ArchivedLogs:Attitude

Attitude
Dramatis Personae Daken, Regan
In Absentia	2015-04-03 "Scout's honor, or whatever the fuck it is."
Location <BOM> Training Center - Main Lodge - Ascension Island
Down a short flight of stairs off of the common room, this room is a departure from the homier stone and wood upstairs. Its bare concrete walls are clearly basementy in feel, though its floor has been refurbished in gleaming synthetic flooring marked out like a basketball court. This spacious gymnasium includes a variety of punching bags -- of several compositions (for normal strength mutants or mutants on the high end of the spectrum) -- a boxing ring, a wall for climbing, several lengths of rope, and many, many training dummies for people to practice their powers on. Someone's dressed up one of the training dummies as a police officer, and scrawled a dopey smiley face on it; the sign on his chest declares him to be 'OFFICER SHITS-HIS-PANTS'. Officer Shits-His-Pants has seen better days; by the look of him, he's been set on fire and lost at least one of his limbs. In the back room is more training equipment -- everything from boxing gloves, medical tape, sports equipment, and even some unusual customized equipment for the more 'physical' mutants. The infirmary door stands near the stairway leading back up. It's nearing the later point in the day, and a majority of the occupants have either cleared out, or have moved well away from training dummies. Reason being Daken has taken residence down lane from Officer Shits-His-Pants and is unleashing hell on him and the dummies nearest with his bow. Arrow after arrow hitting the dummies in the midsection and occasionally the head. Though soon the arrow storm ends and then he's moving forward to collect arrows. The footsteps on the stairs down to the basement are quiet. Low-heeled boots clicking on the cement. Regan is in jeans, a low-cut red tank top, hair pulled back into a French braid. She stops in the doorway to the training room, thumbs hooked into the beltloops of her jeans and blue eyes focused steadily on Daken as he moves to collect the arrows. "Regan." Daken greets, nostrils flaring slightly. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about these future dreams, would you?" His head turns to regard where the scent is coming from with a respectful nod before he finishes collecting arrows. "Awful things are coming. Jokingly suggested we should blow up Oscorp, but I don't think anybody realized I wasn't serious." There's an overly dramatic sigh before he draws his bow once more, delivering an arrow between Officer SHP's eyes. "There's also something else entirely I'd like to inquire about." Regan's brows are lifting before Daken is quite finished speaking. "How old are you, Daken?" "How old am I?" Daken asks, brow raising as he looks back towards Regan. "Next month I'll be sixty-nine." "Sixty-nine years should be well long enough to learn some /discretion/, I should think." Regan takes a step into the room, still standing in front of the doorway. "Do you think it's possible nobody realized you were joking because you've spent a good deal of time since coming here talking to your Brothers just how little regard you have for life? Your 'joking' falling flat is on you, not them." "Well, part of that wasn't joking. It was them overreacting to why I went to Las Angeles." Daken explains with a simple shrug. "Suggested I see a therapist because I planned on killing my way to the top. It was the early two-thousands. Police weren't as capable, killing a few gang leaders was a much better plan than starting out as a drug dealer. I mean, /me/, a simple drug dealer." He starts to ready another arrow, but he perks up again. "I /can/ get you drugs though. Whatever you want. Weapons too, I might not run the place, but I made plenty of friends in low places." The arrow is fired this time, embedding itself in the chest of the dummy next to the officer. "Besides, should I get arrested before I can get new papers printed up.. I'll just get deported to Japan." Regan lifts a hand, pinching lightly at the bridge of her nose. "That," she says, mildly, "was not an overreaction. There really are good therapists at the Clinic." Her hand drops down, arms curling loosely across her chest. "But as to the /joking/, forgive me if I don't find you /joking/ about terrorism and murder in front of a complete stranger any funnier than they found your life choices." "You really can't spell slaughter without laughter." Daken doesn't draw another arrow, instead turning to give REgan his full attention. "What should I tell the therapists? That I never knew my real father, and my mother was dead before I was even born? Ooh, or that sometimes I'd get whipped with lengths of rope soaked in gasoline. Or maybe that my teacher plucked out my eyeball once, just to prove a point." The dry look on his face quickly turns into a grin. "I should write a book. The life of a bastard dog. Instead of my picture in the inside of the dust jacket, I think I'll be on the back of it, posing like one of those Calvin Klein underwear models. They'd really get a kick from it." He raises his hands