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Below are 20 journal entries, after skipping by the 40 most recent ones recorded in
Marvel: My Way's InsaneJournal:
| Wednesday, February 8th, 2012 | |
| 4:08 am [coolaccountant] |
Because Junk Food Is Almost As Addictive As Cocaine! The accountant came down the Institute stairs with something almost approaching a smile on his face. He moved with less trepidation now; his joints were less rigid and his eyes darted around more rarely. Alright... cleared the air with Scotty... well, that Scotty at least. He took his hip flask out of his pocket and had a swig. Maybe I'll be exiting the Twilight Zone soon... he thought to himself as he began to walk into the kitchen. Skipped lunch to get the files up here fast, might as well have something. A few minutes later, Bobby strolled out of the kitchen with a pile of junk food in his arms. Four basic food groups he thought with a smirk, ice cream, chocolate, chips and candy. He walked into the living room, sat down on the couch in front of the TV, and pressed the 'on' button on the remote. Then he opened the large bag of M&M's and licked his lips. After shovelling a handful into his mouth, he reclined into the sofa and watched the stock ticker at the bottom of the screen. News... the usual, someone attacks here, someone gets murdered there, drug bust hailed by some ex-addict politician, all the usual crap. |
| Thursday, February 2nd, 2012 | |
| 9:15 am [flagonmyhead] |
Wrong Balcony If Steve Rogers knows anything, it's how to sneak into tall buildings. Lots of ledges and convenient handholds to climb with, and I carry suction cups and grapples for the glass buildings. Plus, Tony wants it to be easy to get to his penthouse, at least for me. Of course, "easy" for a Super-Soldier isn't necessarily the same for everyone else. Still, it's a surprise to Steve when after what only feels like about three or four floors' worth of climbing, he reaches the balcony with the tall bay window that signifies Tony Stark's penthouse suite. Huh. That was fast; I didn't think I'd worked out that much. Not thinking much of it, Steve hops up onto the balcony and crosses to the glass double-doors. He notices the curtains with some interest. White and translucent? Tony's are usually red velvet and opaque...the better for mood lighting, he says. Still, he rationalizes, maybe the billionaire's developed an exhibitionist streak. Kinky, he thinks with a smirk as he pulls the ornate handle and steps into the room. "...Tony?" Almost before he closes the door behind him, he notices something's wrong. The room is decorated expensively, but not as over-the-top decadent as Tony usually prefers to go. In fact, it's almost utilitarian. Rubbing the back of his head, he looks around, seeing nothing familiar, nor any sign of who the room belongs to. Damn. Wrong balcony after all. Just need to climb a few floors higher... But as he turns back to the balcony to leave, he stops dead in his tracks. Where'd Manhattan go?! Instead of skyscrapers and city streets, a huge, well-manicured lawn and a forested lake greet his eyes. He's staring out of one of the spare bedrooms of someone's mansion, rather than the penthouse suite of his former teammate. Even the balcony itself looks completely different. Steve puts a hand to his forehead in disbelief, shaking his head. "And I thought tonight was going to be fun..." Where the hell am I?! Current Mood:  confused |
| Wednesday, October 12th, 2011 | |
| 2:49 am [cynical_techie] |
A Gratuitous And Unnecessary Shower Scene Damon's body was wreathed in the steam and coated by the layer of soapsuds that collected in the thick clumps of yellow-blond hair on his torso. He groaned almost gratefully as he felt the heat sinking into his muscles. His goggles remained atop his head as the water kept sliding over his scarred skin and weathered face. He kept lathering the soap on his body. So clean, so warm... all fuckin' day... None of Sera's grime or filth remained on his body, his three showers a day took care of all of that. The heat and steam lulled him almost into a trance and he lay against the white tiled walls with slightly closed eyes. |
| Sunday, August 21st, 2011 | |
| 8:44 am [redeyesummers] |
