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[IC] Agents of H.E.L.P. - Per Angusta Ad Augusta

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Zeroth Post
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Zeroth
In 1984, the sleepy hamlet of Crestwood Hollow was rudely awakened by the terrorism of a serial killer who targeted local youth. During the investigation, it was uncovered that these teenagers were all united by one defining factor. Each of them was a Hyperhuman. Hyperhumans were a relatively new phenomenon, tracing back to a mysterious eclipse in 1967 that doused the globe in an unprecedented coronal mass ejection with such amounts of electromagnetic interference that it left the world in the dark for the weeks to follow.

In the wake of this event, people with extraordinary abilities began to surface. Though originally met with awe, this admiration soon turned to fear as neighbour was turned against neighbour. Following the events in Crestwood Hollow, fear spiked to a new high and prejudice against Hyperhumans led to a new wave of crime. Everyone was suspicious of the bogeyman under the bed, and numerous false reports were filed, leading to the legal system overburdened with processing humans and Hyperhumans alike.

The burgeoning Bureau of Hyperhuman Enforcement, Logistics, and Protection knew it had to intervene, and thus, the Hyperhuman Investigative Tactical Unit was born.
T H E B U R E A U O F H Y P E R H U M A N E N F O R C E M E N T, L O G I S T I C S & P R O T E C T I O N
T H E B U R E A U O F H Y P E R H U M A N E N F O R C E M E N T, L O G I S T I C S & P R O T E C T I O N
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P E R A N G U S T A A D A U G U S T A
P E R A N G U S T A A D A U G U S T A


I N C H A R A C T E R P O S T F O R M A T:
I N C H A R A C T E R P O S T F O R M A T:
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E X A M P L E P O S T:
E X A M P L E P O S T:
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Location: Sub Location, - Primary Location
Episode Name #1.01: Post Title
Interaction(s): None
Previously: None

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Hidden 12 mos ago Post by Lord Wraith
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Lord Wraith Thunderbringer

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A pair of half-drunk wine bottles sat atop a table littered with snack platters. Music played softly in the background, blending with the din of the small crowd, as Dolores O'Riordan's vocals set the tone for the night. The group of five sat in a semicircle, an easel propped up in front of the large television set boasting an impressive twenty-seven-inch screen.

Gesturing towards the cork bulletin board propped up on the easel, Scott Winters was the first of the partygoers to speak.

"So this one," He gestured towards the first image tacked to the upper left corner of the board, "This one was originally thought just to be an animal attack." The gruesome picture in question was of a man's body, one of his arms missing. At the same time, his other limbs were covered in bite marks along with his torso.

"There was so little left of his face, they had to identify him by dental records."

"Sure,"The woman to his left interjected. Scott paused, turning his head to listen to Sheila’s rebuttal. "But that could just be a rabid dog; it doesn't mean murder."

"I'd agree, if it had been an isolated incident," Interjected another man, Adam, who replied to Sheila from across the recessed sitting area. "That attack was in Seattle, but then you have that," He argued while pointing to another image on the board, a very similar image to the first, but this time of a woman equally mauled to death. "Occurring just down the road in Tacoma."

"And what about that one, here in Portland," Scott asked, pointing to a third image.

“No evidence to suggest the vultures killed them,” Argued the group’s host as Nick helped himself to another glass of wine. “The other two victims were mauled by dogs, whereas Victim Three’s cause of death is still to be determined. They were found too late, well after the carrion had already gotten to him.”

“No, I think there is a connection,” Scott retorted. “Look at the victims and what’s come out since their deaths. Victim One was Thomas Payne, a man who had been charged with numerous counts of voyeurism. The police were able to identify the bite marks on his body as ultimately belonging to his very own hunting dogs. So a peeping Tom, mauled to death by his own dogs? Does that sound familiar to anyone?”

“Should it?” Adam asked. Scott smiled, taking a sip of his drink before continuing.

“Victim Two was Mary Gough, who was killed presumably by a wolf while out biking. The body was found dressed in a red hooded windbreaker. Mary was recently suspended from her job after being accused of mercy-killing clients. She had been working as a nurse in an old age home, accused of being an ‘angel of death’ through poisoned desserts.” Scott helped himself to some of the snacks left in front of him.

“So a woman out riding in a red hood, mauled by a wolf who had been going to see elderly women?”

“And what of Victim Three?”

“Victim Three doesn’t have a liver,” Scott smiled, “And he was being investigated for embezzling from the firefighters’ charity fundraiser. He was found with carrion on his body, but he was found chained to a rock in a park that regularly has eagle sightings.”

“So?”

“Don’t you see, Acateon, Red Riding Hood, Prometheus, the killer has a vigilante complex and a flair for fables.”

“C’mon, Nicky,” Sheila rolled her eyes, replying dryly, “That’s far fetched for even you. How would the killer even control the animals?”

“Obviously he’s a Hype,” Scott smiled, “I think Nick’s onto something.”

“Adam, back me up here,” Sheila pleaded, “Or Cheryl, you’ve been quiet all night.”

“I just don’t like this case,” Cheryl replied, downing the remainder of her third glass of wine, “It’s so gruesome.”

“We’re a true crime club, what did you expect?”

“More white collar fraud, less animal attacks,” Cheryl giggled bashfully.

“Y’know, the one thing bothering me,” Scott stated, turning towards Nick, “One of Payne’s dogs is still missing.”

“Killer must have taken a liking to him, plus that’s his version of both a weapon and a trophy.”

“I guess,” Scott mused, sitting back in his chair, “But I can’t help but think there’s more of a connection.”

“Case will be the F.B.I.'s jurisdiction now that it crossed state lines.” Sheila smiled, “So it should be wrapped up quickly.”

“Ten bucks says the F.B.I. immediately recognizes the Hype angle and washes their hands of it. Those freaks from H.E.L.P. will be on the case before morning.”

“Nobody here is stupid enough to take that action.”

“Pretty sure action is the only reason Cheryl even comes, she’s been eye-banging Nick all night.” Sheila laughed coldly.

“Hey!”

“Sheila, Cheryl and I aren’t-” Nick protested before Adam cut him off.

“Screwing?”

“No!” Cheryl screamed.

“Good,” Sheila replied smugly, “Alice was my friend too, and the ink on your divorce papers is still wet.”

“The man has needs, let him wet his whistle.” Scott cheered while raising a new glass of wine towards Nick.

“I am right here,” Cheryl snapped, “And I am not so drunk, nor that naïve that you can talk about me like a five dollar whore.”

“That’s the night for me,” Sheila said, standing up, “Lovely as usual, good to see all of you.” She paused, looking towards Nick and Cheryl, “And please, at least use the guest room later.”

“Sheila!”

Nick’s jaw dropped as Adam curled into the coach, laughing. Cheryl, on the other hand, had buried herself as deep into her seat as the cushions were willing to allow her. Her face steeled while both arms were crossed in front of her chest, her knuckles turning whiter with each passing second that Sheila remained in the room.

“Bad night to wear a water bra, ain’t it, Cheryl?” Adam teased as Sheila made her way out the door.

“Oh, bite me,”

Closing the door firmly behind her, Sheila stepped out onto the street before walking around to the driver’s side of her car and sticking the key in the door. Climbing inside, she rolled the window about halfway down before lighting a cigarette and turning the car on. A satisfied smile crossed her face. Nick and Alice’s divorce had been messy, and while most of their friends turned their backs on Alice, Sheila was determined to give Alice the respect she was due. She didn’t appreciate how quickly Adam and Scott had welcomed Cheryl into the group. The doe-eyed redhead was at least ten years younger than Nick.

A bright-eyed and bouncy bimbo.

She angrily took a drag on the cigarette, rounding the corner. Alice hadn’t been perfect, but she was perfect for Nick. Sheila had always suspected there was something shady in Nick’s reasons for divorcing her, and the appearance of Cheryl a mere two weeks after the judge signed the divorce order didn’t help settle those thoughts.

Bright eyes suddenly reflected in the headlights as Sheila slammed on her brakes, coming to a screeching stop. A small thud echoed from the front of her car before she scrambled out of the driver’s side and around to the front. Lying beneath the headlights was a dog on the pavement, some kind of shepherd based on the pointed ears and snout. Sheila suddenly felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, before a low rumble echoed from the dog’s throat.

The growl caused Sheila’s knees to buckle, her hand reaching for the hood of the car as she fell backwards. Suddenly, the dog barked twice before running off, escaping into a nearby alley as Sheila was left to catch her breath. Her hands shook as she climbed back inside the car.

She had only made it a block from Nick’s house. She needed to turn around and head back; there was no way she could drive all the way home in her frazzled state. Carefully turning the car around, Sheila cautiously drove back the way she had just come from, her panicked eyes now scanning every dark nook for those bright eyes.

Pulling up outside of Nick’s house, she once again rolled her eyes as the only car remaining was the brightly coloured Fiero she knew belonged to Cheryl. The only lights left on in the house were the ones she knew belonged to Nick’s bedroom and the ensuite. Rubbing her temple in exasperation, she opened the car door and walked up the front steps. Pulling her fist back, she exhaled, preparing herself for whatever excuses the pair was about to throw her way.

But as she knocked, the door swung open on the first hit. A thick cloud of steam billowed out into the cold night air, and the entire house filled with the heavy, scalding fog. At first, Sheila recoiled from the sickly sweet smell of perfumed soaps and lathers before suddenly gagging as a much more horrendous smell hit her nostrils. The steam continued rapidly dispersing, accelerated by the cold outside air, before Sheila took a hesitant step inside, pausing only as the living room finally came into view.

Her eyes widened before a scream echoed across the dimly lit street.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Elba Island, Tuscany - Italy
Times of Trouble #1.001: Linger
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): None
Previously: None

The white sands of Spiaggia Di Sansone were dotted with numerous bodies enjoying the rolling waves of the Atlantic and the warm Tuscan sun. Cabanas littered the sands closest to the mountains of Elba Island while towels and umbrellas dotted the remainder of the beach as singles, couples, and families enjoyed the ocean. From a higher perch, a lone figure sat enjoying the misty air while ignoring the crowds below. Adorned in lightweight linen trousers and a matching linen shirt, an older gentleman lay atop a lounge chair. Atop his lap was a manuscript, a red pen in his right hand, while a glass of red wine sat near his left.

Footsteps slowly approached from behind him, causing the older man to adjust his sunglasses and the Panama hat atop his head before the approaching figure cast a long shadow over the man in the lounge chair.

"You're blocking my sun and spoiling my Brunello di Montalcino."

"I hate to cut your vacation short,"

“Then don’t, Director,” responded Church, “Fly back across the world and find another agent to solve the case. I’m sure Rivers or O’Neil would jump at the opportunity to cut their teeth.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Church.” The Director replied coolly, the older agent’s dismissiveness was wearing his patience quickly.

“Not even for your old mentor? You’ve only been the Bureau’s Director for what? Five minutes?” Retorted Church, but Duquesne knew it was bait.

“Nine years this September.” He replied matter-of-factly.

“Apparently, I trained you well, Henry,” Church replied, flipping a page in his manuscript before continuing to mark it with the red pen.

" I need you to come in.” Duquesne reiterated before dropping a file beside the glass of red wine. “I have you on the next flight out.”

“And give up all this?” Church replied, gesturing out towards the ocean. “Good food, gorgeous women,” He took a sip from the glass before adjusting his hat over his eyes, “And damn fine wine.”

