Good little girl
Oh, she was a mutant, all right, but not one I would have bothered trying to recruit, even if I'd been in the mood. So blithe and bonny, soaking up the rain as if it were Heaven's gentle tears - give me a break. I hope she ran all the way home, away from the scary bad man.
Ha. More than one way to cheer me up, by God.
6/4/2006
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Upper West Side
Like its eastern cousin, the Upper West Side leans a bit towards the higher class, residentially, although it's rich in its culture as well. Notable amongst these attractions are the Metropolitan Opera House, The Lincoln Center Theatre, and The American Museum of Natural History. Despite its many buildings, this neighborhood proves to be among the better landscaped ones of New York; sidled right up along the western portions of Central Park as it is, undoubtedly the reason for the high costs of some of the apartments here.
--
Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation...
Or keeps Averillix from frying to a crisp under the summer sun. Another summer and another turn toward the nocturnal for the young French teacher means that Averillix is busy finishing up whatever shopping it is she had to do during the day now. Several bags - the generic sort, mostly, one recognizable as being from a garden store - are at her side, and as the woman goes along her way, she's humming to herself as usual. Gunmetal silver eyes keep a good vigilance upon the world around her, whereas pastel green locks are pinned back away from her face, into a long ponytail that goes down the back of her soft gray shirt.
Nighttime and rain-time: it's drooling right off the eaves and awnings that Shaw is doing his damnedest to avoid in his stalk down the sidewalk towards the park. His head's bare to the weather and slickly wet because of it; his long black coat's collar is turned up to protect his neck, and its pockets are hosting the fists at the ends of his stiff arms. The coat flaps behind him like dragon wings on each hard step, trailing the fierce scowl he has fixed ahead of him on the rain-pocked sidewalk. He's not looking up. He's not seeing Averillix, for example.
Coats? Protection? What is this nonsense? The flower child seems glad for the rain, pausing for a moment in her walk back to the station to just sigh and bathe in it. Much better than the heat. Unlike most people of her skin tone, Averillix burned, and in quite a nasty fashion. No, from the smile on her lips and the darkening of those silver eyes, Averillix is at home. Standing right in the middle of the sidewalk, no less.
For the moment, anyway: more than two hundred pounds of scowling businessman slams into her from behind. "--ucking Christ!" Shaw spits on his rebound from the impact, which shoves him back a step the way he'd come. He glares at the girl. "Out of the way, chick." His baritone drops to a pissed (or just pissy) rumble. "Tourists."
Averillix startles quickly, eyes widening and flaring a quick whitish tone, a gasp escaping her lips. She, being much smaller than appearances would give truth to, is propelled a several steps forward. Clatter, clatter, roll is the sound next audible the bag of garden supplies spills upon collision, since it's the outermost, and as she turns around to see /what/ just hit her, her eyes widen just a bit more; then she instantly switches on an apologetic smile, leaning to pick up her things. "I'm really sorry about that," says the woman, sentence tainted by strong French accent. "I just... like the rain." And then there's a nervous chuckle.
--
Averillix
Shoulder-length, outward flared…
Pastel green hair. With dark hunter green tips.
The young woman before you is a rather tall one, around five feet, seven inches, and, with her dark tan skin (the natural kind; not your model-in-the-tanners) and slanted, emerald green eyes, is really something quite... original looking, to say the least. When standing, the girl seems to have perfect posture, but, from the way her eyes - every so often seeming to fluxuate in color depth - are a bit unfocused, she doesn't seem to always be quite 'into this world'. Her brows are arched, probably cut, and of a black color, noting that this was probably her original hair color… before whatever happened to her.
At the current point in time, the young woman is sporting a racer's back black bikini top over her upper half, and, coming from within the depths of her low-rise jeans, the straps to the bottoms are over her hips. She's not wearing shoes, today - most probably, she doesn't think she needs them. Around her wrist is a watch, a plain one with flowers tanned into the band.
Her voice is soft, thick with a French accent, and her willowy-build moves with a sort of graceful air. Most people, if they tried, could probably pick her up.
