Better Men and Lesser Gods (IC|CLOSED)

[Ceannairceach]

Better Men & Lesser Gods
Arc One: The Privilege of Lesser Men

OOC thread: viewtopic.php?f=31&t=272347

October First, 2027,
St. Johns, Newfoundland,
Turner's Tavern, Water Street

Of all the seedy and disreputable establishments to visit in St. John's, Turner's Tavern on the corner of Water Street and St. Johns Lane is one of the worse you could choose to visit. It had never had a very pleasant history; for much of its early days, it was home to the blue-collar working men of the harbor, where these poor dockworkers would piss their hard earned paychecks away by drowning themselves in cheap bear and lively music. Sadly for these poor fellows, the owner, ever a capitalizing man, realized that he could make much more money if he catered to the local punks, thrashers and metalheads who desired a venue for their loud, ear-killing music, and so he turned his lovely dive bar into a stage for these deviant youths, allowing them to fill the air of the docks with their music and the sound of their moshing.

The advent of superhumans in 2017 and the subsequent fall of Newfoundland led to a new sort of clientele in the Tavern. Even before the Pacification Resolution had been passed, Newfoundland had always seen quite a strong presence of superhumanity. Seeing this trend, the owner of Turner's Tavern quickly changed his colors again and began catering to these people, becoming the go-to dive for down-on-their-luck supers who wanted nothing more than to drink away their pain and sorrow with cheap beer. Once the Pacification hit and the entirety of Newfoundland was blockaded, with St. Johns becoming the center of the anti-superhuman movement on the island, the Tavern earned a new reputation as a haven for those who had powers and who wished to congregate among their own kind, a place for this new minority to go and live without fear of discrimination.

Since the blockade began, twice have residents of St. Johns tried to burn down the sleazy establishment, and once even the government tried to shut it down. Each of the mob attempts were thwarted by the superhumans who defended their favorite bar, and while the government of St. Johns did succeed in evicting the owner and condemning the building, nothing came of it; the superhuman patrons merely moved back in once the police left, and they never attempted to follow through with the demolitions, likely for lack of resources.

Thus, if you wanted to find someone or learn something in the superhuman underworld of St. Johns, the Tavern was the place to go. The place isn't frequented by the major players; gang leaders like the Lumberjack or Sockpuppet had a reputation to uphold, and frequenting that specific dive wouldn't be becoming of their status. Rather, the clientele was made up of their superpowered henchmen, vigilantes and solo operators, and the general downtrodden of the superhuman community. If you didn't have a reputation to fall back on to get you into the more upscale superhuman clubs, it was Turner's Tavern you went to.

Of course, another sort of patron also favored the Tavern, one that was both above such a seedy dive bar and its favorite sort of patron; information brokers, and those who dealt with them.

Henchpeople are great sources of information, as they are often privy to it and are the source of the rumor mill in supervillain organizations. Considering other patrons of the Tavern include freelance vigilantes and superpowered workers, who carry with them information on the greater white mask community and the civilian world respectfully, places like Turner's Tavern were hotbeds for information trafficking, and so occasionally, one might just see a person beyond the normal client base strolling in for a talk with one of the mysterious fellows with a guard planted across the room at the bar.

One such broker was seated in the corner booth of the small bar, carefully nursing a tall lager all by his lonesome. No one dared approach him for small talk; it was well known that this man had a very powerful guard sitting at the bar, evidenced by this man holding a glass but not daring to sip from it, lest it hinder his senses. The man in the booth was a very influential and very expensive information broker who went by the alias Ephialtes. A man of Greek descent in accent and appearance, it came to no surprise to the educated that he would choose that name for himself. Few knew his real name, or anything about him really. Some questioned if he had any powers at all, for he never displayed them, always allowing his guards to finish fights for him. But he rarely fought; his method of waging war was with words, not with powers.

Through the door, which rang a bell upon its opening to signal a new patron that was too quiet to truly announce their presence over the din of the full tavern, came a costumed individual, not uncommon given the oppressive nature of the St. Johns government. Many people in Turner's wore their costumes, as, being henchmen, freelancers and solo operators, they were mostly simple and not altogether attention drawing. This man was somwhat different; He wore a black morphsuit with white designs on its face, mocking scars and wounds. Over this he wore more black, formal clothing, including a vest and black, single-breasted coat that was missing its right sleeve, revealing the padded arm of the morphsuit, the kevlar there as white as the symbols on his face. Finally, atop his head he wore a black, wide brimmed hat with a white stripe.

To the major villains of Newfoundland, this was a deadly ghost, a man to be feared. To the heroes, this was a moral quandary unlike any other. To everyone else, he was a herald of a chaos that sought to bring order.

This was the Knave of Swords.

The Knave quickly crossed the bar, darting between tables with elegant purpose. Some eyes followed his movements, some fearful, some curious, some angry, some respectful. Despite his anonymity and mystery, the image of the Knave of Swords was well known throughout Newfoundland; his exploits culling the black mask population, as well as corrupt white masks and civilians as well, had earned him a certain infamy that simply couldn't be topped. He was a shadow, a ghost, and a mirage; an urban legend that was frighteningly real, and incredibly deadly.

The Knave found himself quickly standing before Ephialtes, who, without looking up from his drink, smiled and nodded at the black clad vigilante. Nodding back at the man, he tipped his hat respectfully, awaiting the broker's words before moving from his position, crossing his arms in anticipation. Knives and blades rattled in their sheaths under his coat, the weapons he favored most. Two more were hidden in sheaths on his back, and a pair of stilettos were in each boot. Suffice to say that under modern regulations, he wouldn't be able to get within five miles of an airport without setting off alarms.

Ephialtes took another sip from his lager and offered an even wider smile at the mask before him. "Jack," he said in a heavy Greek accent, somewhat more heavy than one might expect from a man who spoke English so fluently and for so long, "so good to see you once more. I take it your pursuit of Grey Matter was successful?"

"Knave," the man ceremoniously corrected him as he slid into his seat, crossing his legs and extending both arms to cover the back of the booth. "And indeed it was. I'm sure you'll be hearing about how they found his skinned corpse in his hideout soon enough." Removing his hat and placing it on the table, Eckhard unmasked then, pulling the hood of the morphsuit down to reveal his face, revealing an attractive if simple man; he had a well trimmed but stylish goatee, his hair playfully disheveled but well kept. His blue eyes were piercing, even as one was covered by a whisp of hair that had fallen from its place. Eckhard cared little for his civilian identity; he had no one to care for that any of his enemies could harm, and if anything he had little appreciation for secrets. As the Jack of Spades he didn't even both with masks, and he attributes the authorities not identifying him as the infamous serial killer to post-Montreal hysteria.

Pulling a wood tipped wine cigarillo from his pocket, he lit it at the table with a lighter that was carved with the image of a spade on its largest sides. Taking a long drag from the thing, he blew it in the brokers face. "Those'll kill you, boy," Ephialtes noted, nodding at the cigarillo in Eckhard's hand.

Smiling, Eckhard shook his head and took another drag, this time speaking as the smoke left his mouth, "I touched a thug on my way in. I'm sure he's coughing up a lung by now." Leaning in to the table and using the lit stick of tobacco to point at Ephialtes, the Knave spoke quickly and with purpose, hoping to hasten his departure from the seedy tavern. "Now, you and me have a little business to take care of. I've got some people I need to find. Not many, just a few folks who could use a little off the top, and one special case."

Pulling a list from his pants pocket, Eckhard slid it across the table to the information dealer. "The full list is there. Three names. First guys just someone I could knock off for some extra cash. Grey Matter may have been dangerous, but the guy was broke. This guy, Whiteout, he's a class A thief. I'm going to see if I can't knock him down a peg and take his stash. I'll send all the less than liquid assets to you, 'course. The rations'll be mine." Ephialtes and the Knave had a long standing deal where they wouldn't keep secrets from one another; the last time such a thing occurred, Eckhard was forced to fight six of his guards, which was a bloody mess for both of them. They came to the agreement that trust was a far better risk than bodily harm.

"I'm sure you will, Jack." Studying the list carefully and with a faint frown, he stared intently at the last name on the list. "Whiteout, that makes sense from your askew point of view. I'll get you his information later, have one of my boys drop it off. The King of Diamonds has been on every list you've slipped me since we've met. But what do you want with this Paralyzer?" The Greek studied the face of the young man before him intently, hoping that he'd garner some interesting information off of him.

Leaning back into his seat and smoking more of his cigarillo, Eckhard's confident smile turned into an ambivalent frown. Sighing lightly before answering, he spoke flatly, losing a little color and most of his pep as the words formed from his lips. "Apparently she has connections to the Deck. I rescued this kid from Grey Matter, who mentioned her by name. He was delirious, still trying to shake what was left of Grey Matter's control from his mind. He said she was, and I quote, 'probably going to bring the Deck right to them.' Apparently she's had run ins with them. Probably not to her benefit."

"Ah," the broker replied, stroking the stubble on his chin, "so you think she's a victim of your little social club."

"Yeah." Eckhard lifted his cigarillo to his eyes, watching it burn down to the butt. "Not one of mine, since she's still breathing. Maybe one of the Hearts got her, or a Diamond used her as a test subject. Something like that. I want to find her."

Allowing the silence to linger for a moment, it was some time before Ephialtes responded. Slowly, he spoke, carefully choosing his words. "Well, if you're that intent on digging up old graves, I know a bit about her. She's not a very big player. She runs with a group who call themselves the Attica Gang. I'm not sure whether to call them black masks painted white or white masks painted black. The rank and file think their revolutionaries, but their leaders are criminal sorts. Not big ones, but they have pretty decent powers. Lead by this guy, Duke Ellington. Uses sound and music to fight. Nice singer, I hear."

Picking up a notepad from the seat, he scrawled some things hastily in pen. "They run a small arms workshop out of the city. Cheap shit, but they've got the numbers to back them up. That rich smuggler I told you about, Andros? He's one of them. He's a real powerful man, with lots of connections out of Newfoundland. Personally, I wouldn't go picking any fights with them. They're not bad people for thugs and criminals, and lots of them just want to go home." He extended the paper out to Eckhard for him to take.

Putting the cigarillo out into the table, the Knave lifted his eyes and met those of the broker. "Thanks, Eph. I appreciate it." Taking the paper from Ephialtes, he slid from his chair, standing up and donning the mask once more. Pulling a roll of ration slips from his pocket, he tossed it onto the table. In Newfoundland, Canadian dollars and other forms of currency were largely useless; some still traded in it, but the smarter thing to do was trade it in for ration slips. Those were far more useful, as you could use them to get any sort of supplies you required from the UN relief groups. Now, only smugglers used real currency, which they gratefully traded ration slips for. It was a strange cycle, the economy of Newfoundland.

Turning to make his leave as he donned his hat, Ephialtes grabbed a wrist, halting the masked vigilante. "Wait. One more thing, before you go." As the Knave stopped and turned, the Greek released him, and pulled something from his breast pocket. Putting it face up on the desk, he revealed exactly what it was; a playing card, the king of spades.

Eckhard stared at it only for a moment before he spoke, his eyes still not leaving the single card on the table. "He's here? On the island?"

"Somewhere, yes." Ephialtes lifted the card and placed it in Eckhard's pocket. "But don't get your hopes up just yet. Something was off about him. He wasn't very composed. Crazy, sure, but nothing resembling a face card. And he didn't seen to know anything about the King of Diamonds or that impostor Queen of Hearts. I don't think he's really from the Deck, or if he is, he's not been there long."

Nodding, letting the information sink in, Eckhard kept his eyes on the spot where the card had been, lightly touching his pocket where it was now located. "Thanks, friend. You've been a great help." Without a word goodbye, Eckhard took his leave, as if the ghost had himself seen a ghost. In many ways he had; to his knowledge, the King of Spades died in Montreal. That meant this card was either his successor, come to kill the traitor to the Deck, an impostor, who was seeking to rise on the tails of a psychopath, or the old King himself, which was a thought that Eckhard did not want to entertain.

After all, if Eckhard had died in Montreal only to resurface later, what was stopping one of the few men that the Knave truly feared from doing the same?

The streets outside of Turner's Tavern were quiet; Understandable, for a Friday afternoon, as those who worked continued to work, and those who didn't found things to do rather than walk about the dockside streets. Eckhard took a turn to the right, onto St. Johns Lane, passing by the gigantic Golden Pheasant Tea advertisement that adorned the side of the tavern. He followed the street up to Duckworth, where he turned right once more, following the street down. His place of residence was a three storey number located next to a old, purple-color record store called Fred's. On the other side was a similarly designed building of unknown origin, but with the words "Get Stuffed" printed over the door and windows. Eckhard's own home was red, but the paint had chipped and faded from lack of care. The stairs were old and creaky, and the iron fence that guarded the exposed basement door was rusty, with a suplementary wooden fence making the thing look silly.

