Logs: Medical Mysteries and Failed Escapes
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Wednesday, September 17, 2008, 6:17 PM
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=XS= Medbay and Lab - Lv B2 - Xavier's School
Walls are sterile white and surfaces gleam in polished stainless steel, the large room a vision of cool science tinged with the faint medical smell of antiseptic and filled with the soft whirring of autoclaves, refrigeration units, and various medical scanners and devices. Four hospital beds are present near the entrance, curtains rigged to allow for privacy, but pulled back when not in use. In shielded alcoves off the back wall are the resident doctor's pride and joy: A full-body X-Ray machine, as well as an MRI unit and other heavy-duty imagery equipment. Between the alcoves, through a thick glass window, a small operating theatre can be glimpsed. In the lab section, an electron microscope and a pair of gene-sequencers take place of pride, glassware and smaller equipment kept securely locked away in the cabinets underneath and above the work surfaces.
[Exits : [M]ain [H]allway]
[Players : Cessily ]
The day's classes are done, the students scattered to all corners of the school like iron filings on a plate when the magnet's been taken away. Dr. Grey has retreated underground, the better to hole up in her lab with research on her mind. Because of this, there is music on her laptop speakers, as most researching scientists are wont to have. It appears to be U2, and of a more classic bent that was new when Jean was her students' age.
The sound of skippy footsteps echo down the hall as Cessily makes her way to the Medbay, trying to recall which way to head. In fact, she walks past the door at least twice before the music centers her in. She gingerly peers through the door, smiling and stepping inside. "So, my navigational skills are pretty much useless." She says, entering fully and waving a silver hand. "Hello Dr Grey!" Chirps she. "I was wondering if you could do some.. prodding at me. I have a few concerns about.. well, about myself."
"It doesn't help that things all look alike down here," assures Jean, looking up from where she's doing something involving a petri dish, an open flame, and a tube of something that smells like cultured death. There is a little wire loop held gracefully in one hand, currently turning a toasty red at the tip that's stuck into the flame. Bono would like to know who intends upon riding her wild horses, before she finishes streaking out her culture plate, sets it and the flame aside, and stands, bright of eye and curious of expression. "I'd be glad to, Cessily," she assures. "In fact, an entry physical is something we give to all of our new students... so what would you like to prod at first?"
The light of the open flame causes all kinds of weird reflections to spread across Cessily's face as she raises her eyebrows, watching the science being conducted. "What does that do?" She asks, before quickly shaking her head and leaning against one of the beds. "Well, I don't know. One of the other students says he thinks i'm silvery all the way through. Which is fairly unnerving. I just assumed I had weird stretchy bones." She babbles, before crossing her arms over her chest and frowning somewhat. "I don't know. What do you normally do first with the medicals?" She asks, yanking off her sweatshirt and wrapping it around her waist, knotting the arms in front of her.
"In practical terms, it kills any bacteria that might be floating around in the air near my culture plates," Jean answers, with a moment's stare at the flame before, regretfully, she kills it in turn. "I could work in a vent hood, but sometimes fire is just more fun." This matter-of-fact enjoyment of burning things behind them, she nods once at the question, and turns to go retrieve a patient gown from a shelf of them that lives behind a sliding metal wall panel. "That could be," she allows. "Now, the difficulty is that the surface layer will probably play hell with my X-Ray unit, and there's no way I'm letting you into an MRI before I'm absolutely sure you're not capable of taking a magnetic charge."
Cessily tilts her head slightly at that, "Oh right, because fillings and stuff get pulled out in those things. A friend at school back home told me. Her uncle went in one and it just yanked them out." She considers that for a moment, peering down at herself, silver eyes widening as it dawns on her. "Oh hey yeah, lets not do that." She says, rather quickly.
