Gods Among Us v10 (IC|Superhero|Open)

[Anowa]

---

>>OOC<<

OP: Anowa
Co-OPs: Remnants of Exilvania
DISCORD

---

Cameron Oosthuizen - Crimson Raven
League of Twelve
4500 Beach 45th St, Coney Island, Brooklyn Borough, New York
April 11th 2022, 5:31 AM

The sound of rattling glass, shaking furniture, and loose sheets being thrown around the room was among the first sounds her ears registered, having subconsciously pushed herself upright in to a sitting position. The sounds of her phone blaring across the room was mixed with everything else, in a reminder to change her ring tone and either an alert that someone was calling or that she had set an alarm she had forgotten about.

In a mildly adrenaline fueled haze, the woman levitated herself out of bed and landed next to her dresser with a soft thump. Picking up her phone, a number of wounds began aching as consciousness finally caught up to her muscle and skin instead of just her brain.

Bringing the phone up to her ear she was reminded of the half dozen butterfly stitches she had pressed on to that side of her head the night before, "Hello?"

A robotic voice responded, "Hello. We've been trying to reach you about your car's extend-"

"Oh, fuck off." the woman unceremoniously hung up and tossed her phone back on to her dresser.

Rubbing her head she opened her eyes and turned towards her bed, and frowned at the mass amount of blood on it... and became aware that it was also coating her back. A cursory examination revealed it was from a bullet wound on her back she didn't properly deal with, rather than an incredibly early period.

A few steps proved to be more painful than it was worth it so the superhero levitated across the upper floor of her house to the bathroom. Craning around to spot the only partially healed hole on her back, she frowned. Sighing, she grabbed a pair of forceps from a tin full of barbasol and rather abruptly shoved it in to the wound, feeling metal on metal about half an inch in. Grasping it, she yanked it out with a ripple of pain through her body, groaning in pain.

Bringing it around to get a better look, she recognised the .44 Magnum round. One of now three she missed last night, the other two having struck her in the left tricep and lat. She tossed the round in to an empty coffee tin set on the counter and grabbed a rag to press in to the wound. It'd be fully healed in maybe a couple of hours, scabbed over in 20 minutes, considering it was partially healed by the time she yanked the thing out. Cameron had dealt with digging out healed over bullets before, it wasn't fun.

Turning back to face the mirror, she took in the few other wounds she had received last night. The slash across the right side of her head, had healed for the most part, besides being a bit pink. A full depth stab wound that caught her blindsided had gone through the whole of her left firearm, that too was healing well. The welts and bruises from being rattled by a trio of 3D printed fully automatic rifles were still barely visible, but compared to the weeping sores they left last night, it was a major improvement. Her left thigh was still on the tail end of the brown-yellow stage, thanks to the 10 gauge deer slug that nearly blew a hole in to her femur.

She was thankful to Anthony that the suit he made her was self healing, because she sure as shit couldn't sew whatever it was made of. Pulling the rag away she cast a glance and noticed the blood on it was starting to gel, and so tossed it in to a pile beside the bathtub. Walking back out, her phone started yelling again.

Making her way over, she picked it up and answered, "Hello?"

The reverberating gravel she knew as Alexander came from the other end, "You were out again last night, weren't you?"

She sighed, Alex was always exceedingly good at discerning how someone was based on how they talked, or breathed, "Yeah. Would it kill you to use your phone like a normal person?"

"It's less likely to be damaged when it's embedded in my chest."

"It also make you sound like you smoke 2 packs a day. How are things?"

She could almost hear the man nod, "Good. Anthony supposedly has a meeting up in Detroit, Arthur supposedly has gone off to Germany for... some reason."

"One?"

"One doesn't have a phone. But if we haven't heard of the Academy being nuked, he's fine."

"Right, and how about you?" The doorbell rang in response, "Right, let me get dressed."

Setting the phone down and closing her bedroom door, she could hear the front door being unlocked and the half a ton man step in as he did his usual thing of making a key out of bone on the spot.

A few minutes later and both were in the kitchen, the TV silently turning out the morning news. Osteo's bone plating had been pelled back along his head partially for a more personal conversation, and partially because of cookies. It was a grim appearance, since any form of melanin, carotene, and chromataphores were a waste of resources, the man's squishy skin was translucent, and his eye sockets retained their one way orange coating.

"The South Americans got thrashed a few weeks back. Not a lot of them left."

Cameron swallowed, more wondering if she should add more flour for the next batch, "We know who did it?"

"No, best the local gov could do was a rough description. If I didn't know any better I'd say they were describing me, except I don't have antlers. They said it fled though."

"Probably another one of Apocalypse's experiments." she shook her head, "I'm fucking astounded that we're still finding his old hideouts."

Alexander shrugged, "Say what you will about the man, he certainly had a plan despite what people think. Makes you wonder about why he attacked San Fransisco the way he did."

Crimson's ear caught something on the TV, as did Osteo. Both shared a look, it was go time.

[Remnants of Exilvania]

New York City
Lower Manhattan
Wealth and Savings Bank (Don't bother looking, I made it up)

The City That Never Sleeps was an apt name for New York City. Street lights, billboards, an endless stream of cars on its streets even at in the early morning and the sidewalks filled with some pedestrians even at this early hour. Commuters heading to work and joggers for the most part. As such there were plenty of witnesses to the lone rider that slowly trotted through the city, bringing a cold April night air with him. For most he likely didn't qualify as much more than a curiosity of the vibrant city, perhaps some sort of street performer, the old, worn down uniform from the revolutionary war era lending credence to this, a multitude of smartphones and the like likely already posting pictures of him online. Not that the rider cared or even knew what a smartphone was.

He rode untill he had reached the Wealth and Savings Bank office in Lower Manhattan, the headquarters of an old bank that had existed here, in this very place, for at least 2 centuries, if not more. The once small building of brick and mortar had turned into a towering skyscraper of glass and steel, its shape blocking out the light of the OC the early morning sun and the fading moon and stars.

The rider had no eyes for the moon and the stars or the sun. In fact, he had no eyes at all yet still moved with the uncanny precision of someone who was very aware of his surroundings as he dismounted and rose to his full height of 6 feet. An impressive display, if macabre due to the fact that these 6 feet were achieved with the stump of his neck. Had his head still been attached, he undoubtedly might've even gained another full foot.

As it stood however, the now dismounted, lonesome rider stood before the closed doors of the closed Wealth and Savings bank which, like most banks, was closed at this early hour. An obstacle, albeit only a minor one, the glass doors definitely not keeping him back when he took his axe from his back and swung it against them in one mighty swoop, the glass shattering upon contact and the alarms being set off, the pedestrians who had merely looked on finally realising that perhaps this was no mere performer afterall, compliments turning into cries of terror as some fled while others, ever stupid, continued to film with their cameras.

Not that the headless man cared about either pedestrians or alarms, simply making his way into the bank and looking for the ATMs to which he headed without hesitation.

"Hey, stop right there!"

, someone would shout at him, a security guard on his night shift, no doubt called up by the alarm that kept blaring through the building and internally cursing about having been so close to finishing the shift without an issue. Yet the headless man would simply continue on his way to the ATMs and then...just begin hitting them with his axe, over and over again, tearing the thin metal apart in his attempt to get toward the cash stored within. Guards were of no concern to him.

Until the guard opened fire, several bullets impacting the headless man, their force sending him to stumble sideways for a moment before regaining his footing, the guard having emptied his magazine into him. With the guard desperately trying to reload in time, the headless man slowly, almost casually, raised a pistol that would've been considered an antique by most people, an ancient Mauser M712 and then proceeded to fire a five round burst into the poor guard, killing him instantly.

With this little issue taken care off, the headless man continued to tear apart his ATM of choice to the point he finally got to the cash, immediately proceeding to take large handfuls of it and stuffing it into what looked like a potato sack, a simple jute bag.

New York City
Empire State Building
Starcash Cafe

Unscheduled corporate duties. Oh how Catherine Powers loved it, when the Branch Manager would plop those down in her calendar all out of the blue like the incompetent moron he was. It made her regret not blackmailing harder for that position instead of the one she had ultimately chosen. But alas, the rational part of her mind already knew that it was for the best this way, at least right now. It had helped her get settled and not make too much of a blip on the radars of pretty much anyone which was for the best. Though considering that the League of 12 was still badly mangled, perhaps she could afford to cut the charade, at least in part. She could make that whimpering moron her new trashcan though she'd much prefer him out of sight after grinding his bones to dust between her fingers.

Her face showed nothing of the violent thoughts and images flitting through her mind, instead projecting the air of a calm, confident and ice cold woman as she occasionally nipped at her Latte. She didn't normally drink coffee, but figured that it was useful for appearances still.

With a sigh she put the Latte aside and checked her documents and notes again. She had heard about the recent talks about a possible cooperation between A.R.E.S and the RIG, a move that certainly made sense. The RIG was lacking in innovation and tech, something A.R.E.S had and with how badly shaken up A.R.E.S got by the League of 12, they were likely much easier to win over for cooperation now than ever before or after. Which appeared to be the reason for why a member of C.E.T.O, A.R.E.S energy subsidiary had come here, likely trying to take stock of RIG capacities in the US and what benefits they could bring if their two companies were to agree on the cooperation.

Drostan...some droll Scotsman. Well, at least he was from the best people of that cowardly island. Probably also not half as snobby as those English always were, Interestingly, she had very little information on this...Drostan...character, which was unusual as the RIG used tended to put together or request fairly extensive dossiers for such meetings. Was it due to the rush job forced onto her? She couldn't be sure but she would make sure to tell her Manager next time they met that she'd put any blame squarely on his shoulders, if she even left him alive.

"Drostan, Drostan, Drostan...let's hope this evening won't be a total waste."

[Latorik]

The Big Apple.

What a shithole.

James carefully maneuvered his way around yet another homeless person, gingerly stepping over the slumped silhouette. A small pinch of pity filled his heart for a moment and he considered scrounging around for any change before he was overcome by the voice of his unwanted passenger.

"Look at it, James." The Animist hissed. "A physical representation of the cancer your kind spread across this earth. A crude caricature of a jungle, formed from concrete and smog."

"Some people do actually call it a concrete jungle..." James mumbled in response as he pushed his way through the ever thickening crowd. That was one perk of this place, at least. Not many tended to stare when he started talking to himself out loud. He hadn't quite yet mastered the art of non-verbal communication with his... guest.

The Animist, sensing his discomfort, pounced. "You see it too, don't you, James? The Animist stated slyly. "You finally fully realize the extent of damage your kind has caused. Bring me forth and let us burn away these parasites for the good of the whole..."

James gritted his teeth, feeling his head pound in a rather familiar fashion. "Not happening." He snapped under his breath. "We're supposed to find those pigs. Kill them. Get out. It's dangerous enough that I'm back in the states as is. I let you go ham in New York-fucking city? You're dead. There's capes around every damn corner."

