DJAtomika

The Sunday Group - Paranormal Detectives

I mean, we were waiting on you to get a follow up post up.

Long Beach, A City In Need (A Vigilante RP)

I had a character that was in an RP like this. Would be happy to bring him back. A baseball bat wielding, high school delinquent who has a passion for breakdancing, skateboarding and kicking teeth in.

The Sunday Group - Paranormal Detectives

Anyone still here?

The Sunday Group - Paranormal Detectives

David woke to the sound of his phone buzzing on his nightstand. It was still early in the morning, and as he read the email sent by his boss, he rubbed his face and felt the stubble accumulating on his chin. The aches of his previous day's workout were still present in his muscles as he pulled himself out of bed, foregoing the exercise to make sure he got to work on time. David stared at his reflection in his bathroom mirror as he inspected himself as part of his morning routine. Same brown eyes, same slightly crooked nose, same bags under his eyes. The tired reporter took a shaver to his stubble and a brush to his teeth, along with a hot, calming shower, before he dressed in his usual; a worn leather jacket over his light blue dress shirt, denim jeans and work boots.

His breakfast was simple; pancakes, maple syrup and bacon, with a mug of black, strong coffee. One sugar. As he ate, he went over the email in his head. Elanor Tragellan wasn't one to mince words, but even this email was sparse on details. It didn't strike him as being a good omen for things to come; the fact that she had also asked them to pack for at least a week's worth of travel was the other thing setting off silent alarms in his head. But that meant opportunities to get on with his craft: that of taking pictures. So after he ate, David set about packing his essentials. Into one of his many big sports duffel bags went a few changes of clothes, toiletries and other travel essentials, along with a single paperback to read (Stephen King's "Under the Dome", a massive volume he hadn't even scratched the surface of yet) and his laptop, chargers for both that and his phone, and spare batteries for his camera.

Speaking of, his camera, a sleek DSLR, sat in its own carry case that David had mushed together with a satchel bag, cushioned by foam and fabric while allowing him to carry his laptop and other assorted papers or documents in the satchel. With his things packed, the photographer set off for work, taking an Uber since his packing was going to run him late if he took a bus. He arrived at the meeting room at 8 AM sharp, not a minute too late.

The Sunday Group - Paranormal Detectives

I'm still here. My post is almost done.

The Sunday Group - Paranormal Detectives

Writing an intro post up now

The Sunday Group - Paranormal Detectives

David Sawyer

WHAT IS YOUR NAME?

"David. David Sawyer."

HOW OLD ARE YOU?

"Forty four years old, as of this year."

WHAT IS YOUR PROFESSION, SKILL OR LIFESTYLE?

"I am a photographer. A former journalist and international correspondent for a big Boston news agency. I've been around the world, covering many different stories, about war, famine, pestilence and death, and of life, love, prosperity and glory. I spent the last twenty or so years of my life writing stories to go with the pictures I've taken and the things that I've seen and experienced for myself. You spend as much time as I have behind a lens, you learn to live with a camera in every aspect of your daily life. A camera lens and my laptop were my best friends during those twenty odd years and when I retired, I left a great big gaping hole in that news agency's office. I've learned since then that there hasn't been a new photojournalist in my office since."

"I started this line of work when I was young. Cameras interested me in my teens and I always sent in my pictures to our local newspaper's photography contest that they held every few months. Only won first place once and that's when I knew I had a knack for it. For a while, I bummed around a few places, sending in my photos and building a resume that I could use, and finally my local news company took me in to see what I could do behind a keyboard. The years flew by, I left the small-town newspaper gig and went to Boston to work. By that time, I had enough under my belt to consider myself a photojournalist, but some part of me wanted more. It wanted adventure and travel and so when I got a job at a big Boston news agency, I jumped on the chance to be an international correspondent after showing off my resume. That's how I got to travel to war-torn third-world countries to document starving children, African prairies to take pictures of lions, I even managed to photograph the aftermath of that bombing at the Boston Marathon."

