Francis sat on the cold floor of his containment chamber, absently running a hand along his braid. The sterile room was filled with unnatural silence, only broken by the sound of footsteps and the faint hum of the air conditioner.

He let out a sigh, the reality bending ability coming as naturally as breathing to him. The endless tests and studies had become routine, the Foundation constantly trying to understand and control his anomalous abilities. But the constant surveillance and confinement weighed heavily on his shoulders.

In an attempt to amuse himself, he focused on making eyelashes appear on his arms. Three eyes watched as his fingers moved, thin hairs bloomed here and there. One on his bicep seemingly fluttered, the movement almost mocking the mundanity of his surroundings. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips — even the quirks of his power knew that this routine was getting stale.