Pete; Madrox; Remy
3-24
=XF= Shooting Range - Training Facilities - Chemekata Military Base
Spaced a little ways from the main training complex by the curve of a narrow path, the outdoor shooting range is backed by a retaining wall of grey brick. Unshielded from wind and weather, the firing point is a stretch of flattened concrete with individual places marked in black paint. The even ground between firing point and the black and white movable targets arrayed to the south is green with close-cropped grass. Lanes marked off between individual targets by rows of dark spokes poking out of the earth. Three poles on either side of the range reflect wind speed and direction in the flap of triangular flags in red, white and blue.
The post-practice equipment check is not, perhaps, quite as important as the pre-practice one. Still, metal rasps and slides, and Pete, orange earguards hanging 'round his neck in amusing contrast to the stark black-and-white of his day clothing, seems content to let silence hang until he's satisfied that nothing is broken, nicked, or likely to spontaneously fire off despite being currently unloaded. "Did you have much experience at all with firearms before you came here?" he wonders eventually, tone hovering somewhere between conversational and professionally curious, though it is weighted more towards the latter.
Natalie's laugh is brief, laced with amusement as she glances over to Pete. "No," she answers as she watches the process of the check, growing slowly more familiar. "I'm not one of the ones who seem to have been leading the sort of double life where you pick up those things." She slides a hand up to her earguards, tapping fingers against them before she tugs them off. "We're lucky I remember to flick the safety on and off now."
"I think some people actually /do/ take up hunting or marksmanship as a sport without leading a double life," Pete replies dryly. "Somewhere. One day, we might even find one of these mythical people on our doorstep." He glances up, something akin to amusement in his eyes. "Well, that's an important step to master."
"Most of them," Natalie returns, her tone lilting down toward matching driness. "Are not mathematicians from New York City, though." His glance stirs forth a quick, amused smile as she dips her head in acknowledgement, arms swinging loosely as she lowers her earguards and dangles them from one hand. "Remy thought so," she allows. "I'm inclined to agree."
Pete snorts in quiet amusement at that. "Perhaps not." He gives the gun in his hand one last critical look, then sets it aside. "I'd imagine he would. Almost everyone laughs at the stories of some poor bastard getting hit by accident. No one actually wants to /be/ that poor bastard."
"I hurt enough from getting beat up in hand-to-hand," Natalie acknowledges before she moves away to stow her own equipment in its proper location. "I'd rather not be bleeding, too."
"I'd say that will pass in time," Pete replies. "But I've never been good at false reassurances." He plucks the hideously orange earguards from around his ears, and sets about replacing his gear now that he's sure it's all sound.
Natalie snickers quietly and rolls her neck, sweeping a hand back over her ponytail. "Don't worry," she promises. "I /am/ at least used to that. I've run since high school, and I picked up judo a couple of years ago."
"For defense, or for exercise?" Pete snaps a lock into place and glances over before clarifying, "The judo."
"Defense," Natalie answers simply.
"Huh." Pete steps back, away from the storage. "It's not bad, for that. Once you get to the point where you can throw someone who isn't a willing participant." He rolls his shoulders, a faint grimace the only admission of any lingering stiffness.
Natalie grins faintly as she casts a sideways glance at Pete. "Threw Remy a few times," she answers, not a little smugly. There's a pause, and then she admits, "Willing participant, yeah, but..." It's SOMETHING.
Pete looks amused. Perhaps it is the mental image of Remy being thrown. "Willing, but likely not as cooperative as the people in your class."
"I dunno, not everyone in my class was cooperative. I mean, when we were just starting, sure," Natalie shrugs, angling out of the shooting range now that everything's stowed away. "But-- New York lately--" She pauses for a moment, frowning as she considers her words. Eventually she glances toward Pete and finishes, "There are a lot of people concerned with self defense. Even when you know judo doesn't do a bit of good against any of the shit that /really/ scares you. You still want to know. I think it's a control thing."
Pete falls into step with Natalie. His gaze sweeps restlessly over the path out of the shooting range, though the bulk of his attention remains focused on the conversation. One eyebrow rises slightly at the mention of control, though he leaves that be in favour of a different line of questioning. "And what /does/ really scare you?" he wonders.
Natalie's lips quirk in a brief smile. "Us," she answers, sending a short glance toward Pete and then looking away again, down toward the path.
Pete laughs, quiet and mostly mirthless. "The team?" he asks. "Or mutants in general?"
"Can't it be both?" Natalie wonders of Pete, glancing at him with a quick, dry grin before she shrugs and allows, "All of it. The world turned fucking upside down, and what happens when that happens. People who don't have to follow rules. Or care about other people. The damage they can do without even /thinking/ about it. The damage they can do when they /do/ think about it."
"It should be," Pete replies quietly. His gaze fixes on a point ahead along the path, though his expression remains thoughtful. "There's no easy solution, in spite of what people hard on either side might say. It's likely there never will be."
"And that," Natalie answers, her voice gone tight with the fierceness of emotion. "Is why it scares the fucking /hell/ out of me."
Pete gives her a sidelong look. "I'd be more concerned if there appeared to be a simple, neat solution, personally." His tone is wry, with just the slightest hint of self-mockery lurking below the surface.
"Let's just settle for being 'concerned' all around?" Natalie suggests, sidelonging back to meet his gaze briefly.
Pete smiles wryly, inclining his head in a slight nod. "That sounds reasonable."
Natalie breaks into a slow smile and turns forward again, keeping silent for several paces. Eventually she remarks, "We're a very positive pair, I note. Pratically Panglossian."
"Well, the rose-coloured glasses /do/ come practically standard issue," Pete replies, feigned earnesty breaking as he adds, "And that was almost disturbinly alliterative." He nods towards the split of the path ahead. "I've got an appointment with a bank of computers, unfortunately."
