Don't Be Late

Summary:
August 18, 2014: Scott Summers and Elizabeth Braddock engage in a friendly danger room scenario, filled with dry wit and new friendship.

X-Men Base: Danger Room


Characters

NPCs

  • None

Mood Music:
[*<http://insert.video.or.music.link.here>]


0400. Scott Summers awakens to the sound of his alarm clock playing "Jack and Diane".

0430. Scott Summers runs approximately thirty-five laps around the mansion grounds.

0515. Scott Summers commences with a stretching routine and performs a series of katas in the back grounds, designed to loosen and prepare his mind, body, and spirit.

0600. Scott Summers consumes two pieces of bread, one banana, a glass of milk and four glasses of water.

0610. Scott Summers urinates.

0625. Scott Summers enters the Danger Room.

The facility is among the most sophisticated military training theaters in the world. A perfect construction of reflective metal, photographic lasers, and particle simulators capable of creating any scenario imaginable. Right now, however, the facility is in it's idle mode, leaving the walls bare and the control room high above visible through a pane of glass. It's dark inside, lit only by the dim glow of LED lights and computer consoles. Scott himself is dressed in a black and gray uniform, the type of sophisticated armor that leaves all but his face exposed, and a tactical visor is worn clipped to his head. There he waits, legs curled beneath him as he breathes in a slow, steady pace.

Does this guy always take everything so damned seriously?

Yep.

*

0400. Betsy is asleep.

0430. Yep. Still asleep.

0600. Knocked the fuck out.

It wasn't until half an hour after the six she was up, wide awake without the need of coffee, streaking her way towards the bathroom in her rather large quarters cause she's Betsy *BEEP'in* Braddock. The shower steams, water raining down to the tune of Roxanne which she belts out with abandon that would make a kittens head explode. She's out. She's dried. She's lotioned, cause it was Calvin Klein. Her hairs blow-dried, cause she's Betsy, and she's dressed and in the danger room no later than 0650.

It was rare when she was late, but seeing him there, she considered herself being late, which pretty much annoyed the crap out of her. But oh well, she'll wallop him to near death and give him the team regardless of him losing just so he could feel ashamed of doing such. No, -being- such, a total.. lew-zer.

A few paces more and she was near to him, her voice calling out in the silence to alert him to her presence. "You're early, my Darling." Brit affection, cute.

*

"This guarantees that I'm never late." Scott seems absolutely (and obnoxiously) unaffected by Brit affection. He simply moves his hands from where they are in his lap, touching a remote control that brings light to the facility. Rising to his feet, he looks in the general direction of his would be opponent — one never truly knows where his eyes are going — and after a few unnerving moments, a very light smile breaks the line upon his mouth. "Then again, so are you. Here."

Scott tosses the remote Elizabeth's way. "Controls are yours. This is your show." He doesn't need to say it, but it's suggested by the tone of his voice. He doesn't worry about what setting or scenario she chooses… he's tried them all.

*

While Scott rises to his feet and hands the remote over, Betsy unstraps a large cloth from her uniform. It was rather quite bulky and a bit to mess with, so her eyes were upon her hands and the item she brought down into the danger room with them both. She missed the unnerving moments.

She was busy.

The remote offered up to her was taken, the package straps right along with her as she begins to speak. "T'is not a show per se."

*Szzrzrzzrz*

"But a test."

*Click-zrzrzz-clack*

"Sure, you're a straight shooter. A fly by the rules sort of guy. Noble and honorable.."

*Clack-CRASH* "Possibly a bit socially dumb." The package she carried was put into the corner of the room with that crash, her head lowering as eyes rest upon the remote control as she dials in a bunch of random settings, in fact, she sought to break the place down with this little scenario she cooked up.

"But that's alright."

*Click-click-click*

"Underneath all of that.."

*szzr-Click*

"I want to see if you're made of stone underneath alla that good boy bollocks. And if not? After this you will be."

