All Jason logs not posted elsewhere!
The bar is not a particularly ritzy one, but neither is it the sort where bar fights and bathroom trysts are the norm. It sits firmly in the middle of class in every sense of the word, and the woman who sits alone in a darkish booth with a half-full martini glass to match the empty ones at her elbow most certainly fits here. The face she wears is not her own - not precisely - but it's a familiar guise to those who've seen her in several, dark-haired and fair-skinned and, as usual, beautiful.
Jason is here to drink or perhaps to absorb, and not alone and never alone. He is here to find a partner, pour a drink, and while away a lonely evening with something like company. He is not disguised and he is in motion, sharking past several booths before he discovers-- this one. And sits. "Good /evening/."
A sharp jawline tilts swiftly upwards as blue eyes fix on Jason across the table. Slender fingers tighten around the stem of a martini glass as she notes, "I didn't invite you."
"No, but I'm counting myself invited." Jason settles a bit more Comfortable.
"One of these days you will invite yourself straight into Trouble," Mystique grumbles, and the capital 'T' is clear in her voice.
"I often do. On a regular basis, in fact. Aren't we grouchy." Jason folds his arms on top of the table.
"I do try."
"I am not. I feel fantastic. Do you want to know why?" Jason tilts his head.
"Desperate to find out."
Dark brows rise silently with an extreme minimum of interest as Mystique lifts her glass for a sip of martini.
"One of the kiddos who took down our dear friend Ellen. I daresay she will have nightmares for the rest of her life."
Elizabeth lifts her head entirely then, eyes sharpening with a bit more focus. "What did you do?" she wonders.
Mystique lifts her head entirely then, eyes sharpening with a bit more focus. "What did you do?" she wonders.
"Well." Jason blows his breath out. "I gave her a car crash, then had Ellen rescue her from said car crash and kill her. Good fun. I did it /just/ so it looked like nothing more than a graphic dream, though."
"And why," Mystique asks, very carefully, "Did you do this?"
"We protect our own. Really. I should have killed her. But she was-- boasting about it, you know?"
"Ellen was rather insane," Mystique points out, eyes narrowing. "If we were taking care of her, we should have done so long before some children decided to take her in. "
"Well, she threw in with Magneto. Look-- I didn't do any permanent harm," Jason segues, unfolding his arms. "But I felt like something ought to be done to curb it. People /should/ be scared of the Brotherhood."
"There isn't a Brotherhood, Jason," Mystique answers, voice raised to peculiar sharpness before she drinks. It's more than a sip this time.
"Former Brotherhood." Jason's voice drops away entirely. "She was creepy and crazy, yes, but I liked her."
"Did you? Well then. I suppose it's the thought that counts."
"She liked me! I tend to reciprocate those kinds of things."
"Do you?" There is a faint snort from Mystique as she lifts her head and fixes her gaze on Jason, and then after a slight pause she wonders, "Do you think, then, that if your little back-stabbing sweetheart had come back to you and desired to forget the past and move into the future, you would have returned to her? If she /liked/ you?"
"No. But if someone had killed her and/or sent her away to jail for life, I would be peevish, yes." Jason refolds his arms.
"Whyever not"
"Because I'd know I couldn't trust her."
"People change," Mystique reminds.
"So you'd take, say, Magneto back?"
Brows rise sharply as Mystique's lips thin into an unpleasant expression.
Jason shrugs in full innocence. "Just saying. People perhaps do not change enough."
"Tell me, then. Jason. So wise. What is the /correct/ response?"
"If you want it bad enough that old trust issues don't matter, take it. If not, don't burden yourself."
"Very nice, Jason," Mystique approves with the curl of a disdainful smile. "Well done. A neat twist of the situation. Second chances equated to weakness."
"Do you want to hand out second chances, then?" Jason again cants his head. "I can never tell with you."
"Can't you? You are sitting at my table, Jason," Mystique replies bluntly.
"You are a magnanimous woman."
"Would you prefer I didn't? Perhaps I should hold a grudge until I die. Carry them with me to my grave." Full lips twist into an unpleasant expression.
"So you think I /shouldn't/ have given Monet nightmares in the interests of second chances? Even though she's just some human chick?" No expression on Jason.
"Don't fool yourself, Jason. You didn't do it for Ellen. You did it for yourself, and Ellen was an extremely handy tool. What did it accomplish?"
"Perhaps she will be a little less loose and fast with who she plays vigilante with." Jason inhales. "You know. What? We lose Ellen forever, she loses a little sleep. It's slight justice."
