1964-01-10 - My Fair Lady
Summary: Turning the dystopian survivor into a real girl. My Fair Lady with a twist.
Related: N/A
Theme Song: None
tommy hope 

There really isn't a reason why half a kitchen's cooked food happens to be in the fridge, on the table, stuffed in the oven. Spaghetti, baked potatoes, smothered porkchops, an inexplicable amount of Lipton onion soup worked into details, these are all present in their numbers. A stroganoff; a weird recipe or two made with tomato soup because Campbell's is magic. They have enough for two days between them, a week for anyone else.

Hope sits on the floor prying the lid off a bottle of pop, suspicious of its fizzy contents, or just smart enough to know something shaken by as fast as she moves (now) could explode through the roof and no explanation will make up for the mushroom cloud stain dripping off the tiles. She's already demolished a ham sandwich in a bun; there are at least six of them wrapped up in waxed paper. Almost like someone knows she gets hungry. Probably didn't make it herself, nor the wiggly jello mold in the fridge, complete with bits of chopped up fruit, probably apple, and mercifully no carrot or celery.

Beside her is a standard issue Glock, disassembled for cleaning on a bit of tattered canvas. She's stolen several very, very fluffy towels and they're stacked up on the counter, but her focus clearly is on carbonation and getting that into her bloodstream for an instant fix. Glory to pop in the highest, and joy to all bubbles and good cheer.


Tommy slept in a little — as per usual — this morning, but slowly but surely he's been starting to wake up earlier. Maybe it's a bit of synchronization, maybe it's a matter of the two of them sleeping at similar times… or maybe it's the smell of food that pervades the senses and holds one aloft while one drifts towards the source much like in something right out of Merrie Melodies.

Except for the fact that Tommy's feet are very much on the ground, and that it's less of a drift, and more of a zombie-like shuffle. "Something smells good…." he can't place exactly /what,/ but maybe that's a fact of the combination of scents more than anything else. Announcing oneself to the girl with the gun? Seemed like a good idea, also. Especially when relatively sure she won't shoot you.

There's a flash of movement from Tommy and he's behind her. One arm (the uninjured one!) moving to wrap around her shoulders as head leads around to press his lips to her cheek. "Mornin' Hope." is offered in a groggy tone. "Whatcha up to?" It smells… and /looks/… like a lot.


Hope wakes up early. There's no such thing as sleeping in, not with her and not anywhere in her life. It's so odd she would lack the complete ability to understand why or what for, except she has Tommy sprawled out dead to the world like the teen he is. Lazy teenager. Get a… wait.

She has the bottle to her lips, the orange pop sluicing around inside the glass bottle when Tommy finally makes his appearance as the young man who could, and discovers he's got food beyond the norm. Much of it is lunch or dinner mealtime, as opposed to breakfast fare, but that hardly makes a difference. The sun is up, good enough, even if it's a low winter sun with a grim greyness to it, chilly around the edges. "We have chili," she notes. "It looks good. And macaroni with cheese. Maybe not real but I ate a cup. I do not care, it tastes pretty freaking amazing. Crumbles on top!" This is apparently magic in her world. "Very nutritious, dense and good energy, but gods, I feel so /full/." A pet to her stomach tries very much to make good on the damage.

Three seconds down, and she will notice that arm. "What did you do to yourself?"


Seeing her so up and energetic is a sight he's getting used to. She's a morning person. He's not. It's one of those things that they don't have in common, but compared to the many they do? It seems like small potatoes to him. Besides. Small or large, potatoes are naturally tasty, so there's no problem to be found there. Unless they come alive. Tommy's seen weirder things happen.

"Sounds very yum." he comments on the subject of food; withdrawing from her now to collect a plate. Chili and mac and cheese are deposited in similar portions and a bit is swirled together towards the center, because if it's good on hotdogs, it's probably good on macaroni, right? This is Tommy logic for you. Either way, with food and a spoon, he joins her on the floor, sitting back against the table. "Full is a good feeling, isn't it? If I can help it, you'll never worry about empty again."

…and she noticed. He really shouldn't be surprised. It /does/ kinda stand out, especially in the morning before proper layers are thrown on. He's silent on the subject for a couple moments, distracting himself with food. Shoveling bite after bite into his mouth. Someone woke up hungry; someone always does. "Mmpfh — you're right. And you said you couldn't cook…" There's a light grin to that, and a couple more bites before he decides to face the music. Remembering what Pietro said.

'You will never get away with anything. Anything.'

"Got into a fight." he tells her, eyes focused on food. Shovel. Shovel. Chew. Swallow. "You should see the other guy." — she probably already has, despite the attempt at humor. The living room would've had a new scar after their respective trips to the city, the place where Tommy tried to drive an explosion through the wall but only managed to give it a good punch. Granted, he /gave/ pretty well. There's a hole in drywall, and teensy bits of dried blood dotting it. But it wasn't exactly the stress relief he'd been aiming for.


Of course she noticed. She has the wariness to look out for snipers on roofs and suspicious behaviour, cars tailing them, people with coats that bulge a little too much around the chest. She has an eye for noticing weapons and sometimes hidden mutations, often trouble, and wounds goes right along with the other soldier's training she received in her turbulent history.

Life is exciting where they are involved for totally different reasons. He escaped juvie as a weapon test, she went to the future to avoid being militarized or murdered. Such situations naturally make for good reason to be wary and glad to stuff their faces full of food when they can, and enjoy that this part of the world is not so troubled as the ones they left. Maybe. She lifts her bottle and sips more of the ghastly orange pop, a thick flavour swilled over her tongue. It tastes good enough, and she continue so absorb all the sugary goodness with the hunger of… well, Tommy. Because that elevated metabolism of his is also hers, it would seem. "Fight with what, a post? Some angry fencing?" inquires the girl, cocking her head at him while he stuffs his face full of food faster than anyone has a right to.

"I didn't cook it. Mostly checked it for poison, doubt it'd be a problem. You start seizing or foaming up and I'll consider it poisoned, but everyone else ate some with no immediate effect, so there you go." She shrugs her shoulders, probably serious. Face the music indeed, she's stealing food? No; this is actually a gift, but such as it goes. "What the hell happened? Someone compromise you?"


The hunger was a downside, but the body required fuel. It just /did./ Like a car needed gas, or at least some kind horses to pull it through the street. In many ways though, Tommy doesn't mind it so much — he honestly enjoys eating. Enjoying the flavors of the various foods he can stuff into his mouth. If only it didn't get to be expensive at times.

