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xp_logs2015-04-13 01:16 pm
xp-erverse.livejournal.com) wrote in xp_logs2015-04-13 01:16 pm
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Quentin & Marie-Ange, Monday afternoon
Marie-Ange meets the frankencatberry version of Quentin Quire and finds him mildly more palatable than the man she used to know.
The brief - but genuinely caring - warning that Charles had provided before the newest student arrived had only really piqued Marie-Ange's curiosity. What sort of person would Quentin Quire be as a teenager, before college and horrible decisions and the worst sort of jealousy and even more terrible decisions.
She'd expected perhaps withdrawn or shy or awkward - the kind of person he'd been when she knew him.
She had not expected Asian - or brilliantly pink hair - or shoveling bbq chicken onto deli rolls with a generous hand.
Her expected interruption, which was supposed to be cautious and to give her the chance to warn him off poor life decisions turned into "There are fried onions in the pantry that go very well with that chicken." Because it was that or stare and wonder if Charles Xavier's warning to her been deliberately uninformative to remind Marie-Ange to not always jump to conclusions.
"Word?" Quentin's reply was muffled by a mouthful of chicken. He didn't bother to get up from his seat, just turned to the pantry as the doors wildly swung open. The red plastic container almost sang to him when he spotted it, and he held out a hand to call it to him. "Bless you, French's, for the bounty I am to receive. As it is in Heaven, so may it be on my buns. Amen."
He wasn't supposed to be funny either. Marie-Ange pressed her lips together to prevent a giggle and followed the plastic container. "In lieu of formal introductions, Marie-Ange Colbert, and budge over so I can steal some of your rolls please." Two hours of conference call was one hour and fifty minutes too many and this new and pink Quentin had good taste in stolen bbq chicken.
Even though a muttered "Bitch, get your own" passed Quentin's lips, he scooted his seat aside so he could share the bounty as requested. He scooped a heaping handful of the crispy fried "onion" (he doubted the contents of that package resembled anything remotely like an onion) to sprinkle onto his sandwich. "Quentin Quire," he introduced himself, his full mouth spraying crumbs with each syllable. "Fuck, this is so good."
Marie-Ange paused halfway through pulling a roll apart to look carefully at Quentin and revise - again - her predispositions. Asian. Pink hair. And clearly in the throws of the munchies. "I would get my own but I cannot cook. I will make it up to you by telling you the location of the best doughnut shop in Westchester? A very reliable source says they are perfect for the situation you find yourself in."
"Wouldn't've figured the teachers here for enablers," he replied, sucking his fingers to get every last drop of fallen barbecue sauce. "What would Chuckles say?"
"That he is very clearly concerned about the memory loss because he does not remember hiring me as a teacher." Marie-Ange spooned the chicken onto her roll very carefully, and then closed it with a little pat to the top of the roll. "The only things I teach are occasional art topics, and even less frequently, how to see if your fake ID is any good."
That certainly grabbed his attention. "Is this some kinda trick? 'Cuz I'm not giving you mine just for you to confiscate it." He started to assemble another sandwich, one that ended up more friend onion than chicken. "What do you do around here, really?"
"Harass young telepaths out of their hard-earned chicken." Marie-Ange said, after taking a careful bite of the over-stuffed sandwich. "That is..." She made a face, and then picked at her sandwich. Quentin reminded her all too much of Jean-Philippe, all clever mouth and disrespect for authority, and he wouldn't have tolerated "it is complicated" as a teenager. Or an adult. Or at any age. "Underground and undercover work to try to prevent the world from dumping even more bigotry on us."
"So part of the Spandex Brigade that pulls young telepaths out of the trouble that they'd put themselves into in the first place?" He tried to imagine her in an outfit similar to what Jean and Jennie had worn, and found it to be a pleasing image. "Wait, how'd you know I'm a telepath? Chuckles tell you that, too?"
