[ To put it in the mildest possible terms, this is not where Erik wants to be. He wants to be in Paris. Roadblocks, both personal and professional, had finally cleared from the path of a possible future he hadn't allowed himself to consider a possibility in decades.
Of course he got waylaid. Did he ever truly expect otherwise? That he would be allowed to just be happy for a day? An hour? A few minutes before it is rudely ripped away from him yet again? To say his mood is sour is another mild statement.
Brooding won't help anything, as attractive as it may be. If he's ever going to get out of here, he's going to need allies. The more the better. So this silly event may prove itself useful. He leans to the side in his seat, ankle crossed over knee, the only indication of his agitation taking the form of softly tapping the index card on the table as he waits whoever might approach him next. He's not exactly smiling, but his expression is carefully neutral. Maybe even a little friendly. (Though probably only if you know him, and not well enough to realize what an act it is.) If it's a woman who approaches, he will rise from his seat. Edie Lehnsherr made sure her boy had manners, after all. ]
Ah, hello. Erik Lehnsherr.
[ No matter who approaches, he will offer a hand to shake. ]
03. Tanstaafl
[ Erik doesn't trust computers. Not since the U.S. government designed a fleet of twenty foot tall genocidal robots with the mission of wiping out all mutant kind. But he's never been one to stay idle, and prefers to keep his less-than-legal activities to the type that are a little more high-minded than simple burglary.
So he lines up with everybody else, punches in his particular qualifications: genius intellect, polyglot, experienced engineer, metal worker, spy, club owner, etc. etc. etc.
He smirks as the thing seems to take longer with his than it had with those in front of him in line. Shrugs in a poor attempt at an apology to the person standing behind him. ]
Extensive CV, I'm afraid. There's something rather Soviet about this whole process, wouldn't you say?
[ Finally the thing stops chugging and whirring through all the data and produces his assignment. He stares at it, and blinks.
Erik Lehnsherr | X-Men Cinematic | OTA
[ To put it in the mildest possible terms, this is not where Erik wants to be. He wants to be in Paris. Roadblocks, both personal and professional, had finally cleared from the path of a possible future he hadn't allowed himself to consider a possibility in decades.
Of course he got waylaid. Did he ever truly expect otherwise? That he would be allowed to just be happy for a day? An hour? A few minutes before it is rudely ripped away from him yet again? To say his mood is sour is another mild statement.
Brooding won't help anything, as attractive as it may be. If he's ever going to get out of here, he's going to need allies. The more the better. So this silly event may prove itself useful. He leans to the side in his seat, ankle crossed over knee, the only indication of his agitation taking the form of softly tapping the index card on the table as he waits whoever might approach him next. He's not exactly smiling, but his expression is carefully neutral. Maybe even a little friendly. (Though probably only if you know him, and not well enough to realize what an act it is.) If it's a woman who approaches, he will rise from his seat. Edie Lehnsherr made sure her boy had manners, after all. ]
Ah, hello. Erik Lehnsherr.
[ No matter who approaches, he will offer a hand to shake. ]
03. Tanstaafl
[ Erik doesn't trust computers. Not since the U.S. government designed a fleet of twenty foot tall genocidal robots with the mission of wiping out all mutant kind. But he's never been one to stay idle, and prefers to keep his less-than-legal activities to the type that are a little more high-minded than simple burglary.
So he lines up with everybody else, punches in his particular qualifications: genius intellect, polyglot, experienced engineer, metal worker, spy, club owner, etc. etc. etc.
He smirks as the thing seems to take longer with his than it had with those in front of him in line. Shrugs in a poor attempt at an apology to the person standing behind him. ]
Extensive CV, I'm afraid. There's something rather Soviet about this whole process, wouldn't you say?
[ Finally the thing stops chugging and whirring through all the data and produces his assignment. He stares at it, and blinks.
This must be some kind of mistake. ]
Bar tender?