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Dr. Grey-Summers

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Notices. [09 Apr 2004|01:20am]
[ mood | busy ]

Note to all our interdimensional residents - any and all documentation needed (birth certificates, references, et cetera) will be created by me. I'm working on getting everything ready for you.

Blink, I have an inducer for you.

And to any and all, if you're having problems finding jobs to apply for, come see me immediately.

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At Midnight (A Narrative) [03 Oct 2003|09:14am]
Jean looks up at the platform Xavier had sanctioned to be set up under the portal. It weaved up, leaving room to just.. jump in. She then glances to Scott, his arms folded, his gaze locked on the portal.

He takes a deep breath, and looks over at her, the corener of his mouth turning upward. [[I'll go first.]]

She smiles plainly at him, then back behind them, to the children. [[Thank you.]]

He rubs her shoulder reassuringly as he steps toward the platform, making his way up the stairs. She moves to stand beside Piotr, Rahne, Kitty, and Theresa. He looks back to them and half-salutes before he turns to the portal. He goes straight in, no hesitation, just the sound of the crackling of going through the portal.

"Theresa, Kitty, you two go next." Jean says, gently nudging them by their shoulders.

The two girls lock elbows and slowly made their way to the platform, somewhat hesitant. Jean sends calming vibes to them, easing their minds. She will have to have a talk with them -- all of them -- when they all are together again.

Somewhere, deep inside, Jean was scared they wouldn't be reunited. This was irrational, especially to her. But she watched the two friends climb up the platform, ascending to the portal, and somehow, she grew peaceful. At least, despite the war, they'd have each other. The group was a close-knit one. Jean watches as Kitty and Theresa stand before the portal, seemingly counting to three after they got to the top, holding hands as they jumped in.

Before Jean turns to Piotr and Rahne, he starts leading Rahne to the platform. Jean is the last to go, to make sure everyone got through on this side okay, just as Scott was the first one to go this evening to ensure they had someone to go to until they met up with Steve, Hank, Ali, and Pietro.

Piotr follows Rahne up the platform, looking over at Jean every so often. He waves before he leads her through the portal.

Jean takes a deep breath, clutching the strap to her small bag she's bringing along. She begins to head up, her hand gripping the railing. She was growing anxious, and scared, and worried, and relieved, and.. she was a bundle of emotions, crashing through her on the small ascent, serving also as a catharsis, purging her emotions slowly, shedding in layers. Now she stands, calm, before the portal, feeling the electricity flow from it.

Before she steps in, she hears footsteps behind her, causing her to spin on her heel. In the doorway of the Danger Room, stands Thomas Everett, shoulder bag perched on his shoulder, looking around as he steps further into the room.

"I know I got back late and all, but since when do we have a gaping hole above the Danger Room floor?"

Jean smirks lightly. "You've returned, Mr. Everett?"

He nods, slowly approaching the platform, but not climbing it. "Yeah. Yeah. I.. just got in. What's with the portal?" He nods to it.

"Some of us are going on a mission."

He nods, a slow grin growing on his face. "It's already quiet around here, and the rest of you guys are leaving? I see how it is."

"Thomas--" Jean said, somewhat sternly, but in a joking manner.

"Nah, it's cool. Sounds game. I'll let you go on then," he raises his hand as a wave and starts to back away to the door. She eyes him strangely, before turning to the portal once more, already picking up on the thought process moving through his mind. She steps through the portal, it closing around her.

On the floor, Tom held the strap of his duffel bag, glancing back over his shoulder to the top of the platform. It was a split second decision. He ran to the stairs, climbing fast, pulling up on the railing as he went higher, finding himself at the top of the platform, staring the portal right in its, well, face. He weighed the contents of his bag mentally, assumed it's just what he needs, and takes a deep breath. "Can't see why I shouldn't go, so.."

He jumps in after everyone else.

But he isn't the last to go through the portal that night.

(oocCollapse ))
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Possibility (A Narrative) [29 Sep 2003|02:52am]
Jean sees the war in her mind, while she slips between sleep and being awake. Her head is propped on her hand, as she is reading over various astronomical jargon Hank handed her. The map blends into the battle scene she saw from Longshot's visions, intense, unjust, unfinished.

"Red. Wake up."

Hank's voice snaps her out of it and she blinks, looking around. She had drifted off again. She had been doing that all evening. Ever since Jean had seen Longshot, she had been up. She went immediately to Hank, staying by his side, telepathically telling him what she saw. As soon as the dance ended and the children dispersed, she and Hank went to the library, quick to start figuring out how to actually get to another planet. They had been there now for two nights straight, leaving only briefly for meals and what not.

