Logs: Signs and Portents Edition
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Sunday, May 25, 2008, 3:15 PM
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=XS= The Garage - Xavier's School
This former carriage house turned garage features several separate rooms, separated by sliding wooden doors with small glass panes forming larger windows. The wooden doors and the beams of the high ceiling are of rich old oak, stained a dark colour by age. Gleaming white tile walls meet with a textured concrete floor, tinted a warm red and with a tile pattern pressed in place for added traction. The main area of the garage features a few benches set up for teaching class amongst the collection of engine lifts, wrnches, slider boards and lots and lots of grease. With the exception of the odd junker brought in here for the automotive class to learn on, the vehicles here consist of sleek black school SUVs and Professor Xavier's dignified old Rolls Royce, with occasional appearances by a motorcyle showing heavy signs of reengineering.
[Exits : [O]utside]
[Players : Scott ]
The TV's in the room are up above and both tuned to the Indy 500 on the satellite, with Scott reclined back in his office chair as much as it allows for such. Occassional glances sent at the race but half his attention directed on the notes in front of him. The sound on the TV isn't particularly high, but audible, though not loud enough that the talking heads are easy to make out
Jean normally wanders into the garage in search of a car to drive, or to eavesdrop on some lesson being taught. Today, she comes not with car keys or clipboard, but with a bowl of pretzels in one hand, and a beer, frosty and still capped, in the other. She advances on Scott at his desk and presents him with both, and a crooked smile. "I figured I ought to find some way to be in on the spirit of things. Anyone exploded yet?"
Ruby quartz gaze swings to Jean and he fairly well gapes for a moment, "Alright, who are you and what did you do with Jean Grey?" is Scott's attempt at a joke, reaching for the beer with a simple "Thanks" as he twists the cap off. "Some cars into the wall a few times, Marco Andretti just took the lead."
"Hey, over the years of being your girlfriend, friend, or otherwise in your life, I will have you know I have sat through -many- car races," Jean notes, with a solemn tip of her chin and a waggle of her finger. She looks once to the screen, and, satisfied that it is indeed a bunch of Very Fast Cars going Very Fast around a closed track, finds herself a comfortable lean against the nearest of the cars that seems to be free of ongoing repairs, and concludes that "And I didn't fall asleep -once-. Marco Andretti... related to Mario?"
"Son I believe. Michael Andretti's team is doing okay, with Danica in 8th unless she gained or lost a possition when I wasn't paying attention," Scott says, raising the beer to his lips for a sip. "So how were the parent-teacher meetings you had?" Scott asks
"About as expected," Jean answers, leaning back against the car still more, and summoning a handful of the pretzels for herself with an intent look. They shed a few little sprinkles of salt on Scott's garage floor in transit. "And of the two fathers I had turn up with military ties, past or present, I think I much prefer Major Prentiss. Tobias' father is a little..." She trails off, and tips a hand back and forth. "Well, suffice it to say that I've figured out why our hedgehog-owning student is a little prickly himself."
"I can't say that any of the meetings I've had have been anything memorable either," Scott says, looking at the monitor in time to see a rookie slam into the wall then continue into pit road, the driver getting out under his own power a few moments later. "Well that's good, no major injuries yet that I've seen."
"From the hedgehog?" Jean wonders, with an eyebrow arch of mild bemusement. She does not avail herself of the sort of telepathic cheating that would unravel her confusion, instead pausing and waiting for Scott to explain.
A chuckle from Scott, "No, from the race. A few bad accidents, but don't think anyone has been severely injured. Though, I don't know that you've repaired any hedgehog induced injuries, at least not that you've mentioned to me," Scott says with amusement at that. The beer is raised to his lips for another quick drink, savoring the flavor before swallowing it.
"Hedgehog, no," Jean reports, with a nibble at one of her pretzels as she looks again up at the television screens, ascertaining the lack of accidents for herself. "Porcupines, yes. Pickles treed another one."
