Avengers: The Bloodstone Agenda (TheCorsair & surrealobsession)

TheCorsair

TheCorsair

Fruit Bat Vampire
Joined
Dec 17, 2013
Really, it was the little things that reminded Steve just how far he was from home.

Natasha had called the night before - twice, because it had taken him a few minutes to find the tiny computer that Tony swore was a phone - to invite him to go to the American Museum of Natural History. Probably it was as much due to Nick Fury and his "help Cap acclimate to the present" initiative as anything else, but he'd agreed. He'd always loved the museum, when he was a boy.

"Sure, Natasha," he'd said. "Should I meet you two there, or do you and Clint want to swing by Stark Tower and pick me up?"

The line - an absurd thing to say, he knew, because these hand-held things were straight out of Dick Tracy - had gone dead for nearly a minute. Then, sounding slightly confused, she'd explained that Clint wouldn't be coming along. Which surprised him, but he'd gone along with it and thanked her for the invitation. Then, when she'd hung up, he searched through his contacts and made another call. The phone rang once, twice, three times, and finally hung up.

"Hey, Steve. What's up?"

"Good afternoon, Clint," Steve had replied. Sure he sounded a little more formal, but the casualness of the 21st century hadn't rubbed off on him yet. Not completely. "How are you?"

"Uhm... fine. Something I can do for you?"

"Yes. Uhm, Natasha called, and invited me to go to the museum with her."

"...and?"

"I just wanted to make certain that was all right with you."

"....sure? I mean, yeah. Go ahead. Have fun."

"Thanks, Clint."

What kind of world had he woken up in, he wondered as he 'hung up' - really, pushed a picture labeled 'off" - his phone. In his day, you didn't go out with your buddy's best girl by yourself. Not without asking.

But that was last night. This was today. And right now, he was busy sketching rapidly on his pad, catching the outlines of an exhibit in pencil. He'd never really thought much about Indians before - Native Americans, they were called now - other than when he'd watched Tom Mix and the Lone Ranger in the serials. But standing here, in the Hall of Northwest Coast Indians, he was acutely aware of just how much how much the world had changed0.

He wasn't particularly aware of the attention he was attracting, either. He wasn't in uniform, just grey slacks and a blue checked shirt and his bomber jacket, but that wasn't necessary. He was still six feet tall and handsome, with sandy-blonde hair and startling blue eyes and a build somewhere between a martial artist and a boxer. He knew how much Erskine's formula changed him, but even after two years - almost three, counting the 'future' - he still hadn't internalized that fact.

"It's curious, Natasha," he said, eyes flicking between display and sketch as the dugout canoe took shape on his pad. "All this stuff we do, all the terrible things the news still seems to focus on, and things just get better and better."

He began shading the sketch, then pointed with his pencil. "Look at that. When I was a kid, we called those people savages and thought we did them a favor by rounding them up into reservations." A few more lines. "Now, we're celebrating their accomplishments."

Steve grinned at that, uttering a small laugh of sheer joy. "We've come a long way, haven't we?"
 
Natasha Romanoff was not generally one for museums. Empires rose and fell, people died and others lived, cultures shifted and changed. It was the nature of humanity, and one that she had always found rather dull in the scheme of things.

Even the natural inclination people had to hold onto their identities confused her. She had never felt such a draw to her past, and in fact preferred to forget it. Her entire life had been in service to the higher bidder, and while she liked to think she was now making up for former deeds, reminders of the past - any past - was more an aggravating reminder.

However, being here with Steve was...different. His excitement and enthusiasm was often an endearing quality that she enjoyed. The man was genuine, something that she saw very little of in life. Watching him now was like watching a small child in a toy store. Every new exhibit they passed through was a shiny new toy for Captain America.

She smiled slightly at his words, moving closer to the mural in which he stood. Her arms were across her chest, her stance perhaps a bit too official for a casual outing. But she tilted her head, trying to see the world as he did.

It was not an easy task.

"You're so optimistic," she replied cynically, glancing over at him. "You see the progress we have made; I see the darkness that lingers in the past."

With this negative proclamation she shook her head, forcing herself to smile a little more pleasantly. Her eyes moved to the sketchpad and she gestured at it, impressed.

"You have quite a skill. I never would have guessed."
 
Natasha cocked her head to one side, as if looking for a different angle to view the world. He noticed, but tried not to stare. It was rude, and he was busy drawing anyway. And besides, gorgeous as she was she was Clint's girl. Not a good thing, he figured, to be checking out your buddy's girl.

