Logs
OOC Attempt to get caught up with log posting, Geez, these are old.
Subway - Line D
With a clickety-clack and a snickety-snack, the train car halts at the station and opens its doors. More people get out than get in: business workers heading home at the end of the day, teenagers bopping together in loud groups, couples going to dinner or herding children back from daycare. The older woman sitting near one of the doors lifts her head briefly, apparently listening to the change in her car's volume and fill. She adjusts the lean of her long white cane against her leg's blue slacks, and tucks her brown raincoat's belt closer to her body in case anyone comes along to sit beside her. By the prim, contained, controlled erectness of her posture -- from planted feet to level sunglassed eyes -- she does not seem concerned by that possibility.
Jason is one of the arrivals from the station, if not alone, his steps paired by some Australian gent. Jason, himself, is incognito. His hair is straight and black, jagging up in a spiked affair half mohawk and half more general porcupine, his nose is large and beaked, and his eyebrow pierced. And when he speaks, his accent is flecked with Brit. "Well, /riiight/, Johnny. Where shall we go to day?" he pronounces with evident self-amusement.
Pyro slides right in through the open doors after his mate, hoodie pulled up over his head. At least for a few more weeks, that provides a viable outfit. And certainly better to portray distasteful teenager than...well, other persona he could likely do. He snags a pole next to the opposite door, leaning against it while watching Jason's movements. Would that there were more diminuative forms of 'Jason.' "Don't care. Though you call me that again..." he trails off, then adds in a mutter, "Could be a bit more bloody crowded here, I s'pose---if that bloke had an extra pound er two."
Alone on her seat's row, then, and all but alone until these fine young gentlemen boarded, Irene maintains her straight-ahead blind stare and brings her cane around into folded hands' grip between her knees. Her head angles just a touch, training ears' open and wary audience on the boys. The train hiccups forward, then settles into smoother motion, heading north at a good, swaying clip.
"Well, looky," Jason segues, completely unconcerned re: physical violence. His heels scuff in time with the hiccup, while his spike-ringed finger juts toward Irene's near-vacant row. "She willowy enough for your tastes, Johnny? Or, remind me, you get cramped next to a wire hanger or what?"
The few people in the car are busy preparing to exit at the next stop, and John flops down onto a newly vacant seat facing the other. "Spiffy," he says dryly, eyes flickering over toward the woman. "I know you're desperate for some female attentions, mate, but have a little self-respect."
Irene's mouth goes flat at the chatter. She draws the cane closer to her body; its scuffed white height rests lightly against her shoulder, braces against the opposite inside ankle. Her head turns with the next stop's arrival, and she shifts as if she might get up and leave with the last passengers. But -- no. When the train resumes its journey, she's still sitting by the door, and still alone but for the boys.
Jason situates himself next to Pyro and across from Irene, his illused eyes lascivious for the part, his real ones flicking over the woman with a kind of chronicalling curiosity. "She's not bad," he says, too-loudly, and addresses Irene only now, "What's your name, miss?"
"Never understand you bloody poms," Pyro shrugs, at least attempting to join the game however half-heartedly. His gaze travels up and down the cane, and he holds up two fingers, waving them back and forth in the space between them.
The yellow-knuckled grip doesn't ease. Irene's voice is just as tight, its Germanic syllables husked out without effort or emotion. "Why do you want to know, sir?"
Jason's lips pull back in a smirk. "Like to know the names of my seatmates. I'm Julian Dark, darling. This is -- hah, Johnny." His eyes flick to the waving fingers with a widened smirk.
Pyro's hand drops back to his lap, and he leans back against the wall, one arm draped over the rail beside. He sends a sidewards glare, the free hand slipping a metallic lighter from his pocket which he clicks open and closed twice before returning it to his pocket in silence.
"I do not think that we will be on this train long enough to become boon companions," is Irene's severe judgment, delivered flatly and still with that dead-ahead stare, waving fingers, clicking lighters, and all. "I would like to be left alone. Please do not bother me, gentlemen, and I will not bother you."
"Not the type to be bothered," Jason purrs with a full-on grin as his eyes case, again, back toward Pyro -- this time with a hint of disappointment. Come-on. They quickly return to Irene, though, meeting gaze for gaze, probing.
Pyro rolls his eyes Jason-ward, before giving a small sigh. He pushes off from his seat, crossing the aisle to lounge against the pole right next to Irene. Even without sight, other senses, none the least, his baggy jeans slapping against her leg have got to betray the figure looming beside.
They do: Irene flinches at the denim slap, but stubbornly holds her place. "Leave me alone," she repeats, lower, harder, without the nice curlicues of social embroidery softening the warning. "Go on your way before you cause trouble."
"'Soy un perdedor,'" Jason sings, dryly enunciated, at Pyro's change of seat, "'I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me?'" He grins massively. "Darling, if you're off to call the cops, we'll get out of your tight little hair-bun. If you're about to attack us with your cane, well, darling, I wanna stick round for that."
Pyro snickers at that. "Yeah, hell, I'd /pay/ to see that. Watchit, Dark," he says, leaning just slightly on the name. "Just yer luck she's a blackbelt or something."
Irene's shoulders fold in protectively, but her head stays proudly up (even if her square chin has taken on a slight tremor, never mind that). "I will not attack you," she tells the young man across the car, "and I will not call the police if you do not attack me." Her head tips toward Pyro, and her mouth hangs into a distasteful curve. "Would you mind please moving back -- Johnny? Your pants seem to be striking me with some regularity. I am sure you don't intend it."
"No one's attacking /no/ one, darling," Jason spreads his hands to "show" how very benign and far from Irene they are. "Unless Johnny's pants are abraiding your leg."
"I've pants enough to go around," Pyro says, making no attempt to move. His head jerks toward the seat beside Irene, motioning for Jason to do something, if he's going to.
"I have no doubt that you possess a sufficiency of trousers, but I don't want them," is Irene's frosty rejoinder to the Australian lad. The British one gets a hard stare of blank, smoked-lens glasses; her eyes, open wide and dark, flutter with involuntary side-to-side twitches behind them. "Is this amusing for you? Is this entertaining?"
Jason's loose motion back says, plainly enough, do what? "She's offended by your pants," he sighs, his voice drawing slow, and mournful as his eyes harden on her lenses, still probing. Not that there's anything more than futile about willing telepathy where there is none. "It's educational," is languid in contrast to the set of his jaw.
