Heroes No More (IC)

[Tarnen]

Arnold Smythe/ Senate Committee Meeting/D.C./Several Days ago
Arnold had been arguing back and forth with the committee for hours, but it was seemingly in vain. "Senators, with all due respect, the plan I have proposed to you would keep heroes in check and an authority to answer to..." He was immediately cut off by the Senator leading the committee. "Dr. Smythe with all due respect to you and your service to this country me and the other Senators agree that this would exactly lead us down the same road as with the Justice Corp, which I remind you never answered to anyone in the first place, we unanimously agree that this proposal be denied." Banging the gravel ending the meeting as people in the room leaving slowly, as Arnold sat down in his chair defeated.

Arnold Smythe/NYC/Now
Siting down in his chair as he watched the news drinking his coffee with a small hint of alcohol in it. "In tragic news another former hero has been found dead in his apartment last night, Frank Tulley, known as the Bullet was found dead due to a self inflicted gunshot would to the head, police are not considering foul play...." Arnold turned off the television as he walked over to the window watching the quiet snow fall down onto the streets below blanketing the city in white. More and more former heroes were being killed some of them former Justice Corps members, he pondered to himself as he fixed his cuff links and tie before putting on his jacket and overcoat. Arnold himself was a former Justice Corps member himself, just walking to work looking over his shoulder was demeaning and in a sense nerve wrecking.

Putting on the final part of his clothing a red scarf and hat as he made his way out of his suite and onto the street below as he began the one mile walk to his job, consultant to the police force, in this case he was in the homicide division no doubt involving the Bullet's death today. He had several theories already and who was killing them only time would tell if one of these theories were proven correct.

[Beiarusia]

Anastasia // NYC

It had started snowing some time ago, a light dusting that was all too unfamiliar to what the woman, Anastasia, was accustomed to. Back home the winters had been harsh. Blizzards and snow drifts as high as any man. She recalled that a long, long time ago the season had been her most favorite time of the year, a sentiment that had been shared between her siblings. But that was before the Revolution. Before she lost everything to the government that would torture her beyond imagine.

For all it mattered the snow might as well have been scarlet.

Life had been difficult for Anastasia ever since she had abandoned her masters, escaping to the vast unknown of the world before she could be put down like some rabid dog. Maybe that would have been a blessing in disguise, to be free of the torment that had plagued her for far longer than most would ever hope to live, but the hatred within the woman’s heart was too much to merely accept her scheduled doom. Anastasia would not give them the satisfaction. So she ran, and for months afterwards was hunted. A stain that her masters had seen prudent to erase. They, of course, failed in their pursuit, and Anastasia was soon able to depart the Soviet Union, and for the next few years had wandered aimlessly with little purpose other than to survive.

But survival was hard. Her masters would unlikely to give in so easily, and her forced habits were likely to draw attention if she was not careful. The New World had been a Godsend in that regard. People tended to disappear everyday, and only grave misfortune would expose the woman and her deeds.

Anastasia broke her gaze of the sky, moving on along the empty sidewalk and towards no destination in particular, ragged jacket pulled tight as if for warmth. She was hungry, however, having not eaten since arriving to the city some three weeks prior. Far from starving but uncomfortable.

A man crossed her path not too far ahead, red scarf billowing in the slight breeze as he made way to wherever it was he was needed. He did not see the white haired woman, or maybe he did but simply paid her little to no attention like most in the city were apt to do, too preoccupied with his own life to consider that of others. He probably wasn’t a bad man, undeserving of any ill fate, but Anastasia held little warmth for his existence and would gladly sacrifice him for her gain, like she had so many times before.

She quickened her pace, enough to draw closer but not to the point of exposing her intentions. A simple request, to delay him, to ease whatever guard he may have, and once secluded she would slip the blade in her pocket into his spine. Quick and relatively painless. He would be dead before he was even aware of such fact.

Anastasia was close now. She made to call out to him, to request some help that even he would find difficult to turn down, but she held her tongue. A mother and young child had joined them on the sidewalk. Too many people. She would have to find someone else. She continue on her pace, overtaking the man she had so near come to claim and turning down a small alley, away from the street and towards seclusion. With luck she would find another where eyes could not pry. A vagabond or some lost soul in the heart of the city.

She was fortunate.

[Tarnen]

Arnold felt himself being followed and turned around just seeing a blur move into the alleyway beside him. He nodded to the lady and child as they past him by as he clenched his fist for a moment before venture into the alleyway himself. "Excuse me ma'am, are you lost? Do you need help?" He said judging by her tattered jacket as he kept his distance looking at her in the eyes.

Several blocks away
The man formerly known as the Tank watched the Television as it showed two boxers going at it, him yelling the top of his lungs rooting for the man in the gold and green trunks. Tank made a name for himself becoming an underground fighter taking on normal people as well as other supers in fighting match as he always came out on top for his enhance strength and his extremely durable skin making him nigh invincible. His doorbell broke the shouting as he got up from his chair it creaking under his weight. "Yeah who the hell is it?" He looked through the peephole before the door was blasted off its hinges knocking him back as he glared at the door way. Standing there as the hood casting a shadow covered his face, was a man most likely in his early twenties. Tank immediately charged at him with his fist only stopping a few inches from his face.

The Tank was stopped in his tracks as his vision slowly being to blur and fade away as blood began to flow out of his mouth and eyes, with a simple gesture the behemoth drop dead on the floor as the hooded man left and as a neighbor open her door across from the former hero only to scream.

[Sindrya]

Bronx County City Island, New York City
Some Basement of an Unknown Bar

Dark was something that could be used to describe the condition in the room. With only weak lighting coming from a single light bulb, hanging a few inches from the ceiling, the light only managed to outlines the two human figures inside the room. They were sitting across from each other, separated by a table, which lay a copious amount of papers, containing every single essential data. On each side, lay a glass of water. One figure was almost like a silhouette, outlined only by the light, with shadows created by his bangs covering the upper part of his face. The other figure had a clearer appearance, with the light illuminated his spiky white hair, which cast a thin shadow over his eyes, making his white iris seemed almost greyish in color, with his face showing that he was somewhere between 16 or 17. His white complexion contrasted starkly with his long-sleeved, jet-black trench coat, which covered his white t-shirt. A silhouette of his black pants can be seen, with a soft glint coming from the wallet chain dangling from his pocket, but there's no telling of what he wore on his feet.

