06-06-2008
Write a dialogue between two fictional characters from different works (Kara Thrace from Battlestar Galactica and Remy LeBeau from X-Men)
Kara sank the eight ball and the burly man to her left groaned as if he'd been tricked by yet another young shark, which was bullshit because she had told him from the start she was good. It wasn't her fault if he hadn't believed her. She straightened up and her mouth twisted into the smug little smirk as she held up her hand for his cash. He slapped it into her hand and gave her a shake of his head before lumbering away. She knew the only reason he didn't deck her was because she was a woman, not one of the beefy old valkyries who hunched at the bar, spitting into the ashtrays, but a pixieish girl, looking small in her cracked leather bomber jacket, under a shag of straight, blonde hair that barely brushed her ears.
A wet breeze billowed in from the door as she was putting up her stick, and she glanced to see a man holding the door wide for a pair of women, old bull dykes holding hands like they were going out for ice cream. They gave him bewildered looks as he nodded his head to them. Kara shook her head. A move like that made him seem more out of place here than he already was, with his tan trenchcoat that would have no place on a bike, his body wiry underneath instead of heavily muscled or bulging with fat. The only thing that fit in was the auburn hair pulled into a ponytail, though it seemed more French waiter than biker dude in style.
But any man who'd meet Kara Thrace for a blind date at a biker bar was worth a little time. She strode over while he shook the rain off his coat. "Kara Thrace," she said, jutting out her hand like it was a pistol, fingers stock-straight.
"Remy LeBeau," he replied, taking her hand. Instead of a firm shake, he turned her hand and brought her fingers to his lips.
Kara showed her teeth, her eyebrows furrowing. "All right, sir knight," she said, pulling her hand back. "Let's get a drink, huh?" She turned and made for the bar, shaking off the weirdness and shooting dirty looks at anyone who dared laugh. Before she could catch the bartender's eye, Remy had caught her by the elbow and steered her toward one of the rickety tables against the wall. Kara shrugged and sat down.
"I like your accent," she said as she settled back and crossed her arms, putting a buddy-buddy roughness into her voice, like when she first started hanging out with the boys on the playground. "Where are you from?"
"N'awlins," Remy drawled. It took Kara a minute to decode that. "You?"
"Here, currently," Kara replied, revealing nothing. Was he wearing novelty contacts? She wondered where the hell Kat found this guy anyway. He was handsome enough, but frackin' weird. She hailed a waitress. "Molls, get a beer for me and my friend here, willya?"
"What kinda beer?" the woman shot back.
"Surprise us," Kara told her. "So, where do you know Kat from?"
Remy shrugged. "Seen her around, the ol' beat. She used to work Eastside Park. Called herself Sasha then."
Kara took her beer from the waitress. "She never told me she dealt," Kara said. She took a swig. "What about you? Do you deal?"
"No, not me. I'm more a street performer. Card tricks, ya know?" Remy pulled a pack of cards from an inner coat pocket, started to shuffle. It was the way Kara's mother used to shuffle, making the cards leap from hand to hand as if pulled by hidden strings. He flipped one up in the air and it exploded. Kara fell back against the chair, her heartbeat going wild. A tiny scrap of paper floated down to rest on the table; it was the heart from the card, clean in shape as if it had been punched out, but with slightly singed edges.
The waitress edged over as Kara drained her bottle. "Keep 'em coming, Molls," Kara ordered, reaching for her wad of cash. It was gone. She patted her pockets with increasing panic until she saw Remy smirk. Her fist caught him under the chin, clacking his teeth together and tumbling his chair backwards. Kara came around the table, planted a foot on Remy's chest; he spread his hands in surrender. "You're a thief," she said through gritted teeth.
"Just a demonstration," he claimed, reaching into his jacket and retrieving the cash. He held it up to her; she took it, tucked it back into her jacket pocket, then grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet.
Kara came in close, almost nose to nose with him. His alien eyes, red irises with no pupils, black where the whites should be, didn't blink. She menaced him for a moment before shaking her head and sitting back down. Remy lingered a moment before doing the same.
"Where'd you get dat wad, if I may ask?" He took another bottle from the waitress, who had decided it was safe to return.
Kara tilted her bottle back, swallowed, and jerked a thumb behind her. "Beat some smug old fracker at pool."
"You a shark?"
She pouted out her lips and lifted her chin. "No. I'm just good," she snipped. The pout spread into a wide grin. "Think you can beat me?" she challenged.
"Mebbe in a bit."
"What's the matter, nervous?" Kara teased, leaning forward.
"Got sometin' to prove?" Remy drained his bottle and laid it down on the table, spinning it idly. "You remind me of a friend of mine. Real tough guy, name of Logan."
"Never heard of him."
"He don't do much to make himself known. Just sits in the bar, stackin' up shot glasses." Remy kept spinning the bottle around. "Could drink you or me under the table, easy."
"Is that so? Should've brought him along."
"He ain't much fo' company," Remy said. He let the bottle go. It swung around and around, coming to a halt with the neck facing Kara.
She settled back and raised an eyebrow. "Does that mean you have to kiss me?" she purred.
Remy smirked. "Means you pay for the shots."
Kara chuckled. "Whatever you say," she sighed, and motioned casually for the waitress, keeping a challenging look on the man across from her. "I'm good at this too, you know," she warned him.
"We'll see, big talker."