"S'pose I could lose them, then," Pyro says aloud, followed by a furious mouthing, something to the effect of "You figure it out--you started this." However much of that is actually understood remains to be seen.
Irene's brows lower, and her eyes squint as if she /were/ seeing -- or only concentrating coldly on a response. "Public exposure is a crime," she grants Johnny helpfully. "I would be grateful not to have them bothering me anymore, and I will not be troubled by the sight of whatever you have beneath them. So, if you wish, proceed."
"Do it, Johnny," Jason says, serious, as his eyes fix right where they are, his eyebrows furrowing in mirror of hers. Come oon.
"Yeah, whatever," Pyro says, leaning across the aisle and flopping back to his seat in one smooth, very teenagesque motion. "She'd not appreciate it, and I'm bloody sure not putting on some free peep show for /you/."
Irene puts in primly, "I would not mind, gentlemen. I cannot see it, and I carry no animosity or phobia against homosexual relations. Do as you will, if it passes the time and does not bother anyone."
Jason breaks eye contact (ah, more or less eyecontact), to lean back into a long laugh. "Oh, come on, Johnny. No one's watching, eh? And I do so fancy you."
"Always knew you were some feckin' poof," Pyro smirks, "Drama queen or whatever, these pants aren't leaving me. Guess you'll have to imagine what you will."
With a touch of relaxation, Irene inclines her head as if in acquiescence to the boys' play (oh, boys!) and points her glasses at her knees. Her hands are looser around her cane, though it stays ready against her shoulder's rest.
"Well, bebother that. I'm all sexually frustrated now and it not even Wednesday yet." Jason pulls a pout, and then impulse grabs him. He half stands, half leans, for the purpose of pressing a sudden kiss on Irene's forehead.
"Get a room, mate," Pyro smirks, looking away a moment in exaggeration. Just a moment, though, before his head swings back to watch the proceedings. With great amusement.
Irene sits stolidly, unseeing, unknowing . . . but once he's close enough, the kinesthetic sense of another's presence, the sound of his breathing-- Her cane snaps up from between her legs to smack hard between his. "No," she says sharply and sits back, away, and feints out with the cane again, just in case.
"AUGH." Illusion flickers and Jason smacks back onto his seat, half sprawled, half coiled, his arms pressed down across his trunk. "Aaaaaugh," he repeats.
Pyro tries to bite back a laugh. Tries. But it still comes across as a barely-stifled snicker. "Told you she might have a blackbelt. Daredevil in an old lady disguise." He gives a brief two-fingered salute across the aisle, still fighting to bring his amusement back under control.
Unamused, Irene turns her face toward young Mr. Dark. "I thought you said that there was no attacking here."
"Yeah, bloody /funny/," Jason snarls, but has enough recovery and presence of mind to regain persona in full, "really bloody funny. That wasn't some bloody /attack/."
"/I/ thought it a hoot," Pyro says, snickers finally dying out, as he leans back again, eyes shifting between the two. Nothing like a little pain to catch interest.
"Violence is not funny." Irene picks up Dark's word and tosses it to Johnny like a hand grenade, followed by another of her severe frowns. It softens a little, a very little, when she turns back to the British lad. "You came too close to me. I reacted to defend myself. I will not apologize for that, but I regret that I hurt you needlessly."
"What a sweet old chick," Jason growls with wince and an exhausted, pained slump against the seat. Attempts at reading behind the glasses are wholly abandoned.
"Sure it is. That's what half of the tele's about these days," Pyro shrugs.
Irene reproves Johnny with good maiden-aunt censure, "A boy your age, you should be studying in school, not wasting your time and your brain on the television. And not, it should go without saying, pestering strangers on the train." She tucks her cane between her knees again and gives them both a short nod: so there.
Jason just grits his teeth and mutters profanity. But it's good natured enough. Beyond the natural edge mortal AGONY gives it, you know.
"Yeah, well, school's just not my thing." Pyro says. No bitterness there, nope, none at all. He pushes up again from his seat, this time still hovering around his side of the car. Out of caning distance.
No matter, since the train has screeched and puffed to a stop and Irene has climbed carefully to her feet with the pole's help. Still holding onto the support, she angles her chin over her shoulder at the boys while the doors are sliding open. "And this is?" she asks Johnny somberly. She shakes her head, flicks twitching eyes toward Dark, then steps off the train.
"Nnng," Jason says and pulls his arms around his face. "Next time, we mug her."
"Next time, you're on your own, mate," Pyro says jovially, settling down into the seat Irene has just vacated and grinning across the alley. "You've got a strong start, but can't hold out. Feckin' poof."
The Rowdy Wrangler
For being not quite the weekend, it's certainly a lively and large crowd out this eve. Pity the poor saps who have to work on the morrow, because there doesn't seem to be any lack of liquor flowing from that fact. For one pyrokinetic and his electrician mate, though, patrolling are done, and there's no plans for an early morning. They've found themselves a nice table, off the main path, but close enough to observe the action. Empty cups exchanged for full, then their cowgirl server's off again. "Least it's not so bloody cold walking around today," Pyro mumbles before lifting his mug. "Cheers, mate."
"Wuss," says Padraig easily, still flicking his glance around to make sure he doesn't shock anyone brushing close. "Cheers. You actually old enough, yet?" He lifts his pint, draining the majority in a gulping ecstasy.
Pyro's eyes shift around a bit. "Uh, sure am," he says, snickering slightly. His beer's not downed quite as quick, but he makes decent progress anyways. "And just because /some/ of you have built in slicker 'n insulated hides doesn't mean the rest of us repel water and cold so much."
The almost-empty glass slaps down on to the table with a thud. "Still say you're just a bit nesh, boy," he announces, with a beaming grin. "What you get for being so fiery-- anyway. We going to pull tonight?"
"ANY-way..." Pyro agrees, jerking his hand out of the habitual pull toward his jacket pocket. "Dunno, either that or was thinking I'd like to see you on /that/ thing," he taunts, head jerking across the room to indicate the mechanical bull. "Or both," he adds wickedly after a moment's thought.
A sneer and a derisive snort comes from Padraig's lips. "I'd own all the New Yorkers on that thing," he announces. He skips a glance over to the most recent failure on the machine. "Don't think these birds could handle me. I'll get 'em warmed up on my little friend, eh?"