Stretched Thin Fun party Bobby threw...wish I'd had the chance to talk to him more, and find out what his beef is with me. Or not-me. Whichever. But the party is over, and now Scott's back in the office. Alone. With a never-ending mountain of paperwork. Bills, mission reports, progress reports for the kids, requisition forms from the tech lab, grocery lists, more bills...How did the Professor manage to balance all this and keep himself from going completely insane? His hand goes to his temple, feeling yet another migraine creep up on him. He could get rid of it easily...the pressure behind his eyes could be released with just a lift of his shades...he can feel the curve of his glasses' temple arms under his massaging fingers, all it would take is a simple lifting motion... NO. Scott forces his hand down to his desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of water and an over-the-counter painkiller. Downing the pills, he leans back and rubs the bridge of his nose. What the hell was I thinking?! My self-control's better than that! I could have blown out the wall just now...and out of what? Stress? What's wrong with me?! Shoving himself angrily away from the desk, and its piles of forms and grades and papers, Scott goes to the bay window and practically throws it open, feeling the late-fall air wash over him. Something has to give, or I'm going to snap, and then I won't be any good to the team at all. Current Mood:  stressed |
| Wednesday, December 22nd, 2010 | |
| 9:20 pm [gold_finger] |
I love Paris in the springtime! Except its New York, in the Winter. There comes a point in everyones life where they must ask themselves, "have I ever bought gifts for people and then had to ship them to a relatively remote island off the coast of Scotland?" and generally, most people will say they have not. Mister Thomas Jones, age 22, has however. He enjoys is so much, that in fact Christmas is his favorite holiday of the year. He dances down the street singing Christmas carols and is regularly joined by other New Yorkers in well choreographed fanfare. Except. The only thing that is true to Thomas in this entire fantasy would be the fact that every year around this time he has to deal with 3 different shippers to get packages to his family on Christmas time. Yes, it would be easier if he just flew there, but last year flying there really stretched his budget.... and as much as he loves kidney pie.... Thomas looked upwards as he felt something on his hair. It was snowing. Looking back down at his list scribbled onto a legal pad, he couldn't help but give a small sigh of relief. Winters in the North Atlantic were much harsher than the mild snow drifts and delicate wind chills he experience here in the states. No waves crashing against your city streets, spewing freezing water that solidifies on your car... which is then covered in snow... and then more ice... and then a layer of packing snow just because you really could spare two hours in the morning chipping away at your vehicle. OK, Back to the list. So to the best of his knowledge, things looked as if they were complete. The last minute shopping he had to do because of a failed soiree into Loehmanns seemed a faint memory as his heart skipped with glee at the prospect of being done. And by skipped, someone ran into him and his feet skipped up over his head. Looking back on the situation, which he apparently had time to do, it probably looked embarrassing. Skinny bescpeckled kid in a dated argyle jacket... walking down the street with his face buried in papers. Then some soddy New York brute runs into him, probably on his way to get to a hot dog vendor. At any rate, so he was here. Lying. In the snow. On his back. It was cold. As Thomas looked around, thankfully there didnt seem to be many other people on the street this evening. He scooped his fallen belongings closer to his body and layed there, perhaps dreaming of a nice quiet village on some far away Scottish isle... with no New Yorkers. No noise pollution. No light pollution. No pollution at all, actually. Sometimes you just need to lay around for a while and appreciate things. |
| Monday, November 1st, 2010 | |
| 8:48 pm [heartofiron] |
FATAL_UNKNOWN_ERROR_REBOOT_REQUIRED When Tony noticed something was wrong, it was already too late. In a matter of seconds his viewscreen filled with endless strings of code, quickly spilling over the designated corners of his field of vision. It vanished too fast to read, but Tony could quickly deduct the message 'I am so screwed'. His armor cancelling flight mode and plummeting to the ground might have been another indicator. Since Tony spent a considerable amount of his free time getting smacked around by men in brightly coloured tights, his armor thankfully had some automatic safety protocols that engaged as he hit the ground, making sure he didn't break his neck. Still, there he laid for the moment, immobilizied and trapped in his own armor like a ladybug on its back. Not the right kind of weapon for someone claustrophobic, that's for sure... now where did whatever-it-was bring me? It doesn't look like New York to me. No one seemed to be expecting him, which was a relief. Not to praise himself, but his armor usually didn't malfunction like Windows ME with a herd of trojan horses galloping over the hard drive. Manipulation? Even after