PI LOG: Tumbleweed -- Pete Wisdom, Kitty, Caramel, Remy, Piotr and Celliers
After a long hard day of beating up mercenaries and freaking out about accidentally stealing your girlfriend's powers, what better way to relax but to kick back on the roof of a good friend's house and guzzle hard liquor? The little X-Gathering is interrupted both by a random portal-by and by men falling off of the eaves.
Pryde and Wisdom's House -- School House Road
It's twilight, and the sun's setting. The air is therefore still warm, but beginning to get chilly. There's a surprising amount of space on the roof of the stone house on Schoolhouse Road, and it's only *vaguely* ominously creaking with all the weight on it. "Right. As soon as Pryde brings up the *good* Scotch, I'll tell you lunatics why you're all here. Until then, you may discuss," allows Pete Wisdom magnanimously, buttoning his coat and settling himself into his chosen patch of roof-space. "The roof is in honor of LeBeau."
The *good* Scotch. And vodka, just in case Piotr gets alcoholically patriotic. Why Kitty? Well, number one, she knows where it is. Number two, she's the one who doesn't have to bother with the stairs. Unfortunately, she also has a bad habit of messing with people's heads. In this case, it's by popping up, setting bottles down beside Pete, and then leaning on her forearms on the rooftop ... *without actually bothering to come all the way out of the roof*. Bad Kitty. No biscuit.
"...Pryde!!" protests Pete, looking unwell.
It's a quiet night at Bordertown. Which is to say the place is jumping. Not literally, of course, though that's happened a time or two. Still, the dance floor is packed, the tables are overflowing, and the girls are being kept on their toes keeping drinks filled and the music flowing. Cara's on top of the bar - her very favorite place to be, shouting out over the music. "Becca! If you don't get your..." And of course, that's when it happens. She doesn't even have time to blink as a surge of blue energy flows over her skin, snatching her up and leaving a very empty spot on top of the bar where she'd been standing.
A split second later, that blue energy crackles again, depositing the bartender atop a roof overlooking a very different city. Still shouting - although the noise level has gone down considerably. "..roundheeled ASS back... what the.." THat last is at slightly lower volume. Where is she - and who the HELL are these.. wait a minute..
Unfortunately, Cara's boots - which are admirably suited to standing atop of bars, aren't quite so admirably suited to standing atop roofs, and over she tumbles, skidding backwards down the side of the roof. Both hands grab for the gutter before she goes over the roof entire, leaving her glaring up at the sky through a spill of silver, her eyes slitted and angry. "Fuck?!? Kitty?? WISDOM?!"
Perched somewhere near the pinnicle of the roof, wrapped in a trenchcoat against the cold, Remy's eyebrows raise at Kitty's position. "Okay, I done had a long, weird day, but you's still takin' de cake, Kitty." Or she was, until portals started opening and dumping women on the roof. He doesn't even have enough time to react before she slides away, and the Cajun is left with his mouth still sort of open and blinking dumbly.
"I've missed good Scotch," says the big Russian lying back casually upon the angled roof, smirking a little and running his eyes around the crowd - it's a crowd for him, considering how reclusive he tends to be. Before he can say anything else, the crazy blue light pops in, and watching a woman appear and immediately spill over the edge fires up the old hero-gene, and Piotr instinctively lunges forward a little awkwardly to reach a big arm out to grab hold of hers... but his eyes go wide and he's at a bit of a loss for anything to say...
Jack is on his best behavior, which isn't easy, for an incubus. And in human form, clad in a t-shirt and jeans. He's poised easily enough on the roofridge, a rather prim and pressed English gargoyle. And then Cara appears....and Jack is startled enough to begin to tumble off the roof, shifting as well. Glossy blue-black wings are beating the air, as he windmills right above the gutter, trying to regain his balance while muttering obscenities in Russian.
"What! I --" Portal. Stare. "... I share it?" Kitty finishes somewhat weakly, after Remy's 'taking the cake' comment. She pulls herself up and free of the roof, looking around frantically. Strange woman yelling at her. Okay, par for the course. Jack, wings, known issue, check - "Is everybody okay?"
The amusing thing here -- well. One of many -- is that Pete's more taken aback by Jack's wings than a pointy-eared chick appearing in midair and tumbling down the roof and recognising them. "Celliers, what the FUCK?"
"He got turned into an incubus," Kitty supplies without even looking back at Pete. "I thought I told you about that? ... never mind, your eyes probably glazed over at the 'beating up on gremlins with Piotr' part."
Cara could hold onto the roof for quite a while before her arms gave out - she's a stronger gal than she appears, but it's somewhat of a relief to find someone taking the need to do that from her. Gritting her teeth, Cara releases the gutter and wraps her hands around Piotr's wrists. "I'd be obliged if you got me back *up* there, thank you - and somebody tell me I *didn't* just get sucked right the hell out of my bar and.. is that vodka?"
"Celliers been like dat for a while." Remy says, absently, to Wisdom before rolling along the roof to hang over the edge and peer with bright eyes at the woman on the ground. Except she isn't on the ground, she's in Piotr's very capable hands. So, Gambit scoots back a little, to give the Russian room, his footing ridiculously sure on the angle. "Anyt'in' broken?" That, to the newcomer.
Piotr pulls upwards. "Not a problem, ma'am," comes the polite response. "And yes, that's vodka, but I've got dibs on it," he adds, with a small smirk, getting to one knee and easily bringing her up and setting her down gently next to him. He cocks an eyebrow to Kitty, wondering just how much she told Pete about that... rather intoxicated evening, but here's hoping he DID tune out at the right time. "I'd tell you you didn't get sucked right the hell out of your bar, but I'd be lying. Not a big fan of that."
And Jack is horribly embarassed, though wings are really the only unusually exposed skin. He regains his balance, and turns back to the others, folding his wings neatly behind him. "I think Pryde has summed it up admirably," he replies, trying to gather up the shreds of dignity, and getting out of Piotr's way. He eyes the newcomer with open curiosity, then grins suddenly. "Really, could she have fallen into a better gathering."
"'N' I've been *away* f'ra while," Wisdom mutters darkly at Remy, then just makes himself rather small, bunching up against the chimney in his coat and looking grumbly. He listens for a moment, then calls out, "Scotch is /now/. Make it so. There's enough for New Girl."
"I'm flying to Scotland *just* to steal you Moira's bathing cap," Kitty informs Pete, before shaking her head and starting to disseminate alcohol. Piotr is wrong. *Caramel* has dibs - whichever form of poison she prefers. It falls under the 'first meal's free' privilege.
Dignity isn't something Cara has ever been terribly concerned with, but even so she smoothes her coat and runs both hands over her hair, settling the tangled strands back over her shoulders. "This did *not* just.. fucking *crystal*. It's not supposed to take people away when they're *from* there, damn it." Lifting her head, Cara stares around at the people gathered. Kitty. Check. Wisdom. Check. Piotr- him she's not as familiar with, but at least he looks recognizable. Check. Remy. Check. Weird guy with wings? Okay - it's something of a relief to find a few new faces. Still.. There's a moment, then, when she goes utterly white - well, whiter. "PleaseGod... tell me there's no Scott here." She sucks in a breath, staring at Kitty and Pete pleadingly. "BoozeNowPlease."
"I /said/," insists Pete. He gives Kitty and Piotr the evil eye. "Hand the girl /something/ fast. Sounds like she's got it backward. Which means she's got a fucking nasty surprise coming." Pause. "And goddammit, give me a bottle too."
"Not so lucky. But he ain't *here* as in *on de roof*," Remy says amicably--there's really only one 'Scott'. He's taking another step back, just to clear the path between Cara and The Booze. He does not feel like losing a limb tonight.
Booze is brandished in Caramel's face, helpfully. Well, very nearly so. "Focus," Kitty reassures. "It's right there. Once you get through staring at the scary people." Kitty is unafraid! Mostly because she can, you know, go intangible. "And get your own goddamn bottle, Wisdom, you're not *actually* quadriplegic. -- Wait, there's a Scott? Since when?"
Piotr cocks an eyebrow back to Pete. "I just saved her life, I have to play barmaid, too?" he jokes, before grabbing the vodka bottle to hand it up to her, but Kitty beats him to the servitude. "Here you go, ma'am. My name's Piotr... and I'll just let everyone else shout their names, and don't worry about the test later."
"It's not the one what whinges all the time and does drugs, is it?" asks Pete with morbid curiousity. And he slowly starts to inch across the roof in the direction of the Scotch.
