I must say, child, in five centuries of existence I cannot say that I have ever seen some one, how you would say, fuck up so badly.

"Shut up,"

I mean, it was truly impressive how you managed to turn something as simple as divulging your admiration to someone into a full blown brawl.

"Shut up,"

I did not think it was possible for someone bearing a Spirit of Vengeance to lose a fight to a human, let alone get knocked out by one.

"He's wasn't just any human. He was a mutant and a strong one at that." Carver groaned, covering the sides of his head and massaging his throbbing temples. His head was pounding and it wasn't from his usual hangover. Though, the taste of alcohol on his breath made him wonder if it had played a larger factor in the events that had transpired then he would have liked to admit. He had to agree with the spirit that had been mocking him. He had fucked up, big time.

Things had started off simple enough. Carver had finally made it to New York and decided to celebrate the best way he knew how. By finding the cheapest hole in the wall he could manage and then getting blackout drunk. He'd only been about eleven or twelve beers into his celebration before the bar had gone quiet. When he'd turned around to see what had caused the eerie calm he saw him. Standing at only five foot three and half a cigar in his mouth he commanded the attention of everyone in the bar. They all knew who he was, knew he liked to frequent the bar, and knew that he liked his space. Carver was completely oblivious to all of that and when he saw the man the only thing he could do was go into complete fanboy mode. If he was sober enough he probably would have squeed in excitement. There he was, sitting in the Big Apple, with none other than Wolverine!

When your father's a superhero they're automatically your favorite, but that doesn't mean you couldn't have others. Carver had a whole roster of heroes he hoped to meet. Spiderman, the Hulk, Ironman, and at the very top of the list was the surly, clawed mutant known as Wolverine. Growing up Carver had been such a huge fan of his that he had worn Wolverine footy pajamas to bed, before he started bursting into flames at night, and on more than one occasion tried to stab his father with three butter knives held between his knuckles. Even without being just a little tipsy he probably would have made a fool of himself. In his current state he could only turn the situation into a disaster. He flounced over to the mutant with the grace of a drunken cow and sat down next to him. He struck up a conversation and tried to make friends the best way he knew how, by buying the other man a drink. One drink turned into five or six and after that things got a bit hazy. Carver remembered going outside and playing the age, old biker game of whose got the most horsepower. He even remembered sitting on the other man's bike. Then he remembered transforming... and accidentally setting the man's bike on fire.

The problem with transforming into the Rider while he was drunk was that for about fifteen to twenty minutes after the change his mind still suffered from the effects of the alcohol. It was some psychological thing that neither Kale nor his father had bothered to explain. Long story short, it sucked. Now, fifteen minutes is not a particularly long time, but a lot can happen within that time frame. Carver, for better or worse, did not remember any of it. When his mind finally caught up with his body and realized that he had no organs to hold the alcohol or be affected by it he was laying on the ground looking up at Wolverine. Both of their bikes were wrecked beyond belief. It looked like some giant had picked them up and smashed them together and then proceeded to try and weld them together. Even on his back he could recognize his own handiwork. "Wait," was the only word he could get out before the incredibly pissed off Canadian split Carver's flaming skull into four nice little chunks.

He had no idea how long it had taken him to regenerate, where he was, of even how long he was out. All he knew for sure was that it was day because he wasn't still the Rider. Wherever he was, it was not a happy place. He glanced up one more time, inspecting the cell that he had been thrown into. The entire thing was constructed of some odd metal and lacked any seams or crevices. Even the bench he was sitting on was made of it and every surface was polished to the point that no matter where Carver looked he could see his reflection and the face of Kale laughing at him. He'd been awake for what he felt like hours. At first he'd banged on the walls, trying to get someone to let him out, and then he resigned himself to waiting. He was already in some deep shit and he did not want to try and bury himself any further by transforming and wrecking the place. Wherever he was, it had to be affiliated with the X-men and he did not need to get on their bad side. Having the West Coast Avengers hate his guts for wrecking half of their hideout was bad enough. He didn't need two super teams after him. So he waited and tried his best to ignore Kale's jibes and the spirit had plenty of them.

"Tabby, get up."

"Nuuuuuuuuu..." Tabby moaned at her roommate, instead attempting to smother herself by pounding her face into her pillow in an act of protest. She hadn't gotten back to the mansion from the Vertigo until like... well, it seemed mere minutes ago when she peeled off her jeans, kicked off her boots, and tumbled into bed. Was roomie going to make the redhead live up to her bogus declaration of "getting up early to study?" Ugh, why? Why did people insist on holding her to her false word when they knew she was in no shape or form to ever be that responsible? What horse puckie.

"Wolverine's asking for you."

Those four words were like a bump of cocaine to Tabby's brain. Bolting upright, snarled and tangled red locks clouded the technopath's face as her blue eyes had trouble focusing on the girl standing over her bed. "He wha?" The young woman mumbled, scarlet brows furrowing into a look of complete and utter confusion.

"Something happened to his bike."

"Whaaaaaaaat." Her tone wasn't complaining; instead it was a strange mixture of awe and excitement with a little bit of relief sprinkled on top. Her blankets flopped down as a fist reached up, attempting to rub the sleep from one eye. "Dude. Dude, what."

Her roommate shrugged. "I don't know. Bar fight or something." She flopped onto her own bed adjacent Tabby. "Bikes are smashed up pretty good."

"Bikes?" Tabby echoed. It was such a weird emulsion of emotions to feel terrified and excited and wary all at the same time. but... oh, Wolverine was going to trust her with his bike! His bike! That was like being Leonardo DiCaprio and getting an Oscar! Stumbling from bed, she shimmied into a pair of black sweatpants branded on the hip with the N7 sigil from Mass Effect and swapped out her orange flowery tank top for a gray one with a bright green emblem of Cthulu on the chest. "Dude. This is it. This is my moment." The redhead pulled her old socks off, jerking on new red, pink, and orange striped ones before jamming her feet back into her boots. "Wolverine's gonna trust me not to screw his baby up? I've arrived. This is it. Everyone else can go home."

"And you should head to the garage." The roomie finished.

A snap of elastic, and Tabby's hair was coifed into a passable ponytail. "I'm going." Five strides took her to their door, where she struck a pose upon grabbing the doorknob. "The next time you see me... I will have been considered somewhat useful by a living legend."

It took only an extra minute or two for Tabby to stop by the cafeteria and snag a bagel and a large mug of coffee. The bagel had been devoured and the coffee was half-drunk by the time she slipped into the garage where, like some abstract piece of modern art, the barely recognizable scorched and twisted frames of two motorcycles sat in the middle of the place. The tires had melted and fused together, a bunch of metalwork looked like it had been welded and soldered and maybe even forged and...

"Ho. Lee. Crap." Tabby whispered as she laid a bare hand against the lump of gnarled machinery. Ok, this was going to take slightly longer than anticipated. Her mutation provided a map of the two machines in her mind's eyes, scrawling out where each one should have begun and ended. Both fuel tanks were compromised, the engines... could have been worse, and the chassis? There was heat warping unlike anything Tabby had ever seen. "Man, what the hell happened to you guys?" Tabby asked the fused bikes.

They didn't answer, so Tabby went to the tool cage and started pulling what she needed to get started. A torch, a welding helmet, and half an hour later the technopath had two separated halves of the twisted pseudo-sculpture instead of one. She could tell which bike was Wolverine's, but... "Who do you belong to?" The redhead queried the mystery bike.

"Some asshole." The gruff voice of one surly Canuck rasped out from behind her. Tabby turned to see Wolverine glowering, the stub of a cigar clenched between his teeth.

"What asshole might that be?" Tabby asked. She almost said, "Is that what you're calling yourself now?" in an attempt to be funny, but she didn't want to screw this up.

