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@DocRock@pyroman@praxitilies@Mr Nim@Unknown100@Blazion

Forgot to add tags, buuuut...

Posted.






January 1st, 8:04 PM
Midtown Metropolis


Things were... looking pretty bleak in Metropolis.

For one, the traffic sucked, but that was to be expected on any given day.

Secondly, there was apparently a big damned snowstorm creeping up the coast towards them by way of Gotham and that other place no one cares about, so people were naturally in a rush to get home where it'd be nice and warm.

And... oh, yeah. There was the trifling matter of the leviathan beast of myth and legend rampaging it's way through Midtown, apparently not at all deterred by the fact that chunks of it's own seared flesh seemed to be falling off of it's body or that it's many heads were bound together by hardlight constructs. Which it savagely thrashed against both from the inside and from the out with it's colossal tail. Causing yet more mayhem in it's frenzied motions.

...Yes, pretty bleak.

The man responsible for managing to do that much damage to the titanic beast was down for the count. Most of the heroes present were battered, tired and running out of options. And the hydra, charming creature it was, simply refused to give up.

And somewhere in the midst of all this chaos, perhaps noticed, perhaps not, a tiny fissure appeared in the clouds overhead. And if one just so happened, by freak coincidence, to be pointing a highspeed camera up there at that exact moment, they'd catch something a little peculiar.

The Champion. Rocketing straight towards the Earth. Elbow first.

Before something from above slammed into the Hydra's body with enough force to send a column of rubble, concrete and bits of monster straight into the stratosphere and shatter every damned window in Midtown the fighting hadn't gotten around to breaking yet. As well as leaving one hell of a crater.

Suddenly, that hydra wasn't kicking up such a fuss. And as the dust began to settle, and the beast's now-inanimate heads began sliding out the back end of Preston's trap like some particularly nasty looking sausages to come crashing back down onto the ground, only to be intercepted and vaporized by a stream of red light before they could even begin their journey, there came the man responsible— Brushing off the still-smoking elbow of his jacket as he made his way out of his own crater.

"Well, scratch that one off the bucket-list..."

The Champion half-mused, half-grimaced, as he casually walked his way over to the rest of the gathered heroes. Sheepishly scratching the back of his head.

"Sorry I'm late. Everyone alright?"




January 2nd, 01:00 AM
Sector 34, High Earth Orbit


Duun Kad-El, last son of Krypton, Champion of Earth and all around guy who actually enjoyed being able to sleep in ocasionally was... just a little bit perturbed at what he was staring at right now— And it was only partially because his loyal and trusted teammate of the past decade or so had threatened to rob him of his junk via a pink space rock.

No, it was down to the fact that-

"That's the fucking Great Fox." Duncan deadpanned with sheer existential contempt that went unheard in the void of space. "Why is that the fucking Great Fox?"

"Duun, what are you so upset about now?" Chirped in his mother's AI from his gauntlet, just about the only thing that could catch what he was saying in the vacuum of space. "Do you recognize this vessel?"

A low growl rumbled in the Champion's throat. But he elaborated, though still casting a cynical glare at the massive ship hanging in the void a mile before him.

"It's... from a damned video game I played as a kid." He explained, dryly. "With starfighters, tanks, submarines, fuzzy animals and a big floating fucking monkey head."

"Oh..."

There was a long pause after that.

"...Well, weirder things have happened, I suppose," The artificial construct of Karna El continued, unabated "There was that time you and that 'Grim' woman had to pretend to be a married couple in Monaco..."

If at all possible, Duncan's frown deepened even further.

"Can we not?"

"It was so cute though! You were holding hands, going to dinners, smiling..."

"One, it was just a cover. Two, Pretty sure Zo doesn't swing that way. Three, can we not have the 'grandbabies' discussion right now?"

"A mother can dream, Duun!"

And without further ado, but a whole lot of irritation, Duncan launched himself toward the bridge of the all-too familiar vessel, coming to a stop just outside the tinted viewscreen of the bridge, whereupon... he gave a little knock on the glass.