This is all entirely beyond Jack, at least for the moment. But it's enough to recall his own entry to Beacon Harbor, years ago - and the memory has him subdued, even as he blinks owlishly at Cara. "I would also like a Scotch," he notes, voice utterly inconsequential.
"F'cryin' out loud, Kitty, keep up. Dere's a Scott. 'Xcept he's like a pipsqueak Scott dat hates us all. Younger'n' me, dat oughta be 'nough to creep you out." Gambit's eyebrows raise at Pete, briefly. "Well, I don' know 'bout drugs, but he's an angsty bastard an' he's gone to t'ievin'. Shaked up wit' a femme named Eris, who works wit' Rogue. Dere's a Jean, too, but she's scary an' militant. An' a Magneto. Y'all heard 'bout Magnus, right?" Remy seems to have forgotten about Cara, briefly, in trying to keep his teammates up to speed. "An' a new Warren. Blue Warren. But *Wisdom*, 'least, knew dat."
Pete Wisdom glares at Remy.
Remy smiles innocently right back. Which is, of course, how you know he's full of shit.
Pete Wisdom says "Warren Woadington."
She Has A Bottle. That, in and of itself, is enough to make much that is wrong in the world right. "Pony up your glasses, people," Cara says, the edge of hysteria that had rimmed her words disappearing into polished professionalism. She'll take the first glass she's offered, and fill it with Scotch, the bottle swinging easily in her hand. Swing, tilt, pour, swing upright again, pass the glass off. It's a rhythem as natural to her as breathing. "Cheating, whining, lying sack of bullshit Scott," she tells Pete without missing a beat. "It wouldn't surprise me much if he did drugs too. God knows he did everything else unless it did him first."
"Jean I knew about," Kitty notes brightly, as Caramel takes over barmaiding. The note about Magnus gets a pleased look. Right up until she comes terrifyingly close to breathing Scotch at Pete's appellation for Warren. Once she's got the capacity for speech back, she gestures weakly between Caramel and Pete. "... you two know each other?"
Piotr just... stops talking for a moment. He has no idea who this woman is... but everyone else seems to. And everyone hates Cyclops. That's a little strange, and mildly amusing. He just pours himself a glass of the vodka and watches the sudden bitchfest.
Pete looks really pleased with himself at Kitty's near-painful almost-inhalation. Because he really is a fucker. But then at the gesture, he lifts his eyebrows. "No. Look, Pryde, she said *your* name, too."
"I was thinking the Scott thing," Kitty protests. "You *know* that one was before I got here..."
Well, if she's going to be like that, Remy is just going to have to pony his scotch glass right up. Good Scotch is, of course, the only way to end a day which started with borrowing his girlfriend's powers. "Best 'dvice I got for dis Scott is, if you see him, don' let on you know him, an' he won' shoot you wit' his gun."
Celliers has met Scott, the one the assembled group is complaining about. But not to his knowledge. So he's gone mum, and let the others figure out the web of acquaintanceship.
Piotr scoffs. "Why would Cyclops bother with a gun?" he asks, incredulously, before knocking back a straight shot of his preferred hooch.
"Of *course* I said her name." Cara protests, filling Remy's glass, and the rest of them before filling one for herself. "She *works* for me. Well.. not exactly.. she.. look! On my world, she works at my bar. And you're her boyfriend. When you aren't scowling and drinking up my good booze. And *you*," she points a finger first at Piotr, then at Remy. "You sit at the bar and scowl a lot more than you're doing now and *you*.." This is directed at Remy. "I can't get a damned minute of work out of Becca when you're around. Not that the tart works much anyway." Celliers gets a near apologetic look. "Sorry. Don't know you. As for Scott.." Cara's just starting to work up a head of steam now.. and she has to almost visibly restrain herself, emptying her glass in one long swallow. "He's my husband. Ex. Almost."
"You'd have t'ask him, mon ami. Only reason I know he's got is, is I looked down de barrel of de t'ing. An' I was tryin' to save him from de *zombies*, too." Remy shakes his head with a little 'tsk'ing noise of shame as he retracts the hand with the glass full of Scotch. Pryde, Wisdom, and Piotr are in turn given little looks of bemused confusion. He has no idea who she is.
Piotr cocks an eyebrow at being an apparent angry drunk somewhere else, too. Hooray. At least he's becoming an affable drunk here, thanks to a certain girl he knows. But then he winces immediately at the thought of her being married to Scott. "Owch. I'm sorry," he offers, instantly.
"... Dear God," says Kitty, awed. "Cheers, only with a big X over it. I think that's the weirdest home universe I've heard of yet." Pause. "No wonder you're taking this so calmly."
"Fucking zombies," supplies Pete, finally reaching over to acquire the *bottle*, because he didn't bother bringing a glass. And oh, it's a good healthy swig he takes of it, too. After a second, he exhales, blissful look crossing his features. "At least it's got one point of, what - normality, I s'pose. Bit of standard. Ness. Thing. And la."
Celliers snaps clawed fingers impatiently at Piotr. Perhaps the Russian will be more forthcoming with the booze.
Piotr glares instantly to Pete. "Do NOT talk to me about zombies. I spent about a week without sleep wandering around town and tearing them apart with my bare hands so they wouldn't hurt anybody. I've seen enough zombie juice to make you want to puke in your shorts." Then the snap of the fingers draws his attention, and he hands the bottle off to Celliers. "Sorry, comrade," he says, smirking a little with the term. It's fun to have another Russian around.
Cara peers down at her glass. Empty. Well, that can be fixed. And is, quite quickly. "If I jump up and down and scream, I'll fall off the roof again," she points out to Kitty. "These boots were not made for dancing on roofs, after all. And no. Not Cheers. Bordertown. But.. close enough."
"Hey, zombies *explode*. I t'ink I win. I dropped zombie-bombs on crowds of de t'ings." This, to both Petes, before Remy is turning a dubious eye on Kitty. "If we's all de cast from Cheers, I don' wanna know who you're peggin' me as." Bright eyes trace back to Cara, and he shrugs one shoulder higher than the other. "But, here you don't gotta worry about 'Ex, almost'. He's pretty much jus' 'ex'."
Piotr chuckles, and points a finger at Remy. "Nick Tortelli. Without question." Then he smiles widely and waits for the angry response.
Kitty looks at Piotr.
Kitty looks at Remy.
Kitty hands Pete her glass. Probably to make up, slightly, for the fact that her next move is stealing the bottle. *Right through his fingers*.
"I weren't talking to you about zombies," clarifies Pete, pausing to take another comfortable swig of the good stuff, before capping the bottle just in case. "All I said were 'fucking zombies', mate. Drink some more an' quit bitching." Then he stares dumbly at his hand. Not the one with the glass in, the one that's suddenly empty. "Oi..." he says, still staring. "Speakin' a' bitches..."
"Spasiba," Jack replies, looking far more satisfied with the world, once he's gotten the shot in his hand. He nods his approval at Piotr, mantling his wings around himself like a sleepy hawk.
"Zombies..." Cara says faintly, draining her glass again and handing it back to Kitty with a vaguely lost look. "I don't pay you to keep glasses empty, y'know." So confused.
Piotr gives Pete a momentary stink-eye, but then smirks, taking the bottle back from Jack to give himself another shot. "Yes, sir." A glance over to Cara. "I imagine you've got a name?"
"Nick who?" Remy says to Piotr, briefly puzzled, before he's shrugging it off entirely, and draining back his glass of Scotch. "Figure you don' pay her at all, really," Again, this to Cara.
"You don't pay me for anything," Kitty points out reasonably. "That's the *other* me." All the same, Caramel's glass is handed back full; then it's *Kitty's* turn to take a swig, and then ... not hand the bottle back to Pete. "No, no. Not bitches. Female cats are *queens*."
"Give me the bottle," says Pete patiently in response to that, holding out his empty hand.
Oh. Right. Not her world. Cara peers down into her now-full cup, and simply groans, leaning back on the roof and staring up at the sky. "Caramel." A beat. "I fell off the bar, didn't I? Hit my head on a barstool. Or something."
Remy grins, briefly, the expression bright and sharp. "Entirely possible. Us? We's jus' your personal hell, seems. You's stuck on dis roof f'ever wit' us an' jus' one bottle of Scotch." Doom. The Cajun proclaims Doom.
Piotr shakes his head. "Nick Tortelli. Look it up." Let him take offense later, when he's not around. Then the woman says her name is Caramel. And Piotr has to repeat it out loud. "Your name is Caramel?" It's only when it's half out of his mouth that he realizes he probably shouldn't sound so 'what were your parents on?' about it.
Cara sits up, and Piotr's got nothing on her when it comes to giving someone the stink-eye. "Yeah."
