00:00:00
Send me 00:00:00 for my muses' reaction to their numbers hitting zero when they meet yours.
It's cliche in that she's sitting in Starbuck's when her wrist burns, pleasantly -- a sensation she's never felt before but she's been told about. A quick glance to her wrist confirms it. Her counter hits zero.
Across the street is where the cliche ends.
Dark hair and a half-mask hides facial features, but nothing can hide his physique, the way violence is carved into the curve of his spine, the glint of a metal arm. He is carefully controlled chaos; all his movements are carefully calculated, economic and there are no wasted actions.
He pulls out a bazooka and shoots at an oncoming car. She watches greedily as he sidesteps, and his calculating eyes meet hers, a split second, a quick scan of the crowd.
Her mouth pulls into a red smirk, and he turns away, but she knows. The tiny flex of his wrist and she knows that he knows, too. Still, he turns away because he has a job to do; his silver and black coloring indicates what he is. A glinting blade. A silent gun. A weapon. And someone's aimed him at S.H.I.E.L.D., and this? This is him firing.
Mystique sips her green tea frappucino, and sits back to watch the show.
