Conspiracy X

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Who: Jeanne-Marie Brisson (AURORA)
Where: Rooftop of Stanborough, then her room.
When: During all this.
What: Narrative. Jeanne-Marie gets news of the report on CNN through her Blackberry.

When the CNN broadcast aired, Jeanne-Marie had been out for a walk. She was prone to that sort of thing; her response to stress had always been to recoil, to retreat. Even back home in Canada with a loving foster family and a close circle of friends, Jeanne-Marie was not the kind of person who went out looking for comfort or distractions. When she was upset, she liked to be alone.

It was cold, but she was used to the weather - she'd seen her share of snow growing up, and the chill in the air was familiar, reassuring. She took an hour to circle the school, to climb to the roof where she could see the grounds. The roof was probably her favorite place at Stanborough. She snuck up there whenever she could - fifteen minutes between lessons, ten minutes at lunch, a half-hour in the evening before the sun went down. On the rooftop, so close to the sky, she sometimes forgot that she wasn't free.

She wished that she could fly. She wished that she didn't have to pretend she was tied to the ground. She wished that she didn't have to pretend at all, that she could just be out of there, away from everything. If only she could just fly away.

But she couldn't. Even if she could escape everything, someone else would pay the price.

Her watch beeped. Jeanne-Marie looked down at it, a Timex purchased with Black Air's money when she came into the fold. She'd managed to batter it pretty badly in the time she'd been at Stanborough, but the plastic had held up remarkably well. She punched the 'reset' button on the alarm and started the climb down.

Her Blackberry was chiming when she opened her bedroom door. Scowling, Jeanne-Marie stomped over to scoop the device off of her bed. A flurry of text messages demanded her attention. She put her thumb to the keypad and started punching in instructions.

turn on the TV

Remy's command flickered across the screen, followed by a stream of worry and confusion and fear from the others. Jeanne-Marie felt herself beginning to panic. Someone had been seen. Someone with powers. It was all over the TV, and mon Dieu, ce n'était un secret plus and that would make things so much harder...

More messages on the phone.

people know now what if they start taking people away and then us away again i don't want to go away
nodody goin nowhere they dont wanna go cher.
Cajun's right. It happens over my dead body, and I take a lot of killing.

Despite what people will tell you, ignorance is not bliss. At the moment, Jeanne-Marie wanted nothing more than to talk to Jean-Paul or Erik or Laura, to know what was going on. What was the plan? What was she supposed to do? Had anything changed?

But she couldn't know. She could only wait.

who: Remy LeBeau (GAMBIT), Shinobi Shaw (SHINOBI) & Vance Astrovik
what: ~~Target practice.~~ ~~Exercise.~~ ~~Practice.~~ "Exciting tag."
when: Day after the news report that shakes everybody up.
why: To keep the Cajun sane.

Remy had brought a small arsenal with him. He had avoided anything metallic; the handful of nuts, bolts, washers and screws he tended to cary in one of his coat pockets were potentially lethal, since often Remy didn't wait patiently to charge the entire object. Instead, he might charge a good portion of it, and then bits of molten shrapnel exploded in all directions. Remy wasn't a nice guy in a fight he planned to win.

Except right now, he just wanted to blow off some steam, not put poor Shin (or himself or Vance, for that matter) in a hospital bed. So he had brought a variety of non-lethal objects, things that wouldn't be shrapnel, just force: several boxes of coin-sized Christmas ornaments. Glass and plastic, really, little nutcracker men, tiny glass balls, and dull-edged light catchers. A direct hit would just knock one of them over with a imploding noise. A near hit might induce a stumble at most.

Vance can telekinetically turn the objects away toward Shin or Remy, Shin can defend himself and then go for tackles, and Remy's the one all the mini-bombs are coming from.

He brought his armful out onto the long flat lawn and dumped it in the approximate middle, grinning a devil's grin as the other two approached. He had sunglasses on even though it was as gray as England ever was.

"Good weather, non?"

Who: Jubilation Lee (JUBILEE)
What: Jubilee hears of the news outside a London electronics shop.
When: Uh. During the news.
Where: London.
Rating: PG-13. Jubilee swears some.

It was a television store; an electronics store, more accurately, a stack of tv's in the shop window like something out of a 1984-esque 'beware the rise of technology' film. Sixteen televisions stacked on top of each other in a square, projecting out anything from news stories to the BBC to some random seizure-inducing commercial for Lynx deodorant. People walked by in distaste, or stood vaguely in front of it in boredom; every few minutes the little electronic ding-dong of the door would sound as someone went in or out (often several hundred pounds shorter). It was a paragon of everything Terminator warned us about, and it was the closest thing to a parent Jubilee had ever really known.

Not this particular store, of course, but the Sam Goody's and the Best Buy's and the little mom & pop tv shops. Those were the nicest. Smaller and cozier, if shelves lined with slightly outdated appliances could ever feasibly be termed 'cozy.' Some of the nicer owners knew her by name from her habitual post on the ground or old benches or curbs outside the store, a bag of candy (usually stolen) in one hand, watching whatever was on the televisions. Sometimes, often, it was far less than sixteen--one or two to play Mom and Dad, a few siblings, maybe an aunt and uncle in there if she went out of her way to a bigger shop. They would sit her down and inform her of The Way Things Were, the state of the world, things she had to aspire to, and the low, low price of mattresses at Mattress King. That was what parents did. Today, it was like a family reunion, everyone all come together with Jubilee in the middle, warm and safe, while the BBC 1 sang her to sleep.

Her bench was ill-conducive to sleep, luckily: Jubes remained awake, munching on Haribo Strawbs, eyes locked on one of the tv's replaying an old 90's movie. She couldn't think what it was, but it was still comforting in its anonymity. Television was always comforting, when you grew up on it. And with things as quiet as they were at Stanborough, she was feeling the need for a little reminder of home. She popped another Strawb in her mouth and the screen flickered briefly; someone stopped in her line of sight to fiddle with his blackberry (hers was tucked safely in her hobo-bag); it looked like the channel had changed, but she couldn't see to what.

"Oy!" she called, in her best mock-English accent. It wasn't so bad, considering, and did well in a pinch. "Oy, budge over!"

The man didn't move. He was staring at his little device, eyes widening. Jubilee shifted on the bench, but someone else had stopped in front of the shop, and someone else. The tv's were all changing. Was it time to refresh the choice of channels already?

Someone was muttering to someone else. More people had stopped. They were looking at the televisions, naturally, and Jubilee, somewhere between fed up and curious as to whatever the hell they were looking at, shoved her candy into her bag and stomped the several yards necessary to reach the store. All the televisions had switched now, to the news. Boring. What was on the news that could get everyone's attention like that? Another terrorist attack? Well. As long as it wasn't anywhere near Stanborough--highly unlikely; who the hell was going to waste their time on an old private school in the middle of nowhere?--she didn't have anything to worry about.

"--to somehow blast his own way out--"

The newscaster sounded shaken. It really must have been a terrorist attack. Someone jostled her, moving forward to get a better view, and she missed the first run of the video rearranging herself and swearing profusely under her breath. The woman didn't seem to hear. The mutters around them were growing louder.

