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The Birth and Death of the Day; [Shaw, Betsy]
Topic Started: Sep 20 2009, 02:20 AM (579 Views)
Blackout
Unregistered

Time of Day: 13:35
Place in Timeline: September 20th




Lucian had come to a decision. He wasn’t yet entirely convinced that it was the right decision, but it was a decision. Spontaneity was fantastic and marvellous when it was all purely for shits and giggles, but clichés and self assurances fell flat on their fucking faces when you were kneeling in a puddle of piss praying to a god you didn’t even believe in, interceding for some divine intervention.

It had taken him a while to come to this decision, two months in fact. During that time he’d become an outlaw, a fugitive, he’d been a chameleon, a changeling, he’d adapted and been a hundred different people, worn a thousand different masks, and all in such a short period of time. It was wearing on him, and he was exhausted.

He’d started out in the desert. He festered in those pockets where summer still clung and cultivated sweat, houseflies, bluebottles, dusty train stations, where flat beer fermented in warm bottles, stacked on tables littered with men that wore age spots and frown lines like a mortician wears a jacket, wrinkled skin that spilled into folds and furrows browned like old leather. The sun was a malevolent entity that dwarfed the horizon and cooked his pasty British pallor as fast as if he was basted in oil, and blinded him if he dared look up into the sky.

He stayed in motels that smelled of shit and urine, motels with cockroaches and mosquitoes and dirt packed thick beneath the beds. When he wasn’t paranoid he holed himself up in hotels and took expensive rooms, drank the minibars dry and ordered mounds of food and watched DVDs on widescreen TVs. When the paranoia was at its worst he kept moving, borrowing cars and dumping them hours later, convinced he was being tracked, frightened that while in the CAGE they had inserted an undetectable microchip into his skull. Telling himself that his powers made that absolutely impossible wasn’t enough to settle his agitation, and at one point he managed to convince himself that they had invented some miniature impenetrable null field, rendering it virtually invisible to his probing nanobots.

Two years in the institution showed its mark in habits that became personal battles, and routines he hadn’t expected to retain. Mattresses were too soft. He’d wake up at seven-thirty sharp, expecting the rude blaring of sirens to rouse him from the confines of sleep. He’d wake up on the floor jarred and disoriented, waiting to hear the screams of some poor shit getting his ass reamed. More than once he thought he heard his number being called, and in a wild panic wondered if he actually had left behind the bars and jumpsuits and highly nutritional slop they passed off as food. Maybe he was still there, locked in the psych ward, jacked up on enough sedatives to bring a bull elephant to its knees, dribbling the rest of his life away. Perhaps he had finally parted ways with what was left of his sanity and imagined the whole escape.

Outside, he felt out of control for long enough to know what freedom really meant.

Sitting in cafes he’d press his nose against windows, press it flat until his cartilage crunched and misty steam-shapes made distorted faces on the glass, and he’d listen to how his breath swelled and gasped in foggy bursts across the pane. Above magazines he didn’t read, which he snatched from stalls when no one was looking, he’d stare at the commuters and the customers, second-guessing them, analysing how they moved and drank and ate, their whole worlds reflected in coffee and tea and pastries. People-watching became more than a hobby, it was an obsession, a desperate survival tactic, convinced as he was that he was being followed, and at times terrified by it, and at other times indifferent, but mostly somewhere in between.

He’d get lost in places where people refused to relent their clutches on the waning season, adorning drab storefronts with plastic flowers and Perspex butterflies, stringing up lanterns that glowed like embers in the autumn gloom. He’d walk amidst the featureless crowds without a hood, without an umbrella, face upturned and pale, bloodless lips blanched by dashing rainwater. He’d be a blemish amongst the flawless gaggle of waterproofs and mackintoshes, a stick figure dodging colour splashes and parasol sanctuaries. His freckles would fade into awkward blotches, eyes irritated by the stinging weather turned red, crimson and bloodshot.

At first he adopted people. He became their surrogate parent, their foster carer, gaining confidence as he moved from town to city. In exchange for sofas and meals he charmed and befriended lonely housewives, single mothers, friendless proletariat, and sometimes he fucked them, sometimes he left them believing whatever they wanted to, and sometimes he left them fucked up and drowning in a steaming pile of bullshit.

After that it was the cities, the bars, the one-night stands, the three-day weekends. Some stayed with him, burnt onto his synapses, like Molly, the rabid feminist.

Molly was born ten weeks early. Boys, she said, wearing nothing but a bra, a cigarette and some cheap perfume, boys born premature don’t last nearly as long as girls do. The weaker sex, they’re born with stunted lungs. It’s the testosterone. Too busy pumping blood into balls to waste time on something as trivial as lung capacity. They’re born with their testes intact and their brains shrunk and their lungs shrivelled, because procreating is clearly more important than breathing or intellect.

Sex, she said, her face framed by a halo of smoke, has destroyed the male populace. Screwed over by your dicks. There’s some morbid irony for you.

Lucian scratched his chin. Earlier, he’d nicked himself shaving.

Fingering the irritated scab, he said, “D’you ever think about autopsies?”

She rolled over, jaw slack and slimy, the inside of her mouth lit up by the proximity of her crumpled cigarette, amber glow reflecting silver-gold on her fillings. “The fuck you talking about?”

