Quentin & Marie-Ange, Wednesday, March 3
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xp_logsQuentin finally works up the nerve to ask Marie-Ange about his other self. The past is best revisited over alcohol.
Quentin raised a hand, but stopped before his knuckles reached the door. Was this really a good idea, inquiring into his "past" life? Did he really need to know? He considered for a moment, and sighed, and turned to return to his room.
And then, of course, the door opened, catching Quentin like a deer in headlights.
"Colbert. Hi."
Marie-Ange blinked once in surprise, and then set her bag of trash down by the door. "This can wait, it is paper trash... " She opened the door further, and waved Quentin in. "Is there... you look as though you are about to bolt, is something wrong?"
He considered a moment, and then decided that while on brand for him, mind-wiping her to forget he was ever there, or even just straight-up lying, would be everything he had heard of the old Quentin Quire. And he'd kill himself all over again if we were that man. It was vital he proved he wasn't.
So he turned, straightened, donned his patented sneer of apathy, and said with conviction, "Tell me about the other me."
The expression Marie-Ange's face was "oh fuck" and the thought that drifted out where Quentin could sense it was "oh fuck" and her voice said "I can do that but we are drinking." She nudged the trash bag towards the wall with her foot and shut the door behind Quentin and headed for the kitchen to start opening bottles. "He was nothing like you, besides both of you are telepaths. He was white, straight, and you could intimidate him with your little finger, and he... " She pushed a glass towards Quentin, and started drinking from the other. "I am uniquely vulnerable to certain kinds of telepathy."
Between her tone and the wild, feral thoughts, Quentin couldn't help but down the drink in two gulps. "What sort of telepathy?" he asked as he put down his glass and gestured for a refill. "What did he do to you?"
"I was nineteen. He wanted a girlfriend." Marie-Ange drained her glass, and refilled hers and Quentin's. "His power required touch, I think he tried to hold my hand? It did not work as he wanted, but my powers broke. I kept making solid illusions of... " she gestured with her glass. "Ironically, I made uncontrolled illusions of alternate versions of people I knew. God, but that sentence is ridiculous."
All things considered, it wasn't that ridiculous. They had all seen much weirder. Still, Quentin's glass nearly slipped from his fingers when it occurred to him what she meant by "he wanted a girlfriend, his power required touch." A difficulty with which all telepaths struggle, and one that had once made him doubt his own sanity. He recalled the accusations from his first love. "Maybe we're not so different, after all," he muttered, setting down the glass.
"No, still nothing like him." Marie-Ange said, and then refilled her glass again and held the bottle towards Quentin, offering him a refill. "He had no regrets. He thought the world was taking away all the things that he should have had handed to him. He tried to be all smiles and polite words, but was rotten inside. You are cantankerous, but you have ethics. I know you, you are not him."
Quentin offered a lopsided smile, partly assuaged by her conviction in his goodness. Or, at least, his not-badness. "What happened to him? After. You lobotomized him, right? Someone like that doesn't deserve his telepathy. Making a mockery of it."
"I wish. He was sentenced to tea and therapy and ethics classes and then went off to do more of the same, fueled by powers-enhancing drugs." Marie-Ange's face was twisted with disgust and frustration. "There was an incident in Dubai, and he used people's greatest fears against them, and... and then he disappeared, because he had a technopath under his thumb and could hide better than we had time to look for him."
"Ugh. Chuckles's idea, I gather?" His expression mirrored hers. "So this other Quentin doesn't exist anymore. Or never existed? Have you looked into that at all, to see if I totally replaced him?"
Marie-Ange nodded. "Four minutes after you arrived. I had two different people do a deep dive. He is gone, no trace of him having ever existed. It is not even that you replaced him, your history and his are different enough that it is like the universe never had him, and always had you." She shrugged, and then took a long drink. "Minus my occasional bad dreams, and me having to run myself into a migraine to make sure you were not going to be him. I checked. I get to cheat sometimes, remember?"
"I don't know if that information is supposed to comfort me. I could be terrible in some totally different way. Like if that Shadow King comes back." A sobering thought, which therefore demanded more alcohol. The bottle rose in the invisible hand of telekinesis and poured Quentin a double. No, a triple, to be on the safe side. "Well, it sounds like I'm an upgrade," he said, more wry in his tone than the whiskey. "Limitless telepathy, better hair, not white, an ass that goes for days. The universe improved every feature."
