warren-quinn

[warren-quinn]

It had been a few hours since he had departed from the airport in a classic yellow cab. The weather in New York had grown considerably colder since the last time he was here, which was more than a month ago. Nexus required him to work on something in Europe, a task that "suited best to his talents", or something along those lines he was told. It mattered not, for he would've gone either way if they required him to. But a glimmer a happiness appeared on his face when he stepped out of the cab, stepping into his familiar home called New York City. Apparently going up to his apartment right away wasn't in the cards just yet. He saw a set of eyes, clearly spotting him, whether it looked familiar or not, he couldn't say, but his hand rose into the air a bit and did something that was not like his pre-Europe self. "Hey." he greeted.

[warren-quinn]

Warren continued his exercise as if nothing was going on. He paid his boyfriend a mere glance before lifting the weight up. "I'm exercising." Warren replied, confused but aware by the tone of Reese's voice that he was doing something wrong. So out of respect for whatever Reese's problem was, he put down the weight and sat up, noticing the heavy breathing and took a sip of his water. "Reese, I'm fine. Don't worry about me." Warren calmly replied. "I thought you had that interrogation thing till four." Though it was a valid question, Warren had also learned that changing the subject was a way to measure Reese's angry level. But surely he couldn't have been this mad about a work-out, Warren figured. "Are you okay?" Perhaps it was one of those times he was upset and Warren was just the target of it.

[Reese & Warren]

'Agent Quinn is in the gym for the next two hours', Warren’s secretary had told him, as if that was the most acceptable thing in the world for someone with several bruised ribs to be doing. Then again, it wasn’t like she could have reasoned him out of going there either, meek and freshly hired as she was, but he scowled at her anyway before turning away to go hunt him down. In the gym, sure, that was a fantastic idea on his part, though Reese was sure he hadn’t actually put much cogent thought into the action before doing it. He was almost tempted to stomp into the gym like a five year old, but walking swiftly enough that it would be obvious to everyone else in the world but Warren that he was pissed off worked too.

"War, what the actual fuck d’you think you’re doing?" He didn’t bother to add a layer of politeness over his question like he did with everyone else here, Warren wouldn’t have noticed or appreciated it anyway. Standing close enough that he could grab one of the weights out of his hand if he had to, Reese frowned deeply at him for a long moment, waiting for him to stop of his own accord. "Other than wheezing yourself into an early grave, y’know. Which you’ll be in soon if you don’t go putting the bloody weights down because you’ll go breaking those ribs you’ve gone and bruised."

[warren-quinn]

[Reese & Warren]

Only a few days after what would be described in the Nexus archives as 'the most intense raid ever'. Sadly, the raid was on the Nexus, which was everything but pleasant. Sure, they were told this was the perfect opportunity for them to wrap the rebellion up for good, but that was only from the board's point of view. That specific day, Warren had teamed up once more with his companions of agents and Post-humans alike, they formed, after all, the first line of defense in the Nexus building that day. Though it was not entirely without compromise.

He lifted the weight up, before slowly letting it drop to his chest, only to repeat the same action over and over again. Distracted with his thoughts and memories of that day, he hardly even noticed the trouble he had with his breathing, and the pain aching in his chest. Warren was supposed to be upset over losing two his comrades, yet he couldn't shed a tear, not on the outside or the inside. It was work. They knew the risks. Warren had told Reese that day after he got home, only to find a confused and perhaps shocking expression on the face of his loved one, who was examining his wounds.

[warren-quinn]

A l t e r n a t e  F u t u r e  P r o f i l e:

Name: Warren Quinn 

Age: 42

Affiliation: Nexus

Key Relatives: 

Marlon Quinn, father, 75, Nexus Field agent

Emrys Simon Cantor, boyfriend, 44, Nexus Field Agent

A l t e r a t i o n s  f r o m  t h e  c a n o n  s t o r y l i n e  :

2019: Warren’s powers continued growing thanks to the excessive Nexus training program that he has been following his entire life. His ability evolved to Molecular Combustion as well as Molecular Immobilization. The addition of these powers have had great impact on Warren’s life. He was yet again under Nexus’ care like he was younger, programmed to be their little soldier, refreshing his mind with unethical tactics that involved his father’s ability. 

