The dancing bear had arrived. Cassidy gave Titus a once-over. Big hoss, wasn't he? Looked to be Irish or Scottish with the hair. Hmmm. If he was Scottish, that would explain things. There can be only one. He was standing standoffishly-defensive, beady eyes scanning the room. Was the boy expecting a fight? He was strong, and Cassidy was at terms with the fact he'd thrash her in a fight (the image of a wasp darting between an elephant's swinging tusks came to mind), he couldn't possibly hope to stand against every meta in here, could he? Starting a fight-as the beast that prowled the Academy's twilit halls had learned-was suicide.
Ah. What was that old quote? To the man with only a hammer, everything looked like a nail? Perhaps it was less that he seriously meant to, but rather that the dog knew only how to bark and bite. For the sake of the room's furniture and her own limbs, Cassidy was rather pleased Titus was choosing the former. "Nothing new under the sun," she quipped in response to Titus. She initially assumed the reference would fly over his head, but then paused to consider if it didn't-ooh, imagine that kind of brawn and a wit to match. He'd be quite the little showstopper, wouldn't he. Titus was such an intruiging figure, like a circus elephant, or a boxer in a ring. At the end of the day all the sleight of hand in the world wouldn't stop a punch, now would it? Cassidy admired finesse and grace and all the finer things in life but there was a part of her that had a healthy respect for brute raw force and Titus was certainly that.
Cassidy rolled her shoulder and fingered the cowl of her coat with one hand, letting the other hang idly at her side. A quarter rolled across her knuckles absentmindedly, flipped along finger by finger. If only she had chosen pushups or something as a nervous tic, she'd be on par with the Scot at this point.
"A woman who takes charge," Cass smirked as she interrupted her brother. Little brother? She got that vibe. Lupe had that "protective older sibling" body language to her, that "we're cool but if you fuck with him I end you" undercurrent to her actions. That was cool in Cass' book-she didn't really have anyone she had that kind of loyalty to-(she blinked and a hundred different old ruinous memories ran through her mind as a reminder of why, exactly, Cassidy shied away from intimacy) but it was lovely to see in others. Diego (ooh, was that a flash of irritation at Titus? Male rivalry was so much fun to watch-they'd be so busy glaring at each other, they'd never notice half the tricks she could play) played a rather nice song. Nothing mindblowing, but for a teenager with a guitar it wasn't bad.
How elitist of her. "Brava, brava, bravisima!" Cass said with mock formality, giving a golf clap. "That was good, though. Might be better if you tried, ah, smiling?"
"Pity," Cassidy said, the trace of a smirk etching through her poker face. "Absolute pity." Three royal flushes in a row. Cassidy swept the pot of chips (they weren't playing for money, merely bragging rights-not like the Academy had a real thriving economy, anyways) to her side and admired the burgeoning mountain of spoils she'd earned.
"She's cheating," a spectator muttered. The girl raised a hand to her head and stared at Cass for a moment-Cassidy felt a prickling feeling around her neck, as if she were being watched. How irritating. Cassidy immediately felt a strong disdain for this girl-of course, she was cheating, but what a killjoy. Cassidy had a suspicion she'd go on to ruin the trick.
"Really?" Cassidy said, glancing at the girl. "Tele-"
The girl gave her an arrogant smirk. "Yes, I am one, Cassidy Lynn Daniels."
Cassidy let her smile stretch out, a bloodlusted shark grin that made her scar darken in the lounge's low light. "Show me what you can do. I want you to really look back in there. About a week."
The others glanced back and forth with a mixture of irritation at Cassidy's cheating (the cards, somehow, seemed to change when no one was watching...) and this telepath's interruption. The telepath stared for six, seven seconds...
And then went very pale.
"Toodles," Cassidy said cheerily, leaning back into her chair. The telepath fumbled out a half-assed excuse and made her way out of the lounge. Cassidy did not like people fucking around in her head. She enjoyed a healthy degree of secrecy.
"Well," Cassidy said, tossing five Jokers onto the table, "It appears my run's up." Cassidy began to stand up, ignoring the glares of the would-be-bankrupt-in-Vegas teens around her as she picked up her jacket off the back of the chair and slung it over her shoulder. A few of the highest-value chips were missing from the stack, but they wouldn't notice for a few days at least. Cassidy began to meander away, attempting to pinpoint why she felt so...melancholy? There was an unshakable feeling Cassidy couldn't burn away, as if her shadow had turned against her or her heart kept missing every other beat or something. A nagging little terror that was turning her pillow into rock every night (there had been a great many staring contests with the ceiling, and Cassidy had won most of them). Her sword didn't hit its mark. The quarter fumbled from her knuckles.
