exsiliumlogs | diamonds will always look like stones; ( open )

Date & Time: vaguely this week
Location: around the city and hold
Characters: remy lebeau & open;
Summary: a week in the life. many options, pick one and let's roll.
Warnings: tba

( a ) When you live dangerously, there is often a price to pay. He's been spending off nights exploring every inch of the city, from the tunnels to the ruins to the inhabited places. Sometimes, those escapades end in fights, sometimes he acquires injuries incidentally. He's been shot, by a fellow Transport, more than once. Such is his life, and he's used to it.

But he's far from stupid. He knows he has to take care of himself, if only to the slimmest extent. That means that tonight, just before night gives way to morning, he's shuffling around in the Transport Clinic. He doesn't want actual care, doesn't want anyone to see him. He's just taking what he needs, and then he'll be on his way. He rummages around for bandages, blood seeping through a not-yet-healed wound on his leg. He bites down on his lower lip, drops a bottle of something and winces as it clatters to the ground and it rolls away. Damn.

( b ) Some nights are better. Those are the nights he spends at his favorite tavern in the crumbling city, sitting at a back table and playing cards. He's taught the locals some of his games, learned many of their own in return. He laughs, they all drink, and the natives are blissfully unaware that he's slowly sucking them dry. He doesn't keep the money for himself, however, and really has no use for it anyway. Those coins find themselves in the pockets of those who need it most, going back into the establishments he frequents and the hands of children on the street.

Tonight the laughter is loud and the drinks are ordered readily. Remy's always up for a game, or a talk, with a fellow Transport, and if he sees one enter the tavern he'll wave them over with a hand still holding half the deck.

( c ) He doesn't like spending time around the Hold, truth be told. It's too militaristic, for his tastes, and when he can get away from that imagery it still tastes like a prison. But he can only get away with existing in the city alone for so long, and eventually during the day he circles back to the Transports' assigned quarters. He doesn't care much for the training rooms, either, but he can appreciate their functionality. So this afternoon, he slips into one of the less occupied rooms and gets to work. He keeps his skills sharp in various ways--boxing, sparring, target practice. He's not wearing his coat, keeps reaching up to brush his auburn hair off his forehead. After awhile, a comfortable layer of sweat on his brow and melting ache between his shoulders, he pulls out his deck of cards.

He shuffles once, twice, and then a third time. Each time, one card appears on top--the Queen of Hearts, the weapon he'd chosen for himself here. He hasn't done much with her, yet, not wanting to risk the consequences of her disappearing entirely if she blew up.

Today, he's bored, and idle. He flicks the card up between his index and middle fingers, examines it slowly. It flares, briefly, with the signature pink light of his powers. Experimentally, he tosses the card towards the nearest wall. He expects it to burst, bounce back. What he doesn't expect is for a deafening boom to sound, taking out the majority of the wall.

And, amongst the rubble? The Queen of Hearts, still in-tact.

( d ) And, if none of the above suit your fancy? This fellow can be found in all manner of places at all manner of times: out on the rooftops, in the outlands, in various places in the city. He's never still, and trouble seems to follow him as a rule.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

That gets a raised eyebrow, the comment managing to drag her out of her own thoughts enough, "Bad experiences?"

It's a gentle sort of enquiry, something that can be easily answered with a yes or no, and it's clear from her tone that she won't press beyond that if he doesn't want to say anything on the topic.

Remy's hands settle in his pockets, and he shrugs.

"I like ta think rules are made ta be broken. Police, soldiers, those kinda fellas don't really like that."

For a moment, she isn't really sure what to say to that, because it isn't quite what she was expecting, and there's a lot tied up in rules, not just because she's a vigilante.

"Some rules are important," The answer, her tone, feel too serious, and she's a little self-conscious about it all of a sudden, so she carries on without much pause, "Do you drink? I mnea - do you want to get a drink? I could just... use one, and it's kind of miserable outside. Here."

Smooth, Brown.

He almost starts shaking his head, when she says some rules are important. He can’t believe that, since he’s never been told a rule he’s been able to keep. Even rules among the dishonest—among thieves—he’s broken without a second thought. Maybe that means he has no honor. Who knows.

He moves on from those thoughts and offers Stephanie an arm and a grin. “I know a place not too far from here. Matron’s gotta store a’ somethin’ bearable.”

She takes his arm without hesitation, even if she probably be a little more cautious around strange men, but she's feeling on edge enough and reckless enough that it seems like a perfectly good idea.

"You don't recognize me, do you?"

Probably because she was wearing a cowl.

True to his promise, the place is only a few blocks away. He leads them there, ducks in the doorway and gives her a curious look.

"Am I s'pposed ta?" He says that innocently, as though he might or might not. He doesn't, for the record. He hadn't spent enough time with Batgirl to be able to recognize her otherwise.

She feels a little better once they're out of the rain, pushing a hand through her hair and managing a grin for Remy. There's a lot of freedom in not caring so much about her secret identity.

"I was dressed a little different last time we met," And because she's just gonna keep being super smooth, she briefly gives herself little bat ears with her fingers, to give him a hint.

Remy glances at her, tilts his head, and then laughs. It’s not mocking, but understanding. Secret ID’s have never been a big deal for him—nor any of the X-men, though he figured the Avengers worked a bit differently—but he can still understand the importance of deciding to tell someone. He bows his head.

“Well, nice ta meet you again, then.” It’s another couple steps to the bar, and he sits down and raises a hand. The comfortable way the waitress greets him and immediately begins filling glasses indicates he’s a regular customer.

That gets a warmer smile, and a sheepish shrug. It still feels weird, not to worry about it so much, but there's enough justification in her mind for it that she doesn't feel too guilty.

"You too," Even if it doesn't seem the same for him, what with the rather noticable eyes, "My name's Steph."

She takes a seat next to him, offering her hand, even if that might be a bit superfluous when they've already met. Sometimes her manners show up in odd ways.

“Remy,” he says, even if she probably already knows that. He shakes her offered hand, then adds an addendum, “When I’m not goin’ by Gambit, that is.”

That was how he’d introduced himself the first time, wasn’t it? Back home, the two were usually interchangeable. The people who know him best refer to him as both, either. It doesn’t matter. But here how he introduces himself suddenly has a strange kind of weight. He’s Remy, more often than Gambit. There’s a responsibility, a personal stake, that comes with that. He doesn’t really like it.

diamonds will always look like stones; ( open )

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