Challenge #00023: About a Girl
Scott and Sara’s father have a conversation about Sara, Todd, Jean, Duncan and life beyond being a mutant. Bonus if Sara herself makes an appearance.
Sam found him staring at nothing, leaning on a balcony rail and looking teen-serious, aka constipated. “You’re looking flabblegabbed. Sara happen to you?”
“Uh. Yes. Sir. Mr Adrien.”
“You can call me ‘Sam’ if it suits your fancy.” He joined the teen at leaning on the balcony rail. “Deep thoughts?”
“How the– How does she do it? One minute I’m mister sane and sensible, and the next I’m arguing her case and she has this… smile…” His fingers mimed a Cheshire grin.
That was his girl. “Sara has spent her life in the company of some very manipulative people. To her credit, she only uses those powers for others’ good.”
“Wait. So the Toad being here regularly is a good thing?”
Sam gave him a side-eye. “Given Sara’s description of Mr Tolenski,” he took care to emphasise the boy’s real name, “I’d say he was one good samaritan away from complete redemption.”
“But– he’s a thief. A punk.”
“A kid who had both his parents die in an unfortunate event, was pushed about from pillar to post in the foster system before winding up in the thrall of a really bad alleged carer…?”
Scott, who had exactly the same story, glared. “I get it. His story is my story too. The only difference is he–”
“–was not found by the Professor. Did not have what you gained. His story could still have been your story.”
“…there but for the grace of God…”
“Or, at the very least, the Professor and his pet experiment.”
“So Sara is playing Professor for Todd?”
Sam nodded, more at Scott getting the name right than in agreement. “I’d say more… good samaritan. Helping because she sees the potential future for Todd. A future you’ve already gained.”
Scott shivered. “I dunno if she *can*…”
“How long did it take you to overcome your own bad experiences?”
“It took me… oh God… Two *years* to quit hoarding food in my room. I still keep a can of spam and a packet or three of tic-tacs for good luck.”
“And Mr Tolenski is showing remarkable progress in comparison. He’d much rather spend time with Sara than -say- lift anyone’s wallets.”
Scott checked his pockets. “Yeah. Guess.”
Such little faith. “At least extend him the courtesy of knowing where he is by virtue of having been there?”
“That’s a very Sara way of saying it.”
“I’m proud to say I taught her everything I know.” _And that may be your last warning._
“Hrmph…” Scott looked out into nothing for some time. Finally saying, “Why do women always wind up with the jerks?”
“Speaking as a married jerk,” Sam began with a hint of amusement, “I’d have to say I have no idea. Nobody’s a jerk inside their own head. Therefore jerkdom has to be bestowed by others. And, I do believe, everyone’s a jerk to *someone*. My best guess is, the lady doesn’t see the jerkdom. Only that which can be redeemed with differing amounts of effort.”
“Mmmrrrh…”
“But then I’m no expert. My own lady of choice chose to pull against progress rather than push towards it. And I became a jerk by leaving her to do it.”
“I thought jerkdom was bestowed by others?”
“I did indeed say so. But does it make me more or less a jerk to recognize that I’ve done horrible things via bad choices?”
“I’d say not recognizing it is the jerkitude.”
Companionable silence for a moment.
“What’s her name?” asked Sam.
“Who?”
“The lady you have your eye on who happens to be with the jerk.”
Sigh. “Jean.”
“Ah, yes. The famous Jean Grey. Jacquelline…” sigh. His heart still hurt at her name. At the thought of the potential rift between them. “…admires her accomplishments.”
“I admire more.”
“Hmm?” A young man in that state did not need much in the way of encouragement.
“I love the way she sings along with the radio. I love the way she hip-dances when she cooks. I love watching her eat. It’s so… graceful. I love the way she combs her hair, the thousand little things she does. I love her strength, her power… the way she can take a picture of just anything and turn it into beauty and… I just wish she’d see me 'that way’. Instead of some goofy brother or something.”
