rogue ✘ marie d'ancanto ✘ xmcu (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gloves) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capencowl20202020-01-15 09:00 am
gloves) wrote in capencowl20202020-01-15 09:00 am
Rogue & ota prompts
Who: Rogue and ota starters
When: Throughout the course of the event
Where: Underground meta ‘bars’ and ‘clubs’
What: Drinks, music, info-sharing, boxing, etc.
When: Throughout the course of the event
Where: Underground meta ‘bars’ and ‘clubs’
What: Drinks, music, info-sharing, boxing, etc.
« Meta Bar (ota) The bar’s dark, filthy, always just a touch damp, and, as usual, smells like stale beer and cigarettes. It’s not most people’s first choice, but it’s a relatively safe place for metas to congregate and Rogue’s been to plenty of others like it during her travels. It’s a good place to get get out of the cold, get something to drink (though she’s adopted a strict no-alcohol policy), and sit down. More importantly, it’s a good place to make connections or get intel. The sort of intel that people don’t exchange over tea or cocktails with little umbrellas. She stops first at the bar, where she asks for nothing more than water and a new bowl of trail mix because the bowl on the sticky bar top looks like it’s had endless fingers rifling through it. Later, she moves to a back booth. Some people won’t even come out of the shadows if they think they have an audience, a sentiment she can’t really blame anyone for. Besides, the music blaring through the cheap speakers is quieter back here and it’s easier to have a conversation without having to scream at the other person. « Boxing Ring (OTA) There aren’t a lot of ways for a meta-on-the-run to get cash. At least not ones that don’t involve theft. Rogue actually tries not to break laws that aren’t related to the shit the government is pulling. More than that, except for cage fights and boxing matches, she tries not to use her powers to get things like cash or food or shelter. But these underground fights tend to play fast and loose with the rules. And if someone wants to assume that her 5’6” frame and soft southern accent mean she isn’t a threat... well, that’s their problem. Though she usually sticks to the rules that are determined before the bell dings. Of course, her favorite fights are the ones that include using superhuman powers. There’s nothing quite like watching a person’s eyes bug out when they’re staring down the business end of a set of bone claws. For this round she’ll let her opponent pick terms: powers or no powers, boxing or a no-holds-barred throwdown. « Wildcard Up for all wildcard scenarios too! Or if you’d like something specific for your character I can start that below in the comments. I can also be found on Plurk for plotting at |
Back Booth
The information broker, and fellow mutant, offers a nod as he sits across from her. And look, he's even extended the courtesy of coming to her fully gloved, all of his skin but his head covered. It's a sign of respect, or as close to respect as Prodigy offers anyone, to show that he isn't here to take information from her, save what she might choose to offer.
"Priscilla," he greets, the specific way he curls her name meant to remind her that he knows who she is. Of course he does. He recognizes her. "Good evening. Interesting times we're living in, are they not?"
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It doesn’t mean she lets her guard down; it’s always up these days because there are very few people who can be trusted. And sometimes, even the people who had been put in the “ok to trust” category ended up proving the opposite.
There’s only so many times a person can be burned before they just stop reaching out altogether.
But the fact that she doesn’t just get up and walk away without a word is her own sign of respect. And David being covered up is appreciated. As is the beer even if she won’t touch it; the idea of not being fully in control of herself, even with so much as a slight buzz, is something she’s determined isn’t worth the risk. As it is, her power control isn’t what most people would call ideal.
“I’m more interested in what a guy like you is doing in a place like this?” she says, skipping the pleasant small talk. “You looking for someone?”
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"The same thing I am doing anywhere I go. Making deals. But that's on hold for the moment. I know you probably aren't buying or selling. As for who I'm looking for, I've always wanted a guy that really got me and likes long walks on the beach."
Maybe his sense of humor needed help.
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Sure, someone that really got me and likes long walks on the beach sounds like a low threshold for standards. But in either of their positions, it tends to be a little more difficult to find.
"I doubt you're going to find that here," she says with a soft, amused snort. At least the long walks on the beach part. Most of the people seemed more interested in drinking themselves into oblivion and picking fights. "Then again, these days, this is probably the closest thing to speed dating that we've got."
Something that neither of them likely has time for anyway.
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"No, it doesn't seem like the right place for me to find anything more than a single roll in the hay, so to speak. But with our lives, we both know that relationships aren't going to happen."
Too much of the world hating them.
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Besides, close connections were dangerous. Friends and loved ones were leverage. Little more than cannon fodder in this fucked-up world. And it was so much easier to stick to acquaintances who, sure, might get arrested or killed tomorrow, but at least you weren’t expected to be around to pick up the pieces.
