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Whirlwinds of tempestuous fire

Playing with fire is bad for those who burn themselves. For the rest of us, it is a very great pleasure.

Jul. 26th, 2007

They arrived back in Scotland. But from there, pinpoint worked. Going through all the security crap, Warren barely waited for his badge before going upstairs.

Basically kicking in the door, he was worn. Dark circles under his eyes, skin scorched and he wore jeans torn at various places, a once white wife beater and heavy boots.

"Bitch! I'm home,' he announced, leaning heavily against the doorframe.
Okay, finally. A motherfucking world with internet. Fucking hell.

You would think that would be goddamn universal, right? NOT!

Jean-Paul. I'm on my way home. You damn well better being in one fucking piece with all the parts I left you with. I shouldn't have to say that but, goddammit.

Long story short... Omega friends. Got blindsided. In one piece. HOW THE FUCK CAN STATUES SEND YOU TO ANOTHER GODDAMN TIME AND PLACE?

Yeah, so... Been jumping from one portal to the next trying to find a damn way home.

You better being fucking alive and in one piece, Bitch.

ooc: The mun, due to work, illness and sucking so hard she might as well change her name to Hoover, hasn't been around enough, or as much as she should, so explains it away with a fucked up little cross over. Sides, making the guy with the priest fetish fear angels, amuses me. I'll ping you tonight, JP-Mun.

Running with the shadows of the night

Jean-Paul's words had struck a chord with Warren. They weren't kids anymore. In ways they had never been. But their childhood, those days of violence and war, had to be left behind at some point. When did they become complete and whole unto themselves without a body count to validate them? Jean-Paul had a kid, sort of. Warren had been sick for months and was, only now, beginning to feel better. It was the fire. Slowly, overtime with the constant use, it was eating away and with the fighting he had been doing, he had quickly been entering empty shell status.

The vacation had helped with some things and yet left a million new questions.

At least one he wanted to answer now as he knocked on Jean-Paul's door, already frustrated by the security measures at the main door.
Pinpoint in hand, Warren took an extra moment to make sure that his brand was hidden and that there was no reason for the security to try and get him to take off his jacket. Warren still had no qualms about the Omega mark on his arm but he was pretty sure that Jean-Paul's little mutant friends would have issues with it.

Grabbing his pinpoint, he glanced over at the newspaper on his dresser. He'd gone by his own world the week before and had never looked at the damn thing. Now he was staring.

Barron Battle released once more on the world

Picking it up, Warren read through the whole article. Twice. Enough to determine some civic rights group had determined that triple life sentences was extreme and, therefor, the mental anguish was enough to answer for the time Barron would never serve.

His dad, his biological dad, was a free man.

"Well, fuck."
Warren hadn't hesitated. Soon as he got the message from Jean-Paul, he's grabbed his jacket and pinpoint and headed for the clinic.

Looking worse for the wear, bags under his eyes and hair a mess, he is freshly bathed and wearing mostly clean clothes. Except for the Snuffles hair.

Warren had read the journal entry and had not a clue what to say. What did one say to that? Oh, okay, I'm sure raising your sister's surviving child will be peaches and cream. But then, compared to so much Jean-Paul had been through, it might just be.

And Warren wasn't sure that Jean-Paul wanted to hear how proud he was of him. For wanting to get help, for caring for this child. He migth not see it as a good thing, but what he had to do. Most wouldn't have done it, but he had.

Instead, Warren decided it was time to put things in action. If Jean-Paul wouldn't accept help from him and the Tin Man then maybe there was something Warren could do on his own.

Picking up the phone, he dropped down on the bed next to the drooling eating machine and ruffled the pup's ears. "That's my boy,' he whispered in baby talking tones while he waited for someone on the other end to answer.

"Hey, T.. Peter. I know you hate my guts and I'm all warm fuzzies about you but we need to talk... Yeah, we do. I think I've got a way for Jean-Paul to get some of the money he needs without having to accept help from us.... Really! All we have to do is lie."

It wasn't a game he liked to play

While Peter was busy trying to figure out just how he could turn some laser eyed bastard over to the kidnappers, Warren had his own ideas. The important thing, to him, wasn't giving up this mutant (Because, hello, when you spent weeks taking out the mutant haters, why would you take the chance of handing one over to them?) but figuring out why someone would want. Figure out why and then it was damn easy to figure out who.

And who meant going in and killing some fucker to bring out the man he loved. Oh, and Andrew.

It was funny how easily people would talk to him when he told them his name was Allerdyce, Pyro if he had to. So he'd stolen his brother's identity. He was pretty sure John would forgive him. Pretty sure. Either way, a little fire, a few threats and, in the end, he had more suspects than he knew what to do with. Some organization called SHIELD, Magneto, Project X, Nathaniel Essex, the list went on and on. As did the information he'd learned about Peter.

Former Mafia enforcer. Captive of this Weapon X shit - as had John's girlfriend apparently, which explained so much about the salt shaker throwing bitch. Dead. Alive. Steel. He was loved, beloved and, apparently in his own world, hated by some fellow with blue fur. Warren could maybe like this blue guy a little bit.

In the end, he had more information than he had answers but at least Warren didn't feel useless, sitting around and whining. Or killing. But what he needed was answers and he truly feared that he'd have to go to the Nexus to get them.


He hadn't moved all night. Not until the next morning when Snuffles started whining. "Keep crying, kid, it never gets better." But it got him up, padding through the house to let him out.

While the dog was out doing his business, Warren did his... without being so graphic. His was shoving a handful of tees and jeans into a bag with his half carton of smokes, a handful of condoms and all the money he had. All but what was in the bank book.

Using his pinpoint, he went to the bank where the account was and withdrew the money. Fun with pinpoint time, he went to Jeanne-Marie's world and left the money in an envelope on her doorstep. Good luck with the twins was written in block letters on the front.

Back to home, he grabbed his back, slung his bass over his back and leashed the massive, stupid, lovable dog.

"Come on, Snuffles." He didn't walk out the door but pinpointed to another world. On his door was a note.

Gone fishing

Reconnecting [Jean-Paul]

He made sure everything was ready before emailing the coordinates of the hotel room to Jean-Paul. Not that there was a lot to do. The suite was nice but not lavish, two rooms with a single bed.

But he'd closed off that room. They wouldn't be in there, not by plan. He had even gotten rid of all of the condoms. No sex. Just the two of them hanging out. Not that that had stopped him from buying Jean-Paul a gift.

On the table, made by Warren, was a cake. Beside it was a note.

One day it will be a real pony but until then... CAKE!

The man himself was on the couch, laptop open on his stomach as he studied for class.
To: Jean-Paul
From: Warren
Subject: Words I have trouble saying

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