with a smile as she finished speaking. "- something so important."

[Jim Lewinski]

Emma's choice of words provided Jim with some reassurance that he wasn't the only one nerding out over the potential of Harriman's mission, it was refreshing to be in the company of a kindred spirit. A last futile effort to flatten his hair into subsmission, Jim pressed on with the ghost of a smile upon his lips. Boxes upon boxes hugged the walls, rising up on either side of them, each of varying shape and size. A pained whimper escaped him when he spotted a familiar, and much-loved, brand plastered on the side of one the larger boxes. It was like waking up in someone else's home on Christmas Day. Plunging his hands firmly, and unprofessionally, into his pockets, Jim soldiered on stealing amorous glances into half-emptied boxes.

"So, you went to MIT?" Jim asked, impressed, with a smattering of envy, "What was your major? No-let-me-guess!"

Turning his lively gaze onto Emma, his eyes narrowed in scrutiny, as if to divine her educational history from her appearance alone:

"Gotta be a numbers whizz- Algebraic Combinatorics! Integral Equations! Uh- Multivariable Calculus! N-no? Randomised Algorithmns- Quantum Computation- Geometry and Quantum Field Theory?"

[Emma Temple]

Emma's eyebrows climbed, fixing him with a falsely stern look. She knew exactly what he was thinking of course, but that was no reason not to have a little fun at his expense.

"Oh, so cute girls can only be mathematicians, and not proper scientists, is that it?"

She forced out a noise of mild annoyance that sounded like someone in clown shoes stepping on a badger, turning away and refusing to look at him at all as she continued down the corridor. "I studied Quantum and Cosmological Physics, thank-you-very-much," she shot back over her shoulder.

[Jim Lewinski]

Thunderstruck, Jim faltered in his steps, and cycled rapidly through a chain of rubbery expressions. It was difficult for him to hit the cognitive breaks and stick his brain in reverse, he came to a full stop. Eyes ping-ponged left and right as he recalled his words and considered where it all went wrong and how his mistake could be amended. In the end, his face contorted with objection.

"Hey!" he called, "There ain't nothin' wrong with math!"

There was a rumble of air and the swift clickety-clack of fancy shoes. Jim reappeared a couple of steps ahead of Emma, and came about face, jogging backwards so he could spear the redhead with penetrating scrutiny. Oh, that face.

"B-b-besides," he said, mustering some unfathomable courage, "I don't remember saying anything about sexy- cute girls!"

[Emma Temple]

Emma kept her face deadpan; she even folded her arms, to really drive home her faux disapproval.

"Psychic, remember?" she pointed out. Her voice took on a note of sinister threat. "I know what you're thinking, Mr Lewinski."

Maybe it was cruel; maybe it was an abuse of her gifts. She almost felt guilty - almost - but Jim was so damned adorable when he was flustered. Besides, he seemed like the kind of boy who could give as good as he got; as soon as his smarts worked out that she was toying with him, she was sure he'd bounce back just fine.

Bounce back.

Emma didn't flinch, didn't blink, didn't change her expression at all. She just merely continued walking calmly forward, before casually uttering the words: "Mind out for the wall."

[Jim Lewinski]

"Oof!"

Jim stumbled forward under the weight of his rucksack, loosing it to the ground with a clatter lest he be taken with it. There was no dignity to be found in the spectacle of him as he staggered away, nursing a kidney. He sucked air noisily through his teeth with every throb of pain. Granted, Jim wasn't exactly renowned for having an exceptionally high pain threshold, but he figured that, by anyone's standards, the resultant impact between an immovable object and a very stoppable force was enough to bruise any man's... pride.

"Still didn't say 'cute'," he wheezed, cradling his crumpled innards.

Emma looked professionally preoccupied during his moment of shame, swiping a keycard to open the next door, a bit too preoccupied for his liking, given her predisposition towards personable sweetness. Jim paused, the corner of his mouth curled in a knowing grin. It's difficult to believe, he thought, that the immature ramblings of a dorky teenager could be taken so personally by a grown woman of... what... twenty-seven... twenty-eight?

