Not Afraid of You [Erik]

[Mike Batista]

As long as the weather was reasonable, Mike liked to hold his training sessions outdoors. It gave the kids a change of scenery, got them outside, and facilitated a great many of the training techniques Mike liked to use. Almost all of the kids he had started sessions with at least one lap around the eighth-mile track to warm themselves up. Mike's training philosophy held that laps or other exercises to start got the blood moving and the body active and warm, and those things, along with the physical activity, helped kids concentrate. His kids were the shifters, the physical powers, or the kinetics, primarily, and a lot of the time a stronger body equaled finer control. In the few cases it didn't, a lap or two wasn't going to kill anyone. Mike himself did a mile's worth over the course of the day, with at least two before classes started. Walking, but then, he was fifty-eight, not sixteen.

Erik Stewart was up in a few minutes. Mike had never met him, but he knew of him, knew what he looked like. Mouthy, small-town, smoker, aggressive. They would clash, he knew they would, but he was ready for it. In worn sneakers, jeans, and a grey sweatshirt, he waited on the training field, glasses glinting in the afternoon sun. The cord to a stopwatch dangled from one front jeans pocket, a clipboard with paper and pen lay in the grass. Mike's hands were clasped behind him as he watched for an incoming figure.

[Erik Stewart]

Erik had received the notification that he’d a new trainer and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it or what to think of it. His last one had been more than two years ago, when he’d first arrived at age 14, but they had not stuck around for long. He wasn’t even sure his sudden absence (and the long trainer-less interlude) had anything to do with him in particular, but Erik was inclined to believe that it was, since nearly everyone else had one.

Erik had not been very cooperative then. Before he’d come to Hammel, he was more or less a feral child, especially during the summers. He’d spend the whole day outside among the full-throated, bustling Louisiana outdoors, bare-foot and half naked, only coming in when night fell. Everything was exciting to him as a child – each fallen tree was a fortress and each stone and creek his domain.

Imagine then a place like Pilot Ridge and its meta-human institution, and its teachers and trainers, and its curfews; how different it was and how different the people, many without the fear of God and certainly without the accent. Imagine a crowd of men and women at his door to take him away in a black car, who told him that he had strange powers that caused him immense pain. Imagine that he was stuck in a crowded dorm and a crowded classroom that couldn’t understand why he couldn’t behave like the others, and he couldn’t leave if he wanted to because they would catch him and also because his ma and pa didn’t want him back at all. He had no parents to call and no friends to speak of. Never had. He spent the first two weeks or so locked inside his room.

So obviously he was not prepared for any training and neither was his trainer. Trainers were not therapists, after all.

But children had elastic minds, and within the past three years he had adjusted somewhat to the new lifestyle, thanks in some small part to Sean. All was not well, obviously, but he was better. And he understood now that if he ever did want to leave, he’d have to pass a test or two.

Erik was calm that day but suspicious; he’d been wondering who had pulled the short straw, so to speak. Mike Batista was at the right place at the right time so he figured that was him. He only knew that he looked a bit familiar, like maybe he’d seen him around campus somewhere.

The kid gave him a look from head to toe before he said anything, like he was trying to size him up. He looked, too, at the stopwatch and the clipboard. “What’s that for?” He was already uncertain about the whole thing.

[Mike Batista]

Kids came into Hammel literally from all walks of life. Poor, privileged, abused, pampered, disciplined, wild. Erik was not the worst Mike had ever seen, but his background, religious views, and family situation certainly placed him firmly on that end of the spectrum. There was a lot going on with him that wasn't his fault, but a great deal that was. Mike didn't know details, only the big picture, but enough that he understood where Erik was coming from and what his history at the school was. And the kid was a troublemaker enough that Mike had his name and face memorized, the way he did Rixon, Adams, Douglas, and Vanguard, amongst others.

He was on time, that was good. The kid was taller than Mike remembered, but was still a bundle of twigs. Given his attitude, Mike kept his body language open and unthreatening, hands down at his sides so the kid could see them. He smiled in a friendly manner, but in a way that meant business too.

"This is to record new data. Update your file," Mike said, letting a sneaker toe touch the clipboard. "This-" he pulled out the stopwatch and let it dangle for a moment before hanging it around his neck "-is to time your switch so if it changes later we can check to see if something's going wrong."

Approaching but keeping a professional distance, Mike held out his hand. "I'm Mr. Batista."

