Logs:Build Me Up

Build Me Up
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Ion, Erik, Buttercup
In Absentia Malthus	2023-04-10 "Gonna warm his fucking heart in that hospital."
Location <BOM> Woods - Ascension Island
The squat cabin in this little clearing is cheery outside, bright welcome mat on the stoop, garish string lights wound around its balustrades and eaves, plentiful seating on the wide porch in the form of colorfully woven hammock-chair, porch swing with comfortable cushions, a sturdy rocker. In the small yard out front is a much-used fire pit. Currently, adjacent to his cabin, a second, considerably smaller cabin is in the process of being erected. Ion must have been at this since early; he's made quite good progress on the frame already. What the purpose of this other cabin is is anyone's guess -- it certainly looks too small to live in. Storage? Motorcycle garage? The vagaries of Ion are often erratic. It's a sturdy job, though, solid reminder that before he was in A Life Of Exuberant Crime he was in years of construction work. From behind the curtains fluttering in his open windows, Stravinsky's "Firebird Suite" is playing, certainly far from his usual tastes but he is humming along happily as he drills. There's a soft crunch of footsteps through the undergrowth, a soft rustle of leaves and branches being pushed aside. Dusk is making his way through the woods at a slow wander. He might be coming from bed, or heading there, or maybe hoping for a pre-bed booty call when he stops by Ion's cabin, dressed currently only in pajama pants, sneakers, dark sunglasses, no shirt, a vape in one hand. The sight of the ongoing construction brings him up short, brows quirking up. He drifts closer, one wing stretching out in lazy greeting to touch against Ion's shoulder. "... bruh?" A thumbclaw flicks questioningly at the mini-me version of cabin-in-progress. Upon returning to the island in the early hours of this morning, Magneto — definitely went back to bed, on account of being Ancient. He has spent most of his waking hours since checking on various Brothers and Sisters, congratulating them and toasting their achievements with a steadily depleting bottle of Oban. It’s with this bottle, tucked into his iconic helmet, flipped over and floating in his wake, that Erik joins the other men in the woods. A far cry from the Helmet and Cape and Black Armour he wore for their midnight mission, Erik dressed down in a loose red silk bell-sleeved button-down, the top half of which has been left undone, tucked into black leather pants hitched with a maroon belt, and, most casual of all — black penny loafers. There’s a slim gold band on his right right finger, where it once was habitually bare — another ring, this one of bright steel, hangs from a thin chain around his neck, visible where he’s left the buttons undone. “Mr. Ion,” he begins, with a practiced booming celebratory voice — and then stops, white eyebrows knitting together. Probably he was going to say something else, but what comes out is, “…what are you building?” Ion finishes with the screw he is currently on and lowers the drill. He leans into the touch of Dusk's wing, cheek pressing to the velvet nap and his hand lifting to brush calloused fingers up against it as his eyes squeeze shut like a very pleased alley cat. "Bruh," he answers right back after this small interlude. Has he slept? He has probably not slept, and when Erik arrives in his clearing he is on his feet like there's a spring in him, wide hell yeah grin on his face in answer to that celebratory boom, bound in his steps that carries him halfway to Erik no doubt for (slightly zappy) back pat -- -- that arrests sharply, fades into something oddly -- almost -- kinda -- sheepish -- for him -- at the question. Admittedly he does not do sheepish well, it's trying, really, making a valiant effort towards sheepish but kind of gutters out halfway there and lands at a sort of puppy-who's-chewed-up-your-slippers, okay, his head will sort of bow, biiig eyes, your anthropomorphization can take you the rest of the way. "Building?" Like there is not an Entire Ass Cabin in progress right behind him. "I ain't building nothing yo you brought the good shit huh?" Gesturing towards Erik's bottle of Oban, though, is maybe kind of conspicuous given that he is in fact gesturing with the electric drill he is very much still holding. He starts to reconsider his stance of Not Building Anything, frowning just a little at the drill, then at the halfway-to-a-cabin, then at the drill. "Oh that shit I think you know Easter done come already it be Christmas before you know it you know what if we don't got a good Nativity here where baby Jesus gonna sleep he need the donkeys he need the camels he need the llamas Dusk be a perfect angel for it I gotta get started." Dusk is, probably, staring at