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xp_logsMarie-Ange Colbert shows Pyotr around the Art Room. They chat about art, and powers, and Pyotr gets his noodle baked just a little. It's good for him.
Compared to the first two times they had interacted, Marie-Ange was dressed far more casually. Jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and her hair in a messy bun as she passed through the kitchen. She had a stack of small canvases tucked under one arm, and a paper bag in the other. She set the bag down, waved in Pyotr's direction, and picked the bag back up. "I was restocking water colours and remembered that I have not given you a key to the art studio here, or given you the ten minute tour. Are you busy?"
Pyotr had just finished washing his hands and was about to dry them when M-A spoke. "Yes, excellent! One moment..." he said, and then dried his hands as fast as was acceptable to do so. Once done, he neatly put the hand-towel back and turned to face the to-him diminutive Frenchwoman. "I am looking forward to this. I have some plans, you see..." he said with a grin.
"Well, we always like art plans." Marie-Ange led Pyotr down a hallway, and then down another hallway, to a room on the east side wing of the mansion. "Morning light, afternoon shadow. There is a classroom on the west side that has a drafting table if you ever need evening light." She opened the door, and set her shopping down on one of the tables that ran along the wall as the lights came on automatically. "Most of the mansion used to be setup to be a fully populated boarding school. We have quite a few offices now, but this was a classroom next to a small art room. I got to renovate." This was said with no small amount of pride. "Storage cabinets on the back wall, and the old art room is now also a storage closet for big supplies. Giant canvases, the big blocks of clay, I think Megan keeps bolts of fabric in there as well."
The room was clearly designed for a variety of artists. One long table was several drafting tables pushed together, some raised, and some still flat. There was a low worktable and bench with a potter's wheel, a big table next to it that would've come up to Marie-Ange's chest, and stacked bins next to all three areas that had haphazard labels. "MAC - pastels" "AM - watercolor" "Pixie - chalky chalk"
"That door goes out to a patio, right now there is a crucible there. I had a very small metalworking project for work and I have been lazy and not put my toys away. But it also has a good set of stools and a table if you do work outside."
"You've heard of the art project in the District, yes?" he asked her as he wandered around the art studio, opening drawers and poking around into things. "I got inspired. Will be submitting some pieces. Was also thinking of being present for the unveiling as Colossus." he said. "Might help put people at ease."
"I have. I probably will put in a few pieces anonymously." Marie-Ange said. "But I have not thought of what I want to do yet. Maybe just interesting watercolors of powers, I am not sure." She followed Pyotr around the room, letting him explore at his own pace. "If you claim a cabinet, there is a label tape maker in one of the drawers, and we pool money for shared supplies. Mostly drop cloths, cleaning supplies, the things any of us would use. Oh, the drafting tables are sit-stand so I think you could probably adjust one to use even when you are nine feet tall and metal, though you may have to sit if you do that."
He smiled at that - it was a thoughtful touch. "I don't paint as Colossus. I can't." he admitted casually. "But I think I will claim some space down here, get some of my painting supplies out of my bedroom." he mused. "I am going to be painting visible mutants doing ordinary things. Teaching, studying, beach lounging, prayer" he said. "Might help with exposure, show us as regular people when so many fear what is different," he said. "Just worried I might inflame the wrong people."
Marie-Ange blinked. "Do .. you need larger brushes? No, no, you would have considered that already, and I am applying my nosiness too much." She waved a hand in apology. "I like that idea. You have spoken to Kurt, yes, because prayer. There is a line cook at Betty's who has horns, he might be interested, and he makes a very good fried egg sandwich." She pulled her phone out of her pocket, and tapped a few times. "Your phone has the electronic key to the room now. I can also get you a physical key. Most of the time the door is not locked though. Nothing worth stealing except snacks, and no one keeps interesting snacks in here. We all eat them too fast." One more wave of her hand, really more of a point with every finger, towards a pair of mini fridges in one corner, both covered in stickers and magnets and smears where paint stained fingers had left marks. "The microwave lives in the big closet though for now. I think... I think if you anger anyone, it will be the people who are already going to be angry."