"Here's that bit again----"

Jubilee looked up. It wasn't the entire video. But it was enough.

The clip kept replaying, over and over, on one of the tv's. CNN, maybe. She couldn't look away. People began talking, shouting, more than mutters now. The jostling was harsher in the sudden rush to be anywhere else but there, to believe for a few minutes more that this wasn't actually happening. But Jubilee stayed put, staring up, watching quietly as the only family she'd ever believed in shattered any hope of normalcy she might have had. Her hands tingled, pafs itching to form in her anxiety. Some part of her still believed it was a hoax, it couldn't be happening, Black Air would take care of it. Black Air always took care of it. There were voices around her, but she only half-heard them, and the occasional shove went unnoticed.

"What the hell is this--"

"Bloody fuck--"

"Aliens?!"

"Don't be a fucking prat, did it look like aliens to you?!"

"Well, what the hell else--"

"It's a hoax, for fuck's sake. It's gotta be!"

"Like that kid--that South American bloke--do you reckon?"

"No, no, I've read about this--mutations--"

"Mutants?! What the fuck are you on?!"

The word hit her like a ton of bricks. Mutants. Her. Shit.

She recoiled inward, pushed away from the televisions as she searched for that one place inside herself where she was always safe. It was hard finding it tonight. Clutching her bag, she slipped into an alley like she had done so many times--how many years ago?--slid down against the wall and sat, curled into a ball, among the dirt and ash and rubbish. Her blackberry started buzzing--new messages; they had to know about the news report at Stanborough by now--but she ignored it. This was familiar. This alley, the dirt, the people accidentally kicking street shit at her as they passed, the vague lump of emptiness in the back of her head where she'd learned to block out thought. That was how you learned to live on the streets. You stopped thinking. It was the safest place she knew.

So Jubilee sat, knees to her chest, and didn't think.

A narrative. Fwee. :D

who: Jean and, before long, hospital staff.
what: A very important news story shocks her into waking, because Jovinja (Jojavin? Jopuvin? Pukejo?) wants to kick off a plot and I thought this would be interesting to write, so I accomodated.
when: Earlier today, let's say.
where: A military hospital outside of London.

The whole world has been reduced to a single white room. Cozy but limitless, unknown but completely familiar, it is everywhere and nowhere all at once. It's not even really a room, or at least she doesn't think it is, but she doesn't think much right now anyway. Instead, she simply accepts: She accepts that it exists, that she is in it, that it is warm and liquid and comfortable. Here, there is no danger. There are no lies and no governments, no sterile cages and no soldiers. There is no running, no worrying, no being hurt. It's safe for her inside the white room, and that's really all she needs to know.

An amazing story from the southern United States today...

Sometimes there are voices that cut through her silence. She knows they belong to other people; she can even tell the difference between the ones that are said and the ones that are thought because they have their own textures. Sometimes they talk of medical jargon (which she understands but stubbornly refuses to be interested in) and sometimes they talk about normal things, like the weather or politics or sports. Occasionally she feels the hot sharp edge of another person's pain, but she always makes that go away as soon as it starts. Most of the time it's easy to just float and listen, but then other times she'll hear the voices of people she knew. They stay for awhile and talk to her, and those are the ones she can't make go away. Those are the ones that really get to her.

...mine collapse threatened the lives of over twenty trapped men. One of those, as yet unidentified...

The voices come and go and change. She has no sense of time in this place and even finds the lack of it comforting. There's been a man in the room with her for awhile now, she thinks, but she isn't bothered. His mind is soft and fuzzy, like it's not even really there, so it's pleasant. Dimly, she is also aware of another presence, much more alert and focused. Efficient. Unobtrusive. A nurse. She can't tell if it's the same one as any of the others that came before, but it doesn't matter.

...somehow blast his own way out. Witnesses and news crews at the scene...

Images: The horizon. Mountains, rocks, and trees. A streak of red-orange-yellow light, moving. Grainy, but very fast. Shock. Fear. Confusion. It's like a buzz on all sides, a mix of image and emotion, pushing and tugging to be heard as it replays over and over and over again. Too many people in one hospital wing, all watching the news. They strain with attention, thoughts going off like sudden bright lightbulbs, and she struggles against it.

Authorities have not released details...

She doesn't like this. She doesn't like this at all. The voices are louder, and everything feels too big. Her safe space rocks and ripples, and then there is beeping and attention that's all on her instead. Someone's talking to her now, saying her name, and there is harsh light of a completely different kind. She wants them to go away and leave her alone. Let her just listen. She wants to hear the story. This is important.

"Jean?"

STOP.

"Jean?"

SHUT UP.

"Look this way, Jean."

WHY? Sudden bright lights right in her eyes, flooding dull red crossed by tiny dark veins through everything everywhere. She wants to scream. LEAVE ME ALONE. GO AWAY. LEAVE ME ALONE. I WANT TO HEAR.

They're talking again, this time about her, and she tries to speak. It's hard. She feels so heavy now, not airy and safe at all, like a metal box that's rusted shut -- tight, uncomfortable, alien. Nothing works, and all her comfort is leaking away. They go on: "She's disoriented but responsive. Page Doctor Hastings."

TURN IT UP.

Jean.

SHUT UP. JUST TURN IT UP. I WANT TO HEAR. It's so important. It's so important.

Jean.

And finally, finally, it comes. Her own voice, hard and rough like sandpaper and dust and empty of all breath: "Turn it up."

WHO: Alex Summers (HAVOC) and Betsy Braddock (PSYLOCKE)
WHAT: Arrival in merry old England.
WHERE: Heathrow airport and the drive back to Stanborough.
WHEN: November 29th, around 9PM
RATING: PG-13 to R for Betsy/Alex sexiness.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing in London shortly. Please ensure..." Alex lets the stewardess' voice wash over him; he's already ensured everything that needs to be ensured, and he's busy watching out the window at his first sight of England. Donald Pierce had made a number of convincing arguments to both the boy and his parents, arguments that after only a little thought made it clear that uprooting himself and continuing his education at this 'Stanborough' place would be the best option. The last e-mail he'd received from the school's administrators had included his flight schedule - one plane, a direct trip from Sydney to Heathrow - and noted that someone would be waiting to pick him up. He'd even managed a fairly lengthy nap during the flight, and now he had a lot of energy.

Disembarking is pretty routine, even with the heightened security of the modern age. Alex certainly doesn't fit anyone's profile of a terrorist, and thanks to his parents (real and adopted) the young man is an experienced traveler. He smiles at all the right people, signs all the right things, declares nothing, presents his student visas when asked, then goes to find his damn luggage. Right on time, he thinks, looking around the terminal as he waits for his suitcase to come around. I wonder who they sent? Probably not Pierce, he's got to be too busy for taxi work.

Email to Black Air

To: Black Air (general)
From: Tessa
Subject: Secure Network

How does our secure network work?

Who: Tessa (BINARY), Inez (BRICK) and OPEN
Where: Media room
What: Tessa is trying to commune with the stereo system. I have no clue what will happen.
When: Today, during daylight hours
Why: Sophia is so bored, y'all.
Rating: probably G, maybe PG if she accidentally blows anything up.