But across the street, facing the harbor, was the National War Memorial. And even as an American, who by all rights did more to harm Canada than help, found it touching to look at when he woke.

Before entering his home, Eckhard strolled casually to the memorial. The sight of a masked man in the simple park did not seem to frighten the others mulling around the trees and grass. This was one of the few places where the grass and trees were well kept by the city, something of a matter of pride, and even though the St. John's Militiaman on duty would likely have harassed Eckhard anywhere else, the Memorial was something of a neutral zone. It was a place of healing and remembrance. It being located in a heavily super-populated part of the otherwise human town didn't mean anything; humans still went to the park, and superhumans did the same, although at a respectful distance from one another.

It was a peaceful place, for whatever reason. And Eckhard could appreciate peace.

Not wanting to outstay his welcome and ruin the experience of the park for others, he silently took his leave after he took one more loop around the pathway, recalling every inch of the stones beneath his feet. He had walked that path hundreds of times before and memorized every brick and blade of grass. Even more keen was his memory of the bronze statues that towered over him; the guardian woman, lighting the path with her torch and preparing for battle with her sword, with representations of the past warriors of British Newfoundland before her. And under them all plaques, denoting Newfoundland's achievements in World Wars, in Afghanistan, and more recently, in their battle against superkind.

And beside these official plaques were scrawled the names of great heroes, superhumans who also laid down their lives for Canada.

But Eckhard did not dwell on this fact. The plight of superhumanity was not his cause to fight. He had his opinions, like any other man, but he kept them to himself. His fight was against the evil of this world, against the Deck of Fifty-Two, and against the demons that raged inside his soul.

And that was enough for one man to bear. He didn't need nor want to bear the world.

---

October First, 2027,
Saint-Pierre, Saint Pierre and Miquelon,
United Nations Command Center

If someone had visited the town of Saint-Pierre a decade ago, they would be shocked at what it had turned to since its occupation by the United Nations Peacekeepers. What was once a small town situated on a quiet harbor, following the decision by the French government to donate the island to the Peacekeeper forces that would be monitoring the situation on Newfoundland, the island quickly developed into a hotbed of military activity. Soldiers bearing helmets of UN blue go to and fro, while the town is bustling with the activity of humanitarian workers, off duty soldiers, and other people who have flocked to the island to cater to the needs of the blockade. It was a wonder that the town could handle the influx of soldiers and workers, but somehow, they managed.

The United Nations Command Center was a new building, constructed for the purpose of housing the Peacekeeper's commanders and centralizing the blockade effort, located just off the harbor, was a large, grey building, simple and militaristic. One might even call it brutalist in architecture, were it not for its rugged simplicity as apposed to purposeful offensiveness. Before the box-like building flew several flags; highest among them was the United Nations flag. Below that, on the second tier, were the flags of Canada and France, who the Security Council believed were the most cooperative and generous in the quarantine, with both giving up territory and considerable military forces to enforce it. Below them were the remainder of the Security Council, including the temporary seats, whose flags were changed when new members took over.

Inside the building, in its center, was the office of the Peacekeeper Commander, one General Prescott Wilkes. General Wilkes was a veteran of the Canadian Armed Forces, a man of great prestige and even greater ability. He had served in Afghanistan as a part of the war there, and more recently he was responsible for the apprehension or elimination of several of the more dangerous superhumans of the world. For his service, he was nominated to command the UN blockade, and all forces utilized there. It was a post of honor, where he was servicing not only his country, but the world by protecting them from the superhuman menace.

He hated his job.

Wilkes was a man of action, and the very notion of sitting at a desk reading reports and issuing orders that never changed disgusted him, and it disgusted him even more that he was now forced to do so based on old victories. Where once he was on the front against the superhuman separatists in the Northwest Territories, now he did little more than send status reports to the UN in Geneva, entertain dignitaries that wished to look upon the blockade and seem important, and occasionally stop a smuggler or escapee, assuming his own men weren't helping either. For a man with the most prestigious post in the UN peacekeeper force, he was also the most discontent with his lot.

Hanging from the wall beside his desk was a very large flat screen television. The room well lit and filled with other necessities like filing cabinets, book shelves, the aforementioned desk and two people standing just before the door, the television's only distraction was its noise, the color somewhat drained by the rest of the room. Playing at the top volume was a news program, in the middle of a report from a rather plain looking male newscaster.

"-and as we get ever closer to the tenth anniversary of the date that humanity gained superpowers, the so-called 'Unluckiest Friday,' many are asking themselves important questions; for example, what are we do to with this new group of people that are currently being treated like criminals, without regard for nationality or past offenses. Is something out of their control a good enough reason to lock them all away? With us today is--"

The general flipped the channel, to another news station. "Protests have been scheduled in New York, Ottawa, London, Paris, and the capitals of the other Security Council members excluding China for the 13th this year, with counterprotests against the pro-superhuman movement also in the planning phases. The president of the East African Federation, which is currently serving as a temporary member of the Security Council, has noted his support for the superhuman rights movement, and has said that he will be personally leading protests outside of the UN office in Nairobi. Africa has long been a hotbed for pro-superhuman activists since the Corsair-"

Once more, he changed the station. "-is that Canada deserves a permanent position on the Security Council. Not a single nation has suffered more than her. She gave up an entire island the size of some countries to protect humanity, and donated large amounts of military hardware, and they still haven't-"

Again. "-will not rest until we have our heroes back! We want our Sentinel! We want our Stovepipes! We want the heroes back! And-"

Again. "In a controversial move today, the Canadian band Rush released a studio album titled Sentinel: Where's the Hero Gone? Titled after the former Canadian-endorsed superhuman Sentinel, real name Elias Stone, who famously participated in the battle that dissolved the UNIT force. Stone was publicly discharged from the military and exiled to Newfoundland after surrendering to government forces following the UNIT civil war. It is unknown what has become of Sentinel now, but it is believed-"

Finally, the television clicked off. Rubbing his wrinkled temples, Wilkes turned in his chair to face the door and the two people who were standing before it. One was a man, short, businesslike and well dressed. Obviously a politician. When the General stood from his chair, he was the first to cross the room, extended a hand to shake. "General Wilkes! Its good to finally meet you!" After an awkward moment where Wilkes looked at the hand but didn't extend one back, he finally lowered it and coughed, clearing the air. "Well, I'm Jacob Manly, Human Defense Agency. I've been sent to monitor the situation here for security reasons."

Wilkes raised an eyebrow, then shook his head. "Manly, we've got enough observers from your government here already. Americans make up anywhere from a fifth to a third of the blockade's forces at any given time. Why would we need you here as well?"

"Well," Jacob said, adjusting his tie with the hand not currently holding a briefcase, "according to the Pacification Resolution, I don't need to answer that, as observers from any member of the Security Council and any other nations assisting in the blockade may send-"

"Don't quote scripture at me," Wilkes interrupted, glaring daggers at the agent. "The Human Defense Agency's been stooges for that New Populist Party since their inception. I remember dealing with your sorts when we were taking down Goliath. They wanted to take the corpse for 'research.' Now, I can't make you leave, but I'll be damned if I won't make your stay as uncomfortable as possible if you don't tell me why you're here."

Locking eyes with the general, Manly kept his gaze as he opened his briefcase and pulled from it a vanilla folder fat with documents. With a frown on his face he handed it over to the commander. "That's everything you need to know. I've been sent to investigate escapes from the quarantine using United States material, as well as to report back on the status of the blockade, to verify if sending more material would be necessary." As the general studied it, he continued, "And I wouldn't insult the NPP, Wilkes. They took the House in 2026. Odds are they'll take the White House in 2028, and then where'll that leave you?"

"It'll leave me here, serving Canada and the free human world," was Wilkes respond as he closed the folder and laid it on his desk. "Very well. You'll have free access to all UN areas, but with an escort. I don't want some young gun super offing you for being stupid. Please dismiss yourself while I brief Lieutenant Collins here." When the man took a moment to budge, he raised his voice, saying, "Now, agent." Only slightly startled but more aggravated, the agent evacuated the room, turning his head to glare at the general as the door shut behind him, closed by Collins.

Falling into his chair, the general noted as Lieutenant Collins stepped forward to salute him. In a strangely feminine voice for a woman so clearly fit for military service, she declared, "Lieutenant Aisha Collins reporting for duty, sir!" Collins was a woman of African descent, American by her accent. She was well built, strong looking and tough. Her hair was neatly shaved off, leaving only the buzz behind. Her eyes were a light brown, complementing her light chocolate skin.

"At least, Collins," Wilkes said, noticing that she quickly fell into an eased position, but did not look comfortable doing so. "I take it you know why you're here?"

"Sir, yes, sir. I am to escort Agent Manly during his stay with the United Nations blockade force."

"Hm, yes, that." Wilkes sighed once more, staring at the folder that now centered itself on his desk. "Ensure that Manly doesn't do anything exceedingly stupid during his stay here, Collins. And if he does, threaten to shoot him for threatening human security." Amusing himself with her twitch there, he waved a hand, "That was a joke, Lieutenant. Just... Don't let him out of your sight. I know you're an American, but that HDA's got a bad reputation outside of the States. Lots of mystery, not a whole lot of transparency. I personally don't trust him. And if you were smart, neither would you."

"Yes, sir." Collins didn't betray any opinions, to her credit. A model military woman.

"Good. Now, he'll probably be wanting to inspect some of the shore facilities, Burin and the St. Johns outpost and the like. You'll follow him, but I'll be putting you in command of a fireteam to help with security. I'd sanction off a platoon for you, but I don't need the locals getting uppity. You'll be safer in a small group." He took an envelope from his desk and handed it to the woman. "That's the fireteam and your orders. You're dismissed, lieutenant. Try not to punch that agent in the face, no matter how annoying he is."

Saluting, she made her exit in a classy military fashion, closing the door behind her, leaving Wilkes to his lonesome as he turned the television back on. Turning from the door, Collins saw that Agent Manly was waiting for her, leaning against the wall across from the door. "Lieutenant Collins, was it? You're to be my escort, I assume. I'd like to thank you for your service to the free human world." He extended a hand to her, which she took respectfully.

"Thank you, Agent Manly.I'm merely serving my country. Now, if you'd like, I can-"

"And what country is that, Lieutenant Collins? Canada?" Manly raised an eyebrow inquisitively as he cut her off before she could finish.

Tensing her own brow, she answered shortly, "No, sir. America. Born and raised in Maine."

"Ah, wonderful! Good to have a fellow American here. For a nation that makes up quite a chunk of the blockade forces, I see so few of our fellow countrymen around St-Pierre, wouldn't you agree?"

"Most Americans are navy men, sir. They're on the ships making sure the supers don't make a break for it." She motioned down the hall, towards the dignitaries dormitories. "Now, if you would, I'd like to show you your accommodations before sunset. Best to get you settled before dinner."

"Of course, of course," Manly smiled as he turned to walk, shadowed by the UN peacekeeper, who couldn't help but wonder what thoughts were racing through the agents head.

---

October First, 2027,
An Unknown Location

Creating a throne of skulls was a difficult thing to do. For one thing, finding enough skulls was a hard enough challenge, what with the ability of people to avoid getting killed being surprisingly high even in the anarchy that was Newfoundland. And then, once you had the skulls, what were you to do with them? Building an entire chair was hard enough, so the more logical solution would be to take the frame of an existing chair and fit the skulls over that. And that is exactly what the Ripper did. He fit skulls over a chair. It worked quite well, and the product was spectacular.

The Ripper wasn't your average man; no, he recognized his evil, and capitalized on it. Where other black masks were less than willing to delve into the chaos that was pure evil, still clinging to some morality or ethics, the Ripper decided to completely reject them in favor of his own twisted ways. His rules and beliefs never stayed constant; sometimes he would not kill children, sometimes he would only kill children. Each day he had a new limitation, something to challenge him. Something to give him a goal to aspire to. And if his goal was killing children, then by a god he didn't believe in, he would kill children.

He was a killer. But he was also unknown. Whereas men like the Suicide King and Grey Matter were well known and feared, the Ripper was the only one who knew of his existence, save for his victims, who wouldn't know of him for long.

He wished to rectify that. Not because he wanted to be famous. No, such was the domain of psychotic children playing with guns in school. Rather, he wanted to see what the world would do to him. What anyone could do to him.

For a split second, as he sat atop his throne of skulls in the center of an abandoned warehouse, a different personality surfaced; one of fear and regret, one laced with sadness and depression. For a short time he remembered a different name that he had gone by, one that carried different connotations. A name that he had done good by. It was something of a joke, the name, with two meanings, one literal, the other not. She had used the former, but in many ways, she truly deserved the latter. Her powers represented the former, but she had discovered another that lent towards the latter as well. She was both sides of that coin. He was.

Shaking the thought from his head, the Ripper repressed those memories. They wouldn't serve her. He had things he had to do, murderous things. And by hell or high water, he would accomplish them. And the world would know her name, and would try and kill him.