*

Scott's arms find themselves folded across his chest as she prepares her scenario. He remains silent, only frowning when she calls him socially dumb, and his head turns to watch the item as it flies across the room and lands ingloriously in the corner. He turns to look back at her, observing the way in which she tweaks, and tweaks, and tweaks the settings. When she's finally finished, a rueful grin spreads across his face.

"Fun," he quips. Dry as a bone.

Scott spreads his feet just so. He reaches up to touch the old school controls on his visor, dialing in a code of sorts. Then, he flicks each of his four fingers against his thumb, repeatedly, four times in a row, before rattling the same fingers against the palm of his gloved hand. The visor seems to flash, from a simple ruby to a slight glow, in a rapid fire pattern with each tapping of the finger.

Upgrades.

Thanks, Hank.

"Engage simulation." The verbal command is all it takes for the room to come alive with the humming sound of highly advanced mechanisms, the room about them shimmering, bending, warping, and transforming into the world Psylocke has created.

*

Automobile Wasteland. Graveyards of sorts. Cranes that reach the top of the invisible ceiling that serves as the sky by the moonlight. Lamp posts flickering and sparking towards the ground and on top of rusted shells of vehicles that were once driven by old ladies and youngsters alike.

Crushed cars mark the pathways that people could actually traverse through, though there was a certain danger to it all; some cars hung lazily against doors that threaten to fall off, groans and creaks would be heard nearby marking the metal that would soon give away.

This canvas stretches for miles, and within the depths of the dark horizon, a multitude of whispers could be heard, an occasional roar, the crunch and crawling of insects feasting on a corpse of something that only they could eat.

A deadly swarm. Computer generated folks! Rated R.

Betsy stands near the gated entry of the yard itself, her hand reaching up to slick her hair back into a quick ponytail, revealing the Dawn marked over her eye. Hands soon clap together and slowly spread to form and morph her psionics into a violet bow, three arrows attached with fingers latching upon the tight string.

One foot steps forward to strike an arches pose, the string pulled back, arrow aimed towards the sky…

*THWOM!*The arrows fly. There was no shade, only the darkness that provides as a backdrop to those arrows that fly off into the distance to cause that dull roar to become louder by the second.

The ground begins to tremble from the might of their footsteps, war cries sound out in a deafening symphony. All headed towards where Cyclops now stood. The horde will soon be upon him.

"Enjoy!" She calls out cheerily. And with that, she melds into the shadows the only way a ninja could.

*

Calmly, Scott reaches up to touch the controls on his visor again. Removing the safety, essentially. When he lowers his arms, they are at his side, fingers relaxed, body poised. His face makes a slow scan of the area as he body turns, taking in a full vantage point in three hundred and sixty degrees. While turning, a small HUD inside the visor flashes data at him. Telemetry, distances, charts, and a grid-like map to show him just what is beyond his field of vision.

A handicap turned into an advantage.

With the sounds coming toward him, Scott is in motion. He turns and runs the other direction, leaping upon the wreckage to gain some altitude before taking up a position that provides him the maximum amount of cover beside and beneath a pair of precariously hovering trucks. There, he waits, patiently, until the creatures come into view.

He waits just a few moments longer, utterly focused.

Then, he begins tapping finger against palm, every tap releasing bright and percussive blasts from the visor. His head turns, lifts, and dips gracefully, mowing through the oncoming horde with needle-like precision. He knows full well that he won't be able to take out the brunt of them with one assault, but he's dedicated to mowing through as many of them as possible.

A second before they are upon him, Scott looks up, back arching. Fingers squeeze against palm, opening the visor more fully. A brilliant optic blast rips through the trucks one by one, upending them and sending them on a crash course to the ground.

Toward him.

A push of his feet, and Scott performs a backflip, landing upon his hands and springing into another flip that brings him to his feet just beyond the trucks as they hit the ground, nose first. A number of the horde crash into the upended trucks, the others blocked by the wreckage to his right, which leaves them one avenue to advance.

