Drag

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

---

Webb Family Coffee House

---

The good news was that Gene was a bit more confident this wasn’t a sting operation. The bad news was that he remained unconvinced these people weren’t morons.

It was like some bizarre LARP thing as the nerdy looking girl, Jennifer, managed to stutter her way through her notes on the Black family tree. That they were the head honchos of Quintin did not inspire a lot of respect from Gene, a quick glance out the window led him to believe a hillbilly squatted over a ditch one day and shat out this town. His attention was drawn to Jen’s map, various points of interest outlined with a skull messily drawn over one area. The mother/daughter trauma team jumped on this almost immediately, it was a little strange that Jen hadn’t mentioned it but then again this may well be her first conversation with human beings ever judging by the way she carried herself.

He just managed to suppress a scoff at Jennifer’s answer: “death.” It was not a haunted swamp, it was a perfectly normal swamp, which housed many mundane dangers that likely would terrify superstitious locals who’d only recently discovered fire. She was getting shifty, pointing out how unkindly the town residents took to people who asked questions. So long as they didn’t start commenting on Gene having a “purdy mouth” he didn’t give a shit what they thought. Regardless, the family office seemed like a decent place to start. Arranging a meeting with this “Mary-Louise” would be simplicity itself, Gene could have it done in five minutes if he were alone and not currently in-between characters with these people. Unfortunately, no such luck. The punk chick and the leather chick already volunteered themselves so he was looking forward to hearing how that pulp scene played out.

”Jen, what’re some of the places circled here?” He said, tapping her map with his index finger. ”If upsettin’ the local population’s an issue, might be worth spreadin’ ourselves a lil thinner. Cover more ground without attractin’ as much attention. hm In theory anyway.”

And, ideally, giving Gene a chance to separate himself from this circus. Jennifer had effectively given him some starting points which was really all Gene cared about.

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

---

Years Gone

---

"I won't bore ya with all the details but, long story short, we heard you talking on the phone and, well, our grandad - God rest his soul - passed a few weeks ago. Now, myself and Alessa've been left a… a pretty decent inheritance each."

The man in the suit appeared disinterested, attention on his phone and speaking in a tone just light enough to be socially polite but with a clear underlying desire to wrap it up fast.

"Sorry to hear that." He said. "How much're you two working with?"

"Well, it's…" He looked back and forth before leaning forward and whispering into the man's ear. The man in the suit looked up from his phone, a dial switched from within, like a shark smelling blood.

"That is a pretty decent inheritance." He conceded.

"But - and I don't mean to be disrespectful - it feels like a shortsighted call." There was a shakiness to Alessa's voice. She abhorred the rudeness of her interjection but needed her voice to be heard. "Vincent wants to pool our money together and just… just dump all of it onto the market and hope that one of them might double our money and I-"

"Alessa! Vincent hissed. The two began to silently bicker, an argument replayed over the past several weeks since obtaining the money. The man in the suit stood up.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Let's all settle down." He stood, flashing an affable grin. "First off you and your lovely sister are right. It's a great way to triple your investment but it's good to be cautious. The market can be unpredictable. But, that's why you get a broker."

"A broker? Ah, buddy, we were just gonna go with the most popular stock and throw our lot in with them."

The man in the suit chuckled. "Sure, that's a way of doing it, but you wanna diversify."

The siblings looked quizzical. "Diversify? Alessa tilted her head.

"Yeah, y'know don't put all your eggs into one basket? It's the same principle. Blue chip stocks are generally reliable but, it's the success of the outliers that'll get you the most bang for your buck, emerging companies, horses on the rise, cryptocurrency even. That's where a broker steps in." With another disarming smile, he finished his drink and placed it down on the table.

"Tell you what, why don't I get us a booth over there and give you two a free consultation."

"Well… ah, gee, I dunno-"

"Drinks on me." He said with a chuckle.

The siblings looked at each other then looked back at the man.

"Well all right!" Vincent said, shaking the man's hand.

---

The duo stumbled out of the bar, giggling and whispering.

"How long d'you think before they bring him the bill?" Floyd slurred with a raspy chuckle.

"Three hundred dollars worth of champagne and lobster." Eleanor giggled. "I kinda feel bad for the guy, never even checked the drinks menu for the prices."

"Ahhhh, guy's a stockbroker. We could rob half the U.S and he'd still have us beat."

"What's the plan now?" she asked, resting her head on his shoulder as they staggered into the night.

"I dunno" Floyd replied, looking down at her with a soft smile. "Somethin'...

---

The Webb Family Coffee House

---

Stupid.

The whole thing made him feel idiotic.

On one hand he'd half expected a group of homeless nutjobs who'd somehow stumbled onto an Internet connection. Or, more worryingly, a sting operation by the police using the world's most bizarre gambit to flush him out. Instead it was terrified mothers and confused daughters.

A more stable group than he expected, to be sure, but as they poured forth stories of Eleanor Black it all felt so ridiculous. They all knew this woman with a similar backstory in vastly different contexts. He couldn't exactly figure out the how or especially the why Ellie might abandon her kid or steal somebody else's but this was a con of some kind. It had to be. And as such, Gene did what he always did with Ellie's stories.

Play along.

"Howdy." He said, walking over to the group after Harmony had finished. "Sorry for listening in, wasn't sure if I had the right place." He hesitated. "Still not. If I'm being honest."

He sat down his hat and his glass of water in front of his chair on the table. The water was… somewhat cloudy and thus remained untouched.

"My name's Eugene. Eugene Watson. But, uh, just "Gene" works, thanks." A little unsure. A little vulnerable even. Guarded but open.

"Ellie-... Eleanor was my girlfriend. Six years or so, give or take. She had short dark hair, smart as hell, kinda… kinda cagey, I guess?

He inhaled, both from searching his brain for anything useful and how precisely to word it. "She didn't really talk much about her home life. 'Least not in anyway I understood." The truth. "Pretty normal relationship beyond that." A lie. "Only thing I remember for sure is her telling me about this place, Quintin. Can't say it's as appealing as she made it out to be. Not too long after that she, uh, she left me." He quiets for a moment, just a second. His stare becomes hard yet confused. He settles back in to being Gene Watson, resolved that the table has seen the first and last glimpse of beneath the mask.

"A good few months after that I saw her again, completely different. Different look different name. But everybody was acting like she was the same as she'd ever been." A vague truth, or a deliberately worded lie. Generally speaking, even those with the keenest senses for people found it hard to pick apart a story if they couldn't begin where to pierce it. They might guess you're lying, but they wouldn't know about specifically what.

He looked around at Niko, Charlie and Harmony, sympathy in his eyes. "Not quite the same as losing family or a support system though. For what little it's worth, no matter what crazy crap this is all spawned from, I hope everybody gets their Ellie back."

Another careful wording, a dash of reality and fiction. Truthfully, part of Gene did pity these nutjobs but he wasn't even beginning to entertain anything more than a mundane outcome to all of this. Frankly, he was still lightly expecting them to whip out the badges and slap on the cuffs.

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

Gene Watson

"Just “Gene”, thank ya kindly."