"That what the last 'un called it?" Pyro smirks. "Your little friend?" He leans back, out of easy smacking reach, downing the last of his drink before waving across the room to catch their server's attention.
"Depends if you've ever considered yourself a cock, boyo," Padraig returns, without real acidity. He sinks the remainder with ease, before beaming a more than suggestive smile at the incoing cowgirl. He orders a pair of drinks-- and vicious chasers -- before turning his attention back onto Pyro. "Seriously, boy, you need to get laid."
"Yeah, well take a squiz around," Pyro sighs, propping on arm along the backrest behind him. "Not exactly like there's a lot to pick from. Dunno what Americans see in this getup. Not like it's all that hot. Or maybe it's the gals wearing it."
"Just waaaiiiit," Padraig lilts, before punching out a finger. "There. The brunette, with the fat blonde. Cut-off denim shorts. Easy pickings." The finger comes back, to tap against his nose. "Just gotta learn where to look."
Pyro starts to sniff in derision until Padraig finishes. "I was gonna burn you or something if you were pointing at the blonde," he comments. The other warrants a second look. "Eh... so so. Not so bad if you ignore the face. Lookit that beak."
"Shit, man, you ever meet my ex?" Padraig asks, rolling his eyes dramatically for the ceiling. His voice skim quieter; regretful. "Ex." Perking back up, he comes to a full standing position from his seat, to look over the heads of most of the denizens. "Okay. Got one getting close to -my- leagure, so -way- out of yours."
Pyro's reply is cut short by the return of their drinks. He shifts them around on to their rightful positions on the table before craning his neck to see Padraig's target. And immediatly chokes back a laugh. "Yah, good luck. You'll need it, mate."
"Fuck you, buddy," Padraig replies, indignantly, before tilting a look over. "You ever played wingman, bitch?" He reaches for his shot, sliding out a bill with the other hand for the waitress. "Three, two.."
"Nothanks, you can keep yer little buddy to yourself," Pyro smirks right back at him, lifting his own shot in preparation. "Well, here's to luck then. With your luck, my skill and the accents..."
"One," Padraig finishes, flashing a grin before the shot disappears down his throat. His head shivers against the onslaught of alcohol, recovered quickly. "You forgot my damn' good looks and the ripped body I've got going," he replies, easily. "Oh, and your grease. Let's move."
Pyro tosses back the shot, sputtering slightly at the end, as much from amusement as the drink itself. "You just go right on thinking that, mate," he grins, taking a slow breath as the alcohol continues to burn its way down. "Besides, chicks dig pale, scrawny dudes. There's a shirt that says so," he comments, pushing off the table, pausing long enough for a swig of beer before joining Padraig.
Jason steps out of a swirling silver portal that appears in midair, and closes just as suddenly behind him.
So the hefty Irishman strides; deft to avoid the shifting throng to avoid circumstances unforgivable. His target; the tiny blonde chattering amongst her small group of friends. The distance; quite large, currently. He brings forth a beaming smile as he comes closer.
"I-i-i, . . . I-i, I'm hooked on a peeling, high on revealing, that--" Jason, decked in cowboy boots and a tall black hat and a low hanging mustache, pauses just inside the door, rubbing under his sizable nose. His dark eyes are rounding upon Padraig and his incredible journey. The mustache quirks into a smirk.
Pyro runs his fingers through his hair, scowling slightly after Padraig a moment. "Not even..." he sighs, before following in Padraig's wake for the moment, as they make their way across the room. He resists the urge to elbow a few of the louder denizens on the way, sliding around to his side as they move in for the kill.
"-'damn hippy," snarks Padraig, to a passing man with long hair and, apparently, a total lack of motor control. He nudges the fellow aside as he dives in, smiling broadly as he introduces first himself, then his wingman to the girl. Amongst offers of drinks, of course.
Jason purses his lips in a thin whistle post-smirk and trots after the two men, toward Padraig in particular. He moves fast, largely through illused suggestions to the crowd that they want to leave him alone -- by scent, by light nausea, by mild invisible pressure to their knee caps, etc. He plops his elbows down beside the Irish.
Pyro slips onto one of the empty stools at the introduction, throwing in an exaggerated "Gidday, mates," with his grin. It grows slightly forced as the cowboy joins them, and he rolls his eyes at the man, picking out one of ladies to demonstrate this display.
Padraig moves easily into his routing; jarred from it by the appearance of the hatted figure. Leaning forwards, he manages to whisper into his target's ear, "Reckon he bought that 'tache from the Village People?" He shoots a glance to Pyro, that jerks over to Jason in a mute disbelief.
Jason smirks again, dragging two fingers from the sides of his mouth to draw up his mustaches. This makes his face look oddly like it's set in a very happy grimace. Indeed, he goes so far as to stick his tongue out.
Pyro offers a small shrug Padraigward. He murmurs something to the gal beside him, earning a quick giggle before turning his attention back to Jason. "So whatcher name, /pardner/?" Pyro says, attempting a very affected western accent.
Padraig murmurs another couple of things to the target, eliciting a smile and a coy little glance. He straightens up to turn, resting an arm nearby, but not quite on, the girl. He watches Pyro, and the Pardner, with interest.
Jason pulls in his tongue, drops the sides of his mustache, and mutters, with due solemnity and an edge of affront, "Wyngardia Leviosa." He turns and stars for the door with a clack of his boots.
"-Jason-?" comes a surprised Irish lilt.
"Losers," Jason sniffs over his shoulder.
"--the -hell-? St.John-- Christ." PAdraig blinks disbelief after the retreating form. "He follow us here?"
Pyro chokes back surprise, clearing his throat slightly at the name before meeting Padraig's gaze. "Dunno. You think...?" His eyes roam their table skeptically.
The clack clack of the boots fade toward the door. A whistle starts up and lingers a little longer.
"Nah," Padraig says. "We'd've been slapped by now. Right?" He flicks a glance to the target, who breaks into a laugh from something she appears to find amusing.
"Yeah, kay, well if you're wrong, I'm gonna kill you," Pyro mutters. Beautiful time for the drinks to arrive. Pyro takes his, using the movement to edge his stool closer to the bench beside him, then lifting the mug high with a 'Cheers.'
"How many times do I have to tell you?" Padraig says, throwing a mock-exasperated look to the skies, as his arm edges closer to the target. "Kick your ass -any- time."
