oo4. partially open.

[betterangels]

CHARACTERS: Charles Xavier + Rick Grimes + Caprica Six (Natasi) + Garrett Hawke; and others as they happen.
LOCATION: Everywhere and nowhere.
WARNINGS: To be added.
SUMMARY: The latest dramas wherein people learn to be telepaths with various degrees of ineptitude, save for the actual telepath.
NOTES: Monthly catch all! This is only partially open because I'm not providing a fixed narrative thing to reply to. Hence, please let me know if you'd like to do anything, and I'll be happy to set up a thread (unless you feel ambitious).

Comments

gunnery. rick grimes + max rockatansky.

[betterangels]

[ It's the little hands, at first, the hands that he manages to keep track of as fresh memory opens in his mind. The little white hands, scraping up the hair off the ground beneath him, and the sting of freshly carved tracks of ink in his back, and Rick isn't sure of where he is.

He hasn't felt this animal surge of escape in a long time, and it all comes in a flash, even faster than how it happened, the fast hot minutes in the dark and the bright sunlight ahead, condensed instead into a furious several seconds of sensory input and empathetic sensation.

Feet, kicking the air, as he swings. Escaping the men with painted faces. Escaping the apparitions in the dark, the ones made of eyes and bone.

Not all of Rick's instincts have gone gentle since escaping his own personal dystopia. Old adrenaline kicks in and he's running before he can rationalise it, down one of the narrow corridors leading from Gunnery, his shoulder clipping a corner and sending him staggering, on quick route with the person who has unwittingly delivered unto him these recollections. ]

[theroadwarrior]

[Max has been feeling on edge lately — something about the atmosphere here has been... difficult, like it's a soupy, multiplying layer of anticipation. For something unsettling. Though maybe Max is just too sensitive to it, too unused to being stuck in one place while the world moves around him instead of him moving around it. He hears the heavy footfalls, aware of the sound of pure desperation in them, because that is the sound of a man running as if his life depended on it. Something is nipping at their heels.

He shouldn't get involved. He should find another direction to go asap, let them burn through the place. Is this how he'd been when he'd arrived? He wouldn't be surprised. But these people, they should know by now where they are, how they got here. Did that mean they were in danger? The girl appears behind him, shoving him on the back — he whirls around, trying to find her in the emptiness of the hall.

Go, Max, go! We're dying! I'm dying, Max!

And he swears, he swears she wasn't the same girl for a moment. He swears that, for the briefest flash, it's some other child; a child with sunken eyes and waxy, dead flesh, a rainbow shirt, gangly and void of emotion. He rubs his face and tries to fall back into reality. But shaking his head leaves him reeling from voices too loud to ignore, and he stumbles backward —

Right into Rick's desperate sprint.

He's hit hard, thrown into the wall with a startled sound as the air flies out from his lungs. The girl is still there — but the world around him has melted into something else. He's got a gun, and someone is yelling; walking corpses — shot, falling. He feels sweaty, and his blood is boiling with nerves, and then there's the girl — Sophia.

He pushes himself into a corner as he witnesses Rick's memories, eyes looking at something that is not on board the ship. And even when the memory is over, he can see afterimages of the child, can hear Carol's cries muffled like they're submerged in water. His hand shapes around an invisible gun.

Help us Max Rick.

Who?

He grips his head, grimacing.]

[betterangels]

[ They have to stop meeting like this.

It's gone again. The nauseous sway of gravity, the clawing hands, and the wet fabric wrapping around his face as he is dragged back into the darkness-- gone. The Tranquility's industrial, dark corridors are of a different nature than all the heat and rust and dust of the cavern, and he is breathing in air that is being vented through ducts above them, clean and crisp.

He is Rick Grimes, and that never happened to him.

Dazed, his stare hunts around til it lands on the man backed into a corner, Rick becoming aware of himself -- back pressed flat into the wall, his hands out for balance as if he were reaching, and they relax at the shoulders, withdraw. Something very weird is happening.

