9/23/07 - Polaris
---
=WES= Harry's Bar - Salem Center
An old tavern that stands from Revolutionary Times, Harry's is a common hide-away place for humans and mutants alike, although surprisingly quite a bit of the latter can be found, for all of the owner's devil-may-care attitude towards them. Modestly furnished in dark woods, it holds a relaxed, comfortable atmosphere that appeals to many, although almost never crowded. Up against one wall stretches the bar itself with several red leather barstools stationed in front of it and an impressive selection, behind the counter. Most of the rest of the room, however, is occupied by a few tables and booths, for people to dine at. Definitely not any kind of white-collar establishment, but the company it keeps is good.
The television is on. The game is old, but the spectators are new to it, one fortunate fan possessed of the remote to the thin black Tivo situated below the wide screen. The noise of conversation is desultory, at best; God's day, weekend's end, sees few people in Harry's Bar -- residents, most, regulars who exchange quips with the stolid man behind the bar.
A wheelchair is placed at one small round table, its occupant bald-headed and silent over a glass of scotch. A blond-haired young man sits beside him, equally silent. Infamy makes the former recognizable. Professor Xavier has emerged from his fortress to mingle with the populace.
Polaris is not particularly concerned with the clientele of this particular bar. She shrugs out of her motorcycle jacket just inside the door, dumps it and her helmet on the seat of one of the empty booths, and then goes straight to the bar with her usual question: are they hiring? Told to wait, she scans the room, automatically looking for a particular strange magnetic field, and finding instead someone she frowns for a moment before finally recognizing from the news.
Polaris
Polaris is an odd mixture of masculine and feminine elements--the boots she's almost always wearing add height and weight to her stride, her habitual motorcycle jacket broadens her shoulders, and there's a decided squareness to her jaw, but those just accentuate the delicacy of her hands and the soft curve to chest and hip. Her green hair is layered in a fashionable cut to just below her earlobes, and is most often loose or pulled back in twin French braids barely long enough to form tails. Her eyes are not truly a darker green than her hair, but are perhaps more saturated in their hue, making them just as surprising.
She wears a black motorcycle jacket with a stylized design of big dipper pointing to a large starburst just over her left shoulder blade on the back. Her white tank top is low enough to hint at cleavage but not actually reveal any, and her low rise dark blue jeans hug the line of hip down to flare over big stompy black boots. The green of her hair is picked up in a very slight shimmer of the color in her lip gloss and eyeshadow.
Recognition is one thing. The twitch of power, of a mind attuned to something -- other, something /familiar/, turns that polished head just a bit. Telepathy answers, ghosting across the surface of Polaris's mind before hazel eyes return to contemplation of scotch. Xavier's companion lifts pale blue eyes to regard the girl as though his attention is drawn, his handsome face blank. After a moment, he pushes back to stand and head towards the bar.
As Xavier's companion is the more obvious of the two in his attention, she notices him first, and Lori nods absently to the man, leaning a hip against a barstool as she waits for the manager. On the surface, she's very concerned with fairly typical financial woes--does she need to find a place with cheaper rent, starting next month? If she does get a job here, is it worth the commute? Underneath it, though, she maps ferrous metal, soothing herself with finding it on the construction of the walls around her.
The young viking murmurs a quietly voiced request across the counter to the bartender, its details lost under a cheer from the nearby soccer fans. The bartender nods, turning away to his bottles, and Xavier's companion turns his head to consider Polaris once more. "Madam," he says, politely. His voice lilts through a European accent, esoteric with the touch of Northern climes. "Would you care to join Dr. Xavier in a drink?"
Polaris blinks. "What?" She shakes her head quickly, lest he should think she hadn't heard him. "Uh. Okay." She flicks a glance over her shoulder, but there's no sign of a manager, so she detours by the booth to pick up her jacket and helmet, going over to Xavier's table to hover uncomfortably, hands full. "Hello?"
The face that turns to watch her approach is aged and wise, whimsical and open, warmed by the small traces of a smile that lightens the hazel eyes. "Miss," a rich baritone greets. "Would you care to join me? --Please." A graceful hand gestures to the seat opened by the Viking's departure. That young man, unprompted, slides onto one of the stools stationed beside the bar and strikes up a low-voiced conversation with the bartender. "I hope you will not find me too forward. Your hair is rather striking."
