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xp_logsForge, more than a little freaked-out and more than a little Gollum-like, finally gets over his attempts to self-medicate and drags himself to Medical. He finds out whose power he has and what it can do.
Whatever the fuck was going on, Forge was _not_ enjoying it. And he was more than a little freaked out, as the math _wasn't there_ for him. At all. He'd never had a time in his life when it wasn't there and he was more than a little freaked out. And his wrist and hip felt like they were on _fire_ so despite how much he didn't want to it was time to drag his ass down to Medical and get his ass checked out.
He was also avoiding mirrors, not intentionally, but if he'd bothered to glance at one he'd have noticed that his physiology was shifting, his skintone dulling, his hair losing its length and luster, growing more piteous and afraid in body to match his mental state.
Marie-Ange was already tired of this. It wasn't the eerie paleness to her skin. Where Angelo was a dusty grey, Marie-Ange was mottled chalk, shades lighter than her friend usually was. It made sense. In his current state, he was more tan than she could ever achieve. She could rationalize that it was temporary, and she had overcome worse and more permanent changes to her appearance. This would pass. Angelo had been kind enough to video chat with her and coach her through the basic control exercises he had learned as a younger man, and her face had stopped drooping.
It was the extra weight to every movement. She had never considered how fit Angelo had to be to carry dozens of pounds of skin around in his everyday life, much less keep it under control. It was exhausting. Her arms hurt, her thighs hurt, her back ached, the skin on her skull and face hurt in a way she had finally stopped being familiar with.
She had originally planned to stay in, order take-out, and work from her and Amanda's suite. Groceries could be delivered, she could access everything she needed from the office remotely, she had toiletries and pajamas and her cousin had spent fifteen minutes tossing skincare products in through her window with precision so accurate that he had started calling his shots.
There were no painkillers in the suite. None that would touch the headache that lingered and she had even tried lying down on the cool tile of the bathroom, to no avail, and it was fair that the medical team could not just leave her a bottle of Vicodin, she knew that rationally. She had not had any in years, she had not needed it since losing the eye and the surgeries after and of course it made sense that she could not just resume her previous prescription. She had just told herself she could tolerate looking incorrect and told her self and told herself and that was all shattered as soon as she had to step out of the safe bubble of a suite to the rest of the mansion.
Marie-Ange barely noticed the other person in the tiny waiting area, she dropped into a chair and remembering Angelo's advise, relaxed, and six feet of extra skin released, draping on the arms of the chair, pooling around her ankles. A second later, she opened her good eye, her brain caught up, and she realized there was an entire other person in the 'quarantine but not dying' area that Clarice and Jean had setup. "Apologies, I am normally more polite. Daniel, yes?"
Forge listlessly lifted his head to look at whoever was talking to him. Ooh, that was a gruesome mutation she was dealing with but somehow, just being around her made him hurt a little less. "Hey." he said. "Yeah, but I prefer Forge. You're ... Marie, right? From X-Force?" he said, wincing as his hand and hip pulsed out another wave of pain. He hadn't hurt this bad since that one really badly-calibrated attempt at replacing his hand. "I'd pretend it's nice to see you, but I think we've both seen better days." he said.
"Marie-Ange, yes. Colbert.' Marie-Ange let her head lean against the wall tiredly. "Forge, of course. I will remember, and yes. Angelo gave as much advice as he could, but I think my entire body aches." She lifted one hand, grimaced at the loose skin around the wrist rippling slightly and pulled her hands back into her hoodie. "I keep trying to remind myself it could be worse, but there are not very many other powers I can see as worse. I am not accustomed to so much physical effort regarding my mutation."
Unbeknownst to him her mood, far more even than his own, was reaching into his stolen power and reconfiguring things, changing his makeup. His hand and leg still burned but there was more life in his face, his eyes were clearer, his hair more lustrous. "Marie-Ange, sorry." he said apologetically. "Something's gone really wrong, my head's not what it should be." he said apologetically. "And ow, fuck, this shit hurts." he said, trying to waggle the fingers of his artificial hand, which were sluggish to respond.
"If we've all swapped around, I should really find out who owned this piece of shit I got stuck with. And probably send someone to find who got mine so they can get revived out of their stupor." he said with a grimace. "Mine's not an easy power and I was fucking born with it, or close enough."
