<<< King of the Hill, [BH team 2 sparring thread]

Time of Day: 5:30am
Place in Timeline: October 21st

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Early morning. Sizzling bacon, toast, fried eggs, dawn chorus- godforsaken birds twittering non stop, that big old ball of plasma burning low on the horizon. Alarm clock shrieking. Most people hated it. Primal didn’t really give a crap…mostly he spent the nocturnal hours doing the lone predator routine and thus morning was far more like evening to him; this night hadn’t been any different, although he had spent the most part lounging around on a rooftop and deliberating the meaning of life. Well. Not really. But he had been lounging, and deliberating…although the subject matter wasn’t quite as existential.

The reptilian had currently taken up residence in the Control Room, albeit briefly; all security systems were bunched together in a muss of wires and a panel of television screens that continually rolled footage of the base and its occupants. All of which were happily tucked up under their blankets…sucking thumbs, drooling, dreamily muttering like the tiny little terrorist tots they were. All the screens were inordinately annoying, especially since Primal couldn’t see shit, but screw it; he wasn’t there to watch some psycho slideshow anyhow.

Murderworld had a complex intercom system which was wired into every room, every dorm, every bunk, so that when the powers that be wanted to give everyone a wake up call they could do it right into their ears, and at horrifying volumes. Nothing like being woken up by some obnoxious authoritarian figure. In this case, said power was an irate reptilian with orders from on high. Ok, he had been told to give them a head’s up since one week previous to him smashing a palm against the big red button and squawking at them, but fuck it, they could bitch and moan all they liked. This was a terrorist organisation, not a freaking hotel.

“Get the fuck out of bed you nasty motherfuckers. Jesse, Camera, Black Tom, Balam, Pyro, Sunspot, Cutter… haul those ugly asses into the training room, asap,” he snarled, and then strode towards the hanger-sized dojo that was nestled deep in the bowels of the headquarters.

Tom was awakened by a screeching alarm and the not-so-pleasant voice of Primal. It was like the voice of God booming in on him, if God was a snide and bitter teenager. “Get the fuck out of bed you nasty motherfuckers. Jesse, Camera, Black Tom, Balam, Pyro, Sunspot, Cutter… haul those ugly asses into the training room, ASAP,” Primal spat.

It was much too early for this shit. “I’ve had many compliments on my ass,” Tom groaned.

He rose from bed and rubbed his eyes sleepily. It was a good thing he hadn’t been out very late the previous night. It paid off to be a home-body once in a while. Primal had told them to go to the training room. Tom had seen it and even been inside it. He’d never used it, though. It seemed that this morning would be a first. If they were going to be doing exercises or some sort of physical activity, Tom wanted to dress the part and not ruin any clothes that he had a particular attachment to. He slipped into raggedy jeans and a ribbed tank top; a staple of Cassidy’s wardrobe. His feet slid into an old pair of trainers, only God knows where these came from because Tom couldn’t remember.

Tom walked into the training room with his shillelagh across his shoulders and a hand on either end. He flexed his muscles slightly as he strutted in. “We gonna have a right old scrap this morning?” he asked to anyone in general.

Tom lowered the fighting stick and tapped it gently a few times on the floor. The sound was hollow in the expansive room. He scratched absentmindedly at the scab on his shoulder. It hadn’t healed and was thick, dark and very ugly. Tom had taken the brunt of a few fights lately. At Wolf’s Head he’d taken a few bruises in the fight with his cousin. Sean, the bastard, had broken Tom’s nose. It wasn’t as if he was in pristine condition anyway. It had hurt like a mother but was set easily and was not tender any more. If they were fighting today it would be good practice for Black Tom Cassidy, no matter the outcome.

Jason loved his sleep. Midnight, his usual bedtime, was his most dear moment of his night. Sleep was the bliss of ignorance and peace. There was nothing more pleasant. Though Jason was capable of pulling an all-nighter, his sleep hours were far too sacred for him to skip for anything but the most important of tasks. At the moment, Jason was enjoying a dream about lots and lots of food. He would never be able to remember the specifics, but he knew that everything he could ever desire for foodstuffs was in front of him, and if anybody else dared to so much as smell some, he was armed with a shotgun.

Make. My. Day.

The sharp, loud buzzing noise jolted Cutter out of his sleep so violently that he cracked his head on his bedpost. "Son of a bitch!" The voice booming in his ears didn't help matters in the slightest. He'd gone from deep sleep to wide awake in an instant, but was far from pleased. But the voice had said something about the training room... Guess he'd better go see what's going on.

He quickly got dressed in a dark-grey tshirt and jeans, layering it with a black Nightmare Before Christmas hoodie, complete with Jack Skellington's grinning face. He was halfway down the hall when he realized that he'd probably be asked to train in the training room. Duh... He wasn't in any rush, though. At this evil hour, he couldn't give a damn who was waiting. Walking back to his room, Jason gathered his various knives and made his way to the training room.

His only detour was to the kitchen for toast.

