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Chapter 12: I'm Techsexual
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It was a good fucking morning.
The "grumpy old man" in question was, of course, Forge.
The man was chronologically in his prime, but his demeanor; a perpetual state of focused impatience mixed with a world-weary sigh; made the title fit.
Adam found his designated workstation in the chaotic symphony of the workshop.
He slid into the chair before two computer monitors that displayed processing architectures that would have given a 2008 Silicon Valley engineer a heart attack.
"Get any sleep?" Forge asked without looking up from the pulsating energy instrument he was calibrating.
"A few hours," Adam replied, his fingers already dancing across one of the keyboards, pulling up his work.
"You should get more. Pushing your body is one thing. Frying your brain is another." Forge felt as if he had to say it, seeing Adam push himself so much over the past month.
Adam shrugged, his eyes fixed on the lines of code. "I've mastered sleep. It's an on/off switch. I don't need much of it."
This was true. In the white room, sleep had been his only true escape, a skill honed to instant, deep perfection.
He understood the biological necessity, but the feeling of needing more felt like a concession he wasn't willing to make.
Forge grunted, a sound that could mean anything from agreement to dismissal. "How's the project?"
"Difficult," Adam admitted, a rare crease forming on his brow. "It feels like I'm trying to push past my pay grade."
"I told you. Aiming for a true, general artificial intelligence as your first major project is like trying to build a starship before you've mastered the wheel."
Forge finally glanced over, his expression unreadable. "Especially with the parameters you've set."
Adam's head was already beginning to throb with a familiar, low-grade pain.
He was working on the AI through conventional means; or as conventional as one could get in Forge's workshop; but simultaneously, he was using his secret Cyberpathy.
It was like having a direct neural link to the sum total of human; and mutant; knowledge on mathematics, theoretical physics, computer science, and engineering.
The influx of information was a firehose, and holding it open for long periods strained parts of his mind he didn't know he had.
It was exhilarating and agonizing in equal measure.
He was also realizing the limits of his own intellect. His brain, operating roughly 30% faster thanks to the permanent Slow Prime curse, gave him a significant edge.
He knew the trade-off; accelerated mental processing likely meant accelerated cellular decay, a shorter lifespan.
The thought was a fleeting irrelevance.
When a universe-ending snap was on the horizon, a few extra years felt like a miser hoarding pennies before a tsunami.
Yet, even with this enhanced cognition, he felt painfully average when he measured himself against the true geniuses.
His Cyberpathy was a powerful tool for understanding and interfacing, but it paled in comparison to Forge's Intuitive Genius, an ability that bordered on precognition for invention.
And Forge was just the beginning.
The names he held as his benchmarks; Tony Stark, Doctor Doom, Reed Richards; felt less like people and more like forces of nature.
Their minds operated on a plane of existence he could observe but not inhabit.
He was a caveman staring at a spaceship, understanding it was magnificent but having no framework for its creation.
But giving up was not a concept that existed in his operational dictionary. With the absolute confidence of someone who had already stared into the abyss and found it lacking, he would continue.
He would live, he would envy, and his power would slowly tick forward, awakening new aspects born from his deepest desires.
Like now.
A subtle shift occurred in his perception, a new "slot" making itself known in the architecture of his mind.
Stupefy.
Truly, all he needed was to live, and Envy would show its fangs.
The name was simple, the function obvious.
His expression didn't so much as flicker, but internally, his mind was a fireworks display of wonder.
This could be his most powerful aspect yet, and exactly what he needed. Who to target?
His Prime curse is typically limited to syphoning about 30% of a specific attribute.
He needed a source of intelligence so profound that even a 30% deprivation would represent a monumental gain for him.
The candidates were few. Reed Richards or Victor von Doom.
His clandestine research, facilitated by Cyberpathy and the X-Men's extensive databases, had yielded some information.
The Fantastic Four, as a public entity, did not yet exist, but Reed Richards was a known, brilliant scientist.
Doom, however, was currently a more accessible target, operating out of Latverian embassies in the United States with a predictable, if heavily guarded, routine.
The danger was immense.
Doom was not just a scientific genius; he was already, by all accounts, a practiced sorcerer.
A direct confrontation was suicide.
Reed was arguably more dangerous in his own way; his boundless scientific curiosity had, in the lore Adam half-remembered, led to multiversal catastrophes.
In pure intellect, Reed was ranked first, but Doom was a hair's breadth behind.
His losses were often attributed less to a lack of brains and more to an ego that demanded he prove his superiority over Reed in the most dramatic fashion possible; a closet romance of rivalry that bordered on the pathological.
A decision crystallized in his mind. Doom.
He took a deep, centering breath and returned to his work, his fingers flying across the keyboard at a speed that would blur to a normal human eye.