"What is the English phrase, I feel that?" Marie-Ange said. "I know who has mine, and we had to go rescue him. What.. have you experienced to date?" She sat up as best she could, and cocked her head, watching Forge carefully. "Obviously not any of our physical mutations, you are not blue or purple, and I have the grey. You can speak, so not Artie." She glanced over to the medical team, still busy with another patient. "My cousin has Clinton's, and Angelo has Alani's, so we can rule those out."
"Fucked if I know. Woke up, can't see the math anymore. Hand and leg are screaming at me, like way worse than usual, so I figured it's time to go get checked out." he said. Before M-A's eyes her confidence, her levelheadedness started to reflect in Forge's physical makeup - he stood taller, his hair grew thick in its braid once again, and his muscle tone filled out a touch, lending him stability and presence. "Figured some painkillers might not go amiss." he said dryly.
Marie-Ange frowned. She had thought he looked far more awful earlier, brushed it off as her own inattention, but it was hard to write off a braid of hair growing a few inches and practically re-braiding itself before her eyes. "You are a scientist, yes? While we wait, do you mind an experiment?"
"Does the scientific method come with painkillers? Because goddamn I hurt and I think better when I'm not in agony." he said, staring at his artificial hand. "But yeah. What'd you have in mind?" he asked as he fiddled with his artificial hand. For some reason the wrist connection burned like _fire_ and without seeing the math he had very little idea as to possibly _why_.
They only had two shapeshifters who lived in the mansion, and Kevin had very firmly announced that he would not come anywhere near the premises until the quarantine order was lifted. As was sensible. Marie-Ange would've pulled out her own and started texting under any other circumstance, but typing on her phone screen was far more difficult than usual, and it was faster to test her theory. She shut her eye, and focused, thinking about her feelings of relief that Kevin and Doug and Topaz were well out of the mansion, that no one would have to manage around their powers. She pushed away her concern about Garrison, suffering with her own powers without the filter of the cards or medication and concentrated on her amused relief that her cousin had Clinton's and was using it for his own entertainment. Amusement and relief. People had posted about being stuck on ceilings, that was funny, Quentin Quire had Artie's tongue and had not stopped being inappropriate. Hilarious. Darcy and Doug had deployed roombahs and Clint had made friends with one. Genuinely amusing.
She kept her eye closed. "Right now, what are you feeling? Physically and mentally?"
"Better. And worse." he said, rubbing at the wrist junction of his artificial hand. "Didn't think we had a healer tucked away somewhere." he noted with amusement. He felt better, more confident. Brighter, for lack of a better term. Now if his wrist and hip would stop screaming at him, life might actually qualify as _good_. "So what conclusion are you drawing here?" he asked. Hell, even his _mood_ has brightened and that was some freaky-ass shit right there. I mean, sure, he still had his demons but for right now he felt that everything was gonna be all right.
Finally she opened her eye, and couldn't help but grin. Forge's hair had grown more, lush and full and rich black with the kind of brown highlights he probably only got normally if he spent days in the sun. His cheeks were tan and full, and his eyes were bright. "Well." Marie-Ange said. "I think. I think I know whose powers you have, and it is.. if you can keep up a good mood, it is one of the better ones, but you are certainly going to skip ahead of me in line, because medical is going to want to see you right away. You know Meggan, yes? Not the winged one, the other one?"
Forge just stared for a second. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he asked rhetorically. "No, you're really fucking not. Godsdamn." he swore, then winced as his wrist sent a new screaming bolt of pain up his arm. "Oh, fuck this..." he muttered as he used his other hand to disengage the artificial hand, removing it from the stump of his wrist.
A stump that, right before his astonished eyes, grew five fingers. And a palm. And settled into place like it'd always been there. "Well, that explains something." he said, his jaw hovering mere millimeters above the floor. "Shapeshifter." he said with a quiet wonder. He then looked around frantically. "You know if they have a spare pair of scrubs anywhere?" he aske with a wild grin on his face. "I gotta check something and sorry there, honey, you're really not the one I want to take my pants off for." he laughed.
"Empathic." Marie-Ange added. "Meggan is an empathic shapeshifter, and yes, scrubs are in the supply closet." She waved a hand, rippling extra skin and all, and then with an amused smile and shake of her head pulled her eyepatch to cover the good eye. "No apologies necessary. Here, now I cannot watch. You are safe from my entirely non-wandering eye."
He ransacked the drawer for scrubs, then not caring much, dropped trou and detatched his artificial leg - which, after a minute, grew out to a leg that would tenatively support his weight. Whooping a Cheyenne victory cry, he pulled the scrubs on and then sat back down. "You have GOT to check this shit out." he said gleefully as he rolled up the legs of the scrubs to knee-height, revealing two very flesh-and-blood legs.