"So who is it?", the white-haired teen spoke, with a distinct German accent. His gaze focused on the man.

"A senator", the figure answered with a raspy tone. "There's a Senator Meeting two days ago, in DC. They are discussing about a plan to keep all former superheroes in check, what's with the current mysterious deaths and disappearances of them lately."

Being reminded of this made the teen gulped a bit. No, he wasn't scared, but this kind of things surely made him uneasy. He wasn't afraid of someone suddenly jumped on him for an attempt on his life, but putting his guard on for every damn second he walked outside sure is a pain in the ass.

"However," the man across him continued. "The plan was vetoed by all Senators. The Senator member who proposed this plan was a former superhero, even more, he was a member of the Justice Corps."

"Huh, figures." He spoke with an unmasked distaste, his German accent only made it more pronounced. "Must've been the anti-superhero sentiments."

"I thought so. That means there's a lot of target for us to be disposed of." He pulled a sheet of paper from the table. "And we are going to start from this man.", he said, shoving the paper to the teen German.

The teen read it carefully. "A Representative, from... Arizona?" He looked back at the man across him, one eyebrow raised, showing his bewilderment. "That's a bit far, don't you think? You sure we can afford the travel cost? We're not making big money out of this, you know."

"Relax. He will be coming tomorrow to NYC, more precisely, Manhattan, for an appointment." He showed him another paper, which showed the list of activities the Rep will be doing, taken from a trusted source. "He'll arrive at 10 AM in the JFK International Airport. From there, he'll be driving through the Grand Central Parkway, to the Museum of Modern Art. After a short visit there, he'll stop by The Plaza Hotel, which is where the appointment will take place."

Suddenly, the man threw a coughing fit. The teen showed a mildly concerned expression. "Are you okay?", he asked. "You shouldn't have exert yourself too much. Seriously, your TB is getting worse day by day."

The man only waved at him. He produced a small bag, which contained some white capsules. He took one, and downed the capsule with a glass of water. "It's fine", he said after a brief silence. "I'll do whatever it takes to make the superheroes great again. Even if that means my life."

Another short silence passed. "Then I believe you have understood what you have to do?", he asked the teen. The teen nodded. "Very well, then. I trust your judgement. I believe you will find a way to complete this task."

"Yes, sir.", the teen replied.

"You are free to go.", the man said. The teen stood up from his seat, began walking towards the door. But just as he grabbed the doorknob, the man called him again. "Oh, and one thing, Jasper."

The teen, Jasper, looked back at him. "Don't forget the files.", he said.

"Of course I won't.", Jasper said with a grin.

The man nodded, and Jasper walked out of the room.

[Beiarusia]

Anastasia // NYC

There was a man further down the alley. Dirty and unkempt, loitering near some metal trashbins and digging through the rubbish. Homeless, or maybe an addict. Not too appealing but it didn’t much matter at this point. The man was alone, and she was hungry.

"Excuse me ma'am, are you lost? Do you need help?"

Anastasia stopped dead in her tracks, having been too preoccupied to have heard the man approaching from behind. She glanced back over her shoulder, mismatched eyes catching sight of her original target, he having followed her into the alley. Further down the homeless man, having heard them, looked up, panicked, and then scurried off. Anastasia watched him go before turning fully to face her pursuer.

She was not an imposing sight to behold. Thin and not very tall, young looking and clad in dark, threadbare clothes, a runaway if someone were to hazard a guess. Her eyes, one dark and one pale, were cold and near lost behind the white hair that fell into her face.

A gloved hand brushed the hair aside. Her voice was low and not very powerful. “I’m not lost.”

Her eyes darted briefly, scanning the space around them, a movement that was hardly noticeable. They were alone in the alleyway.

“Actually, I could use some help. I ran away from a bad situation and I haven’t had much to eat since.” Not so much a lie as it was an absence of all the details. Anastasia continued to watch the man, sliding her hands into her pockets as if she was cold. In truth she was gripping her switchblade. “Think you can help me?”

[Ubaria]

Adrian Romero
New York City - Romero's Gourmet Italian Restaurant

"Taxi for JFK International?" A voice yelled out the drivers side window of the yellow cab.

"Arrivederci Mama" Adrian lent down and exchanged two short kisses on either cheek with the short, elderly woman who was Rosalia Romero, owner of Romero's Italian Restaurant and mother to Adrian. The two stood in embrace for a few moments alone inside the dimly lit establishment, only the hum of an electrical outlet in the background contributing to the silence. It had been the end of an Era, one of the greatest Italian culinary establishments in New York was now no more, the increased demand and popularity of fast food pizzas was a contributing factor but in all honesty, the place had been going down the pan for the last few months, they hadn't been able to afford all the bills and with the amount of renovation the place needed, in the end it wasn't worth it. Rosalia was nearing retirement age anyway, she had enough money put away to retreat back to her home town in Italy and purchase a nice little seaside cottage, Adrian had declined the offer multiple times even though it was his sole wish to escape, return to his roots and forget about the past and look towards a brighter future, but he couldn't, not until answers had been found and dues had been payed.

Adrian led his mother out of the front doors and craned his head around to see the family name hanging above the restaurant one last time, it had been his home for as long as he could remember, even more than his actual home. Adrian pulled open the rear passenger door and pushed in the suitcase before helping his mother into the car, exchanging sullen looks as he slowly pushed the door closed.

"I will write to you" Adrian gulped, holding down the rising lump in his throat.

"And i will too. Be safe now." She replied, holding up an accusing finger.

Adrian chuckled and turned out of the wind, trying to prevent his eyes from watering any more.

"I will Mama...I will" And with that the taxi slowly pulled away down the street, turning at an intersection at the end and vanished out of sight.

Adrian sighed and turned his collar to the prevailing wind, it was still snowing pretty heavily, the ground a stark white which was illuminated by the yellow glare of the streetlamps. Luckily for him, the power he possessed meant he could slowly leak small amounts of heat energy to ward off the cold, he had tapped off the last amounts of electricity in the restaurant before it was shut off. Slowly he turned on one heel and started to walk in the opposite direction, pondering what lied ahead. As he walked he passed an alleyway with two figures stood opposite one another, he slowed and glanced at them for a moment before he passed the other side. Thinking nothing of it, he moved onwards to his apartment.

