Darcy, Fourteen, Emma | Statements (3/4)
Feb. 27th, 2024 02:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logs(Slightly backdated) Arthur continues his interviews of mansion psionics to discover the scope of what's happening.
***
Questioning reveals that Darcy’s inner thoughts have been bleeding into her interactions with technology.
“I really appreciate your time.” Arthur’s demeanor was professional as he sat across from Darcy Lewis.
“First, I want to let you know that I’m going to be taking notes.” He tapped his pad, just like before. “Let’s start there, set the stage. Easy questions. How do your powers normally work?”
"Before Laurie, currently, or both? I'm willing to talk about all of it to some extent." Darcy gave Arthur an easy smile, tucking her feet underneath herself as she relaxed into her seat.
"Currently, if you could? What's normal for you?" His smile softened. "I'm trying to see what your day to day is usually like, Darcy. Get the tone."
"Well, I don't necessarily use my electrical powers every day," she acknowledged. "I train them, and between that and my anti-static bracelets any charge I might let off accidentally is generally no worse than a bad static shock. As long as I don't ignore them or the current build-up, then it's not much of an issue, generally. But given the context of your email, I imagine you're wanting to know about the technopathy." Her smile had faded into something steady. Intent. "In the course of my duties with Snow Valley and here at the mansion as part of the tech team, I use quite a bit of technology. You could say I make friends with them. There are limitations, of course, just like making friends with people, and there's a range of. . . I suppose you could call it intelligence, to use the human term, but I think awareness might be a better phrase. The toaster is just a toaster, but if I ask it nicely I get perfect toaster strudel without a frozen middle or burnt edges every time. I can adjust the temp and time settings on the microwave without touching it because I've used it, thanked it, and made sure it was in good, clean condition so often. There's a coffee pot at the office that burns the beans unless Kevin or I are the ones that set it to brew, all because someone tried to cook ramen in it once."
"High and low tech whispering? Super cool," Arthur stated as he jotted down notes. "You're right, though, but I'll be the first to admit everything we can do is probably more tied together than we want to think." He met her eyes. "Now we get a timeline. Were you out of the mansion at all during the last two months for more than just work?"
"Yes. Just a second," Darcy's eyes flickered neon for a brief second before she sighed, pulling her phone out of her pocket and gripping it loosely. They flickered again, and this time when she tilted her head at Arthur they were steady and bright. "Do you have a specific date you'd like to start from, or would you like my movement from the incident in late November? For the nights I was in the mansion, would you like to know whether I had my room set to The Box or not?"
"I'm not going to say no to intel," Arthur said with a laugh. "I'm talking to everyone, just to get the basic Ws. Do you often have to turn this Box on? The way you put it, it sounds cozy."
"It's a close approximation of The Box in the basement, although designed to keep psi-powers out, not in. Forge designed it for me last summer. Emma's tested it. I generally don't sleep without it on." Her voice wasn't. . . quite mechanical, but the recitation of her schedule had a flatter inflection than normal as her mind accessed her digital calendar. "Lucky you, I'm a meticulous note-taker. After Troy, I spent most of the first week and a half in my room and medicated. The room was set to Box mode as often as I remembered. After that I was able to do a little more walking, just up and down the hall. I got cleared for light stairs the week of December 22nd. Marci got the four of us tickets to a Broadway show and Matthew and I stayed in the city after. When we got back the next morning, the mansion's first floor was destroyed, so we packed some bags and left again. I didn't enter the mansion again until January 7th, after the events in District X. I left again January 11th on a flight to Paris to pick up Maya. We made our way to Muir and got back either very late on January 27th or very early on the 28th, because Sharon woke me up. I've spent the majority of my nights here since, barring a few late nights at work crashing at the office. I have not been as consistent about turning The Box on." That would be rectified immediately, Darcy already sending a nudge to her phone to create the necessary alarm. Her eyes flickered again, settling on their normal greenish-blue hue. "Are there other things you need to know?"
By this point, Arthur was squinting in interest. He watched her carefully as studying for a part. "Darcy," and for his part he sounded politely intrigued, "I don't think I've seen you use your powers before. Is this," he gestured vaguely in her direction, "normal for you? Folks so often don't pay attention to their own bodies, but was that just machine sweet talk? My phone and I were on a break for awhile. I could use tips."
She tilted her head. "Are my eyes flaring neon? That's normal. I'm alone a lot when I'm using them, so what I know is what other people have noticed. They turn a neon version of my normal eye color when I'm. . . connected, I guess, anything more than a brief check. If I'm really deep into a system, I start losing time. The nanites can usually get my attention, but I'm not aware of anything my body is doing during that time. Was I doing something strange?"
He was watching her closely, still. The lighter tone had faded. "You became less . . . you? It wasn't just the eyes. More robotic. Like you were elsewhere." A little like an act, but he didn't call her out on it. Arthur tapped a finger on his own phone, which was face down on the table next to his notebook. "Have your powers been doing anything off from normal, if that's the usual?"
Sometimes it was easier to show. Darcy's eyes flared briefly. "Huh. No, I've never noticed that, but there are different levels to how deep I'm immersed, I guess you could say? And accessing my calendar like that required a deeper connection than just pulling up the day or week, or doing something like sending a quick text message." Arthur's phone chimed with a text as she spoke, an image of a fluffy golden dog with a red ball in his mouth sent from her number to his. "I did signing and transcribing at the same time while Maya and I were in Scotland. Her cochlear implants were messed up, and my hand was still a mess, so we couldn't communicate with just speech or sign. I let the transcription act as my voice, and my signing more as emphasis and emotional expression. Since I wasn't actually bothering to talk, I can't tell you if my voice would've changed for that or not. I've also used my phone as uh. . . text to voice, effectively. That is a little flatter, but I've always thought it was from the phone doing the voice work. Otherwise, like I said. I'm alone a lot when I'm using those particular powers, and I've never bothered recording myself."
The mention of Maya earned her a smile, and Arthur quickly signed "Thank you for that" in response. Then, he turned over his phone out of politeness, and there the pup was. Another smile, but there were questions to answer. "Your accent shifts? Usually you're somewhere between Deliberate American Newscaster who can't quite shake the Midland, but it bent toward Siri for a minute. Real low key change, but your body language isn't like you're talking to a friend either. At least, your usual sparkling self that I've gotten to know." He shrugged, and tapped his pen against his notebook. "Might be just what you're saying, though, since you're worked up already. Tired, reluctant."
She grinned at the sign, and tension she didn't realize had built up in her shoulders eased a bit. "Oh, so similar to when I lock down my emotions for a mission. Well, not so much the Siri, but it's flatter, less emotive? A little more factual recitation? I'm aware I do that sometimes on missions. Save feelings for later, get the job done now. I am. . . not entirely surprised that bled over, because I'm not used to talking about any advances in what I can do outside of keeping Kevin updated. A broader group of tech people, if it has the potential to affect Vi."
"You've got the right idea of it," Arthur said, his own accent dropping all inflection toward something artificial and alien to demonstrate. It was gone in his next breath. "So, nothing off since you've been back, then?"
"Nothing that I've personally noticed," Darcy mused. "I have had a few people mention some weirdness with my texts, but it's nothing I've seen physical proof of? Nobody's gotten screenshots for me, and whatever it is seems to resolve itself after a few minutes? So I can't tell you if that's an actual issue with my weirdness or completely unrelated tech weirdness." She grinned a little sheepishly. "Despite being very friendly with my tech and generally knowing what the fuck I'm doing, occasionally things happen that can't be replicated. My own little tech black hole of "what the HECK" if you will."
Arthur's smile stretched into a grin. "Trust me, I know how it feels when you can't explain what's happening. That's almost my whole thing." He did, out of reflex, look back to his own phone. Nothing different. "My psychometry has been off," he offered as a piece of truth. Information for information. "More sensitive than what I'm used to, and apparently folks have been getting my memories off things I've touched."
