11/9/07 - Xorn, Leonardo
---
=NYC= Central Park Reservoir - Manhattan
One of the more commonly visited portions of the park, the Reservoir lives up to its popularity in sheer size and aesthetic appeal. Said to contain over a billion gallons of water, the massive lake-like body extends out to 106 acres of rippling navy and ceruleans that reflect the hue of the sky. Ringed by a thin treeline and a track used by both runners and walkers, the Reservoir remains an ideal site for birdwatchers, nature-lovers, and the like.
It is late night in Central Park, and the lights that serve to drown out the stars waver and flicker in the deep dark. Under their electronic sizzle, the path that winds around the reservoir is luminous and smooth, sloped in small hills over landscaping that has shifted since the concrete was first laid down. The water reflects the light back at watchers, trapping globes of yellow and white under the vast lake. It is Friday night, and few people are stray in these parts at this hour.
Exception!
Chris Rossi is a quiet figure in a long leather overcoat, leaned against the guardrail that protects the water from trespassers. Once upon a time, he was imprisoned in that metal; now mended, it serves to support him instead. One hand rests on the patchwork, that melted seam where new metal was joined with the old. He is on the phone. "Yeah, I checked there. No show. I'm guessing she's shacked up with the boyfriend. What'd Tucci have on him?"
Leonardo is out stalking the night, an angelic figure in the darkness. He's walking toward the guardrail nearby Rossi, Magneto has been reported near the Reservoir a few times, a good spot for searching. And then there's Rossi, and a slight eyetwitch from Leonardo. The detective is leaning against the rail, how -easy- it would be... but no, now is not a good time. "Good evening." he greets in a soft voice, but unlike with most people he greets, his tone with Rossi is like one a person would expect to hear from a refined person eerily presenting a horror story.
The park lights yellow and flicker; the cell phone gives a hum before it filters back to regular conversation.
Xorn is out for a peaceful stroll, well-protected against the cold in a thick leather jacket marked at the shoulders by tell-tale slashes of yellow in that familiar old Xavier 'X'. His head is little more than a crude skull hewn from thick metal, with blue glowing lurid from the hollow sockets of the eyes, and a mouth carved up into a jackolantern's leer. Warm air lifts briefly visible from the crown as he walks, hands tucked deep into his pockets. If he has noticed that he has company, he gives no indication past a gentle slowing about the set of his pace.
The detective's profile is limned sharply against the backdrop of shadows and water, Roman: the nose and jawline pronounced, the mouth and brow firm. Leonardo's greeting prompts a sideways glance, impatient, and the lift of a hand. Hold on, bub. "Check it out, would you?" he says into the phone, turning away a little. "We got -- tomorrow's good. Later, man." And then the phone flicks off.
"Yeah?" Insofar as a response goes, it is not the most gracious. It is, however, characteristically New Yorker. Pale eyes flick across Leonardo, an eyebrow rises skeptically, and then attention diverts elsewhere. Skeletor, at 11 o'clock. "What the /fuck/."
Leonardo turns to Xorn in response to Rossi's comment, raising an eyebrow. -That- is curious. "Well, halloween was not long ago, it is a very nice costume." he comments, walking closer. "Hello, what is your name?" he asks Xorn, not offering a hand to suspicious skull-head people.
"Hello," says Xorn, "I am called Xorn." His voice is as off-putting as his cadaverous visage. Inhuman, low, and monotone, it shakes the air and fuzzes uncomfortably at the ears, lending further to the perception that he is more robot than person. "Hello, Christopher."
'Christopher's' brows twitch together, his hand and the accompanying phone shoving into his pocket as he leans against the metal railing. "Hey," he returns in cautious reply, lifting his chin in acknowledgment. It takes a moment; recognition, when it comes, is a slow and pensive thing. "You're the guy from the cafe. Few days before Halloween, wasn't it? With the energy--" a hand gestures expressively, "--thing."
"Energy thing? What are you talking about?" Leonardo is curious, strange happenings, he -has- to know. "That is a very unique name, it is indeed nice to meet you." he politely greets, the voice ringing through the air only raises his curiousities, can't get carried away in this buffet of weirdness...
Those blank, empty screens of blue turn slowly from Leonardo to Rossi, and then back again. "Yes," he says after a good minute of faintly buzzing silence. It is unclear who or what he is answering.
