Logs: Storm, Casteneda, Elliott
FROM: drgrey@x-school.edu
TO: STAFF@listserv.x-school.edu
Subject: New Sysadmin Hired
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Typing this from my laptop, so I'll keep it short. I've hired Marieta Elliott on as a temporary sysadmin for us on a six month starter contract. Convinced she's neither going to try and sleep with recently graduated students, or try and download the entire internet, so that, paired with her resume, leaves me comfortably convinced we might be able to keep a couple steps ahead of the internet trolls.
Also, did anyone else's computer break this morning?
Jean
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X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Saturday, October 04, 2008, 7:54 PM
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=NYC= The Bay Horse - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
A large room with a mixture of a modern bar and the pub environment present back in England. In the far corner from the door is a small stage with the PA system already set up and a lone mic standing there, ready for karaoke nights and visiting music alike. There's also a fireplace with a mantel with a couple of horsehoes like most English pubs have, along with older looking wooden tables with wooden seats surrounding them, of no particular pattern or style. A long bar stretches across an entire wall: behind it are many wierd and wonderful bottles of spirits and mixers and several large casks of import ale. Behind the bar is a door labeled 'Employees Only' and another opposite the entrance that indicates the beer garden. A sign in the window says, NO MUTANTS.
OOC Note: If you are a physical mutant, an obvious mutant, or a well-known mutant, expect to be shown the door.
[Exits : [O]ut]
Eight PM on a Saturday evening is too early for bar-hopping, but is a most excellent time for a bit of pub-trawling for the casual drinker. (The serious ones started at noon.) One Jean Grey, co-savior of the world from asteroids and mutanty-mutant in the extreme, is currently wandering towards the entrance of the pub with just a bit too much careful study to her posture to be entirely casual. "I admit," she murmurs to the woman walking with her, flicking a glance to the No Mutants sign that stares out from the pub window, "It was a bit easier doing this the first time, when the point was to get arrested."
Ororo's long white hair is braided, and there is a barette in it in the shape of a dolphin. It is not immediately apparent why. Shrugging her shoulders with the slow curve of a smile, she says, "I am the same person I was the last time they threw me out of here." Her skirt swishes around her knees as she walks, boot heels clicking lightly over the sidewalk. "Think of it as testing their recall."
Do dolphins really need explanations? Jean's own hair is loose, the better for her to run an absent hand through it in a bit of fidgeting as they draw closer, and then enter entirely. "Well, there is that," she admits. "But it's a -little- unsettling to be so directly trying to use the Pegasus mission as currency for social change. I can hear Rossi maing remarks now." Happily, as that particular cop is not in the cop bar at the moment, not literally. Jean's shoulders square beneath the armour of a leather jacket and a wine red blouse, and she steers carefully for the bar.
"I can usually hear Rossi making remarks." Ororo's intonation is bland, desert dry with humor lurking in the glint of her eyes. "I wouldn't treat it as much of a deterrent. I have a reasonably effective way of stopping his mouth." Ha ha. Such a mature, restrained sense of humor. She swings the door open with a certain deliberate flair, pulling it wide as she strides blithely on in. "Bar?" she asks Jean with her voice raised to carry in the murmuring noise of a Saturday evening, turning a hand in a sweeping gesture to indicate the world of the pub as their oyster insofar as seating to invade is concerned.
The Bay Horse is pretty well populated, since it is prime pub-crawl time, after all. There is a general din of conversation filling the atmosphere and beers are being imbibed. In general, it's a bar on a Saturday night. Jean Grey and Ororo Munroe are not, at first glance, a cause for alarm. A pair of women. However, all it takes is one whisper for hushed conversations to begin sparking up. People take sidelong glances, other people cover their mouths while saying quiet things.
"I -really- needed that mental image," says telepath to weather witch with a fine sigh of longsuffering best-friend. That it's just a wee bit studied shows in the set of her shoulders, continuing stiff as she makes just a wee bit of a grab for familiar habit in the face of a bar suddenly swirling with the whispers and prickles of minds catching wind of them. "Bar," is confirmed shortly. "And God help us if the same manager's on duty again."
It is a few minutes behind the pair that the tall Mexican fellow enters, the shiny wingtips and slightly crumpled suit are key signs that this fellow is likely just another cop wandering into a cop bar. Casteneda glances briefly at the media darlings moving towards the bar ahead of him, but says nothing. "Coffee..." he mentions towards the man at the tap, apparently not looking to get loosened/liquored up. "Ladies," he offers in a polite sort of manner, specifically so that they know he's noticed them.
Moving towards the long bar to claim one of the stools, Ororo exhales in a low snort and does not actually respond as to the subject of mental images. "Yeah, let's hope n--" She cuts herself, glancing with surprise in the stranger's direction at finding herself addressed; she tips an acknowledging nod in his direction. "Evening," she says, with the slight curve of a smile, and then looks back at Jean. "--hope not," she finishes wryly. "I hate repeating myself."
The prickles are growing. There is one booth in the corner where someone is using the word 'terrorists' repeatedly, the telepathic impression of that group shows a spike of fear growing. The rest of the bar is not nearly so wound up, but tension and nervousness thicken in the atmosphere like smoke did before legislature made that a no-no. The man behind the bar is young-ish, perhaps around 30. He looks clean cut, approachable. The all American sympathetic bartender. Maybe Ted Danson would play him on a TV show. He hesitates before greeting them. "Good, er, evening ladies." He looks from them to the sign and then back again. Everyone knows which sign. His attention far more prompt in pouring and delivering a cup of coffee for Casteneda. Steaming hot and with a little caddie for various coffee accessories slid closer to him.
"Evening," offers Jean in turn to Castenada, ducking her head slightly before she catches herself, firms up her shoulders again, and claims a seat at the bar with a swallow that's visible, if not audible. She does not look at the sign. "I'd like a bottle of the Sam Adams, please."
"Make that two," Ororo says, with the faint distraction in her tone of a woman who doesn't care that much what she's drinking, provided it has alcohol in it. As she sits beside Jean, she swings her purse around to situate it at her hip, straightening the strap. With an ingenuous lift of her gaze, she further inquires, hooking the heels of her boots into the lowest rung of the stool, "Do you still do those large pretzels?"
Sugar, cream, and stirry-stick are applied in precisely that order as he pays the bartender. This brief acknowledging statement is left on it's own. Casteneda makes no further remark to the women at the bar, though his attention occasionally flits back in that direction. Sip. A cigarette gets screwed into his teeth and lit idly.
The man does not fetch any beer for the pair of women. He looks between the pair of them. "You're," he begins. The bartender's brows furrow and he looks between them. "You know who you are. This place is..." Again, he looks at the sign, but he seems fairly conflicted. Instead, he looks to a passing server for help. This woman, a college-aged redhead, shrugs at him and continues on her merry way.
"This place," Jean answers, very carefully and with a sideways glance at unfamiliar-Casteneda in his proximity to them. "Is my old bar when I lived just up the road." (In a building that has now been blown up by the Friends of Humanity, but shhh.) She crosses her legs with equal care, hooking one stylishly booted foot beneath a strut of her bar stool. "I'd just like to buy a quiet drink."