"Any brushes here you were going to throw out anyway?" he asked, then when she nodded and fetched one, he took it suddenly-metal hand. For once his clothes stretched to their limits but did not rupture. "Watch" he said, his voice as Colossus deeper than his voice as Pyotr. He picked up the brush, tried to hold it steady, but it wobbled for a few seconds before crushing down to a very thin line of ex-paintbrush. "Hands are not the best like this." he confessed. "So I do not paint as Colossus. It's fine, painting as Pyotr is good." he said as he shifted back.
"Ugh, where were you months ago when I was making boneblack for ink." Marie-Ange muttered, but with an amused smile. "For that matter when we were - Topaz, from my office, had a magical mishap. We had to crush gemstones to fix it. Having an artist who can crush things would have saved so much time." She took the now flat paintbrush and dropped it into one of the trash bins. "I know you do portraits, was that your graduate work? Oils, yes?" Compared to the reserved woman from the Snow Valley offices, this Marie-Ange was relaxed - easy smiles, and almost enthusiastic gestures. "I am sorry, I am so nosy, but it is very nice to get to talk shop with other artists."
"Brighton Beach?" he suggested with a smile. "And yes, I primarily work in oils." he said. "Been exposed to a great many forms of art, some of which I like and suit me, some of which do not." he confessed. "For example, don't ask me to do anything digital. I dislike it. I need the feel of a brush in my hands, or a pencil. The smell of the inks and the solvents. It makes me ... happy." he said. "Strange, I know."
"Not at all strange. I do pastels and watercolour for the same reason. I like them, much more over digital work. I can do digital art, but it does not have the same energy. OIl is sometimes too slow for me, takes so long to dry, but I have never been a patient artist." Marie-Ange waved her arm at a pair of canvases, both small, with watercolor pictures on them of a pair of hands.. "Life moves very fast, people change quickly. I like a medium I can finish and move onto the next piece. Oh, we have ventilation, if you are mixing your own paint or just want fresh air and not to open the windows. "
"Good to know." he said with a smile, rearranging his now stretched-out clothing to fit a little better at least. "Mostly these days I work in pencils, and the oils is for paying work." he said. "You draw for you, or do you release your art into the world?" he asked curiously.
"Mostly I draw for myself, for others. I do a lot of sketches of the people here, people I see on the train..." Marie-Ange answered. "I get to release my art into the world literally though, if temporary. My power lets me make solid illusions, and a great much of my art goes into that. It is easier to... make images of things I have drawn."
"Right. Little sports man on the table. I remember." he said. "You sketch on the train? I do that on long rides. Find someone, sketch them, then gift them the sketch before they depart. If I can. Is good practice in speed and accuracy." he added. "You know something? Is pity you're a spy. How does someone like you, with gift for art and, err, animation, wind up poking into other people's lives, even if for good cause?" he asked.
"Mostly it is my other power. I can see the future." Marie-Ange's expression was deadly serious. "Erratically and with great effort, but there are only so many things one does with a power like that, and most of them are meddling in other's lives. I wish it were otherwise but I am good at meddling, and there are people who would turn all of us into weapons. If I can see it coming and do nothing to stop it, I am as bad as they are."
Pyotr.exe stopped responding at that for a moment and it took a long moment for him to reboot his brain. "You ... see the future?" he asked incredulously. He wanted desperately to ask about a gazillion different questions about what was to come and managed to stop from blurting any of them out by the expedient means of biting his lip. "The future is ... defined, then?" he asked.
"Not at all. I see possibilities, but it is still dependent on actions." Marie-Ange held up a finger. "One moment." She pulled a piece of paper from one of the stacks lying around, and folded it into an origami shape that fit over her fingers, like a flower with four petals. "Fortune teller, did they have these in Russia? We made them as children. You put different things you want to happen on each fold and then count numbers in someone's name and the fold it lands on is supposed to be your future. But..." She ripped one of the flaps off neatly, rolled the paper between her fingers and flicked it into a trash basket. "Sometimes I get to see one, and prevent it, or act to try to make it more likely. All I know is that one decision leads to one outcome, and then I can act on that information. It is just extra information that I get. I see a future, not one defined one."
His noodle was officially thoroughly baked, but he thought he understood in his own small way what she was getting at. "Like cat in box." he theorized, trying to remember what few science and philosophy classes he'd had in undergrad. "Altering probabilities?" he asked. "Way above my simple head. Was going to ask if you knew anything about future of snowflake, but ... feels rude to ask. Trivial."