Scott shakes his head as he watches some of the race action as he muses, "Did he get hurt by this one? Hate it when he does because Nate always seems to take it bad," Scott says, looking over at Jean before finally deciding to snag some pretzels.
"Oh, this time Nate and Pancake were elsewhere. He was with me," Jean admits, with a quirk of her mouth. "I'd taken Risky Buisiness out for a morning ride, and he wanted to come with. Ran off the trail, barked his head off, and by the time I managed to get myself and the horse through the brush to him, he had a faceful. None around the eyes, though -- I think he tried to bite it."
"Probably, maybe he'll learn and not try it again," Scott says with an amused shake of his head, looking at the timing ticker on the side of the screen. "I think Tim would like to go to a race sometime. He came in when the very opening of the race was going on, saw the jets flyover. I think he'd really like to drive a car that fast, but maybe he'd enjoy going to a race as well."
"Goldie. I think it's slightly more likely that Magneto will join a Buddhist monastery," is Jean's prediction, paired with a snort of amusement at her own mental image of Erik Lensherr in a saffron robe and shaved head. Munching a few more of her pretzels, her expression turns thoughtful at Scott's ideas, and she muses that "I think it would do him some good to take an outing. I think it would be especially good if it were with you or Logan, or one of the other guys on staff -- he's got plenty of mother figures in his life, but he's lacking in male presences that aren't his own father."
"I think it'd be better to be the favorite uncle figure. The 'father-figure' post has been fairly well poisoned by his father's antics," Scott says as he watches the screen, eating a few of the pretzels. "I'll look at the IRL schedule and see when the next close race is, maybe I can get tickets for him as well as possibly a pass for whatever qualifies as Gasoline Alley at whatever track it is."
"Strong male presence, whatever the mode," Jean confirms, and finishes off her own pretzels. Dusting her hands on her jeans, she reflects that "In a year or two, Nate will probably be old enough to tag along. Just so I don't corrupt him completely to the dog-and-pony set," she quips.
"With his father being a complete gearhead, I don't think he'll not like going to races or airshows. There's another thing that could be done with Tim, and maybe Nate too, is go to the next big airshow in the area," Scott says as he considers ideas the checkered flag comes out on the screen, "Well, that's that."
Jean then proves that she is not a racing aficionado. She squints up at the screen and wonders "Who won?"
"Scott Dixon, whoever that is," Scott says, not having kept up on IRL drivers apparently. "Not anyone I've ever heard of," Scott admits with a chuckle, drinking more of the beer and placing the half-empty bottle back on the desk. "First time in a few years that they've not had to delay at all for rain."
"Well, I guess he'll be heard about now," offers Jean, philosophically enough as she peers out the old carriage house doors at the sunshine beyond. "And I'm sure they appreciate the weather as much as I am. I actually took my reading down to the boat house and claimed the deck, rather than lurking in my office or underground. Although I promise I'll remember about training."
The beer is quickly finished, "Well, now that my leisure is over I should probably get down to the training scenarios I had setup," Scott says, getting back to business, one beer not enough in his mind to affect his ability to react correctly too much
"Let me know if you need a second set of eyes," Jean offers, before she takes the hint, leaves the pretzels, and ambles on out again with a flash of a smile over her shoulder for him.
Indy cars, pretzels, porcupines and male role models for Tim.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Monday, May 26, 2008, 6:01 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.
[Exits : [G]reat [H]all, [C]omputer [L]ab, [X]avier's [O]ffice, and [J]ean's [O]ffice]
[Players : Logan ]
The fine tension lines in Jean's expression are at odds with the air of relaxation permeating the school as the weather warms, the days lengthen, and even the threat of final exams can't keep down the ebullience of teenagers who know that summer is mere weeks away. But summer does not equal relaxation for Dr. Grey, as asteroids, stalkers, prejudice and politics all promise to heat up along with the temperatures. She sits immersed in thought and a cup of cooling coffee, paused halfway through sipping and thinking some Seriously Thinky Thoughts. Around the armchair she's claimed for herself, papers on a myriad of subjects vie for her absented attention.