"But the years weren't kind. Work got to me, as did every other sordid, tragic story I was sent to cover. And after about twenty years of just enduring all of it, I knew I had to leave. Otherwise I was gonna go crazy. After I retired as a professional journalist, I took up photography again, my old hat. Nowadays I don't write stories for my pictures; I let them tell their own tales. My curiosity and drive to see and document the unknown has led me to many places in search of the unreal, the mysterious and the supernatural. I let my camera speak for me and capture the moments that words fail to describe. I've traveled the country over this last year or so, letting my curiosity guide me as I document the United States of America in pictures. It's been rather relaxing, really."

"I like to live my life from moment to moment, contrary to what most people do at my age. Always looking for that next adventure, although nowadays 'adventure' in my book means a flight across the country to take pictures of some supposedly 'haunted' house or something else. Still, at least I like to live my life slightly dangerously, less so than my job was."

HOW ARE YOU BEST RECOGNIZED IN A CROWD?

"I always carry my camera on a strap around my neck. I've also got a brown leather satchel that has my other essentials, lenses and water and whatnot. I like to wear this black leather biker jacket too, fur-lined. Keeps me warm."

WHAT IS A STRANGER'S FIRST IMPRESSION UPON MEETING YOU? HOW DO SEE YOURSELF?

"I... I'm not sure, I've never been asked this question before. I guess I'm a sort of...calm person? I like to socialise with others, y'know, talk about stuff we like and whatnot, but I'm not much of an outgoing type. I can talk for long hours about subjects we both like, but don't expect me to start the conversation myself. If a stranger first meets me, I guess they'll see the gruff, worn exterior and think I'm some sorta guy who's seen a lot, and frankly they wouldn't be wrong. But I'm just a man that did his job until the job made me quit, so now I'm an average man, not a globe-trotting photojournalist any more."

WHERE DID YOU GROW UP? WHERE DO YOU FEEL AT HOME?

"I was born in Arlington, Massachusetts, to a pair of loving, doting parents that never thought I'd grow up to be a journalist. I moved to Boston after I scored my big news gig and that's where I've lived ever since. I feel most at home behind the lens of my camera, capturing pictures and telling stories through still images. To be able to show someone the story of a life, or the emotions in a scene through pictures...that's the greatest pleasure."

WHO ARE THE MOST IMPORTANT PEOPLE IN YOUR LIFE?

"Gee, I've never been asked that question before. Truth be told, there weren't a lot of people in my life after my folks passed on and I got into journalism as a career. I would probably say... Jeffrey Nolan, my editor. He was like a brother to me, up until I resigned. We still talk regularly and I like to send him the best snaps of my overseas trips from time to time. And there's also Ian Malcolm, my co-writer and proof-reader. We were office buddies, basically brothers at that point. I wrote the stories, he helped me make sure they weren't abject shit on paper."

WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR STRENGTHS ARE? WHAT ARE YOUR ACTUAL STRENGTHS?

"My strengths, they probably lie in observation, analysis and creativity. I know how to handle a camera, how to frame a shot. How to read people, watching for their emotional tells, knowing when is the perfect moment to push the shutter and capture a frame for eternity. I know how to write well enough to encapsulate a story, to tell the reader what is going on with a specific picture, yet leaving enough gaps for them to fill in the blanks. Alongside that, I... I haven't done anything athletic in a while, but I'm hardy enough to survive the occasional sprint or hike."

WHAT ARE YOUR FEARS, FLAWS AND SECRETS?

"I have many. Years in the life as a journalist covering the worst that humanity has to offer has left me rather emotionally traumatised. Some therapists I've seen have diagnosed it as a milder form of PTSD, and I believe them. After all the work I've done in documenting the human story, how much can one mind take? I baulk at loud noises, don't feel much pain or revulsion at viewing particularly gruesome things...saddening as it may be, I've had to fortify my mind against my own emotion at times purely so I could capture those of others. To show to the world what suffering exists."

