2013.06.14 - Peace of Mind

As the weather begins to get warmer there's at least one newish resident within the city that is getting progressively more grumpy. Dealing with the Manhattan heat alone is enough to have Zoya pondering her decision to leave Moscow, though the change in scenery isn't without its perks. Today's perk: Frozen custard, courtesy of Mickey's Frozen Treats. Like most shops out in the cramped city it's a small establishment which has been built up to be trendy and new, plunked right in college territory. Business has been growing by the day, the owner knowing his primary market and working the system accordingly.
Ornery Russian women tend to not fit that target audience. Zo sits hunched forward by a small table, completely alone and probably not by choice, alone. There's an air about her, a certain uneasy feeling by the way she's allowed herself to disconnect from reality. The way that she occasionally eyes other people up doesn't help, going far enough as to prompt a few customers to leave early.
Her order is living up to expectation at least, helping to cool down the woman in the leather riding jacket. It's not the best weather for that kind of outer layer.
If Olena has a jacket with her, today, it's likely in the old pack slung across her back. She blends in with the students, for the most part. Or, rather, she blends in with some of the students -- those that favour a somewhat counter-culture look. Her top is sleeveless, her jeans are black and go with the boots on her feet. She's aware of the sullen Russian, as she pays for her own treat, but isn't immediately looking to make friends. (Ukraine and Russia don't mix well, typically. Not, mind, that the Ukrainian has necessarily peg the other woman as Russian. Yet.)
The uneasy feeling Zoya gives the rest of the patrons in the store, however, doesn't extend to the mutant girl. On the contrary. Zoya's hardly the first nutbar Olena's encountered. If anything, there's an air about the kinetic that reminds Olena of some of the personalities she met in the camp -- a little crazy, and a lot anti-social.
Even the crazy can have kindred souls somewhere out in the world. Zoya's yet to meet one. She's not holding her breath, either. What she does notice is the other woman in a 'similar enough' jacket paying for her own order. Out of all of the other people to have passed through here since Zo arrived, this one is the most interesting.
The only problem is that there's other people getting in the way, blocking her view. Too much noise, too much commotion.
Everyone has a filtering process, a way to cut out the unwanted noise in order to get to the heart of the matter. For many people this only takes some selective concentration to tune out all of the distractions. For her, she gives everyone else incentive to get out of her vicinity.
Another spoonful of custard is lazily slipped into her mouth, letting the inverted spoon hang between her lips as suspicious yet tired eyes get drawn away from the Ukranian woman to everyone else left milling about the joint.
No word of warning nor ultimatum is offered as one hand dips beneath her coat, unholstering a blocky, purely Russian designed and issued pistol. She barely seems conscious of what she's doing as three shots snap off into the tiles overhead, causing an instant wave of panic.
Ten seconds later, almost everyone has fled the joint.
Zoya nonchalantly rests the gun on the table beside herself, spooning another hunk of custard.
It's an improvement.
The shots ring out and Olena spins with a quickness not typically seen in most people. People start running, the staff dive for cover... and the Ukrainian stands in a semi-crouch at the end of the counter, a snarl on her lips and three short blades between the fingers of her right hand.
Once the store has emptied, however, it's largely just the two of them -- cowering staff in the back room aside. Olena blinks as Zoya puts the Russian handgun on the table. Yes. The Ukrainian girl knows her guns (thanks in part to Mystique's instruction and in part to her own up-close-and-personal encounters with them). Her dark eyes flick over Zoya's appearance, note the cobbled, Russia-inspired military theme, and she arches a slender brow.
She straightens, gauging the other woman's reactions as she does. "Was that for my benefit, theirs, or just because you fucking felt like it?" she asks, rolling the dice and choosing to speak Russian, rather than English or Ukrainian.
A few things are learned in short order. Everyone else ran. Everyone but the one woman whom had caught Zoya's attention. Her reaction screams combat training, or at the very least someone that is used to dealing with danger and having to survive through it. She uses blades, which..will be something to keep an eye on.
She's also learned that her custard tastes better with fewer people around.
The spoon gets jabbed back into her steadily melting treat, freeing up that hand to prop her chin upright upon an elbow. Soulless violet eyes look back to the remaining figure, not even going for the full over view. The eyes are enough.