"Then I am glad for you, Jason," Mystique replies a touch sharply.
"Sometimes, talking to you, I feel like I can't ever do a darn thing with my powers and have you approve."
"I am carrying a grudge to my grave," Mystique replies shortly.
"I mean," Jason mock-huffs, "I'm sorry I can't cure cancer."
"And I sense your deep-seated sincerity."
"Well. I /don't/ regret what I did." So there. "I haven't felt that inspired in years. I wasn't just /messing/."
"Of course not."
"Just-- just tell me. When /would/ it be appropriate for me to use my powers? Just in the way you do? Hi, I'm someone else?"
"Is that what you think I do?" Mystique lifts her head and fixes her eyes on Jason with a quiet heat. "Perhaps I enjoy working as a lawyer and I'm finding it a pleasant change from terrorism."
"No," is faintly sullen. "And I doubt very much you're just playing lawyer."
"Do you? Sometimes I think that your notion of my life consists entirely of--" Mystique pauses, frowns, shakes her head, and goes for her martini. Changes the subject. "Why are you here, Jason?"
"Because I'm lonely. Does my answer ever change? Why are /you/ here?"
"There are millions of people in this city. Go sit with someone else."
"And leave you alone? That would be so assish."
"Then at least order something to drink. Perhaps it will mellow you a bit." Because she is so very mellow.
"Or it will make me crazy." And yet, nonetheless, Jason raises his hand for a barrista. Over here!
"That would be a change," Mystique replies dryly.
"Critic, critic, critic. That's all you are tonight." The barrista is here. Very nice. Jason mutters something about whiskey.
"What am I ever?" Mystique murmurs in reply. Her brows twitch a touch lower and she lifts her glass to her drink before gesturing a request for another.
"Inscrutinable, cool, and unsatisfied. You're a cat with a series of insects that are no fun to play with. So you don't play." Jason does the arm fold again. "You just stay over there all elevated and superior."
"Clearly I should find some mice."
"They'd bore you, too."
"Goodness." Another sip. "There's no real hope for me, is there?"
"No. Thoroughly doomed." The whiskey comes. Jason unfolds his arms, curls his hand around the shot, and idly knocks it back.
"I suppose I should just drink myself into oblivion, then."
Jason coughs. Idly tossing back whiskey is dumb. "Peeerhaps."
Mystique lifts her brows slightly as she studies Jason, and for a moment there is drawn silence.
Jason inhales on a bit of a rough chokish note and recovers. Also in silence.
Silence settles, lingers, and stretches, and although Mystique has another martini, she does not drink it. Whatever the impetus, it seems to have faded.
Jason glances down at the table. "I never associate you with getting drunk."
"What do you associate me with?"
"Mental. Facilities."
"Well." Mystique lifts her glass once more.
"It is nice not to have them sometimes."
"It is dangerous to not have them sometimes," Mystique counters.
"You're in a bar."
"Even worse."
"You must have some reason to shed yourself of your mental facilities."
"I'm hardly drunk, Jason." Mystique's tone is wry as she studies him, and then she adds, "Just enough to allow you to remain, I suppose."
"Oh," Jason dismissed. "You're always that drunk."
"Sometimes more than others."
"Lonely!"
"Ah, cats don't get lonely. They are creatures of solitude."
"Not entirely," Jason muses, and shakes his empty shot. "They have to breed, after all. Raise kits."
Mystique nearly chokes on that, with a poorly-timed drink making breathing abruptly difficult.
Jason hums a bit to himself and shakes that glass.
Finally swallowing, Mystique lifts her brows sharply to wonder, "Is that what you feel I am lacking?"
"Where are the /children/, Mystique?"
"You are here," Mystique points out.
"Whoa, what? You've been my mother all this time?" Jason's eyebrows shoot up.
"You'd hardly know if I were," Mystique replies, voice dipped quite low. "So many possibilities, Jason. Expand your mind a touch."
"Gee." Jason glances at the ceiling. "It explains everything."
"Doesn't it just."
"Entirely." Jason knocks over his shot. "You've probably had enough of me."
"You can't honestly enjoy sitting here with me, Jason."
"Sure I do. But. We've probably done enough sitting." He levers standing. Helpfully!
"I am not terribly pleasant company," Mystique counters. Still sitting. "And you certainly aren't getting the benefit of regular sex."
"Oh, well, Ellen was like the last thing I slept with." He stretches his hands over his head.
Mystique makes a faint sound in the back of her throat and shakes her head. "You are a mystery, Jason Wyngarde."