Unfortunately, Logan is not about to make any of that easier. As he paces through the school from the garage, annoyance, frustration, and anger pulse from him. He startles no fewer than two students as he marches towards the Library on a direct path for Jean. He is not wearing his happy face.
The nascent thought-crystals forming in Jean's brain shatter at approximately the point that Logan startles the second student. Thus, her initial jerk and glance around is for the library's eyes alone, and by the time Logan and his not-so-happy face arrive her face is alert and her posture even moreso. "What's happened?" is the greeting he gets.
Logan's hand jams into his pocket and a small wadded ball of paper is pulled out. He begins to unroll it as best he can, only putting two holes in it as he does. Small holes. Both the right and left edges have been torn, some of the text left behind where the flyer was jerked down from. But the message is clear. CPAM posting, 'mutants in this area.' The faces and address of two New York citizens are on the flier, and an aspiring graffiti artist has added to the message by scrawling 'Gene Freaks!' in bright red permanent marker across the top. "Took the bike into the city, went by the clinic to make sure everything was alright, then I stopped by Jacob's. Found /this/ on a light outside."
Jean goes very still. Spine straightening all the more, all expression wipes from her face as if sucked into a vaccuum. Very carefully she holds out a hand for the paper. "I see," she breathes, as an uneasy sort of tingling pressure builds in the space around her.
The tension is noticed instantly from an already tense Logan. He is quick to attempt to comfort by extending a hand down to rest on her shoulder, and bending down to a crouch to be more eye to eye. "Jean." he says calmly eyes locking onto her eyes. "Jean... these are gonna get people hurt. These are gonna get people /killed/."
The students may have scattered from direct encounters with Logan. Jean's display is more subtle, visually. Unease washes through the young minds in a hundred-foot radius around the room, as sharp anger and dark frustrations crackle and snap forth from the surface of her mind. Logan, lucky him, gets to be near ground zero. "So we stop it," is her answer, still in that soft, soft tone. Red-splashed images leak, of means viseral and satisfying, paired with quiet little mental whispers of how good it would feel-- There is an abrupt cessation of this, akin to the doors slamming shut on NORAD's main base. "We stop it," she repeats, normally but just a little forced and flat. "I'll go call up lawyers, try and contact these people, offer them shelter, or counsel... there's got to be enough here that they can at least try for a temporary restraining order or something on these people."
Lucky Logan indeed. As the sensation radiates from Jean, he's forced to look away, especially when the leaking imagery turns violent. His hand, meant to be a gentle squeeze of comfort, instead squeezes a little harder than it should, trying to hold on. He lets out a long deep breath when it has past, and a whisper of thanks escapes his lips as he looks back up to Jean. "We stop it." Logan agrees.
"Sorry," Jean whispers again, but this time with dropped eyes and a flush of guilt along with the rising heat in her cheeks. She lifts one hand first to press against her temples, and then brushes it against his hand on her shoulder. "It's just... from the landlords, to the tornados, to this... it feels like it's all spiralling out of the control of the rational and the legal and the political and right to the reactionaries."
"Red." Logan directs, hand moving from her shoulder, giving her own hand a quick squeeze of affection, and then carefully touching the bottom of her chin so that he can lock his eyes back onto hers. "You /never/ have to apologize to me. For anything. This... this is pretty bad. Yeah. Surprised we didn't see it sooner. But... we need to make sure this doesn't get out of hand." (fixed)
"Hah, starting with me," Jean chuffs, but while her head tilts sideways at his touch, she doesn't resist lifting it. Her eyes take a moment to find his, the flush still risen in her cheeks at lost control, even if only for a moment. "I could be exactly the nightmare they all have in mind, you know," she reflects, green eyes shuttering closed. "Wouldn't it just be rich if their own fears cornered me into it? It could be just like that other world."
