(no subject)
The newspapers and morning news around New York City, and indeed, the US in general will feature the story of a massive fire that gutted a high class antique shop. The fire took place late Wednesday night. Once the blaze was tamed, the owner of the shop, who's name has not yet been released to the media, was discovered inside dead and dismembered. It appears as though the fire was a cover up for the brutal murder. There are early reports that the killing and subsequent fire may have been retaliation for the recent firing of an employee outed as a mutant. Reports, unconfirmed at this point by the NYPD, claim that a metal disc etched with the phrase "Mutant Hater, Rest in Pieces" was found at the scene. (snagged from xmm_creed here
Pyro has made his way out to Suburbia, address in hand. He is not impressed. He double checks the address penned onto his palm, then gives several loud thuds on the door.
The house Pyro stands before is unspectacular. A black sedan is parked in the driveway and the lawn is immaculate. It is not the kind of place one would ever imagine to find Victor Creed. Defying expectations though, the deep snarl of his voice is heard from the other side of the white-painted door. "Fuck off. I don't want any."
"Awww, the little kitty doesn't want to come out an' play," Pyro singsongs, leaning sidewards along the door frame and looking out across the neat lawn. The tell-tale accent is in full force tonight. "Do I have ta come in after you?"
The single deadbolt that secures the door (after all, who does Sabretooth need to fear?) thumps open. The door is swung open by the towering man already moving deeper into the place. The house is, like it's exterior, neat and clean. The furnishing are sparse and it doesn't seem like Creed must spend much time here. "Watch yer fuckin' mouth, kid. I'd heal from a few burns. Would you heal from having both yer arms torn off and stuffed up yer asshole?" This is said with his back turned, making reading his expression to match it impossible.
"Sounds fun. Remind me to schedule it in my day planner." Pyro pushes past him, giving the place a quick once over. "Not bad, not bad. Right old place to retire. Nice tele, though, at least," he gives the electronic an approving nod.
The massive television would swell with pride at the compliment, but then it would violate some regulation on the size of consumer electronics. "Retire?" Creed turns around as he asks, blonde mane as wild as ever and his black eyes focused keenly on his visitor. He is dressed for going out, wearing the abused leather coat he is so fond of. Rips from Logan's claws over the belly, tears in the back from both Logan and Yuriko Oyama. The newest to the collection is a set of marks from a car's tires associated with a rip in the left side of the garment. "And just what the fuck are you talking about?"
"Well, not me. I've got a job to do," Pyro says, accompanied by a snap of fingers that brings forth a tiny flame. The free hand tugs his jacket zipper down several inches, revealing brotherhood garb underneath. "Thought you might like to ride along. Unless tonight's Next Top Model or something else I'd hate to pull you away from."
A soft growl rumbles out of Creed's chest. A warning. "I've been sitting here going half fuckin' crazy waiting to hear about a job to do. You'd be twice as fuckin' stupid as you look if you thought I'd turn it down."
"Good. I'll fill you in along the way." The fire in hand vanishes with a quick flourish, and Pyro jerks his head toward the door. "You're driving, cuz I'm not taking that bloody subway all the way back."
Creed heads for the door without a second thought. As he opens the door to the car appropriated for him by Toad, he mutters something about someone having a deathwish. He is not exactly the best fit in the driver's seat, considering he is more than a foot taller than the average adult male. He manages, though, without looking /too/ undignified about it. The engine roars to life and he looks impatient and expectant of directions.
Pyro slips into the passenger seat, eyeing the car with approval. "Not bad. So yeah, this guy. He's gonna be our example..." And with that, Pyro begins to relate the sad, sad tale of a young newly discovered mutant, losing her only job for no other fact than her idiot boss has a prejudice against mutant kind. With all the proper pauses and slant worthy of a Brotherhood tale, occupying their trip back to the city.
Creed is less sympathetic to the young mutant and far more interested in just how much damage he gets to do to the example. He does however, spare a theatric sniffle over the sad tale. He is not without a heart after all. It's simply blacker than the coal sure to be left in the pair's stockings by Santa in a handful of days. The trip is relatively quick, considering Creed has no concerns for traffic laws or his own safety in driving, and soon, he is unfolding himself from the car and straightening his coat with all the dignity of a cat that had just fallen over.
"So yeah," Pyro concludes, shutting the door after him. "So long as it's ugly, do what you want. This one gets the stamp of Brotherhood on it, and Masia and I have a...little friend who'll get the true story behind it out to the world." He leads them over and down a few blocks to the store front. The metal shutters have been pulled partway down, but the door is still open.
"Cantcha read?" a voice snaps at them as Pyro pushes open the door. "We're /Closed/. C-L-O-S-E-D. Come back tomorrow."
Sabretooth follows in on Pyro's heels. "And here I was, hoping to do some last minute shopping..." He kicks the door shut behind him with a bootheel and looms behind the smaller member of the Brotherhood. He is playing the enforcer here, arms crossed over his broad chest to make himself as imposing as possible.
"Yeah, so, you don't know us," Pyro says, wandering in despite the man's protests, picking up an enscribed glass and looking it over while he talks. "But we wanted to have a little talk with you." He opens his hand wide, the glass falling to the ground and shattering. "Oh, my bad."%The storeowner gives a shout at that. "You're going to pay for that. No, nevermind. Just get out now. Don't make me call the cops."
