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The clinging darkness has settled deep over Hell's Kitchen, and the hefty figure leaning fairly nonchalantly against a lamp-post has its hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jacket. Close-cropped hair and a scarf contribute to making Padraig look like an average thug out on the streets; for some reason or other. Sans his drinking partner, he stands, and he waits.
Up on a second story fire escape, shadowed by the metal above her, a still and expressionless Jean watches the furtive figures scuttling by in the night. Drunkards drink, hussies hustle, and her attention is caught by a flicker of something out of character. Where is it? Could it be? In roughly the same block where she met Mystique a few nights past, the Dark Phoenix hunts. Padraig's mind is brushed at with a questioning mental finger.
Where /is/ Sergei? The mind is a relative turmoil of fast-changing emotion and thought, each rapidly assembled, and discarded before forming fully. Padraig idly scans around, noting pimp, prostitute and policeman failing to be undercover in quick succession. Flickering consideration -- Magneto; how /did/ he actually get out? Padraig; does this mean he's free of trouble? Pyro; Pity he couldn't make it out.
The names and faces confirm it: this is one of Magneto's people. Jumping from the fire escape and landing softly a story down, buffered by her telekinesis, Jean reaches out to take the monds of those around her lightly into hand, erasing any notice of her moving amongst them until she stands right behind Padraig. She taps him on the shoulder, and then releases his mind from her control. "I have a message for you to carry, little terrorist," she informs in a distant, sweet little whisper, and with a smile speaking of a wide break with reality and social order. Want, take, have... and what she wants is standing before her, metaphorically so.
The voice brings a startled, almost instantaneous turn; a fist rising in automatic response before Padraig's eyes alight on the woman. He stalls; recognition waits a moment. It's only a wom--"Fuck." What is /she/ doing here? Automatically, the unclenched hand makes a dive for a pocket. Phone. Magneto. BACKUP.
Phone. Telekinesis. CRUNCH. "I do hope that wasn't expensive," purrs the Dark Phoenix.
"Not at all, not at all," Padraig says, far too quickly not to betray his trepidation. Knees begin to bend; ever so slowly, as he runs through scenarios. Fist; power; face; run. Simple. "I'm just passing through, Ms.--" The signals rush to begin.
"No you're not," Jean corrects with a sigh speaking of boredom. The fight-or-flight signals cause an arching of an eyebrow, and she simply wraps Padraig in a full body cast of telekinesis. "You're here. Somewhere. All the Brotherhood. Probably with your Fearless Leader... I want you to take a message to him. Can you do that for me, darling?"
Quickshot and refusing to contemplate the impending doom, Padraig runs through other options in his mind, each discarded before something clicks. /Telepath/. She's listening. He tries desperately to think quietly, as a slow buildup of power begins to form in one fist. "I can manage a message," he grunts, with jaw set tight and anger flashing across his eyes. The confusion behind wonders why. "Thought you'd be tryin' to lock me up, bitch."
<< Telekinetic too, pussycat, >> Jean states with a swing to her mental tone, and a considering look. "Let's point those things in a safe direction," she states, parroting a long-past Magneto with an inwardly amused smirk as Padraig's fists are forcibly crossed over his shoulders, the opposite direction from Jean. She squeezes the telekinetic fist once, snapping and cracking a few ribs for the sheer thrill of getting her point across. "Tell him that I'm coming,"
An angered grunt tears from Padraig; turning into a pain-filled growl; mixed with a cry as bones crack under the pressure. "Fuck /you/," he bites off, eyes welling with pain and with one fist beginning to dance with a few sparks. /One/ chance to send a spark her way. He tries.
"No thanks," Jean smiles, and it's the sort of smile that surveyed pyramids of skulls in eras past. "You could't possibly be enough to satisfy me. But with that attitude..." She trails off to survey him, ignoring the sparks as something beneath her notice. "So -very- stubborn, tsk. How do I know you'll carry my little message? You might decide to brag about facing down Jean Grey instead... we can't have -that-." And so, smile still in place, she reaches deep within Padraig's mind and wrenches it to full attention. "Tell him," she directs, slow as one speaking to a shaken baby all grown up. "That I'm coming. Do you understand, pussycat?"
