Arrivals

[x-bevatron.livejournal.com]

The newest resident of the mansion arrives. Jim gets to take the buzz from the front gate to let him in.


The cabbie had barely allowed him enough time to muscle his seabag out of the car before roaring off, not even waiting to see if anyone would actually answer the gate buzzer. Jean-Phillipe Colbert pulled his beaten peacoat closer around his shoulders and fished into his pocket for his packet of Gitanes. As he lit one and took a long draw on it, he extended his middle finger in the direction of the receding taillights. "~Bigoted fuck!~" he swore in French. The cursing and drag on his cigarette did much to curb his ire, and he turned his attention to the gate before him. Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, the plaque at the gate proudly proclaimed, and a small buzzer system next to it was the obvious way to contact the mansion that could be seen off in the distance down a long tree-lined driveway. Jean-Phillipe looked at the buzzer, then looked down at the sparks coming from his hands. Uncontrolled electrogenesis and an electronic system seemed a poor combination. He shrugged and extended the cigarette packet still in his hand to press the call button.

"Coming, coming," Jim muttered, hurrying through the foyer. It was always fun to have the honor of being The One Closest To The Door. Smoothing back his spiky hair, he pushed down the call button. "Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. How may I help you?" You know, you don't always have to default to the phone greeting . . .

"Bonjour.I am Jean-Phillipe Colbert. My cousin, Marie-Ange, she attends your school," came the reply in accented but understandable English. "I have, ah, manifested a mutant power myself, and I cannot control it, so I have come here for help." He felt a bit absurd, telling all this to a callbox. He much preferred being able to look people in the eye, mostly because of the effect of his power on electronics. He shifted and took another drag on his cigarette while waiting for the reply.

Jim's eyebrow raised. "Marie-Ange actually graduated a little while ago," he said, buying himself time. He did remember some mention of her cousin from the journals, although for some reason he only seemed to remember it in connection with phrases like 'bad goth poetry'. This information was not tremendously helpful. I could get him a phone number . . . wait, he said he manifested. Crap, what's the protocol here? Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. "Um, could you hold on for a minute? I need to check something."

Jean-Phillipe was fairly nonplussed by the news, and almost relieved in a way. She was no doubt attending university or some such. Anything that meant he didn't have to deal with his vache of a cousin was a plus, as far as he was concerned.

The boy only had a few seconds to wait. "Sorry about that," Jim said, turning back to the intercom as he disengaged from a moment's contact with Charles, "you might as well come in. Are there any safety precautions we should take with your mutation?"

"You will forgive me if I do not shake hands," the Frenchman answered. "I should not want to, ah, shock you, shall we say." His mouth twisted wryly at his joke. He took a last drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out under his boot. Then he shouldered his seabag and waited for the gate to open.

"Got it." Jim buzzed the front gate open, then let himself out the front door to meet him. While he didn't have anywhere near the necessary fashion vocabulary to process words like 'peacoat', he could tell enough. In the back of his mind, Cyndi filed their first impression of the boy firmly under M for Metro. At least.

"I'm David Haller," Jim said once the young man had made his way far enough across the lawn to spare them from unnecessary shouting. "I'm the student counselor. You said your name was Jean-Phillipe?"

The mansion edifice was quite a lot to take in, and he took a while to look around at everything. Then his manners belatedly reasserted themselves, and he pushed his bangs out of his face and nodded at the gangly man. "Un plaisir, Monsieur Haller. I am grateful for the hospitality."

Jim nodded back, checking the automatic urge to shake his hand as the boy had suggested. The air took on a sharp, dry smell as Jean-Phillipe moved closer; Jim assumed it was a byproduct of his power. Beneath it was the odor of smoke, which Jim thought to be more likely a byproduct of a nicotine habit. While the telepath withheld judgement as a rule, his inner Cyndi was boggling. The hair. The jeans. Um, wow. Gay, or just really, really European?

"Don't worry about it," Jim said aloud, gesturing the boy towards the mansion. "Professor Xavier is in a conference call right now, but he'll be able to see you soon." He opened the door for Jean-Phillipe, looking at the boy's bag. "Looks like you came prepared. Do you want anything while you wait? Drink or something to eat?"

"Merci, a snack would be very nice. After stamping some snow off of his boots, Jean-Phillipe carefully propped his seabag against the wall, and took off the peacoat to reveal a close-fitting long-sleeved undershirt with an artfully ripped T-shirt on over it. His hands crackled lightly with a small amount of electricity, and he was very careful not to touch any light switches or metallic objects.

"The main kitchen's through here," Jim said as he led the boy. He felt a subtle shift in the quality of the air as it crackled like the unfolding of a static-laden blanket. The hot smell increased.

"Just a guess," said the telepath as they walked, "you're an energy projector?"

"Oui, je suis un generateur, ah, that is, I generate electricity. It is why I made the joke about 'shocking' you, earlier." Jean-Phillipe held his hand up to show the sparks dancing around his fingertips. "A play on words, but if one cannot laugh at what fate has chosen, what other choice is there but despair? And sitting around writing awful poetry is not my idea of entertainment, despite what my choice in clothes might say."

Thank god, thought Cyndi, though Jim knew she was interested now. She enjoyed a good show that could potentially be flammable. The counselor entered the kitchen and started speculating for flatware amongst the cabinets.

"We have another student with a similar power," he said as he looked. "One of the staff's made a few things for her -- surge protectors and things like that, I think -- so we should at least be able to get you up to the point of being able to handle a select pool of electronics without too much chance for explosion. You don't need to worry much about accidents in any case. Forge is good at repairs." Locating an appropriate plate, the older man turned to Jean-Phillipe. "For now I'll spare you the uncertainty of handling the refrigerator. Any food preference?"

Jean-Phillipe ensconced himself on a stool and looked around the kitchen, taking in the massive amount of information just as he had outside. "Something with protein," he said in reply. "I find that I have to eat more to fuel my power. Otherwise I become nauseous."

Jim assessed the contents of the refrigerator. "That's pretty normal, for energy projectors. Right now I think your options are . . . turkey." Which astonished Jim, but even a place the size of Xavier's couldn't defeat the rule of the universe which decreed you'd have turkey leftover for at least a month after Thanksgiving. With a feeling of resignation, Jim took the tupperware out of the container and selected a few condiments he assumed might be acceptable.

"Did you come here from France, or have you been living in the US?" Jim asked as he set to a loaf of bread. He became aware that his store of smalltalk, already meager, would now get to contend with the joy of trying to converse with another person while one's back was turned.

"I had done some dock work in France after graduating from what you would call high school. I was able to take passage aboard a cargo freighter by working aboard it to pay my way." Jean-Phillipe shrugged. "Under the circumstances, I did not think that flying in an airplane would be advisable."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's . . . kind of a colonial way to do it, but I guess better safe than sorry. At any rate, welcome to Xavier's." In the back of his mind Cyndi added cheerfully, And prepare to long for the days when your biggest problem was maybe falling out of the sky.