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]

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.

[superieure]

[He's very noncommittal but he doesn't appear to be thinking of anything else in particular so she puts this one down to polite interest. She changes it up a bit.]

What would you do if you were born with this, Mr. Wayne? [She taps her foot in mid-air, indicating the powers. It's less satisfying than if it clicked on the ground, strong as she was, but it's the effect she wants.]

[cowled]

[He laughs.]

I don't suppose there's anything on tap that would improve my odds at the craps table.

[superieure]

[Longshot's luck powers'd come in handy for that, she supposes, but instead of laughing it off she crosses until she's blocking his path and smiles at him, polite, but there's a predatory look in her eye.]

Come now, that small?

[cowled]

What do you give a man that has everything?

[He lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug, and his smile is helpless, but there's a sense of an old, buried pain there equally as much. In his mind, there's a brief flash of the Park Row street sign, spray-painted over to say crime alley, and there's the shattering of a necklace, pearls hitting concrete and blood. He clears his throat, glances away and reaches up to adjust the collar of his sportsjacket.]

Nothing can bring back the dead. Why not craps?

[superieure]

[She nearly says something about Tony Stark to tease, but the force of the image (death, darkness, fear) makes her press her lips together. At once she wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, scream at him, why didn't you do anything after that? because she knows she'd be consumed by vengeance, she wouldn't rest or stop until she'd torn that creature to pieces, nobody dared take anything from M. and no one ever would. She'd made sure of that.]

[And at the same time she wants to put a coat around his shoulders, promise him that even if he does nothing, she or one of her team will (provided there's the right fee, he's no mutant as far as she can tell but he is in need of a detective), because every victim deserves closure; whether that's justice or vengeance, Monet doesn't care. There's monsters in the world and hell of all kinds; she pushed too far and she's seen a glimpse of his gilded cage.]

[She's in check, though she wasn't aware they were playing. She concedes.]

[As easily as she stepped in front of him, she returns to his side, walking on the ground now, heels clicking. It's barely perceptible to an outsider, but to Bruce's sharp eyes, she is now more subdued, and no longer openly calculating.]

You'd find my colleague Longshot an excellent partner in that respect. [Luck powers. Annoying when she wanted to hit him, sometimes.] Any other deep-seated character flaws we should discuss? Beautiful women, perhaps?

[God, is she going to regret giving him an easy out.]

[cowled]

[He falls into step with her once more, radiating a certain sense of confusion. For some reason the scattered surface thoughts can't discern, she chose to back off rather than pursue the issue, and he gives her a sideways look, one eyebrow cocked. Then,]

Beautiful women are a particular weakness of mine, I'd hardly deny it. But I think you're already aware of that, Mademoiselle, for I've seen few to match you.

[There's a genuine sense of aesthetic enjoyment in those words, and his smile is a little bit crooked. There are certain things to which Bruce's public persona are unerringly ignorant, but he doesn't think anyone would buy that he's been rich for as long as he has been, and an eligible bachelor for nearly two decades, and not experienced his fair share of people using him for his money or fame. Most of his relationships have been short, high-profile affairs to which there's an unusual level of media scrutiny, and nearly all of them crash and burn. Too many late nights away from his partners, too much silence, too much secrecy.

He doesn't mind. If anything, it helps him to maintain his cover. Everything is calculated.]

[superieure]

[Being a telepath is both a gift and a curse. When she walks into a room and heads turn, she knows every single thought of theirs towards her: every hiss of skank or bitch, every mental image of what they'd like to do to her. Sometimes they hang off her arms and she pretends to enjoy their attention (because at heart, who wouldn't, when you were made to be perfect?). She'd conveyed as much to the therapist Madrox called in - she already knew people had made up their minds, she wasn't going to put herself out there to change it up.]

[The real people she knew wouldn't want her to do that, anyway. It's a sudden thought, and she perks up as it occurs to her, flashing Bruce a coy smile. So maybe he's a bit like Stark and needs some encouragement.]

There are none who do, Mr. Wayne.

[None of the loneliness she feels, being there, unable to share herself for fear she'd be victimised. Just the shallow, self-absorbed woman everyone wants to see.]

[cowled]

[And if that's her idea of turning on the charm, he essentially ignores it. Instead, he snags a flower off a nearby vendor's cart (flipping the bored-looking child tending it) and holds it out for her. It's the Konryu equivalent of an amaryllis, a deep, rich red with white edging. Symbolically speaking, the amaryllis stands for pride, determination and beauty, success through adversity. But it could well just be the first thing he grabbed off the cart.]

Being remote is often the same thing as being lonely, Monet. Or do you not have rich orphaned philanthropist playboys in your world?

[It's a gentle enough statement not to be wholly on the offensive, and as a blade it's double-edged, giving her something personal of his at the same time. Of course, for all that he'd claim that the idea of loneliness belongs only to his mask, the truth is it's equally ingrained in each of his identities in turn. The Bat, the father. The hero. He surrounds himself by people in the hopes of chipping away at the yawning chasm left by his parents, but nothing is ever quite the right fit. And nothing ever filled those endless, empty halls in the Manor, of which there is a brief flash in his mind, the furniture all draped in sheets like towering ghosts, the dust in all the places Alfred left alone - and there weren't many, he was always a thorough man.]

[superieure]

I come from a world which has Mr. Stark.

[His words are quite rote: the familiar gamble of give a little take more. Manners are manners and she takes the flower, inhales it even though the scent to her enhanced sense is almost overpowering at this range, and the image - he probably didn't intend for her to see that. It's another code, it's like she's playing goddamn chess —]

[She's playing chess.]

[Something clicks.]

I'm well aware of your type.

[Idle, as she examines the flower. His move.]

[cowled]

[He laughs.]

I hadn't expected to be quite so transparent, but yes. I imagine a woman of your stature has encountered more than enough men like me.

[Traumas all inclusive. He knows enough of Stark to make guesses at the comparison.]

[superieure]

And yet they all play the game.

[She toys with the flower. It really is very beautiful.]

[cowled]

Habit, I suppose.

[He doesn't seem to be particularly put-out at being caught. More bored, now that the game's up.]

Navigating the media circus takes a little more finesse than one might expect.

[superieure]

Perhaps it should be included in dancing lessons.

[She does well for herself, but then again, she also attracts attention for being a registered mutant.]

[cowled]

I have no great love of dancing.

[His tone is a little... not necessarily regretful, but certainly wistful.]

[superieure]

And yet, here we are.

[Explain.]