2013.05.14 - Encounters with the Fourth Kind

The deep blue 2007 Ford Mustang hurtles along the back, winding roads of Westchester after nightfall. The driver, Scott Summers, known to his allies as CYCLOPS grips the wheel firmly, but seems to be in full control as the engine roars loudly amongst the windblown leaves on the trees.

Inside the vehicle things are at peace. In the background the tones of Bach's Air dance softly through the car's cabin. The only other sounds is the tight squeak every so often of Scott's hands as they turn the wheel.

The back roads don't have the streetlights that line others. You can tell when another car is coming a fair distance off as their own headlights light up the trees and undergrowth on either side of the road in warning. But for what's up ahead, there is no warning. Not until his headlights hit the figure there.

The first thought might be it's a deer, or some other wild animal, because that's what you find out here. But no. Too tall, and on only two legs. There's the glint of light on metal and a human figure that lifts one arm to ward off the glare of oncoming headlights as Scott's Mustang barrels down the road towards it.

Tires screech madly as Scott pulls off towards the right and narrowly misses the figure at 65 miles per hour. Though the vehicle is screaming in agony, Scott remains calm as the Mustang goes off the road, onto the shoulder, then onto the grass that lines the highway before the smattering of the forest. Expertly, he pulls the car into a slide and when the car comes to a stop it stays still for a few moments.

Slowly the car takes up moving, but this time at a far slower rate. Scott, it seems, is returning to see what he almost killed. It almost looked like a person.

As the car pulls sharply off to the side, the figure stays where it is but turns to follow the path of the vehicle. Only after it's passed by and stepping one way or the other isn't going to potentially put it into harm's way does the figure move, taking several slow steps.

As Scott approaches at a slower pace, the play of headlights over the figure gives him more than just that brief impression. The figure is tall, female, and clad in what is likely armor by the look of all that metal and overlapping and articulated plates. Her skin is an odd color, almost coppery and her hair at first is reminescent of Wolverine's, the way it sweeps up to either side, but this is far more pronounced and her eyes are a pure white, without any sign of iris or pupil. At either hip is what looks like pistols, but the soft glow of lights doesn't make them look like any guns on the market.

Once Scott pulls to about 20 yards of the female the car comes a complete stop, is put in park, and is shut off. Spying the weapons at either hip, Scott decides it best if he changes out his glasses for the visor he keeps in a locked portion of his armrest and does the exchange.

The door creaks open slowly, and despite the odd appearance of the woman in front of him, Scott doesn't seem to panic. Instead, he asks her a question, "Are you alright?"

There's a quick, sharp movement of the woman's head but it's only to tilt it over to the side a bit in a quizzical almost bird-like manner. "Alright." The word comes slowly, and with odd inflections. "Yes. I am looking for West Chest Er." The inflections play out as an unusual accent. As she brings down the one hand that shaded her eyes from the bright light the other twitches in place. Light plays off of her long nails, as if they were coated in metal like the armor she wears.

"Well," Scott begins dryly. "You're about a mile outside of Westchester. Right along the highway just the way you were going." His head tilt matches hers. "You a tourist? Or looking for something in particular?" The hairs on Scott's neck stand. There aren't a lot of people who come to Westchester at this time of the night. Not any who want anything good with the Xavier Institute anyways.

There's no sign of a vehicle, and she's right in the middle of the road. One has to wonder how she got there, as well. The woman starts to walk towards Scott, her gait a bit odd, but given her odd appearance, it's hard to tell what that might mean. "Someone. Summers. Scott Summers, West Chest Er New York, planet Earth, Sol System..."

"Scott Summers, huh? You're looking for him? Funny, I happen to know him. What do you want with him?" Scott asks, resting his body against his vehicle. This business about the Sol System or Planet Earth has his interest piqued, but he doesn't let on yet.

As the woman draws closer, the light plays over her hair. Or, maybe it's not really hair. Instead of fine strands they're more like... feathers. As she takes another step her heel drags on the asphault and she almost seems to stumble. Dark, wet ribbons decorate one leg of that purple armor, the same one with the dragging heel and spots of something liquid form a trail back towards where she was standing where there is a larger pool. "You will take me to Scott Summers." The more she speaks, the easier the words come, though she still has a clear accent. There is an almost frosty feeling of demand to the words. It definitely wasn't a request.

