6/1/08 - Kurt
---
=NYC= Soho - Manhattan
SoHo no longer houses artists, but it leaves plenty of room for them on the sidewalks. Paintings are set up right on the concrete and some sales may well have to take place in the gutter, because of the crowds. The lofts are now inhabited by the up-and-coming business generation, and much of the north is given over to clothes and clothes shopping, but the south, a little more worn and a little less maintained, has more open sidewalks and streets. And both areas retain some of the old shops and old architecture, and that aft-of-the-ordinary appeal. After all, a loft is a thousand times hipper than an apartment.
Dark, twisted thoughts smolder like rotting trash in the heat of the summer. The heavy lick of German floats around in Nightcrawler's mind, prickling flashbacks and memories that are shadowed in a smoky cloud. The thinker of such thoughts is huddled into a thin strip of alleyway behind St. James, his back pressed up against the gate that leads into the back of the Cathedral. He's crouched, both three-fingered hands clutched to his breast. His head nods, sleep coming in sudden sweeps that are only shaken as his head dips suddenly.
The service is over; the worshippers departing, the last, sonorous echoes of the priest's voice hollowed and hallowed through the echoes of the great stone cathedral. It is not custom for those who have attended to leave through the side exit, but there are exceptions for every rule: thus the long, black sedan that turns into the alley, the tires crunching quietly over gravel and abandoned cigarettes. The chauffeur that exits is tall and blond, his face unreadable in the habit of the quiet. His employer -- for so he must be -- emerges a few moments later out of the cathedral.
He is old, wheelchair-bound, but there is vigor in his voice and in his face as he bids farewell to the official who escorts him out. Expensive suit, expensive tie, expensive shoes; his baritone, modulated into Oxford's cultured accents, carries in the echoes of the alleyway. "--a pleasure. Thank you. Do give my apologies to Father Andrew."
From the dirty concrete of the alley, a twitching tail-tip is reeled back to it's owner. It slithers up, seeming to want to wake the blue man. It turns and swipes, lashing lightly at the side of a torn pant leg. Kurt's nose flares and quivers, a hand waving sluggishly as it leaves it's tight hold on the front of his jacket. Slowly, calmly, yellow eyes open to the world. He bends, mouth opening for a yawn that rumbles in the back of his throat. Danger leaps in the mind of the man, attempting to sort out his own position.
The cathedral official, still in the robes of his office, makes some polite reply as he retreats back into the church. Xavier makes some equally courteous reply -- but his mind, piqued by the spark of danger and alien thought, leaps towards a skimming investigation of the source. The chauffeur pauses, his hand on the passenger side door; his own head stills, the blue-eyed gaze under the cap's brim skipping up in an alerted exploration of the alley.
Of the two, it is Xavier who speaks first. "Who's there?"
Kurt keeps his back pressed against the back door of the church, his head rolling to push against it and his ears flattening out against the smooth wood. With a rattling breath Kurt snarls, allowing his tail flick into the alley view with warning.
Both sets of gazes find Kurt at the same moment, orienting swiftly. The chauffeur's face changes; wariness draws its hand across his expression. Xavier's face, more disciplined, does not alter beyond the barest flicker in the deep-set eyes. "I see," he says. The long, elegant hands close around the arms of the wheelchair, one thumb sliding across a control. "Not the common habitant of the local alleyway. Good day to you, sir."
Now seen, the creature leans forward, landing on his hands and slinking out into the alley on all fours. Kurt turns, settling into a comfortable crouch. The yellow gaze settles onto the taller man, unsure to who spoke. "{ Away }," he insists in German. The tail wraps about him, waving irritably. The tips of his fingers push into the rough ground, nails clicking against it.
