Chapter Eleven -Atishoo, Atishoo, All Fallout
There were days when being a telepath was the greatest blessing on the planet. Worlds beyond the reach of anyone moored by their physical body were but a heartbeat away; thought was tangible, a living essence all its own. Beauty took on new meaning, and such things as people have only ever dreamed about became reality in seconds.
Conversely, there were also days when being a telepath was the biggest kick in the butt a person could ask for. Not that anyone would ever actually ask for a kick in the butt. Well, maybe masochists, but that was a whole other can of worms.
Jean sat, spine ramrod and parallel to the wall, with muscles locked and legs tucked Indian style under her body. She'd been in that position so long that the cold metal had warmed up, and was now reflecting her body heat back at her. Had she been concentrating on her posture, she might have pondered how uncomfortable she was. Her pose was one of classic meditation, as she had learned through many lessons with both Ororo and Logan; but it was hardly one conducive of comfort. However, her mind was somewhere else.
Literally.
As a telepath, Jean had long since established psychic links with each of her teammates. It made things easier when contact was needed quickly. Contrary to fantasy and sci-fi novels, movies, plays and suchlike, you couldn't just toss a thought into the air and have it received by the person you were aiming it at. Jean first needed a 'feel' for the mind she was trying to contact – some sense of presence on which to focus. Setting up prearranged connections with those close to her just shortened the process of pinpointing them when they weren't close by. It also helped bolster clarity of communication.
Every living thing on Earth emanates a small amount of psychic energy. Plant, animal, human – if it has a mind, it has a form of sentience or instinct, and so has a telepathic signal. Yes, even plants. Trees have very good memories – albeit, of a different kind to other organisms. All this crowds the planes inhabited by telepaths and those with other forms of extrasensory perception, creating a kind of spiritual white noise. Hundreds upon thousands upon millions of individual thoughts, feelings and emotions, just floating around to be picked up by unsuspecting minds.
This is the welcome mat and backdrop against which all emergent telepaths must learn to control their powers. It is not difficult, then, to understand why many are driven mad if proper help is not received. The ravings of some lunatics are more than just the product of mental disorders; they are cries for help from people whose individuality has been eroded by constant bombardment from the psychic planes, until they can no longer tell reality from Vision.
Jean Grey was one of the lucky ones. When her mutant abilities surfaced, she was within the range of one Charles Xavier, who reached out to her with his own telepathy and shored up her defences until he could convince her parents to allow her attendance at his school. After a fair amount of persuasion they agreed. Once there, Jean spent years learning how to set up her own defences against the inherent dangers of telepathy. From the ages of thirteen to sixteen she worked chiefly on security, setting up barrier after barrier, wall after wall, and trap after trap for anyone trying to get into her thoughts. This was as well as honing her telekinesis, and learning the things every girl of her age had to: English, science, maths, how to fit in with cliques and avoid backstabbers.
Finally, when he was as certain as he could be that she was ready, Xavier freed her mind from his protective restraints and allowed her to confront the psychic world she had been blocked from for so long.
Jean had come far since that day. Xavier was still undoubtedly the most powerful telepath in the world, but she was no shrinking violet, either. She'd learned all sorts of tricks and talents under his guidance – including how to make and keep contact with certain people.
One of the upshots of this was that, when the X-Men couldn't all be together in the same room, but still needed to talk with each other, Jean became a sort of 'switchboard'. She kept the psychic byways open and conducted each of their 'voices' through her own links, so that they could be heard by everyone else in their select little chain. It was a useful ability, and one she'd both devised and polished with her teammates when it was her turn to lead training sessions.
However, it also meant practically abandoning the physical world for a time so as to keep their airwaves up and running smoothly. Hence, her current location in one of the quiet corridors in the bowels of the Institute.
The reasons for this urgent 'gathering' had originally been twofold. However, since one had been to include Feral in the conversation to show a little collective friendliness, there was really only one reason now. The Morlock had been rather averse to having others inside her head, and Jean had respected her wishes by pulling out again.
Truth be told, Jean was a little glad Feral didn't want to 'talk'. Her mind was fractured, with shifting contours where there should have been smooth thought. It was a bit of a telepathic minefield, and not one Jean felt up to navigating whilst also holding sway over several dozen other minds and their dialogue. Some X-Men had better control over themselves in the ether than others, but they all needed her guiding hand at some point or other.