Natalie snickers quietly, tipping her haed in an allowing nod. "Sure," she answers. "So do I, actually."
"My sympathies," Pete says, feigning a grimace. And heads along the section of path leading towards the building housing said computer banks. No rest for the terribly optimistic, apparently.
3/24/2009
=XF= Communal Kitchen - Residences - Chemekata Military Base
Large and fully-furnished, this kitchen stands ready to deal with the ferocious appetites of several-dozen highly active mutants. This means several refrigerators, and they are large, with double doors opening their full length, in addition to a pair of freezers that prove to be suspiciously well-stocked with ice cream. Wire-racked pantries are visible through open archways. The counters are appliances are all brushed chrome, and the floor is tile, but the walls are a welcoming splash of red, and the few stools scattered around are comfortably padded. A sign-up sheet near the door helps keep track of when residents might wish to use the kitchen, with blocks of time marked off for preparation by kitchen staff.
Crack-crick, fwump. Another egg. Madrox is perched near the oven, a small flattish container of egg-stuff, coalescing together, in front of him. At his elbow is a sliced loaf of bread, open. On the stove itself is a frying pan slicked with oil. He is about to make something. Incredible, no doubt.
Natalie enters with an eye for the communal fridge, and finds herself sidetracked by Madrox. She pauses in the doorway, eyeing him and his eyes in silence for a moment before venturing, "What're you making?"
"French toast." Madrox back-steps, then side-steps until he can snatch a whisk from its removed position on the counter. Then he steps back and starts egg-beating. A little yolk stuff scatters. "It's going to be fantastic."
Natalie's eyes widen slightly, wistfully. "French toast?" she echoes. "/Really/?"
"Yes, yes." Whisk, whisk goes the whisk and a few more egg bits splatter before Madrox turns aside to display the mix. "That look about right? I've done this once before."
Natalie snorts a laugh as she steps closer, peering at the substance. "You're asking /me/? I once managed to burn spaghetti."
"That's not that difficult!" Madrox dismisses in his ever-so-light fashion as he whisk-whisks again and prepares the first piece of bread. "I'm sure I've burnt apples."
(OOC) Madrox says, "There's sudden dinner. I'm back in 20 or less, though. Not hungry!"
"Why on earth were you cooking apples?" Natalie wants to know?
"Apple crisp. Ever tried it? Don't cook the apples separate," Madrox advises and plops the bread piece in the mix.
Natalie looks wary as she moves around, shuffling to perch on the edge of the table.
Madrox looks uncertain at his point. He turns on the oven, click, click, click, then hunts around. Ahah! Scooping up a fork, he stabs the egg-soused bread slice and flops it on the pan. Sksssss. "Tada."
"Don't you need syrup?" Natalie wonders, leaning forward to peer at his work.
"Well, yes, but that's after. Spatula!" Madrox calls this as if someone was going to magically grab it for him. He Natalie-dodges and grabs for himself. The egg bits are browning around the bread before he flips it. "We could add cinnamon while it's cooking."
Natalie frowns uncertainly. "/Cinnamon/?"
"What? It's not that odd." Why look, Madrox looks genuinely bemused. "We always cooked with a bit of cinnamon. Gives it a sharper sweetness."
"Are you certain you know what you're doing?" Natalie wonders of he who has burnt apples.
"Why do you have a hang up over cinnamon-- oh hell. Plate. I need a plate." It is now time for Madrox to scramble, verily, to bang around cupboards for just that. Not, really, that Madrox could not make quicker work of this with more selves, but just one today.
Natalie eyes Madrox for a moment longer and then shrugs, sliding off the table to stand. She brushes her hands against the back of her jeans as she does, turning away from French toast and toward the door. "Seems weird," she answers.
"Wait, don't you want some?" Madrox asks as he hurries back, plate in hand, to lever a slightly-singed bit of toast onto it. He doesn't drop it all, at least.
Natalie waves a hand absently behind her. "Thanks," she says, but apparently there's a silent 'no thanks' appended, because she does not stop for french toast.
"All right then," Madrox says with a hint of perhaps mock? disappointment. He sets the plate down and it's on to the next slice.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Thursday, March 26, 2009, 3:06 PM
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=SC= Lexington Reservoir - Santa Cruz Mountains - California
Deep in the Santa Cruz mountains is a lake dammed by a low concrete rise. The reservoir is bordered on all sides by mountains, and for a short expanse by a high metal fence marked HIGH VOLTAGE. A thin gravel road meanders its way along the lake's edge between water and fence for some distance, leading to a gate and a gatehouse which is omniously labeled 'Use of deadly force authorized.' Just beyond the gate, a secured boathouse is visible to the side of the road.
A sandy shore and thin blades of grass lay between road and lake, an inviting stretch of beach for those who can ignore the looming presence of the secured fence. A turnoff leads to a small dirt parking area nearby, with a paved boat ramp that extends down toward the water to a small dock. Several yards away, an elevated wood cabin and shed overlook the shimmering blue waters and sit beside another small dock.
(Exits : [S]anta [C]ruz [M]ountains and [C]hemekata [M]ilitary [B]ase )
Remy has got bright green Crocs on his feet. Crocs may be a favoured whipping boy of the style mavens, and favoured footwear of the valley girl crowd, but there are times and places for them. Down on the docks, in and out of the wet, just happens to be one of those. Thus, Remy LeBeau is wearing Crocs. They go well with the rest of an ensemble for a day on the water; board shorts leaving lean legs bare, and a zippered sweater worn open in the face of only a light breeze yet. He's currently engaged in coaxing one of the boathouse craft out of storage and into the water, standing knee deep in it and guiding with a rope.
