Maintain the Madness

Olivier Raven Lebeau. Thief. Rogue. Swamp rat. Verse include: Marvel, SHIELD, BJT, HP, Diablo, Silent Hill, SPN, DW & Fallout:NV, Elder Scrolls, Bioshock, Inception, SM, KH, and so many others

[eventhedeadcry-blog]

it's a game that she plays (she can win with her eyes closed)

[eventhedeadcry-blog]

  Sonya watched him consider everything about her, from her parentage to her potential energy, and she let him take his time. He had raw power, she had finesse. Between them, they could accomplish nothing but chaos and fire; she was a connoisseur of both.

"I think you’re misunderstanding me. I’m not here on anyone’s orders." Yet. "Consider this recruitment, if you like, but the truth of the matter is simple enough:" She moved towards him, her body language fluid, her hips swaying. "Someone is going to win your loyalties, whether of your own free will or not. Choosing your employer is a luxury, and one that you’re quickly running out of time on."

"I’d love to claim you." she was being honest about that. "The reward for recruiting you would probably put me into an early retirement." That was a lie. They’d never let her retire. She wasn’t, strictly speaking, employed. The leash might be less tight with this group than with the Red Room, but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel it.

"You are subtle enough to stay off the radar, LeBeau. If I found you hiding under a rock, then others will do the same. They may have, already, I can’t say." She eyed him. "You can attack me, and you can probably win, but they will send someone after you who you can’t counter, and then what?"

She licked her lips. “Have you ever heard of the Winter Soldier, Mr. LeBeau?”

[unlovableaerie]

He was made of metal and whiskey and waves and all of those pieces were poised to act just like the 52 ordinary playing cards that sat on the edge of his coffee table.

"I aim for low key." He holstered the gun. It was obvious that this woman was well aware of more than he was comfortable with. But the ways her eyes darted around the room at the small items made Oli believe that she was name dropping his father for a reason. That was what she knew. She had no idea about his other hand. The siren of a mother he had never known. The red haired memory, the ghost who could stop the bullets in any gun. "The radar doesn't suit me."

Oli crossed his arms over his chest and watched her, hard. Tried to find out what tell she had, what it would let him know, but she was as smooth and hard as diamonds. As cold as winter.

"Never heard of it." Oli hadn't heard of a lot of the things from this world. There were memories, fleeting stories of the Earth That Was back home, and there were tales of SHIELD and Avengers and the things that were taken for granted here.

"Doubt it has anything to do with me."

[takemyheartwhileyoureatit-blog]

forgive me, father, for I have sinned

[theyre-piecesofyouandme]

The picturesque little grotto was one of the hidden treasures in the huge city that was New York. Clearly man made, the image of tree and water - a few scattered fall colored leaves drifting on the surface of a still pond. It was one of her favorite places to draw but this was the first time she’d tried to capture it as a whole. She’d done a few pictures before - a sketch of the rocks she sometimes sat on with Liz or a particularly pretty flower - this time she tried for the entire space. Ambitious but she had the time while she was on break to do justice to the project she hoped. While she worked in her studio on rainy days any good weather would find her here trying to capture the peace and inspiration and laughter that this place held for her.

At least until Alex felt the tiny mental click she’d trained herself over years to recognize. It wasn’t much sort of warning of a mental touch but it was, she wagered, more than most non gifted humans could claim. It only came from close association with Liz - and through her Rachel. A quarter of a second later she heard a familiar voice whisper across her mind. Not the sharp and often commanding tone she was used to. This was a ghost of it’s former self and sounded weak even pained.

*Alexandra?*

*Rachel.* Alex replied. Rachel preferred her full name.

*Need you to bring help. Mission failed. Tell SHIELD she’s - we’re - being held in house. Any overt attack will likely result in death.* By the end of this alarming pronouncement Rachel’s voice was barely audible. Alexandra mentally ‘shouted’ for her to return but the touch was gone. Rachel was gone and Alex doubted she had the power to return. When Alex’s hand clenched the pencil she was holding didn’t snap. It shattered into four pieces and lodged a splinter in her hand she barely felt. With barely controlled expression Alex packed her things away and headed for the SHIELD office in New York calling her parents along the way.

