(no subject)
It's early evening in Manhattan, with the orange glow of a nearby lamp post just now flickering to life to combat the onset of darkness. Across the street from the station here, an older gentleman in a black overcoat stands reading a copy of today's Times by the post's light. The long shadows drawn across his face do little to mask a profile that has grown rather /familiar/ to the public in recent months. Not that the NYPD has ever relied upon news reports to place Magneto.
He's been out here for nearly half an hour now. Reading. Loitering. Making the officers posted just inside the station nervous. But he's entirely innocent, really.
Casteneda is just stepping outside at that moment, cigarette screwed into his teeth. A cheap little lighter comes up and ignites the tip. Pause. The flame lingers against the tip of his nic-stick for a few seconds longer than is absolutely necessary as he recognizes the reading figure across the street. Smoke issues into the air a minute later and ash falls to the ground. Lensherr earns an acknowledging nod from the big mexican flat-foot.
The chatter in the precinct is soon switched to whispers and rumors that Magneto was totally casing the place. A gross overstatement that at first Cohen simply passes off as bored busy bodies. After about ten minutes of people discussing it though and more than a few people going to the windows and back. "Oh you bunch of pussies!" Oz exclaims as he stands and walks for the exit. "You want me to chase the bad mutie away for you ladies? Fine." Pretty tough talk for a rookie.
There is a quiet rustle when Erik turns the page, lost in the rumble of an engine passing between here and there. He is intent upon his paper, but not quite intent enough to miss that he is being studied more directly. As the first cop out in some time, Casteneda is squinted at, with the faintest of thrums whispering after any metal he might be keeping on his person. Gun, badge. Everything. Then he nods back. Politely, even.
Gun, no clip loaded. Badge... duh. Belt buckle... so? The Mexican idly glances at Cohen, a brow arched at his bravado. "You do that, kid..." he mentions in a dead pan, a bit of a smirk on his lips as he drags smoke from the butt of his cigarette. He doesn't seem at all nervous about Magneto... Mister Lensherr. Perhaps a pardon actually means something to this one?
Having no intent of being dumb enough to try and use his gun, Cohen as well is armed. He stops for a second at the door and looks at Casteneda, before looking over Magneto and back at the precinct. Having already talked a big game, he has to follow through. He quickly lights a cigarette and says nothing to Casteneda but gives instead a rather odd eyeroll. That done he walks across the street and addresses Magneto with "Can I help you old man? Ya lost? Forget where you live?"
"Leave'im, kid," Casteneda mentions, knocking ash once more to the ground. Aparently he's got an eye for danger. "You really /don't/ want to do that," he observes mildly as he watches from afar, giving little in the way of credit to Magneto apparently. Pause. Oh well... More smoke, more ash, more skeptical glances.
Cohen is all bravado and feigned disinterest when he answers "Mutant? Now who said anything like that? I just thought I'd tell the senile old man that he needs to move along. It's getting dark out and the streets just aren't safe now a days pops." Aw, he's trying to be subtle or something. Whatever he's trying, it certainly isn't terribly intimidating. He does eye the paper in Magneto's hands wishing he could touch it or get close enough to try and pull some sort of read on what the older mutant is doing.
The headlines are nothing special, really. Even the lead photograph is boring. Normal people doing normal things on a normal day in Central Park. Of course, under the lurid orange cast of the street lamp, they might take on a more sinister air. Senile old Erik Lensherr certainly has, though the slight narrow of his chilly eyes and the beginnings of a half-smile might also have something to do with that. "Pops, is it? Tell me, has there ever been any research on the relationship between police badges and common sense?" Casteneda gets a sidelong look across the street. Measuring.
The big Mexican is doing more watching than acting. Discretion being the better part of valor, and all that crap. "It's age that brings wisdom, not your career path," he observes, snuffing out the cigarette on the wall of the stoop. "Let the kid be, Mr. Lensherr... he's new," he remarks. Punking out the poor rooking quite thoroughly.
"Better question. Are you fuckin' kiddin' me? You, are all brand new a pardoned. I, am an officer of the NYPD, standing outside a building chock full of Magento ass-fuckin' Sentinel Armor, just waiting to bend you over and take you like a porn star if you so much as twitch a paper clip threateningly." He gets through most of that tirade before Casteneda mosies on over. He looks at Casteneda like he has three heads and says "Yup. New and just itching to kick his fuckin' head in with a ceramic boot." He leaves the suggestion alone for now.