[Emma Temple]

"Twenty-two."

There was no faking her annoyance that time; the bite in her words was completely genuine.

She didn't even look at him; didn't even wait for some stammered attempt at an appology. She simply grabbed a handful of shirt and backpack strap, and manhandled him forcibly through the door into the lab beyond. He looked like he was planning to say something. She didn't give him the chance.

A press of a button, and the doorway slid closed between them, sealing Jim in a soundproof - but unfortunately not thought-proof - prison that he wouldn't be able to escape without either swiping a security pass, or starting some sort of fire to trigger the door's safety escape feature.

Emma didn't feel a shred of guilt.

"Twenty-eight?" she said to herself with a mix of sadness and anger, heels clicking furiously as she marched back to her desk. The drawer was already open before she'd even finished sitting. A hand delved in, retrieving her emergency chocolate supply. "Twenty-eight," she muttered again, biting off a mouthful as if it was the stupid, annoying, puppy-boy's head.

[Tom Harriman]

"Good god, man."

Tom's attention had been drawn by the scuffle at the door, and now he stood behind Jim Lewinski, staring in disbelief.

"What the hell did you do?"

[Jim Lewinski]

"I... I... I..."

Jim was frozen to the spot, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, he gaped at the door for fear it would open again. Ever open again. A hand fumbled absently at the creases in his shirt where fingers of iron had clamped. Underneath, his heart purred like a cat. Subconciously, he wondered if shock was supposed to feel like a dizzy choking cold creeping up the back of his neck.

"It was all goin' so well," he whimpered, still transfixed by the door, "I-I-I- I didn't even get to ask about her thesis!"

[Tom Harriman]

Stepping cautiously over, Tom let a hand gently rest on the boy's shoulder.

"Soliton waves," he said, his voice as calm and reassuring as he could make it. "She did her thesis on self-propogating soliton waves, and their potential application as a method for interstellar propulsion."

He took a moment to size up the boy as best he could; with his back towards him, all Tom could really make out was an Einsteinian shock of tufted hair, a wiery frame that wouldn't stop twitching, and an expression reflected in the glass that made it look like someone had just shot his dog.

He frowned, fighting the urge to become frustrated at the complete lack of explanation that presented itself. Instead, he did his best teacher impression - which was pretty damned accurate, come to think of it - and asked the obvious question.

"Would you mind explaining who you are, and why my lab assistant just threw you at me?"

[Jim Lewinski]

The sudden snap of authority sent Jim rigid, shaking him out of his stupified daze. He wheeled around and greeted the stranger with a yelp, it was Tom Harriman himself. When his stalling brain kicked into gear, the goofy hole in his face stretched itself into a broad grin, and they were suddenly shaking hands.

"Hi there! My name is Jim Joe Lewinski, I'm a mutant and would like to submit myself for testing in the name of scientific progress!"

[Tom Harriman]

Tom's eyes narrowed in skepticism, peering through the thick-rimmed glasses into the eyes of the boy underneath. He wasn't a pathalogically suspicious person by nature, but this Jim Joe whatever guy was of a familiar age: the kind of kid that he'd have had no end of trouble with in class for his 'hilarious' antics. The goofy grin didn't help to shake that mental image from Tom's mind, either.

"The press conference was -" He glanced at his watch. "- about an hour ago."

Granted, he had no idea how things like this worked - no idea of how much time would pass between speaking in front of the press and having his message reach the adults and children out there in the world with mutations. He and Emma hadn't been expecting volunteers for days; certainly not on the same day. Hell, had there even been a news broadcast on yet today?

"Start talking," Tom challenged, folding his arms across his chest. "Fast."

[Jim Lewinski]

"F-fast?" Jim repeated, anxiously.

Things weren't going at all as he had planned; there were supposed to be handshakes and smiles all around, long talks over coffee and Mountain Dew, exchanges of bright ideas and quantum theory-related jokes (there was a top ten list in his pocket), but instead he found himself staring into Doctor Harriman's no-nonsense face, waiting for a punchline. He opened his mouth, ready to fire an objection Tom's way, but the very idea of it was intercepted by his firm teacherly gaze, and snatched off his tongue. Resistance, it seemed, was futile. Jim shrugged, sucked in a long, rasping gulp of air, and...

