DISCLAIMER: Jeremy Stevens, the Gamesmastar, Cordelia Frost, the Weisman Institute, and all related X-Force characters, etc. belong to Marvel Comics. They are not mine. Jeremy's parents are my own invention.

NOTE: some of the events where the title character talks about his dream sequences are what I call 'flash forwards' as opposed to flashbacks; his future adult incarnation from story arcs in X-Force and the New Warriors "Child's' Play story line, or possibly other back issues. If I stray from Marvel continuity, now you know why Written in response to a story challenge posted on CFAN's Orphan Ideas board. A sort of what-if back history for the character.

Jeremy Stevens crept down the stairs on slippered feet, the soft whoosh of fabric rubbing against carpet as an accompaniment to his movement, like sandpaper. His inner alarm clock woke him up without having to rely on a clock radio. His mother called it 'mental static' or biorhythms some people just seemed to have, which meant he didn't any electronic gadgets in his room. After only a few hours they had a tendency to short out. He knew other kids who begged for cutting edge video games, and once they got their way, brought them to school. Jeremy had tried the games and found they presented little challenge once he mastered all the levels. In a corner of his mind there was something to the nuances of games that appealed to him, but he still didn't 'fit in.'

Electric shorts or not, he didn't have a clue what caused the problem. All the specialty doctors his parents had taken him to see, couldn't explain it either. It didn't matter what 'they' thought because there was nothing anyone could do.

He made it halfway down, when he heard angry voices coming from the kitchen. He stopped, frozen like a rabbit caught in a moving vehicle's headlights.

"How many times do we have to rehash this? It isn't getting us anywhere, and Jeremy's just getting worse," Gail Stevens whispered then bit her lip to keep from breaking out into helpless tears of combined exasperated fury and frustration.

"You're overreacting, hon," Howard Stevens absently replied, scanning the newspaper headlines that were spread open on the kitchen, but for the words just kept blurring together. He reached up a hand and adjusted his glasses. They were a bit smudged, so he took the handkerchief from his vest pocket. Then went over to the kitchen sink, getting ready to clean them, when the the motion was halted a few inches away.

"You're in denial," Gail Stevens shouted, slamming the coffee mug down on the table, its contents sloshing all over the newspaper, staining the Fairhaven Chronicle brown, turning the newsprint a soft beige. She glanced down at the mess, a line of disapproval forming along her forehead, then shoved a napkin at her husband, who absently cleaned up the mess.

"I am not," Howard Stevens countered, absently poking around a straw in the dairy creamer before he poured it into his cup. He reached across the expanse of the table and awkwardly patted her hand. Trying to comfort her, he knew that trying to keep the house and deal with their son's declining illness was taking its toll on her. However, he'd never been the emotive type, so he didn't know what to say. His own gut felt like it was on fire with helpless fury, mostly because he couldn't make the boy's pain go away, or offer a word of understanding and make everything better.

"You know I'm not trying to be judgmental, or second guess you," Gail trailed off, I would just like to know what you talk about in those late night meetings."

Mr. Stevens stood up and went over to the countertop where he kept a hanging file to store documents. He had been intending to mention something about an organization called "The Right" but their work schedules simply didn't allow for it. Or, he just didn't want to admit that Bolivar Trask or his too-smooth, too-smart aide, Cameron Hodge, were on the level about the threat posed by 'mutants.'

"Gail, I wanted to protect you both from these modern day witch hunters. And, before you ask, no, I'm not trying to be theatrical or paranoid about this. I've only gone to a couple of The Right's gatherings, and I've heard Trask go on about this stuff."

"So, is he just full of hot air, or does he really believe that mutants pose a threat that they're taking seriously?"

"According to this," Howard began, thumbing through the sheaf of papers he'd taken out the folder, "Trask believes that although the statistics at the moment show that the number of these mutants are pretty sparse, the threshold is holding at two perecent, and could go up within the next five to ten years."

