Artie & Tommy | How to Rebel Right
Mar. 3rd, 2026 04:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsNew York, the city that never sleeps. Or at least a mansion full of mutants that doesn't seem to.
It was a birsk night, but Tommy was in no way dressed for the weather in his baggy jeans and black tank top. At some point, someone had smeared glitter all over his face and arms, and he reeked of sweat, booze, and weed.
Not a great look for a seventeen year old at 4am. He didn't care much, but everyone here seemed to be squares. No doubt he'd get in trouble. Maybe they'd even kick him out. But the adrenaline rush was too intoxicating to have that deter him. Salem Center was soooooo boring.
He slowed to a light jog after he slipped through the gate, cameras only picking up the briefest blur. There was about four hours before Billy would be up, which meant he had time to shower and act like he had been in all night. Perfect.
The main door to the mansion creaked open and Tommy cursed internally as he made eye contact with an adult someone (there were a lot of them, he hadn't bothered to learn names) who had obviously just got in themselves.
Artie had had a very, very long day. It had started with a 6am flight back from Miami and gone via a detour in the Morlock tunnels where one of his contacts was having a crisis - this was never unexpected with his Underground contacts, most of whom lived marginal lives and moved from one existential crisis to another goddam crisis but it was time consuming. His contact needed talking off the damn ledge, which had led to a midnight break in at a vet clinic because 'Morlocks don't see surface dwelling doctors' and again, fuck, he didn't care except apparently he had to because his stupid contact had an infected cut and was now on fish antibiotics.
Again, fucking Morlocks. Next time, they were breaking into a pharmacy and stealing the human drugs even if his contact had fish-morphic features. Hell, next time he was knocking the guy out and dragging him to Jean's clinic because this was not his job. He made a mental note to text Jean in the morning and ask what the appropriate dose of fish amoxicillin was for a 180 lb man with fish lips and scales.
He stared blankly at the teen in front of him. It was both too early and too late for this and the teen was clearly too young for this time of night. He offered up a question mark, let it float in the air.
Tommy blinked a few times, and then rubbed his eyes. The question mark didn’t disappear. Cool, he wasn’t hallucinating.
“Um, yo.”
"Coming or going?" the text joined the question mark.
“Coming. You want a burger?” Bribery seemed like it would maybe work here. He held up a large paper bag. Such outings required refueling afterwards, and he had plenty to spare.
Artie nodded. Sure. Why not? He signed his thanks and led the way into the kitchen. "Coffee?" the text trailed behind as Artie walked. His hips and spine hurt ached with exhaustion. "Got some cold brew floating around."
“Nah, doesn’t really work for me. Just makes my head tingly for a few minutes.” Speeding past Artie, he grabbed a (plastic) cup from one of the cabinets and filled himself a glass of water, before plopping down at one of the barstools to begin housing a burger. Any fear of repercussions long forgotten.
"You're missing out." Artie poured some cold coffee from a jug on the coffee maker into a mug, adding milk and a long slug of vanilla syrup. That was technically cold brew. He sat, pulling his burger out of the bag. "You come back this late often?"
Tommy shrugged. “Depends. Not much to do around here.”
Artie laughed silently. "Yeah. I get that. You head into Manhattan proper or just party with the yuppie kids in Salem Centre?" He stuck to the floating text, rather than his synthesiser.
“They’re boring too. Everyone’s daddy is a lawyer and all they want to do is K.” The speedster finished off that burger and moved on to a packet of fries. He tossed one up and caught it in his mouth with a grin.
"Nothing wrong with a bit of K. Hella cheaper than coke." Artie paused, looked at the text he was projecting and sighed. "Can you please pretend I didn't say that?"
Tommy burst out laughing. “Man, and I thought all you guys were uptight.” A very different vibe from the youth pastor approach half these people seemed to have when it came to him. “But I’m not a horse, and it doesn’t matter anyways. Stupid metabolism means I can’t get high, drunk, or take my adderall.” The last word was punctuated by a bite of fry.
Artie winced. "I'm sorry, bro. All you've got is telepath juice, I guess." Again, things he shouldn't say here. Eh. Whatever. The X-men had broken the kid out of a torture prison so he clearly wasn't some shrinking violet that needed sheltering.
"Damn... so what's your deal then? Doesn't seem like you're coming back from a party."
Artie shrugged. A tiny animation began to play out on the table in front of Tommy. Two black-clad men breaking into a building Mission Impossible style.
In reality, he'd been wearing a brown carhartt jacket and the Morlock had kept watch while he'd picked the locks after entering an alley via a nearby apartment building but that wasn't as exciting as a narrative.
Tommy’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Spies!” He lowered his tone conspiratorially, “You guys are spies?”
"Technically, tonight I was a thief." This time, Artie used his synthesiser, wearing a copy of Tommy's face for just the time it took to say the words.
"Dude... dude! That's so dope." The speedster said, staring at his own face. If he had that power, maybe they wouldn't have locked him up like they did.
Artie grinned, and just for a single second they were in a London greasy spoon caf, pedestrians walking past on the street outside in grey, drizzled rain. Kid was a speedster. He'd keep up.
That second was much longer for Tommy, and he checked out the scenery with awe. It all seemed so real, or real enough to someone who had rarely set foot outside of New Jersey until coming here. "This is sick as fuck."
Artie smirked and yawned. "I have the best powers."
About a million schemes ran through Tommy's head before he returned to reality, glancing at the clock. The things he could get away with... nope this was a clean slate. Clean-ish. Clean enough. "Bro, you'll have to show me more sometime. Seriously dope."
"But I should probably go now. My roommate gets up freakishly early." Gesturing to what was probably another few burgers in the bag, the speedster skedaddled. "All yours, see ya!"
