Bored. That's pretty much what Erik's dealing with right now. Sheer, utter
boredom. At the moment, he's kicked back on the sofa, watching the TV. A
movie is playing right now. It's a fairly violent flick. Lots of gunshots,
explosions, and people flying in various directions as they sprout rooster
tails. John Woo style action. Hurray!

Gunshots, explosions, and people knocking on doors. Knock knock knock.
Kitty's actually a /particularly/ paranoid knocker-on-doors today: she's
constantly checking over shoulders, and Jack likely noticed her tendency
to stay very close to walls. "Visitors!" she calls. "Scream once if we can
come in, twice if you're being eaten alive by something that crawled out
of the harbor." A pause. "Apologies if you're listening, Miss Bishop,
didn't mean you."

Naturally, the knocking causes him to startle and Erik looks up and over
at the door, listening. He grabs the remote control and mutes the TV, then
says, firmly, "Grrr. Arrrrrrgh." Come in, please!

And looming behind Kitty, as much as anyone with his build can be said to
loom, is Jack, doing his very best anemic MIB impression, in black
overcoat and hat. He looks worse than ever and is obviously on the edge of
staggeringly tired - jet lag and six hours stuffed into what passes for
legroom on British Airways will do that to one. But he does smile at
Kitty's belated apology.

Kitty tries the door - if it's locked, she'll go ahead and cheat by
reaching through the wood to unfasten it from the inside; the Brit in
black makes a good shield from being seen. Either way, she lets herself
and Celliers in. "Jack, can you handle coffee? Do you /want/ coffee? Or
tea? Erik, can I volunteer your coffee? And how are you doing? I talked to
Ria, she seems okay - Jack, I'm sorry /again/ for dragging you over here
right off the plane, but the faster we can pass information around, the
less risky this is going to be." The door's shut firmly behind Jack, fast,
and locked again. Whether or not it was locked to start off with. Kitty
may be in nervous-talkative mode, but that doesn't stop her from dealing
with practical things.

"Something drastic's happened, hasn't it. You're different," Jack states,
calmly, palming off the hat once he's in, to carry it in one hand. "I can
see it," As he speaks, he's regarding Pryde with an intent yet curiously
unfocussed stare, entirely unlike his former refusal to look at anyone
directly. "And tea would be lovely, or perhaps soda?" he wonders. "And
Erik, good evening. It's been a while."

The door is unlocked, at least. Erik just sort of stares at Kitty and
Celliers as they enter and he looks between the two, then clears his
throat. "No, no coffee. Thanks. I have soda." He reaches over with his
good hand, his right one, and lifts it up. His left leg, still with a
cast, is propped up on the coffee table now. "I've been trying to get
ahold of you, Kitty. Something weird happened. Some girl named Claire
showed up here and seemed to know -way too much- shit about, well..pretty
much everything."

"Yeah, I got your voice mail." Kitty's been getting fascinating voice mail
lately, and way too much of it. She flashes a quick, rueful grin. "And I
am about to make free with your refrigerator. I'll replace later, I
promise." The Pryde marauds into the kitchen. And she's visibly different
even for Erik: her hair's a good eight to twelve inches longer than it was
last time she was over. You know, two weeks ago. "Claire. Right. Claire
St. Thomas. She's a precog and clairvoyant - she /sees/ just about
everything, therefore she knows it. Remember Ballantine? She was the
patient he was obsessed with. The good news is, she's on our side." A
pause. "That's not actually /all/ of the good news, just most of it." Soda
is returned with and offered to Jack. For once, Kitty is already
sufficiently caffeinated. "And, Jack, you're right, it has. I think for
/once/ it might be a good thing, though. Erik, do you remember anything
Claire said? Jack, nothing weird happened while you were in England, did
it? Or should I explain first?" Really, she ought to stop to breathe more
often.

Jack trails after Kitty. He accepts the soda, mechanically. "I saw my
daughter. And the Tower. And ran into Constantine. THough not all at once,
thankfully," he notes, quietly offhand, removing a glove to pop the can
open. "Thank you. But do go on, Miss Pryde," he urges. "This I want to
hear." Hat ends up on the kitchen table.