Ion. His sunglasses are very dark -- he's not trying to Be Cool, his eyes are very sensitive! -- but he is looking with blank-black lenses towards Ion for a long and silent time. Taking a long drag from his vape because clearly he is not high enough. "... bruh." He drags a palm down his scruffy cheek, sidling closer to Erik to offer -- his weed for the Scotch? "Tell me it was satisfying seeing that fucker's house go up in --" And now he is staring again, because there is a movement from Ion's cabin, and not the gentle flutter of the cheerful lacey curtains. A dog -- quite a large one, a squarely built Malinois, fawn through most of its body with sable mask and socks has finally decided to see what all these new voices are about, leaping effortlessly out through the open window to circle the assembled Brothers -- ears pricked, tail high, not currently either hostile or eager but certainly a lot of keen curiosity in its gaze. Hmm. Dusk is scrubbing at his face again. Looking at dog. Then at Ion. Then at -- small cabin? "...br..." No. He doesn't say it. The Oban is floating — further away from Ion and Dusk both, actually, as Erik’s eyebrows hike up (at the preposterous lie of nothing) and higher still (at the idea of a Nativity on his island). “I do not recall inviting Jesus into our Brotherhood,” he says slowly, eyes tracking over Dusk’s bare chest and spread wings with (appreciative) doubt -- does Erik know where an angel goes in a Nativity scene? Probably not, but he is looking back to the Nothing-Build like he is superimposing Dusk over the frame. "It was certainly --" The dog leaps towards the trio and Erik starts, stepping back away from it, eyes going just a little wider. He watches the dog circle for a moment before very slowly looking back at Ion, eyebrows as high on his forehead as is physically possible. Probably he means to ask what the hell in some language he and Ion both speak, but what comes out is, "...Nu?" Ion looks briefly -- wounded? Perplexed? "Jesus my brother, yo --" But the appearance of Dog abruptly interrupts the profound theological discourse that was no doubt to follow. No sheepishness this time, only a bright and unaffected delight -- he's rushing a little closer, dropping to his knees to beckon to Dog. "Shit ain't he perfect we blowed up his house and anyway we couldn't just leave him with that goddamn fascist I know he a fucking cop but he reformed now -- look his little mask he the fucking best he could be a Brother too, huh?" He's looking up at Erik, wide-eyed and hopeful. "I gotten him his own bed and everything it's fucking plush." With a Brother now on his level the dog is more confident, trotting over with an easier wag in his tail. Shoving his face at Ion's shoulder before turning to a thoughtful investigation -- Dusk's wings? Sniff-sniff-headbutt? Hmm. Floating bottle of Oban? Smallsniff... spook. Nah. Erik's pants? Nudge. Lean. Dusk splutters, coughs. He stares down at the dog, a toothy smile creeping across his face. "You took his fucking dog, man. Shit." His wing is curling back tentatively in just a lil pet towards the inquisitive shepherd. "Oh man just think how fucking pissed that bastard would be thinking of his fash-ass dog becoming a revolutionary. Cuddling up by our fire. Playing fuckin' -- fetch with Magneto. Priceless. He got a name?" Erik's expression doesn't change, even as he floats his helmet and the scotch in it Up and Away from -- "Malthus Rogers's dog." Wide eyes and high eyebrows move from where Ion is crouched to down by his leg, where Dog is getting comfortably acquainted with the leather. "You brought Malthus Rogers's dog here." Does repeating this make Erik seem less flabbergasted? Not really. He keeps looking at the dog, then -- very slowly -- bends down to place one tentative hand between the dog's ears. "What I suppose to do let him run off, get hit by a car?" Ion is gesturing at Dog earnestly, just a couple sparks fluttering from his fingertips with the motion. "He didn't choose being no fascist he just want to chase squirrel and nap. You know that dude an absolute shitfuck to him he need a good life now." His brows furrow at Dusk's question, and he shifts just a little uncomfortably. "He got a tag --" He's moving on from this quickly though, brightening again: "But shit he oughta leave behind his shit-ass human name, pick a better one. Oh-oh-oh, I been watching that -- that." He's snapping his fingers as he tries to think of it, "Them badass girls with the superpowers, little-Heather up Freaktown she love that one," he's holding up his hand at approximately kindergartner height lest anyone think he means their Sister Heather, "anyway Buttercup she the most badass I think this dog be a good Buttercup, yeah? Looks like a Buttercup." Dog -- Buttercup, maybe?? -- is happily leaning into the touch now, head rubbing up