"I have killed these champions before, James. I can do so again."

"Amazon doesn't count."

A small silence.

"Fine. You are right." The Animist stated sullenly. "The lives of those responsible will have to do. But you know I cannot let this cancer grow forever, James"

"We're taking the heads of two big-shots, way up the corporate ladder." James said smoothly. "People'll be thinking twice before they go loitering once you string them up on some greatwood you materialize through a skyscraper."

"Assuming the information you received was accurate." The Animist replied.

"We've leaned on that guy before, he's never led us wrong."

"But you don't trust him." The Animist observed.

"Trust is a dangerous game in this business." James whistled, holding up a hand. This worked in the movies, at least.

Well, whaddya know?

"Where are we going?" The Animist questioned.

"Central Park." James replied. "Figured you'd want some time to get used to the feel of the place in case stuff starts to sour."

The cab driver stared at him for a minute.

James tapped his temple. "Little guy up here was getting a little antsy. He has a thing for nature, figured I'd humor him."

The driver turned around without so much as a word, joining the seemingly endless stream of jammed together cars.

Yeah, he had a feeling he'd fit in pretty good around these parts.

[Audunia]

New York
Upper Manhatten
Cyril Rizk, Historian

He woke late that morning. It wasn’t particularly difficult for him to do, since he both liked it and often went to bed early when time permitted, but when one has the voice of a several thousand year old god in your head that was prone to spurts of energy, you often got woken up early by that same voice. He couldn’t count the amount of times his dreams were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a heavily bearded man bursting through the sky to demand he wake up.

So the fact he’d woken up late confused him. Usually, it was to the sound of the voice demanding they set out, patrol the streets at dusk to fight any foe foolish enough to be committing crimes at that time, but now it was silence. He was almost afraid that the voice had gone entirely.

“Atlas?” he asked, stretching as he got out of bed. There wasn’t an immediate response, no cause for concern right away, Cyril reckoned holding up the sky, whatever that meant, took a certain amount of concentration. A scar on his arm throbbed as he remembered the time Atlas had to depart to regain himself, leaving Cyril facing three criminals on his own. Wasn’t a particularly pretty sight.

He made his way through the apartment, relatively tidy aside from a handful of books that lay messily on top of one another and the chair he’d dedicated to clothes just taken out of the washing machine. He chided himself, he had meant to replace those clothes days ago. Figuring he’d do it later, he made himself some breakfast, a nice bowl of ful his mother had prepared for him. He smiled as he smelt the dish, reminding him of home.

YES/? the voice of Atlas boomed out, the sudden appearance spooking Cyril enough that some of his Ful fell to the floor.

“Sure, show up now, why don’t you” he grumbled, kneeling down and cleaning the mess up.

”YOU SAID YOU REQUIRED PEACE TODAY[“ Atlas replied, his voice deep and resonant. It was a bizarre sensation, as though every vibration from the words were racing along his spine.

Placing the mess in the bin, Cyril looked up to the ceiling, vaguely guessing the direction Atlas would be “And that has never stopped you before waking me up at silly o’clock” he shot back. He scoffed down the ful before washing and changing. Simple smart attire, nice pair of trousers and a shirt, light jacket in case it rained. He had to look somewhat presentable today, he had a number of tours scheduled to explore the Institute today, something that would no doubt leave him tired, even without the presence of Atlas communicating with him constantly “But thank you for the silence” he added after a non-considerable amount of time.

[i]”QUITE ALRIGHT, DEAR BOY. THE ARCHON OF THE BUILDING THINKS YOU ARE GOING INSANE, TALKING TO YOURSELF ALL THE TIME”[/u] Atlas responded, his tone lacking any sort of sarcasm or hint of selfawareness that he was the source of the suspicion. Cyril sighed, that’s just how it was to beings like that. He packed lightly, only a chick and lettuce sandwich with some snacks to last for the next few hours. He departed the building, waving goodbye to the receptionist, who Atlas insisted on calling Archon despite the amount of times Cyril explained that he didn’t own the building. Exiting, he made his way to Lower Manhatten to his work. The Ancient Greek Institute of Archaelogical and Historical Scholarship, a decently sized building based in one of those modern architectural buildings, all waves and windows, that he never quite liked the look of.

[Mandicoria]

New York, Nikolai's Bar
4:50 AM
Krovi

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A man impatiently drummed his fingers on the bar countertop. A deep sigh coming from him as he groggily ordered another drink, hiccuping with two raised fingers. Followed by another two shots of a clear spirit being set down in front of him. With a puff of smoke coming from him before he took down the two shots within mere moments, reeling from the strength of his liquor. A chuckle coming from him as he slid a handful of twenty dollar bills across the counter. Another puff of smoke coming from him. "Tonight was long night, Nikolai. Another one-" The man mumbled out, completely drunk.

"Yeah, I understand Fyodor. Coming right up, uhh, lemme guess... Another girl?" The Barman asked with a slight chuckle, sliding the money to himself. "You can spare the details this time, that last one... Oof, the thing you did with her neck-"

"Mhm, this one I just dealt with and dumped in the river. Cute thing too, daughter of one of my workers. Knew too much though, walked in on-" The man tried to finish his mutter, before a bright light was seen out the window. Causing the man to draw his pistol without second thought. Turning his gaze right at the door.

The light outside faded, with the accompanying sound of a loud CRASH echoing through the windows. Likely a car accident... or something very angry being right outside. A few moments of silence passed before a loud beating of boots and rattling metal could be heard outside. With the barman immediately grabbing his shotgun, and aiming it right at the door with his comrade. The sounds of stomping coming closer to the door, but with no visible figure. All until... nothing. No more footsteps, only the sound of the rain outside and the bar jukebox blaring in the background.

CRASH

Then suddenly a loud amount of banging and crashing from the kitchen. Followed by screaming of the cook within. Causing both men to shoot up, aiming their guns to the kitchen door. With the very booming footsteps from outside now being heard in the kitchen. With a small pool of red then leaking from under the door.

"S-Sergei?! Fuck, FUCK!" The Barman shouted before firing a single shot right at the door. Racking the pump after their shot, an eerie silence then taking over. His mannerism becoming straight panicked at this point. "Fuck, fuck, you think it's a hit?"

"No-" The Drunken man hiccuped, drunkenly aiming his gun at the door. "No clue, man fuck... If this is-"

Both men would be cut short with the wall being smashed through by a massive refrigeration unit. The machine hitting the barman, causing them to blindly blast their shotgun up in the air. Kicking up extreme amounts of dust from broken drywall and ceiling tile. Causing the drunken man to fall down, becoming a coughing mess as he tried to take cover behind the bar. Tears rolling down his face as he tried to pear around, just to make out ANYTHING that could be lurking within. Whoever it was, clearly meant business... Then came the footsteps again. This time, thunderous BANGS of boots and equipment. With no audible breathing. Only now, they were slower, methodical... and getting closer to Fyodor.

"Fuck... fuck..." He muttered to himself, shaking as he backed up. Aiming his firearm up at whoever could be approaching as the dust settled. Tears rolling right down his face in full effect as the fear of god was firmly placed in this man. "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?! ARE YOU THE GIRL'S FRIEND OR SOMETHING?! YOU WITH THE GODDAMN ITAL- Oh my god... no NO NO-"

Screams echoed out as the dust settled, revealing something from the man's deepest nightmares. Towering over him was an armored a kitted up behemoth. Visible bones, and skeleton through shredded military fabric and body armor. Fist clenched as its horrific gaze met the man's.

BANG, BANG, BANG

Three loud gunshots echoed out, before the sounds of screaming became whimpering... Then... Nothing. The front door being kicked down as the skeletal figure emerged, completely covered in red as it soaked in the rain. Lights turning back on to reveal it from the darkness, followed by clapping. Multiple men in suits waiting under umbrellas watched. Each one looking quite pleased with the performance.

"Excellent work Kristina." One of the men chuckled. "You just single handedly killed some of the Russian Mob's best men left in this part of the city... How about we say, get you back to station and debrief yeah?"

The smug, cold words of the man were only met by a glare from the skeletal figure. A slow nod coming from them as they approached the vehicles. The City now being somewhat safer, and some anger finally burnt off for the night. As the cars drove off, all that could be heard as police sirens grew closer. Was the bar's still functioning jukebox, blasting old classics out into the dead streets.

[The Imperial Warglorian Empire]

Biddeford, Maine
Adler Rhein—The Cleric
Sometime at midnight
The desk slammed up against the door as the four men pushing it jumped away, guns in hand. Behind them, two men and a woman, one of them distinctly well dressed, watched worriedly behind another table, a computer desktop laid upon it.

"There, that oughta hold him!"

"That oughta-?!! The freak's killed ten of our people, you knucklehead! A flimsy ass door ain't gonna hold him, keep your guns on it!" The well-dressed man barked, panic on his face as he turned to one of the goons hunched over the computer. "Where the hell is he?"

The other goon, an Uzi laid by the table next to him, typed on the computer. Switching applications, she accessed the building's cameras, only to show static. "It's no use, boss, all the cameras are disabled. That's probably how he got in-"

"I don't care, get 'em back up or I-"

A muffled gunshot erupted one second, wood splintering the next as a bullet blasted through the door and right into one of the goon's heads, dead centre.

"Shit! Move outta the way!" The three goons rushed to the sides. Pandemonium commenced as four of the goons returned fire, absolutely shredding through the door and filling the hallway on the other side with bullets. For a minute, deafening thunder was all that filled the room. Four unceremonious clicks signified the end of the gunfire as they quickly reloaded their arms.

"H- he couldn't have survived that, right?" One of the goons clattered out, pistol still aimed at the door. The well-dressed man, lowering the hands from his ears, looked just as weary.

"Abigail, keep on that computer! Daron, get over there, see whether we got the creep."

Daron shakily nodded from the side of the room as he stood up and began edging slowly towards the door. The silence would have been deafening if not for the large, loud air conditioning vent in the middle of the room's ceiling, its cool air doing nothing to alleviate the buckets of sweat that went down Daron's, or as a matter of fact everyone's, face as he got closer and closer....

CRASH!

Everyone jumped as the aircon's vent hit the ground, a figure quickly following it. Adler Rhein, clad in the distinct black suit of the Clerics and his specialised mask over his face, landed in the room with a slam.

Time seemed to slow, the goons around the room reacting at a snail's pace as Adler assessed the situation. He saw the three men before him, one in the middle and two on the sides. A panicked footstep, sliding against the marble floor with a squeak, alerted him to another goon behind him, likely instinctively stepping back in the room's corner.

With this information, he acted. His left gun rose and fired at the left the goon's still turned back. He manoeuvred his right gun behind him, not even bothering to look as he took the shot, a shout of pain confirming his kill. A slight adjustment of his left arm's aim saw the gunman on the right quickly dispatched, before both guns trained on the now fully turned Daron, his shock replaced with pain as two bullets smashed him into the door behind him.