As he walked into the large training room, Jason opted not to look at anyone as he found a nice spot of wall and rested his back against it, sliding to the floor as he did so. His left arm, a month later, had healed somewhat but he wasn't sure if it was up to the stress of a real training session. Actually, he was sure it wouldn't be able to take the stress of even a mild workout, but it wasn't like he was about to back out. He'd find a way to work around the problem.

Granted the oh so wide spectrum of mutant manifestations, people who could fly, breathe fire, even twist traffic light poles into pretty bows and mega-sized paper clips, you would think, that maybe, for one motherfucking second, someone could take heightened hearing into consideration. The strange and most definitely twisted individual that had designed Murderworld certainly hadn’t, and Mastermind hadn’t given it a second thought when she took over. This ridiculous sound system could probably be heard all the way from Canada. So much for covert. So much for secret. Then again, the entrance to this den of assassins rested in the gaping mouth of Pennywise’s demented uncle.

Sometimes, Jara took a moment to stand back and wonder just how low she had fallen.

“Get the fuck out of bed you nasty motherfuckers. Jesse, Camera, Black Tom, Balam, Pyro, Sunspot, Cutter… haul those ugly asses into the training room, asap!”

Answer: pretty fucking low

Her hair was a mess, tussled over her face and pillow like a rippling umber curtain of tangles, like one of those Garnier shampoo commercials. Except there was no obnoxiously perky music accompanying her every move. Just some scaly-assed idiot who’d learned how to use the intercom. Luckily, Jara had taken it upon herself, first thing when she’d arrived at Murderworld, to tear out the excess of speakers in her room and leave only one in a far, distant corner. She was already a light sleeper, conditioning herself to wake up and dive for the ground and the gun under her bed at the slightest sound. When you killed people for a living, it wasn’t a stretch to consider that someone else out there might make a buck or two from shooting your brains out.
Blowing her eardrums out wasn't necessary.

But she could think of a few dozen better ways to wake up than having that obnoxious growling British accent barking into your ears.

“Fea la puta que te pario,” she muttered into her pillow sarcastically, but regardless, pushed herself out of bed. The floor of her room was bitterly cold against her bare feet, the air no more welcoming. But the drastic change from cozy bed sheets to stagnant morgue-quality air was enough to wake Jara up in moments. The lighting in her room was scarce, but enough for her cat-like night vision to kick in. She pulled out the clothes she needed from her dresser, tossing her sleepwear into her laundry hamper and dressing without fuss. She liked keeping her room clean, evidenced by the fact that she wasn’t tripping on anything and her feet didn’t stick to the floor like in some places in this God-forsaken madhouse. Unlike some of the other slobs in this place that allowed their detritus to overflow into the far reaches of the compound and common areas like an invading army of disorder and decay.

That’s right, boys, kill the baselines with your horrific hygienic qualities. Drown them in kipple. Hope they’ll slip and break their necks on a mountain of discarded banana peels. Life’s just one big Looney Tunes show, and we’re working with Acme products.

Slipping out of her room quietly, she eased her door shut with a nudge of her hip, gathering her hair into a quick ponytail at the back of her head. Granted the language of the activity—training session, as opposed to simulation, she figured bringing any guns along or your standard Kevlar armor would venture into overkill. Yoga pants would do, along with a good-fitting tank and a light zippered jacket. It offered nothing in terms of protection, but at the very least her morphing would be quicker without that extra fluff to absorb. As she made her way to the training room, she ate one protein bar after the other; there was no time to get a decent breakfast, something with enough protein and iron and muscle fiber in it, so she had to settle for this fig and granola garbage. Jara hated it and made no efforts to hide her displeasure, making faces and grimacing with each bite, managing it down with a swig of water from her bottle. God, she wanted to brush her teeth again.

When she entered the training room, only a few of the summoned had arrived. Of course, it was still early. And the shock from the jet engine early morning reception probably put a few into catatonic shock. Jara’s ears were still buzzing. Throwing the protein bar wrappers into a nearby trashcan, she dug into the pockets of her jacket, pulling out an old pair of red gloves and slipping them on. Her palms took plenty of abuse, especially when she went around as a feline. Asphalt, concrete, rubble and debris, she essentially walked over everything on bare feet. Her hands were scratched and scarred and none too pretty. God forgive her for having a little vanity. Flexing her fingers and giving the delicate network of muscles in them a good warm up, she drew out and sheathed her claws, studying each motion and making sure the razor-sharp nails didn’t snag in her own flesh. The dark-haired boy was keeping to himself, and like always, he wreaked of blood. His scent lingered behind the path he’d walked, wafting slowly towards Jara. She held her breath and went for another part of the room. And there was Tom. Picking at his scab.

“You people have the self-preservation instincts of a Twinkie,” she muttered aloud, but drowned the rest of her sentiments with a final gulp of water. The wait for the rest of their merry troupe would be a long one.

