10615/A Hellish Game of Horse

A Hellish Game of Horse
Date of Scene:	02 January 2020
Location:	Basketball Courts - Harlem
Synopsis:	Multiple Man meets up with Magik to ask about a case he's working. She ends up hiring herself to X-Factor... Jamie agrees. Wisely.
Cast of Characters:	Multiple Man, Magik

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Multiple Man has posed:
Most people look forward to the holiday season for the great atmosphere. The family. The vacation time. Jamie? He always sees a rise in case work after the stressful stretch between Thanksgiving and New Years. Oh, Lord. Especially after New Years. This year had been little different in that regard but one the of many cases piled on his desk... has been a little worse for wear than the others. No sneaky spouses. No missing teenage metahuman. No... something all together stranger.

So what does he do? Why, he texts Illyana Rasputina. New Mutant. Sorceress. Demon Queen(though he still plays at mock skepticism). Sure, he could meet her at the Mansion. Maybe at the park or a classic like an empty parking garage. Instead, he asks her to find him. He makes that easier by sending an address and not being in too many places at once.

With school out and the weather frigid, the courts are almost empty this morning. Yes, morning. Jamie stands at the free throw line, lidded cups of coffee on the asphalt beside his feet. He's not dressed for sport. He's dressed how he -always- dresses. Always. Every time. Same thing. Cigarette dangling from his lips, he bends at the knees... slow, precise form. Shoot. Swish!

"The crowd goes wild. Do you believe in miracles, sports fans?" He takes a drag off his cigarette as he watches the ball bounce. "No. No, we do not. Yet." He says in a dead pan, sleep deprived drone.

Magik has posed:
The time of year encompassing a western Christmas doesn't even count for a Russian. They still have another week to go after New Years before the party sets in, albeit not many Russians at Xavier's deal with that. Little Odessa, the pet name for the southerly neighbourhood of Brighton Beach, is another matter altogether. There the community of Russian Orthodox and associated members of the old Iron Curtain might as well be ramping up for what the average American put aside a week and some ago.

The Demon Queen in question is already up and about, given the speed with which she responds to Jamie's texts. That she has three bags slung over one arm from a shopping trip to prepare, no doubt, for Christmas Eve as Moscow sees it has something to do with that. The scent of fresh bread spins around her as she approaches the basketball court. No telling if she hauled that all the way over on the subway, but chances are fair to good a teleportation circle was involved at some point. Those stepping disks make rush hour less hellish; the less she has to rely on a failing subway system, the better.

"Pity, miracles are the seeds of hope," she opines. Perfect English by way of Novosibersk or Irktusk lilts behind him as she crosses the chain-link fence. Not looking much older than a few of those seniors normally gathered around the far side of the basketball court, she carries herself with that supreme confidence they won't possess for another fifteen or twenty years, if that at all. Snowflakes dance on a slouchy knit hat covering her blonde hair in part; the leather pants, curb-stomping boots, and coat are all pretty de rigueur when it comes to the demon queen. Jamie's form is assessed as he tosses the ball at the net.

"Da, happy new year."

Multiple Man has posed:
Bounce. Bounce. Bouncebouncebounce. Jamie stares at the ball, willing it to bounce his way. Just a nudge. A little push at the right time from behind the ball. Eyes narrowe in concentration. The cigarette trembles between his fingers as he reaches out. Iron will. Steel resolve... The ball rolls the opposite direction. With a smokey huff, he drops the arm and stomps toward the tratorous orb. Clearly still not a TK sprinkle on his Mutant sundae.

Cigarette back between his lips, Jamie snatches up the ball and straightens to regard Illyana with a lopsided, half-assed smile and an upnod of his scruffy, unshaven mug. "They're also a little too convenient, if you ask me." He says while giving the ball a bounce. "They have Black Friday in Russia? I didn't screw you out of getting me a new television, did I?" Shaking his head, tsking in mock self-disapproval, Jamie goes to the cups of hot coffee he'd left. Boot stamped down on the ball, he offers one of the cardboard cups in greeting. "For most, I'd hope it is. For James Shaw of Bushwick Storage? Not so much."

An eyebrow hoists high beneath the black M etched into his face. "You wouldn't happen to be stealing storage units with crazy demonic sink holes to pad your Christmas shopping, have you?"

Magik has posed:
Speaking of those who have lost out on the mutant lottery -- no psychic talents natively found here -- Illyana watches the basketball trace its treacherous journey towards the fence rather than flipping up into the air and scoring a basket for itself. While she might deign to participate in mischief, it's more likely putting her paper bags down and dusting off her hands. Anyone else coming too close earns that flat, blunt stare responsible for countering the mass melting of permafrost in the Arctic. She need only deliver it for longer than a minute of unblinking intensity to counterbalance twenty years of escalating carbon emissions.