In a flash, four of the room's occupants lay dead on the floor.

CA-CHINK. The sound of a gun's charging handle being raked reached Adler's ears.

"Mini Uzi, nine millimetre. Nine hundred-fifty rounds per minute."

Adler ducked as the Uzi began firing, a storm of speeding bullets just barely missing his body. Turning on his heel, practically gliding across the pristine floor, the former assassin turned around just as fast and fired, hitting the assailant dead centre as the woman smacked against the wall and slid down onto the floor.

And then there were two. The well-dressed man backed up against the wall as he silently approached, gun raised.

"W- w-wait! We can work something out! Who hired you? It was the Canadians, weren’t it? Those syrup sucking shit sacks—I’ll give you double what they paid you! Triple!” They were practically face to face now. “P-p-please don’t kill m-“

The gun smacked against the man’s temple, the well-dressed man crumpling to the ground like a puppet. Finally in complete silence, Adler worked quickly, taking out some cable ties and binding both the man’s arms and legs together.

The target secured, his attention turned to the computer. Ducking down, he grabbed the side of the computer tower and ripped it off, disconnecting and taking the hard drive inside. Pocketing it, he threw his new captive over onto his shoulder and stood up, his work almost finished. Only one thing remained.

Adler turned to the woman who lay against the wall, her hands desperately clutched over her bullet wound, blood leaking out, a sickening metallic smell filling the air. She looked up at the dark figure who now stood over her, face pale and filled with fear.

“P-please.” She offered pathetically, strength leaving her with every second.

He didn’t respond, only staring silently. Slowly, he raised his pistol.

Several hours later
As quiet as a mouse, Adler expertly swung himself through the window into the humble living room, a small television still on. Closing the window, the curtain, and ensuring he had not been followed, he pressed a button on the side of his mask, the advanced piece of facial wear folding in on itself, revealing a pair of cold green eyes, still alert and constantly shifting. He removed the collar-like instrument that his mask had collapsed into, pocketing it away before going over to the television.

"...BREAKING NEWS! Just hours ago the infamous Capo Sylvester "Sally" Balbo, leader of the Patriarca Crime Family's Maine branch, was arrested by police authorities, along with evidence incriminating both Balbo and other key members of the Patriarca mob to a string of recent murders and break-ins. It's reported that both Balbo and the evidence were supposedly brought in by a mysterious third party contractor. Though police have refused to comment, it is speculated that this 'contractor' is the same contractor linked to the Charlottesville Massacre, where several high ranking members of a Neo-Nazi terrorist conspiracy were assassinated duri-"

Adler turned off the television before one of his pockets vibrated. He removed a phone from his pocket, unlocking it, revealing a single message from an unknown number.

Code: Select all

BOUNTY RETRIEVAL CONFIRMED. FUNDS HAVE BEEN TRANSFERRED TO YOUR ACCOUNT. PLEASURE DOING BUSINESS WITH YOU.

Re-pocketing the phone, he was just about to head to the bathroom until something else caught his eye. On the small window-side table which typically also served as their dinner table was a wrapped up burger ("A Burger Lord Massive Macky" he registered) presented on a plate, along with what he assumed was once a full set of fries, now reduced to a few disparate pieces and crumbs, as well as a large soda. Adler picked up a note which lay beside it:

"Brought back some leftovers. No nuggets and couldn't resist the fries, soz. Know a great cafe near here. Once you less tired and sta stinky, we should go!
-Clara

The stone-cold emotionless facade broke as a small smile appeared on Adler's face, eyes bright with fondness. Without further gusto, he began removing his gloves in preparation to dig into his cold, soggy, early morning dinner.

---

New York City
Empire State Building
Starcash Cafe

Unscheduled corporate duties. Oh how Catherine Powers loved it, when the Branch Manager would plop those down in her calendar all out of the blue like the incompetent moron he was. It made her regret not blackmailing harder for that position instead of the one she had ultimately chosen. But alas, the rational part of her mind already knew that it was for the best this way, at least right now. It had helped her get settled and not make too much of a blip on the radars of pretty much anyone which was for the best. Though considering that the League of 12 was still badly mangled, perhaps she could afford to cut the charade, at least in part. She could make that whimpering moron her new trashcan though she'd much prefer him out of sight after grinding his bones to dust between her fingers.

Her face showed nothing of the violent thoughts and images flitting through her mind, instead projecting the air of a calm, confident and ice cold woman as she occasionally nipped at her Latte. She didn't normally drink coffee, but figured that it was useful for appearances still.

With a sigh she put the Latte aside and checked her documents and notes again. She had heard about the recent talks about a possible cooperation between A.R.E.S and the RIG, a move that certainly made sense. The RIG was lacking in innovation and tech, something A.R.E.S had and with how badly shaken up A.R.E.S got by the League of 12, they were likely much easier to win over for cooperation now than ever before or after. Which appeared to be the reason for why a member of C.E.T.O, A.R.E.S energy subsidiary had come here, likely trying to take stock of RIG capacities in the US and what benefits they could bring if their two companies were to agree on the cooperation.

Drostan...some droll Scotsman. Well, at least he was from the best people of that cowardly island. Probably also not half as snobby as those English always were, Interestingly, she had very little information on this...Drostan...character, which was unusual as the RIG used tended to put together or request fairly extensive dossiers for such meetings. Was it due to the rush job forced onto her? She couldn't be sure but she would make sure to tell her Manager next time they met that she'd put any blame squarely on his shoulders, if she even left him alive.

"Drostan, Drostan, Drostan...let's hope this evening won't be a total waste."

Starcash Cafe
Empire State Building, New York
Drostan Roderick—Head Research Supervisor of C.E.T.O
"...and that's why we're here—to bring advanced, cheap, and most of all clean energy to every American home. And not just in America, but everywhere in the world! Soon enough pollution, energy poverty and fuel shortages will be a thing of the past! But to do that we need your help! Because you, you're the lifeblood of this world." The figure on the huge wall screen, hands folded in front of him with various scientists and engineers busy in the background, finished. "Remember, buy clean, buy power."

The figure disappeared, replaced by a trident logo and a charming female voice. "C.E.T.O, a subsidiary of A.R.E.S: the power of Gods in the hands of man."

Drostan McCullen, as of right now Drostan Roderick, watched as the huge plasma screen on the side of a building switched to another video, some advertisement about Kaiser Kola. With that, he continued down the busy street toward his destination. He slipped one of his hands out of his pristine leather jacket, adjusting the tight yet fashionable black turtleneck he wore under it, as well as the wire-ey glasses he wore on his face. It was no three-piece custom-tailored suit, he could tell you, but it was roguishly stylish in its own way.

Of course, under his cover job he couldn't exactly be seen throwing money around willy nilly, now could he? No, the last thing he needed was to draw suspicion to himself in America—it was refreshing, going to a continent where he didn't have to look over his shoulder every few seconds. Of course, typically he wouldn't be running errands like this, but frankly, he was far too interested in this proposition to simply let it go.

The prospects of a joint partnership between ARES and RIG were massive—his company needed a piggyback after the whole scandal debacle, and he no longer had the resources he once possessed to continue funding its economic dominance. Dark thoughts filled his head, thoughts at the prospect of those who'd destroyed everything he'd worked towards, particularly one man, before he waved them away.

"No, no, get a grip Drostan: business first, blood satiating later."

Where was he? Oh yes, least to say a partnership would be extremely profitable, it was too important not to invest at least some personal time into. Which is why, with a simple phone call back to the old HQ in Glasgow, he'd been assigned to represent ARES in this meeting.

Now, of course, that wasn't all that interested him. Catherine Powers was an intriguing character, to say the least, in more ways than the obvious two. Typically, Drostan could get such thorough info from his criminal contacts in such a short time that even the CIA would become green with envy. And yet, there were some rather sizeable gaps when it came to this Catherine character: supposedly a natural-born US Citizen, her abrupt appearance in the records, which were of honestly pretty bloody questionable quality to his own trained criminal eyes, were dubious. Even more so was her as-abrupt elevation in RIG, from nobody to head PR manager; he couldn't even find the bloody resume she'd used to get hired!

No, this was a character with history, and it wasn't every day Drostan could meet a living mystery. He had to see her with his own eyes.

Plus, she was real a looker—seemingly a Lesbian though, according to her marriage history. Why were the hot ones always either taken or gay? Oh, woe upon this poor Scotsman!

Interrupting his own mock wallowing, Drostan sighted the Empire State Building and soon enough had entered the designated Starcash Cafe. It wasn't hard to find his contact—all he had to do was follow the gazes of lustful men and jealous, though sometimes also lustful, women. He had to admit, Catherine Powers looked every bit as stunning as her photos had portrayed.

Putting on a bright genial smile, Drostan approached the RIG representative's table. "Excuse me, Ms Catherine Powers?" he said, pretending as if he didn't already know who she was. "Drostan Roderick, Head Supervisor at CETO, it's a pleasure to meet you."

He extended his hand out. "Catherine, Catherine, Catherine...I sincerely hope you won't waste my time."

[Window Land]

New York US DMA Office
Samuel "Sam" Hutchinson - Pheidippides

Ring Ring. Sam jumped up from the report he was reading. He answered his phone, it was his boss calling.
"You busy Sam?"
"Not really, just reading the report on the mess in Brazil."
"Good, now suit up. We're getting reports of a headless horseman robbing the Wealth and Savings Bank down in lower manhattan."
"A... headless horseman?"
"That's what the 911 dispatcher's saying. We'll hopefully have something more concrete soon. Anyway, you know the drill. Once you're suited up, meet down at the garage, we should be ready to start hauling stuff out to the bank in just a few minutes."
"Alright."
"Oh, and Sam- try not to get yourself killed, I'll have to deal with an awful lot of paperwork if you do."
Sam chuckled. "Alright, boss, see you later."
"Bye."
Sam hung up. Well, this is going to be interesting, he thought, as he changed into his armor, a headless horseman. I didn't expect I'd have to deal with anything like that this far from Halloween. Sam quickly finished putting on his armor, then headed down to the garage, where they'd hopefully be ready to head out to the bank.

[Endem]

Prototype TO-1
Sometimes known as Jason.

Hell is a large warehouse somewhere in upstate New York. Specifically between two Humvees within said warehouse.

Sometimes he wished his nose could still itch, if only to have something physical to rage at. He wished for a lot of things though, almost all of which would be miracles. He had sometimes wondered, if this was the purgatory, and he was suffering for what he had to do in Afghanistan. He apologized in his mind to every combatant, he apologized many times, he apologized because he had nothing else to do. He was the driver when it happened, so he also apologized to his squadmates in his mind. To Puff, Marsh, Tire, Clancy.

On second thought, no, still f*ck Clancy. "100% sure this is an IED free road." As if those exist.

A rat scurried somewhere across the floor roughly a hundred meters away. He knew the moment it moved, he could hear, somewhat see, and smell the thing, he could probably even taste it if he concentrated enough. His name was Gilbert. Gilbert would die soon, the guards caught onto him. Maybe he'd at least converse with the exterminator.