At this time of day, it would be common to enter whatever house and find everyone inside sleeping still, the case was not the same in the place called Murderworld. The location where the mutant terrorist organization known as the Brotherhood stayed. Called terrorist by the human leaders of the world and depicted as evil. While it was true that many of the members within this organization would be the traditional depictions of what people would consider evil, there were a few that did not really fit that image. One of them was the mutant standing on the roof of the complex as he watched the ring of the morning sun only start to rise but the moon still had dominance over the sky at the moment and the night overtook the light. Roberto da Costa, former X-Men and former Black King of the Hellfire Club, was his name. True, he had a temper....a very hot temper, but he was not evil. He did not want to slaughter humans and put them to extinction, he did not want to harm innocent humans, he did not want to be evil but to be in an organization like this he had to play his part and suppress these feelings of his deep within him. It was his choice, as he viewed it, a necessary choice. He had seen and tried to better life for mutants through other means but none of it worked. It was like in history, no drastic change ever happens without force and conflict. Conflict would be definitely needed.

He had been awake for only ten minutes now as he usually did but since not that many people were awake at that time, they failed to notice. Sunspot, a mutant who absorbed solar radiation, wanted to watch the sun rise. He loved the sun, probably a side effect of his mutation. He wanted to absorb the sun's rays to "fill his solar tank" for the day but the distant ring of the sun was hardly enough for his body to absorb any of it. It did not matter though as Roberto used the moon for the same purposes. Moonlight was nothing else but refracted light which could also be used. His body did this naturally thus he did not have to worry about consciously absorbing any energy. While his "tank was filling up in lightning fast speeds, he still felt tired, sleepy. It was still 5:30 in the morning, of course it would be normal to feel a little tired.

The beds of this place were sort of useless though as they were hard and very uncomfortable, in comparison. It was strange, here he was a very rich Brazilian mutant man and he hardly used his money to improve his situation. Warren Worthington were on the same boat as each other and similarly rich and he had a penthouse, while 'Berto didn't. He was probably one of the dumbest rich people in the world. While it was a hassle, this did not particularly bother him too much. True, being rich had its perks but he didn't really care for it. Being a multi-millionaire playboy was very...boring to him.

He picked the wrong spot to stand on the roof as the speakers, which were located right next to Roberto's positioning, suddenly blared with Primal's voice causing the Brazilian to instantly cover his ears and press down to block down much of the noise. He still heard the message but he was left with an annoying ringing in his head. Apparently he didn't press hard enough, and he could press harder, waaaaay harder. Sunspot shook his head briefly as he was trying to rid his head of the noise which echoed repeatedly within and jumped down the roof onto the concrete floor below using heat to keep him from flat out slamming onto the ground.

Sunspot entered the building and walked down the halls towards the training room. It seemed a bit early to do anything really but it was something he had to do as a part of this organization. He was dressed for training and combat. Not none of those flashy suits he wore with the X-Men but he was dressed with lightweight material. He did not wear any of his shirts as he didn't think he had any shirts that would not burn and deteriorate if he solarized. His pants were training pants mostly used for jogging but he knew they were molecularly unstable to wistand his solarization process. He did not wear shoes for a few reasons, one: as a child he had often walked around without any shoes and being barefoot just felt comfortable, two: he did not feel like going back to his room and finding unstable shoes, and three: he had better movement without shoes.

The obviously muscular slammed open the doors of the training room revealing his presence to those within. There weren't that many yet apparently and it seemed they were going to play the waiting game since everybody within the room looked to be..waiting. "Merda, just what I needed in the morning, a dino voice blaring into my ears. Mãe de Deus, the sun's not even up yet" Sunspot said as he placed his hand over his face and pulled down trying to get rid of the sleep that his body still kind of desired.

Whatever they were going to do would be great for 'Berto though. Due to what happened a few weeks ago to his company in Mutant Town and those bastard Reavers, he needed to release his anger somewhere and he hadn't really been able to recently. His hidden intention was to pound on some people here in revenge for their apathy in helping Sunspot in his time of need. They don't help humans. Some so called comrades they were. None of these inner feelings reached past his inner self though as he demonstrated a perfect calm man. This would do him some good.

God she was hot. A firm, plump little but, luscious thighs, long legs. A flat belly, ample breasts, a wicked smile. She even wore one of those little skirts that showed off the lower curve of her ass and stockings that came up to mid-thigh. She leaned in close to him, her hand pressing on his chest, urging him to lay down as her legs parted, straddling his lap. The corners of of his lips ticked into a greedy grin as he was laid down onto the bed, his elbows propping him up. He watched her hungrily as she made her way down to his loins, her hands working at the zipper. He exhaled contently. It was about friggin time he got laid. She looked up to him, still grinning that wicked smile. He still watched her, his grin spreading across his entire face from ear to ear. Her tongue traced her lower lip and then she spoke:

"Get the fuck out of bed you nasty motherfuckers. Jesse, Camera, Black Tom, Balam, Sunspot, Cutter... haul those ugly asses into the training room, asap."

Pyro's eyes shot open, bloodshot and crusted with the Sandman's dust. He shifted awkwardly, supressing the arrousal he got from his own dreams. What a sad shithead he was... He groaned painfully. What the fuck were they waking up so early for? That dick wasn't his parents, they didn't have a designated bedtime. If he had known that scaley purse was going to wake them up, Pyro would've gone to bed at 12 rather than 4.

