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Is it the second, or third outing now for Blackagar and Scarlett? He doesn't really know himself but he had taken the time to consider over several options on where to meet the woman this time. Opting for a place that is famous, he chose one that still would fit his personality a bit. The usually bustling Coney Island sees far less activity during the winter months leaving it pretty vacant. The light dusting of snow has settled over several of the benches and the lights, unbrushed due to lack of presence by people in the area. The one place that is cleaned off is a bench at the end of a pier where Blackagar is sitting at present. For once he has a jacket over his shoulders as he waits, looking out at the vast ocean beyond the end of the dock where boats pass by and the hues of the evening are beginning to creep up with the sun setting behind, into the depths of the city.
*
Third, technically. Third or fourth or ninth; their lives revolve through varied, graceful spheres of presence and purpose. Coney Island makes for an unusual addition to the landscape, but with the downscaled carnival atmosphere reduced by the cold, they actually have room to walk and talk, or write, without too much attention. No children run down the promenade, no teenagers take potshots at seagulls or try to steal from the shuttered businesses. The best one can do is probably buy a hot dog somewhere, though to be fair, Scarlett isn't much up to the prospect of hotdogs. Everyone prefers their own meals, and she's not much for sausages in buns, all things said and done. She kicks up clods of snow simply to watch the crystals capture the burning sulfur glow of the streetlights, the orange halos sparkling down even if the hour isn't so late. The shimmering billows have their own kind of beauty, one stark, defined in its glory by the softness of the edges.
*
Like the vegan man would indulge in a hotdog. Such a concept would truly make him scream; if only to destroy the hotdog stand and save the world from their presence. No, he had come prepared with a small basket under his arm, a prepared picnic type meal upon which he had rested his slate to write with. The soft crunch of the snow under foot makes a crisp sound against silence but soon the etching of chalk over surface is heard as words begin to appear. «Sometimes, I just like to come to a simpler place. And the Ocean feels fresh. Feels less polluted than other areas of the city.»
*
Poor vegan Blackagar. He'll have it as bad as some, restricted to salads and pasta, in an era where vegetarianism isn't really a thing because of a lack of Buddhists at least. The hot dog isn't, fortunately, a food group that one can trust Scarlett to eat either. Instead, she joyously gives another kick to the snow and watches flakes catch in the air, before descending. There lies a certain quiet satisfaction in that, to say the least. She will eventually retreat to the bench alongside him, landing easily enough with the lightest of thumps. "The ocean smells all right around here, though avoid getting downwind of all the factories in Lower Brooklyn and Staten Island. The smell is terrible. You should get out into Long Island. There is still a hint of natural wilderness out there," she adds.
*
Some writing takes place and he shows it to her, «I have heard the Westchester area is nice. Other areas outside the city as well. I'll have to explore them soon.» He finishes holding it and then puts it back away, leading in a way toward the barriers of the pier, standing above the frothing waves of the ocean lapping up against the rocks below. Smiling, he looks out towards the open vastness and takes an overemphasized breath before looking at Scarlett, smile still present but as he does, slowly it begins to fade as his eyes narrow, brow etching with concern.
*
She is ever patient about the scratch of chalk, the scribble of a pen, the chosen medium of the moment. He could be poking around with a stick in the sand and Scarlett gives him time and room. "You should. The outer counties are quiet, though I prefer the island. Quieter, more comfortable, in a way." She stands and follows him over to the railing, looking at the water. Etched wavelets and silvery rills play across the sea, foam formed where the water surges into the pilings and goes even further, roaring underneath to hit the breakwater stones. All in all, it's not a gentle meeting of two elements, but a pretty one all the same. "Yes? If you want to fly out there, I can, though bear in mind it will be cold and we're going to have to stay either low or very high to avoid detection by radar. I don't want them to scramble a jet."
*
Blackagar shakes his head at Rogue instead, writing a bit on his slate for her before nodding in the direction he is indicating. «They have been with us the entire time. Watching.» The nod of his head indicates a three pairings of men at different locations. Somewhat looking non descript but doing so in a very noticeable way. The sort of way that a person who tries not to stand out, ends up standing out. He writes again for her, «Are they yours? Because if not, they are mine… and that is very bad.»
