you have died of massive fail!

Laid To Rest

Tue, 21 Oct 2008 16:02:46 GMT

Who: res_show - Jimmy Sullivan, slithermyway - Gerard Way, stone_the_crow - Frank Iero, biteme - Mikey Way, in_flames - Bob Bryar, NPC Till Lindemann
Where: Lindemann Insurance
When: October 18, 2008

So the plan goes something like this: Jimmy meets up with Frank, Gerard and Bob at the diner around the corner from Lindemann Insurance. Hopefully Mikey will be there. That'd be boss. He's going to take them in, get them processed and then... let hell break loose. The good thing about this plan is, there are only six or seven people who actually work for Lindemann in the sense that Jimmy does, that Patton did. And between the five of them and their abilities, against five typicals and two atypicals, plus Mike who's still mostly insane in the brain (insane! got no brains!). He'll be no problem.

Jimmy's busy playing Solitaire on his iMac when they amble in, and he greets them the usual way. "How are you gentlemen! Coffee's on me, if you want."

Mikey's the one who pushes the door open, one eyebrow arcing over the mirrored black of his sunglasses lenses. He crosses an arm in front of his stomach as he rests his hip on the edge of the booth, looking down at Jimmy as Gerard walks in backwards, pulling Frank in with him, and Bob brings up the rear. "Like these idiots need any encouragement to freak out. No thanks, I'd just rather get this fucker done and over with, then get utterly shitfaced. Sound good to you?"

"Hey there, tootsie-roll! You brought the posse!" Jimmy shuffles over on the bench-seat for them to join him. "And how is everyone this morning? Got your happy faces on? Or at least, your 'Ah Munna Keel Yew' faces? I promise I've got beer. Lots of it. In my hotel room." He adds out of the corner of his mouth, to Mikey, "And a big bed, bow-chicka-wow-wow."

"I hate you," Frank mutters, sliding into the seat, pulling Gerard with him. "Do you ever keep it in your pants?"

"With the man-cannon I tote? Hardly, squirt." Jimmy waves a hand at the waitress, who brings over a pot of coffee. "Seriously, though. Are you guys ready?"

Gerard nods as he reaches up to tuck Frank's hair more firmly under the hood of his sweat shirt. He feels like an idiot in the sunglasses, but between the three of them there's maybe one pair of inconspicuous looking eyes any more, and they belong to the one who always wears sunglasses, so he's just given up hope. "Could you two stop waving your dicks around and get serious? For serious, this is a big deal. We've got to do this properly, or something could really go wrong. So let's just take a deep breath and do this, okay?"

Bob doesn't say anything, sitting opposite Frank and Gerard, on the very edge of the booth, with skinny old Mikey stuck between himself and Jimmy. But he's thinking about how much this is going to hurt, how he hasn't told America about what he's going to do, how much this is potentially going to suck ass. He's the cleanup guy, right? The one who goes in afterward and makes sure there's absolutely nothing recognizable. Body disposal. Something like that. And he's got to go home, to their mutually half-packed apartments, and face her, after.

Frank tips a secret little smile up at Gerard, one that makes Bob roll his eyes and snort. They're just so... so gay together, and on one hand, it's kind of cute, but on the other hand, erk.

"Save the pawing for afterward," Jimmy mutters, as if he can read Bob's thoughts. But he's hunched over his iMac, pulling up information for them. "So I'm gonna take you in, and as you're being processed or whatever, I'll grab Lindemann and show him how fuckin' awesome I am for getting you guys all at once, and alive, to boot." He turns the laptop around so they can all see it. "Mikey's got Patton. He'll be easy, he's barely got his motor skills working properly again. Frank, you take out anyone you can. Gerard can break 'em. I've got a gun, in case something shitty happens. Once it's done, yank the fire alarm to clear out the people who don't know what's going on. Then Bob'll give 'em a reason to have the alarm pulled."

"Great."

"Oh cheer up, sunshine! You're the best firestarter ever." Jimmy leans past Mikey to bat his eyelashes at Bob, and earns himself a shove for his efforts. "C'mon, cupcake. I'm just trying to sweeten you up. You always look so sour." Jim focuses on Gerard, an eyebrow raised. "Is he always like that? Man, I'd get all depressed hanging out with him."

"He's the Eeyeore to my Piglet, it's true. Although I'm pretty sure that makes Mikes Rabbit, and you... Tigger?" Gerard grins a little as Mikey snorts, and curls an arm around Frank's shoulders as he tosses his head to shift his hair back off of his forehead as he shifts his feet, obviously ready to go. "You can get the really important people in, right? The boss-guy and whatsherface, the psychic? I want to take care of them, before we try to do anything else. It just... Sounds like a good idea, you know? Fuck saving the boss battle to the end, that just sounds like bad tactics."

"Oh, bother," Bob grumbles, much to both Frank and Jimmy's amusement, and drinks back burned-tasting, black coffee.

"Till Lindemann, Rebecka Eden. You wanna watch that bitch, she's a telekinetic as well as a telepath. Also? Tinfoil hats do not work. I tried it last night, and she just about blew my brains out for you guys not being dead yet. I told her I had a plan and to not get her thong in a knot over it. I think my ears are still ringing." He snaps his laptop shut. "I go in first, Frank next, Gerard and Mikey, and Bob up the rear." Pause. "Ha ha, up the rear, Bryar, get it?"

"Yeah." Bob puts his cup down. "Up the rear, like you take it." It's the best burn he can manage for now (no pun intended), and he nudges Gerard's leg under the table. "Guess we should go, huh?"

Frank's been quiet, so quiet since this whole plan's been hatched. He's not sure how he feels about it, about taking lives... but these are the people who'd set out to hurt him, to kill him, and Gerard, and Bob, amongst others. But he finds his voice, tired and quiet from nights of insomnia. "As long as they stay behind me. And if I tell you to move, do it. Otherwise you're gonna be stone, and everything's going to go to shit." He ushers Gerard over and out of the seat. "I'm as ready as I'm gonna get." He feels like he's going to puke.

"How about you keep those lenses on until we get in, then Jim can hide behind you like a beanpole behind a pumpkin patch, eh killer?" Mikey reaches over to pat at Frank's head until he's forced to dodge back from the flail of his brother's hands, which he does with a high, cracked laugh.

"Fuck off, okay? We're just going to do this and get it done, and then we won't have to think about it any more. And no one needs to get dumb about it, okay?" Gerard glowers at Mikey before curling an arm around Frank's waist and looking up at Jim, once they're all standing, and offers him a small, tense, closemouthed smile. "We're ready. Let's fucking do this."

They make quite the odd bunch, with Jimmy tossing a twenty down on the table for the coffee and his own breakfast, his laptop under his arm and his gun tucked against the small of his back again, hidden under a loose t-shirt. Over that goes his jacket, and he leads the four of them out and down the sidewalk, toward Lindemann Insurance. For once, he's got no words, nothing to joke about, nothing to make light of. This is legitimate serious business, with lives on the line. "When we get there, you're going to follow me in after I talk to the receptionist. You're not going to touch anything, not say anything, until we're in the lower basement. That's where all the testing shit is, where Patton is, and I'll call Herr Doktor Lindemann down for his appraisal. Then it's go-time."

He's good as his word, except instead of pressing B2 on the elevator, he presses B1, holding his thumb there long enough for print identification, allowing him access to restricted areas: B2. "You okay? Not gonna hurl or anything?" Jimmy's all but bouncing on the balls of his feet, a livewire of nervous energy, hoping to god that he's not going to fuck this up somehow. He has to trust their instincts.

Gerard doesn't say anything once they're near the building, just crosses his arms in front of his chest and slouches down into his coat as they walk inside.

Mikey doesn't even pretend to be relaxed, his hands tucked tightly into his armpits as he walks, stilted and awkward. Once they're in the elevator he rocks back onto his heels, poking at the edge of his sunglasses with his fingertips as he runs his tongue over his teeth and stays, through some awe-inspiring expenditure of will, silent.

Jimmy leads them off the elevator with a hissed "Put up white noise, she'll hear you."

Bob thinks about Rise Against's new album.

