7/5/06 - Mystique
There are mutants. Real mutants. Real honest to goodness women who show up in your apartment and turn blue. I thought Paul was yanking my chain when he told me about them, and how I got myself hurt all those times, but
Blue. She turned blue. There was a blue woman in my apartment. I saw her. I felt her.
She was blue.
---
< WES > Old Brownstone Apts #210 - Rossi
An ancient, faded elegance sketches the boundaries of this apartment, hinted at in crown molding and worn, faded floors. High walls span to high ceilings, pale yellow with the barest of white trim; at one end, three high windows gape to let in day's light or night's dark with equal indifference. A small kitchen pocks a hollow in one wall, a doorless entry that offers glimpses of an metal-framed refrigerator and a cabinet-hung microwave. On the other side of the small living room, a short hallway offers entrances to bathroom and bedroom, both doors battered with the wear and tear of age.
In the living room are the basic accoutrements of comfort: sofas, chairs, table, television. Spartan accessories, betraying little of the owner; that task is left for the walls, hung with pictures of family and friends. Through them all runs the thread of blue, NYPD's uniform tailored to pride and vigor.
[Exits : [O]ut ]
The apartment is like an unfamiliar second skin, a great weight on bowed shoulders. Night's sounds spill in through opened windows, wind touching a light hand on the drape of curtains, fingering the tossed black of hair. Seated by one high casement is Chris Rossi, a young man in an old man's body, elbow on knee and foot drawn up on the chair with him, temple pillowed in the angle of a hand. Pale eyes watch the passage of cars outside, dyed gold by the reflection of street lights.
Into this apartment, without the courtesy of knock or permission, comes the figure of Mystique. She's brunette today, tall and slender, with hair that tumbles in waves over her shoulders and keen eyes that scan the apartment in search of its resident as she closes the door behind her. Lock picks. Useful things.
The instincts of a cop are learned things; the instincts of a New York native, inbred. Chris's hand drops and his head lifts while the doorknob jiggles, curiosity turned expectantly towards the door's cues. Surprise lifts the black brows at general lack of recognition: he pulls himself up, a hand trailing along the edge of the sill. Eyes blink quickly. "Hi," he says, puzzled. "Do you-- do I know you?"
"Christopher Rossi," Mystique begins with a slow, purposeful smile as she advances on him. "We have met, yes. Have you encountered Erik Lensherr lately?"
"Who?" Chris says, perplexity deepening. A hand drags across the hair, raking it away from the wide brow. "I don't know an Erik Lensherr. Do I? I don't reme-- I gave you keys to the apartment? Are we...." A tentative glance skips across the woman. "Are we dating?"
Mystique moves in another several steps to latch one hand hard around his throat, fingers flexing with pointed strenght. "Do not," she suggests on a hissed whisper as dark hair shifts, shortens to bobbed red, and skin floods to blue, "Fuck with me, Christopher Rossi."
Green eyes widen, rimmed sharply around with white. Chris staggers, the first automatic, backward step tangling with his chair before that hand grasps him by the throat. Under Mystique's fingers, the throb of pulse squeezes and jerks, galloping into breathless shock. "My God," he blurts, color receding from the dark face. "Sweet Mother Mary. You're blue. You're /blue/."
Chris's shock is shocking, and it halts Mystique for a moment. Her fingers remain, but do not tighten, and her expression draws even. She shifts again, back to her former self, and dark eyes consider him. "You do not remember me."
"You were /blue/," Chris chokes on a lifted, thinning baritone, a hand groping up to wrestle with the one at his throat. His foot catches; he flails for balance. "You turned blue. I /saw/ you. What are you? Oh God."
Mystique releases his throat easily. Her hand moves to clamp on his shoulder instead, offering balance. "I am a mutant. And you are having issues with your memory. What has happened?"
The man recoils from that supporting hand, colliding violently with the window's wood. Glass rattles in the frame. "Mutant," Chris echoes numbly, his hands scrambling for the wall and obstructing chair. "I don't-- mutant? You don't exist. I mean, that's fiction."
Mystique steps back, hands swinging at her sides. She cocks her heaad slightly and studies him. "What year do you believe it is, Mr. Rossi?"
"1993." The answer is reflexive, unthinking. Dazed eyes refocus on Mystique, pulling away from what is visible of pale, transformed skin. "I mean, it's 2006. I know it's 2006. I just don't remember the rest of it."