German is not in Xavier's repertoire, but he has other abilities -- and other voices to speak for him, as the case may be. His chauffeur, glancing askance at the Professor in an inscrutable check, refocuses on Kurt. "{ Stay }," he says cautiously, an alien accent lilting quaintly across Austrian German. Norway's taint, that. "{ He means you no harm. }"
Kurt's shoulders tense, his head getting tossed with distrust. Eyes avert to Charles with no reply, eyes tightening into small slits that rest above an unhappy mouth. Still, the beast stills and allows it's tail to loosen it's mad thrash. Unguarded thoughts occur, an unchecked feral rage urging Kurt to attack. Still, there is a small part that holds him, though it is weak and broken.
There is a brief moment of silence. Empathy stretches gentling fingers across the mental aether, stroking lightly across the rage to dull its sharp bite, and buoy that small, weakened part of Kurt's will that holds him in restraint. "Do you speak English?" Xavier asks, his rich baritone tuned to a milder note. "I'm afraid I do not speak German. My name is Charles Xavier. And you are--?"
Kurt tips his head up, chin rising as eyes rolls back as if to peak up into his own brain that's hidden safely behind a crop of wild, blue hair. The feral creation within him roars unhappily, tearing around within his thoughts. But Kurt does hang on, if barely. It takes nearly a full minute before he can answer past the inner battle. "Nightcrawler." His tongue turns the name over heavily, his German accent as thick as mud.
"Is this your Christian name?" Xavier asks, while telepathy traces the outlines of Kurt's inner monster, feathering across its connections to the less savage man struggling within it. Gentle power props up the latter, sketching further definition into clarity of mind and self-restraint. The Professor's gaze explores, even as telepathy does, marking the glaring signs of mutation: tail, eyes, hands, skin.
Kurt
Nightcrawler is a shorter, slender man, though he is fit and muscular. He sports a short, blue fur coat, along with a long, prehensile tail which allows him to pick up and handle objects with. On both his hands and feet he has two fingers and one thumb. His eyes are bright yellow and slitted not unlike a felines, and his ears pointed at the tips. His clothes are odd, bohemian in a sense with their strange patterns and unique make.
"Kurt Wagner," he replies before his science-churned beast inside can reel him back. His hands clasp and unclasp, fidgeting with the headache of two personalities battling it out. Kind, gentle Kurt shows his fists, still small against a chemically enhanced wild man. "What do you want?" he asks, eyes blurring as his feral side shoves back, hard. "Leave."
Xavier hesitates, his eyes going blank again. The chauffeur stirs, moving slowly and carefully to draw the passenger side door open once more. "If you wish," the Professor says, his fingers moving over the control panel to put the wheelchair into a crawling reverse towards the car. Telepathy observes from a cautious distance, making note, and builds foundation for the mental scaffold before beginning to extricate itself. "I will leave. But I would like to help you if I can."
Fingers dig back across the pavement, sharp teeth grinding as brutal force starts to take back control. "{ Leave, }" Kurt says once more, German jumping back into his throat. Quickly he pushes to his feet, knees still bent and coiled to leap.
Power tethers the end of a fishing line to Kurt's mind, fine as a hair, indefinable as smoke, while prudence prepares a clamp to cut off violence if it springs. "You can find me if you need," Xavier says, reaching the passenger side of the car. He makes no move to stand, nor does the chauffeur move to assist. "I can help you more than you might expect, and it seems to me as though you might need friends in this world." His mouth quirks to one side. "Or in this city, as the case may be."
The feral beast turns down from it's bristling form, and while not giving up power over the raggedy little body of the once pleasant man, it recognizes defeat. It tucks it's tail, the motion mirrored with it's host. No answer is given and with a small bow of his head Kurt is gone, a loud snap of air and rank blue smoke all that's left in his wake. Mental connections are shaken free in the teleportation, his landing spot now lost in the depths of the crowded city block.
The two men left in the alley do not move, both stilled in the aftermath of that disappearance: a shock to one, if not to the other. At the end, it is Xavier who stirs. "I've lost him," he says aloud, on a breath of regret. "Interesting. Perhaps--" The two men exchange glances; the Professor smiles. "Your advice is as sound as always, Ethan. That is a splendid idea. What an interesting afternoon."
[Log ends]
Xavier attends church like a good mutant and runs into a blue monkey in the alleyway.
