![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xp_topaz posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsLogan, Jean, Clarice, and Jean-Phillipe take thug-beating duty.
Jean-Phillipe was a man of simple pleasures. (His cousin would likely protest that there was nothing simple about him, but her opinion was notably biased.) A delicious meal with his husband, protecting Scott Summers, and punching bigots in the face. So when he and Clarice were asked to go find the gang of thugs targeting homeless mutant children, he was already zipped up and ready to go by the end of the sentence.
"I suppose it would be gauche to draw them out by standing on a crate and announcing 'come see the known mutant terrorist, likely wanted in several countries' very loudly, would it not?" he asked Clarice with a smirk.
"No more so than me being purple bait," she replied with a smirk of her own. "And I thought you were wanted in like...15 countries? Did some of those warrants expire? You're losing your touch." Punching bigots never ceased to make her happy. That she could help mutant kids, homeless or not, was really just icing on the punch-bigot cake. Therefore, instead of dressing sensibly for a fight, she wore a pair of low-rise combat style pants tucked into her boots and a crop top that was more string than top. She had the body to get away with it thanks to the X-Men (and the scars, but she wasn't someone who cared about covering those) and nothing said 'mutant' more than large swaths of very, very purple skin.
"To be honest, I've lost track with some of them, especially with the changes that happened a few years back." It was still instinct for Jean-Phillipe to refer to the universal shift in vague terms, even if that stricture had relaxed somewhat. He shrugged. "I suppose marriage has made me a touch soft," he admitted. "Maybe I should add 'flaming homosexual' to the 'known mutant terrorist', see if that gets them." It was an easy bet that most bigots of one stripe tended to be bigoted in other ways as well.
It was the same for Clarice. Too many years of being vague and non-specific didn't change over night, "I guess you have homework then to do. Find out how many countries you're wanted in. Then do a shot for each one," that sounded like a great idea. And a terrible one. But most terrible ideas were often great as well. "Well, being queer of any sort won't do you any favours in a lot of countries. Or being a mutant. Though, those are often the same countries. I'm talking specifically ones you are wanted in. Not the general haters, 'cause haters gonna hate, hate, hate," she half-sang off-key. Clarice was many things, but singing was not one of her talents.
"And I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake..." As if Jean-Phillipe couldn't sing along with gay club staples like Taylor Swift. His tastes might run toward electronica and Euro club sounds, but still. A pair of lean-looking men in similar jeans and leather jackets gave Clarice a sharp look as they went by, a look that Jean-Phillipe was always on the lookout for, but especially now. In the blink of an eye he had planted his left foot and pivoted back to drive his fist across the closest one's jaw.
Catching the movement, Clarice ducked down, pivoting, grabbing his friend's arm and using his weight to twist until she heard a pop. She wasn't interested in 'nice.' She was interested in hurting people. "You are somebody that I don't know, But you're taking shots at me like it's Patrón and I'm just like "Damn, it's 7:00 p.m.'" she quoted, continuing their Taylor Swift references and ignoring the guy's scream. He didn't need his shoulder in its socket, right?
Jean-Phillipe's 'dance partner' was clearly one of those bully-boy types who was used to letting his bulk do all the work for him, as he pounded away at the Frenchman's bunched shoulder ineffectively. A particularly wild haymaker left an opening, and he moved in close, driving two knuckles into the other man's solar plexus. Then, as the thug whooped and gasped for breath, Jean-Phillipe drove his knee up sharply into the man's groin, and as he folded over, plunged his elbow into the base of the man's neck, leaving him sprawled on the ground whimpering and barely conscious.
He turned and saw Clarice twisting the dislocated arm of the second man, and grinned viciously. "Tres bien, one to question." He didn't generally push the 'former Brotherhood' angle much around the rest of the X-Men these days, but these connards had him in a mood. "My associate has medical training," he told the sobbing wreck of a man in a flat, factual tone. "She is very familiar with how much pain the body can take, and it is much more than you think."
Licking her lips, Clarice nodded, playing along. "The body can withstand so much. It's truly amazing what can be done," she slipped a small knife out of her pocket, using it as a prop. It was more useful opening soda cans so she didn't break a nail, but their new friend didn't know that. "Tell me," she whispered, lips almost on their captives ear, "I want to know it all."
