Logs
OOC Need to do some journaling, but need a few free minutes to do that. So for now, you get logs.
<> Level 2 Hallway - Brotherhood HQ
A long corridor, carved out from rock like most of the rest of the complex, is broken here and there by doorways set deep within the stone. The most prominant entrance is that found at the end of the hallway: Two massive, steel doors guard the passage to what must obviously be Magneto's office.
The distant rumbles and crashes of collapsing rock have stilled at last, and only the occasional clatters of remaining chunks falling can be heard. The tang of rock dust is heavy in the air, and clouds of it drift along the passageways of the base, eerie in the blue glow of the emergency panels. Every now and again, a tortured shriek of metal speaks of rock bolts giving way. Every now and again, a tortured shriek of another sort speaks of victims trapped behind or beneath rubble. And down the hallway to Magneto's office? There's nothing but the steady, even pacing of a pair of boots.
Punctuating the even tread of boots is another footfall, padded as Pyro had only time to throw on his uniform and race upstairs. His own footware is still underneath some bed. Which may very well be underneath 4 tons of rock by now. His softer step is accompanied by a "Fancy meeting you here...Dr. Grey." Pyro closes part of the gap between them, approaching from the other end of the hall. "Didn't really believe Blitz til I saw it with me own eyes. Ov'all the people I'd expect for an assault... you're the last one."
"Go away, John," murmurs the Dark Phoenix, tilting her head consideringly at the young man in her way. No particular malice is bourne him, her former student, but the whims and memories of a madwoman are terribly capricious things. "You're a little boy playing war, still. My quarrel is not with you."
Pyro's narrow to a potent glare, which were it accompanied by laser beams or other cool power, might prove deadly. Alas, no beams for this mutant. The corner of his mouth twitches, and his fists alternately flex. "The name's Pyro," he says, voice tight to match the glare. "That's why I left, you know. Because at least here, they take me seriously. And it seems that /you're/ the one who's come to my home to make war." He takes a step closer, bracing his feet in defiance. "And I won't let you."
"John," the creature reiterates, more firmly this time, with resonant power beneath her words. "Go away. You left because you were impatient. You became a murderer for the thrill of doing something. You let yourself be led around by whatever group promises you the most fun, and you consider this maturity?" At one she laughs, and waves a hand, slamming him into high a wall with a wave of telekinetic force that cracks ribs but doesn't do permanent harm. A warning shot. "Go away, boy, or I'll treat you like the man you oh so desperately want to be."
Pyro hits the wall then to his knees, his face paling as the pain arcs through his side. His head snaps back up almost as quickly, though, eyes burning with an inner fire of his own. "You bitch," he spits at her, pushing up to his feet. "Maybe you are the only one that took any time for me, but hell as that means you know anything about me. The name--" Pushing off from the wall, he throws one hand down, pressing the trigger in the palm and letting the flames race up his arm. "Is Pyro." Fire leaps up, engulfing the other arm. "Not Boy." The the twin fires meet, covering his chest in a breastplate of light and heat. "Not John. Pyro." He spits the name back at here, letting the fire plunge toward the floor. "And more than man enough for the likes of you." He lifts an arm, sending three rapid-fire balls of flame racing down the hall toward her.
"No," the dark Phoenix replies, oh so very calmly throwing up a telekinetic shield. The first of the fireballs rolls and roils across it like waves crashing ashore. "Your -name- is St. John Allerdyce. You were a young man with a future. With promise. With people who cared about you. And you threw it all away," she states. "For a chance to be a hero right away, right now. Some -hero- you are. Terrorist. The very people you care about hate everything you stand for. And who do you have in return? An aging madman to lead you? A bevy of insane Amazons vying for his favours? Thugs and psychopaths for your friends and comrades?" With each sentence, she advances a little closer, further fireballs illuminating the shield and sputtering out in the blue darkness. "Go away, John." she orders. And this time, there's the weight of telepathic suggestion behind it. And, by the intensity of it, she means more than just away from her. Away from the Island seems to be the goal.
