Log: Miles & Illyana; that de-escalated quickly

[xp-magik.livejournal.com]

Illyana mistakes Miles for a . . . burglar. It goes badly at first and then somehow Miles ends up giving her Pop Tarts and promising to teach her computers. Backdated to last Tuesday.

Getting a sense of the grounds had sounded like a good idea when she'd first come up with it. No matter what Mr. Haller said about "protections", Illyana mistrusted isolated places like this. In the city, it was easy to blend into the crowd. Here, anyone who came looking would know exactly where to look. It reminded her uncomfortably of - other places.

Unfortunately, recovering from the after-effects of her spectacularly bad year (capped with her involuntary commitment to this place, whatever it was) was not as easy as sleeping for a few hours and secretively inhaling whatever food you could find. Her energy wasn't just tapped, it was drained bone-dry; it was all she could do at this point to stay conscious.

So a nature hike might not have been the best idea.

She was about to give up and turn around when her adrenaline spiked, almost before she saw - whatever it was - hanging from a tree. People didn't do that here. People didn't, but something else would. She lashed out without thinking.

Miles had been enjoying a lovely day. "Had," past tense, being the operative word. He'd liberated an unopened box of s'mores Pop Tarts from the kitchen, settled onto a branch of one of the biggest and sturdiest trees on campus he could find, and crammed processed starch and sugar down his gullet while he set to update Warren's Spotify playlist. There was a new Mumford and Sons album. Middle-aged white people liked that kind of music, right? Miles could quickly get up a few tweets, too, to declare Warren's love for the British wannabe-Appalachian band.

Half a sleeve of Pop-Tarts in, Miles had repositioned himself so he was hanging upside-down, his legs hooked around the branch, as he continued to populate the playlist. As engrossed as he was in his project, he didn't fail to notice his spider-sense blaring a warning at him. He barely swung himself up in time to avoid a barrage of tiny angry fists. He didn't think before he grabbed the branch with both hands and swung back around, aiming a double-footed kick at his attacker.

The owner of the tiny, ineffective fists barely dodged; in fact, in so doing, she fell ungracefully back on her ass, which gave her a moment to actually look at the person she'd tried to punch in the face. "Hey," she said indignantly, "You're not a - " She cut herself off before she could bring demons into the conversation, and finished, lamely, "Burglar."

Miles swung back up and perched on the branch, one hand holding onto it tightly while the other, which safely held his phone, also pulled out his earbuds. "I'm sitting in a tree outside!" Miles protested, eyeing this little girl suspiciously, waiting for her next salvo. "A brother can't commune with nature anymore without being a criminal?"

"You were hanging from a tree, which people don't do, and I know because if they did it they would have done it in New York. Which they didn't." The blonde girl looked satisfied with this chain of logic, and added, looking like she was re-evaluating his sanity, "Also, I'm pretty sure you're not my brother."

"There aren't any trees in New York to hang from," Miles shot back. His spider-sense had gone silent again, although he couldn't discount that this weirdo wouldn't turn on the slightest provocation, so he stayed safe where he was, several feet above the ground. And brother means . . . never mind. Do you always go around attacking people who scare you?"

"I know what brother means, I speak English," the girl said defensively, not standing up from where she had landed. She just glared at Miles from there. Sitting was better than standing anyway; with her heart rate returning to normal and the adrenaline fading, she was very tired. "Usually it's better to attack first if something's trying to scare you," she added, still rather defensively for someone who was really convinced of the merits of her own behaviour. "I didn't know there were weirdos here who hang upside down from trees. Nobody said."

Miles tried very hard to see the best in people, especially his peers. He and Monet managed to get along, and he didn't even want to strangle Quentin all the time. But this girl was sorely testing that patience. "People climb and hang from trees. It's a thing," he said as if explaining to a particularly slow five-year-old. "And if you're going to attack people, anyway, then you gotta be better than that. I'm too fast for you."

"Maybe you should think about not hanging from trees like a freak," she advised him irritably, standing up; the sooner she could get herself out of this particular interaction, the better. "If you're going to do weird things, don't get mad when nobody understands."

"Says the blanca who tried to scratch my eyes out." Miles considered the girl – truly a girl, and even younger and tinier than he was – and put his phone in his pocket, retrieved the box of Pop Tarts, and deftly jumped off the tree. "What's your name?"

She eyed him doubtfully, crossing her arms. "Illyana," she finally said. "Who are you?"

"Miles. Pop Tart?" he offered her, holding out the box so she could take one. Little angry girl with a foreign name who'd lived in New York City? Sounded like a human trafficking victim. Peter had told him about that sort of thing. That would explain why she was so strange.

She looked uncertainly at the shiny cellophane in the box. "What is it?"

If she'd never heard of these before then she must have been really hard up. "It's like a cookie that has some sweet stuffing on the inside and more sweet frosting on the outside. You're supposed to heat them up in the toaster but these ones are good enough cold. They're s'mores. That's chocolate and marshmallow," he explained.

Illyana had spent years dreaming about chocolate. She was taking one of the foil packets and ripping it open before she even thought about it. She had taken a huge mouthful before remembering to say, "Thanks," uncertainly, like it was something she wasn't used to saying and wasn't sure she was doing properly.

Miles smirked, silently celebrating his victory. "De nada. So you're a new student here, too? What's your power?"

"I - " Illyana actually remembered to chew and swallow before answering, a minor miracle. "I teleport, I guess," she said cautiously. "Except not really right now. I'm a little tired."