Not that she was a girl. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But decent behavior is decent behavior.

"You're so optimistic," she replied cynically, glancing over at him. "You see the progress we have made; I see the darkness that lingers in the past."

Steve shrugged. "Maybe. But, when I was growing up, it was all right to call an Irishman a 'Mick' and a... what do you call them now? Oh, yeah. A Latino a 'greaser'. And, unless you wandered into Harlem, you could call a colored man a..." He looked up from the page, bemused smile on his face. "Well, what you could call a colored man in public would get you slapped these days."

A few more crosshatchings of shading. "We even had separate colored regiments in the Army. Like, somehow they could die for our country but they weren't fit to work alongside white men, or eat in the same mess."

A sigh. "So, yeah, maybe I am optimistic. But... I do see the progress we've made." He glanced at her, smiling. "And yeah, the darkness that lingers in the past. But it sure is a glorious dawn in the future we're heading towards. And I just think we need to remember that, sometimes."

Finally, he felt satisfied with the sketch of the canoe. "There."

Natasha moved to have a look at the sketchpad. "You have quite a skill. I never would have guessed."

"I've always enjoyed art," he admitted. "Back before the war - heck, during the war, for a bit - I made a living freelancing. Covers for the pulps, filler work for the funny books, a few courtroom sketches..." He closed the sketchpad and tucked his pencil into the spiral binding. "Never paid well, mind. But it was enough to get by."

The sketchpad went back in the satchel that hung at his side, and he fished out a map of the museum. "Hmmm... the Hall of Human Origins is... that way. Want go see what the future's found out about our past?"
 
His attitude was infectious. He truly seemed to believe in what he said, whatever he was talking about. Being much older than her looks suggested herself, she could see that old fashioned charm ingrained deeply in his outlook, in his behavior. It was comforting in a way, and one of the reasons she enjoyed spending time with him.

Of course, she had originally invited him out at Fury's insistence. But where she would have resented it with nearly anyone else, she had found herself eager for the day. Natasha did not often take time to do anything not related to work; this was the best of both world, something she had to do for official reasons, and yet would enjoy.

When he invited her to take a stroll deeper into the museum, she held out her arm with a half bow to let him lead the way. As they walked she could see people stopping and staring, some at him, some at her. She was used to the looks, from men in particular. Between the two of them, they struck an impressive image.

Steve had an added benefit of looking so damn...good. Not just handsome, but kind. He was, in every way, the All-American archetype, just what people would think of when imagining those brave young men marching against Axis forces, standing up for their country. Hearing him speak only reinforced the image.

"I was never much of an artist myself," she admitted. "But I was always very interested in dance. I used to think I was a ballerina; it was part of the cover story used when I was brainwashed, when I was taken to become a spy. It turned out to be a lie, but I always felt I could have done it anyway. I have always loved watching dancers."

Natasha couldn't help but smile. "I still remember this one mission in the Ukraine. I had a full night to wait before I could even make contact with my source, and I was walking through the streets. It was freezing, and I passed by a scalper selling tickets outside of a theater. I was so cold that I decided to go ahead and buy one.

"It was an amateur production of Swan Lake. Really shoddy, terrible props and all that. But the dancers...they were amazing. So graceful, and they didn't care that only a quarter of the seats were taken, or that the stage lights kept flickering on and off. They danced because they felt it."

She glanced over, looking almost sheepish to be sharing so much. "Anyway, I think if i hadn't been what I am, I would have been a ballerina."
 
"Not much of an artist?" Steve echoed with a laugh. "Isn't ballet one of the fine arts? Oh, hang on..."

Picking up his pace he wove through the patrons, ducking to grab something as he did. "Ma'am?" he called, catching up to a woman carrying a tired-looking child against her shoulder. "Here..your son dropped this." This was revealed to be a small plush rabbit.

Waving off her thanks with a smile and an "I just figured that, if he's anything like my kid brother was, he'd miss it terribly", he caught back up to Natasha. "Brainwashed?" he asked, sounding slightly puzzled. "You mean like 'hypnotized'? But... why?"

He clapped his hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, embarrased. "That's... I shouldn't have asked."

After a momentary awkward silence, he tried changing the subject. "So," he began, voice a touch loud and uncomfortable, "do you still dance?"
 
