(no subject)
A few necessities marked off the grocery list. I pity the women who are slaves enough to their cycles that they need such undignified and unpleasant devices. Tampons. I stopped bothering with menstruation barely four years after menarche.
Foolish girlchildren who the gods gave no gift but odd eyes. I took her voice. I don't regret it.
And metal claws that slide from the tips of a woman's fingers. Metal and flesh and bone -- I would love to examine such a body, to witness the binding of organic and inorganic.
In the deep of dark evening, at an even pace along the sidewalk with the steady thump of black boots on cement, Ellen Dramstadt stalks. Black slacks are visible, and a glimpse of jade-green silk in the form of a dress shirt beneath the heavy serge of her charcoal overcoat. Under one arm, the great clear plastic and white bulk of a package of toilet paper, some twelve rolls. Dangling from the crook of her other elbow, more plastic, crinkling white in a grocery bag: visible through its mouth, the edge of a purple package of tampons, shifting amongst its companions (hot dogs and beer -- vital supplies). Street lamps shine over cement and asphalt, flaring bright light over blond hair pulled back in a severe tail as she moves with unerring dignity, eyes straight ahead and head held high and proud as a show-horse's, from night-shaded darkness to county-provided light.
Brooding in her wake is Erik Lensherr - enough of a gentleman to hold the grocery door, but not quite bold enough to offer to relieve Ellen of her load, particularly when it's constitution has the potential to be somewhat embarassing. Helmetless and hatless, recently trimmed silver hair ruffling in the cold air, he's dressed similarly enough that the two probably look a little odd together, even at a distance. The only real differences are in color - the dark grey of his trousers, and the black of his ribbed sweater heavily shadowed beneath the furl of his overcoat. The crown vic is still a fair walk away - parallel parked neatly next to a still-full meter.
Her direction opposite, her stature significantly smaller than either in both height and bearing, Alyssa Carter makes her quiet way down the sidewalk. Head down, glossy hair loose and brown against her overcoat's upturned collar, dark against deeper, blacker dark, her progress is unwary, and, perhaps, unwise. There is a set of keys clutched in one small-balled fist, deep inside the overcoat's pockets, and the toes of her boots are steel.
The weak plastic bag hanging from Ellen's arm, swinging back and forth in crinkling rhythm with her long stride, splits; six-pack of beer, a package of hot dogs, a squeeze-bottle of ketchup, the purple-wrapped tampons, all tumble down the length of her lean leg to the sidewalk. She hisses, biting off part of a curse in German, its concluding syllables cut off as blue-grey eyes flick over her shoulder to the man behind her and suppressed into a silent-fumed breath. Ellen halts. She drops to a crouch, scowling fiercely at the edge of a pool of light.
Erik lifts a hand automatically, palm down and gloved fingers spread like a puppeteer's, and the cans do not impact. The six-pack stops short of the cement by several inches, even as its companions make an inconvenience of themselves. "Plastic." Erik comments evenly upon meeting that flicked look backwards - her curse benevolently ignored. A glance down to the rest of the groceries has him hard-pressed to smother a chortle into a cough. What a combination.
A slim figure emerges from the shadow-pooled alleys between buildings, wrapped in an overcoat only a few shades darker than the street-piled ranks of frost. White wraps around the throat and gleaming black head, casting the pale face into shadow; the exotic, delicate cast of features proves her Asian, cheek still smooth with the dew of youth. A dark-eyed glance marks the dropped groceries and the shoppers paused over it. Hesitation pauses her, then turns her steps towards them, spanning the width of street and sidewalk.
"Oh!" comes the exclamation, soft and young-female. Alyssa's head comes up at the noise and the curse, and she's already on her way -- towards the pair, towards the ground, hands outstretched to help -- before the realization of one particular item's lack of impact hits. "/Oh/!" is repeated again, though this time voice and eyes are both laced with fear. But, the offer is nearly complete -- to Ellen, she directs "Do you--" her voice squeaks, soars! and she clears her throat before continuing, "--need help with that?"
Mildness of her cool alto disguising a flicker of aggravation nevertheless visible on her the angular planes of her face as she stares with pale and narrow-eyed venom at the useless carcass of her plastic bag, Ellen intones, "But two arms, sir." She sets down the broad bulk of the package of toilet paker. And, for the cans suspended in midair, she adds, "Thank you." The pockets of her overcoat are deep and wide enough for one to manage the package of hot dogs. She is sliding the phallic meat product into the swallowing depths of her pocket when Alyssa speaks. The glare redirects, from plastic bag to girl. She stares up, frozen in place like a fair-haired gargoyle with the package stilled partway into her coat. She does not as yet speak.
