[IC] Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only] (Page 2)

“The suit uses refined sunstone, a refined silicate that, under the correct conditions, is nigh unbreakable and self-replicating, capable of mass expansion. Note the exotic crimson hue.” The older Kryptonian explained as he showed Jor-El around the prototype affixed to the mannequin in the middle of his workshop. 

Like his younger brother, Zor-El was a member of the Science Guild, one specializing in engineering, an Alchemist, who was working on an exclusive contract with the Military Guild. With their aggressive campaign of expansion, the Council had granted Zor-El unlimited resources in an effort to create a suit that could bombard latent Kryptonian cells to jumpstart their photonucleic metabolism that had been essentially eradicated centuries earlier by the Dheronian’s genophage. 

In addition to turning Rao into a red star, the genophage had left Kryptonians sterile, unable to reproduce under normal conditions. A cunning people, however, the Kryptonians learned how to sustain their society through the Caste System. A proposal initially opposed by the Oracles of Rao and his heralds’ Seers, this was overturned when the forefathers of the Science Guild, who were backed by the Strategos and Polemarchs of Krypton’s military. This led the way to the birth of the Kryptonian Council and the Guilds. 

The council took it upon themselves to oversee and control relationships among its people, pairing high-potential partners with one another before DNA would be harvested and grown in a birthing pod. When a couple was selected to receive a child, it was understood that this child would be joining one of the parents’ guilds. Though more often than not, the Council paired together individuals who belonged to the same Guild, if only out of convenience. A millennium later, it was nigh unheard of for a Labour Guild member to be paired with a ‘higher’ Caste member.

Each Caste was born with inherent abilities bio-engineered into their DNA through artificial radiation bombardment using high-energy particles. Though immensely weaker than the Kryptonian society that flourished under the yellow light of Rao, their abilities still brought them an edge against the neighbouring Dheronians and Daxamites. The Kryptonian Council was made up of a representative from the Science, Religious, Military and Artist Guilds, with each Guild representative allowed to speak on behalf of the Labour Guild. The Council Chair was the final member of the representatives and held the most power on the Council. 

But the Council had grown vain and arrogant. Unlike his brother, Jor-El was a Philosopher who specialized in the biology and nature of Krypton. He had been an outspoken opponent of the Council’s space race, and in return, they had threatened him with expulsion from the Science Guild numerous times for speaking out against their treatment of Krypton and its resources. 

“When energized to ignition, it creates a ‘hard light' construct. Hence, when the sunstone is ignited, the gauntlets project a blade capable of slicing through even refined Krytanium. The ignited sunstone has a delightful golden hue that really brings out the blue of the suit.” Zor-El continued, his voice breaking Jor-El out of his thoughts. 

“The blue is a bit much, isn't it?” Jor-El interjected, giving his head a shake. He should be happy for his brother, but the fact of the matter was no matter how much the Council wanted to ignore the information, there was nothing a simple suit could do to overcome the genophage. The genes required to reach the potential of an ancient Kryptonian had been wiped out of the DNA and spread across the five guilds. A member of the Military Guild wasn’t about to immediately gain the Religious Guild’s ability to fly upon donning the suit. 

Even if it supercharged their cells. 

“I was worried you’d say that. Press the belt buckle.” Zor-El commanded as Jor-El obliged his older brother. The surface of the suit rippled from red and blue to the black of space, gold replaced by glistening silver. The crimson chest plate vanished as the active silicate rearranged into plates on the shoulders and arms, while the living circuitry revealed itself.

“More pedestrian and practical. But it certainly loses its flair.” Zor-El lamented, “The trade-off is the loss of much of the suit’s countermeasures in exchange for rapid metabolization of radiation to recharge and recover the host. The host isn’t at harm in this way, but the suit could be irreparably damaged, and it’s not entirely suited for prolonged combat.” 

“It’s certainly an impressive design, I’m just not sure it’s actually compatible with our current biology.”

“It’s not,” Zor-El replied with a smile, “Consider it a gift.”

“I beg your pardon?” 

Zor-El simply smiled at his brother’s terrible attempt at lying.

“You pretend as if Alura and Lara don’t talk. Do I strike you as so terrible a husband that my wife and I no longer converse in ideal gossip?” Zor-El retorted, “I know all about your attempts at saving our race, and I wanted to help. Besides, really, you go around bringing long-dead species back to life, and people are going to talk.” He scolded.

“Really, brother, pets and now pregnancy? How dreadfully primitive of you,”

“Zor, you could have turned me over to the Council the moment you found out what I was doing. Anyone else would. Have me stripped of my rank and sent to Bokos or Mithen to serve out the rest of my days.” Jor-El replied solemnly. 

“We may not always see eye-to-eye, brother, but you are my brother and the Uncle of my Kara. If you are doing something that ensures her future, then I am in your debt.”

“I appreciate the rare display of sentiment.”

“I would appreciate you not getting used to it.” Zor-El replied with a small sneer. “Now about my design-”

“The chest is lacking; it needs something,” Jor-El interjected, thoughtfully rubbing his beard. He raised a hand, outlining a shape before speaking. “How about the House sigil? The mark of El?”

“How woefully vain. I love it.”
Special.

That’s what the men had called Claire. They had said she was special. Showed her parents all sorts of pamphlets, pamphlets showing the potential Lisa had in life, the future her gifts could unlock for her. A school in upstate New York that would teach her to control her abilities, master them and live a fulfilling life. 

And the Seltons believed them.

All of their questions and concerns went out the window the moment a cheque was placed in front of them. Neither of Claire’s parents had seen so many zeroes before in their lives. It was an easy decision in that moment to ship their only daughter off for a life beyond Suicide Slums. A private education that paid them instead of the other way around? It was the dream of every family on the wrong side of the tracks in Metropolis. 

Of course, it was a smokescreen. 

No sooner than the cheque was in her parents’ hands than was the match lit that changed Claire’s life forever. All of her possessions were loaded into the back of an unmarked white van. And while it looked nothing like the cars in the pamphlets the Seltons had been shown, in that moment neither they nor Claire thought to question a thing. The moment her parents became a speck in the rearview mirror, then did the men in suits revealed their true colours. Roughly pulled from the vehicle before being dragged across the cracked asphalt while fighting every inch of the way. Despite her protests, Claire couldn’t break free as she was hauled against her will inside the decrepit facility. Every shade of white imaginable decorated the walls on all sides of the seemingly endless corridor, while the sterile smell of bleach and ammonium overwhelmed her nostrils.

When she couldn’t focus her powers, Claire tried to bite at one of the orderlies as they strapped her down to a gurney. Lashing out against the restraints as she released one blood-curdling scream after another. The staff around her continued on their day, completely unbothered and unflinching to her protests. 

“Marsha?”

“My name is Claire.”

“No, that was your name. Your name now is Marsha, Marsha Rosenberg. Claire Selton died in a car crash on her way to the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters.” 

“No, my name is Claire Selton.”

“Your name is Marsha, now move along.” Claire felt the sting of the cattle prod so many times over the first couple of weeks. The jolt of electricity arcing through her body, stopping her muscles and ending all protest in her body. Eventually, she learned to love it, to crave the pain. It motivated her; she would let this place turn her into a weapon, she would let them turn her into Marsha.

Then Marsha would burn it all down.

It didn’t take long for Claire to become Marsha. It became easier with each day between the tests, the needles, and the abuse. Marsha Rosenberg was forced to be everything that Claire Selton was not. Marsha had to be desired, and being desired came with rewards. Rewards that Claire could never have seen, rewards that Claire could never have endured. 

Where Claire had been afraid to use her abilities, Marsha was encouraged to unleash the full extent of her powers to become something so much more than a scared little girl. When her abilities seemed to be tapped out, Marsha was visited by a green cocktail that amplified her latent X-Gene. She began to burn hotter, capable of turning more and more of her body into fire until finally she became Volcana. 

And through Volcana, Claire had her revenge. 

His name was Kurt. The source of her torment, the man who had taken an interest in her. Special Agent Conan Kurt visited Marsha every day. Marsha protected Claire, protected Claire’s innocence so that she didn’t have to feel the things Marsha did, see the things that Marsha did.  

Kurt was the first to meet Volcana fully. The smell of his flesh as it burned caused Volcana to empty the contents of her stomach. Tears streamed down her face as the man who had caused her so much pain was finally gone. Various alarms echoed in her ears. She moved through the smoke, torching the building that had inflicted so much pain upon her. 

She had come so far. She had survived so much. Life had dealt her a poor hand, and she was sick of being told how to live. Did Superman honestly think she wanted to be robbing a bank in broad daylight?

Of course, she didn’t, but she didn’t have a choice.

“Burn, burn, burn!” Volcana cried through gout after gout of fire towards Metropolis’ resident Boy Scout. Her futile efforts continued until the Man of Steel suddenly inhaled, draining the room of oxygen. Volcana initially grasped for her throat, choking on the vacuum before realizing in horror that her flames had been extinguished.

“You can’t-” She croaked, reaching towards Superman.

“Don’t send me-” Volcana managed to force out before her eyelids closed, a black veil washing over her. Her unconscious body crumpled, caught by Superman, who easily carried the woman outside. With the metahuman downed and the fire extinguished, the red crystalline barriers suddenly collapsed, returning to a fine dust before reforming around Superman's body in a malleable form reminiscent of a cape.

“She’s unconscious for now, officers, but she’s still dangerous.” He instructed, gently handing the woman over before another voice suddenly challenged the custody of the Metropolis Police Department.

“The D.E.O. will take custody of the metahuman from this point.”

“My apologies, Mrs. Luthor,” The commanding officer replied, “But the MPD has-”

“Agent,” Lexa interjected, speaking over the officer.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s Agent, Senior Special Agent Luthor.” Lexa stated, flashing a badge that read ‘A.R.G.U.S.’, “I believe that trumps your jurisdiction.”

“What’ll happen to her?” Superman asked, landing beside the officer.

“She’ll get the help she needs,” Lexa replied dismissively. “I have contacts at Belle Reve that will take care of her.” She stated, before raising her chin as if to challenge the larger man.

“Unless you have any objections? Or should I remind you that you’re a guest not only in the country but on this planet, and any direct intervention with law enforcement will be met with escalated hostility.”

“I just want to make sure she’s well taken care of. I get the feeling she was acting more out of desperation than ill intent.”

“Superman, there’s a reason you’re not an authority here. Those of us who actually work in law enforcement use something called evidence. It’s more objective than your circumstantial ‘feelings’.”

“Apologies, Special Agent,” Superman replied, “Could I follow up with her once she’s situated at Belle Reve?”

“It’d be better if you didn’t.” Lexa snapped, turning around as she made a motion with her hand to wrap it up.

“She’s a piece of work,” The officer beside Superman suddenly said, “You saved how many lives together? Where does she get off?”

“Agent Luthor is just doing her job,” Superman replied. Without another word, he took flight, soaring back above the skyline of Metropolis. Superman’s work may have been done, but it was time for Clark Kent to make contact with an old friend.

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Hidden 7 mos ago → 7 mos ago Post by Master Bruce

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Master Bruce Winged Freak

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Master Bruce

Winged Freak

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Bio

Winter in Gotham.

Fewer words inspired the dread of everyone who heard them, and fewer still invoked memories of an invasive chill that stabbed at the soul. The city didn't just get frigid and bitter in the latter half of the year, as with any given corner of the world. Gotham somehow incubated the cold and stored a reserve of it in the air, continually building on it as the weeks passed. So whenever it was unleashed every December, the streets became nearly uninhabitable. The number of homeless who ended up dead from exposure always exceeded the national average, power lines routinely exploded and blanketed areas like The Narrows in darkness, and stubbornly, crime levels only seemed to rise. The figure cloaked in shadow remembers his father once remarking that describing the weather as subzero temperatures felt like a disservice, watching his wife try and bundle their boy up to the latter's satisfaction. The memory of that lived with him ever since, reawakening in his mind whenever the first autumn breeze scraped at his skin. That was how he knew to begin preparing for the months ahead, because the drop in temperature merely acted as a harbinger for the chaos that was always lingering. Waiting to greet him with unforgiving arms, taunting his resolve and telling him that he was in way over his head.

But Bruce Wayne had been to Siberia. Walked across a literal desert of ice with nothing more than the clothes on his back, the life-threatening winds all that there was to keep him company. As he was told by the locals who witnessed his perilous return from the mountains, Wayne should have died then. Should have frozen to death on the river bordering Verkhoyansk, as many others had before in pursuit of a fool's version of enlightenment. But he had the audacity to keep living. He doesn't attribute it to luck, nor would he make light of it - it's the way it happened. He just kept going, knowing that he was closing in on the end of a very long journey, nearly ready to embark on the start of his life's mission. That was six years ago, and he still remembers it like it was yesterday. So whenever the city's wind chill reaches twenty below, he remembers to simply keep moving ahead. As if to ask Gotham if that's all she's got. 

Tonight was no different, but his focus was elsewhere. The East End Shipyard bustled with unexpected activity as three SUVs pulled into the lot, prompting the guard to immediately let them through the gate. He would say he was paid off, but The Batman knew the reality. The guard was threatened, with the likely promise of violence to befall him or his family. That was how these organized meetings usually managed to evade unwanted attention - stacking the deck in their favor ahead of time, mercilessly cutting away any variables. His eyes narrowed as the first SUV parked infront of a tower of crates labelled with the Falcone Shipping logo. The Roman was not likely to make an appearance tonight, nor were any of his representatives. If any of them knew about this, there would've been guaranteed bloodshed. Which meant the nature of the deal about to transpire was high stakes.

The first to emerge from behind the passenger door was a man that he had encountered before, as confirmed when the night-vision scope in the cowl brought the face into focus. Through Gordon and the DA's office, he had been made aware that this was a primary suspect in several open cases, remaining protected until only very recently. Julian G. Day, known colloquially as "The Calendar Man". He was trouble and often brought trouble with him, though the man himself was hardly formidable. Acting as the liaison between the Falcone and Maroni families for years, Day's given trade was knowledge; dangerous knowledge. The way he earned the trust of both bosses was by being analytical in his record-keeping, memorizing every major deal that had taken place in Gotham over the last six decades. Information such as financials, acquired assets, and active members on the payroll in any given year lived in his mind, as if he coveted the day and date of a mob calendar like no one ever had. It made him a benefit to men like Nathan Gambol and Rupert Thorne, as Day was able to provide information that would give them leverage over the other underbosses. But following a betrayal that nobody seemed willing to discuss, his luck would eventually run out whenever Falcone's grip on the underworld began to slip. The Calendar Man had been keeping a low profile ever since.

To see him here tonight suggested a shift in allegiances. But even from The Batman's vantage point, Day's expression remained inscrutable; hardly a surprise, as he was well known for his sociopathic demeanor, preferring ledgers to people. Day would sooner push a disgraced member of the family through the front entrance of Gotham Central than entertain giving up a sliver of data from his archives. As others began to file out of the SUVs and surround him in formation, what really grabbed Batman's attention was who ended up exiting last. Once they emerged, the vigilante was reasonably sure that the vehicle tilted from the sheer weight of its occupant. Waylon Jones - "Killer Croc" Jones. Highly dangerous, known as one of the most formidable figures in the underworld. Standing at six-foot-nine, with over three hundred pounds of muscle, it was an understatement. A born criminal, Jones had been in and out of juvenile detention no less than seventeen times before he began working for the mob. Some for robbery and B&E, but all with additional assault charges. He had seen the crime scene photos of some of Jones' victims. It was never pretty.

And that was before Croc met Salvatore Maroni. Forming an alliance in Blackgate almost a decade ago, Sal had convinced the beast to act as his bodyguard. As soon as his notoriety grew within that role, Jones would force a prison tattoo artist to commit his entire body to ink to cover a skin deformity. This resulted in Jones appearing as if he were covered in crocodile scales. And in the years since, he had only leaned harder into the gimmick: filing his teeth to points, growing out and sharpening his fingernails, and rarely allowing himself to be seen without a leather jacket. But what really disturbed Batman about a man like Jones was the work that he became known for after prison. Often called upon to make someone disappear, Killer Croc made sure they didn't just vanish. Weeks went by without a word and missing persons cases would wind up cold until finally, the GCPD discovered parts of the victim floating in the Sprang River - partially devoured. It sickened him to even watch Jones lumber behind the group that followed Day onto the docks, imagining the final moments of the people that the alleged cannibal had murdered. 

Croc was the reason he was here. Not just because Batman felt the need to make him pay for the crimes he'd committed - for those, the vigilante figured he'd just have to accept the consolation prize of giving Croc enough of a beating in the extraction of what he needed. But the monster had information on someone who had gone dark, for all intents and purposes. And he was certain that Jones was going to tell him, given that the severity of the interrogation would depend entirely on how soon. The thought lingered with the man in shadow as he watched Day, Jones, and their entourage approach a waiting figure that was similarly flanked by several armed guards. In Gotham, there were far too many options available for smuggling weapons. Though not nearly as bad as the narcotics trade, it was prevalent enough for one man to rise above the other dealers and remain unaffiliated with the major crime families. 

Warren White, The Great White Shark. A nasty piece of work, White had been moving arms through the city like they were chess pieces. Discretion was his specialty, and he'd developed several methods for getting them onto the streets without notice. The GCPD had brought him in for questioning before, but they never found enough to make anything stick. And not for lack of trying on The Batman's part, as he'd broken countless of the Shark's bones. But like any other cockroach, White found his way back out there eventually. Offering the same wares with the same reliability, and no questions asked.

Before they greeted White to begin the exchange, The Batman could hear Croc complaining about an issue he was having with his new employers, fidgeting with the collar of a dress shirt that had been poorly sized to fit. It begged the question of whether Maroni had ever been paying him enough.

"Hate wearin' suits, man. Thought I made that clear to the boss."

Day's expression didn't change so much as shift. Even in this level of cold, he was by far the most frigid thing here. 

"Yes, well, you've certainly made it clear to us many times already."

Croc's indignance appeared like a thunderclap, cutting through several of the men ahead of him to approach Calendar Man directly. The others remained quietly uncomfortable, preferring to stay out of whatever was about to happen. "The fuck'd you just say?"

Day didn't turn to face him and instead massaged the bridge of his nose, frustrated. Not even trying to hide his disdain for working with what he considered to be an uncivilized brute.

"I intend no offense. But as it has been explained, our employer wishes to exude an air of professionalism as his empire expands. Gotham is used to a certain kind of decorum at this high a level, even among these less than desirable surroundings. You're part of a different league now, Mr. Jones. And with that comes expectation."

Rather than resort to violence, Croc snorted loudly and kept his eyes focused on the significantly smaller man ahead of him. Like any predator that had caught a glimpse of their evening meal.

"Yeah? Well, expect me to give a shit when I get the payday I was promised. Otherwise, this'll be the last time it'll happen."

The former ignored the latter's tone, retrieving the pocket watch hidden in his lapel and noting the hour. The idea of running late for their appointment seemed to bother Day far more than anything the beast could do to threaten him. 

"I will try and keep your delicate preferences in mind."

A low growl aside, Croc was surprisingly cordial from there. But The Batman's mind kept circling back to what Day mentioned about "decorum" and the fact that they were operating on a higher level. What did that mean? Were they working for a new player in town? It had been rumored that someone was moving in on Falcone's territory, but he never actually entertained the notion. The Roman had been running Gotham since the eighties, having worked his way up through a dynasty of cut-from-the-cloth mobsters. Falcone's grandfather had instigated the Romans' Holiday massacre of the thirties, where hundreds of people were said to have been executed in one night in retaliation for one-time kingpin Rex Calabrese refusing to relinquish the city's territory. That night was said to be the one that doomed Gotham to its current state, and Batman had found nothing to contradict that. So the idea of someone finally unseating the so-called king from his throne felt unlikely.

Then The Batman noticed the armbands of Calendar Man's crew. It looked to be a sort of triangle symbol. An odd affectation, suggesting some unifying element that the vigilante had yet to become privy to. It told him that there was something bigger at work with whoever was holding their proverbial leash. If there was one similarity Batman had to any of the garbage that sought to control the city's crime, it was that he also didn't like variables. The vigilante realized that he'd have to investigate their employer when this was done - Gordon was likely going to want to know if his department was going up against a new faction, and he needed to be sure they were both ready for whatever happened next. If a play was being made against The Roman, it would lead to another gang war. The very last thing that Gotham needed.

"So we doin' this, or what? I didn't come out here to freeze my friggin' balls off."

An extremely agitated White kept both arms folded tight against his sternum, trying to feed warmth into the weathered jacket that poorly shielded him from the draft hovering over the river. The shipyard was less than an ideal meeting spot in the best of conditions, but it was the only one guaranteed to be free of prying eyes. On approach, Calendar Man calmly looked towards the men White had hired who were brandishing semi-automatics. Croc didn't seem the least bit phased by them, more preoccupied with getting it done and getting the hell out of the cold himself. Only when one of the men folded his hands over a newly lit cigarette did the beast even flinch, evidently craving one himself. The Batman took note, wondering what else about Jones he could exploit.

"Very well. As you'll note from the arrangement, the price was three million. I'm to assume you still have the item?"

White sarcastically shrugged. 

"Nah, I sold it weeks ago. Just marched the boys out here for the hell of it."

Day raised an eyebrow, prompting White to elaborate. 

"Of course I still have it. You kiddin' me? Who else in this town's got this kinda cash to spend on used wares?"

Jones clenched a fist, but Day remained stagnant in his tone.

"Handled, perhaps. But I doubt it was truly used, given what I've been told of its capabilities."

"Hey, I only acquired the thing from a third party. If they figured out how to turn it on, more power to 'em. Doesn't really concern me."

The Batman's curiosity was piqued as a couple of gunmen behind White rolled in a large crate on a rusted dolly. There were no labels indicating what was inside, nor did the context clue provide insight as to what Day's employer could want with it, but the fact that the mystery item wasn't being treated as another cache of the exotic rifles and pistols that White specialized in dealing made the vigilante wonder if there was more to this deal than he'd originally assumed. Whenever the crate was lowered onto the docks in a space between the two men, Day prompted one of his own guards to step forward, revealing a massive titanium briefcase that was handcuffed to the thug's wrist. Lifting it and clicking the locks open with a swift motion of his arms, the guard popped the top of the case to reveal a neatly stacked row of thousand-dollar bills. White advanced, cautiously studying the cash for any potential forgery. He found none.

"Jesus, you didn't come to play."

"Of course not, Mr. White. We came to deal..."

Day placed his hand on the case and gently lowered the top of it, staring daggers into the Shark's hungry eyes.

"Provided that what you're offering is the real thing. The Red Triangle may be a new player on the field, but we're not to be made as fools. Not at this juncture."

The Red Triangle? 

He made a mental note of the name. It had a Russian connotation, but he also seemed to remember it from something in the recent past. A news article or something similar that had alluded to it. Unable to pinpoint the memory for sure, Batman unfurled himself from a crouched position - upside down, latched to the arm of a crane that was suspended high above the group of criminals looking to do business. From there, he could see that despite a clear frustration with being cut off from handling such a large amount of money, White had relented any argument and was stepping back, motioning for his men to open the crate. Two of them emerged with crowbars and began to slide it under the wooden lid. 

Before they could continue, Day's expression suddenly and dramatically changed, taking a step forward himself and raising both hands in a bid to stop them from breaking the seal. White recognized this and gave a loud whistle, prompting the men to pause what they were doing and look up. The Batman's eyes narrowed while watching Day begin to look over his shoulder, surveying his surroundings with a new sense of paranoia. 

"No, not here. Doing that in the open would be unwise. There are too many interested parties."

The Shark shot him an annoyed glare. 

"Buddy, there ain't no one else out here. Even if it weren't fifty freakin' below, the cops would never come by the docks at this time of night. Probably too busy hasslin' the call girls on Mazzucchelli street."

"Let's just say that the police are not my employer's immediate concern."

White's expression softened, seeming to realize what Day really meant. The Calendar Man casually gestured to his men, who were all waiting to enact whatever order was about to be given. 

"Perhaps as a bit of insurance, your men would agree to search the area with mine? Surely, we're not the only ones at risk here."

White's brow furrowed. 

"No dice, chief. My men are stayin' right here. Yours can knock themselves out if they want, but I'm not leavin' myself exposed to anything more than a case of hypothermia."

Although hesitant, Day didn't try and argue with White's position. He knew that he didn't have the leverage. So The Calendar Man snapped his fingers, directing the gunmen in league with The Red Triangle to fan out and begin checking the shadowy corners created by the high stacks of crates around them. Croc remained with Day, effectively revealing that the beast's task had been to guard him specifically. The Batman watched each thug begin to split off into groups of two, memorizing their positions in relation to one another. Knowing how much simpler it would be to pick them off now, he decided to seize the opportunity. 

