Log: Tobias
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Sunday, September 21, 2008, 9:19 AM
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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.
[Exits : [H]allway and [B]ack [P]atio]
Sunday morning may mean church for some, cartoons for others, and sleeping in for still more, but one unifying fact of life at Xavier's School is that it also means a full country breakfast, for those who can rouse themselves to partake of it. Thus, 9:30 AM finds one Jean Grey lurking in the kitchens, claiming a chair at the island that has been claimed since girlhood as she watches the bacon frying and the hash browns browning, and considers the risks of filching some from beneath Madame Vargas' watchful eye. The Jean of eleven did not drink coffee. The Jean of thirty-seven does.
Tobias has been up for some time, a few hours even, for a morning run and to allow plenty of time to get ready for an actual day. Finally, he's gotten around to breakfast. He has a plate, covered the variety of breakfast available to him, and decides on a place at the island. "Morning," he greets, well awake and in good spirits.
"Morning," Jean greets, with a lift of her coffee cup, and a brief pause in her staring stalk of the bacon in the frying pan. "Made it in time for the first shift, did you?" she wonders, with a little nod to the plate.
"Usually do," Tobias says with a hint of pride in that fact. He seems to be in a conundrum now, trying to decide what to eat first. "I, uh, see you picked up Noriko," he comments, studying his plate and trying to figure out just where to begin.
"I envy you," Jean says, although notably without envy. "I start every Sunday morning with the intention of making the first shift, and usually end up sidetracked to the point of Madame Vargas sending me a covered tray... but yes," she confirms. "Yes we did. Professor Munroe and I managed to find her, and then Ororo was able to keep pace with her until we could get her out of range of the power grid."
Tobias decides finally and has taken to downing some toast while he listens. He nods, swallowing his bite, and gesturing with his hand that he's about to speak. "Saw the gloves you have her outfitted with. Those are, those are pretty cool. Glad to see you got her not so, haywire. And clean. That's a plus too."
"Oh, that's nothing to do with us," Jean murmurs, eyeing the frying bacon with the longing of a cat that's scented an unwary mouse. (Or bacon. Curie the calico cat has been banned from the kitchen on pain of broom-swatting.) "Or, well, the gloves are, but with her mutation held in check, the lack of haywire and the addition of clean are all her own choices."
"Frankly, though, I can't believe what she was saying about her father. Just seems cold, to me," Tobias goes on, noticing the bacon stare, going from professor to pork product and back again. "What was that about watched pots again?"
"Mm," says Jean, absent as the bacon hisses and curls in the pan. "You're lucky in that while your father is, ah, a real character," she settles on a description for Ryder Sr. "He's willing to accept that you are still his son. His world has enough flex in it to handle a change in plans like X-factor mutation. Not everyone's does."
"Yeah," Tobias agrees, distant sounding as he plays with the food on his plate. "He's been bugging me lately, though. About last year and what I'm doing and where I'm going to go. He's not happy I still don't know. Talking about 'waiting until the last minute' and 'not capitalizing on my recent successes'."
"Parents," Jean notes with an odd curve of her mouth, "Often worry that their children on the edge of adulthood are going to somehow miss things that they wouldn't miss if -they- were them. It's part of the joy of learning to let go, the knowing that, with your experience at living, you could do more, but knowing that soon it's not going to be your decision any more."
"Ahuh," Tobias says, nodding a little bit and becoming interested in the rest of his food. "I'll, I'll tell him that and see how well it goes over," he says with a grin, popping a left over bit of hash brown into his mouth.
A chuckle escapes from Jean, as the absent stare resolves into a piece of bacon making a telekinetic escape and zooming over to join her at her seat. It alights delicately on a paper napkin pulled loose to recieve it. There is a longsuffering sigh and a mutter in Hungarian from Madame Vargas -- Jean is too big to whap across the knuckles with a spoon, now. "In general, I'd advise against mild psych analysis. Just go on with your own plans," she counsels, before lifting an eyebrow. "Ah... that is assuming you still have some."
Tobias sighs, watching the telekinetic bacon theft with amusement that he just isn't that up to showing. "Huh," he mutters, looking back to the professor and blinking a moment. "Oh, yeah, I still do. I think. Search and rescue could be something I help out with, but I think in the end I'm just going to end up with business. I don't know if I want to stay around here, and keep interning with Mister Stark, or head out somewhere else."