Scott takes aim, then squeezes all of his fingers against each palm, forming two fists. This opens up his visor to its maximum spread and potential, unleashing a fiery blast that encompasses the entire vector that horde has to reach him.

Effective? Most definitely.

*

Not.

Or it could be, only the outcome of the entire battle would tell.

She watches from a distance, a good vantage from a mountain of cars just the opposite side of him, vanishing from one mound to the next as those around her topple.

The vast horde does it's duty of getting close, sacrificing a few so that the many could eat, some crushed by cars and others by that razor hot beam that only his eyes could produce.

"Nice." Betsy murmurs to herself, that bow lowered towards her side and lifted again to take aim at Scott.

*THWOM!* One arrow towards his feet.

*THWO-THWOOM!*

Two towards the crowded baddies. They needed to be angry.

*TH-TH-THWOM!*

Three more towards Scott just because.

Parts of the horde recognize this attack, a few venture off into Betsy's direction as others begin to climb the mountain of cars, some hanging from doors which soon fall off and into the crowd to crush a few baddies down below, leaping like hungry monkeys while others scamper across. There was still that little few who take the hits of the beam, their bodies vanishing into computerized, digital dust with little cries of pain and failure.

*

The moment one arrow strikes, Scott's blast is released. All along, he's been waiting for that moment. He ignores the arrows sent toward his foes, instead paying close attention to the three headed his way.

Scott escapes by blasting a hole through the wreckage behind him, slipping through just as it all comes down behind him. He came out strong, which was fully intentional. Now, it's time for a bit of hide and seek.

Now on the run, Scott looks for every reflective surface he can find. Rear view mirrors especially. Surgical blasts strike and reflect, bouncing up into the air, off to the side, and at a variety of angles intended to be misleading. A clever eye will be able to track his location, but the random nature of those reflective strikes makes it nearly impossible to anticipate where he's going.

This means that Psylocke has two choices. Move, or stay put, and Scott knows exactly where she was when she fired those arrows at him. He's a man who knows angles.

Just ask anyone who's taken him on at billiards.

If she moves, it will either be an attempt to track him or lead him. Leading him will require an attack. Tracking him means that, given the nature of his surgical feints, she won't be able to get ahead him. Which also narrows her windows of opportunity.

Strategy, you see.

Traversing the landscape is challenging, but he's in peak physical condition, mentally prepared, and has the technological advantage given by his visor. For the time, he keeps to the low ground, seeking to draw her out, only attacking the monstrosities when they get close enough to be a threat.

*

Betsy didn't need the bow and arrow for the horde that was coming her way, a simple sweep kick and a brute knock down the row of cars was all that needed, in time to see the blast through the row that made her eyebrow quirk. Just what in the world was he doing. "You're not running are you Scott?!" She cries out, which unfortunately gained the attention of the many few that diverted their path on to her. Crap.

A leap and a skid halfway down, she front flips off the row of cars and onto the ground, taking off into a full run towards the blast of lights in the distance. Her hand releases the psi-bow to utilize the full range of her limbs, hands pressed upon cars which were soon jumped over, braces that had fallen to create a tiny little bridge ducked underneath and skidded, a brief stop and dart to the left to handle off a few of the skitters who had managed to keep up with pivotal jabs and kicks, and she was on the move yet again.

*

Track it is. Scott's not fooled by the barrage of cars and a flash of violet in the distant peripheral; he expects her to follow.

He keeps up the chase for a time, looking for a perfect widow of opportunity. When he finds it, he can't help but grin. There, ahead of him, is the front end of a large semi truck. Its trailer is buried in wreckage, the front end sticking up just so, the driver side door dangling open. Scott climbs in, then kicks the door off so that it skitters along the ground, a beacon of sound and motion not far from where the last of his leading blasts came from.

