Mutant and proud, right?

@c23intros || task one || pinned post

{madelaine petsch, 24, female, she/her} || LAUREL CUNNINGHAM is a mutant with the ability of LIGHT AURA. they’ve been in new york for 24 YEARS where they spend most of their time as A STUDENT AT XAVIER’S. when i think of them, i think of THE DAWN OF A NEW DAY, THE SOUND OF A POLAROID CAMERA DISPENSING THE PICTURE, WISHES IN A WELL. [bry, 30, she/her, pst, n/a]

Milo grins and automatically brushes off the compliment with a shake of his head, but he’s quick to wrap his arms more completely around her for a reassuring squeeze. “Hey. It’s okay to be worried. It’s… I dunno, it’s kinda nice to be worried about things like a date, isn’t it?” By which he means, there are still mundane things to worry and get excited about, even if sometimes it feels like the world is falling down around them. Even if they’re training to be X-Men, and Laurel basically is one now.

“Skipping the middle does sound easier. But it doesn’t sound like any fun,” Milo challenges her with a smile. “Besides, the middle of the movie is when all the good character development happens. Or whatever. This metaphor is probably going too far,” he decides with a laugh, but squeezes her again. “You’ll be fine, Laur, is what I’m trying to say. Things will go well! I promise. And if they don’t, well. I owe you a pizza and a movie.”

.

She nods, unable to disagree that this moment of.. normalcy feels, like he said, nice. Nothing terrifying or loud or bloody or.. well, anything that they’ve experienced in the last year. Just normal, matters of the heart stuff that young adults their age should be consumed with. Maybe she had been overthinking things. 

          “Nice  to  meet  you  Laurel.   That’s  a  pretty  name.”   He  notices  her  glow,   but  doesn’t  say  anything.   He  doesn’t  know  if  all  people  like  to  be  called  out  on  their  mutation.   “Um,   okay,   then  I’ll  take  this  little  fish.”   He  grabbed  the  small plush.   “Mine  always  just  said  practice  is  perfect  and  there  was  no  shame  in  quitting  something  that  you  don’t  want  to  do.”    Chris  liked  his  moms  advice  and  how  it  always  felt  like  the  perfect  thing  for  the  time.   But  he  was  doing  his  best  now  to  do  what  he  was  good  at. 

‘Look at you!’ Laurel gushes, and an inevitable flush colors Milla’s cheeks even as she laughs, firmly squeezing her friend’s hands. She’s at a loss for words for a moment as Laurel leads her to the mirror, and fusses with her own hair for a moment as Laurel does the same. Laurel’s hair falls in beautiful, stark red waves, while Milla’s is more of a pin-straight mousy brown. It’s a little plain, but Milla figures ‘a little plain’ suits her. Anything too big and fluffy, too long and curly, just felt like… too much. She could never really put to words what did or didn’t feel good and why, something Laurel was exceptionally patient and encouraging with during the whole process — journey? — of creating Milla.

So when Laurel asks how she feels, Milla smiles broadly and nods. “I feel good. This feels good.” Her hands smooth down the front of the dress, following the lines of her form. “I think I’ve wanted to try wearing a dress for… I dunno. Maybe longer than I’m willing to admit,” she says, glancing at Laurel in the mirror and laughing sheepishly. “I think I definitely see what the fuss is about. It’s really comfortable.” A beat, and Milla adds, “Thank you for doing this with me, Laur. It’s… a lot less intimidating this way. A lot more fun. … I really appreciate it.”

For a few, long moments Laurel’s smile is a picture of sweet, muted pride-- a silent answer to both Milla’s confession and appreciation. She gives her hand a loving squeeze before breaking the tender moment with a wide grin and a bump to Milla’s shoulder. “See! And you said shopping was dumb and boring.” There’s more than a faint trace of smugness in her tone at being proved right. “Told ya all you needed was a buddy to go with. And we haven’t even gone out for a well deserved lunch yet!”

~

Finley laughs, knowingly. She, herself, had been an overly curious child. A trait she hadn’t really outgrown in adulthood much to her own chagrin. Curiosity had killed the cat, after all. Or, nearly, in her case. Of course, she was called nosey and inconsiderate or a gossip by most of the adults in here life, rather than curious. 

