2012-06-13: Trees Are For Punching


Heather_icon.jpg Quenton_icon.jpg

Summary: Quenton and Heather discuss recently passed events.

Date: June 13, 2012.

Log Title: Trees are for Punching

Rating: PG-13

Xavier Mansion - Woods

Pine, Oak, Birch, and many other trees can be found in these woods. Paths lead all through out them for students to take walks. The occasional bench can be found along the paths. Students shouldn't worry about wandering too deep in these woods as its almost impossible for them to get lost here.

Trees usually make poor punching bags. Apparently, not for Quenton, however, who's right now taking his anger out on a particular one. He's dressed today in a black synthetic t-shirt, tight and hugging his ridiculous physique (sometimes superpowers can help in the looks department), though the red veins do wonders for taking away any attractiveness he might have. One of his biceps has a bandage wrapped around it, with two tiny little dots of blood soaked through.

Heather is out in the woods as well, wearing her full Timeslip outfit, with goggles, and the purple and black skintight outfit she wears, pouches and a jacket. Of course, her combat umbrella is on her back, which implies that she has been out. Her eyes rest upon Quenton, and she nods her head lightly once before playing over the speakers mounted to her jacket, "Hello, Quenton."

The interruption causes him to kick at a tree, hard enough for it to begin to crack, and then he rams his shoulder into it, and it falls, the thick tree hitting the ground in a large thud, the stump of it that's left being jagged and uneven. He turns towards Heather, and, fingers hitting against the side of his nose briefly, he wonders, "

The interruption causes Quenton to kick at a tree, hard enough for it to begin to crack, and then he rams his shoulder into it, and it falls, the thick tree hitting the ground in a large thud, the stump of it that's left being jagged and uneven. He turns towards Heather, and, fingers hitting against the side of his nose briefly, he wonders, "Here to stop me from hitting the tree? Your morals deal with plants, too?"

"I eat plants, it would be morally inconsistent for me to stop you from harming them, so long as you do not wipe out entire forests. Deforestation is a serious issue," says Heather, as flatly as she says anything else. She pulls her fingers through her hair, untangling it as she does so. "You understand that this situation is different than then. You would have had regrets, and if not, you should have."

"The hell I would have," Quenton mutters, while he turns around and kicks some of the jagged edges off the stump, before turning to sit atop it, watching Heather, red eyes flitting over her face. "He's a bad person. Who cares if I wipe his face across the pavement? Who cares if I fucking throw him so hard he'd be a grease spot on the wall?"

"You would," says Heather, furrowing her brow slightly as her recorded voice speaks, "He is a bad person, and yes, I would say he deserves a great deal of things. But you are not judge and jury, you are not the one who will carry out sentences. That was torture, real torture. You were no longer seeking proper information. He would have told you anything, just to end the suffering. And I do not think that is the person who you want to be."

"If he ended up lying to me I would have done something a lot worst to him. You're not a cop, and yet you're doing hell of a better job then he is," Quenton growls over, a rumble sounding off in his throat, animalistic and feral as his fingers lift and they dig into his cheek, drawing blood. "He wouldn't have gotten what he deserved. Now he's probably having the time of his life after what I did and you getting him out of it."

Heather stares evenly towards Quenton and then says, "You would not have known he was lying until he was gone. And I think he is not having the time of his life. You did a lot of damage to him." She takes a couple of steps towards Quenton carefully, "I know that your urges wish nothing more than to demolish him, to convert him to a pile of shattered bones and rent flesh, but how would you perceive yourself once you had done that? Those urges would not be satisfied, and are not satisfiable… You found out everything you could, but you are not a killer. And you are not a monster. And I do not think that is who you would like to become. Can you honestly tell me otherwise?"

"I am a killer. I killed people already. And I think bad fucking people need to be killed. You'd better hope you find this Benjamin Ferelli before I do. Because when I find him, I'm gonna drive my thumbs in his eyes and pull his skull apart." Quenton lets out a shallow exhale, muttering, then, while he rises and begins to pace back and forth, "I don't want to become a monster and accidentally hurt someone who has shit to do with anything. But sometimes you gotta fight fire with fire."