She almost laughed when he picked up the toy and handed it back. Captain America: reuniting toddlers and bunnies. It was almost so perfect an image of the man's purity that she would think it a con if she didn't know him personally. Within moments he was back at her side, speaking as though nothing had happened. Natasha had the mad urge to ruffle his hair, but kept it in check. Even when he seemed so embarrassed by the question.

"If I had trouble talking about it, I wouldn't have brought it up. I honestly thought you knew...I am never sure of what Fury has said." She was silent for a moment as a group of tourists bustled past, trying to condense the story as much as possible.

"I am older than I look, just like you, technically. I was born in the former Soviet Union, Russia specifically. My parents were killed during the Battle of Stalingrad, but I made it out alive thanks to a man named Ivan Petrovich. The short version is that he was part of a secretive government training program called Black Widow Ops. Female orphans were trained as spies, and brainwashing was a necessary part of that. They control your past, they control your future. At least that was the idea."

She shrugged a little self consciously, giving a small smile out of the corner of her mouth. "But no, I don't dance. I have never danced. I just thought I did."
 
When Natasha expressed surprise that he didn't know her history, Steve just laughed. "Colonel Fury has done a lot for me, and I'll always appreciate it. But, he says exactly what he thinks he needs to say, and not a bit more."

Her story about her past left him thoughtful, though. "Black Widow Ops," he mused aloud. "Black Widow... Why does that sound... familiar?"

Then, he clapped his hand together. "Chemaya Vdova!" he said with a laugh. "That's what those documents were referring to! I just never made the connection between the CV documents and the..."

He bit his words off before he said them aloud, remembering that they were in public. "Sorry. Just a little thing I remember the OSS spooks trying to work out."

Steve stopped walking, and stared out the window at the museum grounds. "But... as far as age? Natasha, I'm only 26." He forced a grin for a second, but it faded. "I mean, sure. I'm technically 95 this year. But, was in suspended animation for nearly 70 of those years."

Looking back out the window, he hugged himself as the memory of bitter, freezing cold crept up on him again. "Seventy years, Natasha. Nine months ago, for me, it was 1944."

He stood for a moment, then forced himself to turn away from the window. "You know," he said, "the 'right time' never comes, except when you make it." He sighed, leaning against a wall. "I waited. Thought I'd have the perfect opportunity, after one last important mission."

A pause.

"You should dance, Natasha. Don't regret the lost opportunities."
 
She raised an eyebrow at his sudden outburst, staring at him. It was odd, the little tidbits of information he retained from so long ago. Even stranger when they directly pertained to herself or a part of her life. She didn't respond, and when he stared out the window she watched him, instead.

Only 26-years-old...well, yes, he looked it. She supposed she looked somewhere around the same age. But while he insisted that he was young, only aged based on the years in which he had been frozen, she didn't believe it. He was from a bygone era, one that was vastly different than where they were now. He was from a time she remembered from her own youth. Whatever his actual age, those sensibilities and ideals made him far older than he claimed.

His words about dancing, about missed opportunities, made her swallow hard and look away. She knew all about those. After a long moment, Natasha opened her mouth to speak...

...a loud explosion rent the air. Eyes wide, she turned quickly, looking for the source. Screams were everywhere, rubble crumbling on the far wall across the wide space from where they stood. People who had been hit crawled to get away, or tried to dig out those who had gotten trapped in the degree.

Through the sudden smoke and dirt and broken brick figures could be seen, obstructed in the center of it all. Natasha began to run forward, on alert.
 
Whatever Natasha was about to say was lost in a concussive blast that whipped her hair around and tugged at his bomber jacket. Even as the screams started , Steve was throwing himself into action. "This way!" he shouted, guiding and directing shell-shocked civilians he passed. "Towards the far end of tbe hall. The doors are clear."

Then he saw the figures moving in the next wing. Men in black tactical suits and helmets, armed with submachine guns. "Down!" they were shouting, covering the terrified and wounded in the Hall of Human Origins. "All of you, down!"

He considered his options. No shield. No armored suit. Outnumbered... six to one? Yeah, it looked like about a dozen of them. Not good.

It took him nearly a second to cover the fifty-something feet between where he stood and the closest gunman. Throwing his momentum into a right cross, he felt ribs break as his fist cannoned into the man. The gunman hit the ground like a sack of wet sand and Steve stepped over him, catching the barrel of a MP-5 as it was brougght to bear and yanking it away.

Unfortunatly for the second gunman, the sling was still over his shoulder. With a cry of paniced alarm he followed the submachine gun as Steve tossed it away. There was a loud crack as the gunman's tactical visor splintered against a stone column.