"Thing is, Doctor Harriman, I woulda got here sooner but I had to wait for my guardian to get home- second-trimester-you-know-how-it-is- signed my permission slip- here- and there's this letter- Doctor-Julie-Moon-Professor-of-Molecular-Biology-UCLA- confirms my mutancy, see? Oh, and my passport, just in case."

One by one, the permission slip, the letter, and passport went airborne, unearthed from the depths of the now open rucksack, then snatched out of the air and planted firmly in Doctor Harriman's hand in a neat pile. Next, Jim presented his sneakers for inspection, beaming from ear to ear.

"Pret-ty niiiice, am I right? Yeah so, in transit got myself these brand-spankin' new Kayano's- lightnin' and flame, case you were wonderin'- damn Lunar Eclipse burned out on me- second pair, too- can you believe that? So I switched out for these babies- best-thing-I-ever-did- you can smell the freshness, right?"

Since Tom seemed reluctant to partake in a spot of impromptu sneaker-sniffing, Jim pressed on, happy to be hitting his stride again after such a shakey start.

"Which brings me here- well, not here here- first I helped your receptionist with her worms problem- then I got changed inside the lift with Emma- like I said, it was goin' great- she was sweet- I was funny- called her a mathematician- bruised my kidney- then she told me she was twenty-two and threw me in here like a ragdoll- strong hands- raptorial- like a mantis- self-propogating soliton waves- interesting!- do you have a copy?"

[Tom Harriman]

Tom's hand rose, fingertips pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'm going to need coffee," he muttered to himself. "A lot of coffee."

It took all his energy to muster up the mental comprehension to decode the information surge that had tumbled from the kid. He seemed younger than Katrina, though he probably wasn't as much younger as he looked; he had one of those childish faces that always lured you into mistaken estimates.

His mind started filtering out superfluous data. The boy was a mutant, that was a good start. The near-immediacy of his arrival - not to mention the implication that he'd managed to go shopping along the way - suggested a mutant ability that allowed him to cross large distances in a short time; and given the high-speed, high-intensity burst of thinking and fidgetting that Harriman had just been treated to, there was no doubt in his mind that he was in the presence of a speedster; apparently one that could think as fast as he ran.

The rest seemed fairly unimportant, save for a few clues that the kid had pinned a little affection on Emma. He couldn't blame him for that - she was an incredibly cute and good natured young woman - but it seemed that Jim had discovered the hard way just how dangerous it was to be around a woman who knew what you were thinking.

Most women asked a guy what he was thinking; Tom only hoped that if he ever found himself in a relationship with a woman like that, Emma would be able to talk to them first and point out that you really don't want to know.

Drawing in a breath, and lowering his hand, Tom mustered a smile for his first volunteer.

"Much as I would like to, I'm afraid that I can't process information as fast as you apparently can. Even so, we scientists need to take a careful, measured, and unrushed approach; perhaps you could slow things down a little, and tell me a bit about your abilities? What is it that you can do, and when did you first discover what you were capable of?"

[Jim Lewinski]

Slow things down. Jim grinned at the irony of that. It was easier said than done, but for a fellow man of science, he was more than willing to make an effort. Deep breaths, that's what Anna told him, deep breaths to relax the mind. The flow of thoughts was as a raging river, loud and relentless, but the trick lied in the ability to cherry-pick words without allowing others to slip through the cracks.

"My mutation allows me to move and think at exceptional speeds without ever tiring. Since the summer of 2004, I have been clinically indefatigueable. It has been five years, eleven days, six hours, aaand-" he paused to glance at his lime green Casio, "Twelve minutes since I last slept, or indeed required sleep."

There was an unmistakeable note of pride in his voice, recalling that fateful day with distant nostalgia, like it had been decades ago. Behind Tom he caught a glimpse of his work space, his head twitched violently to trap a string of excitable exclamations in his throat. He swallowed hard and locked his wild gaze on the doctor.