restarting, his motion functions were rather limited, but he could sit up and take a look around. The garden of the X-Mansion. That was... bizarre. After running a quick scan of his system that revealed he wouldn't be walking up the driveway and ringing the doorbell before he got ol' shellhead into a workshop, Tony took the liberty of hacking into the X-Men communication system. Not the most gentleman-like thing to do, surely, but there was the possibility Magneto had pulled him here by his iron butt. "Iron Man to my honoured mutant colleagues. It's not my style to kick down the metaphorical front door like this, but would anyone care to explain why I'm here? Not to accuse you, of course, but any problems you know off?" Current Mood:  worried |
| Wednesday, October 27th, 2010 | |
| 9:26 am [billy_maximoff] |
Run Away Billy doesn't know how far he's walked, or why he isn't together enough to fly yet. He has no idea why Theo's still there behind him, the silent shadow, even though they must be halfway to Albany by now. He doesn't owe me anything. I'm not his ticket home...even when I get enough concentration back to use my powers, this is interdimensional travel we're talking about. The fabric of this reality may be silly putty in my hands, but I don't think that crosses over into dimensions. Though Billy thought he'd kept to the roads, he's somewhat surprised to see the area surrounded by trees, completely deserted except for him and Theo. "Huh," he murmurs to himself, deliberately ignoring that he's not alone. "Wonder how that happened." Despite the torrent of emotions still roiling through him, Billy feels eerily calm at the center of it. Reaching out for his powers, he focuses for a minute, and finds himself levitating off the ground a few feet. Then a few more. Then, with an overwhelming sensation of relief, Billy sails toward one of the highest branches and lands there, cape fluttering around him, looking for all the world like some post-modern Merry Man as he tries to get his bearings. Powers back in business. Excellent. Now to find out where I am, and where to go from here. "Well? Come on, if you're coming. Though I still don't know why." Current Mood:  indescribable |
| 8:26 pm [coolaccountant] |
All Tomorrow's Parties Bobby sat in the driver's seat of his blue sports car with two stacks of paper sitting in the front passenger seat; first batch of financials, and invitations. The boiling resentment in his stomach he felt the last time was gone. Yet still an unease remained. Might not be the same Xaviers. Doesn't mean I don't hate seeing it. He quickly parked his car out front and slid out of the vehicle. He held the stacks of papers against the right side of his broad chest. Okay, deliver the accounts to Apple-Pol...er, Scott... Then pass out the invitations. Never thought I'd ever invite him to any of my parties. He straightened his blue tie again before knocking, once more, on those imposing double doors. Even if he hated this place... he wasn't going to let that ruin him passing out invitations to his Halloween party. And man, this party's gonna so rock! |
| Sunday, October 17th, 2010 | |
| 7:11 pm [bluecrawler] |
Neverending Robot Story (for Mastermind) Kurt shut the last drawer with a satisfied smile. Up to now, he had not had the time to check if everything in his room was in place. The furniture was the same, at least. Were a Pirates of the Carribean poster was supposed to be, there was one of Indiana Jones, but aside from that, the decoration over his desk was intact. Most of his possessions still existed, too, nothing really important missing, aside from a few soft-cover books he aquired on airports and two t-shirts, which were rather random objects to be gone I guess if every possible dimension exists, the differences can't always be as profund as they were in most other dimensions I visited. Now came more relevant research. Kurt put his laptop on the pillow and sat down on his bed. The blanket was crumpled at his feet, and Kurt still had a bedhead, though his locks and fur were damp from showering. He was wearing a black turtleneck pullover and old jeans, and his tail was playing with an extra rosary he had found (the only other difference) as he logged into the X-Men database. Like usually, he sat bend over, knees drawn to his chest like a gargoyle. His back was turned to the half-opened door as he searched for all available information on Sentinels. If the Sentinels weren't murderous weapons of mutant mass destruction, I'd feel a sense of comfort that, even though we're in a different dimension, we'll fight them just like every other Tuesday. Current Mood: cynical |
| 1:40 pm [cynical_techie] |