“Oh, yes, between the red hair and my pension to stick my nose in everyone else’s business, I got called Nancy Drew more than a few times. Not so affectionately most of the time.” Not that she minded. Those books were a childhood favorite of Finley’s. If her Father really didn’t want her to be so curious, they probably should have kept those mystery novels out of her bookcase. A thorn in his side or not, he never did seem to realize she was a product of his upbringing. She took after her Mother in more ways than him, but her curiosity and stubbornness had always been him. Finley finds it hard to believe anyone not wanting to be friends with Laurel, but the world isn’t as friendly of a place as Laurel is to the rest of the world. She realizes she’s never really had a proper conversation with Laurel, but they’re far more alike than she would have expected. Between childhood curiosity, and feeling isolated from the rest of the world, there’s an awful lot she finds herself relating to.

“I’d put money on it being there,” She teases with a light laugh. “I was a bit of a thorn in my Father’s side as well, actually. He was a lawyer for some fairly high profile clients in our state, and I had a habit of breaking into his office to read up on his case files and report back to the kids at school with tall tales of the crime syndicate of Battleboro, Vermont,” She explains, a touch of sheepishness to her voice. “As he liked to tell me, every time, it was a crime and could potentially get his cases thrown out. But, that did not stop me. It did, in fact, teach me how to pick a lock, though.”

“Ohh, sure! The famous crime syndicate of Battleboro, Vermont.” Laurel repeats with an enthusiastic nod, playing into the bit. “I’ve for sure heard of them! I mean-- who hasn’t?” Laurel scoffs, doing her best not to crack up laughing. “They’re very.. big? In the crime syndicate world.” Finally, Laurel does break down and releases the pent up laugh. “Big is probably the wrong word, huh?” Clearly, all that she’d retained from her mystery novel phase was a certain sense of curiosity and a penchant for getting herself into sticky situations. 

A hand comes up to cover her mouth, still spread wide in a grin, as Finley admits to the far more realistic ramifications of being, what Laurel would have called, the coolest kid in school. 

“Well,” She coughes out between giggles. “I think that being compared to Nancy Drew-- and for clearly such a great reason! Is a great thing. And knowing how to pick a lock?” Laurel’s hand waves out in front of her in a dismissive motion, though her expression remains impressed. “I think that only makes you cooler.” 

“Who knows what kind of person I would’ve become if I stayed with them. It’s okay that you doubted me. Being with them changes you — I watched Daichi impale someone with ice. I watched others kill and not feel anything.” If she’d stayed, would she have turned so cold and hateful? There’s no way to know, but she doesn’t blame Laurel for thinking badly of her. 

April smiles when Laurel sparkles. She’s missed seeing that. Her hand gently squeezes her friend’s, and she tries to ignore her anxiety. “Ezra is Entropy. The same asshole who tortured Finley and stabbed her.” Speaking those words makes her feel sick. They leave a bad taste in her mouth. Ezra deserves nothing short of a painful, horrific death. She’s never hated someone so much before. In fact, she’d never hated anyone until she met him. April gives a gentle nod of her head — Laurel is right, she did win. Ezra’s attempt to kill her had failed; she’s still alive and still has her friends. Hopefully, he has nothing. 

Hearing that Laurel is proud of her brings tears to her eyes. “I’m not sure how to be proud of myself,” she says, voice croakier than usual. She’s betrayed so many people, and being proud of that feels wrong. “I hurt people. Not everyone in the Brotherhood is a bad person. They’ve been put in terrible situations and saw no way out. They trusted me and opened themselves up to me, and I betrayed them.”

She shuffles in her spot a little awkwardly at April’s admission. She doesn’t want to think of them like that. Like normal people. It makes things.. complicated. Laurel doesn’t doubt that what she says is true-- the part about not all of them being bad people. In fact, if she were to really think about it, she wouldn’t exactly blame anyone for joining them- the Brotherhood. No one ever doubted that mutants had a reason to be angry and want retribution. Maybe more than a few of the current members weren’t bad people, but they weren’t good people either. 

