Light 'em up

[starcharter]

Characters: EVERYBODY
Date: sundown on November 29th to sunrise on November 30th
Location: A plaza in Earth
Situation: The population of Keeliai could use a little warmth. So Chekov set stuff on fire and invited everyone over.
Warnings/Rating: None, but please put something in your comment header if necessary.

On Wednesday, everyone received the following audio message (and text attachments in English and Russian) from (1) Pavel Chekov in their inboxes:

“Hello. I would like to invite you to a bonfire in Earth sector on Friday at sundown. Please feel free to bring friends.”


A plaza in Earth sector is buzzing with activity-- most of it from one young man. He spends the day lugging folding tables and pushing wheelbarrows of supplies into the plaza. As the day wears on, several entrepreneurial kedan set up stands. By sundown, the plaza is lit up with three large, roaring bonfires. Most of the ice and snow has melted away, leaving a few patches here and there in the furthest corners of the plaza. One patch a bit away from the fires is completely devoid of snow and ice-- it's a sort of dance floor or performance area. Some music is playing out of one of the upper windows of the buildings overlooking the plaza. It's varies from quick and frenzied to slow and soothing. Of course, anyone is welcome to claim the floor to perform a magic show or do a little singing of their own.

There's a hodgepodge of various folding tables set with the essentials: raw vegetables, the closest equivalent of marshmallows Chekov could find (next to the chocolate and graham cracker substitutes), and sausages. There are skewers and tongs lying around should anyone need them. He also brought a few jugs of water, which are refilled periodically. It's not much, but it's the best he could do with a limited budget and not a lot of time. The kedan have taken the opportunity to sell what Chekov couldn't bring-- hot beverages and food, blankets, scarves and gloves, and several other simple wares.

It's not a grand setup, but there are roaring bonfires, food, and good company.


(Posting this slightly early because of Thanksgiving chaos. Let me know if you have any questions)

Comments

[cowled]

[Bruce catches her at one of the stalls, and steps up beside her with a smile. It's a little unsettling, how much she looks like and reminds him of Talia, but that doesn't mean he can't be friendly. To a telepath.

His mind is full of idle chatter on the surface, commentary on her appearance (beautiful, it's a respectful word in his mind), on the gathering, he's crunching numbers on Wayne Enterprises in one facet of it, and thinking about picking a suit up at one of the local cleaners.

Beneath that, of course, there is absolutely nothing.

He selects something from the vendor she's observing - a strip of a cloth similar to velvet, with a ring curling the edges together at the centre, a charm ringed around it there. It's an elegant little piece, all in black and silver, and he holds it out to her with a smile.]

If you're looking for something suitable, might I recommend this piece?

[superieure]

Mr. Wayne.

[The chatter eases everything. All people have it - the surface, idle, pointless thoughts they usually think, and she's never surprised that beautiful is amongst them when they think of her, and it's a relief not to hear worse thoughts than that.]

[She smiles at him, as one would expect from her: brief, empty, but pretty to look at nonetheless. Instead of complimenting the choice, she simply picks it up and puts it on, showing it to the vendor.]

It's adequate. Thank you.

[cowled]

'Adequate'. If I put much stock in my taste of aesthetic, I might be hurt by that assertion.

[His tone suggests otherwise, and his mind echoes the playful sentiment vaguely. Gosh, he's empty-headed.]

So? You seem to have settled in nicely.

[Don't mind him as he surreptitiously passes the merchant adequate funding to cover the purchase. It's only polite, after all.]

[superieure]

[He's one of the most empty-headed people she's met. She can't figure him out - it's annoying.]

I assure you, if it was an insult, it'd probably go over your head.

[.. and then he has to go be polite. Damnit.]

I've no intention of settling in here - I'm simply managing my team.

[Monet no you're not in charge...]

[cowled]

Oh, undoubtedly. Most things do.

[But his smile, perhaps, says otherwise. Even though his mind stays maddeningly fixated on the inane.]

I wasn't aware you had a team here.

[superieure]

[Is there more to him or isn't there? Monet's not sure, and she's of half a mind to just scan him and figure it out, but doesn't. She has better things to do than waste time telepathically probing an idiot.]

Hardly the full set, of course, but where we are, X-Factor is, as well.

[cowled]

And you're an investigative presence, yes?

[His tone is very, very mild.]

[superieure]

Indeed. Whatever's too much - or not enough - for the police or humans to handle, we step in.