"In fairness, you improved your own hair when you came back from the dead, not the universe." Marie-Ange tilted her glass at Quentin in a mock-toast. "The Shadow King is not you." she added, flatly. "Did you know we had a different one of those too? A history professor, with some sort of dissociative identity psionic parasite." She hadn't thought about him in ages. "I think he was a different one. It is confusing sometimes. Some people like you are completely different. Others are almost identical. You... I think you are the most different so far."
"Why do you think that is?" Quentin asked. "That I of all people am pretty much brand new. Luck of the draw or some grand cosmic destiny?" He waggled his hands dramatically, although in his drunkening state, it was more like spirit fingers.
The rest of Marie-Ange's drink number four or five, depending on how you counted partial refills disappeared into her in one swallow. "I wish I knew. The person who stitched everything together had a star in his brain and I am not sure he was entirely lucid. Maybe he liked that I mentioned Schrodinger's cat, maybe he prefers Asian men to bland white boys?" She shrugged. "I am counting it as a win that the Quentin we got is, as you said, an improvement in all ways."
"Hmm. Star-head couldn't have given me a more pleasant backstory, though? Could have done without the quasi-illegal international adoption and childhood of neglect and schoolyard bullying. Guess he didn't want me to have it too good." Quentin groaned and finished his drink, now sated, both in thirst and curiosity. "Well, thanks for the story, I guess."
"You are welcome. I think." Marie-Ange replied. "If you are being sarcastic, I cannot tell. Too many drinks, too short of a time." She ran her finger along the edge of her now empty glass and considered yet another drink. "That said, no grindr dates or hookups with italian technopaths. That way lies terrible decisions and drug addictions."
Something for Quentin to remove from his bucket list, he supposed. He was sure it would be fine, though; there were plenty of other terrible but less dangerous Italians to hook up with. "I'm sure I'll find plenty of other trouble to fall into on my own. That, at least, is a multidimensional constant."
"I think it is for all of us." Marie-Ange said, nodding.
Quentin raised a hand, but stopped before his knuckles reached the door. Was this really a good idea, inquiring into his "past" life? Did he really need to know? He considered for a moment, and sighed, and turned to return to his room.
And then, of course, the door opened, catching Quentin like a deer in headlights.
"Colbert. Hi."
Marie-Ange blinked once in surprise, and then set her bag of trash down by the door. "This can wait, it is paper trash... " She opened the door further, and waved Quentin in. "Is there... you look as though you are about to bolt, is something wrong?"
He considered a moment, and then decided that while on brand for him, mind-wiping her to forget he was ever there, or even just straight-up lying, would be everything he had heard of the old Quentin Quire. And he'd kill himself all over again if we were that man. It was vital he proved he wasn't.
So he turned, straightened, donned his patented sneer of apathy, and said with conviction, "Tell me about the other me."
The expression Marie-Ange's face was "oh fuck" and the thought that drifted out where Quentin could sense it was "oh fuck" and her voice said "I can do that but we are drinking." She nudged the trash bag towards the wall with her foot and shut the door behind Quentin and headed for the kitchen to start opening bottles. "He was nothing like you, besides both of you are telepaths. He was white, straight, and you could intimidate him with your little finger, and he... " She pushed a glass towards Quentin, and started drinking from the other. "I am uniquely vulnerable to certain kinds of telepathy."
Between her tone and the wild, feral thoughts, Quentin couldn't help but down the drink in two gulps. "What sort of telepathy?" he asked as he put down his glass and gestured for a refill. "What did he do to you?"
"I was nineteen. He wanted a girlfriend." Marie-Ange drained her glass, and refilled hers and Quentin's. "His power required touch, I think he tried to hold my hand? It did not work as he wanted, but my powers broke. I kept making solid illusions of... " she gestured with her glass. "Ironically, I made uncontrolled illusions of alternate versions of people I knew. God, but that sentence is ridiculous."
