Log Dump: December 2007 Edition Part II
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Friday, December 14, 2007, 3:59 PM
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=XS= Library - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
Light from bay windows gleams off glossy plastic dust jackets snugged over an assortment of old books, while volumes less delicate peek out from high oak bookshelves in a multicolored array of bindings and sizes. Stretching twelve feet high, ladders on rolling tracks are needed for access to the highest shelves, bearing the oldest books. On lower shelves, the bright colours of paperbacks catch the eye, along with binders of academic journals. A few marble busts compete with the potted plants scattered here and there to rid the room of any qualities of stagnation and Victorian must, Long wooden tables serve as group work spaces, or even teaching space in a pinch, but the majority of the furniture consists of comfortable armchairs and overstuffed sofas, with coffee tables in position for tired feet or coffee cups. The darkness of the wood panelling and the rich green carpeting is relieved further by a plethora of reading lamps, lighting the room where the tall windows leave off. Around a corner narrowed by two offices, doors lead out of the genteel history of the library and into the cool future of the main computer lab.
[This room is set watchable. Use alias XSLibrary to watch here.]
[Exits : [G]reat [H]all, [C]omputer [L]ab, [X]avier's [O]ffice, and [J]ean's [O]ffice]
Even in times of earth-threatening crisis, there is still time for a good book. In fact, as going 24/7 thinking of nothing but what's gone wrong can be bad for the brainpan, there had -better- be time for a good book. Thus it is that this December day finds Jean, in lieu of having anything she can actually -do- at the moment to either produce Autumn or divert an asteroid, buried up to her nose in a hardcover book with a castlescape on the dust jacket. 'The Curse of Chalion' it proclaims itself to be. She's claimed a cushioned window seat in lieu of one of the chairs, all the better to hide from students in.
"Hello, Jean," Scott says as he comes into the room, a book with a dragon on the front of it in his own hand. Seems he's had a similar idea. His mind, should she check, is a little better balanced at seeing her than it has been in a while. He even smiles at her. 'Temeraire' is the book in his hand should she look. Scott makes his way across the room to sit in a chair near hers, close enough to talk without yelling, but not trying to encroach on her solitude.
"Scott," Jean greets, her own smile soft and immediate and (For yes, there is a quick brush of her mind against his, telepathic greeting and concerned temperature-taking in one.) lingering as she detects that here is a Scott some place closer to at peace. Long legs drawn up to provide a shelf for her book, she looks up and over her reading glasses to take in his own bit of reading. A question is posed. It is a question posed to anyone who is holding a book, should they hold it long enough. "Good book?"
"I've not decided yet, though it is good enough so far. A twist on history. Recommended by one of the kids," Scott says as he looks through ruby shades at her own reading, "What about yours?" Scott asks.
"Oddly enough, historically inspired as well," Jean admits, tilting the cover so that Scott may better see. "It's a fantasy setting that's basically a looking-glass version of Renaissance Spain, with the story inspired by the early rise of Isabella of Castille and Ferdinand of Aragon." This scholarly analysis leaves out critical details like dread curses and miraculous happenings, but by the faint colour to Jean's cheeks as she says it, there may be -just- a hint of proto-embarassment at being caught reading fantasy.
"Sounds like an interesting read. Perhaps I'll take it up once, or should I say if, I finish this one," Scott says with a grin, glancing once more at her, not cracking his own book open yet. "So, do you want to talk about 'work' at all right now, or is this a strictly no work moment?" Scott asks, trying to lighten up a little from his normal all business self.
"I got it out of the stacks here," Jean grants, with a nod over towards where some of the less-studious articles in the school's collection live. "So to there it shall return, when, and I do say -when- I'm done," she tweaks Scott's phrasing with a determined little smile. It slackens a little at the mention of business, but not to such a level as to put a lie to the little shrug she gives, closing the book after setting a ribbon in place to mark her page. "It was only a moment spent waiting for more work to turn up, so if some has, well, so much the better," says the Jean. "What's up?"
"Nothing in particular, other than I was going to offer help with the Autumn situation if it's needed," Scott says with a slight lie of his own. "But beyond that, I've nothing to offer in the way of work talk." So he's not completely honest, but she doesn't seem anymore enthusiastic about talking about business and work at the moment. "So..." Scott says slowly, letting the word drift for a few moments, "How are things with you?" he asks, trying to make normal conversation.
"I went out the other night with Jubilee to take a sweep through Hell's Kitchen and see if she'd turned up there," Jean admits, vis-a-vis Autumn before she talks about herself. "Unfortunately, all we found was a pair of misguided young muggers, and a teenaged girl who was apparently deciding to be a superhero. I gave her my card," she sums up. "But since she managed to dislocate one of the muggers' elbows, our night was a bit of a wash because we had to give police statements. How are you?"
"This girl have a name?" Scott asks curiously, his own head shaking somewhat at the fact that the girl injured a couple of muggers and it has to involve the police. "Anyway, I'm doing good. Don't die of shock, but I actually went on a date," Scott says with a smirk. He half expects her to shocked, given that he hasn't dated anyone in so long. And has been, to say the least, slightly bitter about Logan and Jean, and more quite a bit bitter at himself for having lost Jean in the first place.
"Sarmatia is what she gave me. I doubt it's her actual one," Jean supplies, idly studying the cover of the book. The study grows rather a bit less idle at Scott's news, and there's a brief freeze to her features, a brief hitch in her breathing, before her expression grows carefully and familiarly serene as she marshalls her reactions and sits on ones that Aren't Appropriate. "That's... well, it's a surprise," she admits. "But... well, good for you," she settles on. "I can already see you're feeling happier."
"I feel less lonely at least," Scott admits, noticing the hitch in breathing, but not sure if he should comment on it or not. He's known Jean too long to not notice such things, especially when for so long she was one of the most important parts of his life.
Jean's expression is not one that particularly encourages exploration of that little pause. Serenity is layered over by a smile and a nod. "That's good," she confirms. "Christmas can be a bad time for that. Are you planning to see her again?"
"Pretty good chances of it," Scott admits, though he has no idea what is going on in her head. Sometimes being a telepath has it's advantages. "Do you think I shouldn't see her for some reason?" Scott asks curiously. In some regards, he's still as foolish as a teenager, and he knows that. After all, he dated Emma.
A helpless laugh bubbles up from Jean at that, overriding whatever potent mixture of shock, concern and, yes, jealousy was brewing in her backbrain. "Scott, I don't even know this woman's name," she points out, a more genuine smile breaking loose. "I don't know enough to think anything. But there's nothing wrong with dating. Nothing says you have to get serious with every woman you date." Except past historical precedent, perhaps.