*
The danger of trying to surprise Scarlett is that she might, understandably, get upset. The alternate is more likely; she's difficult to actually physically surprise given she possesses that odd intuition, an aptitude for deciphering trouble just as it happens and unleashing a response almost concurrently. "No, not mine." Her gaze drops thoughtfully to her gloved hands holding onto the railing, and then their general distance. "I'm halfway competent with a staff. I trust you have some means to defend yourself, or am I carrying you heroically off to safety on Liberty Island?" The corner of her mouth lifts at the mention of it, and then she casually turns back around to kick snow up into the air. "Enemies of my friends are my enemies. I know that's not how it goes, but…" She gives them a look over, counting numbers and distance, her shoulders rolling back. "Talking them down isn't going to work, is it?"
The pacifist bohemian has to at least try.
*
Blackagar's frown stretches and he starts to write some for Scarlett, well some is an understatement. It is quite extensive for one of his usual writing fares. «If I knew who they were, maybe. I do not have many enemies anymore but there are some who seek access to what make us Inhumans. If they are with this cult, then they could be very dangerous. But perhaps they are just looking to rob us? Do criminals in this area travel in groups such as those? For the ones I know of usually work alone.» He holds it towards the woman then looking at her, glances at his own gloved hands and nods as his fingers flex and unflex into balled fists.
*
Only really one way to find out what their intentions are. "Back in a flash, I hope." Scarlett offers a gilded smile far, far brighter and mercurial than anything else she's shown in days, and slips away from him. Her merry disruption of the unbroken field of snow continues as she playfully kicks up clods, her tall white boots and thick tights totally unsuitable for being this close to the water. But at least she bows to convention to wear a coat, which serves beautifully to keep her shielded from the cold. She looks not to have a care in the world, clearly someone as blithe and bonny as Audrey Hepburn or Anna Karina in any of her movies. A twirl and a spin, she continues on, lightly meandering towards the nearest of the packs stalking them. Quite literally she dusts them without obviously intending to, simply having a lovely time forming a path for herself. Which is largely the point, to demonstrate she's hardly of any concern. "Evening!" The sunny warmth beams on them too, just another pass of a friendly girl transplanted to an unfriendly city. They can hope.
*
Blackagar's eyebrow climbs upwards as Scarlett brazenly walks away and then towards them. From his perch, he watches while adjusting his coat over him and the slate is set down for a moment.
The pair that she approaches seem to be more focused on the man than her, however it is the words that draw their attention. Closer inspection shows both have matching tattoos along their jawline, some kind of etching that looks tribal in nature. Crystal blue eyes of one and brown of the other both take her in at the greeting. The blue eyed man then grunts a bit in acknowledgement while the other simply finishes his stare of Scarlett then turns eyes back towards Blackagar.
"Evening," Blue Eyes greets back, coldly matching the weather with his tone.
*
Basking in the glory of the glittering snow, boards beneath icy and perilous, Scarlett allows a smile to remain fixed upon her face even when it's clear these souls are not those normally wandering around New York. "Be careful out there, it's quite windy," she offers, one helpful tip from one girl to evident tourists come down to the pier. Later she might wonder how they knew to find him and start tearing things apart to be certain of safety, alien tracking devices, or whatever else stands out as a cause to know where Blackagar and she were. For now, she falls back upon her manners. What they are likely to see? The bohemian isn't as heavily dressed as some, and she is young, terribly young, university student at best. Her gloved hands come together, fingers touching her lips.
"It might be safer to stay close to the park. I'm going back, anyways." They might consider it. It's a small hope, but one can never lose hope.
*
Blue eyes gives her another once over and again he grunts before responding. "You do that." Again, that tone matches the air around them, crisp and cold. Meanwhile brown eyes has shifted his attention to glare at the woman once more, the poor University Student becoming a source of scorn from the man who is interrupting their work. Fortunately for them, the other pairings are paying attention as well. The interaction with Scarlett prompting them to move forward some like closing a net around the prey. If they were professionals, they are terrible ones, for their movements do not reflect such.
