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The mutant from New Orleans tries to open his crimson and black eyes, but the prospect is difficult. His mind is bleary with pain and confusion. Clearly he's been drugged, he can gather that much, but he tries to retrace his steps.
He remembers being in the flower shop, purchasing a simple bouquet for Jess. He remembers walking out the door. Then, he remembers being hit from behind.
He's bound, and he tries to concentrate enough to invoke his powers but no use. His brain is too scrambled. As if this was a well planned operation, he's tied in such a way that he cannot touch anything. Smart.
5rThen, in the darkness, he hears some shufflin.
"Were thinking we wouldn't catch up to you, huh Le Beau?"
A large man with a crew cut, a man Remy recognizes as a cop from mutant town, emerges from the shadows. Remy turns to look at a small table with some torture equipment.
"Time to pay the piper for what you did to my friend."
*
The weather is opportune for the rarest of activities a girl might try, and given the absence of radar pointed directly overhead, she can finally give in to an indulgence no New Yorker really gets. Or most, at least.
Scarlett dances on the cloud tops and spins through the nebulous white contours of a cumulonimbus mass promising rain on someone's parade later in the day. Temperature variations go from cool to freezing and warm again, the underbellies heated by the farmland below. Above is bluer than blue sky seen by a few passenger planes, none operating terribly close to Westchester County. Besides, who would ever imagine a girl is spinning around up there, threading loop-de-loops and plunging thousands of feet for the sheer joy and release of free fall?
Even sky fall comes to an end, however. It must, disrupting a flock of Canadian geese honking their way south to roost among the wilds of New Jersey, as gangster as any Sicilian. Tougher, too. Their cavalcade of honks alone might speak to disruption as she goes skimming back down to earth and lands, of all places, in a field. Not entirely uncommon, though the nearest road might be advisable to seek. But first, dusting herself off and glancing over at the landscape and any buildings. Hopefully no one is thinking of stepping out from the barn or the fallen pile of timbers an acre away, but one can never be sure. She does ramble a little closer to the buildings, picking a path that seems the least damp, possibly in hopes of taking the driveway — if any — back to what passes for a paved route.
*
From inside the barn, Scarlett will notice loud voices coming from inside. The police man from earlier is yelling, while there are screams from another man who seems to have some sort of southern accent.
Inside, the cop is taking his time. He's started by taking out the fingernails of Remy's left hand. Despite his sedation, Remy can still feel pain and his screams echo outside of the barn. There is no one for 20 miles in any direction. That was the way the cop set this up. Well, no one except for Scarlett that is.
*
Conversation in its own right wouldn't draw her; manners must be observed, and shying away from a farmer's pointed questions of why she stands on his land makes life nicer for everyone. Screams are different. Not the joyous scream or one of exhilaration, but pain. A jolt to the system, adrenaline in the veins, and she turns before even consciously processing the direction she goes.
Light on her feet, it takes her very little time to cross the muddy yard and size up what she sees. Her gaze scours the barn entrances and search for signs of obvious damage, a fallen spar or the diesel stench of a running engine. She flanks an angle to the doors, if they are open, trying to get a sense of what she's walking into. Two strands of voices linked together are reason enough for concern, and her expression hardens at the agony gritting on the air. One can hope visitors won't receive such a fine welcome.
*
Scarlett's entrance into the barn reveals a grisly sight. One man, dressed in navy blue dress slacks and a white A-style under shirt, stands over a man tied to a doctor's table. The man on the table is screaming and his left hand is being "worked on" by the larger man.
On a tractor off to the side lies a policeman's hat and blue shirt, complete with a badge.
*
Glittering bright eyes capture details. Man, young enough, laid out like a bloody Christmas present. Authority abusing said right in the most unlikely of circumstances. Scarlett's stride falters for a moment, but only that, as she cuffs her hands behind her back and flits up like a phantom to the tractor. Snatching the badge first might give her away, but she pulls it free and tucks it into a pocket of her coat. Not after glancing at the surface, though, for a name.
If the police officer turns, the sight of a young woman in a swingcoat and pale leggings and boots might be thoroughly unimpressive. She doesn't look in the least scary except for the burning intensity in those steeled green eyes.
*
As she glances at the nameplate, Scarlett notices the name: Officer Morris. Richard Morris, specifically, any further investigation would reveal. He was a good friend of the cop who was tortured a few months ago. The same case where one Remy LeBeau was arrested and, later, released and who had the charges dropped.
