Backdated: Mark & Illyana, May 8th

[x-pressive.livejournal.com]

One for the way-back machine. While Mark does his part to help find the missing kids, Illyana comes to relieve him of some of his duties, and they discuss bad villain names and smoov jazz.


It was a usual sight to walk into the lobby of Snow Valley Memorial Center for Mutant Affairs and be greeted by sudden bursts of light. It kept Mark’s spirits high to play dance music and shower the room in glitter like a human disco ball. But even he had his limits, and with three of Xavier’s students abducted and Snow Valley recruited to assist in their search, he’d switched to something he couldn’t manifest from. His first instinct of course was that the organ harvesting ring that they’d broken up nine months prior had returned, and that thought had visibly rattled him. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally lase his computer in frustration, so Miles Davis now filled the room as Mark Googled up a storm.

It had been a long day, even by Illyana’s standards, and one that was far from over. Never mind her particular experience with disappearances, especially mysterious ones: Jennie was her friend, and while she was happy to do plain old office work if that would help, it didn’t make waiting to hear something - anything - much easier. She stopped in front of Mark’s desk, recognizing the music only as different from usual. “Do you have anything?” she asked, then clarified, “That I could do, I mean.”
Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

“Hmm?” Mark looked up from his monitor briefly, barely even registering that someone was talking to him. It took him a moment to process the question, and he paused mid-keystroke. “Uh, you wanna man the phones? CUNY won’t stop fucking calling, and I’m running out of ‘sorry, we’re doing the James Bond thing right now and can’t get to your contract’ excuses. Maybe you have more ideas.”

“Sure,” she said, sliding a couple of manila folders into an outbox. “I’m told I can be very off-putting on the phone, so they shouldn’t be a problem,” she added, apparently serious, taking a chair at the reception desk. Her voice was only a shade quieter when she asked, “Have you found anything?”

And there were only so many ways to answer in the negative. Mark shook his head. “Nada. First I started going through people I know in Europe, in the mutant scenes there. Thought that maybe there was a repeat of last summer? But that was a waste of time. And then I thought about this organ harvesting thing we dismantled last summer, too, but I haven’t heard anything about anyone else disappearing, and all the leads we got from that case didn’t lead at all.” He sighed, frustrated. “And now we know that this Rory Campbell guy is behind it, and I at least have no idea where to go from there. I’ll take the Warwolves over this.”

“I wouldn’t,” Illyana said, sorting through mail for something to do with her hands. “From what I hear, you were very bloody lucky to get out from that alive, so I’d rather not think that Jennie and the others were – under those circumstances. Though I can’t imagine at all that they’re in good hands.” She paused, hands stilling for a second before resuming activity, alphabetizing as fiercely as it was possible to alphabetize. “I did hope there’d be more than a stupid name by now.”

And brief pause caught Mark’s eye, but he said nothing and continued staring at his monitor, waiting for anything remotely relevant to miraculously appear. “Ahab,” he snorted derisively. “Psychos and their oh-so-scary names. You’d think he’d choose a less idiotic and more powerful biblical figure to model himself by.”

Illyana rolled her eyes in agreement. “Yeah, well. In my experience, psychos don’t really put too much thought into their pseudonyms. Though I don’t suppose that makes them any less dangerous.” She sighed, looking over at Mark. “I wonder what deep and terrifying part of his psyche he was trying to share, with that.”

“Either he’s obsessed with vaguely phallic objects,” Mark posited, “Or he’s easily manipulated by pagan women. Or both. In other contexts, both entirely forgivable offenses. Hmm, look at this. Did you know that Rory Campbell played opera performer number three in Batman Begins? Maybe that’s why he kidnapped three kids. He wants revenge for getting a bit part.”

The blonde’s lips quirked in a bleak half-smile. “Do you ever get the sense that the bad guys are getting worse motives? I mean, honestly. Used to be they all wanted world domination. Which one can at least understand, even if it’s stupid.” She frowned down at mail, then, distracted, waved her fingers in the direction of Mark’s speakers. “So what’s with the music? It’s different, right? . . . Slower?”

“Miles Davis, one of the kings of jazz. And also not something I can currently do anything with.” Which was a good thing for now, but still a little frustrating whenever anyone asked him if he’d learned anything new yet. “The point is to not blow up anything. I’ve done that one too many times with my phone, and I think that Doug is getting tired of replacing them.”

“Oh, that music for elevators? It has kings? That’s really strange.” Seemingly unaware of her cultural faux-pas, Illyana glanced at the phone. “Though I guess it’s better than explosions. I personally think we could all do with less of those. Generally.”

Mark almost hissed. “Elevator music?” he repeated, as if she’d just struck him in the gut. “Oh, no. No no no. I know your circumstances are a bit, er, unique, but elevator music? Oh, Illyana, you have much to learn. Jazz is . . . well, it’s pretty much the musical embodiment of cool.”

Her dubious look – first at the speakers, then at him – said all that needed to be said about that. “Well,” she said, an under-developed sense of fairness obviously at work, “I suppose you’d know better than me. It does sound an awful lot like what they’d play at the supermarket, but maybe the supermarket people are just cool themselves.”

“No, that’s fake jazz. That is to jazz what a capella is to pop music: a poor, ear bleeding-inducing facsimile of the original material. Oh, we need to get you some audio therapy. Is there any kind of music you do like?” He had a hunch that he could find her perusing the angry woman rock bin at Virgin, but he held his peace.

It was clear that she wasn’t exactly following what Mark was saying; but she shrugged, lifting her chin – slightly defensive. “I don’t know. Different things. The groups have stupid names, which has always seemed very counter-productive to me. Garbage. Republica. That sort of thing.”

It was hard not to laugh. He couldn’t help the smile that grew on his lips, but he kept in amiable, not deprecating. “Bingo,” he said to himself. “I thought so. Something about you screamed alternative. I have something you might like, actually.” He reached over to stop Miles Davis, and expertly flipped through the tracks until he came up with Le Tigre. Distracted from his actual work, he was calm enough now not to accidentally shock Illyana when the electronic funk started playing.

“That’s not bad,” Illyana said approvingly, letting the ‘alternative’ remark slide after a moment’s contemplation revealed that she had no idea what he meant, and would look stupider asking than not. “How do you know all this music, anyway? Don’t you get confused?”

Mark chuckled and shook his head. “Naw. It all makes sense to me, you know? Music always comes down to the same elements, the difference is just how those elements are presented. My mutation probably gives me a bit of an edge on it, too.” He winked at her conspiratorially.

Illyana looked dubious. “If you say so. So long as it doesn’t sound like all that stupid crap Clarice used to listen to, I’m not too picky, really.”