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xp_logsJean and Haller train on the Astral Plane and learn that old wounds aren't as healed as they thought.
The building was vast and empty, with multiple floors, harsh florescent lighting and generic blue carpeting with some multi colored print mixed in to hide stains. At first glance it was probably an office building. Outside was a parking lot and beyond that, nothing.
Jean listened for footsteps as she rounded the corner of one of the floors, spotting a red exit sign at the end of the hallway.
The attack came from her left. One of the nondescript grey doors burst beneath a torrent of water that sent her slamming into the opposite wall and continued to rise, pressing against her body like an unceasing ocean wave.
At the end of the hallway, barely visible to eyes forced into a squint by the force of the current, stood a tall, lank figure.
Letting out a grunt, Jean held her breath. The floor in front of her suddenly started to creak and groan as a massive hole was cut in the bottom and the water rushed out toward the floors below like a drain and she shoved the rest of the water back toward the figure, turning it into ice.
His dodge wasn't going to be in time. For an instant Haller appeared as two bodies: as Jim, rolling to the floor, and as Cyndi, lip bitten in concentration as she ignited the air before her. Then it was only Jim again, and what had been shards of ice pelted his body as harmless slush. He rolled to his feet with a smoothness he was incapable of in reality.
"I tagged you that time," the telepath called. "You should pay atten-"
The wall he had sent toward Jean while he was talking came to an abrupt stop. It folded like a piece of paper, wrapping tightly around him as Jean disappeared around the corner.
"You were saying?"
"Touche." Jim tore through the confining wall like the paper Jean had treated it as and set out in pursuit. He worked his hand, and the shreds of plaster that clung to him pried free and began to elongate into pale javelins. He couldn't see her, but this was the astral plane. If he tried...
With a flick of his wrist he sent the javelins through a wall in a neat semi-circle, entrapping her.
The plaster javelins wrapped around Jean like a mummy, and she hit the ground with a heavy thud. Lying there a moment, Jean clenched her teeth. The plaster began to bubble and pop before catching fire. She yanked herself off of her feet.
"I thought we were supposed to be training, not playing cat and mouse. It's been hours. I expected more instruction." Like Charles. He was usually nicer. But then again, he had mostly taught her the basics on how not to completely go insane from everyone's thoughts, or not making things accidentally float in public. Most of her battle training had been done on her own, in the field, the hard way.
Jim moved over her, steel-toed boots snuffing out the tiny fires. "Think of it like the Danger Room," he said. "Besides, it helps to have a baseline." If he were honest, Jim had to admit he was trying to work through some things himself. Defense wasn't Jean's strength, just as offense wasn't his.
But the Shadow King had proven they both needed to move out of their comfort zones.
He took a step forward, and abruptly he was directly in front of her -- fist swinging towards her face.
Jean barely managed to dodge Jim's fist by ducking, and grabbed his arm, yanking it backward before aiming a knee toward his stomach. She had learned a few moves from Logan and Garrison. It was important to be prepared. Inwardly, she was cursing herself for not being faster. She knew he should've had more coffee.
"A baseline for what?"
"Where you're at with your defense." He twisted, taking her knee on the side of his hip instead of his gut. "What you need to work on." He pivoted in her grasp and snaked behind her, one arm circling her throat. Jean felt his forehead press against the back of her head.
"Now repel me."
And Jim set his mind against hers, cool and sudden as a bucket of water.
The cold sharpness gave Jean a faint, unconscious shiver as she felt her mind go blank for a moment, but she realized he wasn't as strong with his attack as he could've been. It was cautious, careful.
But to get out of it she couldn't be.
She drove an elbow at his nether regions, then shoved his chin upward, yanking herself out of the headlock before aiming a telekinetic blast at him to drive him backward.
Among the many advantages of the astral plane was that Jean's elbow did not leave him a whimpering mess. Unfortunately, the psychosomatic associations were still strong enough that the telekinetic blast barely registered.