"Given that emergency coolant vents are... somewhat exciting," Jean understates with a bit of dry humour as she hands over the patient gown, "I think we'll probably try a few more old-fashioned approaches first. If you'll slip into this, you can chenge behind that curtain over there," she directs. Then there is bustling! There are gloves, stethoscopes, and all manner of other things donned or assembled, and Jean and a tray cart go to wait over by one of the beds.
Taking the gown, Cessily unfolds it and looks over it curiously, before following the direction and nodding her head. She steps out of her shoes and socks, leaving them where she stood as she wanders over to the curtain, ducking behind it. After various shuffling sounds, Cessily emerges, sporting the wonderful medical garb. Silver arms cross her chest self-consciously as she wanders over to the bed and awkwardly clambers onto it. With a slight grin, she peers up at the doctor, nodding her head. "Just tell me if you're going to whip out the leeches." Jokes she.
"You know," Jean offers. "They actually did find that leeches can be amazingly effective in treating things like blood pooling issues after surgery... but I think we'll leave ours in the safely wild in the lake." First things first, Jean picks up the stethoscope. "You obviously have some sort of lung capacity, or speech would be problematic," she notes. "But I'd like to see about other internal organs."
"Eww." Is all Cess can say in response to the leech comment, pulling a face. She lays back into the bed, laying her hands down at her sides and staring up at the stethoscope. "Okay. Maybe there is something I should admit first." She says, somewhat quietly. After peering at the door, then back at the doctor, she nods her head. "I.. haven't really eaten for quite some time. I have just been pretending in front of the other students. I was worried they'd think I was even weirder." Confesses the silver teen, pouting somewhat.
"That's definitely unusual," Jean admits in a murmur, taking a moment to warm the stethoscope bell with her hands. "But not the strangest thing I've heard. Deep breath in for me, please?" she asks, testing out those ought-to-be-lungs-there as a starting point.
Nodding her head, Cessily does just as instructed, taking a deep gulp of air. Her chest rises, the stethoscope picking up less in the way of lungs, more in the way of a large air-pocket forming inside of her. She peers up at Jean, before letting the breath go, the pocket flowing back out and the space in her chest simply filling back up, becoming a solid mass again. "Do you want me to do it again?" She asks, eyebrows raised.
"Please..." says Jean, vague and with brow furrowed as she gets the sound of something not at all like proper lungs. "And then I'll see about your heart."
Cessily complies, repeating the motion happily. That bubble forms again, filling her chest where lungs technically -should- be, though, lacking any kind of lung shape. Her own brow furrows when she spots the expression on Jean's face, biting her lip as she exhales again. She keeps her concerns and worries to herself though, laying still, not wanting to ruin the test results. The results of the heart test are already seeming equally strange, not a single sound rising from her chest, not even the faintest pounding.
Jean shifts the stethoscope to the other side, just in case Cessily has mirror syndrome on top of being a mutant. No dice. "Huh," says Jean, sitting back at last. "Cessily, I think you may just be completely unique." Jean, being Jean, does not sound terribly worried by this -- -she- sounds rather impressed.
The girl squirms a touch as that stethoscope is moved, being rather ticklish. As Jean sits back, she sits up, resting on her elbows. "Is that.. well, is that a good thing?" She asks, somewhat concerned by Jean's reaction. Cessily's brow is still rather furrowed.
"It's a you-thing," Jean answers, setting the stethoscope aside. "Good or bad doesn't play into it, only what you want it to mean." Her hand lingers on the tray, idly brushing against this device or that, as she explains with a more gentle tone that "I think the other student was right -- you seem to be able to shape yourself all the way through."
"Oh. So there isn't any Cessily underneath?" She asks, looking rather saddened by that. She has a rather hard time turning her frown off this time, peering down at her silver feet, toes wriggling. "It just feels normal, you know?.. like there isn't anything different. But look! i'm all shiny and I make metal noises if I bang my hands together." After a pause of angst, she shakes her head quickly. "Does this mean i'm going to end up melting again?"