Something this man's going through too. There are the echoes of his own memory -- a girl he doesn't recall going tumbling beneath the dark maw of a truck, and a girl he does remember, already long dead, and shooting her had been his task. ]

Max, [ he says, out loud.

The name, ringing in his ears, as that little voice. His own voice is rough, guttural, but has a weird kind of gentleness. ]

Is that your name.

[theroadwarrior]

[Max shakes his head like he's literally trying to remove the memories and voices as if they were clinging sand, focus split in multiple directions; before Rick speaks, he may hear more of that intrusive sound — a collaboration of Rick and Max's own experiences made visible by Max's own head, with the cries of Sophia's mother and the sounds of the girl from his hallucinations crying out for help before she's killed. He may see the phantoms of the two little girls reaching out, gripping at his arms as if to pull him away.

But then Rick speaks, and Max's head goes quiet, the hallucinations gone and his abilities aboard the ship silenced; real voices, real people, cancelling out the false ones. He swallows hard, eyes flicking anxiously — confused — at Rick's face, recognition showing at the sound of his name. His name, that he hasn't told anyone. His brow wrinkles, palm pressing his temple and eyes squinting as if through a powerful light.]

How did you — ?

[His face closes off into something quietly upset and startled, and he stands straighter but can't find it in himself to leave the corner just yet. He feels like he's been intruded on, his private ways laid out somehow, but then — he knows that none of this was intentional. Rick looks just as confused as he is, and Max has to remind himself that he's seen part of Rick's memory, too. It's not the man's fault that his head is unstable, anyway; this is just how things are.]

You shot a dead girl.

[Not accusing. Just a fact. The girl needed to be shot, he knows that much.

And it's not as if he could throw stones. He's buried in stones.]

[betterangels]

[ There's no denial or resistance in Rick's expression. There's something about him that looks like he walks the same land as the dead, too, in the way his bones cut harsh against his skin, possessing a certain hollowness in his countenance. But living, breathing, warm-blooded, those things matter.

Sophia was none of those.

Not denying it but not thrilled about the overshare all the same and its implications. He doesn't so much as have secrets here as he does have habits of secrecy. He grinds out an mm that sounds roughly affirmative. ]

What was that place.

[ It's not really-- accusatory, or even very demanding. A regular prompt to give it a name of any kind, if Max has need to. ]

medical bay. charles xavier + william tsang.

[forgodssake]

[ This meeting is a matter of timing. Charles times when he knows the medical bay will have less people. He times it for when pain isn't lancing too brightly through his nervous system. Broader still, he times it for when it seems like there are going to be a lot of baby telepaths running around, eventually, and that could potentially be a recipe for disaster if not managed correctly.

So he is here to manage some of it.

Which is not the only reason it's taken him this long, prompted now by necessity.

Business casual in greys and blues, Charles easily pinpoints the location of William's mind and approaches, doing little more than a sort of grudging, telepathic nudge designed to have William decide to look up in time to notice him. Some will say that sunglasses on a space ship are pointless and unnecessary; they would be right, but they also may not drink as often or be as photosensitive as some of us, okay.

He takes them off, regardless, because it's impolite not to. There is an amount of flat reserve evident in his eyes. ]

[dogbane]

[William does look up. His eyes widen fractionally from behind his console. Predictably, he wonders how cross Charles is with him still, even if that was. really. a drop in the bucket compared to— but by the time Charles comes around to view his workspace he's both minimized his work on the screen and decided not to try and conceal his cookies.

Today he is in stage five of the process of deciding how hard he likes them, no (minimal) horrifying innuendo intended. Super crunchy is terrible, this is a foregone conclusion. However, soft versus soft-with-crispy-edge, well. That's a question he's undertaken to investigate in the recentmost weeks, when he isn't gadding about with the saddest Heather Mason the ship has ever seen, working, drinking, or lackadaisically trying to train Izzie. He's still working on the plan that will reverse the slight but distinct shift of accumulated mass of his butt to his tummy, but it's difficult to think of a plan that doesn't require some loathsome, like serious exertion, so you know. Still working on it.