"Okay," Jim wheezed as he slowly slid down the wall, "good job."
Jean smiled. "You said to repel," she said, offering him a hand up.
"You didn't say how. Defense, right?"
Jim formed his hands into a shaky T instead. He just needed another moment here. On the floor. Remembering that his actual body was in his office.
"Good defense," he acknowledged. "But you're slow. You're moving like you're in your real body, I mean. We don't have the same limitations here. You can move faster."
"So could you," Jean said, taking a step back to give him some space.
"You hesitated, trying to go into my mind, and before. You use kid gloves. Like you're afraid to hurt me. I've seen it in the field with opponents too."
Jim considered for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, I do try to avoid it. It's got some ugly associations for me. There's a reason Jack usually handles the offense for me." The pain was fading now; he finally felt prepared to climb back to his feet.
"So make some new associations," Jean said, putting her hands on her hips.
"Fear's a crutch. And we're both trying to get better at what we're bad at," she added, then motioned him forward.
"So come at me. Don't hold back."
Jim nodded. "Right."
There was virtually no transition. One moment Jim was standing empty-handed, and the next a baseball bat was swinging for Jean's ribs. It carried the nicks and scuffs of a real object -- a solid memory pulled directly from an angrier, more violent past that had not belonged to David Haller, but was an integral part of Jim. It did not look like it had often been employed for its intended purpose.
The bat struck metal, making a heavy, wooden clang as it was blocked by a short, metal staff. Jean was wearing her green, black, and gold battle armor. Another staff slid into her hands and she gave them both a twirl and a faint smile. Lunging forward, she aimed a staff at the back of his leg, then his own ribs, then his kidneys.
The ability to two-hand the staff left Jean less open than swinging a bat, and her jabs were quick and expert. This time he was more prepared. Jim manifested no armor; instead, every strike was met with the faint flash of another, larger body -- an alter. He wore Jack's protective function like a shell, visible only when absorbing an attack.
As she blocked a swing at her shoulder he got a better look at her armor. It was solid, but Jim noticed a few dents he was certain he hadn't made, and a few areas were shadowed with tarnish. Nothing that would affect the armor's integrity, but definite signs of strain.
Jim let her throw him back, not bothering to maintain his grip on the bat. Instead he raised an empty hand and cocked his index finger. A Glock appeared in his empty hand -- lacking the weight of the bat, it resembled more something a young wannabe street-tough might have fantasized about carrying once upon a time -- and he fired five shots directly into her center mass.
Seeing the gun, Jean's smile vanished. As he fired the shots, Jean's eyes blazed and the rubber bullets melted against a shield of fire. Extending her hand, she telekinetically ripped the gun away and clenched her hand into a fist, the gun being crushed as she did so. As the gun dropped onto the ground, the carpeted floor changed pattern underneath to what looked like a luxurious rug. A faint, echoing sigh was heard, but it didn't sound like Jean. It was male, labored with scolding and resignation.
The fire disappeared and the room was plunged into darkness. For a moment, the room was dead silent, then the sound of something thick, splattering and splashing covered the room. When the lights came back on, everything looked the same, and Jean was rushing Jim, lashing out with a whip, aiming to yank him off his feet and throw him over the railing where a lobby was four floors below.
An arm dipped to intercept the whip, but it didn't belong to Jim. The figure straightened, holding her whip-tangled forearm aloft.
"Yo," said Cyndi.
Strong arms locked around Jean's, immobilizing her from behind -- Jack's solid bulk. And beside him, out of range from her kicking legs, was Jim.
This time he didn't speak. He simply laid a hand across her forehead, and he was in her mind again.
The astral armor she was wearing seemed to crack and chip away, revealing gashes and holes. She let out a gasp and another shudder rocked her entire body as her breathing moved from her lips to behind her clenched teeth. Her hands balled into fists, and smoke started to rise from the armor. But where as the earlier motions were calculated, the reaction was like adding kerosene to flame. Her entire body burst into a searing inferno as she used her body weight to throw him over her shoulder and jumped on him, leveling a couple of frenzied punches at his face before she realized what was happening and froze, immediately backing away.
