And On the Right: Toilets

[Ridley Rhee]

The misleading thing about a place like the Institute was that it was big. Normally, a lot of space indicated a lot of reasons to need space, like how the American Museum of Natural History needed to be massive in order to contain the largest collection of vertebrate fossils in the world. There were nearly one million specimens on exhibit, which meant there were nearly one million reasons for such grand architecture.

But at Cullens, there was a lot of bigness wasted on uninteresting things. Like -

"... And this is the library, but we're not going in there because you've got to be really, really quiet and anyway, last time my iPod got confiscated, which is a violation of my rights. I didn't say that at the time because that would have been rude, but it completely was."

Ridley Rhee glared darkly at the shelves of books from his vantage point in the hall, the memory clearly still packing a sting. The volume hadn't been that loud. Was it his fault that earbuds didn't pack the same resonant beauty as his Sennheiser HD headphones?

Pulling away, the boy shrugged some of the tension from his narrow shoulders and glanced up at his guest.

Tom Harriman: supposed scientist, friend of his Mum's, and currently completely under his care. The power was intoxicating.

"So," Ridley cocked his head to the side, one eyebrow raised in speculation, "what kind of scientist are you? The mad kind?"

[Tom Harriman]

Tom arched an eyebrow. Stubborn, impetuous, articulate, and self-assured; there was absolutely no doubt that the child was the spawn of Clarity Cleine.

He was doing his best not to antagonise the kid. He'd been nodding politely, and making appropriate interested noises as Ridley had dragged him around the parts of Cullen's that he thought were important and interesting. Most of those sights seemed trivial to the casual observer, but every fountain or hidden nook under a stairway was apparently the sight of some awe-inspiring display of mutant power by one of the other students.

The question caught him out, however. You couldn't really grunt or hmm your way past as direct an inquiry as that. No matter how much you wanted to avoid answering something as ridiculously stupid.

"I'm quite sane," he assured, putting on his best I'm a good guy, honest voice. "And not in the least bit nefarious."

The boy didn't respond immediately; and in a moment of weakness, Tom found himself providing a proper answer.

"I'm a physicist. Well... I suppose you'd call what I do metaphysics, really. I study mutant abilities. Not the genetics part: the actual, science-defying powers that mutants have. I try and find out how they work."

[Ridley Rhee]

A physicist. Ridley wasn't entirely sure what that meant, though it sounded close enough to physical that it was probably safe to hazard a guess at. He didn't know what metaphysics were, either, but they sounded a bit like Megatron. Clearly, the universe was sending him a sign to exercise caution.

Ridley narrowed his dark, estimating eyes. "Does that mean you dissect mutants?"

[Tom Harriman]

"Only the ones who misbehave, and keep asking annoying questions."

Tom's arms folded across his chest, a sternly deadpan look gracing his features. If there was one thing he'd learned from teaching, it was never to back down. If you back down after a threat, no matter how blatantly idle it was, you were done for. You might as well stab yourself in the foot and dip it in a shark tank, because they would devour you in an instant.

Tom had no intention of backing down. No intention of showing weakness.

His eyes locked on the child.

Your move, Short Round.

[Ridley Rhee]

For one long, endless stretch the two stood frozen in the corridor, locked in a silent battle. Ridley didn't blink, just watched Tom with keen interest, the sort of innocent appraisal that a honey badger afforded an overconfident documentary filmmaker who made the mistake of encroaching on it's nest, right before it launched for the jugular.

The man was taking a stand and drawing his borders. This obviously wasn't his first rodeo. Even Ridley had to admit that he was playing a cool game, keeping his cards close to his chest and waiting to proceed until after Ridley launched a counterattack.

Only, there wasn't any need for that because it was already clear who was going to win this war.

Ridley's face cleared suddenly and he grinned. He grinned very, very sweetly.

"My dad's John Rhee," he chirped.

[Tom Harriman]

An interesting gambit. Certainly, for many people the mention of his father's name would have been impressive; intimidating, even. But Ridley had not calculated on the fact that Tom possessed exactly one third of zero respect for the senseless, moronic idiot who so callously made a woman like Clarity Cleine feel so dejected and rejected.

