16501/5 v 1

5 v 1
Date of Scene:	22 August 2024
Location:	Main Foyer - Xavier's School
Synopsis:	Cuckoos 5, Quentin 1, Havok 0 (because he ran away).
Cast of Characters:	Havok, Kid Omega, Stepford Cuckoos

---

Havok has posed:
Alex can be found walking down the grand staircase carrying a mattress. It doesn't look old, however it's one of those fancy foam ones that are color coded and supposed to be the shiznit. He doesn't seem happy carrying it by himself, but it's something that obviously needs to be done. He gets to the mid way landing of the staircase and turns the mattress to look at the last 12 feet more and he ponders if he's going to just toss it down the stairs and watch it slide.

Kid Omega has posed:
Quentin Quire is sitting in a window just off to the side of the front door, a book resting on his knees while a couple of electronic pads float around him, each of them with active windows scrolling. He has earbuds in, but apparently Alex's arrival penetrates through his hi-flow infotainment fugue enough for him to turn his head towards Havok on the way down the stairs.

"I would totally help you, except for one sticky detail: I don't wanna," he says, before flashing a toothy smile and returning to his book.

Stepford Cuckoos has posed:
    The grand double doors of the X-Mansion swing open as the Stepford Cuckoos make their entrance, their synchronized steps echoing across the marble floors of the main foyer. Each of the five girls is dressed to perfection, their outfits as distinct as their personalities yet harmoniously coordinated.

    Esme leads the way, her phone held high as she records their every move. She's wearing a sharp, tailored black blazer over a deep crimson top, paired with sleek, high-waisted trousers that accentuate her confident stride. As she captures their entrance, she remarks, "Honestly, we look fierce today. No one's ready for this level of glam."

    Beside her, Phoebe struts with an edge in a studded leather jacket over a bold graphic tee, a short pleated skirt, and chunky boots that click loudly with every step. She glances at the camera, flipping her hair. "Obviously, I'm killing it. This outfit is straight fire."

    Irma, softer in her approach, twirls slightly in a flowing, off-the-shoulder floral dress that flutters with her movements. She gives the camera a sweet smile, her voice melodic. "I'm feeling like pure elegance. It's all about balance, ladies."

    Sophie follows closely, her look a perfect mix of sophistication and class---an ivory blouse tucked into tailored pants, with a sleek blazer thrown over her shoulders. She adjusts her sunglasses and comments, "Chic, polished, and effortlessly fabulous. What else would you expect?"

    Finally, Celeste brings up the rear, wearing a light gray tailored jumpsuit that hugs her form in all the right places, paired with minimalist accessories that scream understated luxury. She smirks at the camera, adding, "Classic, clean, and completely untouchable. Obviously."

    Their fashion-focused video is flawless, capturing every angle, every step, every perfectly styled moment---until they reach the center of the foyer, and Alex comes into view, descending the stairs while awkwardly maneuvering past a large mattress.

    The moment the girls notice him, they collectively groan, their perfect synchronization now expressing their shared annoyance. Esme lowers the phone slightly as they all turn toward him, voices sharp and cutting.

    "Seriously?" Esme snaps, her tone dripping with frustration. "You're ruining the shot!"

    Phoebe glares at him, crossing her arms. "Do you have to be in our way right now?"

    Irma sighs dramatically, shaking her head. "Of all the times, Alex. Really?"

    Sophie rolls her eyes, gesturing dismissively. "Can't you just move that somewhere else?"

    Celeste finishes with a pointed look. "We're trying to create perfection here. You're kind of messing that up."

    With their irritation clearly communicated, they turn their attention back to the phone, swiftly refocusing on the video. As Esme raises the camera again, they fall back into step, their perfect composure restored as they continue their walk through the foyer, leaving Alex---and his mattress---behind.

Havok has posed:
Alex's attention is initially drawn to Quentin when he speaks up. Otherwise, he might have never noted the youth. There's a slight smirk that draws upon Alex's lips when the kid acts like a kid - which is totally expected from Quentin. So there's no actual loss on Alex's part.

Having resumed his movement down the stairs, Alex decided not to let the mattress tumble down. Maybe for the better - or the worse. When the girls enter, he only gave pause for a split second while listening to their commentary - which is always entertaining to him, and perhaps other onlookers. He grins after the accosting and states, "Oh sorry ladies. I didn't realize there was to be a fashion parade today. You wouldn't happen to have your parade license, would you?"