Brows knit and throat cleared, a very tired Erik Lensherr successfully smothers his very inappropriate amusement and looks up from poor Ellen's regathering to focus pale grey eyes starkly upon Alyssa, in an aged mirror of Dramstadt's reaction beneath and before him. How terribly awkward. And somewhere in the back of his mind, an all too familiar twitch at the web of his physical awareness. Adamantium.
Indeed, and in strength: metal hums through the Asian's graceful carriage, adding weight and power to the deceptively light frame. Voices carry in the still, cold air, drifting far over the background noises of the streets. The woman crossing to offer her own assistance tilts her head to their cadence, scarf slipping its grip to slide across silk-heavy hair; she picks her way around a pair of parked vehicles, stooping wordlessly to pick up ketchup in one grey-gloved hand and offer it to Ellen.
Alyssa stares at Ellen for a moment, just as frozen -- though from the wideness in her eyes and the quiver, oh! the quiver in her hand when she reaches for the purple package, lifts it to assist -- it is for obviously different reasons. She does not offer a smile, even though they are now no longer alone -- merely a scared, skittish glance up to Erik, then away to the woman offering the ketchup beside her.
The hot dogs slide the rest of the way into the deep pocket of the dark serge overcoat, Ellen's eyes not leaving the girl's. Then the pale gaze slides to find the other woman and the offered ketchup. She takes that first, her hand curling tight around its neck; she tucks that into the opposite pocket of her coat. There are now unslightly bulges in the lines of coat on /both/ sides of her long, lean body. She remembers her manners. "Thank you." There is no warmth to the courtesy; there are no more pockets for the tampons. She stares at Alyssa and slowly draws to her feet, lifting her toilet paper with her. She leaves the beer suspended in air for the moment. The fingertips of her free hand are curled inward, shadows of talons, as she slightly tilts her head. Her face is impassive as stone.
His head turned away in mild puzzlement and distraction, it's with a measure of startled surprise that he realizes the metal's source is directly in front of him. It is frozen immediately - and quite literally humming, if it wasn't before, as magnetism's probe surges forcefully in and down from head to toe. Only then does visual perception relay that the flesh surrounding this familiar skeletal set up is decidedly female, among other things. Five clawed, rather than three. Not Wolverine. She's released immediately, with a wary, questioning look from Erik that he has no business making on his glare's way back to Alyssa and Ellen. The six pack is drawn up against his waiting hand, which hasn't moved.
Almond-dark eyes flare at that stilling rush of power, white showing around the deepening bruise of irises; caught for that rare moment like a fly in amber, the woman freezes, grace lost in mid-motion -- balance stolen and supplanted by another mind's control -- only to return again, with interest. A gloved hand opens, splaying wide: metal hisses in an ophidian snarl. Wordless, straightened, Yuriko Oyama regards Erik Lensherr, a hand's count of talons telescoped and waiting by the smooth line of leg.
As the woman before her rises, so does Alyssa -- the package still clutched in her hand, she swallows hard. Her eyes are fixed on Ellen's face, and betray her as, in fear, she blinks without blinking -- clear inner eyelids catch and reflect the light, though her pupils are already near-luminescent in the dark. She holds out the package of tampons.
Ellen strikes. Her long-fingered hand darts forward, tampons bypassed to curl a vice round Alyssa's wrist: skin presses to skin, Ellen dives through the girl's cellular structure, chasing the shadows of what she thinks she's seen -- the cells those inner eyelids, hunted down and examined; cellular control demands another blink, but part of one, stilling the clear sheath over Alyssa's eyes once it has shuttered. "Mutant," she observes. Hand still held there, Ellen's gaze flicks to Yuriko and the fivefold spread of claws -- and catches. She stares, eyes widening.
"My sincerest apologies, Madame. I mistook you for someone else with adamantium grafted to a majority of their skeleton." Erik says evenly and politely - if not without irony - as he angles his chin and his glare back up to her eyes, away from that deadly hiss of metal. Leonine. Direct. Dealing with the most immediate and dangerous problem at hand first. "I trust you are capable of understanding my confusion, given the rather minute odds of there being another so like you in such close residence." His eyes flicker barely aside, following that flash, and then it's back to Yuriko. "/Thank/ you, Ellen."