It was an understandable mistake, but a mistake none the less. Tom's resolve to stand his ground grew stronger. His gaze meanwhile grew darker.

"My dad was a spy," he threw back.

It was a painful weapon to use: it was like kicking someone up the backside with a pair of Army boots that hadn't been broken in yet. It clearly was something that needed to be done, and it was definitely one of the best weapons for the job; but Tom knew he'd be cursing the blisters for at least a week in the aftermath.

He didn't let up, though. "He spent the Cold War catching and fighting mutants as tough as John Rhee on behalf of the British Secret Service. Sometimes even tougher."

The faintest ghost of a smile tugged at Tom's lips. "I'm afraid I'm not impressed, little man."

[Ridley Rhee]

There was a brief moment where Ridley was tempted to point out that Tom had used the past tense to refer to his father, whereas John was very much in the present, therefore tipping the my-dad-can-beat-up-your-dad scales in his favour. After a moment of consideration, he decided against it. That was a low blow and there was no honour in a victory secured with unfair tactics. After going practically his whole life without the benefit of a father, Ridley could sympathize with being denied that steady, unblinking support.

Besides, everyone knew that ninjas could beat spies any day of the week. Harriman's argument was invalid.

The boy decided that it was time to take a page from his mother's book and apply a little diplomacy. He enjoyed taking the high road; it made it easier to pounce on potential enemies.

"That's okay, Mr. Harriman," Ridley chuckled and beckoned for Tom to walk with him, "I'm not very impressed with you, either. I mean, you're a scientist and you haven't even blown anything up yet! The good news is you're probably not an evil mad scientist, otherwise Mum wouldn't have brought you here. Maybe you're just misunderstood. Are you misunderstood?"

[Tom Harriman]

Tom wasn't entirely sure who had won that particular exchange. He wasn't all that confident that it was him.

A finger and thumb pinched at his brow. At least they were moving again. Sure, more stupid questions were flying his way, but every step they progressed was a step closer to the sweet, blessed relief of holding a conversation with someone who was old enough - and tall enough - to pee in a urinal without a step-stool.

Part of his mind decided that the battle wasn't over, however. "I'm tired of things blowing up this week," he countered with a sigh, discussing the topic as if he was complaining about unseasonably mild weather. He even mustered a fake yawn to add to the effect.

"I had my fill of explosions for the month when I had to jump out of a helicopter without a parachute, after a mutant terrorist shot it out of the sky with lightning."

[Ridley Rhee]

That was probably a lie. Probably.

... but it was a really, really cool one.

"Was it your arch-nemesis?" Ridley couldn't resist asking, pausing at a flight of stairs with one foot hovering above the first step. It was hard to imagine ever getting tired of explosions (if the world got tired of explosions, there would be no more Myth Busters on television, and that would be a tragedy) but he supposed that it was different if said combustible incidents were being used las an offensive strike against you personally.

The boy clarified, "Who shot at you, I mean. It doesn't make much sense that they would just randomly choose any helicopter to take down. That's, like, something you'd see on the news, sure, but it wouldn't really send a message. Have you ever seen Independence Day? There's a reason aliens always go for the President and not just some random guy in a van or something. Hey, did you know that in that movie - "

As easily as it had started, the diatribe ended. Ridley frowned, his lips pinching together in thought. "Wait. If you jumped out of a helicoptor without a parachute... how come you're still alive?"

[Tom Harriman]

"I pushed the ground away. It's my mutant power."

Tom suddenly found himself extremely interested in the goings on through one of the small windowed doors. Avoiding looking at Short Round was the only way to maintain a straight face. He gave himself a moment longer, picking at a patch of woodwork where a tiny flake had begun to peel away before he turned back to face his tour guide.

"And yes, in answer to your other questions. I have seen Independence Day -"

His voice took on a more somber note; his face adjusted to match.

"- and I was shot down by the man who killed my father. His name is Hurucan, and he's part of the Brotherhood. And, well..."