Natalie is an academic with no sense of style and a Berkleyite for a mother. She has no fashion sense to be offended by crocs. She's in flip flops herself, rather less sensible, and loose running shorts that promise to dry quickly in the face of any water. Her long hair has been plaited back into a braid that hangs loose down her back, and sunglasses (or rather, clips that fit atop her regular glasses) sit perched on her nose as she moves down the trail to study Remy's work. "If you'd waited for me, I would've helped, you know!" she calls.
"I know," Remy assures, sloshing to the side as the boat finally overcomes inertia and sliiiiides along the rollers. He flashes a grin up at her, his own hair pulled back in a queue that it promises to overcome the second there's wind in it. "But I figure y'gonna have sore enough shoulders by the end o' this -- why add to y'pain?" The boat is a small outboard, of the sort graced with an actual steering wheel and throttle. It does not -look- particularly shoulder wrenching, as it lands in the water with a splash.
"Aw, that's very thoughtful," Natalie answers with a quick flash of a grin as she moves forward to study the boat. "I dunno," she adds doubtfully. "Doesn't look /that/ hard. I /have/ rowed a boat before, you know."
"Oh, if we were just goin' for a pleasure cruise, y'be fine," Remy assures, taking the rope and sloshing over to the dock, where he leaps up to do some more making like a tugboat. The crocs glisten in the sunlight, the colour of comic book radioactivity. "But," he elabourates, with a nod out towards the open lake, where bright red buoy balls can be seen floating tethered. "I figure we get the stuff y'need to cruise out of the way quickly. Then we have some -fun-."
Natalie's gaze lifts warily to the cajun as she wanders down to the dock, her footsteps careful against the worn wood. "I've never been so afraid about the definition of 'fun'..."
"Oh, just get y'self a life jacket, and we be fine," Remy assures, unreassuringly. A pair in ever-so-fetching Day-Glo orange are visible resting in the boat as it comes closer, obedient to the tug of the rope. "Seriously, I ain't plannin' anything crazy like havin' Drake pop up t'strafe us with a paintball gun. Just a few high speed turns f'the hell of it. Ever power-boated before?"
Natalie wrinkles her nose at that, pausing at the end of the dock as she glances back at the boathouse. "Life jacket? /Really/?" she protests before glancing back at Remy. "What, been out in a motor boat? Sure."
"Really." With a nod towards the pair in the boat, Remy allows that "They don't so much care if we sink the boat -- that's just a trainin' exercise f'underwater work. Agents, they a little harder to raise in good condition. Ever taken the wheel?"
"I can /swim/," Natalie grumbles in protest, but she hikes back up the length of the dock to rummage inside the boathouse despite her protests. It's several minutes later before she returns with a ghastly orange thing dangling from one hand as she lifts her voice to respond, "Once or twice, but nothing that required... you know. Actually knowing what I'm /doing/."
"Can't swim if y'knocked out 'cause the boat conked y'on the head on its way over," is the cheerfully provided reasoning, as Remy passes the rope through a mooring ring, and hops into the boat. Still with one hand holding the end of it, he shrugs on his own orange monstrosity, and beckons for Natalie. "O'course," he reflects. "If it capsizes, life jacket can keep y'pinned up in the air bubble and y'have to take it off... but better t'have to do that than need it and not have it. Take the wheel," he directs.
"Wow, do you make me glad I chose this job," Natalie mutters, but there's no real heat in it as she shrugs into the jacket and hovers at the edge of the dock, looking down at Remy. There's a pause, and then she begins the ungainly process of stepping into the boat without capsizing it. Natalie is many things, but 'graceful' is not really one of them.
"So just don't flip the boat," is Remy's Zenlike solution, settling himself into the copilot seat and shuffling out of the Crocs. "She should be gassed up still, an' ready t'go -- just got put under cover 'cause they were predictin' a wind storm. So when y'ready, put the throttle over there in neutral," he indicates the throttle between the seats with a nudge of one toe. "an' turn the ignition t'get her goin. Then ease on up on the throttle to get her goin' forwards. Like a car, but easy, yeah?"
Natalie snorts at 'easy', sending Remy a dry glance, but she does as he says. With a bit of careful shifting to settle into the pilot's seat, Natalie spends a moment studying the controls before she identifies things like 'throttle' and 'neutral' and edges them into appropriate position, carefully.
"The wheel works the same as a car," Remy offers helpfully.
"What, if I turn it left, it's not going to go right?" Natalie wonders with a short burst of amused laughter. Slowly, she eases the boat forward, spinning the wheel to take them out toward open water where the wind can pluck at Remy's hair in that attractively touseled fashion.
"Nope. That'd be if y'were drivin' an outboard like in a fishin' boat," Remy answers, trading a legitimate answer for the laughter, if delivered with an easy chuckle of his own. "Take us along the shoreline, keepin 'bout twenty yards out. Get used t'how quick she can go in y'own time... or at least 'til I get bored an' tell y'to crank it," he quips, the wind beginning to tease at his hair right on schedule. Leaning back with his bare toes up on the dashboard, he reaches into a side storage space and pulls out a bottle of sunscreen, applying it while Natalie gets her feet beneath her.
"What, seriously?" Natalie startles, turning to look back at Remy with surprised eyes. Her lips twist, amusement showing in their slight slant, and then she looks forward again. The boat zips lightly along the water, slow at first and then inching faster as she gains more comfort with the controls.
"Yep. You probably got a hella better grasp on physics than me, Doc Simon," Remy awards, as he squirts sunscreen into one palm and begins dabbing it and rubbing it along his arms, neck and face. "So just remember that y'motor's actin by pushin' on the water. Y'wanna go left, then y'point it to the right... although bear in mind y'facin' backwards, so..." Remy bogs down, shaking his head, and abandons the tack with "Whatever. Y'get y'own feel for it when we come to that."
