2014.05.13 - Xavin Gets Nailed

The issue with ripping out someone's mind is it leaks away quickly. Cable has the mental capacity to sort through it all, but outside key details it won't be committed to memory. Once he finished making sure the mysterious fire would remain just that, he immediately tracked down Xavin with disturbing ease. Those coasters let him know the holder's position at all times, after all. "C'mere." he grunts, ignoring the burn of the metal that spread.
If Xavin makes the mistake of slipping close, a flash of telekinesis will draw him face-first into a metal palm. Before saturating his mind with images, thoughts, habits of the electrical burnout they left behind. "Can't keep it... long. Need to... take care of something. ...Holding it in's too much a distraction..." It's a rather uncomfortable and violating experience, but would be over remarkably quick. And then a pad of paper and a pen will be hurled at the alien. "Write down what you can before it fades... ugh. I've got a goddamn headache." And he's not got long before permanently sacrificing something to the spread virus. "We've got a bit before the meeting. Make sure you can do his body and voice perfect. I need to go record the important details. ...Personality is up to you."
"Bodyslide by one." And with another temporal crack, he vanishes into the night. To... wherever it is, he goes.
Xavin is alone in an unlit bedroom a few miles away. The apartment building it's set in has seen better days, even if most of the current tenants would be hard-pressed to remember when; the room itself is furnished with an enormous, wall-mounted TV overlooking a king-size bed, a dresser with an impressive, portable speaker system currently being fed by a StarkPod Touch, and a plush chair draped with designer labels. The bed is currently occupied by the cooling body of a young, heavyset man; he hardly looks any different from any of the other millions of people packed into the city, but the lockbox full of cash and vials hidden amongst sneaker in his closet would argue otherwise.
Not that preying on the ills of his community makes him all that unique in this city, at the end of the day.
The skrull is mid-way through disappearing from the world when Cable finds him, so it's just his head and shoulders that turn to peer in confusion at the unexpected cyborg. He takes a couple of wary steps towards the man as he begins, "There are still a few more targets--" Beat. "Are you alr--""
The rest of the question is ripped from him when he's yanked into Cable's grasp, becoming little more than a meaningless exclaimation muffled against his palm. The air around him shimmers momentarily before the jarring sensation of having a man's life downloaded into his brain breaks his concentration on remaining invisible; luckily, he is practiced enough with the fundamental notions of trying to assume another person's identity that with Cable's strained guidance, he's able to pick out some of the more important memories forcing themselves in alongside his own. Given some time afterwards, he should be able to pull even more from his subconscious, most of which will hopefully not be too badly muddled by that point.
The alien reels, stumbles backwards and nearly falls when contact is broken; thankfully, there was a wall there to catch him. "Nngh--I--I need to--gotta get--no, that's not--" he stammers as Cable instructs him, burying his face in the hand that isn't leaned against the wall. Parts of his body darken, others lengthen or bulge; his hair begins to grow out and twist into dreadlocks before shrinking back to near-nothing. "--rocky road--wait--" Combing a hand back over/through his hair, he picks his head up to peer towards Cable with wide eyes. "How long do I have until he's--it--to write--this down?"
Regardless of the answer, once Cable is gone, he'll take a minute or two to collect himself before carefully searching the dead man's apartment for a paper and pen(cil); after a few hours more spent writing every detail that he can dredge from his memory, he'll finally disappear back to his alley to get into character.
When it's finally time for Jamil Bouie to meet his enigmatic contact, he'll be ready to impress--or, at least, not blow the mission to hell.
Although the action is done with haste -- this is not so much cruelty as Cable desperately trying to hold on to them long enough to get them within Xavin, where he can hopefully do some good with it -- it's incredibly precise. It feels like a very vivid dream, but one not fading immediately. Fractional, missing huge portions, but most of his recent behavior and attitude boils around intact. The elder Nathan watches, curious if the Skrull can handle the transfer. If he has to, he'll undo it. That will probably mean the operation fails... the first formal test, perhaps. A surprise one, sadly. Had he the luxury of carefully putting it into Xavin piecemail, he'd have preferred it.
	
"Two to three hours. By that, I mean in two to three hours you will remember nothing. Focus on speech pattern. How he sits. How he moves. You aren't going to get a pop quiz. You just need to seem natural on a camera, and natural enough to get into the meeting area. From there, I'll give you the precise details on the operations that will be needed. If all goes well, we might get something to go on. If not... heh. Worst case, we removed the man from the street, and know at least one place used as an intermediary. Any random bodies might be a good lead."
Cue a number of days later. Cable stayed out of contact until only just prior, before appearing beside the coaster. Presumably Xavin has been keeping it with him, otherwise it would end in him standing around angrily until he returned. Miscellaneous bystanders are little concern, after some precise telepathy, but he tries to pick a time of the day one is unlucky to be out and about.
"The meeting is at a Store 'N Save over on Mission. One of the full units with the roll-up garage door. #207. Converted to allow an uplink through encrypted channels to the man behind the proverbial mask. There should be two men standing in front of the unit. ...They know you well. I... nngh. Don't remember their names. I used my time on other things. One though, knew you from childhood. Indications are they'll have audio uplinks. If they get suspicious, even if I mind-control them, our digital target will likely know something's up. Same as if I just dominate them from the start. So. Good luck."
Xavin would be lead to a rather nice car. The sort a very rich man with a lot to show off would wear; a crimson topless hotrod, with fire decals along the sides and hood. With the address given, Cable slips back into an alley before bursting into the air in a whirl of telekinetics.