"You're hurt," Scott says, momentarily disregarding the command, before delivering his own. "Get in the car." He turns his back towards her as he moves to the driver-side door. "I'm Scott Summers."

He ducks into the car and reaches over to unlatch the passenger side door from the inside.

Deathbird's jaw seems to set as he points out that she's hurt, and when he gives his own command her chin lifts in a imperious manner. For a moment, it looks like she's not going to obey out of sheer spite but his followup gets her attention. As the door swings open she instead points off into the distance. "You must come with me, Scott Summers. With all haste." She seems to sway on her feet even as she fixes him with those all-white eyes.

"Come with you?" Scott says from inside the car with a raised eyebrow. "I'll tell you what, you let me get your leg fixed, you tell me who you are and what you want with me, and I'll be happy to consider going with you. But you're going to have to give me a bit more information than what you've given thus far.

Exhaustion starts to weigh on the woman, one of her hands coming to rest on the roof of the car to help steady her and hold herself up as she leans forward into the car some. "I am Cal'syee, first-born of House Neramani, ruling house of the Shi'ar Imperium!" She says it like he should be ashamed for not having learned it in kindegarten or something. "You must come with me now..." As if the force of that statement sapped what energy she had, she sways again, words faltering. "To save the life... of your father..." She pitches forward then, knees giving out from beneath her.

Scott looks up at her and shakes his head, "Lady, I apologize for not having heard of your right before now. And I know you must have me confused because my dad has been dead for many, many years. And I also know that whoever you are and wherever you come from, if you're losing that much blood and don't get yourself right, you're not going to make it to go with anyone anywhere."

Cal'syee pushes herself into a sitting position, leaning back and letting her eyes close for a moment. Scott can hear her breaths, taken deeply and controlled. She's at least in the car now, and since she is she seems to figure out she's not going to have the energy to make him come with her immediately. Her head slowly turns towards him, and now it's clear that those are definitely feathers and they're coming out of her head, not some odd costume. She reaches her nearer hand out towards his face and if he doesn't pull away there's the warm touch of flesh along with the dangerous prickle of the tips of her talons. "No. He lives still, the Corsair. Christoper Summers. Father of Scott and Alexander." Her eyes flutter closed in a long blink.

Perhaps he should be a little more wary of someone who definitely seems to be an alien of somesort, but just last winter he'd briefly dated a woman by the name of Kori who had confessed to him that she was indeed an extra-terrestrial. So it's not that part that phases him; it's the topic of his father. He does not pull away from her touch, but as her hand leaves his face his foot pushes on the pedal and he peels away from the scene of their meeting.

It's not far to where they're headed, but it is not the Xavier Institute, but one of the handful of safe houses the X-men keep for times such as this. He pulls onto a long, dark road, and up towards a cabin in the distance. "My father was Christopher Summers. He died in a plane crash along with my mother. My brother and I were the only survivors."

Not having to stand or move, it's so much easier for Cal'syee to conserve her energy and manage the pain. The shake of her head is slight, but the wide flare of her 'hair' makes it obvious. "He was captured. Taken to Chandilar. Imprisoned. Not dead." Her eyes stay closed now, not looking at where they're going. It's taken everything she has to get this far, to find Scott.

Scott doesn't respond. What can he say, really? Whoever this person is, she seems convinced that she believes Christopher Summers to be alive.

Or she is lying.

Scott isn't sure, but he's sure she needs some medical attention right away. He slides the car into the port, puts it in gear, pulls the emergency break, shuts the car off and is around to the side in order to open the door for her before attempting to lift her up and out of the vehicle, if she should let him and if he is powerful enough. If so, he brings her up in his arms and makes his way towards the cabin.

Given her stature and that armor, the woman is surprisingly light when Scott lifts her. Also what first looked like a cloak is actually wings that fold down behind her back. Given his familiarity with Warren, it's not hard to guess that the weight discrepency comes from hollow, bird-like bones. Occasionally making odd, soft sounds as he handles her and he can feel the wet drip of blood from where he holds her. When her feathered head hits his shoulder, her eyes don't open again as she passes out completely.