Not good at all, Steve reflected with a grim smile. These palookas shoulda brought friends.
 
Natasha charged into the fray, taking a quick note of Steve's position as he attacked. She took the other side, using the cover of the heavy debris to confuse her targets. She ducked down, sliding on her heels low on the ground and through the spread legs of one of the armed men. A simple twist and a jerk and she had him colliding to the ground, using the momentum of his falling body to snap his arm out of the socket.

He screamed and his comrade turned towards her. But she had already taken the butt of the fallen attacker and brought it up sharply. It caught under the helmet, smacking him squarely in the chin. She saw blood begin to pour from underneath, a gurgling sound, wet and sickly filling the air. One more hit and he was down.

It would have been so much easier to take them down had they the ability to use weapons. She was armed, but there were civilians. She was no longer the woman she had been; innocent casualties were to be avoided, not accepted. They couldn't risk taking a shot in the panic.
 
When Natasha arrived, Steve had to fight down a momentary impulse to go and help her. Because she was, after all, a woman. And what sort of man doesn't help a woman when she's being attacked? But Natasha reminded him that she really didn't need protecting, through the simple expedient of breaking two gunmen in three graceful motions.

Of course he got buttstroked for his inattention, a heavy blow that knocked his head sideways and would no doubt leave a bruise. A normal man, though, would probably be flat on his back with a busted jaw, so there was that…

Steve whipped around to face him, using the momentum to drive a rib-cracking left hook into the gunman before snapping a kick that sent him flying into a second gunman. Alerted by the sound of a bolt cocking he twisted and crouched, allowing a three-round burst to scream overhead. Before that man could adjust his aim, the super-soldier hit him in the midriff with a football tackle.

They both hit the ground at the feet of a fourth man in black tactical. Steeve grabbed his ankle and yanked, then drove an elbow into his groin by way of helping himself stand up. The man writhed, clutching himself and gagging in pain as Steve regained his feet.
 
Under normal circumstances, Natasha would have found this exhilarating. A sudden, unexpected fight. Masked agents sent for nefarious purposes. Despite her difficult past, she did love the excitement of her job. But she could still hear the cries of the injured and sirens were beginning to sound in the background. People were hurt, and this was a powder keg. The moment the police stormed the place there would be chaos; they had to work fast.

Pushing down on her belt, a long cord of wire stuck out at the end. She gripped it, pulling as she took off for two targets attempting to hurry from the fray. A quick jump and she was on the back of one, spinning the wire around his neck. His comrade attempted to grab her off and she flipped over his shoulder, landing on his back instead. The man in front jerked backward with the force of the wire, making them collide into a stone pillar.

Grunting in pain, she ignored it and wrapped the cord around the second man's neck. Then she slid out sideways and ran around the pillar. A press of her belt and the wire cut off, one of her more handy little tools she never went anywhere without. The result was the two men garroted, struggling to breath as they clawed at the wire, unable to get free.
 
As Natasha took the others down, Steve lunged at the last of them. He was a stocky man, built like a weightlifter or a steroid freak, and almost fast enought to bring his gun to bear. But Steve's hand closed around his wrist and squeezed, grinding bone together as the M-P5 clattered to the ground.

Grabbing the front of his tactical gear, Steve lifted him up on his tip-toes before tearing his helmet away. The man was square-jawed and blue-eyed, with spiky close-cropped brown hair. His eyes twitched between the two heros, mingled panic and haughty contempt in them.

"Who are you?" Steve asked.

"I tell you nothing!" The voicehad a mild eastern European accent. Polish, maybe, or Czech.

Steve lifted him a little higher, letting his toes dangle. "Look, son, maybe you didn't hear me. Who? Are? You?"

"I do not fear you!" the gunman choked out. "Whoever you are, you cannot stop us!"

Turning a little, Steve surveyed the room. "Really? 'Cause it looks to me like..."

"What you did here is nothing!" the man shouted. "Cut off one head, and two more will grow!"

"WHAT?" thundered Steve, whipping back around.

"Heil HYDRA! Heil-"

The next word was lost as Steve punched him in the face. Wordlessly, the unconscious man crumpled to the ground. "That," he muttered, "was the wrong thing to say."
 
Natasha straightened, panting as she looked over at Steve, the last agent crumpled on the ground. Reaching up, she activated the small speaker she always kept lodged in her ear. "This is Agent Romanoff, we have a situation at the New York Museum of Natural History. Requesting backup and...you might want to spend a few medical teams."

