ArchivedLogs:The Electric Slide

The Electric Slide
WARNING: Includes bare butts and some (electrified) violence.
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Eric
In Absentia	2013-03-01 Murphy and Eric compare notes. IN BED. Also, somebody tries to kill Eric. (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location <NYC> Sunrise Apartments - Clinton
The night before, Murphy called Eric's cell. He had pictures he wanted Eric to see. A few minutes after he arrived in the apartment, they were flipping through them. Eight in all -- each a grainy, pixelated image of a drone. All the pictures looked like they had been taken on the sly -- the drones were photographed on tables, or in a lab, or in a testing chamber, mid-flight. Out of the eight, there was one in particular -- a dark greenish hue. Four 'propellers'. An LED flashlight mounted to the bottom. It probably wasn't hard for Eric to pick it out of the set. The next morning, Murphy -- naked and under the sheets -- sits up in bed, reaching for his cigarettes and lighter, both on the night-stand. His back is a hard, rigid map of edges and angles -- interrupted only occasionally by the angry pucker of a scar. A bullet-wound on his left shoulder; a knife wound at his lower mid-hip. Another old injury -- it looks almost like a three-fingered talon *gored* him -- on his upper left breast, interrupting the thin carpet of chest hair. As he lights up, he speaks -- gently, at first -- his voice a low, exhausted growl: "You know that I'm just using you." Eric stirs, equally naked, next to Murphy. His body is flawless - not a single scar or mark to be found anywhere on the landscape of tanned skin and muscles. "Oh yeah?" he drawls, leaning forward to nip once at Murphy's jaw and pull back, smirking. "Just usin' me for my fantastic body, eh? Can't say I blame ya' - it's definitely a thing meaning to be used." he drawls, eyes twinkling with mischief. He rolls his head one way and the other, cracking it out. "Or just usin' me for my information?" Murphy angles his head up at the nip -- as if to give Eric more room to sneak in. He shaved about two days ago; the stubble's coming back -- a coarse, harsh layer that feels like sandpaper. At the question, he grunts -- before answering: "Both. You don't strike me as the sort to make too much outta sex, but I just wanted to make sure you knew. I don't do relationships. They never work out." He stretches, shoulders bunching together, arms lifting -- briefly clenching them into fists. "God _fuck_, it's been too long. You mind if I use your shower?" Eric snorts, giving Murphy a bemused look. He opens his mouth, then quickly shuts it, a low laugh sounding in his throat. "Quite right." he says, lips curling into a smirk. "You've stayed longer than the last few people I've taken to bed. At least you haven't started weeping about how you don't actually like men." he waves his hand towards a door not far from his bedroom. "Shower's in there. Let me know if you want company." he says, eyes raking over Murphy's chest for a moment, hungrily. "Comes to sex, I'm a goddamn omnivore," Murphy responds, beginning to rise. At this point, he's certainly not bashful; the fact that he's standing in Eric's plain view, bare-ass naked, doesn't seem to phase him. But he's clearly aching from last night -- at Eric's suggestion, he actually *winces*. "Jesus," he mutters. "Gimme time, at least. I don't know what the fuck they feed cops in this city, but I need a goddamn *break*. You're some sort of /machine/." Murphy, of course, doesn't have a healing factor. As he moves toward the shower, he pauses for a moment -- adding, offhand: "By the way. You didn't hear this from me -- and you *sure* as fuck didn't see those pictures. But the drone you picked out last night? Oscorp tech. 'Hobgob' seeker drone. Used for survelliance and termination of high value targets." He moves toward the door, opening it to step in. Eric smirks and winks at him. "As am I. And I think you know some of what I eat," he says, standing up as well and stretching with a soft sound of cracking tendons. "That kid was a high value target?" he drawls, surprised, as he heads towards the kitchen. "Talk about a waste of a multi-million dollar piece of defense equipment." he mutters. He looks through his fridge with a faint frown, searching through it for sustenance. He comes out with a beer, which is sort of similar, and pops the can open. He takes a sip as he leans against the refrigerator, considering. He heads to the bathroom and pokes his head through the door. "How come I haven't heard about this on the news?" The shower is fogged, now; only Murphy's silhouette can be seen. He speaks over the steady splatter of water across the tiled floor: "Dunno. I can wager a few guesses, but they're all shit. I do know this: If _we_ could figure out who the drone belongs to, the government sure as fuck could. All I can