"Stark Industries -would- look quite good on your resume," Jean says, munching and crunching through the bacon as Tobias talks, and blotting her fingertips delicately on the napkin as she answers. "Not to mention the angle that Mr. Stark's views on the mutant issue would probably help balance out the 'Xavier's School' in the Education section. But are you thinking of a B.Comm, then?"
"Yeah, pretty much," Tobias answers with a nod. "That and, in a lot of cases, I agree with mister Stark's view of mutants." he admits, shrugging slightly. "I mean, I accept what I am, I like being able to do what it is I do, but I see his concern, and that there are a lot of dangers out there. Intentional or not."
"As Ms. Ashida has so recently demonstrated," Jean murmurs, and resumes eyeing the bacon. "Happily, she managed to get herself to the right place to get help with that, but I'm pleased with the Sentinel suit program myself, provided it's used wisely. Stark could do with being a little more informed about telepaths, mind... but that's more of a personal bit of crankiness. So. Interning with Stark. Just be careful to keep him and Professor Forge separated."
"I mentioned telepaths to him after that little photo shoot after the Pegasus mission," Tobias says, "Not really sure if he listened or not." He thinks for a moment, tapping on the table. "Barring potential ego issues, I think putting up a think tank of those two could do some good."
"Not ego. Professor Forge's history," Jean answers, green eyes sharpening a moment. "Have you ever heard how he came to us?"
"I meant Mister Stark," Tobias corrects, "But no, I haven't heard. I'm interested, if you're willing."
"The majority of it is Professor Forge's to tell," Jean cautions, reaching over to snag a pear from a fruit bowl that shares the island with them. She bounces it in the palm of her hand, then sets it down to drink more coffee before continuing. "His previous employer before us was a weapons manufacturer. He was lodged in a bunker, and lost his arm in an explosion related to his, ah, leavetaking from the company, who were, shall we say, reluctant to let him go. That's why the cybernetic replacement, and why I try to keep Professor Forge separate from the Merchant of Death. Stark is not his ex-employers, but I do question just how aware he is of the consequences of his toys."
Tobias nods, listening intently and leaving his food completely alone for the moment. "I see. I think mister Stark knows what his equipment does. I think it's more of a matter of a necessary evil." The teen sighs, nodding in relent. "I understand, though. Stark invents things, people die, not always bad people. It's a shame though, both could be using their talent for more, well, pro-active things."
"I admit," Jean allows, "That a rogue Stark Industries missile taking out the apartment I was renting to Norah, while I was out of Earth's orbit, has left me even more jaded than usual." There's a brief and dry twitch of her lips from over her coffee mug. "It's less the invention and more the wild profits that concern me. When you reduce lives to dollar figures, it becomes easy to be... blindered. And on Forge's part, when you reduce weapons to interesting theoretical exercises, it becomes even easier. They're both brilliant. They could both use some oversight," she concludes. "And only Professor Forge is getting it."
"You can hardly fault him for the actions of extremists," Tobias states. "They killed two of his employees and stole that missile. And not too long ago probably the same group killed a few more to rob one of his trucks." Tobias drums on the table quietly and absently. "If it were a mutant that for one moment, lost control, and cause that explosion, would you feel the same way?" he asks quietly, looking down and then back to the professor.
"And how were they able to use the missile after it was stolen?" Jean's eyebrow is arched slightly. "I don't normally expect people to have a plan for every contingency, but a weapon of that magnitude ought to come with a few failsafes."
"Explosives knowledge is limited only to engineers?" Tobias questions in turn. "When people want something bad enough, they will find ways to accomplish it. Besides, similar reasoning could be used to argue for mutant registration."
"Modern missiles involve a great deal of computing power and code. Without that, they're just a simple bomb," Jean answers, and takes a bite from her pear. "There is a difference between 'people will find a way' and 'people will find a way, so why bother?'"
"A simple bomb is all you need, and a missile's warhead is both big and ready made. It's not like they had to launch it from a pad. Sneak in the explosive component and find a way to detonate it and that's that," Tobias continues to defend. He smiles and shakes his head. "Again, same can be said of mutants. Fault those psychos who stole the bomb, not mister Stark for building it."