Though, despite his apparent outward grumption at the ludicrous situation he now found himself in, he couldn't help but do it to the tune of the Starfox 64 theme.

There are some things you only ever get one shot at, after all...











January 1st, 8:25 PM
Utility Room, Smithwick Textiles, Bludhaven, NJ.


"A magic cleaver? Are you shitting me?"

Julian could only stare back in silence at the... thing... watching him from across the room, sat there on a stool, leaning forward and staring right the hell back with eyes that quite literally burned like smouldering embers and gave off the only real light in this increasingly claustrophobic, dark room.

Perhaps it was some measure of indignation at just how easily he'd had his ass put on the ground that kept him quiet. The jolts of pain that shot through his face, knee and arm whenever he dared to move certainly weren't helping his mood, either.

Maybe it was how unnerving it was how downright... casual the creature became after it had disarmed him, disabled him and liberated him of his radio. Even going so far as to give an amused little 'Heh, always wanted one of these...' as it relieved him of his nightstick, holster and all and clipped it to it's own belt.

...Though, in all likelihood, it was probably down to that sudden and uncomfortable realization that, in all the past three years of working for these lunatics, not one of them had bothered to mention that the fucking Hound was real.

"Well, that explains a lot," The creature mused, it's eyes shifting over to what Julian very clearly remembered being a concrete fucking wall. "Sure as shit doesn't look like a mage..."

Despite the circumstances, the cop with less than rigid morals couldn't help but cocking a brow.

"The hell does that mean?"

...He also couldn't help but flinch a little as the being's eyes snapped back toward him, locking him with a silent glare juuuust long enough to make him regret owning a tongue. Before the being visibly relaxed again, and began fiddling with the radio, cycling through all of it's channels almost like a kid with a new toy.

"Iiiiit's a bit of a long story," The hitherto bit of local superstition answered dismissively as he pulled a roll of what looked suspiciously like electrical tape out of his jacket pocket. "But that's beside the point, what's the deal with the cannibal with a magic cleaver, anyhow?"

Muller, to his credit, only let out a little grunt as he sat himself up slightly to lean against the wall, the the effort still made him pant a little. Still, licking his lips as he gathered his thoughts, he answered.

The Hound had made it very clear what was going to happen if he tried to lie, after all...

"...Fucked if I know; But dude's old money— some kinda Sardinian royalty or some shit, I'unno— showed up about a month ago with a damned cargo ship looking for work and Phage hired him on the spot."

The Hound paused in the middle of unrolling a strip of tape.

"Cargo ship?" He asked, suddenly very intrigued. "What was he hauling?"

"I dunno, man. A million tonnes of soylent green or whatever the hell else a magic Italian cannibal would bring with him across the fuckin' ocean!" Jules reflexively snapped back at his captor... before finding his tact again and biting his tongue. "Look, I'm just a boot to these people. They don't tell me jack shit."

The Hound held that same silent glare on the man for a few more seconds.

"Yeah. I suppose you're right."

And then he stood up.

And very suddenly Jules wished he could just melt into that fucking wall behind him.

"Look man, I told you everything I know..."

"I guess you did."

The Hound took a step closer.

"A-and you said ya'd know if I was lying right? And I've been honest this whole time!"

The Hound nodded in agreement, giving the radio in his hand one last once-over as he stepped even closer.

"That you have."

"So... ya gonna let me go?"

The Hound only let out a soft chuckle at that.

"Heh heh... haaaa..."

...Even as he calmly taped the radio's push-to-talk switch down.

"Nope."




January 1st, 8:30 PM
Factory Floor, Smithwick Textiles, Bludhaven, NJ.


Amadeo Macellaio, was getting a little impatient, if the almost-twitch of his ever-controlled brow was any indication as he stood there, arms folded behind his back as he shifted his weight from the balls of his feet to his heels, almost like an antsy child.

He'd sent Muller out to deal with their little electrical problem a good fifteen minutes ago now. What was taking him so long? Julian was not a smart man, but up until this point, the Sardinian believed him to at least be a clever one. There was no logical reason he should have had to sit here in the dark this long.