guess from there is that they ain't interested in dropping the hammer on Oscorp. I know they do a lot of military contract work for 'em. When the President wants to drop a drone on some cave in the middle of a desert, he calls Norman Osborn. Maybe makin' a guy out like that to be a terrorist ain't 'politically expedient'. Maybe somebody in power is blackmailing him. Fuck, I don't know." There's a knock at the door. Light, polite, steady. If and when Eric goes to it -- and should he glance through the eye-hole -- he'll see a man in a sharp, well-cut black suit and tie -- white shirt -- and trilby hat. The man's face is distorted through the glass, but looks a bit usual -- wrinkley, maybe, with some scars. He's got a toothpick between his chapped lips and wears a set of dark, old-school sun-glasses -- so dark you can't even make out his eyes. "Yeah, you're probably right." Eric glances out of the room, a confused expression on his face. "Hang on, someone's at the door." He steps over to the front door and peeks through the peephole. A frown deepens his expression. "Whatever you're selling, I don't want any of it." he calls through the door, then turns to head back towards the bedroom. "God or Cutco, it's all a bunch of crap." The man's voice cuts instantly right back -- a smooth, effortless staccato. "Mr. Sutton? Agent Dillon. Bureau of Mutant Affairs." Should he look through the eye-hole *again*, he'd see the man is holding up what looks to be some sort of ID badge -- although it's hard to make out through the curved lens. "Need to debrief you concerning the events of February 20th in Central Park. May we speak for a moment?" The shower abruptly shuts off despite having been on for less than two minutes -- Murphy's voice is suddenly soft -- low enough so the man on the other side of the door probably doesn't hear. *He* probably didn't hear what the man is saying: "You expecting anybody?" "No. It's the feds." Eric replies, in that same low tone, as he steps into his bedroom and goes to his closet. "Be right with you, sir!" he calls out, back towards the door. "Just need to pull some clothes on." He grabs some clothes out of his closet, pulling pants on - blue jeans - and a shirt - a touristy-affair, with NYPD written in large letters. Ironic purchase or serious fashion statement? He also opens a drawer and pulls out his service weapon. Glancing towards the door once more, he puts it in his pocket and heads for the door. He opens it without undoing the latch. He opens the door, peeking through the crack that the chain allows. "Mornin'. Why didn't you reach out through command? With all due respect, sir... it's the weekend. If my report is incomplete, can't you debrief me on Monday?" 'Agent Dillon' is waiting. And as Eric reaches out to touch the doorknob -- Dillon's already got the other end firmly in his grip. Which may be why, the moment he touches it, an arc of electricity instantly *flares* up his hand -- lashing up through him with enough voltage to take down something /twice/ his size. It's a level of voltage that goes above what you'd expect from a very high-end taser -- enough to take a grown man down quickly, painfully, and for at *least* a minute. An instant later, and Max Dillon's fingers -- arcs of lightning weaving between them -- are touching the lock, delicately manipulating the internal mechanisms with brief, magnetic pulses -- twisting and turning the tumbler over with a click. Then, as he pushes the door open just a crack, he sees the chain -- and pulls it shut, bringing two fingers up to where he presumes the clasp is -- again, magnetizing and moving it ever so slowly, sliding the bar to the proper notch... then popping it out. *CLICK!* And now, he's opening the door, humming 'The Electric Slide' to himself as he moves to step inside -- ID badge away, briefcase in hand. Eric gives a shout of surprise and pain even as he jerks sharply and passes out on the floor, a foot away or so from where he had been standing a moment before. When the door opens, it hits against one of his feet, though this does not cause the unconscious police officer to move at all. He is lying, partially curled up, on his right side. This, at least, prevents the print of his gun showing through his clothing, but it does mean he is lying rather on top of it. "And I'll teach you -- teach you -- teach you -- I'll teach you the /electric/ sliiii~de...!" Max cheerfully hums and sings, the briefcase placed besides Eric, removing his trilby and setting it on a nearby counter. He's completely bald -- what looked like wrinkles are actually a network of curious scars -- not a single stitch of hair to be found on his head. As he removes his shades -- exposing bright, glowing yellow eyes -- he lifts a palm over Eric. A tongue stroke of electricity arcs out, striking him in the shoulder -- considerably less, more along the line of the output you'd expect from a