Fabricant451 — Roleplayer Guild

Location: Out of the Public Eye 

Overhead the clock was ticking in a rather aggressive fashion. Truth be told it was less a ticking and more an ever-present humming, like mechanical whirring as gears constantly spun and turned all just to make it seem like the minute hand never really moved. There was something annoying about the sound of the clock, the same sort of annoyance that comes when students look at a clock when they think class is almost over but only ten minutes have passed. At the moment there was little else to do except stare at the clock, listen to the faint whirring, and wonder how long this was going to take. 

Of course there were other sounds, but none quite as strong as the clock. The little plastic chair was squeaking with each fidget and considering how uncomfortable hard plastic chairs on a row of metal were to sit on...the squeaking was fairly frequent. Overhead there was some light music that fell squarely in the genre of pleasant and forgettable, it was kept at such a low volume that the average person wouldn't even know it was still playing unless they were hyper focused on it. But of course the most important sounds were the ones that couldn't be heard. From behind closed doors there was a conversation happening and it was clear that no one was shouting. A shame, really. If someone had been shouting then maybe it would be able to overtake the clock in terms of audible presences. And it would really help with the uncomfortable waiting that was happening. This was a different sort of classroom, but that didn't stop the lone pair of eyes from glancing up at the clock in vain hopes that time was moving faster than its current speed of colossally slow. 

There was artwork on the wall. Nothing worth consideration, it was the kind of artwork they sell for twenty dollars at a hobby shop; like a faux-Kinkade that makes hotel rooms look classier even though it's a cheap hole of an establishment. See one painting of a boat on the water and there was little else to see in the myriad boat paintings. Posters were on the wall strewn about without much consideration; one of the posters caught an interest as it was some legal jargon regarding some sort of gap in pay but it was paid little mind. Too many big words. Not enough care. And of course there was a corkboard and that was where the fun stuff was. Notices written for other people with embarrassing information shared publicly, a passive aggressive texting system. Surely some of them had to have been jokes. What was syphilis? No idea, but Jason apparently had it. 

But it always came back to the clock and its whirring. The other pieces of the room were just decoration. Something to spruce up an otherwise sterile environment. The clock was an ever present constant, a reminder of the slow passage of time. Prisoners had it easy in that regard. They didn't have clocks in their cells. Maybe that's what solitary confinement was. A prisoner. A room. And a goddamn clock whirring its way through time. 

After what seemed like years, the door swung open and the three on the other side emerged. Footsteps overtook the whir of the clock but only for a few brief, wonderful seconds as the steps stopped. Fortunately, that meant there was a visual obstruction between chair and clock; unfortunately that obstruction was the clearly disappointed faces of the adults. Standing off to the side, near the door to the office, was a portly man with a shirt a size too small and a clip-on tie. He was the M.O.D. and was clearly letting the meaningless position get to his head. But he wasn't important, despite him being the one that caused all of this. The important ones were the two standing directly in front. 

One was a thin man, tall, with pointed features. He had glasses and a clean shaven face with dark hair parted to the right. His attire was like the fat man's except it actually fit him and he didn't wear a tie. He wore a look that said more than his words ever could or would, though there was a twinge of sorrow to be found in his caramel colored eyes. Next to him, and wearing a far more stern expression, was a shorter woman with her eyes narrowed and her thick dark hair was done in a plait. It was her gaze that needed to be avoided at all costs, but that was a rather Herculean task all told. The thin man crouched down and softened his expression somewhat. That helped. 

"Why did you do it?" A simple question asked simply. Genuine curiosity left his lips, and for a moment there was trust. 

"I was hungry..." Samaira's answer was simple and soft. The child looked away from the piercing gaze of her parents, on the verge of tears from the interrogation-like aspect. 

Her answer was simple but it was true all the same. She didn't get a weekly or monthly allowance at home and any time she would ask her parents for a snack or a treat at the store she would either get ignored outright or hit with a comment how it would spoil her dinner. Neither one was really acceptable to her. Most times they just ignored her and continued on their trip down the aisles, as if her presence was an afterthought. Today she was hungry and no one really seemed to notice her, apart from the looks in the eyes of people who promptly shifted to the other side of an aisle as they walked past. Samaira once asked about that but was told not to worry about it, that some people were just...like that. Probing further got her nowhere and it took some years before Samaira understood in full. How simple she was. With no one paying her any notice, Samaira snatched some snacks on the way out of the store. Some candy. Some salted snacks. Just enough to hold against her chest. She hadn't expected the sirens at he door to go off and the supermarket security to beeline straight for them. 