*
They are not professionals. And, sadly for them, all the years that Scarlett can't remember are still ingrained alongside the siren song of her rising knowledge something is wrong. Of course, they are broadcasting their warnings far and wide. That level of skill isn't particularly rare. Leaning back against the rail, she peers over the edge past the pilings, measuring depth and then current activity. Not exactly suitable for her purposes. Resting her hip and elbow there, she holds fast on the chilly precipice of violence. It isn't like her to take the first move; her nature, as an aikidoka, is deflecting force for all that a goddess of war tends to yell at her for that fact. Too bad. Their dance, their first step.
*
Realizing that this sprite is not departing, the way she has been hinted at, instructed to in fact by Blue Eyes has him taking a step forward and reaching out with a hand. The intent is to seize upon her, to shuffle her down the boardwalk so as not to be able to bear witness. Witness to what? The advancing of the other groups towards where Blackagar is leaning against the railing, watching and judging their approach as well. What was meant to be a net being cast has had a small sever appear within it by Scarlett, taking Brown eyes and Blue eyes away from the equation, at least momentarily. "Get out of here girl." Blue Eyes grumbles to her with his reach.
*
Realizing that this sprite is not departing, the way she has been hinted at, instructed to in fact by Blue Eyes has him taking a step forward and reaching out with a hand. The intent is to seize upon her, to shuffle her down the boardwalk so as not to be able to bear witness. Witness to what? The advancing of the other groups towards where Blackagar is leaning against the railing, watching and judging their approach as well. What was meant to be a net being cast has had a small sever appear within it by Scarlett, taking Brown eyes and Blue eyes away from the equation, at least momentarily. "Get out of here girl." Blue Eyes grumbles to her with his reach.
*
Reaching for her will be his non-fatal mistake. Ol' Blue Eyes takes her by the shoulder, his hand closing over the delicate collarbone and thin, filmy material of her shirt, the trench worn overtop not adding a great deal of bulk. What matters is that she tilts her head towards his hand, her jade eyes unnaturally dark given the wide dilation of her pupils in the dark. She raises her hand for his arm, the grip inadvertently pulling his sleeve up. Or inadvertently if she had not invested the last three years into aikido training, fighting with Fear and a goddess of war. Her other hand goes for his chest, almost tender in protest, because the riot is already present. Her face is bare, her fair skin luminous as a pearl risen from the depths. Soft, too, for the brief touch obtained against his wrist. But it's all she needs as she surrenders control and her genetics do exactly what she was born to be, karmic retribution. Genetics spin their cadence of wicked intention, and the opening void of her soul seeks for his in a microsecond. Thoughts follow gifts follow psyche, and her fingers close tight as a vibranium shackle above his elbow, preventing his withdrawal unless he can throw off fifty tons in the blink of an eye. Or the intense pleasure that sparks out of being when she unleashes white lightning in his veins to match the black hole in her being. "I…" Her voice is soft, tinged by a hint of doubt, uncertainty, fear. All those things that a girl approached and accosted should have as she holds fast, seconds ticking away, shoving him further and further into the abyss. It won't be for death, but incapacitation, surely. "I don't know what's going on. Why are you doing this?" Truth, really. What is he doing? Pilfering his thoughts is enough to tell her, ugly as it is.
She steps back, azure eyes turned towards the brown-eyed one. Blue eyes is very gently pushed back towards him, enough to put the two of them together. Catch, because if he doesn't, they're both going to be flung over the railing.
*
Catch, stumble, some combination of both occurs as Blue eyes collapses back into Brown. They do not make their way over the railing but instead trip over one another into a heap with the lump of blue eyes weighing down brown, leaving him unable to move and bewildered.
The why of they are doing this? They want what Blackagar has. What she has. They want power, strength, 'abilities' to leave their own mark on the world. Someone, some dark cloaked figure, directed them to Blackagar, that he was the key. That with him, they would be able to have abilities of their own. All they had to do was bring him back. Dead, alive, it did not matter to these men's minds. They had been given a task.
The encounter with Blue eyes, lasting but those mere seconds passes. The Inhuman ex-King still leans casually against the railing as the other four circle, look to approach; until one realizes that their other pair have been taken out abruptly, leading to a stoppage of advancing and a flustered look exchanged between the remnants.