_______________________________________________ Eugene Kurt Watson He/Him | 31 | Caucasian | 6’0 | 142lbs _______________________________________________ Deceit _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "I learned this one at bible camp." ___________________________________ [+] Lockpicking ⫻ A talent, naturally, kept hidden but Gene is a savant when it comes to picking the locks of doors, cars, even a safe on one or two occasions. He does naturally require some kind of tool, especially the more complex a lock it is, but he has yet to encounter one he couldn’t make sing. Engineering ⫻ His apprenticeship of choice, he’s not a specialist and his expertise tends towards factory machine maintenance but Gene is comfortable with a toolkit and can work his way around stubborn cars or a faulty toaster if needs be. Urban Survivalist ⫻ With his upbringing below the poverty line and his choice of work later in life, Gene is something of an expert in making it through the days on the streets. Shoplifting dinner, pickpocketing bus fare and keeping a low profile during it all. Mama would be proud. Slickster ⫻ A master at spinning elaborate webs of deceit, designed to separate some poor fool from their money. Gene is charming and deceptively good at reading people. Even those who can tell the superficiality in his words have often found themselves still wanting to believe them.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Nothin’ special about me, friend." Gene Watson is both unremarkable enough to not stick in your memory and unique enough as to not seem like he’s trying too hard to blend in. He always appears laid back and affable but with some strange guard surrounding it, like speaking to a coworker you don’t know all that well. There’s always some level of performance to his mannerisms. He may not monologue or flair dramatically all that often, but he clearly enjoys listening to himself. In keeping with his relaxed demeanour, Gene sports a long and messy head of black hair, more on the "mop top" side than the mullet side. Along with a scraggly beard that, coupled with his lithe figure and unkempt style, straddles the line between charmingly roguish and "rat-like". The only failing in his air of civility are his eyes, half-closed and dull grey yet always alert - either in focus or in preparation to flee as the situation may warrant. While his frame is very lean, bordering on gangly, his job under the hot Texas sun has given him an athletic, if not well-defined, body. The only giveaway of anything close to a hard life are the occasional faint bits of scarring on his hands and face. Gene's dress sense is more than a little conspicuous from the point of view of the average person but generally right at home within Texas. Black stetson hat to combat the sun combined with generally loose-fitting clothing to keep as cool as can be in the dry air. He avoids darker colours for the same reasons and tends towards an overshirt over a graphic tee that also serves to hide his build. Ensemble completed by light coloured chinos and dark brown cowboy boots. A climate fitting wardrobe and a deceptively good one to obscure yourself with.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Hey, bud, can you keep a secret? There’s this Nigerian prince…"

MAIN GOAL ⫻ To emancipate himself from the exceedingly soul crushing existence that is working full time for minimum wage and with zero hope of progression. He’d escaped it once only to be forced back in by necessity. More unrealistically, he’d also enjoy not looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life and keeping his head down.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ People are, broadly speaking, snakes with varying levels of depths they’re willing to sink to in order to survive. If someone gets upset at you ripping them off, it’s really only because you did it to them first before they could do it to you. Gene doesn’t go out of his way to be an asshole and isn’t quite at the level of a sociopath but his experiences in life have taught him that greed exists in every person, the only way to not end up as a statistic or a sad story is simply to weaponize your own immorality better than others.

SECRETS ⫻ Eugene Watson of Ward County, Texas is an alias. In truth, he is Floyd Dillinger from Macon, Georgia. A wanted con-man, stick up artist and criminal, living hidden in plain sight after changing his appearance and erasing his identity.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Gene is heterosexual but has only had one romantic relationship with a genuine emotional connection.

FEARS ⫻ Seemingly fears the “regularness of life” and, to a lesser extent, living with the things he’s done that have ultimately brought him right back where he started. More saliently he’s also terrified at being caught and arrested.

WHO IS ELEANOR BLACK TO YOU? ⫻ Partner-in-crime, best friend, lover. Eleanor rescued Floyd from a life of petty existence and the duo cut a swathe of scams and robberies across the deep south.

FLAWS ⫻ Floyd Dillinger began as - and deep down still is - an earnest and not-all-that-bad guy whose brain naturally leans towards dishonest solutions for the multitude of problems he faces. But time has hardened him into a man who wears the skin of an extravagant slickster like a shield. He is prone to taking the low road and thinking the worst of people and situations because it’s never steered him wrong. His need for importance or screwing over established power structures is borderline pathological even when trying hard (though not hard enough) to move beyond his chequered past. He is prone to cowardice, self-loathing and introspection, which is then covered up by showmanship, manipulation and deceit.

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"I’m boring, friend. You wouldn't wanna hear about me."

Eugene Watson was born in Ward County, Texas. He studied communications at Texas State University. He works as a gas station attendant at Chevron. He has a cell phone number, a passport, driver’s licence and social security number. He spends his days at work and his evenings and weekends at home by himself.

Eugene Watson does not exist.

Floyd Dillinger was born in Macon, Georgia. The third son of a struggling working class family. His mother a cleaner and his father slaving in a dead end factory job. As a small boy, Floyd would accompany them on their shifts - due to not being able to afford a babysitter - and routinely saw bosses, customers and co-workers alike take advantage of his parent’s good yet naive and weak natures. In spite of his protests, they routinely tried to instil the same values into him, about working hard and treating people with respect even when it wasn’t earned. By the time he regularly attended elementary school, Floyd had already begun stealing money from the worksites for himself.

Determined to not follow the same path as his family, Floyd started hustling other kids well into his teens. Falling in with a bad crowd who alleviated their boredom via theft and random acts of vandalism. When things started getting serious, it wasn’t long until the police were involved. Facing the very real threat of a juvenile detention centre snapped some sense into Floyd, coupled with how hard his family fought for his side even when he really hadn’t deserved it. Out of a desire to change things and more than a degree of sympathy for his family, Floyd knuckled down his last few years of high school and managed to secure an apprenticeship after graduating.

It wasn’t too bad, initially. There was a sense of purpose that Floyd hadn’t anticipated and he felt more than a little happy at how proud his family were of the man he’d become. The issues began arising a year in when his apprenticeship ended. He wouldn’t be kept on. Despite jumping through the hoops and dotting his i’s all he got was a handshake and a “maybe next quarter, son.” He found himself working a minimum wage factory job just like his father in short order. His family were supportive but it fell on deaf ears, he’d ended up as the very kind of person he was terrified of becoming.

Then, one day, she showed up. A woman claiming to be an inspector of some importance with all the paperwork to back it up. She took a tour of the factory while the boss kissed up to her at every turn. It made Floyd sick. That was, until lunch. When the factory floor was mostly empty and he happened to see a certain inspector of some importance pocket the wallets from every coat in the office before nonchalantly leaving the office then right out the front door. He was pretty sure she winked at him from the corner of his eye. Cutting his shift short, Floyd followed her. A confrontation ensued, demands for an explanation, threats, mistrust. Until Floyd started criticising her approach, pointing out with the speed she went at she could’ve taken everything during the morning break and been out the factory much faster among other flaws in her scheme. She smiled, then she held out her hand, shutting him up.

Her name was Eleanor Black.

Floyd put in his notice a day later and left town not long after. Barely giving his family a goodbye before he hopped in a car with Eleanor and the two drove off with no destination in mind save for their shared distaste of modern life and desire for thrill.

Together, the duo cut a path of debauchery throughout the south. They started small, bars and restaurants where they'd concoct elaborate stories to trick people out of the contents of their wallets. Wasn't long before they added full on thefts and B&E's to their repertoire, along with the rare hold-up of service stations or corner stores when they needed to quickly refill the coffers. The police reports shot up wherever they went, and soon enough their fame started catching up to them.