Heather shakes her head and then says, "This is why I did not want for you to become involved, Quenton. I know that you have killed people, but that is not who you are. It is something you have done. I've probably killed people before, be they real or imagined, but that is not who I would like to become, just a killer." She leans against one of the trees, crossing her arms, "But now you also understand that there are many dead ends, and that I really am working to the best of my abilities. Giving in to your urges does not serve anyone, however. It will only serve to make them stronger. He will be punished by the law. That is not your job."

"He won't be punished enough," Quenton mutters. "He'll want to go free. He'll wanna try and get revenge. I should have killed him. You should have let me kill him," he growls, frustrated, perhaps just trying to find a reason to be angry, though the bandage around his arm might be a suitable outlet, much more so then Heather at least. "Or you should have done it, if you don't want me to give in."

"No. I cannot. I will not give into the madness and violence and disregard for life that make my parents the kinds of people they are. I would have liked to eliminate them as well, and they certainly deserved it," says Heather, shaking her head, "But that is just a step down that road." She watches Quenton silently for a few moments and then says, "Is this really something that is upsetting you?"

"Yes, it's fucking upsetting me! Everything upsets me. You fucking stopping me from killing that little shit. Jill biting me. Shane hating me. My parents missing. Everything's fucking wrong," Quenton snarls, rising to his feet then and just grabbing onto the tree he knocked over and hurtling it deeper into the forest like a javelin. A murder of crows emits from the trees, flitting off. "And all that it does is build the rage, and it's just heating up and I can feel it licking my insides and making me want to destroy more."

Heather tilts her head slightly and then says, "I am under the impression that you and Shane are a couple, so I do not think that she hates you…" The young woman considers that a few moments and then adds, "I did what I had to in order to keep that man from harm. You have told me many times that you do not deserve my help. He did not deserve my help either. But he received it. That is all there is to it. I did not help him to do more harm, and I warned him that if he did, he would encounter me again. Or worse, you. Perhaps he has been dissuaded. Perhaps not. But I gave him his chance." Her expression becomes a bit softer for a moment and she takes another few steps closer to Quenton, "I know the rage is building, and I do not know how it can be released safely, but you cannot give into it. It is a painful struggle, but you are fighting it."

"Yeah, well, couples have issues," grunts Quenton, though it seems to calm a little, the thought of Shane. He releases a low breath as Heather approaches. "It is a painful struggle. Real pain. I feel like I'm being stabbed over and over from the inside, and that salt is being thrown over and rubbed against the fucking gashes." He draws out a breath, and sure enough, there's steam rising from him. "And the only way to stop it is to hurt myself or hurt others."

"This is not something that I can relate to, not precisely, but many do have to endure pain in order to try and live a normal existence," says Heather, frowning for a few moments. She approaches to put a hand on Quenton's shoulder in her own 'trying to be comforting but really kind of awkward about it' way. "You are resisting the pain, it is admirable, however… I still cannot let you hurt others, however deserving they may seem. I truly want to help you, Quenton, I think I have proved as much."

"Yeah. Well. Bad things deserve to happen to bad people. You won't be around to stop me forever," Quenton mutters, though he doesn't jerk away, he just glares off in the distance, before his hand lifts, curling into a fist to smash over and over again into his temple, leaving small bruises. "I wish you people," he mutters, people said as if the rest of the mutants are set apart from him, "felt it too. Then I think I'd get along better with everyone else."

"I know that I will not be around to stop you forever. It is my hope that when I am not, that you can," says Heather, tilting her head slightly. She considers that for a few moments and then says, "Do you think that it would help you for others to feel the same way? I have said, I will do what I can to help, and if that involves asking Emma Frost to give me a glimpse of your suffering, I will do what is required. I can understand that feeling, however. I wish that others were broken like me, so I did not have to feel so alone."

