2014-07-10 It Worked! Kind of!
This scene is rated Everybody
Warning: N/A
Players: Surge Cyclops
GMed by Cyclops
Title: It Worked! Kind of!

With the weekend just around the corner Scott has taken advantage of less congested roads and his rare free time to work in one of his less used vehicles. Were it not for the rumble of thunder and lightning on the horizon, he may have even decided upon a motorcycle. Instead, the rotary engine of an RX-7 roars across the road away from the confines of city congestion.

Here, where there is little but countryside and peace, Scott pulls into a gas station to fuel up before he really cuts loose. He may be the only one. The convenience center looks more like a bait and tackle shop than it does a seven-eleven. The register is an older gentleman with a Mossy Oak hunting cap and a light vest over his flannel; various jams and snaks litter the aisles that are far more 'rustic' than would be available in Manhattan. Scott immediately feels out of place with a mostly buttoned dress shirt rolled to his elbows and a pair of slacks. The combat visor he wears is a precaution; best not to destroy everything if he takes a turn too hard and loses his usual glasses.

Drake hasn't been here long. In New York, that is. Has it even been a week now? Just long enough to hit one place, but without a response from the locals. …Besides the police, of course, but they don't count. And fortunately, he was able to get out of there before having to deal with them. And the clerk behind the desk? Mostly unharmed. Rattled, but no worse for wear.

…Well, that is, he's missing some money. But a guy's gotta eat, y'know?

And that money has run out. So it's time to knock on the metaphorical door again and see if anything can be stirred up. Having no car, the teen's made quite a hike along the countryside. It's a good thing he's used to hoofing it, or he'd be rather worn out already. But he arrives in time to see another young man enter his mark, earning a little smirk. He vastly, vastly prefers to do these when it's just him and the target, but whatever! He'll make due!

The door chimes, and in steps the teen, aviator shades set securely over his eyes and jacket zipped up for the most part. Nice'n discreet. A quick survey of the room reveals the camera behind the counter - simple security.

Scott has no reason to be any more cautious than usual so he remains generally oblivious. His attention is grabbed by the sheer variety of jerky available in the store. Drake is given a passing smile as Scott stands aside, gathering a stick of alligator jerky before he claims a spot in line behind the newcomer. A hand raises to slip the hair from his face as he mentally tried to tally how much his gas will hit his wallet.

The attendant, meanwhile, seems less interested in the men than he does in the show playing on the television beside him. Something about fishing, apprently. "What'll you have?" He asks, slipping an agitated glance to settle on Drake.

Drake offers Scott a pleasant, boyish smile of his own - one sunglasses dude to another, although Scott's win in terms of techno-style.

But ultimately, this is a position he doesn't like being in so much. Sandwiched between two people? His old crew would call him crazy for what he's about to do. But if he's going to let powers fly, he isn't exactly playing by the rules to begin with. Screw it.

With head tipped at a practiced angle to deny the camera even a passingly appropriate mug-shot, the teen places his empty palms to the counter. "What's in the register is fine. Don't make things complicated, and you can even keep some of it."

The fingers of his left hand strum amiably along the flat countertop. It's a subtle, but deliberate attempt to draw attention to his lack of weaponry.

"How many thieves are gonna give ya that option, huh?" The question is posed with a renewed, entirely too innocent smile - if askew, due to his head's tilt.

Scott's face draws with an expression that manages to border both surprise and irritation. His hand lifts to rub at the back of his head, staying there as he clears his throat. "Don't do it, kid. It isn't worth the trouble that comes with it." He mutters, glancing past Drake towards the attendant.

The roughcut man is unimpressed. He spits a mouthful of tobacco into the paper cup in front of him and reaches for something under the counter, growling a half-hearted "Fuck you."

Drake slants his gaze invisibly aside, as if to mark Scott behind his shoulder. "Normally? Might agree with ya. But in a case like this, it might actually pay off."

The eyes shift forward again, the man across the counter giving an utterly predictable response. "Hey, hey, language!," he faux-scolds. "So, here's the thing. This is gonna sting." His right hand lifts a few inches from the counter. "But just… like… don't make things worse, alright? Cool? And you don't have a pacemaker or anything, do ya?"

"Every time…" Scott begins, easing his first two fingers down against his temple. "/Every/ time I see somebody point their hands like that at somebody it ends in a pretty avoidable situation. You seem like a good kid; but, you're about to fall onto a path that's a lot harder to shake than you think it is." He remarks, calling now to the man behind the counter. "Nobody was hurt, sir. Young man has a sense of humor. How about I pay for my gas, then he and I leave?"