"What do you know about any of it?" Pyro chokes out. It's a good thing there's intense heat swirling about him. Evaporates the...sweat around his eyes. Yeah, sweat. His face twists, trying to stare her down and fight against her advance. "Get out of my head! You're life is perfect. You've got your little world under control. Your degrees done before, before registration," he spits out the world. "While mutants can still get degrees. While they could walk the streets. While-- you don't know anything about it. It won't be that way, if humans have anything to do with it." He takes a step backwards, almost without realizing he's doing so. "You and the professor and everyone there can sit around and pretend it's not happening or that you can convince them otherwise, but you /can't/. You /won't/." Another step back. "Call me names, but I'm doing what I have to to stop it. Just... just leave me alone," he says, voice faltering as his stance shifts, leaning away.
Quietly, intensely, burning eyes settled unblinking upon Pyro, Jean continues to advance along the tunnel towards Magneto's office. To advance towards her former student now standing in her way. "I've been fighting this fight since you were a toddler, John." she counters his arguments in a low purr, dangerous and rock solid in a firmness that, for once, doesn't give a damn for how the other side feels about it. "And do you know how very -tired- I have gotten of taking things slowly? Of making moves with consideration and foresight, only to have noble -idiots- like yourself come charging in to save the day for mutants and end up making things worse? Every prison the Brotherhood raids, every politician you kill only gives them reason to fear us. Every building you bomb, every child you kill lets them sleep well at night, supporting registration. Your impatience is what will doom us all. And -I- have grown tired of putting up with it, of making excuses, of explaining you away. Now go." she states, reaching into his mind again to implant an order, not a suggestion this time. "I'll be killing no more here today." There's a brief resurfacing of a more conventional Jean. She places her hand to his cheek like one imparting a blessing. And then the Phoenix fires rise again, and she pushes past him to walk the final leg to Magneto's office, not looking back.
The light outside does not filter this deep. The underground lake shimmers quietly with reflected blue light. A bright, crackling line of sparks swings in practised arcs; each designed to improve the skill of the wielder. Intently focused on the blade in his hand, Blitz maintains the power flow through the metal.
Pyro meanders down through the tunnel toward the lake, no rushed pace here, although his Toad-issued getup might indicate some intent to practice himself. Seeing the area occupied, he stands in the shadows a moment, watching Padraig. A quick smirk comes to face and when the other's back is turned, he steps into the open area behind him. A quick snap sends a small arc of fire into the air, forming a blade of sorts in his own hand. "En guarde, evil fiend!"
At the first word, Padraig is spinning, the blade in his hand coming forth and ready to drive forwards; blossoming into a greater conflagration of power. Eyes lock on to the other weapon, and his deadly level glare immediately disappears behind a broad grin. "Bring it, bitch," says he, wavering his weapon ahead of him.
"Man, you're damn scary," Pyro snickers, his eyes flicker from Padraig's face to the blade as he circles to the left. "Glad we're on the same side." The fire in hand gets a glare as he focuses on it, swinging it around successfully without much wavering.
"I'm a big, fluffy bear, really," Padraig replies, levelly if tinted by a little tease. "So, how about it? Mano a mano, my boy?" he questions, before swiftly moving into a set of rapid; if abortive strikes.
"Brush up on your spanish, mate," Pyro grins, though that fades as Padraig's blade passes right through his own. "Damn, stupid fire." He backsteps, the blade vanishing as he darts out of the way of the attack. His face screws up as the blade reappears, a murderous gaze at the fire. "Behave yourself," he mutters, resuming stance.
Rapidly, Padraig reels off a list of curses and abuse in Irish Gaelic, before breaking into a laugh. "Make it do what its told," he says, with a flashed grin. "Thought you'd have it down by now."
"Doesn't have to be solid to burn your sorry ass," Pyro mutters, most his attention directed to the blade in hand. "The fire doesn't /like/ being solid and not being able to flicker whichever way. And no, I'm not crazy, taking to my flames."
A frown of concentration brings the whipping aura to full fruition; as strong as it can be; almost blinding in the darkness if it is directly looked at. Padraig levels the shining blue eyes of his on his opponent, and brings forth a grin etched by battle-fury. "Make it solid. Block." And the sword sweeps; strong and powerful, but nonetheless ready to stop if Pyro fails to block.
The blades meet with a dull thud, metal on... well, raw combustion. A faint smile of satisfaction appears as Pyro shoves the blade away, his own eyes gleaming with a bit of success. "Never done a sword before," he comments, sidestepping into a better stance. "Mostly throwing stars. Pun intended," he grins.
