Hulk post old Log!
Hulk play Deadpool! It fun!
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The Velvet Facade is a nightclub, like many others. However, set away as it is, it is a nightclub that has its own unique clientele, a mass of people of all sorts making their way in and among one another, talking, laughing, and drinking with each other. The music is loud, the bass pounding, a thrumming beat that sends a pulse through the bodies writhing together on the dance floor. There is enough room to move, if one wishes, though many clusters of people have raised the temperature in this place to an uncomfortable heat, if one stands too close to them, and some of the more active figures are already glistening with sweat as they dance.
Standing away from the heat of the main club, simply watching the people, is a figure dressed in black and leather. A black handkerchief is tucked idly in the left hind pocket, and the eyes that fall across the crowd are quiet and thoughtful, inspecting the various figures like a hawk. A few seem to catch his eyes above others, though he hasn't yet made a move toward any of them, too interested in sipping at the strong drink in his hand, relishing the alcohol's burn, and simply enjoying the pulse of the music and the motion of the bodies. He'll go hunting soon enough.
Among the catwalks of the club, there's another pair of figures skulking about, and one of them is the owner of the place. The two of them walk casually, surveying the crowd, occasionally leaning over the railings, pointing and laughing at certain losers in the crowd, but they seem more interested in talking to each other... The music makes them inaudible to anyone more than a foot away from them... but they occasionally delight in pointing out other patrons doing odd things.... the second figure is dressed in all black as well, head shaved and smiling wide.
The newcomers catch the bar-leaner's eye, and Trevor looks up to focus on them, giving them a once-over, then looking away once more. Apparently, he doesn't have much interest, when they're already coming in as a pair. Somehow, it's just not too much worth it. And besides, the owner of the place is with him. Which means that he's just not an available target. And so, the other man resumes his scan around the room, looking to catch an eye.
Soon after they lose the bar-leaner's eye, their own eyes fall over him. There's a quick nod, and a few glances between them. The bald man nods, then taps a couple of buttons on his belt. At that signal, a rather large man behind the bar makes no sudden movements as he makes his way over to the man in question, pulling out a semi-automatic weapon and keeping it below bar level. A moment later... the pulsing, heavy droning music suddenly cuts out, leading to a rather significant groan from the crowd as they slow their dancing to a stop and start yelling angrily at the DJ... who is fiddling with the equipment...
Trevor has no suspicion that it might have anything to do with him. He, too, looks up toward the DJ with a frown, squinting and shading his eyes up in that direction as he tries to locate the problem. And just like the people below, he can't see anything. Nor can he tell the weapon is right there, just below the bar level. Being short is quite a disadvantage in that way. Hmmm. Maybe going somewhere else would be a better idea for tonight, after all... doesn't look as though things will be too pleasant this evening. Not with the music gone, and several angry drunks hanging around.
The bald man in the rafters has vanished now... and after a beat, there's a low, slowed-down, nearly eerie voice - maybe George Clinton... but over the speakers, it just says "GEET DOOWWWWN." The clubbers look up for a moment, a few of them cheer, thinking the music is back... until the man behind the bar pulls up his UZI right over the bar-leaner's head and fires a few extremely loud bursts into the air... and screams ring out - lots of people run out the door, many other people just hit the deck....
And Trevor happens to be one of those that gets down, and rather quickly, at that. Eyes go from puzzled to widened at the sound, a gasp catches hard on his throat, and before the man can even think to react, he's dropped to the ground, muscles shifting to try and curl himself into a protected ball. Eyes are wide in horror, his face gone from pale to stark-white, and sweat already beading on his face. He's trying to keep from completely losing it, though. Trying to make a bolt for the open and empty door. Or at least to measure it up to where he can make said run for it.
Screaming still happens. So does crying and pants-wetting. But with an audible CLANK-KLIK, the doors close, and lock. Suddenly, the lights begin to flare up in an amazing array of colors, and over the speakers THUNDERS - ABSOLUTELY THUNDERS a classic selection called "Ride of the The Valkyries." And suddenly... in the rafters, a man appears clad in red and black from head to toe, carrying a spear and wearing a viking helmet... and when he speaks, it reverberates through the whole building. "KILLL DA WAAAABBIT!"
The confusion is starting to get to Trevor, in pressure on his head. The loud noises. The flashing lights. The utter confusion of everything. It's certainly having a strong effect on the young man, and where he'd been looking to run for the door, he's now looking to simply stay where he is, legs tensing and curling up tightly against his body, arms tucking, into a fetal position, as though by that move alone, he might be able to flee from the confusion of the world around him. Fear and disorientation work a horrible mojo on the young man.
BANG. A light shines clearly onto the young man in question, cutting through the insanity of the swirling lights... and the singling out of one person causes most everyone around him to scatter as far away from him as they can get.... but they get a little help. The man in the rafters waves his spear, adjusts his magic helmet and bellows "NOWF WINDS BWOW! SOUWF WINDS BWOW!" At that command, panels shift in the bar, revealing two large cannons, which proceed to blast some strong pockets of compressed air over the victim's head, propelling the innocent feebs even further away from the target, clearing the way... for more commands. "TYPHOOONS, HUWWICANES!" The sprinkler system suddenly turns on, spraying a lot of water on everybody. "EWFQUAKES!" The bass in the sound system suddenly rumbles through the building - just rocking it seemingly to the foundations.... "SMOOOOGGGG!!" The smoke machines crank up to full blast, obscuring nearly everything.... and just before Fuddpool makes his death-defying leap from the rafters, he looks down... his target is obscured... maybe the smog wasn't such a good idea... but it wouldn't be complete without it. But he's got a general area, and that's all he needs...
Said target is still trying to keep his wits about him, and doing a horrible job of it. Much whimpering would ensue, except for the fact that his throat is closed tightly around the sounds, terror and utter confusion pretty much hanging his brain out to dry. The familiarity of the lines are giving him something to lock onto, but it's precious little, and at most is giving him a chance to try and mentally grab the shadow around him, to start pulling it in over his body to try and give himself some insulation. Not to mention to try and get things fixed so he can try making a run for it.
In mid-air, the maniac in question taps another button on his belt, and the cannons go off again, firing some more airblasts and clearing the smog out of the way surprisingly effectively, letting the spotlight gleam brightly onto the man once again... effectively negating most of the shadows in his general vicinity. He tries to land heavily, directly on top of the man with a large flying elbow. Not exactly in the script to the cartoon, but he's been known to mix jokes. He then slams the spear into the floor right next to his head... "Move and you die, Darkman..."
The light doesn't disperse some of the shadows that surround Trevor. They are still trying to cloy to his body, creeping up like tendrils. Although, that doesn't last. The blackness stops its furling around his body as the spear imbeds itself into the floor. Even Trevor knows that he couldn't raise the shadows fast enough to avoid being killed. And he _does_ appreciate his life, after all. Those eyes, still skinned back with fear, can't hold a gaze at all, flickering about in a near-panic, even as he tries to keep himself from re-curling, as his instincts scream at him to do.
While he may not seem initially as threatening wearing a viking helmet off-kilter as he does, the hand that quickly wraps around the man's throat makes its point. "What's your name?!" he screams over the music, as he's wise enough not to let it up. "Who do you work for?! And don't you know that GRAY is the NEW BLACK?!" He plants a knee onto the man's thighs, holding them down....
The mixture of stimulus is still keeping the man in a panic, his mind still not able to handle everything coming in at once. His body tenses again, a low moan making it around the hand, as he tries to get away from Deadpool. The movements are purely defensive, completely uncontrolled, as he tries to simply pull away from the hand, get it off his throat, and pull himself back into the safety of the ball against the overwhelming noise, the light, the water, the attack on him... there's a little sign popping up behind those half-closed eyes that declares 'The lights are on but nobody's home'.