Spreading his cape against the wind like the wings it was modelled after, the vigilante used one boot to kick against the back of his other boot's heel, deactivating the magnetized pulse emitting from beneath and sending him into a quick drop. The memory cloth of the cloak fell rigid against the open breeze above the docks, and he silently dove into a glide that went unnoticed. Passing directly over the area that the Shark, Croc, and Calendar Man still inhabited, Batman was gently carried by his glider onto the top of one of the higher crates, prompting it to fall back into a cape upon landing before the vigilante sprinted through a gristled pane of snow that softened his steps.

Leaping into a particular darkened area, Batman landed and assumed a stilled position, readying himself for the attack as the first two approached. After waiting a moment, he quietly leapt out of the shadows and grabbed the one closest from behind, covering his mouth before he could yell out and scraping the side of his neck with one of his gauntlet fins. The tip of it was covered in a potent chemical compound, rendering the hapless gunman unable to move, much less speak for the next few minutes. Dragging him into the darkness, The Batman re-emerged from his natural element and slammed his armored knee hard into the back of the next one's skull, forcing him to stumble forward and slam against one of the crates. Signs of a concussion were instant, and the thug fell backwards before being swiftly caught by his unseen attacker.

Placing the second gunman next to his fallen partner and positioning them out of sight, the microphone in The Batman's cowl picked up further idle chatter from the primary group. Listening in for anything that could give him a clear opening, he awaited the next pair to approach in search of their colleagues, retrieving a number of items from within his utility belt. But to the vigilante's surprise, instead of two more rounding the next corner, a lone gunman emerged, having apparently split off from his partner to investigate the noise created by the crate being hit.

Doesn't matter, he thought. Just makes it easier.

But as he took a quiet step ahead, he would come to regret that thought. Just as he was seconds away from grabbing the clueless thug, something entirely unexpected happened. The thug swung around with his gun raised, spotting The Batman mid-movement. The vigilante's eyes went wide under the cowl, noticing that a distinctive shadow had been cast upon both of them from above, alerting the thug to his presence. Craning his head to the side, he managed to spot the fleeting glimpse of a figure that had appeared on the crates as it dove away. It appeared slender, and potentially feminine - with what seemed to be the shape of cat ears atop its head. 

The Batman grit his teeth as he realized what was happening, but not before turning his attention back to the spooked gunman, who had originally been too petrified to fire. But he was beginning to sober up from any sense of panic, as his blank expression turned to outrage, aiming the weapon directly at The Batman's chest.

"CONTACT! WE'VE GOT MOVEMENT ON THE WEST SI---"

In a dark flurry of movement, Batman dove forward and violently snatched the thug's weapon from its owner's grasp, smashing the side of his head with the brunt of the assault rifle. His opponent dazed, the vigilante went to work by shifting his leg beneath the gunman's as he fell back, causing him to trip and collide with snow-covered planks that made up the shipyard's platform. Weakened and hurt, but still conscious, the gunman attempted to get back up and defend himself - only to watch the sole of The Batman's boot collide hard into his face, followed up by a whirlwind series of precision strikes. Holding the gunman by the front of his bulletproof vest, the vigilante became satisfied as he fell limp, dropping him and moving into a standing position. 

Stealth was no longer an option. Despite a rage simmering inside of him towards the ill-timed interruption, Batman could hear the sound of movement and shouting in the immediate area. There wasn't time to dwell on what had happened, even who had likely caused it to happen. The Red Triangle and The Great White Shark's men were coming in fast, and the only way to adapt to his newfound peril was to improvise. Removing a few smoke caplets from his belt, some flash grenades, and a couple of batarangs, Batman refocused his energies and breathed quietly, slipping back into the dark.

"Think it came from this way!"

"Echo-Three, was that you?! Say something, man!"

"Stay focused! We don't know who's out there!"

"What the hell's going on?! Was that one of you?!"

"We're down three of our guys! Someone's fucking with us!"

The Batman's hand tensed on the batarangs, closing his palm over the grenades and caplets. He could barely hear his own breathing over the sound of oncoming footsteps. But once he started to see their shadows cast over the corners leading into the area, he knew his time was up. Without a word, Batman shot out and dashed across the area between the crates and leaped high, throwing the caplets to his left and divvying the flash grenades to his right. Smoke billowed out from around the thugs as they emerged, irritating their lungs and causing them to start firing wildly - though none seemed to have spotted their tormentor before it engulfed their line of sight. The flash grenades exploded with a luminescence that seemed to blanket the skies, compounding their inability to comprehend what they'd walked into. 

"What the shit was..."

There were nine armed guards. Equipping the batarangs, The Batman spread his cape outward and quickly descended from a position above, having caught himself in a split jump as the chaos had erupted. Slamming a high kick into the first one's chest, the vigilante hurled his self-styled shuriken into the second one's hand, causing him to yell out in pain and drop his rifle. The others struggled to break free from the cloud of smoke, which Batman had avoided with a set of plugs built into the nose of the cowl. There was one that tried to bark orders over the others in an incoherent attempt to make sense of what was happening, but a black gloved fist torpedoed out of the smoke to smash him between the eyes. The Batman's horned silhouette advanced over the smoke, casting a fearsome image that caused a few to scream.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!"

"WHO CARES?! LIGHT IT UP!"

The effects of his distraction were wearing off quickly, and the remaining seven guards were gathering their wits. Diving forward, The Batman rolled through the smoke, somersaulted between them, and entered close-quarters combat. Catching the first with a hard elbow, the vigilante twisted, driving his knee into the next one's stomach. A roundhouse kick nailed the third one across his jaw, while the man to his right suffered a broken nose upon Batman driving his face hard into his steel-plate-covered shin. The first recovered and attempted to fire his gun, but he was too slow to avoid the scallops of Batman's cape as they whipped out and struck him across the face, anchored by a kevlar mesh that landed into him like hardened stone. 

Wrapping the second's neck within his arm, the vigilante utilized momentum to drive the third into the fourth with a grab-and-roll maneuver. The other three rushed him at once, prompting The Batman to release his chokehold on the second and spin him around, violently pushing him forward with a precision kick to the throat. He went flying into one and threw the momentum off of the other, but the third approached unaffected. Visually targeting his next move, Batman tossed the remaining batarangs that had been hidden in his palm at the thug as he wildly swung a punch, instead feeling the metal projectiles embed themselves deep into both arms, both legs, and his left cheek. Unable to properly react to the pain, he paused in befuddled silence, allowing Batman to connect a spinning kick that crashed hard across his face.

Following a few more maneuvers, some bones crunching against eachother, and more than a couple muffled cries of pain, The Batman finally emerged from the dissipating smoke as the victor, with all nine guards having been rendered into a pile of bloodied and broken debris lying at his feet. Turning towards the path that would lead him back to where White, Day, and Jones once stood, Batman prepared to retrieve his grapnel gun and fire it towards the top of the crates. Calendar Man and Croc had likely heard all of that commotion and ran, and he seemed to remember hearing the sound of the door to one of the SUVs slamming shut amid the violence. But as he reached back into his belt, he was struck hard from behind, feeling something hit the back of his head. Stumbling forward, the vigilante fell onto one knee and watched a sudden bevy of lights and spots obscure the clarity of his vision.

"Heh. You're a little late, freak. Halloween was weeks ago."

The Batman recognized the voice. Killer Croc, the man he'd come here for in the first place. Whenever he turned to face the behemoth, he noticed that Croc was brandishing a large tire iron that seemed like a toothpick in comparison to the size of his massive hands. The cannibal grinned at him, more amused with this seemingly ridiculous sight than anything.

"Waylon Jones..."

"Oh, you heard about me? Damn, I'm kinda touched."

Croc took a step forward that seemed to shudder the ground beneath him.

"Heard about you, too. They said you were a bad motherfucker."

Lifting the tire iron above his head, The Batman tensed his entire body as he prepared to face off against Croc. He told himself that the criminal had merely gotten in a lucky shot with the hunk of metal, that it had only momentarily thrown him off. What he didn't realize was that Croc had hardly swung it. Raising his fists, Batman spat out a wad of blood pooling into his mouth and assumed a fighting stance. Croc's grin grew even wider.

"Let's see how bad you really are."

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Hidden 7 mos ago Post by Sep

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coGM

Sep Definitely Not Sep

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Bio

"I have come in peace, but I will not disarm, and I do not kneel."

Sif stood, her body coiled like a spring. Waiting. The Guardsmen looked at each other as they shuffled about uneasily, trying to plan out their next move. The small weapons still held firm in their hands. Unwavering. Still she stood, palm up. Holding her sword loosely as if goading the guards to try and disarm her, to doubt her conviction. Her resolve. Turning her head, Sif looked back at the woman whom she had spoken to on her arrival. Many who had surrounded her had used the distraction of the guardsmen's carts to flee already; however, this one had not. Perhaps she still thought herself insane.

"Do you know of any wise-people, seers, whom I could ask for aid on my quest?"

The woman looked to the guards, then to Sif. 

"There's an old Wicca shop a few blocks over?"

"Picture this place in your mind."

Sif took a couple of steps, ignoring the incessant shouting from the guards. Reaching out with her free hand, the woman offered her her hand. Sif grabbed onto the womans wrist, and she closed her own hand around Sifs wrist in response. 

"Through your guidance." Sif raised the sword high in the air.

"PUT IT DOWN NOW, STEP AWAY FROM THE WOMAN!" The shrill voice cut through the air towards them. Sif merely shot a look of disdain as she brought the sword crashing down, a whisper away from her guide's skin. As the sword came down, a crackle of energy flowed through Sif and out through the blade, slicing open space. A rift appeared, its edges flashing and fluttering with all the colours of the rainbow.

Sound near the rift distorted, ruffled and quietened. There was a faint pop, pop, pop behind as Sif stepped through the breach, pulling her guide with her. As they stepped through, they found themselves in a musty old shop. Sif smiled as the aroma of herbs and spices assailed her. This was clearly the home to a seer, or a healer. A woman screamed from within at the sudden appearance of the sword-wielding heroine and her ward, but Sif's attention was pulled back as she heard the soft thunk of flesh crashing down, the grasp on her wrist loosened. 

Turning Sif saw her guide on the floor, clutching her stomach that was rapidly becoming redder as blood seeped through her skin and clothes. Without a second of hesitation, Sif crouched down beside her, dropping the sword to the floor and ripping the bottom of the woman's shirt off. Rolling it up into a ball she placed it on the wound and pushed. 

The woman on the floor winced. "Trigger happy cops."

Sif smiled softly down at her guide. "Save your breath. You will be well."

The seer had composed herself and had rushed herself forward. "Jackie? Jackie is that you?"

The identified Jackie groaned as she sat herself up. "Oh -ugh- hey Helen. Sorry to drop in on you like this."

The Seer dropped to her knees at the other side of Jackie, looking at the blood. "We need to get you an ambulance, what the hell - where's my phone-?" The woman went to stand when Sif grabbed her shoulder, locking eyes with her. 

"Bring me honey, ginger, hazelnuts and yarrow."

Helen looked at Jackie, who merely shrugged and nodded. Helen jumped to her feet, and could be heard frantically searching through her pantry. 

"If I am going to die-"

Sif scowled down at this Jackie. "You are not going to die. Mortals may be frail, but you have a strength about you." Sif placed a kind hand on Jackies shoulder, still maintaining pressure ont he site of the wound. "I recognise a warrior's spirit when I see one, even if you do not see it within yourself." She turned her head as she heard feet scuffling back towards her, Helen with the loose ingredients in her hands. Without a pestle and mortar. What kind of wise woman was this?

"Bring me a pestle and mortar Helen. I will need it to combine the ingredients-"

"Oh- right, right. Yeah, ofcourse." She dropped the supplies down beside Sif and retreated once more to her crashing and banging as she looted around for what was the most basic of supplies. Clearly, in todays world, potions weren't in high demand. As Helen returned, Sif looked at her expectantly; however she didn't move to grab the ingredients. Helen gasped as she realised. "Oh, you want me to? I don't know what you are doing."

"You are the seer? The Apothecary? Surely you have dealt with issues such as these before?"

Helen shook her head in shock. "N-no. I just, I deal in essential oils and herbal remedies. People looking for alternatives to medicine. I don't, I can't do-"

Sif rolled her eyes. She was a charlatan. Grabbing the womans hand she put it on the bloody cloth. "Apply pressure here." Helen thankfully did as she was told, while Sif opened the jar. The golden liquid oozed slowly into the mortar. Followed by a handful of nuts. She crumbled the yarrow as much as possible before she grabbed the pestle and started grinding the ingredients together. 

She wasn't a seer, she wasn't an apothecary or a sorcerer. Yet she closed her eyes, focusing on what little ability she knew, what little she had. Willing the infusion to have power, willing it to become a healing salve that would save the life of this mortal. Returning her to the picture of health. A green mist swirled lazily at the bottom of the bowl as Sif opened her eyes, hovering above the mud coloured salve. Sif looked down upon Jackie, a soft smile on her face.

"This is going to sting."

The Opti-Binoculars focused in on the four men milling outside the facility. A window to the side identified them as Dirk Garthwaite, Henry Camp, Eliot Franklin and Brian Calusky. All listed as Roxxon private security. All have previous criminal records. No doubt Roxxon would claim that they were hired in the name of helping rehabilitate them and reintroduce them to civilian life. Roz wasn't entirely convinced that this was the only reason. Roxxon had a reputation for coming in with the strong arm and forcing things to be their way. The facility had gone up in record time, and the amount of red tape being cut was record-breaking.

That is why Roz was here. Roxxons environmental record was questionable at the best of times, so S.H.I.E.L.D had sent her here to investigate this new 'State of the Art Electrical Generation' facility. Thunder rumbled, and she looked up at the clouds that seemed to always swirl around the facility. A flash shuttered through the sky, and she felt a shiver go up her spine. Putting the binoculars down, she looked back at her tablet that had the public information on the facility. According to the plans, the facility essentially used a combination of wind power and lightning in order to load batteries for cheap and efficient energy. The output, however, didn't make sense. Lightning wasn't a reliable source of energy, and yet the facility had never missed the quota.

There was a chirp in her ear, tapping her earpiece there was a buzz as the line opened. Tapping it twice as the line was full of static. There shouldn't have been static. "Come in Agent Solomon, can you hear me?"

"Copy three-by-five Control."

"Report to town immediately, there reports of a woman that has fallen from the sky."

Roz put the tablet away as she stood up.

"Run that by me, one more time."

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Hidden 7 mos ago → 1 mo ago Post by Stormyx

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Stormyx 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝

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Stormyx

𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝

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 E M M A  F R O S T
E M M A  F R O S T

I first notice it because I can’t change it. I know it’s wrong here because I diffuse nothing into images and story the moment my power engages. Normally when something brushes the edges of my mind I smooth it instinctively. I can make it symbolic and give it a narrative spine with which to model and create with. Even nightmares provide material I can work with, but this? Oh it is nothing but a hollow pressure. This place refuses my metaphor and my imaginations and my symbols and I wonder to myself if I have always been here. Where am I? Every attempt I make to find a memory collapses back on me.

I am irritated.

Even my irritation should become a dream and instead it just sits there. All of this pressure with no image and no emotional cue. The inside of a thought. Everything tightens around my body and around my expectations. Before I can even form colour in the space it is drained - it is all white, but it’s not light. The white of every comforting association is quietly revoked so I try again, sharper this time, letting my power attempt to coax a narrative into this void. To create anything. This reality is all depth and harbours nothing and yet it is finished. I pull at the suggestion of meaning only for the construct to absorb it away.

I am angry.

“Fine,” I speak aloud, pushing harder. “Be difficult.” The moment I speak is the moment that this space slows me down. There is no resistance and no wall around me; instead the dragging feeling of every thought of mine stretching. Lengthened out enough until I am forced to notice them forming and I feel my own impatience begin to unspool me into components.  

None of it is landing but someone is here.

I simply feel correction as it tugs at my mind like a constant; an axis that my thoughts bend around whether I want them to or not and suddenly the gravity is accounted for. Emma Frost. Of course it’s her.ℂ𝕙𝕖𝕖𝕜𝕪.
That thought is slapped free of me and amplified into the space and I’m embarrassed that I thought it and that she was there to volley it around her void. She is too clean and too exact; dreams are collaborative but Emma Frost has taken all of my tools from me–𝕀𝕟𝕔𝕠𝕣𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕥.
I try weaponised irritation again. Emotional pressure. Visualisation and manipulation that is both subtle and pointed; to invite a response or rebuke from her hand or mind but it simply dilates and loses coherence and returns to me stripped of intent. 𝕐𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕗𝕠𝕣t.
Her thought just arrives to me fully formed.𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕡.
“I’m... figuring this out,” I snap back. “You dropped me into nothing.”𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘. 𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕤 𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕦𝕔𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖.
I want to argue back, I want to sleep and find the dreamthread.ℕ𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕕𝕠𝕟'𝕥. 𝔽𝕠𝕝𝕕.
I don’t know what she means.𝕐𝕖𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕕𝕠.
I keep trying. Reaching for the habits that have always saved me before. A softening of edges and my willing of a sequence to create shape. I attempt to seed the space with my dream-logic, with my power, but it does not land. I am trapped here and my panic flares all sharp and unhelpful which only makes me push harder. Impose sensation and identity from my hands, from my mind. God, I reach for the familiar ache of sleep and lucid dreaming and yet again I’m corrected by this oppressive, barren plane. 

I am growing louder in my own mind and above that swirling booming noise is the racing of my own heartbeat as it thunders in my ears at the start. Then it clicks. I am… I am not the centre of everything; for this is no dream and no dream world.

I know what she means now. I know what it means now. The same way that I know when I’m about to wake up and don’t want to admit it yet. Fold. I then collapse inward and stop projecting myself as the centre of reference. I have to stop narrating. The construct tightens and then the pressure is no longer external, it’s internalised and it’s bending me instead of the space around me. My thoughts begin to stack. Awareness watches awareness and awareness watches me right back. I try to hold onto myself. Hold onto the I at the centre of everything but it’s now so obvious how much work it is taking me...

I want to argue. I want to scream that this is how my power manifests and this is what I do. I am the dreamweaver and this is who I am but that thought doesn’t– and can’t even finish forming because she’s already there correcting it.𝔽𝕠𝕝𝕕, ℂ𝕒𝕣𝕝.
I am…

My narration is not necessary. The construct changes.

The construct changed.

What had been white and infinite began to resolve and solidify into depth as each plane of it intersected. Angles began to assert their hierarchy and the space was no longer an overwhelming void. Carl Valentino was no longer inside the construct but within it; standing physically now on a smooth and pale surface that reflected nothing personal back at him. He kept his posture careful and instinctively balanced and before him, Emma Frost finally appeared.

The woman was dressed impeccably and illuminated by a mindlight that did not flicker but beheld her in wonder as the master of this domain. She regarded Carl with a cool appraisal and her head tilted just enough to suggest an interest. “There,” she said aloud at last. “That wasn’t so difficult.”

Carl inhaled sharply and the breath surprised him; for it was earned, and his chest felt lighter. “That felt like I was disappearing. That felt like… Like I was lost.”

Emma’s gaze sharpened upon him. “Not quite. You mistake the two because you’re so accustomed to being in charge, and being the artist.” She stepped closer. “Dreams indulge in first person and reward identification. Psionic constructs do not.”

Carl swallowed, his irritation still sat within him, but no longer controlled the space. “So… Stop being me?” He asked as a brow quirked to denote his confusion.

Emma took in a breath that almost seemed as though it would be a sardonic laugh upon exhale. Instead, her lips just curved ever-so. “Oh don’t be so dramatic,” she sighed. “You’re still yourself. I merely had you comprehend another point of view.” She gestured at the construct and it responded almost instantly; layers peeling back to show the rules of her mind-physics.

Carl looked at the space, and at his instructor. “I… What if I don’t remember how to do this?”

Emma met his gaze evenly until her eyes narrowed. “Then we’ll do it again,” she said without any immediate elaboration. She let her construct hold as it was. Clean and comprehensible. She hoped that Carl would exist inside this understanding long enough to feel her lesson take root. “You experience the world emotionally.”

Carl inclined his head, uncertain of whether this was a diagnosis of fault.

“It makes you generous and imaginative,” she continued, “but this also exposes you.” With little more than a blink, the space around them destabilised and what had just been suddenly began to feel antagonistic. “This,” Emma explained, holding out a hand as the construct glitched and pulsed by her design, “is what it feels like when a telepath constructs around you as a trap.”

Once again Carl felt a pressure form around him and around his mind and thoughts. The very awareness of himself while the architecture of Emma’s diamond palace softened and instinct urged him to open up to it and accommodate. He resisted and Emma observed without comment. “So this is about shielding?” he asked, voice strained with effort.

Emma smirked, “No. This is about unmaking.” She stepped closer to him; close enough to sharpen his awareness of her disciplined presence. “A psionic construct is an agreement. Bound and created faster than a subject can object.” She raised a hand to tap the air between them and it reverberated with a painful sonic sound that vibrated through him uncomfortably. “If I can hold you like this then I can enter your mind and find everything I need. I am teaching you to identify rules so you can dismantle a construct.”

“Like folding myself… Out of it?”

“Yes.” Emma’s expression cooled. “You did not disappear. You withdrew yourself from the narrative centre and without that subject, the construct lost all strength.” Slowly but surely the implications unfurled.

Carl felt his irritation quiet with the sudden context. “And what if I can’t… What if I can’t learn the rules? What if I can’t fold?”

“Then someone will get to decide what you are and what they can do with that knowledge,” Emma replied coldly and a silence followed. “This is not academic, Carl. You will encounter telepaths who will mistake your openness for invitation and if you are very unlucky, you will encounter structures designed to cradle, soothe, and trap you. Keep you compliant.” Almost imperceptibly, her mouth tightened. “You will not always wake quickly.”

Her construct began to unwind, not by collapsing, but by deliberately releasing him layer by layer. “Remember this lesson,” Emma said with a finality.

The space dissolved and ceased abruptly.

His body reacted first. A sharp intake of breath and muscles locking themselves. Heart stuttering. Carl Valentino was back in his bed searching for familiarity in the geometry of his bedroom and Emma Frost was nowhere to be seen. He sat for several seconds as he catalogued the sensations. The pressure was gone and so was that strange metaphysical weight and overwhelming brightness. He had not been prepared for this; she had found his mind open and used the opportunity. A lesson delivered where he was least defended. Carl sat then, for some time, with the violent certainty that he had never been awake like this before.

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Hidden 7 mos ago → 7 mos ago Post by DocTachyon

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MIDNIGHT TRAIN
Part One

Ain’t as easy to hop trains as it used to be. Growing up we’d run down by the railyard and sneak through our little hole in the fence. Watch the engines surge by, iron horses running faster than our dreams. There were faster things, of course, our paps all loved NASCAR, but those stoic little stock cars had nothing on these behemoths. They cut across the country in plumes of smoke that signal their coming to the heavens, hauling everything a body could want, the very life blood of this country. It was a dream to jump onto one as it slowed and clamber up the sides like monkey bars, then stow away for a spell and watch the rest of the heartland roll on by. Could jump off quick into a field of hay and then be home in time for supper. But it wasn’t like that for the kids of today. Now there were security cameras all over the stations, making sure that no folk can get to those trains without consequence, no matter how harmless their purpose may be. That said, my purpose tonight is anything but harmless, and this is no regular old train.

Heard tell of this loco locomotive as far south as Sonora. They call it the Midnight Train. They say she’s an old steam engine with hellfire in her belly, with wheels that clack like cackling skulls, constrained by no track. Every now and again, she’ll pass on through an ordinary station in the dead of night. She’ll pick up a couple regular passengers, and ramble off into the darkness, where those passengers will never be seen again. No one knows for sure what goes on aboard that train, as dark and massive as a storm cloud. The only way to find out is to find a station and get on board yourself.

Course, I ain’t so lucky as to catch her at the station. Instead I’m straddling a motorcycle getting hotter n’ the devil’s nethers, hauling ass across open desert, chasing her taillights through the shadows and trails of her dreadsmoke. Bike ain’t mine cept the offroad tires, which I expect to be shred to shit by the end of this. I took it off some skinhead prick, figuring I’d need an expendable vehicle. Bike’s engine is sputtering a storm, spewing hot, stinging smoke and bleeding oil. My bandana keeps it all from my mouth, but my eyes are watering so hard I can taste the salt running down my cheeks. But through the tears I see it getting closer.

The Midnight Train’s end couplers stand out of the smog like the spiked horns of a huge beetle. The reversed headlamps shot out cones of blacklight into the haze, the light now just touching my front wheel. The bike jerks like a jitterbug, stuttering across phantom tracks, threatening to shake itself apart. My hands have gone numb on me, but I keep clamped on the accelerator. The engine hisses and whines like a wet barn cat while I wrestle the handlebars one handed, pulling my lariat from its holster. I hear something metallic burst and rattle in the bike beneath me and I know I got just one shot.

