Chapter Text
Jean rolled her eyes as the photographer snapped at her. “I don’t want to see your face if I can’t also see your ass, Ginger!” he shouted before saying something worse to another girl on the set. She tried to do the impossible twist he was asking for. Modeling was more trouble than it was worth, sometimes.
Especially modeling for some washed-up has-been attempting a comeback with an editorial in a third-rate women’s magazine. She was just doing background work before the actual star made herself known on set. That was the kicker - they were being yelled at for set-up shots while the actual subject of the editorial was still in makeup.
But modeling paid, and there wasn’t a lot of money for tuition otherwise these days, so she did what she could. It helped that she could, uh, convince her agent to keep putting her out for jobs by just stopping by the office to…remind her when she needed more gigs. Her roommate assumed Jean was sleeping with the woman, to be getting so much work. She was just using…other natural talents to ensure she made rent.
As annoying as she found the photographer, he was apparently on his best behavior today because a reporter was coming to watch him work - see note above about his attempted comeback. She twisted and pouted and tried to also look relaxed, and yet also sexy, and also not draw focus while he snapped away, and the work of a modeling job went on around her - stylists, set decorators, grips doing their adjustments. The crew called break and a PA helped the models off their pedestals to get some water and sit down.
“Hey, Ginger, don’t look so down?” The photographer said once she was out of the way. “I’ll get that gorgeous ass in the shot one way or another, I promise.”
She was done with this fucking guy. She felt her telepathy kick in like it always did when she was pissed and before she could stop herself she sent what she had nicknamed a psychic dart right at him. A glaring thought that caused a headache in the recipient.
He doubled over in pain and the shoot’s Artistic Director came over to make sure he was ok. That was more than she had meant to do, but she honestly didn’t care. It’d fade in a few minutes. She went to get some fruit from the snack table to get away from the photographer, and turned her attention to two newcomers. The first was a middle-aged man who looked positively delighted to be on set with so many young, scantily clad women, but the second didn't have that same creepy vibe. He was about her age, and was carrying a case full of gear, presumably the main reporter's assistant. The assistant wore thick, dark red, wraparound sunglasses that stood out—not that people didn’t make weird fashion choices around here, but because they didn’t seem particularly fashionable. Not with his otherwise poor attempt at business casual, with a fraying hem on his pants and a shirt that was wrinkled, but in an “I keep my clothes in a backpack” sort of way, not the casual-chic “Don’t mind me, I just plucked this shirt off the line after my housekeeper set it out to dry in the warm summer sun of our beach house in Southampton,” sort of way.
She stayed off to the side, observing, for the duration of the break. With her telepathy barriers down, it was like a noisy restaurant in her head, but she was trying to get better about letting it blend into a chorus, so she used the break to do that. She’d been hearing people’s thoughts for more than half her life and it was still strange to think of it.
The photographer recovered and went over to greet the older man, who was now chatting with the movie star who had been released from hair and makeup to take her place on set. Then he turned to the rest of the set to get their attention.
“Ladies, ladies,” the photographer called out. “Please, gather round.”
She stood to join the group. The assistant was near her, and as she walked past him she felt it. Something was different about his mind. She was trying to parse it when she caught a wisp of a thought.
Here comes the mutant warning , he said. It was his voice. Not that she’d heard him talk but she…well, she had no fucking clue how this telepathy thing worked. She just knew.
“You’re a mutant,” she said before she could stop herself. She’d never met another one before. He stared blankly. Was she not supposed to say it? Was there a password? A handshake? She kept her voice low to prevent the others from overhearing.
“You sound surprised.”
No, I mean you’re a mutant, like me, she added, but with her mind voice this time. He winced when she spoke; she must’ve been too loud. The artistic director called her out by name to join the rest before he could respond. She rushed over to the group and the man—the mutant!—followed behind her.
“Girls, this is Patton Walsh; he’s recording an interview with Anderson for the New York Ledger while she’s in town, and this is…” He looked at the other man, who seemed uncomfortable to have all the eyes upon him. Patton Walsh stepped in.
“This is our intern, uh…”
“Scott,” he said.
“Right. Scott. I do need you to be aware that he’s a mutant, so just keep your distance and let him do his thing. He’s just setting up the recording equipment.” He said this in the same tone you might give people a warning about feeding the lions at the zoo. Everyone from the photoshoot was on edge now, but the director said something trite about how all registered mutants who passed their safety screenings were welcome at the company, etc. etc. and everyone else seemed to let it go. Scott, the mutant, moved on to making sure the mics were working. Now that she had opened up her telepathy, she could hear him methodically checking cables and confirming signal all the way back to his laptop and whatever he did trying not to notice the way people stared at him now. God, it must be awful to have people treat you like that.
She tried to shut her mind down and get on with her work. They were running so far behind they only had fifteen minutes left before the crew went into overtime, so they got what they could with their star now in place and called it a wrap. Patton Walsh sat down to talk with the photographer and his editorial subject, and she was ushered off to the changing area to get her clothes back. Of course the only topic of conversation was the mutant.
“God, I can’t believe they let one in here.”
“Do you think he’s really safe?”
“That’s what the registry is for. You get a card and everything.”
“Everyone knows that system is full of holes. I think you should just lock them up. They're building that holding facility out in Newark.”
“Yeah, but nobody should have to go to Newark. Not even mutants.”
The other girls devolved into cracking jokes about New Jersey and she slipped away without them noticing. The interview was still going strong, with the photographer waxing poetic about his glory days shooting supermodels in the 80s, while the pop star scrolled her phone. She edged up to the table where Scott was set up, monitoring audio quality.
“Hey,” she said. He gave only the slightest of nods of recognition, but her mind was still (stubbornly) open and she heard his thoughts. She’s really one of us. So he knew others.
She took his pen, angled his notepad, and scribbled her number. Call me, she thought as she walked away. He looked her way but she was already at the door.