Deadpool sneers a bit beneath his mask, glancing up briefly to the man behind the bar... giving him a nod. And soon after, the music cuts out again. "Now I suggest you straighten up, fly right, and make with the tongue-waggin'. You start lying, you start squirming too much... it gets louder, and the music gets worse... so again, for the benefit of those in the nosebleed seats, WHO ARE YOU?! WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?! WHAT IS THIS SHADOW-SPUNK YOU DEAL WITH?" He glances up to the other people in the club, who are just shuddering and cradling each other. "S'alright kids, this guy's a murderer, I'm doing good things!" He quickly turns back. "Anyway... powers and registration, please, sir!"
Trevor lets out a half-moan of relief as the music goes away, staying quiet for long moments as he tries to get his head straightened out. Hopefully, Deadpool's that patient. Trevor's movements are actually almost nonexistent, kept to rubbing his face, trying to get his head back about him, even as his legs stay tucked up right where they are. Suddenly, the mid-twenties man is practically looking like a little boy. At least in reaction, he is. "One question at a time, please." comes the voice, harshened with the restrained tension, and the recovery from the fear just moments ago. "I'll answer them. Just... one at a time, Ok?" He needs that much time to get his brain screwed on straight. Or straight_er_, anyway.
Deadpool keeps the grip around the throat tight, but lets enough air through for some serious speaking to go on. "I ain't big on negotiating, pal. Especially when you monkey with friends o' mine. First question, you answer in one second, or I pull out Achy Breaky Heart. WHO ARE YOU, exactly? Names, aliases, codenames, voices in your head. Spill it."
Trevor might later comment on Deadpool's total insanity. Right now, though, he's much more worried that the horror of the music will come back out. And he's trying not to shrink away. It's an effort, though. With his throat released, he can pull in a gasp of air, and reply in another of those terse croaks, "Trevor. I'm Trevor. McAllen." Terrified enough to drop the last name, not so terrified that he forgets the 'change' in his name. And hopefully, the flinch that comes along with it will leave Deadpool thinking that he's just being frightened, and not that he might've told a little windy. "No aliases, no codenames..." And those are actually true enough, at the moment. He dropped the ol' 'Blacklight' crap quite a while ago. "That's all. I _Swear_ it."
Deadpool has interrogated enough chumps and freaks that he's pretty damn good at spotting a lie - and ommission of truth is a little bit harder to sniff out... but it is customary at the beginning of questionings to certify truth-giving. "Are you SURE? You go around in shadowy-lurkboy mode calling yourself TREVOR? You best not be hiding anything from me - I got me some White Lion that I'd LOVE to hear on this sound system..."
"Tracey." comes the quick correction. At the reaction? At the threat? Or simply a really, really bad liar? "Trevor, and Tracey. And no others. I _swear_ it." And this time, that pleading note sounds more like he's begging Deadpool to believe it. The tone that practically shrieks, 'I'm telling the _truth_ this time.
Deadpool blinks at this for a moment. He hadn't expected the fun of gender-role switching. "Tracey," he mutters. "So when given the choice of Glen or Glenda, you took 'em both. WHATEVER. That ain't the particular hobby I care about anyway. QUESTION 2 - What are your powers? List 'em clean, list 'em fully, don't leave anything OUT..." He hasn't decided whether or not he's gonna kill this guy yet. He really just SHOULD... he's not sensing any 'positive societal impact' from this freak yet...
"It's... shadow-stuff. Wait." Trevor says quickly, before Deadpool can react to the generality of that. "It's hard to explain. it's just... I do things. With shadows. The Darkforce. It's..." Obviously, it's rather hard to explain. It's its own plane...." He makes a wide gesture with one hand. Not angry or attacking, but just trying to encompass an 'I don't know how to say it' in the movement. "The suit. The wings." he says, as though that might say everything. Or at least, what you saw.
Deadpool narrows his eyes... this generality ain't cutting it. "WHAT. CAN. YOU. DO. You've got Darkforce, fine. Do you FLY? Do you shapeshift, do you have claws, is this Darkforce separate from you? You sure it aint' called a symbiote? Specifics, pal... don't make me break out the Top 50 Polka Hits..."
"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes." How's _that_ for specifics? Or, at least, close enough. "Dammit, I don't _know_ how to explain it all." The near-snarling snap is quickly followed by another, tighter cringe, as though he's bracing for the assault of the noise once again. Voice lower once more, back to the fear-toned side, he says, "It... it does what I want, only because I can _tell_ it to. But it does... it does a lot of things. It shifts, like I want it to. Does what I want it to. And it does a lot." Well, it _does_ do all of the above. "I... sort of work with it." Well, Ok. In a _way_, that might make it a symbiote. Or a parasite?
"Sounds symbiotey to me." He shakes his head. "Okay, so you can do everything in the world. That sucks. QUESTION 3: Who do you work FOR, who do you work WITH? I know there's more of you gooey-spooky freaks running around. Accomplices, Trevor. Girlfriends, Tracey. Whoever pays you to do your spook-ifyin'." The helmet falls down over his eyes, but he quickly pushes it back.
Trevor's eyes flick up toward Deadpool again. Ok. He won't deny the 'everything in the world' thing. Who knows? It just might help later. "Don't have anyone who pays me for it." he says definitively. "I do it because I want to. No one's paying me to do it." And while he definitely still sounds nervous, the truth is holding in those words. Although the courage is sort of lost when he adds an, "I swear it." again.
Deadpool pulls out a gun and klik-klaks it near Trevor's ear. "You're leaving things OUT, Bob, Carol, Ted, Alice. Did you MISS the part where I said I knew there were more of you freaks tooling around this town? Who are they? And WHY do you want to do this crap? What sorta fun can you POSSIBLY derive out of snagging random schmucks and killing them? They're WAAAY too easy! It's like playing mini-golf by just carrying your ball to the hole and dropping it in."
Trevor almost cringes again, but only does it half-way. He's still scared, but he's at least going to keep himself mind-straight enough to keep talking. "There _aren't_. I'm the only one that I know of. It's just me out there. And if it isn't, wish you'd let me know." If he was more calm, he might have laughed as though it were a lame joke. But he _is_ that nervous right now, and he _does_ mean it. "I do it because I want to... I've got to. Doubt you'd understand. You've never had to deal with it."
Deadpool leans in closer to Trevor... "Aww... widdle Goo-Man has widdle psychowogicaw pwobwems, do he? That's so CUUTE!" he mocks, rubbing his nose against Trevor's. "It's too bad I don't give a rat's ass about what's wrong with your head. I just know that you messed with mine, and that means you messed with me. I've got your number pal, and if you attack Ria or anyone she knows, anyone she's ever MET ever again, I crank up Huey Lewis & The News and do an interpretive dance to 'Hip To Be Square' all over your intestines." He pauses for a moment. "In fact..." he plants the gun on Trevor's nose. "Can you give me one good reason I shouldn't pull a Jackson Pollock and make some pretentious floor smatterings with your brains right now?"
Outside the bar known as Velvet Facade, there is a crowd of people. Most have run and dispersed. A few of them are doing the 'rubbernecker' thing, sticking around relatively nearby. There's cries going up about 'freaky shadow-stuff' and 'some sort of gun attack' and 'robbery' and 'murder' and such things. The door is shut tightly, the people are making no effort to get through and into the main area, where the trouble is. And the goings-on inside are almost too quiet, everything considered, except for the occasional possible echoes of Deadpool's voice. Trevor's speaking too quietly to really be heard clearly from outside, at the moment.
And inside, Trevor lays pinned beneath Deadpool's feet, a gun held at his nose, and an absolutely horrified look on his face. He hasn't wet himself with terror. That's about all you _can_ say for it. His face has gone stark-white again in utter fear, the look at the gun one of impending doom, as he tries to straighten brain and throat enough to speak more. "I... Ria. I don't plan to get near Ria again. She's got friends. I didn't know. I swear, I didn't know. I promise, I'm not going near her again." Almost boyish, the pleading. Utterly terrified. But then, if you had Deadpool's gun leveled flat against your face, wouldn't you be? His lower body is still clothed in the shadow he'd tried to clothe himself with, the wings not completely formed, but the blackness giving his lower body at least some cover. Unfortunately, it's not his lower body that needs it, right now.
