1964-09-08 - The Cafeteria of Spite and Delight
Summary: Children terrorise Kwabena. Futures are planned. Jean needs to eat more.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
logan jean-grey kwabena rogue 

Rarely in her life can Scarlett be grateful for a total absence of childhood or adolescent memories. Cafeteria in high school at lunch time is probably one of those few times she can be grateful for her ignorance.

The teen contingent who boards here runs into the cafeteria on set shifts. That never stops someone from trying to sneak through. Two kids caught by trying to phase into the room by mutual invisibility now trudge back to their classroom, abandoned trays piled high with chocolate milk and slices of noxious cherry pie.

"I don't get it, how did she see us?!" mutters the one with a hang dog expression and the ugliest orange sweater vest devised. His punishment will be that vest, for sure.

Scarlett isn't explaining herself, all things said and done. Waiting until the culprits are gone, she murmurs, "And I thought my diet at times was bad. Really, Jean? None of this is actually food, it's all sugar." Yeah, yoga princess, easy to say that when it won't add any pounds.

Jean didn't have to say a word. Whether she pointed the kids out so that Scarlett could be the enforcer is one thing, but her saying nothing is something pointed all together. There wasn't even a look of quiet disappointment, just a little look of mirth that plays upon her features and a flash of fire in her eyes once a child looks back to stick out his tongue.

'Oh my god, demon!' The child thought.
'Aww.' Jean thought to herself in return.

But as she settles in with her own tray, a salad of sorts, along with a cold cut sandwich filled to the brim and a tall glass of water by her side, she begins to pick at the meat, her mind straying out to the thought of lunch itself, and the last time she herself had eaten.

It has been five days since you have eaten. Better start chewing, or your stomach will chew you.

Jean's nose wrinkles as she takes a piece of meat to pop it into her mouth, then she offers up a shrug. "It tastes good. Children are little vacuums of piss and sugar. They'll either regret it all when they get older or pay attention in gym class in a few hours."

When Kwabena shows up, he's coming straight from the kitchen, with a tray balanced in each arm. It would seem the young Ghanaian is absolutely famished, considering the amount of food on each tray. He's about to grab a seat, when he comes up short.


Oodles of children. He stares at them all, dumbfounded for a moment. Aren't they all supposed to be in class?

Scarlett's idea of lunch constitutes a salad, mostly piled high with leaves, and sprinkled by the odd slice of chicken, olives, cucumbers, and other vegetable choices that deserve their loving touch of oil and vinegar. Balsamic and olive oil are simply too rare, even if she's rarefied enough to consume them regularly.

"They cannot possibly eat all that without poor consequences. Seriously, seven chocolate milk cartons for each?" Incredulity proves, unerringly, she was never a child. Still, she shakes her head. Braids hiss and sway down her back in an elaborate copper kissed net.

Her own choice of drink? Tea. "I suppose we can compare notes in the future, and see whether you or I were right on the nature of children. Tyrants or energy beacons?" Mischief crackles through the intent expression and bright eyes flickering over Jean. Habit with team redhead; one makes sure the other is fine. There aren't that many kids hanging about.

Kwabena sticks out. She waves.

"Both." Jean states faithfully. She was chewing, but it wasn't /with feeling/. Her eyes watch Scarlett's plate, and soon she was inching her own plate closer to her friends, intent on shoving more lettuce from her own salad into the pile that is Rogues.

"Honestly, chocolate milk is delicious, so I see 'why'. They could have been stock piling it, you know Bobby would have helped them with that."

Seeing Kwabena though, Jean takes a breath.. tempted to get up to at least help. But, figuring that would have been a huge breach, she just settles for a wave, then a bust up of a fit of laughter.

Scarlett and Jean are not difficult to spot, considering they are two of the only other adults present. As such, he diverts toward them, taking great care not to spill the trays. It would seem he's familiar with such an act, and sets them down at a table with ease. "Hello, Scahlett. Jean." He's trying very hard not to stare at the kids. He's not around young ones that often.

Not chewing with feeling? That is an abomination and one that the redhead will secretly be plotting to undermine. "You need to tell me what actually entices you. Not a sandwich? Is it something more complicated, lasagne or a fifteen course spread worthy of Versailles? I think I can pull of the latter." Her fork spears a leaf and chunk of marinated chicken, and she brings it to her lips. Dining with manners is a hallmark for the well-bred young lady. No chewing with her mouth hanging open, no making a sound for that matter. "Stockpiling chocolate milk is not a solution to anything except early bedtimes." Her nose wrinkles at the notion of this.

