Chronicles of Los Santanas (Superhero|IC|Open)

[Anowa]

>>OOC<<

David Kowalski
Kowalski Residence, North LS
17th March, 2017, 5:00 AM

Monday, first day of the school week. Coincidentally the same day his pension check for the month clears, and the same day all the kids get their report cards for the first term of this semseter. Despite the onwards slogging of both school and his own time waiting for something to happen again, David still had less than an hour to make lunches for every one of his children. All ten of them. Sometimes he wished Elsa would get up early to do it... but her aversion to sunlight made it more of an issue for her, and despite how much wanted to sleep in some days, he loved her too much to wake her up this early. Regardless, he set to work, planning the lunches for all of his kids. Damian hated pickles, Arachne... didn't go to school anymore. Skip that bag. Jason was allergic to peanut butter, Haley was picky about trail mix, neither Josh, Carson, Michael, and Hannah liked chocolate -somehow-, Robert could only eat raw meat, and Anatoly has to have a high iron content.

He sighed, before opening the fridge. It was rather... absent of most food. To be fair they spent an extraordinary amount on food to begin with, given that Arachne was part spider, Damian was seemingly a skeleton wearing a suit, Jason couldn't have nuts, Robert was amphibian, and Anatoly grew platinum out of his skin. Hardly an ordinary family.

Rgardless school started in less than two hours, so he had to get a move on. Upstairs he heard the telltale steps of a slowly waking household. While in the addition to the home off to the left he heard the telltale clicking of Arachne making more clothing. It was times like this he realized that Elsa giving birth to a silk egg was more of a blessing than a worry. At around twelve Arachne clued in that she could make really fucking expensive dresses and clothing from her own silk. And after a while she started selling them online for more than a few thousand dollars each.

So yeah, she made about a third of the household's total income... Behind his pension, Elsa's income from the government for adopting nine Meta-Human children, and Anthony's occasional stack of hundreds he drops off. Say what one will about the increasingly grumpy CEO, he still cared about those dear to him.

But back to the task at hand, David continued to make food for his kids.

Not at all aware of what sort of tragedy would befall LS that afternoon.

[Ormata]

Therese Breytenbach
Breytenbach Residence, Old Town
17th March, 2017, 5:00 AM

She got-up. It was five, way earlier than the normal times, but...sleep. Sleep felt...it was a weird feeling. To state that she was afraid to close her eyes would be somewhat true; Therese had had the same dream twice in a row. She didn’t want a third time. Besides, her alarm went-off prematurely, or rather somewhat prematurely, and she wanted to make coffee. The covers were so damn warm, though.

Her apartment was cluttered. A two-room affair, literally, it was a one bedroom one bath sort of thing, with a living room / kitchen. It was cheap, though, surprisingly, and she had the money. Therese always had the money; it’s what came of illegal spells. You could make dollar bills appear out of thin air, old and wrinkled and used so that no-one would know where they came from. She couldn’t get a job, no. Not enough time. Not enough energy. A job would mean leaving home, going out and getting connected. A job would mean becoming vulnerable.

Therese’s room was a little thing, with a bed on one side, three blankets and all, and pieces of paper tacked onto the walls. Sketches, some of them. Equations, others, in Therese’s scrawl. Some of them were notes, others designs for sigils and runes. Things she had to practice until the movement became a second nature, until knowing how to draw a Pentagram was child’s play. Printed papers were among them, too, with how-to-pronounce guides and the like. Across from the bed was a desk, with various machineries on it, carving methods and embossings, things like that. A sword, in it’s scabbard, hung on a nail next to her bed, a dusty tome on the table. She walked past it all, too asleep to care.

Stepping into the shower, she just let the warm water run over her, soothing, calming, embracing. It was like a hug, but less so. She hadn’t been sleeping well recently, no, not at all. Not at all. It was nice to be awake, and she just closed her eyes. Stepping out, Therese dried herself off, before going out into the living room in the nude to make coffee. She didn’t much care if people could, technically, see her; the blinds were closed and she wanted to hear the coffee maker while putting on her clothes. It was another calming sound, another thing that felt so very comfortable. It began to bubble and groan to life, and Therese stepped back into the other room. Sweatpants and a loose shirt, that was it.

She came back into the living room, turned on the TV and the news, and got to making breakfast. It was going to be a good day, she thought to herself. Heck, Therese even had donuts! Donuts, that rare and mystical treat you always could associate with parents, going out to eat, cops, everything. That thing that everything taught you was so good and joyous, so much of a comfort meal. It wasn’t lost on Therese; on her last run to the grocery store they were half off. Half! She just had to buy them.

Heck. She even hummed to herself.

[Talchyon]

Los Santanas Senior Living
Richard Weinkauf
5:00 a.m.

Positive Space - (PAUS-it-iv SPAYCE) n. The areas of a painting or sculpture which are occupied
by forms or images, as contrasted with negative space, which are the "empty" areas where no
forms/images are located. For example, in a portrait, the figure would be the positive space,
the "background" would be the negative space.

He was awake before the alarm went off. Wasn't the first time, either. For the last few weeks, he had been getting up before the crack of dawn, often weary but unable to get back to sleep. His joints ached with some mild arthitis, especially in his lower back and his legs. "That's the price of getting older," the man thought.

Running his fingers through his salt and pepper hair (getting to be more salt than pepper), Richard Weinkauf sat up gradually and stretched. He stood, went to the restroom (still unused to the layout of his new apartment), and went out to the kitchen area. He put on a pot of coffee (decaf, since he had found that caffeine affected his head in funny ways, more so than it used to) and went back to his bedroom. Richard got dressed in some exercise clothes and began his morning fitness routine.

After he was done, the smell of coffee had filled the small apartment. Richard showered, dried off, chose something to put on for the day, and got ready. Then he came out, had some coffee and a toasted bagel with butter and cheese.

The senior living facility here in Los Santanas gave as much or as little assistance as one needed. Some needed a constant nursing staff. Others, like Richard, liked the place and needed no help at all. Though it was nice not having to take care of a yard anymore. The staff did that. And the staff was also willing to cook meals at the built-in-restaurant, though sometimes Richard felt like being alone. No offense to the people here. They did their most to make it a positive space. It's just that this was not home.

Moving here hadn't even been in Richard's plans last year. He had been, if not content, than at least familiar with Phoenix. Thinking about Phoenix was hard, though, because it drudged up all the bad memories of the previous administration at the school he had taught art at for 15 years. Roosevelt Parks High in Phoenix. A school hell-bent on pursuing athletics, and cutting funds from the arts to make way for it. This last year they had cut the art department right after pressuring Richard into early retirement. The wounds were still sharp in Richard's mind. It re-enforced a truism that Richard had long found to be accurate: "Never trust an administrator who was a jock in his school days. Nothing good could come of it."

Los Santanas had some nice galleries, however. Now that he was retired, Richard would visit some galleries and admire the works that were there. Many artistic treasures were on display in this city, with regular shows to boot. He had also tried some works of his own, still-lifes and landscapes, mostly. Nothing to write home about, but good efforts all around.

He kept a bag of art supplies with him. A sketchbook for drawing, and various kinds of pencils to work on the shading and lines. But in his bag was another item, important for Richard but not only because of the inspiration it gave him. It was his journal he kept of various prints of famous art. In Richard's hands, art could literally come to life. And for him, art could literally become a door, too.

He looked at his watch. Still early. Galleries wouldn't be opening any time soon. Yet there was little he cared to do there. If he started another project, he wouldn't have time later for the galleries, and that was the plan for the day. He could have joined some of the other residents of the senior living facility in discussions about politics or the theater, but neither topic interested him. He decided to get up, hop in the car, maybe fill up the tank, and then drive to a gallery and wait for it to open. He could always sketch something. Washing his hands, Richard grabbed his bag with his journal and other supplies, and headed out.

[Vulkata II]

Downtown Los Santanas
Kevin Michaels
5:00

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound of the alarm clock was always the first thing he hears in the morning, he slapped the top of the thing and then buried his face on his pillow until his door was opened with a fat old man wearing a blue shirt and glasses entering his kingdom.

"Wake up son" Paul Michael's said turning his son over with him white shirt and boxers and hair was messier than a rats nest without the poop all over and his eyes were having an extreme battle of staying awake until his father went out the room and came back with a glass of cold water and poured it all over his son's eyes "The world doesn't need a slacker son, you wanted to work for a bookstore, you wake up early to work for a bookstore" his son then rolled on the floor and with a morning thump Kevin stood up with his eyes nearly half awake now and the father and son went downstairs.

