anastasia

Isaac wasn’t exactly used to forced smiles, for he’d never had reason to wear one. Smiling couldn’t even be forced at St. Raph’s, and now, he didn’t really fake the emotions he felt, other than dismissing those that were more negative. He didn’t even think of any of that around Anastasia, who only brought him positive feelings (literally rather than figuratively, but Isaac wasn’t even suspicious of that). In fact, she caused his smile to grow yet again when she called him trouble, mischief and darkness tinting his gaze. He was proud of the trouble he’d caused, and wore the title like a badge of honor. If he’d been told growing up that mutants were nothing but trouble, then he’d more than happily live up to the reputation that had been waiting for him all this time. “You don’t know the half of it,” he replied, wondering if she was as drawn to him as he felt to her. All the possibilities of what he could pull her into, the world she could take his hand and run headfirst into, they seemed sweet, no matter how morally questionable some things in that world was. Something told him she wasn’t all prim and proper, anyway, and it’s the thought of knowing more that made him, in part, wanting to keep coming back. “A little, but that’s what makes it fun.” Danger is thrilling to him, fear is the motivator to make his feet go faster, and every time that boost of energy carries him from the threat, victory widens that smile and grows an ego that once never existed. But the energy drops when Anastasia asks a serious question, causing Isaac to look away nervously. “Uh, no? Not really…” He’d once learned his mother was in jail when a worker at St. Raph’s had threatened him, but whether he and this woman he never knew had a life together before then, he never knew. “So then I was right!” Isaac concluded. After a moment of thought, he piped up again. “You should come with me! It’ll be a lot more fun with you there.”

“I don’t know how you do that,” Anastasia confesses absently, gaze fixed on the window fogged by condensation, watching the colourful people-shapes of passers-by. “Turn being scared into excitement. Fear into fun.” She returns her attention to Isaac, searching his eyes for that familiar glint of mischief. “Maybe I’ve only ever gotten into the wrong kind of trouble.” There’s a shift in his expression -- one she imagines isn’t dissimilar to the face she makes when prompted to consider her past. Her own brow raises in ill-hidden surprise edged with sympathy which she soon attempts to smooth into a reassuring smile. For his sake. “Well-- it’s not like it’s that important, knowing where you were born. As long as you know where you are now.” It’s difficult not to feel for him. Difficult, too, not to feel guilty for the fabrication of their relationship -- or, at least, what she’s convinced herself to be work ( what she won’t admit is that she gets along better with Isaac than most Jems ).

Subtly, Anastasia concentrates on her breathing, stubbornly ignoring the hammering of her pulse beneath her ribs at being asked to attend the event with him. Evading him all night after this was going to be exceedingly tricky. “I’d love to, but-- well, I’m not invited. And I’m working the late shift.” Fingernails painted a metallic silver that glints in the light tap thoughtfully against the mug cupped in her palm. She needed to throw him a bone; wanted to offer an alternative. “I could meet you after, maybe? That way I’ll get to see you dressed all fancy, right?”

“Nice try with the psychoanalysis, but you’ve missed your mark.” It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, nothing he won’t hear again, and he’s tired of it. Ana’s not the first bright young thing who thinks she can figure him out, uncover some hidden well of personality bubbling under the surface with just a few choice words and a bit of mood manipulation. It’s an expectation he’s never asked for, and it’s only ever ended somewhere sour. 

“Have some advice. The key word here is amateur. If you were better at fucking with people, you might get some more respect around here. And you’d definitely be better at your job.” Derek knows he should just brush her off, not waste his time on shit she’ll have to figure out eventually, but something about her conviction gives him pause. She’s just so– certain she’s figured him all out. And he wants to make his point. He moves so Ana’s out of his personal space, his back brushing up against the edge of the walkway. “No one’s judging you for not being nice enough. You’re just wasting your own time worrying about it.”