Natalie grins at that, slanting the boat away from the shore a little. "Damn right I do," she agrees cheerfully. "Fuck, I didn't get nearly enough time being called that before I ran away to the mountains of butt-fuck-nowhere." She turns again, slanting the boat at a slow angle in the other direction, and gives the boat a bit more juice.
"Take it as y'code name," Remy offers with a crooked smirk as he offers over the sunscreen bottle. "After all, we already got Dr. Asshole."
"I don't think 'Doc Simon' is very codey," Natalie answers. She pauses, eyes flitting down to the bottle, and then looks ahead with a bit of worry before it occurs to her that she could, for example, let the boat slow down and head into open water while she applies the stuff. Doing so, she leans back carefully to snatch the bottle up from Remy, adding, "Not that I really burn much, most the time."
"Simon Says?" Remy suggests with great helpfulness. "Mathemagician? Number One?"
"Simon Says isn't too damn subtle either," Natalie answers with a snort. "You're pretty shit at this." She pauses, glancing toward him as she smears white lotion up bare arms and under the straps of her tank. "How'd you end up with Gambit, anyway?"
"Move in cards," Remy answers, not caring for such nonsense as chess as he closes his eyes and lets the wind catch his face for a moment. "Y'make a sacrifice t'gain an advantage. Seemed t'work, considerin'." he concludes, with an idle glance over at Natalie that is entirely for the purpose of monitoring her application of sunscreen. Completely.
"Huh," Natalie considers, her gaze drifting toward the distant treeline in thought and away from the glancing Remy. The sunscreen finds the bottom of the boat, and then she turns her attention back to controlling the wheel. "I like that," she finally determines. "Find me something good like /that/."
"Somethin' good like that, y'gotta find f'yourself," Remy answers, oddly thoughtful as he studies the far horizon, but lets Natalie determine their speed and heading. "Y'gotta think about what defines you. Or what defines the choices y'makin' t'be here. An' y'keep that hand pretty close t'your chest, I gotta say."
Natalie is just playing now, heading them out into the open water to test the speed. The wind whips at her hair, tugging at even her tight braid, and she can't help the grin of pure joy that slips and sneaks across her features. She glances back at Remy after a moment, curious. "What, really? You think so?"
"Vraiment," Remy answers with a slight flick of his chin. "I know an awful lot about what y'ain't fond of about here, who y'ain't inclined t'work with. We even got to talk a bit with each other about things like travel. But as for why y'here, all I know is that y'dislike the folks as grabbed the kids more than y'dislike Zenith. That," he notes, with a crooked smirk to lighten the tone a little. "Don't lend itself too well t'codenames."
Natalie snorts quietly and turns forward again, considering that with her face turned into the wind. "Good enough reason for being here though, don't you think?" she wonders, letting her voice drift back in the breeze rather than facing Remy again.
"Sure," Remy answers, before silently pointing towards the now distant row of buoys, set up like a wide-set slalom course. "Of course, I'm assumin' that reason's more complex than just the surface -- everybody's are. But you know what's under, not me."
Natalie glances just enough to catch the point and slows the boat a little as she shifts its angle toward the buoys. Eventually she shrugs and answers, "I don't know. Not /that/ much. It just-- it seems to me that there are a lot of shitty people out there, people keeping shitty secrets." She pauses briefly, frowning concentration as she lines the boat's nose up with the first pass, and adds, "I spent most of my life hiding from them, you know. Secrets. I can find out /anyone's/ secrets. Give me enough time, enough patience, there's not a damned thing you can hide from me. I could have been a really fucking different person, if I'd wanted to."
"Take this first run slow, t'get a feel f'turns one after another like this," Remy advises, shuffling in his seat to pay a little closer attention to what his student is up to. This doesn't stop him from offering a thoughtful "Sounds like a codename playin' off o' either secrets or truth would be up y'alley."
"Vraiment," Natalie returns with an amused snort before she falls silent for a moment, concentrating on her driving rather than her code name.
"Or just 'Seeker' in general... y'do seem like y'lookin' f'somethin'," Remy muses, before lifting one hand on automtic pilot to free his hair from the queue and letting it catch the breeze.
Natalie barks a short, dry laugh. "/Really/?" she answers, tilting the wheel this way and that as they move slowly through the buoys. "What'm I looking for, then?"
"Couldn't say. But y'do spend a certain amount o' time definin' who and what y'-ain't-. Kick it up a notch," Remy encourages, apparently immune to dryness. "Too slow makes it harder on y'to maneuver."
"What, really?" Natalie answers, surprised. Cautiously, she edges the throttle up and urges the boat faster. Slightly. There's a pause before she replies, "What I /am/ is a mathematician and pattern theorist. Problem is, I'm not anymore."
"I got enough physics to give y'the word for it," Remy announces, with grave solemnity. "Inertia. Easier t'change direction when y'already got some movin' goin' on." He's silent as they approach a buoy, hand perhaps just -slightly- squeezed around his armrest, before reflecting that "Mathematician an' pattern theorist made y'more than just the titles. How'd they shape ya?"
Natalie snorts softly as she eases the boat, a little faster now. "I don't know. Fuck, how'd your life shape /you/? They just did. I'm who I am."
"So what's a Natalie?" Apparently 'distracting the driver' never made it on to Remy's list of Things Not To Do In A Boat. Possibly this is intentional. His hand grips the seat arm a little more as she speeds up. "Although--," he admits. "Maybe we best have this convo over a drink or two instead o' when y'boatin. Up to full speed next pass," he directs. "An' if y'feel like we startin' to go over, then straighten out."
Natalie snorts once more and turns firmly forward. "You're so trying to get me drunk," she mutters, and then concentrates on her driving. Full speed. If they're at all wet when they return, it's totally Remy's fault.