"Yeah, you're right. Something says I have to get serious. As they say, there's always the first time," Scott says, his own thoughts along the same line as hers, but also adding in his own thought that all his relationships end in heartache and his own screwups. "I doubt you'd know her since she's just a waitress."
"Waitress meets all-American hero, they go on a date..." Something wistful crosses Jean's expression at this, but whatever memory's prompted it seems more sweet than sour. "So tell me about her," she encourages.
"Yes, the hero that can't seem to solve any of the current problems," Scott says with a smirk, "That makes me the sidekick in this situation," the man adds. A pause as he considers, "A dancer, about 24 I think she said, nice. I think Nate would like her," obviously that is an important hallmark in his mind, that his son be able to like the person he's interested in.
"Twenty four," Jean considers, head tipped to one side. "That's... a bit of an age difference," she admits, after a moment's mental math. "On the other hand, it's old enough to know her own mind, and I know -you- would never take advantage of anyone. But you've told her about Nate?" she asks. "I don't want to repeat what happened when I told Emma, that one time."
"It came up when we were walking along the boardwalk," Scott says with a shrug of his shoulders. "I'm trying to not repeat mistakes of the past," Scott says with a rueful smile, and not more than a little bit of mental guilt at the fact that he caused that bit of trouble by not being honest.
"You never -have- made the same mistake twice," Jean reflects. "At least not when you've realized them. But... well, I'm happy that you're happy," she sums up. And then falls silent, one fingertip tracing the raised print of her book's dust jacket.
"I'm just hoping that things work out," Scott says, honest hope in his voice and mind, not the cynical bitter hope that has been with him for a while now. "Because honestly, I'm not all that good at this dating thing," Scott says, meaning the dating stage that he's in now
"Well, if you want an ex-girlfriend's advice," Jean prefaces, with a crooked smile as she reflects on the oddity of the situation, "Just... take it as it goes. And -communicate-."
"I'm doing the best that I can," Scott says, and he feels that he's done a much better job so far. "She wants to take me dancing tomorrow," Scott muses, letting her get a kick out of that mental image
"Oooh?" says Jean, the smile shifting into a grin. "You know, I think I like this nameless woman already. Clubbing or something a little more ballroom?"
"Ballroom actually, she used to compete and actually auditions for jobs dancing," Scott says with an amused glance at his ex, "Another reason I think that Nate will like her, or hope that Nate will like her," Scott says, slightly confused by this new dynamic himself. He's not had Jean ever, in his memory, claim to like a woman he was interested in.
To be fair, outside of Emma there was Madelyne, who'd first gotten together with Scott while believing herself to be Jean. Jean herself seems caught by what Scott says in the here-and-now, and cants her head sideways. "Nate will like a ballroom dancer?" she asks, slightly confused.
"I dunno? I just hope so," Scott says, confusion coloring tone both mental and vocal, since he's not really sure how to explain why he thinks Nate will be amused. Finally he gives up trying to explain vocally as the words keep failing in his brain, just pushing the image into his mind to where he think she might see it if she's looking. An image of Fiona lifting up Nate and dancing and twirling around in ballroom style.
Jean catches the shift of the mental energies around her, and correctly interprets it as 'Warning: Incoming Thought'. And indeed, a chuckle escapes from her, even if there's another momentary twinge at the image of a stranger dancing with her young son. It's much milder, though. More of a 'twi' than a 'twinge'. "Well, if the dates progress to the 'meet the child' point, I'm sure Nate will be his charming little self." Or a complete brat. Four year olds, after all.
"Perhaps, or he'll be obnoxious," Scott says with a grin. He knows well the mood of his son can be as mercurial and shifting as the weather. "Well, I guess we'll find out, one way or another. Tomorrow I'm supposed to meet her so she can start to teach me to dance."
"I'll hold the fort while you're gone," Jean promises, mentally shifting a few bits of her timetable about. "At this point I'm mostly waiting for phonecalls and relaying others, in the Autumn matter. Although..." But she trails off. Scott has, traditionally, gotten so -fussy- about any experiments with Cerebro.
"Although what?" Scott asks, not having the advantage of being able to read minds. "On the Autumn matter, I'll have my cellphone and a communicator, so should you need me feel free to contact me," Scott says. Family and duty first, at least in Scott's mind. And Jean is always identified in his mind firmly in the family part.
"Stray thought," Jean waves off, and gives a little nod. "Will do. Although with Detective Rossi on the case, we're probably just going to have to sit tight and let the police do what they're good at doing." There's a grimace. "I hate sitting tight."
"I know the feeling. One of the reasons I started working on the new visor trigger," Scott says with understanding. His problem of feeling useless is the whole asteroid issue, as it's somewhat beyond his area of capability. A bigger problem than one that he can handle alone.
And Jean is not bothered by this at all. Really.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Saturday, December 15, 2007, 6:44 PM
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=XS= Jean's Office - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
Just another step in the grand tradition of renovation that dogs all great and old houses, Jean's office has been snuck nearly seamlessly into the footprint of the mansion library. Despite the headmistress' taste for clean lines and light colours, rich oak panelling and footstep-muffling carpet in a venerable shade of forest green are the order of the day. Light is freely admitted by a large leaded glass window that looks out over the Victorian garden and its fountain, although hanging curtains in the same emerald as the carpeting can be drawn to turn the room dark enough for presentations to be shown. The central feature of the room is an imposing desk, stained dark to match the paneled walls. A modern ergonomic office chair is positioned behind it, with two uphoulstered chairs in front. A laptop rules the desk, two filing cabinets, several framed diplomas and a bookshelf hug the side wall behind it. One corner holds a thriving ficus plant, and the central piece of art in the office is a framed representation of DNArt, a small brass plaque informing observers that this is the genome of Dr. Jean Grey.
[This room is set watchable. Use alias XSJeanOffice to watch here.]
[Exits : [Li]brary]
[Players : Cassy ]
The trick to finding a hiding place when the teenagers have been released for the holidays is to pick a spot that no holidaying teenager would naturally think to interrupt. Some other colleague having claimed the arboretum to hide within, Jean has fallen back on her office. She's in a comfortable chair by her window rather than at her desk, however, and has what actually appears to be a real, live novel sitting open on her lap.
