Once everyone had their essays back and finished the obligatory emotional processing—celebration, despair, existential crisis about their academic future, questioning all their life choices, wondering if college was even worth it, the usual teenage Tuesday morning experience—Patterson hopped up to sit on the edge of his desk with his coffee mug, which proclaimed "I'm silently correcting your grammar" in Comic Sans, which was possibly the most English-teacher thing Marcus had ever seen in his entire life.
"Alright. The trial scene," Patterson said, taking a long sip of what was definitely his fourth or possibly seventh cup of coffee today. "Atticus Finch defending Tom Robinson despite knowing the deck is completely stacked, the verdict is absolutely predetermined, and he's about to become Maycomb County's least popular white guy and possibly get himself killed. Which, you know, in 1930s Alabama is *really* saying something. So let's start with a deceptively simple question that's actually super complicated and has been debated by scholars for decades: what's the difference between law and justice in this novel, and why should we care beyond just, like, wanting to pass this class and maintain our GPAs?"
Several hands shot up immediately. Patterson called on Emma, who launched into a surprisingly solid observation about how legal systems can be technically correct while being morally bankrupt, which somehow spiraled into an increasingly heated class debate about procedural versus substantive justice, which then took a weird left turn into whether Atticus was actually *helping* or just making himself feel better about participating in systemic oppression while maintaining his privileged position in a white supremacist society.
"Okay, hold on," said Jake from the middle row. "Are we saying Atticus is actually *bad* now? Because that seems like a reach."
"Nobody's saying he's *bad*," Emma countered. "We're saying that individual acts of courage don't actually dismantle systemic oppression, and maybe we should interrogate whether Atticus's actions actually changed anything or just made white people feel better about themselves."
"But he literally defended an innocent man!" Jake protested.
"And that man still got convicted and then killed," Emma shot back. "So what did Atticus actually accomplish besides maintaining his own moral purity?"
"Oh *damn*," Trevor said from the back. "Emma's going *in* today."
"Mr. Lawson, your contribution has been noted," Patterson said dryly. "But Emma raises a good point. What's the actual material impact of Atticus's defense? Does moral courage matter if it doesn't produce concrete results?"
Marcus participated in this debate, but *carefully*. Offering just enough insight to demonstrate he'd done the reading and actually thought critically about it, but stopping *well* short of the kind of analysis that would make Patterson wonder why a sixteen-year-old transfer student was talking like he'd just defended his dissertation at Yale while also possibly reading critical race theory in his spare time.
It was genuinely exhausting, honestly. Like being a professional athlete who had to constantly pretend they'd never played the sport before while also making sure they didn't accidentally reveal they could bench-press a small car or run at superhuman speeds.
"Mr. D'Ancanto," Patterson said during a natural lull in the discussion, his eyes sharp with that specific brand of teacher-curiosity that meant he was about to put Marcus on the spot, "you've been *suspiciously* quiet considering that essay you just turned in that made me question my entire understanding of what high school students are capable of and also possibly my effectiveness as an educator. What's your take? Is Atticus actually making a meaningful difference, or is he just the world's most well-intentioned participant in an unjust system who gets to feel good about himself while nothing fundamentally changes and Black people keep dying?"
*Oh good. Put me on the spot. Love that. That's my favorite thing. Really thrilled about this development.*
Marcus felt Beast's intellect immediately organizing about forty-seven different analytical frameworks—narratology, historical materialism, postcolonial theory, psychoanalytic criticism, reader-response theory, New Historicism, feminist critique, Marxist analysis, critical race theory, and possibly some quantum physics just for fun—but deliberately dialed it way, *way* back to something that sounded like a bright high school junior instead of someone who'd stolen a genius-level IQ and literally couldn't turn it off even if he wanted to.
"Well," he said, letting the drawl come through strong and syrupy because it helped camouflage the fact that his brain was currently operating at frequencies that normal humans literally couldn't access, "I think what Lee's really gettin' at—and this is the part that makes the novel so powerful and also so frustratin' to modern readers—is that doin' the right thing ain't always about winnin' or achievin' some measurable success or even actually changin' the system. Sometimes it's about maintainin' your integrity and your principles even when the outcome's already decided and you know you're gonna fail spectacularly. Atticus knows he's gonna lose. Everyone in that courtroom knows he's gonna lose. The *reader* knows he's gonna lose because we've all seen how this story ends. But he's teachin' Scout and Jem through his actions that courage isn't just physical bravery—it's moral courage. It's standin' up for what's right even when you *know* you're gonna fail, because the alternative is lettin' injustice happen without any resistance at all, and that's exactly how broken systems stay broken generation after generation."