=XF= Shooting Range - Training Facilities - Chemekata Military Base
Spaced a little ways from the main training complex by the curve of a narrow path, the outdoor shooting range is backed by a retaining wall of grey brick. Unshielded from wind and weather, the firing point is a stretch of flattened concrete with individual places marked in black paint. The even ground between firing point and the black and white movable targets arrayed to the south is green with close-cropped grass. Lanes marked off between individual targets by rows of dark spokes poking out of the earth. Three poles on either side of the range reflect wind speed and direction in the flap of triangular flags in red, white and blue.
The post-practice equipment check is not, perhaps, quite as important as the pre-practice one. Still, metal rasps and slides, and Pete, orange earguards hanging 'round his neck in amusing contrast to the stark black-and-white of his day clothing, seems content to let silence hang until he's satisfied that nothing is broken, nicked, or likely to spontaneously fire off despite being currently unloaded. "Did you have much experience at all with firearms before you came here?" he wonders eventually, tone hovering somewhere between conversational and professionally curious, though it is weighted more towards the latter.
Natalie's laugh is brief, laced with amusement as she glances over to Pete. "No," she answers as she watches the process of the check, growing slowly more familiar. "I'm not one of the ones who seem to have been leading the sort of double life where you pick up those things." She slides a hand up to her earguards, tapping fingers against them before she tugs them off. "We're lucky I remember to flick the safety on and off now."
"I think some people actually /do/ take up hunting or marksmanship as a sport without leading a double life," Pete replies dryly. "Somewhere. One day, we might even find one of these mythical people on our doorstep." He glances up, something akin to amusement in his eyes. "Well, that's an important step to master."
"Most of them," Natalie returns, her tone lilting down toward matching driness. "Are not mathematicians from New York City, though." His glance stirs forth a quick, amused smile as she dips her head in acknowledgement, arms swinging loosely as she lowers her earguards and dangles them from one hand. "Remy thought so," she allows. "I'm inclined to agree."
Pete snorts in quiet amusement at that. "Perhaps not." He gives the gun in his hand one last critical look, then sets it aside. "I'd imagine he would. Almost everyone laughs at the stories of some poor bastard getting hit by accident. No one actually wants to /be/ that poor bastard."
"I hurt enough from getting beat up in hand-to-hand," Natalie acknowledges before she moves away to stow her own equipment in its proper location. "I'd rather not be bleeding, too."
"I'd say that will pass in time," Pete replies. "But I've never been good at false reassurances." He plucks the hideously orange earguards from around his ears, and sets about replacing his gear now that he's sure it's all sound.
Natalie snickers quietly and rolls her neck, sweeping a hand back over her ponytail. "Don't worry," she promises. "I /am/ at least used to that. I've run since high school, and I picked up judo a couple of years ago."
"For defense, or for exercise?" Pete snaps a lock into place and glances over before clarifying, "The judo."
"Defense," Natalie answers simply.
"Huh." Pete steps back, away from the storage. "It's not bad, for that. Once you get to the point where you can throw someone who isn't a willing participant." He rolls his shoulders, a faint grimace the only admission of any lingering stiffness.
Natalie grins faintly as she casts a sideways glance at Pete. "Threw Remy a few times," she answers, not a little smugly. There's a pause, and then she admits, "Willing participant, yeah, but..." It's SOMETHING.
Pete looks amused. Perhaps it is the mental image of Remy being thrown. "Willing, but likely not as cooperative as the people in your class."
"I dunno, not everyone in my class was cooperative. I mean, when we were just starting, sure," Natalie shrugs, angling out of the shooting range now that everything's stowed away. "But-- New York lately--" She pauses for a moment, frowning as she considers her words. Eventually she glances toward Pete and finishes, "There are a lot of people concerned with self defense. Even when you know judo doesn't do a bit of good against any of the shit that /really/ scares you. You still want to know. I think it's a control thing."
Pete falls into step with Natalie. His gaze sweeps restlessly over the path out of the shooting range, though the bulk of his attention remains focused on the conversation. One eyebrow rises slightly at the mention of control, though he leaves that be in favour of a different line of questioning. "And what /does/ really scare you?" he wonders.
Natalie's lips quirk in a brief smile. "Us," she answers, sending a short glance toward Pete and then looking away again, down toward the path.
Pete laughs, quiet and mostly mirthless. "The team?" he asks. "Or mutants in general?"
"Can't it be both?" Natalie wonders of Pete, glancing at him with a quick, dry grin before she shrugs and allows, "All of it. The world turned fucking upside down, and what happens when that happens. People who don't have to follow rules. Or care about other people. The damage they can do without even /thinking/ about it. The damage they can do when they /do/ think about it."
"It should be," Pete replies quietly. His gaze fixes on a point ahead along the path, though his expression remains thoughtful. "There's no easy solution, in spite of what people hard on either side might say. It's likely there never will be."
"And that," Natalie answers, her voice gone tight with the fierceness of emotion. "Is why it scares the fucking /hell/ out of me."
Pete gives her a sidelong look. "I'd be more concerned if there appeared to be a simple, neat solution, personally." His tone is wry, with just the slightest hint of self-mockery lurking below the surface.
"Let's just settle for being 'concerned' all around?" Natalie suggests, sidelonging back to meet his gaze briefly.
Pete smiles wryly, inclining his head in a slight nod. "That sounds reasonable."
Natalie breaks into a slow smile and turns forward again, keeping silent for several paces. Eventually she remarks, "We're a very positive pair, I note. Pratically Panglossian."
"Well, the rose-coloured glasses /do/ come practically standard issue," Pete replies, feigned earnesty breaking as he adds, "And that was almost disturbinly alliterative." He nods towards the split of the path ahead. "I've got an appointment with a bank of computers, unfortunately."
