Trigger Warning

March 24, 2016:

Northstar and Lwa push each other's buttons in rapid succession.

NYC

Characters

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Lwa

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Spring was being a jerk. Maybe, just maybe, it had forgotten the memo to keep heating up instead of sling-shotting back into allowing snow to fall and the air to nip. Either way, it wasn't fair, even less so to someone who was use to living so deep in the south that the idea of ice was special and was in an amazing section of the fridge.

With her hands deep into the pockets of a jacket, a girl walks with clunky boots down the side walk, making sure to not bump into too many people as they cattle themselves from place to place. Her jeans still had holes in them, but half of her face was wrapped up in a scarf, exposing her eyes and a massive collection of dark floof atop her head. She had a destination in mind, along with what deliciously hot beverage she would purchase once there.

"HELP! STOP! HE HAS MY PURSE!" A woman cries out, causing the girl to stall, consider playing 'hero' or to just leave it alone. She wasn't exactly the most innocent of people herself, but once her snake like peepers settle on the crying woman, who was old, hunched over, and grasping at air with one hand as the other frantically taps away with a walking stick; that was the kicker. Herotime. Her steps become lighter until they jolt into a sprint, the girl rather fast when she put her body in motion. Soon after, she was chasing the culprit, bobbing and weaving through pedestrian traffic.

A rush of air goes by Lyn, so fast and strong that it might almost spin her off her feet if she's not careful. No, not just a rush of air — a figure, an object moving in space. A person! That person shoulder-checks the purse thief going at a speed that's painful but not fatal, and sends him flying like a stuntman who'd just been whacked by a car.

The dust settles, and Jean-Paul Beaubier, dressed smartly in dark colors. He adjusts his sleeves and smooths the down vest he's keeping warm with. The thief is on the ground, groaning.

"Yes, well, perhaps you should not be stealing if you cannot face the consequences," Jean-Paul says casually as he leans down to pick up the bag and return it to its owner.

Lyn does fall, after giving a twirl on her toes and heels, her shoulder and arm drag across brick and stone before she meets concrete. Muttering a curse or two in French, and under her breath, the girl stands then and rubs at her limb, giving her feet a wiggle or two so that her ankles don't ache as much.

Her steps draw her closer to the dapper figure in dark hues, and once she realizes he did actually help, some of the furrow in her brows lightens and smooths away. After the small lady gives her rush of thanks for the return of her bag, Lyn reaches out toward Jean-Paul and taps his arm expectantly. "Hey," she begins.

"T'anks f'helpin'. Jus'…be a bit careful next time?"

Jean-Paul turns toward Lyn and is about to chastise her about something. That much is clear on his face by the time he turns — he's ready to rebuke her for… whatever. Then when she speaks, his face softens. This is all relative, of course, because he is not a man who does 'soft' expressions often.

"Je suis desole," Jean-Paul says, like he's just tossing it out there rather than actually meaning it. His accent is straight outta Montreal. "I was doing my best to avoid pedestrians. Clearly I did not do as good of a job as I had wanted."

Her mouth bunches to one side, pursing silently in consideration, the expression hidden away but the wrapping of her scarf. "Pardonne." She replies in return, her own accent like the polar opposite of the man's own; regardless the mother of their tongues is one in the same. Rolling her shoulders, she gives her arm another brushing before glancing back toward the blind woman and then to Jean-Paul. "Y'don' good, dough. Ain't no d'nyin' dat. Jus' made dat lady's day, so, t'anks."

Giving him the once over, her slitted pupils dilate natutally to the light before thinning again. "How…How'd y'not make y'suit all catch on fire n'all dat. Sorry. Jus' never seen a speedster b'fore."

"I was not going fast enough to cause that," Jean-Paul says. He sounds like a guy who does not enjoy answering questions about things. Like some kind of celebrity or something, an above-it-all type. Still, he lifts one foot. "But it was fast enough for this."

The sole of the French-Canadian's otherwise very nice shoe is shredded like someone took a cheese grater to it.

