An FOH sympathizer and Scott have a civil debate on the issue of human supremacy vs. coexistence after she recognizes him during the reception preceding his third artistic experience post song. Common ground is tripped upon due to the relative naivete of both to the concept of creative expression.
(#00217)
He had bought a suit for this exhibition, and still waited for someone to call him out as a fraud. Scott still called his works ‘inspired by’ ikebana rather than the actual thing, lest he be seen as another appropriating white artist stealing another nations’ culture. He watched Japanese artists and critics alike, waiting for a frown or some other signal that he was doing it wrong.
“Did you use your powers to cheat at this?” was a call-out he had not expected.
“Huh?”
“I know you,” said the very English-sounding black man in tweed. “You’re one of those mutants. Cyclops, right? You used your mutant powers to cheat.”
“Actually, my mutant powers would be highly detrimental. I’m packing a bazooka behind each eyeball and I can’t turn it off.” Maybe Sara’s technique of blunt honesty could pierce the veil of willful ignorance. He tapped his ruby-quartz glasses. “These hold it back, and incidentally cut off my access to most of the visible spectrum.”
“Yes, I saw the glasses. Nice trick, trying to gain sympathy. How did you cheat?”
Evidently, mutants could not be capable of twiddling away at things until they got good at it. “If I was using my powers to concussively blast away at stone until I had a sculpture, maybe… but I’m not a sculptor. I did all of these with my hands, like anyone else would.”
“Yes, but how did you cheat?”
Sigh. “How would you cheat, if you had my powers?” he asked.
“I’d telepathically borrow–”
“Not a telepath. I can’t do that. A friend of mine could, but they choose not to.”
He frowned. “You use telekinesis to–”
“I don’t have telekinesis. If I did, don’t you think I’d be snatching the last of the crab puffs, right now?” He pointed to the distant snack table where another patron was doing just that.
“You absorbed someone’s mind an–”
“No, that’s Rogue. She actually hates doing that.”
“Then what the hell mutant cheating powers have you got?”
“Bazooka eyeballs. That’s it. Swear to God.”
He glared at Scott, evidently looking for a tell. “You can’t be this good overnight. No-one can.”
“I was messing around with it for ages, right up until one of Sara’s Aunts spotted me and insisted on an exhibition. That’s why there’s only photos of my earlier works. I tore them down to make newer ones.”
The wince was pure artistic appreciation. “How could you? How could you just… take apart art like that?”
“I didn’t think it was good enough.” He shrugged and stared at a piece he was now forbidden to touch ever again. He saw every flaw. Every mistake. But now, it belonged to someone else. If he wanted to make improvements, he’d have to make a new piece with new… pieces. “I still don’t.”
The man glared at him a moment, and then took one of the cheap, plastic-and-cellophane glasses left lying around for patrons to look through. “It’s so stark… no wonder you chose dead articles…”
“That, and I’m not confident enough to touch a living plant. The imitation of life, or dried plants… it’s something I can’t kill.”
He lowered the glasses, frowning. “I can’t imagine killing anything by looking at it.”
“I can’t stop,” said Scott.
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