Natalie snickers quietly, tipping her haed in an allowing nod. "Sure," she answers. "So do I, actually."
"My sympathies," Pete says, feigning a grimace. And heads along the section of path leading towards the building housing said computer banks. No rest for the terribly optimistic, apparently.
3/24/2009
=XF= Communal Kitchen - Residences - Chemekata Military Base
Large and fully-furnished, this kitchen stands ready to deal with the ferocious appetites of several-dozen highly active mutants. This means several refrigerators, and they are large, with double doors opening their full length, in addition to a pair of freezers that prove to be suspiciously well-stocked with ice cream. Wire-racked pantries are visible through open archways. The counters are appliances are all brushed chrome, and the floor is tile, but the walls are a welcoming splash of red, and the few stools scattered around are comfortably padded. A sign-up sheet near the door helps keep track of when residents might wish to use the kitchen, with blocks of time marked off for preparation by kitchen staff.
Crack-crick, fwump. Another egg. Madrox is perched near the oven, a small flattish container of egg-stuff, coalescing together, in front of him. At his elbow is a sliced loaf of bread, open. On the stove itself is a frying pan slicked with oil. He is about to make something. Incredible, no doubt.
Natalie enters with an eye for the communal fridge, and finds herself sidetracked by Madrox. She pauses in the doorway, eyeing him and his eyes in silence for a moment before venturing, "What're you making?"
"French toast." Madrox back-steps, then side-steps until he can snatch a whisk from its removed position on the counter. Then he steps back and starts egg-beating. A little yolk stuff scatters. "It's going to be fantastic."
Natalie's eyes widen slightly, wistfully. "French toast?" she echoes. "/Really/?"
"Yes, yes." Whisk, whisk goes the whisk and a few more egg bits splatter before Madrox turns aside to display the mix. "That look about right? I've done this once before."
Natalie snorts a laugh as she steps closer, peering at the substance. "You're asking /me/? I once managed to burn spaghetti."
"That's not that difficult!" Madrox dismisses in his ever-so-light fashion as he whisk-whisks again and prepares the first piece of bread. "I'm sure I've burnt apples."
(OOC) Madrox says, "There's sudden dinner. I'm back in 20 or less, though. Not hungry!"
"Why on earth were you cooking apples?" Natalie wants to know?
"Apple crisp. Ever tried it? Don't cook the apples separate," Madrox advises and plops the bread piece in the mix.
Natalie looks wary as she moves around, shuffling to perch on the edge of the table.
Madrox looks uncertain at his point. He turns on the oven, click, click, click, then hunts around. Ahah! Scooping up a fork, he stabs the egg-soused bread slice and flops it on the pan. Sksssss. "Tada."
"Don't you need syrup?" Natalie wonders, leaning forward to peer at his work.
"Well, yes, but that's after. Spatula!" Madrox calls this as if someone was going to magically grab it for him. He Natalie-dodges and grabs for himself. The egg bits are browning around the bread before he flips it. "We could add cinnamon while it's cooking."
Natalie frowns uncertainly. "/Cinnamon/?"
"What? It's not that odd." Why look, Madrox looks genuinely bemused. "We always cooked with a bit of cinnamon. Gives it a sharper sweetness."
"Are you certain you know what you're doing?" Natalie wonders of he who has burnt apples.
"Why do you have a hang up over cinnamon-- oh hell. Plate. I need a plate." It is now time for Madrox to scramble, verily, to bang around cupboards for just that. Not, really, that Madrox could not make quicker work of this with more selves, but just one today.
Natalie eyes Madrox for a moment longer and then shrugs, sliding off the table to stand. She brushes her hands against the back of her jeans as she does, turning away from French toast and toward the door. "Seems weird," she answers.
"Wait, don't you want some?" Madrox asks as he hurries back, plate in hand, to lever a slightly-singed bit of toast onto it. He doesn't drop it all, at least.
Natalie waves a hand absently behind her. "Thanks," she says, but apparently there's a silent 'no thanks' appended, because she does not stop for french toast.
"All right then," Madrox says with a hint of perhaps mock? disappointment. He sets the plate down and it's on to the next slice.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Thursday, March 26, 2009, 3:06 PM
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=SC= Lexington Reservoir - Santa Cruz Mountains - California
Deep in the Santa Cruz mountains is a lake dammed by a low concrete rise. The reservoir is bordered on all sides by mountains, and for a short expanse by a high metal fence marked HIGH VOLTAGE. A thin gravel road meanders its way along the lake's edge between water and fence for some distance, leading to a gate and a gatehouse which is omniously labeled 'Use of deadly force authorized.' Just beyond the gate, a secured boathouse is visible to the side of the road.
A sandy shore and thin blades of grass lay between road and lake, an inviting stretch of beach for those who can ignore the looming presence of the secured fence. A turnoff leads to a small dirt parking area nearby, with a paved boat ramp that extends down toward the water to a small dock. Several yards away, an elevated wood cabin and shed overlook the shimmering blue waters and sit beside another small dock.
(Exits : [S]anta [C]ruz [M]ountains and [C]hemekata [M]ilitary [B]ase )
Remy has got bright green Crocs on his feet. Crocs may be a favoured whipping boy of the style mavens, and favoured footwear of the valley girl crowd, but there are times and places for them. Down on the docks, in and out of the wet, just happens to be one of those. Thus, Remy LeBeau is wearing Crocs. They go well with the rest of an ensemble for a day on the water; board shorts leaving lean legs bare, and a zippered sweater worn open in the face of only a light breeze yet. He's currently engaged in coaxing one of the boathouse craft out of storage and into the water, standing knee deep in it and guiding with a rope.
