Owner Pose
Cheyenne Brawley      A scaffolding of timber and tarps has sprouted on the sidewalk outside of a hitherto-abandoned building on one of the main avenues, not far from The Centinel. Plywood has been peeled back from the glassless maws of windows, and the burned-out interior has been cleaned up. A banner over the front door reads: "Coming Soon: Mutant Works: Employment Solutions For The Talented."
     Seated on a pallet of dry Portland cement, still in paper sacks, is none other than Cheyenne Brawley, with a styrofoam tray of sushi in hand. In front of him stands a middle-aged man with a paunch, wearing tattered jeans and a sweat-stained white-collared shirt. "There's no way, Buster," says the man in a thick Brooklyn accent. "Unless you want to buy new electronics every night, you're gonna have to put bars over the windows." The look on Buster's face, as he chews a morsel of spicy tuna, makes it clear he isn't happy with what he's hearing.
Hellboy     When Cheyenne is left alone by the other, a hooded figure walks through the construction barrier and approaches. Tall and with red skin obvious even in the...well, one isn't sure if one can even call it a disguise, really. That Right Hand of Doom kind of gives the game away. However, as Red gets close, he stops and speaks. "Cheyenne Brawley?" he asks in a deep, rumbling barotone.
Cheyenne Brawley      The Texan swivels on his backside and looks up... and up some more, pausing mid chew, chopsticks poised in front of him. "Yessir," he mumbles with a mouthful.
Hellboy     The tall man lifts his head, eyes looking out from under that hood, embers in the shade. "Got a couple questions for you," he says, the nubs of ground-down horns barely visible from under that hoodie under his huge and nebulous coat. I mean...it's Hellboy, of course. He's not really fooling anyone with that 'disguise'.
Cheyenne Brawley      Buster peers into the shadow under the man's cowl, and his own eyes grow wide for a moment, but only just - less than a month ago, a meeting such as this would have thrown him for several loops, but he's getting used to the Big City. "That so? I reckon I got a couple answers for you, pard," he replies, guilelessly, as he turns to rummage in a black dufflebag at his side. In no time he produces a clear plastic cup, which he fills with sugary ice tea spiked with lots of lemon wedges from a large steel thermos; this he sets atop a plump sack of cement, while offering the big fellow with embers for eyes a place to sit as well. "But I like to know who I'm talkin' to. Name's Buster," he pronounces with a tothy grin, extending a hand to be shaken.
Hellboy     "Call me Red," Hellboy says. He pushes his left hand into his long coat's pocket. "You can manipulate carbon, yeah?" he asks.
Cheyenne Brawley      Withdrawing his hand, frowing, Buster leans forward and plants a fist on his knee. "What of it?"
Hellboy     Hellboy pulls his hand out of his pocket with a severely dessicated rat. It's essentially mummified. "Can you pull the carbon out of this?" he asks. He hesitates for a moment before he lies. He's not very good at lying, apparently. He says, "Beloved family pet. Want a momento."
Cheyenne Brawley      "Slick as a boiled onion," says Cheyenne, his expression implying that he's hip to being tested. He reaches with a hand, extens his pinky finger, and places the tippiest tip of his fingertip on the rat's corpse. In a few tens of seconds, the hapless creature becomes a sort of powdery husk, almost like a dry piece of florists foam. Meanwhile, a glittering spherical jewel begins to form; it levitates in the air between the two men, slowly rotating as it grows from a lentil into a chickpea, and from a chickpea into a grape - a subtle repeating pattern of facets reflects dazzling bright light. Buster snatches it, when he's down, and pops it through the air for Red to catch.
Hellboy     With his Red Right Hand, Hellboy snatches the diamond out of the air. He looks it over a few times. "That's pretty good," he admits. His left hand subtly shifts as he looks at the rat, the crumbling thing essentially barely held together dust at this point. He crushes it and lets the powder fall. He watches it get blown away before wiping his hand on his shirt.
    Red reaches into one of his coat's inner pockets and pulls out a small device that looks like it was assembled around the great war. He puts it around the diamond like a fixed-width C-clamp and looks through a lens at one side. "Huh," he says, inscrutibly. He stuffs the antique back in his coat.
    Tossing the diamond between his hands, Hellboy rolls it over between his fleshy fingers. "I'm impressed," he says. "Psychometry looks identical. This is one ratty diamond."
Cheyenne Brawley      "Q-carbon," Cheyenne says with a snort, reclaiming his tray of sushi and downing another bite of raw, spicy fish. "Prefer charcoal? I can do that, too."