Tessa was taking a break from her Blackberry. Ever since she'd first received it she and the small handheld wonder had been inseparable. Tessa was constantly amazed at the wonders of modern technology - so small, and so convenient! It was so much less cumbersome than her laptop and it made it much easier to discreetly look things up online while she was talking to people. Honestly, how else do you expect a girl's vocabulary to have expanded so fast?

However, over the last few days Tessa had started to notice something odd: her Blackberry was becoming less of a tool and more of a companion. It hadn't really made a difference at first - Blackberries were mischievous by nature and Tessa was used to a bit of tomfoolery from them. But then her Blackberry had decided to play "hide and seek" with her by constantly broadcasting different locations or white noise to "hide" its actual location: under her bed, as Bobby had suggested. (No one ever said Blackberries were creative too.) Not entirely sure what to do with it, Tessa decided she needed to take a break from her Blackberry. It was better for the both of them.

So now here she is, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the media room, sans Blackberry. She is facing the rather impressive stereo system that Black Air has provided for the kids and staring rather intensely. A closer look would tell you that her eyes are actually unfocused and slightly glazed over, as if her mind is somewhere else. Tessa is experimenting, of sorts: now that her Blackberry has started acting oddly, she wants to know if the other machinery has distinct "personalities" too. She's entirely silent and hasn't moved for at least half an hour. She wouldn't have a clue if an elephant walked in the room.

Who: Remy LeBeau (Gambit) and Gloria Munoz (Risque)
What: Gloria is seeing how Gambit is doing after they have returned to their 'normal' selves.
When: Tonight of course.
Where Remy's room.
Rating: PG-13 - R because of language and considering who the two characters are.
Status: Complete.

Remy had not shown his face to Gloria since she and he woke up on the wrong side of the bed . . . granted it was in more ways than one. This was a bit of an annoyance because Remy certainly didn't seem like the type that let things bother him. At least he had given that impression when Gloria first met him, an impression that was slowly unraveling itself.

However, now their powers had returned to normal. Gloria could open her mouth without screaming in sonic decibals and she guessed that Remy too, had to have returned to his 'normal' state. So why was he hiding in his room? She tossed ebony hair over a bronzed shoulder and found herself marching toward his bedroom door, feeling the barest hint of a sensation she was not used to. The sensation being 'concern'. Her upper lip twitched slightly and knuckles tapped loudly on the Cajun's door.

"Remy? ¿Como estas?" Gloria kept her voice vague, leaning against the door frame while her hands slipped into the pockets of faded blue jeans, the smooth curve of her hips could be seen along with the flat muscle of her stomach, cerleaun eyes glanced to the door when she received no answer. "Fine, it looks like I'll have to see for myself." A sigh of irritation and her hand found itself at the door knob turning the handle forcefully.

Who: Jean-Paul (NORTHSTAR), OPEN
Where: Erik and Jean-Paul's flat
When: Nighttime, the day before the briefing.
What: Potluck!
Rating: PG-13 because the Alpha kids tend to be potty mouths.

Given the choice, Jean-Paul didn't suffer crappy food for long. Painful as that highly nutritional gruel at base was for all of them, he would dare say it was ten times worse for him. He had to eat ten times more, so it was simple math. But never mind their sordid past - he is making up for it now by calling upon his cooking skills to spare his stomach and those of the rest of his housemates. For the past few hours, while also watching Law and Order reruns over his shoulder, he's been preparing chicken vegetable stirfry, lasagna, sweet potatoes and spinach cheese casserole.

And though surely the smell of food is enough to bring the others over, sticky notes if not direct invites were passed around, and, now that it's near serving time, the front door left unlocked. In the other room Lenny Briscoe says something punny, and Jean-Paul pulls the lasagna out of the oven.

Who: Remy LeBeau(GAMBIT) and Piotr Rasputin(COLOSSUS).
What: After Remy wanders off to think, a certain formerly metal Russian searches for him out of concern.
Where: Outside around the Mansion.
When: In the late afternoon to early evening, the first day after the great powerswap.

Clammy English mist clung to the soft feather tips that brushed his arms. How do they know? I worry and the wings think? They try and make it go away. Remy shuddered, and not against the cold.

His mental voice grew louder as he twitched with the realization that Piotr was sitting down next to him on the grass. It's Piotr. Piotr had no mental designation, and he was a rare exception. So far in his thoughts Remy had mentioned The Fool (Jared), the Flower (Laurie), and the Wolf (Logan). Piotr, it seemed, was simply himself. Relief was associated with the big Russian's presence. Smug security filtered through Remy's beleagured mind. It is only Piotr. There is no real need to hide. Piotr cannot see it. Piotr cannot notice, and he is too slow to think I could hide if I wanted. Brutal truth was this inner Remy's forte. He liked Piotr because he did not see him as an equal. Remy spoke to himself with confidence, and it was a hard thing to hear.

"Came long way fo' company, mon ami," Remy said, in his usual slow drawl. His mind was already three thoughts gone and cataloging the possible things that Piotr might want from him.

To put it kindly, Piotr has been having one hell of a day. The instant vulnerability he had felt by no longer having his steel form gave way to pain confusion and fear when he discovered that in the great power swap of the Halloween party, of all the kids' powers to have, it was Betsy's he was afflicted with. He spent most of the morning trying to cover his ears and inwardly beg people to quiet down. On top of it, he was praying his thoughts wouldn't project into their minds. It was hard enough being an uncontrollable telepath, he didn't need everyone scared of him as well.

He heard one range of thoughts though, louder than the rest, very clear, very distinct. After Remy's message to everyone and then the voice he heard, concern and realization pushed him to find the Cajun.

It surprised and hurt him a bit at the same time to 'hear' exactly what Remy thought about the young Russian, that he is too slow, that he won't notice. Yet...he's right. Piotr hadn't noticed nor was able to tell anything was wrong with him. Remy had been able to hide things so well without using his powers (and a bit with their help, but Piotr didn't know that), everything had seemed fine to him. Oh poor naive little Russian, today you are getting a crash course in 'the Remy he never wanted anyone to know.'

Remy's voice was very matter of fact, speaking in absolutes...and he was scared, vulnerable. Twice the voice stopped in what could only be described as a gripping fear, washing over the Cajun and preventing him from continuing for that one solitary moment. Piotr had no idea. It made him feel terribly guilty (not to mention receiving another ringer of a headache) to hear these. The mind is meant to be the most private of sanctuaries for someone. Knowing he could violate that innermost area, that he was because he couldn't control it...his guilt complex grew, covering his feelings on vulnerability, almost nakedness at losing his power.

Sitting down in the grass, Piotr stared at his hands for a moment. How do you approach someone like Remy and tell him you could hear everything? Reassurance, it was the only thing the poor Russian knew. "I won't tell anyone." He said it slowly, his accent thicker, it only pushed forward when he was under duress, in this case, a fear Remy would be angry.

Tell anyone what? Who doesn't know? Wings? Not hard to find out. Who would care? Black Air? Tell them what? What does Black Air want to know that Piotr would tell? These possibilities and more hummed through Remy's mind as he looked away from Piotr and out over the lawn with his new blue-gray gaze. Wasn't he going to ask any of those questions? Why didn't he look alarmed? How could there not be some trace of what he was thinking on his face or in the lines of his body?

