#c23task

[the-amazing-blake]

TASK 04. || FAMILY.

@c23tasks

“Minh,” Blake snapped, able to sense him far before she was able to see him — not to mention the air that billowed from the open portal, caustic and lukewarm, a feeling she was exceptionally familiar with. “Get your hand away from my hair. And you,” she pointed across the room at Minh’s brother, Ty; his mirror image. “You’re gonna have to be smarter about your portals if you wanna use them in combat. I can always tell exactly where they’re coming from.”

But maybe Blake had the advantage, of both ability and knowing these two idiots for their whole lives.

“Bô bô,” their mother chided, and Blake automatically softened at the nickname, even as she wrinkled her nose.

“I’m just saying,” she muttered under her breath, attention turned back to the next dish she was being handed to dry. She felt the strange feeling of Ty’s portal vanish, and heard Minh’s snicker cut off as it snapped shut.

“They will not be using that for combat,” Hien pressed, and Blake held her free hand up in obedient acquiescence.

It was a touchy subject amongst their family, and had been for years since the full breadth of Blake’s ability had been discovered. Blake’s parents had always been the peaceful, quiet types; Blake had well and truly ruined that for a while when she was little, and her aspect kept overflowing when she experienced even the most minor of inconveniences — as toddlers had a tendency to do. Most toddlers, however, didn’t have a tendency to incite riots.

“They don’t have to, but they should learn how to protect themselves with it,” Blake pressed in return, reaching up to the highest shelf to set aside the vase her aging mother couldn’t normally reach. “The world is scary. Their portals are useful.” She knew the twins didn’t feel the same way, thanks to the… uniqueness of their situation, but Blake couldn’t help but see the inherent value.

“Being normal boys is useful,” Hien began, then pressed her lips into a thin line when Blake banged the cupboard shut with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

Blake took a breath, then another. She crossed back to the sink and accepted the next plate to be dried. “We’re not normal, ma. None of your kids are normal.”

“But you could be.”

“Do they want to be? Or is that just what you want.”

“Bô Bô—”

“Serious question.”

Their mother sighed, resting her hands in the soapy water for a moment and gazing out into the backyard. Minh and Ty were practicing. Blake watched with no small measure of pride as Ty formed a portal Minh could reach through to pluck a crab apple from one of the highest branches.

“I want what’s best for all of you. That’s all a mother ever wants.”

“I love not being normal,” Blake murmurs; not a challenge, just a simple statement of fact. “Ma… getting to use my ability every day is something I love. I think they could love it, too. And they don’t have to do what I do,” she added quickly, since she could see her mother already gearing up in protest. “They don’t have to fight. God, I hope they don’t have to fight,” she said more to herself than anything else. “But you should let them be… them.”

“I do,” Hien started defensively, but could obviously feel the weight of Blake’s skepticism. “I try. But I worry. They show off for other kids at school, and then what? One of their teachers gives them detention for being dangerous, because another boy didn’t understand he couldn’t use Minh’s portals like Ty can.”

Blake reached up to rest her hand on their mother’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “And that sucks. I know it does. But at the end of the day, we’re not responsible for what other people don’t understand about us. And they shouldn’t have to stop doing what they like doing because of it. Just like I shouldn’t have to.”

Hien glanced up at her daughter with a smile, but it was bittersweet. “I know. I promise, I know. But I just—”

“Want what’s best for us, yeah.” Blake wrapped an arm around her mother’s shoulders, giving her a gentle half-hug. “You just gotta trust me when I tell you, letting us be us is the best thing. They’ll figure it out eventually. I figured it out eventually.”

“After your father and I almost divorced,” Hien pointed out with mock-sullenness. Blake simply laughed. It was good to joke about it now, with over a decade of hindsight behind them.

“Yeah, yeah. And you know what else would be best for me? If you let that die.”

“Absolutely not,” Hein decided smugly, and Blake had no choice but to grin and shake her head, and accept the next plate.

[mi-burke]

TASK .03 pt. 2 || the X-Men Training Program

[ pt. 1 ]

[everlasting-leo]

pic 1 : home sweet home

leo lives in valtoria, and has for a very long time. the outside of her house matches the rest of the bland, gated community (the neighbours kept complaining about her garden so she leaves the exterior alone for the most part). she’s owned her house there for a long time -- - she’s got a lot of money, thanks to several bank accounts that have been collecting interest for centuries.

she lives by herself. it’s not a very mutant friendly area, so whenever the more elderly residents start to get curious about how long she’s lived there, she’ll gaslight them into thinking she’s the daughter/granddaughter of the woman that used to live there <3

she couldn’t possibly pick a favourite room, because they’re all special to her. she’s been collecting knick knacks her whole life, so each room is a walk down memory lane for her.

her room is messy. the whole place is messy, but in a howl pendragon’s bedroom sort of way. it is cluttered beyond belief but every item has its reason for being there.

leo loves to entertain, and throws dinner parties often. she doesn’t cook, generally, but she’ll get caterers in.

if it was on fire, she’d grab her old victorian singer sewing machine. she’s had it since it was new, and it still runs beautifully even after making countless garments.

the whole place reeks of incense and snuffed out candles, if you have a sensitive nose then rip

pic 2 : therapy studio

at the xavier institute, leo has a room assigned for her therapy sessions, and it’s every bit as chaotic and cluttered as her home. lettie the giant tortoise can typically be found ambling around in here.

it always smells of paint and fabric. any time a patient agrees, she’ll put their work on display, and has been doing so for decades, so there’s a lot��of artwork everywhere.

while painting and drawing are the most common pastimes in there, there’s also a pottery wheel, a mannequin, and plenty of knitting/sewing/embroidery needles so patients can always find something to suit them.

natural light is everything, so leo made sure to nab one of the rooms with large windows overlooking the institute grounds.

@c23tasks

[heroicals]

TASK ONE ⇢ @c23tasks !

[santi-de-leon]

@c23tasks

To my darling Cyra,

—Another year, another letter. It’s a wonder you aren’t tired of these already, but I suppose the year you’re tired of my letters, you’re tired of me. Or maybe a kinder thought: the first year I don’t write you a letter is because I can’t; my hands are too old, too tired, maybe they shake a little too much. I can’t tell you when this hand might not be able to write you letters anymore, but I can tell you it will always be there to hold yours.

Nineteen years! An absolutely astonishing amount of time. Already over twenty, if you include the time we’ve known each other. It feels important to, even if it’d make anniversaries that much more complicated. But those first five years were what set the most important stage for this grand romance we’ve been so lucky to carry out since.

I think there are a lot of couples out there who could turn to the other and say: ‘You. You saved my life.’ … but we, dramatic as we are, had to take that to a literal level, didn’t we? I already know the look you’ll make, the cute way your nose will wrinkle when you get to this part. ‘This again?’ you always say, and, yes. This again.