Frank thinks about Leathermouth. And Gerard singing when he thinks Frank's got his iPod on.

Gerard just watches the back of Frank's head worriedly, his mind as closed as ever, and Mikey hums to himself tunelessly until they stop in front of a door.

Jimmy unlocks a door to a wide, sparse testing room. "Stand around and look handsome, and I'll call the boss." Which is exactly what he does, his German stilted and pretty plainly fucking awful. "He wants to interrogate you guys," Jimmy adds, once he's done with Lindemann. "He's coming down to see you, like you're some kind of coveted fucking prize. Maybe he'll give me a bonus before we- Frank?"

Frank stands stock-still, head lowered and hands balled into fists. The floor under his feet is cold and grey, different in texture to the concrete floor in the rest of the area. "I want him, Jimmy." The weight of the head of the sledgehammer that's up the back of his shirt is almost too much. It's his dream made into reality, and he's going to be able to break it. "I don't know if I can look him in the face and not hold onto them." Already, his head aches, his scalp prickles as Hickory, Dickory and Dock stir beneath his hoodie.

"I say we get behind short-stack and let him do his thing, yeah?" Mikey only complains a little as Gerard smacks him in the side, raising an eyebrow archly over the dark frames of his glasses as he takes a meaningful, measured step back. "It sounds like a plan to me."

Bob's never seen Frank's ability in full swing, and he stands back further than Gerard, than Mikey, than Jimmy, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched. Everything about this is screaming at him how bad this is, how bad it's going to be, how sick he's going to get after, but... this is important. This is monumental, this is safety that's at least half-guaranteed for himself, for Mer and for his friends, who he'd gladly do this a thousand times for. But his voice is nervous: "Frank, dude, keep it in your pants. At least-"

"Bob," Frank husks. "Don't. 'cause I can't." He starts to say something else when the door swings open and two people walk through, one of whom is petite, English, immaculate in a designer suit and heels, where the other is tall and broad, looking out-of-place in a suit where the lines of his body would say he's a swimmer, instead. He barks something in German at Jimmy.

"He wants you guys to sit. He wants to know why you came so willingly with me."

"Because I'm going to kill you," Frank breathes, pushing his hood back. His words aren't directed at Jimmy, oh no. But Lindemann's already shouting, a sound that rings physically through the room, rocking Frank back on his heels. But he stands his ground, and as his hood falls back it shows how much Frank's abilities have come in the last year. He pulls his glasses off his face in one smooth motion, straightening his back so the sledgehammer falls out from under his shirt. the head of it falls squarely in his palm, cold and certain, and the flow of power through him is so much more than anything else he's tried to consciously control, nauseating and adrenaline-filled at the same time. His eyes are bright, lambent gold, lined with heavy black lashes. In the space between one breath and the next, the entire room from Frank forward is stone, including Lindemann and his assistant, Rebecka, and Frank's stepping forward, sledgehammer in hand. "Gerard, the girl."

Frank stops short in front of Lindemann, looking at him with something like cold curiosity before hearing Jimmy's soft encouragement: "Go on, Frank." Frank pushes his hair back from his face, raising the sledge up and bringing it down in a blow that shatters Lindemann into a million little pieces, like dropping lead crystal. It feels good and wrong, beautiful and terrible all at once, to see him break, knowing that this is just the beginning of the end. The beginning of being able to sleep again, of being able to function again, knowing that what they're doing is right.

As soon as Frank is ahead of him, Gerard moves, sliding from standing to knocking Rebecka back, the sole of his scuffed skate shoe hitting her just above the waist. She tilts back, the solid stone weight of her body thrown off by his kick, so he puts his hands on her shoulders and shoves her back, sending her to shatter on the cold, grey ground. He steps back just as soon as he sees the cracks, positioning himself behind Frank as he dusts his hands off and asks, softly, "Frank? You got it under control?"

It takes a few breaths, but Frank glances over his shoulder at where Gerard, Mikey and Bob are standing, and it's safe. "Yeah." He turns, brows furrowed, and touches Gerard's hand. "I'm okay." It's as if in that act of smashing Lindemann, a huge, suffocating weight lifted from Frank's shoulders. It's just the beginning, though; there are others that have to be taken care of. But his role is finished, for the most part.

"Okay," Jimmy interjects. "Before you two start making goosh-faces at each other over the grand dramatic deaths of Till Lindemann and Rebecka Eden, lemme take you up to Patton's room. Mikey can sink his teeth into someone who's not going to get all stoned and want to jerk off for the rest of the night." He tips Mikey a lewd wink before turning to Bob. "You're gonna wait until we're all done before you do your thing, right?"

"No," Bob answers dryly. "I'm going to do it while everyone's still here. See how far your regenerating goes. Idiot."

Jimmy takes that as a compliment. Idiot. But halfway down the hall back to the elevator, the alarm sounds, flashing a red light. "Shit, someone must have seen, or heard, or something. Guys, ready." He pulls out his gun, readying himself for what might be coming off the elevator they intend to get back on. But instead of the elevator opening, it's the stairwell; two guys with rifles, and Jimmy lifts his own gun to meet them. "Hey guys, sup?" Before he can even get a shot off, he's barraged by five-six-seven-eight rounds, bullets singing past him, toward Gerard and his brother, toward Frank and Bob. "Get back, you fuckers-"

Gerard and Mikey are moving way before Jimmy speaks, before the first shot hits Jimmy, grabbing Frank and Bob and slamming them back against the wall behind a column, safe from the gunfire. Mikey pants shallowly, his mouth open and the white of his fangs sharp as they rest, half-unfolded, against his tongue. He doesn't say anything, though, and it's Gerard who finally speaks up, barely even a second later, his hand shaking slightly as he laces his fingers in between Frank's. "You feel like having a go? We can call Jim back, and I bet you can get them before they close the door."

"Yeah." It isn't the time or place, but Frank ghosts a kiss against Gerard's fingers before leaning out past where Jimmy's standing to focus everything he has in him on the two guards. They're stone barely a millisecond before Jimmy fires, and the bullets from his Desert Eagle shatter them like so much glass. He doesn't even let go of Gerard's fingers.

"Badass!" Jimmy exclaims, sticking his fingers into the newly-acquired holes in his shirt. "Did you see that??" He's so pumped up that he doesn't notice the slugs his body ejects as he drop-kicks the elevator-call button, doesn't hear the metallic clatter of them hitting the floor. "Yeeeeah, bitches!"

Mikey waits for another moment before rolling his eyes behind his glasses and kicking off the wall, sidling up to poke Jimmy towards the door as he rocks up on his toes so he can hiss against the back of Jim's neck, not nearly so bad as Gerard but definitely sibilant, "You're going to be in front of me from now on. Just so you know."

Jimmy tosses a lewd glance over his shoulder at Mikey. "Keep doin' that and we're gonna end up doing the Aerosmith thing, and nobody wants to see that. Not yet, at least." Looks like Jimmy's got the same reaction to Mikey's Naga-ness that Frank has to Gerard's...

The ride up the elevator is quiet, Frank holding onto Gerard's hand, his fingers uncharacteristically cold. There's one lonely guard outside of Patton's room, easily and messily dispatched by Jimmy's Eagle. "Mikey? Meet Mike. He's all yours."

Email for iknowthings - Robert Downey Jr

Mon, 20 Oct 2008 18:44:58 GMT

To: downey@downeyenterprises.com
From: sully.jim@gmail.com
Subject: Betcha didn't think I had your email, huh?

Hola, Señor Roberto!

In light of me being a total cockwad in your office the other day, I'm sending you a friendly email to let you know that Patton's associates have been disposed of. Did you see that fire the other day? Yeah, that was your girl America's boyfriend, Bob. He's pretty hot, and not in the sexy way, dig? Do you ever get those line quizzes from your friends? Do you even have friends? I heard that last year you went month for month with the Maxim cover models, how epic is that. Anyway, the quizzes, yeah. Those ones where people send you a bunch of questions to get to know you or whatever? Despite you being an asshole, I've gotta say I admire you. You're successful, you put Patton down like a rabid dog, you've got a hot feline broad and a hot Greek dude. Anyway, QUIZ. I forget where I'm going, sometimes. Since I've got all the info already, I'm just curious about how much you know.

