a cornerstore pulp fiction sits where your heart isn't Who: Northstar, OTA What: Jean-Paul's at work. Bother him. When: Wednesday night Where: The Blue Danube, Mutant Town Warnings: He's got a foul mouth.
The Sentinels were everywhere. Fuck's sake. He couldn't go down to the store without tripping over one of them. The dumb bastards didn't recognize him--these days, anyway--but he knew it was only a matter of time before someone tipped them off. Manhattan wasn't safe; Mutant Town, generally a mutant sanctuary, was a death trap for him. How many French-Canadian mutants of his general description and set of powers were running around the world? Few. He was making an effort to behave in an attempt to stay under their radar, but he knew himself--it was only a matter of time before he got drunk, or angered, and flew off the handle, and demonstrated his powers spectacularly. They'd know him, then.
But where else would he go? Not back to Canada, certainly--and not too close to the border, either. They recognized his face more frequently up there, regardless of how different he looked now compared to two years ago. The American Midwest would be safest, but also the most likely to make him slit his wrists. What on God's green earth did they even do out there? Tip cows?
Christ. Note to self: next lifetime, become a celebrity after you become an outlaw.
For now, though, he stayed. He wanted to get a bit more in savings before he moved on again--security was impossible with this kind of lifestyle but he could at least have a little nest egg--and he knew the area. As long as he stayed in Mutant Town he didn't attract unnecessary attention, he could be just another mutant face.
Another advantage was that he could get a damn job here. Two, actually, closing in on a third since he was likely to lose one of them soon. No one cared if he looked weird or if he glowed, which suited him, since the next person to make a disco ball or Twilight joke was seriously going to end up in traction. The Blue Danube was a disgusting little dump of a bar, not even worthy of being called a dive, and he didn't get paid enough to put up with the nonsense its regulars inflicted on the staff, but every now and then some people who were clearly criminals trying to pretend they weren't would drop a huge wad on the place. Tonight was not looking like one of those nights, but at least this wasn't the kind of bar people came to expecting great service. He was free to not give a shit.
When someone flagged him over he put down the glasses he'd been washing--his hands moved in a blur, he could do four times as many as the dishwasher could in less time--and was abruptly standing in front of them, a slight blurred glow and a breeze in the direction he'd come from the only indication he didn't, actually, teleport over. He was just that quick.