(no subject)
There is a clanging sound when an internal lock turns deep within the barrier of the office door, and in steps Erik, newspaper in hand. He moves for the couch. And...the minifridge.
Ellen is perched on the dark sofa of the room with her legs pulled up beneath her in a spilled-over kneel, her hair swept up inside the turban of a fluffy black towel (she bathes a lot these days), and her clothing a mildly formal sweep of dark grey and black. She is poring intently over a sheaf of printouts stapled at one corner that some thoughtful soul has provided for her, fresh from the printer enough that the tips of her fingers have been smudged black with ink. She looks up at a slight delay when he comes in. She ventures, "Hello."
"Evening," says Erik, who reaches immediately to tug his tie loose while the door closes and locks itself heavily behind him. The silken snake of it is draped lazily over the first couch arm in passing, and he lowers himself down into the crook of the one opposite Ellen two steps later. Close enough to the fridge that he can lean back to access it, with all manner of clanking coming from inside whilst he shuffles among bottles.
Ellen watches him quietly for a moment, her hands resting lightly on the stapled sheaf of papers in her lap over her dark trousers. After a moment she seems to recall that there is another customary conversational step. "How are you?"
Vodka is extracted and examined -- the cap untwisted then, so that he can sniff at the contents before he withdraws an ice-fogged shot glass to go with it. "Not inebriated enough," is the reply that follows shortly. Flatly. He pours.
"Oh." Ellen sits back a little upon her perch, and then shifts, bending to set the papers down more or less neatly on the floor beside the sofa. She pushes herself more or less upright again afterwards and folds her ink-blotted hands primly in her lap.
Magneto glances to her once the papers are down, and the narrow glass is nearly full. "Would you like a drink?" is inquired politely, as is natural, and he downs the first shot with a hard blink and a bit of a shudder.
Ellen looks at his glass, and then tips her glance toward him, a faint, thoughtful knit to her brow. She nods once. "Yes, thank you," she says, with a slow blink of her own as she appends, "It has -- been some time."
Perhaps not expecting her to say yes, Erik hesitates in the process of pouring round number two. His brows lift a hair, just so, and he tips the bottle back to top it off before offering it to Ellen so that he can lean back and retrieve another glass for himself.
"Thank you," Ellen says again. Her polite refusals have grown to be a predictable habit, such that now that she holds the glass in her hands, she considers it with a contemplative, almost baffled air. Hmm. How does one drink. One is familiar with the principle Drawing the thumb of one of her hands up and down the chill glass of its side, she lifts it. After a breath's hesitation, perhaps steeling herself, she takes a bold swallow of the vodka. The burn of the alcohol sears down her throat and shivers down her spine as she shudders, and she licks her lips before pressing a palm to one eye, the glass held tightly in the curve of her other hand.
"We're going to blow things up tomorrow," Erik tells her once he's finished carefully pouring for himself again. "So there should be a few interesting stories to read in the papers over the weekend, at the very least." He lifts his glass to her a little -- Cheers! -- and throws it back with far less trouble than he did the first.
"Oh, good," Ellen says, with a flicker of her glance towards the pile of paper she has put on the floor. She finishes off the rest of her drink, still unused to the force and fire of it from the physical twitch she performs after swallowing. Her breath comes in a hoarse rush past her teeth, which she interrupts with a roughened word or two. "--Will my hand be needed?"
"Perhaps," says Erik, a little too tired and out of it to be particularly convincing in that lie. He pours a third for himself, then tips the bottle back towards Ellen in silent offer.
"All right." Ellen tips her head one way, and then the other, blinking once and then again. She holds out her glass steadily for more booze. (This is a great idea.) "I am glad that you will see some action, sir."
Isn't it? All too happy to pour, Erik fills her up to the brim again, hefts the bottle back, and swallows down another bolt of the stuff. He clears his throat after it and clenches his jaw, but restrains himself from another shiver. The warmth of it is already spreading rapidly from the region of his chest by the time he begins to consider a fourth. "So am I."