"You're a bit older than the guys who usually tell me that," Lori says with a smile, but she looks him over one last time, and finding him nonthreatening, she slides into the seat indicated. "I'm Lori," she says, offering a hand after dumping her helmet under the chair.
Xavier's hand is long-fingered and cramped, slightly contracted by the rigors of arthritis. His clasp is warm. "Charles Xavier," he introduces, perhaps unnecessarily. His smile widens slightly, touched by rue and a touch of self-deprecation. "I assure you that it is purely a -- professional observation. So to speak. And quite impertinent, I must add, though I will shamelessly take advantage of my age and claim the privilege of my years. Are you a resident of these parts?"
"'Cause it's a mutation, you mean?" There's a brief moment where Lori considers lying about it, but the hair is relatively safe, with none of the attached fear of her other powers. She shakes her head to his question. "No, I can barely make rent at my other job, I'm trying everywhere. Even places with a sucky commute."
Smile lines deepen at the corners of Xavier's eyes. "As I say," he murmurs, and closes his hand again around the bell of his glass. "A professional observation. Green hair is not an -- /uncommon/ mutation, insofar as mutations go, though it is often associated with plant-based mutations." Xavier lifts a hand for Harry's attention, his gaze slipping that way for a half-second before reattending on Lori. "Would you like a drink? Or something to eat?"
Polaris hesitates. "They have sandwiches here? I'd better not on the drink, I brought my bike, I have a long ride back." She fidgets with random coaster. "Mom has it too. She dyes it, though. Too wild, even for a community college prof."
"Sandwiches, they can do. Quite good ones, in fact." Xavier's hand lifts again, attracting his erstwhile companion's attention as well. Eyes meet, then glance away; the viking leans across the counter, murmurs something to the bartender, and receives a nod by way of reply. "Perhaps some water," he tells Polaris, cordially. "Or tea. --Fortunately for the inheritors of that particular mutation, modern chemistry has made that particular problem moot."
Polaris nods slightly at the idea of water, still introspective. "A pain, though. You see the roots instantly. Used to hate it as a kid. The smell." She gestures vaguely around her nose, which wrinkles at the memory. She looks up. "You got kids at that school of yours, with that kind of thing?"
Xavier leans into one elbow, propped on the padded arm of the seat, and props his chin up on the back of his fingers. "A few," he says mildly. "Several, in fact. There are a good dozen students, and at least one teacher with a mutation that impacts hair color. It is a minor mutation. Visible, but correctible in these days, fortunately. And one can always pass it off as a ... er, stylistic decision. The majority of them have less concealable mutations, I'm afraid."
"Mm," Polaris agrees. Much good she's done at concealing the rest of hers lately. "Couldn't pay me to go back and do that age again." A shift of position clunks the heel of her boot against her helmet, and she leans down to position it better.
"Nor me. Well." Xavier's hands spread, opening palm-up in a deprecating, humorous little gesture. He straightens slightly, his shoulders settling into more correct carriage. "It is not an option available to me, at any rate, though there are mutants who have -- delayed the aging process, by virtue of their genetic gifts. A mixed blessing. As they say, infinite and miraculous are the ways of man."
Polaris is silent for a while, considering that idea. She's relaxed enough now that her hand goes back to her pocket, thumb stroking along the shiny metal surface of a keychain, unconsciously magnetizing it rub by rub. "I guess you might know, seeing so many kids--how do mutations travel in families? Like, not just having a mutation, but having the same kind."
"Similarities. Like--" The Professor's eyes smile again. "--a penchant for sunflower seeds, or the family nose. There is often a variation from parent to child. There are still a great many mysteries about the X-Factor and its influence on genetic makeup. There is one particularly unusual family whose children are all different types of mutants, though offshoots from the same genetic tree. It is an ... unpredictable science."
"Oh." Lori looks like she can't decide whether to be disappointed or relieved. "Okay." She misses her spot in the conversational rhythm, letting it lapse.
On Xavier's side the silence is comfortable, at least. He spins it into the soft, warm thread of tranquility with his empathy, letting it wrap like a comfortable blanket around the table. In the quiet, the noise from the nearby game is magnified. Heavy-footed but quiet, the bartender pushes his way out of the kitchen with a plate in hand, a fat-bellied sandwich on a plate. There is also a nobbly pickle. A great, plump, juicy, thick pickle.