Soon.

[Neo Arcad]

2 OCTOBER 2027
DEER LAKE, NEWFOUNDLAND

The United Nations was a large organization. It had a lot of resources at its disposal, from entire armies to vast economic alliances. And yet it still struggled to maintain its outposts in central Newfoundland. This, of course, was not due to any great natural barriers that existed on the island, but rather, due to the overabundance of superhumans. Most of these supers were rather opposed to the UN, for obvious reasons, and made it their mission to cause trouble for the international organization and its assets. At first, the UN used military convoys to ship supplies around, but the cost was prohibitive and the method inefficient for supplying all the UN guard posts. So they took to using helicopters. The flaw in this plan became apparent when three helicopters were downed due to various superhumans in the span of a fortnight. So instead, the UN took to using nondescript trucks to ferry supplies around in areas they thought to be moderately secure. They'd put some UN soldiers in a box truck with a bunch of supplies, and send them out to re-victual an outpost. It was a low-key, low-cost solution... but that didn't mean that they weren't still vulnerable to attack.

As the white box truck rumbled through the small city of Deer Lake, its occupants- a Jamaican, a Dane, and an Irishman, UN troopers all- remained vigilant. They might have been within range of UN air power, but that didn't mean anything with the speeds at which supers could strike. As if summoned by the thought, a man stepped out into the middle of the road. Before the peacekeepers could react, he pulled a hatchet out from his coat, and chopped off his own hand. While he began screaming in pain, though, a large brown bear simply appeared where his hand was; the man staggered to the side of the road and doubled over while his summoned familiar jumped through the windshield of the vehicle. The Dane died when the bear impacted his head at 90 kilometers per hour; the vehicle itself skidded on the wet road as the Jamaican lost control of it due to the dead bear blocking his vision. It flipped onto its side and slid another 20 feet before it came to a halt.

"Bearpuncher", as they called him, rose to his feet, still crying and clutching his stump. He made his way to the vehicle, and touched it to the bear's corpse, which vanished. His hand appeared, good as new, though it was clear that the pain hadn't quite subsided. He was joined by three others, all wearing the red masks of the Attica Gang. The stunned and bloodied Jamaican and Irish peacekeepers were relieved of their Browing Hi-Power sidearms by a jarringly cheerful young woman; another man, his greasy hair slicked back with what looked like motor oil, took the bloodsoaked G36 the Dane had had in his lap. A fourth Attica Gang member, a rough looking man with a pipewrench in his hand, set to work on the box truck's rear door. Rather than try opening it conventionally, he simply whacked it with the wrench and it popped open immediately. While Sunshine held the incapacitated peacekeepers at a useless gunpoint, the other gangsters opted to examine the prize inside the truck. Pipewrech and Grease hauled open the doors, to reveal...

Nothing.

There was nothing in the truck.

Everyone stood around for a moment, scratching their heads. It was Lucia who finally put two and two together, although the faint sound of helicopter blades soon tipped off her companions. They all made a run for the nearest building, Lucia being the first to reach the door. It was a two story office building, probably closed for the day judging by the darkened windows. As they bolted for it, the helicopter swooped overhead, the door gunner trained on them yet seemingly reluctant to fire. Seven UN soldiers were inside the aircraft, an Agusta A109, and they began preparing to disembark as Pipewrench opened the door (again, by whacking it with his wrench). Bearpuncher, still sniffling, tried to hold the door while most of the others took up positions, using the weapons they'd just captured. Bearpuncher realized his mistake and fumbled for his hatchet the moment before one of the UN soldiers kicked open the door in his face. The Attica Gang members began firing at the doorway, hitting and killing the soldier who'd kicked them in. A flashbang bounced into the room, and before any of the Atticans could react, it went off. Despite firing wildly, the blinded gangsters were quickly subdued after running out of ammo. The UN team simply waited for the assault rifle and two pistols to go click, then used standard entry tactics. Grease spat oil at the soldiers, who double-tapped him, ending the others' resistance.

A now-gloomy Sunshine, and rough-looking as ever Pipewrench were zip-tied at gunpoint, while Bearpuncher's unconscious form was simply hefted by two UN soldiers like a sack of potatoes. The three of them were led outside, where a swift pistol-butt strike to the face brought down the lead soldier. Moving with extreme grace and precision, Lucia Marquez whipped out her SW1911, and shot the three UN troopers who tried to unsling their rifles. The remaining two dropped the unconscious Bearpuncher to put their hands in the air. "Drop your guns!" she ordered; two G3A4 rifles hit the ground. The pilot of the helicopter was already being held at gunpoint by another Attica Gang member, and there were several seemingly innocent bystanders who were donning red masks and helping to secure various things. The operation had gone off almost without a hitch; a flatbed tow truck arrived to obtain the UN helicopter, and the UN troops were left with the disabled truck to tell the tale.

CORNER BROOK, NEWFOUNDLAND
FOUR HOURS LATER

The celebrations at the Attica Gang's major hangouts were massive. To have stolen a helicopter right out from under the UN's noses- it was unthinkable! As the majority of the gang celebrated, though, Lucia kept her distance. She wasn't bragging about her role in the operation, like Bearpuncher, or fighting over who'd killed the most UN guys, like Pipewrench and Sunshine. In fact, even though she HAD killed the most United Nations men that day, she was simply sitting in the corner, nursing a drink, not thinking about much of anything at all. Other members of the gang were all too ready to steal the thunder she failed to cash in on, and attempts at getting her to join in the revelry had ceased a while back.

[Kassaran]

Garren Alley
Downtown Corner Brook
20:00 October 2^nd, 2027

The two thugs approached the lone woman, her handbag held low, her jacket slung loose across her back, she reached in and withdrew a gun. A heavily modified 9 mm Beretta handgun, stamped into the hilt was the Australian Office of Foreign Intelligence's emblem. Alice Whitaker, aged 22, had been sent on a mission, a single, first-time mission to one of the most dangerous places in the world; Corner Brook, Newfoundland, the island that now withheld hundreds of thousands of dangerous super-humans and the countless individuals wishing to fraternize them. Of course there were some residents whom had been there before, but now the majority on the island were those whom had been imprisoned there (or otherwise had moved there to fraternize with the imprisoned). Leveling the gun, Alice now turns quickly to aim it at one of the thug's heads, but as she did so, a third man approaches from behind a dumpster as another emerges from the darkness. They begin to close in on her, slowly, moving menacingly. Firing a shot, the gun's barrel explodes.

The metal all flies in a single direction however, and much to Alice's surprise, she hasn't been injured. looking towards where the metal flew, she spies a door, barely lit by the light from the street-light. She flinches as one man grabs her by the waist and pulls her close. Lashing out in a fit of indignation, she squarely punches him in the face, knocking a few teeth loose, but not before she feels her own blow strike her also in the same place. An empath, this thug is notorious for raping women, alongside his street gang, however they don't realize what quarry they've lashed out at tonight. Alice, Australian Office of Foreign Intelligence field operative is an assassin, sent to dispose of a certain individual hunting in this area.

It had taken her nearly four months, but now she has tracked him, finally, to his resting place, the Downtown of Corner Brook. These poor men don't realize the dangerous predator they have right now, nor do they understand her more dangerous quarry that now watches, fascinated by her aggression. He has been watching her now since she arrived in town on the 21^st of September, and slowly he's been leading her here, feeding her misinformation to bring her to his hunting ground. For several weeks he's been stalking not only her, but also a certain individual who claimed falsely (and rather unwisely) to have knowledge on a certain person of interest. This person being none other than the currently unnamed individual's sole fascination, the "White Rabbit". A notorious thief, smuggler, and forger of important government documents, he's been hunting the hiding predatory man (who still lies in the shadows watching the entire engagement below him) using a whole array of henchmen and thugs without any rhyme or reason. So that would seem at least.

Down below, more activity as another man reaches for the young woman's arm, and grabbing it, he placates her, making her drift into a haze of euphoria and ecstasy. This individual, always working in conjunction with the empath, has forged the heart and soul of this street gang, but they aren't in charge of the "Fe-aux-Paw Hearts". Instead, that individual (whom falsely claimed knowledge of the "White Rabbit" now comes out of hiding having seen the young agent be duped and subdued. A man in all metal, twisted and contorted, steps out from a side door and sneers," Well, well, well boys, look what we have here. A fresh piece of nice hot a-"

Suddenly panic in his eyes as he falls to the ground holding his throat. A loud thrumming noise fills the air, and the prey now becomes the predator as a single voice, bearing slight resemblance to individuals unnamed, but definitely insinuated, speaks out into the alley," Oh, how sad, it seems you're having some trouble speaking. I would help, but I really do prefer just teasing"

The man on the ground, now gasping for breath falls to his side. His tongue lolls about in his mouth, swollen and bloated, cutting off his air supply. He knows he's been caught, but the rest of his gang don't have a clue as to whom has done this. One man by the name of "Torch" begins to emanate a strong glow from his unclothed torso, moving close to the center of the group. The empath tries desperately to reach out and feel for the presence, the dark and malevolent presence, that now tangibly fills the air. The thrumming noise now gets louder, more projected and angled, like the sound of a hundred cats purring. The voice in the dark speaks again:

"How cute, he glows in the dark. If only he knew how much I hate that. I'm sorry, but I have to put you out so I can begin my lark."

And with that the thrumming stops, only for a second, as the sound of bones crunching and cracking pierces the air. Then, in a brilliant explosion of crimson blood and white bone shards, the back of the unclothed man rips open as his heart explodes backwards. Like a shaped charge, it sends bone fragments as improvised shrapnel into four of the nine individuals still alive below. The sounds of the violent deaths and dying thugs is muffled once more by the purring noise. Playfully calling out, the man in the dark speaks once more, but this time to the man in metal, still alive somehow, sprawled across the ground," Oh deary me, it seems I've gone and spoiled all of the fun! How sad it is to think you won't live to see the morning sun! I know its you my old friend Tin-man, and I'd like to say your time is done, but time is such a flimsy thing that I'll play with you some! how about I end this all? Why won't you speak to me my bonnie-kin? Could it be that a certain cat has got your tongue?"

With that the man on the ground's face explodes as the tongue expands violently and detonates with the force of a military hand-grenade. Pieces of bone fly everywhere from his now dis-assembled skull and brain matter now sits, jiggling some in small piles around the site of the disturbing cadaver. Now the men in the alley realize their adversary, and one cries out in fear as he begins to fall back, his tongue swelling in his mouth. Another man notes this and begins to run, but looses his footing only to realize he no longer possesses feet, and the mangled stumps he has now are profusely bleeding everywhere. Holding the woman up as sacrifice to the angry being in the shadows, the empath speaks out, identifying his foe," Cheshire! Why, what have we done? We did nothing to you!"

Laughing terribly, and horrifically, the man of the darkness begins appearing the center of the group, sending its members reeling and the empath running, leaving the young-woman to fall. A smile having first appeared from the dense mist that is Cheshire, the body undulates out quickly creating two eyes and half of a torso, from which an arm protrudes quickly to catch the stricken woman mid-fall. The individual forming from the mist isn't phased by this however and quickly fixates on his new prey. Targeting the empath's mind, he causes it to liquefy and then explode. The effect is instantaneous as the big man falls and hits the ground hard enough to crack his skull open and break his nose. The sickening noise of even more blood pouring out onto the concrete from the body of the man is quickly muffled by the oppressive purring noise as the individual of mist fully forms. There stands the Cheshire, tall, lean, and lethal, his glowing white fangs (specifically laced with a radioactive isotope that he creates through using his ability in order to glow in the first place) and burning yellow cat-like eyes pierce the darkness. Although he is tired from having used his ability so much, he is left almost completely alone. Only one man remains alive, the one whom placated the girl.

Turning to the whimpering individual, he speaks, barely audible to the man over the loud thrumming noise," Leave me here, never return to this town, if you do I will hunt you down and kill you in ways hundreds of times worse than what you have witnessed here!" the trembling thug barely gets across a nod before Cheshire speaks once more," Let everyone know of what has happened here, and let them know I am coming for the man who calls himself the, 'White Rabbit' and i will find him, and I will kill him and all of his men. Now go!"

With this, the man runs into the night, never to be seen again by Cheshire. Now alone with his new quarry, a prize rather, the lone figure fully holds the woman now, and slowly, picking up her legs while supporting her limp torso and head, he carry's her out of the alley and into the dark night beyond.

[Anarakdos]

Giles Richelle, October 2nd
The workshop was cold, small and dark, but it was isolated, filled with resources and besides, Giles had never been bothered by the cold. The building was almost entirely bare of decoration and outside of a bed, a table and a workbench, there was no furniture. Most of the space was filled with tools and scraps, and an entire corner was dominated by an imposing suit of armor. The rest of Giles' completed devices were hung on the walls, with the exception of a small steam-powered pistol, one of his first creations, which he clutched tightly in his hand as he slept.

