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Moment of Awesome - Quentin Quire/Kid Omega: Quentin finds himself taking care of an injured Jean Grey during a hostage situation at Claremont Hospital. Jean relied on the wall to keep herself sitting upright as she lay on the ground. She tried to tighten the rudimentary tourniquet that had been made out of a piece of cloth but her trembling, bloody hands fumbled. Furrowing her eyebrows, her skin was pallid and glistened with sweat as she struggled to telekinetically stop the bleeding. "Can't...stay here..." she said between rapid breaths. "You...should...go." "Trust me, for anyone else, I would," Quentin replied, taking her hands in his so he could help with the tourniquet, "But I'd never hear the end of it if I let you die. And besides, the way I hear it, you already did die once, and you don't have a whole plane of existence to save this time, so it would be a waste." He said this without his usual acidity, and he was unable to meet her eyes. His gaze was instead locked on his own hands, red and dirty from helping Jean tend to her wounds. Jean let out a quiet breathy laugh that quickly turned into a hissed cry of pain when Quentin tied the tourniquet a little tighter. A noticeable shiver went through her body and she clenched her jaw, leaning her head against the wall, trying to quiet her own labored moaning by biting her lip so it wouldn't draw attention. "There's...supplies...g-gauze...bandages....in a storage room. Need to stop the...the bleeding or..or..." she said, squeezing Quentin's hands. "Can you...?" "Guide me." He maintained the telepathic bond himself as if she were not a psychic at all. It was a juggling act, keeping her conscious and mostly pain-free, while accessing her surface memories for a layout of the land and also keeping an astral eye out for the flatscans that put them in this situation, but he didn't call himself Omega for nothing. It took him a few minutes, walking slowly so the sound of his boots on the linoleum did not alert anyone to his presence, but eventually he found his destination. The door was locked—of fucking course it was, nothing could be so easy—so he pressed a hand to the handle and extended a tendril of telekinesis around it. Psychokinetic lockpicking took some finesse, which was not his best feature, but this, at least, was a useful skill honed to precision. Both in service of X-Factor and his own personal pursuits. He had it open in thirty seconds, and his arms were laden with the spoils of war a minute later. #Hang tight, I'm heading back.#