18233/If You Were Supposed To Do It, It Wouldn't Be Nearly As Fun

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If You Were Supposed To Do It, It Wouldn't Be Nearly As Fun
Date of Scene: 08 June 2024
Location: Cafeteria and Bar
Synopsis: After a wildly successful mission to kidnap the head scientist of the Alaskan lab responsible for manufacturing monsters built from the Blob's DNA, Lorna finds Domino drowning her sorrows at the Asteroid's bar.
Cast of Characters: Neena Thurman, Lorna Dane




Neena Thurman has posed:
The Vancouver Extraction had gone off without a hitch. They found their guy, they didn't have to tangle with capes or law enforcement, the 'prize' is safely secured in a place which may as well be considered as darker than a black site. Everything should be good! Another chapter written to a close.

But someone's been drinking rather heavily for it to have been a success. Domino could have at least found someone else to celebrate with.

Still lacking color, the black and white blob pattern of urban camo cargo pants and a plain black t-shirt points to a particularly slummy feeling albino as she's sampling drinks from across the globe by way of picking through the asteroid's various pleasures of imbibement. A bit of vodka, a touch of tequila, a run-around with some rum, it could very well be that she's trying to find a new flavor to get hooked on.

Or it could be that none of the available spirits are quite managing to drown out the buzz of unwanted thoughts today.

It had long since gotten to the point where she shushed away whomever had been around to serve the drinks. 'Go take a break. Take five. Hours.' If anyone else happened along she's fully capable of pouring them a drink. ...Mostly. Some of it might land on the counter instead of a glass at this point. But, hey. Occupational hazard.

Lorna Dane has posed:
After a while, it's quiet in the bar. Sascha's not too proud to give a girl some space, nor leave her with a few carafes of diverse mixers courtesy of his liquid transmutation gift. None of it's coming out of his pocket, so what does he care?

Likewise, being a sullen mutant with a fondness for guns is the sort of thing that earns plenty of breathing room once it's clear that the dark mood won't lead to a fun or entertaining drunk. The odd patron wanders through to get however much of a drunk Domino manages to pour for them; otherwise, the albino is alone with her thoughts for half an hour or so. Plenty of time for sampling high quality booze and mulling over everything that went terribly, awfully right yesterday.

Plenty of time to brood her way into the dark and stormy depths of a depressive cloud, one glass at a time.

Plenty of time to get comfortable-- comfortable enough for drifting thoughts and frustrations to give the Meteor's next entrant a measure of cover as they slip behind the bar.

Ever so carefully, delicate fingers drag one of several empty glasses across the bar; rum tumbles from its bottle, closely followed by juice from a carafe. Seven, ten seconds later, the butt of the glass softly *klnk!*s against wood; bare, quiet creaking briefly follows. And if none of those cues or signs are enough to catch the mercenary's notice on their own--

"... do you want to talk about it?"

-- the soft and smoky roll of Lorna Dane's voice is surely enough to give her away. Leaning forward and propped against the other side of the bar, Lorna seems unbothered by the fact that more than a few emerald locks are currently brushing through puddles of alcohol right now; the pursed lips and downturned brows stem from having just spent the preceding handful of moments studying Domino while doing her best not to disturb her as she poured herself a drink. Rum and pineapple juice gently swirl around the glass cradled in her right hand; the left's lightly draped over her arm.

"Or anything else?"

Matte green lips quirk to one side and her head dips slightly, drawing a touch nearer to her fellow mutant. Unlike the Genoshan Cottage or Vancouver Extraction, here Lorna has the luxury of dressing as she pleases--

(Okay, so technically, she probably could have dressed as she pleased in either of those instances-- but appearances count! There are situations where it is not just appropriate, but vital to radiate Queenly energy.)

-- which means a fading, distressed, and roughly cropped black Pretty Reckless shirt with a sizable 'V' ripped down the front; a lightweight, deep purple skater skirt draped loosely over her hips; black fishnets, and heavy-duty black boots, rather than some shimmering, green, ferrofabric ensemble.

"Or do you just wanna get really fuckin' drunk?" she quietly finishes, canting her head slightly.

Neena Thurman has posed:
If Domino had laser vision she would have burned a hole clean through the wall by now, seemingly oblivious to Lorna's entrance and drink selection. It isn't until the Magnetrix speaks up that the pale killer snaps out of it with a certified flinch. The booze must have finally started to catch up to her if she was that far gone.

