Season's greetings from out of town
I do appreciate a prompt and considerate terrorist. He took it much better than I'd expected. Must be the holiday spirit.
12/27/2005
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"No, /thank/ you, and happy holidays," Sebastian Shaw is saying with only a slight cynical crimp to his voice, and no stain at all in his blandly merry expression, as he holds the exterior door open for an outgoing pair of businesswomen. He glances after them with swift, black-eyed annoyance, and then he shrugs away from the door, which swings shut behind him on just another darkened, closed office building in midtown Manhattan. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his dark slacks and starts crunching slowly up the walk to the east.
A shadow slouches against the tall, grey tower of the office building. Sebastian Shaw exits; the shadow straightens and slips into something taller and heavier. A long trenchcoat flares as the shadow steps forward into the small pool of light provided by overhead street lamps and becomes recognizeable. Erik Lensherr keeps easy pace next to Sebastian Shaw. Deep shadows shade his features beneath the brim of his fedora.
Puffs of easy breath trail over Shaw's sweatered shoulder, mingling into and disappearing into the breaths of car traffic (thin, at this time of night, in the business district) and the melted cones of streetlamps' light. He has his eyes down on the sidewalk in front of him. No foot traffic, at least, to get in his slow bull's way -- something else stops him. He stops, anyway. And looks around.
Erik stops next to him and tilts a look at Sebastian Shaw. An even blue gaze flares in slivers of light caught from overhead, and a thin smile follows after. "You don't look as though you're enjoying the holidays." Magneto's voice carries a note of amusement that trickles over his shoulder as he turns away to disappear down a darkened alleyway.
"Shit," Shaw breathes through his teeth, a fog-formed curse, and looks up the street for a long moment. Stands there, tall and broad and dark. Then he lowers his head slightly, shakes it slightly more, and goes to follow the other man. He doesn't reply until he's in the alley, too. Sarcasm cracks under his cool baritone: "If I thought it mattered to you, I'd put on a happy face. Since I sincerely doubt it doesn't -- what can I do for you?"
Erik's thin smile widens and he spreads his hands toward Shaw. Black gloves make the movement a shift of so many shadows in the dim alley. "Sebastian Shaw summons." His explanation is rich with some private amusement. "I should think that question is yours."
Shaw lifts his shoulders and then sets them back against the alley's stone wall. A shoe scuffs over a flattened cardboard box as he adjusts his stance into a heavy lean, and his gaze leans just as heavily on his guest. "Right," he says softly. "So I did, and so you came. Thank you. You will recall the deal we had discussed, hypothetically? Warren Worthington's body for any number of shiny modern weapons from my warehouses."
Erik meets gaze for gaze, steely blue shadowed into near-black under the rim of his fedora. Gloved hands curl loose at his side. His brow furrows as he watches Shaw across the span of the alley and answers in a bare nod and an even-toned voice. "Hypothetically," he allows. "I do."
"Hypothetically," repeats Shaw, wryly, for the round of three, "the deal is off."
Erik remains expressionless in the slants and angles of negated body language. His features bear a small lift of his lips under an even gaze. "I sincerely hope I did not make a trip for nothing more than that hypothetical information."
Shaw's hands shove further into his pockets; his lean drags further down the wall. "No," he agrees. "You didn't. Forget the hypotheticals, then, amusing a conceit as they are. The deal is off in real, material terms because I don't need it anymore. Worthington is no longer a factor in my plans or an influence on your darling Emma. We have what we wanted there: she's back under my thumb." His smile is frosty, as befits the lady in absentia. "If you still want revenge on Mr. Worthington, well, you have your own business to handle, even as I do. Godspeed on that score."
Erik stands in straight contrast to Sebastian's lean, a straightness that stiffens tight muscles and draws out his spine in momentary surprise. His brows twitch, then furrow. "I see." His smile is somewhat less frosty and somewhat more arrogant as he regards Sebastian and repeats, in a voice colored by his expression, "I see."
"I'm glad." Shaw shifts to briskness, counter to his lazy predator's sprawl. His eyes stay pinned on the other's face. "Now, this is not to say that another deal is forever off the table, but I'm not sure what you'd have to offer me in return for the neck-high amount of trouble giving you weapons would bring me, as we've discussed."
Erik eyes Shaw with thoughtful consideration frosted heavily with arrogance. "Your willingness to do business is reassuring," he mentions dryly. "If I should require anything from you, you can be quite certain I'll be in touch, Sebastian."
Dry with cold, dry with winter, dry with respect: "I'm sure you will, Erik. Is there anything else before I hurry home and thaw out?" Shaw even bobs his wide black brows hopefully, encouragingly.
Erik gifts Shaw with a dry smile as his own brows lower and he tips his head toward the other man. "Enjoy your holidays," he offers on parting before long, quick strides carry him away from Sebastian and down the alleyway with an overdramatic flare of his coat and two fingers lifted to the brim of his fedora in a parting salute.