2021: Warren had spent the last two years of his life honing his powers, upgrading him to the ‘battle PH’-section, where he was sent on missions that required more fire power. 

2023: One of Warren’s duties was to bring in the PH for questioning, where he met one of the new additions, Emrys Cantor. Reese took a liking to Warren, and after a long while, Warren gave in to his snark and charm. Reese and Warren officially started dating after a few years of interacting at work once Reese was released from the prison sector.

2027-2028: During a mission, Warren got hurt badly, causing him to be unable to work. Field missions were out of the question and after several months of being hospitalized, he was ordered to be home on bed rest. Naturally Warren had immense amount of trouble to stay in bed and do nothing, but Reese didn’t accept him risking his life while being weakened so they compromised and did what Reese wanted. During this time, Nexus saw an opportunity to educate Warren further and improve his leadership skills. They trained him to lead a select squad of Nexus agents, who were to be dealing with the most dangerous PH containment situations, a bit like a Nexus SWAT team.

2035, September:  Warren had been instructed to locate his team at the Nexus building. Reasons were not mentioned in great details, but it came down to a possible Rebellion infiltration. They were set up in the large entrance hall, making them the first line of defense. Warren and his team of PH were to battle and contain the PH, kill if no other option was possible. Warren’s immobilizing power made him crucial to weaving out a lot of the PH, but a lot still entered the buildings thanks to powers or different entrances (think flying, phasing, invisibility, etc.)

[warren-quinn]

"Whatever the case may be, I want neither of it." Warren told him, trying to hold in a yawn that felt like it would stretch his jaw too far. He then realized that the man was only trying to be nice and he dismissed him just like that. Dammit, think, you idiot. He cursed himself, ordering himself to be more aware. ".. but thanks." He nodded, hoping it would make the difference. Warren wanted to understand what Reese understood about grieving, but besides the obstacle of not being able to emotional invest, he had not ever lost someone he was truly close to. Perhaps that was because he did not find it easy to get close to anyone. All he knew about grieving was from observing others, even movies. Warren wanted to respond, but what was there to say that Reese had not yet said? Warren had little to contribute, but he wished he could. "It kind of sounds like you're serving as a therapist.. sort of. But I understand what you mean." ... even though I really don't. Warren thought, but decided not to share. He looked at Reese, really looked. What he said was beautiful, even though it took him a good few seconds to figure how to interpret it. "That sounds really nice. What book was that?" Warren was honestly curious to the source of the man. Warren had a great appreciation for people who worked words like they were water: Beautiful, elegant, healing or destructive, but most of all liquid. Some people had the gift of words, a gift Warren could be jealous of. It even made him smile.

"Well, there’s two kinds of sorry, I think." He folded up the paper bag of birdseed, empty now, and stared out at the birds for a moment, thinking. "There’s the dramatic pitying kind, which is pretty bloody empty and useless most of the time. And there’s just a wish that someone had a bit of better luck. Comes with the proper hope that they’ll get some, next time around. That’s what I meant, really." There was always something warm and fuzzy about making a stranger smile, and Reese smiled back at Warren genuinely for once, though he wasn’t sure if he still had the knack for it anymore. "The grieving are easy targets, that sort of thing kicks you shitless and leaves you wandering blindfolded, practically. I don’t offer what I can’t give them with my ability and sometimes…" He sighed at the memories that that thought stirred up, shaking his head. "Sometimes you have to go telling them to stop, to go to therapy and move on for their own good, for the good of the dead they want to stick close to. They don’t care for that sometimes, but I don’t like the idea of suckering people, I don’t want to be a crutch, y’know?" Warren probably didn’t know, most people didn’t, but he looked up at him all the same, the loose end of a half-rhetorical question dangling between them. "That’s the way with art though, that’s how you know it’s got you right and steady. I can go throwing words at why I love music, what it means to me, but none of them really go showing how much exactly." It had been a sort of useless question, he had to admit. He would have said the same if someone asked him what he liked to play best, though at least he would have been able to cobble a few song titles together. Then again, songs meant different things to different people. "Makes me think of something I read in a book once, a while back. ‘Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life’. It’s true enough, the more that you go thinking about it."