Paul's wife and Kevin's mother was already on the circled table with breakfast ready, it was the usual buttermilk pancake with butter or coconut sugared flavored pancakes for his dad with a glass of orange juice for Kevin and coffee for his dad and the two sat down on their respective seats.

Kevin ate his pancake while Paul read the morning news and the only female in the house was listening to the radio and Kevin was the only one that would break the silence.

"Can i have mashed potatoes for breakfast" as he took another bite in his pancakes and only his mother responded.

"Buy the potatoes first dear and the gravy if you want" Kelly Michaels said returning to the radio.

"Almost forgot son" his father responded putting down the morning paper "Early happy birthday" he then pulled a huge red square gift and Kevin pulled the ribbon and carefully took off the wrapper to find a large book that said 'Erwin Rommel:The Desert wolf' with the face of Erwin Rommel on the front and his son on the back with the statements that can be found in his wikipedia page.

The heir of the family gasped with excite and hugged his parents and then went upstairs wearing a red sleeveless coat,white shirt and black pants with a suitcase he was using for a disguise he went out with his book and got into his 1985 Ford Escort his father handed to him, when he got in he slammed his head on the horn multiple times and then put down his gift to the sit next to him, on the back is his coat and top hat and then he turned on the car and went to Little Tokyo.

Little Tokyo
15 Minutes later
Kevin got in his apartment and parked his car and got in.

"Morning Mrs. Hakajama" he said waving to his landlady which she just grunted.

Kevin took his book and disguise along with the laptop with him and got up to the 3rd floor and then a sign that says "Don't touch the doorknob" was hanging over his front door, he settled down all of his stuff and put on some rubber gloves and inserted a key in the doorknob and unlocked it and behind the door knob was some old camera guts with copper wires and crocodile clips on the doorknob causing anyone that touched it to have the worst shock of their day.

He stuffed the key on his pockets and got all of his stuff and settled them on the bed and took off his sweater and wore a orange polo shirt with his white shirt still inside and then wore his coat and top hat and locked his door and laid on the bed.

[The V O I D]

Walter Rogers
Evergreen Estates - North Los Santanas
5:30 AM

Walter awoke. He immediately got out of bed quickly, sighing. Time for his morning routine; walking to his bathroom, he prepared for a quick shower. Looking over himself, and then nodding in approval. He showered; letting the hot water burn at his skin, being fairly hot water. Walter began to contemplate the Mayoral Election that was going to occur soon; and, smiling, remembered that his plans were going to fall into place, soon. He just needed to win that election. Democracy... sometimes, it was a pain. Oh, he knew his plans could continue if he wasn't Mayor, but it'd be a lot more... inconvenient.

Stepping out of the shower when he was done, he dried himself off; before stopping in front of his mirror. Quickly, he moved to apply shaving cream - and, with the precision of a professional barber - he shaved the small amount of hair that had grown recently. After this, he washed off his face and began to prepare his general appearance. Walter applied some brand of hair product (never kept track anymore, that was his secretary's job), he slicked his hair back the way it always was. With another nod of approval from himself, Walter exited the bathroom and began to get dressed. There was a knock at the door, and so Walter - still trying to get his shirt on - walked over to the door and opened it. He knew it was his secretary (and absolutely loved the look on her face every time she saw him shirtless. Priceless.) as she walked in. He finished putting on his shirt, adjusting everything to make sure he looked good; turning to her, she gave a small nod in affirmation - a blush on her cheeks.

“Carrie, I need you to arrange a press conference for me. I have an announcement to make, and soon. Thank you, my dear.”, he said, in the polite voice he always used around other people, even those he may dislike. Carrie, his secretary, nodded, and began to make the necessary calls; Oh, Walter knew it was very early in the morning, but he was Walter Rogers, after all. They wouldn't mind a call from him. Walter began to hum as he tied the tie around his neck, and put on a suit jacket. The limousine was waiting outside - after all, how else would Carrie get here? - and he silently commended her for always being prompt. Only she could wake up earlier than him and handle it, and he began to wonder if perhaps she was a meta as well... probably not. But who knows.

Walter headed out to the limousine as Carrie was on the phone from some executive or another for ABC 7 - or maybe it was Good Morning, Los Santanas - and he knew that she was setting up the press conference for around eleven or noon, it seemed. Just enough time to get to get to one of his more major businesses - the Stonewall Group. While he technically wasn't a CEO or indeed, an active member of any corporations he was vested in, he was one of the major stockholders in numerous companies and businesses. The Stonewall Group was simply his primary source of income, as he was a majority stockholder in that. Walter knew the press conference would be in front of that building later today, but hopefully (depending on when he got to the Group's headquarters) he'd be able to talk to some of the executives and the CEO to see how the Group was handling itself. He looked at his watch; 6:30 AM. Fair enough. The limousine continued to drive, giving a card to the security guard at the entrance/exit gates of Evergreen Estates. And off he went to the main part of the city.

[Altito Asmoro]

Old Town, Korea Town
John Harrison / Rogue
5.00 AM

The morning's still very young, but despite that, it looked rough in his room.

John panted, as he rested his back against the wall, atop the highest room at that apartment. He had just a run-ins with several members of a local Korean gang in Korea Town. He did stole wads of money from their drug dealers, but not the drugs itself! And yet they still chased him. Still, eventually after ran down at least 3 of them he decided to ended the fight here and there. He found himself enclosed in a room at the highest level of the apartment, with 7 armed members, 4 of them with firearms. Too bad they didn't count of his dexterity and agility. And with him trained in the ways of fighting and movement, it was only a matter of time and moment to hit it. First the firearms, he took them down fast with combination of fists and the prods. Once the two was down, he shot the one who was about to escaped. Left 4 of them, of course he couldn't left witnesses.

Such a shame.

Probably won't be anyone going to call the police. They just not that care about this part of the town, especially with the vicinity of the gang. He had to escaped now. He went down normally, though the gazes and the looks from the occupants noted at his...meta-human. He looked at a car in front of him, hotwired it, and moved along the streets and into the main street.

"Where to go now, eh? 7/11 or McD?" he asked to himself.

[Ormata]

Therese Breytenbach
Breytenbach Residence, Old Town
17th March, 2017, 5:30 AM

She sipped at the second cup of coffee, laid-out on the green couch like a cat. News...accident on I-33...another billionaire donating money to a charity...a smaller company’s stocks crash after corruption was found, bribes and payoffs. Smaller company, too, one of the tech people who were the little guys, making little toys for little people. News was alright, though, not much to say on that. Normal weather, they said, normal weather. Therese took a bite from her donut, chewing-over the face chocolate and fluffy, meaningless stuff inside.

Well, it was time. She got-up, taking her coffee and finishing the donut in a bite, going into the other room. Next was simply pouring-over the manuscripts, translating and devising meaning from the Rauðskinna. Iceland making a Book of Power; that could’ve been a joke unto itself, were it a joke, but it most definitely wasn’t. Therese rested herself into the squeaky, padded chair, opening-up the tome to her marked page before going-over a translation.

Lord, did she hate Icelandic grammar.

[Galnius]

Derek Wakermam
Super 8 Motel Room, Old Town, 5:15 am
Derek hastily packed his wrinkled, dirty clothes into a decent sized duffle bag. He had woken nearly forty-five minutes prior, but his unwillingness to get out of bed and the soreness of his back hindered any quick movements. Regardless, if he didn't finish packing soon, he knew he would soon deal with prying noses.

Suddenly, his phone rang. Gingerly, Derek lifted it to his ear and answered the call. "Yellow?" He said, attempting, at the very least, a small amount of humor.

"So... Who was it this time?" Asked a sly voice, reveling in the discomfort they knew Derek felt. "Some rich widow from North End? Or, maybe a call girl from the slums?"

"I honestly have no idea what you are talking about", said Derek, stifling a yawn. "I was just at a-"

"Yeah yeah, a business meeting." Answered the irritated voice, cutting him off. "No one, not even you, has business meetings at one in the morning."

Derek knew the jig was up. However, that didn't mean that he couldn't find a new lie. "Alright, alright, you got me", he replied with a sigh. "She's from downtown. The first time really WAS about business but... Now don't ask me who it is. She's uh... She's married. I'd rather not have that get out."

A laugh wiped from the other side of the line. "Derek you dig, where the hell do you pick up these women, and why don't you ever set me up with anyone? A guy doesn't need that much tail."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll set you up with someone eventually Marco. Just... Get me a taxi. You probably know the address by now."

