You know my father, Scott

April 10, 2018:

Following a recon of the Brotherhood's operations. Cable determines it's time to make contact.

Russian Bar - Hell's Kitchen

Generic Russian bar. Backroom for terrorism.


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Cyclops


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

[INTERIOR – Red Square Restaurant — Back Room]

The lights flicker briefly off and on as those devices which are wired into the city’s power grid experience a momentary brownout. A beat later all is normal.

A few moments after that the manual alarm goes off the warning an electronic buzz and flashing light. Someone may look impulsively to the high-definition screen that monitors the front of the house..

[ZOOM IN: Tight upon the backroom: MONITOR – Red Square Restaurant — Front House]
[SOUND: From the perspective of someone in the back room as heard through concrete walls and steel door]

The door opens to permit a hulking figure who is built more like humanoid refrigerator than a man into the establishment. The weapon he bears is slightly over a meter in length with a stock that resembles an oversized assault rifle and an elliptical barrel that is nine inches in circumference such that it has more in common with a cannon than a conventional firearm.

Looking beyond the artillery, the gray-haired man is adorned in combat fatigues the ballistic vest he wears appears to be stuffed with trauma plates that resemble the ablative armor of a tank. It bristles with pouches and bandoliers that seem to be a mix of reserve ammunition, futuristic grenades, and anti-personnel explosives. He makes it about five steps into the establishment before the alarm goes off, triggered from beneath the bar..

Simultaneous with the alarm the waitress, Karen Watson, emits a shriek that is barely audible beyond the door and dives off-camera for cover. Behind the bar is Boris ‘Igor’ Popv whose employment at the establishment was a part of the tit-for-tat trade with the Kingpin’s Russian associates for setting up this cover. Likely someone’s tough-but-brainless nephew.

‘Igor’ grabs a handgun from beyond the bar. He shouts something not audible in the background except as a muffled sound. The interloper continues forward. The handgun gun fires twice. The suppressed sound of gunshots is quite audible. An aura flickers about the invader as if he were surrounded by an energy shield. The future-warrior releases the fore-grip of his weapon and his cybernetic arm swells as he points distinctly at ‘Igor’ causing the handgun to spring from the mafioso’s hand and into Cable’s grasp. The weapon is crushed and unceremoniously dropped to the ground. The Askani’son continues forward.

‘Igor’ springs the bar and goes to block the door to the back room, “You have no idea who you’re messing with,” is partially audible through the door because of the proximity. The invader’s cybernetic arms snaps with the speed of a cobra — palm meeting greaser forehead.

«THUD» Very audible. Skull meets steel door.

Nathan Summers releases and the fellow falls to the ground, twitching. Knotting his fist he would then peck firmly upon the door like some sort of terminator-meets-gentleman caller, “I just want to talk,” he says voice muffled through steel.


There is silence in the wake of that inquiry, as the restaurant empties hurriedly of its few remaining staff behind Cable's patient form. The most panicked exeunts always are oddly silent, as people opt to focus all their energies on 'getting the fuck away' rather than on unnecessary noise. Noise draws the predator, after all.

Silence — and then a wry voice, filtered through that steel door. "You have a very funny way of talking."

Most people would keep the door firmly shut, at this juncture. But the young terrorist known most publicly as 'Quicksilver' is certainly not most people, and the door opens cordially at his direction as if he were inviting Nathan Summers in for tea. It's a move that makes several things very immediately plain about Pietro Maximoff: first and foremost that he is amazingly self-confident… to use the charitable phrasing. Mind-bogglingly arrogant would be the less charitable.

Especially since a glance around would reveal the son of Magneto to be quite alone. (Presumably).

It is uncommon that Quicksilver is alone, but it does happen. He is more prone to range afield than his sister, due to the nature of his powers, and it so happens that he's left her and Frenzy elsewhere and popped over here to take care of a few things, while they were finishing other business. What things those are shall be left to the imagination — Cable is rather a bigger issue than them. Quite literally.

The young man glances downwards. Igor twitches on the floor.

"Poor Igor," Pietro muses, regarding the man. "Did he fall in my defense? His zeal is admirable, if his discernment somewhat less so. He might have had a better chance hiding behind me."

His gaze lifts. "Shall we talk?"