For a moment, Marie-Ange almost started to say "John Henry Forge, if this is your penis." and then caught herself on the first syllable. She pulled the eyepatch back to cover the scarred over socket. "That is indeed two legs on your body, and one on the floor." Her voice was dry, her smile was wide. "Congratulations on your temporary physical health." And her response was genuine, the emotions rippling off her as much as the extra unwanted skin. "I am going to guess that was the source of your pain, yes?"
"Yeah." he said, wiggling _all ten flesh-and-blood fingers_. "Little hard to regen the limb with a prosthetic in the way." he said, standing up on his own two feet to collect his discarded body parts. "Well, my day just got infinitely better." he said with a foolish dopey grin.
"Shapeshifters eat constantly." Marie-Ange offered. "Your day is also probably about to have five or six additional meals." Meggan had been a constant snacker at a young age, Kevin ate anytime he used his powers in a major way. "The good news is, at least the two I know now, and the one I used to know, the kind of food does not matter. You can fuel yourself on a dozen pizzas and hot wings if you like. Funnel terrible energy drinks into your mouth." Her opinion of those food choices came out loud and clear, facial expression and emotion broadcasting both slight disgust, but also shameful longing and most strongly, an amused familiarity. "Convince Clinton to sweet talk your vending machine into whatever snacks you like best."
As if she'd summoned it to do so, his stomach growled. Audibly. "Yeah, thanks." he said, still sporting his goofy grin. "Got snaxx up in my lab and while we're on lockdown I'm guessing the delivery guys are either no-go or making mad bank." he mused. "Either way, feeling a shit-ton better. Thank you." he said sincerely, and then grabbed his discarded jeans and limbs and promptly stubbed his brand-new toe.
"You are most welcome. Delivery is making money, but I was told we have a locking chest at the front gates for them to place things in." She finally pulled out her phone and very slowly flipped through it to find a photo and then a document, and then with great concentration, swiped across the screen to air-drop both to what she presumed was Forge's phone. "If you just got that message, that is the secure delivery box, and the list of groceries and restaurants that like our big tips and so deliver to us no questions and actually read the instructions for delivery. This is unfortunately not the first lockdown situation we have been in.'
Whatever the fuck was going on, Forge was _not_ enjoying it. And he was more than a little freaked out, as the math _wasn't there_ for him. At all. He'd never had a time in his life when it wasn't there and he was more than a little freaked out. And his wrist and hip felt like they were on _fire_ so despite how much he didn't want to it was time to drag his ass down to Medical and get his ass checked out.
He was also avoiding mirrors, not intentionally, but if he'd bothered to glance at one he'd have noticed that his physiology was shifting, his skintone dulling, his hair losing its length and luster, growing more piteous and afraid in body to match his mental state.
Marie-Ange was already tired of this. It wasn't the eerie paleness to her skin. Where Angelo was a dusty grey, Marie-Ange was mottled chalk, shades lighter than her friend usually was. It made sense. In his current state, he was more tan than she could ever achieve. She could rationalize that it was temporary, and she had overcome worse and more permanent changes to her appearance. This would pass. Angelo had been kind enough to video chat with her and coach her through the basic control exercises he had learned as a younger man, and her face had stopped drooping.
It was the extra weight to every movement. She had never considered how fit Angelo had to be to carry dozens of pounds of skin around in his everyday life, much less keep it under control. It was exhausting. Her arms hurt, her thighs hurt, her back ached, the skin on her skull and face hurt in a way she had finally stopped being familiar with.
She had originally planned to stay in, order take-out, and work from her and Amanda's suite. Groceries could be delivered, she could access everything she needed from the office remotely, she had toiletries and pajamas and her cousin had spent fifteen minutes tossing skincare products in through her window with precision so accurate that he had started calling his shots.
There were no painkillers in the suite. None that would touch the headache that lingered and she had even tried lying down on the cool tile of the bathroom, to no avail, and it was fair that the medical team could not just leave her a bottle of Vicodin, she knew that rationally. She had not had any in years, she had not needed it since losing the eye and the surgeries after and of course it made sense that she could not just resume her previous prescription. She had just told herself she could tolerate looking incorrect and told her self and told herself and that was all shattered as soon as she had to step out of the safe bubble of a suite to the rest of the mansion.