"No. If I wanted others to fucking suffer, I guess I wouldn't try and stop myself so fucking much," Quenton mutters frustratedly. "It's all a big god damn shit storm, and only I feel it." His hand shoves into his pocket, and he pulls from it an odd rectangular device that he bends the top open of. It's made of metal, but it bends quite easily in his grasp. Tucking another object out of his pocket, it's some sort of metal ring, and he slips it inside the device and pulls from it a cigarette, lipping the ring with the cigarette tucked inside. Then, a book of matches is slipped delicately (almost daintily, because of how gentle he is with it, but anyone who'd describe it like that might get his ire) out, a match pulled free after the metal box is slipped away, and he runs the match slightly over the book to light it, and then his cigarette. Smokey the Bear would not approve.

Heather nods her head and says, "I feel the same way about my experiences. I would not want anyone to suffer through what I have, and that is indeed the point." The young woman looks off into the distance for a couple of seconds, which is uncommon for the twitchy girl. "You have mentioned that you tried meditation, that trying to clear your mind and find some kind of peace made things even worse. Perhaps it was not an appropriate approach."

Smoke drifts from his nostrils as he stares up at the sky, shrugging his shoulders, muttering, then, to Heather, "It just seems like the more I tried to meditate, the more I let the pain in. I don't know. I used to play piano. I wish I still could, but I'll just destroy it. Almost everything I touch gets destroyed. I'm not doing so hot with Shane, but she's… She fucking clams me." Quenton exhales. "When I'm around her, the pain I can forget about. All that exists is her."

"She is good for you. What about her calms you down, or is it just a certain je ne sais quoi?" says Heather, tilting her head lightly, "As for piano… perhaps we can find a way for you to enjoy it again, if it will help with keeping the pain in check. I do not want you to suffer."

"I don't speak Spanish," Quenton grunts in macho ignorance. "I don't know how to describe it," he mutters, confirming the fact that it is indeed a certain je ne sais quoi. "She's just… she knows me. Her baggage and my baggage go together. Hers is emotional, mine is… I don't know what mine is, but it matches. We're the basket cases of this school. She's both terrified I'm gonna hurt her but not afraid of me. It's… I don't know."

"It is a comfort," says Heather, nodding her head at that, "There are certain people we can relate to better than anyone else. For you, that is Shane, and that is okay. I am glad that you found someone who can relate with you and ease the burdens that you face. Perhaps it is through such burdens that you may be able to seek comfort with others, though not as strongly as with her. It may also be a combination of that and simple affection that makes her so comforting to you… does it help you to think of her?"

"Not at the moment. Now if I think of her all I can think of is trying to make things right, but I don't know how because of all my problems. It's like they can't stop building up," Quenton mutters, taking a drag of the cigarette, just watching the sky. "Everything's breaking," he mutters to himself, just shaking his head and turning his eyes to Heather a moment.

"Everything's breaking?" repeats Heather, considering that for a moment. She purses her lips and then says, "Sometimes, everything breaks. Sometimes, the whole reality you have become comfortable with falls apart, but I don't think that is what is happening. Things are shaking, and it's difficult. I am doing what I can in order to help you, but I am not a comforting person. I have the impression that I could be replaced by a rusty robot, and the effect would be approximately equivalent in emotional situations. But I have seen things break… eventually, you will find yourself in a new place, and eventually, an equilibrium will be reached."

"Everything's breaking," grunts Quenton, before he takes another puff of his cigarette and eyes Heather then. "You got Zoey safe. For that, I don't think you're a robot. But equilibrium is a bit too fancy of a word for me nowadays," he claims, while he leans back against a tree.

Heather nods her head quickly and then says, "A balance, then. A point of rest." The young woman frowns and crosses her arms over her chest, "What makes you believe that everything is breaking, though? Is it a conflict you have had with Shane?"

"Amongst other things," Quenton mutters, while he puts his cigarette out on his hand, and then draws it away, staring at it, no burn being left. "I'm having trouble finding your balance. Or a point of rest. I can't sleep. I haven't slept in days," he complains, shaking his head while he slips the remains of his habit into his jeans pocket, uncaring for getting them dirty.

"It can be difficult finding a balance," says Heather, nodding her head quickly, "I am not sure when I have it or when I have lost it, but I am sometimes in that place. But sometimes, it seems unfindable…" The young woman considers that for a few moments and then shrugs, "When was the last time you slept well?"