Raiding The Fridge! The man couldn't sneak, so he didn't try. The 6 foot, 1 inches tall, well muscled frame of Damon Baird made its way down the halls with a smirk on his face. Indeed, the smirk had a slight element of a leer. The light of the low moon glinted off the blue lenses of the goggles perched atop his head. The light gray tracksuit was, as usual, a little tight, but Baird didn't pay attention. He glanced at the clock. Alright! Ten past midnight... think I'm gonna have a snack! Man, they have more chocolate here then I've had in my life!!! Ahh yes, Chocolate. The precious joy where the COG keeps increasing the rations from thirty to twenty grams. Those memories threatened to wipe the scowl off his face. He pushed them out of his head as he remembered the tastes... even what was considered mundane food here drove him wild. He sauntered into the kitchen with a large leer. His battle-roughened finger moved along the wall until it found and flipped the light switch. |
| Saturday, October 2nd, 2010 | |
| 6:45 pm [masterwyngarde] |
Trusting Only Yourself (for Nightcrawler) After the first twenty four hours in the home of people he'd sworn enmity to decades ago, Wyngarde had calmed enough that he no longer needed to be smoking at all times. A show and a solid night of sleep had certainly helped that, but he also respected the students' fragile lungs enough to move himself outside or back up to his room to smoke. Enjoying the brisk breeze as it swirled the ash from the Silk Cuts around his head, dusting the shoulders of his trench coat, he watched a few of the students play basketball on the court beside the school. He looked a little wistful, if anyone took the time to notice the emotion buried under the cool, collected exterior that his lean face offered. He was still becoming accustomed to the fact that he was, for all appearances, in his early thirties, rather than late seventies that he'd been when he last was conscious of his own existence. For what it was worth, it appeared as though that was more than a decade ago, in some of the dimensions that his housemates had travelled from. To many of them, if they'd know him or a version of himself at all, he'd been dead for years. Twisting a heavy ring around his right ring finger, he let his weight settle on the edge of a heavy concrete planter, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankle. He'd asked Mr. Wagner to meet him there at the teleporter's early convenience, in an effort not only to earn himself some modicum of trust with one of the few X-Men that he'd had little to no direct dealing with (and wasn't immediately affected by his more nefarious and infamous activities) but also to retrieve some of the money and belongings that he could only assume he (or a version of himself) had stashed in this dimension. Mr. Wagner was above and beyond the fastest way to do both of these things. New York City would have to be the first stop, and only a short trip from Westchester, would be by far the easiest of his potential stashes. |
| 8:20 pm [leodavinci] |
The wonders of laundry Leonardo knew he should probably miss his time a lot more than he did. However, when the face of a friend or any other tidbit that tugged at his heartstrings would come to his mind, something new and perplexing would already have caught his attention before he could really grief. I fear it might catch up with me eventually, but for now this is still an exciting dream... exciting in a lot of ways, Leonardo remembered, a faint blush creeping to his face as pictures of the kind polymath Hank McCoy naked in his arms came back to him, occupying his mind for a moment. His attention quickly shifted back to what he had done before - inspecting the washing rooms of the X-Mansion. After asking his blue friend where he could get some clothing that wouldn't make him stick out like a sore thumb - though, he had noticed, many people here were dressed somewhat colorful -, Hank had told him to go to these quarters in the basement level. To the right, he had found the shelves Hank described, with simple clothing that people were free to put on, trousers of an enduring material and blueish color and plain shirts and pullovers. But it was the quiet hum of machines that had the man from the renaissance more interested, and so he soon wandered off through the back door to have a look at the small mechanical laundry. Of course, what he had planned to be only a quick glance - I don't know if I should even be here - quickly grew into a much longer visit as he tried to guess how the machines working in unison could possibly be tied together, and what force was keeping them working with no human operating them in sight. If I want to live up to what Hank apparently expects of me, that I am such a brilliant man, there is much I have to learn. And no, I don't want to be just a cherished relic of the past... science and art, I will bet they moved far beyond anything I can understand, but by God I will try. And the challenge immediately put a smile on his face as he opened the door to the front room again, where folded and dried clothes were stored. Current Mood:  excited |