“Decomposition. Dissecting cadavers. Myocardial infarctions.”

“…Are you high?”

“Maybe. Does sniffing petrol count?”

“What?”

“Does sniffing petrol count?”

She sat up, chewing on chapped lips, flicking the cigarette until its cherry threatened to pop. “You’ve been sniffing gas?”

“Petrol.” Upon inspecting her room Lucian thought the drapery was particularly tasteful. He admired how it pooled like a massive tumour beneath the rotting windowpane.

“It’s fucking gas, you asshole.”

In between sliding from the pile of empty bottles towards the overflowing laundry basket his eyes met hers. “I haven’t.”

“You haven’t what?”

“Been sniffing petrol.”

“Then what the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s a complex mixture of hydrocarbons produced by mixing fractions obtained from the distillation of crude oil with brand-specific additives to improve performance.”

“I know what gas i-“

“Petrol.”

“We’re in Americ-“

“If inhaled it can cause pneumonitis. Pneumonitis can cause pulmonary fibrosis, pulmonary edema, hypoxia, leading to unconsciousness, coma, death. Your lungs start to dissolve, fill with liquid; you sweat profusely, cough up blood, sputum, and ultimately end up drowning in your own bodily fluids. Can also be a complication of pneumonia, viral influenza, radiation therapy, and many other tasty treats. Horrible way to go.”

She was half dressed now, foot thrust into a pants leg, unbuttoned shirt disentangling around her arms. This was the point that doubt and fear began to set in, the sickening moment of realisation. It showed in the way her hands shook, the saliva that had softened her mouth evaporating. He could tell because her voice had lost that smooth consistency and had started grating in the back of her throat. Don’t pick up strangers at bars, girly. “What the hell is your point, jackass?”

“Lungs. Waste of bloody space, don’t you think, luv?”

There had been more like her, some with faces he couldn’t put names to, others with names he didn’t like the sound of, and he liked them because of that, playing his old games in faint ghosts of what they had used to be.

The paranoia always caught up to him, like a stray dog looking for a leg to hump, and it was an incessant fucking relentless paranoia burrowing and digging and drilling, until he was convinced a tropical parasite had wormed its way into his cerebellum and was feasting on his serotonin. Alongside ideas of that surreptitious tracking implant, Lucian thought himself well and truly shafted.

So he’d made a decision, a questionable decision, but a decision. He’d risked ploughing through databases and riding the tumult of data and navigating the deafening streams of information that had led him to Mr Shaw’s current whereabouts, and set out with the intention of intercepting the big scary man with his hidden monsters and occult organisation while on his way to a business meeting.

High up in the lofty stories of the resplendent Waterdown complex, sitting in an untended seat somewhere in the subsidiary Cybertek offices, Lucian played with a pen, clicking and unclicking it and doodling on a piece of printer paper that had been left unguarded. It was riddled with all sorts of fun facts and figures, bank accounts and personal information; a Mr Gerald Wight’s account details strung quite carelessly on an untended file that any old unscrupulous beggar could come along and snatch up.

While waiting patiently for his future employer, he reclined on the high-backed chair, slumping into it, sheaving through piles of documents that all seemed terribly important and dull. Everything smelled of leather and carpet freshener, even though the floors were highly polished pine. He imagined he looked quite interesting, wearing a borrowed suit that was several sizes too big, hair that had gone unwashed for several days gleaming under the flagrant lighting.

The offices were bare, minimal, sleek and refined. Emotionless, dull, lifeless and insipid. Fastidiously boring. Steel juxtaposed eddies of wood, Asian couture stamped and chiselled in the feng shui chic of this monotonous and frigid wonderland. Nothing said professional like the sour impersonality of twenty-first century architecture.

Even the vibrant roar of technology seemed here to have dulled to a smooth purr.

He hoped Mr Shaw would be happy to see him. Apparently the man didn’t like him.
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SebastianShaw(old)
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You couldn't go wrong with investing in the microchip.

For the past forty years, scientists had made near-miraculous breakthroughs in the field of computer technology. The internet... once nothing more than small bits of data passed from one computer the size of half a room to another equally large machine through a fifteen-foot cable. At the time, no one but a handful of people with no real life gave a damn, and now it was impossible to do business without the world wide web. It made business productivity skyrocket... despite the presence of fucking solitaire.

And that's why Sebastian Shaw was snapping up the small subsidiary of the corporate monster known as Roxxon. The major player had so many different interests that it had failed to realize the little gem it had in its possession – their own little diamond in the rough. The small business owners were genius, in Shaw's opinion... if only they had someone with clout sit and actually listen to their ideas, and that was where Sebastian and his business associate came in. Unlike his competitor, he actually took the time to seek out up and coming entrepreneurs and inventors who merely needed the financial backing and connections to fulfill their lofty dreams. It was a partnership that was the backbone of the capitalist economy.

“Right this way, gentlemen... er... right this way...”

Their escort was a reed of a man, bespeckled and sweaty as he continued to adjust his collar. Despite his thinning hair and shallow lines, he was a relatively young lawyer fresh out of Harvard, and this was his first large case... one that would make the firm he worked for quite a bit of money, and seeing as they actually let him take the case against their better judgment, this moment would either make or break his career. Shaw could tell he was seriously considering running to the bathroom for another look at what he ate for breakfast.

