Logs:All Warfare Is Based on Deception

{{ Logs | cast = Heather, Ion, Mystique, Buttercup | mentions = Jax, Scott | summary = "Find your mettle. Stand and face me." (Just after [[Logs:When You Move, Fall Like a Thunderbolt|leaving Jax & Scott].) | gamedate = 2024-11-16 | gamedatename = | subtitle = | location = <BOM> Jenner Courtyard - ??? | categories = Heather, Ion, Mystique, BOM Jenner Courtyard, Mutants, NPC-Buttercup, Brotherhood of Mutants | log = The bones of this long-defunct Prometheus research facility have been gradually cleaned- and spruced-up, though the grounds visible from outside the fence with its alarming biohazard warning signs still look intentionally abandoned and overgrown. The courtyard enclosed by the main building is a different story. The weeds have been cleaned up, but many of the saplings that have grown on their own far enough from the foundation have been spared, promising future shade for future Brothers. There's a firepit at the center, a rusty barbecue nearby, and a scattering of used and mismatched but entirely serviceable patio furniture throughout. Several raised beds have been installed along the northern edge of the space, where there's the best sun.

There's a tumble of heavy paws across the browning grass -- Buttercup has just gotten outside and is on an eager tear around the courtyard, racing in circles for No Apparent Reason save the sheer joy of stretching his legs. Following him at a considerably more sedate pace is Mystique -- her long white halter dress does not look suited at all for the current bite in the air, but then again, given what it is made of, it offers exactly as much protection as a proper lined jacket would. She's holding a mug of hot cider in one hand and a very chewed-on knotted rope in the other. Her yellow eyes narrow slightly on the dog as he runs rampant around the courtyard, and she lifts the rope up, dangling indicatively from one forefinger.

"Young brother," she's saying, severely, though Buttercup is not even slightly heeding her as he zooms gleefully past, "when you come and you request practice at your wargames, your siblings take you seriously. Yet here we are, poised to do battle and you flee? Find your mettle. Stand and face me."

Heather is observing these proceedings with a juicebox in her hand, standing as if she has taken the role of referee or overseer. Her purple reflective goggles make it difficult to see where exactly she is looking. "The general who advances without coveting fame and retreats without fearing disgrace is the jewel of the kingdom. Caution, sister. I think this one is familiar with the art of war." With that, she takes a quick sip from the juicebox and hunches her shoulders forward to keep out the cold. Her bright purple and pink windbreaker does not seem to be doing quite the trick.

There's a small crackle, the lighting in the hallway just inside and then the peripheral lights around the courtyard dimming and brightening in telltale surge. It's hardly a surprise, then, when Ion blinks into existence by the women, also far less dressed than he ought to be in just his cut over a grungy short-sleeved tee -- in his defense, it was warmer in New York!

It's probably also not particularly baffling that there is, currently, a chainsaw (turned off!) held in his hook. Weird, maybe, but it's Ion, so --

What might be a little surprising is that without any fuss or preamble he is drawing his fist back, aiming a hard punch for Mystique's gut. "The fuck," he's growling, "you fucking with them for?"

"Mmm." Mystique is nodding, sagely, to Heather's contributions. Her eyes stay fixed keenly on Buttercup. She takes a slow sip from her cider, nearly (but not quite) spilling it when, on his next circuit, the dog takes a massive leap to jump up and latch on to the dangling rope. He's growling playfully, tugging it hard as he plants his paws in the dirt. "You judge him well, sister. He has wisdom. In the midst of chaos," Mystique intones, eyes flicking to Heather, "there is oppo--"

Whump. This time, she does spill the sider, sloshing up over her and Ion both as she adjusts her stance abruptly backwards to rock with the blow. She's heaving the rest of the hot cider towards his face, hand starting to follow through this motion, mug aimed for the side of his head -- but she pulls back with a start once her mind has caught up to physical reflex. "Brother," she growls, far less amicably now than she was to the dog, "If you want to lodge a complaint you'll have to be more specific."

Heather's eyebrows raise slightly at the punch to Mystique's gut, and she looks towards Buttercup. "Reinforcements? How ruthless..." Her head wobbles a bit as she looks quickly a few times between the other Brothers a couple of times, maintaining her posture as observer. She sips from the juice box and her voice plays, "I would also like to know the nature of your complaint. It would be easier to understand what I ought to do. Are you and I also fighting?" She points between herself and Ion, even though the gesture is likely to go unnoticed during the struggle, then switching to making quotation marks in the air in another swift motion. "Is this a 'beef'?"

"You in on this, Math Club? Should I have beef with you?" Ion has hissed at the splash of hot cider in his face, taking a step backwards to wipe it away. "Jackson fucking Holland. The fuck you give him a bad day for, pigs do that enough. You out for Summers or you out for him?"

"I imagine he has many bad days. With or without me." Mystique is shaking cider irritably from her fingertips, but then just proffers the hand to Buttercup to lick. "I have many complaints about that would-be cop, but as long as he stays out of our way I can hold them. Holland has promise, and has not yet earned my ire. -- Have you some specific grudge to bring or did you just need to let off steam, here?"

"Math Club?" Heather pauses, her lips twitching down into a slight frown, and tilts her head. "Would you like to sign up? I do not think you should have beefs with me right now. I have not seen Jax or Scott since that time we were in space. I hope they are healthy. They were starting to look gaunt." Though, so was she, and still is. "But if you are looking to spar, I can oblige. I would prefer not--" She tilts her head towards Mystique, "--by surprise."

This takes some of the wind out of Ion's fury -- he's stepping back, dropping his fist to his side. He shifts the chainsaw, now, to his other hand, still actually just holding it slack by his side and just wanting to get some weight off the hook. "I just seen them. Someone look just like Scott gone to get in that man head." He's frowning, not quite as certain now as he had been earlier, though he does add: "... they still too skinny," as if he himself is not also Still Too Skinny. "I ain't come to fight," he insists, in shameless defiance of the punch he threw within .02 seconds of arrival, "I just don't want nobody fucking with them. They good men and the fuck good it do us?"

"What good does it do us?" Mystique's brows arch. "If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle." She plucks Buttercup's rope back up, lip curling distastefully at the cold-slobbery-muddy end. The dog latches back onto the knotted end; she hands the other end to Ion with an irritable sneer. "Figure out what it is you have come for before wasting my time again." }}