Hearing the movement of the other people slowly moving down the hallways with groans and yawns, John soon lifted his face from his pillow. Dammit... Really? Shifting so that his legs would be off the edge of the bed before his body, St. John sat up. His burn-cut hair was a mess. No doubt rats would take to living there as soon as he went back to sleep. He could use a shower, maybe even brush his teeth. Gods know how many cavities he must have with his sweet-tooth raping the land of all the chocolates and gummis he could get his hands on. Leaning over towards the little bed-side desk he had, he opened a drawer and pulled out a bag of the delightful treats. This time, chocolate-covered raisins. Sweet and gentle on the tooth, nothing too hard this morning.

He then took the time to dress himself. All he wore to bed were his boxers, if he was lucky enough to not take them off when he did his pants the previous night. Just tugging on a pair of sweatpants, pulling the string tight so they didn't fall, and tucking the candies in his pockets, John looked around. A simple little room with hardly anything in it. Most of his clothes were in a pile... Maybe he'd ask Jara to clean them for him.

Eyes half-closed, teary from yawning multiple times, St. John got up and reached for the only clean shirt he still had. It was a white shirt he had stolen from some thrift store. On the front it had Tony The Tiger with the words "THEY'RE GREAT!" underneath his picture. Pulling it on, he found a pair of socks, sat on the bed, and put them and his shoes on.

Grabbing his lighter, he made his way to the training room they were told to go to by that asshole raptor. He didn't like Primal. He always had a thing against raptors. Nasty creatures, especially the British ones. Australians and raptors just don't get along.

By the time he made his way into the training room, he picked up some spanish and something about the survivability of snacks.

"You brought Twinkies, shiela?" he asked, fishing a few chocolate-covered raisins into his mouth. He glanced at those who were here. Black Tom was here -- that guy was cool. Roberto was there -- that rich bastard. Jara seemed pissed off already, so he wasn't even going to think mean about her. Then there was Cutter, who wore a hoodie from a movie that made his stomach want to purge itself.

"Where's Godzilla? Shouts like a dingo t' get us here and he's all... not here."

There she was relaxing on a hill looking down as a massive chaotic scene that used to be a city. On a blanket wearing sunglasses to shield her eyes from the fires that blazed below. Camera turned her head to the man sitting next to her. She couldn’t tell who it was but his lips moved. The blonde tilted her head and said, “What? Say that again, baby.” The lips on his face moved and the words that came out were…

"Get the fuck out of bed you nasty motherfuckers. Jesse, Camera, Black Tom, Balam, Sunspot, Cutter...”

Camera laid on her bed, her eyes quickly opened and her brows lowered. “…haul those ugly asses into the training room, asap." With an aggravated sigh she sat up and looked at the clock. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” The blonde rolled her eyes and got out of her bed. Quickly she changed from something that really wasn’t suited for the training rooms to something more appropriate… ish.

The photographic mutant walked to the training room and when she entered, she made a small stretch. Seeing that Primal himself was not in the training room Camera spoke, “He’s got noo room to be callin any of us ugly.” She gave a dreamy sigh, “I was in the middle of a lovely dream too.” She soaked in the memory of her dream for a moment before the blonde snapped out of it. “Why are we up this early anyways? Dino had better gotten us up for a very good reason”

The blonde pronounced ‘Dino’ like the pet dinosaur on the Flintstone’s. He probably wouldn’t like it but Camera didn’t care. He was like Dino anyways being half dinosaur. Not as charismatic, or friendly, but it was funny all the same. The little joys she could take at such a bitch of an hour made her happy.

“Get the fuck out of bed you nasty motherfuckers. Jesse, Camera, Black Tom, Balam, Pyro, Sunspot, Cutter… haul those ugly asses into the training room, asap,”

“What the fuck,” Jesse howled as she punched her pillow. There was no question who's voice it was blaring through the loudspeaker, and there was no question what she was going to do for exercise for the next two hours. “I'm gonna kick his fucking goddamn ass,” she threw back the covers and rolled out of bed, landing on the floor with a loud thud before slowly climbing to her feet. Oh... she'd kick his scaly ass... as soon as she could see well enough to find it.

The only time she'd seen 5:30 in the morning was during her stay at a hotel in Chicago last year; her neighbors were newlyweds. They started going at it around 11:30 and after having to endure an hour of that, she'd gone to see a movie. It took them nearly seven hours to actually fall asleep; Jesse had been ready to kill the couple. Not only had the woman been noisy, but when you were empathically aware of their emotions and what they felt... seven hours of experiencing newlywed bliss like secondhand smoke without getting any of your own was enough to drive anyone crazy.

The blonde grudgingly shoved her legs in the pair of jeans pooled on the floor beside her and quickly threw on the first T-shirt she could get her hands on. Yet despite her state of morning fogginess, she still had the presence of mind to throw some cat food in her cat's bowl, aware that the feline was annoyed at her owner for the crass voice that had startled her so much and determined that the only way she could be appeased was with an early morning meal of turkey in gravy. It was her favorite. “Be back in about half an hour, baby... right after I put a lizard in the ground.”