Duquesne had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes out of respect for the elder agent. He opened his mouth to respond before Church cut him off.

"Tsk, tsk, the Director of H.E.L.P. hand-delivering files after flying halfway across the world," Church mused, "The expense department must love you."

“Speaking of expenses, it’s your granddaughter’s birthday today, and I can’t help but notice you’re in Italy alone,” Duquesne stated, changing the subject.

“I sent a gift,”

“You can’t always send cheques,” replied the Director knowingly.

“Last I checked in this broken world, cash is still king, and staying away keeps them out of harm’s way.” Church snapped back.

“He’s never going to see daylight again; they put him so deep in the Black Site, you’d need an excavator just to visit him,” Henry offered, softening his tone. He knew even after all these years, the loss of Annabeth was still an open wound for Church.

“I’d rather keep doing things my way.”

“You have three children, don't you? How many grandchildren do you have now?”

“Nine,” Church answered, “Sam and Clara have four, Ashley and Olivia have three and Rose and Bryan have two. Most of them don’t know me, outside of a cheque on their birthdays or holidays.” His tone softened, “I was there for Sam’s first and Ashley’s first, both of the boys were so nervous to become fathers. Sam had a daughter, they named her after-” He paused, looking up at Duquesne.

“You’re a sick bastard, you know that?” He growled before reluctantly cracking a small, sad grin.

“It’s okay to miss-”

“What’s so special about this case that you had to fly halfway around the world?” Church asked, ensuring it was clear the previous topic was dead.

“F.B.I. asked for you specifically and H.E.L.P.’s been told to have their best on it. We’ve put together a team. You should recognize them, you recruited half of them.”

“That doesn’t narrow it done,” Church replied while flipping through the pages, scanning the case files and images. It was graphic, and it was aggressive. Though there was some cowardice in using the control of animals to carry out such brutal killings.

“He’s a vigilante.”

“I thought so too,” replied Duquesne as Church stood and plucked the plane ticket from the Director’s coat pocket.

“Assemble the team, I have one stop to make on the way.”

“You should probably bring cake-”

“Not there,” chided Church as Duquesne nodded knowingly.

“I’ll arrange for the flowers upon your arrival.”
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Hidden 12 mos ago → 11 mos ago Post by Bork
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Bork Struggle On

Member Seen 0-24 hrs ago




Location: JFK Airport, New York City, United States of America
Time of Trouble#1.002:>hello_world
Interaction(s): N/A
Previously: N/A



" All passengers in Terminal 4, we are pleased to announce that American Airlines Flight A56487 is currently boarding. Please show your tickets and passport to the flight attendant...."

An airport wasn't exactly the way to conduct covert business but Ramsey had learnt over the years that being covert was synonymous with being in public. It was a paradox he had to learnt, unless he wanted to attracted the suspicion of the feds. Most of his competitors had invested tens of thousands into complex security protocols but he'd always preferred a public venue.

He was currently sat near his airport gate, observing the grey skies outside. The runway was littered with passenger jets, departing and taking off in perfect synchronization with one another. The seating area was empty at this hour, thanks to a last-minute scheduling conflict. The flight time had originally been noon but it had been moved to the morning at the last moment without any warning. What was odd was that there were no other passengers at the gate save for a few sleeping stragglers waiting for the flight after his.

Before he could further think about it, his pager beeped. Ramsey looked at the caller ID. It was from Ray, his chief operating officer. The message said "WANT TO TALK ABOUT SUBJECTS." Ramsley eyed the clock. It was 5 in the morning. Ray usually woke up at 7. What could possibly be so important at this hour? He began typing rapidly on the pager, his fingers beating a pattern into the square of plastic.

" ABT SUBJECTS? BURN THEM. BURN THEM ALL."

Ramsey leaned back after finishing his message, closing his eyes to relax. In 3 hours, he would be down in the Bahamas, away from dour New York winters and by the beaches, enjoying mojitos.

" Well, I think I have to disagree with that," The pager said.

That was funny, he could have sworn the pager talked. Ramsey opened his eyes and did a double take. It did talk. He dropped the pager to the ground as though it was possessed and stared at it, dumbfounded.

" You know it's rude to drop me," The pager said again.

Ramsey pinched himself to confirm that he was not in a dream. The voice was a static rainfall of warbling pitches, both man and woman. With trepeditation, Ramsey picked up the pager and stared at it with wonder. Ramsey took a second to recompose himself and then, spoke, his voice cautious.

" Who is this?," Ramsey whispered. The voice ignored his question and began to speak.

" Your original name was Ramieshavan Golak. " You were born in East Bengal. Your mother was a silkworm trader and your father was a goldsmith. You immigrated to America, somewhere in Newark -"

" How the fuck do you -," Ramsey hissed. How did this person know so much about him? He hid his past well, took efforts to bury it. The voice continued onward, merciless, " Quiet before -,"

" You opened Wraitheon Pharmaceuticals in the 90s. You initially worked as a CRO before you moved your way up to becoming a CDMO and then, a major biopharma. You couldn't scale up, though. You needed an ample supply of test subjects but the cost was too high here locally. So, you recruited undocumented immigrants. You paid them off with the promises of a green card and in exchange, you got them to become your guinea pigs. If any of them questioned what was happening, you would deport them. If any of them died in your trials, you got your lawyers and your agents to burn the books."

There was a brief pause before the mysterious voice continued, drawing out their words this time.

" Imagine what would happen if someone knew what really happened behind the scenes"

" You have no proof," Ramsey said. His fist was clenched so hard around his pager that he thought he would have broken it.

His pager then began to blat out a series of numbers and letters, alphanumeric. They were incomprehensible at first but Ramsey eventually recognized them. Patient numbers. Offshore bank accounts. Trial results. All of it was supposed to be locked on hard disks, locked behind a 9-inch thick steel vault.

" I assume you're hearing what I sent you. That's just a tiny fraction of the 50 gigs of data I got off your drives. Your info security is shit. Plus, I also got all the encrypted video footage of all of your residential facilities." A chuckle came over the line. " That's a funny word for underground prisons."

" You're bullshitting. You're just one man. You're -" The seat beneath Ramsey felt like air. He couldn't believe it was happening. " This is my life you're ruining. You're ruining my life."

" Look, I get it. You saw an weakness, a chink in the system, and you exploited it like I would. I respect that. The only thing I can't respect is when you bring other people into your mess."

Ramsey could now hear the unmistakable sound of sirens on the horizon. He hoped for a moment they were just ambulances but the red and blue was unmistakable. The announcement on the PA system sealed his fate.

" All passengers in Terminal 4, please do not be alarmed. Law enforcement is currently on the search for a suspected person of interest in the area. Please do not be alarmed."

" Have fun with the gendarmarie," The voice said.

The pager then began smoking, circuits hissing with electricity and the plastic casing slowly growing tarry in his hand. Ramsey stared blankly in shock, feeling his life crumble apart around him. The crowd parted, a trio of police officers worked their way through the crowd. He didn't even to have the next words come out of their mouths as he raised his hands in surrender.



In a cafe a hundred meters way in Terminal 1, Elek watched the commotion in his mind through the security camera feed. J.F.K's rudimentary security protocols folded before him like a thresh through wheat. The servers were 30 years old and hideously full of backdoors like swiss cheese. Ramsey Goyal, former CEO of Wraitheon Pharmaceuticals, wriggled like a fish out of water as two police officers escorted him, asking curious onlookers to stay away.

He reflected back on the events of the last couple of months. The target was high ranking but the challenge was dissapointing. He could never reach the heights of the IRS hack but the challenge was more in the sheer distributed network of all of the servers. The company data and its associated backups were located across eight different states across the west, mid-west and east. It took an effort of two months of careful prodding and reconnaisance before he could even consider committing to taking down Ramsey.

Still, the results couldn't be argued with. He took a sip of his coffee, savoring the bitter brew. Just as he was about to request for the bill, Elek felt a slight vibration from his Casio wristwatch. It was imperceptible to anyone else but him. He had tinkered with the watch in his spare time, taking advantage of Japanese battery engineering to hook a portable long range radio transmitter to it. It made it look overgrown but it was far better than having to reach into his pocket for his cellular phone. He reached out his power, mentally translating the storm of incomprehensible source code into intelligible language.

>>matthews@H.E.L.P: They need you back at Alpha Base. Orders from Command.

So soon? Elek frowned and then, issued out a quick script from his mind.

>> elek@H.E.L.P: tell them i'm busy.

>>matthews@H.E.L.P: Church's orders.

He momentarily froze, sipping his coffee. What did that mean? Did Church finally catch on to what he was doing? He hid his tracks carefully, made sure to only use his powers when necessary. Any hacker could have done this. H.E.L.P knew that he was capable of more. Why would he waste valuable time on this when he could have ripped apart Ramsley in two weeks with his powers? No, they wouldn't suspect a thing.

>>elek@H.E.L.P: c u in 48 hrs.

Elek tightened the hem of his hood so the shadow covered everything but his mouth. Depositing a five on the table, he stood up and skulked out of the cafe, letting himself flow into the busy crowd of passengers.
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Hidden 12 mos ago → 12 mos ago Post by Tlaloc
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Tlaloc METAL FINGERS

Member Seen 6 mos ago
A week ago...

Tapping his foot with a jittery impatience, Siro waited in line. He was in a bus terminal somewhere near Edmonton. The place was a stinking cocktail of mildew, diesel and coffee; shaken, not stirred. It wasn’t too busy, but busy enough to stifle Siro in his current state.

He was spent; his endocrine system burned-out from overuse. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. It happened when he overextended himself, which, given his stubbornness and propensity for foolhardiness, was more often than he’d admit.

He was paler than usual, and afflicted with a cold, clammy sweat. His posture had sank, as had his eyes. His heart-rate sauntered, bradycardia and tachycardia exchanging blows, leaving him light-headed and sensitive to his surroundings. The unfiltered light bit at his eyes, the rabble of the crowd, however small, screamed at him, and the ache of his body set his hair on edge. All of this discontent was punctuated by visible tremors and twitching, giving him the appearance of some kind of junkie. Passers-by looked at him with disdain, concern, or fear. He needed them to stop looking. He needed to be somewhere dark and dry. A numb, persistent anxiety had fallen over him — not quite panic — something more slow and gnawing. “Shit,” he rasped, digging his fingernails into his palms.

Two days ago he’d been dispatched to de-escalate an incident involving a Delta-class Hyper who’d snapped and started smashing up a block of buildings. The kid, whose skin could harden up like steel, was up on the rooftop when Siro arrived. He had a young woman by the scruff of her neck — ex-girlfriend, it turned out. Didn’t take the break-up so well, apparently, and let the whole neighbourhood know about it. Even when Siro subdued him and prevented any immediate threat, the kid would just not budge; he knew he was going to end up getting arrested, he knew his ex would put a restraining order on him, and he knew his life, in its current form, was over. Siro felt for the kid; he’d been in the same place, felt the same kind of terror, when he was eighteen. Even without the fear, without the rage, the kid was frozen in place. They were up on that rooftop for six hours before the kid eventually let his skin meld back to flesh and threw himself off the ledge. Siro stayed a while longer to try and quell the young woman’s agony, as she knelt by the rooftop’s edge, wailing out in regret. After all was said and done, Siro found a motel to crash into and slept for seventeen hours. Now he had to get back to Base Alpha. Rinse and repeat.