Polaris finally shakes herself out of it, looking up hungrily as the food arrives. Once the plate is set in front of her, she regards it with interest, and then picks up the pickle first, to crunch through it neatly with her teeth. "But anyway. Sorry. Was there something you wanted to ask me, or anything?"
Xavier sinks back in his seat to watch the young woman take possession of her dinner. "Simple curiosity," he admits, his mouth turning up with self-deprecating apology. "I'm afraid that I am deplorably curious. Would it be terribly encroaching of me to ask if your mutation is limited to your hair?"
Polaris was lifting her sandwich, but she tenses so much at the question, she puts it down again. "Why?"
"Simple curiosity." Xavier's eyes, mild and innocuous, regard Polaris thoughtfully before the sympathetic baritone adds, "Pray do not feel obligated to answer. It is, as I say, an impertinent question."
"I--no--" Lori stares hard at her plate. "I was just telling someone the other day. It's come up a lot lately." That's not an answer, of course, but she's working herself up to it.
Xavier settles his hand on the table's top, his fingers curling around the base of the scotch. "It is not an easy thing to confess to strangers, if one is not accustomed to the practice," he allows quietly. He inclines his head towards Lori, an eyebrow lifting inquiringly. "If you would prefer not to, as I say--" His free hand spreads under the twinkle of that faint smile. "I can survive a frustrated curiosity, after all."
"Well, if what they say on the news is right, you're probably more trustworthy with it than some random person." Lori bites her lip for a moment, then leans forward, keeping her voice low. "Magnetism." Then she sits up abruptly, and picks up her sandwich to take a big bite.
"Ah." Xavier breathes out a sigh, his eyelids drooping over the gleam of hazel in the deep hollows of eyes. "I see. And your mother -- the source of your mutation, I believe you said? Is she responsible for the magnetism as well?"
Polaris lifts one of the slices of bread to settle a piece of lettuce more centrally. "That's why I asked. 'Cause I got her hair, but that's all she has. I kind of wondered where the rest came from."
"And your father?"
Polaris sighs. "Dunno. Took off when Mom was pregnant." She ends up tearing off a bit of bread rather than taking another bite.
Xavier's eyes close to conceal the expression trapped in them. His mouth thins. "Ah," he says quietly. "Well. Perhaps--" His eyes open again to focus on Polaris, a smile warming their pale color again. "Perhaps the answers are in your genes. If you wish, Miss Dane, we have access to a great deal of genetic information. Dr. MacTaggart is the foremost specialist in mutation and genetic tracking in the world, while Dr. Grey has her own lines of research. Those resources are at your disposal, if you would care to take advantage of them."
Polaris looks up in surprise. "You mean--well, not like a paternity test, because there's no candidate--" Her eyes narrow suddenly. "I didn't tell you my last name, did I? How'd you know?"
A small furrow digs between Xavier's eyebrows. For a moment, he looks disconcerted. "Did you not? How very odd. Are you certain?" Inquiring old man, he blinks perplexity at Polaris before a rueful little shadow tucks into the corner of his mouth. "How very -- amateur of me, to be sure. I find myself making more and more mistakes of late, I'm afraid. My apologies."
Polaris scoots back her chair a few inches. "That's kind of freaky. You know that, right?"
"Yes, I'm afraid I am." The bald head lifts, light sliding like water down the planes and curves of the sculpted face. Xavier touches a finger to his temple; on the borders of Polaris's mind, a ghostly finger taps gently in turn. Hello.
Polaris draws in a shuddering breath, and her hands clench on the edge of the table, but she doesn't bolt. "So'd you already know about the MiniMagneto bit before you asked me about it?"
Xavier opens his hand again, palm up once more. "I'm afraid not. Or rather-- no." The smile lines deepen, though there is no accompanying warmth in the eyes or in the grave line of mouth. The Professor's warm voice cradles around the British accent, molding the vowels around more elegant shapes than the American. "I do follow a certain code of ethics. I do not delve into personal thoughts, though surface thoughts -- it is rather like looking up and seeing someone as they enter a room. One registers surface features, but cannot see intimate details, such as ... the color of one's underwear, for instance."
"Oh." Said surface thoughts backtrack over what she'd been thinking about since entering the bar, and finding nothing bad, she relaxes again. "Okay. I guess." She scoots her chair back in, being deliberate about the motion in a way that suggests she won't hesitate to leave again very quickly should he try anything funny, and goes back to her sandwich.
