The Silent Veil: A New Era (IC)

[Antimersia]

The World to Date

Thirty-eight years ago, the world changed drastically for the second time in the twentieth century. The world that had come to Silents as a part of their daily lives, had suddenly seen them disappear. Silents were people, who one day found a mask from another realm of existence. When they put this mask on, they were granted a power beyond their wildest imagination. The world had just begun adjusting to to their presence when a man named Carter Knight made his presence known. Sending the delicate balance of the City of Chicago into a tail spin that would have ripple effects felt the world over.

Carter Knight was a monster, in more ways than one. He was the first and only known Silent to ever wield the powers of other Silent’s masks. And he used these powers to cause havoc and destruction. His motives were well known. He had discovered the source of the masks. He saw this source as a threat to all of humanity. And he saw the world that he lived in as being a divided and self destructive mess that would never be capable of standing up against this being. The City of Chicago was the epicenter of this societal decay. A city ruled by mobs and gangsters. Where no one was truly free as fear stood behind every corner. He tried to tear this city down. Only through the combined efforts of Ruth Hawthorne, Frank McArthur, Rozalin Harkener, and the Federal Bureau of Silent Suppression, were they able to disrupt his schemes.

In the process of fighting Carter, this rag tag group of Silents came to learn that what Carter said about the source of the masks was true. They came from beyond the thin fabric that separated dimensions. A fabric called the Veil. But worse yet, something other than a mask had recently pass through that Veil. A being that was called the Herald. A disciple of the being beyond the Veil that had created the masks. It launched an attack and battled with Hawthorn, McArthur, Harkener, as well as Rue Morgan. The group was able to defeat and destroy the Herald, though at great cost to the members of the FBSS that fought with them. This would later be known as the Battle for Chicago. A battle that that is taught in schools today, and even has recently been adapted into a Hollywood film. Although this was not the last great battle that would take place in Chicago.

Just a few short months after the Battle for Chicago, Ruth Hawthorne and Carter Knight’s final confrontation took place. The battle was so intense that it ripped a rift through the Veil itself that the pair went through. Neither came back out, and were both declared missing, presumed dead. And in the moments after their disappearance, every mask in the world suddenly died. The masks one rigid and made of different materials, suddenly went limp as if made of dead flesh. The world went through several changes since then. The FBSS is now the FBI, the Soviet Union is now the Russian Republic, and the gangs that had a stranglehold over many of the nation’s largest cities have been all but completely eliminated. And the people of the world had begun to believe that the era of Silents was just a small blip in the annals of history.

That was until February 20th, 1994. At 11:35 PM, flashes of lights scarred the night sky above New York City. The lights were strewn down like a borealis, cascading through buildings and streets alike. People called the event many things. Some referred to it as the Rift, others the New York lights, but regardless of the name people would celebrate it as an amazing phenomena at the time. But that night two things came through those lights. Ruth Hawthorne, alive and well, and a brand new generation of masks. Marking the beginning of a new era of Silents in our world.

The Federal Government became aware of the incident, as well as the arrival of Ruth Hawthorne rather soon after the Rift occurred. Though it wasn’t until May that mask wielding Silents revealed themselves to the world once again. Crime rose, and reports of people with unimaginable powers spread across the city like wildfire. At first, the incidents were isolated enough that it seemed like a negligible blip of activity. But as more and more reports came forward each day, it became clear that these were not isolated incidents but endemic of the return of Silents as a whole. So far the only reports have come from within the borough of Manhattan. As such, Mayor Carmine Aliberti ordered a quarantine of the island of Manhattan. New York’s Governor authorized the National Guard to close the bridges and tunnels, effective on June 1st. It has been one week since the bridges were closed. And the troubles for this city are just beginning.

June 8th, 1994
New York City
Office of the Mayor

“Three more arrests today for people trying to break quarantine, Mayor Aliberti.” A lithe young man in a gray ill fitting suit walks into the Mayor’s office. Speaking in a soft voice and nervous tone as he places a report down on the Mayor’s desk. The large, ornately carved, oak desk is barely appreciable with the mountain of paperwork covering it. Behind the desk, sitting in an oversized red leather reclining desk chair, flanked by tower windows on either side along the wall behind him, sits Mayor Carmine Aliberti. Carmine picks up the reports and gives them a cursory look over.

“Tell me Mr. Brandt.” Carmine begins, his voice carrying a heavy Brooklyn accent, “Why on earth would people want to flee the greatest city on earth?” The question leaves his tongue in a way that implies it is rhetorical. Yet Mr. Brandt still ventures to answer regardless.

“Um… rising crime and fear of being trapped, sir?”

“Thank you for stating the obvious my young intern. But no, the answer is that they don’t want to leave.”

“Well, then… um… why are they Mr. Mayor?”

“We’re not giving them the incentive anymore Mr. Brandt. New York is still a great city. The food, the people, the architecture, and the arts! There ain’t a city in the world that beats New York out these days. But the cage is what’s scaring them. Men with guns on the bridges and in the tunnels? Of course people’re scared. But fat rats love the cage.” Carmine explains, standing up and pacing as he speaks.

“Fat rats, sir?” Brandt asks, confused.

“We need to give the people things to make them complacent. Food, entertainment, you know what I’m getting at? If the people don’t want nothing, then they won’t do nothing. They won’t leave, they won’t protest, they won’t do a damned thing besides sit back and chow down while they watch the boob tube.”

“You want to give them food?” Brandt asks, still not fully understanding the Mayor’s point.

“This is why you’re just an intern, and I’m the damned Mayor. I want every restaurant, soup kitchen, hell I want every damn hot dog and pretzel cart you find to begin offering food for free, for the duration of the quarantine. Madison Square Garden will act as a central distribution point, as well as all of those soup kitchens for anyone that needs a more space or more hands to cook the food fast enough.”

“But, sir… I’m not sure those businesses will agree to just give away their food for free.”

“Tell them that they will be compensated fully. And further, anyone who continues to refuse, let them know that refusal will mean their business license will be revoked. The beauty of emergency powers is that we don’t need to wait for the pencil pushers in the legislature to do the right thing.” Carmine bragged devilishly.

“How will we pay for that sir?”

“Do I pay you to ask questions or to do what I tell you to?”

“I’m an intern sir, you don’t pay me at all.”

“Ah, well then. Fair point. Emergency funds as well as regular supply shipments through FEMA will take care of all that. That’s why we have them. So now go, get the word out. I want every new yorker fat and well fed by the end of the week! We need the NYPD out there working to figure out this business with the Silents, not grabbing every swimmer that want’s to try and get to New Jersey.”

Mr. Brandt runs out of the room to deliver the message. Mayor Aliberti sits back down at his desk, rifling through the mountain of papers once again. But his eyes keep going back to two files, Ruth Hawthrone and Carter Knight. As a child, Carmine idolized Ruth Hawthorne. He was a fan through and through. Her disappearance actually played a role in him wanting to enter politics. And now, having seen her again in person after thinking that she was long dead has sent him through a whirlwind of emotions. By now, Ruth has been released from her semi involuntary custody and is free to roam the quarantined city streets. And according to her, Carter Knight died in the place beyond the Veil. But the fear remains. If Ruth can come back, looking like she hasn’t aged a day in 38 years, who knows what else could come back? It is a question that is keeping him up at night, yet likely will never be answered.