"Ooh, and Artie's weirdness. . . Ange, something about Quire, Jean. . . several people with a psi-basis or similar adjacent? I have a chart." She shifted, phone on a table as she reached into her bag and withdrew a tablet, eyes switching color again as she concentrated. "That's. . . email, chart attached, sent," she finished, blinking a few times. "Look at us, being good little cross-team workers." The words were accompanied by a laugh, easy and genuine. "So a timeline, when weirdness is first noticed and what it is, how it differs from usual, locations to try and pinpoint where the weird might be centered? Have you spoken with Emma or Haller yet? Charles didn't notice anything while I was on Muir—he did a brief scan of my shields since they'd been broken so many times in the past few years, helped shore them up a bit beyond what I'd already done with Emma and Doug—but with me being away so much, maybe whatever it is didn't settle on me?"
"Cross-team coworkers," Arthur said in an uncharacteristically snippy mumble with a thin smile. Luckily, he could bury any of that behind a review of the newly delivered information. He scrolled through the information politely as Darcy continued, but then he stopped. There was a telltale click. "Unfortunately most folks have just assumed they were having power flar —" Another screenshot sound effect. "Haller is in the loop, but Emma's been out of the country."
His attention snapped back to Darcy, and he squinted. "Do me a favor, Darcy? Send another text."
"Hu–yeah, of course." The snippy tone had her more confused and concerned than the abrupt request, but Darcy could roll with it. A flicker of neon and a thought, before Arthur's phone chimed.
ƈօռʄʊֆɛɖ Do we want to set a recurring meeting until this is resolved? Keep both teams on the same chapter? ǟֆ ʟօռɢ ǟֆ ɨ ɖօռ'ȶ ɦǟʋɛ ȶօ ȶǟʟӄ ȶօ զզ
"Darcy." The earlier bout of pettiness had evaporated, and Arthur's face was set into a look of polite, controlled concern. "This is going to sound corny and trust that I know it, but how are you feeling right now? Be honest."
"Confused, mostly. A little concerned?" She raised an eyebrow. "You wanna show me what's going on in that delightful brain of yours, Arthur?"
The squint was back. "What did you send me just before?"
"The text you asked me to send? I asked if we wanted to set up recurring meetings until this is resolved so both teams are on the same chapter about what's going on." Darcy blinked at him, nonplussed, and plucked her phone off the table. It was right there, in the purple and black of her screen. A text confirming she was on the way to their meeting, followed by the image she'd sent, and finally the text he'd requested. She took a careful screenshot and attached that as well, then sent it. "It looks. . . exactly like I expect it to look? What's going on?" Her voice had sharpened towards the end. Higher. Louder. Concerned.
A lightbulb overhead flickered.
"Let me show you," Arthur said with a self-satisfied nod. His tone remained neutral. "But before that, breathe. Now, name five things you can touch." As she went through the centering exercise, he created a folder for the new screen captures and made sure that they were backed up. The phone was flipped to airplane mode for good measure.
The blond man turned the screen toward her and swiped through several screens. Normal reports started to bleed with nonsensical screens errors as he went, looking like loading glitches. Garbage code. Then he landed on the text.
"I can't get most of that," he admitted, "but we both only know one QQ. That matches the vibes you've been giving off this whole time."
Her face went through a complicated series of. . . something. Surprise, fear, a bit of anger. The concern ramped up a few notches, and she focused on breathing. In. Out. Count 8. In. Out. Suddenly sweaty palms smoothed down the tweed of her skirt, fiddling with the intentionally frayed edges. How much–fuck–was she corrupting data? How long? Had anyone else noticed? Oh fuck, had she spread it to Lemon? Why–
Her chest was tight, breath caught in a vice just below her sternum as she stared at the screen, mind racing. everyonewillknowthelooksthefearitsgoingtobejustlikelauriesomeofusdontgetbenefitofthedoubtwhatdoidofuckohfuckthisisterriblewhywhywhy
The lightbulb exploded.
A brief flash, but nothing else. No incidental fire, only remarkably few glass fragments. Just a hanging light with a busted smartbulb. Lucky.
Arthur's eye was shining like a starburst as he lowered the phone. All of his focus was squarely on Darcy, and he put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey," he offered as gently as possible, "It is okay. I see you. Darcy, this is not your fault."
Darcy took in a deep, shuddering breath, hand reaching across and clutching onto Arthur's forearm through the material of his shirt. Her voice was hollow when she finally spoke. "Sometimes—" her hand squeezed, involuntary, and she let it drop back to her lap. "Sometimes it isn't about fault. It's–it's. . . fuck. I can't do my job with issues like this, Arthur! I've corrupted the data!"
She didn't shake his hand off, but her posture was tired. Defeated. Curled up small and weary. "And now people that I'd never want to know when I'm having issues will have the whole report. Awesome." A heavy sigh. "Anything else?"
Wheels were turning behind the other man's eyes now, though. "How do you know?" A simple question, stated simply. "About the data? You said you couldn't get proof of what others were saying because it went away."
Darcy waved her hand half-heartedly in the direction of his phone. "You have pictures. Proof. It's right there and visible. I'm gonna. . . someone's gonna have to check the data, I've got to be pulled off everything I've touched since . . . shit, how safe, before Troy, just in case? This is awful." Her hands ran over her arms, an anxious, comforting motion. "Sorry about the lightbulb."
"I do have one more thing," Arthur said apologetically. He idly turned his phone over the table as he gestured to underscore his thoughts. "Is it all just perfect toaster strudels and flirting with the microwave or is it being in a network deep enough to worry about data? Darcy, you're doing more than talking nicely to your phone."
"Is it ever just the most innocent interpretation, Arthur?" The question was mostly rhetorical. "Much like all of my time here, someone else figured out what my X-gene was doing before I did. The. . . Before. And the now. The lightbulbs, the static, that's the electrokinesis secondary. And the toast, the coffee, the data. That's the technopath. Or maybe it's just an expansion of Before that was always possible, but unknown because I was scared of my own mutation. But it starts–well, everything but the electrokinesis–my primary mutations have always started with a bit of sweet-talk."
"I'd love for the world to be more innocent," the man replied with a flat smile and questioning eyes as he studied her. "So, let's say it is. True innocence is ashamed of nothing and all that." His smile tugged at the edges with the quote, and he tapped his notebook. "This isn't anything different than I promised. I'm only looking for facts, and not everything needs to go into my report."
"That would be nice sometimes," Darcy agreed. "Alright, have a seat next to me. We'll need to be in touching range." She twisted sideways, feet tucked to her side as she waited to get situated. "So before, my power was a vocal persuasion. Untrained, generally, you could call it being a little extra charismatic, or being that little voice on your shoulder encouraging or discouraging you from doing something. The whole angel and devil thing, in western media portrayals. But–" Darcy let her hands rest lightly on the wrists of Arthur's shirt, eyes intent on his and voice low "–what Laurie and I found out together was that with skin touching and eye contact it became more difficult to argue with that voice."
She dropped her hands abruptly, scooting back a few inches. "And well. Her psi-power and my psi-power combined for pretty explosive feedback loops. We could've been a nightmare for enemies under the right direction. I've always talked sweet to my tech, Arthur. But now it listens. And strange tech listens, but it's harder, so I've been working very, very hard to make that easier on myself. I don't need external alarms anymore, because I can set them to my phone or watch and they'll ring in my mind first. When I sleep I immerse my mind in the vastness of the internet and use the things I find to improve my shielding."
Arthur's expression was blank, if only because he was catching up. "I see," he replied after a moment's consideration.