It’s a method of attack that’s served her well since escaping a detention center. And she’s not about to abandon it to cozy up to someone who was more likely to turn on her.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Which was total bullshit. They also both knew she, for one, wasn’t even so much as going home with anyone for the night. “You can’t expect people in hiding and fighting for their lives to do much more than live in the moment, can you?”
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David chuckles and shakes his head. No, he knows people a lot better than that. His fingers tap the table thoughtfully as he considers whether he should tell her or not.
"Intense situations where people are in serious danger? It releases the right chemicals to make the brain decide it is in love."
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“Look, I’m not going to say what anyone should or shouldn’t do. I’m just saying that only a moron gets attached to someone here. Odds are they’ll end up dead or arrested before you can celebrate an anniversary.”
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"Love, my dear, is just chemicals. And one day we will find a cure to it."
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"You know, every time I think I'm the biggest pessimist in the world, I get a visit from you."
No complaints there; it was good to have the occasional reminder. But, frankly, given the world they were living it, there was the potential that it was all just a chemical fuck up. Or a Matrix redux. Either way, thinking too hard about it was likely to drive her insane sooner rather than later.
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"Oh my dear, I've barely even begun to be negative. But that isn't why I'm here. I thought I had something that might interest you."
million dollar baby
Oh, sure, there are plenty of fighters who aren't returning champions who compete night after night, plenty of folk who drop in to try and win some cash once or twice and are never seen again. It would be easy to think that this was the case of the little skunk-haired southern belle... if you only stuck to one ring. Little secret: most of the underground fight clubs in the city were owned by one woman. That meant that a cut of the profits were regularly picked up, and very often this was done by one man. (Not because it was a particularly dangerous job, but because he liked the fights. It was a bit of a treat for him.)
This is the fourth time he's seen her. As usual, her opponent is vastly underestimating her, and when she knocks him the fuck out he looks flabbergasted even as he hits the mat. Oh yes, there's something very special about this woman considering how many times she's won - and always in different places. Clever.
"Robbie, hold my coat."
The announcer falls dead silent as Matthew steps up and into the ring, already loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.
"I'll give you three hundred bucks regardless of who wins," he says. He's nearly a foot taller than her, and in the light of the bare bulb overhead the crimson implant in his right socket shines like molten lava.
The announcer clears his throat. "Lady, beating Threshold is a hundred-to-one odds," he mutters. "Big payoff, but Jesus Christ, don't throw your life away."
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Rogue’s not worried about death; hell, in this world there are plenty of things worse than that. Besides, with Logan’s healing factor — as long as she manages to switch it on in time — death isn’t really on the table. And three large is plenty to take a couple of weeks off from pounding people’s faces into the floor. Better yet, it means she can call it an early night which she hasn’t had in a while.
Maybe the glowing red eye should give her pause, or at least make her wonder if he’s some sort of cyborg or part robot that’s going to try to crush her windpipe with his metal hand. Unfortunately, these fights have made her a little cocky. So while she’s aware that, sure, she can lose, she’s not used to losing. And she doesn’t plan on doing so now just because of a glowing red eye.
“Make it five and you can take the first swing,” Rogue says instead, ignoring the announcer’s warning.
She needs a new jacket too. The sleeve of the one she’s wearing had gotten torn by the guy she’d knocked the fuck out who’s currently being carried out of the ring.
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As he speaks, he stands easy, shoulders relaxed. It's bullshit, of course - as the word "goes" dies on his lips, his body turns and his leg swings up, his foot aimed right for her face. He's big, but he's very fast. If she's lucky, she's faster.
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Rogue figures this will be relatively easy money. Granted, metas tend to have tricks up their sleeves and sometimes it takes a few bloody noses or even broken limbs before she gets a true handle on what it is they can do. But that's why she keeps Logan's powers flipped on for this: even a broken bone won't keep her down for long.
It's also why she doesn't duck or dodge when he goes to kick her -- well, that and he's on his game, not giving her a ton of time to react to begin with -- and instead takes the blow and the sickening crack that comes with it. In a twisted way, she's gotten used to the pain and has come to look forward to it. She's practically numb most of the time at this point; pain is at least a brutal reminder that she's still alive.
Also, she had said he could have the first swing. She's not going to try to avoid it. Five hundred bucks are worth a momentarily broken nose.
Staggering back a few steps with a gloved hand over her face, she straightens back up after a few moments, the bones in her face visibly shifting and returning to their normal placements. Quickly switching on a superstrength template (he had said everything goes), she gives him an almost amused smile. "My turn," she said, taking quick steps forward to swing one-two, first with her left hand to his stomach, then with the right up to his jaw.
