multiversallogs | where fast the Arctic nights set in

Entry tags:

where fast the Arctic nights set in

Who: Logan, Laura Kinney, Njoki Rainmaker, and some other people probably. Not all at the same time.
What: Existing in Baedal once an obvious exit sign has since not been found.
Where: Various!
Warnings: Swearing, so we can get an Oscar.

Shaking the cage of people in his same predicament, turns out, isn't as engaging as he had hoped. He doesn't like the CiD, it fits wrong in his hand, he feels like he could shatter it if he draws tendon and bone tight in a fist, and its mechanisms feel too small for his fingers. But eventually, he sends off a text message, some delayed and somewhat grudging.

could use that beer

He misses traffic, too. Cars don't spook so easily and he can live out of a truck.

There is a time after dusk that he picks up a scent, and follows it all the way into the Spatters. He'd been looking for it before and despite the waning hour, because a little darkness never killed nobody, and he had to know.

The evenings he isn't working in the gambling dens, with cards and fists both, to make his way are spent in hibernation on uncomfortable mattresses with a roof over his head. Daylight holds as many bar interiors as the evening. It isn't like useless, purposeless roaming never suited him before.

It just chafes, this time around.

[ OOC: See comments for some thread starters, both open and closed, otherwise make your own! ]

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No one here is stupid enough to call him on cheating. Everyone is an exciting new challenge and Logan could almost say that he was having fun. Almost. He doesn't often have fun in the strictest meaning of the word.

It's underground, dimly lit, utterly stinks of cigarette smoke and cloudy enough to think it's a fire hazard. Sometimes when his hits land, inside the ring of diamond-wire fencing, it sounds like taking a metal baseball bat to bone, which isn't completely a departure from what's happening there. He wins, mostly. Once, he didn't. So then he started using claws. It's just a different league, in Baedal.

After, sometimes he stays for a drink or to smoke. Sometimes he doesn't and takes off into the chilly winter evening, steam lifting off still heated skin.

[ OOC: Before, during, or after fighting, tag in however! This can also take a few threads if you want because he does this often. If you need a different neighbourhood, lemme know. ]

The last time Erik approached this man in a bar, he remembers, he and Xavier were barely able to introduce themselves before being told precisely where they could go. It's not a point of blame, really—he may have done the same, himself—but it was among the most memorable parts of the trip.
Back then, of course, he couldn't personally sense the guy from outside the building.

This is why, as Erik passes by a nondescript brick façade, its equally unremarkable door papered with the ubiquitous seasonal layers of faded and half-torn flyers, he is gripped by a legitimate double-take that stops him both mid-sentence and mid-stride. "She's gentle as a kitten, really, you needn't be intimidated—" It's well short of cartoonish, but for Erik, who generally conducts himself in an understated fashion, it comes off less than subtle.

"Hang on," he says to Xavier, who by this point may have overtaken him by a few strides, already turning toward the door before the words have even finished, "I want to see something."

Edited 2012-01-02 08:56 (UTC)

"I'm not intimidated, I—" Oh okay, Erik. He frowns, wondering what it is that got his friend's attention, and takes a moment to raise two fingers to his temple and do a careful mental sweep of the nearby area.

Huh. That's unexpected. Not to mention...different.

But since Erik is intent on going in, Charles is, too. They're admitted into the building very easily —too easily, some would say, but telepathy is fun like that— and walk on in to the bar area...if that's what it can be called. The place is an utter dive, but given the recreation it houses, it's not surprising. For the record, Charles doesn't feel unsettled in any way, although he does shoot Erik a questioning side glace.

"You know, I'm certain he made his opinion quite clear the first time." Then again, it's not as though potentially unwise, spur of the moment decisions have stopped either of them before.

They are two sets of many eyes in the crowd of many others. A final kick to the stomach of his opponent has the other man crashing into the opposite end of the cage, and there's no applause - no real applause, anyway. A few whoops from those that financially backed him, a murmur of conversation breaking like a wave around Logan as he lifts an arm and greases it elbow to wrist across his face, wandering for the gate. His jacket is picked up where he left it, drawn over bare skin and loose cotton.

Leaning, Logan barely listens to the bookie as his winnings are collected and counted out, and it's then that instinct kicks in enough for him to lift his head and spy the two gentlemen still watching him, even by the time the fight is over. He sniffs, but the air is acrid with smoke and, well, man-stench, and he dismisses them by the time he's being handed this new currency he had to learn before he could hope to gamble it on the cards.

