AU Log Dump
Later the same day...
The back of the white delivery van is not built for comfort. It's not even really built to hold people, like it currently does. Protruding shelf brackets and the remnants of a storage system remain, largely removed or simply torn out. There's still not technically enough room for all of the Morlocks to be in there at once, which is why two of them are in the driver's cab. There is a window in the broad swinging back door, but it's been painted over from the outside. Riot, sitting on an overturned plastic milk crate, rests her elbows on her knees, hands folded across one another in the open air between her thighs, just looking at the still-bound unfortunate personage taken from the Xavier's grounds. It's a Jubilee, has been a for quite some time, and will presumably remain so, despite the bindings and the gag. The van's wheels give the occasional soft 'thup' noise of tires passing over a line in the concrete. The van is in motion.
Hemingway is not in the cab of the van. This is mainly because no amount of squirming and modifications to the vehicle would allow for the nine foot tall mutant to fit. He doesn't even look entirely comfortable in the back of the van, but the may simply be an impression from how far down he is hunched. His face is not exactly expressive, the gray exoskeleton is tight over his skull that it may as well be exposed bone for appearances. His lipless, graveyard of a smile is close to one of Jubilee's cheeks. He has been staring at her for the entire trip, his breathing coming in heavy, humid bursts of air against the side of her face. He has a friend.
They hit a pothole, nefarious little things that they are, and Jubilee's head bounces on the metal flooring, nearly hitting Hemingway's too near chin. Ow! Tears well and obscure her glare slightly, and she curls slightly, trying to put more distance between her and her new friend.
The fear, the nervousness, the threat of violence and worse things hang in the air of the small van like acrid cigarette smoke with nowhere to go. Riot leans forward from her seat, apparently the only person lucky or important enough to get their own seat in the cargo compartment. "You hear me?" she asks to the downed Jubilation Lee, then continues without really waiting for a clear answer. "Okay. Here's how it's going to be. In a couple minutes, I'm gonna take off your gag, okay?" She says this like offering a nebulous bribe to a fussy child, just enough to get them to calm down and really pay attention. "But when I do it, you don't scream. You don't talk, you don't even nod, that's how much you piss me off." The girl who looks and sounds so much like Mira, while at the same time not, raises an eyebrow and straightens up on her milk crate perch. There is an unspoken question, just waiting for Jubilee to agree. There doesn't seem to be an option if she refuses, or maybe it's just not worth speaking of.
Hemingway seems to approve of this idea. He leans back a tad, which bumps his back against one wall of the van's cargo compartment. Instead, he moves one immense fist so that it rests on the floor just beside Jubilee's head. The threat implied is very, very clear. Especially in the way his shoulders rise and fall and a rasping, ghastly chuckle can be heard deep in his throat.
Jubilee's eyes Mira's face, confused and angered by this duplicate who is so very familiar. It has to be a duplicate. Like Storm. She shifts again, rolling onto Hemingway's foot, and back off again as soon as she realizes. CREEPY. The fist is not ignored. She looks back at Mira and waits.
Riot smiles, like everything is okay after all, and reaches out her left hand toward the side of Jubilee's face. It's missing part of a finger, just above the first knuckle on her pinky. But it doesn't seem to hamper the motion, unknotting the bandana and pulling it away, making a face despite herself at the way it's damp and slobber-spotted now. Nothing terrible seems to happen for a few seconds. "Good," she says, leaning back and clapping an open palm on either knee, like let's get on with business. "So." It is the 'so' of someone starting a pleasant conversation without preamble. "Where were we?"
When Jubilee's mouth is freed, Hemingway hunkers a little closer. His breathing is a tad quicker now, the monster seemingly excited at the chance to potentially punish her for any rash actions. Or maybe he's just excited to hear her voice. His lack of expressiveness makes it hard to tell. He just keeps smiling at her. Though now that she accidentally rolled onto one of his feet, he has scooted it closer to her back.
Jubilee doesn't move. She doesn't answer, doesn't nod, doesn't look away. She was told not to! She's a /good/ little hostage, ain't she? Though a pained expression comes over her face at Hemingway's shift.
"Oh yeah," Riot answers herself. She smiles at Jubilee at her still silence, like a rabbit in its cage. "You were gonna tell me what you were doing there, at that house." The girl nods once, imperiously. Jubilee may speak now.
The little opening between the cab and the back of the van is suddenly occupied with a face that is far more literally skeletal than Hemingway's. The permanent grin on that one's face is aimed toward Jubilee and Riot, the empty sockets doing nothing to convey the amusement that the chuckling does. "Can't we just burn her a little? She'll explain a lot better after." Hemingway shifts, looking in the skeletal mutant's direction. He makes a noise deep in the back of his throat that is almost a growl. The other lifts both bony hands, "Hey sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to threaten yer girlfriend, big guy."
Jubilee swivels a look up to her other captors' nearness and inhales. The taste of sock still lingers in her mouth and she grimaces before spitting a mumbled, "Cause I /live/ there. So's do you. Least /our/ side's version. /Mira/ /Lopez/," around the taste. The name, however, is enunciated clearly and bitterly.
Riot's expression goes through a few minute tumbles, chewing the inside of her cheek, frowning, squinting as if thinking, then frowning again. "Your side," she repeats softly, teasing the words out just to get a feel for them. Her eyes fall on Jubilee, appear to harden behind slightly narrowing eyelids. She strains out of her seat, leaning left and right as if to see Jubilee from all sides at once, just to make sure she's real. "Fuck," is all she says.
Riot's reaction draws an eloquent tilt of the head out of Hemingway. The big guy is evidently confused as to what this means. From the front seat, Burnout talks once more. "Her side? What the shit?" He leans into the opening once more, skeletal fingers holding onto the edge of it. He must be kneeling in the middle of the seat up front. "Is she saying what I think she's saying?"
"Yeah. That's what you're gonna be if you don't let me go, Chipmunk. I don't know what all's goin' on, but I think /you/ don't have a /clue/ what you're in for," Jubilee retorts, a hint of a sneer in her voice. She bunches up and pulls her knees to her chest.
There is a long pause. "I think she is, Burn." Then Riot's lips draw up in a broad Cheshire smile, yellowed teeth perhaps not as bright as they should be. "This is not a game of Who The Fuck Are You," she says, snapping out the words sharply to put Jubilee back in her place and remind her exactly who is in charge here. "Where are Marrow and Storm?" Her eyes flash angrily, briefly flicking to the marginally less skeletal face of Hemingway. Time to put the hammer down.