Actually focusing takes a moment longer for those pale eyes, and sure, they wander. Lorna's already got a commanding presence but she also happens to dress down nicely and Dom's finer graces are taking a break of their own. Judging by the lack of any proper appreciation in her expression for the sight that is Lorna Dane, such graces aren't the only elements to have temporarily departed.

When Lorna presents option #3 to just get drunk there's an amused huff in response, the hammered lady's gaze drifting down to yet another empty glass.

"This is ... so ... fucking ... stupid" she starts in, struggling to reconnect the neural pathways between thought and speech.

A black nailed finger idly draws along the rim of her glass. "We got the fuck. I know what that means." Her hand lifts up, index finger pointed to the ceiling with a slight bobbing motion. "And I remember your offer. ..S. Multiple."

The raised hand shifts to rub at her forehead with a humorless smirk. "But for the last ...whatever weeks, all I could think about..." A pause to make a brief pushing motion. "Out the window. Scientist Pancake. After taking one of those vials from the lab. Ones with Fred's name on 'em. Busting the end n' carvin' a circle 'round his eye. Send a message. A message to all of those ... -assholes- who made me. 'I'm comin' for you.' This..." she again holds that index finger up, "was gonna be my giant middle finger to the world that I was done -hiding- from those Armageddon fucks. N' he was gonna be my whiteboard. Had it aaalllll planned out..."

She pauses for a couple of seconds then rolls her eyes with a hazy expression born of amusement and malice. "And he 'bout -pissed himself- when we showed up at his table. How can I send a message with a -fucking coward?-"

Lorna Dane has posed:
First and foremost, Lorna listens. Wandering eyes go unremarked upon; commentary is held at bay. Taking slow sips from her glass, she keeps her focus fully set on Domino throughout the angry rant for as long as it takes. Now and then, during the gaps, she dips her chin a little to make sure the mercenary knows Lorna's still listening-- that she wants to hear the albino out, and that none of the offers laid on the bar before Dom were empty or idle.

Just like none of the ones whispered in the mercenary's ear yesterday were empty, or idle-- even if Rachel's insistence on joining in the interrogation process put a damper on things.

Once the final question is posed - and Lorna is sure that it is final, rather than a pause - the Matriarch of Genosha hooks her finger against the rim of Domino's glass to tug it towards herself too, just like the one she's currently clutching in her other hand. In short order though, the green-haired mutant grabs the appropriate bottle and pours, topping Domino off.

"You can't," Lorna murmurs, soft and apologetic. "The one you want to send... you can't."

She sets the bottle aside, nudges the glass back to the mercenary, then brings her arm back in for proper leaning. "Even if you'd shot him in the middle of that restaurant... it wouldn't have said much of anything, except that you can shoot a cowardly piece of shit with a couple dozen witnesses on you." A small, wan smile touches her lips as she raises her glass slightly.

"Which isn't nothing, mind you... but the kind of people who make the kinds of places you've seen, experienced--" She pauses for a quick sip then keeps her glass aloft, gesturing with it a bit as she continues, "-- one of us murdering one them out of the blue in broad daylight-- that's kind of the ground level of their fucked up obsessions, you know? It doesn't scare them, it motivates them. It makes them throw the net way," with her bottom few fingers splayed wide, Lorna sweeps her hand out, "way out there," until her glass is an inch or two from Dom's nose, "and drag in all the hateful little pissants with just enough brains and nowhere near enough ambition to help them do something about us."

Another, lengthier swig empties the glass. Lorna refills with rum and pineapple juice--

-- drinks--

-- -- drinks--

-- -- -- and drinks some more, until that glass is also empty.

"... and when they feel like the heat's on them," the green-haired mutant whispers, breathy on the heels of a gasp for air, "they throw whichever tools they don't need to the wolves."

Lorna fills her glass most of the way with rum, flicking her eyes from Dom just long enough to do so.

"To enjoy excellent Italian cuisine until the shitstorm finds them, while the real monsters - the fucks who dream up Armageddons," accompanies the upward shift of her gaze, "find another lab.

"Another crop of pissants.

"More victims, more nightmares, more progress towards firebombing the future for all of us--"

The Genoshan Queen stops short, jaw clenching around whatever might've come next.

This is not her venting session; it's Domino's. Only one of them knows what it's like to grow up under the knife, after all.

"... so all I can give you right now is whatever satisfaction shooting this low-life in the head once he's pumped dry might offer," she utters instead, low and taut and most of all, apologetic. "And my word that I'll help you hunt for ones who think they're too clever to be touched..." competes with the soft splash of pineapple juice into her glass.