Victor has already spotted the telephone behind the counter of the store. Casual as anything, he walks over and leans to wrap clawed hands around it. One yank and it is disconnected from the wall. He then shoves it, broken cord dangling and all, over toward the storeowner. "Have at it," he snarls helpfully.
"Oh, the cops will be here alright," Pyro sniffs at the threat. "But see, by then, we'll be long gone. Don't worry, we'll leave a card." The shelf has an assortment of other glass and crystalware, and he begins picking them up in turn, letting each drop from his hand, moving closer to the man, who seems now caught between rage and uncertainty. Not yet fear. Oh, but that will come. "See, there's this girl. Mary. She used to work for you I think. Not anymore."
Grinning like the cheshire cat, though with far more fangs involved, Sabretooth paces along another shelf, brushing an arm along it. The delicate merchandise falls from it in a cascade of breaking glass. "Oops," he calls and abruptly turns. This turn also involves shoving himself against the shelf and knocking it over entirely.
The owner gives a strangled hollar, taking a step back away from them. Pyro compensates by taking two toward him. "See, I don't think Mary being fired had anything to do with her work. Otherwise, you'd have fired her months ago. See, I think it /just/ might have something to do with that little display of floating she gave the other day. What do you think, Creed? Am I right?" he asks, a glance over at his elephant in the chinashop.
Creed, when glanced over to, is in the middle of stepping /onto/ the shelving unit he knocked over and nearly falling down when the shelf he chose to put his weight on buckles and snaps. "Very right, Pyro. I get the feeling this ignorant chicken-fucker doesn't like mutants."
The man begins to stammer something to the contrary, but Pyro holds up a hand to stop him. "We're not here to listen to your excuses. We're here to..." He trails off, palm extended as a flame leaps up, dancing about. He flicks it off to a corner, catching the cloth skirt around a display on fire. "to prove a point. So prove away, Creed."
Creed is very eloquent with his proof. He steps off of the broken shelving unit and leans down to wrap his clawed hands around it. The thing is easily fifteen or so feet long. Certainly a team lift. He snarls though, and hauls the entire thing up into the air. Two steps forward, and he presses it away from his chest with a roar. The heavy shelving slams into the nearest wall, destroying mechandise, ruining the wall, and creating a rather massive cacaphony on impact.
"Whatever, whatever you want. Just don't hurt me." It's really quite amazing how quickly they go from haughty to whimpering mess. Pyro's response is simple. "Just think, you get to play a minor role in history. An example to others what happens when they mess with mutant superiority. Your death will /mean/ something." Another flick of the wrist, and a fire shoots out toward the back of the building, a wall of flame leaping up to stop the man's creeping.
As Pyro taunts the man, Creed creeps around behind him. The wall of flames presents a wonderful misdirection. When confronted with dancing flames, one isn't so apt to notice the towering mutant lining up to charge them. And charge Sabretooth does. With a roar that rattles windows, he leaps through Pyro's show of fire and tackles the man. Claws dig into flesh and all of the momentum carries the pair back toward a wall that they hit hard enough to crack.
Pyro is content to let Creed handle the man himself, while Pyro destroys the man's shop. "Make it quick," he calls over his shoulder, as he wanders the room, setting alight various flammables. "Painful, but quick. We've probably got 10 minutes to be out of here."
By the time Pyro manages that suggestion, Victor looks up with blood-spatter freckling his face. "Quick?" He looks down at the already dying man slumping toward the floor, a tangle of bloody snakes falling out of the opened belly. "Fuck. Fine." A boot thumps against the man's head and the unmistakeable and sickening sound of a breaking skull is heard over the sounds of roaring fires.
"Sorry, mate," Pyro shrugs, the curtain catching on fire and waving in a brilliant blaze. "Next time, we'll take him with us, so you can have your fun," he promises. "This one needs to be found, though. An example, and all that."
A grin splits Creed's face suddenly. "There's no point in just... killing the fucker. They'll find him and see someone killed him. If you gave me a few minutes to work, I could have had the fucking pigs puking on their shoes when they get in here."
"You have..." Pyro peers at the wall clock through the growing blace. "90 seconds," he concludes. "Make the most of it." Pyro, meanwhile, will stand by the doorway and wave a wrist about, orchestrating the flames about the room.
The 90 seconds that follow pass in a blur of crunching sounds and blood spray. By the time Sabretooth is done indulging his darker urges, the shop owner has been torn into several different pieces and blood coats clawed hands nearly completely. He walks to the door, coughing a few times thanks to smoke trying to damage lungs that regenerate faster than damage can be done. "And that, kid, is how you send a message."
"Why'dya think I brought you along?" Pyro asks, holding the door open for the larger man. Into the fray, he tosses a crudely etched metal disk that will survive the burn. 'Mutant Hater. Rest in Pieces.'
Creed steps outside, almost cheerful in having been given a chance to actually do something he enjoys, for the cause he has chosen to fight for. "I can't wait to see how this shit looks on the news tomorrow," he says with a nasty sort of a grin. The man takes pride in his work.
