Artie and Monet, Thursday evening
Feb. 26th, 2015 07:36 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsMonet and Artie meet. Artie decides that Frankenberrycat Monet is every bit as much of a bitch as the old version. Shock! Horror!
Monet walked through the hallways of her new home. She'd dressed herself in a thick, dark blue sweater and a pair of sinfully tight jeans. Her feet were covered by the most stylish black boots, and a scarf was draped loosely around her neck. All of the extra covering was unnecessary, of course, her invulnerability saw to that. Still, she couldn't very well be caught not looking like the vision that she very clearly was, now could she? She was doing her best not to wrinkle her nose as she followed the directions that someone had given her to the kitchen. Her stomach was upset at the very thought of consuming the plebeian food she was likely to find, but she didn't have very many options, considering she didn't know the city well enough to go out and eat. She ran a hand through her luxurious black hair before she flipped it over her shoulder and stopped in front of the doorway to the kitchen. She felt someone on the edge of her thoughts, but decided that she didn't care. She was there to eat, and that was it. Besides, it was unlikely that whomever was behind the door would be unable to hold her attention for very long anyways. She pushed her way through the door and stepped inside.
Artie lifted his head at the sound of footsteps and looked away from the bowl of lasgna he was poking with a plastic spork. He had been warned. The Monet he'd known had been in her twenties when she'd left. This version - she was 18, maybe? He waved briefly, poked the lasagna again, face carefully blank and showed an image of a piece of lasanga in a bowl, floated it over to her with a question mark over the food.
Monet stared at the young man in front of her. He was dressed casually, as she was, and appeared to be eating something. Whatever it was, it smelled quite good and, despite her mental protests, Monet's stomach churned with hunger. Her attention turned from the food to the shapes that were appearing in mid-air. Monet had known some mutants back home, but she'd never seen a power quite like the one this young man had. She scanned him, careful to make her face impassive. She figured that, had he been able to talk, he'd have said something to her. Considering the situation, she tried another approach. She focused and reached out mentally, brushing her thoughts gently, carefully, against his.
'Hello. My name is Monet St. Croix and I am new to this school. Who are you? And, furthermore, are you offering me food? Because while I'm slightly queasy over the idea of eating the food that is to be found here, I've found that my stomach doesn't quite discriminate in the same fashion.' She thought. She was unused to communicating in this manner, but her mental voice held the same air of superiority that her physical one did.
Oh, she was going to try that was she? Monet was a dick. Some things didn't change. What he produced was effectively mental static, all of the mental adjustments that had gone to his imaging powers going to the detailed, three dimensional view of Monet, sound waves travelling from her mouth to his ears and a tick symbol and thumbs up appearing next to his ear. A second tick and smiley face sat over the food. A moment later, an image of a cartoon figure eating the lasagna, smiling and giving a thumbs up while it rubbed its belly and looked happy appeared.
Monet shuddered as a shock of dislike ran through her mental defenses. Fine. If he wanted to play it that way, she'd certainly oblige.
"Alright, alright mate. Calm it down. And, I suppose I can trust your word. I am starving after all." Monet answered, crossing her arms over her chest as she moved to take a seat across from Artie. Annoyance rolled off of her in waves, and she quickly tightened her mental hold. There was no sense in letting more annoyance leak over to Artie. He clearly didn't need it.
Artie quirked an eyebrow at her and for a moment, he was clad in a waiter's uniform. "would madam like a coffee to go with her lasagna?" Hank's machine - or a version thereof - was here in this other, new, world, too. Voice activated, because some people were asshats. He keyed "mocha latte, large, hot, extra shot of espresso" into his synthesiser and waited while the machine made the drink.
"Thanks, mate. So, in the interest of filling the time, what's your name?" She asked as she gracefully sank into a chair and ran a hand through her luxurious hair.
If Monet did sign (which was unlikely) it would be Auslan, not ASL and he'd have to put everything he was holding in his left hand down to spell his name out. And it would probably encourage more attempts at mind reading, which, yeah, no. "Artie Maddicks. I was a student here when I was a kid and now I'm working for X Force," he replied, using the synthesiser and taking a sip of his coffee. One of the pre-set functions on the coffee machine was still 'latte' so Artie hit that and slid a cup under the ... thing that the coffee came out of. You got more flies with honey and not making an enemy of MonBitchy St Croix-Up-Her-Ass on day one seemed sensible."You probably want to know about my powers, don't you?" he asked and slid the cup across the table to her. The lasagna would follow in a moment.
"Artie, huh? If you don't mind me asking, what's X-Force? Mr. Summers only gave me the basics. As for your powers, if you feel like sharing, be my guest." She answered with a nonchalant wave of her hand.