"Bring it on, bring it on," Pyro says, winking at the girl next to him. "Soooo..." he says, turning slightly to ignore Padraig, accent becoming somewhat more pronounced. "You'll have to excuse him. He's still a bit bent out of shape at Munster's game last night."
"You mean because we play with a proper-shaped ball?" wonders Padraig, aside to the Target. "See, now these convicts, they only know how to run around and hit each other. In -rugby-, one hits the other fellow with style."
"Show you just how much style I can hit with," Pyro says over his shoulder before leaning in toward Target de Dos, and further mumbling sweet Aussie nothings her way.
"Two inches doesn't give much of a striking surface," Padraig ripostes, with friendly venom sharpening his accent to a barb. Then he turns to concentrate on the Target, friendly and personable fellow that he is.
Abandoned Upper Floor - Living Color Tattoo (#2383RA)
Rainy Thursday evening. Could be a decent enough night for stuff to happen, but there's already a few outside watching. So Pyro's simply propped over in one of the corners, one of the ugly military blankets thrown over his knees as he peers at the book in hand. Charles Dickens, however incogruous the cover seems in his hand.
Heavy footsteps thud up the stairs, preamble to the appearance of a stocky black man with wide shoulders and a shaved head. His voice rumbles low greeting as he enters the apartment. "Pyro."
The book is slowly set aside, one hand snaking under the blanket, reaching for the lighter in his pocket. Not revealed just yet, though. "Come again?" Pyro replies, trying to keep the telltale traces of accent from his words. "Can...I help you with something?"
Chocolate eyes drop to the blanket, and a wicked smile curves the man's lips before he slithers into sleek blue. "Are you enjoying the book?"
Pyro relaxes at the change, pushing the blanket aside and finding his way to his feet, clacking the lighter once before putting it away. "Be prepared? Those scoutie's motto or something like that?" he shrugs, glancing at the book on the floor. "Not such a bad way to pass the time, I figure."
"If you'd attacked me," Mystique points out as she crosses the room. "You could have sent the entire place up in flames."
"But lived and sent a signal to the others that we'd been discovered..." Pyro replies in a hopefully respectful counter. "I waited, though. No sense firing off early..."
"You really ought to learn to take care of yourself without relying on such a tricky gift," Mystique suggests as she approaches the window and peers through the slit in the curtain to the street below. "It is not always appropriate."
"Well, the powers that be didn't see fit to grace me with a physique designed for closehand combat," Pyro says, frowning slightly. "Not that I've not been trying," he adds hastily. "Working out and sparring with the others. Blitz especially. Sometimes powers, sometimes not. Cuz yer right, of course. Just hard to know you've got this power then...not use it. While you're getting beaten on."
Mystique turns to regard Pyro over her shoulder with a brief glance before she nods. "When I return, we'll work on that," she suggests.
Pyro just blinks for a moment, then slowly nods. "Thanks," he adds. "That'd be ace. Be a mite better for nights like this, I suppose," he says, head jerking toward the falling rain outside.
"You dislike the rain?"
Pyro shrugs at the question. "Not in my element, for sure," he replies after a moment. "It's not bad when I'm suited up, but hard to keep a normal fire going like that. And I can't very well depend on always being in uniform, no matter /how/ well it fits under street clothes."
"Even indoors?" Mystique asks in curiousity. She turns to face him fully and nods toward Pyro's lighter. "It's more difficult?"
"Only when the roof leaks," Pyro smirks slightly. He pauses a moment, before adding a more thoughtful answer. "I never really thought about it, but I guess it is a bit easier when it's not so humid. Raining or otherwise."
"Winter over summer, mm?" Mystique suggests dryly.
"Just don't put me in a rainforest," Pyro grimaces, "And I should be alright."
Mystique tips her head at Pyro consideringly. "How fine is your control?"
"Getting better," he says, leaning back and propping a foot against the wall behind him. "Depends on what I'm trying to do. "Controlling the size isn't so hard. Keeping it solid... well, working on that."
"If you were to attack me, could you keep it from eating the entire building?" Mystique inquires curiously.
"For a while," Pyro nods. "Depends on what kind of attack, really. If you nicely stay on that side of the room where I can throw stuff at you...a long while then. Up close," he pauses a moment. "Depends on how I did it, I guess."
"How would you do it?"
"Smaller is easier to control," Pyro states. "Probably cover my hands, wrists, arms with fire and try to punch or wrestle you down that way. If I let it get much bigger, well, if I fall it'd be hard to keep it from burning the wood. Keeping it contained is just harder when I'm distracted. And I can't afford to let it burn out."
Mystique smiles, small, but approving. "You've given this some thought."
"Well, when you live around any number of people who could take you out with a punch..." Pyro lifts an eyebrow. "Bit of incentive, that. But yeah, trying to think of more practical ways to use it. More than just the big boom, no matter how much I enjoy it."
"You enjoy chaos?"
"No, just big fires," Pyro allows himself a slight grin. "It's... just so powerful. Hard to explain, but, well, I know it's mine. If we can use the chaos to our advantage, though, that's a perk."
Mystique's smile shifts to echo Pyro's grin, and she tips an allowing nod at him. "We use what we have."
"S'why I'm here," Pyro shrugs, crossing the room to glance out one of the other windows at the wet street below. "Hopefully make a difference. Someday."
"You believe in our cause, John?" As his gaze moves away, Mystique turns back to the window to regard the street below.
"More every day," he replies, a slight edge to his voice as he watches a few people rush past, fighting with their umbrellas. "/They're/ certainly not going to fight for us."
"What world would you see us create?"
"Create." Pyro mulls over the world, one hand idly twisting the curtain as he continues to start out into the darkness. "One where we can walk freely without fear of who might find out. Where these abilities don't have to be this deep, dark secret. Something I can be proud of and display no matter who's around. And still be treated as equal. Or maybe that last bit's just some last traces of Xavier in me," he sighs, finally turning back into the room.
Mystique turns her gaze back to Pyro and studies him for a moment in silence.
"Is that the wrong answer," Pyro finally asks when the silence gets to be a bit much for him.
"There's not a right one," Mystique answers simply.
"Guess we'd not be holed up inside here if there was, hmm?"
"It is not an easy thing, to change the world."
Pyro just shrugs. "If we don't, who will?" he mumbles.
Mystique smiles slightly. "That is why we fight." She turns from the window without another word and disappears through the door.