---

The door flow open, slamming hard against the wall as the blonde came striding in with a look that would melt ice, “Where is he!? Where the fucking hell is he?” Baby blue eyes scanned the room, jumping from one person to the next; she'd only met a couple of them. The Auzzie with flame-throwing action... she'd never talked to the guy, but he looked like a tool. The fake blonde she'd caught eyeing her more than her fat old grody neighbor... if she gets withing blunt instrument swinging range, do the whole damn complex a favor. Some brunette girl in yoga pants... hadn't seen her before, but as she caught her scent, she sensed something familiar and kindred – that didn't set too well with her. Tom... at least one person she could get along-

“You,” she spat vehemently as her baby blues landed on the reptilian who had woken her so early. “What the fuck is this. Do you have any idea what time it is? I swear to fucking god if you don't open that shithole you call a mouth and give me a goddamn good reason why I'm standing here, I'm gonna fuck it with your own tail.”

What, were they blind? As if within the space of making the trek from the Control Room, which really wasn’t very far from the cavernous training area, Primal would have dragged his feet so deliberately that everyone he had snapped at to move their sorry behinds out of bed would have arrived there well before him…right. Like he couldn’t walk five minutes down the hallway.

Hands cracked over Pyro and Camera’s skulls near simultaneously, each thrown a withering look. “Get some fucking glasses, retards.”

The sounds of bitching blathering around those gathered wasn’t very inspiring, to say the least. Like a group of little old women complaining about their colostomy bags.

“Quit whinging, you idiots sound like a bunch of freakin’ Chinese toddlers bein’ forced to do child labour,” Primal snapped. There was an abrupt explosion of blonde hair and shrieking, cutting the dinosaur short; a scowl shot across his features-- he really wasn’t ready to put up with any shit right now. Unreadable amethyst pools stared levelly at Jesse as she hissed and fizzed and spat like a tiny little feline having a spaz attack. Cute. He rounded on the female feral with a sneer.

“For one, you ain’t got a fucking chance in all of high freakin heaven of even being able to lay a hand on my tail without me breaking every bone in that worthless little body,” he bit off tail as if it personally offended him. “And for two; what the fuck do you think you are doing in this goddamn organisation if when at the first sign of any work you turn into a pissy little bitch with a stick up her ass for havin to actually lift a fucking pinkie. You better get into goddamn line before I shove my hand down your throat and rip out the silver spoon lodged in yer throat n take some of your innards along with it.”

His annoyance turned on the rest of the group, fuelled by the gas of Jesse’s dramatic little tantrum.

“You all look like a pathetic bunch of retards, bitching and moaning, well boo fucking hoo. This place isn’t a hotel. It’s not someplace to crash; it’s not a goddamn dorm room. And like it or not, you all take orders from me, and I ain’t taking any bullshit- if you really want to cry to someone about it like the whiny girls you are, go take it up with Magneto. Of course, you could just grow some balls and deal with it.”

Without waiting for anyone to reply, looking as though he would all out tear the limbs from the body of the next person who tried to throw him a smart remark, Primal turned and began stalking towards the west end of the room.

“Jesse, Camera, Sunspot…you’re with me. Two teams, two corners. Use those brilliant freaking imaginations which I’m sure you’ve put into play at night all those lonely times when the only companion you have is Larry or Bertha, the faithful pillow. There’s an hour on the clock. Whichever team has the middle ground aka the hill by the time the hour is up, wins. That teams also gotta keep control of their own corner.

“Since if someone dies it’s my responsibility, try not to kill anyone. Start whenever you decide that you’re part of the Brotherhood, or get the fuck out of Murderworld.”

The training room was a simple little thing, like much of the interior of their improvised terrorist complex. All grays and whites and unflattering lines that must have taken their inspiration from Soviet construction in the 1980s. It was a decent-enough space, but not for eight less than friendly mutants to accomplish anything. Especially with Mr. I Cut Myself brooding to himself on the floor. His left arm must have still been a bit bloody. His scent carried an almost permanent sweet metallic tinge, hovering over him like cheap corner drugstore cologne and invading the airspace. She glared at the young mutant, her stomach giving little pangs of protest. Three protein bars? Fucking blasphemy. She wasn’t a damn gerbil. Sure, there were people in the room, but what could they honestly do if they wanted to stop her? Well, Tom could blast her through a wall, Primal maybe lodge one of his overgrown toe nails in her skull, but would they bother? I mean, honestly. Inflicting self-damage to activate a power? What the fuck kind of mutation was that? He’d be half dead after an hour of fighting, a burden on the group, dead weight to be distributed among their able-bodied members. And the kid certainly wasn’t winning any awards in the personality department. Just another moody self-absorbed Generation Y brat. She could snap his neck and no one would care. And they’d all learn that Jara could be a very charming and likeable person on a full stomach. Her muscles tensed, ready to spring, until the rest of their troupe arrived and made their loud, ‘hey, look at me!’ entrances. Jara couldn’t give a rat’s ass what Camera was dreaming (so long as she herself wasn’t making any cameos…). And Sunspot… she didn’t know why, but she just couldn’t stand the man. They hadn’t really interacted, at least not to her general knowledge, but she felt this surge of rancor and accusation when she looked at him, like he’d done something to her... yeah. He’d friggin’ interrupted her breakfast plans.