A sudden noise startled Giles and he jerked suddenly upright. This action caused him to realize just how sore he was from his battle the day before. "Damn kid", he moaned. All of his muscles ached and attempting to move would cause more pain than he could imagine, so he gave up and flopped back down onto the bed. He immediately felt more relaxed. He had only himself to blame, he supposed. He shouldn't have underestimated that kid.

The mask had introduced himself as Anarchy, which had disappointed Giles quite a bit. At this point in his life, he had encountered roughly twenty black masks named Anarchy, and none of them had impressed Giles in the slightest. He supposed the name had a certain ring to it, but half the time they didn't even care about anarchy, they just thought it sounded "bad-ass". Along with his profoundly moronic name, the kid had been small and naive, so Giles was expecting only a small challenge. His muscles were now reminding him how wrong he had been.

Not only had the kid had impressive tectonic control powers, to the extent where Giles surmised he could have theoretically ripped the island in half, had he been able to control them better, he was also exceedingly agile and agility was Giles' worst enemy. The first part of the fight had consisted of the kid dodging all of Giles' shots while simultaneously shaking him apart. The only reason Giles had made it out alive was the mask's lack of combat experience. He had made the foolish decision to close with Stovepipe and attempt to deal even more damage by engaging in hand-to-hand combat. (Giles decided that the kid must have been able to tectonically power his punches, although he had no idea how that actually worked.) It was at this point that Stovepipe grabbed the kid and promptly snapped his neck.

As he lay in his uncomfortable bed, Giles mused on the fact that killing his foe was actually a rather ungentlemanly thing to do. He came to the conclusion that since leaving him alive would have allowed Anarchy to spread even more death and destruction, so killing him had really been the only proper course of action. Anyways, it wasn't like he had never killed before. Satisfied with this and finding no other way to spend his time, Giles decided to write a poem about how much he hated the name Anarchy. Even the title Chaos would be preferable, he'd only seen about eight of those.

Four Hours Later
Giles trudged out of his workshop, wearing a thick winter jacket and warm pants. Around his waist was a leather belt, with his pistol slung in the attached holster. His muscles protested with every step he took, but he had found it impossible to stay in the Shed, as he named his abode, for one more second. He had settled on heading towards one of the countless small villages that populated this section of the north. He didn't have the strength for action, but it didn't take much effort to sit down with a mug of beer and listen to rumors. He just hoped he could hear a few new stories.

[Of the Quendi]

Early morning October 2^nd, 2027
L'Anse aux Meadows, Newfoundland
On the Beach

In the Sea of the coast of L'Anse aux Meadows, the location of Leif Ericson's viking colony in Vinland, a family of dolphins had found a curious and entertaining playmate in Daniel "Danny" Jansen. The mad telepath was squealing with delight and trying to hold on to the dolphins as they swarmed around him trying to figure out what strange creature he was. One of the more adventurous of the dolphins swam close towards the strange scarecrow reacting with what could have been mirth as Danny, lacking a language, howled wildly grabbing hold of the dolphin.

Dolphin and man both squealed enthusiastically as the dolphin began swimming outwards towards the ocean dragging Danny with it. The simpleton soon let go of the dolphin as the water grew too deep for him to reach the seabed. Making rudimentary swimming movements Danny whimpered, upset by the depth of the water. For a moment the dolphin merely observed with curiosity its strange friend. But then it swam up next to Danny who eagerly grabbed hold of the dolphin which carried him closer to the land. Once safe where his feet could reach the seabed, Danny forgot all about his prior predicament and laughing loudly he tried to tickle the dolphin receiving a whistle in return.

Playing together both man and dolphins where happy.

It was an emotion Geneviève had not felt for a long time, but sitting on the beach observing the spectacle her cold and emotionless demeanor was softened, even if only a little, and the faintest shadow of a smile for a moment seemed about to form on the corners of her lips. It didn't happen but for one fateful moment it seemed likely to occur. But in the end Geneviève merely sighed, shook her head and returned her gaze to the book in her lap.

It was a terribly damaged old Paradise Lost by John Milton, the story of how Lucifer, greatest and fairest of angels, set about to become free thus bringing about great tragedy for himself and the mankind that he ensnared and promised to make free. Old, weathered by time and hardship as the tome was it was Geneviève's favorite book. She too had once believed freedom to be the greatest and most universal of values. No more.

Looking towards the dolphins and Danny Geneviève felt their happiness exude towards her. She had long since seized to touch on the mind of Danny for frivolous reasons but to enter the minds of the dolphins, for they had minds of their own that, however different from those of humans, did not lack for sophistication and wit, gave her no qualms. And they where happy. Happier than they had been when they had roamed freely several miles east of L'Anse aux Meadows before Geneviève had bound them to her will and summoned them as playmates for Danny.

Now they where slaves of Geneviève's will, which, in a sense, made them kindred to Danny who would never again think an independent thought more complex then that of an infant by her doing. Yet the unfree slaves was happy while their free mistress grieved. What was freedom but the chance to be guilty of your own suffering Geneviève wondered. Like Lucifer, like Adam and Eve, mankind suffered as a result of the freedom they blindly praised. The freedom to stupidity, intolerance, ignorance and evil. The freedom or armed men to drag two screaming children from their home at night and unlawfully detain them at a concentration camp there to torture and experiment on them for no reason but because their sister had made a disastrous error. Geneviève pursed her lips her demeanor hardening. Or the freedom of said sister to plot a revenge so horrid that the world would have never known its like before and would never know it after.

No the assumption that freedom was an intrinsic good was fallible. Newfoundland was an excellent example of it. Anarchy was implemented, an unprecedented degree of freedom was given every single inhabitant of the island and what happened? Chaos, civil war, poverty and terror reigned everywhere. So much for the virtues of freedom.

One day, Geneviève hoped, mankind would be rid of the alluring curse of freedom. For that she would work tirelessly in the name of Guillaume and Alexandrine, her abused sibling, to their honor she would extinguish permanently the freedom of man to make bad decisions. Then Paradise would be found.

~*~

They had grown in number over night. Obviously it had not escaped her notice but it was first now as they began to sneak up on her from behind that she could be bothered to truly remark upon it. When she, exhausted after a day spent in apathetic inactivity and mourning, had lay her fair head down on the improvised bed she had crafted to sleep there had been twenty two of them, now two new ones had joined their ranks. A young man, twenty five perhaps, and an even younger woman. And their unborn child whose mind lacked any cogency and sense three months old as it was.

They where an interesting couple Geneviève had to concede. He was a UN officer, some idealistic fool who hoped to make a difference, who had fallen in love with a local woman. Her pregnancy had ruined both their lives. He had lost his job and out of some misguided sense of duty had chosen to move to Newfoundland since his lover could not leave. Now a promising career was at an end and a life in Hell on Earth awaited.

Her situation was not much better. Her family, friends and community all despised outsiders in general and the UN in specific, a relatively common phenomena among the Newfoundlanders who, unsurprisingly, had not considered the Canadian government's idea to make Newfoundland a prison all that bright. As all humans they had used their own misfortune to justify cruelty towards others. The poor girl, having had the audacity to fall in love with a UN officer, was an easy target so now she was banished.

So now the pair had become the twenty third, twenty fourth and possibly twenty fourth and a half, individual forming Geneviève's timid entourage. Now with the other twenty two they slowly snuck up upon her, careful not to be too invasive. Geneviève sighed, reading their minds and anticipating their request.

She had never asked to become some sort of prophet for the misfits. After she had done the unforgivable to poor Danny she had resolved to spend the remainder of her life in L'Anse aux Meadows in total seclusion from the rest of the world to mourn her tragedy and tend to the needs of Danny. But the chaos of Newfoundland could not be contained. War and strife across the island had created large groups of itinerant refugees longing for a safe haven. And eventually some of them learned of the beautiful young woman of great power and her simpleminded compatriot at the very tip of the northern peninsula where there was peace. So they gathered. The outcasts and misfits who was not heroes nor villains just ordinary fearful people out of options. And Geneviève did not have it in her heart to deny them.

Putting aside her weathered book Geneviève rose from her seating position. Her limbs ached a little after sitting on the hard ground for so long, Danny had been out bathing since sunrise, apparently undeterred by the cold autumn water. She turned around looking at her band of misfits. They where timid and fearful, most knew, or thought they knew, how Danny, once a man of some power on Newfoundland, had become what he was, and the cold dead eyes of the extraordinarily beautiful, but dirty and unkempt, young woman in the ragged clothes that looked to have once been expensive did not seem to indicate any quarrels with driving people insane.

Yet a middle aged woman, Constance, who looked older than her forty five, courtesy of a harsh life both before and especially after Newfoundland became Hell, slowly and cautiously stepped towards Geneviève; fearless. Geneviève observed the woman with indifference. Using passive telepathy she knew the request before it came. "We are out of food." Constance spoke quietly. The supplication, however humble it seemed, was not quite begging. Somehow Constance always seemed humble but never begging. The woman had a certain dignity to her and of all the minds Geneviève had touched throughout her life this was the one that showed the least selfishness. That was why she did not indifferently dismiss the request. "I will deal with it." Geneviève sighed, her voice coarse and guttural after several day's disuse.

Not expecting anything more the group slowly, almost reverently withdrew from their laconic protector leaving her to her own devices, confident in her ability to feed and protect them. Geneviève herself did not share their confidence. Food she could procure but for all her power she had been powerless to prevent those for whom she had cared the most from harm.

Scarcely had her group of exiles withdrawn before Danny emerged from the ocean, his body shivering with cold. Robbed as he was of reason and sense his enduring telepathic powers seemed to have made him acutely aware of the moods of his mistress. As he came out of the sea Geneviève noticed with pleasure that he seemed to be gaining in weight. He remained scrawny though. He had been that when she found him and after she committed her abominable crime towards him he had lost at least five kilo's. Geneviève could not restore to him his mind but she could at least feed him.

Danny rushed towards Geneviève approaching her in much the same way as a loyal dog would approach a loved master. He even made sounds of joy not altogether different from those with which an pet might greet an owner. Geneviève smiled gently padding Danny on his head as he began hollering something that bore a faint resemblance to the word "Ginny" over and over.

It had been five weeks since Geneviève arrived at Newfoundland, devastated after learning of the grim fate that had befallen her siblings. Maddened by grief she had sought out Daniel Jansen, a telepath that had been forced to rat her out to the authorities, thus unwittingly prompting the torture of Guillaume and Alexandrine. He had sensed her coming and had fled north. But Newfoundland was only so large and Geneviève had followed him, senselessly craving vengeance. At L'Anse aux Meadows she had finally caught him. She vaguely recalled that he had desperately begged mercy before being forced to fight against her in a battle of the minds the outcome of which had been a given.

She remembered nothing more. And was grateful for it. What she had done was without a doubt one of the cruelest acts ever committed by one person to another. Geneviève could not with all her intellectual prowess articulate how horrible an assault on the psyche of a person of the magnitude which she had used was. Whatever other suffering man might inflict on one another in the mind anyone could safe. But not from her. The one safe haven Danny had possessed she had invaded. And mutilated. Gently Geneviève caressed Danny's arm seeing her sadness reflected in the innocent eyes of her dimwitted companion. "I am sorry." She whispered.

Danny did not seem to understand. Geneviève had sealed of all memories he may have retained of the horror she had inflicted on him, banishing them to a dark corner of his crippled mind, to ease his pain. She had numbed his senses to the agony of the aftereffects of her onslaught. She had done anything she could to heal and mend what was forever destroyed. She had failed.

As she had failed her siblings. But Geneviève had decided that she would never fail again. The worries of the world she would extinguish and the errors of the human mind she would purge and bring humanity once again into Paradise.

[Norvenia]

October 1, 2027
Trans-Canadian Highway
Arnold's Cove, Isthmus of Avalon
Newfoundland Pacification Zone

He walked. That always surprised people, once they recognized him. Eli wasn't particularly sure what they were expecting - a motorcycle? A truck? A shining white stallion? But it wasn't what they saw: a big man, his athletic frame largely hidden beneath a long, battered coat of heavy brown leather, trudging down the highway with an old olive-green Canadian Forces rucksack slung on his broad back. His sturdy leather boots, now worn down at the heels, made dull scraping sounds on the asphalt, and the cold air rasped in his throat as he breathed. The sky was vast overhead, blue and clear, and off to the side of the highway the pine trees swayed gently in a brisk wind. Eli felt the gentle burn of the twentieth mile of walking in his hamstrings, the soreness of the pack-straps where they dug into his shoulders, the slight swelling of his feet within the boots. It was a good kind of discomfort. The air was fresh, the sky open. Eli felt strong and confident, and the world seemed simple and good. A part of him wanted to sing, but there was no one to hear; so he simply shrugged his pack higher onto his shoulders and chuckled softly to himself as he walked on. Ahead, the highway rose in a slight hill, and Eli leaned forward as he tramped up to the crest.

