Quentin & Hank, Tuesday afternoon

[xp-erverse.livejournal.com]

Quentin and Hank have a friendly discussion about mutant advocacy and passing privilege.


"Storm! Where the hell are you?" Quentin stomped down the laboratory corridor, the platform-heeled-shoes he was trying out clack-clacking loudly on the steel-tiled floor. He had been told Sue was down here but she was not in her designated lab nor could he pick up her weirdly wispy mental signature. Whoever gave him directions must have been fucking with him. He grumbled as he stepped into the last lab he had not yet checked, expecting it to be empty, too. He instead found the elusive, coy, large-appended wannabe doctor, intensively examining something under a microscope. Quentin smirked and leaned against the door frame.

"Oh, McCoy. Hey."

"Quentin, hello." Hank was thankfully well-accustomed enough by now to people randomly appearing in the doorway that he didn't start when the rather flamboyant young man interrupted his work. Pushing back from the bench, he gave him a polite smile, knowing that there'd be no point in trying to continue while Quentin loitered nearby. "I believe Sue has been called away on company business - I don't know her estimated time of return but I'm happy to pass on the message that you were looking for her."

Quentin waved one hand dismissively while he reached the other into his pocket to get his cell phone. "It's fine, whatever, I'll just text her. Just something for a case. She can get to it once she's seen to all her capitalistic duties, I guess. What're you doing?"

"Determining the cell concentration in order to prepare a sample for antibody titration," came the answer. "It's actually rather interesting, I'll be using a technique called flow cytometry, which allows simultaneous multiparametric analysis of the physical and chemical characteristics of up to thousands of particles per second. It's far more expeditious and accurate than sorting by eye would be."

Though the relevance of Hank's endeavors were not readily apparent to Quentin, the telepath did manage — with only a short delay — to translate Hank into English. "Big machine measures lots of little things very quickly. Got it. Sounds . . . delightful."

Hank knew better than to assume Quentin's interest was genuine, but he smiled all the same. "It's certainly very necessary for this particular project. How are you, Quentin?"

"How kind of you to ask," Quentin replied, sauntering into the room, one foot stepping in front of the other like a neophyte runway model. He stopped by the edge of Hank's desk, one hand on his hip and the other gripping the bench so he kept his balance in such tall shoes. "Working on a case for X-Factor. Guy is suing his old boss for firing him for being a mutant, and hired us to find evidence to prove it. Which would be easy because I'm a mind-reader, but that's not admissible in court for some dumb-ass reason."

"Most likely because it would be extremely hard to verify and regulate," Hank volunteered, intrigued by the idea. "Without a way to prove the truth of the readings it would open judicial proceedings up to manipulation and misdirection. I can understand why the courts would want to avoid that. Surely," he said then, "telepathic readings must make gathering evidence simpler, though. It would give you something of a head start, if you'd pardon the pun."

To his credit, Quentin did not reply with a head pun of his own, even though he was dying to say it. If Hank did not process Quentin's sarcasm, then Quentin doubted he would get the lewd joke, either. "Once mutants set up our own courts and our own laws separate from the flatscans, maybe then we'll trust psychic testimony."

"Do you think so?" Hank cocked his head to one side inquisitively. "While I agree that there is a certain increase in tolerance among mutants for their own kind they are in no way homogeneous in their trust and affection for their fellow mutant. And being a mutant does not make one more trustworthy - a psychic is just as likely to lie as any other person, and people do lie, quite a lot."

"Then put multiple psychics on the court, and they can confirm each other. Replication and peer review. Aren't those two of the hallmarks of your precious scientific method?" Quentin asked, grinning, offering Hank a playful challenge. "And you don't think mutants inherently look out for each other? I think that's our moral duty."

"It may well be, but a moral duty is not an imperative. While it would be heartwarming to think that someone who has been treated with suspicion their whole lives would find themselves more kindly inclined to other outcasts the opposite seems to hold just as true." Hank frowned; he didn't consider himself a pessimistic person and yet on this topic his thoughts were decidedly fatalistic. "Self-preservation is a strong drug."

There was no arguing with that point, but it was the other thing Hank said that interested Quentin. "Has that been your experience? Hard to find a safe space with other mutants?"

"I don't mean to say I don't feel safe," Hank hastened to say. "Certainly here at Xavier's we've found a haven, and most people are incredibly welcoming. But..." He hesitated, then shrugged, holding up his oversized hands. "People still stare. We've been socialised to accept the norm, even those of us who fall outside it."

"Lots of people here try so hard to pass for flatscan." Quentin tutted and shook his head. "What's the point of being who we are if we don't, just by virtue of being, try to throw that norm away? You know? I don't color my hair like this just because I rock pink, which I so do."

"I'm sure it's nice to have the choice," Hank said, perhaps more sharply than he intended. "But not everyone does. It seems... less than empathetic to suggest that people ought to invite negative attention just for the purpose of furthering some larger agenda."

"When the alternative is cloistering yourself in a basement Frankenstein laboratory?" Quentin hid a smile, pleased that he had evoked such a reaction from Hank. "Or worse, living a life pretending to be something you're not and denying your true, genuine self while you see everyone around you live openly? We can't prove that we belong here and deserve everything the flatscans get if we just pretend we're them instead."

The Frankenstein comment rankled, and Hank frowned, turning to survey his microscope for a moment. "Tell me," he said eventually, "do you think all mutations are equally advantageous?"

Quentin smirked. "You're setting me up with such a loaded question. Advantage is contextual. Depends on . . . oh, what's it called . . . selective pressures? That right? Yeah, depends on what selective pressures are affecting you. That's not a yes or no question."

"Well then, if you can understand that nuance you can understand that neither is the question of whether all mutants should endeavour to live openly."

"Do you apply this standard just to mutants or to all identities targeted for death by the kyriarchy?" Quentin asked, shifting the goalposts a little farther back.

"Excuse me?" Hank blinked; he had made the mistake of assuming they were having a discussion in good faith, but this was Quentin, and he should have been prepared for all that implied. "I think that in considering societal progress the impact on individuals should always be factored in. It's all well and good to draw a sweeping line and say that everyone must step over it for progress to be made, but we don't exist within a nameless, faceless cohort. Real people are going to be hurt by such pressures, mutants or otherwise. I can't in good conscience advocate for something that might harm the very people it's trying to help. Besides," he added, "why should it be on the minority party to push for progress? How we treat mutants has implications for us all."

Silence reined for a moment and was broken by Quentin's laugh. "I don't think I've ever seen you so passionate about something before, not even your flow cytometry. You really should consider public advocacy instead of . . . this." He waved his hand at the lab.

Now it was Hank's turn to laugh, though his was a good deal more nervous than Quentin's. "I think not; I'd be a terrible public speaker, for a start. I'm much better suited to life in the lab. But I thank you for the compliment." At least he assumed it was a compliment. With Quentin, who knew? "I'll leave the advocacy to people like you, I think."

The sound of a man moaning came from Quentin's pocket, and he looked confused until he remembered it was his text message alert. He rolled his eyes when he looked at his phone's screen. "Fuck. Got to take this. Have fun with your whatevers. I hope you'll have a cure for cancer next time I see you."

"Yes, ah, thank you Quentin," Hank said, his cheeks bright pink. "That's... I do too. I mean, yes, of course. I'll... tell Sue you stopped by. I'm sure she'll regret she wasn't hear to meet you." He certainly did.

Comments

[x-artie.livejournal.com]

Brilliant log.