I jerk my arm hard and the whip slashes through the night, it catches firm on the train’s blackened rails. My cry of triumph is lost to a new, grinding, tearing sound in my engine. I push off from the footpegs and pull as hard as I can, whirling through the air before I crash into the back of the Midnight Train in a heap. I look back to the bike through the railing, crumpled plastic and cheap parts folding on themselves as it gives way and tumbles off into the desert. There’s a safe feeling, hard metal platform finally underneath me instead of rushing, scouring sands.

That feeling doesn’t last long. The wind is whipping past the train and piercing me through my snap shirt and vest, a straight chill to the bone. I push to my feet and my spurs click against the black metal. Standing here against the Midnight Train’s hide, I feel like I’m wrangling some massive bull, fighting the restraints to stay on. I stagger to the door to the first compartment. It's bigger than I am, socketed into the train’s frame on bolts bloodied with rust. I lock my hands around the door’s crank wheel and work the door open a sliver, before I dart in.

It’s a mite more comfortable inside. I slam the door shut to the howling winds and have just an instant to get my bearings. The interior of the car ain’t much. Low, fluorescent lights swing with the rumble of the engine and cast their shadows across the wooden facade. It’s simple quarters for crew, cotton beds shelved along one wall with round tables and chairs socketed to the floor for gathering. It might have been like any other train, but for the rows of coffins along the right wall, the only proper resting spot for any vampire. That, and the pair of men seated there.

Their skin is plumb white as alabaster, stretched so far over gaunt frames that I can count their ribs through their work clothes. One is dressed like an old miner, in faded coveralls slumping half off his skeletal chest, wearing a yellow helmet with a flickering light. The other is a disheveled train attendant in rags, what once might have been a fine uniform is hanging off him in ribbons. But they both have long, sharp ears, and faces marred by rotten noses and fangs jutting past their jaws. They're what I call Longtooths, thrall-things that’ve been in service past their expiration date. They've both seen me now. They rise from their seats and claw across the tables, bounding for me. I draw my modified lariat, my meteor hammer with the silver weight, but they're already on top of me.

The miner leaps at me and I duck under him into a roll, letting his face crash into the steel door. I go for a swing with my hammer as I come up, but the attendant is already too close, and catches the thick cord of the weapon in his jaw.

“This is no kinda hospitality, fellers!” I shout and yank the hammer. The attendant's tooth snaps and the weight smacks the side of his head, sending him stumbling into the rows of coffins, but now the miner is back up.

“Hsss!” He swipes me with curled claws as I whirl at him. I ignore the slashing pain across my chest and ram the heel of my weapon into his temple. His eyes boggle and I push my elbow into his throat and push us both to the door, pressing him into the metalwork. I look back to the attendant and see him crawling from a wrecked coffin, but I see something move on the far end of the compartment. The door to the next car is rumbling as someone works the lock, threatening to send more suckheads spilling in.

“No cuttin’ in!” I say. I launch my meteor and the weight crashes into the door, crushing the lock and buying me another moment. The attendant picks his moment and rushes me while the hammer is in flight, fangs bared. I drop it and grab the knife on my belt, but something hard slams into the back of my head. Stars flare across my vision and I pitch forward, but close my grip around my bowie and jerk as I fall, slashing wildly behind me. I feel my knife cut through flesh and then nothing as the miner’s body turns to dust on death. I slam into the ground at the same time as his helmet, and then the attendant is on me.

I get my legs between us and his wicked nails pass within an inch of my face, and I taste his breath, old blood and must, through my bandana as he strains to sink his fangs in. I draw the knife up and bring it between us, then release and watch as the attendant skewers himself in desperation. He dies in a sheet of dust across my body.

I hack out a cough and try not to vomit from the noxious dust as I draw to my feet. I have to be ready for what's coming next, and fast. I draw my revolver and fix it on the door. There's a loud snap as whatever is on the other side breaks the fused metal. I rest my finger on the trigger.

A figure in black steps through the door. He's tall and draped in leather, carrying a sword dripping with blood and dust. He takes a step forward and the light catches on his dark shades. I realize I recognize him, from the close crop fade to the spiked adornments on his jacket’s shoulders. He’s the man I’ve come to see; the vampire hunter called Blade.

“If you shoot, don’t miss,” he says. He’s resting his sword on his shoulder, all casual like. But I know from the set of his shoulders and hips that in one motion he could shoot forward and cut me in half, and I don’t need to give him a reason.

“Wasn’t plannin’ to, pardner,” I say. I spin my revolver and slot it into its holster.

“Partner? Not a chance,” Blade’s grip on his sword is still tight as he turns his hand over and gestures, palm out, “give me back my book.”

“Was always plannin’ on it…” I grumble, pulling the slim notebook from my vest. When I mentioned I ‘heard tell’ of this train, I read it in this book. His book. I swiped it the last time I came across him, fallen from his pocket in the fracas. Seemed like it was his little monster hunting diary, all full of juicy tidbits on what his next hunt was shaping to be. Namely, his next job, taking out the head vampire honcho of this here hell train. “But if half the rumors in this thing about this train are true, you’ll need a second gun on this.”

“Yeah,” Blade says. He flicks his sword and sends all the viscera covering it to dapple the compartment’s tables, then returns the cleaned weapon to its sheath. He stows the book and pulls back his coat to show off his twin holsters, “that’s why I carry two.” He turns on his heel and starts to walk back from where he came, deeper into the Midnight Train.

“Hold up! Didn’t come all this way to get left out of the festivities.” I go to follow him and he stops in his tracks.

“What are you expecting here? That you’ll scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours?” Blade asks, and he’s right to. I’ve hounded him across Texas and back, tracked him down across leylines and met him in dens, knee deep in the dead, and there I’d go banging my drum about my story, what I needed from him. He’d just tune me out and set about his work, then leave me in the dust as my back was turned. But here I am, now, at the head of it, with an honest to goodness shot to make right by the man.

“No expectations, ‘cept fer killin’ every vampire I lay eyes on. I got my mission, my purpose. But that purpose has got plenty of room fer gunnin’ down extra bloodsuckers. Got silver bullets burnin’ a hole in my pocket,” I say.

“Fine. At least you have the right gear,” Blade allows. He steps forward and I go to move in time with him, but he stops and turns his head back to me, curious. “How’d you get onto the train anyway, cowboy?”

“Motorcycle,” I grin beneath my bandana, “rough stuff, I tell you what.”

“No shit. Hell of a ride,” he says, scratching his chin. I can practically see my desperate ride reflected in his shades as he thinks on it, sees the grime caking my outfit. I actually catch the edge of his mouth turning up in a smile. “Hope you weren’t attached to it.”

“Naw, it was some Suzuki import piece of garbage. Better as scrap anyhow,” I joke. Blade’s smile vanishes.

“I drive a Suzuki import.”

MIDNIGHT TRAIN
Part Two

The cowboy has found me for the umpteenth time. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen that drive in a man before, the lengths it will push him to. It’s a common enough story. These hunters will turn up with a dead friend, dead lover, parent, kid, dog. Seen plenty of them come and go. They think their grief gives them license to put it all on the line. Make their choices and damn the others around them. I’ve only seen one man live like that for very long, and that son of a bitch is rotting away on the poison of his own decisions.

I hate working with humans at all, especially on a job like this. They were fine supporters, suppliers, trainers. But they didn’t have the speed or strength to keep up with a vampire, much less to put one down for good. Even the rare few that did were still, by design, full of blood. A meal on wheels begging to be devoured, a beacon of gluttony for any vampire to feast on. It was a temptation I didn’t need. I’d known fewer reliable human hunters than I could count on one hand. There is still room for Vigilante to prove himself to be one. But so far the impression hasn’t been good.

We move through the car I infiltrated, and the click of his spurs ring through the steel car like a cheap fire alarm. Its lined with crates, hauling insulated sacs of blood and whatever gore or viscera are useful in their foul magic. I got aboard in one of these, tucked where a drum of heart and muscle should have been. The Vigilante doesn’t bother inspecting the crates, he just soldiers through the narrow gulley between stacks of boxes. He’s lucky the vampires inside already lay in a neat line of dust; my handiwork.

“Cut through ‘em like chaff,” he remarks, “not bad fer a city slicker.”

“They get tougher from here,” I say. The farther you are from the engine, the coal black heart of the Midnight Train, the more mundane the cars. It was one of the few concrete details I’d been able to piece together. Vigilante cleared out crew quarters, fitted like a stock car from the civil war, home to lesser undead. Here in storage you can see the start of the rot, the way the metal shell begins to pale like skin. A hick like him might catch that, but he couldn’t see the real truth of it. He couldn’t hear the blood pulsing through the train’s veins behind the pallid slabs of steel. He can’t smell the iron and the fat, or feel the deep, burning longing in his belly and all through his throat. Could he feel the resolve that brings me to the next door without a word? He’ll need to if he wants to make it out.

I have to work the next door to open it. Vigilante steps forward to lay a hand on it, but I snarl and position myself across the entire crank. I wrap my hands around the wheel and twist against stiff resistance. I can hear something moist squelch and gasp through the metal as I wrench it back and forth. Finally I feel it give on the other side, crackling like a breaking back as the lock gives way and the door moves an inch. I jam my shoulder against it and push it against tearing tissue until it's open enough to slip through. A curtain of meat and broken bone hangs limp over the door, the remnants of the locking flap I’d just muscled through.

“What in God’s creation…” Vigilante is pale as death as he takes in the room before him. Planes of ashen skin pocked by pimples and open, oozing cuts lined the cars interior, sutured around protruding, greasy metal gaskets and instruments tracking blood pressure and thumping in time with the train’s heart.

“Flesh car,” I say, “exposed skin for easy feeding.”

“Is this train…” Vigilante gulps, “alive?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “It’s undead. It’s a vampire.” I could imagine rows of bodies beneath the thick layers of skin and metal, fused together by devilish ritual into the same horrific organism, splayed out across the whole train. I’d seen vampires pervert life and death in a thousand ways, though never just like this. The vampire lords loved nothing more than their fleshshaping, making monsters of men. This train was just the natural conclusion of their greed and ambition.

I wonder if he’ll turn and run instead of facing it. I’d seen Hunters with more experience run from things less horrific. Instead he takes his first step into the car and his boot sinks a quarter inch into the slick skin. The look in his eye is as firm as his grip on his holster.

“You see them?” He says and gestures, “down at the end.” Twelve vampires are crouched by the far wall, hunched and sinking their fangs into skin or suckling blood and nutrient pus from exposed sores. We were lucky they were absorbed in their meals, and that they were only lesser vampires, barely a rung above a simple thrall.

“Only one way forward,” I lay my hand on the hilt of my sword.

I can’t deny Vigilante at least has the moves for this job, if not the sense. He draws and fans the hammer of his revolver. His shots all hit home and turn a half dozen vampires to dust. I watch him tuck the hot revolver into his waistband and load a fresh cylinder while the other hand works his other gun. I don’t bother to close the distance as he kills the rest.

“They’ll know we’re coming, now,” I say. They would’ve heard the report of the shots, felt their reverberation echo through the train as it shuddered in pain. I can sense the train’s blood pumping faster, see and smell their liquid delicacy pouring out of the fresh holes Vigilante has blown in the beast. I think how easy it would be to bare my fangs and take my own chunk of it, bite past the skin like a rind and take a helping, so that it could quell the impossible dryness in my mouth filled with anticipation. But I know the second I do I won’t be able to help looking at Vigilante the same way, as a blood bag protected by nothing but an inch of skin. Even now I can hear his heartbeat, pumping its quiet rhythm just below the noise of the train. Pumping that salty, hot…

“Good,” he says, ignorant of my hunger, the way I’m poised to draw and cut him down. His spent cartridges drop soundlessly onto dead skin. “Now… If this is the feeder car… Surely the stock can’t be far?”

That gives me clarity. The only other truth I’d been able to nail down about the train was its propensity to pick up passengers. It was said that every night the train rolled through another station and collected another load of unsuspecting victims. I only managed my entry by stumbling on traces of a vampire supply chain and infiltrating a warehouse. It hadn’t stopped since I got on, but there’s no telling how many innocent people were already aboard.

I unsheath my sword and slash through the next locking flap, snapping it open like a torn tendon. Vigilante steps forward and locks his gloved hands around the crank to the next compartment before I have a chance to. I don’t see the lurch in him that shows a man’s about to vomit, I just see him push his hands into the gore and twist with everything he has.

He opens the door and the next compartments pass in a whirl of blood, gunsmoke, and dust. The feeder car’s dozen were just the head of a storm of undead. We battle through a vanguard of thralls and I skewer their lieutenants to the walls with the stakes lining my belt. Every vampire we cut down feels like the harbinger of two more in the next car, but we work fervently, knowing we are the last chance for anything aboard left alive.

But the farther we fight, the more that chance fades to nothingness. The feeder cars are almost too thick with enemies to see them: the mouths lining the cars, circular like a lamprey’s, filled with fangs that rotate like a wood chipper, processing bodies into meat, gristle, and pure blood. We only see a few in the middle of the process, and we know from their glassy eyes and the way the hellmouths tear them asunder without resistance that they are already dead. If it’s getting to the Vigilante, he doesn’t say anything. He only reloads and looks to me, like the next car will be different.

We must be through the whole of the dining cars now, approaching the head of the beast. The last processing chamber is barer than the rest, free of the gnawing maws and restored to a facsimile of a real train with polished steel facade. But I can still see the tracts of blood that haven’t been fully buffed out, off color patches where men had been dragged bleeding, dying, begging. Three figures stand at the end of the car, suited up in spotless dress clothes. The pair on the flanks have shaven heads and business suits, dark and smartly buttoned but improperly fitted. The one in the middle has long, slicked back hair, and a trim, tuxedo so sharp it looked like he was born to wear it -- or died to wear it..

“You two have made a mess,” Tuxedo says. “This train has been an institution in our kind for generations. A symbol of what we can achieve, constrained by no human will or law.”

“It’s our world, fancy pants. You’re just the ones suckin’ it dry,” Vigilante says, his meteor hammer strung tight between his gloved fists.

“Damn, do I love hicks. All the moralism and self righteousness out of a people born out of the asshole of this country. It makes you people taste just delicious. Take them.” Tuxedo’s minions rush forward on his word. They’re upon us in their celerity before Vigilante can swing, but not before I can. I cleave the one that flung at me in half, and I see a cross section of his guts for a split second before he turns to dust. I whirl to Vigilante’s engagement to see him forcing his knife into the roof of his attacker’s mouth, sending it to the Hell it deserved.

“Are you just as worthless as your bodyguards?” I turn and level my blade at the remaining vampire.

“Mother did always say never to trust the help.” I see Tuxedo’s throat twitching and growing, ballooning and reddening like an allergic reaction. In the quarter second we have to respond I see Vigilante draw and aim, and I realize I’ll have to choose: save myself, or save him.

I shoulder check the cowboy so hard the train’s facade dents on impact and the train roils beneath us. Tuxedo’s mouth opens and his throat squeezes out a red projectile that bursts across my chest. It’s all over me, boiling blood burning through my leather outfit, sending a huge blister across my chest and dappling my face with searing pain. It’s even eating through my shades. I shake them off and see the cowboy is still recovering, clutching his side, and Tuxedo is closing the distance fast, fangs bared, ready to close around Vigilante’s neck.

I step forward and jam my blade through his shoulder in the instant before he kills Vigilante and he runs himself through near up to the hilt with the force of his leap. He must’ve thought I was just some human, in melting agony from his burning blood. But the pain is only a dull roar beneath the savage hunger snarling in my stomach, and now the satisfaction filling me. I got him.

I let go of my sword and he stumbles backwards, feebly tugging at the blade as his insides begin to fry from the silver. I can smell him cooking, acrid and sulfurous, yet meaty and rich. He was well fed. 

“The Structure will not stand for this insult!” Tuxedo hacks out his last words while I pull my gun and put it to his temple. There it is, a name, and one I’d heard before.

“How does the Structure figure into this? I know you people don’t run this train.” I pushed further into his head and could hear its skin sizzling against the silver barrel. The Structure were new as vampire clans went, but new was never something they wanted to be. Vampires cared for nothing more than lineage and pedigree. There was no word on who or what clan was behind the Midnight Train, but it was far too old to be in the hands of upstarts like the Structure.

“I tell you… and you let me live?” It offered. Typical. A vampire only looking out for itself, nevermind the clan it had just sworn would miss it. It was a wonder vampires had it in them to politic at all.

“I’ll consider it,” I say.

“We are… Diversifying. Spreading word of our interests to all vampire clans… Making allies for the coming change…”

That sounded like them. They were, to a point, vampire businessmen. Diversify, diversify, diversify. It figured that the suckheads were building on one of the most vampiric structures in society. I doubted we’d hear anything more useful than that from this wretch. One of the Structure’s few advantages against other clans was its compartmentalization. This one would know his mission, and nothing more. Besides, I already knew what the ‘change’ he spoke of was, and it was just what I was here to fight: the return of the Lord of All Vampires, Dracula himself.

“I’ll let you live…” I say, and holster my Beretta. The cowboy is on his feet, now. I can tell from the way I feel his glare on the back of my head, just as the vampire sighs in relief. “But he won’t.”

The vampire doesn’t have time to react before Vigilante draws and the monster’s head bursts into dust.

“Bad form to have your guests protecting your house,” I say. I nudge Tuxedo’s cufflinks with my boot and send them rolling to rest in the pile of ash that was just wearing them.

“They’re gettin’ desperate. Pullin’ out every favor and trick they got aboard,” I can’t tell if Vigilante is smiling from the crinkle around his eyes or cringing in pain from what had to be a broken rib, “we got ‘em scared.”

“Can’t be much left. The Conductor, his vanguard, and the engine room,” I say, collecting my sword from the pile. “We’re going to destroy this train. Whole damn thing. Car by car if need be.”

“Maybe we’re lucky the train’s a vampire…” Vigilante says, “means we can stake the sumbitch.”

-I’d like to shout out Clive Barker’s short story, The Midnight Meat Train, as a source of inspiration for this story and its title!

-Experimentally with author’s notes, I want to try to give some insight into my craft and what questions and thoughts I have about the piece I’ve made, as opposed to my first AN which I kept to fun facts. I'm always interested to hear about everyone else's process and their thoughts on their own stuff, so I thought I'd share mine, too.

-I surprised myself a little bit with a Blade POV. I don’t think his voice is the most developed, but as I sat down to write this one it only felt right that it should come from him and give a bit more of an informed perspective on the train. I’m not sure whether the next one will be a Blade or Vigilante POV. My instinct is to alternate issue to issue, but I was hoping to conclude this arc with this post and thus with a Blade POV, and go into the next thing with Vig, but things have gotten away from me. We’ll see how things happen in the edit.

-I hope the pacing feels alright. As I mentioned in the previous note, I realized I wanted to keep this arc short and introduce other characters and set pieces, so I wanted to try and wrap this whole thing up in just two posts. But I committed to doing a train and those are typically more than just a handful of cars long, especially in the case of a magic vampiric murder train. I tried to create the impression of a lengthier train with the feeding car segment, so I could get right onto our mini boss. Still, despite my attempt to shorten up it looks like we’re doing it in three instead of two to take down the conductor.

-I’m having trouble in general balancing the gross, horrific atmosphere I want to conjure with the bombastic action I also want to portray. I think I did better here than in my first edition, but I look on it as something to improve upon.

-I’m also worried about diminishing returns in prose  over time. I hope to have Blade and Vig visit a variety of set pieces as horrific as this place if not more so. But my prose here is already so tuned up, I worry that those future places will feel like more of the same or even less than the train as I try to use the same technique to portray them.

-I see a lot of places I could improve this with some more dramatic editing, but I don’t think I can justify keeping this one in the chop shop much longer. I have bigger and better places to get to, and I need to set about getting to them, word by word.

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Hidden 7 mos ago Post by Melissa

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Melissa Melly Bean the Jelly Bean

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Dawn crept in slowly, bleeding pale light across the apartment.

Wanda hadn’t slept. She’d tried - curled on the thin mattress with her back to the wall, facing the door as though it might open again if she let her guard down. Every creak of the building, every distant siren had pulled her halfway back to waking and by the time the sky outside shifted from black to gray, she’d stopped pretending rest was possible.

Across the room, Pietro was equally still. Not sleeping either - just lying with his hands behind his head, staring at the water-stained ceiling. Wanda could tell by the way his foot tapped against the floorboards that his mind was moving as fast as his body normally could. The silence between them was heavy, stretched thin by everything they hadn’t said in the hours since Strange left.

He’d made them an offer.

An invitation, delivered with quiet certainty as though chaos were simply another problem to be solved with the right tools and enough patience. He hadn’t crossed the threshold. Hadn’t raised his voice or made any threats. Hadn’t even insisted they come with him. He’d simply left them with the weight of the choice and the knowledge that waiting carried its own consequences.

The Sanctum, he’d called it - a place that sounded more like a concept than a building. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that promised answers Wanda wasn’t sure she wanted, and control she wasn’t convinced she even deserved.

In the quiet of morning, the offer felt heavier than it had the night before. Less theoretical and easy to dismiss. The darkness had softened it, made it feel like just another encounter in a long line of chance meetings. Daylight stripped that illusion away and in the wash of dawn, the choice sat between them, solid and immovable.

Wanda drew a slow breath through her nose and let it out just as carefully, sitting up. She drew her knees to her chest and rubbed her palms together, trying to chase away the chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. Her fingertips tingled with the faintest static - she hadn’t used her magic since Strange left, afraid to so much as breathe wrong for fear of someone else showing up uninvited at their door.

Pietro sat up as well, turning his head and glancing at his twin.

After a few moments, the quiet finally broke.

“We’re not going.”

Wanda blinked, not entirely surprised by his opinion, but certainly taken back by how definitive he made it sound.

“We’re not,” The brunette agreed softly, but the words didn’t settle. They seemed to float in the space between them, hollow around the edges. Pietro heard the uncertainty in her voice and turned his head sharply toward her.

“Wanda,” She kept her gaze directed toward the floor.

“Ne možeš biti ozbiljna.” He scoffed, “Čak ga ni ne poznaješ.”
You can’t be serious.			You don’t even know him.

“What if I am?” Her eyes met Pietro’s, and he stared at her as though he hadn’t heard correctly. She didn’t repeat herself, and that somehow made it worse.

“Ne - listen to yourself. You’re considering going with - with that man? A complete stranger? He could be anyone, Wanda.” Her continued silence only unsettled him further. “Tell me why you’re even thinking about this. Tell me what he said that made you believe he’s any different from the last person who promised to help us.”

“Plašim se, Pietro.” The words slipped out before she could swallow them back, small and raw and horribly honest.

I’m scared, Pietro.

“I know.”

“I can feel it getting worse,” She whispered. “The magic. It’s louder. Every day, and I don’t know how to quiet it. I don’t know how to stop it.”

“I know,” He repeated, louder this time, frustrated - not at her, but at how helpless he truly felt. “But we’ll figure it out together. We don't need him.” She shook her head.

“You can’t fix this, Pietro.”

His mouth opened to reply but closed again, because he knew she was right. He couldn’t outrun it for her. Couldn’t shield her from herself.

“We trusted Sinister, and look where that got us.” Pietro’s voice was low, trembling with the anger he was still harboring. “We’re not doing that again,” He insisted, exhaling shakily, “I’m not letting us walk into something blind because someone sounds like they know what they’re talking about.”

She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes with a steadiness that made his heart sink.

“But doing nothing, staying here, pretending we’re fine… I’m fine… feels exactly like the same mistake all over again.”

Her voice softened, but it didn’t waver.

“Strange seems capable, and right now I don’t know anyone else who is.”

The room fell silent again.

Pietro broke eye contact first, jaw tight, eyes becoming fixed on the far wall for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, stripped of its edge.

“If we do this,” He stated, “We do it together.”

Wanda didn’t hesitate.

“Always.” 

Pietro let out a slow breath, the fight draining from his shoulders. 

“And if I sense something is off,” He added, glancing back at her, “We leave, no questions asked.”

“We’ll leave,” She agreed, “I promise.”

The city outside was fully awake now - voices drifting up through the cracked window, car horns blaring somewhere below. Life moved on, uncaring, as it always did. Pietro stood a moment later, rising to his feet. He took one last look around the room, committing the details to memory - the peeling paint, the bare floor, the place that had kept them hidden when nothing else could.

Then he nodded once, decision made.

“Alright,” He said quietly. “Idemo.”

Let’s go.

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Hidden 7 mos ago Post by Lord Wraith

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Lord Wraith Thunderbringer

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“How’s my favourite sister doing?”

Alexandra Luthor rolled her eyes at the voice on the other side of the phone, a playful smile forming on her lips before she shifted her body away from the transport driver.