[Sarejo]

Nicholas walked out of JFK Airport, and his body was shocked by the freezing cold of the December wind, which blew snow all over the place. He hailed a taxi and told him the address he was going to. He stuffed his only bag into the back with him, and climbed in. The driver pulled away from the loading area and drove off into the city. Say You, Say Me was playing on the radio, and Nicholas looked out the window at the high-rising skyscrapers New York City was famous for. He was slightly worried at the moment, as rumor had it from a few of his super friends that supers were dying in eerily large amounts, and he feared for his safety. He didn't know who might be hunting them exactly, but there were a few international agencies dedicating to killing or detaining people like him solely on the pretext of being supers, whether they actively used their powers or not, good or evil.

The taxi pulled up to the curb and Nicholas handed the man some money before stepping out of the cab and onto the sidewalk. He was in the middle of Manhattan, and there were handfuls of people scattered up and down the street. Some were doing last minute Christmas shopping, others smoking, others talking, and others just simply walking through the streets of New York. Nicholas took a deep breath of frigid air and began walking to the apartment a friend of his was renting.

[Finsternia]

Angelica Belcourt, New York City

The flight to New York was exhausting, but atleast she can have a little vacation away from those casino lords that bother her so much. The plane just landed a few minutes ago and she tried hailing a cab a lot of times but they keep on passing through her. When the next cab tried to pass through her, she angrily slammed her hand down the air and the cab abruptly stopped and the bumper was crushed. The driver looked at her with fear as she shattered the glass window with the flick of her hand and materialized near him to look down the driver's face. "You will bring me to my destination, you hear me?" She said in her fluid French accent, the driver nodding for his dear life. Black sparks appeared in her hand and the metal of the cab screeched and popped as it came back to normal. She then dumped her bags at the back and sat beside the driver, and she dictated her destination.

She stopped at one of the apartments in Brooklyn and she paid the driver gracefully for scaring the old man so much. She pulled her keys and brought her bags in and spent a few hours in decorating the place. When she was done, she opened a window and turned the television on to watch her favorite show while having an exquisite wine for the mood. She swirled the wine glass, thinking about what she should do for the next day and the other.

[Esselman]

Evergreens Cemetery, New York
Director Ben Burns

At the edge of the Bronx, director Burns had finished paying his respects and was headed back to his unmarked Ford police car that was to be led by a United States Veterans Affairs Police truck. Before getting in his car an officer approached him.

"Director Burns, sir, you hear about the Bullet, Tuley? Another hero from around here. You guys looking into that?" the officer asked, his accent apparent, hands in his pockets.

"At this time, no, local authorities have taken charged," Burns responded patting him on the shoulder as he passed by.

Ben got in the car, deciding he would drive this time, a federal agent sat in the passengers seat next to him, turning up the volume on his personal radio. The VA truck led the way as his charger followed, as he drove he let out a sigh and looked out over the traffic, they were headed to the Tweed courthouse, detouring at the New York City police department. A mound of paperwork was about to be filed and they had to go to the courts for the final release of forms in the cities division for hunting down the vigilantes that plagued not only the state but the nation. With the recent death of heroes like the Bullet, it would be harder to draw public sympathy for taking these people down the more it happened. Burns knew it had to be a more covert effort to find these men and women and it started through the legal system, the now seemingly average populace that the supers had become would have to be traced, tracked, and then ultimately brought to justice. While driving down Atlantic Avenue he saw a patrol car had pulled someone over, it glazed over Benjamin in a wave form. The first wave made him ask the agent who was sitting next to him, simply looking at a piece of paper the whole time,

"Do you ever miss the your beginning days? When you had to do that, traffic stops or just staying late hours helping the higher ups with their own paperwork?" Ben asked

"Not at all, why, do you?" the agent asked, his accent clearly something a bit irish, though it was faded overall

"I miss, the days when it was very clear that the bad guys were the ones you saw directly commit the crime. Ones who, obviously, ran the stop sign or were at least ten over; easy. Now we have a term for these people that by definition was good and we as an institution had to redefine what they are or were. Labeling them as vigilantees gave us an easy way to see them as bad guys, not disgraced men and women," Burns answered, less of talking to the agent, more so just speaking his mind aloud as he drove.

"Sir, if you feel this way, use your pull or something I imagine. Let these guys go for it, or do what you feel. Something like that." he said in response, periodically looking out the window.

"No no, it isn't that simple anymore. Like I said, old days. If I were younger pride would make me feel like these guys deserve something more, but now it is all different. Now we have to find these guys and we have to stop them because the heroes, the 'villains', they both are people with too much power and the day we let them handle all the problems puts us at their mercy. Look at the Justice Corps, if we let them continue on they would have to become a government entity, it would be the only way to actually recognize them, they aren't even paid so we have to. If we look at them as some volunteer service then we have to question why we divert funding to local police if we have these guys. They just won a war for us, it seems, it can't go on," Burns was going on and on, finding out more about what he felt with the new policies in place.

"I guess what I am saying is that they aren't bad, not the people. What they represent is the bad thing, we can't fight ideals forever, but we will try to stop the roots. That's why we are here, just to pull up the roots," he said.

The two sat in silence, Burns nodded looking on.

"So we're gardeners now?" the agent said causing both of them to laugh in response for a short while. It broke the tension, or at least cut through it's air. Burns thought about it seriously for a second more and then thought, more so pest control. They passed another patrol car, parked on the side of the road.

"Old days," said Burns. "Old days."

[Faal Lot Himdah]

Makya Canowicakte
Pelham Bay Park, NYC
New York, USA

Feel it. The bitter cold. Makya thought as he trudged through the park, scarf covering his face, and wearing an old toque. One of the most dangerous things on this pointless world that humans call Earth, the winter. The time of death, starvation. The black chill... only matched with the cold embrace of death. Heat is temporary... the cold is endless. He smirked underneath the scarf, This is why I love it... I love the way humans try to avoid it. Heaters, fire, and the such, like the heat they produce will not last forever... silly humans... that is why they are good prey.

Makya looked at the snow, White. The color of peace and order to mankind. Oh, how they love that shade. He thought as he reached down, grabbing some snow in his hand, White is not the color of peace. It is the color of order, that I agree with. As white is the lack off all color, white is emptiness... white is cold... white is the eventual fate of all things. Makya dropped the snow and continued on.