"Okay, but—" Jake started.
"*However*," Marcus continued, because apparently he was on a roll now, "Emma's right that we gotta interrogate whether individual moral courage actually accomplishes anything beyond making the courageous person feel better about themselves. Tom Robinson still dies. The system doesn't change. White supremacy continues unchecked. So is Atticus a hero, or is he just performin' heroism for an audience while Black people keep sufferin'?"
"OH DAMN," Trevor said again. "Country boy's got *layers*."
"Mr. Lawson, I swear to God—" Patterson started.
"Sorry, Mr. Patterson."
"*YES*," Patterson said, ignoring Trevor and pointing at Marcus like he'd just personally solved world hunger and also possibly discovered cold fusion. "Okay, so expand on that tension. How does Lee navigate the space between individual moral action and systemic change?"
"Well, Lee's showin' us that systemic injustice gets maintained and perpetuated through individual choices to either resist or accommodate oppression," Marcus continued, carefully moderating his language to avoid sounding like he was reading directly from an academic journal or possibly testifying before Congress. "Most people go along with racism because it's easier and more socially acceptable and doesn't threaten their position in the community or their safety. Atticus stands out because he *refuses* to participate in the community's racism even though that resistance makes his life significantly harder and puts him and his children at social and possibly physical risk. But—and this is crucial—his resistance is still workin' within the system. He's not dismantlin' the system, he's just refusin' to actively participate in its worst elements. Which raises the question: is that enough? Is individual moral courage sufficient, or do we need collective action and actual systemic change?"
Around him, several students were nodding enthusiastically like he'd just articulated something they'd been feeling but couldn't quite express. Patterson looked like Marcus had just validated his entire existence as an educator and possibly his decision to go into teaching instead of literally any other career that paid better.
Emma was staring at him with newfound respect. "Okay, that was actually really good."
"Country boy's been holdin' out on us," Trevor added.
"Mr. Lawson, if you speak again without raising your hand, I'm assigning you another essay," Patterson said without looking at him.
Trevor's hand shot up.
"Yes, Trevor?"
"I just wanted to say that Marcus's point was valid and I appreciated his contribution to our intellectual discourse."
"Thank you, Trevor. Very sincere."
"*THAT*," Patterson said, gesturing with his coffee mug in a way that suggested he was having a genuine transcendent moment, "*that* is exactly—EXACTLY—the kind of critical thinking I'm trying to cultivate in this class. Lee isn't just telling us a historical story about racism in the Depression-era South that happened a long time ago in a place far away that doesn't matter anymore—she's making a contemporary argument about personal responsibility and our ethical obligations to actively resist injustice in whatever context we find ourselves, while also acknowledging the limitations of individual action. We can't all be Atticus Finch defending innocent people in court, but we can all make daily choices about whether we're gonna be complicit in or resistant to the various forms of injustice we encounter. And we can also ask ourselves whether individual resistance is enough or whether we need to work toward actual systemic change. Excellent work, Marcus. Seriously. Like, I'm genuinely impressed."
"Does this mean I can write my next essay about how Atticus is actually kind of useless?" Jake asked.
"If you can support that thesis with textual evidence and sophisticated analysis, sure," Patterson said. "But spoiler alert: you probably can't, because you didn't even finish the reading last time."
"Harsh but fair," Jake admitted.
The discussion continued for the rest of the period—students building on each other's observations, occasionally disagreeing in productive ways that actually resembled real intellectual discourse, Patterson skillfully guiding them toward increasingly complex analysis without making it feel like he was just lecturing at them—and Marcus participated just enough to stay engaged without dominating the conversation.
It was like trying to throw a baseball game without making it *obvious* you were throwing the baseball game while also making sure you still looked like you knew how to play baseball and weren't just randomly swinging at air.