The bright blue shine of eyes fades, the sparks along the blade absorbing back into their master. He flashes a grin for the other's little quip, but it twitches mirthlessly. "You've got an advantage over most people," Padraig tells him. "Imagine if that was a metal blade."
"Gawd, remind me to fight with wooden sticks next time we spar," Pyro says. "Good thing I'm not some watery tart either, eh? In for a bit of a shock." The flame vanishes without a second glance, and Pyro wanders over to the cave wall, leaning against it. "So /quiet/ around here anymore."
"Very true," Padraig grins. "I could fry your little ass six ways from Sunday, and still have enough left to power the hair-dryer for Amara." His laugh rings out; rich and loud, and echoes amongst the rocky expanse of the caves. "Too quiet. People died; others are moping. I'm still going to murder that Grey bitch."
Pyro's hand reaches instinctively for the recently healed ribs. "She... she's changed. Never would have thought she had it in her. I mean, when I was there, rumors always went around, but they always tried to keep us k-- students from finding much out. Grey especially."
The Irishman's face twitches; a tick by his eye. "I forgot you know her," he mutters, irritably. "She's fucking evil. Telepath, telekinetic, and a traitor to her kind. Who -knows- what's going on her head? Reckon your info could help take her down, you know."
"Yeah, well, would be nice to know those years weren't /entirely/ wasted," Pyro scowls. "Dun like telepaths much anyways. Nice to keep my thoughts to myself."
"Your information could prove invaluable, if someone wanted to use it," Padraig says, with a nonchalant shrug. A sneer twitches at his upper lip. "I hate 'em. My head's the only place I got, you know? Last bastion of privacy."
"Hard 'nuff watching what you /say/ let alone what you think," Pyro shrugs. "So...you been practicing here a lot?"
Yeah," Padraig agrees, with a hint of a sullen defiance scowling his words through. He glances up to the other, then nods, flashing another grin. "Mystique got me started, and I'm getting good. Works for my-- my skills, and everything. How's your training coming?"
"Working on this solid-state stuff mostly," Pyro shrugs. "Some progress, too slow for my liking. Could have all sorts of uses if I can get it to act consistently."
Padraig tilts his head over, regarding his comrade for a long moment. "Why's it not consistent? What're you missing, man?" Dropping serious, now.
"Hell as I know," Pyro scowls. "You saw. Sometimes I'm focusing right on it, trying to keep it solid and stuff passes right through it. Worse when I'm /not/ completely concentrating. Think it's just stretching what my powers can do. Maybe more than they're able, but I'm not believing that. Cuz, like, imagine smacking you upside the head from across the room and having the evidence vanish before you could turn around." The last bit is attempted deadpan, but the smirk belies it. "Guess, though, to answer, I just don't think I've stretched my limits enough yet to hold it always steady."
The grins shifts, becoming predatory. "Sounds like a man desperately in need of some hardcore testing," Padraig suggests, now regarding his friend from up and underneath lowered brows. "I bet you've got power in there most can only dream of, Pyro. We'll get Ellen to watch over a -real- training session. Soon."
"Oh, god, I can't wait," Pyro retorts, though he puffs up ever so slightly at the compliment. "I stood in her way, Blitz, but I couldn't do anything," he says, after a moment. "She just flung me aside like... a paper doll--no comments from the peanut gallery," he adds hastily.
"She didn't even bother flinging me," Padraig replies, stonily. "I was powerless. She rifled through my head, fucked with me, everything. You're not alone." He slowly raises his sword; arm straight and eyeing the blade. "She needs to die."
"Die," Pyro lets the word roll around his mouth. "Funny how she didn't think about the ones who died here, but it's so hard to think of killing her. Anyone, I guess. Gah, I know what we're doing is right, and whatever it takes, but... somedays I think I'll never leave that... school behind."
Padraig nods, once. "Yes," he says, simply, "you will. You did, the moment you stepped onto this island." Eyes focus on the tip of his blade, and he stands motionless for a long moment. "Your past matters, but the present and future matter more."
Pyro snickers. "What a pair. Me all emo and you the philosopher. Guess I'm still...recovering," he mutters, staring down at the wrist mechanisms on his suit.
