dated — november 23rd, 3:58AM
located — cornerstone convenience
with — @badmoonstatic
status — closed
By the time Eoin gets back to the Cornerstone, it's nearing 4AM; he makes his way down to the basement and the crowd is still roaring, but he pays them no mind. He's not here for another round, he's had his run for tonight — his hands, wrapped in adhesive rubber, talk volumes of that. But he's full now, and one could say he's actually in a good mood despite what his face might tell you; brows low, shoulders tense, eyes darting at every movement to scan for a potential threat. Not a conscious thing. Not anymore. At one point, it just gets baked into you. He spots the mutant he was looking for and stops barely a foot in front of him, folding his arms and narrowing his eyes. "Well?"
Cash that passed around the basement of the store was typically dirty and crumpled; not that it bothered him. Gerrard wasn't an example of a shiny penny. Nor did he particularly give a shit. His eyes flicked to his new companion as he counted bills before passing them off to another mutant who stood beside him. The remaining bills were folded and placed back in his pocket. He motioned with two fingers over his shoulder as he headed back towards his office.
Something flickers and crashes in the corner of his eyes — some rock-type power in the pit that Eoin can't really give less of a shit about; as his eyebrows raise some at the motion of Hyperion's fingers, the adhesive rubber on his brow tugs at the open cut below it. Eoin follows, naturally. He's only been in this back office once, and that was back when he was made this proposition in the first place. Now it's sort of like a renegotiation. Right? The office looks just like last time, he muses as he sucks at the cut on his lip; or he thinks, anyway. His memory is a sieve at the best of times. Too many blows to the head, he supposes, or little too much drugs. Whichever; he doesn't care. "Talk."
"This Granger shit can't abide." Gerrard sat on the edge of his desk. He leaned back, hands on the surface. It was relaxed, unbothered by the mutant across from him, thinking to himself. "What's your price? To break off from Kings?" His eyebrows raised as he looked towards him. A hint of amusement spiraled up from low, creeping out from the rock it hid under. "Leave that alone, baby." He licked over his own lip at the corner of his mouth to make a point of what he meant.
Unfolded arms now slowly make their way back to his chest as he watches Hyperion. Eyes move over the man's face — proper blue now, indicating damned sobriety, opposed to the sheer black of a high — as he tries to parse meaning in his mind. It's a slow process, one that doesn't seem to get him anywhere; his eyes furrow in confusion and his head shakes to indicate as much. "Don't get what you're askin' from me." He doesn't suck on his split lip again.
Gerrard leaned forward, his arms coming to rest on his thighs as he kept his focus singular. It wrapped around the other man, sharing space with no one else. "Would you leave Kings Collective? If so, what would you need to do it?"
Eoin shrugs and narrows his eyes. "I dunno," he replies honestly; he doesn't really see a reason to lie most of the time. One needs to care about shit to worry about the consequences of the truth. "What does it really matter?" That's it, right? He already told Hyperion before that this was a matter of convenience, nothing more. What would breaking off get him? It'd just be a pain in the ass at this juncture.
It was unfortunate how short Eoin's sight was. There couldn't be blame tossed into his arena for it, though. Gerrard could plainly remember his own struggles to open lenses that preferred to stay narrowed by nature. It was a hurdle that took momentum, but he didn't have any doubts that Eoin could clear it--- besides, he'd smash through it if he couldn't. "Three groups. One is the odd man out right now. That's your Kings. When this shit really comes apart, you're the ones in the bad position. You're the ones that end up nowhere, with nothing."
A sigh. That's the most Hyperion is getting out of him for a long moment. Just a deep, tired, annoyed sigh, his head dropping back, eyes peering at the ceiling without expectation that he'll find something more stimulating than this riveting conversation. "Who the fuck cares, man?" he asks after he's done being annoyed. Well, he's not done, but he's done enough to allow for the conversation to continue. "So they come apart and I'll move on. That's what I've always done, still doesn't change shit."
The desk was left, that same amusement creeping in at familiar impatience. Gerrard was a beast made of physical affections, and that wasn't about to find pause. His arms snaked around his neck, thumb brushing the back of the skin there. "You should care. Because you have the opportunity to sidestep the train instead of running headfirst into it. That equates to more money, more control of your situation, and more options available." The oddities in Gerrard presented themselves as readily as the dangers. He tipped his head forward, and he dragged his tongue across that split in Eoin's lip.