"If you're so interested, he's downstairs in a holding cell." The end of the cigar glowed red and smoke wafted into the air. Cigar smoke always smelled somewhat better than cigarettes to Tabby's nose. "May have sobered up by now."

"Isn't that like kidnapping?" The young woman asked, arching an eyebrow. Wolverine gave her a look that he could care less. "...Is no one going to let him out?" Shrug. "Y... I think I might go see the guy who created this beast with two backs." Tabby flashed a winning smile at Wolverine, hoping to get one in return... and got nothing. "Because... you know... Shakespeare?" There was no reaction. "...'kay then. Be right back."

The holding cells were accessed by a quick elevator ride activated via Wolverine's staff ID. If... whoever this was had a tendency to be dangerous, Wolverine would have come with her. ...wouldn't he? Obviously, he wasn't worried. Tabby wanted to know just how the hell this person had welded too bikes together because... that was pretty badass.

There was only one occupied cell and a bored looking staff member keeping tabs on it. It only took a turn of a key and the input of a security code for the wall to melt away, revealing the interior of the cell through a thick window. Inside was... someone who looked wayyyyyy worse for the wear. "Uh... good morning?" Tabby called through the window. "I hear tell you're the one who created the beast with two backs up in the garage." Man, that joke was golden!

I spy something silver, might you be able to guess what it is?

"Gee, I don't really know." Carver replied in a flat tone. "Could it be everything in this damn cell?" He glared at the spirit as it let loose a chattering laugh. Finally, unable to deal with his "grandfather's" jokes, Carver pulled his hood over his head and laid down on the metal bench, getting as comfortable as he could. He could see how his ancestor had been the ruler of Hell for sometime. The bonehead spirit was a master of torture.

Oh, come now, child, let us keep playing. I spy, without any eyes, something red.

Carver opened his mouth to respond to the spirit, but then stopped. Red? Did he own anything that was red? "Kale, I'm not in the mood to play games. I just want to lay here and sulk for a good hour, maybe six. There's a good chance that I've already ruined my reputation out here like I did back west and I might have made an eternal enemy of one of my favorite heroes. I'm tired, my head hurts from having it sliced and diced, and they took my cigarettes so I'm suffering from a severe lack of nicotine. So, will you please, just let me-"

"Uh...good morning?" Carver practically jumped at the sound of the stranger's voice. In a flurry of movement he pushed himself up into a sitting position and tore back his hood. Where there had originally been a wall of metal there was now a pane of glass. Beyond that sat a red haired woman in pajamas. 

Child, is this our captor? Why does she speak of Othello and why does she bear the mark of an ancient god? Have we been captured by a Cult? 

The caged man exhaled deeply through his nose. "No," he muttered, "She's not part of a cult. That's Cthulhu, from one of the Lovecraft books." The problem with Kale was that despite spending the last twenty one years stuck with Carver he'd never really picked up on pop culture. Having to explain it to him constantly was particularly irritating. Unfortunately, he knew that if he didn't tell the spirit he would just keep pestering him. It was either suffer through it or look like he was insane and talk to himself. He was sure the girl had heard his previous rant. For someone without any magic in them seeing speaking with Kale was pretty much impossible. She probably already thought he was crazy. Thanks to the spirits observation Carver examined the girl's clothing a bit more closely. He had to give her some props. Cthulhu and Mass Effect squeezed into one outfit? She could have been a nerd's wet dream. He suddenly realized that he'd been practically glaring at her. He didn't need her to think he was stranger and more dangerous than he really was. He smoothed out his features with a deep, cleansing breath before answering.

"Morning, not too sure that it's good though." Carver gestured with his eyes, looking at the walls that surrounded him. "And you heard right." he said, turning his blue eyes back towards her. "Can't say that it was my proudest moment. Probably go down in the annuals of drunken superhero history. 'Idiot sets most bad ass mutant in the world's bike on fire'." He spoke, holding his hands out to set off the header to his entry in Drunk History. "How is the other guy? I mean, mood wise? Pretty pissed?" he asked, his face contorting into a frown. It was funny, he'd been locked in a cell all night and his first question wasn't when he was going to get out, but if the guy who put him there was angry at him. Yep, smart. 

Dude (or at least a masculine voice rumbled from beneath that hooded form) was talking to himself. Muttering, more like. Oh man, was he still inebriated? It was a total possibility. Tabby'd only been drunk drunk once... She went out with her older brothers one year during Christmas break and found that peppermint Schnapps was like the baby Jesus' alcoholic answer to candy canes. The next morning she threw up a ghastly minty concoction of bile and fruitcake on Papa's feet and was grounded for half a year. But Tabby didn't recall talking to herself... Welp, all people handled drink differently. Or at least that's what the internet said.

...did he say something about a cult? You know what: whatever. Tabby liked talking to herself all the time when she was sober and working on projects. Mostly because she was freaking hilarious.

From underneath that hood erupted a majestic mane of beard. "Dude, yes." The redhead whispered intensely. On her list of favorite things, beards were listed somewhere near the top above sleeping in but below screaming "SUCK IT!" at people on Call of Duty multiplayer. The coolest people had beards, after all. Vikings. Treebeard. Jesus. Jared Leto looking like Jesus. Also that one guy in Times Square who played Star Wars on his saxophone, but this dude could give him a run for his money... and beat him senseless. Set somewhere in the glorious fields of hair were two blue eyes, looking weary. The redhead couldn't help but smile -- who couldn't smile when they were looking at a real-life pirate lumberjack?

Tabby's own blue eyes followed his gesture to his cell, and she let out a short bark of a chuckle. "Well, that depends on if you were hoping to get locked up in a holding cell last night. 'cause if you were -- bravo, man. Unless the White House has nicer ones -- which I think is called Guantanamo, so no they don't -- you're basically at the Ritz." ...why was she trying to comfort this guy? Well, probably because getting kinda kidnapped by Wolverine was terrifying no matter what your level of sobriety.

Hah! At least he had the good manners not to glower at her super-fantastic-totally-highbrow reference. Classy. Just a fire? Tabby cocked her head to the side and retraced the visual map of the bikes in her head. That would need an impressive amount of heat -- which yeah, maybe the compromised fuel tanks could provide, but to kindle that kind of fusing... "Well I'm no... fire scientist, but whatever you did must have been pretty impressive because it took me a torch and my awesome muscles to pry the two apart so... again, good game." Superhero annals, huh? Who was this guy (besides being affectionately referred to as "some asshole")?

"Oh well... yeah. Called it." Tabby leaned against the window, taking care not to smudge the glass. "He's not really the most amiable person in the world -- but sounds like you know that." Tabby tended to sidestep Wolverine. She was loud, he was irritable, it was just best for the school if they both kept a wide berth around each other. And she didn't want to have to explain to her parents why she thought it was a great idea to rattle the cage of a guy who had retractable metal claws just for shiggles. "I guess he's kinda evened out, but he let me down here to say 'hello,' so I guess he's more...Irate? Not really an improvement, but... baby steps."

"Oh, and name's Tabby by the way." The technopath gave a little wave. "I'm responsible for seeing what I can do about Wolverine's bike. And I like your beard, so I'll see what I can do about yours too. 'cause I'm nice like that."

"Honestly, I like my chances at Guantanamo better than this place. All I gotta deal with there is the terrorist, torture, the United States military, the ocean, and, if things are going really well, probably sharks. Here," he gestured by pointing at the ground, " I've gotta deal with the guy whose bike I turned into a Moore sculpture. Maybe I'm dumb for thinking one guy is scarier than all of the aforementioned terrors, but I like my odds against them better." In truth, it would have been easier for Carver to get out of Guantanomo Bay. A massive burst of Hellfire, a telepathic call to his bike, some shotgun action, maybe a round of Penance stares for whatever poor sap he encountered. Bada bing, bada boom, he's a freeman, riding across the ocean atop his glorious flaming machine. Here, in whatever place he was, he didn't know what he'd be facing if he tried to escape or if he even could for that matter. Mutants, most definitely, and at the very least one veteran X-man. 

