Talent Scout

Hal:

It's not unusual for Dave to be the first one in the kitchen in the morning; you suspect that, on some level, he's still on a schedule that the rest of the household hasn't ever gotten used to. Whether that's "Texas time" or "Bro time" has yet to be determined. You suppose that whichever it is, it's still an improvement over "Dirk time," which includes such lovely activities as chronic insomnia, occasional episodes of executive dysfunction, and showers that are only cut short by whoever's turn it is to hit the cutoff for the main water supply.

(That sounds like a joke. It's not, unfortunately.)

You're off topic. This is also not unusual. The entire purpose of this train of thought was to point out that while Dave being down here first thing in the morning is fairly close to normal, he's usually poking around in the cabinets or the fridge, stalling until someone else comes down to help him decide what breakfast is going to be.

Today, though, he's not doing that. Today Dave is sitting on the counter, legs crossed under him and lap full of the last two weeks' worth of mail that no one else has been going through. He glances up at you for a moment as you make your normal beeline to the coffeemaker, losing his frown for a moment in favor of a grin to go with his, "Hey, Hal. Sugar's already in your cup."

"You know me so well, brother dearest." Damn. You don't like the way that frown comes right back as soon as he looks back down at the letter he's reading. At least it seems more puzzled than anything else; what, did D get summoned for jury duty again? That's the most baffling decision you can think of...but no, those letters don't come on that quality of paper. "Did one of us get something worth keeping?"

"Dunno." He holds the paper away from you when you go to snag it; apparently this isn't something you're being invited to weigh in on yet. "Just as a question, are. Uh. Are scholarship scams a thing?"

"Probably. Can I see it?" Okay, so all you needed to do was ask for permission in order to receive it; he hands the letter over without hesitation.

Quality paper. Thick, textured, when you hold it up to the light you find it's watermarked with an X inside a circle. Seems to be handwritten, so not likely mass-produced—the fact that the writing on the envelope matches what's on the letter bears out that hypothesis. Dark blue ink instead of black; the signature is in a different hand than the body of the letter, possibly even a different ink. That, you can't be sure about without further testing. Salem Center postmark on the envelope; to you, that seems like an odd place to run a scam out of.

"Uh, Hal?"

"I'm working on it." You flash Dave your most reassuring smile, and focus on reading the words written on the paper, rather than just examining them.

David E. Strider,
We are pleased to inform you that due to your exceptional academic and extracurricular abilities, you have been selected for consideration for a full scholarship to the prestigious Xavier Academy. While only a percentage of those selected for consideration are deemed fully eligible, we would like to move you to the secondary qualification stage, which includes an in-person interview.

In the event that you choose to attend the desired interview, please reply to the contact info enclosed. Transportation will be arranged in a follow-up correspondence.

Well, fuck. You read that twice, consider it, and then drop the thick sheet of paper in Dave's lap.

"So?"

"It's some kind of bullshit." That's your gut feeling, but you're pretty sure it's evidence based, and after a moment spent rubbing your forehead you have a few arguments why. "It's addressed to you, not to a parent or guardian; even if they were confused as to who's technically in charge of you, nobody's going to willingly put a teenager in charge of his own educational choices like this. 'Only a percentage are deemed eligible'—what the fuck does that even mean?"

Dave frowns at the letter, then looks up at you. "So yeah, it's a scam."

"I didn't say that." And you're immediately ready to play devil's advocate. What in the name of all that's holy is wrong with you, exactly? "They've given you a choice of contact routes; having just an email or just a phone number would make sense if it was a scam, but not both of those and a snail-mail address. Hell, they're not even asking for anything concrete, just a meeting—"

"Could be trafficking shit." You jump, at Ambrose's voice. Dave, however, does not; evidently he noticed the man leaning in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room before you did. "I vote hard no."

"This isn't a democracy, Amby." Yes, you know calling him that is the main cause of him visibly cringing. That's exactly why you do it. "The letter's to Dave, not you."

