capeandcowl2020 | Open Post 001

"If you think you can handle stitching it, if not I'll hold through until I reach my next checkpoint," but that could be another two days before he reached it. And by then, the wound would surely start to heal in a disfigured kind of way. Quentin reluctantly hands over the needle and thread to Mitchell. Not that he didn't trust Mitchell, but to brace himself. He smiles, dabbing again at the gash with a clean bandage to soak up the blood welling up in the lines of the gash.

"You act like I've never been hurt, Mitch."

"Hey, if I'm here, I can at least help, you know?" he took the needle and thread, and quickly threaded it. Okay, so he could sew. It wasn't like it meant anything. He'd had to build his superhero costume somehow, after all.

He reached out, and pressed the needle in, starting to sew it shut, pausing after the first slice in. He remembered Kremlin stitching up his arm. It always hurt. "Keep talking, what are you getting up to? I've stayed out of the loop with import affairs, for the obvious reason."

"Sonovabitch," but he kept still. No lashing out or screams of bloody murder. Instead he tensed up and become absolutely still. Only moving when Mitchell wasn't piercing his skin.

"Keeping lines of communication open. I'm the guy who's keeping in touch with the various resistance forces, you know? Trying to unify everyone," Quentin seems to stare hard at Mitchell, anything extra to keep his mind off the pain. "And finding those who've gone underground, establishing connections with them. Anything to bring our community. But that's the biggest bulk of my work." He continues to stare, blinking whenever the needle came close to his face.

"I'm also a terrorist, as you know. Though I expect that that's not new news, is it Mitch?"

He tried to keep his hands steady, but still made it quick. Home remedies kept you out of hospitals, and that included his own stitches if necessary. He hadn't gotten surgery on the rest of his body, the tell-tale scars were still there, and deepening with age, spreading. He knew they would. It was a disease, in a way.

Not important. He slid through the skin, feeling sick every time, but it would at least hold it for the guy for now. "Wow, I never would have thought it. At least there's some part of you still the same. Still, I'm kind of surprised my trees out there aren't covered in toilet paper."

There was a tone of amusement, a bit of wryness. Quentin had never hurt things, but...the kid had been relentless. He'd seen things about Mitchell that he shouldn't have. That he'd never wanted anyone to see. He'd kept everyone from seeing, or even knowing. He didn't even think Pherson had brushed so close to their creators, but he couldn't be certain.

"How is it working? The unification, I mean?" he broke himself from his thoughts. "It makes a bigger target, you know."

"I didn't know you lived here. Pure chance that I would come across your house," he grins, amused that Mitchell thought of him like that, before flinching again. It was clear that he was in a lot of pain but, he didn't complain, tried not to make a peep if he could help it. It wouldn't do to freak out the guy patching him back together. Quentin sucks in some breath, before explaining his intentions.

"I know, that's why the groups are still separate. You can't trust the wires, and not everyone has a teleporter in their group. Basically I make sure there's no mis-communications. Face it, it would suck if our own kind died by friendly fire." He shifts a little in his seat, there was only so much pain a guy could take before he's uncomfortable.

"Mostly I focus on my own acts of terrorism, it's just important to make sure everyone is at least on the same terms. No good if we don't all work together."

"No, it dosn't," he paused, tugging closed the last patch of skin, making a knot, and reaching for scissors to finish it off. That was going to hurt like a bitch. "I hope you have healers wherever you're going. That might get infected. At least it won't be spilling blood on your way out."

He stood, stretching from the motion, back into his living room, small as it was. It was a change from Gracie Mansion. "Do you think terrorism will actually do something, though? It's just going to make them more scared of us. It proves their point."

"Thanks Mitchell, I'll be sure to get it checked out," carefully, he touches the stitches. Tenderly enough to admire the temporary work. It would probably get infected, with or without healers anyways but Quentin didn't tell Mitchell that. Instead, he smiles and makes work of putting back on his armor slowly as to not mess too much with his wounded arm. He also carefully places the bloodied tools, anything that can be thrown out, inside his pocket.

"No. They call it terrorism but, it's more of obtaining documents and weaseling out information from officials. Do you want to know why a lot of prison breaks go successfully as they do?"

He laughed, lifting an eyebrow at the guy. "Well, at least there's a point in there. Remember when you used to go out of your way to annoy the shit out of me?" he asked. His voice was light, he was trying not to worry about the resistance. He couldn't. He had to truck on, and go his own way on this, and that was what Mitchell did. He needed to be the inside voice that thought with logic instead of listening to government propaganda.

"Yeah. You hated my guts, I'm sure of it. Heh... what? Do you miss that Mitchell?" He couldn't help but tease Mitchell. The guy sounded like he could use some lightening of the mood. Everyone could use some happier news in their lives in these pressing times.

"Don't worry about us, we need you where you're at Mitchell. Someone's gotta make sense of things."

"Hate's such a strong word--" he started, but stopped, shaking his head.