Eventually, the sun started to rise. Makya sighed in disappointment. The night is gone, and with it, my best time to hunt... he thought. His stomach made a mighty growl, which Makya responded to by placing a hand on it. Soon.... I will feast.... soon

With that Makya continued to walk towards the city of New York. He stumbled, purposefully, as he walked. He wasn't dressed properly for the weather (for human standards that is). All around, it looked like he needed help. This was his bait. Now, he just needed a fish to bite.

[Barapam]

The Wagner's house, NYC

The Wagner twins were cuddling on the couch in their living room, half asleep, when the evening news started on the TV. The main headline was about yet another former superhero, or "vigilante" as the news anchor said, having been found murdered. Siegfried and Sigrid both snapped to attention, as the anchor began to tell the story, by now a tale all too familiar for all supers.

"Oh my God!" Sigrid exclaimed and sat up. Siegfried remained quiet, but he too was staring at the screen, horrified. The images were very graphic, and touched even these two former SS soldiers. Sure, it had been forty years since they had seen the carnage of the eastern front, but still. Gruesome deaths had been an everyday accurance back there and then, but now, in America during peacetime, it was a shocking and unexpected event, that you couldn't prepare for. Facing armies was one thing, hidden killers another, scarier one.

"What if they come for us too?" Sigrid said, her voice unusually weak.
"Relax, sis", Siegfried said in response. "Whoever is behind this, be it the government or someone else, I doubt they even know we exist. We haven't used our powers since the war, and we're not wanted for any war crimes either, as far as I know." He tried to sound reassuring, even though he too feared the same thing.

His wife turned away from the TV screen, which now had moved on to other news, and faced him. "Maybe it's time again? For us to use our powers again I mean. The police doesn't seem to put down much energy on solving these dreadful crimes, and I feel it's wrong to just sit idle while our kind dies. I don't want to hide anymore, Siegfried."

Her brother nodded. "I've been thinking the same. Perhaps it's time to take action."

Manhattan, later the same night

"Perhaps we should have modified our costumes a little before we went to patrol the streets..."
"Why? Sure, they're a little too tight, but that's just because of your delicious apple pies, dear brother. If we continue to go out like this every night they'll fit perfect again in no time. Keep your eyes open instead of worrying about that."
"Not exactly what I meant, sweet sis. My old SS uniform has a few sieg-runes and other similar regalia too much, and your costume would probably look better with less swastikas. Not that they're ugly, not at all, it's just that people, especially civilians, might get the wrong impression of us. We're heroes, remember?"
"Oh. When you put it that way... well, it'll have to wait until we get home."

And so, Panzerfaust and Walküre continued to patrol the streets of the Big Apple for the first time, ready to stop culprits of all kinds, and especially hero killers.

[New Grestin]

Chapter I
Domino Theory

Bradbury Apartments
Manhattan, New York

He rapped his hand against the door. It shuddered a bit, then opened. The man found himself eye to eye with a tired, irritated looking woman. Brown, frizzy hair ran down the back of her head. She rubbed her face, then sighed. Greg sighed, warm breath pressing against the scarf around his face. Only his eyes betrayed his real thoughts. Even in the morning, he thought she looked lovely. Even still, professionalism overrode emotion.

"This is three days in a row, Cortez." He spoke, crossing his arms.

"I know, I know. I've been sleeping like shit lately." Lucidity seemed to finally take hold in her and she sighed, smiling meekly and motioning inside.

"You want some tea or something?"

"Sure."

He stepped inside; the apartment was just as he'd expected. A dingy, run down little hovel in the shitty part of town, perfectly matching the building it resided in. It was a studio, with few walls. A mattress with unmade sheets laid in one corner, piles of laundry laid spread across the floor. On the other side of the room was the kitchen. Worn metal appliances accompanied a fold-out metal table with a couple of chairs, equally as unimpressive. Greg scolded himself. His home wasn't that much better, who was he to judge hers?

He watched the woman as he sat. She fixed the strap on her undershirt, gathering a kettle and filling it with water while she spoke.

"So, what's up?"

Greg took a moment to answer, grabbing a newspaper from the table. He leaned against the wall and perused over the articles. Stories of drug busts in Medellín and inane celebrity gossip met his eyes, accompanied with a massive bold headline.

GREATER COMMUNIST UNION UNVEILS NEW BOMB; EUROPE TERRIFIED

Of course the Commies had a new bomb. The world was playing Russian Roulette, except that everyone was obsessed with making sure the gunshot was lethal. With any luck, he might finally bite the bullet when the bombs drop. He tossed that thought away quickly. Luck had been a fickle bitch to him since he crawled out of the womb, why would it stop now?

"Greg?"

He shook himself out of his thoughts, turning back to the woman. She raised an eyebrow at the man. Her slender hands moved as she did, flicking her fingers. A small flame appeared, instantly, beneath the kettle. He fidgeted a bit and tossed the paper down.

"Sorry. Nothing much, apparently somebody greased another meta."

"You're kidding," she said as the kettle began to squeal. She snatched it from the stove-top, the fire absorbing into her scarred hands.

"Wish I was. Fritz thinks it might be Chi-com."

"Chi-what?"

He sighed, letting her pour the scalding water into a cup. Steam rose from it's surface as she reached into another cabinet, returning with two tea-bags. He preferred black, she had been on a green-tea kick for the last few months. Perhaps she was going Chinese?

"Chinese Communist. Heard something through the grapevine that they might be involved. Not much to corroborate it, but it wouldn't surprise me. After Norway..."

His voice trailed off. Memories tried to worm their way back, but he fought them off. The Silent Coup, as they'd called it. The day the Commies overturned the Norwegians without even a shot. It was even worse than the Unification. Worse than when the Justice Corps finally snapped. It was the breaking point, the day the world nearly broke. Sometimes, he wished they'd never asked him to try and intervene. Then again, all he really was to the Agency was a tool in the arsenal. A fleshy nuke, so to speak.

"Anyway," he continued. "She wants us to start with the Metas around the city. Figures that maybe the perp hasn't skipped town yet. Supposedly, she found a few folks in the database that we should check out first."