From the disgusted look he gives you, Ambrose has some shit to say about that. He doesn't, though, just nods at the letter. (Or at Dave. You can't quite tell which.) "Aight, so it's Dave's decision. What's it gonna be, kiddo?"

"Do I look like I fuckin' know?" Dave rolls his eyes and tosses the paper down onto the counter, hopping down and pulling his phone out to take a picture of it. "I'm gonna see if Wade's answering his texts—"

"He's not." You make a point of pestering him every day or two, when he's away from Dave. If he hadn't asked you nicely to stop tracking him electronically, you'd be doing that too, but you're nothing if not polite.

(That's sarcasm.)

"He's not answering you, Hal. Doesn't mean he's gonna ignore me." Dave gives you a sweet smile and brushes past Ambrose and out of the room before you can come up with a comeback to that.

Ambrose is grinning at you like he's just barely containing a snicker. You glare at him, and pick up the letter to start examining it again.

Dave:

Hal's right; Wade doesn't answer your texts. You understand why—he's a goddamn mercenary, for fuck's sake, when he's not here he's usually on some kinda job and of course he ain't gonna be able to answer when he's lying in wait for some scumbag or whatever he's doing this time—but right now is one time that you really wish he was around to weigh in on the situation.

Dammit.

At least you're not actually carrying the weight of making a decision on what the fuck to do about this letter yourself. That can fall on D and slash or Ambrose. And maybe Dirk and Hal, if the actual adults get distracted. Which they probably will.

Unsurprisingly, when you make your way back out of your room and downstairs again, D and Ambrose are distracted—leaning over the counter and arguing over a zoomed-in pic of that damn letter on the latter's laptop. Hal and Dirk are also distracted, but much more quietly, sharing what looks like your laptop to research the same thing. Which leaves you with...

Davepeta (who's sprawled on the floor next to the couch) and Davesprite (curled mostly on top of them, holding the actual item that's got everyone else in a tizzy.) Welp, this probably isn't going to be informative, but at least it'll probably calm you down.

Probably becomes definitely as soon as you sit down on the floor next to the two of them; both of those touch-starved featherballs are immediately on you, Davesprite snuggling up next to your side and Davepeta just flopping out over your lap, arms and wings dramatically spreading like they're in freefall. You see the flight feathers heading straight for your face just barely in time to shift up a couple chrono-gears and duck your head enough that they don't manage to knock your shades right off your face; while you're in fast time, you reach over and snag the letter out of Davesprite's hand.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, but it does have my name on it." You smooth the letter out over Davepeta's stomach, frowning down at it. Despite having been passed around to literally everyone in the room for the half hour you spent going through all possible avenues of contacting Wade, the paper's still only creased in the lines where it was folded to fit in the envelope. That could be a testament to your family getting better at being careful with shit, or it could be about the thickness of the paper itself. (You're betting on the second one.) "You guys figure anything out?"

"It smells like smoke," Davepeta purrs, wings stirring slightly. "Other than that? Nyah."

"...smoke." Okay, that could be something. Or not. "What do you guys think?"

"It's a god damn mess," Davesprite volunteers, spreading one wing to drape it over your shoulders rather than having both folded neatly behind himself. "Like, for you. You're so freaked out, you know that?"

"Ooh, hmm?" Davepeta rolls their mismatched eyes, ears perking up as they consider you for a second, then nods. "He really is, huh? You sure you're not gonna flip out, bro?"

"Both of you shush about what I'm thinking, okay?" You roll your eyes right back at the kid sprawled across your lap, reaching down with the arm that's not wrapped around Davesprite's shoulders to flick their nose. (It's necessary to shift back up into fast time to avoid their automatic swipe at your hand; they don't really mean to hurt you, but sometimes those sharp claws extend and it's just safer to dodge.) "Anyway, do y'all think I oughta do the meeting thing? The letter said they wanted an interview."

"Fuck that shit." Davepeta's ears press flat against their head, and they roll up off your legs in one graceful motion, folding their wings down and leaning back on their hands. "What're they gonna have that you don't already?"

"Dirk said the school's legit," Davesprite points out. "Like, they're accredited 'n shit, one of those places that's got a hella screening program."