Ororo only smiles, leaning forward to fold her arms against the surface of the bar. This is not action without risk, but she misses anything sticky by a narrow margin. She rolls a look towards the no-mutants sign, and then glances back at the bartender from beneath her lashes. Silver-painted nails tap against the bare skin of her opposite arm. The falseness of her bravado is revealed only to her telepathic friend, and to those whose study of the set of her shoulders and spine might discern the tension that holds them stiff despite her sham of ease.
There's an arched brow directed at the bartender by the suited fellow a few seats down. Sip. He seems the casual observer here, shifting a bit to adjust his jacket. The butt of his side-arm is obvious and his badge comes off his belt, placed beside his coffee cup. Ash is tapped from his cigarette and a pointed clearing of his throat is offered up... just in case someone missed every other not so subtle gesture.
Casteneda does this.
People are staring, holding hushed conversations, and generally looking at what they expect to turn into a show-down. This is not quite so much the OK Corral, however. Ted at the bar frowns at Jean, a quick glance going to her friend beside her. Storm's silence is maybe more worrysome than Jean. "Look, I understand you want a quiet drink and all, but rules are rules, ma'am. I can't..." He gestures, "You're making people uncomfortable." When Casteneda sets his shield down on the bar, this draws Ted's attention. His shoulders lower in clear relaxation. A cop means safety! "How're you tonight, sir?" Ted refills Casteneda's coffee. Fastest refill perhaps ever. Did he even get a sip off?
"Hi," Ororo says, low humor draping her tone like indulgence. "My name is Ororo Munroe. This is my friend, Jean Grey. I'm sure you know that there isn't going to be any trouble." Besides, of course, the mere trouble of their existence. But that goes without saying. She straightens, almost leisurely about the fluid motion, and tweaks the strap of her handbag with the lowering of her gaze. "Whatever you choose to do."
"Can't say I'm well, considering," Casteneda remarks towards Ted, a tip of his head towards the ladies. "Wasn't very long ago, a sign like that said 'Negros'..." he notes, jerking a thumb at the window. "Now, accepting that you all have the right as business owners to refuse service to anyone, I'm obliged by an oath to uphold your legal rights." Pause. "However... I encourage you to observe that no one is causing a scene, and nothing unreasonable is being asked..." Sip. Smoke issues once again from his lips as he goes on. "Jose Casteneda; detective," he replies, offering a hand, sans tobacco stick, towards Ororo and Jean. He appears either ignorant of any significance to their identities, or simply doesn't care either way. A glance goes back at Ted. "You go on and get those beers hmm?"
"Look, I really..." Ted begins, looking between not only the two mutants, but now the cop attempting to persuade him. "If I ignore the rules for them; it's a slippery slope." He looks torn however. His look at Jean indicates more than just the casual knowledge that she is a mutant. He looks positively pained. "I appreciate what you people did. But I can't." Some of the whispers are fading, people who recognized the pair of women from the news and who are more interested in their beer drifting back to that. However, those who are uncomfortable are growing more loudly uncomfortable. The same man who was talking about terrorists before blurts out, "Throw the muties the hell out of here!" Then his head ducks back down to try to hide among his knot of drinking buddies in that corner. Very brave.
The stiffening of Jean's spine ebbs and flows with the level of discomfort and unease, physical hallmark of the mental tides crashing opon the barriers she's built against them. Her features, however, are carefully neutral bar for brief little glimpses of open emotion, like the grateful smile that peeks over at the detective. There's a pointed wince at the blurted advice from the back, before she presses her hands on the bar before her. "It's your right to do that, if you choose," she assures quietly. "But... that's a slippery slope all to itself. Think about it," she asks. "You don't just choose an action, you choose the consequences of that action with it."
"I suppose we could run out the muties," Casteneda observes, sipping his coffee. "But then we'd have to chase off the wops, the chinks, the slants, the nips, the greasers, the kikes, the Jerries, the beaners, and the niggers," he notes, knocking more ash into a tray. "Then all that'd be left is two old white guys with bad teeth; Where's the fun in that?" The cup gets set down. "Not to mention, comments like that could be considered inciting a riot. Which is a felony... Sir."
Jean's smile reappears, shading up into grin territory at the Carlin-esque listing of racial epithets. "If he'll decide to take my orders," she notes, "I'm buying you a drink."
Ted stands there and looks positively drowned in the detective's litany of racial slurs. One can easily pick up the impression, from the way he picks up his bar cloth and starts wiping down the counter, that he would like to put the cloth over his face and hide. "Look, I don't have anything personal against anyone. It's not my bar and I'd be risking my job just to..." He can't even come up with an explaination of what he would do. "Those guys over there are going to be just as mad as you guys are over here, one way or the other. How'm I supposed to choose who to piss off?"
"Perhaps you could choose /not/ to piss off the man with the gun?" Casteneda remarks, a brow arching slightly. "However, if you'd like to lodge a formal complaint against this young lady, who simply wants a beer, I'll happily file a report and you can come down and press charges. However, if you choose to do that, I'm also going to arrest the bigot in the corner as well..." Pause. Sip. Puff. Tap. Smoke pours out once more with his words. "So, I expect you're liable to piss everyone off that way. Your other option is to serve the damned beer and let the hot head simmer down..."
"I'd be glad to buy -him- a beer as well," Jean notes, lifting her voice and her head alike to turn and fix the hothead with another smile, albeit a little heavier on the arsenic than the honey. "I'm not here to hurt your business, sir. I'd like to be able to expand it for you."
Ted does his best whiny, put upon voice. "Don't threaten me man. I'm just trying not to get canned. There's insurance and other customers who aren't comfortable and..." His hands fall to his sides and he looks at those aruging their case against him in terms that don't include exaggeratedly audible grumbling about 'dirty muties'. "There's no way I'm winning this one, is there?"
"I'm sure he wouldn't drink it..." Casteneda remarks, waving his badge at the grumbling table. Yes. Hi. Cop. Shuddup. "In point of fact, you can win... I'll shut up and drink my coffee in peace, and you can crack to long necks. The ignorant will stay ignorant, do nothing and continue blowing hot-air until she leaves..."
"You can probably turn a good profit later while they drink themselves courageous enough to go key my car," Jean suggests, with a crooked twitch of her lips, and a settle back on her bar stool. "Which, so you don't have worry, Detective, is safely off the island. We took the train in."
Ororo gives Ted a knowing glance and a slight lift of her eyebrows, folding her hands neatly against the surface of the bar. The silver-white of her long braid is the only part of her she presents to the mutterers and shouters, her attention solely on the little drama unfolding around her. "Our money's good, Mister. We'll pay in cash, if it will make you feel better."
Ted looks over at the vocal minority who are not only uncomfortable with the mutant patrons, but actively unhappy about it. He looks at Jean, Storm, and Casteneda. "You three better tip really, really good," he warns them. Then he heads out from behind the bar and walks up toward the front of the establishment, without any explaination of where he's going.
