17946/Let's Skip Over The Gross and Horrifying Details

Let's Skip Over The Gross and Horrifying Details
Date of Scene:	15 May 2024
Location:	Hammer Bay
Synopsis:	"So... while Xavier's school is a wonderful dream, it /is/ just a dream. And we're in the waking world."
Cast of Characters:	Lorna Dane, Clarice Ferguson

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Lorna Dane has posed:
The royal bedroom is a thing out of dreams and fairy-tales, because for all her best efforts to affect the posture of a wise and regal Queen, Lorna Dane is a young woman who came from modest means, only to spend years of her life surrounded by unfathomable wealth in Westchester; given a chance, how could she not accept something ripped directly from fantasies of high, vaulted ceilings; shimmering stone tile floors which swim with wild ripples of color under her feet, thanks to the exotic magnetic properties of their materials; a triple mirrored vanity off in a corner; and a four-poster bed big enough to fit a family, complete with diaphanous draperies? Paintings, posters, sketches, and sculptures from Genoshan artists, dotted here and there throughout the sprawling space add some warmth, as does the (very) sparing addition of purple and green area rugs here and there for contrast, mostly to mark distinct areas of the room (like the vanity, or that corner with comfortable chairs and a few pieces of art to admire).

There's nothing subtle, or even humble about it: the people of Genosha offered her the gift of a palace, and she accepted, gladly and in full, because Genosha shouldn't need be subtle; shouldn't have to humble themselves before a largely indifferent to disdainful world.

And neither should she.

Here, in the heart of the steel and glass-spired wonder that is the palace, Clarice 'Blink' Ferguson has been summoned for a private audience with the Queen. It isn't a terribly formal one: the words, 'get shit-faced when we're done' were used. And on arrival, the Queen is out on the semicircular balcony in a lightweight, flowing purple dress with black and red godets that let its skirt billow majestically in the Genoshan breeze, just like the lush curls and waves of her verdant hair.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
A mutant's work is never done. Or at least, some mutants' work is never done, and Clarice 'Blink' Ferguson is one of them. Is that because she insists on taking on more and more work? Maybe. Maybe not. Besides, keeping herself busy means Clarice doesn't have to deal with any lingering trauma in her life, or the uncertainty if interpersonal relationships.

Except of course when she does.

Though she has to admit, there are worse ways to have to deal with 'people' than enjoying the opulent environs of Lorna Dane's royal chambers. Because she /is/ one of those people of Genosha. Devoted and dedicated to a Queen beloved by her people.

And while a lot of them would say they would kill for their queen, Clarice is easily capable of demonstrating it. And indeed, her chosen method of arrival proves it. 'Blink' can teleport with ease to places she finds familiar, and so there's no real surprise when a pink-edge portal opens, displaying the somewhat drab environs of a hallway on Asteroid M as the pink skinned mutant steps through smoothly, no interruption in gait in the change from artificial to natural gravity, stepping from just inside the royal chambers out onto the balcony in a pair of clinging grey cotton shorts and a tanktop, with equally unflattering ankle socks and running shoes as she chimes out. "Sorry I didn't dress up... I figured private meeting means relaxed dresscode."

Green eyes sweep along the Queen's figure and she hums out softly. "Maybe I was wrong about that. Goodness."

Lorna Dane has posed:
Without looking, Lorna reaches back to catch the incoming teleporter with the very tips of her fingers bracing under Clarice's chin. Affectionately, she half-strokes, half-guides her fellow mutant to stand next to her before drawing her hand away to fold both arms over the balcony. "Simple is good," she offers before ever looking at Clarice-- and once she does, her eyes briskly rove down and up, appraising.

A smile and a small, firm nod follow. Her gaze drifts back over Hammer Bay and the sparkling, steadily growing skyline that the last few years have painstakingly wrought; a slow, steadying breath leaves her lungs.

"... you're one of the few people to join the Brotherhood," she begins, gently; carefully, "who are from Genosha, Clarice. That means that out of all of us, you know - deeply - what it is that I'm trying to build Genosha into a bulwark against." Her eyes slide just far enough to catch Clarice in the corner.