When the bell finally rang, Marcus gathered his stuff with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been navigating high school class transitions for weeks now and had it down to a literal science. He was halfway to the door, mentally preparing for Advanced Biology and whatever fresh hell that would inevitably bring, when he spotted Duncan Matthews leaning against the wall outside.
Arms crossed. Jaw set. Shoulders squared. Expression radiating the kind of aggressive douchebag energy that apparently came factory-installed with high school quarterbacks like some kind of unfortunate default setting that couldn't be changed.
*Oh goddammit. Not this shit again. Really? Right now? I have places to be.*
"D'Ancanto," Duncan said as Marcus approached, his tone carrying that specific brand of jock hostility that stayed *just* within the bounds of acceptable hallway conversation while still managing to sound vaguely threatening, like he'd literally workshopped it in front of a mirror. "Got a minute? We need to talk. It's important."
"Sure," Marcus replied with the kind of careful neutrality that said *I'm willing to be civil but I'm absolutely not gonna pretend we're friends or that I'm not aware you're about to start some shit*. "What's on your mind, Duncan? Make it quick though, I got class."
Duncan waited until they were slightly away from the main traffic flow—which Marcus's enhanced senses immediately registered as *definitely planning to say something confrontational and doesn't want witnesses or teachers overhearing*—before squaring up like he was about to drop some devastating truth bomb that would change everything forever.
"Okay, look, I'm just gonna be straight with you," Duncan said, his voice dropping to that aggressive confidential tone that high school alpha males apparently thought made them sound intimidating instead of just deeply insecure and possibly unhinged. "I don't buy your relationship with Jean. Like, *at all*. Not even a little bit. Not even remotely. The timeline's too convenient, the Instagram post was *way* too perfectly timed and the caption was too carefully worded, and the whole thing feels less like genuine romance and more like some kind of tactical social maneuver executed by people who are way, *way* too good at this kind of thing."
"Okay," Marcus said simply, because engaging with Duncan's elaborate conspiracy theories would only make this conversation longer and infinitely more annoying than it absolutely needed to be, and he genuinely did have class to get to. "You're entitled to your opinion about my relationship status. That's fine. America's great like that. First Amendment and all."
"See, *THAT*!" Duncan practically shouted, then caught himself and lowered his voice again, glancing around to make sure no teachers were witnessing this increasingly unhinged confrontation. "That right there! *That* is exactly what I mean! You're not defensive, you're not offended, you're not even *remotely* bothered that I just fundamentally questioned the legitimacy of your relationship with one of the hottest girls in school. You're just... neutrally acknowledging my skepticism like you're a goddamn lawyer deposing a hostile witness in some high-stakes corporate litigation. That's not how actual boyfriends react when someone challenges their relationship, man. That's not normal human behavior. That's how *operatives* react when someone gets too close to the truth they're trying to hide."
*Oh shit. He's not wrong. That's... actually a pretty astute observation for someone whose primary skill set involves throwing a ball and being generally douchey.*
"What you're seein'," Marcus replied, letting the drawl thicken to maximum levels because it made him sound less threatening and more 'simple country boy just tryin' to live his life without unnecessary drama', "is two people who've been datin' for three weeks and are still figurin' out how to navigate basic relationship dynamics while also managin' the complicated transition to attendin' civilian school together after spendin' our whole lives in private education. We're not performin' for your benefit, Duncan. We're just two teenagers tryin' to have a normal relationship despite the fact that apparently everyone at this entire school is deeply, intensely invested in whether or not we're actually together, which is honestly kinda weird if you think about it."
"*BULLSHIT*," Duncan said flatly, his face flushing with genuine anger that he wasn't even trying to hide anymore. "Normal teenagers don't post Instagram captions about finally finding someone who 'actually listens'—with that *specific* phrasing, by the way, like it was carefully workshopped by a PR team—*immediately* after turning down another guy's party invitation. Normal teenagers don't go from keeping their relationship completely private and secret for three entire weeks to suddenly making it very public at the *exact precise moment* that serves maximum tactical benefit for shutting down unwanted romantic attention. The timing's too perfect, D'Ancanto. *Way* too perfect. Like, statistically suspicious levels of perfect. It's like you planned it."
"Maybe because we *did* plan it?" Marcus said, deciding to try a different approach. "Jean wanted to make our relationship public, we talked about when would be a good time to do it, and we decided together. That's what couples do, Duncan. They communicate and make decisions together. It's not a conspiracy, it's just basic relationship management."