Carver shifted about, assuming a more comfortable position as the girl confessed her admiration for his "art". Nestling into the corner of the cell he placed his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs before him, crossing one size thirteen boot over the other. He found himself laughing at her comments. "Fire scientist?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. "I'm actually surprised that you were able to get the two separated. The last I saw both of them were a steaming pile of wreckage. 'Course, I only saw them for about a second before three shiny claws impeded my vision." Carver had been building bikes since he was fourteen and even with all of his experience he couldn't have pried both of those bikes apart. If someone had dropped that piece of crap off at any auto shop the mechanics would've told them to scrap it. This girl some how managed it. The smile that followed after his laughter faded at the mention of his idol.

"Irate, huh? My uncle and dad said he wasn't that nice of a guy when they knew him. To be fair, my uncle isn't that nice either. I just hoped that he wasn't as bad as I'd been told." What could Carver have expected from a man who teamed up with his uncle and the Punisher. "Meeting your heroes is a real let down." Carver confided in the girl, "I wouldn't recommend doing it. Just admire them from afar. Otherwise they kick the shit out of you, literally. I still have boot prints on my jacket." Carver called attention to his road worn gear and the small boot prints on his chest, sides, and stomach. Carver wasn't sure why he was telling the girl all of this. Having met Wolverine and ruining his chances at anything close to a friendship was incredibly disheartening. He needed to talk to someone about it and Kale wasn't going to be any real help. Sure, he'd listen and try his best to console his descendant, but the spirit wasn't so good at helping others move past pain. He specialized in the areas of getting even and blowing stuff up. This girl just so happened to be a prime candidate to listen to his musings. Besides, she had made him laugh which was the first bit of kindness he'd received since waking up.

The mention of his bike and his beard was all that he needed to pull him out of his downward spiral. He was quite proud of his display of manliness. What started off as laziness in the beginning of his quest turned into a certain point of pride. Not one to bother with shaving Carver's whiskers slowly grew into a magnificent mane before he even noticed. By the time he thought about shaving he just couldn't bring himself to do it. He had given birth to something so incredible he only had one course of action; to protect and nurture it. It was a magnificent conversation starter and who didn't love an awesome beard? "It's nice to meet you, Tabby. Wish it could be under better circumstances. My name's Jonathan, but nobody calls me that, not even my folks. So just call me Carver and don't worry too much about my bike. She's a little temperamental. I'll fix her myself whenever I get out of here." He laughed to himself as he thought of his bike. The demonic bike would be right as rain as soon as Carver transformed. 

"So, speaking of getting out of here, did my new best friend say when he was going to let me out or am I going to be permanent guest at the Ritz?" 

"But at Guantanamo you have to, like, throw your poops and stuff. Which you could do here, but I don't recommend it because... that cell is sealed. Like Tupperware, except with oxygen." The redhead nodded sagely, as though she often had to counsel people against throwing their own feces. "So add 'playing baseball with my own excrement' to that list too. That's gotta tip the scales in our favor -- I mean, come on. Any day I don't poop into my hand and throw it is a good day." Tabby vividly recalled finding out that apes would defecate into their own hand and throw it at subjects of their ire when she was nine. The next time Joseph got on her nerves, she ran to where they stored the dog kibble and snatched a handful of it, moistened with water from the sink, and then listened for Joseph's voice. Detecting him in the den, she hunched over and loped into the room before proceeding to screech at the top of her lungs and hurl the moistened dog kibble at him.

The look on Joseph's face was absolutely priceless.

"But dude, I feel you. Wolverine is... I mean..." The redhead gestured awkwardly and made a face or two. "He and my parents are colleagues and I don't really want to ever step on his toes because I value my life and also I don't want my parents to tell me for the millionth time that not everyone appreciates my sense of humor or my volume levels." Considering the bearded spectacle of manhood before her, Tabby added, "But dude, I seriously have to say that I'm impressed with what you did if only because some part of me wishes I could be that hardcore and fearless. Even if I was a little sauced, I'd probably almost do it and then just cry or make out or pass out -- or all three, because this is America."

Yeah! She made him laugh! Suck it, Wolverine, I am awesome. The redhead grinned back at the man as he made himself comfortable. How could this guy piss Wolverine off? Well, any number of things, really. And Tabby thought Canadians were supposed to be friendly. "You know... like the Mythbusters. With explosions. And fire. For science." That was an occupation, so obviously fire scientists were a thing. ...Or, Tabby supposed, she could have just said pyrokinetic. Since those really did exist. Like all the time. "Oh, well, I'm just... naturally good at stuff like that." The technopath assured the man with a dazzling smile. "Also, you look surprisingly well for tangling with Wolverine. Do you have like... super fact regenerative abilities or something? Because I hear those are kickass. All I can do is scab really well. It's neat."

Tabby's head jerked backwards, cocking to the other side. "You have family ties to him?" The redhead questioned, a scarlet brow arching with curiosity. "...Does he know that, because if he doesn't... dude, you could make him feel like a total ass if they were like friends... or on good terms. And it would be hilarious." But then, as the guy offered Tabby a bit of friendly advice, her good buzz that had been cultivated by talking to him was slightly dulled just because... oh man, he must have been really disappointed with what happened. And that must have sucked. Tabby had always wanted to meet Tony Stark as a kid, and still remembered sobbing so hysterically the day he died that her mom had to calm her down with some Benadryl and lots of cuddles. "Dude. This is a total understatement, but that sucks." Her lips warped in a sad smile as she leaned her forehead against the glass. "But who can say that they also went... what I assume was toe-to-toe with Wolverine and lived, huh? What an awesome story, right?" Maybe there was a silver lining after all. "And who knows, maybe once I piece his bike together and he's had time to cool off, he'll like the punches that you throw or your gumption. You know. Like John Wayne and manly men in the westerns do."

"No, no, my good sir, the pleasure is all mine." Tabby tittered, assuming a slightly falsetto posh British accent. She gave the man a grin, just seeing the sudden lightness in his face that the turn in conversation had brought. "This is also a kickass story. One day, when we are total bros, people will be like 'Where'd you two meet?' And we will scream at them 'HOLDING CELLS AND TECHNICALLY KIDNAPPING' before we cartwheel away and leap onto a bike with a passenger car that belches like flaming rainbows. And glitter -- because fabulousness." Flashing a rather wild grin, the redhead nodded emphatically.

"The least I can do is at least try to clean her up for you." Tabby offered. "I might have been kinda modest earlier, but seriously, fixing things is my gift. Or mutation -- you know, tomato/tomahto, love for the dead/necrophilia. Same diff." Pressing her forehead against the window in an effort to somehow get closer to the bearded biker awesome guy within, the redhead queried, "Does 'she' have a name?"

Oh, yeah. Being released was probably a high priority for Carver. Which made sense, the holding cells seemed mad boring. "He didn't say..." Tabby conceded, frowning slightly. What would Wolverine even want to do with him? He obviously restrained Carver long enough to haul him in here and -- and now what? Was Wolverine gonna glower at him until he evaporated? No; such an epically bearded man deserved better. But... A quick looked to the staff member found them engrossed in a magazine with earbuds muffling their voices. "I'm sure I could figure out a way to get you out. Because this isn't Guantanamo Bay and... well, kinda-kidnapping people isn't my thing."

The bearded man snickered at the mention of the word poop. He was an adamant believer in a truth that most disagreed with. The word poop would always be funny. No matter how old you got or how many times you heard it. He knew first hand that the word only got funnier the more it was said. Like it was some sort of fairy that drew power from the beliefs of children and man-children alike. "I suppose you're right. I can't say that I'd enjoy throwing poop on anyone. I don't think it's a requirement though. It's not like your cellmates are gonna give you an orientation on the proper technique in which to throw said poop." Carver's imagination produced an image of him sitting at a desk in an orange jump suit while two middle eastern men explained the aerodynamic properties of feces on a black board. "Hehe, poop." he giggled quietly to himself.