“Would you win her, if you could?”
“Uh. Jean’s a woman, not a tchotchke at the fun fair? I’d much rather win the honour of having her decide to stay with me.”
“Noble way of putting it.”
“Yeah. Noble. It’s kinda like being the 'nice guy’ only with less of the creeperdom. And more invisible for it.”
“Her choices are hers. You respect her enough to let them remain so. You can’t love every part of her and exclude the one part where she acts independently of you.”
“Even when she chooses to go out with Duncan Matthews.” The way he said that name with a sneer told the rest of the story.
“I’ve heard about him, too. Though less glowingly from everyone else except Jean and Jacquelline.”
“He thinks he can get away with it because he’s a football star…”
“And society will let him maintain that illusion until such time as he stops being so. And like all illusions, it will soon leave disharmony in its wake.”
“Not soon enough for me…”
“Amen to that thought, gentlemen,” said Sara, scaring them both out of their skins. “Alas, such things can not be made to happen.”
“And don’t start working on it, my little Machiavelle,” teased Sam.
“Also, it’s dinnertime. Coming down?”
“Of course.”
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(#00021)
“This is strictly arts and crafts, you understand?”
“Yes, Sara,” intoned Forge in the tired mien of someone who’d been through this before.
“*Just* the available materiel.”
“Yes, Sara.”
“No wibbly-wobbly jiggery-pokery.”
Sigh. “Yes Sara.”
“And no tricky little gadgets to speed up the process.”
“Yes, Sara.”
“Todd, darling, you may frisk him.”
“Man. I thought you said this would be fun,” said Forge as Toad’s clammy hands got way too personal in his space.
“I’m still living the consequences of your last episode of ‘fun’. mister Walkingbird…”
Forge winced. Names had power and his full name had the power to make him want to dig himself into a deep, deep hole until it went away. And Sara had somehow found it out.
“Shuttingupandbehavingmyself,” he managed.
“Good.” Sara’s ruffled feathers appeared to settle. Despite the fact that she didn’t actually possess feathers.
It never paid to be too metaphorical around mutants.
“This is compound A. We mix it with these ingredients in this order. This is compound B. We mix it with those ingredients in that order. Don’t mix them until we’re ready. These are lumps of clay with the precise volume of said finished compound once it is done. We do not borrow clay from anyone else’s pile.”
“Yes’m.”
“Over here on the wall is my articulation to clay volume chart. Do not remove it. You will design something horrific to pop out of a locker and *ONLY* that. Are we understood?”
“Yes’m”
*
Five hours later…
“TOLSTOY BEAUTEOUS-DAWN WALKINGBIRD!”
“I didn’t do it!”
“Prove it!”
“Do it, yo,” advised Todd. “'Fore she kills yo’.”
“I thinkIbetterrun…”
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(#00019)
It was a dark and -o god- stormy night. The bums that usually cleared out five minutes before the little tip saucer appeared on their table hung around and actually dropped change on the saucer.
Pennies, for the most part. The occasional nickel, crying because it was alone. And one ancient-looking coin and a string of cowrie shells.
Aisha freshened up the weirdo’s coffee and said, “We prefer legal tender, here.” The coin was surprisingly heavy and almost disgustingly filthy.
“That coin,” slurred the bum, “could buy this whole block. ‘Sgotmy face on it.”
“Sure it does,” smiled Aisha, subconsciously checking her avenues for escape. She had to take it, because otherwise the bum would forget the money - or in this case, filthy old junk - actually belonged to Aisha and take it back.
“It is also a powerful totem against lightning.”
_It’s a good thing we only serve coffee after hours…._ At the risk of repeating herself, she said, “Sure it is,” and scraped some of the filth off. Some really old imagery. “This is a very weird picture of… Thor? Isn’t he s'posed'a have a hammer, not a spear?”