“I’m your only sister, Carol.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not my favourite.” Carol teased, eliciting a slight upturn at the corner of Lexa’s mouth.

“What’s the trick to marrying rich, Sis?”

Lexa scoffed at the question. 

“You say that like I’m sitting around a mansion drinking Domaine de la Romanée-Conti all day while lying lazily by the pool.”

“I don’t know why you’re not.” Came the reply of disbelief through the phone. 

“The same reason you’re off risking your life flying whatever death trap S.W.O.R.D. has you strapped in.”

“Oooh, daddy issues.”

“Carol!”

“You know it as much as I do, Dad was navy brass, and if your name wasn’t Stephen or Joe Jr., he didn’t have time for you. Why else do you think I joined the Air Force and you signed up with S.W.O.R.D.? Hell, I bet you even push ol’Richie Rich around.”

“I do not push my husband around; I challenge him to be a better man.”

“Spoken exactly like Joseph Danvers Sr.” Carol retorted, her playful laugh stung against Lexa’s cheek. Her baby sister had always been the more rebellious of the four of them. Joey was the rule follower, their parents' firstborn, then came Alexandra, who was expected to act every bit the lady her mother was. Stephen was the third born and the apple of his father’s eye, while Carol was the baby. 

She used to be a sweet baby, too, before she became the strong-willed brat on the other end of the line. Little baby ‘Cara’, cute as a button, as destructive as a big red one. 

“Is there a reason for this phone call?” Lexa replied unamused.

“Do I need a reason to call my big sis? Maybe I just missed you, bitch.”
Suddenly, the vehicle dropped, lurching forward one more time before the sound of spinning tires and splattering liquid asphalt echoed from around the cab. 

“Carol, I’ll call you back.” Lexa snapped, clicking the phone off before turning to the agent driving.

“I thought you put the power dampeners on her.”

“I did, this ain’t her.”

“Then who-”

Lexa was cut off as flames erupted across the windshield. The temperature of the cabin began to rise rapidly, and the vehicle was unable to free itself from the tar-like trap in which it was lodged. Reaching for the door, Lexa’s hand recoiled almost immediately, the handle nearly leaving a second-degree burn on the palm of her hand. She spun around, raising her heels towards the door and landing a strike before the other agent pulled her away.

“Are you crazy? You’ll create a vacuum.”

“I’d rather risk that than die broiled.” Lexa retorted, shaking her coworker off before preparing another strike. Her head was pounding, eyes growing heavier with each second. She felt her legs lash out weakly. Trying once, twice, thrice before finding herself struggling to breathe, gasping for breath before her eyelids closed.

And darkness took over.
High above the clouds over Metropolis, Clark soared free from the prying eyes of the media, otherwise known as his coworkers. While the woman had acted aggressively, Clark knew it was out of desperation, not malice. He had seen that behaviour before on his own travels. It was like she had been an animal backed into a corner with no way out but to fight.

But attacking a bank during the middle of the day was a risky move, even for someone desperate. Clark wished he had done more to help her, but with the volatile nature of the fire, the lives of those around the bank came first. He did what he had done to minimize damage across the board.

But by doing so, had he further endangered a desperate woman?

It wasn’t that Clark was looking to have Superman run afoul of the Department of Extranormal Operations, let alone A.R.G.U.S. But there were better ways to help metahumans and mutants. People and organizations that actually cared about their well-being. 

If Clark hadn’t been so quick to turn the woman over to the police, he could have found her a place that would have put a roof over her head or a meal in front of her. He thought back to their encounter, recalling the room and the woman.

She had been engulfed in the flames, but through the flames, his keen eyes still could make out details. Bruises on the skin, a needle mark at the base of her neck. Her clothing had been torn and tattered, something Clark had initially dismissed as a choice, but in hindsight, perhaps she had escaped from somewhere. 

They hadn’t fought in the main vault. No, Clark had discovered the woman in the safe deposit boxes. She had a box in her hand before the fight had started. He focused the image in his mind, attempting to extrapolate the details. 

Safe deposit boxes didn’t have names assigned to them. They were numbered. Even if Clark could make out the number, it would take further investigation still to figure out who that box belonged to. 

And that was assuming it wasn’t a random box. 

9842

That was the number.

“Clark?” 

A voice at the door of his apartment called, following a series of three quick knuckle knocks. Clark had barely realized he had made it back to his apartment. His eyes shot wide as he looked around, realizing he had fumbled his way in through the fire escape.  Deactivating the suit, he scrambled to his closet for a change of clothes.

“Hey, if you’re in there, handsome, I just wanted to say thanks for the banana bread,” The voice continued before Clark hastily finished dressing and opened the door. 

Standing in the hallway of the decrepit apartment building was his neighbour from across the hall. The flickering light of the dying fluorescent bulbs highlighted every shade of red in her hastily tied-up bun, from auburn to copper to strawberry blonde. Even in the dead of winter, she was still wearing a cropped sweater and low-rise jeans that showed off both a toned abdomen and the matching pair of stars tattooed atop either hip. 

“Oh, hey, Kansas,” The redheaded woman said with a smirk, “I didn’t mean to interrupt, and you didn’t have to get dressed on account of me.” She added with a playful wink.

“Lisa, sorry, I was just about to head out.”

“With your tie uneven and your shirt half buttoned?” Lisa smirked, “C’mon, beefcake, where is she?” The redhead teased, standing up on her tiptoes, trying to look over the taller man’s shoulder.

“Or he,” Lisa added, playfully, “I don’t judge.” 

Moving her hands to Clark’s collar, Lisa quickly straightened it out before beginning to fix the buttons on his shirt and adjusting his tie.

“I can-”

“Shush, Kansas, I got this. A feminine touch goes a long way.” Her hands paused on his abdomen. A smile crossed her freshly glossed lips.

“You really ought to wear something more fitted. These feel like abs of steel.”

“I uh, don’t, uh” Clark stammered, gently pulling her hands away, “Thank you?”

“No, thank you,” Lisa replied, her eyes quickly darting down and back up again as she playfully saluted Clark, “At ease, soldier.”

She batted her eyelashes, ocean blue eyes with just a hint of green outlined in a smoky shadow, looking up towards Clark while she continued to speak.

“Anyways, yeah, just wanted to thank you for the banana bread, it made a great pick me up in the middle of the night. I don’t think I would have made it through last night’s shift without it.” She smirked, a finger tracing Clark’s chest again.

“You should visit me at work sometime, I think you’d really enjoy it.” 

“I appreciate the offer, Lisa, but y’know, the news, it just doesn’t write itself,” Clark replied, looking at his watch again. “Speaking of which, I’ve, uh, got to go.”

“You can play coy all you want, Clark Kent, but I know you’re dying to have dinner with a ravishing redhead.” Lisa stated, “Look, there’s a showing of one of my favourite movies at the old filmhouse down in Layfatte this Friday, I was thinking you could be my arm candy?”

“I, uh-”

“Great, pick me up at seven and feel free to wear something with deep pockets.” Lisa winked, “It’ll be worth it.”

Clark nodded, inwardly shaking his head before pulling out his cellphone.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end answered.

“Lex, it’s Clark. Could I drop by?” 

“Of course, it’s been too long. I always have time for a friend.”

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Hidden 7 mos ago → 7 mos ago Post by Pacifista

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His eyes opened, and he awoke anew. Bruce gulped for air, his body moist with sweat, above him a blurry ceiling. His body ached as it trembled, Bruce pulling his thin blanket closer as though it was his only shield to reality. His mind burned with images of the dream: the riot of bodies, the evisceration of his own body, that monster...but moments later the details started to fade and memories slid into feelings. While his body relaxed little by little, his heart grew hard with fear.

Throwing his legs out of bed, he only wore dark blue jeans and a green shirt, his shoes and labcoat held off to the side. Finding his glasses, he took a better stock of the under-lit infirmary. One other bed was occupied, a brown haired teen with a thin face and gray eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. It was the first time Bruce really got a look at him, but the only reaction he gave to Bruce moving was a slight glance. When he heard a pair of footsteps approaching, he stayed put, mind still trying to catch up with everything.

Hair long and blonde, a red T-shirt with a yellow lightning bolt on it under a lab coat, Dr. Leonard Samson lit up as he saw the two occupants. “Good to see you two up and about. You were out for quite some time, considering...well maybe I should let the General debrief you.”

“How long has it been?” Bruce’s knuckles were white as he clasped his other wrist.

Samson held up a hand, smiling lightly, “The accident was last night, and about now it’s lunchtime. I can go get you guys some food. Anything in particular you want from the vending machine?”

Bruce brought his hand up to his mouth, resisting the urge to bite it so the pain might bring him back. Instead, he burst out, “We shouldn’t even be alive!” His hands were unable to stop trembling even in gripping themselves. He met with Samson’s green eyes, but glancing down as though he might transmit what he had just seen if they’d continued. Shaking his head, he blurted, “Uh, Oreos, the soft ones.”

Samson looked to the teenager expectantly, but he stayed silent. “Two packs then.” He hit the lights as he took his leave, the two of them back to their lonesome, though now in a room that was more than dim. Bruce kept coming up with questions to ask or things to say but every word died before it could leave his throat. Bruce hoped he’d calm down with a bit more time but it never came. He felt sick. His skin itched but he refused to scratch it lest it come off.

Once again there were footsteps. Samson led the way, tossing each of them a snack. One landed square on the teen’s blanket and rested there, the other was picked up off the ground after it had slipped through Bruce’s grasp. As he lifted his head back up, he saw General Ross flanked by two security guards. Looking over Bruce as he fumbled with the packaging, he grimaced, “You’re a mess. Get a fucking hold of yourself.” Glaring at the other one, he spat, “And you! Get up or I’ll have them make you get up.” The teen finally moved, his face stone as he got out of his infirmary bed and took a stand. “What’s you’re name and what the hell are you doing out here in the middle of the goddamn desert.”

His voice cracked, but finally came after he cleared his throat. “My name’s Rick Jones. I got my motorcycle license and thought I’d go exploring.”

Ross gave a condescending snort. “No you didn’t. Your license isn’t class M, the motorcycle was reported stolen last night, and you had alcohol with you.” Rick’s eyes started darting around, and he took half a step back. “You’d be on track for juvie if this wasn’t a top secret military base. If you want to be treated like an adult, we’ll have you tried like one.”

“What about suicide protection?” Bruce spoke out, his food untouched. “He said he was looking for a place to die when we were out there.”

Rick shot him an angry look. Ross gave a light shrug, “Guess that explains the painkillers we found. Not that it’s guaranteed to work if you mix the two, depends. Could kill you, could just give you a stomach ulcer. But honestly, it doesn’t really matter why you got here, just that you’ll be leaving. And I assure you, if there are any weird rumors or further trespassing by anyone, you will be investigated for any information leaks.” With a jerk of his head, the two security guards stepped forward, guiding Rick out.

“W-wait!” Bruce stood up. “I want to talk to him!”

Ross’s nostrils flared, and he waved for Samson to leave as well. “You can’t be fucking serious. They’re talking about kicking your bum ass out of here. You went against my direct order, putting yourself at risk to save a liability, and to top it off, your fucking Emitter was dysfunctional, meaning that my department has shit all to show for advancing your project over everything else in the works here.” Bruce stared, eyes blinking behind his glasses. As he opened his mouth, Ross found the words first. “Yeah, I know it should be impossible. I remember your briefing, but we have the numbers. The beam went a quarter of the projected distance and there was no residual radiation to speak of. The two of you passed out when you hit the ground and we had you carried here the following morning. Would have done it earlier but we were waiting until the nonexistent radiation decayed enough.” Ross shook his head, a low sigh of fatigue escaping.

Bruce leaned back, a hand running across his face and up through his hair. “This isn’t over. The med team didn’t pick up anything concerning on a cursory check, but you and Jones will both be getting a checkup, and Samson’s already scheduled a psych eval for you next week. Concerned about PTSD. I wanted to tell him you’ve already been through hell-” Bruce went pale. “But I figured you could tell him yourself.” Ross gave Bruce a firm look, his expression softening somewhat. “You’ll get another chance. For now I’m putting you with Sterns and his team since he’s the only other person working with Gamma and you’re a one trick pony. But his project won’t get into full swing until next week. More than enough time to brush up on his notes, get your phys and psych done, and write the incident report for last night. I’ll be raking security over the coals once it’s in, don’t you worry about that.” Standing up, he started for the door, only to stop and look back one more time. “Don’t ever fucking go against me again. And see Betty when you can, she damn near lost her mind. Think about that next time you decide to throw your life away.”

Bruce was left to the silence. His heart had been going ever since Ross raised his voice. Last night he channeled that anxiety into going out to deal with Rick, but now the energy had nowhere to go. His mind was swimming with currents in every direction, agonizing over past, present, and future, two packages of food left forgotten.The red candlelight flickered even though there was no draft in the small chamber. Seven candles at the seven points of a septagram within a red circle illuminated the office space, a number of tomes and scrolls piled just at the edge of the firelight. Hovering above the center was a lone woman, legs crossed and poking out of the sides of the dark purple dress that trailed on the floor. Adorned with earrings of concentric rings spinning within one another, a tattoo on her sternum made of a ring within another ring made up of three lines attached to three small circles, and long lavender hair, her eyes were closed but her mouth moved as she muttered in her communion.

“Yes, it was as though those earthbound souls were screaming, a fall to the underworld coming that ultimately did not take them. The cards observed a vessel restored, never one but now many… It returned? A demon? Here? Fortuitous, but this world is not one of coincidence… If those were the means then I know exactly how to proceed on my own. I will invoke another séance in due time, master.”

In synchronization, the candles blew out, casting the room in darkness. The light switched on with a wave of her hand, the woman now standing at full height on her black high heels, her eyes without pupil or iris. A smile coming from her painted lips, she left the room into the halls of Cadmus proper. Cutting a driven path through, as always her appearance drew the eyes of many. There was no official uniform of Cadmus, though while most wore labcoats, She always seemed to draw much notice outside of the Paranormal Division where she spent most of her time. If it wasn’t her low cut top, it was the long legs revealed in their entirety with purpose that drew the eyes of the many young men to her, ones she knew had never seen a real woman. Her form was carefully chosen to garner as much use as she could in any and all circumstances. But her basking was a mere diversion, as she reached the Material Sciences division with her eyes on but one. Finding the office of a Dr. Samuel Sterns to have its door wide open, she entered without announcement. His hair short and tan, his mouth encircled by a short goatee, he met her in the eyes with a look befitting his surname. She approached casually. “Doctor? I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’re working on a fascinating line of experimentation.” While there were protocols and secrecy, openness and collaboration were incentivized, the sorceress not feeling any shame as she leaned over his documents. That he didn’t even flinch away from her eyes as he slipped a hand over his paperwork both annoyed and intrigued her, but she didn’t let an iota of that show on her face.

“No one outside of the division should know yet.” Opening a folder and shoving the papers inside, Sterns grumbled, “Can I help?”

Daring to take a seat on the desk, she leaned even closer. “Oh, no, it’s I who wish to help you. Or rather, I believe we can help one another. Your research on Gamma induced mutation… My name is Tala, I work in the Paranormal Division, and I think there is much we can accomplish together.”

Stern’s eyes narrowed for a moment, his incredulity plain. But even as his cheeks puffed out for a moment, no doubt concealing a scoff, he said, “I’m listening.”

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Hidden 7 mos ago Post by Roman

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Location: The House#2.04
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𝕸𝖞 𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖘𝖔𝖎𝖑𝖊𝖉 𝖇𝖞 𝖆 𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖙-𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖘𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖆 𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖜𝖆𝖘𝖍 𝖘𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖐𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖉 𝖒𝖊, 
𝕾𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓 𝖎𝖒𝖕𝖆𝖈𝖙 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖆 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖊.

𝕿𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖔𝖆𝖉 𝖔𝖓 𝖍𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖌𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖒𝖊:
"𝕯𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖓, 𝖞𝖔𝖚'𝖑𝖑 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖐 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐."
𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖘 𝖒𝖊 𝖍𝖔𝖜 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖋𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐.

ℌ𝔬𝔴 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 ℑ 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔡𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰?

ℌ𝔬𝔴 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 ℑ 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔤𝔬?

ℑ 𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔢𝔞𝔱, 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔶 𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔬𝔣 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔲𝔫𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔢, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔯𝔲𝔪𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔰; 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔰 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔰𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔰, 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡?

ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨𝔰 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫. ℑ𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣-𝔣𝔲𝔩𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔠𝔶𝔠𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥, 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫, 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔲𝔫𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤. 𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔟𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔩 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔰𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔰𝔣𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯'𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔴. 𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔡 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔰𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔲𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔡 𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔤𝔲𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔱.

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔞 𝔲𝔫𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔩 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔢𝔱𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔢𝔬𝔭𝔩𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤.

ℑ 𝔢𝔞𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ 𝔢𝔞𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔦𝔤𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔠𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔰𝔪𝔬𝔰, ℑ 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱 𝔞 𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔪𝔢𝔞𝔩.
𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯-𝔥𝔲𝔫𝔤𝔯𝔶.

ℌ𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔬, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫. 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫, 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔬. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔱 𝔞𝔩𝔩, 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢. 𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢, ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲; ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢.

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔞 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢, 𝔴𝔢 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔰. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔡𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔞 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲.

𝔉𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔬𝔨, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫.

𝔒𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔡𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔢𝔫.

John didn't feel himself hit the ground, but he was certainly pretty bloody sore. Slowly, achingly, he pushed himself up with one hand and rolled his protesting body over, lying on his back to stare up at the ceiling. He was on the rug, the rug having apparently reappeared once more in place of the hole, and though he couldn't see from his angle, the intense red circular pattern emblazoned upon the threads haloed him quite neatly. With languished movements, he pivoted his head about the room, checking that all had returned to normal, or at least what passed for it in this House. Everything seemed in order; the hole was gone, the furniture back in its place, the front door still quietly and obstinately shut. John pulled himself to his feet, silently registering that Astra was missing, but could not find it in him yet to do anything but collapse onto the sofa and sink back into the cushions. His eyes bore into the fireplace, sifting through long-cold ashes, and then pulled up, up, past the mantle and settling on the mounted bow and arrows proudly displayed above the hearth, modern and powerful in their construction. Hmm. That hadn't been there before. 

The eclectic decor John had noticed the first time he'd passed through the antechamber was absent entirely and instead replaced with items and artefacts that felt just as disconnected as the previous jumbled collection but yet somehow also more pointed and deliberate. John swivelled about on the sofa as he swept his gaze across the room, cataloguing the new ornaments; they seemed in some way significant, though he could not summon even a fraction of personal relevance or grasp a shared correlation between a single pair of fresh relics. Including the new bow and quiver above the fireplace, there were eleven curios now spaced evenly around the room, and John spent several minutes examining each one, trying to discern the reason for their sudden appearance.

A chunk of otherworldly rock laced with hints of crystalline green sat on a small plinth next to an imposing and taxidermied black bat, wings posed as if spread in flight and snout contorted into a frightening snarl. Between them was a replica sword, or at least John hoped it was a replica, old in its styling but masterfully crafted and well-maintained. On the wall hung a length of thick, indomitable steel chain, crossing over itself against a backdrop of delicate but artfully-made green silk, upon which was inked the stylised symbol of a dragon. Moving his eyes back to the fireplace, resting upon the mantle beneath the bow stood a hand-carved statue of distinctly Egyptian artform, a righteous figure bearing the skull of a heron. The statue was flanked by headdresses of equally sophisticated taste and expense; one was a tiara of rich gold, elegant and cultured with a large shining diamond acting as the statement centrepiece, while the other spoke out in deep crimson, harsh-angled bands lashing about themselves to form a woven circlet dotted with rubies. Looking now toward the other side of the room, only a few items were left: a small scale-model of a nuclear warhead, sat upon mirrored glass that by some trick or illusion of the mind showed a humble microscope in its reflection; and a worn pair of old-world revolvers, well-used but well-loved, crossed in front of a simple, but powerfully symbolic weapon - a humble wooden stake, hand-hewn from a shard of strong ironwood.

John didn't have a single idea what any of it meant, or if it was indeed supposed to mean anything at all.

He stood up from the sofa. The longer he sat, the more he felt the strange sensation of being watched, and he was struck by the realization that he simply couldn't waste time sitting around being stared at by inanimate objects. Astra was still missing after their impromptu fall, and her absence weighed heavily on his conscience as he was seized with the fear that something else might find her before he did, and this time he may happen upon her too late; that dark, hungry thing may return, or even worse, whatever doppelganger of his stalked these halls that had cast them into the hole to begin with. He shivered at the thought of that harried duplicate, unable to shake the feeling that something far more sinister and perverse than he realised was transpiring within this House. Spurred on only by a deep fright beginning to take root at the base of his spine, John pushed against his own aching and bruised body to cross the room, leaving through the same double doors his own double had burst through previously - wholly unprepared for what new horror he might find beyond, but launching headlong into it nonetheless.

It didn't take long for the House to turn on him once more; now that the illusion any of this was even remotely 'normal' had been shattered, the environment seemed almost eager to disturb him, delighting in subjecting him to wickedness. No longer was the House satisfied with mere distortions - now it engaged in depravity, pushing John through rooms that would turn stomachs in an abbatoir, let alone a home. Floorboards gave way to metal grating suspended above yawning abysses, the walls covered in blood and viscera and gore displayed to sickening extremes. More rooms even further in changed track, swapping carnage for revulsion, dingy mould-caked plaster the only dressing for floors smeared with excrement, furnishings reduced to stained mattresses and tarpaulins. Those dim-lit dungeons were themselves transfigured into stone caverns, the rock slick and slimy and the air fetid, hot and reeking of soured meat, rancid, beastly. When John's surroundings shifted one last time to sterile linoleum and faded-white corridors, he found himself missing topsy-turvy rooms with impractical decor and impossible blueprints very deeply. 

These hallways were well-known to John; he had trodden these floors for eighteen months in a previous lifetime, piecing back together what had been left of his mind with little help from staff more concerned with ridicule than repair. Ravenscar was unmistakable; time had done nothing to distance him from what he'd experienced there. Cautiously walking these halls, he relived the scalding showers and ice-cold hoses, the scorn of the nurses and the stomach pains from weeks on gruel, the bruises inflicted by bored orderlies; bile rose in the back of his throat, and in swallowing it back down he flashed forcibly to choked consumption of pills meant to numb and sedate, medication designed for pliability rather than care. Cell doors lined either side of the corridor and John could hear ghostly moans and soft wails, occassional metal crashing, the distinct creaking echoes of a door swinging open and closed again to be followed by low, fleshy thuds. This was not a place of healing, and the House knew. The House inflicted harm, and revelled in it.

John's terrible reminiscence was interrupted by lilting sobs distinct from the background noise of haunted memories. Little hitches and cries, clear distress stifled into sniffles for fear of being heard. It was the weeping of someone who wished to hide, lest the root of their woe sought them out. He followed the sound carefully, quietly, treading softly to conceal his footsteps so as not to frighten away whoever he was looking for, and as he approached, he peered through cell door windows and feeding slots to determine the source of the noise; only after checking a good seven or eight cells did he find her.

Astra was huddled into the far corner, facing away from the door and doing her apparent utmost to shrink herself away, minimize the space she occupied in hopes of disappearing entirely. Her clothes were more ragged and soiled than when John had last seen her before the fall, but John could not suppress the feeling of immense relief at having found her again, and seemingly unharmed at that. Gently, he opened the door and crept in, keen to have them both alight this twisted place.
"Astra, Jesus. I'm glad I found you," he began, resting a hand on her shoulder as he neared. Her entire body flinched and went rigid before she whipped her head around to look at him; in the next second she was up and on her feet, rushing across the small cell to sequester herself against the opposite corner. John didn't move.
"Don't touch me! Who are you?! How did you find me?!"
"Astra, it's me, you're okay-"
"I don't know you! How do you know my- I don't even know if that is my name!"
"It's John - John Constantine - we got separated by the fall-" as he spoke he took slow, tiny steps toward her, opening his arms and displaying empty hands to show he meant no harm, bore no weapon.
"No!" She screamed, wild and frantic.
"I'm just trying to help you- us- I'm just trying to get us out of here, but we lost each other after the fall. Don't you remember?"
"You're not real! You're a trick! A clever game - just going to hurt me again! I won't let you!"

She was away, throwing the cell door open and flying through it, sprinting down the corridors. John gave quick chase, painfully aware that pursuing her would only further cement the false suspicions in her mind, but seeing little alternative available. If he lost her down here in these transmuted nightmares he might never find her again, nor forgive himself for doing so. They fled and flew in sync, hunter and quarry, John desperately flinging pleas and promises ahead of him while Astra only shrieked back to leave her alone, let her be, quit his chase and go back from whence he came. Around them the corridor began to loop, the same cracked tiles and stained floors passing by again and again, uncaring for whichever way they turned, whatever direction they picked; every new corner was merely a fresh iteration of that same hallway, inescapable. As they looped, the lights began to dim, fluorescent tubes blinking out one by one until their flight was illuminated only by the bare, worn-out bulbs within the cells, casting striped shadows through barred windows out onto their shared path - yet even these began to burn out with each new repetition. John was sure they'd ran for miles, yet they'd not moved an inch, every footfall plunging them further and further into recurring darkness until they were sprinting through the black.