Unlike some staff who didn't care if kids used their first names, Mike was probably old-fashioned in that he didn't allow it, but he felt it was a measure of respect that underscored his position. Not friend (not at first, usually), but teacher. Mike's job was not to befriend the students, or to care whether or not they liked him. It was to get them as trained up as they could be within their abilities, and it meant that a lot of the time it made for an adversarial relationship, sometimes the whole way through. But the kids ended up trained.

"I start out all sessions with a lap. Gets you warmed up. I don't care if you run it or walk it. C'mon." With most new students, Mike did the lap with them, though he walked, and if they finished before him he cut it short. He took a few steps toward the track and looked back to see if Erik was coming.

[Erik Stewart]

Erik approached him a little like a cat would: curious, cautious, and careful not to show enthusiasm. When Mike held out his hand, he shook it with neither incident nor comment, then dropped his gaze to peer at the clipboard. Though he found it mostly blank, he wondered idly what kind of ‘file’ he’d accumulated.

He was very quiet at first. A lot of people wrote Erik off as plain stupid, because he was belligerent and non-academic, and he’d the accent to boot - and stupid he might be in some respects; but he was also an astute observer and he was very quick on the uptake, too. If Mike looked, he might see the wheels turning in his head. He was sizing up the trainer objectively, watching his face, looking for cracks in the façade…did he really want to be here? Was he silently despairing at what he’d been assigned? Not all of it was innocent, though (which was to be expected) – one of the foremost questions on his mind was just how much he could get away with.

None of his teachers had a particularly easy time with Erik, but anyone less strict than Mike would have it way worse. Erik was not very considerate and he didn’t have a problem with walking all over someone if he thought he could do it.

Erik did not follow him. He stuffed his hands in his jean pockets, which were fairly form-fitting and not at all good for exercise, and stood with his fawn-like legs rooted to the spot.
The look on his face was almost comical: a mixture between a pout and offense. “Y’think I’m in gym class or somethin’?” he said. “I ain’t done a lap in my life.”

If the gym teachers couldn’t make him – (and this was conveyed clearly in his eyes) – then what made him think he could?

[Mike Batista]

The kid's eyes never left him. Mike didn't stare back, but went about his business with the usual amount of eye contact. The handshake needed work, but that wasn't important. Erik had taken the hand, and that was something. A lot of kids refused. Mike knew he was being scrutinized, let it happen. Sometimes he wondered what kids saw when they looked at him like that, but it didn't much matter. He could see too, exactly how far Erik thought he'd be able to push, to manipulate. Where the power struggles would be and how he could win them. Mike met his eyes once, to let Erik know he knew what was going on, let a little of his steel show. You can try, his eyes said, but it's not going to be easy.

Mike knew better than most that a poor academic record rarely reflected a student's personality and maybe only half the time was a direct indicator of intelligence. It more typically meant other factors were keeping schoolwork from being completed, and if an undiagnosed/untreated disability or health issue didn't account for it, the culprits tended to be mixtures of defiance, fear, anxiety, manipulation, dislike of authority figures, a need for power, a lack of faith in their own abilities, a lack of discipline, and/or the idea that getting poor grades hurt someone other than themselves. In Erik, Mike could sense a bit of 'no one cares what I do' coupled with 'I can make you hate me' that turned the two into a self-fulfilling prophetic cycle. Well. They'd see.

When the boy didn't follow him to the track (which Mike had all but expected), he stopped and turned. His voice was kind but firm. "Then it's about time you started. Maybe you didn't know this, Erik, but you don't get out of here till a trainer signs off on your paperwork that your power is under as much control as possible, your side effects have been managed, and you don't present a threat to the outside world either through your power or your lack of self discipline. You're seventeen. Your last trainer washed, so you're starting from scratch. If you want to be here into your twenties when you could be getting on with life, that's your business. But we start here. With a lap. Get on the track."

[Erik Stewart]

It was hard to say exactly what sort of subtle mannerisms constituted a tough teacher, and which a flexible one. But Erik had seen enough of them to know the difference on sight. It was something about the eye contact. The hands. Too much smiling, too many hesitations. Most of all a willingness to please, which was perhaps the most dangerous attitude one could adopt with a student like Erik – unfortunately an attitude that a lot of them had, because it was natural and something of a default.

Most faculty here at Hammel were nice. But a kid like Erik didn’t need nice – he needed guidance.