Jun 8th, 1994
10:50 PM
New York City
Hell’s Kitchen

ke...ke...ke...ahhh

Three clicks, then a breath.

ke...ke...ke...ahhh

It repeats, again and again. The sounds coming from within the darkness of the alley behind Salvitero’s Italian restaurant. The alley is almost pitch black. Sans for a single overhead lamp above the back door to Salvitero’s. The light only illuminating the door, and enough of the alley to see the dumpster across from it.

ke...ke...ke...ahhh

The sound keeps repeating almost on a rhythm. A soft percussion in the night.

ke...ke...ke...ahhh

The back door opens. A young man in a dirty apron steps out with a pair of heavy black trash bags. The light makes his dirty blonde hair visible. Short and curly, just long enough to need the hairnet that is wrapped around his head. His apron is stained with juices, sweat, and sauces from the dinner rush. Ever step he takes is followed by an exhausted huff. He is beyond ready to go home and rest for the night.

ke...ke...ke...ahhh

The sounds of him throwing the trash bags into the dumpster drowns out the other sounds around him. Including the sound of the back door closing. The heavy metal door slams shut. Eliciting a hefty groan from the young man. It doesn’t open from the outside. He walked up and began banging on the door, calling out to let the other workers know that is stuck outside.

ke...ke...ke...ahhh

“Eh Jimmy, open the fuckin’ door I got locked out!” His screams once again drowned out the sounds around him. He continued to bang on the door, not wanting to be out there for a second longer than he had to.

ke...ke...ke...ahhh

“Hurry the fuck up I wanna finish up and go home!”

The young man suddenly felt a light tickle on his shoulder. He swatted at it, assuming it was a fly or a mosquito. He brushed his shoulder away, but then feels the same tickle on his neck. Smacking his neck quickly, he felt something between his hand and his neck that freaked him out. It felt wet, soft, and alive. She stepped away from the door, swiping at his body thinking some sort of bug or animal had latched onto him. But he found nothing. Until, he looked further into the alleyway.

ke...ke...ke...ahhh

He heard the sound for the first time. It send shivers through his spine and curdled his blood. Reddish pink tendrils breached into the light of the lamp from behind the pitch. Dancing in the air, swaying slowly and smoothly. They looked as if they pulsed with anticipation. The young man froze, unable to move any part of his body. Pure shock overriding him as the tendrils slowly wrap around him. They tighten against his skin, indenting against them. Tearing through his flesh just a taut rope. Just as he is about to scream, a tendril wraps around his throat and begins to choke him. Nothing more than a pain whisper leaves his mouth.

ke...ke...ke...ahhh

The sound repeats one final time as a pair of large, sharp yellow eyes begin to peer out of the darkness. One clutch of the muscles, and its over. It isn’t for another ten minutes that someone finally steps out into the alley way, looking for the young man. But when the door is opened, they are met with the sight of a dismembered corpse. Every limb, separated from one another. The fingers pulled apart at every knuckle. The body was laid out in a flat, anatomically correct fashion. It was as if he were made of legos and just needed to be built back together. The alleyway pavement was stained with a massive pool of blood. The man ran back inside and called the police. But whoever, or whatever did this was long gone. Disappeared into the night, with only one clue to follow. Deeper into the alleyway, a series of animal like footprints were found. Footprints, where the concrete ground had turned into crystal.

News of the murder would break the next morning. But with so much going on in the city already, a single murder is not likely to become much of a priority. Though the mystery, none the less, spreads from ear to ear.

[Luminesa]

Adoree - Cut From a Different Cloth
June 8th, 1994, Morning
Adoree’s Apartment, Greenwich Village, Manhattan

The opening guitar of R.E.M.‘s “Losing My Religion” played on the TV in the background. Competing with the sound of Michael Stipes’s voice was a window unit blowing from the bedroom, cooling the rest of the apartment. A few yards away from the window unit, a box with a few slices of a lukewarm pepperoni pizza sat on a countertop, maybe a few yards away, next to a glass of lemonade and a few colored pencils. Some of those colored pencils rolled off the countertop, and the denizen of the apartment paused what he was doing to go grab them as he heard them donk against the floor.

“Aha. That’s where I put those…”

In the middle of the noise and the muggy, stationary morning in the apartment’s living room was Adoree Harkner, who was busy trying to follow a pattern to sew himself a shirt. He had seen it in a nearby store, but ironically in a neighborhood reknowned for housing artists and musicians, the shirt was far too expensive for anyone living as an artist. And so he had decided to find a similar pattern, and had set to work with his current occupation.

The shirt’s fabric would be linen, perfect for a summer that seemed to sweat and breathe all too slowly. But he was fine with a long summer, so long as he didn’t have to change his shirts twice to get through the day. He also did not want to sweat through the fabric, which was a breezy eggshell-white with a beautiful pattern of turquoise, white, and copper seashells. The collar would be loose, the hem would be long, and it would remind Adoree of the beach.

The video on MTV changed once again, this time to Aaliyah’s “Back and Forth”. Many people hated the quarantine and the feeling of being trapped. Yet the young man now at his sewing machine in his messy living room saw more of a depth of opportunity. He was excited to have more time to work on his projects, to have something to show when he applied to the Fashion Institute of Technology in the fall.

“It’s missing something…” He murmured as he worked into the morning and took a sip of his lemonade. He ran a hand through his dark, curly hair and frowned, first toward the mannequin and then toward his notebook, which was open on the coffee table. Then he realized what the problem was.

The shirt design was boring.

“…It’s just a plain polo with seashells on it. What am I missing?…”

He thought for a few minutes, sitting and staring at the TV playing “Black or White” while sipping more of his lemonade. His foot bobbed nervously in a sandal that threatened to fall off his foot, until suddenly he had an idea.

“Pearls?” He ran to another room, and found a set of artificial pearls he had bought in a sewing shop. They were all different sizes and shapes, but all of them had that milky, prismatic gleam that added dimension and shine. He also found some tulle, and his idea expanded. “Hmmmm…”

Adoree marched to his notebook and began to draw over his design, adding pearls to the shirt. He also added something like a sari, affixed from the left shoulder to the right bottom hem, made from tulle with more pearls. “Aphrodite…rising out of a cloud of sea foam. Yeah. That’s an idea.” He smirked at his notebook, and then looked at the mannequin. “Gonna be a lot of sewing, though. Ah well.”

He tucked the pen behind his ear, and he started sewing into the shirt. He would keep himself busy based solely on determination and spite, if nothing else.

[Finsternia]

Charles Morrow - Power at a Price
June 8th 1994 - Morning
Manhattan, New York City, Charles's Apartment

Painful morning sun streams through the closed off windows. It would have stung his eyes, if not for the gas mask that is covering most of his face. The sound of labored breathing through the filters echo in the room, steady in its haggard desire for air. Charles struggles in bed, his body aching once again after another long night. His breathing intensifies as his internal organs churn like gears and machinery, before he sighs in relief. While his body feels like it's running a fever and being melted in every nerve possible, it could at least synthesize anaesthesias and pain killers for him. It's the least that his Mask could do for the cursed power it has given him.