"I'll take a rain check on that drink," Casteneda remarks idly as he resumes sipping his coffee. The badge goes back on his belt then. "Pitty I couldn't've met you both under more pleasant circumstances," he observes, snuffing out his cigarette. "If it gets dicey, though, I'll have to run everyone in. Just so you're aware."
Jean reaches into her jacket pocket to pull out a wallet and leaf through in some preliminary accounting. "Here's hoping he's not getting the manager," she murmurs, and looks vague for a moment as if considering a little telepathic cheating to find out. Happily for Ted's psychic sanctity, she opts to keep her brain in her own head, and instead gives a little sigh and a confirming nod to Casteneda. "Oh, definitely aware. I do apologize if it goes that way, but... well, you've got to do something to test the waters, right?"
Ororo follows Ted's movements with her gaze, a faint frown lingering to her expression. Mouth turned down at the corners yet, she glances back at Jean, and the detective. "I'm sure Mutant Affairs will be delighted to see us," she says, her nose crinkling at its bridge. "We won't be any trouble. Last thing we need is Stark's stupid suits stomping around the Bay Horse, promise."
Ted walks up to the front window. She grabs at that troublesome sign and yanks it off of the window. This draws more attention. People stare for a moment. Some whisper, two gasp. One applauds. And the loud bigot yells, "Fuuuuck that!" He stands up and starts grabbing at his friend's sleeves. People who have /unfinished beers/ reluctantly get up to follow their little leader out, as he storms out in protest. Ted walks back to the bar, flops the sign down atop it and says, "I'll hang it back up when you leave. And if I lose my job, you'd better leave me with really good tips." Finally, /finally/, her serves Ororo and Jean their beers.
"I'm pretty sure MA will be the first responders," Casteneda remarks, nodding a little at this. "At least one detective from that division is already having a coffee here," he notes, sipping his coffee pointedly at that moment. Left handed. The right is in his jacket at that moment, as the noisey bigot makes his move to leave. Just in case. On the butt of his gun. "Bold move..." he mentions, moving his hand again and laying a twenty on the bar. "Keep the cup full and that's all yours."
"Hell," says Jean, just a little faintly as she eyes where the sign is, and where the sign is not. "I'd leave you with a -reference-." When the beer arrives at last, there's a "Thank you," that's warm with gratitude, and a second twenty follows Casteneda's onto the bar.
"Yeah?" Ororo looks Casteneda over with curiosity reflected in her expression, momentarily distracted. "You been here long? I know most of the MA faces." Her gaze flickers to the money, and she looks slightly blank, and then starts digging in her purse for a slim velcro wallet that she can pull open and remove some money from. Twenty plus twenty plus -- after a moment's hesitation, /yes/, twenty. Her jaw sets slightly grumpily over it, though. Twenty dollars!
Ted, the bar tender probably doomed to get fired when his boss hears of what he just did, fades into the background with one last comment to the trio. It is mostly directed to Jean and Ororo, though. "You people did a good thing. I just don't think it's gonna change many more minds. People're people." And with that, he's off to tend to other people to keep from getting it any worse, soothe people, and keep Casteneda's cup full and Jean and Ororo's beers coming.
"Transfered down from Buffalo after a collar went bad," Casteneda remarks with a shrug. "I was cleared of any wrong-doing, but the brass thought this would be for the best." He clears his throat, probably disagreeing with the decision that was made 'In his best interest'. "Of course, the dosea I have on both of you also says you're known disturbers of the peace, and general trouble makers, so... you can see my reluctance to follow the party line on most things."
"Well, I try and limit my disturbing of it to when there's an actual cause to do so... but I -have- made more work for the MA boys over the years. Helped 'em out now and again too, but..." A shrug from Jean, and a long pull from her longneck later, she sets the bottle down and gives the detective another smile. "I think I owe you some thanks, too. I'm not so sure our bartender would've gone along with this if you weren't on side."
"Troublemakers," Ororo repeats with a hint of incredulity to her tone, although it is amusement more than outrage that glimmers in her eyes as she arches her eyebrows. "Interesting," she adds, picking up her beer to tip it against her mouth for a swallow. "Thanks from me too, I think. It's amazing how much less reasonable reason is, coming from us." She wiggles her fingers in a back-and-forth gesture between Jean and herself.
"Like I told the kid," Casteneda remarks. "I took an oath to uphold the law and preserve the public trust; serve and protect and all that," he explains, sipping his coffee and lighting another cigarette in a sparse application of motion. "Sometimes those ideals conflict with one another and a person has to make a choice... I chose to put the burden of the final outcome in the hands of the bartender; I was serious when I said I'd take all of you in, the loud-mouth included." Pause. "Troublemakers is the most concise, polite way I could put it."
"Oh, I can guess what was left unsaid," Jean assures, eyes bright as she picks up her beer to conduct another study of the effects of drinking upon residual bottled liquid levels. "Thanks for that. But how are you finding New York, if I may ask the hackneyed question."
"I'm sure we appreciate your courtesy," Ororo says, her voice cutting a little dryer as she rolls the cool glass of her beer bottle's mouth against her lower lip. "You won't find us shy about rendering assistance to the authorities. You may say we know our civic duty, Detective." Her mouth presses to a thin line as she slants a sidelong look over him, spending a moment's brief study on his features.
"And you likely won't find me shy about following the letter and the spirit of the law," Casteneda remarks, as if his own interpretation of it doesn't even enter into the equation. There's another pointed moment where he stops sipping his coffee long enough to return Ororo's gaze, aware of her glance. Distinctly so. "As for how I'm finding the city... It's... everything I had hoped it would be..."
"Nice to see another detective on the force who can understand they're both important," Jean assures, tone light and her eyes thoughtful as she adds her own study to that of Ororo's, and sets down her beer again. (Apparently it was desired more as bait than beverage.) "Especially since, if past years make for future trends, you're likely to get caught up in some sticky stuff. Did you hear about those scientists out in New Jersey this January past?" she wonders, floating a little trial-balloon of not-quite-small-talk. "The ones kidnapping mutants for scientific experiments?"
Ororo blinks away from him to shoot a slightly puzzled glance in Jean's direction, uncertain of this turn to the conversation. She takes a swallow of her beer and then lowers the bottle to the counter, closing both her hands around it in a loose tangle of her fingers.
"I've heard of worse," Casteneda remarks, nodding a little at this, upper-lip twitching in reaction as he sips his coffee. He doesn't specify, but the greying of his features as a result could imply a less than favorable recollection. "Some people are sick... and some of those sick people get funded by the most unusual sources..."
"That they do," agrees Jean, with a slight purse to her lips. "Now, it's not something I have all that much proof on," she admits. "But there are signs that the same group was pulling a few more experiments lately. If you're not loaded down with cases, you might want to look into one with a 'Norah Benson' as the person filing the report. Weird stuff, there."
"Oh," Ororo says quietly, tipping her head in acknowledgment as she glances away again. The purse of her lips is a troubled shift of expression.
"I'll see who's assigned to it," Casteneda agrees, the coffee sipped again. Something's likely flipped a switch though. His manner is much more curt and sharp now. "I can't make any promises, of course..." Another pause and Ororo is shot another glance, brow uplifted.