John didn't see the wall before he slammed into it, mid-stride but managing to twist just as he made impact and baring the brunt of the collision with his shoulder. He yelled out in pain as he felt the joint pop out of the socket, bouncing off the ceramic tiles and tumbling to the floor, eliciting another agonised cry as he landed awkwardly on his freshly-dislocated shoulder. He gingerly cradled his arm, breathing heavy on his back, exhausted and in pain before summoning the strength to sit himself up and blink in the black. He waited for some time for his eyes to adjust, but the grainy darkness was impenetrable, blinding him on all sides. John sighed. He could no longer even hear Astra - and now he barely knew which way was forward, although he suspected that sort of thing didn't matter much here anyway. Whichever way you went, you went the way the House wanted you to go.

To this end, he carefully stood up, removing his jacket and fashioning a rudimentary approximation of a sling for his arm, hissing through his teeth every time a movement jostled the shoulder. Once secured as best as he could manage, John reached his free arm out into the darkness and crept forward on shuffling feet until his fingers brushed the wall in front of him. He pushed his palm against the tile, and the slowly began to move sideways, keeping his hand against the wall for orientation as he guided himself further down the dark corridor. John walked like this for a long while, listening out for Astra again; around him, the air shifted and grew colder, and he felt his breath fogging in front of him even if he couldn't see it.

-

He walked for what may have been five miles or fifty feet before stumbling, falling against the opposite wall. He hadn't fallen far, but paid it no mind, preoccupied by the hot bark of pain from his shoulder; still the darkness prevailed, and he was still unable to see. He reached out and found the wall again, progressing onwards steadily - until he began to feel the other wall brush against his shoulder once more. He winched and shrank in closer, bending more at the elbow, carrying on; slowly, he felt the wall encroaching again. He pushed himself into his palm. Still the walls drew together. John tutted; the corridor must taper and end here. He had walked all this way into a dead end.

He pivoted, a slow one-eighty turn until he faced the way he'd come, and set off to find another route. The walls grew closer. John did not allow himself to panic. In a darkness so deep, how could he really tell that he'd turned around? Another pivot; the passageway grew narrower still. It pressed against his shoulder and he grimaced, feeling the dislocated joint grinding against itself; John flattened his back against the wall and sidled along. Closer - tighter - the wall pressed on his belly and chest, made it hard to breathe, hard to move; he was becoming stuck, wedged between concrete in the silent dark. He reached an arm out for purchase, searching for a way out, an opening, a door - anything to pry himself free, loosen the architecture from its vice grip about his body, a crevice or a handle; he found only a pinch point where the walls finally met. The House rumbled, stone scraping across stone reverberating through his ears. 

Ever-so-faintly, he saw a light. A sliver, a fraction, a single pixel-thin line projected to his right over his aching shoulder. He couldn't reach it with his free arm, and in a panicked, excruciating movement, he pulled his arm loose of its sling and wrenched it up, feeling the joint slither and creak with stabs of pained protest until his fingertips brushed the smallest crack in the pinning wall. John shuffled sideways, trying to push his fingers into the gap; his breath was shallow and difficult to find, but he felt his hand find purchase, however miniscule. The House fought him every step of the way, but the crack was here for a reason, surely? Mercy, or a cruel joke, John cared not which; he just focused on worming his fingers further into the crevice, and the more he pushed the wider it seemed to grow until he was sidling into it entirely, pushing with all his might against the walls, expanding this new space. The House shuddered, wobbling him about as if spasming, retching. The light grew brighter, enveloping John whole - and then the floor convulsed, and with a great lurching movement, he was out.

He hit the ground hard and swore loud as the impact forced his shoulder back into place. He groaned, writhing on the floor in pain for the second time in as many...hours? Days? Weeks? He couldn't tell; there was no tracking calendars or clocks in the House, and the passage of time seemed fluid and ultimately irrelevant. He was tired, and could feel his mind slipping away, lapsing into sleep. Perhaps he could just lie here, lie here and rest...the House could wait, just for a couple hours...

Any thought or temptation of sleep was expelled with a piercing scream that shook through John's bones and jolted him up, and was then cut off so suddenly that the silence left behind was far more bloodcurdling than any shriek could be. John shot to his feet, any feeling of pain or lethargy forgotten as he sprinted down wooden hallways and through carpeted rooms, the House architecture having returned to something cozy and warm, in mockery of whatever new horror it had now unleashed. He tore through the House to the source of the scream, and found it all-too-quickly.

A crowd of the black creatures loomed over something on the floor, tearing and gnashing at it. The egg-with-wings from John's first encounter with these strange beings was not present but there was no mistaking: though these monsters varied wildly in shape and size, some resembling human and some in contempt of anything approaching 'natural', they were all of the same ilk, kin to one another. They shared the same shimmering-black skin, and regardless of form all sported that same maw that split their bodies in half and kept going. There was a body beneath them, deep dark fears welling up within John as he caught glimpses through the frenzy. It was shredded, rent asunder, pulled apart. He saw a flash of dirty blonde hair, and turned away in a rush of unspeakable emotion. The creatures did not notice him, so engrossed in their feast, but Astra's corpse would not last much longer under their hungry mouths, and John did not want to be here when they began seeking another meal-

One of the creatures sank its teeth into a section of the wall and tore away a chunk of brick and plaster and what was left behind John could not say. The wall was gone. Only an absence truly fundamental remained; 'remained' was not even the right word for it, but John couldn't comprehend anything else. The creature took another bite of the wall and the hole grew bigger, a gap in the very fabric of reality; where this beast tore with its fangs, nothingness crept in behind it. 

The others finished with the corpse, no more Astra left to eat and they too started in on the wall, moving to the floor, the corners, the ceiling. Everywhere the things dined, patches of nothing were left behind, not mere darkness or holes in the material but a true absence of anything. Their appetites swallowed up the entire room, until not a single feature was left; not the wall, light fixtures, furniture, coving, window lintels, carpet, floorboards, not the corners or skirting or ceiling nor switches or hooks or ornaments. Even the sparse furniture was consumed, until John stood on a precipice overlooking the nothing that had once been the room.

The House was being eaten.

There came from that nothing something deep and gutteral and ancient, so very very far below John, something akin to a laugh. There was no peering into that darkness, for there was no darkness. But still - in the last second before he turned on his heels and fled, shaken to his soul - he thought he saw something move down there.

𝕭𝖔𝖙𝖙𝖑𝖊, 𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖑, 𝖔𝖗 𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖊𝖑? 𝕬𝖑𝖑 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖊𝖒𝖕𝖙𝖞; 𝖉𝖚𝖌 𝖔𝖗 𝖉𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖐 𝖔𝖗 𝖕𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝖎𝖙 𝖔𝖚𝖙.
𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖙𝖔𝖔 𝖒𝖚𝖈𝖍 𝖎𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖞 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖆𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉.

𝕷𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖚𝖕 𝖜𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖔𝖎𝖓𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖞 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖊 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖊'𝖛𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖊𝖓;
𝕷𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖚𝖕 𝕴 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖘𝖆𝖞 𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖊.
𝕳𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖒𝖊 𝖒𝖞 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖑.
𝕴'𝖒 𝖌𝖔𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖎𝖓.

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I am Brave.

This is the greatest lie I tell myself. As the floor rattles, my heart thunders in my hollow chest. I hold it, for fear that my heart may burst from my chest, leaving it truly empty. I try my best to remember my training, decades of training and discipline. My body is my temple, my instrument and my weapon. I release the breath I didn't know I was holding as the door opens, the Golems made from rock and stone enter the room. Their joints grind together, crumbling the stone as dust falls gently to the floor. The sound like rain. Oh, how I miss the rain. They wait, patiently. They've long given up grabbing me, manhandling me. There isn't no need, I no longer resist them. In the early days, I had, but punishment had been swift. Retribution, tenfold. 

It was never on me, I was never punished for what I did. No, the others were punished. I was just made to watch, and it broke me. Broke my heart and left me like this, this shadow of myself. That shuffled before these two guards, these two I could crush like pebbles. Scatter them like ash in the wind. Instead, I moved without purpose and without guidance. I was but a tool of their bidding. What other choice did I have?

I am Daring.

The winter's sun blinds my eyes, as I raise a weak and withered arm to try and shield my eyes. Three, two - I don't even manage to count to one before I feel the thick, firm finger prod into the centre of my back. Causing the wind to rattle around my chest. There had been a time I had killed men for less, I looked longingly towards the outer walls. They had once been much shorter; instead, I had jumped them many times. I had punched my way through them several times more, me and my fellow inmates making our escape. There had been fewer of us each subsequent time. Our resolve never held, until only I was had the courage, the daring, to do what the others would not do. This was when they started punishing others.

I looked to them now, their rags and bodies tattered and torn. In my heart, I knew that I looked just as run down, just as bedraggled as each of them. Though deep down, I wished that I was the worst off. None of them met my eyes, not anymore. It was hard to tell if they understood the reason they resented me, if they knew my goal in escaping was to try and help them all. That I didn't stop because I kept getting caught, did they understand that I stopped because I could no longer risk it? When I had been punished, I didn't care. I could take it, I could take a thousand times the punishment of the others, but I couldn't take them being punished.

I am Hopeful

The screech pierces the air; it tears through me. The hair on the back of my neck, my arms and even my legs stand to attention. Stands ready, I can feel the adrenaline trying to pump its way through my body, but I fight it. I take a deep breath. The guards seem oblivious to my change of state, either that or they just don't care as I fight to bring my breathing back under control. In through the mouth One-Two. Then back out through the nose, a technique I have practised many times. In diplomatic meetings, on the battlefield and in various training and battle scenarios throughout my life. The screech again, the flutter of wings.

I will not look. I will not grant the satisfaction. I know how I got to be here. I understand the chain of events that brought an end to life as I know it, as the others knew it. It changed everything, and it is all my fault. The guards leave as they push me through a gate. I can feel my frail bones shudder at the impact. I don't give them the satisfaction of a wince, but I cannot prevent a gasp from escaping between my lips. Nobody looks up as I enter, they never do. These, like most of the others, have long ago forsaken me. I pray every day, it is through the need for self-preservation, and not through hate. If they hated me, I don't think I could bear it.

The screech again, this time closer. I look up at the owl, sat perched on the top of a guard tower. It looks directly at me, its piercing yellow eyes. I stare back, my blue eyes dull and withered. Underneath it, I hope she can see my steely resolve. 

Then she does something I do not expect. She winks at me before flapping her wings and rising into the air. My truth shatters, my faith withers. Had I been wrong in my convictions this whole time? This whole time, I had been sure of my jailor, the one who punished me and those around me. Now? Now a fresh fear clawed its way through me. Squirming its way under my skin. If I had been wrong, how much did I truly know?

"This is going to sting."

Sif spat into the paste, finishing the mixture. With two fingers, she scooped up a healthy-sized glob, and before Heather could protest, rubbed the salve into the open wound. The flesh bubbled and boiled, and the stench of burning flesh cut through the aromas of the various herbs like a knife. Heather just stared on as Sif moved her hands to clasp Jackie's shoulders. "Grab her feet before-"

Jackie screamed. 

Then her entire body convulsed. Heather grabbed Jackie's legs as they thrashed and they bashed. Sif moved one arm across Jackie's chest, keeping her down, while her other han,d with the seasoned grace of a caring mother, moved beneath Jackie's head to hold it carefully to prevent it from bashing against the ground. There was a ring of a bell as the door to the shop was slowly pushed open, Heather turned to shout over her shoulder: "Sorry, we're-"

Before she could finish, a woman wearing a black jumpsuit with green stripes burst through the door, gun sweeping the room before coming to be trained on Sif's head. Sif looked up for a moment, looking at this new female warrior before returning her attention to her charge.

"Disarm and step away from the woman - Now."

Sif looked at the warrior again with ice in her eyes, seeing the gun waver. This warrior was no better than those she had previously fled; this one was inexperienced. With these new weapons, the mortals had, which made her dangerous. 

"This woman has been harmed by your own Guardsmen and Warriors. I will step away when her life is no longer at risk, and only then." The newcomer looked to Heather, who nodded a little uneasily. The weapon lowered slightly as Sif returned her attention to the wound. The flesh continued to sizzle, and Jackie continued to convulse until the flesh around the wound started to shift and move. 

Jackie's scream became a shriek as slowly but surely, the bullet was forced from her body, as if her body were rejecting it. Sif relaxed her hold as she felt the body beneath her go limp, the screaming stopped and her entire body relaxed. Sif smiled down at Jackie as her eyes opened, a strange look crossed her face. Something akin to disappointment as she reached out with what little strength she had for Sif's hand. Sif grasped the womans hand as gently as possible, smiling a soft, caring smile. 

A sadness travelled up to Jackies eyes. "I wasn't exactly honest with you about Thor, in the facility there is the axe."

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FOUR DAYS TILLCHRISTMAS

LOSER

Roger wasn’t sure why he scratch the whole word on the ticket. Seeing the whole of the word made him more angry, tossing it on the floor as he wheeled his way out of the bodega, much to the cashier’s mild irritation. The wheel chair bound man drew more than his fair fee of stolen glances, partly due to his means of transportation, partly due to the Santa costume he adorned while angrily making his way down the sidewalk. Three scratchers had left him late getting into position but he was sure he’d make it, he always made it on time.

“Bochs! Get over here!” called a similarly festively dressed little person dressed as an elf. Roger’s mood continued to ferment as the angry yells met him halfway to his mark.

“I’m coming! I’m coming! Keep your little tights on!”

“I’ve had these damn tights on for hours, waiting around in the cold for you to wheel yourself outta that corner store. How much you lose already? You still gonna be able to afford your cut of rent this month?” Puck yelled, despite Roger closing the distance.

“You don’t worry you’re pretty little he-“ Puck grabbed Roger’s wheel chair and began pushing it into the street.

“I told you to knock it off with the little digs! You keep it up and I’ll dump your sorry ass on the pavement come summer and watch ya shrivel up like a-“ Puck was interrupted this time as the squeal of brakes and sliding tires erupted from the large moving van that narrowly stopped in time. Taking this as he que, Roger shifted his weight and dumped himself off the side of his wheelchair with a helpful shove from Puck.

Unintelligible screaming and cussing came from Puck while the driver and passenger looked between each other frantically. Unsure of what to do, the passenger got out and approached the duo.

“I am so sorr-“ “Sorry! You killed him! What we’re you doing! You guys were probably text in’ weren’t-“

“No, no! You guys just came outta-“

While the two screamed at each other two other men in ski masks approached swiftly, pulling guns on the driver and passenger. The driver went for a weapon of his own as the mask assailant opened the door but a quick pistol whip stopped that. The passenger hadn’t noticed the stick up as he continued screaming with Puck, that was until he felt the gun in his back.

It was a pretty good gig, target would be movers, get them to stop with a little bit of acting and a fake accident then nab the whole truck full of furniture. They swap out the plate, hold up the other two actors and leave the lot of them for dead while they make tracks in the truck. It’s not fool proof, lord can go wrong so that’s why the Omega Syndicate limits big jobs like this to once or twice a year.

At some point it was ‘discovered’ Roger was still Alive and he was propped back up in his wheelchair. Now the quartet watched as the truck rolled away with his accomplices inside. Once they were out of sight the two chumps began to frantically call the police. Normally there would be a bit more the the con here; a reason for Puck and Roger leave followed by the exchange of fake phone numbers if the police asked for statements. These two seemed to caught up in the moment to care as the duo slinked away back onto the street.

“Pretty smooth.”

“No thanks to you man, we almost ended up running you right into the side of that thing. I’m serious man, you need to get your head outta your ass, you’ve been citrin’ it close a lot more lately.” Puck replied to Roger who gave a dismissive wave in return. Despite being in the land of criminal opportunity Roger still didn’t feel like much had changed since leaving Canada. It was the same jobs just with higher rent and, admittedly, bigger payouts. He was never going to be Danny Ocean but he drilled yearned for something more than selling hot furniture and watches.

It had taken the duo a while to walk/roll/bus out of town to their small apartment/storage locker/garage but they finally got in, Roger unlocking the door and Puck pushing it in. Inside they found Pierre and Henry, just getting out of their costumes, faces caked with white makeup and coats stuffed with pillows to make identifying them all the more difficult.

“I’m sweating like a wh- lady of the evening in a church wearing all this. Sorry Pierre.” 

“No worries Henry, just glad you caught yourself. Shelia’s actually the show stopper now. Roll her out when they got big money comin-“

“What’s it matter if he says the ‘W’ word anyway? Shelia’s a stripper not a lady of the evening.” Roger interjected, beginning to strip out of his Santa costume.

“What’s any of this matter for? What’s the haul? Wanna see how much I’ve got for Christmas presents this year.” Puck interjected into Roger’s interjection, taking off his own elf costume. Silently agreeing, Pierre and Henry walked back over to the back of the truck with Henry snagging a pair of bolt cutters on the way.

The bolt cutters met the lock with a loud clunk and He Ey began to squeeze. Sometimes they used cheap locks on these, other times they needed some elbow grease to crack them open. This time though it didn’t even seem to budge. Henry strained his arms against the force multipliers, eventually changing his position to brace one bar against his chest in the hopes of getting more movement out of it but no luck. Eventually the others made their way over, Puck and Roger still undressed aside from undershirts and ginch.

“What’s taking so long?”

“Tough lock.” Pierre and Henry said in unison though Henry’s reply came out as more of a strained exhale.

“We gotta use the cutter?”

“Last time we did that we burnt a hole in that couch.” Roger replied, pointing out the unsold couch they were currently using in their living area (a corner of the garage with three beds, the couch and a television).

“Yeah I remember but I’d rather have one burned couch than a truck full of hot cargo.” Puck replied, speaking over the ever more audible grunts of Henry. Eventually Henry gave up and passed the cutters over to Pierre who gave it a try as well, facing similar challenges.

“Why do they gotta use such heavy duty locks anyways? Most of the time they keep the real valuable stuff on ‘em in the cab.” Roger lamented, his comments not doing anything to help morale or rending lock from latch.

An hour later Roger was up on cutter duty, heating the metal as much as he could before bashing on it with a sledge which was very precarious from his wheelchair. 

“Shift switch!” Roger called over to his fellow criminals who were currently sat on his couch/bed watching the television. 

“No way man! I was at it way longer! Just cause there’s less of ya doesn’t mean you get a shorter shift!” Pierre yelled back, everyone else agreeing with their silence. Rodger flipped them the double bird to their turned backs before putting the welding helmet back on and continuing to heat the lock. Only a couple moments after starting a loud bang rang out through the shop. 

Like carrion circle a corpse, the group descended on the now busted lock, cracked for the constant heating and cooling. Clumsily with the bolt cutters, Puck grabbed the still glowing lock and dislodged it from the truck’s latch. A similarly difficult maneuver was done to open the latch to which Roger and Henry got close and lifted up the warped door with all their might.

The group was left dumbstruck as their expected haul of furniture was instead a collection of space age looking technology looking straight out of Star Wars along with a towering silver and blue form lit up by the internal blink lights.

ISSUE 1: BOXED AND WRAPPED

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Hidden 7 mos ago Post by Pacifista

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Pacifista Ponk-ifista

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Pacifista

Ponk-ifista

652 posts

in 4566 days

Seen 3 days ago

Bio

It didn’t bleed but it had still hurt. She was crying and the older boys were jeering at her. She didn’t even remember what had made them mad or if she even did anything wrong, but she’d felt like she might have. Something stupid that a kid ought to do. Something that wouldn’t matter in a month but meant everything at the time. Something with consequences that mattered more, that would linger in the mind for years to come. She’d taken the rock and thrown it back but it didn’t even hit his mark. They were crowding in on her until another boy came in, smaller but angrier, growling, tackling one boy onto the ground he kept thrashing. They ganged up on him and beat him. He didn’t stop thrashing but when she gathered herself she screamed. They pushed him down. Another boy rushed to push her down, and then they ran away, leaving the two on the ground crying.

She remembered what she had done. It came to her when she remembered that small set of blue eyes that had looked at her then, crying. She’d angered those other boys because she’d persisted on being friends with this one, who’d helped her when she needed it even though he needed more help then she ever could have processed at the time. She’d sat up and wiped the tears from her face knowing she’d made the right choice, and while he sat on the grass, crying silently while she’d been wailing loudly, she’d remembered what had felt then right in this moment. She’d given him a small kiss on the forehead and thanked him, something like she’d seen on TV probably. And now she’d seen those eye again, a little bigger, still scared even though the face they were a part of was trying and failing to smile. She didn’t see one even as she suddenly embraced him into a hug.

“O-oh, uh, it’s good to see you too.” Bruce pulled back awkwardly, the edges of his lips twitching as they reached to become a grin before being restrained. Betty still held him, pulled away as she studied him. “Uh, I heard about what happened from Talbot, after the fact.”

A bubble of rage rose. “Oh I can’t believe him!”

“No, it’s fine, he was really apologetic. It was a freak accident, he was panicking and turned the key too hard in the wrong direction. I put him in that position as much as I put your dad in his.”

“Keys only ever go one direction!” Betty hissed, incredulous. The two met eyes and, despite themselves and despite the near tragedy of the prior night, burst into laughter. Among the warm sun and the pleasant air of the small park that rested near their respective apartment complexes, it wasn’t out of place even as they earned the odd looks of some kids playing nearby.“You’re too good, Bruce.”

Bruce feigned a smile, glancing aside. “Let’s go get food.”

Side by side, hand not in hand, the two moved down the path on their way to a nearby shopping district. Betty’s light dress flowed as they moved into the urban sprawl of the relatively fancy neighborhood, a far cry from their childhood home on the other side of the country, where children weren’t unknown to ditch class or start fights or sell each other drugs they shouldn’t have even known about. Bruce had been able to leave it sooner, going to community college not because he wanted to, but because the bullying had grown so severe, then onto college because of his aptitude. Meanwhile Betty knew she was the nepo baby. She’d earned her degree, certainly, even if it was years after Bruce, but the offer for Cadmus had only come because of who her father had been, as much as Dad had fervently denied it. Most of the people working with them at Cadmus were on the younger side, their genius or connections allowing them to skip ahead into a very real world with very real consequences. She would never tell him but she hoped that Bruce’s accident would be a sort of wake up call for them. A reminder that the responsibility they held had very real dangers and consequences. But it didn’t need to be a lesson for Bruce, because she knew it wasn’t anything he needed to learn. He’d acted with the best interests of others in mind, and Betty both loved and hate that. She’d hated being terrified and frantic as the situation developed. The hours she’d spent in utter shock thinking that Bruce was dead and it was all over, only for her to unleash those emotions when she found out he was alive after all. He didn’t need to see that side of her, but she did have to see him now.

They found a hotdog cart and took a seat on a bench, watching pedestrians walk by. Bruce spilled some ketchup on his flannel, Betty watching as he took a clumsy napkin to it. “How’s your project going?” he asked, apropos of nothing

Betty’s posture slouched. “Well, it’s like… I thought I’d be a fit because me and Dr. Gregor were both looking into advanced ways of mutant detection. But like...the threat classification system is dated, racist bullcrap, we should not be thinking of mutants as being dangerous first, let alone bringing it up every day. I want the tools we develop to help people learn about their powers safely and not… The tools are good, but I just think she’s misguided on what they should be used for.” Letting out a low sigh, she added, “I’ll figure it out somehow.” There was a pause. Both of them took another bite of their food, knowing the pause was the kind that was not for a lack of things to say, but because the natural continuation was something difficult to utter.

Bruce looked into his food, his processed meat object. “Ross...er, the General.”

“Dad.”

Bruce bared his teeth a bit as he kept his chuckle internal, holding a smile at bay. “Yes, him. He told me that the Gamma Emitter team has been shitcanned and I’ll be working with Sterns next week, assuming my psych and physical check out I guess. I get to blow all my sick hours two months into getting hired, so that’s swell. He’s working on Gamma Mutation, which means animal experimentation. Because-”

“Sterns is the kind of crackpot who left his prior lab to come to Cadmus shouting ‘You’ll see, you’ll all see!’”

Bruce shook his head, letting out a sigh. “His, uh, other papers on Gamma are foundational, but well, I’m getting paid big military contract bucks to kill rats for the next few months I guess. If we do ‘kill death’ then that’s just a bonus.” He let out a light gasp of pain as Betty jabbed him in the arm with the base of her elbow. The last bite or so of his hotdog hit the ground a moment later. She laughed, and the last bit of her food met the same fate, and she laughed again. As she calmed, she kept observing Bruce, the man’s eyes locked on the wasted food as a bird came down, it’s beak pecking at the pressed meat slurry and condiment. Life and death surrounded them, at all times and always.