standard taser. He's being careful -- not a lot of electricity, now -- trying not to produce too many burn marks. An instant later, and the briefcase is clicking open -- exposing a carefully organized 'med-kit', complete with several used syringes, one 'fresh' syringe filled with a 'bad' batch of heroin, and a considerable quantity of drug paraphenelia. "You can't see it -- it's electric! You gotta feel it -- it's elect--..." Max Dillon stops, straightening to stand -- staring, now, at Murphy, who just emerged from the shower -- clad in a white towel around his waist. For a moment, the two men just stare at each other. "Well, shit," Max says. Eric is conscious, albeit woozy, several moments after the first bolt of electricity hits him. He stays lying on the ground, unmoving, and eyes closed, however, even as the second jolt hits him. He tenses up, twitching once, involuntarily, but getting tazed tends to do that to muscles. When his attacker swears and turns to face Murphy, however, Eric's eyes pop open and he moves into action. Twisting his body to one side, he frees up his hands enough to dive down into his pants and draw his pistol. Balanced on the ground, the gun is pointed directly at the other man's body. "If you even /twitch/, I will paint this shitty apartment with your brain." he says, and his hands are stable and eyes wide. "Don't turn. Get down and lace your hands together in front of you." The order becomes a shout. "Down on your knees, /now/, or I shoot!" Max doesn't see the gun, but he certainly *hears* Eric's voice -- and at the sound of it, he completely freezes. He's *so* surprised that he doesn't even lob that bolt of lightning at Murphy -- instead, just /gawking/ at the half-naked man standing at the bedroom chamber. And then... he actually complies! Moving his hands behind his head -- sinking down to his knees. Murphy's staring. His eyes narrowing. Eyebrows grinding. And then -- they pop open wide. As if in /recognition/. And in that moment of recognition, he is *hurling* himself into the bedroom, even as he screams: "SHOOT HIM! SHOOT HIM *NOW*!" Max Dillon's fingers curl. His eyes crackle. And suddenly, he simply *explodes* -- turning hot, bright white, the stench of oxidation in the air. Anything made of metal is being *flung* away from him -- with catastrophic force. The briefcase flies off to the farthest corner of the room, *smashing* into a wall -- denting it. His wallet tears itself free (the ID badge had a metal clip), slamming into a table-top. And any bullets -- should they be fired an instant too late -- will be thrust aside. Unless Eric moves /fast/, he's probably going to get a couple of second degree burns, too. Also, Max Dillon's clothes are now on fire. "FUCK!" he screams. As soon as Murphy yells it, Eric pulls the trigger, once, twice, quickly, aiming for Max's chest. Moments later, he is tossed aside, clothing simmering and flash-burns on his arms and hands. "Shit, shit!" Eric groans out in pain, the gun tossed out of his hands and slamming into a wall as well. Fortunately for all involved, it does not fire as a result. Then Eric does as he was taught all those years ago in school: stop, drop, and roll. It is not a lot of fire, on his clothes, anyway, so the 'stop, drop' part alone would probably have been enough. He stands, quickly, somewhat shakily, to his feet and heads to retrieve his gun. The burns have already began to knit themselves back together visibly on his skin in patches, though his mutation does nothing for his shitty tourist-t-shirt. Maybe Max just deeply cares about fashion. Max's shield goes up one instant too slow. The second bullet is shoved aside -- but the first gets through. It bites into him with a solid *THNKT*. Max, meanwhile, is *still* on fire, leaping to his feet -- his eyes *glowing* with energy. "FUCK!" he repeats, and then: "FUCK! FUCK! *FUCK*!" He is /running/ for the door as Eric rolls -- his arms thrust outward, two tongues of lightning *roaring* from his palms -- one hits the briefcase, the other, the wallet -- guided by the presence of metal to their respective locations. The briefcase glows hot white; the wallet just ignites instantly. Max hits the side of the doorframe on his way out; pain and confusion lance through him, dizzy from the bullet hit -- it's not clear where it hit him, but it's clear he's not doing so hot. He stumbles into the hallway -- still on fire -- arcs of lightning roaring up around him, painting the walls with long strips of black soot -- trying to electrocute *anyone* stupid enough to come out after him. Going for the stairs. Murphy's charging in an instant later, still half-naked, now holding the night-dresser like it's some sort of... two-handed *club*. When he sees Max Dillon isn't in the room, he throws it aside and turns to Eric, intent on administering first aid. Until he sees Eric is standing and retrieving his gun, apparently somehow /not/ dead. For a second, he just... stares, trying to process that fact. "Call the police!" Eric orders Murphy, even as he sticks his head out of the hallway. When he sees the sparks of electricity, he thinks better and grabs for his phone. 