in a defensive manner, though he still has the bow clutched in his right hand. "But I get it, discretion. Especially since I /am/ affiliated with a group that has to be on a watch list or six by now." "Daken, I don't care what you tell the therapists. I don't care if you see the therapists. I don't care if you spend a month down here shooting arrows into a dummy. I don't care if you go on a vision quest to work through your tragic, tragic past." Regan turns a hand upward. "What I do care about is these people here. This island and everyone on it. You and all your Brothers. Yes, you're affiliated with them. But /they are affiliated with you/. Do you understand that? Because I will /make/ you understand that. If you go out there and you bring heat down on them, it's on /all/ of them. And every thing you do and every idiotic word that comes out of your mouth, you would do well to keep each and every one of them in mind. /Discretion/. Is not. For /your/ sake." "I think about it all the time." Daken moves down range to collect the the arrow he's fired. "I couldn't give a fuck about most of the people outside this island. But the people here? They're family. I might run my mouth, but I don't act unless I have a damn good reason. If I got any of us hurt? I'd be pissed." He sighs quietly before returning to stand near Regan. "But I'd also like you to keep in mind that I've been doing this almost as long as Sabertooth and Mystique. Never met either of them in the flesh, mind you, but I've heard stories. At least about Sabertooth. Hopefully we get him back here, been meaning to meet my uncle in the flesh. Hear he gave my father hell back in the day." "Are you even listening to me, Daken? Running your mouth /could/ get people here hurt. Don't do it. I'm starting to think you've been doing this too damn long." Regan's head gives a small shake. "/You/ are resilient. You have the luxury of running your mouth and walking away with little consequence. I have to protect a whole family full of people who aren't as invincible as you are." "Yes, I am listening to you. I won't run my mouth in front of strangers. Unless I'm going to kill them afterwards." Daken promises, holding up a hand. "Scout's honor, or whatever the fuck it is. I'll even start running self defense courses if you want, for some of the less experienced members. Only so much fight club can do without a formal background." A hand runs over his hair before he flashes that grin of his. "Besides, where else are you going to find somebody with who's both a traditionally trained samurai, and was the best student of one of the most feared World War two commanders that isn't an X-man?" One of Regan's eyebrows quirks upward. "I don't know what part of this conversation leads you to believe I want you teaching anyone anything. Some of our /less experienced members/ could teach you quite a bit about sound /judgment/. And respect. And you would do well to learn." Minutely, her fingers curl tighter against her biceps. "I assure you that we trained our people quite adequately before you arrived and will continue doing so. But we have /children/ in this family. /Infants/. You can't /train/ a newborn. And you seem determined to persist in missing -- or perhaps deliberately ignoring? -- my point." One of her arms uncrosses, her hand lifting to pinch at the bridge of her nose. "Just watch your attitude. It will be unpleasant for both of us if I have to watch it for you." "I understand entirely. And I meant like that Charlie kid. Good kid. Bet she packs a hell of a punch too. And it was only a suggestion. Though, if anything, it'd be better for me to teach the more advanced here. Less a chance of getting hurt. Not everyone heals as fast as me. Besides.. All those feelings I have to worry about hurting." That last bit seems to change Daken's mind. "I'll stick to working with that Heroes for Hire boxer and Anette. Besides.. If we don't change the future, she'll need the course for what we're going to get into for our son." Regan's head tips in a small nod, her arms unfolding to her sides. "Son?" This draws a small twitch of smile out from her. She takes a half-step back towards the door. "We're working on making sure that future never happens. For your son. And all the rest of us as well." "Yeah, when I went to Anette's to talk about it, she punched me in the face." Daken grins a bit, rubbing at his jaw. "She was more angry about us not keeping things casual, than me living Alberta and surviving off bear." There's a slight sigh as his attention drifts towards the dummies. "If you have any field missions that need done, don't hesitate to send me out. Especially if it's a high risk one. I'd rather me get shot in the head and come home, than one of our Brothers get shot and us have to bury them." There's another small curl of Regan's lips. "It does seem preferable," she agrees. "I'll keep it in mind. Thank you." Her eyes slip back to the dummy. "I'll let you return to your practice, then. Until later, Daken." Daken taps out a salute before drawing another arrow. "Take care." he replies quietly, turning and planting the arrow into Officer SHP's chest once again.