[IC] World War II, Marvel Mutated.

[Luminous Beings]

Cynthia Summers

Cynthia idly stirred her water with a straw. Cynthia didn't drink-bad for the voice. For this reason, she was pretty unfamiliar with bars. It had been a long, long time she she was performing for this small a venue, and the atmopshere in general made her uncomfortable. Loud, usually dark. Lots of people, none of whom were totally in control of their faculties. Not her preferred environment-she had SSR training, she could handle herself, but at the end of the day, there was only so much finesse and technique could do against drunk force and a painkilling buzz. She hummed to herself, unconsciously matching the rhythm of the bartender's heartbeat-he was stressed. This was a full crowd and he was not used to quite so many people. Cynthia couldn't have told you this with as much clarity and accuracy as a telepath could, but she was good at grasping the nuances, at looking at the broad strokes of colors and seeing the forest for the trees.

Around, the atmosphere sang to her with a strange blend of drunken energy and the woes of those drowning their sorrows. In the background, there was the low, steady rumble: it was the quiet before the storm, or the quiet buildup to the crescendo. Great forces would soon be thrown into the sandbox together, and this little pub was going to be the site. Curious. Cynthia was fairly certain she could pick up on the presence of any...like her...but one could never quite tell. Despite her work with the SSR and MI6, she was rather in the dark about this whole phenomena. What these mutations entailed, what others were capable of...this project would be interesting.

She sipped at the water-no ice. Waiting. Waiting. She ran through the normal routine of preparedness as she did so.

The pistol is strapped to my right thigh. The knife's on the left.

There are two exits I can see. There's also a window, but shattering glass is...ugh. So tiresome. Gives everyone a headache.

Bartender probably has a gun under the shelf. Nobody else looks armed. Nobody else Sounds violent. But the night is young...

Men, in Cynthia's experience, didn't tend to hold their liquor very well. Especially if one had the misfortune of running across a group of soldiers on leave-while she couldn't blame them for getting obliterated (especially the Brits-Cynthia could empathize very well with the Blitz, even if their burning buildings came at the hands of the Reich and not the Soviets...) at every opportunity, they were no less...irritating. She observed the bar from her corner seat, the rest of the booth open for whoever else might happen to join her.

The jukebox eased into the next song, and Cynthia vaguely identified the song and all its little intricacies within a second or two, returning to her analysis of the bar. Nobody had harassed her, which was pleasant-she'd done her hair up differently, and changed her posture. People came to have a drink, not to go scouting for celebrities-and Cynthia Summers, after all, was on hiatus, resting her voice following a surgery to her larynx.

Or so read the SSR-influenced tabloids. She kept a low profile and whispered while she talked-it was bothersome. How terrible it would be to be like this all the time...

She stirred her drink. Waiting. Waiting. Another sip.

Riley

Asphalt. Ugh.

Riley leaned against the back of the bar, a grimy mixture of old worn bricks and full-to-the-brim dumpsters. They had to pick this place for the rendezvous. Riley rubbed at his chin absentmindedly, attempting to find anything familiar in this godforsaken place. No stars in the night sky-was it ever clear weather here? He'd walked into the bar briefly and attracted some rather undue attention. His footsteps may have fallen silently but his presence wasn't quite as subtle-amongst the pale faces and blue eyes of the Europeans, he...stood out a bit. And while Riley wasn't particularly vested in the success of this mission, he didn't think it would add to the subtlety of the group if he drew the eyes of every one of the pub's patrons. So he let the Europeans get filthy drunk and waited inside.

A deep breath in. Hmm. He'd check back in a while, but didn't think everyone would be here quite yet. No use in rushing. There was all the time in the world. What was the point of this mission, anyways? From what he'd been told (and, somewhat irritatingly, the elders dispensed information on a need-to-know basis-Riley'd had perhaps two or three days to prepare for his venture across the sea. Flying in an airplane was...uncomfortable. Constrained.), they were scouring the world for individuals like himself.

They would fail in that regard. There were no individuals like Riley.

...or so the skinwalker told himself.

But beyond this. The common goal was to bring down the Nazi regime perhaps. He had heard rumors of what they were doing in Europe. A world embroiled in war. New forms of weaponry. He'd seen the Americans light up the wastes of the desert with artificial suns-what, then, did these Europeans possess that could counter that? It was interesting to him. This mission held no personal stake to him. He heard rumors of people being dragged to camps and being tattooed before death. This was troublesome. He empathized with this. And to a degree, a part of him wanted to bring his hand against those who overstepped their boundaries-these Nazis would have their lebensraum in hell. This was hypocrisy. The Americans or the Brits with their stupid accents or the Red Russians would simply fill the void. They would bury their flags where the Nazis planted theirs and the world would see the same conflict in a matter of years. He would fulfill his debts-his nation owed the Americans, according to the elders, and it was Riley's duty to make even that debt-but he wasn't optimistic about their chances.

