Logs:Deliver me from those who work evil; from the bloodthirsty save me.
| Deliver me from those who work evil; from the bloodthirsty save me. | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2024-04-21 "I'm so damn tired of mourning." (in the Wake of a Bit of Technopath Chaos; followed by asking for help.) |
| Location
<DC> A Corner Starbucks - SW Waterfront | |
Is this the same Starbucks? Is it a different Starbucks across the street from the first Starbucks? Leo does not, currently, look much like he knows or cares; he's sitting stiff at a patio table, staring a little blankly at the untouched coffee in front of him. The day is still beautiful. The block is calm. His shoulders have tensed up hard like he is expecting this might change at any minute. Regan, at least, seems more at ease. Maybe it's the refreshingly persistent lack of humming in the air. Maybe it's the complete non-attention the group (even Leo!) is getting from passersby, courtesy of just a light touch of illusion that makes them look like slightly more Average versions of themselves. Maybe it's that she's washed the coffee off her hand and refreshed her cup. But, probably, it's: "Bureaucracy moves slow. It should take them some time to sort out the hole the technopath will leave, but we should take advantage and strike swiftly, once we have had a chance to plan." Probably there is some other degree of obfuscation between them and The General Public, because she seems fairly unconcerned about being overheard, and nobody outside the group is giving them a second glance. Heather has duplicated her previous order, and at the moment has just been working on scooping up whipped cream with her stir stick. She bounces her foot a couple of times, loose sole flopping up and down. She gives a momentary frown, and then gets back to scooping. "Easier without him looking over our shoulder. Fewer murderbot swarms is better. We can do some fast planning. Cut through the bureaucracy." Their ride home appears across the street (at a different Starbucks) with an abrupt crackle. Ion pauses, then lopes across the way to hop over the patio rail. He drags a chair over from an adjacent table and promptly fails to sit in it, hook just rat-tat-tatting restlessly where his hands still rest on its back. "Plague Doctor he say that man full brainwash, that true?" Mystique (having taken care of The Average Version of herself on her own in a nondescript shade of Middle-Aged White Brunette at the moment) is draped languid in her own chair one arm slung over its back, her other hand stirring absently at her also heavily whipped-cream'd coffee drink. She nods at Heather, once, decisive. "If we pick our strike points well, we should be able to deal a hefty blow to their infrastructure before they have time to adjust. We --" She breaks off as Ion approaches. The narrowing of her eyes is very faint. "Does that matter, at this point? You took care of the traitor, I hope." Regan is fishing a piece of somewhat caramel-striped ice out of her coffee, presumably to crunch on it but her hand stalls just above her cup. She drops the ice back, eyes ticking sharp to Ion. "How many more of our brethren," she's saying, low and even, "ought we to lose to indulge some X-Man's hunch?" Heather's eyebrows raise at the question from Ion, and she looks up, "I do not know. How can you tell? I want him to not be exterminating us like vermins." She looks around the table and then lifts the cup carefully to her mouth to drink, leaving a spot of the whipped cream on her nose. A wave of her hand offers Ion to sit in the chair that he just pulled up. "Robocop used to be tight with Joshua. Do intel for the raid crew. Labs snatched his whole damn house up, decade ago, they thinked Halim got kill but he here walking talking murdering and don't remember nothing 'bout his life with Joshua. Who ain't," Ion is turning to Regan, his voice sharper here though he quickly marshals this vehemence into something less edged and more respectful: "-- just some X-Man, he and I come out a cage together. Then go back in over and over and over." His fingers are clamping down hard on the back of the chair. "I ain't looking to put nobody in more danger. You think I ain't furious? You think I ain't mourning?" A crackle of energy shivers down over the iron of the patio chair, a moment before he finally turns it around to slump backwards into it. "But I'm so damn tired of mourning." Regan taps one finger slowly against the side of her cup. "Where is he, Ion?" She's glancing up at the sky, as if expecting a resurgence of Sentinels right now. The sky remains comfortingly low on Spiders, and eventually she looks back to the electrokinetic. "I am sorry about your friend, and about the man who was his teammate. But there is so much blood on his hands -- so much of our Brothers' blood -- and with the power he holds he could so easily call down so much more. If what you say is true, the Halim your friend knew is dead. We have to think of the living." Heather takes another quick drink and then pivots in her chair to better face Ion. "I am tired of mourning too," her voice plays quietly on the recording, "I have been strong enough to stay alive. Not enough to keep others alive. I do not know how to protect our Brothers. Remaining Brothers. From this threat without." Her voice pauses, and her lips press into a tight line in time with it. "Removing it." Ion's leg is bouncing, jittery, and in contrast his nod as his Sisters talk is slow and heavy. "{I know. I know. I just.}" His hook lifts, tip raking through his hair. "I get in this shit to make things better. {For all our people.} Where the fuck we getting on that if we just let them..." His arm drops, hook clanging against the arm of the chair. His other hand is rubbing hard at his eyes. "He unconscious," he finally answers, "hundred damn miles from the closest computer." For a moment he's quiet, his jittering calming to a tense stillness. Eventually he looks back up at the others, an uncharacteristic pleading in his expression. "Just. Give me a day, yeah? Just a day. I go myself, talk to the Neighborhood goddamn Watch. I know you don't love him none but you know Baldy the best nutcracker around. If he can't think of no way to defuse this bomb I'll fry the man myself." Mystique has been quiet, through much of this. Just sipping slowly at her coffee and watching the others intently. "Xavier is a misguided fool but I have little reason to think he wants us all dead. And," something of a mild afterthought, "having tangled with his lackeys, this technopath poses a severe risk to his children, as well." Regan is listening to this in silence, her eyes once more returning to searching the sky. "A day," she finally says, clipped, "and no more." Somewhat unconsciously, her fingers have been closing tighter around her cup, but she lets go of this hold at the first buckling pop of the plastic. "If you fail here -- if any of our brethren come to further harm through that man's workings -- it will be on your hands." Heather tilts her head, expression returned to her usual relaxed neutral. "I do not trust him. But I trust you." She swirls her stir stick to blend in the remaining cream with the dark mocha, her reflective lenses fixed on Ion. "So long as the threat is neutralized, so long as our people are safe. Let me know if I can help you. I trust you to do what is best." Ion exhales heavily, and though his posture is still tense the look he gives to Heather is grateful. His arm lifts, hook raking messily through his hair again. "Might not save him, but I ain't gonna fail." There's a loud clatter and scrape from inside the (gender neutral!) (wheelchair-accessible!) restroom. It's another beat before Isra stalks out, wings folded down around herself, tail lashing quick and agitated. The low rumbling growl in her chest does not cease when she explains her long absence with, "Bathroom, not accessible." She does not even bother trying to sit, just picks up her cooling coffee and crouches so that she isn't looming quite so much. Her eyes take in the grim faces of her siblings and lowers the mug again. "What did I miss?" | |