"So are you, Raven, darling." He starts long-stepping away.
Mystique's lips go tight at the corners at the name and she looks away, leaving Jason to disappear without comment if he wishes.
Jason keeps walking away. One may as well after, indeed, using that name.
Mystique and Jason have one of their chats. (I thought I had lost this log, but no!)
Homeless Himalayan Yaks. That's the charity, and I'm sticking to it. It is Christmas season, the perfect time to pick people's pockets and emotions over every pet project and cause under the sun. And a few from where the sun don't shine. Wherever she is, though, Emma shines. Glitters. Glistens. A thousand little stars twinkle as she moves, thanks to a darling designers work with crystals and silk. In orbit around her, planetary bodies constantly circle and adore. Their orbits get a little closer as the night, and the wine, go on.
Jason is here, perhaps, by chance. Perhaps, to soak in the heady nonsense that is high society. He may live in a sewer and have to steal everything he owns (well, honestly, can he be expected to merely subsist off a salary?) but this is as much his world as the other, in his pretentious little hard. And that Emma is here-- well. He is disguised, tall and dark-European with streaks of grey in his hair and dapper goatee and wearing a fine grey suit. He is haunting the refreshments. And watching Emma's progress with a hint of apprehension and a hint of nostalgia.
So distinguished. Emma tips her head close to one acolyte devoted to her shrine and whispers something, sending him bounding off like a puppy to fetch something or other, leaving her alone and tightly shielded against the room's press. She turns to escape for the moment to one f the quieter side alcoves carved into the stone work of the pretentious attempt to pass for a castle's keep where the Yak lovers are congregating tonight.
Jason picks up a flute of champagne or something. He's not paying tight attention to little details like that. A glance toward the door. A glance toward Emma. A breeze of calculating thought. Escape weighed against getting it over with. And Jason weighs toward the latter. He approaches Emma.
Emma watches his approach from her little spot of privacy with narrowed eyes. Her own glass is held aloft, the elbow of that arm braced against the other arm wrapped around her middle. The crystals dig tiny pits into her arm, and she takes a sip. Rather good looking. Carries himself well. Elegant. Much better company perhaps than the labradoodle she'd sent away moments before. Assuming she wanted company, that is. There is something not quite right, though...
Naturally, naturally, naturally. This is a prime cat of a man, not a puppy, not even a dog. He is drawing over of his own accord. He /wants/ nothing. And, of course, Jason can no more disguise himself at a telepathic brushing than he can actually afford the suit he's faking, but he keeps coming.
Like 3D image seen without the glasses, the edges of his illusion are fuzzy and ill-defined to a tightly shielded telepath. The double exposure of his reality shifts and slides under the illusion, and Emma closes her eyes and shakes her head slightly. << Your choices of emulation have improved considerably, >> she says, punching the thought through her own shields in order to keep guarded from the miasma of society minds around them.
<< You like it? >> Uninvited, Jason slips into the alcove, if he keeps close to the walls. Giving Emma her space, quite and quite. << There are occasional advantages, I have found, to sticking out in a crowd. >>
"Quite," Emma agrees audibly. She doesn't react further to his approach. Just simply watches him cling to the far wall. Like a roach. "Very nice. The goatee, especially, though the gray is a nice touch. I was just telling Percy how distinguished-looking it makes a man." Her bared shoulders press into the stonework behind her, crushing a crystal or two at the rise of the strapless gown's back.
How very unflattering. It's a dignified cling. More like a moth. Or maybe one of the more sophisticated butterflies. "Then I made a fortuitous choice. How /are/ you, Emma? It's been forever."
Emma tips the champagne flute back to her lips, and she eyes him out of the corner of her eye. Sip taken, she drops the glass away and turns to push off the wall and take a slinking step toward him. Forgive her, it is the dress. "Quite well, thank you darling. And you?"
Jason takes notice, Jason forgives. As long as Emma is merely slinking as opposed to any number of other things, there is room for hope. "The very definition of fantastic and fabulous, of course."
Hope? Hope is too often in vain, isn't it? "The very definition? How exciting. Do tell me all about it, dear boy." She lifts her hand to poke a finger at his shoulder. POKE.
Jason does not retailiate with a poke of his own. Look! Best behavior! He just sort of . . . holds his champaigne and does not react physically. Pokes are fine. We love pokes. "I have a steady job and have not been shot for at least a year, dear Emma."
He's real enough, it appears. More or less. "How plebian of you, Jason. One may think you are actually growing up."
