4051/Damnation, Doom, and Decaffeinated Delirium

Damnation, Doom, and Decaffeinated Delirium
Date of Scene:	06 November 2020
Location:	Coffee of DOOM
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Illyana Rasputina, Henry McCoy

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Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Coffee makes the world go round. Hell, it makes entire economies function in three different continents. Without it, there might be catastrophic losses of money.

But that's another issue altogether. The pale blonde Russian flits through the doors into the old world coffeehouse, embraced by the heady scent of brewed beans and scorched chocolate. It's cold enough out there that she needs something to find an awakening.

Henry McCoy has posed:
Also running on coffee, one Beast. The stocky blue mutant stepped into the cafe as well, looking to wake up after a long night of research followed by tossing and turning in bed. His nose was up, breathing in the aroma of the various blends.

Also... there's another recognizable scent, Illyana. A blink of his eyes, the man looking for his fellow Xavierite. Spotting her after a moment, he moves in her direction, offering a wave. "Good morning."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Coffee demands attention, after all. The Latverian-inspired staff, holding to their very elegant style and poise, are far beyond sneering or staring at open mutants. They don't have much of an opinion about anyone, poker-faces and cool reserve the norm, probably because it's so upscale or expected. Either way, for someone of an equally frosty tradition -- Slavs all around aren't exactly the most effusive of peoples -- the Rasputina scion finds herself comfortable here. As much as one can, her eyes narrowed slightly as she scans over the pastry case with none of her brother's intimate enjoyment of food. It's pure nourishment, little else. Still, those pale-as-snow eyes measure the options and linger on an operatorte; probably too sweet for most, but her diurnal rhythms aren't normal. So as the line shuffles forward, she states, "Black tea." Egads, not coffee in the greatest of coffeehouses. "An espresso shot." Okay, better. "The torte." She could order in Latverian, if it mattered, but her heavy Russian accent is close enough to earn a flicker of distrust, probably. It's too far east to be Muscovite or St. Petersburgite. Gian? Either way.

"Hello, Doctor." McCoy isn't added, a mute nod offered to identify the man and single him out under the wintry auspices of her dangerously fair gaze. There's no off setting for her. "You are well?"

Henry McCoy has posed:
His hand makes the so-so gesture, Henry shrugging a bit. "I've been better, that's for certain." He admits with a sheepish smile. He's long since grown past worrying about stares, unless they are alerting him to attacks. He's not too concerned about the Latverian culture either, having studied and explored the culture.

"How are you doing, Illyana? Things going well for you?" He wonders, awaiting the barista's attention to place an order. For him, a large coffee with cream along with a croissant sandwich.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
An arched eyebrow invites Hank to talk if he wants. She doesn't tend to be expressly evocative at the best of times, though Illyana occasionally trends in that direction. "A new risk?" Three words interrupt the act of exchanging cash with the barista, and no drinks are exchanged. In this place, you find a seat and they deliver. She receives a small metal stand with a paper number waving around like a strange flag, but that's common to all of Mitteleuropa; German and Austrian coffeehouses set the norm, and Latveria follows. (Even Doom agrees. Though he'd have invented koffeehaus culture if he were alive then.)

"As ever," she replies about how she's doing, which might be a dodge. "Troubles come and go. I can be happy."

Henry McCoy has posed:
Henry pauses, taking a breath. "Just... internal struggles. Perhaps a new threat, if I cannot halt the rising tide of my feral instincts." He admits, with a slight frown. He takes up his own flag aftre paying, following her towards a table. "And other personal troubles." A slight shrug, the man sliding into a seat carefully - not wanting to cause undue strain for the furniture.

"I would much rather deal with external issues, than internal. I feel as if the latter are harder to confront."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The narrow gap of a pause as Illyana turns, gesturing to one of the tables with a booth up against the wall. Well, it's more of a padded bench, but the larger chair facing outward shouldn't be any problem for Hank to sit in. She gets the position where she can watch everything for trouble, and trouble has to get through the man's much longer, dangerous reach to her. It all works out well.

The faintest traces of a smirk touch those dark lips. "Internal issues that become externalized present an extra level of trouble." No doubt she would know well, being the Demon Queen isn't a lazy epithet on her part. It's very real. "Talk if you want. I will listen?"