By now, people are recognizing Jean-Paul and taking photos. "Ah, damn. You will excuse me, I hope. I will not be their circus animal today." Jean-Paul starts departing in a huff. He's actually moving at normal speed — normal angry stompy speed, but still. He doesn't want to give these vultures the satisfaction of filming him using his powers. But this means even Lyn can catch up to him!

Lyn gives a low whistle at that, the noise caught against woven fabric, but easily heard given their proximity to one another. "Dat's a shame." Where JP is high class, the flooftastic one is anything but and it shows. A flash blinds her for a moment, causing her to blink and give another curse, and shortly after the man moves, she jogs to catch up. "Y'famous or somet'ing?" She didn't know, and the question was as genuine as it could be.

Matching his stride, she glances behind the pair, and then forward so not to run into anyone as they 'storm' away. "I get not wantin' t'draw 'ttention to y'self. Merde, I hate it, personally, but y'gon' be ok in dem shoes? Don' hurt none, does it?"

Jean-Paul looks down at Lyn like he's almost surprised she's still trotting next to him. "Yes, I am famous or something," he responds to the fluff-haired youngster. He sounds almost exasperated with having to say it! Like, how dare she not recognize him.

"My feet will be fine," he insists firmly. "I can afford to buy a new pair of shoes. Unless you are offering, which I sincerely doubt." Such is the famous (or something) charm of Jean-Paul Beaubier!

"M'jus' tryin' t'make sure you'll be ok, s'all. I can' probably get y'more shoes, but…well, don' t'ink y'need me buyin' 'em for y'. Shit, jus' look at y'self. Don' see many pretty people bein' chased off f'bein' popular." Shrugging, she watches as some of the people give chase, while others go about their lives.

Perhaps the baby mambo was star struck, or perhaps she was curious, and it was very possible that it was a mixture of both. "So," she asks, again, turning down any sidewalk he does. "Who are you? Why y'famous?"

If Jean-Paul is headed anywhere in particular, he certainly does not tell Lyn. He finally has to stop walking when they're at a crosswalk — the glowing red hand warns them off. He considers super-speeding across the street, but even an inactive superhero must consider the public safety. "Hmmh," he pouts.

"I won a gold medal at the Olympics," Jean-Paul finally says to Lyn, looking at her like he's being made to give a book report in front of the whole class. "My name is Jean-Paul Beaubier. I was a professional skier. And, as you saw, I am also a mutant. When I told the world that, my gold medal was taken away, because they decided it was not won in fair competition." Jean-Paul snorts. He's totes bitter about that, still. "So. There you are. That is why I am famous."

"Dat's bullshit." Lyn almost spits behind her half 'mask'. Looking up at the stop light, she sways from side to side before resting with her hip jutted out to the right. "If y'won n'it didn' have t'do wit speed, den dey jus' bein' stupid n'unfair. Had my share a'unfair, too. So…m'sorry dat dat happened." Her words are soft, understanding on some level, and most of all, sincere. Once the light turns, she waits for Jean-Paul to move before she walks after him, keeping him company.

"M'Lynette LaCroux. I ain't famous of nothin', dough. Don' t'ink m'a mutant, neither. Met a few! Nice people."

"Skiing is all about speed," Jean-Paul huffs, like she just accidentally impugned on the dignity of his beloved sport. He walks, jamming his hands in his pockets, perhaps more out of being sullen than out of being cold. "And unless you were on the IOC as a tiny infant, you have nothing to apologize for, so do not."

Yeah! Touchy about the medal thing. "Ah, so you are just a garden variety snake person, then. Interesting." The way Jean-Paul says 'interesting,' it's not clear if he actually means it. "And mutants are more than nice people. They are in fact, simply people. No different from the differences between Chinese and Brazilian."

"I didn' mean…well, yeah dey jus' people. People c'n be nice, dough." She finally stalls in her steps with the man, allowing him to move forward, and away from her. "I ain't run a'da mill, neither. N'dey not'ing wrong wit dat." One side goes one way, and the other falls to another side.

