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ax_mainLance joins Eileen for lunch, and pumps her for information. Luckily, there is wine, so the threat of major property damage is minimal.
One way or another, Eileen always seemed to end up in Asteroid M's refurbished kitchen. It might have been because the wiring of the old building naturally led back here over and over again. Or it could have been that she was a teenager, and her appetite inevitably pulled her back to where the food lived, despite her other aspirations. Did it matter, really? She was here. Might as well get a snack as she passed through.
The levitating blond paused, however, when she detected the familiar sound of cursing in the vicinity of the refrigerator. Her expression twisted into a sharp smirk, though it was more playful than mean-spirited.
"Sorry, Alvers," she said from the direction of the pantry. "I think Mort already helped himself to most of what was left of the pizza. For a little guy, his appetite's almost as bad as Fred's."
"One of these days," Lance growled as he pulled out the last few pieces and threw them on a plate, "I am going to wring that frog's scrawny little neck!"
Just for a moment, the plates rattled softly on their shelves as a vibration spread throughout the room.
Airborne as she was, Eileen didn't actually feel the effects of Lance's powers, but she could detect them well enough--if nothing else, half the kitchen doing a sudden, impromptu jig was a pretty dead giveaway. "Aw, Mort ain't so bad," Eileen argued lightly, rummaging around in the pantry. "Just needs to work on his people skills." An assessment that could, and probably had, been made of the other members of the Brotherhood at one point or another in the past.
"I can make us something, maybe, if you don't go and shake the whole damn kitchen apart."
Lance frowned and looked over at her as the kitchen calmed. "Yeah. I guess." The pizza looked half green with mold anyway, and he promptly dumped it in the trash. "How did the job go anyway?"
She paused in the act of moving spaghetti ingredients onto the counter, then returned to her previous activity with only a slight stiffness in her movements to betray her agitation. "Fine. It went fine. We got the intel, wiped the servers and the PC's, and left the place on fire. Why?" she asked him suspiciously, violet-glowing eyes narrowing. "What did you hear?"
"I didn't hear anything," he told her, rolling his eyes. "That's why I asked."
"Oh," she returned shortly, her posture relaxing. For a second there, she'd thought he was going to start giving her shit, too. Seriously. It wasn't like she was the first of them to maybe not be so precise in her aim out in the field. Or talk, for that matter. Assholes.
"Went fine," Eileen went on, rummaging for a pot in the lower set of cupboards. "Got in, got the info. Wiped the files, set the place on fire. All that good stuff. It got kinda weird when the other mutant kids showed up, but I think we can still sort this one into the 'win' column."
Lance hopped up to sit on the counter as he watched her, one eyebrow going up. "Other kids? What the hell were they doing there?"
"Same thing we were," she told him, filling the pot with water and setting it on one of the burners to boil. "We got there first, is all. Some of them, at least, seemed like they might be kinda cool, if we had any idea where they came from or what their deal was, beyond bein' after the same intel Magneto sent us in for."
"Yeah well, cool or not, it's already way too crowded in here, and that's just with Blob," he rolled his eyes. "We don't need any groupies."
"Pretty sure they aren't groupies, or random tourists," she said, organizing the herbs and spices she would use for the sauce. "Not even spunky, mystery-solving mutant teens. I think they might be like us, except working for somebody else. I'm not in love with the idea, either."
His gaze darkened. "What did Magneto say?"
"About Teen Mutant Squad?" Eileen asked, oddly specific. "The usual. Which is to say, nothing at all." She gathered the other ingredients she'd need for the sauce--crushed tomatoes, onions, et cetera, and very scrupulously avoided making eye contact with Lance. "Par for the course, amirite? I guess he'll get around to filing us in, in his own time. I mean, who's gonna rush fucking Magneto?"
Lance hated being in the dark, but she was right. Mags would tell them when he damn well felt like it and not a minute before. The real problem was that he'd probably already spilled it all to the wonder twins, leaving him out of the loop. Again. "You got any info on those kids?" he asked, shifting to actually stand on the counter, reaching up and over the fridge, behind an old plastic bag of plates and swizzle sticks.
She paused, briefly, in the act of prepping the sauce, then resumed almost mechanically. What she knew didn't amount to much, but she supposed she could share it. If nothing else, she got why Lance was sometimes frustrated with their magnetic overlord's occasional favoritism toward the twins. Though, if she were being honest, Eileen thought that was kind of a double-edged sword, a lot of the time. They were deeper in the old man's confidence, when it came to some things, but they were also held to a higher standard, a lot of the time. Still.