"Well, I do not know any telekinetics who are not telepaths also, but he did tell me to warn me. But not because of you!" Marie-Ange said, with an exceedingly fake bright smile. "I have a black hole in my head where the future lives, and it sometimes eats psis, so he warned me a new telepath was here." Well, it was mostly true. She'd just left out the details about why this warning now. "Also no spandex, ew. More undercover, less leather pants, though I do have a set of those, just not for superhero work."
Quentin was not sure if those words would have made sense even if he'd been sober, but his head felt so slippery now that he had to let it slide. "Undercover mutants, set up in a school. Good cover."
Marie-Ange laughed. "A half dozen telepaths helping so that people slide over the fact that a very strange group of people live here, and all you lot go to Bay.. ville. Bay... side? Baymark? Whatever your school is named." It was Bay-something and not the one from the television show. "It works, for now, and it means you have people to teach you how not to break your mind open like a walnut."
"I cracked a long time ago," Quentin sneered. A small handful of potato chips floated out of the bag on the other side of the table, slowly dancing to his plate like feathers caught in a draft. The greasy spectacle might have been beautiful if not for the absurdity of it. "So from what I've seen, there's the ~super retrieval team~ that Jean Grey and Jennie Stavros are on, with those ridiculous outfits. And your undercover . . . what, exactly? The Batman to Jean's Wonder Woman? What else is here?"
"Batwoman, thank you." Marie-Ange said. "But really more, oh, more like the magician who hates everyone whose name I forget and a lot of Evelyn Salt. Or Jason Bourne if you like men better, I suppose." She carefully pushed the chicken escaping her sandwhich into a neat pile. "Some of the people here also work for a private investigation firm, doing... well, the work the police should have done, if they did not hate mutants. And then the rest of you go to school and sometimes help the X-Men. Jean and Jennie's group." She supposed that Generation X - which was really better than the previous name - could assist X-Force too, but it would probably result in a lecture from Charles.
Though, it was something to consider - the students should at least learn how to blend into a crowd and do some basic observation - something to perhaps talk to Scott about.
"A PI firm?" That clearly piqued Quentin's interest. He plucked one of the chips from midair and popped it into his mouth. "Really now? Never heard of mutants playing detective before. Is there any point to that, though? You can catch all the rapists and murderers you want but it doesn't matter if the popo don't give a shit."
"Well." Marie-Ange started - then stopped herself. There was a limit to the details she was going to give out about her ethical choices. "I do not disagree. I am not sure what Adrienne and her people would do if they turned someone in but then the courts systems never prosecuted." She knew what she might do - what most of X-Force might do. Just not what X-Factor would. "It has not happened yet." Yet.
"So you've got mutant superheroes, spies, detectives, and minors all in one house. Sounds like the premise for Netflix's next hit series. Or a good way to get everyone killed in one fell swoop." The remaining chips crumbled and fell onto his plate, which he pushed aside. "Half a dozen telepaths won't stop the nukes from falling."
Her sandwich was suddenly not even a little appealing. "No, it won't. If it comes to that, we have all failed in what we are trying to do, and we hope that we have enough warning to get out before they are launched." Marie-Ange said, all traces of the pleasant and slightly vague tone gone from her voice. "Half a dozen telepaths is so we can find out which people are lobbying to blow us up before they even build the bombs. M-Day made things much worse, and the only way we can think to go forward is to share resources. If we are all scattered, only one or two of us find out, and we are extinct as a species once the bigots decide to herd us into camps."
"I can save you some time," Quentin said as he started to gather his trash and clean up. "The answer is 'everyone.' Every last flatscan out there is looking for ways to kill us. M-Day was just their opening salvo. God bless America."
If she hadn't thought puffing out her cheeks and exhaling would be rude - and decidedly unhelpful - Marie-Ange would've done just that. Instead she rubbed at her eye and frowned. "The bigots next door only vote for the bigots with the bombs. Changing their minds, well, I suppose that is a good thing, but it is not a quickly effective thing. We still have to figure out which people actually are building the metaphorical bombs." It might not be nuclear weapons, after all. There were more efficient ways to get rid of a problem population.