It's pocketed, and he breaks away from the stranger.

"He wasn't the same the first time." Erik leans in closer to Charles to say this, as though anyone will hear him over the rabble anyway. And then the other mutant glances their way, and Erik lifts his chin, and perhaps they make eye contact briefly—or perhaps not. Either way, he adds, "Well, he's seen us. Come on." It would be excessively creepy just to hang around staring at the guy, after all, now that their presence has been effectively acknowledged. Now they must at least say a few words, or else he might become (more) suspicious of their motives.

(Erik would have have gone over anyway, of course, but now they're practically obliged.)

Edited 2012-01-08 06:37 (UTC)

Charles rests a hand on Erik's arm to stop him from going over quite so immediately. "That's not the only thing. There are large gaps in his memory prior to the past fifteen years. It's —this isn't the place to explain such matters. I'll tell you more later. But I think perhaps I should instigate the conversation." Like that went so well last time.

And he withdraws his contact with Erik to go and approach Logan. His body language is not loaded with the over confidence of their first meeting: he is more neutral, slightly cautious, but also not so easily dismissed.

"Excuse me —I hope you don't mind my saying congratulations. That was...quite an extraordinary display." Which he hadn't seen, not exactly, but he'd picked it up from the minds of others. "I'm Charles Xavier. And my friend here—" with a gesture to the other man no doubt by his side, "is Erik Lehnsherr."

Superficially, there's not much to link the man in front of Logan to the Xavier of the future. He still has use of his legs and a full head of hair. But there are certain mannerisms of hand, facial expressions and the fact that almost forty years later, he won't have changed his aftershave from a certain something with sandalwood undertones.

Oh, fans. Except Logan doesn't have the right kind of ego to not be suspicious of motives, an unimpressed glance from Charles, to Erik, and back to Charles where they encounter him on his way, nnnaturally, to the bar. Of course, those names stop him in his tracks, and they bring up their own associations in his mind; more predominantly of an aged man in a wheelchair, and his silver-haired equal more briefly in blurry notions of impartial encounter, battlefield moments.

"What?" comes out blunt and almost impatient, the kind of steel edged cynicism that might see sparks flying off it if tested. He doesn't search for clues of truth just yet, doesn't even think to, more looking for the punchline. "That some kind of joke?"

"You know us, don't you?" Subtlety, thy name is Lehnsherr.

Pardon him, he's just feeling enthusiastic about this ever so serendipitous encounter. It's one of the few times of late in which he hasn't felt stressed out over the prospect of meeting someone who knows more about him than he does, in a manner of speaking—probably because it's happening on his own terms. And it's sort of an amazing stroke of luck. And this fellow's skeleton is really interesting, and by the way he fails to make proper eye contact, Logan should be well aware that he too is well aware. As it were.

The images of himself and Erik forty years into the future make Charles do the telepathic equivalent of a record scratch and he backs out of Logan's mind.

Oh. Well. He was bound to see little glimpses at some time or other, whether it was accidental or with some purpose in mind. But it really is unsettling to see yourself so...old. And Erik, he was— What had it meant?

(The seeds of curiosity have been thoroughly sown.)

Either way, none of it puts Charles in a good mood and his trademark frown settles on his face. He does a slow headturn around the bar and as he does, everyone...freezes, with the exception of the three of them. A glass topples somewhere. And he turns to look back at Logan smoothly but squarely.

"My name is Charles Francis Xavier, son of Brian and Sharon Xavier, born in Westchester County, New York. As you can see, I am a mutant, and a telepath at that. A very talented one. Now, do I need to sit in a chair and appear bald as well before you'll believe me?" Subtlety indeed.

Edited 2012-01-15 11:32 (UTC)

He never answers Erik, but the look the metal manipulator gets is answer enough, a distanced sort of observation as if they were viewing one another through glass. It isn't the same stare Erik is indulging in, the same interested awareness; not nearly so flattering. And then, the air settles in that unusual way that Logan'd come to associate with one of Charles' more useful tricks, and he turns quickly towards the sound of the glass bouncing off the hard ground. It's an animal response, for this to have his hackles up, his expression steely.

He turns, observing the bar rendered frozen and silent from when it was all bustle and movement before. The gritty floor scrapes beneath his boots as he moves.

