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| Six Big Macs Please | |
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| Participants | Brooklyn, Scott |
| Synopsis | Some reconnaissance is interrupted by a jumpy telepath. |
| Location | McDonald's, Queens, New York City |
| Time | December, 2015 |
| Posted By | Scott |
Queens is no place for mutants. That much is obvious on television, as news crews pan the streets with their antagonistic graffiti. The anonymous crowds, shouting anti-mutant slogans. Freaks, they call 'em. And Scott Summers is just one such freak. But rather than avoid the neighborhood entirely, it's just where Scott decides to spend a weekday evening. What little Scott could make out with the fuzzy, crap reception in Hell's Kitchen convinced him to pop in on Queens, to get the lay of the land. It's a bit out of Scott's way. But reseach is everything. And Scott is nothing if not thorough. Not that you could tell this stranger was anything but your Average Joe, just another lower-class schmuck dropping into McDonald's to escape the cold for a quick bite. The truth is anything but. Scott, though, embraces the anonymity. Wearing a pair of dark sunglasses — a bit out of place for the falling darkness, Scott settles into a booth, armed with a tray of junk food. Four McDoubles, two small fries, one apple pie, and a water cup.
When you're on the run, when you have no home, some of the first things you tend to lose are your definitions of right and wrong; more relevant to Brooklyn at the moment is the lack of control and portioning. When meals come infrequently, you learn to gorge when you can, and deal with the after-effects later. Sure, Scott has his tray piled high with the junk (albeit delicious, addictive junk), Brooklyn makes him look like a lightweight. The petite little thing has at least 6 cheeseburgers, two large fries, and a huge soda…no counting the burger in her hand!
She occupied a booth in the farthest corner of the restaurant, near a window, though she seems disinterested in looking out, in viewing the graffiti, the protesters and patrollers. Hunched over the table, blonde hair and pink streak cascading over her face a bit, she's totally focused on wolfing down her meal. Odd behavior to say the least, but something she's picked up over years on the streets. Eat when, as much, and as fast as you can.
Scott is neither humbled, bothered, nor emasculated by the appetite of that punky, petite thing in the corner. Her wolfish behavior only momentarily captures the man's interest, as those ever-perceptive eyes sweep the restaurant's patrons. The look is imperceptible, of course, considering those dark shades. Sunglasses which do look designer, it might be noteworthy — the lenses not black, but a deep crimson. But anyway, Brooklyn isn't of immediate concern, no. Everyone in the joint needs to be noted and categorized, first. Lumped into general categories, then reexamined one-by-one from an increasingly specific angle. Yeah, Scott is totally not paying attention to the crap food, which passes mindlessly from hand to mouth. He's eating slowly, to all appearances — buying as much time as a paying customer as is possible. Eavesdropping, too, on the muttered conversations nearby..
First glance around the restaurant might reveal some interesting characters, certainly including Brooklyn. First glances, however, would only reveal that she's wolfing it down like a champ. /Second/ glances would reaveal something else, something extra. While she sits hunched over the tray, totally on her own there in the corner, she seems to rock back and forth a little. It's as if she's agitated, and the way she occasionally rubs her temple might be a sign that there are other forces at work. Either she's got one heck of a migraine, or she's not as distanced from the rest of the patrons as she would like to be. Though she had made the conscious effort to come after the dinner rush, it's still a little crowded…and she hadn't planned on that.
It could be an error, to so readily overlook Brooklyn. But she's such a tiny thing, obviously self-involved in a mad rush to polish off those fatty burgers. Probably, Scott thinks initially, hurried to get somewhere — behind schedule, trying to beat the next bus back into the city proper. Hell, she's probably got friends to meet. Or some dumb concert to catch. So the rest of the gentry, particularly a pair of hunched day-laborers, capture Scott's attention for longer. But then, this man is no rookie when it comes to scoping. And Brooklyn is soon to earn another measured glance, this one intended to pick up those minor details not seen at a first glance. The rocking, the agitation, the fervent concentration. It's all there in her tense expression. Scott pauses. But even as Scott mulls over the behavior and its potential dangers, the casual exterior is maintained. Calmly drinking from that water cup, but now quite focused on her.