"A pair of damn sexy emo philosophers," Padraig retorts suddenly, swiveling his head to flash a huge grin; all teeth and good humour. "You need to get laid. That's all."
"Fat chance of that around here," Pyro rolls his eyes. "They're all taken or would rip 'em right off. And kinda hard on the mainland being a most wanted."
Padraig breaks into a chuckle. "Most wanted my ass. Get yourself into a bar -- I'll wingman for you -- and we'll get you laid with some human slut." Wryly, his lips twist into a grimace. "Not that the boss is likely to let us go galavanting off any time soon."
"Advocating sleeping with a human," Pyro smirks. "Keep it up and you might get yourself thrown right /off/ the island. Though really, as long as we lay low, I think whether we're here or there is the least of his concerns at the moment. And hell, a few more pounds, and I might actually get a second glance, eh?"
"You can have the ugly sister," Padraig promises him, gravely. A little sneer again twitches at his lip. "Maybe you can throw a few proper genes into their pool, eh? I disagree, though. When I was truly screwed up, the boss was there. He cares."
"Eh, just mean that he seems more willing to let us do our thing," Pyro shrugs, ignoring the other comment entirely. "Lot on their minds, for sure. Dwindling numbers being the least of the problems."
"Dwindling numbers?" Padraig queries. "You mean the humans, or the Brotherhood?" Wry and grimacing humour takes hold, there. "I dunno, really. I guess he's got plans for us; for what's going to happen." Shrug. The sword point lowers, as Padraig follows it down with his eyes.
"Us, not them. If only," Pyro shrugs. "Seniors. Recruits. Dead. Injured. Yes, it was Jean Grey, but she's just /one/ mutant and lookit us."
"The weak die, the strong survive," Padraig-the-philosopher intones. "Grey's powerful. -Very- powerful. If only we could harnass that..." He trails off, before the sneer again twitches at his lips. "Shame she'll be dead. Anyway. I gotta go eat."
"Well, I should practice like I started out. Might join you later on, tho," Pyro nods. "Thanks for the exercise. And other stuff too. We'll have to see about that bar."
"And that practise match," returns the Irishman, as he turns to begin sauntering away, glittering swordpoint swaying with each step. "Laters, buddy."
<> Level 2 Hallway - Brotherhood HQ
A long corridor, carved out from rock like most of the rest of the complex, is broken here and there by doorways set deep within the stone. The most prominant entrance is that found at the end of the hallway: Two massive, steel doors guard the passage to what must obviously be Magneto's office.
The distant rumbles and crashes of collapsing rock have stilled at last, and only the occasional clatters of remaining chunks falling can be heard. The tang of rock dust is heavy in the air, and clouds of it drift along the passageways of the base, eerie in the blue glow of the emergency panels. Every now and again, a tortured shriek of metal speaks of rock bolts giving way. Every now and again, a tortured shriek of another sort speaks of victims trapped behind or beneath rubble. And down the hallway to Magneto's office? There's nothing but the steady, even pacing of a pair of boots.
Punctuating the even tread of boots is another footfall, padded as Pyro had only time to throw on his uniform and race upstairs. His own footware is still underneath some bed. Which may very well be underneath 4 tons of rock by now. His softer step is accompanied by a "Fancy meeting you here...Dr. Grey." Pyro closes part of the gap between them, approaching from the other end of the hall. "Didn't really believe Blitz til I saw it with me own eyes. Ov'all the people I'd expect for an assault... you're the last one."
"Go away, John," murmurs the Dark Phoenix, tilting her head consideringly at the young man in her way. No particular malice is bourne him, her former student, but the whims and memories of a madwoman are terribly capricious things. "You're a little boy playing war, still. My quarrel is not with you."
Pyro's narrow to a potent glare, which were it accompanied by laser beams or other cool power, might prove deadly. Alas, no beams for this mutant. The corner of his mouth twitches, and his fists alternately flex. "The name's Pyro," he says, voice tight to match the glare. "That's why I left, you know. Because at least here, they take me seriously. And it seems that /you're/ the one who's come to my home to make war." He takes a step closer, bracing his feet in defiance. "And I won't let you."
