SUMMARY: In the original script, there was a scene that was eventually cut from the movie, of Scott Summers discovering his powers at his senior prom. It was just too good of a story to get left on the cutting-room floor, so I took a shot at it. Enjoy.


It came at him like a migraine headache from hell, burning sharply against the back of his eyes and sending red spots sparking across his vision. He yelled in surprise and pain and dropped his date's hand, pressing his palm flat against his temple as the pain ebbed, retreated.

"What's wrong, Scott?" she asked worriedly, clutching at his arm. "Are you okay?"

He was now—the pain was gone, but people were staring, because it was a sappy country song and the rules were, dance, don't yell like you've been shot and stand around on the dance floor like an idiot. Scott flashed an everything-is-fine smile at a few friendly gawkers and resumed dancing, reattaching Katie's hands behind his neck. "Nothing's wrong," he assured her. "Just a headache. I'm okay now."

And he was, for another solid hour. Fortunately, he was sitting down the next time it hit, at the table covered with prom-baubles and an uncreative blue tablecloth. He was sitting with three fingers resting lightly on Katei's hand, clapping automatically when the unsurprising winners were awarded their superlatives. He would turn his interest back on when they called Most Likely to Succeed or Prom King—those were the ones he was nominated for. He was listening to the chipper patter of the Student Council President and playing with his glass goblet, tuning out—and then it hit. Searing against the back of his eyes, pressure building, a thousand pounds of hot coals. With a soft quick gasp of pain, he pulled his hand away from Katie, bent over the table with his arm over his eyes. It hurt worse than anything he'd ever felt in his life, worse than the soccer game double-fracture, and he knew he was going to scream.

"Scott!" Katie was tapping him, hovering helplessly with her pretty exfoliated forehead creased in worry. "Scott, what's wrong?"

The pain subsided, then pushed back through with a vengeance—he stood, nearly knocking over his chair over, half-blind but headed somewhere where he could be out of control and in pain with nobody watching. "I'm fine," he lied. "I'll be right back."

He stumbled into the bathroom, biting back screams so hard that they choked him, eyes on fire like he was going blind, like he was dying. He grabbed onto both sides of a sink and looked into the mirror—and what he saw made him catch his breath and forget to let it go, terrified. His eyes were red, wine red, red like a demon, like a bad disposable-camera picture. What is wrong with me??

Another wave of pressure slammed in and he went to his knees, pressing his hand over his eyes like he was trying to stop something spilling out. This time, the scream nearly got out his mouth, but he locked it determinedly behind gritted teeth. Come on, one part of his was yelling. There are people out there having a perfectly lovely prom, no need to scream like you're in a horror movie and ruin the night. Prom Kings don't scream. The other side, however, disagreed. There is something wrong, it said rationally, something is happening . Pick up your phone and call someone now

He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open—but then another wave of pain and pressure swept in, and the phone fell from his nerveless fingers, clattering across the tile. He reached blindly for it, somehow subconsciously knowing that it was important that he not open his eyes.

The pain suddenly spiked to a whole new level, leaving him gasping for breath, phone suddenly unimportant in the face of this new, tearing, white-hot pain. It clawed against the backs of his eyes like an imprisoned animal trying to break free, roaring in his ears like a waterfall, jet engine, building, building, building—something was going to give. Something was going to explode.

He heard the door open, someone speaking. "Hey, Scott," someone was saying, "you in here, man?"

His head swung automatically to the sound of the voice, and without thinking—he opened his eyes.

Something blazed up within him like it had been waiting a thousand years, redness pouring straight out of his eyes, tearing into the bathroom wall. He was the lasers (lasers? This was insane!) chew up the wall like they'd been chewing up his insides, blasting eating destroying in seconds, punching straight through the wall. Through the gaping hole he could see the destruction continuing, redness from his eyes overturning tables, smashing ice sculptures, throwing people hundreds of feet and sure they couldn't be okay with their limbs hanging like that—it all blended into a hellish apocalyptic red, destruction pain chaos death.

And he screamed.