Close-mouthed, deathly silent, Yuriko simply stands where she is for a long span of heartbeats, breath curling in fragile lace around the wing of black against pale cheek. Behind the unreadable face, attention builds and coils, gripping on the dying echo of Erik's voice. "Another," she says, throaty alto foreign, accented. And then, sharply: "Another. What other?" The talons shiver, slowly retreating; a drop of bright, bright blood trickles to drop silently on ice.
A scream rises, choked off to die, strangled, in her throat as Aly's vision is fractured. The wrist in Ellen's grip shakes, and her pulse races -- even as fingers curl more relentlessly into the plastic packaging. "Yes," is finally managed, unneeded confirmation of her genetic heritage. Fixed on Ellen's face as she is, when the deadly blonde's gaze redirects, so, briefly, does hers. And freezes once again, as she catches Erik's words and the retraction of claws. Another scream threatens, and is silenced before it can escape.
The pallid gaze is venomous as it slides back, contempt twitching Ellen's mouth at the corners. Her grasp on Alyssa's wrist tightens. Not bothering to demand silence with lips and tongue and throat, a few conscious tweaks render the girl's vocal cords inoperable.
"Logan. 'Wolverine'. He has no last name that I am aware of. He visits a local private school with some regularity - Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters." Keeping a brief if careful eye on the strain between Alyssa and Ellen, it's with narrowed eyes that Erik looks back to Yuriko. "His memory was damaged, but I believe he is currently in posession of a safe that contains information on the grafting process, as well as the man responsible for it. It's either at the school, or under the direct ownership of Jean Grey."
Something cracks in that serene, sealed face; something incandescent blazes white and chill behind the eyes. The barest turn of head marks the young girl's scream, negligible acknowledgment of the other identification and manipulation taking place. The Asian's awareness is fixed on the man, unblinking and watchful. "Thank you," she says with quiet courtesy. "I am grateful for the information. Dr. Lensherr." At her side, the readied hand eases, and wan street light reflects off the claws, rippling across the retracting scales.
Alyssa makes a brief, abortive attempt to speak -- what she would say is unknown, but it follows Erik's identification of Logan, and of her school. The absence of sound results in puzzlement, companion to ever-present fear. She focuses back on Ellen, and, shaking, attempts to draw herself upt to her full height. If she is to die, it will be with dignity. Terrified, shattered dignity. Even if she is still holding the tampons.
Cellular control recedes, allowing Alyssa normal use of her eyes and normal reflexive blinking of her inner eyelid. Ellen's tight grip on her wrist does not. The pale-eyed gaze, though, is sharp and wary on Yuriko. Spine straight, line of shoulders taut, she is very still.
"Not at all, Miss..." Deceptively casual is Dr, Lensherr's tone, in direct contrast with the icey predation of his glare after that blaze in her eyes, hungry for an answer. The sorts of people one stumbles across in Westchester. He's very focused at the moment, so that the black opening of Alyssa's wordless reply is seen in his peripheral vision, but not registered as something important enough to follow up on. Perhaps she's choking. Or doing an impression of a fish.
"Oyama, Yuriko," the woman introduces in the Japanese fashion, family name first. WIth a small sigh, the adamantium blades recede fully, leaving only the slices at the ends of gloves and the slightest dampening of blood to mark their passage. Those splayed fingers flex, knitting into a fist; something crackles in the bones, settling themselves into painful order. Dark eyes drift, measuring Ellen's reach and position before returning to Magneto. "May I ask why you share this with me?"
Realization of control comes with a reflexive blink, 'lids lowering and raising over too-dry eyes. It is slightly painful, and Alyssa squints and blinks. There is a moment of consideration, wherein she tries to pull her arm closer to her -- she does not twist or squirm or otherwise try to break the grip, but just exudes a steady pressure toward herself. It is not particularly sucessful, so after a couple of seconds, she stops. And stares, wide-eyed, at the people around her.
Ellen's gaze jerks back to Alyssa, head's turn serpentine swift. Short, clean fingernails bite the tender skin on the underside of a youthful wrist. Slit-eyed, her lips thin into a ghosted smile. Slowly, so slowly, her eyes fastened on the girl's, Ellen shakes her head.
"Suffice to say, my dear, I am not an advocate of experimentation upon mutants. Also," Erik's brows fall, over-emphasizing the gravity of his continued explanation, "it was terribly kind of you to assist us in our grocery-related plight. It's the least I can do, really." His smile small, cynical, and tight, Erik looks directly at her for a few seconds more before turning his head pointedly back to problem number two. Alyssa. "What's your name?"