"I wanted some room to think," she easily replies in her native tongue. "It is nicer now, no? So much more peaceful. You were not afraid," she then points out. "Not a hero."
Apparently that's enough for her, quietly reaching for the spoon with her other hand while continuing to stare onward with half-lidded eyes. She wanted the chance to pick at this woman's brain. Now, she can.
Meanwhile, Olena's generally learned that Zoya is crazy. But, that? Not such a surprise.
"You weren't aiming at me," Olena notes as to why she wasn't afraid when the other mutant shot her gun at the ceiling of the froyo place they -- and only they -- currently occupy. "If the others had the eyes to see, they would have seen you were not aiming at them, either." She lifts one shoulder in an uncaring half-shrug. "And, what do I care if you shoot them, in any case? They are neither family nor friends." They're human. And she doesn't much care for humans.
So, no. Not a hero.
'Crazy' can be difficult to define sometimes, but there are moments when no other word will do. With the response being offered Zoya smirks at the Ukranian woman, though there's something not quite right about the expression. It never reaches her eyes. It's completely fake, mimicked by watching others and practicing their emotional reactions. It's something which she's managed to get quite good at, despite her lack of patience in dealing with others, though it tends to have a tell.
"It is nice to see that someone here knows how to think," she offers in turn. That her current audience isn't against firing upon others is noted, further shifting her mental label of Olena from 'not a good guy' to 'a villainous sort.'
"And if they were family or friends?" she asks with the hint of challenge in her voice, reaching over to a nearby table where another customer had placed their order, yet untouched, then abandoned it as they fled. She helps herself to a spoonful of that one, as well.
Judging by her expression it won't be getting her vote for flavor of the month.
"What the hell is this?" A familiar voice demands. Deadpool stands akimbo, somehow unburdened by the quarter ton of weaponry improbably strapped to his back. He glares daggers at Zoya and Olena, despite having no visible facial features. His mask must be made of magic, or awesomeness, or something. "Gunfire? In a froyo store? In /my/ froyo store? Who's gonna make my Sunday Strawberry Slammer now?!" Well, it's /Thursday/, so, probably no one, in any case. "No one asked you!" Deadpool barks. He pauses, a thoughtful looking question mark hovering over his head, and then just walks behind the serving area. He starts fiddling with levers and knobs, and the sound of sweet, delicious frozen yogurt being dispensed fills the air. "Oh wow, this isn't hard to do at all!" Deadpool declares, sounding amazed. He makes a 'go on' gesture at the women. "Go ahead, send 'em all running. Now, where's the Secret Strawberry Sauce that makes this a Sunday Slammer...?" he mutters, searching through the back counter by way of simply hurling anything that's not strawberry syrup over his head and against the back wall. Metal clangs, and the sound of crushed almonds and splattering syrups hitting the concrete behind him fills the air.
Again, Olena gives that half-shrug. "Then, we may have a problem." But she gives a tight, sharp smile, noting just how dead the other woman's eyes are. The hyperperceptive's face isn't nearly so devoid expression. She's not, actually, as complete a sociopath as the Russian. "However," she continues. "Most of my family and friends are well able to take care of themselves in such encounters. I doubt your bullets would give them much trouble." And, let's think. Who are Olena's 'family and friends'? Magneto and Mystique are pretty much it -- such as may be. (Okay. So, it's a dysfunctional family.) "Thus, it's not likely to keep me up at night." At all.
Then, of course, the red-garbed, walking arsenal enters the shop and starts spouting off. The mutant girl's brows rise and she blinks. She would consider telling him where to shove his Sunday Strawberry Slammer, but... well, he looks even more heavily armed than Dead-Eyes over in the corner. She slides two out of the three blades she holds back away, picking up her frozen yogurt and a plastic spoon. "I think," she says in heavily accented English, "clerks may still be in back." A door slams closed. She hmfs softly. "Or not."
Does this mean the cops will be coming soon? It probably does...
Zoya merely offers a slight nod upon hearing that Olena's family can take care of themselves. "Good for them." That's it. Subject dismissed. It's not holding her interest. She's more interested in Olena herself, not the extended family. After all, they aren't here.
'What the hell is this?' "I think it is mint coffee," Zoya replies in Russian while shoving the other dessert away from herself.
