Logs: Secrets, SCIENCE and Dinosaurs:
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Tuesday, November 18, 2008, 6:57 PM
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=NYC= Library - Hellfire Clubhouse
The leaded-glass eyes of tall windows are nearly lost amid the taller bookcases that line all four walls of this secluded room. Heavy leather armchairs, dark burgundy and black, take advantage of the windows' light and view onto the grounds; delicate oaken end tables and antique brass lamps keep them company. Books are the focus here, however: modern volumes and folios older than the lamps, a collection spanning centuries and a rainbow of tastes, as befits the club's patrons.
[Exits : [N]orth [W]ing]
Between being scrubbed from the records, an open mutant, and openly disliked by the White Queen, there are many reasons for one Dr. Jean Grey to -not- be ensconced in the Hellfire Club's library. With a family membership, some recent appearances of her arriving and departing, and the linchpin of a purported invitation from the White Queen on the other side of the balance, there has apparently been enough controversy to let Dr. Grey squeeze herself in on the arm of her aging grandfather, and peel off again as he headed for the smoky haze of the lounge. Thus, here she sits, curled with a fine old folio of anatomical drawings, and peering up occasionally at any approaching footfalls to see if she's going to get thrown out just yet. (There may be a slight gleam to her eyes at the thought. Maybe.)
Footfalls approach. They are not subtle steps - these click with pointed presence against the flood here, heels announcing Lisabeth long before she actually appears. She's dressed in grey today, but the color manages somehow to have a hint of warmth to it, and her cheeks look nigh unto rosey. Her hair is swept back into an elegant twist, and she carries a leather-bound book in one hand as she enters the library -- and then the footfalls stop. Lizzie stands staring at Jean in startled surprise.
Grey seems to be a theme today, as Jean is wearing shades of it as well, if paired with a warmth of ruby-wine to her blouse. Her own hair is down, bright waves brushing her shoulders and keeping away autumn's chill from her neck. Long fingers pause in their page turning, lingering over a woodcut of what someone ardently hoped was a kidney, and the gleam of amusement in her eyes turns more to curiosity as she looks up and over at Lisabeth. A second stretches, then two, and then a smile is produced, tempered to the library quiet, as is the greeting of "Good evening."
"Doctor Grey," Lisabeth intones, surprise still carrying in her voice. "I was not aware that you were a member of the Club." There is perhaps a lilt of emphasis on the final word, a querying lift of her brows.
"The Club and I generally prefer to keep it that way," Jean murmurs, fingertip tracing the edge of an optimistically-placed adrenal gland, and echoing the emphasis with an odd smile. "Legacy membership through my grandfather, shall we say, with any further complications suitably edited out of Club history, along with myself."
"Complications?" Lisabeth pursues curiously as she steps further into the room, her book held loose in front of her. "Goodness. I'm almost afraid to ask." Almost!
"A student of revisionist history, are you, Ms...?" Not immediately forthcoming with an answer, Jean nonetheless favours Lisabeth with another slight smile, as telepathy's light touch slips out from behind her shields to settle amongst surface thoughts and listen.
Lisabeth startles, surprise flashing across features and mind as she recalls the last time she saw Jean - a young, strong body, unmoving, unbreathing - "Stuart," she says swiftly, tone apologetic as she moves forward to extend her hand politely. "My apologies, I should not have assumed..."
"Hardly an uncommon assumption, Ms. Stuart," says Jean, just a touch uneven at the start, and her handshake a notably brief one, for all its firm practice. Adel echoes in her thoughts, memories sharp and bright in Astral technicolour, and there's an odd pause, eyes closing a moment, before she picks up her thread again. "When you know someone, the reflex assumption is that, on some level, they must also know you. But I think I've seen you once before."
Lisabeth frowns just faintly, and the expression draws very fine lines between her brows. "Yes, once," she replies. A somewhat snarky thought notes, << Not that crazy an assumption, you know, that you'd do your homework after /that/, after that, after him, in that situation-- >>
"You didn't seem surprised to see me then," Jean answers, tone mild although mental eyebrows raise at the overheard thought, and the second-nature reflexes of the mind behind it that it reveals. (Definitely in the Hellfire Club.) "Although admittedly there were more pressing matters."
"Didn't I? I was, very," Lisabeth replies, and there's the ring of truth to it in tone and mind. She shifts a little, standing awkwardly, and curls her fingers tighter over the book. "Of course," she admits, "I was not exactly expecting /any/ of it."
"What -were- you expecting?" Jean wonders, with a cock of her head, and, noting the shift, a brief touch of colour to her cheeks as she wonders more rhetorically "And now where are -my- manners? Will you sit, Ms. Stuart? I can't promise I won't be gently thrown out shortly, but there's no reason for you to remain standing until then."
"You mean other than a telepathic circle including Emma Frost, Jean Grey, a child, and a dying twin?" Lisabeth asks dryly after a brief glance around to assure privacy. A flicker of attention fixed on Jean, searching for confirmation of her description to match well-fed suspicions. She steps forward lightly to take a seat, her hand sweeping behind her to sweep her skirt smooth.