Wasn't being exposed for cheating. Cassidy was surprised she'd lasted three rounds against people who can manipulate luck, see the future, scour thoughts...no, wasn't that. She'd gotten a watered-down adrenaline high from the scam, which was nice. Not nice enough. A fix when she needed a hit.
There are monsters tiptoeing through the halls and legs ripped off of classmates and people mysteriously leaving and you're swindling the survivors for worthless chips.
Cassidy stopped cold in the middle of the room, staring aimlessly at the blaring speakers across the floor. A chip fell from nowhere out of her palm, landing on the ground next to her foot. Mechanically, she tapped it away and send it skidding under a couch. A week. Been here a week and...ugh. No. Not now. Later. Later.
Cassidy forced a grin onto her face, the usual trickster's smile, and began walking towards the door. She'd wander. Walking off alone didn't seem entirely intelligent, what with the child-killing monstrosities roaming the school, but Cassidy had never been one to go along with logical reasoning or common sense. It was far too boring and...well, there were other factors at work, but typically those sorts of elements don't show themselves in the bass-thumping fellowship of a lounge. They wait until the lights are out and there's nobody but you.
You liked fighting it. You'd let another kid die if it meant you got to fight it again.
No. Fuck off.
Cassidy nearly ran into Lupe, but smoothly took a half step back and avoided any potential collisions. "Diego and Lupe," Cassidy said. Christ, was she relieved to see someone else who'd watched a man get eviscerated then stand back up and suckerpunch it? A part of her turned over-damnit if no one else there ever crossed her paths again it'd be all the easier to pretend it never happened, to convince herself it was just an illusion she couldn't figure out, some cosmic sleight of hand she was too slow to catch onto. "Interrogation buddies," she said quietly, lost amongst the music and half a dozen separate conversations. "Guitar?" Cassidy asked, rapping the case with her knuckles (when Diego opened it up, another cigarette would be lying inside). "Which one of you plays? Never had much skill with it, I was more a dancer than a musician. Not half bad with a piano, though."
Bah. Small talk. You're getting boring, Cass.
"By the way, don't try and have any fun when it comes to playing cards. The telepaths are killjoys."
Cynthia idly stirred her water with a straw. Cynthia didn't drink-bad for the voice. For this reason, she was pretty unfamiliar with bars. It had been a long, long time she she was performing for this small a venue, and the atmopshere in general made her uncomfortable. Loud, usually dark. Lots of people, none of whom were totally in control of their faculties. Not her preferred environment-she had SSR training, she could handle herself, but at the end of the day, there was only so much finesse and technique could do against drunk force and a painkilling buzz. She hummed to herself, unconsciously matching the rhythm of the bartender's heartbeat-he was stressed. This was a full crowd and he was not used to quite so many people. Cynthia couldn't have told you this with as much clarity and accuracy as a telepath could, but she was good at grasping the nuances, at looking at the broad strokes of colors and seeing the forest for the trees.
Around, the atmosphere sang to her with a strange blend of drunken energy and the woes of those drowning their sorrows. In the background, there was the low, steady rumble: it was the quiet before the storm, or the quiet buildup to the crescendo. Great forces would soon be thrown into the sandbox together, and this little pub was going to be the site. Curious. Cynthia was fairly certain she could pick up on the presence of any...like her...but one could never quite tell. Despite her work with the SSR and MI6, she was rather in the dark about this whole phenomena. What these mutations entailed, what others were capable of...this project would be interesting.
She sipped at the water-no ice. Waiting. Waiting. She ran through the normal routine of preparedness as she did so.
The pistol is strapped to my right thigh. The knife's on the left.
There are two exits I can see. There's also a window, but shattering glass is...ugh. So tiresome. Gives everyone a headache.
Bartender probably has a gun under the shelf. Nobody else looks armed. Nobody else Sounds violent. But the night is young...
Men, in Cynthia's experience, didn't tend to hold their liquor very well. Especially if one had the misfortune of running across a group of soldiers on leave-while she couldn't blame them for getting obliterated (especially the Brits-Cynthia could empathize very well with the Blitz, even if their burning buildings came at the hands of the Reich and not the Soviets...) at every opportunity, they were no less...irritating. She observed the bar from her corner seat, the rest of the booth open for whoever else might happen to join her.
