20140/Zen and the Art of Motorhome Dismantling

Zen and the Art of Motorhome Dismantling
Date of Scene:	25 February 2025
Location:	Garage and Stables
Synopsis:	Not all damage can be buffed out.
Cast of Characters:	Logan Howlett, Madelyne Pryor

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Logan Howlett has posed:
The budget for Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters seems at times to be virtually without limit. For not only are there immaculate sprawling lawns, tennis courts, and an Olympic sized pool, but there's also the matter of the stealth jet and the underground hangar within which it slumbers. Even the substitute teachers seem to drive brand new Ferraris, or tastefully restored classic sports cars that would be the prize of any Mecum auction.

So why is it then, that the school's most mysterious teacher is still tinkering with a mid 80's model F-150 that's gradually being taken over by rust? The bed of which is being occupied by an old, basic, slide-in camper? And the engine of which is currently leaking copious amounts of oil onto the concrete beneath, as it sits upon a lift so that it's owner might inspect its rusty undercarriage?

These are the sort of questions that are best avoided. Most of the faculty don't know the answer to this, and the only person who knows definitively is not likely to give an answer.

Reaching up, Logan turns the socket wrench until the clamp holding the hose in place breaks free. A bit more oil sprays onto his dingy wife beater shirt, but his hands are already covered in different types of grease nearly to his elbow. It's not easy from a distance to tell where the engine grease on his arms ends, and the hair begins. Scattered around the garage, in the haphazard fashion of someone who likes to drop things when he's done with them, multiple empty cans of beer can be found. It looks like most of them are Molson, but there are also a couple of Busch Lites interspersed. Most of them seem to be near the FM radio, where yesterday's greatest country hits can be heard. When it's not too staticky, that is.

"Now my hair has turned to silver
All my life I've loved in vain
I can see her star in heaven
Blue eyes crying in the rain..."

Surprisingly to those who know the hairy mutant, Logan's gruff voice can be heard humming along as he roughly yanks the rest of the hose out. From the look of it, he's been tearing out more parts than he's been fixing. But also from the looks of it, the maintenance on this old truck has been long overdue.

No sooner has the song ended, than an advertisement takes its place within the otherwise relatively quiet garage. And yet, Logan seems to know the words to this as well, and perhaps aided by copious amounts of beer, sings along with the jingle.

"O-O-O-O'Reilly's..."

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
More has changed in the past two days than in the past two months.

More has changed in the past five months than in the past five years.

After a while, it begins to feel like it's all building towards something. Madelyne just... don't know what.

It would be nice to feel like she had some sort of calling or purpose. Kurt has purpose.

But I find an immense satisfaction in helping others. Dealing with teenagers isn't always fun, but I do like getting the chance to make a difference for so many. When we can help such as they on those occasions, well, how could we not?

His words still haunt her.

...That's probably too strong.

But when he asked her of her passions?

Revenge.

That hadn't been what she'd said. But one doesn't simply blurt something like that out in even relatively polite company. Especially when that polite company is one of those true white knights -- good souls -- who might hear something like that and drive her from the grounds like an evil spirit.

Or worse -- try and fix her.

It's with all of that on her mind that Madelyne finds herself ambling into the stables. She doesn't know the hairy mutant that's in there working on the old F-150. In fact, she hadn't expected anyone to be in the garage at all. She's been doing her best to avoid... well... almost everyone here. Especially Charles and Jean.

Was she on her way to see Nathan?

Maybe. Maybe that's just where her feet were carrying her.

She had, admittedly, gotten a bit lost in her thoughts. Otherwise, she might have sensed him before she ever stepped through the door, but she didn't. And now?

Well, now it's too late.

The small pedestrian door that leads out front has been opened, and with that opening comes a rush of cold, February air. It's a bit gusty outside. There's snow on the grounds, on the rooftops.

And there's the faint click of heels.

The familiar scent of someone that is so uniquely... theirs. Even under the layers of other smells -- other people they've brushed up against, a choice of perfume for the day, the change in shampoo. Underneath all of that is the scent that makes a person absolutely unique.

At least, it's supposed to.

She'd just gotten the door closed with a heavy 'thunk' against the wind, but she speaks up against the croon of the auto parts jingle.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize anyone was in here," comes Jean'ss voice, clearly about to take her leave again.