Without any further cue, Hemingway's huge fist slams against the floor of the truck. It is close enough to Jubilee that some of her hair is caught in it for an unpleasant yank. The floor actually ends up /dented/ from that little punch. Burnout cackles, something incredibly fitting coming out of a charred, cracked, and apparently molten skeleton. "I'd listen to her, lady. Riot might be young, but she's Marrow's little pet. She's probably every bit as mean."
"Ow!" Jubilee attempts to reach up for the hair and only succeeds in hitting herself in the underside of her chin. "...fuck?! /Storm's/ back at the mansion. 'long with Mrs. Bones." Her feet kick out in defiance, hitting the milk crate.
Riot's milk crate throne jerks underneath her. It is just enough to upset her balance and she bumps onto her butt on the hard metal floor. Everything is quiet for a second, then she starts laughing instead of telling somebody to kill Jubilee. "Okay." Unruffled, she sets the milk crate right again and heaves her body to sit on it. "What are they doin' there?" It's a lilting, almost off-guard question, like asking about distant relatives.
Burnout is grinning. This is kind of his default expression. He watches as Riot rights herself and makes a few hissing noises through his teeth. This would be tsking were there a tongue to accomplish the effect. "Seriously, girl. We aren't here to hurt you. But if you keep fighting, there's nothing I can do from up here to keep your head out from under Hemingway's fist next time." Hemingway, meanwhile, is looking down at the few hairs that he tore out in that thump. He plucks one off of the floor between two massive fingers, squinting his eyes as he brings it close to his face. He takes a long whiff of it. Then leans down and does the same to Jubilee's hair directly.
Jubilee jerks and rolls to her stomach, a full body shiver traveling from head to toe at the sniff. "I don't know! They're locked up! They tried ta /kill/ us a couple days ago, ya know! Can you /not/ do that again?" The last is directed at Hemingway.
"He likes you," Riot says in what is supposed to be a reassuring tone, but the implications are anything but. They're a lot worse. She leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Sounds like them alright. Looks like you're still alive, though." Her lips purse and exhale the word 'shit' like it has two syllables. "Shee-it." She sounds pissed, visibly suppressing the urge to lash out at something. Her head leans back until it touches the metal wall of the van behind her, making a sort of thunk noise, eyes straining upwards in frustration. She looks at Burnout for a long moment, the charred blackened skeleton that still somehow seems animate, but can't seem to read anything. "And they're locked up in that big house on the hill, huh?"
Burnout's expression is pretty much what it always is -- a grim grin that never fluctuates. Hemingway recoils ever so slightly at Jubilee laughing out at him for his olfactory investigation of her hair. A big finger, instead, pokes her in the back. It hits right between her shoulder blades with enough force to slide her forward along the floor of the van slightly. Burnout chimes in again, "We could just send Hemingway in through their front door. It would take an army to stop him if he was pissed." Hemingway replies by looking at Burnout, his beady eyes a little narrowed and his shoulders hunching up in what for all the world seems like offense.
Jubilee collapses, her chin hitting the floor before she slides sideways, her arms and hands trapped underneath her. "Unkgh." That /could/ be translated as "Ma'am, Yes, Ma'am"?
The girl in the beret seems to consider this for a long moment, then smiles at Burnout and nods just a little. She gives a short whistle, without technological aid, toward the cab. "Maiden, pick a place." The van's motion shifts, ever so slightly, contents shifting to the left as it makes a right turn without slowing down as much as it probably should. The soft flare of street lights through the windshield begins to gradually taper down, the dull glow through the painted over back window growing dark. Silence for a moment. "You hungry?" she asks, tilting her chin upwards, specifically so she can look down at Jubilee. The words are devoid of any obvious menace, but that might just make it worse.
Hemingway, at least, serves as a nice barrier to keep Jubilee from sliding too far. She ends her movement up against his leg again. The massive mutant grins down at her; in spite of this being his default expression, this one is reflected in his dark eyes as well. Burnout lets out a groan, "You lame shits, always eating, eating, eating. You'd think you need it to survive or something."
Look down at the Jubilee who can't look up. SO MEAN. Jubilee coughs and tries to lift her head up enough to shake it, but has to settle for a wheezed "No" that rushes past Hemingway's knee. If she tried to eat, she'd probably spew.
"Your loss," Riot says, a little saddened, both at Burnout and at Jubilee. The van pulls to a slow gritty stop, a final jerk forward signaling the brakes and a grinding noise the shift of the gearbox. The engine cuts off, and it's very quiet. "What's your name?" Riot asks, breaking the silence. "I mean, I sort of know who you are, but I never knew your name." She sweeps a hand across the van, indicating its driver, passenger, and those in the cargo area. "That's Maiden, and Burnout." Riot slaps a hand against Hemingway's bicep, friendly and hard, like one would a trusty farm animal. "This is Hemingway. I'm Riot."
From the front of the van, Burnout gives a surprisingly cheerful (and very Brooklyn) sounding "Yo," at his introduction. Maiden doesn't comment other than to shove the skeletal mutant away from the window so she can be involved in the conversation as well. Hemingway, meanwhile, leans his face down closer to Jubilee at being introduced. That yellow, tombstone smile persists as he rolls her over onto her back and nearly goes nose to nose with her. "You're pretty." His voice is creaky, popping and it sounds uncomfortable. It is also several octaves higher than one would expect from a nine foot tall man. From the fact that there is at least one gasp of surprise from the front seat, it is pretty likely he doesn't speak often, if ever.
Jubilee would appreciate it, I promise, if she wasn't so busy trying to get her elbows up under her so she's not flopping around on the van floor looking like a deformed seal. She gets one! Yay! "Jubilee," she grinds out, wincing at the grooves in the floor grabbing her elbow and holding it still while she tries to flip.