The jukebox eased into the next song, and Cynthia vaguely identified the song and all its little intricacies within a second or two, returning to her analysis of the bar. Nobody had harassed her, which was pleasant-she'd done her hair up differently, and changed her posture. People came to have a drink, not to go scouting for celebrities-and Cynthia Summers, after all, was on hiatus, resting her voice following a surgery to her larynx.
Or so read the SSR-influenced tabloids. She kept a low profile and whispered while she talked-it was bothersome. How terrible it would be to be like this all the time...
She stirred her drink. Waiting. Waiting. Another sip.
Riley
Asphalt. Ugh.
Riley leaned against the back of the bar, a grimy mixture of old worn bricks and full-to-the-brim dumpsters. They had to pick this place for the rendezvous. Riley rubbed at his chin absentmindedly, attempting to find anything familiar in this godforsaken place. No stars in the night sky-was it ever clear weather here? He'd walked into the bar briefly and attracted some rather undue attention. His footsteps may have fallen silently but his presence wasn't quite as subtle-amongst the pale faces and blue eyes of the Europeans, he...stood out a bit. And while Riley wasn't particularly vested in the success of this mission, he didn't think it would add to the subtlety of the group if he drew the eyes of every one of the pub's patrons. So he let the Europeans get filthy drunk and waited inside.
A deep breath in. Hmm. He'd check back in a while, but didn't think everyone would be here quite yet. No use in rushing. There was all the time in the world. What was the point of this mission, anyways? From what he'd been told (and, somewhat irritatingly, the elders dispensed information on a need-to-know basis-Riley'd had perhaps two or three days to prepare for his venture across the sea. Flying in an airplane was...uncomfortable. Constrained.), they were scouring the world for individuals like himself.
They would fail in that regard. There were no individuals like Riley.
...or so the skinwalker told himself.
But beyond this. The common goal was to bring down the Nazi regime perhaps. He had heard rumors of what they were doing in Europe. A world embroiled in war. New forms of weaponry. He'd seen the Americans light up the wastes of the desert with artificial suns-what, then, did these Europeans possess that could counter that? It was interesting to him. This mission held no personal stake to him. He heard rumors of people being dragged to camps and being tattooed before death. This was troublesome. He empathized with this. And to a degree, a part of him wanted to bring his hand against those who overstepped their boundaries-these Nazis would have their lebensraum in hell. This was hypocrisy. The Americans or the Brits with their stupid accents or the Red Russians would simply fill the void. They would bury their flags where the Nazis planted theirs and the world would see the same conflict in a matter of years. He would fulfill his debts-his nation owed the Americans, according to the elders, and it was Riley's duty to make even that debt-but he wasn't optimistic about their chances.
But fine. Not his place to question. Just to follow orders.
Riley, unlike the anxious starlet sitting alone inside, was no stranger to waiting. He spent a lot of time alone, just watching, listening. He would wait as long as they needed for the others to arrive. Then he would go and do what this SSR told. And then he would go home and never see any of these wars or people again. There was not much more to it than that-no moral imperative or great crusade. Let the Americans believe they are saving the world and the Brits believe they are saving their nation and the Russians believe they are saving their brothers. Riley will settle for saving himself.
Hmm. A break in the clouds. The Blitz was long since over-or so Riley'd heard. He didn't really bother keeping up with the wars of the imperialists, they all ended the same way. Perhaps the Germans would decide to test their luck again tonight. Then there would be something exciting going on in the Isles for once.
Riley chuckled to himself-a rare sight, as he was generally what could be described as "moderately grouchy". Perhaps I am not as skilled at waiting as I thought.
