More Logs
OOC: Oy, back to the finicky wireless this summer. Now I remember why I was avoiding cleaning and posting these.
<> Abandoned Mining Facility
The heavy tromp of boots against the hard-packed dirt of the path from the forest proper heralds Ellen's approach as she returns to the compound; her gun slung up over her shoulder, the smooth, even stride of long legs hampered by the tight embrace of stiff black leather. The X-Man uniform clings to her lean frame, black highlighted with blue piping a creaking, uncomfortable but suitably dramatic emphasis to her body's curves and angles both. Her tight-bound tail of blond hair and sweat-touched skin are washed pale in the light of the overcast sky. Her expression is one of vague, inward focus and contemplation; her boots are dulled with dirt and dust.
Pyro is currently crouched beside the firepit, staring at the cold, black logs, no sign of embers or live coals of any sort. The prerequisite lighter is in hand, but not currently in use. He glances up at Ellen's approach, giving her a nod of recognition before turning his gaze back to the pit.
Redirection subtle, Ellen draws nearer the youth and the firepit; reaching up with her free hand to tuck a stray hair behind one ear, she cants her head, leaning her weight back on one booted heel as she pauses. The outfit creaks as her hand drops to brace against the sleek black over her hip. "Evening."
It's hard to be stealthy in fresh leather. Sounding much like his namesake, Toad creaks and croaks with each movement as he tries to hunt for dinner. Finally the mutant has given up, meandering out from the tree line as he picks bark from a tongue that had missed its mark of an altered bird. "Yerg." He grumbles before hawking a large mouthful of spit to the ground, brown flecks mixed in with the saliva. Yellowish eyes turn up suspiciously.
Conspicuously comfortable in charcoal grey slacks and his usual militaryesque black sweater, Erik moves from the shadows of a half-erected building at a leisurely pace - more stealthy, for once, than most of his recruits, despite the usual thump and crunch of boots over hard-packed dirt that signals his approach. He appears well-rested, if thin, a measure of distracted strain pulling tight around the corners of his eyes and the slightly downturned edges of his scowl as he strides in the vague direction of the fire pit.
Pyro looks up at Ellen as she makes her way over. "Evening," he echoes back at her. He flicks the lighter open, a quick arc of flame leaving his hand to settle into the pit, putting the logs back into their warming state. "Anything interesting out there?" he comments, before glancing back down the path at the sounds of another approaching.
"Dirt. Trees. Rocks. Sometimes fauna." Ellen shakes her head slightly and then lifts her chin. "Nothing especially remarkable. -- I believe, however, that I should definitely bathe." Her gaze skims, idle, over the rest of the open area as she starts walking again, pausing only briefly upon Magneto; she hesitates, but then tromps on toward the dry house anyway.
Toad squints his eyes up at the fire as he takes a few more steps forward to enter the ring of light it provides. "Wot, not gonna follow 'er? Sounded like a right proper invitation, Matches." He sneers with a grown smile on his green lips. Magneto is yet to be noticed as Toad eyes Pyro. His leather creaks again, the lined green X across his front getting bathed in firelight.
Crunch. Crunch. Scuff. Crunch. On Magneto strides, a brow lifted in distracted appreciation of the view from behind once Ellen has picked herself up and moved off in the opposite directon. /Toad's/ back end is spared the same scrutiny. Erik's eyes lift pointedly to the back of his head once he draws near enough to halt temporarily, that same brow still lifted. "Perhaps you should take her up on it, Toad."
"Not an invitation for /me/," Pyro snickers. "And I'd hate to see the bloke caught gawking at her." He shuffles around at Magneto's approach, settling onto a stump and slipping the lighter back into the suit pocket.
Cringe. Toad's back bends slightly as her eyes dart to the side. He immediately scuffles around to face Magneto with a whining like smile on his face. "Oh, no Sah. Just ah lit'l joke. Blinkin' kidding, weren't I, Matches? Don't mean a thing by it." His black boot slides across the dirt behind him as he scoots back with a nervous croaking laugh.
"Of course," consoles Erik in turn, the smile he manages for that croaking laugh kept deliberately thin as the washed-out blue of his eyes flick past the top of Toad's head to settle briefly upon Pyro. "She's more open-minded than you might venture to think. Men who do nothing can expect nothing in return. Anyway." His gaze angles itself back down onto Toad, and from the look in his eyes, Erik is feeling superior indeed. "I trust all is well."
Toad shuffles out of the way for Magneto to get a better look at Pyro. The comment gets a fleeting look of wicked amusement before Toad is forced to cow under the look. "Oi, just peachy, it is. Save for these blasted uniforms. Lookit me, I'm a right X-goon." Toad pouts, holding his arms out with a look down to his outfit. "Though is does match my 'air."
"I think she's more into, ah, more mature men," Pyro says, not allowing his face to show anything. "Not that I'd complain with a few more gals around here, though." He glances over his own outfit, tracing the red X with one finger. "Can't say I ever expected to wear one o'these."
"Well. So long as it matches your hair." Erik intones, thin smile pulling sidelong as his glare scrapes with mechanical precision from leather-garbed Toad arm to leather-garbed arm. "I think they're flattering. Not that I intend to partake in playing the part. I have a reputation to maintain." And then, of course, Pyro's comment sinks in, and Erik cannot quite restrain a gruff chuckle at what he apparently deems to be a fair observation. "We should have another female before the week is over. English. Less...discriminatng. Personally, I think you're better off with Ellen, but." His opinion ends there, and he moves as if to continue on, around the fire towards the factory. (re)
"Really? The ol' Prof didn't 'ave you thinkin' you were gonna save the bloody world one day while lookin' good doin' it?" Toad says to Pyro befor letting a sloppy grin take of his features for a moment as he presses the joke with a swipe of a hand through his greasy spikes of green. "Flatterin', eh? Might have to keep it, then." He says with a snicker before letting Magneto take charge of the conversation of women. Not a topic Toad has much to say on. He steps down to crouch closer to the flames, with eyes turning towards Magneto. "New meat. Love-r-ly." Toad says mostly to himself.
"No, they're pretty...picky," Pyro shrugs at Toad. "Playing favorites and all that." His eyes flicker toward Magneto's back, and the fire quickly forms a hand, one finger stretched defiantly toward the sky before settling back into normal flames. "Their loss."
"They haven't the faintest idea of what they are missing." Erik rumbles without turning back around - the flare of manipulated flame that does odd things to his own shadow stretched out before him carefully ignored. "I am going to address our visitor. Do not interrupt me unless someone is dying."
Toad leans back, his hands flinging behind him to catch his balance. He turns his eyes up, peering at the hand steadily. "Oi, barbecued Weather Witch on the menu, I 'ope." The toad taps his hand to the ground as it rounds back up in front. "Don't need no 'elp, Sah?" Toad inquires with a curious look after Magneto.
"Glad to oblige," Pyro's eyes flicker, not just from the firelight. "Fry them or frame them. Works for me."
"Not this time, Mortimer. Personal business," comes the cool reply, and Erik strides on at his usual deliberate pace, shoulders and shoulder tabs rigid as his back fades from the ring of fire-lit earth and into darkness. "I shall notify you if I determine that she is in need of an attitude adjustment. Have a good evening."
"Why not both?" Toad volleys back to the other with a sly grin. He rights himself to as he was before the fire hand and plucks up a stick with a bug on it. Within a flash the tip of the stick is plunged in his mouth before being drawn back out, bug free. "Righto, Sah! Give 'er the ol' Toad treatment if need be." The man glees mostly to himself before poking the fire with dull interest.
"That's bloody disgusting," Pyro says, wincing away from the spectacle. "Wish you'd not do that when people are around. Or at least when /I'm/ around."
Toad mashes the bug up between his teeth without properly keeping his mouth closed. "Oi, protein ain't nothin' to scoff at, kid." His fingers wiggle up as he pops each one into his mouth to suck off any left over morsels just for show. "Don't bash it 'til you try it, wot?"
"I'll pass. There's enough protein in the kitchen for me." Pyro says, looking at the fire and trying to burn that particular image away. "Can't wait to get back to the City and make some trouble for them," he says, the change of conversation sounding all too gleeful.