"Okay Jubilee," Riot says, grinning like a shark and rubbing her palms together. "It's dinnertime." For a second, the grin remains, looking for all the world like she wants to convince Jubilee that the dinner menu consists of one Chinese-American student. Bottles of water are divvied out from somewhere in the front seat, one to everyone except Burnout and, for the moment, Jubilee. The food is all pre-packaged, sandwiches and beef jerky from a gas station, but the way the creeps in the van go at it, they might as well be filet mignon. "So," Riot says again, segueing into the polite conversation they had forgotten about for a while. "Where ya from?" There is a short pause. "I'm from Oklahoma. Originally. Slid on over to Florida then up the east coast to Manhattan." She lifts her head, mumbling around a mouthful of stale, firm gas station bread. "You're from around there, right? Burnout?"
Burnout looks completely bored with the meal, while his companions seem to think it is Cordon Bleu gourmet fare. He nods his head, though. "Yeah, Brooklyn born and raised, down in Red Hook." Hemingway continues hovering near Jubilee, his food having been gone through in a matter of a few bites. He might just be kind of a big eater.
Thanks for the help guys. You're great. Really. Jubilee finally manages to end up back on her back and staring up at the van ceiling. Hemingway's face hovers just in view, and she closes her eyes against the sight. Fuckaduck. "LA," she offers after a pause. "LA to Xavier's. When I was 12."
"Xavier's," the girl who looks like Mira says, turning the name over in her mouth, like she ought to recognize it but only sort of does. She relaxes, tipping off her beret and shrugging off her jacket, briefly complaining to Maiden to roll down a fucking window or two. She twists the cap off her bottle of water. "Never been to LA. Is it nice?"
Maiden mutters back, "You're in the back of a big truck, stupid. What do you want me to do, get out and fan you?" Burnout lets out a loud laugh, "I'll turn on the heater, if'n ya want?" Hemingway lowers his face farther down toward Jubilee's once her eyes are closed. His mouth is coming dangerous close to hers for a moment, close enough that she can feel his breath in humid blossoms against her lips. Then he suddenly leans back and instead of his mouth, a piece of jerky is shoved up against her mouth. Eat Jubes! Eat!
Jubilee's eyes fly open at the feel of breath on her lips and she sucks in a mouthful of air as a prelude to scream. Fortunately, it's cut short by the jerky. It finds its way into her mouth and she chokes on it until she can bite off the mouthful. /That/ gets chewed for a moment. "Uh... yeah. Nice.... Look." Jubilee turns her head to look at Mira. "What are you gonna do, huh?"
Riot exhales through her nose, sets her water down carefully after screwing the cap back on, and gestures with both hands toward Jubilee. "Look," she says in the tone of someone who is far too busy for this shit, but is doing Jubilee a personal favor here. "That house has two of my friends in it. I want them back," she explains, slowly, as to a child. "Honestly, I was just gonna go in and take 'em, but shit's changed since then." She picks up the bottle of water and unscrews the cap, tilting it in Jubilee's direction temptingly. "But I don't like fighting. I don't really wanna hurt anybody here." She cocks her head gently to one side, making a reasonable entreaty.
"A lot o' shit's changed. They've got them under lock an' key, and there's no way you'd be able ta get to them," Jubilee informs Riot after swallowing down the mouthful of jerky. Hemingway is eyed carefully.
Riot pulls back the bottle of water, eyes the mouthpiece as if there might be something wrong with it. "No," she says slowly. "No, probably not." Fanning herself with one hand, she strips off her beret and her jacket, flipping them into the corner of the van's back area. "Which is why we were thinking about taking hostages in the first place. Then you just sorta..." She makes a little bunny-hopping motion with two fingers of her right hand. "Fell right in our lap. Good luck, yeah?"
Jubilee groans and rolls her eyes. She's quiet for a little bit, then turns her head and asks, "Hey. Think I could get my hands free at least? They've totally gone ta sleep like this."
"What do I look like?" Riot asks, straightening up with a greatly amused smile on her face. "Some kind of incredibly stupid dickhead, like you seem to think I am?"
Huff. "Well, what /are/ you gonna do? Exchange me for /your/ copy o' Storm? Right. The X-men'd just pat you on the head and send you back to daycare, chipmunk."
Riot laughs. It is loud and sharp and sudden, like a gunshot in a small room. "Ha ha. Listen to this shit." She cranes her neck, turning to look at the other Morlocks, assuring them that it's alright to laugh too. She stops laughing. "No. We don't need you as a fucking hostage. It's just, like, a fucking bonus. All those little kids, camping everywhere like refugees. Y'ever seen real refugees? They're usually smart enough to have guards." Her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth. "No security, y'know. And all those kids. That's a shame." Riot's face looks momentarily sad.
Jubilee jerks, surging upright and launching toward Mira. Unfortunately, the attack is hamstrung by the binding of hands and legs and she simply lands heavily on her elbow. Oooh, /that/ hurt. She goes pale and bites down on a wave of nausea. "You... /no/," she wheezes a moment later.
From the font of the cab, there is a sudden surge of heat. Burnout is cackling again. "Wouldn't it be a shame to see how fast an entire camp of kids would go up?" Maiden chimes in, with a wince in her voice. "Imagine the smell. I'd be worse than... shit. I'd be bad." Hemingway looks mournfully down at Jubilee after her aborted attempt at attacking Riot. One huge hand snakes out, two fingers settling on her shoulder to drag her back toward him and mercifully off of her elbow she just bashed.
With the surge of heat comes light, Maiden switching on the van's interior lights. Riot is standing, bare arms and hands, though the gesture is largely in vain. The situation is quickly contained. The tattoos that cover her arms from wrist to elbow flex over muscles, twisting the pointed tribal shapes, black edged in blue. "I said I didn't wanna hurt anyone," she says, haughty and a little pissed. "But what I want and what I need are two different things." A pause. "So I'm sayin', you oughta quickly rethink your very tenuous position here. If you make yourself more trouble than you're worth, I got no choice."
Jubilee tips upright under Hemingway's force, and she manages to roll into a sitting position that cradles her mercifully immobile elbow in her lap. "You touch any o' those kids, and you're right. You /and/ your friends won't have /any/ choices," she hisses through gritted teeth. "You're smarter than this, Mira. There's better ways."
Shifting his tremendous bulk behind her, Hemingway leans close so that his hot breath blows against her left ear as he whispers to her. "Be nice," he encourages. His straining voice cracks on the word nice, drawing similarities with a pubescent teenaged boy. Up from, Burnout gives Jubilee a serious look with those empty sockets of his. "Look girlie, we ain't here to kill nobody. We want our people back and we want to fuckin' leave. Don't make this shit heavier than it needs to be. Listen to whatcher saying. There /are/ better ways."