"Funny," Rossi says, though -- like Xorn -- it is unclear who or what he is referring to. He shrugs in answer to Leonardo's question, turning a little further to sink into the railing's support. His arms fold; leather creaks, and as though reminded, his gaze settles on the yellow letters on Xorn's shoulders. "Ask him," he suggests to Leonardo, cynical amusement caulking his Brooklyn accent. "I think I recognize that jacket."
The structural integrity of the railing fails at Rossi's back. It creaks, and splits.
"Well?" Leonardo asks Xorn, he ever so anxiously wants to know what's under the helmet, but this is why people have self control. Then the railing fails. Debating, keep it from failing, or help it? Conclusion, leave it alone. "You're gonna fall." he says dryly, might have been good to go hold a hand out or something, but nah.
"I am a mutant," explains Xorn after a lengthy pause. Something rattles in the thick metal tubing about his neck; there is a whir that starts and stops, then hiccups back to a start. His chin tilts slowly up, and then aside, so that the skull of his head is tipped dog-like after Rossi and the failed railing. "My manifestation was violent. My skull exploded. Now there is only a physical manifestation of energy."
Meanwhile, Rossi is a physical manifestation of unbalanced and cursing cop. One arm windmills, attempting to realign balance with an unlikely base of support; one leg skids down, the foot plowing into wet, muddy embankment before the other hitches to leverage him up. Separated from the wider hum of the railing, metal blazes in small, telltale signatures on the man: pins in both legs and shoulder; gun on hip; badge on belt; handcuffs in the back of his belt. "Jesus, this fucking railing," he says irritably. "The damn thing has it out for me. This is /twice/--"
"Metal is tricky in that way." Leonardo adds, contractions vanishing again when he's not contemplating Rossi's pain and suffering. As for Xorn, well, Xorn may be the first person in history to give him an answer he actually wanted to hear, without bones being broken. "I -see-." he says with a gleam in his eye, digging into his pocket and pulling out a business card, handing it to Xorn. "Give me a call some time, we may have much to discuss, business prospects." Then suddenly Rossi exists again, and he looks back at the detective. "You -are- Detective Rossi, are you not?"
"Too many donuts," judgeth the creature called Xorn, who manages a dissapproving air despite his lack of a face to look disapproving with. He reaches to take the card offered him automatically, leather-gloved hand curling around the paper while the empty line of his gaze tips down to peer at it. "I have a job. I am a teacher of children."
"I don't eat donuts," Rossi says, missing the offer of the card in favor of attempting to scrape the mud off his shoe. "That deep fried stuff'll kill you. --Yeah, I'm Rossi. Why?" His glance skids up to consider Leonardo, the heavy black brows flattening over the glitter of pale eyes: colorless in this low light. "I arrest you before?"
"A teacher's salary, I assure you, I can offer much more. But, there are schools which would allow you to teach, with that?" Leonardo asks, nodding his head toward the helmet. Rossi's question captures his attention again, then his lips form into a grin. "You have not, and will not be arresting me." he says this as almost a challenge. "I have researched you, I was curious. You do interesting work, I applaud your bravery, Detective."
"Yes." Xorn's answer is simple, as most of his answers are, yet it resonates with resounding force, as the odd synthesis of his voice necessitates. "Christopher is very brave to be a detective despite his genetic situation. If the department were to discover his mutation, he would be in a lot of trouble."
Rossi straightens, startlement jagging with the beginnings of vivid temper across his face. "The fuck?" he says. He is eloquent. "Research? What the hell kind of research--" Professional interest, sharpening on Leonardo, is derailed somewhat by Xorn's solemn statement. He blinks. It takes him a moment; his mood perches on the precipice, and looks both ways. "What?"
"Just things, what you do, I research many well known people in the government, it is a hobby of mine." And if government extends all the way to a detective, that must mean Leonardo researches a -lot- of people. "Of course I cannot remember everyone vividly, it is a lot of information, but your position is somewhat unique. You do work with Mutant Affairs, I believe." he suggests, then becomes surprised by Xorn's comment. "Mutation?"
"There is an accumulation of metal in his bones that he has explained through surgeries relating to accidents on the job. Being a detective is very dangerous. He is very brave," the last is reiterated for emphasis, and Xorn straightens a bit. So proud!