"So I'm not the only one catching that idea, huh?" Logan grimaces out, a certain degree of doubt in his own words. "That maybe all we're doing is buying more time 'til it all falls a part, the way things are going... But..." Logan shakes his head and borrows a bit of strength from Jean's memory, a bit of hope, a bit of the dream. "You're not going to. You're stronger than that, you're stronger than her, you're stronger than them. Lets just get our heads together and leave that kinda thought in that dead world where it belongs."
Catching herself reflected in Logan's mind brings a smile to Jean's lips that loses the bitter cast of moments ago, and her snort this time is a softer one as well. "Isn't that usually my line?" she wonders, with a brief gleam of humour. Capturing his hand in her own, she raises it to her lips and then looks up at him with eyes gone steady again, the dark frustrations half dissipated, half denied, but gone once more from the surface of things. "So," she says, releasing his hand. "Lawyers. And names. And we should probably do some igging to find out how widespread they are -- this is out of the blue, for me."
"You're rubbing off on me." Logan jokes softly with a warm smile. "Same for me, too, Red. Should let the rest of the Team know, too. We might have... we might have to go out and stop some people from being stupid. We really... really don't need this. Not right now."
"I should see about making some sort of press statement," Jean muses, sinking back in her chair with the abstracted look returning again. "It's probably already too late for oil on the water, but if we can convince people that there -are- other options besides setting the world on fire... and on top of that we still have problems celestial, and now problems terrestrial. Did you catch the message I sent to the staff list about Tim's stalker?"
"Yeah, one of the reasons I buzzed by the clinic. Caught a scent off the pen and went down there to see if I could find anything." Logan explains, pulling away and turning to clear some of Jean's notes away on the table in front of the chair so he can have a good sit on it. "Sorry, couldn't find nuth'n. You think there is anything to it?"
"The first time, I wrote it off as a random reporter trying something baroque," Jean admits, lips compressing and a small flash of guilt blossoming for a split second before logic squashes it. "Now... I think there's definitely something. He turned up at my clinic, which means he both was looking specifically for Tim, and that he knows enough to know where he goes."
"The hell someone want with Casper?" Logan asks confused, but his protective instincts are already starting to flair up. He is not the most informed person about Tim's history and possible answers to that question. His fingers curl into fists, and a deep breath is taken for control. Wolf protecting one of the cubs. "Kid's jumpy, how's he holding up? If you want, I could have a talk with 'im. Ground him here?"
"I really haven't voiced my big suspicion to him," Jean admits, lips thinned out almost to disappearing. She sighs, and takes advantage of Logan sitting across from her to rest her bare feet on his knees. "But... I know that his father turned up at my clinic one day, working a case, and Tim was on reception when he came in. It -could- just be a reporter, sitll, but Occam's Razor suggests it's someone who already knew him."
"Dr. Grey?" Tim's voice calls out from the other side of the library's door. There is a worried quiver in the words. The door is pushed slowly open by the short lad who very slowly sides his way in. "Dr. Grey... is everything okay? I just had a big... scary. In my head." And there is an odd sort of fear in the boy's eyes, the fear of a child who thinks they just saw the monster under their bed and is looking for someone with a flash light.
Jean... wilts, is the best way to describe it, her wince nearly a tangible cringing in the air as she burrows deeper into her seat at that small little voice. "It's... I was just angry about something, Tim. I lost control of myself and broadcasted it a bit. I'm sorry if I frightened you."
Logan rubs Jean's foot, soft and reassuring. Then pats her leg just above it as Tim walks into the room. "I'm gonna go let the rest of the team know what's going on." he excuses himself, and then gently sets Jean's feet on the table as he stands.
On his way out the door, when Logan passes the boy, he reaches his hand out in an attempt to pat him gently on the shoulder. Tim's shoulder jumps harshly away, tension rippling throught he boy defensively. Its a reaction that is not lost on Logan, and while it stalls his steps for a moment, he continues on out.