Anyway, by the time he’d figured roughly how much he could get away with, Erik’s final verdict was Not a Whole Lot. His new trainer gave off a sense of experience: faced him without fear, with the knowledge that he had known and weathered a hundred other kids just like him, and – from that quick, knowing glance he’d given him – knew just what he was up to. Mike seemed much more of a contender than his last trainer. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

Which was made all the more apparent when Mike ordered him on the track. Erik wrinkled his nose. “I can stay here forever, I don’t give a shit. It’ll hurt you more’n it’ll hurt me.” He snorted. “By the time I get t’twenty they’ll be beggin’ me t’leave, don’t matter if I ain’t a threat or I got no ‘self-discipline’ or what.”

He squinted at Mike when he insisted, took a step forward then stopped, hands still in his pockets. “This is bullshit. I don’t need t’run a marathon t’turn into a snake, I can do it right now.”

[Mike Batista]

Erik certainly wasn't the worst Mike had ever had (he'd shown up, that put him ahead of several Mike could think of), but he was going to present a challenge. That was fine. Mike liked challenges. He'd been one himself.

“I can stay here forever, I don’t give a shit. It’ll hurt you more’n it’ll hurt me.”

"No cussing," Mike said immediately. He smiled a little. "How will you not cooperating hurt me? 'F you decide you're gonna dig in your heels, you think I'll mind having an hour off every afternoon?"

“By the time I get t’twenty they’ll be beggin’ me t’leave, don’t matter if I ain’t a threat or I got no ‘self-discipline’ or what.”

"Our oldest student graduated close to thirty. You won't be blazing any trails, kiddo." Of course, that particular student had not been found till age twenty-two and had been a special case all around, but Mike wasn't going to go into details. "And we have several twenty-year-olds here right now and we're not exactly shoving them out the door."

“This is bullshit. I don’t need t’run a marathon t’turn into a snake, I can do it right now.”

"Cussing. I'll keep that in mind. A lap isn't a marathon. A marathon is 26 miles. This track is an eighth. I hear another four letter word you give me two. C'mon." Mike curved a containment field around Erik and used it to give the kid a little encouragement toward the track. Nothing aggressive, just a gentle nudge, albeit one from something that felt like a riot shield. "Doesn't matter if all we do this session is get you around once, Erik. This is how I do things."

[Erik Stewart]

Taking the adversarial position was all but natural to him. If someone wanted him to leave, he would stay; if someone wanted him to stay, he’d leave, and so on and so forth, for what seemed like no reason except he liked doing it. Erik almost felt like it was his God-given duty to make people’s lives harder. There were some days he thrived on it.

“I highly doubt anyone’s gonna let me stick around ‘til I’m thirty. An’ I’m not lookin’ t’break any records anyway, I just said I don’t give a shit,” he articulated, leaning over some as if to emphasize the point, one hand raised to tip off the end of his sentence. “’Til then y’all can just give me free food an’ a bed if y’want to, sounds good t’me.”

Mike reminded him a second time to keep the cussing in check. Predictably, Erik only wrinkled his nose and scoffed, putting his hands on his hips. “Fuck off,” he said. “How many laps does that get me?”

Something nudged his back. Erik stumbled forward, catching himself on his long legs, and whipped around; he expected to find someone or something there but all he found was blank space. He blinked. The idea that this was Mike’s power had not yet crossed his mind, mostly because he had never come into contact with containment fields - didn’t even know what it entailed. For a second he stayed still, tense. Then it happened again and Erik, high-strung as he was, bolted forward.

Which led him straight to the other corner. The boy smacked his nose against it, head bouncing backwards. He hadn’t hit it too hard, but it still stung, and he spent a second or two groaning and holding his face in his hands.

[Mike Batista]

Some kids seemed to have push on automatic, that need to turn everything into a confrontation. Had Mike suggested Erik do whatever he wanted for an hour, he probably would've gotten an argument about that too. In a way it amused him, in another, he always wondered if kids like Erik weren't... tired. Of doing things that way. Sure they got off on it, it was why they'd started doing it in the first place, but after awhile... it was hard. And on some level Mike believed Erik realized it. He supposed it would mean too much to the kid to go easy, to show vulnerability. Mike got that. Erik had been doing things one way for a very long time, and change was hard. But in this case, change was also necessary, because tough act or no, released out into the real world Erik Stewart wouldn't last a week.

As he just told Mike to 'fuck off'.