With that, she set about assisting in digging victims out of the rubble.

***

Not everyone was enjoying such an exciting evening. It had only just started to hit dusk, and yet Roberta Cart was already sitting at the end of the seedy bar of the Topaz Room. The place was pure trash, the gaudy name a perfect representation of the grime inside. The place wasn't busy yet, but it would be. A couple of guys, the rough and tumble sort, played pool. Further down the bar an ugly and depressing drunk gave her looks as he tried to gather the courage to wander over her way.

She was like a shiny dime in a puddle of mud, and Bobby ignored everyone around her with a practiced indifferent. She had somewhere to be in a few hours, a tedious exhibit opening in a tedious gallery for a tedious artist. She wasn't sure why she was going; boredom, she supposed. Dressed to the nines in a sleek, red dress, her dark hair swept back from her face, she was getting a fair amount of attention. None that was catching her eye back, however.

The truth was, she had picked that bar in hopes of something more thrilling coming along. It had happened before, discovering a gem among the common sand. She would take him or her home, forgetting plans and instead indulging in a night of passion with a random stranger. But seeing the slim pickings around her, she decided to keep her special talents for the moment to herself. No one was worth wasting the effort on; the simple minded idiots were already succumbing just by her mere presence, and several times she saw the man down the bar start to stumble her way before turning back and sitting down again, his crumpled face pathetic in the dim light.

"Can I get another one, please?" she asked the bartender, gesturing to her empty glass of red wine. When he turned to her she gave him a small, flirty smile. "I am quite parched."

He reacted immediately, just as she knew he would. Pulling down the bottle, she poured the fine wine into her glass with a dazed, lovesick look. "On the house," he rasped. Bobby ran a finger around the rim, dipping it inside for an instant and sucking the liquid off her finger. The man's Adam apple jumped in response, pupils dilating. She had him, and yet didn't want him.

"Thank you," she purred, then turned away. The man blinked, as though coming out of a trance, and went back to work.
 
"Quite a remarkable gift you have there." The voice was casual, laced with a bit of humor and a hint of a European accent.

The speaker took the next stool to her right without wIting to be asked. He was tall, with a slim build that gave the illusion of being taller. His hair was jet black and slicked back, and he wore a black suit with a hunter green silk tie. He glanced sideways at her with a bit of a wry smile, then gestured with a slender hand to get the bartender's attention.

"Whadd'litbe?" drawled the bartender.

"Well," answered the man, tone of voice that sounded as if he were overwhelmed by his choices, "I believe I'll have a vodka martini."

"Seriously?" the bartender snorted, then snorted again at the man's 'of course' shrug. "What kinda place you tink dis is?"

"A low and rather disreputable dive, catering to the meanest dregs of humanity." He made a complicated gesture, apparently palming and producing a hundred dollar bill. "But it redeems itself by playing host to the lovely young woman next to me, and is forevermore honored by my visit." He tucked the bill into the bartender's shirt pocket. "Whiskey. And another glass of that wine."
 
The moment she heard the voice, something clicked inside of her. There was something about it, something attractive and confident that drew her attention. His accent was also so cultured that it was quite out of place, and turning to look at him she raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. He was as well dressed as she was, looking as strange in the grungy settings in which they sat.

She did not know if he was referring to her gift as nothing more than her apparent ability to get drinks, or not. But based on the way he looked at her, sitting down with an air of complete certainty, she suspected it was much more. Bobby watched as he spoke to the bartender, and her interest was further piqued. Not by the money - she had plenty of that herself - but the easy way in which he dismissed him. That quiet and witty disdain was an immediate attraction.

Turning the swiveling stool so she was facing him, Bobby easily crossed one long, tan leg over the other and took him in. He was good looking, though not perhaps in the conventional way as some of her lovers had been. However, the intelligence in his eyes and the something unnameable about him made him infinitely more so.

She couldn't help it, her attention had been grabbed.

"You know, you're the first person to pick up on that," she replied smoothly, her eyes meeting his in a bold gaze. "Most men are too busy falling over themselves to pay attention to what I might be doing."

Picking up her glass, she brought it to her lips and took a sip without ever looking away.
 
"You know, you're the first person to pick up on that," she replied smoothly, her eyes meeting his in a bold gaze. "Most men are too busy falling over themselves to pay attention to what I might be doing."

He gave her a smile - part pleased, part smug - then casually poured himself a finger of whiskey. "I can certainly see why so many people might fall over themselves, rather than pay attention," he said, meeting her gaze, "but I rather suspect that there have been few men in your life."