"Wall." he admits honestly, nodding his head towards the living room between bites; she's probably noticed something about when he eats. When he wants to talk? The only thing that goes in slow motion is bringing food to his mouth. Once inside, teeth rip food asunder in ways that would make a paper shredder jealous. It's a tiny, hard to notice detail… but it's there, and she'd probably spot it. "The woman I went to talk to about the job? She got canned, so no job to offer. She said I should talk to Stark himself, but…" he trails off for a moment, tongue sticking out to snatch an escaped bit of cheese on his lip. "…gotta prepare for that." Just like he'd did to talk to Pepper. Sure, he could probably sell himself on the fly, but…

…maintaining what he's got here? Is important to him. The location not so much, but the people involved. She's a light in the darkness, a golden shiny wire of… well, Hope.

"So I felt like shit about not finding her in time, did something stupid, and then just felt dumb instead. Don't worry. I wasn't followed back or anything." The admission that she didn't cook it brings arched brows. Well. He knows she steals just like he does. But… if it's stolen food, why check it for poison? Especially after she watched others eat? Granted, she might anyways with her sense for caution, but… "Not accusing or anything, you know I'm no angel," he prefaces, "…but where'd you get it? I coulda probably pointed out the better cooks on the block if you'd asked." Pause. Bite. "…though, come to think of it… you mighta just picked right by luck." There's a bit of a smile to that.


Tommy has partially disconnected.


ROLL: Hope +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 51


"You're missing a step. Come back, kid, and let's have a moment to review. You met this girl named Pepper who worked for Stark, and she couldn't get you a job but that doesn't explain how your arm was hurt or what chased you. Not finding her in time." Hope zeroes in on facts with narrowed eyes, the bottle set to the side. When did the gun get in her lap? When she felt like it was necessary to approach, that's all. The weapon has its various little brushes to wipe out the interior, and there's a look to her of consideration. "Were they after her, you, or some other damage you got caught in the crossfire of? Or am I totally misreading this wrong and you were sad you didn't get to her before she got canned from a multinational conglomerate that could have made you a pretty awesome income?"

Sometimes it's scary to deal with soldiers. For the rest of the time, there's Mastercard. Err… Brushing her hair back over her shoulder, she says, "I picked up the food from a mama around Mutant Town. Trust me, she wouldn't poison us. I mean, she knows I'm a mutant and she's not going to be messing with me. Defeats the whole point, she likes us and is one herself. I think she's doing a good thing, and it's not quite charity."

There's an exploded vehicle and a nasty supremacist dead to tell about that.

Hope stretches out her feet. "She makes a mean potato. I like it."


"You're misreading it." Tommy replies, waving a hand and crinkling his nose. "Literally. I punched the living room wall. That's what happened to it. Nothing chased me." Except, technically, bad memories. But this isn't the time to bring /that/ up. It's debatable whether any time would be the right time to talk about it, really.

Now it's his turn to listen. Leg is twisted so that he can put one foot flat on the floor, and arms wrap around it near the knee. Curious, thoughtful. "Mutant town…" he trails off for a moment. Memory flashes back to hearing about San Francisco's Mutant Town. This is a thought that makes him frown. The fact that their benefactor is a mutant herself? Well. That's a bit of a relief, especially when combined with the fact that this woman knows about Hope, too.

"You should know; in this era? A lot of humans hate us. Like… /whoa/ kind of hate." He's not sure how much she keeps up with the news. Tommy gets bored, more often than not. Plus, people tell him things. "Some assholes along that line burned down San Francisco's version of Mutant Town." They'd even talked about that some in their first meeting, even if Tommy didn't quite reference it /directly./ "So… be careful when you're out there, alright?"

Pot? Meet kettle. "Having friends like us is a good thing. Having friends like us who can cook? Even better."


Tommy has partially disconnected.


Oh! Well then. One worries about punching a wall, apparently, which gives her a funny expression of her nose wrinkled up. "I see. I suppose it's a pretty good target, all things considered, and you can wear your bandages proudly saying it was a very menacing piece of architecture." Cue one smirk in the back of the brain and that's that. Her eyes flicker up to him and she nudges over the pop with her foot; not gonna drink the rest while she's cleaning a weapon, thank you very much and sunny, shiny, and fancy.

"Every time I've ever been to hates mutants, if they know about mutants, Tommy. That never changes. They don't have ghettos, they have concentration camps. They have a ship where they use them for energy in cells. They have nothing but the memory of us, hunted down one by one, and that's why Nathan kept me on the run. That's why he refused to let me stay anywhere near anyone, because they are so afraid, so terrible, they'll kill anyone they think is different on sight. If you're lucky. I heard the old stories about the way slaves got tarred and feathered," she says dimly, staring at the gun, and each promise of death held in a bullet, caught in the snubbed shape of the muzzle, the cruel unblinking eye at the end. "They were treated as less than human. Abominations. Good for nothing but scrap. I know, I've always known. Never show what you are, always assume someone has a trap or a way to catch you, detect you, find you. It's a horrible fate. I'd rather die than be subjected to that, and I'll never assume anyone who has a clue of what I am means well when the chips are really down."

Her feet against the ground, she bends her knee and stares modify at the weapon, then picks up one of the little brushes to swab lightly over the inside of the barrel. "It's stupid. We're not different. Everyone who creates these places, Mutant Town or whatever, makes a barrier between 'us' and 'them.' We're all human. We're all people. Fuck, having skin that's orange and stony means nothing but try convincing freaked out lawmakers about that. They shoot first and ask later. They're idiots."


"Oh, don't get me wrong. If anyone /else/ asked, I'd lie about it." Tommy tells her — that's something a little bit telling. Either he doesn't think he can pull one over on her, doesn't /want/ to, or some kind of mix of the two. "I've already got a few ideas in my head about stories I can tell to that effect, depending on who's askin'."

To Hope's reply? Tommy curves his lips into a frown, The soda /is/ partaken from — a quick, delighted swig before he scoots closer. Reaching out to put an hand on her leg. A physical reminder that she's not alone. "When I came from, it wasn't /so/ bad. That kinda thing… if it happened, there was backlash. Mutants could be out in the public, using our skills to help people. Hell, people didn't even really care if you were a different race or even if you wanted to sleep with your own gender."

Hand squeezes gently. Reassuring. "Now, though… I wouldn't be surprised if someone like Billy," Hope's met his twin, back at the pizza parlor where he first met her. "Was tarred and feathered if they tried to use their abilities in public. Even if he was using them to save kittens from a burning building or something."

Unlike Tommy, Billy can't run quite as fast. He doesn't /react/ as fast. Most of the time, at least. It's what makes the speedster feel immortal and protective of the magical twin. In many ways, he'd rather keep Billy to doing far more mundane things while he was the one sticking his neck out there and getting into trouble. Trying to force the world back to a better place than it is, one fist at a time.