Yiska's not the tallest, clocking in at 5'8 or 5'9. He's relatively bulky-weighing perhaps 180 or 185, with the "Old man strength" of someone who's spent most of their time outside working as opposed to lifting weights in a gym. His hands are callused and a litany of scars etch his forearms and legs-not the methodical slashes of self-harm, but rather the sort he could spend all night detailing how he got. He's relatively hairy, albeit not much in the way of facial hair. Perhaps it all went to his scalp-Yiska wears a ponytail, shiny black hair that normally reaches about halfway down his neck. He has a scar across his face, stretching horizontally over his nose and cheeks, and his eyes are an unnatural golden color. His skin is deeply tanned, a mixture of the pigmentation he was born with and years in the sun. I don't know if they had sunscreen in the 40s, but regardless, Yiska sure as hell hasn't heard of it. Yiska walks slowly and deliberately, either with his head down watching his feet, or with his eyes scanning the horizon or flickering up to the sky. He has what some might call "resting bitch face", with a grim and solemn expression permanently stamped across his features. Having never had braces, his teeth are slightly crooked. His brow is wide and his nose a little thick, with a harsh jawline and stubby fingers. He nearly always wears, more or less, the same outfit-old, old jeans (perhaps SSR will make him switch to fatigues-they're fighting an uphill battle there) with boots or moccassins that have weathered more walking than any store-bought hiking shoe ever will. He wears a plain shirt (Or perhaps, goes bare-he doesn't really seem to mind) and a soft brown leather jacket. Inside, a number of pelts and furs and woven into the coat. He generally has an earring hanging from his left ear and occasionally a necklace resting against his chest. These are wood and bead and cloth and never gaudy gold or silver. Yiska has a heavy leather belt, some thick old thing that will probably still be usable in a hundred years. His features are hawkish and angled, and he has crows feet on his eyes. On his eyes? Around his eyes? What's the proper way to say that. His voice is a rough, low baritone-some old forgotten thing that sounds as if he's forgotten he had it every time he speaks.
Name: Yiska, but he goes by Riley. Age: 26 Nationality: He is Navajo. He does not like being referred to as "American".
Three random facts about your character:
-Riley does not have very much experience at all with firearms and generally dislikes using them. He's not entirely sheltered from the outside world, but he has spent the vast majority of his life on the reservation and is simply unaccustomed to the frenzy and frivolity of the modern world. He firmly embraces his heritage.
-Riley does not play very well with others-he's particularly not fond of Americans, and is generally rather taciturn. He's not one to act very chummy, and detests small talk. He always dresses practically, and always wears a leather jacket lined with animal furs inside.
-Riley, while generally true to his word, is somewhat dark and cynical, and will find ways to twist the wording of his promises or use the specifics of what he said to escape bargains he doesn't truly agree with. It really depends on how much respect Riley has for the person he's dealing with.
-While Riley never had a college education or, arguably, a complete high school one, he reads prolifically, and as such is rather intelligent, even if he's not particularly well-versed in book smarts.
-As one may have surmised, speaks fluent Navajo and English, and served as a codebreaker for a brief time before he was reassigned to the SSR.
Mutant Power:
In Navajo legends, there exist stories of the yee naaldlooshii, of high priests who have embraced...darker applications of their abilities. Yiska is one such individual. As part of an under-the-table deal with the United States government, the Strategic Scientific Reserve, and the Navajo nation high officials, the US Government agreed on favorable tax exemptions, more autonomy for the nation. The Feds got codebreakers, the SSR got a skinwalker. That happens to be Yiska. Yiska, along with the others in the forbidden inner circle that signed this deal, are of the belief that these abilities are not scientific mutations but rather supernatural power. Attempting to convince him otherwise has not achieved much, and most of the SSR feels it's generally better to just nod and play along-mainly because, behind the clipboards and lab coats, there are a few suspicions...
To give a quick overview of Yiska's abilities, we'll start with what he's capable of in human form. While not on par with, say, Captain America, Yiska does have heightened physical abilities. He's more durable, has greatly enhanced senses, and is faster and stronger. Nothing that would qualify this to be his only power-he's not throwing around trucks or slapping bullets out of the air-but he's physically not going to be holding any of the team back. He's also got an intuitive grasp for nature, and becomes somewhat more vitalized in the wilderness-in buildings, urban areas, he's somewhat off. He prefers the feel of the fresh air or the quiet sky to the screeches of motorcars. Yiska does not communicate with animals in the sense of "Hey man, what's up?" "Aw nothing much", but he's able to communicate with them on a more instinctive and nuanced level. This does not equate to controlling them-most animals, however, generally hold an amount of respect and fear for Yiska. This may not be the case overseas, away from his native lands.