"Yup, on it Derek. Don't forget to tip now." Derek thanks his head chef and hung up, breathing a sigh of relief. The crises was, quite successfully, averted. Rubbing his back, and toting his bag, Derek thought back to the night before that had caused the injury.

Unknown Alleyway, Waterfront Docks, 1:30 am
Three men walked below a small overhang, loudly guffawing and chortling about their most recent job. "The sucker never saw it coming, can you believe it?" Yelled one man, clearly dimmed by alcohol.

"Shut UP Mallory, afore I gut you like you did him." Warned a second one.

The third, however, never got a chance to speak, as during the men's conversation a figure dropped down and hit him promptly on the head with a pipe, which the figure quickly discarded.

"What's up guys?" It asked, the bells on it's jester hat ringing along with a sudden violin from Magnificat. It wasn't at the beginning, which made Radio Noise frown slightly, but it would do. "Are you staying the party without me?"

The first man, the drink one, too a swing at Radio Noise...And ended up hitting a brick wall on the other side. "Jesus, Malcolm, how drunk are you?" Said the second, which was apparently Mallory.

Radio, however, let out a loud laugh, cackling like a maniac. With one's simple movement, Mallory was tased. He then replaced the trader, capturing Malcolm in a magnetic net.

Still laughing, he turned slowly. "Well, that was fu-oof!" Getting nearly knocked into his ass, Radio Noise caught the second blow. The third man had apparently risen and grabbed the pipe used to hit him. "That wasn't very nice. Do you know how that'll feel in the morning?"

The third man went to swing I've again, but stopped when the sound of sirens diverted his attention. When he turned back, Radio Noise had put on a gas mask, waving whilst holding a small orb. "Goodnight pal! Enjoy the next few years!" Smashing the knockout gas bomb onto the ground, Radio fled into the night.

Current Time, Back at the motel
Derek tried cracking his back, feeling it finish healing. If he had to guess, judging by how long it had taken to recover, the poor had nearly broken his back. Feeling better, however, he tested it his powers. On himself, of course. Thus, when the taxi arrived, the arriver got to see a man tripping over himself leaving the motel.

"Rough night?" The cabbie called?

"You've no idea..."

"Well, perhaps a bar isn't the best dropoff point." The driver suggested.

Derek laughed. "Maybe not, but I OWN that bar. Drop by sometime. The alcohol may be good, but the food"... Derek brought his folded hand to his lips and released it with a kissing motion. "Divine."

[Anowa]

"Doc", Attached to Marines 3/3.
Al-Karmah, Iraq
8th June, 2007, 11:44 AM

Iraq was, as always, hot as fuck. And not, that was in the literal sense of the term. Of course, it had the figurative connotations of being in a hot zone as well. But that wasn't quite the situation yet. Hopefully that wouldn't happen today, Doc didn't want to scrounge up another pair of gloves... or another bottle of fucking motrin. Marines gobbled that shit up like it was cotton candy.

That being said, they were the ones who usually did the shooting, wasn't until the real nasty engagements that Corpsmen were actively encouraged the shoot back. Couldn't risk losing them and all.

"Hey, Doc?"

Said Corpman open their respective eyes, grunting for the man to continue, as he was staring out of the MRAP's back window, "You're smart right?"

"Get to the fucking point Grissom."

"Have you ever heard of a white donkey?"

---

"Doc"
South LS safehouse
17th March, 2017, 7:00 AM

Even now, a decade later, Doc's mind went back to that moment. Having dismissed Grissom as simply being hallucinated, requested he drink water. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. Not as if he was going to answer, never really got the chance to. That being said, it was an absent minded wonder as to what Grissom would think of the issues back home now. What, with Doc's attempts to spread awareness to the failings of the VA, the lack of care by the population at large for their 'honored brothers and sisters'. It was quite obvious they didn't care, so fuck em.

"Oxen One to Rover, ESMs are planted and locks are engaged. Ready to kick things off when you are." Doc smiled, in the age of technology, security, and terrorism, things didn't mix well. And with the recent security renovations for LS Int'l's lockdown procedure, it wasn't hard to get something like this ready. Doc pushed a single button on the panel of dozens of buttons, patching in to every CCTV camera in the airport, all displayed across a massive board of tube televisions, from garage sales or thrift stores, untraceable. Undetectable.

Another button was pressed, and a countdown started on the switchboard, "You have thirty seconds to get inside. Good luck."

"Thanks Doc."

Thirty secnds later, a full system lockdown occured at LS Int'l airport. Then an automated voice came over the intercom. "Please remain calm, the automated security response ystem is currently going through a readiness drill. The exercise will be finished in: 3 minutes. Thank you for your patience."

Seven seconds later, screaming and gunfire from the concourse. It was not a drill, and now every man woman and child in the airport was locked in. All 3,247 of them.

[Ormata]

Therese Breytenbach
Breytenbach Residence, Old Town
17th March, 2017, 7:00 AM

She’d been trying to tap into a certain word, a certain phrase. Get it right, get the syllables right, get the accent right. Get it all right, that’s what magic required. That’s what it always required. She’d been trying to tap into a certain word when it hit her. A feeling, you could call it, a sense of dread and a sense of an eye behind one’s back. A prickling of the hairs, on the back of one’s head. Magic? Danger? It was something she had experienced some days before, at one major attack or another.

Magic was fueled by emotion, you see. Fueled by the inner emotions, fueled by anger and by hate, by fear or by honor. Fueled by senses of righteousness or cowardness. It made a web, connecting every person, and that didn’t sound like much. No, it didn’t sound like much at all. If a single fly jumped on the web, a single person got afraid, well it was of no consequence to the whole. It didn’t have the mass to reach out, and it was always contradicted by another feeling, say, comfortability. It became a sense of static, just behind your ear.

She felt it, a sense of fear. A sense of something big, of so many feeling fear and so many feeling in danger. It came at once, too, without buildup and without the vast gathering one might expect for a planned event. No, it was fear and fear in total. Where, now, that was the question. She felt along it, reaching out with the thin implements of her mind, testing the web.

North. It came north, and it was big. Very, very big. Therese pulled out her phone, tapping onto Maps. Where was a place, north, that was full of people. There weren’t any major gatherings, so...Airport? Yes, she tapped onto it. Airport, most definitely. She got-up from her seat, taking the scabbard from it’s place and strapping the weapon onto her belt. There wasn’t really any hesitation; the fear she might have felt was destroyed by a need to do something. A good thousand, two thousand, three thousand, a good lot of people were in trouble. Were afraid. She could save them.

A deep breath, as she took the rug off the floor. Plain wooden boards greeted her, oaken things, and Therese produced a piece of chalk. She marked on it, quickly, a symbol about a meter in width. A thing one might look at as being fantastical soon stood in front of her, crisp in it’s newness. Leaning down, she touched the rim of the circle, tapping into it and feeling the thing like a husk. Pushing out a memory, onto it, Therese felt the thing pulse with latent power, ready. And so she stepped into it, whispered a wood.

To transport oneself is an odd experience. Imagine a blade, in your hand. The blade is now in your mouth, of no accord to you. Now it’s embedded in your thigh, of no accord to you. You have a watch. The watch is gone, of no accord to you, a thousand miles away. Now it’s about your neck, choking you. This is an unrestrained transportation, and to do so is, needless to state, dangerous. Therese steeled her will, and imagined a memory far, far in the past.

And then she was there. It was a closet, cramped, and Therese pocketed the chalk. It would be needed. Tentatively, she opened the door, stepping out into the corridor with pistol in hand, the other held out in front of her with a necklace grasped by the chain.

[Talchyon]

Richard Weinkauf
Cruising down the Interstate
7:10 a.m.

To pass the time, he had fueled up the car at a local convenience store, and then stopped at a park. The weather was great for southern California, not too hot but with a gentle breeze. Richard had noticed a spot while driving the other week, when he was still trying to get situated and figure out the lay of the land. And that's when he saw it! A breathtaking, natural scene with a short bluff, long grasses, a ledge overlooking a grainy beach. At the right angle, it would be exquisite. After checking his phone's map featured app, he exited off the upcoming ramp, made a left turn, and drove for the right amount until he was there. He spent the early morning sketching that scene. The early morning sun gave a warm light that made the landscape radiant. Maybe he would do something with this later, such as turn it into a watercolor.