Jessica Stam:

1. What's her middle name?
2. How old is she?
3. Is she right-handed or left?
4. What's her favourite food?
5. Favourite colour (Okay, I gotta admit, I don't know this one)?
6. How tall is she?
7. What's she allergic to?
8. What's her mother's name?

William Zane:

1. When did he start shaving that awesome head of his?
2. Where did he learn to cook?
3. How far can he project his ability (does it interfere with yours?)?
4. When did he open his first restaurant?
5. What's his favourite style of music?
6. When did his ability manifest itself?
7. Is there ANYONE smarter than him (if you say you're smarter than him, that's a disqualification!)?
8. What did he do before he was a chef?

If you get TEN of these sixteen right, I'll send you a fruit basket. Do you like prickly pears, being a prickly dude yourself? Maybe pineapple would be better... Have an awesome day!

Love,
Jimmy
xoxo

Devils and Dust - Jimmy Sullivan and Ryan Phillippe

Mon, 13 Oct 2008 22:50:09 GMT

Who: young_methusale - Ryan Phillippe and res_show - Jimmy Sullivan
Where: Rosetta Corporation
When: October 6, 2008 - Visit #3 of the day

Jimmy sits in the park down the street from Downey Enterprises, having a cigarette and nursing a coffee, his iMac open on his lap. Maybe Phillippe is going to be less than a dick? He's pretty, there's no denying that, but being good looking doesn't exactly count for shit in the personality department. Look at Jimmy, for example! Not everyone can be like him, handsome as fuck with personality and humour to spare, right? Right? At least Downey (who's still the fucking man for takin' care of business, even if he's a total douchewad) hadn't sicked the dog-bees-things on him.

This time, he calls in advance. "Hi, I'd like to make an appointment with Ryan Phillippe, you sexy thing."

Cerise Baliset was having a normal enough day in the offices of The Rosetta Corporation, on a high floor within Chicago's Sears Tower. This call from out of the blue, however, is anything but normal. "I can check Mr. Phillippe's schedule for you, sir. May I ask what this is regarding?" Her voice is polite, Cerise's French accent is noticeable but minor. On her workstation, she has opened Ryan's calendar for the next month.

"A death threat. Uh, not by me, I mean." The receptionist sounds cute, all blonde and blue-eyed and adorably French, and maybe if Jimmy turns up the charisma, she can squeeze him in sooner than later. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, squeeze him in, hurr hurr. Whatever. "Tell him that it's regarding the issue with Mr. Downey, from the end of September. And hey, you doing anything tonight? I figure after I meet with your boss, you and I could take a stroll, have some Ripple, make sweet, sweet love under a turnpike. How 'bout it?" The grin is audible in his voice, along with every ounce of saccharine, sarcastic charm he can manage.

"As delightful as that sounds," Cerise says, and it does actually, in its own weird way, "I fear that my husband would object to such a thing. In happier news, Mr. Phillippe has an opening this afternoon - can you make 3 pm? And I must warn you, on the subject of death threats, we are all very well-armed here. Mr. Phillippe is a longtime champion of the Second Amendment."

"That's a damn shame," Jimmy grins. "He must be a lucky man to have a catch like you, with your so lovely phone skills, and even more lovely abilities to get me into Mr. Phillippe's schedule. Tell you what, I'll bring champagne and strawberries for you, and we'll call it a deal, okay?" Jimmy bids his goodbye before his mouth can run away on him again and end up getting him arrested for something ridiculous like phone-harassment. "He can shoot me all he wants, babe. It'll just hurt me right in the feelings."

With that, his cellphone goes in his pocket, his laptop under his arm, and the stupid fucking man-purse they gave him to put all the hard-files in is over his shoulder, and he's waving an arm to catch a cab.

*****

"Hi, Jimmy Sullivan. I'm here to see Mr. Phillippe, supermodel extraordinaire?" It's by far the most subdued greeting he's given today, but he leans on the edge of Cerise's desk with a hip, tipping her a wink. "I called earlier and booked three o'clock with him. And. Because you're such a doll - and a cutiepie, to boot - I brought you the strawberries." No champagne though, just in case Phillippe has bee-dogs of his very own. Firm believer in the Second Amendment. He sets the carton on Cerise's desk, and looks around. "So... what does Mr. Phillippe actually do?"

Cerise looks him over, one hand under her desk grasping the concealed and silenced pistol as usual. She was an attractive young woman, with long straight brown hair and brown eyes, but far more formidable than she appears. Jimmy's comment earlier notwithstanding, Cerise could put a bullet through each of his eyes and have the gun back in it's hiding place before his body hit the floor. "I recall your call very clearly, Mr. Sullivan." She glances at her screen again. "Mr. Phillippe is ready to see you. As to what he does, Mr. Phillippe is the CEO of The Rosetta Corporation. We are a privately-held organization specializing in the import/export business. If you want more details than that, I'm afraid you'll have to ask Mr. Phillippe directly." She releases the gun and stands, smoothing the front of the attractive tan Givenchy suit which she was wearing today. "Please follow me." Cerise resists the urge to tell him not to touch anything, figuring that would only inspire him to touch everything. She wasn't worried about him touching her so much. A long time expert in savate, Cerise is more than capable of putting a typical man into a wheelchair, or an early grave.

She leads the way down the office suite's one hallway to the door at the back. Tapping briefly on the door, she opens it and steps through. Ryan's office is a study in modern hi-tech design, with clear glass surfaces and multiple large video displays on the walls. Ryan himself is seated behind the large desk, and stands as the enter, coming around to the front. He has foregone his customary Armani for a dark navy Kiton K-50, recently acquired.

"Mr. Phillippe, Mr Sullivan has arrived." Cerise's expression gives nothing away, but Ryan knows her well enough to know that she'll have some comments to make about Mr. Sullivan, later.

Stepping forward, Ryan offers his hand. "Welcome to The Rosetta Corporation, Mr. Sullivan. Please, have a seat and tell me what I can do for you today." He nods to Cerise and she exits, closing the office door after her.

Jimmy shakes Ryan's hand. "Your receptionist is hot. I guess being rich gets you whatever you want, right?" He pauses. "Are you her husband? 'cause if you are, I totally meant no offense. I can't help it, you know? I'm a guy, and I notice chicks." Ryan's suit, while immaculate, means dick-all to Jimmy and his t-shirt, his tattoos, his ripped jeans.

Ryan laughs. "No, Cerise is a little young for me, I'm afraid. Besides, interoffice relationships tend to end badly in my experience." He releases Jimmy's hand, and moves back around to sit back down behind his desk. "Please." He indicates a nearby chair on Jimmy's side of the desk. "Her actual husband is a homicide detective with Chicago's Finest, however, so you might want to bite your tongue around him. So, I understand from Cerise that you are here to deliver a death threat?"

Jimmy parks himself like a taxi cab, crossing his legs to give him a place to put his laptop. "Yeah, dude. And you can rest assured that I'm not going to the cops with any of the information I've got." He slings off his man-purse and tosses it onto Ryan's desk. "Have a look in there. Tell me who looks familiar to you. The first of October, I got a promotion in my job, isn't that awesome? Except for the part where I'm supposed to take over for that dicksmack Patton, and- and since you're all brainy over knowing about the circumstances of his termination - like a bug, and it was awesome - you're on the shitlist of- of the people I work for. Except, I'm quitting. Because I don't do blood, you know? And..." Jimmy's face falls a bit, showing a completely different aspect of his personality, one that isn't always lewd jokes and shit-talking. "And I don't think that people like us should be persecuted. Yeah, we're fuckin' different, but that doesn't give anyone any rights to treat us like guinea pigs, you know?"

Interesting. "I recall that Robert was very upset over the entire business. I wasn't there personally, but I understand that he made rather a mess of Mr. Patton, though the body was not recovered." Ryan steeples his fingers, feeling like a bit of a cliche. "I agree entirely that persecution of atypicals is wrong, as is using them for non-consensual experimentation." He leans back in his chair, thinking. "I appreciate your warning, though you'll forgive me if I am a touch skeptical about your motives. To be blunt, what is it that you are looking for in this situation? If you don't intent to carry out the 'duties' of your new position, then what? Are you looking to change your employment, then?"