Their standards of living shot down as they'd routinely camp out far from towns so as not to get recognised but they didn't care. It wasn't about the money or the things it afforded, Floyd felt alive. More than a statistic or a number on a badge or a troublemaker or a criminal. He felt like he existed, he and this wonderful woman who may have stoked his worst impulses but understood him in a way no one else did.

There was one time, beneath the stars on a humid night in Florida. They were both drunk out of their minds - courtesy of the "generosity" from their latest mark. Eleanor, who guarded her own past with humour or coy deflection, began telling Floyd about herself. Where she lived, what it was like, why she left. "Swamptown USA" Floyd had laughed. "If you still don't want to tell me, don't worry about it." He said, then turned and fell into a heavy alcohol-assisted slumber.

The following morning they went into town for one last scam for the road before splitting state for somewhere else. Eleanor was distant, quiet. She got like that sometimes before an act, focus maybe. They stepped into the store, pieces kept securely in their pockets. No one ever got hurt, they were smart about it, preform with enough force and people will fold however you want them. Floyd hadn't even fired his gun once throughout their career.

"Empty the register!" He yelled with a click as the clerk found himself eye-to-eye with a nine millimetre. Behind Floyd, Ellie worked crowd control just like they always did. The clerk hesitated, as they always did, but a more forceful repeat of the request by Floyd made him co-operate. Their bag halfway full, a bell and a crash rung behind Floyd. He whipped his head around to see someone charging out the store, screaming for help, he turned further to find the store empty. No customers, no Eleanor. When he turned back, the clerk had hidden under the counter and pressed an alarm. Floyd could already hear sirens.

What followed was a blur. The pure survival instinct of a wild animal beset upon by hunters. Flashes of red and blue, running from alley to alley, hiding beneath cars and debris. Spending the night in a drain with the rest of society's shit. In the early hours after stealing new clothes from a washing line and keeping a thirty metre berth from any passer-by, Floyd made it to a payphone. He punched in the number Eleanor had made him memorise. It went through to a hardware store in South Carolina. Phrases were exchanged and all Floyd was left with with was a two day timezone to lay low and vague directions on where to go to be picked up at dawn of day three. By some divine miracle for a guy that really didn't deserve it, Floyd made it. Shuffled into the back of a hardware van and tucked amongst tools and furniture, being told his new name, history, likes and dislikes as he was whisked from car to car towards his new life.

The first few months were hell. Gripped in paranoia and constantly second guessing every decision, lest it blow his cover. He'd long since grown out his neatly-cut dirty blonde hair into a long dyed black mane along with his clean shaven jaw giving way to a scraggly Jesus beard. But it never felt enough. It wasn't until the support from his "disappearers" stopped when his money dried up and he was forced to begin providing for himself did he regain some semblance of normality. Working quietly in a shitty job in some nowhere town. Only this time he didn’t have Eleanor or his family to fall back on.

Then, one day, he saw a news story that ran about one half of a notorious stick-up duo being arrested in Chicago. Partner and lover of the notorious “Pretty Boy” Floyd Dillinger, Elizabeth Burrows. It stopped Gene cold. She was different… radically different actually. She’d gone so above and beyond the changing of the identity thing that she was like a completely different person. Horrified for her and panicked for his own safety, Floyd took three different buses to the furthest away library and logged in to their computers (then enabled private browsing as if that made any difference). Searching Elizabeth Burrows turned out several results for all kinds of cons committed by the two of them. But searching Eleanor Black turned up very little of anything. Had she really trusted him so little as to not even tell him her real name? Every clip he watched of Elizabeth seemed wrong in a vaguely familiar way, like she was a memory of Eleanor instead of the woman herself. It filled him with dread as he frantically looked through everything pertaining to both names.

She was going to fold on him, tell the world where he was and how to get him, she wasn’t the real Eleanor, it was some kind of sting to get at him, it had to be! Then he stumbled across a forum on page twenty-seven of the Eleanor Black search. People describing the woman he knew, details about her life that they couldn’t possibly have known. Lives she’d led that she couldn’t possibly have done so. Confused, scared and against his better judgement, Gene joined the forum under a pseudonym and joined the conversation.

“Swamptown U.S.A”. That’s where they were going.

Maybe they were all just a bunch of nuts, maybe Gene really had lost his mind, maybe Eleanor really never cared about him and that truly was her being held by the state. Or maybe she was in Louisiana, calling for him with a con only he would know.

Whatever it was, Gene left with a renewed sense of purpose. Texas had long since gotten old anyway…

_{Paranormal-Abilities
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Magic? Sure, feller, an’ I got a bridge to sell ya."

Other than a magically loose set of morals, Gene is blind.

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Believe me, ain't no honour among thieves... 'cept for you an' I, of course."

As part of his "hiding in plain sight" disguise, Gene tends to use foundation make-up to hide some of his more obvious scarring, eliminating the public pool from his already narrow list of possible activities.

A lot of the Gene Watson character is based on westerns that Floyd seen growing up, therefore his performance can occasionally veer into hammy or overplaying it at times.

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

Gene Watson

"Just “Gene”, thank ya kindly."

_______________________________________________ Eugene Kurt Watson He/Him | 31 | Caucasian | 6’0 | 120lbs _______________________________________________ Deceit _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "I learned this one at bible camp." ___________________________________ [+] Lockpicking ⫻ A talent, naturally, kept hidden but Gene is a savant when it comes to picking the locks of doors, cars, even a safe on one or two occasions. He does naturally require some kind of tool, especially the more complex a lock it is, but he has yet to encounter one he couldn’t make sing. Engineering ⫻ His apprenticeship of choice, he’s not a specialist and his expertise tends towards factory machine maintenance but Gene is comfortable with a toolkit and can work his way around stubborn cars or a faulty toaster if needs be. Urban Survivalist ⫻ With his upbringing below the poverty line and his choice of work later in life, Gene is something of an expert in making it through the days on the streets. Shoplifting dinner, pickpocketing bus fare and keeping a low profile during it all. Mama would be proud. Slickster ⫻ A master at spinning elaborate webs of deceit, designed to separate some poor fool from their money. Gene is charming and deceptively good at reading people. Even those who can tell the superficiality in his words have often found themselves still wanting to believe them.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Nothin’ special about me, friend." Gene Watson is both unremarkable enough to not stick in your memory and unique enough as to not seem like he’s trying too hard to blend in. He always appears laid back and affable but with some strange guard surrounding it, like speaking to a coworker you don’t know all that well. There’s always some level of performance to his mannerisms. He may not monologue or flair dramatically all that often, but he clearly enjoys listening to himself. In keeping with his relaxed demeanour, Gene sports a long and messy head of black hair, more on the "mop top" side than the mullet side. Along with a scraggly beard that, coupled with his lithe figure and unkempt style, straddles the line between charmingly roguish and "rat-like". The only failing in his air of civility are his eyes, half-closed and dull grey yet always alert - either in focus or in preparation to flee as the situation may warrant. While his frame is very lean, bordering on gangly, his job under the hot Texas sun has given him an athletic, if not well-defined, body. The only giveaway of anything close to a hard life are the occasional faint bits of scarring on his hands and face. Gene's dress sense is more than a little conspicuous from the point of view of the average person but generally right at home within Texas. Black stetson hat to combat the sun combined with generally loose-fitting clothing to keep as cool as can be in the dry air. He avoids darker colours for the same reasons and tends towards an overshirt over a graphic tee that also serves to hide his build. Ensemble completed by light coloured chinos and dark brown cowboy boots. A climate fitting wardrobe and a deceptively good one to obscure yourself with.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Hey, bud, can you keep a secret? There’s this Nigerian prince…"