Henry McCoy has posed:
Her logical approach is appreciated - even if it seems a bit alien. She is a demon queen, after all! "Well, after my capture and experimentation upon by Essex, my animal side has been more prevelant. I've felt like I was sliding back on the evolutionary scale - my mind seems to be fractured and I feel like I am losing my intelligence." Henry explain, frankly. "His experiments changed me... to this more feline appearance and enhanced the physicality of my being, but... I fear it has damaged my psyche."

He drums his fingers on the table, careful to keep his claws retracted. "And... the love interest I had in my life has had a change of heart." A sigh. "Which exacerbates the situation."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Nothing like a terror of the Demon Queen to make a day interesting. Shaw's horrors are another breed than her own, though not that distant compared to what they might be. She inclines her head when Hank mentions the bestial side emerging, of sorts, though she slips to the table and plants the flag down. Eventually someone comes by with a metal tray with her tea, espresso, and that cake. None of it is eaten or sampled until he finishes speaking and the server wanders off; only then does she pick up the small shot of espresso. What's sipping? No one sips espresso. It's knocked back, quiet, her expression calm.

"Major changes out of your control. The loss compounded by a stable pillar pulled away," she explains, restating what Hank already has. But in this case, there's always that element of a woman trying to gather an understanding of things that she simply hasn't. Time hasn't treated her kindly, after all. "Did Jean or the Professor see psychic damage?"

Henry McCoy has posed:
The man pauses, awaiting the delivery of his own order. Once it arrives, he nods thankfully, before looking over to Illyana. "No... I've been avoiding most telepathic contact after the incident - Essex had a clone of Jean who was doing terrible things to us." A slight frown. "It... made me a lot more secluded in terms of my mind."

He sighs, blowing over the top of his coffee for a moment. "It would be good to talk to them, of course. I know Ororo is able to sense the unbalance in me."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Da. I encountered them, before the end." The delicate way of putting down the fact one of the great teleporters of Xavier's School didn't execute her judgment to take them away is something profoundly stated, and the fact she shows not an instant of doubt about that equally so. If there's a cold model of Scott running around, she might be a bit truer to that. The empty espresso demitasse put down on the tray, she moves instead to pick up a fork and breaks off the tip of the operatorte, chocolate and cream lightly mingled. "It may be wise to consider. Conventional means only find so much damage. Here? May be nothing to scan. But to them, they see a risk under the surface. I could do it for you but my means aren't theirs."

A measured flick of a smirk remains, but she doesn't quite look to Hank, watching the people coming and going through the doors with that impenetrable gaze. It's not a common fact -- except with Jean's coordination -- that her mind is a near impenetrable shell to psychics, but hey.

Henry McCoy has posed:
Did she just offer to look into his mind? As a Demon Queen? "I think I'll reach out to them, Illyana. Thank you for the offer, I may take you up on it if there's no progress from Charles or Jean." He offers over, smiling. His defenses have shored up as well, in terms of telepathy - defense mechanisms from the torture. "I definitely appreciate the talk, and the advice." A nod of his head, before he sips some of his coffee.

"Is there anything I can help you with? I feel like I'm burdening you with things, and not being a good friend to offer help in return."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Yes, she just offered to use whatever abilities are hers to help out. Might be a demon, probably not. Nonetheless, the sorceress' talents are what they are. She casually but methodically destroys the torte, being utterly unbothered by the whole prospect. For her, food is rarely pleasure. It's fuel and a girl used to starving, suffering, and enduring without support will always have an element of that trauma in how she approaches a meal.

Still otherwise, she watches the world around them as though expecting something to jump out. "You know how to find me, da? Ask Piotr otherwise." Her terms are laid out. "For now, how are you moving ahead? Research?"

The tables turned on her for what needs help earns a slight lift of her shoulder. "I mean to strip darkness from my soul. It is not easy."

Henry McCoy has posed:
He'd been working on his breakfast sandwich, listening as she spoke. As she finished up, he grinned. "Some research - topping off the end of it for Gabby, hoping to have a solution for her and the nanites." He murmurs, dabbing at his lips with a napkin.

At the mention of the darkness, he cants his head. "I imagine not - you've got some roots in some of the more unusual dimensions." The man admits. "Did you have a plan for starting this scouring? Is there something I could help with?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
No hurry there. Croissants are delicious. "Research for her nanites? Interesting. How do you think this will turn out?" The corner of her mouth tilted in a smirk still, the blonde returns to the business of destroying cake and adding a sip of tea or two. Her manners are elegant, as one can be.

At the question of the plan, she inclines her head faintly. "Kill the one who stole it? That is an ugly start. Past that, I am still struggling to find a clean way. How does one 'be good'? A soul is not like a tree. It cannot grow back a limb."