"Oh, it's all Cessily -- granted, I'm speaking from a telepath's bias," Jean admits, with a crook of a half-smile. "But it's our minds and our deeds that make us who we are. The rest is just what we cart around to get us from place to place."
I don't understand that.
Cessily nods her head, staring up at the doctor. "I just had this idea that, i'd come here and learn how to y'know, control it and look normal again." She admits, before shaking her head, putting all that sadness to the back of her head. Thats for pillows and journals. "So, I guess you can't do blood tests now." She asks, a small smile creeping across those lips. "No blood."
"I won't tell you not to feel sad," Jean counsels, hand coming to rest briefly on Cessily's shoulder as she looks at her. "Your life is probably very different now from what you had planned for yourself this time last year. But we'll be here to help you find out what your new normal is."
Cessily slowly nods her head, seeming to relax somewhat more with that hand on her shoulder. Amazing how well that works sometimes. "Yeah." She quietly mutters, before sitting up a touch more on the bed. "As much as I want to go back to the way things are, I have this little urge, right at the back of my mind to really see what I can do now, y'know?" She lifts a hand, her index finger stretching out above the others, silver eyes watching it. "Maybe all of me can stretch like this." She says, gesturing to her footlong finger.
"If that's a ploy to add the Terminator movies to your personal powers training routine..." Jean notes, with a sudden twinkle in her eye. "That just might work. But part of learning control is learning the limits of what you can do. We may have to be careful not to overstress you too much, since I'm not actually sure what you -do- run off, if not food, but we'll see what you can do."
That lengthened finger slowly recalls to its original size, Cessily gently clenching her hand into a fist, nodding her head. "Thats true. I made a joke to the other students the other day, saying that i'll start dripping all over the place." A look of concern crosses her face. "I would really rather not let that happen."
I don't understand that.
"Honestly, I don't think that's all that likely," Jean answers, as firm as a head full of speculation will let her get. "Surface tension alone states that you're more likely to puddle than drip -- it's physics." And ye cannae change t'laws of them, Jim! "To give further pop culture references, you'll probably just lose your shape if you get too exhausted, like Odo on Deep Space Nine. So I think what my next step will be is to figure out just how you're getting energy -- but that can wait."
"Well, I did always drink my ovaltine." She says, grinning slightly, those previous bad thoughts completely shuffled aside. She goes into consideration mode again, tilting her head. "So, if i'm metal all the way through, do I even need to breath? I've just been doing it out of habit. I haven't really attempted holding my breath for long periods of time, but, I might start now."
"I can't say -- you may still be making use of oxygen, after all," Jean answers, with a brief flash of a grin. "But try it and see what happens. Keep a journal, in fact."
Cessily beams at that, nodding her head. "I totally will!" She rather likes having little projects to work on, always the extra-credit student. "Are there any other kinds of tests you want to try?" She asks, sitting up on the bed and crossing her legs, hands resting in her lap.
"To be honest," Jean confesses, with a chuff of a laugh. "I'll have to try and think up what other kinds of tests to -run-. I'll let you know what I come up with, though."
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Friday, September 19, 2008, 8:54 PM
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Interstate to highway... highway to road... road to street. Eventually the road goes from two lane to one lane... and then the pavement becomes gravel, and the gravel becomes dirt. The grass and weeds eventually begin to even take the dirt back. And by the time the old cabin comes into view, the only light besides star light and the moon is the orange flood coming from the front of Logan's bike. He didn't really say where they were going when they left, and the real truth that even he didn't know, taking each turn one at a time as they come, purpose and direction coming out of choices that just seemed random at first, and as he shuts the engine down and passes one of the flashlights back to Jean, the eyes he turns towards the building are curious ones.
The building is extremely old, but well built and has mostly defied nature's attempt to reclaim it back into the land, suffering from a thick growth of vines, but the walls stand firm, and the windows are unbroken. No one has been home for quite a while, though, dust, dead leaves, wasp nests, and bird nests visible even at a casual glance.