He offered Ridley a small smile. "Lets just say it would be easier fighting off a hoarde of alien invaders than going up against him again. They can't teleport at will and shoot lighting out of their hands; and I'm pretty sure a simple computer virus wouldn't be enough to bring Hurucan down."

[Ridley Rhee]

Silence fell over the little landing and in it's wake, Ridley thought he heard his heart break. He certainly felt it. The sensation was like running across a football field as fast as possible, then spinning on a tire swing until everything grew blurry: sharp-edged and sickly, all at once.

Filing away his questions on this 'Brotherhood' for a more appropriate time (and person), Ridley reached out and placed one small hand on top of Tom's, stilling the absent destruction of the doorframe. That was what you did when you were being serious for someone; you held their hand so they would know that the sadness in your eyes was for them, not because of them.

"He killed your dad?" the boy repeated softly. That was... that was terrible. Gosh, now he really felt lousy for being such an interrogator of a tour guide. Ridley let out a tremulous breath and gave Tom's hand a squeeze.

"I'm sorry. That's really, really sad," he said.

This was probably one of those topics that he was meant to be tactful about and avoid. Ridley knew that if it made his stomach twist uncomfortably, that Tom's had to be tied in about a hundred thousand knots.

The boy shifted uncertainly, a spray of jet-black hair tumbling across his forehead. "Is that how come you take mutants apart to find out how they work?"

[Tom Harriman]

Tom almost laughed at that; a small flicker of the sound escaped, and it brought a smile to his lips. The way that Ridley phrased it, it made him sound more like a mutant mechanic than a metaphysicist: like people would come to hisit his lab so that he could pop their hood, rummage around in their innards, maybe give them a good servicing -

That train of thought rocketted off in an entirely inappropriate direction, and Tom deftly lept from it back onto the platform, waving as it disappeared into the mental distance. The questions that Ridley was asking deserved to be much higher up his mind's list of things to concentrate on.

"I study the powers that mutants have to try and understand how they work," he explained again, trying for a more comprehensive - and hopefully understandable - summation this time. "Science says that a lot of these powers should be happening; shouldn't be possible. Clearly science is wrong, and I want to find out as much as I can about mutant abilities so I can learn what the correct answers are. Once we understand the science, it may be possible to start making cool things with at understanding."

He considered what he'd learned about Ridley's particular tastes thus far, and took a stab at an example that he hoped might hold water. "Take my power, for example. I can push things way with the power of my mind. As yet, we don't know how that is even possible. If we did, we might be able to turn that new science into new technologies; my power could lead to hover boards like Back to the Future, or something like that. Alternatively -"

He trailed off. "What about you, Ridley? What's your ability?"

[Ridley Rhee]

Ridley listened with rapt concentration, nodding thoughtfully as Tom's explanation unfolded. It made sense. There were a lot of people out there who thought mutants were weird or scary. His mother said that most of those people only felt that way because they didn't know much about the subject and that it was natural to fear what one didn't understand.

Personally, that seemed pretty dumb to Ridley. Mutation was just about the most amazing thing in the world. But maybe if Tom could figure it all out and explain it, people could stop feeling so freaked out. Especially if they got hoverboards out of the deal.


"You're the first scientist I've ever known who says science is wrong," he reported, though the manner in which he said it indicated that he found that closer to cool than questionable. "And the first scientist I've ever met who jumped out of an exploding helicopter without a parachute. That's like something Chuck Norris would do!"

That was the stepping stone to build a positive relationship on. Compliments couldn't get much better than when they involved a reference to the most powerful man on earth - was he a mutant? Ridley made a mental note to consult with his friend, Google.

So of course, just when they had reached a positive juncture, Tom had to bring it up. The Question. That darn, inevitable, inescapable question designed to make him feel as stupid as a pile of rocks. Not even the really interesting sort, either; sedimentary rocks.

Ridley's face darkened for a moment. Then he shrugged.

