Mark & Scott, John. Backdated to Friday
Apr. 20th, 2007 07:53 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsMark gets his first round of official powers training with Scott, who's once again reminded why he loves being a teacher.
"So, just to double check, we have a contingency plan if rocks fall and everyone dies?" Mark asked Scott, gazing at the quarry around them warily. "Emma gives us a very nice benefits package and fruit basket, but I don't think we have Boulder Insurance."
"This is the quarry," Scott said amiably, sitting down on a handy rock. "And so long as you stay clear of the walls, Mark, rocks will not fall on you." The headmaster was in a t-shirt and jeans; it was a warm and sunny afternoon, which was one of the reasons he'd decided on the spur of the moment that they'd come out here.
Mark had to admit that this was all a little frightening. He'd never been taught before, only gotten tips from other energy manipulators about how to handle himself. He'd become a creature of instinct, but as he found out in Syria and Uganda, that wasn't enough. If he knew more, then maybe Fall Out Boy could have actually been useful.
He wore his headphones around his neck, the earpieces big enough that he could still hear the music. His iPod, fully charged, sat in his jacket pocket, and he reached a hand in to turn it on. "This song won't actually give anyone a hemorrhage," he clarified, his hands taking on a silvery glow, similar in color to the cover to Fuel's "Something Like Human."
"Aim for that crack," Scott said, pointing out a noticeable fissure in the quarry wall. "As close as you can to the center."
Despite the look of intense concentration on his face, the blast Mark released was big and unfocused. It smashed into the rocks, showering the immediate area with a storm of dust and pebbles. Not quite what Scott had been asking for.
Scott raised an eyebrow. "How would you describe the level of focus you were trying to achieve there?" he asked, politely.
"Um, a lot?" Mark had never had to focus much before. Hell, he never used this particular aspect of his mutation much before X-Force in the first place. "I usually don't have to, so I don't know, you know? Like, I'm usually more worried about the presence of the kaboom than the size of the kaboom."
"Ah." 'Ah' was better than 'I see'. Scott stood, picking another target on the wall of the quarry, a small outcropping. Squinting, he drilled a very precise hole in the outcropping with his optic blast, no more than the diameter of a pencil. He added two more in a rough triangle; they were distant enough from the rock wall that he couldn't be absolutely precise. Scott paused to let the dust settle, then opened his eye wide.
The hole was considerably larger, this time, but just as neat.
"Sometimes you need different-sized kabooms," Scott said amiably.
Mark couldn't help but let out an impressed whistle. "Wow. I don't . . . well, I don't know if I can even do that. Okay, lemme try again." The song repeated just as it ended, and the silver energy fields around his hands never wavered. He raised his right hand and clenched a fist, fixating on the angry rasp of Brett Scallions's voice and harsh beat of the drums. The light emanating from his hands grew brighter, and he could actually hear his heart beating in sync with the bass. The light pulsated, until finally Scallions cried the beginning of the chorus.
"Don't faaaaall away," Mark sang, "Leave me to myself . . ." Thunder cracked and the odor of ozone filled Mark's nostrils as the stored energy superheated the air, and the silver plasma smashed into the target, opening a large hole in the fissure. Still not tight enough, he thought as he coughed the burning air out of his lungs, but at least an improvement.
Scott had been watching Mark, as much as his power use. "I'm gathering you're basically an energy transmuter," he said. "Sound into power. The music use is interesting, though. Can you generate power using ambient noise as well?"
Mark shook his head, brushing sweaty bangs away from his eyes. "Naw. Only music. Even if it's fake. A few weeks ago in . . . uh, a bunch of guys started humming and whistling and pounding on the ground, like a caveman rock band, and I was able to do what I normally do with the Beatles. But it was real hard."
"Hard how?" Scott's voice was light, patient, his posture absolutely relaxed. It was a demeanor he'd long-ago mastered for situations such as his, and it had become almost second-nature. Though he would never admit it to anyone, he was almost as comfortable doing powers-training as he was tinkering with the Blackbird or drawing up Danger Room scenarios. "Headaches, nausea, any kind of physical reaction?"