In the apocalyptic future, someone might someday recover the camera footage and wonder if the Askani’son had somehow divined Pietro’s solitude and opted to leverage the man’s hubris in order to assure an encounter whose violence was reduced to a pair of gunshots and a severe concussion.

When the door is opened Cable looms just outside its frame and although his body betrays no physical reflex in response to the change in environment his gaze sweeps across Pietro before moving into the backroom and then returning to the terrorist. Gaze tightens perceptively at the question as if contemplating his question but his response is simply a shrug of the heavy pauldrons upon his shoulders, “Doubt it,” Cable replies his voice a gravelly baritone as he steps over Igor’s body then and brushes past Pietro, “You would have betrayed him. Moved.”

Stepping fully into the backroom Cable seems to casually observe the decor, “I would have; if I were you,” he admits matter-of-factly.

Then turning around he waits until at least the door is closed, brawny arms casually clutching the future-cannon, “I was working on an operation to break into TRASK but you beat me to it,” he says the even delivery failing to betray his speedster joke, “I’m here to negotiate an exchange of resources. Our operational goals are aligned even if our ideologies may diverge. What I need is the intelligence you recovered during your operation. In return I will provide to you any actionable information derived from the data."


Someone might wonder that. It would certainly be a valid tactic. It would not be the first time someone leveraged Pietro's confidence in his own powers to draw him out from cover. Whatever the case, it works to get the door open, because no one will ever accuse Quicksilver of hiding behind steel while someone demanded audience.

Cable gets an equally appraising look once said door is open, the rapidity of Pietro's gaze suggesting that for all his casual insouciance, he is operating on high alert: his powers fully stretched. Each second is practically drawn out into a week, at the speeds in which Quicksilver currently lives. Apparently seeing nothing about the other man's expressions to cause immediate alarm, he — turns slightly as Cable just brushes past, inviting himself in.

The warrior's cynical observation raises white brows. "Possibly. Point taken. Or — I might have caught the bullet." His gaze sweeps the futuristic aspect of Cable's weaponry and armor as he says it, however, the watchful aspect to his blue eyes belying the light he makes of all this.

His demeanor sobers when Cable gets straight to the point. Pietro's white head cants, the speedster considering the words. Particularly the part where he speaks of their ideologies diverging. It's a straightforward offer Cable makes, a sensible one. And yet the Twins did not survive to adulthood by trusting pretty words up front.

"You'll excuse me for inquiring who you are, as the first step in such a negotiation." A pause. "You do not look like you are from around here."


“Bullet,” Cable repeats the word with a sardonic humor as the index finger of his right hand taps the space above the trigger guard of his weapon.

“Nathan Summers,” he informs Pietro with specific emphasis on his surname, “You know my father, Scott.” It’s a statement of fact, not a question, “He’s still working with the hospitals on your medical bills.” There’s a hint of luminescence to his right eye except yellow light where one might expect crimson.

“It’s a long story,” the Askani’son informs the man gruffly, “and the temporal causality that leads to my future is not something I have the patience to explain in great detail. I’m here because at some point the human war against mutants leads to the near-extinction of both races. I’ve done some future-math and its told me that if we give the mutants a fighting chance whether it’s peaceful coexistence or domination I think that we can circumvent the Apocalypse.” He delivers the term 'future-math' with a dread seriousness — without any sort of humor.


Bullet, repeats Cable. The weapon sits innocently in the crook of his arm, between them both, quiescent and eminently futuristic. Pietro glances at its barrel.

"Of an uncommon caliber, certainly," he acknowledges. "Or does it fire lasers? That does render Igor's theoretical fate a little more uncertain." He still does not quite fully state he would have betrayed anyone, for all his smart mouth. Perhaps an odd stance for a known violent terrorist… but then, a man as blisteringly fast as Quicksilver has many more options and choices to make, even within the split-second of a weapon discharging, than most.

He wasn't quite expecting a frank answer to his inquiry, however. Nathan Summers, the man so introduces himself. Pietro is midway through already making one assumption, when Cable's laconic clarification rolls in.

You know my father, Scott.
my father, Scott
my father

"Okay," Pietro says. "Yeah."