"Yeah, they'll have a bloody hayday with it," Pyro says, carefully closing the door behind him. Through the glass door, flickering light spills out onto the street, no longer hidden by the shutters of closing. "Good night's work, if I do say so. How 'bout a beer before we call it a night?"
Climbing back in the car, Creed lets out an oddly enthusiastic, "Sounds like a fuckin' plan." Getting to flex one's claws does wonders for morale.
Approximately twenty minutes ago, the security of the kitchen was breached. Not in a manner that would set off alarms, but rather one that threatens Yuriko's unofficial title as compound chef. At least for this morning. Oil sizzles and a cloud of heavy, fragrant smoke drifts lazily up from the pan on the stove where sodden lumps of dough turn from golden to brown. The chef's attention is turned to the cupboards and shelves that store the compounds cooking supplies, and Masia's butt is all that is visible as she digs in the back of one. She is cursing, her phrases peppered with Polish exclamations.
Mystique's step into the kitchen is chipper and energetic, a loose and limber stride that carries her from workout to breakfast. She pauses only briefly in the doorway to note Masia...'s ass before she crosses to the refrigerator. There's something like a smile in her voice as she offers, "Masia."
Masia jumps and hits her head, eliciting a sharp "N GWNO!" before she wiggles backwards and pulls out of the cabinet. "Mystique," she replies with a sour look and a grumble in her voice. She rubs at her head and glances aside at the frying pan and gives another, less articulate cry and reaches to pull the pan off the heat.
"You should perhaps exercise more care," Mystique suggests mildly.
Masia's look is exceedingly dry. She does not, however, roll her eyes. Quite. "A lesson I should endeavor to remember more often," she snerks as she reaches for a spatula to fish the dumplings out of the pan. Another four are added to the hot oil from a bag on the counter. They sizzle violently.
"Mmm," Mystique answers, withdrawing from the refrigerator with a small carton of yogurt in one hand. "Tell me. Did you enjoy your time in the city?"
Masia puts the pan back on the heat. "I guess. Define /enjoy/. I liked bein' able to get stuff. Pierogi? Cheese and potato." The dumplings steaming on the plate are gestured at as she goes back to start closing some of the cabinets she'd left open in her search. "But I kinda started wonderin' if I should be worried I'd started talkin' to myself. Ellen's not much for conversations." It's not a question.
"Thank you, no," Mystique replies politely. Her smile curls, quiet and acknowledging. "No. She's not. The city is large, though."
"Large enough ta get lost in," Masia echoes, twisting to a new point. She takes Mystique's place in the refrigerator and pulls out a tub of sour cream. "Though maybe not as large asit could be. Seen the news? about that school?"
"Xavier's," Mystique acknowledges. "Yes."
Masia says, "Yeah. /Kids/. I mean... Eh," she grunts, turning around and dropping the container to the counter top. "/Me/? I'm old enough ta take care of myself, and I figure I made the choice ta become a target. But them? I got a niece. Four years old. What if she's one? What if that's gonna be her ten years from now?"""
"We are all targets," Mystique answers, voice even and mild. "That's why we fight."
"Just... /kids/. I'd love ta get my hands on the assholes who thought /that/ was ok." She rips the top off the container and reaches for a large spoon already laid out on the counter.
"Hm." Mystique pauses for a moment, spoon hovering in midair, and regards Masia. Eventually she suggests carefully, "You should speak to Erik on the matter."
Masia stops with a spoonful of cream hovering just above the container. "What? Like about maybe actually getting my hands on them?"
Mystique reponds in silence, with a vague wave of her spoon, and bends her head to the task of eating yogurt.
Masia huffs a breath through her nose and leans across the counter to plop her spoonful on the pierogies. "Anyways. I got some photos of some people I think are mutants, and might be willing to give your recruiting spiel a listen. If you're interested."
Mystique lifts her brows silently and turns her gaze toward Masia, mildly impressed. "Of course. Have you spoken to them?'"
Six hours of travel behind him, Pyro finally finds himself back at the Brotherhood base. One long hot shower later, some of the travel fatigue is faded, and the blood on his hands--mostly figurative, since Creed took the bulk of the literal--washed away, and he heads toward the kitchen to find food.
"Only one. But it was more a 'hey, give me back my wallet' kind of encounter," Masia grins. "didn't know how much I was authorized to say, and thought they probably'd need to be investigated a little more anyways."
"Ah. So 'willing to listen' primarily means that you believe they posess the Xfactor?" Mystique clarifies.
"And they didn't seem to have too many other...encumbrances. Like being too much involved with other things. Their attitudes spoke lots more, if that makes sense." The cap is replaced back on the container and she leaves it there to turn over the dumplings in the pan. A fresh wave of sizzling springs up.
Pyro steps in through the doorway, taking in the current occupants and a deep breath of the scents. "Mmm, smells good. What's cookin'? Oh, Merry Christmas, and all that," he says cheerfully, headed right toward the refrigerator. My, someone's chipper this afternoon.
"Ah. Give me the information, and I'll look into them," Mystique allows before her gaze lifts to note, "Pyro. You're unexpected."