"Tell who... what?" A mild and curious look over at the Russian. Remy appeared unconcerned. In fact, his real voice sounded distracted and casual, his tone bordering on flat. To all Piotr's visual senses, Remy was fine, just a little out of sorts--no surprise when he had a couple extra limbs. His entire torso was bare and yet no muscle appeared tense and his posture slumped forward to accommodate the feathers. Wonder what he can do? Remy thought. Looks the same. Hard to bother Piotr with anything. The last was colored with amusement.

Of course he wasn't alarmed. Well, a bit, but not for the same reasons as Remy assumed. Piotr couldn't respond right away, waiting for the other voice to pause a moment so at least he could start speaking and think at the same time, something he was not used to doing. At first he wondered why Remy wouldn't ask those questions, but then it dawned on him that either Remy was waiting for him to get to his point or he didn't really want to know. The blue-gray eyes were just as startling to Piotr as the red-black ones were to everyone else. He looked normal, nothing for him to hide behind save the wings.

The lack of outward reaction cemented in Piotr that Remy must have been hiding like this his entire life. He never stood a chance of knowing when Remy was really okay...until now. Slightly hypocritical he may be for hiding secrets of his own, Piotr easily took what people told him at face value. He'd never know how much Jared really hurt from his ability, that Allison and Rahne were afraid of what was hiding within themselves, how useless Josh felt in the middle of a fight compared to the rest of them. He would never know.

Despite knowing he was going to-no, he had to tell Remy, he found it hard to just come out with it. Looking out at the horizon, he slowly spoke again, only just managing not to slip to his native tongue. "I cannot shut it off." Gaze moved back to his hands again. "Noise, voice, is loud." He felt so guilty.

The impact of this realization--for Remy did realize exactly what Piotr meant almost before he finished saying it, good God, the boy was smart--slammed Remy's thoughts to a halt. There should have been more buzzing questions, more frenzied theories. But no, instead there was total ringing silence, telepathic and otherwise. The throat-clawing fear that should have left Remy shuddering only narrowed his eyes at his friend and made his expression opaque. He waited with maddening patience for it to pass, and then he said, You know what I'm thinking? Out loud, he said it in French, which he knew that Piotr had no hope of understanding.

The complete silence made Piotr wince. He knew what it meant now: Remy was afraid. He didn't blame the Cajun for that; finding out someone could hear everything, it was that fear he hated. The Russian wasn't meant to instill that in people, he was supposed to be reassuring, a sign everything would be okay because he could protect them. Not this. Even someone like Piotr recognized when someone was testing them, as Remy was now. "Yes," he said to his hands after a moment. He didn't blame Remy for not believing him right away, he just hoped he wouldn't be blamed for not being able to control his new abilities.

In his mind, Remy said some very nasty words. There was a peculiar echo when he thought in Cajun-French, but it was just as strong as his usual inner voice. None of the venom was directed at Piotr, which was peculiar since he was so vehement about it, and Remy's sentiments about someone violating the privacy of his mind were exactly what you might expect. There was a reason Gambit hoped Empath had been ground down under the rafters left behind in London.

It took him a few moments of cascading thought in his usual habit, but Remy resigned himself to the idea remarkably quickly. He did not tell himself to not think things, because he was intelligent enough to realize it was impossible. It was clear, however, that judging from the charred edges of panic around the back of his mind, that he never wanted anyone to know what Piotr must know just by sitting there. Pause, and Remy's next vocalization perfectly synchronized with his thoughts. "You come to see what I'm thinkin', Piotr?"

Remy didn't speak a name aloud very often. Everyone was an 'ami(e)' or some other generic title, and it wasn't as friendly of a label as it sounded. He said Piotr's name with the right accent, and his Cajun one wasn't as strong as it usually was. He did it consciously: language was another tool Remy used to hide.

He shook his head, feeling guiltier by the minute. "I was worried about you. Did not hear on purpose." This wasn't going well, at least in Piotr's mind. So overwhelmed, he had missed the small note of Remy saying his name. "I won't tell," he managed to say this with his head turned towards the Cajun 'angel.'

Remy thought about that. The silence was loud. "Guess dat has to be good enough, non?" Remy believed what Piotr said. As the Russian now knew, when Remy decided something, it was absolute. There was also no doubt that if Remy thought otherwise, he might take some steps that Piotr was guaranteed to dislike. The Cajun's self-preservation impulses were far more than just instincts; they were actions, and he would not hesitate in a choice between himself and anyone else in the world. More hard truths. Remy rolled a bare shoulder. In the gray afternoon his skin seemed thin over his bones. "C'est pas la peine." It's no use. Small, bitter smile. "Qui sera sera, mon frère." Remy had called him that word before. Frère. Brother. In Remy's mind the word had a bizarre connotation, and one more associated with good will than blood.

"Mais, ça va bien." But, it's fine. Lies. He shook off his tone, but it was a calculated move. "Et tu? Comment ça va?" He seemed to like speaking more French than anything, and in his thoughts the translation--in no language at all--tended to echo and prevent Remy's aggressive telepathic tone from metaphorically shouting at Piotr.

Piotr should have felt better that no blame was laid on him for this, and he did, a bit. But he noticed something else, beyond the fact Remy was speaking in French with translations for only Piotr to hear, beyond the frère/brother comment calling him as such. The Cajun was still in the actions of self-preservation, of walling up and pushing away from the truth and instead deflecting the subject at hand elsewhere. He has forgotten: this is not the metal Russian of before, the one who never saw beyond the fronts anyone put up. He could hear truths, feelings.

He knew well enough now not to take Remy at face value. "You are changing the subject." He stretched out his legs, accidentally kicking a stray rock. It tumbled and rolled away. "Stop."

For the first time, Remy looked startled. He blinked rapidly and redirected his gaze. This was both an automatic reaction and a constructed one: most of Remy's instinctive reactions (alarm, concern, surprise, fear--especially fear) were reprogrammed so his detectable reactions were minimal. What on earth had he been getting up to before Black Air, before the Facility, to make all this necessary? ...Regardless, it was a miracle any of it was still intact after the Facility, period.

"D'accord." Okay. The cold reached him all of a sudden, and he shivered. The motion went over his chest and shoulders and down into the wings. Piotr was close enough to feel the feathers tickle his elbow. For some reason, Remy chose to continue the conversation without saying anything at all aloud. I can try. Old habits, you know. Earnest curiosity, and for once Remy gave in to it. Did you really come out here just to see if I was in one piece? That, Remy could not quite believe, for some reason. He did not expect anyone to go out of their way for him.

"Last time you left, you almost died." Piotr didn't mean to be blunt, but it was true. He thought Remy was going to leave for good, and it scared him. He dismissed a while ago on any sort of romantic notion for the young Cajun (a painfully obvious heterosexual), but that didn't mean he couldn't care for him as a friend.