He could consider himself lucky, he was seated just before a camera which the guards monitored. So he was monitored at all times of day. An honor really, that he couldn't move without raising an alarm by the guards. This wasn't a hit indie horror game after all. One of the Humvees near him had a deflated tire. He always wanted to correct it. He couldn't without frying his brain. What did Eisenhower say about the military industrial complex again? All that and they couldn't get one tire of one armored car fixed.

He still rued the day he signed that goddamn piece of paper. Last thing his family heard him say was "I'll walk again!" He wished he wouldn't have to walk again. He wished he would still be a one armed dependant with a f*cked up face, at least he'd be free to go wherever the wheelchair allowed. Now he couldn't go anywhere

Jason got his gun. The new cult film, a modern reimagining of a classic. He liked to imagine the poster.

Combat was only ever a couple seconds long, down time was usually 259 200 seconds long. It has been about that long, they were still not coming. One day, he will be posted in some African backwater, without cell service and he'll liberate himself. Or shot, but that worked too.

One of his muscles that was once attached to an eyelid slumped somewhat. He suddenly felt a new dose of stimulant rush into him, his veins, through his heart. No sleep, rest was artificial, downtime was bad, need to be always ready for action. When will the action come? He would even take the usual couple seconds.

A red rubber ball bounced off the door of one of the vehicles. Hah! He wished, he was so desperate to start imagining time consumers.

Which part of being a super-soldier included being bored out of his mind two thirds of a week between bursts of adrenaline? Apparently every part. He wondered why they couldn't just ship him off to some PMC or something so he'd get constant action. Ah right, bad PR, if he could he'd appeal to Human Resources. Tough that wouldn't work he was technically a contractor, or property.

He was a sack of organs submerged in some liquid.

Sometimes he wished that this was only a cocoon, and one day it would crack to reveal a new body for him. Metal doesn't crack though, at least not normally, and he wasn't an insect. At least he hoped he wasn't one yet. Who knew if they modified him since his last look in a mirror.

It was currently 4:20 A.M. his internal clock dutifully told him. Incredibly funny.

The lights switched on. Finally. Someone was coming. He heard the gate be opened, and a couple of boots strolled through the rows of equipment. Wait, they stopped. Turned around, a couple steps back. Didn't even have the courtesy to say hi. Though, he was technically a piece of equipment, and only crazy people talk to equipment.

He felt someone watching him. It was always an intense feeling somewhere in the back of his skull. Maybe just someone placed their finger on the trigger. Whatever, he now knew it was actually go time.

Two suits with UN pins and IRIS pins stepped into his vision. He didn't lift his head, he knew the whole charade through and through. Only react when spoken to.

"TO-1 we have a new assignment for you."

He stood up.

It was go time. And he would, for the time being, exit the warehouse that is hell somewhere in upstate New York.

[Remnants of Exilvania]

New York City
Empire State Building
Starcash Cafe

When talked to, Catherine would first check her wristwatch, before turning around to look at her contact, her cool gaze taking him in from the soles of his shoes all the way up to his hair. His sense of fashion was good though perhaps he was colourblind because she would never have picked this colour for the suit. Overall he had an unkempt but good look, a sort of roguish charm. Not her kind of style but...passable. Meanwhile her face slid into her much practiced propaganda face, something she had been trained for when the Reich still existed. As the crowning achievment of the Third Reich's metahuman program, she would have been on posters, troop visits and where not and had of course had to study a public persona that was befitting for these occasion. A persona she found very fitting in the PR and Marketing business.

"Yes, that is me. Do take a seat, Mr. Roderick, I am certain we have much to discuss."

After a curt handshake and getting seated, she'd get straight to the point and ask:

"So, tell me, Mr. Roderick, why would A.R.E.S send a member of its clean and renewable energy focused subsidiary here? I hope you are aware that, among others, we heavily deal in fossil fuils like coal, gas and oil? It is a very interesting tactic to come here, some could've seen it as a threat to our primary business venues."

It was an interesting opening and one meant to throw him off-balance. The little information on him bothered her and it did indeed feel strange that a clean energy representative would come here to negotiate. It would be interesting to see how he would handle this right off the bat.

[The Imperial Warglorian Empire]

New York City
Empire State Building
Starcash Cafe

When talked to, Catherine would first check her wristwatch, before turning around to look at her contact, her cool gaze taking him in from the soles of his shoes all the way up to his hair. His sense of fashion was good though perhaps he was colourblind because she would never have picked this colour for the suit. Overall he had an unkempt but good look, a sort of roguish charm. Not her kind of style but...passable. Meanwhile her face slid into her much practiced propaganda face, something she had been trained for when the Reich still existed. As the crowning achievment of the Third Reich's metahuman program, she would have been on posters, troop visits and where not and had of course had to study a public persona that was befitting for these occasion. A persona she found very fitting in the PR and Marketing business.

"Yes, that is me. Do take a seat, Mr. Roderick, I am certain we have much to discuss."

After a curt handshake and getting seated, she'd get straight to the point and ask:

"So, tell me, Mr. Roderick, why would A.R.E.S send a member of its clean and renewable energy focused subsidiary here? I hope you are aware that, among others, we heavily deal in fossil fuils like coal, gas and oil? It is a very interesting tactic to come here, some could've seen it as a threat to our primary business venues."

It was an interesting opening and one meant to throw him off-balance. The little information on him bothered her and it did indeed feel strange that a clean energy representative would come here to negotiate. It would be interesting to see how he would handle this right off the bat.

Drostan's eyebrow quirked up. Well, right to business then, though if the abrupt accusation was supposed to catch him off guard, it was a decent attempt. Though it was nothing compared to some of the bastards he'd had to deal with underground—his favourite was the Liberian warlords. The whole "shooting your own subordinates out of nowhere while talking business" tactic never failed to make him smile.

"Well, Ms Powers." Drostan leaned back in his chair. "As you know, ARES is situated in Europe, as is its customer base—CETO is the only subsidiary of ARES that has established a firm branch in America. Therefore American business affairs, at least for the moment, lie under CETO's jurisdiction when it comes to representation for the conglomerate as a whole. This prospective deal of ours presents a great big economic opportunity for both our parties, but we felt breaking typical jurisdictional etiquette to be unnecessary."

"Besides, these Americans are awfully fickle about international reputation." Drostan leaned forward, arms on the table as he met Catherine's gaze. "Considering both our parent organisations' rather...how should I say it? Murky reputations in Europe, having them talk directly on American soil is somewhat unwise. CETO has no such stigma—we've enjoyed a clean, excuse the pun, and profitable venture here in the United States for a good number of years now. This way, the scrutiny of our deal talks here is halved, at least on my side of the coin."

"And I'm sure at the end of the day, the profit margin this deal presents far outweighs any perceived threat, real or imagined, wouldn't you say? Once our assets are combined, we'll be free to talk real face to real face here in America—our reputation with either the American people or the American government will no longer be of concern."

Adjusting his glasses, Drostan moved his hands into his inner jacket's pocket, brushing by a polymer handle to remove a few documents he had folded. "That's why we're here, after all, to talk prospects of partnership! I'm sure RIG has as much to offer us as ARES does to offer it, don't you think?"

[Latorik]

New York City
Empire State Building
Starcash Cafe

"Places like that sicken me, James. The Animist snarled. Seems Central Park hadn't cheered it up at all. Shame. "A disgusting domestication of nature, perfectly cultivated for the sick 'aesthetic' of parasites"

Saying James was a beginner at mental communication was an understatement. It was weird, trying to form words in his headspace. Very unnatural. But he'd fit in alot less if he started babbling to nobody in public. Especially with what was about to follow. The last thing he needed was for them to connect him as the Animist's host. Far as the world was concerned, James had died in the Amazon.

"I know." James soothed as he exited the cab, stepping through the doors and into the enormous skyscraper "But if things go south, we'll need to use it as a fallback point. Needed to get you acclimated so we weren't on a backfoot, y'know?"

The spirit made a non-committal noise in response, falling silent as they came into sight of their targets. Drostan. 'Clean' energy rep. European. Could smell the douchiness from here. Lady was a real looker, PR manager. Kathy? Kat? Catherine? Something like that. She was of secondary importance.

A pretty sort, though.

The Animist's voice came back in full force. "Do not fall to your baser instincts, James." The nature spirit scoffed. "While normally I would approve of attempting courting rituals, the continued procreation of parasites would only cause the problem we face to grow. Only when the numbers of your kind are brought down to a more manageable manner will you be allowed to seek a suitable mate." A slight pause. "And this one is simply...she is... hmm. I believe the term your kind use is 'out of your league?'

"Prick." James breathed aloud, taking a seat not too far from where the two corporate stooges were having their little chat. He stood out among these young stockbrokers and business people. Should've gotten a suit. Went for the 'goofy tourist look' instead. White t-shirt, 'I heart New York' in big broad letters. A light windbreaker tossed over his shoulders. He breathed in, then out. Drummed his fingers on the table, ordered a coffee. Didn't taste it.

Almost show time.

[Remnants of Exilvania]

New York City
Empire State Building
Starcash Cafe


"Given a series of wars and scandals recently, reputation in and of the United States seems to have dropped greatly. Still, it is an excellent market."

, Catherine interjected, though otherwise let Drostan say his piece. He certainly held his ground well and smoothly went into the business aspects. Still, there were parts of his speech that seemed...off. But for the moment she'd let that slide, instead focusing on her own reply that came swiftly, after a crystal clear laugh:

"You have quite the way with words, Mr. Roderick. Are you certain you aren't misplaced in research?

Either way, profit margins are indeed calculated to soar, combining A.R.E.S know-how and RIG resources for joint ventures is very much within our interests.

As such I've been authorised to offer C.E.T.O a production plant in Texas and an office in New York, alongside a generous investment of 500 million US Dollar. The RIG wants C.E.T.O and by extension A.R.E.S to know that it is willing to invest a great deal in this partnership."

Catherine sipped from her Latte, keeping her eyes on the Scotsman as she did so. It'd be interesting to see how he'd react to the offer. Perhaps just take it? Or already making counter offers? In either case she pulled out several files from her bag and placed them on the table. One detailed the property in Texas, a former oil refinery by the looks of it. The other detailed the office which was situated a little outside prime New York downtown.

[The Imperial Warglorian Empire]

New York City
Empire State Building
Starcash Cafe


"Given a series of wars and scandals recently, reputation in and of the United States seems to have dropped greatly. Still, it is an excellent market."

, Catherine interjected, though otherwise let Drostan say his piece. He certainly held his ground well and smoothly went into the business aspects. Still, there were parts of his speech that seemed...off. But for the moment she'd let that slide, instead focusing on her own reply that came swiftly, after a crystal clear laugh:

"You have quite the way with words, Mr. Roderick. Are you certain you aren't misplaced in research?