"I think Pyroligist sounds sufficiently fancy and scientific. Even sounds like it could be a real word. They can study pyrology and how things catch on fire and shit."

It is a real word, child, one which means exactly that, the spirit informed it's host. If the flaming skull still had eyes Carver was sure he would have rolled them at him. He paid the entity no mind. He'd made a solemn and silent oath to himself that he wouldn't make this girl think he was any more insane than she already did. I do not get your and this girl's obsession with fecal matter. Are you not four and twenty? Kale was most certainly one of the individuals that disagreed with Carver, but they tended to disagree on most subjects. 

"Yeah, something like that." Carver continued, not even bothering to acknowledge Kale. "Only for about twelve hours out of the day along with some other kick ass powers. The other twelve I have this wicked awesome beard, a cheerful disposition, and the ability to get into hijinks that most would deem impossible. That scabbing thing though, sounds super useful. There's a million ways you can use that." 

Familial ties? Yeah, not so much. "He definitely knew whose kid I was once the fight started. The family resemblance is impossible to miss." Being composed of bones and magic fire all of the Riders looked pretty much the same with some small variations. Carver was the second most distinct because of his whole one eyed, blue fire thing. The most was some distant relative named Vengeance who had a purple saber tooth skull instead of a human one. Carver had met him once or twice, even got to ride with him. If Carver thought his dad or uncle went crazy when they changed, this guy went completely bat shit. Course, he was also some lieutenant in the devil's army or sum such bs. So that might explain it. 'Sides, I don't think it's possible to make that guy feel like an ass. He's probably all like 'the kid had it coming' or something. You've got a valid point about the fighting thing. I mean, I guess not that many people can say they got to duke it out with a living legend. That's got a majorly up my street cred in at least some regard. Hopefully, no one finds out how shit faced I was when it happened. Otherwise, I'm just that drunken idiot who pissed of the most surly Canadian that America's hat has ever produced." While Wolverine did bear some semblance to the Duke, Carver doubted he would like his punches. It was nice of her to say though and gave him just a bit of hope in a bleak moment of personal doubt.

Another laugh tore through his body. Rainbows coming out of his bike? Quite possibly when Hell froze over, but not a moment sooner. His beloved Hellcycle was a beast of devastation and ruin! Not something out of My Little Pony. The image was particularly funny. "Faboulousness, eh?" he asked, reaching down to stroke his beard. He stopped for a moment when Tabby put her head against the glass. It was a bit odd, but from what Carver already knew about the girl odd seemed to be her thing. She was possibly made entirely from odd and that, in his book, made her hilariously funny. A normal person would just sulk about being in a cage, which had been his plan, but now he was actually laughing and joking with her. This girl just made it hard to be in a sour mood.

Her mutation... So she was a mutant. Carver couldn't say that he'd ever personally met one. Back West there were plenty of them, but they didn't exactly hang signs around their neck that said mutant. Wait, did that make her an X-man? X-woman? Whatever. It was still impressive that she actually had powers of her own. Carver's were just borrowed. "Back when my pa had her he called her the Hellcycle. He wasn't too fond of her. Never refereed to it as a her either, just it. Me on the other hand," Carver just shrugged. He loved that bike. The Hellcycle had been such a big part of his life and when he finally got her at the age of eighteen it should have been the happiest moment of his life. Circumstances made it rather bittersweet though...

If Carver liked Tabby to begin with he officially loved her now. Not in a creepy way, in an eternal life debt kind of way. "Are you fucking serious?" he asked, a wide grin threatening to split his bearded visage in half. He leapt off of the bench and approached the mirror, placing his hands on either side of him for support as he leaned towards it."Oh my god, if you can get me out of here I'll do anything."

Careful with our words now, child. You do not want to get yourself into any more trouble at the behest of this girl. 

"Literally anything." Carver added, simply to irritate Kale.

Finally, a person with the refined tastes in humor similar to Tabby's own! His snickers brought forth a beaming smile to the redhead's lips, bursting with admiration and joy. She might not laugh at the word "poop" and instead only use it liberally, but a grown man with a majestic beard laughing at the word? Yes. Yes, Tabby thought that was both epic and adorable. Epicable. Adorapic.

Today was a good day.

"I never thought there might be a lack of poop education in Guantanamo Bay." The redhead's face contorted into a look of pure concern, her eyebrows furrowing. "And dude... dude... you might need one. So, take it from me -- I've been in your shoes --" Tabby wasn't sure how much he could see out the window, so she backed up slightly so he could get a better view of her as a whole. Things were about to get demonstrational. As she spoke, she postured to match her words. "-- You need to make sure you get it right the first time, because when you're locked in a cell and stressed out, you're gonna clench, and that is not proactive. So spread your legs like shoulder width apart, see? Nice and sturdy. And you want to bend your knees -- but not too far, because then you might fall backward. So," Tabby rested her forearms on her thighs, "Get comfortable. Ease into it. And then -- catch, like it's an unspeakable hamster trying to escape a tube. Or -- if you don't mind doing your own interior decorating, you can always use a wall for balance." Tabby slapped her knees and straightened up, returning to the window. "You are now an official graduate from my pooping-into-your-hand Guantanamo Bay survival course. You'll receive your diploma... once I receive $25,000. Cashier's checks only, please."

"Pyrologist?" Tabby echoed, nodded to show how impressed she was. "Look at you and your... words. Coming out of your mouth." But that reminded her... didn't she read about people who made wildfire in A Song of Ice and Fire that did, like, the exact same thing? And they were called... Pyromancers! Yeah, but that was more magic and pyrologists totally sounded more scientific. It's not like they lived in a world with superheroes and mutants and demi-god people and stuff anyway. "Man, if my parents didn't insist I don't play with fire -- except for like soldering irons and blow torches and doing welding -- I could totally get a PhD in pyrology. Life is so unfair."

"I will trade you my legendary scabbing for the ability to grow some serious facial hair." Tabby offered, pressing a palm against the window. "'kay. 'kay, imagine me with a beard... that is like two feet long and ridiculously curly and ginger. Everyone would fear and lust after me." The girl nodded furiously at the man in the cell. "It is known. It is known, khaleesi. Also, I think scabs can technically be ingested to keep you alive if you're starving, and it also counts as auto-cannibalism -- so you're getting like three things for the price of one."

Hmm. What family did this guy belong to? With mutants and meta-humans and... like every other manifestation of power in humanoid-ish form being so out in the open these days, it was easy for dynasties to quickly be established. There was the Summers clan alone where the X-Men were regarded... but who could this dude belong to? Sometimes the redhead felt completely in the dark regarding people of a similar powerful persuasion simply because... well, she had other things to do. Like beat The Last of Us on survival mode and try to figure out how to make a lightsaber butter knife that toasted as it sliced bread. "I don't know -- I think if you hang around him enough, you pick up on things. Like, " Tabby checked over both shoulders once more, just in case the wiry Canuck was lurking. "I heard he had a thing for Jean Grey back in the day. And maybe still does. So like... I'm sure something about that could increase his ability to feel like an ass. If someone more competent than me were to put two and two together." Or dude... what if he punched a baby? ...Actually, Tabby didn't know where she was going with that one. Never mind.

A explosion of laughter came out of Tabby's mouth and she doubled over as Carver echoed one of Canada's nomme de guerre's that she had seldom ever heard. "America's hat -- right on!" The technopath chortled, having to take a few seconds to compose herself. "But like -- glass half full -- think of the damage you could have done to/around him sober if that's what you did drunk. Huh?" A broad grin split Tabby's face as she coaxingly nodded, her expression clearly telling Carver that, yes, he should agree.