"X-Force? We fix problems. The sort the X-Men don't or can't deal with." Artie placed the lasagna on the table and moved in with the distraction. "I make semi-psionic illusions. Look." He created a bubble of illusion around the kitchen. A city-scape. Budapest. He'd been there recently. Cars passed and low rise, grand buildings were all around while a few flakes of snow fell out on the street. The table they were sitting at was now in a cafe, outdoor dining and other patrons ate silently nearby. It was perfect but utterly silent.
Monet looked around her, a spark of interest in her eyes.
"Sounds...decidedly underhanded." She replied, a slight grin on her face. "That's sort of impressive." She continued, gesturing around to the illusion. My psionic abilities are...less refined than my physical ones. I'll certainly improve with time, but I've never considered casting illusions." She finished, taking a bite of the food that Artie had placed in front of her. She chewed slowly, carefully, and swallowed. Her breath was going to be garlicky, but it was hot and filled her stomach, and that's all she cared about. "My compliments to the chef. Creating something this good out of what can be found here is quite impressive." She stated, taking another huge bite.
Artie let the projection vanish and, placing the synthesiser on the table, shrugged, giving his lasagna one last poke with the spork. "we have a few pro chefs" he replied, using projected text this time. "happy to work w u on illusions. u're a telepath - u tell ppl's minds what they're going to see and they make the details up themself. i use psionic energy to tell their *eyes* what they're seeing. different approach, similar end result only mine are vis. on camera and urs aren't."
Monet nodded, chewing thoroughly before swallowing.
"I'd like that. Mr. Summers told me about the little team they have going on here. Generation X, if memory serves. The purpose of the group is apparently to learn and my father sent me here to learn, against my will. Anyway that I can improve, I'm going to take it." She answered quickly. Her eyes locked with Artie's and, she seemed to struggle for a few moments before continuing. "I...appreciate the offer." She stated, the words slow as they left her tongue. "Really." She stated.
Artie nodded. Made sense, really, that this Monet was as terrible about being gracious as the old Monet. "email me & we'll work out a time. i'm in and out a lot but this," he punctuated the text with a momentary heartbeat image of Budapest again, "is my thing. i'll make time 4 u. here isn't so bad. u won't hate all of it."
Monet stared at Artie for a moment and nodded, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.
"I'm sure I won't. I'm sure I won't." She answered slowly, a small smile on her face. "I'll definitely hit you up." She added, before she scooped up another piece of her meal and gracefully took a bite.
Monet walked through the hallways of her new home. She'd dressed herself in a thick, dark blue sweater and a pair of sinfully tight jeans. Her feet were covered by the most stylish black boots, and a scarf was draped loosely around her neck. All of the extra covering was unnecessary, of course, her invulnerability saw to that. Still, she couldn't very well be caught not looking like the vision that she very clearly was, now could she? She was doing her best not to wrinkle her nose as she followed the directions that someone had given her to the kitchen. Her stomach was upset at the very thought of consuming the plebeian food she was likely to find, but she didn't have very many options, considering she didn't know the city well enough to go out and eat. She ran a hand through her luxurious black hair before she flipped it over her shoulder and stopped in front of the doorway to the kitchen. She felt someone on the edge of her thoughts, but decided that she didn't care. She was there to eat, and that was it. Besides, it was unlikely that whomever was behind the door would be unable to hold her attention for very long anyways. She pushed her way through the door and stepped inside.
Artie lifted his head at the sound of footsteps and looked away from the bowl of lasgna he was poking with a plastic spork. He had been warned. The Monet he'd known had been in her twenties when she'd left. This version - she was 18, maybe? He waved briefly, poked the lasagna again, face carefully blank and showed an image of a piece of lasanga in a bowl, floated it over to her with a question mark over the food.
Monet stared at the young man in front of her. He was dressed casually, as she was, and appeared to be eating something. Whatever it was, it smelled quite good and, despite her mental protests, Monet's stomach churned with hunger. Her attention turned from the food to the shapes that were appearing in mid-air. Monet had known some mutants back home, but she'd never seen a power quite like the one this young man had. She scanned him, careful to make her face impassive. She figured that, had he been able to talk, he'd have said something to her. Considering the situation, she tried another approach. She focused and reached out mentally, brushing her thoughts gently, carefully, against his.
'Hello. My name is Monet St. Croix and I am new to this school. Who are you? And, furthermore, are you offering me food? Because while I'm slightly queasy over the idea of eating the food that is to be found here, I've found that my stomach doesn't quite discriminate in the same fashion.' She thought. She was unused to communicating in this manner, but her mental voice held the same air of superiority that her physical one did.