Leaning into Bruce, she rested her head on his shoulder. He flinched as he tended to do from all touch. She knew he didn’t like it, and she also knew he would never tell her that. She knew that was wrong, but she wouldn’t let herself be held back by that. Life was too short. “Should we call this our first date, or would you rather do something special?”

Bruce stammered, a good few seconds of insubstantial noises coming out until he finally managed, “But, uh, I mean, there was that, er, you told me about a Russian guy once-”

“That was in high school, and it wasn’t anything serious.” She could feel Bruce looking for another angle, and intercepted. “My dad won’t be happy with anyone, but if it’s you he could at least tolerate it. But that doesn’t matter: what do you want, Bruce?”

It transmitted from his chest to the shoulder she rested on faintly, but she believed she could feel his heart pounding. Angling her head, she looked at him, their faces mere inches apart. He was still scared, he always seemed to be. Their lips met, and Betty finally found the smile he’d been holding within.

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Hidden 7 mos ago → 1 mo ago Post by Stormyx

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Stormyx 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝

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Stormyx

𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝

1560 posts

in 3251 days

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 E M M A  F R O S T
E M M A  F R O S T

The unmistakable shape of an exquisite white silk gown lay strewn over the back of a chair, and shoes had been left abandoned; kicked aside in the heated moments. Even the bed had shifted and dragged and the sheets had twisted into disordered tangles. The very air was thick and warm and alive with psionic energy. Emma Frost lay in the ruin, her hair loose and skin flushed with a thigh thrown unapologetically over Scott’s hip; claiming him and the night entirely. 

Scott traced in idle patterns along her spine in their aftermath, his own breath still uneven as his gaze travelled the room to see a lamp on its side spilling light across his suit that lay haphazard. Just torn buttons and crumpled fabric. “This was the best day of my life, Mrs Summers,” he sighed out against her cheek, leaving soft tracing kisses at her jawline.

Emma’s fingers travelled back to rest against the bare warmth of his inner thigh and she smiled faintly with a blushing playfulness. “That’s still Mrs Frost to you, darling,” were the words she murmured to him while his lips moved over her.

He answered with motion, rolling her onto her back with little restraint and an easy confidence; his knee nudging her leg aside as his hand threaded into her hair. “Mmmm,” he hummed out against her. “In here and tonight, you’re Mrs Summers. My Mrs Summers.” 

“Alright,” she breathed out; husky and unguarded. “I’ll be Mrs Summers here as long as you promise to forever adore me.”

“Didn’t I just vow to in front of all our families and friends?”

Her fingers tightened around his own and she smiled softly. “Mhmm.” For a long moment, neither of them moved, they remained happy in their embrace. “You know… I always wanted to be important to someone,” she finally confessed, without her usual armour of wit or ice. She lay before him, bare and luminous. “And today I felt that way.” Heat still lingered on their skin; the echoes of their passion remained alive in every overturned thing.

“You are important to me,” Scott affirmed, holding her tighter. The vulnerability that she had unmasked was not lost on him. “The most important.”

“Promise me,” Emma whispered as her eyes closed. She rested her forehead against his and settled against him, “that I won’t ever be something you learn to live without.”

“I promise.”

Krakoa’s living pathways unfurled underfoot as Emma headed out far beyond the emerald sprawl of living gardens. Tucked into cragged cliffs were the Departure Stations; silenced hubs of movement. As Emma’s boots pressed softly against the living floor, there was a subtle vibration that let her know Krakoa itself was aware of her passing. Every wall pulsed faintly as the blend of organic growths and precise engineering acted as veins and delicate circuitry. It was a quiet order here. She moved through the polite crowds of mutants flitting with their calm purposes, and there, as if in a twist of fate, Cyclops stood. 

His stillness carried command and anticipation in equal measure. He had not been stung by the same feeling of a twist that Emma had; he was here by design to greet her. To force the encounter and to confess. As she approached, his eyes narrowed behind his visor and he stilled himself. Even after all this time, her presence made him nervous, stirred something within him despite his usual grounding force. Emma’s lips curved just slightly as she approached him.

The mood of the hub shifted almost imperceptibly as the on-duty mutants stole glances from behind their consoles and along the walkways. Whispers moved like cautious birds through the air of their shared awareness of a rare convergence. Emma Frost and Cyclops, together on the platform. This was not a casual meeting, even in a place accustomed to comings and goings, the charged tension was immediate and drew a silent, careful attention.

“Cyclops,” Emma greeted politely, shredding the silence behind a perfect smile. “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to go off and be very brave somewhere?”

He smiled faintly at that and lowered his shoulders. “And you,” he said carefully before shifting his weight and scanning the horizon. “You’re the talk of Krakoa,” he laughed. “This Gala of yours… And not only that but your new student. More tricks,” he said, adjusting the strap of his visor. “More tricks of cruelty dressed up as lessons.” 

She didn’t slow. She didn’t look at him. “If I were so cruel,” she began coolly, “why is it that Somnus continues to work with me? Sought me out in fact.” She assessed him with an unbothered gaze and let her pale eyes sweep his physique, she’d known it once. “Oh no… I didn’t coddle him.” There was a mocking bite to her words before she continued. “And I won’t. I showed him the face of his power, and he thrived.” She let the words settle between them. 

Something weary and old threaded through Scott then, the ease with which she could cut through critique and make herself sound… Reasonable. Scott exhaled. “Yeah, but you don't need to punish people.”

“Really? You’re going to lecture me?” She sighed. 

“No, I–”

“I what? I know you’re not here by coincidence. Out with it.”

“I don’t want to argue, or lecture.” He sighed again, all full of the resignation of being witnessed for his motives. “Some things just don’t change, do they?” He tried to smile too, like an olive branch that carved itself above his strong jawline. A place she used to kiss him. “I came here to tell you,” Scott said slowly, almost as if he was testing the weight and sound of his words before he said them. “It’s Jean. Jean and me… Jean and I… Have been seeing each other.”

From her side, Emma’s expression did not change. Of course he would choose this as his moment, in public. She let the corner of her mouth tilt with a faint, dry amusement, letting nothing else crack or slip. In some way, she was surprised that even inside the news didn’t seem to rock her. “I see,” she spoke plainly. He’d already planned that she wouldn’t react in any kind of coarse way here. “Things really do stay the same. Congratulations to the two of you.” She was all full of resignation too.

Her reaction was expected, of course but Scott’s chest still tightened. “I… Wanted you to hear it from me, not anyone else.”

“How noble of you as always,” she smiled back – all teeth and ice. “Am I to be wounded? Appreciative?” It was almost amusing that even now, Scott remained clumsy with his words and still clumsier with his timing.

“That’s not–” He stopped momentarily so as to let his thoughts recalibrate and to find the right words. To gain back his balance after her petulant verbal shove. He’d placed the wound on her but he didn’t feel like pouring salt upon it. He never wanted that. “I just didn’t want it to be a secret that... You know, overheard or something. At a bad time. Krakoa is all grapevines right? I… I know this isn’t the right time,” he added quietly. 

“History always has a way of repeating itself when no one learns anything, Scott.” She said gently as if on some level to soothe him, or to at least cut the cord he was holding onto that made him feel like he had a window to her emotional response. “You don’t need to manage my feelings. You lost that right when you stopped being responsible for them.”

Before anything else, Scott nodded once. Conceding to a point he had already lost years ago. He studied her face, searching for cracks that were no longer there; not for him anyway. “Are you… Seeing anyone?” he asked with hesitation driven by desire to find the familiar with her again. Hadn’t it been long enough?

“No,” she warned in a response laced with a crisp edge as sharp as the half smile that was formed from the sheer graceless audacity of him. “And it would be none of your business anyway, just as whatever you and Jean do is none of mine.

I’m heading to New York,” she continued. Moving and turning the conversation away from him. “Although I suppose you knew that, or else you would not have waited for me here…” She left him no room for interruption.  “I have things to tend to before the Gala. Exactly the kind of unglamorous work that helps to keep our utopia alive and well.” She let her words hand, neither an invitation or farewell.

“I see,” Scott added. The presence of the wall between them was so heavy. “I’m heading out too… With Kitty and Bobby, we discovered an abandoned lab, we think it's Sinister’s.”

Emma’s brow arched with a distant but precise interest. “How nostalgic,” she said. “I am sure I will hear all about it when you return.”

“Emma-”

“What?” She smiled thinly at him. “We had our chance at that monster, why are you dangling it in front of me now?”

“I guess we have both just chosen different distractions,” Scott uttered tersely. 

“And God knows you choose to dress yours in your martyrdom.”

He held his tongue. He always did.

“You can’t seriously hope to find him at an abandoned lab he would have cleared out already or laced with traps? Scott, please.”

“I have to try something- it has to be worth something, so that when this over and when he’s finally dealt with then we can actually… We can– You can talk about her–”

“Don’t,” Emma said in an absolute manner. 

Scott blinked. “Emma–”

“You don’t get to make her name, her, all of her... Some... Conversation you get to schedule. You moved on,” she snapped. “You could tell yourself that the bigger picture mattered more. Goodness. Maybe it does.” She stepped back then, placing a further distance between them with a practiced ease. “Go. Find Sinister’s scraps. Maybe find his trail and stop him. I genuinely hope you succeed.”

Scott looked at the shape of her then, something he lost years ago and something he once had. 

“Do be careful though. Jean does hate it when you’re reckless.”

“I’ll try,” he answered, unwilling to fight back with her. He knew what it would cost to exchange those kinds of blows with her here. “I’ll have to trust you to keep our world in one piece while I chase him, then.” He sighed out. 

Emma’s gaze flicked to him before she turned and stepped toward her transport pad. The psychic hum of her presence lingered enough to leave Scott momentarily unmoored until the movement shimmered around him and carried her away and he exhaled once more. When everything settled with her absence, the platform felt all the emptier for it.

He’d lingered just long enough to watch her leave and it hadn’t been the first time, he would guard her back even now, wouldn’t he? And if she was right about the lab, and it was likely that she was – that dreaming for answers to be found was a dangerous and foolish thing. Well, he was a fool through and through, a hopeful one. 

He still had to try for something. He wanted answers too, even if she no longer believed that mattered. Somewhere out there, a lab waited with a path lined with shadow and faint traces of the unacknowledged weight of their shared history. He’d walk it alone if he had to. The hub returned to its rhythm and the whispers faded.

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Hidden 7 mos ago → 7 mos ago Post by Captain Uni

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Captain Uni The Artist Formerly Known As Simple Unicycle

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Captain Uni

The Artist Formerly Known As Simple Unicycle

2008 posts

in 3906 days

Seen 2 hrs ago

Bio

 I S S U E  # 3
I S S U E  # 3

 A L L  T I M E  L O W
A L L  T I M E  L O W

 P A R T  T H R E E
P A R T  T H R E E

I sprint out of the room, leaving the battered and bruised bodies of Bobby and Billy behind. The hallway is dark save for a light at the end, the red glare of an exit sign. I race towards it as I hear more footsteps hammering down behind me. I look over my shoulder to see more of the jackal-headed orderlies running after me.

Rᴜɴ!

I gasp as I hear the voice but don't stop running. "K-Khonshu?"

Yᴇꜱ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏᴏʟ! Dᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ! Cʟɪᴍʙ, Mᴀʀᴄ! Gᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ!

I don't stop. I throw myself through the exit door and slam it shut. I look around for anything to block the door with, finding a large shelf that I toss in front of it. After a moment, a bang sounds, someone trying in vain to push past the brace to open the door. But it holds strong. They're not getting through just yet. I sigh in relief.

Dᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ ɴᴏᴡ. Tʜᴇʏ'ʟʟ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ. I ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴏꜰ, Mᴀʀᴄ.

Immediately I move to start walking up the stairs, only to falter as I remember what Crawley said: that I need to go deeper. I look to my right at the stairs leading down. It seems to be sapping the light out of the room, leading into an abyss.

Wʜᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ? Gᴇᴛ ᴏɴ ɪᴛ!

"Sorry old bird, but I trust Crawley a hell of a lot more than I trust you." With those words, I turn to the staircase leading down, and begin my descent. Khonshu screeches in my ear indignantly, but I try my best to block him out. As I go down, I can hear his voice fading away, along with the banging on the door. It hits me after a moment that the staircase hasn't turned to wrap around itself, it's just continuing on down into a pit.

I try to wrap my cape tighter around myself when I find that it's not on me anymore. My hands, once wrapped with the scrap pieces of fabric, are instead covered by white leather gloves. I look down at myself and find I'm dressed in a fine suit, shining white in the black void. "What the hell?"

A loud THUMP! sounds to my right and I find that I'm no longer in the void but rather back in the hospital. The lights are fully lit but no one else is around. I look at a door to my right that's slightly ajar and hear another thump from behind it. Cautiously, I open the door and step inside, finding a sarcophagus that's rocking back and forth.

"C'mon, let me out! For God's sake let me out!"

I recognize that voice, probably because it's my own. "JAKE!" I rush over to the coffin and force it open, grunting in exertion as I pull off the cover. A wave of relief washes over me as I see Jake beneath the cover. He looks up at me in awe. Wordlessly, I offer him a hand.

"Marc?" I nod. He grabs my hand and hauls himself out, groaning a bit. "Oy vey, that sucked ass..." I steady him as he steps out onto his own two feet. He looks at me for a moment, then gestures to my face. "What's, uh... What's this?"

"Huh?" I reach up and touch my face, finding that I'm wearing a mask. I take it off and look at it in my hands: white, featureless, with an embroidered crescent moon on the forehead. "I... Have no idea, honestly." I look back at Jake and find that he's holding back tears. "You good, Ja-" I'm caught off guard as he wraps his arms around me in a bear hug, holding me tight.

It's strange, being hugged by yourself, but it feels like a warm embrace from a loved one. He's like my brother, in a way. I wonder for a moment how long he's been wanting to do that. "Had no damn clue how I was gettin' out of that one, Marc... Thought I was done for. Then you show up lookin' like a reject comic book character, more than usual I mean, craziest drek I've ever seen..." He pulls away, looking me in the eyes with his hands still on my shoulders. His lips are quivering slightly but still held upwards in a grin. I smile and pat his arm. "Where the hell are we? And where's Steven?"

"I'm pretty sure that this is our mind... As for Steven, I don't know. I was lucky to find you." I look around the room. It's completely empty save for the sarcophagus, just beige walls and white tiled floor. "We should get out of here. We've got to find Steven."

Jake nods, "Don't gotta tell me twice." I turn back to the door, only to find that it's no longer a steel door with a windowpane like you'd find in a hospital but rather a thick wooden door with a simple bronze knocker. On the right hand side of the doorpost, right at eye level, is a mezuzah. I look back to Jake and see he's just as confused as I am, putting his hands up in the air to show he doesn't understand either.

"Alright... Let's see what's behind this door." I turn the handle and push it open.

We step into a hallway, one that I recognize instantly as my heart sinks into my stomach. To my right is a set of stairs, the edges of each step chipped and the wood scuffed. Hanging on either of the walls are photos of a family, my family: my father, my mother, my brother, and myself. Jake steps next to me and examines the photo as well. "... If you wanna go, we can find a way outta here."

"... This isn't real. This is just our mind. And I think we need to confront whatever is here if we want to find Steven and get back to the real world." I walk through the hall to the family room.  There I find myself and Randall sitting on the couch, Rand slowly pulling a Jenga piece out of a precarious tower. It collapses, the pieces flying all over the table and floor with a loud CRASH!

"Oh no..." Randall looks at the fallen tower with a quivering pout.

"Hey, it's alright," my younger self says, wrapping an arm around his (our?) little brother. "That's just the way the cookie crumbles sometimes."

"Do I have to pick it up?" Randall asks, still upset.

"Nah, I got it. You wanna play Uno instead?" The younger me starts to pick up the pieces as Randall smiles.

"Yeah! I'm gonna beat you this time!" I wince slightly at Randall's volume. I know what's about to happen next. Jake places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

A booming voice calls out from upstairs, "What's with all the FUCKIN' SHOUTING!?" Even as a grown man, the voice still makes me shudder. I turn to look at the stairs as the dull thumping of footsteps beat down on them, and see him: Yitz Perlman. My father's loyal student of the Torah, a young man who was about ten years older than me and always babysat myself and Randall when my parents were out. That meant he took naps on the upstairs lounge's sofa and did bad things to us if we woke him up.

His eyes are full of sleep and his face is twisted into a scowl as he steps into the living room. "I thought I told you little fuckers that if you woke me up it'd be bad fuckin' news for both of you!" He points an accusatory finger at Randall. "You, fat boy, you the one that made that loud ass fuckin' noise and started yelling at the top of your fuckin' lungs?"

Randall's lips quiver and his eyes fill with tears that he's trying hard to fight back. Young Marc shakes his head and stands up. "No, it was me! I did it!"

"Oh, we playing fuckin' Spartacus around here? Fine. You're off the hook, lardass. Marc!" His finger shifts to point at the boy. "You're coming with me." Young me freezes as he locks eyes with Yitz. "I gotta tell you twice, retard? COME ON!" Like a well trained dog issued a command, he follows after Yitz.

Down into the basement.

I can feel my heart pounding, my blood pumping battery acid that burns my veins. My breathing is heavy and fast, too fast. Jake and I follow Yitz and myself down into the basement. Yitz stops halfway down and that causes my younger self to pause as well.

Then Yitz kicks him down the rest of the stairs.

I feel every bump like it's happening again, the edge of the wood cutting into my ribs and arms and legs and my head smashing into the concrete floor. Yitz cackles as he watches the fall. Then, he slams the door shut.

"Yitz! Yitz, please! I'm sorry!" the boy cries out. He gets no response. The basement was only used for storage, rarely ever ventured into. Yitz took all the light bulbs out of the sockets so it was enveloped in complete darkness. Young Marc curls up into a ball on the floor, scrapes across his body bleeding slowly. He sobs.

"Hey, don't cry," a small voice says from the darkness. Marc looks up at the voice.

"Huh? W-who's there?"

"I'm a friend. Bloody hell, he did a number on you, huh?" A boy in a green sweater steps out from the darkness and sits down next to Marc. "Right muppet that chav is. Thinks he can just push everyone around like he's king of the world. He'll get his one day."

Marc sniffles. "You think so?"

The other boy smiles. "I know so. We'll show him, together."

"Who are you?"

"Like I said, I'm a friend. Best friend you'll ever have. You can call me Steven. Steven Grant." Steven extends a hand. Marc looks at it warily for a moment, then shakes it. "We're going to be good friends."

The boys fade away into mist. Darkness envelopes everything. I'm shaking. Tears are streaming down my face. Then I hear a banging sound, like the sarcophagus Jake was in being moved around. I look to my left and see another one before me, standing upright. I turn around to look behind me and find Jake standing there still, having stayed silent through that whole ordeal. "That should be our boy right there," he says, and I nod.

Together, the two of us pry the sarcophagus lid off and throw it to the floor. Beneath it is Steven, taking in a shuddering breath. He looks at the two of us with the most relieved expression I've ever seen on his (my own) face. "Oh thank God," he mumbles, before falling forward. Jake and I catch him and help him stay standing. 

"Don't know how long I was in that damn casket. Thanks, lads." He wraps his arms around the two of us and we all squeeze each other, the three of us breathing a collective sigh of relief. We part, Steven pulling back to look at the two of us as he keeps a hand on each of our shoulders. "Good to see you two... Where in the hell are we?"

"Long story short, Grant, we're in our own head."

"Come again, Jake?"

"Trapped in our mind. Forced to relive our traumas and all that gut shtopn. We're still tryin' to find a way out."

I nod. "We've probably got a ways to go, but at least now we're together." I hear a door open behind me and the three of us all turn to look at it. In the void, a door frame has appeared, the door opening into blinding white light. I look at the two of them and we all nod together.

"Let's go."

We step into the light.

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Hidden 7 mos ago Post by Sep

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"I wasn't exactly honest with you about Thor, in the facility there is the axe."

As Jackie let out a soft, relaxed breath, her entire body went limp, and Sif lowered Jackie's head down gently. As she did so with her free hand, she pulled off her cloak, placing the furs underneath the woman's head, cushioning it against the cold floor. She smiled softly before looking up at Helen. Their eyes locking as they met, a shiver of recognition travelled Sif's body as she met those emerald green eyes. Sif was about to ask the woman if they had met before, the knawing sensation of recognition clawing at the back of her brain like an itch she couldn't quite scratch. When the woman at the door cleared her throat loudly, drawing attention back to her. 

Sif allowed her eyes to travel over her. She was clearly some kind of warrior, like the others who had shot Jackie. That said, the garb was different. It appeared to be more functional, with a sleeker design. Rather than some form of flag on her shoulder, there was the crest of some form of bird. From the head shape, either some kind of hawk or an eagle. The edges of the eagle were lined with green against the black. Much of her outfit actually appeared to have green highlights. Everything except for the weapon that was pointed directly towards Sif.

"Okay, now disarm and step back so I can call for help."

Sif stood up and stepped away from Jackie; however, her hand never moved to the hilt of her sword. Her hand stayed loosely by her side, in an open palm. "Farther aide will not be necessary, and as I said to those who wounded Jackie. I will not disarm. You mortals have already proved to be willing to wound first, and ask questions later."

Roz looked to Helen for help, who merely shrugged as she returned her attention to gently stroking Jackies forehead. Not seeing any other recourse, and the magical giant lady had saved the life of someone shot at by the police Roz did the only thing she could do, she holstered her pistol and moved over to Jackie for a cursory examination. Breathing, heart rate, and all appeared good. From what a basic glance could make out, there had been no wound at all. It was as if the bullet had never hit her, but for the blood-stained clothes. Roz held a hand over where the wound should have been, and then looked up at Sif who stood there watching her suspiciously. 

"My name is Agent Rosalind Solomon, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Who are you, and where did you come from?"

Sif stood to her full height, hand resting on the hilt of her sword. "I am Lady Sif, of Asgard, and I have come in search of Thor."

This 'Rosalind' merely raised an eyebrow, again with this response of not knowing who Thor was, or perhaps it was Asgard or her title that was confusing. When Sif had last been to Midgard, she had just been a humble Goddess. Now she was a great warrior; she liked to think one of the finest in Asgard, though there would be many who would attempt to dispute her claim. "He left Asgard years ago, with word that forces of a great evil were trying to amass more power. After all this time, he has called for aid, and I have come to rejoin his side."

"That's a lot-" Roz shook her head. "-thats a lot to process, are you talking about Thor, the Norse God of Thunder?"

Sif nodded, finally pleased that she was getting somewhere. "Aye-" Before Sif could respond further, the entire room exploded. Roz and Helen threw themselves ontop of Jackie as debris from the far wall went flying through the room. Sif spun on her heel towards the wall as it tore apart, right hand pulling her sword from its sheath. The Asgardian blade sliced effortlessly through what had once been a cabinet full of various herbs and tonics. 

The Red Armoured troll roared as he tore through the wall, and he didn't stop to assess the damage. Barreling straight towards Rosalind and Helen, there was a succession of six bangs as Rosalind let loose a volley of shots from his weapon. The projectiles bounce harmlessly off the creature's armour. As he careered straight for them, Sif felt her entire body coil like a spring as she pushed off the ground; she could feel the floor crack slightly under her feet from the power of her stride as she careered into him. Leading with her shoulder. Sif felt as if she had tried to tackle an immovable object. Twisting with the momentum, she brought herself up, sliding on her feet as the behemoth stumbled slightly and looked at her with a look of utter contempt upon his face.

"You think you're tough, you think you can stop me?!" He ran towards her, swinging one of his massive fists, to which she ducked and dodged beneath. Bobbing and weaving as the next fist came careering directly for her face. "Think you can do it all do you? What makes you think you can stop me?" Sif spun her blade in her good hand as she turned, with a mighty clang it bounced off his armour without leaving anything more than a scratch. Her shock delayed her, causing her to hesitate as a giant fist collided with her and sent her flying through the window of the shop. As she picked herself up off the street, she never even noticed the fact it was quiet, and there was nobody else around.

All she heard was the thudding of heavy feet, the crunching of glass and rubble as the troll climbed out of the recently opened window. "I'm the Juggernaut, bitch. Come and have a go, if you think you're hard enough."

Sif picked up her blade, smiling as he charged at her. She swung high, dove low. Sliding between his legs, slashing at the back of them as he stumbled away. Twisting his giant arms around, he slammed into the ground, but again, she was too fast. The two entered a dance, her strikes despite her Asgardian steel bouncing harmlessly off his skin and armour. Reasoning her to believe that there must have been some kind of enchantment at play. 