The young man struggles out of bed, neverminding the fading soreness and the now distressingly familiar feeling of his too soft flesh. His Mask buzzes as red light glows from its gaps, as if stabilizing the man's vision. He shambles through the mess of his apartment, boxes of pizza and take out haphazardly thrown all over the floor with his used clothes. The sound of liquid squelching and moving makes itself known from his back for a moment, before four thick glass tube tendrils spread out to move the mess away from him. He grabs an empty mug from the sink, and one of the tubes swerve and move like a snake to spray out a serving of hot coffee into the container. The front of his Mask opens, like a diabolic metallic jaw, so that he could have his fill. Bitter, like the bile down his throat. Months before he loved that kind of brew. Now it's losing its charm, and synthesizing the entire mixture made him feel more lightheaded.

He needs to eat and drink something. He needs a job, and notices from his landlord are now piling by the door. But what can Charles do when he can't even take off his Mask? Will there be anyone who won't scream or point a gun at him at the sight of the foreboding Mask on his face? He knows that he'll garner some screams and shouts of fear, and that he needed to run at that point before they call the police. With a sigh, one of his glass tubes extend to grab his large coat, one with a large hoodie to cover his head as well.

"...At least this damnable thing prevents me from getting sick..." He mumbles in his mind as his tubes retract back into his body, and the Masked man leaves his apartment to find something to eat and drink. Maybe he should go dumpster diving again today.

[Vivida Vis Animi]

Dorothy Anne Roy - Ivory Towers
June 8th 1994 - Morning
Upper West Side, Manhattan - Dorothy's Penthouse

"Oh John, where did you find this dreadful rag?" Dorothy holds up silk dress pinched between two fingers and a face full of disgust. John Felson was a longtime "creative director" of Dorothy's aesthetic and usually manages to hit the mark despite her incredibly narrow range of satisfactory works. Today, however, the entire wardrobe he's brought to her "Little Palace" have only ended up tossed on furniture, the floor, or, on two occasions, out of the nearest window. She was picky sure, and could also be quiet cruel intentionally or not, yet this was entirely out of character for her. This new quarantine was getting under her skin. John had only apprehensively agreed to keep this wardrobe showcase after the quarantine was announced. He was assured that she was still in good-ish spirits by both Dorothy's husband, Gilmore, and her personal assistant, Claire. However, it became evident that both of them used John as an excuse to keep her preoccupied so they could both slip out as soon as the dresses and jewels started being presented.

She tossed the dress that was only slightly more expensive than his annual salary on the "abhorrent" pile, and started towards what remained of the dress rack. "Tell me what's really wrong. You've never been this upset at my art before. What's really going on?" She took a deep sigh and sat on the sofa beside the rack, much to the relief of John. The agitation subsided to frustration.

"This just isn't right, John. No one warned me - or anyone so far as I can tell - of this quarantine. That blowhard mayor has completely overstepped his authority. None of us were consulted, not even the city council! And for what? Baseless rumors and urban legends. Somehow he even convinced some bureaucrat to involve the national guard - it's absolutely ridiculous."

"I'm sure he's only acting in the best interest of the city with the information available to him," he said soothingly, cautiously picking up a flung shoe. "You know he loves this city; he wouldn't do this unless he absolutely had to-"

"or," she coldly interjected, "unless this was some plot he's playing at. You don't know him like I do. Hell, after today I'm not entirely sure you even know me."

She stood up abruptly, and gestured to the clothes strewn around the sunroom. "Take the clothes. You're nearly as disappointing as Albertini, or whatever his name is. But leave the pearls." She went off to the other living room and called for Claire, demanding her to summon her "Privy Counsel" - an exclusive club she started some years ago comprising of other local landlords throughout the boroughs. "This city will be open by the end of the week if it's the last thing I ever do!"

[Luminesa]

Adoree - Strange Materials
June 8th, 1994, Mid-Morning
Adoree’s Apartment, Greenwich Village, Manhattan

The shirt looked much better, after a couple of hours of stitching so many little pearls. Adoree was proud of himself, even when he had to grumble at so many tedious little stitches. They came together to make something beautiful, and that fact mattered more than any grumbling.

The tulle across the shoulder, however, was an idea he began to second-think. A different fabric would work, or maybe the tulle would work as something other than a sort of sari across the shoulders. He took the thick strip and started to play around with it, moving it around the shirt and grimacing as he shook his head. “No, no, no, this looked better in my head. Maybe another fabric…gah…”

He looked around the room, and stared at the TV for a few moments. A commercial for a CD of old rock ballads played on the TV, an obnoxious one he had seen a thousand times. He turned his head away to think. “Maybe linen in a different color. Yeah, like a darker teal. But I don’t have that color, do I? Hm…” As he stared down at his work, hands on his hips, an idea popped to his mind and he raised his brows. “Or do I?”

Rushing to look around the room, he found it after digging through a few drawers. He looked down, underneath some pajama shirts, and he grinned. “Hello again. Wanna help with a thing?”

Looking up at him, lifelessly, was a satin masquerade mask. It was a beautiful orchid color, with pink blossom petals and silky emerald leaves decorating the top-right corner. He was always surprised to see that it was his, as he knew that if he had made the mask, he would have made it differently. But he had not chosen it. It had chosen him.

“Alright, let’s try a little something…” He took the mask, and gave a deep breath, before he put it over the top of his face. It was too soft to tickle his nose, and he liked the feel, but he still was not used to the feeling of being unable to talk while wearing it.

“Gonna make this tulle into some linen. Ready?” He still spoke telepathically to the mask, as if it could respond to him.

Walking back to the tulle on the coffee table, he held it in his hands and took a deep breath. He then closed his eyes, and suddenly the pretty strip of fabric unwove itself. It became a cluster of strings which whirled and spun away from each other until they laid limp in his hands.

Adoree paused and gave another deep breath. He focused his mind, telling it that he wanted linen. The exact color and length of it. And then, his mind-and the Mask-seemed to comply. At once, the threads seemed to stand at attention, and their texture and color started to change. They were darker and thicker, and began to weave themselves into the long stripe of dark-teal fabric. When he opened his eyes to look at the fine product as it laid in his hands, he gave a silent chuckle before removing the mask.

“That’s exactly what I wanted!” He then looked at his mask and winked. “Nice.”

Given he was done with the mask, he went to put it back in his pajama drawer before continuing his project. In the meantime, his idea changed again. The linen would not be a long strap across the shoulder, but instead would be little seashells, twisted into their shape and stitched to the shoulders. He smirked at his idea.

“Almost done, almost done. Thank you once again, little friend.” He gave one more look down toward the Mask, and then he went to stitch together the seashells, one on each shoulder.

And he could have sworn that before he closed the drawer, the mask’s petals had gotten brighter at his words of praise. Almost like a pet that was happy to do its job.

[Kandex]

Liana Fortier
Early Morning
June 8th, 1994
Liana's Upper West Side Comdomnium Biilding - The Gym


Liana had reached heavy bag part of her daily workout routine, battering the punching bag with quick and powerful combinations. Working out early in the morning had been part of her routine since childhood, she had fond memories head down to the mansion's gym before breakfest. In a family that took physical health rather seriously, none took it quite as methodically as her.