Confirmation comes with a steady smile, and a pair of green eyes narrowed appreciatively. Well-fed suspicion is given a slight nod. "Admittedly," she murmurs, "There are few things less expected than -that-. I wasn't expecting half of that myself."
"Oh?" Lisabeth queries lightly before turning the question back to Jean. "What /were/ you expecting?"
"How I answer that depends on what you know of Hellfire," is Jean's answer, words a flick of a fencer's foil. "While there's no real ties between us now, some secrets are not mine for spilling. Courtesy, you know."
Lisabeth's brows shoot up at that, and her expression is a bit pointed. "They spilled mine to everyone in that room without a second thought," she reminds quietly. "I should think that, whatever I know of /this/ Hellfire, courtesy would lend at least a few of those secrets to me in return."
"A point," Jean notes. "And really, if you choose to play the sort of games that Emma's fond of with -her- secrets..." One shoulder shrugs, and one more page in the old anatomy book is turned. "We were a circle of telepaths, gathered to try and use our combined abilities and training to remove a psychic parasite from her. Tom... would not have been my idea to bring."
"A psychic parasite?" Lisabeth shifts, draping one leg elegantly over the other as she leans forward toward Jean just slightly. "From Emma-- What exactly does that mean?"
"It's difficult to explain," Jean prephases, with another twitch of her shoulders, dissatisfied with the limitations of the spoken word. "Highly subjective. But several decades ago, a powerful telepath named Amahl Farouk was killed. Not caring to abandon life entirely, he kept his consciousness going by basically piggybacking off of the minds of the living. Emma was his most recent host."
"That sounds rather uncomfortable," Lisabeth murmurs quietly, grey eyes fixed on the good doctor.
Jean's lips part on words not spoken, and something brightly bitter flashes in her eyes, before composure closes over her again, and her mind withdraws back within its fetters. "I imagine it would be. Regardless, I'm sure you can see why the... entity... remaining in its latest host would be a problem. I had some experience dealing with him before."
"Not a benign parasite then, I take it," Lisabeth murmurs, sympathy flooding those grey eyes as she watches Jean.
"An ambitious one," Jean replies, before shaking her head slightly at the sympathy. "I was never possessed, but I've aided in removing him before. And he has a bit of a vendetta against a father-figure of mine. Suffice it to say, while I don't get on with Emma, I get on with him less."
"Twice?" Lisabeth startles, her eyes flying wide. "In how many years?"
"Five, more or less. This time, perhaps he won't resurface for a while."
"Five," Lisabeth murmurs quietly, with a very small shake of her head before she looks back to Jean. "You were successful, then?"
"Adel did not give his life in vain." It's not a perfect answer. It is given with quiet gravity all the same.
"That's-- good to know," Lisabeth answers. There is a brief pause, and then she adds, "From what I have seen, he is-- missed. Dearly."
"I'd always gotten along better with Bahir," Jean admits, with the sort of crook-mouthed and slight social embarassment that such admissions about the dead bring with them. "But Adel was worthy of his place here, and with Emma."
/That/ statement earns a lift of Lisabeth's brows, and she tilts her head slightly. "You do not get along with Ms. Frost," she surmises.
"Old history," says Jean, because 'She used an unstable illusionist to drive me insane' just doesn't -work- for first meetings.
"Clearly still relevant," Lisabeth adds, although the allowing slant of her smile says she'll ask no more. "Bahir is a scientist as well, no?"
"That he is," Jean confirms, and a genuine flash of pride peeks out past restrained and cautious manners, welled up in a warm smile. "He actually worked for my company during part of his graduate studies, before he got set up at the SRC. I was never his advisor, but I feel a little bit in the same position."
"Oh? That must have been rather exciting, for him," Lisabeth offers, her smile peeking out at that flash of pride.
"He enjoyed trying to make my undergraduates cry, at least," Jean muses, smile gone crooked, before she cants her head at Lisabeth and favours her with a pair of lifted eyebrows. "Do you always conduct conversations by learning much and giving away nothing?"
"Goodness," Lisabeth answers with a bemused smile before her brows shoot up and she shifts carefully. "I'm sorry-- by all means, Doctor Grey. What would you like to know?"
"Well, I suppose 'What brings you to New York' is a traditional question," Jean murmurs, with a slight twinkle to her eye. "Given what you were called in on, I assume you're more than a -simple- member of the Club."
Lisabeth's expression creases into an insant frown. "You do know what they say about assumptions," she answers, her tone kept purposefully light, although it tends toward stiffness as she goes on. "Ms. Frost is good at discovering secrets, I think. I am a member of London's Hellfire Club, and I am doing some work for a client in New York. The Club is both better furnished and far more comfortable than a nameless hotel."
"She's made a thriving business empire off doing so," Jean offers, apology left more in the backing away from the subject, and a certain delicacy of tone. "But I'll have to agree with you on the furnishings. I took advantage of the hospitality here myself, a couple years ago."
Lisabeth's gaze on Jean is a tad wary before she allows a brief nod and then wonders, "Don't you live quite close?"
"I used to." is Jean's answer. "I'll have to be looking for another apartment if I want to continue to keep a place in the City."
"Oh-- goodness. Yes, I'm sorry, I'd forgotten," Lizzie apologizes swiftly, before clarifying, "I'd meant at the time, though. Or has your hospitality been recent?"