Ellen drinks this one quicker, gulping it down with a squirmy shudder that goes far to fracturing her much-prized dignity. Ah well. She considers the empty glass, and then as decisively sets it down. Scrubbing both her hands over her face, she starts to pull them back over her hair only to discover she still has a towel on her head. She pulls her hands over and through it, dragging the towel with them to drop on the arm of the sofa. It slithers off and hits the floor. She frowns down at it.
Magneto draws in a long breath, and then another, long fingers flexing and resettling around his glass. He calculates, and watches the towel, as well as Ellen's look after it. Then he goes ahead and pours again, however slowly. One more. "How are you feeling?"
"What?" Ellen blinks up at him, a little fuzzily, and then ruffles her fingers through mostly-dry hair. It is towel-residually fluffy. "Oh. I am all right. I have been doing some reading in modern genetics. Some of it is a little beyond my training. Or my memory of my training," she corrects herself with a deepening frown.
"Genetic science is not one of my stronger points." No shit, from the man who once attempted to turn a fair portion of New York into water blob melty jellyfish people. He manages to tip off the glass without spilling, swallows, and closes his eyes for a long moment before reaching his left arm out to feel out the coffee table with the butt of his bottle.
"My biologic expertise is on a less minute level, if I am generally familiar with the basics." Ellen lifts a hand and draws two fingertips down the back of it. Dark freckles spatter over her skin in the passage of her fingers, and then fade again as she drops both hands to her lap and looks up at him. "Does the drink help?"
Sloooow. Erik's breathing is slow. The empty shot glass turned loosely over in his fingers, he seems to focus on keeping the rise and fall of his chest regular for a good three or four breaths before he frowns and reaches up to hook under the buttons at his collar. "Yes."
Apparently Ellen accepts this without judgment, for she nods once and says, "All right." She blinks once or twice, against the slightly spinny fuzz resultant from a metabolism really unused to alcohol. Her fingers lace loosely together in her lap, hands turned up.
"...Not with the genetics, really," Erik feels compelled to tack on after an awkward moment, and he slumps slowly back into the crook of his leather couch, eyes finally easing back open again.
"Oh. No, it wouldn't." Ellen nods seriously, and then shifts, pressing knuckles to her forehead with a faint frown. "Hmm. Peculiar sensation," she observes after a considered pause. "I am certain that I used to be able to drink more."
"Really?" Only half-interested, Erik studies the flop of the times on the table next to the vodka, then turns his gaze down to track the turn of cold glass within his grip.
"... Maybe," Ellen says firmly. She unfolds her legs from beneath her, so that bare heels hit the floor with a slight thunk as she leans back into her corner of the couch. "As I have said it has been some time. I learned a long time ago not to watch my internal systems too closely while inebriated." The two thoughts are only tangentially related.
"I suppose that would present a barrier to your ability to enjoy the experience." Erik's voice drops an octave, and he lifts a hand to rub it numbly over his face. "Do you need anything?"
"I am all right." Ellen pushes herself to her feet, and stands there a little unsteadily for a moment. Once she is reasonably certain of her balance, she starts to move back in the general direction of the bathroom. "I am going to wash my face." This is vitally important, from the firm gravity she accords the statement.
Jaw hollowed against a look that still manages to betray mild disappointment, Erik nods once she's on her feet and leans over to retrieve his paper. The text swims well before he's managed to really focus upon it, but he can pretend.
Ellen and vodka shots are not necessarily the best combination in the world.
Job accomplished. The QuikID production facility lies, if not in ruins, then very definitely in a very poor state of repair. The actual assembly line has taken the worst of the damage, with metal ripped from metal and fires burning brightly across what remains, but the warehouses are not in much better shape. One could certainly call this a set back in production. There are few enough casualties, due to the hour of the attack, and many of those are minor. Word arrives from the other half of the little expedition: prototype acquired.
Sirens wail, vehicles flinging themselves down streets toward the chaos: police, fire, ambulance. Each adds a different note to the cacophony of sound that recedes into the distance beyond the SUV's sleek exterior. Smoothly transitioning onto the highway, it is an unremarkable vehicle, heavy and dark, with an unremarkable driver. It moves quietly through the night, headed back toward New York City. The windows are tinted, and the interior is quite comfortable. Of course, physical comfort is one thing; enduring a long ride with Magneto introduces discomforts of other sorts. At least there are snacks!