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He manages to straighten up (mostly) and grins. "Oh, I like you," he says. He winces a little. Nothing broken. Yet. He suspects he'll need a trip to one of the underground doctors after this to check on his organs, though. The myriad of scars on his body betray the fact that it won't be the first time.
"What other tricks you got, babe?"
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The fingers on her hand are momentarily immobilized, the bone so cleanly broken through and the swelling so immediate that, for the half a minute or so it’ll take for it to mend itself, her right hand drops to her side, out of commission for the moment.
She’s guessing he’s a telekinetic, just on the basis of likelihood. But this place has granted so many weird powers to different people that, for all she knows, he can manipulate bone the way Magneto can manipulate metal. And telekinetics are a versatile bunch.
Her grin’s almost wolfish, Logan’s borrowed senses picking up the faint popping sounds of her wrist repairing itself even over the din of the surrounding crowd. She already knows that fighting someone like him with super powered punches is a bad strategy; she’d been shocked if he actually let her land another blow now. So the strength quickly gets swapped out for Erik’s template. Speak of the devil.
Reaching out to her side, she doesn’t take her eyes off him — at the grin and the scars that make it obvious this isn’t his first rodeo — even as a metal chair from the sidelines comes flying at him to whack him over the back of the head. “We’re just getting started.”
Like she’s going to give him a direct answer.
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He circles slowly, like a big cat. Without warning, he pushes mentally at the back of Rogue's head, forcing it down toward the mat. At the same time he darts in and raises a knee hard and fast. The resulting crack as face meets kneecap is brutal enough to elicit another cheer from the crowd. Matthew grabs Rogue by the hair and turns, whipping her away again. He stays where he is, watching, waiting a moment to see how she'll recover.
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Rogue lets the momentum take her instead of fighting it, ending up crouched over with blood dripping from her face and pooling on the concrete. “Didn’t your momma tell you not to hit girls?” Not that it matters; this is an actual fight, for money and he seems to be taking serious blows. A good number of men she fights hold back, at least at first, and then it’s too late for them. A small number of misogynistic assholes seem to like hitting hard simply because she is female, and those she’ll slash across the face with bone claws. Either way, she wouldn’t expect him to hold back just because she’s a member of the fairer sex. She’s glad he isn’t. It’ll make her feel less badly about it when she inevitably has to stomp his pretty face into the ground.
Because she doesn’t think this one is going to just stay down when she hits him hard enough to make his ears ring.
Her voice sounds strangely distorted, a result of so much of her facial and nasal structures being cracked and warped out of shape. But with a mental nudge, rebar from the ceiling starting bending and morphing, literally flying across the bar to her, top over end. And when she stands up fully holding the makeshift metal staff, as bloody as she is, nothing actually looks broken.
“Would you rather keep both arms or both legs?”
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The rebar whipping through the air is yet another surprise, one Mathew watches with an expression that telegraphs a species of resigned disbelief. How many superpowers can one person have? The answer is apparently a lot more than he thought.
"Depends," he replies. "Would you rather lose your heart or your lungs?" His head tilts to the right and the gaze of his good eye loses a little focus. His lips curve. "The heart. I'm such a sucker for a strong woman."
He doesn't raise a hand or anything so dramatic - he just looks at her, picturing the sturdy muscle hidden behind its cage of bone. Mentally he squeezes, an invisible vice tightening suddenly and painfully around her heart, disrupting the beat. A few moments more and it has the potential to be lethal indeed. He considers just tearing it out of her body, but he really wasn't kidding: he loves a woman who can kick his ass.
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Rogue drops the metal rod, all but her most practiced template (Logan's) immediately switching off due to the distraction, and clutches at her chest. She knows she needs to concentrate on anything but the feeling that the life is being squeezed out of her, millimeter by millimeter.
She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, like all of the air is gone from her chest. And, even though switching on three templates at once is typically an awful idea, she's not willing to turn off Logan's, she needs something defensive, and she definitely needs a way to communicate her intention. It'll be good for a relatively short burst if she can convince him of mutually assured destruction if he keeps going. So she drops to one knee, a hand going to the floor and a sheet of ice spreading across the mat to Matthew, creeping up his feet and then his legs, but primarily starting to freeze veins and capillaries and arteries. Paradoxically, she thinks it will feel like his body's burning from the inside out.
And then a quick telepathic message meant just for him: My heart, maybe, but I'll freeze every last inch of you until you shatter if you don't stop.
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Not entirely unappealing. But he has loyalties.