Drake faulters at the offer and actually turns his head to look back at Scott. "Err. Really?," he asks, authentically taken aback. And then his tone turns apologetic, "I wish I could, but I… I sort'a /have/ to do this. It's hard to explain, and I don't expect it to make sense to either of ya." The raised hand gestures - gently - towards Scott. "Just don't interfere, okay? You seem like an alright dude.
Just lemme do my thing, and it's all over. Heck, might even enjoy the show."

The attendant has had enough of this discussion and whatever both of these outsiders are talking about. He moves to draw his shotgun and level it at Drake's head; however, e gets thrown back by a staggering burst of crimson energy. The wall cracks terribly as the man smacks into it and slumps over, followed by an avalanche of car fresheners and knick knacks.

"Damn it!" Scott growls, lowering his hand and fixing a red glare to focus on Drake. "Cameras and tape. Destroy them. Now."

Drake catches movement behind him, and turns his attention to… a shotgun. Eyebrows raise in surprise, but not panic - the observant might speculate that something similar has happened a time or two before. But what /hasn't/ happened before is a cascade of red energy blasting the offender.

When the dust settles, there stands Drake, jaw hung.

It's Scott's voice that brings him back to attention. Without even thinking about it, the right hand lifts again, angling towards the camera in the corner. A thick torrent of electricity streams from his fingertips to strike the device, overcharging it. In the end, there's a shower of sparks, smoke, and one very dead camera. His fingers curl into a fist, the stream of electricity ended, and he promptly hop-slides over the countertop to land behind the register. The teen ducks and scans the contents quickly, and ultimately finds the recorder. The tape is ejected, held aloft, and electricity visibly cascades along his hand and the object, scorching and warping the tape and rendering it useless.

He has no time to ask questions. No time to make demands. It's just go-time.

Electrokinesis? Scott will have to inquire later. "Good." He remarks, taking the opportunity to assess the condition of the attendant. Bruised. Battered. Alive. Drake is carefully scrutinized by the man as he reaches into his pocket. "Do you have anywhere to stay?" He inquires.

Forty dollars is carefully retrieved then folded to be set next to the register. The total was $38.67 but Scott feels the station can keep the change.

Drake lifts to his full height again and tips his head, regarding the money Scott's left on the counter. He points to it indicatively, "You're supposed to /take/ the money." He lets the statement hang for just a second or two before flashing his haphazard partner in crime a wry, mirthful smile.

Afterwards, he promptly hops the counter again. "Nope! I was gonna grab a hotel with today's earnings, but I don't see a point in that /now/." He gestures towards the exit. "Still wanna go for that ride?"

"I work at a private school. Looks like you're crashing with us for the evening." Scott grumbles, rushing outside and slipping low into his car. It is silver, compact, and sleek. Everything wonderful about technology. "Now give another try at telling me why you had to do it?" He asks, starting the car and turning to eye Drake. "Get in."

Drake scarcely even has to be told. He all but chases Scott out the door, only to pause at the sight of his car. It's given a lot, appreciative whistle before he proceeds on into the passenger side. The door is shut, he buckles up, then just smiles brightly.

"For /this/. Didn't go quite as I expected, but this was the idea." He glances to Scott, then forward again. "We should get moving, though. First thing he's gonna do is call the cops, and we don't wanna be here for that party. I'll talk while we go, 'kay?"

Thank God for Drake. Now Scott has an excuse to /really/ drive. For the first half hour of the trip there isn't any sign that Scott is even alive save the tension in his jaw. What he does with that vehicle in the escape, though, was poetry in motion. Only when he feels enough space has been placed between the duo and the crime does Scott slow down and blend into traffic.

The car is dark, lighted occassionally by a trail of headlights that washes across the pair's face and elicits a sharp squint from Scott. "So it was a game? One designed to gain the attention of a wealthy mutant benefactor?"

"Hahah!," Drake laughs, thoroughly enjoying the getaway. They're not being pursued, but man, this is a rush!

When they slow down again, Drake lets his merriment die down. He relaxes back into the chair and lulls his head to the side, regarding Scott. "Heck no. On both accounts." He plucks the shades from his face and tucks them into his jacket, now visible emerald eyes flicking aside momentarily in thought. "Well, not /deliberately/, on the second one."