The old trainer's expression never shifted from neutral, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd been told to do this particular thing, or the fiftieth. "It gets you a choice," he said evenly. "You can either go to Dr. Neville's office now, or you can do your lap and continue with your session. Both choices come with an hour's worth of work detention. Should you choose the 'stand there and do neither' option, I have Security on speed-dial and they will provide you an escort to our doctor's office."

Erik's reaction to his fields meant no one had told him Mike's powers beforehand, but that was alright. The kid hit the edge of his field a split second before Mike could let it down, but... well, at least Mike knew he could run. He didn't see any blood so he didn't move, but said, "You okay? Sorry about that."

[Erik Stewart]

Erik was expecting to get yelled at, sure, but what he got was more detention. The thing was like a landmine. He never knew when he was going to step on it next, and when he did he was consistently outraged, even when the punishment was justified. Yet the constant slew of detentions had done nothing to stem Erik’s temper or his crass mannerisms, not even within the past three years. If anything, it made him more determined and even more contrary, as the Hammel authority became a sort of nemesis to him: they stuck in a constant loop of resistance, punishment, resentment, then resistance again; rinse, recycle, repeat.

He wasn’t exactly sure what ‘work detention’ was, but it sparked anger where annoyance had been. “What’s th’ big fuckin’ deal? Why’re y’all so god damn sensitive? Ain’t y’ever been told t’fuck off before?” His little white fists were balled, knuckles white. “I didn’t do anything.”

Erik growled. He didn’t want to go see Sean right now – the man was probably tired of seeing him in his office, tired of hearing about his latest exploits with the faculty – but he’d have rather dropped dead right now than defer to Mike’s wishes. He’d just got done with a separate round of detention and the news that he’d go through another made his veins burn with latent fury. The trainer might have seen that immovable look in his eyes. He was in full-on resistance mode, his thin frame as rigid as a sheet of metal.

Erik scoffed. “You’re really gonna call security on me ‘cause I hurt your feelin’s?”

Of course, then came the containment fields, his sudden jolt, his head on the opposite wall. His nose stung, though it did not bleed. Erik wasn’t even all that hurt, but by now he was embarrassed and mad, and the use of those fields was like having a gadfly sting the rump of a bull. Mike would see him looking at him, as soon as he lifted his hands off his face, his blue eyes cold and his black pupils punched in the middle, black as pitch.

The transformation could be described as grotesque by some. The sharp cracks began in his spine and traveled up his neck, then began to deform his skull, the sound ricocheting like gunshots. There was a pause, in which Erik was hunched over with his back sticking out at an unnatural angle, breathing heavily – for it was painful at the best of times – and from then on the change was quick. He fell into it like diving into a pool. Muscle lengthened, scales swept over skin. His eyes became beady and dark. There was a thud as a heavy cord landed upon the floor.

Except it wasn’t a cord at all, of course, but a living, breathing animal. The scaly coils curled in on themselves in a tight circle, as snakes often did. He was all of five feet of deadly serpent, black, but for some dark brown patterns; he curled about in the grass, tongue flickering, as if finding his bearings.

Then those beady eyes snapped back on Mike, as if he’d suddenly remembered he was there. There was a low, sweeping hiss. The viper opened its mouth, revealing the distinctive cotton-colored tissue of its venomous mouth.

(sorry this is late AND also sorry hes a little shitte)

[Mike Batista]

Someday, if the world was lucky, Erik would learn to associate cause and effect and getting detention would cease to be surprising.

“What’s th’ big fuckin’ deal? Why’re y’all so god damn sensitive? Ain’t y’ever been told t’fuck off before? I didn’t do anything.”

"I have," Mike said shortly. "And you continued to curse after I said not to. It's not sensitivity, Erik. It's respect. I'm not cursing at you, and I expect you will not curse at me once I've made my position clear. Cleaning up your mouth for the short time you're around the people who expect it of you isn't difficult. I will say it again. No cussing. You do it again, you keep racking up the hours. Your actions have consequences, Erik. If you don't like detention then it's your decision to change your behavior."

“You’re really gonna call security on me ‘cause I hurt your feelin’s?”

"Calling security has everything to do with your lack of cooperation and nothing to do with my feelings," Mike said, smiling a little.