Laurel swallows hard before speaking again, her glow dimming again. “Even if you’ve found some.. redeemable qualities in a few of them--” Her words are slow, careful, as she’s stays mindful of her tone. “-- and I truly do believe that you did, April! Because that’s who you are. But..” She can’t cover the sudden shakiness in her voice as she continues. “Being ‘not bad’ doesn’t make you good. They’ve still done horrible things.” 

“Finn,” He briefly gives his name to the Barista, and he mentally notes her name in his head. Laurel. Her name even fits her very well. 

While he waits he assesses the level of his foot’s injury, but he can’t really tell since it’s not as painful. Another chuckle leaves him when Laurel approaches him, “Would she be appalled by me?” He jokingly asks. “I think she’ll understand that it was just a mistake, no foul play done.”

          Chris  doesn’t  know  if  anything  he’s  saying  is  actually  helpful,   but  he’s  trying.   Back  when  he  was  younger,   he  and  his  brother  used  to  teach  each  other  things  all  the  time.   His  brother  had  always  been  better  at  sports,   but  Chris  wasn’t  bad  at  things  that  took  concentration  and  skill.   Chris  watches  the  young  red  haired  woman  concentrate  on  the  ball  and  bottles.   “Hey  look  at  that  you  did  it!”   He  smiles and  watches  her  pick  a  prize  and  hand  it  to  him.   “Oh,   no  you  can  keep  it!   You  did  all  the  work,   I  just  gave  you  some  pointers.”   Chris  keeps  the  smile  on  his  face.   “I’m  Chris  by  the  way.” 

“I’m okay with that,” Milo promises. He’d probably rather die than ask August whether or not tonight is meant to be a date, but to ask Yaz for Laurel? A thousand times easier. He was always better at sticking up for others than he was himself — and he may be invested in the answer insomuch as Yaz and Laurel are both good friends, but he wouldn’t bear the brunt of the disappointment if the answer is ‘no.’

Hm. Maybe he just outed himself in realizing he would be disappointed if August doesn’t think this is a date.

“Then- hey.” Milo stops walking and turns, so their intertwined arms force Laurel to face him.

“That’s okay. Not ideal, obviously, but better she’s honest, right? You deserve that.” His free hand moves to her shoulder to squeeze reassuringly. “And, you deserve someone who wants to go on festival dates with you. So we’ll find that person, whether it’s Yaz or not. Okay?”

Laurel’s responding smile is soft, but not unappreciative. Her nod is even softer. She untangles their arms, but only so that she can wrap hers around Mi’s torso, her chin bumping into his shoulder. “Thanks Mi. You’re a really great friend, you know that?” 

“My ability is enhanced intelligence. It just means I have full control of my mental capacity, and a higher rate of processing information.” Her voice continues, even as they fall to the floor together in a sloppy, yet impressive move on Laurel’s part. Jackie’s body slams down, and she quickly extricates herself from the grip in the confusion. “I can think about my moves faster, or do some shit in the background,” she says, standing upright coolly, assessing the situation before going back in carefully. “Pretty handy if psychics try to root around in there.”

Laurel’s reflexes are better, and that simply means that Jackie can go dirtier. "What? You think that I didn’t train to be like this?” A sideswipe to the head, followed by a knee to the gut. She dodges her hits after. Fist. Knee. Claw. Punch. Punch. Punch. Jackie grins at her, proud at the progress she’s made—Burke had better watch their backs. “Kid, I’m self-made. Even if it takes a little less work than usual.” She still panics, but even less so, and she’s making better moves. Some riskier, but mostly better.

“I—” She dodges a punch to the head. “Got to work twice as hard to get on your level.”  Another dodge. Sidestep, duck. A narrow miss. A hard hit to Jackie’s temple that has her ringing for a bit. “But you haven’t seen me with a pistol yet, Cunningham. I’m a deadly shot,” she says, on the defensive. “Just so I can keep up with you. So don’t forget the hand-to-hand. You don’t want to be caught on your ass!”