Hellboy     The hooded man blinks a few times as he raises an eyebrow. "The hell is Q-carbon?" he asks. He shakes his head. "Nevermind," he insists. "The important thing is that it still thinks it's a rat." He pulls a piece of paper from his coat and unfolds it with just his left hand. He holds it out. On it is a picture of an urn filled with ashes. "You think you could put carbon from cremated remains into iron to make steel?" he asks.
Cheyenne Brawley      Buster strokes the point of his beard for a moment, thinking through the logistics. "I reckon it would help if the iron was hot," he says at length, "and we might have to do it in a few stages, depending on much iron you're talking. If you mean just enough to make a sword or somethin'," he gestures a piece about the size of a deck of cards, "that should be easy-peasy, but if you mean like a steel girder," he shifts to massaging his forehead, "shoot, that might be beyond my capabilities, cause I caint do nothin' with iron, no more than any ordinary man, that is." He sets his empty tray down and claims a cup of ice tea of his own, leaving the one he made for Red where it is. "But the real question is this: what's it for? I ain't helpin' nobody make anything," he searches for the right word, "unwholesome."
Hellboy     Hellboy's expression...sours? Dude's got a half-bored expression that some might say was stonier than his Red Right Hand. It stays pretty stony. "Really?" he asks, dryly. He folds the paper up, again with just that one hand, and stuffs it away. He puts his hand into another pocket and pulls out a little notebook. It's a normal sized notebook, but in his hands, it looks small. He opens it up and flips through it. He holds up a list written in English--cursive, even--but it doesn't really explain much. "Gonna make a holy artifact," he says. "Artifact's just a fancy tool. Nothing unwholesome about a tool, it's how you use it."
Cheyenne Brawley      Buster thrusts his tongue into the inside of his cheek and picks at a sesame seed stuck in his teeth. "Caint disagree with that, pard. Now, I aint one to judge a feller based on his looks, but if you want my help, you're gonna be a little more forthcoming. If there's anything this city don't need, it's some kinda hocus pocus gizmo that open up a portal to hell, or something." The Texan grows solemn for a moment, and he adds, "Life is bad enough for some of us already," he indicates the whole of Mutant Town with widespread arms. Finaly, he grins, "And there's still the trivial detail of my payment."
Hellboy     Hellboy grumbles, pursing his lips. "What part of holy aren't you getting," Hellboy starts. He then curtly adds, "Pard-ner," enunciating it literally. He stuffs his notebook unceremoneously away. "Do you know how much paperwork I'd have to fill out if I even ACCIDENTALLY opened up a portal to hell?" he asks, impatiently.
Cheyenne Brawley      The Texan lifts his hands in a defensive gesture, "It's not you I'm worried about, bud. But, just suppose, someone along the lines of - oh, I don't know - Satana, for example, were to get ahold of this thing." He makes a balancing scales motion with his hands, "How much potential would there be for her to make a hot mess out of somebody's picnic?"
Hellboy     Hellboy considers for a moment. "Not sure she'd be able to touch it, if I'm honest," Hellboy says. He scratches his head through the hood, pondering. "I'm not feeling particularly suicidal or I'd try communion wafers and holy water on her." He shakes his head. "Steel wouldn't be that much worse at ruining anyone's day than iron. Holy steel is what I'm going for, and those don't typically open up portals to hell or burn the average citizen."
Cheyenne Brawley      Buster nods along with Red's words, dumping some of his tea, ice, lemon wedges and all, into his mouth, which he happily chews. "Alright bud, I'll help you," he says after swallowing. "Holy Steel sounds fine by me and, fortunately for you, my schedule has been pretty clear since I got to the Big Apple. And I'll name my price too." He grins. "Now, I don't want your money; I've got more than I can spend as it is. But what I do need is a friend. Namely, someone kind enough to introduce me to one of the X-Men. I'm not particular about which one, except it oughta be one of their officers, or call it what you want to." The Texan shrugs and waggles his brows. "Do we have a deal? I'll even do my bit first, as a gesture of good faith. Pun intended."
Hellboy     Hellboy considers for a bit. He's got all the connections he needs to as part of SHIELD, but this isn't exactly a sanctioned mission. Sure, he's going to use what he creates on SHIELD business, but it's going to be his, not theirs.
    The demon stretches out his stony Right Hand. "I'll make that happen," he says. He isn't quite sure HOW he's going to do that, but the psychometry of his project is too important to leave to chance. Occult what-not is his bread and butter after all.
Cheyenne Brawley      "Hot damn," Buster says, dwarfing his own hand in Hellboy's stony appendage, settling for grasping a finger or two to shake. "I reckon the Lord brought us together today, don't you? Win-win for everbody." He draws his hand back and rubs his palms together with anticipation. "Well, when do we start?"