"Nothing to be alarmed or embarrassed about, I assure you." The scotch, lifted to the pensive inspection, sheds crystals of tawny light across the dapper suit front. Xavier turns the cut glass in his hand, eyelids drooping over private thoughts. "As I was saying, before -- not like a paternity test. However, there is a substantial data bank of genetic samples in Dr. MacTaggart's institute. You may find something of interest there. Perhaps a suggestion of what your children could be, or what your abilities may be tied to."
Polaris takes a last bite, and then leaves a half-crumbled crust on the plate, abandoned. "That's--kind of cool, I guess." She smiles very slightly. "Maybe I /will/ find out I'm related to Magneto somehow, way, way back."
Xavier says, "Mm," and manages not to look pained. "It is not impossible. He comes from ... virile genetic stock. Healthy. Vigorous." And now he /does/ look pained, as much at his own word choice as for the thought itself. "If you wish to investigate the possibility, you are welcome to come by the school at some point to have some blood taken. Jean -- Dr. Grey -- also has a lab in the city, if you prefer."
"Well, I've got more time now they're cutting back my hours." Lori prods at her crust, and then kicks back with her heel, so her helmet is knocked into the correct angle for grabbing. "I'll see if I can make it out."
"I will advise the medical staff," Xavier says gravely. That ghostly twinkle returns to the pale, deep-set eyes. He sinks back into his seat, his carriage erect with an old-world propriety, and balances his glass on the arm of his chair. "For simple curiosity's sake, at least, it may be worth the inquiry. We could all learn something. There is still a great many unexplored avenues when it comes to mutation. Every piece of information helps."
A muscle tenses in Lori's jaw, highlighting the shape that came from her father, not her mother, but then she laughs. "Sure. Thanks--" she nods her empty plate. "See you later then, I guess." She nods once in farewell, and then heads for the door.
"Good night, Miss Dane," says the strong, beautiful voice behind her. Seated in solitary state at the table, Professor Xavier regards the middle air without seeing it, eyes blind. A hand stirs. The wheelchair glides away from the table. << Ethan. I believe it is time to return to the house. I think I would like a word with Erik. >>
=WES= Harry's Bar - Salem Center
An old tavern that stands from Revolutionary Times, Harry's is a common hide-away place for humans and mutants alike, although surprisingly quite a bit of the latter can be found, for all of the owner's devil-may-care attitude towards them. Modestly furnished in dark woods, it holds a relaxed, comfortable atmosphere that appeals to many, although almost never crowded. Up against one wall stretches the bar itself with several red leather barstools stationed in front of it and an impressive selection, behind the counter. Most of the rest of the room, however, is occupied by a few tables and booths, for people to dine at. Definitely not any kind of white-collar establishment, but the company it keeps is good.
The television is on. The game is old, but the spectators are new to it, one fortunate fan possessed of the remote to the thin black Tivo situated below the wide screen. The noise of conversation is desultory, at best; God's day, weekend's end, sees few people in Harry's Bar -- residents, most, regulars who exchange quips with the stolid man behind the bar.
A wheelchair is placed at one small round table, its occupant bald-headed and silent over a glass of scotch. A blond-haired young man sits beside him, equally silent. Infamy makes the former recognizable. Professor Xavier has emerged from his fortress to mingle with the populace.
Polaris is not particularly concerned with the clientele of this particular bar. She shrugs out of her motorcycle jacket just inside the door, dumps it and her helmet on the seat of one of the empty booths, and then goes straight to the bar with her usual question: are they hiring? Told to wait, she scans the room, automatically looking for a particular strange magnetic field, and finding instead someone she frowns for a moment before finally recognizing from the news.
Polaris
Polaris is an odd mixture of masculine and feminine elements--the boots she's almost always wearing add height and weight to her stride, her habitual motorcycle jacket broadens her shoulders, and there's a decided squareness to her jaw, but those just accentuate the delicacy of her hands and the soft curve to chest and hip. Her green hair is layered in a fashionable cut to just below her earlobes, and is most often loose or pulled back in twin French braids barely long enough to form tails. Her eyes are not truly a darker green than her hair, but are perhaps more saturated in their hue, making them just as surprising.