Only then does she slowly turn around to look at the doors, puzzled. Everyone else ran out of the place as quickly as they could find their own feet. This guy wasn't here a moment ago. Judging by his own personality quirks she can only draw one conclusion. This guy's off his rocker.
This, coming from a psychopath. Congratulations, Mister Wilson.
"I am sorry," she replies in (very heavily accented) English. "Is your name Mickey?" If it is then his name really is on the building.
As the nutball leaps over the counter and sends handfuls of other assorted nuts across the floor Zo's hand drops back to the table with a lifeless -thwak.- So much for having a little peace of mind. This guy's loud enough to account for half a dozen 'normal' people, easy.
Looking back to Olena, she says "Can sit if want to. Have place to selves for while." It's also in English, though probably more because she forgot to switch back rather than for the benefit of the new guy in red and black.
Better a psychopath than a sociopath. Wade knows the rules of society apply, "But I just don't care!" Deadpool says cheerily, finishing the thought aloud. He flings a can of gummi bears over his shoulder. "There's apparently a huge fire or something on the other side of town. Totally unrelated to me running through here," he adds, waggling a ladle at the two women. He flings the ladle casually aside and starts ripping tubing out from under a sink, hooking it up to the yogurt dispenser. He hits a lever and starts happily chugging down the froyo. "Ohhh, that's so good," Deadpool mumbles. "Ow. Ow! OW! ICE CREAM HEADACHE!" he bellows. He flings the tube aside, where it starts puddling on the counter. "Ate it too fast! Gnaaaaargh!"
Olena looks around Mickey's store, now. She suppresses the desire to laugh at the surrealness of the whole thing. A red-and-black ninja-something shouting about ice cream headaches while the sociopath in the corner calmly invites her to share a treat.
"America," the Ukrainian says with an amused shake of her head. "Land of dreams..." Or so she's heard. Nightmares, she'd believe. This? Oh, who knows.
Picking up her bowl once more, she gives another shrug, surrendering to the weirdness to just go with the flow. She's good at going with the flow. It's her particular specialty. So, you know... what the hell?
She kicks a chair out from Zoya's table sufficiently to sit. Her senses stay sharp, in case the woman moves for that gun again (just because she gets tired of playing nice) or some other concealed weapon, but otherwise settles in to enjoy as much of her order as she can before the sirens get any closer that the faint hum at the edge of her considerably acute hearing.
"Neither do I," Zoya replies to Deadpool, completely oblivious to what she's agreeing to not caring about. As the gummi bears scatter across the room one lands upon her table, eventually drawing her attention.
"I am sorry was not there to appreciate it," she says about the fire, plucking the errant bear from her table and looking it over while it remains pinched between the fingers of both of her hands.
A moment later and she's almost delicately ripping the limbs and head off of the gummi treat, rearranging them in various places. The head trades places with a leg. "Thought ice cream headache was when you hit someone in face with tub of it?" Apparently people don't tend to like that so much. Who knew?
'Land of dreams.' "Is that what they call it?" Zoya asks Olena, returning her attention to the other woman as she comes closer and claims a seat. "I thought was just bigger collection of ignorant, opinionated people. Might have to see what dis 'dream' is about."
Someone else might well think they were dreaming about these three. It's an interesting blend of insanity.
Deadpool flings a tub of Haagen-Dazs at Zoya, but only halfheartedly. He hops onto the counter and with a Hazzard-esque glide, slips across the granite and lands on the tile at the register. He walks towards the girls' table, kicking a chair out, and drops into the seat backwards, resting his forearms on the back of the chair. "The American Dream is that anyone and everyone can have what they want," Deadpool explains. "That you're entitled to eat McDonald's every day and have society pay for your health care. That the dumbest, most ignorant person on your street can win the lottery and wreck his new Maserati. That elective plastic surgery is covered by public healthcare, and that anyone can get a grenade at the corner convenience store." He takes a big bite of his froyo. "But it beats the Russian dream, which is that everyone gets to share a public toilet and get their bread once a week whether they want it or not." He lifts his bowl of froyo in salute to the two girls.
Olena snirks at Deadpool's opinion of Russia, nevermind the USA. Being Urkainian, she doesn't argue it. Sounds about right, from what she's seen. Instead, she just snirks. "Red. Blue. Take pick. Is all same." Another sharp smile. "All purple." A beat. The explanation. "Dried blood and bruises."