Yuriko inclines her head, mouth curving slowly in a smile that does not, perhaps, reach the half-lidded eyes -- but no matter: there is cold fire there still, banked for later. The betraying hand tucks into the overcoat pocket, silver-blue white nesting the shredded glove. Her focus tracks with Erik's: to Ellen and Alyssa in turn, curiosity -- speculation -- settling thoughtfully on the former.
There is a wordless, soundless yip as nails dig in to the underside of her wrist, shock flaring briefly into the wide, wide set of Alyssa's eyes. She frowns, gaze dropping to her wrist, then back up to Ellen's face. She shakes her head, an echo of the woman's gesture. Well. So much for that. Erik's voice registers panic again, and she whips her head around to face him, name spit out on soundless lips. 'Alyssa Carter,' they say, though she herself does not.
"Ah." The sound is breathed past Ellen's lips in something like a sigh. They curl back, teeth bared in an unpleasant smile as she eyes Alyssa, which fades to cool solemnity as she cants a look at Erik. "You want her to speak, sir?" Cellular manipulation surges to life again in Alyssa's throat, freeing her larynx from its impromptu flesh prison with a bare flutter of Ellen's eyelids.
Choking. Fish. Mime. Erik's brows twist back down out of a lift and into a knit. Ellen. /Ellen/. "Ellen." This comes before the question, at a mutter that manages to avoid exasperation. "If you would be so kind..."
Oyama's interest sharpens, tracing the line of Ellen's arm down to its contact with Alyssa's wrist and up again, to that mute and unbound mouth. Breath wafts fog in a veil, drifted across her face; the woman stirs into a step, moving out of the pool of light into deeper shadow to watch.
Breath hisses, and Alyssa clears her throat somewhat reflexively before answering, "Alyssa Carter," again. The voice trembles, though she tries not to let it. "Is John well?" Her voice cracks over the name, and her eyes, wide and scared remain fixed on his face.
"Alyssa Carter." Erik repeats blandly, cold eyes flicking over her face as they might a newspaper or a road sign, unfeeling. "Ah yes. /You/." He lifts his chin slightly to Ellen and flexes his grip around the six pack at his side. "Whatever you did, Ellen, do it again."
Disdain stares at Alyssa through cold and pallid eyes. "Yes, sir." Ellen follows orders.
"Now release her," Erik says, still eying Alyssa as he reaches to relieve her of the box of tampons, "and let us be on our way, before she finds paper and a pencil."
Alyssa doesn't even attempt words again, this time. Her gaze moves from Erik's face to Ellen's, then back. Her eyebrows raise in question, then fall. She doesn't even try to maintain her hold on the package of tampons. Unfortunately, Ellen still has her by the wrist.
No objection is forthcoming from the mute spectator nearby; lids have swept black-lashed and secretive over her thoughts, leaving them blank slates for prying eyes. She watches in contemplative silence, her hand freeing itself from its pocket to stretch, still gloved, that calculated architecture of metal-sheathed joint and bone.
Ellen drops Alyssa's hand and steps back half a pace. She turns to Erik and holds out her free hand with an expectant upsweep of fine brows. It is somehow not dignified for the Master of Magnetism to hold the feminine hygiene product box.
The tampon box is shifted over into Ellen's elegant grip, leaving the left hand free, leather-gloved, to smooth and pat with mock-affection at Alyssa's right cheek, before paired fingers curl beneath her chin to press gently upward, forcing eye contact. "He's doing very well indeed. all things considered. Do try and have a good evening, despite everything." And with that, and a glance to Ellen, Erik turns to furl in the direction of the black crown victoria, head angled only slightly after Yuriko's position in stride.
Alyssa blinks once, as the contact is forced -- then tips her head down in acknowledgement of his words once she is again free to do so. Arms curl around herself, feeble protection after everything that's transpired. And slowly, then more hastily once ground has been gained, she takes off in the direction of her school. By the end of the block, she's flat-out running.
Having thoroughly dismissed Alyssa, Ellen's glance slides to find Yuriko. It settles there for a still and silent moment. Her head rises slightly, her expression graven impassivity. Then she turns, toilet paper grasped under one arm and the other long-fingered hand curling tightly around the tampons, and strides after Erik with as much dignity as can be mustered. Under the circumstances.
In the puddle of shadow, Yuriko's black head inclines back, bidding silent farewell in turn. Dark eyes watch him go. Watch them go, the minion no less than the master, before turning in thoughtful study of that fleeing child. Xavier School. Logan, known as Wolverine. She will remember.