Logan Howlett has posed:
Immediately upon hearing footsteps, the croaking attempts at a singalong are hushed, a development for which any sensible person would be truly grateful. The look on Logan's face actually seems almost panicked, as if a great secret might have been divulged, and he's not sure to whom. But as the dainty feet clack clack clack against the walkway to the garage, the look becomes something different. Excitement, nervousness, and something more primal, all cross his somewhat simplistic brain within a fraction of a second, as a familiar scent hits his nostrils. It's something that he's been smelling for more than a decade now, and has yet to tire of. A scent that he'd recognize anywhere in the world. One that is completely unique, yet always reminds him slightly of jasmine.

It manages to cut through the scent of old engine oil, anyway.

As he pops the tab on another beer, Logan steps out from under the lifted truck. The truck looks kind of small elevated precariously like that. Of course, they made them a lot smaller in the 80s, before everyone started using pickups as minivans. Don't even get him started, unless you've got three hours and want to see a vein bulge out of his neck.

"Don't worry about it, Jeanie. It's just me."

Another step back, and he's visible. A short, hairy, extremely stocky square of a man. Hair and sideburns have been partially tamed by the application of some bear grease, but he looks like the sort of roughneck that a caveman might hire to fix his car. Truth be told, he'd probably be much happier propelling his vehicles with his feet, though the large belt buckle and the well-worn western boots indicate that he's got at least some pretensions at being handy with a horse.

"Don't suppose you came here to fix the truck while I was gone, eh? Because I don't mind going ice fishing until it's done."

His demeanor is friendly, warm even, but with a sort of reserve as if he's used to dealing with the woman in question with a sort of distance that he regrets.

But as he tilts his head back and begins guzzling yet another Busch Lite, any idea of deepness on his part is probably dispelled. Especially when he wipes his mouth on his hairy bicep.

This truck is never going to get fixed.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
The snap-hiss of that can opening is, itself, enough to make Madelyne tick her head back towards her shoulder -- to hesitate, to listen.

The singing had stopped. That flash of embarrassment replaced with...

...excitement? Something... deeper?

It all happens so fast that it's startling. Confusing. But that confusion is quickly eliminated when the first words rumble past his lips, his voice deep and rough, like... like masculinity put to sound.

Jeanie.

The name makes her jaw tighten, every muscle in her body going rigid in a sudden flash of anger. But she doesn't move. Doesn't take another step towards the door. Doesn't turn. Doesn't breathe.

Not at first.

Is Jean... a mechanic? This is news.

Not that pretty much anything other than what Jean looks like in the mirror wouldn't be news. It's not as if she really knows _anything_ about her doppelganger, after all. In truth, she has no legitimate reason to hate the woman as much as she does.

Except it's Jean's fault she's like this. It was her DNA.

It's Jean's fault she never seems to measure up against Xavier's favorite pupil.

It's Jean's fault she has no family, no idea who made her, no idea for what purpose.

Jean may not have done anything to her, specifically, but it all stems from her. Every last thing.

"Not this time," the woman who looks and smells so much like Jean answers, turning back to this strange, hairy man with smile that tugs into place no matter how she feels about being mistaken for the woman she hates so much.

But never let it be said that Madelyne will back down from a challenge -- or an interesting opportunity. She turns more fully to face him, giving up on heading back outside for the moment as her eyes sweep down and back up.

"Haven't you gotten this thing running yet?"

She's playing a dangerous game with a dangerous man, but even as she asks the question, she's reaching out -- probing deeper, searching _his_ mind for information about him.. looking for clues to steer the conversation, to be more like 'Jean.'

Of course, to the trained observer who knows Jean well, there are also tells -- the way she keeps her hair, the way she stands, the inflection in her voice. Things that are nearly impossible to mimic without training. And Madelyne, for as much of a 'twin' as she might be, has never spent any time around Jean Grey.

Logan Howlett has posed:
An image of a funeral, where an old friend is being put to rest. He was supposed to save her. Her children are confused who this man is, sitting at the back.

The feeling of flesh burning away from his body, as everything goes red, and then black. It doesn't hurt nearly as bad melting off as it does growing back.

A warm fire, and the scent of roasting venison. A cold beer on an even colder night. A feeling of sadness, but the beginning of hope.

But mostly, there is pain, confusion, and a lot of absence. The thoughts on the surface speak to a life of suffering, half-remembered lies, and flashes of beauty that are quickly snuffed out. It's hard to get much further than that though, as the mind seems to be held within a prison every bit as unbreakable as the steel that coats his skull. It's a mind accustomed to dealing with a task, and there is a zen-like focus as Logan turns his wrench that seems to keep ghosts from the past at bay. Or at least it was working until this particular ghost stepped into the garage.