"Uh, clearly? Because by coming to you and telling you I'm supposed to put a bullet in that pretty little head of yours, I'm pretty much signing my own death warrant, you know? And I'm sure that someone with your great and mystifying powers of adaptability would be able to, you know, circumvent having his ass handed to him on a silver platter, but I've been trying to talk to everyone that's on the shitlist - yourself included - and letting them know that just because Patton's been nailed doesn't mean they can go back to their rosy little lives. Dig?"

He looks at the tent of Ryan's fingers and jerks out a snort. "What are you, Monty Burns? Please don't tell me you've got the bee-dogs. I like bees? They're cute. But they hurt like a motherfucker. Dogs? Also cute, unless you've got them trained to kill skinny assholes like me." His thoughts fall by the wayside as he taps at his laptop, bringing up Ryan's dossier. "The thing I don't know how to do is get into their servers and get everyone deleted, you know? I might be a sooper-genius, but I can't pull that shit. I'm figuring you or Downey could do something like that. But Downey hates my guts and won't let me romance him into doing my wicked bidding, so..." Jimmy grins. "Sorry, dude. You're second-fiddle."

Ryan smiles, lowering his hands to the armrests of his chair. "It sounds to me like some clever hacking wouldn't be enough. Who is backing this organization of yours? Wealthy individuals? Shadow government? Or don't you know? In any case, they would have backups of everything important, I'm sure. No, I would guess that the organization itself needs to be demolished outright, for their activities to be truly curtailed. Robert certainly has the resources to do that." Ryan's smile broadens. "He does have a bit of a temper, doesn't he? Then again, you do seem like the provocative sort. What did you do, call him a rich priss and then ask for his help?"

"I told him that his girlfriend had been waterboarded and I called him Baby. I don't think he really dug that." Jimmy's grin makes a reappearance. "Personally, I think he thinks I'm cute. You know, in the pull-her-pigtails-and-tease-her kind of way, you know? He called me a shithead."

"Let me guess, he yelled a lot, then had goons #1 and #2 acquaint you with the pavement outside his front door." Ryan laughs a bit at that. "Robert is a very intelligent man, with some unique gifts. Unfortunately, his success has led him to a point where he doesn't really need to be polite to anyone, anymore."

"Have you met Thing 1 and Thing 2? They're big motherfuckers! They totally took my laptop - well, Robert did - and wouldn't give it back to me until I was like, outside. I told them we'd do lunch. I don't think they'd be into that, you know? At least you're polite." Jimmy presses the tip of his tongue against the back of his labret, trying to read Phillippe. "So... you're adaptive, right? That's what your file says. What exactly does that mean?"

"Oh yes, fine products of our military services and a protein-heavy diet. As far as I know, they don't swing that way, no." Ryan says. "It means that I am never at a loss for something to say at parties. How about yourself? What is your genetic hat trick?"

"That cute little cherrybomb of a receptionist said you're a firm believer in the Second Amendment. Why don't you give me a demonstration. Preferably not in the head." Jimmy leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. "Or like, any other sort of neat weapon you want to try out on me. Just... watch the head." For a brief flicker of a second, Jimmy has the idea that Ryan would probably be hot as fuck with a gun. But no, now is not the time to be picking up high-rolling motherfuckers like him. Nope. Down, boy. Woof.

Ryan looks at him for a minute, thinking about it. He must be regenerative, then. "Ok, then, if you'd like a demonstration, I suppose I can play along." He stands, taking off his jacket and the vest underneath, draping both over the back of his chair. "I wouldn't want to ruin this suit, I got bought it." He loosens his tie, slipping it off and dropping it in the seat. Opening a drawer, he takes out a silenced Glock 21 and an ammo clip. Sliding in the clip, he chambers the round and steps towards Jimmy. "Are you sure that you want to do this?"

"For sure, dude. I'll make a charm bracelet out of the bullets, how does that sound? Just, like I said, watch the head. Don't want to mess up my hair or anything." It's a demonstration he's given enough times to not be nervous at the sight of a gun, but... he doesn't know Phillippe from the next guy, and he could land a slug between Jimmy's eyes if Jimmy even tries to be cute.

Which is frankly impossible, since Jimmy's always cute, in his own opinion. "If you love me, you'll pull the trigger."

"I think it's a bit early in our relationship to call it 'love', but if you insist." Ryan points the gun at Jimmy's chest with obvious skill, then moves it to point at his own temple and pulls the trigger. There is a suppressed bang and a spray of cranial debris, and Ryan falls to the floor, seemingly quite dead.

"What the actual fuck." This... isn't quite what Jimmy had in mind. Did this guy think that killing himself would be a better option than-

-wait, hold up y'all. The stain on the carpet's fading already, like that wicked-awesome magic ink stuff Jimmy had when he was but a wee shit-disturber. And Ryan's head isn't exactly kersplooey and disgusting, like Patton's had been. But then again, Ryan had a silencer on his gun and-

-DOES NOT COMPUTE. Jimmy shakes his head, leaning forward to look at the wound in Ryan's head with a mix of disgust and wonder. It's healing. "Oh dude, that is so not fair that you can do that." As if Ryan can hear him. "I wanna be able to take bullets to the head." He sits back in his chair, arms folded and legs crossed, sulking.

Ryan's eyes open, and he pushes himself slowly to his feet, his wound still looking severe but rapidly healing. Leaning down, he picks up the pistol, and ejects the ammo clip into his hand. "No matter how many times I do that, it still hurts like hell." Ryan steps back over to his desk, returning the pistol to its drawer. "So, Mr. Sullivan, you can see that I can understand how your own ability works without actually having to see it." He picks up his discarded clothing and slips it back on. "Now that we are past that bit of unpleasantness, what can I do for you?"

"Uh, you can feed me, 'cause I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth. And it tastes pretty gnarly." Jimmy unfolds himself. "And dude, call me Jimmy. I'd be Mr. Sullivan if I was gonna whoop your ass - and thank fuck those assholes don't know that you can grow head-bits back all by yourself. Pee ess? That's a pretty sweet gun. Not so much for the firearms myself, you know? They gave me a Desert Eagle, and those bitches are loud. Anyway," Picking up where he'd attempted to start, but for Jimmy's attention span, it's somewhere near the beginning. "I wanted to let you know that you're probably going to be under some sort of surveillance. How prone to telepathy are you? Because Das Uberbitch is good at picking people's minds. She gives me shit, because I block her, like. 99% of the time." His eyes still watch the retreating wound on Ryan's head. "What's the worst place for you to get shot? For me, dude, it's not even the balls. It's right in the guts. That shit burns."

"Try being burned alive, that's extra special." Ryan says, smiling. "Ok, Jimmy, then. I'm actually very well insulated from telepathy, as it happens. Probably for similar reasons as yourself." Ryan doesn't mention the psionic inhibitors placed throughout the offices and his home, or the one in his watch. "I'm assuming that you would like this organization disenfranchised - and some protection for yourself? Am I in the ballpark?"

"Actually, no. The issue is being taken care of already, by some guys I've hatched my nefarious plot with... I might need a new job afterward, considering the place is going to be strewn from here to kingdom come, you know? But I'm not asking you for a job, man. I just wanted to put the word out to the people on the list that they're, you know. Probably being spied on. And kudos for being insulated. I insulate myself with beer." He pats his belly, suspiciously flat under his shirt. "So you're a regen too, huh?" Sometimes, just sometimes, Jimmy can be serious. And now's one of those times. "Do you age? I do. I think it's because I'm not totally super invincible."

"I appreciate you taking the time to warn me, then, particularly at such obvious risk to yourself." Ryan says, nodding. He opens another drawer, taking out a photograph with care and handing it over.

