It’s too experimental…
Professor Charles Xavier may not have a doctorate in psychology, but he is pretty goddamn sure he’s going insane.
Reclamation of mobility would require an absolute reworking of the cells…
Hands shaking, sweat dripping from his brow, he stares at the whiskey cabinet across his room.
Our best bet would be DNA from…
It’s the thought of her that keeps him going, drifting to the cabinet like a lost soul to the Fields of Punishment. She’d be proud.
…as for the substitute, I wouldn’t recommend…
Charles opens the cabinet and pulls out a bottle, dusty with age. He longs for the absinthe, the bitter revival of taste upon tongue-tip, the smooth, smoky droplets to soothe his dry throat.
Professor, I don’t think…
He doesn’t think. He pops the cork.
Takes a sip.
Takes another.
Toxicity is very high…
Tilts his head back and knocks the entire fucking bottle down his throat.
Risk of heartburn…
He feels the liquid scorch its way down.
Risk of seizure…
Feels himself lose grasp of his body in its entirety, then snap back, as fast and painful as the crack of a whip.
Risk of death.
He throws his head forward with a watery, ragged gasp, slamming the empty bottle onto the table.
It cracks in his hand.
He slumps forward in his chair, his hair covering his eyes, and stays there a long, long time.