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| Bad Cop, Bad Cop; Tag: Jamie/Guido | |
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| Topic Started: Oct 30 2012, 03:21 PM (626 Views) | |
| Trevor Fitzroy | Oct 30 2012, 03:21 PM Post #1 |
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Date: 10th of September Time: 8:15 pm If the night wasn't dark and filled with dangerous things, then it must be Monday. Well, more as to the latter than the former. Night was dark because it was night. There was no denying that and no poetic opening could change it. But, being filled with dangerous things belonged more toward the weekend or at least Tuesday when a lot of the restaurants and bars would receive their food and liquor orders for the week. Monday nights were for staying at home and lamenting the beginning of the work week or cooking for the kids or watching television or just sleeping and anything else most people did on Mondays as opposed to Thursdays and Fridays and the rest. In other words, it was Monday, it was dark and the time was evening (hence the 'no sun' thing), and it was quiet on these particular streets of the City. Because it was Monday evening but without any correlation to the fact that there were less people on the streets, Trevor Fitzroy was out and going to a pub to have a drink. He didn't work Monday overnight and, as per usual, he was going to settle down with a drink, watch some telly, and just let the night go by as it wanted to - fast, slow, whatever. As long as he had some sort of liquor in his hand and then belly and something to keep him entertained, Trevor was a happy man. Well, maybe 'happy' was a bit optimistic for the man, but he certainly wasn't 'angry' and wasn't one of those who'd bother the bartender a bit if he sat there for hours, whiskying away at his life. A short walk from his flat down the street and a corner or two later and he was where he usually ended up on nights like these. The place was mostly empty (due to being Monday but not due to being evening) and he took the far corner seat so that he could watch both the telly and the men and occasional woman walking around the place. People watching was something he liked doing. It sort of felt like he was being social - just with his eyes - and as much as he'd not admit it, it at least gave him a feeling of community. As much as he'd deny it, he was still sapien at the core and a social animal and just listening in on other conversations and being around others sapient beasts fed both his innate desire for company and that strange mutant power of his. He tipped his head to the bartender after his second shot so that he could get a third and then move on to beer. Liquor before beer, you're in the clear. Its funny what one remembers from one's teenaged years and what one forgets. |
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| Strong Guy | Oct 30 2012, 06:16 PM Post #2 |
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“So let me get this straight…” As they headed down the street Beta Jamie and Guido were deeply involved in a heated debate. He looked over and up at his friend’s face to make sure he was hearing what he thought he was hearing correctly. “You’re telling me that you think Jet Li could kick Jackie Chan’s ass?” At the end of that sentence his voice rose a few octaves. “Two words, my jolly giant friend. Drunken. Master.” As if he’d rested his case, Jamie reached for the double doors and swung one outward at the exact moment that Guido swung the other inward. Unimpressed, Guido just looked grabbed a toothpick out of a complimentary holder and used it to idly pick at his teeth before saying. “Two words, Bulletproof. Monk.” Jamie scoffed. “You are so out of touch.” As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting he scanned the various faces, looking for the one from the file. They didn’t have an actual photo of the guy, and Guido’s drawing skills left everything to be desired, but from the verbal description they were looking for a skinny dweeby looking guy with greasy hair and a ‘funny way of talking’. He slapped Guido on the bicep with the back of his hand when he spotted their would-be target. Guido squinted his eyes and nodded. “How do you wanna play this, he said low under his breath? Good cop bad cop?” Jamie nodded and in lockstep the two approached the bar, taking a seat on either side of the supposed phantom who was their number one suspect in the current bizarre case that Jamie called Casper the Friendly Drunk. While Jamie ordered, Guido stared menacingly down at the man between them, a displeased scowl on his face. |
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| Trevor Fitzroy | Oct 30 2012, 07:12 PM Post #3 |