"Sneaking in the explosives ups the chances of being caught," Jean disagrees, with a small shake of her head in turn. "It's the same reason we have cameras in the woods and a guard on our gate, Tobias. They won't stop a determined assault on the school, but not having them would be irresponsible. Stark isn't to blame for the deaths, but his company was irresponsible in their missile designs."
"They killed two people to steal it, do you think a couple of people in an apartment building would have really stopped them?" Tobias asks. "And you never answered my question. If it were a mutant that did that, one that say, was irresponsible in not not trying to get control of themselves, that detonated that apartment, or torched it, would you still feel the same way?"
"Yes," Jean says simply. "If they were in a position to obtain that control, and opted not to, it's just as irresponsible."
"Then that's what matters," Tobias judges, going back to his plate. "Mister Stark isn't happy about what happened either. He doesn't like people killing his employees, or blowing up buildings, especially with his own equipment, and practically in his name."
"So, what's he going to do to make it harder for them next time?" Jean wonders, with a flick of an eyebrow. "I'm sure he appreciates you defending him, Tobias, but don't be blinded by hero-worship into thinking his company, which he's the head of, couldn't have done better."
"All he can. I'm an intern, not his best friend," Tobias points out. "It's not hero worship. I just see too many people getting stupidly bitter about things and not putting enough distance to think clearly about matters. This goes for both sides of the issue."
"So you would say that I'm not thinking clearly?" Jean's tone is mild, mild as she sips at her coffee.
"I think you know I am not saying that," Tobias responds, looking flat. "You're just the last person I want to see thinking like that. If you're so concerned, don't sit here and talk with a teenager about how he could have done better, and how he could have done things. Call him, talk to him yourself. I'm sure you still have his number."
"Tobias, you're having a slight consistancy problem," Jean points out. "You can't bring up the idea of a think tank pairing Stark and Professor Forge, ask questions about why I disagree with your viewpoint, and then chide me for talking to you about them."
"Topics change. We had left talking about why the pairing wasn't feasible and had gone onto the topic of Tony Stark's handling of an unfortunate situation," Tobias says in turn. "I hardly have any problem with why those two can't work, though I still find it unfortunate. My point of contention came afterwards."
"So I'm being chided for... disagreeing with your assessment of his handling of things?" Jean wonders, with her eyebrows still arched and a slight twinkle to her eyes, quickly suppressed. "Tobias, there's nothing wrong with hashing out the handling of a situation. If neither of us knew Stark at all, it would still be fair game, because there are lessons that can be learned from it. That I can choose to call him up and tell him what he's doing wrong -- not that I think he'd be receptive to that -- doesn't mean we can't still talk."
"When a disagreement starts to boil down to me being accused of hero worship and insinuations that I'm saying you're not thinking," Tobias says, shaking his head and adjusting his glasses, "Then it ceases to be a discussion of points and a non productive series of passive aggressive insults."
"I see," says Jean, and, with a twitch of her eyebrows, returns to her coffee.
Tobias looks down at his food and prods at it. He looks to the professor and then to his plate. The left over food it pushed around a bit before the teen just snorts. "Fuck it," he mutters angrily and takes the plate up before heading out the door.
"Tobias," Jean calls over from where she sits. "Poking at what look like generalizations and logic holes isn't passive aggression, or meant to be insulting. I'm your teacher. I don't need to insult you," she sums up. "I -do- need to make sure you're going out into the world with your eyes open." She makes no move to draw him back.
"My eyes are open, professor Grey," Tobias says, stopping in the door. No need for moves to pull him back, he's capable of doing that on his own. "But all you ever said was 'he could have done better'. I've heard those words my whole life. With everything I've ever done. They're empty, they're meaningless, and they're easy. They're the words people use when they want to cut, but have no reasonable solution of their own," he says, very bitter, and very quiet.
"I'm not your father, Tobias," Jean states quietly.
"I'm well aware," Tobias states in turn. "That doesn't change anything. The words still mean nothing. The words still don't do anything but cut with no help. How would you feel if someone told you that you could have done better up there. That if you had done better, Jubilee wouldn't have died."