"Seizure, actually. Like, my body had to adjust to this new kind of fuel." Mark couldn't help but take notice of Scott's body language. In a way it was intimidating. He held himself with such confidence, but not in an arrogant way, which when taken into account with that little demonstration of his optic blasts, suggested that he probably knew more about Mark's powers after seeing him in action for two minutes than Mark did after six plus years.
"Have you ever been seriously hurt?" Scott gave him a crooked smile. "Sounds nosey, I know, but it's pertinent. The second question in that set is 'have you ever overloaded your powers'? But I need to rule out a physical cause for the reliance on music before I say anything else. Usually there's a red-headed Scotswoman who asks these questions," he confided, something close to a twinkle in his real eye, "but I'll spare you the experience of Moira for now. Can't make any promises for the future, however."
"No and no. Lost control a few times back when I first manifested," Mark admitted, just a little self-consciously, "But never any problems hurting myself or anyone else. Barring that seizure, of course. I mean, cut off the music and I've got nothing, y'know?" Like in Uganda. He didn't even shudder at that thought. Much.
"That's good. I used to have to wear ruby-quartz glasses to restrain my optic blasts," Scott said. "Brain damage, from a plane accident I was in as a kid. It's a lot easier if you don't have the physiological problem. Psychological limits can be overcome. Damn, I wish Alison was here," he murmured, sitting back down. "Your mutations are so similar."
"The rule we have down at Snow Valley is that that name? Verbotten." Amanda would be cackling for a week if she'd heard Scott. "I like crappy pop as much as the next guy, but she kinda takes the cake." What a cruel twist of fate that held such similarities.
Scott raised an eyebrow. "Did I say anything about her music?" he asked - patiently enough, but it was clearly a statement meant to bring Mark back on-topic. "She's running a training annex out on the West Coast these days. Powers-wise, you probably want to get to the point where she is, that's the ideal. She works with ambient noise easily. I suspect you'd appreciate the versatility of not having to rely on your iPod, given some of the situations your job lands you in..."
"'Tis evil," insisted Mark, but then dropped the subject. Being able to not use music would be awful nice, considering the last two missions. "I don't even know if my powers could work like that. Different kinds of music make me do different things, and even one song covered by two different people can be different."
"Yes, but there could be a very simple explanation for that – every song constitutes a different collection of sounds. Even different covers do." Scott folded his arms across his chest, the crooked smile returning. "Show me how your powers change when you change songs. Something that's a big change, please."
"Uh, okay." Mark pressed the play button again, and his hands once again began to glow with the Fuel-fueled silver energy. Then he switched to another playlist, this one labeled "Shiny," and Brett Scallions shut up to let Daft Punk weave their brand of disco-infused electronica. The plasma fizzled almost immediately, replaced by the blue crackle of electricity.
Interesting. "Okay, try this logic on for size," Scott said thoughtfully. "If you can produce entirely different kinds of energy with different music, how much more versatile would the ability to make free use of ambient noise make you?" He tilted his head, his expression growing even more contemplative even as his mind raced away. "Better question. What's the least complex piece of music you've ever used to generate power?"
"Would depend on what the noise was, wouldn't it?" replied Mark. He smirked a little, amused by how much Scott seemed to be enjoying this. Mark had seen the CNN special a few years ago and though at the time he'd been ambivalent about the school, if all the teachers were like this, then he'd admit that maybe he'd been mistaken. "Least complex? Er, the fake Beatles I was talkin' about. It was very primitive, y'know? Banging on stone walls and floors, whistling, singing 'Help!' in very non-British accents. And that was, like, a weak rock manifestation. I was able to open a steel lock, but even that little bit was pretty hard."
"... I'm not even going to ask," Scott said with a grin that made him look five years younger. "Okay, take it the other way. Ever used classical music? Something with a full orchestra? I have a point to this line of questioning, I promise..."