The kid was wound tight, he could see that, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. Erik was responsible for his own winding, and the further he dug himself in, the tighter he got. It was an interesting reaction. Erik was completely responsible for his own anger, didn't seem to like either feeling it or the results of it, but kept on doing the exact things that would get the reactions he didn't want, which would only make him angrier. It was a little breathtaking in its simplicity and illogic, and Mike internally just shook his head. In a way, he felt sorry for him, that his signals had gotten so mixed up, but until Erik wanted to change Mike couldn't do much for him.

When Erik's hands came down, Mike was happy to see there was no blood, but he knew something was about to happen. A field went up in front of him instantly. Of course Mike knew what the boy's power was. It was in his file, and the old trainer was uniquely equipped to deal with it, which had been part of the reason he'd been chosen. The second he heard that popping corn noise he'd heard before a hand went to his pocket and he clicked his stopwatch.

Observing the change dispassionately but with care, Mike kept up the field that curved in front of his own body till he'd created one that circled his trainee in a five foot diameter, fifteen feet high (though without a top - he'd deal with that aspect when and if he had to). When the metamorphosis was complete, he clicked the stopwatch again, took it out of his pocket, and let Erik the snake watch him write down the time on the clipboard. Then he clicked it again and put it back into his pocket. As his fields could (and had) stop a car from crashing, Mike was not worried about it failing him as he approached. Erik was a rather handsome specimen, though Mike was indifferent to snakes. But he could admire the smooth scales and the color, and how powerful the boy seemed in this form over his human one.

He waited.

[Erik Stewart]

The sweeping hiss sounded like waves breaking against a shore. For something that was intended to portend a fatal dose of toxin, it was oddly soothing, especially as those roiling black-scaled coils moved over each other, slowly and deliberately; it was no wonder the snake was long rumored to have hypnotic powers. From between the cotton-colored tissue a black tongue flickered. Those scaled sides inflated and deflated with each long hiss.

A moccasin’s vision wasn’t too good, but what it did have were a pair of heat-sensing pits between its eyes and nostrils. It knew Mike was there; it could sense his heat signature as vividly as if he were painted bright neon. The lack of scent clinging on its tongue threw it off, however. No matter how many times its tongue flickered between its lips it detected only a faint whiff; it aspired to slither closer, in order to scope out this peculiar brand of prey.

Its sides bumped the edges of his containment fields and the viper stilled.

Erik never quite remembered his exact thought processes after he reverted to human form. It was a bit like being drunk or high in that he would only recall scenes or bits of conversation; his brain underwent quite a transformation, too, after all. His emotions and thoughts became simpler once he became a snake. His fierce anger changed instead to a strong need to defend himself, and an overwhelming urge to strike, while happiness became a lazy contentment. Though he could recognize people once he transformed and even, in some ways, understand them, he lacked the ability to process their words and put it through any means of critical thinking. He would not be able to comprehend complicated mathematics, for one thing. Neither would he understand a detailed set of instructions. Erik knew only simple things in this form: ‘stop’, ‘wait’, ‘yes’, ‘no’…though anything was possible, and as long as there was a human boy behind that snakeskin, there was always room for him to break through the animal.

Right now, though, Erik resembled a bundle of reptilian instincts.

The moccasin struck at the fields. It did nothing but bump its snout upon it. Frustrated, it hissed, its unfurled coils grazing against the sides of its restraints. The snake was an apt form for Erik, for it was quick and deadly and bit without warning, but lacked any real strength.

With no hope of breaking through, it revealed instead the paler scales of its belly, attempting to climb its way over the fields. Nearly two feet of serpent rose above the ground in its attempt, but soon after that it gave up. The viper curled up in the grass, tongue flickering in and out, in and out.

It stayed like that for another minute or two, observing Mike with its black beady eyes, until it began to shift. Like always, the transformation began in its long spine, contorting until Erik swiftly emerged from the coils. He staggered once, blinking, then doubled over, his hands on his back. It always hurt his back.

[Mike Batista]

Standing a few feet away from the enclosed area, Mike regarded Erik. He'd been to zoos, both here and in California, but had never seen a moccasin snake in person. From the files, he knew Erik was a somewhat larger than normal specimen, and that he couldn't stay in that form for very long. Honestly, he hadn't thought he'd get to see the change in his first session, and wondered if it had been a conscious decision or brought about by emotion. He didn't say anything, didn't want to jar the boy's senses, but observed.