"I actually had a few suggestions, such as why wasn't there a software solution to render the missile unlaunchable in the wrong hands," Jean notes, but her eyes grow cool at the example. "And although I did my best, and can say that, if NASA had a better way of measuring asteroid density, the fragment storm she saved us from wouldn't have happened. That may be a case where no-one could have done better," she states. "Ultimately, the missile may have been stolen whatever the safeguards. But if I, who have no engineering training, can think of a way that would have helped hinder the attempt, then yes, Stark Industries could have done better."
Tobias seems unimpressed. "Yes, of course you did your best. It's NASA's fault. It's Tony Stark's fault," he says with all the joy of a deflated balloon. "I'm sure your solution would have saved the day too. After all, you always do your best."
"Tobias--" Jean directs, all the humour draining away and a sharp frustration underpinning her tone as the teenager continues to Not Get It. "This isn't about your father's standards for you, or trying to beat down those who are -trying their best-. Trying your best is for tests and assignments and games of baseball. When you step into an arena where you are taking others' lives in your hands, you open yourself up for criticism. I, personally, feel that my honour is intact when it comes to Jubilee. Others disagree. Stark may feel he has nothing to answer for. I disagree."
Tobias takes his glasses off and snorts quietly. "And clearly, the only way to defend against that criticism is to blame others and stand by the thought that you're correct. I understand, doctor, I get it very well now. Thank you for teaching me."
"Tobias, dial down the prickle and dial up the listening," Jean requests, one hand pressing to her temple and rubbing gently. Madame Vargas sets down a plate of food at her elbow, but resumes her cookly policy of ignoring the goings-on. (This is perhaps why the woman remains sane.) "Sometimes blame falls on you and you deserve it -- if it turns out the precautions I've taken with my mutant mice aren't enough, and the New York City rodents develop mutant powers, that is going to be all on my shoulders. Sometimes it doesn't. Doesn't mean that people aren't allowed to criticize either way."
Tobias refuses, for the most part, to dial down his prickliness. He stands stalwart, but he does listen. "Yes," he finally says after a moment of quiet deliberation. "And I'm still aloud to criticize pointless and ineffectual criticism for being just that."
"And I'm allowed to think you're being unreasonable for deciding it's pointless and ineffectual," Jean answers in turn. "So, there we go, freedom of speech hurrah, and do you want a muffin?" Indeed, a basket of cornmeal ones is being removed from tins.
Tobias crosses his arms at the offer of a muffin. He is trying, so very, very hard, not to laugh at the apparent to him absurdity of the situation. "No," he manages, having to turn and leave to 'save face'.
"They're non-partisan muffins, you know," Jean informs.
Young people!
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Sunday, September 21, 2008, 2:12 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]
[Players : Emma ]
The cafe is small, but good, and decorated with the quiet money that befits the Upper East Side. Equidistant between Lennox Hill Hospital and the Hellfire Club, it is neutral ground with the happy addition of fresh buttered scones that North and South Korea is entirely lacking. At a table near a window sits one Jean Grey, idly watching passerby. Her mind is half-furled, screening out the most intrusive of strayed thoughts while keeping the idle watch with more metaphorical vision as well. There is a pot of tea in front of her, the cups yet unpoured.
It's as if she were /waiting/ for Emma. How positively providential, especially considering where Emma is coming from. Sunday morning is one of the quiet spots in her day, and occasionally she fills it with a trip to church. Don't gasp. There are no scorch marks on her crisp, clean white suit. There is even a hat. It's an old, established, respectable church, filled with many of the City's influential. Emma steps inside the cafe, a popular stop for many patrons after services let out, the wide brim of her hat sweeping this way and that as she determines if there is an opportunity today. Her gaze lights on Jean, and briefly, something dark and hungry and angry flares. She stuffs the reaction behind thickly blank walls, pastes a smile on her face, and winds her way to Jean's table. "Darling," she greets happily as she slides into the seat opposite Jean.
Darkness, meet light. A fine edge of flame limns Jean's thoughts at Emma's greeting, before it's hurriedly extinguished and a matching smile fished up. "Confession good for the soul?" she inquires, the skim of her mind against Emma's a mere telepathic courtesy call. "I've been ministering to the halt and the lame, and thought I ought to take a break for tea before walking on water. And I just -happened- to be in your neighbourhood."
"The East River runs right behind the clubhouse. You should start there," Emma chirps, all smiles and telepathic glitter--like the sunlight off a field of day old, undisturbed snowfall. She reaches up to pull a hatpin from the brim of the hat, and pull it free. It snags a few fine pieces of hair as it goes, but she smoothes those down quickly.