But fine. Not his place to question. Just to follow orders.

Riley, unlike the anxious starlet sitting alone inside, was no stranger to waiting. He spent a lot of time alone, just watching, listening. He would wait as long as they needed for the others to arrive. Then he would go and do what this SSR told. And then he would go home and never see any of these wars or people again. There was not much more to it than that-no moral imperative or great crusade. Let the Americans believe they are saving the world and the Brits believe they are saving their nation and the Russians believe they are saving their brothers. Riley will settle for saving himself.

Hmm. A break in the clouds. The Blitz was long since over-or so Riley'd heard. He didn't really bother keeping up with the wars of the imperialists, they all ended the same way. Perhaps the Germans would decide to test their luck again tonight. Then there would be something exciting going on in the Isles for once.

Riley chuckled to himself-a rare sight, as he was generally what could be described as "moderately grouchy". Perhaps I am not as skilled at waiting as I thought.

[General Scales]

Heinrich

Heinrich looked out into the sky and along the cityscape taking in the night air. He had spotted a larger building that stayed intact not all that far from the pub which would be the meeting place and decided to stay out of sight and out of mind. He had been very cautious upon arriving in England, as any German should, and had come up with a sort of cover identity for himself and with the help of the SSR he took the form of an American traveler Henry Allman, who was a pacifist and apparently had lost an eye so he had to cover it up. It had involved him adopting an accent and manner which had been a bit tricky at first but he fell into it easily after a bit of instruction though already having a good knowledge of the English language it severely shortened the process.

This whole conflict made quite the mess for anyone trying to move about and flying him out of Switzerland had been the best way to get him out, albeit in a two man biplane, but sacrifices had to be made if he was going to get anywhere outside of Nazi controlled territory. He was grateful to the SSR for the help and where he had a certain respect for them the choice of meeting place was a little disappointing. A crappy dive bar which would be filled with people trying to drown out memories and sorrows. If there were British soldiers he generally stayed away from them if at all possible because they could make a German man very uncomfortable with some very angry rambling about the war. He was not exactly in a safe place all things considered however he was going to do what it took to help his country and countrymen to be free from the Reich.

Despite any discomfort he respected the British for their unwillingness to back down even during the bombardment of the Blitz which destroyed a great deal of life and property. From his perch he could even still see some of the lasting damage which reminded him of his childhood living among the post war ruins of Berlin, though he didn't have it nearly as bad as others because of himself alone. He sympathized well enough with these people having been in that same situation but he wasn't sure if they could say the same. The Americans were something else entirely having sat out a good portion of both wars before coming in to steal the glory or at least try to prove their mettle in a large scale war. When it came to the Soviets he didn't really know whether to be terrified by or for them, probably both, because by what he heard the government and command was just as dangerous as the German war machine. He would reevaluate his opinions over time but these were just what he was seeing for the time being.

As for the meeting he supposed it was going to be a meeting of the minds in a sense to introduce the group to one another and then get to business. He didn't know who or what he was dealing with in the form of powers or personalities so he would approach the night with some caution, he may have known there were others like himself but knowing and experiencing were two totally different things. There would be much to talk about in he guessed what with differing experiences and viewpoints but a key thing was to see just how they reacted to knowing they would be working with a German to stop Germany in essence. He thought it was an awkward proposition to begin with so he could only imagine what it would be like for the rest. It would likely be prudent to keep some of his unsavory past to himself lest he end up worse for wear. He would wait for a few more minutes maybe above before seeing if anyone else of this group had arrived.

Heinrich formed something of a portal for himself out of the dark of the night to quickly travel down to ground level near the pub an alley away from it. He replaced the patch over his lit up eye and appeared at his decided location within moments clearing his throat so as to prepare for any speaking he might end up doing. The German moved quickly out of the alleyway and over towards the pub not wasting any time entering so he could find himself a comfortable seat mostly away from the drunk customers. This meeting was business so he wouldn't be drinking of his own volition unless it was offered though it wasn't like he was shying away from it, he was as much a fan of a good drink as anyone, but it would get in the way of any negotiations so he could wait until afterwards. It took a moment but he found a less occupied area near a woman who seemed to have had the same thought.