He had gone stiff at her touch, but the full weight of the psychic resonance he had felt previously with Jim, Davey, or Shatterstar wasn't there. There were still softer impressions as her hand neared — tension, stress — and the nimbus of ghostly afterimages that shimmered around her were indistinct. Like an aurora.
The man had to look away, and he took a deep breath to center himself. "Thank you for sharing that with me. I don't know what to do with it, but honesty is a gift." His blue eyes snapped back to hers. "The issue with your powers sounds the same: your thoughts are overlapping more easily with tech."
Darcy nodded. "You don't have to do anything with it, but sometimes the comparison is the best way to describe how it works. And saying I seduce tech for a living probably invokes the entirely wrong image."
"Is that all psi stuff, though?" Arthur's glossy smile was back. "The fact I can easily invade other people's privacy makes me uncomfortable. Let alone everyone else."
"You're giving paparazzi smile again," Darcy noted, conceding the point. "People do tend to be uncomfortable about privacy invading abilities, yes. At least once they understand why they have something to fear. It can be as simple as a friend telling someone your secrets, but then you get to our level. And we have to choose what level of trust we give each other every single day. Sometimes that's easy. Other days it's very, very difficult. And the vague unease that someone might be invading that privacy - whether on purpose or by accident - lingers."
Arthur shrugged, and his smile genuinely softened. "Darcy, you're preaching to the choir here so hard you might as well be singing too. Trust me. I am truly sorry you feel that way," but his eyes hardened a bit. "Last year? I might have agreed. Turns out, for me, I just ended up feeling sad and lonely thinking that way. That’s not who I want to be."
He stood and began to gather up his belongings. "Again, thanks for your time and honesty."
"I've seen both sides of it. There's a balance between fear and trust–of ourselves, with others, with the way we're perceived. I'm still figuring it out, which is why I tend to downplay what I can do." She gave him a small, genuine smile, just a slight uptick of the corners of her mouth as she started to gather her own things, then winked. "Not to mention the tactical advantage."
She pulled her coat on, but paused before shouldering her bag. "Arthur? Would you like a hug? This was a pretty heavy conversation."
He just shook his head and wiggled his fingers. “Not today — but I’ll take a raincheck for when this all is sorted.”
Darcy's smile was warm. "I'll hold you to that."
***
Fourteen hasn’t noticed any issues with her powers, but something in her account feels off for Arthur.
“I really appreciate your time.” Arthur had only heard back from one of the Cuckoos sisters, and they were residents that he personally existed more alongside. Casual acquaintances.
“First, I want to let you know that I’m going to be taking notes. There’s no wrong answers here — all I’m doing a little fact finding.” The man smiled kindly, performing his initial act to disarm. “Let’s start there, set the stage. Easy questions. How do your powers normally work?”
Across from him, Celeste tapped one perfectly-manicured nail on the table. Of course they would start with the question that she wanted to answer potentially the least. "You do realize," she said evenly, quirking a brow, "that if I answer that, I fully expect you to burn that page before we leave here, correct?"
This got a blank smile, but his answer was still chipper. "That would be a waste of a perfectly good notepad," Arthur stated matter of factly. His smile didn't waver. "And, also, contrary to the whole point of the interview." A sudden realization dawned in his eyes, and he leaned in conspiratorially. "Did one of your sisters sign you up for this?"
"I suppose you could put it that way, yes." In the safety of her own room, Sophie laughed so that Celeste didn't. "And I really must insist, sadly. I take great pride in keeping what I do personal. It has saved my life more than once before, after all."
"So, uh," and the older man was obviously a little flummoxed, "I suppose we can agree to be very general? Unless you really just hate paper. I'm happy to adapt — this is a conversation between friends, afterall."
Celeste made a show of tapping a finger to her lips. "I suppose that is sufficient, then."
"In broad terms, I suppose it is fair to say that we are a wide-range telepath with many of the secondary abilities that come with it, alongside a personal interest in the functions behind memory and instinct."
"You're speaking for all of your sisters, then?" He nodded, gaze staying friendly as he took in her body language and movements very carefully. An attentive listener. "You sound as though you all are very aware of what you can and cannot do. Have you experienced or noticed any changes or peculiarities with your telepathy over the last three months?"
"Nothing comes to mind immediately. Truthfully, things have been somewhat dull on that side of things, if I am to be honest. There's hardly even been an acceptable target to play with."
The blond man shrugged, choosing to happily ignore that last part. "Well, hey, that's easy then. Whatever's happening hasn't hit everyone the same. For instance, my psychometry is causing my memories to stick to things I touch. Like that oily handsoap that you can't quite scrub off, only it seems less like lavender and is way more distressing." He tried to smile at this metaphor, but it didn't reach his eyes.
In fact, Arthur had to rub at them with one hand. "Must have an eyelash or something stuck in there," he apologized. "I keep seeing shadows in the corners. Weird."
There was a long pause as Celeste tilted her head to the side. "It is of no concern. Take all the time you need."
The idea of memories sticking to things was a fascinating one, to be sure. For a moment, she was tempted to ask to see an example, so she could see how it interacted with her own ability to recall and suppress memories but decided against it.
"I do not suppose anyone has been complaining about gaps in their memories, have they? I suppose it is possible, though unlikely, that the portion of my power that interacts with memories has been acting up?"
This got a hard blink from the man.
"Oh?" Arthur's face had gone back to careful neutrality. "Memories?" His stunned look was quickly swept under the rug in lieu of professionalism. "That does sound like it would be hard to notice. I can't say I have heard anything in particular." He looked down for his notepad again, but started. It was across the table. He leaned forward to fetch it, flipping to a calendar. Back to business. "Have you or your sisters been out of the mansion for more than a day in the last three months?"
Celeste's eyes flickered towards the notepad for just a moment, before back up to Arthur's face. "A few," she admitted easily. "Shopping to do, and we get so stir-crazy if we're kept inside for extended periods," she said with a small smile. Translation: She hadn't gotten to amuse herself by confusing random people on the street. "You know how it is."
His expression remained neutral, if not a little cold. Or, at least as cold as Arthur Centino might ever get. "I've felt that way before. Like an itch, but in your soul. So, to summarize: you and your sisters are broad range telepaths and have not noticed anything off with your abilities." A twist of confusion, again, and Arthur squinted. "Did you change your hair, Celeste?"
Celeste actually smiled at that. "I have, in truth. I am surprised you noticed, to be quite honest." She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"I like the ponytail," Arthur said. "Good to change things up. Sporty, even, although that's Phoebe's thing." His voice had a distracted quality, like there was a puzzle he couldn't quite work out. The blond smiled. "I suppose that's all then, unless you can think of anything else that might help us figure out what's happening."
Celeste thought for a moment. "I have nothing more that comes to mind." She gave a delicate shrug, placing her clasped hands on the table. "I do hope you have found this helpful?"
"Of course," was his automatic response. "I'm very happy that you all aren't suffering from this. No news is good news and all that." Arthur stood and stretched, gathering up his belongings. His usual warmth was back — everything before neatly swept away to disassemble later. "Please give my best to your sisters."
With that, he made his exit.
There was a long, long pause as the door clicked close. Phoebe leaned heavily on her palm from her chair, elbow planted on the table, staring where Arthur was sitting.
Then Celeste, standing behind where Arthur had been sitting, pulled out the chair and sat down.
"Absolutely fascinating . . .," said three voices simultaneously: Phoebe, in the chair Celeste had started in; Celeste, in Arthur's; and Irma, who had spent most of the chat just leaning against the side of the door.
This deserved . . . experimentation.
(And, a small part of 14 figured, there was a decent chance she'd need to come clean to Arthur about it now that she'd done as much testing as she could. She'd ask Marie-Ange later.)
***
Emma divulges that she might be suffering from the far too common affliction of telekinesis. Arthur has a glimpse of the future.
“I appreciate your time.” Another surprise meeting from a usually hard to grab person. Emma Frost, however, was a force who might be able to provide more answers than most others.