[warren-quinn]

"Don't be sorry. You should only pity the weak and the lazy." Warren smiled. It was a statement he lived by, and a state of mind that he followed religiously. His father made sure that his son was not, not ever considered weak. Be strong, boy. The world will take you down in a second if you show weakness, have no ambition or ask for pity. Yes, his father was a truly remarkable and scary man, but whether one would condone his methods of raising his child, his points had no problem of sticking in Warren's mind. Warren turned his head to the front, eyeing the pigeon. "I dislike people who are trying to extort other people, take advantage of them at their weakest moments. Then again, practically-wise, there is no better time for it. But you tell the truth, that's important." Warren was an honest man, and being like that, he expected others to treat him with the same courtesies. Unfortunately, it turned out to be that people told more lies than truths. And even if some started to believe their own lies, it still did not make it a truth. Of course, in his line of work, lies were like oxygen: They are so many, that they start to become invisible, but very much present all the time. The green-ish flash replayed in his mind. "Like I said, people lie." He said bitterly. Warren knew he had to force a smile, to take the edge of the bitterness in his voice: Something his mother had taught him. "But I'm glad you didn't. Thank you." He shifted his eyes back to Reese. "I do care about it. A lot. More than I could ever say." His eyes shifted again, down this time, to his hands. He folded his hands into one another and smiled, but this time for himself. Though he could not tell Reese, or anyone for that matter, why he felt like this, but painting was without a doubt one the best things in his life right now. "People.. places.. memories.. thoughts.. systems." Warren knew the last one on his list would seem odd to the other, but he didn't felt like explaining.

"Pity, that. Sorry you can’t get a break from things, mate." So long as they were talking about music still, even with that faintly awkward aura about them, he didn’t mind the conversation, but being asked about his job (and his ability, for the two were inextricably intertwined) always set his heart to racing. Nutter or non-believer, those were the two ends of the spectrum that he was used to, and you never could tell which a person was until the subject came up. He managed a short, bitter laugh at Warren’s comment, nodding his head faintly in agreement. "Most of them are, aye. They don’t like me much, the fakes. I’ve gotten in a row or two with them, but it’s worth the argument if you can go saving some poor grieving bastard the trouble of being shafted for fake readings." He’d nearly been punched once too, but he was younger and in better shape, so it hadn’t been that hard to dodge, even if it did graze his shoulder and nearly throw him off balance. When he notices that Warren’s gaze has moved to the green glow showing through his shirtsleeve, he frowns slightly, absently pulling the cuff of his sleeve down a little more, as if it might erase that confirmation. "Aye, I am. Not the best ability to deal with, but it’s mine. I wouldn’t have said I was if I wasn’t really. Not my way." His frown fades into a half-smile and he throws the last handful of seed out to the birds. "You obviously care about the painting though, that’s a good enough sign that you’re not shite or pretentious about it to me. I understand what you’re getting at though, s’not about how good it turns out, it’s about the piece of mind you get from doing it. What do you end up painting the most then, if I can be a wee bit nosy?"

[warren-quinn]

[warren-quinn]

Warren tilted his head. "Thirty bucks? That's an expensive.. hobby." Warren noticed, but he was hardly one to judge. Or perhaps he was, but silently. Like any good Christian did. "Why would that be the good kind? Doesn't it make you go weird either way?" The whole concept of drugs seemed weird to Warren. Why would one put himself through something so weird and confusing, with total lack of control? For fun? Warren had trouble with seeing that as something fun. "Maybe that's how they go from elite to hobo. Wouldn't surprise me, really. Some are just too weak to handle money."

"Nah, it’s fine, I understand completely." Noa shrugged it off as if it was no big deal, but he considered that maybe she should rock her homeless chic elsewhere to see what else she could get out of people itching to feel good about themselves for handing out money. Especially if she looked like someone who was into alcohol and drugs. Which she wasn’t. Noa rarely drank and has never taken any drugs or even smoked. "I didn’t know that either up until a couple of months ago, so I don’t blame you. Just got a little curious and bored and felt like asking exactly how much some of them are. I mean really just one ounce of MJ is about thirty bucks. This one guy was selling it for forty. Although he said his was ‘the good kind’, whatever that meant. Haven’t come across one that’s twenty… but seriously, that’s why I think all the rich people are the one doing it you know? Shit’s expensive."