And there he stopped. For on the other side of the hill, near the old exit for the village of Arnold's Cove, a half-dozen pickup trucks had drawn up in a circle around one of those vastly tall streetlights that lined this section of the highway. A crowd of people were milling about. And Eli could hear the distant sounds of screams. The soldier felt a brief tightness in his gut, and he ran lightly down the hill to investigate.

The crowd was small, perhaps a hundred people, and they all had that pinched, fearful, angry, sullen look that so many on Newfoundland wore these days: the look of people who repaired their own clothes, who lived on U.N. food vouchers, who stayed indoors with the lights off so as not to be spotted by those with the power and desire to do them harm. Eli pitied them; people ought not to have to live thus. He felt the old urge to protect, to defend, to use his skills and powers for good. This thing has happened to me for a reason. I have to justify my own existence. I have to make it mean something. But as he looked at those narrow faces, so full of simmering anger and spiteful bitterness, Eli felt a kind of contempt, too. Why do they consent to live like this? Why do they just duck their heads, hide in the shadows, and let their shame eat them alive from the inside out? How can they meekly agree to be so damn weak?

"Listen up!" shouted a voice from the center of the crowd. Eli walked his way forward, gently moving people out of the way, until he could see what was going on. At the center of the crowd, at the base of the streetlight, stood a big man in worn fisherman's overalls and a bushy grey beard. A half-dozen other large men similarly attired surrounded him. All carried battered shotguns or hunting rifles. On his knees at the center of this posse was a boy of perhaps sixteen, dressed in filthy jeans and a tattered sweatshirt, his hands bound behind him with fishing twine. A rope of the same material had been flung over the top of the streetlight, some twenty feet above. One of the big men held one end of the rope; the other was tied into a noose, and hung just above the boy's head.

Eli cast one glance over the scene, and felt a weight settle into the pit of his stomach. Quietly, he reached beneath his coat, and laid one hand on the butt of each of his HK45s. He took another step forward, closer to the center of the crowd.

"Listen up!" shouted the grey-bearded fisherman again. "Ye all know why we're here. This lad broke into Mick Landsey's house, robbed his home, raped his daughter - "

At this the boy on the ground looked up desperately. "Non, monsieur, pas moi, je n'ai pas - "

The older fisherman kicked him hard in the ribs, and the kid was actually lifted off the ground a moment by the force of the blow before he crumpled to the asphalt. Eli's jaw slowly clenched and unclenched. "Shut up!" roared the fisherman at the boy; then he turned back to the crowd. "This bastard raped Celia, and when Mick came to help his own kin, the little fucker killed him!"

"I didn't," gasped the boy, "c'n'etait pas - s'il vous plait - " He reached out a hand toward a teenage girl in the crowd, bruises covering her face. "Tell them!" The girl abruptly put her hands to her face, shoulders heaving silently, and turned away.

"So!" cried the old fisherman. "Ye all know what we have'ta do. The boy came into our village, just like all his kind, and tried to take what he wanted because he could - because he could wave his hands, and make the air obey." The man crouched down beside the boy. "Not so easy to wave your hands now, is it, lad?"

The boy simply dropped his head to the asphalt. "Rien plus," he whispered. "Je suis fini."

The old fisherman straightened. "Right, then," he growled. "This is for Micky." One of the posse dragged the boy to his knees; another looped the noose around his neck and pulled it taut. The kid's face was twisted with fear, pale and blotchy, his nose running uncontrollably. Two other men took hold of the opposite end of the rope, looped it around their hands, and braced their feet to pull. The cord suddenly went taut, dragging the boy onto his feet, then to the tips of his toes -

And then there was the deafening crack of a gunshot, and the rope two feet above the boy's head was suddenly cut, leaving only frayed ends. The super collapsed to the ground, gasping and twisting like a beached fish, and the armed fishermen whirled around, raising their weapons to aim at the tall man with short blond hair, dressed in a long brown leather coat, who stood with smoking pistol in hand where the crowd had parted from around him like the Red Sea.

Slowly, the old fisherman stepped forward. "I don't know who you think you are, stranger, but this is our place. Nobody to look after it but us. This lad killed one of ours. This is justice."

"This is murder," Elias Stone replied simply, his flat Saskatchewan accent sounding harsh by contrast to the fishermen's brogue. "What did the boy steal?"

"Does it matter?" growled the older man. "He's a thief, a rapist, and a murderer. He'll swing." The fisherman took another step forward, as if daring Eli to contradict him.

The soldier stood his ground, pistols held loosely at his sides, one in each gloved hand. His voice was soft, but firm. "What did the boy steal?"

There was a long pause, and then a female voice spoke from the edge of the crowd. "A ham." There was a rustle as everyone turned to stare at the girl with the bruised face, and the crowd pulled away from her too, so that she was left standing alone. The girl cast a frightened glance around, then swallowed hard. "A ham," she repeated, "and some bread, and a few bottles of beer."

Eli cast a brief glance at the boy, who still lay on the ground shaking like a leaf. He looked like he hadn't had a solid meal in weeks. The soldier turned his gaze back on the older fisherman, who met Eli's dark blue-grey eyes with a defiant glare. It was the soldier who looked away first, turning to the girl with the bruised face. Eli's voice was gentle, still soft. "Are you - ah - Celia, miss?"

Silently, the girl nodded. Eli smiled slightly. "Good." He knelt in front of her. "Can you tell us all what really happened between you and this boy?"

Celia looked wildly from Eli to the prisoner and back. "I - he - " Her gaze flitted to the old fisherman, and she took and unconscious step back. "He - "

Eli reached out and caught the girl's hands. His gaze rested upon her face, quietly intense. "Celia, look at me. At me, Celia." The girl hesitated, and then met Eli's eyes. "Good," said the soldier softly. "Celia, have you ever killed anyone?" The girl shook her head, and Eli nodded. "And do you ever want to kill anyone?" Another shake of the head, more emphatic this time. "That's good," Eli said quietly. "That's wise. But Celia, if you let this boy be killed because you stayed silent, you will be killing someone." The girl's eyes, panicky, started to drift toward the old fisherman again, but Eli squeezed her hands. "Celia. It's all right. Look at me. You do what's right. You don't want to carry the burden of this boy's blood. Just do what's right."

From out of her bruised face, Celia's pale green eyes met Eli's, and she seemed for just a moment to relax, all of the fear flowing out of her taut muscles and dry mouth. She nodded. "It was Mick," she said quietly. "Mick, my stepdad, he came up into my bedroom that night to - you know. And when I wouldn't, he hit me." The tears started to flow now, down over the swollen purple cheeks. "So I ran away, down the stairs. And in the kitchen, he was there." Celia pointed at the French-speaking boy. "Taking food from the cupboard." Celia let out a deep breath. "Mick grabbed a shotgun and ran at him," she said simply. "And then he waved his hand, and Mick flew across the room, and hit the fireplace, and died. I screamed and screamed, and he took his food and ran away. And then a little later Burt arrived, and I told him about the robbery, and he said that the thief had raped me too. And I just cried." Celia raised her head to stare at the grey-bearded fisherman. "But I'm not crying now!" she shouted. "I don't care if he was your brother! It was him that hurt me, not that boy. He just stole some food, that's all. He shouldn't die, not for that."

Eli smiled quietly, and squeezed Celia's hands, and mouthed the words "thank you." And then he stood and turned as the grey-bearded fisherman, Burt, stalked up to him.

"Well," spat the older man. "You must be right pleased with yourself, eh? You come in here, tell us our justice is murder, frighten a poor girl who's been through hell, and then expect us to thank you for it?" He glared around at the crowd, clearly expecting a shout of support. But the villagers were silent, their hungry faces cold. Eli could see the fear start to build in the corners of the fisherman's eyes - but Burt still spun around, his hard hands tight on his shotgun. "I'm going to give you one chance, stranger," snarled the older man. "Leave. Now. This isn't your business."

"You're making a mistake," Eli said quietly. But he didn't move.

"No," spat Burt. He jerked his head, and a half-dozen rifles and shotguns were suddenly aimed at Eli's chest. Burt stepped back, raising his own weapon. "You are."

What happened next took less than a second. Eli knew, because he could hear the ticking of his watch. He closed his eyes for a split second, just a blink, and focused. And when Eli opened his eyes again, the world was very different. The colors were brighter; he could see a single pine needle fall from a tree a hundred yards away, and each stitch of the villagers' clothing stood out in brilliant detail. The air carried countless scents: sweat, and tar, and pine sap, and cordite, and smoke, and sea salt. He could hear the rasp as Burt just began to take a breath, the impossibly slow thump...thump of everyone's hearts except for Eli's own. And he could hear the first, solemn click of his wristwatch in the still air.

Eli simply raised both pistols, one in each hand, and fired each gun three times. To him, it wasn't particularly rapid fire; he paused to re-aim between each shot, to get his sight picture lined back up. He didn't fire simultaneously; he alternated guns, switching his focus between pistols with each shot. When he was done, Eli lowered his guns back to his sides. He heard his watch click a second time, and blinked again, and opened his eyes.

The continuous machine-gun-like roar of six shots fired in less than a second was still echoing across the highway as the bodies of Burt's half-dozen enforcers dropped to the ground, each with a hole drilled through the center of their foreheads and the backs of their skulls blown out across the highway. They hit the asphalt with a clatter of weapons still clutched in nerveless hands. The old fisherman took one glance around him, and there was a seventh clatter as his own shotgun dropped to the ground. With the last lingering aftereffects of his one-second burst of hyperdrenaline, Eli could smell the rank stench of urine. Burt stared around at the silent crowd, his panicked breathing loud in the still air, and then he spun and fled.

There was dead silence still as Eli walked over to the boy, holstering his pistols back beneath his coat. The soldier drew a knife and cut the cord binding the boy's wrists, then helped the lad get the noose off his neck. Eli pulled the boy to his feet. "Allez," he commanded quietly, handing the kid a few ration bars. "Ne retournerez ici jamais. Vous serez en plus securité à Corner Brook." Eli clapped the boy lightly on the shoulder. "Bonne chance."

There was a long pause, and then Eli turned back to face the crowd. "I am not your enemy," he cried. "I know that these men whom I have killed were your friends and family. I am sorry - truly sorry - that they are dead. I killed them to save my own life, and to save the life of this boy. I killed them so that the innocent might survive." Eli stared around in the crowd, his gaze moving from one pinched, bitter face to the next, and an overwhelming sense of futility settled upon him like a heavy stone. "I'm sorry," he repeated, more quietly. The soldier opened his mouth, as if to say something more, then closed it again and turned away. The crowd shied away from him as if to escape a poison, and Eli realized that it had been years since he had last been touched.

Then, suddenly, there was the light pressure of a hand on Eli's arm. Celia's soft green eyes stared up at him. "Thank you," she said quietly.

Eli opened his mouth, and found that he couldn't speak. He swallowed hard, and felt some vast pain seize his heart. He gently laid his hand on top of Celia's. "Thank you," he replied hoarsely.

The girl smiled, and let her hand drop. And then Eli turned back to the highway, and walked alone for many a mile before night fell at last.

[Constaniana]

October 2nd, 2017
St. John's, Newfoundland


The morning was cool and crisp, as you might expect at this time of year. An ordinary-looking old man sat on a bench in the park, quietly looking up at the memorial. While Charles Gordon hadn't fought in the particular war it had been erected in honour of (Something he didn't mind, as the Great War had sounded like it was mainly suffering and sitting around in trenches waiting to be shot at or killed by diseases put in the food and water by rat droppings) it gave him solace sitting in the presence of such a thing. The memorial was only a few months older than the Glaswegian, so he felt a sense of camaraderie, almost. He looked at the old, plain watch held on his wrist by worn, simple leather. It was five minutes until eight o'clock, and the restaurant he ate breakfast at on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays was going to open in a minute or two. He liked the owner of the restaurant, a fellow Scot named Annie Douglas, from Anstruther in Fife. The fact that she too was an old superhuman helped. Her power wasn't something flashy like shooting lightning or levitating elephants, but turning inanimate objects like rocks or snow into things like raw bacon, potatoes or fish meat.

Charles stood up and began walking in the direction of Annie's Kitchen, as the restaurant was plainly named, quietly shuffling through the streets with his cane. He thought he heard the sounds of struggle in a nearby alleyway, and he increased the urgency and pace of his walking as best he could. Admittedly this wasn't a very noticeable increase, but at least Charles was trying. When he came to the alley where the fight he had heard was happening he spotted three thugs cornering a young man. He must have been working the night shift somewhere, as he seemed noticeably tired. His prospective robbers seemed to have an interesting range of powers. One had hedgehog-like spines growing from his back and shoulders, another had a mass of rocks covering his arms like rough gauntlets, and another had an aura of electricity around him. But the Glacier of Garscadden hadn't cared what superpowers the thug that had tried mugging him on October 14th, 2017 wielded, or what abilities Jesse Crackerjack possessed when he threatened to shoot his sons. He hadn't even cared what their names were. They had gotten thrashed all the same.