After school and a short conference with Xavier in which she got a salient update, Jean had begun by broadcasting the news of Feral's now conscious state to the other kids. She also included some details on Ray's involvement with calming her down, which had been met by impressed noises from all. Ray had been in on proceedings at that point, and blown all their words off with bravado. Jean sensed something beneath that felt like happy embarrassment, but didn't pry.
Then came the part she hadn't been looking forward to. Naturally, the other X-Men all wanted answers regarding Feral. Questions they hadn't felt able to ask last night now bubbled to the surface, and after a short while of habitual bristling, Ray consented to answering what he could. After all, as Jubilee so helpfully pointed out from the safety of her bedroom, if Feral was to be staying with them for a while – if only to recuperate and get some meat on her bones – then they had a right to know more about her. And since she wasn't eager to talk to them personally, Ray was delegated party.
This is one of those situations where I'm really not gonna win, no matter what I say, isn't it?
Got it in one.
Jubilee. Not helping, 'said' Scott. Even when nobody could see him, they felt his frown traversing the psi-ways into their brains.
Jeez, sor-ry. Excuse me for breathing, over here, oh Fearless Leader.
It's his raison d'être. He leads, therefore he is, Bobby sniggered.
If it's not too much trouble, Jean put in, can we please get on with it? I'm going to need the mother of all Tylenol tablets when this is over.
She felt Scott's concern spike, but it was quickly submerged in the rush of mental voices.
One at a time, one at a time! Evan, you first.
Evan was concise. Real name.
Vital stats, Ray replied, somehow managing to infuse his 'voice' with a monotone drone not unlike Cerebro's operating system, Real name, Maria Callasantos. Age, somewhere in mid to late teens -
Well that's specific. You want to be any more vague, R-man?
Hey, Morlock policy was don't get caught and don't ask questions. If you're after Feral's bio and life history from before the tunnels then you're asking the wrong guy, 'E-man'.
Hey dude, less with the sarcasm, 'kay? Evan didn't sound hurt as much as uncomfortable. Kurt had once tried to turn his nicknaming habit back on him, with the result that Evan ended up in the school councillor's office trying to convince Mr. Fenkman he didn't have a drugs habit.
You mean you let that wildcat into our house – our home – and you don't know a thing about her? This from Roberto, who maintained his vague accent even in thought. Though he was completely bilingual, and had been since early childhood, Jean knew his thoughts frequently flipped between English and Portuguese. Madre de Dios.
Hey, Bertie, I know plenty about her, Ray bristled. Just not that stuff, okay? It's not that different to you not telling everyone your entire life story pre-Xavier. Or Scott. Or Kurt. Or Rahne-
All right, all right, we get the picture. Helped by Jean, Scott shoved himself in between them before they dissolved into a total argument. We're here to get info, not play Spanish Inquisition. And we're definitely not here to fight.
Jawohl, oh fearless leader.
Don't even get me started on you, Kurt.
What? What'd I do? Nobody had any trouble picturing Kurt with a hand to his heart. It was his best 'who, me?' posture. I've been a paragon of virtue all day. Especially when behind the wheel, I might addl.
I said not to get me started.
For the last time, my driving was fine. The exchange had all the earmarks of a much-played television repeat. Just because I didn't learn in the US doesn't mean I'm not a capable driver here. European driving isn't so very different, you know, and it's not like I go looking for trees to crash into.
Hey, guys? Kitty's mental voice was faint, telling all those who heard it that she was distracted. Those who knew what was claiming her attention shuddered. Li'l more on-topic stuff, please?
Look, whatever the country, you do not follow a car that close to the bumper bar! Scott gave in and trod the beaten verbal track.
I wasn't all that close...
Kurt, I could read the guy's speedometer.
Yowch! The image of a hand burned by a baking tray filled the ether. Hey, guys, Kitty snapped, either take it somewhere else or keep quiet. I didn't tune into this channel for macho bitching. You're throwing me off my groove.
Since when did 70s jargon make a comeback? Jubilee asked sweetly.
Since she found a cookbook published in 1972 and dusted it off for cookies with which to pacify Logan, Evan deadpanned. Ain't that right, K-girl?
Everyone was already familiar with the chewing out Kitty had received, if not totally sure of the reason why. Preoccupation with Feral had meant that Kitty's misdemeanour, when ascertained as not life threatening or likely to affect anyone else, had been pushed aside. Scott had sounded like he wanted to pry more, but pulled back at the last second with some visible effort. Still, they all knew she had been put on a punishment detail that made the aftermath of Kurt's Carnival 'date' with Tabitha look like a vacation in the subtropics.