Store 'N Save is in a terrible area of town. Cheap, cash upfront, aliases accepted, no questions. There's probably a few units filled head to toe with bodies. One of them Cable uses to store plasma weapons. Prime location. A rusted iron fence bars entry to the network of crimson numbered units. The keycode was supplied; 6778.
Then it's just a matter of driving to the unit in question, where a large man in black leather stands, baled. He's scarred, and has an Aryan Brotherhood tattoo around his left eye. The other is shorter and more like a weasel, dressed like a homeless man with pockets full of electronics. He is the only one to smile seeing the car approach. The other must just be muscle.
But who is the little man...? It would tickle like a sneeze, but whether Xavin thought to right down those details... they hadn't met in a few months...
Xavin made the best he could of the time he was given; names, faces, and recent activities were all high priorities, along with whatever important-seeming business-specific information he was able to drag from his subconscious; his goal, ultimately, is to master all of the details that could otherwise give him away under even casual inspection. It's not so dissimilar from studying for the exams he was subjected to on Tarnax VII, right down to having to worry about whether or not he'll get shot if his marks aren't high enough.
Xavin isn't out and about when Cable comes for him, exactly, but he is in an alley somewhere in Suicide Slum. There's a bedroll stashed amongst bags stuffed with Big Belly Burger wrappers, while Xavin is seated on the bare concrete, his notes spread out in front of them. A cursory glance would show that a significant percentage of the notes were taken in the form of hastily sketched pictures, with words crammed in around them wherever they'll fit, often jutting between or wrapping around those snapshots from Jamil Bouie's life. The beacon is in a pocket, so when Cable appears, it'll be somewhere atop or beside his notes, rather than alone.
"Sir," he greets, lifting his head when the time-traveler arrives. His eyes remained fixed as he listens to the mission's details; 'childhood' doesn't seem to trigger any recognition, but he nods along with all of it anyway, gathering his notes up as does. Once all the papers are in hand, he'll stand up brow furrowing just as the mutant is warning him not to arouse the target's suspicion.
"Understood," he replies before his hands burst into flame and send the details of the criminal's life wafting up into the sky. "Thank you; how close will you be?" Once the notes are gone, he shakes any lingering ash free of his hands, then heads after Cable; by the time they reach the car, it's Jamil who climbs inside.
Driving is one of the many things that Xavin failed to make any notes about while Bouie's memories were available, so the ride to Store 'N Save is harrowing for reasons that have nothing to do with the danger he's about to face; that he manages to squeal to a stop a few units down from the rendezvous with the car intact is something of a miracle. He gives himself a couple of seconds to let the pumping adrenaline subside so that he can put on a properly stoic expression when he climbs out and approaches the unit.
When the two men in front come into view, he slows down for a few steps to give himself more time to place them; he's sure that he and the big one have never really been chummy - what with his brown skin and dreads - but he does at least know that the guy's name is 'Nails'. The other - his friend from childhood, apparently - is even harder to name; Jamil and Nails may not be friendly, but the dealer does seem to have a pretty good idea of how the Aryan Brother got his name, and it's the sort of thing that tends to leave an impression on one's psyche. By the time he makes it to the pair, his head is still lowered in thought, only to snap up a split-second later as a light goes off in the alien's head.
"Nails," he says to the imposing man with a nod, "Elroy," he continues, forcing a familiar smile as he sticks a hand out to the shorter man for a greeting. "my man; what's good? 's been a minute, eh? You ready to hear how we're gonna get paid tonight?"
Cable is slightly in the air, and although the temporal wind might slightly disrupt the notes, he's kind enough not to land upon them. "Huh." Looking across the work, Cable seems thoroughly impressed by the degree of attention done. The Skrull does not appear to half-ass things. A valuable tendency too many forget. Sloppiness kills -- it helps to come from a planet where that's literal, of course.
"Close enough to bail you out if you get in trouble. But right now they don't know we're after them. Here." A few capsules of the Mutant Growth Hormone are handed over last. "The danger here is them finding out they are being hunted too soon. While they have a digital wall, that can shut the operation down. Good luck."
		
Some strange things floated around in the stolen mind. The reason he hated mutants... when his sister hit puberty, she had a violent, painful mutation. Unable to live with her appearance, she ended up taking her life. It was then he saw mutancy as a disease, and the infected no longer human. Nails... he was always scared of Nails. He had a way with a hammer. But Elroy was his friend growing up, a successful hacker who managed to get in good in the underground criminal world, and is the reason he got into the MPH trade racket, climbing the ladder ruthlessly.
Nails keeps his arms crossed. "Paid? Our house goes up in flames, eight dead, and you think we getting paid? You know how much product we lost?" Nails works for... well, Xavin has no idea. It's not in his mind. Someone higher up. "And you ain't answer your cellphone in a week... we thought you dead. Someone pop a pill and get fire-happy or something?"
Elroy shakes heavily, before grimacing. "C,calm down Nails... forensics said it was just a fire. And Jamil wasn't even there. Otherwise he'd b,be burned too..." That stutter. He always had that stutter. He doesn't hate mutants. Never did. It's just where the roll of the dice took him. In this case, setting up transmission. Either of these two people might know useful information on top of it...
"You done fragged up this time, boy." Nails states, shifting forward to grasp Jamil by the shirt, aiming to thump him against the garage door with a rattle. "You better still have the primo shit on you at least. Garbage those guys used was shit... only good thing outta this is the thought of that slug dryin' up, poppin' like a zit as he fraggin' glows..."