Foolish girlchildren who the gods gave no gift but odd eyes. I took her voice. I don't regret it.
And metal claws that slide from the tips of a woman's fingers. Metal and flesh and bone -- I would love to examine such a body, to witness the binding of organic and inorganic.
In the deep of dark evening, at an even pace along the sidewalk with the steady thump of black boots on cement, Ellen Dramstadt stalks. Black slacks are visible, and a glimpse of jade-green silk in the form of a dress shirt beneath the heavy serge of her charcoal overcoat. Under one arm, the great clear plastic and white bulk of a package of toilet paper, some twelve rolls. Dangling from the crook of her other elbow, more plastic, crinkling white in a grocery bag: visible through its mouth, the edge of a purple package of tampons, shifting amongst its companions (hot dogs and beer -- vital supplies). Street lamps shine over cement and asphalt, flaring bright light over blond hair pulled back in a severe tail as she moves with unerring dignity, eyes straight ahead and head held high and proud as a show-horse's, from night-shaded darkness to county-provided light.
Brooding in her wake is Erik Lensherr - enough of a gentleman to hold the grocery door, but not quite bold enough to offer to relieve Ellen of her load, particularly when it's constitution has the potential to be somewhat embarassing. Helmetless and hatless, recently trimmed silver hair ruffling in the cold air, he's dressed similarly enough that the two probably look a little odd together, even at a distance. The only real differences are in color - the dark grey of his trousers, and the black of his ribbed sweater heavily shadowed beneath the furl of his overcoat. The crown vic is still a fair walk away - parallel parked neatly next to a still-full meter.
Her direction opposite, her stature significantly smaller than either in both height and bearing, Alyssa Carter makes her quiet way down the sidewalk. Head down, glossy hair loose and brown against her overcoat's upturned collar, dark against deeper, blacker dark, her progress is unwary, and, perhaps, unwise. There is a set of keys clutched in one small-balled fist, deep inside the overcoat's pockets, and the toes of her boots are steel.
The weak plastic bag hanging from Ellen's arm, swinging back and forth in crinkling rhythm with her long stride, splits; six-pack of beer, a package of hot dogs, a squeeze-bottle of ketchup, the purple-wrapped tampons, all tumble down the length of her lean leg to the sidewalk. She hisses, biting off part of a curse in German, its concluding syllables cut off as blue-grey eyes flick over her shoulder to the man behind her and suppressed into a silent-fumed breath. Ellen halts. She drops to a crouch, scowling fiercely at the edge of a pool of light.
Erik lifts a hand automatically, palm down and gloved fingers spread like a puppeteer's, and the cans do not impact. The six-pack stops short of the cement by several inches, even as its companions make an inconvenience of themselves. "Plastic." Erik comments evenly upon meeting that flicked look backwards - her curse benevolently ignored. A glance down to the rest of the groceries has him hard-pressed to smother a chortle into a cough. What a combination.
A slim figure emerges from the shadow-pooled alleys between buildings, wrapped in an overcoat only a few shades darker than the street-piled ranks of frost. White wraps around the throat and gleaming black head, casting the pale face into shadow; the exotic, delicate cast of features proves her Asian, cheek still smooth with the dew of youth. A dark-eyed glance marks the dropped groceries and the shoppers paused over it. Hesitation pauses her, then turns her steps towards them, spanning the width of street and sidewalk.
"Oh!" comes the exclamation, soft and young-female. Alyssa's head comes up at the noise and the curse, and she's already on her way -- towards the pair, towards the ground, hands outstretched to help -- before the realization of one particular item's lack of impact hits. "/Oh/!" is repeated again, though this time voice and eyes are both laced with fear. But, the offer is nearly complete -- to Ellen, she directs "Do you--" her voice squeaks, soars! and she clears her throat before continuing, "--need help with that?"
Mildness of her cool alto disguising a flicker of aggravation nevertheless visible on her the angular planes of her face as she stares with pale and narrow-eyed venom at the useless carcass of her plastic bag, Ellen intones, "But two arms, sir." She sets down the broad bulk of the package of toilet paker. And, for the cans suspended in midair, she adds, "Thank you." The pockets of her overcoat are deep and wide enough for one to manage the package of hot dogs. She is sliding the phallic meat product into the swallowing depths of her pocket when Alyssa speaks. The glare redirects, from plastic bag to girl. She stares up, frozen in place like a fair-haired gargoyle with the package stilled partway into her coat. She does not as yet speak.