"Oh." Tim states confused, once Logan has left, and he slowly waddles his way over to Jean, the slightest limp still in his left leg. His mind rolls over the explanation, the little hamster having to run overtime, and a lot of conflict fighting each other... but soon... strangely... the fear kinda vanishes. Replaced with... comfort? Thats not the monster under his bed. Its the big dog in the yard keeping the monsters away, pushing them into their own cars outside of porches miles away. "Its okay, Dr. Grey. I'm sorry. But the thing that made you angry? Is it okay now?'"
Woof. Jean looks relieved at finding that the roly-poly puppy that is Tim isn't frightened of her, and sits up a little in her chair. Logan's mind recieves a brush of her thoughts in parting: gratitude and promise of action all wrapped up with a farewell inappropriate for young Tims in the room with Jean's WASP sensibilities. "Nothing for -you- to apologize for, Tim," she assures. "I should have better self-control by now. But while it's not OK, I'll be taking steps to make it better... much like I want to do with the situation with you and your stalker."
And from outside the library, Logan returns an image of his own. Something also not appropriate for Tims to hear.
An ounce of that fear from a moment ago returns in the boy's eyes, though this time it is a different monster under the bed. Tim takes a giant gulp as he hears the 'S-word' spoken from Jean, a word that so far most people, including himself, has avoided using. Tim's do not sit on tables. It is against the rules, so he begins to scoot one of the nearest chairs a little closer to Jean as he asks. "Its... probably not just a reporter anymore... is it?" The total size of the chair is probably greater than the total size of the Tim, as he scoots it across the room it has a certain resemblance to ants and rubber tree plants.
"It's not entirely out of the range of possibilities," Jean temporizes, studying Tim and his chair closely, but not offering to step in unless it looks like he's in real need of it. "But... if it -is- a reporter, we still have to face the same facts, in that it's someone who is personally interested in you, and knows at least some of your schedule and activities. What we need to do," she states, slow and firm and with her hands folded on her knees. "Is track this person down and find out just who they are and who they heard things from. Professor Logan did a little sniffing around, and came up blank on the pen, unfortunately."
He makes it. It is a victory for Tim over the big heavy chair! But as he moves, there is a growing fear in his breaths. They stagger as he takes each step, something kept barely in check. And then something truly odd happens. He doesn't vanish, but... invisibility sort of ripples over the boy and his clothing, like watter rippling from a fallen leaf. It even sinks briefly into the floor beneath him and the chair he tugs along. "If its a report.. he just had to ask. I would have talked to him. I don't have any secrets or nothing... I never had a chance to have any secrets."
Jean is momentarily distracted from the larger matter at hand, tilting her head slightly and wondering, eyes narrowed with curiosity, "Has that ever happened before? I don't think I've seen it in training..."
Tim's head turns back towards Jean, his eyes curious as he tries to figure out what she means. It takes him a moment to notice as it ripples up and down his arm and sinks into the chair again. "Uhm... uhm uhm..." he stutters out. "Once b-efore... when I woke up with... with the knife." Tim explains, "Don't... be careful not to touch... I think I'm leaking."
Jean looks all the more thoughtful still, and while she heeds the suggestions and pulls her arms and legs in out of reach, she also cautiously lets her mind wander loose to check on the shape and status of Tim's. "The timing's a little interesting, there," she muses. "Could it be related to stress?"
Tim's mind is a truly broken thing even at a glance. A thousand different disorders, psychological ticks, and screaming painful memories, and broken personalities somehow piecing themselves back together into one working consciousness. The rising irrational fears screaming for the boy's attention has distracted the part of his brain that is constantly fighting to keep him from going invisible and staying that way, and with each lapse in its control, another wave follows only to be fought right back. "I'm... I'm kinda scared right now." he admits honestly, and it is more than an understatement.
"Want to talk about some of the scared?" Jean wonders, shifting in her seat to better look on him and give him a small and crooked smile. "Sometimes it helps just to get things out in the open."
