| Fraternizing 101 | |||||
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| What: Two mercenaries, two X-Men and a man called Jayne walk into a bar... wait. | |||||
Not long did our rag-tag group of heroes (question mark optional) tarry at Blink's residence. Jubilee needed some rest, and most likely a good, warm bath and something to drink. And so, after alerting Domino via their earcomm (nifty, how far of a range those things have) that they were headed back to Kwabena's new, larger apartment in Brooklyn, Kwabena once again has carried the unconscious Jubilee through one of Blink's portals, which so conveniently opened up in the middle of the Ghanaian's apartment.
First order of business for the Ghanaian: take a goddamned shower, and put on some goddamned clothes. Once that is taken care of, he's halfway through checking on the snoozing teenager, when a text message comes through to his phone. From Domino.
"Need a drink. Meet at Union Pool."
"How the hell does she know where I live?" asks Kwabena, moreso to himself, since Psylocke has left to take care of some affairs, and though his apartment is /right next/ to the corner of Union Ave and Meeker Ave, there was no way she could have possibly known that his new abode lies right across from Union Pool.
Well, he wasn't going to leave Jubilee in his apartment by herself. What if she were to wake up and accidentally wreck the place with her mutant powers? So, with a warm washcloth and a glass of water nearby, he tries to wake her by dabbing the washcloth on her dirty forehead. "Hey, young one, time to come out of sleep land."
While Jubilation Lee isn't known for wrecking other people's places, she's hardly a neatfreak, even in her sleep. But she's thus far managed the whole not-wrecking thing just fine. She doesn't even do noise pollution, since she doesn't snore... much. Still, that doesn't change the fact that she's just been through a not-quite-covert mission and had a building collapse on top of her. On a beach. It leaves her looking and feeling quite icky.
At the third touch of that washcloth she stirs, grimacing and trying to roll over. "No, Mom... no school today, please..?" she murmurs, trying to open sleep-gummed eyes. Then she gets them open, blinking at Kwabena. "Oh... S'you... Dude, with that voice of yours, I totally thought I was having a nightmare about an old 7-Up commercial." She tests her limbs gingerly. "Where are we?"
Domino might have sounded a little bossy in that text message. Tough shit. She's got a lot on her mind and, amazingly, doesn't want to be left to her own devices by herself tonight. She needs someone to drink with, and Kwabena's delivered on that front before. Tonight, she'll even foot the bill. And if anyone happens to go flying through the wall it won't put him on the spot for finding a new home on short notice.
Besides, it's a public place. If he decides to drag Betsy along then perhaps they can get something productive done without it turning into violence. Too bad she didn't stop to think that she could still get psychically assaulted without anyone else being the wiser.
Anyway, she's at the bar, with a booth, dressed for once in something that -isn't her armor,- though only an idiot would assume she waltzed on out of her safehouse without being loaded down with weaponry. Getting all cut and shot up and all calls for something a little more casual.
WHABAMPH
Deadpool materializes next to Domino's table. "Wow! That worked!" he declares, to no one in particular. "Usually, the teleporter can only take me somewhere I've already been," he informs the mercenary. "I was just like, man! I need to find Domino, and I just punched in thirty random digits into the teleporter, and it brought me here!" He claps his hands. "I'm so glad I didn't end up buried in a rock somewhere." He's dressed lightly- the bazookas and extra explosives and the assault rifle he's been hauling around are all back at the DeadQuarters. "So I got a text message, saying Come to Union Square?" he asks her, holding up his cell phone and wiggling the message at Domino, as if to say, 'Hey! I have proof I have a text message'.
With a good natured laugh, Kwabena pulls the washcloth away and snatches the glass of water off a table nearby the couch where Jubilee has been resting. "I will try not to take insult at this," he answers with a grin. "Here." He offers her the water. "We are at my apartment in Brooklyn, but we are not staying long. There is a milk shake waiting for you across the street." He pauses, questioning that decision. "You do like milkshakes, right?"
He crosses the room, going for the phone that he swore to have left on the counter near his kitchen, but it's nowhere to be seen. "What in the..." he starts to say, but makes sure to mind his manners in front of the youngster. He /just had that phone/, but... in the grand scheme of things, it was inconsequential. He still had Domino's earcomm, right?
He reaches up to his left ear, just to check. Yep. Still there.
"So, clean yourself up," he calls across the room to Jubilation. "The albino is probably already waiting for us, and I imagine Betsy will be along any moment."
Of all the myriad things that could fall into Psylocke's lap on the rainswept streets of Gotham, an honest-to-goodness teleporter was one of the more useful. That Blink brings with her a tragic story of humanity's terrible downfall, of a dark future the script for which the 'heroes' (?!) of this world seem to be holding in their very hands, is a considerable price to pay for a little utility. The events of the past twenty four hours weight yet more heavily on Psylocke, her sustained show of confidence and composure beginning to crumble as she walks away.
She's just thankful, as she goes about her subsequent business, that she has someone stalwart to leave with the unconscious girl. As Kwabena plays unlikely nursemaid to the mallrat - who's almost certainly going to insist upon waking that she was absolutely fine all along, and she trusts him to play into that too - Betsy heads from the apartment where Blink settles with her own young burden, into the patter of evening rain. As it washes through her purple hair, and cascades in a rhythmic tattoo off the shoulders of her trenchcoat, she looks up and attempts to smile into the winter's gloom. Not for any reason; but because it's a relief, to do so without any need to shoulder the burden of others, to lead by example or act wisely...
It feels good. She could almost stay out there forever. But duty calls, always.