“First, I want to let you know that I’m going to be taking notes.” He tapped his pad in hand with a ready pencil. “There’s no wrong answers here — all I’m doing is a little fact finding.” The man smiled his most dazzling Hollywood smile. “Let’s start there, set the stage. How do your powers normally work?”
Emma considered the man in front of her briefly. She hadn't crossed paths with him often in her limited time in the Mansion, so her mental notes seemed to be confined to "outdoorsy" and "breezy". A tiny smile quirked the edge of Emma's mouth for a moment as she realised that she could be describing a Scandinavian deodorant product, and that she should maybe visit the Mansion more often and get to know the current incarnation of the inhabitants better.
But he had asked her a question and so Emma inclined her head politely. "How do my powers normally work?" she repeated. "Exquisitely. Superbly. Fabulously." She let the quirk of her lips broaden into a smile at Arthur's look. "I'm the White Queen. I have superb control over my extensive array of telepathic powers. They're the usual kind: mind-reading, mind-control, shielding et cetera et cetera. Is that the sort of information you were looking for?"
Arthur's polite smile broke into an answering grin as Emma spoke. "I have to say, your accent is superb — clothing for our thoughts." He lengthened his own vowels at the end, drawing his voice closer to Emma's own. "You've got more upper crust, there, though? Boardroom aristocracy. Hint of Boston at the edges. Fabulous indeed."
The blond man waved that off, getting back to business. His eyes shone with good humor. "My goal here is to learn what's normal for you before jumping into what might have been different lately. Sounds like you're describing what Haller would call," and he reflexively switched accents again to something closer to Jim's holmesian logic, "standard telepathic projection and manipulation." He put a hand to his chin in thought. "So let's get to it. Has anything been different within the last three months? Flares, expected growth, not coming as easily as normal?"
"Standard telepathic projection and manipulation in the way Cartier makes standard jewellery, yes," replied Emma, smiling. "None of the more exotic flavourings like technopathy or psychometry. As for changes. . . None that I've noticed particularly. I haven't been in the Mansion much, I admit, and from your email it sounds like you think that's where any changes might manifest? I mean," Emma leaned back in her chair, "I did unexpectedly turn into organic diamond during a spectacularly traumatic event, so I'm willing to consider more deeply if you have parameters to work within?"
He nodded over his notes, but extended a hand. "Psychometry here," and he gave his fingers a wiggle, "I just discovered I had it last year, but it's a good example — I've been putting my own memories onto objects without knowing it. There are at least ten others experiencing power issues — just the psis — but the common part does seem to be being at or around the Mansion." Arthur tried to give an honest smile. "There's no clear through-line or objective yet. When's the last time you were at the Mansion?"
Emma shrugged. “I’ve flitted in and out; a few hours here or there over the last few weeks.” She frowned suddenly, tapped a diamond fingernail on the desk. “When you’re talking differences in powers. . . would you be talking about a shift in my telepathy? Or is there any suggestion of suddenly using an. . . associated power.” She shook her head slightly and sighed. “Let me be terribly blunt about the whole thing; is there a possibility I could be suffering from telekinesis?”
This got his interest. Arthur raised both eyebrows and leaned in just a little. "Please, tell me more about 'suffering from telekinesis.' I've never had to worry about it."
Emma made a moue. “It’s so. . . tacky,” she sighed. “All these telepaths going round and developing telekinesis. Like lifting things with your mind isn’t just turning your brain into a brute force machine. Telekinesis isn’t elegant, Arthur.” She sighed again, this one deep and positively heart-rending. “I assumed one of the others was pranking me.”
"If it helps," he offered with an extended hand, not close enough to touch, "Everyone else is likely too preoccupied to have noticed. TK does seem," and there was the slow consideration of carefully chosen words here, "common paired with telepathy. Are we talking big things," and the man spread his arms to helpfully mime lifting a heavy object, "or smaller?" His gesture tightened, as if he was trying to indicate the shape of a racketball.
“Pieces of paper,” replied Emma. “Small items falling over behind me, that kind of thing. The kind of thing that might be a sudden unexpected gust of wind, or dust, or a sudden unexpected burst of TK, all of which are available to residents here. Ugh,” said Emma, somehow managing to make the word sound impossibly elegant. “Adrienne once told me she saw a few of my bedside trinkets floating beside me when she came in to wake me up. The thing is, Mr Centino,” said Emma, almost but not quite accusatory, “I absolutely refuse to be telekinetic. My mind is a scalpel, not a bulldozer. If I need to lift heavy objects, I have my own methods.” And for a moment, her skin rippled into diamond form and then back again.
Arthur's expression tightened a little. "She was always very observant," but he swept that under the rug. He smiled and ripped out a sheet from the back of his notepad. "Can you humor me for a second? Try to lift this. No matter what happens, I swear that I will not tell anyone." This was delivered with a raised hand, like he was making an oath. "Promise."
Emma’s mouth twitched sideways, but then she nodded. “For science,” she said. “The thing is,” she added, mildly and suddenly grinned at Arthur, “it’s remarkable what I’m willing to do in the name of science.” Then she frowned again, starting hard at the piece of paper, trying to persuade it that it was lighter than air and could easily waft around the room. Stubbornly, it refused to be persuaded. Emma continued to stare at it, but her expression changed from a frown to something far more thoughtful. “The other thing is,” she said slowly, “that so much of telepathic and telekinetic powers is based on what you think you can do. I don’t believe I am a telekinetic, so I am not a telekinetic. But I wasn’t thinking about being one when those things were moving around me. I seem to remember that the ‘pranks’ always happened when I was particularly distracted. Surprise me, Mr Centino. Distract me. Tell me something startling.”
"Startling," Arthur openly considered. "Honestly, I'm no good at that. Like with cats, babies, and apologies, you gotta let life come to you and accept it with open arms." His eyes lit up with an idea, however. "I am good at parlor tricks, though." The man palmed his notepad, twisting it with a flourish. He nodded, drawing attention, and a twist of his hand made the item disappear. He raised his eyebrows, ever the showman, and fanned his fingers wide.
Too wide and too close to Emma, apparently, because then his left eye did actually alight with a sharp burst. Arthur's face slacked in stunned shock, and he was suddenly elsewhere.
Emma twitched back slightly at the sudden light that burst from Arthur’s left eye, but then her own eyes narrowed as she recognised that his mind was not currently in the room with them. She contemplated a telepathic rummage, but in the circumstances that seemed unwise. And he’d said he had psychometry. Emma opened a couple of her desk drawers sharply, hoping that Adrienne had left a stash behind. . . and she had. Emma sprayed a film onto her hand quickly, letting the magic psychometry inhibiting spray or whatever Adrienne had called it coat it. Maybe Arthur’s psychometry worked different and this wouldn’t make any difference, but a little precaution never hurt anyone.
Emma reached out, hands safely filmed and shook Arthur’s arm gently. “Arthur,” she said, and then more sharply, her shake a little firmer, “Arthur!”
This did get a reaction, somewhat, but the blaze of his power did not subside as the man stared past her.
"There's a white crown," Arthur began, detached. "You will have to choose." His eyes couldn't settle on Emma directly, but instead darted side to side — because to the man, there were now two different Emmas sitting side by side. They were each flanked by the vague impression of another figure — one was large and proud, confident, the other shadow a laughing playboy. Two decisions. "Two men want what you have. Neither version of you seems pleased."
He blinked, hard, and the light was gone.
“A White King?” Emma’s voice was high with astonishment. “I’m no Sebastian,” she said, contemptuously. “I need no paramour to bolster my power.” And the piece of paper rose from where Arthur had palmed it, fluttered wildly in the air for a moment and then settled back onto the table. Emma contemplated it for a moment, her expression changing from surprised anger to blank stillness. “Well, Arthur,” she said finally, “it appears that together we were able to prove your point. For science,” she added, icily.
