17716/Their Actions Were Disgusting, But Their Thoughts Were Worse

Their Actions Were Disgusting, But Their Thoughts Were Worse
Date of Scene:	21 April 2024
Location:	Little Italy
Synopsis:	Madelyne Pryor's crumbling existence leads to a an outburst so violent that it sets off alarms on the other side of the world. Luckily, the only one to answer them is the Queen of Genosha, a woman who knows something about picking herself up from the ashes.
Cast of Characters:	Madelyne Pryor, Lorna Dane

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Madelyne Pryor has posed:
A few moments ago, a psychic pulse radiated out from Little Italy. It was angry. Enraged, even. And violent. Terribly, possibly fatally, violent. Something terrible happened, and a mutant was involved.

The scene of the crime is right outside of a restaurant, Gelso and Grand (Try the garlic bread). Three men lie on the ground, bleeding from their ears and noses.

The reason they're on the ground is floating two feet off of the ground, wreathed in a corona of green and violet psychic flame. It'd be more intimidating if she wasn't wearing sneakers, leggings and an oversized Mets sweatshirt. Her eyes, glowing a blank white-purple, cast about the rapidly retreating crowd of observers. Though a handful stand up the street, plotting something. Probably rocks, or pipes or something.

Somebody better de-escalate this.

Lorna Dane has posed:
Compared to SOME pro-mutant militant movements, the Brotherhood does not boast a particularly high concentration of psychic operatives, nor do they own a piece of technology as advanced, as purpose-built for the tool of location mutants in trouble as Cerebro.

What they have instead of either is The Lagoon.

Situated on an artificial island just a mile off the coast of Genosha, The Lagoon is a commune where psionically active volunteers live among their own, with more experienced denizens passing down their wisdom to less experienced ones. In return for comfort, training, and solitude from external thoughts, the Lagoon's residents collectively provide a valuable service to Genosha: operating as a large-scale psychic gestalt to enable emergency communications, astral scouting, and a host of other operational advantages that would otherwise be denied to Genosha at large.

A little after three AM, a scream rips through the Lagoon, throwing the commune into a panic. Contrary to what one might assume, the end result of this will be several of the older members rotating out: fresher minds less inundated with psionic stress are more apt at bouncing back from these events, but the accumulated trauma tends to feed back into the rest of the commune if allowed to build up too far, on top of chewing through the efficacy of an afflicted member. This time, of course, is worse than the norm for an incident of this nature, typically requiring a mass of collective negative emotion or intense psychic distress: in lieu of either, there is one locus of negativity. One psychic being, undergoing something wholly different from 'distress'.

Trying to open a viewing window into the area nearly gives two Lagoonites heart attacks. By the time word reaches the palace, there's just one word on the collective's tongues:

"... red... red... red... red... red... ... ..."

... ... ... ... ...

A lilac distortion slices through New York air and snaps open into a flat, glowing oval a dozen feet in the air. Lorna Dane, Queen of Genosha descends into Little Italy as soon as the portal's stable, clad in shimmering green, wreathed in a rippling purple cloak-- and positioned between Madelyne and the crowd growing ever larger and angrier. Taking a beat to observe both parties as the portal snaps shut, Lorna ultimately looks over her shoulder to Madelyne, eyebrow arching curiously.

"Do you have an explanation?" she wonders.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
In the moments between the psychic pulse and the arrival of the (other) Queen, the crowd grows rowdier, bolstered by anger and foolish pride. "You bitch! You killed 'em!"

The portal opens as Madelyne answers, her voice a sinister echo. Somehow. "They had it coming," she says, answering both Lorna and the crowd at the same time. "These three assholes wouldn't take no for an answer," she says with some venom.

The psychic fire intensifies for a moment, flaring up on her shoulders almost like wings. "And they thought I was that X-Man!"

You know the one. Ginger. Kind of stuck up.

"And they're not dead. They'll just have migraines for a week. ... Or forever. I dunno."

Madelyne finally takes in Lorna, whom she's seen on TV but never actually met. "Aren't you from Genosha? The queen or whatever? Why are -you- here?"

Now faced with an imperious woman to go with the very angry one, the crowd starts to disperse, a few men grabbing the ones on the ground and scooting. Maybe they're getting the cops. Maybe not. Who cares?

Lorna Dane has posed:
A look is all the answer Madelyne gets.

Silent, appraising; weighing the stranger whose rage boils along the edges of her psyche, glares through her eyes as she watches the crowd leave and wordlessly dares them not to.

She does look like Jean, doesn't she?

But Jean would never let herself go the way this woman apparently has, whether by choice or accident.

And she certainly wouldn't justify it if she did.

A green brow has settled into a high arch by the time Lorna swings her attention back to Madelyne. The bristles in her cloak begin relaxing, lying flat once more; the shower of violet shrapnel shedding, reattaching, and swirling around its ends drops off until it's a gentle, languid cycle. Underneath, her arms fold over her chest.

"Every mutant is a citizen of Genosha, and thus entitled to the protections extended to posthuman individuals under Genoshan law," she finally states, crisp and reserved.

"... which happen to include not being lynched for protecting yourself from predatory men."

Every bit of the venom evoked by being pulled across the world in the darkness of morning because self-defense has been deemed a crime punishable by death by this crowd of New Yorkers drips and spatters onto the dispersing crowd and the men in their care.

"You DO look familiar," she then admits, softer, "but I wouldn't make that mistake. What's your name?" she wonders.

"Are you alright?"

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
When the men get close to drag their friends away, Madelyne looks at them, daring them to do something. To say something. Her fury and humiliation are physically, and psychically, evident in the quantity and intensity of her aura.