"My name," the girl who was once Mira says, "is Riot." She settles back, folding tattooed arms over her stomach as she finds the blue plastic milk crate again. She looks suddenly a little tired. "Look at it this way. You got something I want. And now I got, or got the means to get a grip on, something you want. Seems pretty fair to me. And now that I got you, I got a..." she trails off, mouth working for a moment blankly. "Shit, what's the word? Like a go-between. You can go and talk to them. Tell 'em we mean business and what we want." She stops again, exhaling and frowning at Jubilee. "Is any of this getting through to you?"
Jubilee struggles to keep the look of unease and disgust off her face at the breath blow. "Yes," she heaves, then sucks in a deep breath. "Let me talk to them. That's smart. I'll talk to them."
Maiden pipes up this time, playing the voice of reason. "I think she figures if you let her talk to 'em, she's gonna bolt into that big house and we won't see her again." Burnout chuckles lowly over that. "I don't think she gives us much credit for smarts." The skeleton shifts position with a literal rattle of bones. Hemingway, still looming so close behind Jubilee that she can likely feel his presence, seems to slump slightly. A finger as thick as most people's fists pokes against the woman's ribs. "Not dumb," he says, offense obvious in his voice. Burnout finds this even more amusing, "Girlie, you're hurting his feelings."
Jubilee can definitely feel his presence, and it's more than a little unnerving. "Not dumb!" she protests, looking toward the front of the van. "It's just /real/ stupid to threaten the kids, ya know? They're kind of protective of the brats."
"Well," Riot responds toward the cab, "Fuckin' duh. S'what any hostage would do. S'what I'd probably do." She shoots a genuine frown in Hemingway's direction, letting it linger with tired eyes. Her head falls, raking fingernails across her scalp with a scratchy sound like sandpaper. "I tell ya, nobody trusts anybody anymore. What's the world coming to? I suppose you're gonna tell me a better way that'll end up with us getting killed." She stops, looks at the back window. "We could-" she starts but cuts herself off, mopping her face with her left hand, truncated pinky finger lingering on her chin. "Shit. Okay. This doesn't change anything. Not really."
Once she is actually talking, it seems that Maiden is not exactly as even tempered as the others. "I say we kill her off. Let Hemingway rip her in half and throw her at their door. That'll get the message across and I don't have to listen to her self-righteous shit, trying to negotiate as a hostage." Burnout loses it over this, bursting out laughing and leaning away from the window as he slaps a skeletal hand against exposed ribs with a clatter. Though his laughter, he blurts, "Intestines all over the door. Ah, that kills me."
"Look. You got two pretty fuckin' powerful telepaths up there. You don't even hafta get in the same room with 'em. Set up an exchange or somethin'. They'll know if you've let me go, and you can watch them let your people go, ok? Somethin'?" Jubilee curls forward slightly, trying to block out Maiden and Burnout's words.
"I dunno. Leaving them a present on the doorstep would get it across pretty fast," Riot muses, just to drive the point home of how disposable Jubilee might be in the grand scheme of things. She smiles. "If you got such tight fucking telepathic security, how come you're in here with us right now? Shut up," she finishes, not exactly angry but honestly getting tired of Jubilee's mouth, just like Maiden. She flicks a look up to the cab and the two Morlocks there. "The mechanics of it aren't important. They got our leaders. We got this one and a crosshairs on the kids. It's still the same. How we end up telling 'em what we want isn't important. Agreed?"
Burnout tries to play the voice of reason, now that he is done with his laughing. "I say we park right at the big fuckin' gate, tell the guard there we want to talk to their leader. Say we got one of theirs and we want ours back. If they attack us, we let Maiden and Hemingway play with her in the back of the van." Maiden seems to approve of this plan, chiming in herself, "Why complicate it? Just a straight trade." Hemingway looks down at Jubilee from behind, a finger coming up to lightly lift the back of her hair. He lets out a heavy breath, seeming to disapprove greatly of all this talk of whether or not to kill the woman. He doesn't, however, seem inclined to disagree with the others. He has probably been used as an executioner more times than Jubilee has said 'crammin' crack monkeys' in the heat of the moment.
Jubilee keeps quiet. At least they've veered away from talking (much) about the campers, and the pain in her elbow is definitely taking up attention. So much so that she hardly notices the hair lift.
Riot looks away and frowns a petulant frown, her own careful plan being subverted, and in such a way that she can't refute it outright. She hasn't been playing Who's The Boss? long enough to earn a really good game face. The moment of heavy, judicious pause stretches out longer than a handful of breaths. "Right up the front and just ring the fucking bell, huh?" She laughs, pressing the heels of her hands into her eye sockets for a moment, inhaling with a loud sniff afterwards. "Okay. Let's do it," she agrees, shifting stances suddenly. Almost too easily.
7.18.07 - Riot is scary.
=XS= Front Gates - Xavier's School
Outside of Xavier's, on Greymalkin lane, it is ten o'clock in the morning and the temperature is steadily rising already. Inside of a small booth on the left side of the driveway, no larger than four by six, it is coffee time. It is sewn onto his shirt in neat silver letters against navy. Lansky, Robert, aka Guardsman Bob. The kids call him that, and mostly he doesn't mind; he thinks it's kind of cute, in a way. He's already unfolded this morning's copy of USA Today when a white delivery van noses up to the gate and grinds to a stop. Impatiently, its horn bleats. With a short roll of his eyes, Bob leans over to the computer to see if there are any deliveries scheduled or expected as the driver rolls down the truck's window.
Bob is not expecting black skeletal fingers to reach out from the truck and pry open the little window in his guardhouse, the little window that he uses to talk to the driver's side of an inbound car, but only *he* gets to open. The skeleton, now revealed, simply bursts into flames. It starts from the outstretched fingertips, roiling up the arm like an alcohol fire to encompass the skull in hellish fire. The flames stop at the head, engulfing only its outstretched arm, shoulder, and skull. There's no smoke, but it puts out a lot of heat that obscures the black shape underneath with mirages of superheated air, making it seem to twitch and leer menacingly. And with the flames wreathing its head, Bob can see its eyes. They roil and twist like whirlpools of fire spilling out from inside the empty black sockets, so that Bob knows for horrific certainty that it is looking right at him. Right. At. Him.