"Of course, my parents thought I was just hyperactive or something. There was CAT scans, therapists- you name it, I got it. It wasn't until they found me in West Trenton after the hundred meter sprint that they got the picture. The last time I read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, it took me three and a half minutes. And a few weeks ago, I was the fastest thing at the Summer Nationals drag races in the town of Worcester, Massachusetts. They called me Hot-Roddicus Supersonicus, you know, like the Road Runner? Meep-meep!"

[Tom Harriman]

Tom was not impressed; and yet he was, at the same time. The concept of someone who not only moved at superhuman speeds but also thought at them was fascinating; it had always bugged him from a scientific perspective that speedsters in movies and comic books were so frequently shown as being a little slow-witted or lacking in intelligence. Surely, if their brains were fast enough to process visual data at those sorts of speeds, there would be all manner of fringe benefits that writers simply didn't aknowledge.

But for all his speed, all his potential, and all his endless hours of opportunity, this kid was standing in front of him bragging about reading books super-fast, and chasing cars. Idly, Tom thought of all the things he could possibly do with those kind of abilities.

Hell, he mused. I'd be happy just not needing sleep anymore.

"Winning a drag-race on foot is impressive, I guess -"

He was careful to make sure that his tone sounded suitably disinterested.

"- but for all your bluster and enthusiasm about science, all I'm hearing about as a lot of childish showing off. So come on." He dropped a note of challenge into his voice. "Tell me something that'll impress me, kid. What can you really do?"

[Jim Lewinski]

"This?"

Jim was rubbing his belly and patting his head. Then just as suddenly he swept up the papers and passport from Tom's hand and used them to give the doctor a reprimanding finger-wagging. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"There weren't nothin' about needin' to justify my existence to you in your little speech earlier. That was naughty! But, fortunately for you, I'm brilliant!"

He was at a cluttered workbench, and cleared for himself a generous space, propriety and decorum dashed to the wall. And from his bag of tricks, Jim retrieved a trio of thick folders which he planted heavily on the desk. The first was thrown open with a slap of polythene.

"This is my research for a clean renewable energy, based on me of course, a self-perpetuating source of bioelectromagnetic energy. Limited resources dictated the progress of my findings, so it's all very much theoretical, but as you can see-"

There was a blur of limbs and in an instant, large sheets of paper were unfolded across the desk, riddled with diagrams, equations, tables, and experiment plans.

"I've given it some thought."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom's eyebrow arched. He'd been expecting some sort of this one time I ran so fast that I ran on water, or some other suitably impressive anacdote; not a hand-scrawled proposal for some hamster wheel style source of infinite power.

But then, he supposed this was the answer to his question. He'd asked what the boy could really do; and this was it. The kind of scientific understanding required even to comprehend the equations he'd used was extremely impressive for someone his age. It smacked of someone who had far too much time on their hands... but when you were physically incapable of sleep, and you did everything at ridiculously high speeds, that was almost certainly the case.

"You learned all this on your own?" he asked as he smoothed out the kid's drawings, making sure to insert a little praise into his tone.

[Jim Lewinski]

"Time plus boredom plus navitas ad infinitum equals studies in supersymmetry, string theory, and quantum optomechanics," he said, leafing through another folder, "This is my model to put an object visible to the naked eye into a quantum superposition between two separated locations, so it's both here and there, see?"

Once again, the feathery feeling of uncertainty started to churn in his stomach. He hadn't come to Treadstone Tower to bombard Tom Harriman with his half-baked ideas and intellectual eccentricities, and yet for some reason, he'd seen fit to pack his rucksack full of them. There was the familiar pounding of a mental marathon taking place in his head, he took a deep breath, and closed the folder in his hands.

"I'm afraid I don't know much else about my own mutation, Doctor Harriman. Ain't had the right controlled sorta conditions for it, you know? Never really tested my limits, either. You see, it costs a fortune in footwear!"