"Oh, at the time I was," Jean confirms, with a little lift of a hand from the pages of the folio. "But Magneto'd felt the need to drop a Humvee through the building, which took out Warren Worthington's penthouse, my apartment, and the one or two below it before it-- was stopped."
Lisabeth blinks slowly, watching Jean across the short space before she blurts, "Bloody hell, why do you people continue to live here?"
"Oh," says Jean, with a hint of a mock-airy tone. "Because if we lived elsewhere, I'm sure it would only follow us."
Lisabeth frowns slowly, her expression uncertain as she leans backward in her seat.
"Is London a peaceful place, comparatively?" Jean wonders, and for a moment looks wistful at the thought.
"I can't recall the last time a pardoned terrorist threw anything remotely like a vehicle through anyone's roof," Lisabeth acknowledges.
"Oh, he wasn't pardoned at the time," Jean notes, oddly earnest in this point. "But... I admit it would be nice to own property without having to have my building organization raise my fees because they took out 'mutant insurance'."
"Yes, I'm aware," Lisabeth replies, very mild, before sympathizing, "That must be quite an annoyance. I can't imagine what it does to rent rates."
"They're still a great deal lower than they ought to be, considering the city," Jean reflects, looking to the table beside her to find a cup of tea, and then looking slightly bemused at not finding one there. "While I take issue with refusing to rent apartments to known mutants just because they're known, I do have some sympathy for the landlords. There are still good places in the Village, if you're looking, though -- I already somehow found myself offering to show Cordelia Frost around."
"I'm not here for the long term," Lisabeth answers with a faint smile and a brief shake of her head before her attention catches and she tilts her head. "Cordelia Frost?"
"Emma's younger sister," Jean supplies, with the suppressed sparkle of mischief returning to her eyes.
"I see," Lisabeth murmurs carefully. "I did not realize she was in town-- Emma must be happy to have her sister here, just now."
"Family can be a comfort," Jean agrees, with an even tone open to interpretation over whether this particular one is. "She's certainly inherited similar talents as her sister, in some ways."
Lisabeth's gaze sharpens at that, and she lifts her head to fix her gaze more firmly on Jean. "Has she?" she murmurs.
"At least it seemed so in my meeting with the sisters... but you'd have to ask her that, of course." The long-neglected folio is studied again after this, more old pages turned, and the raised ink of lithographs traced. "What they say about assuming, as you said."
"I see," Lisabeth answers with a slow tip of her head. "Well. Perhaps I'll have a chance to meet her, while I'm here."
Over at the doors of the library, the promised rustle of uncomfortable security appears, and Jean returns the head tip with one of her own. "It will be an experience, I'm sure... but I think they've decided to throw me out or hustle me up to Emma, so I'll have to say it was a pleasure to meet you properly, Ms. Stuart."
"And you, to be sure," Lisabeth answers with a warm smile. "Thank you very much for your.. conversation, Doctor Grey."
Jean has gotten practise with being hustled places by authorities. The Hellfire Club security, alas, is a great deal less easier to baffle with politeness than patrol officers called to remove mutants from a bar. It is the door -out- that she gets shown towards. Firmly.
Jean can't argue with that.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Wednesday, November 19, 2008, 6:28 PM
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=NYC= IHOP - Queens
IHOP is more friendly than classy, but anyone who looks for class in an IHOP . . . well. It has seen better days. If the booths are more rubbery than soft, the tables more rickety than steady, and occasionally a patron knocks one entirely over, if the carpet is sort of a puced out green . . . the servers are enthusiastic and the pancakes are still pancakey and that is all that matters.
[Exits : [O]ut]
[Players : Bahir ]
The pancakes have come and gone from Jean's plate, stacked in delicious piles of blueberry and buttermilk goodness, with syrup enough to keep even the most demanding telepathic brain ticking over happily. The area around the booth she shares with Bahir is reasonably deserted, as it is not yet late enough for drunken undergraduates to come in search of Good Drunk Food. This is good, as the sheer levels of Geek emanating from their table are potentially toxic to the layman. A manila folder has been produced, just a couple smuts of dust saying that it's been filed for a while. "I believe I promised to tell you why this line of thought brought Shaw to mind."
"I was pretty curious about that," Bahir admits as he wipes the last wedge of pecan-and-granolad pancake around in butter and butter-flavored-sweetness. Round and round and round it cokes, spongey cake quite saturated. His fork scrapes across the plate as his attention diverts. He pops the last bite in his mouth and then brushes his fingers on a napkin before leaning forward.
"I'm not sure how much of his family medical history you encountered," Jean prefaces, the folder held just above the table as she makes a quick inspection of the surface for any waiting minefields of syrup drips or blueberry bits. "But in summary, he had one parent die of pancreatic cancer. Reasonable amount of heritability on it, and he tested out positive for carrying the deleterious allele. His -other- parent handed him his copy of an X-Factor, in latent form."
Bahir gives a shake of his head, elbowing his plate to the side and giving the table a swipe. There is neither syrup nor blueberry nor pecan to contaminate it, space between them clear. "Not really, ah, the sort of thing we talked about," he murmurs, lifting his glass to take a last drink, and then turn full attention to the folder. He gestures slightly for her to continue, expression briefly clouding.