"Better that you don't. And you should grin like that more often." There was only a hint of flirtation in Mark's voice, much toned down compared to usual. "Orchestral music is one of the first forms I ever learned. It's a lot different, too. Watch." The lightning sparked and popped when the track changed to Mozart's Rondo alla Turca. The light around him coalesced into a soft red bubble through which he was still clearly visible.
"A protective field?" Scott said, with the satisfaction of someone who'd just had a hypothesis answered in the affirmative. "Something that has more structure to it, from music that has a more complex structure... okay, you're going to hate me," he said, unfolding his arms and standing again, "but I think I know where we need to go from here. You're not doing anything for the next four hours or so, are you? I promise we'll feed you dinner, afterwards..."
Mark tried very hard not to look like a sullen teenager. He almost made it, too. "This is going to be, like, work, isn't it? Bah." But he offered Scott a grin and dispelled the force field. "This had better be a damn good dinner."
"We need to establish a baseline," Scott said as they headed out of the quarry. "Like I said, it should take four hours, maybe five – but I want to clearly chart what you can do with your powers right now, so we know what we can work on. But," he said, with a faintly distracted smile - his mind was already composing the training program, "this involves going inside. Better places to be throwing large amounts of power around than the quarry."
"Inside?" Mark raised an eyebrow curiously, but followed Scott anyway. "I mean, the mansion looks structurally sound and all, but it doesn't look like it can withstand that much potential damage . . ."
"The Danger Room," Scott clarified with a more natural smile. "It's usually just used for X-Men training, but we do use it for powers-training when we're dealing with potentially destructive powers that can be contained by armor-clad walls."
"Armor-clad walls? How come we don't get armor-clad walls?" Mark muttered.
~*~
On his way out, Mark gets lost and bumps into John. They actually do have similar tastes in music, it seems.
A series of small cracking sounds followed each footstep as Mark meandered around the mansion. His preliminary meeting with Scott had been intense. In that rewarding "yay I did a good job, can I have a cookie?" kind of way, but intense nonetheless. Mark had found himself expending more and more energy with his powers the more he worked with X-Force, and it was taking his body a while to get used to it.
He'd rejected Scott's offer to show him out, sure that he remembered the way. But the mansion was a lot bigger than he'd given it credit for, and actually found himself upstairs by the dormitories rather than outside. He couldn't help but swear a little before turning around to try to find his way out again.
Chips Ahoy! dangling from his mouth, glass of milk in hand and his completed assignment on 'Politics and Violence' in the other, John had been making his way back to his suite with his eyes on the paper when he - no, Mark - bumped into him - literally - causing the glass to slosh half of its contents onto the front of his shirt.
The lack of a reaction on John's part as he continued to stare rather stoically at his essay before lifting his gaze up was probably even more unnerving than if he'd downright cursed and scowled.
Well, damn. "And here we'd just gotten back onto good footing," Mark said, taking a step back. "Fancy meeting you here. Uh, you do have a back-up copy of that, I hope."
John dropped the remains of his cookie into his glass with a slight frown. The essay had been written out by hand but he'd been planning on typing it out anyways -- so no harm done.
"...what are you doing here?"
"Was talking to Scott about stuff." Remy would kill him if he said too much. "'Sup with you?"
He arched an eyebrow up. "Are you lost, Sheppard?" Scott's office was a good distance away from the living quarters.
"Possibly." Mark looked around, then offered John a sheepish smile. "Probably," he corrected himself. "Uh, was looking for the way out of here. Don't know where I took the wrong turn."
"Sorry, can't help you, bro," was John's immediate response as he gestured a hand at his stained shirt before sidestepping past the other to head down the corridor. He let out a smirk however as he glanced back at Mark. "Just go past the rec room, turn left, head down the stairs, make a right turn, go straight and..." John chuckled. "Look, I'll walk you out -- just let me get changed first, aight?" He'd been planning on having a smoke outside anyways.