*
The pacifist reasonably despises what they make of this, but the poisoned thoughts in the diluted well of the psyche merely join the cacophony imprisoned in her oubliette mind. She advances towards them and grabs Brown Eyes by the collar, stepping into his space while Blue Eyes falls into the dregs of unconsciousness, or what passes for a deep stupor. As easily as her curse craves another victim, she denies it, mind spinning with the overlaid thoughts imprinted there. "No," she says, nothing more than that, her English accent as resolute as Churchill's was, or certain fine gentlemen and women ready to watch the North descend upon them. Which North, that's up to the listener.
Her fingertips close into a fist in his jacket or shirt, and she pulls him to her hip, that terrible strength unleashed to haul him over her. Over the railing, and right into the water. They're not exactly in the shallows, though not so deep or far from shore the shock will kill. It should definitely put that one out of the fight, however, unless he intends to levitate up or spit cinnamon hearts at her in a stream. You never know.
"I'm beginning to think you didn't come here just to dance, gentlemen." Her voice is a lilting high, carried over the air. "But prove a girl wrong. We can still go waltzing in the snow, and what a pretty picture that will make."
*
Out of the corner of his eye, Blackagar witnesses Scarlett tossing the man over the railing, eyebrow quirking up softly before he looks at the other four now and shrugs his shoulders. Always silent, it seems even more pronounced now considering the tension of conflict that has fallen. Eyes pass from one of the men to the next in measured gaze, and the men themselves look to one another.
Two peel off, going to deal now with what they interpret as the greatest threat, being Scarlett, whom has already dispatched two of their ilk. The remaining two continue towards Blackagar.
The pair that make their approach towards Scarlett do so with a heightened pace. The one, moving in front, points the other towards the side as they part in order to surround the smaller woman. A glint of bronze is seen in the waning light as brass knuckles are put on by one of the men, apparently his perception of the situation has a heightened sense of the threat she presents than the previous pair of Blue Eyes and Brown Eyes.
*
Two versus four seems a far fairer balance on the face of it, though she is scarcely concerned by such matters. Scarlett's movements carry the knowledge of what the first man, Blue Eyes, anticipated at least. His tactics are likely similar to the others, and forewarned is forearmed. Or, at least, better armed.
She swivels on her feet, lightly balanced on the balls of her feet. Raising her hands in front of her, she holds her palms open at chest height for the left and slightly lower for the right, attesting to a certain willingness to engage in martial arts. They're still rare enough in this age to be considered strange, even an exotic oddity if they know what they face. She, however, lacks anything remotely akin to mercy in this front, projecting their acts based on the way the pair of them circle her. She won't make it easy, shifting in motion, moving backwards to lure them where the footing is even less certain. Ice makes for a dangerous situation, after all, and if one of them throws a punch, misses her and busts his jaw? All the better, she doesn't feel responsible for that loss of karmic luck.
"What, boys, you can't be afraid of a girl? You come out here wearing your best and those pretty rings," she nods to their wrists, "and don't intend to have any fun? You can't pull the wool over my eyes." All that devilish charm that went down to Georgia, got a London bride, and made the soulless dark ginger of her comes to the fore. Tipping her head a little, her glinting blue-green eyes flash at them, throwing a wink. "Come on, you know you want to see if I'm any good."
The redhead blows a kiss, and waits for them to move. Whichever one does, her purpose is solely evasion, ducking and weaving, or guiding their blows past her.
*
The pair that have turned their attention to Scarlett, having split apart to flank her cast a momentary gaze to one another before launching forward. It is barely coordinated, moreso than Blue Eyes and Brown Eyes, but these two, who shall be called Bald and Unibrow, fling themselves at the woman with an intent movement. The Bald one swings at her with a large, meaty ham of a fist like a club while Unibrow lunges lower at her feet. The combination of a high attack and low attack could be well rehearsed but screams more of desperation than anything.
The others approach Blackagar, who still is leaning against the railing looking either too simple to realize the trouble he is in, or too uncaring to take action. As they approach and close the gap he glances over to see how Scarlett is doing before turning his eyes to those coming nearer, a small shake of his head and he leans up off the railing.