"I think they're just jealous, Hope. Jealous that people like us are that much more awesome than they are. They wish they could do the kinds of things we can… and why wouldn't they? But instead of building cool suits of armor to pretend they can do the things we were born with, they try and bring us down."

Serious!Tommy is serious. It's not the kind of side that the teen shows all that often — in fact, he tries to hide it more often than not — but this issue is pretty personal to him. "I get the idea of a Mutant Town. Strength in numbers and all that… like I said, it's good to have friends like us. It'd be nice if it wasn't /necessary,/ though."

There's a sigh to that, and a shake of his head. Time to drag his brain out of that thought process kicking and screaming. "So. I talked to my Uncle. He's cool with us staying with him for a while, at least until we can manage on our own." Pause. "He's fast like us, too." Really fast, truth be told.


Combing her fingers over the selection of brushes, Hope picks up another stiffer one to scrub at any debris that might be found in the barrel. No telling where she got that gun, so it's reasonable to need to check before she totally disassembles it and reoils several parts. On the other hand, it's not loaded; the ammunition sits separate on the canvas, so there's no chance of accidentally shooting herself. No doubt the soldier's training started with 'do not keep bullets in when cleaning.

Her opinionated stance having been touched on, she makes a sound in the back of her throat. "They're scared shitless, Tommy, I get that. The people saying that mutants aren't human are terrified to look in the mirror and think someone who looks, talks, and dresses like them might be capable of moving at the speed of sound or breathing fire when they can't. So they use that thinking to justify that somehow we're different, same as they look around and say 'that guy's got brown skin, make him sit in a corner away from my precious lily white daughters.'" Her eyes roll so hard that Mount Rushmore probably shakes. "You know someone did that? I sat down at the only open table and some lady came rushing over, told me that was for the 'coloured people'," and here she finger quotes, "and wouldn't I prefer to sit with her family like the nice girl I was? Even if I was Irish."

Prejudices of two decades past die hard. It's there in the softness of her voice, the narrowed cant of her glittering eyes. "I just can't figure what the hell is up with people these days losing their cool over skin colour, but I guess they need to be scared of green now. And they should be, aliens are gross business. I miss my guns. My good guns."

Not the primitive bang bang bullet models, evidently.

His interest in Mutant Town doesn't really surprise her, but it does earn a lift of her brows. "I feel a bit safer there, but not my idea of fun or excitement. I just want to live wherever, not because I'm…" No, that line is not being crossed, and she pauses, walking back from it. "Some weird kid, and there's no where else for me to go, you know? Your uncle's place sounds cool if he's okay with having us there. Like.. Given we are kind of active, he going to be okay with that? I know you say he's a speedster, but he won't yell if we're on the roof jumping onto balconies?"


Tommy watches with interest as she works on cleaning her weapon. He's head of this being done from various action movies, but… seeing it is something different. It's more mundane than the mental picture he had which was something along the lines of attaching a pressure washer hose to the barrel of the gun, turning it on, and letting the bullets themselves clean out the weapon by way of liquid and friction before exploding out to take out some terrorists and save puppies in the same breath.

Tommy Shepherd's view of reality — not always based in reality. Creativity plus escapism leads to kept sanity.

"That's insane. Just because someone's skin color is different, or /they're/ different, doesn't mean jack shit — wouldn't matter if you were brown, green or had six arms, I'd still be trying to get in your pants." Granted, Tommy's prerequisites for that aren't that hard to meet. And initially does have more to do with aesthetic qualities than anything else — but Hope's managed to get past the superficial level in record speed. "…but that's what I'm saying. The way this /time/ thinks is /wrong./ I'm not used to that, not even as messed up as my head is." Apparently, 60s Tommy? Not a racist either. Or the future self overpowered those thoughts entirely based on the anger that he feels towards the people who think differently. Who want to hurt people he cares about.

Then a bit of an arched eyebrow, "These aren't /good/ guns? Where are yours?" Did she like, leave them in the part or something? He's left stuff behind in a fit of speed before. It wouldn't surprise him much.

Then he settles. Taking a breath or two before responding. "Yeah, you're right. And it's nice that we can. I mean, I used to get teased because of this." A point to his hair, "But my mouth and fists got that changed quick enough. I just hate that /they/ can't. Or that people don't want us to be ourselves. I don't like to hide what I can do, Hope, you know that." Green eyes shift up to focus on her face for a few moments. His own still forged in that serious expression; it's not something one sees often from Tommy, but when it does… trouble could easily be brewing.

"He might whine if we're too noisy," Tommy quips, a bit of the levity returning. "But… from what I've seen? He reminds me a lot of me. Like… if I have a horrible idea, he's probably got something right along those lines in /his/ mind. It's trippy." Part of him wonders if Billy has a similar vibe around Wanda. "…and if he yells, I'll yell back. I told him I'm giving the bunch of them a chance, it's their job not to blow it. If they do… we'll figure somewhere else to stay. But it buys us time." Family. It's not who you're born to or who the government tells you to love, in Tommy's mind? It's who you choose. His old team? Closest thing to family he's had. The Maximoff clan has a chance to join that echelon.


Complicated. The whole situation seems to needlessly so, and she gets up, going to claim herself some more of that macaroni slathered in delicious cheese and crispy cheese atop, crumbled bread bits making for a heavenly concoction. She could stab a few of those noodles right now.

Hope grabs her bowl and scoops out some more from the dish before sealing said dish in saran wrap and stuffing it in the fridge. "We probably got a few hours to move all this stuff out if your uncle's cool? Or do we need to meet and have like, an introduction or a tete a tete? That's fancy way for saying doing a nice meet and greet, assuring I don't have six heads or a pyromaniac streak." None known at least. She rolls her shoulders in a bit of a shrug and scoots back down to the canvas, sitting there to dine on cheesy noodles of delight. "I'm cool if he doesn't care we're coming and going. Or he doesn't get into my stuff, but I don't have much. No really fancy guns. That's the thing, I remember the guns I used but I don't have them and I don't even know when I'll get them back. Nathan… I gotta hope he has them all, and maybe he does. Right now we'll make do."

She glances at the gun on the ground, and shrugs.

"So he seems like you. That will be awkward if I traipse out of the shower and mistake you two. But he's older, right, so that has to…" A pause. A longer pause. /Three/ white haired men in her life now? This is bizarre. Very bizarre. She puts her hand over her brow. "God life is weird. So /strange/."


