LOG: [Marius] Out

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Finally, Marius finds himself in a situation he can't talk his way out of.




He wasn't going to get anywhere with this girl, Marius realized as he smiled over his drink, but that was all right. His roommates' accusations notwithstanding, he was perfectly capable of going entire nights without sex. Weeks, even, though of course he was under no obligation to prove it. Mostly he clubbed for the dancing, the socialization, and the fact it meant he would be out of the school for a night. Tonight he'd actually considered inviting the newer additions to the student body along, but Laurie didn't seem the type and Kevin apparently disintegrated organic matter on contact, which even Marius had to concede sounded like a crap mutation. Besides, the only reason he had managed to get himself in was on the basis of Manuel's past cred with the bouncer and his and Jennie's reputation of livening up the dancefloor on slow nights, and as Jennie had begged off for the evening he wasn't inclined to be that adventurous. Also contrary to popular opinion, Marius did not wantonly push his luck. Not unless he was bored, anyway.

"NYU, eh?" he said to the blonde next to him, cocking his head. "Got a mate who was accepted to Empire State. Personally I figure to be a shiftless drain on the household income a bit longer before settlin' into something sensible like Public Relations just for the joy of people's faces when I say it. Since a certain amount of nepotism is assured I may as well shock with a useful skill. Still, no use pushin' things. You're only young once." Mentally he added, Says the bloke four years shy of legally drinking this drink. Ah, America.

The girl giggled, but the sound was lost in the rough clearing of a throat to the other side of Marius. "You're talking to the wrong girl, boy. In fact, I think you're in the wrong club altogether."

The speaker was a man in his early twenties, maybe an inch shorter than Marius but with a significant amount of muscle on him and the flush to his cheeks that said he was more than one drink into his evening. That alone wouldn't have been disturbing, but the two similarly-built friends behind him pushed things a bit into the red zone between 'nuisance' and 'threat'.

Marius turned to regard the man, relatively unconcerned. With a name like Marius Sammar Cartier Laverne he had almost two decades of dealing with people looking to start something. Giving the blonde an apologetic look, a fluid straightening of posture brought the boy away from the bar and coincidentally up to his full height. "And why would that be, mate?" Marius asked, cheerfully ignoring the 'boy' comment. "It's a free country, cover excepted. Or so I hear from the movies."

"You're not from around here, so I'll talk nice and slow for you," the lead man - "Trent" by the label on his work shirt - said, stepping closer to Marius. "Around here, people tend to stick to their own. And Jeff here mentioned that he saw some eurotrash-looking pretty boy the other night with some of the folks from the mutie school up north. So how's that, boy? You a mutie, coming in here with us decent folk, tryin' to start something?"

'Boy' he could handle, but that accusation caught him unprepared. His fingers tightened automatically against his palms -- No, got the gloves on, no one can tell. Marius forced his muscles to unlock and took an unconcerned drink from his glass.

"Honoured as I am that you think I'm pretty," Marius said levelly, meeting the man's gaze, "I doubt I'm the only stunning foreign import in the county. Also Europe and Australia are entirely different continents, but I've come to expect a total lack of international awareness from this side of the pond. Not your fault, really. I blame an overly nationalistic media." Inwardly, he was kicking himself for his own carelessness. Not that the club was large or mutants were commonplace anyway, in spite of how life at Xavier's made it seem, but after being warned about the local FOH chapter Marius realized in retrospect that there might be a reason he was the only mutant in the club. Well, cross this place off the list, then . . .

"Bit of a smartass, aren't you?" Trent nodded to his two friends, who moved to his sides, effectively boxing Marius in. "Also notice you didn't answer the question. Why not? You scared, huh? Maybe a little guilty about coming and spreading your filth around us decent folks here? Huh?"

Reaching out with two fingers, he jabbed Marius in the sternum to punctuate his sentence. "I asked you a question, boy!"

The impact sent the contents of his drink sloshing. Bracing himself against the bar with one hand, Marius carefully set his glass down with the other. I'm going to see this bouncer fired, came his first acid thought as Marius noticed him on the other side of the room hitting on a brunette in a very encouraging shirt. He could sympathize with the man's attentions, but his confidence in his ability to handle himself did not extend to three against one. And where was the damned bartender?

He refused to back down. Not for trash like this. Legitimate or not, he was still a St. Croix. A St. Croix would not be bullied. Marius straightened again, slowly and deliberately, and looked Trent in the eye.

"So I'm pretty and smart now, eh?" he said, tensing his muscles to intercept the man's arm if he tried another jab. Painfully, if necessary. "Ta for the compliment, but you're not my type. An' as for your answer, I only give those when the question dignifies a response. Happily for us all mutation isn't contagious, so it's a moot point." He gave the man a brittle smile. "Not that I'd want you inducted into the genepool anyway, mind."

"Guys, stop," the blonde said, shoving into the circle to place herself between Marius and the main aggressor, emphasizing the separation with one hand placed on Trent's chest. "Why do you always do this? He wasn't bothering anyone. Come on, let's just go home. I've got work tomorrow anyway."

"He's bothering me!" Trent growled, pushing past the blonde girl and levering his forearm up against Marius' throat. Almost in synchronized motion, his two friends moved to the other side of Marius, conveniently blocking his view from the bouncer and most of the bar.

"Tell you what," Trent said quietly, "I think Mr. High-and-Mighty here could use a little something to remind him to keep his hands where they belong, with his own kind. Jeff, gimme his hand."

The larger of Trent's two friends grabbed Marius' wrist in a rather painful lock, forcing his fingers open flat against the bar. From behind his waistband, Trent produced a set of wire cutters, ones he'd obviously been using to pop the tops on a few bottles of beer, judging by the nicks and burrs on the blades.

In that moment a hundred thoughts poured through Marius' mind. That this was how Jay must have felt when Tommy was beating him -- that this was what Tommy must have felt when he was being beaten -- that this was what people like Clarice and Mr. Wagner risked every day just by walking down the street as they were -- a hundred thoughts or more that all trickled down to one simple thing:

I get it. I get it now.

But mostly it was terror. Terror, and, as the rusted metal slid around the joint of his index finger, the maddened, chest-tearing need to be somewhere else.

And suddenly he was.