All things considered, it wasn't that ridiculous. They had all seen much weirder. Still, Quentin's glass nearly slipped from his fingers when it occurred to him what she meant by "he wanted a girlfriend, his power required touch." A difficulty with which all telepaths struggle, and one that had once made him doubt his own sanity. He recalled the accusations from his first love. "Maybe we're not so different, after all," he muttered, setting down the glass.
"No, still nothing like him." Marie-Ange said, and then refilled her glass again and held the bottle towards Quentin, offering him a refill. "He had no regrets. He thought the world was taking away all the things that he should have had handed to him. He tried to be all smiles and polite words, but was rotten inside. You are cantankerous, but you have ethics. I know you, you are not him."
Quentin offered a lopsided smile, partly assuaged by her conviction in his goodness. Or, at least, his not-badness. "What happened to him? After. You lobotomized him, right? Someone like that doesn't deserve his telepathy. Making a mockery of it."
"I wish. He was sentenced to tea and therapy and ethics classes and then went off to do more of the same, fueled by powers-enhancing drugs." Marie-Ange's face was twisted with disgust and frustration. "There was an incident in Dubai, and he used people's greatest fears against them, and... and then he disappeared, because he had a technopath under his thumb and could hide better than we had time to look for him."
"Ugh. Chuckles's idea, I gather?" His expression mirrored hers. "So this other Quentin doesn't exist anymore. Or never existed? Have you looked into that at all, to see if I totally replaced him?"
Marie-Ange nodded. "Four minutes after you arrived. I had two different people do a deep dive. He is gone, no trace of him having ever existed. It is not even that you replaced him, your history and his are different enough that it is like the universe never had him, and always had you." She shrugged, and then took a long drink. "Minus my occasional bad dreams, and me having to run myself into a migraine to make sure you were not going to be him. I checked. I get to cheat sometimes, remember?"
"I don't know if that information is supposed to comfort me. I could be terrible in some totally different way. Like if that Shadow King comes back." A sobering thought, which therefore demanded more alcohol. The bottle rose in the invisible hand of telekinesis and poured Quentin a double. No, a triple, to be on the safe side. "Well, it sounds like I'm an upgrade," he said, more wry in his tone than the whiskey. "Limitless telepathy, better hair, not white, an ass that goes for days. The universe improved every feature."
"In fairness, you improved your own hair when you came back from the dead, not the universe." Marie-Ange tilted her glass at Quentin in a mock-toast. "The Shadow King is not you." she added, flatly. "Did you know we had a different one of those too? A history professor, with some sort of dissociative identity psionic parasite." She hadn't thought about him in ages. "I think he was a different one. It is confusing sometimes. Some people like you are completely different. Others are almost identical. You... I think you are the most different so far."
"Why do you think that is?" Quentin asked. "That I of all people am pretty much brand new. Luck of the draw or some grand cosmic destiny?" He waggled his hands dramatically, although in his drunkening state, it was more like spirit fingers.
The rest of Marie-Ange's drink number four or five, depending on how you counted partial refills disappeared into her in one swallow. "I wish I knew. The person who stitched everything together had a star in his brain and I am not sure he was entirely lucid. Maybe he liked that I mentioned Schrodinger's cat, maybe he prefers Asian men to bland white boys?" She shrugged. "I am counting it as a win that the Quentin we got is, as you said, an improvement in all ways."
"Hmm. Star-head couldn't have given me a more pleasant backstory, though? Could have done without the quasi-illegal international adoption and childhood of neglect and schoolyard bullying. Guess he didn't want me to have it too good." Quentin groaned and finished his drink, now sated, both in thirst and curiosity. "Well, thanks for the story, I guess."
"You are welcome. I think." Marie-Ange replied. "If you are being sarcastic, I cannot tell. Too many drinks, too short of a time." She ran her finger along the edge of her now empty glass and considered yet another drink. "That said, no grindr dates or hookups with italian technopaths. That way lies terrible decisions and drug addictions."
Something for Quentin to remove from his bucket list, he supposed. He was sure it would be fine, though; there were plenty of other terrible but less dangerous Italians to hook up with. "I'm sure I'll find plenty of other trouble to fall into on my own. That, at least, is a multidimensional constant."
"I think it is for all of us." Marie-Ange said, nodding.