"Hey man," the flaming spectre of death says, almost casually like a Brooklyn cab driver. A small circle of the truck's white door turns yellow and then brown like a cigarette burn underneath its elbow. "We need to talk to somebody in charge. Like, now."
The passenger's side door swings open, disgorging a young dark-haired girl in a light pink t-shirt with the word Princess across the front, a black beret with a red star and gold hammer and sickle on the front, and broad polished sunglasses, looking like some teenage Che Guevara fanatic. Her right hand curls around a black bar of the gate and tries to give it an impatient rattle, but it's too solidly constructed. "Jack this barrier," Riot barks over at the guardsman. "We got places to go and people to see."
Please, please, please let them pass. It's a mantra rising from the thoughts of the girl older than the one who'd hopped out still bound in the back of the deliver van. She lays on her side, curled up tightly. The visible elbow is swollen and bruised.
The first word out of Bob isn't a word. It's something much closer to "Glrmp?" Translated, it means 'I'm sorry, sir or madam, I am currently attempting to process the fact that the Ghost Rider has traded in his motorcycle for a delivery van, and is attempting to storm the gate I'm supposed to protect.' Delivered with eyes rolling to the whites, it accompanies a vague reach of his hand downwards, to where the comforting weight of a pistol rests, snug in its holster against the seam of his pants. Hand wrapped around the butt of it like some adult and lethal teddy bear, he finds the words to say "I'm going to make a call up to the main house. Can I put you through to..." Shitshitshit, who's the emergency contact for this hour of this day? "Dr. Grey!" he says, triumphant in the memory.
In the back of the van, the bound girl is kept good company. It is likely a good thing that Bob cannot see Jubilee's escort. Hemingway looms over her, hunched over as much as he can manage in the back of the truck. When one is over nine feet tall, vehicles are not especially comfortable. He is still looming close to Jubilee, his physical presence never fading far from her. At this moment, a thick finger is extended to poke with an impossibly delicate touch at her arm, first above the hurt elbow, then below it. His face, exoskeleton pulled tightly over his skull is not very expressive, but his beady eyes are darkened with what might, possibly, be concern. Or maybe he is wondering if he should pull the arm off to alleviate the pain. One or the other.
"Yeah," the flaming skull says, waving his bony fingers at the guard like whatever. "That'd be great. Thanks." The flames dancing around his head and arm bubble and pop, thinning out like a campfire burning itself out in fast-forward. Burnout leans back into the cab of the delivery truck, resting his elbow out the open window and his other skeletal hand curled impatiently around the steering wheel.
Riot scowls when the gate fails to move under her hands, and when the guard doesn't just up and open the damn thing. She slinks back into the truck and pulls the door closed, propping her feet up on the dashboard to look sullen and disappointed. Presumably at being made to wait for anyone or anything.
The Morlocks have not long to wait. Audible through the opened window, a conversation on speakerphone can be heard. Bob is hurried, but clinging to professionalism. The female voice that answers is at first convinced that "If it's journalists, tell them to contact the PR people." But a very insistent answer of "The driver of the vehicle is on -fire-, ma'am." results in a pause, and then the request of "Put me through to them." And thus the speaker outside the comfortable little guard shack crackles to life. "This is Dr. Grey... to whom am I speaking?"
Jubilee winces at the contact and turns her head up to look up at the looming mutant. << Ouch. /OUCH/. >> she thinks hard at him. It'll have to do while the sweaty sock gag remains in place.
Riot has to put her feet down to lean over the driver's seat, making very sure not to touch any of Burnout's bones. She clears her throat somewhat authoritatively before speaking in a loud clear voice. "I think we found something of yours. Wondering if you want it back," she says, playing just a tad coy. A pause, Riot shooting a conspicuous glance back at the captive. "Jubilee?" She pronounces the name slowly, letting every syllable slide out with perfectly clarity and through the intercom. "Maybe you should check and see if you're missing one."
Jubilee's attention is drug from her mental articulation of pain at the Great Gray Hulk, and turn instead to alternating fear and relief. << JEAN. CAMPERS. >> she hollers to the best of her pain-dulled ability.
Jean's response is unprintable. It can be inferred, however, that at some point during the impromptu cultural studies involved in two young girls knowing different languages, the Storm of twelve taught the Jean of thirteen a particularly evocative curse in Arabic. It is an appropriate time to resurrect it, as Jubilee's mental yell pairs with Riot's coy drawl. "Park, and I'll be right down to talk."
From the back of the truck, Hemingway remains silent. It is kind of his thing. Instead, it is Maiden, the woman who seems to be constructed nearly completely of plates of rusty iron, who speaks. "Man. That arm is looking pretty bad. Think you'll lose it?" She seems to be musing idly on this. Burnout casually turns over his shoulder to talk back into the rear of the truck. His reply might just be audible for Jean. "Hey man, the dumb thing threw herself around like a freaking fish out of water, if she broke her arm, it ain't anything on us."
Shut up. I hate you all. Jubilee glares, and if looks could kill, they'd all be subject to combustible flames. Not that it would matter much to Burnout.
"She's still in one piece," Riot says, leaning back into the passenger's side seat and folding her arms tightly across her stomach. "And hey, all things considered," she continues, speaking apparently to the hostage in question now. "We treated you pretty good. Did the worst of it to yourself." Fingers reach down to switch on the radio, but think better of it. She inhales slowly, a knife's edge of tension just behind her sternum.
Bob looks displeased at whatever order crackles over his radio, but a button is hit, and slowly, surely, the gate begins to roll open. "Park in front of the main entrance." Jean directs, tone absent as a broadcast reaches out to tug at the minds of those counselors shepherding children slowly towards the lake. Riot, through some odd echo of dopplegang-dom, might overhear it. << We have a slight situation at the main school. Keep the children occupied for... Well, just wait for me to call you back. >> Hasty, but what else can one do?
Oh, yes. Perfect little hostess. All the comforts of home. Except, maybe, a /bathroom/. Jubilee really has to pee.
As the gate rolls it's way open, the van's skeletal driver doesn't wait very long on taking off. The only hesitation is for a charred, skeletal hand to lift up outside of his window. With a sudden rush of flame, Bob is treated to Burnout's special salute, the flaming bird. The van heads off with a lurch of acceleration. Perhaps he is not the best driver they could have found. Hemingway nearly loses his balance, the massive bulk of the grey mutant teetering dangerous toward Jubilee and threatening another round of the cuddles that he first introduced himself to her with.