"Irish is more than-- ahh!" Padraig's muscles wrench against the telekinetic bonds; corded muscle standing out beneath clothing, and a tight line of tendon snapping out on his neck. "I understand, and I'll tell him," he repeats, the clarity of his mind in that thought untouched by the pain; the rage or the mental battering. From somewhere within him, a tiny spark of resistance waves a violent flag. "Won't stop me ki--."
"Stop." The single word interrupts the threat, voiced clear and calm and low against the low-grade buzz of a night time city. Jean's fingers dig deeper, lower into Padraig's mind, taking away his voluntary muscle control since he can't be trusted to behave with it. "When I release you, you will go directly to Magneto without looking back." she orders. "You will tell him my message. How much pain you are in when I release you is directly proportional to how well you behave."
<< I will go... >> The tiny flicker of resistance flares again, before common sense bites deep, and Padraig's will bends; brittleness teasing at the cracks. Mute agreement, mute hate. << I'll do it, the moment I've scorched that pretty-- >> Again the common sense bites deep; the submission almost complete. << I'll do it. >> /Then/ he will come find her, and do to her... He tries to wipe away the thought; mentally blanching.
Jean's response is swift and untroubled, simple behavioral shaping with a twist. Each time Padraig's willfulness makes an appearance, she fires off his pain receptors. The more hatred leaking, the more violence, the more pain receptors stimulated. A resumption of control and proper manners signals relief.
The loss of muscle control and the sudden flare of pain forces a slow, wet stain to begin spreading over Padraig's jeans. Defiance again flares; hotter and hotter with each bout of pain until suddenly; he breaks. The pain overrides all else, and Padraig's mind loosens; becomes malleable. Control is uneccesary; fear is in control.
"Good boy," purrs Jean again, eyes full of darkness and satisfaction. She runs gentle fingers along Padraig's jawline, stepping around to circle him once, twice, thrice. And then, satisfied, she steps away into the shadows again and releases her hold on him.
Padraig falls to the floor, legs crumbling beneath him as he hits the sidewalk, and falls to his knees, torso flinigng forward. His arms are barely brought out in time, and he stays on hands and knees for only a brief moment. Slowly, surely, he fights his way to his feet; utterly ignoring everything around as he stumbles back home; one arm wrapped around his ribs. Wide lines of tears are struck down his face; a broken man.
Padraig gets Dark Phoenixed. Informed he is to deliver a message. Forcibly.
With a majority of the faction enjoying their time off out in the city, Erik has been left with the upstairs largely to himself. All the same, the air out on the fire escape is somewhat less stale, even if it is cold. Accordingly, that is where he's currently posted, an unlit cigar turned lazily over in his right hand as he surveys the street below. The window behind him is open - allowing the chilly breeze into the room beyond.
Padraig stumbles into the room; the electromagnetic field of his power fluctuating from the norm. One arm is clamped tightly around his rib; his jeans are stained with fluid, and a weary, pain-filled look is across his features. Frantically, he glances around, one arm snapping out to utilise the wall for support.
The cigar continues to turn slowly over for a second or two more before it pauses - just as Erik pauses mid-sigh to half-turn back to the room behind him, brows knit. "Padraig?"
"Sir," comes the reply, quickly and bitten off word by word. The accent makes it's way through the words with difficulty, pausing occasionally to bring in a tight breath. "Jean Grey sends a message that -- she is coming. She jumped me -- outside a bar; Sergei was -- away getting a newspaper." The words barely out, Padraig's knees fold beneath him, and he drops to them, hand sliding down the wall, still for support.
Magneto steps immediately back in through the window, the cigar tucked into a pocket of his buttoned overcoat in the same movement. The window closes behind him, and in he moves, adrenaline lending agitation to the already hurried steps that bring him down onto one knee before the sliding Padraig. Cold blue eyes scrape immediately across Paddy's, one hand going out to lend stiff support to the younger mutant's right shoulder before his glare drops to take in the rest of the damage dealt. "All right. What did she do to you?"
The shoulder tightens under the touch; electricity immediately pulled back with obvious effort. Padraig's eyes begin to again well; broken man. "Ribs. Snapped. Mind." A shudder tears through him, and he lifts his head to look imploringly, pleadingly at his leader. A quick intake of breath. "Anger meant pain. Defiance... pain. You can't stop thinking-- worse than..." A sob racks his chest, and his muscles loosen, attempting to crumple towards catatonic, foetal position.
