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Brightest Thunder-Bolts in the Darkest Storms; (Power Swap Plot)
Topic Started: Dec 18 2014, 09:35 AM (311 Views)
Cyclops
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Punches from the Punch Dimension
December 10th
Shortly After Hot Potatoes


Jean was taking care of their new world-upsetter, and Scott, despite the splitting headache that sudden telepathy was giving him, was set to take care of everyone else. Heading up from downstairs, he experimentally opened the floodgates in his mind, and he realized that for once the fact that his skull had been repeatedly prized open by mentalists throughout the years was a bonus. He had no real ability to block them from his minds, or to gain immediate control over these gifts that had nearly driven young Jean mad, but he was not a little girl jumpstarted into evolution by tragedy. He was an adult man, a strong and disciplined one, and he would weather this the way he weathered anything. Scott had suffered recently, and distantly, and while things seemed too insane now, he thought back to the fact that almost two years ago, he had been dead.

What was a headache compared to that?

The voices in his head overlapped and buzzed and doubled because of the vocality of the gathered students, Scott had the impression of being trapped in Times Square at New Year's eve, a decidedly uncomfortable venue for a man like him, solitary and unfriendly. But as he approached the cafetorium, began to work on learning to control this mass of thought and consciousness. Piece by piece, as he walked, step by step, as he thought, he built doors, attached to long walls that encircled his mind. Slamming the doors shut and filtering out the mundane thoughts and feelings that threatened to overwhelm him, by the time Scott got to the cafetorium, he was able to block most of the extraneous stimuli.

Taking a deep breath, Scott stepped through the doors and hurried up to the front of the room, noticing as he did those who had been changed and those who had not. The numbers of change was high... so high. Mr. Murphy was a danger, yes indeed he was.
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Xavier
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Telepathy
There was a time, back when this all began, that the man that stood in front of the school would not have believed that he would ever be able to do this. Scott Summers, age 15 and a half had been painfully awkward, terribly shy, and angry at the world, believing all the horrible things that had been said and done to him since his parents died. Scott would have been contented allowing Jonny or Hank or even Jean to lead this time, though he might still have balked at Warren, the two young men rivals before they were friends. Charles Xavier, however, had had different plans for Master Summers, and for his X-Men, and looking at Scott now, Scott once again as close to recovered from the horrors of walking death and enslavement as he ever would be, the Professor who had rescued him from a life of crime and misery knew he had been right about who Scott was.

In the face of such confusion, powers twisted and warped, the frightened thoughts of a hundred staff and students slicing through his mind, Scott Summers looked fairly calm and collected. His impassive face, and flat footed stance, did not speak of an attack, though his hurried gait spoke of the seriousness of what was happening.

"Is there a cause, Scott?" Xavier thought to his student who was no longer a spindly limbed boy who stooped so as not be noticed. "Is everything all right?"

Scott didn't answer at first, instead speaking quietly to Terry Rourke, Siryn, the school secretary, who had made herself very useful by cataloging those who had been swapped as they entered the cafetorium. She handed Scott the list and briefly explained her hurried shorthand, and he nodded, "Thank you, Terry."

The Professor smiled. Scott's use of the girl's first name was telling. He was a more social man that once he was but, still isolatory in so many ways, and he tended to distance himself from most people with the buffer of stiff formality. If Scott called you by your given name, or even more rare, a diminutive, it spoke volumes about how he felt about you. The Professor was becoming reacquainted with the students and the staff, and every small sign of connections he might have otherwise missed, meant he was coming closer to reclaiming his place.

Once the busy work was done, Scott glanced to the Professor, his sideways glance a little odd to see given the lack of visor, and he thought, "It's a new student's doing. Powerful kid. We're going to need to get him under control and fast."

The Professor gave a single nod and then indicated the platform at the front of the assemblage, "Everyone is waiting, Scott."

Scott nodded, "I'm waiting too."
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Charm
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Although Christmas break was not very far away, Micah inevitably found himself bored with classes and distracted by thoughts of home. Considering how ill-received his presence was in his hometown during March, it was questionable whether or not he would make it back to Penicuik before the end of the year. Needless to say, as soon as Mr. Russell’s woodshop class was finished, the Scotsman practically bolted from the room and ducked inside the boys’ lavatory before he could be questioned about the status of his final project.

His final project was a ladle spoon—an easy way out, but completely impractical considering that it far more resembled a stick than a utensil.

