Participants:
| Scene Title | Fluke |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Practise for Devon's ability, regardless of what may or may not have been a fluke. |
| Date | June 11, 2011 |
Endgame Safehouse
It's well past lunch and most the inhabitants of the safehouse have gone on to their various tasks or hobbies or whatever is that terrorists in hiding do during their downtime. For Devon it's simple enough. Having found himself relatively alone, he'd made his way down to the basement. Less chance of drawing attention to himself, and the things down there are used for targets. What better props to use to distract his mind and try to figure out just what it is he's doing.
Literally. What is he doing?
The teenager's hands rest on the back of the sofa that's been used for shooting practice. With lines creasing his brow from concentration, he focuses on the sofa. Or something to that effect. What's going on inside, on a purely psychological level, has more to do with the gravity and kinetics of the object in question. And it's a bit like trying to carry Jell-O through a wire sieve. He's almost got the the grasp, the synchronization, when prematurely he shifts his focus to move the sofa which in turn loses the connection and the process begins anew.
This present attempt seems a bit more productive. Trial and error is a fine thing and Devon's had a fair bit of error through his trials. This attempt yields a markable change. The teen's hands drop from the sofa when that final connection is internally made. His mind takes over where his hands were, pushing the sofa just a few inches before changing the dynamics to unsteadily lift it up off the floor.
Now short one teaching job as of the end of the week, Graeme has spent a little more time at the safehouse than he would otherwise. And so, when he wanders down to the basement, though whether that's to spend the rest of his time paying attention to the punching bag or because there's still about half of a strawberry cheesecake in the minifridge is anyone's guess, it's with a quizzical look that he pauses in the doorway, damn near silent, and watches Devon. It's only when he leans against the doorframe a little, and that it squeaks, that it gives away his presence. "Sorry," comes the apology in a slight drawl, probably doing more to break the teenager's attempts at concentration than anything else.
The squeak, more than the drawling voice, is what shatters Devon's focus. His eyes snap away from the couch to the man leaning against the door frame, and his response is rewarded with a crash of sofa. Thankfully, the thing wasn't too high off the floor that the damage isn't any worse than if the boy had been laying into it with a firearm. "Hey," he greets, a hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck while eyes slant toward the couch accusatorially.
Eyebrows raise a bit, and Graeme takes the last few steps into the basement. "Like I said, sorry." A pause. "Didn't know you were down here or I'd have tried harder not to interrupt." The next pause from Graeme is longer. "Practise?" Obvious question, and it's clear he doesn't actually expect an answer.
"You could say that." Devon's reply holds a note of frustration, subtle and not directed at the teacher. He closes the distance between himself and the couch, laying hands on it again though this time it's to shove it back into its starting position. "Just… sort of happened. I don't even know what I'm doing."
Graeme just nods. A glance between the minifridge and the punching bag suspended a little ways over in the basement, and he moves for the minifridge. "Yeah. Afraid I'm probably not much help other than to tell you that it's prolly not going to happen all at once, or anything." There's a longer moment of thought. "I don't so much have anything I can practise, or not practise, or anything. Mine's just on. And one day all of a sudden it was just on. Prolly pretty different."
There's a sound of agreement. Devon's hand presses into the back cushion, thumb curling over the frame just a little. As though feeling the size and trying to gain an understanding of the way in which he's doing things. "Happened that night." When he met with Valentin. "…Melissa's power got him and he was surprised enough he actually shot at me. I tried to get the gun from him while he was distracted." The teen draws his hand along the back of the couch, looking toward Graeme. "It was like… I just came aware of… him. Like how bats use sonar, only it's not sound or… it's kinetic. But not entirely." He shakes his head, after fumbling through an explanation of what he doesn't understand, eyes returning to the couch.
"Getting frustrated will either help a lot, or not at all," Graeme adds, quietly. "I've seen enough people just coming into their abilities, when I've been teaching. Kinetic, hm." He turns this over in his mind, but in the mean time, bends down to open the minifridge, as quietly as he can, allowing Devon the space to concentrate while pulling out two slices of strawberry cheesecake onto a paper plate, and settling down, crosslegged on the floor to eat it.
Frustration does seem to be a key, though Devon can't emulate the same experience he had when his powers came to be. He's tried, sort of. The stinging pain of an alcohol wipe wasn't enough to exactly throw Liz across the room but he could feel the connection and almost, very nearly move her. He makes no response to Graeme, instead settling into the motions, the synch required to manipulate the sofa. His fingers curl against the tatty fabric of the back cushion, feeling the fibers while pressing, reaching for that mental connection.
Though there's nothing flashy, no bangs and whistles to show that a synch has been made, the sofa shifts where it sits. Devon's hand falls away from it and he edges a step backward, his attention solely on the piece of furniture. A twitch in his brow draws creases, lines marking concentration, and one end of the sofa lifts upward, wobbly as though the one lifting lacked the strength to move it. Really it's just in experience and uncertainty, but it rises upward until the seat rests on one end.
Graeme can't help but chuckle quietly. "Well done," he says though there's that sense of fatalism in his voice, as the teenager is still managing to hover the couch. For how much longer after the teacher speaks, though, that is the bigger question. "At least, better that time." Or at least, that's the way it looks from an observation standpoint.