"John," the creature reiterates, more firmly this time, with resonant power beneath her words. "Go away. You left because you were impatient. You became a murderer for the thrill of doing something. You let yourself be led around by whatever group promises you the most fun, and you consider this maturity?" At one she laughs, and waves a hand, slamming him into high a wall with a wave of telekinetic force that cracks ribs but doesn't do permanent harm. A warning shot. "Go away, boy, or I'll treat you like the man you oh so desperately want to be."
Pyro hits the wall then to his knees, his face paling as the pain arcs through his side. His head snaps back up almost as quickly, though, eyes burning with an inner fire of his own. "You bitch," he spits at her, pushing up to his feet. "Maybe you are the only one that took any time for me, but hell as that means you know anything about me. The name--" Pushing off from the wall, he throws one hand down, pressing the trigger in the palm and letting the flames race up his arm. "Is Pyro." Fire leaps up, engulfing the other arm. "Not Boy." The the twin fires meet, covering his chest in a breastplate of light and heat. "Not John. Pyro." He spits the name back at here, letting the fire plunge toward the floor. "And more than man enough for the likes of you." He lifts an arm, sending three rapid-fire balls of flame racing down the hall toward her.
"No," the dark Phoenix replies, oh so very calmly throwing up a telekinetic shield. The first of the fireballs rolls and roils across it like waves crashing ashore. "Your -name- is St. John Allerdyce. You were a young man with a future. With promise. With people who cared about you. And you threw it all away," she states. "For a chance to be a hero right away, right now. Some -hero- you are. Terrorist. The very people you care about hate everything you stand for. And who do you have in return? An aging madman to lead you? A bevy of insane Amazons vying for his favours? Thugs and psychopaths for your friends and comrades?" With each sentence, she advances a little closer, further fireballs illuminating the shield and sputtering out in the blue darkness. "Go away, John." she orders. And this time, there's the weight of telepathic suggestion behind it. And, by the intensity of it, she means more than just away from her. Away from the Island seems to be the goal.
"What do you know about any of it?" Pyro chokes out. It's a good thing there's intense heat swirling about him. Evaporates the...sweat around his eyes. Yeah, sweat. His face twists, trying to stare her down and fight against her advance. "Get out of my head! You're life is perfect. You've got your little world under control. Your degrees done before, before registration," he spits out the world. "While mutants can still get degrees. While they could walk the streets. While-- you don't know anything about it. It won't be that way, if humans have anything to do with it." He takes a step backwards, almost without realizing he's doing so. "You and the professor and everyone there can sit around and pretend it's not happening or that you can convince them otherwise, but you /can't/. You /won't/." Another step back. "Call me names, but I'm doing what I have to to stop it. Just... just leave me alone," he says, voice faltering as his stance shifts, leaning away.
Quietly, intensely, burning eyes settled unblinking upon Pyro, Jean continues to advance along the tunnel towards Magneto's office. To advance towards her former student now standing in her way. "I've been fighting this fight since you were a toddler, John." she counters his arguments in a low purr, dangerous and rock solid in a firmness that, for once, doesn't give a damn for how the other side feels about it. "And do you know how very -tired- I have gotten of taking things slowly? Of making moves with consideration and foresight, only to have noble -idiots- like yourself come charging in to save the day for mutants and end up making things worse? Every prison the Brotherhood raids, every politician you kill only gives them reason to fear us. Every building you bomb, every child you kill lets them sleep well at night, supporting registration. Your impatience is what will doom us all. And -I- have grown tired of putting up with it, of making excuses, of explaining you away. Now go." she states, reaching into his mind again to implant an order, not a suggestion this time. "I'll be killing no more here today." There's a brief resurfacing of a more conventional Jean. She places her hand to his cheek like one imparting a blessing. And then the Phoenix fires rise again, and she pushes past him to walk the final leg to Magneto's office, not looking back.
The light outside does not filter this deep. The underground lake shimmers quietly with reflected blue light. A bright, crackling line of sparks swings in practised arcs; each designed to improve the skill of the wielder. Intently focused on the blade in his hand, Blitz maintains the power flow through the metal.
Pyro meanders down through the tunnel toward the lake, no rushed pace here, although his Toad-issued getup might indicate some intent to practice himself. Seeing the area occupied, he stands in the shadows a moment, watching Padraig. A quick smirk comes to face and when the other's back is turned, he steps into the open area behind him. A quick snap sends a small arc of fire into the air, forming a blade of sorts in his own hand. "En guarde, evil fiend!"