Either way, profit margins are indeed calculated to soar, combining A.R.E.S know-how and RIG resources for joint ventures is very much within our interests.

As such I've been authorised to offer C.E.T.O a production plant in Texas and an office in New York, alongside a generous investment of 500 million US Dollar. The RIG wants C.E.T.O and by extension A.R.E.S to know that it is willing to invest a great deal in this partnership."

Catherine sipped from her Latte, keeping her eyes on the Scotsman as she did so. It'd be interesting to see how he'd react to the offer. Perhaps just take it? Or already making counter offers? In either case she pulled out several files from her bag and placed them on the table. One detailed the property in Texas, a former oil refinery by the looks of it. The other detailed the office which was situated a little outside prime New York downtown.

"Well, pa always told me I had a snake's tongue." He also remembered how it wasn't meant as a compliment, the absolute bastard.

He looked at the documents. The Texas facility was a nice touch, he'd wanted to have a foothold in the Lone Star state for a while now. The office too was fairly prime real estate, it'd be a nice addition to their collection, perhaps one which ARES itself could move into later down the line.

"Well, as far as first dates go, this takes the cake." Drostan joked, returning the documents. "I'm sure my superiors will appreciate the offer."

He knew they would, he'd simply tell them to.

He placed a few documents of his own on the table, moving them over to her. "In return, I've been authorised to share with you an insight into some of our yet to be released products, to be read for consumption in your own time—I'm sure you'll find our new tesla rifle of particular interest, very useful in clearing out rooms, that or frying up some ham if you can't be bothered. I know a few unfortunate piggies who'd squeal to agree if they could."

"Think of it as a sampling of what ARES has to offer."

[Segral]

Dwayne Iya Dixon Jr.
Lifestyle Unisex Brooklyn // New York City // New York

---

It was a paltry gift. Thoughtful, but paltry. Who had he been kidding? The berth for the smiling young man had been set up just a few days ago, but gifts had already piled up past the brass frames and spilled over onto the nearby grass and stones. Teddy bears of all colors, shapes, and sizes. Handwritten letters, most of which were soaked and filthy down through the envelopes, swirling and piling in the nearest storm drain. Footballs, basketballs, and even a pair of Air Forces, stacked up and up to cover where a bundle of blue balloons had been weighted down. A few of the balloons had floated away, but most stayed, one of them bearing a message written in thin black Sharpie.

"I'M SORRY"

Even where there were flowers, they outclassed Dwayne's. Thick, full bouquets of roses, tulips, daisies, even sunflowers, so many flowers that the man's pictures had to fight for center stage attention. All he had was a thin bundle of carnations, a few shitty pink flowers wrapped in plastic and paper that he had bought on a whim for a few bucks. Still, it was all he had, even though he knew he owed so much more. He didn't even deserve to come here with something so small, to throw a raindrop into an empty barrel like he was now, but what else could he do? So, he kissed his teeth, knelt down on the damp stone, and dropped the carnations in the nearest patch of free space he could find, the bright flowers already being swallowed up by the ever-growing mix of tributes.

He could smell rain, and he could feel it too, a damp plick-plick striking the back of his head and shoulders with enough of a prickle to convince him to look away from the makeshift memorial and up into the sky. It was a shower, but it wasn't a full-blown thunderstorm yet, nor was it a light drizzle with a little bit of sun and warmth that drew neighborhood kids out in hoodies, ponchos, and beater shoes. It was all gray, an overcast sky with thick, pudgy clouds that smothered out all sunlight, just strong enough to drive everyone aside from the most determined out of the yard thanks to some menacingly dark shades at the very edge of the horizon. Just him and the rain. And some teenagers. When Dwayne got to his feet at last, he could hear cusses and shouts behind him, the unmistakable sound of a pick-up game getting forfeited thanks to an oncoming rainfall. Behind him, over the tall, gray fence and across the street, he could see a group of teenage boys and girls fleeing out of the local basketball court, the tallest one among them jamming his gray sweatshirt over his head and scooping the ball in his hands as he sprinted for the street. The net they had been playing with hadn't even stopped flowing back and forth, a thin, raggedy weave of strings that bobbed underneath a double rim and a grimy, bolt-holed backboard. All around him, from the court to the walkway he stood on at this very moment, splotches of water were beginning to drip and spread in all directions, darkly staining the gray under his feet and the bright, unblemished cyan blue across the way.

At certain points, all he could hear was the rain and his own breath, heaving in and out as he sized up the entire yard. The short, clacking footfalls and clanging fence rattles of the pick-up boys broke the silence for a bit, as did the occasional passing car, but for the most part, just himself and the sky. And the yard around him. To his left, East 56th Street in Flatbush extended far into the distance, a never-ending stretch of low-built homes and square lawns. To his right, the homes ended, forming a four-way intersection cornered by neon signs in three places and a massive apartment complex on the fourth, dotted in rows and columns with series after series of grimy, gray windows with scarcely a light behind their panes. A round courtyard extended in front of the massive block of a building, and out of the corner of Dwayne's eye, hidden behind a sliver of caged fencing, a jungle gym surrounded by woodchips inconspicuously tucked itself into the side of the tower. The intersection's lights flicked on and off at regular intervals, but hardly a soul was on the road, leaving the entire block deserted.

One of the yellow-signed Caribbean restaurants at the corner was giving off a mouth-watering aroma, growing more and more pervasive as a middle-aged man passed by with a Styrofoam takeout tray. Probably curry goat, but even from here, he could catch other whiffs too. Oxtails, callaloo, even stew peas, all blending together into a cloud of stomach-wrenching goodness. He wanted it so bad, he hadn't eaten since this morning. But he couldn't move, he was locked in place, letting his eyes creep back up from the intersection to the memorial. House after house after house, occasionally interrupted by pink-fronted beauty stores, basement nail and hair techs with lit windows, and the looming shadow of a Pentecostal church with a spindly white roof cross one street over.

It felt like judgment day. Once upon a time, 127 East 56th Street had just been another house on the block. A one-story brick house with a basement, the story elevated aboveground by a gray-flecked railing and some steps, and the basement to the side of a one-car garage and cracked driveway. There was no car anymore, but a white Jeep used to idle there. Brown front door with white trim, shaggy doormat, and a rickety front porch, the plastic white chairs shaded from rain and sun by a green awning. Three visible windows, two of them covered up with neatly-drawn blinds, and the other warmly glowing from a carefully-placed lamp. A brown plastic rain gutter that probably gave more trouble than it was worth, and a low, flat roof, tiled with a lighter shade. Hanging above the front door was a thick cutout display board drawing attention to "LIFESTYLE UNISEX BROOKLYN, BRAIDING - WEAVES - WIG SERVICES", accompanied by the silhouettes of hair-bearing mannequin heads in the lamplit basement window.

It was an East Flatbush home, but it had been terrorized. The front door had been smashed in with a battering ram some days prior, gouging the door frame, puncturing the wood, and shattering a pane of glass inside. The first-story outside wall had no less than three bullet holes embedded inside, and one of the windows had clearly been shattered, leaving a slight red splotch on the sill. Whoever had removed the crime scene tape clearly hadn't done a great job, because yellow ribbons continued to flutter and adorn the railings and edges of the house. And the memorial, the memorial at the base of the house's lawn, crammed with flowers and teddy bears and balloons. Standing here and taking it all in, it was like he was trapped two weeks in the past, numbly staring after one of the worst nights in his entire life. Squint a bit, and he could see the yellow tape unraveling and extending across the railings. He could hear the sound of fed sirens, throwing red and blue splotches of color across the pavement. It was nighttime, and everything was dark, with a wan half-moon in the sky. He could feel the gravel crumbling under his boots, and he could hear a scream, a wailing, awful, heart-wrenching scream from a plump woman on the step--

And then, the sky was cloudy and wet again, and there was no cop car behind him. The tape was gone, and the woman was nowhere to be found, probably not even at home. The red "CLOSED" sticker under the salon ad board was proof enough. Everything was alright again. Just him, and the rain.

It was coming down harder now, enough to begin forming puddles in the curbs and roads. A hopscotch grid carved out in some forgotten colored chalk one house down was beginning to run and bleed away, with streaks of pink, yellow, and blue water running over the gray rocks of the sidewalk and into the nearest drain. What had once been a cute stick figure girl in a floral dress was now warping into some three-toothed demon, and it only got worse and worse the more he looked at it. There had been lit wax candles at the memorial just minutes ago, but the falling water from the sky had quickly puttered them out, allowing a fresh chill to set into Dwayne's limbs. Grimacing, he pulled his bomber closer around him, pulling off his shades and peering down at the three framed photos that made up the center of the memorial. The first, a cheekily grinning toddler with a chocolate egg in his hand. The second, a bearded adult man, his arms thrown around a group of what looked like friends at one of those average Mom-and-Pop pizza joints. The third, the centerpiece, a slightly younger teenager, clearly lean and athletic even through his graduation robes and cap. Those pictures spoke of and showed joy, promise, potential, care, and ambition. This house, this memorial, even this neighborhood? None of those five words even came close to describing it.

With one last sigh, Dwayne turned on his heel, stepping over the running hopscotch grid to make his way back up the sidewalk towards the intersection. He passed house after house on his way through, slightly different than 127, but the same in a particular way. Some had striped awnings, some had Spanish-style siding, some had shrubs in their front garden, and some had a "Beware of Dog" sign plastered to their fence. But at its core, it was the same thing. A one-story house with a one-car garage, a basement, and a cheap car, framed by blinded and lamplit windows, a wide porch, and a set of narrow steps, with a square patch of lawn out in front. One of the homeowners had tried to start something of a flower patch out in her plot, but the flowers hadn't taken to the soil, and were already beginning to wilt and droop in all directions. Really, it felt like a suburb.

It would be if it wasn't for the flowers.

---

The Next Day...
U.S Department of Metahuman Affairs - New York Office // New York City // New York

---

Pheidippides wasn't the only one called to the task of dealing with New York's headless horseman. Not long after the marathon-famous agent had arrived in the DMA office garage, the famed metahuman known to most as Euphoria shoved his own way into the same chamber, already fully decked out for the morning. It was a little difficult to take him seriously though, mostly on account of a few quirks regarding his get-up and choice of equipment. His belt, containing battlefield essentials such as Don Julio tequila, cannabis, and oxycodone was enough to raise a few eyebrows on its own. When it was coupled with his long-eared helmet, the marijuana print across his chest, and his leaf-shaped cape, it was bizarre. When both of those things were coupled with the fact that he came into the room with a glass of rum and a Dokha pipe in the same hand, it shifted to alarming. At the very least, it shifted to a situation devoid of trustworthiness.

"Nephew, you on this situation down at Wealth and Savings?" the older man asked casually, taking a sip from his glass in between sentences. "I thought that dispatcher lady was playin' with me, talkin' about a 'Headless Horseman', but there's too many calls for it to be a freak of nature. When are we rollin' out?"