It's not that old. And once you convert the imperial measurements to metric, it's not that hard to follow, either. Um, a quart of milk is more than 100 centilitres, right?
Roberto sighed. Am I the only one who wants to get back on topic?
Jean winced, flexing her mental fingers and gathering the various voices closer. No. This switchboard is getting tired, so I urge you to hurry it up, people, unless you want the phone company to cut you off for not paying your bills.
Amara piped up. She'd been quiet for most of the discussion, owing to the need to make sure she didn't fire an arrow into a person-shaped target. She had stayed at school for archery club, a new venture by Bayville High that was proving quite popular with the student body. Amara was already quite a proficient archer, having learned the skill as a princessly duty back on Nova Roma, but she enjoyed the company of likeminded people. Nobody at the Institute was trained in archery – not even Logan.
The only other absentee from the mansion was Rogue, who had been quite snippy when first contacted. She had softened when told the news of Feral, but been so preoccupied with what Jean surmised was a shopping trip that she was excused and promised an update later.
Is this 'Feral' a pleasant creature? Amara asked.
No reply.
Ray? Jean prodded.
Yo, R-man!
Huh? Ray's consciousness faded back in.
Jean felt guilty about not noticing it had gone. Still, she reasoned, she was watching over a lot of individual minds. And they did all insist on moving around.
Sorry. Feral woke up. Apparently she doesn't trust a burrito as real food if it's not half rotten. This Sad Pudding stuff is good, by the way.
The X-Men chose not to comment, instead repeating Amara's question. Jean felt Jamie's signature swell a little with pride.
You mean, is she friendly? Ray abridged. Ummm… not in the … conventional sense of the word.
She has already attacked several of our people, Roberto pointed out. That's pretty suggestive.
Our people? Jubilee repeated. Since when did we start dividing the world up into sides?
Yeah, but suggestive of what? Bobby said over her. Someone who just doesn't trust other people, or someone who'd carve out our gizzards and eat them for breakfast? Or even none of the above. Maybe human haggis is more her thing.
She's not some savage beast, Ray defended, suddenly huffy.
Could've fooled me, sniped Roberto. I think Logan and Scott might disagree with you there. Mr. McCoy, too. She attacked all of them without provocation, and there wasn't much hesitation about doing them serious damage.
I can speak for myself, you know, Scott interjected, but he was ignored.
Ray grumped. I'll admit, she has some problems, but she's not a total psycho. Not the Feral I knew. Her mutation shortened her fuse a little, sure, but she's not vicious. She's just been through a lot, is all. You think any of you guys would come up smelling of roses after what she's seen? She didn't know you were friends before. Now she does. She's fine, I swear it. And I'll stick by her until she can recognise everyone as friends on her own. I'll teach her that this place is… good.
Yeah, well, you still won't catch me going near her if the sun isn't out.
Something approaching a growl reverberated along the psi-ways. You're so asking for it, Bertie…
If we can't act like civilised adults, can we at least stop scratching and biting like squabbling puppies? Jean pleaded, only half joking. Arguing heightened emotion, which made it more difficult to lock onto many minds and stay locked onto them. Roberto doesn't mean to offend, Ray, he's just concerned. Right, Roberto? You have to admit that Feral's track record isn't exactly encouraging.
Yeah, well, I know her better than you guys do. She's okay, honestly. But if it'll make you feel better, I promise not to leave anyone alone with her for the foreseeable future, 'kay? She listens to me. She trusts me. All I've got to do is make her understand stuff about the Institute being a safe place, and we're all set.
Jean clamped down on Roberto's brewing retort, sending a private message for him not to inflame the situation again. He replied with a rebellious grumble, but complied.
Erm, not to dump a bucket of water over the warm fuzzies, Jubilee interrupted, but won't school get in the way of that plan? Ray, You'll have to leave Feral's side sooner or later.
I'll work something out. The Professor knows what's going on. He'll help me set something up with the school – pull a few strings with Principal Kelly and junk. Maybe… maybe I could be home tutored for a while. Yeah, that'd work.
Jamie squeaked. Great idea! I mean, Mr. McCoy already teaches me. And the Professor must be called that for a reason, right?
Ray's satisfaction at this conclusion radiated out in waves. Yup. Problem solved.
We'll see, said Scott, authority fairly dripping from his tone.
Jeez, Scooter, you sound so old when you say that.