"No," he says, voice both gruff and hollow in the silence that's settled. He isn't getting any friendlier - the professor being among those he misses sorely, and this isn't exactly what he wanted. "A little show and tell goes a long way." Which is why he's suddenly moving, claws sliding out between his knuckles with a click of metal in the same time his arms swings to aim them for Erik and his face. Look alive, Magneto.

Oh, hello.

Had this fine gentleman not directed an unwelcoming look at him only moments prior, Erik would not have been nudged from observation into vigilance, and this may have ended differently just now. But he did, and he was, and given that Logan's skeletal enhancements are more or less singing to him, Erik—whose reflexes are at least quick enough to suspend bullets—is just prepared enough to retain his face.

His first and immediate impulse is to shove his friend aside with one arm while the other thrusts out toward Logan, which is easy enough to accomplish... unfortunately, there's no time to physically move him and so he uses instead a pulse of repelling force—as though the air itself has suddenly, invisibly solidified—that should at least knock Charles on his ass. (At least it's not full strength?) The initial rush of panic and adrenaline transitions fluidly into a hardening of his overall mien, and in this Erik collects himself with one hand still spread, whether to deflect a flurry of swipes or to provide a steady, impassable resistance against the one swing. Maintaining eye contact regardless of the method of attack. A severe gleam to his steely blue eyes.

Erik was not expecting this, but aside from the initial start it does not especially surprise him. Though he has heard only little of the probable future, it's been enough to foster the slow unfurling of a sense of inevitability.

And indeed, Charles lands on the floor, trying to catch himself on the way down by grabbing onto something (a chair) and things in the bar unfreeze for a brief, tumbling moment before he pulls himself up to a sitting position.

"Erik—" His hand reaches out, fingers splayed, which is partly to try and calm his friend down as quickly as possible as it is to realise too close. The adrenaline brings a rush of guilt along with it. This is his fault. He should have handled this better. He should have— Because he could have—

His breathing is raggedy as the other hand goes out in Logan's direction with a pointed glare. "Both of you, if we could please calm down." Also, no ripping of faces or skeletons. That would be lovely.

The savage sounding and terribly macho snarl that rips from Logan's throat is briefly drowned out by the noise of the fighting ring when Charles slips, but the ragged tail end of it punctuates the silence before there's prim English emphasis, polite where there are no manners otherwise. Flashing claws arc through the air and then suddenly stop, noiselessly finding invisible repulsion.

There's another growl, and in general, Logan sounds a lot angrier, a lot keener, than the stoic silence and unwilling grunts of fighting a paid fight. His other arm comes around as if he might slash Erik from shoulder to pelvis, but repulsion cuts him short.

He gushes out an exhale, taking a step back, and never putting his claws away. A rather ugly smile courses across his face, then, as dark eyes commit this new Magneto's face and presence to memory.

"This is me calm," he says, voice low and gruff.

This is a relatively new trick, this repulsion business, and it surprises Erik how easy it is to maintain once it's there. Still, although the signs of exertion are mild, to a hunter of men they should be obvious; he does not present the same picture of effortless stoicism to which Logan would be accustomed. Neither is he indifferent about this encounter. He did not come here to start a fight, and although he will finish one if need be, he does not at all want to do it... hence the polite alternative of a forcefield versus flinging the man away bodily, or worse.

He is first to break off the stare when his attention shifts to Charles with a flick of the eyes. He is, of course, still acutely aware of the other mutant's bones, and quite prepared to respond to their movements.

For now he says nothing, only waits. (Waits for Charles to say something reparative, probably.)

There is an immense look of relief in Charles' eyes when Erik's flick over to his, and for so many reasons. Pulling himself up and giving himself a little brush down, he turns his attention to Logan with a severe if contrite look.

"I am deeply sorry if my actions came across as a sign of aggression. It was foolish of me to try and rush any acknowledgement of the man you know. I'm not him; not yet. I suspect I'll have to go through a great many trials before I'm even close." Subconciously, his right knee twitches in a little fidget.

"We met you, albeit briefly, before we were brought to this city. That would be forty years ago for you." Before the great lapses in his memory. "That was all. So if you'd like us to go, ah, 'fuck ourselves,' is a term I've heard you use, that's perfectly understandable. We'll leave and never bother you again."

As a note: Charles Xavier sounds about as hilarious cussing as anyone can imagine.

In the middle of Charles' words, Logan snorts breathily in wordless tough guy amusement, eyes steered down towards his own knuckles - they're as clear of scars as they tend to be, despite metal splitting through his skin. He can hear the old man in this young guy's words, and an eyebrow raises up at the announcement that this ain't the first time.