Sometimes one of her younger sisters would join her, but that was only on weekends and mostly because she wanted to fight her in the boxing ring. Striking was never Liana's strongest talent, especially back then, so her significantly more laid back sister enjoyed punishing her for that. She had a natural talent Liana was quite envious of.


Liana was by no means a humble perdon, to put it lightly. She akways sought to be the best and show herseld off as the best. Her condo was big enough to host the excercise qqipement she needed, but she conciously chose to use the gym facilities of the build because she wanted people to see her.

It wasn't as though she was difficult to spot though. Its not ever day one see's a well over 6 feet tall blonde platnium blonde, nevermind one built like the olympic athlete she was.
That had only become more striking she had found her mask as well. It had allowed her to mold her physique into exacrly how she wanted it and that was almost the least of its powers.

It was a curious thimg, to think of a magic mask of cosmic significance just as a way to improve fully human, if impressuve, features of herself, but that's exactly how she used it. A university career of studying the ways in which the human body was pasdively effected by the mask made her quite capable of actively using it for the purpose of improving herself. A more efficent heart, denser muscles, total symmetry across her body fixing past healed injuries so they appeared as completly new. The onething she'd been reluctant to attempt to manipulate, was her brain, though she had gone to work trying to improve her nervous system.

All in all, none of this and more individually made Liana superhuman, they were all, by themselves, within the realm of human ability. To combine it all at once though made her arguably something more. So why then, excercise at all?

Well, the most straight forward explaination was that she had to familiarize herself with her improvind body. The punches she was throwing at this bag were coming with more force and speed than she was used to and ger brain had to.make sense of it. Shw also felt tgst to not excersis wouldbpsychologically weaken her, make her lazy.

But the past wasn't only an aid to make her reach the height of human potential, but to surpass it whilebit was on.lp she'd been playing around with all sorts of different things, usually at nightime where she wouldn't be seen. Growing wings and exoskeletal arm blades she coukd stab, slash with while making herself much taller and stronger, Were easier ones, but weren't what she was proudest of. More interestimgly, she'd been playing with bioluminesence and bioelectricity to give herself laser while she had the mask on. She could also found she could manipulate nearby biological matter, which gave her ways she could weaponize them.

Now one might wonder why it was that she'd spent so much time on violent applications of her mask's powers. Side stepping her own violent inclinations, was the fact that she was being qurantined in manhatten with all sorts of sociopaths and weridos with masks, it was a matter of self protection. She also wasn't quite sure how much the mask protected her from harm directly and the best defense as a good offense.

She'd have to those limitations at some point. The issue was thst it wasn't exactly easy to do safely. She couldn't just go pick a fight with another silent and see how she managed. Well, at least she shouldn't. Ideally she'd have to make aquaintances with other silents and spar with them, but that was easier said then done, she couldn't exactly speak with the mask on and taking it off could put her in danger.

Liana finished the boxing portion of her excercise. She have a lot to think about, but right now, it was probably best to focus on the 'task' at hand.

[Luminesa]

Adoree - From Mask to Mask
June 8th, 1994, Day
Adoree’s Apartment, Greenwich Village, Manhattan

The shirt fit nicely on Adoree. He liked that the linen was soft and light. Even if he was not going to many places outside of Manhattan anytime soon, he still likes to dress. Anyway, he had plenty he could do in Manhattan, including pretending to look very fancy and stylish in the mirror. He looked himself over in his completed look, styling it with a pair of torn jeans and a pair of white sandals, and he nodded. “Not too hot, not too cold, just like Goldie Locks woulda liked.”

As he continued stroking the fabric seashells on his shoulders, making sure that they sat right and did not look too shabby, he got a call on the phone. His head whipped around, and immediately he knew who it was. “Ope…”

He ran to the phone and held it against his ear, while staring out the window at another apartment building. A woman had walked out onto her balcony and was fanning herself. “Hello?”

“Adoree?” A soft, higher-pitched, aged voice answered over the line.

“Hey mom.”

“Hello, love. How are you doing today?” His mother’s voice was calm and casual, a sort of everyday feeling.

“Ah I’m fine. Just finished making a shirt. I wanna take a picture of it so I can put it in my portfolio, just need to find my camera.”

“Did you leave it at a friend’s house again?”

“Nah, I don’t think. Jamaal wouldn’t have it. Not unless he got drunk at that party and took it.”

“You ought to call him.”

“He better not have put no crazy pictures on there, that film’s expensive.” He groaned. “Everything’s expensive when you’re broke, ain’t it?”

“It certainly is. Do you need me to send you more money?”

“No, mom, I’m gonna look for a job. I told you I would, just…it’s too hot to go outside.”

“Well, you just made something nice to wear, now you can go to an interview and get the job.”

Adoree blinked. “Momma this is summer-wear! I wear this on the balcony talking to some friends and pretending to be important! This ain’t what I’d wear to get a job, they’ll throw me out! Or tell me to work at Abercrombie and Fitch.”

“Well maybe you should work there?”

If he could have given his mother a deadpan look through the phone, he would have done so. “Mom. I’m not working shirtless. You know they make those men work shirtless?”

“I thought that was only the models?”

“I don’t know what they’ll make me do! No, I’ll go work somewhere else. Not taking my shirt off for random people.” He sounded half-joking and almost half-offended.

His mother laughed over the phone. “Very well. I look forward to hearing when you’ve got the new job.”

“Yeah it’ll be in the next week or so, or I’ll start trying. And I need to call Jamaal and see if he’s got my camera.”

“You go ahead and do that. I love you, dear.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

On the other end of the line, the tall, slim woman with aging lines in her face smiled at the phone. Her hair was shorter than it was in the fifties, almost boyish, but her clothes were a casual pink bathroom over a pajama blouse and pants. Rozalin Harkner did not care if it was the middle of the day, it was June. And she was off for the summer, in her own house, happy and healthy. When she had been a younger woman, she never thought she would have lasted this long. She thought she should have been dead many years ago. But no, as she fixed her greying hair and went to check the pancakes on the stove, she quietly celebrated the fact that she was, in fact, still alive.

And she was still getting used to someone calling her “mom”.

“I do hope he finds that camera…He needs to be more responsible.” Roz chuckled, as she flipped her pancakes and sipped her morning tea.

[Antimersia]

June 9th, 1994
2:30 AM
The alleyway behind Salvitero’s Italian Restaurant
New York City

A camera shutters as a bright flash fills the alley. Then a second, and a third. A young man wearing a jacket labeled ‘CSI’ stifles his churning gut as he takes photographes of the corpse in the alleyway. He steps around the abnormally distended chalk outline. Trying to capture every minutely important detail that investigators and attorney’s might need to put whoever did this behind bars. A few feet away, at the mouth of the alley, one of the kitchen crew stands before a pair of officers. One is in plain cloths, a decent white collared shirt and navy slacks held up by a black belt with a modest silver buckle. His hair, golden blonde and feathery, complimenting his angled jaw well. The other is in a police uniform that covers most of his notable features. He is holding a notepad in hand and taking notes as the employee is asked a series of questions.

“I just opened the door and saw the body there, I swear.” The employee explains, fear and disgust holding in his words.