"Piss off, you feckin' wee chav parasites," He spat, before swinging his cane at the three of them, knocking them all unconscious. The ordinary young man stood there with his mouth open as he tried to articulate thanks for his grumpy saviour. But Charles didn't need to wait around for them. He had his medals back at his house in Glasgow as enough thanks for his service. The Old Juggernaut began walking out of the alley and going back on his way to Annie's Kitchen.

[Caecuser]

October 2^nd 2027
St Johns, Newfoundland
Deck Safehouse, Scott Street

---

It was a nondescript building for a secret hideout which is of course what made it a perfect location - blending in amongst all of the other pale-blue painted houses in a neat and uniform street that was merely one of many in the local area. It still retained a sense of normalcy from the time before but even here evidence lay of the chaos and conflict that elements of superhumanity had brought with them on their exile here. The gutted skeleton of a blackened car remaining where it was last packed, shattered window panes and the occasional bullet-hole but all things considered this was a fairly tame neighborhood.

The specific building in question though was both halves of a two-story, semi-detached pair of houses; the common wall knocked out between them and the spaces expanded to provide more room for the small group of "mercenaries" that the King of Diamonds had procured. Behind the peeling painted-walls and boarded up windows lay a small hub of electronic devices and thick wires bundled together weaving complicated patterns up and down the walls and floors. Threading their way between stacks of servers and the omnipresent whirring of cooling fans there were a couple of techies that had been picked up recently and were now in charge of maintaining the King's vast array of processors and databanks. It had been one of the first actions since arriving on the Newfoundland to try and gather as many pieces of hardware as possible, adding to his store like a greedy hoarder taking for the sake of taking - that wasn't all though, it was quite useful when it came to performing searches for information and storing all of the paper-based information that had been gathered about super's by the King.

Below all this though through one basement which served as a reception desk and waiting area was the second basement of the Hideout which was where he lay, pouring over books and faded newspapers. Jacob after remaining still for a long period of time finally relented and tossed the used book over his shoulder to join a swiftly accumulating pile, taking a look around at what doubled as an office and a bunker. The walls were plain bricks but barely visible by the stacks of books and reading material, a whole wall dedicated to a line of cabinets holding files and folders on nearly every resident and inmate that Jacob was aware of on the Newfoundland since his incarceration; some were nearly empty while others were nearly overflowing with data.

As though realizing the shoddy conditions he was dwelling in he gave an explosive sigh, resting his chin on an arm balanced on the table edge and remarked, "God help me, what a mess."

Directly behind the improvised dining table serving as a desk was a large wooden carving that he'd snatched up fashioned quite brilliantly into a circular dragon motif, devouring its own tail in a way clearly inspired from Ouroboros. It was one of the few items he had on him now that he counted as a favored personal item - that and the enormous safe it was balanced on which contained all the wealth he'd brought with him and scrounged up during his time.

Due to many of the superhumans banished to the Newfoundland winding up in Corner Brook and the local civilian population at St Johns not taking too kindly to any superhumans wandering this way he figured that it must be St Johns that had to be the site of his base of operations, partially for the risk and also because it would be where he was least expected to hide at. The two techies upstairs the half-dozen armed thugs he'd placed within the Safehouse and nearby were all local civilians without any abilities of their own and all choosing to side with him of their own free will - with a couple of subconscious commands placed in but only in last-resort situations.

And here came one of them now... a faint knock sounded on the thick, reinforced door leading into the cramped room he sat in; "Hey Boss, Archer needs to see you."

Leaning back in his soft, reclining chair and ever so slightly adjusting his suit Jacob waited a moment before responding. "Fine, send him in," his eyes drifting over to the piles of books he'd left unsorted with a tinge of regret.

Archer was one of the grunts serving him, the smartest of them perhaps and an intimidating man who in a past life had been a lumberjack. He had to bow slightly in order to clear the doorway before stretching back to his full height, he wore thick civilian clothing unadorned and undecorated, nothing suspicious at all about him apart from his imposing size. Jacob waited expectantly before finally clearing his throat and inquiring; "Yes?"

"Ah Boss, I've been sweeping the streets and the local word is that Grey Matter's been done in. People are saying it's that Knave guy," Archer explained in his typical booming voice - loud and obnoxious but still respectful somehow.

Jacob blinked once and sat there for the longest moment before angrily flicking his fingers dismissively - a signal that Archer gratefully took as a queue to leave and bowed out again. Thinking hard and furiously Jacob was quick to realize that an emotional outburst would be pointless and futile, instead his thoughts turned cold and his pressed lips turned into an ugly frown. This Knave character - murdering Villains indiscriminately - he was a downright annoyance, Grey Matter had been a close contact once and Jacob had hoped he would have been again.

Rising to his feet, he focused a small portion of his "energy" into changing to an intangible state - rising silently and Ghost-like until his head phased through the ceiling to emerge from the floor above. It was an unpleasant feeling, an odd compression but eventually he cleared it fully coming up to an empty room with stacks of compact discs and cases. He reactivated his ability until he cleared through the external wall to land outside - becoming solidified and dropping a few inches to the ground. Now outside he was able to feel the crisp, cool breeze tenderly sweep the beading sweat from his skin. The sun was bright in his eyes but he paid it no attention, walking forwards alone with his palms balled into fists. There's something about him - this Knave of Blades - something I'm just not sure on.

Alone with his bottled thoughts, Jacob stalked the streets.

After several minutes and much intense brooding and deliberating over what could be so damned familiar about this Vigilante his thoughts were interrupted when he didn't notice the stout, elderly man emerging from an alley and nearly collided straight into him. "Sorry," he said, almost reflexively as the words were out of his mouth before he'd even realized what had happened.

[Rupudska]

October 2nd 2027
St. Johns, Newfoundland

"Aw, fuck all kinds of duck!"

Now, in a number of situations, that kind of foul language was not the sort that would [or should] come out of the mouth of one Ruby Hyeon, 15-year-old superpowered Korean Londoner, who was forcibly removed from her family at a young age, then forcibly removed from London altogether for Newfoundland.

That number is zero.

And in situations that involve stubbing her toe against the kerb, that number is negative one. She hopped about angrily on one foot, gripping the injured one in both hands as she miraculously avoided introducing her ass to the cold October morning sidewalk.

"Ow, fuck, fucking, bloody, pissing, fuck!"

A continuous stream of curses poured from the Korean's face in her south London accent. At least she wasn't Cockney, then nobody would be able to understand her. Even she didn't understand Cockneys, uncultured gits the lot of them. She thought they were from space. Certainly not England, and obviously not Korea.

She let go of her foot, the pain finally subsiding a bit. She was near the shore. And in October, that meant the sound of waves, the smell of the sea, the statue of the Great War, old men shouting at thugs...

Wait, what?

She scaled a lamppost by pushing her kinetic energy upwards along the pole, then jumped across the street to one of the buildings forming the alley the old man was now in.

Well this is going to be bloody interesting... wish I had bought popcorn... pity that Anne lady doesn't serve any...

She looked down at the people the old man was about to assail and tried, and promptly failed, to stifle a laugh.

"Look at these bloody retards... barmy cunts, the lot of 'em... hehehe..."

She leaned over the edge to look down at them upon the conclusion of the fight, grinning like a maniac.

"Oi you! How bladdered were you when you came up with that stupid getup? I've seen better taste in fashion from the colorblind!"

She then jumped down, still cackling, and landed squarely on the back of the one that had been crackling electricity. She thought she heard a rib crack, which just made her smile more. Weak little shit, isn't he?

Ruby continued out the alley and along the sidewalk, passing the old man and the young guy who ran into him without much thought besides rolling her eyes at them both.

"That guy's probably rich, only explanation for running into an old man on half-emtpy pavement," she muttered under her breath. They could probably have heard her if they noticed her lips moving.

[Konariona]

Corner Brook Countryside, Newfoundland
October First, 2027

Jericko smiled as he looked out of the window down upon the sea, contemplating his existence as he often did on days like these. Sunny, but cold, a few clouds in the sky, sheep bleating in the distance and a general sense of contempt for humanity. A chuckle escaped his lips as he stared out the window, looking out at the sea and then he turned and walked to the other room, where his armor laid. He had said it was an item of his heritage when the UN inspectors had tried to take it, even though he had no idea who's armor and axe it was truly. It was a fine piece, though, multi-layered and faceted, ornate. Indescribably beautiful.
Fury stepped over to his ancient suit, smiling as he traced it’s inlaid lines. It was truly a great protector of his life- he wore a bulletproof vest under it, just in case, even though he’d figured out by now that he was resistant to them- and the axe was a wonderful taker of it. It too had complex lines and two sharp heads that were extremely durable. The two pieces must have been made for someone of great strength, and so they suited him well, for he also had been bestowed with inhuman strength and speed.


It was a nice night out and there was nothing to do that Jericko had not already done in his cabin, so he decided to head to the town of Corner Brook. It was generally a place that he felt accepted in; while he didn’t know many people there, it was a town made up primarily of supers, his own race. While all superhumans had different powers, they were a single race as far as Fury was concerned, and there was a bond between each and every one of them that the human race did not share in any way, shape or form. This was largely why they were inferior to supes, in his opinion.

As Fury approached the town, he ran, first slowly and then quickly, and acrobatically jumped up to reach a second-story windowsill of a building, which he used to pull himself up onto the roof. In the distance, gunshots could be heard, and so Fury approached cautiously. He leaped off of the roof, landed and rolled with a small grunt, and walked quickly towards the commotion. As he got a little closer, he heard the chopping of helicopter blades, and so he turned and crouched, sitting into the shadows and watching intrigued as other events occured.


While he continued to watch the battle between what was probably the Attica Gang (judging from their masks) and an ill-equipped UN force. The problem with a place like Corner Brook was the same one as the United States war on "terror". Kill all the supers that you even think might be insurgents, and you risk inflaming the rest of the populace who otherwise would've remained complacent. Kill only those that directly attack you and you're going to miss an awful lot of things. As it went, this battle didn't go well for the UN forces; they were slaughtered or disabled to a man. He was interested in one of them- an obviously combat-competent female that quite quietly had changed the tide of the skirmish in favor of the supers. And so, against his better judgement, Ardson slipped into the joyous ranks of the Atticans and followed them to their hangout, where he waited a moment before opening the door and entering.

The room was loud and the ruckus was absurd, but those weren't things that mattered to him. Suddenly, however, it went really quiet, and a few men walked up to him, evidently gang supers, clad in red masks and looking like they wanted a fight.
"You a super?" one of the thugs asked him, balling his fists up, and Fury responded quickly.
"I wouldn't walk in here if I wasn't."

"Prove it," said another one, arrogantly.

Fury smiled and pulled a match out of his jacket, lighting a small fire that burned for a moment and then swirled up into the air, forming a small set of jaws that chomped down on the air and then poofed out of existence- or at least, seemingly.

He opened his palm, and there the flame was.

"Nice. That's not bad. Your name is..?" the first one asked again.

"Fury. You can call me Fury."
He was handed a mask, and that was that.

[Constaniana]

"You'd better be. Back in my day I would have been hit with a ruler or slipper for bumping into a respectable elder!" Charles snapped. It wasn't out of particular malice to the stranger; he was just grumpy when he was late for his proper Scottish breakfast. Well more grumpy than usual. A quick glance at his watch revealed it was 0800 already. Annie had grown accustomed to seeing him in her restaurant sharp on the hour three days a week, a habit Charles hated breaking. In his experience when someone was late it meant the convoy or patrol they were in had either been wiped out by Fritzes, or was currently in the process of being shot at by the Fritzes and their Eyetie mates. He didn't hear Ruby talking, as his hearing wasn't what it used to be. Of course, it was still good enough to hear chavs and their ilk, especially the cheeky ones that would say he needed to check his privilege or how he was intolerant and prejudiced or some rubbish like that, at which point the Old Juggernaut would check his privilege to get intolerant and prejudiced on the sorry arses of any punk twats that gave him that bollocks without having fought in a war.

[Rupudska]

The two had apparently not heard her. Oh well. Ruby shrugged it off, and pulled out her trusted MP3. It wasn't new, it wasn't big, but honestly, she doubted she'd ever need to get through all 50 gigabytes of music currently on it. And it was only half-full!

Don't see why I'd need anything bigger, anyway...

She checked the time on the device as she plugged in her earbuds. 8:00 AM.

"Aw, piss. Annie's just opened, and now there's gonna be a line, I'm sure of it. Bet a bunch of muggles with hard-ons for super oppression will be swarming the place as usual..."

Sighing, Ruby cranked up the volume.

"Born to raise Hell, born to raise Hell..."