"Oh, so you *admit* it was calculated!" Duncan said triumphantly, like he'd just won some kind of debate.
"I admit that we talked about when to post on Instagram, yes," Marcus said slowly, like he was explaining something to a particularly dim child. "That's... that's normal, man. That's what people do. They don't just randomly post stuff without thinkin' about it first."
"But the *timing*—"
"The timin' was when Jean felt comfortable makin' it public," Marcus interrupted. "Which happened to be after you wouldn't take no for an answer. Correlation doesn't equal causation, but sometimes the correlation is there because the causation is *super obvious*."
Duncan's jaw tightened so hard Marcus could literally hear his teeth grinding together. His whole posture shifted toward genuine anger beneath the carefully maintained high-school-quarterback-alpha-male facade that was clearly his default operating mode and probably his entire personality.
"You think you're *so* goddamn clever, don't you?" Duncan said, voice dropping to something just above a whisper but somehow way more threatening for it, like he was barely containing actual rage. "Transfer student from bumfuck-nowhere Mississippi with the whole folksy country-boy-charm routine, somehow managing to lock down one of the hottest, most popular girls in the entire school within *three weeks* of showing up. Three *weeks*, man. Do you understand how statistically improbable that is? That's not romance, that's not a meet-cute, that's not fate or destiny or any of that Hallmark movie bullshit—that's a *heist*. That's *Ocean's Eleven* but for high school dating. It's too perfect. Too convenient. Too strategically executed with too many moving parts and too much coordination. And I'm going to *prove* it."
"Prove what, exactly?" Marcus asked, his enhanced physiology automatically preparing for potential physical confrontation despite his brain screaming that fighting in school hallways would create approximately one million more problems than it would solve and also probably get him expelled and also Logan would be *so disappointed*.
"That your relationship with Jean is *fake*," Duncan said with the kind of determined conviction that suggested he'd already committed significant emotional and probably financial resources to this theory and was way too invested to back down now even if presented with overwhelming evidence to the contrary. "That you two manufactured this entire relationship specifically to make me back off, and you're maintaining the elaborate deception through carefully coordinated social media posts and meticulously planned public couple behavior that doesn't actually reflect genuine emotional connection. I'm going to watch you. Both of you. I'm going to pay *very* close attention to every single interaction, every inconsistency, every moment where the performance slips and you act like tactical partners executing a mission instead of people who are actually in love with each other. And when I find the proof—and trust me, I *will* find it, it's only a matter of time—I'm going to expose both of you publicly so everyone at this school knows that Jean Grey played manipulative games instead of being honest about not being interested, and you helped her do it like some kind of accomplice."
*Oh, you dramatic, obsessive, deeply concerning asshole with way too much time on your hands and possibly some serious boundary issues we should probably be worried about.*
"Duncan," Marcus said, dropping the friendly drawl entirely and letting some of Logan's combat-instructor intensity bleed through his voice in a way that made the temperature in the hallway drop about five degrees and made Duncan actually take a half-step back, "I'm gonna say this exactly once, and I need you to actually *hear* what I'm sayin' instead of just waitin' for your turn to talk or mentally rehearsin' your next argument or whatever the hell you're doin' in that head of yours. Jean and I are together. Whether you choose to believe that's genuine or fabricated doesn't actually change the fundamental reality that she is not interested in datin' you. She's not interested in your parties. She's not interested in your attention. She's not interested in your whole *thing*. She's not playin' hard to get. She's just *not interested*. Full stop. End of sentence. And spendin' your time and energy tryin' to prove our relationship is fake isn't gonna make her suddenly decide you're the better option—it's just gonna make you look obsessive and deeply concernin' to everyone who witnesses this increasingly unhinged behavior."