"You can't take things that don't belong to you, Samaira." Sayid Varma explained softly, looking into his daughter's eyes. "It's called stealing."

"I know." The young child responded without any hint of remorse other than her soft spoken voice. 

"Then why did you think it was okay?"

Samaira shrugged and just repeated herself. She was hungry. It was hardly an excuse, but at the very least it wound up with her having a small bag of corn chips in the car ride home. In the backseat, Samaira tuned out the argument in the front. Sayid and Priya were arguing in their native tongue while Samaira just listened to the satisfying crunch of her salted snack. The store manager played hardball but Sayid was able to get away with simply paying for one of the stolen items and Samaira just had to apologize to the staff. The staff didn't much care - probably because some of them had stolen way worse things from their job - and Samaira was just doing what she was told which made the whole thing come off as insincere. But at least she got her snack. And at least people were noticing her for a change. 

Dinner that night was a quiet affair and Samaira was shuffled off to bed earlier than usual, but it came with a different sort of bedtime story from her father. 

"Samaira, in this country...people are going to look at you and think they know you. There are many injustices in the world for certain people...and I know you didn't mean any harm today...but you need to be mindful of this. You are not going to have an easy road and you're just making it harder on yourself. That's why you have to be better than them. That's why you have to be better. Don't give them the satisfaction of being right in their wrongness."

At the time, of course, Samaira had no idea what he was saying. How could she? She was six. She barely understood math in school, let alone such concepts as what her father was telling her. She could only nod and smile and promise it wouldn't happen again. That she was sorry. She almost sounded believable too. 

Like with many things her father told her, Samaira understood far too late. 

There was no clock ticking away which might've been why the room felt so sterile and silent. It was a small room with the bare essentials dotting the walls. Bed. Wardrobe. Night stand. No windows. The only views to the outside were through monitors, one of which was now muted but was showing a report on the press conference from earlier. It was shocking that there weren't an onslaught of leading and loaded questions, but then that stood to reason that public perception mattered. How would things have been different if, for some bizarre reason, she was the one standing in front of those cameras and reporters? There was already a fairly frequent column in some unfortunate publication that denounced her at every turn, even before this tragic event, and she could only imagine what they were going to be saying now. 

Press conferences were not her thing. Nor were public appearances. Even when things were not as...chaotic as the current event, Spectra didn't go to the public appearances that the Coalition made. Her presence didn't seem to be missed. In group photos she was almost always absent. No kids had a Spectra action figure. That was something the other members of the Coalition were lucky to have. They were Enhanced but they weren't changed. Under the mask and outfit, The Sentinel still was Nathaniel and he still looked like everyone else. Spectra didn't have that luxury. She might've been Enhanced but hers was such a radical departure and thus far no one could really explain why. To the public she might as well have been an alien. An unknown element. A being that had the body of a human but lacked the features that were so clearly and identifiably human. The lack of skin. The lack of actual eyes, just glowing sockets. The fiber-optic 'hair'. All hope of a normal life ended the day Samaira Varma became a living prism. 

Most days she kept herself confined to the Watchtower. It was the only place she had anymore. She had no home anymore, not after what she did, and she couldn't maintain a public persona anymore than a dog could. Well, that wasn't entirely true. People loved dogs. Though the Watchtower served as her home, she still often felt odd here, not because of hatred or fear - in fact the Coalition had been a good thing for her - but because of what had been instilled into her from a young age. 

Spectra, despite her incredible abilities and place among similar gifted sorts, had never felt more alone in her life. 

Her room was testament to that, with its plain walls and sparse arrangement. Maybe one day there would be a poster with her image on it that she could hang up proudly, but until then her walls were bare, save for her high school diploma and a single photo of her family, which had a long piece of tape along the middle. Those were the only things left of Samaira Varma. She had been dead to her family for years now. 