| Monday, September 27th, 2010 | |
| 2:20 am [bluecrawler] |
(Very) short moment of peace Kurt put the pan with the scrambled eggs back on the stove and the fried sausages on a plate which he left on the kitchen counter. The healing speed in the zero gravity cell had left him hungry even after the big meal provided by Logan, as his metabolism wanted to make up for the excess calories burned. It was a habit to prepare too much food when he was cooking (which, to be honest, didn’t happen too often), even if no one had asked him to. With so many X-Men around, he could be sure nothing would go to waste. Kurt carried his plate to the table and regarded his food – a small heap of eggs and bratwust. Enough to terrify any diet guru. He folded his six fingers, leaning his chin on his knuckles. I hope Creed didn’t cause trouble, but I would have heard about it - or noticed the hole in the wall that Logan smashed him through. I wonder if Scott already discussed a strategy regarding Weapon X with him... The teleporter lifted his head slightly and shook it, hoping to find peace for a moment in during this exciting day. Saying grace all by himself might have seemed silly to other people, but Kurt found a certain calming quality in the well-known words, a children’s prayer he had known by heart for longer than he could remember and that he now said under his breath. „Vater aller Gaben, alles, was wir haben, alle Frucht im weiten Land, ist Geschöpf in deiner Hand. Hilf, das nicht der Mund verzehret, ohne dass das Herz dich ehret, was uns deine Hand beschert. Amen.“* (*“Father of all, everything we have, everything in the wide world, is in your hands. Help, that not the mouth eats without the heart praising you and what your hand gives us. Amen.”) Current Mood: calm |
| Saturday, September 25th, 2010 | |
| 3:20 pm [adoptedgod] |
Uninvited guest Since Psylocke had literally stumbled over her in the kitchen, Loki had staid in the X-Mansion, trying to acess the different planes of reality and find out what was going on. However, this was not unlike trying to find her way through a swampland covered in thick fog - space and time where in turmoil. She couldn't even locate Bifröst, the rainbow bridge to Asgard. I wish I knew if this is because my abilities are not fully restored, or because something stronger than even me is deliberately controlling the situation. Loki had not yet reported in to anyone, though she guessed Psylocke would have told whoever was leading them right now. It didn't really concern her; it was not like she desperately needed a place to stay. There was enough magic left to change and steal someone's identity, or even conjure up her own little house if she really wanted to. For now, Loki had decided to stay as a woman - she liked both forms, and noticed that this one seemed more trustworthy to others (as well as confusing to most men, always a plus). The Asgardian woman was standing tall at only a few centrimetes short of two metres, looking quite impressive, like a valkyrie with wide hips and ample cleavage to show off in the green dress, which was held by a golden belt. It was the same green as her eyes, which were as much as a contrast to the pale skin as the black hair, full off lockets that made sure the green-gold combination she preferred was pronounced. Attracting gazes was a necessity to the trickster that so enjoyed the limelight. Right now, she wandered the halls, locks opening under her fingertips that flickered with magic if she wished it so. For once, causing trouble was not first on her mind, merely exploring the new enviroment. As the lock to another room came open, she paused. Mechanical gadgets, how interesting. It's always worth a look to see how far the mortals of Midgard have come. They do some quite interesting things, I have to admit that much. The god(ess) entered the room, inspecting some of the half-finished looking machines. She ran her fingertip over the curve of a device that once might have been a motorcycle before someone brutally gutted it. Current Mood:  curious |
| Saturday, September 18th, 2010 | |
| 3:30 pm [seneca99] |