"Say 'Your Majesty' first and I'll think about it," Kitty teases Pete back. And then? Then she *squeaks*. "... Caramel? In *Bordertown*?"
That's okay. Piotr's question is matched by the look on Jack's face. Which he wipes away with a shot of vodka, and mutely holds the empty glass out for more. Help me, fellow son of Mother Russia. There is drunkenness to be had. Perhaps in hope of falling off the roof again.
"There! You're a *FANGIRL*, you can't be a bloody queen," declares Pete, reaching forward to snag the bottle back while Kitty's occupied with squeeing.
Piotr pours Jack another shot, as an opportunity to avoid said stink-eye, and commiserate with his comrade. Subject change necessary. "Maybe I've been watching far too much cable lately, but am I the only one that hears 'Bordertown' and thinks of Master Blaster?"
Bright red eyes flicker over the assembly, and Remy raises his glass briefly into the air. "Me an' my voices, we's officially Out Of Booze and Very Confused." He intones this as if he thinks the world needs to know.
That.. THAT lights Cara's face up just like a Christmas tree. Someone else who knows what Bordertown means. Then again - HER Kitty knew too. "Bordertown," she says, a trifle smugly. "How do you think I got the *other* you to work there? Well, aside from my incredible personality, and the fantastic wages? And the unparalleled opportunity to be abused by someone as magnificent as myself?"
"Hey!" protests Kitty. Apparently the bottle was solid, since Pete's now back in possession. There are indignant looks delivered. To him, and to Piotr, but mostly to Pete. "... you weren't actually even paying her anything but the ability to say she worked there, were you," she teases Caramel.
"You knew everyone here but me, where you came from? OR versions of them?" Jack finally breaks his self-imposed silence to address Cara directly, blonde brows arching. He's shifting, trying to find a comfortable perch, again trying for the roofridge.
"Well..." Cara hedges, first at Kitty, then at Jack. "Actually, the pay wasn't bad, but working there was the big draw. We have a lot of fun. And yeah - I know just about everyone. Not real well, obviously.
Mostly I know those two.." She points at Remy and Piotr, "By sight. We've talked a few times, but not much really. I know Wisdom better - he's always puppydogging along behind Pryde." Sitting up, Cara tucks her hair back behind one pointed ear (Go ahead, Wisdom. Tease her about the ears. I DARE you.) and takes a hefty swallow of Scotch. "So. How does a bartender get back to her bar, anyhow. I can't leave that place alone. Tea will kill someone, and Becca's probably flat on her back in the storeroom already."
"If she's lucky, she ain't alone," Remy mutters into his empty glass, peering at it unhappily, before he shakes his head at Cara. "She don't. Dat's de bad news, an' part of de spiel we ain't got to yet. Blue portals bring you in, but dey don't 'xactly book you return fare or accomidations."
Pete gives Kitty a self-righteous look, takes another swig of Scotch, and then blinks at Cara. "Yer ears've got points on." Beat. "An' if Pryde works for you, like as not she'll keep 'em in line. Fuck if she can't herd rabid teenagers, nevermind coworkers."
Kitty prays someone else will field that one for once. Instead, she reaches over to scritch Wisdom behind one ear and croon, "Cuuuuuute puppy!" in low tones. Oh, there's Remy. Good good!
Pete Wisdom makes as if to bite Kitty's hand.
Remy eyes Pryde and Wisdom suddenly, dubious. "I ain't patchin' up no bedroom injuries b'tween de two of you, even if you do get dem on de roof."
Piotr nods. "Ah, good. I was a surly, uncommunicative drunk there. Good to know." There's still vodka left, so he finally gets to his feet to start filling some glasses, but he has to balance his size carefully. "Anyone else needing a fill?" To Cara. "I think you will, once we tell you there isn't any way back that isn't dumb luck."
"And I have wings and claws and fangs," Jack comments, sounding suddenly a bit indignant at Wisdom's comment to Cara. Apparently he's decided that meta etiquette doesn't permit teasing about physical attributes.
"Yes please," Cara says in a far more subdued voice. Not going home? Not possible! Her glass is handed up to Piotr, only to have her arm freeze, mid-air, an icy look directed towards Wisdom. It wouldn't be the first time he's made unfortunate comments as to her parentage - just the first time this one has done it *here*. Then again - she hasn't been in a good brawl lately. "Why yes. Yes, they do."
That eager, empty glass in Remy's hand bobs towards Piotr's range of attention. Vodka is almost as good as scotch! Cara's expression has him stilling a little, however, and then trying to leave his hand near Piotr as he leans into Wisdom. "Dat's De Look. Now's 'bout when you hit de deck, je pense."
Kitty pulls her hand back sharply, snickering. "Pfft. You oughta see the post-sparring medic sessions," she tells Remy cheerfully. "We've been good, though, we've only needed a splint once." Pause. "And that wasn't sparring." Pause. "Okay, that one wasn't *me*, either, but the traumatized look was too good to pass up." Then Kitty reorients on Cara. "It's pretty near random, yeah. You might get pulled back five seconds from now. Or it might be years - Pete's been here three or so, I've been here almost as long; Jack got here before I did, and Piotr I think is on five or six years now." Pause. "And we're all going to be drunk very soon. Pete, you're now officially Wisdom for the rest of the night, just so we don't start getting the two of you mixed up."
And very suddenly, poor Remy is squeezing his eyes shut, chanting over and over, "I don' wanna know what was put in de splint, I don' wanna know what was put in de splint....". He misses most of Kitty's explanation because of this.
Piotr pours for Cara, then pours for Remy. Is very importantly Not Listening To Kitty. Or Remy now that he's muttering. "Bozshe moi, six years." That's what hits him for a moment, and then he pours for himself again.
"Just point'n it out, love," explains Pete helpfully to Cara, waving Remy off. "Weren't sure if y'knew. An' I can't see y' goin' abou' wif poin'it ears 'less it ain't on accident, so I fought, mm, I'll tell 'er so's she knows an' can put 'em away if she ain't makin' some sorter fing, like. Say. Sta'ment." Cheerful. Drunk. Helpful. Neighborly.
That deserves more vodka. And discarding his starched manners, for once, Jack holds out a hand impatiently for the bottle. "Four years," Jack notes, sounding less than pleased about it. "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate," he adds, in a mutter.
Her glass, not quite empty yet, is suddenly offered back up to Piotr. Whether or not he takes it, Cara is rolling onto her knees and crawling very, very carefully across the roof towards Pete. "Yup. I know. Pointy. Kinda came that way." The smile she gives Pete is all teeth. "Just as long as we're clear that nobody is gonna say the "E" word, is all good."
"Traheste meum digitum," Pete enunciates carefully at Jack.
"Elephant?" Remy says to Cara, confused. His glass has somehow gone from 'full' to 'empty' in three seconds, and it's waivering around in search of alcohol again. "Elephants ain't got pointy ears."
Kitty eyes Cara's approach, and decides that now would be the time to fetch more bottles. Yeeees.
Celliers peers at Wisdom, wings rustling. "You'll forgive me if I decline. I don't think I can move over to you without falling off the roof. And I don't think your neighbors would believe that I am a particularly large sparrow looking for a nesting place in your eaves."
Piotr apparently DOES have to play barmaid. Jack gets a fill-up, the new girl gets the refill... then he just hands off the rest of the bottle to Cara, before he goes into the bag he brought and produces two more vodka bottles. "Here... a bottle for each side of the roof, so no one's staggering across the gutter to serve it up..."
"Oh, y'no fun'nymore," Pete disgusteds at Jack, waving his hand around. Then he blinks interestedly at Caramel, tipping the bottle back for another go. "Which e-word's 'at?"
Piotr grins back to Pete as he pops open the new bottle and hands it over to Remy. "It rhymes with 'go fuck yoursELF," he jokes, before starting to giggle a little bit at actually saying that...
Kitty reappears with a bottle in each hand. The *new* Scotch is also placed next to Pete. The rum, apparently, is hers. Anyone who knows her storytelling habits should start to be very afraid now.
"I'm all sorts of fun. Just none of the sorts you go for," Jack shoots back, sounding equally disgusted. "And must you, Piotr Nikolaevich? Bad enough that she was dumped here. Do not bait the newcomers."
Lots of alcohol! Gambit tries not to grab at the offered bottle with both hands; at least he can rely on thiefly reflexes to keep things steady enough to pour as he gets more and more drunk. Not that he's going to be using the glass much any more. "I ain't *dat* flex'ble." Remy says, loftily, to Piotr, before the Cajun looks to Celliers and dissolves into a bout of sloppy giggling. Giant sparrow.