"All of them," Quentin repeated. He grabbed the bag of chips and offered Marie-Ange a mock salute. "Guess if I'm going to be stuck here 'til we all die, I should unpack. See you 'round, I guess."
The brief - but genuinely caring - warning that Charles had provided before the newest student arrived had only really piqued Marie-Ange's curiosity. What sort of person would Quentin Quire be as a teenager, before college and horrible decisions and the worst sort of jealousy and even more terrible decisions.
She'd expected perhaps withdrawn or shy or awkward - the kind of person he'd been when she knew him.
She had not expected Asian - or brilliantly pink hair - or shoveling bbq chicken onto deli rolls with a generous hand.
Her expected interruption, which was supposed to be cautious and to give her the chance to warn him off poor life decisions turned into "There are fried onions in the pantry that go very well with that chicken." Because it was that or stare and wonder if Charles Xavier's warning to her been deliberately uninformative to remind Marie-Ange to not always jump to conclusions.
"Word?" Quentin's reply was muffled by a mouthful of chicken. He didn't bother to get up from his seat, just turned to the pantry as the doors wildly swung open. The red plastic container almost sang to him when he spotted it, and he held out a hand to call it to him. "Bless you, French's, for the bounty I am to receive. As it is in Heaven, so may it be on my buns. Amen."
He wasn't supposed to be funny either. Marie-Ange pressed her lips together to prevent a giggle and followed the plastic container. "In lieu of formal introductions, Marie-Ange Colbert, and budge over so I can steal some of your rolls please." Two hours of conference call was one hour and fifty minutes too many and this new and pink Quentin had good taste in stolen bbq chicken.
Even though a muttered "Bitch, get your own" passed Quentin's lips, he scooted his seat aside so he could share the bounty as requested. He scooped a heaping handful of the crispy fried "onion" (he doubted the contents of that package resembled anything remotely like an onion) to sprinkle onto his sandwich. "Quentin Quire," he introduced himself, his full mouth spraying crumbs with each syllable. "Fuck, this is so good."
Marie-Ange paused halfway through pulling a roll apart to look carefully at Quentin and revise - again - her predispositions. Asian. Pink hair. And clearly in the throws of the munchies. "I would get my own but I cannot cook. I will make it up to you by telling you the location of the best doughnut shop in Westchester? A very reliable source says they are perfect for the situation you find yourself in."
"Wouldn't've figured the teachers here for enablers," he replied, sucking his fingers to get every last drop of fallen barbecue sauce. "What would Chuckles say?"
"That he is very clearly concerned about the memory loss because he does not remember hiring me as a teacher." Marie-Ange spooned the chicken onto her roll very carefully, and then closed it with a little pat to the top of the roll. "The only things I teach are occasional art topics, and even less frequently, how to see if your fake ID is any good."
That certainly grabbed his attention. "Is this some kinda trick? 'Cuz I'm not giving you mine just for you to confiscate it." He started to assemble another sandwich, one that ended up more friend onion than chicken. "What do you do around here, really?"
"Harass young telepaths out of their hard-earned chicken." Marie-Ange said, after taking a careful bite of the over-stuffed sandwich. "That is..." She made a face, and then picked at her sandwich. Quentin reminded her all too much of Jean-Philippe, all clever mouth and disrespect for authority, and he wouldn't have tolerated "it is complicated" as a teenager. Or an adult. Or at any age. "Underground and undercover work to try to prevent the world from dumping even more bigotry on us."
"So part of the Spandex Brigade that pulls young telepaths out of the trouble that they'd put themselves into in the first place?" He tried to imagine her in an outfit similar to what Jean and Jennie had worn, and found it to be a pleasing image. "Wait, how'd you know I'm a telepath? Chuckles tell you that, too?"
"Well, I do not know any telekinetics who are not telepaths also, but he did tell me to warn me. But not because of you!" Marie-Ange said, with an exceedingly fake bright smile. "I have a black hole in my head where the future lives, and it sometimes eats psis, so he warned me a new telepath was here." Well, it was mostly true. She'd just left out the details about why this warning now. "Also no spandex, ew. More undercover, less leather pants, though I do have a set of those, just not for superhero work."
