Talent Scout

Ambrose:

Okay, so you've just learned that mutant powers are only kind of like riding a bike. Like, sure, you've been deprived of the ability to do your cool shit for a while and you still totally remember how—like riding a bike—but you may have kinda forgotten how to stop doing it. Or when to stop doing it. Or where. Something like that.

You probably have a concussion now, on top of whatever neurological damage comes with too much electricity too close to your brainstem. God, the kids are gonna just drop you off at the hospital once all this is over and you won't even be able to argue your way out of it.

But hey, it's not over yet, so you need to quit your goddamn whining and get your ass up off the floor.

"Ah—shit." Yeah, your first try doesn't really go that well; you get halfway up and go right back down again. Maybe you should put that wall in front of you to good use, right?

"Oh look, he's alive." (Why the hell does Dirk have to sound so halfway dissatisfied with that.) "Has anyone ever told you that you suck at following simple directions?"

"I got a head injury, fuck off." It takes you a couple more seconds to steady yourself enough that you feel okay with turning to check out how everyone who isn't you is doing. When you do, you're forced to come to terms with the fact that none of them are really doing that much better than you are.

Dirk: sword out, back pressed against Hal's close enough that they might be one kid in a mirror rather than two. They're both doing the bladed-weapon version of holding two old dudes at gunpoint; you feel like Hal's got that sword a lil' too close to the throat of the guy in the wheelchair, but then again, you have a head injury. Your bro: struggling to break the headlock the vaguely familiar brunette has him in, with no discernible effect. Davesprite: nowhere to be seen, which is vaguely worrisome because you're ninety percent sure that he came through right after you. Roxy: also nowhere to be seen, but that's barely even a worry; odds are she's back on the other side of her portal keeping an eye on things over there. Or something.

Dave: on the floor with his hands over his ears. Shit.

You probably shouldn't move as fast as you do; it makes things spin a little bit as you drop to your knees in front of him and reach for his shoulders. The collar's gone so you have to remind yourself to keep the movement of shaking him small and gentle (don't move fast don't hurt him don't scare him) and just enough to get him to open his eyes and see that he's not here alone.

Which he does, after a second. (Your second. Not his. You don't know how long it is for him.) Dave's eyes open, flick from you to what's behind you back to you too fast to really track; then he shudders under your hands, closes his eyes again and gropes in his jacket pocket for something.

Doesn't push your hands away, though. Doesn't try to make you let go. So you don't.

The something that he's digging for turns out to be his phone; you can't even see his fingers as he types something out on it. Maybe half a second after he gets it out of his pocket, D's phone chimes with an incoming text.

"Let me get that—"

"Uh, no? No way am I turning you loose—"

"What the hell do you think I'm gonna do, kill you with my phone? If he's texting me there's a damn good reason—"

You're starting to think maybe you need to get up and deal with this shit, but then again Dave's actually leaning against you and maybe D can sort shit out himself? Maybe he can come to some kind of agreement with the woman currently holding him against his will? Maybe—yeah, no, you're being a wishful dumbass. Get the fuck up.

"Julia."

It's the guy Dirk's threatening who speaks. The one who ain't in a wheelchair, the one with the weirdass headgear. One word, and the woman lets go of your bro like his skin's burning her.

He almost falls, too, overbalanced from struggling against her grip. There isn't a lot of grace in the way he manages to catch himself, but a little more in the nod he gives her and the mumbled "Thanks," as he fishes his phone out of his pocket to check the message.

God damn D's slow. "Bro."

"What?"

"Gimme." Taking your hands off Dave isn't something you really feel like doing, but you do it anyway in order to make grabby hands at your brother until he rolls his eyes and tosses the phone in an easy underhand arc.

(Everyone in the room other than Dave tenses up. You guess you should have thought this through a lil' better, but no one actually acts on anything before you catch the damn thing, so you guess it's alright.)

The text is short and simple and tells you exactly what you need to know; you read the single word out without even thinking about it. "'Telepath.' Ah, fuck."

"Shit." Dirk's sword actually wavers downwards for a second; you see it happening and feel yourself tense up with the expectation that the man he's holding at swordpoint is going to take advantage of it, that you'll have to move and keep anything bad from happening.