Woefully little time actually passes before she's heading back in the opposite direction, on a different road that feels absolutely identical. Unlike certain mercenaries, she doesn't feel any significant shift to her emotional wellbeing when she's carrying a thick wad of cash, and it's been a long time since a mere change in clothing could change her mood. It does at least change her manner; the habits of a model die harder than she'd have anyone, including herself, believe. Walking high on stiletto heels, she's the picture of untouchable feminine confidence as she swishes down the Brooklyn streets in a Chinese-styled dress of dark purple silk. It's embellished with the black silhouette of a dragon, running down the left side - which *doesn't* bear a split halfway up the thigh, leaving that honour to the other flank.
The stunning piece is cinched at the waist with a short black sash, tied into a bow above said split, and she's otherwise unadorned but for the obviously-expensive, obviously-designer (darling) purse hanging from one arm, hair simply held up in a loose chignon.
Suffice to say, she's hardly chameleon-like in her chosen environment.
It's fairly amazing she doesn't have *audience* when she stops to ring the bell outside Kwabena's apartment.
"Oh... Dude, I totally didn't intend any insult," Jubilation says quickly, blushing and holding up a hand. Conveniently, it's there when Kwa hands over that water. She takes a long pull, ridding her mouth of the taste of dust. "Thanks... um, nice place!" Which it isn't, but she's trying to be polite. After all, the man let her sleep here. And probably carried her around for a while. The last thing she remembers is seeing him after a vague memory of nearly suffocating in dirt.
She rubs at her face with a knuckle. "Clean up... got it. For a milkshake, I'll do that. I might need a minute."
She does manage to rise from the couch, take a /very/ quick shower, and be grateful for Wolvie's advice to pack a change of clothes, all within ten minutes. It's nothing more than well-worn jeans and a cropped, striped tee, but it'll do. They're just going for a milkshake, after all! At least, she /hopes/ that's all they're doing. After the last job, she could stand a /lot/ more sleep before she does anything else that involves drowning in dirt!
Again..! With the teleporting, and the--
Domino nearly leaps right out of the booth she's sitting at when Wade appears next to her table. The gasp leads to a sigh, which then leads to a weary sounding "Lucky me" when he mentions being taken right to her and all. "Well," she declares while offering a seat across the table. "The goal of the evening is to get utterly sloshed. May as well join in." Just..you know. Not where she's got her leather and boot-clad legs outstretched to the opposite bench. That's where her feet go, and their big, stompy knee boots. One woman's casual is another woman's biker bitch.
Err... "Where did you get that message?" Frowning, Dom quickly extracts her own phone and looks back through the sent messages list. Did she somehow send that one to Wade, as well..? No? Wait a second, "Where did you get that -phone?-"
Dom eyes Deadpool with another slow exhale, continuing to stare at the other merc while she taps the ear comm. "Hey, Kwa. Your phone just arrived. Should I go ahead and order the first round, or is that against Singular's plan?"
"I did /not/ steal it from Kwabena in another panel," Deadpool assures Domino. He drops artlessly into the seat across from her. He looks up at something on the ceiling. "So, what- Kwabena, Jubilee, and... oh... Psylocke, right?" he asks her, pointing upwards at the pose order.
"Why are we drinking? Did I miss something? I've been so /busy/, y'know?" Busy with what? He's lying! He's been hanging out at home playing Borderlands 2!
"Busy, busy busy," Deadpool asserts. "So what's new? Get me caught up on things. I feel more out of touch than... um... someone really out of touch." He frowns under his mask. "Damn. I had something for this."
Hey now, it's a Brooklyn apartment, and Kwabena needs /some/ cash to fuel his, uh, work. It's no uptown penthouse, but it's not a trashy place, not in the slightest! It's at least tidy and organized, albeit it rather lacking in decoration. Kwabena just... has a tendency to move too often, especially when his friends have a tendency to trash the places where he may tend to abide. "Don't worry," laughs the Ghanaian. "I am difficult to offend, young friend."
Leaving her be, Kwabena slips down to the entryway when his comm is buzzed. He expected it to be Psylocke, but given what they've just been through, there's a bit of paranoia hiding in the deep recesses of the African's mind. So it is that when he comes out of the stairwell and approaches the door, he stops nearly dead in his tracks, eyes going wide for a moment.
Then, he remembers his manners.
Clearing his throat and being thankful that his dark skin helps to conceal any manner of blushing, he opens the door and lets her in. "Come in, Betsy. The young one is just now taking a shower and getting cleaned up." He waits until the door is closed behind, and gestures toward the stairwell. "Second floor. Looks like I'm moving up in the world." Because, after all, the /lower/ you are in a Brooklyn apartment, that means the more in rent you are paying.
Domino's voice sounds in his ear as they make their way up the stairs. A frown takes his face, and he reaches a hand up to touch the earcomm. "My... phone?" A pause. "Yeah, sure. Make it whisky for me. Neat. Top shelf."
For Kwabena's part, he's nowhere near as flashy as Psylocke, nor is he Domino's biker bitch, but a happy medium. Trendy, high top sneakers, skinny-ish black jeans, a t-shirt bearing a stylized logo for the band 'Iron Maiden' upon it, and a leather trench coat to ward off the rainfall outside.
Dark skin hides a lot, that's true. Unless you're trying to hide from a psychic.
"She's taking a shower, and you're blushing?"
Quirking a brow from where she stands, perfectly poised and composed on the porch, the kunoichi - who not a few hours ago was ripping a hundredfold blade through the yielding flesh of a living corpse - assaults Kwabena with a playful smile, sparing a glance toward the stairwell as she steps past him. The place is... nicer, but she'd have to agree with the mallrat. It's lacking. Not for the first time, she considers the wealth she theoretically has access to back home. Not for the second time, she dismisses the idea of calling her parents and telling them she's alive but has undergone radical surgery to become a six-foot Asian Amazon.