"It's classified right now," he said breezily, flapping a hand through the air. "Because it's kind of dangerous. If anyone knew what I can do, they'd try and kidnap me to use as a weapon, that's how dangerous it is. And it's invisible, too, so it'd a bit like a silent strike. In fact, that's what we call it: The Silent Strike."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom almost let the Chuck Norris comment sway him. Almost. Unfortunately he was a firm believer in the supremacy of Mr T over Chuck Norris; and being compared to the second coolest and most awesome person wasn't quite as extreme a compliment as Ridley had presumably hoped to convey.

It did distract him though; distracted him enough to miss the conflict in the boy's eyes as he mused over Tom's questions. It took a few increasingly preposterous sentences before Tom actually realised that he was listening to some sort of elaborate bluff.

It wasn't all that surprising, if he really thought about it. Ridley was, what, about nine years old, or there abouts? Mutants seldom manifested in anyone before they hit puberty, and Short Round most definitely didn't look - or sound - like he'd reached the growth spurt or voice dropping stage of his life just yet.

"You don't know, do you?"

And yet, he felt the need to fake it. The second Tom realised why, an unshakeable sympathy gripped his chest. The poor kid spent his life surrounded by mutants, watching every day as those around him showed off their own abilities as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Everywhere else on the planet, mutants with powers were the freaks; the odd ones out. Poor kid; still completely normal, and yet absolutely desperate not to be.

"It's a shame you don't live in California," Tom found himself saying, before he was even aware that words were primed to tumble from his mouth. "The MRA has a genetic test that can profile a mutant's abilities just from a blood sample."

[Ridley Rhee]

There was always a moment right after someone found out that he was frustratingly different, where their eyes filled with one of two things: peppy reassurance or soft pity. Ridley wasn't sure which one he hated most. On the one hand, it really sucked that he didn't have any sort of mutation at all and he didn't want to buck up about it; but on the other, he didn't want people feeling sorry for him, either, because one day he would manifest a power. Ridley just knew it.

He winced internally as Tom sussed him out. He'd nearly managed to fool him, too.

However, more than just the expected reaction followed. Ridley's attention perked.

"You mean, they could tell what somebody's power is gonna be even before they have one?" he squeaked. His face twitched with cautious excitement. "Where you live, right now, they can do that?"

The possibility seemed too incredible to be true. Why had no one told him?!

Ridley turned so quickly that he nearly faceplanted on the stairs. The boy was up in an instant, galloping onward. He beckoned impatiently for Tom.

"Come on!" he whooped. "Wait 'til my dad hears about this!"

[Tom Harriman]

The sinking feeling in Tom's stomach matched his descent of the stairs. He felt as if he had unleashed something terrible: some terrible force that, now kindled, could never be extinguished. He felt like the time his accidental culinary blundering had caused a saucepan to burst into flames. He felt like the time his misstruck cricket ball had shattered Granddad Harriman's greenhouse. He felt worse; even. He felt like Oppenheimer.

"I am the destroyer of worlds," he muttered under his breath, his features fell into a grim mask as he followed in Ridley's over-enthusiastic wake, trailing as fast as he could motivate his limbs to move. Luckily, Ridley's stubby little legs didn't make it too difficult to keep up.

There was one glimmer of hope, however: one flicker of solace bundled up with his guilty conscience. It was a tiny thought, but an important one: a thought that reminded him that, no matter how many awkward questions he inspired, or how many ill-conceived notions were concocted in the wake of his words: it was absolutely, positively, not his responsibility to undo the damage.

Not my kid: not my problem.

[Ridley Rhee]

It was a regrettable fact that Ridley had completely abandoned his assigned task as temporary guardian entrusted with the care and keeping of Mr. Harriman, a choice that he knew bordered on irresponsible. The boy was counting on the probability that in the face of such a world-altering revelation, his crime of selfish interest was a small, forgivable one. So long as Tom kept up, it wasn't really like abandoning him, right? They could always double back and finish the tour later. Right now there were more important things at hand.

The door to John Rhee's office burst open unceremoniously.