Kid Omega has posed:
Quentin Quire turns and lifts off the windowsill telekinetically, floating in air and refolding his legs lotus style. His plethora of devices remains anchored around him in low orbit, drifting and floating with him at the center. He takes a moment to run a few thick fingers through the magenta scrawl of hair down the center of his scalp, the sides neatly shaved.

"Ladies, ladies, perfection cannot be created, it simply is. A miracle of happenstance, a frozen moment in time, impossible to capture in something as simple as an Instagram photo or a Tiktok reel. Perfection comes through the proper alignment of elements in ways unperceived by the naked eyes of lesser beings. Speaking of which, hello, Mr. Summers!" Kid Omega says with a jaunty wave to the blonde mutant.

"I'm not sure the mansion's aesthetics are the proper venue for your maximum presentation. Paris, maybe, or Milan. Certain nightclubs in the New York City underground scene. Toronto. Hey, don't be shocked, Toronto is deceptively hip despite being Canadian, largely due to its melange of different cultures centered from all the various immigrant strains that end up fleeing the homo-stasis of rural whiteness that engulfs most of the Great White North, leaving them to find shelter in the few dens of civilization that have bubbled up in between all the wildlife habitats."

"If you have need of a cinematographer, well, I don't have any formal accreditations but I could send you a few of my short films, although at least two of them might be a bit too graphic for delicate sensibilities. I wouldn't' want to shock any of you. I do so value your high opinion of me."

Stepford Cuckoos has posed:
    The Stepford Cuckoos, still recovering from the interruption to their video, shift their focus momentarily to Alex after his attempt at humor. Their eyes narrow in unison, and Esme speaks up first, her tone dripping with exasperation. "Really, Alex? A dad joke? You're better than that. Or at least we thought you were."

    Phoebe chimes in with a sigh, rolling her eyes. "We expect bad jokes from... well, from people who aren't in this room."

    Irma adds, her voice gentle but laced with disappointment. "You could at least try not to lower the IQ of the entire mansion with those one-liners."

    As they finish berating Alex, Quinten Quire's voice cuts through the air, and the sisters turn their attention to him, glaring in perfect synchrony as he floats above the floor, his devices orbiting him like some pretentious solar system. Their reaction is instantaneous---a collective, synchronized, and unmistakable "Ew, Quire." His last name rolls off their tongues as if they're spitting out something unpleasant.

    Esme is the first to strike, her voice cold and cutting. "Quire, did anyone actually invite you to this conversation, or did you just float in, uninvited, like the bad smell you are?"

    Phoebe follows up with a smirk, her words dripping with venom. "Perfection? You wouldn't recognize perfection if it slapped you across the face. Maybe because it avoids you on purpose."

    Irma tilts her head, examining him with a disdainful look. "Speaking of elements that don't align, what's going on with that hair? Did you use a lawnmower or just give up halfway through?"

    Sophie crosses her arms, her voice icy. "Honestly, Quire, your entire vibe screams 'trying too hard.' And failing, obviously."

    Celeste finishes with a sharp jab, her gaze locked onto him. "Maybe you should take your 'cinematography' skills and focus on something you're actually good at---like disappearing from our sight."

    The Cuckoos exchange a glance, satisfied with their verbal takedown, their expressions daring Quire to come up with a response that even remotely measures up to their combined wit.

Havok has posed:
Alex up-nods to Quentin when he offers the greeting but says nothing. Instead, he slides the king sized mattress to the wall nearto the main doors that he can not only take a break but also turn to listen to the words that Quentin is spewing toward the girls. Alex's own morbid curiousity getting the better of him as he wonders just how badly that this encounter is going to go.

Historically, Alex is a father. Though that was an alternate reality that he was lost in for several years. He misses Scotty. Or at least the concept of having a son. However, a son with Madelyne Pryor... Nope. Not gonna happen in this reality. Wouldn't be prudent at this juncture. Not just no, but hell no. Instead of worrying about what the girls say, he smiles; knowing he rocked the dad joke. He sees their attention shift to Quentin and he leans against the standing mattress to get comfortable and watch the show. He winces with some of the slights and cuts but knows that Quire can stand up to them in his own cool fashion. But seeing how the girls take turns, being in sync, he wonders while pondering himself and Lorna... he wonders if the girls will ever be able to detach from one another and actually love someone(s) else. If they're even capable of such a measure or leap.