Riot cracks up, just a little and behind one hand so as not to seem out of control of the whole thing. Burnout's little gesture makes her smile and her shoulders untense. That's right. They are the baddest motherfuckers ever to walk the Earth, and they have nothing to fear. "Pull up nice and slow. Put our side to the building," the girl directs, pointing up the drive like any good navigator too young to have her own license. She turns around in her seat, unhindered by things like seatbelts, and leans her head into the back compartment. "Here we go." There is excitement in her tone.
As the van pulls away, Bob sighs, and reaches over to close his window. -His- window. "I need a raise," he informs his monitor.
At the house, things are not so easily over with. Mental messages flit and float, rousing what fellow X-Men are to be found lingering around the mansion at the start of a busy day. Jean, the walk between her office and the front steps shorter than the drive between them and the gates, stands waiting and watchful beneath a casual attempt at leaning up against one of the columns of the porch.
Jubilee ponders her toes. They still appear to be functional inside her sneakers. Hello, toes. Wiggle for the princess. She winces with each pothole that Burnout /appears/ to aim for, and Hemingway's teeter brings out the whites of her eyes. She whimpers, then stops and closes her eyes in resignation. << Humpin' Heffalumps. >>
Burnout isn't so much aiming for the potholes. He's just not really aiming for the drive quite completely. It isn't every day he gets the chance to go four-bying up toward a mansion in a big white van. Can one really blame him? The Brooklyn accented voice that is emitted from the bag of bones is raised repeatedly in cackles when he hits things. Hemingway puts his fists down on either side of Jubilee, which keeps him supported as much as it increases the sense that he is looming over her, ready to crush her any moment. Maiden, for her part, is sitting there looking crabby. The van slows unevenly as it approaches Jean and her oh-so-casual pose and Burnout flashes her a winning smile. Or... a skinless skull's grin. He really isn't quite so good at the smile.
Riot has already clawed her way into the already overcrowded back section of the truck. She pats Maiden on the shoulder and leans close to one of her rust-brown ears to whisper something. Then she smiles a predator's smile down at Jubilee as she passes, unlatching the door and booting it open slowly from the inside. The morning daylight that floods in is blinding by contrast. She hops out of the back first, about a three foot drop, crouching and straightening afterwards. The resemblance, for Jean, is remarkable even behind the sunglasses, the darkly tattooed arms, the self-satisfied smirk. "Ho-lee shit," she pronounces like a Southern drill instructor, shaded eyes falling on Dr. Jean Grey. It is a surprised tone, but an amused one, her arms folding and one hip cocking higher than the other. Casually, as she waves more people out of the back of the truck, hostages included.
"...You must be 'Riot'," Jean identifies, after an obvious pause. The casual stance, helped by the beautiful, preppy little summer dress she's wearing (Burgundy with little white polka dots today.) is maintained, even if it freezes a little as she tries to parse the difference between this Mira, and the one currently riding herd on a group of under-twelves. (One eight year old mind is protesting bitterly the fact that sunscreen must be worn.)
From the back of the truck, there is a massive shifting of weight. Hemingway's huge hands wrap around Jubilee at the shoulders and he lifts her up from the floor. He moves her as easily as much people would move a doll, but he is doing very little to make the pain she is in worse. There is, at least, no bad intentions from him. Maiden, on the other hand, is grinning viciously as she watches, tapping her fingertips against the bottom of the van with dull metallic thunks. Burnout continues watching Jean from the driver's seat. One hand lifts, the bones suddenly crackling to life with fire as he waves at her. "Yo," he calls, as if this were some casual social call.
He is indeed a kind hearted soul, she's sure. Jubilee emerges, legs dangling a moment before they're set down. Dirty, hurt, pale-faced, she is, as promised, all in one piece. And angrier than a cat in a dunking booth. The gag holds, but the eyes speak eloquently.
Mira's doppelganger smiles with discolored yellow teeth. "I see you've heard of me," she responds, sounding vaguely proud of the fact. She waves Hemingway forward with his Jubilee doll in tow, then steps up onto his thigh like a stepladder and making use of bony protrusions of his exoskeleton as handholds. She turns around once onto his shoulders, broad and flat like a table with spikes through it. With one leg on either side of Hemingway's low-slung head, which seems to jut from the center without rising up, she nudges him forward. In the absence of reins, she has to lean forward and put flat palms against the back of Hemingway's neck to keep from falling off, carried high with all the glory and self-confidence of someone riding in the open top of a very, very large tank. "Is this yours?" she asks, pointing a casual hand down to Jubilee.
"Only because your version of Sarah Rushman attacked my people thinking that my Mira was you." Jean replies, one hand lifting to rub absently at her left bicep in a gesture that speaks of nerves being slowly and carefully bled out through the motion. But there's a flash of real worry that spikes across her features as Jubilee is unveiled, and a sudden start forward only belatedly aborted. "Jubilee -- what... if you've hurt her..."
Hemingway doesn't even flinch as Riot climbs up onto his shoulders. For all it seems, he could be some unfeeling golem of bone and teeth. He does shift though, his hand scooting down ever so slightly in his grasp of Jubilee. There is perhaps a tiny flash of guilt in his beady eyes as his immense palm wraps around Jubes' injured elbow to hide it from sight. Nothing to see there!
Someone has been very clever. Jubilee's hands are tied together up under her chin so that any use of her power absorbs harmlessly into herself. She knows this. She's tried to use them. She leans back into her huge guardian, an intimacy necessitated by the general weakness from the hand-hidden injury. << Other Storm. Bone-person. >> she informs Jean, punctuating the exchange with visions of what she'd /really/ like to do to them.
Riot pulls off her sunglasses and clips them to the collar of her t-shirt. A small black pendant swings freely in front of the word Princess on an equally black cord. "Yeah, it's kind of an incredible clusterfuck, isn't it? But..." She trails of deliberately, the 'but' alluding to more pleasant options. "She's not hurt. I think she bumped her head and her arm thrashing around, but that's her own fault." Riot looks up at the school that towers behind Jean, massively three stories. "I know you," she says to the headmistress, apropos of nothing. "Or the other you."