[Tom Harriman]

"Now that is what I like to hear," Tom enthused, his smile broadening.

His mind was swimming. He could already see that the scrawlings would take him days to decipher, but there was a lot of potential here: both in the theory, and in the boy. He wrestled with a pang of jelousy. While his years of experience perhaps made him wiser, Jim's data absorption gave him the potential to be much, much factually smarter.

"Not the footwear thing," he quickly added. "The bit about the limits."

A hand delved into the pocket of his labcoat, and his eyes swept the surroundings, searching for something to scrawl upon. It took a few moments to remember the high-tech touchpad tucked away in another pocket - something Emma had sourced for him, so he wouldn't insist on scrawling everything out in pencil on paper. Frankly, he hated it: hated the artificial feel of stylus on screen, and longed for that reassuring scratch of graphite that cemented thoughts into his brain as he wrote. Unfortunately, Emma had flat-out refused to order him anymore notepads. She could be infuriatingly stubborn when she needed to be; as if she knew that if she stuck to her guns, he'd eventually cave.

Maybe she did know. Damned psychics.

Opening a new file, he perched himself on the corner of a workbench, frowning thoughtfully at the blank screen. "If we're going to test your limits," he thought out loud, "We're going to have to work out the best set of experimental conditions to use. Tell me a little more about your superspeed abilities. How good are you at cornering? Can you move as quickly forwards as backwards? Can you move just parts of your body at superspeed - one arm, for example - or does your whole body have to be at high velocity at the same time?"

[Jim Lewinski]

"It ain't no different for me than it is for you runnin' at normal speed," Jim said, with a shrug, "Least that's how I see it. It's not like I have some kinda extended deceleration phase to manage a sharp corner. You could say my body adapts to the momentum- I mean, I don't need to tell you what would happen if it didn't. Hey, check it out."

In an instant, his foot was tapping the floor with such speed that it sounded like the deep rolling hum of an aircraft propellor. Next his fingers started to drum the workbench like a family of hyperactive woodpeckers, the beat was fast but not nearly as ferocious a rythmn as his tapping foot. Over the drone of his percussion solo, Jim elaborated:

"It's not like there's an on-off switch. On my feet, I can be as graceful as a ballet dancer or as clumsy as an oaf. Hence the bruised kidneys. So, yeah, I can run backwards fast, but like everyone else, I prefer to see where I'm going. Oh, and if you're thinking of throwing up a little experimental obstacle course for me, it might interest you to know I picked up a few neat parkour tricks during a pit stop in the city of Richmond, Indiana."

A hint of mischief in his smile, the drumming stopped. It pained Jim to remain still at any given time, let alone when he was pouring just about every ounce of his strength into speaking normally, but he wasn't so ignorant as to continue making that sort of racket in someone else's workplace. In the beat of silence, he looked to Tom, expectantly.

"Tell me about your thing, Doc."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom offered the boy a small smile. Not a that's nice smile, meant to placate someone who had told you something that wasn't particularly interesting. That sort of smile would have been highly inappropriate: Tom had listened intently to every word that the boy had said, and his mind was already working away, trying to fathom the kinds of trials and obstacles that could help Jim test whatever limits he had managed to discover thus far.

Instead, it was a small smile that wasn't quite embarassment; more disappointment. It was the small smile of someone who knew that, despite the expectance that poured from Jim Lewinski's eyes, every answer he could possibly give would come as a disappointment.

"You've seen pretty much all of it already," he said with a dismissive shrug. "I can make things accelerate away from me. It seems to work pretty much like classic mechanics, with my ability applying a force: the amount of acceleration I'm able to produce seems to be proportional to the mass and momentum of the object. With something stationary, or with something light and slow-moving like that paper at the press conference, I can create a pretty noticable effect. With something heavier, or with more momentum though..."

He trailed off, an involuntary twinge of pain stabbing in his chest and shoulder, where back in New York he'd barely managed to deflect a pair of bullets meant for his heart. Some mysterious mutant had healed the worst of his injuries, but for some reason they'd left him with the scarred bullet holes from those two rounds. He often wondered why; had it been simply because they weren't able to heal them, or where they an intentional reminder?