Deadpool pushes the gun against his nose. It's cold. It's metal. Yep, it's a real gun. "I'm liking the sound of that." His eyes are cold as they stare down into Trevor's terrified face. "Those rules also apply to one Theresa Cassidy - or Theresa O'Rourke, depending on what she's feeling like going by, should you ever meet her." Might as well throw in a safeguard against THAT, in case she shows up here again. Stupid luv, makes a guy do stupid luv things. "Tell you what though... I know this whole experience has been a little traumatic. Here's a treat - if you run into a hairy little scruffy runt named Logan - he says 'bub' a lot and smells like a Humane Society dumpster, can't miss him - knock yourself out." He eases his grip on Trevor's throat for a moment... then freezes. "Nope, wait, you're lying to me about there being any more of you. That violates the terms of my 'letting you live' arrangement." He plants the barrel of the gun on one of his eyes. "Give Stalin a wedgie for me."
In the beginning some really screwed up deity created Beacon Harbor. Now this scum was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of Nutso Mutherfuck was hovering over the waters. Now, those deities didn't have to worry about the masculinity being threatened, because they smite lower beings and all, and so this sucker was an interior decorator at heart. He livened the place up. The psycho said let there be light, and there was light. He said let there be an expanse that separates water from water, and there was the sky. There was day, night, evening, mountains, trees, homes, bicycles, Eggo waffles, dime operated laundromats, and so forth. But something was still missing. A little distracted, and probably smoking peyote at the time, the dude said let there be a distraction, and so, Marley has arrived. "Um. Scuse me?" She's just a girl, quite obvious on punctuating that note, pale skin contrasting with black leather so tight it must have been molten over her curves, set with wild hair, tattoos, and those whiplash grey eyes. But this wholesome smile could make a Catholic schoolgirl green with envy. She stands several feet off, behind them and off to the side, looking playful like a puppy, apologetic for intruding. "Yo? Hallo?" she speaks at Deadpool, innocuous. "Uh, nadda innarupt dem hot man-on-man love goin rounn, but. Pick a numbaa."
Trevor actually recognizes Marley. Or rather, he would, if he wasn't so focused on the gun. He's not so scared that he bursts out crying like a baby, but the fear is clear in white face and tense body, in the way his legs are drawn up as though to protect himself, in the way the arms half-curl as though to get some small shelter against the gun. Not in the way his eyes shut, though. That could be a reaction to the fact that death is staring him straight in the eye. Arguing a point like that's not going to help. "I'm not-...." And then, the voice actually pokes a mental finger through the boy's defenses, and he actually manages to force an eye open to register it. Is this... good, or bad?
***
Marley(#1667PXZce)
If a person had to be defined in only one word, this girl would be the best candidate for: acidic. If she is beautiful, this is beauty that's been battered, honed, weathered, and left aggressive like the mad dog biting the hand that whips it. Her face is aesthetic like war is, sharp and striking, slapped on with grey whiplash eyes, high cheekbones tapering into a sharp, stubborn jaw armed with a pout of Cupid's bow lips. There's no colour about her, as though God made her from greyscale: paled veal skin contrasts with hair as black as sin, left long to be the mane for her beast. Curves avoid her like the plague -- skinniness and womanhood combined to chisel sharp angles into a slight body, toned by shy folds of muscle laden to limbs as long as her mean streak. There were scars on her, and now they are gone, leaving behind a glow of new, soft skin. Only her hands bear taint. Her palms show that she's once been crucified.
Tattoo. It seems to crawl in the forms of black thorns and Eden-green vines, out from the ebon tempest of her hairline to slither existence along her face. The tangling picture Christians her like a circuit almost, winding sinewy vines from her temples to frame her eyes, receding again to trace along cheekbones and taste over her jaw.
Leather. It's her motif and her entire ensemble. Leather pants as dark as marble fit her like a second skin, slithering to her legs and clinging like a jealous lover. Her top is barely one, something bordering a corset with just a touch more practicality. It's almost like a strip of black cowhide's been wrapped around what needs to be covered; left to a careless minimum. A thick, heavy grommet belt studded with silver slings around her hips in a haphazard gunslinger angle, brown leather like her boots -- vicious shitkickers with a bastard of a heel.
***
Deadpool is indeed distracted by the voice... weird voice, doesn't sound like one of these gutless clubber schlubs is trying to play hero... so he leans on his knee that's holding Trevor's legs down and spins his head, complete with Magic Viking Helmet, toward the sound of it... and being the testosteroney man he is, his first reaction is 'Hotchee-Wawa.' In fact, he actually sees the word 'Hotchee-Wawa' in big Rainbow Brite letters glittering and sparkling over her head. "Holy Smokin' Hotties on a Corn Dog Stick with a Side o' Mayo..." Then he looks UP. WHOA, tattoos on the FACE. That's so freaky it slams the brakes on a little bit.... and he lifts up Trevor's face so he can look at Marley, still pressing the barrel of the gun against his head. "This drink o' water a friend of yours, Tracey? She thinks we're being the gay. And I can't say I'm not regretting my choice of headgear right now because of it."
The corn dog stick hottie waits for a patient moment, more than likely expecting an answer for her polite question. When it does not arrive, she shrugs off from her position like a boat dropping anchor, weight slung, hand fit for a hip, and shoulders crestfallen. Marley exudes a put-upon noise, rolling her colourless eyes to the ceiling. God help me. "Hey. I todlaa open-minds, yo. Aine god nottin gainnss sissy. But. I aine got lall daa, OK?" she tells Deadpool, otherwise silent. She doesn't even spare Trevor a glance. "Jess pick a goddamn numbaa, huh?"
Just a flick of eyes toward Deadpool, the gun still pressed against his head. Can Tracey plead the fifth, here? 'Hate to tell you, Dude, but you're not my type!' .... nah. Saying that would be a lot more fun if the gun wasn't being pressed in and against his temple. That's going to quickly make a large mess. And so, after a rather disbelieving glance at the man, he glances back at Marley again. The look could even be called long-suffering... if he wasn't so damned scared.
Deadpool blinks a bit at this chick. She's weird. There's a case of the heebies scooting up his spine... but it's not full-fledged jeebies yet. Tracey ain't answering... so that hints that there's SOMETHING up between these two. She's asking him to pick a number. He glances to either side of him, looking for anything sneaky. Picking a number is NOT something he should be doing. "Okay... I'll bite. I pick... forty-seven." Man... picking a number NEVER ends well...
The dame in the leather number seems to approve. "Forda-seven. Issa good numbaa, aine it," she says through what is becoming the most wide of grins, and she turns eyes, nodding down at Trevor as though expectant of agreement. Forty-seven! Drawing a hand to swathe back her hair, Marley is all about the loose and casual, like the three of them's best buds. She grins almost admiringly at Deadpool, chuckling now as she draws her tongue along her full bottom lip in consideration. "Yeah, forda-seven..." she trails off as if she were repeating some punchline to a joke. Dark brows spike up. "Hey, wanna kno why I asked?"
'Where are you going with this?' states a high-lifted quirk of Trevor's eyebrows. Is he allowed to nod? He gives it a try, anyhow... though if there's any evidence that the gun's going to go off, the nod gets to be interrupted. Although he does at least bring himself to mention sotto voce, "'always preferred fourty-two, myself..." Life, the universe, and everything.
Deadpool watches this girl slink around. Yes, he's got a gun trained on what may just be a friend of hers... but he also gets the feeling that he's not dealing with a crowd that respects hostages at all. He gives Trevor a little slap across the mouth to shut him up. "Quiet, there's tense faux-casual confrontational dialogue going on.." he spits down to him, before turning his eyes back on Marley Marl. "Sure I do... but lemme guess first! Is it the number of pieces you're gonna tear me into? Is it the number of bullets you're gonna empty into my brain? Is it the number of schmucks you're gonna go kill tonight? Is it how much money you'll give me to let Glen or Glenda here go?" He briefly leans down to Trevor to mutter "I know I already made that joke, but she wasn't here, so it doesn't count." He pipes back up... "I know, it's the number of hickeys you're gonna give me if I play my cards right!"
