Tied Winner: Talk to Quentin
Tied Winner: Go to the cafeteria for breakfast.
Number of voters: 5 each.
OOC: I took long enough writing this up that another vote sneaked in there and evened us out. That's fine, though. I kind of wanted to give you guys a longer update; it was recommended of me to do so. This has happened a few times, should I start putting up a post when the vote is closed now? Maybe edit the story response into it? Let me know.
Your stomach growls even as you look over at him, morosely sipping his coffee in the darkened kitchenette... but he's your friend. Out of anyone on the team, he and Kitty are your friends and you can't just leave him looking so troubled. He watches you approach and you both share that silent exchange that results in a familiar buzzing in your head. He says nothing at first, just... dwells in your thoughts. 'Troubled', it turns out, is most likely the right word for his mood. He's upset. He feels guilty, but also frustrated. To get such a firm grasp on another person's emotions over this connection... you understand why he cut ties with the group Friday night when you hit the tree.
"Did you make enough for two?" You inquire innocently, out loud.
"Made a whole pot," he answers in kind, and lifts the beat-up Mr. Coffee from its home to pour you a cup. The Phillip J. Coulson Memorial Academy supplies a Keurig for each dorm, but Quentin insists he drinks enough coffee to warrant a larger model. So far, you haven't found cause to disagree with him. He stirs in a small packet of cocoa and a little milk before handing it to you. You wonder if he knows you wanted it that way because he's in your head, or because he's just picked up on your tastes so quickly. "Because I've just picked up on your tastes. For coffee, anyway." That response was through telepathy, answering a question you hadn't meant to ask mentally, but... here we are.
"Sorry," you blush a little, accepting the mug and taking a sip. It's not the homemade biscuits and gravy they serve in the cafeteria, but it's a damn good start. "You seem upset, Quentin. What's up?"
He sighs. Internally and externally. It creates an odd sort of reverb effect. "Um... a lot. It's... the Morlocks."
"... is everything OK?"
"No. Nobody's hurt, that I know of, but someone broke into their hideout and trashed the place Friday night."
"Oh no! How did they even find it!?"
"I don't know. I... spent more of yesterday answering questions and trying to plead logic and sanity than asking them."
"Do they have any leads?"
He scoffs, and buries his nose in the mug. "No. No real ones anyway... they think you did it."
"Me!? But... we were together! Above-ground! Fighting... Dick Fisto!"
"The Star Wars reference earns you brownie points, and I know. Trust me. I tried to tell them at least a hundred times. I offered to get them copies of the police report, corroboration from Roxy or Kitty... they weren't having it. They're convinced you had something to do with it, even if you weren't directly responsible."
"But... why? Why me and not you?"
Quentin looks at you with mixed sympathy and frustration. "Because you're not a mutant, Vilina."
Wow. What a... weird justification. It's so stupid, it gets more asinine the more you think about it and yet... the blind, ignorant accusation only makes more sense coming from the scared, downtrodden, outcasts literally living in an abandoned New York subway station. Paranoia only breeds more paranoia and if they have nobody else to talk to outside of their little community... soon that paranoia gets galvanized by self-confirmed biases. Rhetoric disguises itself as fact. Before you know it... they've decided on the perpetrator with or without a trial. If they were being more militant about it, you might be the target of a literal witch-hunt. Are they being militant about it?
"Should... I be worried?"
Quentin shakes his head, accepting your empty cup and rinsing both his and yours out in the sink. "Not yet, no... hopefully not ever. Callisto doesn't think you had anything to do with it... based on the fact that you wouldn't drink a beer of all things. ... or maybe that's just her hiding her real reasons. I don't know. I thought I knew a lot of things about them yesterday that they proved were untrue..."
"What about Maggott? I'm surprised he'd be so... fiery about this."
"He's... not, really. From what I understand it's mostly Marrow riling people up. Like I said, you're the first non-mutant they've allowed down there... and then a week later this happens. Honestly I don't even know how many of the Morlocks actually think you did it. I think they just want someone to blame. They wanna feel safe... it was their home that was broken into... and since most authorities would consider them trespassing in the first place, they're not going to find a lot of sympathy from the cops about this kind of thing. They have nowhere else to turn... I dunno, maybe subconsciously they feel like if it was you that did it they can steel themselves for next time... feel safe again."
"... but it wasn't me."
"No, it wasn't. And that's why I'm concerned and not just frustrated with them. I'm worried this... false preparation is going to leave them open to whoever broke in in the first place."
"Do... you have any leads?"
"I wouldn't even know where to begin."
Poor guy. You can tell this whole thing has him at odds with himself. He seems a bit less consumed by it since you've been able to share... maybe a change of scenery will help.
"I'm going to the cafeteria for breakfast. You wanna come?"
He glances over to the clock. "Almost brunch now, but sure. I... ... ... haven't slept. Or eaten, basically since yesterday afternoon. That will be lovely."
