God Mutant

BECAUSE HE CANNOT WASH THESE IMAGES AWAY, SO HE WILL HAVE TO BURN THEM OUT, INSTEAD.

You should've seen that poor young fella.

(they had sold it as help, to him. not control. of course, good natured as he still is, gabriel accepts.

anything to prove his worth to the people he still perceives as his saviors.)

when he walks into that lonely room, he is advised caution. he is advised to treat this as a real mission, not an exercise; any misstep with someone as powerful as this one mutant could be fatal, or disastrous. it surprises him when all he finds on the other side of a door is another boy, curled up into himself, eyes of golden-orange widening a touch.

his natural psionic shield, meant to keep himself from burning under his own powers, disrupts slightly telepathic access. it doesn't work like that of the brothers he does not yet know he has; it dampens all forms of energy, even if right now, he has no control over it and can't quite stop it when he feels how the other reaches into his brain, nor can he control himself when his own energy flares up a little, visibly. he has felt xavier do that before with far gentler, so it takes him aback a little.

only when moira finishes talking and tells him to begin does he come closer, sitting by the table. he is nervous, unsure if this delicate of a job is something he should perform now, but he recalls the books moira gave him to read. focus on the energy you feel. seek out it out, gabriel. we trust you can find what we need.

"hello, david. they've introduced me already, i'm gabriel, one of moira's students. they believe i can help you with my powers." he taps his finger lightly against his other hand, over his knuckles. his accent as an alien-raised boy is still notable. "can you... reach out again? i felt it earlier, and i think... i think it might be easier for us both if you do that."

it isn't what he had been instructed by moira and xavier to do, but he had never been perfect at following orders. gabriel has realized, however, that he doesn't want to hurt him. no matter the threat, he is also just a boy, isn't he? and wasn't he a threat, when he killed dai'andral by accident? aren't his powers fearsome, too?

   David does his best to ignore Jack but there is a twitch on his features. A shudder in the eyelid, on the lips. He takes a breath and studies this other kid. His eyes glow orange. His accent is something David can’t pinpoint. There was a kind of firewall when David brushed his mind, and with it was a spark across this Gabriel’s being. He can’t be a pyrokinetic. He doesn’t feel like Cyndi. Maybe he’s something else. Certainly, a mutant, but what is his power? And what do they think he can do for David? Nothing screams helpful to him. He wants to ask questions. Wants to understand, but David has learned his questions never get answered and even if he did know what this would do, they won’t let him refuse it.

   We should kill him, says Jack’s voice again, more insistent. David’s fingers twitch and he brings his hands together to hide it. I kill the boy and they come running in through the door. Then I hold it open telekinetically and we escape. It’s a good plan.

    David shifts, interlocking his fingers and bringing them up to hide his mouth. His gaze once again drops to the table as he whispers a reply, “No, Jack. We’re not doin’ that. I don’t wanna hurt him. … An’ I wanna see if this will help.”

   That’s fucking stupid, Davey, chimes in Cyndi. But whatever. If he hurts us, I’m gonna show the pretty boy what real fire looks like.

    “Not sure if that’s a good idea, Cyndi.”

    As his alters huff and grunt their dissenting opinions, David leans back in his chair. He hunches a little and his hands come apart. One drops onto the table where his fingers pick at the plastic while the other presses the heel into his eye, rubbing as if to push at a pain behind the eyeball. He sighs and that hand shifts again, sliding back to run fingers through his messy, impossible hair.

   “Alright … Gabe,” David says, the origin of his own accent is also cryptic. A mix of Scottish, Israeli and French. A mangled bastard of a thing but it’s his voice and it’s all he has. “I’ll reach for y’ again but … I don’t know how to be gentle so y’ should probably strengthen that firewall ‘round y’ grey matter.”

   Vaguely he knows he was gentle once. He knows he was capable of touching his mother’s mind without breaking her, without killing her, but those days are gone. Now he’s a broken thing that only really knows how to lash out and push. Anything more than his passive tastes can be fatal to weaker minds, but this is what they want from him. This is their experiment. He just hopes he doesn’t have to add killing someone his age to his conscience.

   “Okay then,” David hums, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

   He feels a rush of confidence, of feeling a bit like maybe he’s not as combat illiterate as he thought. He takes a second to shake out his muscles, his tension, and then he widens his stance, bends the knees and lowers his centre of gravity. He follows what’s natural, what’s instinctual. He gives Kwannon a nod that he’s ready, and she moves fast.

    It’s a harder punch but David dukes past it. He barely has time to get a cocky grin on his features before she’s throwing another padded hand at him. David manages to slip out of her reach again and then things start to go wrong. The confidence becomes less pronounced and Kwannon is clearly getting faster. David grunts as another punch barely misses, his attempt to dodge ungainly and unbalanced. He doesn’t have enough time to recover before Kwannon throws another blow, but this time something shifts inside him.