"Hey, you do?" she asks, head tilted perkily. "No kiddin?" Grey eyes shine bright. Then they get all rounded and sad. "Oh no fair, yoo played dis aafore." She scoffs her melodramatic accusation, then gives Deadpool a hearty wink. "An heaa I taut I was de onlaa one who play Pick How Many Times Ichor IS GOING TO BATTER YOUR STENCHING MAGGOT-INFESTED CORPSE WITH YOUR ROTTED LIMBS AFTER SHE RIPS OUT YOUR EVER-LOVING SOUL, YOU STINKING WORM!" Her pleasantness has evaporated faster than a splat of mucus in the pits of Hell--as so much of her humanity. Black leather crawls and ripples as she begins to stride towards them. She does not break pace even as from narrow shoulders erupt not wings but tentacles -- grotesque, horrible whipcord lengths of lashing, whipping black tipped with talons, barbs, and here or there a rusted tailor's scissor blade. Her hands blacken over, and fingers flex into warped claws, shiny like a beetle's shell. Grey eyes flare. A voice like fire-blackened jagged glass, and it's seemed to drop that pesky accent. "Looks like forty-fuckin-seven's your lucky number."
Well, if one can go black, the other can go black. "Well, I suddenly understand what you mean by not being the only one." he says, apparently to Deadpool, as he pulls his body back from the grip, and the shadow makes a concentrated effort to whip up and over his head, _hopefully_ before the gun can discharge again. Noisy, freakin' things. Plus, if he can get out of this, he just might be able to return the favor for Deadpool scaring the unholy _shit_ out of him. And Marley... er, Ichor might well be the one to distract Deadpool enough to manage it. Hey, if anyone can...
Deadpool was expecting SOME sort of nastiness to ensue, but he's gotta admit he wasn't quite prepped for this level of insanity. Perhaps satisfyingly, this change is greeted with a "GAAH!" and a quick raising of his guns at the oncoming freak. "I HATE it when hootchie mamas make me shit my pants!" He opens fire at her immediately. "Do you KNOW how hard it is to clean that out of SPANDEX?!" Consider him suitably distracted... he's momentarily forgotten about his 'hostage' advantage. More screams erupt throughout the club, by the way. Not that anyone's listening to the little normal twerps.
"Pretty damn hard. But we think you should be worrying about the bile stains," Ichor corrects nicely in Marley's voice, only her head visible throughout the twining, writhing mass of darkness. That disappears as well when he opens fire. The reigning diety bastard said let there be a challenge, and the figure is apparently bullet proof. They ricochet and drop off that pooling blackness that does not divert its approach, rather accelerating with awesome speed to lunge, all claws and scissory teeth, right at Deadpool.
Oh, _hell_ no. Trevor would rather Ichor not tear apart the boy. He'd rather let Deadpool _suffer_ than die nicely. And besides, he's got some revenge to go getting. "Not right now." he calls to the dark form, even as wings form from the shadow around him, cupping forward to wrap against the distracted Deadpool. And before Mr. Masked Gunman can recover: "Give me a minute. I'll be right back." And he almost seems to fall backward into the darkness behind him, dragging Deadpool with him. Let's let the poor boy get a goooooood look at what scares _him_.
Did somebody say 'out of your league?' Deadpool deals in leg-breaking, cap-busting and crack-wising. Ultradimensional psychological symbiotic hijinks? He's a rookie. He only has time to mutter "Oh, yuck, the 'WE' thing... I heard about the creepy 'WE' thing..." in response to Goo-Girl attacking him before he's pulled with an unceremonious 'YOINK!' into The Wondertastic Journey Into The Mind of Wade Wilson (TM, Patent Pending). A barrage of the usual horrifying imagery rushes through his brain - bloodspatters, mommies with machetes in their faces, kids getting brained with tire irons, ghosts, goblins, what-have-you... but Deadpool's not really affected yet. "Hey, my life's flashing before my eyes... trippy!"
The Darkforce tries harder, and he gets an image of a gun pressed against ol' Vanessa' Carlyle's face, by a photo-negative version of himself, and her jaw is blown off... she drops to her knees in horrified agony... Siryn quietly says "Wade, I'm turnin' in the X-badge... I just wanna be wit'ye..." a second before Logan shows up behind her, puts his fists to her skull and snarls "Better off dead than with you, bub..." and pops his claws through her brain... she hangs off his claws like creepy beautiful dead meat. Ria emerges from behind this horror... surrounded by her kids. She then pulls out a pair of UZIs, dressed in red and black spandex, and says "You've shown me the way, Wade... life ain't worth shit, and everybody's better off dead." She then starts to cackle as she opens fire on her kids... graphically blowing their heads off, among other parts. Wade clutches his head through all this, tumbling through the Darkforce... but he doesn't feel shaken to the core... "Sorry... this is horrible, yeah, but... y'know... I pretty much expect all of this to happen, so it's not SHOCKING, see..."
Then darkness falls again, surrounding Deadpool in an absence of light. Suddenly, wide black eyes are outlined by curved slivers of white. Slowly, the darkness creeps back to reveal unblinking baby-animal-like faces... "Oh... Oh GOD, no..." Wade mutters. There are four faces... and strange fuzzy bodies emerge from the darkness, marching towards him in green, yellow, purple and red colors... "NO! Don't DO THIS!" The high-pitched giggling starts... and like a shot, the light fills everything... there's an image of the sun, with a wailing baby's face in it. "GAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!" Wade looks around frantically... the four fuzzy creatures have ugly mop hairdos, cut short up front, but looking suspiciously like parties in the back. They all pull out shotguns, cocking them with giggles that become far too 'hyukle' for him to handle... and the red one hops into a huge monster truck. "NO!" He opens fire to no effect... "NO! GAAH! Hillbilly Teletubbies Must Die!" He runs, runs and runs, but they keep closing closing and closing in on him... he clutches his head... "MAKE IT GO AWAAAY!!"
Back in the real world... All claws and tentacles equipped with gnarled, scissoring blades and bone-mashing mandibles, the symbiote unfurls into a nightmare-black tarrasque as it screams towards its chosen prize, those slavery jaws unzipping to flare jagged teeth. It lands in time to savage and mangle and gore...absolutely nothing. Sobered, Ichor lifts one clawed hand and then the other, checking if an entire mercenary might have gotten misplaced somewhere through all that. The monster rears up its drooly head, finding itself so very alone. Vanished! "We hate it when they do that," it mopes, at least until necessary background yelps and shudders attract its festering aggression. So many of them. "But the consolation prize is to die for!"
The screams get bloody.
All the while that the man struggles in the darkness, Trevor watches impassively, having let him go about his horrors. It's quite a puzzle for the Darkforce, for once, to find the ideal images. And truth be told, the last one that it pulls out is given a rather odd look by Trevor. But, fears are fears, silly or not. It apparently had just the effect that Trevor had been hoping for. And, without further ado, he snags up Deadpool away from the evil beasts, winging with ease out of another shadow...
... and into the primary Main Street area. Away from prying eyes, so he doesn't have to explain the matter. It's just perfect, after all. A quick flick of his hands sends Deadpool staggering out into the street, still holding on to whatever toys he might've had with him. "Go to it, Big Man. And whether you remember me or not, good luck in surviving long enough to explain the matter." And with another fold of shadow, he flicks back through the Darkforce again.
.... reappearing in the middle of Ichor's little mess hall. Accent on the 'mess'. It doesn't take any more than a minute for a massive creature like that to shred a few... or more than a few... innocents, after all. "You know," says the shadow as it unfolds itself from the wings, "you really know how to hold a party. But personally, I think taking it outside might be a better idea. Those people who ran are going to start screaming for the local super-helpers."