With a worrying shimmy, the sofa rotates again. Sweat beads on Devon's forehead, and he worries at his lower lip when it seems that something might suffer a collision. In the end, the sofa is returned to its original position and lowered again. As it settles heavily on the floor, the teen sags back a step, eyes closing. "Feels like it's going to fall at any minute, and the couch is harder than a pencil or… anything more solid to move."
There's a nod. "Have you deliberately tried to do so to a person, yet?" Graeme's question comes out of curiosity, but there's a definite note to the question that makes the curiosity more of a personal thing. The remaining bite of cheesecake is set on the fork, eaten, then the empty paper plate is set aside as Graeme waits for an answer from Devon.
"Sort of." Straightening, Devon moves to one of the spools serving as a table, claiming the water bottle resting on it. He twists off the cap and draws out a few swallows of water, before continuing. "I told Liz what happened and she wanted to see. So she …pushed an alcohol soaked swab to my lip and…" He shrugs slightly, returning the bottle to the table. "Couldn't… quite get it."
Graeme nods again. "Tried since then?" Which is a valid question, and Graeme picks up the plastic fork once more, flipping it between his fingers. Mentally, there's some debate about whether to simply get up and provoke the teenager, but not yet. It's an option, but not one he'll use. "Your lip needed it anyway."
"No," Devon answers, shaking his head. "Just inanimate things. Kind of… I don't know. If I lose control I'd rather it happen on something not alive. I… broke a coffee mug when… I lost focus."
Once more, Graeme nods acknowledgement of the teenager's words. "You can try on me, if you want," he says. It's not insistence on the teenager doing so, just an offer. "Or whenever you're ready, if you want to try on me first. I don't break so easily, if you lose control I'm not really all that worried." Then there's a grin from the teacher. "Plus, I've never been thrown by an ability, before. Should be fun."
"I don't know that I can throw anyone again." Though Devon steps toward Graeme with a look of consideration. He might be able to move the teacher, lift him like the sofa. But throwing? "I think it might've just been a fluke. Or… I don't know." The boy extends his hand to help the older man to his feet and begin making that connection, begin synchronizing.
"Alright," Graeme says, accepting the help up. It's with a faint look of quizzical amusement, as though he's almost put together that Devon has to be able to touch the object in order to move it. His curiosity is still satisfied, though, and there's patience, not moving to break the contact until Devon does, just very, very quietly humming to himself, off-key.
It is a bit of a catch, having to be able to touch the object in order to connect with it. Maybe, one day in the distant future, Devon will be able to wield his ability without the need for contact. But for now… His eyes lock onto Graeme's as he holds the older man's wrist. And while Graeme will notice nothing immediately, somewhere in the teen's being the dynamics change and shift, that familiar yet unknown sense of control comes into grasp. It all takes less than a moment, roughly half a minute, before his hand falls away. His gaze remains, intent, focused, and after several seconds the teacher should feel himself being pushed, or pulled, backward. Not much, and the motion is in starts and stops.
Hands are tucked into his pockets, and Graeme continues humming off key. Desperado, but music is definitely not one of Graeme's talents, and it's very, very quiet, barely noticeable, quiet enough that even the sheer off-key-ness shouldn't bother the audiokinetic somewhere upstairs. And then there's a very slight grin on the teacher's face, along with a bit of confusion as he simply allows himself to try and keep track of what's happening. But it doesn't bother him, really. More that it's interesting, as experiences with other people's abilities go. Better than being negated, and better than having his gravity shifted so that down isn't down.
The humming doesn't seem to bother Devon, either. His attention isn't on the song. Catching his lip in his teeth again, he tries the simple maneuver of lifting Graeme upward. It's the easiest thing, the thing he's sure he can do. But for Graeme, there's no upward movement. A slight push backward is achieved, nothing enough to disrupt his balance. But it doesn't appear as though the teacher will be going skyward today. The boy pushes, inwardly, biting down on his lip as he tries again. Though unsteady and shuddering, he manages a brief lift, really nor more than an inch if he's lucky.
There's a bit more of a grin, and then Graeme looks down at the ground, managing to move his feet in the air a little just to confirm that really, he is in the air. "Wow." It's more an involuntary response than anything else, and clearly impressed, even if he's not nearly as far in the air as the couch had been. On the other hand, the teacher's also alert, so that when and if Devon loses control, he'll land on his feet.
It's only for an instant. Not truly long enough for more than Graeme's verbal reaction before the connection breaks. Devon sighs and shakes his head. "Can't do it. Just… I don't know."
Graeme lands lightly on his feet and moves over to Devon, resting his hand on the teen's shoulder. "You just did. All it'll take is practise," he says, encouragingly. Another thing for them to practise, really, on top of hand to hand and weapons, though how Graeme got to be the drill master of sorts he doesn't really quite know.
"That was something. Proves you can. Work on objects a while some more and then maybe we'll try again, yeah? I have some … ideas, for objects for you to work with." Things that either he'll get, or he'll let jaiden know for a scavenging mission, depending on the thing. "And maybe, I dunno, Ygraine's power has to do with stuff too… maybe she'll have some ideas. You can do it." The suggestion is offered out, information that the teenager doubtless already knows.
Devon nods in slow acceptance of the homework. It's just verbalizing plans he'd already made regarding practice. He's not even sure the limits, the size or with of a thing, though it seems most everything weighs the same when it's in the air. He retreats the to the spool holding his water and takes the bottle again. Then, nodding toward the stairs to return tot he main house, Devon glances toward Graeme. "I think there's some lunch stuff upstairs still. If you're hungry."