You saved my life, Cyra. You saved my life by being your honest, truest version of yourself that up until that point, you’d been understandably hesitant to show me. I never blamed you for it, and you know this, but just like most of the other silly things I say in these letters, it bears repeating every year. You were protecting yourself from the harshness of a world that doesn’t understand what you're capable of, or maybe spends too much time inventing what it thinks you’re capable of.

I know better. I have always known better. You have changed both who I am and how I view the world, and I am so much the better for it. The world hasn’t seen what I have; how gentle, how careful you are with our daughters. The lengths you’ve gone to with Jackie to break the vicious cycle your family tried to impose on you. The world hasn’t seen the little things, either: the way you straighten the papers in my office with a graceful flick of your wrist. The way your hair shuffles in a light breeze whenever you get particularly heated about something — and I do love to see you get heated about things.

I can’t say it doesn’t matter to me what you are and what you can do, because it’s an indelible part of who you are. And I love what you are and what you can do. I know living with what you have hasn’t always been easy, and as much as we both try to put on a brave face, we know it won’t be easy for Jackie, either. It hasn’t been, but that is the simple fact of raising an exceptionally gifted child alongside my extraordinarily gifted wife. I know too that neither of you would ever want to give up what you have, which makes my place in this clear: I am and always will be here to support you. Both of you. No matter what happens, no matter what we all face, we face it together.

There’s been so much upset over the past year that it’s hard to keep track, but one thing you should never have to question is my support. I give it wholeheartedly, with everything I have and everything I am — your much more ordinary husband, gifted only in how lucky he can say he is to have such an incredible wife and two perfect daughters.

My coffee is getting cold and I think you might finally be waking up soon, so I will end this letter as I have all the others:

I love you. I will always love you. In this life and every one that comes after, I am yours.

—Santiago.

P.S. Finally back to Paris next year? I think we’re long, long overdue, and what better excuse than our twentieth?

[ofgoetsch]

AT THIS POINT, WHAT IS NORMAL AND WHAT ISN’T? IS IT YOU, OR THEM?;

HONORABLE MENTIONS

CIARAN O’CONNELL - @combustiibles​

VICTOR ACOSTA - @viictorious​

MAXINE “SOO-YUN” BRANDT - @silverplatters​

JORDAN PORTER A.K.A BACKLASH - @jordxporter​

The lights that hit the walls made the already vast space appear almost infinite, the dizziness that made his head hostage was only a result of the golden, bubbly liquid inside of a very tall and thin crystal glass or perhaps the reason for the spinning room was only the result of hours spent standing up eyeing the rotating bodies on the center of the room as if caught in a trance. Either way, Matthias decides to put the glass down on top of one of the moving trays brought to him by one of the staff, barely registering the time when another body decided to join him close to one of the solid walls that not only served the purpose of supporting the whole building, but also now also served to support the weight of two more tired bodies.

“Seeing you is like seeing a ghost, Matthias Goetsch, especially dressed in white” the harmonic tones bring him back to years ago and just as he turns his head, he feels his stomach drop and even though he quickly manages to compose himself, it does not seem to be quick enough to escape her attentive glowing eyes. They used to be brown and carried all the warmth in the world, something that was destroyed on the last day that they had seen each other. Matthias had been nothing but a coward on that day (in fact, it was hard to tell when he was not being one), a vessel devoid of any soul as he refused to help her, no matter the tears that fell down her face, choosing to ignore all of her pleas and sobs. “Or maybe, you just look like you’ve seen a ghost, but I promise that I am all flesh and bones” with a bit of something else too, he added in his mind. Her words were not the only thing that dripped with poison and the scars on his back began to ache, reminding him of a time when she marked him with her claws for all eternity, how scared she looked once she realized what she had done. It had not been on purpose and Matthias knew that, he had not felt scared then, only in pain, but maybe he should feel scared tonight.

“It’s good to see you, Crystal, I knew you would be alright” part of it was true, after she had left his house on that horrendous day that had changed both of their lives, with nothing but a broken heart and a bag full of cash, Matthias had known that she was stronger than him, that she would be alright no matter what, he convinced himself that she didn’t need him and soon she would realize that. It seemed like she finally had, “and I see you found some good company” he looked across the room, there stood a man, looking at Matthias as if he was wishing to crack his skull against the wall, it reminded him a bit of the anger that he had witnessed in Ciaran’s eyes just a few moments before.

“I did and he is nothing like you” it was supposed to hurt, but it didn’t, because Matthias already knew that that was true. He wouldn’t be surprised if mutants won this war, they were in fact far more powerful than others like himself, it was a reality that he had accepted since he had discovered that she was a mutant, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it. He would meet his end when it was due, but that was not today, he was wearing a white suit and he refused to bleed all over it.

“No,” he paused, took a look at the man and then looked at the woman that he once thought he loved, “he’s a lot more like you”.

She laughed and Matthias wondered if he had ever heard anything as cruel as that. “You know I could easily kill you at this moment, don’t you?” the question was a simple one, the answer easy to give, but maybe she expected more than just a simple answer, maybe she wished for an apologize, maybe revenge. “Yes, do you want to?” he asked back and with no hesitation she answered, “yes, I do”.

The silence that took over the space in between them was filled with laughter from the other guests and the clinking of glasses, occasionally the loud singing voice of someone who was either brave enough to sing in front of everyone or too drunk to care about the opinion of who might hear, it was nothing like the skilled voice of his friend, even if drunk he was sure that Victor could steal the show. Matthias figured that she would leave, but instead she spoke again, “did you ever want to?” she shrugged like what she was asking was no big deal and looked ahead “kill me, I mean”

“No” and it was true, even though, he would have preferred if the answer he had just given her was a different one. It would all be so easy if he was just like his father, hated everyone for the sake of it, never once giving a second thought to other’s feelings or rights, he wanted to be selfish and cruel and he wanted to have absolutely no guilt on his conscious, but that just wasn't him, not anymore. Unfortunately, that sentiment was not enough to clear his past and to wipe his hands clean.

“I should just rip your heart right out of your chest, maybe then you’ll feel something”

For a moment Matthias eyes locked in the movement of some long dark and silky hair, he swore he could still smell the faint scent of honey and he had the impulse to say, you can’t take what was never yours, but he kept quiet, there was enough pain for the both of them to last them lifetime, no need to add even more suffering. “I hope you know I will never forgive you” and just like that she left and the only thing that Matthias could do in return was nod. That was only fair, he would never forgive himself either.

FAVORITE AND LEAST FAVORITE ALIAS;

“They’re all equally foolish,” Matthias responds with a sigh, almost looking unbearably bored with the question, “but not all are bile-inducing, I heard one of those omegas is called BACKLASH, I could see myself liking that one if I was still an easily-impressed child”.

