This, in and of itself, was nothing new. An inactive Stanton was an unhealthy Stanton, and even when 'normal', Will had been all over the place. A ball of energy, barely restrained, always getting into trouble. If something wasn't afoot, then something was wrong.
Now, in a new world as a gestalt consciousness, that in and of itself had multiplied -- a theoretically infinite number of Wills needing a theoretically infinite number of activities to keep themselves occupied. And so, Will had found ways to keep themselves busy. Working for ASHLIE as an administrative assistant, hooked up to the campus network, was fascinating, and the Wills in the mirror eagerly awaited their regular reports on what that was like. Another was a regular in the training room, working with the X-Teams and demonstrating various techniques they had picked up in literal decades of experience as a person (the millennia of experience as a rock, somewhat less useful. Fifty years as a couch was more of a toss-up.) A Will had gone to Wales to break into the BBC; several Wills had been drafted into work setting up the Mutant Town interdimensional portal thing, and the rumours about Will and Miriam were widespread and libelous. And that was just for the mobile, talking, interactive ones! The log-sheet Will dutifully carried out, establishing how many Wills were out and about at any given time, was lengthy indeed, with some Wills being gone for weeks -- months, even -- before returning with news from afar, and experiences to share with the group. It was, truly, a tremendous opportunity for the man with the never-stopping brain.
And still it wasn't enough. And that's why he was here, in Mutant Town, looking up at a new sign which read Kneadful Creations. As part of the outreach towards the local Mutant community, Will had setup a bakery, conveniently located near the portal to the university proper. The smell of fresh-baked bread and freshly-brewed coffee already spreading over the town. Straightening his apron and brushing some crumbs off of one of the tables, Will worked his way back towards the counter. The true dream of any billion-year-old questionably-human lump of sentient clay -- a
((open))