So there was Cutter. Still breathing. And with the new, noisy arrivals, their smells spread throughout the training room, diluting that one, delicious scent that made her mouth water. She didn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed.

"You brought Twinkies, shiela?"

Yeah, we’ll go with the latter. She turned her head only the slightest, giving Pyro a scathing look.

“What? … Would it kill you to brush your teeth?” she spat derisively, covering her nose and mouth with a hand. Her expression was one of unmitigated disgust as she caught a whiff of his oh so glorious morning breath. Balam moved away before it could melt her eyebrows off.

Arms crossed over her chest, she began focusing on her senses, getting them acclimated to the growing amount of stimuli in the room. Seven scents. Seven voices. And each none too quiet. Her ears eventually stopped ringing, a blessing from on high; Jara greatly appreciated it when Jesse came storming in with her bitchy tirade, and of course, Primal the Unfriendly Dinosaur had to match it. Maybe it was the time of day. Maybe it was her empty stomach. But Jara remained silent, discreetly pressing a finger down on one ear to drown out the bedlam made by the two other ferals. Christ, this was a summer camp for psychotic five year olds. The rest of the words spoken from there on were simply tuned out, looking as annoyed and grumpy as ever. Let the Jurrasic Park reject think he’s in control. Then poison his food later. When he began dividing their group, however, Balam quickly focused. She looked over her teammates and tried, albeit not too successfully, to hide her displeasure. Black Tom, as charming as he was, was already battered and probably due for a little oxygen tank on wheelies soon. Pyro was going to burn everything in sight. And Cutter… well, it looked like she was going to get to eat him anyway. That thought absolutely brightened her face with a pleasant smile. She would’ve even wagged her tail, but Balam had some self-respect.

“There’s an hour on the clock. Whichever team has the middle ground aka the hill by the time the hour is up, wins. That teams also gotta keep control of their own corner. Since if someone dies it’s my responsibility, try not to kill anyone. Start whenever you decide that you’re part of the Brotherhood, or get the fuck out of Murderworld.”

Mhmm. No killing. Sure. Will do. Oh, and by the way, I’m going on a vegan diet today. Wish me luck.

“Just try not to bleed, m’ijitos,” she called out in a sing-song voice, migrating to the eastern portion of the room.

After Jesse came in and raved at Primal the morning was complete. Everyone was in a bad mood and the palpable tension hung in the air. Teamwork amongst this group of misfits was going to be tenuous at best. The combination of powers within the room was a hodge-podge anyway, but Primal split them into two squads. The game was to gain the most land while still holding onto your home base. It was simple in concept but working toward that goal? It would be difficult. Tom was the oldest in the room and these spry little whelps would probably run circles around him. Tom felt that his age difference wasn’t going keep him out of the fight though. He hoped he could be creative enough to stir up some trouble.

Tom’s team consisted of Pryo, the Australian firebug. Then there was the Caribbean feline, Balam. The team was rounded by the by the introspective and emotive Cutter. Their team was as diverse as the United Nations. Tom hoped that Cutter’s use of his powers wouldn’t drive Jara into a feeding frenzy. “I’ll try to keep that in mind, lass.”

They walked to their respective corners. Tom smacked his fighting stick in his palm as they walked. “We’ll have to try and take as much of the hill as possible while defending our home turf. Pyro, would a curtain of fire be effective? That might hinder us as well. The smoke could wind up killing us,” he said.

Tom wanted to do well in this exercise. It could be fun and a great way to loosen up. He was still harboring some resentment about not getting to kill his cousin at Wolf’s Head. It would serve as a nice therapy session. He also didn’t want to give anyone ideas that would burn the entire compound the ground. Tom would need a place to lay his head for the nap he knew he would need soon after the training session.

Jason wasn't as annoyed with the fact that he was up at an ungodly hour as he was listening to everybody whine about it. Couldn't they all just be calm and quiet? As if they could change anything just because they were mad about it. At the moment, all Jason wanted was to complete whatever objective was asked of him and perhaps go back to sleep. Everybody raising all this hell wasn't getting anybody what they wanted; it would only get everybody more upset.

Once the blond woman burst into the room screaming at the top of her lungs, Jason pulled his hood over his head in a futile attempt to keep her screeching out of his head. Then Primal started shouting back. The tougher than thou attitude that was being tossed about did nothing but annoy the young mutant and in the frontal pocket, he idly opened and closed a smallish folding knife. He almost wished he'd brought his ipod with him. At least then he could blast his ears with something pleasant.

He'd almost started tuning them all out when Primal explained the rules to the game, and Jason paid only enough attention to pick out the important bits. Sort of a mix between King of the Hill and Capture the Flag. Don't kill each other. A whole hour. What kind of fight really lasted that long?

Whatever. The teams were designated, and Jason stood, pulling his hood back down as he started toward his team's corner. Balam's voice sang out a short distance behind him and he resisted the urge to look at her, to see if she was talking about him. He knew she was. He was pretty sure the feral could still smell blood on him, even though it had been at least a day and he'd taken a shower. It was just as obvious that she didn't fully understand his powers. While it was necessary for him to open his skin for a few parts of his mutation, he was capable of using his powers without cutting himself.