"He's cool. I told him you were fast, and, y'know, not from /now./" She said he didn't need to hide it from family. And honestly? It was bound to come up, Tommy's pretty sure. "My room was empty when we got here 'cause my stuff is already over there. He hasn't touched it, pretty sure yours will be safe too." That was a concern of Tommy's. It's one that's been alleviated. "…like I said, he's fast like us. If he was concerned about six heads, I'd be surprised." Maybe Tommy's giving him too much credit there maybe not. they do tend to think alike. "Definitely no worries on the pyro side."

As she moves, Tommy decides to have more of the pop that's been left for him. Taking a break in speech to lift it up, tilt his head back… glug, glug, glug… and set it back down. If he tried, he could chug it. There's no rush though. "When do you wanna start looking for your dad?" If she hasn't already, that is. "I /did/ say I'd help, after all." And he has the horrible sketch.

The latter comment? Draws a laugh. "Just remember that I'm the hotter one, and you should be fine." he teases, reaching out to tap her nose in a blink and you'll miss it touch. A sign of the control he'll have later on that it's barely felt. Such things are only doable in small doses now. "You travelled through time, hooked up with /another/ time traveler who just happens to have the same powers as you do, and are about to live with him and his Uncle who /also/ has those powers and shares a hair color… and /now/ you're saying life is strange?" Serious moment out the window. Back to Fun City.


"He's fast, you're fast, everyone's fast. That's got to be something you got from your family. Cool." Hope is quick to learn some things even if she's not 100 percent on the ball with how everything in this time works. Some issues, like segregation and racism, she can't take much but others she can handle. Like macaroni, it makes the world perfect. Cheesy happiness will ease her concern for anything. "I can at least bring some towels, yeah? And we probably need a bit of clothing, since we never got 'round to do that. I'm getting a bit sick of washing my underthings every day. Having a fresh pair of socks because I took a few would be good. Though no money, so…" Her expression shifts a little, not so much wily as it is mournful.

The bowl is put down, rinsed out. She eats efficiently, after all. "Don't know when because that assumes my dad is here. I'm keeping my eyes open but he's hard to miss when he wants to be seen. That's the problem. When he doesn't want to be seen? There's no way. Like, he knows how to stay out of sight and more likely he'll find me. I don't know if he even knows to come to New York. Maybe he's in some other city and then I'm SOL. But he probably checked the slide, so maybe he's got the coordinates figured. We dealt with this before, I already know that, so it's cool." A deep breath pulled in cleanses her thoughts. It's easier that way.

A faint snicker dies on the fine. "I'm saying it's strange because my dad has the same hair colour and he's even farther from the future than me. Which means…" Her expression squishes. "He could be like your great-great-grandkid and you'd never, never know."


"Apparently, it's not the only thing that runs in the family." Tommy admits — a loaded statement. There's a lot of things that do. Trouble. Strangeness (Capital 's' intended). Twins. Powers. Hair colors. There's a lot of threads that connect all the Maximoffs together, and he's still learning them all. "Yeah, we'll run the towels and food over first," Sure, Pietro /has/ food, but he eats like they do, so… the more food in the apartment the better. "Then we'll go get you some clothes; run along the shopping district 'til you spot a place that suits you." Because he's not going to tell her what to wear any more than he'd accept the same. …well. Maybe in certain instances. "In this era, you can get over /and/ underclothes from the same shops, but if you want fancy stuff… we might want to take a run to Paris. If we do that, there's a hot dog stand right on Coney Island we can hit for food to cross the ocean with. Just when we touch water? Don't stop running until we're back on land." He's done that before.

"We can score some, uh, French money when we get there." He knows she's not above it; she's probably aware about the same from him. "And then you can have some nice things. I've already got plenty — went shopping for Black Friday." A grin to that. Black Friday; so many loaded wallets that day. Now he's standing. Poking his head around for anything else they might want to take. "Gotcha. So less, let's go find your dad, more, let's try and be visible so your dad can find you and hopefully not try to kill me." There's a cheeky grin for the last part. "Then doing some world travel might be smart. You'll get to see fun places, and if he's somewhere else instead of some/when/ else, we might run into one another easier."

Because Cable will be on the beaches. And they'll search every last one if they have to.

…then she says the thing. And all the blood drains from Tommy's face. She pushed /that/ button. The button that was tied to one of the biggest reasons he agreed to exclusivity off the bat; not knowing who he'd be related to. And now this. "Fuck me sideways." Tommy replies, making a face. "If /you're/ my a hundred-times great grand daughter or something…" Grimace. "…I give up. I just totally give up." There's a thought to ask Strange or Wanda to try the relative-seeking spell on them. There's another thought that he's not really sure he /wants/ to know.


She looks at him funny at the mention of a hot dog stand, and perhaps — just so — she has problems with coney dogs. Or hot dogs, in general, which could be blamed on a bad encounter at some point in the past. Maybe hot dogs are banned foods in the future or she knows the secret of their horrible, gut wrenching ingredients. Give her a proper Polish sausage any day, right? Down with false additives and fake meat piled in salt, and run through the garburator a few times to come up with a meat like product. It's almost as bad as American cheese*. (* No cheese was harmed or put in the actual product.)

"I think it helps if I get some basic stuff. Pants. Socks. Shirts. I don't do dresses or skirts, because there's no way I can go and run or climb in a dress, and have you seen them? They're sacks." True fact. They're in fact called sack dresses, and they are all the rage right now. Disgusting ickiness for anyone with a figure, even if her figure is still suffering from an absence of regular and healthy food. She chews at the inside of her cheek a little bit. "Being visible is so not what I do that… you know, he would go kind of crazy if I were out. Like 'what the hell are you doing' and then he will ground me forever. I like the idea of going and getting some clothes, anyways, and we can worry later. Last time it took two years, roughly. He's possibly not showing up tonight."

Watch him drain of blood. Watch him look totally horrified. Watch the time paradoxes pile up like there's no tomorrow, and she drops the spoon into the bowl. "Hey, hey! Breathe in, slow! In and hold it for three, then out. You look like you're about to faint." Bolting at speed means she's by his side in a heartbeat. "Calm down. Big breath, I was kidding. Mostly. It's just really weird but it's not like there are pale fluff heads like you around. I mean, it's not like enough are related to every other one around here, I don't think it's that big of a deal. I have red hair and no history of whom my parents are. Like, the records are gone poof, and whomever my mom was, she turned to ash along with a whole town. And he's way, way further along than I am, so I don't even know where to begin. I'm *here*. You can't make my… my freaking grandparents with me because that's impossible, and I know it can't happen. At all."

Ignore Rachel Grey.


Admittedly, Tommy does /not/ know the secrets behind the makings of such foods. Which is probably a big reason why he's willing to keep eating them, and finding them delicious. Ruin this delusion at your own risk! Especially when he's already had one close call shock or the day.