It's nice to think that might work.

"True miracles, not the lottery winnings miracles," she confirms over the staccato smack of rubber and vinyl into bleached concrete. Meeting Jamie's gaze, she tips her head slightly. "No, we do not have Black Friday. If you have petrodollars, every day is robbing the nation blind. But then, our comrade in power is a kleptocratic oligarch. I should make a visit of state, and convince him this is a terrible idea." Her mild tone might be more concerning than a devilish smile, since at least the latter goes with the alternate persona. But imagine her showing up in Red Square for a proper state visit, and no doubt Russia will be claiming Limbo as a colony. Or maybe the other way around. "They are not so far apart, his domain and mine."

She flicks her tongue against her eyetooth and nods to the bags. "Do you like pastries? I have... you would call them honey sticky-buns rolled in chopped almonds or powdered sugar. Two kinds." Just the sort of sweet to go with savory coffee, which she accepts with grim appreciation. "Thank you." Oh yes. Coffee. It's the swill of demons and gods alike, and she -clearly- likes that one.

"Ask Sam." Guthrie, not the other one. "He heard my shopping list. No. I do not even know what Americans buy one another except too much."

Multiple Man has posed:
Anyone else coming close to this particular court would be brazenly foolish, self-destructively curious and probably a little half mad. Jamie, overcoated and looking every part the hung over investigator with a chip on his shoulder... and the intimidating poise and demeanor of Illyana. One considers it. He decides to sit by and watch the odd pairing instead.

"I've seen living islands, angel winged philanthropists, talking gorillas and alternate time lines. Still going to be a hard sell on 'true miracles', Illyana." Jamie says, hot coffee in one hand. Cigarette in the other. Basketball beneath the worn heel of his boot. Taking a sip after blowing a little toot-toot-toot tune through the lid, he hisses and sneers at the immediate tongue burn. "Gah, dammit." He says before a light chuckle leaves him. "More and more every day, every news article, I start to wonder if and when you will. When all of us will. But... until then? There's always coffee and donuts."

Her offering of pastries, topical as they may be, brings a paleness to Jamie's features. Jaw tenses and he shakes his head while centering his upset insides. "Thanks but no. Think I drank Brooklyn dry last night." Rolling the ball to her feet, he gives a sideways nod to the hoop. Unspoken indication for her turn. He seems to think an early game of hoops in the freezing New York winter is perfectly natural. "You're welcome... and no, I don't think you actually did it."

A drag off his smoke and he pinches the cherry off, stowing the smooshed cigarette butt in a pocket. "Too much is about right. It's how we show our corporate godkings that we still love them." Again that smugly bemused smile returns. "Sam, huh? Still alive too? He must have something on you." Another toot-toot as he blows on his coffee more intently. "Guy across town runs a small self storage joint. Used to be a homeless shelter. Now he's got whole unit boxes going empty. Ten foot holes in the ground. The special touch? Livestock blood finger paint on the doors."

Magik has posed:
He's the hungover one, and she might be wise never to touch alcohol. The day after New Years and it may be doubtful the young woman has suffered its consequences at all. Then again, based on the Julian calendar, New Years hasn't even hit yet. Give her another week and watch what happens, right? She circles Jamie with her coffee, steam rising off of it still. "Skepticism goes with it. I am a strict agnostic, as far as those terms go. Still, elder gods of destruction and darkness want my soul. I am their gateway, and I would be mistaken not to think they do in fact exist." Ipso facto, one David Haller juuuust in case.

His cigarette is tolerated, though the wave of a hand -could- be a bubble of fresh air conjured by a murmured spell. Hard to say, really, though a sympathetic wince follows if he burns his palate. Coffee at a scalding temperature is no joke, even if she seems almost immune. Pure Russian masochism there; jumping in snowbanks in -40'C weather and drinking 110'C coffee on a regular basis is par for their demented course. Even if they have a lovely fatalism and one of the most beautiful landscapes to quench the pain with, she still gives that faint smile. "I already have countless hordes to take care of. Adding a hundred million people who expect me to fix things? How well does that work out for Latveria? I notice the Sorcerer Supreme doesn't rule a nation -here-." Emphasis, important to have.