Nails is the one who caught the hapless attic mutant. Beat him nearly to death. Acquisitions is one of his specialities. and Javin is supposed to be 'scared but tough about it'; without MPH, he's meat to Nails. Elroy struggles to pull Nails away. "B-Back off!! The boss'll decide what happens!!"
The smile disappears as soon as Nails starts in on him; it and the confident words were only really for Elroy's benefit, anyway. Things to make sure that the nerve-wracked man is as comfortable as he can be in such trying circumstances--the way that a friend might. He begins to explain, "I was taking care of business, ge--" before Elroy cuts in. It's only really out of a need to portray respect for him that he holds his tongue; talking over the smaller man's stutters wouldn't take much, and having this man who he's simultaneously certain that he could kill with a thought and is stirring up hazy, nightmarish memories that send chills slithering along his spine try to intimidate him is infuriating.
"Them n--them motherfuckers is gone," he adds to Elroy's explanation after shooting him a 'shut up and let me do the talking' look. "On to th--yo!"
Jamil grunts when his back hits the garage, and stoicism falls from his features, replaced by a glare. In spite of the defiant look, he still throws his hands up, pressing them gently against the garage door. "Fuck, man, I know! I know, alright?! I've been reachin' out to people all week while I was upstate, trying to make this shit right--trying to make sure I surround myself with a better class'a motherfuckers!" he quickly explains between rapid breaths. He tries to shoot Elroy another look over Nails' shoulder when the short man speaks up, but whether he's able to make eye contact or not, his attention quickly returns to the Brother.
"I didn't come empty handed--c'mon, man--" His eyes flick down to his sneakers, where the MGH samples are stashed. "--at least gimme a little more credit than that; you think I'd hold out on you?" As he tries to shift his gaze towards Elroy again, he exhales, then adds, "At least let the man in charge have his say before you start tryin' to fuck me up, aight?" in a quieter tone.
After the glance down, Nails shifts to grasp the sneaker in question, hefting it up and wrenching it off. Dumping out the capsules, he looks them over with a grimace. "Little light here... I'm counting 4. You had 6. 6 of the good stuff." 'Good stuff'. The only term Jamil really knew. Supposedly, there's more effective sources of the MPH by this particular marketer. Either way it's true that the real man swallowed one and gained lightning powers. Cable must have taken the other.
"L,let it go." Elroy states. "He had them to sell. He probably sold them. Just... g,go meet with the boss." The garage is pulled open, revealing a simple square room. The only thing in it is a simple office chair, a fold-up table, and a satellite computer. A camera is settled above and behind, showing the entire room.
Elroy gets the false-Jamil settled, before unlocking the computer and setting up the connection. A couple bars fill up, seeming to decrypt it, before he slips out with a small, "Good l,luck..." and shuts the garage.
After a few moments, there's only a box with a line. "Mr. Bouie." The line warbles heavily; a representation of his digital-shielded voice. "You understand that I am unhappy. I put you in charge of that household because you promised to generate a steady supply of the random catalyst hormone. Only for the facility to burn down...? Do you mine explaining your fortuitous survival, and missing week?"
"Had to do what I had to," Jamil tacks onto Elroy's explanation as he meets Nails' gaze again. The skrull offered up some token resistance when his shoe was taken, but not enough to merit harsher measures; as soon as his ankle was released, he wriggled in the Aryan's grasp just enough to press himself back against the garage door. It rattles a little when Nails finally lets him go for real, thanks to Jamil stumbling back into it before quickly stepping away so that Elroy can open it up.
He follows his 'friend' inside and drops into place without giving Nails another look, and almost as soon as he's seated, he begins tapping his foot rapidly, keeping his eyes glued on the bars creeping along the screen. When it's all done, his eyes trail after Elroy for a few moments before he returns his attention to the monitor with a nod and a murmured, "Thanks, man." He exhales sharply as the door shuts, and then he plants his feet and settles back into the chair. As creepy experiences go, talking to a human trafficker/drug kingpin through a computer in a storage unit places respectably; luckily, he has a Cable nearby and a friend out--
No, that isn't right--he has Cable nearby and two enemy targets outside. Still, though: not the worst odds.
Jamil sits straight up when that unnatural voice breaks the silence, grimacing. "I was upstate," he offers once the boss has said his piece. "Seeing about bringing some talent back into the mix." It would be Jamil's second time making such a trip in several months; the last time, it was to accompany a member of his crew - another old friend - who was visiting a sick family member; by the time Xavin set about committing the experience to memory, it was reduced to being down a team member, and the occasional phone calls to check up on them were more a matter of checking up on the status of a valued resource than empathy, though.
"So as soon as I heard what happened, I - like I told your man outside, I started grindin'. Putting out feelers for new blood--better blood, because my old crew clearly wasn't worth shit; I'm still working, but I'm getting there. I just--I need more time."
"Time, time. I gave you time. I'm afraid you turned out to be like a burning star, Mr. Bouie. Careening to the top, but your careless management and lack of hiring discretion destroyed a perfectly valid location. Assuming such was even an accident. It was like you just vanished off the face of the earth, only to show up here. A lone call to Elroy, describing your supposedly earnest efforts."
The garage door rasps open about a meter. Elroy can be heard trying to interrupt as Nails ducks inside, slamming it shut. He's not supposed to be in here. Definitely not supposed to be in here.
Within Xavin's head, Cable's telepathy is heard. |"Shit. Nails is coming in there to kill you. ...But afterwards, he's expecting to hear about an important deal. Goddamnit. Unless he gets told the location, we got nothing. ...But you have to die..."| Obviously that shouldn't be something to weigh against!!