"They've got a teleporter and a speedster that looks so much like Pietro, he and Wanda decided to interrogate their dad about it," she told him. "There were others--at least one more speedster, and a couple of others. I only met the teleporter and Diet Quicksilver, though."
"Damn," Lance looked up from where he'd pulled out a hidden bottle of red wine - shut up, he had taste sometimes - and frowned as he hopped down. "How many fucking speedmonsters are out there?"
"By my count? Three," she said, brows rising as he revealed the bottle of wine. Wine too good to use for cooking, by the look of it. Huh. "But that's two to one, not in our favor. On the plus side, I know I can knock them on their asses if they get close enough. Minus side? It's not exactly a team-friendly kind of tactic."
Lance smirked and hummed as he got the bottle open. "Yeah well. Pietro needs to be knocked on his ass sometimes. Builds character."
She snorted as she settled a saucepan next to the heating pot of water. "You don't think he has enough character already? I always thought he was one rhinestone-studded jacket away from transforming into a fucking rainbow."
"Oh, like you're one to talk," Lance snorted. Phantazia was a walking rainbow parade.
"Don't think that just because I'm making you spaghetti I won't also light up every nerve cell in your body like downtown Manhattan," Eileen told him conversationally, combining ingredients in the saucepan as steam began rising from the water in the other pot. "Part of my character is being mean as hell."
"Hey. There's wine isn't there?" Lance huffed defensively. "Or you want somethin' different to go with your fancy pasta?"
"Aw, don't get your panties in a bunch, sweetheart," Eileen all but cooed. "I'm just messin' with you. Anyway, this isn't so much fancy pasta as it is generic Midwestern white girl pasta. But it's still pretty edible." She turned down the heat once the pot had begun to boil and dumped in a box of dry spaghetti before returning to the sauce, which she began to stir intently. "Speaking of the wine, why don't you pour us some? It'll help pass the time between now and lunch."
There weren't any wine glasses (and by that point, Avalanche probably would have cracked them all anyway), so he just grabbed a couple of plastic cups and poured the wine in, handing her one when she wasn't so busy with the stirring. "Whatever, it's pasta, right? It's fancy."
"Your definition of fancy is more forgiving than most," she snorted again. "But, hell, I'll take it." She held her cup o' wine up in salute. "To building character."
One way or another, Eileen always seemed to end up in Asteroid M's refurbished kitchen. It might have been because the wiring of the old building naturally led back here over and over again. Or it could have been that she was a teenager, and her appetite inevitably pulled her back to where the food lived, despite her other aspirations. Did it matter, really? She was here. Might as well get a snack as she passed through.
The levitating blond paused, however, when she detected the familiar sound of cursing in the vicinity of the refrigerator. Her expression twisted into a sharp smirk, though it was more playful than mean-spirited.
"Sorry, Alvers," she said from the direction of the pantry. "I think Mort already helped himself to most of what was left of the pizza. For a little guy, his appetite's almost as bad as Fred's."
"One of these days," Lance growled as he pulled out the last few pieces and threw them on a plate, "I am going to wring that frog's scrawny little neck!"
Just for a moment, the plates rattled softly on their shelves as a vibration spread throughout the room.
Airborne as she was, Eileen didn't actually feel the effects of Lance's powers, but she could detect them well enough--if nothing else, half the kitchen doing a sudden, impromptu jig was a pretty dead giveaway. "Aw, Mort ain't so bad," Eileen argued lightly, rummaging around in the pantry. "Just needs to work on his people skills." An assessment that could, and probably had, been made of the other members of the Brotherhood at one point or another in the past.
"I can make us something, maybe, if you don't go and shake the whole damn kitchen apart."
Lance frowned and looked over at her as the kitchen calmed. "Yeah. I guess." The pizza looked half green with mold anyway, and he promptly dumped it in the trash. "How did the job go anyway?"
She paused in the act of moving spaghetti ingredients onto the counter, then returned to her previous activity with only a slight stiffness in her movements to betray her agitation. "Fine. It went fine. We got the intel, wiped the servers and the PC's, and left the place on fire. Why?" she asked him suspiciously, violet-glowing eyes narrowing. "What did you hear?"
"I didn't hear anything," he told her, rolling his eyes. "That's why I asked."
"Oh," she returned shortly, her posture relaxing. For a second there, she'd thought he was going to start giving her shit, too. Seriously. It wasn't like she was the first of them to maybe not be so precise in her aim out in the field. Or talk, for that matter. Assholes.