Tim nods his head several times as he sinks into his own hard earned chair. Chunks of carpet vanish beneath the boy with each step. So dose half the chair, very similar to Tim's accounts of his first manifestation. "Jeremy." he says simply at first. "Dad." soon follows. "Some of those letters... what they said they would do to me..." that one carries a lot of weight, and he ends it all with "Mr. Xorn."
"Those are some heavy things for anyone to be dealing with," Jean murmurs, eyes flickering over the disappearing bits of furnishings with an idle tally. "For someone your age... well, it's not fair. Unfortunately, I can't protect you kids from everything, much as I'd like to. I can do my best, and for the rest..." She trails off, lips quirked slightly. "Well, for the rest, I have to do my best to get you ready to protect yourself, some day. Having that 'some day' fall when you're an adult would be ideal, but I'm not sure the world will humour me. What would help you, Tim?" she wonders, shifting again in her seat. "What helps you feel secure?"
Tim blinks several times at the question. His eyes quickly search for hers and there is a great deal of honesty behind them. "Dr. Grey..." he admits more than a little embarrassed. "...you do."
"Well," says Jean, and although her eyes twinkle, she carefully doesn't laugh. "That's something, I suppose. We'll have to figure out how to hand you some of my more reassuring qualities to take with you on your own," she decides. "But... in the meantime, I'll be working on how to best pin down your new friend with the microphones. I think I'll start coming to the clinic on the days you do your volunteer hours, for one -- if he turns up again, I'll be in a position to tail him. I think I may also speak with Detective Rossi, if that's all right by you."
Tim nods several times. Its more a nervous reaction at this point than an active agreement. "That... that sounds like a good idea. But... Detective Rossi works with dad... if... if its dad... he has to make sure dad doesn't know."
"He's done at least one undercover assignment that I know of," Jean muses, and there's a soft snort of remembered laughter at some memory she doesn't bother sharing with young ears. It's but a moment before she turns serious and thoughtful again, though. "If it's your father involved in this... well, Detective Rossi will want to keep it quiet until we're sure, too. It -could- be a reporter acting on something he said while out at a bar."
Tim's lips shift and he wiggles in his seat. Eventually the waves stop, and Tim and all his surroundings are visible again. He stands from the chair, still more than a little embarrassed from the whole affair. "Dr. Grey... I... I'm used to it now. I've felt like this... I've always felt like this. I'll be okay. I'm sorry I keep bringing you trouble." Its an old apology, but he thinks it bears repeating.
"Tim," says Jean, in her own repetition. "You do -not- need to apologize for any of this." For all of the times she's said it, her look is no less firm on this time n+1 of the cycle. "We'll all be looking into this, so you... work on finding yourself some new ways of feeling, instead of scared. I want to help with -that-, too."
Jean does not take the news about CPAM's signs particularly well.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Monday, May 26, 2008, 9:39 PM
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=NYC= Wee Book Inn - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
Warm and cozy, this place is well-named. The walls are a simple white and the carpet is an average blue, for most people never give them a second glance. What attracts attention are the shelves upon shelves of books that fill this store, overflowing with literature -- all used but in near-perfect condition, for the Inn has high standards. You want it? They probably have it. They sell harlequin romances, young adult novels, fiction and non-fiction, thick historical books, horror and mystery and erotica, roleplaying guides, children's picture or activity books, and the Harvard Classics and individual collections of all the authors therein. At the back is the reading area, only reached by passing the counter with the owner and his register, ensuring that only those with their own novels or ones that have just been paid for are brought in. The reading areas has several couches, armchairs and lamps, and is where the Inn's resident rumpled tabbycat -- Milo -- spends most of his time, curled up in the lap of whoever will let him sleep on them. An addition to the back area, a coffee bar serves coffee, iced drinks, cookies and scones.