Who looks up from beside his chair, when Charles arrives. She thumps her tail once, ever mild-mannered, but unmistakably happy to see her old friend.] They're chocolate chip, mostly. If you want some, [William says, meaning the cookies clearly. He shifts his seat aside and gestures at the nearest other chair, by way of expanding the offer to include accommodations.

In the background, machines whirr and wink and spin gently. Charlotte isn't having a transdimensional meltdown today, fortunately.]

[forgodssake]

[ Dog, though. Charles' demeanour brightens, unfavourably for William, when he notices Izzie, and he immediately ducks down on a knee to greet her around when he's being asked about cookies.

On the scales of being mad at people, William has at least graduated away from silent treatment, avoided eye contact, specific exclusions from Charles' reality until such a time that acknowledgement is appropriate, because he does flip a look back at him from the ground after seeing to Izzie's ears with his scratchy fingers. ]

I do.

[ And frivolous cookie acceptance.

He gets back up, a little delicately, his movements used to avoiding stretch and ache even when it's not all that bad today, sitting down. And reaching for a cookie. ]

I thought I might come and have a stern conversation about your deplorable grammar. You've really let it slide.

[dogbane]

[William is preoccupied in the inanity of his own mind for a few long seconds, staring at the telepath as if his meaning was not perfectly clear. And then he rouses himself visibly, straightening slightly.]

Oh no, [he says, ironically polite considering.] I always swear like that. But I could tone it down, if you really like. [The words come out slightly slow, a touch measured, like he's being careful not to drop an accidental f-bomb in between them. He thinks that Charles is probably referring to his tendency to turn the c-word into an adjective, a less-known practice in polite society than his usual.

People aboard the Tranquility type improbably well most of the time anyways, the standard is impossible. Izzie abstains, settling for blunting her head under Charles' hand and looking contemplatively in the direction of cookie smells, but fortunately our heroes know better than to tempt the foibles of canine biology.]

[brainsqueeze]

( She should have made an appointment, or contacted him first to see that he was there. She wanted to give herself a chance to back out - letting someone know that you were coming made it harder to do so, although with the amount of people that she'd now passed walking through the labs it was just as hard to turn around and quit.

Determined people didn't quit, and there was one thing that she was determined about. The new abilities that they seemingly had - the ability to share emotions and memories. Maria had heard that it had happened before but now it was happening again. She was seeing things, and god if she also wasn't sharing just as many memories as she was seeing. It was unintentional - she didn't need the leaks of people seeing her past. Maria prided herself on her ability to keep a secret - that was her job, but this didn't make it easy.

That was why she'd gone to see Charles. He was a telepath - he had experience already with this. If there was a way to block people out of her mind - to stop people seeing any of her memories, and to stop seeing other people's - then she would take it. She wanted her life to still be private, and not just for SHIELD secrets.

There was a knock on his office door when Maria arrived. It was too late to back out now. Besides, backing out didn't stop the problem )

[forgodssake]

[ The anxious energy vibrating off of Maria's (tree) thoughts don't imply this to be a social visit, but fuck, if Charles isn't thoroughly prepared to be distracted from the self-imposed administration he hasn't yet begged Milagros to do for him. ]

Come in, [ he says, only looking up once she does. They've all had a chance to get past the pain and misery of last cycle and must collectively be looking better -- Charles is much happier for his pain to be decreased to something more manageable. He is seated in his usual deskchair; the portable, light-weight wheelchair used for times of emergency is folded, off to the side. ]

[brainsqueeze]

( Maria lingers by the door after stepping it, not in nerves but as a non-imposing presence. There are things on his desk, things that he might have planned - what she wants is important to her but she wouldn't assume it's more important than anything else in his day )

It's good to see you're looking better.

( She assumes. Maria hadn't seen him when things had gotten bad but a lot of people looked bad. She looked bad )

Have you got a minute?