"Would it make any difference if we did register Jeremy with the mutant control agency?" Gail asked softly.

"What if our son, is one of these 'mutants?" Gail asked.

"Hon, there's no stigma attached to success or to being smarter or faster in order to get ahead," Howard replied.

"Hmmph, I don't give a damn about statistics or threats, I just want to know how that has anything to do with us, or with getting Jeremy the kind of help he needs! Howard, the Right can't help him. From what you've told me they'd rather lock up all these so-called mutants, and throw away the key." Gail, often thought, late at night, that maybe she had done something wrong during the pregnancy, or, when she was feeling less helpless about Jeremy's rapidly declining condition, that some misguided but well intentioned guardian angel had visited Jeremy in the cradle and changed him somehow. It suddenly occurred that if that were the case, then the 'gift" might be more of a curse than a blessing.

On the other side of the kitchen door, Jeremy instinctively knew, that some young children sometimes do, that he was 'different,' but he wondered why the word 'mutant, a single word couldn't quite sum up the topsy-turvy emotions that surged through him.

A sudden spasm swept over him, and he twitched like a puppet with it strings cut, and he toppled the floor. In the instant before he succumbed to the blackness of unconsciousness, the last thing he heard was, "I think we all need a change of pace. Lord only knows we could use one."

Jeremy heard the lap of the waves and the thrum of the motor as their boat flowed thorough the lake like it was born there. He threw his head back and laughed as the spray hit his upturned face, dark hair whipped into tangles by the wind, a dark curtain framing his face.

He kept any extraneous thoughts from his mind; his parent's arguments, their constant worry, that his condition made him 'different,' that he was some kind of 'freak,' because he was a mutant. He just wanted to let it all go, and just let things be.

He let a inner silence gather for a long time, when a shadow flowed over his mind, reaching, drawing him into its whirlpool. It passed like the shadow of dark wings across the moon. When the feeling passed, he woke to find his mother shaking him, and shaking him.

He knew that most people were afraid of being alone. With the constant mental chatter that sometimes overwhelmed him, and resulted in his seizures, the voices in is head were always there, it was like having a captive audience and performer all rolled into one. He wondered what was so terribly frightening about being alone in one's own mind.

"It's probably a lot more peaceful," Jeremy coughed and spluttering, like a drowning victim rescued at the last minute.

"Jeremy, Jeremy, hon, wake up ..."

At this point, Mr. Stevens was less concerned what people would think of him, then with getting his son the treatment he needed, as fast as possible.

Jeremy tried to stay awake during the drive, to admire the view of the pine trees that lined the road on both sides, and the grey ribbon of road that flashed beneath the car's wheels, but fell asleep and didn't wake up until the pulled into a parking spot outside the Institute's main building. In front there was a sign posted on a placard in the meticulously tended lawn that read 'Welcome to the Weisman Institute, for the treatment of mental and physical disorders. We're here to help.'

"It looks promising, Howard," Gail whispered.

Jeremy unbuckled his seat belt and unlocked the passenger side door and got out to look around.

They were greeted at the door by two male orderlies in white, that to Gail looked like they worked night jobs as wrestlers, their arms were corded thick with muscle, one wheeling a metal gurney around down the steps, the other waiting in the foyer with a wheelchair.

"Is that really necessary," Jeremy asked, indicating the wheelchair.

Howard turned, and lifted one eyebrow, "Promising?" he muttered and went inside, Gail and Jeremy following along in his wake.

"It's probably for another patient, Jeremy. Don't worry about it," Gail replied.

They came to an office with white-paneled walls and an off-white carpet that ran the length of the room. The pile of the carpet was either very old or intentionally made to muffle the sound of feet trodding on it; for neither the orderlies boots nor their shoes produced any sound from it.

They were given forms with a pen attached to a clipboard and instructed to fill them out.

"Dr. Frost will be with you in a moment. Please wait here," one of the orderlies instructed, then went down an adjoining hallway.