"Hello. Don't worry about them; they'll be gone in a few minutes. The others are much longer to show up, you'll have time to prepare." Or flee.

"Hellow Kwabena."

Jean, still amused, finally stabs her own piece of lettuce, but she really doesn't bite into. "Settling in fine? Well, after..yesterday was it? Or was it the other day?" Time for a cosmic being rooting around the head was a little bit.. swimmy. But for now, she was content to settle in as one of the staff members of the school.

Allowing Rogue to speak gives her time to bite into her own food, chewing rather quickly as she gestures towards the old-timey clock upon the farthest.. very farthest wall. "Fifteen minutes give or take, then the cleaners will come in while dinner prep starts."

Jean's question is a difficult one. He has his manners of course; perhaps not as fine tuned as those of Scarlett, but he chews with his mouth closed and uses utensils where appropriate. Still, it's an insane amount of food for someone of his size to be partaking in.

"Well, I don't plan to live here," the Ghanaian points out. "Is, not, uh, quite my speed. Too big, too… fancy." He dabs his mouth with a cloth napkin. "But, it is, well, intahresting. To say de least."

Scarlett continues to selectively destroy a healthy bundle of lettuce arranged so artfully upon the plate, another of the quasi teacher and adult liaison types trusted with responsibility. Fools. She nibbles around the edges of the leaf while still thinking, and clearly amused by the diminished mountain made of Kwabena's cornucopia. "I'm glad to see you out and about without the problem of confinement. You may not like the building much, but the grounds are pretty. Rougher, in a way, though different from the city."

Silver linings are her stock in trade of late. "I can imagine the cleaners running off with us, too, if Hank made them. They might even be malicious. Scold us for eating too slow."

Logan makes his way into the cafeteria, one of the first times he's chosen to socialize since returning to the team. He's spent plenty of time in solitude, most of it fishing. A careful eye would note he hasn't spend much time at all in his cabin. He did repairs and put things to rights, but never quite settled in. He usually sleeps in the woods, in a makeshift tent.

He's gotten himself a plate, relatively spare for him, grabbing a seat a little ways away, not wanting to intrude.

Wandering in from the hallway, Warren slips into the Cafeteria making his way towards the beverage area, grabbing a coffee mug and pouring some of the black ambrosia into it. He dumps in some sugar and cream, stirring the mixture together with one of those small wooden stirring sticks before lifting the liquid to his lips and taking sip. An audible sigh of contentment escapes his lips as he turns back around, only then noticing the others in the room. "Oh…" he says, giving a little bit of a smile as he passes his fingers through his blonde hair, "…uh, hi."

It was after careful consideration that Jean finally answers Scarlett's question. "I don't think anything would work. As long as there are people around." Scarlett would know what that means. Even though she has a handle on her empathy, she still feels errant emotions and often times, they are strong enough to make things seem dizzying. She was scolded by Josh already..

Though, Kwabena gets a turn as she raises a brow, her finger lightly pressing into her cheek after she allows the fork to loudly clang upon the plate. "Oh no. You're way too old. I mean sure, we let people live here, but I highly doubt you could be a student. Unless you didn't graduate high school from where you came.." She wasn't being insulting, she was inquiring!

Warren and Logan enter, and for a moment, her arms fold about her chest. She wasn't angry, no… but she does wave towards Warren, then gestures towards Logan, who was sitting all by his lonesome.

And if anyone wondered, Jean actually slept in his cabin when he wasn't putting hammer to nail!

Its worth noting that Kwabena has freshened up, but his choice in attire was limited, after burning through what he had on during the incident with the mutant prisoner, Live. Fortunately, his dark denim jacket wasn't there at the time, but he's left with the minor embarrassment of being left with a pair of trousers a size too big for him, and a black, X-emblazoned t-shirt. C'est la vie.

"Yes," he agrees with Scarlett between mouthfuls. "De grounds ah nice. Not as, what is de word. Manicure? No, //manic-." A pause. English, bothersome. "Clean, as Central Pahk. Not dat Central Pahk is… okay, yes. Rough." He then looks toward Jean with a rueful grin. "Good," he tells her. "Because I enjoy de apahtment. Is not much, but is home."