"I wouldn't expect you to," Jean assures, with one last level look, before she is reminded by a few stares over from a corner table that she is nominally here to drink beer. Thusly, beer is drunk. "Again, thanks, though."
"Ms. Benson is a former student of ours," Ororo says, a note of explanation bled into her tone. She resumes drinking her beer in a long swallow, tipping it back with a little glug-glug until most of its contents have been downed.
"In any event," Casteneda remarks, standing from his stool. "I'm on shift tonight; it was nice chatting with you ladies..." Pause. "For what it's worth, I hope I don't see you later this evening," he adds, a dry bit of humor there. "Enjoy your drinks..."
You paged Casteneda with, "Oh, also, if Casteneda decides to check out the case, the plot's being run by Natalie, so just hit her up if you want details or to investigate stuff."
"Take care, detective," Jean bids, sitting up in her seat a bit in a not-quite-rise for his leavetaking. "And I agree -- I hope I don't see you again soon." With that, and a toast of her longneck, she turns to closet herself in quiet conversation with Ororo, huddled just a little against a bar that's a little less easy feeling for the absence of badge, gun and detective.
Still in search of that quiet drink, Jean brings Ororo in a return to the Bay Horse, and finds it, small successes, and an unexpected ally.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Sunday, October 05, 2008, 11:44 AM
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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]
[Players : Elliott ]
Behold, an interview. Jean's office has seen many such things, as has its occupant, and together office and doctor have arranged themselves for another one. Everything is pristine and orderly, with even the stacks of books and papers on Jean's desk tidied up and apparently dusted. There is a tea cart with pot, cups, saucers, and a plate of little tiny sandwiches with no crusts on them. And there is talk. "So," says Dr. Grey, at the tail end of what seems to have been a long spiel, "As you can see, we have the usual issues with keeping students out of pornography of the average high school, but there's also a real need for network security. Last week, someone got in and set all the machines to ask if we liked whatever a 'Mudkips' is, instead of giving our usual logon page."
"That's /still/ going around?" Elliott looks momentarily baffled at the occasional staying power of odd internet memes, or perhaps the persistence of those who continue to perpetuate them long after they've gone belly-up and started to smell funny. "I'd imagine you would get more than your fair share of notice, both from general trouble-makers and the actively malicious, given your unique position."
"You actually know what a mudkips is?" Jean looks momentarily charmed by this notion, like a befuddled traveller tripping across a native guide in the heart of a marketplace filled with lolcats, goatse, and other strange beasts. The moment passes, however, along with an offer of "Tea?" and a reach for the cart in question. One hand lifts to idly tuck a lock of escaped hair behind her ear, and suceeds in dislodging three more locks in its' wake. There's a sigh, and a huff of air delivered, cross-eyed, up at her face to try and knock them loose.
"Unfortunately," Elliott replies, with the air of one who has gotten just the barest glimpse of eldritch horrors lurking beneath the crust of the Earth and wisely /ran the hell away/. To tea, however, her answer is, "Yes, please." It is not offered without a sympathetic look for the hair-misbehaviour; that her own is behaving itself behind its little silver clips is nothing less than a miracle. "It wasn't one of your students playing a bit of a joke?"
"That was the initial assumption, but when I had Kitty look over..." Jean, computer literate but not versed in the ways of networks, glances over to her computer, where electronic cue-cards have been in use all through the interview. The screen is black. She shakes the mouse. The screen stays black. With a mild mutter that slanders Bill Gates, she turns to pouring the tea instead. "Anyways, I'd have to look up what she did, but it traced to an external IP. That's just the most recent example, though. We used to have a technopath on staff, and I'm afraid we've gotten a little slack as a result. Do you think you'd be up to designing some protocols that someone who -can't- talk to the machines directly could use?"
"If they were doing anything that asinine, they were probably the type to just brute force their way in - juvenile and subtle don't usually go hand in hand, but juvenile and persistent?" Elliott grimaces a little, looking embarassed on behalf of her fellow tech geeks. Even those who only barely share the designation. "--Of course. I'm surprised if your technopath didn't, honestly. Ideally, direct oversight should supplement security, not the other way around."
"His contract was unexpectedly not renewed," is all Jean says about Jareth, with a delicate tone and a slight shake of her head head that pulls more hair loose from the clip. "Since then, we've had a couple short-term hires, but neither really worked out -- one had the idea of downloading records of every new porn site registered on a daily basis, in order to block them -- and so we've been scraping by with what Kitty has the time to give us. She's good," Jean assures. "But it's a hobby to her, not a job."
A slow blink and a quizzical look is Elliott's only response to the idea of downloading porn records; she is professional enough not to snort with incredulous amusement, though a flash of it plays bright and brief across her thoughts. /Ambitious/. "Understandable. And if there's been some rapid turnover, she'd have her work cut out for her under the best of circumstances. I'm guessing each of them probably had their own preferred methods?"
"Idiosyncratic would be a good word for it, yes," says Jean, bereft of more technical ones. She casts a glower at the darkened computer screen, but hands Elliott's tea over to her before she disappears for a momen beneath her desk to be sure the power bar has been neither kicked, 'nor cat-attacked. Her face is puzzled as it returns. "I'd like to offer you a six month contract to start with, extendable if things suit you. I realize we'd be asking you to take a pay reduction compared to the previous listings on your resume..."
"I'd be lying if I said money didn't factor at all into my considerations," Elliott admits. "But it isn't my sole criterion. There's a certain satisfaction in contributing, even in a small way, to something you believe is right that I find more valuable, personally." She is most certainly idealistic. She eyes the apparently-troublesome computer screen with some bemusement. Odd timing! "--Technical difficulties?"
"I admit a susceptibility to that argument myself," Jean confesses, with a crooked smile. "You would, of course, have full benefits even as a contract employee. Medical, a transportation budget, the usual-- I have papers to hand you," she assures, before glowering at the screen again. "...If I could get the damn' computer going. It's plugged in," she reports.
"Is the plug in the back of the computer secure?" Elliott asks, brow furrowing a little in thought. Was there whirring? She did not think she'd heard whirring. "I know my one roommate's cat had an inordinate fascination with that. Might've been the warmth from the fan..."
"Happily, Curie's starting to get old enough that she doesn't jump up here all that much," Jean murmurs, but rises from her seat to check the plug anyways, as the interview segues into tech support. "It's good," she reports, and sinks back again, puzzled. "I guess I could use the student lab, or go fetch my laptop and pull copies off the network," she offers tentatively about the paperwork.
"Huh. Are any of the indicator lights lighting up?" Elliott asks, running through the short list of what-might-be-wrong. She can't see from her angle, alas. "--It looks like Murphy's voting in that direction," she adds, sympathetically wry.
"Nothing," Jean reports, now looking slightly worried as she finally gives up on the repetitive power button poking she's been attempting as her own addition to computer repair. "It was working just fine fifteen minutes ago."
"If nothing's starting up at all, it's a power issue. It probably won't take that long to pin down, if you want," Elliott offers, definitely sympathetic now. Spontaneous computer problems are irritating. Spontaneous power glitches, though, are doubly so. Gremlins!