"What the--" Rossi says, which is one word better than the last blank reaction. He runs a hand through his hair -- as Xorn says, the metal pin embedded in one arm rises with it, tingling to metal-attuned senses. Amusement, outrage, and black suspicion wrestle for a foothold on his expression. "I had surgeries because the fucking Friends of Humanity contracted a hit on me. How the hell is that an acci-- how the hell do you /know/ that?" he demands -- and then answers himself. "Goddammit. /Grey/."
"Grey?" is the first thing Leonardo asks. "The Friends of Humanity contracted a hit on you, I was not aware of this bit of information" There -are- more important people to research. "Do explain, I am curious."
"They do not like mutants," Xorn explains. He is very helpful. He does not reply to Rossi's babbling.
Rossi grits his teeth. He does not play well with others. "Pass," he says. He is very unhelpful. Hands shove into pockets, the arms straightened and stiff. Eyes narrow at Leonardo. "Who the fuck are you, anyway?"
"Leonardo Maxwell, the man who has a date with Emma Frost tomorrow." Leonardo proudly brags, such a status symbol should not go unmentioned. "What are -you- doing tomorrow?" he asks this with extreme condescension, grin never leaving his lips. Xorn is just confusing, first Rossi is a mutant, then he isn't, for now Leonardo is going with 'isn't', being condescending is funner that way.
"I am doing maintinence upon my helmet," Xorn replies earnestly regardless of whether or not it's him who is being asked. "Christopher has already had sexual relations with Emma Frost."
Rossi breathes in sharply, a snap of an inhalation that scrapes across his throat -- then explodes again into a fit of coughing. He turns away, shoulders shaking over wracking shudders; when he turns back again, flushed, his eyelashes are spiked with dampness. "You /fucking/--" It is a night for such half-finished thoughts. "How the hell did you know that? There's no way in /hell/ -- who told you that?"
"Telepathic?" Leonardo asks, attempting to hide his disgust by only having a -slight- eyetwitch. "Are you reading my mind?" he cautiously asks Xorn, that would be -bad-. "Though I would hardly believe a simple Detective would have Ms. Frost."
Xorn says nothing. The light in his eyes dims, then intensifies, and his rough-hewn leer mocks Christopher in its grisly good cheer. "I know what is truth."
"/Know/ it all you goddamn /want/," Rossi grates, suspicion lashing savagely across his face. "Feel free to keep it to /yourself/. --Ignore him," he advises Leonardo. "Believe what you want. Emma Frost's a real catch. You go after that with guns blazing, buddy boy." His baritone drawl is sardonic; mockery bites bright and metallic across its lower registers.
"I will, indeed. I remember the first time I saw her in person, it was in the Dolce & Gabbana store..." Leonardo trails off, staring at Xorn with curiousity. "Does your mutation make you some sort of, lie detector?"
"Perhaps." Warm air continues to dissipate from the bolted crown of his helm, and Xorn swings his head slowly over to Christopher, who seems to be rather upset. "Everyone loves an Italian boy."
Rossi blinks. Once. Then twice. The flame of annoyance sputters and dies, killed by a simple bafflement. "Are you coming on to me?"
"If you are a lie detector, I would be willing to hire you." Leonardo is then baffled as well, even he has no idea how to interpret Xorn's comment. "Well, there -are- gay mutants, I believe. A skull made of energy, I would guess is a one of a kind experience for any man."
"..." says Xorn. "I am not gay."
"You sounded like you were coming on to me," Rossi tells Xorn, his shoulders hiking upward. "Either way, I'm not interested. What the fuck, man. You been doing some 'research' too, like him? --'You believe.'" The mimicry is light, and broad enough to be a caricature. He twists his mouth and glances at Leonardo. "You're so interested, you crawl into bed with him."
"I must apologize, my possibility for a bed partner is too great for me to 'switch teams' as they say, at the moment." Leonardo runs his fingers through his hair, staring at Rossi, he has an idea. "Though, Detective Rossi, I would like a meeting with you in the future, I have many questions." he says as he takes out another of his seemingly endless stream of cards, holding it out to Rossi. His cards have his number and his office address on them.
"Those are the words written upon your boxer shorts," explains Xorn after a long, long pause. He breathes -- or whatever it is that he does that prompts an occasional hoarse, rattling hiss about his jaw. "Everyone loves an Italian boy. You get a card too. Congratulations."