The corner of her lip twitches downwards at her dryly announced failure, uninclined to listen to advice from someone who was currently working his way down her not-friends list as though it were a firefighter’s pole. Pity rises through her chest for the lost teenager who had latched onto the word Family in the Jem’s name and foolishly ignored the whole unkind-and-not-to-mention-deadly-mutants-in-a-criminal-gang part. This is why she sticks to Shae’s side during meetings. This is why she doesn’t attempt to establish herself as a somebody. This is why she tries to be nice enough that those who talk to her typically keep to exchanging pleasantries. “I don’t--” Anastasia cuts herself off, exhaling slowly as a lump forms in her throat. Criticism cuts deep, however supposedly constructive. “You make it sound easy. You think I don’t want that-- to be respected? To be good at what I do?” She refuses to look at Derek, wiping the heel of her palm across her cheeks with a quietly spoken “fuck sake,” ridding herself of tears that he’d no doubt tell her were signs of weakness, or childish, or-- whatever. “You’re, like, the worst advice-giver ever. You want me to be more like you and just-- brood and emotionlessly skulk around all the time? Fine. Tell me how. What’s first, cutting my heart out?”

“Yes, exactly. It’s a defense mechanism of sorts.” The smile on her face only widens. It had been so long since anyone has asked Neve about the plants within the building that she forgot how much she loved talking about them. Even without the influence of Anastaisa in her mind, she found herself happy, relaxing for the moment among the flowers. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replies with a smile. There’s something about Anastasia that reminds Neve of herself; the desire to impress, the lethality that’s hidden under a smile, the untouched potential yet to be molded by the right hands. Are they using her powers to their best ability? No, they would have trained her better, made her more useful to their cause. Neve wonders if the younger girl would be better suited for her own cause instead of the Jem Family. She knows she could train her properly, influence the correct parts of her power to create an unstoppable force. Emotions are, after all, the one thing most people have no control over. All she needs to do is plant the correct seed. “Have you heard of Lily of the Valley?” 

“That’s cool.” She sounds distant as she continues to admire the flower, her mind having drifted. “It’s weird, right? That plants can have all these different defence mechanisms, like thorns or those ones that trap flies to eat, and yet humans still keep them in their homes -- but when we have defence mechanisms it’s seen by them as a danger.” The urge to continue is stifled, well aware that she’d be preaching to the choir. Neve had no doubt felt the injustice of society. Anastasia half wondered if that was why her affinity for flora had spilt over into her career; perhaps she felt as though she had more in common with the occupants of the conservatory than those outside its glass walls. Her lips catch in a half-smile, exhaling a single light laugh. “It was a compliment. I wouldn’t dare insult you. Especially not amongst your babies.” Her fingertips brush against the nearest leaf, glossy green glinting under artificial light. “I’ve heard of Lily of the Valley in, like, Yankee Candles and body wash, sure.”

Anyone who claims they don’t want to hurt you is either more than capable of it or underestimates your stubbornness to keep walking even when you honestly shouldn’t be anymore. Granted, often drugs help with that a lot, but here and now… Eoin narrows his eyes at the harmless-looking girl standing in front of him. So he doesn’t know who she is, but that doesn’t matter, the principle is the same — don’t underestimate anyone, and consider everyone a threat. Perhaps he’s blocking this door on orders, but when he fights, it’s for his own survival, and not for any faux-loyalty.

He doesn’t rush in, even though that’s probably something anyone would expect of him, but he stands there, looking at her for a long moment. As time goes on, seconds becoming a minute, the slow drip dripping of acid becomes a steady stream until the ground is veritably boiling under his feet, and still he looks at the other mutant. By now, the acid has easily burnt away the suit sleeves on his forearms to reveal coated — but unharmed  — skin, as though he is slowly becoming the very thing he can generate.

“I don’t think you have a choice,” he grunts. With one quick gesture of his hand, he sends a spray of excess acid hurling towards the girl, and immediately follows after it with an outreaching hand, an intention to grab onto her throat. All he has to do is touch her once and it would be game over.

All she wants is to leave. The beckoning of safety beyond the doors keeps her stubbornly in place despite the quite literally steaming threat stood blocking her path. An uncomfortable warmth seeps in where the spray of acid meets her dress, small dots of fabric thinning as it’s dissolved away and-- shit, any hope she’d had of returning it to the store before being thrown into a pond and attacked by an unnecessarily hostile mutant in the wake of a literal fucking murder has vanished. 