"In purely theoretical terms, Officer..." Erik trails off, clearly expectant of a name, only to continue on before (and if) he receives one, "Jim, let us say -- how many of your orifaces do you think I would be capable of threading this lamp post," he gestures his folded paper helpfully at the post in question, "through before /one/ of your companions managed to exit the station in one of your suits? Assuming, of course, that there is at least one already dressed appropriately inside." His voice, lowered several notches since their initial exchange, is too low to carry to Casteneda, but he does smile thinly over at the younger/older man once he's finished speaking. "Dr. Lensherr, actually. I'll take your request under consideration."
Casteneda's right hand, emptied of the cigarette, balls into a fist, though he doesn't reach for his gun. -Now- does he begin making his way towards the pair. "Mr. Lensherr," he observes quite calmly, and pointedly. "I'm sure what I see taking place here isn't anything that could be construed as communicating a threat to an officer," he notes, the statement being entirely rhetorical. "I expect that might be grounds for overturning your pardon if it were, so I must be mistaken. Aren't I, sir?" Ahem.
"Cohen" is shot like it means something or somehow gives him power in this situation to have a name. "For one? Like I said you won't risk your precious pardon. Cause yer gettin' old and losin' yer nerve and that world domination, fuckin' surprise, didn' work out. Cause oh yea, we keep stoppin' you." Yes, it's not entirely true, but it feels good to pretend like the NYPD is always responsible for foiling Magneto. The cigarette is placed in his mouth and the hand slowly reaches out for the paper as if reading a headline Oz says "/Doctor/ Lensherr lost his shit and tries to assault NYPD officer. Magneto dead before his decriped old body hit the ground." The ploy is really just to see if Oz can read any of Eric's thoughts from when he was reading the paper earlier. What is he doing? Is he just trying to intimidate the police? Just trying to read the paper? Oz is too busy with his own ploy to acknowledge Casteneda finally remembering which side Oz thinks he should be on.
"Surely," says Erik, who maintains an even tone despite the way his jaw hollows and his neck tenses at the approach of policeman number two. Faint irritation etches across his brow, both at Cohen's small speech, and his reach for the paper, though no effort is made to cut him off. He releases it easily, and with a rankle around the blunt of his nose that suggests he is not doing as fine a job suppressing his temper as he might like. He says nothing further. The paper says plenty.
The mind of Magneto is not a pleasant place to venture in the best of times. Right now? Not the best of times. Everything about him is black and cold. Acrid metal bites after every snarl he's bitten back like an unfortunate aftertaste. He would very much like to kill them both -- feel their blood on their hands -- though he hasn't given an actual plan along those lines any sort of real thought. Yet.
Behind the paper, he smiles again. Thinly.
"Good," Casteneda remarks, nodding a little at this as his fist unclenches. "Megalomaniac does not equal stupid," he advises Cohen as he gestures for the younger fellow to come along. "It also doesn't equal impulsive..." No, he doesn't bother making any attempt to lower his voice or otherwise mask his statement. "If he wanted you dead you'd be dead..." Pause. "Or didn't you bother reading the case file?" Rookie...
Cohen gets very still at the end of his little newspaper trick and his face contorts ever so slightly. The disgust at the true murderous intentions is etched across his features. He pauses to turn to Casteneda and answers "Exactly. He's not fuckin' stupid, just weak." Turning back to Magneto he states clearly "You know you won't do anything, you limp wristed bitch. You won't risk yer freedom even to feel my blood on your hands." The last phrase is said with a wierd twist to his voice, as if he were impersonating Erik. With that he turns to Casteneda and says "Detective. I believe you heard him threaten me with sexual molestation with a foreign object. I recommend a Sentinel equipped unit be dispatched outside the precinct, to encourage the good doctor to get the fuck out." The look he gives Casteneda and the tone of voice he uses, is not the tough guy routine he's trying to pull with Magneto, instead it's one of a man talking to his superior.
"Mmm." Shoulders rigid in their squared set, Erik clamps his jaw still harder at Cohen's imitation of him. A little too spot on, perhaps. Regardless of precisely /what/ it is that prompts a tiny, inaudible snap in the vacuum of the old mutant's mind, it is painfully clear that something has. A trashcan at the lamp's base screeeeeches, crying out as a foot-long length of tin is snarled from its lip. Its destination is Cohen's right ankle, and it is moving very quickly.
Casteneda's hand flares bright white and a thunderclap snaps through the street. The trash can is thrown off down the street in a tattered mass. "That'll be about enough of that, Mister Lensherr," he intones, his otherwise pleasant demeanor unhindered by this minor inconvenience. "You're flirting with an assault charge, and you haven't even bought me a drink yet..." There's a threat there, one the big Mexican looks more than happy to follow through on, in spite of his calm exterior.