The thug licked his own lips, but in panic instead of the relish Clarice had put on it. "I- I- You haven't even-" Another twist made him yelp, and Jean-Phillipe got uncomfortably close to the man.
"The mutant children you have been targeting." The Frenchman's lip curled in anger and disdain at the sort of person who felt superior by preying on the young and weaker than himself. "Where do you go looking for them, -flatscan-." It had been a long time since he'd used that word, and longer since it came easily to the tongue. But if he was playing the part of a Brotherhood fanatic...and besides, if anyone deserved it, this piece of refuse was it.
Pulling his arm just enough to make him squawk, the man babbled something about the nearby warehouses, kids hanging out there with no where else to go. Yawning, Clarice violently yanked him to the side before tossing him through a portal. "He pissed himself," she explained, wrinkling her nose. "But it's a familiar story. High risk kids in bad situations getting targeted. You know, you sounded scary."
"Almost like I used to be an actual mutant terrorist?" Jean-Phillipe winked at her.
Madripoor's Low Town was not entirely unfamiliar to Jean. It was an infrequent stop with the Mutant Underground. While she didn't know every nook and cranny, she knew it was a place to watch your back.
It was well into the evening, though the neon glow from business signs and advertisements on buildings easily lit the way. It had recently rained, making the streets wet. Jean's footsteps echoed against the pavement before she stopped to look around. Her work was pretty much all consuming these days but she wasn't going to turn down a mission if there were kids involved.
"I'm not sensing anything yet," she said, glancing toward Logan. "How about you?"
It wasn't his usual MO to bring a mission to the team but when Hatar told him about things there was an unspoken understanding that Madripoor could use some help. And if it involved kids, they especially couldn't let it continue.
He kept a close eye on their surroundings. Jean's powers meant she could more than handle herself on the mean streets of Madripoor but at first glance she looked like an easy mark. A woman out of her depth wandering the rough streets looking for a cause, which made his presence an easy explanation. Luckily so far they hadn't been hassled by anyone out of the ordinary.
"Nothin' but the rats nearby." Logan said. "It's odd. Madripoor's usually filled with all their babblin' but it's deader than anything right now." The city did specialize in the extraordinary but Logan felt like he knew some of the city's rhythms and this was distinctly out of place.
"Something's making people scared," Jean said, her attention drifting toward a bit of graffiti on the walls.
"Or someone. I'm guessing they're keen on keeping people in line." She tilted her head.
"Maybe we should make a ruckus."
Logan cracked his knuckles as a grin formed across his features. "I'm all for makin' a ruckus. Might give us some of the answers we need out here." He looked around the back alley they were wandering down and didn't want to destroy some hapless person's makeshift home. It was hard to tell the detritus apart from stuff people were using with how carefully they all blended it in together. "Maybe you might draw 'em to us first?"
Jean glanced over, sparing Logan an innocent smile "Are you saying I look like a helpless damsel?"
Logan smirked back. "I just know most folks underestimate ya along with the fact you can make them think anything they need to."
"I prefer to do things the old fashioned way if I can help it," Jean said. She nodded back toward the alley. "Okay....wish me luck. Hopefully someone will get stupid."
A few minutes later Jean had hoisted her purse over her shoulder and was making her way quickly toward the alley entrance while talking on the phone.
"Yeah Becky I know, I just wanted to get a manicure before my trip. I'll be fine."
The mugger who slid up behind her was good at his job. He slid out of the alley unnoticed (as far as he knew), and was ready to cut the strap on her purse and slip away just as quietly. No harm done.
Unfortunately the mugger hadn't learned one of the rules of Madripoor: expect the unexpected. As the man went for her purse it suddenly flew from his grip. Jean turned around, tilting her head patiently. "That doesn't belong to you," she said. A telekinetic blast sent him backward, slamming against the wall.
The mugger's companion came rushing out of the shadowed alley at the commotion. Logan had already scented them and was stationed nearby to lay a neat punch to his midsection before sending him sprawling to the ground. "You must be new in town. Ain't got the rules down."
The mugger who had been blasted back straightened up, wide-eyed. "W-Wait! We don't want trouble." He insisted in a thick accent.
Jean smiled. "Could've fooled me," she said. She kept an eye on the two men, while her mental eye was on the lookout to sense the mental signature of any more surprises.
"Where do you and your friends like to hang out?"
"Specifically, where are those missin' kids?" Logan growled as he stalked closer to the mugger. "The sooner ya talk the easier it'll be on everyone involved."