When he had finished, he glanced at his watch, and decided it was probably time to start heading out. Most of the galleries opened at 9, and leaving now would definitely give enough time for that, and then some. But there were still a few errands to do that he could do beforehand downtown. Such as drop off a few documents at his insurance agent, and look into turning his Arizona driver's license into a California driver's license at the DMV. It would take him almost an hour to get to the DMV, and then about 20 minutes to his agent. If he timed it right, by the time he got done with that busywork, the galleries would be opening. So, turning his phone app on and checking the map and the quickest route there, the retired art teacher picked up his satchel bag with his sketchbook and other items, and headed back to his car.

A few minutes later, he was cruising on down the interstate, and got bored. So Richard flipped on the radio, and finding no interesting song on, pressed the "seek" button so as to get to more interesting stations. "That's a great thing southern California has going for it. Lots of radio stations to explore." Not all were that interesting to him. As far as Richard Weinkauf was concerned, gangsta rap was not music, just like performance art was not art. But as he was flipping through the channels, he caught the end of a news report.

"...heard the shots. Security was unable to be reached. We are still trying to make contact. There are countless lives at stake..."

Richard had flipped to the next station, only half-hearing the report. But as the new station came on with a commercial, Richard frowned, and then as if now aware of the news he had only partially heard, flipped back to the station he just left.

"...repeat, the Los Santanas Airport is under a terroristic attack. Gunshots were heard, and it is uncertain whether any lives have been taken. Airport security cannot be reached. The police have been unable to enter the airport. This is a growing story, and be sure to stay with WLTA as we report on this developing story. Now, back to our regularly scheduled broadcast." The news report ended and the airspace was replaced with classical music.

Richard's frown was still set on his face as his car drove on cruise control down the interstate. Terrorists with guns was bad news. Was the city going to be under assault? Would the governor send out the national guard? And what, exactly, was his role now? As a private citizen, and a retiree at that, Richard knew better than to get involved here. Do something, and you're likely to wind up dead. And Richard really didn't want to die today.

But at the same time, Richard had an ability that he had been given. And how many times had he taught his students to do what was right, and to use the abilities they had been given to do the right thing? Was he a hypocrite if he didn't try to do something? Could he live with himself if hundreds of people died, and he could have done... something... to help them?

His eyes were steady on the road, but his heart was fluttering. His breathing got heavier, and his mind was on the situation at hand, and very troubled. And then... he pulled off a ramp, into a parking lot for a hotel, and reprogrammed his phone app to take him to the airport. As soon as it had clicked on, Richard drove, following its instructions, extremely worried about what he was being drawn into.

[Balochistan and New York]

Marcus Jonnason

Downtown Los Santanas,9:00 AM
Marcus was a Bald Eagle soaring through the sky looking for which bank he should rob, he found one it was called The Watson Bank. “Well aren’t they in for a surprise today” he said to himself laughing he put his mask on and went in. People were looking at him weird and when one person took out their phone that was his cue, he transformed into a lady bug and people were trying to figure out where he went and how he dissapeared, he transformed into his human form behind the lady and stabbed her back with his Swiss knife, he then shouted “Everyone get down on the floor, unless you want to end up like her”, they all got down and he then headed towards the bank counter and said give me 500,000 dollars now and if you don’t do it fast enough you will be dead. The clerk began to put money in the bag given to him by Marcus and while he was placing the money into the bag, Marcus turned into a bear and killed the remaining bank clerks in a number of disturbing ways.

“Si...Sir here is the money” the clerk said nervous and scared, he looked over the counter and saw he wet his pants “Ha-ha, looks you made an oopsie in your pants”, he said and laughed maniacally. He then killed him too by ripping his head off. He then proceeded to trample everyone else in the bank and completely destroyed the security guards by disfiguring them completely. He then heard the police sirens and decided now was a good time to leave, he turned into a a bald eagle and lifted the bag back to his home in Central Los Santanas. “Today is a good day, 20 killed and 500,000 dollars gained... this is the life” He said to himself as he entered the house. He locked the door and put the money on the couch, he went to his bathroom to take a bath and with the with the cold water filling the tub his body felt relaxed he put his harry Potter bath bomb in his tub and said to himself “Slytherin, slytherin please slytherin”.

[Vulkata II]

Little Tokyo
Kevin Michaels
7:10 AM.
Kevin woke up from his little nap and then opened his briefcase revealing his laptop and then went online to chat with his friends on a little website they made in High school.

My_Name_Is_OG_Sam:Hey looks like Kevin is awake now
The-Sweat-On-my-Brow:So we can talk now
Leonardo-Da-Caprio:You guys heard about the terrorist attack on the airport
Walter-Mitty:Stonewall has a huge Paparazzi outside their own building, how about Kevin here treat us some lunch?
Finkton:Really now guys? I just woke up but that sounds like a good idea. What do you want for lunch?
My_Name_Is_OG_Sam:Pizza
The-Sweat-On-my-Brow:Pizza
Leonardo-Da-Caprio:Pizza
Walter-Mitty:Pizza
Finkton:Alright Pizza it is.

Kevin closed his briefcase and grabbed a tie and a handkerchief and a laser pointer for any cameras along with a really bright flashlight and drove to the Stonewall building where he was met with heavy traffic and parked somewhere else and walked to the building instead trying to get to the building was the hard part though.

[Altito Asmoro]

McDonald, Downtown Los Angeles
John Harrison / Rogue
6.30 AM

He already spent a hour inside McDonald, all to ate their breakfast. Yummy, yummy breakfast. Consists of...so many foods already, he sipped on his coffee. The last remaining food on his meal had been done well, he also decided to taking care of something. There's this private locker inside LS International Airport. Those Korean members apparently put something prized inside it. Money, wads in wads in wads of it. Got to be great stuffs inside, and plenty of great rewards as well. He paid his meal and went to the car he stole back then. 30 minutes to the airport is far enough, but on the bright side...well, there's no bright side, actually.

Sad.

But eh.

---

Los Santanas International Airport
John Harrison / Rogue
7.00 AM

At the end as he parked his car to the parking lot, he had to went in without his gun and weapons. Such a shame, but there must be anything within the vicinity that is useful, in case something happened. Which is won't gonna happens. Right?

He looked on, paid whatever needs of the administration for the access to the lockers, and just about to opened it, when---

"Doc"
South LS safehouse
17th March, 2017, 7:00 AM

Even now, a decade later, Doc's mind went back to that moment. Having dismissed Grissom as simply being hallucinated, requested he drink water. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. Not as if he was going to answer, never really got the chance to. That being said, it was an absent minded wonder as to what Grissom would think of the issues back home now. What, with Doc's attempts to spread awareness to the failings of the VA, the lack of care by the population at large for their 'honored brothers and sisters'. It was quite obvious they didn't care, so fuck em.

"Oxen One to Rover, ESMs are planted and locks are engaged. Ready to kick things off when you are." Doc smiled, in the age of technology, security, and terrorism, things didn't mix well. And with the recent security renovations for LS Int'l's lockdown procedure, it wasn't hard to get something like this ready. Doc pushed a single button on the panel of dozens of buttons, patching in to every CCTV camera in the airport, all displayed across a massive board of tube televisions, from garage sales or thrift stores, untraceable. Undetectable.

Another button was pressed, and a countdown started on the switchboard, "You have thirty seconds to get inside. Good luck."

"Thanks Doc."

Thirty seconds later, a full system lockdown occured at LS Int'l airport. Then an automated voice came over the intercom. "Please remain calm, the automated security response ystem is currently going through a readiness drill. The exercise will be finished in: 3 minutes. Thank you for your patience."

Seven seconds later, screaming and gunfire from the concourse. It was not a drill, and now every man woman and child in the airport was locked in. All 3,247 of them.

---gunshots were heard. Oh, this is just soooo fucking great. Now I have to be involved in this? Is this...karma?, though John to himself. He has no mask, he should has brought that one mask. The common robber's mask, but that would bring attentions. He peeked outside, no matter what or how, there bound to be armed men inside.

He saw a mop. Better than nothing, he guessed.

"Got to be frank, I'm no hero," said to himself.

[Ormata]

Therese Breytenbach
Los Santanas International Airport
17th March, 2017, 7:00 AM

She paused, thinking it over. God dammit, she forgot her mask. ‘Mask’. Pffft, it was more a metaphor than anything else. More of a complete body change than anything else. Therese rubbed a finger, on her ring hand, feeling the power surge. If one were to look at her, they might see something akin to a half-formed mirage as she shifted, everything blurred lines as a soft face turned angular, long hair turned short, musculature formed underneath a suit that fit perfectly.

