InsaneJournal

Who: Xavier Delamere & Co. {Narrative}
What: Power games.
Where: 1003
When: June 19th/20th
Warnings: N/A



The ambulance sirens and screams were heard from the bottom floor to the tallest. On the tenth floor, Xavier was pulled from his sleep and moved to the window. A light sleeper by habit, his eyes refocused in the darkness immediately taking in the sights below. People being carted out in stretchers or in the arms of paramedics was disturbing, but only slightly so. He knew the building was extreme – not how or to what extent. He assumed if a fire or something of significance had happened, someone would have remembered him on his floor.

He moved to his desk, not getting up until it reached dawn. A few meetings were cancelled in this time, on behalf of William Morris. Instead an introduction was scheduled for the twentieth - the lawyer was set to meet a young man at the Met (per 701’s suggestion). The man would never actually meet William Morris. Small details – Morris would be there, but he wouldn’t meet the young entrepreneur. This was a meeting to judge whether the boy was useful, that was all – watching from afar and oh dear, not being able to find him was what this meeting was for.

But for that, he couldn’t be Xavier. That was a given; but Xavier could deal with easily enough. Disguise had become necessary since leaving California and Iris. If he wanted to go as far as to flatter himself – which he did, with the best interests – he was brilliant when it came to quick changes and changing what he appeared to be. A bit of make-up, a quick application of prosthetics, hair dye, posture, contacts – they added up in a variety of recipes so Xavier could be whoever he needed to be.

Two hours before he was to “meet” the boy, Xavier moved in front of the mirror in his bathroom. Supplies were scattered on the counter as he looked over his pale complexion. He reached without looking, coming up with a set of brown contacts to cover his blue eyes and the proper solution. His hair was put into a skull cap soon after, pressing down his dark hair so he was a newborn, bald and ready to be molded. A red wig was applied, before he examined his reflection.

Most people looked at the obvious when placing someone – he’d learned through his travels that people remembered specific details and little else. If they saw a man with red hair walk into a store and begin shooting people, they would remember his red hair or perhaps their clothes. They weren’t as likely to notice the shape of his nose or what color his eyes were. Thus a change in hair color and costume was enough – perhaps coloring as well, thanks to some costume make-up and foundation.

Xavier however, wasn’t the one to take chances. He didn’t apply it then, but a small case – almost feminine in appearance – was packed. A tub of powder resembling blush, another wig, a contact case, and some strips of prosthetic skin. His supplies for on the rung. The case was snapped closed and put into a back-pack. The backpack was slipped into a large briefcase, unassuming and quite like Xavier. A simple blue shirt and a pair of jeans was added as well, for once he got into his car.

The wig was removed and tucked into a pocket, as another was grabbed – identical to his “usual” hair. The contacts were left in, as he doubted he’d run into anyone who would peer at him that closely and his back remained straight. “Quite alright,” he murmured to himself, snapping the bag shut. He would be “himself” until he reached the car, as William couldn’t be seen leaving the premises.

He gave a quick glance to the mirror, to check his appearance once more – nothing out of place for the simple trip down the stairs. His mind idly went onto the William persona, wondering if he should have practiced him more before heading out – as it had been some time since he pretended to be the Texas lawyer. The train of thought stopped abruptly as he saw his reflection. Or rather – the reflection that wasn’t his.

William Morris stared back at him – red hair, ruddy cheeks, green eyes, and snub nosed. He was dressed in the clothes just packed away, though his posture was perfectly straight. His expression was that of shock and his hands – thicker and more scarred then Xavier’s – mirrored his as they combed his face. He was still wearing the “Xavier” wig – he glanced down – seeing the same as the mirror.

“Impossible,” he breathed, before looking up again. “An illusion, perhaps?” Talking to himself was a small comfort, one he didn’t employ often – it usually fell under the more insane side of things. He felt his clothes, the rich fabric of his suit and the pockets where his keys still were.

He’d seen crazier things, during his travels, but it didn’t stop him from continuing to stare stupidly at his reflection. He moved closer, peering at his reflection before pulling off the wig, skull-cap, and removing his contacts. He still appeared to be William and when he glanced down – he still appeared to be him as well. Swallowing hard, Xavier moved from the bathroom and to his office. A digital camera was retrieved from an unopened box (its usage was planned for later, but it would serve the use now.) He held it from himself, taking one expressionless photo of his own face, before looking at the results. On the screen, the redheaded man stared back at him.

His arms fell, as he shut his eyes. Several breaths were taken, inhaling deeply to calm himself. The building was insane – how he’d woken up the day before was proof of that – and he’d chosen it for that reason. People claimed to be fables from stories and he’d seen rumor of powers. Hadn’t he read something about a woman who could appear as anyone else? His eyes opened as he stepped to his desk, rummaging around it until he found a calendar. The full moon was less than a week away – what did that mean?

“Madness.” There was a bitter laugh before he returned to the bathroom, retrieving the discarded pieces from the floor. He stared at his (but not) reflection once more, lips pressing into a firm line. A hand went forward, sweeping across the reflection with a hint of hope. The illusion vanished, leaving his pale self again. His expression was more intrigued then anything else, as he leaned forward. A hand crossed again, as he focused on William – by the time his hand passed, the lawyer was back.

Something wry and not quite sane tugged at his lips, as he dug out his cell phone. He told the man he was to meet that traffic would make him “late”, but not to worry. Snapping the phone shut, he returned the mirror and concentrating.

An hour later, Xavier Delamere left in seemingly high spirits, a suit and a briefcase and entered a limousine. A half hour afterwards, the same limo pulled up in front of the Met and William Morris got out – polo shirt, jeans, and a backpack – a grin that was practically manic spread on his face.