"I am *NOT* obsessive," Duncan protested, though his increasingly defensive tone suggested he was at least dimly aware that his behavior had crossed several lines into deeply problematic stalker territory that would absolutely not hold up well if examined by any reasonable third party or possibly a court of law. "I'm just not willing to be *manipulated* by some elaborate social deception specifically designed to make me look like an asshole for pursuing someone who might have actually been interested but was pretending not to be because teenage girls play games and send mixed signals and you can never really tell what they're thinking and—"
"Jesus *Christ*," Marcus muttered, actually rubbing his entire face with both hands in genuine disbelief at what he was hearing. "Duncan. Buddy. Pal. My guy. My dude. I'm gonna use really small words here so there's absolutely zero confusion or ambiguity or room for misinterpretation: Jean was *never* interested in you. Not pretendin'. Not playin' hard to get. Not waitin' for you to prove yourself worthy of her attention through some kind of extended courtship ritual like this is a Jane Austen novel or a medieval romance. She told you *directly*—with actual words from her actual mouth using clear, explicit language—that she was not interested in datin' you. Multiple times. In increasingly explicit language that should have left no room for confusion. And rather than respectin' that clearly stated boundary like a normal, well-adjusted human being with basic social skills, you're constructin' elaborate conspiracy theories about fake relationships to protect your ego from the reality of straightforward rejection."
Duncan's whole face flushed red, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, his shoulders tensing like he was legitimately considering whether punching Marcus would be worth the inevitable suspension and possible assault charges and having to explain to college recruiters why he got expelled senior year.
"You arrogant son of a—"
"Mr. Matthews! Mr. D'Ancanto!"
Both of them froze mid-confrontation and turned to find Mr. Patterson standing in his classroom doorway with his arms crossed, his coffee mug dangling precariously from one hand, and his expression radiating that specific brand of teacher disappointment that was somehow infinitely worse than anger or yelling or any actual punishment.
"Unless you gentlemen are planning to attend my next class—which, let me just check my roster here real quick, oh look at that, *neither of you are enrolled in* and also this class is for juniors and you're both seniors—I *strongly* suggest you move along to your fourth-period destinations immediately. The bell rang *six minutes ago*, and while I genuinely appreciate passionate intellectual discourse and healthy debate about important topics, I absolutely do not appreciate it happening in my hallway when you should both be literally anywhere else. *Also*, Mr. Matthews, I'm reasonably certain I just heard you about to use some *extremely colorful language*, and I'm gonna need you to not do that within my earshot unless you want to have a very unpleasant conversation with Principal Kelly about why you were verbally abusing another student in the English hallway on a Tuesday morning while also being extremely late to your own class."
Duncan shot Marcus one final glare that promised *this conversation is absolutely not over and I'm coming for you and your fake relationship and I will expose you both*, then stalked off down the hallway with the aggressive body language of someone who'd just lost an argument but would literally rather die than admit it to anyone including himself.
Marcus watched him go with his enhanced senses tracking the quarterback's movements, elevated heart rate, stress hormones, muscle tension, and general likelihood of doing something stupid for any signs of immediate escalation toward actual violence.
"Everything okay there?" Patterson asked, his concerned-teacher voice fully activated as he stepped out into the hallway and lowered his voice. "Because that looked... *intense*. And not in the fun 'passionate debate about literature and symbolism and thematic elements' way. More in the 'someone might throw a punch in my hallway and create an incident report I'll have to file and possibly a lawsuit the school will have to deal with' way."
"Just some social tension about relationship dynamics and teenage drama," Marcus replied with diplomatic vagueness that would make Charles Xavier genuinely proud and possibly want to recruit him for the diplomatic corps. "Nothin' I can't handle on my own, sir."
"Uh-huh," Patterson said, clearly not buying it but also clearly aware that teenage boys were absolutely not known for their willingness to discuss emotional conflict with authority figures or really anyone. "Well, if it *becomes* something you can't handle on your own, my door is always open. Like, genuinely always open. I'm here till four most days. Sometimes having a neutral third party can help navigate complicated interpersonal situations before they escalate into something that requires administrative intervention, guidance counselor involvement, parental phone calls, police reports, and possibly restraining orders. Just... you know. Throwing that out there as an option you should seriously consider."
"Appreciated, sir," Marcus said sincerely. "Though I'm hopin' this particular situation resolves itself naturally once Duncan accepts the reality that Jean and I are actually together and his continued investigation is just gonna make him look increasingly unhinged to everyone who's payin' attention, which is basically everyone at this point."