Though for all the harmless strikes she landed on the one who had identified himself as the 'Juggernaut' his slow and lumbering frame prevented him from landing a strike back. Given the earlier blow which had completely rattled her, Sif really didn't want to see what a single one of these strikes would do to her. He roared in frustration as he slammed his fist on the ground, knocking her off balance. "I don't have time for you, Bitch." He spat as he picked up a piece of loose road surface from where he had cracked it and threw it at her. 

As she cut through the material neatly, she heard his thunderous footsteps as he powered his way down the street. Her first thought was to simply let him get away, until she started to hear the people scream. He collided with carriages, sending them flying, then she watched as he collided headfirst into a building. Then, back out the other side, slicing down with her sword she allowed her magic to pour into it and open the breach. "-Huh?" was all she heard as she braced herself in front of him; however, the force knocked the wind out of her and into a nearby wall. She saw him slow, just barely. Groaning as Sif pushed herself back to her feet she opened a new breach. Once again, stepping out before him, this time ready. Jumping to the side, she sliced, the tip of her blade making contact with his arm. He stumbled, but didn't slow.

Sweat running down her brow, as she did it again, and again. Every time she appeared, she would dodge, duck and wave. Before trying to catch the few pieces of exposed skin with her blade, she nicked and cut him. Small droplets of blood started to form on the parts of skin she had successfully hit several times. The expletives increased in their frequency and pitch. Shouting and swearing as she appeared, and disappeared just as quickly in an attempt to try and keep up with him. Until eventually she misjudged it, in the middle of the street she choked and coughed as his massive fist picked her up, stumbling himself to a halt, he held her high above his head. She could feel the immense pressure pushing down on her throat, as her sword lay dropped, forgotten and abandoned on the ground.

"I didn't come to fight, you stupid bitch. You should have just left well enough alone." He lifted her higher, and she grabbed his wrist uselessly with one hand. Attempting to claw at it, while her other hand reached for her belt. "I was just sent the Roxxon site, for their secret. I've not been paid to get rid of you, but I'm starting to think I'm going to have to- AAAAAGH!"

The small blade sliced through the skin of his hand as she forced it down, his hand opening to release her she fell to the floor and rolled, picking up her sword as she did so. He walked towards her, as she pulled herself slowly to her feet, watching him nurse and rub his hand. Sif grimaced, which turned to a smile as it turned to a low rumble in the sky above her. A familiar echo, as the sky dimmed and darkened above her. The wind stopped, and everything turned still before it picked up again from the other direction. Droplets of water started to fall from the sky, leaving small splashes on the ground as the gentle pitter-patter started to increase in tempo and power.

Sif stood once again, picking up her sword, she looked up into the sky and closing her eyes. Allowing the rain to wash over her, cooling her. The old familiar feeling, the sense of security. A smile started crawling across her face.

"What are you smiling about?" There was a flash of lightning down the street, and a figure appeared within it. "What in blazes is going on?" Sif knew that at the end of things, she could always count on him. He always allowed her to fight her own battles, face her own demons. Yet, Sif could always count on him. Her not-so-silent protector. She had come to Midgard to find him, yet he had found her.

Thor had arrived.

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Hidden 6 mos ago Post by Lord Wraith

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Clark walked along the side of Main Street, the only road, leaving Smallville towards Miller’s Field, hands shoved into his pockets, an old MP3 player clutched in his right hand, while headphones that had definitely seen better days sat under his hood on top of his thick head of hair. 

♫ Sometimes we never get started
No one will give you a wake-up call
Sometimes the hours are wasted
No one will give you a wake-up call ♫

The steady thump of the backbeat kept Clark nodding along with the music. A smile crossed his face as his empty hand withdrew from the pocket of his denim jacket, running a thumb over his lips where Lana Lang had kissed him not even half an hour earlier.

Finding himself suddenly swept up in the music, Clark began to dance as he continued along the roughly paved road. Jumping into the air, he felt lighter tonight, clicking his heels together before gently landing on solid ground again. If he didn’t know any better, Clark would have sworn he could fly.  

Stopping along the Loeb Bridge, Clark leaned against the railing, watching the Elbow River lazily flow beneath, reflecting the light of the stars above. Stars that shone almost as brightly as Lana’s eyes. He could still see her coy smile just before she kissed him. The taste of her cherry lip gloss and the smell of her cupcake-scented perfume sent his head spinning again.

♫ Candy, she's sweet like candy in my veins
Baby, I'm dying for another taste ♫

The next track on his MP3 player rang out, echoing Clark’s own thoughts as a dumb smile was plastered across his face. Turning the volume up, he stretched his arms out, spinning around while dancing, only to suddenly find himself staring into a pair of headlights. 

Frozen in that moment, Clark couldn’t think as the car was suddenly on top of him. The screeching of tires and twisting of metal drowned out the music. Headphones were ripped from his ears as the full weight of the American-made sedan collided with his chest. Metal and concrete broke against Clark’s back, the ground going out from under him, before suddenly the night air was replaced by the freezing waters of the Elbow River. 

Pulled along by the current, Clark narrowly missed having the black Towncar land on top of him while he frantically checked himself for any sign of injury. Surfacing, he gasped for air but, beyond shock, couldn’t find any injury on himself. 

“What the h-” Clark muttered to himself before his eyes darted back to the ruined bridge and the glowing taillights beneath the surface.

The driver!

Stripping off the heavy denim jacket, Clark dove back beneath the surface. His mind was racing as he tried to figure out why he was still alive. His parents had always been protective, but Clark had been sickly when he was younger. In his adolescence, that had gone away, and he was the picture of health. 

Taking hold of the windshield, Clark pried it from the car with ease. Pulling the unconscious man from the front seat before noticing another passenger in the car. Pushing himself, he delivered the driver to shore before plunging back in.

His lungs should have been burning by now. But Clark barely felt winded. He chalked it up to adrenaline before the roof of the car in his hands suddenly peeled back like the top of a can of beans. Clark barely had time to register what he had done before he pulled the man from the wreckage. 

Dressed in a suit finer than anything Clark had seen in Smallville. The man had a magnificent mane of hair that spilled over his shoulders. Pulling him ashore, Clark felt the hands of another begin to help as the first man had regained consciousness. 

“Sir!” He yelled, “Mr. Luthor, Sir!” He yelled again before pushing Clark aside and beginning to try to resuscitate the man who must have been his boss. Flashes of red and blue refracted from the bridge above as the Sheriff’s department made its way on the scene. 

A cough brought Clark’s attention back to the man he had pulled from the water. The older man spat out a mouthful of water before the driver helped him to sit up. 

“Is-” Clark started, his eyes wide as the situation all began to sink in. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Young man,” The driver replied, “He is, thanks to you.” He said with a relieved smile.

“Not every day a teenager saves one of the most powerful men in the world.”

A tug on the driver’s sleeve directed his attention back to his employer as the man croaked a request.

“I’d like to shake the hand of the one who saved me.”

Clark stood, his legs feeling unsteady beneath him. 

“Clark, Sir, Clark Kent.” Clark offered a hand as he spoke. 

“Young man, I owe you a great debt of gratitude.” The man replied, taking Clark’s outstretched hand. He gave it a firm squeeze before placing his other hand over top of Clark’s.

“My name is Lionel, Lionel Luthor.”
“Clark!” 

Lex called out jovially as Clark entered the den of the younger Luthor’s home. He embraced Clark with a quick hug before holding up a glass.

“Can I offer you a drink? I don’t think I’ve seen you since the wedding, and I must admit that night was a blur.”

“A fifty-year-old Scotch will do that,” Clark replied with a smirk of his own. 

“Ah, yes, well, if a man intends to only get married once, he should make it a night to remember.” The bald man replied with a genuine grin.

“I’m pretty sure you spent more on that bottle of Scotch than I’ll make in a year at the Planet.” Clark retorted dryly. 

It was Lex’s turn to smirk.

“You didn’t exactly pick a lucrative career. My father would have happily helped you gain admission to any school of your choice. But as I recall, you turned him down.” Lex replied, holding up the class again as Clark politely declined.

“Sorry, I’m on the clock,” He answered, shaking his head.

“Ah, so this social call is actually a work call,” Lex stated coolly.

“I like to think of a social call within work hours,” Clark retorted, “Did you see the news regarding the metahuman attack at the bank in Midtown?”

“Hard to keep track of during the record crime wave Metropolis is currently experiencing, but I believe I did,” Lex said dismissively, pouring himself another drink.

“Luthorcorp has contacts with facilities that could help these people, don’t they?”

“Clark, you are aware my wife was the responding agent on that scene today.” Lex countered, “Well, I’m sure your intentions are good, but I don’t have much of a desire to live in a house divided by overstepping my wife’s jurisdiction.” Lex rubbed the top of his head, stopping at the base of his skull before massaging his neck.

“Lex, these people don’t deserve to be locked up, they need someone to help them find a place in this world where they can use their abilities for good.”

“Like Superman?” The other man countered.

Clark paused for a second.

“No-”

“See, Clark, that’s the problem. The media has turned Superman into some kind of an idol to be worshiped, and for what? For breaking the law. Last I checked, vigilantism was still illegal in America. But no one stops Superman, so why wouldn’t every other meta or mutant think they couldn’t take advantage of their powers too?” Lex argued, his voice firm, leaving little room for argument. 

But Clark wasn’t about to back down.

“Lex, I don’t think that’s a fair comparison. They’re not looking to be treated differently. Most metas are an average everyman. Just someone looking for a place to belong. The majority of whom would sooner give up their abilities if it meant a normal life.”

“And what would you have Luthorcorp do?”

“This,” Clark replied, handing Lex a folder from within the satchel slung over his shoulder. 

“I found this through the Planet’s archives. ‘Project Everyone’, a Luthorcorp incentive program that would give a purpose to metahumans, a fulfilling life where they could use their abilities to make a difference in exchange for a stable life.”

Lex took the folder, slowly flipping through the documents inside. His face looked as though he had seen a ghost. 

“This was one of my mother’s ideas,” Lex explained. His tone softened.

“I know,” Clark replied with a small smile.

“That’s a low blow, Clark.”

“I know,” Clark repeated with a wider smile. “But it’s something to think about. I did some further digging, and I think you might be able to broker a deal with Frost-”

“Mr. Luthor!” 

The two men turned to where the third had entered the den.

“It’s your wife, Sir, she’s just been admitted to Metropolis General.”

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Hidden 6 mos ago → 2 mos ago Post by Stormyx

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 E M M A  F R O S T
E M M A  F R O S T

Hell’s Kitchen was no Krakoa; not that it ever pretended to be. The bar kept its lights dim enough to coat it in a comfortable ambiance, even amidst the scent of old beer and damp coats. Something about it was almost comfortable. Almost. Jessica Jones pushed through the door and felt a certain wrongness about the room; it wasn’t danger or a threat – the feeling of being out of place; the alien sensation that someone had turned the volume down on her instincts. Telepathy.  

A white coat and immaculate posture. An elegant hand held a crystal glass that Jessica knew for certain hadn’t come from behind this bar. The very act of bringing her own glassware in like she owned the place. Typical Emma Frost. Jessica groaned and made her way to the empty space beside her. “Wow,” Jessica said. “The White Queen dares to grace Hell’s Kitchen’s grimiest dive bar.”

After a measured sip, Emma cast a glance to her left and met the warm brown eyes of Jessica with faint traces of amusement. “What can I say, Jones? You bring out a side to me.”

“Does this bar even serve red wine?” Jessica asked. “No,” the bartender cut in. “Brought it with her and gave me a hundred.” Jessica rolled her eyes enough that they were momentarily entirely white. “Jesus, Frost.”

Emma smiled. “I mean it is a Tempranillo.”

“I have no idea what that is, but I’m surprised you’re not worried about being mugged. Or hit on.” Jessica said

Wine clung to the glass in the low amber light as Emma tilted her wrist to swirl it. “Jones, darling. This bar is full of weak minds. I could melt a few of them without breaking a sweat.” She smirked. “No. I’m not worried.”

Jessica considered her response before shrugging it off. “Fair enough. I’ll take a beer.” One slid to her hand without comment.

“So,” Emma said, setting her glass down onto a coaster with precision. “How is my favourite detective going with my search? Well, I hope. Cyclops is on the trail we left last month…”

A manila folder was taken out from inside of Jessica’s jacket and placed between them. “This is all the data we pulled. So much was encrypted, and even after that it was already scrubbed and parts clearly destroyed.” Emma didn’t touch the folder, but instead regarded it with a curious glance. 

“So what we’re saying is he won’t find anything of substance then?”

Jessica stiffened. “Again. Jesus, Frost.” She sighed. “You didn’t tell anyone we went there?”

“No,” Emma said, her words calm. “Whatever our friend Mr Sinister is up to, I'm going to be right behind him.”

“With me, I hope,” Jessica added before she could stop herself.

There was something unreadable in Emma’s gaze as it swept over Jessica. “Perhaps,” she said with a shrug. “What did you find?”

“References to something called Project Pandora,” Jessica said. “But it’s been so fucking scrubbed, Emma. It could be garbage, could have been planted. You really think that asshole would have left anything meaningful behind?”

“I know exactly what he’s capable of,” Emma whispered. “Which means I know he’s unpredictable. And sloppy.”

Jessica gave a nod. “They went through everything pretty hard anyway, all that’s really in there are notes about a donor.”

“Charming,” Emma interjected at the implication of it and silence settled between them long enough for Jessica to start at her beer.

“You sure you don’t want to call Scott about this one?” she asked and watched as Emma’s grip tightened on the stem of her glass at the suggestion. “That man murdered your daughter, Em.” There was no restraint to the words, or regret of saying them; they’d talked about this enough now for her to not feel apologetic for pressing at the scar that was still raw and open. No, Jessica sat through the silence that followed as the bar noise continued to creep around them and she raised the bottle to her lips again.

“She wasn’t ours–” Emma began. “Technically yes. Technically no.” Her own pale gaze swept the bar as the discomfort kicked in and left. “Technically enough that it was my responsibility to protect her.” She finally picked up the folder and let her thumb slide across it without opening it. “Project Pandora,” she said, clipping the words. “It’s a start. Thank you.”

Jessica scoffed into her beer and smirked. “You’re paying me for this Frosty, no need to thank me.” After another sip, she edged closer to Emma, “Mind, I’d do it anyway,” her voice was lowered. “How are you really though? God New York must feel like a bore with all of us mere humans, no?”

Emma huffed a quiet laugh, amused despite herself. “Ah yes. Jessica Jones. The mere human.” The wineglass was cradled loosely in her hand, drifting lazy as the sarcasm. “Honestly?” she said. “It’s… nice. It’s home adjacent.” Her gaze moved back to Jessica. “It’s quiet here. No expectations and no Council. The weight of mutantkind is less. And... It never feels like enough.”

“Hmm?” Jessica prompted. “Enough how?” 

Emma exhaled, letting her walls down just enough. “Like I’m not enough.”

That brought a short bark of a laugh out of Jessica who could only stare at the woman’s face to find the joke. “Emma, you’re a politician, teacher, mentor, celebrity, billionaire. What’s left?”

A brittle smile formed upon Emma’s lips and she shrugged. “The parts of me outside of those things.” Once more she watched the wine move around in her glass. “I can never just be me. People see the outside. They see my reputation and that’s all they think I will be, and then all they want me to be. All they require. So, there I exist. Never quite Ororo, or Anna Marie, or Jean Grey. Just–”

“Wow,” Jessica cut in. “Are you jealous of them, White Queen?”

It was as if Emma instantly bristled at such a crude accusation; at the loaded truth in it. “No, I’m not.” The pause after was an indication that she had considered the weight. “It’s more that I’m painfully aware of how people see me and will always see me.”

“I mean, having telepathy gives you a little help with that, right?” Jessica laughed. “People see me as an asshole drunk with anger issues and a detective license that I probably shouldn’t still have.”

“Is that all you are?” Emma asked.

Jessica shrugged. “Depends who you ask.” She lifted the bottle to her lips again and took another long sip. “For what it’s worth Emma, anyone who thinks you’re just those things is full of shit, and that includes you.”

Emma’s lip twitched into a half smile. “At least we get to be beautiful women with superpowers,” Emma said as her lip twitched into a half smile and her glass lifted to toast.

“It does take the edge off,” Jessica smirked and clinked her beer against the crystal.

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Hidden 6 mos ago → 2 mos ago Post by GreenGrenade

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 G R E E N   A R R O W
G R E E N   A R R O W

  HUNTER-KILLER
 HUNTER-KILLER
Part Three

There was a time before,

When Speedy wasn’t yet Green Arrow’s partner, but a nickname. A time when young Roy Harper was still new to the Queen estate, caught up in the euphoria of getting to live with his greatest idol, every day a new exercise in begging the Emerald Archer to let him tag along on his adventures. His thundercrack aim was what had given him the nickname to begin with, surely it would be what gave him the right to fight bad guys, too — but for whatever reason, Ollie wasn’t budging, always soon and not today but never now, and so Roy committed himself to finding different angles through which to wear him down. One such angle was one he was sure Ollie would agree was a simple, solid case of logic: the Arrowcar was an important tool in Green Arrow’s arsenal, right? As his future partner, wasn’t it only natural that Roy needed to learn to drive it? 

Once Ollie was done throwing his head back in a fit of roaring laughter, he ruffled Roy’s red hair and, beaming, relented. And so the eleven year old’s first taste of heroism wasn’t through shooting arrows, but driving lessons; not in the Arrowcar in Star City’s streets, but in an old green truck on the Queen estate’s grounds. He ground the transmission to dust between homework and dinner and archery practice, loving every second of it, the responsibility and the feel of it, and once he finally did get out there as Green Arrow’s partner, rare would be the sight of the Emerald Archer driving his own car. Green Arrow would say it’s because he knew how much Speedy liked driving, and that was true, but Speedy could tell he enjoyed the opportunity to relax, too, kicking back and letting someone else take the wheel after nearly a decade of solo escapades.

Here they were now, pulling away from Plesa Park. Speedy driving, still a few months shy of getting his learner’s permit, Green Arrow with his feet up on the dash and bycocket on his lap, humming some Gary Miller as he rubbed his chin in contemplation. Their longbows and quivers rested widthwise behind them in the back, barely fitting at an awkward but well-practiced angle. Green Arrow stared outside at some far off target, his contemplation reaching deep.

“I’ve been thinking of growin’ a beard, y’know,” he said.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm. One of those short and pointy ones, Robin Hood style. Really lean into the gimmick.”

Speedy took his eyes off the road for a moment, shooting him an incredulous look. “No way. You’d look ridiculous.”

“Dashing is the word you’re looking for. Handsome. Classy.”

“It’s gonna look stupid and you’re gonna regret it. What would Dinah say?”

“You kidding?” said Green Arrow. “Dinah gave me the idea.”

“Of course she did,” Speedy muttered under his breath. 

“Ah, you’re just jealous the best you can do is peach fuzz.”

“Not true. I shave. You know I shave.”

“Sorry, pal, but your three chin hairs don’t count. I don’t make the rules.”

“One day you’ll be old and bald and sorry you ever made fun of me.”

A few minutes later they arrived at Parks and Hester, a corner block on the edge of town. Like the rest of Blumebury, this part of the neighborhood was nothing to write home about, run down and litter-strewn, characterized by unremarkable, utilitarian architecture. The place Raf told them about was here, a plain, squat brick building with a small of flight of stairs leading to large double doors, the signage above them reading “Hanley House”. Speedy pulled over at the curb and turned the engine off.  Green Arrow put his hat back on and they exited the Arrowcar, grabbing their bows and quivers from the back and walking up the steps to the shelter’s entrance. Up close they could see fliers taped onto the doors, pleas for more volunteers and donations alongside sternly worded conditions of entry. It was hard to get a read on the place from out here with its spartan facade, but by all appearances it seemed a grassroots operation. With red-gloved hands, Green Arrow pulled open the doors.

Cheap linoleum flooring and garish yellow walls assaulted their eyes as they stepped into a small reception area. Seats lined the walls on either side of the doors and up the length of the room, all presently empty. Potted plants in this and that corner broke up the space’s jaundice, made harsher by the white bulbs that gave it light; as far as welcoming appearances went, it could’ve used some work. Only one person manned the reception desk, a young guy with stubble and a bun and an expression of abject fear, or maybe shock, or maybe awe. He seemed unable to speak, seeing them — not an uncommon response, much to Speedy’s bashfulness — but he recovered as quickly as he’d reacted to their entrance, plastering on a pleasant smile.

“Hi,” he said, “Can I, ah… help you?”

“Matter o’ fact, you can,” said Green Arrow. “Sorry to barge in like this, uh—”

“Daniel.”

“—Danny, but we’ve got a bit of a mystery on our hands, and we’re hoping this place might be the missing link.”

Daniel’s brows furrowed ever so lightly. “A mystery…?”

“Probably the right thing to call it. You hear anything about some homeless disappearances from the residents here?”

“No… No, don’t think so.”

“They’ve been going missing from all over the city, mostly camps here in Blumebury. The latest makes fourteen by my count. Fella named Joe Smiley. You remember if a guy by that name came through here at all in the last two weeks?”

“I don’t think… Wait a minute, what is this? Why is that so important?”

“Are you serious?” said Speedy.

“Speedy,” said Green Arrow, half-smiling despite himself. “Relax, Danny, no one’s in trouble here. This isn’t an accusation. This shelter’s the last place Joe’s friends can remember him going. We’re just looking to confirm that, hopefully pick up his trail. Okay?”

Daniel relaxed a little, or at least wasn’t wound quite so tight anymore. Speedy conceded that it probably would be nerve-wracking to suddenly face two superheroes, regardless of the questions they were asking.

“Right, okay. Still, I can’t say I remember anyone like that. We get lots of different faces through here.”

“Is there some kind of record we could look at? A log of who stayed here on which night?”

“Sure, but I, uh, don’t have access to that. I’ll need to ask my boss.”

“Even better,” G.A. grinned. “Lead the way, Danny-boy.”

“Uh… right. Yeah. Okay.” 

Daniel got up from behind the desk and led them to a hallway to the right of the reception area, long and just as yellow. More potted plants were positioned along the walls, healthy and green, framing six evenly spaced doors on either side. At the far end, the hallway opened up into some kind of mess hall; from here Speedy could make out a few tables and benches, people milling about between them. Daniel stopped at one of the doors, marked with a nameplate for one John Hanley — the boss, Speedy assumed — and knocked, opening it a crack to poke his head in. After a moment he closed it again and continued on towards the mess hall. Speedy and Green Arrow shared a glance, shrugging, and followed him. The hall was a cramped affair, barely enough space to walk between tables. In one corner hung a small television playing the local Channel 4 news, Deborah Chu relaying the latest to a murmur of residents huddled around their evening meals. Speedy recognized some of them from Plesa Park and the surrounding area. He gave them a smile as Daniel led the archers through double doors into the adjoining kitchen.

Like the mess hall it was a narrow space, a commercial kitchen in miniature. Too-big sinks, stoves and metal countertops squeezed together, stacked high with dirty dishes from the evening’s cooking. Between them all was a man anywhere between fifty and seventy, busying himself with unpacking boxes of canned foods and other non-perishables into the wall cabinets overhead. His hair was white and wispy, his face once handsome, now pockmarked and weathered by the years gone by. Wiry arms lifted bundles of heavy tins with an animated energy that boasted good health. 

“Hey, John,” said Daniel, “Where’d Shel and Mitch go?”

“I asked them to fit the beds with fresh sheets. Why?” The man paused his work to look in Daniel’s direction, his eyes widening at the sight of the bowmen. “Oh.”

“Hi, John,” said Green Arrow.

“Hi there. I can’t say I was expecting this particular surprise.”

“That tends to be how surprises work.”

John barked a laugh. “You’ve got me there. John Hanley.” 

He leaned over the boxes, offering an outstretched hand to Green Arrow and Speedy. They both shook it, and with a grateful smile he returned to unpacking the food.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said. “We don’t have much room here, but we make do. How do you like the place?”

“It’s cool,” said Speedy. “Very yellow.”

“Matches your hat.” John grinned. “It’s how we got the place. If we had Queen Foundation money a renovation would be first on the list, but as it is we have to pick our battles.” 

“They’re investigating something,” said Daniel. “Disappearances. They want to look at our logs.”

John flashed him an annoyed look. “Yes, thank you, Daniel. Here I thought they just popped by for a visit.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room, taking up the already limited space. Green Arrow looked at Speedy with a bemused smile, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand.

“Right. Well, just thought I’d let you know.”  And with that Daniel turned and left, leaving the archers alone with John. 

“Sorry about him,” said John. “That’s one way to cut the small talk, I suppose. Disappearances?”

“Yeah,” said Green Arrow, “Homeless. We heard one of them might’ve come through here before he went missing. Danny said you might be able to confirm it.”

“Danny? He let you call him that?”

He leaned his longbow against the middle island, bending down to help with the cans. “He didn’t not.”

“Oh, no no, please,” said John, “I’m not that old. I’ve got it.”