Marie-Ange barely noticed the other person in the tiny waiting area, she dropped into a chair and remembering Angelo's advise, relaxed, and six feet of extra skin released, draping on the arms of the chair, pooling around her ankles. A second later, she opened her good eye, her brain caught up, and she realized there was an entire other person in the 'quarantine but not dying' area that Clarice and Jean had setup. "Apologies, I am normally more polite. Daniel, yes?"
Forge listlessly lifted his head to look at whoever was talking to him. Ooh, that was a gruesome mutation she was dealing with but somehow, just being around her made him hurt a little less. "Hey." he said. "Yeah, but I prefer Forge. You're ... Marie, right? From X-Force?" he said, wincing as his hand and hip pulsed out another wave of pain. He hadn't hurt this bad since that one really badly-calibrated attempt at replacing his hand. "I'd pretend it's nice to see you, but I think we've both seen better days." he said.
"Marie-Ange, yes. Colbert.' Marie-Ange let her head lean against the wall tiredly. "Forge, of course. I will remember, and yes. Angelo gave as much advice as he could, but I think my entire body aches." She lifted one hand, grimaced at the loose skin around the wrist rippling slightly and pulled her hands back into her hoodie. "I keep trying to remind myself it could be worse, but there are not very many other powers I can see as worse. I am not accustomed to so much physical effort regarding my mutation."
Unbeknownst to him her mood, far more even than his own, was reaching into his stolen power and reconfiguring things, changing his makeup. His hand and leg still burned but there was more life in his face, his eyes were clearer, his hair more lustrous. "Marie-Ange, sorry." he said apologetically. "Something's gone really wrong, my head's not what it should be." he said apologetically. "And ow, fuck, this shit hurts." he said, trying to waggle the fingers of his artificial hand, which were sluggish to respond.
"If we've all swapped around, I should really find out who owned this piece of shit I got stuck with. And probably send someone to find who got mine so they can get revived out of their stupor." he said with a grimace. "Mine's not an easy power and I was fucking born with it, or close enough."
"What is the English phrase, I feel that?" Marie-Ange said. "I know who has mine, and we had to go rescue him. What.. have you experienced to date?" She sat up as best she could, and cocked her head, watching Forge carefully. "Obviously not any of our physical mutations, you are not blue or purple, and I have the grey. You can speak, so not Artie." She glanced over to the medical team, still busy with another patient. "My cousin has Clinton's, and Angelo has Alani's, so we can rule those out."
"Fucked if I know. Woke up, can't see the math anymore. Hand and leg are screaming at me, like way worse than usual, so I figured it's time to go get checked out." he said. Before M-A's eyes her confidence, her levelheadedness started to reflect in Forge's physical makeup - he stood taller, his hair grew thick in its braid once again, and his muscle tone filled out a touch, lending him stability and presence. "Figured some painkillers might not go amiss." he said dryly.
Marie-Ange frowned. She had thought he looked far more awful earlier, brushed it off as her own inattention, but it was hard to write off a braid of hair growing a few inches and practically re-braiding itself before her eyes. "You are a scientist, yes? While we wait, do you mind an experiment?"
"Does the scientific method come with painkillers? Because goddamn I hurt and I think better when I'm not in agony." he said, staring at his artificial hand. "But yeah. What'd you have in mind?" he asked as he fiddled with his artificial hand. For some reason the wrist connection burned like _fire_ and without seeing the math he had very little idea as to possibly _why_.
They only had two shapeshifters who lived in the mansion, and Kevin had very firmly announced that he would not come anywhere near the premises until the quarantine order was lifted. As was sensible. Marie-Ange would've pulled out her own and started texting under any other circumstance, but typing on her phone screen was far more difficult than usual, and it was faster to test her theory. She shut her eye, and focused, thinking about her feelings of relief that Kevin and Doug and Topaz were well out of the mansion, that no one would have to manage around their powers. She pushed away her concern about Garrison, suffering with her own powers without the filter of the cards or medication and concentrated on her amused relief that her cousin had Clinton's and was using it for his own entertainment. Amusement and relief. People had posted about being stuck on ceilings, that was funny, Quentin Quire had Artie's tongue and had not stopped being inappropriate. Hilarious. Darcy and Doug had deployed roombahs and Clint had made friends with one. Genuinely amusing.
She kept her eye closed. "Right now, what are you feeling? Physically and mentally?"