"Jubilation *can* be a bit of a handful..." She coyly asides to the Ghanaian, regardless. The steps she takes one at a time, a little slower than the norm in her less-than-practical attire - the polar opposite of her last visit to his humbler abode. She doesn't make any comment herself, either finding it absolutely normal to turn up looking like this to hit a cozy little bar in Brooklyn, or doing a great job at hiding any embarassment of her own.
"Drinks?" She directs back over her shoulder, rhetorically. "Gin and tonic. Twist of lemon."
She'll settle for Domino buying the first round, and the second and third to boot, once she's divested her purse of the cumbersome stack of bills. She told the mercenary she'd earned her pay twice over and well... she has. Presents and booze? D'aww. It's like Christmas.
Jubilation is indeed, and by the time Kwa and Bets arrive she's dressed and ready to go. Except the ninja-'path is rocking purple silk and a split halfway up her right thigh. The teen blushes. "Aw, Bets... now I wish I'd brought a dress or something. And you know how I feel about dresses. And I can't hug you, 'cuz I'll totally wrinkle your silk!"
... Whaaaat? Once again, as she has done so often in the past, Dom gives Deadpool the most peculiar of looks. "Panel..? What? How the hell can you--? Wade, are you stoned again?" And in his case she probably means that in a literal sense. Too many large, heavy rocks to the head.
Sigh. "Nevermind." She's got enough of a headache without trying to make heads or tails of this guy. She's learned years ago that it's often best to quit while she's behind. "Oh, you know. Out there meeting new people that are our kind of crazy. Fighting the good fight," she nonchalantly declares with a little left-to-right motion of her fist. "Same old shebang. Some of them will be on their way here, soon. One of them to get his phone back," she almost warns with a motion of her head toward the 'borrowed' device. "Been wondering about you, for that matter." Her evenings did seem remarkably more peaceful, lately...
When opportunity knocks she orders a whole bunch of drinks, to supplement the one that she already has sitting in front of herself, mostly dry by now. Of course she got a head start! She'll probably help close the place up tonight, too.
"Oh, you know. Been playing a lot of Borderlands," Deadpool says nonchalantly. "Slacking. I'm sorry I haven't been around much. I feel like getting the band back together. Bringing everyone along for some kind of crazy. Blow some things up for money and fame and stuff."
Deadpool orders a drink. The waiter looks a bit nonplussed and confused, until Deadpool drops a wad of cash on the table. Money speaks much louder than insane mercenaries who can't show up for a few drinks without bringing military-grade armament with them.
Caught! Off guard! Like a deer in headlights, or a tiger in the unsuspecting bite of a dangerous asp! Kwabena blushes harder - this one might be actually visible - and he raises a hand to dismiss Psylocke's concerns. "It's... no, it's not..."
Digging, hole, deeper. Foot, in, mouth.
Kwabena laughs awkwardly, then reaches up to scratch behind his ear as he follows the woman upstairs and to his apartment. Thankful for the momentary distraction, he reaches around said ear to trigger his earcomm. "And a gin and tonic for Betsy." Pause. "And a milkshake for... Jubilation." So, that was the girl's name. Noted.
"She's nothing I can't handle," remarks the African as they come around the corner. Kwabena opens the door to his new digs, and gestures for Betsy to go on in. He smiles earnestly at the younger girl's reaction to seeing Betsy, and stands by the door for a moment while they make their introductions. "So, you are Jubilation? I am Kwabena, Kwabena Odame." He stands proudly for a moment, perhaps putting on a bit of a show... because he's secretly embarrassed that Jubilation had the misfortune of seeing him down on his luck in Gotham. "I am from Ghana," he adds. For flair, of course, and to explain away his accent. Then, he turns aside and presses his hand to his ear. "We'll be there in a minute."
On that note, he turns and motions toward the door, smiling at Betsy and Jubilation.
The hand goes back to his ear. "Make mine two, would you?"
FYI: If one's mouth is big enough to admit one's foot, it's just intelligent design at work.
Laughing with surprising breeziness - it's probably the first evidence Psylocke has shown Kwabena that she is genuinely capable of breaking away from business and other matters of serious portent for more than thirty seconds at a time - the telepath makes her way inside the apartment wth a shake of her head, all but running straight into her plucky X-fellow as she does. An appraising glance takes in the Chinese-American girl, finger tapping at her lip.
"Well," she decides, favouring the blushing girl with a quick wink, "Last time I checked, there wasn't a global crisis in the silk market. Come here, you." Flashing a rare grin for good measure, she slips forward, and bends down slightly to envelop the mallrat-- even picking her up for a moment. "I know for a *fact* there's more silk dresses in the world than Jubilees."
None of which stops her straightening the garment out once she's done, an activity she's more than used to - that split up the side does in fact have a practical purpose, after all. Better to reveal a bit of thigh prior to kicking a man in the head, than stumble out of a fight needing both a medic *and* a good seamstress. Hank McCoy doesn't really have the hands for the latter.
Jubilation will /never/ refuse a hug from Psylocke. Well, not unless she's tragically turned into a drooling ninja zombie or something. So she steps up and returns the hug. Without the lifting, of course. "It's so good to see you're okay, Bets. After I woke up here, I was afraid something awful'd happened."
She glances over at Kwa, giving him a slightly bashful smile. "Jubilation Lee, yes. But call me Jubilee. Or Jubes. Or Jube. Or Ju-Ju. Something like that. Cool meeting you, Kwabena... um, could I call you Kwa?" If she recalls the matter in Gotham, she gives no sign of it. Of course, she could just be Not Going There (tm).
Getting the band back together. Is it sad that taking on a job with Deadpool actually seems like a relaxing change of pace back to the realm of the familiar? Chances are that whatever the work is with him, she wouldn't feel guilty about getting paid for it at the end of the day. "How big of a team are you looking to round up for this? I might know a few people that would enjoy expanding their horizons a little." Kind of crazy that she'd consider bringing that group along for mental stability, what with her being at such ends with the psychic. Maybe they can keep from attacking one another long enough to get a job done..maybe!