"What it is that the Brotherhood is obligated to fight, by any and all means," follows, still quiet but coated in steel. "So I have a question, Clarice-- an important one, as the worst of Humanity continues to show its face, but one without any wrong answers:

"How far are you willing to go, to fight that fight?" follows, her eyes shifting more-- further-- just a bit more, until they're locked onto Blink's, just in time to punctuate with eye contact.

"You found a place with Xavier's, and -- I mean, I of all people wouldn't judge that; CAN'T judge that," she murmurs. "But if the Brotherhood were to find its teeth again... would you stay with us? Could you stay, knowing what you've learned there?"

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
There's just the briefest moment of tension as Lorna reaches back and her fingertips find jaw and cheek unerringly and Clarice freezes up. A moment of tension, a shift of stature as the pink hued mutant lifts onto the balls of her feet, chin lifting. But she exhales slowly, almost a little amused sigh before relaxation reasserts itself and the arguably self-appointed bodyguard of Lorna Dane slinks in closer and sighs out. "Well, I can't... okay, I can blame others for not doing it. But I shouldn't. Not everyone can endure what Genoshans have and... step up knowing you're going back into the fire. Literal and figurative."

She heaves out a far more genuinely sighing sigh, "But I can't blame t hem for... not wanting to deal with exposing yourself to the same terror and danger and... cruelty. People aren't changing. Or... maybe people are. But there /are/ people who aren't. People doing the same godawful experiments that..." She pauses for a moment, lips twisting, voice hissing out and dripping sheer sarcasm, "The good people who say they're on our side... don't seem to notice. Or stop. Or give half a shit about."

She draws a deep breath and her shoulders which have tensed, risen, slowly slump. "So... while Xavier's school is a wonderful dream, it /is/ just a dream. And we're in the waking world."

Her arms cross, not quite stern posture, not quite hugging herself, but she's certainly drawing in as she glances sidelong and murmurs dryly, "And... I mean, I am /assuming/ we'll be biting the right people. So to speak. I'm not going to rip someone's heart out for saying 'mutie'... well, not /literally/... but if I find one of the people who greenlit the underground facility I saw in Alaska?"

The younger woman's voice drops to a deadpan, laconic tone, "Well, if the Brotherhood wasn't getting its teeth back, it might need to kick /me/ out for going too far."

Lorna Dane has posed:
On the bedside table sits an entire baby monitoring mini-console: a screen rotating between empty cribs with a built-in a speaker and mic. Ever since it, the network of devices connected with it and strewn throughout the palace for Lorna's convenience, and what they all portend became a part of Lorna's existence some months ago, she's been-- different.

Harder, in some ways; softer, in others. Moving with a burning, steel-eyed confidence that just wasn't there, prior-- even before her nine month durance. She keeps her eyes trained only on Clarice, listening intently with pursed lips and a furrowing brow while one hand lingers on the balcony. She nods once or twice just to show she's listening, but when Alaska is mentioned?

That leaves her eyes wide, first with alarm--

-- and then confusion--

-- and then rage, albeit contained from creeping too far beyond those eyes. Once her free-hanging hand unclenches, she steps towards Clarice, reaches for the other woman's shoulders, and wraps her arm around them to draw her inwards, aiming to enfold her in newfound softness and the same persistent, glowering warmth she's always carried with her, like a molotov burning in her chest.

"We can't dream forever," she agrees, softly.

"... and I don't have any ambitions of crushing the world underfoot; neither does Mystique," she promises, tightly.

Polaris takes a long, sharp breath and lets it out.

"... tell me about Alaska," she then whispers, seething.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
One pink eyebrow arches high as she grins crookedly, "Oh, I'm glad you assured me /you/ had no plans for world domination ahead of Mystique... I mean, if I was going to rank which of you was more likely to be a megalomaniacal dictator, I mean... Doctor Doom wears green, you rock green... I /was/ just thinking it kind of lined up..."

But then she's right back to business and sighs out, "I mean, I don't... didn't... understand a lot of it. Some kind of cloning facility or something Domino called me in as a favor. I kinda owed her. We ran into Deadpool in New York and uhh..."