@c23tasks​

[romecardoso]

@c23tasks​

[TW: under the cut there is a gif of the creepy dude from pan's labyrinth. courtesy of cola.]

what’s your mutant’s ability? (if you need help finding a proper definition or just a resource for abilities, you can head over here. i recommend that you also link the page on your post when you find the ability you were looking for!)

Rome's ability is bogeyman physiology.

what’s your mutant’s classification level? (you can choose it here.)

Alpha

how old were they when they first discovered their abilities? how did it happen?

It first showed up when he was really young, before he can remember it. By the time he was a toddler, he was unable to control himself and was terrorising his parents left and right, becoming monsters that were much bigger, much louder than their angelic three-year-old baby.

so, what can your mutant do with their abilities?

He is the personification of a person's fears. When standing in front of someone and choosing to use his Bogeyman abilities, he will turn into a representation of that person's biggest fear. Like boggarts from Harry Potter vibes. When alone, or making an effort not to channel into someone's fears, his neutral Bogeyman form, and what he considers to be his true authentic self, is this guy: (faceclaim is the pale man, from pan's labyrinth)

…and what can’t they do (at least, not yet)?

He cannot assume the abilities of the creature he turns into, he has only his own (human-grade) strength, stealth, agility, etc. But as far as visuals and sound, he becomes the thing. For example, if someone's biggest fear is a werewolf, Rômulo will turn into a werewolf; he will look and sound exactly as the person expects in their worst nightmares, so say he has fur, is three times larger than himself, and he can howl. He even has the sharp teeth and can attempt to bite them, perhaps, but he does not have super strength or a bite that would be as strong as a werewolf's. This also means that if someone's biggest fear was another mutant, Magneto for example, Rômulo would be able to turn into Magneto visually, and even mimic his voice and mannerisms, but he would not have the ability to mess with metal.

what’s one thing they hope to learn or are currently trying to learn with their abilities?

He hopes he can learn to channel's someone's fear from further away. At the moment he can only do it if he's standing a few feet apart from the person, at most, but he thinks it'd be useful if he could tap into people's nightmarish visions from afar.

what is the most powerful thing your mutant can do with their abilities? do you think they would actually do it?

I think the worst he could do would be either giving someone a heart attack on the spot (which he wouldn't have much control of), or terrorising someone to the point of a severe trauma response. And I think he would, given the right amount of anger to tick him off. I don't think he has enough of a moral compass to point him the other way.

what are your mutant’s weaknesses?

Most people can be scared by something, even if that thing is just their old mother yelling profanities at them, but if the person is emotionally well resolved or their fears more abstract in nature, Rômulo cannot take on a new form, and will only be able to present his Bogeyman (pale man) self to that person. Which, can still be pretty gruesome, but probably inflicts more disgust than genuine fear. He also doesn't have a full grip on his human form, after growing up with an auntie that adored his Bogeyman form. It takes a fair amount of concentration to stay in human form, and if that concentration slips, he becomes his Bogeyman self, which can be an issue on day to day life. And he is also still susceptible to any human weaknesses he might have, so he could visually become Wolverine to scare someone off, but he'd still die from a bullet to the chest.

do they use their abilities in their day-to-day life? in what ways?

He'll bring it out if he feels the need to freak someone out, like terrorising some poor junkies who aren't paying him right. But in his day-to-day he mostly keeps it hidden, specially when he's bartending.

as a mutant, do they have any goals? dreams?

To be accepted, loved, adored for his mutant self. His goals are pretty self-centred for now, and he's leaning onto the brotherhood's cause to get somewhere.

how do they feel about the last 30+ years of mutant history? notably, the presidential address of 1983 and the essex house?

Rômulo has only ever had eyes for how badly the humans have treated mutants over the years. If there are any redeeming points in history, they have gone over his head, leaving him with a bitter taste in his mouth, so he's ready to wreak more havoc.

[jcnuaries-archived]

O! Unto me, pray that the gaze of the evening star looks upon me as an ascendant; that the witching hour be fruitful. Tell me my sins, my horrors so I confront them, fuel to the pyre of my own making. I am to be the asp in the grass, the blindness in the gaze of the moon above. Twin malices of vengeance, of love in my hands. Woe be unto you, that you may dare try to stop what I am. What I do.

(cw: self-harm imagery, death mention, violence.)

Who would you join? Xavier’s or the Brotherhood?

The choice is given, and so she follows along its merry way. Strands of fate loop around her, in this small room behind her office, a ritualistic sanctum for her to conduct her most powerful spells. Her power is a turning of the wheel, the spokes that make the world and those worlds beyond turn on itself; it’s a fragile thing, reality warping, but she knows how to thread the needle enough to get the desired effect. It’s a thing that comes with the arrow’s march of time, and trial and error.

Mostly trial and error.

She grounds herself first, golden thread over a bowl of water. Then the rest. Light goes out, and fire burns in her eyes as she peers into the void, into the unseen futures, into what may come to pass before her. January does not like to hedge her bets against the unknown. A knife point to her finger, and the drop of blood falls for hours, for seconds, for a millenium and a moment.

The thread of fate alights, burning golden flame on the bowl of water. Time moves, stretches, as it encircles the room, the snake chasing itself, a column of circular flame going up into eternity. Darkness greets light, the howling of possibility reflecting into the mirrors around her.

Her eyes burn golden flame. Helios’ oracular flame courses through her veins, the light of divinity trying to burn through mortal flesh. Burning into the thread of fate, burning into infinity. Here she is, and here she will learn. Infinity is a long time. Perhaps she can wait.

In a version of her, in a version that is happier, her hair is put down in front of children, soft and smiling. There is something behind her eyes; a little bit of want. The blood on her hands flow, a river of blood to keep children safe. The dagger behind her back, the horror beneath her vision. She has committed atrocity after atrocity for mutantkind, and she is seen as nothing but a weapon, a liability, a reminder of war long past. Charles whispers in her head, and the others stare at her walk. What is she, except a weapon, except a knife?

Again, she tries, the horror of it all. Once again, she dives. Drowning in flame, into the eddies of the future. Seeing is a curse. Infinity is long, and it’ll be longer once she’s done with it. Another drop of blood spilled on the altar, and she returns to a mirrored world. There is more here, another thought, another future she longs to see.

Heels clack across the marble floor, her empire expanding outwards. The sense of dread is paralleled with security. There is a future for her here, but at what end. The mundanity of death, the way she crushes it all with her well-worn heels. Fear trails her like scent, and yet it horrifies her, as if all that she does hasn’t been horrific to begin with. I am never done, I am a knife here as well. Beneath the eyes of mutantdom, of humanity, the pin upon which the balancing act plays. A respected general of atrocities, an engineer of horror. She wins. She loses. What else will she even ask for?