"Mind if I have a seat?" Heinrich asked keeping his American accent up as best he could.

If the woman had no issue he would sit and quite honestly he was bored so a conversation couldn't hurt to past the time before them meeting was underway.

[Wintergrey]

Astrid

Astrid walked down the alley between the two large buildings. It was a cold night, but she her dress had short sleeves. She loved the feeling of the cool air on her skin. It reminded her of her time back in the USSR. In the US and Britain the days were much hotter, with the sun constantly beating down on her shoulders, so anytime that the temperature dropped she reveled in the moment.

Stepping out of the ally Astrid looked left and right. Not seeing anyone she walked to the nearest streetlamp. It was off due to the blackout that had been put into effect. Crouching down next to the base she breathed out for a long moment. Out of breath she pulled out a screwdriver and stuck it into the screw that held down the protective plate. Two small clinks followed the screws as they landed on the sidewalk. Reaching up with one rubber-covered hand she brushed her head tiredly then pulled off the cover. Tearing off her glove she reached inside and grabbed onto the small covered wires. Tearing at the wires, Astrid began to place the metal end on the skin of her hand. Energy rushed into her body, filling her with adrenaline.

Instantly the tiredness wiped away from her body and she became more alert. She didn't feel like she was about to fall over from exhaustion anymore, instead feeling like she could run a mile or two. Pulling her hand back, she wrapped in the black rubber gloves and stood, brushing off her knees. Cracking her neck she grinned to herself before turning down the street and walking at a brisk pace.

Shortly after walking Astrid stood in front of a pub. It was amazing that it was still open with the blackout in effect, but bombing hadn't happened for quite some time. Staring at it momentarily, a small bolt of electricity crackled through her hair, evidence of her recent charge. Striding forward with confidence Astrid pushed open the door. Immediately she was bombarded with an array of loud noises and sounds. A large bear of a man stumbled towards her obviously drunk. Quickly she stepped out of the way as the man fell out of the door. Smirking she thought about how weak europeans were in holding their liquor. As she reached the bar she called out to the bartender for a Vodka. The man stood there not hearing her, busy chewing his fingernails out of habit or nerves. "Ey nervnyy chelovek, liker, vodka." She slipped into russian while speaking to the man, but thankfully he heard her this time and managed to understand enough to get her the right drink. Siping at the drink, she drummed her fingers on the glass quickly trying to rid herself of all the excess energy she had pent up.

[SuperTacticalDerp]

Luke stank like hell and looked like it too. In the darkened English streets, any passerby could smell the thick musk of gasoline radiating off him like an aura. A day or two without showering. Not a lot of time for personal grooming when g-men with big orders and thick skulls rip you away from home. He felt like a fish out of water, still wearing a blue jumpsuit with his station's name engraved into the breast. "Luke's Gas". It was simple, kinda like him. Nothing really going on and full of gas in the litterally sense.

England seemed nice. People tended to mind themselves or just not care. Most looked scared, with the husks of buildings giving good reason why. Apparently something called "The Blitz" happened that caused a good chunk of destruction. Nazi assholes most likely. Blitz seemed to be their calling card. Luke passed through another alleyway quickly, trying to not let his scent stick to too many places and found himself just where he needed to be. The New Crown Pub.

"Time to get some answers," Luke told himself as he crossed the street and entered the establishment. The smell of alcohol and metaphorical depression overbeared him for a moment. At least he wouldn't stink up the joint. Luke immediate walked over to the bar as he reached for his wallet. The barkeep was already taking care of someone else farther down, grabbing her a bottle of vodka. Luke opened up his wallet and pulled out a few singles and figured that after exchange-rates, he would have enough to get extra sloppy if need be.

Luke shoved his wallet back into his pockets and looked at his arms underneith the lighting of the bar. His veins glowed a sickly yellow under the artificial lighting, another strange cosmetic change thanks to his "condition". He always forgot how strange he must look in public, like some plague victim or something. After looking around a bit more, Luke had trouble finding any g-men. He probably couldn't find any others like him either if he really tired, which is what the agent who directed him here promised he would meet. And get his answers.

He hoped that the others like him had better luck in the genetic lottery then he did. He didn't know much about genes, but he did know that something was wrong with his. People weren't made to piss fuel and set their blood on fire. If he spat on the next drunk Brit to accidentally bump into him and lit a spark, the poor bastard would set like paper. Weird shit was about to go down, he could feel it.