Toad smacks his lips happily and returns to his fun of poking at the fire. "Oh yeah, it'll be a good time, for sure. See how high an' mighty they think themselves once they're public enemy number one. Wouldn't mind snappin' a few necks for emphasis. Bloody /nice/." The log he has been relentlessly poking at shifts enough to stall him for a moment. "So you'd kill 'em if you had a chance? All of 'em?" Toad inquires with a raised eyebrow back at the other.
"Any of them I need to," Pyro's eyes narrow, though he doesn't break his gaze from the flame. Not quite meeting Toad's gaze. The flame does form a head, though, which with a quick slice falls from the fiery shoulders into the coals beneath.
Toad looks away with a cocked head and a grin. "Good show." He says with a slow nod to the fire show before him. "Though if you ask /me/ death is too good for 'em. Let 'em suffer, let 'em linger." Toad pushes himself up to his feet and stretches, the leather still groaning out in protest. "Don't suppose you wanna go see wot's there to ear under that log o'er there with me, luff?" He asks with a smirk and a pointed finger to one of the makeshift benches.
"All yours, mate," Pyro shakes his head, twisting to put his back toward said fireside dinner. "I'll fry 'em up for you if you'd rather be only half as revolting, though."
"Nah, I go things one hundred-flippin'-precent!" Toad says as he makes his way to the log and gives it a good kick wit hthe heel of his boot. It rolls slightly and he falls to a crouch, picking and slurping his late night snack before it can wriggle away. Much too busy now for conversation.
A few moments of the sounds of indulgence is all Pyro can manage, and he pushes off from his seat, letting the fire settle back into its natural state. "Knock yourself out," he says, wandering off down the path into the woods.
<> Weight Room - Lower Level
There's sounds of heavy huffing and puffing coming from the weight room. Inside, young John Allerdyce is found alone, hunched over a row machine. The weights fall back againt the metal, and he steps back, wiping his face and neck while scowling at the machine.
Mystique appears in the door, pausing for a moment to scan the room and take in Pyro before she stalks toward the mat along one wall. Her stride is long and smooth, but muscles carry a tension to their set as she goes. John gets the briefest of nods.
Pyro glances up as Mystique enters, offering a mumbled greeting. He lifts a 5-pound plate from the rack, tossing it on with the others before resuming position and tugging away. The form isn't exactly the finest, but he's more than making up for it in effort. "Six...Seven...Eight..." are muttered under his breath and he struggles a moment, attemting another before returning the weights to the neutral position.
Mystique drops instantly into stretches, thoughtless with habit. As Pyro drops the weights back down her gaze skims over to him. "Done?"
"Hardly." Pyro begins reracking the plates, dropping down onto a bench and taking a pull on his waterbottle. "Might as well keep busy if nothing else."
Mystique's lips curl into a small smile as she rises, one arm pulled over her head. "Excellent. Show me what you can do?"
Pyro lifts an eyebrow, draping his towel around his neck. He moves over to a pulldown, sliding the pin for the right weight. "Don't usually have an audience," he shrugs, settling onto the bench. "Well, except Blitz, but he doesn't count."
Mystique's smile widens slightly, almost a laugh as she lifts a hand and beckons, once. "Not there. You've been training?" she assumes.
"Oh," is Pyro's response, and he stands, dropping his towel in his place and crossing the room to the mat. "Almost every day," he comments. "Powers, iron, Some hand to hand. Or some combination."
"Hand to hand," Mystique instructs, shifting once to flex up onto her toes. "I'd like to see your progress." She tips her head, tilting her gaze on him while she considers.
Pyro nods, quickly checking the drawstring on his shorts and kicking his shoes off to the side before stepping onto the mat. A moment to ready his stance, then he attempts a punch before she has a chance to make the first move.
Anticipation tenses her muscles as Mystique watches him, and his first punch nearly takes her by surprise. Nearly. She steps sideways and moves behind him in an instant, away from the punch and out of his range, although she does not yet take a shot.
Pyro is as surprised as she is, perhaps more. He adjusts his feet, spinning to face her, keeping his balance--a year's practice has had some affect, apparantly. His arms come up to a defensive position offering a jab as he steps back to find a better distance.
Mystique remains where she is, motionless and waiting for the moment outside of a single fast dodge sideways to escape the jab. She's not attacking, apparently, but instead dancing lightly while Pyro takes the offensive.
Ok, now for something a bit more daring. And not really much his fighting style either, but what the heck. The worst he can do is land on his back. Pyro's leg sweeps out, attempting to catch Mystique's ankle.
Up and over and around, and Mystique finally moves in, dropping in graceful mimic to sweep a leg at Pyro's.
Reading glasses somewhat at odds with the usual maroon dress shirt, fitted pants, and knee-high boots combination, Erik is still glancing over the notebook gripped in his right hand when he paces in through the weightroom entrance. Having thus far managed to ignore noises indicative of an ongoing scuffle, at the flash of movement over the top of the raised book, he lowers it and lifts his brows in slow tandem.
Ope. Well, he wasn't off balance. And what beautiful timing to find himself plunging to the floor. There's a crash as Pyro hits, though he does have the presence of mind to roll aside, out of range of any killing blow. And as he pushes up to his knees, he catches sight of Magneto. "Oh. Hi," he manages awkwardly.
Pyro may be distracted, but Mystique is not, and a sharp kick goes toward his shoulder, bearing him back so she can pin him to the mat with a press of her foot. Only then does she look over her shoulder to Erik, brows lifted in a query that is perhaps mildly irritated.
"Hello, John," Erik replies, manners and dignity apparently intact despite the look he's catching from Mystique - who is peered at next. This doesn't last for more than a few seconds, and then he's turning as if to head back through the door. "Perhaps I will come back later."
Pyro moans slightly, then grabs at her foot, giving a hard shoive with both hands as he rolls off the side before bouncing back to his feet. "M'okay," he mumbles. "Good practice to have attention in two places anyways."
Mystique regains her balance easily enough and steps back. A slow smile spreads across her features as golden eyes flash toward Magneto. "You should join us, Erik," she suggests.
Not, perhaps, the response he was expecting. Erik stops short of the door and turns back, his grip on the notebook having gone a bit slack as his gaze flickers from Mystique down to Pyro, who is...already back up on his feet. "...Alright," he says, and as he reaches up to remove his glasses, somewhere in the back of his mind, the voice of reason is asking him if he remembers that whole thing where Ellen isn't around at the moment.
Without his fire, Pyro's isn't at full strength, but not quite as helpless as he once was. He circles slightly, splitting the difference between them. "Two on one or free for all?"
Mystique's gaze slides between Erik and Pyro with slow anticipation, and there's laughter dancing in her eyes as she invites with a spread of her hand, "Two. On one."
Glasses are folded slowly. An effort that borders on procrastinatory, until he stoops to set his notebook aside on an unoccupied bench, and drops his glasses atop it. Now he must, er. Roll his sleeves.
Pyro headrushes at Mystique. Or at least feights so, as he stops short and makes no further attack for the moment.
Mystique remains where she is, motionless in the face of the rush until Pyro stops. Outwardly, at least, her attention is focused on Erik. Slow Erik. Procrastinating Erik. "I will try," she promises, voice lilting sweetly. "Not to injure you."
Scuffle, scuffle. These are the sounds the faintly metallic fabric makes in the course of being rolled, one or two flips short of his elbows. His collar is unbuttoned next, but he is, at least, moving now - slow strides carrying him into a deliberate sort of half-circle in the direction of Mystique's back side. "If you attempt to go easy on me, you will wish you hadn't."
Fine, since she's not even gracing his attempts to distract, Pyro circles the opposite way to place Mystique between him and Magneto. Whether the two on one is in his favor or not, it's the best position. His hands clench and release, this time waiting for one of them to make the first move.
"We are working," Mystique reminds, still smiling. "Without powers." Her gaze finally sweeps back to Pyro and his readiness, eyes glowing approval.
Magneto exhales. If there is vague disappointment on the edge of his breath at her having established this particular rule, well. There's really no point in wasting time, is there? Angling from behind, Erik steps in quickly to attempt to snap an arm in around her neck.
Powers might at least give Pyro a fighting chance, but at least he's not alone in this battle. He doesn't attempt to attack, but while Magneto makes his move, Pyro attempts to dance in the edge of Mystique's vision, just enough to keep his moves vague and distracting--hopefully.