Things were moving slower than usual. Checkpoints had been implemented by local law enforcement after a surge in incidents. It never used to be like this. Damn-near border patrol at the local bus terminal.

Over time, the line in front of Siro thinned out. He eventually found himself at the front of the queue, where two security officers stood, filtering people through the line, one by one. They took a good long look at him, and then exchanged brief glances.

One of them cleared his throat. “Sir, you’re sweating through your jacket. I’m gonna need you to step aside.”

“No.. It’s alright, I’m uh…”

Siro trailed off. His hand reached for his wallet in its usual spot. Nothing but lint. He patted around himself, disoriented. A little panic set in. Had he forgotten his wallet in his feverish state? He began to search and re-search every pocket he had, instinctively dropping his rucksack to the ground as he did so.

The second officer, while Siro was preoccupied, heaved the bag up onto a counter.

“Sir,” the first officer repeated. “Please come with me.”

“Just hold on a second, I —”

That was it — his wallet was in his other jeans, he recalled, which were buried at the bottom of his rucksack. In his delirious haze last night he’d vomited all over himself and wrapped up his clothes in a trash bag, his mind too delirious to worry about retrieving his wallet. He glanced over to the second security officer, who was now fishing through his rucksack.

“Hey, jackass — get your hands out my bag.”

The second officer, who had been wincing at the bag’s odour, seemed to almost stifle a smile from what he found inside.

“You thought you could stumble through here with paraphernalia that easy? You people are dumb as bricks.”

The fuck? The word paraphernalia bounced around Siro’s skull like a cueball. He blinked at the object in the man’s hand. It was a subcutaneous auto-injector — a syringe, sort of like an EpiPen — that Siro used to administer inhibitors when his tank was empty.

“What? That’s medication, genius,” Siro said, voice low and rasping. “Ain’t party supplies. You think I shoot up for fun with that thing?”

“Sure looks that way,” the first officer said with disdain. “Now, this is the last time I’ll ask. Come with me, Sir.”

“Now just hold on a second, I’m not goin’ anywhere. You’ve got this whole situation twisted —”

A hand clasped his shoulder and jolted him forward. In his weakened state, it felt like an anchor dragging him down to earth, and he nearly lost his footing. Reflexively, he pushed out his arms, shoving back the officer who’d tried to restrain him.

The second officer didn’t flinch — he wanted this. Siro saw it in his face as soon as he looked up. A little vindication. He’d seen it before in these kinds of men; the sort that thought putting a badge on their chest made them some kind of god. He was already gripping the taser at his belt, thumb lazily resting over the release.

Siro staggered a half-step toward the officer, arms loose at his sides like they might swing. “I swear to God, you hit me with that, and I’ll—”

CRACK.

Siro’s legs buckled as a wave of static tore through his nervous system. Onlookers gasped and scattered backwards as he let out a croaky, dulled yelp. One knee locked, the other folded under, jaw clicking as his teeth rattled together. His fingers scratched at the tile involuntarily, and then he lay still, too exhausted to move.

Somewhere, a little girl started crying. Someone else snorted, either in laughter or disgust. Then a smug voice above him: “Freak tried to pull a stunt. But look at that, down like a lawn chair.”

Siro might’ve had a quip or a comeback on a better day, but all that came out of his mouth was slurred nonsense.

And then he passed out.
Location: Siro's dormitory, - Base Alpha, Dundas Island
Time of Trouble #1.03: Cocoon
Interaction(s): N/A
Previously: N/A

♩ ♪ ♫ ♬


Five days had passed since Siro made it back to Base Alpha. H.E.L.P. pulled some strings and got him out of police custody without any issues. Didn’t make the shame sting any less, though. Even if he hadn’t needed the rest, he’d have likely recoiled back to his dormitory for a while, as he often elected to do in times of fatigue and recovery.

His room was dim. Almost midday outside, but it was hard to tell. The curtains were drawn, all lights were off, and the door was shut like a seal. Siro was flat on his bed, fully clothed, looking up at the ceiling vacantly. He fidgeted with a tennis ball, which he’d periodically throw up against the ceiling, causing a soft, rhythmic pulse.

He hadn't moved in hours. Aside from fetching food and bathing, he hadn’t done much at all since returning. This was just part of the process. When he hit rock bottom, he had to retreat away into his cocoon to heal.

Soothing jazz throbbed out from the stereo in the corner; one of his favourite cassettes that he played as part of a wider rotation throughout his seclusion. He knew it well enough to let his fingers dance along with the sparkling keys, and to hum in unison with the saxophone. It massaged his tired skull, but wasn’t intrusive enough to poke its way inside.

Recovery looked like this, most days. His power came back in bursts, never all at once. Until then, he went still. Lowered his vitals. Pretended the world didn’t exist.

The telephone in his room began to ring. A dormant part of his brain registered that he had a call appointment with Dr. Chloe Morin, a psychologist who worked with the HR department at H.E.L.P.. He’d spoken with her briefly after his incident, but he had been in no state to provide much insight into his condition. HR usually wouldn’t bother him so soon after a crash, but Siro had been offered a new opportunity, and Dr. Morin was more than likely checking to see if he was up to the job. He composed himself and reached over for the phone.

“Good morning Siro,” came the voice of Dr. Morin. Her tone calm; professional.

“Hey.” Siro matched her restrained energy — not that he had much to give, anyway.

“I heard about the offer.”

“Course,” Siro said dryly. “Why else would you be calling me?”

“It's always good to check in. In any case, congratulations. It's quite the opportunity.”

“Thanks, Doc,” he said, toying with the tennis ball as he spoke. “But I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”

“No — it’s not. I just need to run through a few things before I can finalise your clearance.”

Siro sighed. “Right. The old rubber glove.”

“Standard evaluation. Nothing invasive.”

“So why's this a call, huh? I coulda jogged to your office faster than it took for you to dial me up.”

A pause followed.

“— I have to ensure my results are authentic.”

“You think I'm gonna juice your dopamine and mind-fuck my way into a promotion?” Siro scoffed. “I'm not like that.”

“I'm not suggesting you are. But protocol exists to prevent any disruptions.”

“Do you also put on a snorkel when you evaluate a hydrokinetic? I'm insulted, Doc.” Siro’s cadence suggested he was joking, but, in truth, the distrust did irk him. The Doctor didn’t want him in the room with her in case he manipulated her biochemistry: made her favour him in one way or another.

“It's for everyone. But I understand why it might feel personal.”

“Nah, nothing personal about a psych evaluation. Let's get it over with.”

“Very well. Let's begin. I'll be asking a series of questions. You can answer freely, but I need you to be honest with me.”

“You got it.”

And so the questions came. Cold; clinical. There were curve-balls in there, but he knew what they were really getting at. Was that shitshow at the bus terminal going to be a recurring problem? Was he going to shame his new team with a pathetic taser-slump in the midst of a crucial operation? He knew people judged him for it; saw him as a sloppy agent. He told himself he didn’t care. And when the question came, he told Morin it wouldn't happen again. Both were lies.

The tennis ball thumped softly against the wall. Again. And again.
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Hidden 12 mos ago → 11 mos ago Post by NoriWasHere
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NoriWasHere

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The digital clock on Jane’s cluttered desk flicked to 9:00 PM. Outside her Toronto apartment window, the city hummed with a low, distant energy, but inside, the air felt thick, charged with the intensity of her focus. Dressed in worn grey sweatpants and an oversized Ohio State sweater, her feet bare against the cool laminate floor, she leaned back in her creaking office chair, eyes narrowed at the two faces pinned to the corkboard wall in front of her.

Two men. Two profiles. Two potential... problems.

These two men have haunted the dreams of this fledgling H.E.L.P. agent more than any Hype she helped catch. The past week alone they have caused a crippling lack of sleep, general sense of unease about the future, and a worry about the fate of two massive cities. Her eyes darted to the left side of the board and looked at the information collected about the first man

Subject A: Jon Stevens. The photograph, clipped from an academic journal, showed a man in his late fifties, iron-grey hair swept back, eyes like chips of flint behind wire-rimmed glasses. His mouth was a thin, uncompromising line. Jane tapped a fingernail against the grainy image. The dossier was nothing more than a messy stack of photocopied articles, scribbled notes, and transcribed snippets of conversations gleaned from anxious grad students at OSU bars, yet, it painted a stark picture. “Brilliant, obviously,” one testimonial read, “but expects goddamn perfection. His seminars are an intellectual boot camp. Washes out more than he takes on.” Another section spoke to his work professionally: “Published in Criminology, Justice Quarterly… heavy hitters. But good luck getting his attention unless you’re already a star.” The consensus was clear, Stevens was a gatekeeper. Elite. Ruthlessly selective. His work on systemic bias in hyper human apprehension procedures was cited everywhere, foundational, but notoriously difficult to replicate. A hallmark, Jane knew, of either genius or deliberate obfuscation. “Why so few students,” she mused, her mind slipping briefly into the H.E.L.P. investigator’s groove. Control? Fear of exposure? Or just sheer, unadulterated intellectual arrogance? She noted the precision of his research design, the cold, clinical language devoid of empathy. A man who saw variables, not people. Or Hypers. He was more concerned with the cold, hard facts of the situation, and as he saw them, the facts said there was a problem with how the governments of the world were responding to the rise of powered individuals.

Her gaze shifted sharply to the right.

Subject B: Phil Smith. The photo here was softer, a university directory headshot. Dr. Phil Smith of the University of Toronto. Early forties, kind eyes crinkling at the corners, a hint of a warm smile playing on his lips. The testimonials from Toronto students were markedly different, gathered through casual phone calls and a few letters exchanged with acquaintances. “Approachable,” one email stated. “Remembers your name. Let's you explore your ideas, even if they’re messy.” Another: “His work on community mediation in post-incident hyperhuman scenarios is applied, practical. He gets his hands dirty with community groups. I think he actually speaks to those impacted by the government policies.” Jane scanned his publication list. Solid, but not the stratospheric tier of Stevens in regards to anything. More in Journal of Applied Psychology, Conflict Resolution Quarterly, which were credible, respected, but lacked the seismic impact that Stevens had. Kinder, she thought, but is kinder what gets her to where she wanted to go? She noted his focus on restorative justice models applied to hyperhuman incidents, which stood in stark contrast to Stevens' focus on systemic flaws within enforcement actions towards them. Is he naïve? Too trusting? Or is that collaborative approach genuinely more effective in the long run? The lack of elite journal placements niggled at her. Was it a lack of ambition? Or a deliberate choice favouring real-world application over academic prestige? She shifted her weight forward and banged her head against the desk.

A pen, balanced precariously on the edge of her desk, began to roll towards the precipice. Without looking, Jane flicked a finger almost imperceptibly. The pen stopped dead, shifted its course silently, and settled towards the center of the desk. Her power had become an extension of herself and at it’s core it was almost siimple. Controlled.

Unlike this decision.

She pushed back from the desk, pacing the small space between the corkboard and her sagging bookshelf. Her H.E.L.P. training screamed for more data. Hard evidence. Witness intimidation? Jane returned to the desk and placed her head back down on the still-warm surface. She knew that was unlikely, but Stevens' intensity could be misconstrued. Financial irregularities? Smith's lower profile suggested less grant money, but no red flags to speak of. Hell, he even drove a fifteen year old car that was on its last leg. Connections to known hyperhuman agitators? Nothing surfaced in either public record, and her research in the systems she did have access to did not turn up anything. Jane took a deep breath as she pulled herself off the desk and placed her hands on the sides of her face. Why was she doing this? This wasn't a criminal profile, she reminded herself sternly, though the methodology felt eerily similar as she was building a picture from fragments, assessing risk, and trying to predict outcomes.