against Erik's hand. Tail swooshing, tongue lolling out of his mouth. "... the Powerpuff Girls?" Dusk supplies, brows lifting before an amused laugh huffs out of him. He crouches by Erik's side, lifting a hand to gently brush the side of his fingers against the collar tags. "-- Patton," he reads, then shakes his head as he presses his wings against the earth to lever himself back to his feet. "Oof, no, you are definitely right, he's way more of a Buttercup. Too bad we can't send Malthus a picture of him playing with you --" Though now he's frowning thoughtfully at Erik. At the dog. At Ion. A sharper smile, gleaming and fangy, brightens his expression. "Bruh." Erik's eyebrows are settling down as he crouches lower, gently moving his hand from head to the side of Buttercup's neck for more tentative attempts at pets. The tags quietly break away from the collar, steel of the name tag warping and folding on itself until Patton, as well as the name and address of his former owner, is erased. "I have only cared for cats before," he is informing Buttercup, quite seriously, "so you will have to tolerate much ignorance as you join us." When he stands again it's to summon his helmet to his hand. "Buttercup will be a fine addition to our ranks," he declares, before catching Dusk's expression. Looks to Ion as if that will explain matters. Back to Dusk, understanding dawning. There is a twinkle in his eyes when he removes the Oban and glasses from his helmet to flip it right side up. Very serious, this, also -- "Shall I get the cape, or no?" "Yessssss boy you one of us now!" Ion is smooshing excitedly at the dog's cheeks, scrunching at his ears, before he leaps to his feet with a pump of his fist in the air. The drill is forgotten on the ground -- Extremely Fancy Doghouse can wait. "Cape for sure you gotta look full on for this. How much time you needa do your --" He's swishing his hand in the air at Dusk like casting a spell with an invisible wand -- is that how computers work, maybe in his mind! "-- I gotta go get some proper-ass toys this boy then we off, okay, I know exactly where, this be perfect. Gonna warm his fucking heart in that hospital." --- <NY> HAMMER Black Site (Defunct) - Long Island This nondescript facility is far from just about everything in the pine barrens of northwestern Suffolk County. There was never much to it to begin with, but what's left of the beige prefab buildings are scorched and ruined, several holes in the tall razor wire-topped fence in the far distance. At some point someone graffiti'd the familiar "US GOV'T PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING" signs; one, in slightly faded red, has an iconic helmet logo on it; across the way another in fresher black, a crudely drawn penis. Dusk has still not put on a shirt. He does have actual jeans instead of his pajama pants, at least, and is at this moment, just standing well aside and filming, silent and amused. Across the ruins of what was once a facility housing The Most Infamous Mutant Terrorist in the world, an exuberant Belgian Malinois -- once known as Patton, aspiring to be called Buttercup, though it may take a few more days of treats to get him there -- is racing, sleekly muscled, powerfully bounding, the picture of strength except perhaps for the Captain America rope-tug-plush toy loudly squeak-squeaking in his mouth. He's evidently delighted with the squeaking, he squeaks it a few more times just for good measure as he runs up to his human, lowering his head as if to drop the toy -- then very sneakily (and quite clearly pleased with his cleverness) tossing his head aside to joyfully turn this game of fetch into a game of tug instead, paws planted in the barren earth firmly so that he can pull plush Cap with a playful ferocity from side to side. Magneto — helm atop his head, billowing red and black cape held to his chest with an ornate burnished steel cloak clasp, loafers exchanged for black combat boots, a wedding band on each ring finger -- descends from the air where he launched the toy, crouching down in front of his former cell with one hand outstretched. "Good man!" He grabs one slobbery rope end, far more respect in his tone to the dog than he ever had addressed Malthus with. Magneto laughs, hearty and genuine, when the game changes, earnestly pulling back on the toy. "Brothers," says Magneto, with a quick glance at the camera that costs him this round of Tug, "Joyous news! This dog has turned his tail to our oppressors and joined us in the fight for mutant liberation --" Dog, pleased by victory and eager for more, jumps up and barrels over Magneto, licking at his face and helmet. It takes a moment for Magneto, through his amusement and praises to the newest member of his Brotherhood, to remember to continue his message: "-- I am pleased to introduce our new Brother.... Buttercup."