He pauses in eating to drink from a tall glass of water. Whatever he might have added next becomes halted when Warren shows up, and he nearly bolts to his feet before remembering what Kaleb had told him yesterday. He sits back down and raises a hand to motion once in Warren's direction, but seeing the mutant brings a flash of something to his memory. Dark memories that remain twisted in the jumbled psyche of his subconscious. White fire, malice, anger and rage. He looks down to his hands, which are now clenching against the silverware, paired by a soft crackling sound. He closes his eyes, draws a deep breath, and uncurls his hands to reveal that the poor fork and knife have been mangled out of their original shape.

A quiet curse is uttered in his native Dangme.

The necessity to sustain peace in the household is something probably beaten into their heads by Charles. Scarlett is unnervingly sensitive to those little shifts, and Logan slipping off to a table by himself actually hurts at some level. Thus Jean's greeting gets a finger curl too, the kind of 'come join us' wave that isn't exactly demanding. More a welcome sign if he wants to sit with the other adults instead of hunching over a table built for an eleven year-old.

She refrains from saying much with her mouth full, doubly so at the fractured and faulty response at another arrival. Tilting her head slightly, she pays a blind eye on Kwabena's ruined silverware and greets Warren with a sunny smile. Let's keep it simple; waving means she isn't considering how many exits allow a fast escape as the situation calls for.

Logan winks at Jean when she looks his way and narrows his eyes a little at Kwabena, "Easy there, cowboy. Ain't no need gettin' all riled up. Everybody's friendly here,' he says, able to smell the tension on the man easily enough, although he smells pretty fucked up in his own strange way.

Warren gets a wary nod - Jean had filled him in a bit on the rich boy's transformation, revealed during his own recent travails, but he hadn't met him directly as of yet.

Warren remains by the coffee for the moment, taking a few more sips before refilling the mug from the pot of black coffee. He lifts a hand to wave at the redheads and Kwa in a sign of greeting, slowly starting to make his way over in that direction as Logan arrives.

Warren pauses, watching the loner move towards his own table. It takes a beat, but Warren returns the nod, then shifts his direction to make his way towards Logan, giving a glance Jean's direction before addressing the Canadian. "Apparently we need to talk."

It was slow the way she moved, her hand reaching out, fingers outstretched which soon attempt to clasp upon the fork that was held by Kwabena. It was a form of therapy; where she would seek to be the physical anchor, or perhaps tapping into all that he is down to the very flora to keep him contained in one spot.

Could she do it? Probably!

But instead of lingering, her fingers curl around the ruined fork and knife, holding both up to her eyes as they slowly begin to waver, the metals bending back and forth, rippling like a clear wave until they finally straighten and right themselves, though with a spork out of place! Still, she gives it back, placing them upon a napkin in front of Kwabena so that he could use it to eat.

"Everything's fine, Logan." Jean finally says, picking up her tray of food that was.. well, not eaten. "I'm going to go put this away and usher the kids to the class. I'll be right back." Seeing Warren and Logan nearer to each other, a tiny smile curls her lips as she disappears behind the kitchen, then returns with a whistle to line the kids up and usher them off.

To Logan, Kwabena lifts a hand in a gesture symbolizing peace. "Is not… him. Is okay."

He draws a deep breath and lets it loose, during which he makes a valiant effort and subduing the twisted memories back into a hole where they belong. Truth be told, he's growing quickly skilled at such a thing, but the damage has been done and may prove difficult to undo.

He watches Jean then, and a smile of appreciation forms when the silverware is replaced. "Thank you," he tells her, before casting a knowing look toward Scarlett.

What four words precipitate a general scattering of hurricanes, smart people, and spouses? "We need to talk."

Cue the appropriate moment to demonstrate muted alarm and profess a need to go organise a sock drawer or eat some unsuspecting tiger's soul. She puts down her fork and aims for the tea, which has cooled sufficiently to not burn her tongue off by drinking it at this point. The cup goes to her mouth, but not before she adds, "All's well," in a futile effort, perchance, to see it is so. Reality warps not at all to her recommended course of action, but still she can try. Jean chases off the children, and she smiles sunnily at the big kids.

Logan nods at Jean's reassurance, "You say so, Red," he says, taking a moment to dig into his plate, scooping up a few forkfulls.