Jane raised her head upwards, off the desk, and stared at the two faces. Stevens: the challenge, the potential for unparalleled rigor, the near-certainty of brutal rejection or, worse, being ground down. Smith: the safer harbor, the collaborative spirit, the risk of plateauing, of not being pushed to her absolute limit.

Her eyes drifted down from the intense faces on the wall to the open folder lying on her desk. Not case files. Not H.E.L.P. briefings.

GRAD SCHOOL APPLICATIONS.

The stark, bold letters on the tab cut through the investigative thoughts like a knife. The tension in her shoulders, held so tightly while profiling the professors, suddenly bled away, replaced by a weary sigh. She sank back into the chair, the adrenaline of the "hunt" dissipating.

This was never about suspects or threats. It was about her future.

Whose environment would shape the next crucial phase of her life?

Sure, things with H.E.L.P. were good. The highs were high, and the lows were almost non-existent, and the work mattered. Yet she felt this constant draw back to academia that gnawed at the corners of her mind. She knew she eventually wanted a doctorate, to follow in the footsteps of her parents and use her expertise to make a difference down the road. The world was not kind to people like her, and she knew she wanted to make a change going forward.

She picked up the pen she'd stopped earlier. No power needed now. Just a simple, human hand. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards her. The tone shifted from tense investigation to quiet, determined contemplation.

"Okay," Jane murmured to the empty room, her voice soft but resolved. "Profs. Stevens. Smith. Pros and cons. For me."

She wrote "OSU - Stevens" at the top left. "UofT - Smith" on the right. Under each, she began to list, not just their reputations and publications, but what they meant for Jane.

The clock ticked past 9:30. The city lights still glowed outside. Inside, the tension had melted and was replaced by the focused, pragmatic energy of a woman mapping her future one carefully considered bullet point at a time. The final decision wasn't made, but the lens had shifted. The suspects were now potential mentors. The investigation had become a choice. She wrote on her calendar’s both phone numbers as she knew it was time to request informational interviews. A decision was about to be made.

Jane would have continued with this inquisition had it not been for a singular RING shouting out through the second phone line in her apartment. Her eyebrow raised up as a smile crossed her face. She waited for just a second, with bated breath, to see if she was imagining things. RING. It sang out again. This roused Jane to her feet and she ever so carefully navigated her way to the phone and, with a trepid hand, picked it up. The first voice was robotic, and was an automated method of delivering the news. It sucked, and did not seem to work very well, but groups like H.E.L.P. seemed to love picking up all the new gadgets when they could.

INTERNAL H.E.L.P. COMMUNICATION AUTOMATED MESSAGE
ENCRYPTION LEVEL: GAMMA
PRIORITY: URGENT

This is a message for : Agent Deadeye
FROM: H.E.L.P. Dispatch Alpha Base
MMEDIATE RECALL - ALPHA BASE


“Deadeye,” a firm, but clearly feminine voice spoke.

“Charon.”

“It’s your lucky day, you are being called in. You have a ticket under your legal name at Lester B. Pearson, terminal 1. We have a flight to Vancouver booked, and we’ll pick you up and bring you to the base from there. I would pack for an extended mission. You ready?”

”I was born ready.”

“Good. Be seeing you.”

The line ended with a solid thud, as if the phone was slammed down harshly. Jane remembered Charon well from when Charon was the first agent to try and interrogate her. Sure, Jane was no one special with her skillsets but her education gave her a window into the mind of Charon, and Charon was not ready for the interrogation to be turned against her. Jane liked to think that Charon was one of the first agents to push for her ascension to agent, but she knew that honor most likely belonged to church. Still, the two had a heated work relationship that Jane loved to navigate. As she put her phone down, Jane knew that things were about to change forever. She had the two paths ahead of her, and she had at least one month to make a decision on which one to travel. Does she focus entirely on her education, and return to school for her masters, and then doctortal degree? Or does she go all in on the practical application of her education, and her skills? She had time to think this over, but tonight she needed to pack.
Location: Jane’s dormitory, - Alpha Campus
Times of Trouble #1.004: Settling in
Interaction(s): NA
Previously: None

The heavy steel door of the dorm room clanged shut behind Jane, sealing out the low but constant thrum of Alpha Base. The sudden relative quiet felt like a weight released from her back. She leaned against the walll, letting her worn duffel bag slide to the floor with a muffled thump. Exhaustion. To most, that word carried a pretty telling meaning, yet to Jane exhaustion had quickly become all she had ever known. The sleepless night, the early morning flight, the wait for a connecting flight, and then finally the quick helicopter ride across the ocean to the island. Exhaustion was a state of being, and Jane was in that state. Her eyes held up dark bags, and the longer she rested against the wall the more alluring the idea of sliding down it and taking a nap became even though there was a bed a short step away from her.

She looked around the room and remembered it well. Jane had called this place home only once before, right near the end of her outside assistant role. It was in this room where she was told that she would become a new agent, that she could finally put the work in and get the field experience she so desperately wanted. It was a great day. She had worked so hard to prove that she had the capability to not only control her power, but also provide value to the team as a whole. Jane had known at the time that she was going to go further with her education. Now that the time had come, she was starting to have regrets fueled by a desire to be back in her room, back in Toronto, and on the phone with potential professors. She did not bring her cute and comfy pajamas, no she needed her functional but drab grey ones. There was no CD binder filled to the brim with her playsets; instead, the only music she would have is the drum of footsteps outside these walls. The only personal touch was a small, faded buckeye leaf sticker clinging to the locker door. She quickly wondered if she made the right choice. Jane took a deep breath and prepared to collapse onto the bed ahead of her.

Before she could even take a step towards the bed, a firm, but deliberate knock sounded on the door. *knock* *knock* *knock* Jane straightened instantly, smoothing her rumpled travel clothes, trying to banish the weariness from her face with a soft, but present, slap against her own cheek. She took a deep breath and turned towards the door. "Uhh. Enter?" Jane cursed under her breath at the questioning tone she had decided to take.

The door hissed open. Charon stood framed in the corridor light. She was still the same as she was when she picked Jane up, a compact, powerful build, dark hair streaked with silver pulled back into a ponytail, eyes like obsidian chips taking in the room and Jane’s state with one swift, assessing glance. She wore her usual practical gear, which was nothing more than oilskin trousers, a thick sweater under an open parka. Agent Charon was one of the first agents that Jane had met when she was brought on, and Jane had always been under the impression that Charon hated her.

"Deadeye," Charon stated, her voice calm, low, cutting through the hum. "Welcome back. Settling in?"

Jane managed a nod, trying to project a competence that didn't quite feel right. "Trying to, Charon. Just dumped the bag." She gestured vaguely at the duffel on the floor. "Long trip."

Charon didn't enter, remaining in the doorway, a silent, imposing figure. "Oh I remember, I picked you up. Planned your itinerary. Gets easier. Or you get used to the tired." Her gaze didn't leave Jane's face. "Mind still in Toronto?"

It was a simple question, casually asked. But Jane felt the probe beneath it, Jane knew Charon had a way of doing that. No one else she had met could make small talk feel like an evaluation. Jane was already painfully aware of her greenness. She had only ever helped in that supportive role, and this was truly her first true case. This was the big leagues, and Jane did not want to strike out so quickly.

"Mind's here," Jane replied, forcing certainty into her voice. She met Charon's dark eyes, hoping her exhaustion wasn't too obvious. "Just decompressing from the travel fog. Ready for the brief tomorrow." She deliberately mentioned the briefing, trying to sound eager, professional.

Charon gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Her expression remained unreadable. "Oh, the briefing isn’t tomorrow. It’s today. Soon." She paused, her eyes flicking to the buckeye sticker on the locker, then back to Jane. "Different world than the lecture halls, Deadeye."

Jane felt a flush creep up her neck. Her face went red. “Today?”

"Today. You think you’ll be ready to go on such short notice?" Charon asked, her tone neutral, yet somehow implying a world of skepticism. "If you’re too tired, I am sure no one would mind if you took a little nap." She took a half-step back into the corridor. "Or they might. I am just a lowly agent who sucks at interrogations. What would I know?"

Shit. This is exactly what Jane expected for today. Perfect. No sleep, exhausted, and having to meet whatever team they were putting together? Jane blinked as she took a deep breath. It reminded her of cram sessions in school. She excelled in cram sessions. She once stayed up all night to start, and finish, a research project. She had stacks of books rented from the local library and not only did she get an A plus, she managed to return all the books on time and without a fee. Jane’s eyes narrowed slightly as the corners of her mouth curled upwards. “Sleep is for the weak.”

Charon’s gaze lingered for a fraction longer, that assessing look again. It soon was replaced with a smile and a chuckle. "Good."

The door hissed shut, leaving Jane alone again with the buzzing light and the profound silence. Jane grabbed her duffle bag and tossed it on the bed. She opened up the whole bag and pulled out an electric kettle, a couple bottles of water, and a ziploc bag filled to the brim with instant coffee. She quickly filled the kettle, and started it and stood in front waiting impatiently. She needed caffeine, lots of it, and she was thankful that her parents bought her a top of the line kettle. Sure, they expected that Jane would have the selfrespect to at least use it for quality tea, instead of the dangerously bad instant coffee but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Not today at least.

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Hidden 12 mos ago Post by Melissa
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Melissa Melly Bean the Jelly Bean

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“You gonna keep staring at me, or are you finally gonna ask what’s on your mind?”

The club’s bassline rattled Dylan’s ribs, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and electricity as she sat at the edge of a cracked leather booth, her lips curved into a lazy, dangerous smile. Neon lights sliced through the haze, casting fractured colors over moving bodies, shadows tangled in rhythm. The brunette dragged on her cigarette, letting the question she posed hang and watching the curl of smoke twist between her and the man sitting across the table.

Zane Marlowe’s sharp eyes held hers as he laughed, low and rough, leaning in so the neon caught the tattoos that snaked up his neck. Every part of him, from his rock-star grin to the way he draped his arm along the back of the booth like a king, screamed invincible. And yet, Dylan always managed to find an achilles heel - she’d made a career of it.

“What’s on my mind? That’s bold… sounds like trouble.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” He replied as he lifted his glass, ice clinking against cut crystal. “But I do like a woman who’s not afraid to ask.”

“Maybe she’s what we need.”

She nudged at his thoughts, softening the suspicion and feeding into the hunger, his mind a tangled web of trust and doubt. Another drink, another story traded, and Zane would invite her into the inner circle. She’d spent the last three weeks getting close - nights in dive bars, whispered names, back-alley meetings - all leading up to this moment, this encounter. She finally had a seat at the table, and all she needed was for him to say the word.

“Try me.”

Zane and his crew weren’t just thieves, no, the string of robberies they orchestrated were the tip of the iceberg when it came to their wrongdoings. They were Hyperhumans gone rogue, dangerous, but smart enough to stay just ahead of the law with the help of their abilities. The kind of group that thrived in the cracks of the city, smuggling and dealing as they flitted under the radar. Well, until now. And Dylan was close - so close - to pulling the thread that would unravel the whole thing and bring them in.

