13195/What lies beneath...

From United Heroes MUSH
Revision as of 02:12, 5 May 2021 by Dynamite (talk | contribs) (Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2021/05/04 |Location=Somewhere Interesting <tm> in New York State |Synopsis=Warren and Sinister have a tete-a-tete and uncage the beast within and...")
(diff) ← Older revision | Latest revision (diff) | Newer revision → (diff)
Jump to navigation Jump to search
What lies beneath...
Date of Scene: 04 May 2021
Location: Somewhere Interesting <tm> in New York State
Synopsis: Warren and Sinister have a tete-a-tete and uncage the beast within and destroy sublminal programming. Also there was tea and whiskey. Saliva is a fantastic source of DNA.
Cast of Characters: Sinister, Archangel




Sinister has posed:
Time is a strange thing. Patience is a virtue. Curiosity killed the cat.

Satisfaction brought her back.

It /was/ a pleasant evening socializing, talking with interesting people, music and dalliances but little further than that. Who knows where? A place of high class, no doubt. Somewhere chique, fashionable or simply with the right vibe. Maybe there was a bar. Maybe flirting with a sexy curve, but little else besides, maybe... Maybe...

But at some point, everything blurred somewhat, that warning shot to the system that says something is wrong and a kind of mental sluggishness that may anger a beast within, or make it scream in the ear to WAKE UP! FIGHT IT!

But now, well... This seems to be a nice place. A hotel room somewhere, but very upscale? Or a mansion of a more classical design? It's warm, the lighting is dim, a fire crackles nearby and the armchair is comfortable. Being tied to it is not. But this may be the situation Warren finds himself in and the face that greets him, smiling mildly is no doubt at least familiar in the dossiers and danger room scenarios that may have played out.
    Sinister is sitting across the way in a high backed chair made of leather in a style similar to Queen Anne. The wooden decor is deep walnut panelling. There are a few portraits on the walls, all of which seem to have a lace shawl draped over their faces. Merely clothing and styles of an earlier time. Time is a funny thing. "Time to wake up, Mister Worthington. I believe we have an appointment for tea."

Archangel has posed:
What the hell happened? One minute he was having a good time at Lux, that new bar he has been frequenting since he and Scott found just the other night. There was a woman, she was gorgeous. Exactly the type of woman that Warren would probably take home for a night of debauchery if he wasn't in a different mindset these days. Still, a little flirting doesn't hurt anyway, it's good for the soul.

At least people don't think it will hurt.

When he comes to, the billionaire is groggy. His eyes can't focus, and he tries to move his arm up to rub them into clarity, but finds himself restrained. "What the fu...," he starts to mutter before someone speaks. The voice, it rings familiar in his ears but he can't place it right off the bat. The winged mutant raises his head to peer in front of him at the chalky-white face that looks back at him, slowly coming into focus.

"Sorry, you have the wrong guy. I don't do tea, you must have me confused with someone English. Braddock perhaps?"

Sinister has posed:
May the devil never find out.

Sinister clucks his tongue softly, at the retort. "You wound me, sir," the words drawled, he watches intensely for a few long moments, then holds his hand out, palm up, to receive the cup and saucer that floats to his location. "Are you quite sure? It acts as a fabulous tonic against the potentially raging headache you might soon be feeling. No?" he sighs, sipping his own in comfortable time, resting cup in mid air, upon its ceramic platter. "Forgive the theatrics and rather less tasteful meeting arrangements. You see, I had this nagging feeling if I'd invited you to chat in a civilized manner, you likely would have declined." He pauses, head slowly tilting from one side to the other as he observes the billionaire x-man. "It seems to be the way of things."

Archangel has posed:
"Forgive me if I don't exactly trust you," comments Warren about the tea, "It's not like you have earned any, Essex."

He's not wrong though, the headache that starts in Warren's noggin starts off as a dull throb that slowly seems to get worse with each heartbeat. Warren squints against the pain, flexing his arms, legs, and wings to see if there is any wiggle room at all.

"Really? Why would you ever think that I wouldn't take you up on an offer to come visit your creepy abode? Seriously, I love what you have done with the place. Very Jekyll and Hyde of you. What do you want, Essex?"