MAIN GOAL ⫻ To emancipate himself from the exceedingly soul crushing existence that is working full time for minimum wage and with zero hope of progression. He’d escaped it once only to be forced back in by necessity. More unrealistically, he’d also enjoy not looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life and keeping his head down.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ People are, broadly speaking, snakes with varying levels of depths they’re willing to sink to in order to survive. If someone gets upset at you ripping them off, it’s really only because you did it to them first before they could do it to you. Gene doesn’t go out of his way to be an asshole and isn’t quite at the level of a sociopath but his experiences in life have taught him that greed exists in every person, the only way to not end up as a statistic or a sad story is simply to weaponize your own immorality better than others.

SECRETS ⫻ Eugene Watson of Ward County, Texas is an alias. In truth, he is Floyd Dillinger from Macon, Georgia. A wanted con-man, stick up artist and criminal, living hidden in plain sight after changing his appearance and erasing his identity.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Gene is heterosexual but has only had one romantic relationship with a genuine emotional connection.

FEARS ⫻ Seemingly fears the “regularness of life” and, to a lesser extent, living with the things he’s done that have ultimately brought him right back where he started. More saliently he’s also terrified at being caught and arrested.

WHO IS ELEANOR BLACK TO YOU? ⫻ Partner-in-crime, best friend, lover. Eleanor rescued Floyd from a life of petty existence and the duo cut a swathe of scams and robberies across the deep south.

FLAWS ⫻ Floyd Dillinger began as - and deep down still is - an earnest and not-all-that-bad guy whose brain naturally leans towards dishonest solutions for the multitude of problems he faces. But time has hardened him into a man who wears the skin of an extravagant slickster like a shield. He is prone to taking the low road and thinking the worst of people and situations because it’s never steered him wrong. His need for importance or screwing over established power structures is borderline pathological even when trying hard (though not hard enough) to move beyond his chequered past. He is prone to cowardice, self-loathing and introspection, which is then covered up by showmanship, manipulation and deceit.

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"I’m boring, friend. You wouldn't wanna hear about me."

Eugene Watson was born in Ward County, Texas. He studied communications at Texas State University. He works as a gas station attendant at Chevron. He has a cell phone number, a passport, driver’s licence and social security number. He spends his days at work and his evenings and weekends at home by himself.

Eugene Watson does not exist.

Floyd Dillinger was born in Macon, Georgia. The third son of a struggling working class family. His mother a cleaner and his father slaving in a dead end factory job. As a small boy, Floyd would accompany them on their shifts - due to not being able to afford a babysitter - and routinely saw bosses, customers and co-workers alike take advantage of his parent’s good yet naive and weak natures. In spite of his protests, they routinely tried to instil the same values into him, about working hard and treating people with respect even when it wasn’t earned. By the time he regularly attended elementary school, Floyd had already begun stealing money from the worksites for himself.

Determined to not follow the same path as his family, Floyd started hustling other kids well into his teens. Falling in with a bad crowd who alleviated their boredom via theft and random acts of vandalism. When things started getting serious, it wasn’t long until the police were involved. Facing the very real threat of a juvenile detention centre snapped some sense into Floyd, coupled with how hard his family fought for his side even when he really hadn’t deserved it. Out of a desire to change things and more than a degree of sympathy for his family, Floyd knuckled down his last few years of high school and managed to secure an apprenticeship after graduating.

It wasn’t too bad, initially. There was a sense of purpose that Floyd hadn’t anticipated and he felt more than a little happy at how proud his family were of the man he’d become. The issues began arising a year in when his apprenticeship ended. He wouldn’t be kept on. Despite jumping through the hoops and dotting his i’s all he got was a handshake and a “maybe next quarter, son.” He found himself working a minimum wage factory job just like his father in short order. His family were supportive but it fell on deaf ears, he’d ended up as the very kind of person he was terrified of becoming.

Then, one day, she showed up. A woman claiming to be an inspector of some importance with all the paperwork to back it up. She took a tour of the factory while the boss kissed up to her at every turn. It made Floyd sick. That was, until lunch. When the factory floor was mostly empty and he happened to see a certain inspector of some importance pocket the wallets from every coat in the office before nonchalantly leaving the office then right out the front door. He was pretty sure she winked at him from the corner of his eye. Cutting his shift short, Floyd followed her. A confrontation ensued, demands for an explanation, threats, mistrust. Until Floyd started criticising her approach, pointing out with the speed she went at she could’ve taken everything during the morning break and been out the factory much faster among other flaws in her scheme. She smiled, then she held out her hand, shutting him up.

Her name was Eleanor Black.

Floyd put in his notice a day later and left town not long after. Barely giving his family a goodbye before he hopped in a car with Eleanor and the two drove off with no destination in mind save for their shared distaste of modern life and desire for thrill.

Together, the duo cut a path of debauchery throughout the south. They started small, bars and restaurants where they'd concoct elaborate stories to trick people out of the contents of their wallets. Wasn't long before they added full on thefts and B&E's to their repertoire, along with the rare hold-up of service stations or corner stores when they needed to quickly refill the coffers. The police reports shot up wherever they went, and soon enough their fame started catching up to them.

Their standards of living shot down as they'd routinely camp out far from towns so as not to get recognised but they didn't care. It wasn't about the money or the things it afforded, Floyd felt alive. More than a statistic or a number on a badge or a troublemaker or a criminal. He felt like he existed, he and this wonderful woman who may have stoked his worst impulses but understood him in a way no one else did.

There was one time, beneath the stars on a humid night in Florida. They were both drunk out of their minds - courtesy of the "generosity" from their latest mark. Eleanor, who guarded her own past with humour or coy deflection, began telling Floyd about herself. Where she lived, what it was like, why she left. "Swamptown USA" Floyd had laughed. "If you still don't want to tell me, don't worry about it." He said, then turned and fell into a heavy alcohol-assisted slumber.

The following morning they went into town for one last scam for the road before splitting state for somewhere else. Eleanor was distant, quiet. She got like that sometimes before an act, focus maybe. They stepped into the store, pieces kept securely in their pockets. No one ever got hurt, they were smart about it, preform with enough force and people will fold however you want them. Floyd hadn't even fired his gun once throughout their career.

"Empty the register!" He yelled with a click as the clerk found himself eye-to-eye with a nine millimetre. Behind Floyd, Ellie worked crowd control just like they always did. The clerk hesitated, as they always did, but a more forceful repeat of the request by Floyd made him co-operate. Their bag halfway full, a bell and a crash rung behind Floyd. He whipped his head around to see someone charging out the store, screaming for help, he turned further to find the store empty. No customers, no Eleanor. When he turned back, the clerk had hidden under the counter and pressed an alarm. Floyd could already hear sirens.

