Do-Over Denied

May 31, 2018:

Drake is approached by the X-Men and invited to check out the school.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

One might think a few weeks of this life would make sleeping outside or huddled with boxes more bearable. It doesn't. Every night is different; new sounds, new things to keep aware of, new concerns that he may have upset a supervillain the day before and is now openly vulnerable snoozing in some alley… the list goes on, really. But one must sleep, and doing so during the day with its traffic noise and increased heat is just miserable. All this to say Drake is not looking his best.

Not far from the site of the incident yesterday involving a shimmery gold robot and an amorphous supervillain, Drake is tucked just inside the lip of an alley. The teen is huddled low, emerald gaze half-lidded, and sticking to the shade the tall flanking buildings provide. He's trying to take it easy today. He'll have to scavenge food later, but for now, conserving energy seems to be the play. Thankfully most people just pass him, sparing only the occasional disfavorable look.

The cellphone in Scott's hand thumbs left to right in a swipe. An open call with their DEO rep closed out, the incident yesterday involving Drake and Robotman caught attention. The Department is usually unwanted attention for the likes of 'extranormals'. If they get lucky though and feel generous they'll clue in the X-Men, it's a work in progress. Politics at play. Scott has agreed to play nice with them as long as they play nice with him.

Blocks away the new Mazda RX is parked and he has been forced to walk, civilian wear of a longsleeved grey shirt, jeans and sandals, a pair of red quartz glasses sitting on his nose.

The dark haired and currently broody X-Men leader is being directed from afar by a teammember, Cerebro has been put to use. This general area is near enough to Drake…
"You sure this is the place?" Scott speaks at his earpiece.

"It's the place," comes a voice from behind Scott and to one side. Psylocke, wearing black leather pants and riding jacket, approaches. The light barely penetrates the deep plum of her hair unless the wind tousles it, and sends the spun violet shimmering in the sun. She has clearly been picking up on Scott's thoughts. But she picked up on some back at base which prompted this trip. She also got to park much closer, because motorcycles are better than cars.

Drake Riley can't vouche one way or another on vehicle superiority, for he has neither. In fact, the only thing happening amidst the two that Drake can get in on is the nature of their conversation. It's the place? Here? In the street? Is it because this is near where he and Goldibolts delivered the villain dude? Oh lord, are these two actually friends of the villain? Are they here for /him/?

Curiosity is overwhelming. Drake tilts to the side to poke his head around the corner of the building, getting a look at the two on approach. They're older than him. They look classy, but not over the top. No capes or huge Dracula collars. Maybe it's nothing? It's a genuine struggle to stave off paranoia with this kind of life.

Nodding to himself, Drake opts to let them pass him by. He resettles into his little huddled position in the alley, arms folded around his knees. If worst comes to worst, he can work with the alley. Less chance of collatoral, and lots of surfaces to work with.

Scott squints over his shoulder at Betsy. An expression thats little more than him scrunching up his brow and cheeks, a smile offered, "Decided to get out and stretch? I'm glad you're here." He says with a casual Summers warm familiarity. Which for him is just shy of flat and dry.

The tall brunette's stride carries him past Drake to the edge of the street, his back to Volt more assuming that Betsy is near him or somewhere close by. Perhaps it is the New York mentality thats caught up in the native Alaskan to just gaze around or through transients but, he overlooks Drake in his initial sweep. "Are you POSITIVE this is the place?" He inquires again, a little more pith to his delivery this time.

Betsy rubs her temple as Scott strides right past the transient who peeked around the corner earlier, and now sits clearly hiding in plain sight squarely behind Scott. "Gettin' colder, Papa Bear. If he was a snake, he'd have bit you."

Betsy pauses on the other side of the kid in the alley, searching out thoughts, looking for red flags, or signs of violence.

No aggression to be detected from Drake. But perhaps just as much reason to be cautious, there's a tremendous amount of defensiveness going on in that head. He's primed to lash out if he feels in danger, but he's letting the world make the first move. Of note, he started to fall more relaxed as Scott sauntered on by. But Betsy's lingering chides start to build that anxiety back up. He all but stubbornly remains planted against the building and alley floor, refusing to look up or risk drawing more attention to himself. Though with every passing moment that this continues to play out, he's becoming more and more certain it's him they're after. Paranoia can't be wrong /all/ the time, can it?