Jean has done the impossible and travelled light: a single knapsack is on her shoulders as she dismounts from the bike, stretching and popping the bones of her spine, arms held high for a moment before dropping to her sides as she takes the flashlight and peers around at the quiet industry of the woods at night. The beam of her flashlight travels opposite from Logan's, and the cabin's state earns a small lift of her eyebrows. "Well," she offers, hushed against the noise of frogs and insects. "At least we're likely to have privacy?"
"Sorry Darlin'" Logan offers with a light smile as his attention is drawn away from the building and back to Jean. "Not exactly a resort or nuthin'... " There is a distinct lack of a 'but' following that phrase as Logan begins to pace towards the front porch and to the door that reveals itself to be locked at the first try.
Jean toes cautiously at what proves to be an abandoned wasp nest, paper hexagons crinkling beneath her booted foot as she looks up, looks at Logan, and finds a smile drawn out of her in turn as she looks past the signs of wildlife to the actual bones of the cabin itself. "Privacy... and although I have my pager, I didn't see a single phone line coming in here." she reflects, with greater satisfaction as she follows in his wake. "Could be ideal."
Logan jiggles the handle again. To his dissatisfaction it doesn't simply open because he asked twice. "Compared to some of the places I used to call home, this really is the Hilton." Logan adds with a bit of jest. "And if you'd like, I can find a way to loose that pager for ya, too." His eyes begin to search around the porch for... something, the lights spot dancing across boards and leaves, occasion catching the glimmer of metal poking through rust.
A laugh escapes Jean, and she slips in against Logan's side to wrap an arm around his waist and melt up against him as he searches. "As attractive as that idea sounds," she murmurs, warm breath against the shell of his ear. "I think I'd better decline. But you -do- need to take me out properly hiking, you know," she notes. "And if there's a genuine bearskin rug in there -- because I must say it looks the sort of place -- well, I'm sure we'll find something to do with it."
"I... don't even know what's inside." Logan admits with an odd searching tone in his voice, but it doesn't last long, as Jean's proposal earns a nudge from his nose against her cheek, careful to keep the touch of his stubble to a minimum. "But I'm sure we can make do." And then a thought pushes its way into his mind and he looks oddly to a crack above the door. Reaching his free hand up to dust cobwebs and dust away, a tarnished copper key is found there.
"Oh," says Jean, with a tone of suppressed laughter as she tries for outward solemnity. "An -adventure-." The laughter no longer suppressable, she buries it instead with a quick kiss, and then lays her hand over his to claim the key. "If you want to go see about where the breaker box is for this place, I'll dare the kitchen in there."
"All right, but if I'm not back in five minutes..." Logan teases as he hands over the key to Jean to let her handle the honors, and takes a step back, but not before he runs his hand through her hair and follows up the quick kiss with a second one.
Jean makes sure the second is not at all quick, the flashlight dropping to bob obediently in the air beside her until called upon, as the singing of her blood pokes at mental fires left banked and buried. There is a sudden scuttle of dislodged pine needles from the roof, showering them, before Jean lets him loose to explore further. "Consider that a reason to return with the lights on," she bids, before turning to get the key in the lock, and the door opened with the help of a shoulder-shove.
It is with extreme reluctance that Logan lets go of contact, but eventually he does, and begins moving his light's spot with a new purpose and target. "Well, there is some kinda line coming in here... if you need me..." Logan decides as his light crosses over an extremely old power line tacked to half rotted poles and trees just the same. He uses that as his guide as he steps away and into the dark.
Jean and the kitchen square off, the light from her flashlight revealing an antiquated refrigerator that might still use ice boxes, and a similarly decrepit electric range. Both are unplugged. The refrigerator propped open with a broom, Jean uses the cleaning implement to swing it the rest of the way open...
Just as Logan steps into the dark, he's greeted by a sudden high scream, and a series of rattling thumps.