________
The Velvet Facade is a nightclub, like many others. However, set away as it is, it is a nightclub that has its own unique clientele, a mass of people of all sorts making their way in and among one another, talking, laughing, and drinking with each other. The music is loud, the bass pounding, a thrumming beat that sends a pulse through the bodies writhing together on the dance floor. There is enough room to move, if one wishes, though many clusters of people have raised the temperature in this place to an uncomfortable heat, if one stands too close to them, and some of the more active figures are already glistening with sweat as they dance.
Standing away from the heat of the main club, simply watching the people, is a figure dressed in black and leather. A black handkerchief is tucked idly in the left hind pocket, and the eyes that fall across the crowd are quiet and thoughtful, inspecting the various figures like a hawk. A few seem to catch his eyes above others, though he hasn't yet made a move toward any of them, too interested in sipping at the strong drink in his hand, relishing the alcohol's burn, and simply enjoying the pulse of the music and the motion of the bodies. He'll go hunting soon enough.
Among the catwalks of the club, there's another pair of figures skulking about, and one of them is the owner of the place. The two of them walk casually, surveying the crowd, occasionally leaning over the railings, pointing and laughing at certain losers in the crowd, but they seem more interested in talking to each other... The music makes them inaudible to anyone more than a foot away from them... but they occasionally delight in pointing out other patrons doing odd things.... the second figure is dressed in all black as well, head shaved and smiling wide.
The newcomers catch the bar-leaner's eye, and Trevor looks up to focus on them, giving them a once-over, then looking away once more. Apparently, he doesn't have much interest, when they're already coming in as a pair. Somehow, it's just not too much worth it. And besides, the owner of the place is with him. Which means that he's just not an available target. And so, the other man resumes his scan around the room, looking to catch an eye.
Soon after they lose the bar-leaner's eye, their own eyes fall over him. There's a quick nod, and a few glances between them. The bald man nods, then taps a couple of buttons on his belt. At that signal, a rather large man behind the bar makes no sudden movements as he makes his way over to the man in question, pulling out a semi-automatic weapon and keeping it below bar level. A moment later... the pulsing, heavy droning music suddenly cuts out, leading to a rather significant groan from the crowd as they slow their dancing to a stop and start yelling angrily at the DJ... who is fiddling with the equipment...
Trevor has no suspicion that it might have anything to do with him. He, too, looks up toward the DJ with a frown, squinting and shading his eyes up in that direction as he tries to locate the problem. And just like the people below, he can't see anything. Nor can he tell the weapon is right there, just below the bar level. Being short is quite a disadvantage in that way. Hmmm. Maybe going somewhere else would be a better idea for tonight, after all... doesn't look as though things will be too pleasant this evening. Not with the music gone, and several angry drunks hanging around.
The bald man in the rafters has vanished now... and after a beat, there's a low, slowed-down, nearly eerie voice - maybe George Clinton... but over the speakers, it just says "GEET DOOWWWWN." The clubbers look up for a moment, a few of them cheer, thinking the music is back... until the man behind the bar pulls up his UZI right over the bar-leaner's head and fires a few extremely loud bursts into the air... and screams ring out - lots of people run out the door, many other people just hit the deck....
And Trevor happens to be one of those that gets down, and rather quickly, at that. Eyes go from puzzled to widened at the sound, a gasp catches hard on his throat, and before the man can even think to react, he's dropped to the ground, muscles shifting to try and curl himself into a protected ball. Eyes are wide in horror, his face gone from pale to stark-white, and sweat already beading on his face. He's trying to keep from completely losing it, though. Trying to make a bolt for the open and empty door. Or at least to measure it up to where he can make said run for it.
Screaming still happens. So does crying and pants-wetting. But with an audible CLANK-KLIK, the doors close, and lock. Suddenly, the lights begin to flare up in an amazing array of colors, and over the speakers THUNDERS - ABSOLUTELY THUNDERS a classic selection called "Ride of the The Valkyries." And suddenly... in the rafters, a man appears clad in red and black from head to toe, carrying a spear and wearing a viking helmet... and when he speaks, it reverberates through the whole building. "KILLL DA WAAAABBIT!"
The confusion is starting to get to Trevor, in pressure on his head. The loud noises. The flashing lights. The utter confusion of everything. It's certainly having a strong effect on the young man, and where he'd been looking to run for the door, he's now looking to simply stay where he is, legs tensing and curling up tightly against his body, arms tucking, into a fetal position, as though by that move alone, he might be able to flee from the confusion of the world around him. Fear and disorientation work a horrible mojo on the young man.
BANG. A light shines clearly onto the young man in question, cutting through the insanity of the swirling lights... and the singling out of one person causes most everyone around him to scatter as far away from him as they can get.... but they get a little help. The man in the rafters waves his spear, adjusts his magic helmet and bellows "NOWF WINDS BWOW! SOUWF WINDS BWOW!" At that command, panels shift in the bar, revealing two large cannons, which proceed to blast some strong pockets of compressed air over the victim's head, propelling the innocent feebs even further away from the target, clearing the way... for more commands. "TYPHOOONS, HUWWICANES!" The sprinkler system suddenly turns on, spraying a lot of water on everybody. "EWFQUAKES!" The bass in the sound system suddenly rumbles through the building - just rocking it seemingly to the foundations.... "SMOOOOGGGG!!" The smoke machines crank up to full blast, obscuring nearly everything.... and just before Fuddpool makes his death-defying leap from the rafters, he looks down... his target is obscured... maybe the smog wasn't such a good idea... but it wouldn't be complete without it. But he's got a general area, and that's all he needs...
Said target is still trying to keep his wits about him, and doing a horrible job of it. Much whimpering would ensue, except for the fact that his throat is closed tightly around the sounds, terror and utter confusion pretty much hanging his brain out to dry. The familiarity of the lines are giving him something to lock onto, but it's precious little, and at most is giving him a chance to try and mentally grab the shadow around him, to start pulling it in over his body to try and give himself some insulation. Not to mention to try and get things fixed so he can try making a run for it.
In mid-air, the maniac in question taps another button on his belt, and the cannons go off again, firing some more airblasts and clearing the smog out of the way surprisingly effectively, letting the spotlight gleam brightly onto the man once again... effectively negating most of the shadows in his general vicinity. He tries to land heavily, directly on top of the man with a large flying elbow. Not exactly in the script to the cartoon, but he's been known to mix jokes. He then slams the spear into the floor right next to his head... "Move and you die, Darkman..."
The light doesn't disperse some of the shadows that surround Trevor. They are still trying to cloy to his body, creeping up like tendrils. Although, that doesn't last. The blackness stops its furling around his body as the spear imbeds itself into the floor. Even Trevor knows that he couldn't raise the shadows fast enough to avoid being killed. And he _does_ appreciate his life, after all. Those eyes, still skinned back with fear, can't hold a gaze at all, flickering about in a near-panic, even as he tries to keep himself from re-curling, as his instincts scream at him to do.
While he may not seem initially as threatening wearing a viking helmet off-kilter as he does, the hand that quickly wraps around the man's throat makes its point. "What's your name?!" he screams over the music, as he's wise enough not to let it up. "Who do you work for?! And don't you know that GRAY is the NEW BLACK?!" He plants a knee onto the man's thighs, holding them down....
The mixture of stimulus is still keeping the man in a panic, his mind still not able to handle everything coming in at once. His body tenses again, a low moan making it around the hand, as he tries to get away from Deadpool. The movements are purely defensive, completely uncontrolled, as he tries to simply pull away from the hand, get it off his throat, and pull himself back into the safety of the ball against the overwhelming noise, the light, the water, the attack on him... there's a little sign popping up behind those half-closed eyes that declares 'The lights are on but nobody's home'.