"And a pretty soft shoulder, if it'll help any."

Neena Thurman has posed:
It's a rare thing to find someone so willing to listen. To another person in general. To a mutant. To a lab-hatched soldier. To someone who rarely opens up. There's something about how Lorna approaches Domino which gets results where little else has. It could be she simply needed the right caliber of leader. Strength and compassion together are a rare combination.

She watches the glass as Lorna tugs it away only to top it off.

When she's told she can't get the revenge she so desperately wanted those blacked out nails try their damnest to dig furrows into the metal counter on their way into a curled fist.

"I know."

Once more she listens to what Lorna has to say as the Magnetrix sweeps her glass so close to the albino's nose she could have gotten further drunk off the fumes. A mutant who is wise beyond her years and has a talent for spelling out that which Neena already knows but may try to hide from because she doesn't happen to agree.

"That's just it" she responds as Lorna pauses to take a long drink. "Giles wasn't supposed to be a damn nobody. He was the lead fucking scientist there." An assumption, born of frustration. It HAD been his name on the labels but there could have been someone pulling his strings. Now more than ever it seems this was the case. "All of this, finding his stupid ass, storming the gates with heavies, it was supposed to MEAN something" she growls with a touch too much volume.

Being denied a kill is always a downer. This target Dom had invested far too much into. Weight which Giles could never hope to carry no matter how badly she wanted it.

A long breath trails out before she can meet Lorna's face. "So now we've got an unwanted tool. How appropriate."

Revenge is still on the table. The idea of striking back a promise more than a suggestion. And a shoulder..?

Dom blinks once, looking back to Lorna with some confusion. Part of it's the alcohol taking the wheel, automatically reading too far into the offer. Fortune manages to catch the handbrake before she says something inappropriate. A spark of rational thought shifts her mind back into a more proper gear.

"I'm not big on shoulder crying."

Safe! Though that refreshed drink sure comes in handy to scrub any of the outlandish considerations out of her sloshed consciousness.

"But the offer's appreciated."

This said she finds something else to focus on which doesn't happen to contain bright green hair. "We get whatever we can out of 'im. With any luck Rach'll play ball. Would rather not have to butt heads with her any more'n I already have. She can be a reeeeeal bitch at times." Spoken as if Lorna wasn't already aware.

Lorna Dane has posed:
It took a long, long time before Lorna ever found anyone willing to listen.

She was lucky enough to grow up in a stable house -- albeit her aunt's house, thanks to the early passing (in a plane crash (that she caused, accidentally)) of her parents -- with people who fed and looked after and cared for her. And sometimes (often, once she got a bit older) 'caring' felt like withering glances whenever she absently let a piece of silverware jump into her hand, or changed the channel by blinking; 'looking after' her looked an awful lot like endless boxes of hair dye and weekends trapped in the bathroom, in the kitchen, while her aunt vigorously painted away at thick green locks and babbled about how much prettier she was as a nice, normal brunette.

And she was lucky.

So giving Domino the space she needs to be seen, heard, felt, and acknowledged is imperative.

"It was supposed to be cathartic," Lorna softly appends to her musings of tools and wolves, thanks to those growls of triumph denied. "The climax of one story, rolling right into the next one..."

And now, all they've got is a tool who's barely worth a bullet.

Most of the third drink's gone by the time Domino assures her that she's not a crier, because Lorna - clearly - has a lot of catching up to do. Of course, because she has a lot of catching up to do, the confusion her sentiment invoked -- the blinking, the subtle spark of revelation --

All of that earns the steady arch of a threaded brow as she throws back liquor and watches Domino over the rim.

"Rachel is... complicated," she eventually murmurs, setting her glass on the bar for the moment and giving it a quarter-circle turn. Thoughtful eyes fall towards the bar as her lips briefly purse and quirk. "She was... when she first came to the Mansion, it was like a ghost had showed up on our doorstep. Just spat out of the hell we see in our worst dreams, wounded deeply and desperate, and..." Lorna takes a long, deep breath and flicks her eyes back to Neena's.

"She's gotten a lot better," the Matriarch of Genosha whispers, "but the world that people who enable shitstains like Giles dream of-- that's her past. She lived it, was used by it... and even though she's out of it, she has to carry the burden that it could happen again. It could happen worse--" Rather than fixate on 'worse', a subject she's grown exponentially more versed in this past year, Lorna expels a frustrated huff and tosses the rest of her drink back. Afterwards, she flashes a tight and tired smile.

