Different Breed - Revelations & Catastrophe

[xp-northstar.livejournal.com]

Jean-Paul and Raymonde go to meet Maurice. Things do not go as Jean-Paul anticipated.


Still somewhat dazed from the previous night's news about the IOC man, Jean-Paul looked out the window of the car he and Raymonde were in. It was an older car, something that the young man was unfamiliar with, but his former guardian had had it long before Jean-Paul had come into his business. Classic, was perhaps not the best word for it.

Rubbing his palms over his face, he looked toward Raymonde and tried to think of some explanation for this. It wasn't that the death bothered him, per se. He'd spent time on the streets, he knew Raymonde Belmonde was not a paragon of virtue, he understood where a good portion of his friend's wealth came from, and he'd benefited from that. "What will you say to him if he's responsible for the IOC man's death?"

Raymond shrugged, eyes on the road, "I do not think he'll openly admit it," he replied. Maurice might imply or hedge, but never actually say. "I understand wanting to protect you, to help you, but that was using decapitation as a treatment for headlice."

Part of him still couldn't believe that Maurice, of all people, might have done something the the IOC official. But it was the only logical thing short of a series of exceedingly unlikely coincidences. Still, as their car slowed at the place Raymonde had designated to meet, Jean-Paul pushed those thoughts from his mind. They needed to deal with this as quickly and quietly as possible.

"You keep quiet," Belmonde instructed, "Let me do the talking," he didn't even want JP there, but so be it. The kid wasn't a child anymore. They were almost there.

As their car approached its destination, Maurice Cloutier came in view. Jean-Paul's agent and coach was standing toward the front of his BMW and leaning ever-so-slightly against the driver side door. He reached through the window and grabbed a sports drink that was resting on the dashboard, then raised it to the approaching car by way of greeting. As the vehicle slowed to a halt, he began his approach, an affable smile on his face. "Hello, hello," he said in French. "Jean-Paul! A delight as always."

"Maurice," Jean-Paul said, stepping from the car. He glanced back toward Raymonde, his mouth closing with an almost audible click. Right. He was keeping quiet because his former guardian did not look pleased.

"Monsieur Cloutier," Raymonde said, disliking that Jean-Paul said anything, but couldn't actually find fault with the simple greeting. "My condolences on the loss of Philippe Leblanc. I am sure you knew each other given your professions."

"Yes, thank you." A sad look crossed Maurice's face, and he shook his head and stared at the ground. "We were barely acquainted," he looked up at Belmonde, "but it is a sad day for the sport, you know, to lose one of its own."

"Always," he agreed, face and voice neutral. "It is such a tight knit community."

"Is it?" Maurice shrugged. "I don't think so. Knowing everyone's face does not make you close." He unscrewed the cap from the drink in his hand and took a healthy swig. "Jean-Paul," he said after he'd wiped his mouth, "I have something from the soft drink company in the car, if you'd like to look over those with me. I think we ought to discuss it."

Jean-Paul glanced from Maurice to Raymonde, not entirely sure what to do here. On the one hand, he wasn't supposed to be saying anything but on the other he did actually need to check the product he was apparently going to be endorsing. "Just a moment," he said to his former guardian, inching toward the car.

"Excellent," Maurice smiled. "In the glove box." He stepped toward Belmonde, the smile still on his face. "Can I ask, Raymonde, where you got this car?" He gestured to the vehicle, as gregarious as ever. "It has a vintage quality I most admire."

"I find it...suits my needs," he replied, "I found it in Ontario and had it brought in," he didn't like Jean-Paul getting in the car to look at those things, but he could not stop business. It continued. He motioned for his ward to go do what he needed to do.

Nodding, Jean-Paul headed over to the passenger's side of the car and opened the door, then slid inside and picked up the envelope on the dash. He pulled several sheets of paper out and frowned at the top one, which was simply a plain sheet of printer paper with Maurice's handwriting on it.

I need to speak with you alone.

This didn't bode well. There was an actual contract, though, covered in little sticky notes and colored flags indicating important things and places to sign. Jean-Paul looked from the paper through the window to Raymonde and Maurice, then popped out of the car long enough to call over, "Maurice, I have a question, please."

Maurice turned his head to Jean-Paul. "Ah, but of course." He looked back to Belmonde with an apologetic shrug. "Excuse me, Raymonde. Work calls - and actually," he glanced at the car, "you may want to check the air in that front left tire. Looks terribly low." The coach popped the cap back on the bottle in his right hand and turned to meet his star athlete.

Sliding back into the car, Jean-Paul pulled a pen from the cup holder and began initially the places he needed to initial, pausing to read the highlighted portions of the contract as Maurice approached. He checked over his shoulder, saw Raymonde frowning, and then looked up as his coach opened the driver's side door. "Maurice," he said, keeping his voice low even as he tapped the uncapped pen against the plain piece of printer paper. "This is about the IOC man, yes?"