"I keep many secrets. Stories that I cannot bear to tell because of how horrible they are. Whatever you imagine is the worst of humankind, I've seen it. Locked away behind closed doors, covered by tarpaulins and buried in the ground. And no matter how much I wish to share them with the rest of the waking world, to tell someone that these things exist and something needs to be done about them...I keep quiet. I know that, if these stories are told, the men behind them will come after me and the people I know and care about. They will stop at nothing to ensure that their private lives remain a secret."

IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY SUPERNATURAL ABILITY, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

"Out of the blue, huh? Well, maybe the ability to freeze time? To be able to catch every shot, in the millisecond that it happens, without missing a single heartbeat or movement. To be able to frame the perfect shot without having to compromise on quality or be constrained by time. But right now, I have to settle for this weird... Well, I call it my Sixth Sense. It's a weird vibe for the supernatural that I have. I guess it's part and parcel of my journey into the supernatural world. But whenever I step into a place that's supposedly haunted, this Sixth Sense of mine comes to life like a radar for ghosts. I can't detect exact locations but this Sense leads me to places that have high concentrations of...stuff. Paranormal stuff."

SHOW US A SAMPLE OF YOUR WORK.

"Well uh, I've got a small story from a town I visited a few months ago. It was a story that led me to you guys and it was in a town called Duskwick."

"I always thought that town was quaint. Even after all that nonsense with the dragonflies. But...what struck me then was how unnerving it became, once you realised what laid beneath the surface of such a quaint little town."

Hider

With a big mug of coffee by his side, David sat in a corner of the diner, idly tapping away at his Macbook as he processed a folder of photos he'd taken of the countryside surrounding the quaint little town. His camera laid next to his mug and underneath that sat a single missing persons poster. A plate stacked with pancakes and bacon sat nearly untouched on the other side of his laptop. The hubbub in the diner was rather quiet, given the time of day, and as he took a swig of his strong, black coffee, he took in the familiar small-town sights and sounds. It was comforting, very homely and warm. Felt like safety, even though he knew he was here for the complete opposite of that.

David had only just reached the town of Duskwick; he'd spent the better part of the day before driving to the town itself and he'd spent the rest of it resting in the town's only motel. Now he was here, having an early brunch while he sorted through his pictures. He'd risen a little earlier and had done a small walkabout around the park, taking photos of the early morning sun and the scenery, which was all very quaint. Except for the slightly upset man who'd ripped off half the remaining missing persons fliers off the notice board in the diner. Some sort of uppity youth wearing that dumb looking Google glass thingy on his face.

He just couldn't resist.

As one of the staff walked out from behind the counter to confront the man, David took up his camera, framed the shot from his chair, and pushed the shutter.

Zzsh-click.

As he set down his camera to review the shot, he noticed one of the lights flickering. Probably was something to do with the place's age, but then he spied the blue dragonfly perched on the rim of the lamp. He raised his camera again, zoomed in as close as he could without moving, and took another picture. David put his camera down to review the shot and grimaced. Overexposed because of the light.

Ugh.

He plugged his camera into his laptop and got to work trying to fix the problem, watching over the top of his Macbook as the drama unfolded in front of him. There was some hubbub going on about a missing child. A small, young girl, whose photo was up on the diner's noticeboard. A small town like that had such a thing in their central diner so residents could see what was going on; events, bake sales and forest treks, stuff like that. Her poster was one of the fliers that uppity young man had torn off and some of the townspeople were getting upset. Several other youths added their voices to the whole thing and frankly the entire affair was getting rather noisy. He finished up with the photo open on his desktop and closed his Macbook for the morning, sick and tired of doing hobby work while there was a sumptuous breakfast waiting for him.

Just as he grabbed his fork and knife and carved himself a chunk of pancakes slathered in maple syrup, something caught his eye. There, standing among the arguing crowd, was a little girl. The bright red rain boots she wore were too big for her feet, as was the sweater and scarf wrapped around her neck. She had a light pink glass in her hands, and he saw that it was because of the strawberry milkshake within. He set down his utensils and grabbed his camera again. With the picture framed just right, he snapped a photograph of the little girl amidst the chaos of the morning rush.