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The good thing about being as average looking as possible was that most people had no reason to look your way or even come closer. So, when two males approached him, Trevor sat still for a moment, his eyes glancing left and right. Immediately, he started to think about any gambling bets he might have made or any property he might have destroyed with his practical practicing of powers. No, he was good. At least, he thought he was, so instead of doing anything to infuriate the men who were suddenly so intent on being around him, he did his best to control his shield - making sure it didn't all the sudden 'spring to life' so to speak - and he lifted his drink to his lips. Instead of 'shooting' the shot, he took a tiny sip. Then another. Just sipping, staring straight ahead at the telly that now was on a commercial about the fabulous things beer could do for you. So interesting! Really, he was trying to form a plan in his mind just in case these two happened to be some sort of beat-'em-up-squadron sent on a mission to find any ol' Scot in New York and show 'em the heave ho. Unfortunately, the best that he could think of was along the lines of saying, "I think you have the wrong impression, gentlemen. I'm not looking for anything untoward." But, of course, because Trevor was who he was and a bit drunk to boot, it came out in his thick accent sounding more like, "Finker takin m'wrong, gents. Oo tald y'twas me inner'sted, thar talkin' pish." And, of course, he smiled at the end of that ... string of sounds. But still, didn't look at either man. Something about looking a dog in the eye - don't want to do that, do you, now? |
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| Jamie Madrox | Oct 31 2012, 12:07 AM Post #4 |
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But before Willie from the Simpsons actually spoke the bartender returned with decidedly unmanly looking beverages. He first gave one to Jamie and then delivered the other to Guido. “Your…Shirley Temple,” he said with contempt. “And in case you want to know I’ll tell you like I told him. We are out of chocolate milk.” Guido cast a dour glance past the nervous ticking Scot at his partner. Just how the hell he was supposed to pull off ‘bad cop’ while sipping on a Shirley Temple was beyond him. He grabbed it and put the candy red straw in his mouth, sipping angrily, ignoring the delicious flavor for the sake of staying in character. Then he slammed it down on the bar top and redoubled his glower at the man next to him just about the time that the nervous little weasel spouted out with a string of gibberish that would leave even Rahne furrowing her furry brow. Jamie took a hand and put it on the back of the man’s chair, swiveling him around to face him. “I don’t think so palio. I mean, I have no idea what you just said there, but listen here-“ The chair swiveled back the other way with Guido’s hand on the back and Guido leaned in close, his large face vulturing over him and his teeth grinding. “We’re onto you.” Jamie swiveled the chair back around. “Onto you!” Finally Guido positioned the chair toward the bar and leaned in across the suspect to have a consultation with his partner. “What the hell are you doing,” he whispered. Jamie leaned in too. “Bad cop,” he said. “I’m the bad cop.” Pondering this little bit of information Jamie seemed displeased. “We probably should have rehearsed this. You think we could cut and start from the top?” |
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| Trevor Fitzroy | Oct 31 2012, 03:50 PM Post #5 |
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Well, this was interesting. All his life, Trevor had felt as if he were in some sort of movie – albeit a very long tragedy – and this was the first time he’d ever felt as if he were living a comedy. Not even a dark comedy with ennui and malaise and other French tropes. He watched the big man and the not-so-big man out of the corner of his eyes for a few moments – never turning to view them fully - , first quirking a brow at their choice in beverages and then at their words. He’d never seen anything like this before that wasn’t preceded by a title and closed with credits. Finally, when they said something that was probably designed to make him shake a bit, Trevor inhaled and exhaled with a sigh, calling the ‘tender over. He ordered himself a beer and waited for it to arrive, casual as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Then, when it came, he took a long draught off the top and let it linger on his tastebuds just for a moment before he turned to the last person who spoke. Now, to say that Trevor couldn’t speak English was a lie. He could speak English. He was speaking English! And even though it may not sound like it, every word he said was in English. But, of course, there was an easier way for him to speak so that these two would understand him. He’d been in the US long enough to have melded his accent down to the bare minimum. But when he was drunk or when he was fucking with other people is when his full accent tended to show itself – or when he didn’t bother holding back. So since the comedy duo situated around him couldn’t understand him, he saw no reason to give up the ghost. “Aye, awnta me, eh?” Trevor grinned and finally nodded to the brawns and then looked over at the brains. “Gee’a’int, y’ady? Wot ah dun?” He had moved his beer from the bar top to hold it in his hand so that he could take another long draw, staring at the brains the entire time. “Eh?” He was waiting for an answer, laddies. Better give him one or he might eyebrow-cock you out of the room. |
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| Jamie Madrox | Nov 1 2012, 02:35 AM Post #6 |