Kid Omega has posed:
Quentin Quire just keep a beatific expression even as the girls eviscerate him verbally. "Hey, now, everything else is fair game, but the hair game is on point, let's not pretend otherwise. Just because you're all obsessed with glossy overstyled manufactured Insta-simps doesn't mean you have to get mad at me for having actual style."

"I can't believe you're being so mean to me in front of Havok. He's like my twelfth favorite X-man. Have some respect for the elderly."

"Since I'm just so awful and toxic and bad and icky, I guess none of you want any of the brownies I have cooking in the oven. I won't tell you the secret ingredient but it rhymes with 'meta-mean'."

He floats around over to the staircase, perching himself on the post at the end of it. "Also, trying too hard seems like kind of a reach. I know there are five of you but you have to have an original thought somewhere in there between you. Everyone knows I despise hard labor, I would never try hard, how dare you."

Stepford Cuckoos has posed:
    The Stepford Cuckoos collectively gasp in perfect unison, their expressions a mix of shock and outrage as Quinten dares to mention the brownies. Esme is the first to snap, her voice sharp as a blade. "Quire, are you seriously offering us drugs right now? Do you have any idea where you are? There are literally teachers right there."

    Phoebe crosses her arms, her eyes narrowing into slits. "We get that you're, like, trying to be edgy or whatever, but that's just dumb---even for you."

    Irma shakes her head, her tone dripping with disdain. "You might have a so-called superior intellect, but clearly, it's not doing you any favors if this is your idea of smart."

    Sophie steps forward slightly, her voice icy as she glares at him. "You think you're so clever, Quire, but all we see is someone who tries too hard to be a contrarian because that's all you've got."

    Celeste finishes, her tone as cold as the arctic. "You're the literal bane of our existence. Everything about you is just... ugh. The arrogance, the attitude, the whole 'too cool for school' vibe. It's exhausting."

    The girls exchange a glance, their expressions unified in disdain, before Esme delivers the final blow. "You know what, Quire? You're like a discount philosopher who thinks throwing around big words and contrived ideas makes you deep. But all it does is make you painfully predictable and shallow."

    They glare at him for a moment longer before turning away, arms still crossed, clearly dismissing him from their presence.

Havok has posed:
Multiple man, maybe. --- Alex ponders who might work with the girls. He's sort of the same person, yet different on very subtle levels. But he never knows who is going to show up when he's hit. So that wouldn't work.

Alex gently shakes his head when he's pointed out regarding the drug use. He knows it's not allowed here. He doesn't do anything personally, but suspects that many of the younger generation partakes since they're so vulnerable to peer pressure, implied internet and social media 'norms', and how their generation has normalized subculture behaviors because everything is supposed to be acceptable - except for whatever bandwagon canceling group says otherwise. He's glad he's not on the twatbooks or the faceitters. That internet social media world is way too off putting for him. Plus, it's far more entertaining to live in the real world and get to experience the battle royale that's going on in front of him.

He thinks it's over and notes that no one has a bloody nose or deep psychic scars, so Alex pushes off the mattress, turns, grabs it by the side handle and begins sliding it toward the double door exit. He will grab the doorknob with his free left hand and then start with the egress. Best to leave before they make him the target of the moment.

Kid Omega has posed:
Quentin Quire rolls his eyes, "A teacher right there? So what? I didn't answer to teachers when I was a student and I am definitely NOT a student now. Oh god, are you still in school here? Are you in remedial classes, girls? Gosh, I can't say I'm shocked, but I am appalled, at the very least."

"I'm contrary because there are plenty of little sheep wandering around this school ready to yes sir and yes ma'am everything that comes out of Scott Summers' wind-chapped mouth. Hell, I'm sure you girls are so far up Emma's fartbox that you make squeaking sounds when she walks too fast. So if it seems like I'm trying too hard, it's only because I'm picking up everybody else's slack."

"I know you're used to being fawned over and treated like you're special because you all look alike, but we all won the genetic lottery around here and it would take five of you combined to even come close to matching one little old me."

