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[indent][indent]As soon as Prism mentioned the keycard beneath their seats, cold plastic zipped into Morgan's hand. He was barely paying attention to the commencement speech, and it was more instinct than anything else –– instinct, plus a dash of performance anxiety. What if the powers that be forgot to put the card there? What if it was blank on both sides? What if it was just a huge misunderstanding, and no, he wasn't actually accepted into Mobius, and also he's far too late to apply to pre-med, better go join the circus instead, [i]clown[/i].

Morgan knew well his natural tendency to catastrophize and cut that death-spiral short by flipping over the card. 

His read that he was in Class 1A, and that meant he was due to be trained by [i]Kitty Pryde[/i]. As in, the X-Men's Kitty Pryde. As in, Shadowcat. Something to stroke his ego and kick him right in the Impostor Syndrome all at once.

Though he had another moment of unease before he swiped it, he was let in. It was not, in fact, the huge misunderstanding he thought it might be. He was not the king of clowns, not today.

Morgan was not the first person to arrive at his dormitory, he noticed. The lights were already on, and people were milling about to find their rooms and roommates. He was, however, the first person to arrive at the dorm room of 'Morgan LeBeau & Janet Star Lucasta'.

He blinked. Co-ed. Right.

Dorm living wasn't a new experience for him. When he spent the summers at Xavier's, he was always placed with a kid his age rather than given a private room like his Mom. It was supposed to be good for his childhood development, a chance to get to know other kids, as if he didn't socialize [i]enough[/i] back then. Whoever was this Janet person was could only be an upgrade from the [i]friendly[/i] discussions of, 'Your mom nearly killed my mom-slash-dad on x, y, z occasion - is she still evil?' and the much worse, 'Wow, dude, your mom's a MILF!'

Morgan found his luggage at the foot of the bunk-bed, and restrained himself from settling into one. They ought to at least flip a coin for the top. He did, however, begin to unpack, carefully arranging a wardrobe of flannel shirts by shade, smoothing them out where they had been wrinkled in transit with a nip of telekinetic energy. What were powers for, if not to make his life easier?

No posters to put up. No picture-frames, because the only ones he had were in his wallet. Maybe there was some place to get fairy-lights to spruce up the place (also to sap in a pinch, because while electrical energy might tingle, it was still [i]energy[/i]) and he had to find the perfect place to sit Karen, his lava lamp...

But he didn't want to make any extreme decorating decisions until he'd met his roommate and they'd come to an agreement. That would just be rude.
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