Erik is easily avoided, but Pyro's dancing is distracting - or attention grabbing, at least. Her first attack is toward him, and darting punch toward his head while some portion of her pays wary attention to Erik.
Off-balance at the lack of contact, Erik has to stagger a step or two before he can come around for a re-evaluation of the situation. He's more careful this time, and still intent upon attacking from behind - a jab thrust in low, around the kidney region.
Pyro does manage to get his head out of the way this time, even if it is only due to Mystique's divided attention. This time, he waits for Magneto's move, timing a high punch along with the other.
John's punch is avoided with a neat step to one side, but Erik's connects, stealing breath away for half a moment. Her dodge means it catches her somewhere not her kidneys, but it takes a moment's dancing distance to regain herself before she sweeps in again, aiming a flurry of blows split between the pair of them with fastly calculated precision.
Magneto has had plenty of time to prepare himself, but he can only keep track of the timing long enough to swing a block up and then down before her third strike catches him at the base of his rib cage. The next very likely catches wherever she wants it to land, as he is busy trying to drag air back into his lungs.
The first blow catches Pyro hard on the shoulder, and he jumps back out of the reach of the rest of them. As soon as they subside, though, he darts back in, throwing two quick blows before attempting to jump back out of the fray.
The next lands square on Erik's shoulder, meant to send him down without excessive possibility of injury, while Mystique absorbs the second of Pyro's blows and then goes after him with several punches directed to the midsection before she drops another sweeping kick at his ankles.
Not quite as nimble as either of the others involved, Erik jerks back into the wall behind him with the force of impact, only just managing to fill his lungs before he grasps his left hand automatically over the site. Breath haltingly regained a few seconds later, he pushes off the wall and lifts his hands back out in front of him as he steps back into the vicinity of the ongoing match, jaw clenched into a frustrated set.
Pyro's concerned with dodging the punches, which leaves him open for the sweep attack. For the second time that evening, he finds himself lying on the floor, this time his breath knocked out a moment. As soon as the room steadies, though, he pushes back onto his feet.
Mystique stills for a moment, motionless in the center of the mat as both men regain their footing and their breath. She smiles.
Blue eyes flicker aside, and then refocus. Erik rocks a step closer - one hand still open up around his face - the other, at a lower guard between gut and chest.
Return in kind, Pyro circles, then steps in quickly, kicking out one leg mid-calf level.
With Erik on gaurd, Pyro's kick is easily avoided. Mystique's flip out of the way is meant more for flair than effectiveness, and her smile widens to a cocky grin as she settles back down and waits.
Magneto jolts abruptly aside towards the rack of weights nearest him - the topmost 2.5 free weight jerked off its respected pipe and flung hard at the woman in blue.
Pyro takes advantage of the sitation, though, sliding to his right to block the easiest place for her to dodge the flying metal.
There's something to be said for the element of surprise, particularly when Mystique is busy grinning cockily at the younger recruit. So it is that she doesn't note the weight until it's on its way toward her, and her first reaction is neatly blocked by Pyro. So it is that it catches her hard in the gut, knocking her back and down in an ungraceful sprawl and keeping her there for several seconds.
Magneto is quick to advance in in order to make optimal use of the perceived advantage - a nod of approval passed quickly over to Pyro on the approach.
Pyro presses in as well, standing to her side while watching her feet warily. Twice down give one cause for caution.
Several seconds down, but they're used, and as Pyro approaches it's not her feet that sweep out but her hand, bearing the freeweight. It goes flying toward /his/ middle, and it's Erik who gets the sweep of her feet at his.
Thump. Erik was looking down at Mystique. Now he is looking up at the ceiling, flat on his back. He coughs a little.
Thud. Thunk. Pyro bends over, as the weight catches him square on, driving the breath out of him even before the weight hits the ground. His tearing eyes take a moment to refocus.
"That," Mystique says finally, turning her head sideways to eye Erik. "Was not nice."
"I warned you," Erik says as amicably as he can at the rasp he's able to achieve. He coughs again, and turns his own head enough to check on Pyro's...progres.
Give him a minute, and Pyro will be fine. Pride is well past being wounded when sparring with Mystique. "So..." he says, steadying his breathing. "Ready for another go?"
Mystique does laugh then, a low quiet sound before she answers. "I think I will refrain from injuring the recruits, for the time being," she tells him.
Magneto rolls off his back and over. and then a little further, shifting to place himself partially atop Mystique despite the presence of...er...semi-virgin eyes. "I believe that's Raven for, 'I've had enough, thank you.'"
Pyro's shoulders sag with relief, and he heads over to the bench housing his towel and water. The latter is quickly drained, then the former used to rub down his head.
Mystique's lips curl a smug grin up at Erik as Pyro moves away, and one foot moves to draw up along the length of his calf as she changes under him. She slides neatly into a leather-clad X-form. Storm first, followed swiftly by Jean before a sideways flick of her eyes toward Pyro has her settling into the figure of Bobby Drake. "I've never had enough," she purrs.
Magneto chuckles down into Storm's hair. Jean's. ...Bobby's. And there, he seems to have decided that it might be best to start pushing himself back up onto his feet.
Pyro's eyes narrow as Mystique takes on forms of his teachers. At the sight of Bobby, though, his mouth twitches and he looks away under the pretense of settling down onto the bench.
Mystique grins at both responses, deep amusement clear on her features. She remains where she is for a moment longer and then rises to her feet, fast and smooth, in the same moment that she shifts from Bobby to herself.
Magneto winces to himself as he straightens - back and shoulders already knotting, so that he doesn't quite make it all the way up into his usual stiff posture, even once he's turned to make his way back towards his abandoned notebook and glasses, dusting himself lazily off as he goes. "You did well, Pyro. I look forward to seeing your potential at its peak, one day."
"Yessir," Pyro says, lifting his head to face both of them. He pushes off the bench, scooping up the empty waterbottle and towel, before heading toward the door. "G'night then." he says, trying not to visibly show the soreness in his step.
"Take a hot shower," Mystique recommends as she watches Pyro critically. There's no sign of stiffness in her own movements, but it's unclear whether that is because she does not hurt or because she refuses to show it.
"I intend to," mutters Erik, the fact that he has his back turned to both mutants allowing for the mistaken address. He half stoops for his notebook, pauses before it's within his grasp, and rights himself without it. The glasses lift into his waiting hand on their own, and he paces for the door. "Good night."
Chinatown
The hub of Asian immigration is centered here in Chinatown, a dizzying array of shops and streetside markets selling fresh fish, jewelry, and all manner of oddities. Run through by the shopper's heaven of Canal Street, it's a well-populated area, with plenty other races intermingled with the largely Chinese and Japanese population, with those from Taiwan, Vietnam, and Cambodia as well. Dozens of restaurants open here, with neon signs in foreign characters and poor English attracting many each day for a slight taste of the exotic.
Ah, the wane of the evening. The cool of the air. The gentle illumination of neon. It is a day for lovers, and lovers there be. Estranged lovers. Say, a man and a woman who are walking together, but walk with mixed affection and do not touch. Let us say Scott and Jean, in the evening, in Chinatown, on the out. But subdued, resigned outs.
For wherelse but Chinatown can one find the strangest...toys. Well, perhaps Chelsea or East Village, but not the toys with this special flavor. And one Jean Grey has a bag hung at her side none. Through the plastic, a few of the words can be made out even. There's no attempt to hide--indeed she totes the bag with total nonchalance, fully engrossed in the conversation at hand, a few bits drifting louder with emphasis. "Yes, stopping there /was/ necessary. No, the students won't see. Even if they /did/, it's not like their memories would be any challenge."
Toys. Boys. And lo, men. Manly at that, if somewhat hampered by the long stalk of cane. Det. Rossi limps out of a hobby shop, a bag of his own caught across his wrist: harmless baggage, this one, meant for some engineer-minded youth (or immature adult) as gift or passing entertainment. The suit flaps open over the empty holster; the tie, unraveled nearly out of its knot, drapes with democratic friendliness across his chest. A step into the sidewalk, two. And then, fortuitous, a glance up. "I'll be damned." Leather. Rossi blinks. "What the fuck are you two doing here?"