His refusal of hospitality of sorts doesn't phase her in the least. Another nod; "Brooklyn has a lot of overpriced alcohol. I stayed in, for the most part." Things not said there are about twenty kilometers wide, pushing into Connecticut, but no more need be said there. When he looks at the hoop and the ball, she returns a relatively uncertain look. "We never played this where I came from." Basketball, that most Russian of sports, right up there with cricket and golden eagle falconry for 'top things we cannot afford to do when the polar vortex has tumbled off its axis and frozen Sochi again.'

Sipping that coffee with intent to make it last at least a little, she observes the burning ember glow while Jamie explains his predicament. "Homeless shelter made self-storage. Price of property is very high with gentrification." An idle observation. "The contents vanish overnight? He has no security cameras or they show nothing of how it gets there?"

Multiple Man has posed:
Jamie Madrox and vices go hand in hand. He has too many. Happens when -you- are -too many-. If it wasn't for a couple dedicated Dupes, he'd likely have kicked smoking by now... but alas. Such is not the way. As Illyana circles him, he gets the distinct feeling of prey. Brows furrow, clearly steeling himself against the intrusive thought with the stiffening of his spine. "Not gonna lie, Illyana. There's enough in the world to make most anyone a believer but me? Pretty sure it's all one big circus without a ring leader. Crap tons of lions and clowns though."

Jamie pauses. Mulling it over. "More acrobats than I can count now that I think of it."

The scalded tonge and palate will be worried at for the rest of the morning. Just another rock in his proverbial shoe. "To be fair, I don't think Strange even gets out of bed unless there's a giant, reality eating worm in his kitchen. Keeping just New York in line sounds like enough to put me in a bunker with a security blanket."

"Smart play." He concurs at her staying in for the night. Seven of him decided otherwise and he's paying dearly for it today. A brow arches sharply at her admission of unfamiliarity with basketball. It actually catches the man off guard. "No kidding? Huh. Woulda guessed Limbo would be on the NBA watch list for expansion." He says with a light chuckle. "Throw the ball in the hoop. I try to make it from the same spot. Horse. Every time one of us misses, we get a letter. Once we spell the word, the loser owes the other person a horse." The say he says it. So matter of fact. Even if it is most likely an absolute imbellishment, the tone is so very honest.

A pensive sip and Jamie nods along with her questions on his current predicament. "Don't even get me started on that part. Why give people a roof when you can keep your karaoke machine warm and dry, right?" Jamie snorts, already lighting a new cigarette. Careful to exhale upward aftef her wave of smoke warding. "Vanished over night. Says the cameras were malfunctioning but a little look around and some questions make me think he never turns 'em on. Less than reputable fella. The bloody chicken scratch looked almost Norse but too thin. Flowing. Almost geometric."

Magik has posed:
Vices exist certainly in multiple orders. She might just be the embodiment of the seven deadly sins, minus a touch of gluttony; not really the style of the Darkchylde or Limbo itself. Everything else is fair game, from simmering wrath at being cut off -- hence, not driving -- to overweening avarice when it comes to... coffee? Such terrible, wicked things. "You can believe what you want. No one has all the answers. Much of what happens is purely of human foibles -- or alien, pick a race." She shrugs slightly. "What was done to me was by a fiend, intending on greater service. We have a god serving the Avengers. But if there is something bigger than it all, I have more than a few questions."

Let it be that way, set aside, while she scuffs her foot against the ground. Well, figuring out how to bounce and throw a ball isn't that hard, especially with good hand-eye coordination. So it begins, set in motion by Jamie and all his vices. "Where would you put a horse? There are no stables in Manhattan or Brooklyn anymore, I am fairly sure. All the rich children who are horsey go to Connecticut." Jersey, everything's legal in New Jersey. But evidently not horse riding. She tests the feel of the ball, bouncing it unless he takes it away, rhythmically shifting right to left, left to right.

"Geometric writing limits the options. Runes are an obvious one, but there are other terrestrial alternatives." Thank you Xavier for implanting the English in her mind, otherwise the technicalities might botch them up. "Chicken blood for chicken scratch. How did he know the units were empty? How long was it before he identified it? I assume soon." A shrug. "The marks would have triggered interest in most. Did he notice any smells, anything on the inside?"

Multiple Man has posed:
Jamie can't help himself when that smile of his explodes into a wide, toothy grin of self-satisfaction. He snaps his fingers, ash tumbles to his feet. "That right there. 'We have a god serving the Avengers'. And then you factor in immortals, alien races and their gods... The show must go on." He holds up a hand at that. Dimming his semi-triumphant grin to a light, unintentionally smug smirk. "We could be here all day discussing that whole dog and pony show. My money is still on Ororo."