Jean-Paul stops when he realizes Lyn is not walking alongside him, and then turns to look back at her. "Of course there is nothing wrong with that. I told the world that I was a mutant because I did not want to live my life pretending to be something that I was not. Because there is nothing wrong with what, or who, I am." Jean-Paul has that fiery Quebecois thing going for him. If he wasn't being such a prick, he might come off hotter for it. Or he might anyway.

"Well, den maybe y'ain't jus' people. N'it ain't bad t'be not jus' people. Jus' matters if y'nice or not." The girl was getting nervous now, her teeth set to nibbling at her hidden lips, as she pulls away from the bustling sidewalk, and rests against the side wall of an alley. Whatever was said, even as lightly as it has been said, the floofy-haired girl was reacting.

Patting her pockets, she draws out a pair of glasses, sunnies to be exact, and slips them onto her face with a practiced, almost second nature, ease.

Northstar tilts his chin up, eyeing Lyn like he's trying to deduce how big her ears are to the
exact millimeter. He finally lets out a quiet huff of breath. "I apologize, then. For calling you a snake person. It was out of line, and I apologize." He sounds like the act of apologizing might actually be poisoning his body.

Lyn looks toward the former Olympian, but doesn't move away from the comfortable darkness of her alley shadows. She doesn't speak, not at first, but it's apparent by the position of her head that she's probably staring at him. "Don' say not'ing y' don' mean. Y'right, dough. Was outta line, but…y'probably say shit like dat all de time, don' ya?" She wasn't asking to get an answer, that much was apparent. What was also apparent was her sudden lack of 'joy' at speaking with a celebrity.

"Well, dey's lotta people up de road a'ways. Dey havin' some type a book signin' at de shop down dere. Y'won' avoid people n'dey cameras, I wouldn't go dat way."

Jean-Paul breathes in through his nose, and still looks at Lyn like he's trying to figure something out about her. "I mean what I say," he replies, evenly. "I just do not like saying it, especially because I mean it." His lips quirk into a frown, the kind that comes from discomfort rather than spite.

"Well. Thank you for the tip." Jean-Paul turns to begin walking a different way. "Ah. Here." He walks over to Lynette, takes out his wallet, and uses a gentle touch of super-speed to put money in her hand and close said hand around it before she can resist. "Buy new jeans. If you do have reptilian powers, this is no weather to go around with holes in your clothes." THEN he turns to walk away.

"De hell…" Lyn questions as she notices some foriegn texture against her palm. Looking at the cash, she gives a soft growl from the pit of her throat. Walking after Jean, stomping almost, she presses the money into his pocket. "Don' need de handout. I ain't one." She explains, defiantly. "T'anks, n'all dat, but I paid f'dese t'ings wit de holes in'em. Fashion, or somet'ing like dat." Her jaw tenses, as does the rest of her lithe, lanky figure. "Guess we both got our triggers, non?"

"And I don't need the money. Buy ice cream with it if you want." Jean-Paul doesn't take the money back out to shove at her. He seems just as defiant, but in a more stoic, responsive way. He doesn't have to puff his chest out. He just keeps whatever he's feeling from being well and truly seen. "It would seem we do. I think this is the part in the movie where we're supposed to go on a date, but I have other commitments."

"Merde. If I be in a movie, den I hate de writers n'de director. Bastards, all of 'em." Looking at the cash again, she takes a deep breath, sighing it outward through her nostrils. "I like icecream," she confesses gently, and folds up the bills to slip into her back pocket. "I get de icecream, but only if y'join me. Seein' how y'got other commitments, den I guess we waitin' f'another day on dat."

Jean-Paul reaches for his wallet again. He holds up a hand as if to steady Lyn, and keep her from protesting — and then he goes into it and pulls out a business card. A pen is produced from his pocket, and he scribbles his number on it. A local area code, too! "My phone. I will be back in New York in one week. Call me."

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