Black Tom, apparently the most experienced, started the strategic talk. "Why don't we hold off on the wall of fire until we see if the other team gets past our front lines?" He fell quiet for a moment. He felt inclined to volunteer to help guard the corner, but that was rather selfish. While he really didn't want to further damage his arm, he was supposed to be part of a team. A little pain wouldn't stop him. As apparently everybody was aware, he dealt with pain on a semi-regular basis.

Sticking in his two cents, Jason spoke again. "Pyro and Black Tom could stay and guard the corner. Your powers are ranged, so you can still give support in taking the center."

St. John winced as he felt the sharp impact of a set of boney knuckles strike against the back of his skull. While the girl Camera was struck nearly at the same time, Pyro barely had a moment to catch that withering glare the reptilian man shot them. Jesus. This guy. He forgot what a dildo Primal could be even in casual conversation, or hell, just making an appearance. Douchebag...

Lifting a hand to rub at the spot that was assaulted like a grand pussy, Pyro watched as the confrontation between the the raptor and some blond bitch -- a fine-looking bitch. He couldn't help but grin as they tossed words around. Though the result of it would no doubt be turned against them all, he thought it might be funny to see what these two would do when they were alone. Alas, the poetic justice of fate. He could tell they would hit it off if given the proper chance.

"You all look like a pathetic bunch of retards, bitching and moaning, well boo fucking hoo. This place isn’t a hotel. It’s not someplace to crash; it’s not a goddamn dorm room. And like it or not, you all take orders from me, and I ain’t taking any bullshit- if you really want to cry to someone about it like the whiny girls you are, go take it up with Magneto. Of course, you could just grow some balls and deal with it."

Do dinosaurs even have balls? he wondered, his hands moving to rest comfortably within his pockets. Each of his grimey paws had something to play with. In one, his favored lighter. In the other, a bag of chocolate-covered raisins. Secretly using one of his hands to feed himself a few more candies, John listened as roles were called.

FUCK! he shouted internally. I get stuck with a cannibal and a kid who cuts his wrists and watches crappy kid movies! Grumbling, he turned with the rest, wondering how things would play out. He knew next to nothing about the bitchy blond girl Jesse. Never seen her before today. He knew Primal; he knew the guy was a raptor. All those in history who have watched Jurassic Park know that raptors and Australians just don't mix. Camera was the Brotherhood's randy psycho-bitch. He assumed by her name that her ability was something about flashes (hopefully her boobs), or imitating something. Sunspot... Who the fuck is that?

He grinned when Jara finally responded. Due to his eating habbits, his teeth were coated in a fine layer of chocolate, making them appear rotten. He had no idea they smelled so bad. As she moved on ahead, John's eyes lowered to watch her backside sway from side to side. God he needed to get laid. Maybe Camera would put out...

Tossing a glance between Tom and Cutter, he sighed. He knew they were fucked.

"Just try not to bleed, m'ijitos," Jara said.

Migrating with the others, John raised a brow as Tom addressed him. Swallowing yet another handful of those chocolate raisins, he shook his head. "Unless I'm burnin' somethin' other than air, like their breeches or the buildin', there's no smoke. This ain't gonna be no brushfire, but this place is big 'nough to keep smoke from cloggin' up yer lungs. Ventilation system'll probably work. If need be, use any smoke as cover, mate. Come out like a crazy croc n' go nuts." He snickered, spinning on the axis of a heel when they finally reached their corner of the area.

His brow twitched a slight when he heard Cutter's suggestions. " Man. You're a pussy, mate. They have Primal. They're gonna get past the "front lines" the second things start. Only person I know that kin' beat Primal in a head-on collision is Juggernaut; crazy bloke 'e is.." His right hand finally abandoned the candy as his left came out, holding the zippo lighter. He flicked his wrist and soon a fire was born. "Shouldn't you 'n him be in the same game, Tom? Anyways, my fire's got the most area-of-effect outta anyone here. Not many smart people wanna walk into the mouth o' an' rabid wombat." He hummed a note, his right hand extending, the flame from the zippo leaping to his palm. "He said start whenever, right?"

The flame bloomed into a grapefruit sized-fireball as he reared his hand back. Tying the metaphysical threads of his psionic control to the flame, he launched his hand forward in a throw, physically representing the psionic action. It launched over the empty battlefield between the two teams and, just as Pyro's hand clenched into a fist, it condensed. The energy of the fire swirled within itself as it grew with each passing moment. Growing into a condensed mass roughly the size of a basketball, St. John's fingers pulled apart, spreading as wide as possible. With the motion, the fireball exploded into dozens of little burning meteors, covering Primal's side of the battlefield with an infernal shower.

Camera looked at the other blonde girl that came in. She was full of fury just as much as the photographic mutant was. She suddenly felt a hand on her head. “Get some fucking glasses, retards.” The blonde muscle mimic smirked at him and replied, “My eyes aren’t as awake as my body, baby.” Everything Primal had to say she rolled her eyes. He certainly was hostile. When he finished spouting his orders, Jara gave them her warning about bleeding.