Humming to himself as he preened in the mirror, Micah began to imagine the sorts of things he would be doing that afternoon. There was a new girl in his literature class that he fancied, and Micah couldn’t help but find the way she turned transparent when he smiled at her endearing. He also wondered if she turned invisible when kissed, a fact he was eager to find out today if she would let him.

Feeling confident that his professor would be more concerned about his wife and son than a mediocre student, Micah turned to leave just as sudden wave of energy shook the room. Stunned, but rooted to the floor, he waited for it to pass. He swallowed thickly and began to feel safe again, but a sharp pain started to buzz inside his head, startling Micah so thoroughly that he pinned himself against the restroom wall to regain his bearings.

“What the bloody hell is tha’…,” he gasped, pressing both metal palms into his forehead to try and alleviate the pain, so unused to any part of his body hurting that Micah felt his hands begin to shake with raw panic.

“Yer awrite.. yer awrite,” the metal mutant repeated aloud, taking in a few deep breaths as he moved towards the sink.

His usually sturdy and unwavering limbs began to feel heavy, surface sensation dulling and disappearing from them as though they were falling asleep. Micah’s head drooped forward, his neck muscles straining to hold up his skull as he struggled to turn the sink knobs for some cold water to splash on his face.

I’m dyin’! he thought incredulously, still trembling as he fumbled with the knobs. Micah staggered sideways, his knees finally giving way beneath him and sending him head first into the floor—hard—slamming with such force into the tile that he felt his bones rattle and his skin crack apart with a sickening crunch.

“Shite! Christ on a feckin’ holy cracker!” he cried out, struggling to push himself up to his knees,”Help m’Boab—hrck!” Micah suddenly choked, hacking up a mouthful of metal ash and sliding forward on the floor as he lost traction, the tungsten on his fingers crumbling before his eyes and revealing swarthy and very human-like skin.

Frozen with terror, the Scotsman lay gasping on the floor, waiting for the certain impending agony of his body falling apart to accompany the pounding in his head, but nothing happened. Micah allowed a few more moments to tick by before he slowly flexed his fingers and toes, the buzzing inside his head louder than his hammering heart and the distant commotion of things happening outside the room.

Swallowing back a groan, Micah hesitated to get up, but found it strangely easier to stand as he forced himself to look at his reflection. He did not recognize the face staring back at him, his glittering complexion now dusky and dotted with pores and freckles.

“Fer fecks sake!” he gasped, still coughing from the grit in his throat,”Is this how I LOOK? All pink an’ fleshy like?!” Micah craned desperately over the sink to peer closer into the mirror into his own eyes, his formerly shimmering irises now replaced with a flat green.

He stumbled back to pat down the bare skin of his face and neck, warm beneath his fingers and pliable to the touch. Still unconvinced that this wasn’t some kind of cruel trick, Micah grabbed a fierce handful of his uncuffed arm and twisted hard, surprising himself as he yelped from the resulting sharp pain.

“Tha’.. hurt!” the Scotsman gasped, watching with a mix of almost horror and fascination as broken blood vessels bloomed beneath his tawny complexion. As he stood staring at his newfound self, the intercoms wired into the ceiling hissed to life, sharpening the pain inside Micah’s head.

All staff and students report to the cafetorium, stay calm. This is not an attack. Report to the cafetorium and wait for instructions.

Clawing at his temples, Micah looked back to the mirror just in time to watch the color drain from his face. He had forgotten what that looked like.

------

Everyone Micah had ever known at the institute was packed into the cafetorium by the time he arrived. To the formerly metal mutant’s eyes most looked afraid, but he would venture to say some might be just a little pleased to no longer possess the abilities that crippled or disfigured them; Micah had not yet decided which of those things he would feel.

One thing he had not expected to feel was cold. Underdressed for the weather, he had yet to stop shivering by the time he made his way to the front of the room to find a seat. Pale, covered in a fine coating of dust, and dazed by the confusion around him and his sudden awareness of being vulnerable, Micah felt compelled to explain his tardiness to the small gathering of administrators gathered next to the podium.

“Ehm… sorry m’late t’the party, yeah?” Micah rasped, his throat raw from coughing up tungsten. “I’ll eh.. need a vacuum after. Seems I fell right ter pieces all over the lavy,” he cracked a smile to mask his discomfort before glancing over his shoulder, looking for a place to sit down.
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Wolfsbane
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Wolf Form
How was it that life went all topsy-turvy so quickly? That one moment, you could be going about your own business, performing your daily routine, doing your job as you were expected to, as you were comfortable with, and then the next - you were dropping your shoes onto the ceiling while someone else was transforming into a werewolf.