As much as her instinct tells her it's a bad idea, Brooklyn's thoughts turn to leaving the food and just bolting. One instinct fighting another. Queens is not a nice place, especially for someone like her, but somewhere along the line she learned that occasionally the safest place is right under the enemy's nose. Or maybe she made that up. She can't really remember, but it makes sense to her. In an effort to stem the gradually fragmenting stream of voices, she lifts her head and peeks about the restaurant, looking at the patrons. She needs someone calm, someone unaware, someone on which she can focus her attention surreptitiously. Peeking through the mane of blonde hair, even brushing the pink streak aside, she (rather mistakenly) decides that the guy with the shades looks interesting enough. Focusing on him, letting her concentration grow, she turns to hear thoughts deeper than the surface thoughts, and by doing so, stemming the flow of surface thoughts from the rest of the restaurant. It causes her to visibly settle as she attempts to delve deeper into one person…like turning a hose from full shower spray to fine jet spray.
Well, that was a mistake, indeed. It's not immediately obvious to either party, of course, but it doesn't take much. Scott, already looking her way through those protective shades, is already on-edge when she returns the stare. An instinctive response of his own, to snap so easily into ready-mode at the smallest hiccup, even one so subtle and potentially harmless as Brooklyn looking up from her meal. And that's when she choosing to dive into the mind of someone so apparently calm and reserved — but so inwardly focused, guarded, and experienced. He's not certain, not at first. It's been years since Scott last felt that twinge, the too-faint tingle of someone else in his thoughts. But it's there. And in under ten seconds, Scott is sure of it. Curiously, there's no outward reaction of anger or aggression. If anything, just knowing what she must be is a comfort. She's obviously not some anti-mutant bigot, looking for a fight. But she's sure to find building resistance, as she struggles to go deeper into Scott's thoughts. And then a single warning, a thought broadcasted out to the intruder — the words so much colder than they could be spoken: 'Get out.'
In her booth, Brooklyn munches now, taking idle little bites while her effort is directed at bullying her way into Scott's mind. He's…good, there's no doubt about it. Humans are mushy and soft and she can wiggle her way in without them ever raising a brow. When she eventually gets through, though, she can /feel/ the smug realization that he knows she's there. When he thinks the words at her, the intent behind them transferring with no loss in signal strength or loss of meaning that inevitably happens when trying to communicate verbally, she gives a little shudder and whimper. Immediately, the feeling in his mind retracts and he's left to his own devices, while she fumbles in her pocket for her headphones, and tries to make it look like nothing happened.
Success. Scott was hoping for just that — a hasty retreat, one without incident. He wouldn't want things to get uglier, no. Not in this neighborhood. Scott could probably hold his own against a few outraged locals, but the man doesn't have any confidence that this younger stranger would have the same luck. Obviously a novice, in Scott's opinion. Now whether that's accurate or not, doesn't matter. Since she withdrew so painlessly. But Scott isn't fooled by the act she puts on next, feigning absolute ignorance of the attempt at psychic intrusion. He keeps those eyes level on her, unamused even by her timidity. She could pose an unwelcome complication, if she got too rattled. He can't have her drawing attention to herself. With a grunt, though, Scott bides his time. For now.
In her pocket is an iPod…one which Brooklyn 'liberated' from someone on the street. She has no music on it beyond what that person had originally, so it's a motly collection of rock, rap, and what was once new top-10 stuff. It's not bad, and certainly better than nothing, but she puts the headphones in and turns it on, turning to a less-effective method…sensory deprivation…sorta. If the brain is built to handle five senses, and you have six, you should try and eliminate one. In this case, hearing. She tunes out the din of the restaurant with the music, more predictable and familiar.
Regarding the hasty retreat…it could be that she's timid, it could be that she's unskilled, or it could be that she's not looking for a struggle. The act doesn't give away much. One thing's for certain: he's more equipped to fight off her attack than a normal person, and that typically means there's something special about him too.
Scott is certain of that truth, too. In recognizing a mental probe such as hers, Scott clearly betrayed a familiarity with such things. Which makes Scott either a mutant, too, or just someone with an inordinate exposure to mutants. Since Scott's not shouting 'FREAK!', though, she might safely assume where Scott's sympathies rest. For his part, Scott carefully continues the study of Brooklyn — cautious, initially, what she might be digging out of her pockets. Ah, just an iPod. He watches the preparation work, only calming once she's thoroughly settled into the music. It seems to be working, from Scott's point-of-view. She's not so visibly worked-up. But Scott can't take the risk. He chances a glance at the two men, their orange construction helmets perched on the table with their food. He'd normally like to focus on those two, with their angry expressions and curse-riddled dialogue. But she's too much of a risk. So Scott puts on a show, seemingly just 'noticing' Brooklyn — something accompanied by an expression of open surprise. He then barks out a short laugh, scooping the tray of half-eaten food and ducking out of his booth. Sweeping across the crowded joint with a well-rehearsed air of friendliness. "Caroline! Hey, Caroline? It's been so long."