"Papa bear… " Scott muses, "No, I don't like that one bit." He flashes a short lived smile at Betsy before slow turning, there are several passing by, oblivious to them for the most part. All in motion, work, shopping, travel, they have destinations. The one that Cerebro pinpointed, the one they're after hasn't moved for a time…

Scott's ruby lenses settle on the bundle that is Drake. "Warmer yet?" He questions the psi-ninja without looking at her. His attention is fully upon the young man.

"Smoking hot." The words dont even sound the same in the unfamiar lilt of Betsy's unique BritAsian accent. She returns Scott's smile, but imparts a thought to him. <He's spooked. Approach with caution. He isn't violent, but he will run.>

Drake Riley is not digging this. And the longer he stays bundled up, the more he feels like he's making himself a target. It seems less and less likely that they're going anywhere or looking for anyone else. This must've been what the robot meant earlier, when he said to just live a normal life.

Drake is suddenly rising to his feet, the motion smooth and deliberate. He turns to prop a shoulder against the wall of the alley, facing Betsy and potentially Scott. The tilt of his frame is inoffensive, even projectedly languid, but it's all a ruse. At this point, his focus is set on them. His right hand casually hangs behind his back out of sight - though a few tendrils of electricity begin to gently arc between his fingers. No one else might know this, but the alley has effectively become the Wild West. He's just waiting on them to draw on him.
Scott lets out a grunt noise at Betsy's remark. His mind receptive to the telepathic channel shes been keeping open, <Beats the alternative.>
<We've had a run of luck so far. Hopefully it holds.>

The tall man straightens up, somehow appearing to grow several inches more as his posture alters, not Scott Summers the teacher but Cyclops the X-Men's 'boyscout', his voice even goes deeper when hes in costume because theatrics are a thing they learn in the /biz/.
"I believe you are who we came here for. We'd like to talk."

Betsy rubs her forehead. <Right, so as I was saying, maybe you should intimidate the shite out of him.> Betsy turns to Drake, giving him half a shake of her head. "There was trouble here, yes? Are you all right?"

Drake Riley continues to toy the electricity between his fingers, as if flexing a twined piece of string. His sunglasses are off, the hood is down, his face is all but completely exposed - save for the bill of his cap. Not many places the hat can sit other than his head. But even still, it's not ideal. When he lets powers fly, he does his best to obscure his identity. If it comes to blows, he'll have to scramble to apply the 'cosmetics'. If he even gets that chance. Uncool.

"Talking?," he asks, eyebrows raised in an affable way. "I like talking. Whaddaya wanna talk about?"

Betsy seems to have the answer to that. Those expressive emerald eyes shift her way. "I'm as good as a dude roughing it in New York can be. There was trouble." He sniffs faintly. "Handled it. Why, you friends of the blobby tree-rex-tapus dude? You can file grievances with his butt. It's the only thing that gives a crap."

"That was so bad. I want a do-over."

<I'm not trying to intimidate him. I'm just… > Scott fires back at the Brit's ribbing, hes on autopilot he doesn't even realize his actions at times. This is just who hes trained himelf to be over the years from awkward Slim to overconfident and fearless Cyclops…
"She nailed the topic." The red eyed mutant states, "No. We are not friends of… that or anyone involved in your engagement."

"We represent a school for our kind." Cutting to the quick for Scott. He's rarely one to beat around the bush. "You piqued our interest and one of our number said you may be in need." He does not say Lorna's name, he leaves that open ended.

"I'm Betsy, what's your name? I think we could be of assistance…you do seem…to be somewhat endangered out here. And quite possibly in need." She tilts her head, surveying the area. "Unless you're terribly attached to the Hacienda here."

Drake Riley doesn't get his re-do, but it's fine. Conversation is moving along, no one made comments about his bad one-liner he totally stole from Macfarlane. It's all good. Besides, what they have to say is more interesting anyway. "A school? For /our/ kind?," he asks. The hand behind his back bundles into a fist, and the electrical current dissipates. "Huh."

Leaning off the wall, he takes a couple steps forward. "Drake," he introduces. "Can't say that I'm in love with the place, no. No fond memories." He glances over his shoulder to the alley, a very mercenary sort of abode. He wouldn't miss it. His attention returns to the two before him. "What kind of assistance? What sort of school? I graduated.."

"Mutants." Scott says openly then adds emphasis with, "A voluntary one." The Essex House of Mutant Rehabilitation, the DEO's Orphanages, a handful of others with more renown, those are much less 'optional' when their recruiters show up." "We're… the good guys, Drake."
"Our classes are not the typical. If you're curious you'll have to find us but I wanted to show up with Miss Braddock here and at least extend you that option."

Scott fishes something out of his wallet, a card, it is being offered out towards the younger male.

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