[Anowa]

One - Ulysses Stone
League of Twelve
Starcash Cafe, Manhattan Borough, New York
April 11th 2022

This cafe at one point had been a diner, that much was obvious. The booths, the exceedingly long counter with displays barely bound to said counter with nothing more than gravity, the staff was nothing like that of a standard cafe, the smell of salt and grease emanating from the window to the kitchen -albeit tame- even the menu was indicative of a name change and nothing else. The fact that One had been a customer for the past 30 years also helped with that distinction, but that was beside the point.

The bandages on his face having been parted over his mouth, he took the last bite of the sausage and egg sandwich he had ordered, of course, on white bread, for some reason the only form of bread he could eat. Brown bread turned in to a moulding slurry almost immediately, croutons he could touch, but they were far from pleasant to eat, it seemed as if cake and white bread were processed enough in this day and age his curse, by whatever machination it functioned, didn't recognise it as plant matter.

His eyes fixed to a newspaper as he glazed over the drivel and tabloid articles. His eyes having caught one story that had too much of a pattern to ignore. The same pattern of strange occurrences in the wilderness told of another hideout that Doctor Apocalypse had used. He figured it was worth the time to investigate given he had some time off now, the Academy having recently started closing up in the semester. He'd have to talk to Cameron and Alexander later.

He heard people enter, one, footsteps bore a percussion indicating a mass and volume similar to that of the average male, but the surface indicating smaller feet, likely a woman, One's opinion reinforced by the clack of footwear. A few minutes later and the door opened again, similar mass and volume as the previous, though footfalls indicated larger feet, or at the very least larger shoes.

Glancing down at the polished tile floor, the man spotted the duo, finding his auditory observations correct, hearing them speak, one was North American, the other was Scottish, the woman and the man respectably, though the woman's voice had a... twinge to it. Any normal person wouldn't have noticed it, but someone who had knowledge of nearly every language known to man could pick up on it, that person being One, the woman, for whatever reason, elected to hide an accent. It was a deep concealment, enough that it was subvocalisations that gave her away, the first rising gasp of a word or vowel. Strange. She was calm collected, perhaps calculating, as the immortal overheard their conversation barely two booths away, above all the other conversations in the cafe, they were perpendicular to him, and coincidentally the closest.

The Scottish man was almost too open in comparison, both seemed to be shrewd in business, but the man had a much more garish sense of fashion, one that attracted attention to him. The cane, polished to a shine, the gloves, generally unnecessary for an establishment like this, the suit. It was almost as if he wanted to be noticed. Granted, it was by pure chance that a representative of the two major corporations he had a hand in buckling under a strain of corrupted pillars falling out from under them were talking about encroaching in to the American market. Info the rest of the league would have a field day over, and info that Anthony would likely start to laugh at. he began making mental notes of names, mentioned locations, and details as the conversation expanded.

The conversation of the two businessfolk reached a point that One took issue with. he had several dozen forms of scripture, and while they, not his vest were with him, he had memorized them, and in not a single one did it mention being needlessly cruel to animals as even remotely moral, besides, he had heard enough to make his presence known.

The door opened, a third person, less ground pressure than Miss Powers and Mister Roderick, shorter than. Nearly the same weight, male, his footwear didn't mach with the others in the establishment, mostly interns, younger folk, or business people, almost lime One's own footwear. This time, One simply glanced over as he set the newspaper down. He was dressed to be noticed, seemingly, though unlike Mister Roderick, it wasn't out of a garish fashion style, it was out of seeming tourist trap nonsense or someone out with nothing to wear. Tourists didn't come to places like this, nor did people who needed laundry. The glances he cast at Powers and Roderick as he sat down sent a red flag to the Ancient. As did the rapid coffee order and subsequent inhaling of said liquid. The man ordered it to fit in as he drummed his fingers. Subconscious signs of impatience, anxiety, expectation.

There was another facet, despite the concealment the man had taken to change the perceived view of his face, the bone structure couldn't be changed, the contouring the facial foundation did enough for a normal person, but it wasn't matched to his hands on the inside or the out. The bone structure felt familiar to the Ancient, but regardless it was clear the man was attempting to mask his appearance.

Someone who didn't fit in, was trying to fit in, and cast a solid glance at two specific people in a building of maybe a dozen, opting for close seating to them instead of even remote privacy, and who had made an attempt to mask his appearance with makeup. One could deal with the animal rights abuse later.

The sound of binding leather echoed as One leaned back in the booth's seating, wrinkling paper as it was set down, the sound of a leather boot hitting the tile slowly as the man pulled the bandage back up over his mouth. His gaze now firmly locked on the assassin, the two utility pouches on his belt next to a clip looping to the inside of his pants with the non uniform bulge of a revolver was likely to be enough of a deterrent, let alone the fact that he was who he was. The message was clear, if the assassin tried anything even remotely troublesome, he would be dead before his body hit the ground.

[Latorik]

"Your right, James." The Animist snapped.

James looked to the left.

"Your other right"

James met the gaze of the infamous cape, eyes widening behind the pair of cheap sunglasses. His hand stopped drumming, rapidly clenching before unclenching just as quickly, relaxing.

"Do not give him more of a reason to suspect us." The nature spirit hissed.

"Little late for that." James shot back. He smiled, holding up his free hand for a small wave before breaking eye contact.

"His scent is..." The mental voice drifted off for a moment.

"Touch him."

"What?" James asked aloud, momentarily perplexed. He tried to play it off, pulling out his phone and scrolling through the non-existent numbers within, clucking his tongue as he did so.

"Are you fucking insane, that's the One, he'll break me in half!"

"And like all their champions, he is constrained by their laws." The Animist stated firmly. "You have committed no crime, nor do you bear any sort of visible weapon. The most he can act on is intuition. In somewhere as public as this, that will earn him much ire if he attempts to escalate a conflict with you." A slight pause. "I need to be sure of something. The knowledge we pose to gain far outweighs the potential risks."

"Now touch him."

James took a breath, turning to meet the meta-humans gaze once more. Phone in hand, he awkwardly shuffled over to the booth.

"My niece is a big fan of you guys." James stated, scratching the back of his head. "Really sorry to ask but, uh..."

"You mind if I get a picture?"

[Anowa]

One - Ulysses Stone
League of Twelve
Starcash Cafe, Manhattan Borough, New York
April 11th 2022

The man looked over, after looking the wrong way, before making himself look busy, micro-expressions indicating some form of incredulity, problem being he wasn't having a conversation with anyone. In a world were only normal people existed, it could be summed up to some internal monologue, but One knew better at this point. For one reason or another, the man was having some form of conversation, and One didn't see an earpiece on the side closest to him, but the ancient wasn't discounting sub-dermal radios, or even possession.

The man got up and was approaching, One's eyes didn't move as the man's face became clearer and clearer. As the man approached and had the gall to ask for a picture, a flash of recognition finally rippled across One's concealed face. So that's why I recognise you.

The man's approach had effectively put a bullet in to any chance he had at escape, from a distance, with no clear lighting, the makeup on his face was substantial enough to mask who he was. But this close, with the sun shining through the window to One's left, illuminating the man in his entirety, and no amount of make up was going to hide his face's true shape. Composite images, digital reconstruction images, an ID photo of a private security officer, all handed out by IRIS, and Interpol bulletins were as close to this man as possible. One had seen enough faces in his lifetime to all but discount all but the defined bone structure of one's skull in which the flesh was pulled over, he knew the man in front of him was James Walker, or at the very least his body being puppeted. Everything else adding on to the man in front of him, meant exactly one thing.

Still seated, One spoke, "James Walker. When you face down a man who has memorised hundreds of thousands of faces across thousands of years, something as simple as poorly blended foundation and heavy contouring means nothing, especially with the sun to my back. Both IRIS, the DMA, and Interpol have provided all point bulletins on you for a massacre you, or maybe whatever is inhabiting that body has done. Do not delude yourself in to thinking that simply because we are in a public place, and I associate with gentle hearts and kind souls that I will shy away from killing you where you stand. Whatever your reason was for being here, it does not matter now. Now you must think very carefully about whatever it is you will do in the next 10 seconds, because that is all the time I will permit you, starting now."

One's unfailing internal clock began counting down.

[Latorik]

James snorted. "And here I thought you were gonna' buy me a drink or something, oh well."

"It is as I thought." The Animist said grimly. "He is romãozinho, the earth holds no dominion over him."

"Which means?" James questioned.

"We run."

"For what it's worth, you were always kinda' my second favorite." The handful of seeds in the mans pocket expanded, all manner of vines and branches, some of them half a man in thickness, wrapping around the accused criminals body, forming a shell of seemingly impenetrable plant matter. A mere scant moments later, the cocoon burst open. Black and white, with a head reminiscent of some giant, armored, beetle. Horns seemingly formed of branches. That is all One is able to discern before his vision is blocked by a thick wave of biomass, all manner of excess plant life thrown into his body in an effort to push him back, create breathing room. The nature spirit flung itself through the window (as well as a good portion of the wall) to One's left, falling to all fours and rushing through the street like a runaway rhinoceros, numerous pedestrians just barely avoiding being trampled by the quarter ton beast. Its trajectory was quite clear, drawing ever nearer to the one focal point of nature in this city.

Central Park.

"What about Drostan?" James questioned, now bereft of control of his body.

"Irrelevant." The Animist responded, still speeding through the streets, several car accidents piling up in his wake. "If we had stayed to fight, we would have surely fallen to the romãozinho. Retreating to the forest will grant us a more equal playing field against any further champions that pursue us, and give us the chance to disappear."

"Told you going up to that bastard was a bad idea." James grumbled.

"I am aware." The Animist leapt upon an oncoming car, crushing the roof with his weight as he used it as a springboard to further propel himself down the city's streets. "I underestimated the extent of his knowledge and the effectiveness of your camouflage abilities, assuming we live through this, I will put more stock in your words and less in your cosmetology ability."

"You're such a prick."

Something resembling a faint smile spread across the Animist's face, despite the less than stellar circumstances. A rather horrifying sight, its teeth pulled further apart even farther than normal. "You tell me every day, James."

[Crysuko]

it was evening, and James Jones AKA Bushranger had made hi s way to his hideout, such as it was. An old service room in the speawling basement beneath his factory workplace, but it had all that he needed. A radio with police and emergency services channels, an augment workbench, spare parts and tools and a crate where he kept his costume, which he had just finished putting on. Making sure his collar fit snugly, he turned the radio on, sitting at the desk to tinker with the servos in an arm. As he finished, reports of an emergency started flying around. A structural collapse at a building site, one not too far from where he was actually. He knew that site was building a new block of flats, probably for workers at the industrial district he too worked in.