Never interview a new school sysadmin when there's an Alice in the room next door.
TO: STAFF@listserv.x-school.edu
Subject: New Sysadmin Hired
-----------------
Typing this from my laptop, so I'll keep it short. I've hired Marieta Elliott on as a temporary sysadmin for us on a six month starter contract. Convinced she's neither going to try and sleep with recently graduated students, or try and download the entire internet, so that, paired with her resume, leaves me comfortably convinced we might be able to keep a couple steps ahead of the internet trolls.
Also, did anyone else's computer break this morning?
Jean
-----------------
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Saturday, October 04, 2008, 7:54 PM
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=NYC= The Bay Horse - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
A large room with a mixture of a modern bar and the pub environment present back in England. In the far corner from the door is a small stage with the PA system already set up and a lone mic standing there, ready for karaoke nights and visiting music alike. There's also a fireplace with a mantel with a couple of horsehoes like most English pubs have, along with older looking wooden tables with wooden seats surrounding them, of no particular pattern or style. A long bar stretches across an entire wall: behind it are many wierd and wonderful bottles of spirits and mixers and several large casks of import ale. Behind the bar is a door labeled 'Employees Only' and another opposite the entrance that indicates the beer garden. A sign in the window says, NO MUTANTS.
OOC Note: If you are a physical mutant, an obvious mutant, or a well-known mutant, expect to be shown the door.
[Exits : [O]ut]
Eight PM on a Saturday evening is too early for bar-hopping, but is a most excellent time for a bit of pub-trawling for the casual drinker. (The serious ones started at noon.) One Jean Grey, co-savior of the world from asteroids and mutanty-mutant in the extreme, is currently wandering towards the entrance of the pub with just a bit too much careful study to her posture to be entirely casual. "I admit," she murmurs to the woman walking with her, flicking a glance to the No Mutants sign that stares out from the pub window, "It was a bit easier doing this the first time, when the point was to get arrested."
Ororo's long white hair is braided, and there is a barette in it in the shape of a dolphin. It is not immediately apparent why. Shrugging her shoulders with the slow curve of a smile, she says, "I am the same person I was the last time they threw me out of here." Her skirt swishes around her knees as she walks, boot heels clicking lightly over the sidewalk. "Think of it as testing their recall."
Do dolphins really need explanations? Jean's own hair is loose, the better for her to run an absent hand through it in a bit of fidgeting as they draw closer, and then enter entirely. "Well, there is that," she admits. "But it's a -little- unsettling to be so directly trying to use the Pegasus mission as currency for social change. I can hear Rossi maing remarks now." Happily, as that particular cop is not in the cop bar at the moment, not literally. Jean's shoulders square beneath the armour of a leather jacket and a wine red blouse, and she steers carefully for the bar.
"I can usually hear Rossi making remarks." Ororo's intonation is bland, desert dry with humor lurking in the glint of her eyes. "I wouldn't treat it as much of a deterrent. I have a reasonably effective way of stopping his mouth." Ha ha. Such a mature, restrained sense of humor. She swings the door open with a certain deliberate flair, pulling it wide as she strides blithely on in. "Bar?" she asks Jean with her voice raised to carry in the murmuring noise of a Saturday evening, turning a hand in a sweeping gesture to indicate the world of the pub as their oyster insofar as seating to invade is concerned.
The Bay Horse is pretty well populated, since it is prime pub-crawl time, after all. There is a general din of conversation filling the atmosphere and beers are being imbibed. In general, it's a bar on a Saturday night. Jean Grey and Ororo Munroe are not, at first glance, a cause for alarm. A pair of women. However, all it takes is one whisper for hushed conversations to begin sparking up. People take sidelong glances, other people cover their mouths while saying quiet things.
"I -really- needed that mental image," says telepath to weather witch with a fine sigh of longsuffering best-friend. That it's just a wee bit studied shows in the set of her shoulders, continuing stiff as she makes just a wee bit of a grab for familiar habit in the face of a bar suddenly swirling with the whispers and prickles of minds catching wind of them. "Bar," is confirmed shortly. "And God help us if the same manager's on duty again."
It is a few minutes behind the pair that the tall Mexican fellow enters, the shiny wingtips and slightly crumpled suit are key signs that this fellow is likely just another cop wandering into a cop bar. Casteneda glances briefly at the media darlings moving towards the bar ahead of him, but says nothing. "Coffee..." he mentions towards the man at the tap, apparently not looking to get loosened/liquored up. "Ladies," he offers in a polite sort of manner, specifically so that they know he's noticed them.
Moving towards the long bar to claim one of the stools, Ororo exhales in a low snort and does not actually respond as to the subject of mental images. "Yeah, let's hope n--" She cuts herself, glancing with surprise in the stranger's direction at finding herself addressed; she tips an acknowledging nod in his direction. "Evening," she says, with the slight curve of a smile, and then looks back at Jean. "--hope not," she finishes wryly. "I hate repeating myself."
The prickles are growing. There is one booth in the corner where someone is using the word 'terrorists' repeatedly, the telepathic impression of that group shows a spike of fear growing. The rest of the bar is not nearly so wound up, but tension and nervousness thicken in the atmosphere like smoke did before legislature made that a no-no. The man behind the bar is young-ish, perhaps around 30. He looks clean cut, approachable. The all American sympathetic bartender. Maybe Ted Danson would play him on a TV show. He hesitates before greeting them. "Good, er, evening ladies." He looks from them to the sign and then back again. Everyone knows which sign. His attention far more prompt in pouring and delivering a cup of coffee for Casteneda. Steaming hot and with a little caddie for various coffee accessories slid closer to him.
"Evening," offers Jean in turn to Castenada, ducking her head slightly before she catches herself, firms up her shoulders again, and claims a seat at the bar with a swallow that's visible, if not audible. She does not look at the sign. "I'd like a bottle of the Sam Adams, please."
"Make that two," Ororo says, with the faint distraction in her tone of a woman who doesn't care that much what she's drinking, provided it has alcohol in it. As she sits beside Jean, she swings her purse around to situate it at her hip, straightening the strap. With an ingenuous lift of her gaze, she further inquires, hooking the heels of her boots into the lowest rung of the stool, "Do you still do those large pretzels?"
Sugar, cream, and stirry-stick are applied in precisely that order as he pays the bartender. This brief acknowledging statement is left on it's own. Casteneda makes no further remark to the women at the bar, though his attention occasionally flits back in that direction. Sip. A cigarette gets screwed into his teeth and lit idly.
The man does not fetch any beer for the pair of women. He looks between the pair of them. "You're," he begins. The bartender's brows furrow and he looks between them. "You know who you are. This place is..." Again, he looks at the sign, but he seems fairly conflicted. Instead, he looks to a passing server for help. This woman, a college-aged redhead, shrugs at him and continues on her merry way.
"This place," Jean answers, very carefully and with a sideways glance at unfamiliar-Casteneda in his proximity to them. "Is my old bar when I lived just up the road." (In a building that has now been blown up by the Friends of Humanity, but shhh.) She crosses her legs with equal care, hooking one stylishly booted foot beneath a strut of her bar stool. "I'd just like to buy a quiet drink."
