InsaneJournal

Who: St. John Allerdyce and Marie-Ange Colbert
What: A pyromaniac and a precog walk into a bar...
Where: Grossest bar ever
When: Like... a month ago? Ish?
Warnings/Rating: Nothing too terrible. It's not done but no one's been sacrificed yet


There was a feeling in the back of his mind that he was being used again.

St. John Allerdyce should have been used to that. Used by Mystique, by the United States Government, and by Selene, he was in a system with a bunch of fools playing a bloody fools' game. All it would bring was more fighting, more wars, more destruction, and John wasn't an innocent flower. Killing had long since not turned his stomach, and he'd do it now if he thought he'd get something useful out of it. One could see the destruction in New York after some sort of alien attack (and that hadn't thrown Pyro at all), and he didn't blink to see the ruins as he settled into a dive bar, with cheap sales to try to mitigate the lost of customers.

When he had died, so, so many years ago, he thought it was finally over. It was probably strange for someone to hear that he'd rather be dead than alive, but he had had a shining moment of redemption. That moment had been stolen from him, twisted away by Selene, as he was forced back into the uniform of Pyro and made to fight the X-Men in Utopia. His choice, his life, had meant nothing. He took a lighter out of his pocket and enjoyed the cool feel of the item, letting his thumb rub absently over the top and down. Over the top and down.

Maybe that was what upset him the most. Even with saving Kelly's life and getting the senator to change his stance on mutants, it hadn't made one bloody bit of difference. He was forgotten, and no X-Man, no politician, no anybody gave a fuck about him other than being some interchangeable Brotherhood member. His thumb paused in its swirling, flipping up the cap before settling on the ignitor. Fire on, fire out, fire on, fire out.

And he was not going to be foolish enough to think that he was just given a new life now. He refused to get his hopes up. Life wasn't something that he really had control of. He didn't really have control over himself. All he had control of was that little bit of flame making a perfect shape on his lighter.

"Sir..." The waitress at the bar was giving him a concerned expression. He wasn't allowed to smoke inside the bar, but he hadn't actually lit anything on fire yet.

"Sorry. Just an ice water, please." Maybe he could just quench that internal need to burn.

Marie-Ange could easily understand the conflicting feelings that came with dying and being born again... over and over. There was nothing pleasant about it. She hadn't once come back to life and thought of it as a gift. But, then, there was always something new to deal with. Whether she was subjected to Emma or Bedlam or Selene it was all the same. Really.

And that had been her way after leaving home. She'd never been particularly loud or stood out for much other than her accent and the occasional ginger comment. Marie-Ange had sort of accepted that she was low man -- woman? -- on the totem pole when it came to Very Important People. She wasn't one of them.

Even with her powers, and peoples' fascination with the future and the unknown, really, it often earned her odd looks and people trying to stay out of her way. For some reason, a lot of them thought she was creepy. Maybe it was the wall of hair she hid behind. Or the randomly accurate comments she made about things she should have known nothing about. Or just the Tarot cards. The pictures were pretty creepy, she couldn't deny that.

But, now, she was back. No one knew her. And she was tired. Tired of always being under someone else's bootheel. Tired of people treating her like a pariah. Just tired, which was bound to happen on your fourth go at life.

A dive bar like this wasn't a place she'd usually go. But, tonight, she had to. Whatever that meant. One of those "feelings". Marie-Ange didn't ignore them, even when she didn't like them.

It was less like she was choosing her path and more like her path was choosing her, but she found herself on the perimeter of the bar, watching someone flipping a lighter open and closed. The waitress finally left and Marie-Ange took the opportunity to continue on that path. The one that, apparently, had a thing for fire. "You're going to light the building on fire if you keep that up," she said, taking a seat without asking.

Pyro was used to those feelings and following them. Not on his own part--he lived in the present and was fine with that--but he had worked under Mystique and Destiny for so long that he was used to someone telling them what they had to do because of something in the future. Like taking care of that girl Rogue. It seemed like forever since his first group of Brotherhood members.

Still, he was going to be avoiding the precog on the journals. If her powers were like Destiny's, he had no reason to doubt her fortune telling, but every reason to want nothing to do with it. Another lifetime of people telling him what to do, controlling his actions and making his choices for him? He was going to avoid that as long as he could.