“Calm down kid no one here suspects ya. Officer Pinkman and I just need to ask this shit. It’s routine. Wanna smoke?” Detective Michael Stiles replies, handing the young man a cigarette from his small pack of them. He takes it, and Detective Stiles lights it for him as it dangles between his lips. He uses a large steel lighter with the United States Airforce logo engraved onto it. He lights one of his own before flipping the lid back on to extinguish the flame and putting it back into one of his pants pockets.

“Thanks.” The employee replies, taking a drag and trying to calm his nerves. “Yeah I get it. I just ain’t a fan of cops. You lot don’t usually treat my neighborhood so good.”

“I get that,” Michael replies. Officer Pinkman gives a look of annoyance, clearly having taken the comment personally. “let’s start off on a better foot here. What’s your name, kid?”

“Jimmy.” He replies, plainly.

“Jimmy what?” Officer Pinkman asks, his tone stern and confrontational.

“Just Jimmy.” Tommy replies, staring down the officer.

“Alight Jimmy, here, just do me a favor and tell me what you were doing up until you found the body.” Michael intervenes.

“I was working. I work the line most nights but our dishwasher no showed on us. Boss threw me back there for the night. I was helping clean up and I asked Tommy to take a bag of trash out to the dumpster. I was mopping up and when I was done, I realized I hadn’t seen Tom for a while so I went to look for him. I opened the door and found him like that.” Jimmy recants, cringing at the thought of the state of the body when he found it. He takes a long drag of the cigarette, letting the smoke out slowly and smoothly.

“You didn’t hear anything? You don’t end up broken into that many pieces without making a lotta noise.” Officer Pinkman asked with a skeptical tone.

“No, I didn’t.” Jimmy replies harshy. “That door is so thick you could drop a bomb in that alley and we wouldn’t hear a thing. Especially when we got the radio goin’ in the kitchen.”

“Did you touch the body at all? Step around it? Spit, or vomit near it?” Michael asks.

“No, I almost puked but I held it in. I didn’t even leave the building until you all got here.” Jimmy answers.

“And what about the crystals?” Officer Pinkman asks bluntly.

“Fuck are you talking about, crystals?” Jimmy asks indignantly.

“There are foot print shaped crystals near the back of the alley.” Michael answers. “We weren’t planning on releasing that information to anyone.” He says as he turns to scorn Officer Pinkman. “But, since he mentioned it, is there anything you can tell us about that?”

“Not a thing. I didn’t look around, like I said. I saw Tommy’s body, and I dialed 911 once I stopped myself from puking.” He answered plainly.

“Alright, I appreciate your help. Please, if you could give your name and phone number to Officer Pinkman here, it would be very helpful. Just in case we have more questions.” Michael says as he shakes Jimmy’s hand. Leaving him with Officer Pinkman and praying to God that leaving those two alone together doesn’t end with an altercation. Michael steps along through the alley, looking for anything that could be a clue or sign of anything more about what went down here. But beyond the occasional piece of trash, there is nothing to see. He steps behind the CSI who is still taking pictures. Kneeling down beside him and looking closer at the corpse. “Can I get some gloves please?” He asks the lithe CSI as he extends his open hand out towards him. He feels the sterile latex fall onto his palm. Taking the gloves and sliding them over his hands. He reaches down and picks on a part of the victim. The final knuckle of his pinky, holding it between his thumb and index finger gently as he examines the cut.

“It’s too jagged to be a blade.” The CSI said suddenly.

“Excuse me?” Michael asked, not listening at first.

“If you look at the edges of the skin, the break is way too jagged. A blade didn’t do this.” The CSI replied.

“What if the knife was dull?”

“Even a dull knife would have evidence of slicing style cuts. The jagged way the skin is broken implies it was ripped, not cut.” the CSI elaborated.

“So someone say here, and pulled this man apart, piece by piece?”

“That’s what the evidence suggests. But it wasn’t some methodical and slow process either. Whoever did this was able to pull with force. The only time I remember seeing breaks in the skin like that is this one time where someone hand their arm ripped off by a speeding vehicle. But on such a precise scale like this? I would think you would need tools. But there aren’t any tool marks on the body. There is bruising. But the bruising is more consistent with a first fight than it is any sort of tool or device use.” The CSI began to pack up his camera and tools.

“So are you thinking what I am?” Michael asked, exasperated.

“Of course I am. And the second the NYC Post gets a hold of this story they’ll plaster it on every paper inside the quarantine. Doesn’t even matter if it’s the truth.”

“Yeah but you know what they say. When you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, must be the truth. And all I see left is evidence of a Silent.” Michael languished.

“Pfft, Silents. We sound like kids talking about the lastest Hawthorne movie. If I haven’t seen these things with my own eyes I wouldn’t even believe they were real. They defy all known laws of the universe.”

“It wasn’t that long ago that Silents disappeared.”

“It was well before I was born. And if I never live to see another, it will be too soon.”

“The city is getting dangerous. I wouldn’t tempt fate like that.” Michael says softly, heading back out of the alley and towards his car. He opens the door to his red Carolla and sits in the driver’s seat. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, finishing it and stamping out the but in the ash tray in the car door. He thinks of his parents. His father, dead before he was born. He couldn’t help but think of him when he saw the body. And how much it looked like a younger version of his father. ‘I need to call my mom.’ He thought to himself. Turning on his car and driving off. The streetlights are his only guiding force as he drives without purpose. Using the rarely empty roads as a chance to think.

[Vivida Vis Animi]

Dorothy Anne Roy - Soirées and Sanctions
June 8th, 1994, night
Upper West Side, Manhattan - Dorothy's Penthouse

In the luxurious expanse of her penthouse, Dorothy Anne Roy readily fulfills the role of a gracious hostess by overseeing a lavish gathering that epitomized opulence. The spacious rooms are adorned with tasteful decorations, carefully hand selected by her to create an ambiance of refined elegance. The elite of New York City, as well as a few fortuitous celebrities stranded by the city's quarantine, mingle amidst the flickering candlelight. The dulcet tones of soft jazz float through the air, mingling with the clinking of glasses and the gentle hum of animated conversations. As the guests indulge in the offerings of the generous open-bar, laughter and gaiety became the soundtrack to an evening steeped in extravagance and glamour.

As the clock struck 11, a discreet pager notification is discreetly sent out to a select few individuals among the many illustrious guests. The requested guests recognize the coded message instantly, prompting them to gracefully extricate themselves from their conversations or twirling on the dance floor. With graceful nonchalance, they make their way towards the sole vacant room in the sprawling penthouse: the sunroom that offered an unobstructed panorama of Central Park. Unlike the other rooms in the house, this room was sprucely decorated and dimly lit. Nestled in the heart of the room stood an table, adorned with name tags meticulously placed at each seat along with a sealed letter. At the head of the table, holding court with regal poise, sat Dorothy herself, her presence magnified by the resplendent tiara adorning her head.

Within the secluded confines of the sunroom, known only to the privileged few of the "Privy Council," the esteemed guests assemble at Dorothy's behest. As the last person takes their seat, Dorothy expresses her gratitude for their prompt attendance despite the short notice of the summons - those having been sent out only earlier that same day. She reassured everyone attending this emergency meeting that it would be short, as this would be a short announcement and not a normal vote. She opened a letter and began reading:

"It is for the betterment of our tenants that we have gathered here today. Mayor has overlooked the wellbeing of his own constituents in pursuant of his own selfish political games. Together, we unite against his abuse of power against our charges.