The porch flashes bright for a split second as Logan's light is dropped, finding its way directly to a rock that shatters its glass and blows its bulb. Heavy boot falls echo loud as he dashes his way across the porch and quickly inside. "Jean? Jean?!..." he calls twice, forgoing the usual nicknames in times of panic.
In the kitchen, a standoff: Jean Grey, competant and trained world-savior, armed with a broom that's held out like a duellist's sword. In the disused refrigerator: a raccoon. A very -grumpy- raccoon.
Logan doesn't even try to hold out the laughter that follows seeing this epic stare down. It comes out loud and booming, but when Logan's composure is regained, he paces softly over to Jean to place a hand on the broom to try and lower it. "Easy Red, take it easy." he cautions, but takes no move at all towards the raccoon.
Jean and the raccoon treat Logan to equal looks of bristly disdain for the laughter, followed by equally dainty and dignified sniffs as they return to their standoff. Jean pokes with the broom. The raccoon churrs warningly. The raccoon snaps. The broom pokes. "-Out-," Jean informs it. "-Shoo-."
The sharp looks turned towards Logan only serve to egg on the spark of laughter again, but this time he has better self control. He works once again to try and separate the two of them, a gentle pull given to Jean, choosing beauty over beast. "C'mon Jean, give him room to jet, don't scare the guy any more." he says outwardly, but as the sense of humor still stays strong, it's a half attempt to break things up at best.
"Scared? I think the word we're looking for is -rabid-!" Jean slanders the poor raccoon, eyeing it with a steady stare even as the touch to her shoulder has the desired effect of moving her away from the fridge. The raccoon snarls again, but with the broom backing away and the refrigerator door beginning to swing shut again, opts to slink out and disappear into the bottom shelf of the pantry. It glowers.
Escaping the concrete jungle does not mean escaping the wildlife.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Saturday, September 20, 2008, 7:14 PM
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=NYC= Upper East Side - Manhattan
Upper East Side oozes affluence. And power. In the nation may be no place richer, and none more important within the world of political funding. This is no place for apartment buildings. This is no place for the lower classes. Here are mansions and here are townhouses, rising with proud expense on either side of the road. Even the museums (which include the Metropolitan Museum of Art) refuse to scatter like common museums, but are largely organized along a stretch of road often referred to as the Museum Mile.
[Exits : [Ha]rlem, [C]entral [P]ark [R]eservoir, [Mid]town, [Qu]eens, [H]ellfire [C]lubhouse, [P]olice [D]epartment, and [L]ennox [H]ill [H]ospital]
Jean Grey is decidedly -not- at a cottage any more. That there are fewer raccoons in refrigerators in this part of Manhattan in no way entirely makes up for this fact. Dressed down somewhat beneath a light jacket worn in deference to the first days of fall, her lack of makeup and general primping sets her aside from some of the Upper East Side crowd in the cafe she's chosen. It rather ties her in with others -- Lennox Hill Hospital is just across the street, and there are many of the medical profession snitching coffee and pastries along with the afflient and the socialites, and the occasional strayed tourists from the Museum Mile. The large mug of coffee before her does somewhat more to salve the situation. As does company.
Elliott had never been at a cottage, and pays no homage to the coming fall, her deep red short-sleeved blouse a bright defiance against the idea that next would be winter, and snow. Her own cup of coffee is held in both hands, and she takes a sip from it, long grey skirt rustling as she shifts aside to allow a little more room for a small knot of museum-goers to cram past, muttering incomprehensibly in ten-dollar words about one display or another, engrossed enough not to notice the world around them. Elliott watches them go, faintly bemused, as though regarding samples of another species. "So, what dragged you back? --Don't tell me the LHC turned Manhattan into a mini black hole."
"It would be difficult to tell the difference in some parts of the island," says Jean, with a rueful smile over a coffee mug cradled in both hands. "But... no. Lennox Hill requested that I come in and earn my salary as a mutant medicine specialist, which is why I'm here, shamelessly calling you up for a coffee."