At the first word, Padraig is spinning, the blade in his hand coming forth and ready to drive forwards; blossoming into a greater conflagration of power. Eyes lock on to the other weapon, and his deadly level glare immediately disappears behind a broad grin. "Bring it, bitch," says he, wavering his weapon ahead of him.
"Man, you're damn scary," Pyro snickers, his eyes flicker from Padraig's face to the blade as he circles to the left. "Glad we're on the same side." The fire in hand gets a glare as he focuses on it, swinging it around successfully without much wavering.
"I'm a big, fluffy bear, really," Padraig replies, levelly if tinted by a little tease. "So, how about it? Mano a mano, my boy?" he questions, before swiftly moving into a set of rapid; if abortive strikes.
"Brush up on your spanish, mate," Pyro grins, though that fades as Padraig's blade passes right through his own. "Damn, stupid fire." He backsteps, the blade vanishing as he darts out of the way of the attack. His face screws up as the blade reappears, a murderous gaze at the fire. "Behave yourself," he mutters, resuming stance.
Rapidly, Padraig reels off a list of curses and abuse in Irish Gaelic, before breaking into a laugh. "Make it do what its told," he says, with a flashed grin. "Thought you'd have it down by now."
"Doesn't have to be solid to burn your sorry ass," Pyro mutters, most his attention directed to the blade in hand. "The fire doesn't /like/ being solid and not being able to flicker whichever way. And no, I'm not crazy, taking to my flames."
A frown of concentration brings the whipping aura to full fruition; as strong as it can be; almost blinding in the darkness if it is directly looked at. Padraig levels the shining blue eyes of his on his opponent, and brings forth a grin etched by battle-fury. "Make it solid. Block." And the sword sweeps; strong and powerful, but nonetheless ready to stop if Pyro fails to block.
The blades meet with a dull thud, metal on... well, raw combustion. A faint smile of satisfaction appears as Pyro shoves the blade away, his own eyes gleaming with a bit of success. "Never done a sword before," he comments, sidestepping into a better stance. "Mostly throwing stars. Pun intended," he grins.
The bright blue shine of eyes fades, the sparks along the blade absorbing back into their master. He flashes a grin for the other's little quip, but it twitches mirthlessly. "You've got an advantage over most people," Padraig tells him. "Imagine if that was a metal blade."
"Gawd, remind me to fight with wooden sticks next time we spar," Pyro says. "Good thing I'm not some watery tart either, eh? In for a bit of a shock." The flame vanishes without a second glance, and Pyro wanders over to the cave wall, leaning against it. "So /quiet/ around here anymore."
"Very true," Padraig grins. "I could fry your little ass six ways from Sunday, and still have enough left to power the hair-dryer for Amara." His laugh rings out; rich and loud, and echoes amongst the rocky expanse of the caves. "Too quiet. People died; others are moping. I'm still going to murder that Grey bitch."
Pyro's hand reaches instinctively for the recently healed ribs. "She... she's changed. Never would have thought she had it in her. I mean, when I was there, rumors always went around, but they always tried to keep us k-- students from finding much out. Grey especially."
The Irishman's face twitches; a tick by his eye. "I forgot you know her," he mutters, irritably. "She's fucking evil. Telepath, telekinetic, and a traitor to her kind. Who -knows- what's going on her head? Reckon your info could help take her down, you know."
"Yeah, well, would be nice to know those years weren't /entirely/ wasted," Pyro scowls. "Dun like telepaths much anyways. Nice to keep my thoughts to myself."
"Your information could prove invaluable, if someone wanted to use it," Padraig says, with a nonchalant shrug. A sneer twitches at his upper lip. "I hate 'em. My head's the only place I got, you know? Last bastion of privacy."
"Hard 'nuff watching what you /say/ let alone what you think," Pyro shrugs. "So...you been practicing here a lot?"
Yeah," Padraig agrees, with a hint of a sullen defiance scowling his words through. He glances up to the other, then nods, flashing another grin. "Mystique got me started, and I'm getting good. Works for my-- my skills, and everything. How's your training coming?"
"Working on this solid-state stuff mostly," Pyro shrugs. "Some progress, too slow for my liking. Could have all sorts of uses if I can get it to act consistently."