"Jean," Scott says with a strained longsuffering, his eyebrows pressed down and dark, "wanted to go shopping." The voice is precise and weighted, nearly snide, and the tone weaves toward snide after Scott stops on the sidewalk to get a better look at Rossi. "What are you doing here?"
"Someone is just caught up in wishing these were for him," Jean replies, jangling the bag on her arm. Her eyes trail to the cane. "You seem to be getting around better. How's the leg?" The face has appropriate concern, but the mind behind the face is racing to try to recall any details as to the cause of that accident.
The green-eyed gaze trails down, finds itself arrested by the contents of that not-at-all-innocent shopping bag, and skids back up to safer regions. No, higher. There. "The left one's better than the right," Rossi says, straightening off the cane to tap it against that offending leg. "Could be worse, though. Therapy's a pain in the ass, but the arm's better, too. --Doing some shopping for the nephew. Birthday party. Consider yourself lucky, Summers," he adds, wryly. "Nate's not a pain in the ass yet."
Scott's smile is more bared teeth than amusement. "You'd be surprised." But perhaps such shows of aggression are stress, for Scott's expression eases a little out of the tight lines. He tries rueful, "That leg. You're always breaking something."
"You're keeping up with the therapy, right?" Jean queries. "Don't let your pride be the cause of a gimped leg for life. And that bit of doctorly advice out of the way, she adds a brief laugh. "And you might be surprised. Somehow, even toddlers can tell the difference between a two-dollar train and a twenty-dollar one."
Again the cane goes tap-tap against the leg, its rubber tip smudging against cheap dark blue. "Not my fault," Rossi reminds -- tells -- without heat, running curiosity across Scott's face before blinking at Jean. "Thought the therapist was sending you weekly bulletins?"
"Oh, bulletins can be subject to bribery," Jean smiles, after a moment, settling on the safe answer. "But no, hardly your fault. Life happens, though, and we adapt. The nature of the beast."
"Yeah," Chris says, though the word is dragged out, the vowels lovingly inscribed with doubt. His mouth crimps in a ruffle's curve; the cane, slung over the already burdened other wrist, frees a hand to rampage through black hair. "Whatever. --Hey. You two sticking around in town for the evening? Got plans? I owe you dinner or something from the last time you patched me up."
Scott's lips compress and pull out in a cautious smirk. "We don't need much. A kabob or an egg roll. Jean's always a little peckish."
"Dinner. Well, since you brought it up..." Jean trails off, not responding directly to Scott's last comment, "Scott was /just/ telling me he's never seen the inside of a strip club. Weren't you, dear?"
Rossi blinks. Even the habitual cynicism of a hardened cop is slightly shakened. "What?" he says blankly, and then, uneasy, "With /you/?" Difficult to say which of the pair he refers to.
"What?" Scott echoes, with unusual emphasis. He takes a startled sidestep away from Jean. "I would never say any such thing. Please. She's trying to be facetious," Scott insists toward Rossi. Although it's always hard to tell with those red glasses, he does not seem to be looking directly at the detective. One nostril is hiked upward in a kind of closet sneer.
"Oh please, Chris," Jean says, apparantly assuming his comment was intended for her. "I am surrounded by teenagers every day. Reality pales by comparison to /their/ imaginations."
"Yeah," Rossi says again, his gaze automatically dropping (damned thing) back to her breasts before being relieved of duty and sent to the Scott front. "Well, you know. Whatever floats your pickle." The cane switches hands; the detective jerks his head in hospitable recklessness down the busy, crowded Chinatown street.
"I'd prefer to go home." The nostril is still hiked high and Scott's brow, just over his right eyebrow, creases. And he ducks his head suddenly sidelong to hiss into Jean's ear, but the whisper carries, caught, "You shouldn't." The hiss has not to it the least edge of gentleness or humor. Even diluted quiet as it is, it sounds like a frantic command.
"I'd prefer to go home." The nostril is still hiked high and Scott's brow, just over his right eyebrow, creases. And he ducks his head suddenly sidelong to hiss into Jean's ear, but the whisper carries, caught, "You shouldn't." The hiss has not to it the least edge of gentleness or humor. Even diluted quiet as it is, it sounds like a frantic command.
"Loosen up, Scott," Jean replies, making no attempt to soften her volume. "It will be a good experience for you. Help you connect with the students more. Your warnings in the sex ed segment could use updating, so consider it continuing education."
The detective cuts his glance between Jean and Scott, curiosity warring with native discretion. "Listen, I know how it is with your poodle gigs. If you got somewhere to go, or something to do--" he begins.
Scott shies as if Jean'd done more than speak at him, a long step back, planting his heel unsteady, on the verge of twisting foot and ankle with it. His eyebrows and set of his jaw are all bemusement, but then he seems to recover himself and come to a decision. He even laughs. "No, we've got nothing to do. Come." Scott turns his foot and lets himself face Rossi direct. "It'll be educational."
"You may have to wade your way through the myriad of fruitbaskets and thank you cards the students send, detective," Jean says, a finely controlled smile playing the edges of her mouth. Yes, she likes to get her way.
Rossi pitches a doubtful glance at Scott -- "Having a hard time picturing you talking about vaginas and fallopian tubes, Summers," -- but leans, regardless, into the first step and the plodding tap of the cane. Foot traffic, parted around them for the last few minutes, closes ranks once movement seems a possibility. "So where to?"
"I believe," and Scott is apace between Rossi and Jean as the detective starts walking, "that I try to talk about them as indirectly as possible." Any amusement that was on his face before has already tightened into something approaching sullenly. "I'm not familiar with strip clubs. Someone else must choose the where."
"The students waver between wanting a telepath and a someone...impartial like Scott," Jean nods. "Lead the way, then, Chris."
"Why the fuck do you assume /I'd/ know--" It is a futile protest. Even half-finished, the sentence cuts off to the twist of a grimace, and Rossi glances apology to Scott before turning his face away. His long stride is somewhat hobbled by injury, but it serves nonetheless to make him leader enough. "It's only because of the job," he warns over his shoulder. "Hope you like Asian ass."
Scott's expression stills cool. "I don't expect I would like it no matter what it was." Still, he follows. "Don't take offense, but do those in the force often resort-- well. I expect you all have to expel your tension somehow."
"Scott is always open to new, ah, cultural experiences," Jean says with a smile, falling into step beside Rossi. "Go easy on him, Scott. The job isn't easy even when you'e not on permanent mutant duty."
Rossi's mouth twitches: a sardonic lean towards a grin, if crookedly so. "Some of them," he tells Scott, wading his way through a small creche of bobble-headed Chinese children. "When their dominant arms get whacked by the Friends, say. You jackass. I've made a couple of arrests there, is all. The guy who used to own it had a loan sharking business going backstage. --Food's decent though, if you can reach the plates through the boobs. No offense, Jean."
"They're that plentiful," Scott deadpans. "But mutant duty's the bottom drawer of the force, isn't it? The X-File division. I'm sure, for all his stress," and Scott's pace becomes a prowl, "Rossi's not one of the some. Hear him? He's made a couple of arrests there. I'm sure other departments are down there every night."
"Jesus Christ." Chris marvels. It is possible that he looks paternally proud. "You're being an asshole, Summers."
"None taken," Jean shakes her head. "Although perhaps I should let you make this a boy's night out. I do have a bit more...shopping to do before I head back to the school."
"Am I?" Scott's smile is so private that it hardly touches his face. He inclines his head sour bitter slow over his shoulder at Jean. "Wasn't this your idea?"
"Oh, it was. And it is a wonderful idea," Jean waves away the objection. "No reason not to kill two birds with one stone, though."
"Beer and booty," Rossi says with ripe old cynicism. "Unbeatable combination, Summers. You, me, some cocktail shrimp, and painted nipples. Theirs." A kindly clarification. "Not ours."
Oh, the wariness. "Coward," Scott finally judges Jean, but his tone is acerbic instead of light. Honestly. Scott turns away, to face forward again, his eyes lowered -- as far as one can tell with those glasses. "Unbeatable. Well. I guess inside every man is a closet lech."
Pyro lets loose a light hearted chuckle. "Have fun then, Scott. If I find everything I need, just I might stop by." Then, with that, she's turns and is off down street in the opposite direction.