We are New York City, and the mayor is charged with managing the city in our stead. However, in these times of crisis when political servants forget their place, we convene to return to the long-standing status quo. I stand head of this counsel of my creation, yet remain humbled by the collective presence by the City's finest residents. Residents who, more so than any elected representative, are keenly aware of the best interests of their own tenants.

We permit the election of servants to rule in our stead out convenience, yet when boundaries are overstepped we are forced to act in the best interest of New York City tenants. Therefore, I propose a new motion to the floor of this Privy Council.

The full details are in the documents before you but, in summary, we are issuing a denouncement of this unauthorized quarantine on the great City of New York. Additionally, we shall pool our resources begin a class action lawsuit to reopen the City.

Any further dictation of martial law or similar tyrannical action shall be challenged in our faithful judicial system. This proposal, due to the unusual set of circumstances by which it was created, shall not go through our normal process of deliberation. Instead, votes of yay, nay, or abstain shall be due without public reading or review by Friday, in the usual method.

The soirée in the adjacent room shall continue through the night, in its usual manner. I shall make myself available all through tonight for commentary and questions on this order. I thank you, most illustrious Ladies and Gentlemen, for your time here tonight. We are dismissed."

Dorothy was always one for excessive decorum, and she clearly enjoyed the pomp of this faux court. The members of this exclusive club only tolerated her games of politics in the name of broader cooperation between the landlords of the city, which was a first in the city. For that reason, in addition to the opportunity to enjoy her lavish parties. The room slowly emptied, despite the dire nature of the circumstances. In truth, most were already in agreement that something should be done. They all still had a few days to decide, and many were interested in enjoying their night despite the fiscal responsibility of this new proposal.

[Antimersia]

June 6th, 1994
Central Park, NYC

Darren Jefferson walks along the paved path through the part. The walkways and trees are illuminated by the streetlamps, guiding him on his walk home from work. “I Get Around” by Tupac plays audibly through his headphones connected to the CD player in his backpack. Distracting him from the struggles of the day. Darren ignores others that he passes along the path. He sees them, even recognizes some of them. Like Charlie, the homeless veteran that always panhandles by Bethesda Fountain. Darren almost always tosses a quarter to Charlie. But tonight Darren’s mind is just far too focused on getting home. Rough days at work can drain the joy out of even the brightest people.

The trees surrounding Darren turn into buildings as he leaves the parks and starts off down east 109th street. The street lights in East Harlem aren’t well maintained. Every third light is out or flickering. But Darren is used to it by now. He knows which streets and alleys to avoid. He’s been mugged before and he probably will be again at some point. Part and parcel of living in the city. He passes by Jefferson Park Junior High, and waits on the corner of 109th and 2nd ave. The crosswalk light is orange, and eventually turns white. Darren begins to walk along the crosswalk, when the squeals of tires suddenly fill his ears. Before he can even fully turn his head, bright headlights illuminate his body and stifle his vision. The sound of rubber scraping echoes through the mostly quiet street as the driver slams their brakes. A moment of fear overwhelms Darren as his life flashes before his eyes.

He remembers being a child and playing the the popped hydrants in the summer. Then his birthday comes to mind, and the year his mom saved up to get him a razor scooter. His first relationship in high school, and his graduation all play. Each of the most pleasant moments are where he subconsciously focuses on. He closes his eyes. Half because of the bright headlights and half because he is slowly residing himself to the likely fate of his demise. But just as the squealing tires are at their loudest and closest, the sound disappears. Darren waits for a moment, unsure of whether he was even alive or dead in that moment. He slowly opens his eyes, the sounds in his headphones dissipate as the CD concludes. The car, sits motionless in front of him. Not more than a foot of distance between the front bumper and Darren’s knee. His heart beats fast, with some relief mixed in with the remnants of his fear. He wants to scream at the driver, but past the light and through the windshield he can see that the driver is just as scared. Frozen in fear and unable to let go of the steering wheel. He shakily rolls down the window, pushing his head near the opening and calling out.

“A-are you alright?” His words are loud but incredibly jittery. He is shivering with fear. Darren is as well.

“I… I think so.” Darren replies, confusion beginning to build alongside his fear. There is no way that the car stopped in time because of his brakes. Darren begins to look around, turning his head down and noticing a small figure between himself and the car. He cocks his eye brow in confusion at first. The figure is somewhat obscured by the bright headlights. But gradually it comes into focus. A small being, standing on two legs is there, pressing the index finger of its four digit hand against the grill of the car. More details come into focus for Darren. This being is small, not taller than two and a half feet. It is pearly white with sky blue markings across its eyes and up along its curved spike shaped ears. More blue accents adorn its fingers and feet. The being has a rounded belly and very soft round features. It almost looks like a children’s toy. Like a Robodog but in the shape of a teddy bear.

It suddenly begins to move. Turning its head to look towards Darren. Its eyes glow a bright blue, similar to its accents. The mouth it has is unnervingly organic looking compared to the mechanical appearance of the rest of its body. A smile forms on the being’s face. As if to assure Darren that he is safe. But it just ends up filling Darren with even more dread. Something that must be showing on his face by the way the driver suddenly reacts.

“Hey kid, what is it? What’s got you freaked out?” The driver asks, yelling out the window. But before Darren can answer, a white wave cascades along the length of the car, distracting him. Once it reaches the back of the car, the entire vehicle, driver and all, is ejected at unperceivable speed away from Darren. The vehicle slams into and rips through the bottom floor of a bodega on the corner. Explosions from the gas tank engulf the building in flames as Darren is sent flying back from the shockwave. He pushes himself up on his hands, sitting in the street and staring in horrified awe at the small being illuminated from behind by the roaring flames. It begins to walk away. Moving at almost in a waddle. Screams begin to come from the floors above the bodega. Lights around the neighborhood turn on and people start coming out of their homes. Sirens of fire trucks get closer. And Darren merely sits there, staring at the flame.

[Luminesa]

Adoree - Risky Business
June 9th, 1994, Day
Adoree’s Apartment, Greenwich Village, Manhattan

With the violence that permeated the cracks and corners of New York City, Adoree felt desensitized to the deaths he saw on the morning news. Some days he did not even know why he clicked through the morning news at all. He would sit eating his cereal and flipping channels, and he would realize that many days were just the same. Someone died alone, someone was shot, someone’s body was even found in the Hudson River sometimes. But he could do nothing for those people, though he felt sad for their suffering. Sometimes, when he felt particularly heartbroken, he would go to the church and light candles for the ones that lingered on his mind.

Today, for some reason, one of those cases sat with him in such a manner.

He was not sure why. A man died behind an Italian restaurant, such a death was not necessarily unheard of in New York City. He drank his coffee and frowned as the news anchors discussed the little information they were willing to give to the public. They seemed uneasy, as if the topic was one they were dancing around, trying not to give the real reason that the man was dead. “Man, they sure scared as hell about something.”

He shook his head and clicked through more channels, deciding that his day was better spent in other ways than speculating a murder that the journos were scared to dissect.

Instead, he focused on the task he had told his mother he would begin today. He would go out and start to look for a job. Any job.

