the misbegotten river rat (rogue). (belleish) wrote in mutanthaven, @ 2010-02-26 12:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | bobby drake, jake/jacky gavin, john allerdyce, madeline pryor, remy lebeau, rogue, sarah vale, wade wilson |
LOG: Jake Gavin/Sarah Vale/Wade Wilson/Madeline Pryor/Rogue/Bobby Drake/John Allerdyce/Remy LeBeau.
SUMMARY: Backdated to February; group log. A ragtag team of mutants decides to pay the thief gangs of New Orleans a friendly visit, staging a friendly assault to very politely take back one of their own. Or, you know: "Rocks fall, and bitches get burned in the process of saving Remy from death at the hands of his angry ex-girlfriend." That's more like it.
Jake Gavin had caved quickly at the combined threat of Bobby and John being so very ready to hurt him. Jake was very many things (even a woman sometimes), but one of the things he was the most was a coward. He didn't like getting hurt, and he was not about to be a hero on behalf of Bella Donna Boudreaux and her grudge. He'd offered to tell them everything, and soon all of the crowd had been summoned to listen to the story. The group terrified him even further - he'd all but pissed his pants at the appearance of the mercenary and his redhaired companion, and while he'd thought the Southern and English girls would be less scary, it turned out it wasn't by much. He was pretty sure he was lucky the former hadn't punched him out, and every word that came out of the latter's was so mocking, he'd just cringed back, and started spilling. The relationship between Bella and Remy, the subsequent disapproval and the death of Bella's brother. It's why Remy had been kidnapped, Bella wanted revenge on the man that killed her brother. He was, Jake explained, on trial for the murder, but not through the usual channels. No, the gangs of New Orleans were judging this trial, and they were not likely to be merciful.
It wasn't a completely alien situation to Remy LeBeau, at least not by the standards of Team Paradise Hotel. He'd occasioned to visit a few basements on business since his move to Santa Monica, and so he found himself there again -- but instead of serving as adventurer or rescuer, he was in the much more uncomfortable position of captive.
The trial had proved a tedious process, an ordeal taking far too long, considering that judge and jury never intended to give him a fair shake. He was here to be found guilty and punished for what he'd done, not for there to be a serious exploration of the facts. Remy had no illusions about what they were intending to do to him, and simply wished that they would hurry up and do it already.
Perhaps it was part of the punishment, the knowledge that his fate was all but sealed, but that he could not receive his ultimate punishment in short order. All the gangs remembered him, and remembered him well -- it never would have escaped their notice that Remy was a restless soul, in need of constant stimulation and action in order to keep himself sane. The people putting him on trial were also careful to use their knowledge in keeping him captive as effectively as possible. It was not enough to simply trap him behind a locked door or a set of bars. He was tied up tightly while the jury deliberated, trussed up without anything on his person that could have cut through them. True enough, he could use his powers to burn the ropes off, but it would result in serious injury to his own person. The bindings would explode right on his hands, and he rather liked the idea of keeping them.
Perhaps he might have employed his hypnotic power, too, but most of the time he was kept in total solitude. His options were limited. So Remy sat, tried up in the basement of the Boudreaux family compound, biding his time -- waiting for an opportunity to present itself where one had not been previously, waiting to die, coming up with some pithy remark before the firing squad if it did arrive. He didn't know which, but Remy hoped the final answer would present itself, and soon.
It had been up to Jake to lead everyone to the Boudreaux family home, but it had been Sarah that had given them the way in. The security system suddenly up and failed, walkie talkies and phones crackled and died, and the lights flickered and went out. The front gates creaked open, and then it was up to others to lead them from here.
Wade Wilson -- Deadpool, at this exact moment in time -- had, in standard foolhardy fashion, gone rushing in first. He was the distraction. A one-man shockwave knocking the first line of guards off-guard, disabling them with a scattering round of bullets, his whirling swords, and -- of course -- a barrage of verbal discombobulation.
"Man, it is so useful having a technopath on hand. Gotta remember that for next time," he said aloud, seemingly unheeding the New Orleans thugs piling on him. "Why didn't I ever work with a technopath?"
Because they can flirt with your toaster and fry your TV. They creep you the hell out.
"Oh, right. Thanks, yellow boxes."
Schwa-snikt -- another guard down. Deadpool kept an eye on Madeline as he moved: he always spared a glance for her safety, accompanied by a small quirk of a crooked smile when he saw her crushing someone's trachea with her mind. God, he loved it when she went all Darth Vader on people. Presumably John and Bobby were right behind them -- but he didn't care enough to look. Especially when there was so much fun to be had in the foyer, and an entire Boudreaux mansion to get lost in. Where was Remy, his missing bijou?