Sinister has posed:
Sinister gestures in an elegant manner, palm up, fingers curled just so. "And thus I am left with the less than stellar approach to having a tete-a-tete." He sips his tea again as the headache grows. Another cup lifts from some tray just out of sight and drifts closer to hover in the air nearby Warren, lifting light steam in a far too innocent manner. How dare it look ordinary. With a flare of red around the diamond in his forehead, the bindings holding Angel's arms down are released, as is the one around his chest. Waist and legs remain. For now.

As to the rest of it "Ambience?" he posits, clucks his tongue and shakes his head and lowers his lashes. "You have a monster in your head. Strangely, I am quite familiar with that little issue."

Archangel has posed:
"Yeah, and he is just dying to come out and say hi to you, too," mutters Warren as the straps holding his arms and chest are released. The Angel rubs at his wrists where the bindings held him down as he peers over at Sinister. "If he has any say in the matter I'm sure you will get a chance to meet him any minute now."

Warren may be strapped down at the legs and waist, but that doesn't mean he can't lean forward enough to try and get his wings free, so he does just that. The winged mutant leans forward as best he can, and attempts to get his wings out from behind his back in an attempt to batter them at Sinister. They may not be the bladed monstrosities his other side manifests, but they can still pack a punch...if he can even get them free.

Sinister has posed:
"Oh, dear, this could take a while," the murmur is measured with Sinister leaning sidelong in the seat to prop his chin upon the knuckles of that hand. The effort it is worth applauding, but none comes. There is simply patience for the first few struggles, a calm lifting of his thumb to clean the edge of his front teeth with the nail and once again stillness. "Ahhh... would it help if I just let you at it for a bit? Get it out of your system?" he inquires. "I mean, by all means, struggle, if that makes you feel better, I can wait."

The chair is doing more hopping about really, as opposed to the bindings giving. But what plucky determination can do who knows? Sinister takes out a fob watch, one with the houses of parliament and big ben in brass upon its clockface and checks the time.

Archangel has posed:
Try as he might the bindings don't give way, and the headache only gets worse. After a few minutes, which probably seem much longer to the captive billionaire, Warren's head throbs to the point he can barely think clearly, let alone put up much of an effort. Whatever he has been given must have been strong or is being constantly applied via an IV somewhere he can't see, since his healing factor hasn't burned it out of his system yet.

Panting from the effort, skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat from the exertion and the pain from his throbbing head, Warren ceases to struggle and casts a hateful gaze on Sinister but says nothing more.

Sinister has posed:
The fob watch clicks shut. "Tea time is over," The entire chair that Warren is sitting in lifts off of the ground, holding the angel captive and snug as it drifts closer, brought nearer to the Sinister Doctor Essex and the man rises also, a smooth moment spent adjusting invisible cuffs and allowing his cloak to settle behind himself as Warren's face draws nearer.

Then and only then, does he lift his hand, fingers closing together to the thumb, bringing it near the sweating billionaire's temple... to 'burst' them wide, an inch or so from skin contact.

Within the mind, the pain explodes, then vanishes and it seems as if the two of them are standing on the very top of a devastated New York city, looking out over destruction and devastation. THe sky is a lurid orange red and blood appears to have rained down. Here, Warren is not restrained and Essex appears to have a studious look on his face, looking up at the rent sky, the apocalyptic destruction all around, tapping his chin with one finger. "Hmm. Well. That's interesting."

Archangel has posed:
As the pain explodes in Warren's mind, the Angel screams a bloodcurdling scream until the pain vanished and the pair stand in the ruined wastelands of New York. They stand atop a building Warren knows all to well. One Madison Park, in South Midtown. They stand on what is...was?...the roof of the penthouse dwelling Warren lives in when he stays in the city and isn't at the school.

Warren blinks, still groggy enough to have it take a moment to get his bearings as he looks around the devastation, then to Essex. Without regard for anything, the Angel lunges at the mad doctor in an effort to get his hands around the other man's throat. "What the hell did you do?!" he screams, oblivious to the obvious. This isn't real.