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Jamie stared at him after he finished talking again. There was something to his accent that gave him a long and serious pause, and whatever it was it sounded so familiar but he just couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was exactly. “It’s not…Monty Python,” he said by way of a verbal processing. No, not at all. “It’s that movie with Brad Pitt, where he does that Pikey thing. What’s it called again?” It came to him with a snap and in a flash. “Snatch!” He lightly hit the Scotsman on the arm. “Check this out. I bet ya can box a little, can't ya sir? Aye, you look like a boxer.” Raising his brows he carefully gauged his reaction. “Pretty good, eh mate?” A wadded up bar napkin bounced off the dupe’s forehead and Guido took control of the situation again. “You ever seen this guy?” From an inside pocket he took a slightly creased photo of their client and tossed it down on the bar before him. “Cuz he’s seen you. Had some pretty interesting things to say about you as a matter of fact.” The photo was of a man that looked surprisingly like Paul Reubens. With big ears and beady little eyes that disappeared a little when he smiled, and a tiny little chin that would work just as well on a teenaged girl as it would on a man. Sort of like the chin on the Scot between them. And this was the part of the interrogation that they had learned was better if they didn’t say anything. Eventually the oppressive weight of the silence would overpower him and he would slip into a form of confession, or at the very least would tell them something that was useful in one way or another. So with the practiced intuition the two of them slipped into stoic silence and just stared at the suspect. The next move was his. |
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| Trevor Fitzroy | Nov 1 2012, 02:08 PM Post #7 |
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First, he touched Trevor. That wasn’t something he should have done. Of course, he had the brawn with him, so it wasn’t like ‘the brains’ (who had now gained at least a half of a quotation mark because of the dubious title – Trevor didn’t know how much ‘the brains’ actually described ‘The Brains’) had all that much to worry about. Of course, Trevor could just sort of blast them to the side, put up his personal shield and tip toe out of the bar sweet as Mary, but that wasn’t his sort of game. Even though it would be a really nice and easy way out of all this, he had to keep himself in check. Vulgarity in words may have been his way, but it powers, it wasn’t. Then, there was a photo placed before him. Looking over his drink at the picture, Trevor stared for a moment. Beady little weasel of a man – no, he didn’t know him. Therefore the rest of what they were saying would be lies. If he didn’t know the man, the man couldn’t know him and sure as hell wouldn’t bother telling them anything interesting. Trevor, at least in his own mind, was anything but interesting – why would anyone else think any different? And then they stared. And he stared back. He had shook his head no for the picture question. If there were no more questions, then he’d rather just sit and drink, thank you. So, he did just that. Sit and drink. Took his time, as well, because ‘the brains’ who was quickly turning into ‘the arse’ seemed to be intent on a conversation of some sort. He was just staring. Guy couldn’t even get a half decent London accent out and he thought he could try for a Scots’? Hell, Trevor had problems understanding his own countrymen at times. So, he sat and drank and sat and said nothing. It did get uncomfortable after a while, especially with the large man hanging about them. He certainly was ‘the brawns’ because he hardly said anything and when he did it was quick and to the point. Perhaps Trevor had been wrong, perhaps ‘the brawns’ was the brains and ‘the brains’ was …. Comedy tin? “Cannae say I’ve, mates.” Trevor finally spoke, pushing his empty glass across the counter and reaching into his pocket for his billfold. “An’ nice as this,” He gestured between the three before opening his wallet and dropping a few bills on the bar. “…All was, I’m’a’shoot.” Patting the bar, he stood up between the two and turned so that he could start walking toward the exit. He may be a stranger in New York, but he was far less strange than either of the two around him and had started to worry about it rubbing off on him. |
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| Jamie Madrox | Nov 1 2012, 08:32 PM Post #8 |
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Jamie Madrox had somewhat recently developed a kind of telepathic rapport with his multiples. Under the direct tutelage of his friend and lover Alix Smith he had learned to use that rapport, to know where his multiples were and with some effort to communicate with them on various levels. As his training with Bishop had shown this rapport had been invaluable to create a virtually unstoppable fighting team that moved and acted in accordance with one another unlike that of even the highest trained military units. Unfortunately Jamie Madrox was dead. The dupe that sat in the bar, the self-proclaimed ‘Beta’ that was taking over in place of the Prime did not have the luxury of a telepathic rapport. He could not create a host of multiples and he could not absorb any of the existing multiples. He was forced to rely on dumb luck and intuition, which in this particular case just so happened to work out quite well for him. Just as the Scot turned to make his leave, the three multiples they had left outside entered. They looked past the Scot to Guido and Beta, then made eye contact with the Scot, looked at each other, and wound up taking a high table positioned right next to the door. “There’s no way you could know this man now,” Beta said with a greater sobriety, leaning against the bar and looking at the photo pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Seeing as he had his neck slit three days ago.” His brother was the client. A client that trusted XF Investigations to handle a case that might involve mutants more than he trusted the New York Police Department. “Unless you have some way of contacting the dead.” He flicked his wrist and sent the photo sailing forward to land face up in front of the Scot. “I guess you probably don’t have the tattoo of a tiger on your forearm either.” He nodded to Guido just in case. “You don’t mind rolling your sleeve back do ya laddie?” |