[forgodssake]

I can probably will some in to being.

[ His delivery is a little more dry than actually preoccupied; he's already tapping space-age keyboard to idle space-age monitor.

There aren't too many personal effects visible. There's an ashtray that's been recently clean out, pushed off to the side. A cup of space coffee he'd been working on before lukewarm dipped into greasily cold, set out of the way. He picks up a stylus beside him, fidgeting it between fingers like he would an ordinary pen. ]

You seem to be in need of more than just one, though. What's on your mind?

xenogen. charles xavier + erik lehnsherr.

[forgodssake]

[ Science is happening.

Not on the wider laboratory floor but in Charles' office, quietly, seated at his desk with white lab coat not worn but tossed over the back of his chair. He has a half-finished cigarette burning neglected in an ashtray, focused instead on his left hand, held splayed. There is a signet ring wrapped around his finger, one from home, having never seen the inside of locker.

Concentration never slips -- but inevitably, the item disappears as if it were never there, although the feeling of chill metal remains. Shaking out his hand, Charles glances at his watch, pivots his chair towards his monitor, and types: 0: 32

Content, Charles settles his focus back on his empty knuckles again, while his other hand crosses past himself to tend to cigarette, blindly. ]

[sorrycharles]

[ In the laboratory, Erik is happening.

He swings along in a scorched leather jacket with a trio of vials in hand, their blood-mottled contents secured by screwed caps. It’s just that there aren’t many members of Xenobiology to begin with, and none of them are here to stop him rifling through drawers and datapads as if he has any notion of what any of it means.

Once he gave Severus a beetle in a jar here and he teleported it into living pieces.

He doesn’t pry for long.

There’s metal moving in Charles’ Office, and he makes his way there round the corner once he’s had his fill of snooping in the Tranquility’s genetic affairs. ]

Delivery, [ he says, because he is delivering samples.

Obviously.

His affect is too flat to make for an especially compelling preface to pornography. ]

[forgodssake]

[ He even lacks a suggestive stylus. No matter, though.

Charles looks up without surprise, having at least absently tracked Erik's mind around the science department in case he tries anything untoward or falls into any surprise voids. The signet ring has reformed around his finger, and now he takes it off with a twist.

Light and underhanded, he tosses it Erik's way. He'd concentrated very hard on what he scientifically understands metal to be made up of, but maybe it's still not quite right. ]

For your efforts. Give that here, I'll stow it in the freezer.

[ Not that he is very optimistic about continued preservation of DNA data, considering how old it already is, but their machines are rather good. Meanwhile, the ring is set to vanish in about 10 seconds. ]

[sorrycharles]

[ Charles makes the toss and Erik raises his right hand without thought, tolerant by default despite the vials, and the blood-mottled sheets wadded therein. The cots were all garnished with heavy restraints, old bedding crusted with salt, words carved into the walls pleading for death.

He conveys with a look anything he might say about having metal baubles flicked at him like a zoo animal being flicked with peanuts

and receives it all the same, fingers splayed near his shoulder to call the ring out of the arc set for it by gravity. The metal swerves up for his palm instead, gleaming on a sine curve that terminates in his palm with a satisfying smack. His fingers close around it, and he crosses the remaining two steps, dry, to offer out the vials in exchange.

Paragon of moral sensitivity and maturity that he is, he’s interested, primarily, in what Charles has to say about the viability of the samples at a glance.

Then ten seconds are up, and there’s a distinct delay between electromagnetic perception informing him that the ring has vanished, and his conscious realization that the ring has vanished. He keeps his hand closed, and his line of sight veers into a vacant aside, reviewing the last ten seconds in silent disconnect from the rest of reality. File not found. ]

medical bay. charles xavier + charlotte daniau.

[forgodssake]

[ The dog is much noisier and so might be more immediately noticed, when Charles comes by, leash in hand, black labrador tugging infrequently at the end of it as if he has greater purpose for being here than the mutant human on the other end of taut leash. And maybe he does. Who knows what goes on in tiny dog brains.