[Exits : [O]ut]
[Players : Elliott ]
Milo the tabbycat is looking more rumpled than usual, being petted and fussed over by a Jean Grey who seems rather distracted, all things considered. In an affront to proper food service hygeine, the cat has settled himself upon the small table that Dr. Grey has also claimed, his back paws resting gently against her coffee mug and his front clasped importunately around the wrist of the petting hand. "Good kitty," Jean murmurs to him, and attempts to retrieve her drink with her non-catted hand.
Elliott had detoured to find coffee of her own as she entered the Wee Book Inn, but approaches now, cup full of caffeine-and-caramel ambrosia in one hand. She pauses by the table, gaze darting a touch warily to take in the cat (she is familiar with Milo, yes, but given the Naked Man incident, cats will be an object of suspicion for some time). "I wonder sometimes if he wants the attention, or just the coffee..."
"The idea of a cat on a caffeine jag terrifies me greatly," answers Jean, snagging her cup of coffee, black but with enough sugar to fuel a battalion of five year olds, and taking a fortifying sip of it, eyes briefly closing. As impeccable as ever in a blouse and a pair of jeans to signal 'dressed down', she nonetheless looks rather on edge about something beneath the surface ease wrought by coffee and cat. Milo, sensing incoming mooching opportunities, releases Jean's wrist to pad across the table to sniff at Elliott and chirp interrogatively.
Elliott raises a hand to skritch Milo behind the ears, and mutters a firm, "/My/ coffee." She takes a sip from her cup as though to demonstrate. To the other human she remarks, just the slightest touch wryly, "They don't need caffeine to be terrifying, I don't think..."
"I imagine your recent experiences would give you an expert's outlook on the terror-potential of cats," Jean murmurs in amused reply, lips crook'd. Idly, she reaches over to poke at one of Milo's footpads with a fingertip, before falling silent a moment. In the wake of that reflective pause, she asks a frank "So. Have you heard anything about posters identifying mutants like sex offenders?"
Elliott's expression tightens just a little, pleasantry briefly hollowing. She nods and resettles the mask, pulling out a chair and taking a seat before she replies. "I saw a few around my neighbourhood last night. I don't think they've gotten around to replacing them, though. Heard about them a bit earlier, though. There's even a website."
Jean says the first half of a very bad word. Her expression conveys the rest of it, even if she silences herself. "I was hoping it was an isolated incident," she admits.
"It..." Elliott pauses, grimaces slightly. "It doesn't seem to be. Which is unfortunate, considering." She sips at her coffee, folding both hands around the cup. She doesn't need the warmth it gives off, but it's something to occupy herself with. "I'm not sure which is the worse possibility: that this is malicious, or that there's actually an entire organization of people who can be that...ignorant." It is /definitely/ not the descriptor she'd been initially intending to use.
"Parents can be conned into almost anything, if you tell them it's for the good of their children," Jean answers, her fingers just a little too tight around her coffee mug. "In this case, actions that will almost certainly lead to another 'mutant tragedy' in the news. Damn it."
"Mmmf." It is a small noise, and a grumpy one. Elliott takes another sip of coffee. /Good/ coffee. "I have to go back every couple hours and convince myself /again/ that it would be a Very Bad Idea to reciprocate by tracking them down and publishing their pictures and addresses, so anyone not wanting to expose their kids to bigots can make an informed choice."
"Ah..." says Jean, looking struck for a moment. "-Could- you? Get names and addresses, that is," she clarifies, and then clarifies further with a hasty pat of tabbycat that sends Milo off and away off the table with much scrabbling of claws. "I'm going to loose some lawyers on the thing. If they can't find some way to at least get a temporary halt, they're realy not earning their retainer."
Elliott nods in response. "The problem with assembling your witch hunt electronically is that it leaves traces. I doubt they publish their full members list, but the ones who are active in the digital sphere? It'd take a little bit of time, but yeah." She grimaces down at the table. It does not return the expression. "Better than staring into the black hole that is QuikID, anyway..."