"Better. And worse." he said, rubbing at the wrist junction of his artificial hand. "Didn't think we had a healer tucked away somewhere." he noted with amusement. He felt better, more confident. Brighter, for lack of a better term. Now if his wrist and hip would stop screaming at him, life might actually qualify as _good_. "So what conclusion are you drawing here?" he asked. Hell, even his _mood_ has brightened and that was some freaky-ass shit right there. I mean, sure, he still had his demons but for right now he felt that everything was gonna be all right.
Finally she opened her eye, and couldn't help but grin. Forge's hair had grown more, lush and full and rich black with the kind of brown highlights he probably only got normally if he spent days in the sun. His cheeks were tan and full, and his eyes were bright. "Well." Marie-Ange said. "I think. I think I know whose powers you have, and it is.. if you can keep up a good mood, it is one of the better ones, but you are certainly going to skip ahead of me in line, because medical is going to want to see you right away. You know Meggan, yes? Not the winged one, the other one?"
Forge just stared for a second. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he asked rhetorically. "No, you're really fucking not. Godsdamn." he swore, then winced as his wrist sent a new screaming bolt of pain up his arm. "Oh, fuck this..." he muttered as he used his other hand to disengage the artificial hand, removing it from the stump of his wrist.
A stump that, right before his astonished eyes, grew five fingers. And a palm. And settled into place like it'd always been there. "Well, that explains something." he said, his jaw hovering mere millimeters above the floor. "Shapeshifter." he said with a quiet wonder. He then looked around frantically. "You know if they have a spare pair of scrubs anywhere?" he aske with a wild grin on his face. "I gotta check something and sorry there, honey, you're really not the one I want to take my pants off for." he laughed.
"Empathic." Marie-Ange added. "Meggan is an empathic shapeshifter, and yes, scrubs are in the supply closet." She waved a hand, rippling extra skin and all, and then with an amused smile and shake of her head pulled her eyepatch to cover the good eye. "No apologies necessary. Here, now I cannot watch. You are safe from my entirely non-wandering eye."
He ransacked the drawer for scrubs, then not caring much, dropped trou and detatched his artificial leg - which, after a minute, grew out to a leg that would tenatively support his weight. Whooping a Cheyenne victory cry, he pulled the scrubs on and then sat back down. "You have GOT to check this shit out." he said gleefully as he rolled up the legs of the scrubs to knee-height, revealing two very flesh-and-blood legs.
For a moment, Marie-Ange almost started to say "John Henry Forge, if this is your penis." and then caught herself on the first syllable. She pulled the eyepatch back to cover the scarred over socket. "That is indeed two legs on your body, and one on the floor." Her voice was dry, her smile was wide. "Congratulations on your temporary physical health." And her response was genuine, the emotions rippling off her as much as the extra unwanted skin. "I am going to guess that was the source of your pain, yes?"
"Yeah." he said, wiggling _all ten flesh-and-blood fingers_. "Little hard to regen the limb with a prosthetic in the way." he said, standing up on his own two feet to collect his discarded body parts. "Well, my day just got infinitely better." he said with a foolish dopey grin.
"Shapeshifters eat constantly." Marie-Ange offered. "Your day is also probably about to have five or six additional meals." Meggan had been a constant snacker at a young age, Kevin ate anytime he used his powers in a major way. "The good news is, at least the two I know now, and the one I used to know, the kind of food does not matter. You can fuel yourself on a dozen pizzas and hot wings if you like. Funnel terrible energy drinks into your mouth." Her opinion of those food choices came out loud and clear, facial expression and emotion broadcasting both slight disgust, but also shameful longing and most strongly, an amused familiarity. "Convince Clinton to sweet talk your vending machine into whatever snacks you like best."
As if she'd summoned it to do so, his stomach growled. Audibly. "Yeah, thanks." he said, still sporting his goofy grin. "Got snaxx up in my lab and while we're on lockdown I'm guessing the delivery guys are either no-go or making mad bank." he mused. "Either way, feeling a shit-ton better. Thank you." he said sincerely, and then grabbed his discarded jeans and limbs and promptly stubbed his brand-new toe.
"You are most welcome. Delivery is making money, but I was told we have a locking chest at the front gates for them to place things in." She finally pulled out her phone and very slowly flipped through it to find a photo and then a document, and then with great concentration, swiped across the screen to air-drop both to what she presumed was Forge's phone. "If you just got that message, that is the secure delivery box, and the list of groceries and restaurants that like our big tips and so deliver to us no questions and actually read the instructions for delivery. This is unfortunately not the first lockdown situation we have been in.'