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| Trevor Fitzroy | Nov 1 2012, 09:29 PM Post #9 |
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It wasn't as if he didn't know it was Mutant Town. He knew it. He came here mostly because people left you alone. They knew you had some sort of power and they didn't know if it was a laser-beam-straight-to-your-soul power, so they didn't bug you and you didn't bug them on the same assumption. There were more nights he spent out in the regular, baseline human bars because they tended to keep to themselves as well, but they were much less obvious about it. In Mutant Town, you'd have to side-eye everyone and everyone would side-eye you right back. In Normal Land, no one gave a shit who you were unless they knew you or thought they knew you or you bugged them. So, when the arse and the arse and the arse came up to the arse and the brawns, Trevor sighed heavily and murmured, "Fook me." Seriously, why him? If it were a play he would have stopped the action and taken a step forward to say past the fourth wall - "Why me, God? Any hints? Clues? Am I Lucifer resurrected?" But, it wasn't a play and there was no fourth wall - or there was, but there was no audience outside it - so Trevor glanced between the triplicates and the talker and the doer and he pushed his arm out in front of them, lifting his sleeve. No tattoo. Clearing his throat, Trevor leaned back against the bar so that he was facing this whole slew of arses and brawns and he said rather clearly (and it might have taken a bit of effort since he had liquor in him, but at least he was doing their ears a favor), "Listen, mates..." He gave pointed looks at the other guys and then back to number 1. "I dinnae t'ink y'got the right gent, mm?" He let that settle in and added, "Right, I'm pished, m'self, but e'en I naw tha t'aint me face." Trevor smirked and picked the picture up, tossing it back to number one rearenderfender. "Y'er searchin' for a real tube - ye'ready fer a name er ye wan'me t'walk y'thar?" Ah, he was itching for a ciggie anyway, so if they wanted a guided tour down to the same day payday place right at the last corner of Mutant Town before it becomes Normal Land again, he was all for it. |
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| Strong Guy | Nov 2 2012, 06:16 PM Post #10 |
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Clearly Jamie was waiting for the big ‘Aha!’ moment, the moment when their guy would push his sleeves back to reveal the tattoo and inevitably they would have to take him into custody and deliver him to the proper authorities. But Guido was beginning to have some pretty hefty reservations about that theory. Something didn’t seem right. Sure this guy seemed like a hoot to sit around and drink virgin Shirley Temples with in a low lit bar, and sure Guido had entertained the notion of locking him in a room with Rahne and recording their conversation for his own sick amusement. But this little puddin’ foot as a killer? Something told him no. No fookin’ way. That was why when the sleeve was pushed back he was unsurprised. The dupes on the other side of the room took notice and started a conversation amongst each other as Willy turned back to Beta and Guido and cleared it up once and for all. Jamie could see it now too; in fact he had to admit he sort of knew it after talking to the guy for a few minutes. The only thing he was guilty of killing was the English language. Starting to get a feel for the heavy Scottish brogue, Jamie listened to him and then cast a wordless glance over at Guido’s impassive and unreadable face while he thought it over. He seemed to think he knew who the guy was, and maybe there wasn’t a whole lot of reason to trust him just yet, but he felt fairly confident right now. “We could go for a walk,” he said cautiously. “Tell you what, we’ll even pick up your tab for ya.” He fished out his wallet and pulled out a credit card, hiding the fact that it said Guido Carosella on the front of it and tossing it onto the bar top. Soon enough they were on their way out the door, a band of misfits if there ever was one. It was Guido who finally broke the silence, looming at least a head and a half taller than all of them as he cleared his throat. “I got one for ya,” he said. He continued in his (worst) Scottish accent. “Wee Hamish was in the garden filling in a hole when his English neighbor peered over the fence. Interested in what the mad man was up to, he politely asked, ‘What are you doing there, Hamish?’” A couple of the multiples looked at each other, hints of a smirk forming as they listened. “’Me goldfish died,’ replied Wee Hamish tearfully without looking up, ‘And I’ve just buried him.’ “The English neighbor was very concerned. ‘That’s an awfully big hole for a goldfish, isn’t it?’ “Wee Hamish patted down the last heap of dirt and replied, ‘That’s because he’s inside your fookin’ cat!’” There was silence for a few steps and then all the multiples started howling with laughter. |