Having very little patience for lawyers... especially ones that twitched more than a chihuahua, Shaw gave his amethyst-haired business associate an eyeroll and walked past the younger man, “I'm well aware of where the offices are, Mr. McDonald. I was here four days ago.”

Approaching the door, Shaw grasped both passage handles and pushed down and forward, shoving them open as he walked through the doorway into the sparse room. Immediately his eyes fell on a person he hadn't seen in... a long time, but a face he hadn't forgotten... nor the name associated with it. To say he was surprised to see this particular individual here was an understatement; Sebastian was floored. Since that fateful day the man sitting at the desk in front of him disappeared from the British interrogation room where he was being held, the Bishop had heard nothing from him, except maybe a few blips in telecommunications he suspected might be a result of the technokinetic's meddling.

And now here he was... obviously waiting for him, and in the office of a microchip design company; the irony didn't escape the man.

“Mr. McDonald... go wait in the downstairs lobby.”

The lawyer glanced at Shaw as he stopped beside him, his eyes bounced back and forth between his client and the stranger at the desk, “I... sir? Who is this?”

Sebastian gave him a threatening glare, “If you value your job and your life, then go wait down in the lobby. I won't tell you again.”

Without hesitation, he spun and nearly ran out of the office, brushing by Miss Braddock on his way down the hall. Shaw fixed his gaze back on the reed-like man in a suit that was obviously made for someone else, fixing him with a smirk that betrayed none of the surprise he felt.

“Miss Braddock, I would like you to meet an acquaintance from my days in London... Mr. Lucian Crane.” Sebastian turned and closed the double doors to give them more privacy... the conversation was likely to take a direction that required a more clandestine atmosphere than open doorways allowed. Once done, he turned back around, “I believe he would like admittance into our little club.”
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Betsy Braddock
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With the approach of autumn, there had been a lack of warmth in the air, chased away now they were inside the building and so the telepath was wishing she had left her coat in the car, instead of carrying it under her arm. Shaw had persuaded her on this venture, and she was not sorry to be accompanying him. Takeovers were not always pleasant businesses, but you never got far in the world by being pleasant. She was building herself a reputation now; not having to cling to the one already tacked to Braddock Industries by her elder brother and previously, by her parents as they were not so long out of the world that people would not remember their command over the company.

The little scrap of a man was quivering like a small, nervous vole that was about to be snapped up by a pair of foxes, or maybe a fox, as he seemed to nervous to even glance at her for more than a few seconds, before he ripped his attention away to scurry after Shaw. The schoolboy demeanour was wearing thin on the telepath, and she greatly wished she could be rid of him by one swift mental command, but, obviously, there was some sort of need to have him scampering around their heels like a puppy.

“Right this way, gentlemen... er... right this way...”

Betsy smirked at this, raising an eyebrow at the man and walked with a subtle swing to her hips and shoulders back, her blouse and skirt snugly fitting her shape. It was hardly the place to pose, but if the man was just going to tie himself up with his tongue then he obviously needed some conditioning. Hoping he wasn’t about to vomit over her Louboutin’s, Betsy gave Shaw a smile as she caught his eye roll and carried on after him, glancing at her surroundings…Ugh, the décor would have to go. It jarred and tried to match, without really matching...The telepath shook her head, chasing away such trivial thoughts as the Bishop strode into the room before them, pushing open the doors, only to stop at the sight of a rather creepy looking man in the room beyond.

He turned, ordering the lawyer to depart and Betsy frowned a little as he withheld saying anything to her. Sometimes she wondered if he forgot he was no longer King. The lawyer, firmly dismissed, brushed past her and the Englishwoman took a few steps back, a slightly furious look on her normally collected face. Turning her violet head, she gave the dark haired man seated in the office a dark glance. He seemed perfectly happy to be causing so much attention from Shaw.

“May I ask what on earth is going on here?” she requested, quite primly, narrowing her eyes at Sebastian. She had rarely had the cause to question him, or his motives, but right now she was getting irritated. The little, greasy monkey was giving them the sort of grin that implied to the Queen that he was more than slightly deranged, and not in the almost charming way of Longshot, or his brother Shatterstar, who was growing quite comfortable in her service.

“Miss Braddock, I would like you to meet an acquaintance from my days in London... Mr. Lucian Crane…I believe he would like admittance into our little club.”

“Oh, really? And what exactly does he have to offer, Sebastian? I do know we’ve had a recent habit over the past few months for taking in waifs and strays, but really,” she broke off, tossing her coat over a side table and growled slightly, well aware the man was still there, but not particularly caring. “If I wanted a dog, I’d have gone to Battersea Dogs Home and picked out my own. I wouldn’t let one come sniffing for me.”

Slightly childish fit over, she folded her arms and looked at the sealed doors that led back to relative sanity for a moment, before looking back to her mostly trusted Bishop, and indeed, she found she could trust him more than Vincent, and so felt she could value his opinion and her expression softened into something of a smile and she titled her head to one side, studying the older man’s features.

“Alright then, I’m prepared to be convinced. I assume you weren’t expecting to see him at all…” she gave the other man a sideways glance as she spoke, wondering if he was going to impress her and take the imitative, making his own case to her.
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Blackout
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Mr McDonald was a funny little man, sweating like a pig at a slaughtershop. Lucian liked the way he danced out of the door, huffing and puffing and turning all sorts of vegetable colours: carrot, beetroot, aubergine, watching him in the periphery of his vision as he doodled a horrified stick figure frozen forever in flailing dismay next to a stick house with stick smoke billowing from stick windows.