"Not really the sort of thing he talked about to anyone he didn't have to. I was his doctor... and even with him dead, I'm still half expecting one of the more conservative members of the AMA to pop into being because I'm sharing this," Jean confesses, with a self-deprecating glance over her shoulder, as if the waitress might be a plant. "Anyways," she murmurs, studying the brief skiff of clouds but continuing onwards. "The remarkable thing about his X-Factor gene is that, sequenced out and compared to others, it was at least a generation away from activating based on prior studies. And yet--"
"And yet--?" Bahir shows a marked and regrettable lack of concern for such things as a patient's right to privacy, et cetera and son on; he gives no more attention to her AMA quip than a brief tension of his lips that might be a smile. He must hang out with the wrong kids in the schoolyard. "What sort of mutation was involved with the pancreatic cancer gene that affected the activation of the X-Factor?"
"Honestly, my best theory then and now is that an X-Factor that hasn't yet hit threshhold is still active on some very low level, normally masked by the normal activity of the rest of the genome. Pure theory -- I haven't looked." Jean looks mildly apologetic at this, as if being unable to pull hot new scientific proofs out of her purse is a personal failing. "But in Shaw's case, half of what should have been functioning normally wasn't. His mutation was highly tied into metabolic regulation, and so, in effect, his body did what we'd like to encourage others' to do -- express the mutation before whatever molecular clock we haven't fully mapped out yet thinks its ready."
Bahir rubs his thumb down the line of his jaw, nail scratching along stubble. He frowns at the folder. He does not look particularly excited, but with shields still drawn high and thick, there is little more than silhouettes shadowing across the stark walls to telegraph his thoughts. "His mutation compensated for some the problems caused by the panc--?" He breaks off, working his way through it with a wrinkle of his nose. "Sure that is what happened? It wasn't some other blip in his genetics? It's interesting, but we can hardly run around and give people cancer," he says with a shrug, curiosity still foremost in his expression. "Was there something in the mutation the caused the pancreatic condition that lowered activation thresholds, perhaps? Something we can emulate which /doesn't/ cause cancer? Do you have more information on that allele, what it does? Or do you think it was just a sort of ... stress response?"
"Well, the idea of gene silencing did occur to me. It's less about cancer -- Shaw was still only halfway through Knudson's two hit hypothesis anyways," quoth the Jean, with a wave of her hand and, finally, the setting down of the folder where Bahir can get at it. "And more about pushing the body into a situation where it's better to call on that dormant X-factor. Cancer or a collapsed building are both a bit extreme."
"Maybe we can just drop buildings on people, then," Bahir says, slanting a glance back up at Jean before taking the folder in a greedy grasp. "When did Shaw's mutation manifest, anyway? Was the oncogene active? It's interesting, but--." He breaks off, poking through, and smiles to himself in a brief, bitter twist that fades to something more thoughtful. "But. I suppose it doesn't matter." He is quiet a moment, tapping a blunt nail on the folder's pages.
"For the record, that was -not- my most reasoned decision ever," Jean notes, dry tone provoked by the slanted glance. Her plate, still empty of pancake, is eyed momentarily in the hopes that pancake regeneration may have occurred while she was looking away. "It might... and I can't decide if Shaw's ghost would be pleased or outraged at the thought. It certainly wouldn't be a legacy he'd thought of for himself, in any case. But-- gene silencing. Or, alternately, some way of creating a synthetic transcription factor."
"I like the latter better than the former, I admit," Bahir says slowly. He is quite full of pancakes, no wish for more, no wistful glances. "The information from the QuikID technology gives us a place to start there. I'm not certain which angle would be more inclusive, however. That is what I'd prefer, in the end: that we open this possibility up to as many non-mutants as possible. I think it is--" He hesitates a moment, then shrugs. "--safest."
"There is, of course, the limitation that they need to be far enough along the pathway to manifestation that we can coax the powers out safely," Jean warns, with a careful look at Bahir 'lest the concern bring up personal history closer than "Shaw's powers were tearing apart a body that wasn't fully able to handle them. But I agree," she confirms. "The last thing I want is this to end up simply being no more than a way for people already mutants to gain added parlour tricks. Now, from my point of view, producing an artificial and modified version of the X-Factor's transcription factors is more elegant than random gene silencing until something works. Probably safer, too. And with Quik-ID, -doable-."
Bahir waggles a hand, expression reserved. "In terms of 'last things'," he adds, tone skeptical, "I think that there are worse ways for it to end." He is silent a moment, allowing a pause for reflection on all the many ways it can go wrong. And then he nods, returning the folder across the table and reaching into the messenger bag at his side. He pulls out /two/ folders. "Some of this is a copy of what I already sent you," he begins, sliding one over to Jean and opening the other for himself. "But here, this is a summary of what we found with the QuikID--." Their waitress comes by for refills on coffee, going largely ignored by Bahir. The levels of Geek increase back toward to the toxic, and then beyond. Good times.