There's something in Ryan's demeanor that's commanding, demanding of respect, not the jackassery that Jimmy's so used to doling out, and had doled out to both Robert Downey and to the guys in Gerard's apartment. He takes the picture with the same amount of care that Ryan used when handing it over, and looks down at it. "That's you. You look hot in a uniform." It isn't something that Jimmy's about to add to Ryan's dossier, that he's immortal, or at least has severely delayed aging processes, but it's a very interesting take on a power that he'd only ever seen in himself. The photo looked like it'd been taken almost a hundred years ago, based on the clothing Ryan was wearing. The army uniform. The haircut, even the way he was posed. Jimmy hands the picture back. "Ain't no thang," Jimmy shrugs. "Just-" He thinks of another reason why he could be telling these people that they're in trouble. "I figured you should know, just in case we need a Plan B. In case the A-Team gets wiped out, or whatever."

"I appreciate that, as I said." Ryan takes the picture and returns it to the drawer. He then offers Jimmy a business card, one that is blank except for a printed phone number. "If you need help, call this number and you'll get it. Let me know if things go south, I'll do what I can to clean up the mess. Is Robert the 'A-Team'? Or have you been visiting someone else?"

Jimmy cackles at Ryan's suggestion that Robert might be heading up some kind of fuckin' squad to take out Lindemann and his merry bunch of assholes. "No, man. I've got my own magic dance troupe that's going to take the shit down. After the way Downey treated me, I couldn't give a shit if he was in on it or not. Besides, he softened Patton up a good one." There's something that Jimmy hadn't told Robert: that Patton was still alive. "And he was definitely soft - and really kind of squishy and disgusting - when I hauled him out of the hotel room." Another point to bring up. "Can a transfusion from you save someone's life?"

Ryan laughs in return, then gets a bit more serious as well. "No, I can't do anything more for someone else than the next guy." He gestures towards the area of carpet that should be stained with his brains and is not. "The bits that get blown or cut off just go away, which is a real time-saver for cleaning up, certainly. So, it was you who removed the late Mr. Patton's remains, interesting." Ryan nods, almost to himself. "I suppose all I can do at this point is wish your 'magic dance troupe' success, then. Give me a call, after, if you succeed. It would be good to know, in any case. If you should reach a point where you need a discreet exit from the area, let me know. One of the joys of being in the import/export business is excellent travel arrangements."

"That was disgusting," Jimmy admires. "The funny thing is for me- I mean, I don't know for sure, because I've never been, like, shot in the face or anything... but I just feel like if I do, that'll be the end of me, you know? Plus, not so hot on the idea of being dead and ugly."

That gets another smile from Ryan. "I've spent a lot of time grubbing through nature's muck. These days, I try to always look my best. You have one other perk that I don't - tattoos don't work on me. I can't even get a tan. In the plus column, though, I haven't done a sit-up in a long, long time."

Jimmy's mouth works before his brain does, most of the time. And now is definitely one of those times: "Y'gotta show me, sometime. I mean, I was all convinced that you were some supermodel or something before I met you. And I'd totally grub through muck with you. Just saying." He levers himself to standing, tucking his laptop into his man-purse again, haphazardly stuffing the files in alongside. A glance down at the card earns Ryan a smile, lopsided and friendly, before Jimmy sticks it in his pocket. "I'll definitely call you. either way. Let you know how things went. You can pass the cheery news on to Captain Crabcakes himself, Mr. Downey. I think he'd be content never to see my sexy old face again." Jimmy extends his hand to Ryan with something like awe, like respect. And those are feelings he's not used to having about anyone. Kinda weird, kinda boss. "Thanks."

Ryan takes his hand and shakes it. "I look forward to hearing from you." He looks Jimmy's long, lean frame over. "Hopefully soon. I'll be happy to show you whatever you'd like to see." He smiles. "Perhaps you'll let me look at your tattoos in detail as well, then. Don't worry, I'm told my hands are warm. And don't think too badly of Robert. He can be a serious jackass, I'll grant, but he's a decent sort underneath, and he is very protective of the things and people that he cares about." Ryan sighs. "It's just kind of tough to make that list. I can only assume that Miss Stam is a very persuasive person." Ryan's expression sobers. "Be careful, Jimmy. The sort of people that your employers sound like tend to have many allies, and long memories for people who cross them."

Well, then. That's quite the interesting proposition, isn't it? Tattoo-inspection, warm hands, you-show-me-yours? Hell yes. "Downey's kind of my hero, but don't tell anyone. He put, what, ten holes in Patton? Eleven? Something ridiculous like that. Over a girl." Jimmy starts walking with Ryan toward the door of his office, lingering just a little bit. Maybe. Sort of. "But dude, have you seen Miss Stam? She is a piece of ass, and that's a lot, coming from a guy who likes his ass coming from a guy." He flashes a sunny grin at Ryan, maybe-sort-of-a-little-bit thinking about how that complexion would feel under his mouth, what it'd taste like. But that's for another time, another date, and he sobers, as well. "Thank you, though. I will. Don't worry. There's going to be nothing left, at all. Nothing." With that, he opens the door to Ryan's office. "I'll be in touch, for sure."

"I've seen a picture of the lady, yes, though we've not actually met as of yet." Ryan says. "I expect that Robert will be keeping her on a short leash, no pun intended. Though trying to put a leash on a cat is something that I don't think even I am bold enough to do. Good, call me." He smiles again, this time it's the smile Ryan uses while unzipping someone's fly. "We can discuss your fondness for ass in more detail then."

Jimmy's fly reacts accordingly and appropriately, but he ignores it in favour of returning that suggestive smile. "I think that's a great fuckin' plan. Touching. I mean, staying in touch. You know what I mean, shit." Another grin, and he's turning toward the elevator. "Probably too much to ask for a kiss for good luck, huh?" But he's joking, stepping onto the elevator when the doors slide open. "See you later, Mr. Phillippe."

Ryan just nods and waves, wondering how things will play out for the young man - certainly a unique individual if he's ever met one. After the doors have closed and the elevator begins its journey down, Ryan steps back into his office and closes the door behind him. "Comm, have you been monitoring?"

Confirmed, Director. How do you wish to proceed?

"I gave Mr. Sullivan a tracer card - lock onto it, and put 300 satellite tags on him, in case he decides to throw it away."

Acknowledged. Do you wish a profile to be built on Mr. Sullivan?

"Yes, pull his prints from my office door and poll all the usual sources." Ryan nods in satisfaction, thinking that he'll know a bit more about Jimmy before the afternoon is over. "Good luck, Jimmy."

Shine On, You Crazy Diamond - Robert Downey and Jimmy Sullivan

Tue, 07 Oct 2008 15:39:18 GMT

Who: iknowthings - Robert Downey Jr, res_show - Jimmy Sullivan
Where: Downey Enterprises
When: October 6, shortly after this

It's not as if he can go back to the- the hive, as Jimmy had called it, not when he's already been talking to Gerard and Frank and Bob-not-Robert (and Mikey, who was weirdly hot, but that's beside the point). And besides, there are at least another two people to talk to in this very building that he'd like to talk to, one of whom is the aforementioned Robert Downey, Jr. From what Gerard had said about Robert's little playmate, Jimmy already knows that he's not going to get to talk to Jessica, and maybe that's not a bad idea.

"You wait right there, good-looking. I'll talk to you in a second." Jimmy tips a wink at the first security guard when he breezes by on his way to the receptionist desk. Whatever bazillions of dollars he's making can wait; Jimmy's sure of it. Addressing the camera that he knows is watching him, he drolls, "Robert, hi. How are you gentlemen! Keeping the kitty away from the sockets?"

Robert doesn't actually get that message, of course. Instead, the receptionist logs the readings from the biometric scan and from the database determines who it is that is standing there. "Can I help you?" The receptionist finally asks.

"I need to see Mr. Downey. Hi, hello?" Jimmy makes faces at the camera, waving his iMac at it. "Tell him it's about his pet. The cat. Jessica? Jessica Stam. It's serious business."

At the mention of Ms. Stam, a button is pushed and two very large, very broad men in dark suits appear behind James Sullivan, their arms folded over their massive chests.

"ID?" The receptionist asks, blandly.