Ororo only smiles, leaning forward to fold her arms against the surface of the bar. This is not action without risk, but she misses anything sticky by a narrow margin. She rolls a look towards the no-mutants sign, and then glances back at the bartender from beneath her lashes. Silver-painted nails tap against the bare skin of her opposite arm. The falseness of her bravado is revealed only to her telepathic friend, and to those whose study of the set of her shoulders and spine might discern the tension that holds them stiff despite her sham of ease.
There's an arched brow directed at the bartender by the suited fellow a few seats down. Sip. He seems the casual observer here, shifting a bit to adjust his jacket. The butt of his side-arm is obvious and his badge comes off his belt, placed beside his coffee cup. Ash is tapped from his cigarette and a pointed clearing of his throat is offered up... just in case someone missed every other not so subtle gesture.
Casteneda does this.
People are staring, holding hushed conversations, and generally looking at what they expect to turn into a show-down. This is not quite so much the OK Corral, however. Ted at the bar frowns at Jean, a quick glance going to her friend beside her. Storm's silence is maybe more worrysome than Jean. "Look, I understand you want a quiet drink and all, but rules are rules, ma'am. I can't..." He gestures, "You're making people uncomfortable." When Casteneda sets his shield down on the bar, this draws Ted's attention. His shoulders lower in clear relaxation. A cop means safety! "How're you tonight, sir?" Ted refills Casteneda's coffee. Fastest refill perhaps ever. Did he even get a sip off?
"Hi," Ororo says, low humor draping her tone like indulgence. "My name is Ororo Munroe. This is my friend, Jean Grey. I'm sure you know that there isn't going to be any trouble." Besides, of course, the mere trouble of their existence. But that goes without saying. She straightens, almost leisurely about the fluid motion, and tweaks the strap of her handbag with the lowering of her gaze. "Whatever you choose to do."
"Can't say I'm well, considering," Casteneda remarks towards Ted, a tip of his head towards the ladies. "Wasn't very long ago, a sign like that said 'Negros'..." he notes, jerking a thumb at the window. "Now, accepting that you all have the right as business owners to refuse service to anyone, I'm obliged by an oath to uphold your legal rights." Pause. "However... I encourage you to observe that no one is causing a scene, and nothing unreasonable is being asked..." Sip. Smoke issues once again from his lips as he goes on. "Jose Casteneda; detective," he replies, offering a hand, sans tobacco stick, towards Ororo and Jean. He appears either ignorant of any significance to their identities, or simply doesn't care either way. A glance goes back at Ted. "You go on and get those beers hmm?"
"Look, I really..." Ted begins, looking between not only the two mutants, but now the cop attempting to persuade him. "If I ignore the rules for them; it's a slippery slope." He looks torn however. His look at Jean indicates more than just the casual knowledge that she is a mutant. He looks positively pained. "I appreciate what you people did. But I can't." Some of the whispers are fading, people who recognized the pair of women from the news and who are more interested in their beer drifting back to that. However, those who are uncomfortable are growing more loudly uncomfortable. The same man who was talking about terrorists before blurts out, "Throw the muties the hell out of here!" Then his head ducks back down to try to hide among his knot of drinking buddies in that corner. Very brave.
The stiffening of Jean's spine ebbs and flows with the level of discomfort and unease, physical hallmark of the mental tides crashing opon the barriers she's built against them. Her features, however, are carefully neutral bar for brief little glimpses of open emotion, like the grateful smile that peeks over at the detective. There's a pointed wince at the blurted advice from the back, before she presses her hands on the bar before her. "It's your right to do that, if you choose," she assures quietly. "But... that's a slippery slope all to itself. Think about it," she asks. "You don't just choose an action, you choose the consequences of that action with it."
"I suppose we could run out the muties," Casteneda observes, sipping his coffee. "But then we'd have to chase off the wops, the chinks, the slants, the nips, the greasers, the kikes, the Jerries, the beaners, and the niggers," he notes, knocking more ash into a tray. "Then all that'd be left is two old white guys with bad teeth; Where's the fun in that?" The cup gets set down. "Not to mention, comments like that could be considered inciting a riot. Which is a felony... Sir."
Jean's smile reappears, shading up into grin territory at the Carlin-esque listing of racial epithets. "If he'll decide to take my orders," she notes, "I'm buying you a drink."
Ted stands there and looks positively drowned in the detective's litany of racial slurs. One can easily pick up the impression, from the way he picks up his bar cloth and starts wiping down the counter, that he would like to put the cloth over his face and hide. "Look, I don't have anything personal against anyone. It's not my bar and I'd be risking my job just to..." He can't even come up with an explaination of what he would do. "Those guys over there are going to be just as mad as you guys are over here, one way or the other. How'm I supposed to choose who to piss off?"
"Perhaps you could choose /not/ to piss off the man with the gun?" Casteneda remarks, a brow arching slightly. "However, if you'd like to lodge a formal complaint against this young lady, who simply wants a beer, I'll happily file a report and you can come down and press charges. However, if you choose to do that, I'm also going to arrest the bigot in the corner as well..." Pause. Sip. Puff. Tap. Smoke pours out once more with his words. "So, I expect you're liable to piss everyone off that way. Your other option is to serve the damned beer and let the hot head simmer down..."
"I'd be glad to buy -him- a beer as well," Jean notes, lifting her voice and her head alike to turn and fix the hothead with another smile, albeit a little heavier on the arsenic than the honey. "I'm not here to hurt your business, sir. I'd like to be able to expand it for you."
Ted does his best whiny, put upon voice. "Don't threaten me man. I'm just trying not to get canned. There's insurance and other customers who aren't comfortable and..." His hands fall to his sides and he looks at those aruging their case against him in terms that don't include exaggeratedly audible grumbling about 'dirty muties'. "There's no way I'm winning this one, is there?"
"I'm sure he wouldn't drink it..." Casteneda remarks, waving his badge at the grumbling table. Yes. Hi. Cop. Shuddup. "In point of fact, you can win... I'll shut up and drink my coffee in peace, and you can crack to long necks. The ignorant will stay ignorant, do nothing and continue blowing hot-air until she leaves..."
"You can probably turn a good profit later while they drink themselves courageous enough to go key my car," Jean suggests, with a crooked twitch of her lips, and a settle back on her bar stool. "Which, so you don't have worry, Detective, is safely off the island. We took the train in."
Ororo gives Ted a knowing glance and a slight lift of her eyebrows, folding her hands neatly against the surface of the bar. The silver-white of her long braid is the only part of her she presents to the mutterers and shouters, her attention solely on the little drama unfolding around her. "Our money's good, Mister. We'll pay in cash, if it will make you feel better."
Ted looks over at the vocal minority who are not only uncomfortable with the mutant patrons, but actively unhappy about it. He looks at Jean, Storm, and Casteneda. "You three better tip really, really good," he warns them. Then he heads out from behind the bar and walks up toward the front of the establishment, without any explaination of where he's going.
"I'll take a rain check on that drink," Casteneda remarks idly as he resumes sipping his coffee. The badge goes back on his belt then. "Pitty I couldn't've met you both under more pleasant circumstances," he observes, snuffing out his cigarette. "If it gets dicey, though, I'll have to run everyone in. Just so you're aware."