No answers, only possibilities. Only visions. Mirrors shatter, some more than others. She’ll have to replace them then, and the thought of it exhausts her.

Vermouth. Absinthe. Bourbon. Anything to numb the side-effects, to think about it. This crusade against Essex needs a caliber of finesse that she knows both sides have; forgiveness was never in the cards for her, but maybe it would have been time to start. Jess’ horror, her revulsion. Last words slung with Brandt & Goetsch as she exits the building, barely letting herself let it stand. There is too much wrong with the world that she will allow. Perhaps it is her lot in life, the willing knife, the monster in the cage, to be used in ways that she expects. No finesse, no love lost between the sanctimony of better people and better days.

Her windows are bulletproof, and she keeps a knife under her pillow. Weakness is an old flame, coming home to roost between her brows. She cannot will this away, not really. Her appointments for the next week will have to be postponed, it seems, and while New York is as much a den of sharks, it is also her home now and shall be treated as such. Points are made and letters are sent. Allegiances will have to come into play sooner or later, and it is with a heavy heart that CIRCE—no, she’ll have to think of a better codename, ALLIES HERSELF WITH THE BROTHERHOOD. For now.

It feels like a glove she’s worn well, shoes that are pretty, with knifepoint heels that stick to the back of those who would oppose her. Charles is soft, admirable, but his feelings cannot be consulted on matters that could finally bring mutantkind the respect it deserves.

The day comes when homo sapiens will be supplanted, the genetic destiny owed to homo superior will come into play. The loom of fate has spoken; if she will be a weapon, she is to be wielded by those who would use her well. Even as the longing gaze of humanity is trained on her, she blinds herself. Perhaps it is for the best. Perhaps caring is weak.

A longing heart carries itself within her still, and she dreams. Perhaps—they could do it. They could care for us. Flashes of a dead woman, a long-dead girl, a sad, long-dead girl tracking tears into her heart. God, please. Let them be safe, let them be safe. What well wishes are left to ghosts? You don’t fuck with me, Jan. Not like this. Have you heard from your aunt lately? What well wishes are left to corpses? I’ll give you a headstart, Archie. Then, you’d better pray to any god you can find. You’ll wish you died.

The answer? Funerals. They’re so droll. I wish I could never attend any.

None.

[august-specter]

 WHO IS WAS THE MOST SIGNIFICANT MUTANT IN YOUR LIFE AND WHY?

CONTENT WARNINGS: military, death, bombs  ( @c23tasks )

It’s impossible to have gone through life without meeting a single mutant, but it wasn’t impossible to be unaware of them. August had never knowingly met a mutant until he met Nadir Kazem in 1993. His first reaction was, to put it mildly, unkind. 

Large, all-black eyes blinked up at him. Bat like ears revealed as he removed his scarf along with sharp, disturbing needle like teeth. August yelped at the sight: cursing loudly. He apologised profusely, though, when the man smiled awkwardly, introduced himself as Nadir and apologised for his appearance.

It took some time for August to stop sneaking looks at the mutant. Nosy, curious looks until he was simply another part of the unit. His enhanced hearing and night vision helped them out of a pinch more times than the men of Specter’s unit would like to admit. Over time, the all human bar Nadir unit grew extremely protective over the man. 

It took a few years before August really took in the man’s appearance. He had a fine, strong aquiline nose. Nadir’s eyes weren’t all black once he saw them up close. Large, deep brown eyes that if he looked up far enough revealed the whites of his eyes. It was the first time Nadir caught someone staring not out of fear but admiration. The way August’s gaze skittered away would argue otherwise but enough time spent together meant Nadir could read him better than most.

August never got to find out, never had the chance to even consider trying something with Nadir. He was a good man, kind and patient. He would often be awake and catch August in the the midst of rituals or the clutches of anxiety, something Nadir was remarkably good at soothing. Even if August’s parents were happy for their son to bring a boyfriend or girlfriend (or neither) home he wasn’t sure they’d accept a visibly different mutant. August wasn’t even sure he could, but he thinks that maybe he would’ve liked to try. Maybe.

On tour, for the second time, in Iraq it was a routine day. Driving into the local town, the mood almost contradictory in its lightness. Until it wasn’t. The vehicle hit a bomb. They never saw it coming.

The last time August ever saw Nadir, the life had left those large brown eyes. Sand peppered through his deep black hair and blood staining his skin. Hot, blinding pain as his uniform seemed to melt into his skin, sand in his wounds and eyes, August knew he’d never have a chance to find out what could have been. 

BONUS Q: FAVORITE ALIAS?

“Ersatz. It’s a cool word, a little sad when you look into what it means but it looks good. Is that dumb? Seeing a ‘z’ in a name and thinking it’s cool. Probably is but feels like something out of a sci-fi.” @milo-b

[aridwyrm]

TASK  ONE.

what's  your  mutant's  ability?

dragon  physiology.  users  possess  the  traits,  attributes,  characteristics  and/or  abilities  of  dragons;  a  powerful  and  legendary  creature,  typically  depicted  with  serpentine  or  reptilian  traits,  that  features  in  the  myths  of  many  cultures.  they  achieve  this  either  through  full  or  partial  transformation  into  dragons,  choosing  to  mimic  certain  aspects  of  draconic  beings,  or  simply  already  being  a  dragon  in  the  first  place.

what's  your  mutant's  classification  level?  

beta.  beta-level  mutants  are  like  alphas,  but  with  a  catch.  at  first  glance,  they  look  human,  but  closer  inspection  reveals  a  strange  trait,  like  a  non-human  eye  color.  a  beta  mutant  can  also  be  someone  who  can’t  make  skin-to-skin  contact  due  to  their  power.

how  old  were  they  when  they  first  discovered  their  abilities?  how  did  it  happen?

being  born  a  little  weird  looking  was  definitely  a  clue,  but  a  majority  of  antares’  mutation  stayed  dormant  until  his  tweens.  he  ran  fled  from  foster-care  a  lot  and  during  one  of  his  disappearing  acts  he  was  struck  by  a  vehicle.  one  moment  he  was  kid-shaped  and  skidding  across  pavement,  the  next  he  was  in  the  sky.  

so,  what  can  your  mutant  do  with  their  abilities?

antares  can  swap  between  two  forms.  the  first  is  ostensibly  human,  save  reptilian  gold  eyes,  the  hint  of  scales  beneath  his  skin  and  slightly  pointed  ears.  the  second  is  cataclysmic,  a  massive  wyvernic  dragon  clad  with  a  thick  hide,  sharp  claws  and  firebreath.

the  change  between  man  and  dragon  is  excruciating  but  brief;  the  change  between  dragon  and  man  is  more  drawn  out,  and  leaves  behind  the  skeletal  remains  of  the  beast.

in  human  form,  antares  heals  moderately  faster  than  the  average  human.  his  blood  runs  extremely  hot  and  as  such  his  body  temperature  is  a  lot  higher  than  average  too.  he  can  breathe  a  scalding  smoke,  but  does  not  have  access  to  the  anatomy  that  would  allow  him  to  ignite  fire  in  his  throat.  he  can  control  fire  a  little  though.

in  dragon  form  the  thick  carapace  of  scales  deters  most  damage  and  he  is  extremely  resistant  to  fire.  healing  from  wounds  that  pierce  through  dragonhide  is  very  difficult  and  often  results  in  a  shedding  of  the  dragon  form.  he  can  fly  in  this  form,  and  breathe  fire.  