"That's one way to put it," Masia snorts, looking over at him before nodding in acknowledgement to Mystique. She does deign to answer his question though with, "Pierogies. Potato and cheese. Not as good as my Mom's were, but I had to settle for what would keep. Can have some if you want."
"Ace!" Pyro says, answering the food comment first. He pulls a coke out, popping the open and twisting the top off, which is tossed at the garbage can a few feet away. "Some reports are better in person," he says, answering Mystique. "Thought there might be some questions. And better to lay low for a few days. Needed your help anyways," he says, with a head nod toward Masia. "Seen the news? Tragic, ain't it?"
Mystique lifts her brows slightly at Pyro and dips her head in an allowing nod. "I expect Magneto will want to speak to you while you're here, if you haven't already."
Masia flicks Mystique a quick glance and nods at Pyro. "Yeah. Though it'll only be a tragedy if nothing gets done about it." She pulls the pierogies off the heat and starts to fish this batch out one by one onto the plate.
"I expect you're right," Pyro says, a quick nod at Mystique before downing a good portion of the soda. "Bloody long drive," he mutters. The nose leads him closer to Masia's work where he peers with interest. "You have a way to get ahold of our internet friend? He's going to do a story for us about the oh-so-tragic demise of our little shopkeep."
"Mm." Mystique accepts this with a slight nod and rises easily. "Be sure you stop in before you leave again," she suggests to Pyro. "I'll see you both later." A nod to each, and then she's out the door.
"See you," Masia acknowledges with a nod, setting the last dumpling on the plate and the pan on a back burner while the oil cools. She moves to bump Pyro out of the way as she edges back around to the conatiner of sour cream. "You want some of this on them? Only way to eat them. And probably."
"If you say so," Pyro says, not /quite/ salivating over the food. "Anyways, mainstream news'll take care of spreading the word. The Times even had a nice pic of the charred storefront. Want to get the rest of the story out, though, about the reasons behind it. Figured old fattie was a place to start."
"He's been behaving himself so far," she comments neutrally, peeling the lid back of and picking up the spoon from the counter to drop another dollop on the fresh ones.
"S'good," Pyro nod, watching her movements closely. "Thanks for keeping up on that. Don't spend much time on the net myself. Anyone ever come of that little 'admission?' Didn't think it'd take, but it /was/ fun to see him squirm."
She shrugs and replaces the cap, /this/ time turning around to put the container back in the refrigerator. "Had to shut his site down for a few days cause of all the flame wars going on between the people who believed him and those who thought he was /obviously/ being blackmailed by mutants." Masia finally breaks into a small grin.
"Hah," Pyro mocks, obviously pleased with that answer. "Then I'll mark that one up as success." He sets the drink aside, heaving himself up to sit on the counter, before retreiving his coke. He gives a cautious glance at the doorway to make sure no one lurks, before asking, "So how's life back here?"
Masia shuts the door with a glass rattling thwump and strides to the opposite side of the kitchen to pull a drawer out and retrieve a fork. "Quiet, mostly. Repairs and busy work."
"Busy work," Pyro scowls at the term. "M'glad I'm still out there. Though it /is/ nice to have the space to train here. Little fires I can do inside down there just don't do squat. Need to get in a few hours of practice while I'm up here. Y'know, the big stuff."
Masia pulls the corner of her lips down and purses them. "The big stuff. Un-huh." She is not mocking. Not /exactly/.
Pyro takes the jibe with a sniff. "You're a ruttin riot. I suppose, I should be flattered, though," he says, pausing for effect while taking a long sip of his drink. Finishing it off, he crumples the can and tosses it across the way where it lands in the garbage. "Score. Oh, yeah, totally flattered that I'm talking about powers, and obviously you can't get your mind off something else."
Masia lifts her brows and lets her mouth slide into a smirk. "Oh, yeah, baby. That's cause you're /such/ a legend around here, hot stuff." She advances on him, keeping her eyes on his face until the last second, when she stops and turns to look down at the plate of food. She stabs one on the pierogies with her fork.
"Oh, please," Pyro rolls his eyes. "Because they're /so much choice/ around these parts." He hops off the counter, rummaging for a fork of his own. "Not that older women can't be hot, but, y'know, I usually like to at least make sure they're younger than my mum. Or how old my mum woulda been."
Masia drops the fork to it's side and breaks the dumpling in half, spooning up one side and popping it in her mouth. "Get another plate," she orders around her mouthful. "And yet you come back here to do the /big/ stuff," she says slyly.
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm hoping to catch sight of a certain someone," Pyro says with a wink, before turning to the cupboard to fetch the demanded piece of kitchenware.
"Magneto's been scarce. I wouldn't get my hopes up too high," Masia says solemnly, picking up the plate and crossing back to him. "Hold it out."
The name Pyro calls out is muffled by the fact that his head is in the cupboard. Probably 'witch.' He turns about a moment later, extending the plate with a smirk on his face. "So /that's/ your thing, is it? Have to keep that in mind."
Masia scrapes half of the pierogies off her plate and onto his. "I could advance your age, if you really think you'd be competition?"