The two of you leave Robbie and Elvin to their gaming and head out into the campus, making a fair bee-line for the cafeteria. Two orders of biscuits and gravy and two shortstacks of pancakes later, you're feeling much better. The best you've felt since the fight, honestly. Quentin looks less stressed, but the weariness is showing, even through his tinted glasses. You don't really want to press, but... there's a question you need answers to, and you're not sure it can wait. Besides, he's been less closed-off all morning; this might be your best chance to get a straight answer.
"So... about Friday night... after I hit the tree, in the woods... you helped me up."
He takes a deliberate sip of juice. It doesn't quite have the same 'cool-guy' air as when he does it with a cup of coffee, but it still gives him the opportunity to hide his mouth and eye you simultaneously. "... yeah?"
"... was it really you? Like, physically you? You were... different. And it felt like one second you were there, and the next you were gone. Over talking to Spider-man."
"Hm." He pauses for a long time, and for a few moments the buzzing in your head grows softer... but it returns not long after. "How much do you know about mutants? Like, before they became public knowledge?"
"Not a lot," you admit. "I started looking into it a bit leading up to my parents getting me tested, but... well, then I wasn't, and we aren't really sure what I am, so I just moved on to other interests."
Quentin nods. "There's some argument about who first started using it... some say it was the government, or some other private mutant-tracking organization... some say it was mutants themselves... but back in the 80s this term started getting tossed around. 'Omega mutant'. It basically means a mutant whose genetic potential for power is... like... off-the-charts. Their grasp of their powers might start small, but the more they use them the more they find they can do. I'm an Omega mutant. Hence the name," he gestures rather plainly. "So... I told you that to answer the follow-ups you're going to have when I answer your actual question... no, I wasn't physically there. I hadn't even quite caught up yet. Once I broke the connection with everyone else, I had to check on you. Robbie can take care of himself, his powers will take care of him... but you're as fragile as I am--" he hesitates, and that familiar buzz fills your brain again. You switch from the more casual conversation you were having over food to that mental link he establishes so smoothly. "I was terrified for you. I was afraid you were seriously hurt, or worse. So... I tried to reach out to you and I guess I put more English on it than usual... I don't know. I'm not sure how I did it, but as much as I was hurrying toward the parking lot, I was standing in the trees above you. It was dark, and a little hazy... I think... I think maybe I was really only standing in the trees as you could perceive them... and when you took my hand, everything got clearer. You laughed, and I knew you were OK. And then just as easily as it had started... it was gone." He ends his statement with a simple shrug, his mouth a line at a loss. The buzzing fades, and he leans back in his chair, finishing his juice.
"Huh... you were really that worried about me?"
"Of course! You're my friend. Maybe the best one I've got, if I'm being really honest with myself. I'm not clueless to how I come off. I'm... acerbic at the best of times. Combative at the worst. For whatever reason you've gone out on a limb for me several times despite only meeting me a few weeks ago and I... ... I really value that."
There's an earnest honesty to the way he's talking. The kind of naked verity he usually reserves for telepathy. It's comforting... not only because it's a wonderful compliment and a refreshing example of vulnerability from someone so guarded... but it's also lacking that edge of... ambition that Roxy had when she talked to you last night. That Kitty had when she talked about Robbie. Quentin doesn't seem to want anything out of you beyond friendship at this point, and that sort of mutual respect is a vibe you could really get used to.
"Thank you, Quentin. You're my friend, too. I'm honored with how much you trust me." You reach out and put your hand over his in platonic gratitude. He smiles, squeezes back softly, then rises from his seat.
"Well, I always adore chatting with you, Vilina, but I'm beyond exhausted and I'm tired of smelling like a subway car full of stale cigarettes. I should head back to the dorm. See you in class Monday?"
"Of course. Sleep well, Quentin."
He waves to you as he leaves, and you take care of the trash before heading off yourself. You take the opportunity to get a little lost on the campus, which is a bit harder than you'd initially think. Each building just sort of... flows well, loops around, and goes right back to the exit. Underground it's a bit easier to lose your way as the lack of natural light makes exit doors less obvious, but elevator bays are built into slightly different-shaped walls with different molding and decoration so you can spot them from a fair distance away. Fewer students around campus helps, too, because the halls aren't littered with foot traffic. You aren't quite sure exactly where you are when you run into them... but as you're rounding a corner you hear older male voices and are stunned for just a second when you see who they belong to. One of them belongs to an incredibly fit blonde man in a subdued blue tactical uniform with a subtle star motif. You're pretty sure you recognize him. The other looks like he shops at the same 'cool black coat' store Kid Omega does, is bald, and has an eyepatch.
"I'm just having a hard time trusting her as much as I used to, Steve."
"Trusting her isn't your problem right now--"
"No, it is my problem! I'm trying to run this organization and I'm tired of having unpredictable elements underneath me."
"Everything Natasha did, she did for. Us. You said it yourself; she does the stuff I won't, the stuff I can't. I've learned to delegate, to compartmentalize... now, I know that leaves a trail of questions and a lot of those answers don't look like they're on the up-and-up, but you've got to trust me."
"I do trust you. It's her--"
"You trust me, and I vouch for her. Let that be enough for now, Director."
Both of their backs are turned to you...
What Do You Do?
[ ] Eavesdrop.
[ ] Interrupt them.
[ ] Leave.