Cabbies have to have a keen eye for trouble, divine going to pull something from the just wanting to be left alone. ‘Guides’ out there talk up the no eye contact, avoidant, shifty. Useless rag. Heck, plenty of times, there’d be a picture of one of ‘them’ (Marc or some combination of em) in there. Kid’s all natural looking hair doesn’t read danger to Jake; he looks like he needs more meals and rest, preferably without an interrogation or eyeballing.

Two plus two and all that. Reason why he’d be stopping by. Kid made a move toward his table, Jake mid-hand wave to leave him to it, when he droops and turns Jake’s way again. Fierce peepers, one blue, one green, bypass cap’s brim entirely, locking on rum brown. Scottish(?) colored question kicked his way’s reasonable. Sensitive ears, too peopley, too much in all senses. Not everyone thrives on it like Jake.

“Sure thing.” Thumb went thataway, past the tables. “I can take you.” Conspiratorial wink. “If people see you with me, they won’t try and roll out a welcome wagon.” Making sure Kid was ready, Jake took as straight of a shot they could, winding around tables. Couple of waves were thrown at as they passed. He waved back, smiled, and kept walking, ensuring Kid got as wide of a personal bubble as he could give.

Hallway, having not been there a minute ago, was a shortcut to a planned quiet space. Privacy without being ‘alone.’ Liability and other words Grant had nodded at. Truth’s complicated and skated a thin ice ‘secret identity’ line. Sure, it’s Moon Kni.ght’s ‘temple’-office, one of his friends handles it, and big Wall Street financier/Hollywood producer Grant funds it.

“Here we are.” Dim lights. Ceiling and oscillating fans were off but available. Three tables had utensils and water for one person apiece. “I’m Jake, by the way. If you need anything, just ask for me.” Friendly nod, he adds, “I’m not ‘a boss,’ I just help put this on.”

   With an appreciative nod and a small, slightly forced smile, he follows after Mr New York. He definitely wants as few people as possible talking to him. Means less scrutiny. Means less attention, which is something David needs right now. He wants to go unnoticed, which is already kind of hard for him. What with the hair, the heterochromia, the far too thin frame and that little bit of uncanny valley people get when they look at him at a certain angle. He might not be the most obvious mutant but there is enough going on here that if someone was looking for an ‘other’ you’d find it in this boy with the nervous disposition and an accent that screams immigrant, even if its origins are hard to pinpoint. Mostly Scottish, a little French, a little Israeli, very much not American.

   Mr New York does a good job leading him through the crowd and for the most part David manages not to feel too overwhelmed by a press of people, but a bump is inevitable. A tap to the elbow, a wobble of his soup bowl and for an instant his eyes flash blue. For a split second it’s Jack in control using his – their telekinesis to keep the bowl from spilling. A blink and David is back but this time Jack is letting him borrow their power to keep their food from going all over the floor. He speeds up his steps, using that slight telekinesis to keep everything in place. Enough that he hopes no one notices.

   “Thanks, Jack,” David mutters, trying not to flinch at the annoyed grunt he gets in response.

  His steps slow as they enter the hallway. David’s jaw tightens, gaze scanning the walls. This was definitely not here before. Eyes narrow, his skin crawling. Yep, some spatial shifting bullshit. The building gets a whispered, “I know what y’ are,” from David as he once again speeds up to catch up with his guide.

    There is relief once they get to the more isolated tables. It’s not true privacy so he’ll have to keep alter conversations discrete but at least they’re away from the hubbub of the main hall. From all those conversations and all those minds with all their thoughts. It’s less cacophonous here. It was nice feeling the noise retreat some. Oh, it’s still there at the corners, the reach of David’s mind is immense, but it’s a tolerable susurrus. Although, he’s still sensing more than this one dude close by. Wonder if there is a meeting room or something a wall over.

   “Thanks … um, Jake. I’m David. I-I’ll keep that in …,” he starts, putting his tray down and letting his telekinetic grip of the bowl go. His words are hesitant, soft, and then they come to an abrupt end. A frown furrows his brow, mismatch eyes once again locking onto Jake as David pinpoints where those other minds are coming from. They’re not in a room a wall away. They are here. Right in front of him and one mind feels … vast. Maybe hostile? He couldn’t tell before because of all the other people but now …

    “You’re plural,” David states, head tilting.

‟ Guess that's the difference between us and the Avengers. The world already looked pretty good to them. They fought to keep it as it was.

We fought to make it better. ”

INVULNERABLEXTOUCH - an independent roleplay blog for Anna Marie "Rogue" from X-Men/Marvel Comics.

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