She wears a black motorcycle jacket with a stylized design of big dipper pointing to a large starburst just over her left shoulder blade on the back. Her white tank top is low enough to hint at cleavage but not actually reveal any, and her low rise dark blue jeans hug the line of hip down to flare over big stompy black boots. The green of her hair is picked up in a very slight shimmer of the color in her lip gloss and eyeshadow.
Recognition is one thing. The twitch of power, of a mind attuned to something -- other, something /familiar/, turns that polished head just a bit. Telepathy answers, ghosting across the surface of Polaris's mind before hazel eyes return to contemplation of scotch. Xavier's companion lifts pale blue eyes to regard the girl as though his attention is drawn, his handsome face blank. After a moment, he pushes back to stand and head towards the bar.
As Xavier's companion is the more obvious of the two in his attention, she notices him first, and Lori nods absently to the man, leaning a hip against a barstool as she waits for the manager. On the surface, she's very concerned with fairly typical financial woes--does she need to find a place with cheaper rent, starting next month? If she does get a job here, is it worth the commute? Underneath it, though, she maps ferrous metal, soothing herself with finding it on the construction of the walls around her.
The young viking murmurs a quietly voiced request across the counter to the bartender, its details lost under a cheer from the nearby soccer fans. The bartender nods, turning away to his bottles, and Xavier's companion turns his head to consider Polaris once more. "Madam," he says, politely. His voice lilts through a European accent, esoteric with the touch of Northern climes. "Would you care to join Dr. Xavier in a drink?"
Polaris blinks. "What?" She shakes her head quickly, lest he should think she hadn't heard him. "Uh. Okay." She flicks a glance over her shoulder, but there's no sign of a manager, so she detours by the booth to pick up her jacket and helmet, going over to Xavier's table to hover uncomfortably, hands full. "Hello?"
The face that turns to watch her approach is aged and wise, whimsical and open, warmed by the small traces of a smile that lightens the hazel eyes. "Miss," a rich baritone greets. "Would you care to join me? --Please." A graceful hand gestures to the seat opened by the Viking's departure. That young man, unprompted, slides onto one of the stools stationed beside the bar and strikes up a low-voiced conversation with the bartender. "I hope you will not find me too forward. Your hair is rather striking."
"You're a bit older than the guys who usually tell me that," Lori says with a smile, but she looks him over one last time, and finding him nonthreatening, she slides into the seat indicated. "I'm Lori," she says, offering a hand after dumping her helmet under the chair.
Xavier's hand is long-fingered and cramped, slightly contracted by the rigors of arthritis. His clasp is warm. "Charles Xavier," he introduces, perhaps unnecessarily. His smile widens slightly, touched by rue and a touch of self-deprecation. "I assure you that it is purely a -- professional observation. So to speak. And quite impertinent, I must add, though I will shamelessly take advantage of my age and claim the privilege of my years. Are you a resident of these parts?"
"'Cause it's a mutation, you mean?" There's a brief moment where Lori considers lying about it, but the hair is relatively safe, with none of the attached fear of her other powers. She shakes her head to his question. "No, I can barely make rent at my other job, I'm trying everywhere. Even places with a sucky commute."
Smile lines deepen at the corners of Xavier's eyes. "As I say," he murmurs, and closes his hand again around the bell of his glass. "A professional observation. Green hair is not an -- /uncommon/ mutation, insofar as mutations go, though it is often associated with plant-based mutations." Xavier lifts a hand for Harry's attention, his gaze slipping that way for a half-second before reattending on Lori. "Would you like a drink? Or something to eat?"
Polaris hesitates. "They have sandwiches here? I'd better not on the drink, I brought my bike, I have a long ride back." She fidgets with random coaster. "Mom has it too. She dyes it, though. Too wild, even for a community college prof."
"Sandwiches, they can do. Quite good ones, in fact." Xavier's hand lifts again, attracting his erstwhile companion's attention as well. Eyes meet, then glance away; the viking leans across the counter, murmurs something to the bartender, and receives a nod by way of reply. "Perhaps some water," he tells Polaris, cordially. "Or tea. --Fortunately for the inheritors of that particular mutation, modern chemistry has made that particular problem moot."
Polaris nods slightly at the idea of water, still introspective. "A pain, though. You see the roots instantly. Used to hate it as a kid. The smell." She gestures vaguely around her nose, which wrinkles at the memory. She looks up. "You got kids at that school of yours, with that kind of thing?"
