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Esmé lay on the floor motionless for a few seconds before he let out a barrage of coughs, allowing the fresh oxygen to enter his lungs. It was a welcome sensation to say the least. Oh, how he missed the ability to voluntarily breathe.  Of course, his masterstroke worked like a charm and the hideous hussy released him from her death grip. It was just natural that his innate majesty would overpower her simple peasant brain. That wicked women probably went of somewhere to wilt after witnessing such a spectacular display of power knowing full well that she could never top it. Even if she dedicated the rest of her pathetic existence to improving her quite limited skill set all her future efforts would still fall short of his glory as he was the Sun King and she was nothing. It would probably kill her to know that this was just the tip of the iceberg regarding his powers; unlike her who clearly peaked his potential was unlimited. Vile degenerate. How dare she lay one of her dirty fingers upon him as who knows where it has been. Probably somewhere filthy. At this moment he absolutely loathed her. Because of her unprovoked assault on his personage his outfit was undoubtedly ruined, and he had to temporarily blind himself. Bon, très bon. He wasn’t particularly planning on exerting himself today. Last time he would attempt to offer any of his treasured advice to these plebeians as it was clear it was going over their empty heads. He made a mental note to use smaller words when he was forced to interact with these simpletons lest they become enraged at what they could not understand.

He was aware that some other imbecile entered this den of horrors sprouting off profanities in an immature cadence while looking to do God knows what to his prone body. Ah, it seemed this loose coalition had another genius amongst its ranks. Marvelous. Simply Marvelous. 

On the subject of rather irritating morons that populated this merry band of rejects Esmé could not help briefly thinking of the embodiment of annoyance that was Monsieur Jacques. If he was recalling correctly the braggart's power was to do machines or something to that effect. The oblivious twit only mentioned it at like every possible opportunity, so Esmé begin to just tune out the fool's hotdogging and grandstanding. Similar to a child seeking attention it was sad and rather pathetic. If his recollection was indeed true, he regretted not demanding that the pompous tryhard make him a pair of glasses that could reduce the side effects of his light manipulation. Regular sunglasses could only do so much and temporarily blinding himself was an inconvenience to say the least, though maybe it was preferable to engaging with the walking toolbox and hear him prattle on endlessly. Esmé considered telling the self-aggrandizer to tone his cool guy personality down about roughly ten to twenty percent, but he tired of expending his good advice on those that did not deserve it. 
 
His train of thought was interrupted by some booming voice echoing from outside claiming to be from that alphabet soup agency from the conspiracy theories that dealt with all the mutants and chuds. As if anyone would fall for that apparent trick. Esmé audibly sighed. What this sad bitch needed right now was a big box full of blow.  Cocaine always made things more tolerable around here and this lucky bitch new where to find some. 

After a few unsuccessful tries Esmé still relatively blind rose to his feet. It was time to leave this mess in the not so capable hands of whomever this third person was. Stumbling and teetering he made his way to the doorway arms outstretched. He arms eventually made contact with whomever was blocking the doorway. 

[color=f08080]“Excusez-moi. As you can clearly see, we have quite the emergency as your beloved teammate and overall ungrateful…”[/color], Esmé does not even finish his insult or wait for a reply as he pushes his way past the figure in the doorway. 

As he shambles down the hallway only falling and bumping into walls a respectful number of times his vison eventually recovers.  He swiftly makes his way to that junkie-from-earlier’s room and enters through the unlocked door.  Being sure to close it behind him he begins to sift through her meager belongings. Ugh, she did not own one cute top that he could confiscate. For real. What a train wreck, who owns just t-shirts and jeans. Poor thing certainly needed a fashion intervention as half of this wardrobe seriously needed to be discarded.  After what seemed like eons searching through what he presumed was trash Esmé came across a seemingly discarded small baggie of something white and powdery. Was it Christmas already? 

[color=f08080]“Oh, Esmé. You naughty bitch”[/color], he says to himself before placing some ‘snowflakes’ on his tongue to determine the purity.