After disposing of the now-empty bowl of cereal, he walked to the bedroom and looked at the outfit he had laid across his bed. Light-pink blazer, white dress shirt, pale-pink tie, black slacks and shoes. “Dress for the job you want, Adoree, that’s what Mom likes to say,” he murmured to himself, as he started to pull together his outfit. He fumbled with the tie a little. Roz had shown him how to tie one, but his mind was distracted somehow by the news he had seen. He wondered why he could not stop thinking about this particular person. The words unspoken, the look of fear in the cop’s eyes. “Come on, it’s not that hard…” he mumbled. Soon he pulled his outfit together, and then he brushed his hair and teeth and fixed himself. Bright and summery, all while looking professional.

In his suitcase he packed his portfolio, his resume, and his wallet. Before he left, however, he found himself turning around to gaze at the dresser in his room. His Mask. Something told him he might need it today, and he lingered in the doorway as he contemplated the risk.

If people see you with it, Adoree…

He wondered. Others could have similarly weird masks, or not. He was used to people considering him a freak and a target of concern. High school had taught him that trying to please others by jumping through hoops only somehow led to more trouble, even when he had done so to get out of the trouble he was already in. And so he decided that he would sneak it, slipping it down to the very bottom of his suitcase and hiding it under an extra shirt and jacket. “Why not…”

And so he released the gasp of air that had lodged itself into his throat, and he walked out to look for work.

[Antimersia]

May 31st, 1994
New York City
Office of the Mayor

Mayor Carmine Aliberti sits in his large leather reclining chair, signing paperwork and reading reports as they come in through the city. New Silents popping up by the hour. Each one causing more havoc or panic than the last. The quarantine orders and requests for National Guard support have already been signed and sent off. And in less than twenty four hours, the lock down of Manhattan begins. And there is still so very much to do for the Mayor and his intern, Mr. Brandt. Every paper that the Mayor signs is handed to Mr. Brandt and faxed off to various places. Some to Albany and the New York State Government, some to Washington D.C. for FEMA and the Federal government. And some are sent just across town to NYPD headquarters. The whirling sounds of the fax machine dialing then scanning the papers in incessant. Drowning out the only other sound being made in the room of Mayor Aliberti's pen scrawling against the papers that he is signing.

A knock sounds at the door, loud and authoritative. The man behind it is older, in his seventies, but well made and still showing the vitality of a man twenty years younger. Save however for the walking stick he leans upon. His eyes are a terribly expressive light blue, that seem to shift and dance about in accordance with his mood.

The man wears a suit of midnight blue, not cheap or tawdry like some government middlemen might wear, but shaped for his frame and spun out of fine wool. He’s expected, or atleast he should be. His department had sent his particulars to the Mayor’s office this morning. Patiently, the Consultant awaits his first battle in what was likely to be a long series of them.

"Get that please, Mr. Brandt." Mayor Aliberti says, his eyes never leaving his desk. The lithe young intern runs to the door and opens it up enough to see the older, stern looking man on the other side. He swallows nervously.

"C-can I help you sir?" The intern asks without much confidence in his voice. He takes a breath before speaking again, collecting himself to try and sound more authoritative. "Do you have a meeting set with the Mayor?" He asks, already knowing that there hasn't been a meeting set. Mr. Brandt knows Carmine's schedule well and has in fact cleared it to handle the many tasks set before him with the coming quarantine.
Quietly the man reaches into his suit jacket and hands the young man his credentials. “I’m sorry if I’m catching you boys at a bad time.” He says in a clear tenor, his eyes brightening a little with amusement. “My department faxed over a request this morning explaining my presence here. I’ll be needing to see Mayor Aliberti now. Would you mind terribly getting me a cup of coffee, son? I’m afraid airplanes and I don’t get in like we used to.”

His words, kindly spoken, are not however a request. They hold the undertone of subtle command. This is a man who has been in rooms with incredibly powerful people, and still managed to hold his own.

Mr. Brandt looks at the credentials and his eyes almost go wide. The intern silently returns them to the man and opens the door up fully to allow him to walk into the office. He steps beside him to walk down the hall and get the coffee like he was told to do. He was so struck by the moment that he even forgot to ask if the man wanted any cream or sugar in the coffee. He would no doubt, bring both when he returned later. Just to be safe.

Mayor Aliberti looks up from his desk for what feels like the first time in hours. He sees the older man, and meets his bright eyes. The look on the Mayor's face is one of confusion mixed with interest. He heard what the man said about a faxed request and begins to rifle through his papers. He knew he had seen something to this regard earlier in the day but simply had not had the time to read through it carefully enough. He finds it quickly and speed reads the words, realizing rather quickly just who it is that is in his office.

"So, you're the consultant that the boys down in D.C. sent up here. Please, please, take a seat. I'm sure my boy Mr. Brandt will be here with your coffee in just a moment. He's usually pretty quick with that sort of thing." Carmine says as she stands. He puts on a very political smile, using his hand to politely gesture to the pair of chairs across the ornate wooden desk from him. "I'm glad to finally meet you actually. Or, at least I think I am." He says somewhat cryptically as he sits back down. He picks up the copy of the fax, speaking of the man's arrival. "This paper only mentions a consultant. But, correct me if I'm wrong sir, but I believe you are, The Consultant."

The older man nods as he seats himself, unbuttoning his suit jacket so he can seat himself comfortable. “That’s right.” Comes his politely neutral response. “I’m your cavalry charging over the next hill, Mr. Mayor. FEMA was going to send some young hot shot on up from New Orleans; sterling resume on that lad. A real artist when it comes to disaster management. But then reports started trickling back to the capital about silents- about Her. So, the president asked me to come out for one last job. Personally, between you and I, I probably would have tried to get on board anyway. It’s shaping up to be another Chicago.”

He flashes the mayor a winsome smile, some of the sternness evaporating. More than anything he needed this man to trust him. “The President wanted me to commend you on the cracking job you’ve done up to this point; but it’s shaping up to be something that you can’t do alone. Officially, the National Guard and FEMA are running point on this. Unofficially however, I’ll be doing a lot of the horse trading and behind the scenes wheeling that gets things done. With that in mind, I wanted to iron out how our relationship would work out before we started butting heads. As a stubborn man, I happen to know what it looks like in others, and one doesn’t get to be Mayor of New York fuckin’ City by being a pushover- if you’ll pardon my French.”

"Oh now don't say that! Really please don't. I would hate my legacy to be as the Mayor who let another Battle for Chicago happen under my watch." Carmine replies with a judcious chuckle. He thought about how the Consultant mentioned her. Its obvious he means Ruth Hawthorne. Only solidifying the fact that this is The fabled Consultant. Otherwise there is no way news of Ruth's return would have hit his ears. That New Orleans upshot certainly wouldn't have gotten that news.