Brows knit and throat cleared, a very tired Erik Lensherr successfully smothers his very inappropriate amusement and looks up from poor Ellen's regathering to focus pale grey eyes starkly upon Alyssa, in an aged mirror of Dramstadt's reaction beneath and before him. How terribly awkward. And somewhere in the back of his mind, an all too familiar twitch at the web of his physical awareness. Adamantium.
Indeed, and in strength: metal hums through the Asian's graceful carriage, adding weight and power to the deceptively light frame. Voices carry in the still, cold air, drifting far over the background noises of the streets. The woman crossing to offer her own assistance tilts her head to their cadence, scarf slipping its grip to slide across silk-heavy hair; she picks her way around a pair of parked vehicles, stooping wordlessly to pick up ketchup in one grey-gloved hand and offer it to Ellen.
Alyssa stares at Ellen for a moment, just as frozen -- though from the wideness in her eyes and the quiver, oh! the quiver in her hand when she reaches for the purple package, lifts it to assist -- it is for obviously different reasons. She does not offer a smile, even though they are now no longer alone -- merely a scared, skittish glance up to Erik, then away to the woman offering the ketchup beside her.
The hot dogs slide the rest of the way into the deep pocket of the dark serge overcoat, Ellen's eyes not leaving the girl's. Then the pale gaze slides to find the other woman and the offered ketchup. She takes that first, her hand curling tight around its neck; she tucks that into the opposite pocket of her coat. There are now unslightly bulges in the lines of coat on /both/ sides of her long, lean body. She remembers her manners. "Thank you." There is no warmth to the courtesy; there are no more pockets for the tampons. She stares at Alyssa and slowly draws to her feet, lifting her toilet paper with her. She leaves the beer suspended in air for the moment. The fingertips of her free hand are curled inward, shadows of talons, as she slightly tilts her head. Her face is impassive as stone.
His head turned away in mild puzzlement and distraction, it's with a measure of startled surprise that he realizes the metal's source is directly in front of him. It is frozen immediately - and quite literally humming, if it wasn't before, as magnetism's probe surges forcefully in and down from head to toe. Only then does visual perception relay that the flesh surrounding this familiar skeletal set up is decidedly female, among other things. Five clawed, rather than three. Not Wolverine. She's released immediately, with a wary, questioning look from Erik that he has no business making on his glare's way back to Alyssa and Ellen. The six pack is drawn up against his waiting hand, which hasn't moved.
Almond-dark eyes flare at that stilling rush of power, white showing around the deepening bruise of irises; caught for that rare moment like a fly in amber, the woman freezes, grace lost in mid-motion -- balance stolen and supplanted by another mind's control -- only to return again, with interest. A gloved hand opens, splaying wide: metal hisses in an ophidian snarl. Wordless, straightened, Yuriko Oyama regards Erik Lensherr, a hand's count of talons telescoped and waiting by the smooth line of leg.
As the woman before her rises, so does Alyssa -- the package still clutched in her hand, she swallows hard. Her eyes are fixed on Ellen's face, and betray her as, in fear, she blinks without blinking -- clear inner eyelids catch and reflect the light, though her pupils are already near-luminescent in the dark. She holds out the package of tampons.
Ellen strikes. Her long-fingered hand darts forward, tampons bypassed to curl a vice round Alyssa's wrist: skin presses to skin, Ellen dives through the girl's cellular structure, chasing the shadows of what she thinks she's seen -- the cells those inner eyelids, hunted down and examined; cellular control demands another blink, but part of one, stilling the clear sheath over Alyssa's eyes once it has shuttered. "Mutant," she observes. Hand still held there, Ellen's gaze flicks to Yuriko and the fivefold spread of claws -- and catches. She stares, eyes widening.
"My sincerest apologies, Madame. I mistook you for someone else with adamantium grafted to a majority of their skeleton." Erik says evenly and politely - if not without irony - as he angles his chin and his glare back up to her eyes, away from that deadly hiss of metal. Leonine. Direct. Dealing with the most immediate and dangerous problem at hand first. "I trust you are capable of understanding my confusion, given the rather minute odds of there being another so like you in such close residence." His eyes flicker barely aside, following that flash, and then it's back to Yuriko. "/Thank/ you, Ellen."