Henry McCoy has posed:
The good doctor nods. "She... was experimented on. They injected her with nanites, that are slowly killing her. They repress any pain sensation, but... the side effect is killing her." A slight frown. "I think we've got a two stage plan, to reprogram the nanites to evacuate, and let her healing factor take over." He looks hopefull. "I think Kitty and Moira will be needed, but it's a high probability that it will work."

Normally, he'd balk at killing - but the feral in him simply nods. "Good is all about the choices that go beyone oneself. The betterment of the world around you, the helping of others." A slight smile. "They are arguably much more difficult choices to make, than following one's darker side."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Death by machine: it earns a frown out of Illyana, her eyes narrowing substantially. "Programming them and removing them? Brutal, but effective." She ruminates over the cup of tea, her fingers cradling the shell of the mug. There is no risk, though, that she speaks on. Other than the obvious. Let them have their illusions, a gift from one utterly stripped.

"Good does not repair what I lost, not wholly. Only reclaiming the soul shards themselves is possible. Finding them, taking them. It sounds so simple." In the end, of course, it's not.

Henry McCoy has posed:
"Who took the parts that you are missing? The Shards?" Henry wonders, sipping again from his coffee. "You know you have people who will work with you on this, you needn't do so alone." He assures, with a smile. "We are a force, formidible when seperate, unstoppable when combined." Teamwork!

"As for Gabby, I think she will get through it. It will be agony, for the instant, but... she won't be dying unnaturally after that."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Not here." A gesture with her hand flicks to indicate the surroundings. "Not something that our peers would condone. I will not support simple jail time for a crime that this culture has no name for." It's a dangerous thing to say, either way, though she sips the last of the black tea. The conversation can slide away from the atoll it touched on; her gaze flickers thoughtfully back to the doctor.

"Gabby should not die from the machines within. If they can be stopped, for the better. A little pain is tolerable."

Henry McCoy has posed:
Again, oddly the thought of ending the bad person is not sitting poorly with the Beast. "I can understand. They stole part of you. Took what is you." The man offers, finishing off the last of his sandwich. "Was it a person, or... another dimensional being?" He wonders.

"I am hoping this process can be repeated on Gabby's sisters as needed. Give them all a new chance at life, happiness... all that."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"One can be both things simultaneously, and yet neither. The being that did this," she doesn't even honour Belasco with a name or a gender, "ceases to be anything but an embodiment of ruin. There is no redeeming something so corrupt." No baring of her teeth, no guttural snarl. This anger, honed to such a fine blade, is likely as sharp as the Soulsword hidden from sight in its cradle of hammerspace.

Beast might understand. Does the man? Would those who cling to Charles' ideals, that there should be non-violent means and pacific ends, when hers is the rage born of misdeeds beyond calculation? Noble ideals and idealistic dreams fit well within the scope of their collective education, but it's a far cry to achieve. "Da. They are young enough this will give them a new lease. Let them have it. Expect it to be difficult."

Henry McCoy has posed:
A wry grin. "I think all lives tend to be on the difficult side - in various aspects. But yes, they will move beyond it to their next challenge." The man decides, relaxing a bit on the chair he'd claimed. His yellow eyes regard the Russian woman before him.

"When do you plan on going after this being?" He wonders, tapping fingers on his mug of coffee.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Some benefit from greater ease than others. If we can stop their suffering, then we ought to." Illyana looks at the empty cup and then the tray set with a plate of crumbs, a fork, the demitasse. They're not pretty things. Those yellow eyes are met by those colder than the depths of Baikal, a failed rift in the middle of a craton, one of those deadly places that holds its dearest secrets near. "I wish you well in the studies. She stands a chance with you."

Those other questions, though, they present their own profound difficulty. The query remains as she lifts her gaze, considering the coffeehouse in its splendour so far from her own upbringing. "I've been after him for four years. While perhaps I could find him this very night, striking suddenly is a fool's errand. Death waits that way. So we hunt, and find an end suitable of him."

Henry McCoy has posed:
Henry gives her a smile and a wink. "See, that behavior is a good start. It is a step into being good, or being a good person." He offers, almost conspiritorially. "Thank you for the confidence. Some days I need it - especially as of late." He finishes up his coffee.

"Is this a mystic individual? Perhaps some outsourcing of assistance would benefit us? Some of Alpha Flight, perhaps? Shaman or Talisman?"