Deadpool sneers a bit beneath his mask, glancing up briefly to the man behind the bar... giving him a nod. And soon after, the music cuts out again. "Now I suggest you straighten up, fly right, and make with the tongue-waggin'. You start lying, you start squirming too much... it gets louder, and the music gets worse... so again, for the benefit of those in the nosebleed seats, WHO ARE YOU?! WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?! WHAT IS THIS SHADOW-SPUNK YOU DEAL WITH?" He glances up to the other people in the club, who are just shuddering and cradling each other. "S'alright kids, this guy's a murderer, I'm doing good things!" He quickly turns back. "Anyway... powers and registration, please, sir!"
Trevor lets out a half-moan of relief as the music goes away, staying quiet for long moments as he tries to get his head straightened out. Hopefully, Deadpool's that patient. Trevor's movements are actually almost nonexistent, kept to rubbing his face, trying to get his head back about him, even as his legs stay tucked up right where they are. Suddenly, the mid-twenties man is practically looking like a little boy. At least in reaction, he is. "One question at a time, please." comes the voice, harshened with the restrained tension, and the recovery from the fear just moments ago. "I'll answer them. Just... one at a time, Ok?" He needs that much time to get his brain screwed on straight. Or straight_er_, anyway.
Deadpool keeps the grip around the throat tight, but lets enough air through for some serious speaking to go on. "I ain't big on negotiating, pal. Especially when you monkey with friends o' mine. First question, you answer in one second, or I pull out Achy Breaky Heart. WHO ARE YOU, exactly? Names, aliases, codenames, voices in your head. Spill it."
Trevor might later comment on Deadpool's total insanity. Right now, though, he's much more worried that the horror of the music will come back out. And he's trying not to shrink away. It's an effort, though. With his throat released, he can pull in a gasp of air, and reply in another of those terse croaks, "Trevor. I'm Trevor. McAllen." Terrified enough to drop the last name, not so terrified that he forgets the 'change' in his name. And hopefully, the flinch that comes along with it will leave Deadpool thinking that he's just being frightened, and not that he might've told a little windy. "No aliases, no codenames..." And those are actually true enough, at the moment. He dropped the ol' 'Blacklight' crap quite a while ago. "That's all. I _Swear_ it."
Deadpool has interrogated enough chumps and freaks that he's pretty damn good at spotting a lie - and ommission of truth is a little bit harder to sniff out... but it is customary at the beginning of questionings to certify truth-giving. "Are you SURE? You go around in shadowy-lurkboy mode calling yourself TREVOR? You best not be hiding anything from me - I got me some White Lion that I'd LOVE to hear on this sound system..."
"Tracey." comes the quick correction. At the reaction? At the threat? Or simply a really, really bad liar? "Trevor, and Tracey. And no others. I _swear_ it." And this time, that pleading note sounds more like he's begging Deadpool to believe it. The tone that practically shrieks, 'I'm telling the _truth_ this time.
Deadpool blinks at this for a moment. He hadn't expected the fun of gender-role switching. "Tracey," he mutters. "So when given the choice of Glen or Glenda, you took 'em both. WHATEVER. That ain't the particular hobby I care about anyway. QUESTION 2 - What are your powers? List 'em clean, list 'em fully, don't leave anything OUT..." He hasn't decided whether or not he's gonna kill this guy yet. He really just SHOULD... he's not sensing any 'positive societal impact' from this freak yet...
"It's... shadow-stuff. Wait." Trevor says quickly, before Deadpool can react to the generality of that. "It's hard to explain. it's just... I do things. With shadows. The Darkforce. It's..." Obviously, it's rather hard to explain. It's its own plane...." He makes a wide gesture with one hand. Not angry or attacking, but just trying to encompass an 'I don't know how to say it' in the movement. "The suit. The wings." he says, as though that might say everything. Or at least, what you saw.
Deadpool narrows his eyes... this generality ain't cutting it. "WHAT. CAN. YOU. DO. You've got Darkforce, fine. Do you FLY? Do you shapeshift, do you have claws, is this Darkforce separate from you? You sure it aint' called a symbiote? Specifics, pal... don't make me break out the Top 50 Polka Hits..."
"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes." How's _that_ for specifics? Or, at least, close enough. "Dammit, I don't _know_ how to explain it all." The near-snarling snap is quickly followed by another, tighter cringe, as though he's bracing for the assault of the noise once again. Voice lower once more, back to the fear-toned side, he says, "It... it does what I want, only because I can _tell_ it to. But it does... it does a lot of things. It shifts, like I want it to. Does what I want it to. And it does a lot." Well, it _does_ do all of the above. "I... sort of work with it." Well, Ok. In a _way_, that might make it a symbiote. Or a parasite?
"Sounds symbiotey to me." He shakes his head. "Okay, so you can do everything in the world. That sucks. QUESTION 3: Who do you work FOR, who do you work WITH? I know there's more of you gooey-spooky freaks running around. Accomplices, Trevor. Girlfriends, Tracey. Whoever pays you to do your spook-ifyin'." The helmet falls down over his eyes, but he quickly pushes it back.
Trevor's eyes flick up toward Deadpool again. Ok. He won't deny the 'everything in the world' thing. Who knows? It just might help later. "Don't have anyone who pays me for it." he says definitively. "I do it because I want to. No one's paying me to do it." And while he definitely still sounds nervous, the truth is holding in those words. Although the courage is sort of lost when he adds an, "I swear it." again.
Deadpool pulls out a gun and klik-klaks it near Trevor's ear. "You're leaving things OUT, Bob, Carol, Ted, Alice. Did you MISS the part where I said I knew there were more of you freaks tooling around this town? Who are they? And WHY do you want to do this crap? What sorta fun can you POSSIBLY derive out of snagging random schmucks and killing them? They're WAAAY too easy! It's like playing mini-golf by just carrying your ball to the hole and dropping it in."
Trevor almost cringes again, but only does it half-way. He's still scared, but he's at least going to keep himself mind-straight enough to keep talking. "There _aren't_. I'm the only one that I know of. It's just me out there. And if it isn't, wish you'd let me know." If he was more calm, he might have laughed as though it were a lame joke. But he _is_ that nervous right now, and he _does_ mean it. "I do it because I want to... I've got to. Doubt you'd understand. You've never had to deal with it."
Deadpool leans in closer to Trevor... "Aww... widdle Goo-Man has widdle psychowogicaw pwobwems, do he? That's so CUUTE!" he mocks, rubbing his nose against Trevor's. "It's too bad I don't give a rat's ass about what's wrong with your head. I just know that you messed with mine, and that means you messed with me. I've got your number pal, and if you attack Ria or anyone she knows, anyone she's ever MET ever again, I crank up Huey Lewis & The News and do an interpretive dance to 'Hip To Be Square' all over your intestines." He pauses for a moment. "In fact..." he plants the gun on Trevor's nose. "Can you give me one good reason I shouldn't pull a Jackson Pollock and make some pretentious floor smatterings with your brains right now?"
Outside the bar known as Velvet Facade, there is a crowd of people. Most have run and dispersed. A few of them are doing the 'rubbernecker' thing, sticking around relatively nearby. There's cries going up about 'freaky shadow-stuff' and 'some sort of gun attack' and 'robbery' and 'murder' and such things. The door is shut tightly, the people are making no effort to get through and into the main area, where the trouble is. And the goings-on inside are almost too quiet, everything considered, except for the occasional possible echoes of Deadpool's voice. Trevor's speaking too quietly to really be heard clearly from outside, at the moment.
And inside, Trevor lays pinned beneath Deadpool's feet, a gun held at his nose, and an absolutely horrified look on his face. He hasn't wet himself with terror. That's about all you _can_ say for it. His face has gone stark-white again in utter fear, the look at the gun one of impending doom, as he tries to straighten brain and throat enough to speak more. "I... Ria. I don't plan to get near Ria again. She's got friends. I didn't know. I swear, I didn't know. I promise, I'm not going near her again." Almost boyish, the pleading. Utterly terrified. But then, if you had Deadpool's gun leveled flat against your face, wouldn't you be? His lower body is still clothed in the shadow he'd tried to clothe himself with, the wings not completely formed, but the blackness giving his lower body at least some cover. Unfortunately, it's not his lower body that needs it, right now.
