Disclaimer: not mine. Rating: Kiddie.
Set: prior to New Excalibur #1. Post-Thanos and pre-Anihilation stuff.
Notes: I was bored at work and made a fortune teller with characters I could write and prompts. This is the result of the first.
Prompt: Dazzler, Thanos, chicken
Chicken Marsala for Tea
by ALC Punk!
Alison Blaire eats lunch in London with the same dignity she used while being photographed in Rio. It's not a thought that sits comfortably anymore. She's done fame and fortune and multimedia exposure. And now she's back, and she's... quiet. The chicken is well-done, but the potatoes are too boiled, and she isn't planning on touching the leeks.
There are clubs that will hire her--a few have made vaguely interesting offers--and bars that would love to have her still-lithe form on their bartops.
But as she said to one friend over the phone, been there, done that.
Still, it's not as if she has anything better to do. And the occasional suggestion regarding the streets was never going to happen. She'd hit friends in New York state up for a place to stay, if she had to.
"Do you still roller skate?"
The question pulls Alison from her thoughts and she looks up. And up. And up. He's purple, but she's not really bothered by that. It's the slightly disturbing smile on his lips. If it can be called a smile. Alison has a feeling she should know who this is--for one thing, there can't be that many giant purple mutants running around. "I--what?" She can't even begin to comprehend why he was asking about roller skating.
Or maybe he's an alien. Sometimes, it was hard to tell these things.
"Do you still roller skate?" Without asking, he pulls the chair across from her out and sits. And it's impossible that he can sit in a chair that small. For a moment, physics takes a vacation.
"I--yes." Alison reasserts control over her version of reality, and firmly believes that the chair is very sturdy. "I do. I don't have a chance to do it as often, though."
The chicken on her plate continues to cool, forgotten as she considers. Flashes of memory prick her, New York and cabs pulling her across the bridges, streets seen filtered through yellow streetlights and reflected headlights. Garbage giving her a good, dodgy workout, kids blaring impenetrable music at four a.m. and bitter coffee that sank down her throat like an old lover. "I suppose... Who the hell are you?"
A shrug, then the grin flashes again and she shudders.
"Some call me mad."
"Great." Tossing her head, she realizes there isn't long hair there anymore and feels self-conscious. The new 'do was the suggestion of a club manager--who she thinks she shouldn't have listened to--but she kind of likes it. She misses the long mane, though. "How 'bout, don't call me, I'll call you?"
"I recommend blue."
The non sequitor makes her blink, "What?" Really, it was a bit unfair to be forced to converse with an insane purple thing. She stands, "I've got--"
"Or purple. Although it's sad you cut it. I rather enjoyed the disco look."
"Look, buddy, I don't think just some call you mad. I think everyone does," Alison crosses her fork over the knife, wondering if he'll take offence. If he tries to take her, there's enough noise in the diner to give her a good blast-depth. Although it would be bad if she destroys the place.
The grin flashes again, "So they tell me." He stands as well and sets a stack of bills on the table. "Take it from me, sometimes, having fans is a good thing."
Before she can object, or ask what drugs he's on, he's gone. Physics announces it's taking a very long break when he walks through the door that's too small for his frame.
Alison eyes the money, then picks up a bill. They're not new and crisp, but they're not old and decrepit, either. And there's more than enough for rent for the next three months--something she'd been worried about.
Maybe now she should get her hair dyed.
And maybe that job offer from that other club might not be a bad idea. Disco is better than ugly alternative metal, after all.