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WHO: Death, Death, and Apocalypse Junior.
WHERE: Outside of some random bar.
WHEN: Very late Thursday/early Friday
WARNINGS: Insane personas and alter egos, potty language, and possible violence?
SUMMARY: Gambit and Archangel are out drinking their faces off and being jerks to each other, like usual, and happen to run into their dear friend Jono along the way.
FORMAT: Para to start, then Ian can reply with whatever

So it was another random night of drinking for Remy and Warren. The room was warm and loud, and the ladies were in abundance. For the most part, the evening was rather uneventful and, for two X-Men in a bar, that was actually a rather grand feat.

Now though, it was getting late and last call had been announced several moments earlier. Warren had been taking shots most of the night, but was finishing off with a bottle of beer, nursing those last few sips. "Where to next, Cajun?"

Despite all the alcohol, his voice remained steady. Perhaps a bit softer than his usual snappy tone, however.

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Trailing only slightly, Remy swaggered out of the bar right behind Warren, his arm stretching out to land across the man's shoulders for support.

"Seems like de entire city's windin' down, Wings," the Cajun stated, fighting back a laugh. "You tell me where ya feel like headin' next, and I'll follow tout suite, eh?"

While Remy could hold nearly twice his weight in alcohol, he had really hit the alcohol hard tonight. His breath reeked of bourbon and whiskey.

Warren slung his arm across Remy's back lazily, adding to that support since Remy was heavier than him by at least a good thirty pounds---which normally wouldn't be a problem, but it wasn't as if massive amount of alcohol put his equilibrium at its best. "Maybe there's bars open still in Hell's Kitchen. Do they still call it Hell's Kitchen here? The neigbourhoods mix me up still."

Warren was a New York City boy through and through, so at the oddest times the dimensional differences threw him off. But that area of the City still seemed to be where all the clubs stayed open late, so maybe they'd have a chance. That was, of course, if they could make it there in one piece without incident.

"I have to be at work in four hours, or something. Damn."

Sleep was totally for the weak!

Remy took the lead without so much as pausing to think about asking for it, relying on his innate sense of direction -- skewed as it may have been from the alcohol -- and general aura of good luck to get them where they were going. He didn't stumble too much.

"T'ink dat it hasn't changed too much, homme!" he offered, gesturing to the city at large. "Jus' look at it! All de buildings still in place even after everyt'ing almost went t'hell. S'great!"

"I can't believe this City hasn't been cratered yet sometimes," he mumbled, and easily kept up with Remy. "This is the second time that Nazi guy tried to declare war, and that doesn't even include the giant prison takeover."

Warren just shook his head.

"I prefer this stay more like real New York. Then we can find a good bar right now," he chuckled. "Or at least a liquor store or something."

"Luck a'de draw, my friend. S'a damn cryin' shame t'admit, but we livin' on borrowed time."

After that particular statement, Remy let out a laugh, turning about to face Warren as they walked, his back to any oncoming foot traffic. "Yanno, come t' t'ink of it, I ain't ever asked you what your favorite drink is, Wings. I feel like dis is need t'know information we both jus' glossed over back dere!"

Warren blinked at the sudden movement, and swayed a little before he'd bump into Remy on accident. The question, however, didn't take him long to answer at all. "Scotch. Scotch is good...and Brandy."

And a damn good bottle of wine always hit the spot, but liquor was his choice for the moment.

"Y'know, it just occurred to me that we could go open my bar if we can't find somewhere else to drink..."

Jono had stayed out late that evening, helping Robyn first lift the airship out of the river, and then staying around to keep the floating nightclub... floating. Until it could support itself, anyway.

He'd decided to walk back to his place; after using his voice so much in one afternoon, flying didn't really seem like the smart option, and it wasn't like he worked early next morning.

Jono was rounding the streetcorner in one of the bar districts when he realized that he'd been overhearing two familiar voices for the past few minutes. He stopped dead, stricken by indecision - wherever Warren was, hewas close. Getting closer by the second. And Jono had no idea where to go to get away; the voices of the two X-men echoed around the late-night street, seemingly from all directions.

Remy made a rather surprised face at the suggestion, looking almost mortified that Warren hadn't offered it up sooner. He owned his own bar with his own liquor? And free liquor, at that? Where was this man's head, to not say something sooner?! They could've been stone cold smashed by now.

The Cajun pointed a finger at Warren, almost accusingly. "You got your own bar and ya didn't tell me?"

"I thought I did--?" Warren began but then cut himself off. That familiar tingle in the back of his mind started, soon followed by the whispers that came along with it; the hair on the back of his neck stood up slowly, and Warren could feel the warning bells going off.

What the hell was...?

"Do you hear that?" he questioned Remy, tilting his head in the direction whatever it was setting him off was moving.

He stopped in his tracks, sobering momentarily once he heard the satin-soft purr of Death's voice whispering in his ear. That -- that wasn't supposed to be happening. Not now. Not here.

"--Homme, tell me ya mean somet'ing else dan what I t'ink ya mean."

Remy's eyes flicked back and forth, trying to pinpoint whatever...or whomever could've been causing what was happening.

They'd started murmuring now, making it even harder for Jono to pinpoint where the two were coming from. They could be walking up the street from behind him or coming down from in front of him - he tried to remember the layout of the City streets around him.