If there was a message that they were meant to convey, Tom was pretty sure that he'd been ignoring it regardless.

"I dunno if you saw on the news a few weeks ago, about the mutant-on-mutant fight that broke out at the airport? A couple of women started causing a ruccus, one of them hurling arcs of plasma about the place; two of the passengers got involved and tried to calm things down."

He shrugged again.

"Lucky for me she was packing plasma. If it had been some sort of psychic or photonic energy that she was hurling around the place, I probably wouldn't have been able to deflect it away from the other passengers the way that I did."

[Jim Lewinski]

"Holy shit! That was you?" Jim blurted, eyes wide and a noticeable bob to his head, "Y-yeah, I saw it on the news- someone-did-a-number-on-that-terminal- half the roof gone- floor was in bits- looked like a f-f-fuck freight train had just steamrolled through it, y'know?"

The jitters returned with a vengeance, sudden erratic twitches fueled by equal parts shock and awe, and the tone of Jim's voice betrayed every anxious emotion like a racing chirping confesion. He studied Tom with a sense of wonder, rolling out a long rippling huff of air, it was a marvel that such a learned man of science was capable of taking on a couple of super-powered criminals. His fingers snapped with the firing of neurons.

"Oh, yeah- you-were-in-the-like-the-military- sheesh, Doc, wish I could do somethin' like that- you got balls, man- wait- what-am-I-saying- no-I-don't- you must be outta your mind, Doc- got caught up in a sh-sh-sh-shootout coupla weeks back 'tween the cops and some gangbanging bitches- me, a skateboarder dude, and an angry black chick- it was a pincer movement- lucky to get outta that mess with my brains intact- talk about the wild west but I guess I'm preachin' to the choir here, right?"

[Tom Harriman]

Part of Tom wished that he had the power to bend space-time. Maybe a nice little bubble of out-of-synch time would let him hear Jim's speech tirade at a reasonable speed.

Or maybe I should just invest in a dictaphone, and play things back afterwards.

"I wasn't alone," he admitted carefully, latching onto the first part of Jim's stream of consciousness. He'd avoided reading too much of the press coverage of his little plain-clothes outing at the airport; less because of vanity though, and more out of fear that Alice would find and read any such articles if he brought them into the house. He'd nearly melted in panic at the prospect of her having caught wind of it on the news... luckily Kat had covered for him.

Of course, Kat-manufactured cover stories were always expensive; thus far, his sister had yet to name her price.

"Lets not get too carried away with these gang run ins though, eh?"

He couldn't help it; couldn't help the voice of reason that his inner teacher squeezed out of his lungs. Who was he to preach to some kid about the rights and wrongs of crime fighting? Every argument he'd ever made to justify his own nocturnal activities was ripe for being thrown back in his face, with an added hypocritical sting. Sure, Jim was younger, and had never been trained on how to behave while under fire; but military service hadn't exactly taught Tom how to jump off rooftops and shoot at people with arrows either.

"Neither of us are bulletproof," he pointed out, finishing his inner thoughts aloud.

[Jim Lewinski]

Jim reeled from an invisible slap to the face, eyebrows peaking in amused bewilderment, "Wha- you think- me?"

By now, Jim was wearing a broad grin, and glanced down to inspect himself from the smart shoes up. A slurred string of giggles tricked from within, born of an unspoken joke that blossomed in his belly when he spied his reflection in the window. The laughter renewed as he buckled under the absurdity of it all. That day, that fateful day, there had been running, and cursing, and hiding, and screaming, and running, and cursing, and screaming, and screaming, but not at any moment, while they were being hunted like dogs, had there been any heroics. Polly, José, and Jim, the battered bastards of the barrio - they fight crime. It took a great effort not to succumb to another giggling fit, instead he righted himself, and gave Tom a pat on the chest.

