The Caged: I.

Late nights, flickering computer screens, scribbles on a page. Continuous lines of numeric data wrote themselves on to the screen, a line of calculations that reached no reasonable conclusion. Mitchell Machiavelli sighed at the data in front of him, still uncertain as to how he could resolve the anomalies despite spending eleven hours pouring over numbers and text. His fingertips hurt from typing so much into the computer. It had been an exceedingly long night for the doctor, pouring over historical references and past patient files, throwing outdated files into the trash, comparing details and final conclusions to patients' files in a desperate bid to reach the end of an exceedingly long and seemingly unproductive night. He had to find a solution. There was a cure for everyone.

At least that's what he told himself; every single day he sat in front of his equipment, praying for some kind of retribution from the never-ending madness his life had so quickly become. It was a struggle that so many knew and understood, a power so great that it was nearly impossible for people to bond together in it. He knew what it felt like to be alone, feeble, uncertain, far beyond the point of self-help. The same emotions that all who entered the protected, closed-in town of Dallas had felt at one point in their lives; whether that be right at this moment in their unpredictable lives, or back when their powers made their first explosive appearance into their daily lives.

Everyone knew exactly where they were the moment the world had come crashing down around them so powerfully, whenever they were all instantly ostracised by the society that they had grown up in to, Mitch was sure of that. He remembered where he had been: he had a thin scar on his right arm acting as an unwelcome memento of the event. Kendrick had called him insane for even trying to get through to his patient that night. Mitch was quick to remind his friend that he was not exactly a sane man.

Which is why I'm still sitting here at this godforsaken hour, he thought gloomily. He typed in another lengthy code into the computer, pulling his microscope closer to him. His brow furrowed as he peered through the lens. The vast amount of information held within these cells remained locked inside, unable to penetrated by his medical mind, and it infuriated him down to the core. He had never failed in his research before, leaving the inability to find a conclusion weighing heavily on his mind. He peered up at the computer screen as it corrected the equations based on Mitch's latest entry, his eyes scanning in time with the typing. A brief stutter of typing signalled the arrival of a new answer that may or may not save him from another hour of studying and examining. The number flashing at the end caused the Italian to run his hands through his hair in frustration, resting them on the back of his head. The calculations were still 230 below what he had predicted, nowhere near close enough to resolve the hypothesis.

He didn't turn around when he heard the click of the door, the clap of fancy shoes on plastic flooring heading in the direction of his work station, but closed his eyes at the smell of fresh coffee. "That better be the finest Italian blends, Dallas."

He felt a rather hard slap on his shoulder as Kendrick placed the steaming mug down on the table. The reply was laced with laughter. "Be grateful I brought it to you at all, you bastard. I'm not even supposed to be here right now. Neither are you for that matter, but reasoning with you never brings a fruitful conclusion."

Picking up the mug and taking a quick sip from it, Mitch sighed blissfully. The bitter flavour warmed him from his head to his toes, a welcome relief to his weary mind. "What time is it?"

"Time you got a watch."

"Really, Kendrick? Toddler insults again?"

"Really, Mitch? An all-nighter again?"

Mitch looked up at the mayor, his friend, resting his elbows on the table in front of him. "You know why I do this, Kendrick. There's so much that we still don't know, so much that could be of benefit to our struggle. It's agonisingly close, almost in our grasp, yet we just can't tug it out."

"Trying to discover what's missing in your work with so little rest isn't going to make the job any easier," Kendrick replied sympathetically. "You've been working flat out trying to sort out Calla's optics, hoping to find the final cure, the vaccination that will restrain her blasts forever, but you've already given her something to maintain them for now. You don't need to keep working consistently to find the right cure for her."

"Yeah, Calla..." Mitch trailed off, his eyes focused on the numbers in front of him. Kendrick scoffed, throwing his hands up in the air.

"And there you are, away with the fairies again. You're going to wear yourself out, my friend, and I-"

"Shush," Mitch cut him off, waving his hand at him, his expression one of extreme concentration. There was something missing, a line of equations that had been missed, skipped over entirely. One error in an almost perfect line of thinking. If he only he could just see it...

"There!" he exclaimed suddenly, typing furiously as he rectified the mistake. Kendrick's hands found the back of Mitch's swivel chair, gripping on to it with piqued curiosity.

"What, what is it? Did you work it out?"

Mitch was too excited to speak, his stomach absolutely full to bursting with butterflies. He bashed the enter button with his fist, peering through the microscope again as he waited for the calculations to take place. Success was tantilisingly close now, he couldn't let it slip away. He checked the number on his notes, placing his finger on it to remind himself and to show Kendrick what his estimated solution was. Kendrick's eyes flickered to it briefly, before both doctors remained focused on the screen in front of them as the overheating computer filled out the final lines of the equation. It was almost within their grasp, one more cured mutant, one more correct answer.

The screen flickered briefly, before the number "728" flashed below the lines of maths.

Mitch threw his hands into the air with a groan, spinning in the chair as Kendrick took a step back and shook his head in disbelief. One simple numeric change had resulted in the initial failing of 230 below, to overshoot the mark by 274.

"All I need is for something around 454 to appear on that screen and I'll know that my medical degree wasn't in vain," he said with obvious exasperation.

"I could have sworn you'd nailed it there," Kendrick said, folding his arms across his chest. "How is it possible that adding another decimal place has caused it to shoot so far off in the other direction? Surely, it would cause a greater amount of division and therefore rectify the calculations."

"At this point, I don't know if I care any more, Dallas." Mitch was a hardened, mature man, but even he could feel the pain of his persistent failings warming up his eyes. He leant his head on his arms, resting on the table in defeat. "I could have found something important, Kendrick. Something worthwhile."

Kendrick could not help but watch helplessly as his friend crumbled before him. Large crowds of mutants or non-mutants he could reassure with great ease, if only to give himself a brief taste of respite before another onslaught of anger and fear began beating on his door. When it came to someone who meant a great deal to him, it was an entirely different matter. His levels of sympathy only seemed to extend themselves beyond his norm when they didn't involve those closest to this interior machinations.

"She holds all the answers, hidden deep within her. She... she could fix this..." Mitch trailed off, finally succumbing to his fatigue.

The mayor turned towards the door but stopped momentarily, a wave of confusion washing over him. What could Calla possibly have in her that could make things better? Optic blasts were not one of the most useful of abilities in his opinion, and he had seen and documented a vast number of abilities in his time. It was like Mitch was talking about a different ability entirely.

The cogs began turning in Kendrick's head with great speed, sudden awareness filling up his head. Taking a few tentative steps towards the table, briefly examing his colleague to ensure he was actually asleep, he slid the microscope slide out form under the light, bringing it up closer to read the patient number inscribed in the glass. A sad smile came over his face as he read a number that was definitely not Calla's UCB730. In fact, it was related to the girl in a manner of speaking, but in a more literal sense.

"CACAB29. Barton, Annalee."