I duck as a metal folding chair whistles past my head, crashing into the wall behind me with a satisfying crunch. Three weeks of Danger Room sessions and I've finally learned that Gene's aim is deadly accurate, but his timing is predictable.
"You're getting better," Gene says, hovering a few feet off the ground. His green uniform hugs his body like a second skin, the gold phoenix emblem on his chest catching the light as he raises his hands again. "But not good enough."
Six metal spheres the size of bowling balls rise from the floor around him, suspended by his telekinesis.
"Come on, Gene," I pant, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Give a guy a break. I've been at this for hours."
His emerald eyes narrow, lips curving into that infuriating smirk. "Enemies won't give you breaks, Cracker Jack."
The first sphere launches at me like a cannonball. I drop and roll, feeling the rush of air as it passes inches above my head. The second and third come immediately after, forcing me into a series of increasingly desperate dodges that would make a contortionist proud.
These past few weeks at Xavier's have settled into a weird rhythm. Classes during the day where I pretend to understand what the hell Beast is talking about when she discusses "genetic expression modalities." Nights spent either hanging with Jubilee or trying to avoid Emma's increasingly creative attempts to get me alone. And combat training. Endless, brutal combat training.
I've made exactly two friends, Jubilee and Emma Frost, who despite her constant sexual harassment is actually kind of fun to be around when she's not trying to mentally enslave me. Night Crawler is always too busy to hang.
"Jubilee!" Gene calls out, his voice echoing through the cavernous training room.
On cue, Jubilee steps out from behind a concrete barricade, her hands already glowing with pink energy. She gives me an apologetic shrug before sending a barrage of plasma fireworks in my direction.
"Sorry, Jack!" she yells as I dive behind a metal barrier, the explosions sending vibrations through the floor.
I peek around the edge just in time to see Gene levitating more objects, a motorcycle, Jesus Christ, while Jubilee circles to my right, cutting off my escape route.
"This isn't fair," I mutter, searching frantically for an opening.
"Life isn't fair," Gene calls back, somehow hearing me despite the distance. His face is the picture of concentration, not a single auburn hair out of place despite the exertion of holding up a Harley-Davidson with his mind. "Adapt or die."
I launch myself sideways, twisting in mid-air as the motorcycle hurtles past me. My reflexes have improved since I started these sessions, but not enough to avoid everything. One of Jubilee's fireworks catches my wrist at exactly the wrong angle, there's a flash of searing pink light, a pop like a champagne cork, and suddenly my right hand is just... gone.
It takes my brain a second to catch up with what my eyes are seeing. My limb is lying on the floor about five feet away, still twitching slightly, blood pumping from my wrist in rhythmic spurts.
"Fuck." Jubilee grunts, her face going pale.
The pain hits me like a freight train, but I've been through worse. I clench my teeth and cradle the stump against my chest, trying to stem the bleeding.
"Beast! Shut it down!" Gene's voice echoes through the room, all traces of smugness gone.
The motorcycle, the concrete barriers, everything around us flickers and vanishes. The Danger Room transforms back into its default state, an enormous metal box with a high ceiling and gleaming walls.
Gene descends from his hovering position, landing beside me with surprising grace. His face is tight with concern as he raises his fingers toward my head.
"I've shut off your pain receptors," he says, his fingers splayed inches from my temple. "You shouldn't feel anything now."
The relief is immediate, like someone flipped a switch. The burning agony in my wrist fades to nothing, though the sight of my severed hand still makes my stomach turn.
"Thanks," I manage, walking over to retrieve my detached appendage. I pick it up, grimacing at the weird sensation of holding my own hand. Without hesitation, I press it against the stump of my wrist, lining up the bones and blood vessels as best I can. It's not pretty, but I've learned this works, quicker than regrowing. I can already feel the tingling sensation of my healing kicking in.
Jubilee approaches cautiously, her eyes wide with horror. "I am so, so sorry, Jack. I didn't mean to…"
"It's fine," I assure her, wiggling my fingers experimentally. They respond sluggishly, but they're responding. Progress. "This happens."
"You ever notice how healers always get hurt and lose limbs the most?" Jubilee asks.