The brunette’s fingers brushed lightly over the rim of her glass, hazel eyes locked onto Zane’s from underneath thick lashes. She let him look. Let him want. Play the part, she reminded herself. Keep him hooked.

“You talk like you’re ready for anything. You sure about that?”

She inhaled on her cigarette with ease, blowing smoke to the side, her delicate eyebrow raising ever so slightly. A challenge.

“Only one way to find out, right?”

His grin curved, slow and wolfish, and she instantly felt the shift in his thoughts - the growing attraction, the pull of curiosity outpacing uncertainty. She was in, and all that was left to do was-

BZZZ-BZZZ-BZZZ

The pager on her hip buzzed like an angry wasp, breaking the moment. Zane raised an eyebrow.

“Friends checking in?”

“Something like that.” Dylan flashed a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Give me a sec.”

She slipped from the booth, leather groaning beneath her, and felt his gaze tracking her as she walked away. The club swallowed her steps and the second she hit the door and pushed into the alley, it was like surfacing from deep water. The city night met her with cool, damp air, heavy with the scent of rain on concrete and exhaust. She leaned against the brick wall, exhaling smoke and tension in one slow breath before tugging her pager from her belt loop and squinting to read the glowing numbers.

911.

Spotting a nearby payphone underneath the buzzing streetlights, she hurried over, fed it a quarter, and dialed the number practically burned into her memory.

“This better be damn important.”

“Agent Thatcher, you’ve been recalled. New orders just came in for a high priority case and you’ve been asked for, personally. Report back to Base Alpha immediately.”

Dylan’s eyes went wide before her brows instantly knitted.

“I’m right on the edge here, he’s about to bring me in. You pull me now and this whole thing falls apart. I need more time.” Her voice was tight with barely contained frustration.

“It’s not a request, Thatcher, it’s an order.”

“You understand I'm throwing away weeks of work here? You don’t get it, I can’t just-” Dylan’s jaw clenched hard enough to taste metal as the agent on the other end of the line interjected.

“You can, and you will. This isn’t your call. Walk away, Siren.”

The line went dead, and the brunette slammed the receiver back on its post in rage. For a second, she just stood there, heart pounding, the taste of the moment gone bitter on her tongue. Rain began to patter softly onto the cracked pavement, cold droplets seeping through her jacket as she stared into the shadows of the alley. All of it had been for nothing, erased in an instant by orders she couldn’t ignore.

Her fists curled tightly at her sides. Stubbornness warred with duty, the weight of the recall pressing down like a vice. But she drew a slow breath, crushed her cigarette under her boot, and did what she was told, disappearing into the night.


________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Base Alpha - Dundas Island
Times of Trouble #1.005: Dangerous
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): None
Previously: None

The trip back to Base Alpha had been quiet, Dylan having spent the flight battling with the turmoil and unsettled angst she felt while balancing the mental chaos that transpired around her. Every detail of the night replayed in relentless loops - the flash of neon off Zane’s grin, the heat of the moment when she’d almost had him hooked, the cold, clipped voice over the payphone that had shattered it all.

But it was a new day, and she had a new case awaiting her. Not to mention, a new title.

Senior Secret Agent.

Duquesne had called her into his office before she had been sent out on the previous assignment with the good news, accompanied by some kind words about her recent performance and forwarded regards from Church, who was away on a much deserved vacation. This would mark the first time she was back at the base in her new elevated role, and she had a feeling some folks wouldn’t be pleased. Luckily, she’d be the first to know if they had envy on the brain.

Once at the office, the brunette packed the last of her belongings and trinkets into a cardboard box before bidding her old desk farewell, heading towards her new domain. While still on the main floor, Senior Agents had detached desks with panels that provided some additional privacy and were located alongside the windowed walls of the building. It wasn’t a door with a lock, but nonetheless it was still an upgrade from the standard cubicles in the bullpen.

Noise filtered into her mind as she passed by her colleagues, their ongoing mental dialogue melding with her own.

“...hasn’t she called me back? I thought she was into me since…”

“...eggs, potatoes, I need broccoli and he’ll kill me if I forget the green…”

“...14 weeks, which I know is early to start telling people, but we’re just so excited about…”

“...can’t believe Thatcher got promoted. She hardly deserves it, I bet she just persuaded them to give it to her. Fucking telepaths.”

Stopping in her tracks and turning on a patent leather heel, Dylan faced the offender whose thought had stuck out from the rest. Richard Morris, Special Agent. He had started a few months before her back in ‘84 and was without a doubt bitter about the situation- he reeked of jealousy.

“Insecurity’s loud, Morris. Turn it down a little bit, would you?” She watched his face go beet red as realization hit, the surrounding agents taking notice of the interaction. The brunette moved towards him, his thoughts and panic growing deafening with each step as she closed the distance that separated them. Calmly, she lowered her voice to a whisper for only him to hear.

“Maybe focus less on what I ‘don’t deserve’ and more on earning something yourself.” She smirked, “Just a thought - since you’re so good at them.”

“T-that’s an invasion of privacy, Thatcher,” Richard sputtered, “Get out of my head.”

Dylan tilted her head, a devilish glint in her eye as sweat began to dot his brow.

“It’s not like I want to be in there.” Her tone was light, laced with amusement. “I’m far too busy with actual work to waste time sifting through whatever’s rattling around in that skull of yours.” The tension in the air thickened as Richard’s indignation warred with the embarrassment that came off of him in waves.

“Besides, if I really wanted to, I’d definitely need a hazmat suit.”

A few agents nearby choked back laughter, the strain breaking just enough for the crackle of mental static to shift - half of them enjoying the show, the other half relieved it wasn’t them caught in the crosshairs. She didn’t wait for a response from the agent in front of her, definitively turning her back in order to glance at her onlooking coworkers.

“Anyone else have any grievances? No?” Wide eyes stared back at her in reply as she tapped her manicured nails against the box in her arms impatiently, “In that case, I’ll be at my new desk if anyone needs me.” The sound of her heels were sharp against the polished floor as she sauntered away, punctuating the stunned silence she left in her wake. The hum of cerebral chatter slowly resumed, but it was no longer the careless stream of consciousness it had been before.

“...that was brutal, Morris is going to stew over this for a month…”

“...hope she didn’t hear what I was thinking about the Director earlier…”

“...oh god, think about work - think about work - think about anything else…”

“...makes it look so easy, she definitely enjoys it…”

While not always the case, there was some satisfaction to be had in making people squirm - after all, she had consciously amped up Morris’ panic to teach him a lesson. She wasn’t a sadist, not really; she didn’t enjoy wading through the despair and clutter of other people’s thoughts. But sometimes, when the noise got too loud or too cruel, it felt damn good to quiet it - even if only for a moment.

As she set the box down on her new desk, she saw a fresh case file resting neatly in the center of the table, thick and marked URGENT and CLASSIFIED in red across the top. A note was clipped on, Duquesne’s handwriting quick and familiar.

Didn’t mean to cut your last assignment short, but going to need you on this one. - D

Dylan let out a quiet breath, fingers brushing over the folder’s edge before setting the note aside and opening the file, shutting out the dull hum of the office behind her to the best of her ability.

Time to get to work.
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Hidden 11 mos ago → 11 mos ago Post by Bork
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Bork Struggle On

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" Elek?"





" Elek, yo, are you listening to me?"

Elek blinked as the whirlwind of code faded from his head and he returned to reality. The hospital was white. Overwhelmingly so. It stank of antiseptic and the linoleum floors were scrubbed so clean that he could see his reflection on them. . Elek felt out of place in his baggy sweatshirt and the stink of Panda Express that had sustained him through many late nights of programming. Part of him felt that he shouldn't be here next to Nicole, especially when she was in this state. Her single left arm was no linger in a sling but still woven in a thick cast that made her movements slug-like. The blotches on her tanned face had faded. She was currently looking up from a copy of the Boston Globe, leaning on her cast arm to compensate for her missing right arm. Her brown hair was knotted into a french braid that snaked down from her shoulder onto the linen.

" Yeah, of course."

" I can tell when you're lying." Nicole said, a smile in her tone. She set the newspaper down on the blanket and her pale blue eyes searched him. She nodded towards the heart monitor hooked up to her chest, the green line of the ECG flowing up and down like a mountain range. " That's the only thing in here that you could listen to. What's it like?"

Elek struggled with his words for a moment. There really was no answer. It changed everyday. He thought it sounded like the voices of the dead during his childhood but it changed every year.

" Like being near the edge of a waterfall," He lied. Tried to.

Nicole hummed in thought before returning back to her newspaper.

" Schiebe."

" Nicole, what's the matter?," Elek asked.

" This." Her finger tapped the headline " MIT SORORITY GROUP EXPELLED" several times. " Elek. Don't lie to me," She hissed. "You did this, did you?"

His silence was an answer already. Elek tucked his chin down at his neck, shying away from her look as the edge of the newspaper crumpled between her fingers.

" Goddamit, Elek. If the police find out what you actually are and they connect you to this......"

" I hid my tracks well. They won't find out ," Elek said with smug satisfaction. Well, technically, he did. Anyone with a smidgen of computer security knowledge would look at the news article and suspect foul play immediately. Police didn't have the resources or capabilities to crack into Apple firmware. It was more relegated to the likes of the feds. There was no trace, no evidence that would have linked him to their arrests. Nicole apparently didn't agree. Her glower made him shrink and he spoke again, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head. " Look, Nicole. I did what I had to do...."

" Dammit, that's not the point! " Nicole reached out with her cast to pound the railing on her hospital bed before Elek could stop her. She yelped in pain as Elek reached out to clutch her shoulder. " They hurt me and that's the end of the damn story! You didn't have to get involved."

" I got involved the moment they put you in danger," Elek spoke, an edge of passion entering his voice. " Because you're my friend. And that's what friends do for each other." He then paused. " But if you think I should tell them..."

" Don't do that. I just...don't know what to feel right now. You're my friend, yes. But friends don't go out of their way to hack other people. " A small, brief smile crossed her bruised face. " I suppose they had it coming but......." Her smile had evaporated quick like a puddle on a hot summer's day and was now replaced by a quivering frown.

" I'm not staying here."

" I don't understand,," Elek asked, confused. What was Nicole talking about? " D-did I do something wrong? What about your short-wave range transmission project? We're still working on that for the confer-"

" Elek." Nicole interrupted again, his pitch more forceful. " It's not you. It's my parents. I'm leaving Boston. Permanently."



He wasn't surprised by the letter on his desk when he came back to Boston General late at night. The throes of anger and frustration had left him with no energy to feel anything at the moment. He picked it up, glancing past the stamp of a snake eating its own tail, and unfolded the letter to read it.

> YOU TOOK YOUR FIRST STEP.

> DISTRACTIONS ARE A WEAKNESS IN OUR LINE OF WORK.

> INVITATION STILL AWAITS.

> MAKE THE WORLD MOVE.

Elek stared at the paper for a while before wordlessly scrunching it up into a ball and tossing it into a paper waste bin. He rummaged around in his cupboard, eventually taking out a paper box of matches. He brushed the match head slowly against the abrasive strip, setting it aflame. Elek watched stonily , letting let it burn until the flame danced near the edge of his fingers. He then threw the ember into the bin and watched as the note caught fire.








Location: Base Alpha, Dundas Island
Time of Trouble#1.006:>sys.call
Interaction(s): N/A
Previously: N/A



" I'm being permanently reassigned to the Enforcement Division?"