--
Shaw's impatient glare sweeps up the spilled things, but that's as far as he moves to help her. "Because," he asks with honeyed sarcasm, "it's such a rare experience these days? They don't have rain where you come from?" He pauses, squints at her, then smiles a little, not nicely. And delivers a distinct slur: "Which, wherever it is, doesn't sound like it's here."
Wince. But the smile stays on. The rest of the garden supplies are picked up, and Avex moves to sweep her ponytail over her shoulder. "It's just hot very often, and I get ... sick, very easily." She moves to step out of the middle of the sidewalk, in case anyone else comes. "I'm from France... I take it you're American?"
"Red-blooded, flag-waving, apple-pie-eating," Shaw agrees. He hunches closer to the buildings beside them, out of the spitting, spattering rainfall. His glare tempers to a calculated study of her appearance, starting with the pastel-green hair and ending with -- the pastel-green hair. His expression hardens. "And I'm all human, to boot. Hope you are, too, and just had a bad experience with hair dye."
Averillix's eyes don't help in it either. As unspoken and suppressed annoyance build in her, her eyes turn a tad touch whiter. Instead of really answering the question of a taller, very large man at nearly midnight, she simply adjusts her bags, giving a little smile. "Have you ever been outside of America?" She'll stand in the rain, still, thank you very much, and avert the talk otherwise.
Shaw snorts. "All the time," he lobs neatly back. "It's part of my job. You can't run a multinational business if you don't visit all those multiple nations." He's watching her eyes now, the obliging whitening eyes. His own are as black as his hair, as shiny and sleek, and couched in age- and sun-lines that crinkle deeper with his dismissive expression. "Does using a passport mean I'm not allowed to say mean things about people like you?" he asks, playing up fake wistfulness.
"What kind of business do you run?" Another shift of her bags; Avex wasn't media savvy, and, as is apparrent, she has no clue who the man she's talking to is. Her eyes switch back to a normal, medium silver color then, and as the last phrase is delivered, she simply tilts her head inquisitively. "Huh?"
Surprise stamps Shaw's face fleetingly blank, and he draws himself up under the awning protecting him, as if height and size would be enough to remind her of his identity. "I make guns, lots and lots of guns," and with the direct, simple answer, he adds a quick, cruel grin. "I'm a death merchant. It's a great job. You can really make a killing in it, literally."
Averillix raises one brow, and even the faked ease is obliterated. "Oh," she says. It's one of those oh's where the full front of the mouth is drawn forward. Averillix clears her throat, and, trying to stand up a bit taller to match (and not feel so ant like), the woman shakes her head. "How come you're in -that- business? Did you inherent it?" The joke is lost on her.
"No." Shaw sounds bored now, but his gleaming dark eyes betray ongoing interest, as does his lingering presence itself. "When I was in college, I saw a need for more weaponry in the world, all the better for humanity to kill itself with, so I started a company and watched it grow." His mouth slews sideways: like a smile, but not quite there, echoing the cynical sweep of his wide brows. "I like doing good deeds like that. Plus, it made me richer than God and gave me the chance to do what /really/ matters these days." Politely, he leaves that blank, for her to ask about.
Averillix nods softly as she listens. Her face stays mostly blank, unjudgemental, but those eyes of her keep twirling up into the paler shades of silver as she does. "I suppose those kinds of things /are/ important; I mean, then how would police protect us and everything, I guess..." Averillix tilts her head to one side, sighing. "I never went through college. I didn't really like the experience." And of course, being Averillix, she'll bite the blank, but not before tilting her head to the other side. "What's that?"
Shaw snorts softly at, "Police. Yeah, right. I don't deal that far down, though the idea of the NYPD in possession of a few ICBMs the next time Magneto comes to town . . ." That name twists his mouth and shuts down his expression into cold sternness, and he steps forward in soft emphasis of his answer to her biting: "What's really important these days is making sure good, honest, /human/ Americans are safe from the genetic freaks among us." He tips his head back to her in clear echoing mockery. "Comprends-tu? You get that?"
Averillix frowns much the same at the mention of Magneto, though when Shaw steps forward, her eyes widen and turn stark white this time, only bits of silver leftover. She takes several steps backwards, and the Frenchwoman clutches her bags a bit tighter. Eyes shoot down to the ground, and she nods, only slightly. "Yes, I do. ... I'm sorry again, for having run into you." And with that, the woman turns, in the direction of the station. So much for a good evening.