He took a sip. It wasn't terrible, but her taste in drinks still baffled him. He still preferred the sting of alcohol. Even if most of his senses had gone the way of his flesh, it still numbed the abject horror of seeing himself in a mirror. At least if he was drunk, he wouldn't have to see what was left of his torso. He kept himself covered otherwise. A trenchcoat, fedora, gloves, anything that kept people from seeing him.

Besides, people screaming in horror was bad, especially in his line of work.

"Look, this is all very fun and all, but get dressed. I can't keep covering for you."

She smiled, downing her cup and heading towards the bedroom. Or, rather, the corner of the room with a closet.

"I'll meet you outside," she yelled out, waving him off.

He shrugged and rose, closing the door behind him.

He'd been awake for a few hours and it was already a long day.

[Soviet Farm]

Jonah was sitting in his apartment in the Bronx, preparing, loading shells into his shotgun.
"One for the Shah" *clack*
"One for the President." *clack*
"One for the U.S. Marines" *clack*
"One for the Russians" *clack*
"One for dear old Dad" *clack*
His slipped on his mask, a simple paintball mask that covered his up face, and a black bandana to cover his mouth, slipped on his Kevlar, and walked out the door. His jogged out of his seedy apartment building, sticking to the alleys to avoid attention. After about five minutes, he heard the a scuffle. Peering down an alley way, he saw a young man, kicking an old woman lying on the ground. "Mugging. Real classy." Jonah thought to himself. He fired his shotgun into the air, yelling " Hey Jackass! Get out!"
The young turned, saw Jonah, and ran. "Some people are really just stupid." he thought, before mentally crushing the man's heart. He fired another blast into the air to get attention for the old lady, and ran.

[Tarnen]

Anastasia // NYC

There was a man further down the alley. Dirty and unkempt, loitering near some metal trashbins and digging through the rubbish. Homeless, or maybe an addict. Not too appealing but it didn’t much matter at this point. The man was alone, and she was hungry.

"Excuse me ma'am, are you lost? Do you need help?"

Anastasia stopped dead in her tracks, having been too preoccupied to have heard the man approaching from behind. She glanced back over her shoulder, mismatched eyes catching sight of her original target, he having followed her into the alley. Further down the homeless man, having heard them, looked up, panicked, and then scurried off. Anastasia watched him go before turning fully to face her pursuer.

She was not an imposing sight to behold. Thin and not very tall, young looking and clad in dark, threadbare clothes, a runaway if someone were to hazard a guess. Her eyes, one dark and one pale, were cold and near lost behind the white hair that fell into her face.

A gloved hand brushed the hair aside. Her voice was low and not very powerful. “I’m not lost.”

Her eyes darted briefly, scanning the space around them, a movement that was hardly noticeable. They were alone in the alleyway.

“Actually, I could use some help. I ran away from a bad situation and I haven’t had much to eat since.” Not so much a lie as it was an absence of all the details. Anastasia continued to watch the man, sliding her hands into her pockets as if she was cold. In truth she was gripping her switchblade. “Think you can help me?”

"Not at all." He gave her warm smile as he reached into his coat pocket pulling out his wallet taking out a 100 dollar bill, then holding it out for her to get. "Here that should help for awhile, I would have more but I haven't been to the bank recently. But I do have 2 dollars in change if that would help." He eyed her quickly reaching once more into his pocket as the change jingle, waiting for her to move. "Don't you want it?" Shaking the bill as the wind desperately trying to blow it out of his gloved hand, like two shooters waiting for high noon for the quickest draw.

Brooklyn, Just outside Washington Apartments
The man in the hood exited the Apartments keeping his hand down as sirens began to wail in the distance coming closer to his direction, already a block over as several emergency vehicles past him by. One police car halted on it breaks as the officer got out "Freeze, put your hands in the air now." The officer approached him having his gun drawn as he put his hand on the man's wrist he stopped still holding onto his wrist frozen. "Stand there and hold the gun to your head." The officer complied letting go and pointing the gun directly to his own head his eyes where almost in a daze like state. "Wait five minutes, then shoot yourself." Again he just stood there as the hooded figure walked away.

Several blocks later a gunshot rang out through the quiet snow fall, as the man enter a apartment complex taking off his hood entering an apartment 16E, it was an decent one not exactly rich but not like others he has dwell in before. He walked into the tiny bathroom and look at himself in the mirror, he was about 5'7'' average build wearing glasses to see normally his hair was kept short and it was black like his dad. He sighed thinking about him, the former members of the Justice Corps were to blame for his death. He had served in Vietnam with the others he had recently been 'antiquated' with. The Bullet, Tank, and the others were involved in some way with his father's death and he vowed that he would make them all pay

As he exited the bathroom he went into the small living room staring at the wall with several names on it, he cross off another 'Tank' looking at what he had left, what he only had to go by where their aliases, the next on the list he knew little about, but with his mental abilities getting information wouldn't be too hard. What he did know was that he was English and went by the name Archimedes.

[Republic of the Cristo]

Black Mansion

The party was beginning to wind down. It was one of the most stylish galas in New York. Local politicians, notable celebrities, aid workers, clergy, etc. were all present. The gala had been put on by the owner Daemon Black. It was to celebrate his personal donation of 100 nurse bots to the city hospitals of New York. Daemon talking to several red dressed reporter over a glass of champagne, " So Mr. Black, many in the public have expressed concerns with the robots you develop. Some say that they are the pre-cursor to terminators and skynet and the like." Daemon smiled after finishing off another sip of the champagne. " My robots will never become like the terminator or skynet because Phalanx Corp will never develop AI for them. That and we have yet to work out an Austrian accent for our Servant Units." The reporter smiled and looked down at her glass before asking another question, " Many notable theorist and watch dog organizations make claims that Phalanx Corp has been approached by numerous world governments to develop weapons for them. Care to respond?" Daemon sighed but kept up his smile. " Like I said, the terminators won't be ready until we get the accent problem handled. But seriously, we have not been contracted to produce robotic weapons to anyone. Any further questions." The reporter looked up at him and stepped closer. " Many in the... public have wondered who Daemon Black's next girlfriend is going to be... care to comment." Daemon smiled and approached the reporter closely. He handed her his drank, " Perhaps another time." He then promptly walked out of his own party leaving the reporter standing with two champagne glasses standing dumbfounded in the middle of it all.