What followed was a blur. The pure survival instinct of a wild animal beset upon by hunters. Flashes of red and blue, running from alley to alley, hiding beneath cars and debris. Spending the night in a drain with the rest of society's shit. In the early hours after stealing new clothes from a washing line and keeping a thirty metre berth from any passer-by, Floyd made it to a payphone. He punched in the number Eleanor had made him memorise. It went through to a hardware store in South Carolina. Phrases were exchanged and all Floyd was left with with was a two day timezone to lay low and vague directions on where to go to be picked up at dawn of day three. By some divine miracle for a guy that really didn't deserve it, Floyd made it. Shuffled into the back of a hardware van and tucked amongst tools and furniture, being told his new name, history, likes and dislikes as he was whisked from car to car towards his new life.

The first few months were hell. Gripped in paranoia and constantly second guessing every decision, lest it blow his cover. He'd long since grown out his neatly-cut dirty blonde hair into a long dyed black mane along with his clean shaven jaw giving way to a scraggly Jesus beard. But it never felt enough. It wasn't until the support from his "disappearers" stopped when his money dried up and he was forced to begin providing for himself did he regain some semblance of normality. Working quietly in a shitty job in some nowhere town. Only this time he didn’t have Eleanor or his family to fall back on.

Then, one day, he saw a news story that ran about one half of a notorious stick-up duo being arrested in Chicago. Partner and lover of the notorious “Pretty Boy” Floyd Dillinger, Elizabeth Burrows. It stopped Gene cold. She was different… radically different actually. She’d gone so above and beyond the changing of the identity thing that she was like a completely different person. Horrified for her and panicked for his own safety, Floyd took three different buses to the furthest away library and logged in to their computers (then enabled private browsing as if that made any difference). Searching Elizabeth Burrows turned out several results for all kinds of cons committed by the two of them. But searching Eleanor Black turned up very little of anything. Had she really trusted him so little as to not even tell him her real name? Every clip he watched of Elizabeth seemed wrong in a vaguely familiar way, like she was a memory of Eleanor instead of the woman herself. It filled him with dread as he frantically looked through everything pertaining to both names.

She was going to fold on him, tell the world where he was and how to get him, she wasn’t the real Eleanor, it was some kind of sting to get at him, it had to be! Then he stumbled across a forum on page twenty-seven of the Eleanor Black search. People describing the woman he knew, details about her life that they couldn’t possibly have known. Lives she’d led that she couldn’t possibly have done so. Confused, scared and against his better judgement, Gene joined the forum under a pseudonym and joined the conversation.

“Swamptown U.S.A”. That’s where they were going.

Maybe they were all just a bunch of nuts, maybe Gene really had lost his mind, maybe Eleanor really never cared about him and that truly was her being held by the state. Or maybe she was in Louisiana, calling for him with a con only he would know.

Whatever it was, Gene left with a renewed sense of purpose. Texas had long since gotten old anyway…

_{Paranormal-Abilities
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Magic? Sure, feller, an’ I got a bridge to sell ya."

Other than a magically loose set of morals, Gene is blind.

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Believe me, ain't no honour among thieves... 'cept for you an' I, of course."

As part of his "hiding in plain sight" disguise, Gene tends to use foundation make-up to hide some of his more obvious scarring, eliminating the public pool from his already narrow list of possible activities.

A lot of the Gene Watson character is based on westerns that Floyd seen growing up, therefore his performance can occasionally veer into hammy or overplaying it at times.

Nomadic Odyssey: Find Your Heart

---

Reception Room
@Wikkit

---

---

Just a regular guy!?

Had there been adequate protective flooring, Florian would have fainted. While he’d only been getting a psychology degree in his off-hours for kicks, even he knew an underdeveloped sense of self esteem when he heard it. This young man, Justin Haggar, with his metallic enhancements and vaguely familiar sounding surname he was anything but “nothing special”.

Florian was about to indulge in a well intentioned but almost certainly ridiculously insensitive motivational speech before the Worm-Hosting Announcer slid back onto stage and decked Jaden off of it. The tournament was about to get underway, a noteworthy enough event to get Florian to shut up for a moment as he clapped his hands together.

”Well, unfortunately, we must cut this interaction short, my friends! I will be watching your matches with supportive interest! But I must change into my combatant attire and partake in my own preliminary contest!”

Florian flourished and bow’d before reaching into his jacket’s breast pocket and producing two small cards and all but forcing one each into the hands of Yazhu and Justin.

”My personal and professional lines - though I receive enough correspondences on my personal device that I’ve required the hiring of a screener so you’re better off calling my business number. I would very much enjoy making either of your acquaintances after I win this tournament! Nevertheless, good luck and adieu!”

With that, he spun around and sauntered off, preparing to reconvene with his unpleasantly bourgeois friends and begin his ascension to Florian Wessington I: power stone owner.

Nomadic Odyssey: Find Your Heart

---

Reception Room
@KaiserElectric

---

---

Apologies and self-persecution poured forth from the mouth of Lucas Miller as he once again found himself swerving through a crowd of nomads. However his previously experienced and deft movements were now sluggish and unsure as he continued to beat himself up over how he’d performed socially. Even he wasn’t normally that skittish.

Things weren’t helped by the growing restlessness amongst the competitors eager to begin the tournament. Words and curses spat at one another, barely kept from sparking into a wildfire due to the threat of disqualification before the show had even begun. All of it contributed to the ever-weakening nerve of Lucas Miller. Striking out with a pretty girl, tempers flaring, a bomb in the air, the heat of Brazil.

Wait.

Bomb?

The explosion sent Lucas into a fearful tailspin, like a deer hearing a branch fall from several miles away. Surprisingly, few of the other nomads seemed particularly bothered as a sandy blonde young man blasted a stone bomb out of the air of the hall - no doubt wrapped up in their own megalomania and posturing - but Lucas certainly did.

He stumbled back, colliding with several nomads only to offer a mile-a-second apology while continuing to flee. At a certain point you needed to draw the line, needed to acknowledge when enough was enough. Lucas had long since drawn that line but his will had plummeted to depths even he wasn’t aware existed as he frantically began looking for the arena exit. He could feel the wind guiding him, could feel escape on his fingertips as he moved with reckless abandon.

”Sorry!” As he narrowly avoided collision with a Greco-Roman gladiator.

”SORRY!” As he dusted past the wings of a half-man-half-bat creature.

”I’M SO SORRY!” As he ducked beneath the walking armoury, equipped with enough armaments to depopulate a small town.

But there it was, freedom at last. The beckoning light of the Brazil sun peaking through the doorway. Lucas made a mad dash, mentally preparing the quickest route from the airport all the way back to Philly. But then…

Collision.

Lucas’ speed had him crash right into a short red haired fellow. While the redhead themselves seemed none worse for wear, Lucas was sent right on his ass, already spilling out apologies in a well rehearsed terror.

”I’MSORRYI’MREALLYSORRYITWASTHEREWASIWASIWASTRYINGTOI’MSORRYI-I-I-!” He paused, opening his eyes slightly which had been preemptively closed - expecting a strike of reprisal. ”Oh, hey, I know you.” His fear had briefly given way to recognition. He did know this person.

Skyler Belsky. Justice Rider Lancer. You know? Justice Rider? Like the sister of the girl Lucas had just been bombing in front of and now most certainly hated him like everybody else.