"I'm not a man who takes chances. No. You had your chance. With your crew gone and your MGH recovered, I'm afraid we're going to have to retire you." Nails pulls on a black leather glove, iron spikes of his namesake protruding from it. He's a large man, and well built.
|"I can heal you from anything short of death... you can fight back as a human, but... don't use your powers unless you have to..."| Cable offers, telepathy trying to be soothing. |"Fuck."| 
"Take care of him, Nails... we've more important matters to attend to." Elroy can be heard pounding on the door. "W-W-What is going on in there?!" He doesn't dare enter with the boss live. Nails shouldn't have, either!! Something is up! 
"Look, man--"
Jamil's protests are cut short by the sudden opening and reverberant shutting of the garage door; he twists his chair partly around to see Nails slipping inside, at which point his bewilderment shifts towards horror.
"Wh-what...?" he stammers, bolting from his chair as Nails dons tool of choice for the evening.
|"What?!"| Psychically, Xavin is all outrage. Playing into the Brother's intimidating presence was grating enough; finding out that all of his preparations were really just leading up to this moment of letting that same man have his way with him is almost too much to bear. |"You can't be--what did I--no--"| 
"No!" Dreads fly up and out in a spiny halo around Jamil's head as he lunges from his chair, intent on tackling his executioner to the ground. He's raw instinct now, a man who's spent too much of his short life doing anything to anyone in order to survive to react with anything but violence; outwardly, he's a caged, desperate animal whose plans for survival don't extend much further than taking Nails to the ground and pounding at his head and upper body frantically.
Inwardly, though, his body has already begun to rearrange itself in order to guarantee survival. Vital organs begin to stretch, contract, and contort themselves into new shapes - even entirely new positions, in a few cases - intended to protect them from the worst of whatever trauma he expects will be inflicted upon him. Almost as important as the continued function of his alien organs, red tinges begin to shoot through the green blood pumping through his body in the hopes of ensuring his cover won't be blown prematurely by his 'death'; it's a trick that he's never had cause to pull before, and while his enhanced shifting capabilities are up to the task, the change is still taxing enough that he'll be light-headed by the time he's actually rolling around with Nails or writhing on the ground by himself .
|"I will have to,"| he tersely thinks as he flies, |"but don't worry: my cover will remain intact--I hope."| 
Cable's telepathy returns quickly. |"Do you think I knew about this beforehand?! I knew once you went inside and the door closed. I was scanning their surface thoughts, and then he thought 'Time to kill this bitch' and came inside. Then I warned you. That's pretty fast response time, here."| 
Nails is legitimately caught off guard when the tackle takes him in the midsection. But he's six foot four, and solidly built from muscle. Jamil's a slender man, and although he's got a body for aesthetics, Nails has a body built for practical use. His core is like an iron shell. Skidding back a good meter, he lets out a laugh, the first strike towards his head slipped away.
"I took him for a beggar... but even a mouse will b--Hrk!!" Another of Xavin's swings strikes him in the side of the jaw, and the stagger almost results in Nails going down.
"This isn't a game." the man on the camera says. "At least, not this time."
With that, fingers move to grasp those dreadlocks, before Nails begins attempting to slam his knee hard upon the solar plexus of the Skrull. After a few attempted impacts, he shifts and twists. He knows how to fight; and fight well. Were it successful, 'Jamil' would be sent hurtling into a pile of boxes and empty barrels.
"What is going on!!" The garage door slides upwards, and Elroy crawls inside. Eyes wide, jaw dropped. "Wh-Wh-What?! Get away from him!!" 
|"I know,"| Xavin snaps as his knuckles grind along Nails' war-hardened jaw. The stinging in his hand afterwards hardly registers; it's sure to be nothing next to whatever the Brother has in store for him. |"You had as much intel as I did; I don't blame you, but that doesn't mean that I'm hap--"| 
An agonized "--hhk--!" is driven from Jamil's body when Nails seizes him. He'd just about walked right into letting his hair be taken in his haste to charge after the staggered behemoth, and rather than try to twist free and risk scalping himself, he digs his fingernails into the thug's wrists and pries with all the might that his lithe body should be able to muster.
Which, given his ragged, panting gasps for air and the way that the unit keeps tilting around him, is nowhere near sufficient; he's only released when Nails wants to release him, and his shaky, flailing attempts to regain his feet afterwards mostly just make a mess.
His eyes widen when Elroy - nervy, soft-spoken Elroy who seems so out of place in this world of blood and exploitation - interrupts them, and he braces himself against a barrel to make another attempt at standing as he exclaims, "Get--get the fuck outta here! Go, motherfucker!" With a hand braced against the barrel, he starts reaching for whatever he can get his hands on and throwing it at Nails, hoping to keep the Brother's attention trained on him.
Whether or not a few empty boxes will do the trick is debatable, but it's what he's got.
 
"Why?! What... th,this punishment's too far! It wasn't his fault!!" Elroy attempts to squeak out, Nails distracted for a moment and getting struck in the face with a glass bottle hard enough to shatter. "You son of a bitch... I'm gonna kill you...!" The leather-clad extremist twists to march in Xavin's direction, deflecting a box and a small jar.
"NO!!" Elroy leaps to grasp Nails from behind, only to get struck in the face with an elbow, collapsing like a puppet with the strings cut and writhing in pain.
"Elroy. Your friend is being retired. Be glad that the responsibility for bringing him in has no fallout." comes the warbling line of the voice.
"N-NO!! If,if you kill him... th-then I'm out!!"
There's a long pause before the voice sighs. "Nails..."