"We'll do crime sometime." Artie sent the text floating ahead of Tommy and climbed to his feet and he started much more slowly up the stairs to his suite.
It was a birsk night, but Tommy was in no way dressed for the weather in his baggy jeans and black tank top. At some point, someone had smeared glitter all over his face and arms, and he reeked of sweat, booze, and weed.
Not a great look for a seventeen year old at 4am. He didn't care much, but everyone here seemed to be squares. No doubt he'd get in trouble. Maybe they'd even kick him out. But the adrenaline rush was too intoxicating to have that deter him. Salem Center was soooooo boring.
He slowed to a light jog after he slipped through the gate, cameras only picking up the briefest blur. There was about four hours before Billy would be up, which meant he had time to shower and act like he had been in all night. Perfect.
The main door to the mansion creaked open and Tommy cursed internally as he made eye contact with an adult someone (there were a lot of them, he hadn't bothered to learn names) who had obviously just got in themselves.
Artie had had a very, very long day. It had started with a 6am flight back from Miami and gone via a detour in the Morlock tunnels where one of his contacts was having a crisis - this was never unexpected with his Underground contacts, most of whom lived marginal lives and moved from one existential crisis to another goddam crisis but it was time consuming. His contact needed talking off the damn ledge, which had led to a midnight break in at a vet clinic because 'Morlocks don't see surface dwelling doctors' and again, fuck, he didn't care except apparently he had to because his stupid contact had an infected cut and was now on fish antibiotics.
Again, fucking Morlocks. Next time, they were breaking into a pharmacy and stealing the human drugs even if his contact had fish-morphic features. Hell, next time he was knocking the guy out and dragging him to Jean's clinic because this was not his job. He made a mental note to text Jean in the morning and ask what the appropriate dose of fish amoxicillin was for a 180 lb man with fish lips and scales.
He stared blankly at the teen in front of him. It was both too early and too late for this and the teen was clearly too young for this time of night. He offered up a question mark, let it float in the air.
Tommy blinked a few times, and then rubbed his eyes. The question mark didn’t disappear. Cool, he wasn’t hallucinating.
“Um, yo.”
"Coming or going?" the text joined the question mark.
“Coming. You want a burger?” Bribery seemed like it would maybe work here. He held up a large paper bag. Such outings required refueling afterwards, and he had plenty to spare.
Artie nodded. Sure. Why not? He signed his thanks and led the way into the kitchen. "Coffee?" the text trailed behind as Artie walked. His hips and spine hurt ached with exhaustion. "Got some cold brew floating around."
“Nah, doesn’t really work for me. Just makes my head tingly for a few minutes.” Speeding past Artie, he grabbed a (plastic) cup from one of the cabinets and filled himself a glass of water, before plopping down at one of the barstools to begin housing a burger. Any fear of repercussions long forgotten.
"You're missing out." Artie poured some cold coffee from a jug on the coffee maker into a mug, adding milk and a long slug of vanilla syrup. That was technically cold brew. He sat, pulling his burger out of the bag. "You come back this late often?"
Tommy shrugged. “Depends. Not much to do around here.”
Artie laughed silently. "Yeah. I get that. You head into Manhattan proper or just party with the yuppie kids in Salem Centre?" He stuck to the floating text, rather than his synthesiser.
“They’re boring too. Everyone’s daddy is a lawyer and all they want to do is K.” The speedster finished off that burger and moved on to a packet of fries. He tossed one up and caught it in his mouth with a grin.
"Nothing wrong with a bit of K. Hella cheaper than coke." Artie paused, looked at the text he was projecting and sighed. "Can you please pretend I didn't say that?"
Tommy burst out laughing. “Man, and I thought all you guys were uptight.” A very different vibe from the youth pastor approach half these people seemed to have when it came to him. “But I’m not a horse, and it doesn’t matter anyways. Stupid metabolism means I can’t get high, drunk, or take my adderall.” The last word was punctuated by a bite of fry.
Artie winced. "I'm sorry, bro. All you've got is telepath juice, I guess." Again, things he shouldn't say here. Eh. Whatever. The X-men had broken the kid out of a torture prison so he clearly wasn't some shrinking violet that needed sheltering.
"Damn... so what's your deal then? Doesn't seem like you're coming back from a party."
Artie shrugged. A tiny animation began to play out on the table in front of Tommy. Two black-clad men breaking into a building Mission Impossible style.
In reality, he'd been wearing a brown carhartt jacket and the Morlock had kept watch while he'd picked the locks after entering an alley via a nearby apartment building but that wasn't as exciting as a narrative.
Tommy’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Spies!” He lowered his tone conspiratorially, “You guys are spies?”
"Technically, tonight I was a thief." This time, Artie used his synthesiser, wearing a copy of Tommy's face for just the time it took to say the words.
"Dude... dude! That's so dope." The speedster said, staring at his own face. If he had that power, maybe they wouldn't have locked him up like they did.
Artie grinned, and just for a single second they were in a London greasy spoon caf, pedestrians walking past on the street outside in grey, drizzled rain. Kid was a speedster. He'd keep up.
That second was much longer for Tommy, and he checked out the scenery with awe. It all seemed so real, or real enough to someone who had rarely set foot outside of New Jersey until coming here. "This is sick as fuck."
Artie smirked and yawned. "I have the best powers."
About a million schemes ran through Tommy's head before he returned to reality, glancing at the clock. The things he could get away with... nope this was a clean slate. Clean-ish. Clean enough. "Bro, you'll have to show me more sometime. Seriously dope."
"But I should probably go now. My roommate gets up freakishly early." Gesturing to what was probably another few burgers in the bag, the speedster skedaddled. "All yours, see ya!"
"We'll do crime sometime." Artie sent the text floating ahead of Tommy and climbed to his feet and he started much more slowly up the stairs to his suite.