Black Private laboratory

It was midnight and the party was almost over, so Daemon saw no reason to stick around. Not when his research was so close to completion. He made his way down to his basement. It was a completely refurbished basement, that felt more like another floor to the house. On one wall was a floor to ceiling picture of a savannah. Daemon felt around the edges of the frame and found a small button. He pushed the button and the painting became unlocked. He opened it up just enough so he could slide in and close the painting behind him. He was in a quiet pitch black hall way. He walked forward 8 steps before reaching a metal door. He reached down for a handle that opened to his hand print only. He opened the door slowly to reveal a large sterile laboratory. He walked in closing the door behind him. Fur Elise could be heard in the background of the large room. Daemon walked over to a set of large monitors that covered a single corner of the laboratory. In front of the monitors on lied a work station with all the dashboards, buttons, and etcetera necessary for it's operation. On time of the work station was a small 4 propelled drone. Daemon took hold of it with both hands and looked at the it's front camera. The light on the machine was dark, so he knew it was not powered on. He looked up towards the ceiling before throwing it high in the air. It's propellers immedieantly began to rotate as it caught it self in the air. It then flew around the room for a few moments before one of the cameras spied Daemon. On the monitor screens a visual of all 4 cameras on the drone could be seen, and on one of them was a picture of Daemon. His face was scanned and his information was displayed on the screen. He looked to the monitor, then back at the Drone. " Operation Guardian" he said aloud to himself, feeling pride well up from inside himself.

[Sindrya]

New York City, Bronx
Some Unnamed Bar

Jasper walked out of the bar, stumbling slightly. He had to lean to a wall to regain his balance. His face is flushed, he lets out a cloud of mist everytime he breathed. He had just finished his fifth mug of beer. He took a deep breath, then laughed a throaty laugh. I didn't remember Jagermeister being this hard. He had intended to drink a regular Jagermeister after eating a serving of bratwurst and sauerkraut, but he just had to agree to the drinking challenge. They mixed Jagermeister with Eichbaum, and challenged Jasper to drink it. If he managed to finish five glass without throwing up or passing out, they'll pay his meal, and the drinks too, of course.

Sure, he thought. I can always use a chance to control my budget. Well, part that, and also because his Germanic (more precisely, Bavarian) nature. At first, he finish them with a shrug. Two mugs later, the effects began to kick in. His head became woozy, but he pushed himself to finish the fourth mug. He needs to be cheered on before he can finish the fifth. The whole bar erupted in cheer and laughter not soon after. And Jasper walked out, free of charge.

As soon as he regained his balance, he began to walk out of the alley where the bar is located. He forgot his scarf, but fortunately, the alcohol kept him warm.

The young turned, saw Jonah, and ran. "Some people are really just stupid." he thought, before mentally crushing the man's heart. He fired another blast into the air to get attention for the old lady, and ran.

He almost stumbled over when a man ran past him, bumping him on the way. He struggled to keep his balance, and to refrain himself from throwing a few German curses. He catch a glimpse of the man's appearance. From what he can see, the man uses a mask and slinging a shotgun. Suspicious.

Whatever, he thought. I'm not in a condition to fight. Not until my head stop being woozy.

He walked home, remembering that he had a mission tomorrow morning and he can't afford a hangover.

He sang a song along the way. It was a Bavarian drinking song he remembered from his adoptive father in Munich, before the poor man ripped to shreds.

Ein Prosit, ein Prosit
Der Gemütlichkeit
Ein Prosit, ein Prosit
Der Gemütlichkeit.

OANS! ZWOA! DREI! G'SUFFA!

He made a gesture as if he was drinking another mug, before repeating the lyrics.

Ein Prosit, ein Prosit
Der Gemütlichkeit
Ein Prosit, ein Prosit
Der Gemütlichkeit.

OANS! ZWOA! DREI! G'SUFFA!

He gestured as if he lifted a mug of beer.

Schenkt ein, trinkt aus, schenkt ein, trinkt aus!

Prost du Sack!

He chuckled, as if he had said something funny.

A few more blocks from here..

His house is located in the north of Pelham Bay Park. A decrepit house, but hey, it's his house. Not like he made big bucks from this job. Not to mention the current regulation of the Shadow Hand to "not loot the corpse of the target". Seriously, wasn't it for the bar, the heroes organization would have been disbanded years ago.

[b]Makya continued to walk towards the city of New York. He stumbled, purposefully, as he walked. He wasn't dressed properly for the weather (for human standards that is). All around, it looked like he needed help. This was his bait. Now, he just needed a fish to bite.

When he passed Pelham Bay Park, intending to walk around for a minute more to let his head clear up, he suddenly bumped into someone. His mind had cleared a bit, thus allowing his reflex to keep him balanced. He took a gander at the person he bumped into. He dressed poorly, in no way he dressed for this kind of weather. He also looks older than Jasper (by looks, of course). He assumed the man was somewhere between 18 or 19. He looked like a man in distress. Jasper decided to use his underage charms on him.

"Excuse me, sir. Do you need any help?", he asked. Been a while since I utilized this, he chuckled mentally.

[Beiarusia]

...

Anastasia // Manhattan, NYC

The man offered her a far from crisp 100 dollar bill and some change to boot. A kind gesture. Maybe he truly was a good man, and maybe deep down, somewhere, Anastasia felt a pang of guilt for what was about to happen, almost as if she still had some humanity left inside of her.

Almost.

Any sense of morality or sentimentality were gone, beaten down by the men who had made her what she is, and now that she had gone rogue these thoughts would only get her killed in the long run. There was no use in feeling sorry for this man or the countless she had killed over the years. It was survival, and Anastasia would do what had to be done in order to keep on surviving, even if she became a monster in doing so.

Not that she already wasn’t one.

The young woman approached, hands in pocket, steps stilted against the tension in the air. She could feel it, the man’s guard and how he tried to appear calm. Fight or flight. Maybe he was nervous? Anastasia had that effect on people.

She stood before him now, the wind blowing cold in a stiff breeze made all the worse by the funnel of the alleyway. Anastasia reached out with her left hand, her right hidden in the pocket with the switchblade at the ready. It would be quick and the man would be dead before he even realized. She would then walk him somewhere with some more privacy.