"Dad! You're never gonna believe - oh!" Ridley did an abrupt about-face and trundled back out into the hallway, cheerfully prodding Tom back with him as he yanked the door shut again.

This time, there was a trio of urgent taps on the sturdy wooden barrier and then it flew open to admit the small, tousle-haired storm of excited child. Ridley darted over to his father's desk and hoisted himself up on the edge, balancing on his forearms. His eyes glittered enthusiastically as he waved over his shoulder in Tom's general direction and said, "Dad, this is Mr. Harriman, he's a misunderstood scientist who studies how we work and guess what."

His voice dropped to a rolling hush.

"He says that in California, where he's from, they could tell me what my power's gonna be, even though it hasn't happened yet," he whispered. A wide grin stretched across his face and the boy swung himself off the desk with a flourish. "Isn't that incredible?!"

Ridley brought his palms together and clasped them together in the air, mustering up his most endearing expression. "Can we go?" he pleaded. "Please, please, please say yes."

[Dragon]

Finally getting Ridley to knock before entering was something of a Pyrrhic victory in the cause of teaching him to respect the quiet sanctity of John's workspace. There was just no containing the reaction when he was bursting at the seams with some exciting new discovery or burning aspiration to share with his father, and when he was in that state, John found it difficult to give him anything less than his undivided attention. Being a father to a ten-year-old boy was an adventure, and you took your eyes off the road ahead at your own peril.

But being pulled away from reviewing a new genetic ethics textbook for Ethan was more a rescue than anything else, and he had to fight off a smile as he leaned forward over his desk to join Ridley at eye level. Then it dawned on him that Ridley was asking to visit California so he could be registered under the MRA.

John's eyebrows climbed to match Ridley's, and he took a deep breath of deliberation. "Well," he said, quickly assembling a battery of arguments both for and against the MRA to inform an orderly and frank discussion, then just as quickly dismissing them because Ridley was miles away from orderly and frank right now. His eyes darted up toward Tom as he briefly tried to work out how he fit into this equation, but there were no answers on the stranger's face.

He took another breath and met his son's dark eyes again. "Tell you what. Why don't you spend some time in the library this afternoon and find out everything you can about this test - how it works, and why they're doing it. Then we can talk it over with your mother at dinner. What do you say?"

[Ridley Rhee]

The library. Just when he thought he'd managed to avoid it for the day, it reared it's vicious head and dragged him back. For someone who resented the policy of indoor voices and no disruptive noises so much, Ridley found himself scouring the shelves and signing on to the school computers with alarming frequency. It was mostly because his parents were big fans of the place and believed in letting (making) him do his own research so that he could come to his own conclusions.

Nevermind that half the time his own conclusions were overturned by their executive decisions. At least he had research to console him.

Ridley scrutinized his father's face, trying to suss out just which way he was leaning. As far as he could tell, there was a solid maybe lurking beneath the suggestion, which was better than an outright 'no' but not nearly as fortuitous an answer as he'd hoped to garner.

"Okay," Ridley agreed finally, nodding. He grinned. "But I'm pretty sure she'll say yes, Dad. Mr. Harriman's a mutant and he's a man of science and he's her friend. Plus, it would be awesome and we could go to Disneyland after to celebrate."

[Dragon]

John glanced Tom's way again, long enough for a few uncharitable things to run through his mind, which immediately he felt guilty for. After all, he knew better than anyone but Clarity how Ridley could seize on even the most innocent of comments and turn it into the mission statement for some grandiose scheme, or file it away only to trot it out weeks later as a choice piece of leverage in a seemingly unrelated discussion. And perhaps as a side effect of all those indentured trips to the library, Ridley was beginning to learn how to argue astoundingly well.

John smiled back at his son, cautious not to promise too much. "Well, we'll see, Ridley. If you ask Miss Kelly, I'm sure she can help tell you find what you're looking for."

Then he rose out of his chair to greet the person who was clearly his second priority in the room, hand extended as he edged around his desk toward Tom. "How do you do, I'm John Rhee. So, you're a friend of Clarity's?"