Logs:Before the Swarm
| Before the Swarm | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-07-18 "Those kapos do not fuck around." |
| Location
<DC> Hains Point | |
When it's not flooded with Sentinels and hostile technopaths and X-Men, this is actually a very lovely little park. The cherry blossoms may be long since done blooming but it's still lush and green, shady beneath the trees and with the nearby water offering a pleasantly soothing background rhythm. There is a droning hum just where Regan is standing but it doesn't come from any aggressive bots -- some recent lightning has downed half a tree, and nestled in its toppled branches, a bee hive is cracked open and leaking copious amounts of honey and confused bees, both. Regan stands nearby, looking not at all summery in tight black leather pants though at the least they're paired with a strappy red tank and large dark sunglasses. She's been watching the hive for a few moments, and then stoops, blood-red nails carefully plucking a piece of comb that doesn't, currently, have bees trying to salvage it. She breaks it in half, chewing off a small bite of hers and offering the other half out. "Maybe," she says just a little drily, "our rendezvous has their watch still set to Genosha time." Ion looks -- okay, he looks pretty much the same in all seasons, jeans and a grubby white tee. He skewers the offered honeycomb on the end of his hook, though he's still watching the bees themselves, wide-eyed with fascination. "Lookat them all packing up, they even know where they going yet?" He's pulled away from his bee fixation by Regan's words, snorting and glancing around the park. "Shit, we got waiting to do, 'least we pick a good spot. Got a good view, got some entertainment --" He's gesturing toward the water where a large group of gulls have been squabbling over something or other, "got a snack." Here he takes a bite of the honeycomb, licking at his thumb so that he can wipe a thin trail of honey away before it gets too caught up in his beard. "How late they? You think something wrong?" Scramble is dressed for a DC summer in a cyan cropped tank top, magenta culottes, and black wedge sandals, her impeccable afro pushed back at the hairline with a bright yellow headband. She's been watching the bees idly. "Think that depends if they still got they queen." Her voice is kind of flat, kind of lackluster. "Picked a good day if we gotta wait. Been hundred degree days here a week straight before now." She raises her eyes from the broken hive to Regan. "How long we gon give them?" Regan's eyes skate across to the water, though she has only a small huff for the birdfight. She licks at a trail of honey that's sliding down her hand, and squints up at the sky. "I think there's about three dozen things that could have gone wrong en route here. At least we have HAMMER off our backs," does she sound smug, maybe, "but our contacts in their underground say their quisling Enforcers have been turning up the heat a lot. If they aren't here by the end of the hour..." She trails off, but the press of her brows is worried. "I think they off everybody backs, what I hear that hammer dropped hard." Ion is offering his sticky-honey-hook in a small waggle toward Scramble. "-- you been hearing the shit people talking, though? Gossip sound near split on if that fash brought this on his own self, fucking around with them borrowed powers, or if they need to find some bigger better HAMMER quick and smash every damn mutant like a bug." He is definitely wearing a watch already (a gold one as wide as his wrist and half as thick, crowded with 3D elements: exposed clockwork, a spinning sapphire Earth and diamond moon, and a tiger fighting a dragon, the entire bejeweled diorama revolving around the smaller but also bejeweled watch dial), but despite this is also squinting at the sky to guesstimate the time. "Ran into couple'a them thugs last time we dipped by the island, those kapos do not fuck around." "They still got that joint quarantined, and that's how you get mad conspiracy theories." Scramble breaks off a corner of the offered honeycomb and pops it into her mouth. "Mmm! Ionno if it just taste better fresh, or if the panicking bee pheromones spice it up." She licks her fingers delicately. "What make them badder than our All-American homegrown shitfuck freaks?" Then she straightens, sobering. "They allowed to chase their fugitives overseas?" "If we act quickly enough, we could probably turn some of those conspiracy theories to our advantage." Regan pops the rest of the honeycomb in her mouth. If she licks her fingers nobody sees it. "Mutants are not allowed to emigrate from Genosha. They hunt their refugees down somewhat assiduously. If you see any, kill them. They won't stop." "How you think that, once they contain that shit they gonna be out for some freak blood one way or other." Ion's jaw just tightens at the further mention of the Genoshan Press Gang, and he nods along with Regan. "They got they own freak Prometheus shit out there too, only they jumping up their mutants like woah. Don't think them kapos even brainwashed like the rest, though, that account they like ours. Money buy you a lot of fucked-up priorities." "I bet there's hordes of Trump fans ready to blame it on Joe Biden's secret Chinese communist agenda." Scramble scoffs. "I know they ain't allowed to leave Genosha, but I figure Uncle Sam territorial." She rolls one shoulder, then the other, scanning the park restlessly. "Unless he want something, like how they doing their jumping up. One hand wash the other, but they both filthy." "Yes, once they contain it they most definitely will. Be out for some freak's blood." Regan has turned, slightly, looking out to the low-slung silhouette of downtown DC. "So what if we helped them contain it? If this mystery virus is any lingering threat, Leo's pretty well poised to negotiate for some additional amnesty. And if somewhere along the way he can direct that blame to some other wanted terrorist --" There's the briefest shimmer around Regan, the familiar silhouette of iconic helmet and purple cape fluttering briefly to life and then back out. "Well, it'd be a lot of birds with this stone." "{Shit, that's definitely what we need, Genosha Prometheus selling secrets over here.}" Ion's expression darkens, and even his next lick of delicious fresh honey cannot push this scowl back. "God know that coward deserve the heat, but how far we trust any deal some fed make with Leo? Lotta people want him in some way deep hole." Scramble's jaw tightens at Regan's illusion. "I doubt they got much more heat to put on him. If this convince the feds he ain't even with us no more..." Her shrug is also tight. "Hard to prove a negative. Harder to hold the fucking pigs to they word. Might could make them too afraid to fuck with him, tho." Her mouth twists aside, and her intonation goes even flatter. "Might not even need to exaggerate none." "I am sure with Mystique's help, a well-timed appearance, we could plant some --" Regan pauses. Her head tilts, her brows pinching, and then she's turning away from the fallen tree and its bounty of honey. There's another humming -- louder, deeper, familiar, the incoming thrum of several machines that are audible but not yet in view. What is in view is a small cluster of people, racing towards the waiting Brothers. Regan is still listening, eyes faintly narrowing as she strains the reaches of her telepathy. "Their Press Gang, they've brought bots of their own." She's flagging down the sprinting refugees, even as she beckons to her Brothers -- no instructions, save for: "You know what to do." | |