"Don't look now, girls, but I think Havok's running away. You're officially more frightening than Apocalypse."

Stepford Cuckoos has posed:
    The Stepford Cuckoos remain perfectly still as Quinten finishes his tirade, their expressions slowly morphing from mild irritation to cold, calculated amusement. They exchange a brief glance, wordlessly deciding it's time to put Quire in his place. Esme steps forward first, her voice dripping with icy disdain.

    "Jealousy really doesn't look good on you, Quire. But then again, nothing does. Drowned rat chic isn't exactly setting trends these days."

    Phoebe follows, her arms still crossed as she delivers her biting retort. "You know, for someone who talks a big game about not caring what people think, you sure put a lot of effort into making sure everyone notices you. Trying too hard is an understatement---you're practically desperate for attention."

    Irma tilts her head slightly, a mocking smile playing on her lips. "And honestly, Quinten, calling us remedial? It's cute that you think that's a flex. Of course we're not students here anymore. But clearly, you're the one stuck in the past, clinging to this place like it's the only thing that gives your life meaning."

    Sophie steps forward, her gaze locking onto Quire with cutting precision. "Face it, Quire. You're not contrary because you're a rebel. You're contrary because you're lonely. No one actually cares about your little contrarian act, and deep down, you know it. That's why you keep trying so hard---to fill that void you pretend doesn't exist."

    Celeste delivers the final blow, her voice calm yet seething with judgment. "You can throw all the insults you want, Quire, but at the end of the day, it takes five of us to even begin to match the amount of effort you put into being a miserable, insufferable bore. And that's truly the saddest part---you think you're better than everyone else, but all you really are is a failed experiment in trying to matter."

    The Cuckoos stand in perfect formation, their cutting words hanging in the air like shards of glass. Finally, Esme adds with a smirk, "Havok's not running away from us, Quire. He's just smart enough to know when it's time to leave the room before the real carnage begins."

Havok has posed:
Alex exits stage left. Knowing that it's probably best to leave this party before it really gets started - and based on the last few words, there's about to be blows. He's not 'teacher' enough to want to get in the middle of that.

Kid Omega has posed:
Quentin Quire fingerguns at the girls, "Here's the thing: I admit my faults, fully. I am arrogant, full of myself. Crude, lewd, uncouth. I love attention. I like shocking people, just for doing it. Don't get me wrong, I used to be very mad, so mad. MAGNETO WAS RIGHT and all that shit."

"Then I realized that both sides were mostly full of shit. And that the best thing I could do is whatever the fuck I want, whether prissy little bitches like you think it's worthwhile or not."

"But sure, I hit on you now and then still. You've got to be good for something, all evidence to the contrary. But I'm not lonely. I just don't like any of the rest of you enough to let you keep me company. It is kind of a contradiction, though, that I do love the spotlight so much and yet I hate the whole fucking audience."

Stepford Cuckoos has posed:
    The Stepford Cuckoos stop in their tracks as Quinten finishes, turning back to face him with a collective look of amused disdain. Esme leads the charge, her voice dripping with condescension. "You know, Quire, for someone who claims to not care about what anyone thinks, you sure spend a lot of time trying to convince us---and yourself---otherwise."

    Phoebe rolls her eyes, her tone laced with venom. "If you were really as above it all as you pretend to be, you wouldn't be standing here, arguing with us like you've got something to prove. Spoiler alert: you don't."

    Irma gives a mocking sigh, shaking her head. "And hitting on us? Please. That's just desperation wrapped in arrogance. It's almost sad... almost."

    Sophie steps forward slightly, her gaze cold and piercing. "The truth is, Quire, you're just another loudmouth who thinks shock value equals intelligence. But it doesn't. It just makes you tiresome. And no amount of 'not caring' can change that."

    Celeste delivers the final blow, her voice calm but cutting. "You can keep playing the tortured genius all you want, but it's transparent. If you were really as great as you think, you wouldn't need to stand here and try to prove it to us. We're walking away because we can. Something you could never do---because you're too busy chasing shadows of importance."

    With that, the Cuckoos turn on their heels in perfect unison, their departure as sharp and calculated as their words. They don't look back, leaving Quinten Quire in their wake, the final nail in the coffin firmly hammered in.