[The First Equestrian Empire]

October 2nd 2027
L'Anse aux Meadows, Newfoundland
Early Morning

Unbeknownst to the telepath, there was in fact a twenty-sixth visitor to the beach on that day, one who knew just as well as she did that Humanity was flawed in its belief that freedom was an intrinsic good. He grinned when he saw the book in her hand, “Paradise Lost,” knowing that she might just be the best candidate for his plan. He wore a black leather jacket over his dark hoodie, which he kept pulled up and over his face to prevent easy identification of his features. His dark jeans were comfortable to him, and so he had managed to steal several of the same brand and take them with him when he had willingly entered this hellish dystopia that they had stuffed anyone who wasn’t a filthy human. His sneakers were worn, though they were not falling apart, and he gave off the general feel of someone used to living rough.

In fact, he had been living on the streets for nearly four years now, and had grown largely disgusted with the human race as a result. He had educated himself largely through his local library—he was an avid reader—until the day he had learned of Newfoundland and willingly turned himself in to enact his plan. He had tracked down the many leads he had gotten on the more powerful supers in the small region, and this woman’s ability had particularly piqued his interest.

Abel watched silently from within the crowd, knowing that he was invisible to the telepath no matter how strong her abilities. He had discovered this ability of his some time ago, when he had been on the run from a telepath that the U.N. had hired to track him down that had been unable to sense him even when he was close enough that the young man could see the shine on his cheap dress shoes.

This was the leader of the “Peninsula Refugees” he had heard about, the one who had managed to gather what he counted to be close to twenty-five refugees to her banner. That kind of natural leadership was what he needed, the interpersonal skills that he lacked, she could provide. With the telepath at his side, his dream of uniting the Homo Ultimum could possibly become a reality. He watched as the older woman told her that they had no food left, and she responded that she would find a solution.

He stayed behind as the crowd left, allowing it to part around him as if he were a boulder, and remained silent as the simpleton ran out of the sea and began shouting incoherently. He smiled as she patted him kindly, knowing that she had something that was beyond his own grasp, and reveling in that fact. She was almost perfect, a shining example of what Homo Ultimum could be if they only tried to be so. And all it would take was some smooth talking, and she would join his cause.

At least, he hoped so.

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven,” Abel quoted as he started forward, long after the last of her refugees had vanished from the beach. He knew that his sudden speech would prove to be surprising to her, given that neither she nor her friend could sense him, so he opted to go slowly. He smiled when she turned to look at him, raising both of his hands to prove that he was no threat to her. “Paradise Lost, right? Excellent book. A bit slow for my tastes, but excellent book nonetheless,” he continued as he nodded towards the book in her hand. He slowly brought his hands down and placed them behind his back as he turned slightly away from her and began walking towards the tide, looking out over the horizon.

“You see it too, right?” he questioned as he looked towards the cold northern sea, his eyes far distant from the horizon. “The desolation, the utter destruction that the plague of humanity has wrought on this earth? You want to change it, but you’re not strong enough to do it alone. None of us are, no matter what powers we gained on that day. You know it, I know it, and I suspect that if the boy next to you were capable of higher thought, he would agree.” The young man knew he had grabbed her attention with that first line, if not for the sheer virtue of quoting the book then definitely for the fact that she could not even sense his presence. It was not an easy thing that he was about to try to convince her of, and he had attempted to make sure that she would at least be listening by the time that he proposed it.

He turned to face her and said carefully, “What if I were to suggest that it was our position—the superhumans, that is—to fix this erroneous flaw in the great design? What if I were to dare think that the reason that so many of us turned to crime or vigilantism was not because of the hubris that our powers brought us, but because of the flawed nature of the humans that dared to suggest that we were the greatest threat to this world? Certainly, we superhumans have our flaws as well, however the power is ours to put an end to the corruption that consumes the planet.”

Abel reached into his pocket and pulled out an American quarter, holding it up to his eye level as if he were scrutinizing it. “Why are we made to grovel in the dirt, scrounging for the bare minimum because of the sins of a few?” he asked with a scowl as a light blue spark ran along the edge of the coin, and the distinct smell of ozone began to fill the air.

“That woman could not even get enough to eat, and we are expected to accept that as the order of the day? No, I say that is wrong,” he growled as he turned and pointed his coin out at the ocean, aiming down his arm as if it were a gun. “Those unsavory elements that demand we sacrifice ourselves for the ‘good of the many’ are naught but fools who would see all the world fall. We are the next evolution of humanity—their last hope to save the world from itself, from the freedoms that have doomed us all. What say you?”

At this, he fired his coin out into the Atlantic at 1,030 m/s, ripping ocean water up on both sides of the projectile for fifty meters out and sending up a spray of ocean water that rained down on all of them as the sonic boom echoed over the beach. Abel looked back to her and smiled, offering one hand out to her before asking, “Are you willing to help me? Will you lend me your power, so that we may bring paradise to this world?”

[Anarakdos]

Giles downed his fifth piss-poor beer and grimaced. It seemed like this pain was more than could be washed away by alcohol. The bar was named Bennie's and in terms of consumables it was utterly worthless. It was considered a feat of great prowess do be able to down more than two of the slimy, freezing sausages that were standard fare there in one sitting. But as terrible as the refreshments were, it was fairly well-known in the north as one of the best places to hear any kind of rumors. No matter what you wanted to know, from which superhuman cult was making news at the moment to what exactly Mr. Tam did with his cow on Sunday nights, Bennie's was the place to find out.

And so Giles found himself sitting on a cold stool, listening to the, for the most part worthless, local gossip. A few people talking about some case of adultery, of course; a few ladies mocking the town drunk; a lot of talk about the local harvest, but nothing that was of much value to Giles. Then a man walked in that he had never seen before. The man had a buzz cut and wore dark clothes. He marched in a manner that made it clear he had had some kind of military training.

As he entered, all eyes turned to him. A short, charismatic man who Giles identified as the de facto leader of the town rose and addressed the newcomer: "Nikolai, it's good to see that you've returned safely." Nikolai, as he was apparently called, remained grim as he answered: "You may wish I hadn't returned, once you hear the news I bear. The mask in the north is growing stronger. Already her colony has twenty-four members, not including her half-witted companion."

The leader seemed unconcerned, chuckling as he responded: "Nikolai, Nikolai, you were always to cautious for your own good. Twenty-four normal humans? At least twice that number populate our town, and many would come to assist if she became aggressive." "And you were always too confident, Alex. I've told you repeatedly how great her powers are, and yet you refuse to listen! Her entourage does not worry me currently, but more are flocking to her banner. What do we do when she begins recruiting masks, eh?"

At this point Giles could control himself no longer. He swiveled around on his stool and interrupted: "Maybe you cannot face this threat, but perhaps I could? I would gladly offer my services for a greater cause." "And what makes you so impressive?" sneered Nikolai, staring disdainfully at Giles' lanky build. "Have you ever heard mention of a hero by the name of Stovepipe? I am he.", Giles returned. The expression on Nikolai's face shifted from disdain to shock. He raised his pistol to Giles' head and snarled: "Get. Out. I'll give you one warning. We don't like your kind around here. I've heard that you've been a so-called hero in the past, so I'm giving you the chance to leave, mask. If you don't take it, I will kill you without hesitation."

Giles gazed around at the patrons of the bar. A scant few minutes ago, they had been so joyous, completely ambivalent to his presence. Now they stared at him with hatred and fear. He wished he could tell them that he was the same, but somewhere deep down in his soul he knew that wasn't true. Besides, he didn't feel like getting shot. Raising his hands in the air, he backed slowly out of the bar and started trudging down the path to his workshop.

As he reached the workshop, he was filled with a new sense of purpose. On the way back, he had had an epiphany. Just because he couldn't work with the townspeople didn't mean he couldn't help them. He was going to take the fight to the mad psychic. But he wasn't stupid. He wasn't going unprepared. It was time to start inventing.

[Constaniana]

Charles shuffled into Annie's Kitchen, grumbling about the amount of people already in it at 8:03. He supposed being able to cojure proper food that wasn't fish made her very popular with the locals who could use their precious ration slips to purchase genuine mashed potatoes or haggis or shepherd's pie at a cheaper cost instead of tins of processed beans and spam, or at least popular enough for them to put aside their usual disgust with superhumans. Sadly, it didn't extend as much to the other supes of St. John's, such as Charles. The ordinary people had a bit of respect for him due to his obvious age and war service that was generally mentioned whenever someone asked about the Old Juggernaut, but he still got a few angry glares as he took his seat in the small booth Annie kept reserved for him. To his surprise, he noticed there was a young Oriental girl sitting across from where he usually sat.

"What the devil are you doing there?" Charles demanded, frowning as he tucked his napkin into his collar like he usually did.

Back in the kitchen of Annie's Kitchen an old Scotswoman chuckled to herself. Annie had seen the angry Londoner coming into her restaurant before, and she certainly had a similar temperament to Charles. Annie reckoned Charles could use more company than herself and the other various old farts he encountered in the park and talked to, and then there was the practical consideration that she only had so much room in her restaurant, and if there was an empty seat in a booth that someone else could be eating at then she would bloody fill it.

[Caecuser]

Jacob's mouth worked noiselessly and he tried to think of an angry retort but couldn't bring himself to make one - even a man with such moral corruptibility as he couldn't put down a clearly elderly gentleman after he'd been the one to nearly crash into him. Spinning on the spot and jamming his hands roughly into deep pockets, Jacob ignored the old man's words and continued down the street; after all, he's just some old buffoon.

Something caught his eye however and he noticed down the alleyway that the old man had emerged from there were three prone figures, all seemingly beaten unconscious which raised alarms in his head. He jogged over quickly and examined each of the young men - they definitely appeared to be superhumans so far as he could tell and thinking back he thought he caught sight of a brief flash of red on that cane... blood perhaps?

He ran out of the alley looking quickly left and right and called, "Hey! Did you do this?"

The old man was already gone though - and Jacob scratched his head incredulously wondering at the odd situation. He thought about the image of the old man in his head for a while, giving him a more appraising and curious view then he did initially. He supposed that he should have learned by now that you couldn't judge by appearances.

[Rupudska]

Charles shuffled into Annie's Kitchen, grumbling about the amount of people already in it at 8:03. He supposed being able to cojure proper food that wasn't fish made her very popular with the locals who could use their precious ration slips to purchase genuine mashed potatoes or haggis or shepherd's pie at a cheaper cost instead of tins of processed beans and spam, or at least popular enough for them to put aside their usual disgust with superhumans. Sadly, it didn't extend as much to the other supes of St. John's, such as Charles. The ordinary people had a bit of respect for him due to his obvious age and war service that was generally mentioned whenever someone asked about the Old Juggernaut, but he still got a few angry glares as he took his seat in the small booth Annie kept reserved for him. To his surprise, he noticed there was a young Oriental girl sitting across from where he usually sat.

"What the devil are you doing there?" Charles demanded, frowning as he tucked his napkin into his collar like he usually did.

Back in the kitchen of Annie's Kitchen an old Scotswoman chuckled to herself. Annie had seen the angry Londoner coming into her restaurant before, and she certainly had a similar temperament to Charles. Annie reckoned Charles could use more company than herself and the other various old farts he encountered in the park and talked to, and then there was the practical consideration that she only had so much room in her restaurant, and if there was an empty seat in a booth that someone else could be eating at then she would bloody fill it.

Ruby jerked awake at Charles' demand, nearly hitting her head on the backboard of her seat.

"Wha-huh?" It took her a full second to realize Charles was sitting across from her, scowling.

"Ahh, some arseholes took my usual spot." She jerked her head in the direction of her semi-reserved seat. It was by the window on the side nearest the kitchen, underneath a painting of B-17s thundering over Germany.

"I'd beat the lot into a pulp myself, but Annie'll kill me if I damage her restaurant again..."

Ruby turned at once to her lack of food. But that could wait. In the meantime, she tucked her napkin into her jacket, and continued to stare at the painting, not paying much attention to Charles.

[Constaniana]

Charles couldn't help but chuckle a little as the girl explained why she wasn't in her usual spot. She reminded him of himself as a lad.

"Aye, she's nagged me a fair wee bit for fighting in here as well. Not serious stuff, mind you, just giving a few chavs a good kick in the shins, but they threatened to get the policemen involved," said the Glaswegian, before one of the waitresses walked up to the table carrying the breakfasts Charles and Ruby typically ordered, as Annie was good at remembering what her regulars ordered and usually had it prepared soon after they walked in the restaurant. Nodding thankfully to the waitress, Charles quickly began to cut a chunk of his fried egg off. "My name's Charles Malcolm Gordon, by the way," he added before taking a bite.

[Rupudska]

Charles couldn't help but chuckle a little as the girl explained why she wasn't in her usual spot. She reminded him of himself as a lad.