Pyro. Lost control. Chaos. Just like that, the fun is over. Derek clenches his jaw and looks anywhere but at Ana’s face, but the girl just keeps talking.

“‘Tips and tricks?’” he says slowly, when it’s clear that she’s finally reached the end of whatever point she was trying to make. “No, me and the other pyros haven’t had that opportunity yet.” It’s true that he’s never met someone else with pyrokinesis– but not because he’s some special, one-of-a-kind mutant. It’s just that people like him usually end up dead or in a cell before they have the chance to just run into each other. People given the shit end of the stick. People living with the consequences he knows are waiting for him, the second his streak of luck– and the Jem’s protection– runs out.

“How about you? Do you exchange hot tips at your weekly meetings for amateur mind-fuckers?”

Things are pleasant, if a little one-sided, and then they're-- not. There's a slowness to his tone that suggests he's holding something back, but by the time Anastasia realises it's anger it's too late. She hadn't meant to upset him, although it's clear from the venomously uttered mind-fuckers that it doesn't matter now. He has made his conclusion. Has jumped to it. Had maybe even formed it before she'd started speaking. "There's no need to be such a dick," she responds sharply, the tightness of her jaw and the sting behind her eyes difficult to quell. "You know what, I wish that there were weekly meetings because maybe then I'd be able to feel less like shit every time someone like you assumes I always use my powers to fuck with people." A frown sets across her brow, venturing into a scowl as she takes a step closer to leave him with a final biting remark. "Your whole broody dangerous act is bullshit. You can't even deal with your own emotions, let alone a nice one from me. Weak."

DATED — november 15th, 10:31PM LOCATED — the garfield conservatory WITH — ? STATUS — open 

The cue comes with the boss’s glass raising to a toast, and Eoin wordlessly shifts in front of one of the doorways, arms folded, immovable and unhumorous. If you ask Eoin, this whole thing came with far too much theatrics, but in the two months of his being part of this crowd, he knows it’s something to both expect and endure. Cold blue eyes move from body to body, face to face, pausing on one or two. Every pause, an uncomfortable lurch in the pit of his stomach is squelched and his eyes move on. Detachment, he reminds himself, is the key to survival in this concrete jungle. You don’t get attached, you care for no one but yourself. Sometimes easier said than done.

The shot rings through the air — Eoin doesn’t even bother to watch the display, instead scanning people and minute movements — and it’s the symbol Benjamin had built up to. The world slows down as he feels a rush through his body, and previously folded arms fall at his sides, watching for threats now.

This is where Eoin thrives. Not the fragile political niceties, the social pleasantries with their veiled agendas. It isn’t that he doesn’t understand it — it’s not as complex as some who pride themselves on it make it out to be. It’s simply that he has no patience for it, and doesn’t see the point of dancing coyly and slyly around something you can just as easily put a burning fist through. Discretion, Pan, someone once told him condescendingly. Of course, discretion didn’t keep Eoin from ripping out his dissolving throat down the line.

No, this, the moment when all pretences shatter and the figurative gloves come off is what he was made for. His body reacts before his mind registers someone coming towards him, probably with the intent of escaping through the door. When his mind does register, his hands are already up, clenched, and dripping acid onto the floor. “Try.”

Blood. It’s more than she’s ever seen before, seeping across stone floor. It spreads faster than it does in movies. It smells, too, even amongst floral blooms and fresh foliage. A metallic tang. Or maybe that was from the bullet fired -- she doesn’t hang around to figure it out. Panic churns, swelling into chaotics waves like the ocean, and she moves before she gets dashed on the rocks of a shore that she can’t imagine will be sympathetic. Her line of sight flicks over everything and nothing all at once, rabbit-heart in her mouth. Running towards the first door she sees feels like instinct, unable to focus on other issues like whether Damien and Shae and, fuck, even Chance were safe. She tells herself she’ll help them from outside, but she never gets that far. 

