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01/11/2019 12:33 PM 

Quireverse Prologue

Re-Evaluation Part 2

The Omega Plan

Mind Manipulation and You

It was an idea. That was all. The tiniest little firing of a neuron. A miniscule spark on the vast sea of folded brain matter. Lighting the dark insides of the limited, and yet infinite, space within his mind. The world was run on such things and they often, like tonight, would wake young Quentin Quire from even the deepest of sleeps. He was a slave to it. When his mind got on a singular track. There was nothing to do but work it out until the thought ran out, or more likely, reached its conclusion.

His eyes snapped open. He had no idea what actual time it was. He had long given up the normal concept of ‘time’ in lieu of his own perception of it. But it was definitely dark out. Dawn approaching judging by the position of the stars he could see outside his bedroom, and their illumination level. Stars: 73% Hydrogen, 25% helium, .8% oxygen, .36% Carbon, .16% Iron, .12% neon, .09% Nitrogen, .07% silicon, .05% magnesium, .04% sulphur, .04% other materials. He reached for the night stand, his fingers finding and then curling around the plastic rim of his glasses. As he picked them up gently and placed them on his face as he sat up. Glasses were most likely the invention, or at least first wrote about by Alhezen of Cairo around the year 1000. Though many Americans incorrectly attribute it to Benjamin Franklin, who did however pioneer the idea of bifocal lenses. The calculations and ideas ran through his head like lightning, and there was no time to be wasted in the capturing of them.

Telekinetically, that would be the way. Often when he had ideas flowing in this fast, his clumsy fingers couldn’t keep up with the process. This just led to more frustration and having to retread old thoughts to make sure he got them right. Wasting time in situations like this was tantamount to the greatest of sins. So a pen ran across paper as a pencil simultaneously drew schematics on a nearby paper hooked into a drafting bench. The notebook was a tattered, dog eared moleskin with bite marks on the corner that would need to be explained some other time. The Moleskin company, while one of the most popular notebook brands in the world was actually only founded in 1997. The drew their inspiration from the kinds of books Van Gogh was known to sketch in.

Quentin Quire robotically slipped on black shorts and worn down Adidas as the work continued. Adidas was formed in the early 1900’s by Adolf ‘Adi’ Dassler. His shoes became world famous when he gifted a pair to Jesse Owen’s to use in the 1936 Olympics when he won gold medals in the Nazi held Berlin. He paced the floor in a fervor. His shoes softly thumping with the weight and pace of each set as he went. His hands held behind his back, left wrist in right hand, as he went.  He muttered to himself. Mostly calculations as well as the occasional real word.

“No no, have to compensate for the speed. Current Shi’ar embryonic fluids in the mix isn’t conductive enough, perhaps, yes mixing with unstable molecules to help maintain structure and compensate for the cross dimensional flux rate of 3.48207”

As he said this he idly pulled a granola bar from his pants pocket. Unaware, and unconcerned with how long it had been there, he bit off the top of the wrapper as he set himself in a chair near the drafting table, eyes focused on the schematics on it. The pencil working to sketch, erase, redraw, and mold the image as the variety of pieces came together on the page. As they did this, they also appeared in a more digital form. The drawings being copied in real time to the computer via touch screen. A green outline of what, to the laymen, would appear to be a series of syringes all pointing towards a central point. He idly pressed a few keys on the keyboard, granola bar protruding from his mouth, and a basic schematic of a brain appeared at this central point.

It would have to be lined up correctly of course. To the micromillimeter, but that would not be so big a feat. Brain scanners would need to be built for the device anyway, they could be modified, then re-modified, easily enough to accomplish the tasks necessary. And the calculations, by god there would be a lot of them even for him. Enough to compensate for the  mental telemitry of all of them. Every mutant, human, gamma irradiated weirdo, mystic sentience, and science accident out there. They would all need to be brought inline, and online. To be pulled in and processed. Every eventuality would need to be planned for. Ever personality placated, or muted. But he could do it, by god he could get it done. His eyes widened as the realization hit him. He was going to do what Xavier could never even dream of doing. He would be realizing the dream of Xavier and Magneto all in one fell swoop. A peaceful victory, through sheer force of mind.