Biting her lip, Cassy, telekinetic terror of Xavier's school for the gifted, knocks on the door. "Doctor Grey? Are you in there?" she asks loudly. It seems perhaps hiding in an office with your name on the door just isn't sneaky enough these days...
Ah, but this only works for -naturally- holidaying teens. Cassy is a rather different animal. Jean looks up, looks to the door and does not... quite... sigh. The book is closed, with a thumb to mark her place, and she offers a "Come on in, Cassy."
"I haven't done anything wrong before you ask," Cassy pre-empts cheerfully. "Actually I had one question to ask and the completely unimportant matter of a /tiny/ little festive favor I hoped you could help me with."
"What?" Jean wonders, blinking at the pre-emptive speech, and assuring an off-balance "I hadn't actually heard anything..." before trailing off at the mention of questions and festivities. "...Oh?" says Jean.
Cassy shrugs, then steps into the room. "Well I was just wondering why no warnings got put up about that creepy church place?" she wonders. "Only Amp did tell you what she suspected when you let her stay here right?"
"Because Amp didn't actually tell me," Jean replies, steepling her hands over the cover of her book. "I only got the news from Jeremy and Tim a couple days ago, at which point Detective Rossi was called in. There's no need for warnings, now."
Cassy rolls her eyes. "Man and people say /I'm/ irresponsable," she mutters. "Well anyway I guess that's not really important if Rossi's on the case."
Jean lifts an eyebrow at Cassy, but doesn't pass comment beyond "The law is good at handling this sort of thing... particularly when Rossi's involved to make sure it's handled." With that, she rises from the comfortable chair, and sets her book (Still 'The Curse of Chalion') on her desk, the better to then lean on it (The desk, not the book.) and ask "So, what's on your mind about the holidays?"
"I was hoping I could have a vacation," Cassy asks quietly, chewing on her lip. "By myself."
"Not... at the age of sixteen," is Jean's reply, delivered with an apologetic quirk of her lips. "I'm sorry, Cassy, I know you and Mira got by just fine when you two ran away, but there's no way I could let you go off alone without a chaperone. CPS would have you pulled from here so fast our heads would spin."
"We didn't exactly run away," Cassy points out. "More like fled for our lives. I just don't want to be here by myself while everyone else is off having fun."
"You're not going to be the only one here over the holidays, Cassy," Jean points out, although she refrains from ticking names off on her fingertips as proof. Instead, lips still touched with that odd quirk, her eyes shade into thoughtfulness, and she reflects that "You know... there's always far too much food served at the Grey Family Christmas dinner."
Cassy sighs, her head hanging low. "I just need a break from this place," she protests sullenly. "It's like a giant gilded cage and I /never/ get time to myself. I mean I can't even go off the grounds without signed permission slips and a whole bunch of people."
"While other kids get to go back to their families and their hometowns for holidays," Jean caps the thought. "Cassy, I wish it could be different, but you go to Xavier's. Mutant High. If it's a cage, it's not to keep you in, but to keep others out -- and -don't- point out that it hasn't worked perfectly," she interjects, with a moment's irritation flickering in her eyes. "I'm well aware, thank you. But how about heading home with a friend for their holidays?" she suggests.
"Because it's their family holiday," Cassy replies inspecting her nails. "And the only thing worse than being trapped is having someone elses parents gawk at the poor urchin with nowhere else to go."
"If it's your friend," Jean murmurs. "You won't be a poor urchin. I've holidayed at friends' houses when I was a teenager or a young adult," she shares. "It's Christmas. It's a time to hang out and enjoy life with the people you care about. Friends are on that list."
"And I guess getting to stay in the boat house is out too huh?" Cassy asks hopefully. "If I'm stuck here at least give me a break from my room."
"Oh, we could let you have the boathouse, actually," Jean replies. "I mean, you'd likely have Scott or I turning up in tow of Nate the second the ice is sturdy enough for skating -- sooner, if I can convince Bobby -- but if you promise to look after it, you could have a few days down there."
Cassy looks suspiciously at Jean. "Is there some catch you're not telling me?" she wonders. "I can handle cooking, cleaning and stuff. It'd totally be cleaner after I'd stayed there."
"Not really, no," Jean replies, eyebrows lifted and her hands spread. "I mean, we'd swing by to check on you every day, just to make sure things were going all right and the pipes for the toilet hadn't frozen, but while sixteen isn't old enough to go on a solo vacation, it's certainly old enough to spend a few days with a chalet mostly to yourself." There's a pause and a "Shall I let the rest of staff know, then? And you'll still come up to the main house for Christmas Day?"
Cassy nods. "If you're sure it's okay?" She frowns and then adds "Although I'm kinda not a fan of Christmas dinners, way too much dead animal for my liking."
"So pass on the turkey and have more potatoes," is Jean's counsel. "Or risk the wrath of Madame Vargas." Pushing up from her desk, she picks up her novel again, and notes that "I'll let the others know."
"As if I'm not already in her bad books for not eating meat!" Cassy notes, heading for the door. "Enjoy the book."
"Will do. And -you- enjoy your break," Jean bids, before flipping back to the page she was on, and reclaiming the seat by the window.
"Hopefully nothing will explode and no-one will try kill me," Cassy adds, skipping out the door and gently shutting it behind her.
Sometimes it sucks to be a student at Mutant High.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Sunday, December 16, 2007, 7:36 PM
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=NYC= Manhattan Mall - Midtown - Manhattan
Keeping with an 'open concept' idea, the Sunrise Mall sports a large front lobby area - complete with a massive fountain located smack dab in the middle - its spray shooting up towards cathedral ceilings. Behind the fountain are tall, marble pillars that flank either side of dual escalators, their whiteness broken-up by ornamental circuits of bronze and brass. Those adornments match the rest of the decor, from the railings along the second floor patio, down to the new-age style benches lining the corridors that split off from the foyer. Everything looks so very shiny and new, though it's certain that it won't stay that way for long; especially after the swarms of teenagers have settled in.
[This room is set watchable. Use alias ManhattanMall to watch here.]
[Exits : [O]ut]
[Players : Fiona ]
The easiest way to keep tabs on six teenagers all darting off in twelve different directions at once is to settle down in the middle of their dashing, and wait for them to come to you. Or the explosions to start. Either way, a Jean Grey looking rather more grim than entirely festive has laid claim to one of the benches in the middle of the mall. Drifts of shopping bags cluster around her, by her feet and on the rest of the bench, and every now and again a darting teen swoops in to add another one, with exhortations about which other teens are not allowed to peek. She has a book with her. Also, blessedly, a cup of espresso.