The conservatory is far too vast and yet Rahim feels as if the walls are drawing inexorably, slowly closer to him as he moves, a sense of unease he can’t shake. He’s been here before but tonight he feels like a dog running around its cage. Maybe it’s because they’re here on Granger’s invitation and he doesn’t know the man let alone trust him but the whole pompous affair is hard to take for what it is and he finds himself pondering at what more sinistrous motive might lie underneath it. In any case, it’s all outside of his control and he hates it so he boils in frustration, downing drink after drink. He’s on his way to pouring himself another glass when a young woman calls for his attention, he follows her gaze towards the flowers, he’s already given into curiosity tonight but had settled for watching. He refuses to be the one to give the resident Poison Ivy a reason to throw a bloody fit. Not today. And yet, he can feel that feeling return once more, drawing him towards the plant, only as he opens his eye to respond he catches sight of Luke and another feeling, one that feels much more distinctly his own rushes back. Worry. He turns to face Anastasia fully, dark eyes narrowing in frustration. “If you feel like fucking up this little get together by breaking the one rule the Kings set, be my guest but find yourself a partner in crime in your own crew. And stay out of my head from now on. Got it?”

Her efforts are half-hearted and playful, unconcerned with maintaining her hold over the stranger’s emotions -- but that doesn’t prevent Anastasia from looking surprised when her influence is pushed away by an overwhelming feeling of worry. An apology lines her tongue, poised and ready to offer it, only for her lips to press shut as she heeds the venom in Rahim’s words. It sounds like a threat, her posture tensing and expression schooled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her brow raises in challenge. Pretending has always been a favoured defence mechanism. Pretend hard enough and she can even fool herself sometimes. “If anything, it sort of sounds like you’re trying to pick a fight with me, so--” She shrugs, gladly placing the blame on him ( justifiably so, in her personal opinion ). “Besides, even if I did have the ability to get inside your head, I don’t know why you think I’d want to do that when you’re not significant enough for me to even know who you are.”

Isaac would never admit how lonely he could be at times. If someone ever asked him if he could even become lonely, he’d scoff and throw out some comment about how he’s always got himself to hang out with, why would he need anyone else? But once, he never even had himself, only the shell of the boy who could barely control his powers when they weren’t being stifled by god-knows-what poison was injected into his arm. Truly, Isabel had been his first friend, followed by Luke, followed by those in Blackburn who chose to tolerate him. Even then, when Isabel is gone or Luke’s ignoring him, it’s hard to have someone he can relate to, someone who could even understand what it’s like to go through the things he has or even just someone to get the real-time struggles of a youth he was almost completely robbed of. Anastasia, he subconsciously thinks, may, even in just some shred of a sense, understand that. It also doesn’t hurt that she’s probably the prettiest girl he’s ever seen and her big eyelashes batting make him want to do just about anything she’s asking (which isn’t of his own free will, but he doesn’t know that). “Try stealing,” he corrected with a laugh. “Once, I stole one of their walkie talkies and lead them on a wild goose chase around the city using it. That was a fucking good day.” He was pretty damn proud of himself, recalling the sight of them scrambling down every which alleyway as he sat atop a building, giving misleading clues into the speaker. “Uh, my whole life, I think,” he confessed, not entirely sure where St. Raph’s was or where he was before he went there, once the only ‘home’ he’d ever known. He didn’t exactly learn much in there, so the past three years were spent trying to cram sixteen years of knowledge he’d lost in. “Isn’t there plants and shit there? I dunno, I’ve never been,” he dismissed with a shrug, unable to lose the smile she brought him still. “It’s some sort of thing to show there’s peace between all the mutants. Like, we’re all banding together or something. Sounds boring if you ask me.”