This isn't quite what Jimmy'd had in mind. For some (stupid, so fucking stupid, stupid like the ACME dynamite that Wile E Coyote would get) reason, he thought it would have been a lot easier than this. But he digs up his driver's license, sliding it across the desk to the receptionist. He wishes vaguely she was Janine from Ghostbusters. That would be boss. "You wanna search my shit, go ahead. I'm not about to go up there and bust a cap in his very, very rich ass." His credentials check out; he didn't even bother to bring his gun. He'd left it with Gerard and Frank, knowing that if he was packing, there'd be no way to get up and talk to Downey. Period. "Swear on my mother's honour, I'm not gonna do anything stupid."

Another blank smile and Sullivan's ID is swiped and handed back, and the security behind him doesn't move. The receptionist puts some information into the computer and finally, a box pops up on Robert's screen.

Looking away from the close of the Asian market, Robert scans what he's been given. Hitting a key on his keyboard, he asks, "Find out what he wants."

Turning to Sullivan, the receptionist asks, "May we know the manner of your business?"

"Jessica Stam. Michael Patton. A potential threat to Mr. Downey's life. You know, the regular stuff a dude like Bob would go through." Bob, yes indeed. Jimmy just went there. "Being rich and famous and dashingly handsome and all that biz." He scratches the back of his head, making his hair stick up, and puts on his best sunshine face for the receptionist. "Look, punkin pie. I wouldn't be here dealing with the stiff if I there wasn't serious biz going on." Just to prove a point, just to get Robert's blood boiling, he tips his head toward the camera. "He waterboarded her, and threatened to fuck her with a club with fish lures in it. Gonna let me up now, Bob?"

Not exactly. As a matter of fact, the two men grab Sullivan by the arms and pull him into a small, bare room with a only a two-way mirror in it. He's tossed into a chair and his hands are handcuffed behind his back and the men stand back. If Sullivan looks closely, he can see a shifting behind the glass and nothing more, before a voice booms into the room.

"How exactly did you figure that strategy would work?" Robert asks, legitimately curious, his arms crossed, head cocked. "Why are you here?"

"Y'let me in, didn't you? C'mon, Wizard of Oz, come out from behind the curtain! Let me see the great and powerful Downey." He takes a minute, going quiet, and then there's the audible sound of breaking bones. "Augh. Mother. That's better, anyway." And after shaking out his hands, Jimmy folds them in front of him, the handcuffs dangling from one wrist. "I wanted to talk to you about a certain shitlist that you're on after putting a number of holes in one Michael Allan Patton." Jimmy rocks back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "So do I get to look at my studly self while talking to you, or do I get to meet the man, himself?"

The security move back in, taking an arm each (despite how gross it is that he just did what he did.) Robert's voice comes over the speaker again. "I ask again. What. Do. You. Want."

"Actually? You asked why I was here, so I said, 'because you let me in', duh." Jimmy resigns himself to the handholding that Downey's guys seem to want to partake in. "Look. You know what happened to the cat, right? With the shocks and the water and the samples. Because of what you did, you're on the elite list of people 'scheduled for immediate termination'. I just wanted to give you a heads-up that they're expecting it, and that I have no intention of doing it. But you might wanna beef up your security a little more." He glances up at Thing 1 and Thing 2, before addressing the mirror again. "Damn, I'm good-looking. How's the pet, anyway? Not letting her chew on any cords, huh?"

Even if Sullivan can't see it, Robert's jaw is working, his hands balled into fists. "Who do you work for?"

"Them. The people who sent Patton after her in the first place. He was gonna kill her, right? You know that. He had no intention of giving her back to you. If he got what he wanted from her, he would have just left her like garbage for you, and that fuckin' blows. Thing is, I don't wanna work for them anymore. They gave me fuckin' Patton's job, and I suck at making things die. Unless it's a plant. Except if it's weed, I'm aces at growing that kind of green. But yeah, I kill plants like an awesome thing. But not so much with the gun, you know?" Jimmy shuffles his feet on the floor, regarding the mirror with cool blue eyes. "So, Great and Powerful Oz, are you gonna grace me with your presence, or am I gonna have to beg and whine?"

There's a moment of nothing before a wall shifts and slides open and Robert steps in, watching Sullivan with cold eyes from behind his glasses. The security hold their "guest" tighter as Robert stands a few feet away. Sullivan's iMac is brought in and left on the floor and still Robert stares. "So what do you want from me?"

"I figure since you're Captain Awesome of Awesomeland for having the balls to shoot that asshole point-blank, that you'd want to know that there've been... repercussions. And that if I don't get the shit done, someone else might try." He points at his computer with the toe of one of his Dravens. "All the info's on there, dude. If you want all the files, have at 'em. Your assistant is in there. You are. Your pet. Your boyfriend. The shitheads that live downstairs. The fire guy. And..." Jimmy pauses, trying to remember who else. "Phillippe, I think his name is. I really, totally don't want to kill anyone. Blood makes me pass out. Or puke."

With barely a movement, Robert gestures for the computer to be handed to him. It doesn't take long to figure that Sullivan isn't lying. "You haven't told me what you want."

Jimmy rolls his eyes. For a guy who's supposed to be so fucking smart, ugh. He speaks slowly, so Robert might get it this time. "I. Wanted. To. Warn. You. War is coming, man. They want a bullet in your head, and I'm supposed to put it there. Now, I'm taking the messenger role and just letting you know that since I'm being sweet and kind enough not to blow your supposedly brilliant brains out, that someone else might try. Also, since you're the Great and Powerful Oz, can I get a ride back to Kansas? Or at least, a hotel room where they won't know I've totally let the Jessica out of the bag?" Jimmy's smile is insulting, crooked. "I mean, cat."

It happens so quickly that Sullivan is still smirking when Robert is yanking him by the hair to snarl in his face. "You are not generous. You are a piece of shit who has something and you want something. You want my protection. Is that it?" And he leans closer, hissing. "Don't say that name again."

"Jessica? Jessica Stam? Jessica Marie Stam? Did you know what her middle name was? Do you know how old she is? Do you even know when her birthday is?" Jimmy grins up into Robert's face, not intimidated in the slightest. "Ooh, and you sweet-talk me so good, baby. Please note: I didn't say shit about being generous. I said I'm being awesome for not blowing your brains out, in fear I might lose my wicked sushi lunch over it. Also, just as a note? I can protect myself just fine. I just don't want to go back to the busy little beehive that's Lindemann Insurance, dude. Do you think those little hats made out of tin foil actually work, to keep brainwaves out?"

With a hiss and a roll of his eyes, Robert steps back. He doesn't even spare Sullivan another look before he leaving, and taking the computer with him.

"Hey, hey! I need that shit back!" Jimmy calls after Robert. "It's got all my porn on it!" Again, he looks up at Thing 1 and Thing 2. "Hey ladies, can you let me go now? I promise I won't misbehave..." He puts on his best "aw shucks" expression, tugging lightly against the hold these two gorillas have on him. "Seriously, though. I need that laptop back. He can copy off whatever he wants. I just need it when he's done." Jimmy raises his voice to a trill, just in case Downey can still hear him. "Baby? I know I said some mean things, but I'm sorry! It's not you, it's me! Just gimme the laptop back?"

He's given no response for five, then ten minutes. Then, abruptly, he's hauled to his feet and 'escorted' back out to the lobby where the receptionist hands the security man his computer. Then he's not so kindly pushed toward the door and outside, his re-entrance blocked by those same men, his laptop held out for him to take.

Jimmy tucks it under his arm, getting up on his toes so he's even taller than his ridiculous almost-six-and-a-half-feet. "Shine on, you crazy diamonds! Thanks a mil! Let's do lunch!" It is now officially time to get the fuck out of here. Fast. Before Downey sics the dogs on Jim. Or the bees. Or the dogs that shoot bees out of their mouths when they bark. What the fuck.

Shh, I'm an Assassin - Gerard, Frank, Jimmy

Mon, 06 Oct 2008 16:25:37 GMT

Who: slithermyway - Gerard Way, stone_the_crow - Frank Iero, res_show - Jimmy Sullivan
Where: Gerard's apartment, Downey Enterprises
When: Current, October 6, 2008

There's no answer when he knocks on Iero's door, his Eagle tucked into the back of his pants (lest he blow his balls off if it's tucked in the front), but as it turns out, Way's address is on the same floor, just down the hall. Sweet. Again, he raises his fist, again he knocks, tucking his file folder under his arm and putting on his best disarming smile. "How are you gentlemen! I'm Jimmy. Shh, I'm an assassin." Much like the shirt he's wearing, that says exactly the same, obnoxious yellow cotton with black print. Subtle.