IHOP, hub of brilliant intellectual discourse and discovery.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Friday, November 21, 2008, 9:06 PM
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This part of the industrial district has fallen on hard times. That's not to say industry does not continue, but there's a lot of chain-link fences around properties with locks starting to rust in place, while the links have been peeled up a little ways away, to create a nice path through. Some of the warehouses have broken windows, some have shinier locks that suggest more criminal activities being protected. But life continues, and there are trucks and full dumpsters around, so the place is hardly abandoned, however lonely the trash blowing onto fences might suggest.
Alison is not wearing dinosaur-hunting attire, by any stretch of the term. But, she is not wearing a jumpsuit, either! No, sirree. Just kind of -- close. She's wearing white, flared pants with a gold belt, and a white v-necked long sleeve shirt shirt with a gold star plastered in the center, though only occasionally visible in the opening of her cobalt blue coat. Blue gloves and a white scarf complete the outfit. She eyes the chain-linke fence speculatively and fingers the small music player in her pocket for a moment, before ducking through one of the gaps in the fence with quick, decisive movement.
Walter is dressed a bit more for business, sturdy jeans, running shoes, a fairly sturdy jacket zipped up over who knows what sorta shirt. He looks this way and that, checking his surroundings constantly as he follows Alison along. He pushes himself through the fence, it's a tight fit, but he gets through. "Any idea where we're going?" he asks Alison.
"Nope," Alison answers, with a shrug. "I mean, around here somewhere, probably. Lotsa stuff happened around here, from what the news said." She looks back at Walter a bit cautiously, and then pulls the music player out of her pocket to scroll through songs. It's not her iPod, but some non-name-brand MP3 player -- the key is that it has little powerful speakers. "So. Keep your eyes open, I guess."
Rolling quietly along the streets of the industrial district, one of the black SUVs of Xavier's School prowls along behind the pair of students, Dr. Grey at the wheel. It has been following them for a while, at just enough distance to keep out of sight, but not enough to be out of mind. Jean is dressed not in her team uniform, but in clothing that looks as though she's been shopping at the same military surplus outfit as a certain Master of Magnetism, with khakhi slacks dark, combat boots comfortable, and a grey cable knit sweater beneath a wool overcoat. Beside her on the passenger seat, a shiny plastic case gleams, all mixed up with maps and printouts. The engine hums, and at last she turns to pull up alongside the intrepid young hunters.
There's plenty of crumpling, shuffling noises to follow up on, but considering the density of both trash and bums, that's not very surprising.
Walter does just that, looking around, just a tad jumpy perhaps, or maybe it's just reasonable caution when out with a girl whose power, as far as he knows, consists of light shows. A certain Danger Room sim gone strange flitters over the surface of his mental landscape for the audience he hopes is there to see it. There's a certain ironic amusement tagging along quietly.
Alison may have been pretty oblivious to the car following at a distance -- but she's certainly not dense enough to not notice the black SUV pull up alongside. "Shit," she says, expression suffused with the sudden guilt of somebody caught red-handed, and she jumps back reflexively to put Walter's bigger frame in between her and the car before getting a good look at the driver. "That's a school car, isn't it?"
The window rolling down with well-tended care and the auburn-crowned head poking out of the drivers' side certainly help to confirm this suspicion! "Good evening, Ms. Blaire." greets Jean with cool poise. "Mr. West. I believe you're hunting dinosaurs?"
Walter waves to the teacher. "Evening, Doctor Grey," he greets, pretty unsurprised to see the teacher. He looks over his shoulder to Alison. "Reinforcements," he explains. "Figured we might need the help."
Around the corner of the next warehouse, a dumpster lid bangs.
A sudden impulse to lie flits across Alison's brain -- she was just trying to find a, um, makeout spot! -- but dismissed because A) telepath, B) what kind of makeout spot would this ghetto be? and C) Walter would probably not play along with the lie. So instead she just stumbles over her words for a moment and casts a betrayed look at Walter. "I -- well -- I ran into a dinosaur /before/ and did just --" she cuts herself off at the banging of the dumpster sound, and looks over in that direction.
"Still," says Jean, and turns off the engine. "Safety in numbers, and I was planning to try and capture one anyways. Can you fire a Taser, do you think?" she wonders, briskly businesslike as she lets herself out of the car, and opens up the door to the back seats. "I've got a CO2 rifle to try and dart one, but it makes sense that you two have something to defend yourselves with, if one shoul charge."
"It's just point and pull, right?" Walter wonders, hitching his left shoulder slightly. On getting slapped by Alison's hair as she rapidly turns his head he looks over his shoulder, then turns his head to look the same direction she is.
"I'm armed," Alison says, distracted, holding up the music player. (Disco and pop music is anathema to dinos?) "But tasers probably aren't hard to work, either, if you liked." Her gaze is still focused in the direction the sound came from, though a sidelong apologetic glance goes to Walter, and she rewinds her scarf around her so that her hair is tucked down inside it. "I think we should check out back there," she comments, as she does so.
There's a couple of half-moaned words, characteristic of a particular type of mental disability, then a hiss, and then running steps. One of the local population may have found their target for the evening, though there's no further sounds of attack.
"Tasers will still work if you're distracted." Over Jean hands the plastic guns with their bright yellow stripes around the business end. Next comes the CO2 rifle, as twin snaps of latches lifting open the case and reveal the shiny metal gleam of a narrow gun barrel, the charge canisters of the gas, and the bright-tipped darts of animal tranquilizer. Click, click, twist, etc. "These things can apparently sprint pretty impressively, so don't approach any closer than you have to. Walter, there's an animal cage in the back. Get it?"