He sat back in his chair and looked over the schematic one last time. A smile crawling onto the corner of his lips as he reached out for the pencil. He reached up and scrawled in the corner margin a simple title that would signify a whole new world for everyone. “The Quireverse”




The room was bright. Shades pulled back, the natural light of the mid day shone its god rays through strong, filling the room. The floors grey and white speckled marble reflecting the light while absorbing a small amount of its heat. Helping the bare feet that crossed it warm as they paced the floor. The walls, simple modern white walls, were marred by various scratches of desks carelessly moved. In most available space hung various pro and anti-mutant propaganda, as well as graffiti spray painted directly on it by its owner. All ignored as he paced the floor in thought. Mind moving through endless calculation after another in a seemingly endless string of numbers, each representing a thought pattern. A mind.

The mutant pacing the floor was the greatest of these. Quentin Quire, Omega level mutant, his mind dwarfed even Xavier’s by comparison. In fact it was a disappointment for young Quentin when he had first met the professor. He had thought that he may have found an equal, or even superior mind to help him train his own. But his mental blocks may as well have been constructed by playskool for all the trouble that Quentin had in tearing them apart. Another in a long string of let down’s for the young mutant, but that's neither here nor there. Now was about the task at hand.

Stumbling in on the scene, one would have been forgiven to think that Quentin was as much machine as he were flesh and blood. Straps around his shirtless midsection housed various wires and sensors of his own design. Similar straps lined each of his arms and legs. But the most bizarre looking part to the uninitiated would be the helmet that sat perched on top of his skull, tufts of pink hair poking out of the spaces at odd angles.

It was a rough thing, cobbled together by what spare parts he had laying around the penthouse. The casing was of a toaster, sacrificed to the whimsical gods of a creative mind, bent to make a skull cap of sorts for the thing. Inside, unseen, it housed thousands upon thousands of contact points made from all manner of metals and household objects. Pen points, sewing needles, scissor blades, knives, and torn apart whisks had all been used to make the kaleidoscope of contacts that he needed to properly map and absorb his mental energies. These contacts sat atop his head, barely making contact with the flesh of his skull, separated by half of a throw pillow underneath, lest he pierce his head with the various parts within. The motherboard of three separate video game consoles were hastily duct taped to the outside of the contraption. Wires of yellow, red, and blue spiraling out from each to join in the center. All taped together to one long tentacle that joined with the other wires at the base of his spine and tethered the whole thing to his computer. The screen of which was flashing swiftly between greens and blacks.

If one was fast enough to perceive what was happening in the intermittency of these flashes, they would be witness to the miracle of the helmet and wires. The process by which Quentin was slowly, painstakingly, yet in mere seconds accomplishing his herculean task. Minds given digital form. They would see as ones and zeroes formed shapelessly on the screen at first. Then slowly molding themselves. Bending and folding with each perceived crease of the mind. Then stretching out from this central point. The green would shape each fiber, muscle, tendon, and sinew. Each organ put in its properly place before the skin coated the whole of the creation and then was filed away. Both in the memory of the computer, and that of its creator, then the whole would begin again with a fresh creation.

The work was as painstakingly difficult as it was dull. The average human mind contained so little it astounded Quentin that they were able to sort out walking and eating at all. It was a miracle that their brains did not simply do him the favor of throttling themselves with their own spinal chords and simply be done with the whole thing. But it was a necessary sacrifice. The greater brains would not know what to do with themselves in a world with no lessers to save or torment. He’d seen it all in the projections. You put a so called ‘hero’ or ‘villain’ in a scenario with no one to save or torment, and the mind became restless. Their base cravings unfulfilled, their egos no longer properly stroked, and the whole system eventually melted down, full of rebellious bored brains. No it would have to be perfect. It would have to be all of them.

He was halfway through the eastern seaboard when he decided it was time to take a break from it all. He carefully removed his helmet and set it on the computer desk. As he took a moment to run his fingers through his pink locks, he idly calculated redesigns for the helmet. It would, of course, need to be improved upon. He’d have to find a source of vibranium for the cap, something to speed the frequencies that he needed to hit to increase his production rate. And of course it be nice if he didn’t have to worry about getting stabbed in the head if he bounced around too much. Beyond that it also be nice if he could set up wireless receivers. The freedom he would gain from that in movement would more than outway any latency issues he may have in actual production time. But for now he needed sustenance. 


He took a step and was almost immediately hit by a wave of weakness. The whole of his body felt light, weak, as though he was made of feathers that risked scattering to the breeze at the slightest gust of wind. He placed his right palm to his head and rubbed it as he staggered back, and sat down on one of the cardboard boxes scattered across his floor. How long had it been since he had last eaten? He remembered eating a granola bar this morning, or was that yesterday morning? Thursday morning? What day was it when he had began? His mind ached at the simple thoughts of the thing when he heard something wet drip to the floor.

