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Cant Shake You; Berto
Topic Started: May 31 2013, 03:22 AM (440 Views)
Empath
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Empathy
May 17th
Evening


Manuel could smell him as he walked into the bar. It wasn't a stentch; at least not the physical odor one might associate with tracking something down. Roberto, the erstwhile and disgustingly straightforward mutant known as Sunspot, reeked of something even more potent than body odor. It was despair.

To say that Manny disliked the man would be a massive understatment. He disliked onions. He disliked root beer. He disliked news pundits. What Manuel felt for Roberto was something much deeper, much darker than that.

He hated all of the New Mutants-Well, all but one. They reminded Manny of the people who had tortured him in his youth, the people who made him feel as though he was less than nothing; the people he eventually killed. These New Mutants, this clique of 'cool kids' within the walls of the Institute smacked of the sort of white bread sunbeamed heroism that one wouldn't think actually existed outside of antiquated American sitcoms.

But Roberto, he might have been the worst of them all. And the truth of why Manuel hated him so much, their mutal wants, their shared desires, only did more to stoke the fire of hatred inside of him.

He marched toward Roberto, who was perched atop a bar stool, with tears in his liquor. A horrible sight to see, an even worse one to feel. He was a dog; a sad puppy who needed a kick in the ribcage. Manuel would have done worse than that if he had the mind to. But that was not why he was here. He needed some information and, as horrible as it was to admit, Roberto was the only one he could trust to give it to him truthfully.

"Your aura is pathetic," Manuel said, sitting next to Roberto. "It's like you've been washed in your own insipidness."

He motioned to the bartender. "One whiskey." Then turned back to Roberto. "Man up," he spat. "I know that might be an unfamiliar concept to you and your like, but seeing as how you've allowed God knows what to happen to Amara, I'm in no mood to coddle you."

He turned his entire body to Roberto.

"Tell me where she is. Tell me what's happened to her and, as always, I'll succeed where you've failed."



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Roberto da Costa (Old)
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Roberto’s life had taken on a strangely bipolar dichotomy in the recent weeks. At the mansion, the sobriety and severity of their current situation crushed him. As he performed his daily tasks and went through the motions of his routine, he felt the same aching nothingness, the same despair that had been characteristic of his life for months now. Things were only getting progressively worse. There was no progress, no improvement. The X-Men seemed to be fatally wounded, and all Roberto could do was try and stop the bleeding to minimize the damage. And that ate away at him. Amara’s disappearance, Scott’s death, Terry’s kidnapping; it chipped away at him little by little until he was left feeling nothing but cold, gaping emptiness.

But living had been made much more tolerable now that he had Mel.

Around her he was able to compartmentalize, to put aside his responsibilities and concerns and simply be. She was the highlight of his day, and he was becoming uncomfortably aware of how much he was growing to need her – specifically because he couldn’t see her tonight. She was out on some case, and he was left in the sinkhole that the school had become, alone and hopeless.

In an attempt to escape, he had wandered out to one of the pubs in Westchester, hoping a couple of rounds would help send him early to rest. What he hadn’t been expecting was to be followed by one particularly irksome Spaniard.

His fingers tightened around the glass of bourbon he had been nursing as Manuel spoke to him. A faint stab of irritation shot through his core – he had never liked Manuel, for reasons known only to the two men – but it was muted compared to the usual waterfall of pulsating venom he felt when he saw the European. He merely rolled his eyes, choosing not to respond to the man, and took a stubborn sip of his alcohol.

But when Manuel told him to man up, he bristled visibly. Ah, anger, that familiar friend. “Excuse me? Yeah – where were you when the Madbombs hit, Manny? ‘Cause I was going toe to toe with Exodus while you were hiding beneath your covers.” He hissed out, flexing his fingers instinctually. Every time he used her name was sacriledge to Roberto. How dare he speak of her to him? How dare he come at him like that – like he had Amara’s best interest at heart, while Roberto didn’t? Manuel was a snake, and Roberto’s patience was fraying dangerously these days.

“You’re a fucking moron, did you know that, Manny? I’m only going to say this once, so pay attention: fuck off.”
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Empath
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Manuel steadied himself. Of course, this wasn't going to go well. Manny could feel the rush of heat coming off of Roberto the instant the useless Brazilian laid eyes on him. It was hatred, pure and simple. It had been, ever since what happened had happened.

Still, this was too important to be pushed aside, to be collected into one of the countless terse confrontations between the two. Whether Roberto realized it or not, whether he wanted to accept it or not, Manuel was a part of Amara's life. Perhaps it wasn't exactly the part he wished to play, but he was justified in caring for her. And he deserved all the information that was available.

"You think it's that simple, don't you?" He leaned forward, disgust plain on his face. "You think that going out and punching things makes one brave. Perhaps it would, if the person doing the punching wasn't impervious to just about everything. You're a dog, Roberto. You attack smaller things and call yourself a hero."

