#rictorscale

// I honestly believe they’d have to put the school on Lockdown. Only, with just Quen on lockdown. Everyone else gtfo.

It would be noisy as hell.

"Quentin we need you to put this on--"

"NO NOT THE HELMET."

"Quenti--"

"NOT AGAIN. NO FUCK OFF YOU CAN'T MAKE ME IT SUCKS IN THERE I HATE IT I HATE IT YOU CAN'T MAKE ME PUT IT ON NO--"

Rogue was feeling restless, anxious. She needed some fresh air. Wrapped in warm winter clothes, she was walking towards a small fashionable accessories shop she knew, where she used to purchase her gloves and scarves when she needed to cover up for the sake of the people around her. She was no shopping addict, but sometimes going on a shopping spree could help. 

That or beat up bad guys. Since the second front had been rather quiet lately, she was going to give in to the former. Or not. As she wasn't wearing an image inducer, she attracted the unwanted attention of mutant haters. They tried to stop her but she just pushed past them. 

[11:35:29 AM] Rictor: Probably not. That's my thing, Peej.

[11:35:59 AM] Rictor: Don't steal my thing. What else would I be known for? Earthquakes? My temper? My computer skills?

[11:36:16 AM] Rictor: ... Probably for being near Shatterstar, actually.

[11:36:49 AM] Peej: According to Deadpool, you're known primarily for being a "cannon homosexual," whatever that means. I mean I get the gay part but not so much the cannon part. ... were you fired out of one at some point?

[11:37:45 AM] Rictor: ... No. I think he might be referring to those old, awful stereotypical shots where a man was photographed straddling a rocket.

It had taken some time to get through Mutant Town without raising much of a fuss. After all, the Merc With A Mouth had built up quite the reputation, and not in a good way. Denim pants, a black turtleneck and scarf, a baseball cap (the NY team, or course, a pair of black sunglasses, and a long brown coat he may or may not have stolen from Cable a long time ago covered his more defining features, such as the red and black suit that had almost become a second skin, and the telltale scars that opened and closed across his flesh like a moving painting.

He walked with purpose, biting the inside of his cheek until his tongue tasted metal to keep from speaking.

Say a word and you're busted. Say ANYTHING and you're done. You can do it. Just don't fucking talk until you're inside.

The beeps of medical machines. The milling about of doctors, nurses, interns. The muted humdum conversations of daily activities. All of them blend together into a sort of horrid suburban-science white noise,  one quite grating to unaccustomed ears, until...

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of a pen tapping against a glass tube has a set of glasses-clad eyes squint in focus, the noses that support each pair of eyewear scrunching a bit. The man making the noise slowly withdraws his pen, making a few chicken scratch marks on a clipboard before clearing his throat with a cough. Judging from the labcoat, lanyard, and the very official looking documents on his hand-held board, he's probably something of an important person.

Total egghead, though.

"Ahh, yes. This one... Was found yesterday. Uhmm. 'Julio... Esteban... Richter'," he recites rote, directly off the information in front of him. That bronze skinned man floating in the embryonic tube fluid in front of him and his colleagues is hooked up to a series of tubes, and quite eerily, has his eyes open. Wide open. "Part of some sort of... 'X-Factor' investigation. Head office doesn't really understand all the details yet, nor are they important..."

The sound of one page being flipped fills the silence, before some muttering among the interns and lesser scientists begins. They all shut up when Egghead Number #1 continues though. "Ahh. What is important... Apparently, this one can control tectonic plates on a very specific level. Localized earthquakes... Nasty ability to be in the hands of one like this, really. He's been started on pentathol, and should be ready for extraction within the week... We're quite excited about the prospects, hmm..." Every word that passes his lips seems... empty-headed. Distracted, in a sense.

"Dr. Marfa?"

"Mmm?", he mumbles, flipping through another page on his clipboard.

"Should his eyes be open like that?"

Marfa blinks and slowly looks up from the board, smirking when he sees the wide-eyed mutant in the tank. Making a tsk-tsk sound before clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he starts to shake his head. "No. No they should not. See to that, Lennox." With a nod to an orderly beside him, the gangly servant quickly assents, and adjusts a few knobs and levels on the tank, adjusting the serum levels inside...

...

Suddenly, it's bright. Glaring, beaming, hurting yellow. As though nothing in the world exists other than a violent, painful yellow color. The more seconds the pass, the less intense the light gets, and the more it settles down to reveal surroundings. Three lamps pointed downwards, onto what looks like... a surgical table?

Leather straps, Drawn tightly. Too tightly, even. To the point where each one of them is more than a bit painful. Weight upon the head... Heavy, grating... uncomfortable. Nothing else but blackness, and the feel of a dirty sheet underneath. Nothing else, until...

"Ahh. You're awake, Mr. Richter. You nearly died on us three times." A voice. Not attached to a form. Not yet. But as it continues, it becomes a floating silhouette. Masculine, to match the voice... But nothing specifically defined. It sounds familiar, though.

Pietro paced at speeds that wore tracks in the grass under his feet.  A nervous speedster was a fidgety one, and Pietro was downright anxious about this.  He had sent out the letter anonymously, knowing full well that if the recipient saw Pietro's name signed on it, he would have crumbled it up and thrown it away, if not stepped on it a few times first.  He was near positive Rictor still hated him, but then again, who could blame him?  Pietro could never forgive himself for what he had done.  True, he had been broken and ill, but that had been no excuse.  The bad choices he made had ended up alienating him from his people, his family, and what few friends he had.  Since he had recovered himself, he had spent his time trying desperately to make amends for the damage he had caused and in that way perhaps gain back some of what he lost. 

Now he waited for Rictor impatiently, nervously, hoping that the call of an anonymous person to a neutral place would be enough to bring his once friend out.