Hyperion steps closer and Eoin's immediate reaction is to put a hand on his chest to stop him, but it doesn't seem to do much to deter the other man. Before he knows it, they're almost nose to nose. What he's saying makes sense, and... well.. Eoin likes money. Money has always been a great motivator to him. It's a good thing he leads with that, because it has Eoin's immediate attention, and a reply forms in his head almost instantly. Of course, it fizzles the moment Hyperion's face moves even closer; the sting of protest his lip makes at the lick makes Eoin yank his head back in surprise, but that's all he does. He watches the man, eyes moving over his face similarly as just minutes before, the gears grinding in his head almost visible on his face. Calculating; working down possibilities; consequences even. His eyes narrow a moment before his head moves forward again, and he just kisses him hard. You take your opportunities where they're presented, right?
The kiss wasn't so much a surprise. If he were to guess, he'd imagine Eion as the kind that adamantly took. There was a phantom timeline that had things to say. He didn't pay it any mind. His arm hooked at the back of his neck, pulling them together as he returned the kiss with just as much hard grit. His words met lips, murmured despite the contest. "What's your price?"
Almost like a piece of metal drawn to a magnet, Eoin's taped hand finds Hyperion's throat, and he squeezes, if only the slightest bit. There's a duality he's fighting as his brain battles the urge to just forego the conversation to shove him back, to bend him over the desk, and the actual consideration of the posed question. His hand squeezes again, his mind only half thinking, teeth biting down on a lower lip. "Don't care for a leash," he grunts as he pulls his head back finally, letting go of his lip only half-way. "Don't care to be told to 'behave'. Stiflin' shit."
It was all so interesting. They were two flavours of dominance, each with their own merits and detractors. The hand on his throat was as usual suspects, and he allowed it. The response came in the form of a hand gripping the front of his shirt, static electricity expelled and cracked up along the other man's throat as his back was made to collide with the door. He pressed his knee up between his legs. "Easy enough." His tongue dragged again before he caught his lip between his, sucking at it.
The electricity is interesting. Despite having a working relationship with Hyperion — as much as this was his job and Hyperion was his boss, neither which is actually reality — he's not had much of an idea what his powers might be. Up until now, Eoin guessed it might be mental, which is definitely something he isn't fond of, but... electricity. Now that's something that speaks to him sweetly. His back hits the door, a knee presses between his legs, and Eoin can't keep the wicked grin off his face. "What, you're going to employ me now?" he chuckles, his hand moving from Hyperion's throat to the back of his head and into the thick hair there. With a tug, he pulls the man's head back and looks at him. "That's very cute."
The lights in the room stuttered, flashing as they screamed for a connection that was overloaded. As they did there was a loud, sharp snap.. it was the sound of arching electricity that buried itself into Eoin's fingers and wrist. It was the kind of electricity that deadened nerves and made bones sore and ache as tissue through angry signals of pain as they tried to knock things back online. "I usually am." A broad smile appeared, his hands and leg dropping away.
His hand snaps back at the bite of electricity, the sudden roar of pain making his fingers feel like throbbing. Without thinking about it, Eoin sticks the worst offender of it in his mouth, sucking as he watches Hyperion. Nice trick. He doesn't say it, but the grin on his face translates it around his finger well enough. The other hand moves up, splaying on Hyperion's chest to give him a sharp shove back and away. "You've not yet told me what you want out of this." There's always a catch. There's always an opposite weight. Everyone always wants something; once you know what it is, you're on equal playing field.
That grin was shared. It spoke of something specific in the way it was both dangerous and promising. Gerrard believed it for Eoin just as he did himself: I will hurt you. He didn't combat the push. Instead, he followed that push back towards his desk, once again taking perch on the edge as the lights returned to their norm. "I get to keep a profitable fighter, and I don't have to worry about dealing with you on this particular thing." His grin only grew. "And I get to watch what happens, babydoll. And I like to watch."
The pet names, again. This has been a night of them. Still sucking on his finger, Eoin keeps his eyes on Hyperion while the man leans on the desk. He doesn't pay much attention to anything else, not the muffled sound of the crowd's cheering reaching a familiar thunder, not the lights humming back to their original luminance; none of it is important in the face of the man reflecting that wild grin back at him. He feels like looking into a mirror of possibilities, and something in his head wondered. Not for too long, though. "Well, that's bullshit if I've ever heard any, but sure," he shrugs with a chuckle, his hand dropping down and finding the pocket of worn and torn jeans. "Don't tell me." A pause. "You're gonna deal with me one way or another, whether you like it or not." A promise; a threat; an offer. All of these or neither. Doesn't matter.