"Oh God...."
The man at her feet looked stunned, but only for an instant -- the moment Jean backed off Jack disappeared.
"Time out!" With Jack's dispersal some of the damage appeared on Jim. His skin was singed, and patches of his face were pink where Jean's fists had struck, but the damage was far less than if he'd suffered a direct attack.
"Jean, I'm sorry -- are you okay?" He almost went to her, but froze and held up his hands instead. Her mind had been an incandescent star of fear and fury. His gut clenched; he didn't dare touch her for fear of making it worse.
Their footsteps echoed across the floor as they walked. Jean didn't say anything. She was more focused on the fact that they were now in the lower levels of the mansion, in the hallway outside of the Medlab. A faint, steady, persistent beeping was heard in the distance, and the door to the Box was left wide open.
Jean turned, searching Jim's face.
"I was about to ask you the same thing," she said. She shook her head, closing her eyes.
"Damnit..."
Jim waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it. Jack took most of it. That's what he's for. But I . . . I didn't mean to set you off like that." He looked at her again, taking in the damaged armor, the astral plane that had warped into the site of the Shadow King's attack. She'd been concealing the extent of her strain, he realized, just as he automatically concealed the extent of his DID. And he wasn't sure it had been conscious.
He dragged his eyes back up to her face. "Are you okay?" he repeated.
Jean folded her arms. The skin that peeked out from underneath the armor was still gouged and cut. It should've healed more than it had. Turning, she opened one of the lower level doors and walked through it, back into the empty office building.
"No---It's okay. I asked you to do it," she said, as the office building reset to looking good as new, along with her armor.
"H---Another psychic opponent isn't going to hold back in a fight. I'd rather practice with someone I know." She frowned.
"But I shouldn't have reacted that way. It's unprofessional."
"Managing your emotions is crucial," Jim acknowledged, "especially because some opponents are going to be able to exploit them. But . . ." He hesitated, then decided to abandon subtlety. "Look, are you doing all right? You seem tired, and the attack . . . I feel like it hit you harder than it usually would have."
Jean realized she hadn't actually answered him the first time. Or the second. She turned to glance him over, attention lingering on his fresh wounds, but not quite meeting his eyes. She shook her head.
"Sorry, yeah. I'm fine," she said, rubbing her neck absently. She shrugged.
"I just had a bad night's sleep and not enough caffeine this morning."
She nodded. "I'll get better in the future. More meditation, something."
"Mm." The noise skirted the edge of dubiousness. "You've been through a lot lately. Have you talked to Charles since the thing with Quentin?"
Jean snorted at the first part, rolling her eyes as she walked through another door and onto a NYC street.
"Yeah. I gave him the overview when he died, filled out the report, made my appointments. Once I get past everything with catching up on work and writing my report on the Clea rescue, I'll follow up. I don't like to worry him. You know that look he gets when he's worried."
"Yeah, I know." He'd been talking to Charles a fair amount himself, though he was trying to keep an even spread between Charles and his regular therapist. He ignored the eerie feeling he got when he saw Jean echo Quentin's mannerisms; that would probably pass. Eventually. Jim sighed and lit a cigarette. "Things have been busy. I just don't want you to neglect yourself. Taking time to recover is a worthwhile investment."
"Tell the students to stop getting kidnapped and ask people not to get hurt or sick and I'll have plenty of of time," Jean said, sliding her hands into her pockets, as her armor had disappeared. She was just wearing a pink sweater and ripped dark blue jeans. The streets were wet with rain, and various denizens of the mansion walked by, mixed in with random people.
"Are we still on time out?"