Matthew stops squeezing her heart at once. He holds his hands up, struggling to breathe through the pain of being literally frozen in place.
In spite of everything, he smiles. The crowd around them is baying for blood, but he speaks as if she's the only one there.
"Truce?"
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It's entirely too possible for her to actually pass out after overextending herself for Rogue to think there's even the least bit of sanity to continuing this fight when he's giving her an easy out. Because if she does pass out, Rogue isn't so sure that he won't finish the job.
The ice starts receding, all the way down to his feet, and then back to her hand, and she can already feel that the use of this power isn't as precise as she'd like it to be. She just has to manage to look like she's not having any issues.
Rogue's also ignoring the crowd; if they had their way, the people in the ring would beat each other to a bloody pulp with their bare hands every time. And she manages to get to her feet without looking as shitty as she feels, keeping her eyes trained on Matthew.
Fuck the money at this point. Also, fuck this fighting ring. She's not coming back to this particular one after this. That would be stupid. "Truce. Call it even." Unless he's planning on pulling something the second he sees her guard go down even the smallest bit.
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"Happy to." He steps closer, looming above her. "I don't normally do this," he says quietly. "Normally? I'd kill you." He grins. "But you're really good. You ever need a job? You can find me."
He steps back again. "Hang tight for a minute, babe, and I'll get you your money."
He walks to the edge of the ring and gestures to someone. A nondescript man hurries over, and a moment later he's turning back around with a short stack of bills.
"Hundreds are okay, I assume. What's your name?"
Wildcard
He's surprised when he first spots her. And, of course, he can't unsee that shock of pure white hair, and he can't pretend he never saw her. If it ever got back to his superiors that he saw a high level threat like Rogue and did nothing...well, he'd be sent right back to reprogramming. So he follows her, keeping out of sight, following proper protocol. He needs to wait to confront her until he's somewhere he can keep her contained. Fortunately, she seems to be sneaking into some abandoned warehouse.
He radios for back up. It'll be a while before they get there, but it's what he's supposed to do, and he's definitely going to need it. Then, quietly, carefully, Jonathan slips inside behind her.
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The first thing she does is head to the top floor and find a window so she can have a quick, decent eye on the street below.
The second is to dig around in her duffel bag for some leftover jerky and a half-full bottle of water.
She has a sort of sixth sense for noticing when something isn't quite right from years of hiding, and something doesn't feel right here, though she doesn't realize it's Jonathan following her. Anyway, dammit, it's been a long day and she's going to sit on the window ledge, have a few bites to eat and a few sips to drink and then she'll deal with this prime piece of real estate being invaded.
Past experiences tell her it's most likely that someone who's seen her come in thinks they can take advantage of the situation. But it's always a good idea to be prepared for anything.
Swallowing a mouthful of jerky, she calls out, "I know you're there. You might as well say hi."
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He steps out, walking into plain sight. "Well, it looks like you're on high alert, same as ever."
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"How many people do you have outside?" she asks like they're just having a casual conversation about the weather. She doesn't expect a truthful answer, but any answer might give her useful information.
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He honestly doesn't know for sure. Not that it matters. That's not information he's going to share. He's just hoping that there are some outside, or at least, will be fairly soon. He radioed for back up, but he has no idea when or how many people would respond.
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Leaning back on the sill through the cracked out glass, Rogue glances down at the ground far, far down below. “What do you think? Can I survive this kind of jump or not? More interesting: will you make it if you try to follow?”
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He glances at the window and shrugs. It's easy to be nonchalant when he doesn't really care about the outcome of any of this. He just has to follow orders and proper protocol. It doesn't matter whether he succeeds or not.
"I have no idea what you can survive. You just crashed at my place a few times. I never really saw you in action. The real question is...can you really ever escape? Even when you get away, they're always watching, always waiting. Someday, sooner or later, you'll think you're safe, only to realize you're completely surrounded with nowhere to run."
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"Now you're just getting philosophical on me, sugar. And, I've got to tell you, I've been locked up and there's no way in hell I'm going back." Been there, done that, without barely any time to breathe upon her arrival here. As much as, sometimes, she thinks maybe it would be easier to stop running, she's also seen people who have been completely warped by the government.
She's not going back to that.
Rogue has no damn clue if Jonathan can follow her, if he has a weapon, if there will be a wall of officers when she hits the ground. What she does know is that moving quickly and erractically before she can end up any more cornered is her best bet. Because, even if his backup isn't already here, it's surely on the way.
"See you on the ground," she says, reaching for her bag and then swinging her legs over the sill and boosting herself off. Telekinesis will buffer the landing and Logan's powers will heal any damage if she miscalculates too badly.
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