Thankfully having no one to watch, Fiona is here purely for herself. Well, her own shopping. Most of the things she's getting are for other peopel. Currently she's coming out of one of the stores with a bag, pulling the picture frame out of it and regarding it for a few moments as she walks, gracefully avoiding the people rushing by, humming to herself. As one of the teens goes rushing by her, she squeaks and quickly takes a step back. The frame goes back in the bag as Fiona watches after the teen, then turns to look where they came from. Oh. Heh. Well.
"-Careful-, Sydney," calls Jean to the teen in properly teacher-maternal tones. She turns to offer an apologetic smile to his near-victim, and wonders of Fiona "Everything all right? I swear, you turn them loose and it's like a tornado with a gift list has been sent out across the land."
Fiona laughs lightly, if a little nervously, and she smiles softly and nods. "Yeah. No harm done." She glances at herself, and then giggles softly, tucking hair back for a moment. "I think that pretty much describes any teenager in a mall, no matter what time of year it is. Just sometimes minus the gift list." She comments, shrugging her shoulders slightly, studying Jean for a moment curiously.
Jean's features are the sort to seem familiar, if not immediately recognizeable, courtesy of enough news coverage to broadcast it, and not enough to etch it onto the retina. Smiling, if with fatigue around the eyes, she lifts her chin to look out across the way and track the progress of one pair of her students from a GAP to a music store, chattering all the way. The words are inaudible at this distance, but the tone carries excitement over something loud and clear. "These ones have been cooped up at school for a couple of weeks since their last trip to the City, so it's even moreso."
Fiona chuckles a little, and nods. Unfortunately or fortunately, she does recognize Jean, hence the nervousness. taking another few steps toward Jean so she doesn't have to speak so loudly, she nods as she looks over at the teens. "Cabin Fever. I think it affects us all at this time of year." Shifting her two bags to one hand, she holds out her other one. "I'm Fiona." She figures she might as well introduce herself.
Jean, for all of Scott's mental imagery shared, does not seem to return the favour, at least as far as recogition goes. "Jean," she offers in turn, taking the hand, if taking it briefly, with a touch light and quick, and too fast to be party to any unwanted stray thoughts that skin contact might bring. "May I offer you part of my bench?" she offers, moving to shift some of the bags out of the way. "If you're sitting on it, they may think twice about piling it -completely- full."
Fiona laughs a little, and then nods, slowly sitting down in the offered space, her bags set aside, separate from the others. "Nice to meet you. And, I admit, I already knew who you were." She smiles sheepishly, scratching the back of her head nervously. How does one broach the subject of, 'I know your ex', much less 'I'm dating your ex'? Still, for this particular ex, Fiona thinks it is a good idea to meet her eventually. She just didn't expect it to be this soon.
"Ah," says Jean, with a soft laugh. "My reputation precedes me. Hang on a sec," she requests, with a lift of one hand and a rummage through one of the bags. What's retrieved is a small silvery packet, wrapped in plastic, bearing the price sticker of one of the mall's more kitschy curio shops. 'Genuine Tinfoil Hat' a label proclaims it. "Here," she offers. "Just in case you were worried. I've gotten a bunch as poor-taste stocking stuffers."
Fiona blinks a few times as she looks at it, and she then starts laughing, shaking her head, "Oh, no.. I'm not worried about that." She shakes her head a little, and then smiles. "If I seem nervous, well.. It's more because of Scott.." She tentatively broaches the subject, smiling sheepishly, but she's still highly amused by the tinfoil hat thing.
"You'd be one of the first," Jean replies, but seems a little bit more relaxed all the same. The book is slipped from her lap and back into a shopping bag, before she looks up sharply at the mention of Scott, and gives Fiona a more careful once-over. "Oh," she says. "Oh. You're -her-." A moment later she colours slightly. "And that sounded horrible of me. But you see, Scott never told me your name."
Wincing a little at her words, Fiona just smiles sheepishly. "Ah. I didn't know if he'd said anything.. I mean.. it's not like we've seen eachother a couple of times.." She quickly adds, chuckling a little and rubbing the back of her neck. "All things considered, I was hoping to meet you sometime. I admit, I did recognize the name when he told me, from TV and things, but I'm not afraid you'll read my mind or something. It's rather boring in there, trust me." She adds quickly and smiles a bit.
"I asked him your name twice," Jean reflects, with a rueful little laugh. "But, well, he was too busy talking about the rest of you, I guess. You're the first woman he's dated in..." A pause for calculation results in a slight wince from Jean, and she settles on "A while, so there was much to tell." Silence from Jean for a few moments then, punctuated by the arrival and departure of another pair of teenagers, and the addition of a couple more bags. "I'm glad you're not afraid of me, though."
"Intimidated, maybe. You've got a pretty hefty reputation. And I.. well. I don't have much to boast about." Curiously, Fiona tilts her head to teh side. "Out of curiosity.. what did he tell you about me? It's kind of hard to tell what he's thinking sometimes, partially because of the glasses, and such, so.. I'm a little curious." She admits with a little smile, leaning back against the bench, relaxing slowly.
"I still put my pants on one leg at a time, despite the reputation," Jean assures, shifting in her seat to try and worm more comfortably against the back of the bench. "And, well, he said that he'd met you while you were working as a waitress, that you were a trained ballroom dancer, that you were 24, that he hoped our son would like you, and that you'd managed to convince him to go dancing." Her face somewhat serious with the effort of recall, it blossoms into a smile at the last bit. "To which I said that I liked you already -- I'd tried for years to drag him out dancing, and the most I ever managed was a turn around the floor once a year at our graduates' ball. I don't know what you did," she sums up. "But it worked."
Fiona laughs softly, then arches an eyebrow. "Wow. He is an excellent judgement of age, then. I've never told him my exact age. I just turned 24.." She muses, shaking her head slightly before she adds. "Well, I don't know what I did, either. When I said I was a dancer, he said he'd become interested in learning, and I offered to teach him. He's a pretty fast learner. I got him all the way to leading dancing comfortably yesterday." She points out, relaxing a little more now that Jean doesn't seem like she's going to try and hurt her. "I understand about the son thing.. I mean, I don't have any kids, but my uncle raised me, and I remember him bringing girlfriends to come and meet me.. needless to say, most of them I never saw again. And I am by no means trying to usurp any relationship, or anything." She quickly assures, holding her hands up defensively in front of her. "I think we were both just tired of being lonely, and we clicked..." She trails off and blushes, smiling sheepishly again. "I imagine if you get a dance out of him this year, he will be quite a bit better." Getting back to the original topic, she just nods a little.
"I'll look forward to it," Jean promises with a laugh in her voice. "I took the usual dance lessons that pretty much every other little girl in my little town got as a kid, so it's the basics of waltz, foxtrot, rhumba, for me. I learned to tango a little later, but I've never been able to teach anyone else all that well," she admits, before trailing off to study Fiona thoughtfully. Eventually, she wonders "Can I offer a little advice? I'm not trying to do the jealous ex thing," she assures, with a little lift of her hands, even if there's a moment's unsurety in her eyes as she says it.
"Sure. Doesn't mean I'll take it, but I'll at least consider it." Fiona says seriously with a little smile, before she adds, "I started out in ballet, and then after my parents died, my uncle got me into ballroom dancing." She explains, "I wanted to be like the girls in musicals." She admits, chuckling softly before she waits for what advice Jean has for her.
"Ah, musicals," Jean sighs, with a touch of memory. "At one point, I could perform most of the Sound of Music from memory. Warren always used to get so bored playing Rolfe to my Liesl. But with Scott... well, what you said about being lonely is what made me think of it," she reflects. "My advice would be just to be careful with him. He's never been good about being on his own, and he really has a tendency to get serious really quickly. In the past, he's really relied a lot on the woman he's with to be his interface with the world, and... well, it can be a heavy burden. He's a wonderful man," she sums up, with a serious look as if Fiona might doubt this. "But if you're ever thinking of taking this past casual, you need to be really secure in yourself, and who you are. I don't want to see him hurt again," she finishes, with a little sigh and a look at her hands.
Fiona nods quietly. "We already talked about where our relationship was going yesterday." She explains to Jean as she watches him. "And I think it will be a little different with me, to be honest. Since he lives in Westchester, and I live in the city. We discussed that as well, and though we both know it's going to be hard to work with our schedules to see eachother, we're both willing to try. And honestly, I think that's all two people can do, is do their best." She says honestly as she watches Jean. "I'm not looking to marry him. I don't know him nearly well enough to have any such hopes. And yes, he is a wonderful man. Better than any man I have ever met, with the possible exception of my uncle. But he basically raised me, so that could just be the daddy syndrome." She admits, continuing to watch Jean. "I have no intention of hurting him. I am letting him lead our relationship, because he's told me how he's been hurt in the past, and I know he has a son to think about as well." For a few moments, she thinks, tilting her head and pursing her lips before she continues. "If I may be honest, I don't see how being with Scott could ever be a burdon. We're both adults, I am sure that if there are ever any problems, we can talk through them. He's certainly been wonderful so far, and has already told me that in the past his relationships have gotten serious quickly." Slowly, she shrugs and then just watches Jean, frowning briefly for a moment in thought.
Jean's eyes are for the fountain across the way, letting Fiona watch her in profile as her expression grows pensive, and perhaps just a little pained. There are a few times where she simply closes her eyes, guarding them against some untrustworthy flash of emotion or another. But in the end, all she does is nod, close her eyes again, and say simply that "I hope you're right, Fiona."
"So do I." Fiona says softly, looking away to the fountain as well. "If anything happened, it wouldn't just be Scott who was hurt." Slowly, her eyes drop to her lap, and she sighs a little, looking at her hands. "I know.. that I'm not like you, or Emma Frost. I have no great intellect, or any accomplishments. I'm a waitress, who hopes to be a dancer. I have my personality and looks to recommend me. But I promise you.. Even at this point,I cannot see breaking up with Scott unless he did something completely out of character." Her voice is soft, but there's definate conviction to it, she means everything she says. For a moment, she almost sounds sad. "I don't know much about you, and I know you don't know much about me, but I hope you at least believe me in this."
"Honestly?" Jean replies, with a tone gone carefully schooled. "I think that might help. Maybe you'll be better for him than I ever could," she says simply, staring at the fountain again before she looks down to cover a flash of something bleak across her face. "I'm still in love with him," she admits. "Always will be. But I promise I won't get in your way."
Yeah. That makes Fiona feel /real/ secure. The mother of Scott's child, and a beautiful woman in her own right, is still in love with Fiona's boyfriend. Great. "Thank you." Finally she speaks quietly, taking a deep breath. "I had hoped we could get along, though I obviously had no hopes that we'd be /friends/." Sighing again, she picks at her nails in a nervous habit, not having the practice Jean does with schooling her features, so the only thing she can do is try and hide the concern she has. She doesn't want to hurt Scott, or get hurt herself. But she likes being with him a great deal.
"I mean it, you know," Jean assures, with a wry look as she catches Fiona's expression. "I made my choice, I'm with another man, who I love, and who--" But Jean stops short of detailing her relationship with Logan, instead repeating that "I mean it. I won't get in your way, and please, don't tell Scott," she asks, for a moment looking quietly and truly worried as she looks back square at the thirteen-years-younger new girlfriend. "But... I think we can get along. Emma's the only one I couldn't with, and part of that might be because Emma Frost is Satan in a white business suit," she sums up, with a shift back to humour, even if it's of a dry and deadpan sort.
Fiona is a fan of dry and deadpan humor, and the shift makes her laugh, a hand covering her mouth. "Wow. That's quite a description there. I won't tell Scott. But.. if you don't mind me asking.. how in the world did Scott get involved with Satan in a white business suit?" She arches an eyebrow curiously, then adds with an amused smirk. "Oh, and if you do have any other interesting stories about Scott, I wouldn't mind hearing them."
"I have no idea, but I think it may have had something to do with the Black Arts," Jean replies, utterly solemn. Were she a reader of Something Positive, the term 'vaginamancy' would no doubt have been used. There's a momentary pause as something catches her attention and her eyes go vague, mind flung out after a teenager strayed towards racier sections of a bookstore and reeling them back in with a dryly worded mental query about additional sex ed classes being needed. She blinks, refocuses on Fiona, and admits that "I do have a pretty good store of them. We met when he was fourteen and I was eighteen, so I've got an endless supply of dirt. He, of course, has more on me."
Fiona just laughs a little, shaking ehr head. "Like that song Old Black Magic?" She asks as she looks over at Jean, smirking a little. "A lot of men would swear that women have some magical power to make men fall in love with them." Thinking about that for a moment, she snickers, a little amused. "All I did was bring Scott food." She points out with a soft laugh, arching an eyebrow. "Oh? What kinds of stories do you have on him?" Her interest is definately piqued now.