"Sir, I'm from Brooklyn. My first word was fuck. But I appreciate the decorum." Carmine replied, standing up from his chair and up buttoning his suit jacket. He turns to look out one of the tall tower windows on the back wall. "Truth be told I'm worried it's gonna be a jungle out there. Nothing I can't handle mind you. Like you said, it's New York fuckin' City. There isn't a police force on the planet more well stocked, armed, and trained than the NYPD. But we haven't dealt with Silents in thrity eight years. I still remember having a Ruth Hawthorne poster on my wall as a kid. But that hasn't been the world for long time." Carmine paused briefly, turning back around and facking the Consultant. "I'm no fan of taking a back seat to things in my own city. But I can see what you're here to do. And I can see I don't have much in the way of choice in the matter. So as a fellow stubborn man, I'll start us off by being a bit more amicable. If for nothing more than good politics. So go on, tell me just what the President wants you to run so we can make this transition smooth as possible." There is a hint of vinegar behind his words. The Mayor can't even hide the tinges of contempt he feels for having a Federal representative walk into his office and more or less give him orders. But he says the right things regardless. Knowing that there is little use in fighting it.

“Well, I’ve got discretion to do just about anything I need to do.” The man says, absently brushing a piece of hair off of his jacket and using the moment to watch the Mayor’s body language. Irritation and disappointment seemed to be found there. “That said, I’d rather be in a position where you and I can talk to one another, ask things of each other. I’m not here to trod all over you, your authority or your city, Mr. Mayor. Your people elected you, they look to you for support. Me? I’m just an old man whose had his fingers in far too many sticky situations over the years- no one elected me to do squat. So, you’ll be part of the conversation. I’ll be coming to you for advice, and I might at times request some of your people- The police and the fire departments in particular. I’ll need access to Miss. Hawthorne and any Silents you round up. The only time you’ll see me doing something without your knowledge is going to be if I have to call an audible to deal with a rapidly changing situation or if the information I’m dealing with is incredibly classified. This is still some of the most secretive stuff known to… well, pretty much any government on earth.”

He takes a breath and retrieves the coffee the young intern has finally brought for him. “No, black is fine, thank you.” He sips and then sighs appreciatively, “Where was I? Oh, yes. Anyway, I’m looking to have us operate as partners. Yes, I won’t lie to you and say that it would be an equal partnership; you’re too smart to believe it and I won’t insult you by spinning it any other way. But, if we all play nice and keep the lid on this thing, you’re probably looking at a very interesting career track over a very short period of time. Naturally, so long as you play ball, I’ll take as much heat for you as I can too. But if you don’t, I can’t answer for what the president might have me do. Not a threat sir, just an honest and frank assessment of how I see the situation.”

Carmine nodded slightly as he listened. He took a deep breath as the Consultant wrapped up his explanation before speaking. "Well, I appreciate the stated dedication to communication with me. But, I've always lived with the mindset of 'talk is cheap'. So, excuse me if I'm a little cagey at the start. before I start seeing that you'll stand by your word. I'm not one to be uncooperative, but im not one to just fall in line for every order. There's a reason I never enlisted, despite my father always wanting me too." Mr. Brandt places a coffee on Carmine's desk for him as well. half and half with honey, how he always takes it. He takes a sip before continuing. But assuming my people will be working on things in the city, I have no issue with you stepping in and taking a few for whatever purposes you might have. Miss Hawthorne however..." He pauses once more. "While officially, she is in NYPD custody, I don't think I have to tell you that such custody is more voluntary on her part than it is on ours. It took quite a bit of convincing to get her to agree to stay in a safehouse. And quite a bit of smooth talking on my end. So I can agree that I will ask her, but I can't sit here and agree that she'll agree to see you." Carmine explained. He took another sip of his coffee, listening to the Consultant's response.

The older man in the other side of the desk let’s out a long, throaty chuckle. “I think she might want to see me quite a bit. We go rather far back, you see. I wasn’t quite the abnormality of a Silent that the Titaness was, but I could hold my own. Here,” he reaches into his jacket and offers the man an old photo dated back to 1942, of a much younger man who shared the same intense stare as the Consultant, a woman that was clearly Ruth, and a few other uniformed men and women. All of them with masks dangling from the webbing at their belts.

“You tell her Blue Bolt wants a word. That it’s been thirty eight years since she fell into the Abyss wrestling with Carter Knight, and that he still owes her a beer.”

[Luminesa]

Adoree - Hipster's Delight
June 9th, 1994, Day
Greenwich Village

"Now how about that luck."

Adoree had gone to look for job advertisements, and he had decided first to try by buying a newspaper and searching through their ads. While he was glad to be out and about, and the people around him were acting normal, drinking their coffees and teas while chatting happily, he had started to become bored just browsing through the paper. None of the jobs were anything he really wanted. He could play music, he could paint, he could make art in a few different mediums, he could dance, and he could sew. His options were painting houses, working in a factory, working in a coffee shop, or answering the one very sketchy ad for a club at the very bottom of a column. He grimaced.

"Beggars can't be choosers, but man, I'd like to choose just this once if I could." He shook his head and sipped the strawberry lemonade he had bought while staring out the window. New, hip stores stacked next to red-brick monuments to the early twentieth or nineteenth century. Old men in polos and suits walking alongside girls with flower crowns and tattoos. Sometimes a group of guys holding a boombox passed by the cafe. Two men smoking cigarettes played chess outside the cafe, and occasionally he watched them. Even when Manhattan was under the strong grip of Mayor Carmine, and people could not leave, Adoree was sure that he had never seen the same two people twice, and that somehow the city looked both different and the same every day.

That was the legacy of Greenwich Village, preserving the ability to be weird, outlandish, and happy all at once, where the old world and the new world could stand beside each other, nod, and live together. He always found something to inspire him when he went out, and so he had decided to live here. Of course, with the city under this sort of lockdown, he had picked a strange time. But he was mostly happy in this odd confinement. Now, he simply needed a job.

"Let's try looking somewhere else..."

He walked out and bumped into a man reading a sci-fi novel. "Watch where you're going!" he fussed. Adoree quickly apologized, grabbed his newspaper under his arm, and continued to sip his lemonade as he walked around the block. He had almost forgotten how hot New York could be in the summer, and the concrete seemed to just make the heat stiff and unforgiving. He had almost regretted dressing so well, and he hoped his blazer would not show sweat under his arm. But just in case, he decided to remove it and to drape it over his shoulder. Still fashionable, and less smothered. "Ahhhh...huh?"

As he stopped past an antique store, his head swiveled toward a set of advertisements taped onto a streetlamp. He examined them, and he discovered that one of them had a vacancy for a designing intern of sorts. The number and address were that of one of the most famous socialites in the city. His heart skipped a beat, and he tore the paper off the lamp as he avoided bumping five more people crossing the street.

"Yeah...that's more like it..." he murmured. He felt a twinge of excitement, of possibility. He wondered if he could get the job just by going to the address. He could be confident, bold, prepared for anything, and he was intelligent enough to sell himself and his talents. Or he hoped he was. He gazed around the street, and then he flagged a taxi.

Maybe, just maybe, this would be his start.

"If I get this job, Mom's gonna be shocked...alright, Adoree, don't screw this up," he mumbled to himself, as he got into the taxi.

"Hey. Where to?" The driver asked.

"Upper West Side, the address of a Dorothy Roy?"

The driver whistled. "You better have checked for wrinkles in your clothes and shined your shoes, kid. Expensive date, I see."

"Er, not a date, job interview."

"Same difference."

And so the man drove down the road, and navigated toward a fabulous penthouse in the Upper West Side of Manhattan.