Emma glanced at Jean's notes from the previous day, paying special attention to what Jean had called 'Hypothesis B'. It said simply that MGH could control or change a mutant ability. "Has there been previous studies on this?" she asked the red-haired scientist.
"Yes," Jean supplied, "Only problem is, I can't find them in Hank's mess he calls a filing room."
Emma was pretty certain that spending a day in a room filled with files, Jean and her music would make for a horrible day, but research was research and the pros outweighed the cons in this case. "Have you started looking this morning?"
Was Emma actually volunteering her precious time to do some menial task? Jean hid her surprise as she said, "Yeah, I made room for a table and shifted everything to one side of the room except for the things I already searched through last night."
Emma knew the petite little scientist had indeed not moved box after box, much less moved a table manually. Of course she had used her telekinesis. That would be a plus, Emma thought, less chance of breaking a nail if Jean would be doing all the heavy lifting. "Well then, let's go look for evidence to support our other two reasons why someone would take MGH – control and change."
Amplification. Control. And change. It was a valid starting point. Now, hopefully, they would find the proof they needed to make others see it as they did. Emma followed Jean into a room that she would have called complete chaos if not for the small group of open boxes, expertly labeled with several different colored tags. Obviously Jean's doing, because Hank did not even label boxes, let alone singular files.
Pat Benatar's I Need A Lover ended and was replaced by Michael Bolton's Steel Bars. And Emma silently steeled herself for the rest of the soul, rock and pop from the eighties – a decade Jean could scarcely remember but had an obsession with. It could be worse, though, right? At least Jean didn't listen to Shania Twain.
"The job that isn't my job," Jean said, rolling her eyes as she saw that Emma looked overwhelmed by the sheer number of files Hank had amassed over his nearly three decade long scientific career. Then, indicating a small notebook paper, she said, "This explains how I've been organizing everything. All of the colored tags are in that little tin. I think you can handle it." Without further instruction, she telekinetically shifted the boxes a la Moses, only slightly, and added, "You start from the left, I'll start from the right."
After a call to Clay Quartermain, listening to how the conference was going, explaining what had happened to Red, and also mentioning his run-in with Marjorie, Remy felt a bit better about things. And yeah, maybe the medicine Ororo had all but forced down his throat last night might have had something to do with that, too.
But mostly, he had thought of something to put his mind on other things than the failed assimilation of Red – another poor soul, of course. He shrugged into his coat, grabbed his keys from the top drawer of his desk and was heading to the parking lot when he ran into Logan. "Where ya headed, kid?"
"The city," Remy said, half-guardedly because he just knew what Logan was going to suggest next.
"Good, I'll come with you," Logan said, and he wasn't asking. "I've got a few things I wanna check out regarding some MGH deals."
Remy just shrugged in agreement. He didn't want to ask the five 'w's when it came to Logan, because it usually turned out to be some half-baked conspiracy. And it wasn't until they were nearly there and Logan didn't request a different location than where Remy was heading, that Remy figured this was some kind of play. "What's going on, Logan?"
"You're losing your skill, Cajun," Logan said, and there was a grimace on his face indicating, in his case, a smile.
"Fuck off," Remy replied, without any heat. "Just tell me why you're suddenly interested in the Charlie's Angels' MC."
"You want me tell you why I knew you were headed there, too?" Logan asked, and he actually sounded a bit excited.
"Whatever floats your boat, old man," Remy said, his eyes behind sunglasses as he scanned for a parking spot relatively close to Marjorie's place.
Logan chose to ignore the younger man's sarcastic tone. "Well, I've got some contacts of my own down in the sewers. Not that I'm all friendly with them like you are. But they tell me what I need to know."
"Uh huh," Remy muttered, hardly listening, as he took a spot only three blocks away. Fucking Big Apple parking. It hardly seemed to matter that it would be the same in any city, because at least in The Big Easy, a long walk from parking spot to destination would be warmer.
Logan was saying, "So, this guy I know tells me that Red knows that brothel lady, and she's his hookup. So, when you didn't come back to the scene yesterday, I figured you went to see not only Red's people but perhaps someone who might know something about the MGH."
Remy stopped listening after 'hookup'. "Wait. What did you say?" The shift from the warm car to the cold streets caused his lungs to rebel and he coughed harshly.
