Remy LeBeau (Gambit) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kineticcajun) wrote2012-03-17 10:16 pm
kineticcajun) wrote2012-03-17 10:16 pm
6th Card Dealt [Accidental Voice/Action -- Forward-dated to tomorrow morning]
[It's around 9 AM and Gambit's journal is hitting the floor, sprawled open, and recording. There's a yell, a string of Cajun French curses, and a chain of nearly a half dozen minor explosions. And then a scuffling noise.]
--ey! You bes' be droppin' th-- merde!
[Heavy thump of a body hitting the floor. Rustling noise. More extremely colorful cursing in Cajun French.]
Drop it! That's--
[More scuffling. And suddenly, the journal is flying through the air. The view window might catch just the slightest glimpse of hideous, orange shag carpeting (in a violet-tinted world thanks to a kinetic charge) just before the feed cuts out with a boom.]
[Later on in the day, Gambit is out on a mission, and he's looking extremely irritated while doing it. Tossed over one shoulder are the remains of his trusty old leather duster, which has had an entire arm torn off and is missing a significant amount of fabric on the left side. What isn't ripped or torn is burned. Held in something of a death grip by what he can only assume counts as the scruff of the creature's neck is a violently orange fuzzball. It's not struggling. It's not even moving. He's just. Carting it around.
In the rain.
And looking furious.
First order of business is trying to find one Adele LeBlanc, because he recognizes this horrible orangeness from her evil sofa. After that, he's hoping to ditch the damn thing somewhere - it doesn't seem to be holding a charge like the sofa did and that is vaguely terrifying - and then it's time to find a new coat.
He liked that coat, man. The fuzzball is going to pay.]
--ey! You bes' be droppin' th-- merde!
[Heavy thump of a body hitting the floor. Rustling noise. More extremely colorful cursing in Cajun French.]
Drop it! That's--
[More scuffling. And suddenly, the journal is flying through the air. The view window might catch just the slightest glimpse of hideous, orange shag carpeting (in a violet-tinted world thanks to a kinetic charge) just before the feed cuts out with a boom.]
[Later on in the day, Gambit is out on a mission, and he's looking extremely irritated while doing it. Tossed over one shoulder are the remains of his trusty old leather duster, which has had an entire arm torn off and is missing a significant amount of fabric on the left side. What isn't ripped or torn is burned. Held in something of a death grip by what he can only assume counts as the scruff of the creature's neck is a violently orange fuzzball. It's not struggling. It's not even moving. He's just. Carting it around.
In the rain.
And looking furious.
First order of business is trying to find one Adele LeBlanc, because he recognizes this horrible orangeness from her evil sofa. After that, he's hoping to ditch the damn thing somewhere - it doesn't seem to be holding a charge like the sofa did and that is vaguely terrifying - and then it's time to find a new coat.
He liked that coat, man. The fuzzball is going to pay.]
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Sounds like you're givin' up.
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Oh, I see how it is. You're wantin' to try your hand at gettin' rid of this t'ing.
[Teasing. Entirely. But if she takes the bait and finds a way to kill it, he'll forever owe her.]
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Not sure it's worth the risk.
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You got a point. Bad enough one coat was lost today.
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So what are ya doin' out here? Mopin'?
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[That was totally not a note of petulance in his tone. You imagined that.
Another drag on the cigarette. He eyes her for a moment, then grins despite himself.]
Jus' gettin' some fresh air 'fore I try blowin' up half the apartment to try an' take that t'ing out wit' it.
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"Getting some fresh air?" With one of those things?
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There's fresh air out here even wit' this t'ing.
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[She stops just a pace before him, the railing separating them, and reaches out to casually snag the cigarette between his fingers as it rests there. She lifts it to her lips and takes a long, satisfying, downright professional drag, despite the fact that she never smokes herself.
There. Maybe now you'll shut-up.
And then she casually extends the lipstick-stained cigarette back to him.
Exhale.]
These things'll kill ya.
[1/3] I have no good animated icons for two of these. so. >>
And then the cigarette is handed back to him, and it takes a moment for his brain to kickstart past the fact that it is now stained with her lipstick.]
[2/3]
Snark. Snark, where are you. He needs a snappy comeback-- Aha!]
[done!]
[ poor Gambit ]
[he deserves it.]
[And he is so, so tempted to try to stop her from leaving because what the hell was that about - not that he's complaining - but maybe it's better if he lets her keep her distance. She may have won this round, but it's better than trying to up the ante further and ending up face-first in the mud. Most likely. Although there's those ever-present odds he might be able to even the score and...
And then his mouth is running off without him, as per usual.]
Takin' off jus' like that?
[...that is true]
I'm just passin' through.
[Ha, chew on that.]
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Sure you are.
[Not buying it, Rogue. But he can grant you this round. Exceptionally well-played.]
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Remy, I'm not sure if you should be glad or sad for how low that coat drops.]