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 <grin>  Written in response to  a story challenge posted
on CFAN’s Orphan Ideas board. A sort of what-if back history for the character.

                                    “Vortex” by Karen

        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
        bio-rthyms 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 speciality 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.

     “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 know,
       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-tury 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 panelled 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.

              “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 the 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.

       “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."