"Well... this is nice..." Sasha piped up groggily, head rising again out of unconsciousness as she cast an eye about the now-dark room. "We havin' a fuckin' slumber party now, or what?"

The Sardinian didn't try to stop the twitch of his brow at that.

So uncouth...

"Just a little unexpected interruption before we start, my dear Miss Jericho." Amadeo explained, stepping over to her and placing a facsimile of an assuring hand on her shoulder. "But don't worry, I've already sent Mister Muller to go have a look at the fusebo-"

"Ya sent Julian for that? Are you really as fucking stupid as you look?" Sasha quipped right back over him without skipping a beat. "Man can barely tie his own shoes, nevermind change a fuse. So ya might as well get fuckin' comfy, because we're gonna be here a while."

No sooner had the words left her throat, there was something cold and metallic pressed against her cheek under her one good eye. A cleaver, if she was seeing right in what little light they had to spare.

One that quickly began to glow blood red.

"I suppose I will just have to take your word on that, Miss Jericho." Amadeo retorted, cheerily. "So we might as well get started, light or not."

"Oh, pound it up your ass."

That was, evidently, the last straw. As the Sardinian abruptly took hold the near-amazon's chin in a harsh grip, pressed his weapons against her skin, took a deep, excited breath and...

"Nope."

...Stopped.

His eyes flicked back over to his little 'work' table.

That... came from his radio.

Releasing his hold on Sasha's face, the older gentleman cocked his brow and walked over to the electronic in question. Picking it up with a curious expression, he pressed down the push-to-talk button to ask what that was about.

Only for it to immediately sound off with a loud 'BLOOP!'. Someone was still on the line.

And then the screaming began. Following what a man of his talents quite obviously recognized as the sound of crunching bones. Casting a quick glance back over at Sasha, who seemed just as confused as he was, he clicked over to the next channel to try and figure out what was going on.

...Only to find he couldn't get a word in through the panicked chatter of the rest of his men... which was quickly replaced by yet more screaming.

The next channel was much the same. Though this time he started hearing the din of gunfire from further within the old factory.

And the next...

-Click!-

"NO! NOOO!"

And the next...

-Click!-

"IT'S HERE! IT'S HERE! IT'S HERE!"

And the next...

-Click!-

"HELP MEEEEEE!"

And it was somewhere in that time that Sasha had apparently figured it out. Letting out as much as a laugh as her cracked ribs would allow.

"And just what the hell is so funny, Jericho?" Amadeo snapped, finally loosing his cool and wheeling on the woman who, for her part, just kept right on laughing in his face.

"Oh, nothing, just... I thought this night couldn't get any more crazy, yet here we are..."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Maybe it's the concussion talking... but I think you woke up the local bogeyman."


January 1st, 7:25 PM
Smithwick Textiles, Bludhaven, NJ.


'Okay, that one hurt a little...' Sasha had to concede internally, even as she grunted and wheezed to shove as much oxygen as she could into her lungs as she possibly could. Partly because of the speeding fist that had forcefully emptied them for her.

...And partly to brace for the other one headed for her face at that very moment, which struck with an echo that reverberated around the factory floor.

To her credit, despite having been tied to this friggin' chair in a dingy old factory straight out of some cliche for what must've been a few hours now and having the absolute shit kicked out of her by this guy, she still remained, well...

"Shit, Julian. If yer cock's as limp as yer wrist, I suddenly understand why Molly left ya... well, that and yer lumpy-ass face."

Sasha. She remained Sasha.

Maybe it was the fact that they had her kid. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that this was a uniformed officer she'd worked with for over a decade kicking her head in. Or maybe she was just really goddamn angry right now... but the fact remained, she wasn't giving anything to anyone present but her purest contempt from start to finish.

Which is precisely why she met the next oncoming extremity with a big damned cheeky grin.

"That is enough, Mister Muller!"