Wade might be too much of a bad influence for Kwabena, though. Hmm. How -does- Dom get herself into these situations? Yet again there's that idea coming forth, haunting her. 'Den mother.'
"Right. See, here's the problem," Deadpool explains, handling his drink, which looks like it's about twelve shots of bourbon in a pitcher of Bud. "It's like we're the Power Rangers. Or Aerosmith." He pauses. "No, I like Power Rangers better. Me, I'm the Red Ranger. You, you're the Black Ranger. Second in charge. We have the Blue Ranger, who's the technical expert (that's Luna), and we need a Yellow Ranger and a Pink Ranger. The problem is that you /want/ to be the Pink Ranger, who makes everyone feel happy about themselves, but you /act/ like the Black Ranger, who's more about being cool and badass, but not quite as badass as me, the Red Ranger. And you CANT BE TOMMY." He waggles an accustaory finger at Domino.
"That's a lot of nicknames," remarks Kwabena, with a hearty and friendly smirk. "'Kwa' will work just fine." He then motions out the door, for they have friends waiting... and he has an apartment to lock up behind them.
Once outside and down the stairs, Kwabena leads the way. Union Pool is, remarkably, just across the street, flanked on the other side by a large park and the passing of an elevated freeway overhead. From outside, the bar looks remarkably plain... the trappings of a New York drinking establishment designed to /not/ be a tourist trap.
Inside, of course, the place is teeming with nightlife. There are a lot of people, along with a jukebox that is pumping out whatever the crowd wishes - currently some industrial music that is drawing sneers from the bros and embarassed grins from the hipsters. Kwabena spots the table Domino has picked out for them, and leads the way there, but he slows just a bit upon seeing Deadpool.
"I'll be a son of a..."
Teenager present.
Forcing a smile, Kwabena walks up to the table and snatches his first glass of whiskey, downing it without preamble. "Who the hell is Tommy?" he asks, before taking one of the free seats and settling in for his second glass of whiskey. Then, he notices the glass of gin and tonic for Psylocke... with no lemon twist.
Damn.
Grabbing a passing cocktail waitress, he smiles politely, then makes a total ass of himself. "You, uh, forgot the lemon twist."
Deadpool looks over his shoulder at the digital jukebox, then leans back and hits it with his fist. It makes a squeaking sound and starts playing "Hey, I Just Met You". Deadpool Fonzies at Kwabena.
Many nicknames, and Betsy can't honestly says she's ever heard anybody take up 'Ju-Ju'. Maybe tonight's the night? She echoes the smirk with a more private one of her own, glancing off to one side as she holds the door for Jubilee before passing through herself, bobbing the merest suggestion of a curtsy to Kwabena before she does so. Perhaps a change of clothes has a greater effect on the kunoichi than she'd care to admit either in- or outwardly. Any magical mood shift is probably going to be woefully endangered, however...
When she steps through the unremarkable door of Kwabena's remarkably-situated local, and is offered a nearly unobstructed view across the room to the lounging, goth-booted form of Domino. A frown shifts across her brow, the graceful and stunningly-attired women seeming for a moment to revert to that same stern, businesslike kunoichi last sighted but a couple of hours ago. Less than idly, she fingers the purse hanging over her left arm. Business it is.
"Believe me, she's heard it all before," the violet-eyed telepath murmurs as she steps up behind Kwabena. Jubilee hangs around with Logan, of all people; the things she's seen and heard would make even the world's most liberal mother consign her daughter to a convent forevermore. Unless the world's most liberal mother was also a telepathic ninja, one supposes. Regardless, she slips past to take up a place beside Domino, standing for the moment as she casts a wry glance from the patch-eyed mercenary to the... very familiar figure beside her. She doesn't betray a thing.
"I see you dressed for the occasion," she archly opines instead, asking no by-your-leave before moving to take a seat right beside the other woman. "And even brought a chaperone? Or is this your... date..." Composure falters and dies, her mouth forming a tiny 'o' as she trails off and glances aside to Kwabena, in the mid-accostment of a waitress. Surprise is soon replaced by something else, an amused flush tinting her cheeks as she reaches for the offending glass and lightly swirls it with the provided stirrer. "I'm... sure I'll survive without my bitterness."
Naturally, she can't resist a crooked smile toward Domino as she finishes that sentence.
"The Green Ranger," Jubilation replies, before she can stop herself, and blushes. "Um, did anybody order a chocolate milkshake?" Better to just find what she's drinking and keep her mouth too full to talk. She recognizes Deadpool as well... maybe she should've stayed on the couch. Sickness isn't that hard to fake, right? "Hi, Domino! I see you got good seats."
Someone is enjoying the dark, twisted grind of a synthesized audial assault, at least. Up until she's given further confusion to pick through. "Wade, what the h--I don't want to be the Pink Ranger bitch! I--" Domino promptly cuts herself off, holding one finger up in the air while the other hand swipes the nearest drink, she doesn't even care what it is, and slams the entire thing. The glass *thunks* down to the table, then she lowers her hand. "You really need better analogies, kiddo. Like, ones that don't suck."
Then, fiiiinally, some familiar faces start to show up. One of them seems a bit..oh. Over-dressed for the occasion. Dom sort of gives Betsy an odd stare, doing that stereotypical down then up appraisal as though not comprehending what she's seeing. She does pull her feet off of the other seat to make room for the others, though. "Well alright, then."
Then Deadpool changes the song. "Goddamnit Wade, I was listening to that!"
Date..? "This is the good citizen that found Kwabena's phone," she states while thumbing over to Deadpool. And oh look, now Betsy is sitting next to Dom. There's a smile upon her blackened lips, but it's not all there. But Jubilee's chocolate milkshake is! "Hey, kiddo. Nice to see you back on your feet."