Patterson nodded slowly, taking a long sip of his coffee while clearly processing the subtext of that entire interaction. "Just be careful, Marcus. High school relationship drama has this nasty habit of becoming *actual* drama if people aren't mature about handling their emotions and their egos. And between you and me? Duncan Matthews has never been particularly mature about handling his emotions or his ego. Kid's got serious main character syndrome mixed with some genuinely concerning possessive tendencies that honestly worry me as an educator and also as a human being."
"I've noticed," Marcus said dryly.
"Yeah, I bet you have," Patterson said. "Look, I'm not gonna tell you how to handle your personal life, but maybe... I don't know, maybe avoid being alone with him? And if he escalates, you come straight to me or another teacher. Don't try to handle it yourself."
"Yes sir."
"Alright, get to class before you're even later than you already are," Patterson said, but not unkindly. "And try not to let Duncan's whole *obsessive investigation thing* distract you from maintaining that genuinely excellent academic performance, okay? I'm serious about that—your work is really impressive and I don't want teenage drama derailing your potential or your college applications or your future."
"Yes sir," Marcus said again, already heading toward his fourth-period Advanced Biology class at maximum speed, which was now on the completely opposite end of the building because apparently the universe personally hated him and wanted him to suffer and also be late to everything.
As he walked—practically jogged, honestly, because he was legitimately late now and Dr. McCoy would *notice*—his enhanced intellect processed the full implications of Duncan's threats with the kind of tactical analysis that Beast's stolen brain made completely unavoidable even when he really didn't want to think about it.
The quarterback wasn't *wrong* about the inconsistencies. Marcus and Jean *were* performing couple behavior without the underlying emotional foundation that genuine relationships naturally developed over time through shared experiences and genuine intimacy. They were *good* at it—Jean's telepathy giving her unprecedented insight into what people expected to see, Marcus's enhanced observational skills letting him read micro-expressions and body language with superhuman accuracy—but someone paying extremely close attention with genuine motivation to find inconsistencies and also possibly way too much free time *would* eventually notice the disconnects. The moments where their performance slipped. The subtle ways they interacted like teammates executing a carefully planned mission instead of people actually in love with each other.
*If Duncan's genuinely committed to exposing us,* Marcus thought grimly as he speed-walked through increasingly empty hallways while his enhanced senses tracked potential obstacles and the fastest route to McCoy's classroom, *we're gonna need to either dramatically improve our performance to eliminate the observable inconsistencies or hope he gives up before collecting enough evidence to make his case stick publicly and also convincingly. And given what I just witnessed—the determination, the anger, the genuine conviction, the borderline stalker energy—'giving up' does not seem to be anywhere in Duncan Matthews's emotional vocabulary or his general approach to life.*
Through the various mental connections and empathic bonds that came with being part of Xavier's merry band of teenage mutant operatives trying to pass as normal civilians, Marcus could sense the broader situation developing across campus—Jean managing her own morning classes while dealing with social dynamics and probably giving some poor telepathic stalker a migraine through sheer psychic irritation, Scott maintaining hostile distance while radiating jealous disapproval so intense it was practically visible to the naked eye and possibly causing actual temperature drops, Rogue monitoring everything with sisterly concern mixed with growing amusement at the sheer absurdity of the entire situation, and the entire student population watching with varying degrees of investment in whether Marcus and Jean's relationship was real or the most elaborate social manipulation Bayville High had ever witnessed.
*One class at a time,* Marcus reminded himself as he finally reached Dr. McCoy's Advanced Biology classroom and slipped inside with what he desperately hoped was an appropriately apologetic expression. *Maintain cover identity, suppress enhanced capabilities to socially appropriate levels, don't accidentally reveal that you can literally see individual cells with your enhanced vision or that you understand cellular biology better than most medical professionals, and try not to let Duncan Matthews's obsessive investigation create genuine complications for a tactical arrangement that's already generatin' way more unexpected emotional entanglement than literally anyone planned for or anticipated or wanted.*
Dr. McCoy looked up from the whiteboard where he'd been drawing what appeared to be an extremely detailed diagram of cellular respiration. "Ah, Mr. D'Ancanto. How kind of you to join us. I trust there was a compelling reason for your tardiness?"
"Got held up in the hallway, Dr. McCoy," Marcus said, sliding into his seat. "My apologies."
"Indeed. Well, since you're here now, perhaps you can tell us about the role of the mitochondrial matrix in the citric acid cycle?"