"You're the boss of you, Hope — I'm just here to enjoy the view in /whatever/ you wear." Tommy replies with a brief waggle of his eyebrows. "I've never tried running or jumping or climbing in a dress, so I can't really say on that end. Might not hurt to have one or two for fitting in purposes, if you're ever in a fancy situation." Which… is admittedly unlikely with him right now. Unless they're there to try and score something particularly high dollar. Tommy's not a fan of the rich and snooty crowd.

The idea of Hope getting punished for being out, though? That makes him a bit more lively. "Man, Hope — can you still get grounded in the future? I mean, you're /my/ age." Older, technically, but who's counting? "What's next, a time out in the corner for stealing or a spanking for talking to a boy?" Oh, he could tease her for hours about that. But he's not going to. Little friendly jabs, that's all.

…and it's a good thing that she came to his side, because he's leaning against her when he feels her there. Taking the required breaths an closing his eyes for a few moments. Trying to get that mental image out of his head and replaced with a better one. One that can distract his mind from all the horrible thoughts that go through his head.

And the corner of his lips twinge upwards, just slightly.

Relaxing a bit, he nods once. Then again. "Yeah… yeah. You're right." He's not even her /actual/ father. Tommy remembers her saying that. Crisis averted. "It's cool. There's just… there's a long story there." He makes a bit of a face to that, then shakes his head. "Wanna get going? See if we can find you some nice things? We've got American money still," A hundred dollars goes a long way. Even if the majority's gone. "…and we can get more if we need it. Or just take the stuff. We're fast enough to swing it either way." Technically, she's faster, but he hasn't realized that yet.


"I could get you a dress so you could try, " she offers helpfully. Her fingertips scale her brow and she offers a bit of a smirk, dusting away a loose piece of copper kissed hair. "You need to learn about jumping and free running, why not add something like challenging? I bet you'd look so cute in a knee-length skirt. I know like nothing about them, and I'm pretty sure most of the girls thing I'm scary as hell; I can't just put on my tac suit and go."

He hasn't seen the tac suit. This causes her for biting her lip. And honestly, she's /not/ older, she's… there's no explaining how she grew up something close to six years in roughly a day, once. Or slipped sideways and was the age she is. "I don't know, Nathan would probably say time to get moving. We don't stay anywhere more than an hour unless we're scoping out something." Or shooting it. Do the math, Tommy. Not hard to come up with the girl's skill as a sniper.

"Let's get some clothes. You can even hold the pile while I go through it, yeah? See if a little sweater makes you happy." She knows so little about clothes, isn't it funny?


Well. It's the first time someone's made /that/ particular suggestion, but he's never one to back down from a challenge, thus he flashes a smug grin. "If that's what gets you hot? I'll try anything a couple times." Cue a couple flashes of movement. Goggles are claimed. As is the jacket. It's still cold outside, even if they can keep warm in here. Which reminds him. "We need to get you a pair," Reaching up to poke the goggles. "Bugs splattering on your eyes is /not/ fun. Trust me."

Yes, there's a reason why he wears them. Honestly? There's several. All of which involve that speed.

"What's a tac suit?" he asks; a term he's not familiar with even if it might've seen use in his era, too. Just not in his circles. "Alright then. You grab the towels, I'll grab what food I can, follow me to my Uncle's place and then we'll swing around for clothes." …and no, it's not hard to do that math. Guns don't get dirty unless they're used; but he's never been the type to serve as anyone's functional moral compass. More like a barely operational one. There's lines he won't cross, but they're a lot farther in the sand than his old running buddies, to be sure.

Speaking of going, though, he's already collecting containers of food. Bedware can come later, since he took it from where they're going /anyways./ "Man, what did I get myself into? Already giving me the boyfriend duties." Tommy quips, entertained. "Next thing you know, I'll have to carry your purse, too." …and once he sees she's ready? Off he goes. He's pretty sure she's caught on that he's not the waiting type.

…and if he doesn't see her coming, he'll just run a bit /slower/ than he can. Because he's nice like that.


"What gets me hot is not seeing a man in a skirt. I'm sure of that." Rolling her eyes, she goes to fetch her ugly, oversized coat of many pockets. And her bag. Nothing to be done there. While Tommy talks, she runs about and puts the gun back together, reloads the bullets, and sticks into a holster tucked under her arm because that's apparently the way to go.

"My tactical suit. Jacket, pants, boots, though it looks like it's a catsuit." Emma Peel, mrowr. "Better though, because having a continuous zipper from throat to crotch is super uncomfortable, especially if your bra catches on it. Seriously terrible. It's pretty good for high velocity but it sticks out like mad around here and someone asked me if I was an assassin." Her eyes roll, and she stares up. "A superhero assassin. Seriously lame."

Food only lasts so long, and she has paper bags to help carry it, if that's consolation. She had to get it all there. Towels are pulled together, and running with an Alice in Wonderland pile of stuff is… awkward.


"I've heard of crazier things." All in the name of art. But he's not going to get into that, nope. Honestly, it helps that Tommy's things are /already/ at Pietro's, as that means that he doesn't have to get any of his own things beyond what he already did and the bedding to collect later.

Then she's describing the tacsuit. Whistling softly. Yeah, that's something that he's going to keep in mental images. One of the many happy thoughts that she's given him. "Definitely sounds useful, but… yeah. People don't go around wearing that on a day to day basis. At least not outside of like, California or something. Hollywood's wonderfully weird like that." A brief grin crosses his lips.

And yes, then they're off! There's a brief run by the neighbour's to drop some food off for the poor dog there — then a skip across state lines to the apartment that they'll call home for a while — and then? It's a change of pace to just running down the streets. He'll run a few steps behind her, this time, letting her be the deciding factor of where they stop in order to get her some new threads.


Where off? Flying through the days and nights to the apartment - - New York bound - - and further still. She bothers to offload towels and food, offloading these with no real finesse. Everything can end up in the fridge or on the counter, no note not to touch. At least there's that.

Then he wants her to decide a direction? Bad idea. "Where are the stores?" she asks, turning to Tommy with a look of pure confusion. "I mean… somewhere? But I don't really know where in the city they are, so you're gonna have to show me the way to whichever place has the stuff. Shops with the under bits and the over bits."

Yep. He gets to play tour guide, because does he really think she's bothered wandering up and down Fifth Avenue?


"Oh. I guess I should've pointed some out before, huh? Uh. Well. Follow me, then, and like… grab me when you see something you like. I'll run a little slower."

Still fast enough to be hidden from the sight of most people. Just slower than his max speed so that she can catch up. Because he's at least as fast as she is, right? Right. At least he'll think that for a little while longer.