"I don't know when the last time I slept well was. I have nightmares all the time. Doesn't matter. Sure you do, too. It's not like I feel tired most the time, anyway. Hyper. I feel hyper. I feel like…" destroying something. Quenton rolls a shoulder, before wondering, quietly, "How long do you sleep?"

"Thirty minutes to an hour at a time," says Heather, tilting her head slightly. "Longer than that is rather uncommon. But I usually sleep three to four times a day, so it works out, sort of… What kind of nightmares do you have?"

"About kids at this school, broken and bloody and me in the middle tearing my eyes out. You know. Stupid shit like that," Quenton mutters, while he crosses his arms over his chest. "Three to four times a day? Lazy," he attempts at teasing.

"I've had a dream like that before, but I think maybe I was just dreaming someone else's dream. I guess it must have been yours. I have nightmares about the consequences of my failures," says Heather, considering that a moment before shrugging her shoulders a few times. Her lips turn up slightly at being called lazy and she notes, "I do not have the benefit of insomnia to keep myself alert."

"You dream other people's dreams?" Quenton murmurs, furrowing his brow. "That's fucking crazy, Heather, you should see a doctor or somethng," he mutters, before he abruptly sneezes, a hand lifting up to wipe at his nose before his hand drops to his side.

"I think it's a side effect of abusing Connor's powers," says Heather, shrugging slightly, "I have other people's memories in my head, though most of those other people are also me, which I suppose does not make me sound any /less/ crazy." She looks up towards the sky contemplatively and then says, "Bless you."

"Abusing Connor's powers? I thought he could control gravity or something," Quenton mutters, furrowing his brow in concentration. "Huh. Man. Time before the rescue, there was a ripple in the air near him. Think he's getting them back," he mutters, mostly to himself. "Thanks," he adds.

"Connor can create rifts within spacetime, it's how he teleports. When travelling through such rifts, you can see other potential timelines, which are different iterations of yourself. With different conditions, your life could have been massively different. I like seeing how the alternate selves are doing, though invariably it seems that my alternate lives are tragic and horrible. I wonder if that bodes well for me?" says Heather, tilting her head with a rather curious expression before noting, "I think he may be, but if he is, he is keeping it rather private."

"You told me about this once, I think. Seeing all your other alternate selves living shitty lives," Quenton mutters, while he just digs at his cheek with his fingers, watching Heather for a while. "I called him on it, and he claimed he didn't notice," he decides to comment, then.

"Well," says Heather, "I think that Connor's alternate selves form a generally neutral experience, some lives better and some worse, but he's learned not to pay attention. I pay nothing but attention." She watches at Quenton digs his finger in his cheek and asks, "Have you ever scratched all the way into your oral cavity?"

"No. Came close to having my fingers in my mouth," Quenton admits, his fingers drawing away self-consciously. "But the scratches go away because of the plasma treater in the school clinic," he claims, curling his fingers into fists.

"Oh, no, continue scratching if it is something that helps you. I just had a pang of curiosity," says Heather, nodding her head lightly and then noting, "I have never used the plasma treater in the clinic."

"No, I… people comment it and that makes me… no, I'll stick to the punching. It's better," Quenton mutters, drawing out a low exhale, shaking his head and knocking his knuckles against the tree he's against, causing it to sway.

"I apologize. Please know that my comments are generally neutral unless I have stated a lack of neutralness in them. I am not good at the social implications of things I say," says Heather, flatly, before watching Quenton hit the tree.

His knocking seems more of a habit, as if trying to distract himself, then trying to make the tree sway, but being as strong as he is tends to have its drawbacks. "You're better then I am at social crap."

"Then I must make the inference that you are really quite bad at social crap," says Heather, tilting her head slightly, "I think I just make people uncomfortable by seeming alien. I am often asked, 'Heather, are you from space?' I suppose I am. We all are, after all, standing upon a ball of dirt hurdling through space at an unbelieveable speed." She pauses for a few moments and then says, "Is there anything else you would like to talk about? You received my message about… your brother, yes?"