Xavier leans into one elbow, propped on the padded arm of the seat, and props his chin up on the back of his fingers. "A few," he says mildly. "Several, in fact. There are a good dozen students, and at least one teacher with a mutation that impacts hair color. It is a minor mutation. Visible, but correctible in these days, fortunately. And one can always pass it off as a ... er, stylistic decision. The majority of them have less concealable mutations, I'm afraid."
"Mm," Polaris agrees. Much good she's done at concealing the rest of hers lately. "Couldn't pay me to go back and do that age again." A shift of position clunks the heel of her boot against her helmet, and she leans down to position it better.
"Nor me. Well." Xavier's hands spread, opening palm-up in a deprecating, humorous little gesture. He straightens slightly, his shoulders settling into more correct carriage. "It is not an option available to me, at any rate, though there are mutants who have -- delayed the aging process, by virtue of their genetic gifts. A mixed blessing. As they say, infinite and miraculous are the ways of man."
Polaris is silent for a while, considering that idea. She's relaxed enough now that her hand goes back to her pocket, thumb stroking along the shiny metal surface of a keychain, unconsciously magnetizing it rub by rub. "I guess you might know, seeing so many kids--how do mutations travel in families? Like, not just having a mutation, but having the same kind."
"Similarities. Like--" The Professor's eyes smile again. "--a penchant for sunflower seeds, or the family nose. There is often a variation from parent to child. There are still a great many mysteries about the X-Factor and its influence on genetic makeup. There is one particularly unusual family whose children are all different types of mutants, though offshoots from the same genetic tree. It is an ... unpredictable science."
"Oh." Lori looks like she can't decide whether to be disappointed or relieved. "Okay." She misses her spot in the conversational rhythm, letting it lapse.
On Xavier's side the silence is comfortable, at least. He spins it into the soft, warm thread of tranquility with his empathy, letting it wrap like a comfortable blanket around the table. In the quiet, the noise from the nearby game is magnified. Heavy-footed but quiet, the bartender pushes his way out of the kitchen with a plate in hand, a fat-bellied sandwich on a plate. There is also a nobbly pickle. A great, plump, juicy, thick pickle.
Polaris finally shakes herself out of it, looking up hungrily as the food arrives. Once the plate is set in front of her, she regards it with interest, and then picks up the pickle first, to crunch through it neatly with her teeth. "But anyway. Sorry. Was there something you wanted to ask me, or anything?"
Xavier sinks back in his seat to watch the young woman take possession of her dinner. "Simple curiosity," he admits, his mouth turning up with self-deprecating apology. "I'm afraid that I am deplorably curious. Would it be terribly encroaching of me to ask if your mutation is limited to your hair?"
Polaris was lifting her sandwich, but she tenses so much at the question, she puts it down again. "Why?"
"Simple curiosity." Xavier's eyes, mild and innocuous, regard Polaris thoughtfully before the sympathetic baritone adds, "Pray do not feel obligated to answer. It is, as I say, an impertinent question."
"I--no--" Lori stares hard at her plate. "I was just telling someone the other day. It's come up a lot lately." That's not an answer, of course, but she's working herself up to it.
Xavier settles his hand on the table's top, his fingers curling around the base of the scotch. "It is not an easy thing to confess to strangers, if one is not accustomed to the practice," he allows quietly. He inclines his head towards Lori, an eyebrow lifting inquiringly. "If you would prefer not to, as I say--" His free hand spreads under the twinkle of that faint smile. "I can survive a frustrated curiosity, after all."
"Well, if what they say on the news is right, you're probably more trustworthy with it than some random person." Lori bites her lip for a moment, then leans forward, keeping her voice low. "Magnetism." Then she sits up abruptly, and picks up her sandwich to take a big bite.
"Ah." Xavier breathes out a sigh, his eyelids drooping over the gleam of hazel in the deep hollows of eyes. "I see. And your mother -- the source of your mutation, I believe you said? Is she responsible for the magnetism as well?"
Polaris lifts one of the slices of bread to settle a piece of lettuce more centrally. "That's why I asked. 'Cause I got her hair, but that's all she has. I kind of wondered where the rest came from."
"And your father?"
Polaris sighs. "Dunno. Took off when Mom was pregnant." She ends up tearing off a bit of bread rather than taking another bite.