Once alone, delighted, Lucian dropped his handiwork, slapped his hands together and grinned, spinning around on the chair so he came to face the two of them, with their expensive suits and sour expressions. He gave the violet haired woman a little wave. She was looking at him as though she wanted to trepan his temple with her stiletto, which, all things considered, didn’t sound like such a terrible experience. Lucian leant forward, his face a picture of fascination, oversized jacket crumpling in all the wrong places.

“I was beginning to think Britain was some bizarre little place I’d cooked up in my imagination. Where you from? Can’t really pinpoint it with the old Queen’s English there.”

Pitching until he slid from his perch, rather than lever off he managed to slither to his feet and meandered towards the pair, hands thrust in pockets, a contented smirk twisting his mouth into a pleased knot. She was a pretty thing; familiar features… couldn’t quite place it. Maybe she just had one of those faces. The generic model look. His memory hadn’t been the same since CAGE, and everything was all rearranged, like an office that had its files strewn across the floor. The information was all there… but sorting through it was like wading through word soup, and it was all out of order.

“I went to Battersea once. Dreadful noise. Reminds of swimming pools in high summer. Mindless babble and germinating bacteria and indiscriminate urination. Come to think of it, kennels are probably more hygienic. At least the dogs pee on their paper.”

Shaw got a sidelong glance, Lucian gauging his body language, and he waved a finger at Miss Braddock. …Familiar name, too.

“She’s your boss, isn’t she? And you didn’t tell her about me. I’m hurt.” The finger wagging turned into a proffered hand, and he leant closer to Betsy, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m guessing you’re far more polite than he is, I didn’t even get a handshake last time.”
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SebastianShaw(old)
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“No,” Shaw said, keeping a deadly gaze fixed on their unexpected guest. To put it bluntly, Crane was as dangerous as he was insane, and if he remembered correctly, the technopath was quite out of his head. Sebastian didn't like him, and he was rather convinced that Miss Braddock's opinion of him would develop along a similar strain. The man was socially awkward in every possible way, and seemed to enjoy making people uncomfortable and providing shock value for the sake of it, a quality the Bishop neither understood nor appreciated.

“I wasn't expecting him. In fact, I was half-convinced he was dead.”

Out of his peripheral vision, Sebastian caught sight of his Queen staring at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to provide some sort of explanation behind all of this before shooting her a sales pitch, highlighting all of Lucian's good points. If that were the case, she was looking at the wrong man. He assumed Lucian had looked them up to renew his application to the Hellfire Club, but for all he knew, the eccentric young man no longer had any interest in the organization. It had been a long time since Shaw had heard any word on the wayward technopath, after all.

He tore his eyes off Lucian to give Betsy a look that said that Mr. Crane was now her responsibility. Marry fucking Christmas from Sebastian Shaw.

The Bishop turned and sauntered toward the liquor cabinet, reaching for a tumbler and the brandy as soon as he was within arms length. He poured himself a generous half-glass, not even bothering to look over his shoulder as he explained, “A long time ago, a young man capable of doing extraordinary things with computers and machines allowed himself to get caught by the law in London. It was in one of their interrogation rooms that we met, and after showing me a couple of parlor tricks, he expressed a desire to ascend into worlds he'd only seen pieces of.”

Placing the lid back on the flask with a light tinkle of crystal on crystal, Shaw turned, leaned against the cabinet, tucked his free hand under the opposite arm, raised his glass to Lucian with a small nod, and took a sip. “Still interested in those scary secrets, I see.”

Placing the tumbler on the countertop, he pointedly looked at his Queen, “May I get you something from the liquor cabinet, Miss Braddock?”
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Betsy Braddock
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Swathed in an ill-fitting suit that made Betsy’s inner fashion guru curl up and die, the man peeked at her as if she were some fantastical butterfly in a jar. His English accent invaded her ears, enquiring where she was from and she made a small face as she realised he would realise what her home actually meant, unlike all the Americans she spent her days with now.

“Essex. Though I lived in London for a while,” she admitted, wondering why she was being so free with the stranger. Shaw seemed to be in a slight state of shock, which surprised her, as he was normally a man of composure. Betsy wasn’t entirely sure she blamed him. The young man seemed crazy, going off on a rambling speech about swimming pools and the dogs home, before coming to the realisation that she was the one in charge. The telepath took a step backwards as he came a little too close, whispering at her.

“I’m guessing you’re far more polite than he is, I didn’t even get a handshake last time.”

“And you’re not getting a handshake this time,” she replied, icily, her queenly demeanour coming through now she was free of her simple model turned businesswoman role that the public would see. “Stand back a little please, there’s a good boy,” she waved her hand a little indifferently at him as if she really were shooing a dog.

Sighing inwardly, her attention returned to Shaw and she listened to his tale. Apparently this man had managed to breech into an area of the Club’s details, or so she assumed by the nature of the conversation. He seemed very much interested in any secrets he could glean from them, else he would not have gone to so much trouble in getting there before them. Betsy was not a great believer in coincidence, having psychic powers and all. There was obviously something at work here.