Then Therese kept moving, turning a corner quietly with her necklace still held-out in front of her. The pendent on the thing was a little shield, medieval kite shield, with red and black coloring. The colors were just for decoration; she disliked the plain metal, the plain steel. On the back of the shield was a rune, little thing she devised herself. It was a Frankenstein, sure, but it worked. She tested it at the gun range, once. Was fun to watch all those shooters get confused by a target that just wouldn’t be hit.

Then she turned a corner. Came face-to-face with John Harrison.

[Altito Asmoro]

Therese Breytenbach
Los Santanas International Airport
17th March, 2017, 7:00 AM

She paused, thinking it over. God dammit, she forgot her mask. ‘Mask’. Pffft, it was more a metaphor than anything else. More of a complete body change than anything else. Therese rubbed a finger, on her ring hand, feeling the power surge. If one were to look at her, they might see something akin to a half-formed mirage as she shifted, everything blurred lines as a soft face turned angular, long hair turned short, musculature formed underneath a suit that fit perfectly.

Then Therese kept moving, turning a corner quietly with her necklace still held-out in front of her. The pendent on the thing was a little shield, medieval kite shield, with red and black coloring. The colors were just for decoration; she disliked the plain metal, the plain steel. On the back of the shield was a rune, little thing she devised herself. It was a Frankenstein, sure, but it worked. She tested it at the gun range, once. Was fun to watch all those shooters get confused by a target that just wouldn’t be hit.

Then she turned a corner. Came face-to-face with John Harrison.

Los Santanas International Airport
John Harrison / Rogue
7.00 AM

Keep facing them the other way, John, keep it, though John to himself. Watching out for whoever armed, he hid himself pretty well, but then again with cameras all around there are bound to be attentions, something that is not a good thing especially considering how dangerous the current situation is.

He was spooked suddenly by an appearance of a woman, with necklace of sort and a pistol! Goddammit, is she crazy!? "Wow!" he was spooked but managed to keep it quiet. "Are you nuts or what? There are terrorists here right now! And you brought yourself a fucking gun!?" he was angry and worried about his safety and hers, but mostly his. "You did heard the gunshots right?" he asked, questioningly.

[Serah]

Derek Wakermam
Super 8 Motel Room, Old Town, 5:15 am
Derek hastily packed his wrinkled, dirty clothes into a decent sized duffle bag. He had woken nearly forty-five minutes prior, but his unwillingness to get out of bed and the soreness of his back hindered any quick movements. Regardless, if he didn't finish packing soon, he knew he would soon deal with prying noses.

Suddenly, his phone rang. Gingerly, Derek lifted it to his ear and answered the call. "Yellow?" He said, attempting, at the very least, a small amount of humor.

"So... Who was it this time?" Asked a sly voice, reveling in the discomfort they knew Derek felt. "Some rich widow from North End? Or, maybe a call girl from the slums?"

"I honestly have no idea what you are talking about", said Derek, stifling a yawn. "I was just at a-"

"Yeah yeah, a business meeting." Answered the irritated voice, cutting him off. "No one, not even you, has business meetings at one in the morning."

Derek knew the jig was up. However, that didn't mean that he couldn't find a new lie. "Alright, alright, you got me", he replied with a sigh. "She's from downtown. The first time really WAS about business but... Now don't ask me who it is. She's uh... She's married. I'd rather not have that get out."

A laugh wiped from the other side of the line. "Derek you dig, where the hell do you pick up these women, and why don't you ever set me up with anyone? A guy doesn't need that much tail."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll set you up with someone eventually Marco. Just... Get me a taxi. You probably know the address by now."

"Yup, on it Derek. Don't forget to tip now." Derek thanks his head chef and hung up, breathing a sigh of relief. The crises was, quite successfully, averted. Rubbing his back, and toting his bag, Derek thought back to the night before that had caused the injury.

Unknown Alleyway, Waterfront Docks, 1:30 am
Three men walked below a small overhang, loudly guffawing and chortling about their most recent job. "The sucker never saw it coming, can you believe it?" Yelled one man, clearly dimmed by alcohol.

"Shut UP Mallory, afore I gut you like you did him." Warned a second one.

The third, however, never got a chance to speak, as during the men's conversation a figure dropped down and hit him promptly on the head with a pipe, which the figure quickly discarded.

"What's up guys?" It asked, the bells on it's jester hat ringing along with a sudden violin from Magnificat. It wasn't at the beginning, which made Radio Noise frown slightly, but it would do. "Are you staying the party without me?"

The first man, the drink one, too a swing at Radio Noise...And ended up hitting a brick wall on the other side. "Jesus, Malcolm, how drunk are you?" Said the second, which was apparently Mallory.

Radio, however, let out a loud laugh, cackling like a maniac. With one's simple movement, Mallory was tased. He then replaced the trader, capturing Malcolm in a magnetic net.

Still laughing, he turned slowly. "Well, that was fu-oof!" Getting nearly knocked into his ass, Radio Noise caught the second blow. The third man had apparently risen and grabbed the pipe used to hit him. "That wasn't very nice. Do you know how that'll feel in the morning?"

The third man went to swing I've again, but stopped when the sound of sirens diverted his attention. When he turned back, Radio Noise had put on a gas mask, waving whilst holding a small orb. "Goodnight pal! Enjoy the next few years!" Smashing the knockout gas bomb onto the ground, Radio fled into the night.

Current Time, Back at the motel
Derek tried cracking his back, feeling it finish healing. If he had to guess, judging by how long it had taken to recover, the poor had nearly broken his back. Feeling better, however, he tested it his powers. On himself, of course. Thus, when the taxi arrived, the arriver got to see a man tripping over himself leaving the motel.

"Rough night?" The cabbie called?

"You've no idea..."

"Well, perhaps a bar isn't the best dropoff point." The driver suggested.

Derek laughed. "Maybe not, but I OWN that bar. Drop by sometime. The alcohol may be good, but the food"... Derek brought his folded hand to his lips and released it with a kissing motion. "Divine."

The Bar, 6:55 AM

Oliver had been there for a while now.
It was him that took most shifts, after all, there wasn't much someone like him could do, but he got money flowing in, and that meant he could feed himself for another month.
And if anything, people were nice enough to him. Even the drunkards seemed to slow down when he called for silence.
He had some kind of pact with the clients, unspoken, but active always.

To him, it was a great job, he could do with his drinking habits, and manage to earn some money in the process.
Of course there were some times when the outsiders would come in. Mostly young ones, or middle aged ones that would get drunk beyond reason, and seeing as they weren't the usual people, they wouldn't know of the unspoken rules that stood in the bar.
When the cane drops on the ground, it's time to shut up, listen, and for the drunks to stop going further.

Right now, his cane had touched the ground.
He stood in front of the counter, where usually the clients would stand.
A low growl escaped his mouth, and the regulars knew that shit was going to hit the fan real hard.

The poor unfortunates that didn't obey the cane mocked him.
"So the bartender gets angry now?" A middle aged man spoke up, followed by the booing of the men behind him. "Growling like a dog are we?" Dimmed by the several shots of strong liquor, he threw one of the said glasses at Oliver. Instinctively, he caught the glass with his hand, only to be brought down on the ground by an elbow drop and stepped on.

Oliver laid on the ground for a few moments, any outsider would've thought he was very much out.
Not exactly.
Slowly, the bartender stood up, coughed a bit, and looked back at the drunkards, then walked over to the door.

"Manners..." The first lock clicked. "... Maketh" The second lock clicked. "... Man." The door was now closed, no one could get in, no one could get out.
"Do you know what that means?" He looked in a reflective plate that showed the dumbfounded and confused faces of the men that attacked him.

And the regulars knew, they knew. That once the next sentence would be said, all hell would break loose.

"Then allow me to show you." The glass that had been in his hand, now flew into the head of the man that elbow dropped him, knocking him right out.

The rest of the fifteen minutes that ensued made sure that these ones wouldn't come back unless they had learned to respect the bar they stood in.

7:10 AM

Oliver sat on the pile of unconscious bodies his cane in his hand, bloodied ever so slightly.

On the ground laid some shards of glass.
Sighing, he opened the door again, and was served a glass of whiskey paid by one of the regulars.

"Thanks mates. Please come back soon." Drinking the glass straight and raw, he then started taking care of all the unconscious people.

After all, the boss was probably coming back in a few minutes, it wasn't unusual for him to come back with a pile in the back alley of the bar, but still, those glasses will be landing on his pay again.
With some James Brown playing in the background, he started cleaning up the place.