"Exactly like the cat in the box." Marie-Ange said. "I just get a little extra glimpse into the box." She frowned and shook her head at the other thing he said. "It is complicated, because my power is costly. I used to have migraines and insomnia, now I have a missing eye, and other side effects. So to look into someone's future I have to weigh that against what it might do to others. It is the opposite of trivial, it is difficult, and confusing and.. " She rubbed at the eyepatch for a moment. "So I could look, I might even get an answer but I cannot... " She laughed, bitterly. "I have blind spots, forgive the pun. So while I can tell you I will check, I cannot promise results."
Pyotr waved that off. "Is too much to ask." he said firmly. "You need heavy thing lifted, I can do that. Is easy for me. As Colossus, definition of heavy thing goes up considerably. Again, easy for me. This? Is too much to ask. I do not wish to cause you pain. Not even for my snowflake." he said. "Apologies for asking. Was ignorant."
"You could not have known. When someone tells you they see the future, and they can prove it, of course you would ask about family." Marie-Ange said. "But it is kind of you to apologize, and I accept. Perhaps we should go back to talking about... oh! Oh, oh I almost forgot, and you have reminded me. Your painting from the day the car hit you." She hurried over to one of the cabinets and pulled out a canvas. "It has damage, but I know someone who does art restoration." She paused. "In full truth, he also does art forgery but not for his own profit and greed. I can ask him to do repairs."
He looked at the rather wrecked painting of Illyana that he'd left behind on that day. "Thank you." he said, handing it back. "Tell your associate to do the restoration. And we will be paying him. Probably not what a good restorer is worth - I thought about getting into that end of the business and I still do from time to time - but we can give him something for his pains."
"It is hard work, especially to do it and make sure it is reversible. Forgery is easier." This laugh was lighter, only colored with the darkness of personal knowledge. "I will ask him, and he is likely to tell you the price is a few good bottles of Russian vodka. He does very little for money these days, his partners have good jobs so he gets to work as an artist." Marie-Ange set the canvas back down in the cabinet carefully. "What a life, yes? Sleep in, have patrons who keep you in good food and nice clothes and paint. Every artist's dream."
Pyotr barked out a laugh. "Like being back in grad school! You can get much done for bottle of Russian Standard." he said with a smile.
Compared to the first two times they had interacted, Marie-Ange was dressed far more casually. Jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and her hair in a messy bun as she passed through the kitchen. She had a stack of small canvases tucked under one arm, and a paper bag in the other. She set the bag down, waved in Pyotr's direction, and picked the bag back up. "I was restocking water colours and remembered that I have not given you a key to the art studio here, or given you the ten minute tour. Are you busy?"
Pyotr had just finished washing his hands and was about to dry them when M-A spoke. "Yes, excellent! One moment..." he said, and then dried his hands as fast as was acceptable to do so. Once done, he neatly put the hand-towel back and turned to face the to-him diminutive Frenchwoman. "I am looking forward to this. I have some plans, you see..." he said with a grin.
"Well, we always like art plans." Marie-Ange led Pyotr down a hallway, and then down another hallway, to a room on the east side wing of the mansion. "Morning light, afternoon shadow. There is a classroom on the west side that has a drafting table if you ever need evening light." She opened the door, and set her shopping down on one of the tables that ran along the wall as the lights came on automatically. "Most of the mansion used to be setup to be a fully populated boarding school. We have quite a few offices now, but this was a classroom next to a small art room. I got to renovate." This was said with no small amount of pride. "Storage cabinets on the back wall, and the old art room is now also a storage closet for big supplies. Giant canvases, the big blocks of clay, I think Megan keeps bolts of fabric in there as well."
The room was clearly designed for a variety of artists. One long table was several drafting tables pushed together, some raised, and some still flat. There was a low worktable and bench with a potter's wheel, a big table next to it that would've come up to Marie-Ange's chest, and stacked bins next to all three areas that had haphazard labels. "MAC - pastels" "AM - watercolor" "Pixie - chalky chalk"
"That door goes out to a patio, right now there is a crucible there. I had a very small metalworking project for work and I have been lazy and not put my toys away. But it also has a good set of stools and a table if you do work outside."
"You've heard of the art project in the District, yes?" he asked her as he wandered around the art studio, opening drawers and poking around into things. "I got inspired. Will be submitting some pieces. Was also thinking of being present for the unveiling as Colossus." he said. "Might help put people at ease."