As they leave, Maddy starts to calm down, the fires flickering out and her feet touching the ground. She takes a minute to catch her breath, looking at Lorna when she's questioned. "I'm Madelyne Pryor, and I'm fine. I've just had ... a very rough couple days, and, well, I discovered I could do this. I can ... read minds too, but I don't like it, everything I hear makes me angry. Honestly, I haven't stopped being angry, and now I guess, what, I'm a mutant? I'm....psychic?" She pauses, looking at the distancing crowd. "I could have killed them. I wanted to. Their actions were disgusting, but their thoughts were worse."

Lorna Dane has posed:
"You're a mutant," Lorna confirms.

"And you were blessed with one hell of a mind," follows a notch lower, softer; gentler.

"My name is Lorna Dane," she murmurs-- plainly audible despite remaining exactly where she was when she portaled in: hovering several feet above the ground. "Polaris..."

And despite the dark circles beneath eyes lidding, fractionally, as the adrenaline of having been ripped across the world on highest alert fades, when the green-haired woman extends her hand towards Madelyne, she summons a thrumming pulse of energy around, beneath the psychic mutant, levitating her right back off the ground-- slowly.

Beyond the unspoken offer to take her hand, it is a lesson in accepting one's place in the world: there is no sin in being above them.

"They should've thanked you for showing them mercy," comes with a frown. "But it's-- well, it's human, isn't it? To feel entitled to someone else's attention, body, their pride... their life, if that's what it takes to satisfy their needs..."

With her free hand, Polaris sweeps these nameless people from the atmosphere with a brisk wave, shaking her head slightly.

"Are you safe?" she asks, instead of giving them anymore of her attention.

"Do you have a place to go?"

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
It's probably a little comical. She lands and then Lorna lifts her again. She seems slightly less steady, now that she realizes she's floating. It was different when she was doing it unknowingly, just acting on instinct. Now that she's floating with no control, she looks a little unsteady.

She'll be fine.

"Humans," she says, like a switch flipped instantly when she was told. When it was confirmed. "They want me until I don't meet their standards. Until I don't act the way they want me to. Until I tell them no." This is a bitter woman. Hurt and ready to lash out.

It felt good.

"I, uh, ... well, I guess had an apartment. I wrecked it when this happened. Probably going to get evicted." She looks at the extended hand, and then back up to Lorna's face. "I mean, I don't think I'll ever be unsafe again. I won't let myself be unsafe. Or controlled. Or ... Or...," she trails off, thinking.

"Possessed."

Lorna Dane has posed:
The recitation of humanity's sins hits hard.

Being so directly confronted with the evidence of its iniquities after so long spent on her island, enmeshed in the business of rebuilding is like taking a bucket of water studded with razor sharp ice to the face. Lorna's eyes nearly squint shut with each new sin, not because she is unfamiliar, or surprised; it's the rawness of Madelyne's anger that makes her flinch. She's seen its like; felt it plenty, especially these past months. But it's so fresh in Madelyne: the wound's still gushing and her new understanding of the world's still falling into place, informed by the cruelty she did experience coupled with what almost followed it.

After a deep breath, Lorna bends towards the psychic who's nearly at eye-level with her, capturing her chin with that extended hand long enough to hold it fast-- to keep eerily familiar green eyes locked on her own as an echo of righteous wrath blazes within them.

"Do you WANT a place to go?" she wonders, her voice dripping with fire despite its low volume and tender tone.

"To KNOW that that they'll never have the power to threaten you again?"

Increasing proximity means that no amount of imperious posturing or displays of power can hide the sheer fatigue weighing on Lorna's features, mounting by the minute for all that she tries to hide the sag of her eyelids and shoulder; nonetheless, the Queen of Genosha still burns.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Madelyne freezes as Lorna puts her full attention on her. She wonders if this is what it's like to have Magneto, or Professor Xavier's full attention. How different this is from that. Still, she meets the Queen's gaze unflinchingly and listens. And thinks.

What does she have here anymore? At this point they're going to fire her from her job, take her apartment, and leave her on the street. Sure, she's got some savings, but when you wreck an apartment and basically quit in protest, what can you do? No one will hire her again as a pilot, the community is too small. They all know now. No one will rent to her. Plus she might end up with a warrant.

"I think," she starts, finally catching how -tired- Lorna is. "I think I do want that. Where I can learn to use my .. my powers. And not have to deal with the neediness and entitlement of humans."

Lorna Dane has posed:
"Then come to the Genoshan Embassy," the Queen decrees.

"You can rest..."

Lorna stops just short of including herself here, holding the complaint against her teeth for a beat before swallowing it. For now, it doesn't matter that she needs sleep.

"... and you can learn more about Genosha. What we're about; what we have to offer... whether you'd like to claim your right to citizenship and emigrate. And, once you feel up to it," she murmurs, "whether you'd like to turn your powers to a higher purpose-- because NOBODY should have to feel the way you do tonight, Madelyne."

Pale fingers finally fall from the red-haired woman's chin so Lorna can offer her hand once again.

"And there will come a time when nobody does again."

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
A place to stay away from people who want to hurt her, who think they have the right to have her. Where she won't be judged for what she is and the abilities she, apparently, has.

It -is- a bit weird that she manifested and isn't freaking out too hard. That she's instinctually doing some things that it takes other psychics years to learn. It is very odd, isn't it.

She reaches up slowly, taking the Queen's hand, thinking about the murmur. Thinking about what it means. "That sounds great," she says, her weary, but far more awake eyes locked on the Queen. "All of it," her voice implies much. Lorna should know what she means.

No one gets to suffer like she did. No one deserves it. Well. No one except those who harm and abuse others for things beyond their control.