"I'm not her." Jean answers. "Considering that I fight terrorists, not f--" She opts not to finish the sentence, lips compressing. "And you're not the Mira Lopez I know. But you have my Jubilee, and she doesn't look like she had a choice in the matter." Down the steps she goes, a slow and measured pace designed to radiate vibes of 'Not attacking!' while bringing her close enough to squint at Jubilee in mild worry.
Hemingway pulls Jubilee further away from Jean, looking very much like a nine foot tall child who does not wish to share his toy with the stranger. His beady eyes narrow in their deep-set sockets. From inside of the van, Maiden makes a little creaking sound of metal on metal, ominously shifting as Jean nears, whether or not she has an aggressive posture.
Jubilee stumbles sideways at the pull and turns around enough to level an accusatory glare up at the sulky mutant. << Ouch! /Ouch/! Bad Rover! >>
The girl on Hemingway's shoulder holds up a hand, flat and open in a 'wait' gesture. The good thing about it is that it points both forwards at Jean and backwards at Maiden. "No, she really didn't," Riot says without a frown, like what a shame but what can you do? "But you have something that belongs to us, and now we have something of yours. You're a doctor." She nods appreciatively at Jean. "You figure it out."
"There are a lot of really stupid doctors out there," Jean replies, eyes flickering upwards to Hemingway's own beady ones, to see what she can see, before they drop once more to Jubilee. "But you're right, it's pretty easy to figure out. The sticking point is what are you going to do when you have them again -- your Storm brought her namesake down on us out of a clear day, for no more reason than a memory."
There is at least no violent intention apparent when one is looking at Hemingway. The potential, however, is most certainly there. It is hard to imagine a mutant nine feet tall, massively built, and covered in sharp looking spikes that inevitably draw comparisons to one half of the captured Morlock leadership. He lifts Jubilee just slight off of her feet by her shoulders, which brings her even closer back toward his body. He continues staring at Jean, those small, dark eyes narrowed as he watches her. Maiden sighs dramatically from the back of the van. "Would you two quit talkin' and get down to business so I can either kill the chink girl or leave?"
"mm! MMM! MMMPH!" Jubilee kicks out, hitting Hemingway in the leg with her heel. She is most certainly concurring with Maiden. Well, about the hurry up part.
"Fine," Riot says and rolls her eyes. "You give me Marrow and Storm back." She makes a miniature walking motion with two fingers in the air in front of her. "Then we go away. I don't give a shit about your stupid house."
"And the rest of our world? I imagine it looks a bit like an all-you-can-eat buffet..." Jean muses, but, with a look at the van where Maiden would be if she had X-Ray vision, she lifts a hand to one temple, and lets her eyes go abstracted. Silence. Silence. And then: "Medical supplies. What can you use?"
Jubilee could use some aspirin! You know. Once Hemingway stops dangling her in the air like a rag doll.
Maiden is unaware she is being looked at so accurately. She continues with her crabby commentary. "Wait. You want to /give us/ shit?" she asks in disbelief. "What, are you going to try to poison us?" Hemingway is not nearly done dangling Jubilee. He stands up all the way, which not only lifts Jubilee higher from the ground, it pushes Riot's vantage point way up there past ten feet. He decides to shift things around, one immense arm wrapping over Jubes' chest to basically hug her to his chest and keep her there. The other massive fist is now free. Just in case.
Not helping the rag doll imagery at all. Jubilee's cry as her arms are encased is muffled against the gag. She goes limp and fairly well useless now.
Riot laughs. It's not the same laugh Mira uses; it's darker, sharper, a little raspier as if she were smoking a cigar at this very moment. "You think we want war?" She turns back to the truck, encouraging the others to similarly find this idea amusing. "War is what started everything." Riot pulls one leg up, the knee propping under her chin and letting her other leg dangle down Hemingway's chest. "You know that, right? Magneto and his fucking army started it all. Haven doesn't exist here. I've seen it."
"Magneto is a drunk and aimless old man who skulks around and steals police detectives' alcohol," Jean replies, with rather -less- derision than the statement really deserves. Call it distraction, what with Jubilee DANGLING LIKE A RAGDOLL and all. Telekinesis is directed with a hand gesture, scooping her up to a more stable rest. "And... well, it'll take a moment to get things together. Supplies... I guess we could ask Marrow."
At feeling the weight of Jubilee's body hanging from his arm being altered by the aid of telekinesis, Hemingway makes a very quiet noise of confusion. He hitches her up higher in his grasp, following the unspoken cue. Now his arm is more across her waist, leaving her able to lean against his forearm if she wants. A much more comfortable position, all things considered. Her injured elbow is probably visible now, too.
"Then how about you hurry the fuck up and go get them. I'm gettin' a tan, waiting up here. Haven't got all day, y'know." Riot flutters her hand at Jean, a shooing gesture. Her eyes flick back up to the building and its many, many windows. Any one of which could have someone behind it with a rifle, or worse. And she's right underneath about twenty of them, in broad daylight, with no cover.
Hiiiiii. Thanks! Jubilee does lean, trying to push up on her good elbow to ease the restriction around her ribs. She kicks and catches her heel against Hemingway's exoskeleton and pushes up, exposing right elbow and arm which are clearly swollen.
The glance along the windows doesn't go unnoticed. No rifles lurk, with the exception, perhaps, of something with a Nerf logo and wielded by a bored summer student. But Jean can use this. With a nod, and another abstract look, she steps inside. "Wait here," is the order given. "They're on their way up from below, but I'll escort them the rest of the way personally."
With that order, Hemingway glances upward in an attempt to see Riot for guidance. He does not seem so at ease with the idea of continuing to stand there and the massive mutant verges just slightly back toward the van.
Yaaaaay! << Jean... >> Jubilee whimpers after the doctor, one leg swaying with Hemingway's motion.
As soon as Jean exits, Riot gives a short sharp whistle by putting two fingers in her mouth. Her hand gives two reassuring pats on Hemingway's shoulder before she slides (carefully!) down his back, using the bony spikes as steps. She doesn't seem worried that they'll break under her weight and drops to the ground. "Okay. Burn, ease the truck back. Just a little, and keep the engine running. Be ready to put the pedal down. Maiden, keep your eyes open and your claws out, yeah? I need you." The flurry of orders given, Riot's shoulders sink a little and she edges around to Hemingway's side and into his massive shadow. "And you," She whirls on Jubilee, one finger raised. "... you're doing fine. Thanks. This'll all be over in a minute." One way or another.