...Not to say she was too broken up about that same fist abruptly coming to a stop about an inch from her face at that shout either, mind you. But the point remained. As did the look on her face as the newcomer, a portly, Italian man in a resplendant tuxedo and dress shoes polished to a mirror-sheen approached at a brisk clip, arms folded behind his back.

"Surely, there is no need for such... barbarities." The sharp-dressed man lectured with a decidedly mediterranean wave of his hand "We are all civilized people here, after all. We can talk this out."

"Oh, look, the Cliche Italian Mobster has arrived to say Cliche Italian Mobster things!" Sasha ouright laughed, grinning from ear to ear out of spite and around a mouthful of blood. "Now all we need is a cat, a bowl of oranges and some automatic gunfire and we have ourselves a fucking blockbuster!"

To her irritation, the object of her mockery just smiled. Almost warmly, even.

"Ah, Miss Jericho, it lightens my heart so to see that Mister Muller's hospitality hasn't at all dimmed that fire i have heard so much about." He stated simply, with a downright jolly little chuckle to boot. "But I would advise you to... exercise some tact. For the time being, at least."

The chair-bound woman just affixed the man with a blank expression. Followed closely by a raise of her brow.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Tact." He answered cheerfully and without skipping a beat as he pulled up a chair and sat down across from her "Discretion, thinking things through before you act or speak. That nebulous thing that has managed to evade you all day today."

Again, Sasha could only meet this strange, cheerful man with another deadpanned expression.

"...Who the absolute fu-"

"Alright, I suppose I shall have to elaborate." The man cut her off quickly with a single enthusiastic clap and sprung to his feet with energy rare in a man his age, pacing a circle around the bound woman and enunciating with his hands. "We approached you for assistance with a... small matter. Nothing beyond your particularly prodigal set of talents, if today is any indication and offered no small amount of compensation for your trouble... and, oh... what you told our representatives again?"

"To take a flying shit."

If anything, that just seemed to make the man happier, putting a little spring in his step as he came up on her right.

"Yes, that! That wonderful, charmingly Bludhaven response to someone offering you money for very little effort! Brilliant!" The man continued with a charmed laugh, before crouching down next to her and suddenly donning a decidedly unpleasant expression as all that honey and joviality in his words abruptly ran dry. "But ill advised."

Even Sasha had to admit, now that she was seeing this man up close, suddenly seeing all of the cold, dead nothing behind his eyes...

It scared her. In an almost primeval way she hadn't felt since the war.

"But your lack of judgement doesn't terminate there, no, we approached yo a second time after that. This time, at work. And what do you do? Why, you grab our men by the collar and throw them out onto the pavement. Very disrespectful of you. Also Ill-advised." The man continued, gently squeezing down on the woman's arm with frigidly cold hands. "So I then took more aggressive measures to try and make you see some modicum of reason. To which you responded by gallivanting around the city like some Hollywood action hero hospitalizing fourteen of my men— half of them into intensive care, no less— until your good friend Mister Muller here was able to lure you into his patrol-car and hit you with a taser."

If Julian was at all ashamed of his role in all this, he didn't show it. Offering Sasha only a smile and a blown kiss as she turned to fix him with a cold glare. Smiling even harder as his unnamed friend gently cupped her cheek to guide her attention back toward him.

"And now, here you are tied to a chair and rapidly running out of paths to a happy ending." The man in the black concluded, easing his grip on her arm and caressing her bruised cheek in some bizarre pantomime of a father reassuring his child "So yes, Miss Jericho, I do advise you show some tact."

With that, the man stood, and circled around again until he was behind his captive, making a deliberate point of tracing a finger up her arm as he went, before resting it upon her shoulder as he leaned down to whisper into her ear...

"After all, is all this really worth it?"

There was a long, dragging couple of minutes following the man's tirade as Sasha sat there in silence, her brain churning in instinctual alarm at something she'd just noticed when the 'civilized gentleman' had gotten that close—

An overwhelming stench of raw meat.

For his part, the figure just pursed his lips a little in thought, stood up and began adjusting his bowtie.