"Quite a bit has happened in the past decade," Mystique shares, voice thick with amusement. "Would you care to answer my question now?"
The man, pressed against the sill, sinks a bit at that recognizable humor: at his expense or no. Chris's shoulders settle, forced down from their high and tight knit. "Question?" he echoes, numbly. "What question? I-- oh. What happened. I don't remember. I woke up, there was a man, I couldn't remember...."
"Erik," Mystique prompts patiently. "Lensherr. I am looking for him."
"Erik," Chris repeats. The pale eyes lift slowly, dragged up from Mystique's hands to unhappy inspection of her face. Normal. Not blue. Still. "An old man? There was an old man here when I woke up. I couldn't understand him. He kept talking in German."
"Erik," Mystique breathes again, relief in her voice before she processes the rest of the information. "Speaking in German?" She straightens, blinking fiercely down at Rossi with no concern for his discomfort. "Has he been effected as well?"
A hand rakes through black again, hedgehogging it into wild spikes. "I don't know," Chris says awkwardly, only to correct himself a second later. "I guess. I think so. Does he know me? He didn't. I went out to look for a paper -- he said it would be a good idea to check the news before we called a hospital -- and when I came back, he was gone."
Mystique remains silent and still for a moment as she sorts through this information. "Someone," she tells Chris kindly after this moment. "Has been into your brain. Xavier, perhaps, although it doesn't seem quite his thing." Her lips twist into an unpleasant smile. "Although if you were with Erik. Well. You really should be more careful, Christopher."
"Been into my brain?" Chris repeats after a moment's baffled and unnerved silence, the hand at his head stirring to sidle fingers across the unbroken line of skull. "Like an -- an operation?"
"Like a telepath," Mystique corrects, smile lingering.
Chris Rossi, lacking a background in Star Trek and Babylon 5, simply looks blank. "What?"
"Look it up," Mystique suggests, already turning away from him and toward the door. She smiles. "Try google."
"What?"
Mystique lifts a hand to wiggle fingers at him in farewell and pulls open the door to disappear through it.
Left behind, worldview shattered, Chris sinks down the slant of the wall and drops to the floor, blank-eyed and bewildered.
[Log ends]
Rossi gets an unnerving visitor. She wants to know about Erik. But she is blue! BLUE!
Blue. She turned blue. There was a blue woman in my apartment. I saw her. I felt her.
She was blue.
---
< WES > Old Brownstone Apts #210 - Rossi
An ancient, faded elegance sketches the boundaries of this apartment, hinted at in crown molding and worn, faded floors. High walls span to high ceilings, pale yellow with the barest of white trim; at one end, three high windows gape to let in day's light or night's dark with equal indifference. A small kitchen pocks a hollow in one wall, a doorless entry that offers glimpses of an metal-framed refrigerator and a cabinet-hung microwave. On the other side of the small living room, a short hallway offers entrances to bathroom and bedroom, both doors battered with the wear and tear of age.
In the living room are the basic accoutrements of comfort: sofas, chairs, table, television. Spartan accessories, betraying little of the owner; that task is left for the walls, hung with pictures of family and friends. Through them all runs the thread of blue, NYPD's uniform tailored to pride and vigor.
[Exits : [O]ut ]
The apartment is like an unfamiliar second skin, a great weight on bowed shoulders. Night's sounds spill in through opened windows, wind touching a light hand on the drape of curtains, fingering the tossed black of hair. Seated by one high casement is Chris Rossi, a young man in an old man's body, elbow on knee and foot drawn up on the chair with him, temple pillowed in the angle of a hand. Pale eyes watch the passage of cars outside, dyed gold by the reflection of street lights.
Into this apartment, without the courtesy of knock or permission, comes the figure of Mystique. She's brunette today, tall and slender, with hair that tumbles in waves over her shoulders and keen eyes that scan the apartment in search of its resident as she closes the door behind her. Lock picks. Useful things.
The instincts of a cop are learned things; the instincts of a New York native, inbred. Chris's hand drops and his head lifts while the doorknob jiggles, curiosity turned expectantly towards the door's cues. Surprise lifts the black brows at general lack of recognition: he pulls himself up, a hand trailing along the edge of the sill. Eyes blink quickly. "Hi," he says, puzzled. "Do you-- do I know you?"