Mark grinned and nodded. "Thanks, man." He leaned against the wall next to the door to John's suite, and risked a peak inside. Pretty swanky, he had to admit. No wonder people seemed to always find their way back there.
John had to admit that he was getting used to the added ease and comfort of living at Xavier's again - no hassle, no stress, no bills.
"You can come in if you want. There's soda and beer in the fridge." John dropped his assignment on the kitchen counter. "Sorry there's no milk though," he added wryly.
"Sweet place," Mark commented. "I'm fine, thanks. Do gotta drive home. Oh, hey." He dropped his gym bag on the sofa in the living room and unzipped it to pull out a stack of CDs. "I was looking through some stuff the other day and thought of you."
"Huh." He tugged a clean shirt on and headed back out to where Mark was at. "What were you looking through? The Satanic Bible?" John smirked as he perched himself on the sofa's armrest. He picked a few of the CDs up at random and started scanning the covers.
Mark snorted and plopped himself down at the far end of the couch next to John. "Such a poor self-image. I mean my music." He handed John a copy of "In Case We Die" by Architecture in Helsinki. "You want pretentious Indie band names, I've got ‘em."
"Ah, the Australian musical ensemble, complete with glockenspiel and clarinet." He managed a smile, not quite getting the connection but he kept it aside anyways before filtering through the rest of Mark's CD collection. "So I heard that you're a DJ."
"You heard right. Here. This practically screams your name. Maybe it'll drown out your night terrors." Kingdom of Fear by Shitdisco. "Doesn't come out for a couple more days, but I got friends at Virgin who can get their hands on stuff early."
Dance punk? John's brows furrowed slightly. "Rave music's not my style really," he said, looking the album over. "But hell," he shrugged. "I'll give it a listen." He hadn't made any CD purchases lately and appreciated that Mark was giving him some new albums to check out.
"What kind of music do you play at the club?"
"Oh, you know, dancey, house, electronic stuff. My own remixes of top-forty songs, often. And usually remixes of styles that don't usually fit in in a nightclub, like punk." Mark shrugged. He didn't want to sound too proud, because he didn't want to put off John. Someone with an interesting but good taste in music, if something of a bitch, and there just weren't enough of them around.
"Punk, huh." John pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered it to Mark. "What's your mutation?" It had to be pretty interesting if he was hanging with the likes of Pete Wisdom and Remy LeBeau.
Mark reached into his pocket to grab his lighter, but, remembering what he'd been told of John's mutation, just accepted the cigarette and waited for a light. "I turn music into energy," he said, "Depending on what I'm listening. S'why I was meeting with Scott earlier. Trying to see what more I can do."
He sparked a light from his zippo and held it out to Mark. "The last time I lit someone's cigarette?" John smirked. "I almost burned his nose off." He canted his head to the side. "...was drunk," he offered as an excuse, extracting the flame out from the metal device to light his own cig before extinguishing the fire.
"So -- what can you do? Blast stuff?"
"Same thing happened to me last time I let someone light me up," Mark retorted with some amusement. "I do all sorts of things. Blast stuff usually, yeah, or light up like Christmas decorations on crack. Like I said, it depends on what I'm listening to."
"Right. An Energizer bunny when you're supplied with music. Got it." John picked an ashtray up from the coffee table. "Is there a limit to how much sound you can...metabolize?"
Mark blew out a ring of smoke before replying. "Haven't found that out yet," he said with a sly smirk. "Got ta spend five hours with that hot teacher of yours, gettin' all tired and sweaty to see what my limits are."
John snorted out a laugh at hearing that. He lifted the CDs up. "Thanks for this, man," he said, getting up. "Now let's get you acquainted with the front door from Scott's office, aight?" He stubbed his cigarette out and handed the metal tray over to Mark.