…and  what  can't  they  do  (at  least,  not  yet)?

there  is  no  half  transformation.  he  cannot  bring  forth  claws  or  wings  while  human.  in  dragon  form  he  cannot  speak.  

what's  one  thing  they  hope  to  learn  or  are  currently  trying  to  learn  with  their  abilities?

to  recoup  faster  in  the  aftermath  of  a  transformation.  the  change  is  the  worst  aspect  of  his  mutation  as  is  to  be  expected.  

what  is  the  most  powerful  thing  your  mutant  can  do  with  their  abilities?  do  you  think  they  would  actually  do  it?

anything  a  massive  flighted  lizard  could  do  is  most  likely  destructive.  i  think  he  could  destroy  most  buildings  in  new  york  on  an  average  low  altitude  flight  if  he  was  so  inclined.  he’s  not,  though.  he  just  wants  to  make  shitty  music  and  bask  on  a  rock  for  the  most  part.

what  are  your  mutant's  weaknesses?

prolonged  exposure  to  cold.  he  loves  winter  as  long  as  it’s  on  the  other  side  of  the  glass.  he’s  hungry  all  the  time,  in  either  form  his  metabolism  is  exceedingly  high  and  he  must  eat  a  lot  to  stay  alive.  in  the  midst  of  a  transformation  either  way  he  is  extremely  vulnerable.

do  they  use  their  abilities  in  their  day-to-day  life?  in  what  ways?

the  practical  applications  of  a  dragon  in  day  to  day  life  are  minimal  but  i  feel  he  would  be  good  at  making  rotisserie  chicken  if  the  opportunity  were  to  arise.  

as  a  mutant,  do  they  have  any  goals?  dreams?

as  a  mutant?  not  particularly,  besides  equal  rights.  

how  do  they  feel  about  the  last  30+  years  of  mutant  history?  notably,  the  presidential  address  of  1983  and  the  essex  house?

he’s  an  anti-authority  punk  who  makes  music  about  killing  the  president.  take  that  however  you  please. 

[mi-burke]

​TASK .03 || the X-Men Training Program

@c23tasks

[the-brcker]

@c23tasks​

"Maybe that comes as a surprise. Maybe it doesn’t." There's a hint of an inscrutable smile on Solomon's face as he taps two fingers lightly on the table.

To get Solomon to commit to a side even in theory is a hell of a feat. There are plenty who are neutral out of indecision, laziness, even a sense of self-righteousness that they're too good for either group. Solomon's neutrality, on the other hand, is a purposeful, calculated choice. "To make a concrete alliance is to limit yourself," he figures with a muted shrug. "There'll be those who choose not to associate with you based on nothing more than who you associate with." And Solomon has never been about limiting his options, not when he can play every side available in an intricately woven web.

"Yes, I attended the Institute. Yes, I graduated on good terms." But Solomon Ofori is not a sentimental creature; he doesn't feel a sense of loyalty towards Xavier's, even if he respects both what it stands for and the man at its helm. It's because of that, maybe, that he's certain the Institute doesn't need his support. In some other sense he thinks — though he'd never say it — that the Institute is better off without his association, and he’s better off without theirs. For Xavier's, even Solomon would have the impulse to do better; be better. He'd either have to limit his practices or come clean, and neither option is terribly appealing to him.

"So, that leaves the Brotherhood." Solomon shrugs, deceptively casual. A little stiff. If he hasn't associated himself with the Institute out of a misaligned sense of honor, he hasn't aligned himself with the Brotherhood for the polarizing nature of their mantra. "I don't like people who operate on absolute extremes," he explains, choosing his phrasing carefully. "Nor so publicly. I might've gotten along with either group better before they announced themselves to the world."

"But the simple fact of the matter is that I'm assuming I could count on the Brotherhood to let me handle my own affairs — without judgement." Or intervention. "If they want to do business with me directly, that's fine. Their money is as good as anyone else's." And he already has a good working relationship with at least one of their members — Sela Musa.

"Selfishly speaking, what it all comes down to is having the room to work that I need." The biggest potential sticking point? Bestowing mundanes with abilities. "It's one of the best-paying services I offer. I'm not about to give it up." Ultimately, Solomon smiles, muted and calculated. "You'd think the Brotherhood would be happy I'm creating a few more mutants in the world."

But honestly, deep down, with some of the things he’s witnessed or heard about in his work? Solomon would be content with seeing some of the human race burn for what they’ve done to mutants.

[viictorious-archived]

SNIPPETS OF AN INTERVIEW IN THE FEBRUARY ISSUE OF VOGUE.

The visions taste like burnt champagne, vodka worse than the worst you’ve tasted. The devil’s pact has you on your knees; solitude and service in exchange for silence and social capital. You hate this, but you can’t see yourself doing anything else. You will keep your star in the sky, you will be loved, you think. But how long until that love lasts? How long until it crumbles beneath your feet? The article is good, better than you’d hoped for. Stay away from the tabloids, you think, but the curiosity gets to you sooner or later. A shame, what a shame.

V is mostly in your radio station, in your CD stores and in the forefront of your teenager’s mind, but as his radical shift from pop star to superhero, one can always think that he’s lived a charmed life. It’s not always bright lights and good music, however, as the recent epiphany of him being an Omega has it to believe; rigorous training when he goes to the compound, coupled with his gifts being part to keep our streets safe has him dancing on a knife’s edge at all times [...]

“Being a mutant, being myself? It’s loaded. For a lot of people, it isn’t safe, even if you’re as public a person as I am.” V—or as his superhero alias is now known, BLINDSIDE, feels as if his life has passed the event horizon of no return. It’s sad, in the way that every part of change is sad. Whether it penetrates his soul is left unsaid, the years of media training making me feel like it’s hard to get a bead on what he thinks at all. But what are you going to say about the ground moving from solid to quicksand to solid again? “He’s got a good head on his shoulders,” his manager and father, Angelo, says as we drink together. Him, a beer, I, a cold glass of water. “He’ll bounce back.”