"Ah, but efforts at pollution control aside, is it -really- miraculous if one is simply stepping from garbage raft to garbage raft?" Jean wonders, with a smile warmed by a low and well-banked fire that hisses and crackles gently with her thoughts, melting at that untouched snow. "Tea?" she queries, lifting the pot and gesturing at the second of two cups and saucers before her. "Of course, if you're looking for -real- miracles, I had quite a curious one come dithering into my clinic the other day."
"Please." The snow crackles and hisses, but reinforces itself. Much like her expression, which remains fixed and unusually pleasant. She takes the indicated cup with one hand and reaches for the small jug of cream with the other. Cup set in place in front of her, she adds the ingredients for a proper cup of tea in order-- cream, four lumps of sugar, then holds the saucer and cup up for Jean to pour. "I am always looking for /real/ miracles. The touch of the Divine is such a comfort, isn't it?"
The brew is dark, piping and pleasant, bergamot scenting the air around the little table as the Earl Grey finds its new home. Jean takes her tea with similar sugar, but with no milk and a splash of lemon. "To the faithful a comfort," she muses. "To the sinner, a lash. The busy Dr. Maxwell seemed more sinner than saint, I'm afraid."
"Only saints and the faithful at this table." If Emma's smile gets any wider, it may crack her face. She stirs her tea thoughtlessly, her mind fairly pulsing with light and cheer, though it comes with a sharp edge to it--a winter day's breath stealing wind. "Maxwell? Oh!" She leans forward slightly. "You don't mean /Leonardo/?"
"The Ninja Turtle himself," Jean confirms, after a moment's shared mental image attempts to pair him with the Master Artist... and fails, in a series of amused little hiccups of thought. Ting-ting-ting goes her spoon against her teacup, tapping off excess liquid after a good stir. The continued smile earns a moment's flicker of bemusement -- did Emma just get back from shagging a priest? -- before she buries it in good tea, and further conversation. "Looked an absolute -mess- when he shambled in. I'd ask what you'd been doing to the poor man, but..."
Emma is all innocence. "Me? Oh, Jean, /dearest/. Mr. Maxwell is perfectly capable of messing and shambling about on his own." Jean's mental image is tipped over, tied up, and spun around. She takes a sip of tea and approves.
"Deception is darling on you as always, Emma," Jean practically chirps in reply, resting her elbows to each side of her teacup, and her chin pertly on folded hands, "But -really- now. It doesn't take CSI to notice fingerprints like that."
[Public] Hannah stretches. Hi.
Emma's eyes widen over the rim of the teacup. She lowers the veil of lashes and sets the china down firmly on the table before flicking a mischievous glance back up. "Thank you. So nice to know you've noticed." A dimple /almost/ tucks into the corner of her mouth.
"Oh, you know I follow your work with great interest," Jean assures, with a little flick of her head that chases away strands of bright auburn hair that have escaped from the butterfly clip that struggles to contain them. She is not dressed for church, but for hospital work, and her beauty of a much more casual mode as a result. "But really, you -should- be more careful with your toys. I kept your secret all locked up in his diary still, but locks -do- break down, over time."
"You are so /sweet/, Jean," Emma trills girlishly, leaning forward again. "I will keep a closer eye on the poor dear in the future. Between the two of us, I'm sure we can keep him... subdued." The echo of Leo's thoughts from the day before whisper across the snow banks of her mind. CANDLEWAX.
Mouth opening for another sally, the whispered echo results not in speech, but in the sudden click of a lifted teacup being unceremoniously set back down on its saucer again. "Oh," says Jean, eyes alight with mingled delight and horror. "My goodness."
Emma settles back with an expression a little more natural to her, satisfaction woven through with vindictive enjoyment. She lets her eyes drop to her own teacup which is now quite calmly risen to her lips. << I must admit, given a choice between you or Elisabeth Braddock... >> She lets that statement trail off provocatively.
<< I'd be the one with more finesse. >> Jean answers in turn, with a lift of her eyebrows and a return to her tea sipping. "He really -is- ever-hopeful about you, though," she picks up the thread of spoken conversation again, perhaps just a touch -too- swift, and with just a hint more colour to her cheeks. "No doubt it will get him into trouble, as hope seems to overrule sense. He knows," she states simply. "And while he can't speak of it now, no doubt he'll burble to -someone-."