Oh, she was going to try that was she? Monet was a dick. Some things didn't change. What he produced was effectively mental static, all of the mental adjustments that had gone to his imaging powers going to the detailed, three dimensional view of Monet, sound waves travelling from her mouth to his ears and a tick symbol and thumbs up appearing next to his ear. A second tick and smiley face sat over the food. A moment later, an image of a cartoon figure eating the lasagna, smiling and giving a thumbs up while it rubbed its belly and looked happy appeared.
Monet shuddered as a shock of dislike ran through her mental defenses. Fine. If he wanted to play it that way, she'd certainly oblige.
"Alright, alright mate. Calm it down. And, I suppose I can trust your word. I am starving after all." Monet answered, crossing her arms over her chest as she moved to take a seat across from Artie. Annoyance rolled off of her in waves, and she quickly tightened her mental hold. There was no sense in letting more annoyance leak over to Artie. He clearly didn't need it.
Artie quirked an eyebrow at her and for a moment, he was clad in a waiter's uniform. "would madam like a coffee to go with her lasagna?" Hank's machine - or a version thereof - was here in this other, new, world, too. Voice activated, because some people were asshats. He keyed "mocha latte, large, hot, extra shot of espresso" into his synthesiser and waited while the machine made the drink.
"Thanks, mate. So, in the interest of filling the time, what's your name?" She asked as she gracefully sank into a chair and ran a hand through her luxurious hair.
If Monet did sign (which was unlikely) it would be Auslan, not ASL and he'd have to put everything he was holding in his left hand down to spell his name out. And it would probably encourage more attempts at mind reading, which, yeah, no. "Artie Maddicks. I was a student here when I was a kid and now I'm working for X Force," he replied, using the synthesiser and taking a sip of his coffee. One of the pre-set functions on the coffee machine was still 'latte' so Artie hit that and slid a cup under the ... thing that the coffee came out of. You got more flies with honey and not making an enemy of MonBitchy St Croix-Up-Her-Ass on day one seemed sensible."You probably want to know about my powers, don't you?" he asked and slid the cup across the table to her. The lasagna would follow in a moment.
"Artie, huh? If you don't mind me asking, what's X-Force? Mr. Summers only gave me the basics. As for your powers, if you feel like sharing, be my guest." She answered with a nonchalant wave of her hand.
"X-Force? We fix problems. The sort the X-Men don't or can't deal with." Artie placed the lasagna on the table and moved in with the distraction. "I make semi-psionic illusions. Look." He created a bubble of illusion around the kitchen. A city-scape. Budapest. He'd been there recently. Cars passed and low rise, grand buildings were all around while a few flakes of snow fell out on the street. The table they were sitting at was now in a cafe, outdoor dining and other patrons ate silently nearby. It was perfect but utterly silent.
Monet looked around her, a spark of interest in her eyes.
"Sounds...decidedly underhanded." She replied, a slight grin on her face. "That's sort of impressive." She continued, gesturing around to the illusion. My psionic abilities are...less refined than my physical ones. I'll certainly improve with time, but I've never considered casting illusions." She finished, taking a bite of the food that Artie had placed in front of her. She chewed slowly, carefully, and swallowed. Her breath was going to be garlicky, but it was hot and filled her stomach, and that's all she cared about. "My compliments to the chef. Creating something this good out of what can be found here is quite impressive." She stated, taking another huge bite.
Artie let the projection vanish and, placing the synthesiser on the table, shrugged, giving his lasagna one last poke with the spork. "we have a few pro chefs" he replied, using projected text this time. "happy to work w u on illusions. u're a telepath - u tell ppl's minds what they're going to see and they make the details up themself. i use psionic energy to tell their *eyes* what they're seeing. different approach, similar end result only mine are vis. on camera and urs aren't."
Monet nodded, chewing thoroughly before swallowing.
"I'd like that. Mr. Summers told me about the little team they have going on here. Generation X, if memory serves. The purpose of the group is apparently to learn and my father sent me here to learn, against my will. Anyway that I can improve, I'm going to take it." She answered quickly. Her eyes locked with Artie's and, she seemed to struggle for a few moments before continuing. "I...appreciate the offer." She stated, the words slow as they left her tongue. "Really." She stated.
Artie nodded. Made sense, really, that this Monet was as terrible about being gracious as the old Monet. "email me & we'll work out a time. i'm in and out a lot but this," he punctuated the text with a momentary heartbeat image of Budapest again, "is my thing. i'll make time 4 u. here isn't so bad. u won't hate all of it."
Monet stared at Artie for a moment and nodded, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.
"I'm sure I won't. I'm sure I won't." She answered slowly, a small smile on her face. "I'll definitely hit you up." She added, before she scooped up another piece of her meal and gracefully took a bite.
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