Arthur's gaze was locked on the table. He ran a gloved hand up and over his face and back through his hair, steadying his breathing. "Lucky us," he said in a mumble.
***
Questioning reveals that Darcy’s inner thoughts have been bleeding into her interactions with technology.
“I really appreciate your time.” Arthur’s demeanor was professional as he sat across from Darcy Lewis.
“First, I want to let you know that I’m going to be taking notes.” He tapped his pad, just like before. “Let’s start there, set the stage. Easy questions. How do your powers normally work?”
"Before Laurie, currently, or both? I'm willing to talk about all of it to some extent." Darcy gave Arthur an easy smile, tucking her feet underneath herself as she relaxed into her seat.
"Currently, if you could? What's normal for you?" His smile softened. "I'm trying to see what your day to day is usually like, Darcy. Get the tone."
"Well, I don't necessarily use my electrical powers every day," she acknowledged. "I train them, and between that and my anti-static bracelets any charge I might let off accidentally is generally no worse than a bad static shock. As long as I don't ignore them or the current build-up, then it's not much of an issue, generally. But given the context of your email, I imagine you're wanting to know about the technopathy." Her smile had faded into something steady. Intent. "In the course of my duties with Snow Valley and here at the mansion as part of the tech team, I use quite a bit of technology. You could say I make friends with them. There are limitations, of course, just like making friends with people, and there's a range of. . . I suppose you could call it intelligence, to use the human term, but I think awareness might be a better phrase. The toaster is just a toaster, but if I ask it nicely I get perfect toaster strudel without a frozen middle or burnt edges every time. I can adjust the temp and time settings on the microwave without touching it because I've used it, thanked it, and made sure it was in good, clean condition so often. There's a coffee pot at the office that burns the beans unless Kevin or I are the ones that set it to brew, all because someone tried to cook ramen in it once."
"High and low tech whispering? Super cool," Arthur stated as he jotted down notes. "You're right, though, but I'll be the first to admit everything we can do is probably more tied together than we want to think." He met her eyes. "Now we get a timeline. Were you out of the mansion at all during the last two months for more than just work?"
"Yes. Just a second," Darcy's eyes flickered neon for a brief second before she sighed, pulling her phone out of her pocket and gripping it loosely. They flickered again, and this time when she tilted her head at Arthur they were steady and bright. "Do you have a specific date you'd like to start from, or would you like my movement from the incident in late November? For the nights I was in the mansion, would you like to know whether I had my room set to The Box or not?"
"I'm not going to say no to intel," Arthur said with a laugh. "I'm talking to everyone, just to get the basic Ws. Do you often have to turn this Box on? The way you put it, it sounds cozy."
"It's a close approximation of The Box in the basement, although designed to keep psi-powers out, not in. Forge designed it for me last summer. Emma's tested it. I generally don't sleep without it on." Her voice wasn't. . . quite mechanical, but the recitation of her schedule had a flatter inflection than normal as her mind accessed her digital calendar. "Lucky you, I'm a meticulous note-taker. After Troy, I spent most of the first week and a half in my room and medicated. The room was set to Box mode as often as I remembered. After that I was able to do a little more walking, just up and down the hall. I got cleared for light stairs the week of December 22nd. Marci got the four of us tickets to a Broadway show and Matthew and I stayed in the city after. When we got back the next morning, the mansion's first floor was destroyed, so we packed some bags and left again. I didn't enter the mansion again until January 7th, after the events in District X. I left again January 11th on a flight to Paris to pick up Maya. We made our way to Muir and got back either very late on January 27th or very early on the 28th, because Sharon woke me up. I've spent the majority of my nights here since, barring a few late nights at work crashing at the office. I have not been as consistent about turning The Box on." That would be rectified immediately, Darcy already sending a nudge to her phone to create the necessary alarm. Her eyes flickered again, settling on their normal greenish-blue hue. "Are there other things you need to know?"
By this point, Arthur was squinting in interest. He watched her carefully as studying for a part. "Darcy," and for his part he sounded politely intrigued, "I don't think I've seen you use your powers before. Is this," he gestured vaguely in her direction, "normal for you? Folks so often don't pay attention to their own bodies, but was that just machine sweet talk? My phone and I were on a break for awhile. I could use tips."
She tilted her head. "Are my eyes flaring neon? That's normal. I'm alone a lot when I'm using them, so what I know is what other people have noticed. They turn a neon version of my normal eye color when I'm. . . connected, I guess, anything more than a brief check. If I'm really deep into a system, I start losing time. The nanites can usually get my attention, but I'm not aware of anything my body is doing during that time. Was I doing something strange?"
He was watching her closely, still. The lighter tone had faded. "You became less . . . you? It wasn't just the eyes. More robotic. Like you were elsewhere." A little like an act, but he didn't call her out on it. Arthur tapped a finger on his own phone, which was face down on the table next to his notebook. "Have your powers been doing anything off from normal, if that's the usual?"
Sometimes it was easier to show. Darcy's eyes flared briefly. "Huh. No, I've never noticed that, but there are different levels to how deep I'm immersed, I guess you could say? And accessing my calendar like that required a deeper connection than just pulling up the day or week, or doing something like sending a quick text message." Arthur's phone chimed with a text as she spoke, an image of a fluffy golden dog with a red ball in his mouth sent from her number to his. "I did signing and transcribing at the same time while Maya and I were in Scotland. Her cochlear implants were messed up, and my hand was still a mess, so we couldn't communicate with just speech or sign. I let the transcription act as my voice, and my signing more as emphasis and emotional expression. Since I wasn't actually bothering to talk, I can't tell you if my voice would've changed for that or not. I've also used my phone as uh. . . text to voice, effectively. That is a little flatter, but I've always thought it was from the phone doing the voice work. Otherwise, like I said. I'm alone a lot when I'm using those particular powers, and I've never bothered recording myself."
The mention of Maya earned her a smile, and Arthur quickly signed "Thank you for that" in response. Then, he turned over his phone out of politeness, and there the pup was. Another smile, but there were questions to answer. "Your accent shifts? Usually you're somewhere between Deliberate American Newscaster who can't quite shake the Midland, but it bent toward Siri for a minute. Real low key change, but your body language isn't like you're talking to a friend either. At least, your usual sparkling self that I've gotten to know." He shrugged, and tapped his pen against his notebook. "Might be just what you're saying, though, since you're worked up already. Tired, reluctant."
She grinned at the sign, and tension she didn't realize had built up in her shoulders eased a bit. "Oh, so similar to when I lock down my emotions for a mission. Well, not so much the Siri, but it's flatter, less emotive? A little more factual recitation? I'm aware I do that sometimes on missions. Save feelings for later, get the job done now. I am. . . not entirely surprised that bled over, because I'm not used to talking about any advances in what I can do outside of keeping Kevin updated. A broader group of tech people, if it has the potential to affect Vi."
"You've got the right idea of it," Arthur said, his own accent dropping all inflection toward something artificial and alien to demonstrate. It was gone in his next breath. "So, nothing off since you've been back, then?"
"Nothing that I've personally noticed," Darcy mused. "I have had a few people mention some weirdness with my texts, but it's nothing I've seen physical proof of? Nobody's gotten screenshots for me, and whatever it is seems to resolve itself after a few minutes? So I can't tell you if that's an actual issue with my weirdness or completely unrelated tech weirdness." She grinned a little sheepishly. "Despite being very friendly with my tech and generally knowing what the fuck I'm doing, occasionally things happen that can't be replicated. My own little tech black hole of "what the HECK" if you will."
Arthur's smile stretched into a grin. "Trust me, I know how it feels when you can't explain what's happening. That's almost my whole thing." He did, out of reflex, look back to his own phone. Nothing different. "My psychometry has been off," he offered as a piece of truth. Information for information. "More sensitive than what I'm used to, and apparently folks have been getting my memories off things I've touched."