Madeline, for her part, didn't need the benefit of sight to keep track of the hunting party. Wade's mental signature was now so ingrained in her mind that she hardly knew where her brain ended and his began, for better or for worse. Rogue, Sarah, and the rest of the boys weren't far behind, all brimming with concern for their absent friend, tiny beacons of lip-bit determination, shining out earnestly from the pedestrian thoughts and dull motivations of the local muscle protecting the mansion.
She'd have scoffed if she hadn't shared the same worries they did.
Hoisting a live soldier before her with invisible tendrils of influence, Madeline let him catch a few bullets for the team before dropping him on the flagstones below. Red hair drifted out on the waves of heat emanating from her body, and she briefly considered torching the joint before a faint signal of a familiar mind caught her attention. Remy. Her feet connected with a ground she hadn't realized she'd left, and she pointed in the direction of their lost companion. When she spoke, her voice reverberated across the courtyard and inside the skulls of her friends.
"This way."
"Some Southern hospitality." Yup, that was nice and ruthless. Thanks, Madeline. Rogue cringed and felt a flash of sympathy for the guy who took the hits, but not for long; heck, he'd have gladly let the same thing happen to them. As the group moved forward, she paused to pull the gun from the bleeding man's hands. He'd be all right. "Sorry for the hassle, big guy," she murmured, pulling off a glove to touch his forehead. No time for a kiss. "Don't have time t'make this any sweeter!" His eyes rolled backward as he slipped into unconsciousness. Rogue stripped off her other glove, tossing both to the side--no damn time for being delicate. Her mind swarming with the guard's, she hoisted the gun and followed the rest after Remy. Boy, it was useful having a telekinetic telepath and a heal-from-everything mercenary around.
As the group moved into the mansion (which was kind of pretty, if not swarming with gang members), their pace hurried, Rogue felt ready. Ready to do what she had to, and even excited, in the same way she'd felt when going to bars with Logan. It had been an experience, hearing Remy's story--figured it was something shady--and for now, that was as far as Rogue considered it. Maybe later, when she'd seen Remy alive with her own two eyes, she'd have time to process. The current hour called for balls-to-the-wall, head-busting action right now, and that suited her just fine.
"Cell complex is in the basement," she called out, reading the memories she'd zapped (along with the knowledge of how to use the gun) from the guard, "toward the east end o'the buildin', an' past two guarded doors!" Just, you know, FYI. There were no feelings of inadequacy or fear here, even if she was possibly the least powered of the group. Maaaybe that was a bad thing, but who was keeping track, anyway?
If there was anything more useful than a telekinetic telepath, a heal-from-everything mercenary, a technopath, and a power/knowledge-draining Southerner, it was the addition of a cryokinetic and a pyrokinetic to the group. Bobby Drake was covered in ice and on his favorite form of transportation -- his trademark ice slide. The aforementioned pyro was directly behind him, firing blasts over his head. When Rogue called out Remy's location, Bobby was on the move. "On it!" was followed by the sound of ice cracking as he slid past Rogue, firing a cold blast at an armed gang member as he raced by.
Bobby rarely encased his whole body in ice -- it was the sort of thing that drew a lot of unwanted attention, you see -- but today was different. Today, Bobby could unleash the stuff he'd learned through training with Emma. The feeling of being able to freeze men to the spot, blocking their path with ice walls, or covering John's back with a few well-placed shields without worry was exhilarating. His mouth was pulled back in a grin as he veered right, left, then right again.
His eyes widened in surprise as he turned the corner -- oh look, more armed gang members. Great. "This is kind of like one of the missions in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City," Bobby called back to John, apparently unfazed by the wave of men with guns rushing toward them. Firing off a few more blasts, he continued, "You know the one, where you go rescue the guy and try to steal the helicopter, but the place is swarming with gangbangers? Yeah." Except in Grand Theft Auto, you had an endless amount of rescue attempts. Lance Vance could die twenty times, but you always had another chance to save the day -- that wasn't exactly the case with Remy.