The corners of her mouth pull up into a smile but it’s forced. She wears the expression with ease, well-practised over the years. It's a concealment, as shimmering and pretty as the glitter gloss that lines her lips, hiding the hollow thing that lurks inside her at the two words -- casually spoken; an unmeant prompt, far from a suggestion. The truth is that she has tried stealing. No, not tried. Tried made it sound like a seafood delicacy passed around on plates in a fancy restaurant. Like she’d had the choice not to. “I knew you were trouble,” Anastasia says lightly, gentle meaningless teasing to fan the flames of ego. She swallows, the taste of coffee still on her tongue, pushing aside the past. For, as much as she likes talking, the topic of her past is one to rarely escape the prison of a white-toothed smile. “Surely you were scared they’d catch you?” An inquisitive flicker of interest sweeps across her face, Isaac’s uncertainty as to whether he’s always been in the city striking her as curious. “You-- think?” Her voice drops to a whisper, leaning close enough that the edge of the table presses into her ribs. “Isaac, do you not know where you were born?” Anastasia’s gaze searches his, momentarily casting aside ulterior motives, concern clouding all judgement, and-- shit, maybe this relationship wasn’t as one-sided as it was supposed to be. “Yeah, there are plants in a conservatory. That’s, like, their sole purpose, dummy.” A fond laugh punctuates the sentence. “Not all the mutants,” she corrects, somewhat incorrectly. “I’m not invited.” The lie is silver, accompanied by satisfaction as she lingers at the periphery of Isaac’s mind. “Sounds like a party. You’ll have to tell me how it goes. Text me after?”

Breaks from the small talk were few and far between, but that didn’t mean Neve wasn’t going to sneak off to avoid it. The mundane conversation that consisted of filler statements, ‘how are you’ ‘what are you up to’ ‘ how’s your job’, was enough to set her on the edge when the night had barely started. On top of that, the humidity within some of the rooms was too much to handle so she avoided them altogether. She took up a spot against a tree that was wide enough to hide her, closed her eyes, and hoped for the best. It was only when the annoyance that had been swirling in her mind was gone did she open them again. Her eyes land on Anastasia then float over to whichever flower had grabbed her attention. Of course. It was one that Neve personally loved, ivory petals with leaves twice the size of the flower. A truly beautiful plant. “I’d be careful if I were you.” It’s not a warning exactly. Not one that includes her anger at least. “They can stick to your skin if you’re not paying attention. It’ll leave evidence.” 

Neve is a welcome companion -- but no less capable of feeding her to the wolves should the Kings decide to play some sort of Battle Royale style hunt in this dramatic setting of fern fronds and shimmering pools. One corner of Anastasia’s mouth curls upwards. Damien had specifically mentioned the woman before her and the request to keep her hands off the plants in the same breathe, which surely meant that plucking the flower in question would be foolish. Dumb. Idiotic. “Stick like glue?” She questions, her own curiosity far from satiated as she vacates her presence in Neve’s mind and turns to her, sneakers that she almost definitely shouldn’t be wearing to a black-tie event scuffing against the ground. “Funny. So many of the flowers that are dangerous either look pretty or smell nice.” The smile on her lips lingers, gaze flicking over the other. “Is that why you plant them? They take after you.”

“I think it would be ridiculous to underestimate you. You may be young and still learning but that makes you all the more dangerous for the potential you have. I’m not above admitting when someone could prove to be a threat.” He motioned to himself. “I heal. I save the lives of those that I can. And yet, I can do so much more than that…” But he left that a secret for now. Felix was always careful about letting others know the extent of his abilities. Bits and pieces. There’s a smirk on his lips when he heard the quiet whisper. Not a single bit of maliciousness in the smirk–purely happy that he managed to convince her to join him. “One house call, that’s all I ask.” To start. He’d have to wait for the perfect opportunity to come. Certainly not his usual. The last thing he wanted to risk was Anastasia to end up hurt and his usual involved much more precautions. And plastic. “You may hate it and want nothing to do with it. You may love it and decide to come help on future visits. I can already see you being very helpful for children or teenagers.” Sometimes they’d need a little help. “All I ask if that you ask permission before using your ability.”

“Thanks,” Anastasia chirps with all the casual vigour of someone who had just been complimented on her lipgloss. “But, like, there are definitely way more dangerous mutants out there -- or in here, even -- that are worth worrying about. I’m just--” she searches for the right string of words, far from the sort to talk herself down but equally as cautious about being seen as someone the Blackburns ought to keep an eye on, “--your average girl who likes those cookies you get on the side of coffees, and listening to bubblegum pop, and wearing fluffy sweaters when it’s cold, and occasionally making people feel things. Good things.” Usually. The curve of her lips drops at Felix’s vague suggestion of his powers. Given his occupation and the various fragments of information she’s heard, she assumes it to be something not dissimilar to Cain’s. “You’re being very mysterious, Felix,” she tells him, the observation part-accusation. “Do you want me to see you as a threat?” She thinks she knows the answer -- can barely imagine him wanting to be seen as somebody to tread carefully around for fear of harm, not when he seemed to do all he could to show how benevolent and beneficial his powers were. “Because I don’t. Not currently. Not when I’ve seen you make a fuss of Flora.” 