It was only fair to tell them she was going. Because Rachel wasn’t one to speak lightly. She’d said for Alex to bring help and that was exactly what she was going to do.

*-*

Alexandra was sure she should have been more worried, freaking out. Pepper certainly had been, and Tony not that much better. Alex had always wondered what would happen when he couldn’t throw money or blast a problem into oblivion. She was sorry she’d asked. For all of his quirky sarcasm she liked Tony and seeing him like that well… If she could feel much of anything right now she would feel terrible for him. She was not fully turned off but there was a cold distance in her she hadn’t felt before as she and Oliver rode side by side in the private jet.

Considering the initial volume of her discussion with her parents Alexandra still didn’t know what had changed Natasha and Clint’s minds. If she had to guess though… She thought perhaps they’d recognized the look in her eyes. It went beyond determination until she’d solidified her considerable willpower to one goal. Get Liz home safely. Go through whoever, whatever she had to but get her best friend home. 

"What’s our approach?" Alex asked.

[unlovableaerie]

Oli sat on the bench in the cell with his hands hanging between his knees. He was in some city in Arkansas that he didn't know the name. They arrested him the day before for something he couldn't remember. He knew it was because he was threatening. He was a mutant out in the heartland of the registration act. He counted the tiles in the floor and felt pity for these people. They didn't even realize how they were playing their world into a dung heap.

He was supposed to met a contact of his father's at the gate into the West in St. Louis, and Oli was still sure he could make it out to the drop in time. Now, though, with the deputies yelling slurs and making sure that the mutie faggot could hear it, Oli decided he'd just wait. He wasn't in the business of making scenes.

She came upon him on the breeze of lilacs. *I need you* He closed his eyes soaked her in. You know I need you Elle.

*No.* He knew she wasn't Elle. That Elle didn't exist her. But he still loved her. Loved Elle. Loved every permeation of the girl who saved his life. *Elizabeth.* Oli coughed, choked on the sea salt that burned the back of his throat. He spat on the floor, the brine coating his mouth. In another world, the deputies slammed their baton on the bars of his cell and demanded he polish the floor that was worth more than he was.

*Help us, Olivier* He saw her, red hair fading to brown -- sad, sallow cheeks, elbows that angled worse than they ever should. His heart exploded; how long have you? I -- I should have known. Why didn't I know -- I'm so sorry. *It doesn't matter, Cable.* Her ghost touch on his cheek, down his chest, was cold. The flowers tossed in the sea stung his eyes. He could have cried if he allowed himself that kind of openness. But he didn't.

Wait. One second longer.

Oli stood, flexed his shoulders, and pulled the handcuff links apart like construction paper chains counting down to a child's birthday. The police continued to yell, to steady their weapons on him. Their threats, promises, were white noise. His eye flashed, glowed like his shock of white hair. He ran a finger over the grooves of the cement blocks. Gold film trailed his touch and seeped through the trenches. Palm centered, he pushed and the blocks broke free, exploded outwards. Bullets whizzed past him, flattened with pops of light inches from his body.

He stepped outside of the cell, onto the dull parking lot of the jail and lifted himself into the air. He no longer cared about St. Louis, he was sure his father would pick up the pieces without hesitation.

The air became colder, thinner with the climbing altitude. He followed the ocean, followed the flowers. Wait for me.

[unlovableaerie]

I AM NOT A PART TIME BARISTA BUT I AM A FULL-TIME WINO, AND I AM VERY AFRAID OF PEOPLE BUT WANT FRIENDS. 

WANNA BE FRIENDS?

[unlovableaerie]

Constants and Variables

[hellfireshand-blog]

Stasis, never moving but constantly aware that was his lot in life. He was referred to as Ben, Frost, as Omen and as ‘my pet’. The first really didn’t mean anything, the second was the most accurate term to describe what he was and when the Sinister Man called him his pet even through his chamber he still got chills. 

The Sinister Man had explained his lot to him many times, he was a creation, a thing. Built only to serve his greatest gift was his mind and it would be used to serve. Ben had been born with many mental talents the most useful to them though was his precongnitive abilities, his head was wired to have them pulled out. He could not describe the pain of having visions ripped from his head but it was a common part of his life.