Something flashes across Rossi's face, too swift to be read: a white, bloody dagger of emotion that promptly shuts down behind an unreadable blankness. "We're an elite pair, sweet cheeks," he tells Xorn, reaching out with a hand to accept the small slip of card with apparent indifference. He glances briefly at the writing on it, then focuses on the man who gave it to him. "What kind of questions?"
Leonardo raises a brow at the boxer comment, then looks to Rossi. "Questions about a mutant I met, I am trying to discover her identity, I only have one suspicion so far, but I can not be completely sure. I would rather this be a private discussion at a later date, if you do not mind." He then yawns, straightening his gloves and beginning to walk away. "I will be expecting calls from the both of you, for now I have to go prepare for my date tomorrow."
"Goodbye," says Xorn, voice a demonic warp of the old AOL signoff when he turns his head to watch Leonardo go. Then it turns slowly, very slowly back to Rossi.
"I'm not the fucking Inquirer," Rossi says flatly, ripping the card in half to toss it -- alas, litter! -- backhand over the lake. The pieces flutter to the embankment, not making it to the water proper. "And I'm not the goddamn phone book. You want to sniff after a mutant, do it on your own." Which, for him, serves as a farewell. Hands shove back in his pockets, and he turns back to stare at Xorn, eyes narrowed.
[Log ends]
He is aware of being shaken. Vigorously. Unkindly. A clipped, familiar voice fades in and out of hearing; it is annoyed about something, which memory tags as being normal for the voice in question.
Consciousness hurts too much. It is cold, heavy, and damp; it drags on him. His head thuds with the regularity of his heartbeat. Fingers force his eyelids apart; he winces at the blaze of light, and jerks his head away.
It promptly makes him regret it. For a few seconds, hearing is lost against the pounding of drums in his ears.
That voice is still speaking at him. Again, a shaking hand. "What?" he demands, and flails with a fist that is handily caught, and shoved back by his abuser.
"... bench like a ...." that irritating voice says. "... concussion. If you think I'm ... kiss to wake you up, you ...."
"You fucker," he says, because he can think of nothing else to say, and slides down the muddy slope to oblivion.
=NYC= Central Park Reservoir - Manhattan
One of the more commonly visited portions of the park, the Reservoir lives up to its popularity in sheer size and aesthetic appeal. Said to contain over a billion gallons of water, the massive lake-like body extends out to 106 acres of rippling navy and ceruleans that reflect the hue of the sky. Ringed by a thin treeline and a track used by both runners and walkers, the Reservoir remains an ideal site for birdwatchers, nature-lovers, and the like.
It is late night in Central Park, and the lights that serve to drown out the stars waver and flicker in the deep dark. Under their electronic sizzle, the path that winds around the reservoir is luminous and smooth, sloped in small hills over landscaping that has shifted since the concrete was first laid down. The water reflects the light back at watchers, trapping globes of yellow and white under the vast lake. It is Friday night, and few people are stray in these parts at this hour.
Exception!
Chris Rossi is a quiet figure in a long leather overcoat, leaned against the guardrail that protects the water from trespassers. Once upon a time, he was imprisoned in that metal; now mended, it serves to support him instead. One hand rests on the patchwork, that melted seam where new metal was joined with the old. He is on the phone. "Yeah, I checked there. No show. I'm guessing she's shacked up with the boyfriend. What'd Tucci have on him?"
Leonardo is out stalking the night, an angelic figure in the darkness. He's walking toward the guardrail nearby Rossi, Magneto has been reported near the Reservoir a few times, a good spot for searching. And then there's Rossi, and a slight eyetwitch from Leonardo. The detective is leaning against the rail, how -easy- it would be... but no, now is not a good time. "Good evening." he greets in a soft voice, but unlike with most people he greets, his tone with Rossi is like one a person would expect to hear from a refined person eerily presenting a horror story.
The park lights yellow and flicker; the cell phone gives a hum before it filters back to regular conversation.
Xorn is out for a peaceful stroll, well-protected against the cold in a thick leather jacket marked at the shoulders by tell-tale slashes of yellow in that familiar old Xavier 'X'. His head is little more than a crude skull hewn from thick metal, with blue glowing lurid from the hollow sockets of the eyes, and a mouth carved up into a jackolantern's leer. Warm air lifts briefly visible from the crown as he walks, hands tucked deep into his pockets. If he has noticed that he has company, he gives no indication past a gentle slowing about the set of his pace.