"Well, I suppose it matters not."

...Before violently and looping the thing around her neck and wrenching backward with speed and strength unbecoming a man of his apparent age, easily overpowering the thrashing woman.

"After all the headache you have caused today, they were going to have me kill you anyway. I had merely hoped you would convince me to make it easy for you"

His eyes then flicked back up to his accomplice, shining malevolently as he spoke over the woman's muffled screaming.

"Have Mister Gabriel take young Robert down to that place on Fifth and Keele, see what the Fleshmongers will give you for him."

Upon hearing that, Sasha's eyes nearly bulged out of the sockets as she thrashed even harder, something her tormentor allowed for not more than a few seconds before just releasing his hold and driving a fist into the back of her skull to knock her out.

"And fetch me my toolbox, I have much work to do."




January 1st, 7:27 PM
St. Mary's Community Shelter, Bludhaven, NJ.


WHAP!

"GAH!"

And very suddenly, Mal was hunched over clutching the back of his head.

Again.

Though that didn't at all stop him from casting a sharp glare over his shoulder at the apparent source of his current cranial woes.

"Okay, what the hell was that for?"

His assailant, to her credit, slothfully sprawled across the other end of the couch and shoveling popcorn chicken into her purple-skinned facehole whilst simultaneously slurping some no-name brand cola off the coffee table before them via a series of bendy straws taped together somehow found the dignity to look almost offended by the question... Even in the middle of dutifully getting bits of greasy food all over the bright red trenchcoat she now used as an ad-hoc pillow.

"Ya've got food, ya've got yer Shweedart on TV and ya got tha incomp'rable pledjer of muh comp'ny... yet ya keep shtaring off in'na shpayshe." She half-answered, half-gargled around a mouthful of chicken and soda before swallowing the combined fastfood slurry in one forceful gulp. "What's on your mind, Pup?"

Malcolm visibly flinched slightly at that... And only partially because of the combined assault of the embarrassing nickname he could never seem to outrun and the umpteenth (loud) reminder that night that he once had a crush on a friggin' Disney Princess— This was technically the longest he'd spent around Mogarra in months. And as much as she liked to conceal it beneath her usual antics, he didn't need his computer-like brain to figure out that she was probably getting just a liiiitle bit upset about it.

Never mind what must've been going on in her noggin at the state he always seemed to be in when she did see him these days.

...Frankly, the boy was beginning to suspect the he might just be an asshole.

Yet still, his hand was on his duffel before he thought about putting it there.

"Nothin', just remembered I got somethin' to take care of, is all" Mal lied through his teeth, getting to his feet with a sorry little smile "'Fraid I'mma haf'ta call it a ni-"

"What? Oh, c'mon Mal, we're just gettin' to the good part!" The succubus cut him off quickly as she abruptly jolted to a sit with enough force to spatter crumbs and bits of chicken off her old Led Zeppelin t-shirt and across the couch as she latched onto his arm. "I mean, look! She's shaking her ass and everything!"

"Sorry, Mog, but I—"

The boy's train of thought paused for a moment as he cast a quick glance over at the old box television confirming that, yes, everything the succubus had just said was emphatically true.

''Make that work', indeed...'

Having to physically shake his head to get himself back on track after that, Mal, to his eternal credit managed to collect his thoughts enough to throw the sling of his duffel over his shoulder and pick up where he left off.

"...It really can't wait."

The ancient demon met that with an indignant glare... that slowly, but surely softened into a frown... and then finally something that suspiciously resembled a pout as she relented and sat back, hugging her knees and wrapping her tail around herself.

Though she didn't say a word.

'Yup. Confirmed. I'm an asshole.'

"Look, I'll take you out for-"

"Just fucking go, Malcolm."

The boy's breath caught in his throat at that, but he lowered his head and silently complied.

Mogarra K'Orathys, for her part, just sat there in silence as he went... well, mostly.

"...Damn right you're taking me to dinner."

And that's about when some squirrely kid on the TV rushed the stage screaming like a lunatic and spouting red energy all over the damned place.