"Twenty's perfect, but thanks for the offer," Pyro says, more cocky than hasty. "Young. Beautiful. Powerful. And on the DHS's most wanted list. I'm famous. What else can a guy ask for?"
"The big stuff?" Masia smirks and moves her plate away from his, turning to head for the door. "Enjoy it while you can. And clean up the mess before you leave," comes back over her shoulder as she passes through the doorway.
Pyro has made his way out to Suburbia, address in hand. He is not impressed. He double checks the address penned onto his palm, then gives several loud thuds on the door.
The house Pyro stands before is unspectacular. A black sedan is parked in the driveway and the lawn is immaculate. It is not the kind of place one would ever imagine to find Victor Creed. Defying expectations though, the deep snarl of his voice is heard from the other side of the white-painted door. "Fuck off. I don't want any."
"Awww, the little kitty doesn't want to come out an' play," Pyro singsongs, leaning sidewards along the door frame and looking out across the neat lawn. The tell-tale accent is in full force tonight. "Do I have ta come in after you?"
The single deadbolt that secures the door (after all, who does Sabretooth need to fear?) thumps open. The door is swung open by the towering man already moving deeper into the place. The house is, like it's exterior, neat and clean. The furnishing are sparse and it doesn't seem like Creed must spend much time here. "Watch yer fuckin' mouth, kid. I'd heal from a few burns. Would you heal from having both yer arms torn off and stuffed up yer asshole?" This is said with his back turned, making reading his expression to match it impossible.
"Sounds fun. Remind me to schedule it in my day planner." Pyro pushes past him, giving the place a quick once over. "Not bad, not bad. Right old place to retire. Nice tele, though, at least," he gives the electronic an approving nod.
The massive television would swell with pride at the compliment, but then it would violate some regulation on the size of consumer electronics. "Retire?" Creed turns around as he asks, blonde mane as wild as ever and his black eyes focused keenly on his visitor. He is dressed for going out, wearing the abused leather coat he is so fond of. Rips from Logan's claws over the belly, tears in the back from both Logan and Yuriko Oyama. The newest to the collection is a set of marks from a car's tires associated with a rip in the left side of the garment. "And just what the fuck are you talking about?"
"Well, not me. I've got a job to do," Pyro says, accompanied by a snap of fingers that brings forth a tiny flame. The free hand tugs his jacket zipper down several inches, revealing brotherhood garb underneath. "Thought you might like to ride along. Unless tonight's Next Top Model or something else I'd hate to pull you away from."
A soft growl rumbles out of Creed's chest. A warning. "I've been sitting here going half fuckin' crazy waiting to hear about a job to do. You'd be twice as fuckin' stupid as you look if you thought I'd turn it down."
"Good. I'll fill you in along the way." The fire in hand vanishes with a quick flourish, and Pyro jerks his head toward the door. "You're driving, cuz I'm not taking that bloody subway all the way back."
Creed heads for the door without a second thought. As he opens the door to the car appropriated for him by Toad, he mutters something about someone having a deathwish. He is not exactly the best fit in the driver's seat, considering he is more than a foot taller than the average adult male. He manages, though, without looking /too/ undignified about it. The engine roars to life and he looks impatient and expectant of directions.
Pyro slips into the passenger seat, eyeing the car with approval. "Not bad. So yeah, this guy. He's gonna be our example..." And with that, Pyro begins to relate the sad, sad tale of a young newly discovered mutant, losing her only job for no other fact than her idiot boss has a prejudice against mutant kind. With all the proper pauses and slant worthy of a Brotherhood tale, occupying their trip back to the city.
Creed is less sympathetic to the young mutant and far more interested in just how much damage he gets to do to the example. He does however, spare a theatric sniffle over the sad tale. He is not without a heart after all. It's simply blacker than the coal sure to be left in the pair's stockings by Santa in a handful of days. The trip is relatively quick, considering Creed has no concerns for traffic laws or his own safety in driving, and soon, he is unfolding himself from the car and straightening his coat with all the dignity of a cat that had just fallen over.
"So yeah," Pyro concludes, shutting the door after him. "So long as it's ugly, do what you want. This one gets the stamp of Brotherhood on it, and Masia and I have a...little friend who'll get the true story behind it out to the world." He leads them over and down a few blocks to the store front. The metal shutters have been pulled partway down, but the door is still open.
"Cantcha read?" a voice snaps at them as Pyro pushes open the door. "We're /Closed/. C-L-O-S-E-D. Come back tomorrow."
Sabretooth follows in on Pyro's heels. "And here I was, hoping to do some last minute shopping..." He kicks the door shut behind him with a bootheel and looms behind the smaller member of the Brotherhood. He is playing the enforcer here, arms crossed over his broad chest to make himself as imposing as possible.
"Yeah, so, you don't know us," Pyro says, wandering in despite the man's protests, picking up an enscribed glass and looking it over while he talks. "But we wanted to have a little talk with you." He opens his hand wide, the glass falling to the ground and shattering. "Oh, my bad."%The storeowner gives a shout at that. "You're going to pay for that. No, nevermind. Just get out now. Don't make me call the cops."