Then the manager recognised the girl. All of a sudden the hubbub of the diner turned into silence, almost as if time itself froze. David couldn't move as he watched the moment frozen in space; the older lady with a hand to her mouth mid-gasp, the young girl whose milkshake slipped from her little hands.

The glass shattered and suddenly everything sprung back into real time. The girl ran into the back of the diner, bumping into one of the tables on the way as she barreled into the ladies bathroom and locked the door behind her. There were shouts to call the police and everything happened so fast he couldn't get his camera up in time to capture anything. But he had noticed the girl drop...something out of her pocket as she bumped into one of the patron's tables. David picked up his fork and stuffed his mouth full of pancakes (delicious, fluffy and still warm) as he stood up and walked over to where she'd dropped the picture. The picture was...strange. An old, worn-looking Polaroid of the same blue dragonfly he'd taken a picture of from his seat. Same angle, same light, same...

"...dragonfly."

Things got out of hand very fast after that. Vines began growing from the closed (and locked) bathroom door that absorbed one of the diner's staff. David helped a few others break into the bathroom, only to find the girl missing and the single toilet stall a portal into a different place. A mirrored version of the same town he'd just been in. The events had been a blur and David hadn't been able to remember most of it after he'd entered the strange mirror realm, but he'd escaped. Alive and intact, with a camera full of photos of a place that wasn't supposed to exist anywhere. It wasn't long after he found his car and made his way back home that the Sunday Group contacted him.

"...and that's kinda how you guys found me. I'd share more, but my memory of Duskwick is really hazy and I wouldn't be able to explain the context of most of the photos I shot in there. But...I'm sure you guys will figure out what happened there. Eventually."

The Sunday Group - Paranormal Detectives

90% finished with my character. Just doing up the writing sample now. Gonna post the CS here first as a WIP.

David Sawyer

WHAT IS YOUR NAME?

"David. David Sawyer."

HOW OLD ARE YOU?

"Forty four years old, as of this year."

WHAT IS YOUR PROFESSION, SKILL OR LIFESTYLE?

"I am a photographer. A former journalist and international correspondent for a big Boston news agency. I've been around the world, covering many different stories, about war, famine, pestilence and death, and of life, love, prosperity and glory. I spent the last twenty or so years of my life writing stories to go with the pictures I've taken and the things that I've seen and experienced for myself. You spend as much time as I have behind a lens, you learn to live with a camera in every aspect of your daily life. A camera lens and my laptop were my best friends during those twenty odd years and when I retired, I left a great big gaping hole in that news agency's office. I've learned since then that there hasn't been a new photojournalist in my office since."

"I started this line of work when I was young. Cameras interested me in my teens and I always sent in my pictures to our local newspaper's photography contest that they held every few months. Only won first place once and that's when I knew I had a knack for it. For a while, I bummed around a few places, sending in my photos and building a resume that I could use, and finally my local news company took me in to see what I could do behind a keyboard. The years flew by, I left the small-town newspaper gig and went to Boston to work. By that time, I had enough under my belt to consider myself a photojournalist, but some part of me wanted more. It wanted adventure and travel and so when I got a job at a big Boston news agency, I jumped on the chance to be an international correspondent after showing off my resume. That's how I got to travel to war-torn third-world countries to document starving children, African prairies to take pictures of lions, I even managed to photograph the aftermath of that bombing at the Boston Marathon."

"But the years weren't kind. Work got to me, as did every other sordid, tragic story I was sent to cover. And after about twenty years of just enduring all of it, I knew I had to leave. Otherwise I was gonna go crazy. After I retired as a professional journalist, I took up photography again, my old hat. Nowadays I don't write stories for my pictures; I let them tell their own tales. My curiosity and drive to see and document the unknown has led me to many places in search of the unreal, the mysterious and the supernatural. I let my camera speak for me and capture the moments that words fail to describe. I've traveled the country over this last year or so, letting my curiosity guide me as I document the United States of America in pictures. It's been rather relaxing, really."

