Welcome

[Beast]

Ever since Kiden Nixon had arrived in the house and became decidedly against the idea of rehabilitation, Scott had made it mandatory that everyone in the house (except apparently for Sage, who was her own security system) turn in their medicines to be locked away in the subbasement. Kiden had been gone for over a week, and it was only just now Hank suddenly remembered that he hadn’t returned any of the meds. And so, Christmas had come early in the Xavier household, as a white-lab coat donning Santa Fangs-and-Claws made his way door to door with a sack full of over-the-counter goodies.

Only for good girls and boys.

He finished off the second floor first, and now dropped off a few deliveries at his own bathroom as well as Scott’s before heading over to knock on Miss Pryde’s closed door. He wonder how often she ever opened it for herself, rather than just lazily phasing through every morning and night, but knocked nonetheless.

Inside there was a avalanche of curse words loud enough to make Hank step back and wince for his poor, sensitive ears. Ultimately, Kitty did respond.

“Er… bad time?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

[Shadowcat]

Kitty was armed for combat. The beanbag in front of her television had been meticulously fluffed and shaped until it was downright ergonomic. Sitting on the floor off to Kitty’s right, close enough to be reached but no so close as to be knocked over, were two bottles. One a Vanilla Frappuccino. The other a Jones Cream Soda. To Kitty’s left, positioned a bit closer for ease of reach and lowered danger of spilling, was a fresh bag of Reece’s Cups. The not-small kind.

So far the Cups and drinks had gone largely ignored. There were much more interesting things to be done. Things such as: Beating Hitman: Blood Money by gaining the Silent Assassin rating while not using any disguises. Kitty had successfully handled the first seven missions (on Expert rating, no less) and was making her way through ‘…Till Death Do Us Part’.

She had worked her way into the kitchen, where there was a large wedding cake sitting on a table in the middle of the room. “So,” she said to the screen, “Buddy—that’s an unfortunate name, by the way—how do you like your cake?” She cupped her ear as if listening to a response. “Butter cream icing and a lethal combination of sodium pentothal, pavulon and potassium chloride? What a coincidence! Me too!”

Kitty injected the cake with the poison solution. But she’d been so busy bantering that she’d forgotten to check the guard rotation. There was a sudden change of background to music to the ‘Hey, you just got found out’ track, and a gunshot lit up Kitty’s back.

Kitty turned Agent 47 around to find the offending party. Just as she had suspected, one of the guards wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Which was anywhere but here. He was pointing his shotgun at her in a very unfriendly manner. “Uh, hi,” Kitty said, evenly. “Don’t suppose we could discuss this? Come to a mutually beneficial, Me-Not-Getting-Shot agreement?”

The guard answered by opening fire again. “Didn’t think so.”

The pair of blasts drew plenty of attention, and soon enough the doorway to the kitchen was overflowing with trucker hat clad rednecks carrying either shotguns or six shooters. They flooded the kitchen, namely the table Kitty was hiding behind, with bullets.

“Fine,” Kitty growled. She pressed the ‘X’ button, and 47 drew a pair of Silver Ballers from his suit. Kitty had been playing long enough to have purchased the extended clips, the Type 2 silencer, the full-auto fire trigger mechanism and the rail-mounted laser sights. In other words, she had a bonafide Hate-Maker in her hands. She stood up from behind her cover and launched into her best Oprah impression as the Ballers sang out. “Ted, you can go to Hell. And, Clyde, you can go to Hell. Frank, Gunther, you can join them.” She trained her sights on the door on the wall perpendicular to the main kitchen door where more guards were making their presence known. “You can go to Hell too, Tucker. And you can—What the Hell?” A trio of shotgun blasts sounded off behind her, chewing her life-bar down to almost empty. She turned with a very vengeful thought of, The guards. From the guards’ room. Located behind me. Where the guards like to stay. These are probably them. “Okay, new rule,” Kitty spat as she unloaded a desperate clip into her cowardly, backdoor attackers and administered 47's pain-killers, “no more shooting me in the ass! My ass is now a non-breach zone! We clear?”

As she reloaded, Kitty made a dash for the side door, hoping to put a bit of cover behind her now off-limits ass and her assailants. Halfway through dashing, there was a knock on Kitty’s door. Kitty’s real door. In an inexpert gamer move that would have earned unending ridicule from Doug, Kitty’s attention turned toward the door, and her eyes followed. Whether or not the AIs in the game sensed this and took advantage or not, Kitty could never prove (although she swore the answer was yes), but every shotgun in the kitchen lit up at once in a perverse and simultaneous twenty-one gun salute. Kitty was dead before her eyes made it back to the screen. “Dammit!” she growled. “You friggin’ backwoods, inbred, cousin humping, redneck bastards!” She rose slowly to her feet. “When I get back, you’re all going to die in spectacular and uncomfortable fashion. Then, I’m feeding you to the damn ‘gators. And then, I’m going to kill the damn ‘gators, just so you have to spend the rest of your damned afterlife partially digested! So…there!”

Kitty finished her diatribe about the time she reached the door, which she opened with her sweetest of smiles. Please don’t let it be Scott. Please don’t let it be Scott. Please don’t let it be Scott. It was Hank. Which inherently meant it wasn’t Scott. Which meant she could relax her face. “Let me guess," she said with a mock sigh, "the Grundersons in Room 112 are complaining about the noise again?”

“Er… bad time?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

“That depends,” Kitty said, her eyes focusing on the sack hanging over Hank’s shoulder. “What’d you bring me? Is it a pony? Because there’s never a bad time for a pony. And I’ve always wanted a pony. It is a pony, right?” Not giving Hank time to respond, Kitty leaned back away from the door and yelled in the general direction of Rogue’s room, “Rogue! I’m getting a pony!”