Moving on. Cable says it's a long story, and Pietro doesn't question it aloud. He already has one good way to verify the veracity of such outlandish stories. Later. "Summers could have had a conversation with us. He chose blood instead. I understand old grudges, but not when we are all faced with extermination at human hands. The school is more than wealthy enough to cover his expenses, I have no doubt," he dismisses.

Cable says he does not have the patience to explain in depth. "Well and good," Pietro says. "I do not have the patience to hear it. All we want is to give mutants a fighting chance in the war being waged against them. If that is your goal, then we have no quarrel."

He is silent a moment, before he reaches a determination. "The collar is not with me," he says, abruptly. "I do not make it a habit to carry it around on my person. But we are willing to show it to you. It is already in the process of being reverse-engineered, if that is anything you have a particular skill or interest in." He just assumes Cable might, because the man just said future-math. "If not… Trask still needs stopping, and words will not do it."


“The only way to find out is to be on the wrong end of it,” is Cable’s dry response to the ballistic capabilities of his weapon, “Maybe someday you’ll find out.” He utters in a way that is less threatening than it is the rote recitation of a possible future.

“I’m not here to talk about Scott,” Nathan replies flatly, “Old grudges. Old money. I’m concerned with where we’re going not where you’ve been.”

“I don’t have a quarrel with you,” Cable states, “Magneto. Xavier. They’re the flip of a coin in the multiverse. It’s important that they both land face up but it’s more important that the coin land altogether.”

“Yeah,” he accepts where the collar is not, “Didn’t think you were keeping it in a safe in the wall. The attack was too smart to for you to be that stupid. I’m glad you’ve passed it around. The duplication of the schematics will insulate it from being easily eliminated. At this point I don’t see a risk in its accessibility. It has a very specific purpose if its purpose were disease or death then it would be less complex. The only way I can see to make it worse is to introduce an element of psychochemical control; Make the slaves docile. Don’t need a collar for that though. Humans are good at control.”

“Provide me with the intelligence,” he restates his objective, “Even if I don’t make headway on the design I can assure that the plans are afforded an additional layer of safety in the event your cells are exposed. As an added bonus,” he intones with a sort-of flat showmanship, “I’ll demonstrate what this gun does when I turn it against Trask.”


"Maybe," Pietro agrees blithely, with Cable's not-a-threat. "I know under which circumstances I'd prefer."

As far as Scott? "I'll be the last person to complain about 'not talking about Scott Summers,'" he dismisses the topic, still blithe, though a certain tension does go out of him. Perhaps he expected the son to make his father's wounds an issue. It is a relief that Nathan Summers appears fully confident in his father's ability to fight his own battles — or indifferent to him. Either or.

Pietro is the last person to judge when it comes to father issues.

His demeanor sobers as Cable speaks on. For all his famous ego, Pietro doesn't waste time preening at the assessment of whether the op — and their subsequent handling of the collar — was smart or not. "Disseminating the collar was a risk," he acknowledges, "but equally likely to pay off in a quick crowdsourcing of multiple counters to it."

But Cable came here for a specific purpose, one he reiterates. As well as a deadly promise. Quicksilver's eyes narrow at the very name 'Trask.'

Pietro considers Cable a moment longer, before he nods. "We need a little prep time. There's a warehouse at the corner of West 40th and 12th," he says eventually. "A little south of Pier 81. You meet us there in a few days' time, we'll bring the collar there and what other intelligence we have. My sister will wish to meet you."

It is as tactful an offer as he can make to a relative stranger, under the circumstances. A known location, with both parties having time to reconnoiter the area beforehand.


“Okay,” Cable remarks.

Shifting the rifle from the crook of his cybernetic arm there is the faintest whir of advanced machinery as steely fingers reach into the front pockets of his flak jacket. He produces black prepaid cell phone. The flip phone is archaic by the standards of a millennial. Without so much as a word he flicks it toward Pietro confident that a man who claims to catch bullets can intercept the toss.

“Text me, or,” dramatic pause, “I’ll be back.”

And then he states, “Body slide by one.”

Concurrently the lights flicker and his form is suffused in white energy. With heightened perceptions Pietro could likely perceive that his body is digitized; the moment between presence digital disassembly creating an eighth of a second where reality appears to have turned off his anti-aliasing. A tenth of a second later he’s gone.

The lights return to normal.

The phone has a single contact in the address book: CABLE.

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