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| Trevor Fitzroy | Nov 13 2012, 04:58 PM Post #11 |
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Honestly, if he were the type to lift his palm to his face and try to wash away all this nonsense, then Trevor would have done it a while ago. But instead he simply stared at arse, then brawns, and then he took a long, hard look at the multiple rear-ends gathered near the entrance to the pub. If this wasn’t the most fucked up thing he’d see today, then he was in for a real treat, wasn’t he? Trevor almost couldn’t rip his gaze away from the grouping and it took all he had before he stood up and walked toward the door to not punch any one of the arses in the cheek. “Dinnae know y’er’d’ov a live stu’dya aud’yence, mm?” The joke wasn’t funny in the least to Trevor and he pushed the door open and walked out without even the hint of a giggle. When he was on the street, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a cig and lit up faster than either arse #1 or brawns could come join him. He had inhaled and exhaled by the time the others rounded out their motley crew. He didn’t give much of a look back to the gaggle of arses as he started to walk north down the sidewalk toward where the group would find the man they really wanted. As he walked, he smoked and he seemed to try and whistle now and then. It wasn’t that he couldn’t whistle, it was that it just wouldn’t come out. Perhaps one of the duplicates was a whistle-dampener or perhaps his whistle wasn’t whetted at all by his smoking. Either way, the juxtaposition of the shorter energetic Scot alongside the hugely tall … person and the other ridiculous amounts of person made for a very funny sight indeed. And a funny sound, now that it was mentioned. “Y’tell me…” He said after a few hard tries at whistling Dixie ending in failure. “…Y’bays bein’ pahd t’d’this?” To that, Trevor smirked. He couldn’t imagine the idiot that would pay this bunch of geeks to try and find a killer. Lassie, they were not. |
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| Jamie Madrox | Nov 14 2012, 04:21 PM Post #12 |
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As they walked, Trevor took the lead and it was one of the multiples who first discovered that he was doing something kind of unusual with his mouth. Hitting another multiple on the arm he pointed at the Scotsman and soon they were all looking at him in disturbed curiosity and wondering if maybe he had some sort of strange breathing disorder. If someone had told them he was trying to whistle, they simply would not have believed it. In turn they looked at one another, scratched their heads in puzzlement and finally just gave up with a succession of shrugs. At least they were getting used to his mouth jive. Lost in a gaggle of identically dressed multiples Jamie Beta smiled. “Do we get paid?” He looked at the multiple next to him. “Do we get paid he says.” The multiple shook his head and started to say ‘not really’ but was cut short by a blow to the stomach. “Of course we get paid. What do you take us for, a bunch of geeks?” Guido spoke up. “We got a little detective agency in Mutant Town,” he said. “Lotta times people hire us to find out who’s hosin’ who, but sometimes we get one like this, a murder case that they figure the cops can’t or won’t be able ta solve.” He shrugged. “No offense to the NYPD, but sometimes when it comes to Mutant Town they tend to treat the cases like they are a little more open and shut than they really are.” Their travels led them to suddenly to the dilapidated concrete stairs of a very unimpressive building. Exchanging a few more glances as the Scot clambered up the stairs and into the front door, the small dispatch of XF Investigators made their way in behind him. And it was Jamie who stepped up first and took a glance around, catching sight of a burly looking man taking a drink, his eyes zeroing in on the tiger tattoo on his forearm. He stepped forward. “Well boys,” he said over his shoulder. “Looks like we have a case here of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Murderer.” It wasn’t his best, but sometimes it was better to just have an entrance line even if it was terrible than to come waltzing in with a half-ass whistle and no entrance line at all. To his surprise the man looked over at them with wide eyes and grumbled. “Where’s my gun?” And then everything seemed to happen in slow motion. |
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| Trevor Fitzroy | Nov 14 2012, 04:54 PM Post #13 |