Jason and Pyro masquerade as Scott and Jean. There is talk of stripclubs.
<> Abandoned Mining Facility
The heavy tromp of boots against the hard-packed dirt of the path from the forest proper heralds Ellen's approach as she returns to the compound; her gun slung up over her shoulder, the smooth, even stride of long legs hampered by the tight embrace of stiff black leather. The X-Man uniform clings to her lean frame, black highlighted with blue piping a creaking, uncomfortable but suitably dramatic emphasis to her body's curves and angles both. Her tight-bound tail of blond hair and sweat-touched skin are washed pale in the light of the overcast sky. Her expression is one of vague, inward focus and contemplation; her boots are dulled with dirt and dust.
Pyro is currently crouched beside the firepit, staring at the cold, black logs, no sign of embers or live coals of any sort. The prerequisite lighter is in hand, but not currently in use. He glances up at Ellen's approach, giving her a nod of recognition before turning his gaze back to the pit.
Redirection subtle, Ellen draws nearer the youth and the firepit; reaching up with her free hand to tuck a stray hair behind one ear, she cants her head, leaning her weight back on one booted heel as she pauses. The outfit creaks as her hand drops to brace against the sleek black over her hip. "Evening."
It's hard to be stealthy in fresh leather. Sounding much like his namesake, Toad creaks and croaks with each movement as he tries to hunt for dinner. Finally the mutant has given up, meandering out from the tree line as he picks bark from a tongue that had missed its mark of an altered bird. "Yerg." He grumbles before hawking a large mouthful of spit to the ground, brown flecks mixed in with the saliva. Yellowish eyes turn up suspiciously.
Conspicuously comfortable in charcoal grey slacks and his usual militaryesque black sweater, Erik moves from the shadows of a half-erected building at a leisurely pace - more stealthy, for once, than most of his recruits, despite the usual thump and crunch of boots over hard-packed dirt that signals his approach. He appears well-rested, if thin, a measure of distracted strain pulling tight around the corners of his eyes and the slightly downturned edges of his scowl as he strides in the vague direction of the fire pit.
Pyro looks up at Ellen as she makes her way over. "Evening," he echoes back at her. He flicks the lighter open, a quick arc of flame leaving his hand to settle into the pit, putting the logs back into their warming state. "Anything interesting out there?" he comments, before glancing back down the path at the sounds of another approaching.
"Dirt. Trees. Rocks. Sometimes fauna." Ellen shakes her head slightly and then lifts her chin. "Nothing especially remarkable. -- I believe, however, that I should definitely bathe." Her gaze skims, idle, over the rest of the open area as she starts walking again, pausing only briefly upon Magneto; she hesitates, but then tromps on toward the dry house anyway.
Toad squints his eyes up at the fire as he takes a few more steps forward to enter the ring of light it provides. "Wot, not gonna follow 'er? Sounded like a right proper invitation, Matches." He sneers with a grown smile on his green lips. Magneto is yet to be noticed as Toad eyes Pyro. His leather creaks again, the lined green X across his front getting bathed in firelight.
Crunch. Crunch. Scuff. Crunch. On Magneto strides, a brow lifted in distracted appreciation of the view from behind once Ellen has picked herself up and moved off in the opposite directon. /Toad's/ back end is spared the same scrutiny. Erik's eyes lift pointedly to the back of his head once he draws near enough to halt temporarily, that same brow still lifted. "Perhaps you should take her up on it, Toad."
"Not an invitation for /me/," Pyro snickers. "And I'd hate to see the bloke caught gawking at her." He shuffles around at Magneto's approach, settling onto a stump and slipping the lighter back into the suit pocket.
Cringe. Toad's back bends slightly as her eyes dart to the side. He immediately scuffles around to face Magneto with a whining like smile on his face. "Oh, no Sah. Just ah lit'l joke. Blinkin' kidding, weren't I, Matches? Don't mean a thing by it." His black boot slides across the dirt behind him as he scoots back with a nervous croaking laugh.
"Of course," consoles Erik in turn, the smile he manages for that croaking laugh kept deliberately thin as the washed-out blue of his eyes flick past the top of Toad's head to settle briefly upon Pyro. "She's more open-minded than you might venture to think. Men who do nothing can expect nothing in return. Anyway." His gaze angles itself back down onto Toad, and from the look in his eyes, Erik is feeling superior indeed. "I trust all is well."
Toad shuffles out of the way for Magneto to get a better look at Pyro. The comment gets a fleeting look of wicked amusement before Toad is forced to cow under the look. "Oi, just peachy, it is. Save for these blasted uniforms. Lookit me, I'm a right X-goon." Toad pouts, holding his arms out with a look down to his outfit. "Though is does match my 'air."
"I think she's more into, ah, more mature men," Pyro says, not allowing his face to show anything. "Not that I'd complain with a few more gals around here, though." He glances over his own outfit, tracing the red X with one finger. "Can't say I ever expected to wear one o'these."
"Well. So long as it matches your hair." Erik intones, thin smile pulling sidelong as his glare scrapes with mechanical precision from leather-garbed Toad arm to leather-garbed arm. "I think they're flattering. Not that I intend to partake in playing the part. I have a reputation to maintain." And then, of course, Pyro's comment sinks in, and Erik cannot quite restrain a gruff chuckle at what he apparently deems to be a fair observation. "We should have another female before the week is over. English. Less...discriminatng. Personally, I think you're better off with Ellen, but." His opinion ends there, and he moves as if to continue on, around the fire towards the factory. (re)
"Really? The ol' Prof didn't 'ave you thinkin' you were gonna save the bloody world one day while lookin' good doin' it?" Toad says to Pyro befor letting a sloppy grin take of his features for a moment as he presses the joke with a swipe of a hand through his greasy spikes of green. "Flatterin', eh? Might have to keep it, then." He says with a snicker before letting Magneto take charge of the conversation of women. Not a topic Toad has much to say on. He steps down to crouch closer to the flames, with eyes turning towards Magneto. "New meat. Love-r-ly." Toad says mostly to himself.
"No, they're pretty...picky," Pyro shrugs at Toad. "Playing favorites and all that." His eyes flicker toward Magneto's back, and the fire quickly forms a hand, one finger stretched defiantly toward the sky before settling back into normal flames. "Their loss."
"They haven't the faintest idea of what they are missing." Erik rumbles without turning back around - the flare of manipulated flame that does odd things to his own shadow stretched out before him carefully ignored. "I am going to address our visitor. Do not interrupt me unless someone is dying."
Toad leans back, his hands flinging behind him to catch his balance. He turns his eyes up, peering at the hand steadily. "Oi, barbecued Weather Witch on the menu, I 'ope." The toad taps his hand to the ground as it rounds back up in front. "Don't need no 'elp, Sah?" Toad inquires with a curious look after Magneto.
"Glad to oblige," Pyro's eyes flicker, not just from the firelight. "Fry them or frame them. Works for me."
"Not this time, Mortimer. Personal business," comes the cool reply, and Erik strides on at his usual deliberate pace, shoulders and shoulder tabs rigid as his back fades from the ring of fire-lit earth and into darkness. "I shall notify you if I determine that she is in need of an attitude adjustment. Have a good evening."
"Why not both?" Toad volleys back to the other with a sly grin. He rights himself to as he was before the fire hand and plucks up a stick with a bug on it. Within a flash the tip of the stick is plunged in his mouth before being drawn back out, bug free. "Righto, Sah! Give 'er the ol' Toad treatment if need be." The man glees mostly to himself before poking the fire with dull interest.
"That's bloody disgusting," Pyro says, wincing away from the spectacle. "Wish you'd not do that when people are around. Or at least when /I'm/ around."
Toad mashes the bug up between his teeth without properly keeping his mouth closed. "Oi, protein ain't nothin' to scoff at, kid." His fingers wiggle up as he pops each one into his mouth to suck off any left over morsels just for show. "Don't bash it 'til you try it, wot?"
"I'll pass. There's enough protein in the kitchen for me." Pyro says, looking at the fire and trying to burn that particular image away. "Can't wait to get back to the City and make some trouble for them," he says, the change of conversation sounding all too gleeful.
