Xavier stares at the hair on the guard's neck. Flashes of memories skip through his head. Whirring sounds and rubber squeaking on hardwood. A memory of green flashing lights. That brief moment when he first becomes conscious of the world around him. In one memory, he is two, or maybe three years old. A cold, aluminum finger is running down his cheek, and a retracting lens, in the center of a glass eye, is focusing in on him. It is a tender moment, to be sure. But cold. The memory makes Xavier smile. He hasn't smiled since he was arrested.