Another blink. The blue eyes made Remy look younger, though not less capable. Remy hadn't much cared for the near-death experience, either. But all that pain and blood bothered him less than the all-important freedom it took away: he needed Black Air and the security they could provide. Remy hated needing. Yeah, he said, in a quiet shudder of a thought, That hurt a lot. But where else is there to go? Pragmatic to the end.

Flickers of fear and restlessness again. Nowhere to hide now. He was not just thinking of the wings. Bitter resentment, surprising in its strength: Especially from you, no?

Piotr nodded. It made sense, Remy didn't want to have to depend, to need someone or something and all the risks associated with it. The facility had made the Russian wary himself of institution. But, the Cajun was right again. For people like them, where could they go? How long could they even hide? Society has been proven to collectively act one way: it fears change, difference. Their responses to as such would probably get them shoved away, poked and prodded again, people looking for 'cures,' a way to...fix the problem, like animals.

The wing tickled, but Piotr ignored it. There wasn't much he could say at this point to reassure Remy. How Betsy could have this power and not feel guilty, knowing you could invade someone's mind...maybe she did. He wasn't going to ask. Staring at his feet, Piotr waited for the sounds to stop before continuing. "Are you tired of hiding?" Remy was free to take that however he liked, though with Piotr, there never was double meanings to his words.

No thought was necessary. No calculation. Remy's answer encompassed all meanings of that question. In every sense of the word: Yes. Pause. But it is something I do. When I am dead I will stop. He meant it. Remy had been hiding all his life in many different ways, from many kinds of people. Oh yes, he was tired of it.

Secretly, though, he wondered if he could be himself even if he tried.

Piotr pulled his knees to his chest, resting his arms on them. He wished they were in a world where people like him and Remy didn't have to hide in any sense of the word. People have their secrets, true enough, but to fear your own life from difference...they all had to hide. The fear, the lies, everything they've been having to do just for the sake of, well, the Russian didn't know anymore.

Me too, he thought, unaware Betsy's abilities did not include just hearing thoughts.

That was not aloud. Remy knew it. The accent was gone. The tone--if you could call it that--was distracted, almost... musing. Piotr never sounded like that. Ever. When Piotr said something, he meant to say it. He was very deliberate in that way. It usually amused Remy.

Not this time. He turned around to look at Piotr, slowly. He dropped his knees and twisted his torso around to face his friend. The wings half-spread as the inquiry turned Remy's eyebrows down. "You what?"

He froze. Remy heard him. Remy heard him. This was shaping up to be quite a twisted day.

To top it off, he was facing him, half naked, wings unfurled and all. Cue a blushing Piotr with bad thoughts running through his head--thoughts that were not exactly quiet.

Thoughts that Remy heard. All he could do was sit there and listen and let his eyes widen. Abruptly he wished he had a shirt on. Among other things. "Uh," he said. Scratched his forehead. Did Piotr need to be quite so descriptive about it? "Oh. Dat." Cough.

...Abruptly Piotr wished he was dead. Dead people certainly didn't have problems such as these. Dead people didn't just let out their secret so...graphically.

As he couldn't die suddenly on the spot to relieve himself of the embarrassment, he instead went a different route: covering his head with his hands and swearing in Russian. Lucky Remy, he needn't have asked what Piotr was swearing about, the translations were coming to him via their connected brain wave.

Remy started to laugh. He was a little rusty at the real thing, but he managed just fine after a couple breaths. Now I know what you are thinking. Turn around is fair play, brother! Poor Piotr was expecting horror or disgust? Not from Remy. He had no interest in men, but it was a blind person that grew up parent-less in New Orleans without plenty of awareness of the preference. There was very little that even Piotr could think that would successfully shock Remy in this lifetime.

Well, laughing was not so bad of a reaction to finding out a secret like that.

Piotr lifted one hand away from his face to look at Remy. I'm sorry, I--er his thoughts were bouncing with the frequency of a ham radio before he hung his head, I guess we both know each other now.

A drifting worry cut through Remy's amusement. You are not thinking that I-- or hoping--" Because friend or no friend, brother or no brother, it wasn't happening.

No, no-- he shook his head furiously before hiding his face again. I...wouldn't go for you because you are not. Lightning, strike him now.

"Ah." Remy recommenced being amused. "Dis is a strange day, non?"

"Very strange." Piotr wasn't exactly amused with anyone knowing the truth, but it can't be helped now. You won't tell, please.

Now Remy looked surprised. "Non. Mais, pourquoi?" But why?

"Я не готов." I am not ready. He truly wasn't.

The thief looked thoughtful. He lifted a shoulder and rubbed his chin on it. It was a strange but typically Remy gesture. He only did it when he was thinking, and not pretending to think. One of his few totally unconscious gestures. "D'accord." Remy was thinking that Piotr should be able to be himself; while almost simultaneously calling himself a hypocrite.

Piotr managed a small smile of gratitude. "Спасибо." Thank you. He tilted his head up to look out at the horizon again.

"De rien." It looked like they just needed to wait it out. It didn't seem as bad as it had a little while ago.

Who: Remy LeBeau (GAMBIT)
Where: A solitary patch of lawn, outside.
When: A considerable time after his training session with Vance. A little while after his conversation with Gloria.
What: Piotr is coming to check on his friend, and his newfound abilities (and Remy's new lack of telepathic-shielding) puts light on Remy's personality... which has never been what it seemed. A narrative that is a precursor to a log, which is coming soon.
Rating: G.

The question that could never be answered unless it was in circumstances like these: what does Remy's mind sound like--feel like--to a telepath? It was easy to dismiss the question with makeshift answers. Why, it sounded like his voice, obnoxious, drawling, slightly whimsical in its way. Or it was like his eyes, harsh and quick. Or it was shallow and sex-driven, like his personality.

But no one would ever really know. To a telepath Remy's mind buzzed like empty air waves, with confused bits of an emotion here or a word there. Sometimes the fluxes even reflected a telepath's assumptions, questions and inquiries back at them: a crackle snow mirror to think and hear whatever they wanted to think and hear, if they were not careful.

For Piotr, there was no buzz. No mirror. No assumptions. No makeshift answers.

Remy's mind was sharp. His thoughts had edges. They moved in and around each other like perfectly placed gears of a clock, honed so that they fit within each other as he cycled through them at an unnatural rate. The timing, the pace of Remy's mind, was jarring. Thoughts interrupted themselves and doubled back on each other, sometimes several times over, before they were something else entirely and he moved onto the next.

His mental voice was laced with a quick sardonic cleverness as it wound in and around itself. His inner commentary was actually a dialogue with himself, for Remy was a man who spent most of his time alone even in company. He kept time with the steady stream of his own consciousness and the thoughts that crowded into it.

Right now, he was thinking about his back, and why it was sore. His memory supplied anything he ever heard about genetics; he sifted through countless old voices (echoing scientists' hushed voices in the Facility's hallways, the oblivious rambling of Hank, the off-hand remarks of his fellows) and his own self-spun perceptions.

Never had Remy showed any interest in the business of scientists, nor had he exhibited a trace of understanding in any of the classes Black Air had (politely) forced them into. Yet here he was, sifting through rapid-fire conversations he never took part in and only overheard.