"I have. I probably will put in a few pieces anonymously." Marie-Ange said. "But I have not thought of what I want to do yet. Maybe just interesting watercolors of powers, I am not sure." She followed Pyotr around the room, letting him explore at his own pace. "If you claim a cabinet, there is a label tape maker in one of the drawers, and we pool money for shared supplies. Mostly drop cloths, cleaning supplies, the things any of us would use. Oh, the drafting tables are sit-stand so I think you could probably adjust one to use even when you are nine feet tall and metal, though you may have to sit if you do that."
He smiled at that - it was a thoughtful touch. "I don't paint as Colossus. I can't." he admitted casually. "But I think I will claim some space down here, get some of my painting supplies out of my bedroom." he mused. "I am going to be painting visible mutants doing ordinary things. Teaching, studying, beach lounging, prayer" he said. "Might help with exposure, show us as regular people when so many fear what is different," he said. "Just worried I might inflame the wrong people."
Marie-Ange blinked. "Do .. you need larger brushes? No, no, you would have considered that already, and I am applying my nosiness too much." She waved a hand in apology. "I like that idea. You have spoken to Kurt, yes, because prayer. There is a line cook at Betty's who has horns, he might be interested, and he makes a very good fried egg sandwich." She pulled her phone out of her pocket, and tapped a few times. "Your phone has the electronic key to the room now. I can also get you a physical key. Most of the time the door is not locked though. Nothing worth stealing except snacks, and no one keeps interesting snacks in here. We all eat them too fast." One more wave of her hand, really more of a point with every finger, towards a pair of mini fridges in one corner, both covered in stickers and magnets and smears where paint stained fingers had left marks. "The microwave lives in the big closet though for now. I think... I think if you anger anyone, it will be the people who are already going to be angry."
"Any brushes here you were going to throw out anyway?" he asked, then when she nodded and fetched one, he took it suddenly-metal hand. For once his clothes stretched to their limits but did not rupture. "Watch" he said, his voice as Colossus deeper than his voice as Pyotr. He picked up the brush, tried to hold it steady, but it wobbled for a few seconds before crushing down to a very thin line of ex-paintbrush. "Hands are not the best like this." he confessed. "So I do not paint as Colossus. It's fine, painting as Pyotr is good." he said as he shifted back.
"Ugh, where were you months ago when I was making boneblack for ink." Marie-Ange muttered, but with an amused smile. "For that matter when we were - Topaz, from my office, had a magical mishap. We had to crush gemstones to fix it. Having an artist who can crush things would have saved so much time." She took the now flat paintbrush and dropped it into one of the trash bins. "I know you do portraits, was that your graduate work? Oils, yes?" Compared to the reserved woman from the Snow Valley offices, this Marie-Ange was relaxed - easy smiles, and almost enthusiastic gestures. "I am sorry, I am so nosy, but it is very nice to get to talk shop with other artists."
"Brighton Beach?" he suggested with a smile. "And yes, I primarily work in oils." he said. "Been exposed to a great many forms of art, some of which I like and suit me, some of which do not." he confessed. "For example, don't ask me to do anything digital. I dislike it. I need the feel of a brush in my hands, or a pencil. The smell of the inks and the solvents. It makes me ... happy." he said. "Strange, I know."
"Not at all strange. I do pastels and watercolour for the same reason. I like them, much more over digital work. I can do digital art, but it does not have the same energy. OIl is sometimes too slow for me, takes so long to dry, but I have never been a patient artist." Marie-Ange waved her arm at a pair of canvases, both small, with watercolor pictures on them of a pair of hands.. "Life moves very fast, people change quickly. I like a medium I can finish and move onto the next piece. Oh, we have ventilation, if you are mixing your own paint or just want fresh air and not to open the windows. "
"Good to know." he said with a smile, rearranging his now stretched-out clothing to fit a little better at least. "Mostly these days I work in pencils, and the oils is for paying work." he said. "You draw for you, or do you release your art into the world?" he asked curiously.
"Mostly I draw for myself, for others. I do a lot of sketches of the people here, people I see on the train..." Marie-Ange answered. "I get to release my art into the world literally though, if temporary. My power lets me make solid illusions, and a great much of my art goes into that. It is easier to... make images of things I have drawn."