*
Scarlett hates fighting. It shows in the way she moves, the orchestrated patterns that come forced with practice and experience in the painful lessons when a realm crashed from peace to war. As an aikidoka, she prefers to turn aside the blows, catching a fist with the outside of her arm and guiding it past or turning aside to bring a kick, a punch into empty space. She is not the quickest of opponents, certainly not a master, but she is more than competent.
When punches connect, and at least one or two do, they seem to have next to no effect. She isn't slight, but certainly built lithe, a yoga master toned by lean commitment to her arts. Her flesh doesn't bruise to the cruelty imparted upon her. Nothing stops the pain, of course, the poetry of knuckles slamming into her collarbone singing a kettle whistle over bone and flesh. The many-petalled kiss of her hand colliding with the Unibrow man's chest uses his own momentum against him. Measuring how much force will send him flying over the rail without caving in his chest or cracking his sternum is an unknown, honestly. She has a general gauge.
One of those voices in the back of her mind yearns to see them crack. Another sobs. She pays no heed, shifting her weight from her hip to drive her arm forward and send him flying clear into the water. One less, now, one to face in rapid speed. It might be better to flee off the boardwalk, but theirs is a dance with a certain end, an outcome scribed in blinding light. Burn.
*
The splash of the Unibrow into the depths of the water, icy cold below, are the only sound he makes. Even a gasp of shock or thud of pain don't escape his lips when he falls into the water. This leaves her with Bald man who looks even more concerned now, drifting from aggressor to a cornered animal like posture as he realizes this woman has dispatched his associates. His eyes drift over, widen a bit and looking at Scarlett, he turns to do the only choice he has left, at least in his mind. To make a break for it, to run away. Now if she allows it, that is up to her.
For Blackagar's sake, he has begun walking across the pier towards where Scarlett and the bald man now stand, hands tucked back into his jacket.
*
If he runs, not to join his associates or threaten the exiled prince, so be it. Scarlett does not pursue him, the message already tendered. She swivels then towards the others closed upon the railing, head tipped. "In the name of sanity, stop. Or do you like hypothermia?" It hardly constitutes a fair fight by closing in on him, pinning the others between herself and a man with the known ability to destroy worlds with a whisper. Being in direct line of attack also puts her at risk, even if she moves at an angle. Snow gives little limitation to someone who trudges sure-footed through it, spring to her steps lofting her up a little.
"I know why you are here." Damning words from the dark-haired herald, a little piece of sorrow inflecting her words. "Taking him down won't give you power. Forcing him to give you influence won't transform your lives. I doubt you listen or care, but I will put you down if you continue."
*
They had possessed six, but now with only 2 remaining, they opt to follow suit of the bald man and turn, tails between proverbial legs to retreat. Certainly they will return at some point, with others, with help, with 'more' but that is a situation for Future Blackagar to worry about. Present Blackagar simply watches them going and then turns his eyes to Scarlett and continues to walk in her direction. He looks mildly embarrassed, apologetic as well, the way his brow is furrowed and the expression in his eyes.
*
"Oh, please. As if I am not prominent? I am the flower girl of the riots, at every one, calling for peace. They have seen me and some hate my face and name." A shrug of her shoulders affects some degree of stilted acceptance for the fact of her life, though Scarlett may not be happy with that bitter reality that is hers. Touch kills and everyone fears her for good reason. She watches the other two go. "Expect we will take another way out of here. I can fly us back to Brooklyn or the train station safely. I am sorry you have such men bothering you."
*
Calmly, Blackagar opens his hands in what is akin to an innocent shrug as he takes an expression of it is what it is. The basket which he had set his slate upon must have found its way into the ocean during the commotion. He looks at Scarlett, gazing her over and then shakes his head. Instead he turns and points towards the boardwalk, towards where the horizon is still battling against the oncoming night with the last rays of sunlight and extends his gloved hand to her.
*
She looks over the rail with him and then sighs, the breath puffed out in a silver cloud rapidly taken apart. A nod follows, and Scarlett offers her hand. Hers are still gloved, protected against errant touches, and Blackagar need have little fear she will pull a stunt that deprives him of his liberty or his voice, supplanted instead by a dread semi-consciousness and knowledge she has reaped what's in his skull. Some things still remain secrets yet. The path away from the boardwalk satisfies at least to leave the violence, and she scuffs out their footprints where they go as a more difficult means of ascertaining what happened.