It was late afternoon at Base Alpha and Elek was still feeling the jet-lag from flying all the way from the other side of the east coast. Instead of retiring to the comforting safety of his office room to sleep it off, he responded to the summons of Deptuy Director Executive Morris. It was as the director put it, 'a meeting of the utmost urgency'.

Morris's office was spartan. There was a sense of organisation that Elek could begrudgingly respect, although, he found it all so restricting. His table, carved out of glistening oak, laid in the centre of the room. A series of filing cabinets imprinted with metal labels occupied the left wall whilst a small squat shelf filled with folders and various books sat on the right. There were few affectations, only a small photoframe on his table showing Morris sitting on a couch alongside his wife and a few small figures which Elek assumed were his children. The walls were bare and two 24 hour analog clocks were in the room, one above Morris's head and the other above the door. There was enough space to walk but not enough to do anything else. Compact and efficient.

Morris replied to his question with a glum, tactiturn demeanor, flicking through sheafs of departmental forms to sign off on. His peppery hair was cropped flat and thin, knobbled fingers held a blue fountain pen. His movements were quick and deft, writing with the vigor of a man twenty years younger.

" Wasn't my decision. It was Dunusque. Departments are doing some restructuring. Apparently, your newest detail requires you to step away from O.T for quite some time, Elek. Almost permanently."

Frustration wormed inside Elek like a fever. This was what he got after spending five years in Operational Technology as one of its best agents? It wasn't out of enjoyment. If he was relegated to the Enforcement Division, he would have less free time to pursue some of his other activities. Activities that would be increasingly harder to hide under the scrutiny of some departmental bureaucrat from Enforcement. Elek coughed and spoke, forced politeness in his voice.

" I think that my appraisal for the position of Executive Assistant Director in O.T was being reviewed."

" And it's been summarily rejected," Morris said plainly.

" Not until I get an explanation." Elek waited for Morris's reaction but the department head didn't even raise an eyebrow, simply continuing to sign his documents. "I still think I deserve to have some measure of responsibilites in O.T-"

Morris's fist slammed on the desk, sending a few papers flying.

" For fuck sake's, Elek, do I have to spell it out for you?! "

Hearing Morris, the stickler for rules and decorum, swearing was akin to seeing a solar eclipse for the first time.

" My work on HypeOS was allowed the department to radically improve H.E.L.P's servers and -!," Elek was on the cusp of a incensed rant but Morris cut him short, now standing up and looking down at him with barely disguised anger.

" Yes, brilliant work that you've done with HypeOS. I'll admit that you've driven down costs, pushed our logistical infrastructure to the next decade and kept our cybersecurity on the forefront. However, no engineer that I've been able to recruit has been able to read through your fucking code or firmware! You refuse to train any agents to pick up where you left off. Your insistence on working as a one man team has made our digital forensics team lazy and worst of all, no one knows how to maintain it except you! "

Morris took a breath to compose himself before continuing on.

" You are an asshole to work with. Even those that praise you admit that about you. It's not a quirk. It's not some sign of your genius personality or a maverick. You are just a pain in my ass." Morris's gaze softened, breaking the sternness in his lecture. " It's much of my department's fault for relying on a hyperhuman as it is yours. One man isn't an island, Elek. Especially in our line of work. "

Elek watched his superior sit back down and return back to signing the ever growing pile of paperwork on his desk, signalling the discussion was over.

" You are an invaluable asset. You are one of the most talented programmers of this generation. Your powers are without compare. But that's useless if you can't work effectively in a team. Until you learn how to work well with people you do not like, I will not let you back into O.T. Now, get the fuck out of my office."



An hour later, Elek closed the door to his office, his fingers peeling off the door knob slowly and then, despondently returned to sit on his desk.

His office was dotted with piles of books, papers and disassembled computers, circuits and wires pouring out like roadkill. He gingerly stepped around them until he reached his desk. It was a behemoth, two desks joined to the sides of one disk perpendicularly. There was only a single CRT monitor, flickering errantly,, but a thousand cables and wires grew out of the back, connecting to a tower-like structure at the backwall. It was a monolith of whirring fans and blinking diodes and possibly the most powerful computer he could create on H.E.L.P's budget. His desired one would have. There was no keyboard and mouse, not with his abilities.

How the hell was he going to move this all later? Elek's stomach growled and he realised that he hadn't eaten anything for 24 hours since returning from New York. The CRT monitor whirred to life with a momentary thought from his mind and a few mental system calls to his computer summoned his latest pet project to life.

>>elek: transmit scheduleled call for cheese pizza to following address at Alpha Base.

>>eric2: <QUERY> what is cheese?

>> elek: processed cow's milk.

>> eric2: <PROCESSING>. <ANALYSING>. <QUERY> parameters seem to fit butter. <ERROR> parameters fit curds. <ERROR> parameters fit milkshake.

>> elek: stop, eric2. Shut down.

>>eric2: <STATEMENT> will begin analysis of all dairy products. <ANALYSING> entering EPA/USADA/AFFC Repository. beginning analysis of all bovine products...

Elek groaned and cradled his face into his hands.

Artificial intelligence was a bitch.
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Hidden 11 mos ago → 10 mos ago Post by Festive
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Festive Homo Ex Imagine Dei Partus Est

Member Seen 7 days ago
“You know, my brothers and sisters?”


A voice bellowed out, soft but loud, projecting across the room over the ever-persistent hum of the now-yellow fluorescent bar lights that hung from the roof, and pops and cracks of the coffee machine running just off yonder in the corner. Before the crowd of unevenly lined plastic foldable chairs occupied with those from all over, stood a man behind a worn wooden podium whose hair, once golden, now cluttered with streaks of grays and dulled yellows, dressed in a garb of white frilled with Purple. Eyes of stark green glared across the hall, decorated with flags of the same colors he wore, banners of stripes and crosses lined the walls within his gaze. The air was permeated with the aroma of days-old coffee and the stench of stagnant air from years of disuse as a smile grew upon the speaker's old lips before speaking again.

“Last night, I spent the whole damn evenin’ rackin’ my mind about what I was gonna say tonight. Thinkin’ about exactly what our naturally ordained position in this world is, despite how painfully obvious it may be. Where exactly do we fall in the almighty’s godly order?”


Near the back corner of the hall, one of the many people standing in the crowd due to the underwhelming amount of chairs was a man whose face looked so much like the speaker before them all. Yellow locks were slicked back on his head with arms crossed, slightly covering the name tag with Lucius written in sloppy Sharpie. Yet Lucius was still in jail. With him locked up in one of the few specialized hype facilities in the South, the man who stood among the ranks of the congregation was naught but an impostor who wore the skin of one of their people.

And such was an art Dominique had grown prideful of. To become another, to embrace them and all their tics and idiosyncrasies, was more than simply copying a face or body; such was but the easy part. While copying the minutiae of his facial features and figure only took hours, becoming Lucius took long months in an office watching and rewinding clips of interviews to see exactly what made the man tick, how he thought, how he moved in a room – every facet of his personality. Many a lone night slumped over a desk whose surface was obscured by federal case files strewn about, having been combed through to memorize the small details of his life. All those hours led to this day: the knighting.

“Well, to know this, we must look at who we are. We are a people, who at every chance have been hindered by the goddamn tyrannical grip of this government we call a ‘democracy.’ We are the people who have been left destitute by false kings who have no heavenly merit. We are the ones who have been left in chains. We are those who have been shackled by the powers that be, who just can’t handle the purity of our folk. My people, we are those who have been intoxicated by a cocktail of snake oils to destroy our gifts. The gifts given to us by God. By which, through his heavenly providence, we have become his chosen few. We are the ones ordained to inherit this Earth, yet upon these lands, they treat us as lesser. They call us freaks in the streets. Our young are collared and leashed for what is simply their divine right.”


Dominique leaned their weight against the wall behind them, taking a sip of the dark brew of coffee that was in their hand. It hadn’t been easy infiltrating the Knights of the True Testament despite the identity he had absorbed. Lucius Johnston, the man whom Dominique played, was the cousin of the orator who spouted a false creed to the crowd: Robert Johnston. Originally brought in on several counts of aggravated battery, Lucius was soon “released” after Dominique had taken his place in a joint operation between the FBI and HELP. Dominique, at this point, had been around the group for months, feeding information to the Feds as they watched the group’s rhetoric spread like wildfire in the fringes of the South. And tonight? Tonight was the time they’d finally be trusted as a knight. The time they finally began to gain the power that they would use to burn the group down to naught but ashes.

“And I’ll confess to y'all, for you are my kin, I was once a man who saw color. Who looked only upon the shell of a man to determine his purity. I was a man whose eyes hadn’t yet been awakened to God’s truth, and I thought what made us pure and supreme was marked only by one’s skin, his blood, and the heritage of his people. But now? Now I know I was wrong. Now I know that I was looking at the wrong things. We aren’t pure because of those facts; we aren’t pure because of our genes. We aren’t pure because of our blood. We are pure because of the power that is coursing through our goddamn viens, people! We are pure, through the divinity god struck into us all on that very night! We are pure though that flame in our very being ignited by the blessings from above. Our power is the proof of our purity!”


As the last line fell from Robert’s lips with three successive bangs of his fist against the wooden podium, a cacophony of woos, cheers, and clapping erupted. With the peak to this sickening melody of hate, Dominique kept their face from twisting as they continued to observe the crowd. The K.T.T. twisted the reality of what their powers really were, twisted the view of who hyperhumans really were into something hateful. They preach like false prophets, spinning a tale of faux divinity to the masses. They fought against oppression, but in the same vein, fought for it.

“And I’ll be damned if I let these heathens dictate how we live. For those untouched by God’s power are below us. We are his kin, we are his people, we are pure! There is no black, there is no white, there is no nation, there is no flag by which we are bound, there is only the pure and the impure. The divine and the discarded. And I know if anyone on this Earth will be cleansed, it will not be us. As God made us his soldiers, and it is our time to reclaim what is truly ours.”


The clapping continued yet the disgust burned a pit in Dominique’s mind. It was a shame to see how easily so many people were brought into hate.

“Y’all are too kind, I am just tellin’ our people’s truth. Thank you, thank you. Now y’all will see my face back up here in a little bit for the knighting. Mingle around for a little bit while we get everything prepared now.”


And with Robert left from the stage, the vitriol he spat now heralded and reinforced in the mind of the congregation as “God’s word.” Dominique exhaled a soft sigh as they once again brought the coffee up to their lips. This was not going to be the last of the long nights.

Yet before long, the black pager they held was tucked beneath their shirt began to vibrate.

911*86*60*401773

“What the fuck..?” They uttered softly, almost as but a whisper, as Dominique began to head to the nearest exit. The heart in their chest started to beat ever harder as they left out into the darkness of the Mississippi night. The soft breeze nipped at Dominique’s skin as the coverage of trees swayed overhead. There was not a single payphone for miles as Dominique’s eyes scanned out tree line. And in but an instant, they heard it. That sound which was unmistakable, the grip of dirt and loose stone under tire, the soft roar of an engine as it sped up the only road which led onto the property. Before they could get a word out, federal agents, equipped with gear as dark as the night sky they were beneath, swarmed the surrounding area, with the squad of HELP agents who accompanied them quickly ushering Dominique away.

Dominique’s back fell into roughly cushioned seating that lined the back of the van be had been brought into.

“What the fuck was that, Kane? I’ve spent more than half a year with these bastards you fucking pull me out like that? The Feds, too? You just destroyed my cover.”