[cowled]

And who determines that, exactly?

[Oh, he's one to talk, of course. But he's not a metahuman. #casualracism]

[superieure]

[Oh Bruce. Monet tilts her head just barely: this isn't something she expected him to say, though it is a logical question to ask. It seems every time she thinks she's got a grip on him he dances just out of reach. It's puzzling. She's not interested in him, he's not interested in her. What else is going on?]

[His thoughts are still maddeningly mundane.]

We're private, Mr. Wayne, we decide which cases to take.

[But it goes unsaid that somebody like her hardly has any inclination towards philanthropy or public service of any kind unless the people were particularly special to her.]

[cowled]

I've no doubt. You said you step in when it's too much for the authorities, and that it's decided presumably by your collective group. I'm simply curious as to how that assessment is made, and whether or not you act within the good graces of the police force.

[He barely sounds interesting, more like he's making polite conversation than anything. There's no intensity to be had. In fact, he begins the rather close inspection of a silvery pocket watch.]

[superieure]

[Monet actually laughs, pleasantly, despite the bitter sentiment behind it.]

I understand you aren't familiar with my world, Mr. Wayne, and thus I'll give you a free pass: the police hardly care about mutants. As far as they're concerned we've been left to fend for ourselves.

[cowled]

Then the crimes you investigate - mutant affairs, strictly?

[He nods to the pocketwatch, and then to the vendor, pulling out his wallet to cover its cost.]

[superieure]

[A shrug.]

Hardly anything can be said to be usual when one's at X-Factor, but yes, I suppose.

[cowled]

That's a bit of a paradox, wouldn't you say? If the unusual is your common fare, then by that act alone doesn't it become usual for you?

[He waves the vendor away from putting the watch in a box, intending to simply wear it. He polishes it for a moment against his sleeve and then slots it into the pocket of his sportscoat.]

[superieure]

[Despite herself, she flashes him a small smile. Sometimes he's not as thick as she thinks he is.]

I'd hardly expect someone to be worried about the semantics of it.

[cowled]

I can't ask questions of a lovely woman for our mutual conversational enjoyment?

[He leans in to ask that question, voice dropping into the range of conspiratorial.]

[superieure]

Mutual would imply I'm receiving similar information about your world, Mr. Wayne, which, I am not.

[Not that she can't stalk him on the network where it's not batcrypted 8D]

Admittedly I'm extremely curious as to what a world without mutants is like.

[When they haven't been wiped out, or when nobody's trying to wipe them all out.]

[cowled]

I'm an open book, Ms. St Croix, you're free to ask anything you wish of me.

[Wow what an upstanding and honest sentiment from such a charming man!]

Although I would be the wrong individual to speak to on that count. My world has a variation of your 'mutant', although we use a different term to describe them, 'metahuman'.

[superieure]

Am I?

[She turns, indicating he should follow, and walks at a leisurely pace, a few inches above the ground.]

Damian's informed me, but it seems not many are born with gifts as there are on my world.

[cowled]

[Bruce raises an eyebrow, but it's the only true outward indication of surprise. Inwardly, there's a flicker, the barest deviation in the mental chatter he's keeping up in light of her telepathy. A slight curiosity and query emerges from the inanity, but it's very mild, part of the show.]

That depends on what you mean by 'born with'. We have an alarming number of aliens on our Earth. Some are more celebrity than others, such as Superman.

[superieure]

[Monet's not probing him actively, but she's peripherally aware of it, in the way one would be of background chatter in a crowd. A corner being silenced? She picks up on it, and betrays no surprise, never slows or increases her pace.]

As do we. However, I'm referring to genetics. [She lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug.] Professor Xavier worked for you while he was here, didn't he? Did you have the opportunity to speak with him on the subject?

[cowled]

Genetics? Hardly. The good professor is leagues beyond my comprehension of the subject, I'm afraid. I'm not even sure I could describe the difference between a dominant and a recessive gene except I think that red hair counts as the latter?

[And on mutation, pssh. Don't even think he knows a damn thing about it.]

[superieure]

[Monet, for some weird reason, actually chuckles.]

I should give you an airhead-o-meter if Layla can spare one. No. Mutants are born with the X-gene, it's what grants us our gifts.

['Born better', she means.]

[cowled]

[If he hears the distinction, he doesn't react to it. Instead, he simply nods as if he's following along.]

It seems a heavy burden. Being different often is.