When he barks out the greeting of familiarity, Brooklyn's forced to look up at him…along with most of the restaurant. At first, she blinks in confusion but…she's not stupid. She's been out here too long to not recognize that he's putting on a show. "Oh…OH! H-hey you!" she cries out, the agitated, pensive expression turning to a look of false recognition. "It's been forever, yeah! Come on…sit down!" she says, sweeping toward the booth across the table. Even so, her stare isn't entirely trusting…ok, not trusting at all, but for the sake of the show, she goes with it.
Yeah, she's not so dumb. Scott makes a mental note, both appreciative and wary that she picked up on the ruse so smoothly. Always thinking the best and the worst, he is. Of course, Scott is also already berating himself for getting so involved. It's not like him. And this is the last place he wants to be, sitting across the booth from a potential timebomb. But Scott is a hands-on personality, and stands a better chance to contain this situation with an approach, rather than from a distance. So with an inward mutter, Scott drops into the seat. "Hah, yeah, forever. You remember me, right? Jack. From accounting." Accounting? Lame alibi. And then the friendly act cracks, Scott's voice dropping to a mutter: "Keep cool, Norman Bates." Yes, that's Scott's convoluted way of calling her out. Norman Bates, Psycho, psychic, telepath.
"It's been a while, Jack…" she says to him across the table. When he sits, Brooklyn can turn her gaze back on him, the serious stare. Also dropping to talk under her breath, she hisses at him "Who are you? What do you want?" She looks around to catch the people staring at the spectacle, the crowd waiting to see if they are indeed friends. Her blue eyes dart from person to person, getting a read on them. Permanently tense seems to be how she is, and even though she gets the feel that not everyone in the place is out to get them, she still doesn't relax. Gotta put on the show though, and there's too many people to make a convincing illusion of the meeting.
Scott doesn't seem so troubled. He easily falls into a slouch, assuming a posture more appropriate for recently reacquainted friends — or coworkers, as the case may have it. He ignores any and all attention from onlookers, seemingly unfazed. Most people are quick victims to awkwardness, the longer they stare at an unfamiliar couple. Surely they'll go back to their own business, once that air of casual friendship is made clear. He shrugs loosely, stuffing a number of fries in his mouth and chewing noisily. Unattractive. "Yeah, I know. Been a nightmare over at the Jersey office. How're the kids?" He's difficult to read, with those sunglasses obscurring his eyes. But Scott's voice, again, drops. Subtle, just enough for Brooklyn to hear. "Keeping you out of trouble. Finish your food. Quickly." She's right about one thing. Leaving would be a good idea. So Scott takes another over-large bite of burger.
He doesn't had to ask her twice. She dives back in almost to the point of ignoring him! "I wasn't in trouble though…" Brooklyn mumbles around a mouthful of burger and fries. "I…had it all under control…" she tries to reassure him. Clearly, she did not. "They're…they're good!" she says once she's taken a few mouthfuls and swallowed them though, to continue to show for the rest of the patrons. The shades are interesting, if nothing else…very red! He's not unattractive either, but…that's for another time. He's pushing this little show, pushing to get out of there, and the reason is unknown, and unknown is dangerous. Brooklyn's suddenly feeling very, very flighty.
Under control? Scott doubts that. Yeah, she was quick to pick up on the ruse — but she also blindly weaseled into a stranger's thoughts. Bad move, in these parts. And as such, Scott doesn't exactly trust her to handle herself. So it's a bit condescending, the grunt Scott allows in response to her mumbled defense. Yeah, right. Swigging the water cup, Scott washes down the salty mash of fries and ground beef. "Just good? I mean, you were fat as a cow when I saw you last. Must've been, what, eight months pregnant?" Hah, very kind of Scott, no? He ducks into a lean, propping an elbow onto the table to stare the blonde down. More mutter: "That why you're poking around where you don't belong, babe? Now finish."
"I couldn't resist. The shades are just /so/ normal…" she mumbles back with an impish little smirk. Brooklyn leans in to match his motion, chowing down quickly. The pile on her tray rapidly disappears until two burgers and come fry crumbs are left. "I'm ready when you are…" She doesn't seem able to decide whether she wants to be demure and personable, or cheeky and belligerent. "I was never fat as a cow!" she explodes, since it's the truth! "You take that back!" she whines, slapping at his shoulder playfully.