But, the company doing so had been criticsed for cutting corners, cheap materials and cowboy builders, and it had clearly come back to bite them. Listening in, the details were of a collapsed brick wall, as the cheaply made concrete didn't set properly, and crumbled when more weight was put on it. Not waiting around, he tapped a button on the side of his collar, and it neatly closed over his head, with a slot for vision. Making his way to the street, he opened his infolink implant, using it to calculate the quickest route to said site. He passed a few people by, the streets usually quiet at this time, making sure not to crash into them as he sprinted by at olympic speed.

Reaching the site and climbing over the chainlink fence, the situation was a dire one. A great heap of brick and concrete was at the middle of the scene, with reports of at least a dozen workers trapped beneath it. Emergency service hadn't arrived yet, and those present took note of the unusual masked man in black and silver as he quickly made his way to the disaster area. Grabbing hold of a large slab of solid concrete, and heaving it out of place, hoping to tunnel into the collapse to get to the surviviors. Clusters of bricks were broken apart and thrown aside, twisted rebar yanked out and discarded. inside, he heard muffled cries for help, at least a few people were still alive in there. And after some more elbow grease shifting another great hunk of cement and rebar, managed to find a trapped worker.

"please tell me i'm not dreaming" the young man croaked, throat filled with dust. "it's your lucky day, mate." replied Jones, carrying the man out, and setting him down nearby. He hurriedly returned to the rubble, continuing to break through the pile, finding yet more survivors, thankfully most of them with recoverable injuries. It took an hour of constant digging, by this time emergency services had arrived to tend to the wounded, with workers present taking the initiative to use construction equipment to help break through to anyone else still trapped. After another hour, the last living man was pulled out, having to be handled carefully due to a broken leg. In all, 16 survivors were recovered, though 4 corpses were also found.

One of the medics approached Jones, as he prepared to leave, brush dust off his suit. "I've heard some talk that there was a cyborg type goin' about saving people. Didn't think it was actually true though. Don't suppose you have a name?" James turned to face him, shaking his hand. "Bushranger, like to keep it to just that. Love to stay chat, but my part here's done. Looks like you lot have this handled". The medic nodded "you'll get no argument from me, mate. Good on you".

James made his way back out, over the fence and into a nearby back alley, using his knowledge to covertly make his way back to his den. 16 lives saved and some good rep, not bad for a day's work.

[Remnants of Exilvania]

New York City
Empire State Building
Starcash Cafe

The mention of a date earned Drostan a contemptuous glare from Catherine. Roguishly handsome or not, she didn't just 'date' any random corporate weasel like him. Luckily it was merely rethorical else she would have had to shut him down rightaway, which might've hurt relations a little.

Luckily he didn't seem to mind and instead countered with some files of his own, equally generous offerings from A.R.E.S that she took a quick look at. Now, she'd readily admit that her understanding of the finer intricacies of technology was...lacking and as such the designs mentioned in them were not something she was familiar with or could understand. Not that it was of interest to her anyway. Tesla rifles, something for the footsloggers to carry, nothing she'd bother with. Still, she wouldn't admit a shortcoming, not before such a man.

"I...see. I will have this reviewed by the production manager concerning its viability as a product for the market, I am sure you understand. I will also have to make a market analysis concerning demand for weapons in this category just to see if it would be profitable. But in either case it is an impressive display of A.R.E.S' engineering capabilities which is exactly what we desire."

A part of her was mildly annoyed about the testing being potentially inaccurate because it was performed on simple pigs. However, human testing had kind of fallen out of favour so she couldn't exactly blame the man or the corporation he stood for without revealing far more about herself than she desired to.

"I believe we can-"

That was when all hell broke loose in the cafe, a sudden small forest or whatever that shrubbery could be called rowing out of nowhere in record time, Catherine only just seeing an absolutely garishly clothed man get wrapped up inside of it. Her mind was quick to analyse the situation and realise that they had probably just become prey of a metahuman attack. She was about to find a reason to slip away, for she couldn't afford to remain, when she noticed the man seated next to the green cocoon and instantly recognised him. How could she not, he was world famous afterall. Her posture instantly relaxed as she could now be quite sure that nothing would happen that would require her escape or transformation. For no particular reason she told Drostan:

"Relax Mr. Roderick. It appears you have just gotten the rare opportunity to see one of the famous members of the League of 12 in action. A somewhat rare opportunity now that so many of them are dead or crippled so cherish it."

, and analyse every single move. The remainder of the League was the only thing that still kept her in check. If it wasn't for them, she'd be much more open with her actions, she thought as she watched One intently.

The cocoon burst quite quickly with a massive monster emerging from it. It was...a peculiar sight but very recognisable, particularly the antlers sticking out of the eyes, they were quite striking. She had gathered more than enough information about what had happened in Brazil, primarily because as an employee of the RIG, which had lost precious resources in that rampage, they had had plenty of motivation in uncovering more about it. However, she also had more selfish motivations. Someone capable of taking down so many heroes could either be a dangerous enemy or a valuable asset. Granted, what she had uncovered made it seem more like that was an enemy but who knew...she could get on board with creating an environmentally clean utopia once her plans were moving into their latter stages.

And then the monstrosity just seemingly threw a shitton of even more shrubbery at One that temporarily concealed him from her sight and then...just ran, taking some wall with him and making off. Such a wasted opportunity.

[Window Land]

New York US DMA Office Garage
Samuel "Sam" Hutchinson - Pheidippides

U.S Department of Metahuman Affairs - New York Office // New York City // New York

---

Pheidippides wasn't the only one called to the task of dealing with New York's headless horseman. Not long after the marathon-famous agent had arrived in the DMA office garage, the famed metahuman known to most as Euphoria shoved his own way into the same chamber, already fully decked out for the morning. It was a little difficult to take him seriously though, mostly on account of a few quirks regarding his get-up and choice of equipment. His belt, containing battlefield essentials such as Don Julio tequila, cannabis, and oxycodone was enough to raise a few eyebrows on its own. When it was coupled with his long-eared helmet, the marijuana print across his chest, and his leaf-shaped cape, it was bizarre. When both of those things were coupled with the fact that he came into the room with a glass of rum and a Dokha pipe in the same hand, it shifted to alarming. At the very least, it shifted to a situation devoid of trustworthiness.

"Nephew, you on this situation down at Wealth and Savings?" the older man asked casually, taking a sip from his glass in between sentences. "I thought that dispatcher lady was playin' with me, talkin' about a 'Headless Horseman', but there's too many calls for it to be a freak of nature. When are we rollin' out?"

Sam turned toward the voice. It was Euphoria, who, as usual, looked far more ready to get arrested than fight crime. "Yep, I'm headed down there too," he confirmed, "and the Headless Horseman thing is pretty strange, although it could be a lot worse. I was just reading a report today about the mess down in the Amazon- looks like a single meta took a small army and a bunch of Brazil's metas. I'm just glad that's Brazil's problem and not ours. Anyway, we should be going-"

Just then, one of the DMA's drivers interrupted from across the room, "You two, what are you doing standing around? Get in the van, we gotta go!"

"Right now apparently," finished Sam, before climbing into the van and taking his seat.

[The Imperial Warglorian Empire]

New York City
Empire State Building
Starcash Cafe

The mention of a date earned Drostan a contemptuous glare from Catherine. Roguishly handsome or not, she didn't just 'date' any random corporate weasel like him. Luckily it was merely rhetorical else she would have had to shut him down rightaway, which might've hurt relations a little.

Luckily he didn't seem to mind and instead countered with some files of his own, equally generous offerings from A.R.E.S that she took a quick look at. Now, she'd readily admit that her understanding of the finer intricacies of technology was...lacking and as such the designs mentioned in them were not something she was familiar with or could understand. Not that it was of interest to her anyway. Tesla rifles, something for the footsloggers to carry, nothing she'd bother with. Still, she wouldn't admit a shortcoming, not before such a man.

"I...see. I will have this reviewed by the production manager concerning its viability as a product for the market, I am sure you understand. I will also have to make a market analysis concerning demand for weapons in this category just to see if it would be profitable. But in either case it is an impressive display of A.R.E.S' engineering capabilities which is exactly what we desire."

A part of her was mildly annoyed about the testing being potentially inaccurate because it was performed on simple pigs. However, human testing had kind of fallen out of favour so she couldn't exactly blame the man or the corporation he stood for without revealing far more about herself than she desired to.

"I believe we can-"

That was when all hell broke loose in the cafe, a sudden small forest or whatever that shrubbery could be called rowing out of nowhere in record time, Catherine only just seeing an absolutely garishly clothed man get wrapped up inside of it. Her mind was quick to analyse the situation and realise that they had probably just become prey of a metahuman attack. She was about to find a reason to slip away, for she couldn't afford to remain, when she noticed the man seated next to the green cocoon and instantly recognised him. How could she not, he was world famous afterall. Her posture instantly relaxed as she could now be quite sure that nothing would happen that would require her escape or transformation. For no particular reason she told Drostan:

"Relax Mr. Roderick. It appears you have just gotten the rare opportunity to see one of the famous members of the League of 12 in action. A somewhat rare opportunity now that so many of them are dead or crippled so cherish it."

, and analyse every single move. The remainder of the League was the only thing that still kept her in check. If it wasn't for them, she'd be much more open with her actions, she thought as she watched One intently.

The cocoon burst quite quickly with a massive monster emerging from it. It was...a peculiar sight but very recognisable, particularly the antlers sticking out of the eyes, they were quite striking. She had gathered more than enough information about what had happened in Brazil, primarily because as an employee of the RIG, which had lost precious resources in that rampage, they had had plenty of motivation in uncovering more about it. However, she also had more selfish motivations. Someone capable of taking down so many heroes could either be a dangerous enemy or a valuable asset. Granted, what she had uncovered made it seem more like that was an enemy but who knew...she could get on board with creating an environmentally clean utopia once her plans were moving into their latter stages.

And then the monstrosity just seemingly threw a shitton of even more shrubbery at One that temporarily concealed him from her sight and then...just ran, taking some wall with him and making off. Such a wasted opportunity.

The appearance of shrubbery, as it did the rest of the room, surprised Drostan who instinctively put his hand into his pocket, about to pull out his trusty firearm.

"That's a rather nice shrubbery... I'd like something like that at the apartment." he absentmindedly thought before Catherine beside him spoke.

"Relax Mr. Roderick. It appears you have just gotten the rare opportunity to see one of the famous members of the League of 12 in action. A somewhat rare opportunity now that so many of them are dead or crippled so cherish it."

"Rightfully dead or crippled, self-righteous dobbers."

At Catherine's words, he looked and quickly saw the infamous One in all his bandaged glory. Considering all the camera footage he'd received of the toilet paper wrapped mummy destroying his operations across Europe, Drostan had become very familiar with the sight of the nutjob. Though, this was the first time he'd seen him in person, and he had to say that the legends did not exaggerate—the mere sight of the man was giving Drostan a headache. A really bad headache, as if his very scent was making him terminally ill. For some reason, the secret crime lord had the urge to clutch the ancient gold pendant he was keeping in his pocket, as if the thing would keep him safe...