The detective's profile is limned sharply against the backdrop of shadows and water, Roman: the nose and jawline pronounced, the mouth and brow firm. Leonardo's greeting prompts a sideways glance, impatient, and the lift of a hand. Hold on, bub. "Check it out, would you?" he says into the phone, turning away a little. "We got -- tomorrow's good. Later, man." And then the phone flicks off.
"Yeah?" Insofar as a response goes, it is not the most gracious. It is, however, characteristically New Yorker. Pale eyes flick across Leonardo, an eyebrow rises skeptically, and then attention diverts elsewhere. Skeletor, at 11 o'clock. "What the /fuck/."
Leonardo turns to Xorn in response to Rossi's comment, raising an eyebrow. -That- is curious. "Well, halloween was not long ago, it is a very nice costume." he comments, walking closer. "Hello, what is your name?" he asks Xorn, not offering a hand to suspicious skull-head people.
"Hello," says Xorn, "I am called Xorn." His voice is as off-putting as his cadaverous visage. Inhuman, low, and monotone, it shakes the air and fuzzes uncomfortably at the ears, lending further to the perception that he is more robot than person. "Hello, Christopher."
'Christopher's' brows twitch together, his hand and the accompanying phone shoving into his pocket as he leans against the metal railing. "Hey," he returns in cautious reply, lifting his chin in acknowledgment. It takes a moment; recognition, when it comes, is a slow and pensive thing. "You're the guy from the cafe. Few days before Halloween, wasn't it? With the energy--" a hand gestures expressively, "--thing."
"Energy thing? What are you talking about?" Leonardo is curious, strange happenings, he -has- to know. "That is a very unique name, it is indeed nice to meet you." he politely greets, the voice ringing through the air only raises his curiousities, can't get carried away in this buffet of weirdness...
Those blank, empty screens of blue turn slowly from Leonardo to Rossi, and then back again. "Yes," he says after a good minute of faintly buzzing silence. It is unclear who or what he is answering.
"Funny," Rossi says, though -- like Xorn -- it is unclear who or what he is referring to. He shrugs in answer to Leonardo's question, turning a little further to sink into the railing's support. His arms fold; leather creaks, and as though reminded, his gaze settles on the yellow letters on Xorn's shoulders. "Ask him," he suggests to Leonardo, cynical amusement caulking his Brooklyn accent. "I think I recognize that jacket."
The structural integrity of the railing fails at Rossi's back. It creaks, and splits.
"Well?" Leonardo asks Xorn, he ever so anxiously wants to know what's under the helmet, but this is why people have self control. Then the railing fails. Debating, keep it from failing, or help it? Conclusion, leave it alone. "You're gonna fall." he says dryly, might have been good to go hold a hand out or something, but nah.
"I am a mutant," explains Xorn after a lengthy pause. Something rattles in the thick metal tubing about his neck; there is a whir that starts and stops, then hiccups back to a start. His chin tilts slowly up, and then aside, so that the skull of his head is tipped dog-like after Rossi and the failed railing. "My manifestation was violent. My skull exploded. Now there is only a physical manifestation of energy."
Meanwhile, Rossi is a physical manifestation of unbalanced and cursing cop. One arm windmills, attempting to realign balance with an unlikely base of support; one leg skids down, the foot plowing into wet, muddy embankment before the other hitches to leverage him up. Separated from the wider hum of the railing, metal blazes in small, telltale signatures on the man: pins in both legs and shoulder; gun on hip; badge on belt; handcuffs in the back of his belt. "Jesus, this fucking railing," he says irritably. "The damn thing has it out for me. This is /twice/--"
"Metal is tricky in that way." Leonardo adds, contractions vanishing again when he's not contemplating Rossi's pain and suffering. As for Xorn, well, Xorn may be the first person in history to give him an answer he actually wanted to hear, without bones being broken. "I -see-." he says with a gleam in his eye, digging into his pocket and pulling out a business card, handing it to Xorn. "Give me a call some time, we may have much to discuss, business prospects." Then suddenly Rossi exists again, and he looks back at the detective. "You -are- Detective Rossi, are you not?"