Toad smacks his lips happily and returns to his fun of poking at the fire. "Oh yeah, it'll be a good time, for sure. See how high an' mighty they think themselves once they're public enemy number one. Wouldn't mind snappin' a few necks for emphasis. Bloody /nice/." The log he has been relentlessly poking at shifts enough to stall him for a moment. "So you'd kill 'em if you had a chance? All of 'em?" Toad inquires with a raised eyebrow back at the other.
"Any of them I need to," Pyro's eyes narrow, though he doesn't break his gaze from the flame. Not quite meeting Toad's gaze. The flame does form a head, though, which with a quick slice falls from the fiery shoulders into the coals beneath.
Toad looks away with a cocked head and a grin. "Good show." He says with a slow nod to the fire show before him. "Though if you ask /me/ death is too good for 'em. Let 'em suffer, let 'em linger." Toad pushes himself up to his feet and stretches, the leather still groaning out in protest. "Don't suppose you wanna go see wot's there to ear under that log o'er there with me, luff?" He asks with a smirk and a pointed finger to one of the makeshift benches.
"All yours, mate," Pyro shakes his head, twisting to put his back toward said fireside dinner. "I'll fry 'em up for you if you'd rather be only half as revolting, though."
"Nah, I go things one hundred-flippin'-precent!" Toad says as he makes his way to the log and gives it a good kick wit hthe heel of his boot. It rolls slightly and he falls to a crouch, picking and slurping his late night snack before it can wriggle away. Much too busy now for conversation.
A few moments of the sounds of indulgence is all Pyro can manage, and he pushes off from his seat, letting the fire settle back into its natural state. "Knock yourself out," he says, wandering off down the path into the woods.
<> Weight Room - Lower Level
There's sounds of heavy huffing and puffing coming from the weight room. Inside, young John Allerdyce is found alone, hunched over a row machine. The weights fall back againt the metal, and he steps back, wiping his face and neck while scowling at the machine.
Mystique appears in the door, pausing for a moment to scan the room and take in Pyro before she stalks toward the mat along one wall. Her stride is long and smooth, but muscles carry a tension to their set as she goes. John gets the briefest of nods.
Pyro glances up as Mystique enters, offering a mumbled greeting. He lifts a 5-pound plate from the rack, tossing it on with the others before resuming position and tugging away. The form isn't exactly the finest, but he's more than making up for it in effort. "Six...Seven...Eight..." are muttered under his breath and he struggles a moment, attemting another before returning the weights to the neutral position.
Mystique drops instantly into stretches, thoughtless with habit. As Pyro drops the weights back down her gaze skims over to him. "Done?"
"Hardly." Pyro begins reracking the plates, dropping down onto a bench and taking a pull on his waterbottle. "Might as well keep busy if nothing else."
Mystique's lips curl into a small smile as she rises, one arm pulled over her head. "Excellent. Show me what you can do?"
Pyro lifts an eyebrow, draping his towel around his neck. He moves over to a pulldown, sliding the pin for the right weight. "Don't usually have an audience," he shrugs, settling onto the bench. "Well, except Blitz, but he doesn't count."
Mystique's smile widens slightly, almost a laugh as she lifts a hand and beckons, once. "Not there. You've been training?" she assumes.
"Oh," is Pyro's response, and he stands, dropping his towel in his place and crossing the room to the mat. "Almost every day," he comments. "Powers, iron, Some hand to hand. Or some combination."
"Hand to hand," Mystique instructs, shifting once to flex up onto her toes. "I'd like to see your progress." She tips her head, tilting her gaze on him while she considers.
Pyro nods, quickly checking the drawstring on his shorts and kicking his shoes off to the side before stepping onto the mat. A moment to ready his stance, then he attempts a punch before she has a chance to make the first move.
Anticipation tenses her muscles as Mystique watches him, and his first punch nearly takes her by surprise. Nearly. She steps sideways and moves behind him in an instant, away from the punch and out of his range, although she does not yet take a shot.
Pyro is as surprised as she is, perhaps more. He adjusts his feet, spinning to face her, keeping his balance--a year's practice has had some affect, apparantly. His arms come up to a defensive position offering a jab as he steps back to find a better distance.
Mystique remains where she is, motionless and waiting for the moment outside of a single fast dodge sideways to escape the jab. She's not attacking, apparently, but instead dancing lightly while Pyro takes the offensive.
Ok, now for something a bit more daring. And not really much his fighting style either, but what the heck. The worst he can do is land on his back. Pyro's leg sweeps out, attempting to catch Mystique's ankle.
Up and over and around, and Mystique finally moves in, dropping in graceful mimic to sweep a leg at Pyro's.
Reading glasses somewhat at odds with the usual maroon dress shirt, fitted pants, and knee-high boots combination, Erik is still glancing over the notebook gripped in his right hand when he paces in through the weightroom entrance. Having thus far managed to ignore noises indicative of an ongoing scuffle, at the flash of movement over the top of the raised book, he lowers it and lifts his brows in slow tandem.
Ope. Well, he wasn't off balance. And what beautiful timing to find himself plunging to the floor. There's a crash as Pyro hits, though he does have the presence of mind to roll aside, out of range of any killing blow. And as he pushes up to his knees, he catches sight of Magneto. "Oh. Hi," he manages awkwardly.
Pyro may be distracted, but Mystique is not, and a sharp kick goes toward his shoulder, bearing him back so she can pin him to the mat with a press of her foot. Only then does she look over her shoulder to Erik, brows lifted in a query that is perhaps mildly irritated.
"Hello, John," Erik replies, manners and dignity apparently intact despite the look he's catching from Mystique - who is peered at next. This doesn't last for more than a few seconds, and then he's turning as if to head back through the door. "Perhaps I will come back later."
Pyro moans slightly, then grabs at her foot, giving a hard shoive with both hands as he rolls off the side before bouncing back to his feet. "M'okay," he mumbles. "Good practice to have attention in two places anyways."
Mystique regains her balance easily enough and steps back. A slow smile spreads across her features as golden eyes flash toward Magneto. "You should join us, Erik," she suggests.
Not, perhaps, the response he was expecting. Erik stops short of the door and turns back, his grip on the notebook having gone a bit slack as his gaze flickers from Mystique down to Pyro, who is...already back up on his feet. "...Alright," he says, and as he reaches up to remove his glasses, somewhere in the back of his mind, the voice of reason is asking him if he remembers that whole thing where Ellen isn't around at the moment.
Without his fire, Pyro's isn't at full strength, but not quite as helpless as he once was. He circles slightly, splitting the difference between them. "Two on one or free for all?"
Mystique's gaze slides between Erik and Pyro with slow anticipation, and there's laughter dancing in her eyes as she invites with a spread of her hand, "Two. On one."
Glasses are folded slowly. An effort that borders on procrastinatory, until he stoops to set his notebook aside on an unoccupied bench, and drops his glasses atop it. Now he must, er. Roll his sleeves.
Pyro headrushes at Mystique. Or at least feights so, as he stops short and makes no further attack for the moment.
Mystique remains where she is, motionless in the face of the rush until Pyro stops. Outwardly, at least, her attention is focused on Erik. Slow Erik. Procrastinating Erik. "I will try," she promises, voice lilting sweetly. "Not to injure you."
Scuffle, scuffle. These are the sounds the faintly metallic fabric makes in the course of being rolled, one or two flips short of his elbows. His collar is unbuttoned next, but he is, at least, moving now - slow strides carrying him into a deliberate sort of half-circle in the direction of Mystique's back side. "If you attempt to go easy on me, you will wish you hadn't."
Fine, since she's not even gracing his attempts to distract, Pyro circles the opposite way to place Mystique between him and Magneto. Whether the two on one is in his favor or not, it's the best position. His hands clench and release, this time waiting for one of them to make the first move.
"We are working," Mystique reminds, still smiling. "Without powers." Her gaze finally sweeps back to Pyro and his readiness, eyes glowing approval.
Magneto exhales. If there is vague disappointment on the edge of his breath at her having established this particular rule, well. There's really no point in wasting time, is there? Angling from behind, Erik steps in quickly to attempt to snap an arm in around her neck.
Powers might at least give Pyro a fighting chance, but at least he's not alone in this battle. He doesn't attempt to attack, but while Magneto makes his move, Pyro attempts to dance in the edge of Mystique's vision, just enough to keep his moves vague and distracting--hopefully.