"So," since everyone here seems to be crazy, Olena decides there's no harm in exercising a little curiosity. She looks at Deadpool. "Did you set fire just to get yogurt, or is really not you?" A dry chuckle. "Or should I not ask?" Or at least not learn the answer. "Where is fire?" Because those sirens she hears are still a goodly ways off... which is unusual when weapons are discharged.
Then again, in a city with how many super heroes, villains, and vigilantes running around... is it that surprising? Perhaps not as much as the cops might hope.
The tub that gets thrown Zoya's way is caught out of the air, the fastest this woman has moved since she got here. Now she's got a -third- flavor to investigate, popping the lid and flicking it aside.
Yeah, the cops are going to be here any second, but until then? A fresh spoonful is sampled before she bothers looking at what the flavor is, giving a soft 'hmh' in acknowledgement. Seems she has a winner.
"It was not so bad while I was there," she says in her homeland's defense. "There comes time when start to feel like big fish in little sea. Became bored with same sights. Is what dis country is for, no? Fresh start to life, new beginnink."
Olena's run-down of colors gets another thoughtful look out of her, considering what is being said. "Is true point. And everyone bleeds same."
Which is kind of a pity, really. Takes all of the guesswork right out of it. There had been a time where she tried to find someone that bled a different color. Blue veins should have blue blood, shouldn't they? So disappointing.
When the fire is brought up, Zoya says "If you do not ask, I will."
"I didn't... not set a fire to /not/ get froyo for free," Deadpool says slowly, looking shifty. "And I want froyo for free but I didn't not set a fire to get free froyo for setting a fire, which I only allegedly did because there was this hot chick across the street and I wanted to get her attention, and then there was a malfunction with a flare gun."
"But I'm not saying that's what happened."
Deadpool shakes his head at Zoya, waggling a froyo spoon at her and splattering the table carelessly. "Not everyone bleeds the same color. I bet green skinned people bleed... purple. And blue people bleed green. Pink people bleed red, unless you shoot them with paintball rounds. Which is also hilarious." Deadpool makes a finger gun and points it at Zoya, then goes 'pew pew!'.
Olena regards Deadpool for a long moment, as he performs his English language acrobatics. Her own command of the language is such that, really, keeping up with all that is a little bit more effort than she wants to expend. She'll just assume the answer is 'yes' and be done with it. Which means he's at least as crazy as the girl that shot the ceiling just to get a seat to herself. (Not, mind, that Olena considers herself much less crazy, given she's calmly sitting here enjoying froyo with the pair of them... and doesn't seem any too worried about it.)
"I take your word for it," she says dubiously, but leaves it at that.
In one event, the feeling is mutual. "You hurt my head," Zoya says back to Deadpool when he tries to explain himself. "'Hot chick' is only figure of speech. Even I know dis."
Wait. A malfunction with a -flare gun?- "What is to go wrong?" she asks, genuinely puzzled. "Flare goes in same direction comes out. Point away from face and fire, no?"
Oy. "For not sayink, sure say lot."
Then Deadpool says something that he probably shouldn't in her company. "Do they..?" Just like that her life has a whole new meaning. Seek out the elusive off-red blood. The process shall begin anew. Though to the paintball comment she dismissively rolls her shoulders. "Used to do that on public transport. Is good way to stir up crowd. Got tired of it after while so went back to usink real bullets. Is less colorful but have found it to be more effective."
The Haagen-Dazs she's idly picking at is pretty damned good, actually.
"He does, da," Olena agrees with Zoya: Deadpool talks a lot.
She scrapes her spoon across the bottom of her bowl. "You know..." she says idly now. "I think, of all cities I go to, New York has most interesting people."
The speculation about different coloured blood leaves her to glance between the two. Frankly, she doesn't much care what colour anyone bleeds. She doesn't even care about making them bleed, if they don't give her a reason to. She's happy enough with red, since non-red blood would suggest someone not-human. And she has no beef against them. (Yet.)
"Is it that I say a lot, or that I don't say a lot, but I speak so much that hidden inside the subtext of my personal narrative, there's both what I intend to say /and/ what I'm saying, along with what I'm /implying/ is being said?" Deadpool waggles his eyebrows at the women. "Or is it just that by sheer volume of speech, more is being said than one might say with less words delivered more wordily might have not said with more words, yet with more words might not have said less despite using more words than a lesser speaker would have said."