Quentin was not sure if those words would have made sense even if he'd been sober, but his head felt so slippery now that he had to let it slide. "Undercover mutants, set up in a school. Good cover."
Marie-Ange laughed. "A half dozen telepaths helping so that people slide over the fact that a very strange group of people live here, and all you lot go to Bay.. ville. Bay... side? Baymark? Whatever your school is named." It was Bay-something and not the one from the television show. "It works, for now, and it means you have people to teach you how not to break your mind open like a walnut."
"I cracked a long time ago," Quentin sneered. A small handful of potato chips floated out of the bag on the other side of the table, slowly dancing to his plate like feathers caught in a draft. The greasy spectacle might have been beautiful if not for the absurdity of it. "So from what I've seen, there's the ~super retrieval team~ that Jean Grey and Jennie Stavros are on, with those ridiculous outfits. And your undercover . . . what, exactly? The Batman to Jean's Wonder Woman? What else is here?"
"Batwoman, thank you." Marie-Ange said. "But really more, oh, more like the magician who hates everyone whose name I forget and a lot of Evelyn Salt. Or Jason Bourne if you like men better, I suppose." She carefully pushed the chicken escaping her sandwhich into a neat pile. "Some of the people here also work for a private investigation firm, doing... well, the work the police should have done, if they did not hate mutants. And then the rest of you go to school and sometimes help the X-Men. Jean and Jennie's group." She supposed that Generation X - which was really better than the previous name - could assist X-Force too, but it would probably result in a lecture from Charles.
Though, it was something to consider - the students should at least learn how to blend into a crowd and do some basic observation - something to perhaps talk to Scott about.
"A PI firm?" That clearly piqued Quentin's interest. He plucked one of the chips from midair and popped it into his mouth. "Really now? Never heard of mutants playing detective before. Is there any point to that, though? You can catch all the rapists and murderers you want but it doesn't matter if the popo don't give a shit."
"Well." Marie-Ange started - then stopped herself. There was a limit to the details she was going to give out about her ethical choices. "I do not disagree. I am not sure what Adrienne and her people would do if they turned someone in but then the courts systems never prosecuted." She knew what she might do - what most of X-Force might do. Just not what X-Factor would. "It has not happened yet." Yet.
"So you've got mutant superheroes, spies, detectives, and minors all in one house. Sounds like the premise for Netflix's next hit series. Or a good way to get everyone killed in one fell swoop." The remaining chips crumbled and fell onto his plate, which he pushed aside. "Half a dozen telepaths won't stop the nukes from falling."
Her sandwich was suddenly not even a little appealing. "No, it won't. If it comes to that, we have all failed in what we are trying to do, and we hope that we have enough warning to get out before they are launched." Marie-Ange said, all traces of the pleasant and slightly vague tone gone from her voice. "Half a dozen telepaths is so we can find out which people are lobbying to blow us up before they even build the bombs. M-Day made things much worse, and the only way we can think to go forward is to share resources. If we are all scattered, only one or two of us find out, and we are extinct as a species once the bigots decide to herd us into camps."
"I can save you some time," Quentin said as he started to gather his trash and clean up. "The answer is 'everyone.' Every last flatscan out there is looking for ways to kill us. M-Day was just their opening salvo. God bless America."
If she hadn't thought puffing out her cheeks and exhaling would be rude - and decidedly unhelpful - Marie-Ange would've done just that. Instead she rubbed at her eye and frowned. "The bigots next door only vote for the bigots with the bombs. Changing their minds, well, I suppose that is a good thing, but it is not a quickly effective thing. We still have to figure out which people actually are building the metaphorical bombs." It might not be nuclear weapons, after all. There were more efficient ways to get rid of a problem population.
"All of them," Quentin repeated. He grabbed the bag of chips and offered Marie-Ange a mock salute. "Guess if I'm going to be stuck here 'til we all die, I should unpack. See you 'round, I guess."