Who knows if this imminent conversation will prove useful.

Charles finds her with relative ease -- she's such a constant feature that it is almost easy to overlook her, but with a little concentration, his own telepathy pinpoints her location and draws him in.

With great interest, Lincoln drags him in the rest of the way, nose aimed for her knees. ]

Hello.

[fugax]

[The dog is a surprise. Not just in the immediate, but in a general way, an understanding of the environment of the ship and what could be encountered within it. Charlotte knew, in a distant way, that some of the people on board had pets, but it was so incongruous with how she'd been trained for life on the Tranquility that it hadn't factored much in her view.

In the moment a medium sized animal shoving abruptly into her space leaves her stock still, fear freezing her in place and very almost sending her stepping backwards, fleeing.

Until she's interrupted by a voice, and a connected realisation that the animal was leashed. Not attacking.]

Hello.

[She says, belated, still standing very still. Her heart's attempting to beat out of her chest.]

[forgodssake]

He's very friendly.

[ Apology writes his tone, and Charles is quick to reel the dog back in despite protesting whine. His hand lowers to patpat the labrador's flank, focus still tilted up to Charlotte. ]

His mum does therapy shifts here, in the medical bay. She whelped him on the ship, actually. Would you like to have a go at petting him?

[ Maybe dog therapy was a bad method. Should have gone with the illusioning William into a playboy bunny suit or something to see if she laughs. Oh well. ]

[fugax]

No.

[She says, immediately. As friendly as he may be claiming the dog to be, she doesn't want to get any closer. Though she does add on a belated,]

Thank you.

[In realising that rejecting interest in someone's pet usually came across as rude.]

If you're here for that, you need to speak to CMO Tsang.

[Therapy had never been her area. They'd had an entire staff for it, in the original crew. Now they had dogs.]

xeno. charles xavier & emma swan.

[uncurse]

[ By the time Emma sought him out, a good portion of jump 44 had crept away from them both. After more than a week, she'd realized that the empathic connections were not a matter of circumstance, but could be created deliberately, as Resnik and Ward had cautioned them about, and after two weeks, she'd managed minor manifestations that were not a product of magic, but rather a result of tapping into some force of the ship, the same force that had been plaguing them for what felt like eons.

The first time she heard a thought, it was during her security patrol, and she had picked up indistinguishable chatter from within a room. The hardest part, she discovered, was distinguishing it from speech. It took a few days after that before she realized, of course, that the man to go to was the same one she'd gone to for all such peculiarities. And so, Emma sought Charles out in the xenobiology lab, inviting herself in on the heels of someone with access, keeping her hands off the lab tables and equipment. ]

You almost finished up here?

[forgodssake]

[ Charles is, in fact, done here, his head half in a refrigerator as he stores away the samples he'd packed up, ready for freezing. There are whole stretches of time when he has to find and hunt down work enough to occupy him. There are whole stretches of time when work, en masse, comes to him. It's probably the only time, however, he's ever felt like he's making some form of progress.

He straightens up and closes the door. ]

Just about. Cleaning down. What can I do for you?

[ 'Cleaning down' isn't super scientific -- he scoops up the cup he'd been using for coffee and moves off to a sink to rinse it out. ]

[uncurse]

Honestly? I'm not sure. But I'm hoping for a lot.

[ She folded her arms under her chest, leaning her hips against a countertop nearby as she watched him clean out his coffee cup without drawing nearer to him. ]

You've heard about what's going on, right? People developing abilities, reaching into each other's minds.

[forgodssake]

You missed my little essay a few weeks back, I take it.

[ Has he heard what's going on. Charles gives her a single incredulous glance as he flicks off the tap, sets cup aside upside down. (Do we miss when he was useless, yet.) ]

I had a feeling that's how it was going to go, towards the end of the last cycle. Mind you, it's not significantly easier for me than it is others -- it's like a set of new abilities alongside my usual.