"Kill them both."
|"Just... stay the path. They got themselves into this life. We're here for the information... nothing else. ...And if you manage to fight him off and escape somehow, Nails might get cut out for being incompetent instead of being told the info..."| 
Jamil can't do much more than watch as the smaller man crumples--watch and hope that it isn't too late for the poor, suicidally loyal guy to save himself and whatever juicy information he might have to offer. Throwing refuse is all well and good, but trying to engage the Brother in another round of hand to hand combat is unlikely to do much good; the lines between putting on a good performance as a doomed criminal and legitimately getting his ass kicked are already beginning to blur, and he can feel every agnozing bit of ambiguity searing through his nervous system.
|"The small idiot is a source,"| Xavin points out while Jamil just barely manages to keep his feet with the aid of that barrel. "Stupid--run, Elroy!" the dealer exclaims, waving his free arm wildly after the order is given. "Get the fuck outta here!"
The demand is punctuated by another attempt at delaying or perhaps hastening, depending on how one looks at it the inevitable by squeezing his eyes shut and hurling himself at the hulking extremist's midsection. He probably means to tackle the larger man, but if the best that he could manage at the outset was forcing Nails back, he'd probably be lucky to end up hanging ineffectually from the Brother's body this time.
Since tonight hasn't done much to inspire Xavin's belief in good fortune, though, the alien is already preparing for the worst: while the lids are shut, his eyes begin to roll back into his skull--literally. Within seconds, they're descending along his esophagus to find safety somewhere in his gut, and something else is growing in their place. If his eyelids do happen to pop open during trauma of his execution, Nails will just find a pair of lifeless brown orbs fashioned from soft tissue staring blankly at him.
 
|"If--if he won't run - if he can't run - then so be it, but I don't want to waste him--!"| 
|"I already looked in his mind. He's not a source. He's a tool. He does what anonymous sources tell him to do, then gets paid. If they want him dead, then it doesn't matter what happens to him. They aren't going to use him again either way."| Ever the calm voice of reason in such a battlefield. His mind is completely calm and stoic, despite it all. This isn't new. No. He's done this sort of thing for a few years.
The first tackle against Nails didn't work. The second works even less. Xavin was wise, because a nailed fist strikes him in the face, puncturing a useless orb and ripping open his face. Another blow aimed to the head to send him to the ground.
Panting, Nails' free hand pulls out a hammer. The other, a long nail; six inches, and thick. His calling card. "No!! Nonono!!" Elroy cries, kicked on his back and mounted. It's best to drown out the rest. All that ends is the spasming body of Elroy, with said nail driven down to half an inch between his eyes.
Getting up, he twists back towards Xavin. |"Can you survive a nail to the head? Please tell me you can."| Cable states. |"If not, let me know quick."| 
All of Jamil's momentum comes to a dead stop against Nails' spiked fist. Meat and blood spray into the air, but most of it just gushes against the Aryan's fist before sluicing off it to splatter on the ground. A fragment of his orbital bone is chipped away when the glove is withdrawn and sent flying away until it pings off of a wall by the violent movement of the killer's arm. A neat row of ugly, jagged tears run along about half of his face, surrounding his now empty eyesocket; blood pumps vigorously from the wounds and streams to the ground in long, sticky threads as he staggers backwards.
In a cruel or merciful twist, the other half of his face is more or less unmarred--at least, until that second blow drops him to the ground.
His screaming - and he does scream, without even the barest attempt to hide it - fills the unit for several seconds before gradually subsiding to low, wavering notes of agony. |"My brain is..."| he thinks as he quivers on the ground and listens to one criminal murder another. |"... a few feet... lower... right now..."| 
His thoughts still have a distinctly angry quality to them; the pained moans are mostly for effect, but this gambit still hurts. And having to let himself be beaten while years of training and instincts scream at him to push through the pain and tear the man's head from his body, well--that hurts too, and while the pain isn't physical, it still gives his rage a frustrated, almost helpless quality.
|"Let's... just hope he doesn't... decide to be thorough..."| 
 
|"Neat trick."| Cable offers. He almost sounds conversational; as if being beaten in such a manner wasn't a good deal. That he was watching with a hand full of popcorn. |"If you think you are a good enough actor, tell me. I'll turn off your sense of pain. But this man's a sadist. You'd better be a good actor."| 
Nails cracks his neck to the side, before kicking Xavin over. Mounting him, the nail is carefully aligned. If the Skrull knows anatomy, this is a rather cruel way to do it. There's a chance to live, but it won't be what could be called living. It certainly isn't immediately fatal, given the constant twitches of Elroy.
It takes a good ten strikes of the hammer before Nails pushes off, panting heavily and holstering the tool. His bloodied glove is yanked off after, folded inside-out to be stuffed in an inside pocket. Slowly, he smears spatters of blood across his face, hint of a grin on him.
"... Well. They are retired, now." comes the voice. "Security needs to be organized. One of my direct lieutenants is going to be showcasing the quality of our drug. The warehouse needs to be impenetrable. I want twice the manpower. Recruit them thirty minutes before arrival to prevent any leaks."
What follows is supposedly what this gambit worthwhile; A place, a time, and a date.
"Burn it." the voice states. "Do well with this, and you'll become vice chief of security..."
Nails rolls his shoulders, before digging into one of the corners. A large can of gasoline comes out, before he starts to splash it around. Covering the twitching Elroy, and a generous amount before dropping the remainder on 'Jamil'. And then fishing out the keys to his fancy car, twirling them around a finger. "Thanks... brother." A fancy lighter is procured, snapped into life as he puffs a cigarette.
|"Stay down. We're keeping Nails free. ...No way in hell are you going to be able to pretend to be him until the meeting. So... here."| A warm, fuzzy feeling would then cover Xavin. Like floating on a cloud.