Of course, there is a bit of time before joining the table for a quiet word with Psylocke. "That doesn't mean that I have to add to any young one's choice of vocabulary," answers Kwabena. Having casually noticed the shift in Psylocke's demeanor, he adds in a whisper, "Perhaps... this might be a good occasion for a bit of fraternization, rather than business?" He raises his eyebrows, before moving to take a seat.
Dismissing the waitress with an apologetic look, the African watches as Deadpool punches the jukebox, changes the tune, and...
... gets a round of boos from the bar. The place doesn't care much for pop music, it would seem.
"Excuse me." says Kwabena tactfully, before leaning over and punching the jukebox again, this time bringing up a cleverly placed track by The Chemical Brothers. He looks back toward Deadpool with a pleasant smile, only to see that the famed merc has passed out with his head on the table. He casually reaches over and takes back his cellular phone.
"Well, I see we're off to a pleasant evening," he offers. "Now that we're all here and accounted for," he offers, "I propose a toast." His smile softens then, only to be replaced by something a bit more sober. "To changing the future."
The Green Ranger? That seems to fly over a lot of heads...
"You know, there's no reason to conform with racial or gender stereotypes. For instance, Domino, you'd strike me more like Zack Taylor than anybody *else* on the team. Besides," Psylocke pauses to take a demure sip of her gin and tonic, smiling sweetly as she lowers it and gives another gentle stir of the contents. Clankclank. "You're definitely no Amy Jo Johnson."
Every head bar one. Impressively, Betsy didn't even have to pause for thought. Meeting Jubilee's gaze with a ready smile, she tips the edge of her glass toward the plucky Chinese-American, then takes another, somewhat triumphant sip. Though her mood could just be a trick of the light.
She's ready to set her glass down when she notices, first, the lightly snoring head of the merc-with-a-mouth has taken the place normally reserved for an ashtray or a romantic tealight or two. Blinking nonplussed at this new arrangement, the telepath elects to hold onto her glass instead, which happens to coincide perfectly with the proposition of a toast.
"To..." She tails off rather than repeat it unnecessarily, matching the sober expression with an approving purse of the lips, a glance going first to the Ghanaian and then to the monochromatic mercenary beside her. Violet eyes narrow a touch, her own glass shifting forward in one hand as the other settles upon the purse loaded with fresh, crisp banknotes. Apropos of nothing. "To changing the future," she finally echoes, not taking her eyes off Domino until she's done with what follows, "And leaving the past where it belongs."
At which point she arches a brow, and slowly lets her gaze drift back to Kwabena.
Jubilee sighs in relief as Psylocke backs her up. There'd been a few years that she'd liked the show in reruns, though she probably wouldn't admit to that now. Except this once! "I'd like to think I was the Pink Ranger. Wasn't she always the cheerful one?"
She settles into a seat in the booth, crowded or no. She doesn't take up much room, right? "To the future, and the hope that it'll be a good one. With lots of fraternization... fraternization's a good thing, right?" Just don't ask her to spell it. Or what it is.
Domino can't help it. When Deadpool's head thunks down to the table a lopsided grin slooooowly begins to take shape. She's settled back in her seat, slouching, suddenly looking strangely smug. "Night night." There's a glance around to the others when the albino asks "Where were we?"
Odds of spiking Deadpool's drink when he wasn't paying attention: Sucker bet.
Her expression is suddenly blank as she looks back to Betsy, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Toasting, sure, Dom can do that. She grabs her own drink, raises the glass just slightly in more of a token gesture, and eyes Betsy right back. "To unlikely alliances, and prosperous opportunities. Peace and chicken grease." Then she nearly chokes at what Jubilee has to offer, barking out a laugh. "Hell, and to fraternization." She's not going to ask where that one came from, it really doesn't matter. There goes half of yet another drink, regardless.
"So what's got you all dudded up tonight, Veev?" she asks while looking back at Psylocke. "Feel like I should be paying -you,- here."
When talk of the Power Rangers comes up, well, Kwabena is left in the dark. In the Kwesan Village of Ghana, they did not have televisions, nor did they have the internet. By the time he'd reached America, well, he was a bit out of their target demographic, not to mention him being, shall we say, tied up with other things.
Feeling certain that Betsy meant her addition at least in part for him, Kwabena's eyes roam to meet hers. "And leaving the past where it belongs," he agrees, with a remarkable touch of sobriety, before taking some of it away with a quick gulping of his whiskey. It's not that he didn't appreciate the others' toasts, it's just that... well, that one has significant meaning for him. A brief gesture is made toward a passing waitress, an indication that he's ready for two more.
"You know, neither do I," he remarks, in regard to the odd conversation about differently colored rangers. "Though... I think I would guess it has to do with something of entertainment. A... movie, or book series, perhaps even a television show." He smirks slightly and shakes his head. "I'm afraid I don't watch much televis-"
And then he snorts, nearly spitting out the sip of fresh whiskey he'd just taken, at what Domino says to Psylocke. He grabs a napkin from the table and wipes his face, coughing at some of the burning liquid that tried to make its way into his lungs.
"I'm... I'm fine," he chokes. "I'm fine."
The conversation moves along quickly enough that Psylocke doesn't need to explain why she knows so much about a Saturday morning childrens' show, though really - she may have been the daughter of (very) minor nobility, but she's pushing six feet tall and habitually wields a samurai sword. How much could she really explain that wouldn't be obvious with some forethought?
It's moot, because now the air above the table is full of flying bourbon. Leaning back faintly, Betsy doesn't otherwise show any initial reaction to Domino's comment, calmly taking a fourth sip of her gin - she notably didn't drain it during the toast, or even come close. Whether she's a lightweight or just trying to avoid the issue entirely, she's keeping her composure right now, and doesn't deign to respond until after she's set her glass down.