At the fire escape, there's the gentle sound of cawing. As the snow falls,
blanketing the city in muffling white, begging, urging it to sleep, a few
crows come to rest on the railings, rustling their wings and muttering to
one another in their avian fashion. Somewhere, far enough away that it
could be coincidence, a dark-eyed young woman shifts in her sleep--these
are not visions of sugarplums dancing in her head.

So, yeah. Erik waves his hand and then says, "Don't worry about raiding
the fridge. It's all cool. Good to see you again, by the way, Jack. Sorry
about my state. I brawled with the Hulk. I didn't do too well, but he did
worse. Which is a good thing, trust me. Anyways, yeah. I wasn't sure who
she was or why she was here, but it scared the hell out of me hwen she
just showed up. I tried to keep track of everything that seemed important,
though. I mean. She said something about 'Pete not remembering about the
poppies', for one."

Kitty pauses, then finds a patch of wall to lean against, tugging off her
gloves and jamming them in pockets, followed by her hat and the unwinding
of her scarf. "Pete remembers about the poppies," she says slowly. "We
just - didn't talk about it after we came up with what plans we could."
She takes a deep breath. "Okay. Erik, to sum up a great deal that's
happened over the last few months very quickly: it's another apocalypse
thing." Yes, her eyes are rolling at phrasing it that way. "Claire is
trying to give us a roadmap for one of the /right/ tracks - a way that
gets us through what's coming intact. She's got an opposite number, one
that wants things wrecked. The opposite number can possess at least some
people, and it's also got minions. The minions," she adds to Jack, "are
now in the city, by the way. At least two sightings so far; they've killed
one person, tortured another, and attacked two more. This is on top of at
least one person that's been killed already. I'm /not/ getting fondness
for these guys."

Celliers gives Kitty one of those lip-pursed smiles, almost a smirk,
though his eyes are bleak. "The victims? Is there a pattern?" He settles
gingerly into the nearest available kitchen chair, and sets his hat in his
lap. "And do we have any information on how to fight these things?"

A murder. It's called a murder of crows. When they group together like
that, sitting as though in conference. Quietly they mutter and caw, some
on the railings, some on the landing, some on the steps... one on the
sill, edging back and forth, gazing at and through the glass. Its
yellow-brown eyes stare in, curiouser and curiouser.

Erik just sort of stares at Kitty for a few long moments, then reaches up
and scratches the back of his head. "I was getting that feeling, you know.
That it's been just about long enough since the last apocalypse so we need
another bunch of fuckers to go and try to end the world. Let me reiterate:
FUCKERS!" A pause. "I feel better now. Okay. I'll repeat what she said to
me and I'll try to keep the wording as close to her's as possible, since
that could be, you know, important and shit."

"One of the victims was Faith St. Thomas. Claire's daughter. I don't know
who the other dead woman was." Which is true, just not complete. "One of
the people they attacked was, I think, a passerby. The other one was me,
for trying to interfere with what they were doing. The torture victim I
can't talk about." That's in the few long moments that Erik's staring. And
then Erik gives /his/ comment, and Kitty ... bursts out laughing. "I want
to grow up to be you," she informs Erik somewhat more cheerfully. "Jack,
the only information I have is: that passerby I mentioned? I think he had
a gun. And when he shot two of them, they did /not/ get back up. See? Your
wishes are coming true." Just a casual glance across at the window - and
Kitty finds herself eyeing the crow right back. Okay, what do /you/ want.

Now the Englishman looks faintly sheepish, and notes, "Um. I don't have my
pistol, anymore, though the Dragunova's still under the bed at Kate's
flat. Plenty of ammunition there. And I suppose I can come up with
something appropriately high caliber in the next day or so. Like one of
those Desert Eagles." Just what Beacon Harbor needs - an unstable Briton
with a large bore pistol. He's obviously pleased at finding something he
can damage by mundane means. "And we're all ears, Erik," he murmurs,
before his gaze follows Kitty's and he frowns. "Odd. Those aren't usually
nocturnal," he states, flatly.