Walter takes the taser, looking it over briefly before turning his attention back to the source of the noise while he sidesteps to the back of the vehicle, opening the door. "So, we just find it, knock it out, and load it up?" he wonders, glancing at the cage.
"Guys," Alison says, hesitantly, at what really sounds like at least the start of an altercation back by the dumpster. She takes the plastic gun, settling for a one-handed grip so her other can hold the music player. Her thumb hovers just over the play, the volume already cranked up loud for the moment the music starts. "I think it's -- we oughta go /see/. Something's going on." Logistics, smogistics.
"That's the plan." Alas, CO2 rifles lack any sort of pump action, so there is no satisfying schk-schk to punctuate this. But Jean gives a nod to Alison all the same, nods towards the sound, and then heads out. "Ears and eyes open."
The pounding feet continue, and if they come around the building fast enough, they'll see the back of the homeless man's trench coat fluttering out behind him. But there's no dinosaur in pursuit. It is, instead, on top of the dumpster, engaged in biting at the line between lid and side. It hasn't figured out yet that it's on /top/ of the lid.
Walter looks at the cage, then at his gun. He pockets the gun, grabs the cage with both hands and lugs it after the others. On spotting the feathery beastie, he's quick to set the cage between them and the animal as he reaches for the taser, olding it in such a way that makes it pretty clear that the closest he's ever come to using a gun is playing Area 51 in a movie theater arcade.
Dazzler hurries towards the dumpster, her coat flaring out behind her, but skids to a sudden halt when seeing the dinosaur mauling the dumpster as opposed to some kind of person. Automatically (given her previous experience), wide blue eyes scan upwards, searching for companions perched on rooftops or ledges nearby. She does not reach for her gun, but instead goes ahead and hits play, the droning beat of "4 minutes to save the world" emanating from the music player and loads her up with audible ammo, just in case.
Up, down, around... Jean likewise takes a quick scan of the environs, and selects the opposite wall of the alley from the dumpster for herself. "I'd really like to get someone on the other side of it," she murmurs quietly. "If we can flank it, it will be that much easier to bring it down safely instead of it bolting." She twitches visibly as the music starts up, tension creeping into her muscles as she looks to see if the sudden sound has caught the beast's attention. The rifle slowly rises.
There are no more dinosaurs about, but this one's attention has been very firmly caught. Its head rises, tail going out stiff, and all its attention focuses on Alison.
"On it," Walter says, reaching to unzip his jacket, a Superman shirt beneath. When the dinosaur turns it's head, he glances to Alison. "Get behind the cage," he urges, pocketing the taser yet again before taking a rather impressive little hop to a nearby fire escape, using it to stage a jump over the raptor to attempt to get into flanking position.
A brief grin flashes over Alison's face -- it likes her music! -- before it is replaced by a more sober expression. She follows directions immediately, hopping behind the cage. (If you want it, come and get it. If you got it, it better be what you want!) She tilts her head to the side thoughtfully and then starts up a little lightshow in the back of the cage, lights dancing and flashing. Heeeere, dino. Explore the pretty lights!
The raptor's attention flicks to Walter next, but it crouches lower, and hisses at Alison. It has the manner of an animal gathering itself back into its corner pre-attack.
Jean settles into a bracing crouch as she shoulders the rifle, tracking the raptor's movements through the rifle scope, and letting her fingertips drum in idle tension against the gas cylinder, before she puts them to better use in loading a tranquilizer dart. "Steady..." is murmured, although whether this is to the dinosaur or to Alison is anyone's guess.
Walter reaches for the taser, pointing it at the beast, eyes narrowing as his hand tightens on the grip. "Careful, Alison," he urges tensely.
Dazzler is steady and careful! She is like a /rock/ of steadiness and care. Except for the small, subtle movement in her knees that goes in time with the music. (Time is waiting -- we only got four minutes to save the world! No hesitating. Grab a boy, grab a girl.) She dims the lightshow a little, making it less bright and potentially threatening, but merely like small, colorful fireflies that inhabit the back of the cage, and readjusts her grip on the taser. Just in case.
The raptor springs, heading for Dazzler now. Her lights don't seem to hold its attention properly.
Pfffut. A slow squeeze of the trigger, steady despite the sudden singing tension that snaps out into action at the raptor's spring. A dart with a fuzzy orange back end is launched out, aimed for the thick meat of the thigh. "Alison..." Jean calls in warning, rifle lowering and a telekinetic shield thrown up in readiness, even before she stops to see if the dart has hit home.
There's a very slight pause between the dart hitting and the creature going down, and the raptor uses tha to keep going toward Alison, reaching her and the shield before it starts to slump.
And at that exact moment, when the raptor leaps, Walt's hand tightens further, launching the electrified metal probes from the device. He's no great marksman, but it at least increases the odds of /something/ hitting the beastie.