"Went fine," Eileen went on, rummaging for a pot in the lower set of cupboards. "Got in, got the info. Wiped the files, set the place on fire. All that good stuff. It got kinda weird when the other mutant kids showed up, but I think we can still sort this one into the 'win' column."
Lance hopped up to sit on the counter as he watched her, one eyebrow going up. "Other kids? What the hell were they doing there?"
"Same thing we were," she told him, filling the pot with water and setting it on one of the burners to boil. "We got there first, is all. Some of them, at least, seemed like they might be kinda cool, if we had any idea where they came from or what their deal was, beyond bein' after the same intel Magneto sent us in for."
"Yeah well, cool or not, it's already way too crowded in here, and that's just with Blob," he rolled his eyes. "We don't need any groupies."
"Pretty sure they aren't groupies, or random tourists," she said, organizing the herbs and spices she would use for the sauce. "Not even spunky, mystery-solving mutant teens. I think they might be like us, except working for somebody else. I'm not in love with the idea, either."
His gaze darkened. "What did Magneto say?"
"About Teen Mutant Squad?" Eileen asked, oddly specific. "The usual. Which is to say, nothing at all." She gathered the other ingredients she'd need for the sauce--crushed tomatoes, onions, et cetera, and very scrupulously avoided making eye contact with Lance. "Par for the course, amirite? I guess he'll get around to filing us in, in his own time. I mean, who's gonna rush fucking Magneto?"
Lance hated being in the dark, but she was right. Mags would tell them when he damn well felt like it and not a minute before. The real problem was that he'd probably already spilled it all to the wonder twins, leaving him out of the loop. Again. "You got any info on those kids?" he asked, shifting to actually stand on the counter, reaching up and over the fridge, behind an old plastic bag of plates and swizzle sticks.
She paused, briefly, in the act of prepping the sauce, then resumed almost mechanically. What she knew didn't amount to much, but she supposed she could share it. If nothing else, she got why Lance was sometimes frustrated with their magnetic overlord's occasional favoritism toward the twins. Though, if she were being honest, Eileen thought that was kind of a double-edged sword, a lot of the time. They were deeper in the old man's confidence, when it came to some things, but they were also held to a higher standard, a lot of the time. Still.
"They've got a teleporter and a speedster that looks so much like Pietro, he and Wanda decided to interrogate their dad about it," she told him. "There were others--at least one more speedster, and a couple of others. I only met the teleporter and Diet Quicksilver, though."
"Damn," Lance looked up from where he'd pulled out a hidden bottle of red wine - shut up, he had taste sometimes - and frowned as he hopped down. "How many fucking speedmonsters are out there?"
"By my count? Three," she said, brows rising as he revealed the bottle of wine. Wine too good to use for cooking, by the look of it. Huh. "But that's two to one, not in our favor. On the plus side, I know I can knock them on their asses if they get close enough. Minus side? It's not exactly a team-friendly kind of tactic."
Lance smirked and hummed as he got the bottle open. "Yeah well. Pietro needs to be knocked on his ass sometimes. Builds character."
She snorted as she settled a saucepan next to the heating pot of water. "You don't think he has enough character already? I always thought he was one rhinestone-studded jacket away from transforming into a fucking rainbow."
"Oh, like you're one to talk," Lance snorted. Phantazia was a walking rainbow parade.
"Don't think that just because I'm making you spaghetti I won't also light up every nerve cell in your body like downtown Manhattan," Eileen told him conversationally, combining ingredients in the saucepan as steam began rising from the water in the other pot. "Part of my character is being mean as hell."
"Hey. There's wine isn't there?" Lance huffed defensively. "Or you want somethin' different to go with your fancy pasta?"
"Aw, don't get your panties in a bunch, sweetheart," Eileen all but cooed. "I'm just messin' with you. Anyway, this isn't so much fancy pasta as it is generic Midwestern white girl pasta. But it's still pretty edible." She turned down the heat once the pot had begun to boil and dumped in a box of dry spaghetti before returning to the sauce, which she began to stir intently. "Speaking of the wine, why don't you pour us some? It'll help pass the time between now and lunch."
There weren't any wine glasses (and by that point, Avalanche probably would have cracked them all anyway), so he just grabbed a couple of plastic cups and poured the wine in, handing her one when she wasn't so busy with the stirring. "Whatever, it's pasta, right? It's fancy."
"Your definition of fancy is more forgiving than most," she snorted again. "But, hell, I'll take it." She held her cup o' wine up in salute. "To building character."