"Grow up to be me? No. No, you don't." Erik gives his heada shake, then
glances towards the window. After all, everyone *else* is looking at it.
He peers towards it for a moment, then gruns. He waves a hand at the bird.
"Shoo. Get off the sill before you shit on everything. Yuugh." He looks
back to Kitty. "*Anyways*," he continues. "Claire had some black feathers
that were there. And then gone. And then she said something about her
picture not being quite right and that they leave something behind. She
called it an 'even trade'. I have no idea what the fuck she was talking
about."

The black bird taps at the glass with its beak--as if in response to
Erik--puffing up in the fashion that so many animals do, when they're
threatened, or attempting to threaten. The fire escape is now full of
those birds--they cling to every available surface, crowding one another,
pecking and cawing--the faintest of its noise can probably be heard
through the window, sounding almost like muffled laughter, mutterings and
soft sounds of mockery. You think you know anything at all? Hah.

"No. They're /not/ usually nocturnal." Kitty's watching the glass - and
then her breath hisses out. "Darn it. I'm not sure if I did the right
thing or not, then. But - maybe it buys us time, either way. Keeps them
distracted. The two of you might be interested in knowing that the minions
I mentioned are indeed particularly hateful black-winged guys. And when
they went away - and I don't know /how/ they went away, I couldn't see it
- there were crows behind them." Still watching, back pressed firmly
against the wall.

His gaze doesn't waver from the crow's, though he's got his head cocked to
better listen to Erik. "That is perturbing. And I've encountered those
black feathers on multiple occasions - obviously harbingers of our
dark-winged friends there." He bares his teeth slightly at the bird. "And
I think we have eavesdroppers, speaking of," he mutters. "As for the trade
- one might guess they've come for that 'heart of an angel' and intend to
leave something far less pleasant."

"Heart of an angel?" asks Erik, peering between the two. Then he slowly
turns and looks at the crow again. He's just eyeing it now. Yeah, he's a
bit more wary about it now. Fancy that. "Maybe we should, you know, shut
up for a moment. And give the bird the bird." He extends his middle finger
and waves it in the direction of the window.

Kitty says brightly, "Erik? I /like/ your plan." Not that she mirrors it,
but she can be enthusiastic all the same.

At that gesture, the fire escape all but explodes with activity, the
strange collection of crows taking to wing, streaking away from the
building. After the fluttering and the cawing has ceased, there's a
strange, sweet silence that lingers... Until a sudden *SMASH* of a
particularly fast-moving body collides with the window-glass, and it
cracks and crazes, lines driving through the pane from the center of the
impant. A few shards fall in, but the window remains mostly intact, for
the moment.

Celliers's on his feet, though he limits himself to an oddly
mild-mannered, "Oh, dear," Time to really rue pawning that gun. And
leaving knife and rifle with Kate.

"Jesus," Erik jerks his head back as the impact as the window cracks and
he takes a step back. "I think I better go charge my ring, guys. Just in
case we have a fucking Hitchock moment." The Lantern looks faintly
disturbed and quickly hurries into his bedroom.

"What do you mean, 'just in case?'" Kitty wonders out loud - she's dodging
for the kitchen again. Kitchens are nice places. They tend to have things
that're helpful for defense and mayhem in them. "... Sorry about this,
guys..."

Another *SMASH* and this time... the window caves in, glass tinkling and
dropping to the carpet, as well as what looks to be a dazed and vaguely
cut-up crow, flailing and rasping weakly.

Jack, however, doesn't dash for the kitchen, just yet. Rather, he darts
for the crow itself, one hand gloved, the other bare. Perhaps he can take
an avian hostage. Or at least account for one of them.

Of all the places to keep a power battery. Erik hunkers down by his bed
and then yanks it out from under it, the invisiblity effect vanishing
promptly as he does. He touches the ring to the battery and a bright green
glow can be seen to eminate from the bedroom for a moment. "Brightest day,
blackest night, blah blah blah blah." He shoves the battery back under the
bed. The crash only served to spur him on further. And make him jump and
glacne back over his shoulder. First things first: He's quick to throw up
a more solid barrier of green energy over the window and force it into
invisiblity, thus hopefully prevening any further birds from coming in
after the crow that crashed through the window.