"She's as invested in answers as any of us," she quietly concludes. "She's just... ... stubborn, in some ways. She's exactly the kind of person who belongs on our side, but she's-- I don't know. Afraid?"

Rather than pour herself another glass, Lorna once again catches the rim of Domino's with her fingertip.

"Of what she might do? Of what her actions could cause--?" she considers out loud, dragging the glass towards herself. "I don't know. All of this' to say..."

Lorna lifts the glass towards its owner and helps herself to a drink, tossing her head back and draining it right back down to where it was before she topped it off.

"... I think she'll play ball," the green-haired woman exhales, tapping the glass back to the counter so she can top it off it-- again. "But she needs to be handled carefully."

For a few moments, she's silent; there's just the soft, steady babble of liquor filling the glass. Once it's near the rim once again, she gently pushes her fingers against the vessel, nudging it back to the mercenary.

"Shoulders are good for leaning, too," quietly mixes with the noise of glass sliding over the bar top. "And resting on," she notes, meeting pale eyes. "Not to mention sharing burdens."

Much like Rachel, shoulders and offers thereof are complicated-- at least, from Lorna they are.

"Just so you know," comes with a firm squeeze of a chalk-white hand before she sets about refilling her own glass.

Lorna Dane has posed:
"You're allowed to keep your shit bottled up... but you don't HAVE to."

Neena Thurman has posed:
Those subtle nods of agreement or understanding are becoming commonplace around Lorna as she again speaks a mutually known truth. It -was- supposed to be cathartic. Domino should still be able to get some tiny amount of closure out of squeezing the trigger when the time comes, as well. But the whole situation only further serves to pry open old wounds rather than to stitch them shut.

But there are other matters to contend with. Other matters which also happen to be nothing which the pale lady wants to be discussing...but probably should. Lorna is the right person. The asteroid is the right place. Shit-faced is the right condition. All of the pieces coming together. How lucky for her.

The discussion turns toward the redheaded psychic. The moment Lorna labels her as 'complicated' Dom's again dipping her head into a palm to slowly knead her forehead. "Understatement" she quietly grunts. "And now I'm inviting a future girl with PTSD we all have yet to experience into the pits of hell."

She's afraid?

Dom watches her drink slide away but it's only given a humorless smirk. "I was about to do that to yours. Pineapple juice. Classy." One more thoughtful consideration tonight. Dom usually doesn't mess with mixing stuff, it all hits home the same.

'She needs to be handled carefully.'

"She needs to be handled by you."

Just what Neena means by this is held off for a time as Lorna expands upon the shoulder concept. Dom gets it on an unspoken level, she just had to approach it from the hardass merc angle first. Given the opportunity and the shitstorm which can be the albino's thoughts... Right now, the number of people within her immediate support circle are quite limited. Clarice, probably. She might be it. Having another option means an awful lot.

With the glass refilled and returned and one of her hands being held she brings the other away from her forehead to wrap around Lorna's. Now or never.

"She knows about Nicaragua. ...Rachel. I offered to show her something in my mind and she pieced it together. Almost caused some problems until I told her it was Sentinels."

Domino gives her head a subtle shake. "She doesn't know much. Just that I was involved, set the charges which cratered the place."

Teeth catch the bottom corner of a matte black lip for a second. "There ... may be a conflict of interest. She's been playing it up around me. I've been falling for it, and she knows. I can only keep some things secret from her for so long."

Lorna Dane has posed:
"I don't think she likes me--"

Emerald eyes fall and matching brows rise.

And rise, when it turns out that Rachel knew about Nicaragua before they ever convened on that roof--

-- and rise, because there may be a conflict of interest--

Paired with a faintly amused, emerald twinkle, "What kind of conflict of interest?" has the best approximation of a teasing lilt that a woman beginning to swim in booze while she reminisces about fresh, stinging failure can pull off, as she drags her eyes from layered hands to blue eyes.

A beat later, her own eyes narrow as pieces begin clicking into place.

"... just how sure are you that she let it go, Domino?" she quietly wonders. "We just let her in, and let her take over handling Giles-- nevermind whether or not we can trust her, does she trust us?"

The last hand left between them joins the rest. Electromagnetic warmth and bracing strength radiate from her palm as she secures it against the back of Domino's hand.

"Does she trust you?"

The question's left to linger as Lorna takes in a deep breath. The rum bottle and pineapple juice carafe slowly lift in sync with the expansion of her lungs. They drift towards Lorna's glass, bobbing up and down in a syncopated rhythm until they're right above it. The glass vessels separate, as Lorna exhales.