All that happens is that the man's pale blue eyes flick to you for a fraction of a second and his mouth quirks up in a knowing smile. Hey, what the fuck?

"I vote for Mister Helmet as the telepath." As soon as you say it you know you're wrong; all three people who aren't related to you make assorted noises of disgust. The woman who was holding D—Julia—is the loudest; you shift Dave to lean against you a lil' differently so you can twist around and glare at her. "Hey, I'm workin' on guesswork and head injuries here; be fuckin' nice."

At least she has the decency to look ashamed at that, since some of those injuries are definitely her fault. Well, she looks ashamed for maybe ten seconds, anyway. "So you thought Magneto was the telepath? Not, I don't know, Mister X here?"

"Professor," the guy in the wheelchair feels the need to correct her. He's immediately confronted by three sets of glares—yours, Julia's, and Magneto's. It doesn't seem to phase him. "Xavier, not X."

Xavier. Wait, you know that name.

D beats you to the association, though. "Fuck. You're the one who sent the letter."

Fuck. "Hey, Hal?"

"Not now, Ambrose."

"Yes fucking now, actually—get him the fuck out of here before I remember how legs work 'n fuckin' throttle him."

"That's hardly fair. After all, it certainly wasn't I who waylaid you."

Helmet douche—no, Magneto scoffs, waving a hand irritably and somehow sending Dirk's sword flying out of his grip and across the room to embed itself point-first in the far wall. You don't think you've ever seen that kind of power up close and personal before. "Your driver was the one who decided to crash the car rather than be taken peacably, Charles."

"As if you ever intend to do anything peacably."

"We defend ourselves. And we defend others from your machinations—"

Okay, no one is taking your threats seriously. "Hey, what part of 'get the fuck out' do you not understand?"

You don't think you've ever had someone give you as contemptous a look as the telepath favors you with now. Part of the experience does in fact owe itself to the fact he is a telepath—you feel that shit, a wave of his disdain flooding into your brain with enough force to send a new ache up into your already-abused skull. "If you hadn't noticed, my transportation is noticably absent."

"I don't believe he was conscious long enough to notice Kurt," Magneto points out. It's probably supposed to come across as helpful. You do not find it particularly helpful.

"I don't give a fuck where you go," you explain as patiently as you feel capable of being (so not very) "but here ain't an option, you dumb motherfucker—Dave ain't comin' back to normal time until there ain't any chance of someone diggin' in his head. So get the fuck out, before I decide to get rid of you some other way."

Right now, that's kind of an empty threat—you don't think you're gonna win even against a man in a wheelchair. Then again...there's Dirk, and Hal, and D, and probably Julia if you ask her nicely. Professor X either doesn't realize the second part of that, or doesn't care, because he doesn't show any signs whatsoever of moving even when Hal moves his katana a half-inch closer, just barely not touching skin.

Shit's about to get bloody, you think, and some part of you feels bad about that but the rest of you is pissed enough to welcome it. With that mindset, it's probably a good thing that you're down here on the floor with Dave sitting this shit out, instead of participating directly.

However, the escalation of the situation pauses abruptly, interrupted by Magneto rolling his eyes and making a single sharp gesture that sends Hal's sword to thunk into the wall beside Dirk's. Both of the twins take that as a cue to dive for the weapons, leaving him with the perfect opening to take two steps to Xavier's side, take his dumbass helmet off, and settle it onto the other man's bald head.

From the absolutely poisonous look that Xavier's giving him through this whole process, you're guessing this has some deeper meaning than a simple transfer of headwear, but it wholly escapes you. It doesn't escape Dave, though; he inhales a sharp breath, faster than his already sped-up breathing pattern, and his head comes up to focus on the two old men.

Then he gives himself a lil' shake, looks up at you and blinks twice, and just like that he's back in synch with you again.

"Dave—"

Now would be the time to ask if he's okay. Apologize, probably, although what for does escape you at the moment. Dave does not give you time to do either of those things; he drops his phone and lunges for you, arms looping around you and making you wince as he brushes against some of the worse burns at the nape of your neck.

"Ambrose, holy shit—"

"Kid—"

"—thought you were dead, jesus fuck, thought they killed you, the collar—"

Oh yeah, the collar's gone. You're gonna have to ask him what he wants to do about that later, but right now— "Kid, for the love of fuck ease up a lil', alright?"