[Log ends.]
12/27/2005
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"No, /thank/ you, and happy holidays," Sebastian Shaw is saying with only a slight cynical crimp to his voice, and no stain at all in his blandly merry expression, as he holds the exterior door open for an outgoing pair of businesswomen. He glances after them with swift, black-eyed annoyance, and then he shrugs away from the door, which swings shut behind him on just another darkened, closed office building in midtown Manhattan. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his dark slacks and starts crunching slowly up the walk to the east.
A shadow slouches against the tall, grey tower of the office building. Sebastian Shaw exits; the shadow straightens and slips into something taller and heavier. A long trenchcoat flares as the shadow steps forward into the small pool of light provided by overhead street lamps and becomes recognizeable. Erik Lensherr keeps easy pace next to Sebastian Shaw. Deep shadows shade his features beneath the brim of his fedora.
Puffs of easy breath trail over Shaw's sweatered shoulder, mingling into and disappearing into the breaths of car traffic (thin, at this time of night, in the business district) and the melted cones of streetlamps' light. He has his eyes down on the sidewalk in front of him. No foot traffic, at least, to get in his slow bull's way -- something else stops him. He stops, anyway. And looks around.
Erik stops next to him and tilts a look at Sebastian Shaw. An even blue gaze flares in slivers of light caught from overhead, and a thin smile follows after. "You don't look as though you're enjoying the holidays." Magneto's voice carries a note of amusement that trickles over his shoulder as he turns away to disappear down a darkened alleyway.
"Shit," Shaw breathes through his teeth, a fog-formed curse, and looks up the street for a long moment. Stands there, tall and broad and dark. Then he lowers his head slightly, shakes it slightly more, and goes to follow the other man. He doesn't reply until he's in the alley, too. Sarcasm cracks under his cool baritone: "If I thought it mattered to you, I'd put on a happy face. Since I sincerely doubt it doesn't -- what can I do for you?"
Erik's thin smile widens and he spreads his hands toward Shaw. Black gloves make the movement a shift of so many shadows in the dim alley. "Sebastian Shaw summons." His explanation is rich with some private amusement. "I should think that question is yours."
Shaw lifts his shoulders and then sets them back against the alley's stone wall. A shoe scuffs over a flattened cardboard box as he adjusts his stance into a heavy lean, and his gaze leans just as heavily on his guest. "Right," he says softly. "So I did, and so you came. Thank you. You will recall the deal we had discussed, hypothetically? Warren Worthington's body for any number of shiny modern weapons from my warehouses."
Erik meets gaze for gaze, steely blue shadowed into near-black under the rim of his fedora. Gloved hands curl loose at his side. His brow furrows as he watches Shaw across the span of the alley and answers in a bare nod and an even-toned voice. "Hypothetically," he allows. "I do."
"Hypothetically," repeats Shaw, wryly, for the round of three, "the deal is off."
Erik remains expressionless in the slants and angles of negated body language. His features bear a small lift of his lips under an even gaze. "I sincerely hope I did not make a trip for nothing more than that hypothetical information."
Shaw's hands shove further into his pockets; his lean drags further down the wall. "No," he agrees. "You didn't. Forget the hypotheticals, then, amusing a conceit as they are. The deal is off in real, material terms because I don't need it anymore. Worthington is no longer a factor in my plans or an influence on your darling Emma. We have what we wanted there: she's back under my thumb." His smile is frosty, as befits the lady in absentia. "If you still want revenge on Mr. Worthington, well, you have your own business to handle, even as I do. Godspeed on that score."
Erik stands in straight contrast to Sebastian's lean, a straightness that stiffens tight muscles and draws out his spine in momentary surprise. His brows twitch, then furrow. "I see." His smile is somewhat less frosty and somewhat more arrogant as he regards Sebastian and repeats, in a voice colored by his expression, "I see."
"I'm glad." Shaw shifts to briskness, counter to his lazy predator's sprawl. His eyes stay pinned on the other's face. "Now, this is not to say that another deal is forever off the table, but I'm not sure what you'd have to offer me in return for the neck-high amount of trouble giving you weapons would bring me, as we've discussed."
Erik eyes Shaw with thoughtful consideration frosted heavily with arrogance. "Your willingness to do business is reassuring," he mentions dryly. "If I should require anything from you, you can be quite certain I'll be in touch, Sebastian."
Dry with cold, dry with winter, dry with respect: "I'm sure you will, Erik. Is there anything else before I hurry home and thaw out?" Shaw even bobs his wide black brows hopefully, encouragingly.
Erik gifts Shaw with a dry smile as his own brows lower and he tips his head toward the other man. "Enjoy your holidays," he offers on parting before long, quick strides carry him away from Sebastian and down the alleyway with an overdramatic flare of his coat and two fingers lifted to the brim of his fedora in a parting salute.
[Log ends.]