"... has she been manipulating you?" the Magnetrix gently whispers as the bottle and the carafe slowly, carefully tip forward and twirl, fixed the axis of electromagnetic will.

"I get it, if so," she allows as threads of liquor and juice swirl together and mingle in the glass right beside her. Her voice is a little distant; her breaths remain deep and intent. Her eyes, though set on Domino, verge on looking through the mercenary.

She's not a telekinetic; for her, this is pure balance and precision without the benefit of full, multi-point control.

"She's driven; she's dangerous. Gorgeous..."

It's important that she make it look easy, even though it isn't.

"... not to pry," she amends.

"Or imply," she appends as the bottle and carafe tilt away from one another, leaving a freshly mixed drink that slowly glides towards Domino while the rum and juice drift back to their places on the bar.

"... seriously," Lorna sighs as her focus recoheres and returns in full to the albino. Green-smudged lids lower in a mix of curiosity and concern. "What's the deal--? You, I trust; her, though..."

It's a question that can only be put off for so long, despite best intentions otherwise.

Neena Thurman has posed:
Ah, here it is. The battery of uncomfortable questions, ones which not even Domino could have fully seen coming. While it hadn't been what led her to a long night of attempting to drink the Meteor dry, certainly it had been a contributing factor. After all, what purpose-built mutant weapon wants to be the entire team's security breach? Domino is /this close/ to royally fucking things over one way or another and if she can't own up to it before reaching that razor's edge...

A muttered "For fuck's sake" immediately follows Lorna's tease of what 'kind' of interest. Pale blues drift up, wide, off toward some place overhead as her lungs fill with fresh air.

How sure is she? That Rach let it go, whether she trusts the Brotherhood, Neena... Manipulation?

Lorna digs deeper. Describing key characteristics of the psychic.

'Not to pry.'

"Look" Dom starts in but immediately halts now that the fancy powered footwork of pouring out another drink has concluded with the mix left within her immediate reach. The glass is taken, tipped back for a long drink, leveled so she can look down at it with a thoughtful stare, then voice a soft "Mm" before going for a second slam. If it turns out to be her last drink of the night it's a positive note to close on.

"I have a type. Alright? Strong, confident, no bullshit hair, /covered in spikes/--" she flicks one of her hands upward while allowing the other to stay within Lorna's hold. "I don't know. I don't know! She's playing me, I'm playing her, I don't. Fucking. Know."

But she's drawn toward the danger like a moth to a flame. How could she not? Check so many boxes then also add in that air of lethality which her power constantly craves to flirt with?

"It's that goddamn.../fucking/...forbidden fruit. She's one of the /last fucking people/ I should ..."

A pause. A steadying breath. Another shake of her head. "I don't think she trusts me. She's probably right not to. I'm ... An absolute bitch."

A glance off to the other side, lingering. Maybe checking for eavesdroppers. "Something about it draws us both in. Like a ..." she uses that free hand to draw a quick swirl in the air. "...Drain... Horiz..? Event horizon...thing. And -- and I'm bringing my bullshit straight to your door."

Finally she's able to look Lorna in the eyes again, almost immediately getting lost for a moment in the Magnetrix's piercing stare. Way to use those eyes to maximum effect, Greenie. "This is why I like running solo. I only risk fucking over myself."

Lorna Dane has posed:
"If you were supposed to do it," Lorna gently interjects when Domino breaks off to steady herself, "it wouldn't be nearly as fun."

One hand remains firmly clasped with Domino's while the other briskly sets about finding more rum and pineapple for her glass. Concerns both great and small rest in the smile she gives Domino: neither of them would prefer it if she turned out to be a massive security breach, and at least one of them would prefer it if the conflict between Need and Want weren't so prone to bruising the fair mercenary.

Neither of them is all that good at eschewing forbidden fruit, either: there's a sad, empathetic twist to her lips as Domino describes the feeling of being drawn inexorably into the terrible gravity of someone irresistible.

'This is why I like running solo...'

Since Domino is looking her in the eye by now, Domino might notice the bright and brief flare in the depths of Lorna's irises as a challenge is heard and quietly acknowledged. The natural warmth clinging to her skin edges half a notch higher as she plucks up Domino's glass and grips the albino's hand firmly.

"Domino..." she starts, only to help herself to a long pull from the glass while she leans inwards. There's a jangle of mirth, of play to those trailing syllables, but it's light: underneath, she's as solemn and solid as a steel bust.