Within the cool and comfortable conditions of the school, the elevator is slowly climbing to the main floor. Jean waits impatiently outside it, nerves strung at a high tension, and a few glances cast in the vague direction of Xavier's office, where the man himself is not currently in. Time. Time, time, time, and not enough of it.
When the elevator drags to a halt, it contains Morlocks and their escorts. Storm stands with her head slightly bowed, avoiding eye contact or else just marking the path she will take very carefully. When the doors open, she exhales a long breath past her lips.
Thanks? Jubilee just blinks down (waaaaaay down) at the pint-sized prodigal child of House Xavier.
Riot pats Jubilee on the shoulder, making sure not to hit anything that might be injured. She motions at Hemingway like a crane operator, and the mighty wall of grey muscle lowers, reluctantly setting the bound Jubilee with her feet actually on the ground. Riot pats the captive reassuringly again, making sure Hemingway has his hand on her shoulder before she pulls a knife and cuts the ropes around Jubilee's ankles rather than going to the effort of untying them. The ropes around her arms and upper body stay where they are. The youngest Morlock shoots another brief apologetic look at Jubilee before sliding the knife, cold sharp steel, against her cheek, up under the tied bandana of the gag. Riot decides better of this and puts the knife away, undoing the knot so that at least the bandana is saved. Then, like a grand, dysfunctional family, she turns back to the front steps and puts her hand on Jubilee's other shoulder, the two Morlocks fairly boxing her in.
As the elevator doors open, Jean is there to greet them. Telling, perhaps, that she's spent more time with the stranger than with the copy of her friend. A pair of stocked field emergency kits are handed to her, and she and the guardians in the elevator exchange wary nods and warier thoughts. This, it seems, may not be the best plan ever. But the thoughts of the Jubilee outside trump it. "This way," she says simply. "They're waiting for you."
Marrow, as the elevator reveals her, is more than slightly tense. After her various experience while in the care of Xavier's school, she does not expect this to be a pleasant experience. Her jaw is clenched tightly and her hands remain behind her back, ready to protect herself at any moment.
To Jean, Storm says nothing; she lifts her head slightly, with a shadow of regal pride to inform the set of stance and glitter of solitary eye as she strides out of the elevator. "Come on," she clips to Marrow, unnecessarily.
Jubilee inhales at the touch of steel against her cheek, stiffening and pulling her head as far away as possible. Her hands wriggle under her chin, but settle back into immobility when it is removed. The gag peels away and Jubilee spits it away from her with noise of disgust, then lifts her head to watch the approaching hostages.
Riot stashes the knife so it doesn't look like she's threatening the hostage any more than she actually is. A familiar white delivery truck squats on the grounds, one broad side turned toward the door. Riot and Hemingway stand in front of it, Riot's hand and two of Hemingway's fingers holding Jubilee in place. "Yo," she says, waving casually with her other hand, trying not to squint in the morning light.
Hemingway seems more than slightly reluctant to release his grasp on Jubilee. The absolutely massive shape stays at her side, his two fingers squeezing down against her entire shoulder. The pressure is not unbearable, thankfully. He leans his face way down so that his breath is once more blowing against her ear and stirring her hair as he whispers, "Sorry," to her. The popping, cracking quality of his voice has not changed any since the first words he spoke to her.
It's perhaps a bit of a let-down. Out into the light steps Jean again, her back to the two guestages, but her neck all a-prickle with wary watchfulness 'lest there be a lightning bolt planned for it. But there's no move to unleash a surprise ambush. She simple steps aside, and then opens her arms. "Jubilee," she calls out, more of a crisp reminder to Riot than a greeting to the lost lamb just yet.
Stomping along, Marrow does her very best at looking like she has some dignity. She has her chin tilted up so that the shadows of her horns are parted slightly. She grins at Riot, showing a lot of teeth. "I should have known you wouldn't go sit on your ass when you realized we were missin'. Good kid," she praises as she approaches, walking past Jean to slap a hand against one side of Hemingway's expansive chest. The hulking grey mutant squeezes at Jubilee's shoulder one more time before letting go. He makes a very sad little rumble sound deep in his throat before turning back to the van and sulking his way into it.
Jubilee twitches at the breath on her ear, but familiarity has bred numbness, if not understanding, and she looks back and up at the giant with a faint (very faint) smile and rather confused, "S'kay" before slipping out from under his hand and pulling away from Mira. There's not a lot of distance to cover, but she covers it surprisingly fast, skimming around the departing Morlocks on the way to stumble to a stop at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the porch.
"Get in the truck," Riot says softly, not disrespectfully to Marrow and Storm, but rather with the fullest respect possible for a rapid getaway. She doesn't take her eyes of Jean, glaring, but without any real focus to it. Just a vague dislike and distrust.
Jean doesn't mind. Jean is rather occupied. "Jubilee!" says Jean again, and this time there's her heart in her voice, as the Morlocks prepare to decamp and leave her free to teleport to the bottom of the stairs and pull Jubilee into a hug that escapes crushing only out of concern for her arm.
Where Marrow approximates grinning warmth, Storm has retreated behind a barricade of ice. She nods to Riot, but if there is approval there, there is too much steel and wariness and weird ill-settledness to make it noticeable. "Thank you," is all, and she doesn't look at Marrow or Jean or Jubilee or the mansion behind; she strides for the truck instead. Good sense.
Jubilee stumbles into the embrace and tucks in close, leaning heavily against the older woman. She's still bound hands and arms, but at this point, it is probably a good thing, keeping things immobilized against (much) further injury. "Sorry, Jeannie," she mumbles, still tasting old sock in her mouth, and twists to watch the departure of those so familiar, and yet so not.
With the Morlocks retreating into the truck, Marrow takes a spot up in the cab. Hemingway waits until everyone else has gotten inside before beginning to pull the door shut on the back. It doesn't close completely though, before massive, gray-exoskeletoned fingers peek out to wave bye-bye. The engine of the truck suddenly roars and it lurches forward against engaged breaks. The tires squeal and smoke for a moment, the engine screaming in a chattering sort of whine as it strains to take off. As soon as it does, a Brooklyn accented voice can be heard laughing hysterically from the driver's seat. "See! That was a burn-out!" he blurts between peels of laughter. "Get it!? A /BURN-OUT!/"