"Eeek," Elliott says, with a little wince. "Nothing too bad, I hope..." She reviews the day's news. No smoking craters reported. Given the city's occasional disaster-magnet status, that was something, at least.
"I should probably note that my standards for 'too bad' are wildly divergent from normal, in some areas," Jean lays a caveat, with a lift of a pinkie finger. "But even by my standards, it's all right. More a medical mystery than a tragedy -- if you'd asked me yesterday, I'd have told you it was impossible for the human body to mutate to be capable of breathing fire."
Elliott blinks once, slowly, her expression turned mildly baffled. "That's pretty weird," she agrees. "And - ow. That sounds like it would have to hurt. A /lot/, actually." While herself resistant to the effects of flame, a convenient side-benefit to her own mutation, she is still aware of one crucial fact: fire is damned hot.
"What I'm trying to determine is whether they're generating the fire through ignition of some internally-generated fuel source -- the flame colour -could- be hydrogen," she reflects, tone quiet but still not -quite- quiet enough to avoid getting a few curious glances from a peck of residents who've claimed the next table and chairs over. "Or whether this is simply regular pyrokinesis, with the 'breathing fire' a psychological construct--" She stops then, pausing for a moment to shake her head. "I just used the phrase 'regular pyrokinesis', didn't I?"
"You did," Elliott confirmed, swallowing a laugh. "Kind of scary, when it becomes regular. Though, considering..." She hitched one shoulder in a half-shrug, smile quirking slightly wry. When better to talk about regular pyrokinesis than while having coffee with a pyrokinetic, after all? "It'd have to suck up a lot of energy, if they were doing it without any real fuel source," she mused.
"Considering indeed," says Jean, her smile a little less wry this time. She takes a moment to pause, turn, and wave solemnly at the eavesdropping residents, of whom one blushes, one bristles, and one merely smirks and offers a suggestion vis-a-vis hydrogen storage sacs. "Ah," Dr. Grey says, turning back with an appreciative snort. "I saw that Discovery Channel show about dragons too... but you might be right. And happily," she concludes, turning fully back to Elliott, "My young patient isn't going to have to worry about their face on a poster campaign, at least not for now."
"I heard," Elliott replies, with a grin far more enthusiastic than wry. "It's a step in the right direction...and I'd imagine a /lot/ of people are breathing a little easier, at least for the moment."
"Of course a temporary injunction doesn't mean the case will succeed," Jean muses, steepling her fingers once her mug has been set down on the table before her. "And, to be perfectly honest, the burden of proof isn't -nearly- as strong as I'd like it to be, but if the DA won't file criminal charges, which I think -could- be made to stick..." She trails off, picks up the coffee mug again, and mingles a grin and a sigh. "I think I'll just celebrate the small victory we've got. But yes. Firebreathing teenagers are why I'm not in the middle of no-where with a boyfriend and a wood fire."
"If it wasn't them, it'd be something else," Elliott replies, the response skewed a little away from her typical optimism. "Unfortunately, the root cause is a lot harder to manage than the symptoms..." She sips her coffee, and grins a little over the rim of the cup. "Teenaged fires just don't stack up to campfires, huh?"
"Alas, no," Jean sighs, and because Elliott is not her best friend, and because this is a public space with eavesdropping medical residents, she does not elabourate. But then, does she really need to? "So," she steers the subject back. "I think I owe you some thanks for getting me the names to give to the lawyer-creatures."
Elliott is a modern creature, and aware of what couples are apt to do when away from the prying eyes of others. Elaboration is entirely unnecessary. Regarding the list, she just smiles slightly and shakes her head. "There's none needed. It was something that needed to be dealt with; I'm just glad I could help." She hesitates, about to continue, then opts instead to drink more coffee. Mmm, caffeinated avoidance.
"Your help was critical -- don't sell it short." Sensing avoidance without any need for telepathy at all, Jean counters it with a return to her own coffee, letting silence spin out for a time.