Logan raised his brow at the sound, but said nothing until Remy finished. Then, "That lady that runs Charlie's Angels. She sells MGH to Red and his clan."
"Marjorie doesn't sell MGH," Remy countered, "She sells herself and her girls."
"That's not what my guy says."
"Is he some sort of goddamn soothsayer or something?" Remy asked, annoyed because this could be any scene from six years ago, when Remy was nothing more than a rookie to Logan, and the older man was shoving his hard-earned wisdom at him. "How would he know?"
"He was one of the Green Clan," Logan said, obviously getting what Remy was feeling, but not really caring. He'd lived too long to be bothered by a twenty-something's petulance. Kids.
"Was being the operative word," Remy replied quickly, having an idea who Logan might be referring to now, and pleased his 'skill' seemed to be returning. "His name Dirk by any chance?" Dirk was one of the younger members of The Green Clan, Red's people, one Remy had high hopes for, because he was smart and had dreams of something bigger than living in the sewers. When he had gone down there to talk to Red's people about his death, he was informed that the group, without Red for less than a day, had already split ranks. Remy had not encountered any of the younger members that had hung around with Dirk and believed his ideas.
"Yeah," Logan replied. They were nearing Marjorie's place now. "Dirk said Red had gotten big into the drug in the past few weeks, and he often went surface hopping to see his hookup."
Remy thought on his feet, because they were nearly at the door now. "Well, go bring him in then. He might know a lot more than just who was selling it to Red." He didn't want Logan to come in, all fisticuffs and claws, scaring a bunch of sleepy teenagers who had spent the night having sex for money. He would prefer Logan take a long hike back to 116th street and try to find Dirk. Which, for Logan, would be cake, but Remy hoped it would give him enough time for what he had planned.
Logan wasn't an idiot, and he grimaced slightly at Remy's plan. As per usual, the kid was thinking with his heart and not his head. But Logan couldn't see the harm in letting the kid stay indoors with a bunch of girls for a while, making them feel important and all that shit. While he got some real work done. "You know, maybe Dirk is just saying that to preserve himself. He might just know a lot more than he's willing to tell. How rough d'you think I should be?"
"He's not all that big, Logan. Take it easy on him." If Remy knew what Logan was thinking, it wasn't obvious. It was obvious though; that he was glad Logan was going to leave him with Marjorie.
Jean found a few articles of Hank's that would help her get a new perspective on secondary mutations, and one from another Hank, Dr. Pym, related to one of her other projects; biochemical signals that are released during puberty that might serve as biomarkers to detect mutant ability development.
It was Emma though, amidst the jazzy serenade of Huey Lewis and the News' 100 Years From Now, that found the first of many helpful articles relating to MGH. It was written by Dr. Moira MacTaggert and was entitled, Utilizing MGH as a Module for Normalization in Mutant Abilities that are Psychologically Overwhelming. "Listen to this," Emma said and read aloud the title. "Dr. MacTaggert wrote it."
Dr. Moira MacTaggert was a renowned geneticist, and like Hank McCoy, had a keen interest in the mutant genome. She also happened to be the ex-wife of Charles Xavier and the mother of his two children – whom partly because of their mutation and mostly because Charles had not been able to give them what they needed, never saw him. MacTaggert no longer held it against her ex-husband, though they had divorced because of that, and also because Charles' mind had always been centered on his dreams of equality and little else, but she had made it her mission to do what she could for the two boys, who were now adults and yet, not able to take care of themselves.
All of that knowledge both psychics knew, in fact, Emma had even met them once when she was but a lowly PhD student. It was something she would never forget, to see that such strong abilities had all but gone to waste due to their emotional states. It made it even worse, perhaps, that Emma knew Charles was a good man, and with his X-Men, a good 'father figure'. Apparently, when it was his own flesh and blood, he didn't quite know what to do.
Jean knew considerably less about David Xavier and Kevin MacTaggert, but she didn't want to know any more than she already did either. She asked Emma, "What does it say?"
Emma skimmed the paper quickly and read some of the highlights. "Subjects A and B – I presume the subjects are David and Kevin – were administered 2.5cc into four locations; behind both ears and also subcutaneously into opposite sides of the abdominal area. It looks like the MGH was a 206 amino acid type, and was taken from both boys and saved, it says here, a source before subjects developed their abilities – now that's pre-planning."