When Gerard opens the door, security is the last thing on his mind. His hair is damp, the soft cotton of his olive green t-shirt is askew, and he looks Jimmy up and down before pressing his lips together and raising his eyebrows. He blinks once, slowly, and then again as he takes a little breath in through his nose and says, in his best talking-to-strangers voice, "Mikey isn't going to be home for another few hours. Do you want me to tell him you came by?"

"Nah, dude. I'm looking for... you? And someone named Franklin?" Jimmy thumbs open the file, sees the pictures. "Do you have any beer? I need some liquid courage before I'm supposed to kill you, y'know? Not my forte. Not into blood." He shifts his weight to his other hip, looking down at Gerard. "Though I seriously don't know why I'm supposed to do this shit. Fuckin' Patton got what he deserved. And!" Going on like he and Gerard have known each other for ages, instead of a matter of moments, between a knock and a greeting. "That asshole's still alive, thanks to me. Fuck, man. If I never see another fuckin' IV again, I'll die happy. Anyway, beer?"

This time, when Gerard blinks, it sets off a chain reaction that sends his eyebrows creeping up towards his hairline, like he can't even help it. He clutches at the door post a little, just in case this guy tries to push him, and licks his lips carefully before asking, voice dead even and cold, "If you're here to kill me, why shouldn't I kill you first? I've done it before, you know."

"Dude, I know, and that's why I'm supposed to whack you, and not in the fun sexytimes kind of way. And did you notice I said supposed to kill you? 'cause I'm not gonna. I don't want to, man." Jimmy glances past Gerard, into the spacious apartment. "Can I come in or something? I- I kinda wanna talk to you about some stuff, since you're on the shitlist." He pulls the gun out from the back of his pants and holds it out to Gerard. "Seriously, take that shit as a sign of good faith. My nerves are fucking shot, you know? Fuckin' Downey shoots Patton right in the gob, and I had to clean it up. I had to donate my sweet, sweet bloods to him to bring him back to life. How gay."

With the amount of silent staring he's doing Gerard is starting to feel a little like a preying mantis, but in the face of this guy's non-stop rambling, he doesn't really know what else to do. He blinks at the gun before taking it, holding it gingerly before he figures out where the safety is and clicks it on. Then it goes next to his ashtray full of string and paper clips on his entry hall table and he takes a half step to the side, looking up at Jimmy with nothing but suspicion on his features. "Keep your voice down, Frank's sleeping. Finally. And there's beer in the fridge."

"What's wrong with him?" Jimmy asks, kicking his Dravens off and helping himself to a cold one. "Here, take this shit, too." He hands over Gerard and Frank's respective folders. "An' do you know...." Boink, another peek at Jimmy's hand-written shitlist, so he doesn't have to constantly refer to the laptop or the files he's carrying. Seriously. They want him to kill these people, and they give him fucking files to take with him. Does not compute. Apparently Lindemann's logic is not like Jimmy's earth-logic. But then again, Jimmy's logic is pretty much unlike anyone else's either. Whatever. Anyway. "...Robert Bryar? Apparently he's an affiliate of yours? Took out two of our guys. I mean, got rid of 'em. We know how they died." And he looks impressed, considering that Gerard's not very big, looks fairly soft, and much like a toddler about to go down for nappy-nap time.

Gerard flips through the folders idly as he stands, unconsciously positioned between Jimmy and where Frank is zonked out on the couch. "He has nightmares," he says, not looking up until he's satisfied himself that this guy's legitimate, and not just trying to get on their good sides before going all zap-kerpow on them, or whatever. "And you can sit at the table, since we don't really have a lot of furniture. Mikes keeps saying that he's going to buy some, but he never does. And yeah, I know Bob. He's not my affiliate, though. He's my friend."

"No shit." Jimmy parks himself at the table, taking a long drink of the beer, and belching resoundingly. "That hits the fucking spot. But yeah, no shit that he gets nightmares. He's a kid." Apparently Jimmy hasn't exactly studied his files properly, other than names, addresses, photos. "So, yeah. Apparently it's all super secret that Patton's still alive, but shit, man. I don't want his job. I'm gonna suck at it. I don't even want to be there anymore. It's like a hive." The last word comes out dark. "We live there, work there, you know? It blows. And I don't see a point in killing people just because they're like me, right?" He glances over his shoulder toward the door, at the gun by the ashtray. "You can shoot me, if you want. You can even keep the bullet as a souvenier."

Gerard squints contemplatively at Jimmy's face as he walks over and sits down carefully across the table from Jim, still putting himself between the kitchen and the rest of the open-layout apartment. Just because Jim seems like a nice enough guy doesn't mean that he wants to take any chances. Finally he says, somewhat amused, "I don't think he's that much younger than you are, you know. He just looks really young. And I don't like guns. They're so loud." He wrinkles his nose, tucking his fingers between his knees, and says in a so-calm, reasonable voice, "I'd rather work with my hands."

Jimmy holds out his hand. "Break my wrist, then. Snap it. Ulna and radius."

After only a moment's hesitation Gerard reaches out, carefully wrapping his long, delicate-looking fingers around Jim's wrist. He looks from his hand to Jim's face, his own eyes wide as he bites his lower lip, shifting his fingers carefully against the thin skin that covers the bones of Jimmy's wrist. Then quick as anything he tightens his grip, enough to make the bones grate against each other, and snaps his wrist to the side, fast enough that bone gives before the rest of Jimmy's body can shift to compensate. He lets go and crosses his hands in front of his chest, raising his eyebrows in a way that indicates, along with the delicate, almost prim press of his mouth, that he's far more interested to see what happens next than he is disturbed. "Like that?"

The only indication that it actually hurts is the way Jimmy's mouth presses into a fine line, the wince on his face, and a breath that he lets out when Gerard lets him go. "Yeah, like that." But he wiggles his fingers, hand dangling limply, and grins. "Here's the fun part." He rests his hand flat on the table for a second, two, before Gerard can see the lumps of bone where they'd been snapped straighten out, knit together. "And ta-da! Good as new. That's a pretty nifty little power you've got there, Snakemawstah." But now it's actually time for serious stuff, even as he can hear Frank mumble from the couch, shift, roll over. "He okay over there? I wanted... I wanted to talk to you about what-all's been going on. I'm gonna talk to Mr. Downey, too. I've seen some bad shit, serious, heavy shit, and I know you guys are involved. I wanna help get rid of whatever it is that Lindemann's doing, what he was using us for. You know? Testing and shit. And from the list of powers I've got, it kinda looks like the Halls of Justice, you know? Complete with a couple of girls." He pauses, brain finally catching up to what Gerard said when he opened the door. "Who's Mikes?"

"I don't see what's so nifty about it." Gerard doesn't mean to sound like he's sulking, but, well. He stands up to pour himself some tea, raking his fingers through the almost-dry mess of his hair as he looks back over his shoulder at Jimmy and raises his eyebrows pointedly. "Mikes is my brother. Like I said, he'll be back in a little while. And you don't need to talk to Robert. Whatever it is, we can handle it. There's no need to get Mr. High and Mighty involved."

"Is there issue with said Mr-High-and-Mighty?" Jimmy carves out a smile around the mouth of his bottle, glancing toward the couch again when Frank raises his head, eyes sleepy and hair snarled, Hick, Dick and Dock peeking up to see (smell) who the new person is. "Looks like your little friend's come back to the world of the living."

Frank does not look amused.

"What's your brother's power?" Jimmy continues, as if Frank's waking was absolutely nothing. "I figure since you're all inherently serpenty, then there's something up with him, too. Lemme guess... he's a biter?"

Gerard just finishes sweetening his tea as Jimmy and Frank encounter each other, and takes a sip before observing, his hips leaned back against the edge of the counter, "You're not nearly as stupid as you look, you know. And if you want shit actually accomplished without fuckin' special ops getting air lifted in or whatever the fuck, it'd probably be a good idea not to tell Robert. I'd also probably keep your involvement with Patton to yourself around him, unless you want to see just how good your super special regenerative powers of awesome are. He gets pissy where his- Where Jess is concerned."

