xp_logs | Logan and Farouk; Sunday, early evening

Logan meets the newest addition to Xavier's. Hijinks predictibly ensue.

Logan was wandering up from the garage to his room when a tantalizing scent hit his nostrils. Good body, smooth and mellow, with a flavor that had his taste buds going already. He followed the smell past the kitchen, almost lost it (dinner preparations were underway) then caught it again and followed it up to the Staff living quarters. Finally it led to the new guy's rooms. Logan knocked on the door, the adamantium reinforcing his hands making each knock sound like a gunshot. This close it was like he had it right under his nose.

Oh, for the love of... Farouk breathed in and regretfully set his cigar down on the ashtray next to his cognac. He gave in to a minute's pleasure of contemplating the collective apoplexy that ulema of Cairo's University would get if they knew how their representative to the decadent West was defiling his body and enjoying every second of it.

The smile on his face soured quickly, however.

The holy men of Egypt had surprising amount in common with the free minded educators of Xavier's, it appeared. He was pointedly asked to refrain from smoking on the School's grounds. Three times in the last week.

He fervently hoped his quarters didn't count, because he was damned if he was going to ran around fanning the tobacco smoke out of the window as if he was still a teenage freshman in Sorbonne dorm.

"Esteban!" He called out, unnecessarily as always. Trotsky was already opening the door.

Logan looked at the manservant and instantly dismissed him. Instead, he gave a good look to the skinny little Arab at the table.

"Sorry to bother you, but I could smell your cigar from downstairs. You got one you can spare? Pay you for it..." he asked, suddenly craving a good smoke. Most of what he'd been smoking recently was cheap cheroots or ... Gods help him ... Marlboros. Sarah was a bad influence.

Farouk’s brows almost rose. Well. Hello and how do you do to you too, midget. Let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we? Please come in. Make yourself at home.

The sense of self-confidence (saying arrogance and smug superiority would be a trifle unkind, no?) were coming off the uninvited guest in palpable waves. And you didn’t even need to be a psi to sense them. Considering the man’s hairdo, he must have been really good at whatever it is he did to have that sort of self-esteem.

Amahl rose up slightly and waved the stranger in. “Do come in. I am sure I could spare a free cancer stick for a fellow tobacco troglodyte, without going broke. Have we met?”

Behind Logan, Esteban disappeared smoothly, giving the man a short assessing look that made Farouk wary. Trotsky usually had good instincts. Perhaps there was something more to the man, that met the eye.

Of course there would almost have to be.

"Don't think so. I'm Logan." Wolverine said, offering the stranger his hand. "You're the new guy. Farouk, right?" he said, digging the name out of his none-too-reliable memory.

He perched in one of Farouk's chairs casually and put his boots up onto the man's table. He caught some motion out of the corner of his eye and revised his opinion of Farouk's valet up sharply. Guy had some moves on him. Logan almost didn't see him.

“Please, call me Amahl.” Farouk smiled and congratulated himself. His teeth weren’t even gritted. Theater. I really should have gone into theater.

He carefully didn’t look at the man’s boots on his table as he poured brandy into the second glass. A smudge of dirt was already visible against the surface, and Farouk thought longingly about his mahogany desk back in Cairo. The odds were good that it was already gathering dust in Mahmoudi’s office, that pissant boolicker.

The thought of boots brought him back to the present and he changed his mind. It was definitely for the best that he left his furniture in Cairo.

His eyes narrowed in thought as he pondered his guest. This was one who fancied himself an alpha-male. Every move a challenge. Trying to push and see where the limits were. Overgrown adolescent, in other words

50/50 chance then that pushing back would either backfire and start an eternal feud of pointless one-upmanship and me-macho contests or engender respect and, one might hope, a semblance of manners.

“Do you mind?” He gestured toward the man’s feet as he passed him the glass. Keeping his voice free of inflection, calm and sure. “Esteban just dusted.”

"Amahl." Logan said with a grin just this side of feral. Prissy, fussy old man. But he smoked a good cigar and the brandy smelled like the good shit, so Logan'd play along for now.

He dropped his boots onto the floor from the table silently. "So what brings you to New York?" he asked in an excellent facsimile of small talk.

Thought as much. Predictable like all testosterone overdosers. Amahl contentedly didn’t glance at Logan’s feet as he reclined back in his chair and re-acquired his cigar.

“Oh, just wanted to see what an all-mutant school would be like. I admit it took me by surprise – Professor Xavier would be the last person I’d imagine trying a hand at segregated education.”

Logan blinked. This geek was talking some interesting shit for someone who'd just arrived. But he had Cubans, so Logan'd hear him out.

"It's a safety thing." He said confidently, even if he was anything but. "Lots of folks out there gunning for muties. We give the kids someplace to grow up safe, learn about their abilities before we turn 'em loose."

Farouk puffed meditatively on his cigar, trying for a smoke circle. What floated up to the ceiling resembled a mutated armadillo performing an unnatural carnal act upon a violently unwilling platypus. Or possibly a masterpiece of a modern art.

Farouk hated modern art.

“World is a dangerous place.” He agreed placidly. “I am not sure, however, that separation teaches the students the necessary skills for survival in the world dominated by Homo Sapiens. Much likelier is that such schools – and I think we can expect similar institutions appearing elsewhere sooner rather than later – will prepare people who are accustomed living in a monochrome environment, among people of their ‘own’ kind who tend to accept them as normal, and – conversely - ill prepared to survive among the majority outside these walls who are not ready to accept them at all. Schools such as these are not teaching these children survival techniques and assimilation models, they are bringing up secessionists.”