Another testing sip at his coffee, careful and slurping while he watches Illyana find her stance. Get used to the bounce and feel of an ice cold basketball. "Probably wrap a bow around its neck and rope it to Cyclops's door at about two in the morning." The fact that Jamie didn't even hesitate before his reply may be worrisome. He just said it. Way, way too easily. He may have been thinking that exact same question earlier. Or he's a weird guy with a terrible sense of prank boundaries.

"This arcane stuff is out of my wheelhouse. The guy has some serious beef with an ex wife and astronomy. So he called me instead of Dresden. Which is just... yeah." Taking a long drag, Jamie looks over shoulder to a group of young men watching them from another court. Exhaling a smoke and steam cloud, he passes a teasing wink before attention returns. "The markings on the outsides of the doors. Thought it was spray paint. Until he tasted it. Not sure why he had to follow that urge but it answered a question quick. Opened up the door and boom. Big ole hole in the ground. Exact outline of the unit. Scorch marks on the ground but not the metal. Smelled like sulphur and burnt blood. Only three units so far but the last one was two nights ago. So that ruled out my theory of a vengeful Santa aggressively settling his return policy."

Magik has posed:
"Indeed. Though even a god -- or gods -- are different than the elder gods and greater powers. How deep and far does this well go?" To the smile, a smirk comes from the blonde. She adjusts her knit hat to stop covering her ears, the warming morning slowly improving the temperature and the need to protect herself. "Consider that, we might have gods who are ants to another god, to another layer that is an ant, and so it goes. Here, I am not as strong as in Limbo. Where..."

She doesn't complain, still bouncing the basketball and lifting it to make a shot on the net. Accuracy and keen dexterity don't make up for being a total neophyte. A throw to hit the backboard inside the rectangle is easy, but the shot goes wide, and she runs after to catch it and make another throw. When a bit unrestrained, as ought to be expected of a girl who wields the mutant equivalent of a lightsaber, she is damn fast. "No horse for Scott. He would vaporize it. Who would be made to clean it?" Another double bounce, and a throw with less force, so it glances off the rim and looks promisingly close to sinking. It won't, though. "Me. No thank you."

She zips back and forth while Jamie explains the situation. Hard to think she isn't paying attention, considering her laser focus is on not crushing the New Years pastries. Run, bounce, toss. "Sulphur and burnt blood? Hints at black magic, but not wholly." Her eyes glint. "I could spell trap it to see what happens. Or keep watch. It happens at night, he does not have cameras for time stamps. Any kind of security otherwise?"

Multiple Man has posed:
"If I wasn't violently opposed to it right now, I'd day this topic demands a two drink minimum from me. The well is dark and way deeper than I'd like to follow in this life time." Interesting choice of words when he thinks back at it. Could he, in fact, send a Dupe out to discover that great mystery? Sure, there's John Madox. The Dupe who found a place in the pulpit but he and Jamie don't really see eye to eye. He grunts in acceptance of her informed agnosticism but pushes no further.

"Which is bad for the horse. The vaporizing. Here I was internally giggling at the idea of Scott having to clean up after a horse all day and now I'm sad. You ruined it, Rasputina." A theatrical huff and he gets over it. Contented to watching Illyana -quickly- begin getting a handle on the alien sport and its basics. Given more time, she'd be a quick pick for the summer games. "Fine, fine. After you buy me a horse, I'll give it to Vi. She's never had so much as a hamster, I think. But I'm not keeping it at the office in Williamsburg. Absolutely not."

"Hints? Would have assumed devil horns up and proud right out the gate. Oh. Nice shot. Spell trap? That like... setting a wide net or taking a magical crime scene photo?" Curiousity written on his face, the twisted topic holds his interest with ease. "No cameras. Has dogs but they're fine. Not scared, not dead. Barked at me just fine when I broke earlier. Teleportation doesn't usually steal a ton of concrete and dirt with it, does it?"

Magik has posed:
"Water," suggests the sorceress-queen of Limbo. She ducks as the ball rebounds hard off the backboard, coming straight at her. Time to chase that thing down before it ends up in the next court, though fleet of foot as she is, not an issue for her to capture it. Not particularly. "You could not afford the extra five hundred square feet the horse needs. It would be a $5,000 investment a month." So unfair to face someone on those fronts. Well and true, though, she spins the ball around and takes another shot. Whoops, wide. Her glare is enough to consider hurling a portal after it. But that wouldn't be cool when they're just two people having an odd if not entirely kosher conversation. So dash after the ball again it is.