"I believe it could also be called swagger or overkill or whatever. But you gotta make an entrance and an exit that'll be remembered." In fact, Tabby and several of the graduating seniors were working on rigging a couple of homemade canons up at the graduating ceremony that would cover the crowd in small objects of each senior's choosing when they walked. Tabby had suggested miniature rainbow penis erasers, but her classmates thought that those might prove more trouble with the staff than they were worth and also present a choking hazard.

Hellcycle? Now... Tabby felt like that should have rang a bell, but whichever bell that might be she couldn't say. "That's a pretty sweet and badass name." The girl complimented with a nod. She thought that it was neat when people gave their vehicles names. Why, she had a pink and purple bike when she was little that she named "Perdy" after... Perdy in 101 Dalmatians. And the shared Dodge Ram Charger back home was christened "The Darth Vader Mobile" since it looked like the Sith apprentice sans helmet. It was a gesture of affection and respect that Tabby definitely understood. After all, she named her PS3 Sparky and she didn't even ride around on it. Usually. "It's ominous... and I'm sure when she's looking her best, it strikes fear into the heart of mere mortals -- Holy crap. HOLY CRAP, NO WAY." Tabby jerked her head back, looking at Carver with astounded revelation. "Way?" She whispered, her blue eyes wide. Dude. Life was awesome.

"I'm like Sirus Black serious." The redhead confirmed with a nod. "My mutation -- it lets me know how mechanical and electrical things work. How to take them apart, put them back together, fix them... and even kinda hack them." Finally, she was going to be useful for things other than improving the speakers in the rec room and jailbreaking people's iPhones! Tabby placed a hand against the cold metal of the cell's exterior and the map of its creation scrawled out in her mind. Every wire, every gear, every movable part... she followed the connection right to the console where the staff member was sitting. They had opened the window with a five-digit code, but there required a different code neural scan to release Carver from his prison.

Unless, of course, Tabby bypassed the requirements altogether with the bit of code swimming around in her head that was heralded as a "master key." Yeah, that sounded better.

And -- Oh, the dude was willing to bargain and... bargain hard. An-y-thing?" Tabby asked teasingly, her lips curving into a devious smile. "So many possibilities... And such a precarious position you've put yourself in..." The technopath stared intently at the man for about ten seconds before snorting, "Nah, I'm just joking. How about... you just owe me one later? You know, like a sammich or a high five or something. Because, like I said, not a fan of this pseudo-kidnapping and imprisonment. Also, your beard needs care that living in these cells cannot provide."

Tabby's in depth tutorial on how to properly arm himself with his own fecal matter was much appreciated. He laughed as she demonstrated the proper squatting technique. The fee, however, was up for debate. Carver barely had twenty five dollars to his name, let alone twenty five grand. "Pffft, I don't need no stinking piece of paper. I'm a turd hurler of the highest caliber by now. If anyone wants proof I'll simply demonstrate." he replied in a haughty tone. He failed to keep up the charade of false pride and burst into a fit of laughter afterwards. "Same can be said for your study of pyrology and how things 'splode. Just demonstrate and reap the rewards. Who doesn't like a bit of arson here and there? I set things on fire on a daily basis!" Including myself! He left that last bit off. He knew he was being very forward with his not-so-terribly-secret identity, but he couldn't give it all up on their first meeting. Of course, if she really wanted to know she could just ask Wolverine or check the security tapes, if there were any. Carver had to have been in his Rider form when he was locked up.

Oh, a George R.R. Martin reference, very nice. Carver would have to remember that the girl seemed to share a lot of the same interests that he did. Fantasy literature, video games, poop... This was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. "That's all true," he began, "But my ability to grow beards provides warmth, conversation starters, grants protection for my chin, and bequeaths on to me all of the powers of a lumberjack." Carver could never give up his beard, no matter what the circumstances. In the handful of times he'd gone back home his mother had tried to get him to shave. Her bribes had included care packages, her paying for his cell phone, and a plethora of monetary and baked good themed payoffs. Parting with his beard would have been like parting with Kale. It was possibly, but it would just hurt too much. 

Jean Gray and Wolverine? That was possibly the weirdest couple Carver had heard of. He knew enough about the X-men to know that Jean and a fella named Scott had a thing for each other and were married. Scott, from what he knew, was level headed and nice. Wolverine was most certainly neither of those. He found the info interesting, nonetheless, and tucked it away in the back of his mind. One day he might need to piss off his idol again and that sounded like some great ammunition to have stored away. A couple more bits of info like that and he could totally make the man feel like a complete ass. Of course, Carver would have his handed to him, but it might be worth it. He'd already proven that he'd bounce back from being mostly decapitated. Beyond that there wasn't much the other man could do to him. "If I was sober he'd probably have come back singed and decidedly more pissed off. I probably would have gotten away from him though." The thought of fighting Wolverine was daunting, to say the least. Carver, to his knowledge, was stronger, faster, and decidedly more magical than the man, but Wolverine knew how to fight and play the Rider's few weaknesses, and that made all the difference. 

Carver had to agree with her idea of making a big exit. "Definitely, we need to do something with so much swag, so much overkill, and so many rainbows that it simply can't be processed by rational though. It'll be like seeing an Elder god and their brains just turn to mush. If that happens I guess they wouldn't remember it. So that might defeat the purpose." Carver said with a frown, defeating his own idea. It was a nice attempt if he could say so himself. 

He was pleased that she appreciated his beloved bike. The way that she had a minor freak out clued him in that he might have been a little too liberal with his not-so-secret identity. What did it matter though? She was in roughly the same boat he was in. Besides, it wouldn't have been long before Wolverine spilled the beans or rumors started floating around. He might as well do the reveal on his own terms. He grinned at her from behind the pane of glass and let the spirit within him run rampant in his body. The change always threatened to consume him, to transform him. It was always there in the back of his mind and burning in the pit of his stomach. The pain had, and always would be, excruciating, but it was something he got used to. Somewhere deep within him a fire caught. It burned slowly, little more than the smallest of embers, than Carver and Kale poured their joint power into it. Blue flame engulfed Carver's body and where there had been a jovial man, now stood a grinning skeleton. "Way," he croaked out in a voice the sounded like it should have belonged to some ancient evil rather than the bearded stranger. The Rider's single blue eye was trained on the red haired girl before he tilted his head to the side, allowing the eye to shift to the other side of his skull. Just as suddenly as the power and fire overcame him it vanished, pushed back down into the depths of Carver's soul. The fire was snuffed out by an otherworldly wind and once more Carver was fleshy and pink. Sure, he was showing off, but how often did he get a chance to do things like that? Never! 

It seemed like Carver was about to get a demonstration in Tabby's own powers. While not as showy as his, they sounded incredibly awesome! "I'll think of something sufficiently awesome to repay you with if that's the best you got. Like a Ghost Rider taxi service or I'll buy you booze or teach you how to grow your own beard. And you are right! My mane of manliness cannot exist in such harsh conditions. It needs the sun, fresh air, and room to flourish."  He held out his arms as if to demonstrate how much room his beard needed, blue flames still flickering at the edges of his coat. 

"I'm a turd hurler of the highest caliber by now."

"Oh. My. GOSH." Tabby roared with laughter, the image of this tall bearded spectacle of masculine glory covered in camouflage and hurling brick-like loaves of fecal matter in a war zone entering her mind and making itself comfy. "With that attitude..." The redhead panted, leaning against the wall as she vainly attempted to catch her breath, "You'll never make it to 'specialist,' Private Carver." Now this guy was flippin' awesome. "Also, how will you get your Fecal-Flinger license without any diploma from an accredited university, i.e. Some Random Ginger Who Happened Upon Me When I Was in a Holding Cell? Yes, totally accredited. I have mad connections, yo."