His life, of which he was fully aware. They couldn’t keep him in full stasis he had been told as The Sinister Man spoke to him like a favoured hound, the visions didn’t come unless he was aware. Ben had fought back against them once, telepathically attacked the Sinister Man. he had been punished, he wouldn’t be doing that again any time soon. No instead he floated aware, and helpless in his green fluid as they ripped things from his brain and he could feel only the fear of those around him.

He was an omen of things to come, and a dark, dark omen at that.

[unlovableaerie]

With the two women flanking him, Oli's pace fell into their step. His Iron Dove hummed beside him, and his Black Widow, the little spider girl, covered the corners with her weapons that were larger than she was. "I'm not sure what he'd got planned. But whatever it is," he nodded to the horizon, "we'll find a way to pay it. We always do."

The structures they passed were hulls of memories. A church there. Couples were wed. Monks shared theology in the garden. Plucked their herbs for modest meals. Tended to old vines to make dry wine. And that was once a mall of bodegas and community. Now there was only rebar and sagging roofing tiles. The drip-drop of dew had been replaced with the clatter of collapsing stairs.

The trio traveled the odd miles to the market in comfortable silence. It was easy to spot bodies milling outside the Doc's grounds. Nods of recognition were traded on the lawn. Oli reached out to open the weathered door and acid bubbled up into his chest. His hand seared to the knob.

He was back in the tube. Sinister was caressing the thin glass that separated his frail body from that white faced devil. But he had been trapped for so much longer. Years. Not months. And the pain, the pain was something new, it was like his entire mind was being taken apart piece by piece, being turned inside out. He didn't even want to ask for help, call for anything. He just wanted it, needed it to end.

Sweat was pooling in his collar bones when Sasha tore his hand away. The white shock of his hair was plastered to his forehead. He sucked in a wet breath. Dazed, he looked around. The other market patrons continued to wander the property, but a wide birth was being given to him. If anyone was visiting the Doctor, they were already broken or sick in their own way. And it had been silently decided that whatever Oli had was catching.

His heart hurt as it pumped blood to his appendages that felt too far away. "Sinister." The very word soured him, spun his world. "He's got another kid." Oli stared at the handle that had triggered the attack and wondered just how strong this kid had to be to reach out to him, even subconsciously, over what was surely a huge distance. The thought made his temples pounds. His guts roil. His knees lock. "We've got to do something."

Proclamation made, Oli leaned over the old porch railing and vomited.

[eventhedeadcry-blog]

it's a game that she plays (she can win with her eyes closed)

[eventhedeadcry-blog]

   He pinned her to the couch with a truth he shouldn’t have known. Natasha Romanoff is your mother. How did he know? How could he possibly know that? Rage burned through her, clean and hot, for longer than she cared to admit as she struggled to maintain control of herself. By the time he’d worked back around to other things, she felt more in control, her her mood had soured somewhat and she didn’t even crack a smirk at his terrible quip.

"I want you," she said simply. She could had toyed with that phrase, drawn it out into a kind of seduction, but she knew the file. He was suspected of being involved with Elizabeth Stark or Alex Barton, or both. With a man like this, you couldn’t always assume seduction was going to work. She had a brain, either way, and she took pride in her ability to deal with situations from positions other than the flat of her back.

"You’ve made me," she said simply. "I’m not SHIELD, certainly, and whatever else I am is information that comes at a price. My employers would cream themselves over you, you know that?" She sat the bottle aside and stood. She wasn’t tall, and he was; he towered over her. Still, she moved carefully towards him. "You’re too special to let roam free, Olivier. Someone is going to scoop you up, tag you, claim you as their own. You need to make it on your own terms."

[unlovableaerie]

"How is dealing with you my own terms?" Olivier held the words close and measured each out one at a time. She was touching his greatest fear, what he still had nightmares about. He was never born. He was created from people who didn't even dream of his existence. He was held in place, every molecule of air that was pumped into his infantile lungs was forced. He was no man because he was a child. He was no child because he wasn't living. He wasn't dead because they kept his body alive.

The scar that ran from the flat of his foot, up his back and out his shoulder pulsed. It was only a portion of his own energy that Elle had used to burn out the virus that had kept his powers at a reasonable level. No longer fighting against Apocalypse's handy work, Oli's powers were allowed to flourish. Even so, he had still not been strong enough to free his home. His attempts to reach the M'Kran Crystal had landed him here, in this world. And he still hadn't made it back.