Blindside is old enough, in that space where if he was part of the Mickey Mouse Club, where he would’ve been seen as a has been, but he isn’t. The superhero, the popstar, the man soars to new heights as he walks down the streets in his gear, as if it was nothing. People clamor for his signature, and he obliges, but exits all the same. Some corners that he turns, people whisper, and all he does is level a smile at them. Sometimes, it’s enough. Sometimes, they simply walk away.

[...] politically charged. “It’s not good.” An understatement, as he grabs me a sandwich from a bodega, giving the cashier a hundred that V barely cares about. He leaves before he gets the change, and I follow suit. “I’d like to be loved as much as the next guy, but the Brotherhood’s taking it too far—killing people, bombing places. Bad enough that humans hate them.” A pause, before he corrects himself. “Hate us. But killing each other isn’t going to solve our problem. Working with the Omegas made me see that, so I think Xavier’s got the right idea.”

“If you don’t see it, he’s one cold fucker.” Daisy Edwards puffs her cigarette and blows smoke at me airily, no cares in the world. Last year, rumors of their romance were confirmed, and the both of them were subject to controversy after their surprising breakup. It’s odd; there’s no chill in her voice, but warmth. “You’ll think that in person, if you’re someone like us, he’s one hell of a guy. He doesn’t like people, or he likes them too much. It’s desperate, you think, but maybe there’s just enough love in the guy’s heart for everyone. I was his girlfriend for a hot second, that People article and TMZ following us everywhere, and I kept thinking about how he let himself be photographed first. I wasn’t going to be seen. At first, you’re rankling like ‘Who’s this guy think he is?’ and you rage and argue, but—” She takes another drag, and exhales. “When I saw the articles. I was happy that he was the only one you could see. You could forget me, if you ever could. Is any of that ego? Probably. I’d like to think that he was protecting me. Seems like the kinda thing he’d do.”

The Omega compound bustles with people, with government types heading out and calling for meetings. The receptionist, Wes, tells me to sit down so he can call Blindside to the front, which would be a few minutes give or take the traffic. I ask more, but the answers are non-answers. Evasive in the way government types are used to. Reportedly, he doesn’t even live in the compound most times: choosing to keep his old, private residence. Sightings have been few and far between, and eyewitnesses only have flashes. An elbow, the jawline, the costume. I muse on this, cut short by him arriving with a smile on his face and a coffee cup in each hand, a plain entrance for an admittedly exceptional man. Kindness is a luxury and I’m being afforded [...]

Concerts aren’t on any normal Omega’s retinue, he says, but a special privilege given to him between government officials and the suits in his boardroom. It was dramatic, and in an NDA that’d bury normal people with debt for five more generations. It’s a small stage, but he’s happy enough to perform, letting his mutant power shine through. Here, he’s happy. Some bristle uncomfortably at this show of power, but if you’d compared him performing before, the difference is remarkably there. “If there’s one thing I’m happy about, it’s to be able to do this without hiding anymore.”

[...] being hurt. It’s a day that’s got some excitement in store for us, though, and he whips around and effectively dazes the men who were going for me. The stars dance behind my eyes, the warning enough by seconds. He dispatches them, and still gets hurt after a good hit or two, before he hurries me along. “I’m not that effective yet, so I can hit them with a flashbang. But I’m trying to learn; it’s just—it’s surprising. What I can do. Need the training wheels; I’m no Xavier with my powers yet.”

If you’d described the power to me, it would be fearsome. As he describes it to me, it’s beautiful. V sings, and light pours out of him, ethereal and eternal. He can make it any way he wants, from shapes to brightness to color, he controls it all. But for now, he takes me aside to somewhere secluded and shows me a new trick he’s learned. He points at a trash can like a gun, and a laser shoots from it, brilliant and blinding, knocking over the can. “It’s a work in progress.” He says this, as if it was the most normal thing around. As if shooting lasers was nothing less than a quaint party trick. “But it’s cool, right?”

I don’t know who he is. Who V, or Blindside is. That’s buried under NDAs and government promises, the specifics and the factoids that are so consistent with everyday life. But he still gives me a ride, his black convertible shipped over from California. On the way, we jam out to Destiny’s Child and Depeche Mode, and surprisingly enough, Green Day, a smile on our faces. “Hey man, I’m going to miss having you around. You take care now!” It’s the last thing he says to me, kind and earnest as he drives off to face New York traffic, the last strings of music radiating off him in waves. And for a second after he leaves, I think I believed him.

@c23tasks

[doctor-crowe]

February 2nd, 1998

@c23tasks

The room was dark- that kind of dark where, even if she squinted and tried to focus her eyes as much as she could, Stevie wasn’t sure if the variations in the shadows were real or something that her mind was making up in order to feel productive. A kind of consolation prize to put her mind at ease, to make the heavy darkness not seem so.. empty. And cold. Stevie could feel the chill in the air through her clothing, her arms wrapping around herself for warmth. Her hands rubbed up her arms, to her shoulder, where she felt the collar of the lightweight coat- her white coat. Her hands patted down the front of herself, since she couldn’t see in the thick darkness. She felt the familiar feel of her cotton scrubs. 

Had she come here from work? It had to be so, didn’t it? Why else would she be in her scrubs? 

In truth, though, she couldn’t actually remember how she’d gotten here. Alone, in the cold and dark. At least- she thought she was alone. There weren’t any other signs of life or people around her. All she could hear was her own breathing, her own heartbeat. And a faint ticking, echoing around her. From where, she didn’t know. It sounded too far away for her to worry about it. 

tick..

tick..

Slow, almost methodical- like a clock just droning on. 

Since her ears and eyes weren’t giving her any answers, she decided to rely on her hands once more. Her cold digits flexed in an attempt  to bring back enough blood circulation to be able to identify her surroundings. Stevie reached below her, first, to the hard, uncomfortable seat she was in. Her fingers traced what felt like lacquered wood, maybe plastic. But it was thick, like it should be heavy. She didn’t need to follow the seat up her back to know that it was a high backed chair- her shoulders had already nudged the hard edges of the slightly curved back. Next, she reached outward, hands splayed out. 

It felt like a small, wooden cage, though it would only come up to her waist if she were standing. Her fingers traced the outline of the top rail all around her, her chair swiveling with her as she turned. The rubber soles of her shoes tapped the base of the little square cage, the sound mixing with the soft,

tick..

tick..

Just as she was about to stand and see if she could work out where she was, the chair swiveled violently around until she faced the opposite side of the square. Her shoulder took the brunt of the force, having slammed to one side of the egg-shaped chair. Stevie winced in pain, and whispered a curse under her breath, a hand lifting to rub at the bruise her ability told her would soon form. 