"Shh. Blue. I'm sleeping." She smirks, sitting up straight and stretching. She rubs her forehead and looks around, her neck hurting from the way she had drifted off.

He chuckles at her comment and goes back to explaining the map to her.

"The planet is here," he points it out on the galactic map in front of her. She lets her eyes focus. "It's off in the Sagittarian cluster, point four degrees to the--"

"Dammit Hank." She stops him, holding a hand up. "I'm a geneticist. Not an astronomer. I'm also a tired cranky woman. What does this mean big picture wise?"

Hank sighs, kinda disappointed he didn't get to show off his astronomical know-how, but slightly amused. "It means this Mojo is beyond far off. It would be impossible to launch a ship to get there."

Jean throws her head back and squeezes her eyes shut. "Tell me there's good news in there, somewhere? Please?"

Now, he's sheepish, and kinda excited. "Well, it's not concrete, but I had an idea. It's a lead. Remember how Steve came to the Institute? He fell through a portal in on Theresa and Alison. Why couldn't we.. ya know.. just go back through it?"

Jean brings her head back up and lazily looks at him. She thinks of it slowly. "So.. you're saying we should check into this portal. In the Danger Room."

He nods. "It's exactly what I am saying, Jean."

Jean folds her arms, slouching slightly in her chair. "Huh." She thinks on it for a moment.

She then jumps to her feet, motioning for him to follow her. And he does. And they make their way to the Danger Room.

(oocCollapse ))
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[27 Sep 2003|01:01am]
[ mood | relaxed ]

Tomorrow evening is the dance.
I hope you all have fun, but remember, I am chaperoning.
So keep the fun good and wholesome and non-firey, and we shall not have any issues.

Hank and Warren, may I see you before hand?

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adagio. [09 Sep 2003|08:41pm]
[ mood | determined ]

Sadie Hawkins dance. Right. Yes.

I'll be attending as a chaperone.

There will be no explosions.

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dancin' days are here again [04 Sep 2003|03:37pm]
[ mood | energetic ]

There's been a tremendous influx of new students this semester; most of whom I've not yet had the pleasure of meeting. The medlab has suddenly become my new home -- I have to get used to breathing regular air now because the only oxygen I've been sucking in lately has been sterilized.

Congress has approved my proposal to come and speak before the assembly, so I'm cancelling my classes tomorrow in order to work on my speech. Play nice, kids.

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so lost without you... [01 Sep 2003|08:51pm]
[ mood | contemplative ]

She's lost in the fog of her dreams, nubile mind spiralling freely though the technicolour glow of memories. She'd been working late in the lab again, her fingertips rubbed raw from fine-tuning the dials on the microscope. Her eyes smarted from constantly analyzing tiny cells and nuclei. Her heart hurt because she still couldn't determine the cause of the "blood error". Finally exhaustion had taken its toll: she slumped in her lab chair and succumbed to the gossamer tangle of sleep.

Images played out against the backs of her eyelids: Piotr...Nate...Emma...Jack...
The whirling faces contorted beneath the slipstream of her consciousness, their lips locked in silent screams. And there was her own face, too. Broken and bloodied, frothy-white water gushing from her nose and mouth.

The dam...

The water had taken one thing away and replaced it with another.

Her pretty brow furrows in her sleep, lips pressed together in a grim line. She's fighting it...fighting the change and the compulsion. Fighting and failing. The beast inside of her grows stronger every day -- its viperous grip around her heart clenches with every notch that her temper continues to slip. But now another face emerges from the whorling dream-mist: angular and clean-shaven, a pair of sweeping sunglasses perched atop aquiline nose. Hair the colour of sunlight off the Acropolis: bronzed amber. Eyes of blue, hidden now. Hidden always. She feels her body and consciousness give in, allowing herself to be enveloped by the figure's firm embrace.


She buries her face into the line of his shoulder, willing away the monsters that press in upon her. It's okay, Jeannie, he says, I'm here now...I'll always be here. She draws her chin upward to reassure herself within the ruby quartz of his glasses -- but it is not Scott's face that shines back at her. This one is harrier; more rugged. She can smell the forest on his clothes, the deermusk in his hair. It is Logan's eyes that Jean now looks into: those piercing beacons of liquid fire that seem to consume her.

Logan? Her dream-voice seems foreign to her -- echoing.

His maw is split by a toothsome grin. You should know better than anyone that caging your nature only makes it howl louder, Jeannie...

She wakes suddenly, tearing the fabric of her dreams away with a sharp cry. Her eyes lock on the overhanging halogen lights, struggling to focus. Her brain whirrs and clicks. Connects. One to two. A to B. She knows.

She swivels back to the blood samples and begins to work.

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lingering doubt. [31 Aug 2003|12:05am]
[ mood | worried ]

Has anyone seen Scott lately?