"Is that a fact, Domino? Then I suppose..." Rather languidly, drawing out the final syllable far longer than necessary, the kunoichi pops that designer purse open and slips the copious stack of hundreds out with a two-fingered grapple on the metal clip keeping it all together. "One should hang on to this, shouldn't one?" Waving it briefly in the air, not quite long enough for anybody not already watching to get a decent handle on what she's doing, she then unceremoniously dumps it onto the tabletop beside Deadpool's noggin. *bomp* The table shifts slightly.
The gesture subsequently sent toward the fallen wad is borderline *imperious*.
"Double your fee, which I think should mean that tonight's little tryst should be on your pocketbook." Her tone doesn't leave space for any argument, which isn't to say that the mercenary won't try and start one. "Though," she clears her throat softly, glancing toward Jubilee with a faint wrinkle of her nose. "If you do want to *fraternize*, you're going to need to dig deeper again; this dress alone cost me enough, you don't want to know what I went through for the body beneath it..." There's one more word added to the X-Girl's vocabulary.
That said and done, Psylocke scoops up her glass and drains the remaining contents with a smile.
Jubilation withdraws the hands she'd intended to use to whack Kwa on the back. "Okay, if you're sure..." By her tone, she isn't at all. By her mind, the man might die right in front of her, if she doesn't watch him. So she does!
And then Psylocke addresses Domino on the subject of fraternization. The teen blushes. "Well, nobody told me I should bring a better outfit. I thought we were gonna be fighting the whole time," she says, looking down. Which is still a possibility, with Domino and Psylocke at the same table...
Now that almost predatory grin finds its way back to Kwabena. "Top shelf enough for ya, Shift?"
The bar environment is practically a second home to Domino, hang out with enough rough and rowdy guns for hire and it transforms a person as soon as they set foot inside of these sorts of establishments. Despite everything that's happened to the group, she seems more at ease and, frankly, more of herself than what had previously been displayed.
Or, maybe this is her way of coping with the stress of late. It's not like she makes a habit of letting people know the real her.
Betsy's little display causes a lot of the energy to slip away from Dom's demeanor, watching as that wad of bills is pulled out, waved tauntingly before her, then dropped by none other than the Unconscious Merc with a Mouth. That -does- look like a lot of money. Double..in fact..what the originally settled number happened to be, from the looks of it.
Why does the sight of it leave such a sour taste in her mouth? It's not the booze, either. Not this time.
She buys herself a few seconds more time to think by looking back to Betsy, a thin smile coming back into play. "If I wanted the company of someone from the home team, I wouldn't be paying for it. I'd also stick with someone that knew how to loosen up a little."
..Crap, that isn't nearly enough time to think. Well, first order of business. She reaches out to claim the wad of bills, simply to remove it from the table. The weight of it filling her hand doesn't settle her conscience any, not by the smallest of margins. She did the job, sure. But this isn't what her line of work is supposed to be about. People. -Innocents.- The only ones deserving of their fate weren't much of a challenge, not worth -this- much cash, and given what they were involved with?
She would have put them down for free.
That settles it, doesn't it. "Keep it," she announces while holding it back, between two fingers. There's steady, boring eye contact. Directly at Psylocke. There's even the slightest hint of a smirk, entirely devoid of any accompanying emotion. Not even a snarky remark follows, though several jump to her mind. Time and place, Domino. This isn't either.
If these two get into a fight tonight, it isn't going to be over this matter.
Embarrassment be damned, Kwabena cannot help but be entertained by the way Psylocke entertains the table with such a wad of cash. He clears his throat one final time, then shoots a mirthful look back at Domino. "You have no idea how far I can go," he remarks, before canting his head aside to Jubilation. "You see? You aren't the only one with nicknames." He looks more directly to her, raising his eyebrows. "They also call me... -The Shifter-!"
Oh, he put a fair bit of emphasis on it, just to see how she'd react. In truth, he finds the whole idea of having some... -superhero- name... repulsive. But, also, funny.
The exchange between Psylocke and Domino is far from missed, and he turns to watch them both warily for a moment. "Rule number one, when it comes to maintaining a secret identity," he mentions to Jubilee, "is never start a bar fight. I think these two are seasoned enough to know this?" With a lopsided smirk, he looks back toward Psylocke and remarks, "At least your mutation isn't prone to, ah, wardrobe malfunctions." He casts over to Domino next, saying, "/I/ had to fight tigers for this body." His free hand comes up to thump his chest.
Which was a bad idea. He's quickly reminded of his injuries, and hisses sharply when the pain wracks him. In response, he lifts the glass and drinks it quickly, then reaches for the other one, doubling down on the measure to whisk away that pain. "Jesus Christ," he curses, forgetting his manners. "Those claws must have had rat poison in them!"
Conscience is a funny thing. This wouldn't be the first time that the kunoichi has seen it change a person; over time she's even experiencing the same phenomenon, albeit in a bizarre reversal, the weight of guilt has galvanized her into becoming more detached... more effective. Perhaps along the way these two are destined to meet in the middle, finding that perfect blend of empathy and brutality. Right now, it feels more as though Domino is taking a single step toward the relative extreme occupied by Psylocke. And it's unnerving.
Playful aggression crumbles before the gesture, the predatory smile fading to a grimace then flattening to an uncertain, frowny line. Even that doesn't last long, the bottom lip drawn in to fall prey to pearly white teeth. Betsy's deliberately avoiding getting a read on Domino's psyche-- and she's too busy shutting out the residual noise of the bar and the city beyond to do so even subconsciously. Violet eyes harden and soften alternately in the space of the few painfully long seconds it takes to analyze the situation, and then reach for the returned cash.