"I dunno," he says, lifting his eyes to observe ~Erik~ once more, for all that he listens and responds more to Charles than he is interested in any words that happen to come out of Magneto's fucking mouth. His own almost smiles, and even that much isn't particularly pleasant. "Maybe it's my turn to bother the pair've you. It's a small city."

A glance, then, the telepath's way, and he can't quite fix him with the same steely stare, but his voice is no less wry and unforgiving as he adds; "And trust me - my problem isn't you." The ', professor' at the end of that is bitten off before it can be said.

"Whatever you think I intend to do here, you're wrong." Erik's voice is especially resonant in the frozen silence, its steadiness matching that of his gaze. He'd returned his focus to the matter at hand about the same time as did Logan, and there it stays, attentive, penetrating. Apart from the minuscule movements of his fingers still spread wide, his hand remains still—and his posture is still entirely defensive. He may be telegraphing silently that he could completely throw you through the wall if he wanted, buddy, and do you really think this is a good idea, and why must we do this with Charles right there, but he is at least making the effort not to seem it.

"I am not the man you remember." Maybe. He hopes. "I'm a prisoner in this city, the same as you. There is no need for this hostility."

(Ten bucks says this just pisses him off even more.)

Charles breaks his gaze to slowly look back and forth at the two men. Something is very clearly going on here. And it obviously has something to do with whatever will —could go on in the future. Nothing is set in stone.

Also if he happens to pick up on Erik's train of thought there —well (yes, you must do this in front of him, and thank God for that.)

After a moment, he turns back to Logan, eyes firmly on him once more. "A problem with Erik is a problem with me." He doesn't posture when he says it. In fact, his whole manner is eerily calm. "Should you feel the need to come after one, or both of us, then I see no alternative than to take defensive measures."

His words are measured out carefully. This is not a threat unless Logan makes it one. Rather it's as casual a reminder as possible that if he knows the abilities of Charles Xavier in the future, then he knows what the one in front of him is capable of. Please do think on that.

It wasn't any secret, that this is how it used to be. The professor was about the only person that bothered to call him Erik. The attention settled on Charles, from Logan, immediately frosts over at the line drawn in the sand, because what is known in theory is different from practice. "That's a mistake," Logan states, impatient, dismissive, although after half a second, he thinks to clarify, "The first part."

And then he steps back, his claws sharply retracting in the same movement. No blood. "Unfreeze the bar. I'm up for another fight later, and I'm not gettin' any younger." Or older, but that is beside the point. His shoulders roll, readjusting the sit of his jacket. as he looks back at Erik. "I'll take my hostility out where I can earn for it."

And he says nothing as to Magneto's opinion regarding how they are alike, and how he is different - the eyebrow raise and the lack of curiousity in dark eyes is aggressively silent disagreement.

The retraction of those brilliant claws snatches Erik's attention away momentarily, and with this he seems to accept that the moment of hazard has passed. And so, just like that, he lowers his hand.

The way he looks right now, his tight expression, scowling eyebrows and all, it's not that he's angry, exactly—if asked to describe the feeling in a single word, he might call it frustration. He sincerely does not like that one of his own kind is unwilling even to give him a chance, purely on account of the reputation forged by someone who, arguably, is a completely different person. It upsets him. He's afraid, honestly, that this someone else is not a different person at all. Were this realization to come on his own terms, it might be different. He might even accept it. That all this has been thrust upon him, especially in the course of abduction, is strictly not okay; he rejects all of this in the most heartfelt way.
So, yes. He probably looks angry.

Quiet once again, still guarded, and now prepared to leave.

"Your concern is noted." It's said in the driest tone of voice he can manage. And without taking his eyes away, the bar returns to its usual hustle and bustle (with one very confused gentleman wondering how he managed to drop his drink). He wouldn't want anyone to think he has his guard down, after all.

But, after an extra beat or two, he does turn away to look at Erik. He knows that it's not anger the other man is feeling, can sense the upset and frustration, but he doesn't say anything. Instead he meets Erik's scowl with a fierce look of his own, eyes flicking to the exit and back. Let's leave, please?

He turns half-way to give a polite (if stiff), "Good day, Logan," before setting off. There's no need to forget manners, after all, even if they'll most likely be met with scorn.

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where fast the Arctic nights set in

a cage fight in mafaton. open to whoever.

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