Subway - Line D
With a clickety-clack and a snickety-snack, the train car halts at the station and opens its doors. More people get out than get in: business workers heading home at the end of the day, teenagers bopping together in loud groups, couples going to dinner or herding children back from daycare. The older woman sitting near one of the doors lifts her head briefly, apparently listening to the change in her car's volume and fill. She adjusts the lean of her long white cane against her leg's blue slacks, and tucks her brown raincoat's belt closer to her body in case anyone comes along to sit beside her. By the prim, contained, controlled erectness of her posture -- from planted feet to level sunglassed eyes -- she does not seem concerned by that possibility.
Jason is one of the arrivals from the station, if not alone, his steps paired by some Australian gent. Jason, himself, is incognito. His hair is straight and black, jagging up in a spiked affair half mohawk and half more general porcupine, his nose is large and beaked, and his eyebrow pierced. And when he speaks, his accent is flecked with Brit. "Well, /riiight/, Johnny. Where shall we go to day?" he pronounces with evident self-amusement.
Pyro slides right in through the open doors after his mate, hoodie pulled up over his head. At least for a few more weeks, that provides a viable outfit. And certainly better to portray distasteful teenager than...well, other persona he could likely do. He snags a pole next to the opposite door, leaning against it while watching Jason's movements. Would that there were more diminuative forms of 'Jason.' "Don't care. Though you call me that again..." he trails off, then adds in a mutter, "Could be a bit more bloody crowded here, I s'pose---if that bloke had an extra pound er two."
Alone on her seat's row, then, and all but alone until these fine young gentlemen boarded, Irene maintains her straight-ahead blind stare and brings her cane around into folded hands' grip between her knees. Her head angles just a touch, training ears' open and wary audience on the boys. The train hiccups forward, then settles into smoother motion, heading north at a good, swaying clip.
"Well, looky," Jason segues, completely unconcerned re: physical violence. His heels scuff in time with the hiccup, while his spike-ringed finger juts toward Irene's near-vacant row. "She willowy enough for your tastes, Johnny? Or, remind me, you get cramped next to a wire hanger or what?"
The few people in the car are busy preparing to exit at the next stop, and John flops down onto a newly vacant seat facing the other. "Spiffy," he says dryly, eyes flickering over toward the woman. "I know you're desperate for some female attentions, mate, but have a little self-respect."
Irene's mouth goes flat at the chatter. She draws the cane closer to her body; its scuffed white height rests lightly against her shoulder, braces against the opposite inside ankle. Her head turns with the next stop's arrival, and she shifts as if she might get up and leave with the last passengers. But -- no. When the train resumes its journey, she's still sitting by the door, and still alone but for the boys.
Jason situates himself next to Pyro and across from Irene, his illused eyes lascivious for the part, his real ones flicking over the woman with a kind of chronicalling curiosity. "She's not bad," he says, too-loudly, and addresses Irene only now, "What's your name, miss?"
"Never understand you bloody poms," Pyro shrugs, at least attempting to join the game however half-heartedly. His gaze travels up and down the cane, and he holds up two fingers, waving them back and forth in the space between them.
The yellow-knuckled grip doesn't ease. Irene's voice is just as tight, its Germanic syllables husked out without effort or emotion. "Why do you want to know, sir?"
Jason's lips pull back in a smirk. "Like to know the names of my seatmates. I'm Julian Dark, darling. This is -- hah, Johnny." His eyes flick to the waving fingers with a widened smirk.
Pyro's hand drops back to his lap, and he leans back against the wall, one arm draped over the rail beside. He sends a sidewards glare, the free hand slipping a metallic lighter from his pocket which he clicks open and closed twice before returning it to his pocket in silence.
"I do not think that we will be on this train long enough to become boon companions," is Irene's severe judgment, delivered flatly and still with that dead-ahead stare, waving fingers, clicking lighters, and all. "I would like to be left alone. Please do not bother me, gentlemen, and I will not bother you."
"Not the type to be bothered," Jason purrs with a full-on grin as his eyes case, again, back toward Pyro -- this time with a hint of disappointment. Come-on. They quickly return to Irene, though, meeting gaze for gaze, probing.
Pyro rolls his eyes Jason-ward, before giving a small sigh. He pushes off from his seat, crossing the aisle to lounge against the pole right next to Irene. Even without sight, other senses, none the least, his baggy jeans slapping against her leg have got to betray the figure looming beside.
They do: Irene flinches at the denim slap, but stubbornly holds her place. "Leave me alone," she repeats, lower, harder, without the nice curlicues of social embroidery softening the warning. "Go on your way before you cause trouble."
"'Soy un perdedor,'" Jason sings, dryly enunciated, at Pyro's change of seat, "'I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me?'" He grins massively. "Darling, if you're off to call the cops, we'll get out of your tight little hair-bun. If you're about to attack us with your cane, well, darling, I wanna stick round for that."
Pyro snickers at that. "Yeah, hell, I'd /pay/ to see that. Watchit, Dark," he says, leaning just slightly on the name. "Just yer luck she's a blackbelt or something."
Irene's shoulders fold in protectively, but her head stays proudly up (even if her square chin has taken on a slight tremor, never mind that). "I will not attack you," she tells the young man across the car, "and I will not call the police if you do not attack me." Her head tips toward Pyro, and her mouth hangs into a distasteful curve. "Would you mind please moving back -- Johnny? Your pants seem to be striking me with some regularity. I am sure you don't intend it."
"No one's attacking /no/ one, darling," Jason spreads his hands to "show" how very benign and far from Irene they are. "Unless Johnny's pants are abraiding your leg."
"I've pants enough to go around," Pyro says, making no attempt to move. His head jerks toward the seat beside Irene, motioning for Jason to do something, if he's going to.
"I have no doubt that you possess a sufficiency of trousers, but I don't want them," is Irene's frosty rejoinder to the Australian lad. The British one gets a hard stare of blank, smoked-lens glasses; her eyes, open wide and dark, flutter with involuntary side-to-side twitches behind them. "Is this amusing for you? Is this entertaining?"
Jason's loose motion back says, plainly enough, do what? "She's offended by your pants," he sighs, his voice drawing slow, and mournful as his eyes harden on her lenses, still probing. Not that there's anything more than futile about willing telepathy where there is none. "It's educational," is languid in contrast to the set of his jaw.