"Oh, shit." You didn't really mean for him to let go of you completely, but that's what he does, pulling back to look you over with a fuckton more anxiety than you like in his eyes. "How bad?"

"Probably not as bad as you."

"Shut the fuck up, I'm fine already—Hal, how bad is he hurt?"

Your current position gives you a perfect line of sight to glare at Hal in what you're hoping is an obvious keep your god damn mouth shut way. Either it's not, or he chooses to be a lil' shit.

"Temporary brain damage and second-degree burns. Don't touch his neck for a while, keep an eye out for any cranial bleeding, he'll be okay."

"Second degree burns? Ambrose, what the shit?" Dave groans and puts one hand just under your chin to get you to tip your head back. He doesn't actually touch the affected skin, but the movement still makes you grit your teeth to keep from yelping. "Fuck, nobody got first aid shit on him?"

"We were a lil' occupied," you point out as intelligibly as you can with your head tipped back like this. "That's enough looking, 'kay, Dave? Please?" Yes, you are just about begging right now.

"Yeah, okay, but I'm gonna make Roxy give us a portal to a hospital."

"Uh-huh, yeah, sure." Anything to get him to turn you loose. Which he does in another second; you don't miss the look on his face when you wince at how tipping your head forward again changes the stress on the burns. "Kid, 'm not dying."

"Not currently," Dirk amends, finally wrenching his katana out of the wall. "How about we get the fuck away from these idiots? Show of hands?"

You raise your hand. Dave groans and raises both hands, which doesn't really surprise you. D raises one hand, frowns, and puts it back down.

"What, D?"

"We came here with four kids, not three."

Ohhhh shit. "Davesprite?"

"Yeah, he—"

Apparently, teleportation makes a noise. A soft one, like a folder full of paper hitting a carpeted floor, but it's still enough to get everyone's attention on the surprisingly blue guy who's just popped into existance next to Xavier. Poor guy looks like he's been through some shit in the last ten minutes or so—he's bleeding from several sets of slashes that've torn through his shirt and the skin beneath, dark hair obviously more disheveled than it started out, sharp teeth showing as he pants in either exhaustion or panic.

Maybe both, actually, since he's got Davesprite latched onto him like a pit bull on a bear, right down to the bared teeth and soft growling. You're proud of the kid; not a lot of people understand the importance of holding on with both arms and legs, and how to do it without cutting off enough of their ride's airflow to start him panicking.

Magneto raises an eyebrow. "Kurt, you seem to have lost a battle here."

"Please just get him off of me."

If you were in a lil' less pain or a lil' less punch-drunk, you'd probably be interested in the accent the guy's got going there. As things are, something about the tone—pleading and exasperated and fully aware of the innate ridiculousness of the situation—hits you as funny.

Dave's eyes go wide and concerned when you double over and start laughing; a second later you feel both his hands and a second, smaller pair that obviously belong to Davesprite on your shoulders. And yeah, you should sit the fuck up and be an adult right now, but you know what?

You have a fucking head injury and, at some point, you really do have to laugh.

D:

It takes a lot longer than you like to get Ambrose up off the floor and through the portal with Dave and Davesprite; as soon as they're through it dissolves back into the wall. Even though you know that's supposed to happen—Roxy can't keep two portals open and stable at the same time, not without putting a hell of a lot more strain on herself than you're willing to allow here, and Ambrose does need to go to the fucking hospital, like, now—it's still vaguely anxiety-inducing.

Hal and Dirk aren't worried about it at all, though. Or at least they don't look like they are, which you know very well is not the same thing...but it's not just blankness covering shit up that you're seeing from the two of them, it's fury that Dirk's only sort of bothering to hide and Hal's not even trying to cover up at all.

At least they're not acting on anything, though.

As soon as you have that thought, Hal looks from you, to Dirk, says, "Forty seconds," and they both turn to Magneto and Xavier in that eerie synchronicity that means they're in total agreement about something. From all the other time you've seen it from them, that's bad.

Fuck. "Hey—"

"You need to understand something," Dirk says, perfectly calm, ignoring you and Hal and everything in the room but Xavier.