Her fingertips almost recoil instinctively, as though it were going to *bite*.
"You confuse me, Domino," she confesses with a released sigh winding through her words, the money disappearing back into that purse almost thoughtlessly. She's used to making swift exchanges of that order, when she has to. "And not in *that* way." Her amendment comes with a smile, but it's harder and more distant than those before, not reaching her eyes - which continue to examine those of the patch-eyed mercenary. "But I'll take this at face value."
She's not going to be the one to crumple and start getting soft, so rather than actually say those dreaded words, she simply inclines her head in brief thanks, resettling her purse against her left hip and reaching out for her empty glass, drumming her fingers against the side.
Glancing back to Kwabena, she tries to soften the blow of his injuries - which she intends to have examined further whether he objects or no - with another, warmer smile. He said something about leaving business behind? So she's convicted in doing as such.
"Looks like the drinks are on me. Let's see if we can't bring that poison up, hmm?"
With the poise of the upper classes, she beckons a waitress to the table, drawing a preparatory breath. Time to up their game.
"Whoa... easy, Mister Kwa!" Jubilee says quickly, leaning over to pat his shoulder. "The Surgeon General reports that breastbeating can be hazardous to your health, especially when you've been clawed there. Maybe we'd better get you back to the apartment for some proper first aid." Which she's offering to do. Jubes might not be Doctor House, but she can patch up injuries just fine. She's aware of the strange, subtle currents between Psylocke and Domino, but the person in pain comes first in her mind.
"I confuse myself sometimes, too," Dom admits as though it's the most natural thing in the world for a person to say. At least Betsy takes the money back, she'd hate to have to find somewhere to tuck it away upon the other woman. They're aiming for a tolerable alliance here, that sort of action is not at all condusive to such an end result.
As soon as the money disappears, the matter ceases to exist. Not up for discussion, not up for question. Yet, the thoughts linger within her mind. Endlessly stirring about in lazy circles like the half-melted cubes of ice within a watered-down drink.
There's a better analogy. Take notes, dear sleeping Wade.
Leave it to the youthful energy of Jubilee to say something so completely off the wall that it would be criminal to not laugh, Dom's attention turning in full to the other two coherent individuals at the table. "The Surgeon General's gonna have to call in the troops as soon as he gets a good look at Kwa, there. Don't worry, kiddo. We just need to keep the drinks coming, he'll be too snockered to care in no time." And, thinking of things unreasonably being neglected, she finishes off the next drink sitting oh so patiently in front of her.
"Don't worry," assures Kwabena to the young girl sitting next to him, and shoots her a convincing smile. "The pain is gone." He tips the glass Jubilee's way, and offers his best attempt (and possible failure) of fatherly wisdom. "Adult medicine. I highly..." Matter Phase Shift? Try Opinion Shift (?)! "... uh, /don't/ recommend it. Regular first aid is much, much better." He nods in an almost sage-like manner.
Though if she's ever seen Logan drink, she might see right through that lie.
Was it so that the African was intentionally keeping his distance from the conversation that developed between Domino and Psylocke? Perhaps. He's done plenty of meddling. Too much, one might say, though it /did/ in effect bring those two women together, and whether that will end up good or bad, well, that's to be discovered on the next DVD.
When the waitress arrives, Kwabena taps his fingers against a chin thoughtfully. "Hmmm," he muses. "Scotch?" Then he shakes his head. "No, no. Scotch is too slow. Martini's are too... Manhattan." He looks back at Domino and Psylocke, trying to get a bead on each. He knows for a fact that Domino enjoys her whiskey, which was a plus on his side of the table by the way, but Psylocke had a singular taste in the manner of gin and tonic.
He wonders.
Leaning forward, the Ghanaian develops quite the glimmer of mirth in his mismatched eyes. "How do you ladies feel about... /tequilla/?" He smiles daringly, revealing his pearly whites behind a face that is no longer up to /any/ good.
In fact, while he'd rather pointedly ignored Domino's ribbing, he now stares at her directly in the face. A challenge, unashamedly delivered!
There's a hastily swallowed cough from Psylocke as Jubilee makes her outburst. No matter how she personally tries to treat the spunky Chinese-American, she's never quite sure how much she gets half of what she says - and how much Miss Lee is secretly running rings around everybody. Still, there's a serious message there that should probably come first in order.
"Don't listen to him, Jubilation. He recommends it well enough. But he *will* be fine. Tonight's just about something other than worrying, and bothering ourselves with the details. How often do we get a chance to relax?"
Particularly hours after laying waste to-- no, she doesn't want to think about it either.
Settling for a pleasant smile, and not even directing a meaningful glance to Domino to punctuate that they still have pressing business regarding 'missing' details, she listens to the ensuing debate as the waitress stands there patiently smiling and bobbing on her feet to the music.
Elegance is an art to be appreciated, and there's few drinks more quietly cultured than the humble gin and tonic - with a twist of one's citrus of choice, should the waitress remember - but Kwabena fails to factor into the equation the circumstance of Betsy Braddock's heritage. Being blessed with the strong constitution of a stolen body is one thing, but she hails from a rocky island where men are men and women are also frankly a /little bit like men/. There's no sign of a falter when the conclusion is reached, just a gentle tip of her head, and a hand coming up underneath the chin as she directs violet eyes up toward the waitress.
"Eighteen tequila slammers, please," she so very nearly *chimes*, unable and honestly unwilling to do anything about the gleam in her gaze as it ping-pongs slyly between Kwabena and Domino. She doesn't just surprise with her knowledge of early nineties pop culture. "Oh," looking back to the waitress, she decides it's time to stop treating Jubilee like quite such a child as most of the table has been. "And a bellini." Okay, so still a bit like a child.
But it's better than a milkshake.