If they got too close, he could always fly.

Shrugging, Jono turned to double back on himself - there was an alley that connected him to another major street which ran parallel to this one; surely that would be far enough away. He tried to ignore the annoyance creeping up on him: it's not like Warren could help it. It was better for both of them that he took a bit of extra time to... run away. Bollocks.

The closer Jono got, the louder the 'voice' in the back of Warren's head became. And with it came all of the thoughts and bloodthirsty urges to just start hacking people up left, right, and center. Especially Jono.

Why the hell was this happening right now!? They'd just been having a good time, too!

"That's exactly what I mean," Warren hissed at Remy through clenched teeth, and grabbed onto the wall with a hand to support himself. Already his muscles were starting to throb, itching to shapeshift, and he had to fight it. He could control if he wanted to!

Uh, sort of.

Jono kept walking. Where was that alley? He could have sworn he'd taken a turn down it just a week ago with Robyn, responding to a call while on duty.

Everything looked different in the dark, and to top it off he was beginning to realize just how completely fagged he was from restoring the floating bar all evening. Right, give it another minute and then to hell with it - he'd just fly home and have to pick up another bloody package of throat lozenges tomorrow.

Not forty seconds later, Jono looked across the street to get his bearings once more and saw two figures standing stock-still outside of a bar. One of them had wings. This night was not going to go well.

Edited 2010-04-24 21:54 (UTC)

Gambit felt the need to shift, to transform into his Other violent self hit him with all the force of an atom bomb. His knees buckled beneath him, sending him to the ground, his hand rising up to his face in an effort to find stability, to latch onto his skin and somehow keep it from changing when his mind could not.

"Ffu--Warren!"

So many emotions ran through him, a litany of violence rising up from his core, from his very bones, radiating out and out and out, needing to be freed. He could feel his skin shit, pitch back and forth beneath his hands.

"Can't--_fuck--Dis ain't gonna...!"

Shapeshifting didn't hurt so much when he was trying to do it on purpose. However, shapeshifting hurt a whole fuck of a lot when his body forced him to do it. Warren didn't fare much better than Remy did, unfortunately, and he too doubled over and let the strain takeover.

His usual pigment swirled with blue and the normal pretty, innocent white feathers on his back exploded into a deadly metal. Within seconds, Warren was Death and those glowing red eyes of his instantly zoomed over to glance across the street.

No one had to say Jono was there. No one had to point it out. The programming knew.

'Kill him,' it said.

Where Warren had most certainly shifted from one form to the next, Remy's own transformation came over him in much the same way Pixie had first described it. One moment, Remy stood there as human as the day was long only to photo negative: auburn hair losing luster and health as it went white, his finely tanned skin blackening, hardening to resemble jet black coal while the natural crimson of his irises grew, pushing the blackness of the sclera out until all that remained was a bright, vicious red. Volatile energies crackled and danced within his fingers, the ground beneath him bleaching, concrete turning back to sand as his power fought for release, for expulsion.

'Non. Non. Dere's -- dere's people 'round, you vile, unholy--'

--All Death had to do was look across the street exactly where its restrained power would be channeled. The card found its way into the thing's hand without a sound, send flying with only a whisper of movement. If Jono dodged, the blast radius would be enough to turn a good ten feet into nothing but decaying, lifeless ash.

Not one, but two pairs of glowing red eyes snapped up to focus on Jono: the force of it was enough for him to take a step back, even as his mind was trying to process what it was seeing. He'd heard Gambit - but LeBeau hadn't been... bollocks, this was another future thing he'd not yet found out. He could do without these sorts of surprises.

The card came before Jono could run; he had no choice but to retaliate, creating a shield to stop the explosive. It detonated on contact, and Jono nearly broke his voice expanding the shield wider, wider, wider to contain the fire and fury. He didn't quite succeed: the street was cratered, streaked with soot, ash rising to cloud the air, and Jono decided the best thing to do right at that moment was to get the hell out of Dodge.

Without further ado, Jono leapt into the air and prayed they wouldn't give chase.

Jono wasn't exactly safe up in the air either. Gambit's Death abilities worked from long distances, and while he was busy throwing those cards, Archangel took to the skies above his fellow Horseman, and made a lunge up toward the Master's look-a-like.

Every fibre of Death's being spoke to him, sensing the blood and strains of the Clan Akkaba's work in Decibel's body. "What are you doing here!? What've you done, Starsmore!?"

'Just kill him' the programming taunted again. 'He is weak and you are strong'

Jono's escape plan was made complicated by the cards that Gambit threw - dodging and wheeling, he couldn't find a route that wasn't blocked by deadly explosives, and with Archangel on his tail, Jono's options were not looking good.

"I've not done anything!" Jono roared back, his voice distorted and magnified by his powers. He dropped a few inches because of it, and was clipped by a card: Jono immediately cut his voice and dropped like a stone out of the blast radius, his left arm torn and bleeding. He caught himself before he hit the pavement, not five feet away from the terrifying photonegative that stood in Gambit's place.

Jono took off the split-second his feet touched the ground, heading straight into the sky. If he got far enough from LeBeau, maybe the Cajun, at least, would be able to override the programming.

"Sod off!" He yelled at Warren, gone far past panic.

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best typo ever, ian

oh god, gag me with a spoon.

shit just got real

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