“Thor. Ha!” Thunder punctuated their conversation, as if objecting to the outmoded blasphemy. “Thor gets all the freaking credit. Followers. Comic books. Movies. Now he’s swanning around like Fabio and more 'me me me’ than backstage at the opera. *Thor*…”
“Oh… kay. I needed a reminder why it’s never a good idea to chat with customers. Thanks for that.”
“There are older gods. Better gods. Purer gods. From the first places! We came before *any* of those simpering posers from the north. Or the east.”
None of the other bums seemed interested in rescuing her. Or calling for more coffee. Or fake-calling for more coffee in order to rescue her. _It’s official. Chivalry is dead._ “Of course there are.”
“Ancient. Like that coin. They say Croesos invented coins, because he is whiter than those who did invent them. Just like they have Thor instead of the mighty Shango!”
“Shango? My nanna used to tell me about Shango…” Aisha checked the coin again. That wasn’t a badly-rendered breastplate. Those were badly-rendered breasts. Shango the Thunder Queen. Who split the air with her spears of light.
…amongst many other unlikely things…
“Thor has all the attention. Thor has all the glory. Thor has fucking comic books… But he is only pretend, compared to the mighty Shango!” Another thunder crash.
Pops, scrubbing away at the grille, stared through the service window at Aisha, who made desperately covert bail-me-out signals.
“I used to have the adoration of thousands. Thousands!”
“Poor you,” sighed Aisha.
Pops smirked and shook his head and shrugged. Pops-sign for “I’m not doing jack until there’s a fight.”
_Thanks a bunch, Pops._
“Now, I am lucky to have a few hundred who even know my name.”
“Poor you,” sighed Aisha.
One of the bums hanging out at the bar decided that outside was starting to look better than inside.
“I have been searching for a real warrior. Someone who cn stand to fight the battle ahead. A champion among champions.”
“GreatIhopeyoufindhim.”
“Him?” The weirdo laughed, and outside, a cacophany of thunder almost obliterated the sound. “No man is equal to a woman. Especially a young woman. Not even if he knows my name.”
Weirder and weirder. “Uh. What?”
“No man alive has the magic to grow another human inside him. No man has been born who can withstand the fight to bring a life into the world. No man can bear the brunt of menses like a woman can. He is simply not strong enough. No. You, Aisha. You are the champion I seek.”
The dirty hoodie slipped open during her speech. Shango. Old and withered, but still recognisably Shango. With her hair knotted into complicated buns on either side of her head.
Nanna once told Aisha that they were for knocking sense into her allies when they argued too long.
“And so they are, when I am close to you.”
The dirty old umbrella by her side was looking less and less umbrella-like by the minute. And Shango actually looked a little more… vitalized.
“Why me?”
“Because you know me. Because there is a part of you that believes. Because you look at these pale, sad men that have been made into gods and wish that just once, they would show someone like you in a position of power.”
“…more than once would be better…” mumbled Aisha.
“How about the opportunity to be a champion… every day?”
Most of the surviving imagery flew into her head. “Uhm. I wouldn’t have to run around in a skin-tight outfit with my boobs hanging out, would I?”
“Only if that pleases you.”
“No… I think that’d get the wrong kind of attention.” Aisha lowered her voice to a whisper as she sat opposite the ancient African goddess. “Way too many men.”
The mighty Shango grinned. “I was right to choose you. You will do well.”
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(#00016)
Shayde winced as she filtered the young lizard girl’s enthusiastic babbling through her own understanding.
Yikes.
This kid had the worst case of wishful listening Shayde had ever seen.
“Danny…”
“Maybe I can take you to see the storm aurora. It only happens outside the left tail section for some reason? Oh! Wait. There’s like a historical theatre thing? Sometimes they do recreation shows, sometimes they show the old-style cinema stuff? It’s totally retro-cool.”
“Danny.”