"So, just to double check, we have a contingency plan if rocks fall and everyone dies?" Mark asked Scott, gazing at the quarry around them warily. "Emma gives us a very nice benefits package and fruit basket, but I don't think we have Boulder Insurance."
"This is the quarry," Scott said amiably, sitting down on a handy rock. "And so long as you stay clear of the walls, Mark, rocks will not fall on you." The headmaster was in a t-shirt and jeans; it was a warm and sunny afternoon, which was one of the reasons he'd decided on the spur of the moment that they'd come out here.
Mark had to admit that this was all a little frightening. He'd never been taught before, only gotten tips from other energy manipulators about how to handle himself. He'd become a creature of instinct, but as he found out in Syria and Uganda, that wasn't enough. If he knew more, then maybe Fall Out Boy could have actually been useful.
He wore his headphones around his neck, the earpieces big enough that he could still hear the music. His iPod, fully charged, sat in his jacket pocket, and he reached a hand in to turn it on. "This song won't actually give anyone a hemorrhage," he clarified, his hands taking on a silvery glow, similar in color to the cover to Fuel's "Something Like Human."
"Aim for that crack," Scott said, pointing out a noticeable fissure in the quarry wall. "As close as you can to the center."
Despite the look of intense concentration on his face, the blast Mark released was big and unfocused. It smashed into the rocks, showering the immediate area with a storm of dust and pebbles. Not quite what Scott had been asking for.
Scott raised an eyebrow. "How would you describe the level of focus you were trying to achieve there?" he asked, politely.
"Um, a lot?" Mark had never had to focus much before. Hell, he never used this particular aspect of his mutation much before X-Force in the first place. "I usually don't have to, so I don't know, you know? Like, I'm usually more worried about the presence of the kaboom than the size of the kaboom."
"Ah." 'Ah' was better than 'I see'. Scott stood, picking another target on the wall of the quarry, a small outcropping. Squinting, he drilled a very precise hole in the outcropping with his optic blast, no more than the diameter of a pencil. He added two more in a rough triangle; they were distant enough from the rock wall that he couldn't be absolutely precise. Scott paused to let the dust settle, then opened his eye wide.
The hole was considerably larger, this time, but just as neat.
"Sometimes you need different-sized kabooms," Scott said amiably.
Mark couldn't help but let out an impressed whistle. "Wow. I don't . . . well, I don't know if I can even do that. Okay, lemme try again." The song repeated just as it ended, and the silver energy fields around his hands never wavered. He raised his right hand and clenched a fist, fixating on the angry rasp of Brett Scallions's voice and harsh beat of the drums. The light emanating from his hands grew brighter, and he could actually hear his heart beating in sync with the bass. The light pulsated, until finally Scallions cried the beginning of the chorus.
"Don't faaaaall away," Mark sang, "Leave me to myself . . ." Thunder cracked and the odor of ozone filled Mark's nostrils as the stored energy superheated the air, and the silver plasma smashed into the target, opening a large hole in the fissure. Still not tight enough, he thought as he coughed the burning air out of his lungs, but at least an improvement.
Scott had been watching Mark, as much as his power use. "I'm gathering you're basically an energy transmuter," he said. "Sound into power. The music use is interesting, though. Can you generate power using ambient noise as well?"
Mark shook his head, brushing sweaty bangs away from his eyes. "Naw. Only music. Even if it's fake. A few weeks ago in . . . uh, a bunch of guys started humming and whistling and pounding on the ground, like a caveman rock band, and I was able to do what I normally do with the Beatles. But it was real hard."
"Hard how?" Scott's voice was light, patient, his posture absolutely relaxed. It was a demeanor he'd long-ago mastered for situations such as his, and it had become almost second-nature. Though he would never admit it to anyone, he was almost as comfortable doing powers-training as he was tinkering with the Blackbird or drawing up Danger Room scenarios. "Headaches, nausea, any kind of physical reaction?"