Her gloved hand brushed against his own as she took hold of the 100 dollar. A long moment seemed to pass between them, a glass waiting to shatter at a moment’s notice. Anastasia met the man’s eyes with her own, the mismatched pair darting ever briefly to the space behind him to see if they were still alone before returning to push against his gaze. If he was nervous he did not show it. Likewise Anastasia showed nothing, her face blank, a mask hiding everything that she was.

She took the money. “I’m sorry.” The statement was sudden and came as a surprise to even her, she never once having apologized for the taking of a life. This time, however, it seemed right; that a stranger’s forgiveness was all she sought. Not that it mattered in the end.

The woman moved quickly, pulling the knife from her pocket and flipping out the blade. In an instant she aimed for his throat and made to plunge the blade forward.

Maybe he would forgive her, though she didn’t count on it.

[Faal Lot Himdah]

Makya Canowicakte
Pelham Bay Park, NYC
New York, USA

Makya looked at the person who ran into him. The man looked to be a teen, but the eyes told a slightly different story. The eyes seem older than the face.... interesting.... he thought.

He rubbed his arms, "Do you have anything to eat? To drink?" Makya asked in a weak voice, "I've been out all night...."

[Vulnier]

New York City, Brooklyn
In Some Allyway

John was in the middle of having an awesome dream about being rich until he was rudley awoken by some particularly smelling garbage that fell on him. He shot up, looking around for his would be ssistant until he realized that it was a garbage bag that attacked him. Looking up to see an open window, John angrily waves his fist in the air and yells,"Watch where your throwing your garbage! There are people down here you know!!" The only response he gets is a hand flicking the bird at him.

You just can't win them all... John thought as he looked down to inspect himself of any injuries. Besides wearing a raggedy trench coat that barley kept out the cold, some jeans that were a little to holey, and a T-shirt that was a size to small, he was fine. Looking at the allyway entrence, John saw that the sun was barley climbing up into the sky.

Looking through his trash, he found his saxophone case he had stolen from a musician a few years back. After getting it out and inspecting it for any damage, he saw it was good and made his way to the entrance of the alleyway to begin his job. Johns job involved him playing his saxophone to earn a few bucks so he could eat. After setting up , he practiced a little to began his long day at "work".

[Finsternia]

New York City, Brooklyn
In Some Allyway

John was in the middle of having an awesome dream about being rich until he was rudley awoken by some particularly smelling garbage that fell on him. He shot up, looking around for his would be ssistant until he realized that it was a garbage bag that attacked him. Looking up to see an open window, John angrily waves his fist in the air and yells,"Watch where your throwing your garbage! There are people down here you know!!" The only response he gets is a hand flicking the bird at him.

You just can't win them all... John thought as he looked down to inspect himself of any injuries. Besides wearing a raggedy trench coat that barley kept out the cold, some jeans that were a little to holey, and a T-shirt that was a size to small, he was fine. Looking at the allyway entrence, John saw that the sun was barley climbing up into the sky.

Looking through his trash, he found his saxophone case he had stolen from a musician a few years back. After getting it out and inspecting it for any damage, he saw it was good and made his way to the entrance of the alleyway to begin his job. Johns job involved him playing his saxophone to earn a few bucks so he could eat. After setting up , he practiced a little to began his long day at "work".

Angelica Belcourt, NYC, Brooklyn

Angelica decided to step out of her apartment for awhile to get used with her new environment and to stock up her fridge. She just came out of a small mart with three bags of groceries cradled in her arms. She was wearing a black and red dress with a pinkish beige overcoat draped over her shoulders. The dress is enough to keep her warm but she wanted an extra layer of comfort to surround her. Her boots rang across the concrete sidewalks as she was admiring the few unique highlights of this part of New York when she heard the melodious sound of music in the air.

She is really not fond of today's music, being a classical and orchestral fan herself. However, she felt a tug that brought her towards it's source until she came towards the man playing. She watched curiously and tried to applaud when she realized she can't because of her groceries. "Talented aren't we?" The ashen blond teenager spoke, her voice hinting recognition.

[Vulnier]

John had finished playing his favorite tune when he heard someone applaud him. He looked up, about to thank the person until he saw who thanked him.

It was a young woman by the looks of it, who was having trouble with a few bags. John looked both ways down the sidewalk, looking for her parents. Confused, he said,"Arn't you a little young to be walking by yourself in this part of Brooklyn?"

[Finsternia]

John had finished playing his favorite tune when he heard someone applaud him. He looked up, about to thank the person until he saw who thanked him.

It was a young woman by the looks of it, who was having trouble with a few bags. John looked both ways down the sidewalk, looking for her parents. Confused, he said,"Arn't you a little young to be walking by yourself in this part of Brooklyn?"

Angelica shrugged, her coat nearly fell off her shoulders. "I live alone. I'm new to the place so I just realized that walking around is a good way to know about this new part of the world." She sat down beside him and reached from one of her bags and she pulled out a baguette. "Hungry?" Her voice hinted a little of her French accent but she hid it well enough to be not known by those who are not that inquisitive. "You're quite good with your instrument. How come that you only perform in the streets?"

[Barapam]

Several hours later

As the next day so slowly began to illuminate the horizon in the east in a colourful spectacle, two tired vigilantes returned to their lair. No, that wasn't a truthful description. Rather, a man and a woman in costumes, equally exhausted from the night's adventures, stumbled through the door to their home, longing for a shower and some sleep. Neither of them had really been prepared enough to take on the mission they had given themselves.

Sigrid collapsed on the couch, and her husband, not far behind, followed suit. For a while they just sat there, staring out in the empty air with eyes half closed, trying to get enough energy to think.

"This... was a much bigger challenge... than I had expected..." Siegfried said between breaths.
"I agree... completely." Sigrid turned her head to her older brother, leaning on his shoulder. "You... punched that burglar's jaw off!" She giggled.
"I didn't mean to hit him so hard! Luckily you could fly him to the hospital. Thanks dear." He kissed her forehead, and placed his arm around her shoulders.
"Well... I suppose we're even... when we stopped the robber in the night open convinience store, and I tossed him into the wall, you were kind enough to run with him to the hospital."
"Of course. It was my turn. But it took almost the whole night to clean up what we thrashed in the store..."
"Yes, and I promised the clerk that we would pay for the damages we caused... so we have that left too..."
"The poor boy looked terrified of us."
"Yeah... I suppose you were right earlier... We must fix our costumes. They're too political now, scare the shit out of Yankees..."