His eyebrows rose at the interruption. The lighter slammed shut with a metallic clank. "I can handle it." Whatever that meant--that he could survive the fire if he did burn the building down, or that he could control the fire. At least he felt that way for now--which was what was causing so much of his current unease. It was the first time in a long while that he felt somewhat in control. While he was dying from the Legacy Virus, his powers were out of control and destroying him. The brief time as a leader in Australia had been better, but then resurrection to serve Selene had again rendered him as little more than a conduit for his powers. Oh well, he had blithely joked then, because he could feel he had no physical choice in the matter, but now he felt like his old self, and he both feared finding out the truth of the situation and wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. He really should stop wallowing and just enjoy it, but this lifetime, he was finding it a little hard.

"I'm not buying you a drink."

Marie-Ange's eyebrows went up immediately and, even if she wasn't laughing, it certainly looked like she wanted to. Never mind that she'd rarely had drinks bought for her, though that likely had a lot to do with staying in the background. And, when she wasn't in the background, blurting out stupid things. Like how the person she was talking to was destined to die in the next month.

"Who said I'd let you buy me a drink?"

Though, clearly, this was why her little directional, back-of-the-mind bell had been telling her that she better make sure she had some patience in reserve. Apparently, that voice had been downplaying the amount of patience necessary.

"Don't flatter yourself by thinking this is a come on, because it's not, but I was supposed to meet you tonight. I just don't know why yet."

He didn't understand why she looked ready to laugh. Woman approaches man at bar. Woman wants a drink. It seemed like a logical assumption to him, but John didn't pay for drinks. He tried not to even pay for his own drinks, conveniently leaving his wallet at home whenever he went out with his mates.

Mates which he was sorely lacking since being diagnosed with Legacy, but.

He liked the company of women well enough, but this one was sending mixed messages. One eyebrow rose. "You're only sounding more like a hooker at this point, love." A psychic hooker, too. Man, how (not) lucky was he tonight.

Wow. Marie-Ange would have called him a cheap bastard if she's heard all of that internal stuff. Luckily, psychic didn't always mean telepath.

"If I were a hooker, I would have chosen someone who looks like they have more money. Love."

Not that there was... well, anyone in this place that didn't look mostly homeless and destitute. But that was a completely different argument and one that didn't help her case.

Reaching for her purse -- she wasn't putting it down in a place like this -- she glanced up at him almost dismissively but not without a certain amount of curiosity. After all, there was some precognitive reason shed ended up here. "What are you drinking?" she asked before putting a hand up to signal the waitress. Assuming calling a waitress over even worked in a hellhole like this.

He didn't claim to not be a cheap bastard. He liked to think of it as working the system, and his mates got other things from him.

"There--" There was a brief flash of a grin as John conjured up some memory long buried, a pleasant one of visiting Avalanche and his wife Helen in Greece, and as in most issues, John was just going to say whatever occurred to him. But after a beat he swallowed his words and frowned a bit. He didn't really want to think about Avalanche right now.

Thankfully, the waitress did come over with John's ice water, saving him from whatever he was going to say as well as answering the woman's question. The waitress looked mildly surprised that John now had company, and he just rolled his eyes.

Well, unfortunately for St. John, Marie-Ange was like a bulldog once she heard something and it wasn't completed. She couldn't read minds, so she didn't know what he'd been about to say, but she also couldn't stand leaving things unsaid. Even if it was totally unimportant.

Though, mind reader or not, she did have the sense that she was dealing with someone who had a very... complicated... past. And that probably was psychic.

"So. Cheap bastard," she said, raising her eyebrows at the ice water. "I'll have a glass of Sauvignon blanc." Though, given her surroundings it was probably going to be terrible. Or non existent. Considering the look the waitress gave her. "Never mind. Cognac. Neat. He'll take one too."

Marie-Ange could keep the bulldog to herself. John wasn't about to say anything particularly meaningful, but it was his business all the same, and he didn't feel like speaking about it. Too many lifetimes.

"I'll take one, too," he parroted her words, with a slight roll of his eyes. "So now you're buying me a drink, love? To what do I owe the pleasure?" He was suspicious about the claim that she was just supposed to meet him tonight. That line worked for Mystique and Destiny, and he was smart enough to know that, but she was neither Mystique nor Destiny.