"I like to live my life from moment to moment, contrary to what most people do at my age. Always looking for that next adventure, although nowadays 'adventure' in my book means a flight across the country to take pictures of some supposedly 'haunted' house or something else. Still, at least I like to live my life slightly dangerously, less so than my job was."

HOW ARE YOU BEST RECOGNIZED IN A CROWD?

"I always carry my camera on a strap around my neck. I've also got a brown leather satchel that has my other essentials, lenses and water and whatnot. I like to wear this black leather biker jacket too, fur-lined. Keeps me warm."

WHAT IS A STRANGER'S FIRST IMPRESSION UPON MEETING YOU? HOW DO SEE YOURSELF?

"I... I'm not sure, I've never been asked this question before. I guess I'm a sort of...calm person? I like to socialise with others, y'know, talk about stuff we like and whatnot, but I'm not much of an outgoing type. I can talk for long hours about subjects we both like, but don't expect me to start the conversation myself. If a stranger first meets me, I guess they'll see the gruff, worn exterior and think I'm some sorta guy who's seen a lot, and frankly they wouldn't be wrong. But I'm just a man that did his job until the job made me quit, so now I'm an average man, not a globe-trotting photojournalist any more."

WHERE DID YOU GROW UP? WHERE DO YOU FEEL AT HOME?

"I was born in Arlington, Massachusetts, to a pair of loving, doting parents that never thought I'd grow up to be a journalist. I moved to Boston after I scored my big news gig and that's where I've lived ever since. I feel most at home behind the lens of my camera, capturing pictures and telling stories through still images. To be able to show someone the story of a life, or the emotions in a scene through pictures...that's the greatest pleasure."

WHO ARE THE MOST IMPORTANT PEOPLE IN YOUR LIFE?

"Gee, I've never been asked that question before. Truth be told, there weren't a lot of people in my life after my folks passed on and I got into journalism as a career. I would probably say... Jeffrey Nolan, my editor. He was like a brother to me, up until I resigned. We still talk regularly and I like to send him the best snaps of my overseas trips from time to time. And there's also Ian Malcolm, my co-writer and proof-reader. We were office buddies, basically brothers at that point. I wrote the stories, he helped me make sure they weren't abject shit on paper."

WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR STRENGTHS ARE? WHAT ARE YOUR ACTUAL STRENGTHS?

"My strengths, they probably lie in observation, analysis and creativity. I know how to handle a camera, how to frame a shot. How to read people, watching for their emotional tells, knowing when is the perfect moment to push the shutter and capture a frame for eternity. I know how to write well enough to encapsulate a story, to tell the reader what is going on with a specific picture, yet leaving enough gaps for them to fill in the blanks. Alongside that, I... I haven't done anything athletic in a while, but I'm hardy enough to survive the occasional sprint or hike."

WHAT ARE YOUR FEARS, FLAWS AND SECRETS?

"I have many. Years in the life as a journalist covering the worst that humanity has to offer has left me rather emotionally traumatised. Some therapists I've seen have diagnosed it as a milder form of PTSD, and I believe them. After all the work I've done in documenting the human story, how much can one mind take? I baulk at loud noises, don't feel much pain or revulsion at viewing particularly gruesome things...saddening as it may be, I've had to fortify my mind against my own emotion at times purely so I could capture those of others. To show to the world what suffering exists."

"I keep many secrets. Stories that I cannot bear to tell because of how horrible they are. Whatever you imagine is the worst of humankind, I've seen it. Locked away behind closed doors, covered by tarpaulins and buried in the ground. And no matter how much I wish to share them with the rest of the waking world, to tell someone that these things exist and something needs to be done about them...I keep quiet. I know that, if these stories are told, the men behind them will come after me and the people I know and care about. They will stop at nothing to ensure that their private lives remain a secret."

IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY SUPERNATURAL ABILITY, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

"Out of the blue, huh? Well, maybe the ability to freeze time? To be able to catch every shot, in the millisecond that it happens, without missing a single heartbeat or movement. To be able to frame the perfect shot without having to compromise on quality or be constrained by time. But right now, I have to settle for this weird... Well, I call it my Sixth Sense. It's a weird vibe for the supernatural that I have. I guess it's part and parcel of my journey into the supernatural world. But whenever I step into a place that's supposedly haunted, this Sixth Sense of mine comes to life like a radar for ghosts. I can't detect exact locations but this Sense leads me to places that have high concentrations of...stuff. Paranormal stuff."

SHOW US A SAMPLE OF YOUR WORK.

R E D U X .// 2047 //.

"Well. That's a tall order. We don't even know if this Reality Bringer is an actual person or an event."

Alex strode forward and took two pagers; one for himself that he clipped to his belt, and the other went into his pocket for Shirley to have when he went back later, being careful not to crush the tiny rectangular devices in his big, augmented hands. As he walked back to his spot, he thought about what agent Reynolds had said moments prior. Hex's journals had pointed to this so-called Reality Bringer or some associate thereof and then he'd died of a supposed 'overdose'. That in itself was bullshit, he knew that. But who or what was this Bringer that they commanded such power to take out Hex? And, more importantly, make it look like a suicide? The implications worried him.

Still, there was much work to do before they could even reach that conclusion. Alex went over the events leading up to their meeting in his head, while the other, older supers made nervous banter. Hex was dead. Agent Reynolds had discovered his body. Suspected overdose. She had read his journals and found some details about a Reality Bringer. Putting two and two together, she made a hypothesis that Hex was murdered but it didn't fly in the CFPD. So she used Hex's equipment to broadcast a cry for help on the Network, attracting all these washed-up heroes and villains, including himself and his sister, thousands of miles from home. Agent Reynolds had only one hope left; he didn't know her motivations to bring this ragtag bunch of misfits together, but she knew that Hex's death was more than just an overdose. It just didn't make sense. But the only way to find answers was to embark on this sordid journey into the underbelly of Cedar Fort, of Hex's private life and the journals he kept.

And then there was the matter of their company. Stardust. Biomancer. Avant Garde. Some old crone and an armoured, what he assumed was a cop or officer of some form. The three big-name supers, he knew. Hex had spoken at length about Stardust and Biomancer. Alex had even faced down Biomancer once or twice, when the once-villain had sown terror on behest of some terrorist group in the UK who'd paid him off. But Stardust...the extent of her power eclipsed even his, as much as he was built for combat. She could vaporise him with a click of her fingers and he wouldn't be able to lift a finger, which scared him inside. And then there was Avant Garde. A man who could manipulate paint, making the world his own misbegotten canvas at some point in the past. Alex had never personally fought him, but had heard some scattered stories about him along the Network. It was strange, how many people in this room were connected to the dead warlock. But what puzzled him the most was the two unnamed people; the crone and the armoured man. He recognised neither and yet, his appearance being the most mundane of the bunch made him stand out all the more. Alex made a point to ask this armoured man about who he was later, after everyone else had taken their pagers. As he took another drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke to the ceiling, Alex spoke.

"I'm just surprised at who showed up. We're all washed up misfits of society. My sister pulled me out of bed and we flew across the pond to a country we haven't been to in years. But Hex was a family friend. Showed us a direction when we thought everything was lost. I owe what's left of my miserable life to him. Me and my sister do. We'll do whatever it takes to find out who killed him and put them down. You have our support, agent Reynolds."

As the group began talking again, Alex edged his way past the other supers and approached the armoured man, tapping him as lightly as he could on the shoulder, which would feel like Alex was lightly shoving him.

"I don't recognise you from anywhere, at least, not that I know of. What's your name?"

ET winced as the Tower nudged him, a little too strong. The man was echelons stronger than even his augmented self. But, he was non-hostile, which was a start. And unfortunately curious. He gave the Tower a once-over, then pulled his cover story from the file to the front of his mind. "They call me Arbiter." It was true, although nobody outside of his the MCPD would have any record of the name. "Private security. Not really powered, so to speak, but they give me lots of money, and lots of tech."