Cohen doesn't expect Casteneda to do anthing so at the first screech he is diving and rolling off to the side. Of course he looks a little dumb as the big ol' Mexican gets his back but hey, better safe, right? "See? Casteneda. The spic from fuckin' Buffalo jus' punked yer weak shit." He gives a nervous laugh before saying "B't maybe you are as dumb as you look. That shit pardon of yours is toast." Okay, a Presidential pardon can probably withstand an assault charge, but hey, Cohen's all about the bravado, mostly because of nerves.
Alright, so. That was unexpected. Erik flinches from the flash of light and power, brows knit in a brief (very brief) show of puzzlement while he connects the dots. He watches the the mangled trash can bounce sadly down the sidewalk, draws in a deep breath, and looks slowly back to the officers on the hand. "It's Doctor Lensherr. And who here is flirting?" The next thing that comes flying over is larger than a trash can. It is a taxi. At the same time, several windows within the elegant architecture of the police station shatter out of their frames, and a second car sparks and screams across the space that was occupied by Magneto prior to him taking a few hasty steps backwards.
The crack of air being flash fried is enough to get people suiting up inside, and the suits are enroute. Casteneda's fists come up, tracking the vehicle, glowing as he draws a bead and works out the angle to avoid injuries and property damage. It's a half-second, possibly less before another loud explosion of light and sound fill the street, several times louder this time, the car rocketed back. < I'm gonna smack this kid, > goes through the older detective's mind. < Pose edited by me after OOC talk in scene. The cars were occupied and the second was stationary, so he blasted the first one away and let the second be, for this pose. >
Barely having time to acknowledge what is going on, Oz gets to his feet and runs back across the street. Running away? Nope. Arming himself. He yells "Get me Sentinel gun!" He may have been bluffing about all of his threats before but it is on now. He is very aware of the fact that he had to leave Casteneda alone back there but he wasn't much good without a weapon.
The first car spins away with an oddly roller coaster-like sound effect: the screaming inside pitched to the churn of the vehicle until it crunches down into traffic that has, for the most part, slammed hard on its brakes. The screaming within the car Magneto is currently using for a shield is somewhat louder, held firmly into place on its side at the direction of a lifted hand as he bolts in a firmly /awayward/ direction. Meanwhile a third car rolls across the street after Cohen, rocketing in through the wall of the station itself. More glass. More fire. More screaming.
Casteneda dives off to one side, tucking in and rolling to add distance to his leap away from the car. "GET THESE FUCKING PEOPLE OUTTA HERE!!" he yells to... well... no one in particular. He finds his feet and lets loose again in rapid succession. BAMBAMBAMBAM! Several separate blasts, large enough to knock a man for a loop, careen at Magneto's flank. Maybe he was wrong about that whole age and wisdom thing?
Just inside the building before the car follows him Cohen is not even looking. A stunted "Oh fu-" from another officer is all the warning he gets before the impact of the car send glass, cement and officers flying. Cohen is sent crashing into a desk where is heroically is knocked unconscious. All that talk. So little action.
Magneto catches a glancing blow to the side. Enough to send him to the asphalt. He may even roll once or twice, heavy overcoat scraping to expose metallic plating against the ground. Some distance away, breathing hard, he is more than conscious enough to fling the car he was using as a shield (screaming again, now) at Casteneda. At the same time, the street literally shatters beneath his feet, rusty rebar clawing erratically up after his knees while Erik scuffs awkwardly to his feet and scrambles on for a back alley.
"Sonuva..." Casteneda braces, and spreads his hands, as if he's planning on catching that car himself. A wall of white light fills the space before him, acting as a barrier against the oncoming object. Rubber-soled wing-tips shriek in protest against the asphalt as the force of the car pushes him back several feet, all the while trying to keep an eye on where his assailant ran to. Finally, the suits arrive and once he's able to move enough to direct them, the detective points the Sentinels down the alley after Lensherr. Concern for life seems to be priority here as he attempts to free the people from the car.
The correct alley is home to a dumpster, a baffled-looking homeless person, and assorted garbage. It is not home to Erik Lensherr, though a spatter of blood across the alley's mouth might later be positively identified as his. The homeless man points up. Magneto can fly. Sentinel suits cannot. Small blessings.
Casteneda watches the tiny speck speed away and sneers upwards. "Check on the bystanders!" he yells at the suited officers. "That one's free game now, we'll get'im -- get an ambulance over here!" The car door is opened, with some extra pulling to let Lensherr's human shields out of their tin-can.
Boom. I'll have a news post written up tomorrow, but know for the short term that the street outside of the precinct on the Upper East Side is a wreck.