"Jean-Paul," Maurice slid into the driver's seat, placing his drink in the cupholder. He glanced at the contract, doing his best to look like he was conducting business while Raymonde's eyes were on the car. "I do not know what you think you know about the IOC man," he said quietly, "but I wish to speak to you about many things. And you should not just sign here," he tapped a part of the contract, "without bringing that paragraph to your publicist."

An irritated noise escaping him, Jean-Paul looked at the paragraph Maurice had indicated, then said, "Yes, yes. Of course. What else is there to speak of but the IOC man? He's dead."

Maurice was quiet, his eyes scanning over the contract yet another time. "Tell Raymonde to leave," he said after a few seconds. "Or tell him - we can go to my office, and I can explain in the car."

'Explain.' That was not a denial of involvement. If anything, it was fairly incriminating. Jean-Paul frowned, a thin line forming between his brows. He closed the passenger side door and pulled his phone from his pocket. "Yes, fine. You drive, I will text him." He was never going to hear the end of this from Raymonde, but he did trust Maurice to at least be honest now that he'd been caught out in whatever scheme he'd been running.

Maurice gave Jean-Paul a quick nod before closing his own door and turning the keys he'd left in the ignition so fast they might have broken the steering column. The car sputtered to life, and he shifted into drive, then sped past a clearly frustrated Belmonde.

The car was silent for a minute as Maurice navigated back onto a main street. "Okay." He glanced at Jean-Paul somewhat expectantly. "So?"

"Yes, so. The IOC man is dead, is this a thing you did?"

"The IOC man is dead. And that," Maurice didn't nod or shake his head, but just kept drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "That is fortunate for you, Jean-Paul." A green light turned yellow ahead of them, and so Maurice slowed the brakes. "Because you are a mutant."

Silence hung heavy in the air between them for a moment before Jean-Paul said, very carefully and clearly, "No, I'm not."

Maurice's face was stern and serious, and as he turned his head, he looked Jean-Paul straight in the eye. "Yes, Jean-Paul. You are." He sighed and glanced back at the light. "Please listen," he turned back to Jean-Paul, a sadness in his eyes despite the smile on his face. "When I tell you that I have only been interested in protecting you. But you, Jean-Paul, are a mutant. And I did not want anyone else to know this."

"I can't be a mutant, Maurice," Jean-Paul said, eyes widening. "I can't - my. What kind of powers - Maurice, my medals."

"Jean-Paul, you—" Another light turned yellow ahead of him, and this time Maurice pushed down on the gas pedal, changing lanes around a slowing SUV so he could beat the light. "I don't know." He looked over at his protege. "Your blood test came back positive, but I don't - I haven't seen any signs of anything. Your me—" He looked back at the road and swerved to the left lane to gain speed.

It wasn't just the medals, it was everything - everything he'd built his life to be from the first moment Raymonde had put a pair of skis on his feet. The endorsement deals, the promotional spots, the adverts, the contracts, his career, his life. Everything he was, that he'd made himself to be, could be ruined by this. The car's speed didn't even really register for him for a moment, but then Maurice swerved again and Jean-Paul actually looked up. "Slow down," he said, though he could barely hear his own voice over the rush of blood in his ears.

Maurice didn't slow down. "Jean-Paul, listen. What I did - switching the tests and the hush money and everything. It was..." He looked at his rear-view mirror then applied more pressure to the gas pedal. As they approached an intersection, he made a hard left, leaving the more visible, well-trafficked road for a quieter side street. His speed remained the same.

"We had a dream, Jean-Paul. You and I. And I would not let anyone take that away." He took his eyes off the road, looking at the skier with a pained expression. "I did what needed to be done so you could have a career."

Looking from the contract in his hands to the piece of paper that had covered it in the envelope and then to Maurice, Jean-Paul opened his mouth to reply, to say something - a reassurance, perhaps. He didn't know if he could continue in his career, if he could lie about whatever it was his mutation did. What did it do? How could he find out? But then motion through Maurice's window caught his attention and he found himself stiffening in an attempt to back away from the on-coming vehicle. "Maurice, look out!"

Maurice followed Jean-Paul's gaze. "Marde!" As a pickup truck came toward them, he cut the wheel sharply to the right in hopes of avoiding it. The car spun, which was enough to get Maurice out of the path of direct impact, but the approaching vehicle slammed into the back left side of the car. The hood of the truck crumpled and the glass of the back window shattered, but inside the BMW, all Maurice noticed was that the car kept spinning.

Jean-Paul, unbuckled in the passenger's seat, hit the door hard, the handle digging into his side painfully. Glass shattered behind him as the trunk continued to crumble and he had the brief thought that the momentum shouldn't have been enough, really, to do much damage. But then they skidded into another intersection, the truck behind them mysteriously disappearing as an SUV approaching from the opposite direction swerved in an attempt to miss them as they drifted into oncoming traffic.

The other driver did not succeed entirely and Jean-Paul found himself whipped in the other direction as the other vehicle hit the front right side of the BMW. As if in slow motion, he found himself propelled forward. The impact with the windshield took his breath away, stunning him even as the glass cracked. And then he was through the windshield, shards of glass embedded in his arms where he'd attempted to protect himself, hurtling toward the SUV.