Deadpool pushes the gun against his nose. It's cold. It's metal. Yep, it's a real gun. "I'm liking the sound of that." His eyes are cold as they stare down into Trevor's terrified face. "Those rules also apply to one Theresa Cassidy - or Theresa O'Rourke, depending on what she's feeling like going by, should you ever meet her." Might as well throw in a safeguard against THAT, in case she shows up here again. Stupid luv, makes a guy do stupid luv things. "Tell you what though... I know this whole experience has been a little traumatic. Here's a treat - if you run into a hairy little scruffy runt named Logan - he says 'bub' a lot and smells like a Humane Society dumpster, can't miss him - knock yourself out." He eases his grip on Trevor's throat for a moment... then freezes. "Nope, wait, you're lying to me about there being any more of you. That violates the terms of my 'letting you live' arrangement." He plants the barrel of the gun on one of his eyes. "Give Stalin a wedgie for me."
In the beginning some really screwed up deity created Beacon Harbor. Now this scum was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of Nutso Mutherfuck was hovering over the waters. Now, those deities didn't have to worry about the masculinity being threatened, because they smite lower beings and all, and so this sucker was an interior decorator at heart. He livened the place up. The psycho said let there be light, and there was light. He said let there be an expanse that separates water from water, and there was the sky. There was day, night, evening, mountains, trees, homes, bicycles, Eggo waffles, dime operated laundromats, and so forth. But something was still missing. A little distracted, and probably smoking peyote at the time, the dude said let there be a distraction, and so, Marley has arrived. "Um. Scuse me?" She's just a girl, quite obvious on punctuating that note, pale skin contrasting with black leather so tight it must have been molten over her curves, set with wild hair, tattoos, and those whiplash grey eyes. But this wholesome smile could make a Catholic schoolgirl green with envy. She stands several feet off, behind them and off to the side, looking playful like a puppy, apologetic for intruding. "Yo? Hallo?" she speaks at Deadpool, innocuous. "Uh, nadda innarupt dem hot man-on-man love goin rounn, but. Pick a numbaa."
Trevor actually recognizes Marley. Or rather, he would, if he wasn't so focused on the gun. He's not so scared that he bursts out crying like a baby, but the fear is clear in white face and tense body, in the way his legs are drawn up as though to protect himself, in the way the arms half-curl as though to get some small shelter against the gun. Not in the way his eyes shut, though. That could be a reaction to the fact that death is staring him straight in the eye. Arguing a point like that's not going to help. "I'm not-...." And then, the voice actually pokes a mental finger through the boy's defenses, and he actually manages to force an eye open to register it. Is this... good, or bad?
***
Marley(#1667PXZce)
If a person had to be defined in only one word, this girl would be the best candidate for: acidic. If she is beautiful, this is beauty that's been battered, honed, weathered, and left aggressive like the mad dog biting the hand that whips it. Her face is aesthetic like war is, sharp and striking, slapped on with grey whiplash eyes, high cheekbones tapering into a sharp, stubborn jaw armed with a pout of Cupid's bow lips. There's no colour about her, as though God made her from greyscale: paled veal skin contrasts with hair as black as sin, left long to be the mane for her beast. Curves avoid her like the plague -- skinniness and womanhood combined to chisel sharp angles into a slight body, toned by shy folds of muscle laden to limbs as long as her mean streak. There were scars on her, and now they are gone, leaving behind a glow of new, soft skin. Only her hands bear taint. Her palms show that she's once been crucified.
Tattoo. It seems to crawl in the forms of black thorns and Eden-green vines, out from the ebon tempest of her hairline to slither existence along her face. The tangling picture Christians her like a circuit almost, winding sinewy vines from her temples to frame her eyes, receding again to trace along cheekbones and taste over her jaw.
Leather. It's her motif and her entire ensemble. Leather pants as dark as marble fit her like a second skin, slithering to her legs and clinging like a jealous lover. Her top is barely one, something bordering a corset with just a touch more practicality. It's almost like a strip of black cowhide's been wrapped around what needs to be covered; left to a careless minimum. A thick, heavy grommet belt studded with silver slings around her hips in a haphazard gunslinger angle, brown leather like her boots -- vicious shitkickers with a bastard of a heel.
***
Deadpool is indeed distracted by the voice... weird voice, doesn't sound like one of these gutless clubber schlubs is trying to play hero... so he leans on his knee that's holding Trevor's legs down and spins his head, complete with Magic Viking Helmet, toward the sound of it... and being the testosteroney man he is, his first reaction is 'Hotchee-Wawa.' In fact, he actually sees the word 'Hotchee-Wawa' in big Rainbow Brite letters glittering and sparkling over her head. "Holy Smokin' Hotties on a Corn Dog Stick with a Side o' Mayo..." Then he looks UP. WHOA, tattoos on the FACE. That's so freaky it slams the brakes on a little bit.... and he lifts up Trevor's face so he can look at Marley, still pressing the barrel of the gun against his head. "This drink o' water a friend of yours, Tracey? She thinks we're being the gay. And I can't say I'm not regretting my choice of headgear right now because of it."
The corn dog stick hottie waits for a patient moment, more than likely expecting an answer for her polite question. When it does not arrive, she shrugs off from her position like a boat dropping anchor, weight slung, hand fit for a hip, and shoulders crestfallen. Marley exudes a put-upon noise, rolling her colourless eyes to the ceiling. God help me. "Hey. I todlaa open-minds, yo. Aine god nottin gainnss sissy. But. I aine got lall daa, OK?" she tells Deadpool, otherwise silent. She doesn't even spare Trevor a glance. "Jess pick a goddamn numbaa, huh?"
Just a flick of eyes toward Deadpool, the gun still pressed against his head. Can Tracey plead the fifth, here? 'Hate to tell you, Dude, but you're not my type!' .... nah. Saying that would be a lot more fun if the gun wasn't being pressed in and against his temple. That's going to quickly make a large mess. And so, after a rather disbelieving glance at the man, he glances back at Marley again. The look could even be called long-suffering... if he wasn't so damned scared.
Deadpool blinks a bit at this chick. She's weird. There's a case of the heebies scooting up his spine... but it's not full-fledged jeebies yet. Tracey ain't answering... so that hints that there's SOMETHING up between these two. She's asking him to pick a number. He glances to either side of him, looking for anything sneaky. Picking a number is NOT something he should be doing. "Okay... I'll bite. I pick... forty-seven." Man... picking a number NEVER ends well...
The dame in the leather number seems to approve. "Forda-seven. Issa good numbaa, aine it," she says through what is becoming the most wide of grins, and she turns eyes, nodding down at Trevor as though expectant of agreement. Forty-seven! Drawing a hand to swathe back her hair, Marley is all about the loose and casual, like the three of them's best buds. She grins almost admiringly at Deadpool, chuckling now as she draws her tongue along her full bottom lip in consideration. "Yeah, forda-seven..." she trails off as if she were repeating some punchline to a joke. Dark brows spike up. "Hey, wanna kno why I asked?"
'Where are you going with this?' states a high-lifted quirk of Trevor's eyebrows. Is he allowed to nod? He gives it a try, anyhow... though if there's any evidence that the gun's going to go off, the nod gets to be interrupted. Although he does at least bring himself to mention sotto voce, "'always preferred fourty-two, myself..." Life, the universe, and everything.
Deadpool watches this girl slink around. Yes, he's got a gun trained on what may just be a friend of hers... but he also gets the feeling that he's not dealing with a crowd that respects hostages at all. He gives Trevor a little slap across the mouth to shut him up. "Quiet, there's tense faux-casual confrontational dialogue going on.." he spits down to him, before turning his eyes back on Marley Marl. "Sure I do... but lemme guess first! Is it the number of pieces you're gonna tear me into? Is it the number of bullets you're gonna empty into my brain? Is it the number of schmucks you're gonna go kill tonight? Is it how much money you'll give me to let Glen or Glenda here go?" He briefly leans down to Trevor to mutter "I know I already made that joke, but she wasn't here, so it doesn't count." He pipes back up... "I know, it's the number of hickeys you're gonna give me if I play my cards right!"