Scott is tempted to quote the esteemed lyrics of one Cory Hart, about sunglasses at night. But the urge is squashed, and Brooklyn's comment about the eyeware is promptly ignored. He can't help but notice the two remaining burgers, once she declares herself through. So wasteful, she better be planning on taking those with her. But then, there's not much time dedicated to this thought — what with the shove, and the show of protest. He grunts again, unprepared for the physical contact. But it's believable, even appropriate in a weird way. So Scott allows it, putting on a grin of his own. Characteristically crooked, of course. "You were huge. Like, sickeningly so. What were you carrying, quadruplets? But hey, it did good things for your tits." He sits back, indicating the door. "You wanna go?"
"Dunno what you were smoking, but I've always had great tits," Brooklyn replies with a frown…and a little squeeze of confirmation. "Yeah. I'm finished." Already, she's standing up, grabbing her coat from the booth. When she puts it on, it's clearly really oversized, heavy, but way too long in the sleeves and in the body. It's a men's coat, clearly, and reaches her thighs when it should go to her waist. The burgers aren't forgotten, as the little packrat stuffs them inside the jacket pockets for a snack later. Taking advantage of the brief switch in perspective, she leans down to near Scott's ear and whispers, "Where do you plan to take this shin-dig?"
For the sake of the illusion, Scott gives Brooklyn's assets-in-question a glance. It's all in the name of following that conversation to its end, after all. Naturally. His expression flashes skeptical, obviously unconvinced — an arched brow, then a shake of his head. "Don't know about that," Scott insists, also ready to go. He lets her stand first, draining the dregs of that water cup. Just long enough for her to get that whispered question in. He plays it up for the onlookers with a sly grin, obviously amused by whatever she might've murmured in his ear. "The fuck if I know," Scott answers casually, pushing up out of the booth to squeeze past her. He shoves both hands in his own pockets, making for the door — and, of course, expecting Brooklyn to keep up. Out into the parking lot.
Hurry after she does, well-worn Chuck Taylor's slapping the floor as Brooklyn exits right behind him. The parking lot is as cold and blustery as one can imagine for winter in New York. Out here though, the general din of the city is audible; crime, sirens, hoots and hollers, car traffic, Sentinel traffic, all of it. Clutching her coat about her body tight, since the zipper is busted, Brooklyn looks to Scott. "Ok then…we're out. Now what?" With most of the restaurant-goers out of sight and out of mind (quite literally) she seems visibly less agitated.
Scott keeps up the act, approaching a black, two-door car. It's a Chevy Impala, riding low to the ground. Antique, by now. Ducking around to the driver's side, Scott turns back to shoot Brooklyn a glance. The car affords some cover from the windows of the restaurant. And out here, with the wind, there's not much chance of being overheard. So the acts drops, Scott resting a gloved hand on the car's top. "Now? Now you get lost, babe. And do me a favor, quit playing mindreader behind enemy lines. Don't you know this ain't the nicest neighborhood for people like you?" He said 'you', not 'us'. "So get the fuck out of here. And stop being so damn careless." In conclusion, Scott is a bonafide jerk.
"Jesus, what an ass!" Brooklyn says, not so much under her breath. But she's seen the car…it's WAY too nice for this neck of the woods. "Yeah, I know. That's why I was here…" she mumbles over her shoulder. What she doesn't say is the little bit about humans being easy to mindread…that's not a good thing to say here. Thankfully, she doesn't have to be told twice to scoot. Either she was going to have to blast him and bolt, or something, but she's not about to get thrown into the back of another car by someone bigger and stronger than her. In a flash, she's at the edge of parking lot though, up and over a fence and down into an alley, the sort of place she's gotten comfortable with in her time on the streets.
Nice? Well, it's certainly dated. Well-maintained, clean, sleek — but it's a grungy, beatnik car by design. If anything, its condition may just reveal how much Scott cares for the junker. But it's no Lexus or Bentley, that's for sure. Not that Scott can argue the point — or would, if it were on the table. But with Brooklyn beating a speedy get-away, Scott isn't about to belabor the issue. He swings the car door open, checking the alley to make sure she's good and gone. And then into the car, with a slam of the door. "Fucking idiot," Scott grunts, alone again.