"We're in Game Over. That's enough for today. Let's just go over the session." Jim fell into step beside her, noting again how easily the astral plane conformed to her subconscious. Again, he considered the likelihood that these changes were unintentional. "For example, how I can track you by your psi-signature here. It's not a problem when there are others around or in a specific mindscape, but you need to watch out when you're going one-on-one."
Jean made a face. "Never thought about it. I haven't really fought that many psis before," she said. She nodded.
"I can mask it. What else?"
Jim nodded. "You're good at shaping the astral plane, but changing it expends energy even if it's subconscious. Power-bleed's especially hard to control when you're tired. And . . ." And if you're preoccupied with something it can show your hand, he wanted to say, but wasn't sure how. Instead he settled for, "Remember when we found Quentin? Everything we project comes from us. Mindscapes can reveal more than we want them to. It's probably not something you'll need to worry about much in the field, but it's a possibility."
Jean eyed Jim.
"You're treating me like a student. Please, don't. Just be honest."
Jim grimaced around his cigarette. "I'm treating you like a training partner, and as one training partner to another that's my general advice. But in this particular session, when I saw you revert the astral plane to the Medlab where we were attacked -- I felt compelled to ask you how you were handling things."
Jean walked the street in silence for a few moments, which, as they were on the Astral Plane, was the true definition of one's mind wandering.
Sighing, she rubbed the back of her neck. "Sorry," she said.
"I guess....I'm not okay. Everyone else seems to bounce back so easily. I feel like a novice. Like...I know how to do all of these things and yet....it didn't help. So I'm trying to get better."
"Look, we all got caught off-guard. You don't have anything to be sorry about. Just be aware." Jim gave her a wry smile. "If nothing else, it'll make it harder for people to pry."
Jean smiled back. Her walls used to be impressive. But, just like real ones, they needed to be rebuilt, and fortified, so those prying eyes would be unable to see.
"That's the plan," she said, brushing hair behind her ears.
"Well, I'm starving. Want to grab a burger or other non-meat related product? My treat. Least I can do since I've apparently singed some of your hair off."
"Only symbolically. But you're on."
The building was vast and empty, with multiple floors, harsh florescent lighting and generic blue carpeting with some multi colored print mixed in to hide stains. At first glance it was probably an office building. Outside was a parking lot and beyond that, nothing.
Jean listened for footsteps as she rounded the corner of one of the floors, spotting a red exit sign at the end of the hallway.
The attack came from her left. One of the nondescript grey doors burst beneath a torrent of water that sent her slamming into the opposite wall and continued to rise, pressing against her body like an unceasing ocean wave.
At the end of the hallway, barely visible to eyes forced into a squint by the force of the current, stood a tall, lank figure.
Letting out a grunt, Jean held her breath. The floor in front of her suddenly started to creak and groan as a massive hole was cut in the bottom and the water rushed out toward the floors below like a drain and she shoved the rest of the water back toward the figure, turning it into ice.
His dodge wasn't going to be in time. For an instant Haller appeared as two bodies: as Jim, rolling to the floor, and as Cyndi, lip bitten in concentration as she ignited the air before her. Then it was only Jim again, and what had been shards of ice pelted his body as harmless slush. He rolled to his feet with a smoothness he was incapable of in reality.
"I tagged you that time," the telepath called. "You should pay atten-"
The wall he had sent toward Jean while he was talking came to an abrupt stop. It folded like a piece of paper, wrapping tightly around him as Jean disappeared around the corner.
"You were saying?"
"Touche." Jim tore through the confining wall like the paper Jean had treated it as and set out in pursuit. He worked his hand, and the shreds of plaster that clung to him pried free and began to elongate into pale javelins. He couldn't see her, but this was the astral plane. If he tried...
With a flick of his wrist he sent the javelins through a wall in a neat semi-circle, entrapping her.
The plaster javelins wrapped around Jean like a mummy, and she hit the ground with a heavy thud. Lying there a moment, Jean clenched her teeth. The plaster began to bubble and pop before catching fire. She yanked herself off of her feet.