Jeremy sat down in one of the overstuffed couches and idly flipped through the magazines that had been neatly tucked into their holders in a magazine rack. But all were psychological and medical journals, which translated into dull and boring, so he set them aside.

"Good evening," a woman's soft voice woke Jeremy up. "You must be the Stevens. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Dr. Cordelia Frost, the director of the Weisman Institute.

Jeremy looked up to see in a blond woman dressed in a white lab coat with a vest pocket and glasses. In one pocket of her white coat she wore a pager which went off then with a jarring tone that broke the uncomfortable silence. She glided over to his parents, and extended a hand for them to shake. For some reason he couldn't figure out, but they seemed reluctant to make eye contact with the doctor. A moment later, his mother determined to not to show fear for her boy, maternal instincts took over and she rallied to take the other woman's and firmly shake it. His father gently nudged her aside, only to repeat the gesture. With that done, Dr. Frost pivoted on her heels and ushered them into her office.

"Welcome. Please have a seat, and we'll get started," Dr, Frost said, suiting action to words so indicated the sofa that fronted the scrolled oak desk and the formal chairs that faced it. She glanced at Jeremy and indicated he take the seat in the middle, so he would have one parent on either side of him.

"Please, call me Cordelia. It would make this first session go more smoothly. Feel free to say whatever comes to mind. Don't worry if it makes any sense or not, or about saying 'the right thing'" Dr. Frost said, noting with clinical detachment the way Mr. Stevens flinched at the mention of the word 'the right,' then using a pen from her vest pocket, she made a note on yellow pad from her desk.

"It's okay, son, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Mr. Stevens said, reaching over to pat him on the back.

"No, Dad, I think I need to." Jeremy hesitated, then doubled over as dry cough sputtered out of him. When it passed, and he felt stronger and able to continue speaking.

"Dr. Frost, we've taken our son to every specialist doctor ..." Gail began, and began shuffling through the papers she pulled from a folder. "He's had seizures, sometimes with rather alarming frequency. Sometimes several times a day. There are times when he, just 'goes away.' From the what the doctors have told us and the brain scans; all I can understand is that he's got some sort of chemical misfiring, and there's not a damn thing anyone can do about it."

"Exactly, the prescription medications aren't helping either. All they're doing right now is stave off the frequency of the seizure attacks, Frankly, Dr. Frost we're at our wit's end. We did try a change of scenery. I thought that might provide a break from his usual routine. And he was enjoying himself, just like any kid his age. Then right when were coming into shore, he had another bad session. That's what sort of clinched our decision to come here," Howard said.

"From your description, your son may have a fairly rare disorder in which certain areas of the brain become hyper stimulated, flooding the brain with errant signals that are caused by the release of an intense burst of electrical energy and flows throughout the nervous system causing everything from seizures to blackouts." Dr. Cordelia Frost remarked.

In the back of his mind, his subconscious, he figured she'd call it, he absently noted that she had pulled out a tape recorder and had begun recording. I'm not crazy, no matter what that lady says.

"At this point, I think we need to hear from Jeremy," Cordelia added. "No one here will be judgmental. I just want to find out what the symptoms are so we will be able to extrapolate and find the proper treatment to help him."

"I've had terrible dreams," Jeremy interrupted softly, his breath catching in his throat. He brought his hands up to temples and massaged them in a vain attempt to soothe a lingering headache that started there and managed to move around his head like a snake wrapping its coils around his mind.

Jeremy felt he was suddenly in two places at once, or that split into two observers, both watching through his eyes. One part of him wanted to tell his father that it was 'all right', the other was reeling from both mental static/chatter that had been quiet ever since they returned from the boating trip. It had resumed at full volume the moment he entered Dr. Frost's office. He felt a wave of seizures sweep over him. He tried to remain upright, but he failed. From the perspective of the unattached, emotionless observer he saw himself as an adult, wearing a stark brown tunic, and some kind of headgear that covered the left side of his bald head.