"No, Doc, 'fraid you got it all wrong. I mean, c'mon- do I even look like the kinda guy to go lookin' for trouble? I'm the kinda guy to go lookin' for Mountain Dew- which I did- in Los Santos, trouble finds you- which it did- and when it does, you freakin' run- which we did. Y'see, the naitives ain't exactly friendly around here. But- but that was good- funny-"

For emphasis, he snapped off his glasses in a fashion which suggested he was about to leap tall buildings in a single bound. The somber steeliness melted into a smirk, and he planted the thick-rimmed frames back onto his nose.

"That is a nice labcoat, by the way!"

[Tom Harriman]

Do I even look like the kinda guy to go lookin' for trouble?

The question that Jim posed stuck with Tom, and earned perhaps more consideration than the boy had even intended. It was true that Jim Lewinski was every inch the unassuming if slightly hyperactive young boy. But then, there was nothing assuming about Wally West either, or most of the mild mannered alter egos from comic books. And as for the real world: did Tom look like anything but a mild mannered scientist?

Mention of his attire shook his mind from that line of questioning. It was a nice labcoat, and in eight words the boy had earned himself a near infinite supply of patience and tolerance.

Even with that supply however, there was a problem; a problem that was reinforced as Tom glanced at his watch. It was just over an hour since the press conference and there had been barely enough time for Tom to prepare. There were health and safety forms that still needed to be printed out; release forms that needed to be photocopied. Emma had insisted that they buy proper mugs so that people could be offered coffee; Tom had insisted that she buy more coffee, because the minimal supplies in their break room would be insufficient. There had been the discussion of biscuit offerings too, which was yet to be unresolved. So many important steps before Tom was ready to start talking to volunteers.

He wasn't even wearing the correct tie.

"Listen..."

He broached the topic carefully, hoping not to wound the young boy's enthusiasm for science too much: that was something that needed to be cultivated, not squashed. "You're mutation is the kind that is going to need a lot of space to experiment with. We have a facility out at El Toro which is perfect for it - empty hangars, runways, the works. I just haven't had the opportunity to get set up out there just yet."

He tried to keep his face as deadpan as he could.

"So how about I call the guy with the corporate helicopter; get him to give you a ride home, and then meet you out at El Toro first thing tomorrow?"

[Jim Lewinski]

"You gotta be shittin' me..." Jim said lowly, eyes shrunk into suspicious slits, "Are you shittin' me? You're not shittin' me? You gotta be shittin' me!"

Eyebrows launched like rockets. A rapid-fire volley of irrepressible whoops escaped into the ether before Jim could gather himself. So instead, he gathered up belongings in a swift thrumming blur of motion. Backpack stuffed, he returned his attention to Tom, galloping thoughts betrayed by the electrified expression of excitement dancing on his face. He didn't know where to begin:

"Oh, man, Anna's gonna flip her shit. A corporate freakin' helicoper! El To- To- Totoro- Hangers, and runways, the works. Oh my! Gee, Doc, I can't thank ya enough fo' givin' me this opportunity!"

The excitable jibberish had melted into genuine gratitude, Jim beamed, and Tom found himself on the receiving end of another enthusiastic handshake.

[Tom Harriman]

Tom tried to surrender to the ferocious pace of Jim's handshake, but couldn't help a twinge of concern that the kid might lapse into superspeed and snap it off, or something. He was mildly impressed with the strength of his grip, and wondered for a moment how a scrawny kid like that could get so much strength in his arm; then his mind wandered a bit too far, and he decided rather swiftly that he really didn't want to know.

Hoping to calm the boy, he landed his free hand gently but firmly onto Jim's shoulder, and offered in his most soothing and reassuring teacher voice: "Trust me, kid, you've already thanked me far too much."

He managed to liberate himself from Jim's grip, but he kept his own smile firmly on his face. It wasn't difficult: the kid's enthusiasm was damned infectious.

"Just a sec," he assured, reaching into the pocket of his lab coat and plucking out his cell phone. Dahlia's cousin and personal pilot was on speed dial; that made the act of suavely tapping a single button before whisking the phone to his ear far easier. Francois picked up almost instantly. "Yo, Frank," Tom called warmly. "It's Tom Harriman."