The real terror of a skinwalker, however, is that their name is somewhat literal-he can "walk" from one "skin" to another. In essence, shapeshifting. If Yiska has the pelt of an animal, he is able to assume its apex form-Yiska can effortlessly shift from human to grizzly bear to wolf to snake, provided he has the pelts. Without his jacket, Yiska is more limited in what he is capable of, and as such he guards it jealously. Yiska's not a particularly warm and fuzzy person to begin with, but he's especially cold when someone messes with his personal belongings. There are a great many powers attributed to a skinwalker, most of which are legend and fearful superstition. However, like any legend, there's a kernel of truth. Yiska is not capable of reading minds, but his heightened senses let him notice subtle facial twitches, pick up on the scent of fear, and with deduction and reasoning Yiska can usually make some pretty informed guesses. As a skinwalker, Yiska is capable of inducing fear in others-this is not crippling, and it is not anything tremendous. Really, it's nothing that wouldn't have happened anyway-if you saw a mockingbird turn into a bear and rip someone's arm off, you were probably not going to react calmly to begin with. This, of course, is essentially the same reaction that people would have to any other mutant-it's more pronounced in animals, whom Yiska can terrify with comparatively little effort. He requires direct, prolonged eye contact to induce this in humans.
Shapeshifting into humans is more difficult-Yiska is capable of doing so, but it takes more time and effort to convincingly do so. He is capable of mimicking human or animal sounds, and where his feet tread, Yiska leaves neither sound nor footprints. And, while not a supernatural power, Yiska is trained as a Navajo witch-he's familiar with a number of poisons and old tribal remedies, which are of questionable effectiveness in the era of modern medicine. He also, by virtue of growing up on a narrowminded, we'll-resist-change-at-all-costs inner sect of a reservation, is quite familiar with his people's history, culture, and tradition, and has spent a great deal of his time outside. He has zero trouble navigating the wilderness, hunting, or making use of a knife, tomahawk, or bow. He's resourceful, pretty good at sewing and tanning, and generally doesn't need much to be content. He likes poetry and sketching. He is quite durable and resistant to damage, and will generally heal up from most wounds given time to lick his wounds. He's tough, strong, and fast, particularly so in animal form.
There are two lethal weaknesses to a skinwalker: speaking his full name, and shooting him with a bullet tipped in white ash. The SSR strongly suspects these weaknesses to be placebos, but they are no less real to Yiska. No one outside the reservation knows of his real name (unless, of course, his elders were talked into giving the SSR leverage...), and Yiska enjoys dismantling firearms left unattended. Yiska also is averse to using modern technology, even in situations when it is infinitely more convenient to do so: he does so as a quiet sign of resistance to the SSR, whom he's not fond of, and to the US Government in general, whom he's even less fond of. He's doing this job as per his elders' orders, and because he does recognize the genuine wrongs being done by the Nazi Government (Yiska, however, is quick to point out the evils of the Americans, British, Russians, etc as well). Yiska, at some primal level (something that is accentuated by his powers, which darkly, morbidly, yearn to be used, to be let free) also enjoys violence, and has awaited the chance, across the ocean, to see what he is well and truly capable of accomplishing. God have mercy on the Germans, or any Americans who don't have witnesses around.
Biography:
Yiska grew up on the reservation, a relatively sheltered life-there's plenty of troubles all around, however. The difference is that Yiska was raised with an extremely "us vs. them" mentality. Without delving into the sensitive politics and murky history of these issues, Yiska grew up under a roof that firmly attributed all problems-moral, financial, and logistical-to the past and to the current US Government. Yiska aims to break FDR's arms to match his legs if ever presented with the opportunity. From a young age, Yiska grew up with a rather intense hatred for the outside, and generally treats most outsiders with the same cold disdain. He was never warm and fuzzy to anyone, however-quiet and reserved, Yiska simply preferred to be by himself, or to keep to himself whenever he was in social situations. He simply didn't see the need for a lot of frivolity, and had a rather ascetic view to life. While others blew their paychecks on liquor and tobacco, comic books and gasoline, he never saw the need for it. Yiska's a bit of a killjoy.
As he grew up-studying, learning, he stood a bit apart from his peers. Some talked of leaving the reservation, finding work elsewhere, becoming lawyers or doctors or what have you. None of this ever appealed to Yiska. He simply felt at home where he was, and anything more than a hundred miles from his home didn't interest him. There was an entire forgotten world just within his reach, and so many were willing to overlook it for paychecks and fast cars. Childish. Foolish. This mentality caught the eyes of some of the higher-ups-the men behind the men in charge of the nation, and as deals were cut under the table with FDR's administration in preparation for the eventual war with the Germans, Yiska was bred into the weapon he is today.