Looking down he saw the oddest red splotch on the floor, was that… blood? Where the devil had blood come from? His first instinct was to check his head for some unnoticed sore spot. Obviously one of the prongs had caught… no nothing there..  It was then that he noticed the iron taste on his lips. His fingers lightly found the fluid there and followed it back to its source. His nose. Both nostrils, upon base examination were slowly leaking the bodily fluid. Palms flattened on the box, and with moderate effort he was able to push himself up onto his feet. His left hand pressed against the wall, he hobbled his way to the hallway.

Every step of it burned, the lactic acid clearly building up in his muscles as his body burned through its reserves. It was like wading through a sea of jelly with each step forward. Left, then right, shuffle, shuffle, then finally finding the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror, and couldn’t help but chuckle at the site at first.  Here he was, brain more powerful than any on the planet, and yet he was leaning on the sink with blood on his nose like the simp from Stranger Things. It was then that he blacked out.

Dreams, at least the sleeping kind, were not a thing that Quentin Quire tended to have. He wasn’t sure if it was just his ill sleeping pattern, or some by product of his minds capabilities, but he just never did seem to dream when he slept. It was simply a charging process. But this time was different. Or maybe it wasn’t? Regardless as his body slumbered, he found his mind in a familiar location. The walls white, the floors white, the ceiling, white, giant flaming bird god to one side. You know that kind of dream where you’re most likely just in the white hot room once more.



“You push yourself too hard, little mutant”


Came the familiar voice of the Phoenix force. A voice that he’d heard whisper in his heart more times than he cared to recount. It was always prattling on about killing this, or resurrecting that. Quentin honestly ignored it for the most part. It was kind of like having an obnoxious roommate that just didn’t know how to stop talking about their day no matter how many visual cues you gave them that you just weren’t interested. They just kept talking. And so did the Phoenix. Unfortunately she/he/it was a smidge louder in its own little realm of the psychic plain, so he guessed he’d have to at least listen.


“Yeah well, the only people who know where the edge are, are the ones that go over it so, ya know, testing the fences and all..”


“Luckily for you, I will have need of you in the future. And I approve of what you are attempting to accomplish. Else I might let you die on your bathroom floor”


Quentin shrugged noncommittally to this “Worked for Presley” he said hoping the Phoenix wouldn’t bring up the fact that Elvis actually died on the toilet. He wasn’t in the mood to cross pop culture swords with a cosmic entity, but he would if he had to.

It was then that the Phoenix took a less ‘murder the galaxy’ form and a more ‘seduce the teenage mutant’ form. Becoming a woman, shapely and beautiful, yet still on fire. Bold choice, he had to admit, not what he would have gone for, but still it left it open for all sorts of ‘she’s so hot’ puns that he would have to bookmark for later. Her hovering footsteps made no sound as she approached him. A warm, but thankfully not burning hand touched his cheek. The warming sensation moving through his whole body, or astral projection, psychic stuff was odd like that. But he felt a warm relaxing feeling through his body as she spoke again, softly this time.




“Poor little mutant. So alone, so lost. You gather to control those who would reject you, but I accept you. My darling,” She uttered in a caringly seductive tone before pressing a kiss to Quentin’s lips. He knew what it was about of course. This whole ‘seduction of the innocents’ business, but in that moment he couldn’t make himself care. In the moment her lips touched his own, he felt it all fade away for a moment. His parents, Idie, and all the rest that had cast him aside as if he were merely a joke, or some unimportant nothing. They all just faded away. For a moment there was naught but him and her in the world. They shared an embrace as Quentin’s eyes lidded themselves and the world grew dark.




He awoke sometime later. The world outside dark, near midnight, his arms wrapped around his pillow. Had it been a dream? Was Quentin’s first dream some kind of kinky sex dream? It seemed appropriate. Then he noticed that he was somehow, fully clothed again. He sat up with a yawn, and as he stretched his arms over his head, his jacket fell open to reveal the phoenix symbol adorning his shirt.


“Oh well f*** me!” he said a loud. This really was turning into a sh*t show. He looked down at his pants, and quickly covered himself with a pillow “Huh, so that’s what she means when she says ‘Rise’”


He panted slightly sitting on the edge of his bed. The dream that was clearly not a dream echoing in his mind. The white hot room, the conversations held there, the flame haired lady. It was that last thought that triggered it. Some unknowable something in the depths of his being. Like something hot and burning had pierced into his psionic self.