Northstar sits opposite Magneto. His face is flushed and his entire body still tense with the excitement of the whole affair. He has unzipped the motorcycle racing jacket he loves so much, perhaps in an effort to cool down a little and even through the t-shirt under it, it is obvious that he is breathing rather deeply and quickly. Not hyperventilating, but more like a person trying to slow down his metabolism after a very long run. Even with all the evidence to the contrary, he's trying to maintain a casual demeanor, sprawled out slightly and having his hands folded across his stomach. He doesn't speak, perhaps afraid to put a wrong foot forward now that he's seen what Magneto can really do when he gets started.
Among the available snacks are a bag of salted pretzels. This is a matter of relevance only because Valkyrie has been examining one held between the tip of her middle finger and her thumb with the appearance of fascination. She sits quietly in her seat, her lean body held quite erect and her ankles drawn close together. Her boots are flat soled. It would not be seemly for them to elevate her height above Erik's. She wears basic black and her long, fair hair is drawn back in a severe tail from her cleanly angled features: the result is a slightly eerie paleness to her skin, no doubt impacted by how much of the last year she spent in solitary and isolated from natural sunlight. Her death toll, at least, has not been significantly impacted by this evening. As to why the pretzel is an object of her interest, this is not immediately clear.
Very comfortable. Fashioned after the back end of a limousine, the seating is such that half faces forward and half back, with blue-tinted lighting allowing for fair visibility despite the hour. Erik is seated on one side of the forward-facing back seat, ice clanking about the glass he has in hand while he tries to hold it steady and reach for the bottle of whiskey in the console to his right at the same time. His brows are knit -- he is attempting to concentrate. It is a long drive and there is a limited amount of ice.
Aside from the fact that he smells strongly of smoke and occasional wafts of acrid, superheated metal, it is hard to tell what kind of condition he's in, exactly. Like Ellen, he is pale, but the dark ribbing of his fitted sweater and trousers hint at no underyling stiffness or soreness. The spot of liquid black that appears at the base of his nose as he pours is, perhaps, a little more telling.
Trying not to be too obvious about it, Jean-Paul studies the woman in the car with them. Other than Magneto, she's the only other person involved with what he is thinking of as 'the Brotherhood' and his expression reveals intense curiosity. As Magneto makes his drink, Jean-Paul's attention is drawn back to him and his brows lift. He clears his throat softly and says, in a quiet tone, "I guess we did the job?" The lilt at the end makes it a question, more than a statement.
Ellen is among the few of those that Jean-Paul has encountered since this whole affair began who could rightly claim involvement with the Brotherhood: her face and name carry overtones of familiarity, or of infamy, to those who might be acquainted with such information, as the Brotherhood's healer, convicted murderess, and probable complete insane person, recently broken out of federal prison (again).
She still does not eat the pretzel. Instead she lowers it, holding it loosely in her fingertips, as she cants a sidelong glance over the boy at the sound of the question. Her gaze is pale and bland, her expression cool and difficult to read. As her attention passes on, returning to Magneto with the inevitability of minionry, she tips her head. Then she turns out her free hand towards Erik from her perch, her fine brows uplifted slightly in earnest question.
"Yes. We did." Pouring complete, Erik sets the small bottle back into its cubby, and forces a half-smile for Northstar's benefit. The act is enough to coax that initial droplet down to his lip, so that when he lifts a hand to brush distractedly at the thin line of his mouth, his fingertips come away dark. He frowns, and glances to Ellen, but makes no obvious gesture in her direction, opting to sip his whiskey instead. "How do you feel?"
Northstar starts to return that half-smile and then, unable to miss the blood, he sits up a little. His expression is worried and cautious and the look that he gives Erik is not unlike a man regarding a wounded lion, a combination of wariness and concern. He glances at Ellen and then back at Magneto. "With all due respect, sir, I think we might want to ask you that." His voice is very careful as he says it and there isn't a hint of a smile or smirk on his face.
Ellen frowns at Erik, but tenders no argument; she withdraws her hand and drops it to her lap, slim fingers curving down to hook over one of her knees. Her brow knits as she turns the expression on Northstar, with a faint narrowing of her pale eyes. "You need not concern yourself," she says. Her voice is low, an alto wielded with extreme precision of pronunciation; the practiced care with which she speaks eliminates any trace of accent, leaving behind cool formality and little else.