The snake, much like Erik the human, found Mike's field, though less dramatically. But instead of backing off, it attacked, bapping against field with a sound much like a knuckle against thick plate glass. When attack didn't work it slithered upwards, but didn't get very far. Mike had seen snakes climb and had thought Erik would get higher than he did. He didn't know if biology or laziness had to do with that.

Whichever it was, once the snake knew it couldn't escape, it stopped trying and just sat there, tasting the air. Once the change started again, Mike stepped a little closer to watch, though he didn't take down his field till Erik was human again, and clicked the stopwatch the last time, leaving it in his pocket. He'd get the time later when he knew Erik was alright. When the boy proved a bit wobbly on his feet, Mike gently reached over to steady him with a hand to the shoulder, ready to pull back if the snake instincts still ruled and Erik's teeth flashed. In a soft voice, he asked, "Would you like something for the pain? I have some Excedrin."

Though that brand was most often used for headaches, the drugs in it could also be used for general pain. Mike carried the regular strength non-migraine formula (since his kids typically didn't get headaches as side effects), and often went through the smallest sized bottle about one a month.

[Erik Stewart]

Erik didn’t have much of a handle on his powers; he could only sustain it for a short length of time, and the pain in his back was always vivid once he’d gone through a transformation. Over the course of several minutes, the agony would fade, though he knew the ache would linger. Sometimes it was so bad he wondered if he’d broken it…but then, if he had, he wouldn’t have been standing up like this.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered, to the grass at his feet; “Shit.”

Erik didn’t look up as Mike approached, but judging by the swift jerk away from him, he’d been taken by surprise. He stumbled half a step backwards. The aversion to contact seemed an instinct to him, especially when it was handed down from anyone in authority; he raised his head to peer at Mike, overtly suspicious of his intentions. For someone who took every offense personally, it was hard for Erik to believe the trainer could still show concern for him, after such an obvious threat.
Which it had been, in a way…though Erik had done the same to multiple people before and had never really bit. Some, though, might consider it only a matter of time.

“No, I…” his brows furrowed. “’m…fine.”

Fine. What’s with the casual attitude? What made Mike think he could just stand there and brush it off? Erik had to have broken about five rules by now, and none of it was innocent, like sticking gum under a desk or throwing paper airplanes, no, he’d as good as attempted bodily harm. Erik looked down again, slumped his shoulders a bit; whether he was remorseful or embarrassed wasn’t clear, but – at least – it was apparent that he wasn’t proud of it, that he was a victim to his self-imposed temper.

He straightened himself up then, put his hands on his hips. Erik rolled his shoulder blades, waiting for the pain to settle into a long ache. There was a pause. Then: “I guess you want me t’see Mr. Sean.”

[Mike Batista]

Of course the first thing out of the boy's mouth would be more swear words, but Mike didn't say anything about those. There was a difference, a fine one but a difference, between being sworn at and being sworn, well, near.

When Erik pulled away, Mike let him, not forcing the contact. He didn't move away but put his hand by his side, his concern showing on his face as he watched Erik carefully. Other than the look the kid gave him when their eyes met, he seemed to have a handle on things and wasn't feeling anything out of the ordinary.

About the biting, Mike didn't mind. There was nothing documented about how much Erik stayed in control while a snake, and striking the fields was a natural reaction for an animal. Even if he was in full control Mike wouldn't blame him, it was one of the ways he could've learned about what was going on in that particular form, and wouldn't have had to use it without the field being there in the first place.

“No, I… ’m…fine.”

Mike didn't quite believe that, but he didn't force the issue. "Okay. But tell me if you need any of that Excedrin. I have a water bottle... around here somewhere." He looked around and located it by the bleachers. Ah. He'd have to remember that. He smiled a little. "Doesn't pay to ache if you don't have to."

“I guess you want me t’see Mr. Sean.”

"That's your decision," Mike said, shrugging. "You still have both options open for your previous behavior. You can see Dr. Neville or we can finish our session. Both still come with work detention. Today, finishing the session would be you telling me about your shift today. How it felt going in, how it felt during, how you feel now. We can go sit if you want." He nodded toward the bleachers. "But if you want to go see the doc, you're free to do that too."

Some kids who used their powers as infrequently as Erik was documented as sometimes found it traumatic, so Mike could understand needing to talk to someone about it. Not that it would get him off the hook for the cussing, Mike would beam that over to the telepath if Erik chose that option. But if Erik didn't want to talk about his shift and also wanted to save himself from whatever Sean would say to him about word choices, he could do so.