When he looks back to Scott, it's with a content smile. "You're like me, aren't you? You can… do things. That's what that blast was. You're a… a Mutant." His head turns to look forward again. "Until just a while ago, I had no idea there was anyone else like me. And then I found out how bad the public was taking it, and hearing about the.. what is it, MRD?" His eyes narrow. "I've been alone long enough in my life. It was time for a change. But I couldn't exactly go knockin' around to find you, could I?"

He glances again to Scott. "You're not operating alone, are you? You said 'us' earlier…"

It's difficult for Scott to determine where to begin with his explanations. "Scott." He wearily offers, leaning back with a heavy sigh. "My name is Scott Summers. What's your name?"

"Drake," he replies. And in similar fashion, "Drake Vyril." Feeling that this signals a sort of understanding, the teen lounges back in the chair, arms folding behind his head. He absolutely radiates relaxation.

"I'm going to ask some questions, Drake. If you get uncomfortable or don't want to answer…" Scott trails off, lifting index and middle fingers from the wheel as his head turns aside thoughtfully. "…you don't have to answer them. Where are your parents?"

And right off the bat, Drake's energy turns a little more tense. His eyes shift aside to Scott. "In another state," is the terse response. When he looks forward again, he exhales a breezy sigh. "In another state and happier."

"Drake, I'm not going to leave you at a rest stop and drive away. I'm certainly not going to bring you back to your parents if they've, in any way, mistreated you. I just have to ask because you're young. Where do you call home?" Scott asks, dropping his fingers back to the wheel and lifting his chin. "What was the last grade of school you've completed?"

Drake flicks a look askance to Scott again, then forward. He's silent for a few seconds, requiring a bit of internal convincing before he offers, "California. I was working on twelfth. Does.. does that really matter, man? I mean, I'm a lot more interested in meeting people like me than school…."

"I work at a school out in Westchester. Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters." Scott's quick to explain. His voice maintains a steady level as he continues, focus purely on the road ahead of him. "We give a quality education and livelihood to children and young adults so they can have a future."

Drake twists his expression a little. He thinks he sees where this is going. He glances aside a couple times before probing a little further, "Now, when you say 'gifted'…" He trails off, giving Scott the veritable welcome mat to elaborate.

"You're a mutant, Drake. So am I. Politicians try to use that label, produce it, and stick it on everything they can because they're dangerous. Because they're afraid." Scott barks back, tension rising sharply. "The Friends of Humanity feed on that fear and hurt us. I can fight, maybe you can too. What about those kids that can't? We /can't/ let these labels define us, Drake."

As Scott suddenly springs to life, Drake blinks at him. Ultimately, it gets a small, but telling smile. "I can see I ran into the right person. But, uh… you can relax, brother. I was just asking if you meant 'mutants'. Like, if I'd be with a lot more like us. Just a little clarification." His smile spreads and he turns his gaze forward again.

"Y'know, if I knew I'd just… happen to run into one of you, I might've done things differently." His lips purse in thought. "Then again, a guy's gotta eat."

"We're all mutants." Scott confirms plainly, lifting a hand to smooth his hair down and consider the mountain of paperwork Drake may represent. "Could have gone a couple ways. I'm glad you didn't get hurt, but you need to be careful. Did you do anything to people before I found you?"

"You mean ever?," Drake asks. "Zapped two people so far, if you mean with powers. One here in New York, trying to get some attention. I thought I'd have to do it again today, but you were already there." He grins. "Real convenient, that. Anyway, I'm used to takin' care of myself. No need to worry too much."

Though truth be told, it's a nice thought that someone would be a bit concerned.

"We've all had to do what we can to survive." Scott admits, giving his head a shake. "Makes it hard to judge others, doesn't it?" He poses to nobody in particular, smacking his lips together. "It's a long ride to the school. How about we stop for a bite to eat? What do you think, Drake? Steak?"

Drake starts to say something, pauses, and just shuts his mouth again. What he was doing before arriving in New York wasn't survival. It was something else. But after arriving in the city? That he can safely say was necessary.

The mention of steak snaps the teen to attention, immediately interested. But the enthusiasm is curbed just as quickly. "I left my meal-ticket in that guy's register," he muses. "I don't wanna be a freeloader or anything."

"If I can help somebody then that's what I'm going to do." Scott replies. The answer is simple. Clean. It seemed to require no further explanation. "We should avoid a chain restaurant. Keeps us a little further off the radar. Besides. We get better food this way."

Drake steeples his index fingers together, his gaze falling to his lap. "Well, 'kay. If that's how you wanna do it. I'll owe you later, though," he murmurs. He glances out the window, scanning for street signs. "Did you have somewhere specific in mind? I've been here almost a week, and I haven't really explored the city at all…"

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