With some meat cooking in the back kitchen for some quick brunch before going off.

[Lunas Legion]

Nika Bryens
Apartment 258, Apartment Block 9, 'Zyko Turf', Southside Los Santanas
17th March 2017 7:09 AM

Have a good sleep? Nika, as usual, was woken by The J'baar interrupting her otherwise peaceful sleep by drinking a glass of juice. The J'baar needed less sleep than her, so it tended to get up and eat breakfast by itself, letting her sleep. It was much like sleepwalking really, but more controlled and far more useful. She could sleep for days if she wanted, but unfortunately the J'baar was a useless at talking with others, since it couldn't speak using her body. It could do everything else just fine, just not speak.

Hence she was normally woken up during the J'baar's breakfast, as had just happened. She drank the juice eagerly before munching into the cereal sitting on the table. Her apartment wasn't big; a grimy window from the top floor gave a good view over the front of the block, a metal bed and mattress in the corner under which her colossal Istiglal was hidden, a wardrobe next to that, a kitchen area with a table and two chairs and a tiny bathroom. Oh, and her laptop. It was enough for her. Habitable, cheap, and a decent defensive position especially given how it was nestled in the middle of gangland.

The Zykos had come round asking for 'protection money' after she'd moved in, banging on the door. She'd answered in the only way she knew, setting up her Istigal on the bed pointed at the door and waiting for them to lose patience and use the master key they no doubt had. At that point she'd just grinned at them and they'd left in a hurry, heading back to their boss, and they made an arrangement; she didn't pay protection money and in exchange she protected the block from other gangs, freeing up some of their manpower. It was a good deal all in all.

As she continued eating with her left, her right arm flipped open her laptop, quickly bringing up social media and her email.

No contracts today. Might have to hunt property instead.

Nika sighed. She had money to survive for a while, but boredom would set in eventually,, and they hadn't had a contract for a while. Hence why the J'baar wanted to go 'hunt property', or in other words', steal. It was bored as well.

"No, we'll see if anything comes up. Besides..." Nika tabbed back to social media. "There's this thing. Gunshots at the airport. Someone's going to want revenge, depending on who dies."

Or we could see who it attracts.

"Could do that, but I'm eating breakfast, and I'm hungry. Fighting while hungry is a bad idea."

Agreed.

Nika continued to watch her laptop screen in silence while continuing to eat. Well, something would happen soon-ish. It always did after these events.

[The V O I D]

Walter Rogers
Stonewall Group HQ - Los Santanas
7:20 AM

On his way to the Stonewall Group HQ, a news broadcast on the radio reported a shooting happening at the airport. He couldn't help but smile inwardly at the perfect timing; he could use that. The fear, the panic - and oh, the hatred it would brew towards whatever group he could generalize as responsible. Walter knew he could use that for his campaign. Walter listened closely for the details; the shooting was still in progress and police or metas had yet to intervene and arrest them. That worked well... he could point out the dreary state of law enforcement, and... metas. Oh, if metas were responsible - and metas failed to respond quickly? - yes. That could work. Metas would work for his campaign, whether the terrorists were actually metas or not.

“Carrie, keep track of this situation for me, will you?”, Walter said to his secretary, who nodded, “I have a business meeting after all.” He stepped out of the limousine, which was now parked in a private parking garage underneath the building. Walter headed towards the elevator, as Carrie began tagging all necessary social media to keep track of the situation. Walter rode the elevator, slowly, up to the top of the Stonewall Group's Headquarters. He was going to meet with the Board of Directors and the current CEO of the Group; after all, as he was the majority stockholder of Stonewall, he was technically their 'boss'. Exiting the elevator at the top floor, and walking into the meeting room; the Board, already there, silenced. The CEO looked up and smiled slightly; the CEO was one James Braxton. Or as Walter knew him, Jim. A close friend... not close enough for Walter's secret, but close enough where he could say Jim was a valuable friend and ally.

“Hello, Walter.”, Jim greeted, “Hope the drive wasn't too hectic.”

“It was nothing.”, Walter replied, but then switched to his 'concerned' voice, “Did you hear the news? There's a shooting going on at the airport. Police don't know who or what is responsible yet.”

“That's terrible!”, Jim said quickly, “...but, hey, maybe now our new security tech will sell better. We should issue... condolences later. After all, need to advertise somehow.” And that's why Walter loved Jim. Always thinking like a businessman. The Board members were a bit shocked the CEO could be so callous, but Walter was the 'boss' boss', so to speak, so they remained silent. Walter took his seat, and Jim took his own.

“So, what are our sales looking like?”, Walter asked. The meeting began as it normally would, as Jim began to explain what Stonewall's current various projects were. Walter nodded; he didn't care much for it, hence why Carrie took notes on her iPad. Walter was more concentrated on the press conference to be held here... he could make all this work. Walter began formulating the speech he'd give at the press conference - and whispered to Carrie to notify the press that he'd also be commenting on the terrible shooting that was occurring. Walter clasped his hands, and now, he just had to wait.

[Galnius]

Derek Wakermam
Super 8 Motel Room, Old Town, 5:15 am
Derek hastily packed his wrinkled, dirty clothes into a decent sized duffle bag. He had woken nearly forty-five minutes prior, but his unwillingness to get out of bed and the soreness of his back hindered any quick movements. Regardless, if he didn't finish packing soon, he knew he would soon deal with prying noses.

Suddenly, his phone rang. Gingerly, Derek lifted it to his ear and answered the call. "Yellow?" He said, attempting, at the very least, a small amount of humor.

"So... Who was it this time?" Asked a sly voice, reveling in the discomfort they knew Derek felt. "Some rich widow from North End? Or, maybe a call girl from the slums?"

"I honestly have no idea what you are talking about", said Derek, stifling a yawn. "I was just at a-"

"Yeah yeah, a business meeting." Answered the irritated voice, cutting him off. "No one, not even you, has business meetings at one in the morning."

Derek knew the jig was up. However, that didn't mean that he couldn't find a new lie. "Alright, alright, you got me", he replied with a sigh. "She's from downtown. The first time really WAS about business but... Now don't ask me who it is. She's uh... She's married. I'd rather not have that get out."

A laugh wiped from the other side of the line. "Derek you dig, where the hell do you pick up these women, and why don't you ever set me up with anyone? A guy doesn't need that much tail."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll set you up with someone eventually Marco. Just... Get me a taxi. You probably know the address by now."

"Yup, on it Derek. Don't forget to tip now." Derek thanks his head chef and hung up, breathing a sigh of relief. The crises was, quite successfully, averted. Rubbing his back, and toting his bag, Derek thought back to the night before that had caused the injury.

Unknown Alleyway, Waterfront Docks, 1:30 am
Three men walked below a small overhang, loudly guffawing and chortling about their most recent job. "The sucker never saw it coming, can you believe it?" Yelled one man, clearly dimmed by alcohol.

"Shut UP Mallory, afore I gut you like you did him." Warned a second one.

The third, however, never got a chance to speak, as during the men's conversation a figure dropped down and hit him promptly on the head with a pipe, which the figure quickly discarded.

"What's up guys?" It asked, the bells on it's jester hat ringing along with a sudden violin from Magnificat. It wasn't at the beginning, which made Radio Noise frown slightly, but it would do. "Are you staying the party without me?"

The first man, the drink one, too a swing at Radio Noise...And ended up hitting a brick wall on the other side. "Jesus, Malcolm, how drunk are you?" Said the second, which was apparently Mallory.

Radio, however, let out a loud laugh, cackling like a maniac. With one's simple movement, Mallory was tased. He then replaced the trader, capturing Malcolm in a magnetic net.

Still laughing, he turned slowly. "Well, that was fu-oof!" Getting nearly knocked into his ass, Radio Noise caught the second blow. The third man had apparently risen and grabbed the pipe used to hit him. "That wasn't very nice. Do you know how that'll feel in the morning?"

The third man went to swing I've again, but stopped when the sound of sirens diverted his attention. When he turned back, Radio Noise had put on a gas mask, waving whilst holding a small orb. "Goodnight pal! Enjoy the next few years!" Smashing the knockout gas bomb onto the ground, Radio fled into the night.

Current Time, Back at the motel
Derek tried cracking his back, feeling it finish healing. If he had to guess, judging by how long it had taken to recover, the poor had nearly broken his back. Feeling better, however, he tested it his powers. On himself, of course. Thus, when the taxi arrived, the arriver got to see a man tripping over himself leaving the motel.

"Rough night?" The cabbie called?