Boyish grins can turn wicked in a flash, but Anastasia keeps them surface-level for now. There’s nothing especially chaotic about lukewarm lattes and conversations about dreams, and while these feelings never kept Isaac’s mind from wandering naturally in that direction, they did seem to take him on a slight detour, and it was during that mental detour where Anastasia might have the chance to steal the information she wanted. Of course, there wasn’t much to capture to begin with, as Isaac wasn’t exactly the one to be trusted with any major Blackburn secrets (and if he had been, he’d forgotten them by now). But still, if she would call him back time and time again, he would answer, intoxicated by the chemicals she allowed to run amok in his brain. Her conjuring up of a dream-excuse made him laugh, and there the wickedness began to seep into that boyish smile. “Seriously? I’ve ran from them for worse.” If anything, his lack of filter to think that it might not be the best idea to tell a girl like Anastasia that he’d run from cops fairly often was a sign of how honest he felt he could be with her, which was apparently very. Speaking of honesty, it was so easy to allow his confession to slip at her musings. “You mean that building with all the plants and stuff? I’m going to that thing! Or, at least I think someone told me that this week. I wasn’t paying much attention.”

Conversations with Isaac are easy. Sometimes it almost feels like they could be friends, which-- Anastasia is perfectly aware of just how dumb that is given that they’re from different gangs and that she’s spying on him and that she can’t at all guarantee that he genuinely likes her. And besides, that isn’t the point of this. She isn’t here to befriend him. She’s here to make him think that there’s something between them and for that something between them to come with free snippets of information. Ones she can feed back to Damien. Ones that make her seem good at this. Ones that help him overlook the fact that she dated his son and now isn’t -- but that her loyalty to the Jems hasn’t disappeared. Because, fuck, that’s the last thing she needs him to assume. “Yeah?” Pushing the flurry of worries that momentarily filled her head, she sets an almost-impressed but not-quite-convinced grin on her lips and diligently digs further. “What kind of things have you run from them for? Not carrying your ID?” There’s a teasing lilt to her tone but a sense of curiosity lingers unmistakably. “The building with the plants and stuff-- Isaac.” She bats fondly at his hand still wrapped around the porcelain mug. “How long have you lived in Chicago? It’s a conservatory.” A hint of dread sinks inside her at the news that he’d be attending the gala, his presence something she’d need to avoid to keep her cover. “That’s cute. Is it, like, an awards ceremony, or--?”

The conservatory is a labyrinth, palm fronds sending confusing shadows skittering over the pathways, simulating nighttime in the jungle a little too accurately for Anastasia’s liking as she wanders, damp and lost and unhappy, in search of something -- anything -- to replace the faint scent of pond water that clings to her unwantedly. Uncertain as to where the cloakroom could possibly be after shedding various layers ( the jarring shift in temperature from the icebox outside and the sauna within had been enough to make her skin prickle ), Derek’s earlier comment of the King’s headquarters being somewhere underground prompts her to search for some sort of staircase. Instead, she eventually finds what looks like a set of office doors. Each handle is tried in turn, unsuccessful at getting inside. Angrily, she smacks the panelling with the heel of her palm and turns away to come face to face with-- someone. “It’s not what it looks like,” Anastasia is quick to say, hastily attempting to recall a name. A gang. A power. Her mind blank, she wipes a damp strand of hair from her face, jumping to conclusions. “You can see I’m having shitty evening so if you want to get all tough guy with me for snooping when I wasn’t even snooping can we just reschedule it for some other time?”