"Ooh, and Artie's weirdness. . . Ange, something about Quire, Jean. . . several people with a psi-basis or similar adjacent? I have a chart." She shifted, phone on a table as she reached into her bag and withdrew a tablet, eyes switching color again as she concentrated. "That's. . . email, chart attached, sent," she finished, blinking a few times. "Look at us, being good little cross-team workers." The words were accompanied by a laugh, easy and genuine. "So a timeline, when weirdness is first noticed and what it is, how it differs from usual, locations to try and pinpoint where the weird might be centered? Have you spoken with Emma or Haller yet? Charles didn't notice anything while I was on Muir—he did a brief scan of my shields since they'd been broken so many times in the past few years, helped shore them up a bit beyond what I'd already done with Emma and Doug—but with me being away so much, maybe whatever it is didn't settle on me?"
"Cross-team coworkers," Arthur said in an uncharacteristically snippy mumble with a thin smile. Luckily, he could bury any of that behind a review of the newly delivered information. He scrolled through the information politely as Darcy continued, but then he stopped. There was a telltale click. "Unfortunately most folks have just assumed they were having power flar —" Another screenshot sound effect. "Haller is in the loop, but Emma's been out of the country."
His attention snapped back to Darcy, and he squinted. "Do me a favor, Darcy? Send another text."
"Hu–yeah, of course." The snippy tone had her more confused and concerned than the abrupt request, but Darcy could roll with it. A flicker of neon and a thought, before Arthur's phone chimed.
"Darcy." The earlier bout of pettiness had evaporated, and Arthur's face was set into a look of polite, controlled concern. "This is going to sound corny and trust that I know it, but how are you feeling right now? Be honest."
"Confused, mostly. A little concerned?" She raised an eyebrow. "You wanna show me what's going on in that delightful brain of yours, Arthur?"
The squint was back. "What did you send me just before?"
"The text you asked me to send? I asked if we wanted to set up recurring meetings until this is resolved so both teams are on the same chapter about what's going on." Darcy blinked at him, nonplussed, and plucked her phone off the table. It was right there, in the purple and black of her screen. A text confirming she was on the way to their meeting, followed by the image she'd sent, and finally the text he'd requested. She took a careful screenshot and attached that as well, then sent it. "It looks. . . exactly like I expect it to look? What's going on?" Her voice had sharpened towards the end. Higher. Louder. Concerned.
A lightbulb overhead flickered.
"Let me show you," Arthur said with a self-satisfied nod. His tone remained neutral. "But before that, breathe. Now, name five things you can touch." As she went through the centering exercise, he created a folder for the new screen captures and made sure that they were backed up. The phone was flipped to airplane mode for good measure.
The blond man turned the screen toward her and swiped through several screens. Normal reports started to bleed with nonsensical screens errors as he went, looking like loading glitches. Garbage code. Then he landed on the text.
"I can't get most of that," he admitted, "but we both only know one QQ. That matches the vibes you've been giving off this whole time."
Her face went through a complicated series of. . . something. Surprise, fear, a bit of anger. The concern ramped up a few notches, and she focused on breathing. In. Out. Count 8. In. Out. Suddenly sweaty palms smoothed down the tweed of her skirt, fiddling with the intentionally frayed edges. How much–fuck–was she corrupting data? How long? Had anyone else noticed? Oh fuck, had she spread it to Lemon? Why–
Her chest was tight, breath caught in a vice just below her sternum as she stared at the screen, mind racing. everyonewillknowthelooksthefearitsgoingtobejustlikelauriesomeofusdontgetbenefitofthedoubtwhatdoidofuckohfuckthisisterriblewhywhywhy
The lightbulb exploded.
A brief flash, but nothing else. No incidental fire, only remarkably few glass fragments. Just a hanging light with a busted smartbulb. Lucky.
Arthur's eye was shining like a starburst as he lowered the phone. All of his focus was squarely on Darcy, and he put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey," he offered as gently as possible, "It is okay. I see you. Darcy, this is not your fault."
Darcy took in a deep, shuddering breath, hand reaching across and clutching onto Arthur's forearm through the material of his shirt. Her voice was hollow when she finally spoke. "Sometimes—" her hand squeezed, involuntary, and she let it drop back to her lap. "Sometimes it isn't about fault. It's–it's. . . fuck. I can't do my job with issues like this, Arthur! I've corrupted the data!"
She didn't shake his hand off, but her posture was tired. Defeated. Curled up small and weary. "And now people that I'd never want to know when I'm having issues will have the whole report. Awesome." A heavy sigh. "Anything else?"
Wheels were turning behind the other man's eyes now, though. "How do you know?" A simple question, stated simply. "About the data? You said you couldn't get proof of what others were saying because it went away."
Darcy waved her hand half-heartedly in the direction of his phone. "You have pictures. Proof. It's right there and visible. I'm gonna. . . someone's gonna have to check the data, I've got to be pulled off everything I've touched since . . . shit, how safe, before Troy, just in case? This is awful." Her hands ran over her arms, an anxious, comforting motion. "Sorry about the lightbulb."
"I do have one more thing," Arthur said apologetically. He idly turned his phone over the table as he gestured to underscore his thoughts. "Is it all just perfect toaster strudels and flirting with the microwave or is it being in a network deep enough to worry about data? Darcy, you're doing more than talking nicely to your phone."
"Is it ever just the most innocent interpretation, Arthur?" The question was mostly rhetorical. "Much like all of my time here, someone else figured out what my X-gene was doing before I did. The. . . Before. And the now. The lightbulbs, the static, that's the electrokinesis secondary. And the toast, the coffee, the data. That's the technopath. Or maybe it's just an expansion of Before that was always possible, but unknown because I was scared of my own mutation. But it starts–well, everything but the electrokinesis–my primary mutations have always started with a bit of sweet-talk."
"I'd love for the world to be more innocent," the man replied with a flat smile and questioning eyes as he studied her. "So, let's say it is. True innocence is ashamed of nothing and all that." His smile tugged at the edges with the quote, and he tapped his notebook. "This isn't anything different than I promised. I'm only looking for facts, and not everything needs to go into my report."
"That would be nice sometimes," Darcy agreed. "Alright, have a seat next to me. We'll need to be in touching range." She twisted sideways, feet tucked to her side as she waited to get situated. "So before, my power was a vocal persuasion. Untrained, generally, you could call it being a little extra charismatic, or being that little voice on your shoulder encouraging or discouraging you from doing something. The whole angel and devil thing, in western media portrayals. But–" Darcy let her hands rest lightly on the wrists of Arthur's shirt, eyes intent on his and voice low "–what Laurie and I found out together was that with skin touching and eye contact it became more difficult to argue with that voice."
She dropped her hands abruptly, scooting back a few inches. "And well. Her psi-power and my psi-power combined for pretty explosive feedback loops. We could've been a nightmare for enemies under the right direction. I've always talked sweet to my tech, Arthur. But now it listens. And strange tech listens, but it's harder, so I've been working very, very hard to make that easier on myself. I don't need external alarms anymore, because I can set them to my phone or watch and they'll ring in my mind first. When I sleep I immerse my mind in the vastness of the internet and use the things I find to improve my shielding."
Arthur's expression was blank, if only because he was catching up. "I see," he replied after a moment's consideration.
He had gone stiff at her touch, but the full weight of the psychic resonance he had felt previously with Jim, Davey, or Shatterstar wasn't there. There were still softer impressions as her hand neared — tension, stress — and the nimbus of ghostly afterimages that shimmered around her were indistinct. Like an aurora.