Jason is quite here. And solid. And probably not faking either of those. "It's a possibility I've been forced to entertain, of late."
Emma adopts a sorrowful mein as she turns her shoulder to his wall and holds position quite closely. "Such a sad fate. Isn't there a story about a boy who never wants to grow up?"
Jason stays quite still, as he oft does. In such situations. However infrequently they occur. "I am /hardly/ Peter Pan. Alas, alas!"
"You are hardly anyone, dear," she breathes near his ear, quite aware of his tendency to freeze up. Unfortunately, freezing does not work after the eagle has already sighted you. She dives. "What do you want, little boy?"
Jason attempts not to swallow and, for the moment, manages not to. He flicks his fingers across his chest. "Nothing. To say hello."
Emma smiles and switches her glass to her other hand. "Hello."
"Hello," Jason parrots back at Emma, eyes going slightly half-lidded.
Emma lifts her brows, adopting a curious and inviting expression. Do go on.
"That is a very nice dress?" Jason is not the best promptee.
She slides a hand over her thigh, disturbing the crystal beads. "Thank you. This..." She reaches to pinch his fake lapel between her fingers. "Is a very nice suit."
Jason tries, say, not to look too pointedly at Emma's thigh massaging. The lapel pinching, for all that Emma is really pinching air, is harder to ignore. Jason pulls his head up straighter. "Isn't it?"
"Come to these parties often?" Small talk is rapidly taking on a life of its own between them.
"Oh. Now and again," Jason's tone is very much small talk, very much light and slightly distracted. "For the ambience."
"I suppose there isn't a lot of that in a steady job." Out in the party proper, Emma's labrador has returned, and is looking around for her, clenching in each hand a fresh glass of something light and sparkling.
"You'd be surprised," Jason draws low, and not quite ready to be interrupted just yet, /everything/ aside, slants a slightly cranky peripheral glance at the labrador. Would be irresponsible to mess, mind. "But not the same ambience."
Emma turns her head in to him and asks "Would I?" archly. Irresponsible, perhaps. But she would not take offense at it.
Jason takes a back-seat messing and /shifts/ the alcove by degrees. Ah, yes. Emma was here, with that grey-streaked gentleman, but there is a small door there and that is where they are withdrawing. There is now no one there. Just an alcove and a door. And they are probably discussing something private-business like. Jason, now more or less invisible, as Emma more or less is, shrugs vague and unseen. "It's a law firm, not a 7-11. Could be worse."
"You are working for a law firm?" She is surprised, but rather more at the apparent respectability of his profession than his shenanigans. Labrador perks up hopefully at the glimpse he catches, but his hope is swiftly dashed as they withdraw. See, hope? So fleeting. "Jason, don't you dare become respectable. It just does not suit you."
"Oh, darling, I promise I will never become respectable." Jason laughs, just slightly, a laugh that only manages to carry to her ears. "But one /must/ do something with one's life besides bother people with it."
Emma sighs and rolls her eyes skyward. "I suppose there is something to be said for a good cover." She should know, no?
"And mine is not a fraction so good as yours, rather."
"Yes. There /are/ occasional advantages to standing out in a crowd," she echoes back to him with a small smile and sideways flicker of her eyes as she shifts back and turns.
"I am almost content to fade, some days. And less so others." Jason slides back further into the alcove as Emma turns. "I should leave you to your public."
"You /should/ leave me entirely," she counters with an observation that is as much wry acknowledgement of his bravado as it is warning. She moves toward the 'door,' and offers a parting "Behave, Jason."
"Oh, I don't entirely expect you'll see me again. But it is, after all, good to say hello." The illusion fades by degrees, Emma expelled from the door and the dapper older man . . . not. Absorbed into some back room somewhere. "Good day."
The world!
=NYC= Fish Market - Chinatown - Manhattan
Dead, fishy eyes goggle out onto the street amidst a smell to match that is nigh unbearable in some places, fins and scales of every shape and size splayed out into displays that might be more stomach churning than appealing to those unfamiliar with the fish market's ins and outs. Elsewhere, eels writhe and swirl in large tanks, lobsters clamber over their rivals as well as they can with banded claws, and seaweed dries amidst throngs of people haggling and shouting advertisements in the company of virtually anything and everything else imagineable that's been dredged up from the ocean and carted into Chinatown in the last few days.
[Exits : [O]ut]
It's late and although there are still merchants out, the throngs are lessened by the attrition of the evening and there's plenty of room for a skinny, be-froed man to perch on a barrel, puff boredly on a cigarette, and watch the thinning crowds ebb and flow between the stalls.