"Seizure, actually. Like, my body had to adjust to this new kind of fuel." Mark couldn't help but take notice of Scott's body language. In a way it was intimidating. He held himself with such confidence, but not in an arrogant way, which when taken into account with that little demonstration of his optic blasts, suggested that he probably knew more about Mark's powers after seeing him in action for two minutes than Mark did after six plus years.
"Have you ever been seriously hurt?" Scott gave him a crooked smile. "Sounds nosey, I know, but it's pertinent. The second question in that set is 'have you ever overloaded your powers'? But I need to rule out a physical cause for the reliance on music before I say anything else. Usually there's a red-headed Scotswoman who asks these questions," he confided, something close to a twinkle in his real eye, "but I'll spare you the experience of Moira for now. Can't make any promises for the future, however."
"No and no. Lost control a few times back when I first manifested," Mark admitted, just a little self-consciously, "But never any problems hurting myself or anyone else. Barring that seizure, of course. I mean, cut off the music and I've got nothing, y'know?" Like in Uganda. He didn't even shudder at that thought. Much.
"That's good. I used to have to wear ruby-quartz glasses to restrain my optic blasts," Scott said. "Brain damage, from a plane accident I was in as a kid. It's a lot easier if you don't have the physiological problem. Psychological limits can be overcome. Damn, I wish Alison was here," he murmured, sitting back down. "Your mutations are so similar."
"The rule we have down at Snow Valley is that that name? Verbotten." Amanda would be cackling for a week if she'd heard Scott. "I like crappy pop as much as the next guy, but she kinda takes the cake." What a cruel twist of fate that held such similarities.
Scott raised an eyebrow. "Did I say anything about her music?" he asked - patiently enough, but it was clearly a statement meant to bring Mark back on-topic. "She's running a training annex out on the West Coast these days. Powers-wise, you probably want to get to the point where she is, that's the ideal. She works with ambient noise easily. I suspect you'd appreciate the versatility of not having to rely on your iPod, given some of the situations your job lands you in..."
"'Tis evil," insisted Mark, but then dropped the subject. Being able to not use music would be awful nice, considering the last two missions. "I don't even know if my powers could work like that. Different kinds of music make me do different things, and even one song covered by two different people can be different."
"Yes, but there could be a very simple explanation for that – every song constitutes a different collection of sounds. Even different covers do." Scott folded his arms across his chest, the crooked smile returning. "Show me how your powers change when you change songs. Something that's a big change, please."
"Uh, okay." Mark pressed the play button again, and his hands once again began to glow with the Fuel-fueled silver energy. Then he switched to another playlist, this one labeled "Shiny," and Brett Scallions shut up to let Daft Punk weave their brand of disco-infused electronica. The plasma fizzled almost immediately, replaced by the blue crackle of electricity.
Interesting. "Okay, try this logic on for size," Scott said thoughtfully. "If you can produce entirely different kinds of energy with different music, how much more versatile would the ability to make free use of ambient noise make you?" He tilted his head, his expression growing even more contemplative even as his mind raced away. "Better question. What's the least complex piece of music you've ever used to generate power?"
"Would depend on what the noise was, wouldn't it?" replied Mark. He smirked a little, amused by how much Scott seemed to be enjoying this. Mark had seen the CNN special a few years ago and though at the time he'd been ambivalent about the school, if all the teachers were like this, then he'd admit that maybe he'd been mistaken. "Least complex? Er, the fake Beatles I was talkin' about. It was very primitive, y'know? Banging on stone walls and floors, whistling, singing 'Help!' in very non-British accents. And that was, like, a weak rock manifestation. I was able to open a steel lock, but even that little bit was pretty hard."
"... I'm not even going to ask," Scott said with a grin that made him look five years younger. "Okay, take it the other way. Ever used classical music? Something with a full orchestra? I have a point to this line of questioning, I promise..."
"Better that you don't. And you should grin like that more often." There was only a hint of flirtation in Mark's voice, much toned down compared to usual. "Orchestral music is one of the first forms I ever learned. It's a lot different, too. Watch." The lightning sparked and popped when the track changed to Mozart's Rondo alla Turca. The light around him coalesced into a soft red bubble through which he was still clearly visible.