"Is it the hair?" Jimmy makes an attempt to maul it down on top of his head, setting his beer on the table. "So you know her too, huh? Yeah, Patton nuked her a good one. Uncool man, that babe is hot. I'm gonna talk to him anyway, let him know he's on the shitlist. But if you think you can pull this mother off without him, dude. Be my guest. I can get you in." He tips his head to the side, eyes narrow. "Why did you use a possessive when it came to her? Does Downey keep her on a leash or something?"

Frank rolls off the couch and shambles toward the kitchen, briefly muttering against the side of Gerard's neck before helping himself to some of Gee's tea. "Who's this asshole?"

"He basically abducted her and now she's his, like. Live in sex kitten. Literally." Gerard curls an arm around Frank's waist without even seeming to realize that he's done it, holding him close to the side of his body as Frank finishes off the end of his mug of tea. He doesn't look away from Jimmy until after he's squinted contemplatively at him for a moment and concluded, without a trace of sarcasm, "It's mostly your face." Then he ducks his head to kiss the space just below Frank's earlobe, nuzzling against the warmth of his skin as he says quietly, "This is Jimmy. He's gonna help us kill that Patton asshole. How'd you sleep?"

"Terrible." Frank sets the cup in the sink, all but inviting Gerard into a hug, while Jimmy rolls his eyes and works on his beer. For now, Frank's content to be near Gerard, to feel the solid weight of his body, and listen to what dickhead-with-the-bad-hair has to say.

"Dude, wouldn't you, if you could? Seriously? I'd totally tap that if, like. She wasn't someone's live-in sex kitten. I'd totally take my chances." He belches again, rocking back in his chair, eying the snakes in Frank's hair with something like suspicion, even as they're doing the same to him. "Okay, man? If you're part snake, tell those little things to stop staring at me. They've got weird little google-eyes." He hefts his feet up on the chair across from him, looking from the folder with Frank's picture clipped to the outside, and to Frank himself. "So, your boyfriend here gave me a demo of what he can do. Can I get the same from you?"

"No."

"Right then. Well, Gerard Way, since Franklin-"

"Frank." Usually Frank's a morning-afternoon-evening cheerful person, but not after a nap that was jagged with dreams of stone and sledgehammers and death. Frankly (no pun intended), he's grumpy, though Gerard's touch definitely helps.

"-Frank is being a douche and doesn't want to play super-power-peekaboo, you wanna call this Bryar dude and see what we can hash out? Do you have a laptop or a computer or something I can use?"

Gerard snickers softly as he hides his nose against Frank's hair, sliding a soothing hand up Frank's back to try and get him to calm down before anything in the apartment gets a surprise granite makeover. "I'm the one who's part snake, by the way. Frank's just a gorgon, they're pretty much accessories. And you can use Mikey's laptop, if you can figure out how to make it work. I don't want you to, like, get weird counter-agent cooties on my desktop or anything. Also it's, you know... Half put together."

"Yeah. I just want something that's not going to be traced back to mine, you know? Also, you, uh. Might want to throw up a mental shield or something. Chances are good that Das Uberbitch is crawling around in at least one of you, right now, and that would mean we're all gonna be pretty fucking dead, you know?"

Frank's all but dozing off on Gerard's shoulder again, comfortable against the soft cotton of his t-shirt and his familiar cool-warm touch, so Jimmy doesn't have to worry about him. And he's not sure how much of Gerard Rebecka can read, but best to warn him, anyway.

"I don't even know where to start... I was thinking I could bring you guys in as like, my prison bitches or whatever, just to get you inside the building. Or into the lab, or whatever it is that you need to take care of, and from there... do your thing. I'll just, you know. Stay back and try not to get blood on me. Deal?"

Gerard's blink is somewhat disbelieving, and his eyebrows creep up his forehead again before he can force himself to settle and ask, somewhat amused, "You any good with that gun? It'd be useful if we didn't have to do everything ourselves. Frank gets headaches."

Frank mutters something against Gerard's shoulder, arms loose around his waist, his attention span (along with his consciousness) all but gone.

"Yeah, I'm okay with it. I mean, we're trained on this shit for self-defense or whatever. Doesn't mean I like them. And besides, what use would I have for a gun when I'm just gonna spit the bullet out anyway, you know?" Jimmy finishes his beer, picking absently at the label, and mentions, "Wanna get me that laptop?"

"It's over there," Gerard points helpfully, before curling both of his arms carefully around Frank's middle to keep him standing as he starts to snore softly against the side of Gerard's neck. He offers Jimmy a closemouthed little smile before saying quietly, "Make yourself at home."

Jimmy gets a promotion. It's just one of those days.

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 19:27:40 GMT

Late evening, September 30, 2008

He's called into Lindemann's office even before he's given the opportunity to have a fucking shower or change his clothes, and he can smell that rotten shit-for-brains Patton's brains (shit for brains, they smell bad, get it? HUR HUR.) on his skin, spattered on his clothes, and there's some vile, disgusting red stain on his stomach from where Patton's head (or what was left of it, HIGH FIVE THERE, ROBERT DOWNEY JUNIOR, YOU ARE THE MAN.) had lolled when Jimmy had dragged him out of that equally disgusting hotel room. Plus, the techs had taken like, 98% of his blood to save that asshole. Asshole. He gets to come back to life and I get to stand around like a wounded damsel with a fucking bruise under my wicked-ass tattoos. Fr srs. Do not want.

It also doesn't help that his German kind of sounds like an eel getting strangled by a mongoose or something, and if they think they can haul his skinny old ass in here after dealing with UGH and SPLOOSH and BRAINS, then Jimmy doesn't give a shit if he loafs in one of Lindemann's expensive chairs. Gore-be-damned.

"We've decided to promote you," Lindemann says, turning in his chair. "In light of the events of earlier today, as well as your special... ability," Which they have on record, documents and samples and DNA, what the fuck, right? "Myself and a few others have decided that you will take Herr Patton's position, now that he is... indisposed, so to speak."

"You mean, while his grey matter gathers itself back together, right?" Jimmy's words are stilted, badly accented, but he understands German better than he speaks it. He knows what's next, who's next. He's going to have to finish Patton's job. What the fuck.

Herr Doktor Lindemann slides a case across the desk to Jimmy. "Inside is your laptop, the files you will require, and a list of names. Your kit will be delivered to your loft shortly. If you could take care of this posthaste, we will make sure it was worth your while."

With that, Jimmy's dismissed to do whatever it is that he needs to do. And he needs a shower, some clean clothes, a beer. Many beers. "Danke," Jim mutters, ambling out of the office.

It's only after spending nearly an hour under blistering hot water that he slouches at his computer desk, flipping the iMac open to look at the tasks.

Robert John Downey Jr - intuitive knowledge
Jessica Marie Stam - aleuranthropy
William George Zane - telepathy
Robert Cory Bryar - pyrogenesis
Gerard Arthur Way - naga, inherent snakelike traits, constrictor
Franklin Anthony Iero - gorgon
Ryan Phillippe - adaptability
America Georgina Ferrera - weather control
Taylor Kitsch - kinetic energy

**The above are scheduled for immediate termination. Please see to it that this is taken care of. ~TL

Great. Killing people. He hasn't even finished unkilling stupid fucking Patton, and they're sending Jim after more people. He carefully shields his thoughts from Rebecka, wondering how the fuck he can get out of this mess. This wasn't what he signed up for. The first name on the list makes him stop. Maybe he can talk to Downey, or Phillippe. They're powerful, right? Maybe they have some kind of sooper-seekrit plan to take down these people who, at one point welcomed him, made him feel less like an anomaly, and now want him to turn around on his own kind (like they're some kind of neatokeen specimen, tarantulas or scorpions or something like that) and kill them. And he's sure that at least one of the people on this list would like to know that Patton's been unkilled. Hm. Where to start. Judging from the majority of the addresses on the shitlist, Jimmy thinks he'll start at the ground floor of Downey Enterprises and work his way up to the top.