The blonde muscle mimic walked to her corner and looked at the other team. Camera was eyeing Cutter, after Wolf’s Head she had some sweet revenge to deal out. The little punk was arrogant and needed to be knocked down the high pedestal he thought he was on. But suddenly there was balls of fire raining down from the sky. The muscle mimic was thankful for the creators of any movie and TV show where the characters dodged flying items.

Putting her abilities to good use she did assortments of back flips, dodging moves, and spins to avoid the meteors falling on them all. Camera shouted out to the others, “If we have a plan, now would be a good time to hear it.” A fireball came close to her shoulder making the tip of a chunk of hair be singed off.

“For one, you ain’t got a fucking chance in all of high freakin heaven of even being able to lay a hand on my tail without me breaking every bone in that worthless little body. And for two; what the fuck do you think you are doing in this goddamn organisation if when at the first sign of any work you turn into a pissy little bitch with a stick up her ass for havin to actually lift a fucking pinkie. You better get into goddamn line before I shove my hand down your throat and rip out the silver spoon lodged in yer throat n take some of your innards along with it.”

Who the fuck put this dipshit in charge? The guy with the stupid helmet? Oh no... Jesse had learned her lesson during her first confrontation with the magnokinetic – don't say bad things about the way he dressed. It was actually one of the few times where Jesse had actually been a little scared. She couldn't sense the man's emotions... that was bad enough, but the smell. It had been all wrong for someone in a situation like that... having a young woman thrown up against the wall with a hand around her neck... she could feel no fury... no murderous rage. Hell... she couldn't even pick up on any endorphines from sexual arousal. He was the most collected man she'd ever come across, and that scared her a little, so someone hand picked by Magnet Man had to have a little bit of his own brand of scary thrown in there somewhere... that's why she let his retort slide without so much as a single snide comment.

Still unfettered from at least thinking her insults, she listened as the dipshit dinosaur addressed the rest of the crowd, telling them all to grow a pair and spouting stuff off about how this place wasn't some free hotel... yada yada yada. Honestly... it was way too fucking early in the goddamn morning to be doing this shit.

“Jesse, Camera, Sunspot…you’re with me. Two teams, two corners. Use those brilliant freaking imaginations which I’m sure you’ve put into play at night all those lonely times when the only companion you have is Larry or Bertha, the faithful pillow. There’s an hour on the clock. Whichever team has the middle ground aka the hill by the time the hour is up, wins. That teams also gotta keep control of their own corner. Since if someone dies it’s my responsibility, try not to kill anyone. Start whenever you decide that you’re part of the Brotherhood, or get the fuck out of Murderworld.”

The blonde heiress began stalking off toward the western portion of the room when she heard a sing-song voice float over the air from the opposite direction, “Just try not to bleed, m’ijitos.”

Jesse spun around, eyes glaring at the back of the woman's head... that pleasant – albeit sarcastic – voice may have given some people the impression that she was just a woman, but the bloodlust emanating off the girl's mind and the fact that she smelt like an animal to the blonde's heightened senses suggested otherwise. Jesse already didn't like her.

Suddenly a burning sphere shot toward their side of the battlefield, diverting the blonde's attention from the feline mutant, and reminding her that in her current state, she was as good as dead. She focused on a very familiar presence already fast asleep not too far down the winding corridors that made up the insane madhouse. Focusing on the consciousness of her friend, pain suddenly shot through her muscles. She grabbed her head in both hands as she doubled over briefly before remembering where she was and who she was with... it didn't do to show weakness. But her eyes... they felt as if they were on fire. Her eardrums seemed ready to literally burst. Muscles were clawing at her as if trying to break free from their fleshy prison and run off. Her fingernails felt like they were tearing her fingertips off, but she managed to straighten... for the next few seconds, as she barely noticed things get brighter... she managed to lock her body into a rigid posture as she gazed at the ground...

And then it was over as quickly as it had begun. She could see sharper, hear better. Her sense of balance was superior to any normal human's. Every movement of her body seemed almost effortless by comparison. Nails had thickened and elongated to a size and strength that would support her weight among other things. Smells were even more intense than normally... elongated canines... she'd taken on the useful characteristics of her own cat.

Without any residual discomfort, the pain had subsided just in time to take in the view of a ball of molten plasma hurling directly for her head. With the superb reflexes and agility of her feline companion, the blonde managed to barely dodge the superheated material as it crashed into the very ground she'd just been inhabiting, but not without singing her tresses, leaving just a hint of the noxious smell of burning protein in the girl's overly sensitive nostrils. “Fuck,” she screamed out of fear and frustration at the nearly fatal attack. The fire guy wasn't taking any prisoners.

“If we have a plan, now would be a good time to hear it.”

“Fuck plans,” Jesse spat over her shoulder at the other blonde. “Whatever the fuck it is you people do, just do it and get us over there. I'm gonna use that motherfucking overgrown lighter's face to wipe my ass! Actually... you can have him. The bitch is mine. I don't like her.” With that, she kicked off toward the middle of the battlefield, keeping an eye out for the the rain of fire and dodging where she needed to. She didn't give a fuck about their base or this motherfucking hill... she was going straight for them. Like her adoptive uncle Vince always said... the best defense was a good offense.