"You've no idea..."

"Well, perhaps a bar isn't the best dropoff point." The driver suggested.

Derek laughed. "Maybe not, but I OWN that bar. Drop by sometime. The alcohol may be good, but the food"... Derek brought his folded hand to his lips and released it with a kissing motion. "Divine."

The Bar, 6:55 AM

Oliver had been there for a while now.
It was him that took most shifts, after all, there wasn't much someone like him could do, but he got money flowing in, and that meant he could feed himself for another month.
And if anything, people were nice enough to him. Even the drunkards seemed to slow down when he called for silence.
He had some kind of pact with the clients, unspoken, but active always.

To him, it was a great job, he could do with his drinking habits, and manage to earn some money in the process.
Of course there were some times when the outsiders would come in. Mostly young ones, or middle aged ones that would get drunk beyond reason, and seeing as they weren't the usual people, they wouldn't know of the unspoken rules that stood in the bar.
When the cane drops on the ground, it's time to shut up, listen, and for the drunks to stop going further.

Right now, his cane had touched the ground.
He stood in front of the counter, where usually the clients would stand.
A low growl escaped his mouth, and the regulars knew that shit was going to hit the fan real hard.

The poor unfortunates that didn't obey the cane mocked him.
"So the bartender gets angry now?" A middle aged man spoke up, followed by the booing of the men behind him. "Growling like a dog are we?" Dimmed by the several shots of strong liquor, he threw one of the said glasses at Oliver. Instinctively, he caught the glass with his hand, only to be brought down on the ground by an elbow drop and stepped on.

Oliver laid on the ground for a few moments, any outsider would've thought he was very much out.
Not exactly.
Slowly, the bartender stood up, coughed a bit, and looked back at the drunkards, then walked over to the door.

"Manners..." The first lock clicked. "... Maketh" The second lock clicked. "... Man." The door was now closed, no one could get in, no one could get out.
"Do you know what that means?" He looked in a reflective plate that showed the dumbfounded and confused faces of the men that attacked him.

And the regulars knew, they knew. That once the next sentence would be said, all hell would break loose.

"Then allow me to show you." The glass that had been in his hand, now flew into the head of the man that elbow dropped him, knocking him right out.

The rest of the fifteen minutes that ensued made sure that these ones wouldn't come back unless they had learned to respect the bar they stood in.

7:10 AM

Oliver sat on the pile of unconscious bodies his cane in his hand, bloodied ever so slightly.

On the ground laid some shards of glass.
Sighing, he opened the door again, and was served a glass of whiskey paid by one of the regulars.

"Thanks mates. Please come back soon." Drinking the glass straight and raw, he then started taking care of all the unconscious people.

After all, the boss was probably coming back in a few minutes, it wasn't unusual for him to come back with a pile in the back alley of the bar, but still, those glasses will be landing on his pay again.
With some James Brown playing in the background, he started cleaning up the place.

With some meat cooking in the back kitchen for some quick brunch before going off.

The Bar and Grill, 7:10 am
Derek exited his can in one swift movement. Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he entered with a cheery greeting. However, when he looked around for a moment he shook his head. He also knew the exact culprit, who was currently cleaning.

"Oliver, would you please take them outside BEFORE dealing with them?" Assuming the message would once again go in one ear and out the other, he just put his hand through his sandy blond hair. "Ah, to hell with it. Toss me a broom Oliver."

A little while later, Derek pulled Oliver to the side. "Hey, be careful out there alright? You never know who may walk through that door, and God forbid a meta gone bad decides to take on this store. With just you, a group of two or three may be too much." He hadn't let his employees know he, too, was meta, but his point still stood. He was really there.

[Anowa]

"Lance"
LS Int'l Airport, Terminal C
17th March, 2017, 7:11 AM

Things were going smoothly. Well, as smoothly as casually killing hundreds of people could go. Normally, any former member of the Armed forces would despise such actions, but honestly? Fuck the VA, fuck the Government, and fuck Trump. Lance couldn't really think of a better way to bring attention to such an issue as this, because people hadn't listened so far, and the VA really couldn't give less of a fuck. Nine month que to see about lasik surgery.

That being said, the tinnitus seemed to be getting to Lance, seeing as he thought he heard one of the skylight break open. But no one had been aiming up yet. A sickening crack resounded from his left, Gunny it sounded like, and his body went sailing past over the terminal's flooring and into a concrete wall, cracking both it, and whatever bones left intact within him.

Lance whipped around, before forcing himself to look up at his giant of an attacker. He immediately recognized the wedge shaped helmet. His last radio transmission was open channel, in his frantic grasping. "Atlas is on st-!" He was cut off by a 8 gauge slug ripping a hole through his neck, and brutally decapitating him.

But the Police outside heard, Atlas had seemingly come out of retirement.

---

Gunmen: 5 remaining / 2 dead
Civilian Casualties: 277 Dead / 496 Wounded / 2474 Remianing

[Vulkata II]

Outside Stonewall
Kevin Michaels
7:11 am
Kevin was in the ocean that was called the media. The worst kind of ocean you want to swim in but he was holding his laptop and in his pockets were his blueprint planner,the laser pointer and flashlight covered by his handkerchief and he was wearing a black tie as well to look like an actual investor.

He got passed through the media and entered inside the building where he was amazed. Television sets showing stock trades and the value of a country's economy and other things Kevin didn't know.

His dazed was interrupted by a guard.

"I'm sorry sir but you have to leave, there is a press conference happening outside" the guard said and Kevin's face quickly showed worry.

"But my company's stocks! If my boss doesn't have the numbers he need then I'm dead and with that shooting in the airport i need to get our stocks fast before something bad happens! Come on i have mouths to feed" he was stomping on the floor to show that he was in distressed and the security guard just looked both ways.

"Alright. I'll let you stay but when the conference starts then you need to get out alright?" Kevin nodded and then went in.

He checked the ATM's and blended in the crowd until he saw no one looking and then sneaked into a maintenance room wearing the Handkerchief and top hat and plugged his Blueprint planner into the mainframe giving him access to the cameras.

[Serah]

The Bar, 6:55 AM

Oliver had been there for a while now.
It was him that took most shifts, after all, there wasn't much someone like him could do, but he got money flowing in, and that meant he could feed himself for another month.
And if anything, people were nice enough to him. Even the drunkards seemed to slow down when he called for silence.
He had some kind of pact with the clients, unspoken, but active always.

To him, it was a great job, he could do with his drinking habits, and manage to earn some money in the process.
Of course there were some times when the outsiders would come in. Mostly young ones, or middle aged ones that would get drunk beyond reason, and seeing as they weren't the usual people, they wouldn't know of the unspoken rules that stood in the bar.
When the cane drops on the ground, it's time to shut up, listen, and for the drunks to stop going further.

Right now, his cane had touched the ground.
He stood in front of the counter, where usually the clients would stand.
A low growl escaped his mouth, and the regulars knew that shit was going to hit the fan real hard.

The poor unfortunates that didn't obey the cane mocked him.
"So the bartender gets angry now?" A middle aged man spoke up, followed by the booing of the men behind him. "Growling like a dog are we?" Dimmed by the several shots of strong liquor, he threw one of the said glasses at Oliver. Instinctively, he caught the glass with his hand, only to be brought down on the ground by an elbow drop and stepped on.

Oliver laid on the ground for a few moments, any outsider would've thought he was very much out.
Not exactly.
Slowly, the bartender stood up, coughed a bit, and looked back at the drunkards, then walked over to the door.

"Manners..." The first lock clicked. "... Maketh" The second lock clicked. "... Man." The door was now closed, no one could get in, no one could get out.
"Do you know what that means?" He looked in a reflective plate that showed the dumbfounded and confused faces of the men that attacked him.

And the regulars knew, they knew. That once the next sentence would be said, all hell would break loose.

"Then allow me to show you." The glass that had been in his hand, now flew into the head of the man that elbow dropped him, knocking him right out.

The rest of the fifteen minutes that ensued made sure that these ones wouldn't come back unless they had learned to respect the bar they stood in.

7:10 AM

Oliver sat on the pile of unconscious bodies his cane in his hand, bloodied ever so slightly.

On the ground laid some shards of glass.
Sighing, he opened the door again, and was served a glass of whiskey paid by one of the regulars.

"Thanks mates. Please come back soon." Drinking the glass straight and raw, he then started taking care of all the unconscious people.

After all, the boss was probably coming back in a few minutes, it wasn't unusual for him to come back with a pile in the back alley of the bar, but still, those glasses will be landing on his pay again.
With some James Brown playing in the background, he started cleaning up the place.