Oh no. No he didn't. No he did not. Cara whips around so fast she very nearly tumbles off the roof again - managing instead to knock right into Pete. Which will likely knock over that new bottle of Scotch. "Hey! Ain't you got a green-haired tart to paw over or something!?" is called to Piotr. "He didn't say it, did he?" is a slightly quieter aside. "Cause I'm gonna have t'kick his ass if he idd."
Piotr cocks an eyebrow at Jack. "I'm baiting WISDOM. He's an oldcomer! And if Caramel is calling it the 'e-word,' then that's probably what she'd say to him, too..." Then Cara yells at him, too, meaning apparently EVERYBODY misinterpreted him. "Green-haired tart?" he asks, utterly confused... before his eyes widen. "Are you telling me I was hooked up with Polaris?!"
Actually...
Knocking into Pete sends not just the bottle tumbling, but Pete as well. Each over opposite sides of the roof. The bottle's headed for the lawn in front, and the bastard's headed for the hedge in back. Scrabbling sounds. "...FUCK!"
Bottle. Wisdom. Bottle. Wisdom. "Jesus." Remy says, and he's losing his bottle, too, making an inelegant and drunken dive for the Englishman's wrist. "Clumsy fuck." Hyperdexterity is struggling against the shingles for a grip.
Should go for the bottle. Shouldshouldshould!
Jack's already lunging to try and keep Pete from dumping himself off the edge of the roof. And drunkenness is not helping. Jack himself ends up skittering down again, though he stops himself before he reaches the edge. There are giant claw marks engraved in the shingling, though.
... *Kitty* goes for the bottle.
This is what we call marital affection, see.
Oh that's a problem. Pete latches onto Remy's arm, but the momentum of the bastard Englishman, combined with the fact that he still has, and is being very protective of, what's left of the first bottle...
Well. It winds up with both Pete and Remy falling CRASH into the hedges. It doesn't hurt *much*. Not a very far fall, and there's the breakfall of the foliage, and there's drunkenness to boot.
Catching herself, Cara lets Kitty get the bottle, lets Remy and Celliers fight over who gets to get Pete, and pushes herself to her feet, making her unsteady way over towards Piotr. "Polaris. Green-haired tart. Dunno her name, her tongue was usually too far down yer throat to ask. But at least you weren't sulking *then*."
Luckily for Remy, Pete is falling first. He goes over the edge with comically wide eyes, his free arm actually flapping ineffectively as he falls, howling, "I gave de powers BACK!" And then he's quiet, probably mostly due to a mouthful of branches and leaves and he's hoping that isn't part of Wisdom stabbing him there.
Celliers catclaws his way back up the roof, muttering. "I think," he notes, grandly. "I am going to go home, before I also fall off the roof and break something."
Piotr, the designated catcher for the evening (no jokes, please), is unfortunately in no position to make any saves, as he's too busy staring at Cara incredulously. It takes him a moment to realize that EVERYBODY ELSE IS FALLING OFF THE ROOF. He steadies himself, and reaches over to lend a hand to his countryman. "C'mon, Jack. I've just found out that I'm apparently dumb enough to date someone with magnetic powers somewhere... once again, I'm batshit crazy in every reality ever. I need to drink more."
"With an invitation like that, how can I refuse?" Jack relents, reaching up to take Piotr's hand. "At least for a round. And when it comes to choices like that, I am in a glass house, brother." His diction is getting increasingly formal, even as he begins to slur.
"I vote for at least moving down to the first floor, so that it's not nearly as far to fall," Kitty notes, bottle in each hand. And takes a swig of rum. "And Piotr? I have to say. Dating someone with magnetic powers?" She arches both her eyebrows at him, attempting pure innocence, failing. "How *else* are you ever going to get laid in your other form?" With that, she leans to peer off the edge of the roof at the ex-shrubbery. "Ahoy, down there! Anyone bleeding?"
"...I'm sleeping here, I think," calls a Wisdom somewhat disorientedly, and quite uncomfortably. "Don' hurt. Ain't movin'. Remy geddoff my neck."
"I think.." Cara proclaims very carefully after Kitty's advice. "That that would be a very wise idea. I also think.. you all are quite insane. But then - you are also quite insane in my universe.. so we will just have to redo this building, name it Bordertown, and start..." She stops then, a strange, tingling sensation beginning to crawl over her skin. The first of the blue spark begins slowly, at her feet - giving her time for just a few more words before she is zapped away. "This better be m'ride home. Nobody is ever going to believe..."
And she's gone.
Piotr smirks a little to Jack. "Let's light up... and now that the Incomprehensible Accent Twins have pitched over, maybe we can actually have a conversation I can follow." Then Kitty smarts off. "Katya? Part the first - I don't feel much in that form anyway, and part the B., EVERY argument would end with me being flung to Hoboken! No, THANK you!"
"Woul' if you'd get yer *NOSE* outta my *crotch*," At least, Remy thinks that's a nose. He isn't really trying to analyse it more than that. With all the grace of a beached whale, the Cajun pushes to the side, rolling away from Wisdom and out of the bushes in a tangle of greenery. There's a moment where Remy only lays on his back, before lifting both hands into the air. "Where's my booze!" From his angle, he's pretty much oblvious to Cara's disappearance. He's also probably about to pass out.
"I'll not argue that," Jack agrees, already lapsing into his 19th century Russian. He does relinquish his grip on Piotr - he's fed recently enough that those around him are friends, and not merely a potential meal.
...from below: "PRYDE that WASN'T YOU, RIGHT?"
"Ow. Elbow. In mouth. Fucker."
There follows the sound of Wisdom finishing off the bottle, down in the hedge somewhere.
Piotr blinks as the blue flash draws his attention... and suddenly, she's gone. "No WAY." He blinks again, for anywhere between two seconds and half an hour. "No WAY! She's GONE BACK already?!" Yes, incredulous. "I'm getting my SEVEN YEAR ITCH and she splits in fifteen minutes?!" Then a look up to the sky, and he points to the clouds. "I don't even BELIEVE in you, and I can STILL hear you laughing at me!" There's a slight smirk to his tone, but a good amount of indignance, too.
"Piotr. You're holding *hands* with an *incubus* and you're still not believing in God? What do you have to get, struck by lightning?" Kitty giggles - *giggles* - then slides off the edge of the roof. Without actually falling. Wench. "Wisdom! Get out of the hedge so I can sit on you. Otherwise I'll have to sit on the Cajun, and I think Rogue has dibs there even when she's not here."
"That's not fair!" Jack protests, before lapsing into grumpiness and Pashto obscenities. He can't help but grin at Piotr, and then simply holds out his hand for anotehr shot.
Piotr shakes his head, sways a bit, then hands the bottle off to Jack. "That's it. I'm making Cement Angels to appease him, then." Then, he just springs forward off the roof, spins and shifts to metal, and lands with a huge crunch on the sidewalk, embedding himself into it... then flapping his arms up and down, crunching up the pavement rather effectively, as if it were snow.
Celliers notes, painedly, "Can we stop mentioning that particular supernatural being? It hurts."
"Vodka!" Remy is still reaching upwards as Kitty starts floating down, his expression somewhere between demanding and pleading. "Roguey's gonna sit on m--!" That, of course, is when the Cajun is bouncing upwards from Piotr's impact with the ground. "De fuck?" Gambit tries to sit up, so he can go investigate. He really does. But it isn't working so well.
Piotr continues to make his little angels... until he suddenly remembers something. "Wait a minute... wasn't there a reason we were all getting together on the roof?" he calls out, for anyone in the know to answer.
"Yes," Kitty calls back. "But Pete was the one who knew it, and I don't think he's conscious anymore."
Piotr hahs. "Well, have him tell us in the morning when we all wake up with hangovers in your living room!" A beat. "He's not dead, is he?"
Remy would have a brilliant, witty, cutting retort ready, if he were conscious. Really, he would. It would have been incredible. But, alas, the Cajun has fallen under the spell of just enough alcohol and falling off of high places, and is out like a light. Somebody should probably drag him inside at some point.
"I think I'll bid you all good night," Jack notes, wearily amused. And then stretches his wings, only to pause as if not entirely certain what he's actually supposed to do with them. A moment's recall, and he starts laboring into the air, sideslipping and stalling enough that he barely clears the neighbor's trees.
Kitty gives a maniacal little laugh. "Not yet, he's not. Night, Jack!"