He leaned back, and took a swig of his drink. "And to answer your question, I've been spending the last few months helping these students, our students, work through their grief about all that's happened."

He slammed the bottle back onto the counter.

"You know grief. It's the thing you're currently let turn you into something akin to gelatin."

The whole world had fallen apart at the Institute. Scott was dead. Terry had vanished from under their fingertips. The children thought the world was going to end, and they might be right. Still, manuel couldn't let them succumb to that. At least not while he could help it.

The whole thing smacked of these people being too soft. Of course they were. Emma had been a walking monument to how soft they were, and why that was going to be their downfall; be his downfall. Amara would not fall because of their weaknesses. He swore that.

"I don't care how you feel about me. I don't care how you feel about anything. I only care about Amara."

But then, something inside of Roberto made a liar out of Manuel. The sound of Amara's name sparked something inside of Sunspot. It was familiar, it was deep, it was-

"Oh, Lord in Heaven," Manuel muttered. "Of course you do. You love her."

He took another, a much longer, swig of his drink.

"It's no matter. You are unworthy of her. Tell me where she is, or I'll prove to you just how unworthy you are." Manuel's eyes started to glow green with energy.
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Roberto da Costa (Old)
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“I think putting my body on the line every time I put on that uniform makes me brave, yeah. I think the fact that I’m not impervious proves I’m brave. If I’m a dog, then you’re a vulture. You don’t attack – you hide behind the sidelines, making snarky comments, and when the hunt is over you swoop in to pick at what’s left.” Roberto ground out coldly, his voice low and colored with the low-simmering darkness he felt. Grief? Was that what it was? Empath seemed so sure, it must have been. Emotions were his thing.

But then Manuel declared that he loved her, and for a moment, Roberto was taken aback. Her…Amara? Of course he meant her, they were in the midst of discussing her. And of course he loved her – just as he loved all of his closest friends – even Doug, despite their considerable differences. Why would Manny be surprised by this, by the vehemence of how Roberto felt when it came to the blonde-haired Roman. He would have felt the same for anyone had they disappeared – would have reacted the same.

At least, that’s what he reassured himself, mid-drink.

But as the startle receded, an ocean of rage swelled up to take its place. First for the confusion – how dare Manuel make Roberto think thoughts! – and then, primarily, for the outburst that followed.

“What, and you think you are, Manny?” He hissed out with venom, ignoring the fact that he totally didn’t love her like that in favor of arguing the hypotheticals of their conversation. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, coursing through his body violently until he had no choice but leap up from his stool and approach Manuel, chest to chest, with nothing but unadulterated hatred in his eyes. Roberto was a physical person – he imposed himself physically, expressed himself physically. This invasion of Manuel’s personal space was every bit as aggressive as it looked. “You’re useless vile scum, Manny. You’re Xavier’s charity case – our pet project. Don’t mistake that for any delusion of relevance on your part. If I knew where Amara was, you can guarantee I’d be out getting her, and not breathing the same toxic air as you are.”

There was a vaguely familiar green glow to Manuel’s eyes – which Roberto belatedly recognized as his power signature. His body reacted without having to be told to react – before he knew it, his fist was barreling towards the Spaniard’s left cheek in a wicked – but entirely human – right hook.
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Empath
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It was hard for Manuel to tell just which part of Berto he hated most. Of course, there was the Brazilian's cocky attitude. Aside from being completely unwarranted, the way Roberto carried himself said all anyone needed to know about him.

Though, if that were the case, it would stand to reason that anyone would see through the idiot's facade. But then again, not everyone was as intuitive as Manuel. Call it a perk of his powerset, but Empath could read the bastard like a particulalry open book. Though Roberto was one of the most well liked people at Xavier's, Manuel had little regard for such trivalities.

Still, the vile venom that came cascading out of Roberto's mouth did hurt, regardless of how little stock Manuel put in his opinion.

Charity case

Scum

Useless

Worthless

THey were all words that Manuel had grown up hearing. THey were things he had lived his entire life trying to live down. He was more than that. He was more than Roberto.

It was then that the man clocked him in the jaw. That was the moment where the question of what Manuel hated most about Roberto was definitively answered. It was his fist; definitely his fist.

Manuel went sprawling backward. He slammed into the bar. His lip busted, blood dripping down his chin.

"You son of a bitch," he hissed. "This is it! This is why she could never love you!"

It was always the same with these people; the priviledged, the uppercrust, the better than everyone else- They were always the emotionally weakest. They broke at the first sign of struggle. It was why Berto was in this dive bar. It was why he punched Manuel.

"And this is why I will always be better than you."

He launched at Berto, hitting him in the face. This fight was far from over.
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Roberto da Costa (Old)
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The moment his fist came in contact with Empath’s face, Roberto felt a surge of energy jolt throughout his body. Violence was a simple language to understand when one was well practiced in it; and it was an addictive one. Thoughts and emotions were so messy – with so many varying shades of grey and uncertainties, but this? This was simple. This was Roberto against his opponent. He knew how to fight when his enemy was right before him; knew what to do. This was sublimation in its truest form.