Close-mouthed, deathly silent, Yuriko simply stands where she is for a long span of heartbeats, breath curling in fragile lace around the wing of black against pale cheek. Behind the unreadable face, attention builds and coils, gripping on the dying echo of Erik's voice. "Another," she says, throaty alto foreign, accented. And then, sharply: "Another. What other?" The talons shiver, slowly retreating; a drop of bright, bright blood trickles to drop silently on ice.
A scream rises, choked off to die, strangled, in her throat as Aly's vision is fractured. The wrist in Ellen's grip shakes, and her pulse races -- even as fingers curl more relentlessly into the plastic packaging. "Yes," is finally managed, unneeded confirmation of her genetic heritage. Fixed on Ellen's face as she is, when the deadly blonde's gaze redirects, so, briefly, does hers. And freezes once again, as she catches Erik's words and the retraction of claws. Another scream threatens, and is silenced before it can escape.
The pallid gaze is venomous as it slides back, contempt twitching Ellen's mouth at the corners. Her grasp on Alyssa's wrist tightens. Not bothering to demand silence with lips and tongue and throat, a few conscious tweaks render the girl's vocal cords inoperable.
"Logan. 'Wolverine'. He has no last name that I am aware of. He visits a local private school with some regularity - Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters." Keeping a brief if careful eye on the strain between Alyssa and Ellen, it's with narrowed eyes that Erik looks back to Yuriko. "His memory was damaged, but I believe he is currently in posession of a safe that contains information on the grafting process, as well as the man responsible for it. It's either at the school, or under the direct ownership of Jean Grey."
Something cracks in that serene, sealed face; something incandescent blazes white and chill behind the eyes. The barest turn of head marks the young girl's scream, negligible acknowledgment of the other identification and manipulation taking place. The Asian's awareness is fixed on the man, unblinking and watchful. "Thank you," she says with quiet courtesy. "I am grateful for the information. Dr. Lensherr." At her side, the readied hand eases, and wan street light reflects off the claws, rippling across the retracting scales.
Alyssa makes a brief, abortive attempt to speak -- what she would say is unknown, but it follows Erik's identification of Logan, and of her school. The absence of sound results in puzzlement, companion to ever-present fear. She focuses back on Ellen, and, shaking, attempts to draw herself upt to her full height. If she is to die, it will be with dignity. Terrified, shattered dignity. Even if she is still holding the tampons.
Cellular control recedes, allowing Alyssa normal use of her eyes and normal reflexive blinking of her inner eyelid. Ellen's tight grip on her wrist does not. The pale-eyed gaze, though, is sharp and wary on Yuriko. Spine straight, line of shoulders taut, she is very still.
"Not at all, Miss..." Deceptively casual is Dr, Lensherr's tone, in direct contrast with the icey predation of his glare after that blaze in her eyes, hungry for an answer. The sorts of people one stumbles across in Westchester. He's very focused at the moment, so that the black opening of Alyssa's wordless reply is seen in his peripheral vision, but not registered as something important enough to follow up on. Perhaps she's choking. Or doing an impression of a fish.
"Oyama, Yuriko," the woman introduces in the Japanese fashion, family name first. WIth a small sigh, the adamantium blades recede fully, leaving only the slices at the ends of gloves and the slightest dampening of blood to mark their passage. Those splayed fingers flex, knitting into a fist; something crackles in the bones, settling themselves into painful order. Dark eyes drift, measuring Ellen's reach and position before returning to Magneto. "May I ask why you share this with me?"
Realization of control comes with a reflexive blink, 'lids lowering and raising over too-dry eyes. It is slightly painful, and Alyssa squints and blinks. There is a moment of consideration, wherein she tries to pull her arm closer to her -- she does not twist or squirm or otherwise try to break the grip, but just exudes a steady pressure toward herself. It is not particularly sucessful, so after a couple of seconds, she stops. And stares, wide-eyed, at the people around her.
Ellen's gaze jerks back to Alyssa, head's turn serpentine swift. Short, clean fingernails bite the tender skin on the underside of a youthful wrist. Slit-eyed, her lips thin into a ghosted smile. Slowly, so slowly, her eyes fastened on the girl's, Ellen shakes her head.
"Suffice to say, my dear, I am not an advocate of experimentation upon mutants. Also," Erik's brows fall, over-emphasizing the gravity of his continued explanation, "it was terribly kind of you to assist us in our grocery-related plight. It's the least I can do, really." His smile small, cynical, and tight, Erik looks directly at her for a few seconds more before turning his head pointedly back to problem number two. Alyssa. "What's your name?"