Jubilee, unless that jacket of yours happens to be laser-resistant, I suggest you don't call me Scooter. Ever again.
Rogue was pissed off. In fact, she was more than pissed off. This was pissed of squared – no, it was pissed off cubed. How dare Risty do this to her. How dare she!
Rogue had spent most of the trip to the mall talking, finding Risty a good listener, as always. Her mouth, usually clenched to keep her secrets behind her teeth, ran free. Sometimes she came perilously close to babbling a la Kitty, but she reasoned that was just the vestiges of Kitty's mind hanging around.
By the time they arrived and clambered out of Risty's pea-green Nissan, Rogue had been quite at ease, and agreed without fuss to go looking for a new pair of shoes for her friend. Risty freely admitted that her biggest sin was a well-turned piece of footwear, and could spend hours pottering around inspecting heels and leather stitching. She was delighted not to have to drag Rogue kicking and screaming into the Clothing Emporium.
Then Jean had called up, dropping herself straight into Rogue's frontal lobe. Risty, thankfully, was poking around the boots section when contact was made, and didn't have to witness Rogue's expression suddenly switch from neutral to shocked to furious. There had been no explicit orders for her to go home right after school. They had no right to intrude without so much as a by your leave. Having her outing infiltrated by her teammates bordered on outright invasion, and it was not until Jean relayed news of their newest arrival that the lines around Rogue's eyes smoothed out again.
Yet that was not what had caused Rogue's current foul mood. Jean had pulled out after a while, promising to update her on any breaking news as soon as she got home. She seemed to sense that Rogue, like any of the Institute students, needed this bit of time away from the whole mutant thing – an hour or two where she could just be Rogue-the-teenager instead of Rogue-the-X-girl.
No, the reason for her outrage was held out in front of her and two seconds away from being thrown over the curtain.
Somehow, while her attention was divided between shopping and 'talking' with Jean, Rogue had allowed herself to be manhandled into a changing cubicle with this … thing. Folded up, it looked like something regurgitated by a drunken elephant while a mass of incontinent pigeons flew overhead. It didn't get much better stretched out and scrutinised from several angles.
"Rogue?" Risty called from outside. She had placed herself on guard after bundling the other girl in. "Talk to me. Have you tried it on yet?" A pause. "Are you okay? You seemed kind of spacey before."
"I'm fine. And no, this ain't gonna happen, Risty."
"You're not even going to try it?"
"No." The rejection in Rogue's voice was firm. The rejection was very firm. The rejection was acorn-clenched-between-buttocks firm. This, it said decisively, is out of the question. It is not even close to happening. Nu-uh. Never. Not even if God Himself descends into this changing room and commands it. Not even if He says 'please'.
Risty's voice, on the other hand, held a definite pout. "You didn't make much argument when I showed it to you."
Probably because I was bickerin' with Jean over missin' dinner. But obviously Rogue couldn't use the argument in her defence. Instead, she said, "It looks different in this light."
"Different is not a bad thing. Oh, go on, Rogue. Please? It's such a little thing."
"Exactly. Actually, it's more than just a li'l thing. It's an incredibly tiny thing, which is why I ain't wearin' it." She reached for the coat-hanger. "I got some dignity, y'know. An' the world don't need to see that much of my thighs, neither." Coming from a girl who habitually went to school in miniskirts, this was really saying something.
Risty didn't answer for a moment. Rogue had half the thing back on its hanger before her unmistakable brogue came again.
"Oh, for goodness' sake, here."
Something thrust through the curtain and into Rogue's bumbling hands. She was about to protest about the lack of privacy, despite still being fully dressed, but the hand was gone again.
"Risty!"
"What? You haven't got anything I haven't seen before. I have a full-length mirror in my bedroom. Now put those on if you insist on being such a prude. Honestly, the way you carry on you'd think there was some law against showing a bit of skin, or something."
Rogue swallowed her reply. Yeah. Or sumthin'.
The new article turned out to be a pair of tights covered in a staircase of thick horizontal stripes in alternating black and purple. The fabric was not overly thin, but neither was it approaching the 100-denier mark. Rogue ran it absently though her fingers, before remembering she was supposed to be cleaning up to put this stuff back where it came from.
Except…
"I thought y'all weren't allowed to try this kinda thing on. Unsanitary."
"I asked the assistant. Just don't tear out the protective stickers in the crotch and we're rolling. Now hurry up in there before I get so bored my arms drop off."