"You fucked up." Hal's just as focused on Magneto as his twin is on Xavier, but his tone matches Dirk's perfectly; you're used to it and it's still vaguely intimidating. "You really—"

"—really fucked up. You need to understand—"

"—that however valuable you think Dave is—"

"—however powerful you're assuming he might be, we're—"

"—capable of making fucking with him not worth it." Hal smiles. It's an excuse to show teeth. What you really expect here is for him to go for his katana; what he actually does is to take a quick step forward, dissolving into a Hal-shaped mass of sparks that you know can't keep its shape on its own for too long. Not that he has too long to sustain it; half a heartbeat and he follows through on the motion he started before shifting, phasing through Magneto and moving past him quick enough that you don't really track it.

God, you didn't know he could do that with anyone but Dirk. Not without killing them—and no, the old man's not dead. Visibly shaken, but not too much the worse for wear. You think. It's kind of hard to read the look on his face.

As Hal reforms as a flesh and blood being, Dirk draws his katana from the dumbass back sheath he spent a week making, leveling the blade to point at Xavier's face. (You can't really blame the guy for rolling the chair back a few inches, especially when you take into account the electric sparks dancing down the length of the blade.) "This isn't aimed exclusively at either of you, of course."

"It's definitely a blanket statement." Hal sidesteps around Mageneto, back to stand beside Dirk. "And anyone else you might be on speaking terms with. If you have a blacklist—"

"—put the Striders on it. We don't like—"

"—being manipulated." Electronic registers kick in on that last word; behind Xavier, Kurt jumps.

"We don't like being owned, either," Dirk adds. "Deadpool filled us in on the kind of shit you get mutant kids into, Professor." (This is the first you've heard of that.)

Despite having just had a sizable electric shock delivered to his whole fucking body and still having the threat of it happening again real and present and hanging over his head, Magneto has something to point out here. "I'm sure you realize that my goal—"

"Nope. Shut up." Hal nods at Dirk, who instantly swings around to point the sword at Magneto instead of Xavier. "There's this thing called a 'phone.' Use it, dumbass."

"Or don't." Dirk shrugs, a one-sided motion that doesn't affect the steadiness of his weapon at all. "What you did here? Don't fucking do that again. Ever."

"We're not going to sink to the level of threatening you here, don't worry." Hal flashes that smile again, crossing his arms. Beside him, Dirk reaches back to slide his katana back into its case and mirrors him. "I mean, think about it. Do we really need to tell you what we'd do?"

"It wouldn't be a threat even if we did," Dirk continues. "An ultimatum, maybe."

"Or a promise. A very simple one..."

"You fuck with any of us again, ever, and we destroy everything."

That's...one hell of a promise. If it wasn't the last statement in this whole insane conversation, maybe it'd come across as at least a little ridiculous. However, the most valuable trait that your kids inherited from you is an impeccable sense of timing; Dirk gets that last word out, and the black ink of Roxy's portal opens again on the far wall.

You want to laugh at how identical Dirk and Hal's posture is as they stalk over to the portal and disappear through it. Instead of doing that, you wave a slightly stupid-looking goodbye to the four people in the room and step through yourself.

The last thing that you see is Xavier grimancing and yanking the helmet off to toss it at Magneto. Eh, they can work their own differences out; it sure ain't your job.

Hal:

It's hours before you find a window where you're alone in the same room with Dirk, and even then it's just for a few moments. Still, that's enough to have the conversation the two of you need to have.

"He heals."

"Yeah."

"You know what that means."

"I'm not an idiot."

"I know. I'm not either."

The two of you stare at each other for a second or so. It's like looking in a mirror; you don't think anyone but you would know so exactly what the look on his face means, how the tiny tense lines around his mouth speak of the stress and worry and fear that both of you are feeling.

Then, "There's not really a lot we can do."

"True. Keep an eye on shit."

"Bug his accounts. The ones we didn't clean out after Wade brought Dave back."

"The ones we cleaned out, too. Just in case."

"All his usernames. Every account."

"Monitor it all. Nothing invasive."

"Yeah. Nothing he'll see if he is, you know."

Pause, again.

"...we're overreacting."

"Maybe."

"He's dead."

"Probably."

"...fuck."

"Yeah."

Then D's stepping back into the room, and the conversation's over.

For now, at least.