…and run he does. Pointing out various shops as he goes along — department stores, clothing stores, even the rare lingerie shop. He'll play tour guide… but she's going to have to steer the ship, so to speak!


Probably should have done so, for that matter. The redhead shrugs her shoulders slightly, and then tightens the angular strap of her bag. "You figure where you go, and you'll stop when I need you to stop, right?"

God hope that he does. Their blur through the city brings them past strings of shoppers, the doldrums of winter bringing out linen sales and not much else. She rapidly assesses the windows and the shops, and she shakes her head to several expensive department stores. "Need jeans, shirts, cool clothes. Socks. There, turn, there!" A grab of his shoulder hauls him back towards a door and drags him into a rather downscale clothing store with several fletched leather ankle boots and Doc Martin style ones in the window.


Running is easy. Stopping is slightly less so. But it's not something that Tommy's incapable of by any means! There's a bit of a skid when she grabs onto his shoulder and he releases the speed, literally some of the rubber from the bottom of his shoes melting into the ground from the sudden stop.

…and then she's dragging him into the shop — not that he had to be dragged too hard, after all.. it's an idea that Tommy's entirely on-board with. Now, picking out clothes for a girl, tomboyish or otherwise, that would be a stretch for him… but at the very least, he's willing to go shopping with her!

"Looks like you can probably get most of what you're lookin' for here, Spicecake. Don't let me slow you down." …as if. Especially given that she's less prone to showing off than he is. For the moment? He's just going to travel behind her, trying to learn her tastes in clothes; sure, he knows /categories/ (and no dresses), but that doesn't mean he knows the finer details yet. These things are important to a girl. For her, he's suspecting she'll value the practical over the fancy — but isn't ruling out a surprise or two, either.


"Distract them. Go try things on. It's easier if they don't see I was here and I have to guess at the sizes anyways. If you have sizes." Clearly the clothing store has them, but Hope is learning as she goes. The idea of free commerce is still something new, and the behaviour of shop clerks is nothing different from 2011 or 2211 or 1964. That means flitting around the periphery, staying out of sight, and not bothering the racks of t-shirts with band names and general logos on the front rack. Mostly because some girl is always folding those t-shirts, unfolding, and refolding, hoping that some hot guy is going to come in and sweep her off her feet.

Have at, Shepherd.

Hope instead veers for the piles of jeans, ignoring where the men's stuff is in favour of the women's. She hesitates enough to be visible and slinks along, pulling out an assortment of sizes. Style matters little; the only colours she gets are dark. No white tight jeans here. Then it's a run for the fitting room, the door clicking in her wake. This on, that off, this on, that doesn't fit. Sorting gives her a sense of Oh God too small and it's stuck, the hiss of her voice a meagre warning. Other things simply fall off her hips. Eventually - 39 seconds - she whittles down the right general size, and slings those over the door. Next move, shirts. Right?


"Sure thing, sweetheart. Remember, this is all for you." Tommy tells her, hopeful to head off any jealousy from the redhead before having to fall into it. Thus he'll let Hope do her thing and try on various bits on clothing, whereas he plays the role of noisy, walking distraction.

How best to do that? Focus right on the fairer sex. Sure, he can more… traditional things and ways of distracting the clerk, but this is the way that /he's/ best practiced… and, well, better to use skills rather than have them go out of practice. So, he saunters his way with over, each step closing the gap between himself and the poor thing in a dramatic sort of strut.

"Hey, gorgeous. Looks like you're having a good time over here." the speedster offers, his lips twisting up into an amused grin. "Place is lucky to have you, too," A pause, and Tommy leans his head to one side, then to the other. Looking her over purposefully. "Because you /clearly/ know a thing or two hundred about what's in style."


The little blonde with a huge beehive comparative to her stature is happy to dote on something other than a t-shirt. "Are you here for the Bob Dylan shirts? He's totally the bee's knees, and we have ten." A nod follows. "It's the hippest thing out there. Bet your folks never heard anything like him." That's a stretch, but she bats her frosted lashes and puts her hand on her hip. "We carry only the newest swag. Nothing stiff or fuddy-duddy here, no way."

While Tommy goes to seduce girls, Hope storms the clearance rack and the nearest other rack, which happens to carry way too much spring time blouses for her liking. Forget that. She's into the men's section within a heartbeat of realizing all those polyester colours and floral patterns are real. Swiping a few Henleys and cotton shirts, she pauses midway to goose Tommy.

Just a reminder. Then it's in to collect the jeans and zoom out of the door, stashing the clothes somewhere nearby and not uncomfortably weird. That proves to be… a newspaper vending machine. Go figure.


"You mean, you actually have some in stock?" Tommy replies, letting his eyes go wide and mouth hang open for a moment. "I've been to three other stores today and… /nothing./ Though I think at least two of the shops were run by squares," A roll of the eyes, "And definitely didn't have anyone as groovy as you workin' there." A wink to punctuate. "Lead the way, let's check 'em out!"

And then he's moving. Green eyes on occasion flickering around to try and spy Hope in the store. Watching out for where she is. Trying not to be too obvious about it, which means that he's going to let his eyes rest on the blonde more often than not.

…and then the goose. That makes him jump; he wasn't expecting that! "Man, my folks are the stiffest people around. They don't even own a /radio./" He makes a face at that.


Talking about a radio is a good way to get /another/ look from beehive blond. Her name is Honey, according to her name tag, or maybe it's just how that charm goes. "So true. They're right here, probably in your size. Even if you're on the twiggy side, rather than all built like one of those football jocks." She points to the folded stock on the table, and gestures to grey and white t-shirts. A frown forms when she notices that a few of the stacks are irregular, and goes about distributing shirts again.

The redhead leans against the doorframe, pushing it open. "Hey, my burger's getting cold. You gonna ditch and get some food, or stay in here all day poking around at clothes?" Hope doesn't wait around long, leaving him to follow in her footsteps.


Tommy offers her a nod, and goes to look at the shirts. Waiting for his cue… and there she is. Turning around in faux surprise, he waves a hand. "But they've only got ten—" …and then she's gone. Perfectly executed. "Man… my sister, you dig? She's gonna eat my grub if I don't get out there. I'll seeya around, Honey!" There's a wave, and he's heading out the door without another word.

Lips immediately curve into a grin, and he turns his attention to a) finding Hope again, and b) getting out of the shop's immediate line of sight. Once he catches up to her? An arm reaches around to squeeze her waist briefly, "Thanks for the exit door, Spicecake. What's next?"


