(no subject)
I am bone weary.
But the children are safe.
"I'll rip, you fix?" (Padraig, Erik, Jason, Raven)
Like most of the cleared rooms on the lower level, the television room is 20x30, with white walls, concrete floors, and very little decoration. A decent-sized TV rests on a wooden crate in one corner, with a make-shift antenna positioned precariously on its crown. Only a few local channels are available, and fuzzily at that, though the X-box someone thoughtfully remembered to bring along may be of some assistance in pissing extra time away. A worn brown couch is positioned before this set-up, looking very much as if it was dragged from someone's curbside in Albany. On the opposite wall, a pair of steel desks with matching chairs are equipped with sleek computers, neither of which currently has internet access.
Erik is not dead. This much is readily obvious. No, he is slouched back into the brown of the sort of couch one such as Magneto would not deign to sit upon if he were any less worn out, shoulders low against the back, with knees far apart and a half-empty glass of whiskey gripped loosely upon the platform right. Dark red dress shirt, black slacks, no arrows - his hair is still damp enough to suggest that he's showered within the last hour or so. The TV is on, and he is watching it as best as he can despite the static fuzz that embodies sound and picture.
Ellen enters the room, nursing from a thermos full of black coffee as she goes. She is clean and changed, the bloody tatters of her clothes replaced by an elegance of green and grey. She meanders quietly over to the couch without particular intent, gaze skipping half-interested at the television's screen.
Erik doesn't look up immediately, distracted or disinterested until there is a commercial, and he shifts enough to tilt his head up to assess his current company. "Just the news," he says eventually, voice quiet.
Ellen does not at first speak, sipping at the contents of her thermos with an air of vague fascination for the commercials. Then she slants her glance down to him and nods. She circles round the back of the couch to perch in the other corner of it, posture less than perfect with one leg curling beneath her and the other foot planted firm on the floor. Then she asks, "Do they know much?"
His own posture too lazily confident and worn to warrant him holding any negative opinion about Ellen's, Erik tilts the glass on his knee vaguely at the television, prompting the ice within to shift audibly. "They know we were there, and they have begun a rough body count. There are rumors surrounding the X-Men, but nothing concrete."
Ellen lifts her left hand from her thermos, holding up two fingers. "I killed two. They will probably guess that it was me." She sips and muses, "I should really be subtler."
Erik chuckles softly, his humor genuine (if dark) as he lifts his glass to sip from it and sighs. "Having a calling card is what keeps this sort of thing entertaining. I decapitated a man with razor wire."
"I keep going back to various types of suffocation," Ellen admits, as though an apology for her lack of imagination. "It is relatively quick and easy." She taps the head of her thermos lightly once against her chin, frowning at the television.
"Well, more often than not, in large melees a majority of my body count is a direct result of individuals being crushed beneath cars, and the like. A bit brutish and messy for my tastes, but effective." Casual goes the conversation, and Erik slides his considering gaze quietly back onto the fuzzed out news. He takes one more sip of whiskey, and sets the glass back against his knee. "I shall have to experiment more with razor wire in the future."
"A little more elegant," Ellen agrees. "More /specific/. The difference between bludgeon and scalpel." She rolls her thermos thoughtfully between her palms.
"Precisely." Erik echoes with brows at an agreeable tilt, rather as if he couldn't have said it better himself. "Additionally, my control over how quickly they die is infinitely more precise. Which is, I suppose, only a factor to be considered in less volatile situations."
Ellen takes a long swallow of warm liquid and then crooks the thermos between her thigh and the edge of the couch, tilting her head slightly as she looks at him. "In the heat of the moment. That is why I suffocate or regress organs so often." She flicks fingers with vague annoyance. "/Habit/. Perhaps I shall experiment with highly accelerated tumors next time."
"Perhaps," agrees Erik, cool glare edging back to meet hers once he feels it on him. The media is repeating itself, now, and he seems to have lost his initial interest in the reporter's erroneous rambling. "If the names of surviving Friends are released, you might pay one or two of them a hospital visit with Jason." He smiles very slightly. "If you are interested."
Ellen's smile answers his, slow and curving somewhat broader, with an awakening gleam in her pale eyes that bears a suspicious resemblance to wicked delight. "That," she says, "would be immensely satisfying, sir."