"This old girl's been good to me. Only fair she gets the best replacement parts in all of Upstate New York."

He has a dry way of speaking. Little embellishment, like a blue collar worker, but there's a slyness on the periphery, a sense of bemusement, if not necessarily outright humor.

But as he turns, it's clear that something is off. It's not a look of confusion, but one of questioning. Looking her up and down, he seems to be motivated by curiosity rather than lechery, though lecherous thoughts are always the ones that are easiest to read on the surface of his mind. He seems to possess very little shame, appraising her the way that an animal might appraise a potential mate, before realizing that there's something wrong with her. Something that he can't immediately put his finger on.

"You haven't been tamperin' with any omnipotent cosmic forces today, have you darlin'? Because if you have... I ain't gonna bother fixin' the truck."

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Fire. Flesh burning, red and then black. Sadness, but the beginning of hope.

Pain. Confusion. Absence.

It's so... familiar.

Familiar enough to melt some of the hate before he even speaks again. Familiar enough to make her draw in a breath, reluctant compassion tightening her throat as she swallows.

She hates Jean. She wants to hate this man for confusing her for Jean, the same way everyone else does. She wants to hate him for thrusting her right back under Jean's shadow, because the ending is always the same.

Oh, you're not Jean.
Jean is smarter, nicer, friendlier, better trained, more powerful. Jean has friends. Jean has family.
You're not Jean.
You're... broken.

But she can't hate him. Not nearly as much as she wants to. Not enough to exploit this, to push it, to stick the knife in and twist it in the way she knows she could.

When he turns and looks at her, and that questioning look settles into the corners of his eyes, it's obvious time is running out.

How hard would it be to pluck an image of Jean from his mind to cloak herself -- to smooth over all those rough edges and little cracks in the facade? To give him _exactly_ what he expects -- what he _wants_ -- and then yank it all away and leave him just as alone as Jean left her?

Not hard.

Barely a thought. A little force of will.

But she can't.

And if she can't commit to the deception, what is even the point of having this conversation in the first place?

A soft sigh blows past her lips, her emerald eyes meeting Logan's as a growing sense of fatigue and impatience settles over her features.

"As much as it pains me to pass on the opportunity to screw with one of Jean's..."

Her voice trails off, the bite in her words softening a moment later.

"... well... I blame Kurt. It could have been... fun."

Another beat. A little shake of her head that moves the red tresses around her cheeks.

"I'm not Jean. My name's Madelyne."

Logan Howlett has posed:
There's another fit of static on the radio, and for a moment a competing radio station can be heard in its place. Only for a moment though, and when whatever meteorological disturbance caused it is gone, it's back to yesterday's greatest country hits. Apparently the women in Alan Jackson's life are very easily swayed by the prospect of dating someone who is even remotely considering purchasing a Mercury. It's enough to make one seriously consider purchasing one for oneself. Perhaps cruising in it, up and down the road.

Holding a beer in a hand that is almost entirely black with engine grease and soot, Logan watches as a range of emotions cross the young woman's face. A man of few words, he's been known to read people fairly well, but nothing in his long life has prepared him for the exact set of issues that this woman is dealing with at the moment. Of course, he can't remember the vast majority of his life anyway, but it's unlikely a helpful tidbit would come to him if he could.

"'Madelyne', huh? I like it. Sounds real exotic. Are you here to give me a verbal warning, ma'am?"

For a second, he looks as if he's prepared to have fun with the bit. Long-forgotten desire comes creeping back from somewhere in the back of his mind, and from a couple of other places that don't bear mentioning. He seems to be a fairly simple creature, almost antagonistically so.

"I'm real sorry about bein' late for work today... can't lose this job cuz I got so many mouths to feed... Don't mind stayin' late if you got any extra work for me to do around here."

He's certainly not much of an actor, but he's not bad at playing a slightly greasier version of himself. Perhaps it's simply a more honest version of himself. But he seems to sense that might not be what she meant.

He sniffs the air again. It smells like her alright. Where it counts, that is. The natural odors that communicate so much information to him about her health, her habits, and how she's adjusting to the relative phases of the moon. But there are differences that are almost overpowering. Different brands of soap. Clothing cleaned in different facilities. Garments that her nearly identical counterpart doesn't typically wear. Products in her hair that Jean doesn't use. Even the nearly microscopic dirt under her fingernails is different from touching different sorts of things. Taken altogether, and the bouquet is different enough that the differences start to become stark, as if she had a different face entirely.