Jean reaches into her jacket pocket to pull out a wallet and leaf through in some preliminary accounting. "Here's hoping he's not getting the manager," she murmurs, and looks vague for a moment as if considering a little telepathic cheating to find out. Happily for Ted's psychic sanctity, she opts to keep her brain in her own head, and instead gives a little sigh and a confirming nod to Casteneda. "Oh, definitely aware. I do apologize if it goes that way, but... well, you've got to do something to test the waters, right?"
Ororo follows Ted's movements with her gaze, a faint frown lingering to her expression. Mouth turned down at the corners yet, she glances back at Jean, and the detective. "I'm sure Mutant Affairs will be delighted to see us," she says, her nose crinkling at its bridge. "We won't be any trouble. Last thing we need is Stark's stupid suits stomping around the Bay Horse, promise."
Ted walks up to the front window. She grabs at that troublesome sign and yanks it off of the window. This draws more attention. People stare for a moment. Some whisper, two gasp. One applauds. And the loud bigot yells, "Fuuuuck that!" He stands up and starts grabbing at his friend's sleeves. People who have /unfinished beers/ reluctantly get up to follow their little leader out, as he storms out in protest. Ted walks back to the bar, flops the sign down atop it and says, "I'll hang it back up when you leave. And if I lose my job, you'd better leave me with really good tips." Finally, /finally/, her serves Ororo and Jean their beers.
"I'm pretty sure MA will be the first responders," Casteneda remarks, nodding a little at this. "At least one detective from that division is already having a coffee here," he notes, sipping his coffee pointedly at that moment. Left handed. The right is in his jacket at that moment, as the noisey bigot makes his move to leave. Just in case. On the butt of his gun. "Bold move..." he mentions, moving his hand again and laying a twenty on the bar. "Keep the cup full and that's all yours."
"Hell," says Jean, just a little faintly as she eyes where the sign is, and where the sign is not. "I'd leave you with a -reference-." When the beer arrives at last, there's a "Thank you," that's warm with gratitude, and a second twenty follows Casteneda's onto the bar.
"Yeah?" Ororo looks Casteneda over with curiosity reflected in her expression, momentarily distracted. "You been here long? I know most of the MA faces." Her gaze flickers to the money, and she looks slightly blank, and then starts digging in her purse for a slim velcro wallet that she can pull open and remove some money from. Twenty plus twenty plus -- after a moment's hesitation, /yes/, twenty. Her jaw sets slightly grumpily over it, though. Twenty dollars!
Ted, the bar tender probably doomed to get fired when his boss hears of what he just did, fades into the background with one last comment to the trio. It is mostly directed to Jean and Ororo, though. "You people did a good thing. I just don't think it's gonna change many more minds. People're people." And with that, he's off to tend to other people to keep from getting it any worse, soothe people, and keep Casteneda's cup full and Jean and Ororo's beers coming.
"Transfered down from Buffalo after a collar went bad," Casteneda remarks with a shrug. "I was cleared of any wrong-doing, but the brass thought this would be for the best." He clears his throat, probably disagreeing with the decision that was made 'In his best interest'. "Of course, the dosea I have on both of you also says you're known disturbers of the peace, and general trouble makers, so... you can see my reluctance to follow the party line on most things."
"Well, I try and limit my disturbing of it to when there's an actual cause to do so... but I -have- made more work for the MA boys over the years. Helped 'em out now and again too, but..." A shrug from Jean, and a long pull from her longneck later, she sets the bottle down and gives the detective another smile. "I think I owe you some thanks, too. I'm not so sure our bartender would've gone along with this if you weren't on side."
"Troublemakers," Ororo repeats with a hint of incredulity to her tone, although it is amusement more than outrage that glimmers in her eyes as she arches her eyebrows. "Interesting," she adds, picking up her beer to tip it against her mouth for a swallow. "Thanks from me too, I think. It's amazing how much less reasonable reason is, coming from us." She wiggles her fingers in a back-and-forth gesture between Jean and herself.
"Like I told the kid," Casteneda remarks. "I took an oath to uphold the law and preserve the public trust; serve and protect and all that," he explains, sipping his coffee and lighting another cigarette in a sparse application of motion. "Sometimes those ideals conflict with one another and a person has to make a choice... I chose to put the burden of the final outcome in the hands of the bartender; I was serious when I said I'd take all of you in, the loud-mouth included." Pause. "Troublemakers is the most concise, polite way I could put it."
"Oh, I can guess what was left unsaid," Jean assures, eyes bright as she picks up her beer to conduct another study of the effects of drinking upon residual bottled liquid levels. "Thanks for that. But how are you finding New York, if I may ask the hackneyed question."
"I'm sure we appreciate your courtesy," Ororo says, her voice cutting a little dryer as she rolls the cool glass of her beer bottle's mouth against her lower lip. "You won't find us shy about rendering assistance to the authorities. You may say we know our civic duty, Detective." Her mouth presses to a thin line as she slants a sidelong look over him, spending a moment's brief study on his features.
"And you likely won't find me shy about following the letter and the spirit of the law," Casteneda remarks, as if his own interpretation of it doesn't even enter into the equation. There's another pointed moment where he stops sipping his coffee long enough to return Ororo's gaze, aware of her glance. Distinctly so. "As for how I'm finding the city... It's... everything I had hoped it would be..."
"Nice to see another detective on the force who can understand they're both important," Jean assures, tone light and her eyes thoughtful as she adds her own study to that of Ororo's, and sets down her beer again. (Apparently it was desired more as bait than beverage.) "Especially since, if past years make for future trends, you're likely to get caught up in some sticky stuff. Did you hear about those scientists out in New Jersey this January past?" she wonders, floating a little trial-balloon of not-quite-small-talk. "The ones kidnapping mutants for scientific experiments?"
Ororo blinks away from him to shoot a slightly puzzled glance in Jean's direction, uncertain of this turn to the conversation. She takes a swallow of her beer and then lowers the bottle to the counter, closing both her hands around it in a loose tangle of her fingers.
"I've heard of worse," Casteneda remarks, nodding a little at this, upper-lip twitching in reaction as he sips his coffee. He doesn't specify, but the greying of his features as a result could imply a less than favorable recollection. "Some people are sick... and some of those sick people get funded by the most unusual sources..."
"That they do," agrees Jean, with a slight purse to her lips. "Now, it's not something I have all that much proof on," she admits. "But there are signs that the same group was pulling a few more experiments lately. If you're not loaded down with cases, you might want to look into one with a 'Norah Benson' as the person filing the report. Weird stuff, there."
"Oh," Ororo says quietly, tipping her head in acknowledgment as she glances away again. The purse of her lips is a troubled shift of expression.
"I'll see who's assigned to it," Casteneda agrees, the coffee sipped again. Something's likely flipped a switch though. His manner is much more curt and sharp now. "I can't make any promises, of course..." Another pause and Ororo is shot another glance, brow uplifted.