"It's gotten so bad that I think the dreams are more real than what's going on when I'm awake. First thing, I don't even have a body," Jeremy paused, and glanced down at himself. He was what they called slight; his twelve-year-old frame was lanky, tall for his age and thin. Too thin his mother often said. But already showing the promise of filling out. His fingers were those of a piano player, long and tapered, and he loved the sounds he produced from that musical instrument on the piano he'd been given for his last birthday, having learned to play after only a few lessons.

"I wish all those voices would shut up. Why won't they leave me alone? I don't mind hearing them, but do they have talk at the same time, day in and day out?" Then another feeling swept over him, this time one less pleasant, "Why me? Why am I different from other kids? I just want to be 'normal." Jeremy got out all in one breath, then succumbed to a fit of coughing.

"Please continue," Cordelia softly asked, breaking his train of thought. Mental static, definite manifestation of psionic talents, parents are probably aware that their son is showing signs of exhibiting the mutant gene. How ironic, the gene nom seems rather capricious, randomly picking and discarding those who manifest it.

"Like I said, I don't have a body. Well I kinda do, but its not mine, or its an older version of myself. In this place its like big ocean of minds, and I'm constantly struggling to swim upstream but the current keeps pulling me under. The harder I try to keep my head above water, I keep drowning in the ocean," Jeremy said.

"And then what happens?" Cordelia asked.

"Dad, what's that thing when you know you've been somewhere before, but it's like super familiar that it has to be true?" Jeremy asked.

He turned to his father. "Deja vu," Mr. Stevens replied.

"Are hallucinations common with this type of disorder, Dr. Frost?" Gail asked.

"Possibly, but there's no one type of condition that triggers seizures. This is the common supposition, but that's not strictly true."

Jeremy felt a vague sensation of guilt about what 'condition' had forced his parents to go through, to sacrifice for him. "I'll get better, I promise."

Suddenly he felt foreign thoughts creeping into his mind, snuggling to find a warm nest and implant themselves. The thought was cold, and harsh, but a few of what the doctor called electrical shorts, cut off his internal monitor. In this hallucination, he had arms resting on some kind of inset computer displays. He floated through the mental static at a manageable level, liked he'd slapped on a pair of mental mufflers, while he listened to the mental chatter like some people zoned out on music. Although the sensation at first was unsettling, and at times painful, he discovered that it wasn't terribly frightening. In fact it was almost diverting and allowed himself to sink deeper into the skewed reality of the hallucinatory mindscape, bouncing from one mind to the next, always living vicariously through the thoughts of actions of others. A part of him, that was still Jeremy ignored the fact that this wasn't real, it was just his imagination working overtime from all the stress he'd been through lately.

He heard his adult self say: "I apologize for the cheap theatrics, but it is only in this realm that I can be as I truly wish I were. Dominant, controlling, overpowering. It is really a rather exhilarating experience. I tend to revel in it. But listen to my ramblings, its is rather presumptuous of me to be talking about such things, when the three of you, are in this unfortunate situation.

"I am not responsible for your presence here, but I do arbitrate the game played by those who are. They compete against themselves in the name of greed and conquest by killing the targets of my choosing.

"Two guesses actually. Any of the surviving members of the New Mutants or Hellions groups. You have been captured as prizes in the treasure hunt, and so you shall remain until such time as you will be disposed of and the points for your deaths appropriately disbursed among the Upstarts."

Jeremy blinked and his eyes snapped open, unaware that he slipped into one of his trances. Disoriented he glanced around and saw his parent's worried faces anxiously peering down at him. He gasped and tried to respond to their anxious questions asking if he was all right. He noted the tell-tale annoyed furrow that crossed his father's forehead when he was out of patience with someone or something, and wondered if he just overheard those horrible last words from his hallucination, or if he uttered them aloud. He snapped out of his thoughts, when he turned his attention back to Dr. Frost.