The water isn’t cold, it’s worse-- the lukewarm of a forgotten bath, turning the fabric of her dress dark and heavy, seeping through to her skin. She doesn’t dare look down, not when she knows there are fish currently swimming around her legs and a distraught looking reflection waiting to stare back through the ripples. She feels like a particularly inelegant water sprite. She feels like Ophelia. She feels like sobbing, which, on the upside, would at least be partially hidden by the splashed droplets tickling her cheeks. Wading to the side of the pond, Anastasia snaps at the nearest gawking outlet for her frustration. “Can you just, like, not. If you laugh, I’ll start crying.” A forlorn hand reaches out to the stranger in a silent request for them to help her, every fibre of her body repulsed by the sensation of lily pad roots tangled around an ankle. “Please,” she adds miserably.

He’s is angry one moment, all teeth and heat and then, suddenly, he isn’t. He knows this new feeling flooding his lungs and chest and blood. This is those precious few minutes right after an orgasm where is brain is still turned all the way off. This is sitting on the couch of his childhood home and listening to his mama gossip about neighbors he hasn’t seen in years. This is good food and good weed and a mile-long Netflix queue of the Great British Bake Off. This is peace.

In all the time they’ve known each other, Cain knows he’s never willingly felt at peace in the company of Anastasia Ahn. 

She’s a small thing, light as a feather as he closes his hands around her waist and lifts her off the ground and over his shoulder. The koi pond is only a few short strides away. Cain strolls towards it, his movements easy and languid. He is at peace with his decisions. Free from doubt or guilt or embarrassment. 

It’s a smooth movement, free of the brutality and aggression that characterize most everything that Cain does. He reaches the pond. He savors the moment, the greenery, the tranquil water, the slow bobbing movement of fish. Then, very calmly and very gently, he lobs Anastasia into the pond.

Of all the terrible things that could have happened tonight -- which included but weren’t limited to: having to suffer an awkward conversation with Chance; getting kicked out of what was, in her not so humble opinion, a pretty boring party ( Where was the feelgood pop music? Where were the drunk girls in the bathroom she could take selfies with? Where was a hot, charismatic stranger she could stick her tongue in the mouth of? ); being seen by Isaac and having her entire gang-unaffiliated false-identity blown -- finding herself thrown over Cain’s shoulder like a sack of flour had not been on the list. Anastasia struggles, a string of curses spilling from her lips upon failing to reason nicely with him. And then he stops dead in his tracks. For a moment, she falsely assumes that he’s going to put her down. Her hold over his emotions remains -- until it doesn’t. 

Derek hmms as she runs through her plan, not doing anything to dissuade her ideas. The girl has to learn from her own mistakes– he knows that it’s the only thing that ever worked for him.  At the very least, if Neve puts a target on Ana’s back he’ll hear back about it, maybe end up getting some intel on the King’s bruiser. It’s not his business, but he’s always wondered how the other gangs run the rougher parts of their operations. Call it professional curiosity.

“The running theory is that they’ve got something underground. All this concrete is fortified like a military base.” It’s a total lie, but he likes the image of the Kings scuttling around like ants in their tunnels. The girl– Ana, he remembers now– radiates youthful naiveté that just begs to be messed with. He may be immune to almost all types of charm, her glittery appeal included, but at least he doesn’t have to worry about her trying to shank him in the back, and that goes far at this kind of party. So he keeps talking. “But don’t tell Angela I told you that.”

“That’s--” Anastasia toys with the information in her mind, tucking it away to follow up on later, “--interesting. Although being stuck underground with mutants? Sounds like a recipe for disaster.” She chases the idea like a hare, ever tenacious. “I mean, imagine if they had a pyro like you.” A pause is marked with the ghost of a smirk, briefly studying Derek. “Well, not exactly like you. But if they did, and they lost control? Chaos. They’d be screwed.” One shoulder is lifted and dropped in a shrug, the glass or two -- maybe three -- of champagne she’d been very politely offered and subsequently gulped down having warmed her body and loosened her tongue. And, perhaps, her judgement. Even on a good day, Derek was difficult to rope into conversation. She wonders briefly if she’s speaking at him rather than with him, and then decides that’s not important. “Hey, while we’re on the topic, have you ever met anyone else with your powers? Or powers like yours? It would be nice, don’t you think? You could exchange tips and tricks, or something.”