"Well, if you're sure," Jubilation replies. "Though I don't think that's intended for medicinal purposes." Might explain a lot, really. "Mind if I borrow your couch again, Mister Kwa? I'm starting to feel dizzy... I think I need to lie down, and I definitely can't do that here." Psylocke gets a smile, and so does the waitress. "Hold the bellini, whatever that is. Maybe next time?"
Fortunately, if Kwa can still feel his chest, he can find his pockets. The teenager claims the key and gives him a quick hug of gratitude. Psylocke gets one as well as Jubilee slips out of the booth and hurries for the door. She has to catch herself on the doorjamb before she exits. Yes, she's definitely feeling a little dizzy. Must be the roof falling on her before.
Shift is upping the ante, is he? That smirk finally returns in all of its proper glory to the albino, the tip of her tongue wetting those onyx lips. Her empty glasses are lightly brushed aside, a slight glint of amusement in her eyes for once as she looks back to Kwabena. "Challenge accepted. Bring the pain."
And then Betsy does something else to surprise her. Eyebrows hook upward slightly as she turns back to the psychic. "Well hey, look who finally decided to join the fun. That's exactly the kind of loosening up I meant."
Once the waitress clears out Dom shifts to other matters at hand, mainly the question that's been on her mind for plenty long enough. Deadpool's out. Jubilee's scooting out for a nap. Kwabena, he can stay and listen in on this. Fingers slowly lace together, propped upward on elbows as she leans over the table as though trying to subconsciously make the other woman feel cornered.
"So," she starts in all conversationally. "How'd you know to get that vault door open?"
Meanwhile, Kwabena is doing the math. It takes a few moments, you know, four shots of whiskey deep and all, but when he finally comes to that figure of 'six each', the grin comes back to his face in full. He's momentarily distracted by Jubilee, and offers his spare key without hesitation, before laughing slightly when she hugs him. "We'll have our eyes on you," he remarks. "Be safe."
And then, he looks back to Domino and Psylocke, merely... observing. The waitress, having reached the bar to deliver the order, turns with the bartender to look at the trio plus one knocked out merc. The bartender shrugs and goes to work with the tall order.
Cornered, is it? It's been quite some time since the former secret agent found herself in a corner from which she could find absolutely no escape; though Domino at least gets the gratification of a little squirming, as Betsy leans back in her seat and loosens out her shoulders rather pointedly. The smile doesn't fade for an instant, however, as she maintains a level gaze upon the mercenary. Apparently none of them get to avoid business entirely.
"Because that facility was at least financed and equipped by an organization known as the Hand," she replies in the most breezy, matter-of-fact tone, reaching up to tuck in a loose strand of purple hair before she continues at the same leisurely pace, "And there was a time that the entire Hong Kong underworld took a knee before me as one of their representatives. I've got a long memory, Domino, and sometimes... bad people don't think things all the way through."
That seems to be the sum of her answer, a loose shrug punctuating the end as Betsy breathes a contented sigh. Somehow enigmatic even while in the spirit of full disclosure, she favours the mercenary with one last twinkle-eyed look and then looks up to greet the returning waitress. Nodding brief thanks, she's the first to reach out and grab the provided salt shaker. A line of salt across the crook of her thumb, a slice of lemon in hand, and she only pauses to say:
"Bottoms up."
Before slamming back the first of six. Let's see who keeps up with whom.
Now this is something to think about. Only the confident and the foolhardy have a physical reaction like what Betsy's going through. Dom's going to go ahead and give her the benefit of doubt, it's confidence. She would have been disappointed if it was anything else. "I've heard of them," she simply remarks when the name is brought up.
The next part is a little more difficult to believe. Mutants are always a difficult thing to classify by their nature. Maybe Betsy lived for a really freaking long time. Maybe..something else? It's not something that Domino could confirm, it's just not possible to. Instead, the truth is in the eyes. The window to the soul. Someone -did not say- something like that without having something to back up the claim.
Imagine her surprise when she sees something in Psylocke's eyes that had been missed before. None of what these two had shared before this moment could prepare her for that instinctive unknown, nothing that a mutant power could detect so much as ..intuition. Something..isn't..right. There's more to this woman than what lies upon the surface, and it can hide itself well when it chooses to.
Domino actually retreats, quietly settling back into her seat. "It's a good thing that I didn't piss you off in a former life then, isn't it," she says as though easily dismissing the entire matter once and for all.
Is it odd that Kwabena is the only one here that doesn't seem to have any secrets?
A ghostly white hand, capped with sleek black nails, catches one of the glasses. She's got a lot of work to do. Shame that it can't all be as fun as the task that's set before her now.
Well now, this is interesting. While Kwabena may have been confused at the dialogue earlier that was disjointed at best, this confession of Betsy's does seem to clear a few things up. He just looks between them as something happens. He could dare not say what, but he can see that it is something pointed.
What Domino may not know is that Kwabena does have secrets. They are ones that involve needles, and shame.
It is with that thought that he takes his first shot, salt, lemon and all, just like the others. He may not be a ninja telepath who's lived more than one life, nor is he a battle hardened mercenary, but he has had his own unique hardships; the things that have toughened him in ways that speak volumes of their own.
And so it is that he goes for round two... and three... and off to six, as if it were nothing more than second nature to him. He doesn't say a word, merely enjoying the company of two people he's come to trust, against all odds and wholly against his distrusting nature.
Oddly enough, when all is said and done, he makes a quiet departure. He merely nods his head in a sluggish respect to Betsy, flashes Domino a quirky grin, then walks surprisingly steadily toward the door.
Kwabena's departure is... odd. Surprising. But Bety's shared a great deal with the Ghanaian; in a burning, elongated instant their conscious minds knew a brief rapport that's given her enough insight to know when to hold back. She returns his nod, smiles, reaches for a second glass--
Then glances back to Domino. And then there were two. Let the games begin.