Has anyone seen anyone, for that matter.

My telepathy is off lately; I'm finding it hard to concentrate on anything. With anti-mutant protests on the rise, I grow more and more worried about the safety of the kids. I'm considering flying to D.C. and making another appeal to Congress.

There has to be a better road to redemption...

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weird science. [24 Aug 2003|01:17pm]
[ mood | contemplative ]

By mixing incompatible blood types, an agglutinative reaction from the incompatibility between antiqens and antibodies can be observed...

She pours over textbooks and medical sheets, her pretty brow pinched in concentration. Her fevered mind was filled to the brim with questions that had no forseeable answers. As usual. She pinches her the bridge of her nose between willowy fingers and leans back in the lab chair. Wrong, wrong, wrong, she thinks. It's almost as if the samples were contaminated. Or switched. She shakes her head in dismissal; she has better organizational skills than that. There would be no way that she could have fouled up the blood samples to that degree. Still, that part of her conscius pulled at her like a stray thread.

Am I losing my mind?

Stupid question.

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rekindling. [20 Aug 2003|12:44am]
[ mood | blah ]

Her hands felt so cold lately. She often found herself curling her fingers into her palms to stir some warmth to the tapered digits, pressing pale half-moons into her flesh with her nails. Tedium had gnawed at her for too long, and she paced the corridors and halls with detatched thoughts, mind still scrambling for a foothold over what had transpired in the days past.

The annual blood-drive provided her with ample distraction; something to throw herself wholeheartedly into. She spent much of the daylight hours cooped up in the lab, filing consent forms and readying the equipment for the sterile exsanguinations that were to take place. Her nights and evenings were divided between rounding up potential participants and trying to convince Logan that the Golden Girls wouldn't mind if he took a break -- even a little one.

Anything to keep her mind off of that child baby stillbirth.

She had passed Piotr in the hall that afternoon; his smile terse. She had inquired after his health and suggested that he take up sketching again. Desperate attempts at placation. She would spend many restless nights trying to supress the image of Emma's child...

...she would spend many more trying to connect with her own.

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conduit [14 Aug 2003|03:13pm]
[ mood | wary ]

Something's wrong...

...someone's coming...

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[10 Aug 2003|11:34pm]
[ mood | disappointed ]

I told myself not to care.

"After tonight, I wash my hands of you both..."

I felt the force inside of me coil and rise along my throat; I felt the flames licking their way along my optic nerves, begging for a change to encircle my pupils. Rage was my compass that night, not reason.

"...I won't be held responsible for your mess..."

I told my own son that I never wanted to speak to him again. How can I, a mother so recently forced into her role, atone for that? I break my rational against the rocks of emotion for once in my life -- allow the dark avian inside of me to take flight -- and I in turn cease the tides.

"...I'm leaving..."

And now as midnight draws nearer, I can't shake the nagging sensation that something's wrong. That the veil of the senses I struggle so hard to pierce is fiendishly clouded. I can't see through to Nate, Emma, nor Piotr. At all. I have considered seeking council in the Professor, but fear his probing of my memories. I fear his disappointment.

Scott is sleeping beside me. Peacefully, for once. I'm struggling to press thoughts of my son beneath the surface of my mind -- to a place where I don't have to deal with it. Scott's hand slicks over my hip and pulls me closer. That'll do it.

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keeping the faith. [05 Aug 2003|01:49am]
[ mood | enthralled ]

Tomorrow afternoon I'll be in the city for a symposium. Anyone who would like to reach me can do so by contacting my cellphone (or by telepathy if you don't like doing it "the old fashioned way").

Dr. McCoy will be available in my stead for any medical consultation you might require.

Play nice.

A Note Left For ScottCollapse )

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Ashes -- a letter to Logan. [02 Aug 2003|12:20am]
[ mood | crushed ]


It's raining again. Fat droplets that splash down the windowpanes, altering perceptions and deceiving even the most analytical eye. Everything is distorted through the sheets of rain; even the sky looks fragmented. I stupidly wonder if it's raining where you are. If we're sharing the same stormclouds; though I know from experience that our squalls are very different. You are the tempest that comes unannounced: the massive rumbling of thunder in the vaulted heavens, tearing gashing wounds of lightning along the dun-coloured sky. You are all at once and not at all. I am the shower that moves in slowly; the kind with winds that strip men's flesh to the bones and turn their umbrellas inside-out. I am constant yet fleeting.

I apologize if I have bored you with analogies. A woman's ramblings. I can only pray that you haven't already given up on this letter. Pray. Prayer. Something I thought I'd long ago left behind. Kneeling on the scorched pavement, holding that girl's crushed skull in between my palms, I gave up on God and prayer. And He, in turn, flooded my brain with nightmares. God's "grace", as it were. A soul for a soul.