His eyes furrowed--not unpleasantly--as he remembered the powerset of the Tower from the file. "Nice cyber. Bit old though, eh?"

"Old, aye. 'Bout as old as I am now. But at least the boys at Hereford keep upgrades in good supply. Had to visit them before I hopped the pond."

Alex rolled his shoulders and briefly flexed the cybernetics in his arms, the machines within whirring and making soft noises as the nanites in his skin rippled and his augmented muscles warmed up briefly before cooling down again as he relaxed. None of this would be visible, of course, but the noise would be audible.

"So. How d'you know Hex? Didn't really seem likely that he would work with a small private security outfit."

ET snorted, getting into character. "It wasn't so small. One of the biggest ones, though you'll understand that I can't give too much detail. Strictly speaking, I'm here off the books, and I'd rather keep my personal life and business life separate. It's hard enough to get my suit out of the armory, but the guy there owes me a favor." He tilted his head to one side. Gabbie, can we--.

Done. And just like that, the Tower's body came alive. The cyber didn't seem to realize it was being watched, so ET nudged it gently. What can you tell me about yourself, chum? To the man himself, ET shrugged. "Hex saved my life. I doubt he even remembered doing it, and he wouldn't have recognized me anyway." He patted the retracted helmet behind his head. "But I owe him this much, at least."

"Aye. Well I guess we all owe him something."

Alex didn't realise that ET had a power. A power that let his cybernetics speak for themselves. And as ET nudged the machines within the man, the voice within them came to life.

Ho there, chum. Prodding about the ol' machinery again, are we?

"Mmm." ET said. "Besides, not all of us can be as famous as the Tower. Golden boy of England, tragedy of the Knight Anglais. My condolences, man. That's rough business." He shifted slightly, bringing his arm gauntlet up to fiddle with one of the panels.

To the cyber, he said, You've caught me. A stranger in a strange land, of superheroes and villains. Can you blame me? You're an optical computer, right? Any advice here would be appreciated--you seem like a reasonable chap.

Oho, not just an optical computer, chum. I control all the systems within the big boy here. Optics, muscles and his hardened second skin. The man here depends on me and it brings me great pride to assist a strapping young fellow such as him. Say, how are you even conversing with me?

Alex shrugged and took another puff of his cigarette, politely exhaling smoke up towards the ceiling.

"Shite happens. I didn't ask for all of that bullshite in Utah to happen. But then again, it brought me and my sister peace of mind for once in our lives. It let us live like actual people back home. No faffin' about with superhero politics and villains or worrying about public image. We were people once. Hex's death, it shook us both to the core. That's why we're out here now."

"I can respect that," ET said. He liked this man. If they'd met earlier, things might have been different, but here he sensed a kindred spirit. "We've all gone through our tragedies." His mind pulled up an unbidden flash of Dave, and his head throbbed. "My brother died to a maniac." The memories washed over him for a second, and he awkwardly dug out his flask from who-knows-where. Not too much left in there.

His mind was getting frazzled, keeping these two conversations going. Frankly, I haven't the slightest idea how. It's my gift, I suppose, but only sometimes. Apologies in advance if I suddenly ignore you, it sort of...fades in and out. Like now, as Gabbie read his mind and severed the contact. There'd be time for conversing with the machines when there weren't a bunch of supers to keep tabs on.

ET stared at the flask in his hand for a long, long second, before finally sighing and putting it down. "Thanks for not threatening to kill me. Wasn't easy to get here, and to be honest, I was starting to feel unloved."

"I wouldn't want to kill anyone here. Not unless I had to. But we're all here to find out why Hex is dead. So...let's focus on that, I guess."

Alex dropped the stub of his cigarette and crushed it under his heel, rubbing out the embers onto the cold concrete. That's what they were all here for. Hex.

Time to start getting some answers.

The Sunday Group - Paranormal Detectives

Interested. Time to pull my retired photojournalist out of retirement.