"So you don't work for yourself." He looked down at her, took in her sharp features, the things he recognized and the parts that were so foreign. Her father wasn't Clint Barton, that much was obvious. But the edges of her didn't fuzz; she was born here. Shit.

His mind was racing, but his heart stood still, moved, still, moved, still, moved like nothing was special. Her eyes were a well cultivated blase film betraying nothing. The quirk of her lips, though, let Oli know the truest danger -- she was enjoying this. Pieces of himself prepared for movement, readied themselves for the crashing of lamps and shattering of fiberboard IKEA furniture.

The closeness of her reeked of the potential for violence. His finger moved off the safety. "Are you trying to claim me, sweetheart?"

[eventhedeadcry-blog]

it's a game that she plays (she can win with her eyes closed)

[eventhedeadcry-blog]

  Sonya marked every motion, every shift of his body, looking for the truth in the way his muscles rippled, in the way his body shifted, ready and poised to fight. The proof was simple, elegant, beautiful in the rugged handsomeness of it. He was a survivor, not a warrior by training, and that would work to her advantage. He’d likely shoot first, but he had the sloppiness that came from a less than auspicious background.

It was more than enough to know that, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think that she wasn’t in danger. If he could manage to kill her, then what did she lose? Her life, but that wasn’t something she valued highly, so that left her without a lot of  fear.

"I don’t mean you any harm." She held her hands out from her sides, empty. She didn’t need weapons to be dangerous, of course, but he could know or not know that. "I just came to chat. You seem so uptight." She moved from the doorway to the little cabinet she’d found stashed in the corner that seemed to be trying to be a liquor cabinet. She produced a bottle of bourbon and unstopped it. She took a swig and then offered the bottle to him.

"I’m Sonya. It would be a stretch to call me a friend, but I suppose you could call me a fan of yours. I’ve seen your work. You could use a little finesse, but that’s easy enough to come by. Still, impressive stuff. You can’t teach that." She had a little smirk on her face as she settled herself on his couch, one leg crossed over the other as she made herself comfortable.

[unlovableaerie]

Olivier's brow shadowed his eyes as he followed her movements. Like the guards at the Pits she was a threat. Like the lavender skinned girl, Blink, razor sharp blades aided her killing, but they were by no means needed. This woman, she was the same way.

He didn't holster the gun, but his arm now hung by his side. The energy left his hand and joined the tension in the room. When he didn't move to take the bottle, she cradled it in her long fingers, traced the bottle's neck like a lover, and finally let it rest between her thighs.

On his couch, the cheap piece of furniture he cherished, she looked nothing like Sasha, nothing like Alex. "Your mother was Natasha Romanoff." He frowned. That shouldn't have been true. But he long ago learned that things that shouldn't have been true often were. Hell, they normally were.

"My work." He tried to fill in the pieces, see the puzzle the way she did. His telepathy would be no help. It opened him up too much, and she already knew that trick. He was sure of it. "You're no Thief. You're not SHIELD." Those two organizations were what knew him here. But, like the ripples from a pebble, the worlds she could be from were endless.

He cracked a grin. "No, I got it now. My latte art is pretty impressive. It's all in the foam." The situation would not be defused but the quip gave him the moment he needed to have his stomach drop.

The glamour dropped. He curled his arm up against his chest. "This is what you want, isn't it." The metal gained a chill with those words, and the blood beneath it ran cold.

[unlovableaerie]

A smile safe-crackers understand, is rendering his heavy hand obsolete, you thought you caught my slight of hand, but you could never understand, no not me. Father was a charming man with much hidden up his sleeve, I wonder if this is what he planned when he taught his tricks to me. I was born a charming man with silver tongue, pearl teeth. This's never how it's 'sposed to end, we're promised all we dreamed The envy of the Everyman our family seemed complete, our father was a charming man, our mother a serene. But now I'm on the run again - this hotel's home to me, they found the other skeleton face down in the stream. The youngest was still tucked in bed, that way they thought he was asleep, they moved the mirror from his mouth, the fog that should remain was not to be seen, You thought I must have broken in, but there's no crime in coming in, they hand me the key. Floating on the wind again, on the tail of my quarry, on a woman weak for charming men, who's holding what I need. She'll leave her window cracked for me, and I'll draft in like the breeze, my father was a charming man and I learned it all from he. The charm and confidence of men, can jam the bullets in your gun, and stop heartbeats.