[Log ends.]
Ha. More than one way to cheer me up, by God.
6/4/2006
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Upper West Side
Like its eastern cousin, the Upper West Side leans a bit towards the higher class, residentially, although it's rich in its culture as well. Notable amongst these attractions are the Metropolitan Opera House, The Lincoln Center Theatre, and The American Museum of Natural History. Despite its many buildings, this neighborhood proves to be among the better landscaped ones of New York; sidled right up along the western portions of Central Park as it is, undoubtedly the reason for the high costs of some of the apartments here.
--
Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation...
Or keeps Averillix from frying to a crisp under the summer sun. Another summer and another turn toward the nocturnal for the young French teacher means that Averillix is busy finishing up whatever shopping it is she had to do during the day now. Several bags - the generic sort, mostly, one recognizable as being from a garden store - are at her side, and as the woman goes along her way, she's humming to herself as usual. Gunmetal silver eyes keep a good vigilance upon the world around her, whereas pastel green locks are pinned back away from her face, into a long ponytail that goes down the back of her soft gray shirt.
Nighttime and rain-time: it's drooling right off the eaves and awnings that Shaw is doing his damnedest to avoid in his stalk down the sidewalk towards the park. His head's bare to the weather and slickly wet because of it; his long black coat's collar is turned up to protect his neck, and its pockets are hosting the fists at the ends of his stiff arms. The coat flaps behind him like dragon wings on each hard step, trailing the fierce scowl he has fixed ahead of him on the rain-pocked sidewalk. He's not looking up. He's not seeing Averillix, for example.
Coats? Protection? What is this nonsense? The flower child seems glad for the rain, pausing for a moment in her walk back to the station to just sigh and bathe in it. Much better than the heat. Unlike most people of her skin tone, Averillix burned, and in quite a nasty fashion. No, from the smile on her lips and the darkening of those silver eyes, Averillix is at home. Standing right in the middle of the sidewalk, no less.
For the moment, anyway: more than two hundred pounds of scowling businessman slams into her from behind. "--ucking Christ!" Shaw spits on his rebound from the impact, which shoves him back a step the way he'd come. He glares at the girl. "Out of the way, chick." His baritone drops to a pissed (or just pissy) rumble. "Tourists."
Averillix startles quickly, eyes widening and flaring a quick whitish tone, a gasp escaping her lips. She, being much smaller than appearances would give truth to, is propelled a several steps forward. Clatter, clatter, roll is the sound next audible the bag of garden supplies spills upon collision, since it's the outermost, and as she turns around to see /what/ just hit her, her eyes widen just a bit more; then she instantly switches on an apologetic smile, leaning to pick up her things. "I'm really sorry about that," says the woman, sentence tainted by strong French accent. "I just... like the rain." And then there's a nervous chuckle.
--
Averillix
Shoulder-length, outward flared…
Pastel green hair. With dark hunter green tips.
The young woman before you is a rather tall one, around five feet, seven inches, and, with her dark tan skin (the natural kind; not your model-in-the-tanners) and slanted, emerald green eyes, is really something quite... original looking, to say the least. When standing, the girl seems to have perfect posture, but, from the way her eyes - every so often seeming to fluxuate in color depth - are a bit unfocused, she doesn't seem to always be quite 'into this world'. Her brows are arched, probably cut, and of a black color, noting that this was probably her original hair color… before whatever happened to her.
At the current point in time, the young woman is sporting a racer's back black bikini top over her upper half, and, coming from within the depths of her low-rise jeans, the straps to the bottoms are over her hips. She's not wearing shoes, today - most probably, she doesn't think she needs them. Around her wrist is a watch, a plain one with flowers tanned into the band.
Her voice is soft, thick with a French accent, and her willowy-build moves with a sort of graceful air. Most people, if they tried, could probably pick her up.
--
Shaw's impatient glare sweeps up the spilled things, but that's as far as he moves to help her. "Because," he asks with honeyed sarcasm, "it's such a rare experience these days? They don't have rain where you come from?" He pauses, squints at her, then smiles a little, not nicely. And delivers a distinct slur: "Which, wherever it is, doesn't sound like it's here."