"It's all right. It's all right-" Manliness temporarily set aside, Erik wraps his left arm around the crumpling Padraig and drags him into his own chest. Largely, perhaps, to hide the startlement and fear that's quickly turning over into frigid anger in the lines of his face - the set of his jaw taut. "ELLEN."
"No!" Padraig cries, again with his face wrinkling; a terrible conscious effort to keep his power away. He dives into the older mutant's chest; a boy in need of comfort. He winces at the noise; his body jerking. "It's not. The pain-- the control." Another sob tears from him, tears streaming into Magneto's clothing. "I'm sorry."
Fleet feet rapping haste across downstairs floor and step, the summons brings her at a dead run: Ellen, lean and taut, her hair tumbling in a loose wild sheen of pale gold, her eyes sharp and narrow blue-grey above the startled pallor of high-angled Norse cheeks. "Sir," she breathes -- obedience, haste -- and then her brows shoot upwards as she takes in the situation. "/Padraig/?" A medic's urgency drives her swift across the room.
"It's /all right/, Padraig..." Erik repeats through bared teeth, his grip on the younger man firm. It's an older overcoat anyway. "...I need to set up a perimeter - /Ellen/..." his glare flashes up to the woman in question, "Nothing he says or does leaves this room. I want you to move him into one of the sleeping areas and keep him there. Sedate him, if necessary, once you've made the necessary repairs."
"It's not," Padraig insists, weakly. He tugs his head away; blue eyes, outlined and accentuated by a thick rim of red, look up to Ellen. "Oh, shit..." He trails off, into a shake of head, slow and terribly vulnerable. A weak attempt to pull away brings a little wince; a small noise of pain, and the Irishman gives in, muscles crumpling as his control over his power falters. "Don't let her near me." The question of who is unanswered.
"Yes, sir." Unquestioning, quick, crisp, brisk: Ellen moves to Padraig's side with the alacrity of necessity. Her nostrils flare at Padraig's plea, aggravation tempered by likewise necessity, though the flash in pale eyes goes unguarded as, grim-mouthed, she drops to a crouch at his side in a ripple of pinstriped black and vivid blue. Low alto as soft as snow, she says, slim-fingered hands hovering over him on the brink of contact: "Try and hold still. Please. I need to assess your injuries."
"You're here, now. We are going to take care of you." Ignorant of the imminent risk of electrocution, Erik finally begins to slacken and release his grip on the younger mutant. "She won't come here. There are too many of us." Lies, of course. A wary glance to Ellen's oh-so-comforting presence later, Erik begins to push back up onto his feet, knees creaking. "I need to set up a guard immediately. Ellen, you have your orders. I will return later."
Padraig shudders under the imminent female touch. "She's a /telepath/," he says, quietly. "She can do it to anyone-- any time... the pain." He comes to silence, nodding as his eyes clench together and he curls down into a foetal position; knees up and trembling; one arm still wrapped around his ribs. "Don't... don't hurt me," he begs, voice quivering. Again there's a conscious effort over his features.
Ellen says again, "Yes, sir," with a blink before her attention dips to encompass her patient. Kneeling before him, she cups his face, one hand's curve at either cheek as she leans into him, concern measured in her expression by the tic of her own cheek, the somber line of her mouth, the intent clarity of her blue-grey eyes. With the firm solemnity of an oath, she intones, "You will come to no harm at my hand." Despite the split in concentration it requires, she keeps her gaze on him even as her consciousness weaves through his cellular structure.
The crushed ribs; a tiny bleed in there. Bruised and battered from falls and stumbles; lacerations dance across palms. Padraig tries to curl yet further, his face cunching up as he does so. "She's... total control. If you see her..." Suddenly fervent, his eyes open fully and stare upwards into Ellen's, his tone entreating, begging. "Run! Promise me."
Ellen meets his gaze, uncomprehending; her mind is largely occupied, tackling the largest job first and healing Padraig's ribs so that she might swiftly, efficiently, painlessly get him to the sleeping quarters. Bafflement reflects itself in a single word: "Who?"
"/Her/," Padraig repeats, shuddering at something only he can imagine. "--Grey. Crazy. My mind. Played, messed... Anger brought -- arguing -- pain, 'til -- couldn't any more. Run!" Words are tumbled together; other mouthed and whispered.