"Ah, no luck there, then?" Jean intuits from this really quite open statement. (It's been a long day.) "That's unfortunate. Although I suppose I can see why." More coffee disappears, Jean's eyes closing and her expression losing a couple lines as the caffeine works its magic. "If I had names and contact information for this CPAM group's leaders, it would give the lawyers more to work with."
Elliott gives an eloquent shrug. "Unfortunate. A little scary." She frowns slightly, eyes going vague as she performs a few mental calculations. And then figures in the need for such things as food and sleep. "Give me a few days, and I'll let you know what I can run down. Hopefully /these/ people aren't being led by James Bond in a track suit."
"...I don't think that mental image would ever have occurred to me on my own," says Jean, derailed temporarily from thoughts of well-buried rage and calculating plans of attacks by a vision of Daniel Craig with a head full of curlers and a pink pant suit. She shudders once and clings to her coffee all the more. "In the meantime, if you know of any mutants in your area that are being targeted, could you give them my card?" she wonders, reaching into her purse beside her seat and pulling out a small handful of them. "These... people have completely decided to ignore what they're unleashing on their neighbours, but if said neighbours need a place to lie low, or simply the occasional check-in..."
"I only really /know/ the one," Elliott replies. It is a touch apologetic, as though she's been remiss in not meeting her visibly mutated neighbours. In the two weeks she'd been in the building. Between tornados. It is not, perhaps, entirely logical guilt. "But I'll definitely give him your card. Poor kid could really use a break, from what I've seen."
"Even in New York, mutants are still rare birds indeed," Jean assures, with a little wriggle of her fingers to shed any apologies, however unnecessary. "But let him know that if he needs a place to stay for a day or two, he has it. We obviously can't take everyone in, or even for long, but... well, I have to try -something-. Several somethings."
"I will," Elliott assures. And then lapses into momentary silence, peering into her coffee, before venturing, "I suppose shipping these CPAM people off to Oz to adventure with Dorothy, the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion wouldn't so much be a thing that works?"
"Follow the Yellow Bri-- Oh. 'If I Only Had A Brain'," Jean references, after taking a moment to spot it. With a little sigh, she shakes her head. "Alas, probably not. It seems like brains come a poor second to emotions, these days."
"On /both/ sides of the equation," Elliott agrees. "Everyone's so caught up in being afraid of what /might/ happen, they're ignoring the damage they're causing by overreacting /now/."
"Any particular people on our side you can think of?" Jean wonders, with an innocuous sip of her coffee. "Although I'm not entirely sure I want to claim a side with the Times Square Tornadist."
"Mmm, just some people I'm acquainted with. What with those Sentinel suits apparently being the sign of the impending apocalypse, and violence being okay so long as you adhere to some arbitrary and unstated guidelines on targets because sometimes people get /impatient/ waiting for legal methods..." Elliott stops herself before she actually begins ranting, sips at her own coffee, and continues. "It's...nothing concrete. No plans. Just...bad vibes. The feeling that this could all snowball into something /really/ nasty if the opportunity presents itself. Or it could just be people trying to talk tough."
"Mmm," says Jean, lips compressing slightly. "Well... if you hear anything more concrete, or even compressed earth, let me know?"
Elliott cants her head slightly to one side, peering curiously at Jean. "What would you do?" It is a genuine question.
"Oh, it depends on the concrete. Anything from talking to them, to making a few quiet calls to some people in the goverment who'd both be interested in keeping an eye out, and capable of not making a hash of things." Jean's answer is carefully considered, and doesn't mention personal appearances with a jet and black leather.
"As long as it doesn't end up dropping James Bond in a track suit in my building's lobby," Elliott deadpans. She finishes her coffee, setting the cup down on the table with only the slightest of clatters. "Speaking of, I should probably get to that digging."
"Happy hunting," Jean bids, lifting her coffee cup in a species of a toast. "I look forward to hearing back soon."
Elliott smiles slightly and rises, picking her cup up once more to ferry it to the coffee counter like a polite little mutant. "I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a good night." And then she's off.
Happily, Jean knows this chick who's good with computers.