Rahne certainly wasn't happy about that. And Scott's announcement didn't make that any easier. It filled her with a certain sense of dread, one that wasn't abated much when she made her way into the cafeteria after doing her best to calm Elle and Martha down. She supposed that she had it lucky in some sense - the two of them had undergone a rapid and uncontrolled metamorphosis into something their bodies weren't designed to become.

By the time she made it into the cafeteria, Greg sleeping in her arms, the sense of dread still lingered strongly within her. This had happened to other people, she was sure of it. She couldn't smell it, she couldn't hear it, but she was sure. Once glance over at... at... was that...?

"Micah," she whispered. The metal kid was hardly so metallic anymore. So it was reasonable to presume that this happened not just in that small area around the day care, it happened all over the school.

She slowly made her way up to where Scott, Terry, and the Professor were, swallowing a lump in her throat as she got to them. Scott very clearly had something going on. He wasn't wearing any eye wear, of any sort. Scott Summers without any kind of glasses on? Now she knew this was serious.

"I cannae change," she said as she arrived, speaking softly as to not wake the baby in her arms despite the commotion around them all. "I've tried. Cannae do it. Elle can, though. An' I... dropped muh shoe onto the ceiling. An' Martha Johannsen... she's exhibitin' Damien Chaintraine's abilities."

She frowned, shaking her head slowly.
"We have any idea what caused this?"
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[size0]Say the dog and butterfly,
in the air they like to fly.
Dog and butterfly.
She knew she had to try,
and she float back down to the warm soft ground,
laughing - she don't know why,
but she had to try, she had to try.
Dog and Buttefly.


Avatar by Natalie, signature by Olga. My graphics set is complete again! Thank you so much!
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Evvy
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The wave of energy made Evvy look toward the window, but it was closed. Odd, why would there be wind in her room? That didn't make sense, and- neither did the fact that all of her notes were completely unruffled. Just what had she felt?

"Is someone in here?" she asked, sounding tired and mildly annoyed. Invisible kids were a thing here, and pranks happened. She normally wouldn't mind but she'd been studying all morning and wasn't in the mood for it.

It didn't help that she was developing a headache, and her muscles were sore. Probably from hunching over the desk for so long. Maybe it was time for a break. "You're not in trouble alright-" she trailed off as her discomfort grew. Her skin itched. Everywhere. And that wasn't the worst of it.

Thoughts of a student prank this fell to pieces as she began to change and pain shot through her body as some of her muscles and bones shifted. This was an attack, she wasn't sure what they were doing to her but she had to sound the alarm. Another sharp pain shot through her before she could so much as reach for a communicator, and she hugged herself until it stopped. Her hands encountered fur.

"What... what the shit?"

When she looked down, sure enough, fur. Blue fur. The only discomfort she still felt was from her feet. They felt terribly constricted. She looked down and frowned at her socks. She... was probably going to have to cut them off, and they were really soft comfy socks. What a waste.

She had to go to her bathroom in her apartment in the indies to get a good look at herself. There was only one person she could say she looked like, and she saw him nearly every day. Well, two, but she was pretty sure from the state of her feet, and the way her mind was racing that it was McCoy.

"He has to see this," she said to her reflection. Her previous thoughts of an attack were dismissed. Something strange had happened, and while it was unusual she was more interested in what had happened than fearful. At the announcement, she looked thoughtful. How widespread was this?

Without hesitation, she pulled out her cell and texted Nori. Something really weird is happening at the school again. It affecting NYC or just us? After that was sent, she took a selfie and sent that too. That taken care of, she went to the mansion to the gathering mutants in the cafetorium . She went from intrigued and a little excited over the anomaly to extremely serious, and well, even more intrigued. So many had changed.This was something else. Rahne's explanation of what she'd gone through and witnessed confirmed something that Evvy had yet to test. She hadn't just gained another set of powers, they'd been replaced entirely.

She didn't quite recognize everyone at first glance. There weren't all that many who looked a great deal different, so it wasn't difficult to sort out who was who. At least, she was able to do so by the time she found an empty seat beside Micah. And took the opportunity to do something that would have maimed her at any other time. She ruffled his hair.

"Look at you. Hell, look at me." She didn't sound upset that she was blue and fluffy, not at all. Whatever happened, they'd sort it out. And if they didn't, while she'd miss her own powers, she thought she'd be able to handle this all the same.
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