[warren-quinn]

Hates New York? But how..? I do, it's just a great place to be. He looks at the building once more, but up this time. What floor are you on? He looked back at Ivy. You okay? You look... weird. 

It was alright. I haven’t been to visit in a long time and she hates coming up here. She shrugs casually. The park is good. Do you go often? I’ve got quite the view of it from my apartment window. She wears a look that seems almost sheepish. Oh, yeah. It’s my grandparents place, really, but they let me stay here.

[warren-quinn]

Warren smiled, and he did understand what he was saying, but Warren just couldn't. There would be voices in his head, telling him, reminding him that he was deliberately not doing his duty, and that felt wrong. So wrong. "I don't think I can." And that was no exaggeration. Sadly. But the shift didn't last much longer now, tonight he was free to put down the phone and be resign from his duty, for at least a few days. An end that he was looking forward to after the busy week he had. The post-human threats were piling up, and warren had attended to them all week, taking some down, locking some up or simply confirming whereabouts. With one yawn escaping his mouth when he had dinner at his parents, and his father ranted off about him slacking. Again. "That makes sense, a lot of musicians started young." Warren nodded, but froze at his next statement. Warren was no fool, he knew very was that he did not possess the same emphatic abilities other people did, so he could hardly agree or disagree at this subject to which he knew nothing about. Instead he'd prefer to not say anything at all. "Medium? Aren't those just con-artists?" He asked bluntly, not realizing that bluntness equaled rudeness in this case. When he heard the man utter the word ability, he almost instantly turned his head to Reese, inspecting him as if somehow he would look different now. But as it happened, he noticed a feint flash coming from under his sleeve and he knew he was for real. "You really are a medium then." Warren felt like he had just been put in a compromising position. This man was a post-human, post-humans were dangerous, even he himself was dangerous to everyone around him, so was Reese dangerous? But he had to put matter over mind, he was not on a mission, he had already been tagged and he no instructions to take him down. So there was nothing to be done about it. But Warren, as cool and cold as he was, did not share a shred of what was going on inside of him and pulled it off to react perfectly normal. "I suppose so. It's irrelevant whether it's good what I paint or not. It's not the reason why... if that makes sense."

"Well…" He held up his fingers in air quotes, his smile taking a turn for the wry. "You could ‘lose’ it for a while, I suppose. Turn the bloody thing off for a while, blame it on a migraine or some like. Everyone needs a breather time and again." It was a strategy that he used every once and a while, when the day’s work had drained him half to hell and the last thing he wanted to deal with was any sort of phone call or interaction. It didn’t really feel dishonest either, more a reflection of his emotional state than anything else. He wouldn’t have been able to be any use to the people calling anyway. "You’ve got to, if you’re going to go throwing yourself into that sort of thing. Music’s part of the lifeblood of humanity, it’s human emotion turned into sound, y’know. That’s how I feel about it, at least, but there’s other opinions to be had." His smile fades at the question about what he does for a living, it’s always a tipping point in conversation, a checkmark for whether or not it will go any further or just part with an awkward goodbye, never to be picked up again. "Not acting, not anymore. I’m a medium, the psychic kind. Sees the dead, all that. That’s my ability and my job these days." He watches Warren carefully, glad to have something else to jump back to, maybe to even save the conversation with if ‘sees the dead’ hammered a stake through its chest. "Sure they can, but not everybody’s good at it either. I’m shit at drawing, flattest landscapes in any art class they put me through in school. So it is a gift, being able to actually paint anything decent."

[warren-quinn]

If you consider this sensitive, then sure.

That depends, are you usually this sensitive?