I came to Xavier to shut out God. To drown Him with science. To drown out myself. For many years I felt that I was just beneath the surface of some great ocean, staring up at the refracted sunlight as it cut through the water to light the dark below. Sea-green and all-consuming. But monsters can lurk where sunlight doesn't penetrate; and all-too-soon I find that I can no longer deny the burning rush inside of me.

I can't bring myself to pray, Logan. And so I write. Write to you. I write a letter which I know I can never send. A letter which I hope that you will never read. Is it illogical to believe in something you can't see, taste, or touch? Is it my fault for not falling to my knees and accepting the wafer they offered me? Am I already damned? Or does salvation lie in my acceptance of the inevitable?

Is it storming where you are, Logan?

It's been gray here ever since you left.

- Jean.

She rises and folds the letter in three sections, pinching the corners until her joints turn white. She tucks it away in her sock drawer: past the leather-bound Holy Bible that she forgot to read.

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perfect. [31 Jul 2003|03:40pm]
[ mood | cold ]

Those who worked around Jean Grey could discern no visible change in her personality over the last few days. The work went on as normal; the lab buzzed with science, the kitchen thrummed with the presence of granola and asparagus. Jean herself maintained that immovable self-confidence, trilling chemical equations like they were the juciest pieces of gossip.

Jean would work late into the night most times, poring over lab results and experiments -- things she could control. She had heard through the lab grapevine that Emma and Nate were leaving. The technicians whispered among themselves about the cause, but never dared breathe their opinions in front of Grey herself. But she heard them. No matter how firmly they intended to plant the blocks in their mind, Jean could hear their thoughts all too well.

She had appreciated the Professor's new stance on student activity, but knew that some of their young charges would buck the rules at every turn. To not have control itched beneath Jean's skin like a rash she could not scratch. Every day she felt the animal inside of her claw further up her throat; she would sometimes clap a hand over her mouth for fear that it would tumble out of her. She longed to talk to Scott about it, but hesitated in broaching the subject.

Too much. Too close. Too far away.

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mmmpfsh. [21 Jul 2003|02:49am]
We should be more discretionary with our "truths" and "dares".

I'm sorry again, Alex. How can I make it up to you?
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through our trespasses. [19 Jul 2003|03:59am]
[ mood | contemplative ]

I can't break through to Emma. She's raised her mind shields and I'm beginning to worry. I went to the Professor today to seek counsel about her. He said he'd "put his mind to it immediately". I'm vaguely comforted.

I went to market again today; the fridge in the kitchen has been notoriously neglected. 'Bought some fresh fruit, vegetables, bread, and milk. The works. I'll be damned if I'm going to have these kids surviving on pixie stix alone (this means you, buddy). I also refreshed Logan's Dr. Pepper supply and bought a new brand of chai for myself.

Prom is fast-approaching.
I could almost taste the hormones when I walked back in the front door.

I believe we should convene a school-wide assembly and hammer out some of our more "turbulent areas". I'll talk to Scott about it.

All right, I'm off to do some "real work".
I'll be in the lab if any of you need me.

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the prodigal sun never shines for long. [17 Jul 2003|12:43am]
[ mood | relieved ]

In Which Jean Comes Back -- To A Big Wooly Mess, It SeemsCollapse )

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i hate to wake you up to say goodbye. [11 Jul 2003|11:33pm]
[ mood | exanimate ]

My flight doesn't leave until seven tomorrow morning, but I'm lingering by the door without cause or reason. Is this what it feels like to have "wanderlust"? After all I've seen and done, I can't imagine myself getting near any type of "lust" -- wandering or otherwise.

This isn't like me.

A Note and an Airplane Ticket Left For ScottCollapse )
A Note Slipped Under Logan's DoorCollapse )
OOC NoteCollapse )

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i raise my glass_to our happy ending [10 Jul 2003|02:59am]
[ mood | contemplative ]

I've booked a flight for Boston this weekend; the annual MiM (Mutants In Medicine) conference is being held as planned. I was half-tempted to order two tickets -- one for me, one for Scott -- but haven't yet managed to find myself brave enough to enter a conversation with him, let alone a cramped airplane seat. I miss him so much...even though he's so near.

I'm excited about the MiM this year -- they've asked me to be one of the keynote speakers, and I've spent the past week and a half organizing a series of notes. I need to open with a joke, though. Sadly, they don't offer a course in joke telling when you get your PhD.

If Logan were here, I bet he'd have a couple of jokes he'd be willing to share.

I'll be here through Friday. If anyone needs me, you know where to find me.

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