"Right. Little sports man on the table. I remember." he said. "You sketch on the train? I do that on long rides. Find someone, sketch them, then gift them the sketch before they depart. If I can. Is good practice in speed and accuracy." he added. "You know something? Is pity you're a spy. How does someone like you, with gift for art and, err, animation, wind up poking into other people's lives, even if for good cause?" he asked.
"Mostly it is my other power. I can see the future." Marie-Ange's expression was deadly serious. "Erratically and with great effort, but there are only so many things one does with a power like that, and most of them are meddling in other's lives. I wish it were otherwise but I am good at meddling, and there are people who would turn all of us into weapons. If I can see it coming and do nothing to stop it, I am as bad as they are."
Pyotr.exe stopped responding at that for a moment and it took a long moment for him to reboot his brain. "You ... see the future?" he asked incredulously. He wanted desperately to ask about a gazillion different questions about what was to come and managed to stop from blurting any of them out by the expedient means of biting his lip. "The future is ... defined, then?" he asked.
"Not at all. I see possibilities, but it is still dependent on actions." Marie-Ange held up a finger. "One moment." She pulled a piece of paper from one of the stacks lying around, and folded it into an origami shape that fit over her fingers, like a flower with four petals. "Fortune teller, did they have these in Russia? We made them as children. You put different things you want to happen on each fold and then count numbers in someone's name and the fold it lands on is supposed to be your future. But..." She ripped one of the flaps off neatly, rolled the paper between her fingers and flicked it into a trash basket. "Sometimes I get to see one, and prevent it, or act to try to make it more likely. All I know is that one decision leads to one outcome, and then I can act on that information. It is just extra information that I get. I see a future, not one defined one."
His noodle was officially thoroughly baked, but he thought he understood in his own small way what she was getting at. "Like cat in box." he theorized, trying to remember what few science and philosophy classes he'd had in undergrad. "Altering probabilities?" he asked. "Way above my simple head. Was going to ask if you knew anything about future of snowflake, but ... feels rude to ask. Trivial."
"Exactly like the cat in the box." Marie-Ange said. "I just get a little extra glimpse into the box." She frowned and shook her head at the other thing he said. "It is complicated, because my power is costly. I used to have migraines and insomnia, now I have a missing eye, and other side effects. So to look into someone's future I have to weigh that against what it might do to others. It is the opposite of trivial, it is difficult, and confusing and.. " She rubbed at the eyepatch for a moment. "So I could look, I might even get an answer but I cannot... " She laughed, bitterly. "I have blind spots, forgive the pun. So while I can tell you I will check, I cannot promise results."
Pyotr waved that off. "Is too much to ask." he said firmly. "You need heavy thing lifted, I can do that. Is easy for me. As Colossus, definition of heavy thing goes up considerably. Again, easy for me. This? Is too much to ask. I do not wish to cause you pain. Not even for my snowflake." he said. "Apologies for asking. Was ignorant."
"You could not have known. When someone tells you they see the future, and they can prove it, of course you would ask about family." Marie-Ange said. "But it is kind of you to apologize, and I accept. Perhaps we should go back to talking about... oh! Oh, oh I almost forgot, and you have reminded me. Your painting from the day the car hit you." She hurried over to one of the cabinets and pulled out a canvas. "It has damage, but I know someone who does art restoration." She paused. "In full truth, he also does art forgery but not for his own profit and greed. I can ask him to do repairs."
He looked at the rather wrecked painting of Illyana that he'd left behind on that day. "Thank you." he said, handing it back. "Tell your associate to do the restoration. And we will be paying him. Probably not what a good restorer is worth - I thought about getting into that end of the business and I still do from time to time - but we can give him something for his pains."
"It is hard work, especially to do it and make sure it is reversible. Forgery is easier." This laugh was lighter, only colored with the darkness of personal knowledge. "I will ask him, and he is likely to tell you the price is a few good bottles of Russian vodka. He does very little for money these days, his partners have good jobs so he gets to work as an artist." Marie-Ange set the canvas back down in the cabinet carefully. "What a life, yes? Sleep in, have patrons who keep you in good food and nice clothes and paint. Every artist's dream."
Pyotr barked out a laugh. "Like being back in grad school! You can get much done for bottle of Russian Standard." he said with a smile.