The man had to look away, and he took a deep breath to center himself. "Thank you for sharing that with me. I don't know what to do with it, but honesty is a gift." His blue eyes snapped back to hers. "The issue with your powers sounds the same: your thoughts are overlapping more easily with tech."
Darcy nodded. "You don't have to do anything with it, but sometimes the comparison is the best way to describe how it works. And saying I seduce tech for a living probably invokes the entirely wrong image."
"Is that all psi stuff, though?" Arthur's glossy smile was back. "The fact I can easily invade other people's privacy makes me uncomfortable. Let alone everyone else."
"You're giving paparazzi smile again," Darcy noted, conceding the point. "People do tend to be uncomfortable about privacy invading abilities, yes. At least once they understand why they have something to fear. It can be as simple as a friend telling someone your secrets, but then you get to our level. And we have to choose what level of trust we give each other every single day. Sometimes that's easy. Other days it's very, very difficult. And the vague unease that someone might be invading that privacy - whether on purpose or by accident - lingers."
Arthur shrugged, and his smile genuinely softened. "Darcy, you're preaching to the choir here so hard you might as well be singing too. Trust me. I am truly sorry you feel that way," but his eyes hardened a bit. "Last year? I might have agreed. Turns out, for me, I just ended up feeling sad and lonely thinking that way. That’s not who I want to be."
He stood and began to gather up his belongings. "Again, thanks for your time and honesty."
"I've seen both sides of it. There's a balance between fear and trust–of ourselves, with others, with the way we're perceived. I'm still figuring it out, which is why I tend to downplay what I can do." She gave him a small, genuine smile, just a slight uptick of the corners of her mouth as she started to gather her own things, then winked. "Not to mention the tactical advantage."
She pulled her coat on, but paused before shouldering her bag. "Arthur? Would you like a hug? This was a pretty heavy conversation."
He just shook his head and wiggled his fingers. “Not today — but I’ll take a raincheck for when this all is sorted.”
Darcy's smile was warm. "I'll hold you to that."
***
Fourteen hasn’t noticed any issues with her powers, but something in her account feels off for Arthur.
“I really appreciate your time.” Arthur had only heard back from one of the Cuckoos sisters, and they were residents that he personally existed more alongside. Casual acquaintances.
“First, I want to let you know that I’m going to be taking notes. There’s no wrong answers here — all I’m doing a little fact finding.” The man smiled kindly, performing his initial act to disarm. “Let’s start there, set the stage. Easy questions. How do your powers normally work?”
Across from him, Celeste tapped one perfectly-manicured nail on the table. Of course they would start with the question that she wanted to answer potentially the least. "You do realize," she said evenly, quirking a brow, "that if I answer that, I fully expect you to burn that page before we leave here, correct?"
This got a blank smile, but his answer was still chipper. "That would be a waste of a perfectly good notepad," Arthur stated matter of factly. His smile didn't waver. "And, also, contrary to the whole point of the interview." A sudden realization dawned in his eyes, and he leaned in conspiratorially. "Did one of your sisters sign you up for this?"
"I suppose you could put it that way, yes." In the safety of her own room, Sophie laughed so that Celeste didn't. "And I really must insist, sadly. I take great pride in keeping what I do personal. It has saved my life more than once before, after all."
"So, uh," and the older man was obviously a little flummoxed, "I suppose we can agree to be very general? Unless you really just hate paper. I'm happy to adapt — this is a conversation between friends, afterall."
Celeste made a show of tapping a finger to her lips. "I suppose that is sufficient, then."
"In broad terms, I suppose it is fair to say that we are a wide-range telepath with many of the secondary abilities that come with it, alongside a personal interest in the functions behind memory and instinct."
"You're speaking for all of your sisters, then?" He nodded, gaze staying friendly as he took in her body language and movements very carefully. An attentive listener. "You sound as though you all are very aware of what you can and cannot do. Have you experienced or noticed any changes or peculiarities with your telepathy over the last three months?"
"Nothing comes to mind immediately. Truthfully, things have been somewhat dull on that side of things, if I am to be honest. There's hardly even been an acceptable target to play with."
The blond man shrugged, choosing to happily ignore that last part. "Well, hey, that's easy then. Whatever's happening hasn't hit everyone the same. For instance, my psychometry is causing my memories to stick to things I touch. Like that oily handsoap that you can't quite scrub off, only it seems less like lavender and is way more distressing." He tried to smile at this metaphor, but it didn't reach his eyes.
In fact, Arthur had to rub at them with one hand. "Must have an eyelash or something stuck in there," he apologized. "I keep seeing shadows in the corners. Weird."
There was a long pause as Celeste tilted her head to the side. "It is of no concern. Take all the time you need."
The idea of memories sticking to things was a fascinating one, to be sure. For a moment, she was tempted to ask to see an example, so she could see how it interacted with her own ability to recall and suppress memories but decided against it.
"I do not suppose anyone has been complaining about gaps in their memories, have they? I suppose it is possible, though unlikely, that the portion of my power that interacts with memories has been acting up?"
This got a hard blink from the man.
"Oh?" Arthur's face had gone back to careful neutrality. "Memories?" His stunned look was quickly swept under the rug in lieu of professionalism. "That does sound like it would be hard to notice. I can't say I have heard anything in particular." He looked down for his notepad again, but started. It was across the table. He leaned forward to fetch it, flipping to a calendar. Back to business. "Have you or your sisters been out of the mansion for more than a day in the last three months?"
Celeste's eyes flickered towards the notepad for just a moment, before back up to Arthur's face. "A few," she admitted easily. "Shopping to do, and we get so stir-crazy if we're kept inside for extended periods," she said with a small smile. Translation: She hadn't gotten to amuse herself by confusing random people on the street. "You know how it is."
His expression remained neutral, if not a little cold. Or, at least as cold as Arthur Centino might ever get. "I've felt that way before. Like an itch, but in your soul. So, to summarize: you and your sisters are broad range telepaths and have not noticed anything off with your abilities." A twist of confusion, again, and Arthur squinted. "Did you change your hair, Celeste?"
Celeste actually smiled at that. "I have, in truth. I am surprised you noticed, to be quite honest." She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"I like the ponytail," Arthur said. "Good to change things up. Sporty, even, although that's Phoebe's thing." His voice had a distracted quality, like there was a puzzle he couldn't quite work out. The blond smiled. "I suppose that's all then, unless you can think of anything else that might help us figure out what's happening."
Celeste thought for a moment. "I have nothing more that comes to mind." She gave a delicate shrug, placing her clasped hands on the table. "I do hope you have found this helpful?"
"Of course," was his automatic response. "I'm very happy that you all aren't suffering from this. No news is good news and all that." Arthur stood and stretched, gathering up his belongings. His usual warmth was back — everything before neatly swept away to disassemble later. "Please give my best to your sisters."
With that, he made his exit.
There was a long, long pause as the door clicked close. Phoebe leaned heavily on her palm from her chair, elbow planted on the table, staring where Arthur was sitting.
Then Celeste, standing behind where Arthur had been sitting, pulled out the chair and sat down.
"Absolutely fascinating . . .," said three voices simultaneously: Phoebe, in the chair Celeste had started in; Celeste, in Arthur's; and Irma, who had spent most of the chat just leaning against the side of the door.
This deserved . . . experimentation.
(And, a small part of 14 figured, there was a decent chance she'd need to come clean to Arthur about it now that she'd done as much testing as she could. She'd ask Marie-Ange later.)
***
Emma divulges that she might be suffering from the far too common affliction of telekinesis. Arthur has a glimpse of the future.
“I appreciate your time.” Another surprise meeting from a usually hard to grab person. Emma Frost, however, was a force who might be able to provide more answers than most others.
“First, I want to let you know that I’m going to be taking notes.” He tapped his pad in hand with a ready pencil. “There’s no wrong answers here — all I’m doing is a little fact finding.” The man smiled his most dazzling Hollywood smile. “Let’s start there, set the stage. How do your powers normally work?”