But it's too loud for the cop to turn around, to intent is he upon his work. After finishing on Remy's left hand, he then switches towards the right. After he gets the nails out, he plans on breaking each of those precious thief-fingers.
*
Officer Morris, then. Richard, something to be remembered later in the steel trap mind of a girl closing in. She swings around to approach the table from the side, and holds out a hand to grab the police officer's arm before he can reach again for the bound man's gruesomely treated hand. The gesture is almost languid, but her heel braces against the ground, pushing back, and her other palm rests on the side of the table. He's secure enough, a little shake might determine whether those straps were secured hastily or not.
"I wouldn't," she says in a low, quiet tone, mild and thoughtful. "A career like yours, thrown away for this?"
*
Officer Morris recoils, not having realized he was being watched. "What the hell? Who are you?!" he exclaims. He immediately goes from a position of power to one of exasperation and defensiveness. "This guy is a terrorist. And he did a lot worse to one of us." By us he means men in blue. Or maybe he means humans. The man on the gurney is clearly a mutant. His spaced out eyes are black and red. And he seems high as a kite.
Remy tries to focus enough to see what savior has prevented his right hand from being next to be destroyed. He can make out someone, but can't really see the specifics.
*
"You swore an oath." Scarlett's intense gaze does not leave the officer's face after briefly checking to see that Remy isn't dead, or about to expire of trauma. "That you will not betray your integrity or character, and will uphold the good of the community. This is not justice in this country. Not what your forebears and mine fought for, in the Revolution or Normandy." Her mouth softens, concern washed over her features. "Please. The uniform means something. You mean something. This won't change anything except stain you with the same pain he has."
Long braids in dark flame run down her back, a bit windblown. Just a girl. One with a Columbia education, mind, but a girl all the same.
*
"Listen, little girl. I ain't gonna sit and tell you about honor amongst thieves. This guy tortured a cop and the system let him go. And speaking of going, that's my recommendation to you, cuz if you don't you're going to end up right next to this piece of shit," the officer replies, apparently going for intimidation now.
As for Remy, aside from being sedated, he bleeds badly from the left hand. That being said, all she will be able to see is the finger nail issue. He's in no danger of dying.
*
The young woman releases the officer's arm. Scarlett takes only a moment to grab one of the straps spanning Remy's chest, and yanks it until it tears free, the other spanning his shoulders following. "Torturing him sounds like terrorism, mm?" Another harsh yank might send bolts skittering across the floor. "Don't trouble yourself, officer. Just walk away. I forget, you forget, and he lives a different life."
*
Remy lolls around, drunkenly, murmuring something that sounds like "gumbo" as Scarlett yanks the straps away. Morris, however, does something surprising, and pulls a gun, aiming it directly at Scarlett. "Girl, I warned you!" he exclaims. "Leave now, forget you saw this, or I'll fix you too!"
*
He pulls a gun and Scarlett does something odd of her own. She drops the strap and raises a hand, pivoting to sit on the table. There are no words, though one might put two and two together that she's some kind of peacenik bohemian, all talk and no bite. Though as a human shield, she makes a relatively good one, angled over Remy's chest and glancing over her shoulder at his face. No help there. Rounding her shoulders, head down, she pulls her knees slightly higher. Slowly, oh so terribly slowly, her supporting hand goes for the Cajun's neck. Behind it, if she can, because there may only be one shot at what she does.
Scooping him up and pulling him out from the constricting straps without doing too much damage won't be easy. But worth it? Yes. In the seconds to come, she might have the chance. Maybe.
*
Morris begins to fire, pumping a handful of shots towards Scarlett as she goes to pull Remy off of the bed. Blam blam blam! And everything smells like gunpowder in the barn. The loud shots see a flock of birds flee at the noise.
*
Resilient flesh gives no resistance to pain. The first shot hits too close at range and it hurts in an explosion of ruby wildfire over her senses. She liked that coat, too. Tears sting her eyes and the hue of them visibly alters, flooding away from the steeled tinge to flaming green. Arching forward a little, she hisses in a taut whisper, "I'm sorry," to a stranger. But blood is blood. Her arms wrap tighter around him in a secure embrace and drag him up the table, leaving a string of flattened bullets in her wake. Rainfall has an odd sound jangling on the floor in muffled notes, even as she scoops Remy awkwardly to herself and walks for the wall. Her steps speak to the pain blazing in a burning, lurid symphony over the senses, but the imperative to move pushes her forward. The coat she wears is heavy enough it's hard to tell whether she bleeds. It would all be in the front, anyways, across the face of an injured man out of his mind. But as long as her back guards him, small arms fire isn't going to do much but ruin her clothes.