Sipping the amber liquid, he grimaced slightly and glanced into the tumbler. "Pah. Wretched quality." Then, with a shrug, he drank it anyway.

"Few men," he continued, "and many boys." He poured himself another finger, and sipped at it carefully. This time, it did not seem to offend quite so much.

The entire time, his attention had remained on her eyes. Most men, no matter how gentlemanly, would by now have at least glanced at the rest of the body so proudly displayed by the sleek crimson silk she wore. But not this man.

"Tell me," he said after another sip, "whatever brings you here? Sure a lady must grow weary of the antics of children?"
 
Oh yes, he had caught her attention indeed. Each word seemed to practically slide off his tongue like it was made of satin, and she found her boredom melting away. That was such a rarity that she found herself quite taken with the strange man. His reaction to the whiskey made her lips quirk. He would be hard pressed to find anything in the bar that did not elicit such a reaction. If she had not been desperate for something to break the tedium, she wouldn't have bothered with the acrid wine currently tainting her tongue.

"I could ask you the same thing. Such a fine gentleman doesn't seem the type to wander into such establishments. Although, perhaps you are just looking for the same thing I am. Excitement."

Giving him a seductive grin, she nevertheless looked out over the crowd that was slowly increasing in number as the street lights flickered on outside. "Although, I must admit this is the first conversation that has managed to hold my focus." Behind him, she could see the drunk stirring, glaring at the stranger's back with a look of rage. Bobby smirked internally; as though he'd had a chance before the man sat down...

"So, if I have been playing with children, does that mean you've come to change my luck?" she asked, settling her eyes back on him.
 
"Looking for excitement?" He shook his head, but there was a glint of mischeif in his eye. "Hardly. I find it so much simpler to make my own. That way, I am rarely bored."

He sipped his whiskey again, watching the lights glint in her eyes. "In truth," he admitted, "I came here meet someone in particular. I'm just not certain if she's arrived."

Her smile was speculative as she eyed him. "Although, I must admit this is the first conversation that has managed to hold my focus."

This time he allowed himself a look as she leaned ever so slightly towards him. Just a glance, appreciating the artistry of her form and posture before returning to her eyes once more. "I do pride myself on my conversational skills," he answered, pouring himself another glass.

Her eyes flickered away for an instant, gazing behind him before meeting his once more. The smile on her blood-colored lips became ever so slightly cruel and hungry. "So, if I have been playing with children, does that mean you've come to change my luck?"

"It is a dangerous thing, looking to others to change your luck." His smile matched hers, now. Speculative, slightly cruel, slightly hungry. "One never knows how they will change it."
 
The look in his eyes made her shiver. "Some of us prefer the dangerous things," she replied, leaning forward slightly. Her hand brushed his...and there was no effect. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise as she failed to see any of the signs of her influence. Sure, he was flirting, and without shame. But a touch, focused and deliberate, should have had him melting and ready to perform her every whim.

"Oh," she whispered, and there was a definite look of hunger in her gaze now, "You just became the most interesting person in this room, Stranger."

But before she could elaborate or speak further, a hand unsteadily clasped the man's hand from behind. The drunk had stumbled from his seat, lips pulled back in a snarl. "Why don't you get the fuck out of here, buddy," he slurred. Around them, people stopped what they were doing to watch. There was a promise of entertainment here, and everyone wanted that.

All except one man who wasn't just watching, but had sidled up from the seat next to the drunk. Bobby hadn't noticed him. He was bigger, just as inebriated, and cracking his knuckles threateningly. Apparently, he was a friend of the drunk and more than prepared to offer his assistance in a challenge.

"He bothering you, Darlin'?" the drunk asked, and even from where she sat Bobby could smell the cheap liquor, mingling with stomach acid, on his breath.

"No, but you are," she replied disdainfully. This did not phase the man, who had turned his attention back to the stranger immediately.

"I said, why don't you FUCK OFF!" he shouted in the stranger's ear.
 
The man in the suit simply waited until the drunk finished shouting in his esr, then sat his glass on the bar. "There is nothing wrong with my hearing," he said. "I'm simply not interested in you. Not in that way, zt any rzte."

"What are you sayin'?" growled the loud drunk, while his larger friend sniggered.

The man in the suit rose, and placed a brotherly arm around the drunk's shoulders. "Nothing," he said, leading the man a few steps from the bar. "In fact, I'm here to help you."