"S'pose I could lose them, then," Pyro says aloud, followed by a furious mouthing, something to the effect of "You figure it out--you started this." However much of that is actually understood remains to be seen.
Irene's brows lower, and her eyes squint as if she /were/ seeing -- or only concentrating coldly on a response. "Public exposure is a crime," she grants Johnny helpfully. "I would be grateful not to have them bothering me anymore, and I will not be troubled by the sight of whatever you have beneath them. So, if you wish, proceed."
"Do it, Johnny," Jason says, serious, as his eyes fix right where they are, his eyebrows furrowing in mirror of hers. Come oon.
"Yeah, whatever," Pyro says, leaning across the aisle and flopping back to his seat in one smooth, very teenagesque motion. "She'd not appreciate it, and I'm bloody sure not putting on some free peep show for /you/."
Irene puts in primly, "I would not mind, gentlemen. I cannot see it, and I carry no animosity or phobia against homosexual relations. Do as you will, if it passes the time and does not bother anyone."
Jason breaks eye contact (ah, more or less eyecontact), to lean back into a long laugh. "Oh, come on, Johnny. No one's watching, eh? And I do so fancy you."
"Always knew you were some feckin' poof," Pyro smirks, "Drama queen or whatever, these pants aren't leaving me. Guess you'll have to imagine what you will."
With a touch of relaxation, Irene inclines her head as if in acquiescence to the boys' play (oh, boys!) and points her glasses at her knees. Her hands are looser around her cane, though it stays ready against her shoulder's rest.
"Well, bebother that. I'm all sexually frustrated now and it not even Wednesday yet." Jason pulls a pout, and then impulse grabs him. He half stands, half leans, for the purpose of pressing a sudden kiss on Irene's forehead.
"Get a room, mate," Pyro smirks, looking away a moment in exaggeration. Just a moment, though, before his head swings back to watch the proceedings. With great amusement.
Irene sits stolidly, unseeing, unknowing . . . but once he's close enough, the kinesthetic sense of another's presence, the sound of his breathing-- Her cane snaps up from between her legs to smack hard between his. "No," she says sharply and sits back, away, and feints out with the cane again, just in case.
"AUGH." Illusion flickers and Jason smacks back onto his seat, half sprawled, half coiled, his arms pressed down across his trunk. "Aaaaaugh," he repeats.
Pyro tries to bite back a laugh. Tries. But it still comes across as a barely-stifled snicker. "Told you she might have a blackbelt. Daredevil in an old lady disguise." He gives a brief two-fingered salute across the aisle, still fighting to bring his amusement back under control.
Unamused, Irene turns her face toward young Mr. Dark. "I thought you said that there was no attacking here."
"Yeah, bloody /funny/," Jason snarls, but has enough recovery and presence of mind to regain persona in full, "really bloody funny. That wasn't some bloody /attack/."
"/I/ thought it a hoot," Pyro says, snickers finally dying out, as he leans back again, eyes shifting between the two. Nothing like a little pain to catch interest.
"Violence is not funny." Irene picks up Dark's word and tosses it to Johnny like a hand grenade, followed by another of her severe frowns. It softens a little, a very little, when she turns back to the British lad. "You came too close to me. I reacted to defend myself. I will not apologize for that, but I regret that I hurt you needlessly."
"What a sweet old chick," Jason growls with wince and an exhausted, pained slump against the seat. Attempts at reading behind the glasses are wholly abandoned.
"Sure it is. That's what half of the tele's about these days," Pyro shrugs.
Irene reproves Johnny with good maiden-aunt censure, "A boy your age, you should be studying in school, not wasting your time and your brain on the television. And not, it should go without saying, pestering strangers on the train." She tucks her cane between her knees again and gives them both a short nod: so there.
Jason just grits his teeth and mutters profanity. But it's good natured enough. Beyond the natural edge mortal AGONY gives it, you know.
"Yeah, well, school's just not my thing." Pyro says. No bitterness there, nope, none at all. He pushes up again from his seat, this time still hovering around his side of the car. Out of caning distance.
No matter, since the train has screeched and puffed to a stop and Irene has climbed carefully to her feet with the pole's help. Still holding onto the support, she angles her chin over her shoulder at the boys while the doors are sliding open. "And this is?" she asks Johnny somberly. She shakes her head, flicks twitching eyes toward Dark, then steps off the train.
"Nnng," Jason says and pulls his arms around his face. "Next time, we mug her."
"Next time, you're on your own, mate," Pyro says jovially, settling down into the seat Irene has just vacated and grinning across the alley. "You've got a strong start, but can't hold out. Feckin' poof."
The Rowdy Wrangler
For being not quite the weekend, it's certainly a lively and large crowd out this eve. Pity the poor saps who have to work on the morrow, because there doesn't seem to be any lack of liquor flowing from that fact. For one pyrokinetic and his electrician mate, though, patrolling are done, and there's no plans for an early morning. They've found themselves a nice table, off the main path, but close enough to observe the action. Empty cups exchanged for full, then their cowgirl server's off again. "Least it's not so bloody cold walking around today," Pyro mumbles before lifting his mug. "Cheers, mate."
"Wuss," says Padraig easily, still flicking his glance around to make sure he doesn't shock anyone brushing close. "Cheers. You actually old enough, yet?" He lifts his pint, draining the majority in a gulping ecstasy.
Pyro's eyes shift around a bit. "Uh, sure am," he says, snickering slightly. His beer's not downed quite as quick, but he makes decent progress anyways. "And just because /some/ of you have built in slicker 'n insulated hides doesn't mean the rest of us repel water and cold so much."
The almost-empty glass slaps down on to the table with a thud. "Still say you're just a bit nesh, boy," he announces, with a beaming grin. "What you get for being so fiery-- anyway. We going to pull tonight?"
"ANY-way..." Pyro agrees, jerking his hand out of the habitual pull toward his jacket pocket. "Dunno, either that or was thinking I'd like to see you on /that/ thing," he taunts, head jerking across the room to indicate the mechanical bull. "Or both," he adds wickedly after a moment's thought.
A sneer and a derisive snort comes from Padraig's lips. "I'd own all the New Yorkers on that thing," he announces. He skips a glance over to the most recent failure on the machine. "Don't think these birds could handle me. I'll get 'em warmed up on my little friend, eh?"