It was always a little difficult to describe, the feeling of existing like Quentin Quire did. He was not, well not like other people. Beyond his power set, beyond being born a mutant, beyond humanity, Quentin Quire was, at the heart of his being, a creature of psionic energies. What happened when an Omega level mutant had a secondary mutation trigger? Well for a telepath it turned out you got a first class ticket to the psychic plain. A place of pure thought energies, boring as all hell. So Quentin had gotten out. He built himself a new body and here he was, but now? Now it was different. The energy within him felt different.


Normally he could see his energies in a way he couldn’t properly give words to. He was just aware of the energy inside of him. His true self beating beneath the flesh husk he’d created for it. Sometimes it was blue, sometimes it was pink, he had frightening little idea what made it one or the other, but now? Now it was different. It felt different. It appeared different. Now it felt… orange? Whatever it was it also tingled like a bitch. Every limb, every extremity, fad a tingling sensation about it. Almost like when your leg fell asleep, but somehow, pleasant? Familiar? Comfortating?



No no no. He knew what this meant. He wasn’t like that simpering idiot Jean Grey or any of the other feebs that just fell victim to it. He wasn’t going to just roll with the good vibes and let her take over. He was his own person. He is Quentin Quire, this kind of thing wasn’t going to knock him down. He wasn’t going to go all ‘Phoenix’ on anything without his written consent damn it. No matter how much seduction she tossed his way. Damned libido, it was always the kind of thing that got in his way. Some base physical instinct that made him do the dumb thing instead of thinking. He had to get that sh*t under hand. But how? Not really a guidebook out there for how to purge a cosmic entity from your psionic energy system. Definitely wouldn’t be finding a wikipedia page on that one.


‘Ok Quentin, you got this, just push it down, contain it, hold it in. Just like a fart in an elevator. Only ya know this one is a planet evaporating entity that’s somehow bonded itself to your energies through your wang dang. It’ll be fine.’


So he sat on the edge of his blanket tossed bed. His fingertips on his temples. Legs spread shoulder width apart, his elbows resting on his knees as he concentrated, or at least tried to. It was hard. Like trying to move a mountain with his mind with every thought he tried to process. It was like fire each time a synapse would even think about twitching. He could feel the hot flames crawling into the corners of his skull, feel it pushing at the back of his eyes. Crawling, creeping into the front of his skull with each second no matter how he fought it, and then blackness.


There was a peace in this dark that he didn’t want to admit. A calming, quiet, comforting sensation as if all the care in the world had been burned away. He felt warm, comforted, like he was back in the womb of creation itself. It was nice. For a few brief moments it was all gone. His doubt of his place in the universe. The loneliness that he rarely allowed himself to feel, the pain of the friends that had left him, or that he had pushed away. He simply existed. Nothing more, nothing less. But that was it. That was the trigger that made him realize the difference. That wasn’t the path he had chosen. That wasn’t the road that Quentin Quire walked. No indeed not. He was his own person through and through and through. He would fight till his dying breath to just be who he wanted to be each and every f***ing day of life. F*** the pain. F*** the suffering, but he needed that. He needed those stings to his heart to remind him of who he was. To remind him that he was alive. And that thought was what he needed to remind him of who he was and force his eyes back open.


He felt, odd. Weightless. Drifty. He looked to his left and saw a bunch of men and women in weird jumpsuits looking at him from out of a weird window surrounded in metal. He looked around and realized. Space. He was in space. And also kind of on fire. Yeah that probably should be more of a concern than it was, but at this point he’d been on fire so many times it really wasn’t that big of an issue. He knew what this was. Phoenix flames. It had, for the first time, gotten to him. It had brought him to space. Why? Was he about to eat the planet? If so how close had he gotten? He may joke about it from time to time but he really wasn’t eager to become Quentin Quire Destroyer of Worlds. He may not love the place, but Earth was where all his stuff was. Where all his history was. Where the few people he actually did care about lived. Be pretty sh*tty to be the one to destroy the whole damned thing as he was so close to being able to save it from itself.



But that was it. He could save it from itself. He could fix it all. And the Phoenix force possessing him? Well she’d have to take a back seat and just play along to his tune. He was Kid Omega damn it. No one, no person, no monarch, no fascist d*ckhead, no God, or cosmic entity was going to tell him what to do. Who to be, or how to act. That was the beauty of it all. Quireverse. His world. The perfect world. He could and would make it happen. Cosmos be damned.



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