Padraig tilts his head over, regarding his comrade for a long moment. "Why's it not consistent? What're you missing, man?" Dropping serious, now.
"Hell as I know," Pyro scowls. "You saw. Sometimes I'm focusing right on it, trying to keep it solid and stuff passes right through it. Worse when I'm /not/ completely concentrating. Think it's just stretching what my powers can do. Maybe more than they're able, but I'm not believing that. Cuz, like, imagine smacking you upside the head from across the room and having the evidence vanish before you could turn around." The last bit is attempted deadpan, but the smirk belies it. "Guess, though, to answer, I just don't think I've stretched my limits enough yet to hold it always steady."
The grins shifts, becoming predatory. "Sounds like a man desperately in need of some hardcore testing," Padraig suggests, now regarding his friend from up and underneath lowered brows. "I bet you've got power in there most can only dream of, Pyro. We'll get Ellen to watch over a -real- training session. Soon."
"Oh, god, I can't wait," Pyro retorts, though he puffs up ever so slightly at the compliment. "I stood in her way, Blitz, but I couldn't do anything," he says, after a moment. "She just flung me aside like... a paper doll--no comments from the peanut gallery," he adds hastily.
"She didn't even bother flinging me," Padraig replies, stonily. "I was powerless. She rifled through my head, fucked with me, everything. You're not alone." He slowly raises his sword; arm straight and eyeing the blade. "She needs to die."
"Die," Pyro lets the word roll around his mouth. "Funny how she didn't think about the ones who died here, but it's so hard to think of killing her. Anyone, I guess. Gah, I know what we're doing is right, and whatever it takes, but... somedays I think I'll never leave that... school behind."
Padraig nods, once. "Yes," he says, simply, "you will. You did, the moment you stepped onto this island." Eyes focus on the tip of his blade, and he stands motionless for a long moment. "Your past matters, but the present and future matter more."
Pyro snickers. "What a pair. Me all emo and you the philosopher. Guess I'm still...recovering," he mutters, staring down at the wrist mechanisms on his suit.
"A pair of damn sexy emo philosophers," Padraig retorts suddenly, swiveling his head to flash a huge grin; all teeth and good humour. "You need to get laid. That's all."
"Fat chance of that around here," Pyro rolls his eyes. "They're all taken or would rip 'em right off. And kinda hard on the mainland being a most wanted."
Padraig breaks into a chuckle. "Most wanted my ass. Get yourself into a bar -- I'll wingman for you -- and we'll get you laid with some human slut." Wryly, his lips twist into a grimace. "Not that the boss is likely to let us go galavanting off any time soon."
"Advocating sleeping with a human," Pyro smirks. "Keep it up and you might get yourself thrown right /off/ the island. Though really, as long as we lay low, I think whether we're here or there is the least of his concerns at the moment. And hell, a few more pounds, and I might actually get a second glance, eh?"
"You can have the ugly sister," Padraig promises him, gravely. A little sneer again twitches at his lip. "Maybe you can throw a few proper genes into their pool, eh? I disagree, though. When I was truly screwed up, the boss was there. He cares."
"Eh, just mean that he seems more willing to let us do our thing," Pyro shrugs, ignoring the other comment entirely. "Lot on their minds, for sure. Dwindling numbers being the least of the problems."
"Dwindling numbers?" Padraig queries. "You mean the humans, or the Brotherhood?" Wry and grimacing humour takes hold, there. "I dunno, really. I guess he's got plans for us; for what's going to happen." Shrug. The sword point lowers, as Padraig follows it down with his eyes.
"Us, not them. If only," Pyro shrugs. "Seniors. Recruits. Dead. Injured. Yes, it was Jean Grey, but she's just /one/ mutant and lookit us."
"The weak die, the strong survive," Padraig-the-philosopher intones. "Grey's powerful. -Very- powerful. If only we could harnass that..." He trails off, before the sneer again twitches at his lips. "Shame she'll be dead. Anyway. I gotta go eat."
"Well, I should practice like I started out. Might join you later on, tho," Pyro nods. "Thanks for the exercise. And other stuff too. We'll have to see about that bar."
"And that practise match," returns the Irishman, as he turns to begin sauntering away, glittering swordpoint swaying with each step. "Laters, buddy."