Yiska's birth and circumstances shaped a great deal of his mentality. He's paranoid, reserved, and distrusting. He will generally assume the worst possible outcome of a situation and prepare accordingly. He identifies very closely with his people, and fears losing that identity-he tends to view those who come back from the outside as traitors of a sort. If there was another Civil War, Yiska would sign up gleefully, and when the US government was overthrown he'd turn against that one too. He dislikes authority and dislikes institutions of any kind, and refuses to see any possible benefits they could offer. Yiska sees the war as stupid, and harbors about as much patriotism for America as Hitler does. Yiska developed a rather slanted code of morality, wherein he somewhat hypocritically is quick to pounce on the misdealings of outsiders whilst excusing anything similar that he does in turn. He does not claim to be a good person. Yiska is not needlessly cruel, however, and is notably kinder to women and children than men. He's never outright hostile-he doesn't start fights or insult others, he simply stays cold and quiet. Yiska's also not a big talker in general, and doesn't see the need for most conversation. If you took Yiska on a car ride, he'd probably speak enough to tell you when to pull over and which exits to take. He just doesn't see the need for it. Yiska appreciates the beautiful things in life, and can strike up a rapport for others who appreciate the same. He's very quick to write people off, but does issue grudging respect-Yiska admires strength and excellence in all its forms, whether it's art or battle or intellect. One also can't accuse him of hedonism, as he lives a fairly spartan lifestyle, and displays indifference to most vices. He's very kind to animals, and generally makes hunting as merciful and quick as possible. Given his abilities, this is not difficult.
He also operates under a rather warped code of honor. He will keep his word if he gives it, albeit this is subject to his own interpretation. Deal with Yiska cautiously-if he has respect for someone, he'll keep close to the spirit of his agreement. If not...he holds to the letter of the law. He also tries to avoid outright lying, and will tend to avoid killing unarmed opponents or those who are wounded. As a misanthrope, he holds pretty equal dislike for all belligerents in this conflict, so he'll treat Americans and Nazis with around the same level of respect. He doesn't tolerate violence to women or children and dislikes cursing. He views violence as a way of life, and is looking forward to testing his capabilities after two and a half decades of holding back. He is also fond of stories, and will reluctantly admit that the abundance of written books is nice, as opposed to the reservation's somewhat limited library. He'll also listen dutifully to any story someone's willing to tell, and gets very annoyed if they're interrupted. Yiska also likes riddles, puzzles, and anything that requires meditating on a problem for a while before coming up with a solution.
Also, call me Shade-that username was taken on here so I went with a Dresden Files reference.
Yeah I'm cool with that. I enjoy blurring the lines between scientific stuff and supernatural-SSR wil say that Riley's abilities are a result of genetics or mutations, he'll insist they're witchery. The specifics I'll leave up to our GM's-to me, it's no fun if there's not a touch of mystery...and regardless of the truth, Riley's too damned stubborn to ever accept it as fact, even if they genetically engineered another skinwalker right in front of his eyes.
He could definitely help train him in how to retain his human form, though, so I could see something like that working-while their powers are fundamentally different (at least, in Riley's eyes-whether they actually are or not, again, isn't up to me) he could probably help him with that, yeah.
Also I'll be making a post now, since we have the go-ahead. Looking forward to this RP. Anyone, feel free to interact with my characters. I'll have them already be at the New Crown if that's alright...?
Cassidy flickered her weight from foot to foot, her whole body swaying as a lion's tail about to strike. She was very sorely missing her sword-while a sparring match was not quite as intense or high-stakes as this, it would've been comforting if nothing else, and she certainly wasn't as familiar with knives or anything else-Cass hadn't been in very many real fights, and was merciful for the many hours of fake ones to sustain her.
Then the human leviathan decided to join back in-Cassidy figured he must've had either the right hand of the Lord or regenerative powers watching out for him, as he'd been pretty close to kicking the bucket when they'd arrived. So their little rescue mission hadn't been for naught after all-assuming they all made it out of here relatively unscathed (and Cassidy didn't get another scar to match...) she'd feel just a smidge proud of herself. But that, she thought, was putting the cart before the horse.
The brute began to deliver some serious punishment on the beast, and Cassidy felt another mild instance of fear. While the monster was certainly...disturbing, as most things which could devour a human being were, this boy was simply so...strong. Jesus. He tossed it effortlessly and shook off one hell of a beating. Six thousand years ago one of his ancestors was struck dead by a boy with a slingshot, Cass was quite certain. Cassidy smoothly stepped to the side of the dust cloud that burst out from Titus' bodyslamming the creature through a wall, and idly swept some of it from her suit. In the insanity of what was going on around them, something about that act brought her a token of serenity, and Cassidy fought to keep her panicked, darting-in-a-thousand-directions mind honed on the rather daunting adversary before them.