“No, Jackie I--” Laurel cuts herself off with a hiss and shakes her hand. They were both surprised that her last hit connected; Laurel so much so that she hadn’t actually had her fist in the right position and managed to hit the wrong nerve in the right spot, an unnerving tingling sensation up her arm. She jumps back for a little distance, letting them both assess whether or not they need a minute. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know better than to doubt you like that.” Still shaking her hand, Laurel gives her a wide, too-proud grin. Finally, after probably too long, she’s finding her rhythm. 

This person is too nice and kind, if he accidentally stepped on someone’s foot he’d just apologize and not look at that person anymore. “You don’t have to pay for me, it’s alright… really.” He says almost immediately since it really isn’t a big deal. One more injury to his foot wasn’t that bad. Well, it was but he really didn’t want anyone buying him anything. He then faces the barista, “An americano for me please.” He then brings out his wallet and hands the barista his cash so she won’t pay for him.

Laurel nearly laughs at the other’s insistence that she not do anything to make her injuring him up to him. But unfortunately for him: she doesn’t give up that easily. Not when she feels like she owes someone. “No-- I don’t mind--” But she’s too slow, and he’s already paid for his drink. She fishes out her cash to pay for her own drink, stuffing the extra that she would have used for his into the little tip jar on the counter. The barista asks for names to place on the drinks, and Laurel offers her own first. “Oh, uh, Laurel, thank you.” 

Milla smiles to herself as they talk over the dressing room divider; she’d feel silly admitting it aloud, but she’s always wanted to do this. Kind of an ‘ah ha’ in retrospect, thinking about how she envied those fashion montages that were overwhelmingly granted to girls and women in media. At the time, Milla had thought maybe she just wanted that camaraderie. Turns out she wanted a fair bit more than that.

“Leave and never come back, okay,” Milla replies with an easy laugh, carefully hanging up her selections before she starts stripping out of her ill-fitting clothes. They’ll have to talk about underwear at some point, which… Milla hopes won’t be awkward. She’d managed well enough to get essentials, but needed more experienced input — especially on bras. Milla hadn’t gathered the courage to mess with anything more than the most basic of bralettes.

The dress is breezy and fairly simple, and thankfully doesn’t have a zipper or buttons to contend with. Milla pulls it over her head and gently tugs it into place, smoothing her hands down the front and then neatly fluffing out the skirt. It just feels… nice. She doesn’t know how else she’d describe it. Milla swings her body left and then right, letting the fabric swish around her knees, then stops suddenly when she catches sight of herself in the mirror.

Not only does it feel nice, it looks nice. Perhaps most importantly, it both looks and feels right. Comfortable. Today, anyway. Milla knows it won’t always, something she’s still working on understanding, but it gets easier the more she’s learning to live in the moment. And this moment is good.

“Oh- sorry!!” she blurts out when she realizes Laurel was talking to her, snapping out of her reverie to grab the door and pull it open. Milla’s ta-da moment is much more bashful but no less pleased with herself. She keeps fiddling with the skirt, but more because she likes the feel of the fabric than that she’s at all embarrassed. “I- think it fits? I mean. It feels nice.” Milla swings back and forth again to let the skirt billow, then frowns down at her second-hand sneakers. “Probably not with these shoes, though.” That’s a ‘later’ problem, like the bras. Looking up again, she holds both arms out towards Laurel. “But it looks great on you, too! And we match!”

Laurel doesn’t try to hide her grin or the way her glow pulses with glee as Milla steps ever-so-carefully out from the dressing room. “Look at you!” She practically squeals with delight, her hands clasping together. “I’d say it fits, you look fantastic!” Her nose wrinkles slightly as she holds back a laugh brought on by Milla’s fluffing of the dress’s skirt. She nods, agreeing that a shoe change would be best for the outfit, but that is, indeed, a task for later. 