Stark curiousity answers in Erik's upon recognition of a look he cannot immediately recal having seen in her before. Mental notes are taken, and the older mutant looks a little smug over the rim of his whiskey glass. "Mr. Wyngarde may be less than enthusiastic about the idea."
The disappointing prospect of a recalcitrant Mastermind gives Ellen pause for but a moment, her head canting in consideration. "He can be somewhat difficult to persuade," she allows.
"Oh, I don't know about that. He can be a reasonable young man, when he wants to be. I'm sure there's something or another he could have you do to compensate." Again, there's that smile, and Erik takes another sip. "Buy him alcohol, perhaps."
"Perhaps," Ellen says dubiously, a faint frown appearing that it may linger.
"I'm only teasing, Ellen. I will order him along if he declines to cooperate." With roughly a third of his whiskey left, Erik offers the glass lazily in her direction. "I am inclined to make an example of as many of them as I can."
"I am sometimes not very good at being teased, sir," Ellen says, note of apology blending with wry humor. She is quiet for a moment, her hands fallen to her knee. Then she says, "They are a blight on the earth."
"Veronica was really the only one who ever tolerated it with any measure of grace." Erik admits in turn, his ring finger flicking wearily over his thumb after he's taken a moment to carefully inspect the palm of his free left hand. The television turns off. "That said, you are less inclined than some to hit me for it."
"It is more that I am foolish about detecting it," Ellen says, frowning in mild reproach. "You know I would not strike you."
"Yes," says Erik, his smile tired as he shifts uncomfortably upright, "I know." From there, all that remains is to drain his glass and push up onto tired feet. "But between us, there are occasionally times at which I deserve it."
Ellen's expression shifts from frown to tiny flitted smile. "Perhaps," she says mildly. "But not from me."
"Mmm. Well. If you would be so kind as to excuse me, I am going to drug myself into oblivion." Magneto mutters, mirroring her smile only briefly before he turns to pace slowly for the door. "I highly recommend that you allow yourself a few hours of rest as well."
"I will, sir." Ellen follows him with her eyes for a moment before unfolding from the couch as well, retrieving her thermos as an afterthought. "Good night."
"Good night, Ellen." And around the corner he goes, as usual, without glancing back, a pair of fingers hooked into his glass after the ice that remains within.
But the children are safe.
"I'll rip, you fix?" (Padraig, Erik, Jason, Raven)
Like most of the cleared rooms on the lower level, the television room is 20x30, with white walls, concrete floors, and very little decoration. A decent-sized TV rests on a wooden crate in one corner, with a make-shift antenna positioned precariously on its crown. Only a few local channels are available, and fuzzily at that, though the X-box someone thoughtfully remembered to bring along may be of some assistance in pissing extra time away. A worn brown couch is positioned before this set-up, looking very much as if it was dragged from someone's curbside in Albany. On the opposite wall, a pair of steel desks with matching chairs are equipped with sleek computers, neither of which currently has internet access.
Erik is not dead. This much is readily obvious. No, he is slouched back into the brown of the sort of couch one such as Magneto would not deign to sit upon if he were any less worn out, shoulders low against the back, with knees far apart and a half-empty glass of whiskey gripped loosely upon the platform right. Dark red dress shirt, black slacks, no arrows - his hair is still damp enough to suggest that he's showered within the last hour or so. The TV is on, and he is watching it as best as he can despite the static fuzz that embodies sound and picture.
Ellen enters the room, nursing from a thermos full of black coffee as she goes. She is clean and changed, the bloody tatters of her clothes replaced by an elegance of green and grey. She meanders quietly over to the couch without particular intent, gaze skipping half-interested at the television's screen.
Erik doesn't look up immediately, distracted or disinterested until there is a commercial, and he shifts enough to tilt his head up to assess his current company. "Just the news," he says eventually, voice quiet.
Ellen does not at first speak, sipping at the contents of her thermos with an air of vague fascination for the commercials. Then she slants her glance down to him and nods. She circles round the back of the couch to perch in the other corner of it, posture less than perfect with one leg curling beneath her and the other foot planted firm on the floor. Then she asks, "Do they know much?"
His own posture too lazily confident and worn to warrant him holding any negative opinion about Ellen's, Erik tilts the glass on his knee vaguely at the television, prompting the ice within to shift audibly. "They know we were there, and they have begun a rough body count. There are rumors surrounding the X-Men, but nothing concrete."