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It would be a funny thing to note that this gaggle of the same men and the other one with the hair and all were sort of growing on Trevor. If this was how they handled their business, he wondered, really, how they were on a day off. Some mates who he could drink with til' gubbed would be a pleasant change from his old and tattered armchair and remote in one hand and ciggie in the other, beer attached as well somewhere. Aye, even if he had a cat, it might be better. Trevor hadn't thought of a pet save for this moment when he was thinking of a pet or a gaggle of arses. Which would be better, indeed? He led the group to where he knew he'd find the bas, a man who'd double crossed more than his fair share of card players, back alley drug dealers, and pool grifters (really? they still existed?) and made it very well known in this part of the neighborhood that he was the one to come to if you had to buy back your burgled goods. So, it was no skin off Trevor's back to lead the men to who they wanted to see. Further, it was no problem to step aside and let the others take the lead. Hey, they were getting paid to do this, weren't they? The arse moved forward and started speaking, using terms that Trevor didn't think much about save for the fact that they sounded ridiculous and that he knew Tiger-tattoo wouldn't bother considering them a threat. In fact, when TT looked around for his gun and found it, Trevor noticed that the arses and the brawns were not doing anything. Maybe frozen in time? Was this a new mutatation that he hadn't realized he had to slow time only for the two dobbers next to him? But then he realized that these paid detectives might not have any sort of weapon on them and before he had time to rub his face with the palm of his hand, he reached out and sent a force blast toward the bartop where the gun was sitting. Pushed by the energy Trevor had let out, the gun slid to the far end of the bar and dropped down to the floor, making a bit of a racket but not going off. "Y'eedyits!"ť He said, rolling his eyes and gesturing between the detectives and TT-man. "Y'need me tae lasso 'em fer'ye?"ť He threw an Americanism in there just to wake the two the bleeding hell up! |
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| Jamie Madrox | Nov 16 2012, 03:35 PM Post #14 |
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In all reality what happened after the crouching tiger quip was smartly delivered and after the perp let slip through his inner monologue that he was going to be reaching for his gun, happened very quickly and before anyone normal person had a chance to react. Jamie feinted back a step just as their new Scottish friend lifted his palm and knocked the gun backward and off the bar with an invisible mojo of some kind. Guido and the gang just stood looking at each other for a few seconds, but it was Guido who snapped out of it first, moving with incredible speed to cross the bar and grab the guy by the pants and lift him off the ground. He then grabbed the wrought iron rail from the bar and ripped it free, wrapping the perp up in a metal straight jacket and hanging him from the coat hook attached to one of the large wooden support beams. Brushing his large hands together he turned around and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Guess he’ll just hang around till the cops show up.” The multiples avoided eye contact with him, but it only seemed to encourage him. “We could run him out on a rail, but I thought it’d be better to wrap this one up.” One multiple scratched at the back of his head while another coughed into his fist and yet another looked at the place on his arm where a watch should belong. Guido patted Trevor on the back. “Thanks for the hook up, I-“ “Oh for crying out loud, shut up!” Jamie Beta shouted. Guido crossed his arms with a glower as Jamie turned to Trevor. “You saved us at least a day’s work trying to track this guy down. Not to mention the whole Jedi force trick thing you did with the gun which was pretty cool. Like Qui Gon Jinn. And Liam Neeson is a Scot.” “He’s from Ireland,” Guido grumped. “I’ve heard it both ways.” |
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| Trevor Fitzroy | Nov 17 2012, 01:30 AM Post #15 |
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If he hadn't seen anything like that before, maybe Trevor would be amazed by the strength of the brawns. But, this was now and Mutant Town, and this was a rather usual thing to see played out on the telly - super strength. So, instead of ooh'ing and aaah'ing, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigs and lit one up so that he could sort of continue the chain he was on. He stared between the multiples arses and the brawn and the hanging idiot and he coughed a bit as he started to laugh. It was something that was hard-fought as Trevor really had to laugh, but he'd done it so fair and few that he could hardly get it out over the coughs that wracked his lungs. When Guido hit him on the back, it actually dislodged something and he coughed, turned, and spit, and then nodded a thanks to the brawns, even if he hadn't know what he was doing. When he finally stopped laughing, Jamie turned to him and thanked him and Trevor could only offer a shrug as he started smoking again. "Neeson's Irish." He settled that straight with both men (and multiples of such) and then gestured to the man hung out to dry. "Ye sh'd pay me fer doin' yer werk fer yers," Trevor finally said, gesturing behind himself to the hanging-wonder. "Keep me fra'th'buroo. Toss a few lincolns er... what'ya'call..." No one used cash anymore did they? Actual money? Trevor never bothered learning what president was on what denomination. "Some dosh m'way?" |
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7:31 PM Jul 11