"You lucky duck!" Tabby explained. Man, when she graduated and did whatever the hell she was going to do with her life, then she could set things on fire on a daily basis. "You set your hair on fire like five times, your parents don't care, but you do it once -- once -- to your little sister and all the sudden it's 'Tabby can't light the birthday candles anymore' and 'Tabby, no more playing with butane torches just for shiggles.' It must be rad as hell to have that kind of ...power." Soon, Tabby promised herself, daily, nightly, and ever so rightly.

Tabby seriously wished that she could have a beard sometimes, and Carver's point on the usefulness of facial hair only caused her desire to grow. It was total bullcrap that ladies couldn't grow beards unless they had a hormonal disorder or were on steroids. It was ridiculous! Women's faces froze in the winter time and Tabby wanted to be able to braid her hair in a continuous loop around her face. Thanks for crushing dreams, biology! "I see. Then my offer of questionable nutrition and being able to be a cannibal without getting arrested pales in comparison." Stroking a non-existent goatee upon her chin, Tabby considered what else she could offer. "Freckles. I can teach you how to freckle. Or give you my non-existent tolerance for sunlight. Burn like a pro (without the flame!) and you can add the peeling skin to your scab to make a sammich. Boom. UPGRADE."

"I would have liked to see that." Tabby confessed, a wild grin curling her lips. "Dude's been built up to like demi-god status around here, but it's nice to be reminded that he's a person just like the rest of us." Wolverine was esteemed by just about everyone that Tabby knew: respected, feared, and admired from the distance. She harbored some terror of him because he was the Wolverine, but it would have been hilarious for those sideburns and his immaculate victory rolls (or whatever his hairstyle was called) to come back shrunken and slightly melted. "But dude, then we would have never met and I would have never been able to tell you so much about handling your own feces. God works in mysterious ways, am I right?"

Yes. Yes. YES. Tabby was increasingly thrilled with this guy and how alike they were turning out to be. He was proud of his beard and he totally understood her about making an impression. Nodding emphatically, Tabby pressed herself up against the glass once more. "But in that moment, I swear we would be infinite." She could visual the tech needed to produce such a spectacle. So many light filters, it would probably be best to have it solar powered for maximum efficiency and to make it green or whatever. "We could test such methods out and slowly reign it in to where people don't get sauced brains, but maybe where they're struck blind for two weeks? Imagine that being your last sight for fourteen days. You'd dwell on it. Yes."

As Carver transformed, confirming Tabby suspicion in a way that left no room for doubt, the technopath's lips parted. Flesh disappeared, replaced by bone and... a cycloptic skull. Uncononsciously, her fingers clenched against the window, curling into a fist of delirious excitement and exuberance. "Wow," The girl was able to breathe before a voice, so deep and rumbly that it would put Morgan Freeman to shame, echoed her last word. Wolverine got into a fricking fight with the Ghost Rider! No wonder the bikes were such a mess! And no wonder this guy was being contained in a holding cell. "Man... you are so legit." Tabby whispered once the flaming skeleton was replaced by bearded flesh. "Oh my gosh, like... I go to school with the kids of some famous people and am taught by heroes and whatever but you... you're different. You are awesome and hardcore AND HOLY CRAP I AM SO GLAD YOUR BEARD DOESN'T GET SINGED OR WHATEVER. Neat. SO NEAT."

Ok, it was go time. Tabby could not disappoint the Ghost Rider. She needed to get him out... and do something with that staff member. It's a good thing she wasn't caught sneaking back in from the Vertigo, because she was definitely going to get in as much (if not more) trouble now. "All of that sounds amazing. Especially the taxi service, because it costs like... a ridiculous amount of allowance to sneak out and go clubbing." Tabby pounded her knuckles against the window. "Consider us bros, and this release our binding contract... Also, you should totally use Biolage products for your facial hair. They'll make it smell super nice... unless your musk of manliness already does that. Or your beard, or whatever." Tabby paused and then, as if hopefully, stated, "I bet your beard smells like barbecue and smoked ribs."

The staff member was still listening to something on their earbuds. "But yeah, let's spring you, buddy! Uh... How about I act like I'm going to leave and, er... You draw your guard's attention." Man, formulating an escape plan was not as easy as it sounded. "Then I can dick with a console, set off an alarm somewhere else, and while your jailer goes to check that out, I can release you from the cell with my awesomeness. Does that sound good to you, brotato chip?"

Carver balked at her rationale. "If that's the case it looks like you're gonna have a rogue refuse pitcher on your hands. I hope you're prepared for the consequences of your actions, madame, because you have just unleashed a very literal shit storm upon the world." Oh yeah, he went there. There was one thing that Carver despised above all else in the world and that was taking orders. He'd never been very good at listening to instructions, even as a child. Sit still, be quiet, don't play with that, don't eat that, don't set your father's hair on fire. Being told not to do something pushed the man to do it and telling him to do it proved the opposite. He had enough sense to know that other folks new better than him a good portion of the time, but it didn't mean he had to like it. "Plus, I'd like to see these so called 'connections'." He set off his last word with a pair of exaggerated air quotes. 

Carver shuddered at Tabby's horrifying skin 'n scab sandwich. The man had gone through hell and back, faced down demons, and generally seen some terrifying things without batting an eye. Eating scabs and dead, ginger flesh? That just sounded down right creepy. "I do think I would be pretty bad ass with ginger freckles. Like a majestic, leather clad Conan O'brien atop a glorious black Harley. I wouldn't even need to transform to stop villainy. People would just look at me in awe and drop to their knees, weeping. I'm not so much a fan of making a sandwich from my spare bits and pieces, though. Scabs I was okay with, the peeling skin, yeah, not so much." The bearded man confessed, still pressed against the glass of his cell. 

You have spent the better part of an an hour speaking of body waste. At the thought of ingesting skin you cringe? Child, I know I have said this many times before, but I will never understand you or the workings of the mysterious contraption you refer to as your brain. Carver cast a sideways glance towards the wall just besides the mirror, glaring at the semi-transparent projection of the spirit that it reflected. In a feeble attempt to silence the spirit Carver shifted his hand so that it laid over Kale's feature. Blessed silence followed, until the projection showed up in the mirror directly in front of Carver. The spirit tsked, an impressive feat for a guy without a tongue, and shook it's disembodied head. 


"God works in mysterious ways, am I right?"


Carver couldn't help but nod in agreement. "Ain't that the truth." Carver's beating at the hands of Wolverine was slowly becoming more worth it with the progression of their conversation. It'd been a long time since Carver had ever had a sit down with someone and actually talked without getting completely sauced int he process. Friends were a luxury and a commitment he sparsely had time for. It was nice actually just sitting and talking. Plus, Tabby was uber funny and crazy. He'd also gotten to show off his powers in front of her. The last time he told a woman about his powers she laughed at him. Last time he showed one she ended up fainting and never returning his phone calls. Actually, now that he thought on it she'd actually moved out of Nevada about a month later. He wondered if he had anything to do with it now...

The fact that Tabby was so impressed with Carver's little display gave him a healthy boost of self-esteem. "Nah, I'm nothing special." he rubbed his nails against his tattered hood and then inspected them. "I put my tights on one leg at a time just like every other superhero. 'Cept mine are decked out in chains, bones, and fire. I also just so happen to do it by lighting myself on fire. Besides all that I'm no different than anyone else." 