Emma glanced up at Jean, and continued, "It looks like Moira had figured out they were going to be mutants before they were. Perhaps Charles told her?"
"Either that, or when both boys were born, they stored their placentas and cord blood. That would certainly have enough biological data to be helpful for Moira later. And though the storage of these things is much more popular now than it was back then, we know Charles and Moira are both progressive."
Emma continued reading, "The subjects were administered the MGH in the morning and at night, and this, coupled with an alternative therapy showed that Subject B – Kevin probably – was able to show a 12.5% increase in control over his abilities."
Jean asked, "What other therapy?" Emma could hear the skepticism in her voice.
"This relates to an earlier paper, where Moira went over the therapy at length. I remember studying it."
Neither woman was going to get into the clichéd physician v. psychologist debate; whether or not medicine alone or medicine with therapy was the answer. Mostly because Emma was solidly for the latter, and Jean wavered between both points, depending on the statistics on the therapy used.
Emma explained the therapy as she remembered it. "It is a series of questions and demands, specifically designed depending on the mutant in question. The proctor of the exam asks the subject to perform a certain task, and each task is graded on how complete the task is done. Control, in this case, relates to doing only what is asked – no more, no less.
"So, if we look at Kevin's exams, each one was fifty questions in length and, according to this, exactly the same, Kevin went from not completing the exam to at least attempting each question."
Jean remained skeptical, but said nothing. She couldn't help but think of the kid, though, his own mother making him go through hoops, as if he were a lab rat and not a child. Yes, she very much respected the woman, and of course, Moira was doing the best for her sons with almost no help from anyone else. In fact, Moira was one of the pioneers in mutant genetics. And yet, there was still a funny taste in her mouth when she thought of it.
Marjorie, with keen senses of her own, had heard her handsome detective and the little furry man arguing outside, and so, when Remy came inside, she blocked his way, like a mother bear, putting a slim arm in front of him and spreading her legs. As if that might stop him if he really wanted in.
"Are you trying to shut me down, De-tec-tive?" Marjorie asked, and right now, she wasn't flirting with him. In fact, her haunches were up and her eyes had taken on a feral gleam.
"No, I'm not, Marjorie," Remy answered her easily, because it was true. Lowering his voice, and moving closer to her, using his easy charm to his best advantage. "But you know as well as I do, that some of these girls just don't belong here."
"Oh honey," she said, still on edge, but loosening up, as per Remy's silent request. "Everyone can be taught to be a call girl. Practice makes perfect, and in this business, we get lots of that."
Remy took her by the wrist and moved it from wall, slightly shifting her, as if they were dancing so she could look at her 'girls' as he was. "How might you train Snow White over there, to be a tough-edged street gal, huh? And her sister is gonna be okay with that?" He of course took advantage of Marjorie's newest girls, Cora and Willa, because they were neither loyal to her, nor were they truly knowledgeable of what was expected of them here.
Marjorie was nearly as tall as Remy was, and she faced him now with none of her earlier anger, in fact, she appeared to be her normal self, cutting her losses easily as any true business woman would. "And what if they refuse to go with you, De-tec-tive? What if they have no interest in that ritzy school?"
"Then you'll keep an eye on them for me, until I can convince them," Remy replied easily.
"Eating for free and sleeping with no one," she intoned with a casual shrug, "You're lucky you're handsome," she answered, planting her hands on his chest and running them half way down his ribs before he took a step back. "And yet, so coy," she added, smiling that smile she had perfected years ago that still had men, despite her mutation, paying the big bucks to get with 'the boss'.
"And just for you," she continued, now in control of her hands, "An added bonus. Willa brought me a new girl last night, and she just doesn't quite stack up, if you know what I mean, babe."
It was a business interaction after all, one where knowledge was worth more than money, and Remy kept her attention for one more moment with, "If you're doing something I don't know about Margie, it isn't wise. And it isn't safe."
"I, of course, don't know what you're referring to, handsome."
She was lying, Remy knew. But that didn't mean she was necessarily dealing. She just knew what he was referring to. "Start charging more for anal or something, chère, but please don't start dealing."
She patted his cheek in a maternal way and said, "That's sweet of you to care, De-tec-tive. But don't you waste your worries on me. As always I can take care of myself. Come now, mama Marjorie will show you to your new charges."