At Warren's words, he nods again, reaching into his pocket to pull out a cheroot, "Jeannie says a lotta things," he grins, "But she ain't wrong," he says after a moment's consideration, "Here ain't probably the place fer it, though. We need to have a quiet confab," he says.

Taking another sip of his coffee, the blue skinned blonde nods once to Logan before casting his eyes across the room once again. Curt and to the point he mutters, "Yeah. Sure. Have your people call my people. We'll do lunch."

Warren lifts the coffee once again to his lips and looks to Kwabena. "So…feeling better today? A little less….explody? I don't feel like having my back fried off again if it is all the same to you."

When Logan refers to Jean as 'Red', Kwabena looks from one to the other with a quiet smile, one of familiarity and perhaps a touch of jealousy. Clearly, being the new one around here, he's going to need to come up with a different term of endearment for his chosen ginger.

To Warren, he lifts his chin and offers a hesitant smile. "Less 'explody', yes," he agrees, with a rueful smile. "I did know dat was a thing dat could happen, and I hope it was not, ah, too painful?" He grimaces then, finding an insatiable urge to change the subject a bit.

"De kid unlocked something in me," he tells him conversationally. "Is not entirely negative, eidah." He looks down to the hand holding that spork, and with a quiet poof, it transforms momentarily into black smoke. Once it returns, his fingers are curled around the utensil properly. "I could not control it befah." He lifts an eyebrow in a manner of conspiracy. Perhaps Live's assault on Kwabena had some silver lining of its own?

"It's rather negative given his reason for doing so. That boy has issues that may take the likes of Charles to fix, and even then, I'm not entirely certain." Scarlett frowns slightly, her gave tilted away from everyone for the benefit of the wall. "Should he be on the loose again, take precautions to avoid him as much as possible until he can be contained." The other statement she could make she doesn't say, but memory isn't something to be trusted.

Logan grins slightly at Warren, "Ain't you heard, kid? You mooks -are- my people," he says. "Ain't got no others."

He lights his stogie with a match struck on the table, "You talkin' about the kid we snagged from the Swedes? Nasty little bugger," he says. "Never felt better about headbuttin' a small child in my life."

"Oh, don't worry Scarlett. If I see that…person roaming the halls I'm likely to take action first and ask questions later. We will see how much he is able to do with a few dozen flechettes in him and enough neurotoxin to drop a T-rex." Warren says with a scowl.

He takes another sip of his coffee, his eyes fixating on Kwabena again, "Painful? It was excruciatingly so. Being burned alive isn't something that tickles." He pauses, shrugging a shoulder. "I've had worse."

He turns back to Logan, smirking. "Well, that explains so much. Must be your charming personality." Warrren shakes his head and walks back over to refill his coffee.

"Suppose you ah correct," Kwabena agrees with Scarlett. Still, his head remains something of a jumbled mess, leading him to consider that Live's assault wasn't wholly negative. He's at least aware enough of the damage to know that he is confused.

"Probably a good choice of action," Kwabena tells Warren. "Is not good idea to touch him, but you do not have to." A pause. "I know was not me, but, you have my apology, regahdless."

He considers Logan for a moment with a perked eyebrow. Suddenly he's really craving a smoke, but was under the impression such things were not allowed within the mansion's walls. The Canadian must be privileged. "I am Kwabena," he tells Logan by way of greeting.

"Can you actually cause neurotoxins to form? Or will we be harvesting it from jellyfish and other interesting creatures in the science labs? I do hope we've got someone who makes a good animal talker," obliges the redhead as a form of answer, terribly curious. "I can tell you internally he's rotten, more to the core. What passes through his skull is hardly constitutes a nice thing, and I would rather reorder him than condemn him to a pair of claws. But that boy in Iceland is sick in the skull, wired wrong. He's not interpreting things the same way as any of you." The unspoken subtext of what she knows, and could know, is entirely glossed over.

That's just a little too personal.

"He's activated by sight lines, mostly. I think there could be a variation that allows for a direct contact scenario if he can't see, but that would be speculation more than actual practice. Without being stuck in the Danger Room and conditioning, I am not entirely sure." She skims a look away from them again, focused on Logan with complete discomfort evident for a brief moment. "If we ever need a test case, that would have to be me. What that boy can do is… Troubling."

Logan snorts to Warren, "You ain't exactly Bobby Kennedy yerself, pal, I don't care how fat yer wallet is," he says.