Distraction? Can do! "Consider it done, broha." If there was one thing Carver excelled at, beside causing collateral damage, it was being distracting! Everything about him was distracting. He was loud, rode the loudest brand of motorcycle to grace God's green Earth, had a eye-grabbing amount of facial hair, and had been a walking camp fire most of his life. Subtly, thy name be not Carver. "Prepare for the performance of a lifetime. Oh, and to run."  Carver took in a deep breath and before Tabby even had the chance to clear away began screaming at the top of his lungs. "GAHHHHHHHHHH!" he cried out as he began to flail about the cell, long arms flopping in the air, broad shoulders crashing into walls. "AAHHHHHH!" he continued, beginning to pound his large fists on the window. Could he have done something a bit more low key? Most definitely. It wasn't in the man's nature though. Everything he did he had to do big. Why pretend to ask to go pee when you could just pretend to have a temporary bout of insanity?  They both did the job equally well and the latter was definitely more fun.

Who knew that there were so many terms one could use when it came to throwing poop? This conversation was seriously displaying a whole range of possibilities... and giving Tabby pause to think why sane people did toss their crap around more often. Seriously, that had to be the best way to demonstrate your discontent. Cold soup, someone changed the channel, stub your toe -- just hurl your own excrement against the wall as hard as you can.

How avant garde.

"Oh crap, I should have brought my umbrella." Tabby rebutted with a chipper grin."I'm not the one who... writes... the... laws concerning... licensing for dung heaving. Like, you wouldn't want a doctor who didn't go to med school, right? Unless you're the kind of person who trusts chiropractors in malls..." And there was something about the way that Carver said his words that smacked of an almost terrifying determination. "Come on, man, don't be like that. What would Gandhi --" Nah, screw Gandhi. He was a caste-ist jerk. "Would Buddha unleash a tsunami of excrement upon the world once being given such amazing power? Nah, dude, he'd giggle and eat some more kumquats. Or whatever he ate."

A scarlet eyebrow arched severely and Tabby had to take a step back. "Oh, you doubt me?!" The redhead scoffed, hurt evident in her voice. "This coming from the dude who's in a holding cell -- That's so rich I'm amazed it's not in Washington trying to disrupt other people's freedoms." Scrunching her lips, Tabby took a deep breath in before counting off on her fingers. "Uh, one: my brother Joseph, who has been the recipient of my flinging capabilities, two: Wolverine, who uh... hasn't whooped my ass, three: the trash can in my gosh damn dorm room that gets stuff thrown into it by my hand LIKE EVERY FREAKIN' DAY, and four: ...uh... my child bearing thighs which would totally support me better than your frail man-thighs ever could. Credentials. BOOM." Tabby wished she had a pair of sunglasses to pull down over her eyes so she could shout "DEAL WITH IT." She was so unprepared.

Holy crap, this guys was the best. His words painted vivid imagery in Tabby's head and, more often than not, coaxed obnoxious laughter from her lips -- like right now as he proclaimed the glory that would be he were he blessed with gingervitis. Placing a reverent hand upon her heart, Tabby just nodded. "The imagery alone in my head is a spiritual experience, man. Forget other deities of your choosing -- I want Ginger Carver Rider to bring me everlasting salvation. I guess I can begrudge the peeling skin in exchange for a new god."

"Aw, look who's being modest." Tabby teased lightly with a wild grin as the man insisted that there was nothing unique about him. "I mean, I know we're in the sub-basement of a school populated with people who can do all kinds of stuff, but none of them can do what you do. Can't you just let me fangirl and flail over here and possibly Tweet about this later and cry into my journal? Because I'm totally going to." Actually... this would be a day that Tabby would no doubt recount to many others -- first the people that were likely going to discipline her (her parents, Wolverine, possibly Jean Grey herself), then her friends (BECAUSE HOW FREAKING COOL WAS SPRINGING THE GHOST RIDER FROM A HOLDING CELL?! SO COOl, THAT'S HOW COOL), and then her children and her children's child and then probably her memoirs. Or at least, you know, her poorly written collections of notebook paper. "You shine bright like a diamond."

Her pink lips curled upward in a devil-may-care grin as Carver confirmed, yes, he could do a distraction. "Sweet. I'll have you busted out of here in no time, brohim." Yes, she was going to take his lead and call him bronouns now. She already had a healthy amount of them floating around in her head, just waiting to be yelled at someone in a completely jovial manner. "Don't hurt your guard too seriously, 'kay? I have to live with these people... and get final grades from some of them in a few weeks." With that, the redhead idly backed up a few steps, not sure whether to expect a huge fireball or a skull crashing against the window --

Or that.

The furor with which Carver was committing himself to his distraction was genuine and intense enough to receive an actual jump of surprise. Wheeling backward against the wall opposite the cell, her head whipped to look at the guard -- who apparently had their music up way too loud.

"Hey! Hey!" It took a deep Morgan Freeman-esque growl and the waving of limbs for the technopath to gain their attention. "I think he's having a seizure or -- or something." A finger jabbed at the flailing bearded man, Tabby gnawing on her bottom lip in apparent alarm as she pointed.

The staff member ripped out their earbuds and flung their reading material to the floor. "What?!" They careened past Tabby to look through the window.

"I'm going to get someone from the nurse's office -- you can communicate on this thing, right?" Tabby mused aloud, covering for the reason as to why she'd be fiddling with the console. The redhead slid behind it and looked to the keyboard. The ten digit code was pulled from the machine's inner workings with a mere touch and as Tabby muttered (loud enough, hopefully, for the staff member to hear over Carver's voice) "Nurse's office, nurse's office, nurse's office," her fingers deftly tapped the code in and hit execute.

Carver had said to run, right?

"I'll go get them!" Tabby cried aloud, hopping over the console clumsily and almost falling flat on her face. Her balance was regained and, summoning all the strength she had from slacking off in PE, the redhead raced for the elevator, the override code already opening the doors to the awaiting lift.

Carver kept up his antics until the guard had finally made his way over to the cage. Within that span of heartbeats Carver had already bruised his shoulder, given himself a headache, and stubbed his toe, twice! It was all worth it went the frantic man showed up where Tabby had been only a few moments ago. Carver gave one more violent spasm before collapsing against the wall to his right. He breathed erratically, all the while listening to Tabby from far away. The guard looked over Carver cautiously, his hand held towards some sort of firearm on his hip. Carver guessed the guy was a mutant so he probably had some kind of powers too. In almost any circumstance the man could be considered highly dangerous. Dangerous people have a habit of hurting others. That only made Carver more excited for what was about to follow. 

"Y'all right, friend?" the man said, his words practically oozing his southern accent. He took a step closer to the glass just as Tabby had finished her part in the unspoken plan of Carver's awesome escape from the Ritz prison. A crack in the otherwise seamless cage appeared between Carver and the man. In the span of a heart beat several things happened. The door opened, the mutant guard pulled his gun, his left hand ignited into flames, and Carver was immolated by a spray of reddish orange fire. The bearded man remained standing though, a laugh filling the empty air. What began as a chuckle turned into into a maniacal laugh as the fire consumed Carver's flesh. The guard was too startled to do anything else, whatever training he'd received erased from his mind as he watched the human in front of him burn. Carver continued laughing and as he did the fire that had started as a humble orange changed. A blue inferno consumed Carver, snuffing out the flames that had assaulted him. The last of his skin melted away, leaving only a skeleton in hellish biker garb. 

The Rider's hand shot out forward and from within the confines of his jacket a chain flew out, wrapping around the man. He was snatched into the cell were the Rider greeted him with a toothy grin, then again, the Rider was always grinning. "Fine, friend," the Rider replied before throwing his head back, cackling one more time. There were numerous ways to waylay the guard. Some violent, some horrible, and some that were as close to peaceful as the Spirit of Vengeance could muster. Carver had to decide upon the way that he deemed the coolest and he would finish it in a manner that few with his powers would. His head already drawn back, the Rider slammed it forward, it's metal like skull connecting with flesh and bone. The man went limp in the Rider's chains, unconscious, but otherwise unharmed. The Ghost Rider looked over his victim and nodded to himself as he wrapped the sleeping guard in a cocoon of chains and laid him down on the bench his human form had once occupied. He allowed the excess chain to drag on the ground as he exited the cage and walked down the corridor that his friend had proceeded to run through.