Or maybe it was Mystique, actually. He watched her closely.

She was better than Destiny.

(no she wasn't)

All the same.

Wonderful, he was a snarky cheap bastard. "I figure you'll be slightly pleasant with a drink or two in you." She could hope, right? The waitress just shook her head and walked off, presumably to get their order. Marie-Ange just hoped she didn't spit in their drinks.

"So. 'There...'?" Yeah, hadn't forgotten.

Nobody was better than Destiny. Sorry.

Her justification did make him scoff with some amusement. This woman might be psycho, but she was funny.

"There?" He looked around. "Don't see anything there."

Psycho. Whatever. He hadn't seen psycho.

She leaned back in her chair, trying to forget about the fact that they probably hadn't been cleaned in decades, crossed her legs and crossed her arms. "What you'd been about to say. 'There--'" Marie-Ange had the feeling he was deliberately being difficult.

Of course he was deliberately difficult. He was St. John.

He considered for a minute before opting to lie. "There are way better places to turn tricks, too." When all else fails, be rude.

Marie-Ange made a soft sound in response. It might have been a snort. "And people with bigger wallets to approach."'

Not that she was being rude in return or anything. Of course not.

But, really, she didn't actually know how much time she had before she blew whatever chance she had of figuring out why she was getting a little psychic tingle about following him. And continuing to do so would probably be considered stalking. "Name?" She was already reaching for her purse. Her cards were tucked in their. And unless she wanted to wait for some vague, weird prophetic dream, it was her most reliable source.

And by reliable, she meant not reliable at all.

Bigger wallet? Nice double entendre, and John had to give a smirk and a scoff in return.

He thanked the poor waitress who brought drinks to them, and then John looked more suspicious as he started to nurse his drink. He was going to savor it.

After a long pause, he offered, "John." Innocent enough.

"Let me guess. Your last name's Smith." Because, of course, she assumed the name was a bullshit response. He was clearly suspicious of her. Why would he give her his real name?

Even though she expected it to taste like rubbing alcohol, she gave the waitress a smile in response to her drink. And made a mental note to tip well. Both because she'd actually gotten the order right and because she'd been dealing with St. John even before Marie-Ange had gotten there.

"Nope." What a crappy psychic she was if she couldn't even get his name. Well, no skin off his back.

The drink really was bad, too, so he owed her nothing.

"Are you going to impress me? Because I'm getting bored."

Probably a good thing he didn't say that outloud. Nothing pissed her off as much as being told she was a crappy psychic.

"I'm not here to impress you," she said, her hand closing around the deck and putting it on the table a little more forcefully than she'd intended. Oops. Normally she babied her tarot cards. "I told you. I don't know why I'm supposed to be here. But I am. Sorry that's not more exciting."

John was smarter than he looked and acted. He had a college degree, even! A published writer! So when she slammed the cards on the table, he stared for a moment.

"Shit, you're not the bloody psychic from the journal, are you?" Ugh.

That got a surprised look. She'd hardly expected to randomly run across someone from the journals (there was that crappy psychic thing again). Though it did make some sense that her powers would latch onto someone she'd had some contact with. Even just virtual contact.

"Even if I am, who does that make you?"

Surprise was understandable, and John was both wary and intrigued. This whole hotel alternate universe thing was as weird as anything else he had encountered.

"You don't remember me already? Guess I haven't made enough of an impression." John flicked his lighter open again as wheels started turning.

He was dead. Why should he worry about rules?

Well, there was a thought. That this was some weirded, screwed up afterlife. Honestly, it wouldn't have surprised Marie-Ange at this point, all things considered.

"You're the pyromaniac." She didn't need to be psychic to figure that one out once the lighter came out. "Wonderful. You made such a good impression that I was hoping to meet you."

Death did funny things to the mind. It made everything seem both possible and impossible.

He clapped slightly when she pieced together who he was. At least he wasn't entirely forgettable. "Your psychic vibes brought you here, not mine."

The last made her narrow her eyes, starting to peel cards from the top of the deck. "Do you have any idea how obnoxious you are?" Why did she get the feeling that, yes, yes he did know. She started arranging the cards in a plus-shaped pattern, scowling at them so that she didn't have to look at his smug, annoying face.

"Why do I get the feeling that this reading is going to be ten ways to screwed up?"