A cloud that bursts into flames after Nails tosses a lighter aside. In a moment everything is burning fire, black smoke curling up. The Aryan takes the time to puff on his cigarette just outside before turning and yanking the door closed with a crash, shifting to leap into the car's driver seat.
Only then is there a blue CRACK as Cable manifests within the warehouse. Sheathed in telekinetic energy, Xavin is grasped. "Bodyslide by two."
CRACK.
The pair are now in Graymalkin, for Xavin's first time. In a moment, the fire would be extinguished by automated machinery in the floating space station. At least pain is still turned off, but the result might be... grisly to observe.
"We got what we needed. But now... I've got an offer to make." A shining orange eye looks down to Xavin. "Do you want to remember, or to forget? ...I can wipe everything after entering the storage area if you want. You'd only remember succeeding. ...The pain and everything else? Not required..." 
Xavin was military through and through on Tarnax VII, an officer cadet; like the Super Skrulls that preceded him, his powers were meant to make him a powerful battlefield presence, leading and inspiring the soldiers in his command to victory. While the art of deception is an important weapon in every Skrull's arsenal, the former prince spent less time honing it than he did on combat drills and tactical classes; there would always be time later to master infiltration, after all, once he'd proven himself in battle.
Unfortunately, later never came; while he's had his share of opportunities since coming to Earth improve his disguise skills in the field, given the choice between relying entirely on his ill-formed acting chops or his ability to take an ass-kicking to guarantee that this risky maneuver pays off, there's no real contest.
|"I--can take it,"| he replies. |"This is our last--"| 
A wave of terror washes over his thoughts when he feels the Brother's weight bearing down on him, the first time he's felt much of anything besides anger, impatience, or frustration since entering the unit. The tip of the nail sends shudders through his body in the moments when it first scrapes along his skin, and then--
THNNK!!
"NyyYYAAAAAAGH!" the Skrull exclaims as his whole body arches up beneath Nails'. There's just a mass of ambiguous, purposeless tissue there, spiderwebbed with just enough nerves that the experience is just about as agonizing as it looks and sounds. There's nothing important there, but--
THNNK!!
"AAAAAAAUGH!! Gghh--nnn... pl... puh... stop--!" Blood oozes around the violating nail as the the Skrull's struggling withers away to spasmodic flailing.
THNNK!! THNNK!! THNNK!! The pleas become meaningless gurgles in his throat as the spike is driven deeper and deeper. THNNK!! THNNK!! Fear threatens to overtake his thoughts as his limbs settle into sharp, erratic twitching; that he has to suffer the ordeal in darkness only intensifies it, even knowing that Cable is nearby. THNNK!! THNNK!! THNNK!!
At least the blood streaming from the wound is red; if he could see it right now, he'd surely be proud of himself.
Once Nails is done, there isn't much left for Xavin to do but listen, moan occasionally, and try to imagine that he's anywhere, doing anything else but bleeding from the head in a crappy storage unit. When that doesn't work, he contents himself with imagining what he'll do to Nails if they ever cross paths again.
When Cable arrives, the Skrull's head and face are an absolute mess, but the flames don't seem to be doing much to him, and since his pain receptors are shut off, he's laying there pretty peacefully, now. The blood staining the ground is beginning to shift back to its normal colour; the fire might just work out in their favor in that small way.
|"N-no,"| Xavin replies after several long moments. Fire clings to his body a little longer than it should when he's hit with the extinguishers. |"I mean, yes, I--no. We're at war--this is--that was a scar, nothing more. Something to reflect back on in the future--when I'm stronger than this."| 
"Heh." Cable states simply. "Medical lab." In a rush of rasping metal, walls rise and isolate them, as advanced equipment fills the room. A padded table settles in the middle, and with a whisk of telekinesis, he maneuvers the Skrull upon it. The nail is simply yanked out and tossed aside, although it wouldn't hurt so much as feel very strange. "You're a true soldier. But now you've seen the sort of evil I fight. People like the Justice League... they don't see the likes of Nails, do they? Batman is the only one I might admire. He goes elbow deep into the true face of humanity's evil. A shame he's a cyclical catalyst to a self-perpetuating chain of pathological behavior in himself and others. Such a waste."
A scan follows, before an IV is inserted into wherever one might be hiding. An injection would rush through, clotting wounds quickly. Pain vanishes to pleasure. Once Xavin is stabilized, Cable simply places his metal hand upon his chest. A strange feeling; like itching, crawling ants begins to suffuse his entire body.
"That's quite a malleable genetic makeup you have." The tone's complimentary. If he's telekinetically touching every cell in someone's body, he can at least be conversational about it. And then his left eye flares again. The strange sense of being reconstructed on an invisible level... a slow, burning wave from his palm that leaves Xavin healed in the wake. It takes some time, but at last Cable exhales and steps backwards.
"If you want out, now's the time. I can wipe your memories. Put your life back the way it was. Alternatively... you can stay with me. And next month... Nails will be in the facility we invade."
There are usable veins all over, but they're arranged somewhat--creatively, at the moment, along with the rest of his reconfigured internal structure. A soft sigh escapes him when whatever is flowing through the IV hits his system, and now that he's in a safe space - and no longer being telekinetically grappled - he tries to ease his body back into shape, only to be reminded rather quickly than being pain-free is not quite the same as being injury free. The skin around his wounds does warp, briefly, but it ends up sagging from his skull as he emits a low groan; other patches of his body similarly see brief flashes of change before Jamil's broken form reasserts itself.
It takes Cable's healing touch to actually fix him, and as chemical pleasure is intercut with itching, his organs are the first things to shift, returning back to their usual shapes and positions as his alien physiology is psychically bolstered. Depending on how detailed Graymalkin's scanners are, it may make for something of a unique show while it lasts.
When it's all finally over with and Cable steps free, he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and this time, when his body ripples, it eventually settles into the younger, marginally lighter-skinned, male form that greeted Cable in the alley earlier tonight. "Don't be ridiculous," he immediately replies, sitting up as the last threads of Jamil's jacket melt into a purple and black uniform. "Thank you," he adds a moment later in a softer tone. "For healing me; I'm not going anywhere." He vigorously rubs his face for a moment, pausing as his hand glides over the spot where the nail went in. Once his hand falls, he lowly adds, "When the time comes, he won't get to see what I drive through his skull either. I just--need to know what our next move will be."
Indeed, Graymalkin has complete and thorough scanning abilities. From X-Ray to comprehensive DNA and genetic identification. Which, of course, is all being analyzed and logged by the Celestial AI behind the scenes. Can't hurt to know more of how a Super Skrull is made up, in terms of the base components.
"Ohh? So you've got a vendetta. That's well and good. But he's a good fighter. And I wager he'll have some potent MGH on him. Don't bite off more than you can chew. For now, we need manpower. I'm going to recruit a few choice people. Fill out the team. If that warehouse is full of people on Jamil's level, it'll take more than two of us. And that excludes trying to rescue the innocents..." There is a sense of that being secondary, however.
"You've impressed me." Cable offers, hand extending to catch a beer that shoots up a tube. It's tossed to Xavin, before another is taken by Cable. His telekinesis pops off the cap. "And because you impress me, it makes me sad. I know the kind of life you had to live in order to get through this operation. Both Jamil's holdings and that interrogation. Most would break. Most would call uncle. Most would want to forget. ...A mind has to be built to endure that. Through either training... or scars."
He drinks heavily. "Until the attack, I owe you. You want proper training? I'll start giving it to you. Before you know it, you'll be stretch-punching people with flaming rock fists while invisible."
Xavin is practically aglow with cosmic radiation under the Celestial ship's scanners, identical to what grants the Fantastic Four their amazing powers, if Graymalkin has any records of them. Furthermore, depending on how complete its Skrull data is, it may or may not be readily apparent that he was subjected to a significant degree of surgical modification, using techniques designed to both accomodate and capitalize on the uniquely malleable physiology of a shapeshifter.
"We have to rescue them," he asserts. The beer is caught and popped open with an invisible bottle opener, but he just brings it to his nose and gives it a cautious sniff instead of taking a swig. It comes to rest in his lap as he looks up at Cable, brow furrowing at the compliments and concerns.
"This is what I was hatched for, bred for," he quietly replies, shrugging a single shoulder and lowering his eyes. "Making war through any means available; I would have dishonored myself and my trainers if I'd cracked--failed." He looks up at Cable for a split-second when the cyborg drinks from his beer, but his eyes end up back on the floor soon enough. "Still, though--thank you, sir."
He caps this off by tilting his head and the bottle back to take a huge swig from his drink; his eyes pop wide open almost as soon as the stuff hits his tongue, but he manages to swallow the mouthful before yanking the beer away and swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. His face remains screwed up for several seconds afterwards.
"Hh--yes," he gasps without quite lowering his hand from his lips. "I need it." The image of himself in full control of his powers - fighting the way Kl'rt fights, without the foibles and limitations of inexperience slowing him down - mitigates some of the displeasure of having beer lingering on his palate, at least. 
"Hatched." Cable states, letting that roll around in his head. Skrulls as a whole are peculiar, but in truth Nathan had absolutely no trouble wrapping his head around the entire concept. If he has any great strength as a diplomat, it's being able to see and understand anything -- his Askani belief is good for that much. "Some people are born to be warriors. Either those like you, raised by the hands of others. Or those like me, thrust into the battlefield. Although I wonder why you are here. You had the mental fortitude to endure anything that the Skrulls could do to you. Why did you leave before finishing?"
The first time he's asked a personal question, drinking heavily from his beer. After a bit of thought, "Power is all about control. Even if you think you need it inherently. My telekinesis is about 48 tons of force. That might sound impressive. But know this. The actual psychic power I am using is a fraction of what others capable of 48 tons use. I simply maximize the finesse and efficiency of what I have. I can teach you the same. I can make you as strong as every one of those in the Fantastic Four... and beyond. The only limit is your ability to learn."
"There was a conflict," Xavin murmurs, eyes still glued to the ground. "with the Khund. It began before I was born, and I was being trained to fight it--perhaps end it, even. But sometime after the procedures, when I was in officer's school - and my less-fortunate clutch-mates were being shipped off to the front lines, I just--I didn't know why we were fighting to begin with, exactly. None of us did; we simply prepared ourselves for the battles we would one day fight because it was our duty as citizens--as Skrulls. I had... questions." The word has an uncomfortable weight to it, as if the very idea is alien to him.
"So did others, on both sides. Eventually, there was so much pressure that the king - my father - and the Khund's admiral agreed to a ceasefire. There were weddings to ratify it; I and the admiral's daughter were to be the last ones wed." His eyes flick to the bottle, considering it for a silent moment before he just takes to swirling its contents around before he quietly finishes, "There was an attack during our ceremony; my father planted commandos in the Khund's wedding party. The Khund had a team of their own in position--neither of them had any intention of keeping their word. It was--" He doesn't delve into detail, but Cable might have seen snippets of aliens murdering one another during a wedding celebration when he vetted the Skrull after taking the MGH house.
"I just--I disappeared before the fighting could find me. I retreated," he continues, lips twisting venomously around the word 'retreated', "I--I found a ship and I ran as far as I could. And then I crashed in a park, in New York City." He eyeballs the beer one last time before releasing it and sending it towards Cable with a flicked finger and invisible serving platter. Once it's gone, he rubs his face momentarily, then lifts his gaze to the cyborg with a slow sigh.
"All I've done is learn how to wage war; I'm ready to do that again, to absorb whatever you'll teach me, but I--it has to be for something. Even if it's just making a city a little bit safer." His hands come up so that he can glance between them afterwards as he ponders the mutant's words. "You're--humbler than I would have expected," he remarks after he's studied both hands and dropped them, "after witnessing you that night. More thoughtful, more considerate; it will be an honor to serve under you."
Another lazy mutter summons a chair, upon which Cable heavily sits. Xavin still has the luxury of a disturbingly comfortable medical bed, although better arrangements could be made. It's obvious he's listening, quiet and patient with no hint of judgement or bias. The bottle is captured, before dropped straight down. Before hitting metal, a hole opens to accept it, and it vanishes. His own is finished and dropped thereafter, similarly observed. One of the benefits of an intelligence at Professor's level that can manipulate the interior to his whim is being able to throw trash anywhere and have it be taken care of.
"So you are a weapon. You were used until the end. Fate brought you to Earth. Fate had us meet in that house at the same time. The same sort of fate that put me down my own dark path. I'm a leader. Of men into wars. Both won and lost. Of doctrines that could be called a religion. Right now, I plan to create a war. But not a war for a city. No. Not even for this planet. But for the future. Some people spend an hour and save a life. I spend an hour to save ten... but not right away. There is no warm body clutching me to whisper 'thank you'. It is the crimes that will never happen. The evils that will never manifest. That's the battle I run."
After a few moments, "I follow a philosophy known as the Askani Code. At the core, here is the explanation: What is, is." He's quiet for some moments. "That means that whatever circumstances happened to bring something before you, there are two choices. Accept it, or change it. Do not lament what could have been. Do not deny what stands before you. These is many ways to interpret it. Some chose to be pacifists. I chose to look upon the world, see it's true face, and do what I must to create a better future."
Eyes listlessly close. "If your desire is to be a hero, then don't follow me. I am no hero. You saw what I did. What I do. What I am /willing/ to do. And that is: Anything. But that also means I do not hesitate. We saw who Jamil really was. A sad, angry man who had every right not to see mutancy with rose-tinted glasses. Who got too deep in a business too dangerous. But I still ripped his mind out. And I still watched his innocent childhood friend die, because he cared. Because trying to save them would mean that men like Nails and his employer can continue to function... and the weight of the lives unseen must be counted against the lives before you. ...Not many understand this, and fewer condone it."
Xavin draws his knees towards his chest so that his arms can eventually be laid over them, taking in Cable's words all the while. As things to fight for go, 'the future' is both gratifyingly noble and frustratingly vague, but his past talk of removing cancers from the world puts the lofty goal into somewhat clearer focus. He didn't quite meet the mutant's eyes when he was being called a weapon, but once that was done, his attention was rooted on the older man.
The Askani philosophy creases his brow when he hears it; on its surface, it sounds like a concept that's about as far removed from the Skrull's world of endlessly shifting forms and cover stories as can be, and while the explanation changes that perception, it only really does so by changing the nature of the incompatibility: before crashing on Earth, the decision to accept or change a situation would have taken a backseat to the imperative to resolve it in whatever way most benefitted his people. What is, is for the glory of the Empire.
"My friends call themselves heroes," he murmurs when Cable finishes. "And I've played at being one at their side, or when I've been pushed to it. I've helped people, I've saved lives, and knowing that I've done those things makes me proud, but--you said it best: I am a weapon. A soldier; it would be a waste to limit myself to nothing but playing at heroism." Beat. "What is, is," he tacks on, even quieter. "Those men--they made terrible choices that anyone could have made, and those choices were poison to the people around them; they had to go."
"Enough people are playing the goodie spandex. Maintaining the status quo. Balancing the heroes and the villains. To do the real work, you need to dig in deep." Cable offers, before muttering, "Windows." Walls shift and shutters descend, showing a massive, beautiful view of Earth from far away. "Earth is a central pivot in the multi-verse. Aliens coming here is no coincidence. It means they have a greater purpose. That they can do something about the future. You've been drawn into this net. And now, everything that came before you is gone. You are who you are. The world is what it is. So then... how to fix it?"
A metal fist thumps into his organic hand. "Maybe now you better understand what I told you before. Society is a garden. And every garden has weeds. You can't rush it. You can't make the garden grow faster. Only time does that. But you can nurture it, seed it, and eliminate anything that threatens it. Not enough people see that..."
"So. If you'd like, you can be my right hand. Your perspective is opposite mine. Someone from another planet. Malleable but railroaded. I'll need someone I can trust for support and special operations. None of the people on my recruitment list can do it. You're also a soldier. And I bet you were raised to lead."
He then strides away, to the center of the room. "Give it some thought. We'll begin training when you're ready. Either way... that psychopath Nails... he'll get what he deserves before this is all over." A tube then manifests, and in a whisk, Cable vanishes. Xavin has free reign to rest, eat, and drink until he asks to leave. And, if needed, to think.
Category:Log