Running about is tiring for most. Not her at the moment. "If I wanted to get Scott," she calls, "I would tell him we have a new mutant stuck in their alternate form. Watch him try to parse how a horse works. Code name... Chiron, probably. Cannot allow him to be speciest, can we?" Her smirk is a living kindling of flame.

She shakes her head to the questions given by Jamie. His skills as a PI are clearly above and beyond 'hey what's that' and 'ask the neighbours.' As she dribbles the ball with more confidence -- probably prefers to kick it, but the other players are giving her ideas -- she manages to walk and hold a conversation. Bubblegum, though, right out. "Some kinds of magic do not invoke devil horns. Other signatures can come from different things that aren't inherently evil." Rare, that tone suggests. "Spell traps work in different ways. Setting up a spell to snapshot what happens is possible. Setting up another to alert me so I can react, also possible. Or something that literally sticks you like a fly in amber." She rolls her shoulders. "Everything has drawbacks. Did you see a pattern to the units affected? What was he storing that they were so eager for?"

Multiple Man has posed:
"There's water in coffee. That counts." Jamie says with a half-assed smile on his scruffy mug. The usual stylishly short trim has gone weeks now without attention. He looks like a haggard, half zombified noir protagonist in a B film. Or so a Dupe helpfully told him as they passed eachother on 119th Ave. "Affording it isn't the problem. It's what it'd do to the hardwood floors that gives me pause. Used to have horses growing up. Farm. Had all kinds of critters.... Okay, that was just a bad shot. You've been in the Danger Room. A lot. Just gonna point that out." He says with an audible smirk hidden behind his coffee before an obnoxiously slurping sip.

Blink. Blink-blink. "Oh. That's good." Jamie, wide eyed with clearly impressed surprise, points his cigarette at her from a safe distance. "See, that's why I like you, Rasputina. You introduce crippling psychological warfare into a prank that's already gone well past the line. I don't care what Hank says, you're good people."

Again he pinches the cherry off his cigarette with bare fingers. Hiding the evidence away in a pocket somewhere. Odd quirk or perhaps an aversion to littering. Now free hand remaining in his pocket, he lifts that coffee cup in cheers with kurt nod of determined choice. "That last one. The magical sticky trap. You can do that? Do you need, like... okay, I feel terrible for asking this but... I don't need to climb a mountain for a rare flower as an ingredient to anything, do I? Because I was perfectly fine with trying to bribe you the old fashioned way. Money and concert tickets. I hear Rihanna is doing a comeback tour."

Brows knit low, Jamie pouts a tad bit. "This whole thing has a pattern I don't like. He says they're all past due units. One of the units former renters? Well, found a problem with Jake Sloane. He doesn't exists. Him or somebody else is playing with magic and with my schedule and I'm not a big fan."

Giving his coffee mug a swirl or two, Jamie blows into the tiny lid hole. Toooooot. Toooooooot. "Oh, and I won, by the way. I took all my shots before you got here. So Chiron, huh? You think Scott will figure it out before or after its first mission?"

Magik has posed:
A bad shot indeed. "I learned how to fight before I went into the Danger Room. For me, the Danger Room is like yoga." Illyana isn't bragging. She rarely does, giving everything a flattened statement of fact instead of pursuing something worse. Enough with the basketball: she dumps it, aiming it on a low, wide bounce to Jamie. "Scott is the one who always says we should be prepared. Well, he should be prepared for a shapeshifting mutant with skill to become an animal so well, their thoughts and aural signature read as an animal to any psychic. Maybe we could ask Jean very nicely if she would be willing to go along with it." A beat. "For scientific purposes."

Or to see Scott insist the horse climb mountains and run laps and attack Sentinels with the best of them. To determine whether horse tactics are ideal for young mutants to pick up. Maybe? Maybe not. "Three weeks without her help. Four months with."

She pauses to consider him for a time. "I would like a job. Call it a ... consultant, that's the right word. Something interesting to pick up, yeah?" Her fingers arc as she picks up the cup, and her eyes narrow with a dangerous light. "Jake Sloane is not real. The rest of the records aren't real either, are they? Find that out if you can. Past due units with low security suggests something is -in- those units. I have no problem staking out the building." Heck, she can sit in Limbo and wait. Four hours, four weeks, not a big deal, right? Her eyes narrow a fraction still. "Playing with magic is never so smart. Lucky you have a sorceress on the payroll, yes?"

Magik has posed:
And so deals are struck, Chiron's tenure begins, and a game ends on the basketball court for two very unusual mutants. After all, they may have coffee but who wants to tangle with high school students wearing a look of famished wolves?