"Donald?" Tasha walks up to her husband, a worried look on her face.

"Why isn't Chase up yet?" Mr. Davenport shrugs, grinning A bit.

"Hey, don't look at me. Who am I to contemplate the vast capacity of teenagers to laze around. Heck, even Chas-Uh, oh . . ."

"You bet 'uh, oh.' That boy's usually up before me, snow day or not. And here he is, at ten o'clock, sleeping in like a normal kid."

What! Chase acting normal? This is a major cause for concern people.

The scientist sighs, and takes his wife to the side. (Admittedly for the sole purpose of getting out of Eddie's speaker range, but it's also the thing to do when you're about to drop a bomb on someone.)

"Er, you know how I've been talking about how the kids'll be getting special abilities?"

"You mean aside from blowing up a lamp by staring at it, mimicking me whenever I lay down the law, and outsmarting by vocabulary alone?"

"Yep."

"Fantastic. Is one of those abilities going to be speeding up divorce proceedings, or will I need your platinum card and a lawyer for that?"

. . .

Five minutes of frantic spluttering later

. . .

"Listen, Tasha, the upshot is, great power comes with a price. And, well, Chase is probably going to figuring out what it's going to cost him soon . . . So go easy on the kid, okay?" The scientist starts to edge his way out the door while giving the last bits of information. He grabs His coat and slams the door just as Tasha is about to object, saying something about 'going to the office'.

"You're office is that hidden lab thingy, you coward!" The woman angrily stomps away to make breakfast, or by this time, lunch. Resigning herself to steam about her husband leaving her in the lurch, and worry about Chase.

. . .

Ten or so minutes later, in the lab 'thingy'

. . .

Chase has taken poundings to level mountains from Adam, super-speed kicks of doom from Bree, and outright psychological war-fare from Eddie. But this. Hurt.

Not quite migraine, or better known as oh-someone-kill-me-and-get-it-over-with pain, but definitely worse than your twisted ankle or bruised ego. (Some days it's the ego that hurts worse than the ankle.)

He has three options for this headache:

a) ignore it and be strangely crabby until it goes away.

b) not ignore it, wake up Adam and Bree, and complain until his head decides to cooperate.

c) Go to Tasha and/or Mr. Davenport, and hope they can fix this before his brain capacity is hopelessly scrambled from sheer pain.

Hm, maybe he should choose 'C'.

We'll, ya'know. Just a thought.

. . .

"So you woke up this way?" Tasha sighs. Chase had stumbled upstairs a little while ago and she'd been trying to put him back together since. Really, the boy had been a mess. Even his clothes weren't on straight, and he was changed by a machine.

We're not going anywhere near the subject of his hair right now.

"Unfortunately." Chase, having taken a seat long ago, rubs his temples and closes his eyes, but jumps a little when Tasha puts a hand to his forehead.

"You've got a slight fever . . . Or you bionics are naturally warm, I'd have to ask Donald . . ." Said bionic groans, leaning further into the sofa cushion, eyes closing fast.

"Woah, hold it kiddo. Don't pass out on me just yet. At least wait for Donny to get back . . . Have you ever been sick before?"

Chase almost glared at her attempt at conversation, a habit picked up from years of dealing with Adam, but stopped himself. Hey, how could she know? Woman used to be an outsider.

"Mr. Davenport had us breathing sterilized air and wearing jump suits Special Forces would lust after. And we had a cleaning lady come in a scrub the place until it smelled like we were living inside a lemon."

"So . . . No then." Okay, so now Tasha's dealing with a super human that's never been exposed to the common cold. Or, if he's not sick, the Chase is probably going through some nutty bionics-only change that, for all she knows, could end up with him writhing on the floor with a seizure.

Fun.