The Storm before the Calm Uanaume was not accustomed to brooding, for any length of time. He'd never had time for it before. Life happened as it always did and he'd never really questioned why it happened. He hadn't questioned his parent's death, he'd not questioned his years on the streets of Cairo, the incident in the truck had been odd but he'd not questioned it nor really even his reaction to it. When his powers had manifested There was the question of what and how, but why had never factored into the equation. He'd never held much fancy for anyone, true there were several women he had lain with in his past. Largely faceless, he had admired their beauty and like gifts they had given themselves to him freely. (A perk of being considered a God he assumed.) However he had always ended the liaison early, usually having satisfied his partner but never himself. He had assumed it was because he was a God and they were not, it was how it had been meant to be from the start and went back to his business as usual. I mean the encounters were fun and sort of pleasurable... but they never felt real, surreal at best. I could tell they were always disappointed they would not have the possibility to bear my child. But I always figured I would spill seed when the right woman came along. Looking up at the sky from the roof above his attic bedroom where he sat, he remembered the sensation of Creed's breath on his face, the heat of his body close to him, barring him from leaving the room. Heat and blood rushed both to his face and his groin at the memory. He pulls his knees up against his chest and sighs in frustrated confusion. As he buries his face against his knees the skies mirror his brooding heart, turning dark and grey, clouds thick and pregnant with the tears Uanaume was to proud and ashamed to shed. |
| Wednesday, September 15th, 2010 | |
| 8:06 am [billy_maximoff] |
Magic's a pain. "Ouch!" The latest figure to land on the Xavier Institute's front lawn is young...almost too young for the world-weary "oh, what the hell's gone wrong now?!" expression with which he surveys his surroundings. "Figures. Teleport to Transia, Magneto tells me. That's where you'll find some clues. Now I've got no idea where I am, Tommy's probably already beaten me there, and that means he'll be smug for the rest of the day, which sucks because now I have to kill him before sundown or go as crazy as everyone thinks I already am..." He looks around, suddenly made aware of the polished marble "XAVIER INSTITUTE FOR HIGHER LEARNING" plaque decorating the front lawn. "Xavier Institute?...whoa. I've heard of missing the turn at Albequerque, but this is a little out of our way, right Ted...?" It then occurs to the young man that the person he thought he was talking to is conspicuously absent. "Ted? Teddy? What is this, a new camouflage trick? Very funny, now come on, get out here..." As he looks around, Billy Kaplan suddenly feels like the ground's dropped out from under him. "Teddy? Teddy?" Fantastic, Billy. Amazing work, truly spectacular. Not only did the spell decidedly not work the way it was supposed to, now you've gone and gotten yourself separated from your overprotective boyfriend. Get ready to be read the mother of all riot acts when you meet up with him again... Never one to be intimidated for long, Billy takes a deep breath. Well, you've been on your own before. You're a Young Avenger, Billy...you can keep this together. Time to go seek out a little assistance getting home. He starts proceeding up the vast lawn to the Institute's front door. Current Mood: irritated |
| Saturday, September 11th, 2010 | |
| 10:12 pm [mr_creed] |
The Last Dorm On The Left Leave it to the wayward and curious students of the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters to treat Victor Creed like a monster from a movie. It started as an accident: A young boy, with powers reminiscent of Shadow Cat made the error of phasing through the door to Creed’s quarters during a game of hide and seek with his peers. He thought it was vacant, and screamed to the heavens when he found out otherwise. Rookie telepaths confirmed his presence in the dwelling, and just like The Beast from that whimsical fairy tale, the students kept their distance from the west wing of the dorms, fearful that the big bad feral would eat them if he were disturbed, Sabretooth spent much of his time sprawled out atop the king sized bed, still naked and waiting on his dirty clothing to be tended to. He let his mind wander; his thoughts ranged from being completely relevant, to utterly random: LAMBDA. Harassing Toad. Throwing Logan off of a cliff. Killing a Morlock. Blink - his angel. The inhibitor collar around his neck. As that thought crossed his mind, Victor lengthened the talons on his right hand. It hasn’t been that long, Vic’. Keep playin’ th’ game just a little longer. If nothin’ happens by th’ next day’s sundown, then raise the issue, an’ a little bit o’ Hell for takin’ their sweet ass time… |
| Thursday, September 9th, 2010 | |
| 10:46 pm [bluecrawler] |