Kitty's dived for the knives herself - not that she knows how to use them,
but they look slightly more impressive than batting at things bare-handed.
Pity she can't repeat the bleach trick. There's a soft mantra being
chanted under her breath, and yes, it's obscene - she's been living with
Pete for way too long. And then there's green, and she gives a delighted,
wordless cheer.

The bird in Jack's hand squirms slightly, cawing and struggling just the
tiniest bits, ruffling feathers and looking... rather harmless. And while
there is a barrier of green energy over the window--over /this/
window--what about all the rest? A soft clicking comes from the bird
opening and closing its beak--it doesn't seem as though it can do much, in
this state.

For the moment, Erik doesn't seem terribly concerned with the other
windows. At least just now. He moves up the, currently invisible, green
window, limping and favoring his good leg the entire time. He tilts his
head to peer out and up, trying to see where they might have gone to. "The
*fuck*," he mutters.

Certainly not with Jack's hand around its throat, as if it were a chicken
about to get its neck wrung for Sunday dinner. Twisting a little to wrap
an arm around it, to keep it from bringing its wings into play, he calls
to Kitty, "May I make use of your scarf?" For bird bondage, apparently.
"The fuck indeed," he echoes, irritably, peering down at the feathered
captive. "What did they hope to accomplish?"

Kitty's all too aware of other windows, in contrast, other ways of access.
Her eyes flick about, hunting for other possible accesses: ventilation,
heating. "You can /have/ the scarf," she assures Jack - it's tugged from
around her shoulders with her free hand, tossed his way. She's not getting
too close to that bird. If she has to have her back to anything - she'll
make it the fridge. She just /checked/ that for evil.

"Most likely... a distraction, one might assume," speaks a hollow chorus
from the doorway of Erik's bedroom. Standing there are three creatures,
pale of skin, dark of wing. Their smiles are lined with razor teeth and
too-red lips; their voices are music gone sour, heaven twisted and
wronged. The bird in Cellier's hands goes quite still, and very limp, no
longer struggling or cawing at all--as though it were quite dead. The dark
of their eyes and feathers--these angels three--seems to pull light away
from the room, seems to hold it prisoner.

The voices cause Erik to promptly turn on his heel and face the trio of
angelic figure. That's the third big shock of the day. Any more coming? Of
course, turning on one's heel with a broken leg doesn't feel too good, and
as soon as he rests weight back on the injured limb his expression
crinkles right up in pain. Still, green energy flares from the ring,
crackling up around his hand. "Jesus. Fucking. Christ."

Jack hisses a comment in Russian, narrowing his eyes at the intruders,
before speaking in English, tone almost pleasant. "Well. One must admit
they succeeded admirably, for the moment," As he speaks, he's wrapping the
bird in the scarf - he can at least keep them from making further use of
even that poor weapon. "So. You're Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and this
one here must be D'Artagnan. What do you want?"

From afar, Celliers grins. Russian translating to 'Oh fuck you and fuck
your mother'

Kitty manages, "Celliers, /try/ not to get cast as Morden, huh?" She's
brought up the knife warily, three-quarters of her attention on the trio -
one-quarter still roving, just in case they're a distraction, too. Not
admitting she understood that, because hearing Celliers say that kind of
thing is priceless enough she doesn't want to lose the opportunity in
future.

"Her," they say in unison, hollow eyes shifting to rest on Kitty. "Or,
more precisely... something she has, that doesn't belong to her," they
whisper. "We'd like it returned. We'll cause no strife if such a simple
request is granted," they murmur. They shift and move easily, fluidly, not
away from the door, not toward any of the others, but simply in their own
personal space, wings rustling, hands flexing. Simple movement, twisted
beauty. "Otherwise... Oh. There are ways of showing you how compromise is
best," comes the unsubtle threat. And at his words, for a moment, the
sound of the world is swept away, replaced with the muffled screams of the
dying, the sound of fire, of blood rushing in one's ears, of gunshots and
splintering glass and tortured metal. Chaos. Fear. It's gone as soon as it
was there--just a taste of what could come.