“You could tell what was new and old from when you left? That’d like, be such a help on my thesis. How storytelling developed alongside technology in the pre-shattering era.”
“Danny!”
“What?”
“This isn’t a proper date. I never said it was.”
“But you said you thought–”
Life on the other side of let-down street wasn’t as simple as she’d thought it was, ten years and a million experiences ago. Shayde strangled a ‘you’re a good kid but…’ before it could form itself on her tongue.
“I made a mistake. I assumed things based on our text chats. And you’ve been assumin’ for the past twenty minutes, based on one word.”
Danny deflated. “I… thought we were getting along…”
“Have ye never had someone desperate to tell you every last detail about something they love beyond reason, but you’re bored stiff by? And have ye never wanted to avoid breakin’ their poor heart?”
“Oh, like Lyn Wikozt. Every day she has to tell me the latest thing this singer she likes has done? And what it means to her continued existence? And she just talks and talks and you can’t tell her you don’t wanna hear… about… Oh.”
Shayde summoned a smile despite the funereal mood descending on their group. “Clever girl.”
“…'msorryiwastedyourtime…”
“Na. Don’t feel bad about it. I know, right now, that’s a wee bit like tellin’ water not to be wet…”
Half a giggle.
“The best relationships are between people with equal standing, aren’t they? They make the best kind o’ teams. That’s why Superman never really got t’ stay with Lois Lane. It’s why lots of heroes are single. Wi’ great power comes a really sucky datin’ pool.”
A genuine smile.
“The most important bit is having someone ye can talk to… and listen to. You’ll find that someone. Maybe they’ve always been there. Maybe they’re just around the next corner. But when you do find 'em… tell 'em ye had tae break my heart.”
[Want your own story? Submit a prompt or ask a question!]
Challenge #00013: Verdammt!
Kurt has laundry duty for the first time. Static cling problems ensue :3
Ororo should have known she was in trouble when she saw Kurt wandering the grounds with the laundry basket an obvious weight in his cerulean arms.
“Is there a problem?”
“Ja! Where the washing line ist? I looked everywhere, und… nothing.”
Washing line? “You didn’t see the dryer?”
“Uh. Dryers are expensive, ja? The sun and wind is free.”
Ororo gave up, dropping her voice to a whisper. “We don’t have a washing line. Come on, I’ll show you how the dryer works.”
Kurt took so easily to modern technology that it was hard to remember he came from a tiny mountain town that still had cobblestones on the streets. And a blacksmith who, according to Kurt’s own tall tales, made shoes for the four-footed half of the population.
It was only in moments like this that the culture shock even showed. And in the questions he asked.
“Must I separate the colours and whites?”
“What are the little balls for?”
“Must the dryer sheets be washed first, also?”
“Where is the delicates setting?”
“Is there a powder? Or a bar?”
This was a boy who she had to stop from using a cheese grater and soap in the washing machine. And, she couldn’t help noticing, used the word ‘unglaublich’ a little too often. Still, after some entertaining side-trips down the labyrinthine lanes of confusion, all seemed sorted enough for her to get back to pruning her roses.
It was almost dinner time when unfortunate events once again made themselves suspect.
“Where’s blue? growled Logan. "He’s skipped out on gym.”
“What?” said Jean. “He was a dozen words a second on the whole idea.”
“I think I heard him swearing in the laundry room,” added Scott. “I think it was swearing. Kinda hard to tell with German.”
Ororo followed Logan down to the laundry where, indeed, soft teutonic curses were turning the air as blue as the speaker, albeit in another language.
Unfortunately for Ororo, she understood every word. She stormed past Logan with a perfect German, “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” perched on her lips. She even took a deep breath as she approached the threshold.
That breath came out in helpless laughter.
“Verdammt!”
Logan, perplexed and puzzled, rushed to look.
Kurt Wagner was literally wrestling with the folding. T-shirts stuck to his hocks, socks and jocks embraced his tail, an assortment of garments concealed his arms. There was even most of a negligee making him look lie some bizarre laundry-themed ninja.