"Too many donuts," judgeth the creature called Xorn, who manages a dissapproving air despite his lack of a face to look disapproving with. He reaches to take the card offered him automatically, leather-gloved hand curling around the paper while the empty line of his gaze tips down to peer at it. "I have a job. I am a teacher of children."
"I don't eat donuts," Rossi says, missing the offer of the card in favor of attempting to scrape the mud off his shoe. "That deep fried stuff'll kill you. --Yeah, I'm Rossi. Why?" His glance skids up to consider Leonardo, the heavy black brows flattening over the glitter of pale eyes: colorless in this low light. "I arrest you before?"
"A teacher's salary, I assure you, I can offer much more. But, there are schools which would allow you to teach, with that?" Leonardo asks, nodding his head toward the helmet. Rossi's question captures his attention again, then his lips form into a grin. "You have not, and will not be arresting me." he says this as almost a challenge. "I have researched you, I was curious. You do interesting work, I applaud your bravery, Detective."
"Yes." Xorn's answer is simple, as most of his answers are, yet it resonates with resounding force, as the odd synthesis of his voice necessitates. "Christopher is very brave to be a detective despite his genetic situation. If the department were to discover his mutation, he would be in a lot of trouble."
Rossi straightens, startlement jagging with the beginnings of vivid temper across his face. "The fuck?" he says. He is eloquent. "Research? What the hell kind of research--" Professional interest, sharpening on Leonardo, is derailed somewhat by Xorn's solemn statement. He blinks. It takes him a moment; his mood perches on the precipice, and looks both ways. "What?"
"Just things, what you do, I research many well known people in the government, it is a hobby of mine." And if government extends all the way to a detective, that must mean Leonardo researches a -lot- of people. "Of course I cannot remember everyone vividly, it is a lot of information, but your position is somewhat unique. You do work with Mutant Affairs, I believe." he suggests, then becomes surprised by Xorn's comment. "Mutation?"
"There is an accumulation of metal in his bones that he has explained through surgeries relating to accidents on the job. Being a detective is very dangerous. He is very brave," the last is reiterated for emphasis, and Xorn straightens a bit. So proud!
"What the--" Rossi says, which is one word better than the last blank reaction. He runs a hand through his hair -- as Xorn says, the metal pin embedded in one arm rises with it, tingling to metal-attuned senses. Amusement, outrage, and black suspicion wrestle for a foothold on his expression. "I had surgeries because the fucking Friends of Humanity contracted a hit on me. How the hell is that an acci-- how the hell do you /know/ that?" he demands -- and then answers himself. "Goddammit. /Grey/."
"Grey?" is the first thing Leonardo asks. "The Friends of Humanity contracted a hit on you, I was not aware of this bit of information" There -are- more important people to research. "Do explain, I am curious."
"They do not like mutants," Xorn explains. He is very helpful. He does not reply to Rossi's babbling.
Rossi grits his teeth. He does not play well with others. "Pass," he says. He is very unhelpful. Hands shove into pockets, the arms straightened and stiff. Eyes narrow at Leonardo. "Who the fuck are you, anyway?"
"Leonardo Maxwell, the man who has a date with Emma Frost tomorrow." Leonardo proudly brags, such a status symbol should not go unmentioned. "What are -you- doing tomorrow?" he asks this with extreme condescension, grin never leaving his lips. Xorn is just confusing, first Rossi is a mutant, then he isn't, for now Leonardo is going with 'isn't', being condescending is funner that way.
"I am doing maintinence upon my helmet," Xorn replies earnestly regardless of whether or not it's him who is being asked. "Christopher has already had sexual relations with Emma Frost."
Rossi breathes in sharply, a snap of an inhalation that scrapes across his throat -- then explodes again into a fit of coughing. He turns away, shoulders shaking over wracking shudders; when he turns back again, flushed, his eyelashes are spiked with dampness. "You /fucking/--" It is a night for such half-finished thoughts. "How the hell did you know that? There's no way in /hell/ -- who told you that?"
"Telepathic?" Leonardo asks, attempting to hide his disgust by only having a -slight- eyetwitch. "Are you reading my mind?" he cautiously asks Xorn, that would be -bad-. "Though I would hardly believe a simple Detective would have Ms. Frost."
Xorn says nothing. The light in his eyes dims, then intensifies, and his rough-hewn leer mocks Christopher in its grisly good cheer. "I know what is truth."