Natalie is an academic with no sense of style and a Berkleyite for a mother. She has no fashion sense to be offended by crocs. She's in flip flops herself, rather less sensible, and loose running shorts that promise to dry quickly in the face of any water. Her long hair has been plaited back into a braid that hangs loose down her back, and sunglasses (or rather, clips that fit atop her regular glasses) sit perched on her nose as she moves down the trail to study Remy's work. "If you'd waited for me, I would've helped, you know!" she calls.
"I know," Remy assures, sloshing to the side as the boat finally overcomes inertia and sliiiiides along the rollers. He flashes a grin up at her, his own hair pulled back in a queue that it promises to overcome the second there's wind in it. "But I figure y'gonna have sore enough shoulders by the end o' this -- why add to y'pain?" The boat is a small outboard, of the sort graced with an actual steering wheel and throttle. It does not -look- particularly shoulder wrenching, as it lands in the water with a splash.
"Aw, that's very thoughtful," Natalie answers with a quick flash of a grin as she moves forward to study the boat. "I dunno," she adds doubtfully. "Doesn't look /that/ hard. I /have/ rowed a boat before, you know."
"Oh, if we were just goin' for a pleasure cruise, y'be fine," Remy assures, taking the rope and sloshing over to the dock, where he leaps up to do some more making like a tugboat. The crocs glisten in the sunlight, the colour of comic book radioactivity. "But," he elabourates, with a nod out towards the open lake, where bright red buoy balls can be seen floating tethered. "I figure we get the stuff y'need to cruise out of the way quickly. Then we have some -fun-."
Natalie's gaze lifts warily to the cajun as she wanders down to the dock, her footsteps careful against the worn wood. "I've never been so afraid about the definition of 'fun'..."
"Oh, just get y'self a life jacket, and we be fine," Remy assures, unreassuringly. A pair in ever-so-fetching Day-Glo orange are visible resting in the boat as it comes closer, obedient to the tug of the rope. "Seriously, I ain't plannin' anything crazy like havin' Drake pop up t'strafe us with a paintball gun. Just a few high speed turns f'the hell of it. Ever power-boated before?"
Natalie wrinkles her nose at that, pausing at the end of the dock as she glances back at the boathouse. "Life jacket? /Really/?" she protests before glancing back at Remy. "What, been out in a motor boat? Sure."
"Really." With a nod towards the pair in the boat, Remy allows that "They don't so much care if we sink the boat -- that's just a trainin' exercise f'underwater work. Agents, they a little harder to raise in good condition. Ever taken the wheel?"
"I can /swim/," Natalie grumbles in protest, but she hikes back up the length of the dock to rummage inside the boathouse despite her protests. It's several minutes later before she returns with a ghastly orange thing dangling from one hand as she lifts her voice to respond, "Once or twice, but nothing that required... you know. Actually knowing what I'm /doing/."
"Can't swim if y'knocked out 'cause the boat conked y'on the head on its way over," is the cheerfully provided reasoning, as Remy passes the rope through a mooring ring, and hops into the boat. Still with one hand holding the end of it, he shrugs on his own orange monstrosity, and beckons for Natalie. "O'course," he reflects. "If it capsizes, life jacket can keep y'pinned up in the air bubble and y'have to take it off... but better t'have to do that than need it and not have it. Take the wheel," he directs.
"Wow, do you make me glad I chose this job," Natalie mutters, but there's no real heat in it as she shrugs into the jacket and hovers at the edge of the dock, looking down at Remy. There's a pause, and then she begins the ungainly process of stepping into the boat without capsizing it. Natalie is many things, but 'graceful' is not really one of them.
"So just don't flip the boat," is Remy's Zenlike solution, settling himself into the copilot seat and shuffling out of the Crocs. "She should be gassed up still, an' ready t'go -- just got put under cover 'cause they were predictin' a wind storm. So when y'ready, put the throttle over there in neutral," he indicates the throttle between the seats with a nudge of one toe. "an' turn the ignition t'get her goin. Then ease on up on the throttle to get her goin' forwards. Like a car, but easy, yeah?"
Natalie snorts at 'easy', sending Remy a dry glance, but she does as he says. With a bit of careful shifting to settle into the pilot's seat, Natalie spends a moment studying the controls before she identifies things like 'throttle' and 'neutral' and edges them into appropriate position, carefully.
"The wheel works the same as a car," Remy offers helpfully.
"What, if I turn it left, it's not going to go right?" Natalie wonders with a short burst of amused laughter. Slowly, she eases the boat forward, spinning the wheel to take them out toward open water where the wind can pluck at Remy's hair in that attractively touseled fashion.
"Nope. That'd be if y'were drivin' an outboard like in a fishin' boat," Remy answers, trading a legitimate answer for the laughter, if delivered with an easy chuckle of his own. "Take us along the shoreline, keepin 'bout twenty yards out. Get used t'how quick she can go in y'own time... or at least 'til I get bored an' tell y'to crank it," he quips, the wind beginning to tease at his hair right on schedule. Leaning back with his bare toes up on the dashboard, he reaches into a side storage space and pulls out a bottle of sunscreen, applying it while Natalie gets her feet beneath her.
"What, seriously?" Natalie startles, turning to look back at Remy with surprised eyes. Her lips twist, amusement showing in their slight slant, and then she looks forward again. The boat zips lightly along the water, slow at first and then inching faster as she gains more comfort with the controls.
"Yep. You probably got a hella better grasp on physics than me, Doc Simon," Remy awards, as he squirts sunscreen into one palm and begins dabbing it and rubbing it along his arms, neck and face. "So just remember that y'motor's actin by pushin' on the water. Y'wanna go left, then y'point it to the right... although bear in mind y'facin' backwards, so..." Remy bogs down, shaking his head, and abandons the tack with "Whatever. Y'get y'own feel for it when we come to that."
