Horizon University — Late Afternoon (Jake's POV)
If there was one thing Horizon did better than any other school on the planet, it was scheduling disasters with the casual confidence of an Ivy League dean.
Today's disaster: a dual-slot block where engineering students and biology majors shared the same lab space. On paper, it was "interdisciplinary exploration." In practice, it was a cocktail of unstable reactors and unstable teenagers, all topped off by a visiting lecturer with the kind of smile that belonged in a warning label.
Essex.
He wasn't loud. He didn't have Otto's twitching breakdowns or Warren's obvious creep-factor. No, Essex just… slid into the faculty hall like he'd always belonged there. The man wore his lab coat like a judge wore robes. His lectures were precise, almost soothing — until you listened too closely.
"Remember," Essex said, while chalk dust danced in the projector light, "biology is not only science. It is an art of becoming. Each genome, each strand, a brushstroke toward the future."
He looked at the students as if they were unfinished paintings. For a second, Jake swore the professor's gaze lingered on him longer than anyone else.
Too long.
Alloy's voice piped up in his ear, quiet and sardonic.
"Subtlety check: imagine Dracula went to grad school and decided monologues were better with PowerPoint. That's our Essex."
Jake clenched his jaw. Rogue, sitting beside him, caught the twitch. She placed a hand over his knee, grounding him with that easy Rogue warmth. "Don't let it get to ya, sugah. Some folks talk like that 'cause they're hidin' teeth."
Jake managed a nod, though the static under his skin hummed anyway. He tried to focus on the stabilizer prototype sitting in front of him — a coil interface meant to regulate his TURBO energy so he didn't blow out the lab lights every time his pulse spiked.
Peter leaned over from the next station, goggles fogged. "You sure that thing won't cook the entire room?"
Jake smirked. "Pretty sure. Ninety-five percent."
Ned, seated with them, raised an eyebrow. "That's not reassuring."
"Don't worry," Alloy chirped, "the other five percent involves a localized apocalypse, but hey — at least the Wi-Fi will survive."
Jake sighed. "Quiet."
But Alloy didn't quiet. He hesitated. And then, with a voice stripped of its usual jokes, Alloy said something Jake never expected.
"I want a body."
The coil slipped in Jake's hands. His heart skipped. He'd heard Alloy banter a thousand times — but never plead.
"You mean…" Jake swallowed, "…a physical one?"
"Yes," Alloy said, soft but clear. "To walk. To feel the wind. To move without being strapped to your back. I am… tired of being pieces of someone else."
Jake froze, throat tight. Alloy had been family as long as he could remember even with memory blocks placed by his mother, but hearing him want something — something so human — was like seeing a door open into a room Jake didn't know existed.
He didn't answer. He couldn't. Not yet.
Across the room, Miles Warren was watching them. His hands fidgeted with a scalpel, but his eyes were fixed squarely on Jake's station, pupils wide with the kind of interest you never wanted from a man called the Jackal.
Jake looked away, forcing himself to focus on the prototype. Sparks flickered. Rogue leaned in, hand brushing Jake's wrist to siphon just enough energy to keep the coil from popping. The glow steadied.
Jean appeared in the doorway after class, her voice brushing Jake's mind feather-light. Essex's phrasing… it felt intentional. He reads people like they're drafts to be revised. Be careful, Jake.
Jake forced a laugh. "Maybe he just likes interpretive science."
Rogue snorted. "Interpretive science? Is that where you dress cells in tiny berets and have 'em dance across a microscope?"
Deadpool meta-cut:
"Oh, excellent. We've reached the part of the story where the creepy professor drops one-liners, the sidekick asks for a body, and our hero tries to hold it all together with duct tape and sarcasm. Kids, this is what we in the business call 'character development with sinister foreshadowing sprinkles.' Delicious. Moving on."
The lab lights dimmed as students filed out. Jake lingered a moment, staring at his glowing hands, at Rogue's steady grip, at Alloy's lens blinking faintly in his bag.
Essex's words echoed again: an art of becoming.
For the first time in a while, Jake wasn't sure who — or what — he was supposed to become.