"Sometimes you're drowning out all the rage and thunder," Cordelia softly remarked, as she suddenly recalled that on a more personal level, she could empathize with the young man. But she chose not to reveal to anyone where she had picked up the saying. She knew that her sister, Emma, had no doubt experienced similar obstacles and 'mental static' when her psionic mutant abilities manifested themselves. "Note to Self: if treatment is successful remember to add this patient to the list of possible candidates for Emma's boarding school."

"I realize this will be difficult for you, all of you, to accept, but from what I've heard today, and from all the signs, Jeremy has every sign of manifesting the mutant genome, often referred to as the X-factor," Cordelia softly remarked, as she thought, to try and soften the blow.

"We know that," Gail snapped, the question isn't there anything you can do about it?"

"How you can you be so, so, cold and clinical about this, Dr. Frost? Take a good look at this place! Your orderlies look nightclub bouncers. Just what kind of loony bin do you run here?" Howard demanded, half rising out of his leather padded chair, out of patience.

"Please calm down Mr. Stevens, I've seen that dealing in the past, dealing with the parents of children with systemic disorders, such as your son's. It is best for me, as the doctor, to remain detached from the emotional turmoil you are experiencing," Cordelia replied.

"Emotional turmoil," Howard echoed, stunned.

"Yes, emotional turmoil, " Cordelia snapped. "Well, I have news, some good, some bad. Which do you want first?"

"Give it to us straight, Doctor," Gail smiled, but it wasn't reflected in her eyes.

"Give a moment, I need to look something up in one our medical references, if you could wait outside, I'll be right with you," Dr. Frost replied.

"Very well," Howard agreed, helping Jeremy to the door.

Conclusion

"Please believe me, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, when I say that I speak on behalf of the entire Institute, that we have your son's best interests at heart."

"Why do I get the feeling that there's a 'but' coming up?" Mrs. Stevens said.

"Your son has a condition that can only be treated here," Cordelia said.

"He's going to be instuitionlized like some crazy person?" Mrs. Stevens asked.

"It's for his own good, and consider Jeremy's future well-being."

"And if he doesn't get better?

Good God! Are you telling us that you can't help him?!" Gail shouted.

"There is another option," Dr. Frost replied.

"I didn't think we had any options left at this point," Gail said.

"Mr. and Mr. Stevens, from what you've told me and what extensive research discovered, the two halves of the brain communicate with each other via the corpus calloum."

"Which is?" Howard demanded.

"A thick band of fibres travelling between the left and right hemispheres. In order to alleviate and perhaps even prevent further seizures in the long run, I would recommend that the half of Jeremy's brain, that triggers them, be removed, " Cordelia explained.

"If you remove one side of his brain, will he still be our Jeremy?" Gail whispered.

"In essence, you can have your son the way he is now, but without the seizures," Cordelia smiled.

Howard turned to Jeremy, "Is this what you want?" Still a little groggy but lucid, Jeremy nodded, his mind made up.

"Agreed," Mr. Stevens replied, shaking the doctor's hand.

"Will you be performing the surgery yourself, Dr. Frost, " Mrs. Stevens asked, "And if so, what sort of release forms and information will we need to sign before we go through with this?"

"I can't say for sure, if I will be performing the surgery. That decision is made by our board of directors, but Jeremy will be in very capable hands. But I will put in my request, and it actually might be best if we give you some breathing room, say a few weeks before anything happens," Dr Frost replied.

"Will he be okay until then?" Gail asked.

"He'll be fine, in the meantime, while we work on the getting the paperwork, why don't you take him home for a couple of weeks, get him situated, and start thinking what he'll need in the way of clothing for before and after the surgery. As mentioned, everyone will need a little breather after this. The best thing of course, would be to get some rest." Dr. Frost smiled.

"Thank you, Doctor," Howard Stevens, stiffly said, echoed a few seconds by his wife.

"No, thank you, " Cordelia replied, as she stood up and escorted them to the door of her office. "I promise you, we'll do everything we can to help Jeremy."