He didn’t know what to do when his foes took on a more metaphysical and less corporal form.

Manuel was not down for long. He took the blow like a champion, and after snarling out his hatred, he rocketed forward with enough momentum to collide with Roberto’s cheekbone, sending the Brazilian back into his own stool. The chrome seat clattered onto the floor, drawing the attention of the other pub-goers like the ring of a gong.

”Hey! Hey, what do you knuckleheads think yer doin’!"

Roberto paid them no mind. It was a good hit; but he had suffered much, much worse along the line of duty. All it did was enrage him, primitively and ferally. Propelled by one singular thought, one singular determination, he charged at Manuel like a battering ram, straight tackling the Spaniard into the floor with all the finesse of a true brawler. The cries of surprise, of deterrent and encouragement from the patrons of the pub was overwhelmed by the rush of blood in his ears; there was no one but Manuel, and Manuel needed to pay for his transgressions.

He needed to hurt, because he was the only thing Roberto could hurt right now. He was the only problem Roberto could take control of. He was the perfect scapegoat, because Manuel was right; Roberto was emotionally weak.

Tussling around with the young man, Roberto eventually managed to settle atop the Spaniard. His face was still comfortably numbed by the kiss of alcohol as he swung his fist down to connect with Manuel’s repeatedly.
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Empath
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He was on top of himnow, the ugly sonofabitch. Roberto was assaulting Manuel with both a flurry of fists and a tidal wave of emotion and rage that did almost as much damage.

Manuel could taste blood pouring into his mouth. It was warm and metallic, and it lit something in Manuel that was every bit as white hot as the anger coming off of Sunspot.

Who was he to do this to Manuel? He thought he was so superior. THey all did. His entire life, people had thought they were better than Manny. And for so long, he had allowed them to think just that and, in allowing it, made them correct. No more. If he had to hurt, if he had to do worse than hurt, God help him he would do that. He would be no man's punching bag. He was Manuel De La Rocha. He was Empath. And Sunspot was about to find out just what that meant.

Manuel reached out to the emotions of another. he twisted them, moved them around like pieces on a chessboard. This man's emotions were Manuel's property now. He owned them. He owned him.

Roberto found himself on the wrong end of en electric blast.

"Get away from him! He's better than you!" The man said, seething with Manuel's anger.

Manuel stood, wiping blood from his busted lips. "We are not the only mutants in this bar, Roberto." Manuel winced. "Let's see whose side they're on."

ROberto would find himself surrounded by a circle of mutants, all of whom were angry and looking at him as though he were the devil.
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Roberto da Costa (Old)
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There was something therapeutic in the sting of knuckles and the brush of exertion. There was an illusion of control as he sat there, striking at the Spaniard out of habitual reflex. But as it drew on his anger receded, and as it receded it left behind a cold and empty shell of himself. What was he doing? What was he becoming? He wasn’t sure of the answers to those questions and the result left him numb with shock. Face furrowed with consternation, he hesitated for a fraction of a second before pulling his fist back and sitting up.

This was wrong. He was wrong. How had he come so far? When did he lose himself?

Troubled by his existential crises, he was in no position to notice the turning of the tides until it was far too late. A thrum of electricity shot through his body, disturbing his form with the force of a crashing car and shooting him clear across the room. A table gave out beneath his leaden weight, splintering and collapsing to the floor just as the X-Man did. And as one opponent rose, another fell as the cycle of battle demanded.

By the time Roberto had enough agency to warily pull himself to his feet, he was quick to note his surroundings. Four mutants, standing tall and intimidating around him, enraged beyond all natural cause – and they were looking to Roberto like he was the devil himself, O Diabo em Pessoa.

His despair was put aside to shoot Manuel an inflamed glare, even as his rattled body adopted a more defensive stance. “Empath!” He slurred out, using the lad’s field name. “These’re regular folks – civilians! Thinks for a second – you don’t do want to do this!”

Regardless of whether Empath wanted to – and definitely regardless of whether Roberto wanted to – the peons certainly were feeling bloodlusty. With a hulking roar the more dominant of the squad – the owner of the sparks swiped forward with a charged punch, which Roberto was able to deftly dodge by backing away…

…Right into the arms of a rather hefty looking fellow.

"Say, chum, why don’t you take a load off…” He groaned malicious, his arms wrapping around Roberto’s person and growing in mass. He squeezed, painfully tight, the pressure growing by the second and applying more and more pressure to Roberto’s ribcage. The X-Man cried out in agony, unwilling to summon his ebony counterpart to fight the civilians – unwilling to encourage the unquestionable damage that would summon to the already fraying reputation of the X-Men and mutantkind as a whole. But at this point…it was starting to look as though he wouldn’t have a choice.

“MANNY!”
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