"... you can fuck whoever you like," continues as she lowers the glass. "If it's risky; if it's 'wrong'... you're a big girl. I don't care," she softly assures the merc, curling what's left of the drink away from her face so there's nothing but air between them. "That has nothing to do with this," comes with a quick gesture of the glass, at the asteroid around them. "You live a complicated life, Dom: that's not an argument for doing it alone. Whether she fucks you, or us over, the outcome's gonna be the same: dealing with it together." By the end, the heat running clinging to her skin's crept into her voice, lighting her resolve hot and bright. She sold Domino - a wounded Domino - on the promise of revenge, true-- but the invitation ran deeper than adding another angry tool to the arsenal, primed to be pointed at whatever problem she's best suited to:

"If you're in," Lorna whispers, edging fractionally closer to make sure she's heard, "then you're in; the only strings are the ones we use for garroting..."

A beat.

A frown; a small one. A flickering, self-aware smile.

"... the English minor in me gets a little confused," she admits, soft and rueful, "after a couple drinks, sorry--"

Helpfully, she downs the rest of Domino's glass and sets it down.

"-- the point is," she then exhales. "No matter who's playing who, you're not alone if it goes pear." Just like the roof, she balances a couple of curled fingers beneath Domino's chin to make sure she's seen -- heard -- when she concludes:

"You aren't alone period."

Neena Thurman has posed:
A snort. "That's the damn truth." Bad decisions are kind of Domino's M.O. at that. Somehow they always seem to work out so well for her in the end! Except for when they don't.

Her hand gets a squeeze. Lorna speaks her name again with a pause. Just like the other times. She's wisening up to what this means. "No, Lorna, just let it g--Jeeeezus" she shifts into a sigh. "So not the conversation I want to be having!"

Since she can't bury her face into both hands she uses the free one to reach for the nearest drink (Hello, pineapple rum refill!) as yet /another/ memory yearns to be washed away. "Yeah I'm not asking for your permission either. Fuuuck. Keep your damn mouth shut, Dom" she gripes at herself.

Not that Lorna's message is at all lost. Rather, it reinforces earlier talks they have already covered. Though of course she would choose to focus on the colorful description of string usage. "Now that I can get behind."

There won't be as much looking away to be had as the Magnetrix finds her chin. She seems to like doing that, and from Neena's side of things it seems to be pretty damn effective.

This time her response involves bringing a hand to Lorna's shoulder, closer to the neck than the limb. For a moment she simply looks at the other mutant while a flooded brain works to find the right words lest she make a fool of herself again.

Lips part with a soft intake of breath but the operation is immediately halted. Her face scrunches up slightly, flummoxed. "You're a little too good at it, yourself." Exactly what she's hinting at she doesn't elaborate on. "But let's not make a habit of talking about my personal life. If it 'goes pear,' you'll know. We probably all will."

Lorna Dane has posed:
Lorna is a new mother -- one who hardly talks about it, shows it, brings her children around the Asteroid or lets herself be seen with them during quiet moments -- and still learning the ropes of the job. As Domino is cursed to learn, though, there are some aspects she's taken to better than others, like embarrassment spawned from bold, fearless care. Like how to wield a name just so, to summon attention and soothe. Like protecting those closest to her by any and all means, even if it threatens her own ambitions. Even if it hurts.

Mercifully, she doesn't seem keen on pressing this particular point of radically uncomfortable honesty beyond reminding Neena that any fallout needn't only be hers to suffer. Ruminating on worst possible outcomes isn't healthy for either of them right now, really, cause be damned; drinking to one disappointment is bad enough.

Fumbled metaphors are bad enough; her eyes flick towards the hand on her shoulder in the wake of the one about strings, and her head tips fractionally towards it, dusting ash white fingers with emerald waves.

"As long as you know that I've got your back," she quietly answers with an affirmative dip of her chin. "That we've got your back, all of us, then we never have to talk about--..."

"... talk about..." follows, a notch softer and paired with a furrowing brow.

"... about... god--" she murmurs, low and bemused as her fingers slowly start to wander from the mercenary's chin, tracing the line of her jaw towards her neck.

"... must not've been anything at all, I guess," is all she can conclude, sealing it off with an impish smile.

Rather than break from exploring, Lorna lets go of Domino's hand to avail herself of another glass of whatever the mercenary was drinking. One small sip later:

"I... think..." she deliberately utters, "that we were talking about something I'm a little too good at," is where her determination lands, a threaded brow arching with the questions she's oh-so-carefully dancing around as clipped nails whisper over utterly colorless skin. "Whatever it was."