The pale, chilly wash of Erik's eyes registers Jean-Paul's worry, and irritation twitches into the knit of his brows before the younger man has even spoken. "It's fine," he says, and works to ease his temper back from the edge it's been on all night while he stays another sip to wipe the rest of the blood away with the back of his hand. A sniff seems to stave the flow a little, anyway, and he glances to Ellen when she speaks, alert enough despite whatever is going on in his skull. "Perfectly normal."
Northstar gives Ellen a dubious look but nods. When Magneto speaks he meets the older man's gaze for a moment and then looks away, out the tinted windows. After a moment, he grins and says, "I guess, in answer to the question, I feel good. Like I've done something useful for once." He looks back and says, "And after a few days of not being able to move that much, just raising pure hell is, well, pure heaven." He's obviously trying for grave and dignified, like the other two, but just as obviously failing. "As inappropriate as it is to say, I /really/ enjoyed that."
Ellen's smile flickers over her expression, sharp and quick. "It is not inappropriate to derive joy from taking action," she says, her voice sliding a touch lighter in tone. Her gaze lingers on Northstar's face, her expression cooling quickly: any warmth is so ephemeral as to nearly seem imagined. No comment on heaven or hell. If she has private insight into either matter, it sure stays private. She lifts her chin slightly as she turns her glance back to Magneto, composed again but alert for signs of worsening symptoms that might require more than vigilance on her part.
"Hardly inappropriate," Erik echoes Ellen, voice rough after a longer swallow of his booze that leads into the glass being set aside. Damp fingers flicked briskly clear, he draws in a deep breath and sits up a little straighter himself, now-free left hand stretched idly for Ellen's portion of the compartment. "And hardly limited to your being physically restrained over the last few days. All mutants have a capacity to mold the world that they must suppress if they are to remain acceptable to society."
Northstar grins at Ellen. When Magneto speaks, he tilts his head and says, quietly, "As long as we don't have our society." He shrugs and says, "And in this case, maybe we held back some serious trouble, for a while anyway. They probably have offsite backups of their data, though. Or at least most companies do, these days. I couldn't find out. Google is awesome but not that awesome."
"What was once created will be remade. Once an idea exists, it will not be so simply snuffed out." Ellen angles her head slightly to one side, turning her frown past Magneto to his shaded window. The pretzel is wholly abandoned and forgotten, which is probably just as well. "But they have meddled with what they should never have touched. They earned tonight." She lays her right hand lightly over Erik's left as it approaches. What a simple and apparently affectionate gesture! Her pale eyes phase out of focus, her glance aimed blankly windowards as her consciousness expands, racing alertly through his cellular structure for signs of what may need repair.
"Mmm. Tonight was more of a warning than it was an earnest attempt to end production entirely. Given the amount of time they have had already, that would likely be impossible. Offsite backups, as you say." As Erik speaks, his knuckles bleach white with tension, and he squeezes Ellen's hand too hard for affection to be playing much of a role in his side of things. His heart is hammering, and electricity sizzles through his tired brain in isolated, warning snaps. For the moment. Meanwhile, his brows lift, his nose bleeds a bit more, and he reaches back for his drink. "The idea is to send a message. One that says that we will not take this latest development lying down."
Northstar smiles faintly and then looks away as Ellen and Erik share what he interprets as a romantic gesture. Studying his own reflection in the tilted glass, he says, "Yes, ma'am. They did." His eyes flicker to Erik's reflection, blurred and dim, in the glass and his smile broadens at the 'we'. He nods and says, "Well, I'm pretty sure that they got the message. And if not...." He shrugs and continues, "...We'll say it louder next time."
Frown deepening and eyes remaining unfocused, Ellen has apparently completely checked out of the conversation going on around her: her focus is much more on what is going on on a much more minute level. Correcting the nosebleed is a relatively simple matter, and she handles it swiftly. Her head tips down slightly and she closes her eyes, putting all of her resources into an attempt to more closely monitor what is going on in Erik's brain. Her body has gone very stiff in her seat, her spine ramrod straight, although her hand in his does not tighten; she holds herself altogether still.