"A protective field?" Scott said, with the satisfaction of someone who'd just had a hypothesis answered in the affirmative. "Something that has more structure to it, from music that has a more complex structure... okay, you're going to hate me," he said, unfolding his arms and standing again, "but I think I know where we need to go from here. You're not doing anything for the next four hours or so, are you? I promise we'll feed you dinner, afterwards..."
Mark tried very hard not to look like a sullen teenager. He almost made it, too. "This is going to be, like, work, isn't it? Bah." But he offered Scott a grin and dispelled the force field. "This had better be a damn good dinner."
"We need to establish a baseline," Scott said as they headed out of the quarry. "Like I said, it should take four hours, maybe five – but I want to clearly chart what you can do with your powers right now, so we know what we can work on. But," he said, with a faintly distracted smile - his mind was already composing the training program, "this involves going inside. Better places to be throwing large amounts of power around than the quarry."
"Inside?" Mark raised an eyebrow curiously, but followed Scott anyway. "I mean, the mansion looks structurally sound and all, but it doesn't look like it can withstand that much potential damage . . ."
"The Danger Room," Scott clarified with a more natural smile. "It's usually just used for X-Men training, but we do use it for powers-training when we're dealing with potentially destructive powers that can be contained by armor-clad walls."
"Armor-clad walls? How come we don't get armor-clad walls?" Mark muttered.
~*~
On his way out, Mark gets lost and bumps into John. They actually do have similar tastes in music, it seems.
A series of small cracking sounds followed each footstep as Mark meandered around the mansion. His preliminary meeting with Scott had been intense. In that rewarding "yay I did a good job, can I have a cookie?" kind of way, but intense nonetheless. Mark had found himself expending more and more energy with his powers the more he worked with X-Force, and it was taking his body a while to get used to it.
He'd rejected Scott's offer to show him out, sure that he remembered the way. But the mansion was a lot bigger than he'd given it credit for, and actually found himself upstairs by the dormitories rather than outside. He couldn't help but swear a little before turning around to try to find his way out again.
Chips Ahoy! dangling from his mouth, glass of milk in hand and his completed assignment on 'Politics and Violence' in the other, John had been making his way back to his suite with his eyes on the paper when he - no, Mark - bumped into him - literally - causing the glass to slosh half of its contents onto the front of his shirt.
The lack of a reaction on John's part as he continued to stare rather stoically at his essay before lifting his gaze up was probably even more unnerving than if he'd downright cursed and scowled.
Well, damn. "And here we'd just gotten back onto good footing," Mark said, taking a step back. "Fancy meeting you here. Uh, you do have a back-up copy of that, I hope."
John dropped the remains of his cookie into his glass with a slight frown. The essay had been written out by hand but he'd been planning on typing it out anyways -- so no harm done.
"...what are you doing here?"
"Was talking to Scott about stuff." Remy would kill him if he said too much. "'Sup with you?"
He arched an eyebrow up. "Are you lost, Sheppard?" Scott's office was a good distance away from the living quarters.
"Possibly." Mark looked around, then offered John a sheepish smile. "Probably," he corrected himself. "Uh, was looking for the way out of here. Don't know where I took the wrong turn."
"Sorry, can't help you, bro," was John's immediate response as he gestured a hand at his stained shirt before sidestepping past the other to head down the corridor. He let out a smirk however as he glanced back at Mark. "Just go past the rec room, turn left, head down the stairs, make a right turn, go straight and..." John chuckled. "Look, I'll walk you out -- just let me get changed first, aight?" He'd been planning on having a smoke outside anyways.
Mark grinned and nodded. "Thanks, man." He leaned against the wall next to the door to John's suite, and risked a peak inside. Pretty swanky, he had to admit. No wonder people seemed to always find their way back there.