“May I get you something from the liquor cabinet, Miss Braddock?”

“That would be appreciated, thank you,” she nodded at the Bishop. If truth be told, she needed it to try and kick-start herself. How on earth was she supposed to handle this? She was getting a little tired of people dropping into her path like this.

Turning back to the man she looked him up and down, her heel scraping the floor as she turned her foot a little. “What did you say your name was?” Betsy asked, not sounding particularly interested.

“And you could say I am his ‘boss’ or you could say I am his Queen. If you know some of our little secrets then I trust you know what I mean by that. I warn you this once; I do not particularly enjoy playing games, so I advise you not to play silly beggars with me or I shall not flinch in putting you out of your misery. Is that understood?”

Folding her arms over her silk blouse, she narrowed her blue eyes at him, scrutinise every badly tailored inch of him. “Now, you either state your case or I shall make you leave this room, charitably in one piece.”
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Blackout
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Oho, she was an Essex girl? Lucian felt a smirk flicker across his lips, and imagined her dressed in a two-piece, barfing all over her pretty hair in a gutter next to a cheap nightclub. You know, not to generalise, but he’d been out in Essex once or twice, and they hadn’t exactly dispelled the stereotype.

When she refused to shake it Lucian stared at his hand as if fascinated by the way his knuckles gnarled too much like pieces of petrified swamp wood, and flexed it a couple of times. Poor hand. It was so neglected. These scary suit types seriously needed to re-examine their personal boundaries; surely a warmer front served business propositions far better than this terrifying arctic stoicism. He pursed his lips and shoved both hands into his too-big trouser pockets, rocking back on his heels, observing her through hooded eyelids.

It was an interesting sensation, feeling frightened and excited and amused all at once. This wasn’t a game he had really played before. Normal people were normal, and poking his nose around in those corners didn’t involve any sort of risk that involved his neck and it being sliced open.

He was swimming with sharks here.

“Case? I never had a case. Do you watch cop shows? I used to watch the Bill- is that still going? Last time I saw it some bobby was goading a kid until he blew his brains out.” He scratched at four days’ worth of stubble. “God, that was a long time ago. I feel old.”

His face suddenly brightened as though he’d had some life-changing epiphany.

“I know you! I’ve seen you plastered up on the billboards outside Westfields. It’s Lucian, by the way,” he added, tacking the name onto his pleased exclamation, which came off sounding odd. Wasn’t really saying much though, was it?

The bright spell filtered away and his oily lopsided grin twisted until it hovered in a faint echo of its predecessor, and somehow he didn’t look quite so unassuming.

“Well, I already gave Mr Shaw the ‘ooh, technology’ rendition.” His eyes slid to where the Clubman lingered at the drinks cabinet, and returned the nod, five minutes late. “Still interested… I could do some party tricks if you like. Turn a few printers and fax machines into a Ferrari. Or, I could hack into some ultra secret military database and get you the launch codes for a few nuclear missiles. Send Korea up in smoke. Or Washington of course, if that’s your thing. I mean… pick and choose really. What do you want?”
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SebastianShaw(old)
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With an ingratiating smile and a slight nod of the head, Shaw set his own tumbler down on the cabinet and turned his back to his Queen and the newcomer. He retrieved an empty glass and filled it halfway with the same dark amber liquid that he had been sipping all the while listening to the exchange between Lucian and Betsy. He couldn't help but smile, suddenly appreciating the tone the technopath seemed to constantly adopt as well as the off-beat humor.

There was something to be said about the freedom one could find in not being in charge; the first time Shaw had met the young man, he was guarding some of the Inner Circle's closest secrets while warding off a power-mad Bishop and the rival court's King. He could barely afford the time he had needed to mess with some scrawny whelp baying for attention. Now? Well, he was merely the muscle... in case Miss Braddock proved unable to handle herself, which was a rare occasion.

Turning, Sebastian walked over to his queen and delivered the glass, finally taking a few moments to study Crane closer. It only took a few moments for Shaw to decide that he liked and loathed the man at the same time. On one hand, he looked almost comical in his poorly-fitted suit, almost reminding the older man of a young boy trying to play CEO of daddy's company. On the other, however, he appeared sweaty, and the Bishop guessed that if he really needed to, he could snap Lucian like a twig, a thought he didn't really relish, seeing as he was a man who lauded strength, was disgusted with weakness.

At Lucian's offer, Shaw raised his brow, somewhat amused at the technopath's offer. He looked toward Betsy, “I, for one, wouldn't mind wiping Turkey off the map. Some idiot with stuffing for brains managed to secure the company from one of my subsidiaries. The entire incident cost millions. I even had Sage permanently dispose of Mr. Collier – one of our best lawyers.”

Shaw took a sip from his own tumbler as he backed away from his Queen, opting to sit in one of the comfortable chairs several feet away in order to give the two of them more room. He slid into the plush leather, his eyes fixed on the young man as he swished the alcohol around in his glass. Sebastian looked completely at ease, but one wrong move from the scrawny weasel and Sebastian's glass would connect with the side of the young man's head at a velocity that no normal human could ever hope to reach. Part of him hoped he'd have a chance to practice his aim, while another part wanted to see what would become of all this.
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Betsy Braddock
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
Pinching her nose, the telepath groaned inwardly as the strange, unappealing man went off on a little ramble, appearing happy enough in his own personal world of confusion. He went on to talk about the Bill, something Betsy had never watched, aside from once for a social studies class in school. He was losing her interest and more importantly, her patience.