She rolls her eyes and sighs, "Well, forget the recap of the slapstick routine. I filled in as transport for her along with Laura Kinney and a few others. I'll skip over the gross and horrifying details."

She leans back and sighs, "So we busted in, found some petri dishes with Frank Dukes's name on them, and Laura set the reactors to explode and I ported us all out."

Yeah. Turns out when you take out the gory details of shadowy genetic labs it really kind of condeses story time.

Lorna Dane has posed:
"They were growing mutants," hisses through Lorna's teeth once the pieces click. "Bastardized, pliable copies of..."

Lorna's temperature spikes a couple degrees; the persistent bioelectric aura which normally clings invisibly to her skin flares to green, softly radiating life. Wild, cascading rainbows scatter out from Lorna's feet--

She breathes in, slowly.

Lets it out, slowly--

-- and everything settles in time with her exhale. She's still got a very firm grasp of Clarice's shoulder, though; whether it's protective or a lingering artifact of wrath is up for interpretation.

"... how do I get in touch with Domino?" she quietly asks once she finally notices, and accordingly lets go. "My clearance on the X-Server is still decent, but I don't remember ever seeing anything that could be used to get a bead on her in there; she might as well be a friendly ghost." Both hands slowly comb back through her hair; her eyes only just stay trained on Clarice as she spends a few quiet seconds just-- composing herself with quick, deep breaths.

And thinking--

"The Blob should probably know too," eventually comes out, hard and measured in sotto.

In; out...

Lorna's eyes lift, fractionally, to meet Clarice's in full as she lays a hand on the teleporter's shoulder and offers, "You did excellent work," in a low voice as she squeezes.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
Pink shoulders rise again in tension, but also because... well, even traumatized former child soldiers sometimes look on the sardonic side. Like now, as Clarice mumbles in a dry tone, "I mean, /mutant/ really. We /only/ found Dukes's DNA. Probably because... his powers are predictable? I mean, they're certainly more controllable than eye beams or pyrokinesis or magn-... or whatever."

She shivers a little... and then glances sidelong, one eyebrow arching. "Text? I mean, we hang out sometimes. I don't just lurk around on the asteroid in my off hours. I'm not Victor. I can give you her number. One of her numbers. You know those mercenaries, always dumping burner phones, anonymous emails... you could throw a poker night."

That last bit is only /mildly/ teasing. Seriously, who's going to turn down some mutant solidarity poker? They all need a break and if it's good enough for the Avengers or whatever.

And then that hand lands on her shoulder and squeezes and Clarice is reflexively leaning in. "Thank you... majesty." And oh boy isn't /that/ term a mix of genuine reverence and playful, teasing impetuousness? Gotta keep the Queen on her toes is all!

Lorna Dane has posed:
"One is enough," Lorna states, gentle but firm. "If they'll do it to one of us, they'll do it to all of us-- as many as they can--..."

She catches herself on the edge of a speech.

A diktat.

An incitement to burning vengeance, the likes of which probably wouldn't have been anywhere close if not for all the raw, scoured skin she's got in the game of species, these days. Half a million people depend on her to protect them; millions beyond Genosha's borders deserve protection from senseless cruelty.

One of them is right in front of her, talking about poker.

And giving her shit--

In. Out...

"Now you feel formal," she shoots back, a tight grin touching her lips as her curled index finger nestles beneath Clarice's jaw. She lifts, gently, like she's inspecting the pink 'porter; green brows gradually lift.

"Gym clothes; not even a little bowing..." she teases, lowly.

"... I guess you're still welcome," follows after a dramatically thoughtful pause, the tip of her thumb brushing just beneath the other mutant's lip. Nevermind that she's not really the type of person to take her status all that seriously in casual contexts: what would be accepted, or perhaps merely tolerated from others is truly, utterly welcome from Clarice, who made herself the Queensguard when there was hardly a need for such a thing. Clarice, who trusts in the efficacy of fire and blood over the comfort of a lofty Dream.

Clarice, who gets what it's like to live between these poles far better than Lorna, who was happy to choose peace for so long.

"Thank you, Clarice," comes in much warmer, weightier tones.