For someone who's being written by an English major, I'm not sure that makes any sense. Big talk from a yellow text box who's probably just a manifestation of my latent schizophrenia! 
"I like bubbles!" Deadpool adds brightly.
"Is true," Zoya agrees to Olena's observation. "Everyone here is different on some level." And exactly the same everywhere else. But, what can she do about that? It's the flaw of any species. It only varies so much before it ceases to remain a part of its parent genome.
Then Deadpool starts into her verbose rant. At first she does nothing more than pick and poke at her tub of thawing goodness with the tip of her cheap plastic spoon.
And still he continues to talk.
By the time he gets to the part about liking bubbles there's something within the woman that snaps like a dry twig underfoot. One hand darts out as if to backhand the chromed napkin dispenser off of her table. The difference is that it departs the table at a much greater velocity than what her arm had been traveling at, speeding across the room in a flurry of misplaced pieces of tissue paper that the metal housing for it gets partially embedded into the far wall.
Then she slides the Haagen-Dazs over toward Olena. "Try dis."
Olena's head snaps around, following the speed of that napkin dispenser into the wall. Damn! That thing moved a helluva lot faster than even her vaunted perception said it should. She turns back to regard Zoya as the (clearly!) other mutant offers her the Haagen-Daz. "Spasibo," she says in Russian. Thank you.
A beat. "Nice speed."
Tasting the ice cream, she lets out a thoughtful sound. "And this. Not bad. You right."
She eyes Deadpool sidelong, to see if he'll continue his babbling or not in the face of the sociopath's display.
Deadpool grabs the spoon in his hand, licks it once, and then hangs it from his nose. He narrows his mask eyemarks at Zoya and holds his hands menacingly to the side.
"Taada!" he says, with little jazz hand motions. "Beat /that/."
"Na na na nananana," he says, singing the the Ringling Brothers theme song. "See how cool I am? I can do this aaaaall day. This is so much cooler than throwing napkins at perfectly innocent walls. That poor, innocent wall," he says, with a mournful sigh. "It had so much going on. A life, a future. Hope. Dreams. A lifetime of holding up a ceiling." He looks up at the ceiling, then chucks his frogurt at the ceiling. It sticks. "Hey, lookit that!" he declares cheerily. "Ceiling...urt."
To the word of thanks Zoya lazily motions with a hand as if to say 'it's nothing' without bothering to say the words, themselves. As to the compliment, she says "Is what I do."
Well, part of what she does, anyway.
Deadpool's antics gradually bring those pale violet eyes back around, staring at those masked eyemarks with the sort of glare that a lioness might pin its prey with seconds before pouncing and mauling the other creature. Instead of going after the Mouthy Merc she reaches out to almost daintily pluck the spoon from his nose then drops it to the floor with a dull, lifeless clicking sound.
She only breaks eye contact long enough to align the sights of her one pistol upon the dropped spoon, turning back to Deadpool with her head lightly cocked to the side in silent challenge.
BLAM!
"Can do dis all day."
A moment later and a gob of froyo falls from the ceiling, landing upon the table with a comical Fop!
As the yogurt slops back onto the table, the distant sirens Olena has been monitoring start to grow louder. "As much fun as this is," she tells the two, now, a lopsided smile on her lips, "I think is time to go." She glances between them, evaluating. "Unless, of course," she concedes, "you wish to stay and kill cops." Which, given what she's seen? They probably do. "In which case, I no stop you."
She flashes a grin, pushing back from the table and rising, "But! As I have been ask to keep..." she looks for the word in English. "Profile. On downlow. I should not stay. But you? You have fun!" She gestures lightly between them, smiling. "Perhaps we meet again. New York is not so big city as people think."
"Considering there's only like, fifty rooms coded on the grid, I'm sure we will." Deadpool cracks his knuckles and tosses his remaining ice cream over his shoulder. "But yeah, I better adios too. Early day tomorrow. Or whatever. Peace out, yo!" Deadpool throws up the deuces and gets to his feet, looking left and right. "Hey, maybe I'll go out the back. That'll throw 'em off the trail. Not that I set that fire," he hastens to add. "Later, ladies!" Deadpool grabs another bowlful of frogurt and heads out through the back exit.
Category:Log