Pain isn't a tangible thing so much as it is indicated by various other inappropriate things that Erik's brain is trying to get up to while he attempts to focus on the conversation. "No," he says first, and then, "I mean -- yes." His eyes narrow into a distracted sideways glance out the window he's reflected in, and he sips his whiskey. "If they wish to be ruled by their fear, than I will give them something to be afraid of."
Northstar nods and looks back at Erik. He relaxes somewhat, stretching and crossing his legs in front of him and resting his hands behind his head with the fingers interlaced. He glances towards Ellen and his eyebrows quirk. He looks back to Erik and asks, "Am I going to have a place in what you're doing?" He pauses and says, "If this was a one-off thing, then I am grateful for the chance to assist. But as I told your ...associate... I /do/ want to learn from the people who are doing the best work on our behalf." Again, he's trying for casual, but his brows are lowered and his expression nervous, as though he's worried about pushing his luck.
Ellen continues to hold herself extraordinarily still. The only motion is the slight flutter of her eyelids and the slow, forcibly even rhythm of her breathing. The balance of the brain is an intimidating place for a biologist to work: as ever, not a neurologist, and not capable of simply staring down unusual levels of electrical activity, she searches her memory for long-disused palliative measures, the fine fingers of her control nudging gently at this neuron or that one to ease the pressure and force them to behave themselves.
"I don't know." Coarse honesty gravels in Erik's voice, and he lifts his glass to press it to his temple, which is a lot of help to Ellen, really, in that it makes the side of his head a little cold. "We've known each other for a week, through the course of which you have demonstrated a persistent tendency to act and speak immediately on whatever thought happens to pop into your head. How long had you planned to do this before you began gathering ammunition? A day? Five days? Driver." The last is directed to the front, with his voice lifted to carry through the screen that separates the compartments. "Pull over. But -- anyway. Over time, I suspect you may prove yourself a valuable ally, but in the short term, I think it wise to allow you time to consider the lengths you are willing to go to."
Northstar blushes at Magneto's assessment of his personality. After a moment, though, he nods. "That's fair enough. Well, you know where I am if I can be use. And I did three days worth of research and casing of the Manhattan office before I, um, /met/ your people. Seemed long enough. But I'm not an expert." He looks curious about the limo pulling over but he doesn't assume anything just yet. "If nothing else, tonight was instructional." He can't help but grin at that.
Ellen continues not to display any outward sign whatsoever of what she is doing or thinking: she sits very still with her eyes closed. The cellular manipulator at work is, really, rather dull to watch if one has no access to her brain or to the cellular structure on which she operated. As the vehicle starts to slow preparatory to stopping, she cracks an eye, and then both, turning her outward attention towards Erik as well as her inward, but she does not say anything.
Magneto shakes his head slightly at Ellen, an indication of something unfavorable set into his jaw when he lifts his hand out of her grasp, and attempts to focus the full of his attention upon Northstar. "We will be close, and we will be watching. If we come upon something that you seem well-suited to you, you may be contacted." There is a pause there, followed by a slow blink, and Erik reaches to set his glass down once more. "You did very well tonight. For the moment, however, if you could kindly move around to the front, Ellen and I are going to consummate our victory."
Northstar's jaw drops and then he laughs. "Ummm. We aren't that far from the city, sir. I think I'll fly home. And thank you." He nods to Ellen as he makes his way to the door. "Ma'am. A pleasure." He conspicuously does /not/ bid them to enjoy their evening. There is no way he could do so without sounding like a smart-ass, apparently. With that, he steps out onto the verge, zips up his jacket and steps back from the limo, closing the door.
Ellen does not really respond to Northstar's good wishes, probably because she is preoccupied with looking extremely blank, as though some internal train of thought jumped its tracks and crashed to a fiery death. Whatever follows, however, follows without the young man to witness it. Presumably no one will die as a result.
Magneto nods to Northstar's exit, careful not to look at Ellen until the door is closed and the locking mechanism has snapped back down again. "Charming young man," he says, then reaches to take off his watch so that he can hand it over to her. "Try not to panic. It shouldn't last long." And so on. What a special end to a special evening!
Aftermath of explodey stuff!