January 1st, 8:15 PM
Smithwick Textiles, Bludhaven, NJ.


"That took you an awfully long time, Mister Muller." The senior man growled out with just a tinge of impatience, as he calmly took the shiny, chromed toolbox from the man's hands and placed it down on the table beside him. "Just what, pray tell, kept you?"

Julian only shrugged at that.

"Kid's got a lotta of his mum in 'er, Mister Macellaio. Kicked Paul right in the pants an' ran for it soon as he went to grab 'im. Thought it best ta catch 'im first." He explained, making... a whole lot of sense for a glorified henchman, in retrospect. "It's a big place, and there ain't exactly a shortage a' places to hide. And if he gets out and flags down a cop who ain't playing ball-"

"Yes, yes, I understand. I didn't mean to speak so tersely to you." Macellaio relented with a little wave of his hand and an apologetic smile, even as he cut him off. "I'm just... very eager to get to work. That's all."

The younger man just straightened slightly and nodded at that. Not particularly hung for any further details beyond that; Don't get him wrong, Julian loved the extra income he got through this guy, but he really didn't want to know what was going on in that creepy little head.

Though luckily, any opportunity the man might've taken to elaborate on what he was thinking came to an abrupt halt as what little lighting they had chose that singular moment to go out. Leaving the two to just stare eachother down in the near pitch-black of the old textile factory.

"Julian, could you check the fusebox? I'd quite like to be able to see what I'm doing, if you don't mind."

"Sure thing, Boss." said the cop as he spun on his heels, more than happy for the excuse to be moving away from that guy in a dark hallway.




"'Julian?' When the fuck did I get on a first-name basis with the goddamn magic cannibal?" Muller couldn't help but grumble, his nature forcing the words from his lips but his fear ensuring they never carried further than a whisper as he fumbled his way to the utility room, guided solely by his dollar-store flashlight.

Not that he'd need to, he figured, Mister Macellaio was on the other side of the damned complex entertaining his guest, and as for everyone else on their little escapade, well... he was pretty certain it was kind of a shared sentiment.

Hell, they actually had to draw straws about who got to be the unlucky fuck who had to talk to the guy.

...Which had now led to him being on a first-name with a fucking magic cannibal.

'Should'a gone into carpentry like Dad wanted.' He lamented inside, as he rounded the last corner to his destination and pushed the old steel door to the utility room open. 'Well... 'least we're almost done here...'

'Krnsch!'

Julian paused. That sounded like... glass. Flicking his light to the floor confirmed that. Specifically, glass from all the old fuses someone had ripped out and smashed into the floor.

His hand went for his radio. But before it even made it halfway there, a hand was on his wrist, another on the back of his head, a boot slamming into the back of his knee and quickly soon afterward, his face was being driven into the glass-covered floor.

"So... 'Magic Cannibal', huh?"

Came a low, modulated growl from above him as he struggled to get back to his feet, an effort that only saw him rewarded by the loud, sickening 'SNAP!' of his arm and wrist breaking in rapid succession echoing off the concrete walls and the door which neatly shut behind him under it's own weight.

"Do share."
"C'mon, Kid. One more time." Jack ordered, leaning forward slightly on his milk-crate as he did so and at least trying to look a little authoritative as he directed his boy. "Ya almost had it."

The giddy excitement gleaming in the back of his hazel eyes told an entirely different story. Something the object of these commands might have noticed had he not been trying his level best not to avoid his haze while sat on his upturned bucket, hunched over slightly and clutching his dad's guitar in a deathgrip as his face grew redder and redder.

"I, uhh... I dunno, Da-..."

His sputtering did him no favours either, eliciting yet another disorderly chorus of snorts and giggles from the other alley kids that both silenced, and made him shrink even further. Hell, the way he was going, he may well have shrank directly into the cracked concrete below had his dad's hands not abruptly landed on his shoulders to catch him with a gentle squeeze.

Jack spoke again. Voice soothingly warm, despite his abruptness.

"Malcolm. One more time."