"I mean..."

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
For a moment, it almost seems as if the red-haired woman watching Logan so intently is so taken aback by his reaction that she comes full circle through the emotional spectrum and lands back at... charmed.

Her lips, the same full, lush red as Jean's, tick up into an amused smile at the corners.

Her eyes, bright emerald green, narrow ever so slightly at the corners as humor -- despite all of her anger -- creeps in.

Without even seeming to realize it, she squared up to him -- not as an opponent seeking a fight, but as a woman responding to...

... well ...

... everything. The growl in his voice. The desire in his thoughts. Hell, the scent of the engine he was just working on. It dilates her eyes... just a little. Enough that the black is a little more noticeable, the green a little less.

Her hands, perhaps suddenly in search of something to do to occupy themselves, slip into the pockets of her coat.

"Logan."

The word slips past her lips -- a name she'd plucked from his mind, from a memory, without even having realized she'd done it. But it comes out as a purr, her voice lowered, almost admonishing.

The little curl of her lips never leaves her mouth.

"Don't tease. You make so much harder to resist than you realize..."

Logan Howlett has posed:
It starts with a single step. A small move in her direction that he doesn't really remember deciding to take. The amplified feelings of a psychic are incredibly infectious, and it would be tough to imagine a more tempting form of bait for the man who has kept a desire contained so long. Whatever warnings might be going off in the rational parts of his brain, Logan is at his core a creature connected deeply to his more primal, animalistic nature. There doesn't seem to be much debating coming from his illusive mind as primitive drives begin to take over. He is a wild thing forced to play the role of a man.

And he has caught her scent.

Another step, his head tilts back as he bring the can to his mouth. His hands and forearms are a mass of ropy muscle, prominent veins, thick hair, and engine filth. The hands of a fighter, or a laborer. The beer is finished off, the can crumpled and tossed away without a thought for where it might land.

He's squared up to her directly, eyes locking with hers. He has to look up a bit, but that's something he's used to. He was about average height during the Spanish-American War...

"Nobody's teasin'..."

He pauses for a second, taking a deep inhale through his nose as he refuses to break eye contact. It's partially a challenge, from a mind that was adapted to roam with a pack. It's partially a question, as he searches for signs of truth on her face that can't be communicated by words. As he reaches an arm out to encircle her waist, it's clear that he doesn't have much further use for words.

Except for one. The end of his sentence.

"... Madelyne."

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Those emerald eyes that watch Logan so intently are a storm of emotions -- curiosity, trepidation, anger, and yes.. desire. All of it raging inside her at once and growing no less calm when he takes that step forward.

Her head tilts ever so slightly, chin dipping, that turbulent stare a warning...

It wasn't meant to be a challenge -- a dare -- but it's so easy for it to be taken that way with the tension suddenly crackling in the air. Every breath, every heartbeat, seems to coil it a little tighter, like a spring that's winding... winding...

She doesn't move.

She can't or won't. It's not clear. She doesn't back away.

Nobody's teasin'...

Her whole body goes rigid. Absolutely still. She can _feel_ it... all of it.

His intention. His desire. What he _wants_ from her...

"Logan..."

She seizes that second as he inhales her scent again to whisper his name like a breathless plea. But a plea for him to continue? Or a plea for him to stop?

Her face is a mask of concern and regret that's so easily mistaken for the guilt of a woman coming to seek comfort in a familiar presence in her life, doubting her choice, having second thoughts in the final moments...

But she's not Jean. She didn't come here seeking comfort. She didn't come here seeking _him_. The regret on her face isn't guilt over what she's done -- it's guilt over what she knows is coming.

His arm is barely around her waist when her name leave his lips like a mockery of reality -- like they're playing some game in which 'Madelyne' isn't a real person, just some figment of Jean's imagination...

... like she doesn't exist. Like she's nothing.

And it's as if time simply stops.

The rage in her explodes faster than the capabilities of human perception, heat and anger and hatred lashing out in dark embers and tiny licks of dark flame that are a bastardization of Jean's Phoenix. Broken. Corrupted. A fragment of something that could be beautiful.

And then force erupts from her, exploding out towards Logan in a wave as Madelyne's red hair whips around her shoulders and her coat flutters around her legs.