Logan was the one to charge in and begin untangling. “Static cling,” he said. “It’s a bitch.”
Ororo battled the giggles as she pitched in. “I’m sorry,” she bleated. “You just looked–”
“Ridiculous,” supplied Kurt. “Please to be getting a hills hoist? The wind and sun don’t do this.”
[Want to see something different? Suggest something!]
Challenge me?
Pop a random phrase into my submissions box, or my ask, or even in the answer area below. All challenges will be answered. Just… not in order.
I will write a short story for every prompt given.
Anything goes.
Challenge me.
Challenge me?
Pop a prompt in my submit, my ask or an answer, and I will write a short fiction in due course.
I will answer every prompt.
You can even ask a question about my pet universe and get an answer and a fiction.
I need more prompts, people.
(#00012)
Much had changed. Mort was still shocked at most of it. All of it could be traced back to Sara. Sara, no longer plain but still tall. She’d grown two inches by slow degrees and every last atom from top to toe was pure delight. He had a name for every colour of every aqua-to-lapis scale/chromatophore on her delightful skin.
He had changed, too. He no longer hunkered in shadows. He spoke up when he felt wronged. He bathed regularly, thanks to Sara’s miracle concoction of a soapless soap. He dressed better, thanks to Sara’s tailoring skills and part-time hobby in design.
Thanks to Sara, he no longer had absolute faith in his own stupidity. He’d learned enough to overcome his fears of failure. He was a teacher. Working on a college degree.
And about to go on a date. One he paid for. With wages he earned. At his job.
All things that were not possible without her.
He adjusted the bow tie for the fiftieth time in his reflection in the foyer mirror. Making sure he was suitably dapper for the occasion. Opera Populaire and fine dining at Chez Ritzi.
His name for it. It still took half an hour of coaching to get him to pronounce the place, but it offered the best of all possible worlds. Food as art. Plenty enough for both their metabolisms. No alcohol. Something new for Sara to experience. And, most important to Mortimer, something she truly deserved.
Time was ticking closer. He’d already peed and almost thrown up more times than he could count. His heart was hammering in his chest from old fears and PTSD inspired horror-shows in the back of his mind.
He adjusted the tilt of his top hat for the empty-billionth time.
“Stop it, you’re perfect.”
Mortimer turned and gaped. Sara.
Only his inner eye supplied a halo. She wore basic black. Culottes and a fitted top halfway between Victorian chic and hippie chick. When she moved, gracefully descending like a supermodel, it contained a galaxy. The cloak and muff, currently dangling like a clutch purse in one aqua hand, only accentuated her style. Both a deep vermillion velvet. The white faux-fur trim on the cloak only made everything else pop.
“…hglblf'x…” he burbled happily. Inside, his secret self was imitating Fred Estaire and singing like Michael Bublé. She came, she loves me, she’s spending time with me! I’m worthy of her tiiiiiiime! And so on.
“Thank you,” Sara blushed. “You’re looking suitably asd'f'k'k'jargle, yourself.”
Her hair, pretty much uncut since her exile from her home, two years and a hundred better experiences ago, was done up in something technically complicated and deceptively simple. The hair still loose from such elegant restraint fell in artful curls.
The only jewellery she wore was a pair of art-neuvaux earrings and the engagement ring he’d given her. It just made her sparkle more.
He offered his elbow. “Milady, our carriage awaits.”
It was an Eco-Limo. Just the right balance of style and responsibility. Just what she’d appreciate.
*
The maitre d’ had evidently not been briefed about “Chez Ritzi’s” two most generous supporters. Mortimer shared a Look with Sara.
It said, Let’s leave the money ‘till last, eh?
“We respectfully submit that madame and m'seur would be… more comfortable in a private booth,” repeated the maitre d’.