Neena Thurman has posed:
"You've got my back" Domino replies in a softer tone. "You and everyone else on this orbital rock."

And she's not the only one who seems to be having some difficulty in finding the right words. To say Dom has an end goal here would be a stretch. Live for the moment and the moment sometimes offers something of intrigue.

A thin smile forms as Lorna reaches the point 'About...god,' though the albino manages to stop herself from leaning further into those fingers grazing toward her nape.

Just who set the 'trap' and who sprung it would be a difficult web to untangle, regardless of the addition of numerous drinks. Whether Lorna is baiting the mercenary by steering the conversation back to what she happens to be skilled at or that she's genuinely intrigued, it does the trick.

"At getting in my head."

Colorless fingers gently brush some of the Magnetrix's striking green hair behind an ear. "You're a very attractive woman, Lorn. From one exotic colored mutant to another" she says with a faint smirk. "You bring some class to this operation. I like how you look after everyone here. How you look after me."

A thumb drifts along Lorna's jaw as Domino watches her, curious despite being hammered.

"This isn't my first time inside a bottle though. Sometimes it leads to good decisions... Usually not."

Her hand shifts again with a bit of table-turning as she finds Lorna's chin, the touch as light as a feather. "You're a leader. Care-taker. Tick the right boxes. N' I don't wanna fuck that up because I'm a drunk piece of shit. We got a good gig here" she gently bobs her head. "So."

With some hesitation she manages to slip her hand away from the other woman, starting to reach for her drink but stopping short of a fingernail lightly striking the glass.

"If this...is in the cards..? Let's hit it with clearer heads. I'd rather not take my chances now and end up takin' a walk in space without a helmet tomorrow."

It's said in jest, mostly. But to be flirting with the Queen of Genosha and one of the highest ranking mutants in the world, not to mention who Lorna's father is, even a sloshed Neena knows to be careful of how she steps.

Lorna Dane has posed:
"Glad to know I'm getting somewhere with you, then."

Since they're at the point of pale fingers unfurling to stroke an infinitely paler neck, and voluminous green hair shrouding bone-white efforts at bringing it even a little bit under control... Lorna lets go, and lets the flirty lilt -- the warm, smoky embers of mounting, complicated affection for someone so passionate as to throw herself face-first into the fire for a chance at bringing the wicked their just reckoning -- flow through her voice openly. Leaning into those fingers, towards the thumb tracing the luxuriously soft contour of her jaw, she meets kind words with a mixture of redness blooming through her cheeks, and appreciation reflected in pearly white flashes.

"You're fuckin' gorgeous, Dom," Lorna offers up before the mercenary's curious observation. "From one dangerous, determined woman to another. That fire in your eyes when you talk about what needs to be done, when you're building yourself up for it, it's-- fuck," she briskly exhales, "infectious. That satisfaction you're chasing... I wanna give it to you because you deserve it..."

'This isn't my first time inside a bottle,' Domino tells her, soon enough. Reminds her, really: it's certainly not Lorna's.

And she's certainly not a stranger to diving head-first into tempting mistakes because liquor just made the fire feel cozy.

Not that she reckons a woman with the albino's luck could qualify as a mistake, necessarily. However:

"You're not a piece of shit, Domino... you're drunk. And sad. And pissed off. ... and cute," Lorna allows, briefly muttering and wrinkling her nose after the last. Half a beat after Domino pulls away, Lorna echoes her; for the sake of finding anything else to do with her hands, she wraps them both tightly around her freshly filled glass.

"I... was gonna just go ahead and not notice you noticing me," she exhales, training her eyes into the depths of the booze, "because -- other factors aside, I didn't-- I don't-- wanna just. Take advantage of you being drunk, and sad, and pissed off-- no matter how cute you might be." After a deep breath, she lifts her gaze towards Domino again.

"So," she resolves.

"I'm alright with clearer heads."

To seal the pact, she leans across the bar to give Domino's forehead a smooch.

"... and just so you know," she murmurs before dropping back, "I wouldn't let them space you regardless: lotta people up here who look good in leather and know how to work miracles with a gun, but how many of 'em can say they're honest to god lucky charms?"

Once she resumes her post against the bar, Lorna grabs her glass and turns her eyes down to study it as she helps herself to a good, long drink.

Neena Thurman has posed:
A soft "Mm" and a slow blinking of eyes provides confirmation. Lorna's getting somewhere, alright. The flattery she brings only helps her cause, soon it's Domino who is smiling and shifting her point of focus down toward the counter.