"Wha..?" The drunk sounded confused, now.

"See your friend there?" asked the man in the suit.

"Uhm... yeah?"

"Have you ever noticed the color of his hair? The way his moscles tense and roll as he walks? The way your hands almost touch, when he buys the next round?"

Confused, the drunk looked at his friend. "Uhm... yeah?" he agreed, sounding uncertain.

"It isn't me you're angry at. It's yourself, for never acting on those feelings. It's him, for teasing you but never finding the courage to tell you."

The drunk was nodding his agreement, now.

"You know what you want. You know what he wants." The man in the suit smiled, feral and cold. Then he winked. "He's just asking for it, isn't he?"

"Yeah," the drunk snarled. "Fuckin' tease..."

"Then don't wait. You know he wants it. Give it to him." A pause. "Now."

With that, the man in tthe suit reclaimed his stool. The drunk wobbled, lookng a bit uncertain. His friend approached him. "What the hell, Joe?"

Joe punched his buddy in the gut, then shoved him to the sawdust-covered floor and began tearing at his belt. "Fuckin' cocktease," he snarled. "Gonna give what you goddamn need!"

"You see?" asked the man in the suit, before sipping his drink. He gestured at the two men grapling on the floor, and at the bouncer moving to intervene. "You should never let others change your luck."

His hand brushed hers, in deliberate imitation of her earlier gesture. There was a tingle of... something. Something cold and electric, serving only as a warning of power. "And you should always," he added, voice still pleasant, "know if your game is a boy, or a man."
 
Watching him manipulate the man was heady. She was quite adept at such things, as well. But her own power over people had to do with lust, not the silver tongued antics of the man she was watching. Her attraction to him grew, fueled by interest, by the promise of something new to break through the average, hateful tedium of life. But there was something else there, something lingering under the surface of her mind that was the promise of so much more.

However, she was not the only one watching the display. Her eyes flickered around, taking in the other patrons of the disreputable bar as their eyes narrowed. Bobby could see their piggy little eyes, and the cogs grinding painfully behind them as they realized what was happening. This drunk was their friend, of a sort, a regular. They knew enough about him that by the time he had attacked his friend they had come to a decision about the man who had caused it.

Mutants were only just starting to truly hit mainstream knowledge. As with most things humanity did not understand, there was fear and hatred for the group as a whole. In a place like this, the stranger might as well have painted a big red target on his chest. Indeed, people were closing in now, and there were far more than there had been when he'd first come in. Her own ability had been more subtle. easily explained away. His was not, and as the two men still grappled and a couple went to pull them apart, the rest prepared themselves to tear apart the enemy in their midst.

Bobby's eyes turned back to the man as he sat back down and touched her. Despite the growing situation he did not seem to be aware of, she felt a shiver of desire. The tingle of energy shot up her arm, causing her breath to catch slightly. One hand laid itself on his knee, and she sighed.

"And you should keep in mind who's attention you're grabbing with those tricks..."

Four men stopped behind them both, looking just as angry as the drunk had been. They were all looking at him. "Your kind aren't welcome here," he growled. There was a murmur of agreement around him. Bobby sighed again, picking up her wine and finishing it quickly. No reason to let it go to waste.

Knowing that they would not be satisfied with simply throwing the man out, she decided to intervene early. It would be easier that way. Bobby stood up and eyes flickered to her. But her attention was on the largest of the group. One manicured hand slid around his neck and he let out a breath, eyes widening, pupils dilating, mouth opening...

"What the fuck are you doing? Look lady, you're real hot, but this ain't the time," the leader said, the group chuckling at the sight of her apparently coming onto their friend in the middle of a potential brawl. But she ignore them all, attention still on the large man. His face was now as gentle as a lamb, his expression one of adoration.

She had him.

"Fight for me," she told him, and let him go. The expression turned from one of lovesick dedication to one of hate in an instant. Turning, he barreled his enormous body into the leader of the group with a war cry, smashing him into a table. His fist began sinking into the smaller man, causing the others to run at them, trying to pull him off. He flung them as easily as it he were swatting flies.

Bobby touched the hand of the stranger, her lips quirking. "Now that we've both had our fun, I suggest we go."
 
She rested her hand on his knee with a sigh. "And you should keep in mind who's attention you're grabbing with those tricks..."

One of his fingertips traced the line of her middle finger. "I am, believe me," he murmured, allowing his gaze to drift again, this time to the swell of her breasts under their veil of crimson, before returning to her eyes. "There is, after all, only one person here who's attention is worth grabbing."