[eventhedeadcry-blog]

it's a game that she plays (she can win with her eyes closed)

Sonya thought it was probably criminal that the lock sang under her ministrations and let her in. She slid through the door and pushed it closed behind her with a little click. The apartment beyond was small and had that lived in quality that made it feel homier than any place she’d ever stayed. A few stray beer bottles, the lingering smell of cigarette smoke, all bespoke of a man comfortable in his home, and unconcerned with how guests might perceive it.

That was okay; she was a guest, but an uninvited one, and she wouldn’t judge him too harshly for the state of his apartment. Olivier Raven LeBeau. The name was the kind that would just roll off of the tongue, and she tasted it as she moved through his living room and towards his bedroom.

It felt strange to be here and not on orders, but she had found out about him on her own. He wasn’t on the radar as far as she knew, and she wanted full control of this.

What he was didn’t make a lot of sense. She’d seen him in action, though she doubted he’d noticed the audience admiring his work. Telepathy and telekinesis at the least, which had of course sparked her interest. But there was more to it than that, and that had sent her looking into databases after him.

A time traveler, or dimension hopper, as far as SHIELD knew. His abilities were marked as highly classified, and highly dangerous, which gave her a little thrill to think about. It was just as thrilling to think that she was here, in the belly of the beast. Not that she could be caught unawares.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t be caught when she wanted to be. She took her time exploring his room, his things, trying to get a read on him. Eventually she heard the door in the other room, and sensed that she was no longer alone.

Time to play.

She stepped out of the bedroom and leaned in the doorway. “Why hello there, Olivier. I was beginning to think you’d never get home.”

[unlovableaerie]

The oddness of having an apartment to return to was wearing off more and more each day. Even though it had been nearly a year since Oli had entered this reality, he would still wake with starts and the smell of tar and sulfur sent his fingers to holsters that were rarely there. He had traveled far from this reality -- both in and outside of it. His parents, seeing them thrive, was enough for this world to be his home. The abundance of things like food and heat and heart were enough to make a man spoiled.

The fear, though, was still carved into his bones, and he hadn't been able to yet erase it. The other worlds Oli had seen could be horrifying but it was still the idea of "home" that soured the very acid in his stomach. Because of that, the tricks that had kept him alive were nearly impossible to break.

So he knew that there a woman with blazing red hair in his apartment. Her mental thumbprints were smeared over every surface he touched. He checked these things still, but he looked no further. And he didn't look as closely as he had learned to. If he had, he would have realized that Red-Haired Romanova was not his. He would have known it was not his friend waiting from him as he returned from New Orleans and learning the smile that safe crackers understood from his father.

But he didn't.

The door shut and locked behind him as he drew the pistol that his father scoffed at. "We didn't have the luxury of flair back home, Papa."

He trained the muzzle on her (curves? body? eyes? the fact that he was caught flat-footed?). "Who are you?" He could try and find out that and every thing about her, but he had learned, long ago, that reaching out and touching a live wire was a mistake that should only be made once. He slowly pulled in energy between his hands and the butt of the gun, the illusion that covered the metal of his arm flickered and fell. The gun wasn't charged to the chagrin on the Cajun he was only now beginning to know, but it appeared that way, the pink energy of the universe setting the hairs on the back of his hands on end.

Olivier didn't want to hurt her, not yet. But she would know he was able, willing.

[unlovableaerie]

Constants and Variables

Dirty sunlight filtered through the torn curtain. He opened his eyes and the world was bleary. Even when things focused, the world was still bleary. Test tubes that were the size of men and filled with slick green liquid remained in the forefront of his mind despite the chill of concrete at his feet. The past week had been filled with night hauntings. The sinister crib he had been swaddled in woke him night after night.

It was probably hunger pains that turned his mind around, he told himself. Or the rot gut spirits that they used to ward off the chill. It could be anything, he rationalized. Anything but memories.