He didn't hit it, though. Something happened, he felt the change somehow, a difference in the quality of the air around him, or maybe just of himself, and it was like the world really was moving in slow motion now. It was the work of just a moment to tilt slightly to the left to avoid the SUV. And then the world returned to normal, the noise and the heat and the adrenaline all hitting him at once even as he hit the ground several hundred feet from the actual wreck.

"Jean-Paul!" Belmonde yelled, seeing what was happening and slamming the brakes on his car before jumping out and running towards him, heart pounding. "Jean-Paul!" He had been following young skier and Maurice in his car despite the speed that they were driving, not trusting the other man.

Light flickered and dimmed as Jean-Paul lay on the pavement. He thought he heard a familiar voice, but before he could try to respond, everything went dark.

Calling emergency services, Belmonde skidded to his knees next to the teen, unsure what to do. "You're going to be fine," he stated firmly, glaring at Maurice's unmoving, blood-covered form. He would pay, if he hadn't already.


Waking up in the hospital, Raymonde informs Jean-Paul that he will be making some arrangements.


Jean-Paul had woken once or twice since the crash but never for long enough to do more than take in his blurry surroundings before sliding back into unconsciousness. This time, though, he cracked his eyes open slowly and, though the room around him seemed inordinately bright and white, he did not immediately close them to avoid it.

Rather, he shifted minutely and then paused again as everything twinged painfully. A soft noise escaped him as he fell still again, tensing a bit in an effort to keep himself from moving at all.

"Jean-Paul?" Raymond asked, voice a little hoarse from disuse as he shifted. He hadn't left his ward's side since the accident, barring time in the hospital where the doctors had made him wait in a family waiting room. "Don't move too much," he said, getting up and pushing the call button for the nurse. He wasn't usually a very emotionally demonstrative person, but he did care about the boy.

The tensing hadn't helped, it'd just made everything in his upper body ache a little more, but Raymonde's familiar voice calmed him slightly. He blinked slowly, eyes feeling gummy. He couldn't focus properly and his neck had been immobilized. Throat dry, he swallowed almost convulsively as a nurse walked in. She and Raymonde exchanged a few words in rapid French.

What followed, then, was an exercise that put Jean-Paul through his paces in patience and bewilderment. First the nurse and whomever the other woman was spoke loudly at him, simple questions. Yes, he could hear them. Yes, he wanted water. No, he was not dizzy. Yes, poking him there hurt. No, poking him in that other spot did not hurt. Yes, he could wiggle his toes. Yes, he could feel that and yes, it was painful, also.

He sought out Raymonde, who lingered in the room, as the neck immobilizer came off and Jean-Paul felt like he could breathe a little more easily. Bandages covered his arms and he could feel them on his shoulders beneath the hospital gown, as well, though he tried very hard not to move. They wanted to keep him for observation. His ears itched. Still, after they medical staff had shuffled back out of the room, leaving him tired and grouchy, he released a breath and asked simple, "The door please, Raymonde?" He couldn't remember everything clearly, but there were some things that certainly stuck out to him, things he would need to discuss with his former guardian.

Getting up to close it, Raymonde dragged the uncomfortable molded plastic chair closer to the bed, "You're lucky you were not hurt worse," he said, "even if it does not feel so lucky right now."

Jean-Paul would have waved that a way, had he not known the movement would cause him pain. Instead, he took a slow breath and said softly, "The IOC man. Maurice... had him killed." He exhaled then, swallowed. Ugh, he hated this weakness, this... whatever it was. He'd never, not once in his life, tiptoed around things. Frowning at himself, he set his jaw and then said, trying to speak firmly, "Because the IOC man was right. I'm a mutant. Maurice covered it up. He said as much. And so... so I am not so sure what to do now."

"I know," Raymonde said simply. The mutant part he hadn't known, the killing the did. Still, he didn't want Jean-Paul to worry and stress more than he already was right now. "Right now, you go back to sleep and let your body heal. I will take care of things."

"How?" Jean-Paul asked, determined to get this sorted despite the exhaustion plaguing him. "What is it you'll do?"

"I... am not sure," Raymonde admitted, wanting JP to stay quiet, "I need to make some phone calls. Now stop moving," he reached out, adjusting his ward's shaggy hair so that it better covered his ears.

Frowning a little, Jean-Paul attempted to raise one hand to brush his hair away. It irritated him. Only dull pain shot through him and he gave it up as a lost cause for the moment. "Augh," he grumbled, frown morphing into a scowl that, as it turned out, also hurt things - namely his face.

"Stop," Raymonde instructed. "Your ears are changed. They look pointed, like an elf," he switched to French for ease to explain that, "Now sleep. I will be here." He waited until Jean-Paul fell asleep, and not the fake-sleep he tried at first by simply closing his eyes. Then he pulled out his phone to make a few calls.