<< Well. Yes. >> Emma agrees archly, a glint in her eye that is entirely too considering given these women's history. "What would you suggest I do?" she replies in kind. "I beg of you not to suggest I /encourage/ his hopeful fantasies. That would be far too... devious of you." She presses the tip of her tongue to the bow of her upper lip, licking a spot of sugared tea away. << Besides, if I encourage that one, it will no doubt feed others. >>
"Just try and be a little more delicate next time," Jean suggests, with the mildly pained look of a woman whose neighbour's poodle has just dug up a peony plant. "I'd have thought you'd have learned from our dear friend Christopher that it's easier to not let them suspect than to keep trying to rewrite things. And Leonardo doesn't seem to have quite Chris's resilience." An image of a fine swiss cheese on a plate, anthropomorphized to have subtle qualities of Maxwell about it, is offered up for Emma's delectation.
Emma's nose wrinkles and she waves a telepathic hand through the image to disperse it. "You're right, of course," she agrees reasonably (wtf?). "I simply lost my temper with him. He is an odious little toad. It was nothing more than damage control."
There's another clink of china at this reasonable agreement. (WTF indeed!) Jean recovers more smoothly this time, and inhales a warm breath of Earl Grey ahead of another sip of it. "I wouldn't be quite so harsh in my wording, but I can sympathize with the sentiment," she offers in her own touch of reasonable. "Of course, he's also a loose cannon, getting looser. I believe I'm mostly over my desires to take what I know of you and ruin your life with it. I do hope he doesn't end up so full of holes that he does the same accidentally."
"Oh, don't worry. I will come up with a more permanent solution if that appears to be on the horizon." Emma is /so/ beneficent.
"Ah, but you see, then -I'd- have to do something about that, since I'd know enough to have to share suspicions, and it would just be so much work..." With a sigh and another toss of her hair, Jean buries the threat in a tone of vague ennui, layered like a cream torte over surface thoughts that are a mingling of warning and an odd and subtle sense of familiarity and comfort.
Emma purses her lips and curls the edges of her mouth upward. << Don't worry, darling. I'll do it in such a way that you won't have to worry about that nasty compulsion. There are enough people who have a grudge against darling Leo. >> Her voice is pitched low and knowing, the touch of telepathy wiping away the need to actually /refer/ to the totality of his history.
"So thoughtful," Jean murmurs, with a soft snort of laughter.
Emma beams brightly and insincerely as she sets her cup down. "My pleasure. Excellent tea."
"They offer packages of the house blend for sale at the cash," Jean notes, with a slight nod towards the racks of gleaming foil packages of loose leaf. "But don't let me keep you -- I'm sure you have other people besides our Lord and Savior in your daytimer."
"Oh, indeed," Emma laughs, picking up her hat and belongings, and shifting sideways so she can rise. "Delightful to see you again, Jean. We /must/ do this again soon. Come by the Club. We can play catchup." << Among other things. >> A mental image of Leo peering through the wrought iron gates as Jean and Emma enter the front door floats across, buoyed by the soft laughter of twisted pleasure. She winks down at Jean and turns to shimmy her way through the tables and out the door.
Now somethin' about this is just downright unsettlin'.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Sunday, September 21, 2008, 5:41 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.
[Exits : [Li]brary]
Busy Jean is Busy! (She can has cheezburger, too.) Morning arguments with students, afternoon hospital consultations and tea with the (White) Queen -- the day of rest that is Sunday is turning out rather... not. Dr. Grey has perforce retreated to her office, where the sounds of quickly-clattering keys can be heard. The door remains half-open, for all her retreating, indicating that she's in for visitors to bother.
Even Hannah's knock on the door sounds Sullen Teenager. The teen in question only pauses a millisecond before entering, a crumpled up bit of paper in her hands. "Dr. Grey?" she queries, dubiously. "I'm Hannah Greenlowe-Grace?" she says in question form, the tragic liguistic uncertainty common to all teens everywhere.
Typity-typity-typity-PAUSE. Jean looks up from her flatscreen, eyes thoughtfully narrow behind reading glasses, and because she is used to the ways of teens does not offer a dryly worded 'Are you sure?' in response. What she -says- is "Come in, Hannah. Anything I can help you with?"