"I'm not. I just..." Elliott shrugs, looking faintly sheepish. "I had to do something, and getting you those names was the most productive way." She peers into her coffee for several moments. Perhaps it holds the secret of the meaning of life at the bottom! At length, though, she says, "Don't suppose you could put me in contact with a good civil attorney? I /did/ know one, but he ran off to some commune to hide from the end of the world and...well, we're kind of all afraid to go dig him out."
"Oh," says Jean, struck by the last mental image. "Dear." This highly WASPish statement made, she lifts her coffee mug to hide a smile behind, and reflects with twinkling eyes that "I'm sure he'll turn up again in February... or when their toilet paper runs out. But sure, I know a few," she offers, shifting to settle more comfortably in her seat. "Can I be nosy and ask what you want one for? Some are better at some areas than others."
"My bet's on mid-October," Elliott says gravely, though there is a faintly impish glint in her eyes. "/Naked/ commune. --But it's for a wrongful dismissal suit. Those test results finally did come back."
Jean's expression is immediately transformed into a wince. "Ouch," she says. "Sorry... and in that case, I'm pointing you at a couple people I know with ACLU ties."
"Thanks." Elliott smiles a little ruefully, gaze dropping to the table. "I don't know if it will go through, but... Given what my job was and what I can do, it's definitely just genetics that influenced the decision."
The residents decamp. Whether this has to do with a late-blooming bit of remorse at eavesdropping, or whether some subtle suggestion from the telepath with a coffee mug has anything to do with it is anyone's guess. Jean merely sips her coffee and comments on it not at all. There's a vague attempt at a crooked smile offered, along with "Now, granted, when my computer's been misbehaving, there's been a compelling temptation to apply a little telekinetic smackery to it. But -really-," she concludes, with a bit of a sniff. "I wish your suit to prosper, and I'll go bother some lawyers."
Elliott laughs, though there is an edge of strain that makes it clear that it is more an attempt to keep hold of her usual good spirits than actual presence of the same. "I have it on good authority that sometimes a good smack does wonders. I don't think they can really make a case for literal firewalls, though." She snorts quietly, running one hand through her hair. "Maybe I should go join a commune. --But, thank you. I hate to impose."
"Hardly an imposition," Jean is predictably quick to assure, green eyes steady and piercing on Elliott's face for a moment, before she, too, tries for lightness. "Besides, considering I'm the one who texted because I'm stuck at the hospital, I'd say the imposition is on -my- side of things."
Elliott's laughter this time is a little more honest, and she shakes her head slightly. "Employed or otherwise, I'm still a computer geek. I'm not about to turn down any excuse to top up my caffeine stream. After all, if I'm not careful, some actual /blood/ might creep in there."
"Oh, we can't have -that-," Jean chuckles, a laugh won from her in turn. "After years of its absence, you might develop an allergic response if it starts coming back again... and more seriously," she notes, tone smoothing out accordingly, "If you need a temporary contract, the school has been looking for a sysadmin for our network for some months now -- as you can imagine, security is always fun for us."
"I'll bet," says Elliott, wincing a little in sympathy. "I'm not in dire straits - I kind of got used to living a little below my means in college, so I've got a decent amount saved up. But I could use the challenge, if you do need someone - and to be honest, the job market's got me a little nervous." She does not mention the fear that her genetic status might make it difficult to find employment, now that it has already lost her one job. It is clear in the note of worry in her tone, however, and the slightly defeated slump to her shoulders.
"I'll email you the job requirements, and you can see if they're to your liking," Jean offers, and looks about to say more when the small black devil-box clipped to a belt loop begins to buzz importantly. She mutters something unprintable. "...after I get done here today. -Thank- you for coming."
Elliott's smile is a bit easier now. "It was good seeing you again. And...thanks." It is left general. There are several things to thank the good doctor for, after all! Her glance towards the pager is sympathetic and a little wry. "Good luck."
The concrete jungle is not so easily escaped! (But there are indeed fewer fridge raccoons.)