Then, from above her, a too-bright light turned on with a loud, static clap. Stevie winced again, and angled her head and closed her eyes to try and avoid the light. Squinting, she tried to peer through the bright, white light. Where before there had been nothing but dark and shadow, now stood large podiums- like judge’s benches, still dark in the contrast of the single light source, looming, almost inward, over her from every direction. On top of each sat what looked like a person, though they’re features remained too cast in shadow to make out. A feminine voice from the podium directly in front of her spoke first, the tone gravely and harsh. 

“Doctor Stephanie Miranda Crowe. Do you know why you have been brought before us?”

“..No.” She croaked out, somehow only just realizing she hadn’t tried to speak before now. Had she been able to? She cleared her throat. “Who is ‘us’? Where am I?” 

Her chair suddenly turned again, ninety degrees, slamming her other shoulder into the hard material. Another rough sounding feminine voice spoke, Stevie could almost recognize the authoritative tone. “We’ll ask the questions, doctor. Tell us about yesterday.”

Stevie blinked. Yesterday? “I- uh.” She cleared her throat again. 

tick..

tick..

Was the ticking getting louder? 

“Do I need to repeat the question?” The stoney voice asked.

“No, I’m sorry. Um,” She shook her to push the pain in her shoulders from her mind. “I was working trauma surgery all day yesterday.” All things considered, it’d been a successful day. She hadn’t lost anyone on the table. 

The chair spun again, to the opposite side of her little square cage, where a snide, low pitched voice spat, “‘Successful’ isn’t the term we’d use.” Stevie balked. She hadn’t thought she’d said that out loud- in fact she was sure that she hadn’t. 

“But I didn’t–” She started before the chair turned to the left, two podiums down.

“There was a car accident yesterday.” This new voice had a chilling sort of calmness to it and, for a moment, she did forget about the pain building her bruised shoulders. “Two victims. A teenager who’d just gotten his license and a woman. Human and mutant, respectively.” The shadowed figure extended long, bony fingers over the edge of his podium- like he was peering down at her. Instinctively, she sank back into the curve of the chair. “Tell us why you let the boy die.” 

She shook her head, “I didn’t–” Then it came to her. That accident. It had been a gnarly one, from what she'd heard. Both cars nothing but a tangled mess of twisted metal and plastic. A sad sort of sureness filled her own voice. “The boy was DOA. There was nothing I could have done to bring him back.” 

tick..

tick..

This time she was sure that the ticking noise was louder. The boney figure retreated back over the edge of the podium. Another violent jerk of the chair, going the long way to get behind her. This time she didn’t try to hide the pained gasp as her shoulder slammed into the side of the chair. 

“Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?” A new voice asked, venom dripping off of their words. 

This time, fueled by the pain in her arms and the insult of the figure’s implication, Stevie got angry. “Just what the hell are you implying?” 

The chair turned again, but only slightly- to the next podium. “You were given a choice. You chose the mutant, and now the human is dead. What do you have to say for yourself?” 

tick..

“I didn’t ‘choose’ anything! I can’t bring people back from the dead. What they were had nothing to do with it!.” The chair swiveled to the opposite side again, and Stevie lashed out as the pain spread along her shoulder blades. “Quit it–!”

tick..

The voice, same as the first one, didn’t wait for her to stop speaking. It spoke up above her voice and the sound of the ticking. “So you’re telling us that if you were given the choice between saving a mutant and saving a human, you wouldn’t automatically pick the mutant? You expect us to believe that?” 

“I would have to– Ow!” Stevie tried to explain when the chair swerved again. 

“Answer the question, Doctor Crowe.” 

“I’m trying to.” She spat back at the boney voice, rubbing her tender shoulders. “I would have to look at the charts, who had a better chance of survival-- a whole list of things in order to choose who I worked on and who gets sent to another doctor.” The ticking had sped up, and she had to put more effort into ignoring it. “Human or mutant isn’t a factor. Not in my decisions.” 

tick..

tick..

“Interesting, considering another family member of yours has chosen. And you helped cover up the deaths of several human’s, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t cover up anything-- Don’t bring my family into this!” The chair turned again, another three podiums. Stevie cried out in pain as the slamming of her body into the hard surface of the chair spread down her back. But the ticking grew thunderous and drowned her out.

tick…

tick..

“Your brother killed several humans in the name of revenge. And you did nothing for them.”

She gaped up at the shadow figure. That hadn’t been her fault. She hadn’t known until well after the deed had been done. “I’ve already told you, I can’t bring people back from the dead.”

Another turn, another drowned out cry of pain. She could feel her ability watching the way her heart rate increased. 

tick..

“Levi Crowe picked his path. He chose the Brotherhood. He chose the subjugation and eradication of humans.” Stevie was silent. The voice didn’t seem to notice. “A far cry from the lessons your father gave you, isn’t it?”

“My father didn’t know that Levi was a mutant. We didn’t get the same lectures on responsibility–” The chair threw her ninety degrees again.

“Your brother killed humans and joined the Brotherhood as an act of revenge.”

“Those men killed our dad!” She knew she shouldn’t be making excuses for him, but.. She’d never deny that part of her that understood why Levi felt the way he did. 

A new voice, another hard turn. “So you agree with his reasons? Do you agree with the Brotherhood?”

“I didn’t say that-” She yelled over the ticking, her heart thundering in her chest. The chair spun, and this time the ticking couldn’t drown out her scream. 

TICK..

TICK..

“Then what are you saying?!” Boomed one gravelly voice, before she was spun around to face another.

TICK..

TICK..

“Stop! Please..” She felt like she was going to be sick, the nausea swirling in her stomach as much as she was. 

“YOUR FATHER TAUGHT YOU TO USE YOUR GIFTS TO LIVE IN HARMONY WITH HUMANS, YET YOU MAKE EXCUSES FOR YOUR BROTHER WHO DEFIES THEM AT EVERY CHANCE.” Stevie shook her head. They were putting words in her mouth, not listening. But before she could voice her opposition, she was turned again. This time her stomach lurched, threatening bile up her throat. Her ability warned of the consequences of staying in this situation. 

TICK..

“IT’S TIME TO MAKE YOUR CHOICE, DOCTOR.” Another voice boomed at her.

TICK..

“You either want to live in harmony with humans, or you want them under your boot.” At least  this voice wasn’t booming. 

“You have to choose.” Demanded another after she’d been spun around again. 

“I– I don’t..” She hesitated, images of her brother and her father swirling in her mind, like the sickness in her stomach. 

TICK..

TICK..

She was turned again and she pressed a hand to her chest.

“What will your mother think?”

TICK..