"Well, we've got the teenaged mayhem flavour of story," Jean ticks off on a finger. "Although Scott was never as much for mayhem as the rest of us were. Then we've got college-years shenanigans. Lately, most of the good ones are probably the ongoing war between him and Logan over possession of a motorcycle."
"Boyscout. He said that's how he's perceived." Fiona says with a little grin, "And I can see that. I can't believe he said he works on cars in Oxford shirts and khakis, with an apron. I still can't wrap my head around him being a mechanic.." She giggles a little as she listens, hmming a little to herself. "If it weren't winter, I would definately have to insist on seeing this motorcycle of Scott's. He mentioned he had one." For a few moments, she thinks and then asks, "What was he like, as a teenager?" Oh yes, she's interested. Not looking for dirt necessarily, but a better understanding of Scott. "Is he always... so hard to figure out? I mean.. he's full of contradictions. Which makes him interesting, and frankly, he can be adorable. Completely adorable. But please don't tell him I said that. I don't see a guy like him taking that well." Another giggle is torn from her as she pulls her hair back over her shoulders.
"He was... well, his mutation shaped a lot of how his teenaged years went," Jean admits, quietly so as not to trip passerby to the 'M' word. "When Charles brought him to the school, he hadn't been able to open his eyes in three months. Just held them closed, with a little tape to help at nights. He was fourteen," she reflects, tone slipping into a speaker's storytelling cadence and warming with the memories. "I was eighteen, home from my first year at Harvard. He was scarily self-controlled. Scarily independant, too. I had to talk him out of picking up some broken glass blind, because he wanted to show he still could. We got his first pair of glasses machined for him, and all of a sudden his world opened up. But he keeps a lot of himself to himself even still, even to people who've known him for years. Being a telepath helps," she admits, a laugh on her lips.
Fiona shakes her head a little. "Sometimes I wish I were, around him. It's hard, not even knowing if he's looking at you. I never realized how much expression is in the eyes.. He doesn't give a lot away.. But I think he's starting to relax around me, which I'm really happy about that." Speaking quietly, she just chuckles as she thinks about the young Scott, a soft smile on her face, eyes unfocusing for a moment. "So how did he learn to be such a gentleman?" She asks with a little grin. "I've never seen a man who opened doors and offered their arm to women. I would love to see him at a dancing competition.. He has such natural grace and smoothness of his movements. You rarely see something like that naturally." She explains, chuckling softly. "I'm sure he'd look absolutely stunning in a tux." A soft wistful sigh is given. It sounds like she misses competing.
"There are reasons for that," Jean answers, but doesn't go into them. "But as for the manners, for that you can thank a combination of Charles Xavier and Scott's parents. He was raised to believe that chivalry isn't dead, and at the same time grew up surrounded by enough strong women to not verge in to chauvinism. It's a good mix," she sums up.
"Definately a good mix. It adds a great deal to his charm." Fiona admits, shaking her head a little. "There's just such an air of.. kindness and strength around him." She's not a telepath in the same sense that Jean is, but she's pretty perceptive. Carefully, she shifts on the bench to face Jean a little more, "What did he go to college for?" She could be asking Scott all this, but sometimes it's better to get someone else's view on things. "I'm sure he was an A student, right?" Another small smirk.
"He actually did a year, then stayed back and helped out Charles," Jean admits. "While the rest of us when off. Went off to get a couple years done at Emerson back in '04, to get his degree finished. But mostly he's been much more hands-on than bookish." Dr. Jean Grey, MD and PhD., nonetheless seems pleased by this statement as she makes it, settling back a little more easily in her seat just in time for a teenager to come pelting back, another in tow. Is there enough time to get smoothies before they head back? With a sudden awareness of time, Jean glances down at her watch, and gives Fiona a smile to counter the teenagers' speculative looks. "I guess we've got 20 more minutes. Get in line now, and you should," she bids them, before turning back to adult conversation in the wake of the teenaged dust cloud.
Shaking her head a little, Fiona smiles. "I am glad I'm not a teenager anymore." She says quietly, nodding a little again, taking a deep breath. "So what was he like in those days? In college, I mean?" For a moment, she thinks, then speaks again. "When we went out to lunch the other day, I accidentally kicked him when the table was smaller than I anticipated, and he said 'That was my shin, but now I think it's broken', when I asked if it was his leg, and had such a cute hurt look on his face.. Makes me think that there is a more playful side to him." She giggles a little, blushing slightly as she reveals this to Jean.
Jean looks a little stiff at the giggling, and her own smile takes a moment in coming. It's real enough, if a little wistful, when it does. "To be honest, I was away a lot, then," she says simply. "But he's always been a good man. It was good meeting you, Fiona," she assures, but begins to get to her feet as more teenagers appear, drawn by the promise of food. "But I should probably get the troops their smoothies and get back on the road."
Slowly rising as well, Fiona retrieves her own measly two bags, but she smiles and then nods a little again. "It was nice meeting you, too, Jean. I'm glad I got to. Good luck with the pack." She jerks her thumb towards the incoming teenagers, then takes a few steps away, offering a small wave before she walks back towards one of the stores in the mall that she wanted to go in before they close.
Jean is soon in good voice, parcelling out packages to their teenaged purchasers, and driving the half-dozen teenagers before her rather like a border collie presented with sheep. If she's just a touch more brisk, a touch more eager to launch into something completely different with no time to think about things, well, so be it.
Jean is still totally OK with this. Completely.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Sunday, December 16, 2007, 10:07 PM
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=XS= The Roof - Xavier's School
Through a small little door accessed from the attic, one may stand or sit out here on a flat section of the mansion's roof on cool summer evenings, or anytime really, to think. Most of the mansion's grounds can be viewed from here as well as Westchester on, beautiful in the spring and fall when all things are blooming anew or the earthy, patchwork quilt of autumn lays across the land. Visible in the distance is the city skyline of New York. Over by the gardens, a tall oak tree boasts a treehouse in its branches. Someone feeling adventurous could probably jump and make it...
[Exits : [J]ump and [B]ack [I]nside]
At this point, Jean has long since stopped pretending that her excursions up to the school roof aren't to snag the occasional quiet and out-of-students'-way cigarette. Not that she advertises, but there's a lack of guilt to tense her shoulders and curve her spine as she sits on the edge of the flat section near the attic door, and sends contemplative puffs of condensed breath and smoke into the air alike. Wrapped and bundled against the cold and snow, all that remains visible beneath the black wool of coat and hat is a flare of red hair. This, however, is enough.