=NYC= Soho - Manhattan
SoHo no longer houses artists, but it leaves plenty of room for them on the sidewalks. Paintings are set up right on the concrete and some sales may well have to take place in the gutter, because of the crowds. The lofts are now inhabited by the up-and-coming business generation, and much of the north is given over to clothes and clothes shopping, but the south, a little more worn and a little less maintained, has more open sidewalks and streets. And both areas retain some of the old shops and old architecture, and that aft-of-the-ordinary appeal. After all, a loft is a thousand times hipper than an apartment.
Dark, twisted thoughts smolder like rotting trash in the heat of the summer. The heavy lick of German floats around in Nightcrawler's mind, prickling flashbacks and memories that are shadowed in a smoky cloud. The thinker of such thoughts is huddled into a thin strip of alleyway behind St. James, his back pressed up against the gate that leads into the back of the Cathedral. He's crouched, both three-fingered hands clutched to his breast. His head nods, sleep coming in sudden sweeps that are only shaken as his head dips suddenly.
The service is over; the worshippers departing, the last, sonorous echoes of the priest's voice hollowed and hallowed through the echoes of the great stone cathedral. It is not custom for those who have attended to leave through the side exit, but there are exceptions for every rule: thus the long, black sedan that turns into the alley, the tires crunching quietly over gravel and abandoned cigarettes. The chauffeur that exits is tall and blond, his face unreadable in the habit of the quiet. His employer -- for so he must be -- emerges a few moments later out of the cathedral.
He is old, wheelchair-bound, but there is vigor in his voice and in his face as he bids farewell to the official who escorts him out. Expensive suit, expensive tie, expensive shoes; his baritone, modulated into Oxford's cultured accents, carries in the echoes of the alleyway. "--a pleasure. Thank you. Do give my apologies to Father Andrew."
From the dirty concrete of the alley, a twitching tail-tip is reeled back to it's owner. It slithers up, seeming to want to wake the blue man. It turns and swipes, lashing lightly at the side of a torn pant leg. Kurt's nose flares and quivers, a hand waving sluggishly as it leaves it's tight hold on the front of his jacket. Slowly, calmly, yellow eyes open to the world. He bends, mouth opening for a yawn that rumbles in the back of his throat. Danger leaps in the mind of the man, attempting to sort out his own position.
The cathedral official, still in the robes of his office, makes some polite reply as he retreats back into the church. Xavier makes some equally courteous reply -- but his mind, piqued by the spark of danger and alien thought, leaps towards a skimming investigation of the source. The chauffeur pauses, his hand on the passenger side door; his own head stills, the blue-eyed gaze under the cap's brim skipping up in an alerted exploration of the alley.
Of the two, it is Xavier who speaks first. "Who's there?"
Kurt keeps his back pressed against the back door of the church, his head rolling to push against it and his ears flattening out against the smooth wood. With a rattling breath Kurt snarls, allowing his tail flick into the alley view with warning.
Both sets of gazes find Kurt at the same moment, orienting swiftly. The chauffeur's face changes; wariness draws its hand across his expression. Xavier's face, more disciplined, does not alter beyond the barest flicker in the deep-set eyes. "I see," he says. The long, elegant hands close around the arms of the wheelchair, one thumb sliding across a control. "Not the common habitant of the local alleyway. Good day to you, sir."
Now seen, the creature leans forward, landing on his hands and slinking out into the alley on all fours. Kurt turns, settling into a comfortable crouch. The yellow gaze settles onto the taller man, unsure to who spoke. "{ Away }," he insists in German. The tail wraps about him, waving irritably. The tips of his fingers push into the rough ground, nails clicking against it.