"That what the last 'un called it?" Pyro smirks. "Your little friend?" He leans back, out of easy smacking reach, downing the last of his drink before waving across the room to catch their server's attention.
"Depends if you've ever considered yourself a cock, boyo," Padraig returns, without real acidity. He sinks the remainder with ease, before beaming a more than suggestive smile at the incoing cowgirl. He orders a pair of drinks-- and vicious chasers -- before turning his attention back onto Pyro. "Seriously, boy, you need to get laid."
"Yeah, well take a squiz around," Pyro sighs, propping on arm along the backrest behind him. "Not exactly like there's a lot to pick from. Dunno what Americans see in this getup. Not like it's all that hot. Or maybe it's the gals wearing it."
"Just waaaiiiit," Padraig lilts, before punching out a finger. "There. The brunette, with the fat blonde. Cut-off denim shorts. Easy pickings." The finger comes back, to tap against his nose. "Just gotta learn where to look."
Pyro starts to sniff in derision until Padraig finishes. "I was gonna burn you or something if you were pointing at the blonde," he comments. The other warrants a second look. "Eh... so so. Not so bad if you ignore the face. Lookit that beak."
"Shit, man, you ever meet my ex?" Padraig asks, rolling his eyes dramatically for the ceiling. His voice skim quieter; regretful. "Ex." Perking back up, he comes to a full standing position from his seat, to look over the heads of most of the denizens. "Okay. Got one getting close to -my- leagure, so -way- out of yours."
Pyro's reply is cut short by the return of their drinks. He shifts them around on to their rightful positions on the table before craning his neck to see Padraig's target. And immediatly chokes back a laugh. "Yah, good luck. You'll need it, mate."
"Fuck you, buddy," Padraig replies, indignantly, before tilting a look over. "You ever played wingman, bitch?" He reaches for his shot, sliding out a bill with the other hand for the waitress. "Three, two.."
"Nothanks, you can keep yer little buddy to yourself," Pyro smirks right back at him, lifting his own shot in preparation. "Well, here's to luck then. With your luck, my skill and the accents..."
"One," Padraig finishes, flashing a grin before the shot disappears down his throat. His head shivers against the onslaught of alcohol, recovered quickly. "You forgot my damn' good looks and the ripped body I've got going," he replies, easily. "Oh, and your grease. Let's move."
Pyro tosses back the shot, sputtering slightly at the end, as much from amusement as the drink itself. "You just go right on thinking that, mate," he grins, taking a slow breath as the alcohol continues to burn its way down. "Besides, chicks dig pale, scrawny dudes. There's a shirt that says so," he comments, pushing off the table, pausing long enough for a swig of beer before joining Padraig.
Jason steps out of a swirling silver portal that appears in midair, and closes just as suddenly behind him.
So the hefty Irishman strides; deft to avoid the shifting throng to avoid circumstances unforgivable. His target; the tiny blonde chattering amongst her small group of friends. The distance; quite large, currently. He brings forth a beaming smile as he comes closer.
"I-i-i, . . . I-i, I'm hooked on a peeling, high on revealing, that--" Jason, decked in cowboy boots and a tall black hat and a low hanging mustache, pauses just inside the door, rubbing under his sizable nose. His dark eyes are rounding upon Padraig and his incredible journey. The mustache quirks into a smirk.
Pyro runs his fingers through his hair, scowling slightly after Padraig a moment. "Not even..." he sighs, before following in Padraig's wake for the moment, as they make their way across the room. He resists the urge to elbow a few of the louder denizens on the way, sliding around to his side as they move in for the kill.
"-'damn hippy," snarks Padraig, to a passing man with long hair and, apparently, a total lack of motor control. He nudges the fellow aside as he dives in, smiling broadly as he introduces first himself, then his wingman to the girl. Amongst offers of drinks, of course.
Jason purses his lips in a thin whistle post-smirk and trots after the two men, toward Padraig in particular. He moves fast, largely through illused suggestions to the crowd that they want to leave him alone -- by scent, by light nausea, by mild invisible pressure to their knee caps, etc. He plops his elbows down beside the Irish.
Pyro slips onto one of the empty stools at the introduction, throwing in an exaggerated "Gidday, mates," with his grin. It grows slightly forced as the cowboy joins them, and he rolls his eyes at the man, picking out one of ladies to demonstrate this display.
Padraig moves easily into his routing; jarred from it by the appearance of the hatted figure. Leaning forwards, he manages to whisper into his target's ear, "Reckon he bought that 'tache from the Village People?" He shoots a glance to Pyro, that jerks over to Jason in a mute disbelief.
Jason smirks again, dragging two fingers from the sides of his mouth to draw up his mustaches. This makes his face look oddly like it's set in a very happy grimace. Indeed, he goes so far as to stick his tongue out.
Pyro offers a small shrug Padraigward. He murmurs something to the gal beside him, earning a quick giggle before turning his attention back to Jason. "So whatcher name, /pardner/?" Pyro says, attempting a very affected western accent.
Padraig murmurs another couple of things to the target, eliciting a smile and a coy little glance. He straightens up to turn, resting an arm nearby, but not quite on, the girl. He watches Pyro, and the Pardner, with interest.
Jason pulls in his tongue, drops the sides of his mustache, and mutters, with due solemnity and an edge of affront, "Wyngardia Leviosa." He turns and stars for the door with a clack of his boots.
"-Jason-?" comes a surprised Irish lilt.
"Losers," Jason sniffs over his shoulder.
"--the -hell-? St.John-- Christ." PAdraig blinks disbelief after the retreating form. "He follow us here?"
Pyro chokes back surprise, clearing his throat slightly at the name before meeting Padraig's gaze. "Dunno. You think...?" His eyes roam their table skeptically.
The clack clack of the boots fade toward the door. A whistle starts up and lingers a little longer.
"Nah," Padraig says. "We'd've been slapped by now. Right?" He flicks a glance to the target, who breaks into a laugh from something she appears to find amusing.
"Yeah, kay, well if you're wrong, I'm gonna kill you," Pyro mutters. Beautiful time for the drinks to arrive. Pyro takes his, using the movement to edge his stool closer to the bench beside him, then lifting the mug high with a 'Cheers.'
"How many times do I have to tell you?" Padraig says, throwing a mock-exasperated look to the skies, as his arm edges closer to the target. "Kick your ass -any- time."