Erik is easily avoided, but Pyro's dancing is distracting - or attention grabbing, at least. Her first attack is toward him, and darting punch toward his head while some portion of her pays wary attention to Erik.
Off-balance at the lack of contact, Erik has to stagger a step or two before he can come around for a re-evaluation of the situation. He's more careful this time, and still intent upon attacking from behind - a jab thrust in low, around the kidney region.
Pyro does manage to get his head out of the way this time, even if it is only due to Mystique's divided attention. This time, he waits for Magneto's move, timing a high punch along with the other.
John's punch is avoided with a neat step to one side, but Erik's connects, stealing breath away for half a moment. Her dodge means it catches her somewhere not her kidneys, but it takes a moment's dancing distance to regain herself before she sweeps in again, aiming a flurry of blows split between the pair of them with fastly calculated precision.
Magneto has had plenty of time to prepare himself, but he can only keep track of the timing long enough to swing a block up and then down before her third strike catches him at the base of his rib cage. The next very likely catches wherever she wants it to land, as he is busy trying to drag air back into his lungs.
The first blow catches Pyro hard on the shoulder, and he jumps back out of the reach of the rest of them. As soon as they subside, though, he darts back in, throwing two quick blows before attempting to jump back out of the fray.
The next lands square on Erik's shoulder, meant to send him down without excessive possibility of injury, while Mystique absorbs the second of Pyro's blows and then goes after him with several punches directed to the midsection before she drops another sweeping kick at his ankles.
Not quite as nimble as either of the others involved, Erik jerks back into the wall behind him with the force of impact, only just managing to fill his lungs before he grasps his left hand automatically over the site. Breath haltingly regained a few seconds later, he pushes off the wall and lifts his hands back out in front of him as he steps back into the vicinity of the ongoing match, jaw clenched into a frustrated set.
Pyro's concerned with dodging the punches, which leaves him open for the sweep attack. For the second time that evening, he finds himself lying on the floor, this time his breath knocked out a moment. As soon as the room steadies, though, he pushes back onto his feet.
Mystique stills for a moment, motionless in the center of the mat as both men regain their footing and their breath. She smiles.
Blue eyes flicker aside, and then refocus. Erik rocks a step closer - one hand still open up around his face - the other, at a lower guard between gut and chest.
Return in kind, Pyro circles, then steps in quickly, kicking out one leg mid-calf level.
With Erik on gaurd, Pyro's kick is easily avoided. Mystique's flip out of the way is meant more for flair than effectiveness, and her smile widens to a cocky grin as she settles back down and waits.
Magneto jolts abruptly aside towards the rack of weights nearest him - the topmost 2.5 free weight jerked off its respected pipe and flung hard at the woman in blue.
Pyro takes advantage of the sitation, though, sliding to his right to block the easiest place for her to dodge the flying metal.
There's something to be said for the element of surprise, particularly when Mystique is busy grinning cockily at the younger recruit. So it is that she doesn't note the weight until it's on its way toward her, and her first reaction is neatly blocked by Pyro. So it is that it catches her hard in the gut, knocking her back and down in an ungraceful sprawl and keeping her there for several seconds.
Magneto is quick to advance in in order to make optimal use of the perceived advantage - a nod of approval passed quickly over to Pyro on the approach.
Pyro presses in as well, standing to her side while watching her feet warily. Twice down give one cause for caution.
Several seconds down, but they're used, and as Pyro approaches it's not her feet that sweep out but her hand, bearing the freeweight. It goes flying toward /his/ middle, and it's Erik who gets the sweep of her feet at his.
Thump. Erik was looking down at Mystique. Now he is looking up at the ceiling, flat on his back. He coughs a little.
Thud. Thunk. Pyro bends over, as the weight catches him square on, driving the breath out of him even before the weight hits the ground. His tearing eyes take a moment to refocus.
"That," Mystique says finally, turning her head sideways to eye Erik. "Was not nice."
"I warned you," Erik says as amicably as he can at the rasp he's able to achieve. He coughs again, and turns his own head enough to check on Pyro's...progres.
Give him a minute, and Pyro will be fine. Pride is well past being wounded when sparring with Mystique. "So..." he says, steadying his breathing. "Ready for another go?"
Mystique does laugh then, a low quiet sound before she answers. "I think I will refrain from injuring the recruits, for the time being," she tells him.
Magneto rolls off his back and over. and then a little further, shifting to place himself partially atop Mystique despite the presence of...er...semi-virgin eyes. "I believe that's Raven for, 'I've had enough, thank you.'"
Pyro's shoulders sag with relief, and he heads over to the bench housing his towel and water. The latter is quickly drained, then the former used to rub down his head.
Mystique's lips curl a smug grin up at Erik as Pyro moves away, and one foot moves to draw up along the length of his calf as she changes under him. She slides neatly into a leather-clad X-form. Storm first, followed swiftly by Jean before a sideways flick of her eyes toward Pyro has her settling into the figure of Bobby Drake. "I've never had enough," she purrs.
Magneto chuckles down into Storm's hair. Jean's. ...Bobby's. And there, he seems to have decided that it might be best to start pushing himself back up onto his feet.
Pyro's eyes narrow as Mystique takes on forms of his teachers. At the sight of Bobby, though, his mouth twitches and he looks away under the pretense of settling down onto the bench.
Mystique grins at both responses, deep amusement clear on her features. She remains where she is for a moment longer and then rises to her feet, fast and smooth, in the same moment that she shifts from Bobby to herself.
Magneto winces to himself as he straightens - back and shoulders already knotting, so that he doesn't quite make it all the way up into his usual stiff posture, even once he's turned to make his way back towards his abandoned notebook and glasses, dusting himself lazily off as he goes. "You did well, Pyro. I look forward to seeing your potential at its peak, one day."
"Yessir," Pyro says, lifting his head to face both of them. He pushes off the bench, scooping up the empty waterbottle and towel, before heading toward the door. "G'night then." he says, trying not to visibly show the soreness in his step.
"Take a hot shower," Mystique recommends as she watches Pyro critically. There's no sign of stiffness in her own movements, but it's unclear whether that is because she does not hurt or because she refuses to show it.
"I intend to," mutters Erik, the fact that he has his back turned to both mutants allowing for the mistaken address. He half stoops for his notebook, pauses before it's within his grasp, and rights himself without it. The glasses lift into his waiting hand on their own, and he paces for the door. "Good night."
Chinatown
The hub of Asian immigration is centered here in Chinatown, a dizzying array of shops and streetside markets selling fresh fish, jewelry, and all manner of oddities. Run through by the shopper's heaven of Canal Street, it's a well-populated area, with plenty other races intermingled with the largely Chinese and Japanese population, with those from Taiwan, Vietnam, and Cambodia as well. Dozens of restaurants open here, with neon signs in foreign characters and poor English attracting many each day for a slight taste of the exotic.
Ah, the wane of the evening. The cool of the air. The gentle illumination of neon. It is a day for lovers, and lovers there be. Estranged lovers. Say, a man and a woman who are walking together, but walk with mixed affection and do not touch. Let us say Scott and Jean, in the evening, in Chinatown, on the out. But subdued, resigned outs.
For wherelse but Chinatown can one find the strangest...toys. Well, perhaps Chelsea or East Village, but not the toys with this special flavor. And one Jean Grey has a bag hung at her side none. Through the plastic, a few of the words can be made out even. There's no attempt to hide--indeed she totes the bag with total nonchalance, fully engrossed in the conversation at hand, a few bits drifting louder with emphasis. "Yes, stopping there /was/ necessary. No, the students won't see. Even if they /did/, it's not like their memories would be any challenge."
Toys. Boys. And lo, men. Manly at that, if somewhat hampered by the long stalk of cane. Det. Rossi limps out of a hobby shop, a bag of his own caught across his wrist: harmless baggage, this one, meant for some engineer-minded youth (or immature adult) as gift or passing entertainment. The suit flaps open over the empty holster; the tie, unraveled nearly out of its knot, drapes with democratic friendliness across his chest. A step into the sidewalk, two. And then, fortuitous, a glance up. "I'll be damned." Leather. Rossi blinks. "What the fuck are you two doing here?"