Gene crosses his arms, nodding thoughtfully. "It's like a curse. I've noticed it too." His usual arrogance is gone, replaced by something that almost looks like genuine interest. "My running theory is they're just more reckless than people without healing abilities. Otherwise, the only other option is they're a lot less lucky."
"Maybe we heal because we're unlucky."
Gene lets out a genuine laugh, the sound echoing off the metal walls of the Danger Room.
"Maybe," he concedes, watching as I rotate my wrist experimentally.
I'm caught off guard by his agreeable tone. In these training sessions, Gene's actually decent company, focused on the task at hand rather than whatever jealousy drama usually consumes him. It's like fighting brings out a better version of him, someone who can momentarily forget his insecurities.
The moment of almost-camaraderie is shattered by the pneumatic hiss of the Danger Room doors sliding open. Scotty strides in, clipboard in hand, her visor catching the light as she scans the room.
"SCOTTY!" Gene's voice transforms from normal human to excited puppy in a split second. His entire demeanor changes, shoulders straightening, chest puffing out, face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning.
The sudden distraction breaks Gene's concentration, and his telepathic pain block collapses like a house of cards. Pain floods back into my wrist, not the blinding agony from before, but a deep, throbbing ache that makes me wince. My healing factor has done most of the heavy lifting already. My hand is about 90% reattached, but I can still feel every nerve ending reconnecting like tiny electric shocks.
Gene launches himself across the room, using his telekinesis to propel his body through the air. He lands directly in Scotty's arms, wrapping himself around her like an octopus, his long auburn hair flying behind him like a banner.
"I missed you so much," he coos, planting kisses all over her visor. "How was the meeting? Did they listen to you? Did you kick ass?"
Scotty staggers slightly under his weight but manages to stay upright, her arms automatically wrapping around him.
"Gene, I've been gone for two hours," she says, but there's a fondness in her voice that takes the edge off her words.
Scotty's gaze drifts past Gene, landing on me and then dropping to the floor where a small pool of blood formed. Her expression shifts from affection to concern in an instant.
"Did you lose a hand during training?" she asks, gently disentangling herself from Gene's embrace.
"Yeah," I reply with a shrug, holding up my mostly reattached appendage like I'm showing off a mildly interesting science project. "No big deal. Almost good as new already."
Gene's face scrunches up, his earlier moment of camaraderie completely forgotten as he hovers protectively near Scotty.
She frowns, adjusting her visor as she examines my healing injury. "Maybe we're taking it too hard on you."
"Oh, because that's how you treat all the other X-Women?" Gene interjects, his voice rising with indignation. He crosses his arms over his chest, that phoenix emblem catching the light again. "Adapt or die, that's what you and Xavier always said. In fact, you treated us much worse when we started out, remember? I lost consciousness during training at least twice a week!"
Scotty sighs, running a hand through her short brown hair. "Yeah, I guess you're right."
"It's really not a problem," I say, trying to defuse the tension. "Better I lose a hand here than somewhere it actually matters."
The words are barely out of my mouth when the door hisses open again. This time, it's Emma Frost gliding into the Danger Room like she owns the place, all pristine white and impeccable posture. Her ice-blue eyes immediately lock onto my hand, and her perfect lips curve into a frown.
"Jubilation Lee," she says, her British accent somehow making those three syllables sound like a royal decree and a death sentence rolled into one. "Do try to treat my patient better in the future."
"I already said sorry," Jubilee mutters defensively.
The weird tingling sensation has finally stopped, nerve endings reconnected and blood flowing properly again. I can't help but smirk at how efficiently my body puts itself back together.
"Hey," Jubilee perks up, her eyes widening with that manic gleam she gets when a questionable idea hits her. "Do you think his hand could heal even if we put like, big metal springs between the hand and the wound? Like, would you end up with a Inspector Gadget extendo-arm or something?"
I open my mouth to dismiss the idea, then pause. "No... wait..." I tilt my head, considering the bizarre possibility. "Maybe?"
"Don't even try it, Jack," Emma cuts in, her voice sharp with annoyance. She crosses her arms over her chest, ice-blue eyes narrowing. "Whimsy can be cute, but too much is just stupid and in your case dangerous."
"You're probably right."
Before I can defend my scientific curiosity, I hear her voice.
'To me, my X-Women.'