Natalie grins at that, slanting the boat away from the shore a little. "Damn right I do," she agrees cheerfully. "Fuck, I didn't get nearly enough time being called that before I ran away to the mountains of butt-fuck-nowhere." She turns again, slanting the boat at a slow angle in the other direction, and gives the boat a bit more juice.
"Take it as y'code name," Remy offers with a crooked smirk as he offers over the sunscreen bottle. "After all, we already got Dr. Asshole."
"I don't think 'Doc Simon' is very codey," Natalie answers. She pauses, eyes flitting down to the bottle, and then looks ahead with a bit of worry before it occurs to her that she could, for example, let the boat slow down and head into open water while she applies the stuff. Doing so, she leans back carefully to snatch the bottle up from Remy, adding, "Not that I really burn much, most the time."
"Simon Says?" Remy suggests with great helpfulness. "Mathemagician? Number One?"
"Simon Says isn't too damn subtle either," Natalie answers with a snort. "You're pretty shit at this." She pauses, glancing toward him as she smears white lotion up bare arms and under the straps of her tank. "How'd you end up with Gambit, anyway?"
"Move in cards," Remy answers, not caring for such nonsense as chess as he closes his eyes and lets the wind catch his face for a moment. "Y'make a sacrifice t'gain an advantage. Seemed t'work, considerin'." he concludes, with an idle glance over at Natalie that is entirely for the purpose of monitoring her application of sunscreen. Completely.
"Huh," Natalie considers, her gaze drifting toward the distant treeline in thought and away from the glancing Remy. The sunscreen finds the bottom of the boat, and then she turns her attention back to controlling the wheel. "I like that," she finally determines. "Find me something good like /that/."
"Somethin' good like that, y'gotta find f'yourself," Remy answers, oddly thoughtful as he studies the far horizon, but lets Natalie determine their speed and heading. "Y'gotta think about what defines you. Or what defines the choices y'makin' t'be here. An' y'keep that hand pretty close t'your chest, I gotta say."
Natalie is just playing now, heading them out into the open water to test the speed. The wind whips at her hair, tugging at even her tight braid, and she can't help the grin of pure joy that slips and sneaks across her features. She glances back at Remy after a moment, curious. "What, really? You think so?"
"Vraiment," Remy answers with a slight flick of his chin. "I know an awful lot about what y'ain't fond of about here, who y'ain't inclined t'work with. We even got to talk a bit with each other about things like travel. But as for why y'here, all I know is that y'dislike the folks as grabbed the kids more than y'dislike Zenith. That," he notes, with a crooked smirk to lighten the tone a little. "Don't lend itself too well t'codenames."
Natalie snorts quietly and turns forward again, considering that with her face turned into the wind. "Good enough reason for being here though, don't you think?" she wonders, letting her voice drift back in the breeze rather than facing Remy again.
"Sure," Remy answers, before silently pointing towards the now distant row of buoys, set up like a wide-set slalom course. "Of course, I'm assumin' that reason's more complex than just the surface -- everybody's are. But you know what's under, not me."
Natalie glances just enough to catch the point and slows the boat a little as she shifts its angle toward the buoys. Eventually she shrugs and answers, "I don't know. Not /that/ much. It just-- it seems to me that there are a lot of shitty people out there, people keeping shitty secrets." She pauses briefly, frowning concentration as she lines the boat's nose up with the first pass, and adds, "I spent most of my life hiding from them, you know. Secrets. I can find out /anyone's/ secrets. Give me enough time, enough patience, there's not a damned thing you can hide from me. I could have been a really fucking different person, if I'd wanted to."
"Take this first run slow, t'get a feel f'turns one after another like this," Remy advises, shuffling in his seat to pay a little closer attention to what his student is up to. This doesn't stop him from offering a thoughtful "Sounds like a codename playin' off o' either secrets or truth would be up y'alley."
"Vraiment," Natalie returns with an amused snort before she falls silent for a moment, concentrating on her driving rather than her code name.
"Or just 'Seeker' in general... y'do seem like y'lookin' f'somethin'," Remy muses, before lifting one hand on automtic pilot to free his hair from the queue and letting it catch the breeze.
Natalie barks a short, dry laugh. "/Really/?" she answers, tilting the wheel this way and that as they move slowly through the buoys. "What'm I looking for, then?"
"Couldn't say. But y'do spend a certain amount o' time definin' who and what y'-ain't-. Kick it up a notch," Remy encourages, apparently immune to dryness. "Too slow makes it harder on y'to maneuver."
"What, really?" Natalie answers, surprised. Cautiously, she edges the throttle up and urges the boat faster. Slightly. There's a pause before she replies, "What I /am/ is a mathematician and pattern theorist. Problem is, I'm not anymore."
"I got enough physics to give y'the word for it," Remy announces, with grave solemnity. "Inertia. Easier t'change direction when y'already got some movin' goin' on." He's silent as they approach a buoy, hand perhaps just -slightly- squeezed around his armrest, before reflecting that "Mathematician an' pattern theorist made y'more than just the titles. How'd they shape ya?"
Natalie snorts softly as she eases the boat, a little faster now. "I don't know. Fuck, how'd your life shape /you/? They just did. I'm who I am."
"So what's a Natalie?" Apparently 'distracting the driver' never made it on to Remy's list of Things Not To Do In A Boat. Possibly this is intentional. His hand grips the seat arm a little more as she speeds up. "Although--," he admits. "Maybe we best have this convo over a drink or two instead o' when y'boatin. Up to full speed next pass," he directs. "An' if y'feel like we startin' to go over, then straighten out."
Natalie snorts once more and turns firmly forward. "You're so trying to get me drunk," she mutters, and then concentrates on her driving. Full speed. If they're at all wet when they return, it's totally Remy's fault.