Her arms extend and connect with her friend’s. With a gently tug, she pulls Milla in and guides them both to the big mirror at the back of row of stalls. Her arm links with one of Milla’s and she grins at their reflections. “We match!” She echoes, giving the arm a squeeze. “And we’re so cute.” Laurel’s free hand lifts to fluff her hair, bringing the majority of the copper locks to rest over one shoulder. “Now, I think you should still try on the other size too, just to be sure you don’t like how that feels more, but,” 

The reassurance is always welcome even though Finley feels as if she’ll hear too many times, and it’ll start to lose it’s power somehow. But, it’s appreciated all the same. At least she knows how genuine it is coming from Laurel. Laurel didn’t have a single mean bone in her body. She cared for everyone, and was always kind. She was a metaphorical light as much as her ability had made her one. She didn’t know her well, but Finley knew she could trust her, and trust the things she said. 

“Everything I haven’t thrown away or donated yet lives in here, so I think you might be right,” Finley says, head motioning towards the closet in question, she pulls it open, and just as she described, it’s stuffed full of coats, cleaning supplies, and small boxes containing little things she’s collected over the years, and has no immediate use for. Call it being sentimental, but she’s not the type to let go of things easily. She had already left everything behind once, and it makes it hard to let go of things now. “So, you were a whirlwind of a child, too,” Finley questions, more than happy to discuss a topic like childhood anecdotes over the ordeal she had been through.

“Oh yeah, absolutely,” Laurel agrees with a laugh. Call her nosey, but she’d turned as she heard the closet door open; twisted her body from where she stood to try to catch a glimpse inside the supposed ‘messy’ little space. She hadn’t been able to see much-- a few coats, the corners of boxes-- just the normal stuff. “Though, I’d prefer to call myself curious.” Her parents had other names for her more wild days, she’s sure. 

“It’s hardly my fault though-- my parents used to read me those old mystery books: The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, you know.” The defense, though Laurel’s sure she doesn’t need it, is offered casually as she empties the watering can into the thirsty little pots. “And I never really had friends my own age, because.. well.” A too light laugh and she gestures to the glow around her. Even though the admission doesn’t exactly make her sad anymore, she still glosses over that fact a little too quickly to portray any sort of sense of peace with it. “So I made up my own adventures-- at the expense of some of my father’s old first editions.” Laurel grimaces, setting the empty watering can back in it’s home. She perches herself on the arm of the sofa. “I was convinced that the fancy bookcase in his study, that I wasn’t allowed to touch, was one of those trick bookcases, you know? Find the right book and it’ll rotate and suddenly there’ll be a secret room or staircase or something.” 

 “Hi! I’ve been looking for you!” If anyone tries to claim Yaz blushes from Laurel’s compliment and hug, she’ll argue it’s the heat that makes her cheeks turn red. She hugs her back, almost clinging onto her from how tight she holds her. The day has been overwhelming. It reminds her too much of the party thrown to introduce the Omegas to the world, and how there’s one member that was there and isn’t here now. “You look amazing.” She’s glowing more than she did when they reunited after a month apart, and it makes Yaz smile wider. “It’s, um, nice.” Painful, anger-inducing, depressing are more apt words, but she doesn’t want to bring the mood down with Laurel. “It’s better now that I’ve found you. Should we do games first, or grab something to eat? My treat, and you aren’t allowed to fight me on that.” 

          It’s  kind  of  that  weird  situation  where  he  doesn’t  know  how  to  explain  to  someone  how  to  explain  these  sorts  of  things  to  people,   but  Chris  is  trying  and  he wants  to  help  because  it’s  one  of  those  things  he  likes  to  help  with  people.   “Yeah!   It’s  going  to  feel  a  bit  heavy,   but  just  trust  it.   It  might  take  a  bit  to  get  used  to.”   It  wasn’t  like  he  was  good  at  this  when  he  first  started  out.   He’s  not  a  very  good  teacher  when  it  comes  to  stuff  like  this,   but  he  wants  to  try  because  she  seems  so  eager  to  win  something.   Chris  watches  closely  and  nods  as  she  asks  her  questions.   “You’ve  got  the  throw!   Now  it’s  just  a  matter  of  aiming  it  right.”   He  gets  excited,   as  he  watches  her  throw  the  second  ball.   “Okay,   now  you’ve  just  gotta  focus  and  aim  carefully.   I  think  you’ve  mostly  got  it.”   At  least  he  can’t  teach  her  anything  else. 

“Right. Aim carefully. Be the ball, as they say.”