"I know. Believe me, I wouldn't do you guys much good out on the front lines," he paused, a faint and fond smile on his face. "Did you know I jetpacked into a chain link fence once? I'm not exactly made for battle, you know."

He even laughed, Jesus, he was an idiot.

Quentin had to laugh, clasping a hand on Mitchell's shoulder. Wow, why haven't they gotten along previously? Oh. Right. Quentin was the biggest asshole in existence.

"Heh, well my first time on a jetpack I had a telepathic seizure. Kind of embarrassing to be the kid that has to be saved by the janitor and his tongue." He smiles again, shaking his head. "Jetpacks aside, you're strong for us where you're at now but... that doesn't mean you're not strong Mitch. Don't beat yourself up over it too hard," a beat.

"I can tell you're worried."

That was it, it had all been Quentin, and none of it had been Mitchell being, in general, a dick. He knew he was a dick, anyway. He'd always had a small streak of it.

"Hey now, let's not get into the speeches, huh? Don't worry about me. I just need to lie low, and keep my head down, and work on a new book. You don't worry about me, okay? I'm the propaganda guy," he paused, and frowned. "Just... don't tell anyone you saw me, alright? I figured you knew, but--" he shook his head, and waved a hand.

"Mitchell, I know you can handle yourself. You're a grown ass man. And I also know better than to tell anyone, hell, I'll probably mind wipe myself so the information doesn't leak, okay?" He meant it too. For the safety of Mitchell it's something Quentin would do to protect the other's identity and location.

"Besides, if you couldn't survive, well, you'd have been dead since day one."

he felt a sigh of relief, even breathed one. Okay, he would be safe for another day. "Well, I won't say I'm not capable, but you know how it is. You spend so long out here, and eventually you get a little paranoid that a misstep can go wrong," he smiled. "But thank you."

"Now you know how I felt," remember all those times when he was completely paranoid and believed the government was spying on him in every apartment? Good times. But he smiles and waves his hand nonchalantly.

"But if you ever need immediate help, send out a distress signal mentally, alright? My telepathy has expanded, 's how I found you. I'll wipe my mind of where you live but, it's kind of hard to wipe out your pattern of thoughts. It's a pretty distinct voice you got there, Mitch."

He felt his smile falter, but he nodded. He knew his voice was...different. After the accident, there was no going back. Nothing could change him back, he would always have that tinge of an alien voice to his thoughts, the hint of green always there.

"Don't worry, if things go south, I'll definitely give out a call. Hell, who knows, maybe when I do, it'll be because it'll be time to move forward."

He gave him a wan, strained smile. Even after all this time, he still thought of himself as a leader. He was, but he wasn't going to lead the war. He was going to try and redefine it.

"We'll all be looking forward to that call," Quentin reaches out to Mitch and gently hugs him. Aww look, they're frands now. But he smiles when he pulls away and gives Mitchell a firm pat on the shoulder.

"That's something everyone wants. For things to be stable again."

It was an awkward couple of seconds for Mitchell, who'd shunned almost all contact with other human beings other than the extremely superfluous, and that had only gotten worse through the years. He offered Quentin a pat on the back, though, remembering the societal niceties from days past. "I'm sure it seems so far away, but I think we'd all give up this for a day back in the City, despite how chaotic it was back then, but we'll have it back someday."

And god, Quentin, when did you get grown up and mature? It almost warms his cold mechanical heart a little bit.

Warm your old, cold mechanical heart, Mitchell. You know you want to, how can you not when Quentin is being so mature about things. You know you want to because he's going to be a brain in a jar in a couple of months. But, no one knows that yet.

"I know I'd take throwing glitter in your face over getting real glass thrown at my face any day."

He will regret it all when that day comes. He just shook his head, and smiles. "Well, as much as I am loathe to admit it, I would prefer that too, but hopefully if we get things back on track, we can go back to the way things should be," he pauses, a small crooked smile. "Although I could do without the glitter, you know."

"I'll save the glitter for the victory celebrations," he laughs, doing a quick check of his area to make sure there wasn't any blood before making his way to the door. Quentin pauses, turning back to Mitchell with one last smile.

"I'll wipe my memory and set up a psychic block on your area until I'm out of range. Can't say I don't know if they'll come here or not but, I can place a memory block on your mind. Something only you can unlock and access if you need to. But, only if you want."

"No, no, don't worry about me. They've tried to get me to crack a couple times as Maskin, convinced that he's not a natural citizen, but they won't get through. Just take care of yourself, Quentin. I'll make sure things don't get out on my end," he smiled faintly, and clasped him on the shoulder.

"Good luck out there."

"Thanks. You too, Mitch." With one last smile at Mitchell, he unlocks the doors and leaves quietly. Making his way out into the woods again before turning around and waving goodbye to Mitchell one last time. And then, his face became blank. Like he was confused on how he got there. But he shook his head and sprinted away. Gone.

Open Post 001

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