Piotr reaches up a hand and waves all flappy-handed. "Dosvidanya, tovarisch!" Then he stares at the sky for a minute, and starts to pick himself up. Odd how the sensation of drunkenness carries over into the metal form... probably best to shift out of it. He zaps to his flesh form as cement chunks flake off of his back. "Okay... who do I gotta lug around into the house, huh?"
Finis!
Pryde and Wisdom's House -- School House Road
It's twilight, and the sun's setting. The air is therefore still warm, but beginning to get chilly. There's a surprising amount of space on the roof of the stone house on Schoolhouse Road, and it's only *vaguely* ominously creaking with all the weight on it. "Right. As soon as Pryde brings up the *good* Scotch, I'll tell you lunatics why you're all here. Until then, you may discuss," allows Pete Wisdom magnanimously, buttoning his coat and settling himself into his chosen patch of roof-space. "The roof is in honor of LeBeau."
The *good* Scotch. And vodka, just in case Piotr gets alcoholically patriotic. Why Kitty? Well, number one, she knows where it is. Number two, she's the one who doesn't have to bother with the stairs. Unfortunately, she also has a bad habit of messing with people's heads. In this case, it's by popping up, setting bottles down beside Pete, and then leaning on her forearms on the rooftop ... *without actually bothering to come all the way out of the roof*. Bad Kitty. No biscuit.
"...Pryde!!" protests Pete, looking unwell.
It's a quiet night at Bordertown. Which is to say the place is jumping. Not literally, of course, though that's happened a time or two. Still, the dance floor is packed, the tables are overflowing, and the girls are being kept on their toes keeping drinks filled and the music flowing. Cara's on top of the bar - her very favorite place to be, shouting out over the music. "Becca! If you don't get your..." And of course, that's when it happens. She doesn't even have time to blink as a surge of blue energy flows over her skin, snatching her up and leaving a very empty spot on top of the bar where she'd been standing.
A split second later, that blue energy crackles again, depositing the bartender atop a roof overlooking a very different city. Still shouting - although the noise level has gone down considerably. "..roundheeled ASS back... what the.." THat last is at slightly lower volume. Where is she - and who the HELL are these.. wait a minute..
Unfortunately, Cara's boots - which are admirably suited to standing atop of bars, aren't quite so admirably suited to standing atop roofs, and over she tumbles, skidding backwards down the side of the roof. Both hands grab for the gutter before she goes over the roof entire, leaving her glaring up at the sky through a spill of silver, her eyes slitted and angry. "Fuck?!? Kitty?? WISDOM?!"
Perched somewhere near the pinnicle of the roof, wrapped in a trenchcoat against the cold, Remy's eyebrows raise at Kitty's position. "Okay, I done had a long, weird day, but you's still takin' de cake, Kitty." Or she was, until portals started opening and dumping women on the roof. He doesn't even have enough time to react before she slides away, and the Cajun is left with his mouth still sort of open and blinking dumbly.
"I've missed good Scotch," says the big Russian lying back casually upon the angled roof, smirking a little and running his eyes around the crowd - it's a crowd for him, considering how reclusive he tends to be. Before he can say anything else, the crazy blue light pops in, and watching a woman appear and immediately spill over the edge fires up the old hero-gene, and Piotr instinctively lunges forward a little awkwardly to reach a big arm out to grab hold of hers... but his eyes go wide and he's at a bit of a loss for anything to say...
Jack is on his best behavior, which isn't easy, for an incubus. And in human form, clad in a t-shirt and jeans. He's poised easily enough on the roofridge, a rather prim and pressed English gargoyle. And then Cara appears....and Jack is startled enough to begin to tumble off the roof, shifting as well. Glossy blue-black wings are beating the air, as he windmills right above the gutter, trying to regain his balance while muttering obscenities in Russian.
"What! I --" Portal. Stare. "... I share it?" Kitty finishes somewhat weakly, after Remy's 'taking the cake' comment. She pulls herself up and free of the roof, looking around frantically. Strange woman yelling at her. Okay, par for the course. Jack, wings, known issue, check - "Is everybody okay?"
The amusing thing here -- well. One of many -- is that Pete's more taken aback by Jack's wings than a pointy-eared chick appearing in midair and tumbling down the roof and recognising them. "Celliers, what the FUCK?"
"He got turned into an incubus," Kitty supplies without even looking back at Pete. "I thought I told you about that? ... never mind, your eyes probably glazed over at the 'beating up on gremlins with Piotr' part."
Cara could hold onto the roof for quite a while before her arms gave out - she's a stronger gal than she appears, but it's somewhat of a relief to find someone taking the need to do that from her. Gritting her teeth, Cara releases the gutter and wraps her hands around Piotr's wrists. "I'd be obliged if you got me back *up* there, thank you - and somebody tell me I *didn't* just get sucked right the hell out of my bar and.. is that vodka?"
"Celliers been like dat for a while." Remy says, absently, to Wisdom before rolling along the roof to hang over the edge and peer with bright eyes at the woman on the ground. Except she isn't on the ground, she's in Piotr's very capable hands. So, Gambit scoots back a little, to give the Russian room, his footing ridiculously sure on the angle. "Anyt'in' broken?" That, to the newcomer.
Piotr pulls upwards. "Not a problem, ma'am," comes the polite response. "And yes, that's vodka, but I've got dibs on it," he adds, with a small smirk, getting to one knee and easily bringing her up and setting her down gently next to him. He cocks an eyebrow to Kitty, wondering just how much she told Pete about that... rather intoxicated evening, but here's hoping he DID tune out at the right time. "I'd tell you you didn't get sucked right the hell out of your bar, but I'd be lying. Not a big fan of that."
And Jack is horribly embarassed, though wings are really the only unusually exposed skin. He regains his balance, and turns back to the others, folding his wings neatly behind him. "I think Pryde has summed it up admirably," he replies, trying to gather up the shreds of dignity, and getting out of Piotr's way. He eyes the newcomer with open curiosity, then grins suddenly. "Really, could she have fallen into a better gathering."
"'N' I've been *away* f'ra while," Wisdom mutters darkly at Remy, then just makes himself rather small, bunching up against the chimney in his coat and looking grumbly. He listens for a moment, then calls out, "Scotch is /now/. Make it so. There's enough for New Girl."
"I'm flying to Scotland *just* to steal you Moira's bathing cap," Kitty informs Pete, before shaking her head and starting to disseminate alcohol. Piotr is wrong. *Caramel* has dibs - whichever form of poison she prefers. It falls under the 'first meal's free' privilege.
Dignity isn't something Cara has ever been terribly concerned with, but even so she smoothes her coat and runs both hands over her hair, settling the tangled strands back over her shoulders. "This did *not* just.. fucking *crystal*. It's not supposed to take people away when they're *from* there, damn it." Lifting her head, Cara stares around at the people gathered. Kitty. Check. Wisdom. Check. Piotr- him she's not as familiar with, but at least he looks recognizable. Check. Remy. Check. Weird guy with wings? Okay - it's something of a relief to find a few new faces. Still.. There's a moment, then, when she goes utterly white - well, whiter. "PleaseGod... tell me there's no Scott here." She sucks in a breath, staring at Kitty and Pete pleadingly. "BoozeNowPlease."
"I /said/," insists Pete. He gives Kitty and Piotr the evil eye. "Hand the girl /something/ fast. Sounds like she's got it backward. Which means she's got a fucking nasty surprise coming." Pause. "And goddammit, give me a bottle too."
"Not so lucky. But he ain't *here* as in *on de roof*," Remy says amicably--there's really only one 'Scott'. He's taking another step back, just to clear the path between Cara and The Booze. He does not feel like losing a limb tonight.
Booze is brandished in Caramel's face, helpfully. Well, very nearly so. "Focus," Kitty reassures. "It's right there. Once you get through staring at the scary people." Kitty is unafraid! Mostly because she can, you know, go intangible. "And get your own goddamn bottle, Wisdom, you're not *actually* quadriplegic. -- Wait, there's a Scott? Since when?"
Piotr cocks an eyebrow back to Pete. "I just saved her life, I have to play barmaid, too?" he jokes, before grabbing the vodka bottle to hand it up to her, but Kitty beats him to the servitude. "Here you go, ma'am. My name's Piotr... and I'll just let everyone else shout their names, and don't worry about the test later."
"It's not the one what whinges all the time and does drugs, is it?" asks Pete with morbid curiousity. And he slowly starts to inch across the roof in the direction of the Scotch.
This is all entirely beyond Jack, at least for the moment. But it's enough to recall his own entry to Beacon Harbor, years ago - and the memory has him subdued, even as he blinks owlishly at Cara. "I would also like a Scotch," he notes, voice utterly inconsequential.