"I thought we were supposed to be training, not playing cat and mouse. It's been hours. I expected more instruction." Like Charles. He was usually nicer. But then again, he had mostly taught her the basics on how not to completely go insane from everyone's thoughts, or not making things accidentally float in public. Most of her battle training had been done on her own, in the field, the hard way.
Jim moved over her, steel-toed boots snuffing out the tiny fires. "Think of it like the Danger Room," he said. "Besides, it helps to have a baseline." If he were honest, Jim had to admit he was trying to work through some things himself. Defense wasn't Jean's strength, just as offense wasn't his.
But the Shadow King had proven they both needed to move out of their comfort zones.
He took a step forward, and abruptly he was directly in front of her -- fist swinging towards her face.
Jean barely managed to dodge Jim's fist by ducking, and grabbed his arm, yanking it backward before aiming a knee toward his stomach. She had learned a few moves from Logan and Garrison. It was important to be prepared. Inwardly, she was cursing herself for not being faster. She knew he should've had more coffee.
"A baseline for what?"
"Where you're at with your defense." He twisted, taking her knee on the side of his hip instead of his gut. "What you need to work on." He pivoted in her grasp and snaked behind her, one arm circling her throat. Jean felt his forehead press against the back of her head.
"Now repel me."
And Jim set his mind against hers, cool and sudden as a bucket of water.
The cold sharpness gave Jean a faint, unconscious shiver as she felt her mind go blank for a moment, but she realized he wasn't as strong with his attack as he could've been. It was cautious, careful.
But to get out of it she couldn't be.
She drove an elbow at his nether regions, then shoved his chin upward, yanking herself out of the headlock before aiming a telekinetic blast at him to drive him backward.
Among the many advantages of the astral plane was that Jean's elbow did not leave him a whimpering mess. Unfortunately, the psychosomatic associations were still strong enough that the telekinetic blast barely registered.
"Okay," Jim wheezed as he slowly slid down the wall, "good job."
Jean smiled. "You said to repel," she said, offering him a hand up.
"You didn't say how. Defense, right?"
Jim formed his hands into a shaky T instead. He just needed another moment here. On the floor. Remembering that his actual body was in his office.
"Good defense," he acknowledged. "But you're slow. You're moving like you're in your real body, I mean. We don't have the same limitations here. You can move faster."
"So could you," Jean said, taking a step back to give him some space.
"You hesitated, trying to go into my mind, and before. You use kid gloves. Like you're afraid to hurt me. I've seen it in the field with opponents too."
Jim considered for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, I do try to avoid it. It's got some ugly associations for me. There's a reason Jack usually handles the offense for me." The pain was fading now; he finally felt prepared to climb back to his feet.
"So make some new associations," Jean said, putting her hands on her hips.
"Fear's a crutch. And we're both trying to get better at what we're bad at," she added, then motioned him forward.
"So come at me. Don't hold back."
Jim nodded. "Right."
There was virtually no transition. One moment Jim was standing empty-handed, and the next a baseball bat was swinging for Jean's ribs. It carried the nicks and scuffs of a real object -- a solid memory pulled directly from an angrier, more violent past that had not belonged to David Haller, but was an integral part of Jim. It did not look like it had often been employed for its intended purpose.
The bat struck metal, making a heavy, wooden clang as it was blocked by a short, metal staff. Jean was wearing her green, black, and gold battle armor. Another staff slid into her hands and she gave them both a twirl and a faint smile. Lunging forward, she aimed a staff at the back of his leg, then his own ribs, then his kidneys.
The ability to two-hand the staff left Jean less open than swinging a bat, and her jabs were quick and expert. This time he was more prepared. Jim manifested no armor; instead, every strike was met with the faint flash of another, larger body -- an alter. He wore Jack's protective function like a shell, visible only when absorbing an attack.