Siegfried chuckled. Sigrid looked at him with a tired smile. "Same time tonight, bro?"
"You know it, sis."

And then the new and unlikely hero couple fell asleep. A few hours of rest before their civilian lives began again.

[New Grestin]

Manhattan
New York

"So, did she give us anything to go on?"

He shrugged, letting the car roll along the road. In the passenger seat, Cortez leaned into the window, nursing a bottle of water. Greg motioned to the glovebox. Inside, she found a manila folder. Flipping through, she found a small pile of dossiers, compiled on the couple dozen known meta-humans living around New York City. A smattering of Nazis, a Russian refugee, and the usual suspects. The Russian stood out to Greg. With relations as sour as they were lately, a Rusky showing up in New York was ballsy to the point of insanity. She was high on the list.

"So, what, just go down the list and guess who's the killer?"

Greg chuckled.

"You read my mind. First name that came up is Ellison Oswalt. Used to go by the name Black Hand."

She sighed, staring out the window. People walked up and down the snow-covered streets, cars passing them by as they rode along.

"It's just up ahead." He said, quietly.

He slowed the car down. Ahead, another apartment building laid. As they pulled up, Greg felt a lump in his throat. The building itself was unremarkable, constructed in a simple utilitarian style. That wasn't what drew his attention. The gaggle of gang-bangers around the entrance was what concerned him. Easing the car into a parking spot, Greg quickly reached past Cortez, popping open the glovebox open and grabbing a revolver.

"Wait, how long has that been in there?"

Greg shrugged.

"I dunno. A few months? A Year? What, you keep track of where you keep your guns?"

"Yes?"

"Never mind, just be ready."

Popping the door open, Greg slid out into the cold winter air. The sounds of the city surrounded him, stroking his ever-increasing anxiety as the pair approached the building. A pack of men clad in coats and covered in tattoos milled about the entrance. It took him seconds to pick out the bulges on their coats. Handguns and a sawed off spread amongst the three of them. His attention was on them, but their attention remained firmly on Cortez. The first, a bald man with a beanie stepped forward, trying to make a move. He slid in, standing practically on top of her, and tried to get a grip on her.

Greg rolled his eyes, anticipating the obvious. She merely grimaced at him as he planted his hand on her shoulder. Seconds passed like hours before the man's face contorted in pain. He stumbled pack, shrieking and clutching his scalded hand. The man tumbled backwards, his friends gathering around in confusion and terror as the pair entered.

The dismal exterior of the apartment was shared with the interior. A homeless man sat in the corner of the lobby while piles of trash laid scattered about the area. The two kept moving, Cortez trying her best to keep her eyes from the man. They slid into the elevator, Greg hitting the button and leaning against the wall. Cortez, clad in a leather jacket, tried to make small talk as she lit a cigarette, a small flame emerging from her cupped hands.

"So, who do think's killing Supers?"

Checking his watch, Greg merely shrugged.

"Metas. I'm not really sure. It could be anyone, really. Communists, Rogue Meta, maybe even one of the old supervillains."

She sighed, taking a quick puff. He reminded her of a little girl, pressed into the corner. She wasn't the tallest woman in the world and, combined with her younger, mousy looking face, she wasn't terribly intimidating. Made it all the more emasculating when she lit you on fire with her mind, he surmised.

"I mean, you were there, back when you didn't hide. You think anyone would really start just killing us?"

He paused as the doors opened, providing them a view of the dingy hall ahead. As they stepped out into the mildew and roach infested hallway, he sighed.

"There was never an 'us', Cortez. I didn't even work with the Corps."

As they continued towards the apartment, Cortez snubbed out the cigarette in her hand. They stopped in front of the apartment, labeled "237".

"So who did you work for?" She said, looking at her scarred hands.

"I go where I'm sent."

As his hand met the door, a strange smell wafted out through the cracks in it's exterior. It took him a moment to catch it, but even with what remained of his nose hidden beneath a scarf, the scent was unmistakable. The smell of rot; of death. He knew he wasn't the only one that smelt it as Cortez covered her mouth. Greg motioned to her and she stepped forward, cupping her hands around the door handle. A moment later, it melted into slag. Greg pulled the handle back on his chrome revolved, steeled himself, and kicked open the door.

Cortez ducked away to vomit as their eyes met the sight within.

A man, strung up by his arms, and disemboweled. His guts had been spread neatly out across the floor and his eyes gouged out. On the man's chest, dozens of arcane symbols were drawn. At first, Greg's mind drew the conclusion of occultism, maybe even one of the Meta-worship groups from the old days. On a nearby table was a long, dulled kitchen knife caked in blood and viscera. The man's eyes, tongue and a couple of teeth were arranged neatly nearby. The body had been there for a week, based on the smell. Longer than the latest string of killings. On top of that, the method was too harsh. Not in line with what the other murders had been like. This was far, far too brutal.

Then, his mind finally grasped at a conclusion. The modus operandi was in line with his memories. Memories that he would have preferred stayed buried, yet the universe decided otherwise. As he stepped up to the corpse, he was forced to confront a truth that haunted him for the better half of a decade.

As he raised the man's bloodied head, Greg understood. The occult symbols didn't match because they were a smokescreen, designed to confuse prying eyes. Nothing matched up right because the man had done this to himself.

He sighed. The past had finally come for him. He could feel the weight of his sins bearing down on him. Norway had crawled back to claim him, and so had The Executioner.

[Sindrya]

Makya Canowicakte
Pelham Bay Park, NYC
New York, USA

Makya looked at the person who ran into him. The man looked to be a teen, but the eyes told a slightly different story. The eyes seem older than the face.... interesting.... he thought.

He rubbed his arms, "Do you have anything to eat? To drink?" Makya asked in a weak voice, "I've been out all night...."

Jasper felt a mild pity towards the man. "Are you homeless, sir? I can give you something to eat, but-" he was suddenly cut short by a fact he found very surprising to him.

Something smelt peculiar about this man. His breath.. smelt like something foul.. metallic..

Smelt like blood.

He tried his hardest to mask his expression. Sometimes I gotta thank Dr. Faust for turning me into a test subject, giving me enhanced senses. Had he not, I wouldn't know what happened.

"but I.. need to know, what kind of food you like the most.", he continued his sentence. "I only have a pack of bratwurst left in my house. If you want, you can come."