"Not bullshit, actually." His brows raised as he watched him, eyes following the change in stance and the movements in front of him. "You can keep doing the same shit. Barely getting by." He tipped his head to the side. "I don't have a need to deal with you right now. My preference is to leave other mutants to their business. Because the better off we all are, the better off I am." Hence his fish for Eoin.
"Hm." Eoin drops back against the door as he keeps a level gaze with Hyperion. Yes, he likes him; he wouldn't deny that to anyone. But he'd be a fool to trust him — or anyone, for that matter. Thinking about it, Eoin can't name one person he trusts entirely. It's better that way; it keeps you on top, it keeps you alive. Mistrust is a matter of survival, and just like loyalty, it's a currency he doesn't care to hand out very easily. "So is this a," he lowers his voice dramatically, "'an offer I can't refuse' type of thing? I have to make a decision now? Because—" Lifting up an arm, Eoin pushes back the sleeve of his ratty, hole-ridden green vest to reveal a bare wrist, "—it's about that time for me to fuck off and do nothin' productive with my time. This has been... oof, way too productive and I'm not in the business of givin' ya standards, buddy. You understand." The last two words are punctuated by his eyes narrowing, tossing Hyperion's words of earlier tonight right back at him in a shittier way; if that's even possible.
There was an opportunity in front of him that he wasn't going to miss. Back to his feet, he reflexively pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. He didn't demand an answers, which meant Eoin had time to rest that brain of his. Gerrard moved close again. "Smug looks better on me." His hand slid along his side before slipping its way along the small of his back. That same static still tangible through his shirt before he grabbed the door knob and pushed it open-- more than happy to let gravity take him as he leaned.
When Hyperion moves close again, Eoin reactively tenses; not saying much about his feelings towards the man rather than that this is a person and people are always a threat, regardless of shape, size, or intent. About to bite back a reply, Eoin realises what's happening a second before it actually happens; but a second counts for nothing in gravity's death vice. So he feels the door betray him, he feels his body lean and lean until it is just falling. His body, to Eoin's luck, has always worked much faster than his mind where threats are considered; instinct, he supposes. Well honed instinct. So his flat-out fall turns into a few stumbled steps back backwards, and flailing hands catch the fabric of a shirt he holds onto. A growl escapes him when he's finally upright again, and his body, again, moves on its own accord. His hand curls into a fist by his hip, the acrid sting in the air almost immediate as the sulfuric acid squeezes through clenched fingers, and with a sharp movement, it uppercuts towards Hyperion's stomach. "Shitstick."
The moment broke down to it's components, complexity that all interacted and played important pieces in a matter of split seconds. They were both fast, Eoin in his immediate surge forward, and Gerrard in his eyes for it. He'd watched him fight in his ring for months. He'd been fighting his fights likely before Eoin could walk. Experience proved useful in those few moments, the twitch of muscle spinning into action triggering a surge of his own power, one that spun through the incoming arm. From finger tips to shoulder electricity caught and snagged on muscle fingers and surged, forcing the muscles to tense, unresponsive, overloaded like a localized tazing. Eoin was quick though--- his outstretched arm a millimeter from contact, splattering acid that burned into his clothes in skin at the sharp halt. Pain was pain. It was familiar, though the way it burrowed and gnawed at his skin made him hiss. The buildup on his body was excitedly jumped back and forth across the speckled burn, the same way it grabbed and arched across Eoin's coated fist, the charged solution conducting the energy like any good acid would. He'd probably lose the sensation in his fingers for a good while. "You know where the door is." With that, Gerrard was on his way.
It all happens a lot faster than Eoin's mind can register. In a fight, his mind shuts down to bare essentials — extreme survival mode — and it speeds up all his physical processes, not chained by what his brain can register. They're very inefficient in that way. Most fights, there's a black-out of sorts that occurs, like the recording of memory is sequestered as a non-essential, and so he doesn't really remember them. It shows in his eyes when it happens; they go dead, like there's nothing behind them, the very devil animating his body. That's not what this is. Quick, yes, but it registers, just a second later. And the first thing that hits him is the sudden loss of sensation in his entire arm, followed by a surface current that eats its way through his skin until it's in his veins, in his bones, in his entire essence. Eoin lets out a gasp, though whether it's from pain or something else, even he can't really tell. As he looks at Hyperion's retreating form, holding onto his unresponsive arm, a slow but wicked grin creeps onto his face. "See you next week, old man." And just like the Jem Family mutant, Eoin turns and heads back out towards street level.