Lucas shakily got back to his feet, concern seeping back in, at least he hadn’t seemed to have hurt Skyler, but that hardly mattered to some nomads.

”I-I-I- I really am sorry, I- I was just lea-” Hm. No. Can’t just crash into them and then bow out, that would absolutely escalate to violence. ”I- I- I’m just a r-really big f-fan. heh heh. I… I c-can’t believe it’s you!” There we go. Play to the ego. Smooth things over with some terror powered flattery. Truthfully, Lucas wasn’t really a big fan of the Justice Riders show (It was a bit too schlocky, even for him. Plus the over-reliance of cgi lately had turned him off altogether.) but that didn’t matter! When motivated by an incredibly powerful persecution complex, you can bullshit about pretty much anything.

Lucas held out his hand, shaky from adrenaline and nerves. ”M-my name’s Lewi- Lucas! My name’s Lucas M-miller.”

---

Reception Room
@Wikkit,@Punished GN

---

---

SPLENDID!

It really was a bomb this whole time! Florian could only lament how his chums were missing out on this experience, so much he had learned in such short order!

Florian couldn’t help himself, applauding and laughing in a way that suggested enjoyment at Yazhu’s concern and Justin’s indignation but could not be further from the truth. He felt more like a learned scientist discovering an entirely new element. As, of course, opposed to a foppish twit who had seen an explosion.

He adjusted the Basilisk System - which Yazhu had so graciously, and correctly, fawned over moments ago - and went to join the hubbub.

”Come now, friends!” He began with an air of diplomatic sophistication. ”Crisis has been averted! Thanks to the craftsmanship of the delightful stone/ball hybrid and the quick skill of this man and android hybrid before us!” He could feel the words pouring forth him like spiced honey, even finding himself beguiled by his own finely bred charm!

Florian produced a small white handkerchief with “F.W” monogrammed on the corner and began lightly dusting off the scuff marks left on Justin by the dao bomb’s explosion, laughing off Yazhu’s befuddled expression and gesturing towards him in regards to Justin. Very gracious!

”Apologies are in order, however. Merely a demonstration gone awry! As the party of great stature, it falls to myself to take the blame, I do hope you’ll forgive this indiscretion.” He stood up, running his free hand through his fringe. There it was! Those damn sparkles yet again!!

”Now, with that unpleasantness hopefully behind us, let us start afresh with introductions! You likely know myself as Florian Wessington, son of Daniel Wessington and heir to distinguished weapons corporation: Minerva! This extremely talented little girl is Yazhu Kuang, immortal Taoist!” Florian’s speech never wavered, but he took a moment internally to really appreciate how much he was nailing this introduction. ”May you indulge us with your own title, my friend?”

Nomadic Odyssey: Find Your Heart

---

Reception Room

---

---

“-and that’S THE BOTTOM LINE! ‘CAUSE “SHOWTIME” SAID-!”

The voice of Perry Miller rose again like a shrill phoenix as Lucas Miller turned his headset back on to the continued mania of his father. It was comforting nevertheless distracting the boy from his insecurities.

”Dad!” Lucas half-yelled and half-whispered down the headset, snapping his father out of his stream of consciousness promo.

”Oh! Luke! Are you all set now?!” Perry had the fascinating ability to deliver even the most innocuously intended statement or question sound like it was being delivered to an arena full of people. Thankfully, his son was more than used to it by now.

”No, Dad. Fights should be opening up soon though.” Lucas replied, scanning the events of the reception hall while weaving in and out of nomad traffic. His rhythm was interrupted as he saw the commotion of reporters drift away, leaving behind their former target: Jill Breicen. Free from the shackles of the media, she seemed now to be entertaining an energetic blonde young woman, shaking hands and exchanging plea-.

Wait.

Jill Breicen.

Jasmine Breicen…

Lucas let out a low groan, the kind that could only be replicated by a seventy year old with decades of being worn down by the world.

”What’s up, Champ?” Perry asked over the headset, in a rare moment of picking up on his son’s feelings.

”I think I might have made some powerful enemies…” Lucas responded, wearily. His strategy to life had been to expect and accept the worst case outcome to anything and everything, no matter how fueled by paranoia or unlikely it may be.

---

Reception Room
@Wikkit

---

---

Pa-jiiin thing?

Florian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Could there truly be abilities unique to him that even his brilliant mind had yet to pick up on? He chuckled to himself. Truly! Entering this tournament was already paying off in terms of experience!

His self-aggrandising thoughts momentarily distracted him as he was confronted by Yazhu’s own self-aggrandising commentary. She was more than happy to talk up her skills, no stranger to it himself (and being woefully naive) Florian was rather impressed by her description and imagery. Enough so that it was a shock to his senses when the girl immediately dropped from erudite to irreverent in promising to show him some “cool stuff”. Namely, one.

A Dao-Bomb

Florian once again held a hand to his chin and inspected it, face inches away from its surface.

Fascinating!

”Now, you say bomb…” One eye squinted, like a gemologist inspecting every curvature of a particularly precious stone. He leaned back up, his inspection complete. ”Is it not just a large rock?

His confusion was sincere, before giving way to “understanding”. He laughed, of course she would not be so bold as to drop a “bomb” in the middle of a crowded hall of fighters. He applauded once more.

”Playing your cards close to your chest still, I see! I am disappointed I must concede but; I respect your stratagem!” He held out his arm, an ornately designed gauntlet resting over his white glove and beginning to hum slightly with green energy. ”I am assured of my victory to such an extent that I have no issue displaying my own skill, if you would permit my indulgence? I am, at the lowest, greatly experienced in several forms of martial arts and a proficient master of many more!” A haughty little chuckle, ”In fact! Such was my skill that many of the trainers we hired were forced to leave prematurely due to me mastering their lessons in such a short time!”

A dramatic flourish as he moved his gauntleted arm close to Yazhu for her to inspect.

”However I’ve had troubles with my ki failing to reach the standards of the rest of my abilities…” A rare tinge of sorrow in the normally unflappable voice of Florian Wessington. Snuffed out in under a second as he continued with confident determination. ”But, no matter! This device enhances my ki to the level it should be at, until such time as my natural talent rises and cultivates to meet my standards!”

How marvellous it all was! He had not been indulged in a discussion of this depth by anyone until Yazhu, he was having such a wonderful time talking about himself that he failed to notice the unexploded and still very much active Dao-Bomb behind him slowly beginning to roll forward, away from the pair.

Nomadic Odyssey: Find Your Heart

---

Reception Room
@Wikkit

---

---

Florian let his eyes shut with a smile of contentment as the girl heaped praise upon him, listing off his accolades one after the other - even Florian himself forgot the depth of skill in his resume at times, it was nice to have a reminder.

His self-satisfied expression faltered as she went on to describe the demise of her own family, not that the young woman, who revealed herself as “Yazhu”, appeared to mind much - perhaps she’d come with a chaperone? It was odd, she spoke similar to and shared mannerisms with that of nobility yet was remarkably… irreverent? Nonetheless, Florian put a hand to his chest and lowered his gaze slightly.

”I am sorry to hear the fate of your family, for what it’s worth.” Which was not much, admittedly, especially when Florian’s tone was often viewed as insincere largely due to trying so hard to avoid sounding insincere. What didn’t help was him perking right back up as she laughed and began to delve into her own skills. ”Should you change your mind regarding a memorable moniker, please don’t hesitate to get in touch, I count the art of branding among my many skills!”