9-1-1. "This is Officer Sutton at the Sunrise Apartments in Clinton. 10-34, 10-34. I was just attacked by someone claiming to be an FBI officer. He's a mutant who shoots lightning. I got one shot off into him, but he got away. Shoot him on sight!" He slams the phone down, angrily. One hand runs through his hair, and he groans. "Fuck, that hurt." he whines, pulling off his ruined shirt and brushing the little burned bits off of him. By now, the burns are mere red patches on his chest, and he looks over at Murphy. "You alright?" When Eric tells Murphy to call the police, he makes a brief move toward the phone -- but it's slow and sluggish, like he's reluctant to do so. An instant later, and Eric's doing it for him. Murphy doesn't say anything -- he just *stares* at him. Up until the point where Eric is looking him over. Murphy doesn't look any worse for wear; it's a goddamn miracle that towel's somehow stayed wrapped around his waist, really. But he doesn't look like he has any injuries. He /is/ staring at Eric, though. Particularly the red patches on his chest. "Yeah. Didn't get touched." Then: "/You/ alright?" "Yeah. He didn't get me very good. Just a minor burn. Some creme, and it'll be just fin' in a day or so." Eric says, casually, with a little shrug of his shoulders. "This place is gonna be swarming with cops in a minute. Were you here?" he asks, eyeing the other man. "Pity." he murmurs, as his eyes fall onto the other man's towel. Murphy opens his mouth to say something about the 'minor burn' comment, and it's clear by the look in his eyes that this something is going to sound very close to 'bullshit'. But before he does, Eric's mentioned the magic words -- 'cops' and 'swarming'. Murphy's eyes widen -- and though he might still be aching, the man can certainly move /fast/ when he needs to. He's snagging up that folder of photographs, still on one of the nearby table-tops -- and as he does, he's moving back to the bedroom for his clothes. His voice emerges from within: "Is it gonna be much harder for you if I wasn't? I can't be seen with the pictures, but I don't give a shit about the rest." He /is/ putting on clothes. But that largely has to do with him not knowing how a naked man in Eric's apartment will be taken by other members of the force. Then, a moment later, more softly: "I've seen that fucker before." "They won't give me any problems because you were here. That's nothin' they don't know alreayd." Eric says. He frowns, glancing at his burns. "But he slammed the door open on me, not shocked me, and my shirt wasn't on me. Yeah?" he says, a note of concern in his voice. He glances around the room, sighing. "I'm billing the mutant division my goddamned security deposit." he glances at Murphy, giving him a look of surprise. "You have? Where?" "Alright. If they don't give a fuck, I was here for the sex. Leave the drones completely out of it. And yeah, I got you." He's shifting into his pants, now; the shirt soon follows. The pictures are neatly folded up and slipped into a pocket. As he buttons up, he responds to the last question: "Saw his picture on a file. Bout ten years ago, back when I worked in the military. Had his name, powers, and alias. 'Cept the file doesn't exist -- and I never saw it." Eric frowns and grunts. "Yeah." He places the gun on the countertop and makes a frustrated groan. "Great. Now I'm going to have the rat squad up my ass again and get put on desk duty for the next couple weeks. Lovely." he picks up his beer and takes an annoyed swig. His eyes slide over to Murphy and he grins, chuckling, wryly. "Man, Murphy. I didn't know you were /that/ Murphy." "The only reason," Murphy states as he finishes with his buttons -- moving for his socks, now, "that I am not now in the process of coming in there and beating the living *shit* out of you is because you are hot as fuck. And because a bunch of your buddies are about to bust in through that door," he adds, reaching for his shoes. "Seriously: I have heard over three thousand, five hundred, and sixty seven different variations of that joke in my life. That isn't an exagerration; that isn't me being cute. I've *kept count*." He tightens the laces, then sighs: "We need to talk. Later. After the police." He straightens, reaching for his tie, winding it around his neck -- starting to tighten it as he walks back out besides Eric. "Till then, I'm just some fuck-buddy and we have no clue what the fuck any of this was about." Well, they may /actually/ have no clue what the fuck any of this was about. But Murphy's point is probably 'no speculation'. So, with that said, he waits with Eric -- to help him feed the police a couple of white lies.