Emma considered the man in front of her briefly. She hadn't crossed paths with him often in her limited time in the Mansion, so her mental notes seemed to be confined to "outdoorsy" and "breezy". A tiny smile quirked the edge of Emma's mouth for a moment as she realised that she could be describing a Scandinavian deodorant product, and that she should maybe visit the Mansion more often and get to know the current incarnation of the inhabitants better.
But he had asked her a question and so Emma inclined her head politely. "How do my powers normally work?" she repeated. "Exquisitely. Superbly. Fabulously." She let the quirk of her lips broaden into a smile at Arthur's look. "I'm the White Queen. I have superb control over my extensive array of telepathic powers. They're the usual kind: mind-reading, mind-control, shielding et cetera et cetera. Is that the sort of information you were looking for?"
Arthur's polite smile broke into an answering grin as Emma spoke. "I have to say, your accent is superb — clothing for our thoughts." He lengthened his own vowels at the end, drawing his voice closer to Emma's own. "You've got more upper crust, there, though? Boardroom aristocracy. Hint of Boston at the edges. Fabulous indeed."
The blond man waved that off, getting back to business. His eyes shone with good humor. "My goal here is to learn what's normal for you before jumping into what might have been different lately. Sounds like you're describing what Haller would call," and he reflexively switched accents again to something closer to Jim's holmesian logic, "standard telepathic projection and manipulation." He put a hand to his chin in thought. "So let's get to it. Has anything been different within the last three months? Flares, expected growth, not coming as easily as normal?"
"Standard telepathic projection and manipulation in the way Cartier makes standard jewellery, yes," replied Emma, smiling. "None of the more exotic flavourings like technopathy or psychometry. As for changes. . . None that I've noticed particularly. I haven't been in the Mansion much, I admit, and from your email it sounds like you think that's where any changes might manifest? I mean," Emma leaned back in her chair, "I did unexpectedly turn into organic diamond during a spectacularly traumatic event, so I'm willing to consider more deeply if you have parameters to work within?"
He nodded over his notes, but extended a hand. "Psychometry here," and he gave his fingers a wiggle, "I just discovered I had it last year, but it's a good example — I've been putting my own memories onto objects without knowing it. There are at least ten others experiencing power issues — just the psis — but the common part does seem to be being at or around the Mansion." Arthur tried to give an honest smile. "There's no clear through-line or objective yet. When's the last time you were at the Mansion?"
Emma shrugged. “I’ve flitted in and out; a few hours here or there over the last few weeks.” She frowned suddenly, tapped a diamond fingernail on the desk. “When you’re talking differences in powers. . . would you be talking about a shift in my telepathy? Or is there any suggestion of suddenly using an. . . associated power.” She shook her head slightly and sighed. “Let me be terribly blunt about the whole thing; is there a possibility I could be suffering from telekinesis?”
This got his interest. Arthur raised both eyebrows and leaned in just a little. "Please, tell me more about 'suffering from telekinesis.' I've never had to worry about it."
Emma made a moue. “It’s so. . . tacky,” she sighed. “All these telepaths going round and developing telekinesis. Like lifting things with your mind isn’t just turning your brain into a brute force machine. Telekinesis isn’t elegant, Arthur.” She sighed again, this one deep and positively heart-rending. “I assumed one of the others was pranking me.”
"If it helps," he offered with an extended hand, not close enough to touch, "Everyone else is likely too preoccupied to have noticed. TK does seem," and there was the slow consideration of carefully chosen words here, "common paired with telepathy. Are we talking big things," and the man spread his arms to helpfully mime lifting a heavy object, "or smaller?" His gesture tightened, as if he was trying to indicate the shape of a racketball.
“Pieces of paper,” replied Emma. “Small items falling over behind me, that kind of thing. The kind of thing that might be a sudden unexpected gust of wind, or dust, or a sudden unexpected burst of TK, all of which are available to residents here. Ugh,” said Emma, somehow managing to make the word sound impossibly elegant. “Adrienne once told me she saw a few of my bedside trinkets floating beside me when she came in to wake me up. The thing is, Mr Centino,” said Emma, almost but not quite accusatory, “I absolutely refuse to be telekinetic. My mind is a scalpel, not a bulldozer. If I need to lift heavy objects, I have my own methods.” And for a moment, her skin rippled into diamond form and then back again.
Arthur's expression tightened a little. "She was always very observant," but he swept that under the rug. He smiled and ripped out a sheet from the back of his notepad. "Can you humor me for a second? Try to lift this. No matter what happens, I swear that I will not tell anyone." This was delivered with a raised hand, like he was making an oath. "Promise."
Emma’s mouth twitched sideways, but then she nodded. “For science,” she said. “The thing is,” she added, mildly and suddenly grinned at Arthur, “it’s remarkable what I’m willing to do in the name of science.” Then she frowned again, starting hard at the piece of paper, trying to persuade it that it was lighter than air and could easily waft around the room. Stubbornly, it refused to be persuaded. Emma continued to stare at it, but her expression changed from a frown to something far more thoughtful. “The other thing is,” she said slowly, “that so much of telepathic and telekinetic powers is based on what you think you can do. I don’t believe I am a telekinetic, so I am not a telekinetic. But I wasn’t thinking about being one when those things were moving around me. I seem to remember that the ‘pranks’ always happened when I was particularly distracted. Surprise me, Mr Centino. Distract me. Tell me something startling.”
"Startling," Arthur openly considered. "Honestly, I'm no good at that. Like with cats, babies, and apologies, you gotta let life come to you and accept it with open arms." His eyes lit up with an idea, however. "I am good at parlor tricks, though." The man palmed his notepad, twisting it with a flourish. He nodded, drawing attention, and a twist of his hand made the item disappear. He raised his eyebrows, ever the showman, and fanned his fingers wide.
Too wide and too close to Emma, apparently, because then his left eye did actually alight with a sharp burst. Arthur's face slacked in stunned shock, and he was suddenly elsewhere.
Emma twitched back slightly at the sudden light that burst from Arthur’s left eye, but then her own eyes narrowed as she recognised that his mind was not currently in the room with them. She contemplated a telepathic rummage, but in the circumstances that seemed unwise. And he’d said he had psychometry. Emma opened a couple of her desk drawers sharply, hoping that Adrienne had left a stash behind. . . and she had. Emma sprayed a film onto her hand quickly, letting the magic psychometry inhibiting spray or whatever Adrienne had called it coat it. Maybe Arthur’s psychometry worked different and this wouldn’t make any difference, but a little precaution never hurt anyone.
Emma reached out, hands safely filmed and shook Arthur’s arm gently. “Arthur,” she said, and then more sharply, her shake a little firmer, “Arthur!”
This did get a reaction, somewhat, but the blaze of his power did not subside as the man stared past her.
"There's a white crown," Arthur began, detached. "You will have to choose." His eyes couldn't settle on Emma directly, but instead darted side to side — because to the man, there were now two different Emmas sitting side by side. They were each flanked by the vague impression of another figure — one was large and proud, confident, the other shadow a laughing playboy. Two decisions. "Two men want what you have. Neither version of you seems pleased."
He blinked, hard, and the light was gone.
“A White King?” Emma’s voice was high with astonishment. “I’m no Sebastian,” she said, contemptuously. “I need no paramour to bolster my power.” And the piece of paper rose from where Arthur had palmed it, fluttered wildly in the air for a moment and then settled back onto the table. Emma contemplated it for a moment, her expression changing from surprised anger to blank stillness. “Well, Arthur,” she said finally, “it appears that together we were able to prove your point. For science,” she added, icily.
Arthur's gaze was locked on the table. He ran a gloved hand up and over his face and back through his hair, steadying his breathing. "Lucky us," he said in a mumble.