In Remy's mind his genes were a long list. The list resembled a criminal stat sheet: hair, brown. Eyes, black/red. Even his profession: thief, con-man. When Hank explained his theory, Remy had been forced to tear pieces of that paper apart and reassemble them with new attributes, which he did down to the last detail. The old pieces he folded away into the front of his mind, where he could remember where they belonged, the way he should fit together.

He was reading the list aloud in his mind as Piotr drew closer, adding his own biting commentary and bits of memory and speech to the clipped strength of his thoughts. In his mind, Remy spoke loudly. He spoke with confidence and authority.

The Bird, (this was how he spoke of Warren in his mind), flies. Muscles to hold up a man that flies that a bird doesn't have. The ones that grew and the ones that hurt. Did he try to cut them away? I might try. If I was him I would try. I am him. I will try. No pause, no change in the pace of his thoughts as new subjects interrupted the old. Did they come back? The cut that healed. Here, a memory of surprised pain as one wing caught in a doorway and Remy, feeling weightless and empty, stumbling into the corner of a hall table. No one had seen. Barely time to bleed. Bleeding just an exercise to finish when you are dead. But the Bird heals. Growing back. No, limbs don't regrow. Bird, not lizard. I could ask-- No. The thoughts stopped abruptly and a paralyzing fear froze the frenzied tumble into place. Solid silence for several seconds, and then Remy seemed to break free from the self-induced stillness.

No, don't need it. Not going to be around for long. My God. He said it in French in his mind. Mon Dieu. To him, the words were feminine, for Remy had learned them from a woman. Why have I stayed for so long. Because out there is death, or worse. Out there are others, and there is no way to know how many. Out there it is worse, and no way to know how much worse. The Facility. Again, mind-numbing terror stilled Remy's thoughts until, somehow, he broke it again.

This was the way the pattern went as Remy took a precise psychological scalpel to his entire self, from wing tips to the deepest places in his mind, and fought away sheer panic at the cold fact he had no control over his own body anymore.

Who: Kitty Pryde (SHADOWCAT) and Piotr Rasputin (COLOSSUS).
When: During the first day after the power-swap fiasco.
Where: The halls.
What: Piotr discovers he can hear thoughts. It's not a pleasant situation.
Rating: Shouldn't be more than PG for awkward.

His head hurt terribly.

In fact, it was so terrible he began moving towards the kitchen in the hopes there was somethin he could take, anything that would knock out a person. After the party...the party. He hadn't wanted to go originally, but then the thought of the combination of possible booze and the younger kids being reckless was enough for him to change his mind. Even if he did nothing more than stand against the wall (in an astronaut costume no less) and watch the revelers. Except...something happened at the party.

Now he couldn't turn metal anymore. He tried, repeatedly. Originally he figured he lost his powers, until he heard something. It sounded like one of the other kids, but when he stepped outside his room, no one was talking. But then he heard them again...and they weren't talking. He could hear their...shit. It was in decreasing and increasing volumes, altogether causing the nerves near his mind to twitch terribly, hence the headaches. Fuck. He really needed that aspirin now. He needed to figure out how to shut it off as well, he seemed to be hearing almost everything.

Attempting to plod down the stairs, he touched the banister and...he could see one of the kids having just run down them minutes earlier. At this point, he was certain his powers were swapped for someone else's, Betsy's, he was sure of it. He decided to attempt to seek her out, but poor Piotr, he was about to be interrupted.

Who: Jared Corbo (RADIUS) and Josh Foley (ELIXER); possibly open, come ask
When: Couple days after the powers swap, pre-reversal
Where: The kitchen
What: Jared and Josh wax philosophical about their ironic role reversal. Oooor Jared gets a punch inna face.
Rating: PG13 for content/swearing/violence?

Surprisingly enough, Jared hadn't been seen too much since the power swap went down; the matter of his having pressing matters with his girlfriend aside (no pun intended), there was also a small army of people looking to monopolize on the chance to do him bodily harm. Then again, he wasn't really laying low intentionally, except for some mild Jubilee avoidance strategies. At the moment he was bowing to the basic need of rehydration with a trip to the fridge in the communal kitchen.

He stood at the refrigerator with the door open, leaning on it and enjoying the cold air from within hitting him - perhaps a little too much. He was also tilting back a carton of orange juice as though he were dying of thirst. Oh, and did I mention he didn't have a shirt on? Yeah, just a pair of jeans for this bad boy. At the moment he was happy, satisfied, and generally at peace with the universe, and unknowingly pumping out such placating pheromones into the surrounding environment.

WHO: Logan (WOLVERINE) and Betsy Braddock (PSYLOCKE) with a late appearance by Pete Wisdom (~~BUTTERFINGERS~~)
WHAT: Wisdom is getting totally the wrong impression. Totally. Honest.
WHEN: Late afternoon of the day after the party, after Betsy's request to Allison.
RATED: PG-13ish?

So it had been nearly a full day since everything went insane, and Betsy was still trying to cope. Being 'Florence Nightingale' was a full time job and she had no idea how Josh managed it. Allison or no Allison, Betsy would definitely have a new respect for Foley after this all blew over - if it did. And she was sincerely hoping it did, because otherwise, either she or Logan would soon be dead - possibly both of them. Logan's condition fluctuated between 'stable' and 'ZOMG!critical' depending on how recently Betsy had done a laying on of hands and how much Logan refused to listen to the "Stop trying to do things and just be still!" advice.

So far things had been going as well as can be expected, except now Betsy was starting to get tired. Like, seriously and ridiculously tired. And she figured that the best way to wake up would be a refreshing shower. Plus, you know, she was still wearing what she wore to the Halloween party, and to be frank, she was starting to stink up the joint. In a way, it was probably good that Logan didn't still have his enhanced senses. So after procuring a change of clothes as well as her usual shampoo and conditioner, Betsy had healed Logan again with the hopes that it would last for a while.

"Now," she had told him, "Just lay there and don't move. Watch the telly or something but do NOT get up and move around." This warning was re-iterated several times because Betsy was sure that if he got up and did things, that he would exhaust himself and get sick again. Once she was reasonably sure that Logan would be an adult, she went into the bathroom he has in his room and started up the shower. Just in case, she left the bathroom door cracked open so that she could hopefully hear him calling for help if he needed it, but for the most part, she was enjoying the crap out of her shower. Her blackberry was sitting on the bedside table, with the notification being completely ignored that said that Wisdom had just sent her a message.

Who: Jeanne-Marie ("Marie Laliberte") and Pete Wisdom (Psh, Codenames)
Where: The Infirmary
When: After the Great-Power-Swap-2007, but before everything wears off.
What: Wisdom's dragging the kids in for individual check-ups. In the process, he discovers something a little weird about one of the new girls.
Rating: PG for possible swearing?

Even under the best of circumstances, Jeanne-Marie didn't like doctors. Too many bad experiences in childhood mixed with the Facility and Alpha had made her a little twitchy any time anyone asked her to jump up on a table and sit still. So, when Wisdom had told her that she'd need to report to the infirmary for a checkup, she hadn't been pleased at all. Not even the promise of getting her own powers back made the idea of being poked and prodded any more palatable.