"Jean," Scott says with a strained longsuffering, his eyebrows pressed down and dark, "wanted to go shopping." The voice is precise and weighted, nearly snide, and the tone weaves toward snide after Scott stops on the sidewalk to get a better look at Rossi. "What are you doing here?"
"Someone is just caught up in wishing these were for him," Jean replies, jangling the bag on her arm. Her eyes trail to the cane. "You seem to be getting around better. How's the leg?" The face has appropriate concern, but the mind behind the face is racing to try to recall any details as to the cause of that accident.
The green-eyed gaze trails down, finds itself arrested by the contents of that not-at-all-innocent shopping bag, and skids back up to safer regions. No, higher. There. "The left one's better than the right," Rossi says, straightening off the cane to tap it against that offending leg. "Could be worse, though. Therapy's a pain in the ass, but the arm's better, too. --Doing some shopping for the nephew. Birthday party. Consider yourself lucky, Summers," he adds, wryly. "Nate's not a pain in the ass yet."
Scott's smile is more bared teeth than amusement. "You'd be surprised." But perhaps such shows of aggression are stress, for Scott's expression eases a little out of the tight lines. He tries rueful, "That leg. You're always breaking something."
"You're keeping up with the therapy, right?" Jean queries. "Don't let your pride be the cause of a gimped leg for life. And that bit of doctorly advice out of the way, she adds a brief laugh. "And you might be surprised. Somehow, even toddlers can tell the difference between a two-dollar train and a twenty-dollar one."
Again the cane goes tap-tap against the leg, its rubber tip smudging against cheap dark blue. "Not my fault," Rossi reminds -- tells -- without heat, running curiosity across Scott's face before blinking at Jean. "Thought the therapist was sending you weekly bulletins?"
"Oh, bulletins can be subject to bribery," Jean smiles, after a moment, settling on the safe answer. "But no, hardly your fault. Life happens, though, and we adapt. The nature of the beast."
"Yeah," Chris says, though the word is dragged out, the vowels lovingly inscribed with doubt. His mouth crimps in a ruffle's curve; the cane, slung over the already burdened other wrist, frees a hand to rampage through black hair. "Whatever. --Hey. You two sticking around in town for the evening? Got plans? I owe you dinner or something from the last time you patched me up."
Scott's lips compress and pull out in a cautious smirk. "We don't need much. A kabob or an egg roll. Jean's always a little peckish."
"Dinner. Well, since you brought it up..." Jean trails off, not responding directly to Scott's last comment, "Scott was /just/ telling me he's never seen the inside of a strip club. Weren't you, dear?"
Rossi blinks. Even the habitual cynicism of a hardened cop is slightly shakened. "What?" he says blankly, and then, uneasy, "With /you/?" Difficult to say which of the pair he refers to.
"What?" Scott echoes, with unusual emphasis. He takes a startled sidestep away from Jean. "I would never say any such thing. Please. She's trying to be facetious," Scott insists toward Rossi. Although it's always hard to tell with those red glasses, he does not seem to be looking directly at the detective. One nostril is hiked upward in a kind of closet sneer.
"Oh please, Chris," Jean says, apparantly assuming his comment was intended for her. "I am surrounded by teenagers every day. Reality pales by comparison to /their/ imaginations."
"Yeah," Rossi says again, his gaze automatically dropping (damned thing) back to her breasts before being relieved of duty and sent to the Scott front. "Well, you know. Whatever floats your pickle." The cane switches hands; the detective jerks his head in hospitable recklessness down the busy, crowded Chinatown street.
"I'd prefer to go home." The nostril is still hiked high and Scott's brow, just over his right eyebrow, creases. And he ducks his head suddenly sidelong to hiss into Jean's ear, but the whisper carries, caught, "You shouldn't." The hiss has not to it the least edge of gentleness or humor. Even diluted quiet as it is, it sounds like a frantic command.
"I'd prefer to go home." The nostril is still hiked high and Scott's brow, just over his right eyebrow, creases. And he ducks his head suddenly sidelong to hiss into Jean's ear, but the whisper carries, caught, "You shouldn't." The hiss has not to it the least edge of gentleness or humor. Even diluted quiet as it is, it sounds like a frantic command.
"Loosen up, Scott," Jean replies, making no attempt to soften her volume. "It will be a good experience for you. Help you connect with the students more. Your warnings in the sex ed segment could use updating, so consider it continuing education."
The detective cuts his glance between Jean and Scott, curiosity warring with native discretion. "Listen, I know how it is with your poodle gigs. If you got somewhere to go, or something to do--" he begins.
Scott shies as if Jean'd done more than speak at him, a long step back, planting his heel unsteady, on the verge of twisting foot and ankle with it. His eyebrows and set of his jaw are all bemusement, but then he seems to recover himself and come to a decision. He even laughs. "No, we've got nothing to do. Come." Scott turns his foot and lets himself face Rossi direct. "It'll be educational."
"You may have to wade your way through the myriad of fruitbaskets and thank you cards the students send, detective," Jean says, a finely controlled smile playing the edges of her mouth. Yes, she likes to get her way.
Rossi pitches a doubtful glance at Scott -- "Having a hard time picturing you talking about vaginas and fallopian tubes, Summers," -- but leans, regardless, into the first step and the plodding tap of the cane. Foot traffic, parted around them for the last few minutes, closes ranks once movement seems a possibility. "So where to?"
"I believe," and Scott is apace between Rossi and Jean as the detective starts walking, "that I try to talk about them as indirectly as possible." Any amusement that was on his face before has already tightened into something approaching sullenly. "I'm not familiar with strip clubs. Someone else must choose the where."
"The students waver between wanting a telepath and a someone...impartial like Scott," Jean nods. "Lead the way, then, Chris."
"Why the fuck do you assume /I'd/ know--" It is a futile protest. Even half-finished, the sentence cuts off to the twist of a grimace, and Rossi glances apology to Scott before turning his face away. His long stride is somewhat hobbled by injury, but it serves nonetheless to make him leader enough. "It's only because of the job," he warns over his shoulder. "Hope you like Asian ass."
Scott's expression stills cool. "I don't expect I would like it no matter what it was." Still, he follows. "Don't take offense, but do those in the force often resort-- well. I expect you all have to expel your tension somehow."
"Scott is always open to new, ah, cultural experiences," Jean says with a smile, falling into step beside Rossi. "Go easy on him, Scott. The job isn't easy even when you'e not on permanent mutant duty."
Rossi's mouth twitches: a sardonic lean towards a grin, if crookedly so. "Some of them," he tells Scott, wading his way through a small creche of bobble-headed Chinese children. "When their dominant arms get whacked by the Friends, say. You jackass. I've made a couple of arrests there, is all. The guy who used to own it had a loan sharking business going backstage. --Food's decent though, if you can reach the plates through the boobs. No offense, Jean."
"They're that plentiful," Scott deadpans. "But mutant duty's the bottom drawer of the force, isn't it? The X-File division. I'm sure, for all his stress," and Scott's pace becomes a prowl, "Rossi's not one of the some. Hear him? He's made a couple of arrests there. I'm sure other departments are down there every night."
"Jesus Christ." Chris marvels. It is possible that he looks paternally proud. "You're being an asshole, Summers."
"None taken," Jean shakes her head. "Although perhaps I should let you make this a boy's night out. I do have a bit more...shopping to do before I head back to the school."
"Am I?" Scott's smile is so private that it hardly touches his face. He inclines his head sour bitter slow over his shoulder at Jean. "Wasn't this your idea?"
"Oh, it was. And it is a wonderful idea," Jean waves away the objection. "No reason not to kill two birds with one stone, though."
"Beer and booty," Rossi says with ripe old cynicism. "Unbeatable combination, Summers. You, me, some cocktail shrimp, and painted nipples. Theirs." A kindly clarification. "Not ours."
Oh, the wariness. "Coward," Scott finally judges Jean, but his tone is acerbic instead of light. Honestly. Scott turns away, to face forward again, his eyes lowered -- as far as one can tell with those glasses. "Unbeatable. Well. I guess inside every man is a closet lech."
Pyro lets loose a light hearted chuckle. "Have fun then, Scott. If I find everything I need, just I might stop by." Then, with that, she's turns and is off down street in the opposite direction.
Jason and Pyro masquerade as Scott and Jean. There is talk of stripclubs.