Which, considering current trends, is not necessarily a bad thing, although perhaps not the intended purpose. But the law of unintended consequences rules supreme over us all.

Amahl shrugged and, carefully putting down his cigar, sipped the cognac, savoring the mix of flavors. “This is of course an outsider’s opinion. I haven’t discussed the situation with Charles, yet. I’d be fascinated to hear his thoughts on the matter.”

That should be blunt enough, I think. Last thing I need is the rumor that I am planning a secret coup against Xavier. Although if he hasn’t considered the broader implications of his little pedagogical experiment he deserves a revolution. With a cameo by Dr. Guillotine. Thankfully this is not my problem.

Logan snorted with amusement. "Believe me, the last thing Chuck wants is any variant on the Beer-Hall Putsch." He said with amusement. He also reached for the cognac, sipping it as was only proper.

The swirl of flavors on his tongue was ... exquisite, and the burn most welcome indeed. He smiled appreciatively at the Arab.

"Heard it said you're some kind of psi, like Chuck." he offered.

Amahl blinked at the mention of Munich coup. Well, yes… “Some kind, yes,” He chuckled. “Although very few of us are in Charles’ league, alas.”

He squinted speculatively after a second’s thought and swirled the brandy catching sunlight with it . “Or perhaps it’s for the best.”

He gestured with his cigar expansively. “And what about you, Mr. Logan? Do you teach?” Or are you a disturbingly old graduate student with an unhealthy interest in freshmen schoolgirls? You certainly look the type.

"Yeah. Advanced hand-to-hand." Logan said with a disturbingly feral grin for a moment or two. "So you're a teep, huh. Read my mind." He said challengingly.

So we can safely assume that cocaine is extremely cheap in the United States. Farouk came to the obvious conclusion. And also I hope Esteban is about to burst in here and sacrifice himself heroically to save me from a paranoid schizophrenic who is about to kill me and pickle my brain in marinated tomato juice.

“Is there something you are too concerned to tell me out loud?” he inquired interestedly and puffed on his cigar again, around a blankly polite smile. Are the little green men listening in, on the orders from Mossad, ready to whisk you away on the slightest excuse and perform horrible experiments on you in their super-secret facility located in a hollowed out volcano in a shape of a skull?

"I ask all the telepaths to do it. To put it plainly, my life starts maybe seventeen years ago all-in. Everything before that got wiped away. So read my mind." ~Geek~, was the unspoken addition.

Ah, of course. The gruff manly way of saying ‘For God’s sake help me, mighty shaman-man, with your spooky arts in which I do not, of course, for a second believe.’

Farouk put down his glass, and glanced at Logan’s face briefly. “I must warn you, if Charles was unable to help you it’s unlikely that I will. But it certainly doesn’t hurt to try, of course.”

Not waiting for the man’s reply he closed his eyes, letting his under-mind take over and leech the world away. A tendril of his self stretched out toward Logan, carefully. A memory-wipe often left behind a treacherous mindscape and he wasn’t at his best, especially after the tantrum that Morrow’s brat threw.

Still, cautiously, he moved deeper.

The shock of contact was a slight surprise as it always was when he did it right, when he came to grips, in a moment between moment, with the inevitable alieness of someone else’s mind, of another self.

And then he s a w.

The damage of the mind he was trying to peel, the effects of the destruction…

They dwarfed all his expectations; the cutting fragments of broken memories, the despair and hope, the curtains of pain shrouded in guilt, and rage, the all encompassing rage just waiting to get out.

Under the pressure of the fractured mind he almost lost his anchor to the astral plane, his undermind reeling, bleeding and wounded but he managed to stabilize his control at last. Somewhere he knew more than felt, his body drawing in deep breath as his let his tendril borrow in deeper.

There was still nothing substantial to the impressions he was getting from Logan, just emotions, the rawest data of the mind unprocessed yet into thoughts or ideas or even images, a mass with no details to it, a blurring mirage of the substance that lay somewhere deep under the layers of natural and very unnatural defenses.

He thought he could feel himself getting a hold on the slippery mess. For a moment he could almost sense something concrete coming up to Logan’s forebrain and the smell of freshly sawed wood filled his mind.

A sense of triumph, almost forgotten during the years of the decades-long rear-guard action against the slow death of his talents, boiled through his blood and he almost began to grin that old death-head grin….

And then he was on the floor, sour taste of his own vomit and bitter disappointment burning his throat, and a hand on his shoulder was helping him up, Esteban’s slim frame belying as always the sure wiry strength, his lupine face a mask of blank disapproval.

Logan was in no shape to help the good doctor to his feet, having thrown himself backwards out of his chair at the telepathic invasion. Whoever this guy was he had a mindtouch like fucking sandpaper to the nutsack. It took him several moments to clear his thoughts and several more to put the rage back and let the pain pass. He smelled the sour smell of vomit and almost, for a moment, added his own to the pile.

Farouk worked his throat and spat, his voice-box refusing to work for a moment, until he forced it to.

Leaning on Trotsky’s shoulder a little too heavily, he surprised himself by summoning up another bland smile.

“I think this is quite enough for now, don’t you, Mr. Logan?” He coughed, resisting the urge to spit again. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.” Now get the fuck out so I can pass out.

"Yeah, sure thing." Logan said, reclaiming his cigar and tossing back the remainder of the cognac. "Thanks for the cigar." He said, mustering up a smile. "Owe you one." He beat a hasty retreat, pondering what exactly had just happened there.