Hannah glances again at the paper in her hand, then back at Jean's door as though checking for a name, before shoving it deep in to the back pocket of her jeans. She moves sort of halfway into the room, then stops again. "You know my mom? Marie Greenlowe? She said I should," she waves a hand, taking the opportunity to examine the office. "Stop by to say hello for her."
It is a very office-like office, in the style of grand old mansions and boarding schools. A new art installation that hasn't made it into the desc yet takes the form of three framed legal citations beside two framed medals, and is tucked in between the ficus plant and the window. The meaning is unknown. "I do indeed," she confirms with a smile, and a wave towards one of the free chairs. "We went to Harvard together, and kept in touch since... is she still obsessed with slipping wheatgrass into everything?"
Hannah's eye lingers on the Harvard diploma. She nods vaguely at the confirmation of this, moving toward a chair before Jean's comment sinks through to her brain and she turns sharply to Jean. "What?" Half of a smile appears, and with it half of her dimples. "Yeah. I've got an entire suitcase full've shit like wheatgrass and vitamin C."
Jean does not wholly suppress a shudder. "You have my sympathies," she states with a solemn look entirely ruined by a pair of twinkling green eyes. "Although you may want to keep the vitamin C once cold season starts up -- dorm life seems to be one long cycle of sneezes, at least from where I'm sitting as school doctor."
Hannah's grin fades, but her overall demeanor seems to have melted a bit. "I got enough to last until I'm ninety," she assures, sounding glum. "So," she continues after a brief moment. "Do you have my schedule or whatever? I got my room assignment in the mail, but nothing about classes..."
"Drat," says Dr. Grey, with a chuff of a sigh and the explanation of "We've been having some trouble with the email system lately -- what with the Pegasus II mission, security's been set high, and so it's eating a few things as a result... here, hang on, I'll look you up in the system. Do you remember any of the classes you picked?"
Pegasus II, sure, of course. Hannah looks blank, and uncurious. "Dunno. My parents did it. Trig, or something. Some English class. Um." She pauses, holding out a hand and reapeating these quietly to herself as she ticks them off. "PE," she makes a face at this. "History. Uh." She pauses, four fingers held up. "I forget. There's something else." She counts off her fingers again with a frown. "Oh! Physics?"
Jean spots the face, and notes from where she's typing away that "If you're not looking for self-defense or other classes, I -could- transfer your PE credit over to the horsemanship course. If you like horses." Tappity-tappity-tappity "Aha, there you are"
"You have /horsemanship/ as a class?" Hannah sounds more surprised than anything. "Yeah, sure, I guess. It'd be better than push-ups." Hannah does it, it is true, look like someone fond of push-ups. "Do we have to wear the weird outfits?"
"The stables are along the path to the lake," is Jean's answer, in between another two series of keystrokes. "And no, the weird outfits are only if you decide to compete. Otherwise, boots with at least a half inch heel, and jeans with a minimal inside seam should do it." (Unsurprisingly, Jean Grey appears to be the type of person who rides.) "And... there," she pronounces, as the printer on her desk begins to work away. "You'll want to take a remedial ground class down at the barn before joining the rest of the horsemanship class -- safety concerns."
"Okay." Hannah takes the schedule as it finishes printing and stares down at it. "Hunh. Well," is her comment. "I left all my stuff outside my room," she says, apropos of nothing. "Kid who helped me said my roommate was probably sleeping. But I guess I should go put it away."
"I'll have Professor Starhunt email you," Jean assures, naming, apparently, the horsemanship instructor. "And... feel free to stop by if you ever need to talk," she offers, a little more diffidently as she studies Hannah. "Xavier's can take a bit of getting used to."
"Yeah," Hannah says dryly. "I hear my roommate's purple." She folds the schedule into uneven quarters and as she stands she tucks it into her back pocket along with the other paper. "I'll be fine. But, uh," she hesitates briefly. "Thanks anyway." She half-gestures at the door, asking permission to leave.
"I do mean it," Jean reiterates, before giving a little nod and a finger-sweep towards the door. Dismissed!
Hannah nods dutifully. "Thanks," she repeats, before turning at the door and making her escape.
Welcome to Mutant High.