None the less, there she was, sitting in the infirmary in a tank top and jammie bottoms, sock-clad feet swinging slowly above the ground while she waited for the doctors to finish what they needed to do. She wore her hair down; it hid the scar on the back of her neck where the Russians had implanted the computer chip and the tiny bomb. She was nervous, and she was right to be nervous. She just shouldn't have been nervous about the doctors.

WHO: Jenny Stavros (ROULETTE) and Josh Foley (ELIXIR)
WHERE: Jenny's Room
WHAT: Not what usually happens when they're in Jenny's room. Josh wants to make sure his ~~girlfriend~~ ho is okay.
WHEN: Day after the party, once Josh realized that he couldn't find Jenny anywhere.
RATED: R for profanity and angry blonde

While most of the people in the school were out and about trying to understand their new (and hopefully temporary) powers and come to terms with them, there were some people who preferred to isolate themselves. Some, like Corbo and Norkio, were isolated for completely inappropriate reasons. Others, like Jenny, were isolated because they didn't want anyone - anyone! - to see them like this.

Jenny had managed to change since the party and was sitting on her bed in her room. The door wasn't locked, but it was closed and had been that way ever since she got back to the room. She's blasting some music from a small radio and surfing through the web on her Blackberry, but her face was locked in a perpetual scowl. She'd just gotten a message from Josh that he was looking for her, but she didn't think to turn off the radio or lock the door or anything, and when she heard the knock on the door, she realized that the gig was probably up.

"Shit," she muttered as she put the blackberry away and crawled under the covers, apparently intent on hiding from Josh. At the second knock, she realized that he wouldn't just give up and she sighed. "It's open," she said.

WHO: Remy LeBeau (GAMBIT) and Vance Astrovik
WHEN: The day after the power swap.
WHERE: A clear lawn outside.
WHAT: Power Training. Gauntlet style.
NOTE: Other characters can watch this from afar, say an open window. There's a necessity that this space be open, but nobody can be within hearing distance without being in danger.
RATING: PG. Watch for changes.

Wings or no wings, Remy was no angel, and he was never going to be. The wings were not any more ethereal than the man. They were charcoal dust gray, speckled in pigeon white and tan. A bird's wings, not an angel's, with a wingspan of at least eight feet--and they were hanging back limply out of his way. Needless to say, his coloring was not like Warren Worthington's, and neither was his build. He was slightly more broad than Angel and he had about an inch or so of height on him. Even with these differences, Remy was lean and grim in the gray English sun, arms crossed as he waited on the manicured grass a safe distance from any buildings. He did not bother with a shirt, because it was not worth the effort of forcing the wings to do anything. His back was already sore and he had healing bruises from all the times he had run into something or tripped because his balance was gone.

And now he had to give a tutorial on keeping your surroundings in one piece. Not an easy task when you are capable of constant energy flux and transference with or without your conscious decision, something only he was best equipped to do, probably because he'd started to learn it at age eleven. It had not been roses and wine.

Gambit was not in a good mood.

WHO: Inez Temple (BRICK) and Wanda Maximoff (CALAMITY)
WHAT: It's just a phase, right?
WHEN: Probably one of the last kids to wake up.
WHERE: Common room on the first floor.
RATING: R given the nudity and all, but it's not like there's sex going on.

Inez woke up without closing her eyes, and smiled despite the lingering traces of a headache. Last night had been absolutely wonderful. Fun times at the party, and then sneaking off with Hank afterwards. The smile became decidedly self-satisfied, and she stretched, then opened her eyes to see... the back of the couch? What the heck? She'd fallen asleep in Hank's bed, snuggled up against him, so what was she doing in the common room below it? And cold.

Ohcrap.

She stood up, for the moment failing to notice that she had one leg through the coffee table, for the moment completely disoriented, and coming to the horrifying realization that she wasn't wearing a thing. She whirled, looking for a blanket, a pillow, something - in this case, one of the blankets draped across the back of the couch. She actually let out a panicked squeak as her hand ghosted right through. This had to be a bad dream. An awful dream. She closed her eyes and concentrated, trying to wake up - and nothing.

Footsteps. Footsteps?!? Inez tried to dive behind the couch, getting it between her and the common room's open door; she ended up *inside* the couch, and let out a yelp before poking her head back out. Hopefully it wasn't someone totally embarrassing. Right? Please?

WHO: Tessa (BINARY) and Pete Wisdom
WHAT: Tessa has woken up with hot knives and no idea how not to kill people with them.
WHERE: In the gym.
WHEN: A few hours after the Big Bang at the party
RATING: PG for language, since hot knives are nothing to be calm about.

Tessa wakes up on a waxed parquet floor. The gym is littered with last night's party - bottles and cups lie scattered on the floor, and the decorations remaining vary from mostly intact to completely shredded. Above, Hank's incredibly complicated light machine is a twisted mass of metal and wire, completely bent out of shape from its original design and probably beyond repair. The first rays of morning sunshine begin to peek in through the windows, although sunshine is not very high on Tessa's "Thing I Want Right Now" list. The first thing she wants is some sort of painkiller followed by a really nice bath, but seeing as she's still on the gym floor neither of those seem readily available.

Naturally the gym is deserted, since most students have long since trudged off to their own beds, but Tessa has had no such luck - trying to communicate with a non-intelligent machine didn't get her much more than a massive headache (if you didn't count the explosion afterwards) and a really limp body. Knowing that the aspirin is probably not going to walk towards her, she slowly sits up and puts her hands on the ground to push her body up. Suddenly, her fingertips grow red-hot and to her horror multiple unknown projectiles shoot out of her fingers and fly in several directions. Several of them explode in the walls, one of them slices through a dangling streamer and one smashes through an empty soda bottle and finally leaves a deep scorch mark on the floor. Tessa stares at her hands, which still look perfectly normal. Her fingertips still hold a bit of residual heat but otherwise they don't feel any different either.

Tessa cautiously walks toward the black mark on the ground, hands clenched into tight fists. She bends down, unwilling to sit back down because she doesn't know how she'll get back up. Sure enough, there's a clear-cut streak as if someone had taken a red-hot poker and dragged it across the gym floor. There's no physical object left behind but Tessa is absolutely sure she saw an actual object fly out from her hands. Tessa has never been able to shoot anything out of her fingers before. Terrified, she reaches out mentally for the nearest Blackberry or computer to look this up. She's desperate for any sort of information - anything will do, starting from how she's able to do this to how she gets it to stop but within seconds Tessa realizes something new: she can't hear anything. Normally every computer and semi-advanced piece of technology within a half-mile radius is audible to some degree, but now she can't hear a single one. So not only does she have new powers, but she's lost her old ones too? Tessa does the only thing she can think of at this moment.

She screams.

WHO: Sean (BANSHEE), Theresa (SIRYN), and Josh (ELIXIR)
WHAT: "AUUUGH WTF is going on?" (IE: post-party fallout)
WHERE: Sean's room.
WHEN: After this and this but before this.
RATING: Dunno, PG?