Sighing, and knowing how tenacious Risty could be when she got an idea into her head, Rogue started to strip. Avoiding looking at her too-pale skin in the mirror, she pulled on the stripy tights first, being careful not to rake her fingernails through them. She had just painted them this morning, but the fresh varnish was already chipped into little peaks and troughs. She had to be careful not to ladder the things before she'd even bought them.
Not that she intended to buy them – oh no. This was just an exercise in Risty-indulgence. Once she'd done a quick twirl she could claim it was uncomfortable and they could flee to the make-up counter, or even out of this store altogether.
Next came the dress. Rogue slipped it over her head, mildly irritated it wasn't scratchy or too small. The burgundy fabric was resolutely smooth, and slid over her with a breathy noise not unlike a soft sigh. She tugged it down, clipping and fastening where she needed to, and then straightened up to survey the damage.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Rogue? Are you dead in there?"
Wow.
Rogue twisted, searching for some flaw in the back.
The dress flowed over the curve of her hips, gently fanning out when it reached the rise of her buttocks. Delicate swirls of reddish-purple twined in and out in a marble-like effect. Beneath, the stripy tights matched in an impossible way, as if they had come with it instead of being plucked from a random shelf to pacify a grumpy teenager. Somehow the hemline didn't seem quite so high when set against them. Rogue flattened the front with the palms of her hands to check.
Around her waist was a string of glossy wooden beads that sat slightly to one side, resting on her left hip. Added to this, a large scoop of fabric had been removed from the top, but the plunging neckline had been covered over with a ream of intricate black lace up to her throat, which gave more than a hint of the pale skin beneath, but acted as a protective covering. The long sleeves emulated the skirt, fanning out around her wrists in some unidentifiable Neo-Romantic style.
It was as if the outfit had been designed especially for her.
Wow.
"Rogue, if you don't answer me in three seconds, then I'm coming in to -"
"Shhh."
"It speaks! What on Earth are you doing in there, finishing the Unfinished Symphony?"
"Preenin'," Rogue replied simply.
"Oh. Well, then, don't leave me in suspense. Let's have a butchers."
She faltered. "A what?"
"A butchers. A gander. A look, you silly mare. Come out here and let me see it on you. I want to know if my fashion sense works on other people."
Rogue took a last look in the mirror and pulled the curtain aside, stepping out uncertainly. It was entirely possible that things were all in her head, and she looked as hideous as she'd first assumed she would. The sight that greeted her compounded this thought.
In the cubicle opposite a woman was parading to her partner, who looked bored out of his skull. Her dress was too short for her age, the colour scheme too garish for her skin tone, and she was wearing such an effective push-up bra that her rather saggy breasts sat crazily just beneath her collar bone. She was clearly in the midst of a most appalling Mutton Moment, and seeing her somehow sucked the buoyancy out of Rogue like a drunkard draining a whisky bottle.
She perked up a little when Risty exclaimed, "Oh, it's perfect!" and accompanied the exclamation with the necessary expression and hand gestures. "Turn around, turn around, let me see the back!"
Even though she was pleased, Rogue could not bring herself to show it just yet. She was not convinced. After all, Risty was her friend. It was her job to say things to make her feel better about herself.
She sniffed, standing as awkwardly as she could and yanking at the edges of the sleeves. "I feel like I just raided the dressin' up box at the local playgroup."
"Nonsense. You look stunning. Now do as I say and turn around so I can see the back." Risty rotated a finger like an old schoolmarm. "Ooh, the lines on that skirt are done well, aren't they? You can hardly see the stitching. You're making me quite jealous, Rogue."
"You try it on, then."
"Don't be silly. My hair would clash horribly. I'd look like something from the Rocky Horror Show – not a look I wish to foster."
"My underwear shows less of my butt than this hemline."
"Really?" For a moment Risty looked thoughtful. "I might just have to take you past lingerie on the way to the checkout, then."
"You dare!" Rogue warned, infusing her gaze with the kind of carefully cultivated threat Bobby was treated to when planning a new prank. "An' who said I was buyin' it, anyhow? I only put it on to get you off my back."
"If you don't buy it, then I'll get it for you. Rogue, this is just too perfect to let slip by. You'll have all the blokes dribbling into their textbooks if you wear this to school." Risty's smile was as gleeful as if she'd be wearing it herself.