"I know," the pilot pointed out, deadpan. "I have caller ID."

That broke Tom's stride a little, but he recovered quickly. "Good point. Anyway... is there any chance I can borrow you for about a half-hour or so? We've had our first volunteer for Applied Sciences, and he could do with a ride home."

"Just as long as it's in the helicopter this time," Frank countered. "Last time you called me asking for a ride you'd got yourself locked out on the roof of a skyscraper I couldn't land on in those superhero pyjamas of yours. I am not using my powers to lug you across Downtown again."

"He's a lot lighter than I am," Tom offered, helpfully.

A tired sigh escaped the pilot, but it was clearly forced. "Yeah, alright. Just gimmie five to warm the engines, and then head on up."

The line cut off before Tom had the opportunity to aknowledge the instructions; instead he merely locked his phone and dropped it back into his pocket, turning to Jim with a smile of success. "Looks like we're good to go, my good man."

He hesitated, his face turning more somber as his mind harkening back to earlier. A thumb jerked over his shoulder. "Is there something you need to apologise to my assistant about before you go? You really don't want her mad at you long-term. That woman holds grudges better than a fundementalist religious fanatic."

He frowned. "She never did forgive Kate Winslet for letting Leo Di Caprio drown."

[Jim Lewinski]

The sudden topic change derailed Jim's happy thoughts, sending them careening into a wall of cold hard reality. His smile turned into a haunted gaping hole. He remembered the clipped voice, the hard stare, and the furious click of heels, absently, his hand reached to his chest where he'd been unceremoniously manhandled by powerful lady talons. The colour drained from his face and his tongue scratched like an arid stretch of desert in his mouth. Tom had him hooked with his words, fearful eyes stared into space, and he gave a weak nod.

"Now that you-" he croaked, "Now that you mention it. I could use a little insider information. How can I, you know, make it better, Doc?"

[Tom Harriman]

Tom frowned. He'd assumed that it was some kind of blunder or slip of the tongue. Hell, he'd probably just thought something he shouldn't have, and Emma had over-reacted. He probably shouldn't blame Emma for getting upset without knowing what it was; but he probably shouldn't blame the clueless kid for being, well, a clueless kid.

The sheer horror in his expression was surprising: like the prospect of Emma being angry at him was too much for him to bear. Was there more going on than Tom realised? Some personal history between the two? Or was Kid Flash just zooming off way too far ahead of the game, and getting all upset about blowing a chance that he'd never really had to start with?

"Tulips."

The word tumbled from his mouth before he'd even decided what he was going to say. It made sense, though. He distinctly remembered a conversation where Emma had said something about tulips. Sure, flowers were a cliché apology; but getting specifically those flowers showed background research, and women always loved it when guys went to the effort of doing background research on these sorts of things.

He nodded sagely. "Buy her tulips. And -"

He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that they were definaltely alone, before dropping his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "- whatever happened, don't take it too hard. This isn't the first time she's been like this. In fact, last time was twenty-eight days ago, if you catch my drift."

[Jim Lewinski]

Narrowed eyes pinged left then right, then his expression changed dramatically, incandescent with the light of an epiphany.

"Ohhh!" he said, giving Tom a knowing nod, "Now it makes sense! Phew!"

In his relief, he wiped his brow with melodramatic flair. Shouldering his rucksack, and feeling as light and springy as ever, Jim considered his plan of action. Tomorrow, straight after his trip to El Toro - he was going to El Toro! - he'd sweep by the best florists in town and snatch up the biggest bunch of tulips he could carry. That was sure to get him back into the lovely Emma's good books.

"Tulips," he said, happily, "Emma's a real sweetheart, eh? Tulips. That's nice!"

There was nothing more to be done. Tom led Jim out of the lab, but not before the excitable youngster allowed himself one last parting glance of the little slice of nerd nirvana, he sighed. Once inside the elevator, Jim took a glance over his snappy attire and frowned.

"Hey Doc, just one last thing, is there anything you need me to bring along tomorra? Please-tell-me-the-monkey-suit-can-stay-at-home!"