"F'cryin' out loud, Kitty, keep up. Dere's a Scott. 'Xcept he's like a pipsqueak Scott dat hates us all. Younger'n' me, dat oughta be 'nough to creep you out." Gambit's eyebrows raise at Pete, briefly. "Well, I don' know 'bout drugs, but he's an angsty bastard an' he's gone to t'ievin'. Shaked up wit' a femme named Eris, who works wit' Rogue. Dere's a Jean, too, but she's scary an' militant. An' a Magneto. Y'all heard 'bout Magnus, right?" Remy seems to have forgotten about Cara, briefly, in trying to keep his teammates up to speed. "An' a new Warren. Blue Warren. But *Wisdom*, 'least, knew dat."
Pete Wisdom glares at Remy.
Remy smiles innocently right back. Which is, of course, how you know he's full of shit.
Pete Wisdom says "Warren Woadington."
She Has A Bottle. That, in and of itself, is enough to make much that is wrong in the world right. "Pony up your glasses, people," Cara says, the edge of hysteria that had rimmed her words disappearing into polished professionalism. She'll take the first glass she's offered, and fill it with Scotch, the bottle swinging easily in her hand. Swing, tilt, pour, swing upright again, pass the glass off. It's a rhythem as natural to her as breathing. "Cheating, whining, lying sack of bullshit Scott," she tells Pete without missing a beat. "It wouldn't surprise me much if he did drugs too. God knows he did everything else unless it did him first."
"Jean I knew about," Kitty notes brightly, as Caramel takes over barmaiding. The note about Magnus gets a pleased look. Right up until she comes terrifyingly close to breathing Scotch at Pete's appellation for Warren. Once she's got the capacity for speech back, she gestures weakly between Caramel and Pete. "... you two know each other?"
Piotr just... stops talking for a moment. He has no idea who this woman is... but everyone else seems to. And everyone hates Cyclops. That's a little strange, and mildly amusing. He just pours himself a glass of the vodka and watches the sudden bitchfest.
Pete looks really pleased with himself at Kitty's near-painful almost-inhalation. Because he really is a fucker. But then at the gesture, he lifts his eyebrows. "No. Look, Pryde, she said *your* name, too."
"I was thinking the Scott thing," Kitty protests. "You *know* that one was before I got here..."
Well, if she's going to be like that, Remy is just going to have to pony his scotch glass right up. Good Scotch is, of course, the only way to end a day which started with borrowing his girlfriend's powers. "Best 'dvice I got for dis Scott is, if you see him, don' let on you know him, an' he won' shoot you wit' his gun."
Celliers has met Scott, the one the assembled group is complaining about. But not to his knowledge. So he's gone mum, and let the others figure out the web of acquaintanceship.
Piotr scoffs. "Why would Cyclops bother with a gun?" he asks, incredulously, before knocking back a straight shot of his preferred hooch.
"Of *course* I said her name." Cara protests, filling Remy's glass, and the rest of them before filling one for herself. "She *works* for me. Well.. not exactly.. she.. look! On my world, she works at my bar. And you're her boyfriend. When you aren't scowling and drinking up my good booze. And *you*," she points a finger first at Piotr, then at Remy. "You sit at the bar and scowl a lot more than you're doing now and *you*.." This is directed at Remy. "I can't get a damned minute of work out of Becca when you're around. Not that the tart works much anyway." Celliers gets a near apologetic look. "Sorry. Don't know you. As for Scott.." Cara's just starting to work up a head of steam now.. and she has to almost visibly restrain herself, emptying her glass in one long swallow. "He's my husband. Ex. Almost."
"You'd have t'ask him, mon ami. Only reason I know he's got is, is I looked down de barrel of de t'ing. An' I was tryin' to save him from de *zombies*, too." Remy shakes his head with a little 'tsk'ing noise of shame as he retracts the hand with the glass full of Scotch. Pryde, Wisdom, and Piotr are in turn given little looks of bemused confusion. He has no idea who she is.
Piotr cocks an eyebrow at being an apparent angry drunk somewhere else, too. Hooray. At least he's becoming an affable drunk here, thanks to a certain girl he knows. But then he winces immediately at the thought of her being married to Scott. "Owch. I'm sorry," he offers, instantly.
"... Dear God," says Kitty, awed. "Cheers, only with a big X over it. I think that's the weirdest home universe I've heard of yet." Pause. "No wonder you're taking this so calmly."
"Fucking zombies," supplies Pete, finally reaching over to acquire the *bottle*, because he didn't bother bringing a glass. And oh, it's a good healthy swig he takes of it, too. After a second, he exhales, blissful look crossing his features. "At least it's got one point of, what - normality, I s'pose. Bit of standard. Ness. Thing. And la."
Celliers snaps clawed fingers impatiently at Piotr. Perhaps the Russian will be more forthcoming with the booze.
Piotr glares instantly to Pete. "Do NOT talk to me about zombies. I spent about a week without sleep wandering around town and tearing them apart with my bare hands so they wouldn't hurt anybody. I've seen enough zombie juice to make you want to puke in your shorts." Then the snap of the fingers draws his attention, and he hands the bottle off to Celliers. "Sorry, comrade," he says, smirking a little with the term. It's fun to have another Russian around.
Cara peers down at her glass. Empty. Well, that can be fixed. And is, quite quickly. "If I jump up and down and scream, I'll fall off the roof again," she points out to Kitty. "These boots were not made for dancing on roofs, after all. And no. Not Cheers. Bordertown. But.. close enough."
"Hey, zombies *explode*. I t'ink I win. I dropped zombie-bombs on crowds of de t'ings." This, to both Petes, before Remy is turning a dubious eye on Kitty. "If we's all de cast from Cheers, I don' wanna know who you're peggin' me as." Bright eyes trace back to Cara, and he shrugs one shoulder higher than the other. "But, here you don't gotta worry about 'Ex, almost'. He's pretty much jus' 'ex'."
Piotr chuckles, and points a finger at Remy. "Nick Tortelli. Without question." Then he smiles widely and waits for the angry response.
Kitty looks at Piotr.
Kitty looks at Remy.
Kitty hands Pete her glass. Probably to make up, slightly, for the fact that her next move is stealing the bottle. *Right through his fingers*.
"I weren't talking to you about zombies," clarifies Pete, pausing to take another comfortable swig of the good stuff, before capping the bottle just in case. "All I said were 'fucking zombies', mate. Drink some more an' quit bitching." Then he stares dumbly at his hand. Not the one with the glass in, the one that's suddenly empty. "Oi..." he says, still staring. "Speakin' a' bitches..."
"Spasiba," Jack replies, looking far more satisfied with the world, once he's gotten the shot in his hand. He nods his approval at Piotr, mantling his wings around himself like a sleepy hawk.
"Zombies..." Cara says faintly, draining her glass again and handing it back to Kitty with a vaguely lost look. "I don't pay you to keep glasses empty, y'know." So confused.
Piotr gives Pete a momentary stink-eye, but then smirks, taking the bottle back from Jack to give himself another shot. "Yes, sir." A glance over to Cara. "I imagine you've got a name?"
"Nick who?" Remy says to Piotr, briefly puzzled, before he's shrugging it off entirely, and draining back his glass of Scotch. "Figure you don' pay her at all, really," Again, this to Cara.
"You don't pay me for anything," Kitty points out reasonably. "That's the *other* me." All the same, Caramel's glass is handed back full; then it's *Kitty's* turn to take a swig, and then ... not hand the bottle back to Pete. "No, no. Not bitches. Female cats are *queens*."
"Give me the bottle," says Pete patiently in response to that, holding out his empty hand.
Oh. Right. Not her world. Cara peers down into her now-full cup, and simply groans, leaning back on the roof and staring up at the sky. "Caramel." A beat. "I fell off the bar, didn't I? Hit my head on a barstool. Or something."
Remy grins, briefly, the expression bright and sharp. "Entirely possible. Us? We's jus' your personal hell, seems. You's stuck on dis roof f'ever wit' us an' jus' one bottle of Scotch." Doom. The Cajun proclaims Doom.
Piotr shakes his head. "Nick Tortelli. Look it up." Let him take offense later, when he's not around. Then the woman says her name is Caramel. And Piotr has to repeat it out loud. "Your name is Caramel?" It's only when it's half out of his mouth that he realizes he probably shouldn't sound so 'what were your parents on?' about it.
Cara sits up, and Piotr's got nothing on her when it comes to giving someone the stink-eye. "Yeah."
"Say 'Your Majesty' first and I'll think about it," Kitty teases Pete back. And then? Then she *squeaks*. "... Caramel? In *Bordertown*?"