Sean was stuck in Rahne's transitional form, and he really didn't like it.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He could force himself back to human, but the second he stopped concentrating, he'd slip back into a hairy Wolfman. It was exhausting, and after a while he just gave up. At least, with his powers, there was an easy way to avoid using them - if you absolutely couldn't control your volume, you always had the choice not to talk at all. Shapeshifting had no easy out, as far as he could see.

He was standing in front of the mirror, eyeing the hairy maw that had taken the place of his regular face. Sean took a breath and concentrated; slowly the bone structure changed and he was staring at his usual self again. As promised, the door was unlocked, though he'd shut it to avoid startling passers-by. At the first hint of distraction, he'd always slip back to 'werewolf,' and there were plenty of distractions happening today.

His Blackberry sat on the counter beside him. He shot a glance in its direction now and then, if only to check and see what else was going horribly awry. What a morning.

WHO: Elisabeth Braddock (PSYLOCKE), Logan (WOLVERINE), Josh Foley (ELIXER)
WHAT: ...oh shit!
WHERE: The Auditorium
WHEN: About an hour and change after everything went kerflooey - everyone else was mostly still passed out
RATED: R for blood, cursing and FRONTAL NUDITY!!1

So it had been a pretty standard party, all things considered. Betsy had an adorable costume, she was hanging out with people and having fun and even danced a little. Plus, bonus, she convinced Logan to dance - in public! Maybe it was the combination of eyelash batting and really short-shorts, but Logan had agreed to head out to the dance floor and join Betsy in a dance.

Then, of course, everything exploded.

When Betsy woke up, she was aware of three things in rapid succession. The first was that she had the worst headache in memory - perhaps even the worst headache in recorded history! It was like her worst hangover (and she'd had plenty) coupled with some sort of mutant sinus infection because her head felt like it was stuffed completely full of cotton.

The second thing she became aware of was the fact that her right tit had slipped out of the corset when she fell and was now completely exposed. In retrospect, double-sided tape might have been a good accessory for the corset, and she quickly adjusts herself and looks around to see if anyone noticed.

Looking around caused her to notice the third thing: Logan was having some kind of seizure. Betsy had passed out near him, so she had an up close view of the jittery dance he was doing in the floor as he made totally unhealthy gasping sounds. That, more than anything, snapped Betsy to full alertness.

"Oh my god!" Not quite useful alertness, but still: she was Very Freaking Alert right now. She half-crawled over to get a better look at Logan and unfastened his bowtie, thinking he was choking. "What is it?" she asked, though clearly he wasn't going to answer. Frantically, she looked around and spotted Josh passed out way the hell on the other side of the room. Damnit! She scrunched up her face and thought 'JOSH!' at him really hard to try and wake him up and was more than a little alarmed when nothing happened. That cloudy cotton-head feeling didn't let up and she finally recognized it for what it was - the lack of psychic background noise. Well... shit!

Luckily, the person Betsy thought was Josh was actually Corbo (all she could see was his hat and jacket) and the real Josh was much closer. "Josh!" she yelled, though the boy looked to be out cold. Betsy kept a hand on Logan's tux-covered arm and stretched out so that she could nudge Josh in the arm with the toe of one of her shoes. "JOSH!" Josh was the healer, he could fix what was wrong with Logan. She just needed him to get up here before panic really set in...

Who: Vance Astrovik (Rumpelstiltskin), Betsy Braddock (PSYLOCKE) And Marie Laliberte ( none )
What: That noise that sounded like a not so earthshatering ka-boom? Yea.
Where: Hallway to start
When: After this.
Rating: PG-13 (for bleeding)

Last night wasn't that bad. Vance went out, Saw a bunch of people he knew in funny, odd 'Stimulating' costumes and was drinking, maybe a little heavily but hey. Then he fell down.

Alright, it's good, maybe the really nasty tasting vodka was a lot stronger for the foul feeling drinking it cause. Vance could deal with this. He'd been drunk before, much to his fathers utter lack of humour on the topic, no more needing to be said. It was waking up and seeing a few other kids still on the floor, some up already clutching their heads, including the Black Air Agents, and a head that felt like split wood. At the time, getting to bed and asking questions in the morning was the best idea.

On that last note, Vance was sitting up in bed, clicking away on his BlackBerry, wondering what a good cure for a hangover was when the small device began to glow and emit a keening whine.

Now, even for a farm boy, this is unilaterally in the 'No good' column.

Having just enough time for a yell of surprise and to throw the device across the room, where it detonated against the wall, brought Vance to his present situation. Limping down the Hall after fumbling his door open in search of Joshs room. Coughing and bleeding from the arm he used to cover his face, a few much smaller cuts and nicks along his chest and neck, and making a hell of a mess of the carpet he continued down the hall. Occasionally pausing to lean on a door frame from time to time, shivering from the adrenaline from the admittedly small blast and the cuts as he makes his way onward.

To: The Kids
From: Pete Wisdom
Subject: The Halloween Party Incident

-can't do a bloody thing with all this noise. What do you mean it's a programmable tea kettle? I don't give a fuck if it makes the best cup of Earl Gray you've ever had, it's chatty and could you just unplug it? There. Now le- oh hell it thinks I've been talking to it, hold on.

Hello ~~toeragsbratswhat do you mean I can't call them names~~children. You might've noticed we now reside in Fuckedupington, which apparently we neighbored all along. To put it succinctly many of us have switched powers. Black Air is presently investigating how exactly this happened, and whether the new powers are permanent or on loan. In the meantime mail me to let me know what power you have acquired ~~so I know who to really blame when things are set on fire, blown up, or otherwise broken~~and try not to hurt yourself, others, or cause property damage that cannot be readily paid out of your allowance.

Any questions, comments, concerns ~~or apparently computer trouble~~ please direct them here.

If you feel you or others are in immediate danger due to your new powers, or see someone else about to cause a bloody big mess, inform Black Air IMMEDIATELY.

~~There, how's that? Properly sanitized? No I'm not removing 'Fuckedupington', they all know how to curse they're not te- AUGH it thinks I'm talking to it again. Can I just send it? Yes? Alright.~~

-Wisdom

WHO: Erik Lensherr (MAGNETO) and Jean-Paul Belmonde (NORTHSTAR)
WHAT: Planning things the Russians would definitely disapprove of.
WHERE: A busy Indian restaurant near their flat.
WHEN: November 3rd, before the briefing to the others.
RATING: PG for circumspect talk of violence.

Erik had chosen this place precisely because of the crowd; the apartment was, of course, certainly bugged, but their captors could not have placed listening devices at every nearby business. Even if they had, all those devices would pick up would be the cooks yelling orders at each other in their mother tongue and the babble of patrons talking business over lunch. Despite the protection, Erik was cursing the crowd now, because it made this conversation very hard. Finally he looked up from his vindaloo to meet Jean-Paul's eyes, and gave the other man one of his thin mirthless smiles. "They say vindaloo is a joke India decided to play on the occupying British. It's not quite true, but it's amusing." He shoves some of it around with his fork, then leans in so that he doesn't have to shout.

"My decision - our decision - may simply get us all killed, you realize. In fact, the chances of that are not slim. But the chance of success - for all of us - is enough that I feel it worth the risk. You've read the files as well as I have. You're familiar with Kitty Pryde?"