Victor has already spotted the telephone behind the counter of the store. Casual as anything, he walks over and leans to wrap clawed hands around it. One yank and it is disconnected from the wall. He then shoves it, broken cord dangling and all, over toward the storeowner. "Have at it," he snarls helpfully.
"Oh, the cops will be here alright," Pyro sniffs at the threat. "But see, by then, we'll be long gone. Don't worry, we'll leave a card." The shelf has an assortment of other glass and crystalware, and he begins picking them up in turn, letting each drop from his hand, moving closer to the man, who seems now caught between rage and uncertainty. Not yet fear. Oh, but that will come. "See, there's this girl. Mary. She used to work for you I think. Not anymore."
Grinning like the cheshire cat, though with far more fangs involved, Sabretooth paces along another shelf, brushing an arm along it. The delicate merchandise falls from it in a cascade of breaking glass. "Oops," he calls and abruptly turns. This turn also involves shoving himself against the shelf and knocking it over entirely.
The owner gives a strangled hollar, taking a step back away from them. Pyro compensates by taking two toward him. "See, I don't think Mary being fired had anything to do with her work. Otherwise, you'd have fired her months ago. See, I think it /just/ might have something to do with that little display of floating she gave the other day. What do you think, Creed? Am I right?" he asks, a glance over at his elephant in the chinashop.
Creed, when glanced over to, is in the middle of stepping /onto/ the shelving unit he knocked over and nearly falling down when the shelf he chose to put his weight on buckles and snaps. "Very right, Pyro. I get the feeling this ignorant chicken-fucker doesn't like mutants."
The man begins to stammer something to the contrary, but Pyro holds up a hand to stop him. "We're not here to listen to your excuses. We're here to..." He trails off, palm extended as a flame leaps up, dancing about. He flicks it off to a corner, catching the cloth skirt around a display on fire. "to prove a point. So prove away, Creed."
Creed is very eloquent with his proof. He steps off of the broken shelving unit and leans down to wrap his clawed hands around it. The thing is easily fifteen or so feet long. Certainly a team lift. He snarls though, and hauls the entire thing up into the air. Two steps forward, and he presses it away from his chest with a roar. The heavy shelving slams into the nearest wall, destroying mechandise, ruining the wall, and creating a rather massive cacaphony on impact.
"Whatever, whatever you want. Just don't hurt me." It's really quite amazing how quickly they go from haughty to whimpering mess. Pyro's response is simple. "Just think, you get to play a minor role in history. An example to others what happens when they mess with mutant superiority. Your death will /mean/ something." Another flick of the wrist, and a fire shoots out toward the back of the building, a wall of flame leaping up to stop the man's creeping.
As Pyro taunts the man, Creed creeps around behind him. The wall of flames presents a wonderful misdirection. When confronted with dancing flames, one isn't so apt to notice the towering mutant lining up to charge them. And charge Sabretooth does. With a roar that rattles windows, he leaps through Pyro's show of fire and tackles the man. Claws dig into flesh and all of the momentum carries the pair back toward a wall that they hit hard enough to crack.
Pyro is content to let Creed handle the man himself, while Pyro destroys the man's shop. "Make it quick," he calls over his shoulder, as he wanders the room, setting alight various flammables. "Painful, but quick. We've probably got 10 minutes to be out of here."
By the time Pyro manages that suggestion, Victor looks up with blood-spatter freckling his face. "Quick?" He looks down at the already dying man slumping toward the floor, a tangle of bloody snakes falling out of the opened belly. "Fuck. Fine." A boot thumps against the man's head and the unmistakeable and sickening sound of a breaking skull is heard over the sounds of roaring fires.
"Sorry, mate," Pyro shrugs, the curtain catching on fire and waving in a brilliant blaze. "Next time, we'll take him with us, so you can have your fun," he promises. "This one needs to be found, though. An example, and all that."
A grin splits Creed's face suddenly. "There's no point in just... killing the fucker. They'll find him and see someone killed him. If you gave me a few minutes to work, I could have had the fucking pigs puking on their shoes when they get in here."
"You have..." Pyro peers at the wall clock through the growing blace. "90 seconds," he concludes. "Make the most of it." Pyro, meanwhile, will stand by the doorway and wave a wrist about, orchestrating the flames about the room.
The 90 seconds that follow pass in a blur of crunching sounds and blood spray. By the time Sabretooth is done indulging his darker urges, the shop owner has been torn into several different pieces and blood coats clawed hands nearly completely. He walks to the door, coughing a few times thanks to smoke trying to damage lungs that regenerate faster than damage can be done. "And that, kid, is how you send a message."
"Why'dya think I brought you along?" Pyro asks, holding the door open for the larger man. Into the fray, he tosses a crudely etched metal disk that will survive the burn. 'Mutant Hater. Rest in Pieces.'
Creed steps outside, almost cheerful in having been given a chance to actually do something he enjoys, for the cause he has chosen to fight for. "I can't wait to see how this shit looks on the news tomorrow," he says with a nasty sort of a grin. The man takes pride in his work.
"Yeah, they'll have a bloody hayday with it," Pyro says, carefully closing the door behind him. Through the glass door, flickering light spills out onto the street, no longer hidden by the shutters of closing. "Good night's work, if I do say so. How 'bout a beer before we call it a night?"
