1964-05-08 - A Mechanic?
Summary: Lois comes to the Eight Ball to look for a source and finds Scott instead.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
lois scott 


It's a relatively quiet afternoon at the Eight Ball, a bit earlier than most of the crowds start to arrive at the bar. Scott came into town to deliver a few invitations from the Professor, but once he finished, he decided to stop in for a drink. Granted, for Scott 'a drink' means a single bottle of beer, which comes with a patty melt and fries, but it's relaxing for him, at least.

Among the mutants in the bar, he doesn't stand out much. He doesn't have an obvious mutation. Except that the ruby quartz sunglasses he wears aren't the usual inside attire.

*

While a mutie bar wasn't Lois' normal hang out, her usual dive was still literally off the map by whatever dark matter swallowed it up. And this place seemed safer, or at least more sane, than most. She also had some apologies to make and an interview to get, if she could find Golden Jesus once more. So, the reporter took off for a 'late lunch' which is just going to turn into her drinking all the way to dinner. It's research, after all.

Swagger in her step, long suede coat still across her frame, most of the blood stains out of it save a little bit on the furry lapels, her stomach still bared despite the chilly spring weather as she's tied her Hawaiian shirt off RIGHT under her boobs today. She strides casually up to the bar, plopping directly next to Scott as she rasps out to the bartender, "Shot of jack, some dark beer, and keep'em comin'. Oh… you seen Golden Jesus lately? Elixir…I think that's his proper name?" This close to Scott, Lois smells like cigarettes, weed and cocoa butter. Pretty much in equal parts.

*

Scott takes a sip of his beer, giving Lois a sidelong glance from behind his glasses. He doesn't stare - that wouldn't be polite - but he's getting a look of the woman who's next to him. "Sorry, I don't know anyone who goes by either of those names," he answers, shaking his head. It's the blood that catches his attention, brows furrowing in a slight frown as he looks a little bit closer. "Are you all right?"

*

The blood is dried, more of a rusty red than a fresh streak, but it's still noticably blood against the sheep's wool that lines the cuffs and collar of her jacket. Lois gives a husky laugh, waving it off, "Fine, fine…car was worse off than I was. Little fender bender, it happens. I mean…I'm pissed. Still can't find a guy for any good… Stuff, you know. Hard to relax these days, but fine. So… Booze it is." Lois sighs, overly dramatic, as she accepts her shot of Jack and knocks it back with a deep, immediate gulp, slamming the glass down on the bar and nodding for another one. "…Shame. Thought the kid would be around here. He was gonna give me an interview. Good kid. SMart. I think Golden Jesus has a better ring to it than Elixer, frankly…"

*

"You mean like a mechanic?" Sure, Scott. That's the sort of stuff Lois is looking for. But he looks like he means it, like he could help find a mechanic. "There are some decent shops in town, unless you've got some sort of exotic car that needs a specialist." He pulls a fry out of the basket at his elbow, taking a bite as he twists to get a look around the bar. "Well, it's early still. Most people don't show up until later, once they're off work."

*

The woman just blinks to him, a deep smirk crossing her glossed lips, "You gotta be joking. No, honey… No. I gotta mechanic. Ford. He's actually halfway decent on my Caddy and she'll be right as rain soon. I'm talking about a *guy*. Someone to give you something so you can go *talk a walk*… take a trip with Lucy. Mary Jane, you know…the ladies." The woman drawls on quietly, scooping up her beer now. She sips it slower than she does the shot, though a second shot has been set in front of her. "And sounds good. I'll wait for golden boy here. Least I got some handsome company."

*

"I have…no idea what you're talking about." Scott shakes his head, but he seems content enough not knowing. At least he's comfortable with his level of obliviousness when it comes to the less legal side of things. He takes another sip of his beer, staring down at the bar top and picking at a loose piece of trim on the edge. And then he realizes he's being awkward and clears his throat, offering over a hand. "I'm Scott," he introduces himself.

*

"…Drugs, buddy. I'm talking about weed. Or dope, when I can get it. God… are you 12? Please tell me you're not 12. You got way too much scruff for 12." Lois groans out quietly, tipsy enough, or careless enough, she certainly doesn't pick up on the fact that he doesn't want to know. She then reaches her hand out in his direction, flashing a brilliant, proud sort of smile, despite her previous words. "Lois Lane. Hottest reporter in New York City."