Sinister has posed:
"Oh, is that where this is. I see. Makes sense n'..." ANd then FWOOSH there's an angel attempting to throttle him and the sky above their heads goes into a purple and bruised kind of cyclone, an eye of the storm centralized over this spot, that man, this action, that fury. And this confusion. Throttling ensues. Sinister is shaken, choked, his hair gets a little out of alignment and he's...
....
Behind Warren. "What /are/ you doing? Good gracious man, get a grip on yourself, will you? Focus. Pay attention." He snaps his fingers a couple of times and points up. "Does this make the blindest bit of sense to you?"

Archangel has posed:
As Warren gets ahold of the good doctor, a hint of almost glee in his eyes as his fingers close around the windpipe and squeeze. Until the fingers grip nothing, and Warren tumbles to his knees as there is nothing left to support him. The angel looks behind him as Essex speaks again, the brilliant blue of his eyes starting to fade as a glowing yellow hue starts to overtake the color of his sclera and irises until Essex snaps, causing the winged mutant to gaze upwards in confusion before turning to look back at Sinister, regaining his feet and starting to stalk towards the man. "Should it?!" he screams, "You're the madman that caused it!"

Sinister has posed:
"I would hope so as I am afraid this is /your/ head, not mine. Wrong madman, Warren." Sinister folds his arms, watching the advance with a calm regard, his ruby red eyes gleaming like the gems they so /do not/ resemble. "Any minute now, something is going to crumble and a snarling fear will escape, you mark my words. And then we'll be fighting it as the tide of blood rises." He nods his head off of the skyscraper, where indeed an ocean of blood seeks to crawl through the streets and wash away all the chaff. A sanguine purge. "He has done quite a delicious little number on that noggin of yours. How irksome. And /frustrating/." He sniffs, frowns at the advance of Angel. "We have to do something about this, before too long."

Archangel has posed:
The words stop Warren short, as he blinks and looks around once more. His head? It can't be. People like Jean have been in his head and they surely would have told him about this, wouldn't they? This devastation. This destruction. This...death. Warren screams at Essex, the color draining from his eyes as they start to glow a bright yellow, the pigment of the skin bleeding from white to blue as his wings shatter, feathers exploding out like a pillow that has been tore asunder, only to be replaces by gleaming metal whose edges glow like the meal on the edge of a knife. Archangel continues to scream incoherently as he lashes out with his wings, whether of his own volition or that of his subconscious and moves to cleave Sinister in twain.

Sinister has posed:
It works too. Unfortunately, the two halves of Sinister fall apart, turn to a silvery gloop and reform into a frustratingly duplicated pair of Sinisters. SInister and Dexter. One looks at the other, who looks down at the other's feet, arches an eyebrow and looks back at the Archangel a moment before the other does and subsequently gets sliced in half again -- now there's three of them. "This could get tedious," says Sinister mk III before it? He? dissolves again and flows over the edge of the sky scraper and out of sight, even as Dexter is sucked back into Sinister with a *PLOP*.

Essex rises off the roof, hovering just out of reach of immediate slashes, but easily in firing range, reaching up fingers to pinch at his eyes, rubbing at the inner canthus' "Maybe this will convince you?" he swirls and vanishes, appearing like the Marshmallow man off the side of the building, a thousand foot high and unfortunately not made of soon-to-be-smores. "SHould I be less polite?" The voice BOOMS.

Archangel has posed:
Lost in his rage, Archangel isn't easily rationed with. As Sinister rises and grows, the wings throw forward feathers. Even as a swarm of neurotoxin lined flechettes are hurled towards the now giant Essex, the Archangel takes to the air himself, rising with no effort into the maelstrom around them and hurling himself towards the head in an effort to decapitate his perceived aggressor in a flyby at speed.

Sinister has posed:
"I am not your enemy," BOOMS the voice, attacks landing as if through mist, aggression flies out in all directions and that tide of blood rises, consumes, leaving nothing in its wake in the streets below.

Now though, Essex vanishes completely. Gone. The Archangel is alone with his rage, the sea of blood churning and the sky a post-nuclear burn.