Jean-Phillipe was a man of simple pleasures. (His cousin would likely protest that there was nothing simple about him, but her opinion was notably biased.) A delicious meal with his husband, protecting Scott Summers, and punching bigots in the face. So when he and Clarice were asked to go find the gang of thugs targeting homeless mutant children, he was already zipped up and ready to go by the end of the sentence.
"I suppose it would be gauche to draw them out by standing on a crate and announcing 'come see the known mutant terrorist, likely wanted in several countries' very loudly, would it not?" he asked Clarice with a smirk.
"No more so than me being purple bait," she replied with a smirk of her own. "And I thought you were wanted in like...15 countries? Did some of those warrants expire? You're losing your touch." Punching bigots never ceased to make her happy. That she could help mutant kids, homeless or not, was really just icing on the punch-bigot cake. Therefore, instead of dressing sensibly for a fight, she wore a pair of low-rise combat style pants tucked into her boots and a crop top that was more string than top. She had the body to get away with it thanks to the X-Men (and the scars, but she wasn't someone who cared about covering those) and nothing said 'mutant' more than large swaths of very, very purple skin.
"To be honest, I've lost track with some of them, especially with the changes that happened a few years back." It was still instinct for Jean-Phillipe to refer to the universal shift in vague terms, even if that stricture had relaxed somewhat. He shrugged. "I suppose marriage has made me a touch soft," he admitted. "Maybe I should add 'flaming homosexual' to the 'known mutant terrorist', see if that gets them." It was an easy bet that most bigots of one stripe tended to be bigoted in other ways as well.
It was the same for Clarice. Too many years of being vague and non-specific didn't change over night, "I guess you have homework then to do. Find out how many countries you're wanted in. Then do a shot for each one," that sounded like a great idea. And a terrible one. But most terrible ideas were often great as well. "Well, being queer of any sort won't do you any favours in a lot of countries. Or being a mutant. Though, those are often the same countries. I'm talking specifically ones you are wanted in. Not the general haters, 'cause haters gonna hate, hate, hate," she half-sang off-key. Clarice was many things, but singing was not one of her talents.
"And I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake..." As if Jean-Phillipe couldn't sing along with gay club staples like Taylor Swift. His tastes might run toward electronica and Euro club sounds, but still. A pair of lean-looking men in similar jeans and leather jackets gave Clarice a sharp look as they went by, a look that Jean-Phillipe was always on the lookout for, but especially now. In the blink of an eye he had planted his left foot and pivoted back to drive his fist across the closest one's jaw.
Catching the movement, Clarice ducked down, pivoting, grabbing his friend's arm and using his weight to twist until she heard a pop. She wasn't interested in 'nice.' She was interested in hurting people. "You are somebody that I don't know, But you're taking shots at me like it's Patrón and I'm just like "Damn, it's 7:00 p.m.'" she quoted, continuing their Taylor Swift references and ignoring the guy's scream. He didn't need his shoulder in its socket, right?
Jean-Phillipe's 'dance partner' was clearly one of those bully-boy types who was used to letting his bulk do all the work for him, as he pounded away at the Frenchman's bunched shoulder ineffectively. A particularly wild haymaker left an opening, and he moved in close, driving two knuckles into the other man's solar plexus. Then, as the thug whooped and gasped for breath, Jean-Phillipe drove his knee up sharply into the man's groin, and as he folded over, plunged his elbow into the base of the man's neck, leaving him sprawled on the ground whimpering and barely conscious.
He turned and saw Clarice twisting the dislocated arm of the second man, and grinned viciously. "Tres bien, one to question." He didn't generally push the 'former Brotherhood' angle much around the rest of the X-Men these days, but these connards had him in a mood. "My associate has medical training," he told the sobbing wreck of a man in a flat, factual tone. "She is very familiar with how much pain the body can take, and it is much more than you think."
Licking her lips, Clarice nodded, playing along. "The body can withstand so much. It's truly amazing what can be done," she slipped a small knife out of her pocket, using it as a prop. It was more useful opening soda cans so she didn't break a nail, but their new friend didn't know that. "Tell me," she whispered, lips almost on their captives ear, "I want to know it all."
The thug licked his own lips, but in panic instead of the relish Clarice had put on it. "I- I- You haven't even-" Another twist made him yelp, and Jean-Phillipe got uncomfortably close to the man.