Climbing back in the car, Creed lets out an oddly enthusiastic, "Sounds like a fuckin' plan." Getting to flex one's claws does wonders for morale.
Approximately twenty minutes ago, the security of the kitchen was breached. Not in a manner that would set off alarms, but rather one that threatens Yuriko's unofficial title as compound chef. At least for this morning. Oil sizzles and a cloud of heavy, fragrant smoke drifts lazily up from the pan on the stove where sodden lumps of dough turn from golden to brown. The chef's attention is turned to the cupboards and shelves that store the compounds cooking supplies, and Masia's butt is all that is visible as she digs in the back of one. She is cursing, her phrases peppered with Polish exclamations.
Mystique's step into the kitchen is chipper and energetic, a loose and limber stride that carries her from workout to breakfast. She pauses only briefly in the doorway to note Masia...'s ass before she crosses to the refrigerator. There's something like a smile in her voice as she offers, "Masia."
Masia jumps and hits her head, eliciting a sharp "N GWNO!" before she wiggles backwards and pulls out of the cabinet. "Mystique," she replies with a sour look and a grumble in her voice. She rubs at her head and glances aside at the frying pan and gives another, less articulate cry and reaches to pull the pan off the heat.
"You should perhaps exercise more care," Mystique suggests mildly.
Masia's look is exceedingly dry. She does not, however, roll her eyes. Quite. "A lesson I should endeavor to remember more often," she snerks as she reaches for a spatula to fish the dumplings out of the pan. Another four are added to the hot oil from a bag on the counter. They sizzle violently.
"Mmm," Mystique answers, withdrawing from the refrigerator with a small carton of yogurt in one hand. "Tell me. Did you enjoy your time in the city?"
Masia puts the pan back on the heat. "I guess. Define /enjoy/. I liked bein' able to get stuff. Pierogi? Cheese and potato." The dumplings steaming on the plate are gestured at as she goes back to start closing some of the cabinets she'd left open in her search. "But I kinda started wonderin' if I should be worried I'd started talkin' to myself. Ellen's not much for conversations." It's not a question.
"Thank you, no," Mystique replies politely. Her smile curls, quiet and acknowledging. "No. She's not. The city is large, though."
"Large enough ta get lost in," Masia echoes, twisting to a new point. She takes Mystique's place in the refrigerator and pulls out a tub of sour cream. "Though maybe not as large asit could be. Seen the news? about that school?"
"Xavier's," Mystique acknowledges. "Yes."
Masia says, "Yeah. /Kids/. I mean... Eh," she grunts, turning around and dropping the container to the counter top. "/Me/? I'm old enough ta take care of myself, and I figure I made the choice ta become a target. But them? I got a niece. Four years old. What if she's one? What if that's gonna be her ten years from now?"""
"We are all targets," Mystique answers, voice even and mild. "That's why we fight."
"Just... /kids/. I'd love ta get my hands on the assholes who thought /that/ was ok." She rips the top off the container and reaches for a large spoon already laid out on the counter.
"Hm." Mystique pauses for a moment, spoon hovering in midair, and regards Masia. Eventually she suggests carefully, "You should speak to Erik on the matter."
Masia stops with a spoonful of cream hovering just above the container. "What? Like about maybe actually getting my hands on them?"
Mystique reponds in silence, with a vague wave of her spoon, and bends her head to the task of eating yogurt.
Masia huffs a breath through her nose and leans across the counter to plop her spoonful on the pierogies. "Anyways. I got some photos of some people I think are mutants, and might be willing to give your recruiting spiel a listen. If you're interested."
Mystique lifts her brows silently and turns her gaze toward Masia, mildly impressed. "Of course. Have you spoken to them?'"
Six hours of travel behind him, Pyro finally finds himself back at the Brotherhood base. One long hot shower later, some of the travel fatigue is faded, and the blood on his hands--mostly figurative, since Creed took the bulk of the literal--washed away, and he heads toward the kitchen to find food.
"Only one. But it was more a 'hey, give me back my wallet' kind of encounter," Masia grins. "didn't know how much I was authorized to say, and thought they probably'd need to be investigated a little more anyways."
"Ah. So 'willing to listen' primarily means that you believe they posess the Xfactor?" Mystique clarifies.
"And they didn't seem to have too many other...encumbrances. Like being too much involved with other things. Their attitudes spoke lots more, if that makes sense." The cap is replaced back on the container and she leaves it there to turn over the dumplings in the pan. A fresh wave of sizzling springs up.
Pyro steps in through the doorway, taking in the current occupants and a deep breath of the scents. "Mmm, smells good. What's cookin'? Oh, Merry Christmas, and all that," he says cheerfully, headed right toward the refrigerator. My, someone's chipper this afternoon.
"Ah. Give me the information, and I'll look into them," Mystique allows before her gaze lifts to note, "Pyro. You're unexpected."
"That's one way to put it," Masia snorts, looking over at him before nodding in acknowledgement to Mystique. She does deign to answer his question though with, "Pierogies. Potato and cheese. Not as good as my Mom's were, but I had to settle for what would keep. Can have some if you want."