“HARMONY OR SUBJUGATION? CHOOSE!”

TICK..

“Please.. stop.” Stevie begged, arms folding over her stomach. “Just give me a second–”

But they didn’t. She was turned again, and again, and again. Around and around, to a chorus of “CHOOSE.”

“CHOOSE.”

“CHOOSE.”

With the booming voices and the thundering of the ticking and her own heartbeat, Stevie could barely hear herself think. Her mind couldn’t split it’s focus between the demands and the warnings her ability was providing her: Heart Rate too fast, blood pressure rising, nausea building. She was either going to hurl or have a heart attack– probably both.

TICK…

TICK..

“I- I don’t–” She sobbed, her hands lifting to cover her ears. 

“CHOOSE!”

Stevie bolted upright, now sitting on her bed. A thin sheen of sweat covering her skin, sticking to the fabric of her pajamas. Her breathing ragged and hot, her heart pounding in her chest and throat. She slid her hands up her arms, her ability kicking in to provide the information she was looking for: 

No bruises. No pain.

Just the ticking of the old clock on her dresser. 

tick..

tick..

She shook her head, closed her eyes, and focused on getting her breathing back to normal, the last words of her nightmare still ringing in her head.

Harmony. I choose harmony.

[matteo-emerson]

[cyra-de-leon]

WHEN: Mid January, 1998

WHERE: [REDACTED]

WHAT: Civitas Aucta Poker Night

@c23tasks

“Bah! I hate this game. I fold. Why did we decide to stop doing roulette at this thing?” With an aggravated sigh, the silver haired man tossed his cards onto the table, replacing them in his fingers with an already lit cigar. 

“Because you cheat, Dennis.” Renada quipped back, flicking a card down from her hand. “One card for me, please.” 

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table and Dennis scoffs. “Now I resent that! I do not cheat.” 

The players of tonight’s monthly game broke out into a round of incredulous laughter. “No, of course you don’t, Denny.” Marco starts with an air of obvious mockery. “It was someone else’s telekinesis that made the wheel stop on your number every spin. Fold.”

“And let’s not forget the craps incident the time before that.” Cyra added with an amused chuckle. Another groan of collective agreement. 

“I seem to remember you winning big that night too, Cyra.” Dennis challenged, taking a long drag of his cigar. 

“Ah, that’s because I caught on to your little game, Denny, and started placing mirror bets right after yours!” Sergei, the hulking mutant seated between Cyra and Marco, let out a bark of a laugh, showing two fingers to the dealer who slid him two cards. 

Dennis exhaled slowly through a sly grin. “Well.. Can’t really call natural talent cheating, now can you?”

Another round of laughter and head shaking and Cyra sets down her cards. “I fold too.” She lifts her glass of scotch up to her lips, barely aware anymore of the slight buzz in the back of her skull as she uses her ability to sweep the cigar’s smoke away from the group. Four more cards are handed out among the last two players, and the dealer folds as Dennis pipes up again. “Instead of harping on the past–” Whitney, the woman sitting directly to Cyra’s left, cut him off with an exasperated tone, “You brought it up, Denny!” But Dennis only waves her off, undeterred. “--let’s talk about the future. Namely, how long do we think it’ll be before this Xavier fellow is on our door steps asking for donations for his little project?” 

Cyra blinked in surprise at the man’s tone, but it’s Renada who complained first, shooting her brother a sour look. “You said you weren’t going to bring this up, Dennis–” 

“Whitney and Sergei weren’t at the gala, Renada! They should hear about that farce from our perspective.” Dennis retorts, taking a pointed sip of his drink.

“You really should leave it, Denny.” Marco warns, his chips clinking in his hands. 

“No,” Whitney says, looking across the table. “I want to hear what he has to say. The newspapers said nothing of a ‘farce’.” 

“And why would they?!” Dennis practically roars, “Probably spent all of his money on propaganda and the like. I’ll bet those Omegas don’t come cheap. Well I’ll tell you all right here, right now: they won’t be seeing a dime of my money.” 

“No one wants your money, Denny.” 

“Lots of people want my money, Marco.” Dennis grumbles. 

“Well that’s what happens when you get seven divorces.” 

At that, Dennis’ face twists and goes red, his words fumbling out of frustration. “I- well- That’s not–” 

Whitney cuts him off before he can further embarrass himself. “Do you really think he bought the Omegas?” 

To Cyra’s surprise, it was Roger that answered her. “It does seem awfully strange that the government would partner up with Xavier that quickly out of the gate. We all have contacts in Washington, and none of them would ever work this quickly without an incentive. That’s just how it works.” Both Dennis and Whitney nodded their heads in agreement. Sergei stared at his cards, a conflicted look over his face. The other two hung their heads in silence. 

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing right now!” Cyra scoffs, looking from face to face. “Are you really trying to find fault in what Xavier’s doing?” 

“Come now, you were there, Cyra! You saw how he paraded his new acquisitions around the building. Might as well have been the Westminster Show.” Dennis jutted his cigar at her as he spoke.

“Clearly we went to two different events, Denny. Where you saw a show of vanity, I saw a clear sign of a strong alliance. And they were very clearly needed, given the attack from those two supremacist hooligans.”

“And that’s another thing–” Dennis starts up again, but Cyra cuts him off. “Honestly, how long have we all talked about wanting our government to get involved and be on our side? To invest in our best interests? And now they’ve finally taken some steps to do just that and you sit here questioning it.” Cyra shakes her head. “Important things can be done quickly, like setting a better example than what this Brotherhood business is all about, hm? The younger ones need to know that there are other options for them. They don’t have to live like we did; see the horrors that we saw. They deserve the safe-haven that we always wished for.” Her eyes settle on Roger’s bespectacled face. “Our children go to the same school- and Sergei’s. You know as well as I do- as well as we all do- that if attitudes change to be more like the Brotherhood’s message, what do you think would happen to Robbie and Tammy?” Her eyes flit over to Whitney’s. “To my husband?” Then over to Renada’s, and Dennis’s. “Or Renada’s wife? Your sister-in-law, Dennis. How would that affect them?” 

Dennis only grumbles under his breath, and takes a renewed interest in his drink in order to avoid the sour look from his sister. Cyra continued anyway. “No one’s come ‘round asking you for your money, Denny. No one has really asked for your support either– though I think we should all be giving it.” She leans her elbow on the edge of the table, an idle hand picking up a chip to roll between her fingers. “Come to your own conclusions, of course, but I think this could be a better future for everyone. That’s it. That’s my piece.” 

Marco and Sergei both nod their head, the former glancing up at Dennis with a silent challenge. For his part, Dennis holds up a hand in defeat and nods his head, gesturing to his sister to resume the game. They’ll talk about this again some other time– just not tonight.