To Kwabena, he nods, "Logan. I'm sorta the local roustabout for this carnival," he says. "Folks get outta line, I'm the one puts 'em to the curb. On their ass," he says.

He takes a long draw on his cheroot, the cherry flaring before he exhales through his nostrils, "Haven't the psychic types been able to crack 'im yet? Between Jean and Chuck, I figured his egg'd be sunny side up by now."

Warren shrugs a shoulder at Scarlett, letting it rise as he sips from his mug and fall when he lowers it. "I have no idea how it is formed but it must be formed by me in some capacity, and that in and of itself is somewhat alarming. The new feathers are coated in the stuff. You have my 'friends' to thank for that particular upgrade as well."

He glances over at Logan and returns the snort, "You're right, I'm not Bobby Kennedy. I'm better looking." He lifts the coffee cup to his lips and drains the remaining liquid inside, setting it on a counter to let someone else deal with as he starts to head for the door. "Have Jean set up a time for us to talk, Logan. She seemed to think it might be a good idea, though I can't imagine why." He glances at Kwabena and gives the man a nod, "No sweat. I can't be particularly angry since I can't control shit very well myself now a day."

Thats a sentiment Kwabena can appreciate. "Good thing I don't get out of line," he offers to Logan, though the edge of his mouth is curled up in a grin. "Except when some kid is giving me de mind fuck."

Quietly, he's finding the idea of sparring with Logan quite fascinating.

Scarlett's words draw him a bit back to reality. He looks back to his food, most of which has been devoured by now, and a darkness crosses his visage. Instead of offering anything to that side of the conversation, he opts to spear the last piece of leftover meatloaf, chewing it slowly while contemplating the twisted memories that don't seem to add up with what he remembers if his youth. Thanks, Icelan-dick.

"Between Jean and Chuck, maybe. But the other problem is range. If he's out like a light and they aren't in the room, hardly a constraint, they could impact him. If he's about, I think there might be the problem they could be thrown right off their sensitivity scale. Again, I don't know. I prefer not to go alarming the strongest minds in the solar system arbitrarily to see what's fun." Scarlett's expression carries a measure of amusement, but that's a foil for the dark reality of what she's hinting at; or outright saying, at any rate.

Logan snorts, "If you're pretty, pal, I'm friggin' gorgeous. Don't you worry, though, I know what it's about. We'll see if you're the right man for the job, though," he says.

He nods to Kwabena, "Glad to hear it," about Kwabena keeping his nose clean.

"Powerful they might be, but they're also two o' the best people livin', least that I know 'bout," he says. "But if the kid can't be contained safely, I ain't sure exactly what the solution is."

The whole mess is similar to a conversation Kwabena had with Kaleb and Theresa. "Keeping him locked up, bound, blindfolded," Kwabena answers Logan, which is precisely what's happening. "Kid can't live dat way forevah, and, as I undahstand it, dat is how he has been living. Even befah he was brought here."

There are other options, of course. He reaches for his water, lifting it and swirling it around in its glass. "Or dump him off on de Feds, which is a shit idea. Frankly, you don't want someone like dat getting weaponized by de military, which is exactly what would happen." He drinks from the water, but his brow is knit into a pensive frown.

"I'm not the right person to ask. I would not advocate hurting him or killing him, but sometimes wishes are not the things on which choices are made. I will give the Professor an opportunity to see what he can do, but I have already an inkling of possibilities, and they aren't pretty. Can we switch the topic? Death is an odd companion of late, and violence on the other side. I feel like I've started courting Ares, and no one told me I became his herald." Odd for Scarlett's a peacenik for all that her nature defines being very much a different breed of horse.

Returning to the scene of the eatery, Jean slowly slides down upon the chair she previously sat, knowing of the conversation, hearing it through the ears of -someone- in this room. (And it's not who you think!) Still, their mentioning of Live makes her features crumble a touch, her glass of water taken and drank, the gulps enough to fill her belly where food remain absent.

"I would vote Charles." She says as a finality. "But Charles wouldn't be willing, that kid will manipulate him as the day is long." Her lips press together then, but.. her shoulders lift in a shrug.

"We can't put him in a box where he can't see us, where he can move around and be. My best bet would be to turn him over to SHIELD. They have that.. thing, right? I could make contact."

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