Logan Howlett has posed:
The last image in Logan's mind as he comes to is of a face close to his, beautiful and vibrant. A scent, a heady cocktail of pheromones and hormones, jasmine and danger. Eyes that could burn a man to cinders where he stood, but would leave him with nothing but gratitude to have experienced a look like that. But something behind the eyes, something that is only visible up close. Vulnerable and sad, a need to escape. All shifting quickly before him into something chaotic, all the more terrifying for seeing it so close.

He barely has time to register the shift, and virtually no time at all to recognize that he's made another in a long line of mistakes.

When he comes to, it's only been a fraction of a second. Anyone else might have been comatose or worse. The thought wouldn't bring Logan much comfort even if it occurred to him.

He's lying on the cold concrete floor, with the sort of headache that he usually only gets after mixing his tequila with rat poison. His head feels heavy as he opens his eyes, disorientation as he tries to remember how he got there. The first sight that greets him is of a pair of women's ankle boots, and a coat fluttering around a pair of shapely legs in some tasteful slacks. The rustling of the fabrics can't be heard over the ringing in his ears, as he pushes himself up into a partially raised position with one of his metal elbows propping up his torso.

It's quite a contrast from the last image he remembers. An image that might be burned into his brain for a long time.

Whatever hit him was powerful enough to send a three hundred pound man (give or take) flying far enough and hard enough to leave the imprint of his head and shoulders in the side of his slide-in camper. It was also powerful enough to peel off some of the paint from the drivers side door, and to knock off some of the rustier bits of metal around the edges of some of the body panels. The mass of beer cans seem to have been blown outward from the center of the blast, scattered around the garage in a roughly circular fashion. But most disappointingly, the trusty old radio has been taken out of commission, slammed against the wall and unplugged. A drink will have to be poured out for it later, but at least nobody will have to hear anymore about how crazy the singer is about a Mercury.

With some effort, he looks up, but can't quite meet her eyes from this position as he watches those clacking heels devoid of any sound. Pain comes rushing in from all over his body. A feeling of burning, a feeling of force, even now it feels like he's still being pushed backward in the aftershocks of the blast.

Has it even been a full second yet?

Shock melts into surprise, and something else begins to well up from back in Logan's primitive brain. Hello anger, my old friend... it's the one constant in a life he can't remember, and it does the trick to get his body moving again as sound begins coming back.

It's distorted, echo-y, and the effect seems delayed. His inner ear is stabilizing, and already his body is repairing the minor damage to his body. There's no need to repair any damage to his pride as he struggles to raise his head to meet her gaze again, he's been on the receiving end of a telekinetic blast before, from a certain other redhead whose name it would be very dangerous to mention right now. So he knows when he's been outclassed.

"Gr.. hrrgh..."

It's half a growl, half a groan. But it communicates more than his words probably would in the moment. His surprise is evident, but he's already reacting to the danger as both a startled animal, and a heavily traumatized soldier from a place so dark that it can't even be mentioned without someone disappearing.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
It all happens so fast.

She didn't mean to hurt him. She didn't mean to let it go so far. She tried to stop it, tried to warn him, tried to tell him she wasn't Jean...

Anguish.

It replaces everything, draped over the fire of every other motion like a heavy, wet blanket. No more desire. No more anger. No more curiosity.

Even the sound the explosion of force made wasn't pleasant -- a rattle and tumble of cans, a crash of the radio, the thunk and scrape of a body thrown like a rag-doll against the truck he'd been working on only moments before.

And then silence.

No music. Even the cans settle. And all that's left is the way she stands there, panting softly, eyes wide, and the man in front of her who claws his way back to his feet.

It's her pulse that's the loudest, pumping and pounding in her ears like she's surrounded by machines rampaging out of control.

She _hurt_ him.

She could have _killed_ him.

There'd been no hate in him. He hadn't been trying to hurt her. He wasn't like the others, filled with fear and diabolical intentions. She killed them in self defense. She _executed_ them on the sidewalk.

Logan wasn't going to hurt her. He'd been innocent. Completely innocent. He was working on his truck, minding his own business, until _she_ showed up. She didn't feel _hate_, she felt...

She allows the briefest of seconds for her eyes to close as her hands slip free of her pockets, trembling, struggling for composure.

That growl snaps them open again, and it's as if something cold grips her heart. The _anger_ she feels from _him_ has her mouth falling open, and as her eyes meet his, they have a glassy sheen, full of the grief her expression mirrors.

"I'm sorry. I -- I'm not her," she whispers in a rush, her voice just as unsteady as her hands as she shakes her head and hurries for the door.