He scanned news feeds, his mind compartmentalizing the search for any mention of Latverian diplomatic movements.
But soon, he allowed himself to be pulled into the most enjoyable part of his day: pure, hands-on engineering.
He loved the act of creation.
The feel of cool metal, the smell of solder, the satisfying click of components fitting together.
Professor Xavier's vast wealth meant the workshop was an Aladdin's cave of parts and advanced materials.
His current project, inspired by both his needs and his studies under Forge, was a mechanical spider, roughly the size of a tarantula.
He would have preferred something smaller, more discreet.
But at a smaller scale, he couldn't house the necessary tech: a compact power cell and a multi-spectrum sensor suite.
Then a communication relay, and its miniature payload; an electro-sting capable of delivering a non-lethal shock and a neuro-toxin injector with a fast-acting sedative.
Over the past two weeks, he had designed and fabricated the components.
Now came the final assembly. He worked with a jeweler's precision, using micro-tools to connect hair-thin wires to the central processor he'd built from scratch.
The leg actuators, composed of a memory alloy that responded to electrical impulses, were slotted into the main chassis.
He carefully installed the minuscule hydrogen fuel cell, a piece of tech that shouldn't exist for decades, but it was like a piece of trash in Forge's workshop.
He then sealed the armored carapace, which was coated in a non-reflective, radar-absorbent material.
Finally, he placed the spider on the workbench and initiated the boot-up sequence.
A tiny, red light on its cephalothorax glowed to life. It twitched, then, with a series of precise, skittering movements, it righted itself.
It took a few experimental steps, its movements growing more fluid and smooth.
A wave of pure, unadulterated joy washed over Adam. The stress and all the calculations were replaced by the visage of a child who had just brought his most ambitious dream to life.
He grinned, a wide, genuine expression, and used a handheld controller to guide the spider through a simple obstacle course of tools and components.
It navigated with stunning agility.
Forge watched from his station, a rare, faint smile touching his lips. The kid was an enigma; sometimes a traumatized soul, other times a brilliant, enthusiastic prodigy discovering the magic of creation.
"It's smooth," Adam said, his voice bright with excitement. "But the gait is still slightly unstable on uneven surfaces. The inertial dampener needs tweaking. Any advice?"
Forge gestured for him to bring the spider over, and the two fell into a deep technical discussion, Forge pointing out subtleties in the feedback algorithms that Adam had missed.
Hours melted away until a chronometer on the wall chimed, signaling the start of combat training.
Adam carefully powered down his mechanical creation and headed for the Danger Room.
The roster for Wolverine's sessions was small. Today, it was Kitty Pryde, Rogue, and Bobby Drake, aka Iceman. To Adam's slight surprise, Nightcrawler was also there, stretching his tail.
"Kurt? Slumming it with the trainees?" Adam asked as he entered.
Nightcrawler grinned, his sharp teeth flashing. "One can never have too much training, mein freund. Especially from a teacher as… direct as Logan."
Adam nodded a greeting to the group, his eyes lingering for a moment on Rogue.
She was looking at him with a strange, unreadable intensity. He sat down next to Bobby and Kurt.
"Hey, man," Bobby said. "Seriously, why don't you ever come to, you know, actual classes? History? English?"
Adam gave a dismissive wave. "A waste of time. I can absorb the curriculum in a week. Do you even learn anything of significance there?"
"Oh, come on, some history's bound to be useful someday," It seemed like Bobby just needed the company in history class.
Adam raised a brow. He faintly remembered that this guy is gay, but he wasn't sure, 'Does he have his eyes on my handsome self, predictable? Unfortunately for him, I'm Techsexual.'
He chuckled at his own internal jokes before responding, "Nah, not interested in talking about the political and economic state of the world."
As the boys talked, Kitty nudged Rogue, following her gaze. A mischievous smirk spread across her face.
She leaned in, whispering, "Okay, what's with the look? I thought you had a thing for the ice cube. Did you suddenly develop a taste for the brooding, mysterious type?"
Rogue didn't answer. She was completely zoned out, lost in her own thoughts, the morning's events and Adam's words still replaying in her mind.
Before Kitty could pry further, the door hissed open. Jean Grey and Cyclops walked in, both in training gear.
"Change of plans, everyone," Cyclops announced, his voice authoritative. "Logan's been called away on an emergency. He'll be out for the week. Jean and I will be running your sessions from now on."
There was a general murmur of acceptance. Adam, however, looked directly at Jean, a hopeful glint in his eye. "Jean," He said, his tone cutting through the chatter. "Are you free tomorrow?"
Jean blinked, caught off guard by the directness. "I should be, yes. Why?"
Adam's expression brightened, and as if he were stating a simple, logical fact, he said, "Would you like to go out with me tomorrow?"