Enough indeed. The door scrapes open, allowing a brief roll of heated air to escape before the opener ducks out into the winter night. Snow crunches underfoot as Kurt pads over to take a seat beside Jean. That he is now between the winter wind and her is not /entirely/ Old World gallantry. Unlike several of his fellow X-men, he does not smoke. Sneakily or otherwise. "It looks peaceful," is said in lieu of greeting. His gaze scans across the rolling white drifts of the mansion's lot as he speaks.
"Hard to believe it's been a year," Jean replies, taking one last drag of a dwindling cigarette, and then stubbing it out in a small bank of snow for Kurt's comfort. Ritual completed, nicotine infused, she tucks the butt back into the rest of the package, and then stows it back in her coat pocket. "I just got back a couple hours ago from taking six of the kids staying here for holidays into the City for some shopping. The way they were zooming, it showed just how resilient they can be, I guess."
"Children recover faster than their elders, often," Kurt replies, by tone an agreement. His gaze casts sidelong to find Jean, concern evident in his expression, not unlike that of a particularly solemn guardian gargoyle. "They are also less likely to blame themselves for what has passed."
"Walter seems to be doing better as well," Jean recounts, her expression visible in profile as she stares out at the snow-covered lawn, the latest snowfall as yet untrampled by snowball-seeking feet. "Yvette still may be blanking on pronouns after a year's English lessons, but she's mastered the art of getting people to open up and care around her." Silence spins out, and Jean's hand shifts once, in pursuit of another cigarette, before she catches it, stills it, and reaches down to scoop up a handful of snow with gloved fingers instead.
Kurt smiles slightly. "We don't always need language to communicate," he notes. "And the people here are good, with caring for others." The smile fades around the edges, sinking back into gravity. "And how are you, now that it has been a year?" There is acknowledgement there, quiet and certain, that events that already hold great weight are all the heavier when their anniversary comes 'round again.
"Still get the what-if moments, sometimes," Jean admits. "Sometimes I'll wake up and lie there and wonder what I might have done, if I hadn't been in the City, visiting with Jubilee and Wesley. Maybe I could've shielded, or done something. Kept Nate calm... or maybe I would've lost it and they would have shot me," she theorizes further, lips curving in a bleak smile. "There's never any one answer. But I think I cope by taking students into the middle of a mall full of Christmas shoppers," she concludes. "It certainly takes your mind off things."
"Was there another stampede?" Kurt asks. There is a mix of gossip's curiousity and baffled horror in his tone. "Over that very badly named game that so many people seem very fond of?" He does not attempt to mask the fact that he is offering further diversion. Sometimes, it helps to talk of grave events. And sometimes, it does just the opposite.
"Nope, six teenaged tornadoes spun safely through the mall and buried me under shopping bags," Jean reports, with a blossoming smile at the image brought to mind by her words. Her tone is light and determinedly cheerful as she shares that "Sydney nearly ran over a bystander, who ended up recognizing me. Scott has a girlfriend, you know."
Kurt's head cants slightly, yellow eyes fixing on Jean, the unabashed curiousity in his expression rather feline. News? News for the Kurt? "I didn't. Shame on him, for keeping these things from his friends. How can we properly embarass him if we don't know?"
"Apparently it's new," Jean replies. "He... came and told me, the other day," she admits. "Although he didn't tell me her name. It's Fiona. She's 24 years old and a waitress who's a professional ballroom dancer. She seems... nice," says Jean, with an odd twist to her voice. Her hand, the snow having melted or drifted out between her fingers, reaches for her cigarettes again, and is just as firmly pulled away again.
"I won't tell," Kurt offers, nodding to the cigarettes. Or the pocket containing them, at any rate. It is not approval, but it is understanding: every now and then, one might find the need to break one's lesser rules. His head cants further, the angle one that should be uncomfortable, but seems to not bother him at all. "Nice is a good thing. She sounds...young." While rather younger than most of his colleagues, he is still better than half a decade past 24 himself. Enough to be bemused by the age gap, certainly.
"I've had my one," Jean replies, although with a little smile of understanding, and gratitude for the understanding offered. A laugh escapes her at Kurt's verdict, and she shifts so that she can look on him face to face, eyes settling on the bright glare of the yellow eyes against dark indigo skin. "Oh, God, so young," she replies, a little loose and a little broken. "So full of hope. So sure of everything I used to be sure of, with him, that I could be for him."
"Sometimes, it is not to be," Kurt says softly. Those yellow eyes regard her solemnly, made even more demonic in appearance by the glow of moon and stars, reflected even brighter from fresh snow. The compassion in the gaze, however, is anything /but/ infernal. "It makes no less of either party. --You're worried." It is only halfway a guess. "That it will fall apart. And that there is some slim chance it won't."
"I'm not so sure it's slim," is Jean's reply, before there's a slithery sound of a long wool coat being dragged across stone and gravel. Jean, telepath and WASP in one, does not often cling. Nevertheless, her arms reach out, seeking a hug.
Kurts are good for clinging to. Like large, blue cats without as many pointy bits. This one leans over to give the offered hug, in a rustle of his own wool coat and a swish of his tail resituating itself to account for altered balance. "It would be good," he murmurs, softly accented speech falling into quieter tones and soothing rhythm as though by instinct, "to see the both of you happy, someday."
"He does seem happier," Jean admits, but remains half burrowed into Kurt's shoulder. "And that's good. I could stop feeling guilty every time he turns a corner and sees me with Logan and not him." Oddly, this doesn't seem to perk her up that much. "But... wow, I really don't know if I could handle seeing them together." Sitting back again, she snorts, and sweeps one foot out to knock a length of snow off the edge of the roof. "Hypocritical of me, I suppose."
"A little," Kurt replies, savvy enough not to lie to a friend who knows him well, let alone one also gifted with telepathy. "But humanity isn't perfect, and our feelings are so rarely logical." He falls quiet for a moment, hesitating before asking, "Are you happy with Logan?"
On that, Jean's answer is firm, eyes closed as she nods and a little smile escapes despite itself. "Yeah," she answers softly, and seems to find that one word sufficient for a time. "Yeah. I don't worry about who I am, with him. I just am."
It seems that, to Kurt, the answer /is/ sufficient. Or at least, he does not question any further. He simply nods. "Letting go," he muses, "is one of the hardest things we have to do. Our hearts cling to what has touched them. But it does not mean you love Scott any less, if you do. Or that he loves you any less."