[warren-quinn]

Warren nodded, he supposed he was lucky with his hair. At least he was not growing bald, he would've hated that. "I suppose it does, doesn't it? You've caught me at a week moment, because 'losing' my phone doesn't sound like the worst idea right now." Warren shrugged, refused to yawn but had to gave in eventually. Tears of exhaustion crept into his eyes, but he quickly wiped them away. "Secretaries are overrated." Warren laughed softly. "Musical theater? It sounds like you love music a lot, more than most people I would say." Warren raised his brow, this man obviously was into music, way more than he was. He wondered if music would be the job he was talking about, but that wouldn't make sense, because then he could have easily brought his guitar, right? "What is your job?" Warren figured that thinking these thoughts would make no sense, better ask the man about it. There was enough on his mind, he didn't need to fill his mind with this. "A git?" Warren looked him in the eyes, looking for an answer to release him from confusion. "I doubt it's a gift, everyone can hold a brush. Just not everyone enjoys holding it." Warren had been doing it since he stayed at Nexus all those years ago, and for some reason kept doing it. "Warren."

"Ah, but you’ve got that wicked good hair going on, I can’t be pulling that sort of thing off with mine. Looks like a bird’s nest in the mornings." He snorted at his reaction to that joking suggestion, then shook his head in dissent. "You could, but then that’d go defeating the point of carrying it around to stay on top of those calls. Seagulls probably make awful secretaries, you’d go losing all your business." He laughed shortly at the question; if you had asked him that fifteen years ago it would have been a resounding no, he had tried all sorts of tricks to get out of piano lessons as a kid. "I do like to play, aye. I didn’t take to it as much when I was younger, but most kids don’t. But I kept at it, and that’s a good thing to have when you’re in musical theater." He raised an eyebrow at the mention of painting, his lips curving into a genuine smile for once. "Now I play all the time, even bought a bloody piano and had the damned thing brought up six flights of stairs. Play the guitar too, but I’ve been working all day, wouldn’t make sense to go dragging it around." He tossed a handful of seed at the birds again, still grinning when he turned to look at the other man. "Painting though, that’s beyond me. You’ve got a gift in that, not just in that you’re probably brilliant at it, but that you’ve found out that it’s a good way to go clearing the crap out of your head. Name’s Reese, by the way."

[warren-quinn]

I didn't know she lived in D.C. I hope you had a good time. Eh, well, I was just on my way to the park actually. He stared at the building. Here? Nice place.

I took a few weeks off work to visit my mom in D.C.. She raises a brow at him. I should be asking you that question, I think. She gestures to the building, her face slightly confused. I live here.

[warren-quinn]

Ivy? Haven't seen you in a while. What're you doing here?

Welcome home to me, I guess.

[warren-quinn]

I don't know, do you usually talk to yourself and be rude about it?

Good. Do you usually spend your time eavesdropping and asking personal questions to strangers?

[warren-quinn]

It was true, Warren had no idea what a bus fare costs. Did that make him an arrogant, spoiled boy? Perhaps. Warren shrugged. "I don't have anything smaller than a twenty on me, but don't worry about it, take it." Warren told her as he put his wallet back in his pocket. The way she looked at the bill, seemed odd to him, but he did not think much of it. "Hm, I guess I did not know that." He scratched the back of his hair, laughing awkwardly. How was he supposed to know that even? Warren was hardly Mr. Goodie-twoshoes, but this was not his branch in where he excelled to break the law. The idea of taking drugs alone, scared him already. At the Nexus they scared him with everything that could potentially make his powers spin out of control, and Warren fell for that. A drink wasn't even a good idea in his eyes, led by fear. "It's nothing personal, i mean, you should always be careful when giving money to strangers, right? I wouldn't want to push you over the edge, giving you money to buy ammunition for a possible self-destruction." He shrugged. "That's what they do on TV anyway, making sure of that, or at least ask."

"Oh, whoa," she hesitated before taking the twenty. "I really only needed some change. Bus is just a dollar twenty-five. But—honestly, thanks, man." She smiled at him, but it slowly turned into a grin. It was more money than she had a week and she would be able to do a lot with this. Well, a lot more than what she was used to. Maybe she would go to the liquor store to break this. Noa was looking down at the bill in her hands before putting it into her pocket and glancing up at him. "Twenty dollars can’t get you any drugs anywhere. Unless it’s like over the counter drugs." She laughed at his ignorance, wondering if he even knew other drugs besides coke and maybe marijuana. "I don’t do drugs anyway, so no worries. Although I’m a bit offended you would assume that."

[warren-quinn]