Alison throws up her cobalt-clad arms in front of her, instinctively blocking even as, simultaneous to Jean throwing up the telekinetic shield, she converts all the sound energy around her, the song disappearing into stillness as it's funneled into one massive burst of blinding light (don't look right into it, folks) which supernovas in front of her with hot force. Poor dinosaur. Three on one really isn't fair.
"Oh," says Dr. Grey in the stilness that follows. "My."
It is one unconscious dino.
"Well," says Jean next, recovering somewhat, if still staring crosswise at the well-felled dino even as she shoulders the CO2 rifle, and begins a cautious approach. "Assuming we haven't stopped the poor thing's heart, let's see what we've got here, and get him or her loaded."
Walter blinks for a moment at the dino that just got a lesson in what a few score million years of evolution can do for chances. Then he thinks to take his finger off the trigger. Poor dinosaur indeed. "Would paddles work if we did?" he wonders with some concern, dropping the taser like it might bite him.
The light fades and the song comes back on for its last few bars (tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock) before Alison slowly draws her arms down and fumbles for it, turning it off just as the beat starts for A-ha's "Take on me." "Poor thing?" Alison asks skeptically, eyebrow raised. She leans forward to peer at the unconscious thing, looking as though she'd like to poke it with a booted foot. She refrains. "It was gonna /eat me/. Maybe. It was thinkin' about it!"
"Ah, but you chose to put yourself out here, intentionally looking for it. It wasn't asking to find you," Jean points out with a thread of amusement in her voice, now that no-one is munched. Crouching but not kneeling by the unconscious beastie, just in case it's not -quite- out, she waves over Walter with the cage, once a quick check for a pulse, based on the notion that blood has to get up to a head -somehow-, reveals that they got a live one. "Let's get him in the back, and we'll take him to my lab in town here, just to start with."
**Time Passes**
At its new location, time passes with no sign of movement. Then the raptor begins groggy, not managing to roll up from where it was stretched out on its side at first, but it does get its legs awkwardly under it. It sniffs intently all around it, muzzle up against the sides of the crate its in, and when it comes to the kibbles, it digs right in, snapping them up despite its teeth not being really made for the job.
The main entry room slash conference area of Gradient Genetech is not -usually- where one expects to see velociraptors. Mutant mice, yes, but those particular aberrations against nature are all safe and sound and locked in the lab. Jean crouches beside the cage, eyeing the beastie with a girlish fascination on her thirty-seven-year-old features as it begins to stir. "It's really quite pretty."
Walter is sitting on the floor, his jacket protecting his rump from the chill of the floor as he leans against a nearby wall, watching the beastie as well. "So... do you think it's a real dinosaur?" he wonders, considering the possibilities. "You don't think another 'rift' opened up, do you?"
Alison has been much less interesed as the dino sleeps off the tranq, locating headphones amongst her pockets in order to not subject everybody to the music that thrums in her eardrums, settled in a chair and tipped back on two legs, leaning against the wall. The movement and comment from Jean draws her attention, and she looks over with a quirked eyebrow. "Pretty? Really?" she asks, tugging the earphones out of her ears and turning off the player. The talk of a rift gets an interested look from her, but no further comment.
When Jean gets too close, the feathery lizard presses itself up against the back of the cage, then snaps its teeth out in her direction. It reads like a frightened animal that wants to defend itself and its food, but isn't sure it will work.
"The patterns to the feathers," Jean indicates the pretty. "I don't -think- this is a rift creature," she answers more generally to Walter, and plunks down beside the cage, not threatening the food, but not going away either. "But I suppose DNA analysis will tell the story. I might toss Dr. McCoy or Professor Perry my classes, and work through the weekend."
"Uh-huh," Alison says, skeptical. The idea of a substitute -- (a non-mind-reading substitute!) -- perks hher interest. "Yeah, you should do that," she says, a little too casual. "We won't even miss ya." Her mental track skids to a halt and then backs up. "I mean, we /will/. But, you know. Dinosaur. More interesting than teaching us, that's for sure."
Walter watches the dinosaur as it jumps back. "You sure the kibble's good for it, maybe we should buy it a steak or something... Or some hamburger meat. How are we supposed to know what sort of nutrition a dinosaur needs?"
The raptor eyes Jean. Eeeeyes. It eat a few more kibbles. So there! Then it goes to her side of the crate, sniffing at her. Then it comes forward, nose pointing to the others.
Jean very gravely and very slowly offers her hand for sniffing, albeit kept well clear of the bars. "Well, I can't say for certain, but I mixed together some of the cats' kibble and some of the dogs'," she offers. "It can't be -too- bad, hopefully... and is there some reason you'd rather me out of the way, Alison?" she wonders, one eyebrow twitching, and her lips twitching as well.
"Nope," Alison says, innocently, and hops topics adroitly over to dinosaur feeding. "But it's not really a cat or a dog," she points out obviously. "Maybe somebody oughta get -- I dunno -- lizard kibble. Or snake ki -- oh, snakes usually just get mice, right?" She drops the chair back down onto all four legs. "There's mice here, aren't there?"
"Lizards eat bugs," Walter says. "Least I think they do." He considers the animal. "Bird seed'd be way off, I guess." He looks to Jean. "Is it warm blooded? Because if so we can totally make some paleontologists cry while other ones point and laugh," he says with a smile.