Sara pitched her voice to reach the cheap seats. Or comparatively-cheap-seats. “Are you telling me you’re refusing full service to people of colour?”
Mortimer sprained something trying not to grin like the cheshire cat after finding the canary in the cream. He knew everyone was staring and put on his best Posh British Tones.
“We paid for full service and we expect to receive what we paid for. Old chap.”
Sara hid her face. Her shoulders were shaking. To the judging, watching clientele, it looked like she was crying. Only Mortimer would be able to tell she was stifling giggles.
Honestly, this sort of thing happened nine times out of ten, every time they went here.
Mortimer decided the maitre d’ had shrunk half a foot. “Are you going to admit you’re overcharging based on the colour of our skin, serve us properly… or are we going to have a discussion with your manager?”
A few high-pitched noises escaped her throat. Thankfully, none of them sounded gigglish.
“Nothatwon'tbenecessary,” rushed the maitre d’. “Follow me madame et m'seur. I shall take you to your booked table.”
“Calmly, now, my love,” said Mortimer, taking her elbow. “It’s all been sorted.”
Sara spent the trip to their table desperately wiping the grin off her face.
Bubba-Jo was probably going to visit, which generally caused a stir because his fashion sense and grooming made him look like some unearthly combination of rastafarian beach bum and homeless hobo. His appearance in the public space of his own restaurant caused an inevitable fluster of hushed conversation because he looked like the exact opposite of someone who owned a place called Huattifoq.
Sara had told him that forgoing the new-hire breifing was a bad idea. Bubba-Jo did have to learn his lessons thoroughly and well.
“Do you think he’s salvageable, dear?” Sara asked after she’d been seated.
“I b'lieve he can learn. Bubba’s gonna have t’ get back on new hire duty.”
*
“…because I looove you sincerely…. Mommy dearest…” Sara sang.
“Nellie Brighton you ain’t.” Mortimer laughed. It was snowing and the limo was taking the long way home. Their arms were entwined and they both leaned on each other on a satisfied way.
“It’s taken me this long to learn how to sing in my own voice.”
“An’ I love the Sara version to pieces,” he said honestly. He sighed. “Marry me?”
“I believe I already said 'yes’ to that. And I also believe we’re finally doing something about it. Tomorrow afternoon.”
Tomorrow afternoon, when the light turned the grounds of Xavier academy into a winter wonderland. And when Kurt was free between classes to officiate a ceremony that managed to satisfy an atheist and a man who only worshiped his bride.
The only problem was stopping Bobby from going nuts with the decorations. And preventing Jacqui from becoming a bridezilla-by-proxy.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow!
“Happy birthday for tomorrow, Babe.”
“See you at our little chapel.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
They kissed all the way back home.
Challenge me?
Posting fanfic isn’t going to help me be a better writer [New year’s resolution#1: Work to improve myself] but it is going to attract my old fans, which means more readers. I need readers :)
So. Along side the fanficcery that promises to become a long-standing tradition in this blog [over 100 fanfics, remember?] I am going to accept challenges from my audience. Send me a springboard/prompt. A favourite phrase, a title of some media you love, ask a question about my pet universe[chronicled partially here], even an In-a With-a While-a*.
I will concoct a drabble or a short story right here on my blog. Just for you.
*In-a With-a While-a is a game from Theatre Sports, where actors improvised a scene based on “in a [Place] with a [anything, really] while a [event]”. Short stories concocted this way may be ‘Plot-What-Plot’s. You have been warned.
Questions may be answered factually as well as fictionally. You get to decide which is which. You can use my Ask box, Submissions box or use an answer. I don’t mind either.
This challenge will be reposted when I’ve run out of springboards.
Challenge #00011: One Fine Day at Genracon (rebloggable by request)
Evoverse or Flotsamverse: The X-Men go to a con, in cosplay or out (Kurt keeps getting compliments on his “costume” regardless). Geeking out and crime-fighting ensue.