That's okay. Piotr's question is matched by the look on Jack's face. Which he wipes away with a shot of vodka, and mutely holds the empty glass out for more. Help me, fellow son of Mother Russia. There is drunkenness to be had. Perhaps in hope of falling off the roof again.
"There! You're a *FANGIRL*, you can't be a bloody queen," declares Pete, reaching forward to snag the bottle back while Kitty's occupied with squeeing.
Piotr pours Jack another shot, as an opportunity to avoid said stink-eye, and commiserate with his comrade. Subject change necessary. "Maybe I've been watching far too much cable lately, but am I the only one that hears 'Bordertown' and thinks of Master Blaster?"
Bright red eyes flicker over the assembly, and Remy raises his glass briefly into the air. "Me an' my voices, we's officially Out Of Booze and Very Confused." He intones this as if he thinks the world needs to know.
That.. THAT lights Cara's face up just like a Christmas tree. Someone else who knows what Bordertown means. Then again - HER Kitty knew too. "Bordertown," she says, a trifle smugly. "How do you think I got the *other* you to work there? Well, aside from my incredible personality, and the fantastic wages? And the unparalleled opportunity to be abused by someone as magnificent as myself?"
"Hey!" protests Kitty. Apparently the bottle was solid, since Pete's now back in possession. There are indignant looks delivered. To him, and to Piotr, but mostly to Pete. "... you weren't actually even paying her anything but the ability to say she worked there, were you," she teases Caramel.
"You knew everyone here but me, where you came from? OR versions of them?" Jack finally breaks his self-imposed silence to address Cara directly, blonde brows arching. He's shifting, trying to find a comfortable perch, again trying for the roofridge.
"Well..." Cara hedges, first at Kitty, then at Jack. "Actually, the pay wasn't bad, but working there was the big draw. We have a lot of fun. And yeah - I know just about everyone. Not real well, obviously.
Mostly I know those two.." She points at Remy and Piotr, "By sight. We've talked a few times, but not much really. I know Wisdom better - he's always puppydogging along behind Pryde." Sitting up, Cara tucks her hair back behind one pointed ear (Go ahead, Wisdom. Tease her about the ears. I DARE you.) and takes a hefty swallow of Scotch. "So. How does a bartender get back to her bar, anyhow. I can't leave that place alone. Tea will kill someone, and Becca's probably flat on her back in the storeroom already."
"If she's lucky, she ain't alone," Remy mutters into his empty glass, peering at it unhappily, before he shakes his head at Cara. "She don't. Dat's de bad news, an' part of de spiel we ain't got to yet. Blue portals bring you in, but dey don't 'xactly book you return fare or accomidations."
Pete gives Kitty a self-righteous look, takes another swig of Scotch, and then blinks at Cara. "Yer ears've got points on." Beat. "An' if Pryde works for you, like as not she'll keep 'em in line. Fuck if she can't herd rabid teenagers, nevermind coworkers."
Kitty prays someone else will field that one for once. Instead, she reaches over to scritch Wisdom behind one ear and croon, "Cuuuuuute puppy!" in low tones. Oh, there's Remy. Good good!
Pete Wisdom makes as if to bite Kitty's hand.
Remy eyes Pryde and Wisdom suddenly, dubious. "I ain't patchin' up no bedroom injuries b'tween de two of you, even if you do get dem on de roof."
Piotr nods. "Ah, good. I was a surly, uncommunicative drunk there. Good to know." There's still vodka left, so he finally gets to his feet to start filling some glasses, but he has to balance his size carefully. "Anyone else needing a fill?" To Cara. "I think you will, once we tell you there isn't any way back that isn't dumb luck."
"And I have wings and claws and fangs," Jack comments, sounding suddenly a bit indignant at Wisdom's comment to Cara. Apparently he's decided that meta etiquette doesn't permit teasing about physical attributes.
"Yes please," Cara says in a far more subdued voice. Not going home? Not possible! Her glass is handed up to Piotr, only to have her arm freeze, mid-air, an icy look directed towards Wisdom. It wouldn't be the first time he's made unfortunate comments as to her parentage - just the first time this one has done it *here*. Then again - she hasn't been in a good brawl lately. "Why yes. Yes, they do."
That eager, empty glass in Remy's hand bobs towards Piotr's range of attention. Vodka is almost as good as scotch! Cara's expression has him stilling a little, however, and then trying to leave his hand near Piotr as he leans into Wisdom. "Dat's De Look. Now's 'bout when you hit de deck, je pense."
Kitty pulls her hand back sharply, snickering. "Pfft. You oughta see the post-sparring medic sessions," she tells Remy cheerfully. "We've been good, though, we've only needed a splint once." Pause. "And that wasn't sparring." Pause. "Okay, that one wasn't *me*, either, but the traumatized look was too good to pass up." Then Kitty reorients on Cara. "It's pretty near random, yeah. You might get pulled back five seconds from now. Or it might be years - Pete's been here three or so, I've been here almost as long; Jack got here before I did, and Piotr I think is on five or six years now." Pause. "And we're all going to be drunk very soon. Pete, you're now officially Wisdom for the rest of the night, just so we don't start getting the two of you mixed up."
And very suddenly, poor Remy is squeezing his eyes shut, chanting over and over, "I don' wanna know what was put in de splint, I don' wanna know what was put in de splint....". He misses most of Kitty's explanation because of this.
Piotr pours for Cara, then pours for Remy. Is very importantly Not Listening To Kitty. Or Remy now that he's muttering. "Bozshe moi, six years." That's what hits him for a moment, and then he pours for himself again.
"Just point'n it out, love," explains Pete helpfully to Cara, waving Remy off. "Weren't sure if y'knew. An' I can't see y' goin' abou' wif poin'it ears 'less it ain't on accident, so I fought, mm, I'll tell 'er so's she knows an' can put 'em away if she ain't makin' some sorter fing, like. Say. Sta'ment." Cheerful. Drunk. Helpful. Neighborly.
That deserves more vodka. And discarding his starched manners, for once, Jack holds out a hand impatiently for the bottle. "Four years," Jack notes, sounding less than pleased about it. "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate," he adds, in a mutter.
Her glass, not quite empty yet, is suddenly offered back up to Piotr. Whether or not he takes it, Cara is rolling onto her knees and crawling very, very carefully across the roof towards Pete. "Yup. I know. Pointy. Kinda came that way." The smile she gives Pete is all teeth. "Just as long as we're clear that nobody is gonna say the "E" word, is all good."
"Traheste meum digitum," Pete enunciates carefully at Jack.
"Elephant?" Remy says to Cara, confused. His glass has somehow gone from 'full' to 'empty' in three seconds, and it's waivering around in search of alcohol again. "Elephants ain't got pointy ears."
Kitty eyes Cara's approach, and decides that now would be the time to fetch more bottles. Yeeees.
Celliers peers at Wisdom, wings rustling. "You'll forgive me if I decline. I don't think I can move over to you without falling off the roof. And I don't think your neighbors would believe that I am a particularly large sparrow looking for a nesting place in your eaves."
Piotr apparently DOES have to play barmaid. Jack gets a fill-up, the new girl gets the refill... then he just hands off the rest of the bottle to Cara, before he goes into the bag he brought and produces two more vodka bottles. "Here... a bottle for each side of the roof, so no one's staggering across the gutter to serve it up..."
"Oh, y'no fun'nymore," Pete disgusteds at Jack, waving his hand around. Then he blinks interestedly at Caramel, tipping the bottle back for another go. "Which e-word's 'at?"
Piotr grins back to Pete as he pops open the new bottle and hands it over to Remy. "It rhymes with 'go fuck yoursELF," he jokes, before starting to giggle a little bit at actually saying that...
Kitty reappears with a bottle in each hand. The *new* Scotch is also placed next to Pete. The rum, apparently, is hers. Anyone who knows her storytelling habits should start to be very afraid now.
"I'm all sorts of fun. Just none of the sorts you go for," Jack shoots back, sounding equally disgusted. "And must you, Piotr Nikolaevich? Bad enough that she was dumped here. Do not bait the newcomers."
Lots of alcohol! Gambit tries not to grab at the offered bottle with both hands; at least he can rely on thiefly reflexes to keep things steady enough to pour as he gets more and more drunk. Not that he's going to be using the glass much any more. "I ain't *dat* flex'ble." Remy says, loftily, to Piotr, before the Cajun looks to Celliers and dissolves into a bout of sloppy giggling. Giant sparrow.