"I don't like attention - "
"Pshaw." She waved an imperious hand. "I don't believe that for a second." Then she tipped her head to one side. "You know, with the right earrings … the gypsy look could be a good one for you. You spend too much time trapped in the 60s."
Rogue opened her mouth. Then she shut it again. A long moment passed. Finally, she shot her friend a weary look laced with resignation. "You're gonna spend your hard earned cash on this thing no matter what I say, aren'tcha?"
"Possibly." The tone of the reply was Risty-speak for 'you bet your Southern-fried arse I am'. "Friends don't let friends wear frumpy wardrobes, and yours has been straying that way lately. Now, hurry up in there and get dressed. I'm hungry, but I'm not leaving this store until you're properly kitted out."
To Be Continued…
Yup, it's Review Reply time, again.
Hey, Shadow Diva. Wasn't expecting to see you on this fic, but I'm mightily pleased you decided to drop by. Thanks for the good wishes, too. I'll pass them on to my immune system.
I reckon Kitty made it to meet with Lance, Angel of the Fallen Stars, but others probably used it after they figured out it was there. Kitty still gets most of the blame for making it in the first place, though. I'm glad you liked Tabby. I feel she's underappreciated by the fandom, and barely investigated except to pair her up with someone. It used to be Kurt, but these days you can't go two steps without falling over a Tabitha/Amara fic. And I'm afraid I'm not sure what you meant by 'hoel', babs. you'll have to explain that to me before I can answer you properly.
You'll find out, SperryDee. Eventually. And here's some more Risty, just for you.
Eep! I love getting long reviews from you, Me, so rambly and fun. Now let's see what today's lucky bag has in store for me. 'Siphon' means to draw off. People who are tight-arses siphon petrol from other cars to use in their own, and doctors siphon pus and excess blood from icky wounds to they can see to fix them. 'Consternation' is kind of like worry or anxiety, only a little bit further up the scale. Hee hee, 'poleaxed' is a great word. It means to knock someone out and, literally, lay them flat, like chopping down a pole with a big ax. And wouldn't you like to know what books I'm reading coughHowtoTakeOvertheWorldinFifteenEasyStepscoughcough. It will surely freak people out if you say 'trademark' after it, yes. Aw, lay off. Inever said my grammar was perfect. And equally, lay off for the shortness of the scene. I'm no good at writing Lancitty, as I've stated several times before, so that scene was a real departure for me. I'm sorry it wasn't up to scratch. I adore the last Austin Powers movie. Granted, it's the only one I've seen, but still. 'Do you have a little clone inside you?' The movie you asked about is Tarzan. Specifically, the line about emotional constipation comes from Tantor the elephant. The three Rs are reading, wRiting and aRithmatic (yes, I know they don't all start with R, but I didn't make the rules up. This is traditional education and pedagogy speaking, which should make us all worry, if you ask me). 'Perennial' means re-occuring, or yearly. You can get perennial plants (usually bulbs more than seeds) that come back year after year without any help. Actually, Sad Pudding is a play on something from the Teen Titans cartoon show, which I'd just started watching when I wrote that. My mother attached electrodes to myeyelids when my cheeks were wet /joking. Johnny! Okay then, I shall call you Harry, and you shall be my Harry. You do AS levels? Or did, as the case may be. Good on you. Yes, I did get an A for AS and A2, but I was doing pure English Literature, not a combo Lit and Lang course. You perve on my journal? You know, I allow anonymous comments. You could talk to me there if you wanted to. Oh, and can I have some time to work on my dissertation please?
Logan in an apron, hee. I wish there was fanart of that. Him in a pinkapron and just the apron. Hee hee. Don't you think, Psycho-Neurotically Disturbed?
Hey, I'm flexible AzKailani. Just because I've written Ray/Kitty before doesn't mean it's my OTP (One True Pairing). Unlike much of the fandom, I'm not a 'shipper, which means I can pair together anyone I like, or even pair nobody at all. There's more to fanfic than romance, sayeth I. Mulan I, huh? I loved the first movie. The second one any good, or do we have another Pocahontas II or Stitch the Movie on our hands?
You will like Tabitha, Relwarc. Look into my eyes. Yes, that's it, look deep into my eyes and repeat after me: I live Tabitha Smith. She is interesting and complex and has pretty hair. I am going to write a dozen fics about her complexities... yes. That's it. good little hypno-slave. ;)
Somebody recced me, Slash Gorden? Ooh, who? I need to thank them for that. And thank you to you, too, for the review. Happy Scribbler.
Righty-o, BK13.