“Sure,” said Green Arrow. “Anyway, it’d be a big help. Maybe even give us some new leads to where he went next.”

 “What about the police?”

The archer scoffed. “The day the cops care about anyone below the poverty line’ll be the day the world ends.”

“I’m surprised to hear that from you, of all people. Some would call you Star City’s premier lawman.”

“Don’t confuse the law with justice, Mr. Hanley, or me with a cop. I fight for what’s right.”

“Hm.” John put away the last of the non-perishables in the cabinet and closed it. There was something smug twinkling in the shine of his eye, like he knew better than G.A. and pitied him for it. Speedy felt a pang of defiant anger and fought to push it down. “I’d be more than happy to help, of course. We keep track of our resident intake in a logbook. It’s in my office.”

John motioned for them to exit the kitchen. They pushed the double doors open and he followed them out, overtaking them on the way back to the hallway. He opened the door marked with his name and led them into what was by now a cliché: offensively yellow walls, potted plants, tacky linoleum floor. It was a small office, wooden desk and swivel chair in the middle, backed by a bookshelf and a locked filing cabinet. On the desk was a computer screen and a small picture frame, a loose assortment of stationery between them. He pulled a key out of his pocket and opened the filing cabinet, rummaging through files and loose sheets in search of his logbook. With an ah-ha! he found what he was looking for, pulling out a binder that had been carelessly deposited in the back of the drawer and laying it on his desk. 

“Here we are,” he said. “Now, who is it that we’re looking for?”

“Joe Smiley,” said Green Arrow. “We don’t know an exact date, but he went missing about a week ago. Could you check back two, just to be sure?”

John nodded and opened the logbook. “Smiley… Smiley… ah, here he is. Joseph Smiley, in at four p.m. this past Friday, out the next morning at nine. Brief stay. I think I remember him — young, veteran type?”

Green Arrow nodded.

“He left in a hurry, if I recall. Had his breakfast and was out the door.”

“Did he say where he was going?” asked Speedy.

“I’m afraid not. We get a lot like him through here. Transients looking for a warm meal and a bed on their way to the next place.”

“Joe isn’t a drifter, Mr. Hanley,” said Green Arrow. “He has roots here.” 

“Ah, of course. My mistake,” said John, offering an apologetic smile. “In any case, he seemed like he had somewhere to be.”

“Well, gee, that sure helps a lot,” said Speedy. Green Arrow huffed a laugh, flicking the tip of his hat with a finger in light-hearted reproach. Speedy caught it before it tumbled backwards off his head. “Come on, G.A., we’re back at square one here.”

Green Arrow sighed. 

“We’re not gainin’ much ground, that’s true.” He picked the picture frame up from John’s desk, turning it over. Speedy thought he saw the hint of a frown before he put it down again, any trace of displeasure gone from his face. “Say, I’ve been meanin’ to ask. This place is pretty new, right? I haven’t heard much about it before today.”

“Oh, we’ve been around for a little over a year now, I’d say, but I suppose in the grand scheme of things we’re fairly new,” said John. “From readying everything and opening our doors, getting the word out’s been pretty slow going.”

“And you run the show?”

“Yes. You could call this my new life’s mission, I guess.” He gave a bashful shrug. “One chapter closed rather abruptly. I spent a long time wondering how I should open the next. I love this city, and I had some money. I landed on this.”

“You mind if I ask what you did before?”

“Not at all,” he smiled. “I was in show business. Volatile industry. As much as I regret some things, leaving it did me a whole lot of good.”

“I can imagine,” said Green Arrow. “As far as new chapters go, you picked a great one.”

“It certainly has its rewards.”

“That’s for sure.” The archer glanced at Speedy, who raised his brows in turn. Whatever he was trying to communicate, Speedy wasn’t entirely sure. “Guess we’ll get out of your hair now. Thanks for your help, Mr. Hanley. You have a great night.”

“Of course. It was no trouble at all. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” said John. 

They were halfway out to the hallway when John spoke up again.

“I hope you find him.”

“Yeah,” said Green Arrow, “Me too.”

All was quiet in the Arrowcar.

Green Arrow didn’t say anything as Speedy pulled away from Hanley House. His arms were crossed, eyes distant, mouth dipped into a passive frown. Something was bothering him, that much was clear — but something bothered Speedy, too. There was more they could have done in there, more they could have asked Hanley, so why didn’t they? G.A. knew what he was doing. He was the best. So why? Why, when what they learned just led them back to where they started, with Joe in the wind and no ideas about what happened to him, to the others? He simmered with these questions for as long as five blocks, Green Arrow silent, lost in thought.

“We shouldn’t have left yet,” said Speedy. “We need to go back. I mean, shit, Ollie, why didn’t you ask for a copy of the logbook? Maybe Joe talked to whoever was staying there with him, maybe he said something. We could’ve had some names, we could’ve talked to them.”

The silence stretched on. Green Arrow watched the buildings blur past, lights streaking in the dark.

“We’re not just looking for Joe.”

“What?”

“C’mon, Roy. Joe isn’t the only one who’s gone missing. Say we find out where he went next, okay, sure. What then? Everything we have so far points to him, no one else. These people didn’t disappear for separate reasons, there’s just no way. There’s gotta be a link here, and I can only think of one.”

“What, the shelter? You think someone there’s responsible?”

“It’s the only theory I’ve got right now.”

“All the more reason we should’ve looked at the logbook ourselves!”

“And we will,” said Green Arrow. “It’s just…”

“What?”

“Hanley.”

“What about him?”

“Didja see the picture on his desk?”

Speedy shook his head.

“It was of him. Way younger, head full of hair, shit-eating grin. Posed up with a rifle next to a lion I’m bettin’ he shot. He’s a hunter. Big game.”

“Okay…”

“The entire time we were there, I had this feeling. Somethin’ about him seemed so familiar. I wasn’t sure what it was until I saw that picture.”

“Have you ever heard of  The Hunt Begins?”

Mia stares at Roy blankly. “Yeah,” she says, “Who hasn’t.”

“It’s an old reality show, aired maybe forty years ago now. Hunting and survival, that kinda jazz. I’ll give you five bucks if you can guess who the host was.”

“Hanley.”

“Nope,” says Roy, “Not what he called himself back then. He had a professional name. Hunt.”

“John Hunt?” Mia scoffs. “Creative. And fuck you, that totally counts!”

“The five bucks were metaphorical.”

“You cheap bitch.”

Roy picks up the pen she threw at him earlier and flicks it at her forehead. She glares at him, scowling, as it bounces back onto the ground. “Hush. I’m telling a story here.”

Mia crosses her arms and glowers. He does his best to ignore her.

“Anyway, this show, it was pretty successful. As successful as a reality show about hunting can be, really,” says Roy. “Season after season after season, huge episode count, celebrity guests. Hunt had a bunch of articles and columns, I’m talking thousands, in different wildlife and hobby magazines. He was a pretty big name in his circle. But you know how he said that chapter of his life ended suddenly?”

Mia nods.

“The show got canceled. They were shooting out in Ethiopia, I think, hunting who knows what. Leopards, elephants, I don’t know,” he says. “Production was shut down after a few days. He got dropped by everyone — his agents, his network, all the outlets he wrote for. Completely blacklisted in the span of maybe two weeks. Back to being boring old John Hanley, just like that.”

“What? Why?”

“Three of his crew disappeared.”

The moon was out when they arrived.

Beyond the city’s outskirts, between the redwoods and the mountains. Gentle howl of wind between rustled leaves and branches, dark clouds rendering it a solitary spotlight as they choked the stars out of the sky. John Hanley’s estate was much like the Queen family’s, if only fallen further into disrepair. Ivy climbed the low walls bordering the manor gates in tandem with the cracks that webbed along their surface; it paired well with the house, itself a monolith of faded paint and overgrowth, the grounds surrounding it untended, left to run wild. Speedy tried not to think about how much it reminded him of a mausoleum as he brought the Arrowcar to a stop outside the gates. A foreboding feeling had been swelling up in his chest the entire drive here, one he was coming to understand was panic, telling him that all his worst fears awaited him in this place. He wanted nothing more than to be wrong. 

After Green Arrow confirmed his suspicions about Hanley’s identity they’d returned to the shelter, sneaking in under the cover of night for another look at the visitor’s logbook. They hoped to find the names of the other missing homeless, confirmation that the shelter was what linked Joe’s disappearance to the others. What they found instead was nothing. They turned over the entire shelter, searched Hanley’s office, reception, the kitchen, every supply closet and storage room, but it was all fruitless. The log was gone. And if it was gone, it meant they had no time to lose. 

They didn’t speak a word as they exited the car, helping each other over the gate wall with practiced ease. G.A.’s face was set in stone. Speedy had seen him angry before, loud and animated, always making it everyone else’s problem. This was something else. They walked up the driveway, a long stretch of road wrapping around a once-ornate fountain in front of the manor’s front steps. A beat up old sedan was parked there, distinctly out of place; Green Arrow didn’t spare it a single glance, marching past to the intricately carved front doors, chipped and peeling, paying no mind their already ajar state. He pushed them open in silence, Speedy following close behind, and before the young archer knew it, he loosed two arrows into the darkened foyer before them.

A surprised yelp and a thud as they met their mark. Streaks of moonlight punctured the shadows from a skylight overhead, illuminating a large figure now slumped over the massive staircase that led away from the foyer towards the manor’s second floor. An arrow pinned him above each shoulder through his shirt, and he remained there unmoving, as though processing what just happened. In his right hand, laying dumbly by his side, was a gun.

“Hello, Danny,” said Green Arrow. 

Daniel didn’t say a word. His breathing was heavy, uneven. Panicked. His grip on the gun tightened. 

“Don’t even think about using that thing. I promise you, however fast of a shot you are, I’m faster. But the way I’m feeling? I really hope you try.”

Daniel didn’t bite. The gun clattered down the steps onto the floor, pointing uselessly into the dark. Speedy watched on in silence, the anxiety in his chest growing. He didn’t understand. Why was Daniel here, alone?

“Where’s Hanley?” said Green Arrow. “He knew we’d be coming. Where is he?”

Nothing. 

An arrow sank between Daniel’s legs, inches away from his crotch. He yelped louder, his breathing heavier, panic mounting.

“The next one won’t miss, Danny.” Green Arrow nocked another arrow. “Where’s. Hanley.”

“I-I don’t know,” said Daniel. “I don’t know! H-He left when I got here. He told me to watch the door.”

“Yeah?” said Green Arrow, “Great job there. Now, I’m gonna ask you some more questions, Danny, most of which I already know the answers to. If you want this arrow to stay on the bowstring, you’ll reply honestly. Sound good?”

Daniel nodded.

“Verbal confirmation, Danny.”

“Y-Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay, good,” said the bowman. “Hanley. He’s John Hunt.”

 “Y-Yes.”

“He’s behind the disappearances.”

“Yes.” 

The anxiety in Speedy’s chest flared. Please, don’t let them be right.

“Hanley House. It was all a ruse?”

“N-Not at first. But eventually. Yes.”

“And you, Danny? You’ve been helping him?”

Daniel’s breathing slowed into deep, haggard breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Moonlit eyes revealed his panic slowly giving way to something calmer, less readable. “Yes.”

“Okay. Last one. And I’m really hoping, for your sake, that your answer isn’t what I think it’ll be. The people you kidnapped. What have you done with them?”

From behind them, Hanley spoke. “I’m afraid he’s going to disappoint you, friend.”

And then he shot Green Arrow through the leg.

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Hidden 6 mos ago Post by Hillan

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Hillan I'm a writer - Lying's what we do.

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Hillan

I'm a writer - Lying's what we do.

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Daredevil #0.1 Hits keep coming

The New York night is cool, refreshing in a way. The air hangs heavy, wrapping around me like a blanket, or a noose. I carry the duffle bag over my shoulder, contents making noise as I swing it with every step. I hear my joints creaking, every muscle in my body flex as I traverse this rooftop. The darkness shrouds my actions, giving me cover, providing a sort of safety. Six blocks away, I hear sirens. Ambulance. John Edwards is the EMT on duty in that car, he has a heavy foot and he never cares to compensate his driving in the corners. The scanner in the police cruiser two blocks away hasn't made a noise. I can focus on my task at hand.

My breath is cool, I'm keeping my tempo. Trying to stave off the adrenal response for now, I know I will need it later. I have arrived, and the preparations have been made. The bag slung over my shoulder is lighter, my hand searches for the zipper and plunges inside of the duffle, I grab the water bottle. I drink my fill and try to clear my head. This has to work, it's all I have left to try. I avoided the sentries, none of the scouts on either of the street corners have seen me. I've stayed quiet for weeks, they believe they are rid of me... Honestly, that would have been wise. I get up, I stand over the edge and I calm my breath. I listen to their voices. There's many of them, more than I thought. I double check my suit, every lace tied, every strap secured. Nothing will throw me off tonight. My jaw is clenched so hard I can almost already taste blood.

I hear Ted's words of advice in my head. 
"Be Smart, Murdock". He warned me, many times. 
Not poking the bear that already killed you is the smart thing to do. 

The thing is, I know that he's right, but I'm stubborn. And that makes me foolish.

I jump. And within seconds, I am inside, the door closing behind me with a loud slam. Voices shout, and I face the hall, six rooms, four one one side, two on the other. One narrow path between me and my goal. One man comes, he yells at me in Spanish, I was never very good at Spanish. He pulls out his gun, I throw the rebar with my left. His shoulder is clipped. Seven meters between us. He screams. I am on him before he finishes. My knee drives into his nose. Cartilage crumbled. I plant my left foot. Chamber my right and kick through his centerline. I strike him down before he can react. A satisfying crack, the fracturing of his jaw as he hits the floor. Three more spill the first room on the left. Carrying weapons.

 Good.

First guy walks towards me, I meet him, his hands are shaking. Too much junk in his veins - wired. He swings the metal pipe, it sings through the air. I half-step and then surge onto him. Mid-recovery my elbow snaps to the back of his head. He stumbled forward, into the wall. I held back, I could have knocked him out.

Second comes charging, a bat in his hand, a vertical slash, I feel it whizz by the cloth on my mask. His battle-cry tips me off. His feet are lighter, faster. Less recovery on the swing.

I can't hold back. He turns towards me, I jab with my left, and then again. The metal bat is driving towards me.
I strike his face with my jab, he disorients. I pull him by his shirt with my right arm, push him behind me, into the first. Third guy strikes like lightning. I can't move out of the way. A right hook, wide swing, he's a fighter. Fist collides with my face and I stumble backwards.

***

Matt fell to the floor, the other boys laughed at him. "Hahaha, so I guess it skipped a generation, huh?!" Dirk taunts, and the other boys erupt into another tidal wave of humiliation. "Yeah, Battlin' Jack and Losing' Matty, huh!" The other boy, Nick laughs. Matt lied on the ground, anger building in his chest. Tears filled his eyes, which made the bullies laugh even more. He couldn't breath, and it wasn't from the punch to his jaw. This came from within him. Dirk, Nick and the other three boys were beginning to walk away. As Dirk turned around, Matt Murdock pounced. Tackled him to the ground and threw one hook into his nose, blood sprayed instantly. Dirk kicked him in the ribs, while his friends pulled him off of him. For the next two minutes, the four ten-year old boys beat the ever living shit out of 9 year old Matt.

No school personnel bothered to help Matt patch up his wounds and scrapes. He sat outside of the principles office, his lip leaking blood all over the floor when his dad arrived. Matt got suspended, Dirk's dad was a lawyer and an important donor to the school. There was nothing Jack could have done. 
"Father's a boxer and a brute, how could his kid be any different?" Dirk's dad had told the principle with a smug smile. "He brutalized my poor Dirkington, so my boy fought back against Murdock's savagery. It's shameful." 

Matt was quiet on the ride home. He expected his father to be angry with him, ground him or even hit him. He never did that. Jack sat down at the kitchen table, the bills were stacked high, most of them said 'overdue' on the envelope. His eyes had a sense of defeat in them. Today was Thursday. Which meant tomorrow was fight night. He looked at Matt and his bleeding, swollen face. "Get the kit, boy." Jack ordered, and Matt nodded. He sheepishly appeared. Usually, it was Matt that patched up his father after a fight. The boy winced when the disinfectant hit his lip. "That's gonna scar, Mattie." He warned and Matt shrugged. "Who cares, I had to fight back. They have been picking on me and some of the other boys for weeks, Dad." Jack nodded.
"Ouch"
"Yeah yeah. What do they always say about us Murdock's, Matt?"
"We sure can take a beating." he responded by instinct, his father smiled and nodded. 
"And in life, the hits never stop coming. But this isn't how you should fight back, son. You can't be like me. Trying to punch my way out of trouble. I want you to be better, Matt."

***

I recover, the taste of blood in my mouth makes the adrenaline run through my entire body, I don't get angry. I plant my right foot, I keep my balance. He steps in, expecting me to back out. I step forward, fearless.
Deliver a body shot, I hear his ribs creek under the weight of my punch. Air is knocked out of his lungs. I follow with an uppercut with my right.
His feet are off the ground. 
Footsteps behind me. Metal in the air.

I pull the guy in front of me by the collar as I turn around and I throw his limp body. A 210 pound missile towards the other two who are shoulder-to-shoulder. All three of them hit the back wall, crumbling. I realize I haven't stopped holding my breath.

I exhale and refill my lungs. I hear four more sets of footsteps coming into the hall, first door on the right. My heartbeat drums in my ears. I taste blood from my lip, and I can't help but smirk. I ready myself my grabbing the chains out of my bag.  I hear the electrical light above me flicker. The first set of footsteps are combat boots, he pulls a gun as he rounds the corner. As he sees me, I slash the chain straight upwards. Destroying the light, leaving them all in darkness. I hear his arm take aim. I step to the side. Gunfire ensues.

It's gonna be a long night. 

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Hidden 6 mos ago Post by Pacifista

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Pacifista Ponk-ifista

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“Well, now that the results of the inquiry are in, I think we can all say that this is fucking horseshit.” General Ross in his blue Air Force attire stood ahead of a lineup with damn near the entire security force at Outpost 36. One exception was the Chief of security, off to the side with his gaze distant. Throwing aside a piece of paper tucked into a manila folder, he paraphrased, “The intruder drove out of Las Vegas on a stolen motorcycle north up highway 93 for about an hour before turning straight into the wilderness. After another 20 minutes or so he stumbled right into the ongoing test site of on of our experiments. The guard on duty claimed that he escaped notice because cameras were only positioned near incoming roads and checkpoints, which were all bypassed. Fences were not erected because it was deemed to be too conspicuous to construct them.” Stern eyes running down the line, Ross called, “Blonsky, get over here.”

A blonde man with a firm chin and cauliflower ears stood to face Ross, his blue eyes aiming to match Ross’ gaze in intensity. “Cameras were only positioned near roads and checkpoints. Everywhere else, the only thing we have to keep intruders out is thoughts and fucking prayers. Did that thought ever cross your mind?”

“I didn’t construct the base sir, I just did my job.”

“No, you didn’t construct the base, but you sure were on the team who conducted the safety audit following the commencement of operations. If you ask me, you sure as hell did not do your fucking job.” Emil Blonsky’s nostrils flared, and behind his back his hands flexed. “We are military contractors. That gives us more freedom to do our jobs, but just because what we do here isn’t going to publicly reflect on the military doesn’t mean what we do here shouldn’t be held to some kind of a standard. The military is rigid, and that’s worked for fucking centuries, but here? We need the best of the best doing what they do not because they’re being commanded to, but because they give a shit, and I cannot order you to give a shit. So find one to give, or I will be planting a boot in your ass and no one will be finding any more shits to give, not from you, am I fucking clear?” Blonsky’s mouth twitched, but no sound same out. “Answer me.”

“Yes sir.” A vein bulged on his forehead and one hand had a white knuckled grip on his wrist. Ross jerked his head and Blonsky spun off, returning to his position.

“Let this be a wake up call. If a fucking rat so much as steps out of line there will be hell to pay. Two people were at risk because of your fuck up, and they only lived because you weren't the only one to fuck up. I know this is Vegas, but I sure as shit wouldn’t make a bet with any of your luck. Dismissed.” Ross turned and headed for the door, heat on his back from their hateful gazes that he found easy to bear.Stepping off of the treadmill, at Samson’s directive Bruce stripped the wired sensors off of his torso, wiping some sweat before grabbing his shirt back. “You only ran for 15 minutes. You should probably be exercising more.”

Breath coming hard, Bruce insisted, “I’ve been meaning too.”

Samson gave a sly smile before making a note on a clipboard. “We’ll do the psych evaluation proper in a few days, I’m still reviewing somethings. Is there anything you’d like to share in the meantime?”

Bruce let a shade of unease pass over him. “What kind of things?”

“You had some things stand out in your file, is all. You seem pretty together, all things considered. What’s your vice? Alcohol? Weed? Crack? Hallucinogenics? Church?” Catching Bruce’s raised eyebrow, Samson offered, “This isn’t a sting, there wasn’t a drug test when you got interviewed, was there? Well, not for the scientists of course. You’re all vetted by your credentials and frankly, some of the higher ups are open to ah, mind expanding substances. Results matter more than anything, and frankly I’m all for it, as long as it’s not made to be someone else’s problem.”

Bruce slowly nodded. “Huh, well then. Church?”

Samson shrugged. “I’ve seen people get so amped up at a superchurch sermon they pass out. It’s not for me personally, but I don’t judge. Faith can be good for people who need it in the right environment, it’s just a matter if you need it or not, and, well, the whole field could stand to be held to a higher standard of mental health.”

“…But crack though?”

“Curious today, aren’t you? Don’t go for that one, it’s stupid. I’ve tried it. It’s not even a great high, but it makes your brain just want it more. Even though I recognized how illogical it was for me to want more crack, I just kept wanting it, at least for a while. I made sure some friends kept me from getting more so it could wear off.”

Bruce knew he’d hardly known Doc Samson, but now he somehow felt like he knew him both too much and not enough. “Why would you try it in the first place? No judgment.”

“For the experience! For the understanding! If you’re even a little interested, it doesn’t hurt to try it once...usually. Just stay safe out there. Oh and for liability purposes, nothing I said in the last couple minutes is by any means an endorsement. See you in a couple days Bruce.” Samson patted Bruce on the back, a touch that made his muscles tense as touch often did.

Leaving the medical ward, head abuzz with ways of thinking he’d never encountered before, Bruce was still in his civvies as he went through the halls of Cadmus, off towards the shuttle that would take him back to the rest of his day. But before he made it, a voice had called out from behind. “Hey, Bruce!” He turned to see the rounded face of Glenn Talbot as the man approached him, mouth hanging open he pleaded, “Man, I’m so fucking sorry, I panicked and-”

Bruce held up his hand. “Hey, it’s okay, nothing happened.”

“I know, but I looked at the numbers again and it really should have! You two are lucky to be alive right not. I just...I’m working with another group right now, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’m gonna try and be a better person all around, honest.”

With a slow intake of breath, Bruce slowly raised a hand, pulling from Doc Samson’s repertoire and giving him a limp pat on the back. “Good for you man. Be sure to add exercise in if you haven’t already, it’s really important.” Seemingly relieved, Talbot went off to his other duties, leaving Bruce to return to his lonesome journey through the halls. His mind went over the experiment again and again. The rod had been fresh, the test runs had show sufficient output, but it amounted to squat. A part of him yearned to try the emitter again, but knowing it wouldn’t be possible, he let out a sigh, and with that sigh all the regret he might have built up fled from his body. Things were fine as they were. Even though they could be better, it was too much to hope for.Facing his locker, fist clenched at his side, Emil Blonsky was in a fierce debate. He visualized himself punching a hole through that metal. He could see the blood from split skin on his knuckles, the writeup he would get. A crushing weight came down on him inside as he imagined losing this job. The pay was well above what he could get anywhere else, and it was only on recommendation that he landed it in the first place. With the anxiety cooling his anger, he went to a nearby bench and flopped down, though not before getting his phone. Shooting a message to his dealer, he looked for another way to get through the rough spot. Or at least, he had been about to. Looking up, he saw someone where she shouldn’t be, long legs poking out of a black dress. He could see her indigo lipstick and pure white eyes, but frankly he found it hard to focus on anything above the neck. “Nice tattoo.”

Tala ran a finger across the three linked circles scoured onto her sternum, flashing a smile and batting her eyelids. “Are you familiar with the symbol? Or are you just a charmer?” Blonsky stood as she approached, placing her hands on his security vest and looking up at his eyes. “I was hoping you could give me a hand with something in the Material Sciences Department, in, oh, a few days? I can make it worth your while. That embarrassment you suffered, from a man so petty and weak despite his station...you’re above that. You deserve to be above that.” Blonsky was looking, but not listening. Tala laughed, and so did he. He was in the palm of her hand before she’d even opened it to clasp him.

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