Xavier's eyes close to conceal the expression trapped in them. His mouth thins. "Ah," he says quietly. "Well. Perhaps--" His eyes open again to focus on Polaris, a smile warming their pale color again. "Perhaps the answers are in your genes. If you wish, Miss Dane, we have access to a great deal of genetic information. Dr. MacTaggart is the foremost specialist in mutation and genetic tracking in the world, while Dr. Grey has her own lines of research. Those resources are at your disposal, if you would care to take advantage of them."
Polaris looks up in surprise. "You mean--well, not like a paternity test, because there's no candidate--" Her eyes narrow suddenly. "I didn't tell you my last name, did I? How'd you know?"
A small furrow digs between Xavier's eyebrows. For a moment, he looks disconcerted. "Did you not? How very odd. Are you certain?" Inquiring old man, he blinks perplexity at Polaris before a rueful little shadow tucks into the corner of his mouth. "How very -- amateur of me, to be sure. I find myself making more and more mistakes of late, I'm afraid. My apologies."
Polaris scoots back her chair a few inches. "That's kind of freaky. You know that, right?"
"Yes, I'm afraid I am." The bald head lifts, light sliding like water down the planes and curves of the sculpted face. Xavier touches a finger to his temple; on the borders of Polaris's mind, a ghostly finger taps gently in turn. Hello.
Polaris draws in a shuddering breath, and her hands clench on the edge of the table, but she doesn't bolt. "So'd you already know about the MiniMagneto bit before you asked me about it?"
Xavier opens his hand again, palm up once more. "I'm afraid not. Or rather-- no." The smile lines deepen, though there is no accompanying warmth in the eyes or in the grave line of mouth. The Professor's warm voice cradles around the British accent, molding the vowels around more elegant shapes than the American. "I do follow a certain code of ethics. I do not delve into personal thoughts, though surface thoughts -- it is rather like looking up and seeing someone as they enter a room. One registers surface features, but cannot see intimate details, such as ... the color of one's underwear, for instance."
"Oh." Said surface thoughts backtrack over what she'd been thinking about since entering the bar, and finding nothing bad, she relaxes again. "Okay. I guess." She scoots her chair back in, being deliberate about the motion in a way that suggests she won't hesitate to leave again very quickly should he try anything funny, and goes back to her sandwich.
"Nothing to be alarmed or embarrassed about, I assure you." The scotch, lifted to the pensive inspection, sheds crystals of tawny light across the dapper suit front. Xavier turns the cut glass in his hand, eyelids drooping over private thoughts. "As I was saying, before -- not like a paternity test. However, there is a substantial data bank of genetic samples in Dr. MacTaggart's institute. You may find something of interest there. Perhaps a suggestion of what your children could be, or what your abilities may be tied to."
Polaris takes a last bite, and then leaves a half-crumbled crust on the plate, abandoned. "That's--kind of cool, I guess." She smiles very slightly. "Maybe I /will/ find out I'm related to Magneto somehow, way, way back."
Xavier says, "Mm," and manages not to look pained. "It is not impossible. He comes from ... virile genetic stock. Healthy. Vigorous." And now he /does/ look pained, as much at his own word choice as for the thought itself. "If you wish to investigate the possibility, you are welcome to come by the school at some point to have some blood taken. Jean -- Dr. Grey -- also has a lab in the city, if you prefer."
"Well, I've got more time now they're cutting back my hours." Lori prods at her crust, and then kicks back with her heel, so her helmet is knocked into the correct angle for grabbing. "I'll see if I can make it out."
"I will advise the medical staff," Xavier says gravely. That ghostly twinkle returns to the pale, deep-set eyes. He sinks back into his seat, his carriage erect with an old-world propriety, and balances his glass on the arm of his chair. "For simple curiosity's sake, at least, it may be worth the inquiry. We could all learn something. There is still a great many unexplored avenues when it comes to mutation. Every piece of information helps."
A muscle tenses in Lori's jaw, highlighting the shape that came from her father, not her mother, but then she laughs. "Sure. Thanks--" she nods her empty plate. "See you later then, I guess." She nods once in farewell, and then heads for the door.
"Good night, Miss Dane," says the strong, beautiful voice behind her. Seated in solitary state at the table, Professor Xavier regards the middle air without seeing it, eyes blind. A hand stirs. The wheelchair glides away from the table. << Ethan. I believe it is time to return to the house. I think I would like a word with Erik. >>