Funniest Hospital Ever! Kurt gazed upwards, then gave his body another push, waving his tail. The momentum he built up already made him rock back and forth and up and down in the zero gravity cell. I feel like I'm three again, and discovered one of these bouncy castles for the first time. Except it's better. What should have been a crippling wound forcing him to use crutches for at least half a year, probably rendering his ankle forever a little more stiff than it had been, was now almost fully healed. And I've only been in here from morning to lunchtime. Hank is a genius, have I told him that recently? Most of the time, Kurt had spent asleep, curled up like an embryo - a round back was just the most comfortable position for him. Since he had woken up, his inner child and adult coexisted peacefully, one making him jump about, the other making him think. I hope Creed has not already gotten into trouble, but when we left him, he seemed ready to comply. He could have been faking it, but I don't think so. The 'little girl' he mentioned, something about her made him calm down. I wonder who she is... Kurt turned around again, hanging upside-down. I hope I'll be done here, and they don't forget to get me out. If Creed hasn't presented his demands, I need to talk to Scott. And I really want to talk to Logan as soon as possible. I think he thought I was siding with Creed - I was siding with Creed, actually, against him. The look in Logan's eyes had been enough to tell Kurt an excuse was in order, or at least an explanation. Current Mood: chipper |
| Sunday, September 5th, 2010 | |
| 9:54 am [forged_in_fire] |
Bitter? Me? Nah. "Fix the Blackbird, Forge...stop staring at Storm, Forge...Forge, I just wrecked the Danger Room again, make it better so I can do it all over again..." The slim, pale man picking up debris and detritus in the Danger Room is mostly unremarkable. Sure, the mechanical right leg and hand are unusual, but nothing about him screams "mutant" right off the bat. "And then to make things even better, he blames me for not making the program 'challenging enough' when he wrecks the room! Like it's my fault he's a better fighter than the rest of the damn team put together! Does he ever stop to consider the fact that this stuff takes raw materials? That the whole thing runs off one power supply, and if I amp up the power too much it'll short out the whole thing?! Computer software has its limits, even AI...if I made this place as smart as he wants it to be, I can't guarantee that it wouldn't just come alive and try to kill us all!!" A disgusted grunt as he carries the bag of broken mechanical parts to a receptacle at the far end of the room and dumps them in. There's a bright yellow flash of light, and the container is completely empty. "OK, that's the raw materials recycled...now all I have to do is reset the room from the control console and..." As he turns back, he blinks in surprise. The laser turrets...all broken when he'd turned his back...are back in pure, pristine condition. Looking up at the control console, he squints, trying to make out someone up there. Is that Hank up there? Or did Logan finally hire some outside help? Either way, nice of them to hit that button for me... He tabs the intercom by the exit door, curious to know who his mysterious assistant is. "Hello?" Current Mood: bitchy |
| Saturday, September 4th, 2010 | |
| 4:25 pm [aceoheartscajun] |
Come Into My Parlor.... Remy stood in front of the mirror in his suit. The crisp white shirt, only half-tucked into his pants, was unbuttoned at the neck and the first button below. His hair was styled with that choreographed messiness ripped straight out of GQ Magazine. His jacket lay around his form; tight around his broad shoulders but loose around his lithe abdomen. No one would say no to dis... he thought with a hungry grin as he looked into the mirror. He wished he could grab his reflection and fuck his own brains out. But no, tonight he was saving all the ravishment for the delicious purple-haired ninja that had joined their impromptu crew. He sprayed some cologne over himself, a darkly mysterious spicy scent that had a proven track record, and picked up the phone. He quickly dialed Betsy's number and leant back against the wall casually; his confident smirk made every single one of his intentions clear (although it was quite unlikely anyone would doubt what they were in the first place). "Bonsoir ma chere," he greeted; the words slithered out of his mouth in his characteristically suggestive, smoky drawl. "In'eres'ed in dinner for two, my room?" He knew what her answer would be. Even if she decided to play hard to get, he knew that made it merely a matter of time. "A t'ief mus' be patien'... He could always pass any time by imagining the things he wanted to do to her; the feeling of her firm legs and ass under his upward-sliding palm... I don' t'ink she'd mind me t'inkin' abou' dat... Current Music: "System de Sexe," Julien-K |