His singular eye locked onto her at the end of the hall and he approached, every step leaving behind a molten, leather foot print. His chain followed behind him, scrapping along the floor. He didn't run as she had, simply walked and only slowed once. As he edged past the control console his chain slithered up it and stood like a snake, seemingly looking over the controls. It rattled before darting out and slamming into a button, closing the door to the spirit's former room. With it's job down the Rider flicked it's wrist and the chain returned, wrapping itself about the entity's fist. Finally content Ghost Rider took his spot next to Tabby in the elevator. He crossed his hands in front of him, assuming the stance of a bellhop. "Thanks," it spoke beside her, tilting his head down to his left to get a view of her. "So," it began as the same ghostly wind from before arrived, suddenly snuffing out the fire and revealing a pleased and chipper Carver. "Where to? Scope out the bikes, get my stuff back, or just blow this Popsicle joint?" He just always had to make an entrance and an exit... And a statement while he was there. It was actions like those that had put Carver on the wrong side of most Superheroes. He always had fun doing it though.

Shit, shit, shit-shit, crap, crap on a stick, flying crap... flinging crap? Ok, she was probably maybe going to get detention and grounded and possibly harmed in some psychological way by Wolverine for this. Because, let's face it, people weren't stupid and Tabby just happened to happen to have the capabilities to pretty much screw the school's pooch when it came to anything technological.

Well, Wolverine should have thought of that before he let her down here.

She skidded inside the elevator, sticking her hand against the retracted slats of metal opening to prevent the doors from closing before Carver could join her. This was just in time for her to see the reflection of Carver transitioning into the inflamed Rider, made notable by the vibrant orange flames. Man, she wished that her view wasn't blocked by these pesky walls, because if what he had given her was just a taste of his true glory, whatever was happening now would surely blow her mind. Wait, she was guarding the escape route, wasn't Tabby? SHE WAS TOTALLY GONNA SEE CARVER IN ALL HIS FLAMING AWESOMENESS. As though her mind was red, a devious cackle split through the air, rattling Tabby's spine and giving her the shivers. Life was epic.

The fiery orange unexpectedly dimmed and the redhead could do little more but stare at the guard and his drawn gun. Oh frick, what if Carver got shot? Tabby wasn't sure how bad it would hurt him, and then... oh gosh. She'd really need to go get the nurse. The worry proved to be nothing but idle as the guard suddenly disappeared, jerked into the cell and out of sight. "Obviously, Carver has this handled." Tabby murmured under her breath. He'd be nice and listen to her request that he refrain from hurting the guard too badly, right? Yeah, Carver seemed to be an awesome guy. He wouldn't be a douche. You know, he might be a flame engulfed skeleton, but not a douche. Sweet.

The air was punctuated by another cackle, the sound of impact... and then silence. The elevator dinged impatiently at Tabby as she waited, breath baited, to see who would emerge from the cell. There wasn't really a doubt -- sure, LeRoy could do... wait, what could he do? Grow plants or something? But this was the mother frickin' Ghost Rider. Poor LeRoy didn't have a chance.

So, when Carver stepped out of his cell victorious, swathed in blue flame, and bearing a single eye, Tabby couldn't help herself. Remembering the beautiful stranger's entrance at the club the previous night, Tabby shoved her foot against the doors to hold them open and cupped her hands to her mouth. "You're a boss ass bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch!" She sang, somehow managing to smile broadly and bumping her behind to the beat. "You're a boss ass bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch! Those are the only lyrics I can remem-mem-mem-mem-mem-ber." The redhead chortled, bobbing her head with a devil-may-care grin.

Oh, gosh, he was so badass. Why couldn't Tabby do anything cooler than hack into security cameras and program automatic toilets to flush at the worst of times? And here Carver was, striding towards her like a BAMF with his rattling chain and leaving a trail of ebon footprints... And dude, that chain was like a prehensile tail or something! How AWESOME was that? She slipped within the elevator as he finally approached, and the doors finished their persistent beeping as they finally slid shut.

"My pleasure, Brost Rider." Adding "bro" to the beginning of words was one way that Tabby voiced her affection towards another human being. She needed to think of more words with long o sounds associated with skeletons to shout at Carver for the remainder of their escape. It would add flair. And now the flaming skeleton hellion gave her choices! "Why not all of the above?" Tabby offered with a wild grin. "After all, it's rock and roll, right?" Tabby's fist hit the button for the garage. "Not rock or roll!"

It took more restraint than the Rider would have cared to admit to keep from finishing the lyrics to PTAF's Boss Ass Bitch. It fit in with most of his musical taste but when you live in Sin City, where that song has more air time than it rightly should, it drills it's way into your mind. The hell bound hero couldn't keep himself from nodding silently to beat of the song before taking up his spot in the elevator. Even as he changed back he continued to erratically bob his head just ever so slightly. If he was alone he probably would have given the song no thought, but how Tabby belted it out... It was just so ridiculous he couldn't help himself. She seemed to have that certain effect on him. Sure, poop was funny, but there weren't too many people Carver would have had an in depth conversation about it with. The red haired mutant just seemed to call to a part of him that was more childish than he usually was. He couldn't say that he didn't like it though."You've got it, brochacho." he said with a reaffirming nod. "We get my baby, all my swag, and then we gtfo, preferably in a manner in which we stupefy and bewilder everyone in the vicinity that will be spoken of for centuries." That sounded like a plan to Carver.

The scraggly man did a quick inventory in his head of everything he actually owned and if it was actually worth getting. Shotgun, it was handy to have around but it was replaceable... Too bad it had been holstered on his bike that had been blown to bits. His knife, not exactly a necessity, it had been in his boot last he checked, but going of the extra room in his boot that had been confiscated and probably stashed in some locker. He'd collected a few bits and bobs from some of the demons and villains he'd been the crud out of during his time on the road. Anything he thought was cool. All of which had been in his saddle bags that got blown up. His piece of the Medallion.... "Shit..." Panic suddenly caught in Carver's chest as he thought about the small fragment of metal he'd been hiding in his motorcycle's gas tank. It was the only thing he had to show for the last six years. The only reason he was even here! The most stealthy panic attack the world had ever seen gripped Carver. Withe all the subtlety he could muster he reached over and began to furiously poke the button for the garage. Suddenly the elevator seemed to small and moved way to slow. He thought about giving it a friendly nudge with some Hellfire, but that would be a bit to conspicuous. Like he wasn't already.

As soon as the metal doors to the elevator pinged open Carver was through them and halfway across the garage. He didn't register the foreign vehicles around him, the beautiful cars that probably belonged to some of the X-men, the bike tucked in the corner that was probably Scott Summers. The only thing he could focus on was the wreckage that sat in the middle of the floor. Tools were scattered about and the wreckage of both bikes were splayed out neatly along with the remains of Carver's shotgun. "Bike,"  he called out in a stern voice, much to serious to belong to the friendly Spirit of Vengeance Tabby had met in the holding cell, "Get your shit together."

The wreckage that belonged to Carver on the floor rattled violently at the command of it's owner. The parts crawled, rolled, and slithered towards the man, his arms crossed over his chest. Slowly, as if by invisible hands, the bike began reassembling. If he wasn't in such a rush he might have made more of a show out of it, probably would have transformed to just to add in the Hellfire. As soon as the last piece fell into place the headlight came on and the bike roared to life. Carver gave it no mind as it tried to greet him. He strode over to it's side and with a few deft twist pulled the gas cap off of the bike and shoved his face against it. Peering into the dark, empty recesses of the bike he spotted a soft golden glint. The shard was still there. The anxiety melted and Carver let out an incredibly loud sigh. "Still there," he said before straightening up. The Brost Rider turned towards Tabby, expecting some questions.