multiversallogs

Who: OPEN
What: an evening outing
Where: around Brock Marsh, possibly a little further abroad if desired - any setting is fine
When: the evening of his arrival
Notes: this will take place after he meets Kate, naturally, but that thread isn't finished yet so if something comes up, I will edit it in and note that!
Warnings: none

It's comforting to be ignored, as the people of Mog Hill are more or less used to newcomers staring at everything. Still, he doesn't like to play tourist, so John steals looks rather than gaze outright, keeping his head down and radiating a certain irritable unsociability. As he trudges along, glancing here and there, he probably looks a little disreputable — it's the whole slightly unshaven, more than slightly sullen thing. And maybe the furious chain smoking. Which is not really calming him, since he only has the one pack and it's running low already. With that in mind, he eyes what looks like a convenience store and then enters to peruse the cigarette options.

He's traveled quite widely for someone his age, so not seeing any familiar brands doesn't throw him, but it is still a little weird. Scowling at the rack, he hunches his shoulders and tries to collect himself. He needs a job. He needs to get the fuck out of that inn, and get familiar with the city.

He needs to go home, but if this shit happens often enough to have a fucking pamphlet for it, that's probably not happening. God knows he's not exactly indispensable to the Brotherhood, anyway. No one contacted him and that doesn't mean they're not here but it means he's on his own, which he hasn't been for a long time. Purposeless, too. Maybe he should go back to school, however the fuck that works here. He can't really imagine that.

Selecting a brand at random, he then lingers over the available selection of newspapers. Some of them remind him of tabloids, except they're not sensationalist — instead of LIZARDMAN EMERGES FROM FLORIDA SWAMP, EATS PET CAT, it's like LIZARDMAN OFFERING SUBSTANTIAL REWARD FOR RETURN OF LOST CAT. There's a thought. He could go cat hunting.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Weapon program?" There's familiarity with that, too, and a little tiredness. God, he's sick of hearing about government labs, of any incarnation. Maybe someday, they'll all stop doing it.

"Clarice's world, and you can ask her about how that went. She don't like me none, but you should be in the clear." Easy enough; he can't remember for shit if Pyro did anything in that timeline. He can play that hand for himself. "And she's my girlfriend who is sick of this shit, so don't bug her."

Gambit's always been a ladies man. Maybe he's just really whipped.

John just nods, indifferent, as both answer to the question and agreement to the last part. It might be useful to know the girlfriend's name so he can properly avoid her, but he decides not to push. Remy being whipped does not occur to him. The request seems reasonable. He's curious about Xavier too, but asking more will probably make the whole thing where he just said it's not important look less sincere.

"As long as it's not Joanna...?" That's really doubtful in his mind, just because he doesn't think Gambit's her type, but he could always be wrong, or Joanna could be different anyway. "Anyone else I might know?"

Leaning one elbow on the bar top, he rubs irritably at his temple. Things could be worse. They could be better, though, too.

He shakes his head. Not Joanna. (By all that is holy, do not let the subject of Rogue come up. Good lord.) "You mean here? I dunno, that's my runnin' tally so far. You look too young to know any of the kids. There could be more who aren't on this cohort, though, we don't got access to anything citywide. No internet." He stubs out his cigarette, and then smiles, lopsided, at John's expression.

"Pretty much, homme." ... Pretty much a headache? Yep.

The subject of Rogue is a spit-take waiting to happen.

"All right." And then, as if it is an unfamiliar process, he adds, "Thanks." Then— "Will you let me know if you see anybody popping up?" The question makes him sound about as young as he is, maybe even younger, and he grimaces a little. Gambit isn't a friend and John should be more careful. He might as well wear a sandwich board announcing what a newbie he is. But Remy has clearly been here a lot longer and will have more feelers out. "I mean like... well, no, actually I guess anybody but Magneto or Joanna can go fuck themselves. It's not like anybody will actually see Mystique unless she wants them to. I guess Madrox wasn't bad. That's all, though."

"You just a basket fulla sunshine, ain't you." He drains his beer. "Yeah I'll keep you hooked up. Don't be a stranger though, it's hard to tell in these places when somebody goes quiet if they got kicked back out or if they're dead. And there's plenty here to kill you. Speaking of-"

He gestures for a refill. Aha, he wasn't done. In either sense. When the bartender vacates, Gambit continues: "The reason why the network ain't secure is it's government run. The government likes to do fuckall about things that don't benefit it. Like allow a cover-up for anti-xenian cults to happen." Presumably John can peg the word xenian by now.

The second of blankness is similar to what he did when Gambit said Xavier was dead, but this time it's distant and not personal, and when the second passes, he laughs — not scornfully or dismissively, but a short little cynical thing that escapes him even though he didn't mean to let it go.

"Yeah. Okay. I was wondering. So many different kinds of people and weird shit here, I didn't know, and I didn't think it was gonna be okay but for a second there, I did wonder." John finishes his drink and doesn't order another. "Girl I was talking to, Kate, talked about vampires and zombie ants or some shit. Yeah, okay, fine. Keep my head down and all that."

"I'm not sayin' keep your head down," Remy says, and the smile in his voice now isn't really all that nice - but nobody's ever really known with him, have they? "There's vampires and there's demons and werewolves and people look at us the same way. I'm sayin' don't get lazy and don't bother callin' the cops if you're in trouble. You handle it yourself."

Part of him realizes he's advocating killing humans who try and shove him around based on his genetics, but then, it's the same advice he'd give Billy or Tommy - even though he knows handle it doesn't mean the same thing, where they're concerned. Fact of the matter is, the Militia's not going to help them. At all.

(Maybe they would. Maybe he'd have more faith if somebody like Jean was here to talk to people. But even when he's playing nice, Remy knows what the score is; he can't pretend otherwise.)

"That what Australian rocket fuel Pyro would do, call the cops?" A few years ago he would've been snappy and offended, but there's no fucking point, he's come to understand that. (Most of the time.) So instead he sounds both amused and annoyed.

Remy just laughs. "I got way better looking jackasses to hang out with then your unfortunate"...ly dead "cousin, homme, believe you me. But you look pretty damn shell shocked under there, so hell if I know what you're gonna do. You got enough cash to keep from havin' to mug anybody for a bit?"

Now he does bristle, but it's purely reflexive and it goes no further than that; it just disappears after it happens, the way a cat swipes at anything small and fast-moving, then goes back to sitting there. About as threatening, anyway. "Yeah, it's fine."

... because he's smoking more than eating, but whatever, he's in no danger of starvation. "All right, I'll keep in touch. If I don't die and get settled then maybe I'll ask you about training some time, that okay?"

He expects a reaction along those lines, so he doesn't blink - John can take it however he wants, but it's not pity or him looking down on him, just the fact that they're both mutants. Old habits die hard, and all. (Though he could probably work on delivery and audience. Oh well.)

"Knock yourself out. I'll be around." And not hiding, at all, because he's too old for that shit.

John nods and leaves some money on the counter, mind already elsewhere by the time he makes his way out of the Apache.

:E

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject