2013.05.24 - We Always Hurt The Ones We Love

A trip to the marina, last night, wasn't actually how Amanda expected to spend her evening. That she ended up making a paprikash dish for three was even more unexpected. Kurt's been known to surprise-bamf her long before now. But, to meet a daughter he doesn't actually have? Yeah. That was new... 
The kid seems okay. And the conversation that went on long into the night suggests she took an interesting, roundabout path to get here. Not to mention the details of how Kurt actually found the kid. In Hell. The Hell from which she and the X-Men supposedly rescued him. To which he can apparently return to and escape from at will, now. 
Yeah. That's particularly on Amanda's mind as she makes her way from the marina to catch a taxi home. She could, of course, simply have availed herself of the Bamf Express, or 'ported herself home. But, she wanted the time to think and to re-immerse and re-center herself in the city proper. That, and, though she wouldn't say it to Kurt, she doesn't really want to pass back through that Hell again too quickly. Once for the night was enough. No sense giving the Devil a third or fourth chance at a re-match. 
She pauses at the entry to the quay, where the auto traffic meets the pedestrian traffic, glances up at the buildings that surround her, the grey-blue sky overhead, and smiles. She loves this city. 
It's one of those moments. Like a giant game of Chess, with the people as the pawns. To a lot of people, they might see themselves as a certain piece upon the board. For people like Mystique, she's the person moving all of the pieces on her side, and coercing the other team into moving where she wants them to and when.
This hunt feels like it's been a long time coming, though that's more the sense of revenge and bloodlust than the passing of days. She's set this day up in good time, including some side trips to handle other business as it unfolds. The time to strike upon this iron is now.
Where some people might watch from the shadows she watches from much closer. Among the people milling about tonight are a few that don't fully belong. Copied personas or completely invented ones, blending seamlessly into the crowd. It's something of a game, stalking the unknowing prey. Arrange the pieces into just the right pattern, find her window, make her move.
Bam-Bam!
It's unfortunate, but the people of this city are all too familiar with the sound of gunshots. Screaming, running, personal belongings dropped. Cars quickly accelerate and flee the area.
Good luck getting a cab now.
One voice lingers, not all that far away. Male. "Agh..someone help me..!"
The gunshots catch Amanda's attention, too, and her head snaps around to the sound of the man in distress. As people scream and scatter all around her, she has to move quickly to step around them. It's not quite like a salmon swimming upstream. It's more like a running back rushing the end zone. (Or something like that.) And, of course, today, Amanda's without her usual bag of tricks. She didn't think to grab it, last night, when Kurt came to get her. 
Grimacing, she murmurs her shielding spell under her breath, an invisible field of energy rippling into existence as she moves -- just in case someone decides to take another potshot. As she reaches the man, she's already reaching for her phone and looking to see just where the shots may have come from. Magic might tell her, but the man's injuries take precident. "Hold on," she tells the fellow, kneeling down beside him. "I'm going to call 911. Where are you hurt?" She's already looking for the tell-tale signs of blood.
Bishops can be a tricky lot to manipulate upon the board. They move in a predictable pattern, yet sometimes they'll still come out of nowhere and land a devastating strike. Special care and preparation are useful when singling out these pieces.
Blood is easy to find. It's already spreading out enough that trying to narrow down the source becomes more of a challenge than finding out if he's wounded, and how badly.
Gut-shot. He's already got his hands clamped over the wounds. They look fairly amateurish, as though someone panicked and fired without taking the time to aim first.
"I think..I think he was trying to rob me," the man sputters. At this rate it's going to take him several minutes to expire from the wounds, if left unchecked. Slow, and very painful, by gunshot standards.
From a safe distance, some people are already phoning in the attack. Right here, in a nicer part of town! What would have caused something like this to happen? This city's really in a downward spiral lately. Probably some kid out of the Gotham slums trying to prey on those that are better off.
Aw, crap. Gut wounds, Amanda knows, are the worst. They lead to slow, very painful deaths. It's just about then that she realizes she doesn't actually have her phone. Like her bag of tricks, it's at home... Goddamnit! Looks like she's going to have to rely on those passersby that are already calling.
She pulls off her sweater, now, and ball it up under the poor fellow's head. "Shhh," she says. "Okay. Just don't try to move. The ambulance is probably already on its way." 
"I'm a flight attendant," she tells him now, starting to do what she can for him, "I have first aid training. I'm going to try to help you." She's already starting to apply her first aid knowledge to the situation, as well as she might, given everything, but she doesn't have a lot to work with, here. As she does what she can, however, she takes a moment to scan the surroundings again, noting faces and responses, trying to get a bead on any further threats.
The scene is pretty well lacking in pedestrians and passer-by's at the moment. Everyone else has run for cover, they don't want to have any part in this mess. It's reasonable enough, the city's full of hero types, after all. Someone more capable will take care of the situation, right?
Case in point, the wounded man and the flight attendant are soon to be joined by a third.
"Mein gott!"
A nearby stack of shipping containers soon reveals what should be a very familiar looking fuzzy blue elf, complete with glowing eyes, fangs, and tail. He's sticking to the edge of the crates before leaping down and hurrying over to help.
"I heard the shots und got here as quickly as I could," Nightcrawler says while looking down at the wounded man. In the next instant he's looking to Amanda, vacant but oh so expressful eyes held wide. "Are you injured?"
Helping hands are never very far away, it seems. Regardless of the number of fingers involved.
"Nightcrawler," Amanda says, using the elf's field name in public. Her voice is full of relief, though she's mildly surprised she didn't hear a Bamf or scent sulfur on the wind. But, then, in the midst of erstwhile chaos? That's probably not such a surprise.
"I'm fine," she tells him. "But, he needs a hospital. He's been shot. It's a gut wound. Can we bamf him to the hospital?" It would be the quickest solution, after all, though it may also put undue stress on the wounded man's body. Bamfing is not for the faint of heart.
The mind can do strange things when under stress. Missing key details, for one.
Of course, it also helps if those events happened in the first place. Otherwise there isn't much to miss.
"Ja, hold on frauline," Nightcrawler both answers Amanda's question and tries to put the wounded man at ease. One hand falls upon each other person present, that spade-tipped tail 'instinctively' reaching out to curl around Amanda's waist. "We are going to take a little trip."
'Little' is an understatement for two of them. When there should be a telltale *bamf* toward the nearest hospital something else takes shape, instead.
The spade-tipped tail is poised directly behind Amanda as it lines up its mark, just off center to the spine. Between the ribs. Seeking out the sweet spot within the lumbar. It coils back like a snake as muscle within the appendage gains density, the cartilage within the spade itself hardening to the consistency of steel, complete with razored edges, ready to propel the spearhead straight into the woman.
Now, while she's distracted.
Frauline? Kurt must be putting on a show for the 'audience'. He never calls Amanda frauline, any more. She glances up at him for a moment, but his eyes are on the man, so she lays her hand on the man's shoulder as well. "Don't let his looks scare you," she tells him, as the familiar tail wraps around her waist. She drops her shield, then, because it's Kurt. "I trust him with my life." 
Oh, the height of irony. 
As the spade tip slams into her back and slices like steel through her torso, she gasps in shock, eyes going round and wide. Her body stiffens with the surprise, arching automatically. It takes several moments (actually, less than a heartbeat, but it feels like an eternity) before her brain registers the pain and the blood, pumped from a strong heart, begins to flow.
At that moment, as her body's shock releases its rigor, she lets out a groan of agony, tears springing inevitably to her eyes. She looks up at Kurt, expression a mask of anguish on more than one level. "Kurt?" Another agonized gasp. "Liebende... Warum?"
Why?
It's difficult to flash pupilless yellow eyes when the person being copied already shares that particular feature. Instead, 'Nightcrawler' shows a fang-filled grin as that tail lifts, slowly drawing Amanda up away from the ground until her feet are left to dangle in empty air.
The wounded man is completely beside himself in shock. No sound, barely breathing. Is this really happening, or is he hallucinating?! The sirens from a few blocks out, those sound real, at least...
The voice belongs to Kurt, initially. As it speaks it starts to change, splitting into two independent octaves. One remains low. The other rises in pitch to something of a sultry lilt. Definitely not Kurt.
"Wir verletzen immer das derjenig, die wir lieben." //We always hurt the ones we love.//
This woman dared use Mystique's own son against her. It only seems fitting that the metamorph respond in kind. This time, there are no illusions. Only physical manifestations.
The creature that had once been Nightcrawler promptly but subtly shifts, additional muscle tone taking shape beneath the faux indigo fur as he winds up, tail and all.
The next part's going to feel a whole lot worse for Amanda.
The bay isn't very far from here. Within throwing distance for someone that can augment their own strength at will, including the brief hiccup that will come from the blunt end of the spade getting punched back through an already injured body.
The water out in the New York bay is still awfully cold. It is closer to the real Nightcrawler's new boat, at least. Amanda can die knowing that he is within earshot of wherever she lands.
Amanda's pain-filled eyes grow round again, as she realizes exactly who it is that has impaled her. And it's sure as Hell not Kurt. 
Mystique. 
"Nooo..!" She doesn't have enough air for the word to be prolonged in any Shatner-esque fashion. Indeed, it's rather weak, as far as most death cries go. A whimper, rather than a shout.
She knows, too, in that instant, that the man she wanted to save is as doomed as she and, hero to the core, tries to utter something, some spell that might save him. It's too late, however.
The metamorph shifts form again, hulking Kurt's nimble form up and lashing the ropy tail to toss the witch's broken body clear over the quays. As the tail uncoils, the spaded tip tears out of Amanda's body and a primal scream is ripped from her throat, blood spraying behind her as she flies. 
Dark grey water crashes around her as she slams down into the frigid drink, her last coherent thought the whisper of a single spellword that is her last, desperate bid to help herself... to help someone find her before it's simply too late.
Nightcrawler had been coming to appreciate his demonic side of late. If only he could see 'himself' now. Dark red gore coats the end of that tail until it becomes more of a black ichor when blended in with the base indigo hue, deep crimson fluid dripping from the sculpted blade affixed to its end. The look upon his face is one of pure, unrestrained malice and positively sadistic satisfaction.
Then, he's gone. In his place stands Mystique in the guise of Tonya Harris, looking as nonchalant as could be. There wasn't a double homicide at this exact location, honest.
Playful eyes stare down at the wounded man, who is looking fairly pale for a couple of different reasons. The newest reason on his list, staring down the dark bore of the same pistol that had already shot him twice from someone else's hand.
"Hello again, lovely. You didn't see a thing, did you now?"
Click. -BAM!-
Category:Log