Ms. Keating does not dress like a woman who belongs in a fish market. She is in business attire, a slate grey business suit with a long skirt and a jacket that is a little too brief for the December air. Her hair is tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail, the streak of silver on one side of her head catching the light and standing out. She has a planner under one arm and a serious expression as she passes the man on the barrel with the large hair. She stands out like a sore thumb and seems only to barely manage not to make a face over the scent of fish in the air.
Jason's pale eyes follow her, as they must, and without much hesitation, he draws himself long-legged off the barrel and strides just behind.
The woman makes no outward note of the barrel-man unwinding himself from his perch to stalk behind her. She pauses at a merchant to, in a rather no-nonsense sort of tone, ask after lobster. It must be fresh. The man's choice do not look very lively and Jessica dismisses him with no formalities. She continues on her way, though as she turns from him, there is a sideways glance at Jason. She knows he is there and she is trying to track him.
Jason is making no attempt at being hard to track. He follows, frankly, and whistles hoarsely in between puffs of his cigarette.
There are a trio more strides before Jessica simply turns around. She regards Jason with the same business mask she dealt with the fishmonger. "Was there something I could help you with, sir?" Her respectful tone carries a military rigidity to it.
"Why, no, ma'am," Jason answers, affecting a pause and a reasonable Southern drawl. "I was wondering if I might not be able to help you."
Jessica's posture is a straight-backed sort of thing. She is certainly not intimidated by being approached by a strange man. "And what sort of help may you be able to offer me?" she asks, skepticism conveyed in a quirk of her brow more than in her voice.
"Fish and shellfish and whatever little dainties you might be after, ma'am. I'm a bit of an expert arouond these parts." He gestures stall-wise with that cigarette.
Her gaze follows the gesture of the cigarette. For a moment, Jessica remains quiet while she weighs the offer. "Fine. I am in need of lobster that has not had a few days to grow lethargic and worthless in a tank."
"Then follow me," Jason states, really /quite/ laying on the drawl. He starts off at a quick pace indeed.
The pace is not even commented on. Jessica remains two steps behind Jason, marching after him without so much as missing a single beat. Her movements are very measured things. "I suppose that a percentage of my purchase cost will suffice as a finder's fee for you?"
"If you like. This is a favor. I'm a bored young man." Three side-steps and Jason is hurrying through another series of stalls.
"I am not inclined to believe that bored young men perform favors for women without some motivation. If you were planning on mugging me, I would respectfully suggest you choose a different mark." Jessica smiles at him in bland politeness. This is not a joke, or if it is, she is very good at a deadpan delivery.
"I do not intend on mugging you. If you really want to give me money? Sure. Welcome to." Jason points at, finally, a stall in the near distance. "Try that one."
With a nod, Jessica walks toward that stall in search of lobster. It is, evidently, quite the aim for her on this particular December evening. She is also quite picky about it, only the finest quality. And she needs no less than twenty-four bugs.
And Jason is over her shoulder, selecting quietly as she selects. These lobster do /appear/ to be rather good, rather! Perky, even.
The business is done quickly and soon Jessica has purchased rather a lot of the man's wares, complete with a delivery address that may, just may, catch Jason's attention. It is at Frost Enterprises. Once that is done, she turns her attention back to the man over her shoulder. "I believe I offered a percentage of my purchase for helping me. Would ten percent be acceptable?" The total ran over five hundred dollars.
Jason perhaps privately, privately expresses some swear words as to that address. But he turns a quite neutral face to Jessica and smiles most restrainedly. "More than acceptable."
From a pocket she extracts a clip with a small stash of petty cash. It is not some tremendous cash-loaf she is flashing. A pair of twenties, a ten, and a five are retrieved and offered out to Jason. "I do appreciate the help. And forgive my comments about robbery. Honestly, I do not expect hospitality in New York City."
"Some of us," and Jason almost surreptitiously pockets the cash post taking it, "are regular decent folk, ma'am. Enjoy your lobster." He starts, with that, to withdraw.
"I'll consider it a pleasant surprise," Ms. Keating appraises him. With a nod of her head as he begins to withdraw, she turns to leave the market. Really, there are better places to spend a December evening.
Jason is nothing to appraise! Just a faintly ugly, but so-polite Southern boy. Who steadily vanishes himself into the crowds.
The oh-so-serious woman walks away herself, the low heels of her shoes clicking just slightly as she walks.
Jason does not possess motivation for anything.