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Other than the medlab, Warren hasn't been in the X-Men base for any length of time in the months before, and certainly during, his disappearance. One room in the base he remembers well is what he and the first class dubbed the 'Danger Room'. A place where they trained to learn about and how to control their powers.
The is where the blue skinned billionaire is emerging from, dressed in a pair of shorts and a loose fitting t-shirt with a towel wrapped over his shoulders, one edge being used to wipe at a bit of perspiration on his brow.
The bohemian in residence goes almost arm in arm with Jean, minus the whole 'arm in arm' business. Among the 'senior staff' serving in a capacity as nebulous as the hidden room with strongly sealed doors, she adjusts to the day's affairs in an eye-popping Pucci dress full of swirls of wild colour and far too little hemline. "Should our time allow, I insist we go to Italy. I've heard a rumour they have an entire village hidden away in the Apennine Mountains where the residents are thought to be blessed by a local saint. It reads as something more than that, but I'd be concerned about trafficking. In this day and age, blessed children and youths are too much of a target." Scarlett tosses her dark braids over her shoulder, the flame bath tipped to auburn from whatever dye is currently fading out of their length. "The very nice gentleman I spoke to hinted there was a Manichaean drama waiting to play out, the stakes being a clutch of empaths and the villains a smuggling network that leads back into Tirana and somewhere in Bulgaria. I reached that far before he exhausted his knowledge." Because nothing spells 'victory of the heroic' like saving children.
There was a clipboard in hand. Just a plain clipboard. And a pen that settled in the other hand that was used like a weapon upon the paper that she abuses. She was keeping notes, even though she didn't need to lately. Everything seemed to play back upon itself, her memory was sharp and it was annoying. Along with that, sights.. sounds.. smells. Instant recall, they would probably call it in the future. As well as eidetic memory. And it was turning out to be quite a burden.
"Apenn.. how do you spell that?" Jean finally asks, stopping for half a second, her eyes lifting as her brows furrow, eye blinks, and then she continues. "I think the Professor would want to go, at least we could force him, to get him out of his funk." Another pause, and a blink, a furrow of her brows..
..and then a wipe away at her forehead, only to reveal that her fingers were dry.
"Put this on our list, exercises to get people's emotions out near permanently. Or at least bodily feelings? Remember that mess with Sam? Now my joints are tight and it feels like I'm sweating but not. Warren is around the corner.."
Rounding the corner on his way back to the quarters he has appropriated for himself, Warren stops in his place to avoid running into Jean and Rogue. The edge of the towel drops from his hand, falling to rest agains his chest as he nods to the ladies, his once blue eyes solid white with no visible iris or pupil.
"Oh…" he says, offering a somewhat forced half smile as he inclines his head towards the pair, "…hello Scarlett, Jean. Good to see you both. Sorry, you're catching me after a workout. I'm a bit of a mess."
Scarlett is rather the mistress of odd appearances, frequently encountering or enduring a degree of malleability in her overall looks. Though today, she's simply normal. Something to be appreciated, for a surety. "I know the professor would jump at the chance, but that means we have to convince him to leave. At times that feels more difficult than boiling the sea." Don't worry, girl, humanity will get around to that in a few generations. All said and done, the bohemian dream sighs as she watches Jean quell those thoughts afflicting her gifted mind. Curiosity earns the better of her. "How can you manage to avoid bombardment when half the older students think of nothing but lustful thoughts or the mischief they're going to get into? Surely you must be drowning in images you never asked for when they are all about?"
Her vivid eyes carry concern rather than a sense of prying into a psychic world she is generally insulated from. Generally. On bad days, the situation is inverted, but not today, no psychic ghostly impressions trailing around her. Nodding to Warren as he appears, she asks, "Feeling more like yourself? I apologize for the catch the other day."
"And he's not susceptible to mind-trickery.." Jean says. Boiling seas be damned. Perhaps they should lie, though Charles would see through that too. Though, on the question of her mental thoughts, she gives a slight shrug of her shoulders. "I've learned to perfect the thousand yard stare since our time on the ship." She reaches over with an elbow, nudging that part of Rogue's body where the clothing is completely covered. "Some people are really questionable though.. but.." She speaks no more. Nothing that needs to be said outloud..
"We're used to rough. It's alright Warren." Speaking of speaking of.. "We -were- hoping to at least get to see you with no one else around." About the catch, Jean missed it! But she did come in at the tail end of it! "Feeling alright where the cranium is concerned?"
Warren glances between Rogue and Jean and rolls a shoulder in a shrug, giving a slight tip of the head to Jean. "Well, seems you have succeeded. I was the only one in the DR, and I don't see anyone else around. I figure you would know if there was someone lurking 'round here invisible, so…I think we're alone now."
He slides his eyes over to Rogue, "Truth be told, Scarlett, I don't even remember it, so there is nothing to apologize for." He sighs, "Truth be told I don't remember a lot of things. The last thing I truly remember with any sense of clarity was being in Europe for a business trip months ago. From then till I woke up in the Medlab, I on'y have flashes of memory, and they are not plesant. So…not really, Jean."
Long sleeves keep her limbs safe, her throat to her mid-thigh under that psychedelic Italian designer dress. Even her nylons are patterned the same but who wants to trust to the low thread count protecting them against the harrowing reality of what the Soul-Thief is? She sighs to the nudge and smiles, tipping her head, the usual coronet of flowers she wears unusual: they're all one kind, the bells of foxglove, in freckled purple. That she also happens to be sporting a heart-stopping poison is really quite irrelevant. "I envy you. Even I can read them, sort of, and the silence is far from deafening. I've slowly learned the fact how little we communicate through speech. I admire you, demoiselle, I do."
Her affectionate elbow nudge to Jean's side is not intended to hurt, highly restrained, filed down to affection. "She would know, and I would likely stumble into it." Invisible people and ghosts have reason to run. "I regret having to bring you to rest in a manner you aren't accustomed to, but I owe you a drink nonetheless. And your thoughts are…" She glances askance at Jean. "Damaged, fractured, and terribly unhappy. I'd prescribe meditation, yoga, and a wholesome diet but my strange eastern ways are not thought much of."