Just the voice. "Will you take a look around? Look. Warren. /Use your eyes/." On walls burned like they're an afterimage from Ground Zero, are sillhouettes of events. The shape of a sentinel, obliterated. The shadow of enemies and allies also, frozen in the moment of destruction. Only the fit survive. Only the /worthy/ remain. "He did this to you. But this isn't you. You are in the middle of it all and I'll be damned if I let that bastard have anyone else. I am -not- the enemy, Warren. /Find him/."

Archangel has posed:
The Archangel screams again at his impotence, wings thrashing and tearing at the man until the giant form vanishes, leaving him alone in the ruins of his mind. Without something to lash out at, the Archangel finally settles and does look. The afterimages of destruction of those shadows that are recognized sinking in as the winged mutant moves over to hover in front of them. Some shapes are more easily defined. Beast. Colossus. Wolverine. Others, not as easy to recognize at first glance, but the Archangel knows. Cyclops. Jean. Storm. A hand reaches out to brush the images, fingers caressing the shadow in a tender moment of peace before the rage takes over again and he lifts his head to the sky and screams.

'Find Him' /HIM/. The one who turned him into this creature. Those words echo in his mind as he tears off into the 'city' in his mind, flying high and fast trying to seek out that being that is the cause.

Apocalypse

Sinister has posed:
"Higher, Warren. Go Higher."

The voice is insidious, as if it comes from right within the ear, though the truth is much more mundane than that, of course. THe ear hears, even if the mind is otherwise occupied.

The city spreads out beneath.

"Get a little perspective. You can't see the wood for the forest you're buried in."

Higher up, the island of manhattan looks faintly like a wing. Higher up still, the contours of the devastated new york city look... look...

CLutching central park like a pillow the devastated city, HIS city... it is him, curled up, cowering within his own psyche and imprisoned by it... the mists beyond, they look like a... hand? Yes, a giant hand that holds the caged and the devastated in its grip. The sky, that hole in it, that view...

"The most clever of monsters chains his victims by their own hand. You can't escape what you believe might be the fate you bring on others. You know where he is. You need to help me help you to destroy his cage, bar by bar. Your friends would never take you this deep. I have no such compunctions, Warren Worthington -- you /need/ to free yourself."

Archangel has posed:
Archangel looks around for the source of the voice. Climbing higher and higher until the air is to thin even for his adapted self to breath comfortably. He looks below at the city, the mists...him. He screams again, ear piercing. Blood curdling. Raw emotion that has been bottled up, caged, all suddenly released as the Angel of Death tears towards the earth again, wings akimbo as he tears towards one of the 'fingers'.

Sinister has posed:
The finger attempts to tighten as the scream rings down from on high. Who needs air to breathe when they're flying on sheer fury? But the grip was only there because the gripped was unaware of it. That purity of purpose shatters the fingercloud, though it attempts to reform. There is pain with it, but it's like that pain is someone /elses/ to deal with. For some reason, the Archangel in the mind might even feel supercharged right now; psychically fed.

Elsewhere: The scene is very boring. A hovering Worthington being stared at straight in the eye by those crimsons, unblinking. But my word, both men are sweating.

Archangel has posed:
On the warpath now, the Archangel surges forwards to the next finger, and the next, barreling into them at speeds that he can never reach with his 'old' organic wings. For the monstrosity that Apocalypse turned him into, he did give him an upgrade. Sure it was so he could easily maim and kill those that opposed him, but upgrades none the less. As the Archangel surges forward, his voice raw from the constant scream that emanates from his throat that only complements the screeching his wings create as they tear through the atmosphere at over Mach 1.

Sinister has posed:
Sweat drops, a trickle down the forehead and lands upon the floor.

"Good. /Good/."

The lacerations smell like the heat of the desert. Like something withered. Like machinery fused to flesh and bone. It feels like something is cracking, sloughing away and indeed, it hurts. The wounds are fresh, the sting is very real, but those scars can heal.

"I've been with you a long time, Worthington. Here and there, watching. I knew when you had gone and I watched. I couldn't stop him from taking his pound of flesh, but..."

And then the pain is merely throbbing again, the toxin that was used to sedate having burned on through. The room is too warm. Breathing is too cloying and those red eyes are -right- there. "/There/ you are."