*Oh good. A pop quiz. Love that. That's exactly what I needed right now.*
Marcus took a breath, carefully calibrating his response to be correct but not *too* correct, knowledgeable but not suspiciously so. "The mitochondrial matrix is where the citric acid cycle takes place. It's got all the enzymes needed for the cycle, and it's where acetyl-CoA gets oxidized to produce NADH and FADH2, which then get used in the electron transport chain for ATP production."
Dr. McCoy raised an eyebrow. "Adequate. Though I notice you didn't mention the specific enzymes involved."
"Didn't want to show off, sir," Marcus said with a slight grin.
Several students laughed. Dr. McCoy's expression suggested he was trying very hard not to smile.
"Very well. Miss Peterson, perhaps you can elaborate on Mr. D'Ancanto's answer?"
As the lesson continued, Marcus found himself genuinely grateful for the distraction of actual academic content that he could engage with without constant social performance management. Biology was straightforward. Cellular respiration didn't care about fake relationships or jealous quarterbacks or complicated social dynamics. It just *worked*, following predictable chemical pathways that his enhanced intellect could map with perfect clarity.
Of course, that also meant he had to constantly stop himself from answering every question or offering insights that would reveal he understood the material at a graduate level.
*This is my life now,* Marcus thought as he took notes on the Krebs cycle that he already completely understood. *Pretendin' to be dumber than I am in English, pretendin' to be less observant than I am in social situations, pretendin' my relationship with Jean is real when it's tactical, and also dealin' with a quarterback who's decided exposin' us is his personal mission from God.*
Through his empathic connection with Jean, he could sense her amusement at his predicament mixed with her own frustration at the Duncan situation.
*Having fun?* her mental voice touched his mind, light and teasing.
*Oh yeah, tons,* Marcus thought back. *Duncan just threatened to expose us in the hallway outside Patterson's class. Also Patterson thinks my essays are suspiciously good and might be concerned about my mental health.*
*Duncan cornered you?* Jean's mental tone shifted to something more serious. *Are you okay?*
*Fine. He's all talk. Though he's not wrong about the inconsistencies in our performance. We might need to up our game.*
*Or we could just tell him to fuck off,* Jean suggested.
*That's definitely an option. Though probably not the most diplomatic one.*
*Since when do you care about diplomacy?*
*Since Logan said if I get in another fight at school he's makin' me run the Danger Room obstacle course every day for a month.*
*Fair point.*
Their mental conversation was interrupted by Dr. McCoy calling on Marcus again, this time asking about the electron transport chain. Marcus answered—correctly but not *too* correctly—and tried to focus on the actual lesson instead of the complicated web of social performance he was trapped in.
The rest of class passed without incident, though Marcus could feel several students watching him with varying degrees of curiosity. Word about the Duncan confrontation had apparently spread already, because high school hallways had better information networks than most intelligence agencies.
When the bell rang, Marcus gathered his stuff quickly, hoping to avoid any more confrontations before lunch. He made it approximately fifteen feet down the hallway before someone called his name.
"Yo, D'Ancanto!"
Marcus turned to find Trevor from his English class jogging to catch up, along with two other guys Marcus vaguely recognized from around school.
*Oh good. More social interaction. Exactly what I wanted.*
"Hey Trevor," Marcus said cautiously.
"Dude, is it true Duncan Matthews cornered you outside Patterson's class and threatened to expose your relationship with Jean Grey?" Trevor asked with the kind of eager curiosity that suggested this was the most exciting thing to happen at school all week.
"Word travels fast," Marcus observed.
"This is high school, man. Word travels at light speed," one of Trevor's friends said. "So is it true?"
"Duncan has some... theories about my relationship with Jean," Marcus said diplomatically. "I'd prefer not to get into it."
"Theories like what?" Trevor pressed. "Some people are saying he thinks it's fake. Like, that you guys made it up to make him back off."
"Some people need hobbies," Marcus said dryly.
"But is it fake though?" Trevor's other friend asked. "Because that would be like, legendary levels of social manipulation. Respect if true."
"It's not fake," Marcus said firmly. "Jean and I are together. Duncan's just... havin' trouble acceptin' that she's not interested in him."
"Damn, that's cold," Trevor said, but he was grinning. "I mean, good for you, but also Duncan Matthews is not gonna take that well. Guy's used to getting what he wants."