Yuriko inclines her head, mouth curving slowly in a smile that does not, perhaps, reach the half-lidded eyes -- but no matter: there is cold fire there still, banked for later. The betraying hand tucks into the overcoat pocket, silver-blue white nesting the shredded glove. Her focus tracks with Erik's: to Ellen and Alyssa in turn, curiosity -- speculation -- settling thoughtfully on the former.
There is a wordless, soundless yip as nails dig in to the underside of her wrist, shock flaring briefly into the wide, wide set of Alyssa's eyes. She frowns, gaze dropping to her wrist, then back up to Ellen's face. She shakes her head, an echo of the woman's gesture. Well. So much for that. Erik's voice registers panic again, and she whips her head around to face him, name spit out on soundless lips. 'Alyssa Carter,' they say, though she herself does not.
"Ah." The sound is breathed past Ellen's lips in something like a sigh. They curl back, teeth bared in an unpleasant smile as she eyes Alyssa, which fades to cool solemnity as she cants a look at Erik. "You want her to speak, sir?" Cellular manipulation surges to life again in Alyssa's throat, freeing her larynx from its impromptu flesh prison with a bare flutter of Ellen's eyelids.
Choking. Fish. Mime. Erik's brows twist back down out of a lift and into a knit. Ellen. /Ellen/. "Ellen." This comes before the question, at a mutter that manages to avoid exasperation. "If you would be so kind..."
Oyama's interest sharpens, tracing the line of Ellen's arm down to its contact with Alyssa's wrist and up again, to that mute and unbound mouth. Breath wafts fog in a veil, drifted across her face; the woman stirs into a step, moving out of the pool of light into deeper shadow to watch.
Breath hisses, and Alyssa clears her throat somewhat reflexively before answering, "Alyssa Carter," again. The voice trembles, though she tries not to let it. "Is John well?" Her voice cracks over the name, and her eyes, wide and scared remain fixed on his face.
"Alyssa Carter." Erik repeats blandly, cold eyes flicking over her face as they might a newspaper or a road sign, unfeeling. "Ah yes. /You/." He lifts his chin slightly to Ellen and flexes his grip around the six pack at his side. "Whatever you did, Ellen, do it again."
Disdain stares at Alyssa through cold and pallid eyes. "Yes, sir." Ellen follows orders.
"Now release her," Erik says, still eying Alyssa as he reaches to relieve her of the box of tampons, "and let us be on our way, before she finds paper and a pencil."
Alyssa doesn't even attempt words again, this time. Her gaze moves from Erik's face to Ellen's, then back. Her eyebrows raise in question, then fall. She doesn't even try to maintain her hold on the package of tampons. Unfortunately, Ellen still has her by the wrist.
No objection is forthcoming from the mute spectator nearby; lids have swept black-lashed and secretive over her thoughts, leaving them blank slates for prying eyes. She watches in contemplative silence, her hand freeing itself from its pocket to stretch, still gloved, that calculated architecture of metal-sheathed joint and bone.
Ellen drops Alyssa's hand and steps back half a pace. She turns to Erik and holds out her free hand with an expectant upsweep of fine brows. It is somehow not dignified for the Master of Magnetism to hold the feminine hygiene product box.
The tampon box is shifted over into Ellen's elegant grip, leaving the left hand free, leather-gloved, to smooth and pat with mock-affection at Alyssa's right cheek, before paired fingers curl beneath her chin to press gently upward, forcing eye contact. "He's doing very well indeed. all things considered. Do try and have a good evening, despite everything." And with that, and a glance to Ellen, Erik turns to furl in the direction of the black crown victoria, head angled only slightly after Yuriko's position in stride.
Alyssa blinks once, as the contact is forced -- then tips her head down in acknowledgement of his words once she is again free to do so. Arms curl around herself, feeble protection after everything that's transpired. And slowly, then more hastily once ground has been gained, she takes off in the direction of her school. By the end of the block, she's flat-out running.
Having thoroughly dismissed Alyssa, Ellen's glance slides to find Yuriko. It settles there for a still and silent moment. Her head rises slightly, her expression graven impassivity. Then she turns, toilet paper grasped under one arm and the other long-fingered hand curling tightly around the tampons, and strides after Erik with as much dignity as can be mustered. Under the circumstances.
In the puddle of shadow, Yuriko's black head inclines back, bidding silent farewell in turn. Dark eyes watch him go. Watch them go, the minion no less than the master, before turning in thoughtful study of that fleeing child. Xavier School. Logan, known as Wolverine. She will remember.