As she blocked a swing at her shoulder he got a better look at her armor. It was solid, but Jim noticed a few dents he was certain he hadn't made, and a few areas were shadowed with tarnish. Nothing that would affect the armor's integrity, but definite signs of strain.
Jim let her throw him back, not bothering to maintain his grip on the bat. Instead he raised an empty hand and cocked his index finger. A Glock appeared in his empty hand -- lacking the weight of the bat, it resembled more something a young wannabe street-tough might have fantasized about carrying once upon a time -- and he fired five shots directly into her center mass.
Seeing the gun, Jean's smile vanished. As he fired the shots, Jean's eyes blazed and the rubber bullets melted against a shield of fire. Extending her hand, she telekinetically ripped the gun away and clenched her hand into a fist, the gun being crushed as she did so. As the gun dropped onto the ground, the carpeted floor changed pattern underneath to what looked like a luxurious rug. A faint, echoing sigh was heard, but it didn't sound like Jean. It was male, labored with scolding and resignation.
The fire disappeared and the room was plunged into darkness. For a moment, the room was dead silent, then the sound of something thick, splattering and splashing covered the room. When the lights came back on, everything looked the same, and Jean was rushing Jim, lashing out with a whip, aiming to yank him off his feet and throw him over the railing where a lobby was four floors below.
An arm dipped to intercept the whip, but it didn't belong to Jim. The figure straightened, holding her whip-tangled forearm aloft.
"Yo," said Cyndi.
Strong arms locked around Jean's, immobilizing her from behind -- Jack's solid bulk. And beside him, out of range from her kicking legs, was Jim.
This time he didn't speak. He simply laid a hand across her forehead, and he was in her mind again.
The astral armor she was wearing seemed to crack and chip away, revealing gashes and holes. She let out a gasp and another shudder rocked her entire body as her breathing moved from her lips to behind her clenched teeth. Her hands balled into fists, and smoke started to rise from the armor. But where as the earlier motions were calculated, the reaction was like adding kerosene to flame. Her entire body burst into a searing inferno as she used her body weight to throw him over her shoulder and jumped on him, leveling a couple of frenzied punches at his face before she realized what was happening and froze, immediately backing away.
"Oh God...."
The man at her feet looked stunned, but only for an instant -- the moment Jean backed off Jack disappeared.
"Time out!" With Jack's dispersal some of the damage appeared on Jim. His skin was singed, and patches of his face were pink where Jean's fists had struck, but the damage was far less than if he'd suffered a direct attack.
"Jean, I'm sorry -- are you okay?" He almost went to her, but froze and held up his hands instead. Her mind had been an incandescent star of fear and fury. His gut clenched; he didn't dare touch her for fear of making it worse.
Their footsteps echoed across the floor as they walked. Jean didn't say anything. She was more focused on the fact that they were now in the lower levels of the mansion, in the hallway outside of the Medlab. A faint, steady, persistent beeping was heard in the distance, and the door to the Box was left wide open.
Jean turned, searching Jim's face.
"I was about to ask you the same thing," she said. She shook her head, closing her eyes.
"Damnit..."
Jim waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it. Jack took most of it. That's what he's for. But I . . . I didn't mean to set you off like that." He looked at her again, taking in the damaged armor, the astral plane that had warped into the site of the Shadow King's attack. She'd been concealing the extent of her strain, he realized, just as he automatically concealed the extent of his DID. And he wasn't sure it had been conscious.
He dragged his eyes back up to her face. "Are you okay?" he repeated.
Jean folded her arms. The skin that peeked out from underneath the armor was still gouged and cut. It should've healed more than it had. Turning, she opened one of the lower level doors and walked through it, back into the empty office building.
"No---It's okay. I asked you to do it," she said, as the office building reset to looking good as new, along with her armor.
"H---Another psychic opponent isn't going to hold back in a fight. I'd rather practice with someone I know." She frowned.
"But I shouldn't have reacted that way. It's unprofessional."