The monster popping out of his cacoon shelved those thoughts. Drostan knew the beast well from reports—the Animist's various eco-terrorist exploits had always been a heavyweight on his mind. Bastards like those were bad for business.

As soon as the horny plant maniac appeared, he'd disappeared, taking that rather nice shrubbery with him. "Damn, could've taken some of that with me, selfish dandoline."

Rather than his gun, Drostan shovelled around and reached for his phone instead. Taking it out, he put his phone on speed dial and briefly turned around, putting it to his ear. "Drostan Roderick, code 072797."

There was a beep on the other side. "Code confirmed, Drostan Roderick; welcome to ARES Facilities what is your request?"

"We have a metahuman situation here; identification "beastyboy". I need a observation down here immediately," he whispered.

"Processing....your request has been accepted. A drone has been deployed."

With that, Drostan ended the call before turning back to Catherine with a smile. "Well, this has certainly been eventful, but it seems that our business here has concluded. I do hope you consider our proposition."

Some distance away
A single drone drones powered up to life, red light receptors activated, as it ascended from its position. Activating its special ability, the drone practically became invisible, flying unnoticed by those on the ground.

Soon enough, it identified him—a large beast jumping through the streets spreading chaos as civilians ran about. Swooping down closer to street level, it began its high-speed pursuit, filming the beast from a distance. Sending the recording wirelessly, it also began wiring the NYPD, updating the police on the position of the beast as well where it was headed.

[Lusenocte]

Marshall Islands
Delap-Uliga-Djarrit
House of the Zealots

By the altar of the Serpent's Zealots, Lilia preached to his 'followers' for 15 minutes. And after 15 minutes, he ended it with a small prayer.

"May Its Will ever grace us and the unknowing humanity towards perfection". The Zealots then answered all together with their commonly used phrase in every prayer, "By the Serpent's Will!", and some began to dismiss themselves from the altar while others stayed to converse with one another.

"Years have passed, little snake. And still, you and the Zealots sat in silence, up until now. You could've become this world's messiah, or better, its judge. If only you're not plagued with such cowardice. And to think you are still going on with that ridiculous ideal of yours.", said the Serpent in Lilia's mind, mocking him over the small prayer.

Lilia then simply smiled from behind his white mask, and said within his own mind to the Serpent, "I beg for your patience, dear Serpent. This world is still not ready for us to declare our divinity, not yet. Besides, such action can draw unwanted attention to possible enemies, the worst being these 'metahumans', who are most likely to reject us. And we know, even with our power, these people are simply too many in numbers, each with various powers as well. That is why we decided to side UNMAO-IRIS, and simply receive ourselves the duty of a crimefighter. This way, we will be reducing our enemy counts while saving mankind, one heroic action at a time".

Suddenly, a Zealot lady rushed to the altar, and towards Lilia, alongside a man who seemed to be full of bruises. "Master! My neighbor! He was beaten up and kicked out of his house. I know that we Zealots shouldn't bring outsiders without Your permission, but my heart couldn't take such brutal scenery. I beg of you, Master, let him stay in this altar!", said the lady to Lilia.

The bruised man was shocked by the Zealot lady's words, and took a few steps back from her and Lilia, "Zealots?! You mean the Serpent's Zealots?! The one responsible for the 16 missing people! Oh no. Please don't kill me, please! I don't want to die!".

Meanwhile, Lilia, who saw through the man's anxiety, took a few steps to approach the man and held his shoulder. "Who the Zealots were years ago are different from who we are now. We now only seek a peaceful life as men and women who are presumed dead. As for the killings, it stopped years ago too. In fact, standing before you is the supposed sixteenth sacrifice. By miracle, I put an end to the killing, and gained an enormous power beyond imagination. Should you take a step away from this house, you will know that nobody accepts you, you've experienced it yourself recently, haven't you?. So please, call yourself a dead man, and rejoice in the nirvana I've made for all the Zealots, and that includes you. This place may seem small, but by the Serpent's Will, you will see that this place is much more than what it seems", he said, in a calm and reassuring voice.

The man nodded multiple times, and accepted Lilia's offer in starting his new life as a Zealot without any complaints whatsoever. And so another received the Serpent's good favor, and the bearer of its Will smiled, knowing he had saved another from the purgatory that is the outside world.

[Republic Under Specters Grasp]

Somewhere, sometime, in Belgium...

While it may or may not be too late to be getting the first coffee of the day far into the midday, that doesn’t seem to bother some: some simply take it decaffeinated as to not stay awake for the whole night, and some simply work the buzz out of their system. The energy that spurs within coffee is something that runs rampant through the mind, a stimulant for the nervous system. Something that a man who works with his mind really needs, that being not one whom is a quick thinker but a man whom is powerful with his mind not as a tool but as a weapon. Such is the wicked brew of espresso that graces upon a mauve jacketed man, his pale hair an eyesore though only comparable to the shades of purple he wore to cover his skin, from his darker gloves to his brighter tie almost looking to be a white accessory washed in with the colored load of laundry.

That isn’t much in the way of the truth: this man, Alessandro Kastilios, as labelled on the leather bound notebook carried under his other arm, took upon the colors he wore as a means to show who he is: a man of the mind, one with a somewhat noble lineage and a successful career behind him, as well as someone whom holds an eccentric taste in fashion, most notably with a handkerchief embroidered with hyacinths wrapped around his coffee cup instead of a cardboard cover: even if his gloves already insulate the cup as is, he makes sure he plays things safely, as recklessness over the smallest of things is a weakness of one’s mental acuity.

Having a sip, he takes a look abound the streets, having gone from a long flight boarded from New York City to a round trip to Paris, taking a train to Belgium and stopping short of any major cities. But why would you want to hop off a short distance away without reason, while your end goal is only a couple stops away? Well, there’s no rush to go and get to your final destination when there’s time to take in the sights and be a tourist, to enjoy time back in Europe after a year away, with the time spent being a guardian of the less dense rural regions of New York, touching base and stopping crimes from Buffalo to Albany means you need to cut some vacation time to spend traveling from place to place, even if teleportation saves a lot of time. As a matter of fact, he stops and goes to have a bit to sip some more coffee.

He takes his time going one place to another like all normal folks go, because besides the point of not needing to use powers for everything, but because despite his look and his wealth, or his job and his powers... he still feels as a part of the general populace. To be one with others helps keep a metahuman human, and for him, it’s a necessity to do so: being alone in life is a torturous thought, and while he isn’t a romantic, he can still enjoy his humanity in other ways. Thus, roaming about as a superpowered tourist is a welcome feeling: if he ever needed to, he’s clandestine enough to simply deal with any criminals without any sort of strip down and dress up into a costume, for he already looks odd enough as is: that, and it helps that his forte is subtlety, since his powers aren’t usually visible in some cases.

But, for now, the one who nicknamed himself Neuron, in a means of giving people an easier name to call himself by, wanders the sidewalks of villages and towns, buying up sweets and drinks along the way to keep up and energized while he wandered, and honing his linguistic talents, parleying between French and German while occasionally squeezing in a bit of Dutch when one is met, it’s all to keep his humanity in check as he finally would make his way close to his final destination: a UNIMAO branch office. This would be the start to a new career: 30 years ago he couldn’t fathom organized groups like this, or even being able to coordinate his painful, headache inducing curse turned psionic power, but the world he lives in now wasn’t around when he was accidentally throwing heavy objects without a thought, or looked upon by others as the son of a devil worshipper. Today, he gets to truly feel welcome within the world as an ally of all those whom can’t fight for themselves rather than a strange pale independent, for today is the first true day of his new life. But first, to finish his espresso he ordered, standing on the corner of a sidewalk and looking amidst the area.

[Puranas]

The leather and denim clad figure pulling their motorcycle into the parking spot wasn’t an atypical sight for Central Park, even at this early on a Sunday morning. The rider’s get up didn’t scream biker gang, but more an enthusiast…even with the mismatched patches on the denim jacket. As the rider’s booted foot hit pavement with the distinct clink of a steel toe knocking the kickstand into place, a blast of music from the informal car meet at the far end of the lot caught their attention. The shifting of fabric as the figure straightened and turned towards the source turned them from androgyenous to feminine as the unbuttoned jacket opened to a surprisingly Lilo And Stitch print t-shirt underneath.

Pulling her helmet off and shaking her hair out, she chuckled as someone complaining about the loud music reached her ears. An informal gathering, they didn’t want to get the cops mad at them. Phoenix pulled a bike lock out of a pocket and secured her helmet to the bike with it. Pocketing her keys, the teen stretched her arm up into the air and wave, smiling as she began to jog over to others.

“Yo, Phe! Glad ya made it, girl!” another girl decked out in bright pink denim overalls waved and called out as Phoenix got close.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Jennifer,” the girl chuckled, teasing her friend with a full name drop, “Gotta check the competition, ya know.”

“I know,” Jennifer replied, ignoring the lack of her nickname, “gotta make sure that bot you help build is good enough. Damn, girl,” the blonde continued, “you’re going places. First that Ninja show, now you might earn your way into a Battlebots episode.”

“Stop it,” Phoenix chuckled, “you’re making me blush.”

“Seriously, don’t be so modest,” the blonde patted Phoenix on the back of the shoulder, “you’ve got a good head. I’ll be lucky if I get that cheerleading scholarship I’m aiming for.”

“Jenn,” Phoenix’s tone became serious as she gave her friend a serious once over, clasping both of the other girl’s shoulders, “you are smarter than you give yourself credit for. Don’t put yourself down so much.”

The blonde reached up and, with a sad smile, patted her friend’s hand.

“Now,” Jennifer’s smile brightened as she changed the subject, “had a couple suits asking about the engine you put into my car,” she twisted smoothly to behind her friend and began the other girl towards what would look like a cliche muscle car at first glance, “you are one of our school’s prides, Phe, today is your day.”

Jennifer looked on as Phoenix was questioned by two sharp featured adults in uncomfortable looking suits and armed with clipboards. As the talk of renewable organically sourced fuel was tuned out before her eyes glazed over, the blonde turned her attention to an odd mechanical buzzing sound from over in the distance. Whatever it was, her brow furrowed in confusion, it took a second before she realized it was getting closer. For a few seconds, she tried to figure out what it could be - didn’t sound like any engine she recognized - but then the echoes of explosions reached the lot and she wasn’t the only one ducking and trying to find cover until they figured out what was going on. Hissing curses under her breath, Jennifer tried to locate Phoenix, but couldn’t locate the odd-eyed girl in the confusion.

Phoenix, for her part, had also ducked down in the confusion. Slipping back to her bike, she pulled a bag out of one of the saddlebags and darted deeper into the wooded area around that corner of the lot. Frowning, she began doing a mental review of what she had on hand as half her attention was looking for a place she could get into her gear without being noticed and recover her stuff later. Half eyeing a port-a-potty down an overgrown side path, she paused to pull out her phone and skim some of the news feeds to get an idea of what was going on.