After pulling on his boots, Oli was dressed. The nuclear winter wonderland kept him sleeping in his clothes. The sheen on sweat, though, that he broke into every night kept him wrapped in the nightmares until noon. Then it was sweat from work. Not anxiety. Couldn't still be the anxiety.

Anna-Marie sat across from Erik on the main room on the house. They spoke in low tones as Remy ran his thumb along the edge of a throwing knife. He was the only one not to look up when Oli entered. He was also the only one to speak. "Bon matin, Olivier."

"Bon matin, Papa." Oli stole a glance at his mother. Her sharp angular haircut hung limply at her chin, hid her eyes from him. "Mama. Erik." Embarrassment surged through him when the man they called leader looked at him with such pity, honed on the metal hand that fought to remain unclenched. "I'm going hunting with Elle." Exhaustion spoke then, not pettiness, "We'll bring the bulk to you, Erik. Don't worry."

Oli left quickly. His cheeks were flushed. His growling belly and dark ringed eyes were no reason to resent the refugees that Erik had taken in. It wasn't their fault they were weaker, that they ate the spoils of others. That there wasn't enough for the dwindling populations. That ideas and tempers were running thin.

"Prends bien soin," his father called out the door as he always did. And Oli promised he would try his best, as he always did. But staying safe these days was an attempt, not a promise he could make and be sure to keep.

The morning breeze licked at the damp back of his jacket. Oli swallowed a cold chill and reached out for the minds of Elle and Sasha. "Let's go." It was a little early, but their trips were taking longer and longer. "Heard there was some sacks of roots to be traded for down south." Down by the burnt out Markovski farm. The black market took to holding shop there as a small sign of rebellion. Oli dreaded that the structure would be razed to the ground completely next time. "And the Doc might have some work for us." The Doctor was the face of the operation, dolling out the tasks from his wheelchair and paying in trade and promised favors, The Witch and The Chemist were rarely seen anymore. And the children? Even memories of them were rare.

As Oli made his way across broken pieces of asphalt and discarded dreams, he was sure Elle and Sasha would realize the night was still clinging desperately to his shoulders. But he hoped they would take it as an invitation to shake it off. Take the day, make it their own.

[unlovableaerie]

Somethign something bioshock clever place holder 

[unlovableaerie]

Oli is their forger. In the waking world and the dream, he can create whatever reality that can be imagined. His attention to detail is unnerving. He sells his  talents freelance, but he will not go under unless the information has either been Stark handiwork or has the Stark seal.

[unlovableaerie]

He is a citizen of no Territory. He was born in the Open Seas.They were a family, a clan of pirates. His mother was the true pirate Queen. He was her young and eager Warlord Prince who would grow to wear the Sapphire and Ebon Gray. When being landlocked, he has spent a surprising amount of time in Raej and Dea al Mon. He would never say it aloud, but there's a beauty behind closed boarders that he had broken laws to see. 

[unlovableaerie]

The house of Slytherin was no surprise for Olivier LeBeau. He's not very interested in winning house or quiddich points, but he would love to explore every nook of the castle, including those that lead to the girls' gryffindor floors. He is talented with alchemy and fortune telling. His wand is whippy willow wand. and has the claw of a salamander for its core.

[unlovableaerie]

His mother didn't die when he was eight months old, but she did die when a Strega sucked the life out of her. His daddy tried to get a bokor to her quick enough but the damage was already done. Oli threw himself into learning the trade of his father, looking, living beyond the veil. Now he's trying to keep everyone else's mother alive. 

[unlovableaerie]

His daddy runs the club that runs the city. Information comes with a price and if you're willing the pay rlb then maybe you'll find what you're looking for. It's a strange world out there, but Oli is keeping his finger on the pulse. It's dames and damns and gun oil and he wouldn't trade it.

[unlovableaerie]

His tribe is the Great Kahns. He is their messenger, their courier. He runs the Mojave delivering messages and doing jobs that need to leave no footprint. He works The Strip, but he makes sure the slimeballs know he's an independent man. 

[unlovableaerie]

His parents were vigilantes on a good day; criminals on a normal one. He had powers that shouldn't have existed in one body. He was a test tube gone wrong. And he was in love with Tony Stark's daughter. It was a perfect storm. A dossier that Nick Fury dreamed about. Oli took the job partly for fun; partly from fear. He doesn't trust SHIELD, but they don't trust him.