“Lower your tone, Dominique. Do you believe I wanted it to go this way?” Kane wiped the sweat from his forehead as his eyes shifted away from the surveillance screen. “Straight from the top, we only got the call a few hours ago, you’re getting pulled to a different team.”

“Are you serious?” A scoff fell from Dominique's lips as he stared at Kane.

“Yup. Hell, this is just as much of a shock to us; this could’ve gone on for way longer. The Bureau decided to move forward with the arrest of Roberts; it’s beyond our jurisdiction now. We offered them a replacement agent but you can probably guess what they said about that.”

“You know, them arresting Roberts isn’t going to make anything better, right?” Dominique sighed.

“I do, and I am sure some people in the Bureau do as well. There is nothing either you or I can do about it. There’ll be a plane waiting for you tomorrow to take you back to Alpha Base. We still have some loose ends to tie up here. But in the meantime, let's get you back to the hotel.”
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Canadian Air Space
Times of Trouble #1.007: Faceless
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): Nil
Previously: Nil

And there, upon that plane, had possibly been the most comfortable Dominique had been across these long months. The method of the K.T.T. hiding among the rural towns long abandoned by most after decades of economic strife and decline, overgrown farmland, and forests that dotted the Mississippi countryside meant forgoing that common luxury of comfortable bedding. Yet it wasn’t the first time Dominique had lived like such, and it wouldn’t be the last. Their body conformed to the seat as they lay back fully into it. Their hand delving into the reachers of the inner pocket of their jacket to retrieve the wallet they rarely carried beyond their off hours. As they unfolded the wallet and flipped up the flap in the middle, their two IDs shone beneath the soft light above their plane seat.

It had been a little bit since they had worn such faces, although the way to construct them was like a blueprint seared in their mind. They were faces as old as they could remember, the ones they had always clung to as their own. But always, that lingering thought that such faces were only constructs created on half-guesses and estimates pervaded their mind like a weed on a clear field. You can only remove them if you cut them at the root, yet this one was buried so deeply that Dominique had not even fragments of a mental image of who they originally were. It was a forlorn dream. To find such a face lost to time, such a body lost to time.

Dominique tapped their fingers in a cascading motion against the seat flip-up table as they settled on a face to take, softly releasing the wallet down onto the table as they decided. And in but an instant, a heat grew across Dominique’s body. It was a soft burn they had come to know all too well. Like small tacks being poked against every inch of their skin, dulled sharp pain brought forth those once yellow locks of hair upon their head into longer streaks of black that fell upon their shoulders. The hue of their eyes had deepened into the darkest of browns, as the mass upon their body shifted with the change of stature. The clothes Dominique wore upon their body now felt sizes bigger as the heat slowly dissipated. No matter the time between each transformation, it was a sensation that could never be forgotten.

Dominique held their fingers up to their face, slimmer they appeared and smaller than the size they were only minutes ago. HELP would only let them on base in one of those two forms, yet there were still days when they had gotten past in the skin of another.

Dominique laid their head back into the chair, eyes slowly slipping into darkness under the weight of all the time they had spent in the field. All that had now been lost. All the time in which they had struggled to play a man so utterly different from themself was now gone, as they had to shift back into their normal self. A scorn was still held in Dominique’s heart, yet such professions of anger would have to wait until they landed. Their flight still had hours left.

And in the quiet hum of the plane’s engine, Dominique found himself alone in the darkness of their own mind. For now, there was no more part to play, no more voice to copy, no more other life to live besides their own, and although it was only but a fleeting moment of solitude, this was when Dominique felt whole.
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Hidden 11 mos ago → 11 mos ago Post by Rockette
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Rockette 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

Member Seen 0-24 hrs ago
She likes to tell herself, in her disillusioned mind, that the weight on her hands is paint; heavy, thick, hot. Pungent, aromatic, decayed.

She knows she can shed it like a worm does its cocoon, but there is something about the baptizing of humanity worn on her skin that she likes. It reminds her, it holds her accountable. Sanctioned murder, some call it, when diplomacy failed and negotiations floundered, when plying words and cooling thoughts eddied out in hazed particles and energies undone by solar phenomenon.

She likes to tell herself, in her disillusioned mind, that she is an artist; embodied with cynical detachment, downcast, downtrodden, warped hideously through a slick membrane that writhes and pulsates as a tempered coil. That she is mania in all deluded colors worn a shade too bright and too deep, ridiculous splashes and thick clumps of acrylic paint worn onto water color basins – all sorts of pinging and ringing thoughts that drown, drag and deflate; maybe it’s pink, perhaps it’s grey, her insides wrought black and blue, her skin hued pearlescent. The color on her delicate fingers, though, is a rusted stain and edged shadows, greyish-green splotches that are sickly and wet, congealed and embedded underneath her fingernails, which are painted electric pink at their tips. Prickling touches, whispering prints, ghostly tendrils whisking away before inching ever closer, forming as talons, claws, sickles that puppet and mime against heaving ribs and webbed veins. The human body is a myriad of delicate tissues that ripple beneath her touch, a medley of life so coveted and depraved, studied carefully and expertly. Blackened lungs and fatty deposits, bones pocketed with disease, brittle and dead, and organs bruised. She feels and knows it all as molecules that conform, split, and peel apart at the seams as she plunges through their pores to push and pull. It’s nearly the same every time, with consistent performance and success in the numbers, the darling face preened prettily and perfectly, pale eyes misty and silvered, and petaled lips surrounding gleaming teeth. The face of the sun and all life therein sent with blinding warmth, the doll, the face, the voice that soothes and curls around her ‘R’s and sluices across her ‘L’s, her vowels drown out long and hard.

Evelyn likes to tell herself, in her disillusioned mind, that she does what she does because someone has to. Because she must. Because she can.

And if it’s her face they see in their last moments, and her touch they sense in the finality of pain, the funeral tolls traded for her delightful laugh, then was dying such a bad thing?


_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Location: ... somewhere in America.
Time of Trouble #1.008: girl next door.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s):&

She has denied the call three times, tossed her pager into a storm drain (she later claims she lost it), and has stepped out of her motel room on different occasions. Through the adjacent wall, dropped down through the floor (into the pool, no less), and finally, through the stairwell and up to the roof, where Evelyn Deveraux shimmied down the fire escape earlier that morning. It’s done, again; she’s completed the assignment, sent the body in, arteries plucked and pinched, invoking spasms, reminiscent of a heart attack. A common thing, really, for a mortal creature. It’s not often she’s pinned to the mundane, but it happens. Too loud and abrasive, ventured too close, and couldn’t keep their mouth shut. It happens. Problem solved. Fixed. When she’s assigned to Hyperhumans, it’s messier, more intense, phasing through HZEs like wet cement, or thick humid air stuck to her lungs and skin. Like weilding through a storm, when everything draws a shade of yellow, and the rain strikes your skin, drowning and heavy. Some are more electric, where she braids their ions together, atoms surging and molecules colliding, her fingers warped over their souls before she forms a fist, clutches their hearts, or sinks an inhibiting poison into their very core.

She once pushed their face into the wall, suffocated, and fused to the stone, her palms cradling against their skull as she felt their life violently end in wetted, crunching screams.

It happens.

She carries pennies in her pockets sometimes, flicks them over her thumbs, she’s seen someone place them over their eyelids, some forlorn token for a ferryman, but Evelyn never does and carries the weight in her pockets and tosses them into fountains instead.

She knows what this is, though, it’s a call back to Base, her missions completed, one life traded for another, glossy dossiers shuffled and handed over. Some are dead drops, and when you can slip your fingers unknowingly into a sealed compartment, what better method to relay targets? Some are long, drawn out over months, as she hunts and seeks. Always slipping through homes and offices, peering into high-security establishments like banks or political offices. Laboratories or factories where Hyperhuman-endowed weaponry struggles to find purchase in its newly forged concept. (But she’s not here to talk about that, not when they told her to look the other way, for now.) Some are short, quick, simple executions that require little to no finesse, just a job, just a name, just a face.

It happens.

The Bureau is ringing her line constantly, well, the motel’s landline, and it doesn’t come as much of a surprise when Evelyn has been playing this cat-and-mouse game for years. It never lasts, not for long. She waltzes through the crowd, waiting beside sidewalks, traffic signals, and simply allows herself to be part of the mundane. Blonde hair coiled back into a braid, the asphalt warmed from the day, smooth beneath scuffed combat boots, she counts out the minutes that toil into hours until they come to retrieve her. They’re not far, she knows this, as she makes a rotation of right turns, skirting to the left at random intervals, and makes repeated passes around an unassuming park with its scattered benches of wood and iron. It’s not that she doesn’t want to go back; she doesn’t have much of a choice either way. Sometimes it’s just seeing how far they’ll go, again, to bring her in. And in those moments, she’ll stall, think she can slip away, meld away into shadow and brick, but a vice collars her every time, manacled with unseen irons, and she’ll always walk through those doors and into the bull pen. Sometimes it’s a room, the ward, the interrogators, series and phrases and numbers sputtered through lips, seeing if she can keep up, testing her mental fortitude. It’s another game, and Evelyn never plays to lose.
But, for now…

“Evelyn.”

“Rats. You caught me.” It’s admitted in a whisper, surrounded by idle pedestrians, the crosswalk symbol flashing from an orange palm to white, a person in motion, and everyone parts around them. Evelyn curls her tongue against her teeth and tucks a cherry candy piece into her cheek, an Agent at her back, silent and wreathed in black.

“You should’ve reported back three days ago.” Chastising and exasperated, a hand swiftly curled around her bicep, steering her elsewhere, their arms linked almost casually as they finally crossed, and turned left. She hissed, spat, snapping her teeth close before she turned her grip lethal and held fast, nails scraping against their arm. An interesting pair silently entered the crowded sidewalks, pressed close, their conversation hushed and careful. Tensed.

“I know.”
“So, why haven’t you? There’s only so many times you can get away with this before you’re detained or penalized for desertion.”
“So you keep saying,” she drawled, the sweet nestled against her lips, hued red, now captured by her teeth before she bit down, splitting it into two. “But nothing comes of it, and I’ll keep being moved from one side of the country to the next.”

“So what’s it this time?” Evelyn gleefully questioned, cheek cushioned against a cotton sleeve.

“You’re not going anywhere, you’re going back to Base.”

“Huh, knew it. Usually I’m left alone for at least a week, but three days? Something is going on.” They were silent, which confirmed it, and Evelyn sighed dramatically.

“Lemme guess, a restructure in the chain of command, someone got promoted, they’re moving people. Shuffling. Someone pissed someone off, you know, the typical-ness of power.” She roasted her wrist, gesturing broadly, drawing attention to her current wardrobe.

“... What are you wearing?” They paused, Evelyn creating distance to tug at the crop blouse and red flannel tied around her waist, her legs clad in ripped jeans that were acid-washed.

“What’s wrong with it? It’s grunge. In fashion, I’ll have you know. I have to blend in. Not all of us can just change our faces like.. What’s their face.” She giggled. “Literally, I mean -”

“Evelyn.”

“I know, I know. Hush. But seriously, what’s going on, or is one of those ask questions later kind of things where I’m given another -”

“You’re exhausting, I don’t know why Church-”

“Because no one can do what I can, dollface.” Evelyn pushed, just a smidge, pink nails prickling through their arm, linking into sinew and ligaments, pluckling against the tendon bunched there. They had stopped walking entirely, and the pale blue of her eyes immediately lightened to silver, pressed coin surrounded by lashes that crinkled with the slicing pressure of her grin.