"The mutant children you have been targeting." The Frenchman's lip curled in anger and disdain at the sort of person who felt superior by preying on the young and weaker than himself. "Where do you go looking for them, -flatscan-." It had been a long time since he'd used that word, and longer since it came easily to the tongue. But if he was playing the part of a Brotherhood fanatic...and besides, if anyone deserved it, this piece of refuse was it.
Pulling his arm just enough to make him squawk, the man babbled something about the nearby warehouses, kids hanging out there with no where else to go. Yawning, Clarice violently yanked him to the side before tossing him through a portal. "He pissed himself," she explained, wrinkling her nose. "But it's a familiar story. High risk kids in bad situations getting targeted. You know, you sounded scary."
"Almost like I used to be an actual mutant terrorist?" Jean-Phillipe winked at her.
Madripoor's Low Town was not entirely unfamiliar to Jean. It was an infrequent stop with the Mutant Underground. While she didn't know every nook and cranny, she knew it was a place to watch your back.
It was well into the evening, though the neon glow from business signs and advertisements on buildings easily lit the way. It had recently rained, making the streets wet. Jean's footsteps echoed against the pavement before she stopped to look around. Her work was pretty much all consuming these days but she wasn't going to turn down a mission if there were kids involved.
"I'm not sensing anything yet," she said, glancing toward Logan. "How about you?"
It wasn't his usual MO to bring a mission to the team but when Hatar told him about things there was an unspoken understanding that Madripoor could use some help. And if it involved kids, they especially couldn't let it continue.
He kept a close eye on their surroundings. Jean's powers meant she could more than handle herself on the mean streets of Madripoor but at first glance she looked like an easy mark. A woman out of her depth wandering the rough streets looking for a cause, which made his presence an easy explanation. Luckily so far they hadn't been hassled by anyone out of the ordinary.
"Nothin' but the rats nearby." Logan said. "It's odd. Madripoor's usually filled with all their babblin' but it's deader than anything right now." The city did specialize in the extraordinary but Logan felt like he knew some of the city's rhythms and this was distinctly out of place.
"Something's making people scared," Jean said, her attention drifting toward a bit of graffiti on the walls.
"Or someone. I'm guessing they're keen on keeping people in line." She tilted her head.
"Maybe we should make a ruckus."
Logan cracked his knuckles as a grin formed across his features. "I'm all for makin' a ruckus. Might give us some of the answers we need out here." He looked around the back alley they were wandering down and didn't want to destroy some hapless person's makeshift home. It was hard to tell the detritus apart from stuff people were using with how carefully they all blended it in together. "Maybe you might draw 'em to us first?"
Jean glanced over, sparing Logan an innocent smile "Are you saying I look like a helpless damsel?"
Logan smirked back. "I just know most folks underestimate ya along with the fact you can make them think anything they need to."
"I prefer to do things the old fashioned way if I can help it," Jean said. She nodded back toward the alley. "Okay....wish me luck. Hopefully someone will get stupid."
A few minutes later Jean had hoisted her purse over her shoulder and was making her way quickly toward the alley entrance while talking on the phone.
"Yeah Becky I know, I just wanted to get a manicure before my trip. I'll be fine."
The mugger who slid up behind her was good at his job. He slid out of the alley unnoticed (as far as he knew), and was ready to cut the strap on her purse and slip away just as quietly. No harm done.
Unfortunately the mugger hadn't learned one of the rules of Madripoor: expect the unexpected. As the man went for her purse it suddenly flew from his grip. Jean turned around, tilting her head patiently. "That doesn't belong to you," she said. A telekinetic blast sent him backward, slamming against the wall.
The mugger's companion came rushing out of the shadowed alley at the commotion. Logan had already scented them and was stationed nearby to lay a neat punch to his midsection before sending him sprawling to the ground. "You must be new in town. Ain't got the rules down."
The mugger who had been blasted back straightened up, wide-eyed. "W-Wait! We don't want trouble." He insisted in a thick accent.
Jean smiled. "Could've fooled me," she said. She kept an eye on the two men, while her mental eye was on the lookout to sense the mental signature of any more surprises.
"Where do you and your friends like to hang out?"
"Specifically, where are those missin' kids?" Logan growled as he stalked closer to the mugger. "The sooner ya talk the easier it'll be on everyone involved."
