Marvel: Art of War

( Note delivered to Irene Adler )

Who: Emma Frost and Robbie Baldwin
What: Emma extended an invitation in Robbie's journal. He's taking her up on it. As to what happens next? It's anyone's guess.
When: April 25, 1 pm
Where: Sarah's, a greasy spoon restaurant in Hell's Kitchen
Rating/Warnings: None, really
Status: Closed; complete

Robbie felt awkward sitting at the corner table in a restaurant so dirty that even the cheap paper menus had grease spots on them. He knew that he looked no better with the knit cap pulled over his head, matched by layers of clothing that were ripped and worn. He'd spent hours the night before in a gas station bathroom trying to clean himself up but it never did any good. If people thought Robbie looked like a homeless bum--well, that's because, most of the time, he was.

He straightened up, fussing with the silverware on the table and setting it properly. There wasn't much he could do with the menus or with the atmosphere but he swept the table as best he could with a paper napkin. He didn't know much about Emma Frost but something about the way that she wrote reminded him of home.

What does she want from this? he thought to himself as he shrugged off his coat, hanging it off the chair. I bet she doesn't show. I bet it's just a joke to her. Robbie turned his thoughts to the Brotherhood then. Magneto's gone haywire lately. Christ, I wonder if he really is going to run us all over the country. I don't get it. He's got money for that but he can barely help me get a meal. I ought to stop but I think he's got the right idea, at heart. He just don't care about the people doing the work and how different is that from anybody else?

Who: Logan and Robbie Baldwin
What: the aftermath of an explosion and an accident
When: September 27, 1957
Where: A field in rural Connecticut
Rating/Warnings: R. Will likely reference violence (unintentional; involved children) and have language. Will update if other warnings are needed.
Status: Closed; complete

The smell of burnt grass rose from the field, a stench so powerful that it could be smelt from the distant road. A murder of crows had risen when the bolt of light fell, slamming into the damp earth so hard it left a crater three feet in. The ground had shaken, the telephone wires crossing overhead rippling in one giant wave before everything stopped once more.

The world went silent.

Miles away, smoke was rising from a different field, a field of concrete and tar. Sirens were screaming, lights flashing red and blue across twisted metal. But here, the only light that shone down on the body in the crater was that of the moon, heavy and full. His eyes had not yet opened to accept it.