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For a while, the children of fallen heroes started to work in the shadows as the new X-Men. Not all that long ago, the latest incarnation of the X-Men was brought down in flames by Division's efforts. Team members captured, Agents killed, Cosmic fire everywhere... It seems as though the days of the X-Men have come and gone once again. Or have they?
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|CASSIDY R. MCINTYRE||
Posted: May 29 2017, 01:37 PM
There was something she really didn't like about being in the Eisenhower Corner Gallery, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. The building itself was fine. And the interior was fine as well. A bit severe, perhaps, but not a bad scene on the whole and she was doing her very best to look more at ease than she felt. They probably had an adequate number of fire exits on site; damned if she'd recognize the difference if they didn't. There were no large spiders looming in corners to set off a feeling of alarm.
But then, she had started to feel uneasy before she even walked in...
The tattoo of her name was visible with her short-sleeved black sheath dress as she raised her arm. She had only one painting up, and the more she stood around with just the red punch of indeterminate artificial flavor, the more self-conscious about that she felt. What was she doing here? Eisenhower Village seemed to be setting her skin crawling for reasons she didn't understand, and nothing in the gallery justified that degree of discomfort.
Everyone here was clustered together, talking in low murmurs to the others in their group and not straying from their orbit. Cassidy suspected that she could start tossing pebbles at people's heads and still not draw any attention. It wasn't exactly a prime spot for networking.
More than the practical, sensible issues she ought to have with it all, she needed an audience. There was no point just tossing something up on a wall and never hearing back about it from anyone. A lot of people disagreed, called it artistic integrity to act like you didn't give a damn about what anyone else thought of the work. Load of rubbish, utter rubbish, probably trying to convince themselves as much as anyone else. Cassidy was at least honest about things. Well, some things. Well, okay, just this specific single thing but that wasn't important.
She ascribed to the theory that art was meant to be seen. Some people made art because they had something welling up inside them that needed to get out somehow, like they might implode if they didn't. But she wasn't a purist with a perfect, magical story to tell. She wanted to create things and share them with people, to see their responses and work from that. And maybe she kind of wanted to be seen too, whatever the context or the potential consequences for creating a public profile of any kind.
Cassidy had not ended up throwing pebbles at the people quietly discussing the art they weren't even looking at, but it had more to do with the lack of available terrain. Cheese cubes, however, had been plentiful on the side table opposite the door. She was up to four with zero response from her targets, even though the fourth had remained precariously perched on the back of that woman's head. She stifled a laugh with pressed lips before she readied herself for another volley.