5/21 - Creed
5/21/2008
Logfile from Emma.
It is just an ordinary house on an ordinary street in an ordinary neighborhood. There have been rumors, of course. It would be difficult for there not to be, considering the occupant of the house. So it is more than one curious house-wife eye that turns when an SUV pulls into the driveway, and a statuesque blonde slides out of the driver seat to stride confidently up to the front door. She spares a glance at the lawn and makes a mental note to have the clubhouse grounds keeper pay a visit. The secondary one. Less inconvenience if Creed eats /him/. Emma punches the doorbell with her index finger.
In spite of the lawn being overgrown, the house itself is in no state of disrepair as one could expect, given the peculiar occupant. The doorbell even works. There is no reply to it, though Victor Creed is certainly in the house. A television blares away, reruns of Law and Order, of all things, letting Sam Waterson's voice welcome Emma to the condo.
Emma waits a moment. Maybe two. And then she sweeps the house telepathically to ascertain his presence before opening the door and entering. Her heels clack loudly on the tile entryway. "It's enough that I am paying for this house. Did you expect a butler to come along with it?" she asks aloud, speaking over the television's drone.
Perhaps alarmingly, the interior of the house is spotless. There is no damage, no filth, no mess. The only sign of disorder is a small regiment of empty beer cans on the kitchen counter, which are arranged in an absolutely symmetrical four by four square. Creed is present. He emerges from the upper floor of the condo, dressed in clothes that are actually clean. He also, is actually clean. That is maybe surreal. "Just when I was thinkin' to myself, I could use a blonde with a big fuckin' rack to pass the night with," he purrs lecherously. Not that surreal.
"Just sit in front of a mirror and go to town then," Emma tosses back, looking up and planting her hands on her hips. "We should talk." Ie, get down here?
A blonde brow pulls upward at Emma's quip. He looks down at his chest for a moment and brings his clawed hands up to the front of the black tank-top he is wearing. "Ain't cuttin' it, toots," Victor tells her. He finishes descending the stairs and walks over toward her. The towering mutant does not stop at a respectful distance, but instead, comes close enough that he is well within her personal space. His fanged grin glares down at her. "What exactly do we have to talk about?"
Emma does not back up, but rather simply narrows her eyes and tips her head back as he invades. "You violated our agreement, Victor. I help you, you help me. Just /what/ exactly was so helpful about killing one of mine?"
This, of course, only encourages him. Sabretooth looms closer, leaning his head down so that his face is brought within inches of Emma's. His breath carries hints of alcohol, but largely, it is just hot and uncomfortable. "I already explained what happened there, Emma. The boy jumped me and Erik picked right then to stab me in the back. Collateral damage," he hisses those last two words at her as he takes half a step forward, crowding her.
He crowds, but she still does not back away. There may be concession in her crossing her arms in front of her, however. "Right. Well. Unless you want our arrangement to be yet /more/ collateral damage, you /owe/ me," she snarls, gripping his head in telepathic hands, just in case.
Sabretooth's grinning face presses in even closer to Emma. His fanged mouth is close enough to her lips that she can most likely taste the alcohol on his breath. "I owe you?" He looms only a fraction of an inch away from her body, all but forcing himself up against her. "Tell me exactly what I owe you, Emma."
With her arms now trapped between their bodies, Emma is forced to take a step back before she can bring her hands up and plant them on his chest. She pushes and spins around with another step, reversing their positions and giving her more than a door and a wall at her back. Her nose wrinkles in distaste for the lingering heat and smell. "I have a job for you," she answers.
His laughter is a harsh, ugly sound as Emma pirouettes away from him. "Like a fuckin' ballerina," he tells her, as he turns to keep his eyes on her. Creed's grin remains especially aggressive and overtly lustful, his gaze most likely not on her face. He is in a mood. "Yeah, a job? What kind of a job?"
"And you're never going to get to dance with this one," she snaps, moving further into the living room and away from him. The wandering eyes don't particularly phase her. She's used to that. "There's a feral mutant running around New York. He attacked one of my people. I want to find him," she continues over her shoulder, her hair dangling in smooth, golden planes to frame her face and hide most of it from him at this perspective.
Creed doesn't persue her this time. Perhaps he has had enough with trying to make her uncomfortable. "You want a head or you want him?" He is not, apparently, much against the idea of doing this sort of a job for her. The more feral corners of his mind are salivating at the thought of having something to hunt.
Emma turns away, brazenly presenting her (theoretically) undefended backside as she walks away. "Him. His head is no good if I can't get what I want /out/ of it." Her hands find her hips again and she sniffs disdainfully as she looks out a window into the condo's back yard.
Victor smirks at that. The temptation is too much. He walks after Emma, knowing full well she is going to be aware of him coming. That does not, however, stop him from the plotted course of grabbing her and a pair of handfuls of her chest from behind. "He's all yours then, Emma. It's the least I can do," he tells her in his most sleezy of tones.
It takes a second for the intention to broadcast, and another for her to trigger her fingers on his head so that he has covered a good bit of the distance (most of it, in fact) before he grinds to a standstill, conscious control of his limbs immobilized. Emma turns, some maneuvering required to move out of his reach. "Yes. Isn't it?" she drawls dryly, eyeing him for a moment. And then steps back into /his/ space. Very much so into his space. "Such a good little pussy cat," she purrs, stretching up onto tiptoe and then leaning against him, lightly, briefly. "/Call/ us when you've found him." She drops down and rocks back a step, then steps around him and heads for the door.
Immobilized by Emma's telepathy, one of the few things in the world that he is helpless against, Sabretooth sneers at her as she taunts him in return. His reaction as she walks away is, aside from remaining statue-still, is to growl deep in the depths of his chest at her feline-themed mock praise.
The control doesn't last long, really not even long enough for her to reach a safe distance. The door barely clicks shut behind her before her control unravels, returning his body back to him in fluttering, ragged sensations.
Instead of roaring after her, Creed is left grining when his body returns to himself. He turns back into the rest of the house and walks to pluck his tattered leather coat up from it's resting place and pull it on. He has a game to go play.
Emma calls in a favor.