"Ahh, Jesus." Erik repeats. His expression goes from pained to being set
into a grimace. "Look. I don't know who the fuck you are or specifically
what you're after. But you're not going to get anything from me or my
friends." The ring continues to glow. Brightly. On the other hand, his
face is pale. Abdiel, these guys ain't.

The Englishman's expression turns faintly contemptuous. "Oh, she has it
and we wants it, precious?" he mocks, voice a shrill rasp in imitation of
the slave of the Ring. He's already moved to interpose himself between
Kitty and the winged ones. "And what do you offer in return? Haven't we
heard something about an even trade." He, too, has gone pale, turning his
face away, sickened and disoriented by what his other sense is telling
him. Full-on scrutiny will bring him to his knees.

"I didn't steal it," Kitty grates. "She /gave/ it to me. For safekeeping."
Her fingers have knotted about the knife, and she's trembling. Somehow
this being the second encounter doesn't actually make it any /easier/.
"Sorry I didn't manage to get that far in the explaining, guys."

"To what end," they wonder, mocking Kitty's careful explanation. "Why are
you keeping it?" they ask, advancing into the room, looking perfectly calm
and very happy to get a little closer. "Do you know what it is? What it
does? Why /you/ have it?" they ask, their voices rolling over one another
like impatient, rabid animals, seeking to snap at the heels of the thing
being chaised. "From here, three against three, waiting, watching.... we
can tell you that there are innocents you love drawing breath as they
sleep. Would you care to know when they stop?"

"I think you want to stay back. I mean it." Erik informs the trio. He
doesn't want them to get closer, no. He doesn't dare take his eyes off
them for a minute, either. "Guys, get behind me." That's directed towards
Celliers and Kitty. "Look," now he's talking to the Angelic Trio. "I'm too
fucking tired to deal with a riddle game right now," he swallows, tightly,
the ring on his right hand glows brighter still.

That last from the angel shuts Jack up. But he nods to Erik, tightly, and
starts to slip towards him, though he still keeps himself between Kitty
and the trio.

Kitty snarls, "Why under heaven would we tell /you/ people /anything/
about what we do or don't know!" And she's moving, darting to take a place
by Erik and to one side, careful to keep the knife she's holding clear of
herself and Celliers and Erik all three.

"The seer was right about your fear, Erik," the three hiss, laughing at
the young man. "You should've listened to her more carefully," they jeer.
"Have we overstayed our welcome?" they wonder, so very mocking.
"Perhaps... we should go. It's a pity you won't work with us, truly." They
move for the door, slowly and without fear, smirking as though victorious.

"How.." Erik frowns. He doesn't finish his thought, either, whatever it
was. Still, with narrowed eyes, three bolts of green light streak forth
from the ring towards the trio of angels, and as they head towards them,
the 'blasts' seem spread out into a set of large nets. Seems he doesn't
intend to just let them get away.

Celliers stands by Erik, frowning curiously at the angels. He edges closer
to Kitty, murmuring, "Very impressive."

"That's the part I /don't/ want to grow up to be him about," Kitty mutters
back to Celliers - at least she's presuming he's referring to Erik, not to
the trio. She's half-turned, not entirely facing them - still casting
glances back. Not trusting empty air to stay that way.

As the green blasts head toward each of the angels... one by one they
explode into a handful of large crows, wings beating, cawing, clicking and
hissing at Erik, Celliers and Kitty. Avoiding the nets seems almost
impossible for a moment, but in a shriek of what can only be termed
mocking laughter, each of the crows is then sundered, melting into black
feathers that float gently, falling like ebon snowflakes. The instant they
touch anything, they melt, seeming to become ash... and then fade to
nothing, leaving behind only more questions.

When the three 'explode', a brilliant green shield erupts around Jack,
Kitty, and Erik. Seems he's trying to protect them. Just in case. He
glances back over his shoulder at the two, quickly, to make sure they'll
all right. When all is steady, and relatively 'normal', again, the shield
is slowly lowered. He sniffs once, then says, "That was...really, really
fucked up."