"Yeah, well, he can't have Jean," Marcus said. "She's not interested. End of story."
"Except it's not the end, is it?" Trevor said. "Because now Duncan's on some kind of investigation mission. This is gonna be drama all semester."
*That's exactly what I'm afraid of,* Marcus thought, but out loud he just said, "Hopefully he gets bored and moves on."
"Dude, this is *Duncan Matthews*," Trevor's friend said. "He doesn't get bored. He gets even. Remember when Jake accidentally scratched his car junior year? Duncan made his life hell for like three months."
"Great," Marcus muttered. "That's super encouraging."
"Just watch your back, man," Trevor said, more seriously now. "Duncan's got a lot of friends on the football team, and they're loyal. If he decides you're the enemy, it could get ugly."
"Noted," Marcus said. "Thanks for the warning."
As Trevor and his friends headed off to their next class, Marcus felt his enhanced senses tracking movement behind him. He turned to find Scott Summers leaning against a locker about twenty feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable behind his ruby quartz glasses.
*Oh perfect. Because this day wasn't complicated enough.*
Scott pushed off the locker and walked over, his body language radiating barely contained hostility mixed with what might have been concern.
"Heard Duncan's causing problems," Scott said without preamble.
"News travels fast," Marcus said for the second time in five minutes.
"This school's rumor mill is more efficient than the CIA," Scott said. "Are you okay? Did he threaten you?"
Marcus studied Scott carefully, trying to figure out if this was genuine concern or just an excuse to talk to him. "I'm fine. Duncan's just... upset about the Jean situation."
"Yeah, I heard," Scott said, his jaw tightening. "Also heard he thinks your relationship is fake."
"He's wrong."
"Is he?" Scott asked, and there was something sharp in his tone that made Marcus's enhanced senses go on alert.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Scott said, lowering his voice, "that I've known Jean for years. And I can tell when something's off. I don't know what you two are doing, but—"
"Scott." Marcus kept his voice level. "Jean and I are together. I know that bothers you, and I'm sorry, but it's the truth. Whatever you think you're seein', you're wrong."
Scott stared at him for a long moment, and Marcus genuinely couldn't tell what he was thinking behind those glasses. Finally, Scott said, "If you hurt her, we're gonna have problems."
"I'm not gonna hurt her," Marcus said sincerely. "I promise."
"Yeah, well, I've heard that before," Scott muttered, then walked away without another word, leaving Marcus standing in the hallway feeling like he'd just navigated a minefield blindfolded.
*Because apparently fake datin' Jean Grey while attendin' civilian high school wasn't complicated enough without addin' a hostile quarterback determined to expose us AND a jealous ex-boyfriend who's suspicious AND the entire school watchin' our every move AND—*
*Marcus.* Jean's mental voice cut through his spiral. *Breathe. It's gonna be fine.*
*How is this fine?* Marcus thought back. *Duncan's investigatin' us, Scott's suspicious, the whole school's watchin', and we're one slip-up away from this entire thing collapsin'.*
*So we don't slip up,* Jean said simply. *We're good at this, remember? We can handle Duncan Matthews.*
*Can we though?*
*Yes,* Jean said with absolute certainty. *Trust me. We've got this. Now get to lunch before you're late for that too.*
Marcus took a breath, then another, then headed toward the cafeteria, trying to project confidence he didn't entirely feel.
*Just another Tuesday mornin' at Bayville High School,* he thought grimly. *Where normal teenage concerns coexisted with tactical social warfare, stolen superhuman intelligence, psychic girlfriends who weren't actually girlfriends, jealous ex-boyfriends radiating suspicion, obsessive quarterbacks conducting surveillance operations, and the constant challenge of maintainin' performance consistency despite genuine emotional complexity developin' beneath the surface of calculated deception.*
*And where Duncan Matthews—that magnificent, obsessive, deeply concerning douchebag with apparently unlimited free time and resources—had decided to go full conspiracy theorist and make exposin' our fake relationship his personal mission from God or possibly just his bruised ego.*
*Perfect. Absolutely perfect.*
*This was fine. Everything was fine.*
*Probably.*
*Maybe.*
*Okay, definitely not fine, but fake it till you make it, right?*
*Right.*
*...Right?*
---
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