They're hard to afford on a student's budget. Truly Morris is a clown. If it's safe to dash and go around the wall, so be it. Open air is a necessity, now, one she seeks as safely as she can. The safest way out is up, and the cloud ceiling is only a few hundred feet with a promise of rain.
*
Morris empties his full clip into Scarlett, but it has little or no effect. That's when he gets it. She must be a mutie just like him. He scurries to grab his belongings, or at least what's left of them, and high tails it towards the exit opposite of where she is heading. He flees for the woods where his vehicle is hidden and will speed all the way back to the city.
Meanwhile, Remy isn't even really sure if he's airborne. He mumbles something about the Tiges, whoever they are.
*
LOG NOTE: Tigers
*
Scarlett wastes no time getting the Cajun into the air, even less fleeing straight into the clouds. They rise upward like a shot and stop only when shrouded in white spills of mist, entirely concealed from madmen pointing cameras or guns. With an arm around his chest and another under his hips, Remy is transferred to something more of a cradle carry than tossed over her shoulder like a sack of Idaho potatoes. "You," she says, trying to bring around his attention. "Tigers?" Tigra? What sports team are the Tigers? "You are safe," she murmurs, repeating it twice in hopes his eyes might dilate back to normal. Whatever constitutes normal for pupils the hue of cherry embers, anyways.
Biting the inside of her lip, she seeks calm while shuddering once for good measure as the pain subsides enough to let her breathe. Memory might be ticking over. A bar. A church. A reckoning on the streets, the talk of a revolution, on a sultry spring evening, Remy leaves an impression, even on someone with fragmented memories such as hers. The revelation doesn't dawn slowly; it's there one moment. "Hell's bells, what have you done?"
*
"Liddle of dis, liddle of dat," Remy says as he begins to come out of it. Suddenly he flexes in panic as he realizes how high he actually is. "Mon dieu!" he exclaims, as he clings to Rogue. "We flyin!"
*
At least looking down reveals only more clouds. The wind up here is different from there, too, colder and cleaner, bracing with a taste of rain behind the silvery gleam. "Little torture, little confinement. The norm," she replies to him, the strengthening cadence of her accent welling up around the syllables. Savannah has its claws in her, but to most, she sounds simply more English.
"Careful," she warns, "your hand is damaged. How badly, I am not sure, but staying up here all afternoon won't help you to keep its use." What she might give for a bottle of Everclear and a rag. "I promise not to drop you. The police are out for your blood. I can't just take you to a hospital or you might end up right back there."
*
Remy spies a look at his hand, winces, then shrugs. He's had worse. "Dey got me outside our 'partment. Dey know where I live, too." His mind tries to think of places he could hide out. He needs to get a call into Jess to make sure she's safe. They might hit her, too. Likely they don't know about her power set, though. "Tanks for d'assist."
*
"So you need a safe house." Scarlett stares off at the endless void imposed by millions of suspended droplets of water. Clandestine medical professionals are few and far between. "Between my coat and your blood, neither of us can walk in to a hotel." Her lips purse in thought, and her expression wavers between contemplative and still somewhat uncomfortable. "I know a quieter town over the county line, place with a pay phone, a caf, and a gas station. It's not much, I know, but it's a place you can get cleaned up and I can see about getting you some help. Sound good?"
*
"Any help be appreciated, chere, dats fo' sho," Remy says as he fishes in his pocket. "You gun get uppity if I steal a smoke up here?" Idly he wonders if he'll be able to find his lighter.
*
Lighters even work in clouds? Important to know, anyways. Scarlett gives him another amused look and shakes her head. "Long as you don't try to burn me with the cherry, go ahead. Free world, you do what you think is best." Such is the forerunner of the free love movement, terrifying as that is. A quiet spin puts them on a trajectory she can guess is roughly north, though it takes a fair bit of dipping down to find local landmarks. But then, she's danced over these skies for nearly three years, and reading a map helps when one has a bird's eye view on things. Eventually her path traces them up towards Cold Spring, where a simple petro station attached to a quiet diner might be just the place to put the world back together.
And it's going to be Erik Lensherr who pulls the trigger.