Wince. But the smile stays on. The rest of the garden supplies are picked up, and Avex moves to sweep her ponytail over her shoulder. "It's just hot very often, and I get ... sick, very easily." She moves to step out of the middle of the sidewalk, in case anyone else comes. "I'm from France... I take it you're American?"
"Red-blooded, flag-waving, apple-pie-eating," Shaw agrees. He hunches closer to the buildings beside them, out of the spitting, spattering rainfall. His glare tempers to a calculated study of her appearance, starting with the pastel-green hair and ending with -- the pastel-green hair. His expression hardens. "And I'm all human, to boot. Hope you are, too, and just had a bad experience with hair dye."
Averillix's eyes don't help in it either. As unspoken and suppressed annoyance build in her, her eyes turn a tad touch whiter. Instead of really answering the question of a taller, very large man at nearly midnight, she simply adjusts her bags, giving a little smile. "Have you ever been outside of America?" She'll stand in the rain, still, thank you very much, and avert the talk otherwise.
Shaw snorts. "All the time," he lobs neatly back. "It's part of my job. You can't run a multinational business if you don't visit all those multiple nations." He's watching her eyes now, the obliging whitening eyes. His own are as black as his hair, as shiny and sleek, and couched in age- and sun-lines that crinkle deeper with his dismissive expression. "Does using a passport mean I'm not allowed to say mean things about people like you?" he asks, playing up fake wistfulness.
"What kind of business do you run?" Another shift of her bags; Avex wasn't media savvy, and, as is apparrent, she has no clue who the man she's talking to is. Her eyes switch back to a normal, medium silver color then, and as the last phrase is delivered, she simply tilts her head inquisitively. "Huh?"
Surprise stamps Shaw's face fleetingly blank, and he draws himself up under the awning protecting him, as if height and size would be enough to remind her of his identity. "I make guns, lots and lots of guns," and with the direct, simple answer, he adds a quick, cruel grin. "I'm a death merchant. It's a great job. You can really make a killing in it, literally."
Averillix raises one brow, and even the faked ease is obliterated. "Oh," she says. It's one of those oh's where the full front of the mouth is drawn forward. Averillix clears her throat, and, trying to stand up a bit taller to match (and not feel so ant like), the woman shakes her head. "How come you're in -that- business? Did you inherent it?" The joke is lost on her.
"No." Shaw sounds bored now, but his gleaming dark eyes betray ongoing interest, as does his lingering presence itself. "When I was in college, I saw a need for more weaponry in the world, all the better for humanity to kill itself with, so I started a company and watched it grow." His mouth slews sideways: like a smile, but not quite there, echoing the cynical sweep of his wide brows. "I like doing good deeds like that. Plus, it made me richer than God and gave me the chance to do what /really/ matters these days." Politely, he leaves that blank, for her to ask about.
Averillix nods softly as she listens. Her face stays mostly blank, unjudgemental, but those eyes of her keep twirling up into the paler shades of silver as she does. "I suppose those kinds of things /are/ important; I mean, then how would police protect us and everything, I guess..." Averillix tilts her head to one side, sighing. "I never went through college. I didn't really like the experience." And of course, being Averillix, she'll bite the blank, but not before tilting her head to the other side. "What's that?"
Shaw snorts softly at, "Police. Yeah, right. I don't deal that far down, though the idea of the NYPD in possession of a few ICBMs the next time Magneto comes to town . . ." That name twists his mouth and shuts down his expression into cold sternness, and he steps forward in soft emphasis of his answer to her biting: "What's really important these days is making sure good, honest, /human/ Americans are safe from the genetic freaks among us." He tips his head back to her in clear echoing mockery. "Comprends-tu? You get that?"
Averillix frowns much the same at the mention of Magneto, though when Shaw steps forward, her eyes widen and turn stark white this time, only bits of silver leftover. She takes several steps backwards, and the Frenchwoman clutches her bags a bit tighter. Eyes shoot down to the ground, and she nods, only slightly. "Yes, I do. ... I'm sorry again, for having run into you." And with that, the woman turns, in the direction of the station. So much for a good evening.
[Log ends.]