He'd never ceased to be amazed by the variety of mutations here. And instantly moving through space did sound like something that required a lot of energy, so he held out the box again so she could take another Pop Tart, and then took one for himself.

She seemed to respond to processed sugar, so he continued to make small talk. At the very least, maybe he'd learn enough about his new teammate to avoid more face punching in the future. "Where in New York you from?"

Illyana wasn't sure why someone she'd tried to punch kept giving her food, but it really only confirmed what a bizarre place this was, and sort of intensified the vague feeling that maybe she was just sleeping, or dead. Except the chocolate was definitely real. She turned the Pop Tart in her hands. "I've kind of moved around a lot," she said vaguely. "Lower East Side lately." Wanting to get off this subject, she asked, "Where are you from?"

That helped to confirm his suspicions. He took a large bite of his Pop Tart so he could hide his frown. "Brooklyn. I've only been here at the school since, uh, February. My old school exploded on M-Day so, you know, here I am."

Illyana just nodded, like she did know, taking Miles's explanation as a chance to take another bite of Pop Tart. "It exploded? Like . . . boom?" she asked, gesturing vaguely.

"Well, some poor mutant stuck inside," he sadly confirmed. One of the countless victims who'd never be known. "Took down a wing of the building so they just closed the whole thing."

"That sounds . . . violent," Illyana said. "So that's why you came here?" Where more mutants might explode unexpectedly any time?

"It was here or a New York City public school, so it wasn't that hard of a decision. Plus, you know, mutant safe haven an all that."

"Right," Illyana agreed doubtfully, around another mouthful of Pop Tart. "Unless someone blows up."

Miles frowned at this girl's apparent incessant need to be negative. "Well, hopefully that's what we're all here for, so we learn how not to."

She looked somewhat alarmed. "Is that really something that could happen to anyone?" she asked, as though realizing that mutant safe haven only really applied if there wasn't a chance a random person might explode at any time. Including herself. Nobody had said anything about this until now!

"Girl, I don't know." Miles fought back to urge to throw his hands up in frustration. "Hella mutants blew up on M-Day and no one understands why. So it was probably just a one-off thing and our biggest danger is just forgetting to tag your spoilers on Tumblr."

Illyana blinked. Twice. And then said, carefully, "Did you stop speaking English at some point in there?" Maybe he was having a seizure. Then again, it had seemed reasonable up to something about spoiled tumblers.

"It's a computer thing. Tumblr is a . . . you know, you're better off not knowing exactly what Tumblr is. It's basically Instagram for snobs who make up really long excuses for why they haven't moved out of their parents' basement yet. Leave it at that," Miles said knowingly.

"Oh, computers." Illyana paused. "Do you . . . I mean, do you know computers? Like, how to work them?"

"I mean, I'm not a programmer but yeah. I know if you're having a problem then turning it off then turning it on again will usually solve it. Why?"

The blonde girl hesitated, turning what remained of her Pop Tart in her hand; the question obviously stumped her. Why was not a terrible question. "Well," she said finally, "I never, um, learned them? But I heard they're good for finding things out."

That sounded suspiciously like she was asking for assistance. Miles had known her for all of less than ten minutes, but even with just that minimum knowledge of her, he was sure that was the most difficult thing she'd done all day. Maybe all week. So, to not be a jackass, he nodded at her. "Yeah, if you know how to search for what you want. There's all sorts of stuff out there and it takes practice to figure out what you can actually trust."

"How did you learn?" she asked. "Like, is there . . . a book?" Books, she knew. More or less.

"I guess. I just kinda learned by doing it. You know, with the appropriate content blockers that my parents put on our computer." Until Miles and Ganke figured out how to turn them off. Net Nanny didn't block Google from retrieving hits about bypassing parental security.

"The what?" Illyana's brows furrowed again.

Do girls even know what porn is, Miles wondered. Either way, assuming Illyana came from the background he suspected, it was probably best not to bring that up and trigger her.

"Doesn't matter. Don't think they even have them here. But I think the school here can give you a computer if you need it. You know, for classwork and social media and stuff."

"What's social media?" Illyana asked, zeroing in on what she didn't know immediately. "Is it like TV?"

"You know, Facebook and Twitter and all that stuff to tell people what you're thinking about at all hours of the day. Or, really, just to get into fights with people on the Internet about how stupid and ugly they are."
"People use the internet for that?" Illyana looked incredulous. "Can't they just tell whoever it is in person?"

"Not if they live halfway across the world. The Internet lets you hate at long distance."

The blonde girl wrinkled her nose. "I don't get it. Why would anyone care what you thought if they're halfway across the world?"

Miles shrugged. "Sometimes when someone on the Internet is wrong, it's just your duty to let them know. You'll see. Everyone does."

Maybe that's what Xavin spent all that time doing on the computer. "So . . . you know a lot about computers," Illyana said, eyeing Miles speculatively. "Could you show me? The information and socialist media and whatever."
This whole conversation had taken a really unexpected turn. How'd Miles go from being accused of being a thug to becoming Geek Squad? At least it had gone this way and not in reverse.

"Sure, why not? I think there's some dorky blond guy with glasses who can get you a computer but then I can show you how to get everything else ready."

"Okay," Illyana said, pleased - mostly that she hadn't had to figure it out on her own. She seemed to remember her manners - or at least being told about 'manners' at some distant point in the past - because she added, "Thanks. For the cookies."