Ellen cannot process this torrent of words immediately: she was not broken out of prison for her bedside manner, and she only stares, bland and blank. She works in silence for a moment, her eyes on him as his bones slowly knit into their proper, orderly configuration. "I will," she assures him finally. "I'll run." And then: "You're safe now."
"Shit," the man mutters, to himself. "I'm sorry. Don't waste. Broken-- fine. Just need time." He jerks again; muscles tensing and arching his back, fought back under control by the curled figure. "Thank you."
"No thanks necessary." A ghost of a smile touches Ellen's mouth as she works; there, it warms her gaze a minute fraction even after it's vanished. "We /are/ brothers-in-arms."
The Irish lilt comes through, as Padraig lifts his head, to look gratefully in Ellen's direction. "Arms-- no." He shakes his head. "Death. Sl--" He cuts off, wincing as he shakes his head, and a shiver runs down his body. "Slow. Somehow." There's a set-jaw defiance, which fades into a rabbit in the headlight; wide-eyed and fearful.
Ellen cocks her head, brow furrowing puzzlement. "Death?" she repeats. Her work continues, consciousness sliding away from finished work with Padraig's ribs to simpler healing of his lacerations. "What death? -- Walk with me," she adds. The fingers of one hand stay touching his face, skin to skin, but she slides the other arm over to his back, pulling up on one knee as she prepares to stand and help him rise.
"For her," Padraig whispers, somewhat furtive as he glances around. Slowly, he comes to his feet, brow still furrowed as he digs into some reserve to keep power away; a few tiny jolts evade him. "Terrible." Apparently calming, he is still unsteady; eyes unfocused and foggy. One arm drifts around, aiming to support himself on Ellen's shoulders.
"I'll deal her her death," Ellen says mildly, "given the opportunity." She pulls her hand away from his face to twist around and face the right direction, ducking neatly under his arm to provide him with the full support of her tall, lean frame. "Close enough to touch," she adds, reaching up with the arm not braced against his back to lay her fingers over his hand as it rests on her shoulder; skin again touching skin, she resumes her work. "That's all I need."
"Ellen?" Padraig says, swiveling his head to regard her with the red-rimmed eyes. "Thank you. Really. I'm... shit. I'm scared." He shakes his head, eyes dropping to the floor, as he slowly wavers along. "You should be. We all should." Haunted, he turns the close-cropped head again, this time to stare resolutely ahead.
Ellen is at first quiet but for the soft step of her shoes across the floor as she assists him towards the sleeping quarters. When she finally speaks, her words are quiet. "We'll all fear what we cannot fight. There's no shame in that."
Padraig twists his lips into a sneer. Again his speech falters; jerky with his movement as he approaches the sleeping area. "I should -- fought. Been able to-- hurt. I think -- sleep." Startling blue eyes are locked onto a bed; a mattress, and he stumbles forward with all haste that he can. "--t shame. Guilt. Magneto."
Ellen steadies him to the best of her ability, manuevering him to the bed that he might fall into it. "Don't be foolish," she says gently. "I've healed your body, but you've a warrior's spirit that needs healing, too. Recrimination will only hinder it. Rest now, let it mend. Do you want a sedative?"
Another sneer, this time preceding a long, low, juddering breath. "Spirit. Yeah-- please. Images. I --nightmares." He crumples into himself, collapsing onto the bed and curling inwards; making himself as small as possible. "Watch for me?"
Ellen has already started to turn away, to retrieve a sedative and a glass of water. She turns only her head, her smile slight and shadowed in profile. "Of course."
The voice comes yet smaller; to match spirit and grasp on reality. "Thank you. You -- owe-- beer." A faint smile drifts onto Padraig's lips, as his eyes close, and his head slowly tilts back.
Ellen returns after only a moment, with water in one hand and pill in the other. She tilts her head at his closed eyes, his slump against the pillow; then she sets water and medicine down on the rickety table that serves as nightstand. She brushes his forehead with one hand, fingertips light as they tangle briefly through a lock of hair. Then she turns and moves to the door at a slow stalk. She turns off the light and then leans against its frame, silent sentinel in the dark.
Padraig delivers his message.