Black edged and perhaps a bit uneven, but Jean manages an amused snort at that, her sense of humour returning in good time. "It may have escaped public notice," she informs Kurt with a solemn look. "But I might have just a bit of a problem with being possessive. I guess it comes from being almost an only child. I didn't have to share my toys."
"Ah." Kurt gives Jean a considering look, then raises one hand to pat her consolingly on the shoulder. "You should come with me to Germany, to visit my family. I can lend you many siblings to practice with." And maybe, just maybe, the sight of Jean Grey being swarmed by curious circus ragamuffins would be entirely /too/ amusing.
"That..." has apparently rendered Jean entirely speechless as she considers the image presented. In her mind, there are trapezes. A laugh rings free and silvery in the snowy night air, and Jean admits that "I'd like to see that, I think." Trailing off into an easier sigh than before, she pulls her legs in against her chest, and looks out at the grounds. "I think I'm going to head down and see Jones before I go to bed," she reflects. "I didn't get much of a chance earlier, with everyone else around the memorial."
Kurt nods slightly, expression falling once more into solemn lines, though there is not so deep a well of concern as there had been earlier. "I think he would like the visit," he says. After all, though Kurt is certain the soul doesn't linger overlong in the body after death, he is equally sure that prayers and hopes and goodbyes warm them nonetheless.
"He's good to talk to," Jean murmurs, her exit from the roof more slow and gradual than the ones available at Kurt's disposal. "Although so are you, and I get better advice up here. Night, Kurt," she bids, and then quietly lets herself back into the mansion.
"Goodnight, Jean," Kurt replies, casting a small smile back over his shoulder. And then he settles in for his own quiet vigil. One wonders if there will perhaps be a succession of X-men upon the roof, tonight.
All right, so it's not OK. But Kurts are good at keeping secrets, and so are roofs and graveyards.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Monday, December 17, 2007, 9:11 PM
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=XS= Kitchen - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
A relic of Victorian times, this kitchen is vast, with more than one oven and several stainless steel work surfaces taking the space once claimed by coal hoppers, cooking hearths and cast-iron stoves. Walls still done in period plaster and tile, and the floor still the original fieldstone, fluorescent lights have been installed overhead to bring the lighting up to modern level. At meal times, kitchen workers scurry to and fro with pans and food and various other sundry items, under the watchful eye of the aging head cook, but once past, order is restored, with copper-bottomed pans hanging above the kitchen island, and a tray of cold snacks left out for foraging students and staff alike. Folding wood doors screen off a pantry capable of holding food for an large household's weekly meals -- or three days' worth of teenager food.
[This room is set watchable. Use alias XSKitchen to watch here.]
[Exits : [H]allway and [B]ack [P]atio]
Night descends over the school like every other nondescript evening does. Sam, finding his way into the kitchen in a pair of sweats, has decided to run his usual course of a few large sandwiches to tide him over before he heads back to a guest room for the evening, pausing with his head jammed into the door as he mulls over turkey or jelly.
Just don't combine the two. Unless it's cranberry. But Sam is not the only one with sandwiches on his mind. Into the kitchen slips one Dr. Jean Grey, emphasis on the 'doctor' lent to her by the labcoat she's still wearing, if unbuttoned to breeze about her as she walks. She's lost the latex gloves, but small traces of corn stach still dust her cuticles, despite a recent hand-washing that's left the scent of antibacterial soap clinging to her. "Sam," she greets, a fond smile matched by a fond tone. "Has any turkey survived the student onslaught?"
"Ah don't know if any 'good' turkey survived." Sam admits, reaching a hand over to hook a dubious tupperware closer and giving it a thoughtful sniff. The wrinkles of disgust betray the answer. "Good news's there's plenty a' jelly, Professor." He chirps up, smiling as he pulls out a large jar of, arguably, preserves.
"I'll leave you to the jelly then," Jean offers, magnanimous as she peers at the preserves. "I think I'll use some of my professorly privilege, and just snag some of tomorrow's lunch meat." And so she does, crouching and risking the wrath of Madame Vargas to lose herself in the refrigerator and seek out the elusive shaved roast beef. "But how are you doing, Sam? I've been so busy I've barey had a chance to sit down, much less catch up."
"Ah've been fine, thanks." Sam replies in kind, nodding politely as he fishes out a loaf of bread and bumps the door closed with his hip. Not manly, but it works. "School's been pretty rough lately an' ah've been tryin' ta help Tabitha out with that job-thing she's got."
"Oh right, the helping place mutants in jobs on?" Jean asks, seeking confirmation of school scuttlebutt. "I know she didn't leave here on the best of terms, but pass the word on that if she needs a hand, I'd be glad to give what I can."
Sam's eyes seem to twinkle a little more at the reassuring words and a toothy grin quickly follows. "Thanks, Doc. Ah'll be sure to throw pass 'er the good news. How's school been for ya around here? Busy?"
"As always," Jean replies, with mild "Hah!" inserted as she claims the roast beef package and goes to set up her own sandwich with a jar of mayonnaise floating from the fridge to her hand as an afterthought. "This, that, a bunch of students tripping over a creepy pastor at a local church, you know how it goes."
Sam freezes after sloshing a thick helping of strawberries onto the bread. "Why'sit always the preachers that gotta be the weird ones?" He muses with an agitated frown, squeezing another slice across the top until a few bubbles of red ooze from beneath his fingertips. "What happened with 'em?"
"Because we notice people in positions of trust and power more, not that there's more of them statistically," Jean suggests, busy applying mayonnaise to bread with methodical strokes of a knife. "And I actually need to find out the end of the sage myself, but I know the police were called in."
"Ah 'spose that's why they end up at the top. Strong minds or lots of charisma." Sam remarks, casting a smug glance towards Jean as he mentions the former. "Maybe not strong enough. None of 'em got hurt, did they?" He asks, punctuating himself with a monstrous chomp.
"Our kids all made it through all right," Jean is pleased to report. "There are a couple others out in the community that I hope they'll keep an eye and an arm out for, though... but I guess I should probably get myself and my sandwich back downstairs," she admits. "I left a gel running."
"S'always good ta hear." Sam finally says after a gulp, gathering his things and stuffing them back into the fridge before flicking out a wave. "Ah'll try ta bump into you earlier next time. In the mean time ya'll take it easy." He cautions warmly, whirling about and trotting back into the mansion. With an awesome sandwich.
Sandwiches and Sam Guthrie. Kitchens are good for these things.