*
The walk, Blackagar is his usual silent self for some time but finally after making his way down the path with Scarlett a ways, he stops underneath one of the lights that illuminates the boardwalk. It's there under that light that he finally manages some expression, one of apology. A gloved hand lifts up, touches at her cheek some in a motion of checking, to see if she is alright. Having wanted himself to get away from the place of conflict, this quieter location offers a brief reprieve and moment for him to check. Not on himself, but on her. The look of his eyes is searching, both physically and looking into hers to see if all is well, or well enough considering.
*
Conflict seems to cause her no lasting trouble, at least not upon her expression. Submerged thoughts chase one another on the endless chariot race of her cursed touch and the willingness to use it even in defense. The knowledge she has will never end, never vanish, and she lives with those consequences. For most people, it doesn't show; she's good at suppressing that in the oubliette of herself.
Whence they walk, no words are needed. It is an oddity enough in of itself to be hand in hand with another person, at least one not of the redheaded trio fit to cause doom throughout the city and state. Glancing towards him when Blackagar touches her cheek, she inclines her head towards his palm, aware how close the gesture can be to ruin. It won't stop her from butting his palm with her cheekbone, and resting purpose there. "I'm hard to hurt. I do not take well to my friends being hurt, either."
*
He nods, very slowly due to the hesitation and reluctance to take her words at value. Not because he disbelieves, but greater is his concern than he would initially let show. However after a few moments he nods once again and seems to relax slightly. Blackagar taps his chest gently, then frowns, realizing that what he meant to communicate would not make much sense and instead, of all things, adopts that boyish grin that he takes when a joke has been made. A joke that only he could understand in that moment but the ease of the tension of conflict fades from him. This does not cause him to pull his hand away however, instead leaving it there for a moment.
Trying again, with one hand he taps his chest, the other points to her, and he brings them together after prying his hand away from her cheek with hesitation, clasping them to show unity.
*
"Men." A roll of her eyes indicates a certain attempt at levity, a forcible emerging of the sun over the horizon before its time. "More than friends, Blackagar. All those I associate with, appreciate, hold near to my heart by a dozen different ways. You are attempting to sabotage my equanimity, and I daresay you know it for all you're hiding behind that grin. You know full well what I mean even when stirring yourself to look so forlorn that you might be put into a box of friend and not potential partner of some fashion, or whatever words people use to describe it." This is why Asgard is such a dangerous realm, and having Fandral as a friend is not helpful either. He distorts someone's views upon things, where people are involved, even if her views aren't altered much.
The bohemian shakes her head slightly, and adjusts the collar of her coat. Might as well use the moment to cover the whirlwind spin of her thoughts. "They wanted to hurt you because they saw you as a key to power. I can understand that all too well. You needn't explain, only know that I am well and you can laugh at the fighting tactics later. They worked, it's enough for me. Mm?"
*
So his grin remains, looking a bit coy — can he be blamed? It is about all he has to rely on at the moment are his expressions. Blackagar smiles still however at her and nods slowly, as if she has confirmed what he was perhaps hinting around himself even if attempting to hide it from blatant demonstration. He reaches out a bit, pokes a finger at her arm where the bicep would lie and nods approvingly. A finger lifts to himself, he shrugs his shoulders with opened palms to show he did in fact nothing beyond stand there, that she carried the weight. Then, he is stuck. Stuck with expression and no way to speak. Again, hand is offered out as he nods, this time in the direction of the city, eyebrow rising in silent question.
*
At this rate he's going to end up with a bitten finger. Maybe. Scarlett arches her eyebrows slightly to the poke to her upper arm, and the jacket and diaphanous shirt beneath conceal the contour of muscle toned to a point that the poke meets some resistance. Not a rock-hard amount, but sufficiently so. "I would have trouble believing you are called upon to defend yourself all the time, but I can show you if…?" Might approach that more tactfully, but a bit of the stolen personality has to bleed through somewhat. Thus her bluntness, uncharacteristically painted in hues of candor and a hint of a grin.
"Let's go. At least to get you paper. You deserve a voice, not only mine."