His sister? Lucky she didn't hear that, headed out to claim an armful of clothes and a bag from the newspaper box she stashed them in. It would be truly horrible if they were carried away by a delighted business man out to discover that, wait a sec, his $.25 copy of the Times comes with additional fun, like t-shirts. She sweeps it up after giving the box a good hip check, dislodging the bit of cardboard used to prevent it from locking. No need for the paper, just wiggling into those t-shirts or pants later. Unrepentant girl wanders. "Girly things. I mean, I can't get a bra there. That really sucks. I am going to have to wear armour that's huge and scary and covers more than your hands and feet combined." Hmph! Stupid designers don't win Hope's approval.

"We could ditch this and go cause trouble. Shopping is… not very much fun, is it?"


Oh, he's definitely lucky that she didn't hear that. She'd never let him live it down, especially after his reaction to her comment earlier. But Tommy knows his scams, having practiced a number of them over the years — a lack of funding before the powers came around required other ways of getting the things he wanted, and he was better with his mouth than he was with certain other talents that might collect him things.

Her method of stashing the ill-gotten goods? Bring a grin to his lips. Clever.

There's a nod to the rest of her lips, "Well, not every store's gonna have /everything./ Do you want fancy or simple?" asks Tommy, considering. He might be able to guess. To the latter bit? "I'd hate for you to have to wear some giant suit of armor to bed." the white-haired boy teases, "One more stop, we'll get what you need, then we'll make some real noise. Deal?"


"I haven't got a clue what people wear now. You all look funny." A dismissive wave of her hand is going to get her smacked, surely, and it's not going to cause her any grief or harm if that happens. Nothing like walking along the streets of New York, all proper arrogant and standoffish; right? "Let's go for something that doesn't look like your grandma wears it and not just a piece of string with lace at the points. Because I really can't wear that sort of stuff, honest. It's so terrible." There is something ghastly, isn't there, about horrible and tacky clothing patterns. Just wait until the plastic dress craze hits, and everyone wants to wear shoes with fish in the heels.

"So, yeah, fine. Wherever we can find the missing bits. You do the directing and… you run in there and find some. I don't know what girls wear!" Hope throws her hand up in the air so the bag doesn't go flying. "This is just one of those things I never had to think about and it's so freaking weird to me. I don't know how anyone does anything."


Oh yes. It is the kind of thing that gets her smacked — more specifically, swatted lightly upside the head unless she moves. Definitely not the kind that ties to hurt her… maybe closer to a love tap than anything else. "Right. I don't wanna be looking at you and thinking of something that my grandmother would wear. Or thinking of my grandmother wearing those things." A bit of a cringe there. Then a change in mental image. Forcing better thoughts in.

"I think I know the place. C'mon." There he goes! There's a brief stop back at the apartment to drop off stolen goods — no sense getting caught with that, after all — before heading back out. There was one good thing about running through the city as often as he does, as often as he has… he passed a lot of things over the years, and retains a good map of where to find just about anything you might want to find in New York (…and New Jersey, and Pennsylvania).

It doesn't take terribly long, but they arrive at a storefront that proclaims itself to be 'Town Shop'. The windows have women's sleepwear on display, but after Tommy tugs on Hope's hand to lead her inside? She'll see that there's plenty of choices to take in. From more conservative pajamas, to lingerie, to a smaller selection of swimwear in the clearance section because it's clearly the wrong time of year for /that/ to be sold.


A place. Could it be any more vague than that? Some place in the city full of clothes and the sorts that girls like, though unencumbered by her paper bag of purloined clothes, Hope may be a little happier at keeping up. She's more concerned about dropping things everywhere in a trail, losing what she went out of the way to obtain. Plunking down shirts and jeans on the bed, or whatever counts as a place, she is just as happy to slither out of her sweater. It's hot wearing that and a coat. A t-shirt replaces said sweater and it turns out to have a tree on it, and some fuzzy velvety like finish around the leaves. Green suits her, but hello, redhead. It's genetic disposition.

Then they are on the run again, and following Tommy explains why she's so hungry all the damn time. Or sleepy. It's all this calorie burning when he's weaving them halfway past the Jersey border and back, because he can? She could smack him on the back side of the head, but there's far worse to deal with: the dreaded Town Shop and its personal shopper who knows how to adjust bands and stuff. Terrifying knowledge for someone who probably had robots to do that the last time she landed in such a shop, and it didn't involve human armour. Her lips press together and she hides by the door.

"Oookay," she draws out the vowel. "Right. Are you even allowed in here? Am I? I don't even know where I'm supposed to begin. I think this is a bit scarier than being shot at."


There's a part of him that wants to laugh. Wants to laugh loud, and not stop laughing until he literally has to in order to breathe again.

So very tempting. Instead, Tommy takes a deep breath in order to reign in his funny bone, before drawing all the world's attention to him in a place where he probably shouldn't be doing so. Admittedly, he's not the type to blush or anything along those lines, even when in a place like this.

Instead, he reaches into his pockets and hands Hope the remaining money they've got on them. "I'm… actually not /sure/ if I'm allowed to. You /definitely/ are. Take this, go talk to one of those clerks and let them know you need some help." Because this is not exactly his area of expertise. "I'll be nearby restocking our reserves. Just keep an eye out for me when you're done, alright?" Pause. Grin. "If you want to be shot at later, I'm sure we can find a reason."

He'll wait for her to agree, and then he'll step out. Time for him to go out and earn some cash for the pair — it's the least he can do after she did it last time!


The instructions are all she needs to categorically square her shoulders and wander in. The thorough mask of unease compromises her air of settled confidence, though, and they certainly have a history in such locations of young women sneaking in without the least idea of what they're doing. One of those clerks, a woman about forty, descends on the redhead in an air of kindness and purpose. If Tommy watches through the windows, Hope and her escort disappear into the privacy of the back where a curtain and French airs are likely to ease the discomfort. Or, in her case, heighten them. It's not as though she has a cultural touchstone for the Eiffel Tower to make things better, or more feminine.

Twenty minutes later, the horror of measuring tape and shape wear are done, and the redhead isn't cringing so much as staring at the cash register in disbelief. Apparently things are different where she's from. Either way, the cash on hand goes a ways to buy a fair number of goods… including a bathing suit from the rack, because seventy-five percent off is good enough. Then she comes traipsing out into the cold. "That took a lifetime. Holy crap, she was going to poke me with a needle, I swear. And then there would be no store left. Or me left. Pfaff, all the hot air, gone out." The flibberty noise of a raspberry follows. "Now that my dignity is in tatters, and she insists no one of any taste or class wears a tight t-shirt…"


While Hope is busy being tormented by the fact that she's a girl and has to buy the appropriate battle bikinis to charge into modern warfare with, Tommy's been outside… well, doing exactly what he said he would. There was a hot dog cart a couple blocks down, he'd flit over, and the second that a woman pulled wallet from purse to pay?