"Our plan was to try and teach it to love," Cassidy muttered. "It would seem you've dashed that possibility, so I suppose now we just beat the hell out of it." Cass' watched Diego rush the beast, and briefly she pondered their synergy as a group. Rushing the damn thing one at a time didn't seem like the best application of their numerical advantage, but she supposed they really couldn't work in tandem, not in these closed quarters. Titus was far too big, careless with his power-one stray blow and he'd pulverize all two hundred and six of their bones by accident. Lupe's lightshow didn't seem to be particularly discriminate about who it wounded, and neither did Diego's flames (Cass took a half step back from the scorching heat as the boy ran by. Explained why he wasn't concerned about smoking). Jesus Christ he's going to burn this place down Cass began moving backwards steadily, eyes locked on the soon-to-be-well-done monstrosity, but Diego sucked the life from the fledgling inferno and came back to them. Thank Christ. She wasn't getting "accomplice to arson" pinned on her in the first twelve hours of being here.
And yet the boy wasn't moving back-he fell, and Cass began to dart forward to...do something. She wasn't entirely sure what, and as soon as her momentum had shifted she realized the folly of this plan. Nothing to do now but-
Agni erupted from the boy and Cassidy quickly shifted her weight, forcing herself to fall back on her ass instead of face-first into a demon. Christ. There is a possibility I am in over my head. And then, simultaneously, there was a roar, the sharp reek of ozone, and the little girl shot half a hurricane's worth of lightning into the monster. Cassidy rolled-she had to look graceful, and not deafened, blind, and flash-burned by what these fools had done-and picked herself up into a crouch, hand grasping her coat to make a hasty getaway if the monster recovered.
There was no way in hell that thing was getting back up-Diego was making his way back to the safety of the group and the monster seemed to be trudging off to lick its wounds. Cassidy quickly mulled over following it-no, there was no point. With as much of a racket as they'd made, nobody was unaware of its presence, and teachers would be here in a matter of seconds. Following would just get one of them killed, and as weakened as the creature was, it wasn't likely to do much more damage. Famous last words.
"Well," Cassidy muttered, trying to run a hand through her hair-it was all standing up and messed up thanks to the little girl's electrical spasm-"Is everyone alright? I must say, this is probably the worst orientation I've ever had."
I didn't get that vibe at all-different cultures/regions. Riley's more of a jack-of-all-trades but Kalahari's got more specialized focus. They'd be a pretty dope team.
Hmm. He'd have to wear the pelt, I think, so unless Kalahari's willing to get one hell of a buzz cut....Plus I think Riley would rather stick to North American animals, just out of personal choice/nationalism. Could be interesting though.
Nice character. He and Riley should have an interesting dynamic, he'll probably be the only one Riley can tolerate (and he'll be sure to show more favor for one of Rommel's boys than the Americans and British)
Getting a teacher before handling this? Well, admittedly, that hadn't occurred to Cassidy, who even in the most desperate of times generally tended to shy away from getting the help of authority. This, of course, qualified as the most desperate of times, but there didn't appear to be much of a choice-no teachers were stepping up to the plate, and there didn't appear to be anyone noticeably older amongst their ranks. Of course, as the "little girl" had demonstrated, looks were certainly not something that carried much weight at the Academy. Cass continued walking down the hallway, gauging by sound how close they were to the beast.
A few more snide remarks from Lupe, mostly regarding the hat. She took these in stride-literally-and continued onwards to the beast. Ugh. How disgusting. It appeared to be some sort of...wretch, it was certainly unlike anything Cassidy had come across before. Her smirk twisted into a snarl, and she readied herself in a fencer's stance, turning to the side to minimize how much of her was able to be ravaged by the monster at one time. Lupe fired a blast of light at the thing, shearing the hallway with a blinding pink glow-yes, good. That would hopefully knock it off guard a bit, although predators tended to not have the best eyesight anyways. Then Lupe's attack faltered-Cass still stood a few feet ahead of them, hat turning over in her hands. Lupe shouted to Diego for him to take the reins, but nothing came. What? Were the boys powers psychic or something? That didn't seem to mesh with the earlier lightshow...
Grr. No time to figure this out now, damnit. Diego, whether he was paralyzed with fear or his powers were acting up, wasn't doing much. "Lupe, hold your fire!" Cassidy barked, her normal easygoing tone replaced with harsh professionalism. Cassidy began walking calmly towards the monster, forcing the fear down, attempting to contextualize what she was doing. These were just tricks. This was just one big ugly fencer. Don't let him land a touch on you, eh?
