The X-Project

Pete finds Illyana for a chat, and proceeds to break her of the impression that she is doing a good job of blending in. Friday, midday-ish.



Pete didn't often go looking for students to counsel, but in this case, it was time to make an exception. He found Illyana in the student lounge, flipping through TV channels with a faintly bemused expression on her face.

"Hundreds of channels, and there's still never anything on, is there?"

He leant against the door.

"Couldn't help but notice that you haven't been to see me, since you got back, and as your guidance counsellor, I fell we ought to be, y'know, bonding, over a mutual loathing of the teaching staff round here. Have you got time for a chat, or is..." he paused, looking at the TV "Something incomprehensible in what appears to be Icelandic more important?"

It took Illyana a few moments to go from Icelandic (or whatever) soap opera to Pete, and she hoped -- without much optimism -- that it wasn't too obvious she was startled. "Of course I have time," she said, stabbing at the mute button on the remote control. She stood hastily, in one fluid motion, cursing her bad luck for not anticipating this. She smiled as a last resort, and added, "What was it you wanted to chat about?"

Pete crossed the room and dropped into a chair opposite her. "Oh, lots of things. See, it's struck me of late that your big brother looks like he's doing his level best to pretend nothing's changed all that much, which is all kinds of fun for you, I'n sure, and half the students, and hell, probably half the staff still aren't quite sure how to relate to you, and my spies tell me you've started making use of the gym in a moderately violent manner. And I'm a nosey sort of bastard, so first of all I called someone who was in a position to make some semi-educated guesses about how much fun the last ten years probably weren't for you, so I thought I'd stop by and see how you were adjusting to being back here, now you've had a few months to settle in."

She sat again on the edge of the couch, wondering if there was any way she was going to get out of this. Probably not, she decided, judging by the distinct lack of warning she'd had. "I'm adjusting," she said with a shrug, sliding back behind a calm face. "I think Piotr is having a harder time of it than I am. He's a bit -- sensitive, you know, twitchy, he doesn't deal with things like Limbo very well." She paused. "Not that I blame him, really. I gather hell dimensions are a touchy subject."

"Depends on who you talk to, of course. Most people have enough trouble with the fact that magic works at all, so it ain't exactly surprising that the idea of hell dimensions is a bit a shock to their system." He leant back in his seat. "But what I'm wondering is - if you don't really have the room to talk to people about it, are you adjusting, or are you fitting in?"

"What does talking about it have to do with anything?" Illyana asked, looking somewhat put-out. She added, "I don't see the difference, anyway. Adjusting, fitting in, same thing."

"Mostly, it means you can get other people's ideas about things. They can point out when you're full of shit, and you get to do the same for them, sort of thing. Unless you've decided that you know everything you need to know already. And as for the other thing - well, aside from a couple of journal posts, most of what I've seen you do since you got back is keep your head down and not make waves. Try not to get noticed." He leant forward. "Now, I'm hardly one of the hippy fuckers round here that think that everyone should wear their heart on the sleeve. And I don't believe in making everyone hug and be nice. But I also don't believe that someone who spent eight years in a hell dimension can just magically get over it. That they'll come out as innocuous as you're trying so fucking hard to seem." He paused. "You're not seeing Doctor Samson at the moment, are you?"

That she -had- decided she knew everything she needed to already was something she chose not to share with him, but it showed for a moment on her face -- utter distaste for this strange pagan ritual of talking about oneself. "No, I'm not seeing Dr Samson," she said, with 'obviously' implied pretty clearly. She sighed, shrugged, like she'd been through this before. "I don't really think it's necessary."

Pete looked skeptical. "Oh? Growing up in hell was that much of a picnic, was it? You've left it completely behind - no reflexes left over from it? No wondering why people who haven't had the shit time I'm guessing you did do things the way they do and think the way they think? No jealousy about the things you missed that everyone else takes for granted or resentment toward the people who didn't come and save you?"

"Nothing," Illyana shot back, suddenly and unexpectedly shaken hard by Pete's bluntness as well as his sheer intuitive correctness, "that I need to tell a stranger, -if- I felt those things and -if- they were a problem."

"Fine. Got any fucking friends?" Pete leant back again. "Got any you're not even a little bit worried about driving away, if they find out what's really going on in your head? Because you may not think it's a problem now, but when you're ten years older, and you're wondering why life went on passing you by, even after you got out of hell, that'll be why. And ten years after that, when you're Nate's age, and you're hanging on by your fingertips and wondering how your head got so fucked up, that'll be how."

He paused, then went on, a bit more gently. "I ain't going to force you to talk to anyone you don't want to. There's no fucking point. All I'm saying is that it's blindingly bloody obvious that you're surviving, not bloody living, and if you think they're the same thing, then you're flat wrong. But if I can figure that out, then I'm damn sure Charlie can, and when he does, then you're going to get hugs and hippies until the cows come home. So, as your guidance counsellor, I advise you to find someone to talk to. Hell, you want me to sit and listen, I can do it. I've probably got more experience of sheer bloody horribleness than anyone else here."

He stood up, turning for the door.

"Either way, think about it, eh? I really don't want to have to keep bothering you about it, and I should warn you that I'm a stubborn bastard."

She stared at him, lost for words, unsure how to react, and torn between plain outrage and shock. Finally, she managed a strained nod, and said, in a high, tense, completely uncharacteristic tone, "Fine. I'll think about it."