To you, that statement seems weird. "What kinda criteria, though? Like, you know it's not acedemic shit if they're scouting me—"

"It's DNA."

"Hey!" That comes out as an indignant squawk; Davepeta just barely leans back in time to avoid the kick Davesprite aims at them. "You don't know that, fucker—"

"Can you come up with something better? The numbers for how many registered students show mutant shit aren't an accident, dude—"

"Dirk and Hal aren't even done looking all the numbers up, dumbass."

"They're all there, though. I saw!"

"How the fuck would you—"

Okay, time to put an end to this argument. Or at least redirect it back to the first interesting statement. "Wait, back up. DNA? Mutants?"

Davepeta makes a disgruntled sound, reaching up to smooth their hair down. (It doesn't work. The green-and-orange curls spring back into place as soon as their hand moves on.) "A shitton of Xavier Academy's students're like us."

"Not all of them," Davesprite points out.

"Most of 'em! Plus, like, you don't think some of them keep that shit under wraps?"

"Nobody can keep that under wraps. Why would they?"

You're, like. Honestly glad that Davesprite sounds so sure of that statement, so confused about the reasoning. Him and Davepeta, they've been through some shit, but at least they didn't end up immersed in the knowledge that a very fucking large subset of humanity is probably never going to see them as human. Unfortunately, that means that both of them are looking at you expectantly, like they think you have any kind of answers whatsoever.

Well, maybe you have answers, but you don't have the ability to articulate them. Not right now, anyway. But Davesprite accepts your noncommital shrug, and Davepeta follows suit (after a brief attempt to open their mouth for further questioning, curtailed by a wingsmack delivered by Davesprite.) That reminds you... "So you guys think this oughta be a no."

"I think you should check it out."

"Hey, bro? What the fuck happened to furry solidarity?" Davepeta finishes off the half-rhetorical question with a whine and a grumble, rolling off your lap and onto the floor to pull a disgusted face in their brother's direction.

Davesprite blows them a probably-deserved raspberry. "The same thing that happened to it when we were voting on whether or not to teach Neet how to use a ouija board, dumbass—I had an opinion."

"I still say we should have at least tried to teach her—crows are like, made to contact the dead—"

"Yeah, sure, but why the fuck would you even wa—"

"Guys? Off topic." Hoo boy. These two share a big chunk of your DNA; you're forced to accept the fact that you are almost certainly like this too. "So it's a no from Davepeta, yes from Davesprite. Dirk? Hal?" ...and they're not paying attention. "Yo. I'm taking votes on what I oughta do here?"

Dirk looks up, blinking like he doesn't know exactly where he is. (He might not.) "The school seems legit, as far as we can dig up. I vote yes."

"Yeah, of course you would." Hal grimaces. "Everything looks fine, yes, but it feels skeevy. I vote no."

Dammit. Still tied. "D? Ambrose?"

"I think the letter's totally fake, so I'm gonna vote yes just so we can go check this shit out and make Amby shut the fuck up—" D has more to say, that's obvious, but before he can say it Ambrose rolls his eyes and steps around (fast but not mutant fast; you don't even feel the familiar tingle of anxiety that even this merely human speed would have triggered a couple months ago) to get behind D, muzzling him into indignant muffled with a hand clamped down over his mouth.

"Who's gonna shut the fuck up, again? Seems like it's you, big bro—"

D squawks and jerks his head back to smack into Ambrose's chin. That one, you do wince at, but Ambrose was expecting that enough to rock back with the impact and avoid a bloody lip. And to turn loose of D before he decides to try a different, more successful trick.

If they weren't both grinning, you'd probably just let the voting end, but they are, so... "Ambrose? Thoughts?"

He just shrugs, laying any fears of another fucking tied vote to rest. "You do what you want, kiddo, but I wanna ride along. Just in case."

Despite the fact that you can literally run circles around Ambrose in a fight, the fact that he's gonna be this protective of you is...pretty damn reassuring. Even if everything's gonna be completely normal and fine.