"Bring it on, bring it on," Pyro says, winking at the girl next to him. "Soooo..." he says, turning slightly to ignore Padraig, accent becoming somewhat more pronounced. "You'll have to excuse him. He's still a bit bent out of shape at Munster's game last night."
"You mean because we play with a proper-shaped ball?" wonders Padraig, aside to the Target. "See, now these convicts, they only know how to run around and hit each other. In -rugby-, one hits the other fellow with style."
"Show you just how much style I can hit with," Pyro says over his shoulder before leaning in toward Target de Dos, and further mumbling sweet Aussie nothings her way.
"Two inches doesn't give much of a striking surface," Padraig ripostes, with friendly venom sharpening his accent to a barb. Then he turns to concentrate on the Target, friendly and personable fellow that he is.
Abandoned Upper Floor - Living Color Tattoo (#2383RA)
Rainy Thursday evening. Could be a decent enough night for stuff to happen, but there's already a few outside watching. So Pyro's simply propped over in one of the corners, one of the ugly military blankets thrown over his knees as he peers at the book in hand. Charles Dickens, however incogruous the cover seems in his hand.
Heavy footsteps thud up the stairs, preamble to the appearance of a stocky black man with wide shoulders and a shaved head. His voice rumbles low greeting as he enters the apartment. "Pyro."
The book is slowly set aside, one hand snaking under the blanket, reaching for the lighter in his pocket. Not revealed just yet, though. "Come again?" Pyro replies, trying to keep the telltale traces of accent from his words. "Can...I help you with something?"
Chocolate eyes drop to the blanket, and a wicked smile curves the man's lips before he slithers into sleek blue. "Are you enjoying the book?"
Pyro relaxes at the change, pushing the blanket aside and finding his way to his feet, clacking the lighter once before putting it away. "Be prepared? Those scoutie's motto or something like that?" he shrugs, glancing at the book on the floor. "Not such a bad way to pass the time, I figure."
"If you'd attacked me," Mystique points out as she crosses the room. "You could have sent the entire place up in flames."
"But lived and sent a signal to the others that we'd been discovered..." Pyro replies in a hopefully respectful counter. "I waited, though. No sense firing off early..."
"You really ought to learn to take care of yourself without relying on such a tricky gift," Mystique suggests as she approaches the window and peers through the slit in the curtain to the street below. "It is not always appropriate."
"Well, the powers that be didn't see fit to grace me with a physique designed for closehand combat," Pyro says, frowning slightly. "Not that I've not been trying," he adds hastily. "Working out and sparring with the others. Blitz especially. Sometimes powers, sometimes not. Cuz yer right, of course. Just hard to know you've got this power then...not use it. While you're getting beaten on."
Mystique turns to regard Pyro over her shoulder with a brief glance before she nods. "When I return, we'll work on that," she suggests.
Pyro just blinks for a moment, then slowly nods. "Thanks," he adds. "That'd be ace. Be a mite better for nights like this, I suppose," he says, head jerking toward the falling rain outside.
"You dislike the rain?"
Pyro shrugs at the question. "Not in my element, for sure," he replies after a moment. "It's not bad when I'm suited up, but hard to keep a normal fire going like that. And I can't very well depend on always being in uniform, no matter /how/ well it fits under street clothes."
"Even indoors?" Mystique asks in curiousity. She turns to face him fully and nods toward Pyro's lighter. "It's more difficult?"
"Only when the roof leaks," Pyro smirks slightly. He pauses a moment, before adding a more thoughtful answer. "I never really thought about it, but I guess it is a bit easier when it's not so humid. Raining or otherwise."
"Winter over summer, mm?" Mystique suggests dryly.
"Just don't put me in a rainforest," Pyro grimaces, "And I should be alright."
Mystique tips her head at Pyro consideringly. "How fine is your control?"
"Getting better," he says, leaning back and propping a foot against the wall behind him. "Depends on what I'm trying to do. "Controlling the size isn't so hard. Keeping it solid... well, working on that."
"If you were to attack me, could you keep it from eating the entire building?" Mystique inquires curiously.
"For a while," Pyro nods. "Depends on what kind of attack, really. If you nicely stay on that side of the room where I can throw stuff at you...a long while then. Up close," he pauses a moment. "Depends on how I did it, I guess."
"How would you do it?"
"Smaller is easier to control," Pyro states. "Probably cover my hands, wrists, arms with fire and try to punch or wrestle you down that way. If I let it get much bigger, well, if I fall it'd be hard to keep it from burning the wood. Keeping it contained is just harder when I'm distracted. And I can't afford to let it burn out."
Mystique smiles, small, but approving. "You've given this some thought."
"Well, when you live around any number of people who could take you out with a punch..." Pyro lifts an eyebrow. "Bit of incentive, that. But yeah, trying to think of more practical ways to use it. More than just the big boom, no matter how much I enjoy it."
"You enjoy chaos?"
"No, just big fires," Pyro allows himself a slight grin. "It's... just so powerful. Hard to explain, but, well, I know it's mine. If we can use the chaos to our advantage, though, that's a perk."
Mystique's smile shifts to echo Pyro's grin, and she tips an allowing nod at him. "We use what we have."
"S'why I'm here," Pyro shrugs, crossing the room to glance out one of the other windows at the wet street below. "Hopefully make a difference. Someday."
"You believe in our cause, John?" As his gaze moves away, Mystique turns back to the window to regard the street below.
"More every day," he replies, a slight edge to his voice as he watches a few people rush past, fighting with their umbrellas. "/They're/ certainly not going to fight for us."
"What world would you see us create?"
"Create." Pyro mulls over the world, one hand idly twisting the curtain as he continues to start out into the darkness. "One where we can walk freely without fear of who might find out. Where these abilities don't have to be this deep, dark secret. Something I can be proud of and display no matter who's around. And still be treated as equal. Or maybe that last bit's just some last traces of Xavier in me," he sighs, finally turning back into the room.
Mystique turns her gaze back to Pyro and studies him for a moment in silence.
"Is that the wrong answer," Pyro finally asks when the silence gets to be a bit much for him.
"There's not a right one," Mystique answers simply.
"Guess we'd not be holed up inside here if there was, hmm?"
"It is not an easy thing, to change the world."
Pyro just shrugs. "If we don't, who will?" he mumbles.
Mystique smiles slightly. "That is why we fight." She turns from the window without another word and disappears through the door.