"The way you take charge..." she thinks aloud, pausing to fill her lungs. "Commanding attention everywhere you go. Looking /damn/ good when you do it. I would have followed you just to watch you in action more."

Looking back to Lorna and taking on a quieter voice, she offers "I'll bring that rage...if you want to see it again. There's a lot more to go 'round. I'll be that fire for you, if nothing else."

Drunk, yes. Sad... Yes. Pissed off, certainly. Cute? Dom goes to rub at her face again but this time there's a bit more of a self-induced slap involved, whether intended or a complete miscalculation of spacial dynamics.

"It's impossible to not notice you, Lorn. The fishnets are sexy as hell, by the way."

The two look up to one another at the same moment.

Lorna repeats the resolve, 'so.'

Dom's eyes drift lower, finding the lovely matte hue of Lorna's lips.

Surely just one quick little--

Before the thought finishes and action might begin Lorna kisses her on the forehead, leaving Dom's eyes closed with a faint smile. Lorna probably just saved her there. Who can just have /one/ kiss, anyway? After this many glasses?

That pineapple juice is dangerous stuff.

"Flatterer" she replies, the idle amusement shifting more toward one side of her mouth in one of her typical smirks.

Seeing Lorna return to her glass, Dom thinks aloud "I...would /love/...to stay here with nothing but you, annnnd...a shit ton of unopened bottles, but...

She leans in closer to plant a kiss on Lorna's forehead, returning the bit of affection. It also brings her that much closer to the Magnetrix's ear so she can whisper "I can only behave myself for so long."

Neena's planning on this being her exiting remark. Pale palms find the edge of the counter and slowly push her from the stool back to her feet. She turns, takes a step, and very nearly spills straight onto the floor with one of the bottles getting knocked aside, rolling toward the edge where it's sure to fall if not caught.

One of Dom's hands quickly comes up over her shoulder in an 'I've got this!' motion as she uses the counter to slowly help her along.

Lorna Dane has posed:
"I'll keep looking after you," Lorna softly resolves in turn after breaking the emergency glass with that forehead kiss. "Pulling you back from the edge, when you need me to."

As long as she herself can avoid not tumbling into the abyss first. A moment more with those eyes contemplating her lips--

-- little while longer with those battle-hardened fingers drawing gooseflesh along her neck and shoulder, stoking her imagination--

-- another glimpse, the wrong glimpse, the right one of sleek arms and shoulders...

Whether it was a mistake or not, whatever followed would've surely been messy.

"You keep kicking ass for me in leather, and when - if - clearer heads happen to deal us the right hand," she solemnly swears after the return peck and resolve-testing whisper, "I'll make sure I remember the fishnets."

Because she is a caring, responsible leader, after all.

Lorna's eyes track after the departing albino-- and just before they have a chance to drift towards dangerous territory, those protective instincts are sharply triggered:

A raised, out-turned palm; distortions wobbling through the air; green ribbons flaring along the edges of perception...

... if she let a few (rapidly imbibed) drinks get in the way of capturing a friend and her bottle in the steadying embrace of precisely shaped electromagnetic waves, she wouldn't be a very field operative, would she?

Wide-eyed, Lorna just keeps watching Neena and gradually retracts the field, modulating it just so to give her a little help with getting propped back up again, so she can sloooowly work her way out; the bottle just stays hovering right where it is.

"... gonna ask this with, just, the least innuendo I can manage right now:" she eventually exhales.

"Do you need me to help you into bed, or--?"

And to her credit: it is quite low on the tonal innuendo scale.

Neena Thurman has posed:
It's an offer Lorna makes which Domino doesn't take lightly. Well...both the 'pulling her back from the edge' and the promise of fishnets. Though one of those thoughts will hold higher priority in her mind for the rest of the evening.

Similarly, the pale killer's return offers to bring the fire and to keep with the leather only further validates what she already had in mind to do. Knowing there's an appreciative audience, though? Makes the whole experience that much better.

Kind of like how having a magnetically inclined drinking partner to help keep her from folding like a house of cards the moment gravity wishes to have a word with her.

Proud, fearless, fiercely independent, the thought of needing /help/ back to her room is just ... well, it's kind of absured! She's a more functional alcoholic than THAT! But she's had a lot of time to do considerable damage to her liver in one sitting and maaay have gotten a little carried away well before she had some outside encouragement.

So, the response which pops into mind first is a tired sounding "...Maybe, yeah" as she clings to the last bit of countertop.

"My room's lookin' kiiinda far away tonight. Did you expand the place?"