A 'gust of wind' would come along, strong enough to knock the wallet, and hot dog, out of respective hands, with said gust of wind giving the items brief tosses so that it /looks/ like they're literally flying away… before rounding a corner and then running back to the rendezvous point. Nom nom nom. He's left sorting through the wallet, snagging the important bits out — Cash, traveler's cheques, identification cards that might be modifiable, and stuffing those into his pockets.

Then Hope's coming out and he's grinning at her. "Your mission a success, too, then?" Pause. "You're right. You look like you've died from old age and been reborn to exactly when I left you." Snicker. Then a bit of a cringe. "Ugh, needles. Do they seriously use /needles/ to fit your girly-parts into, uh, girly-things in these days? What's next, leeches?" He's a bit sympathetic, there. "…at least you got the stuff. /Now/ we can go have some fun."


Travelers cheques, man. Does anyone even remember those? They're the raison d'etre for foreign travelers and the jet set, to have their lira and francs, pounds sterling and kroner. No doubt some of those pieces Tommy grabs are useful for opening doors when they end up running over the Atlantic or other places besides, if they do. It's something of a privilege of the speedster and the mimic to run wherever they like, but imagine the joys if she can snare the powers of a teleporter. One day.

"Enough of one, though I can't believe these cost so much money. Ridiculous. I cannot believe they charge this much for a bra when I can buy something like fourteen loaves of bread." Her eyes are rolled skyward once for good measure, and she scowls over her shoulder. "I can't imagine what they think the money buys. Some ugly straps? A little bow? Ugh. And they use pins to stick things in place so it fits, but whatever, be glad you're a guy. Leeches would be an improvement."

She has a ridiculous girly pink bag which she needs to stuff into her canvas bag to feel better. At least this way it's out of sight, out of mind, for the most part. The weight isn't very heavy.

"Did you have a snack?" Her nose wrinkles slightly and then she gives Tommy a sidelong look. "Fun. It's probably not free-running down the Chrysler Building, even that one is too big for me. I'm not sure I want to go tearing over buildings anyways. You used to save stuff in the future, right? What did you save from? And how do we go back to being awesome? Because I really want something better to do that… just… loafing. Not like we're loafing. But you know? There's something important to life."


Oh yes. Running is quite wonderful — especially since they're not exactly bound by watery borders like even the fastest normal would be — but teleportation, the ability to /instantly/ move somewhere? Depending on where they wanted to go, that could save a good couple hours per trip. Until the speedster gets faster and can start catching up to the woman borrowing his abilities.

"Well. You know. Women like to look good, men like to look at women… when I come from they have a saying that sex sells. Guess it doesn't come cheap, though." Tommy replies, crinkling his nose a bit. "At least you won't have to do that for a while again. Probably." …he really hasn't the slightest idea how clothes buying goes for girls, after all. No sisters in his family. At least not the one he grew up with.

"Yeah. Kind of a two-for-one deal, scored some more cash and other things… and there /happened/ to be hot dogs involved. I wasn't gonna say no to hot and ready food." Tommy admits with a cheeky grin. Her next questions? They make him pause. And think. "I don't remember all the details, but yeah. I was part of a team of people like me; Billy was, too. I… kinda really wasn't the one picking targets, but you know, we stopped people who were doing bad things. People with powers, a lot of times. They'd try to build death rays, or rob banks, or kill a bunch of innocents." Now Tommy's searching this era's memories. The expressions on his face turn uncomfortable here and there, but it doesn't stop him. Separating the two sets isn't always easy.

"If the ice monsters were still here, we could fight them. There's those aliens running around that are probably the bad guys, if we can find them. That's the kind of stuff that they'd probably take on." Tommy admits, considering. "I was /planning/ on trying to draw out some of those anti-mutant assholes and put the fear of me into them, but you and Teddy don't want me doing that…" A crinkle of his nose to that. "…there's also the people after /you,/ like that 'Bishop' guy. I mean, what do they have against you, anyways? Just that you're a mutant or somethin'?"


"Of course men like things to look at, and that's why I don't really care what I'm wearing. It never really mattered before and mostly I'm concerned about having the ability to move without being inhibited by tight things or pokey things. I have no patience if there's no room to move, no way." She rolls her eyes again and brushes a swatch of her celebrated flame red hair off her brow, shoving it behind her ear. "Gimme comfy clothes over looking like I'm wearing a pink sack. Or wrapped up like some kind of present."

Her fingertips brush against her coat sleeves and she pulls them down while they go scampering through the streets. At least at a slightly lower pace. "That's cool, that you two were doing things that helped people. It's cool to be the guy who punches out the bad guy."

Hey, she's been taught to stab things and shoot them if they're problems. It can't hurt her. Her gaze flicks towards Tommy, and she gives him an assessment toe to head. "People after me have to find me, that's the tough part. They might not be in this time, but they try. Bishop's a zealot. He believes in a really fucked up worldview. He thinks I'm responsible for a war that causes humankind to hate us, and he refuses to be persecuted like that. He thinks if he gets rid of me, his future won't happen. Nathan protected me for sort of the same reason. Mutants don't do terribly well where he's from, in fact they might not be around at all or nearly at all. It's all sort of fuzzy right now, and I don't know, we used to talk about it all the time. But I had to stay alive. Otherwise shit happens, bad shit, or just garden variety it's all horrible shit."


Tommy can't help but grin a bit. "Honestly, Hope, I wouldn't care if you /were/ wrapped up in a pink sack. You'd still be adorable." There's a wink there, before limbs stretch. "I can understand the whole freedom of movement thing, though. Not being able to twist or bend or just /run/ when I need to? Not good. It's why I don't do the whole skintight clothes thing. Even though I could." Well. There's vague recollections of a costume that wasn't exactly baggy… but he's pretty sure that was to impress a girl, too.

"Yeah, we were. I mean, some of the guys we took on were some real bad dudes. People from other planets, even other /dimensions,/ I'm pretty sure." Unless he was watching too much TV. The future memories still have a fogginess to them that he'll never manage to shake. She gets a smile for her words, though it's a bit of a mournful one. "I don't think I ever would've gotten started doing it without those guys, though. I can't say I really have the.. hero instincts, or whatever." Pause. "What about you? You think you'd ever want to do something like that, saving people who can't save themselves and whatnot?"

Then it's her turn for storytime. And Tommy nods, listening. "Well. When they come, if they find you… I said it before, I'll say it again. I've got your back." There's a turn, now, but the running remains. Hands flex together to crack knuckles while in motion. "I don't know if you're the last fence keeping the world from some kinda horror, or if you're the domino waiting to start some kinda chain reaction… but nobody messes with the people I care about and gets away without a few broken bones."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License