Kitty braces behind Erik ... oh. Shield. Oh. She lets a breath out and
straightens, slowly. "Yeah," she says ruefully. "Yeah. Welcome to our
lives the last couple of months. Just be glad you muted the TV."

Once Jack has taken his leave - which doesn't take long - Kitty gives Erik
a helpless look and flops down on one corner of the sofa, knife cradled in
her lap. "We're all mad, here?" she offers. "I'm so sorry, Erik. I didn't
know they'd follow me - I didn't think they'd find me this fast."

"Now, at least, I have a clue what the black feathers were. Claire was
bleeding too. She said it wasn't her's, though, and she had feathers in
her hand, or something like that." He squints, trying to remember. "I want
an explanation, okay? And I don't know how they knew the contents of my
conversation with her. They knew, though."

"Their boss is Claire's opposite number - maybe they got it from him. Or
maybe they just know. Or maybe I'm guessing wrong about all of this."
Kitty tosses her head, shaking curls out of her eyes. It's such a relief
for that gesture finally to do what it's supposed to. "These guys came
here to get something. The 'heart of an angel,' Claire said. It got hidden
in St. Asta's, at least for a while - and, uhm, well." She gestures at
herself and tries to laugh, but it comes out as a very small, somewhat
embarrassed sound. "Apparently I'm ... carrying it around right now. Not -
physically. It's - in there. Someplace. They still want it. I don't know
what happens if they get it; I don't know what it's supposed to do, just
that it's supposed to do /something/, it's intended for some purpose." She
sighs quietly. "The angel who had it - who was /not/ at /all/ like most of
the angels in this city, and who is now probably dead - told me to keep it
safe. And I'm trying to do that till we can figure out more. At least to
buy time. If these guys invade the wedding, I'm going to be /seriously/
irked. Uh - sorry about your window."

"No worry. I'll replace it later. So long as no one pees through it, it
should be okay," Erik looks wry. "At least until I get the money for a
real repair and a good cover story to go with it. Somehow, I don't think a
kids baseball will pass the muster, nor will a crow flying through the
window. The super'd look at me funny." It takes a moment for it to sink
in. "Wait, *you*?"

"Don't look at me like that! If I were some kind of angel, d'you think I'd
be living with /Pete/?" Kitty flashes a grin, brief. "Just ... carrying
it. For the moment. I hope only for the moment. Somehow I'm feeling pretty
horribly miscast, here."

"Yeah, no kidding," replies Erik, giving his head a shake. He's ready to
dodge. Just in case she throws something at him. "So, uh. Yeah. I'm a
little confused. Since I don't really have the background on this. *What*
other angel? Why the hell do they want it? Hell on earth? I'm getting a
fucking headache from all the goddamn riddle-talk."

Not throwing anything at him for /that/ one, anyway. "Congratulations. I
don't have the background on it, either. We've got a bunch of clues
Claire's given us that mostly don't make sense if you look at them at all
rationally - it takes a certain developed irrationality to be able to make
them into any kind of clear picture at all - and we don't have /all/ of
the clues and we don't know if it'd help any if we did." Kitty leans her
head back against the sofa. "She's assured me we don't have to understand
them, only remember them, but I'm not sure that /helps/. Um. Other angel:
I have no idea. Except it was exactly the /opposite/ of those three, it
came out of St. Asta's, and I'm apparently carrying a piece of it around
now, which makes me feel weirdly guilty every time I start swearing. I
draw the line at feeling even remotely guilty about premarital sex,
though. Ahem. I don't know why they want it; my /guess/ is that it has
something to do with this weird ... tower ... thing. I don't know what the
tower is, either, only that it's important somehow and that Jack needs to
get there. Why, why Jack, and what he needs to do there, I don't know
either. I don't know what these guys want or why they want it. I don't
even know if they /have/ motivation the way we understand it. And fucking
Constantine picked /now/ to run off to fucking London to go screw his new
girlfriend a lot, and I'm seriously considering kidnapping him when he
gets back, putting copper wire under his fingernails, and applying matches
to the free end until he starts telling something useful."