With some meat cooking in the back kitchen for some quick brunch before going off.

The Bar and Grill, 7:10 am
Derek exited his can in one swift movement. Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he entered with a cheery greeting. However, when he looked around for a moment he shook his head. He also knew the exact culprit, who was currently cleaning.

"Oliver, would you please take them outside BEFORE dealing with them?" Assuming the message would once again go in one ear and out the other, he just put his hand through his sandy blond hair. "Ah, to hell with it. Toss me a broom Oliver."

A little while later, Derek pulled Oliver to the side. "Hey, be careful out there alright? You never know who may walk through that door, and God forbid a meta gone bad decides to take on this store. With just you, a group of two or three may be too much." He hadn't let his employees know he, too, was meta, but his point still stood. He was really there.

As his boss came back, Oliver had a slightly sheepish smile over the mess he'd made. Of course he was used to it, it happened just about every week.

"Well, I can't look awesome in front of the clients if they're outside, and we don't want them to think we're pushovers either. Gotta keep some semblance of respect." He responded cheekily, tossing a broom over to his boss. The clients wouldn't be arriving for at least a good thirty more minutes.

Then, pulled over to the side, Oliver sighed slightly.

"I can take care of myself, you shouldn't worry about me. It's nayot like I'll be living for long anyway with my luck." Taking a few steps, he felt his bones crack, making a very audible sound come out.

"See? Won't matter too much. Plus you know what I can do, even without my cane." Subtly hinting at his meta inheritage, he then spoke again.
"As I've said, worry about your own life first. I don't feel like you're telling me exactly everything about you either way. Disappearing in the night makes for a rather shady hobby, don't you agree?" Shrugging, he sent both brooms over in the closet.

"I have some meat on the grill, want some?"

[Talchyon]

Los Santanas Airport
Richard Weinkauf aka "The Artisan"
7:30 a.m.

The reports had only gotten worse. By now, there were several unconfirmed reports of hundreds of fatalities inside the airport. When Richard finally arrived, he found a parking spot (and chose a spot with only a minimal amount of walking, yet still having to pay an hourly price for it). Grumbling, Richard put the ticket in one of the car's compartments, got his notebook of art prints, and popped open his trunk. He got a tan trench coat out and put it on, along with head mask, gloves and a black fedora to boot. Thankful that there were no cameras in this parking lot, he headed out.

As expected, the police were keeping private citizens from entering, along with the media. Richard had to push his way through the crowd. And a young copper-haired police sergeant stopped him.

"Sir, you're going to have to stay back. It's not safe inside."

Richard looked at the entryway. The police were doing their best, fanned out in a spray, not aiming weapons at the door, but highly tense. No one was trying the door. Apparently they couldn't get through.

"Officer, perhaps I can be of help. Like getting you in."

The sergeant skeptically gave Richard a once-over, and looked doubtful. His job, after all, was to keep out the public and there were always crazies who came to crime scenes. Richard thought he must have looked like one to the officer who wasn't budging.

"Fine," thought Richard. "I'll just have to show him."

Taking his notebook, he flipped it open to the statuary section. He came to a print, and decided to reject it for something more suited. "Michaelangelo's David. Too nude. The people in there are going to be needing psychological help after this anyway, and I'd prefer to not be one of the reasons." He rejected other statues made of stone, deciding that where bullets were being shot, cast iron would be better, and if not that, than bronze. But then, soon after, Richard found a very helpful print. Marcus Aurelius. On a horse. That would do.

Staring at the print in total concentration, blocking out the surrounding noise and sights, Richard drew a deep breath... and began to change texture, form, and density to match the statue in the print. He still wore his trench coat, mask, gloves and fedora. He still carried his notebook of prints. But under his outfit, he was a living, breathing cast iron statue. The police sergeant's eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped. He was stunned speechless. There were gasps and murmurings from the crowd behind him.

"I am willing to help you get in. If you allow me authorization to break a door down, that is." Even Richard's voice sounded metallic now, and deep. The police sergeant could only nod with his eyes still wide. Then, he snapped out of it, and said, "Maybe there's a better place for you to go in than here." He told Richard about another door, a door out of the public eye that was used by employees, security and maintenance. It wasn't far. Richard rode over to that door, finding it where the officer indicated, all the while wondering if the horse he rode in on was part of him or not. Casting a level eye at this door, Richard hit it a number of times from still on the horseback. With each successive beating, the door finally crumpled into a heap. Since the door was for employees, it was made of something more durable, not like the main double doors made of glass in the front. Once the door was taken care of, Richard ducked to get through the doorway, scraping his back painlessly on the doorframe. Then once inside, he moved forward at a slow trot, all senses aware of the surroundings.

The small hallway he was in opened up to a larger area up ahead. And right in his sight, were two of the gunmen, reloading their weapons. Automatic rifles. Great. One of them must have sensed him, possibly the sound of the iron hooves on the tile beneath, because the two started talking, and one pointed in his direction. They raised their weapons, and fired at Richard. The 20 or so shots clinked when hitting himself (and his horse). Richard was sure that this would leave a bruise tomorrow, but, he'd take bruises any day over a one-way trip to the morgue.

Richard said in his bass, metallic voice, "You will stop." Only to be answered by more gunfire, that stung a little bit but painlessly clinked off again. "Very well. You were warned."

He opened up his art print notebook again, this time looking for a particular painting. There. The slaughterers would not survive this.

(Thomas Moran, "Sunset in Mid-Ocean," 1904)

Again concentrating, suddenly a shining white portal opened up from the ground immediately behind the men, and then just as suddenly, closed down on them. In it's place, was a portal colored the hues of the print that could be seen from the outside. The gunmen were now stranded in the middle of the ocean in an artistic reality. Concentrating on the details of the print, Richard didn't need to see the men to know what would happen to them. Their clothes became heavy with water. Both decided to try to hold onto their guns, which only weighed them down more. After several unsuccessful attempts at floating and dog-paddling, both eventually drowned. When Richard was sure that there was no chance of them surviving, especially since they were face-down for about 10 minutes, he stopped concentrating... and the reality stopped. The two drowned gunmen now lay on the floor of the airport, drenched in a water that no one now could see.

Richard, the Artisan, smiled. Then rode off on his horse in search of other slaughterers.

[Balochistan and New York]

Marcus Jonasson

Los Santanas, China Town 1:00PM
Marcus was sitting atop a rooftop after ‘cleaning up the house” and by that he meant he put the bodies in a place nobody would find, well he hoped nobody would find them. Anyways he got a backpack from that house and put the 500k in it. He decided he made much too many mistakes robbing that bank and too many lives, not that he cared just that it was much too sloppy. If he wanted to be a successful robber he needed more practice, so he decided to raid some convenience stores, he was hungry anyways and wanted some food.

He continued watching the convenience stores employees as soon as one left he would jump in as a small fly and get the money and some food. He saw Employee A and B talking to each other and decided to turn into a moth how stupid it might be it had one of the best hearing in the animal kingdom, he began listening it to their conversation,
Employee A- Hey dude, I am heading out to a coffee shop, got a date.
Employee B- Tinder?
Employee A- Yeah, don’t tell the gang please...
Employee B- yeah whatever just be back in 20 minutes our boss is coming at 1:30 to check the place out.
Employee A- Finee, Bye mate.
and that was his cue he went in while the door was open as a small fly and then checked the place out he realized there were 4 CCTV’s, “I will wipe the footage later” he thought to himself. He transformed behind the employee and put a knife on his neck and said “Give me all the money you have” he whispered into his ear, the employee said “Ok ok, just please don’t hurt me I have a family” and he began emptying out the entire cash register and in total there was $550, Marcus said “Good, also remember my name is Morph. When you tell this story be sure to mention this name” he took 10 potato chip packets and some other snacks and put in his huge bag. He then took the spray can he had and sprayed on the wall an M with a line in the middle. He then tied the employee up with some rope he had and wiped the CCTV footage. He then left with all his loot...

“No harm done and a job well done” he said to himself as he went inside an apartment building and climbed to the top. He then transformed into a Bald eagle and flew away to another rooftop faraway. He was at Gaia Island and in Heartwood forest, he decided that the forest would be the best place to hideout as he could be one with nature and the animals that inhabited the forest. He began unpacking his loot and opened a few packets of chips and snack food and began feeding it too the birds and such. He decided he needed to change if he was to successfully rob banks and such and so decided to meditate to get some peace after this eventful day.