She needn’t have asked, Florian was always more than happy to lend his considerable skill and resources to those who so desperately needed it. Which was why his sympathetic smile and quizzical tilt of the head returned at Yazhu’s request.

”I would so love to help, but… I haven’t the slightest idea what you refer to. Tooth thing?” Another haughty-sounding chuckle as he ran a gloved hand through one of his fringes. There it was again! Like a shower of sparkles fluttering off a diamond’s edge.

”Ah, but enough jesting, Yazhu!” Saying her name so casually was a confidence technique apparently, breeding friendly familiarity while still establishing a self-assertive demeanour. ”You are a master you say? Perchance you would permit me some knowledge of what your mastery is? I wouldn’t be so bold as to request a demonstration before the big event, but it would be marvellous to learn the theory behind your techniques!"

---

Reception Room
@Kamen Evie

---

---

It was all over. It was all falling apart. Stupid Lucas and his stupid mouth. “What’s your name?”, “Are you competing?” What kind of fucking moron asks something like that!?

It was clear to him that Jasmine’s previously guarded manner had crept back in - even if only slightly - enough for paranoid overthinking kicked back into overdrive. What didn’t help was the mention of her mother. Lucas had virtually zero experience with magical girl or demonic affairs but he certainly knew family troubles. It affected him just as it clearly was affecting her. She was moving inward, troubling herself with issues that, even if they could be helped, Lucas was very much not the person equipped to do it - least of all in the middle of a packed hall of maniacs.

So he did the only thing he could do, the life-honed Miller technique.

The self-sabotage.

”C-cool.” Was all he said in response to her merely tagging along. ”I-I’m sorry I asked that. His tiny mind was eroding, drowning in a sea of neurotoxin. ”I’m s-sorry to hear about the family s-stuff.” The fighting carnival had yet to even begin, and Lucas Miller had already lost. ”I-I’m sorry I said cool.”

His head bowed, like a flagellant nomad preparing to rip the flesh from his back with a cat-of-nine-tails as penance for existing. Truthfully, even Lucas wasn’t normally this self-critical, but he was too taken aback by his attraction for the girl, placed too much stake into a halfway civil conversation and ultimately when it hit the most minor of stumble it completely took him out. He didn’t want to be talking anymore, he wanted the ground to swallow up his body along with all collective memory that he’d even existed.

”I-I-I have to go.” His delivery was more subdued, difficult to hear over everything else in the room along with the quickening of his speech. ”U-uh-I ha-have to g-got-go get ready f-for, the m- mmm…” Mumbling turned to near whispering, his pace became even further frantic. ”itwasnicemeetingyouJasmineseeyouaroundsorryagain, sorry!”

Then he turned in the stiffest one hundred and eighty degree manner anyone would likely ever see and began darting off into the crowd. He began turning the volume back up on his earpiece, letting his Father’s bombastic personality be a sound of comfort as he tried to disappear into the crowd.

Nomadic Odyssey: Find Your Heart

---

Reception Room
@Kamen Evie

---

---

Lucas gave a small smile as the flying, talking bat relieved the tension and complimented him in the same breath. Though in the back of his mind it did further his desire to get out of this life as he found himself talking to a large orange bat without thinking it was in any way bizarre. It was deeper than that though, there was some sort of link of commonality, like meeting someone you went to High School with but couldn't quite place…

His thoughts (and mild boost of confidence) were broken however as the ever frequent words ran out from the young woman's lips: "Bizby Land". Like a cold splash of water to the senses, it made Lucas barely suppress a cringe, trying not to react too negatively lest it lead to further mockery.

Her insults were different than usual however, they felt more, endearing? Or less malicious? Actually they didn't feel like insults at all as she outright asked for his autograph. Had Perry been on the other-line, he would have literally jumped for joy.

"O-oh it's no problem." Lucas said with a sheepish grin, fishing around in his bag and retrieving a pen - one with a masked luchador atop the end and emblazoned with the words "This Pen Is Mightier Than The Piledriver!!!!". Lucas, shakily, wrote his name as small and out of the way as he possibly could. "T-there's no need to a-apologise." He looked up at her with another little smile. "I g-guess I just never r-really saw it as an inspirational story before."

He took the chance to glance down and scan the other signatures dotting the skateboard. "Jaden Raldo, Renard Bleu, Rodney Lyte, Wal-," His voice heightened ever so slightly "Oh, wow, you met Walter Duncan?"

A small chuckle. Not one of nervousness or in an attempt to diffuse a bad situation, but one of sincere enjoyment.

"S-sorry I don't think I got y-your name. Are y-you competing o-or?" He had enough found confidence to ask the question, but not quite enough to keep the momentum going, trailing off in a way that was painfully trying to seem natural.

---

Reception Room
@Wikkit

---

---

For a brief second, Florian was taken aback by the sheer directness of the young woman. He quickly composed himself and let out a chuckle at a pitch so perfect it must have been at least somewhat rehearsed.

He took Yazhu’s hand and held it slightly aloft, as though she were a noblewoman at a gala and not an exceedingly young looking Taoist floating a few inches above him.

”A spot of both, I suppose you could say!” His inflection was vibrant, as though this were some sort of talk show and they were both fated to speak this morning. He released her hand and held both his own behind his back, making him resemble some sort of dignified royal guard. ”I’d hoped to get an idea of some of the competition, events like these are such a… how you say… “melting pot”? There is much knowledge to be gained!”

His head tilted, his smile remaining but with an added touch of sympathy. ”Though I feel I must inform you, there are a few immortals attending these next few days if my sources are correct.” His chipper attitude returned just as quickly as it had left. ”Don’t fret on it however, think of it as a learning opportunity!” He added, not intending to be demeaning but doing little to actually convey as such.

His expression shifted again to one of over-dramatic horror. ”Forgive me! My manners… I have yet to even introduce myself!” He gave a slight bow towards Yazhu, returning upwards with his eyes closed along with an expression of pride and a hand delicately placed on his chest. ”My name is Florian Wessington, fighter, athlete, aristocracy, artiste and heir to the Minerva Defense Logistics corporation and any of its associated holdings. I will be competing in this tournament and have no intention of losing.”

His eyes opened, his smile widened, somehow giving off a glistening sparkle that could blind lesser beings.

”An absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance, how might I address yourself?” He beckoned towards her with an open palm, as if passing her the proverbial basketball of conversation.

Nomadic Odyssey: Find Your Heart

---

The Reception Room.

---

---

"Oh, sorry."

"S-sorry!"

"S-'scuse me, sorry; thanks, sorry!"

It was a science, weaving in between crowds of people at great speeds while narrowly avoiding collision and apologising all the while, as if his mere presence were something he needed to atone for.

Lucas Miller squeezed his way past groups of Nomads, media, security, fans and just about anyone else packed into a reception hall because they couldn't wait for the show to begin.

"Are you at the desk yet?" A strangely high pitched but unmistakably male voice rang into the boy's senses from a small earpiece nestled in his left ear.

"N-no, just give me a second." Lucas Miller replied to his father on the other end of the line - "Showtime" Perry Miller - trying not to collide into anyone as he did so.