The fact that John and Bobby made a pretty fuckin' good team was coming as a bit of a surprise to John. He was confident in his own ability to do damage, obviously, but he wasn't exactly a brawler here, and it wasn't like the ragtag team they'd assembled had ever practiced evasive maneuvers or dual attacks. Sure, he expected badassery from Wade, it wasn't unexpected to find out that Madeline was a cool cucumber in battle, and Rogue had enough experience slapping down drunks that she could hold her own, but the rest of it was all kind of a crapshot, wasn't it? John was just following his instincts. As they started into the mansion, he'd caught onto the back of Bobby's shirt and asked for cover. Ice, after all, was a lot more effective when it came to stopping bullets and blades -- if they could get through the furls of flame that John was pushing ahead of them. It was a challenge to use the blaze offensively without setting the entire building on fire before they reached their target, but John was handling it well, redirecting the flames in physically improbable directions and funneling the full force towards the enemies who stood in their way. He had no qualms about setting people on fire, especially people who were trying to kill them, and if they started to feel a little toasty, well. They could always put some ice on it.
Getting the hang of Bobby's ice slide was the difficult part. It looked easy -- or maybe that was just Bobby's experience -- but John found himself hanging on for dear life at first. When he realized that he probably wasn't going to go flying off into the nearest wall, however, it quickly turned into a huge thrill. It was like a better way to skateboard, or surf, if he could begrudgingly admit that anything related to surfing was fun. Exhilarated, he kept laughing and whooping every time they made a daring swerve or he nailed some gun-wielding minion with an inescapable column of fire. Dangerous? Awesome. "It's exactly like Vice City," he hollered back in Bobby's ear, craning his head for a moment to look ahead of them. "We're in a fuckin' video game!" When they passed Rogue, he even threw her a saucy wave. This team was alright, and headed for the grand destination. "Let's go grab Remy's sorry Cajun ass."
They were six people with little to no experience working with each other, let alone--with the possible exception of Wade--working in the Bust-a-Friend-Out-of-Prison business at all. As the team enthusiastically lent their respective talents to more property and body part (and possibly, considering this was HQ for some sort of New Orleans mob equivalent, ego) damage than should have been legal, it must have occurred to some of them that, disorganized and spontaneous though the whole rampage was, they had a certain style that had to be admired. And the best part was, they were making it up as they went along.
"Merde," snarled a blond, clutching onto his oversized rifle as he scampered past Madeline and Sarah, scrabbling for the dining room. For a moment, all of them who'd chosen to stay in the entrance to give their own version of a polite greeting stepped back to watch. Slowly, with delicious hang-time, part of what was probably an antique, highly-polished Civil War era staircase crumbled underneath the weight of several surprised soldiers and a fresh onslaught of bullets and telekinesis. A quick glance passed among each other communicated something similar: Whoops. Who wanted to put their name on that one?
Okay, maybe there wasn't really a style here.
Belowdecks, Team Fire and Ice seemed to have adopted the mindset that the guards had signed some kind of one-night contract to serve as human bowling pins. If they'd stopped to think about it, quite possibly they might have noticed that attempting to roast human derriere without an oven and freezing people to the walls in compromising (and occasionally, hilarious) positions, was indicative of poor planning. Not that they would have had time to come up with an apology that was remotely sincere, and it wasn't as if anyone was giving them a reason to consider any social improprieties, what with the fact that the ones left with functional limbs kept sending high-caliber bullets whizzing desperately for Bobby's frozen torso. How rude--it seemed the face of Southern hospitality was changing.
Not that either of them minded a little scuffling on a pleasant weekend afternoon.
In fact, now that they were rapidly sliding toward their final destination, it was becoming clear that they both relished it. As much as they might have claimed otherwise, Bobby and John had little to no fighting experience, and they hadn't thought to buy any of the the readily available manuals that detailed How to Raid a Mansion Full of Experienced Gunmen and God Knows What Else. What they did have, however, was a keen sense of how to shoot fireballs to into a locked metal door, endure a brief waiting period to glance (somewhat apprehensively) behind themselves to ensure no one was coming yet as the door melted, then charge the remaining barrier, making a flame-throwing ice-man the first welcome sight to greet Remy LeBeau in days.
Six had gone in, seven were leaving--if by "leaving," it was meant that one was tearing the hell out of dodge, some still clutching weapons that didn't belong to them. Rogue, still with lingering traces of the gunman in her psyche, experienced a brief moment of reluctance before deciding that no one would find a military-grade rifle festive, even in the Big Easy. Besides, as they were reminded by the first solider they'd downed (who was attempting to roll over again as they ran past the gate), Madeline would take care of any followers.
The results weren't perfect. However, as seven mutants hustled down the streets of New Orleans, a carefully-constructed 1800-something home with shattered windows and cranky occupants behind them, Wade yet again in the gleeful lead, and a battered but alive Remy in tow, it must have occurred to them that the results were more than good enough.