"/Know/ it all you goddamn /want/," Rossi grates, suspicion lashing savagely across his face. "Feel free to keep it to /yourself/. --Ignore him," he advises Leonardo. "Believe what you want. Emma Frost's a real catch. You go after that with guns blazing, buddy boy." His baritone drawl is sardonic; mockery bites bright and metallic across its lower registers.
"I will, indeed. I remember the first time I saw her in person, it was in the Dolce & Gabbana store..." Leonardo trails off, staring at Xorn with curiousity. "Does your mutation make you some sort of, lie detector?"
"Perhaps." Warm air continues to dissipate from the bolted crown of his helm, and Xorn swings his head slowly over to Christopher, who seems to be rather upset. "Everyone loves an Italian boy."
Rossi blinks. Once. Then twice. The flame of annoyance sputters and dies, killed by a simple bafflement. "Are you coming on to me?"
"If you are a lie detector, I would be willing to hire you." Leonardo is then baffled as well, even he has no idea how to interpret Xorn's comment. "Well, there -are- gay mutants, I believe. A skull made of energy, I would guess is a one of a kind experience for any man."
"..." says Xorn. "I am not gay."
"You sounded like you were coming on to me," Rossi tells Xorn, his shoulders hiking upward. "Either way, I'm not interested. What the fuck, man. You been doing some 'research' too, like him? --'You believe.'" The mimicry is light, and broad enough to be a caricature. He twists his mouth and glances at Leonardo. "You're so interested, you crawl into bed with him."
"I must apologize, my possibility for a bed partner is too great for me to 'switch teams' as they say, at the moment." Leonardo runs his fingers through his hair, staring at Rossi, he has an idea. "Though, Detective Rossi, I would like a meeting with you in the future, I have many questions." he says as he takes out another of his seemingly endless stream of cards, holding it out to Rossi. His cards have his number and his office address on them.
"Those are the words written upon your boxer shorts," explains Xorn after a long, long pause. He breathes -- or whatever it is that he does that prompts an occasional hoarse, rattling hiss about his jaw. "Everyone loves an Italian boy. You get a card too. Congratulations."
Something flashes across Rossi's face, too swift to be read: a white, bloody dagger of emotion that promptly shuts down behind an unreadable blankness. "We're an elite pair, sweet cheeks," he tells Xorn, reaching out with a hand to accept the small slip of card with apparent indifference. He glances briefly at the writing on it, then focuses on the man who gave it to him. "What kind of questions?"
Leonardo raises a brow at the boxer comment, then looks to Rossi. "Questions about a mutant I met, I am trying to discover her identity, I only have one suspicion so far, but I can not be completely sure. I would rather this be a private discussion at a later date, if you do not mind." He then yawns, straightening his gloves and beginning to walk away. "I will be expecting calls from the both of you, for now I have to go prepare for my date tomorrow."
"Goodbye," says Xorn, voice a demonic warp of the old AOL signoff when he turns his head to watch Leonardo go. Then it turns slowly, very slowly back to Rossi.
"I'm not the fucking Inquirer," Rossi says flatly, ripping the card in half to toss it -- alas, litter! -- backhand over the lake. The pieces flutter to the embankment, not making it to the water proper. "And I'm not the goddamn phone book. You want to sniff after a mutant, do it on your own." Which, for him, serves as a farewell. Hands shove back in his pockets, and he turns back to stare at Xorn, eyes narrowed.
[Log ends]
He is aware of being shaken. Vigorously. Unkindly. A clipped, familiar voice fades in and out of hearing; it is annoyed about something, which memory tags as being normal for the voice in question.
Consciousness hurts too much. It is cold, heavy, and damp; it drags on him. His head thuds with the regularity of his heartbeat. Fingers force his eyelids apart; he winces at the blaze of light, and jerks his head away.
It promptly makes him regret it. For a few seconds, hearing is lost against the pounding of drums in his ears.
That voice is still speaking at him. Again, a shaking hand. "What?" he demands, and flails with a fist that is handily caught, and shoved back by his abuser.
"... bench like a ...." that irritating voice says. "... concussion. If you think I'm ... kiss to wake you up, you ...."
"You fucker," he says, because he can think of nothing else to say, and slides down the muddy slope to oblivion.