(#00011)
“He’s gone to ground in something called jen-ra-con,” The Professor frowned. “Either I’m getting a lot of static or… something is wrong. Nobody there looked at all human.”
Sara glared at him. “You’re kidding me. This high a concentration of freaks and weirdos and none of you has heard of Genracon? The biggest month-long geek-out known to fandomkind?”
“I heard of it,” said Kurt.
“Trek, who, scape, wars or five?” challenged Sara.
“I understood each of those words,” said Hank, “but together they make no sense at all.”
“They’re speaking in tongues,” whispered Kitty. “It like, makes sense to them.”
“All of the above, some FF, and a britcom called Red Dwarf,” answered Kurt.
Sara grinned. “Got a costume?”
“Mind OC’s? Because this body generally gets typecast…”
“I could probably turn you into a cursed elfin mage with half of my culch…”
“Babe, you could turn *everyone* into somepin’ with yo'r culch,” said Todd.
“Challenge accepted.” Sara grinned and cracked her knuckles.
“…uh oh…”
*
“I can not believe we’re doing this,” said Jean. She was wearing the two-part Next-generation costume. A series she at least recognized and could pass most of the general knowledge questions. Her brief was to play the ditzy first-timer to the hilt.
“Sara is… very persuasive.” He was currently a klingon. He didn’t know what to say to her comments that he ‘had the wrong body type for Davros’.
“I do have to say her costume choices for us are… skewed,” noted Ororo. She wore a regal satin dress that had been augmented with occult-looking jewelry and a cloak. The staff she carried with her had some interesting augmentation as well.
“I’d say it has something to do with revenge on male-centric costuming choices in general and using us as placards.” He had a ratty-looking loincloth and a fang necklace with similarly-decorated ugg boots. Everything else was bare.
“At least y'all know who you are. Ah dunno if I’m Morticia or Elvira…”
“Given those nails?” said Hank, “I’d posit you were Vampira, of Plan Nine fame.”
“…who from whut?”
“…oy…”
“At least I can wear mine on the street,” said Scott. He came off as a rather weedy Terminator.
“Apparently we’re going on the street like this anyway. Part of an activity called 'freaking the mundanes’…” said Hank.
The elevator opened, revealing Kurt in piratical getup. “Sara changed her mind. There’s already a mage in the party and this is more… 'me’.”
“Those had better be nerf swords…”
“…'estheyare…”
Kitty, in a different Starfleet uniform and an interesting bun, asked, “How do I look and like, who’s Captain Janeway?”
Another elevator pinged, allowing a tall figure in a concealing cloak to emerge.
Other con-goers, for some reason, hushed and readied their cameras.
The cloak swept of in one dramatic shove, revealing Sara, clad only in a few lengths of diaphanous drapery, an ornate headdress and apparently a small ton of jewelry.
“I AM THE LIZARD QUEEN!”
Todd emerged in cardboard armor, brandishing a redecorated super-soaker. “Show obeisance to her majesty!”
Hoots, cheers, and a sparkle of flashes.
“What?” said Jean.
“You should know by now that Sara is a master of obscure cinema. And getting ice-cold revenge.”
Indeed. Sara and her loyal guardsman were the centre of attention. Jean was just another redshirt in the crowd.
“Below zero kelvin,” Jean mumured.
*
“Can we take your photo?”
“Can I give you a hug?”
“Love the tail…”
Kurt grinned. “Ladies,” he threw his arms wide, “you can even kiss me.” Aw yeah. Chicks dig the fuzzy dude.
*
“Yo. So… what’re we doin’?"
"Aside from checking out the merch? We’re the obvious distraction. Kitty and Jean are the covert team. They’ll find our mutant miscreant and safely knock him out.”
“…and then?”
“And then I’m going to hassle John Barrowman and his kissing booth.”
“Giving him improv, I hope.”
“Improv… and with your permission, a squeeze on his ass.”