German is not in Xavier's repertoire, but he has other abilities -- and other voices to speak for him, as the case may be. His chauffeur, glancing askance at the Professor in an inscrutable check, refocuses on Kurt. "{ Stay }," he says cautiously, an alien accent lilting quaintly across Austrian German. Norway's taint, that. "{ He means you no harm. }"
Kurt's shoulders tense, his head getting tossed with distrust. Eyes avert to Charles with no reply, eyes tightening into small slits that rest above an unhappy mouth. Still, the beast stills and allows it's tail to loosen it's mad thrash. Unguarded thoughts occur, an unchecked feral rage urging Kurt to attack. Still, there is a small part that holds him, though it is weak and broken.
There is a brief moment of silence. Empathy stretches gentling fingers across the mental aether, stroking lightly across the rage to dull its sharp bite, and buoy that small, weakened part of Kurt's will that holds him in restraint. "Do you speak English?" Xavier asks, his rich baritone tuned to a milder note. "I'm afraid I do not speak German. My name is Charles Xavier. And you are--?"
Kurt tips his head up, chin rising as eyes rolls back as if to peak up into his own brain that's hidden safely behind a crop of wild, blue hair. The feral creation within him roars unhappily, tearing around within his thoughts. But Kurt does hang on, if barely. It takes nearly a full minute before he can answer past the inner battle. "Nightcrawler." His tongue turns the name over heavily, his German accent as thick as mud.
"Is this your Christian name?" Xavier asks, while telepathy traces the outlines of Kurt's inner monster, feathering across its connections to the less savage man struggling within it. Gentle power props up the latter, sketching further definition into clarity of mind and self-restraint. The Professor's gaze explores, even as telepathy does, marking the glaring signs of mutation: tail, eyes, hands, skin.
Kurt
Nightcrawler is a shorter, slender man, though he is fit and muscular. He sports a short, blue fur coat, along with a long, prehensile tail which allows him to pick up and handle objects with. On both his hands and feet he has two fingers and one thumb. His eyes are bright yellow and slitted not unlike a felines, and his ears pointed at the tips. His clothes are odd, bohemian in a sense with their strange patterns and unique make.
"Kurt Wagner," he replies before his science-churned beast inside can reel him back. His hands clasp and unclasp, fidgeting with the headache of two personalities battling it out. Kind, gentle Kurt shows his fists, still small against a chemically enhanced wild man. "What do you want?" he asks, eyes blurring as his feral side shoves back, hard. "Leave."
Xavier hesitates, his eyes going blank again. The chauffeur stirs, moving slowly and carefully to draw the passenger side door open once more. "If you wish," the Professor says, his fingers moving over the control panel to put the wheelchair into a crawling reverse towards the car. Telepathy observes from a cautious distance, making note, and builds foundation for the mental scaffold before beginning to extricate itself. "I will leave. But I would like to help you if I can."
Fingers dig back across the pavement, sharp teeth grinding as brutal force starts to take back control. "{ Leave, }" Kurt says once more, German jumping back into his throat. Quickly he pushes to his feet, knees still bent and coiled to leap.
Power tethers the end of a fishing line to Kurt's mind, fine as a hair, indefinable as smoke, while prudence prepares a clamp to cut off violence if it springs. "You can find me if you need," Xavier says, reaching the passenger side of the car. He makes no move to stand, nor does the chauffeur move to assist. "I can help you more than you might expect, and it seems to me as though you might need friends in this world." His mouth quirks to one side. "Or in this city, as the case may be."
The feral beast turns down from it's bristling form, and while not giving up power over the raggedy little body of the once pleasant man, it recognizes defeat. It tucks it's tail, the motion mirrored with it's host. No answer is given and with a small bow of his head Kurt is gone, a loud snap of air and rank blue smoke all that's left in his wake. Mental connections are shaken free in the teleportation, his landing spot now lost in the depths of the crowded city block.
The two men left in the alley do not move, both stilled in the aftermath of that disappearance: a shock to one, if not to the other. At the end, it is Xavier who stirs. "I've lost him," he says aloud, on a breath of regret. "Interesting. Perhaps--" The two men exchange glances; the Professor smiles. "Your advice is as sound as always, Ethan. That is a splendid idea. What an interesting afternoon."
[Log ends]
Xavier attends church like a good mutant and runs into a blue monkey in the alleyway.