"Aye, she's nagged me a fair wee bit for fighting in here as well. Not serious stuff, mind you, just giving a few chavs a good kick in the shins, but they threatened to get the policemen involved," said the Glaswegian, before one of the waitresses walked up to the table carrying the breakfasts Charles and Ruby typically ordered, as Annie was good at remembering what her regulars ordered and usually had it prepared soon after they walked in the restaurant. Nodding thankfully to the waitress, Charles quickly began to cut a chunk of his fried egg off. "My name's Charles Malcolm Gordon, by the way," he added before taking a bite.

Ruby nodded, snickering at his tale. Chavs. They seemed to be a universal constant, at least throughout the former countries of the Empire.

"Ruby Hyeon. Nice to meet someone of similar opinion of chavs to mine, Charles."

She tore a bit off of her egg sandwich, looking somewhat contemplative. Charles would probably be somewhat surprised to see bits of cabbage and carrots in the eggs. Ruby quickly put the sandwich down and gulped a bit of lemonade.

Not her usual breakfast meal [Korean cuisine didn't really have any set 'breakfast foods' of its own], but hell was it ever good.

---

October 2nd 2027
7:43 AM
Clarenville, Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada

Morning. The chilly air, a mere 45 degrees, leaked in through cracks in the second-floor wall to do battle with the air generated by the space heater in a far corner of the room Deoiridh Taggart was sleeping in. [A battle it lost, though not without making the room rather cold.] She curled up like a ball, groaning as a breeze blew the cold air into her face.

Finally, at around 7:50, Deo sat up, her thick comforter sliding off her chest. She shivered. Her pajamas, while warm, weren't quite warm enough, especially compared to the thick comforter that was now covering her legs.

Another day, another dawn...

Her morning ritual was quick and simple, thanks in part to her powers. No odor-inducing bacteria could possibly survive on the skin of a toxikinetic, and any other smell could be covered up with a fast shower.

It was 8 AM exactly when she finished and began putting on her usual clothes. It was much like a nun's habit, with two differences: It lacked the white panel typical of an actual habit, instead having an empty cloth hood, much like a jumper's. In it was stuffed Deo's white scarf. Secondly, around her waist, was a white nylon sash, about 3 inches wide, tied at the back in a simple square knot.

She bolted down the stairs and out into the open street. The orphanage across from her didn't open for visitation until 9, so she could do a bit of work in the meantime.

Let me think, the owner said they needed to fix the radiator by the window, that'll be pretty pricey, so I'll start with that.

She headed south, into the heart of the growing town. The influx of masks had boosted its size dramatically, but this population rise tapered off with equal dramaticness when the surrounding area became contested between human and mask supremacists.

Unbeknownst to her at the moment, a number of the latter were gathering at the southern end of the town of eighty thousand...

[Of the Quendi]

Before breakfast October 2^nd, 2027
L'Anse aux Meadows, Newfoundland
On the Beach

As her followers withdrew from her Geneviève resumed her seat on the tip of the Northern Peninsula gazing North towards a World beyond Newfoundland's Hell. Running a hand that had been long without a manicure through her unwashed dishelved golden locks Geneviève sighed gesturing for Danny to lie Down next to her, which he promptly did laying his head in Geneviève's lap forcing her to put aside Paradise Lost. Funny how things worked out Geneviève thought. Since before she became a telepath, and especially after, Geneviève had been a maternal figure for her younger siblings and now, after she had lost everything, she remained a mother figure for Danny and those followers she had never wanted. Yet as she gently caressed her creation's head receiving satisfied purring in return Geneviève was content with her station in life. Being the babysitter for a lackwith and a group of outcasts was the furthest thing from what she, the young and briliant daughter of upper class parents with all the right connections, had once dreamed of. She had wanted to be president. She had wanted to rule. She still did, but she was content to rule over some fifty square kilometers of land at the tip of Newfoundland's Northern Peninsula.

Half sleeping Danny began to whimper. Geneviève felt her eyes moisten. She knew far too well what dreams haunted Danny. For all her work she could not entirely prevent the emergence of horrid memories of The Abominable to break free of the shackles she had bound it with in his subconscious. For all her power Geneviève doubted she could ever rid Danny completely of the memories of her rape of his mutilated mind. Yet she would try. Reaching her formidable mind out towards Danny Geneviève mobilized all her courage, not because what she was about to do was technically difficult but because it meant she would have to sense, even if only vaguely, the memories Danny had of The Abominable. Memories Geneviève had never dared to confront in her own mind.

As it turned out no horror awaited her. Danny was not having a bad dream. That surprised Geneviève. Danny's whimpering was caused by something he sensed, the approach of something strange which filled Geneviève with a sense of foreboding. It was near; very near, and approaching. But it was impossible, no living thing could near Geneviève and avoid detection. No one would ever surprise her, no action or activity would ever go unpredicted in her mind. It was impossible.

Then a voice began to speak. "The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven." The voice, a young man's voice, yet void of the warmth of youth, quoted the first book of Paradise Lost filling Geneviève with terror. Danny woke from his half slumber rearing his head looking back behind Geneviève and in his eyes Geneviève saw her own surprise mirrored. How could it be. She felt the impulses that passed for thoughts, conveyed by ants in colonies near her, she felt every gull or crab or fish or fly on the Beach. She felt her fellowers further away and even people far from L'Anse aux Meadows. Yet no more than a few meters behind her was a man whom she could not feel.

Geneviève rose slowly and calmly. Her Heart was pounding, dangerous folk walked Newfoundland and if she could not reach the speaker's mind then she was defenseless. Just a young and beautiful teenage girl with no skill but a great intellect to ward of danger. Yet she turned around all but fearless, those who had nought needed fear nought, to face the person who had done the impossible and snuck up behind her.

A smile and raised hands greeted Geneviève but she knew better than most that not all who smile have good intentions and though the man before her was young his appearence was grim. "So spoke Satan." Geneviève conceded, her voice still coarse and guttural, robbed of its usual melodiously soothing tone by her long silence, without giving away her own thoughts on the words.

As the man before her, the surreal person who was thus far the only person in ten years that Geneviève had not been able to read as an open book, began to speak she calmed herself and began to realize she wasn't completely powerless before the young man. She could not reach him but she could reach everyone else, herself included. The young UN officer who had joined her merry band of castaways owned a gun. There was no saying what power the man before her might posses apart from his unnerving ability to keep her out of his mind, but a gun could hurt most people. But it was a crude weapon. A weapon for people lacking of Geneviève's sophistication. Instead of summoning the ex-UN officer to her side Geneviève reached for her own mind, boosting her own intellect and her mind's ability to read her body's signals. Even if she could not read the young man's mind she could at least try to read even the most discreet physical cues of the man's body language. Combined with her innate understanding of the human psyche hopefully that would allow her to anticipate it should the man decide to kill or rape or rob her.

Why she honed her skills Geneviève carefully paid attention to the words of the stranger's long monologue, dissecting every single pause, stress or intonation of his speech. Vengeance, hate and madness was what she sensed emnating from the young man, who for all his imposing presence and charisma Geneviève now realized was even younger than she had anticipated. Almost a boy still. In fact closer in age to Guillaume then to her. That put her somewhat at ease. But only until the youngster nonchalantly procured an American coin turning it into a deadly projectile, an act that prompted Danny to retreat whimpering, recoiling in fear. A not unreasonable response Geneviève decided though she kept her emotionless demeanor intact.

That prompted her to be diplomatic. Though she agreed with parts of the stranger's analysis Geneviève rejected the conclusion and ordinarily would have been happy to deliver a small lecture on the flaws of the conclusion. Not before a guy who could turn a coin into a lethal weapon and was unresponsive to even intense mental probbing. "I will say to you stranger, what I have said to all who have come seeking favor of me. That the affairs of the rest of this Island, the plots and schemes and conflict and strife, are of little concern to me." She, quite truthfully, spoke without mentioning her reservations about what "paradise" the stranger had planned.

[Damak Var]

Jace's House, Corner Brook
October 2nd


Everything had been taken from Jace and there was nothing to really look forward too. But he had not yet completely lost the will to live and so repaired cars and other devices in his house for ration slips. There was still a hope of escape. Jace had done it once and he could do it again. For now, people would bring him things to his house at the edge of Corner Brook often. Not many new technologies came to Newfoundland. It was something to do on this wretched place to stay alive. Gone were the two hundred dollar steak dinner he was use too. Though it angered him to do so for he felt it was completely beneath him. Jace was rich, smart and had a key job designing weapons for the military. There was no use in reminiscing in the past life but he could not help it.

On his free hours Jace would practice with his abilities, trying to create new constructs. There was not much else to do and he preferred to keep his head down when possible. Groups and factions on the island fought for power. But what were they really fighting for? There was nothing on this place worth it. Once in a while a person would recognize him when he went into town. He was in Forbes magazine once but overall was not a popular figure and preferred it that way.

After finishing the repairs on the engine of a ford pickup truck, Jace allowed the set of tools he had constructed disappear. It was time to take a break he decided. The owner would be back tomorrow with some slips and he would be able to get a decent meal. He walked to his backyard and began to concentrate with his arms spread forward. A glowing purple energy began to form and take the shape of a missile. It was distorted and about two meters in size. Right now he was trying to focus on the guidance chip inside the missile. Jace held his concentration longer, trying to form the object before it disappeared. He cursed. The thing he was trying to create was a project he had worked on in the past. A missile with an EMP warhead. Jace had mastered the launcher but not the missile itself. This was simply a thing he did to get his hopes up. Even if he could get past the fleet, Jace was registered, marked. He could never go back to his old life. Instead it would be a life left on the run until the authorities eventually found him.

To liven up his spirits he created a new construct. This time a tire that hung from a rope on a nearby tree. Beside him appeared a pile of purple footballs. He picked them up one by one and threw them through the tire, missing occasionally. Jace was no quarterback but acquitted himself well as a linebacker in high school. He stayed fit, if only to get his mind off the situation at hand. Maybe later he would go into town and visit the local bar. A drink would be nice. He did need an actual computer if his missile was ever going to work. Perhaps there would be somebody who could get him one.

[SuperHappySmileyWorld]

Saint Anthony, Newfoundland
Early Morning
October 2nd, 2027

I've got to break free
I want to break free, yeah
I want, I want, I want, I want to break free.

As the closing lines of Queen's 1984 hit faded out, the voice of the DJ again took to the airwaves. 'And that request came in from... One Joseph Curry, from here in Corner Brook. And what a way to end yet another 45 minute block of rock here on CKXX, am I right? A song of wishing to burst out of your shell or environment and to be free and happy? What a novel concept. Anyway, seeing as the sun is just about to rise and there is pounding on the glass, I'm gonna slide out and let DJ Spruce take over-'

Leno zoned out from his radio and found himself focusing on the ceiling above him, contemplating getting up from his pile of blankets he called a bed. He was trying to think of the day, or more specifically the name of the day, as he had attempted to give himself at least a handful of things to do throughout the week, however to his annoyance he found the day to be Saturday.

Getting up from his 'bed', Leno stretched out and made a quick pass over of the apartment that he had been living in for the last 2 months. It was a simple affair, almost like it was an emptier hotel room: There was a dresser draw in the corner, a small coffee table beside his bed that Leno uses for most of his meals, a mini fridge behind a small dividing wall which could charitably be called the kitchen, and a small TV that consistently almost worked. The only real feature that was different than the other rooms in this place was a small picture frame on top of the Dresser, which had been turned toward the wall.

Finding his attention focusing on the picture, Leno quickly averted his gaze, he didn't have the heart to look at it, not right now. Deciding he might as well start his day, Leno donned his baggy business attire. It was quite annoying to find decent business ware in Newfoundland now, especially in his current section of the map, however he was able to pawn a few items to exchange for them the last time he was in Corner Brook.

Exiting the apartment, Leno's ears were greeted with the familiar sounds of Deacon's Saxophone as he looked out to the town proper. For such a small town, it seemed almost suburban, with many small shops and buildings littering near the coast. The Human to 'Mask' population was hard to gauge, as the majority of supers who lived, at least in this part of the town, had more passive, subtle abilities. Not to say there weren't outliers, indeed some Prep Cook over at the Haven apparently could turn his appendages into knives, or the Cryokenetic who lived on the other side of Frenchmen's Pond. But overall it was a decent place to be a super, so long as you weren't juggling buildings or gave the local, albeit shrinking, population a dirty look, the folks of the town tolerated you decently.

It was also a moderately nice place to be in terms of rations. While the more inland Masks have, reportedly, resorted to attacking truck convoys to get supplies, A supply ship from the UN typically docks around twice a month for at most a day, and enables some groups, such as the small selection of Ten or so Leno finds himself in, to Pool their ration stamps together and try their best to spread the wealth.

Pulled from his thoughts by the sudden pitch change of the Saxophone, Leno decides that he might as well chat with the De Facto leader of this little group, the Honorable Charles Deacon.