"Hey, you do?" she asks, head tilted perkily. "No kiddin?" Grey eyes shine bright. Then they get all rounded and sad. "Oh no fair, yoo played dis aafore." She scoffs her melodramatic accusation, then gives Deadpool a hearty wink. "An heaa I taut I was de onlaa one who play Pick How Many Times Ichor IS GOING TO BATTER YOUR STENCHING MAGGOT-INFESTED CORPSE WITH YOUR ROTTED LIMBS AFTER SHE RIPS OUT YOUR EVER-LOVING SOUL, YOU STINKING WORM!" Her pleasantness has evaporated faster than a splat of mucus in the pits of Hell--as so much of her humanity. Black leather crawls and ripples as she begins to stride towards them. She does not break pace even as from narrow shoulders erupt not wings but tentacles -- grotesque, horrible whipcord lengths of lashing, whipping black tipped with talons, barbs, and here or there a rusted tailor's scissor blade. Her hands blacken over, and fingers flex into warped claws, shiny like a beetle's shell. Grey eyes flare. A voice like fire-blackened jagged glass, and it's seemed to drop that pesky accent. "Looks like forty-fuckin-seven's your lucky number."
Well, if one can go black, the other can go black. "Well, I suddenly understand what you mean by not being the only one." he says, apparently to Deadpool, as he pulls his body back from the grip, and the shadow makes a concentrated effort to whip up and over his head, _hopefully_ before the gun can discharge again. Noisy, freakin' things. Plus, if he can get out of this, he just might be able to return the favor for Deadpool scaring the unholy _shit_ out of him. And Marley... er, Ichor might well be the one to distract Deadpool enough to manage it. Hey, if anyone can...
Deadpool was expecting SOME sort of nastiness to ensue, but he's gotta admit he wasn't quite prepped for this level of insanity. Perhaps satisfyingly, this change is greeted with a "GAAH!" and a quick raising of his guns at the oncoming freak. "I HATE it when hootchie mamas make me shit my pants!" He opens fire at her immediately. "Do you KNOW how hard it is to clean that out of SPANDEX?!" Consider him suitably distracted... he's momentarily forgotten about his 'hostage' advantage. More screams erupt throughout the club, by the way. Not that anyone's listening to the little normal twerps.
"Pretty damn hard. But we think you should be worrying about the bile stains," Ichor corrects nicely in Marley's voice, only her head visible throughout the twining, writhing mass of darkness. That disappears as well when he opens fire. The reigning diety bastard said let there be a challenge, and the figure is apparently bullet proof. They ricochet and drop off that pooling blackness that does not divert its approach, rather accelerating with awesome speed to lunge, all claws and scissory teeth, right at Deadpool.
Oh, _hell_ no. Trevor would rather Ichor not tear apart the boy. He'd rather let Deadpool _suffer_ than die nicely. And besides, he's got some revenge to go getting. "Not right now." he calls to the dark form, even as wings form from the shadow around him, cupping forward to wrap against the distracted Deadpool. And before Mr. Masked Gunman can recover: "Give me a minute. I'll be right back." And he almost seems to fall backward into the darkness behind him, dragging Deadpool with him. Let's let the poor boy get a goooooood look at what scares _him_.
Did somebody say 'out of your league?' Deadpool deals in leg-breaking, cap-busting and crack-wising. Ultradimensional psychological symbiotic hijinks? He's a rookie. He only has time to mutter "Oh, yuck, the 'WE' thing... I heard about the creepy 'WE' thing..." in response to Goo-Girl attacking him before he's pulled with an unceremonious 'YOINK!' into The Wondertastic Journey Into The Mind of Wade Wilson (TM, Patent Pending). A barrage of the usual horrifying imagery rushes through his brain - bloodspatters, mommies with machetes in their faces, kids getting brained with tire irons, ghosts, goblins, what-have-you... but Deadpool's not really affected yet. "Hey, my life's flashing before my eyes... trippy!"
The Darkforce tries harder, and he gets an image of a gun pressed against ol' Vanessa' Carlyle's face, by a photo-negative version of himself, and her jaw is blown off... she drops to her knees in horrified agony... Siryn quietly says "Wade, I'm turnin' in the X-badge... I just wanna be wit'ye..." a second before Logan shows up behind her, puts his fists to her skull and snarls "Better off dead than with you, bub..." and pops his claws through her brain... she hangs off his claws like creepy beautiful dead meat. Ria emerges from behind this horror... surrounded by her kids. She then pulls out a pair of UZIs, dressed in red and black spandex, and says "You've shown me the way, Wade... life ain't worth shit, and everybody's better off dead." She then starts to cackle as she opens fire on her kids... graphically blowing their heads off, among other parts. Wade clutches his head through all this, tumbling through the Darkforce... but he doesn't feel shaken to the core... "Sorry... this is horrible, yeah, but... y'know... I pretty much expect all of this to happen, so it's not SHOCKING, see..."
Then darkness falls again, surrounding Deadpool in an absence of light. Suddenly, wide black eyes are outlined by curved slivers of white. Slowly, the darkness creeps back to reveal unblinking baby-animal-like faces... "Oh... Oh GOD, no..." Wade mutters. There are four faces... and strange fuzzy bodies emerge from the darkness, marching towards him in green, yellow, purple and red colors... "NO! Don't DO THIS!" The high-pitched giggling starts... and like a shot, the light fills everything... there's an image of the sun, with a wailing baby's face in it. "GAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!" Wade looks around frantically... the four fuzzy creatures have ugly mop hairdos, cut short up front, but looking suspiciously like parties in the back. They all pull out shotguns, cocking them with giggles that become far too 'hyukle' for him to handle... and the red one hops into a huge monster truck. "NO!" He opens fire to no effect... "NO! GAAH! Hillbilly Teletubbies Must Die!" He runs, runs and runs, but they keep closing closing and closing in on him... he clutches his head... "MAKE IT GO AWAAAY!!"
Back in the real world... All claws and tentacles equipped with gnarled, scissoring blades and bone-mashing mandibles, the symbiote unfurls into a nightmare-black tarrasque as it screams towards its chosen prize, those slavery jaws unzipping to flare jagged teeth. It lands in time to savage and mangle and gore...absolutely nothing. Sobered, Ichor lifts one clawed hand and then the other, checking if an entire mercenary might have gotten misplaced somewhere through all that. The monster rears up its drooly head, finding itself so very alone. Vanished! "We hate it when they do that," it mopes, at least until necessary background yelps and shudders attract its festering aggression. So many of them. "But the consolation prize is to die for!"
The screams get bloody.
All the while that the man struggles in the darkness, Trevor watches impassively, having let him go about his horrors. It's quite a puzzle for the Darkforce, for once, to find the ideal images. And truth be told, the last one that it pulls out is given a rather odd look by Trevor. But, fears are fears, silly or not. It apparently had just the effect that Trevor had been hoping for. And, without further ado, he snags up Deadpool away from the evil beasts, winging with ease out of another shadow...
... and into the primary Main Street area. Away from prying eyes, so he doesn't have to explain the matter. It's just perfect, after all. A quick flick of his hands sends Deadpool staggering out into the street, still holding on to whatever toys he might've had with him. "Go to it, Big Man. And whether you remember me or not, good luck in surviving long enough to explain the matter." And with another fold of shadow, he flicks back through the Darkforce again.
.... reappearing in the middle of Ichor's little mess hall. Accent on the 'mess'. It doesn't take any more than a minute for a massive creature like that to shred a few... or more than a few... innocents, after all. "You know," says the shadow as it unfolds itself from the wings, "you really know how to hold a party. But personally, I think taking it outside might be a better idea. Those people who ran are going to start screaming for the local super-helpers."