The X-Project

Scott and Jean's dinner with Robert Haverford doesn't go quite as one would hope.



Upscale in New York City, of course, meant expensive, but, as with anything in New York City, it tended to also mean small and cramped, so the fact that Jean and Scott were shown to a small private room rather implied really expensive. The waitress collected their shoes and bowed as they stepped up onto the richly textured tatami, and Jean smiled at the man already seated on one of the cushions on the floor, waiting for them.

"Mr. Haverford, sorry to have kept you waiting. This is my husband, Scott Summers. Scott, Robert Haverford."

"A pleasure." The man's smile was wide, sincere. "I'm very glad that you were able to meet with me tonight, Dr. Grey, Mr. Summers. This is a cause that's very close to my heart."

"Mr. Haverford," Scott said with a brief smile and a nod, his eyes never leaving the other man. Jean had described him fully - and given him a look at her memories on the link - but meeting in person always told the tale. And he hadn't been disposed to like the story in the first place.

As they sat, Jean was pleased to find that the restaurant made allowances for their strange western ways, and there was a depressed pit under the table for their feet. She'd had more than enough kneeling in Tibet to last a lifetime. The waitress gently slid the paper door closed, giving them their privacy. "Well, Mr. Haverford, it's your dime. What did you want to know about the school?"

Haverford's calm was absolute; he took a sip of mineral water before answering. "Well," he said, the cool tones of his polished voice unhurried, "I find myself quite interested in the pedagogical methods you've developed to deal with emerging manifestations of mutant abilities. As I told Dr. Grey when we last spoke, I am interested in contributing financially to the school, but I wonder if there are areas which might benefit more than others from a financial infusion. I prefer my investments to be as well-informed as possible, you see."

"Our pedagogical methods are necessarily varied," Scott said, when Jean clearly gave him the opportunity to answer. "We deal with a range of different mutations. Everything from physical mutations, to energy-projection, to psionics." He sampled some of the sushi before he went on. "The more destructive powers tend to require the most... physical infrastructure for training purposes, I suppose."

"Mmm, yes," Jean agreed. "Emotional teenagers with moderate control at best and the innate ability that can accidentally destroy a wall, for example... I'm sure you can imagine that it gets interesting at times." The sushi did look good, and she took a few pieces herself.

"I can imagine." Before Haverford could continue, the waitress came up.

"Can I get you anything else for you and your guests, Mr. Haverford? More tea?"

"No, thank you, Naoko. We've hardly touched this pot, I believe." He smiled at her, and glanced down at an expensive-looking watch before looking up at Scott and Jean. "As I was saying, it must be difficult to accomodate some of the more destructive abilities. What kind of equipment do you think you might be able to use - or develop - to facilitate better control?"

From an objective standpoint, it wasn't a surprise that Scott slumped over first. He'd eaten first, after all, and secondly, was an energy-projector, making his metabolism more susceptible to drugs.

Jean, on the other hand, managed almost a second of Oh, I feel strange... as the room seemed to spin around her before she blanked out.

"Certainly not anything to do with food safety, I shouldn't think," Haverford murmured to himself, his smile just barely predatory, now that Scott and Jean were sedated. "Why don't we jump right in." He reached into his pocket and set a small tape-recorder on the table; delicately, he pressed 'record'. "Now, Dr. Grey. Did you ever use the Rose?"

The parts of her mind that would normally be conscious were mostly just floating, dizzily unconnected from anything and unaware of the question. Which somehow didn't stop her from answering. "Yes."

Haverford leaned forward, real interest - not the polite kind he'd been faking for the benefit of his cover - crossing his face at last. He'd found out from the monks that Jean had been to the monastery he studied, but they had been reluctant to speak on the matter. And now, to find that she'd actually used it - he'd studied there for years and never been let near. Only taught him some of the meditations for 'normal' people. As if he was content to be normal. "When did you last use it?"