“I know you! I’ve seen you plastered up on the billboards outside Westfields. It’s Lucian, by the way,”

Opening and closing her mouth in something bordering outrage, she gritted her teeth, unable to stand that little revelation. So many people ‘knew’ her, from billboards, from bus stop posters, from magazines and runway shows, from television and internet.

“You know me, eh? I do find that awfully hard to believe darling. Many people have seen me on posters, it doesn’t count as knowing,” she glowered a little. Normally, she would let such a statement slide with a polite smile and a little nod, but today she was so not in the mood for manners.

The delivery of the brandy, therefore, was incredibly welcome and appreciated. It had never been a favourite of hers, but since that little incident that had brought Shatterstar into the fold, she had seen the liquor in a whole new light. Taking a delicate sip of the dark liquid, the White Queen held the glass at a slight angle as Shaw added his own comments to the strangers offer.

“I don’t think wiping out anywhere will be quite necessary. Not under such uncontrolled circumstances in any case,” she added carefully. It might not be such an unattractive proposition, really, but now was not the time.

“So, what exactly is it that you want from us? It might be useful to say, Lucian,” she said, dropping her voice almost to a conspiratorial whisper. God it was like talking to Longshot or Shatterstar almost. Her resolve was slowly going to crack at this rate for the want of decent conversations. Forge was rarely around, having to be physically dragged out of his workroom, Shaw had his own matters to tend to, as did Vincent, Maria was always at Fight Club these days and not exactly one to indulge in the kinds of conversations Betsy enjoyed. The Queen blinked as she came to a sad little conclusion that she needed a friend; the meeting with Wisdom the other week had just highlighted how much she missed her old life sometimes.

Well, she wasn’t about to find a friend here, nor would it help along this meeting if she continued to sulk inwardly like a little girl. Swallowing the rest of the brandy, she returned the glass to the bar, and turned back to Lucian.

“I am a very busy person, dear, which I am sure you understand, knowing me and all,” the sarcasm dripped like acid. “So if I feel like you’re wasting my time, you won’t have any more time. Clear?”

Glancing to Shaw, she directed a careful telepathic message towards him. ::Is he always so charming? Granted you met him once, and I know you’re enjoying playing spectator but I’m relatively low on patience these days…So, is he worth it?::
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Blackout
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Lucian shrugged limpidly and scrunched his hands in his pockets, gnawing at a loose thread of skin that was trailing along the inside of his lip. They were always chapped, chewed and blotched like mangled cherries. He needed some chapstick. Lip balm. Something. This weather wasn’t agreeing with him: his complexion craved cool air and stinted sunlight, northern wind and a typical British winter. Ice lollys on the beach in subzero temperatures. Fantastic.

Braddock had the clipped tone of someone about to skin a live kitten. She had her knickers in a bit of a twist, didn’t she?

“I want to join the club,” he stated, simply. He contemplated saying something clever about observational skills, but decided against it, filing that particular nugget of wisdom away amongst a plethora of unsaid things he had later regretted withholding. It wasn’t the best idea, bantering with the future boss, not when she looked like she’d had a thong surgically wedged up her ass crack.

He wanted to ask her all sorts of things, curiosity bubbling on the tip of his tongue and making him unconsciously lean towards her, but he was fairly sure that would result in disaster… blood and mess and all those fatalistic scenarios he was attempting to avoid by hijacking their meeting.

Luc slumped down on the nearest desk and crossed his legs, propped his hand on his chin and expired a long-suffering sigh, twisting the flatscreen to face him. He poked at it with a bony finger.

“We’ve all got to be exhibitionists, these days.”

Behind him something mechanical shrieked and retched, and then everything technological collapsed. A putrid unrecognisable thing was born in the centre, a surging ebullition of wires and metals and once-computers being remade. Reincarnated.

Screens unravelled themselves, flowering from newly birthed hubs like pistils, images flickering and blurring across them. Street corners festooned with bodies that hunched under their own weight. Junctions packed close with claustrophobic city traffic. Car parks too full and spilling over into the streets, hospital wards hollow and oppressive, closed circuit television scenery spitting faster and faster until it was almost impossible to tell what was being displayed. Abandoned playgrounds. Quiet office blocks.

This room, the three of them frozen and distorted in miasmic silhouettes.

Lucian hopped off his desk and meandered towards his creation, gazing upwards at its ugly beauty, and he pressed his hand on its underbelly with a tenderness nearing adoration, crooning at it incoherently, muttering arcanities. His skin crawled with nanites; they riddled from his pores, scuttling in sooty rivulets, encrusting his nostrils and eyes and ears, dripping along cavities and blackening his extremities, fingers inky and wet.

“It’s kind of disgusting, really, when you think about it.”

One of the screens puked out a map of the world, colours inverted, red spots spattered across continents like global chickenpox. Wasn’t really hard to tell what that was, given that Korea and a large portion of the Mid East were glowing an almighty fuchsia. Another panel vomited Barclays and UBS and RBSG and it’s own minimap unfurled along with facts and files and figures laid out over one another like a game of solitaire.