John had to admit that he was getting used to the added ease and comfort of living at Xavier's again - no hassle, no stress, no bills.
"You can come in if you want. There's soda and beer in the fridge." John dropped his assignment on the kitchen counter. "Sorry there's no milk though," he added wryly.
"Sweet place," Mark commented. "I'm fine, thanks. Do gotta drive home. Oh, hey." He dropped his gym bag on the sofa in the living room and unzipped it to pull out a stack of CDs. "I was looking through some stuff the other day and thought of you."
"Huh." He tugged a clean shirt on and headed back out to where Mark was at. "What were you looking through? The Satanic Bible?" John smirked as he perched himself on the sofa's armrest. He picked a few of the CDs up at random and started scanning the covers.
Mark snorted and plopped himself down at the far end of the couch next to John. "Such a poor self-image. I mean my music." He handed John a copy of "In Case We Die" by Architecture in Helsinki. "You want pretentious Indie band names, I've got ‘em."
"Ah, the Australian musical ensemble, complete with glockenspiel and clarinet." He managed a smile, not quite getting the connection but he kept it aside anyways before filtering through the rest of Mark's CD collection. "So I heard that you're a DJ."
"You heard right. Here. This practically screams your name. Maybe it'll drown out your night terrors." Kingdom of Fear by Shitdisco. "Doesn't come out for a couple more days, but I got friends at Virgin who can get their hands on stuff early."
Dance punk? John's brows furrowed slightly. "Rave music's not my style really," he said, looking the album over. "But hell," he shrugged. "I'll give it a listen." He hadn't made any CD purchases lately and appreciated that Mark was giving him some new albums to check out.
"What kind of music do you play at the club?"
"Oh, you know, dancey, house, electronic stuff. My own remixes of top-forty songs, often. And usually remixes of styles that don't usually fit in in a nightclub, like punk." Mark shrugged. He didn't want to sound too proud, because he didn't want to put off John. Someone with an interesting but good taste in music, if something of a bitch, and there just weren't enough of them around.
"Punk, huh." John pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered it to Mark. "What's your mutation?" It had to be pretty interesting if he was hanging with the likes of Pete Wisdom and Remy LeBeau.
Mark reached into his pocket to grab his lighter, but, remembering what he'd been told of John's mutation, just accepted the cigarette and waited for a light. "I turn music into energy," he said, "Depending on what I'm listening. S'why I was meeting with Scott earlier. Trying to see what more I can do."
He sparked a light from his zippo and held it out to Mark. "The last time I lit someone's cigarette?" John smirked. "I almost burned his nose off." He canted his head to the side. "...was drunk," he offered as an excuse, extracting the flame out from the metal device to light his own cig before extinguishing the fire.
"So -- what can you do? Blast stuff?"
"Same thing happened to me last time I let someone light me up," Mark retorted with some amusement. "I do all sorts of things. Blast stuff usually, yeah, or light up like Christmas decorations on crack. Like I said, it depends on what I'm listening to."
"Right. An Energizer bunny when you're supplied with music. Got it." John picked an ashtray up from the coffee table. "Is there a limit to how much sound you can...metabolize?"
Mark blew out a ring of smoke before replying. "Haven't found that out yet," he said with a sly smirk. "Got ta spend five hours with that hot teacher of yours, gettin' all tired and sweaty to see what my limits are."
John snorted out a laugh at hearing that. He lifted the CDs up. "Thanks for this, man," he said, getting up. "Now let's get you acquainted with the front door from Scott's office, aight?" He stubbed his cigarette out and handed the metal tray over to Mark.
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Date: 2007-04-24 10:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-24 10:31 pm (UTC)>.>
<.<
Seriously, it's not.
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Date: 2007-04-25 08:05 am (UTC)Btw Ben, this --> "Emma gives us a very nice benefits package and fruit basket, but I don't think we have Boulder Insurance."
Funny as hell. xD
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Date: 2007-04-24 11:13 pm (UTC)