Unlike when Jean had been locked in her mind and Jane had been free to run about, no part of her was really aware of the questions, the answers just seemed to come. "November, before I left Tibet."

The blond man's voice came faster, now, almost excited. "And where did you last see it?" It was missing from the monastery: None of the villagers remembered other visitors to the temple. She had to have it, or know where it was.

"In Tibet, at the monastery." There wasn't even really a pause between when he asked the questions and when the answers came, she clearly wasn't thinking or dissembling, simply answering the question, exactly as it was asked.

"Do you remember the earthquake that caused the cave-in?" The locals hadn't, which was suspicious in and of itself. Thus - his theory.

"No." The questions and answers followed on after each other quickly, as though the man knew he didn't have much time.

"Did you know it's gone missing from the monastery?"

The gods, it seemed, protect fools and redheads. Caught with their defenses down, all Jean and Scott had going for them was luck and, for once, luck had come through. However Haverford had found out about the Rose, whatever he wanted it for, he'd taken the wrong end of the stick and run with it. "No."

"Mr. Summers." Haverford turned his rapt attention to Scott - it had taken some digging to find out what his mutation was, but, once he knew, it was a perfect fit. "Did you blast your way into the temple to steal the Rose?"

Scott didn't answer for a moment. He had been drifting, not registering the questions Haverford had been asking Jean. Not registering much of anything. "No," he finally said, his voice thick. "Didn't."

"Did you steal the Rose to use it against someone?" There was power there, he knew it. It needed only to be unlocked - and then, it would be his. If they knew how; or even where it was -

A flicker of offense, deep in the haze. "Wouldn't do... that. No." But there was no request to elaborate, and so Scott didn't.

Annoyance passed over Haverford's face. "Do you know where the Rose is?"

"In the monastery. In... its room." Right where it belonged.

Haverford looked as though his temper was about to break. Instead, he asked, with forced calm, "So, as far as you know, the Rose is still in Tibet?"

"Yes," Jean answered, and as Haverford turned back to her he could see that the color in her cheeks was starting to pick up, one of the first signs he'd been warned about to tell when the drugs were wearing off. He was running out of time.

"Why don't you care that it's gone?" Haverford's voice never rose to a dangerous level, but it held an edge, practically quivering with tension.

Jean's voice was almost reedy as she said, "Don't... need it. Cerebro..." There might have been more, but a wave of dizziness cut her off. Her mind was slowly becoming more aware of her body, and she really didn't like what she was feeling. A hand raised almost of it's own volition to press against her mouth.

Haverford stopped, forcing his breath to come and go rhythmically: A gift from the monks.

Just not the right gift.

"Dear God, Dr. Grey, are you all right?" he asked, rising from his knees to bend concernedly over the redhead. "Mr. Summers? You both look quite ill."

Jean bolted for the ladies' room; Scott, a little more slowly, followed and went into the men's, barely making it before he was sick to his stomach. Even when the nausea ceased, his head was somehow managing to both pound and spin. He nearly wasn't aware of the sound of someone else - Haverford? - having the same issues in the stall next to him.

"Mr. Haverford?" he asked groggily, struggling back to his feet. Water. Face. Now would be good. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine; a bit concerned, though, I must say." Haverford looked sincerely green, leaning against the sink to hold himself up. "I hesitate to say it - this restaurant's got such a stellar reputation - but I think we might have contracted a spot of food poisoning." He rubbed his face, then swallowed, going paler. "It wasn't exactly the dinner I'd planned."

"Right..." His head was foggy. Scott splashed some water on his face, then rubbed at his temples, wincing. #Jean?# It was hard to form the thought on the link. #You all right...?#

It took Jean a moment to manage a thought more coherent than 'Urgh' - she couldn't quite think through the dizziness which was still accompanying the nausea, but eventually she got as far as, #Raw fish, urgh.# Which was progress. #Be ok. Eventually. Urgh.#