A helluva feat for a near-giant with half a Chelsea grin.

Looking up at his old man, Mal could only comply. And started playing again.


WHAP!





January 1st, 4:15 PM
Lower Caernarvon Street, Bludhaven, NJ.


"GAH!" Mal cried out and shot upright in response to whatever the hell that was that just slapped him in the face.

"Oh, so you are alive."

Instantly, Mal's eyes locked on the familiar figure standing over him in her signature red trenchcoat, scarf and beanie 'modified' (read: haphazardly attacked with scissors) to make room for her horns.

"What the hell, Mog?"

The succubus' eyes narrowed dangerously. That was clearly the wrong response.

"I could ask you the same thing, Dumbass." She all but snarled in response, grabbing him by the collar, hauling him to his feet and aggressively brushing him off "Yesterday, Eddie gets hauled off by a med-coven, thrashing about and foaming at the mouth he's so fucked on red dust, so of course you just fucking run off without a word and now I find you a day later here, with a split lip and a big damned shiner, smelling like shit and passed out in a fucking bus shelter in the middle of a snowstorm!"

At that, Mal blinked the last bits of sleep out of his eyes and took a look around. Finding that, aside from him and irate demon, the only thing surrounding them were four and a half glass panes and a whole fucking lot of blowing snow outside.

Shit, wasn't doing that outside when he stopped for a nap on his way home.

Bludhaven, go figure.

The boy grimaced slightly at that and pushed himself away the worried/angry chaos-realmer so he could lean against the railing and get the rest of his bearings. Even as the succubus in question automatically closed the gap to brush the last bits of ice off of his jacket.

"Alright, alright! I get it, I'm sorry!" The boy finally exclaimed as he lightly pushed the currently aggressively angry-mom-moded demon away and rubbing at the growing welt on his cheek "Just lemme breathe, dammit!"

The red clad woman acquiesced to this, taking a step back. Though she still found it in her to cross her arms and fix the teen with an absolutely withering glare, still clearly mad.

To his credit, Mal had the decency to actually look away at that.

...Well, for a good fifteen seconds, anyway.

"...Did you hit me with your tail?"

"Worked, didn't it?" Mogarra responded with a slight, dismissive shake of her head as she stepped out into the blowing snow. "Now come on, we're going to the shelter."

Mal cocked a brow at that, but picked up his duffel and followed anyway.

"Dare I ask why?"

"Mostly because you really need a fucking shower." Mog replied with a deadpan, and just a tinge of sass. "And also because your Sweetheart is playing in New York tonight and her charity's paying for a free broadcast of it and a fried chicken dinner. You get to be my plus-one."

Mal's eyes narrowed at that as he trudged along behind the demon.

"Sweetheart?"

"Oh, don't give me that." Mog dismissed with a wave of her hand. "I know you boy."

"I do not have a crush on Karen Friggin' Hernandez if that's what you're getting at."

"Oh?" The demon paused for a second, before continuing forward again, a perilous amount of smug working it's way into her voice. "That's funny, because I distinctly remember sneaking you into the last concert she had here. On your birthday, no less."

"I-"

"You were so fucking cute, bundled up and just bouncing where you stood."

"Mog-"

"And then she signed that playing card for you, I swear you were smiling for a week."

"I WAS TWELVE!"




Officer Sasha Jericho of the Bludhaven Police was having a bad day.

Though, to be fair, not nearly as bad as the trio of men now laying bloody and mostly-toothless at the mountain-of-a-woman's feet. Though, in all honesty, they could've had it much worse at that moment. They were still alive, after all. Though, if the way the woman was wiping her bloodied hands off on her shirt and unholstering her gun was any indication, that luck was probably not going last much longer.

"I gonna ask you boys one last time..."

The brunette all but spat as she racked her sidearm with purpose.

"Where. Is. My. Son?"





Aaaaand, into the character tab it goes...




WIP

@ZAVAZggg

Stripe's working on it as we speak.

Edit: DAMMIT, STRIPE. WHY MUST YOU NINJA ME SO?
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