"Christopher Rossi," Mystique begins with a slow, purposeful smile as she advances on him. "We have met, yes. Have you encountered Erik Lensherr lately?"
"Who?" Chris says, perplexity deepening. A hand drags across the hair, raking it away from the wide brow. "I don't know an Erik Lensherr. Do I? I don't reme-- I gave you keys to the apartment? Are we...." A tentative glance skips across the woman. "Are we dating?"
Mystique moves in another several steps to latch one hand hard around his throat, fingers flexing with pointed strenght. "Do not," she suggests on a hissed whisper as dark hair shifts, shortens to bobbed red, and skin floods to blue, "Fuck with me, Christopher Rossi."
Green eyes widen, rimmed sharply around with white. Chris staggers, the first automatic, backward step tangling with his chair before that hand grasps him by the throat. Under Mystique's fingers, the throb of pulse squeezes and jerks, galloping into breathless shock. "My God," he blurts, color receding from the dark face. "Sweet Mother Mary. You're blue. You're /blue/."
Chris's shock is shocking, and it halts Mystique for a moment. Her fingers remain, but do not tighten, and her expression draws even. She shifts again, back to her former self, and dark eyes consider him. "You do not remember me."
"You were /blue/," Chris chokes on a lifted, thinning baritone, a hand groping up to wrestle with the one at his throat. His foot catches; he flails for balance. "You turned blue. I /saw/ you. What are you? Oh God."
Mystique releases his throat easily. Her hand moves to clamp on his shoulder instead, offering balance. "I am a mutant. And you are having issues with your memory. What has happened?"
The man recoils from that supporting hand, colliding violently with the window's wood. Glass rattles in the frame. "Mutant," Chris echoes numbly, his hands scrambling for the wall and obstructing chair. "I don't-- mutant? You don't exist. I mean, that's fiction."
Mystique steps back, hands swinging at her sides. She cocks her heaad slightly and studies him. "What year do you believe it is, Mr. Rossi?"
"1993." The answer is reflexive, unthinking. Dazed eyes refocus on Mystique, pulling away from what is visible of pale, transformed skin. "I mean, it's 2006. I know it's 2006. I just don't remember the rest of it."
"Quite a bit has happened in the past decade," Mystique shares, voice thick with amusement. "Would you care to answer my question now?"
The man, pressed against the sill, sinks a bit at that recognizable humor: at his expense or no. Chris's shoulders settle, forced down from their high and tight knit. "Question?" he echoes, numbly. "What question? I-- oh. What happened. I don't remember. I woke up, there was a man, I couldn't remember...."
"Erik," Mystique prompts patiently. "Lensherr. I am looking for him."
"Erik," Chris repeats. The pale eyes lift slowly, dragged up from Mystique's hands to unhappy inspection of her face. Normal. Not blue. Still. "An old man? There was an old man here when I woke up. I couldn't understand him. He kept talking in German."
"Erik," Mystique breathes again, relief in her voice before she processes the rest of the information. "Speaking in German?" She straightens, blinking fiercely down at Rossi with no concern for his discomfort. "Has he been effected as well?"
A hand rakes through black again, hedgehogging it into wild spikes. "I don't know," Chris says awkwardly, only to correct himself a second later. "I guess. I think so. Does he know me? He didn't. I went out to look for a paper -- he said it would be a good idea to check the news before we called a hospital -- and when I came back, he was gone."
Mystique remains silent and still for a moment as she sorts through this information. "Someone," she tells Chris kindly after this moment. "Has been into your brain. Xavier, perhaps, although it doesn't seem quite his thing." Her lips twist into an unpleasant smile. "Although if you were with Erik. Well. You really should be more careful, Christopher."
"Been into my brain?" Chris repeats after a moment's baffled and unnerved silence, the hand at his head stirring to sidle fingers across the unbroken line of skull. "Like an -- an operation?"
"Like a telepath," Mystique corrects, smile lingering.
Chris Rossi, lacking a background in Star Trek and Babylon 5, simply looks blank. "What?"
"Look it up," Mystique suggests, already turning away from him and toward the door. She smiles. "Try google."
"What?"
Mystique lifts a hand to wiggle fingers at him in farewell and pulls open the door to disappear through it.
Left behind, worldview shattered, Chris sinks down the slant of the wall and drops to the floor, blank-eyed and bewildered.
[Log ends]
Rossi gets an unnerving visitor. She wants to know about Erik. But she is blue! BLUE!