*

"Ah…right. No. Not twelve." Just a responsible citizen. If there are any telepaths in the bar, that one might leak through. But Scott is polite enough not to say it out loud, at least. His grip is firm, though, confident. More confident than the rest of his conversation, at least. "Nice to meet you, Miss Lane. Although I have to say, I'm surprised they let a reporter in here. Plenty of people here trying to keep things to themselves."

*

A slight shrug to her shoulders, "That Elixir dude… He helped me, the other day. Talked to him about, yanno…paintin' your sort in a better light. Maybe doin' some sort of expose‘ — the Softer Side of Mutants. Or mutants, more human than the rest of us… Something like that. Show the good guys, the truth of it all. ’swhy I was hoping to find him. I'm… assuming you're one of them, right, four eyes?" SHe asks with a half smirk, motioning to the red glasses he wears, but not actually in a cruel or teasing way. Her words are almost flirtatious in that way of someone who flirts with everyone with a pulse.

*

Scott smirks faintly. There's some humor to it, but it's a weary thing, like he's heard the joke more than enough. "I am a mutant, yes," he nods, picking at his fries again. "But we're not any more or less human than anyone else. We're just people with different talents. Olympians, geniuses…No one thinks they're something that need to be controlled. They're just people who happen to be really, really good at something. We just happen to be really good at things no one else at all can do."

*

"Mm… yes, but like Olympians, geniuses, etc, the public is interested. And perhaps a bit scared, like they are of high level politicians, certain genuises… experts in combat from the military. We need to paint the softer side. Show the world that you ARE just human. Maybe them sympathize. Right now there's a lot of rags out there telling it shitty, gettin' everyone stirred up just to sell a few papers because they are lazy reporters. I ain't like that. I get the real story — preferably over some booze or something harder. I've been doing the Intoxicated Interviews series in the Bugle — maybe you read it?" Lois offers with a rather proud smile.

*

Scott quirks a brow. He's heard of the series. It's just…not what he thinks of as journalism. "Yeah," he nods. "Yeah, I've heard about it. And I appreciate that you're looking to take a different angle on mutants. But we really are just like other people. Some are good, some are bad. We just have to show the world that there's no more need to be afraid of every mutant you meet because of the one terrorist you heard of then there's a need to be afraid of every politician because of Hitler."

*

Whether Lois doesn't notice the judgment in his eyes, or she really doesn't care about the judgment, the woman just cares on as if it's not there. A slight smirk dances across her full mought. "Yes, I agree, and there's lots of articles out there painting the bad side of things… not many telling the good stories. So, those who are willing to tell them, I'll listen. I'll print it. Doesn't have to be intoxicated, it just… sometimes lends a more honest air to things, yanno? Let's everyone relax a bit more, be more… Real."

*

"That's one interpretation of it, sure." Scott turns his bottle on the bar top in a slow circle. "The other interpretation is that people aren't themselves when they're under the influence. That they're not particularly respectable or trustworthy people because they're breaking the law, because they can't be responsible for themselves and for their own actions without giving themselves an excuse."

Not that he's judging.

*

The woman just stares at him, finally unable to completely ignore his stiff shirt'edness. She stares hard, "God, buddy… You need to *relax*. Stop being such a stuffed shirt. Gonna have a heart attack before you're 30, keep that up. Trust me, no one is fully themselves totally sober. YOu got too many layers, too many things holding you back. And it ain't breakin' the law to get drunk, buddy. You should try it proper once." Lois knocks back her second shot, hard, barely blinking at it. She then scoops up her beer and stands, lifting it to him in a silent toast. "Best of luck getting whatever crawled up your ass out." SHe winks and steps away from him, moving to settle in the corner as she waits for the golden man.

*

Scott sighs as Lois heads off, shaking his head and raising his bottle at her back. "Some of us have enough things in our lives we can't control," he murmurs to himself, taking another drink. Lowering his bottle back to the bar, he turns to look at one of the pool tables, glancing around to make sure no one's watching.

He measures the angles of the balls, marking it all out in his mind, measures the angle of the strike, thinks through the ricochets and where his eyes will land. Then he closes his eyes and lowers his glasses. One second open and a narrow beam of crimson light flashes out across the space in a split second…

And half a dozen balls bounce off of the edges of the table and each other, rolling softly into pockets.

Scott turns back to the bar and his fries, contented.

*

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