"Ace!" Pyro says, answering the food comment first. He pulls a coke out, popping the open and twisting the top off, which is tossed at the garbage can a few feet away. "Some reports are better in person," he says, answering Mystique. "Thought there might be some questions. And better to lay low for a few days. Needed your help anyways," he says, with a head nod toward Masia. "Seen the news? Tragic, ain't it?"
Mystique lifts her brows slightly at Pyro and dips her head in an allowing nod. "I expect Magneto will want to speak to you while you're here, if you haven't already."
Masia flicks Mystique a quick glance and nods at Pyro. "Yeah. Though it'll only be a tragedy if nothing gets done about it." She pulls the pierogies off the heat and starts to fish this batch out one by one onto the plate.
"I expect you're right," Pyro says, a quick nod at Mystique before downing a good portion of the soda. "Bloody long drive," he mutters. The nose leads him closer to Masia's work where he peers with interest. "You have a way to get ahold of our internet friend? He's going to do a story for us about the oh-so-tragic demise of our little shopkeep."
"Mm." Mystique accepts this with a slight nod and rises easily. "Be sure you stop in before you leave again," she suggests to Pyro. "I'll see you both later." A nod to each, and then she's out the door.
"See you," Masia acknowledges with a nod, setting the last dumpling on the plate and the pan on a back burner while the oil cools. She moves to bump Pyro out of the way as she edges back around to the conatiner of sour cream. "You want some of this on them? Only way to eat them. And probably."
"If you say so," Pyro says, not /quite/ salivating over the food. "Anyways, mainstream news'll take care of spreading the word. The Times even had a nice pic of the charred storefront. Want to get the rest of the story out, though, about the reasons behind it. Figured old fattie was a place to start."
"He's been behaving himself so far," she comments neutrally, peeling the lid back of and picking up the spoon from the counter to drop another dollop on the fresh ones.
"S'good," Pyro nod, watching her movements closely. "Thanks for keeping up on that. Don't spend much time on the net myself. Anyone ever come of that little 'admission?' Didn't think it'd take, but it /was/ fun to see him squirm."
She shrugs and replaces the cap, /this/ time turning around to put the container back in the refrigerator. "Had to shut his site down for a few days cause of all the flame wars going on between the people who believed him and those who thought he was /obviously/ being blackmailed by mutants." Masia finally breaks into a small grin.
"Hah," Pyro mocks, obviously pleased with that answer. "Then I'll mark that one up as success." He sets the drink aside, heaving himself up to sit on the counter, before retreiving his coke. He gives a cautious glance at the doorway to make sure no one lurks, before asking, "So how's life back here?"
Masia shuts the door with a glass rattling thwump and strides to the opposite side of the kitchen to pull a drawer out and retrieve a fork. "Quiet, mostly. Repairs and busy work."
"Busy work," Pyro scowls at the term. "M'glad I'm still out there. Though it /is/ nice to have the space to train here. Little fires I can do inside down there just don't do squat. Need to get in a few hours of practice while I'm up here. Y'know, the big stuff."
Masia pulls the corner of her lips down and purses them. "The big stuff. Un-huh." She is not mocking. Not /exactly/.
Pyro takes the jibe with a sniff. "You're a ruttin riot. I suppose, I should be flattered, though," he says, pausing for effect while taking a long sip of his drink. Finishing it off, he crumples the can and tosses it across the way where it lands in the garbage. "Score. Oh, yeah, totally flattered that I'm talking about powers, and obviously you can't get your mind off something else."
Masia lifts her brows and lets her mouth slide into a smirk. "Oh, yeah, baby. That's cause you're /such/ a legend around here, hot stuff." She advances on him, keeping her eyes on his face until the last second, when she stops and turns to look down at the plate of food. She stabs one on the pierogies with her fork.
"Oh, please," Pyro rolls his eyes. "Because they're /so much choice/ around these parts." He hops off the counter, rummaging for a fork of his own. "Not that older women can't be hot, but, y'know, I usually like to at least make sure they're younger than my mum. Or how old my mum woulda been."
Masia drops the fork to it's side and breaks the dumpling in half, spooning up one side and popping it in her mouth. "Get another plate," she orders around her mouthful. "And yet you come back here to do the /big/ stuff," she says slyly.
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm hoping to catch sight of a certain someone," Pyro says with a wink, before turning to the cupboard to fetch the demanded piece of kitchenware.
"Magneto's been scarce. I wouldn't get my hopes up too high," Masia says solemnly, picking up the plate and crossing back to him. "Hold it out."
The name Pyro calls out is muffled by the fact that his head is in the cupboard. Probably 'witch.' He turns about a moment later, extending the plate with a smirk on his face. "So /that's/ your thing, is it? Have to keep that in mind."
Masia scrapes half of the pierogies off her plate and onto his. "I could advance your age, if you really think you'd be competition?"
"Twenty's perfect, but thanks for the offer," Pyro says, more cocky than hasty. "Young. Beautiful. Powerful. And on the DHS's most wanted list. I'm famous. What else can a guy ask for?"
"The big stuff?" Masia smirks and moves her plate away from his, turning to head for the door. "Enjoy it while you can. And clean up the mess before you leave," comes back over her shoulder as she passes through the doorway.