As he spoke, four men loomed over them. "Your kind aren't welcome here," one of them growled.

"Really?" asked the man in the suit. "What kind is that? The educated kind? Or, perhaps, the attractive kind?" A pause. "Wait, I know: the hygienic kind."

The woman rose, posing herself in a way to invite - nay, command - intention, and slid her fingers ove his neck. She murmured three words in his ear, and the man in the suit laughed with sheer delight as the man attacked his fellows. Still chuckling, he sipped his whiskey.

She touched his hand. "Now that we've both had our fun, I suggest we go."

Glancing upwards, he cocked an eyebrow. "Whyever would we do that?" he wondered aloud, adjusting his seating slightly to avoid a small man who had been tossed bodily over the bar. "It seems to me that our fun has just begun." Casually, he leaned over the bar and addressed the groaning man on the floor. "Are you going to take that from him?"

Then he glanced back at her. "Be honest... I can see it in your eyes. This excites you, doesn't it? Controlling them, manipulating them, making them do your bidding?" He stood, smiling as he toyed with a lock of her hair before caressing the line of her jaw with a fingertip. He drew close, his breath hot on her mouth, as he began to chant something in low tones: Hard it is it on earth, with mighty whoredom. Axe-time, sword-time, shields are sundered. Wind-time, wolf-time, ere the world falls."

He was close to her now, close enough that she could feel his presence on her skin. Behind them, the four one-time friends tore into each other with the frenzied fury of maddened dogs. "Stop playing it safe, Bobby. Stop waiting for someone else to change your luck. Stop playing children's games."

Staying close, he stepped to one side. "You are a queen, Bobby," he whispered, gesturing around. "A goddess, condemned to walk among cattle. Let them love you. Let them fear you." His lips lips brushed against her ear. "Let them worship you."
 
His touch, his gaze, his words...every moment in his presence was making her heartbeat quicken, her breath along with it. She looked out over the growing chaos, the violence and rage and confusion falling about them like the place had gone mad. She closed her eyes and felt his breath on her lips, listening to the strange words and swallowing hard.

Yes, it did excite her. She had always gotten a thrill from using her abilities, limited as they were. Of course, that had never gone further than a tool to gratify and entertain her in the moment. Even the sexual encounters, which she could facilitate without their use, were done using her powers because she loved knowing the control she held. No one had ever been able to resist, or exert any influence on her.

But this man was making her melt under the power of his charisma. The fact that she had been unable to sway him the way she had all others only made things more intense. For the first time another person was manipulating her, and while she could see it she found that she liked it. She wasn't even surprised that he knew her name. He had said he was waiting for someone; he had come looking for her. Eventually, she would need to find out why.

For now, however, she simply let a slow grin spread over her face. A man fell into the bar, nursing his arm. She touched the side of his face and said, without looking for him, "I won't be happy unless you kill one of them." Immediately, he let out a scream of rage and threw himself back into the fight, more vicious than ever. And she was surprised she didn't feel a moment of remorse at the sounds of renewed sounds of pain and alarm. The men in this bar were filth, and any one of them would have done the same to her had they realized what she was.

Let them tear one another to pieces.

Bobby slid a hand to the stranger's chest, meeting his gaze, feeling a jolt of electricity, a connection. "You know my name...what's yours?"
 
He felt the power rise in her, and his expression was feral as he watched her touch one of the combatants and inflame him. The man bellowed like a berserker and hurled himself into the battle once more. There was blood now, and the melee was growing as the bouncer tried to break it up and more men were drawn in.

And the look on her face, as she watched the carnage, was magnificent. Lips parted, a faint flush in cheeks and throat, breasts heaving as she breathed deeply, she had the languid air and hungry eyes of a woman satisfied. "Yoh know my name..." she murmured, her fingers electric on his chest, "what's yours?"

"Ah," he laughed, "my fifteen minutes have ended. And after New York, I had hopes my name would long linger among your kind."

He trailed electricity down her skin with his fingers, resting his palm on the curve of her hip. Gently, as if dancing, he steered her away from a stunbling bloody wreck that was once a man. "My name, Bobby," he whispered, "is Loki."

Lips brushed her ear, teeth scraping gently over the lobe. "You know what you want now, Bobby. Stop holding back."

He stepped behind her, one hand sliding over the slight curve of her stomach, the other still on her hip. "Let me watch your climax."
 
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