Archangel has posed:
The last of the fingers severed in his mind, the Archangel flies to his rooftop and collapses to his knees panting with exhaustion. Though the effort may have been mental, it /feels/ real. The weariness of the effort taking its toll on the man. Still, the fires rage in his soul. Freed from a grip of his own making, the anger is no longer contained and it is expelled in one last agonizing and primal scream as he looks to the heavens, into that swirling void of nothingness that makes up the eye of the storm around him.

Sinister has posed:
It is almost a gentle hand that touches his face then. A cool palm and this is the world of the real, although the differentiation of the real and the psyche are hard to distinguish for a few moments. Up is down, in is out and all the jumble of between. The chair is set back down on its feet, a supportive cup and the last of the restraints are released.

Sinister looks weary, as he walks back toward the chair, though beyond it, to a decanter. A very, very large whiskey is poured. And then another, brought back over by hand and set on the side table beside Warren.

Archangel has posed:
Back in the real world, Warren pants in exhaustion as much as the Archangel did in his mind. Sometimes physical exertion is far less taxing than the mental.

As the restraints are released, Warren peers at Sinister through the bangs of his now mussed hair, eyeing the doctor for a long while before glancing sidelong at the whiskey. He reaches out a hand, wearily at first, and takes the offered glass.

"Why?

His voice is quiet, horse, gravely raw, as if the screaming he did in his mind was also done in the physical, and it probably was. The whiskey burns it as it goes down, but Warren continues to drink almost as if he is inviting the pain now.

Sinister has posed:
The silence is heavy for a while, as Sinister downs his on whiskey, swallow by swallow. He gazes at the empty glass for a moment, as if that might be some kind of metaphor for the moment, then glances across his cheek toward the winged Worthington. The answer is in as weary a tone as he looks.

"You may think me a great many things, Warren. Everyone does. They have thier own perspectives and judgements and many of them are likely accurate, but... I may be a monster. But I am not one that would see the destruction of all. I happen to like the world. I refuse to be the pawn of Destruction and you deserve that same refute. What you do with it now, is your own design. /Yours/ my brother. Not /his/."

Archangel has posed:
Warren is quiet for a long moment, pondering in silence as he sips the amber liquid from his glass. He simply nods once in reply to Sinister's response before draining the last of his glass. "So...what happens now? I can't buy you did this out of the goodness of your heart."

Warren looks up and sets the glass down back onto the table, "I mean, I guess I should thank you...but somehow that seems wrong."

Sinister has posed:
"You can. You just choose not to," Sinister replies, settling himself down into the chair he had previously occupied with grace enough, holding his empty glass out to the side. Whiskey obligingly arrives from the decanter, as clearly one was not enough. His gaze, half-lidded now, remains steady. "As to thanking me, well... very few people do, so I won't hold that against you," and yes, there is a tiny, slight smile at that.

The whiskey this time is simply sipped. "I imagine you may wish to practice zen and the art of keeping your head cool though. When you get angry, it definitely gets interesting. Less... hmmmm... moderate also, I observe."

Archangel has posed:
Warren snorts. "I was already going to try yoga or something to help keep that side in check, I guess now that he...I...am a bit less restrained I am going to seriously double down on that effort. I'm not so sure freeing hi...that side of me from its cage was such a good idea."

Warren combs his fingers through his hair, "That was a lot of pent up frustration and rage all let out at once. I hope that it wouldn't be so bad in the future, but I will try to stay calm."

He is quiet for a long moment, then finally mutters out a "Thank you..." that is almost inaudible, but it is there.

Sinister has posed:
"Bless you," Essex replies, sniffing. "I need to dust the place, clearly." Again, there's a very slight smile that barely crooks the corner of his mouth. The man does not smirk, it is more like a black humour that slides out from beneath.