Spectra sat on her bed, drawing her legs up and resting her chin on her knees. It was bad business, what had happened, and Spectra was sure there was self blame going around. There had to have been. That pang of guilt that wonder if someone could've done more. That painful resolution that they did all they could. Doctors had it. Survivor's had it. Surely Enhanced could have it too. She couldn't speak for them. She...didn't feel a guilt about what happened, but she did feel sorrow at the loss of life and what it meant for them all. 

What could she do if this whole thing imploded? If the Coalition came to an end thanks to this mysterious villain? What would be waiting for her out there in the real world among the normals? She needed the Coalition more than she ever knew. 

Spectra turned and sat more upright, her feet on the floor. If she could, she would stay in her room until this thing blew over, but it was stupid and foolish to think doing nothing would lead to a solution. If she was any indication, morale would be...not great, or at least in a state of flux. So be it. Spectra's greatest power wasn't her abilities, it was how she could bring herself to put a smile on her face even when it was killing her to do so. This was one of those times. 

Someone had to keep spirits high. She wondered if they could tell. If they could see the cracks in her expression. It surely didn't matter one way or the other so long as the intent was clear. Spectra closed the door behind her and set off towards anywhere else. Perhaps the lounge. There was no destination in mind. Right now she was simply there to keep the mood from turning too dour. It was a dark time and there needed to be some kind of light. 

Spectra was quite good at that.

Location: The Throne of Bleachers
Interacting with: Invaders to the Throne (@smarty0114, @Silent Observer)

Rocks in my shoes, stones in my pockets
Lost and confused, cold and forgotten
Yeah, that’s me
I try to look alive but I’m half asleep


At times like these there was only one question that Kenzi could ask herself and that was if her clothing had some sort of 'Disturb Me Please' sign on them. Maybe some cheeky fuck slapped a sign on her as she was dozing off in class earlier. She wouldn't put it past some of them. It was really the only reason she could think of why there were not one but two people approaching and speaking to her out of the blue. Kenzi doubted it was out of some sort of attempt to be friendly - for starters she barely knew either girl invading what should have been her sanctuary, and even if she did know them on a friendly level she didn't need to be constantly orbited like other classmates whose identities seemed to revolve around them never being separated from their friend. 

Boy, she really wanted to be there when those sorts of people wind up going to different colleges. 

The first uninvited visitor was some ginger, Kenzi didn't recall the name offhand but she knew enough by association to know that she always came off as more jumpy and energetic than some coke fiends doing lines off bathroom stalls. That was bad. If there was anything that was the antithesis of all Kenzi held dear, it was energy. Energy was to be used sparingly, when it mattered most. Gym class was not where it mattered. Of all the classes in the cirriculum, gym was the most pointless as far as Kenzi was concerned. Math? Important for, like, money and shit. English? Shit, people gotta talk good. History? Science? Interesting shit there. Hell even art had its merits. But gym? Out of every kid in this dumbass school, maybe two of them would go on to do anything remotely related to physical sports. What the fuck did dodgeball teach kids? How much it sucks to be hit in the face with a red rubber ball? How much people hate you? And what was the point of shit like sprints and rope climbing other than to publicly ridicule the less physically fit kids? 

Gym class was school sanctioned bullying and Kenzi was having no part of it. 

The second was unusual even to Kenzi. Who in their class didn't know about Madison even if only by reputation? Kenzi had the good sense to rarely cross paths with Madison, as Kenzi didn't exactly need to deal with frigidity until snow was on the ground, so what then would bring Madison here? Kenzi studied the girl a moment, her eyes scanning Madi like a hawk circling its skittering prey. In true fashion, after working through the words spoken by Madison, Kenzi offered first a simple shrug before softening her eyes in a rather nonchalant expression. 

"Ain't my problem." Kenzi spoke bluntly, her tone could not be more bored. "Who the fuck cares about this game anyway? Gotta be better ways for people to take balls to the face, yeah?" Kenzi was snickering at her own comment, even if no one else did. She did find herself so amusing after all. "You here to make me get off my ass, Mad? Shit, I just got comfy. Pull up a chair, Frecky over here and I were totally about to gossip and shit. Talk about balls. You know. Girl shit."

Though Kenzi mentioned Fifi, she barely gestured towards the other girls direction. She was far more interested in being apathetic. It was one of her only talents. 

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