Oh no. No he didn't. No he did not. Cara whips around so fast she very nearly tumbles off the roof again - managing instead to knock right into Pete. Which will likely knock over that new bottle of Scotch. "Hey! Ain't you got a green-haired tart to paw over or something!?" is called to Piotr. "He didn't say it, did he?" is a slightly quieter aside. "Cause I'm gonna have t'kick his ass if he idd."
Piotr cocks an eyebrow at Jack. "I'm baiting WISDOM. He's an oldcomer! And if Caramel is calling it the 'e-word,' then that's probably what she'd say to him, too..." Then Cara yells at him, too, meaning apparently EVERYBODY misinterpreted him. "Green-haired tart?" he asks, utterly confused... before his eyes widen. "Are you telling me I was hooked up with Polaris?!"
Actually...
Knocking into Pete sends not just the bottle tumbling, but Pete as well. Each over opposite sides of the roof. The bottle's headed for the lawn in front, and the bastard's headed for the hedge in back. Scrabbling sounds. "...FUCK!"
Bottle. Wisdom. Bottle. Wisdom. "Jesus." Remy says, and he's losing his bottle, too, making an inelegant and drunken dive for the Englishman's wrist. "Clumsy fuck." Hyperdexterity is struggling against the shingles for a grip.
Should go for the bottle. Shouldshouldshould!
Jack's already lunging to try and keep Pete from dumping himself off the edge of the roof. And drunkenness is not helping. Jack himself ends up skittering down again, though he stops himself before he reaches the edge. There are giant claw marks engraved in the shingling, though.
... *Kitty* goes for the bottle.
This is what we call marital affection, see.
Oh that's a problem. Pete latches onto Remy's arm, but the momentum of the bastard Englishman, combined with the fact that he still has, and is being very protective of, what's left of the first bottle...
Well. It winds up with both Pete and Remy falling CRASH into the hedges. It doesn't hurt *much*. Not a very far fall, and there's the breakfall of the foliage, and there's drunkenness to boot.
Catching herself, Cara lets Kitty get the bottle, lets Remy and Celliers fight over who gets to get Pete, and pushes herself to her feet, making her unsteady way over towards Piotr. "Polaris. Green-haired tart. Dunno her name, her tongue was usually too far down yer throat to ask. But at least you weren't sulking *then*."
Luckily for Remy, Pete is falling first. He goes over the edge with comically wide eyes, his free arm actually flapping ineffectively as he falls, howling, "I gave de powers BACK!" And then he's quiet, probably mostly due to a mouthful of branches and leaves and he's hoping that isn't part of Wisdom stabbing him there.
Celliers catclaws his way back up the roof, muttering. "I think," he notes, grandly. "I am going to go home, before I also fall off the roof and break something."
Piotr, the designated catcher for the evening (no jokes, please), is unfortunately in no position to make any saves, as he's too busy staring at Cara incredulously. It takes him a moment to realize that EVERYBODY ELSE IS FALLING OFF THE ROOF. He steadies himself, and reaches over to lend a hand to his countryman. "C'mon, Jack. I've just found out that I'm apparently dumb enough to date someone with magnetic powers somewhere... once again, I'm batshit crazy in every reality ever. I need to drink more."
"With an invitation like that, how can I refuse?" Jack relents, reaching up to take Piotr's hand. "At least for a round. And when it comes to choices like that, I am in a glass house, brother." His diction is getting increasingly formal, even as he begins to slur.
"I vote for at least moving down to the first floor, so that it's not nearly as far to fall," Kitty notes, bottle in each hand. And takes a swig of rum. "And Piotr? I have to say. Dating someone with magnetic powers?" She arches both her eyebrows at him, attempting pure innocence, failing. "How *else* are you ever going to get laid in your other form?" With that, she leans to peer off the edge of the roof at the ex-shrubbery. "Ahoy, down there! Anyone bleeding?"
"...I'm sleeping here, I think," calls a Wisdom somewhat disorientedly, and quite uncomfortably. "Don' hurt. Ain't movin'. Remy geddoff my neck."
"I think.." Cara proclaims very carefully after Kitty's advice. "That that would be a very wise idea. I also think.. you all are quite insane. But then - you are also quite insane in my universe.. so we will just have to redo this building, name it Bordertown, and start..." She stops then, a strange, tingling sensation beginning to crawl over her skin. The first of the blue spark begins slowly, at her feet - giving her time for just a few more words before she is zapped away. "This better be m'ride home. Nobody is ever going to believe..."
And she's gone.
Piotr smirks a little to Jack. "Let's light up... and now that the Incomprehensible Accent Twins have pitched over, maybe we can actually have a conversation I can follow." Then Kitty smarts off. "Katya? Part the first - I don't feel much in that form anyway, and part the B., EVERY argument would end with me being flung to Hoboken! No, THANK you!"
"Woul' if you'd get yer *NOSE* outta my *crotch*," At least, Remy thinks that's a nose. He isn't really trying to analyse it more than that. With all the grace of a beached whale, the Cajun pushes to the side, rolling away from Wisdom and out of the bushes in a tangle of greenery. There's a moment where Remy only lays on his back, before lifting both hands into the air. "Where's my booze!" From his angle, he's pretty much oblvious to Cara's disappearance. He's also probably about to pass out.
"I'll not argue that," Jack agrees, already lapsing into his 19th century Russian. He does relinquish his grip on Piotr - he's fed recently enough that those around him are friends, and not merely a potential meal.
...from below: "PRYDE that WASN'T YOU, RIGHT?"
"Ow. Elbow. In mouth. Fucker."
There follows the sound of Wisdom finishing off the bottle, down in the hedge somewhere.
Piotr blinks as the blue flash draws his attention... and suddenly, she's gone. "No WAY." He blinks again, for anywhere between two seconds and half an hour. "No WAY! She's GONE BACK already?!" Yes, incredulous. "I'm getting my SEVEN YEAR ITCH and she splits in fifteen minutes?!" Then a look up to the sky, and he points to the clouds. "I don't even BELIEVE in you, and I can STILL hear you laughing at me!" There's a slight smirk to his tone, but a good amount of indignance, too.
"Piotr. You're holding *hands* with an *incubus* and you're still not believing in God? What do you have to get, struck by lightning?" Kitty giggles - *giggles* - then slides off the edge of the roof. Without actually falling. Wench. "Wisdom! Get out of the hedge so I can sit on you. Otherwise I'll have to sit on the Cajun, and I think Rogue has dibs there even when she's not here."
"That's not fair!" Jack protests, before lapsing into grumpiness and Pashto obscenities. He can't help but grin at Piotr, and then simply holds out his hand for anotehr shot.
Piotr shakes his head, sways a bit, then hands the bottle off to Jack. "That's it. I'm making Cement Angels to appease him, then." Then, he just springs forward off the roof, spins and shifts to metal, and lands with a huge crunch on the sidewalk, embedding himself into it... then flapping his arms up and down, crunching up the pavement rather effectively, as if it were snow.
Celliers notes, painedly, "Can we stop mentioning that particular supernatural being? It hurts."
"Vodka!" Remy is still reaching upwards as Kitty starts floating down, his expression somewhere between demanding and pleading. "Roguey's gonna sit on m--!" That, of course, is when the Cajun is bouncing upwards from Piotr's impact with the ground. "De fuck?" Gambit tries to sit up, so he can go investigate. He really does. But it isn't working so well.
Piotr continues to make his little angels... until he suddenly remembers something. "Wait a minute... wasn't there a reason we were all getting together on the roof?" he calls out, for anyone in the know to answer.
"Yes," Kitty calls back. "But Pete was the one who knew it, and I don't think he's conscious anymore."
Piotr hahs. "Well, have him tell us in the morning when we all wake up with hangovers in your living room!" A beat. "He's not dead, is he?"
Remy would have a brilliant, witty, cutting retort ready, if he were conscious. Really, he would. It would have been incredible. But, alas, the Cajun has fallen under the spell of just enough alcohol and falling off of high places, and is out like a light. Somebody should probably drag him inside at some point.
"I think I'll bid you all good night," Jack notes, wearily amused. And then stretches his wings, only to pause as if not entirely certain what he's actually supposed to do with them. A moment's recall, and he starts laboring into the air, sideslipping and stalling enough that he barely clears the neighbor's trees.
Kitty gives a maniacal little laugh. "Not yet, he's not. Night, Jack!"
Piotr reaches up a hand and waves all flappy-handed. "Dosvidanya, tovarisch!" Then he stares at the sky for a minute, and starts to pick himself up. Odd how the sensation of drunkenness carries over into the metal form... probably best to shift out of it. He zaps to his flesh form as cement chunks flake off of his back. "Okay... who do I gotta lug around into the house, huh?"
Finis!