Ellen lifts her left hand from her thermos, holding up two fingers. "I killed two. They will probably guess that it was me." She sips and muses, "I should really be subtler."
Erik chuckles softly, his humor genuine (if dark) as he lifts his glass to sip from it and sighs. "Having a calling card is what keeps this sort of thing entertaining. I decapitated a man with razor wire."
"I keep going back to various types of suffocation," Ellen admits, as though an apology for her lack of imagination. "It is relatively quick and easy." She taps the head of her thermos lightly once against her chin, frowning at the television.
"Well, more often than not, in large melees a majority of my body count is a direct result of individuals being crushed beneath cars, and the like. A bit brutish and messy for my tastes, but effective." Casual goes the conversation, and Erik slides his considering gaze quietly back onto the fuzzed out news. He takes one more sip of whiskey, and sets the glass back against his knee. "I shall have to experiment more with razor wire in the future."
"A little more elegant," Ellen agrees. "More /specific/. The difference between bludgeon and scalpel." She rolls her thermos thoughtfully between her palms.
"Precisely." Erik echoes with brows at an agreeable tilt, rather as if he couldn't have said it better himself. "Additionally, my control over how quickly they die is infinitely more precise. Which is, I suppose, only a factor to be considered in less volatile situations."
Ellen takes a long swallow of warm liquid and then crooks the thermos between her thigh and the edge of the couch, tilting her head slightly as she looks at him. "In the heat of the moment. That is why I suffocate or regress organs so often." She flicks fingers with vague annoyance. "/Habit/. Perhaps I shall experiment with highly accelerated tumors next time."
"Perhaps," agrees Erik, cool glare edging back to meet hers once he feels it on him. The media is repeating itself, now, and he seems to have lost his initial interest in the reporter's erroneous rambling. "If the names of surviving Friends are released, you might pay one or two of them a hospital visit with Jason." He smiles very slightly. "If you are interested."
Ellen's smile answers his, slow and curving somewhat broader, with an awakening gleam in her pale eyes that bears a suspicious resemblance to wicked delight. "That," she says, "would be immensely satisfying, sir."
Stark curiousity answers in Erik's upon recognition of a look he cannot immediately recal having seen in her before. Mental notes are taken, and the older mutant looks a little smug over the rim of his whiskey glass. "Mr. Wyngarde may be less than enthusiastic about the idea."
The disappointing prospect of a recalcitrant Mastermind gives Ellen pause for but a moment, her head canting in consideration. "He can be somewhat difficult to persuade," she allows.
"Oh, I don't know about that. He can be a reasonable young man, when he wants to be. I'm sure there's something or another he could have you do to compensate." Again, there's that smile, and Erik takes another sip. "Buy him alcohol, perhaps."
"Perhaps," Ellen says dubiously, a faint frown appearing that it may linger.
"I'm only teasing, Ellen. I will order him along if he declines to cooperate." With roughly a third of his whiskey left, Erik offers the glass lazily in her direction. "I am inclined to make an example of as many of them as I can."
"I am sometimes not very good at being teased, sir," Ellen says, note of apology blending with wry humor. She is quiet for a moment, her hands fallen to her knee. Then she says, "They are a blight on the earth."
"Veronica was really the only one who ever tolerated it with any measure of grace." Erik admits in turn, his ring finger flicking wearily over his thumb after he's taken a moment to carefully inspect the palm of his free left hand. The television turns off. "That said, you are less inclined than some to hit me for it."
"It is more that I am foolish about detecting it," Ellen says, frowning in mild reproach. "You know I would not strike you."
"Yes," says Erik, his smile tired as he shifts uncomfortably upright, "I know." From there, all that remains is to drain his glass and push up onto tired feet. "But between us, there are occasionally times at which I deserve it."
Ellen's expression shifts from frown to tiny flitted smile. "Perhaps," she says mildly. "But not from me."
"Mmm. Well. If you would be so kind as to excuse me, I am going to drug myself into oblivion." Magneto mutters, mirroring her smile only briefly before he turns to pace slowly for the door. "I highly recommend that you allow yourself a few hours of rest as well."
"I will, sir." Ellen follows him with her eyes for a moment before unfolding from the couch as well, retrieving her thermos as an afterthought. "Good night."
"Good night, Ellen." And around the corner he goes, as usual, without glancing back, a pair of fingers hooked into his glass after the ice that remains within.