During this long statement, Erik listens. Quietly. Indeed, it would appear
that once she's done, he holds up a hand and walks away. After returning
form the bedroom, he offers a gift-wrapped box to Kitty. "Merry
Christmas," he informs her. Then adds, "Maybe I should take a little trip
to London."

Kitty cocks her head, watching Erik walk away - she's half expecting him
to go beat his head against the wall. "With our luck," she reasons, "you
might pass him over the Atlantic." She reaches up to accept the box,
peering at it carefully - much as if she expected it to suddenly develop
the capacity for speech and start mocking her. "Um. Thanks?"

No beating his head against the wall.

 Yet.

 Erik just sort of nods towards the package. "Go on. Open it. I'm giving
one to everyone." A quick grin enters his features, then he adds. "But
you're probably right. Better to just wait it out for John here and then
kick his ass. I'm horribly confused at the moment and I don't have the
faintest fucking clue what's going on, but I'll try to help out. You know
that. The, uh... other angels. Yeaaah. Just what we needed."

Kitty suggests, "People with black wings that hurt you to look at them:
bad. Other people with wings: not necessarily bad. Claire: has a clue even
if it sounds bizarre, you've just got to figure out what context she's
talking in. The city falling apart: you're probably in some kind of weird
vision. People trying to intimidate you: mock them. Now you know about as
much as anybody else does about this." As she says this, she's opening the
package, easing tape away from seams with care. She's one of those people
that treats wrapping paper like she might be able to put it in her bank
account or something.

So Erik waits patiently for the box to be unwrapped and opened. It's easy
to tell what it is, of course, clothing. When the lid is finally off the
box, the white lettering on the black shirt is up. On the front, it says
'I saved the world...' Erik just stands there, of course, looking
innocent. Really. Honest. He folds his hands together in front of him. "No
kidding," he mutters. "Jesus fucking christ. This whole thing gives me the
creeps. But you guys'll probably take care of it before I even have to
lift a finger. Again." He's hopeful.

Kitty stifles a sudden giggle at the words on the front of the T-shirt,
then eyes Erik's innocent look. "I'm suddenly afraid of this thing," she
informs him. "So I'll have to take my vengeance by pointing out that
you've /already/ had to lift a finger, right?" She lifts the shirt out of
the box, slowly, then reverses it with a show of anticipatory dread.

And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt.

 Yep. He went and did it. Erik winces. "Okay. Revenge taken. Let's hope I
don't have to do it *again*, though, okay?" He rubs at his cast. "I'm a
little too beat up to be too much good to anyone right now." He wanders
into the bedroom, after a moment, still limping. He nudges the power
battery back under the bed, carefully, and replaces it's bit of
invisibility before he comes back out.

Kitty's not asking. She's just grinning at the T-shirt - okay, and
groaning. And laughing, despite herself. "In that case," she offers,
"/you/ fall over - carefully, darn it - and /I'll/ get up and start
cleaning up the broken glass. And... Erik? Thanks." She really needs to
start going armed.

"You don't have to do that," replies Erik. "Believe me, cleaning is easier
than ever with little cleaning gnomes to do it for me. Or Rosey The
Robot." That said, a construct that is the spitting image of Rosey is
generated by the ring over by the window with broom and dustpan in hand.
"Everything in its place and a place for everything," she chimes, her
voice pretty damn accurate. And yes, she's sweeping.

Kitty considers this - looking at Rosey, then looking at Erik, then
looking at Rosey again. "I think," she says reasonably, "I'm just going to
sit here for a little while. If that's okay. And call Pete and make sure
/he's/ okay. And ... kind of do a lot of not moving." If her brain wasn't
disjointed before, Rosey just did it.

"I've been watching cartoon network all day," Erik says, by way of
explanation. "I don't have a whole lot else to do." That said, he wanders
towards the bedroom. "Lock the door before you go out. And thanks for
explaining everything, Kitty, I mean that. I'm gonna keel over into bed
now." Which he does. Pretty literally.

"Such as the explanations are," Kitty says wryly. "Sleep well. Don't
dream." Beat. "Merry Christmas."

"Too fucking tired to dream," calls Erik, in turn. And then he's quiet.