"Managing your emotions is crucial," Jim acknowledged, "especially because some opponents are going to be able to exploit them. But . . ." He hesitated, then decided to abandon subtlety. "Look, are you doing all right? You seem tired, and the attack . . . I feel like it hit you harder than it usually would have."
Jean realized she hadn't actually answered him the first time. Or the second. She turned to glance him over, attention lingering on his fresh wounds, but not quite meeting his eyes. She shook her head.
"Sorry, yeah. I'm fine," she said, rubbing her neck absently. She shrugged.
"I just had a bad night's sleep and not enough caffeine this morning."
She nodded. "I'll get better in the future. More meditation, something."
"Mm." The noise skirted the edge of dubiousness. "You've been through a lot lately. Have you talked to Charles since the thing with Quentin?"
Jean snorted at the first part, rolling her eyes as she walked through another door and onto a NYC street.
"Yeah. I gave him the overview when he died, filled out the report, made my appointments. Once I get past everything with catching up on work and writing my report on the Clea rescue, I'll follow up. I don't like to worry him. You know that look he gets when he's worried."
"Yeah, I know." He'd been talking to Charles a fair amount himself, though he was trying to keep an even spread between Charles and his regular therapist. He ignored the eerie feeling he got when he saw Jean echo Quentin's mannerisms; that would probably pass. Eventually. Jim sighed and lit a cigarette. "Things have been busy. I just don't want you to neglect yourself. Taking time to recover is a worthwhile investment."
"Tell the students to stop getting kidnapped and ask people not to get hurt or sick and I'll have plenty of of time," Jean said, sliding her hands into her pockets, as her armor had disappeared. She was just wearing a pink sweater and ripped dark blue jeans. The streets were wet with rain, and various denizens of the mansion walked by, mixed in with random people.
"Are we still on time out?"
"We're in Game Over. That's enough for today. Let's just go over the session." Jim fell into step beside her, noting again how easily the astral plane conformed to her subconscious. Again, he considered the likelihood that these changes were unintentional. "For example, how I can track you by your psi-signature here. It's not a problem when there are others around or in a specific mindscape, but you need to watch out when you're going one-on-one."
Jean made a face. "Never thought about it. I haven't really fought that many psis before," she said. She nodded.
"I can mask it. What else?"
Jim nodded. "You're good at shaping the astral plane, but changing it expends energy even if it's subconscious. Power-bleed's especially hard to control when you're tired. And . . ." And if you're preoccupied with something it can show your hand, he wanted to say, but wasn't sure how. Instead he settled for, "Remember when we found Quentin? Everything we project comes from us. Mindscapes can reveal more than we want them to. It's probably not something you'll need to worry about much in the field, but it's a possibility."
Jean eyed Jim.
"You're treating me like a student. Please, don't. Just be honest."
Jim grimaced around his cigarette. "I'm treating you like a training partner, and as one training partner to another that's my general advice. But in this particular session, when I saw you revert the astral plane to the Medlab where we were attacked -- I felt compelled to ask you how you were handling things."
Jean walked the street in silence for a few moments, which, as they were on the Astral Plane, was the true definition of one's mind wandering.
Sighing, she rubbed the back of her neck. "Sorry," she said.
"I guess....I'm not okay. Everyone else seems to bounce back so easily. I feel like a novice. Like...I know how to do all of these things and yet....it didn't help. So I'm trying to get better."
"Look, we all got caught off-guard. You don't have anything to be sorry about. Just be aware." Jim gave her a wry smile. "If nothing else, it'll make it harder for people to pry."
Jean smiled back. Her walls used to be impressive. But, just like real ones, they needed to be rebuilt, and fortified, so those prying eyes would be unable to see.
"That's the plan," she said, brushing hair behind her ears.
"Well, I'm starving. Want to grab a burger or other non-meat related product? My treat. Least I can do since I've apparently singed some of your hair off."
"Only symbolically. But you're on."