"I wouldn't expect you to," Jean assures, with one last level look, before she is reminded by a few stares over from a corner table that she is nominally here to drink beer. Thusly, beer is drunk. "Again, thanks, though."
"Ms. Benson is a former student of ours," Ororo says, a note of explanation bled into her tone. She resumes drinking her beer in a long swallow, tipping it back with a little glug-glug until most of its contents have been downed.
"In any event," Casteneda remarks, standing from his stool. "I'm on shift tonight; it was nice chatting with you ladies..." Pause. "For what it's worth, I hope I don't see you later this evening," he adds, a dry bit of humor there. "Enjoy your drinks..."
You paged Casteneda with, "Oh, also, if Casteneda decides to check out the case, the plot's being run by Natalie, so just hit her up if you want details or to investigate stuff."
"Take care, detective," Jean bids, sitting up in her seat a bit in a not-quite-rise for his leavetaking. "And I agree -- I hope I don't see you again soon." With that, and a toast of her longneck, she turns to closet herself in quiet conversation with Ororo, huddled just a little against a bar that's a little less easy feeling for the absence of badge, gun and detective.
Still in search of that quiet drink, Jean brings Ororo in a return to the Bay Horse, and finds it, small successes, and an unexpected ally.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Sunday, October 05, 2008, 11:44 AM
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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]
[Players : Elliott ]
Behold, an interview. Jean's office has seen many such things, as has its occupant, and together office and doctor have arranged themselves for another one. Everything is pristine and orderly, with even the stacks of books and papers on Jean's desk tidied up and apparently dusted. There is a tea cart with pot, cups, saucers, and a plate of little tiny sandwiches with no crusts on them. And there is talk. "So," says Dr. Grey, at the tail end of what seems to have been a long spiel, "As you can see, we have the usual issues with keeping students out of pornography of the average high school, but there's also a real need for network security. Last week, someone got in and set all the machines to ask if we liked whatever a 'Mudkips' is, instead of giving our usual logon page."
"That's /still/ going around?" Elliott looks momentarily baffled at the occasional staying power of odd internet memes, or perhaps the persistence of those who continue to perpetuate them long after they've gone belly-up and started to smell funny. "I'd imagine you would get more than your fair share of notice, both from general trouble-makers and the actively malicious, given your unique position."
"You actually know what a mudkips is?" Jean looks momentarily charmed by this notion, like a befuddled traveller tripping across a native guide in the heart of a marketplace filled with lolcats, goatse, and other strange beasts. The moment passes, however, along with an offer of "Tea?" and a reach for the cart in question. One hand lifts to idly tuck a lock of escaped hair behind her ear, and suceeds in dislodging three more locks in its' wake. There's a sigh, and a huff of air delivered, cross-eyed, up at her face to try and knock them loose.
"Unfortunately," Elliott replies, with the air of one who has gotten just the barest glimpse of eldritch horrors lurking beneath the crust of the Earth and wisely /ran the hell away/. To tea, however, her answer is, "Yes, please." It is not offered without a sympathetic look for the hair-misbehaviour; that her own is behaving itself behind its little silver clips is nothing less than a miracle. "It wasn't one of your students playing a bit of a joke?"
"That was the initial assumption, but when I had Kitty look over..." Jean, computer literate but not versed in the ways of networks, glances over to her computer, where electronic cue-cards have been in use all through the interview. The screen is black. She shakes the mouse. The screen stays black. With a mild mutter that slanders Bill Gates, she turns to pouring the tea instead. "Anyways, I'd have to look up what she did, but it traced to an external IP. That's just the most recent example, though. We used to have a technopath on staff, and I'm afraid we've gotten a little slack as a result. Do you think you'd be up to designing some protocols that someone who -can't- talk to the machines directly could use?"
"If they were doing anything that asinine, they were probably the type to just brute force their way in - juvenile and subtle don't usually go hand in hand, but juvenile and persistent?" Elliott grimaces a little, looking embarassed on behalf of her fellow tech geeks. Even those who only barely share the designation. "--Of course. I'm surprised if your technopath didn't, honestly. Ideally, direct oversight should supplement security, not the other way around."
"His contract was unexpectedly not renewed," is all Jean says about Jareth, with a delicate tone and a slight shake of her head head that pulls more hair loose from the clip. "Since then, we've had a couple short-term hires, but neither really worked out -- one had the idea of downloading records of every new porn site registered on a daily basis, in order to block them -- and so we've been scraping by with what Kitty has the time to give us. She's good," Jean assures. "But it's a hobby to her, not a job."
A slow blink and a quizzical look is Elliott's only response to the idea of downloading porn records; she is professional enough not to snort with incredulous amusement, though a flash of it plays bright and brief across her thoughts. /Ambitious/. "Understandable. And if there's been some rapid turnover, she'd have her work cut out for her under the best of circumstances. I'm guessing each of them probably had their own preferred methods?"
"Idiosyncratic would be a good word for it, yes," says Jean, bereft of more technical ones. She casts a glower at the darkened computer screen, but hands Elliott's tea over to her before she disappears for a momen beneath her desk to be sure the power bar has been neither kicked, 'nor cat-attacked. Her face is puzzled as it returns. "I'd like to offer you a six month contract to start with, extendable if things suit you. I realize we'd be asking you to take a pay reduction compared to the previous listings on your resume..."
"I'd be lying if I said money didn't factor at all into my considerations," Elliott admits. "But it isn't my sole criterion. There's a certain satisfaction in contributing, even in a small way, to something you believe is right that I find more valuable, personally." She is most certainly idealistic. She eyes the apparently-troublesome computer screen with some bemusement. Odd timing! "--Technical difficulties?"
"I admit a susceptibility to that argument myself," Jean confesses, with a crooked smile. "You would, of course, have full benefits even as a contract employee. Medical, a transportation budget, the usual-- I have papers to hand you," she assures, before glowering at the screen again. "...If I could get the damn' computer going. It's plugged in," she reports.
"Is the plug in the back of the computer secure?" Elliott asks, brow furrowing a little in thought. Was there whirring? She did not think she'd heard whirring. "I know my one roommate's cat had an inordinate fascination with that. Might've been the warmth from the fan..."
"Happily, Curie's starting to get old enough that she doesn't jump up here all that much," Jean murmurs, but rises from her seat to check the plug anyways, as the interview segues into tech support. "It's good," she reports, and sinks back again, puzzled. "I guess I could use the student lab, or go fetch my laptop and pull copies off the network," she offers tentatively about the paperwork.
"Huh. Are any of the indicator lights lighting up?" Elliott asks, running through the short list of what-might-be-wrong. She can't see from her angle, alas. "--It looks like Murphy's voting in that direction," she adds, sympathetically wry.
"Nothing," Jean reports, now looking slightly worried as she finally gives up on the repetitive power button poking she's been attempting as her own addition to computer repair. "It was working just fine fifteen minutes ago."
"If nothing's starting up at all, it's a power issue. It probably won't take that long to pin down, if you want," Elliott offers, definitely sympathetic now. Spontaneous computer problems are irritating. Spontaneous power glitches, though, are doubly so. Gremlins!
Never interview a new school sysadmin when there's an Alice in the room next door.