"Don't take too long, Champ, if ya don't register then they might give your spot to some two-bit who couldn't lace your BOOTS! SOMEBODY WH-"

Perry's voice faded into the void as Lucas turned down the volume on his ear piece, recognising his father was entering "promo mode" and would likely be talking for, minimum, seven minutes without pause. He managed to barely wedge his way past a group of Nomads who appeared to consume a diet solely of protein shakes and forty ounce steaks but beyond them there it was: the front desk. Manned by a clearly uninterested young woman, who signed off bizarre Nomad after bizarre Nomad without so much as looking up at her phone.

"Name?" She bluntly requested, before Lucas was even at the acceptable distance to engage in conversation.

"Uhm. L-lucas Miller. Lucas Tony Miller."

"Nope."

"Uhm. W-what?"

"We have someone named Lucius, someone named Luke and we have a LEWIS Miller, but no Lucas Millers." Her half closed eyes barely seemed to move as she processed all of this information from her computer.

"O-oh… Could you c-check again, maybe?"

Her gaze darted back to the screen for the length of a half-second. "Nope." She confirmed.

"Oh."

They stood there in silence for a few moments, the sounds of every other Nomad and event in the building being sucked out, replaced by the Receptionist’s incessant gum chewing.

"A-are you sure? I, uhm, I've been active for a few years now?" No response. "Uhm, I won the preliminary exhibition at the Philadelphia Invitational?" No response. "Uhh…" his voice dropped to an embarrassed whisper, "I was the guy that said "I'm going to Bizby Land””.

The smallest ghost of a smile appeared on the Receptionist's face "Oh yeah." She began tapping on her computer.

"They logged your name wrong. You're all set."

"Thank you."

"How was it, by the way?" She asked, not even looking up from her phone yet delivering what felt like an equal gut punch than any Nomad.

"F-fine, thanks." Lucas muttered under his breath. He shook his head and listened for his dad - who still sounded to be trapped in a web of his own insanity - and was prepared to slink out and hide at the bottom of the stairwell to change like usual, but then…

”I’ve told you vultures that you can fuck right off.”

Time seemed to slow, the rap music pounding from the speakers became more and more muffled, any little girls floating in the air faded to the background.

The witch lady with the shaggy black hair and glasses downed an entire can of go-go juice in one gulp and let out a majestic belch that seemed to echo in the reception hall.

"Wow." Lucas said to himself. He clicked off his earpiece, silencing the ramblings of Perry Miller and, before he even knew it was happening, he was walking towards the witch girl and her bat friend with the thick New Jersey accent.

”Say, we should have a bit more. Y’ever try one’a them hot dogs filled with whipped cream?”

”What, like with a pump or something…?”

"It's actually more like an injection." Lucas butted in, with the confidence of someone who was not Lucas Miller. "They take a syringe of whipped cream and inject it directly into the hot dog. One time I wrapped one in a jelly pancake like a giant burrito, it was pretty sweet."

And just like that, it was over.

"Uhm, s-sorry. I overheard your… I didn't mean to interrupt, I just, I o-overheard, yeah, I- sorry." Both Lucas' confidence and sense of speech began dribbling out with every word. He stopped babbling and inhaled, extending a shaky hand like you are supposed to do when you are normal and can be trusted around normal society.

"M-my name is Lewis- no, Lucas. My name’s Lucas. It- uhm- it's nice t-to meet you..."

---

Outside Arena

---

---

"How long is that fool going to take?" Parker Carroway asked, his permanently annoyed expression somehow worsening as he stood out in the Brazil sun - shielded only by a giant new stadium amidst a pornographically poor district.

"He's been in there for at least five minutes!" Patti Buchanan added with a snort. "If he'd sent in the help, we could've just stayed in the car." Her voice dripped with snide contempt as she brushed off some dust from her blouse.

"If he's not here soon then I say we ditch. My throat’s drying up here!" Moaned Darlington (yes, just “Darlington”). He shakes the flask inside his blazer pocket and murmurs something at the rattle of a few miniscule drops of bourbon remaining.

"Fellows!

An opulent young man emerges from the building with a smile as the sun catches his immaculate visage, seemingly sparkling both of his eyes and his teeth like this were some sort of advertisement about the greatest man alive.

"What kept you so long?" Parker demanded, crossing his arms in annoyance - partly out of being mildly startled by Florian Wessington's sudden appearance.

"It's rather frenzied in there at present." Florian sighed. "It would appear someone has commandeered the sound system. It’s quite difficult to even hear one's own thoughts with such a heavy bassline!"

"Did you get them!?" Patti held out her hand.

"Ah! Yes of course! Florian produced four laminated passes labelled "VIP". Technically speaking, they meant very little. Beyond the fact that the group was authorised to use the upper stands and sky boxes in-between their matches for the day. Florian had wanted to see the inside of a "real" locker room but that idea was quickly shot down by the rest.

Patti, Parker and Darlington snatched the passes and fastened them securely around their necks, beginning to feel a bit more at ease now that there was a clearer distinction between them and everyone else. Darlington let out an expectant cough.

"Oh, yes, almost forgot, Darlington! Florian reached into his coat pocket and produced a small bottle of alcohol. Seemingly so expensive that it didn’t even carry any kind of label.

"Much obliged!" Darlington exclaimed, grabbing the bottle and almost immediately gulping down a quarter of it.

"You should pace yourself my friend! It would be unwise to indulge too much before competing against some of the top level competitors in the world!"

“He’s fine!” Parker retorted, pride still wounded at the indignity of being mildly caught unaware. “Now, shall we be going?”

”Indeed! The buffet has just opened, it’s an excellent chance to interface and mingle with some of our fello-...” Florian trailed off at seeing the expressions on his colleagues' faces, as though he’d just asked them to devour a plate of human excrement.

“We’re not going to do that.” Patti flatly stated. “Shoulder to shoulder with those kinds of people would only lower our performances, Florian. We’re going to the nearest yoga spa to limber up and then returning here on the dot for our fights in order to minimise the amount of time spent in this ghetto.” Parker explained, annoyed expression shifting into one of condescension, his other main emotion.

”I disagree!” Florian replied with a smile. ”I think there’s a lot of value in today’s event beyond the spirit of battle and I intend to reap every possible reward from the experience.” Florian almost pirouetted towards the door, such was his grace and drama, ignoring the scoffs of his group as they began vacating the premises

---

Reception Room

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The shift from a mostly sedate sunny day in Brazil to the inside of the World Fighting Carnival, wall-to-wall with Nomads of all sizes and stripes doing all manner of bizarre things, hit Florian with a wall of visual stimulation. Nearly stunning him with the sheer sensory overload. He quickly recovered, naturally, starting to take stock of everything as he sauntered deeper into the hall.

A tall, brown haired person with quick eyes scanned the room, cameras flashed around the recently christened Justice Rider Blaze. Florian considered walking over to introduce himself to the media but decided that to be a bit gauche, they’d come to him eventually.

His attention instead turned to a minor hubbub happening elsewhere, where multiple people began floating in the air to the mild interest of some spectators. Florian had seen flight, of course, but typically it was with the aid of some fantastical construct created by Minerva’s engineering departments. This was more spiritual, more “nomadic”. It made him rather excited about everything, truth be told.

“Bravo!” He said, chuckling while lightly clapping his hands at the sight. With his mannerisms, outfit and general enthusiasm, he looked more like an entertained child than the serious competitor scoping out the competition that he imagined himself as.