“Ever see the lights on earth from space?” Luc smiled, didn’t spare them a glance. “Looks like bacteria.”

His shoulders started to slacken, eyelids drooping. This wasn’t a simple hack and slash, and he was exhausted prior to coming here and trying to convince two marvellously frightening individuals that he was worth far more than what they were giving him credit for. But you know, pull out all the stops, and all that. He didn’t really like this pansying around playing with toys and showing off nonsense: it was wasteful, and Miss Braddock didn’t really look like she was going to kick her heels up and frig off to the heaving technopathic mound.

Information was like the sun: blinding. Sometimes it felt like touching a divine thing; his still very human brain didn’t have the processing capacity. Oh, the nanobots could ride it and bend it and assimilate it into their extended memory like external hard drives, analyse and contain it and work assiduously until he almost wondered what was what and who was who, and whether he was almost nothing in comparison to all the knowledge contained in all the computers in the world, but it was only ever a brief glimpse he managed to snatch before he wondered if he’d lose himself entirely.

“You’re all so fucking hideous,” he gasped in a tremulous lilt, muscles pinched into knots.

This was pushing it. The office lights dulled and one in the far corner winked out, electricity eaten by the mechanisms that gobbled up his communicability.

Lucian thought he heard his brain cells pop and twitched visibly, a shudder traversing his scrawny limbs. He retracted his hand and pressed it to his mouth, sliding it across, wiping away imaginary drool. It felt like he was covered in slime. Maybe he was. His gaze slid back towards his audience and wondered if they were so out of touch with their sense of appreciation or if they had gripped so tightly to that iron stubbornness that even a tentative admittance of admiration might completely shatter their resolve and they’d fall to the floor in pieces. Being chiselled out of ice wasn’t really quite as intimidating as it sounded.

He was scared, though. He wondered if that creeping sensation at the base of his skull was an embolism, a necrotic ulcer, or maybe he’d pushed himself too far and cerebrospinal fluid was leaking through a crack in his occipital. Paranoia gripped him.

“I said…” Luc stalled. The echoes of his handiwork sung behind him, half of his faculties still floundering in the datastream. “I said: What do you want?”
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SebastianShaw(old)
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Energy Absorption / Superhuman Durability
Sebastian sat there sipping his brandy in relative ease, keeping a tight grip on the glass as he appeared to be lounging in his chair only half-listening to Miss Braddock size up the strange young man. Eyes roamed from the alcohol he held in his hand to the clear skies outside the office window... half of him found the current situation amusing while the other half wanted to merely snap the man's neck, sign the fucking contract, and go get a goddamn lap dance from his favorite stripper – the handsy one with dark hair, perky B-cups, and the most amazing pair of lips he had ever seen.

As he imagined the young mistress who's fruit he'd rather be plucking, Sebastian only half-listened to the exchange going on between his Queen and Mr. Crane. The words drilled directly into his brain pulled him out of his pleasant recollections forcefully.

::Is he always so charming? Granted you met him once, and I know you’re enjoying playing spectator but I’m relatively low on patience these days…So, is he worth it?::

Shaw looked down at the tumbler in his hand, index finger sliding up and down the smoothed edge as he smiled at it, ::Personally, I can't stand him, but as with any business deal, sometimes people have to overlook the negative aspects of an asset. If he is capable of anything near what I suspect, I am sure you can find it in your heart to overlook his obvious shortcomings in social graces and hygiene. In other words...::

The transformation of the machine sitting in front of Lucian killed whatever thoughts Shaw had been streaming toward Betsy. His intense, discerning eyes stared in glazed wonder as the single office computer bloomed into an instrument meant for much more powerful things. Shaw gripped the arms of the chair as he slowly became engrossed in what was transpiring before his very eyes.

With a few phone calls and a couple of well-placed bribes, Sebastian could obtain security footage or vital information from almost anywhere, but this...

“It’s kind of disgusting, really, when you think about it.”

“Not at all...”

Sebastian slowly pulled himself out of the piece of leather furniture, ascending to full height with his drink still in hand. Dark pupils flew over the screens, taking in all the information delivered to him on a simple demand that he show proof. Security cameras at street lights... in parking garages... office buildings, and tunnels. This was far from the parlor trick he had demonstrated in a small, quiet interrogation room; he was providing live feeds from around the city. Satellite imagery of the planet was being relayed into the small office building – soon to be the property of Roxxon Industries. Was that Capitol Hill?

Taking a few steps forward, he raised a tentative hand to run fingers over a screen, hungrily eying the obvious and grotesque display of power. He wanted it; that much was painfully obvious on his face. Slowly raising the glass of brandy to his lips, he took a sip as he thought of what more they could wrap their fingers around with this man as an ally.

::Oh this is too good, my dear. Think of the implications. Nuclear launch codes... email surveillance... I am as delighted as you are in the dirt we have on the President of France, but wouldn't it be lucrative to add the leaders of England, Canada, and Japan to our back pockets as well? And the Chinese... someone needs to take them down a few notches for their roll in America's national debt. I certainly wouldn't mind taking that responsibility.::

He swallowed the bitter liquid, reveling in the fire that rolled up his throat, giving him a few moments to gather his composure and let the small thrills running through his body ebb. He didn't want to appear like a young boy at Christmas, but that's exactly how he felt.