Inside, Scott slumps down in the large cabin, putting himself just beyond view from below. He steadies his breathing, focusing his senses to listen beyond the beating of his heart, the laboring of his lungs, the cries of creatures and the sounds of Psylocke hitting them on her advance.

Not a word is spoken, and soon enough, Scott Summers even manages to still his breathing. There he waits for her to come into range.

*

*THUMP-THUMP-Thump*

Betsy slowed to a stop as she reaches the open field, chest heaving just a touch as she looks all around her for the sight of Scott. Using her telepathic abilities would be cheating at this point, not to mention, she had at least ten at her back that soon attempts to dispatch her with a kick to the middle of her shoulder blades.

She's getting reckless.

That stumble forward allowed them to gain the advantage when it came to distance, closing in upon her quick enough to pounce, yet slow enough for Psylocke to react with a few impressive skills of her own.

It was a beautiful display of ninjitsu really; quick jabs and punches to pressure spots, frog leaping over one to get towards the next, an endless flow of movements that could have been interpreted into a dance that spoke to a solid few who knew the language of her sort of battle. Scott was damn near forgotten in this display, as many more of the evil little computerized beings begin to join in the rumble against one, she begins to let herself go.

Reckless.

*

Scott looks on from his hiding space, tempted to leap out and take her on in her distraction. Instead, he watches. He watches carefully until she's firmly engaged and starting to grow reckless.

Glass shatters forth from the front end of the truck, and this time, it's Scott's turn to slide in. He comes out on his ass, bright beams of light surgically blasting those monstrosities closing in upon Psylocke. He lands with light feet, then bounds toward her, finishing off those she can't handle.

Then, a peppering of optic blasts sprays Psylocke herself, aimed low and at her feet. It's not fire, nor is it electric, it's optic. Concussive. It won't burn or shock, but with so many little blasts spraying her, even a ninja is likely to take a hit.

Scott maintains his advance, intent upon closing quarters with every inch of his limited advantage.

*

Weeee!

Psylocke's brain would think. One down, two down, three. She could have done this all with her eyes clothes, yet admittedly she was starting to get a wee bit tired. Four down, five down, BLAST! Good, he came out of hiding.

The horde began to dwindle rapidly the moment the two were together, the very last one taken down by a blast and disintegrating, like the rest, with a little wail.

Now it was their time to fight, those little concussive blasts towards her feet setting her at a dance, all she needed was a pair of fans and maybe a bit of drum and the scene probably would have been complete.

The closer he gets, the more she disengages, a few optical punts knocking her off her of feet which sends her skidding on her bottom part of the way.

*

A quick swipe against the side of his visor and the finger-triggers are disabled. "Surprised?" he quips while she skids, closing the distance in short order. "I don't run, I evaluate." Scott's leg moves in for a sweeping kick, though like any good dueler, he's pulling his strikes to keep them at a friendly competition.

*

A quick roll backwards brought her to her feet at a crouch, her arms out at the sides of her, leaping back to avoid that quick sweep kick with ease. "No, love." She stands up now to her full height, her hand reached outwards to show a palm for him to stay, the remote soon pulled from her top to disengage the program, leaving the white room as the empty canvas as it once was.

The Crimson Scar around her eye slowly fades as she winds down, her hands immediately moving towards her bottom to give it a quick rub down. "I'm actually quite impressed ol' sport." Thankfully, they weren't too far away from that little package that she brought down with her, the cloth soon snagged up by it's handle and taken to offer up towards Scott as a friendly truce, a passing of the torch if you will, and possibly friendship there after. And a sparring partner.

"I could explain to you my intent as to why I went about this the way that I did, but that would have been rather droll. But, the Blue Team has always been yours. I was just a place holder until you returned. And I have to say, it was very nice meeting you, Mr. Scott Summers."

Inside the cloth would be a plain, wood carved case, and inside that case a katana. On the outside, it looks as if it were nothing special, but to touch the edge of the blade itself would be like pressing butter against it.

"For future spars and a good welcome home, mate."


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