The Weapon. Maybe not always the first line of defense, but certainly the deadliest. It was a role that was never far away from the forefront of Bea’s thoughts, now more than ever. Her eyes were watchful, seeking out escape routes and keeping track of those that she knows. All it took was for the wrong mutant to get a little angry for this entire place to end in chaos and frankly? She was too tired to deal with that tonight.

“Be good,” Bea warns. Words short and to the point, but not unkind. She had never quite spent enough time with Anastasia to develop a full opinion on her. None the less, something dark and green like envy twists low in Bea’s gut as she regards the girl in front of her. Confident and seemingly at ease despite their insisted attendance here. To be that young and comfortable with her powers? Well, it leaves a bitter taste in Bea’s mouth that she chooses not to acknowledge. “We wouldn’t want to start anything ….Not here.” Always a ‘we’. For as reserved and distant as she was, if something were to happen, Bea knows in her soul that she would be here ensuring everyone in her own faction was safe. “Too risky.”

“If Damien wanted us to be good, he wouldn’t have sent us into the lion’s den,” Anastasia reasons, her smile impish as she studies the typically elusive Jem. “Wouldn’t have sent you into the lion’s den if he didn’t think that there was a chance of trouble tonight. You’re, like, top-level badass. The Kings would be stupid to pull anything.” She pauses to think about her words. “I guess that’s why he needs you here.” To be as useful and important to the gang as Beatrice was surely an honour, not to mention highly satisfying. Dark eyes flit from the other woman to their surroundings, glancing briefly at those around them, unable to determine whether the warning was born from caution or undisclosed knowledge. “Do you think we should be starting something-- elsewhere?” The question is posed quietly under her breath, Beatrice’s apparent discomfort at the event rubbing off on her. “If you need me to deal with anyone, you know--” she gives a discrete wink, “--just give me the signal.”

Isaac should have seen it coming, if he was smarter. He should know someone like Anastasia was nothing but trouble. But he was ignorant, or he at least allowed himself to be. In fact, maybe knowing she was trouble only pulled him towards her more. This wasn’t factoring in the fact that she was making sure he had a positive emotional association with her, of course, as he wasn’t aware he was being toyed with at all. To him, it seemed genuine, and perhaps it was even genuine eagerness he expressed when he agreed to meet her at their coffee shop. He’s never felt like this before, but the range of emotions for him had only been fully revealed for him a few years prior, and it was so easy to buy into it when he had no other explanation, when he had no inkling of the truth. A goofy grin is so easily painted on his face when he sees her, only widening when he sits across from her and hears her news. “Really?” he asks. “I don’t think that’s so weird…” then again, he also wouldn’t have minded being in a small, enclosed space with her (or, at least what he assumed a high school changing room was). “What were we running from?” It’s obvious the lie is easily accepted, because he has no reason to be suspicious in the first place. He’s more gullible than he should be, easily trusting other mutants because they’re like him, because they couldn’t betray one of their own could they? “I missed this,” he admits, swiftly bringing the lukewarm drink to his lips and taking a few large sips regardless of temperature. 

She likes the way Isaac looks at her. Likes that she’s the cause of his boyish grins. Likes that she’s the focus of his attention. Likes that she only has to whisper the idea of affection and appreciation for him to respond so obediently. Anastasia watches over the rim of her mug as he takes a seat, the pink winter-cold tinge of his cheeks and the dark curls of his hair making Isaac’s appearance far more angelic than she assumes him to be. He was a Blackburn, after all. “Maybe not -- but I’d rather hang out with real-you than dream-you,” she says purposefully, gently placing her drink down. “I’m not sure I ever saw what it was that was chasing us.” Her nose wrinkles as she pulls a face, keeping up pretences for her fabrication. “Probably the authorities while out past curfew.” With a single breathy laugh, she basks in his statement and tries not to think about whether he truly missed spending time with her or if her meddling with his emotions had merely made him think he did. Regardless, she was not here as a courtesy call. Spinning more lies, Anastasia lays down the groundwork for the information she seeks. “We’ll have to do this more often then. Maybe next time we can go somewhere -- a museum, or the cinema, or maybe the Garfield Conservatory? I passed it today and it looked like they were getting ready for some fancy event.”