THere is a nod though. "Part of the prison. Again, I really do wish I could have done this in a more civilized manner, but we've been through this discussion already -- blah blah, monster, blah blah, rather smack you than talk. Ho humbug." He licks his bottom lip in a little dart of motion and taps his temple. "Psychic surgery is dangerous if one has not practiced it extensively. I'm afraid the heroic types tend not to think that it is something they ought to be doing. For what it is worth, what has been debrided from your mind tonight were the artificial modifiers, generated by your own fears. You are quite magnificent, you know. And I understand that -that- coming from -me- probably isn't reassuring."

Archangel has posed:
Warren smirks, giving Essex a glance. "Clearly. I don't know how you live in such filth." The billionaire takes a deep breath letting himself, or at least trying to let himself, relax. That is until Sinister mentions that Warren is magnificent, and Warren's posture changes almost instantly to be more defensive. "Yeah...your reputation precedes you, Doctor. That is a bit disconcerting." Warren can't help but look over at the whiskey glass, offered so freely, and drunk so eagerly.

Sinister has posed:
Sinister twirls his finger. Again, whiskey obliges by floating over and filling Warren's glass once again. Whether he touches it or nay, is his perogative. "I assure you, it is simply a scientific observation," he demures, crossing his legs at the knee and letting his foot bounce idly. "That which you come by naturally and that which has been... advanced is quite a harmony of physiological adaptation. For myself, I had to give myself my gifts, barring one-- you might say I'm mildly jealous."

Archangel has posed:
Warren continues to watch Sinister for a while, before finally giving in to his thirst and taking up the whiskey in hand. He probably should be drinking water, but what is given is given. He takes another sip, drinking it slower this time, "So...where do we go from here? Am I to assume you are 'done' with me, at least for now, and I am going to get to walk out the door? I find that difficult to believe."

Sinister has posed:
"That depends mostly on you, my dear brother," Sinister replies, swirling the whiskey in his own glass to prove the flavour and coat the sides. He sips, in indulgence. "I would truthfully prefer to keep you overnight, to monitor your status but again, we'd run into the awkwardness of earlier. I would much prefer that you chose to stay." He hasn't blinked in a good long while but does so now, as if remembering he ought to.

"And I find I must ask; do you have any individuals that you feel you can practice with, to collect your thoughts and your temper? You may need an ally that knows how to go deep, to help you minimize your scars." He taps his head again, for emphasis. "And one you cannot accidentally eviscerate would probably be wise."

Archangel has posed:
Warren sits quietly for a while, possibly playing out the earlier scenario in his head and weighing the pros and cons of trying to get out of this place. Ultimately he apparently decides the odds are not in his favor and he sighs, "If I stay, I have your word I can go without issue? No experiments? I won't wake up in a tub of ice missing a kidney?

The later question has him nod, "Well if anyone knows about duel identities to some degree it is Jean. She can, as you say, likely go deep. It may be a question of convincing her to do so."

Sinister has posed:
"You have my word," Sinister replies. "I have no need of any of your body parts at any rate and I do not need to experiment on you. It would frankly be a crime," he certainly sounds sincere. Hasn't he always? Why yes, he has. When he gives his word, it is rare, but binding. Gentleman's code and all that -- doth the ear fool the brain?

"Aah, the magnificent Phoenix likely would be one of the few, yes. If she refuses though, /do/ come and see me again, won't you?"

Archangel has posed:
Warren hrms quietly to himself, but then finally shrugs a shoulder. "Alright, you have me for a night of observation. No body parts, no experimentation, nothing of the sort. I sleep here, you can 'watch' me for...whatever, and then I leave in the morning. As far as me coming to see you about anything else, I'll admit I would have to be very desperate foe me to come back here of my own volition. Wherever here is, anyway. I won't say it isn't a possibility, but I wouldn't count on it."

Sinister has posed:
Sinister smiles at that. "Oh, it's someplace in the backwoods of Westchester county. I believe it belongs to a friend of mine. Believe it or not, I do have them." One or two. He settles back into the chair and watches though, as the fire crackles in the hearth, for he need neither eat, drink, breathe or sleep if he so chooses. "I will see you again though, mister Worthington. I feel it is almost... kismet."

And of course there is no need of body parts or experiments, when he has a whiskey glass at his disposal.

Amazingly, both he and the glass are gone by the time dawn cracks over the horizon and the screams are naught but the stir of echoes.