Who: Bennet and Mystique. Where: Random crowded street (ooc: can set location wherever convenient) When: Friday, Sept 5th. Afternoon. What: Recently returned to America, Bennet takes in a cup of coffee while waiting for a registration volunteer.
The sting of the hot liquid on Bennet's tongue distracted him a moment, his current quarry escaping notice for the barest of seconds. How long had it been since he'd tasted good coffee. Months now? Months since he'd properly been in society. Months since he'd left the site of Avalon? It couldn't have been months, could it have? Was the last time he'd been in America really the time that Pyro had rebuffed him so thoroughly? He was having trouble concentrating enough to remember. The bustle on the streets distracted his eyes in time to the pounding in his head. Too many imprints, too much, too fast.
With another gulp, more searing anesthesia scalded down the young mutant's throat, the pain pulling his mind taut and sharp, the points invading him dulled by comparison. Bennet took advantage of the momentary respite to relocate his quarry, a young man who had given time to volunteer at one of the new registration centers. Brows furrowed as he watched the young man walk past him and into the coffeehouse that he now lounged outside of, barely granting him a second glance. If only he knew the danger he could be in at that very moment. But he didn't know. He was blissfully unaware that the long tails of coat and black gloves not only protected from chill winds and hot brew, but also covered the form of a psychotic madman with far too much power. Not that Bennet was intending to immediately kill him. Not immediately, at any rate. He wanted information on the registration center.
Part of Bennet's mind questioned the lack of action, the rage stabbing and demanding motion. Exodus railed for Mutant freedom, for Flatscan death. Bennet gulped nigh-boiling liquid, hushing his mind with grimaces of pain. He couldn't make himself known at this juncture. It would be folly to merely tear the door off its hinges and walk out with that man, with so many witnesses besides. But he was good at waiting. He'd been doing it a long time.
Cold blue eyes glared into the coffeehouse, imprinting visually what Bennet's mind was noting mentally. Dark brown coffee dripped from thin leather gloves, the small paper cup crushed unwittingly by a clenched fist.