The beast turned, rearing its deformed mass of a skull and beginning to come towards Cassidy.
And that was when the show began.
In the ambient light of her bioluminescent comrades, Cass twirled the hat around and flipped it upside down, reaching inside and throwing out a fistful of doves at the beast. The baseball cap seemed to crumple inwards as four or five of the birds squawked with terrified confusion and fluttered right towards it-this was, of course, not of Cassidy's accord, but given the distance and angle, there wasn't really anywhere else they could fly. Before the beast had time to register what the fuck had just happened, Cassidy was moving, one hand staying on the jacket draped over her shoulder to keep it from falling off-the jacket was crucial, yes. Completed her look.
Cass leapt to one side, dodging the beast's angry swipe about a full second in advance-it crushed a few of the birds, and the sole survivor flew off into the darkness, screeching for a moment or two more. If one were to follow the exploits of this dove as opposed to the exploits of Cassidy Lynn Daniels, one would find the bird simply faded away into nothingness within a few moments, but no one was paying very much attention what with the man-eating abomination in the hallway. Cass spun, coming out of the twirl with a dull kitchen knife glittering in her hand. She hurled it at the beast, not expecting it to stick-she was no ace knife thrower, and knife throwing was difficult enough against stationary targets, let alone with the chaos of a fight such as this-but she had several to burn, and the goal was to disorient it long enough for help to arrive. Either it landed and hurt something or it bounced off and confused it a little more-it was of no matter to Cassidy, who fought with a kind of erratic grace. She did not know what she was doing, what she hoped or expected of her endeavors, and therefore her opponents never could, either.
The beast swung upwards and Cass ducked down, taking a step and sliding under its swiping paw. As she rolled out of the slide, another knife slid out of her sleeve and into her hand. The beast was off-center, having twisted to slash at her. To the girl whose reflexes seemed to dance about two beats ahead of the others, this was her golden opportunity. The knife was not sharp and Cassidy was not strong, but adrenaline did her the courtesy of shutting off her inhibitors. Cass stabbed down with the knife at the other front leg-which was now holding the front half's weight. As she did so, she curled up her other fist, smashing a fistful of salt down onto the wound as she ripped the knife out. Cassidy had once heard of people using rock salt in shotgun shells-she was not a doctor, but this certainly seemed like it would hurt like a motherfucker. She held onto around half to be thrown into the beast's eyes, should push come to shove. Of course, if her fears were accurate, this thing used scent more than it did sight, and all three of them had traces of Titus' blood on their clothes. That thing must've ripped open an artery to paint the walls and floor as red as they were-and yet he still seemed to be alive and kicking,
At this Academy, Cassidy had time to ponder as she darted backwards, perhaps nothing could really be reliably counted on. Cassidy stepped back and narrowly avoided slipping on the hat-she kicked it towards the animal just to clear it out of her way, and moved back towards Lupe and Diego, straddling the middle between the two parties-if the beast rushed, she darts around and begins to harass it from the flank and rear. If it stays back, she can rush in again and keep it from tearing up Titus. They couldn't keep this up forever-Cassidy was feeling a bit of a strain-nothing that would cost the girl her life, but people often underestimated the raw physical toll of heavy fighting. The beast seemed to be doing fine, but she doubted any of them could keep up intense close quarters combat for very long, especially when one factored powers into the mix. Taking shifts, they could last a bit longer, but she didn't count on more than three minutes before one of them slipped up.
Not to mention that Diego's powers-if he was a pyromancer, as his flaming hand would suggest-weren't conducive to team play. If he unloads on the beast, there's a good chance he either flash-burns Titus or ignites the entire damn hallway. Cassidy let her right hand fall to her side and the last of her knives slid into her palm. She dropped it to the floor and kicked it back to Diego, letting it skid across the tile. "Diego," Cassidy said, "If you're able to do so, try heating that thing up. I can distract it and then you shove it inbetween its ribs or somewhere. Don't unload with your fire or we'll all die here."
Standing with her torso facing the wall, Cassidy was able to spare a quick glance at Lupe, her green eyes glittering with the fear-frenzy of battle. She had never been in a situation like this before. It was...terrifying. But some primal aspect of it felt right, and as much as Cassidy wanted to run and flee and hide another part of her wanted to show them the sorts of tricks they'd be talking about for years. Let us see if this beast can survive being sawed in half, eh? "And that would be a shame, wouldn't it?"
Evil Ghost Note