Expanding on the previous challenge, why not show how some other mutants with fantastic superhuman powers use their incredible abilities for decidedly non-incredible things? Pick at least two. Oh, but not obvious/overdone stuff like Jean using her TK as an extra hand - be creative. – Josh
(#00273)
“This is my popcorn,” Lance protested. “You want some, go make your own.”
“But I’m hungry now,” protested Freddy.
Todd used his prehensile tongue to snag a lions’ share in one, large {da-gloomp}. “Yo, how ‘bout you make popcorn for alla’ us?”
“Gyah. Dammit!” Lance shoved the remainder at Fred and stomped back towards the kitchen.
*
Kitty looked both ways before pushing her fingers inside her locker padlock. She had never received a combination or, if she had, she’d quickly lost it or forgotten it and hadn’t really been bothered. Besides, this was good practice for focused phasing and unphasing.
{klik-tik, ta-snak!} the litte combination lock sprung open and Kitty could get to her textbooks.
*
“Tell me, Ms Adrien,” said the very severe-looking FBI agent across the table from her. “How is it that you can 'feel the difference’ in counterfeit bills with one hundred percent accuracy when it takes our criminal forensics labs weeks to identify them?”
Sara, still in her Cleanup Fairy uniform (her client had been too cheap to pay her to remove the wings) and half her hazmat gear, grinned nervously. “It’s a long and complicated story, really.”
“Precis it for us.”
“Uh. How do you feel about mutants?”
“They’re just like everyone else, in the end. Which means an equal likelihood of being heroes or villains. Which are you?”
“Chaotic good?” Sara’ optimistic smile faded the longer she stared at the agent’s disapproving face. “Watch carefully.” A deep breath. Forced relaxation. And her pink skin turned into a dazzling array of aqua scales.
“You’re green!”
“I prefer to think of myself as a little bit blue-ish.” She held a single finger forward. The scales were much smaller on the palm side of her hand. If you could imagine a mosaic made of millions of pinheads, all coloured unique shades of aqua, you might come close to the overall effect. “They’re not scales, but chromatophores. I can take on the colour and texture of anything in my immediate environment to effectively disappear. But, in order to do so, each chromatophore also contains a rudimentary eye, and some other senses.”
The FBI agent boggled at her.
“I can 'see’ more details with my hands than my eyes. So I naturally notice when something is 'off’ with the money I handle. If there’s a file on me–”
“You better believe there’s a file on you.”
“Good. Then you’ll note that my first enquiry contained separated samples, including genuine cash from the US mint.”
She went to the copious folder at her elbow. Double-checking. Telling that that entry was two-thirds of the way through.
“See, I’m new to this skin. Shedding is horrid, let me assure you of that. So I couldn’t be certain which ones were which. Once you sent the normal money back, I could -pardon the pun- get my hand in.”
Flip. Flip flip flip. Flip. “And,” flip flip, “thereafter you only sent us the 'funny money’”
“Catalogued by source,” added Sara. “I thought it might be helpful.”
The FBI agent got up, taking the file, and left.
Sara wriggled free of the cuffs so she could scratch an itch, then wriggled back into them again. There was quite the extensive argument going on, behind the mirror. Those rooms were not nearly as sound-proof as they thought.
The temptation was so very strong to write a message on the mirror -backwards, so they could read it- to keep the noise down.
Sara pulled her ankles up and entered the Lotus Pose(adapted, of course, to accomodate the cuffs). Calm. Regulate breathing. Let all come to the centre, and the centre will hold.
“How are you doing that?”
“I told you,” said Sara without looking, “chromatophores. I blend in with the scenery. There’s also a sub-telepathic 'ignore me’ field going on, but that usually happens when I’m stressed.” She opened her eyes. “I take it that there’s some debate with regards to hiring me as a consultant.”
“What? Are you a telepath, too?”
“No, I just do an eerie impersonation of one. You’re a very loud debater, Agent Brooks.” Sara made her skin relax back to its natural state. “And, to my credit, I never once perpetuated a crime portrayed in any of my films or animations.”
“We also have your 'perfect murder’ files.”
“Well… I was working on a game… Didn’t pan out. I guess I’ll have to save those for mystery writing.”
“There’s one in there to kill the President!”
“And notable other public figures. So far, the only one worth any of the bother is Tony Abbot. And I can’t afford the air fare.”
“Who the hell is Tony Abbot?”
“Too soon,” said Sara. She cleared her throat. “Look. Have I actually committed any crime?”
“None that we can prove. Or prosecute.”
“And nothing decodable in my journals is any real threat?”
“It’s the encoded stuff that bothers us.”
“Now you share the joy at reading redacted documents. Welcome to Karma.” Another itch bothered her and she did the cuff trick again, without thinking. “If consultant is too high up the ladder, perhaps informant might make you feel more comfortable? Is there anything lower than informant?”
“Yeah. Perp.”
“Then informant will have to do. Parade me through the security check of your choice. I’m willing to co-operate.”
Brooks was staring at her wrists. “So I see.’
Ooops. "Sorry. They itch. Isn’t the fact that I put them back on proof that I’m an amenable person?”
“No, it proves you’re willing to mess with our heads.”
“What must I do to prove to you I’m not a mutant terrorist threat?”
“Decode your journals.”
“Hm. Surrender all privacy.” Sara thought hard about it. The FBI liked having all the information, but did not like sharing. “There’s some coded information in some journals that should never be used by anyone alive today. It’s just that dangerous.”
“How dangerous?”
“A power source that could, in the wrong hands, blow the planet in half.”
“And you thought that up.”
“And encoded it so it would take several someones a few thousand years to decode it. Even using the monkey-typewriter model.” A shrug. “I get ideas like some folks get dandruff. The only way to make them stop is to write them down. Even when they’re capital-D dangerous.”
She left again. Another argument ensued behind the window.
This was getting tiresome.
“Fine,” said Brooks on her return. She handed over a piece of paper. “You turn up at this address every Tuesday morning at eight sharp. You do not talk to anyone not wearing FBI ID. You stay inside, under guard, and you do not pull that blending-into-the-walls bullshit. And you definitely do not escape any more cuffs, no matter how itchy you are. Any questions?”
“Is there a dress code?”
“Since it’s you, I’d say 'neon’.”
“You have some very nice paper. A grade or three up from common A4. Who’s your supplier?”
There was no answer from Brooks. Just two burly guards to escort her roughly into the black van that had picked her up from her job.
“Do I get my phone back? I have to rearrange my calendar!”
The following Tuesday, she turned up in neon rainbows. Brooks had to get very specific with the dress code, after that.
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