“I said… I said: What do you want?”

Without taking his eyes off the screens before him, he took another sip of his drink, “Well... I'll give you your due credit, Mr. Crane. You've impressed me. Congratulations.”
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Betsy Braddock
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
Oh the arrogance of this little stain. He was an incredibly unpleasant man, and he seemed to have difficulties in social situations, seeming almost irritated by her questioning what he wanted. Of course he wanted to join the club. Most people who came straying across their paths in comparable situations did. But it would be bloody nice if they were simple and straightforward about it. Really, she had no interest in having this person anywhere near where she lived. She rarely locked the doors to her chambers and she had no wish to start now.

She watched as the computer came to life before them, morphing and twisting into something it was not originally intended for, but would make world leaders either panic or dig deep into their treasuries just to use it for a second. Shaw seemed impressed, more so than she had ever seen him, but then maybe it was a male thing. Personally it left her cold, impressed, well how couldn’t she be impressed with the display presented before her, but still cold. She preferred the personal touch to the electronic any day of the week.

Betsy was one of the strongest telepaths from the European continent, and while she was no match for Jean Grey-Summers of the X-men, her abilities were formidable. She could glean this information presented to her from the minds that contained it, she could order military chiefs or leaders of nations to release their missiles, or launch an aerial assault, stirring up hell for the world. But no, she was obviously simply incapable.

The White Queen was getting tired of the semi trophy position she felt she was in at times, and there seemed to be little room for debate in this situation, it was as if it had all been predetermined. Or maybe she was just annoyed by being thrown by all this. After all what he was offering was not really something that could be allowed to be gained by other parties, as much as she wanted to be able to stand out for herself. The glittering technological wonder displayed before them was not something they could lose, but still she felt torn.

Shaw’s opinion relayed back didn’t do much to convince her. She hated business, it bored her to tears most of the time and she had not taken to running Braddock Industries like a duck to water. Betsy was far more suited to the sly, underhand dealings of being a psi agent, or treading the catwalk. Why this was sodding down to her…

Looking to Shaw, she shrugged a little. ::Naturally, this would be a great asset, but this is information we are currently capable of receiving in other ways, I’ll concede maybe not so easily…But it is more his demeanour that has me concerned. We have enough potential liabilities within our walls. Do we really need another? Forgive me for wanting to be cautious, but I’d just feel more comfortable if he was presented to Forge first. It was the same when I came across Shatterstar. I do not want to be seen going behind my King’s back.::

The telepath felt that Shaw was, well, quite rightly brimming with eagerness over this find, but she was feeling more cautious, as there was a certain weight of responsibility on her shoulders. Forge did not neglect his job, but his attention was usually stolen by the machines within his workshop and Betsy did not feel comfortable with taking on the bulk of the Courtly decisions. It would make them look weak, if their Queen was shouldering responsibility when the King was perfectly able to do so himself.

She turned back to Lucian at his question and sighed inwardly; something told her she would never really like him, as useful as he could be. “What do I want? Well I’d quite like you to be a little more pleasant for a start. Some better manners would not go amiss, especially seeing as you invited yourself here. What I also want is a little more respect. I’m sure you’re aware by now that within this situation, what I say shall go. You do impress me with your abilities but not with anything else about you as a person…”

Betsy trailed off, pausing for a moment. “However, there is someone I would prefer you to meet before you are admitted into our establishment. Do you agree?”

She glanced to Shaw once more. ::The same treatment Shatterstar received. I do not want to be held solely accountable for admitting a potential liability. My position is worth too much to me.::
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Blackout
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Of course he’d impressed Shaw. That had been his intention, but the queen still stared down her nose, mouth pinched into a sour lump that said far more than her carefully picked words could.

Lucian wondered if Braddock wasn’t quite all there in her head, like him on certain days of the week. Right now he couldn’t decide if he was missing a few pieces, because he felt scattered and blown apart, a million bits of data floating aimlessly above his head and in his veins, carried along nerve endings and scratching at his tongue. He savoured a breath and let it thump in his chest and released it with a slow hiss. But he was mostly… mostly there… he wasn’t hiding in a broom cupboard moaning to himself or trying to pick out an implant from underneath his skin. Still there. Mostly.

She… was sociopathic, or similarly detached and unable to process fundamental logic. Surely.

Manners, manners… what? Lucian tilted his head and fixed her with a quizzical stare, lips pursing into a little ‘o’, teetering on the brink of falling into a bubbling fit of laughter that wanted to surge up from his gut and crack through the offices, drop him to the floor in a floppy tangled bundle, hyperventilating. Manners? That was rich. Ms Braddock here was virtually chiselled out of permafrost, mannerisms stiff and unwelcoming, guarded and aloof and disdainful of what he was offering, and she was telling him he needed better manners?

He’d even been the one to initiate the nice warm handshakes that everyone seemed to appreciate when doing business or meeting for the first time. She’d turned him down with a rude snip. He’d been quite charming.

“However, there is someone I would prefer you to meet before you are admitted into our establishment. Do you agree?”

He stuck a grubby finger in his mouth and sucked on it, smiling around the grimy chewed nail, tonguing a frayed cuticle. It smeared into a grin and half a chuckle escaped past his teeth. This was too fun.

Luc shrugged.

“Ok.”

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