“Feel that?”

“You know that’s not-”

“Allowed. I know. Just messin’.” Just as quickly as she had invaded their space, she pulled back, shaking out the hazy smoke curling around her delicate gestures, everything snapping into place with the tension betwixt them shimmering in curiously hued golds. The world continued, ignorant of what lingered there on the sidewalk as bodies pushed around them, mundane and simplistic despite what befell them. Evelyn breathed through her nose, crossed her arms at her bust and rolled her weight to one side to defuse the situation whilst the Agent, whose name she did not care to remember, made a peculiar motion that summoned more from the sides, crowding around her subtly, but still there, pushing in closer. It was a culmination of their game, the constant shift, where Evelyn Deveraux would either run or play along. She could feel the surging HZEs that crawled beneath her skin, tingling through marrow and blood. It wouldn’t take much, she knew that, but there was the curiosity she couldn’t deny at what was happening and why she was being sought out with such an entourage attached.

“Something really is happening,” she muttered.

“Specter.” Someone murmured, a warning, a calling, a mask that carefully and expertly slid into place and held there, pooling silver that shuddered and snapped, drowning beneath blue as Evelyn smiled, held out her arms, shards of candy against her lips and bleeding cherry against her teeth. They wouldn’t touch her, not without a signal, a cue; they knew what would happen if they did, what had happened before.

It happens.

“All right then.” She giggled. “Take me home.”
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Hidden 11 mos ago Post by Roman
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Roman King of Dirt

Member Seen 6 hrs ago
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Bureau Unit Offices - Winnipeg, Manitoba
Times of Trouble #1.009: Victims
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): None

“Four in Sixty-Three.”
Solomon twitched and dropped his pencil mid-stroke, looking up sharply and scanning the room. It was dark and empty and nothing moved. He turned bodily to the doorway and saw the hallway, too, was absent of any individual. He seemed to take a longer look, peering for something in the dark beyond his lamplight, before emitting a subtle sigh and returning to his note-taking.
“Working. No distractions.” He announced to the empty study; and then his head was once again buried in the thick tome laid open on his desk, eyes flicking across the page as the pencil scurried back and forth in his hand making notes shorthand and erratic.
"Four dead, more taken."

This time Solomon's sigh wasn't subtle, more a protracted, passive-aggressive exhalation. Theatrical, almost. He stood, tucking his pencil neatly into the spine of the book to save his place as he folded it closed. He scanned the room again, making another sweep around the empty darkness and the hallway beyond before stepping over to the light switch. The overhead bulb flickered to life with an audible hum that quickly faded away, the new light drowning out the small oil lamp he'd been working by. With a deep pull from a mug of long-cold coffee, Solomon moved to a set of bookcases that spanned the full wall, shelves bowing from the weight of the ledgers atop. He traced fingers across spines, reading worn and faded stickers in search of-
"Hmm."
Ledgers were missing. Nineteen sixty-one to sixty-four. Solomon sighed again.

He marched hastily down the corridor, head down and stride hitting a strong rhythm. He wasn't sure where they might be, but he had a good idea; the other offices were nearby, and often unlocked. Just a quick shortcut via the break room and he'd soon figure out which colleague had purloined his case files, and then he could decide what he wanted to 'borrow' in return.

With his head down and mind distracted, Solomon didn't see the break room door opening before him and Senior Special Agent Hart step out into the hallway. Solomon barrelled forward, not keen on being dragged into small talk. He'd intended to finish his current book this evening, and this was already an unwelcome side-track. Hart was quicker and more agile than Solomon anyway, which he deftly proved by a sharp pivot to step out of Agent Winter's track as he pushed past to cut through.
"Oh, Sally. I didn't realize you were still he-""Twenty-one ruined."
"I really don't have time for you." Solomon muttered back to the hidden voice, but Hart caught it and his nostrils flared. It was hard to sneak anything past Hart. Brow furrowed, he reached out to take hold of Solomon's forearm.
"A little politeness wouldn't hurt, Special Agent Winters." He said, his voice firm, a tone of hierarchy creeping in. Solomon paused now and turned on his heel to look at Hart, their faces equally indignant. He yanked his arm back and there was an infinitesimal stand-off between the men.
"Busy." Solomon said, impatient.
"Everyone's busy, Sal. But we all find time to stop and say 'hi'. Especially to our seniors."
"Innocence lost. Never reclaimed."

"Case files. '63." Was the only response given, and now was Hart's turn to sigh.
"Another little episode is it, Sally? Your 'voices' are a pain in the unit's ass, which makes you a pain in my ass. Won't be my problem much longer though."
"Looking forward to it. Case files." He sneered, not veering off-course for a second. It'd be so easy to be lured into a sniping match with Hart, but if another re-assignment was already in play, it'd just be wasted effort. Save it for the next guy.
"You're an asshole, Winters." Was Hart's response, and then he left. Solomon just frowned and pushed through the door into the break room, setting his stained mug in the sink on the way past.

The other offices were on the other side of the building, and they were actual offices designed to be worked in, ergonomic and well-lit and laid out efficiently. Solomon didn't have one of these, mostly because he'd deliberately chosen to roughly convert a back-storage room, preferring its separation, dimmer light, the quiet it achieved via isolation, and the already-in wall-to-wall shelving on one side, but also because his transfer into this unit had been preceded by his reputation, and the Resident Agent in Charge had been advised that the engraving on the door nameplate would probably take longer to arrive than Solomon would be stationed with them; when Solomon turned up, he'd brought with him an old-school desk plate, embossed "DR. SOLOMON WINTERS" and forgoing the usual rank affectation underneath. Volunteering to tuck himself away in a dusty corner suited the RAC just fine.

Here, Solomon paused. There were seven offices, six lining either side of the corridor and a final larger office at the end. They went in largely-hierarchical order, the office at the end reserved for Supervisory Special Agent Moreno - the RAC for the unit - and the others filtering down from Senior Special Agent through to the singular Probationary Agent. Solomon grunted. He hadn't been aware trainees had started getting offices. Wolf was particularly wet-behind-the-ears; he should have suspected it could have been a one-in-one-out scenario. It's not like he hadn't seen it before.

Solomon decided that Agent Wolf's office was the place to start. Trainees spent a lot of time with their nose in one case file or another, reading up on cold cases, closed cases, even active cases if their unit chief was feeling particularly generous. Studying the ways the world investigated things let you appreciate more how H.E.L.P. investigated their assignments; the good habits you could borrow, and the bad ones you had to discard. Solomon's 'office' was replete with case files from agencies and jurisdictions the world-over, more often than not particularly unusual, particularly violent, or particularly unsolved. It was well-known that Agent Winters spent more hours than he should diving down rabbit-holes trying to prove the impossible, coming up with outlandish but oddly-specific theories on a case's supposed hidden truths. His insight was valuable but more often than not un-asked-for.

There was a stack on Wolf's desk as Solomon entered, but the manila folders were a far cry from the dusty, well-bound ledgers he was looking for. He perused the files, sifting through paperwork and receipts and discarded food wrappers just in case, but came up empty. "Set free, permitted to hunt."
"Right." He announced, growing frustrated. He'd moved past all this but still the odd one wormed through, something or someone who didn't know better trying to reach out. The problem with things like this was it was only ever a one-way road and it only ever lead to Solomon Station, and every time a voice like this one whispered to him it was a sharp needle of ice pushing through his ear into his cerebellum and straight down his brain stem. It was uncomfortable and unwelcome and reminded him of vastly more miserable years. His already-lacking patience was wearing increasingly thin. Solomon marched toward the door, determined to ransack every office in the building to quiet whoever was pestering him.

He halted, hand outstretched; the very doorknob he was reaching for had a memo stuck to it.

Jake - took those '60s files Moreno told you to flick through - need to look at something.
I'll give them back in a couple days.
Sally won't miss them - just let Moreno handle him if he makes a stink.
-Hart


"Right!"
Solomon thundered out of Wolf's office and bee-lined straight for Hart's. That'd be why Hart was here as late as Solomon was - for whatever reason, he'd nabbed the files from Wolf for his own purposes after the trainee had gone home for the day. Why Hart couldn't just pull rank and ask for the files, Solomon didn't know, but it made just as much sense as Moreno not telling Solomon he'd given the files to Wolf in the first place. He felt his cheeks grow hot as he chafed - politeness, eh? What about the common courtesy of asking instead of taking?

Solomon slammed his hand down on the door handle to Hart's office and rattled uselessly. The bastard had locked it before he'd left - probably anticipating Solomon would come looking for them and not wanting to give them up before he was done with them.
"Never should have happened."
"I'm getting there!" He practically roared, giving up all pretense at intra-office relations and delivering his foot to the door just next to the lock. With frustration boiling over channeled into the kick the door gave way under a singular blow, and Solomon marched in, immediately seeing his ledgers atop Hart's filing cabinet in the corner - he hustled over, blood pumping, snatching up the pile and tossing years '61, '62, and '64 to the floor before flipping '63 open in his hand and searching vigorously through it. With a triumphant finger, he found his quarry and stabbed the page viciously with the tip of his index.

"Here! Léopold Dion! 21 raped, 4 killed, 1963!"
"P u n i s h."
"Sentenced! Life! Stabbed in prison 1972! Dead for twenty years! Nothing else to be done - now, leave me alone!"

There was - nothing. Silence. A dissipation of some imperceptible energy, like someone had finally opened a particularly tight jar several rooms away - the sudden lifting of a tension you weren't even aware of. Blissful quiet...

And then Moreno burst into the office, his gaze washing over the shattered lock and splintered door frame and folders and ledgers strewn across the floor, and Solomon Winters, amidst it all, holding an old file and pointing at a 30-something-year-old closed case while shouting angrily into the ether.
"What the hell is going on in here, Winters?! He demanded, eyes agog and face reddening.
"Just tracking down an old case, Manny." Solomon answered, matter-of-factly.
"That's Resident Agent in Charge Moreno, Sally."
"That's Dr. Winters, Manuel."

There was a beat. Neither man moved. Solomon didn't enjoy his episodes, and neither did he enjoy the aftermaths, or being inevitably discovered in them. This had been pretty light, all things considered. Sometimes these things went on for days.

"Clear this up. Then clear out your desk."
"You don't have the authority to fire me."
Moreno laughed in a short, sharp, barking sound, entirely absent of mirth. "Don't I damn well know it. No, I can't fire you - but you're being moved on again, thank god. You can go be someone else's problem. Wasn't supposed to be until next week, but the unit's fed up of you. I'm fed up of you. So I'm sending you early. Fuck off to Base Alpha and don't be coming back in a hurry."

With his piece said, Moreno turned, nursing his temples as he walked out the room. Winters looked around Hart's office, feeling genuinely remorseful for his brash actions, but simply unable to express it. Absorbing Moreno's orders, he suddenly skipped to the door, leaning carefully out over the splintered wood to call after him:
"If you're sending me early, how am I going to expense my accommodation?"
Moreno didn't turn around, but Solomon watched him roll his neck in frustration.
"Expense?! You're not even a Senior! What do you think we pay you a salary for?" He called back, and then he was around the corner and away.

"Sure, a salary." Solomon muttered to himself, slinking back into Hart's office to clear up after himself, momentarily pondering if he should leave an apology note. "But not a very good one."
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