"Yeah. I received your message about my brother," Quenton agrees, sighing quietly. "Sorry he tried to kill you. I'm… it's a mess," he mutters, pressing his knuckles to his temple. "I need to talk to him," he mutters, glancing back up to the sky.

"Yes, please do talk with him, because I find people attempting to kill me a rather unfortunate state of affairs," says Heather, pursing her lips for a few moments, "I was rather perplexed about what was happening at the time. I am sorry about all this, however, and I was doing better helping. I have a few leads left that I should like to pursue, however."

"I find people attempting to kill me a fucking party," Quenton mutters. "I can't believe he told you he doesn't care what happened to Zoey or my Aunt. If I see him, I'm going to put the fucking stomp on him before we chat," he grunts.

"Yes, well, I understand that you enjoy things that cause adrenaline to flow more than I do. I like chess, or bagha chal, or risk, or other quiet games where I have an opportunity to crush my adversaries with tactical prowess," says Heather, raising her brow, "Which isn't what happened with your brother. He deserves a sound talking to. It is good that Zoey is okay, however. How has she been doing? I am not good at collecting social data, and she is your sister."

"Fighting's the only thing that gets me going," Quenton claims, then, shifting on his feet. "Well, that and uh… piano. And… Shane. And I mean in a totally nonsexual way," he adds. "Not that I'm saying Shane doesn't get me going in a sexual way, I'm just saying I'm never going to say she gets me going in a sexual way out loud. And that wasn't me saying it out loud, that was me just saying what I wouldn't say out loud."

"Okay, well, I am going to take it as 'Shane gets me going in a sexual way, but Heather will never acknowledge that because her naivete prevents her from conceiving of it in a non-abstract way anyways'. And by me, I mean you, because I was quoting you and I am not interested in your girlfriend. Not literally quoting you, but quoting my interpretation of you," says Heather, staring blankly towards Quenton and speaking in her usual flat tones, "I like Shane, but not in that way. So long as we are overclarifying things."

"Connor doesn't get you going?" Quenton wonders brashly, then, uncaring that the question's so personal and that Heather's a lady, and boys don't ask ladies personal questions like that. "And it's good you're not interested in my girlfriend. Also. You sound so weird when you talk a lot."

Heather seems at a loss for words for a few moments and even blushes at the question about Connor, fidgeting with her sound system for a few moments, and just looking about while she opens and closes her mouth like a fish before just deciding to ignore the question. "I think that I sound weird to most whether I talk a lot or a little, but if I speak a lot, there is just more perceived weirdness to hear."

"Evasive. I like it," Quenton claims, while he crosses his arms over his chest once more and then lifts his gaze to a tree branch, where an owl has taken its perch. "I usually can't go an hour talking to someone without wanting to hit them."

"I perceive this conversation to have been several hours long, however, I suspect that your perception of this conversation is shorter, and this statement may be an implication that I should abort the discussion before you would like to hit me, as an hour has not yet passed, but it is near to," says Heather, before looking down at her watch to check if her reasoning is accurate.

"I'm not going to hit you," Quenton mutters, then, while his eyes fall to her watch. "I don't like the idea of hitting a girl. I don't know. It's not a sexism thing, I swear. Just… imagining a girl with a black eye pisses me off like nothing else does," he explains, while he draws his hand along another tree, glancing over to it. "But yeah. I guess…"

"Well, I didn't think that you would hit me. The only time that I would think that you would hit me would be if you tried to hit me, in which case I would be surprised and keen to move out of the way," says Heather, looking back up from her watch, "It is different than your wanting to hit me, which I believe you occasionally want to do, both because you are often frustrated and I am often frustrating, and these things do not interact well. But it is good to know that you do not like the idea of hitting a girl. But for your comfort, I will bid you goodnight, and I will return with updates on anything that I find upon finding them. Feel free to seek me out if you would like to talk to me for any reason."

"Yeah, well." Quenton looks uncomfortable about something, arms crossing over his chest and staring at his feet. "Right. Good night," he murmurs, shaking his head as he then begins to rise into the air. "Good night," he repeats, "Heather."

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