"Mmhmm." Jean does not sound convinced. But she is, at least, content to discuss the feeding habits of dinosaurs for the moment, hand staying in snuffling range. "On the other hand, it's not really a reptile either -- evolutionarily speaking, the closest relatives we have for it are birds, but it doesn't seem all that much like a falcon."
Having sniffed, the dinosaur subsides. It can't seem to get settled, turning around and around uselessly inside the crate, until finally it flops down on its side. It does look rather Sad Dino.
"Well, it's tried to eat /people/ right?" Alison asks, giving the dinosaur a slightly cynical look. She is not buying the Sad Dino act, not so soon after leaping-to-bite dino. "Or at least mutants, anyway. I don't know any people-eating birds. But, like, crocodiles eat people sometimes." She pauses for a beat, head cocking to the side. "You think mutants taste any different than people? Probably not, huh?"
"Closer to that than a cat, I'd guess," Walter says with a shrug. He looks over at Alison. "That's probably only because we're a lot bigger than most birds, and the entire 'hollow bone' thing makes them unlikely to attack something bigger than them."
"Depends on the mutation." Jean is not buying the Sad Dino act immediately, but, cat owner, she is easily lured by something fierce now lying quietly. "The mice here aren't feeders, though -- I sell them for approximately a full semester's tuition for you per order." Cautiously, she picks a bit of dinosaur located well away from teeth and claws and suitably near the bars, and scratches at a non-feathery bit of hide carefully, quick to withdraw should there be saurian spazzing.
The tail, a little feather fan at the end, thumps on the ground once.
"Those are really expensive mice," Alison comments, ruffling a hand through her hair. "Geez. They'd better be /really/ good at, you know, mazes and stuff." The thump of the feathered tail gets a short snort of laughter from the teen. "No, you can't keep it as a pet, Dr. Grey. I know you're thinkin' it."
Walter eyes the captive. "So, um... what now?" he wonders, giving a little chuckle at Alison's comment. "Oh come on, we already have a dragon, now we need a dino. Complete the set, you know," he says with a grin.
Jean is intrigued. To test the theory that hide-scratching = tail thump, she does what any self-respecting scientist would do: she scratches the hide again, a little longer this time, if just as cautious. "I want to get the tissue samples I took while he was out cultured," she explains, giving the dino a gender identifier now. "But after that, I think I'm taking you two and our new friend back to Westchester."
The head rises, still a little suspicious, a little dubious, but scratching...is nice. Thump, thump, thump.
"Yeah, but think how many mice you could buy when you sold the dino," Alison cracks back at Walter, with a short laugh. "/Tons/. She'd be in mice for the rest of her life! Even the expensive, record-time maze finishers." She then nods absently at Jean, and waves a hand at her. "Go do your science. We'll watch him till it's time to go." By which she means she's going to plug in her earphones and listen to music and let /Walter/ watch him.
A crooked smile blossoms on Jean's face. She appears to be inclined to tune out teenagers for a bit, in an attemt to bond with the raptor inna cage. "There's a good dinosaur," she hums to it. "Plenty of kibble, no biting people, right... do either of you want to try scratching him? He seems to like it."
Walter chuckles lightly. "I was /kidding/ about the pet thing," he points out. "Though... I guess he's no more dangerous than some of our students... Might have to keep an eye on the cats, though." A thought strikes him, and he looks at Jean. "What if he's like modern reptiles, and has diseases and stuff?"
"What?" Alison looks blank. "/Hells/ no. Geez. Didn't you pay attention in school when they talk about wild animals? I am /not/ getting dino-rabies." She nods firmly at Walter in agreement. Diseases and stuff.
Scratching is good! As is the tone of voice, it really seems. As Alison gets emphatic, it gets restive, and finally snaps at Jean, teeth not really coming near. It seems more frightened again.
"Handwashing," Jean sighs. "It's a good thing. Iguana owners who wash their hands before eating don't die of salmonella poisoning--" Away jerks her hand. "Keep your voice calm," she suggests. (Calmly.) "It seems sensitive to tone of voice, which is -really- interesting considering what it's supposed to be."
Walter considers for a moment. "Well, tone's pretty simple, right?" he offers. "Like even wild animals will make noises slightly different depending on 'mood' for lack of a better word, right?" he wonders, leaning back against the wall.
"Airborne diseases," Alison rebutts authoritatively, though with her voice obediently lowered. "It could sneeze on you. Or bite. I don't think it's actually tame." She pauses and frowns thoughtfully. "But. It would be wierd if it was? What if these guys are, like, already somebody's pets? I mean, most wild animals in cages don't like to be scratched by the people that shot em. At least I don't think so."
Now that voices have calmed down, sad dino returns to being sad. Quietly.
"If this -is- a raptor, then, assuming it's capable of sharing any disease with a species millions of years an divergences on the evolutionary ladder from it, it's more likely to get the worst of what -we- give it." An apologetic glance is given to the raptor. "But come on," she encourages. rising to her feet after a final scritching. "Watch the dino while I get his genes on the first step to figuring out who and what he is. Then home." And lo, eventually, home they go. At least the raptor means that the kids get treated to the Super Sekrit school access/egress tunnels leading out to the country road.
To capture a raptor!